So if this is the coast of Lanoria, it must be the east coast, because the sun is moving toward the land.
Other things I know: The tide is going out. In time, the rocks of the jetty will be exposed and I will be able to walk to the beach. I don’t recognize the white dress I’m wearing, but it’s so drenched by sea spray I can see through it, and I recognize the underclothes I wore as I was lashed.
The whipping. The voices—a girl and a boy. That memory of my life before I woke stands alone, a single scrap of paper in an empty drawer.
When the tide goes out, I wade to the empty stretch of sand. The jagged rocks claw at the skin of my bare feet, but compared to the pain in my back, it’s nothing. There’s a small measure of comfort in the fact that my one personal memory assures me that I can be strong in the face of pain.
On the beach, I find a knobby black rock that’s almost big enough to be called a boulder, sitting in the middle of the sand as if it’s been dropped from the sky. Pinned beneath it, a ragged piece of cloth flaps in the wind.
A map.
My hands tear at the sand around the map, and the sand tears back, wedging under my nails and digging into tiny cuts on my skin. It doesn’t slow me. My thirst has my full attention now, and all my thoughts turn toward the hope that this map will show a freshwater source.
But when it finally comes free, it’s nothing more than a few simple markings in black ink on white canvas—a straight line leading to a tower, and a small x that I can only guess marks the place I’m standing. No circle representing a pond or lake, no farmhouse or village or stream. A star hovers in the space above the tower, a building shown as a rectangle around hash marks that might represent a ladder or stairway. That’s it.
Flipping the cloth over, I find a few lines of text:
You are a contestant in the Race of Oblivion.
Win the race and you and your family receive citizenship.
Finish but fail to win, and your indenture will be extended by a minimum of three years.
Drop out, and your indenture will be extended by a minimum of seven years.
Your first clue is:
Come to the lighthouse, Astrid.
Climb to the window outside.
Your next destination will be written on the wall, at the place where light doesn’t pass through glass.
My mind is racing like a runaway train, and it’s veering toward panic. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, and challenge myself to find just five things I can see and understand: the land I’m standing on is Lanoria, the water at my back is the Emilia Ocean, the two people standing down the beach from me hold fishing poles, the shadows circling my feet are cast by gulls, and the cloth in my hands contains a clue.
A clue in the Race of Oblivion, which is something else I understand. And now I get it—the reason I can’t remember my name or where my home is. Because I’m in a race that starts with the purge of personal memories.
I wish this knowledge were comforting, but it’s anything but. I’d be more comforted to know I lost my memory in just about any other way, to be honest. At least then, my lost memory would be my biggest problem. If I entered this race, then the worst is all ahead of me.
I flip back to the line drawing on the other side of the cloth. The tower . . . it must be the lighthouse in the clue. It’s terrifying, the thought that I have no choice but to pursue this clue to this unknown lighthouse, when all I want to do is find a drink of water and go home.
“I’m not staring just to stare,” a man shouts. It’s one of the two fishers, standing near the water not far away. “It’s definitely her. That’s why I’m looking.”
“You’re looking because she’s a girl in a damp dress that’s clinging to her.” It’s the other fisher, who I can only guess is the first one’s wife. She’s big and broad and so is the man, and they are both red-faced from the wind. Just like the gulls, they sound like they’re arguing. “Don’t try to fool me,” she says.
They are both staring now. I can’t help but wonder if they have water, and what It’s definitely her might mean, so I start toward them.
“Look. Here she comes,” says the man. “You can’t deny that’s her. So sad about her father.”
“Excuse me!” I don’t get too close, mostly because they are staring at me like I’m something to be feared. “Do you know me?”
“We don’t know you, so much as know of you,” calls back the man. The surf is loud and the wind breaks up his words, but I catch enough to understand. “A lot of people are talking about you. On account of what happened at the Apple Carnival.”
“What happened at the Apple Carnival?”
At this, the woman hooks his arm and draws him back from me. “She’s in the race,” she says, tapping the base of her throat. “There’s nothing where her embed should be.”
My hand moves to my throat, and my fingers trace a fresh scar. “Where are your embeds?” I ask. “Are you in the race, too?”
“We’re citizens!” the woman calls back. “Satisfied our indentures years ago. Now move along. We can’t risk getting caught helping a racer.”
“Why not?” I’ve moved closer and they’ve stopped moving back, and I’m close enough now to see the jug of water in the sand by their packs. “What could happen if you help a racer?”
“What could happen?” She laughs, but it’s an exaggerated laugh, to show how stupid my question is. “She wants to know what could happen. Only a huge fine and maybe a little jail time for giving aid to a racer. That’s all!”
“It’s got to be on account of her father dropping dead like that. It’s got to be,” says the man, and the hairs stand up on my arms. “That’s got to be what pushed her into the race.”
“My father? What happened?”
“Move along!” shouts the woman, and a wave of something dark, with a bite like cold wind, hits me in the face.
“It’s just that I’m thirsty,” I call back, swallowing my pride because that’s what you do when your throat is burning and your mouth’s gone as dry as the sand.
“Move along, I said!” she calls again, lifting the jug and holding it behind her. The man shakes his head and turns back to his fishing rod, but the woman never lifts her gaze from me until I’m south of them, and even then, when I throw a look back, she’s still watching me go.
By the time the lighthouse finally comes into view, my thoughts keep switching between grief for a father I don’t remember and doubts that the fishers truly recognized me at all. My thirst doubles and then triples, so much that my legs drag, but when I see the lighthouse, I have to force myself not to sprint.
As I come closer, I spot something so odd I think dehydration must be playing tricks on my eyes. A boy climbs the exterior of the lighthouse, looking a lot like a four-legged spider against the whitewashed bricks. He’s working his way up by finding toeholds in the places where the mortar between the bricks has crumbled away, or where the surface of the wall is uneven and little ledges jut out here and there. He does not make it look easy. He hovers about halfway between the top and the bottom of the tower, outside a solitary window framed by black shutters.
I peer down at the map until my sun-weary eyes manage to focus on the words again. Climb to the window outside. Until now, I hadn’t realized those words were meant to be taken so literally. I squint up at the boy again, wondering what I might offer him to reveal the next clue to me.