Neeka Featherstone

by R. J. Lucas

  I hear Braam’s gruff voice. “The only reason you are still alive is because of Amari. If she were not here, I would have already broken your backs.”

  I sit up and look around, curious as to who Braam is arguing with. The room is small, and I can see we are still in a part of the tunnel. We must be at the end because I see a dilapidated and broken door on the left wall. Rays of light break through the cracks around the door.

  “Neeka! How are you feeling?” Papa asks, his eyes are wide, and his smile seems to stretch the entire width of his face.

  I wipe my eyes to clear the haze and notice two men sitting on the ground across the room. I blink. It’s the fat man and his guard, Cyrus.

  “What are they doing here?” I ask. “And why are they still breathing?”

  “Because Amari has a soft spot for the fat man,” says Isaiah.

  I want to argue. I want to jump across the room and boot their heads clean off. But I don’t want to upset Amari. Besides, I doubt these two will survive the Dread Wastes anyway.

  I look up at Amari and smile. “How long have I been out?”

  “About four hours,” she says with a soft voice. “You took a bullet in the back and it lodged against the inside of one of your ribs. I was able to remove it and seal the wound.”

  “Does it hurt?” Papa asks offering me a hand as I shift my position.

  I twist my torso and rotate my arms to test out my pain level. “Not much,” I say. “Surprising for a bullet wound. I thought it would be more painful.”

  “I think your healer friend here works some kind of voodoo magic,” says Isaiah as he points to Amari.

  “What’s voodoo?” I ask.

  “It’s from the old world,” explains Isaiah. “It’s a dark art and always comes with a price. So, you better be careful.”

  The fat man speaks up to defend Amari. “It’s not voodoo. It’s a gift. And I imagine none of us would be alive now without her. She’s healed all of us here at some point, except for Jeremiah.”

  “He’s right,” says Papa. “So maybe you can cut her some slack.”

  Isaiah walks over and kneels next to us, looking Amari in her eye. “I don’t mean to sound ill toward you girl. Voodoo or gift…it doesn’t matter to me. I am grateful all the same.”

  Amari smiles and nods at him.

  Isaiah slaps his hands to his knees and says, “Now let’s see if we can get out of here.”

  He walks over to the door and tugs at it, but it barely moves. Braam reaches over, grabs a good handhold on the door and helps him. With the combined pulling force of the two men, the old door cracks and begins to splinter before breaking lose from the wall and falling to the ground. A cloud of dust billows up, obscuring the view outside.

  After a few seconds, the dust settles and we all make our way through the splintered opening of this dark tomb, making ourselves vulnerable to whatever may lie beyond the darkness that has been our safety for the past few hours.

  I hold my hand up to shield my eyes from the blinding sunlight as fresh air fills my lungs. The air is a much-needed respite from the choking atmosphere of the tunnel. I slowly turn my head while taking everything in. I need to get my bearings, but I also need to know how safe we are from whatever chaos lies before us. As I focus my eyes southward, I can see pillars of smoke snaking skyward above the ruins of Arcmire.

  The fat man falls to his knees and cries out. “Oh, my beautiful home. What have they done?”

  “There was nothing beautiful about it,” I say.

  “Arcmire was filled with death and despair and you made it that way,” Papa raged. “It deserved to be destroyed. Although, all those people…their deaths…such a shame.”

  Isaiah puts his hand on my shoulder, and we stare at the distant plumes for a few seconds before he pulls me away.

  “We have to go,” he says. “We should be able to make it to Graven Pointe with light to spare if we leave now.”

  “What about these two?” Braam asks as he shoves Cyrus into the fat man. They both tumble to the ground, stirring up a heap of sand.

  “They go any direction they choose as long as it’s not the same as us,” says Isaiah.

  I look at them, wishing I could cause them to drop dead from my stare, but it doesn’t work. “If either of you follow us,” I say. “I will run you down and drive my boot knife through your eye.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” Braam adds with a smirk on his face. “She’s fast.”

  I can still hear the fat man sobbing as we walk away, following Isaiah in the direction of Graven Pointe. Hopefully, the city is as wonderful as Isaiah has made it out to be. Although almost anywhere would be better than where we’ve been.

  Being back in the Dread Wastes seems different having been imprisoned for so long. Rather than desolation, it offers freedom. The sky seems to go on forever here. The wind picks up Amari’s hair and makes it dance, as if following the waves of the terrain. The sand and dust surrounding us is thick and form ripple patterns along the ground.

  As we trudge along, the dunes are ever moving under our feet, thanks to the scorching wind. The trek is tiresome, the sweat pours down our backs and off our brow, following the same pattern it has already cut through the layers of dirt on our skin. I watch our surroundings closely for danger, but I also watch the others for signs of heat exhaustion. I can tell Papa is tired but fighting hard to hide it.

  We walk slowly and no one talks for a while, reckoning with the realities of what has happened to us. Having been trapped inside a cell and forced to kill has caused all of us to retreat within ourselves to get through the days. Being free gives us the opportunity to think on what we’ve done and what has been done to us.

  Papa trudges along without fear or self-pity, pushing through the weariness that comes with age. Isaiah is determined to get back home and see his wife and kids. He doesn’t talk much, and this frustrates Braam who decides he now wants to talk about hunting teyrelsk and recount their victories in the gladiatorial arena of Arcmire.

  “Remember the way that baldagaar hit the ground when it fell?” Braam says, shaking his head.

  “Yep,” Isaiah says, barely able to maintain a conversation.

  “Are we there yet, or what?” Braam wants to know.

  He asks this about once an hour and I can’t decide if I want to treat him like a child or punch him.

  “Not yet,” Isaiah says as he continues to lead the way.

  The men leave Amari and me to ourselves. We walk a few steps behind, and I try to find out as much about her as I can.

  “How long had you been living with…him?” I ask, unwilling to mention her surrogate father by name. None of us need a reminder of the fact we left him behind in the wasteland to die. We are all aware he is not the type that will survive out here.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “As long as I can remember.”

  “How did you end up with him?”

  “I don’t remember a lot from before Hugo took me in. I remember traveling around. Being on an airship, maybe? Riding on the back of an animal? My first real memory is Hugo giving me fruit to eat. Berries from the mana bush, figs, and pomegranate. He gave me grapes that were sweeter than anything I’d ever tasted.”

  “I’ve never had a grape,” I tell her.

  “You should have told me,” she says. “I would have gotten you as many as you wanted.”

  “I didn’t know I could order food from you.”

  “Well…if you’re ever captured again, I’ll bring you grapes,” she says and smiles.

  “I wasn’t the only one who was a captive,” I tell her, trying to remind her she was as much a prisoner of the fat man as I was.

  “I know,” she says. “I’m glad to be away from Arcmire. That place was my home. It was my whole life; all I’ve ever known. But at times, it was a nightmare.”

  “That place was awful.”

  “It was,” she agrees. “But out here, freedom can be just as dangerous as captivity.”
r />   “It’s worth the danger.”

  “I’m not very strong,” she speaks softly while taking a sideways glance at me. “I can’t fight like you and I would have never survived on my own. Hugo kept me safe.”

  Point taken.

  Arching my eyebrows and nodding toward the mask on her face I comment, “That thing makes you look tough, and strong…a little badass if I’m being completely honest.”

  Reaching up to touch her mask she seems at a loss for words for a moment. I honestly think she even blushed a little under all that dirt and sweat.

  “I forget I have this sometimes,” she says.

  “I’m curious as to how you can pity that man when he did that to you?”

  “This was an accident,” she says. “And it was mostly my fault. He almost never hit me.”

  “Almost never?”

  “He only hit me the one time I tried to run away. When he captured me, he hit me with his lashtail. He was just trying to scare me. He just isn’t particularly good with that thing.”

  I stare out into the heat of the Dread Wastes. I spot a baldagaar in the distance, too far to be a danger yet. The heat causes the beast to shimmer, which makes it stand out against the mountainous backdrop.

  “I’m glad he is no longer with us,” I finally voice.

  She doesn’t respond. I know she isn’t ready to move past him yet.

  “How did you learn to fight like you do,” she asks. She is trying to change the subject, but I can also tell she is genuinely enamored with my ability to fight.

  “I read it in a book, if you can believe it,” I say.

  “I wish I knew how to read,” she says.

  “You can’t read?” I ask. “Well maybe I’ll teach you. Anyway, there were lots of pictures in this book, so you could probably pick it up pretty fast.”

  “That is seriously how you learned to fight? Reading a book?”

  “Yes and no. The book, ‘The Secret World of Capoeira,’ taught me how to use my body. The fighting sort of came natural.”

  “You didn’t know how to use your body?”

  “My proths make me special,” I explain. “Almost superhuman, but at first, I couldn’t use my body at all. It was all so foreign, like I was telling someone else to move my legs for me. Reading the book helped me. It was about an ancient martial art from a place called Brazil.”

  “Brazil? Is that a real place?”

  “It is. At least it was. It was part of the old world. The book tells the story of a brutal leader that ruled the people with an iron fist. He made it illegal to practice combat, because he was worried the people would learn to fight and revolt against him. The people tried to train in secret, but the government always found out and executed those that were training to fight. So, they created a better way to practice fighting techniques without anyone realizing what they were doing.”

  “How did they do that?”

  “They disguised it as a dance. The fight moves are all built into a dance of sorts, so instead of hiding their training, they could do it out in the open. At parks and public buildings. If the government saw them training, they just thought the people were happy and dancing, rather than secretly planning to overthrow the government.”

  “Hiding in plain sight,” Amari whispers as if astonished.

  “Exactly.” I can’t help but grin.

  “You know, it does seem like you are dancing when you fight. The way you move. It’s…beautiful.”

  Her compliment makes me blush. I know she is talking about the way I fight, but it feels good to hear her call me beautiful.

  “So, I started practicing the techniques and no one bothered me. They called me ‘little dancer’ whenever they saw me. At night I would practice on a dummy Papa made for me out of spare parts.” I watch as she turns her head and looks at me for a moment as if she is amazed.

  “I’m impressed!” she says as she turns her attention back to the path we are trudging. “And that sounds like a priceless book since it taught you how to survive with your fighting.”

  “Yeah, but I paid for it. The book was a banned book, of course. It was that book that got Papa exiled to the Dread Wastes. Without thought I had left it out on the table which made it easily visible when the protectors came for me.”

  “I’m so sorry that happened to you,” she says.

  “Well,” I tell her, “If I hadn’t been thrown out, I never would have met you.”

  I notice the corner of her mouth curve upward and I smile too. We’ve been walking for hours and the sun now hangs low in the sky. Papa announces we need to look for a place to make camp if we don’t reach Graven Pointe soon.

  “We can make it a little further,” says Isaiah.

  “These children are tired,” Papa replies.

  “I think you’re the one who is tired,” Isaiah retorts. “Graven Pointe is just over the ridge and I’m not going to risk a night out in the Dread Wastes just because your feet hurt.”

  “So, what if he is tired? We all need some rest.” I resent that Isaiah spoke to Papa in that tone and feel anger rising.

  “I think we can make it,” Braam says in a gentler tone.

  “How do you know?” Amari asks him with a hint of concern in her voice.

  Before Braam can answer, Isaiah shouts. “There she is! Home sweet home.”

  He stands at the top of the ridge with his hands outstretched, clearly filled with joy. I reach the top and stand next to him. In the distance, I can see it too.

  Graven Pointe.

  I sense a collective sigh as our rag tag group steps up to take in the sight.

  21 - Graven Pointe

  Approaching Graven Pointe, I am surprised to see the green grass that springs from the ground in various places. I have never seen this much grass in one place. It is usually sold in small patches in Eden as a symbol of affluence. Of course, Fairebourne has its fair share of lovely vegetation. And wealthy traders in Vanvale grow grass in boxes or pots in their parlors and bedrooms as a display of their “better than everyone else” status. It may be a luxury good in Eden, but it appears grass grows everywhere in Graven Pointe. It grows wild and in shapes and patterns, in different heights, seemingly unmaintained and free to sway in the wind.

  I grab handfuls of the grass and shove it in my pocket, but Isaiah shakes his head and tells me it isn’t going anywhere. He seems confident in his words, but I don’t know if I believe him.

  Along the main road leading into town, a river emerges from nowhere and seems to go on endlessly into the horizon. It looks like the river is fed by the sky and when we drink, we taste the stars. We gulp the water down, and I am sure we will drink the river dry, but like some beautiful magic, the water level never lowers.

  “Where does this water come from?” I ask Isaiah.

  “Haven’t you ever seen a river?” he arches his eyebrow at me, and I see the corner of his mouth twitch as if he is trying not to smile.

  I shake my head, watching him closely. He laughs out loud, the first time I have ever heard him do so and pats me on the head.

  “You’re gonna like it here, little one,” he says.

  “There are waterfalls in Fairebourne,” Papa tells Isaiah, “The water flows down from the mountain peaks and forms a small stream that snakes its way through the city. Clean water doesn’t really make it past Vanvale though, leaving Coghaven with nothing more than muddy creeks.”

  People have always said there are rivers in some of the outposts, but I never believed them,” says Braam who has just pulled his head out of the water. His hair is wet and stuck to his face. “I bet a guy in my platoon five quill they don’t exist.”

  “Looks like you owe that guy a fiver,” says Isaiah who follows it up with another laugh.

  “Eh…” Braam grunts and shrugs his thick shoulders. “He’s probably dead by now.”

  As I take in our surroundings, I see there are several buildings that line the road into town. They seem to all have been built with different scrap mater
ials, skill levels and for different purposes.

  The road is sandwiched between the buildings and the river. A littler further in, it becomes more of a wide path. It appears to lead straight through the center of town and obviously experiences heavy use. Feet and weighted carts have beaten the ground into obedience, creating a welcome path for all who seek respite from the Dread Wastes.

  Having entered the township now, we stroll among farmers carting their produce; children playing games in the street; and other citizens who meander aimlessly through the town. This place must have quite a history and I find myself imagining what it must be. It is quite the unexpected oasis sitting on the edge of the Dread Wastes.

  My reverie is disturbed when I see the familiar uniform of the Protectors. I shudder, but Isaiah tells me not to worry.

  “The protectors don’t hassle anyone unless something really bad happens.”

  “What are they even doing here?” I ask, watching their movement closely.

  “They are exiles of a sort themselves,” explains Braam. “The protectors who get sent out here have probably all been accused of some failure or indiscretion. I imagine this is punishment for them. It’s supposed to be anyway.” I glance up at him and see he has a slight smirk on his face because clearly, living in Graven Pointe is not a punishment for anyone.

  “They only send word back to Solomon if they spot a baldagaar, or if one of Solomon’s commandments are violated,” Isaiah explains. “Of course, they also keep an eye out for any wanted criminals or persons of interest.” He appears calm and sure of himself. He has not seen what protectors are like back in Eden or else he would be more disturbed.

  “Persons of interest?” Amari asks. “Like whom?”

  “I don’t know,” Isaiah shrugs. “The stolen child, maybe?”

  “I thought that was a myth,” she says.

  “The stolen child is imprisoned in the Royal Palace,” Braam says, clearly unsure of his own statement.

  Graven Pointe is beautiful. It’s not a well-manicured place like Fairbourne, but who needs a pristine walking path when you have freedom? This place has a natural beauty with trees and bushes growing freely. And the gardens here are for food rather than just being something pretty to look at. If I had known of this place before, I would have tried to talk Papa into leaving Coghaven and making a home here.