Scavenger Girl: Season of Toridia

by Jennifer Arntson

  “I could have kept him in a cage,” I replied.

  Father knelt and turned me away from the carnage. “He’d die.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” I argued.

  “A caged bird is not a bird; it’s a prisoner. Should she be let free, her spirit will be forever changed.” Father took my hand and led me to the house.

  “I don’t want a bird,” I mumbled, unable to understand his fable.

  His words echoed in my memory, and it made sense.

  I am forever changed.

  The guard threatened the woman again, and again, he ignored my order to let her come. My lungs filled with the warm sensation of adrenaline and plunged it into my arms and down my legs. Strength and vengeance burst from my pores, and as much as I tried to suffocate the energy, I only tempered it. I shoved the insubordinate officer from behind, ready for a fight. He spun around, his blade slicing through the air inches from my face.

  As he rotated, I assessed his exposed vulnerability.

  Neck.

  Thigh.

  Eyes.

  Spine.

  My father’s voice spoke to me. “Disable your attacker enough to flee. Do not fight to win, fight to survive.”

  Take the hand that holds the weapon. Drink the blood offering as his life runs dry.

  I lunged at him, sinking my teeth into the bones of his wrist.

  Stop!

  I jerked myself back, and the guard dropped his blade, instinctively grasping the wound with his other hand. “You bit me.” He gasped, holding his arms against his chest.

  My actions surprised me as much as they did him. “I gave you an order.” I struggled to control my inner wolf. I drew blood, not a lot, but enough to crave more. The wolf was hungry. “Let them mourn.”

  The wounded guard stooped, keeping our eyes locked. His hand searched the tips of the burnt grass to find his blade. When he found it, he slowly slid it into its place on his hip. My muscles twitched, knowing how easily I could overpower him. A single drop of blood fell from his cuff, and when it hit the dirt, I smelled its sweet release.

  A ball of air rolled in the back of my throat, and my fingers curled so that my nails pierced my palms. I nearly lost control of my impulse to attack him as the man stood to height.

  “Forgive me,” he apologized, granting the women permission to approach. They bowed, keeping plenty of distance between them and him.

  Submission.

  My spirit settled, unsatisfied with the outcome but appeased nonetheless.

  As I regained my wits, the women knelt at the edge of Alux’s grave. They comforted each other with soft words. The older sibling pressed her hand into the soil and hung her head while the other hugged her shoulders and kissed the back of her head. If the sisters’ features were anything close to Alux’s, I would have suspected the grief-stricken one to be his mother. He might not have been her son, but there was no doubt she lost hers recently.

  Language gives us the words widow and orphan, but what title is given to a mother who buries her child? Such travesty opposed the order of the gods. Perhaps that was why it wasn’t given a name. A word with enough power to defy the gods belonged on no man’s lips. It could never be spoken and thus never existed.

  The aunt placed her stone on her spirit-nephew’s grave and helped her sister to her feet. Watching them lament over a stranger’s plot proved how broken the world really was.

  The world needs Alux. Even in death, he lives.

  “Alux was a fine boy,” I shouted to the crowd forming. “If you would like to contribute, you are invited to do so. However, if you mean any disrespect, I will kill you myself and leave your carcass to fry in the sun.”

  I joined the sisters aside Alux’s grave. Their memory stones lay on the crest of freshly turned soil. Normally, the stones would remind the departed of all the wonderful ways their loved ones would remember them, but the memories over Alux were meant for someone else.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” the mother whispered.

  “And I am sorry for yours,” I replied.

  A line of people had formed with stones in their hands. Unlike our earlier trek for thistle, the people coming did so in reverence. One by one, they paid their respects to the little boy, and the memory stones added up quickly. I imagined Alux crossing over with an armful of messages for those who never expected to receive them.

  Could that be his purpose? Is he a messenger?

  I pictured children running to him as he plucked the essence of their first cries, first steps, soft snuggles, and playful moments and gave them to their owner in the world beyond. The boy who died in my arms would be welcomed by so many. What a warm reception to the afterlife for a boy who had so little.

  But what if I was wrong? What if Alux’s end was pressed under sand and soil and a growing pile of cold rocks? What if his eternity ended with his last breath and with his soul extinguished? What if his final existence was to fade to dust as his name was forgotten?

  My heart ached at the thought as strangers laid their stones and expressed gratitude to me for caring for the boy in his death. My guilt over Alux and Kali haunted me with every compliment they gave. I was sure the people thought me humble, but they couldn’t be more wrong. I truly didn’t deserve any kind words for the roles I’d played in the lives lost.

  I am responsible for them.

  Most of the stones added to the mound were brought by women. They offered me comfort, and I offered them mine. I held hands with some and embraced others. Some touched my belly and cried. With every touch, I accessed their past, and for a few, I saw their present. At first, I felt like an intruder to their stories, but through them, I learned about what life looked like beyond the gates of the Authority’s neighborhood.

  The line of attendants grew long despite the blaring sun overhead. Eventually, my feet started to ache, and I had to sit on the ground. A man offered me his last swig of water from a leaking canteen. Two others fashioned me a chair made of stone and a plank of wood at the foot of the grave. After hours of visitors, Alux’s plot could no longer be seen beneath the fist-sized memories laid across it.

  Mothers, fathers, children, and the elderly came to pay their respects. Most walked, but there were a few who were too weak and had to be carried. Not everyone left after saying their goodbyes. The riverbank became a place to congregate. Prayers were offered, and songs of hope caught on in rounds. The atmosphere was not joyful, but a ribbon of empathy unified us. As sad as we were, we were not alone. Beauty existed in the raw moments.

  A young mother and her daughter spoke to the stones they brought and were just about to set them down when a disturbance broke in the distance. The crowd peeled away from the center, and I stood. The attending guards saw it too and drew their weapons.

  “Stand down,” I yelled, and to my surprise, they listened.

  A low rumble.

  Heavy breathing.

  Grunting.

  The people weren’t panicking, but as the sounds came nearer, bystanders stepped aside. When the crowd parted, they unveiled a group of men rolling a sizeable boulder in my direction. No one offered an explanation, only directions between heavy breaths.

  “Turn!”

  I stepped out of their way and watched as they maneuvered the stone to the head of Alux’s grave. Exhausted, the participants celebrated their achievement with weakened smiles and lackluster handshakes. One of the men wasn’t interested in celebrating. He lay on his back, sprawled out and gasping for air.

  Once in place, a man whose eyes reminded me of my father straddled the grave and went to work carving something in the face of the boulder. At first, visitors waited for him to finish, but as time dragged on, the procession resumed. Visitors patted him on the back as they left, a gesture that seemed to fuel him.

  In time, the constant tinking stopped. He straightened his legs and his back, massaging out a cramp below his right kidney. He swept the slivers off the stone, blowing the dust off to critique his craftsmanship. Using the
headstone to brace himself, he moved to the side of the grave and hung his head in prayer. The men who’d helped him bring it there joined him. Arms around each other’s shoulders, they paid their final respects, an honor the waiting visitors allowed without hesitation.

  Carved on the stone was a perfect letter A, complete with traditional embellishments. I waited, and when the men seemed ready, I approached while clearing the tears from my eyes.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. It’s beautiful.”

  “We’re glad for the opportunity.” The craftsmen bowed.

  “You’ve all worked so hard. I wish I had something to offer you, but I’m afraid I didn’t prepare for any of this.”

  The man laughed, wiping the sweat from his brow. “No need, my Lady. We’ll live another day, or we won’t.” He stared at Alux’s grave as his friends took their leave. “As strange as it sounds, I feel my spirit healing just standing here.”

  “Who did you lose?”

  The mason shoved his rusted tools in the worn pocket of his knee-length trousers. “My son. Before the gods turned against us.”

  The gods didn’t leave. They never existed in the first place.

  Thankfully, I had enough control over my tongue to keep that thought to myself.

  * * *

  The final stones were placed at Alux’s grave at dusk. A large mounded memorial protected his place in the ground. Though I dismissed the guards hours earlier, they refused to leave. Unconcerned with their choice to stay, I sat, leaning against the boy’s headstone. My eyes searched the sky as the stars began to reveal themselves. I watched as our two moons, Anon and Enon, rose together in the heavens and the sun took refuge behind the hills.

  Mother said we all have purpose; we all have a job to do. If the Great One really did create all of what we see, then he must have done it for a reason.

  What was Alux’s reason for existence? What purpose was he assigned, causing his life to end so quickly? Why let him be born, only to die young?

  What about my childhood friend, Grena?

  Certainly, the Great One didn’t give her life in order to be burned as an offering to his fictitious competitors at the Festival. Noran would have Ashlund believe she volunteered as a sacrifice to protect us during Talium, but I knew better.

  My skin tingled with the first evidence of being out in the sun for too long. I slapped a mosquito who’d yet to get its fill. The sting against my flesh caused me to wince.

  Maybe the Great One sent Alux here for me. For this moment. Could his death have been what I needed to see the world for what it really held? Did he orchestrate this unexpected funeral to show me hope still existed? If that were true, why Alux? Why me? Why not someone else?

  Isn’t there some other way to tell me this?

  If the Great One is so powerful, he should be able to find a way to communicate such things without killing innocent children in the process.

  I searched the sky for answers. Religion would tell me to consider the list of gods to determine the most appropriate deity to make an offering to, but the thought of worshiping them caused me to taste bile on the back of my tongue. It all felt so fake, so contrived.

  I replayed the day’s events in my head, questioning every detail.

  I should have let Graken push Alux away when we bound the thistle.

  At the time, I thought him cruel and insensitive, when in all actuality it would have been the very thing that would have saved his life.

  I shouldn’t have let him get near the harvest.

  Or encouraged him to follow me.

  Or let him in the house.

  Or left him to get Marsh.

  There were so many things I should have never done. Why stop there? I should have never gone to Noran’s house either. I had to be the worst Seer to have ever existed.

  “She’s over here, sir.” The stranger’s voice pierced the silence of my thoughts.

  I knew who’d come for me. I didn’t say anything as Calish sat next to me. I didn’t have to. The stars both kept my attention and ignored my tears. Sympathy wasn’t necessary.

  He didn’t ask any questions. I assumed he already had all the answers, and I couldn’t make myself confess the grave next to me was the result of my own lack of forethought.

  Again.

  Calish had always been the one who knew exactly what I needed even when I didn’t. He stayed with me as the evening cooled the air, being the silent support I so desperately longed for. I lay down and put my head in his lap. He ran his fingers through my hair as I stared into nothingness. I wanted to go back to the house. I wanted to change my clothes, wash the dried and cracked blood off my arms, and cry without the company of strangers. All those things would come in time, but I just wasn’t quite ready to leave Alux alone in the dark.

  After all, he was just a little boy.

  Chapter 14

  The word spread throughout the village about Alux and his untimely death. As did the tale of his grave next to the river. Instead of being angry and revolting, the Citizens brought gifts for me, Una, the Wife of the Junior Lord. All the gifts were the same, something any man, woman, or child could afford—long, thick, mature, flowering thistle. It started the morning following Alux’s death and continued throughout the day and night for the next two days.

  Qarla explained the reason for all the weed stacking outside the Authority gate. “A friend of a friend saw you harvesting them. They said you tried to help Alux before ‘being dragged off by the unsympathetic officer when trouble presented itself.’ When an archer killed him, you demanded respect for his death. People are saying Calish gave you power over all the officials of the Authority to oversee a proper burial. You two staying at the gravesite to ensure he crossed over unobstructed makes you heroes in a lot of people’s eyes.”

  “That is wildly misrepresented,” I argued. My chin trembled as I confessed, “I am the reason the boy is dead.”

  “Is it?” Qarla knelt before me and put her hand on both of mine as I clutched the handkerchief inside. “May I speak my mind, my Lady?”

  I nodded, embarrassed, as a thick tear fell onto the back of her hand.

  “These walls are thin, and the servants talk almost as openly as their employers do when they think they are alone. I can tell you, with all that is within me, you and Calish are different than the others who live behind these gates. That boy is not the only person who acted against the Authority in some way, but he is the only one who was given a proper send-off into the afterlife despite his crimes.”

  “He committed no crime. I gave him food, Qarla.”

  “I saw the jars roll out of his bag, my Lady. Whether you choose to admit it or not, the boy broke the law.”

  I pulled my hands from her and caught the rivers pouring from my eyes.

  “The thistle are gifts of gratitude. The people don’t understand why you want it, all they know is you were willing to risk your life for it. It’s an easy offering, and it keeps you safe from harm.” Her expression relaxed, and her motherliness broke through. “They like you, my Lady. There aren’t too many people of status they do.”

  The more thistle the Citizens brought, the more Marsh and Trisk dragged to the backyard. We pressed stalks for hours, and eventually, Sterle recruited servants from the neighboring houses to help keep up with the demand. If the weeds lay in the sun for too long, they would wither and their milk would dry up. If the Citizens were going to make an offering, we’d make every one of them count for something.

  When we ran out of jars to fill with the starts the first day, more appeared on our doorstep the following morning. We also received more soup pots, bowls, mugs, and cups, and within a few days, the only way through the parlor was by a narrow path down the middle. Alux had singlehandedly prepared us for the thistle kitchen faster than any of us expected.

  Normally, Calish would work sunup to sundown, but today he came home much earlier than usual. I took a break from the press to welcome him home when he stepped into the backyard. I wiped
my hands off on my apron, leaning into his kiss. Our lips met, but his gave little effort in return. I pulled back, seeing a strange expression I couldn’t interpret.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, and he nodded, greeting the strangers huddled around jars, squeezing milk through the cheesecloth, with a nod.

  Marsh noticed Calish’s behavior and stood as if summoned by his thoughts. Handing his task off to Trisk, Marsh followed us as Calish led me into the house. He wanted to speak with us in private, that much was clear. For what purpose though, only he knew.

  After Alux’s funeral, we’d decided to expedite our plans to reclaim the property and start offering food to the people. To be honest, our plans were delayed only because of all the supplies appearing at our doorstep. We’d be foolish not to take advantage of it. As a result, Calish said he’d taken the morning to ride up to our family’s land to speak with the people who had squatted on it. He had already had men watching the plot constantly for days.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” I chastised him. “They could have killed you.”

  “We know they are unarmed—”

  “You do?” I pressed.

  “We know they aren’t a threat,” he clarified. “I didn’t go alone. I had an entire unit with me. Why rush to battle without attempting to negotiate first?”

  “What happened?” Marsh asked.

  “There was a family taking shelter in Rebel’s old stall. Strangely, they were similar to ours, a husband and wife and three grown sons.” Jeorge offered a glass of water in exchange for Calish’s hat. “I introduced myself and handed my weapons over to my companions, and they invited me to talk with them. I told them this was our property and we temporarily relocated into the valley after the landslide. They vowed to be gone by morning after I gave them my word not to prosecute them.”

  “That’s it? They are going to just up and leave?” Marsh asked.