by Shade Owens
Biggie laughed, her deep voice resonating against the forest trees. “’Cause we ain’t all already like that, right?”
But Trim didn’t smile. Instead, she gave Biggie a solemn look and said, “You’ll never understand it until you’ve lived it.”
I glanced up at Elektra who was lying flat on her stomach, watching us with her chin pressed in the palms of her hands. This little girl would die if we didn’t take her to Murk. I didn’t want to be an animal. I didn’t want to be completely feral, some heartless animal who lives only to survive.
“No child should have to go through that,” I said.
Rocket cocked an eyebrow, almost as if stunned by my newly found boldness. “Exactly,” she agreed.
“Call her down,” Trim ordered. “We’re taking her to Murk.”
CHAPTER 7
“She’s just a kid.”
“Look at that little thing.”
“My God, she shouldn’t be here.”
There were hundreds of eyes as round as golf balls on Elektra as we entered the Working Grounds. Everyone circled around her, so much so that Trim had to order them to back off.
I noticed Elektra reach for Rocket’s hand and Rocket wrap her arms around her.
“Where’d you find her?”
“She staying here?”
There were so many voices surrounding us that I worried Elektra might have another episode, being that her earlier fit was likely triggered by stress. The last thing we needed was for everyone to witness her instability and to want to cast her back into the wild.
“Hi there, sweet child.”
“Look at the face,” one woman said, and she reached to squeeze Elektra’s cheek.
Elektra shouted and pulled away, digging her face into Rocket’s side.
“Enough!” Trim shouted, but the women didn’t listen.
There were too many of them—blurred faces twirling around us in every direction. It was as if the presence of a child had caused them to forget the meaning of hierarchy, of law.
“Come ’ere, kid,” Biggie said. She quickly reached down and grabbed Elektra underneath the arms, then pulled her up over her shoulders and out of everyone’s reach.
“Wow!” Elektra said, gazing out toward the waterfall. She tapped Biggie on the head several times and giggled.
It helped, but it wasn’t enough. There were women reaching up by Biggie’s face just to touch Elektra’s feet. They were acting like a bunch of animals.
Fisher quickly pulled a blade out from her leg holster and pointed it at everyone circling Biggie. “Get back to your fucking jobs before I slit your throats. You know better than to disobey Trim when she gives an order.”
Some women scattered as if they’d only just realized we were the Hunters, but a few others backed off only far enough to evade Fisher’s blade, all the while remaining in a circle.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
I would have recognized that authoritative voice anywhere—even if distorted by the jumbled sounds emerging from the Working Grounds.
Murk stood at the edge of the waterfall, droplets of water glistening on her shoulders and face, her silver hair wet and messily combed to one side.
Everyone dispersed, returning to their posts to attend to their daily chores. Trim stepped forward and knelt on one knee.
“Chief,” she said.
“Get up,” Murk ordered. “Bring the girl inside.” She disappeared into the waterfall.
As Trim led us into the waterfall through a narrow path along sharp, uneven rocks, Elektra burst out laughing. She’d managed to stretch her arm far enough to reach some of the falling water, which forced her hand down hard against Biggie’s shoulder.
She did this as many times as possible before we were out of reach from the water. To my surprise, Biggie glanced up and grinned. I couldn’t help but smile, too—it had been so long since I’d heard someone laugh this hard over something so minute. It was nice to be reminded that despite living like animals, we were still human beings, and by nature, we all had a sense of humor. I wondered if mine would ever return.
“So dark in here,” Elektra said as we moved through the damp cave. The scent was familiar—it smelled of cool water with a hint of mildew or mold. Although the thought of mold repulsed me, there was something refreshing about walking through the cave. Maybe I enjoyed it so much because it was peaceful, not because of its scent, but because I’d somehow associated it with a feeling of tranquility. Water droplets fell from the cave’s ceiling, the only thing I could hear aside from our footsteps. The wet stone around us looked black, and farther down a faint light was cast across the floor and up against the wall. I knew we were approaching Murk’s quarters—I’d only visited twice, but both times, her space had been filled with countless torches, their flames dancing from side to side, filling the room with an orange hue.
“Wow,” Elektra said as we reached the end of the cave.
Murk sat on the ground at the far end of the room, facing away from us and toward the back wall. A string of white smoke climbed into the air beside her, forming uneven loops and circles. Sketched in white across the wall was an unusual design; it appeared to be a gazelle or a deer jumping upward and away from a flock of poorly drawn birds. Murk just sat there, staring at the artwork, and I questioned if she’d been the one to draw it. I also wondered if it signified anything.
Trim cleared her throat. “Chief.”
“Astonishing, isn’t it?” Murk said. Her back was as straight as a piece of plywood—the stiffest posture I’d ever seen.
“Looks great.” Trim glanced at us sideways.
I’d always noticed a certain eccentricity in Murk. She spoke as if everything meant something—as if every action and every word signified something so great that it could not be comprehended by the average human mind. I didn’t know whether to feel stupid or whether the Village was being ruled by a lunatic. Pride aside, I preferred the former; my lack of knowledge did not affect the Village as a whole, but Murk’s lack of sanity, did.
“Do you see it?” Murk asked.
Trim stepped forward. “See what, Chief?”
It was apparent she was accustomed to dealing with Murk’s bizarre moods. I stared at the smoke that drifted into the air, wondering exactly what it was she was smoking.
“Freedom,” Murk said, tilting her head back as she analyzed the artwork. “Fear.”
She stood quickly and clasped both hands together. “Birds are symbolic of freedom.” She pointed at the white lines shaped into birds on the cave’s stone wall. “The gazelle represents awareness and speed.” She moved closer to the drawing and gently pressed the tips of her fingers against the chalk. “The truth is, there’s no such thing as freedom,” she said coldly.
Trim cleared her throat, and Murk looked back. “Who’s this?” she asked, eyeing Elektra.
Elektra squeezed her arms around Biggie’s head.
“She was dropped on the island, Chief,” Trim said.
Murk stepped away from the wall and toward Elektra. “A child… on Kormace Island…” She rubbed her chin. “How is that even possible?”
Trim shook her head. “We have no idea, Chief. We’re all confused.”
Murk paced back and forth several times, glancing at Elektra every few steps.
“Will there still be an Assessment?” Trim asked.
Murk stopped moving. “No need.”
I swallowed hard. Was she about to cast Elektra back into the wild? Although I’d originally thought it best to leave the kid behind, I’d come to realize she was still a human being—an innocent girl in need of help if she was going to survive Kormace. We couldn’t just throw her back into the jungle to fend for herself.
“Chief?” Trim asked.
“Battlewoman,” Murk said, before turning back toward the wall.
“Cooooool!” Elektra shouted.
“Battlewoman?” Rocket asked, but Trim nudged her in the ribs.
Murk glanced back, her ey
es resembling those of a dog offering a courtesy warning before a bite. This wasn’t the Murk I’d come to know. She had always seemed dominant and strong, but there had also always been a kindness in her, an unbreakable love for her people. In that moment, all I saw was coldness. I hoped she had a valid reason for assigning Elektra the task of Battlewoman—for putting a child in harm’s way.
“Dismissed,” Murk said.
I only hoped she knew what she was doing. The moment we left, Rocket began spewing her thoughts like an audio clip on fast-forward.
“Shut up!” Biggie hissed. Her eyes were huge, and she threw her head toward Murk’s quarters as if to say, ‘She can probably still hear you.’
Rocket sealed her lips, but the moment we exited the waterfall, she threw her arms into the air and went off again. “Battlewoman? What the—”
“Language,” Flander said calmly.
Rocket eyed Elektra before exploding. “What is she thinking?” She drew in a noisy breath and exhaled sharply. “She’s just a kid! She can’t protect us. She shouldn’t have to protect us.”
We walked the same path I’d been led up when Trim had first announced my assigned task of Needlewoman. There was a sinking feeling in my stomach—not because of the memories brought on by this symbolic walk, but because I feared the women below us might start a riot upon hearing Elektra’s assigned task. After all, some of these women were mothers or even grandmothers. They wouldn’t sit by and allow a nine-year-old child to fight against exterior threats.
“I think what Murk did is smart,” Fisher said nonchalantly.
“Smart?” Rocket scoffed. “Are you fuc—are you kidding me?”
“Think about it,” Fisher said. “What better way to protect the kid than to train her to fight?”
“She’s not old enough to fight!” Rocket said.
“Trim decides who fights,” Fisher said. “It’s not like all Battlewomen ever get to fight. Most of them are spares.”
Spares, I thought. It sounded like a synonym for disposable.
“Yeah, until the Northers attack us full force. Then she’ll be expected to fight,” Rocket said.
“Look, it’s not like—” Fisher started, but Trim waved a hand to silence her as we approached the torch at the top of the cliff.
Just then, it dawned on me that all Hunters were present for the announcement. Traditionally, it was only Trim who announced the newcomer’s task. Perhaps Trim was too distraught to even realize we’d followed her all the way up. Or, maybe she felt safer having us by her side, knowing that the women would not react well to her announcement.
She pulled the torch out of the dirt and into the air, before shouting, “Elektra, Battlewoman!”
There was an eerie silence—so much so, that for a moment, I thought perhaps I’d imagined the announcement. But then, all at once, an uproar shook the Grounds. Women shouted in rage, pointing accusing fingers at us Hunters as if we’d somehow had a part in this decision.
“Enough!” Trim shouted, but her voice couldn’t be heard over the crowd of angry women.
I wondered how many of these women were mothers—how many had lost their children after being sentenced to this island. I watched as they threw their arms into the air, their teeth bared and their eyes round like a pack of hungry wolves. Although Trim held a position of authority, we were completely outnumbered. What was stopping them from turning on us? It wouldn’t have been the first time that an entire society turned on their leaders.
“Silence!” Trim shouted again, but the outcry didn’t stop.
“Shut up!” Fisher’s muscles tensed—she hated it when anyone disobeyed Trim. I admired her loyalty.
I flinched at the sound of a loud crack against the wall behind me. A rock rolled by my feet, and then another, and I realized we were being stoned. How was this happening? Were they truly this upset over Murk’s decision to train Elektra to be a Battlewoman?
“Shit!” Biggie quickly threw a hand over her right eye, where a thick line of blood slid through the crease of her fingers.
What I did next was not something I’d ever envisioned myself doing. I’d always followed Trim—always obeyed her orders and acted only when commanded. But in that moment, I knew that if action were not taken, we’d be severely injured, if not killed, over a riot fueled by intense emotion.
I quickly drew an arrow from my quiver and readied my bow toward the women standing below me. I aimed it at a young, native-looking girl who held a rock in her hand.
Silence returned almost instantly. We were the Hunters—their protectors and bringers of food. Who were they to turn on us? I clenched my jaw, prepared to release my arrow. Although I knew I’d proven my point, I craved the kill. I wasn’t a murderer, but I’d also never felt so angry in my life. I wanted to prove myself—to prove to everyone that we, the Hunters, were not willing to accept any form of bullying.
One kill, I thought. Just one kill, and never again would anyone question authority.
I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder, but I was unable to release my stare. The woman dropped the rock and cowered backward, and I loved it. I loved the feeling of power, the feeling of utmost dominance over an entire group of people who’d just attempted to attack us—to betray their own.
“Brone.”
I ignored my name. I stretched the elastic of my bow even farther, prepared to shoot the woman directly in the chest. I wouldn’t miss. I was too focused.
“Brone!”
I’d been about to release the arrow when I heard Trim’s voice.
“Stand down,” she ordered.
Like a dog trained to obey basic commands, I immediately lowered my bow and stepped back, feeling as though I’d been shaken from a trance. My hands trembled, causing my bow to shake from side to side, and a familiar guilt sank into the pit of my stomach. How had I allowed myself to lose control again?
“For years,” Trim shouted, “we’ve worked together as a society to survive. We’ve done this by assigning everyone jobs—by making sure that everyone’s contributing to the society.”
She glanced back at Elektra, who was hiding behind Biggie’s leg, before continuing. “Elektra was assigned the task of Battlewoman by Murk. If any of you want to question that, you’re questioning Murk. When has our leader ever led us wrong?” She paused for a moment, eyeing everyone beneath her. They stared up in silence, using their hands to block the afternoon sun from their eyes. “If you have faith in your leader, then have faith that Murk’s decision was not blindly made.”
I stared at Trim as she spoke, her chest heaving and her shoulders drawn back, and I wondered if she spoke of what she believed or of what she hoped was true. Did she actually think Murk’s decision had been thoroughly thought out? I’d seen how quickly Murk had assigned Elektra the task of Battlewoman, and I began to question it myself.
“This isn’t a dictatorship,” Trim said coldly. “If you don’t agree with something, you voice your opinion…” She angrily eyed everyone. “But this!” She threw a finger at Biggie’s injured eye. “This is unacceptable! Not only have you attacked your leaders today—you bit the hand that feeds you! This is a complete betrayal of your own people.”
“You,” Trim shouted, pointing her finger at the young native girl I’d nearly killed and aiming her finger at a few others. “And you! You! And you!” Her voice grew hoarse. “Step forward!”
Four women stepped out of the crowd, forming a horizontal line ahead of everyone.
“On your knees,” Trim ordered through clenched teeth.
They did as commanded and even went as far as to bow their heads.
“You are hereby banished from the Village.” Trim stared at them, her chin raised high.
They threw their heads back in a panic and jumped to their feet.
“No, please!” one of them shouted.
“Trim, we’re begging you!” said another.
“We’re sorry!”
“Enough!” Trim bellowed. “You know the rules. Get out.�
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One of the women burst into tears, but the oldest-looking of the bunch—a woman with bright red hair and piercing green eyes—glared up at Trim. I felt the animosity, the hatred.
“You’ll be real sorry for this!” the woman shouted.
“Was that a fucking threat?” Fisher growled. She darted down the pathway we’d climbed, but Trim shouted her name and ordered her to stand down. I wasn’t even sure Fisher heard the order.
The woman smirked up at Fisher, who was now reaching the ground. “And you,” she said, “you’ll be seeing your dead girlfriend real soon.”
Fisher shot Trim a look at the top of the cliff, almost as if to apologize in advance for disobeying a direct order. She bolted through the sand like a lion about to catch its kill. Several women scattered at the sight of Fisher’s charge, but the redhead stayed put, smirking so arrogantly I had to assume she didn’t value her life.
This look, however, quickly turned upside down the moment she saw Fisher pull a blade from her holster. She didn’t have time to dodge. Within seconds, Fisher lunged through the air and tackled the woman onto the sand.
There were shouts all around; some women encouraged the fight and some pleaded for it to end. But it wasn’t a fight. It was a vicious attack. The red-haired woman didn’t have a chance to defend herself. A circle of women formed around the scene, making it difficult for us to see what was going on.
“Come on,” Trim said quickly, and we ran down after Fisher.
There was a loud shriek immediately followed by silence.
“Move!” Trim shouted, pushing through the women surrounding the fight.
But when we finally reached Fisher, it was too late. She stood up, her skin and clothing stained red. Her blade hung at her side, thick red blood slipping off its sharp point and onto the sand.
There was a deafening silence, and I feared now more than ever the women would revolt against us. But they didn’t. In fact, several women fell back, and others avoided eye contact with us altogether.
