by G. C. Julien
I picked up my bow, its smooth wood feeling even softer than usual against my now calloused palm. I was turning into a true Islander, with my rough skin and dirty fingernails. It disgusted me.
Women fought around me with sticks, rope, and their bare hands while Trim led me closer to the waterfall to continue practicing target shooting with two other Archers, Pin and Hamu—two Asian twin sisters who’d been selected for their perfect vision and small builds, which, as Trim had mentioned, was advantageous for the purpose of stealth.
For the last few days, Pin and Hamu had managed to shoot their arrows several feet away from the target, which was far better than anything I’d managed to do. If the arrow didn’t fall out of my hands, it landed mere feet away from me; it was both embarrassing and frustrating. I began to wonder if Murk had made a mistake in assigning me the task of Archer.
But today was different. Their movements were sloppy and their aim was terrible. It made me feel better.
“You’re supposed to get better, not worse.” Trim moved in, eying them both curiously.
“Sorry, Trim,” Pin said. She was the more vocal of the two, and unlike Hamu who hid her face behind her hair, Pin appeared to be quite confident. Hamu barely spoke, and she followed her sister like a puppy on a leash. “We’re just really tired.”
“I don’t care if you’re tired,” Trim said. “We’re all tired. We’re all tossing and turning in our sleep, afraid that there might be an attack in the middle of the night.”
She tore the bow out of Pin’s hand and picked up an arrow from the pile beside us. Without hesitating, she raised the bow, positioned her arrow, and pulled the bowstring. There was a snap, and her arrow penetrated the middle of the blood-drawn target.
“Tired or not, we still have enemies,” she said, before turning away and toward the Battle Women.
“You young people are too impulsive…” I recognized Flander’s old voice. She was leaning up against a large flat rock at the base of the waterfall’s cliff, observing the new Battle Women spar.
“You old people are too slow,” Rocket said. She swung her fighting stick at the shins of the woman she was battling before tackling her to the ground.
Flander smirked, unoffended by Rocket’s words. It was as if she were proud of her overly freckled, leather-like skin and colorless hair—as if it represented wisdom.
“Always keep your guard up,” Rocket said, extending an open palm to the young Battle Woman lying in the sand.
The girl smiled and grabbed Rocket’s hand. I could tell she was soaking all of this in. She was eager to fight, and she was willing to take a few punches to become as good as Trim’s crew.
The clicking of sticks and fighting cries continued, and I was suddenly thankful to have been given the title of Archer. I wouldn’t have lasted two minutes in a fight with a wooden stick. At least, as an Archer, I could shoot from a distance. The only thing I had to worry about was not getting shot by one of the enemy’s Archers.
“Always stay hidden,” Trim had told us Archers on our first day when Sunny had been by my side. “The enemy always tries to take out Archers first, so they can attack on foot.”
I remembered Sunny’s dandelion-yellow eyes and the way she’d nodded at Trim’s every word. She too had been eager to fight alongside the Hunters. I wondered why I lacked such eagerness. Maybe I was still too fresh. I still possessed this notion that we, as human beings, should be able to cohabitate without wanting to slit each other’s throats. What was the purpose of this war? Why did the Northers want our heads? What had we ever done to them?
I knew there was a lot I didn’t know and a lot I had to learn.
I was still shooting arrows into the sand when I noticed Fisher move in slowly. I’d been intimated by her since the first day I’d seen her. She had such a badass look with her long dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and protruding cheekbones—the type of girl you didn’t want to make eye contact with.
“It took her a while too, you know,” she said, a crooked smile on her lips.
I eyed her curiously. I couldn’t tell whether she was being nice to me or blatantly degrading me.
“Eagle,” she clarified.
I lowered my bow. There were dozens of arrows sticking out of the sand several feet away from the wooden target, which was completely undamaged.
“It takes time, kid,” she said. “Here.” She moved in closer and signaled me to get into position.
I placed an arrow into the bowstring and pulled my shoulders back.
“Knees bent a bit,” she said.
Pin and Hamu were now standing still, trying to absorb any bit of advice Fisher had to offer.
“Don’t hold your elbow straight like that.”
I did as I was told and sighed, not quite understanding how my stance would change the direction of my arrow.
“It’s an art, really,” she said. “There. Now pull back, up to your lips, and keep your eyes on the target.”
I followed her instructions and kept my gaze on the target’s bloody circle, but it was hard to concentrate with her practically pressed up against me and her breath warming the back of my shoulder.
“Visualize the arrow hitting your target, and when you’re ready… let go.”
I held onto the idea of a Norther standing in front of me—the very same Norther who’d maimed Eagle. I didn’t know what she looked like, but I’d drawn myself an image for the purpose of directing my hatred: torn garments, arms full of faded ink, facial piercings, and yellow plaque-coated teeth.
I released the arrow.
There was a loud crack, and the hanging target swayed gently from side to side upon impact. To my surprise, I’d managed to strike just above the bullseye. I couldn’t believe it. I glanced back at Fisher, but she’d already walked away.
Pin and Hamu hopped into position, prepared to follow Fisher’s advice. The practicing continued, and although I didn’t hit the bullseye, I managed to hit my target more than once. I’d been so caught up in the moment that for the first time in several days, the cacophonous bickering of female felons became nonexistent to me. I couldn’t hear women swearing or yelling at each other, fighting sticks being knocked against one another, the waterfall’s static noise, the inconsistent chirping and whistling of insects, or the faraway screams and calls being emitted by the jungle’s wildlife.
The only thing I knew in that moment was the feeling of the bow’s wood against the skin of my calloused palm. The target ahead seemed to blur out all surrounding objects. It felt instinctual.
I’d been about to grab another arrow when Biggie came by, almost waddling due to her size. A beam of sunlight landed across her face, and she glared at us through the bright light. I couldn’t help but wonder why Fisher was Trim’s right hand, when Biggie was the size of a full-grown man—six feet tall, at a minimum, and definitely weighing more than two hundred pounds. I could only imagine the kind of damage she was capable of causing.
“We’re going on a hunt,” she said. “Trim’s orders.”
CHAPTER 3
To my surprise, Pin and Hamu had been told to stay behind and continue practicing along with several other Battle Women.
“The fewer women, the better,” Biggie said, looking down at me.
She led me to Trim and the usual crew, and I suddenly felt nauseous at the realization that I was the only Archer. Were they really going to entrust me with the responsibility of capturing food to feed the entire Village? I’d managed to hit my target today—big whoop. How was I supposed to hit a moving target?
The sound of women sparring grew distant as did the waterfall’s powerful roar. Trim led us into the jungle, and I felt a lump swell at the base of my throat. The anxiety was not the result of my having to prove my worth as a Hunter, but rather, the result of one horrifying memory: Sunny. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind nor the idea of Ogres lurking nearby, women who’d turned away from civilization and succumbed to living like animals.
I could
n’t imagine what these women would do—if they hadn’t done it already—to Sunny. Rocket had let it slip that cannibalism was one of the many myths associated with the concept of Ogres, along with sacrificial rituals and baiting.
I’d feared the Northers ever since being dropped onto Kormace Island, but if there was one thing far worse than Northers, it was Ogres.
I followed Trim and the others into the jungle, my heart racing every time I heard a noise in the distance. The farther away we were led from the waterfall, the more anxious I felt. I gripped and regripped my bow, afraid that it might slip out of my sweaty palm.
“This way,” Trim whispered.
She led us through a narrow path fabricated of moist verdure and along the current of a crystal-clear stream that originated from the Working Grounds. I ducked just in time to avoid an oversized spider web—an intricate pattern fabricated at the tips of two tree branches.
The further we ventured, the more uncomfortable I became.
“Brone,” I heard.
My name had come from the front of the line led by Trim.
“At the front,” Trim ordered.
I wasn’t accustomed to being at the front of the line. The front of the line had always been reserved for
Trim and Fisher, and oftentimes Eagle during a hunt. I remembered Eagle’s short, messy blonde hair and the way she’d stared down at me the first time we’d met. I didn’t know her, but I knew she was still a human being, and for the sake of the Hunters and all other women on the island, I truly hoped she’d be okay.
I walked by Trim’s side, shifting my eyes toward every sound I heard to the point of paranoia.
“Relax,” Trim said, glancing sideways at me.
I parted my lips to speak, even though I had nothing to say, but Trim raised a hand and everyone stopped moving. How was I supposed to relax when even Trim knew danger lurked nearby?
“Tracks,” she said.
Fisher moved in closer. She crouched beside us and analyzed the print that had been left in a patch of mud. The print was sloppy, and a good part of it was missing, but it didn’t take a genius to see that this print didn’t belong to a human being.
Fisher gently touched the inside of the print with her index and middle finger then glanced up at Trim and said, “Leopard.”
A leopard? This was the kind of jungle I’d been dropped on? The kind that had wildcats? I suddenly felt lightheaded. How was anyone supposed to survive this island without facing a painful, gruesome death? If it wasn’t a Norther, it was an Ogre—and if it wasn’t either one of those, it was some predatory animal in search of its next meal.
Trim turned around. “Keep your eyes open for spots or silky black.”
“Silky black?” I asked.
“Black panthers. They tend to hide in trees,” she said.
“Yeah and drag their carcasses up there,” Rocket added.
Fisher suddenly lunged forward and stood face-to-face with Rocket; both her fists were clenched on either side of her body. I could see Fisher’s shoulders rising up and down to the rhythm of her rapid breathing.
“Fisher, I… I wasn’t trying to bring up Emilia,” Rocket said. “I just meant in general.”
“I know what you fucking meant, and no one needed to be reminded,” Fisher said.
“That’s enough,” Trim said.
But Fisher didn’t move. It was apparent that the thought of tearing Rocket’s face off was running through her mind.
“Bring her up one more time,” Fisher said.
“I said enough!” Trim grabbed Fisher by the arm and pulled her back.
I could tell the confrontation had shaken Rocket up a bit by the way she nervously tugged on her fingers and bit down on her lip, and I didn’t blame her. Fisher was a fighter, a born killer while Rocket was fast but small and frail in comparison. Rocket wouldn’t have stood a chance.
“Let’s keep moving,” Trim ordered. “We go west, away from the prints.”
Fisher and Trim moved forward quickly, leaving me behind with the other Hunters.
“Who’s Emilia?” I asked.
Flander glanced toward Fisher and Trim, ensuring safe distance, and said, “Fisher’s girlfriend. She was killed by a panther.”
“And dragged into a tree,” Rocket added.
Flander shook her head. “It was awful. She was screamin’, but we couldn’t stop the attack. When it finally killed her, it dragged her up above us, and we just stood there, listen’ to the crunchin’ and tearin’ sounds of the cat eatin’ through her bones and muscles.”
“Shut up,” Biggie interjected, “all of you. You know better than to talk about Emilia. Ever.”
She brushed passed us, nearly knocking Flander over in the process, and followed Trim through an array of multicolored flowers.
“You’d better get up there too, kid,” Flander said. “Archers always stay at the front.”
I did as instructed and caught up with Trim and Fisher. I only prayed they weren’t relying on me to save them from a wild panther with my mediocre archery skills.
The sound of water suddenly caught my attention, and I licked my dry, chapped lips. Trim led us to an opening filled with moss-covered trees and smooth stones scattered across a shallow bed of water. There was a small waterfall at the far back, although one could barely call it a waterfall. It was a flow of water that poured down from one rock to another.
“Rest,” Trim said.
Rocket was the first to remove a dark brown leather water bladder from her belt. She rushed to the clear water spilling over the sharp-edged rocks and filled it to the brim. The others followed, and I realized I had more purchases to make from the merchant tents.
“It’s fresh?” I asked.
Although my mouth was pasty and my lips felt as though they’d shriveled up like raisins, the last thing I wanted to do was drink salt water.
“Sure is,” Biggie said. She’d sat down at the edge of the pool, and she began splashing water on her face, her neck, and throughout her short woolly hair.
I wanted to jump into the water, but instead, I placed my bow against the nearest tree and crept up to the waterfall, then formed a cup underneath with the palms of my hands. The water was cool and hard—a texture dissimilar to the large green bed of salt water found on the Working Grounds, which was warm and silky. I pressed my lips against the edge of my palm and slowly tilted back, allowing the fluid to pour past my lips and into my parched mouth.
The taste was beyond satisfaction. I was given filtered water on the Working Grounds in a stone-carved cup during training, but it was always warm. This water was fresh and crisp, and it slid so effortlessly into the bottom of my stomach, cooling my insides in the process.
I drank some more until I felt my stomach might explode. I could feel the water splashing around inside, and it felt as though I’d just eaten an entire meal.
The other women had already filled their water bladders by the time I was finished loading up on a day’s worth of water, and they’d all sat down to rest around the small pond, their bare feet dipped into the water. I knew I’d have to stop our hunt on several occasions to pee. I could live with that—I only hoped Trim and the others would be so patient.
I slid off my sneakers—which were now entirely brown and ripping at the soles—and sat down between Flander and Biggie. Flander was playing with her water bladder—rubbing the thick stitching with her index finger and brushing her hand over the smooth exterior.
“Three pearls,” she said, glancing sideways at me.
“Oh,” I said, “I don’t want to take—”
She chortled as if I were dumber than a dead battery. “I ain’t selling you mine.” I stared at her.
“When you go see Hammer,” she said, “don’t let her charge you more than three pearls.”
Trim laughed. I’d never heard her laugh before. She was much nicer to look at with a smile on her face. It seemed to take away from the ugliness she’d been cursed with at birth.
; “You got gypped,” she told Flander.
“Whad’ya mean?” Flander furrowed her eyebrows and grimaced.
“You’re a Hunter,” Trim said nonchalantly. “All necessities are free.”
“And water’s a necessity when hunting,” Fisher chimed in, raising her water bladder.
Flander grunted. “Well ain’t nobody told me.” “We just did,” Trim said.
Flander rolled her eyes toward me. “What’re you here for? How long’s your sentence?”
I shot several glances at the rest of the Hunters, feeling both violated and tricked. I’d been told that our past lives were irrelevant on Kormace Island.
“What’s said here, stays here,” Biggie said, towering over me. “I killed a boy in high school during a fight. Dey waited for me after school, to prove that I wasn’t too big to take down. Two of ’em ran, but when I caught the leader, I couldn’t stop myself. Just kept beatin’ down on his face over and over ’gain.” She sighed. “Got sentenced to three years here.”
“How long do you have left?” I asked.
She quickly looked up at Trim. “Don’t matter.”
I didn’t have the time to question her any further.
“I shot someone, got seven years,” Fisher said, glaring at the water around her feet.
“That’s it?” Biggie said. I just gave my life story and dat’s all you gon’ say?”
Fisher grimaced then rolled her eyes. “I was involved in some illegal shit—you know, gangs.” She widened her eyes at me as if I was too stupid to understand the concept of street gangs. “Anyways… I had to shoot some guy who’d been selling on our corner. Turns out he was a cop’s kid.”
I wasn’t sure whether to feel sorry for her or frightened by her. Was this sharing of information supposed to make me feel closer to these women?
