Salt & Stone

by Victoria Scott

  “When do you think they’ll do it?” Harper asks when I reach her.

  “Tonight.” I don’t know why I think this, but it seems right.

  “Our Pandoras are the best,” Olivia says. “And mine is huge. I mean, a baby elephant can do more damage than most full-grown animals.”

  Olivia’s elephant, EV-0, has only ever shown the ability to pull water from the earth. But the girl is trying to convince herself that her Pandora will win, so nobody comments.

  Braun comes to find us, his head lowered.

  Cotton, who stands beside Harper, raises his hand as if to comfort Braun and then drops it. “It’ll be awful to watch this whether it’s your original Pandora or not.”

  Braun meets Cotton’s gaze and nods.

  Cotton turns his attention to me. “I’ve envied you, Tella. The way other people’s Pandoras are drawn to you? But today, I’m not envious at all.”

  “Cotton,” Harper scolds, pulling Willow closer to her side.

  He shrugs. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Braun inspects his nails, which, despite the things we’ve endured, still manage to look impeccable. “You have two strong Pandoras, Tinker Bell. They’ll win their fights.”

  This conversation does nothing to combat the dizziness threatening to overtake my mind. I have three Pandoras. I’ll have to watch three fights, even if one is technically fighting for Braun. It’s highly likely that tonight I’ll witness the death of one of my beloved creatures.

  The two men continue walking into the island foliage. The Pandoras disappear behind layers of tree trunks and liana vines and overgrown spider ferns.

  Everything in my body calls out for action: to rush to Madox’s side, to save my Pandora from this terrible task. But as we watch our closest companions vanish from sight, I realize something.

  Madox — my small black fox hatched in a sticky green slime — has always looked to me for direction. I was his steady compass, his guiding hand.

  But today he makes his own decisions.

  Today he walks alone.

  Just like me.

  The sun is long gone when one of the Brimstone Bleed men returns to camp. Two women are with him, dressed in long, swinging skirts, dark hair grazing the bottoms of their backs. Both women wear necklaces adorned with wooden spikes stained red and orange, which rattle with the sway of their hips. Above their heads are wicker baskets overflowing with dried cod, plantain bananas, and sticky buns stuffed with dates.

  The men tell us to eat, but most of us refuse the offer. We want our Pandoras, and that is all. After they’re done torturing us with anticipation, they ask us to follow them.

  As we leave the circle of torches and the kerosene fumes they emit, I catch sight of Olivia’s face. I grab the back of her shirt and casually tug her toward me. “Walk beside me, okay?”

  Her upper lip stiffens. “I don’t need anyone to comfort me.”

  “It’s me who needs comforting,” I say, though her words resonate. It was only this morning that I pulled away from Guy, thinking I didn’t need his solace. I search him out now and wave him over. He drifts toward me as if an invisible string connects us. When he reaches me, I don’t take his hand. I don’t wrap my arms around him in a quick embrace. I just meet his gaze and hold it. Then I return my eyes to the men leading our pilgrimage.

  Harper and Willow walk before me, and Braun and Cotton trudge behind. It’s odd beyond explanation to travel without our Pandoras now. There are no animal cries or tongues licking or wings beating. It’s only us — the sound of forty-one Contenders of varying ages, ethnicities, and genders trekking down a path that’s been worn by feet traveling this same distance time and again.

  The island people have most likely used this path too many times to count. But what about past Contenders? Have past races always ended the ocean portions here? And if so, did the Contenders fret over Pandoras whose lives could end that very night? Are we stepping where they once did?

  My fingers brush the blue-and-green feather that dangles over my right shoulder. I’ve had to retie the rawhide string into my curling hair more than once, but I haven’t lost it, and I don’t intend to.

  “There’s a light up ahead,” Cotton whispers.

  He’s right. There are torches lit, much like the ones surrounding our base camp. Inside is a massive construction, and as we move closer, I make out the curves and slopes in detail. The structure is circular in nature, crisscrossing often so that you can see through hexagonal openings. The entire thing is made of thin, bendable wood that’s tied at intersections with straw-colored twine. Rich, dark soil makes up the floor, covering twenty feet in diameter at best guess. The dome-shaped creation appears twenty feet high as well.

  I imagine this is what the two men have been occupied with each night, and I’m absolutely positive that this is the fighting ring our Pandoras will enter.

  The smell of salt and sweat is heavy in the air, and the dread of what’s to come is palpable. Guy’s arm brushes mine, and I nearly jump out of my skin from nerves. One of the Brimstone Bleed men, the skinny one, raises his arm into the air. It seems like he’s mimicking the Statue of Liberty, and I’d love to light his hand on fire to see if anyone else notices the resemblance.

  “Each Pandora has now been matched against another Pandora, based on input from headquarters. Each round will last until one Pandora has destroyed its competitor. You will not, under any circumstance, interfere with the fights.”

  I flinch at the word destroyed.

  “Regardless of whether your Pandora wins, you will be granted a head start above Contenders whose Pandoras have chosen not to partake.” His voice is nasally. He’s tall and skinny, and he sounds like he just hit puberty. “If you are with your Pandora now, please keep them still as we come around and mark them. It’s only spray paint, nothing to worry about. The mark will help us keep track of the Pandoras tonight.”

  As he speaks, the second, portlier Brimstone Bleed man walks from Pandora to Pandora, marking each of them with a slick red stripe of spray paint. One of the animals, the white wolf I saw two weeks ago, tries to lick it off, but the man pops the animal hard on the nose. The wolf yelps.

  “Hey!” I exclaim.

  The man’s head snaps up, and he glares at me. I glance down, implying it was a mistake. If Guy taught me one thing, it’s to keep a low profile and remember the end goal. Speaking out, even if it was a knee-jerk reaction, was a blunder. The man moves to the next animal, but the wolf and the other Pandoras continue to regard me intently.

  When the man sprays the alligator, Mr. Larson crosses his arms. He may not think much of his Pandora, but he doesn’t like these men any more than I do, and that puts us on the same team.

  “Now that that’s done,” the first man booms, scratching his stomach absently, “the Pandora Wars can begin!”

  Island men enter the clearing, small drums strapped around their necks and cradled to their stomachs. They beat open palms against the leather skins, producing an ominous melodic offering to unseen gods. There are six men in total, and only one doesn’t have a drum. That man — the largest of them, dreaded hair to his waist — strides forward on bare feet. Behind him are two Pandoras.

  The first is a hippopotamus, the lines of the Pandora’s body painted in green war paint. A chill rushes through me when the hippo opens her mighty jaws and generates a strident trumpeting sound. Fear may eat at every nerve ending in her substantial body, but she doesn’t show it. This Pandora is ready.

  The next creature appears with a quiet air of royalty. His body is similar to that of a reindeer, but he’s larger, his horns taller and heftier. The animal is adorned in a dense brown coat and hangs his head close to the ground like a calm, underestimated boxer. Blue paint coats his horns, and a single line of it trails his backbone.

  The man unlatches an arched door and waves the Pandoras inside. These are not my Pandoras, but my heart pounds all the same. Everything we’ve been through, our Pandoras had to endure as
well. They’ve been there for us regardless of how dangerous the circumstances were, and this is how we reward them.

  I want to stop this — I have to stop this — but I don’t know how. Maybe the only way I truly can is by sticking to the plan Guy created — endure the Brimstone Bleed, and then take it down from the inside so that this never happens again. But watching these two Pandoras circle each other — bloodlust in their eyes, the beat of drums working them into a fever — I realize remaining quiet will be harder than I thought.

  The drums beat faster.

  The man blows his whistle.

  And the elk gallops toward the hippo. With a sweep of his head, the elk rams his horns into the other Pandora. A Contender cheers, watching his Pandora make the first strike. But he’s the only one. Most onlookers appear disgusted, and it’s a far cry from the whoops and hollers I heard at the start of the jungle race.

  The hippo staggers a couple of steps and opens her jaws in pain. As she does, the elk slams her again, one of his horns catching the hippo inside the mouth. The hippo falls to one knee, but finds her feet quickly. Tired of being bullied, the hippo charges at the elk full force, three thousand pounds of thick skin and muscle behind her. The elk’s legs buckle beneath him upon impact, and the hippo brings her giant incisors down on the elk’s torso.

  The elk releases a piercing wail before jabbing a horn directly into the hippo’s left eye. Badly wounded, she falls back. But now the hippo is furious, and so she charges the elk again. This time, though, the elk is ready. The animal lowers his head to the ground as he did when entering the ring. His branching horns suddenly glow red-hot like the embers from last night’s fire.

  The hippo stops short in her attack, but it’s too late. The elk closes the distance between them and slides a burning horn across the hippo’s blue-gray skin. A roar rips through the air as the hippo’s Contender clutches the arena’s exterior and shakes the bars. The island man shoves him back, and my hands ball at my sides. How much longer can I watch this? How much more can I take?

  The elk drags a horn across the hippo’s midsection again, and her stomach opens in a gaping wound. The hippo stumbles, nods her head — up and down, up and down — and then opens her powerful jaws. She makes the same trumpeting sound she did as she approached the ring, but this time it builds until the Pandoras behind us shriek in agony. The elk drops to his knees and slams the side of his head into the dirt, trying to escape the sound. To me and to the other Contenders, it seems, the noise is uncomfortable to hear, but that’s where it ends. The hippo must be producing a frequency that’s excruciatingly painful to Pandora ears.

  After several seconds, the hippo closes her jaws, her sides working hard to regain much-needed breath. As she struggles to do so, blood spills from her wound. The hippo staggers. Seeing his opportunity, the elk bolts upright. Hooves beat the dirt as he speeds forward, but the hippo is ready for him. She dips as low as her three-thousand-pound body will allow, and then clamps down on the elk’s throat a moment before the elk can attack.

  When the elk collapses and his throat is slowly crushed in the hippo’s mouth, I look away. Tears burn hot trails down my cheeks when I realize it’s over. But then —

  The same male Contender cries out. I spin and catch sight of the elk whipping his head sideways. He can’t move much, not with the hippo cinching his throat, but it’s enough. Enough to drive his horn into her injured eye. Except this time, his horn is burning like a branding rod, and it drives right through the hippo’s eye and into the Pandora’s skull.

  The hippo collapses.

  The Contender doesn’t make a sound. I don’t, either. Tears still drip down my face, but I don’t have it in me to scream. Because if I do, I’m afraid I’ll never stop. And I have to keep ahold of myself. When it’s one of my Pandoras’ turns, I have to appear confident so that they aren’t afraid.

  It’s good that I can keep my composure. It’s good that I can continue to stand after watching someone’s animal companion die.

  Because the next two Pandoras are being led to the arena.

  I watch twelve more animals compete in the Pandora Wars — peacocks and cobras, owls and otters — and each time one kills the other, my grief deepens. So far, Cotton’s bull is the only one of our Pandoras that has battled. The beast won against a kangaroo in under two minutes with his red sleeping smoke and deadly horns.

  As each fight begins, I battle conflicting impulses to flee or start a riot. And every time two new Pandoras are led to the ring, I’m blinded by anxiety that this is the moment I’ll see Madox, or Monster, or Rose. I feel that sensation now, because the island man is discarding a zebra’s carcass, with the help of three other men, and waving in someone I can’t see. Though the giraffe who overtook the zebra won, a man still marks the triumphant Pandora with red spray paint. I wonder why some of the victors get painted when others don’t.

  When yet another island man appears, I barely glance in his direction. It’s the Pandoras I care about. But then I see what creature he’s leading to the arena, and I have to cover my mouth to keep from crying out.

  The first Pandora is Guy’s lion, M-4. His mouth hangs open, and he pants in the cool air, pink tongue curled. His back is striped with a long, thick stroke of blue paint, and more decorates his paws. M-4’s eyes are steady on the wooden dome, though I know he must want to seek out his Contender desperately. When it comes to our Pandoras’ safety, we Contenders don’t seem to want to be consoled, so I simply stand close to Guy, ready if he needs me.

  The island man swings the arched door open, and the lion springs inside, turns on the man, and roars. The Contenders surrounding the ring startle, and the island man stumbles backward and lands on his rear. Guy barks a laugh. The man brushes himself off and sneers at the lion, but he doesn’t challenge the Pandora.

  I’m beginning to wonder what animal M-4’s competitor will be when I see her. My heart lurches into my throat, and Willow throws her face into Harper’s stomach.

  Willow’s rat scurries toward the arena — a splatter of green war paint on her back — and crawls through one of the octagonal openings. The man slams the door shut and, once again, the drums start beating. Sweat and blood mingle in the air until I can almost taste the metallic, musky scent on my tongue.

  “Shh …” Harper bends down and wraps her arms around Willow. “C-90 will be okay.”

  Guy tilts his head toward Harper ever so slightly, and then he turns his attention back to the arena.

  A whistle is blown, beginning the match, and the lion lies down on his stomach.

  “What’s he doing?” I whisper.

  Guy shakes his head. He doesn’t know.

  Willow’s rat scurries close and then springs back as if bitten. The lion never moves. As the drums beat faster, demanding action, M-4’s idleness begins to feel discombobulating, even if it is a nice change from the instant, aggressive assaults we’ve seen tonight. Willow’s rat stands on her hind legs and vanishes. A moment later, the rat is within inches of the lion’s back paw.

  The lion lies still.

  C-90 vanishes and lands on the other side of the arena. And then, once again, the rat jumps across the space, invisible, getting close to the lion before returning to safety. Watching this dance, I begin to suspect what’s going on. M-4’s advantage is his size and strength, along with his ability to light fire. But he must instill a false sense of confidence into the rat before he strikes, since his fire doesn’t burn far and the rat is quick as a winter day.

  At last, the rat lands near M-4’s tail and bites down. The lion spins around, and the rat vanishes. Now C-90 is clinging to the arena’s roof, and M-4 releases a fireball over his head in irritation. The rat is gone before the flames leave the lion’s mouth. This time, the rat lands on the ground, and M-4 springs at her, his patience waning. The rat vanishes before the lion can move halfway across the arena.

  Now the rat lands on the lion’s back, and it may be my imagination, but C-90’s long pink tail seems to leng
then. Before anything can happen, though, M-4 jumps in a circle, dislodging the rodent. C-90 falls to the ground, and before she can vanish, the lion releases a fireball. This time, the rat is almost singed in the flames. Once she dodges the fiery danger, C-90 darts in and out of view on the opposite side of the ring, drawing the lion forward.

  I can hardly breathe as M-4 lowers to the ground and stalks, inch by inch, toward C-90. When he’s halfway across the ring, he lowers almost to his belly, his tail flicking wildly, tempting the white rat to make a move. The lion’s yellow eyes zero in on his prey, and like a punch to the gut, I understand that he has a plan. In a flash, the lion springs after the rat.

  The rat vanishes.

  The lion stops midspring and turns.

  A fireball erupts from his mouth in the opposite direction of where the rat just stood.

  When C-90 appears, her fur is blackened and there’s a dollop of fire licking the end of her tail. The rat squeals and drops to her side, stunned and hurting. M-4 pounces. The rat is caught between the lion’s claws, and I know this is it. It’s like a smaller, faster boxer in the ring with a heavyweight; they can dodge all they want, tiring their opponent, but once that heavy hitter swings, it’s TKO.

  Willow screams.

  The lion’s jaws snap down.

  But suddenly, the white rat — who isn’t so white anymore — appears on M-4’s thick mane, directly behind his head. The rat scurries backward, half tumbling, and in a movement so quick, my eyes nearly miss it, the rat’s tail lengthens and curves over her back. It becomes thinner at the tip, and sharper.

  C-90’s tail comes down, stinging like a scorpion’s. The lion roars and rolls onto his back. When he does, the rat goes with him. M-4 springs to his feet, and the rat lies on her side, pink, clawed feet kicking.

  The lion draws his mighty head back and releases a fireball larger than I’ve ever seen. C-90 is engulfed. Her squeals don’t last long, and when the flames die, M-4 lowers his head and sniffs the body. Satisfied the rat is dead, the lion roars long and loud.