Neeka Featherstone

by R. J. Lucas

  “You know, on the other hand, I believe we should also do some baking right now!” she clasps her hands together with a radiant smile on her face and asks, “Maggie, what shall we teach these girls to cook? It needs to be a delicious, sweet treat, I’m thinking!”

  “Oh, momma! Let’s do cloud cakes!”

  Lydia cups Maggie’s chin, kisses her nose, and whispers, “Cloud cakes!” as if she is dreaming.

  With a louder tone she announces, “Girls! We are going to have cloud cakes!” She wraps her arm around Amari’s shoulders, takes Maggie by the hand and walks them toward the door. Lydia walks so tall and proud but not arrogant like women in Fairebourne. Lydia’s walk is accompanied by a happiness and inner strength I believe to be rare.

  “Neeka,” Lydia says with warmth in her tone, “while I get these two settled in the kitchen get yourself into that tub and enjoy the hot water.”

  By the time Lydia knocks on the tub room door and re-enters, I am so settled in, I feel like a limp rag. A jovial smile is still on her face as she kneels beside the tub and begins to wash and scrub my hair. Never in my life have I had someone wash my hair!

  She scrubs and massages my scalp with a tonic that smells so good I want to eat it. It produces more suds than my hair has ever experienced. Next, she scrubs my face with a tonic that is gritty yet soothing at the same time. The entire time, she hums a tune that is familiar but distant. It all works together to give me a sense of calm I’ve never experienced.

  The next two hours pass by so fast. They are full of new experiences and laughter.

  Lydia washed our hair, then brushed and styled it as well. All the while, telling us stories, some real and some fabled. Listening to her tranquil voice puts my mind in a different world, one that is peaceful, jovial, and exciting, unlike the real world of selfish brutality.

  Lydia moved about, from one girl to the next, pampering and fussing, bringing laughter and joy, while also tending to the cloud cakes and encouraging us to help in the process.

  “Oh, Neeka! Your hair is so clean, I see red highlights that could not be seen before.” Lydia says while running her hands through my hair. “I will teach you how to take care of your hair and you will be envied by many! Your hair is a rare color around here. Did you know red is fabled to be from noble backgrounds?”

  “Really?” I reply, while reaching up to touch my hair. “I would think Amari’s hair to be the rarest.”

  Looking at Amari who is sitting at the table across from me, almost takes my breath away. Her freshly washed hair and scrubbed skin makes her look as if she is a moon child. It is as if the silky white strands are spun moonlight flowing in rivers down her back.

  Lydia works her magic on my hair by forming tiny braids on top and wrapping them around a tiny bunch of purple flowers. The rest of my hair flows freely which is an odd feeling to me. It is always in a ponytail and bound with a wide stretch of leather down the back of my head.

  “Yes, Amari’s hair is rare, but so is yours. We will occasionally see children with white hair, before it turns darker, but we never see red.”

  Standing in the kitchen, learning to do something most women know how to do, while feeling safe, happy, and clean, I realize I never want to leave this place. I realize I like the feeling of being surrounded by people who care for me. And I like feeling clean and fresh. I guess I could get used to this!

  We sit at the table, having not run out of a single thing to talk about, and finally eating our cloud cakes, dripping with honey, when the men barge in.

  “Lydia, my queen, I believe three hours is long enough for a girls day in the middle of the week when things need attending.”

  They stand just inside the door, their eyes wandering around the table, as if in search of something. Lydia smiles and steps into the kitchen. She returns with a second dish of cloud cakes and hands them to Isaiah. “I know you, Isaiah! I was waiting to see just how long you controlled yourself knowing we had made cloud cakes.”

  “Oh yeah! That’s my girl!” Isaiah exclaims as he swats Lydia on the hind end. They giggle like kids in love before Isaiah turns to the others, offering the pastry to them as well.

  “Neeka, my dear girl,” Papa says, ignoring the cakes. “You look like a different person. As beautiful as always, but maybe too delicate and lady-like all cleaned up.”

  The room goes quiet, and all eyes turn to me. Braam had just taken a large bite of cake and almost choked when he looked at me. His eyes shift back and forth between me and Amari as he forces himself to swallow the mouthful of cake.

  “You girls can’t go out like that,” he fusses.

  “Why not?” Amari demands an answer.

  “Do you have any idea how many blokes I’ll have to beat up? They’ll be fawning all over you both.”

  Amari and I look at one another and smile. She is so pretty, I just want to run my hand through her hair, pull her close and kiss her forever. That will have to wait for another time, though.

  “Will it make you feel better if we wear keffiyahs?” I ask him.

  “Much.”

  We all finish our delicious cloud cakes and Isaiah escorts us from the homestead and into the village. As we stroll through the hard packed, dirt streets, we see shepherds herding livestock, merchants trading their wares, and lovers walking hand in hand. We even pass protectors without feeling fear.

  There is something unexplainably optimistic about Graven Pointe. But I don’t think I could ever get used to having all these protectors around. Every time I see them, I want to run away as fast as I can. Isaiah explains they mostly keep to themselves if we are careful and keep our secrets hidden.

  “Like the hidden kiju?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “Do you know what this is?” Isaiah asks me and he points to a circular stone structure at the center of several buildings.

  “It looks like a pile of rocks,” I say, but as we get closer, I can see the rocks surround a hole and there is a broken mechanism and a pulley system laid next to the rocks.

  “This is the beating heart of this town,” he says. “The reason the town exists to begin with.”

  “It’s a well,” I say.

  “This space was founded on the idea of mutual access to the well. This was before the river was diverted to run through town. So, this well was the only drinking water we had. Those that built it could have used it to control people, but they made sure everyone had free access to it. Everyone is on their own to a certain extent, but there are certain things everyone should have a right to. Water being one of them.”

  “Looks like the well has seen better days,” Papa says.

  “It has,” says Isaiah. “It no longer works, but it’s a symbol of what we are and what we believe. No one goes thirsty in Graven Pointe.”

  Papa pokes at the collapsed metal and wood near the well and I can tell he is in problem-solving mode.

  “Does anyone have any spare parts or tools?” Papa asks.

  Isaiah laughs. “Always trying to fix something, aren’t you? Follow me. We have more stops to make.”

  Isaiah leads us through the street to a building stretched out further than normal. He motions toward the door and we step inside. The space is long and narrow. There are leather and canvas cots lined up along the southside wall. A man attends to an old woman who is unconscious on one of the cots as a vibrant woman, about Isaiah’s age, approaches us.

  “Chelsea! Did you get my message?” he asks her.

  “I did,” Chelsea says. “And I’m so glad to see you back, alive and safe.”

  Isaiah leans in to hug Chelsea, but she holds up blood-stained hands and stops him. “Probably not a good idea,” she says.

  “Right,” agrees Isaiah, backing away.

  “This is Braam, Neeka, and Jeremiah,” says Isaiah. Then he adds with extra emphasis. “And this is Amari, the one I mentioned.”

  “I hear you’re a healer,” says Chelsea.

  I finally recognize we are in a healing ward. Poult
ices and bandages, medicines, salves, and balms decorate the tables next to beds. Blades for surgery and krum for soothing pain sit behind a glass case.

  “This is a place for healing,” Chelsea says to Amari. And they share a look that makes me jealous.

  “We’ll leave you to it,” Isaiah says, and he leads the rest of us back outside.

  I feel annoyed we left Amari and that she shares something with someone else that I do not. I can’t heal anyone or anything. I only know how to destroy. It makes me wonder if the two of us have any future together at all.

  “Next stop on our tour, is the tinkersmith,” Isaiah announces, full of cheer.

  Papa’s eyes widen. His face looks like a child’s, the way Maggie’s did when Papa fixed her toy. Inside the shop is a large woman with thick forearms and a leather apron. She wears plastic goggles around her face and her mouth is twisted with effort as she yanks on a metal framework and hits it with a mallet.

  “Yeah?” she asks, gruffly.

  “Is that a reverse decombobulator?” Papa asks, tipping his head and trying to see if he can fix it just by looking at it.

  “Yeah,” she says. “What of it?”

  “Jeremiah Featherstone,” he says, reaching out his hand. She does not shake it but looks at it like it’s another tool for her to use. “May I?” Papa asks, pointing to the frame she is working on.

  She hands it over to Papa and he sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth while he shifts the metal. He grabs a fastening blade from the table. She frowns at him but does not object. After a moment he gets the frame fastened at the perfect angle and he hands it back to her. She puts it down and takes her fastening blade back from him, placing it back on the table.

  “What do you know about tinkercraft?” she asks.

  “It would be better to ask what do I not know. I can work from a blueprint or zero-base my problem solving; and I know tinker is more art than science.”

  “Are you trained or self-taught?”

  “Self-taught, of course,” Papa says, as if it is a ridiculous question. “Now let me ask you something. Do you have any parts to fix the well out there?”

  “Let’s leave them to their discussion,” Isaiah says to me and Braam and we back out of the door. I’m happy Papa has someone who speaks his tinker-language, but I’m even happier to be away from that woman. She is intimidating.

  “You better not be bringing us to the protector station,” Braam says.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” says Isaiah. “I have something special cooked up for the two of you.”

  24 - Atomic Toads

  We travel back through the town, away from the tinkersmith and past the healer. I peek through the open door and see Amari pick up a glass jar and study its contents. She removes the lid and pulls the jar close to her nose. I quietly laugh when she jerks it away and gags.

  “This way Neeka,” Isaiah says, motioning for me to follow. “I wanted to get them situated first, before I brought you two here.”

  He leads us to a saloon where people sit and smoke flavored swampweed from hookahs and eat pear and pomegranate with their fingers. The wooden floor creaks beneath our feet and a few men cloaked in long robes and keffiyehs turn as we enter. A man with a wide, thin mustache serves krum from behind the bar. Others stare at us as we enter the establishment, their eyes shifty and wide. Isaiah leads us into a back room where a couple of bruisers are playing a game of Atomic Toads. One man shuffles the cards while the other rearranges his stack of quill.

  I start to wonder what I might do in a place like this. Perhaps tend bar? Perhaps something a little more unsavory. I wonder what Isaiah thinks of me. He knows I plan to return to Eden to kill Solomon. How can he think I would have anything but contempt for a place like this where people while away the hours, accomplishing nothing.

  The two big guys stand as Isaiah approaches and I think maybe there is about to be a scuffle. Then, they embrace and slap each other on the back.

  “We thought you were a goner,” one man with dark skin says.

  “You’ve been gone over two weeks,” says the other. He stands almost a foot taller than Isaiah, but his childish grin makes him less intimidating.

  Isaiah introduces us and the men smile at me. The dark-skinned man looks at Braam before slapping his friend on the shoulder.

  “Well, would you look at that, Jeter. He’s even bigger than you.”

  Jeter scowls at Braam and I wonder if there is going to be a standoff between the two giants. Braam just smiles and offers his hand to Jeter who reluctantly accepts the handshake.

  “I would trust these two with my life,” Isaiah says. “In any fight.”

  The men nod, and without a word, they slide their table aside and push a secret panel on the wall to slide open a hidden door. They lead us through a low-lit tunnel for about a hundred paces or so and open a door at the far end. We find ourselves outside again, in a gorge which I assume is on the edge of town. Up above is a large rock overhang that partially hides the area, and some type of netting stretches from the overhang to the other side of the small gorge. The netting is the same color as the surrounding terrain, and I imagine any airship would have trouble spotting the activities below it.

  “Another combat arena,” I whisper.

  “No,” says Braam, looking around and assessing the environment. “This is something else.”

  “It’s a training ground,” says Isaiah proudly, as if it is a meal he has prepared for us.

  I see men and women, many of them as young as me, practicing combat with various weapons. Two young men fight inside a circle carved out of the ground. Their wooden practice swords occasionally find their mark and one of them winces with pain.

  A girl with thick brown hair tied back in a knot practices with her bow. She’s actually rather good and hits the bullseye every time she lets loose an arrow. A middle-aged man with a lashtail stands apart from the others. He slices a wooden target in half with a crack as loud as thunder. I’m officially impressed.

  At the far end of the grounds, I see several people performing some kind of strange, group exercise. The leader yells at them, pushing them harder. Sweat pours from their faces and their shirts are soaked. One girl falls to the ground, from exhaustion, I assume.

  “Let’s go big guy,” I hear Isaiah say to Braam. “If you’re gonna be with us, you have to prove your worth.”

  “I don’t have to prove anything,” Braam grumbles.

  Before Braam realizes what is happening, Isaiah lunges at him, spinning around from behind and grasping him around the waist. He tangles his legs with Braam’s and tosses him to the ground. In an instant, Isaiah spins his body again and locks Braam’s arm with one leg while throwing the other across Braam’s neck. I am shocked at how fast Isaiah moves. I never realized he could be so quick.

  “I’ve been waiting for this since the day I first met you,” says Isaiah.

  I notice other people have formed a circle around the two men. Braam does not say anything back to Isaiah but instead, breaks free from the armlock and tosses Isaiah over onto his back. He quickly rolls over on top of him, taking control of the scuffle.

  With another slippery move, Isaiah somehow gets his legs locked around Braam’s neck. Braam tries to hit Isaiah, but he squirms away from each shot. The brute manages to get to his feet, lifting Isaiah before slamming the man to the ground hard. Isaiah manages to hold on, his legs still tight around Braam’s neck.

  I notice some of the other people smiling and starting to whisper about who they think will come out victorious.

  “Come on Isaiah,” says one man. “Don’t let this plugtail come in here and beat you.”

  “Let’s go big guy,” says another. “I got my quill on you. You’re my new best friend.”

  “Drinks if you win, Isaiah.”

  They scuffle for a little longer until Braam breaks free and they both stand up. They circle each other, both with their hands raised and ready to strike. Isaiah lands a few low kic
ks before Braam lands a flurry of punches that knock Isaiah back several steps and leaves him looking dazed. The audience cheers or groans depending on their champion. The crowd is split almost in half.

  Braam lunges at Isaiah, but he is careless, and Isaiah uses Braam’s own weight against him, taking him to the ground again. He rotates his body and wraps Braam’s leg in a lock. Braam grunts, more from pain than anger, but tries not to show it.

  “You might as well give up,” Isaiah taunts. “I can break your leg at any time.”

  “Break it off for all I care,” says Braam. “I’ll just have Jeremiah make me a new one and I’ll stick it so far up your ass you’ll taste the hydraulic oil.”

  “Isaiah,” I scream, still not totally sure what is happening.

  “Stay out of this,” says Isaiah.

  “Listen to him,” Braam says before plunging his knee into Isaiah’s ribs. Isaiah yelps and releases Braam’s leg. Both men scramble to their feet. Braam shakes the tightness from his leg and Isaiah holds a hand to his injured side as he takes a deep breath. Before they can go at each other again, I step between them.

  “Stop it! Both of you!”

  The crowd groans and starts to complain over my interference.

  “Easy, easy,” Isaiah says holding his hand up to the crowd. “She’s right. The girl is right. That went a bit too far. I just wanted to see. I wanted to feel him out. You can’t really know a man until you fight him. Now I know.”

  “You don’t know Bobblegash,” says Braam smiling. “I was just getting warmed up.”

  “I’m sure you were,” smiles Isaiah.

  “What is wrong with you two?” I ask. “The last thing we need is unnecessary injuries.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” says Isaiah.

  “That was fun though,” says Braam. “What is this? A makeshift training ground? A fighting pit?”

  “We do a bit of fisticuffs with each other for entertainment, but that isn’t the end goal. It’s not the primary purpose.”