Raging Star

by Moira Young

  She watched the boys and girls stream from the bunkhouses in silent single file to the long, low building. She counted at least fifty kids. All ages. The littlest looked about four. The biggest ones, twelve or thirteen. Some of the girls had chests. She’d never seen so many children together before. Every one had been snatched from their family. She knew what that felt like. She heard the clatter of spoons on eat tins. Breakfast time. She ate her nettlecake while she waited for them to finish.

  Then they filed back outside and a man—not a Tonton—blew a shrill blast on a tin whistle. He shouted at them to get into their work groups. After they all did that and cried, Long life to the Pathfinder! they were soon busy with their chores. Tending beasts, climbing ladders to mend roofs, checking for eggs in the duck house by the pond, filling buckets of water at the well to wash floors, working on the half-built barn. There were black-robed Tonton moving about, but she didn’t see too many of them. There were other grown-ups, too, like the man with the whistle. Working with the kids, showing them how to do things the right way.

  One group headed for the garden patch below her, carrying hoes and shovels, rakes and buckets. Without a word, they set to work. Hoeing and pulling weeds. Digging the earth, turning it, raking it smooth.

  After a bit, she watched one girl in particular. Studied her closely. About her age, strong and sturdy, with numbers tattooed up her arm like all the others. Fiery red hair in a long neat plait, and dark eyes that kept looking, looking around her while she worked. Looking for what? Maybe her chance?

  The girl paused, frowning. Her head turned towards the woods and she scanned the trees. As if she knew she was being watched. Slowly, she hoed her way right to the fence. Making sure nobody was looking, she picked a clod of couchgrass from her weed bucket and tossed it through the mesh of barbwire.

  It landed with a thud beside the bull pine. In the safety of its branches, Emmi held her breath. Was this the right moment? Or a trap? She twisted off a pine cone and held it to her chest, clutched it to her hammering heart. What would the Hopetown Emmi do? That smart survivor of hard knocks and fear? She tossed it to land at the girl’s feet.

  The girl stared at the cone. Her eyes flicked up to the tree.

  Emmi tossed down another cone.

  Who’s there? the girl whispered.

  Me, said Emmi. My name’s Emmi. I’m here to help you.

  I’m Nell. The girl started hoeing again, talking quickly in a low voice. There ain’t nobody lookin. They won’t hear if we’re quiet. I gotta git outta here, Emmi, she said. I gotta try an find my folks. Can you really help me?

  I’m gonna help all of yuz, said Emmi.

  She looked along the fence. A cage for the kids, that’s what it was. High and tight and wicked barbwire to rip anybody climbing it to shreds. In Hopetown, Saba climbed the bars of the Cage to escape. She fought her way out from the inside.

  That arm tattoo, said Emmi. Did it hurt when they did it?

  Not so bad I couldn’t stand it, said Nell.

  Okay, she said. Spit on the devil an swear me yer true. That you won’t say nuthin to nobody. No matter what.

  Nell spat. I swear, she said. What’re you gonna do?

  You’ll see, she said.

  Emmi shinned down the pine and slipped a silent way through the trees, staying out of sight but always skirting the fence. It landed her at the road. She walked its cheerless song to the front gate of Edenhome.

  There she stopped, her boots still hanging around her neck. The Tonton on guard duty was walking the fence, away from her. She grabbed the gate bars and rattled them. As he came running, shouting, with his firestick aimed, she raised her hands in the air. They were trembling a bit. Her stomach had the jitters. She was only a kid, they’d expect her to be afraid. She wasn’t afraid. She was nervous. And excited.

  She’d been a prisoner of the Pinches at Hopetown. A prisoner of the Tonton at Resurrection. She’d survived, become stronger and escaped, both times. She wasn’t just the sister of the Angel of Death. She was a Free Hawk. A warrior for freedom and justice.

  As the guard pulled the gate open, she held her clenched fist to her heart. Long life to the Pathfinder, she said.

  And, just like that, she was in. She was in. She was doing the something that no one else could.

  There’d be another something soon. The big gawdamnn rumble. Saba had promised. She would listen and learn. She’d watch and wait. And when Saba gave the word, she’d be ready to move.

  It’s all strangely quiet at the Lanes. Tracker comes runnin to meet me. But not a soul answers my calls of hello. Every shed’s empty. No sign of Peg. Jest her jailbirds twitterin in their cages. Lugh! I call. Emmi!

  There ain’t nobody down none of the alleys between the junkhills. The piles of wreckage see all the comins an goins, but they ain’t inclined to say what they know.

  Where’ve they all got to, huh? I says to Tracker. Emmi! I yell. Lugh! Gawdamnmit. Lugh!

  I rattle the rope of the yard bell. It yelps awake in a splash of white clatter. Nero’s sailin about fer a bird’s-eye view. He caw caws jest as Lugh ambles into sight, whistlin an sloshin a pail of water at his side. What’s the panic? he says.

  I bin callin fer ages. Where is everybody?

  I dunno about nobody else, he says. I was seein to the horses. You must be starved. I’m gonna cook a big pot of root mash. Hot an wholesome, jest like yers truly.

  I thought you gave up yer life of crime, I says.

  It don’t hardly seem possible there could be a worse cook than Molly. But Lugh is it. You let him near a cookfire at yer peril. His root mash is especially vile.

  Ungrateful brat. You’ll eat it an thank me nicely. He grins wickedly as he pecks my cheek in passin. We can talk plans fer Edenhome, he says. I got a few ideas.

  Yer cheerful, I says. Where’s Em?

  He walks backwards to answer. She was gone by the time I got up, he says. Must of headed out early fer one of her wanders in the woods. She’ll show when she’s hungry. You better go give that coat of yers a wash, git the salt out. I did mine first thing. It’s a good dryin day.

  Yes, Mother, I says.

  Hot mash in a flash, he says. I’ll ring when it’s ready.

  Spare me the pain, kill me now, I mutter.

  He heads fer the cookhouse, almost trippin over Tracker. Any sniff of a tidbit, he’s windin between the cook’s legs like snakevine. A taste of Lugh’s root mash outta cure him of the habit.

  Me an Nero make our way to the washpond. Halfways there, we meet Tommo comin towards us. He’s on his way back to the yard, eyes fixed on the ground, hands stuffed in his pockets. Frownin like he’s got a heavy load on his mind. Nero buzzes him to catch his attention. He starts when he sees me. Colour patches his cheeks. We stop, a couple steps apart.

  Yer deep in thought, I says.

  I bin lookin fer Em.

  She won’t of gone far.

  After that awful night at Resurrection, Tommo made sure him an me never found ourselfs alone. He was that hurt an angry. An I was so ashamed of myself, I steered clear of him too. But this makes two days in a row that it’s bin jest us on our own. An somethin’s changed in him. In fact, he’s bin changin ever since the bridge.

  He stands his ground in front of me now. His gaze meets mine steadily. No uncertainty. No resentment.

  I’ve owed him a real apology since that night. Fer far too long. I might not git another chance like this one. I planned an practised in my head what I would say. I take a deep breath an set off. That night at Resurrection, I says. Kissin you like I did. I knew what you’d think. That it meant I cared fer you like you cared fer me. It was selfish an mean. I can be like that. It ain’t somethin I’m proud of an I’m tryin to improve my character. I would like to say that I’m sorry, Tommo. Yer a fine person. I should never of done it. I apologize most sincerely.

  You told me sorry then, he says.

  It was too soon, I says. The hurt was too raw. It’s simmered between us all this tim
e. I’d like if we could lay this to rest. I hate that I hurt you. That I lied to you. I care fer you.

  Lemme guess, he says. Like a brother.

  A dearly loved brother, I says.

  I love you like a man loves a woman, he says. He jest says it. So simple. Like he carries the words in his pocket, jumbled up with a clasp knife an string an other oddments.

  I didn’t plan fer this. A wave of heat crawls my neck. Please, don’t waste yer love on me, I says. I lied to you, Tommo, treated you wrong. You only think you love me. I’m th’only girl you know. If you met some other ones, you’d change yer mind, you would. You jest need to meet other girls.

  Think what you like, he says. I know my heart.

  He steps in close an before I realize his intent, his warm lips is on mine. He kisses me. A slow, tender melt of a kiss. In no way clumsy or unsure. Not like the twice he’s kissed me before. If I desired him, craved him, such a kiss would slay me. As it is, it takes my breath away. Our lips part.

  Jack’s gone from our lives, he says. He was never good fer you. You only did what you did becuz he’d hurt you so bad. I’m constant. I ain’t goin nowhere.

  I’m dumb fer a moment. Then, not knowin what else to do, I stumble on with my pathetic little piece. If I could go back, I would, I says. I’d do it all different. I’m ashamed every time I think of that night.

  A ghost of a smile lifts his eyes. His mouth. Are you done? he says.

  Yes, I says.

  Whaddya want from me, Saba? He says it patiently. Like I’m a fractious child.

  I want you not to love me.

  That ain’t how love works, he says.

  All right then, fergiveness, I says.

  He shrugs. I fergive you.

  Three words. I asked fer them. An they weigh me down like a drowninstone. Serves me right fer thinkin I’m so smart. That I can have everythin on my terms. It’s only Tommo, that’s what I thought. I’ll say the right things, I’ll apologize, an we’ll be back to where I want us to be. Friendly an easy. But I didn’t reckon with him. With him bein different, that is. This new purpose in him, this new strength. This toughness that never was there before. Tommo’s eyes always looked inwards to his past. Shaded, clouded by all he that won’t, or cain’t, speak of. But there’s a sharpness in his gaze now, a clearness.

  He says, There may come a day when you look kinder on me. We won’t talk of this agin. Unless you change yer mind.

  The boy that he was is gone fer sure. His dignity slaps me with my own smallness. With a bow of his head, he carries on past.

  I stand there, dismissed, feelin worse than I ever did. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. I handled that so badly. I want you not to love me. I am a fractious child. Stupid an clumsy. When it comes to Tommo, I jest cain’t git nuthin right.

  Damn damn damn, I says softly. I don’t want the burden of his love. It weighs me down far more than my guilt ever could. I wish Molly was here. She knows about men. She’d tell me what to do.

  Then Tommo hisses, Saba! an Tracker’s suddenly, outta nowhere, streakin circles around me, silent with raw wolf urgency. Warnin there’s some badness afoot. He races back towards the yard an from a standin start, we’re runnin, me an Tommo, tearin up the trail behind him. The red hot slams in to speed my feet. Lugh. It must be Lugh. He’s in trouble.

  I grab Tracker’s collar an we duck behind a junkpile near the cookhouse. We catch our breath. Our bodies burn the fierce heat of sudden fear.

  A Tonton points a gun at a man on the ground. He lies face down, hands behind his head. Black hair, stocky build, dusted with the red of New Eden roads. There’s a strange horse, travel stained, must be his. Somethin flickers in me. Do I know this guy? Two horses, shiny with polished kit. Tonton mounts. So where’s the other Tonton? Then Lugh walks outta the cookhouse. He’s got his hands in the air. Behind him another Tonton, proddin Lugh’s back with a firestick. Two Tonton. Present an accounted fer. What the hell’re they doin here?

  Then the guy on the ground’s bein yanked to his feet. Shock kicks my stummick. It’s Manuel. The Steward I met at the mill. He must be here to see me. Somethin so important that he chanced the roads by night an broke curfew. The Tonton patrol must of spotted him an followed him here.

  My eyes meet Tommo’s, my hands open in panic. I ain’t got no weapon. He shakes his head. Nor does he. Think, Saba, think. Any second now they’re gonna be rakin up Lugh’s sleeve, checkin fer a arm tattoo that ain’t there. An when they don’t find it, they’ll shoot him, no questions.

  I look around us. Junk. Nuthin but junk. Useless, worthless—I stare at the pile next to my head. No, no good, not that one neether—yes! That’ll do. I take hold of a sheet of battered metal, some bit of a car I think. I signal Tommo to do likewise. They’re jest big enough to give us decent cover. We hurry, hurry but make no noise as we loop bits of string into rough handholds. A shield each.

  We got surprise on our side. Nuthin else.

  I point Tommo to his man, the guy with Manuel. We raise our scabby shields. I count us in silently. One. Two. Three. Then we charge, shriekin wild mayhem. High pitched an crazy. I go straight fer the Tonton with Lugh. He’s off balance, startled by the racket. Tracker streaks past me, leaps an bowls him over. His gun goes sailin. As he’s scramblin up, I hit him at top speed. He flies backwards. I crash land on top of him, shield first. That does him. He’s out.

  Lugh’s grabbed the gun. Help Tommo! I yell at him.

  It’s a messy scrum on the ground with Tommo, Manuel an the other Tonton all strugglin an kickin. The Tonton clings to his gun like grim death. Then, somehow, he’s scrabblin free an on his feet. His gun swings towards Manuel. Jest as I yell, Look out! Peg comes harin outta nowhere. She scuttles up behind him, swingin the yard bell by its rope. She sledges him such a body whack he goes spinnin around full circle. Then she belts him to blankness with one clonk to the head. He hits the ground like a tree.

  I reach down a hand an help Manuel stand. He’s a little bit dazed an a lot outta breath.

  What is it? I says.

  I got a message, he gasps. Fer you. He rummages in the pouch at his waist. It was left in a safe drop, he says. One of our lot picked it up late last night.

  Fer me, I says. How d’you know?

  He hands me a folded piece of cloth. There’s a shootin star marked on it in charcoal. That’s you, he says.

  The rumpus in the sky’s down to me, huh?.

  That’s the word goin round, he says.

  I unfold the cloth, a torn off bit of shirttail or somethin. There’s a single star an a circle with a tiny circle on top of it. I study it a moment. Then I tuck it in my pocket.

  Okay, we’re on the move, I says. Lugh, Tommo. Strip these two jokers an put on their gear. I need a Tonton escort. We’re goin by road.

  We leave Peg an Tracker to hold the fort. Wherever Em’s sloped off to, she ain’t gone far. All of her stuff’s here. It’s in a fine old mess. Tracker’s pawed through it. He was after a stale bit of jerky she had stashed, but sicked it up after a few chews. She helped herself to a chunk of Peg’s nettlecake, so she must plan to be gone fer most of the day. No doubt she’ll be moochin about the woods, singin to herself like she has bin of late. Molly puts her oddness down to growin pains.

  Manuel’s still callin his grateful humble endless thanks to Peg fer savin his life as we ride through the gates of Starlight Lanes.

  We dump the two Tonton along the road a ways an empty a keg of Molly’s hooch over ’em. The best use ever fer the vile stuff. If they’re lucky, they’ll come to an run off before one of their comrades stumbles on ’em. They’d be hard pressed to explain. Where their horses an gear went, fer one. Fer another—an a damn sight more awkward—how they come to be lyin in each other’s arms, wearin nuthin but lady dresses, an stinkin of rotgut drink.

  I’ll probly git it in the neck from Slim fer stealin two of his late mother’s frocks. But from what he’s told us, Big Doe was a rakehell in her day. I figger she’d approve an th
en some.

  So we dare to ride the roads in the daylight. It’s the fastest way to where we gotta go. The northwest corner of New Eden. It was Slim sent the message. The circle with the tiny circle on top. That means one of the lethal pinballs that we used to blow the Causeway an Resurrection. They come from the arms dump at Nass Camp. The single star is Auriel Tai, the star reader.

  Auriel’s there, at Nass Camp. If Ash an Creed found her so fast, she must of bin on the doorstep of New Eden. The question is, did she come alone? Or did she bring her people from the Snake River? An if she did bring ’em, how many?

  They asked Emmi a lot of questions. Where she was born and when. Who her parents were, how they died. Things like that. She only had to lie a bit for most of those. Did she have a brother? No. A sister? No. In a little room on their own, a woman who reminded her of Mercy called her dear and looked her all over.

  Teeth, ears and eyes. Hands, feet, hair, and skin, strength and straightness of limbs. Her height was checked to a mark on the wall. She had to say if she’d ever had this fever, that sickness, quite a list.

  Then they tattooed the numbers on her arm. It hurt. It took a long time and burned like fire and bled and hurt a lot. She didn’t cry though. She wouldn’t let herself. She screwed her face tight and thought about Saba. How she never cried after that first time they made her fight in the Cage. Never, no matter how much they hurt her. How she didn’t cry when the hellwurm ripped her shoulder and Jack stitched it. This was nothing compared to all that. To shed even one tear would be shameful. So she didn’t. Not one single tear.

  Today our boldness works. Tomorrow it might not. Today the weather’s set to unsettle. Uneasy nights give birth to uneasy days. The sun rises to brood darkly red. Not long after we leave the Lanes, a cold fog rolls in from the north. But the sun will not have its power denied an burns the mist red, like a thin blanket of fire.