by Shade Owens
“How about you, sweetheart, what do you think?” I heard.
The voice had come from another woman beside me. She had blonde hair, which was braided back in cornrows against her head, and a necklace made of rope or dried plant. She stood stiff like a man, her chest puffed out and her freckled chin raised high. I didn’t have time to say anything because she reached an open hand and said, “I’m Tulip.”
I shook her hand, but she didn’t let go. She just stood there, smiling at me from top to bottom, before adding, “You know…’Cause I’m good with flowers.” She glanced down at my groin area and smirked sideways.
“Leave the poor girl alone,” said the tall, hunched woman.
The Latina woman scoffed. “Don’t pay no attention to blondie over here.” She moved in closer, grabbed my wrist, bent forward, and gently kissed the back of my hand with her plush lips. “When you’re ready for a real woman… name’s Lola.”
“Please,” said Tulip. “Ain’t nobody got time for romance on Kormace. What the girl needs is a good screw.”
I swallowed hard. I felt completely violated. I didn’t want any one of them near me.
“Ain’t that right, sexy?” Tulip asked, throwing her chin out at me.
I clenched my teeth and swallowed hard. I imagined myself pulling an arrow from my quiver and repeating what I’d done to Biggie, but Trim had warned me about attacking one of my own. I didn’t want to end up banished from the Village. It wasn’t worth it. But at the same time, if I didn’t defend myself, women would come to realize that Brone, the pathetic Archer, was a pushover.
“Come on,” Tulip went on, “I can fuck better than any man you’ve ever been with.” She flicked her tongue in the air several times.
And although I wasn’t the type to vocalize my thoughts—to confront conflict in any way, shape, or form—I knew if I didn’t speak up, I’d never put an end to this behavior. I was an Archer, I repeated to myself. A Hunter. I was to be respected.
My heart was pounding out of my chest, and I stared at her, imagining what it would feel like to have both hands around her throat. I was so sick of bullies. I’d already been forced to pay a portion of my weekly salary to two masked women who’d jumped me while on my way to the Cliff. I couldn’t keep allowing myself to be a victim. Then the thought of Gary, the reason I ended up on Kormace Island, entered my mind. I remembered the way he’d yell at my mother from across the living room, commanding that she bring him a cold beer, or the way he’d tell her that putting on makeup was a waste of time because no man would ever look at her anyways. I was glad he was dead. I was glad I killed him.
I shook my head. No, I hadn’t meant this. I wasn’t a killer. I hadn’t done it on purpose.
Tulip reached for my hand, and that’s when the words just came pouring out.
“Stay the fuck away from me if you know what’s good for you.” I glared at her, swinging away.
Her eyes went big for just a moment as if rejection was entirely new to her. She raised her hands to the sides of her face. “Whoa, whoa, sweetheart. No disrespect.”
I just stared at her, my nostrils flared and my jaw clenched. I couldn’t look away. I was furious. I knew she wasn’t the sole reason for my anger, but I didn’t care. All I needed was a punching bag.
“Hey, easy girl,” I heard, but I wasn’t sure who’d said it.
I suddenly realized that my hands were clenched into fists, and I knew that if I didn’t compose myself, I’d do something I’d regret. So I walked away.
There was muttering behind me, words such as, “Crazy,” “Bitch,” and “Psycho,” but all it did was put a smile on my face. My legs shook, and I felt like I was walking on an angle, but I was so proud of myself. I’d never talked back to anyone before—not like that, anyway. If I was going to spend the rest of my life living with uncivilized, pig-headed women, they had to know I wouldn’t put up with their abuse.
* * *
“Yeah, keep looking, you goddamn pig. I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole!” Melody shouted from across the street.
God, I loved my best friend.
There were two older men sitting on a cement block, sipping on their Styrofoam cup coffees and eyeing us like wild dogs gazing at two pieces of bloody steak. All I did was laugh. I didn’t understand how Melody could be so blunt—so daringly vocal toward anyone who upset her even in the slightest.
“Fucking pigs,” she muttered.
I smiled at her. I loved watching her flip out on people. “Were you always so feisty?”
She pushed her thick black glasses up her nose with her index finger—a geeky gesture she often did, which completely contradicted her aggressive demeanor—and shook her head. “Foster care teaches you to stand up for yourself. Not like anyone else is gonna do it for you.”
She threw her arm around my shoulder and tossed her hair. “Except for me. I always got your back.”
* * *
“Here they come!” I heard.
It was difficult to see ahead of me with all the bodies gathered at the side of the waterfall. I saw Trim come out—well, her frizzy brown hair—and I assumed Breanne was by her side. They came into full view as they walked up the narrow path to the right of the waterfall—the one I’d been led up when Trim had announced my new post to the women of the Village.
When they reached the top, Trim reached for the torch, just as she’d done with me, and pulled it out of the ground. She then raised it into the air above her shoulder and shouted, “Holland, Battlewoman!”
I assumed Holland was Breanne’s last name.
There was an uproar among the women, and I couldn’t tell whether they were cheering her on or rebelling against Murk’s decision. Women jumped up and down, others pushed and shoved one another, but then something else happened. The shouting ceased, and instead, a low chant began to spread among the women: “Death to the Northers.”
CHAPTER 4
“What is that?” I asked, pulling away from Rocket’s green-stained thumb.
She smirked. “Camouflage.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I know what it’s for… But what’s it made of?”
“Dirt, plants… Nothing that once had a pulse, if that’s what you’re wondering. Now hold still.”
I stared at the designs on her face: chalky green lines drawn vertically across both of her cheeks and a thick black bar painted straight across her eyes and over the bridge of her nose. The contrast made the white of her eyes look almost fluorescent.
“Does it actually help?” I asked. “You know, for camouflaging?”
“I like to think so.” She dipped her thumb into a black substance and began smudging the color underneath my eyes. “Besides, it’s good luck.”
“Says who?”
“It just is,” she said impatiently.
“Why don’t we use paint on all of our hunts?” I asked.
She dropped her hand and stared straight at me. “What’s with the interrogation?”
I smiled. “Just curious.”
“Lookin’ good, Brone,” I heard.
I shifted my eyes toward Biggie’s voice, not wanting to upset Rocket by turning my face. She was standing beside Fisher, and I felt like the last kid in line to get their face painted at day camp.
I noticed that Fisher’s paint didn’t match the rest of ours. The line across her eyes was blood-red in color, which made her eyes look even darker than usual, and she had thin black lines running horizontally across her high cheekbones and nose. She must have sensed my curiosity because she smirked at me and said, “Red symbolizes strength. It tends to scare.”
“Why would we want to scare? Don’t we want to actually catch something?” I asked.
She laughed, but whether it was genuine or not was beyond me. Fisher was still impossible to read. She was definitely much nicer than the first time I’d met her, but she was still cold and unemotional.
“That’s why we don’t all wear red,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“
She likes to ask a lot of questions,” Rocket said, glancing back at Fisher.
“Ain’t nothing wrong with asking questions,” Flander said, stepping in to watch Rocket’s last few thumb strokes. “It’s how you learn.”
Although Flander’s paint looked like everyone else’s, it was much messier and more uneven. Had she attempted to do it herself?
“Enough chitchat,” Trim said, appearing beside Fisher. “Let’s move.”
To my surprise, her face paint was unlike the others. There was no black line across her face, but instead, bright red smeared across both cheeks. It almost looked as though she’d just slaughtered a pig only to have its blood splatter across her face. I remembered seeing this pattern on Murk’s face when I first met her. Having already been scolded for asking too many questions, I kept my mouth shut and held on to the assumption that this pattern and color represented leadership.
I fastened my quiver around my back and swung my bow over my shoulder. Trim led us out of the Working Grounds and into the thick of the jungle. But we didn’t follow our usual course—we traveled alongside the Grounds and through the forest’s edge where Battlewomen were training in the sand.
Although I feared for my life every time we set foot in the jungle, it was far more exciting than practicing target shooting for hours on end. My hands were now calloused and the skin of my inner forearms was scarred due to my bowstring.
“Where are we going?” I asked, walking alongside Trim.
“Quiet,” she ordered.
I had a hard time separating friendship from hierarchy when it came to Trim. Although I’d grown comfortable around her, I sometimes felt as though she viewed me as nothing more than a pawn—a tool to be used only when required. Was friendship on Kormace Island even achievable? How could anyone care for another if we were all so self-involved? The only thing that mattered was survival—self-preservation.
But then I thought of Ellie, of Rocket, of Flander, and of everyone else. Although I’d only known them for a few months, I felt as though we were all in this together, almost as a family. I cared about them. Surely, friendship was possible.
“We don’t go this way too often,” Flander whispered.
I glanced back, hoping that maybe someone else might fill me in on where we were headed, but all I received were raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders. We made our way up a slanted path, and I realized we were climbing the side of the Working Grounds’ waterfall. I’d never given much thought to what lay beyond the waterfall or above it, for that matter. All I’d ever been able to see beyond our home base was the silhouette of a mountain hiding under countless layers of green, brown, gray, and yellow.
The sound of the water became faint behind us as we ventured away from the Grounds. I wondered if I’d finally see the waterfall’s source. Was there a lake above it? Was it even safe? How did Trim know she wasn’t leading us directly into Ogre territory?
I remembered Sunny—one of the first women I’d met when I arrived on Kormace Island. What I remembered most, aside from her rotten teeth, were her flower-like yellow eyes, which were unlike anything I’d seen before. But the last time I’d seen those eyes, there was barely any color left to them. They’d darkened to a cloudy brown behind swollen eyelids; her body just hung there naked and beaten over some sort of ceremonial circle.
And then I remembered her abduction. Through blurry vision, I watched as she was dragged away by a masked figure into a blended green sea of shrubs and trees. How many more Ogres were there on Kormace? Was it just the one? Were there several?
I shook these thoughts away when we finally reached a dead end—a wall made of natural rock.
“Fisher.” Trim knelt on one knee and with both hands, formed a flat surface to use as a stepping platform.
It was evident by how swiftly Fisher bounced upward from Trim’s hands that they’d done this before. She caught the ledge of the wall and dangled by both hands before pulling herself up. Her back muscles bulged and her legs kicked at the wall, yet she made it look so easy.
“Ready,” Fisher said, staring down at the rest of us.
“Flander, you’re next,” Trim said.
Flander stepped into Trim’s hand and jumped. Trim’s thick arms swelled as she propelled her into the air. It was almost like watching a circus act. Flander caught the ledge with her fingertips, and Fisher reached down to pull her up.
Biggie then stepped forward. Rocket faced Trim, and together, they threw Biggie upward. It didn’t make sense to me how they’d even managed to throw her up, even if the others were waiting at the top of the wall to help her climb. She was a big girl, and stealth was not her forte.
I was next, then Rocket, and lastly, Trim, who stepped back to catch a running start. Fisher reached out a hand to pull her up, but Trim ignored her and climbed up on her own as if she’d done it a hundred times before.
“This way,” she ordered.
This part of the jungle didn’t look any different from any other part we’d traveled through before. It was nothing more than thick greenery, a multitude of vivid-colored plants, and dried-up mud.
“It’s getting worse,” Rocket said, sliding her fingertips alongside the ragged edge of a yellowing leaf.
Flander sighed. “It’ll rain soon, kid.”
I hadn’t given much thought to rain since landing on Kormace. It had drizzled a few times when I’d been lying in my tent listening to the raindrops splatter atop the roof’s stretched leather, but that had been the extent of it. I hadn’t even realized that the leaves were starting to die or that animals were scarce. Was this what they called dry season? Was there even supposed to be dry season here on Kormace?
I quickly glanced up at the sound of something unusual—it was an inconsistent combination of crow-like cries and high-pitched squawks. Its source wasn’t hard to spot with its oversized orange beak and beautiful tuxedo-colored feathers. I’d seen a toucan only one other time when my mother took me to a tropical-themed traveling show that so happened to stop in our city. But to see that type of bird up close without any barriers at all was absolutely breathtaking.
Although in awe, I felt like it was laughing at us, amused by the idea that human beings were stupid enough to venture out this far into the jungle.
“Craw, craw,” it went on, throwing its massive beak into the air and peering down at us from behind small black and blue eyes.
“That right there’s Molly.” Trim pointed her chin toward the toucan.
It had a name?
“Used to see her all the time here,” Trim said. “She’s missing part of her foot. That’s how I know it’s her.”
Sure enough, part of its blue talon, or one of its toes, was missing.
“This is Trim’s old home,” Flander said, leaning in toward me. It was hard to look at her without laughing. Her makeup, or face paint, had been sloppy to begin with, but due to the jungle’s heat, it had already begun leaking down both sides of her cheeks.
“What do you mean? Before you joined the Village?” I asked, looking at Trim.
She nodded.
“Craw, craw, carooo,” we heard behind us as we continued on ahead.
We stepped out into a vast opening—a field, almost—that led to the side of a mountain. The field was yellow with dying plants and tall, dried-up grass, and the path toward the side of the mountain was filled with gray bark trees and fallen boulders.
At the end of this path, something peculiar caught my eye… something man-made. There were mold-encrusted pieces of wood fastened at the high top of a tree forming a platform and uneven walls. I couldn’t understand how anyone had climbed so high to build a fort. Wrapped around one of the upper branches was a rope or intertwined vines, dangling all the way down the tree’s massive trunk and twirled up like a snake on the ground.
“Home, sweet h—” Trim said, but her eyes narrowed on something and she suddenly stopped moving.
CHAPTER 5
We tiptoed behind Trim as she ran toward the wooden f
ort. It was clear by the way she moved, as if on a hunt, that someone was lurking nearby. Her old home was now inhabited.
She didn’t say a word—just told us to remain quiet and to follow closely. When we reached the bottom of the tree, we pressed our backs against the trunk and waited for further commands.
“No one’s home,” Trim said.
“How do you know?” Fisher whispered.
Trim stepped out and wrapped her fingers around the fort’s rope. “Whoever lives here needs to be able to climb back up.”
“Couldn’t ’ave gone very far,” Flander said, peering out into the mountain’s forest. “Ain’t too smart to leave your door open like this.”
“Flander’s right,” Biggie said, “we should probably—”
The sound of something cracking echoed nearby and birds flew into the air. Everyone’s eyes shifted toward the sound, and I instinctively reached for my bow and arrow.
Fisher was hunched forward with a white blade in one hand and a sharp stone in the other. Everyone moved in like a group of wolves on the verge of feeding after weeks of starvation.
But the sound that followed next was not one we could have anticipated.
“Please don’t hurt me.”
The voice was soft and childlike. I nearly lowered my bow but stopped myself when I noticed everyone else maintained their aggressive stance.
“Show yourself,” Trim ordered.
The sound of rustling leaves and breaking tree branches erupted nearby, and something small came stepping out from behind a tree. It was a young girl. She held both hands up by her face as if to say, ‘I surrender.’
I exchanged a confused look with Rocket, who appeared to be mulling over the same thought as me: what was a minor doing on Kormace Island? This girl was nowhere near the age of eighteen, the minimum age restriction for convict banishment.
She was wearing something that almost looked like an oversized green bikini made of dry seaweed. Her face was covered in dirt, either intentionally or due to lack of hygiene. She had bright red hair that fell at shoulder’s length and matching freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks.
