ÀâòîìîáèëèÀñòðîíîìèÿÁèîëîãèÿÃåîãðàôèÿÄîì è ñàäÄðóãèå ÿçûêèÄðóãîåÈíôîðìàòèêàÈñòîðèÿÊóëüòóðàËèòåðàòóðàËîãèêàÌàòåìàòèêàÌåäèöèíàÌåòàëëóðãèÿÌåõàíèêàÎáðàçîâàíèåÎõðàíà òðóäàÏåäàãîãèêàÏîëèòèêàÏðàâîÏñèõîëîãèÿÐåëèãèÿÐèòîðèêàÑîöèîëîãèÿÑïîðòÑòðîèòåëüñòâîÒåõíîëîãèÿÒóðèçìÔèçèêàÔèëîñîôèÿÔèíàíñûÕèìèÿ×åð÷åíèåÝêîëîãèÿÝêîíîìèêàÝëåêòðîíèêà
DUTTON BOOKS 1 ñòðàíèöà
An imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. | Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) | Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England | Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) | Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) | Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India | Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) | Penguin Books, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Ave, Parktown North 2193, South Africa | Penguin China, B7 Jaiming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North, Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China | Penguin Books Ltd,
Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Allyson Braithwaite Condie
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
“Poem in October”—By Dylan Thomas, from THE POEMS OF DYLAN THOMAS, copyright © 1945 by The Trustees for the Copyrights of Dylan Thomas, first published in POETRY. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.
“Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”—By Dylan Thomas, from THE POEMS OF DYLAN THOMAS, copyright © 1952 by Dylan Thomas. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.
“They Dropped Like Flakes”—By Emily Dickinson, reprinted by permission of the publishers and the Trustees of Amherst College from THE POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON, Thomas H. Johnson, ed., Cambridge, Mass: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.
“I Did Not Reach Thee”—By Emily Dickinson, from THE POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON, Thomas H. Johnson, ed., Cambridge, Mass: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.
“The Single Hound”—By Emily Dickinson, reprinted by permission of the publishers and the Trustees of Amherst College from THE POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON, Thomas H. Johnson, ed., Cambridge, Mass: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.
“In Time of Pestilence, 1593”—By Thomas Nashe
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Condie, Allyson Braithwaite
Reached / Ally Condie.—First edition.
Sequel to: Crossed.
Summary: “In search of a better life, Cassia joins a widespread rebellion against Society, where she is tasked with finding a cure to the threat of survival and must choose between Xander and Ky”—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-0-525-42366-9 (hardcover)
[1. Government, Resistance to—Fiction. 2. Fantasy.] I. Title.
Published in the United States by Dutton Books,
an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
who has never been afraid to dream of places Other
ALSO BY ALLY CONDIE
THE STORY OF THE PILOT
PART ONE: PILOT
CHAPTER 1: XANDER
CHAPTER 2: CASSIA
CHAPTER 3: KY
CHAPTER 4: XANDER
CHAPTER 5: CASSIA
CHAPTER 6: KY
CHAPTER 7: XANDER
CHAPTER 8: CASSIA
PART TWO: POET
CHAPTER 9: XANDER
CHAPTER 10: CASSIA
CHAPTER 11: KY
CHAPTER 12: XANDER
CHAPTER 13: CASSIA
PART THREE: PHYSIC
CHAPTER 14: XANDER
CHAPTER 15: CASSIA
CHAPTER 16: KY
CHAPTER 17: CASSIA
CHAPTER 18: XANDER
PART FOUR: PLAGUE
CHAPTER 19: KY
CHAPTER 20: CASSIA
CHAPTER 21: XANDER
CHAPTER 22: KY
CHAPTER 23: CASSIA
PART FIVE: PRISONER’S DILEMMA
CHAPTER 24: XANDER
CHAPTER 25: CASSIA
CHAPTER 26: KY
CHAPTER 27: XANDER
CHAPTER 28: CASSIA
CHAPTER 29: KY
CHAPTER 30: XANDER
CHAPTER 31: CASSIA
CHAPTER 32: KY
CHAPTER 33: CASSIA
CHAPTER 34: XANDER
CHAPTER 35: CASSIA
CHAPTER 36: KY
CHAPTER 37: XANDER
CHAPTER 38: CASSIA
CHAPTER 39: KY
CHAPTER 40: CASSIA
CHAPTER 41: XANDER
CHAPTER 42: KY
CHAPTER 43: CASSIA
CHAPTER 44: KY
CHAPTER 45: CASSIA
CHAPTER 46: XANDER
CHAPTER 47: CASSIA
CHAPTER 48: KY
CHAPTER 49: CASSIA
CHAPTER 50: XANDER
CHAPTER 51: >CASSIA
CHAPTER 52: KY
CHAPTER 53: XANDER
CHAPTER 54: CASSIA
CHAPTER 55: XANDER
CHAPTER 56: CASSIA
CHAPTER 57: KY
CHAPTER 58: XANDER
CHAPTER 59: CASSIA
CHAPTER 60: KY
CHAPTER 61: CASSIA
CHAPTER 62: XANDER
CHAPTER 63: CASSIA
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE STORY OF THE PILOT
A man pushed a rock up the hill. When he reached the top, the stone rolled down to the bottom of the hill and he began again. In the village nearby, the people took note. “A judgment,” they said. They never joined him or tried to help because they feared those who issued the punishment. He pushed. They watched.
Years later, a new generation noticed that the man and his stone were sinking into the hill, like the setting of the sun and moon. They could only see part of the rock and part of the man as he rolled the stone along to the top of the hill.
One of the children became curious. So, one day, the child walked up the hill. As she drew closer, she was surprised to see that the stone was carved with names and dates and places.
“What are all these words?” the child asked.
“The sorrows of the world,” the man told her. “I pilot them up the hill over and over again.”
“You are using them to wear out the hill,” the child said, noticing the long deep groove worn where the stone had turned.
“I am making something,” the man said. “When I am finished, it will be your turn to take my place.”
The child was not afraid. “What are you making?”
“A river,” the man said.
The child went back down the hill, puzzling at how one could make a river. But not long after, when the rains came and the flood flashed through the long trough and washed the man somewhere far away, the child saw that the man had been right, and she took her place pushing the stone and piloting the sorrows of the world.
This is how the Pilot came to be.
The Pilot is a man who pushed a stone and washed away in the water. It is a woman who crossed the river and looked to the sky. The Pilot is old and young and has eyes of every color and hair of every shade; lives in deserts, islands, forests, mountains, and plains.
The Pilot leads the Rising—the rebellion against the Society—and the Pilot never dies. When one Pilot’s time has finished, another comes to lead.
And so it goes on, over and over like a stone rolling.
In a place past the edge of the Society’s map, the Pilot will always live and move.
Every morning, the sun comes up and turns the earth red, and I think: This could be the day when everything changes. Maybe today the Society will fall. Then night comes again and we’re all still waiting. But I know the Pilot’s real.
Three Officials walk up to the door of a little house at sunset. The house looks like all of the others on the street: two shutters on each of its three forward-facing windows, five steps up to the door, and one small, spiky bush planted to the right of the path.
The oldest of the Officials, a man with gray hair, raises his hand to knock.
One. Two. Three.
The Officials stand close enough to the glass that I can see the circle-shaped insignia sewn on the right pocket of the youngest Official’s uniform. The circle is bright red and looks like a drop of blood.
I smile and he does, too. Because the Official: is me.
In the past, the Official Ceremony was a big occasion at City Hall. The Society held a formal dinner and you could bring your parents and your Match with you. But the Official Ceremony isn’t one of the three big ceremonies—Welcoming Day, the Match Banquet, and the Final Celebration—and so it’s not what it used to be. The Society has started to cut corners where they can, and they assume Officials are loyal enough not to complain about their ceremony losing some of its trimmings.
I stood there with four others, all of us in new white uniforms. The head Official pinned the insignia on my pocket: the red circle representing the Medical Department. And then, with our voices echoing under the dome of the mostly empty Hall, we all committed to the Society and pledged to achieve our Society-designated potential. That was all. I didn’t care that the ceremony wasn’t anything special. Because I’m not really an Official. I mean, I am, but my true loyalty is to the Rising.
A girl wearing a violet dress hurries along the sidewalk behind us. I see her reflection in the window. She’s got her head down like she’s hoping we won’t notice her. Her parents follow behind, all three of them heading toward the nearest air-train stop. It’s the fifteenth, so the Match Banquet is tonight. It hasn’t even been a year since I walked up the stairs of City Hall with Cassia. We’re both far away from Oria now.
A woman opens the door of the house. She’s holding her new baby, the one we’re here to name. “Please come in,” she tells us. “We’ve been expecting you.” She looks tired, even on what should be one of the happiest days of her life. The Society doesn’t talk about it much, but things are harder in the Border Provinces. The resources seem to start in Central and then bleed outward. Everything here in Camas Province is kind of dirty and worn out.
After the door closes behind us, the mother holds out the baby for us to see. “Seven days old today,” she tells us, but of course we already know. That’s why we’re here. Welcoming Day celebrations are always held a week after the baby’s birth.
The baby’s eyes are closed, but we know from our data that the color is deep blue. His hair: brown. We also know that he arrived on his due date and that under the tightly wrapped blanket he has ten fingers and ten toes. His initial tissue sample taken at the medical center looked excellent.
“Are you all ready to begin?” Official Brewer asks. As the senior Official in our Committee, he’s in charge. His voice has exactly the right balance of benevolence and authority. He’s done this hundreds of times. I’ve wondered before if Official Brewer could be the Pilot. He certainly looks the part. And he’s very organized and efficient.
Of course, the Pilot could be anyone.
The parents nod.
“According to the data, we’re missing an older sibling,” the second in command, Official Lei, says in her gentle voice. “Did you want him to be present for the ceremony?”
“He was tired after dinner,” the mother says, sounding apologetic. “He could barely keep his eyes open. I put him to bed early.”
“That’s fine, of course,” Official Lei says. Since the little boy is just over two years old—nearly perfect spacing between siblings—he’s not required to be in attendance. This isn’t something he’d likely remember anyway.
“What name have you chosen?” Official Brewer moves closer to the port in the foyer.
“Ory,” the mother says.
Official Brewer taps the name into the port and the mother shifts the baby a little. “Ory,” Official Brewer repeats. “And for his middle name?”
“Burton,” the father says. “A family name.”
Official Lei smiles. “That’s a lovely name.”
“Come and see how it looks,” Official Brewer says. The parents come closer to the port to see the baby’s name: ORY BURTON FARNSWORTH. Underneath the letters runs the bar code the Society has assigned for the baby. If he leads an ideal life, the Society plans to use the same bar code to mark his tissue preservation sample at his Final Celebration.
But the Society won’t last that long.
“I’ll submit it now,” Official Brewer says, “if there are no changes or corrections you want to make.”
The mother and father move closer to check the name one last time. The mother smiles and holds the baby near the portscreen, as if the baby can read his own name.
Official Brewer looks at me. “Official Carrow,” he says, “it’s time for the tablet.”
My turn. “We have to give the tablet in front of the port,” I remind the parents. The mother shifts Ory even higher so that the baby’s head and face are clearly visible for the portscreen to record.
I’ve always liked the look of the little disease-proofing tablets we give at the Welcoming Day ceremonies. These tablets are round and made up of what looks like three tiny pie wedges: one-third blue, one-third green, and one-third red. Though the contents of this tablet are entirely different from the three tablets the baby will carry later, the use of the same colors represents the life he will have in the Society. The disease-proofing tablet looks childish and colorful. They always remind me of the paint palettes on our screens back in First School.
The Society gives the tablet to all babies to keep them safe from illness and infection. The disease-proofing tablet is easy for babies to take. It dissolves instantly. It’s all much more humane than the inoculations previous societies used to give, where they put a needle right into a baby’s skin. Even the Rising plans to keep giving the disease-proofing tablets when they come to power, but with a few modifications.
The baby stirs when I unwrap the tablet. “Would you mind opening his mouth for me?” I ask the baby’s mother.
When she tries to open his mouth, the baby turns his head, looking for food and trying to suck. We all laugh, and while his mouth is open I drop the tablet inside. It dissolves completely on his tongue. Now we have to wait for him to swallow, which he does: right on cue.
“Ory Burton Farnsworth,” Official Brewer says, “we welcome you to the Society.”
“Thank you,” the parents say in unison.
The substitution has gone perfectly, as usual.
Official Lei glances at me and smiles. Her long sweep of black hair slides over her shoulder. Sometimes I wonder if she’s part of the rebellion, too, and knows what I’m doing—replacing the disease-proofing tablets with the ones the Rising gave to me. Almost every child born in the Provinces within the past two years has had one of the Rising immunizations instead of the Society’s. Other Rising workers like me have been making the switch.
Thanks to the Rising, this baby won’t only be immune to most illnesses. He’ll also be immune to the red tablet, so the Society can’t take his memories. Someone did this for me when I was a baby. They did the same for Ky. And, probably, for Cassia.
Years ago, the Rising infiltrated the dispensaries where the Society makes the disease-proofing tablets. So, in addition to the tablets made according to the Society’s formula, there are others made for the Rising. Our tablets include everything the Society uses, plus the immunity to the red tablet, plus something more.
When we were born, the Rising didn’t have enough resources to make new tablets for everyone. They had to choose only some of us, based on who they thought might turn out to be useful to them later. Now they finally have enough for everyone.
The Rising is for everyone.
And they—we—are not going to fail.
Since the sidewalk is narrow, I walk behind Official Brewer and Official Lei on our way back to the air car. Another family with a daughter wearing Banquet attire hurries down the street. They’re late, and the mother is not happy. “I told you again and again—” she says to the father, and then she catches sight of us and stops cold.
“Hello,” I say as we pass them. “Congratulations.”
“When do you next see your Match?” Official Lei asks me.
“I don’t know,” I say. “The Society hasn’t scheduled our next port-to-port communication.”
Official Lei is a little older than I am: at least twenty-one, because she’s celebrated her Marriage Contract. As long as I’ve known her, her spouse has been out in the Army stationed somewhere at the edge of the Borders. I can’t ask her when he’s due back. That kind of information is classified. I don’t think even Official Lei knows when he’ll return.
The Society doesn’t like us to get too specific when we talk about our work assignments with others. Cassia’s aware that I’m an Official, but she doesn’t know exactly what I do. There are Officials in all different departments in the Society.
The Society trains many kinds of workers at the medical center. Everyone knows about the medics because they can diagnose and help people. There are also surgics who operate, pharmics who make medicines, nurses who assist, and physics like me. Our job is to oversee aspects of the medical field—for example, administrating medical centers. Or, if we become Officials, we’re often asked to serve on Committees, which is what I do. We take care of the distribution of tablets to infants and assist in collecting tissue at Final Banquets. According to the Society, this assignment is one of the most important ones an Official can have.
“What color did she choose?” Official Lei asks as we approach the air car.
For a second, I don’t know what she means, and then I realize she’s asking about Cassia’s dress. “She chose green,” I say. “She looked beautiful.”
Someone cries out and the three of us turn in unison. It’s the baby’s father, running toward us as fast as he can. “I can’t wake my older son,” he calls out. “I went in to see if he was still asleep and—something is wrong.”
“Contact the medics on the port,” Official Brewer calls back, and the three of us move as fast as we can to the house. We go inside without knocking and hurry to the back where the bedrooms always are. Official Lei puts her hand on the wall to steady herself before Official Brewer opens the bedroom door. “You all right?” I ask her. She nods.
“Hello?” Official Brewer says.
The mother looks up at us, her face ashen. She still holds the baby. The older child lying on the bed doesn’t move at all.
He rests on his side, his back to us. He’s breathing, but it’s slow, and his plainclothes hang a little loose around his neck. His skin color looks all right. There’s a small red mark in between his shoulder blades and I feel a rush of pity and exultation.
This is it.
The Rising said it would look like this.
I have to keep myself from glancing at the others in the room. Who else knows? Is anyone here part of the Rising? Have they seen the information I’ve seen about how the rebellion will proceed?
Though the incubation period may vary, once the disease is manifest, the patient deteriorates quickly. Slurred speech is followed by a descent into an almost comatose state. The most telltale sign of the live Plague virus is one or more small red marks on the back of the patient. Once the Plague has made significant inroads into the general populace, and can no longer be concealed by the Society, the Rising will begin.
“What is it?” the mother asks. “Is he ill?”
Again, the three of us move at the same time. Official Lei reaches for the boy’s wrist to take his pulse. Official Brewer turns to the woman. I try to block her view of her child lying still on the bed. Until I know the Rising is on the move, I have to proceed as usual.
“He’s breathing,” Official Brewer says.
“His pulse is fine,” Official Lei says.
“The medics will be here soon,” I tell the mother.
“Can’t you do something for him?” she asks. “Medicine, treatment ”
“I’m sorry,” Official Brewer says. “We need to get to the medical center before we can do anything more.”
“But he’s stable,” I tell her. Don’t worry, I want to add. The Rising has a cure. I hope she can hear the sound of hope in my voice since I can’t tell her outright how I know it’s all going to work out.
This is it. The beginning of the Rising.
Once the Rising comes to power, we’ll all be able to choose. Who knows what might happen then? When I kissed Cassia back in the Borough she caught her breath in what I think was surprise. Not at the kiss: she knew that was coming. I think she was surprised by how it felt.
As soon as I can, I want to tell her again, in person: Cassia, I’m in love with you and I want you. So, what will it take for you to feel the same? A whole new world?
Because that’s what we’re going to have.
The mother edges a tiny bit closer to her child. “It’s just,” she says, and her voice catches, “that he’s so still.”
Ky said he’d meet me tonight, by the lake.
When I see him next, I’ll kiss him first.
He’ll pull me so close that the poems I keep underneath my shirt, near my heart, will rustle, a sound so soft that only the two of us will hear. And the music of his heartbeat, his breathing, the cadence and timbre of his voice, will set me to singing.
He will tell me where he has been.
I will tell him where I want to go.
I stretch out my arms to make sure that nothing shows underneath the cuffs of my shirt. The red silk of the dress I’m wearing slips neatly under the unflattering lines of my plainclothes. It’s one of the Hundred Dresses, possibly stolen, that came up in a trade. It was worth the price I paid—a poem—to have such a piece of color to hold up to the light and pull over my head, to feel so bright.
I sort for the Society here in their capital of Central, but I have a job to do for the Rising, and I trade with the Archivists. On the outside, I’m a Society girl wearing plainclothes. But underneath, I have silk and paper against my skin.
I have found that this is the easiest way to carry the poems; wrap them around my wrists, place them against my heart. Of course, I don’t keep all of the pages with me. I’ve found a place to hide most of them. But there are a few pieces I don’t ever like to be without.
I open my tablet container. All the tablets are there: blue, green, red. And something else besides. A tiny scrap of paper, on which I’ve written the word remember. If the Society ever makes me take the red tablet, I’ll slip this up into my sleeve, and then I’ll know that they’ve made me forget.
I can’t be the first to have done something like this. How many people out there know something they shouldn’t—not what they have lost, but that they have lost?
And there’s a chance I won’t forget anything—that I’m immune like Indie, and Xander, and Ky.
The Society thinks the red tablet does work on me. But they don’t know everything. According to the Society, I’ve never been in the Outer Provinces at all. I’ve never crossed through canyons or run down a river in the night with stars sprinkled overhead and a silver spray of water all around. As far as they know, I never left.
“This is your story,” the Rising officer said to me before they sent me on into Central. “This is what you say when people ask where you’ve been.”
He handed me a sheet of paper. I looked down at the printed words:
The Officers found me in the forest in Tana, near my work camp. I don’t remember anything about my last evening and night there. All I know is that I ended up in the woods somehow.
I looked back up. “We have an Officer who is prepared to corroborate your story and claim she found you in the woods,” he said.
“And the idea is that I’d been given a red tablet,” I said. “To forget that I saw them take the other girls away on the air ships.”
He nodded. “Apparently one of the girls caused a disturbance. They had to give red tablets to several others who woke up and saw her.”
Indie, I thought. She’s the one who ran and screamed. She knew what was happening to us.
“So we’ll say that you went missing after that,” he said. “They lost track of you for a moment, and you wandered off while the red tablet was taking effect. Then they found you days later.”
“How did I survive?” I asked.
He tapped the paper in front of me.
I was lucky. My mother had told me how to identify poisonous plants. So I foraged. In November, there are still plants on the ground that can be used for food.
In a way, that part of the story was true. My mother’s words did come back to help me survive, but it was in the Carving, not in the forest.
“Your mother worked in an Arboretum,” he said. “And you’ve been in the woods before.”
“Yes,” I said. It was the forest on the Hill, not the one in Tana; but hopefully it would be close enough.
“Then it all adds up,” he said.
“Unless the Society questions me too closely,” I said.
“They won’t,” he said. “Here’s a silver box and a tablet container to replace the ones you lost.”
I took them from him and opened the tablet container. One blue tablet, one green. And one red, to replace the one I’d supposedly taken at an Official’s command in Tana. I thought about those other girls who really did take the tablet; most wouldn’t remember Indie, how she cried out. She’d have disappeared. Like me.
“Remember,” he said, “you can recall finding yourself alone in the forest and the time you spent foraging for food. But you’ve forgotten everything that really happened in the twelve hours before you went on the air ship.”
“What do you want me to do once I’m in Central?” I asked him. “Why did they tell me I could best serve the Rising from within the Society?”
I could see him sizing me up, deciding if I really could do whatever it is that he wanted. “Central is where the Society planned to send you for your final work position,” he said. I nodded. “You’re a sorter. A good one, according to the Society’s data. Now that they think you’ve been rehabilitated in the work camp, they’ll be glad to have you back, and the Rising can make use of that.” And then he told me what kind of sort to look for, and what I should do when it happened. “You’ll need to be patient,” he said. “It may take some time.”
Which was a wise piece of advice, it seems, since I haven’t sorted anything out of the ordinary yet. Not that I remember, anyway. But that’s all right. I don’t need the Rising to tell me how to fight the Society.
Whenever I can, I write letters. I’ve made them in many ways: a K out of strands of grass; an X with two sticks crossed over each other, their wet bark black against a silvery metal bench in the greenspace near my workplace. I set out a little ring of stones in the shape of an O, like an open mouth, on the ground. And of course I write the way Ky taught me, too.
Wherever I go, I look to see if there are new letters. So far, no one else is writing, or if they are, I haven’t seen it. But it will happen. Maybe even now there’s someone charring sticks the way Ky told me he did, preparing to write the name of someone they love.
I know that I’m not the only one doing these things, committing small acts of rebellion. There are people swimming against the current and shadows moving slowly in the deep. I have been the one looking up when something dark passed before the sun. And I have been the shadow itself, slipping along the place where earth and water meet the sky.
Äàòà äîáàâëåíèÿ: 2015-09-15; ïðîñìîòðîâ: 6; Íàðóøåíèå àâòîðñêèõ ïðàâ