by Estes, David
“Well, he might as well be. Shiva’s in no position to stop him from making all the decisions. It’s only a day anyway. He thinks it’ll teach me a lesson.”
“Will it?” Circ asks, his eyebrows raised.
I look at him and we both laugh. Sun goddess, what would I do without Circ?
“Really, it’s nothing I can’t handle,” I say.
“That’s what you always say. But I say he’s gone too far. The way he manhandles you and your mother, it just ain’t right.”
“He’s just another Heater man trying to keep control of his Calls,” I say.
“Most of the men ain’t like him,” Circ says. “My father, for one.”
“Are your ribs okay?” I ask, changing the subject and motioning to Circ’s stomach.
Scowling, he lifts his shirt. Heavy, thick bandages are wrapped tightly around his torso.
“Are those to keep your guts from falling out?” I ask.
“Not just my guts. My organs, bones, the food I eat, everything,” Circ says, keeping a straight face, but not frowning anymore.
“Smoky,” I say. “You better not take them off then.”
Circ’s expression suddenly turns serious. “How about you? Are you okay?”
“Nothing a day in Confinement can’t cure,” I say wryly. When Circ smirks, I say, “Oh, you mean my injuries? I thought you meant my mental problems, tendency toward delinquency, and aversion to being sixteen and big with child.”
“You’re admitting you have mental problems?” Circ says, raising one side of his lip, which deepens one dimple but not the other.
I punch him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m not admitting anything. MedMa said I didn’t do any further damage to my wrist, so I’m still looking at a full moon and a half of healing. He bandaged the four claw marks on my back. Apparently they’re deep enough that I’ll get some wicked scars, but not deep enough to cause any permanent damage.”
“Sounds like the perfect result,” Circ says.
We’re both silent for a moment, lost in our own thoughts. Me, I’m remembering the day’s events in my head, cycling through them as if they’re a dream sequence, something that happened while I was sleeping, or perhaps to someone else entirely. I don’t know what Circ is thinking, not until he speaks anyway.
“Why’d you run down on that field, Sie?” I look up at him, hoping for a clue as to the motivation behind his question, but all I get are curious eyes and flat lips.
I want to tell him everything. How much he means to me, how I’d want to die if he ever got killed, how the thought of losing him is like someone stabbing me repeatedly in the heart. I don’t know anything about love, not really, but I know the way I feel when I’m with Circ is the best feeling ever, like the calm after a violent windstorm, like seeing the first prickler buds appear so miraculously after the harshness of winter, like running full-gallop across the plains, wind on my face and skin.
But all I say is, “I didn’t have anything better to do and you looked like you could use some help.”
He cocks his head to the side, looks at me sideways for a couple of seconds, and then says, “Thanks.”
I sense he wants to say more, and might even say whatever it is, but I’m really not in the mood for a serious conversation, so I say, “Did you talk to Hawk?”
Circ laughs, but it’s more of a cough-laugh. “Yeah. I talked to him alright. He said, ‘Just because you saved my life doesn’t mean we’re friends.’”
“He burnin’ tried to kill you!” I say.
“He claims he didn’t see me—that he was just going for the kill.”
“Baggard,” I say. “You should tell the Greynotes what he did.”
“Normally I would, but they’ve got enough to deal with right now.”
“Baggard,” I repeat.
“Some people never change.”
“What are they saying about the Killer attack?” I ask.
“It’s unprecedented,” he says. “Everyone knows the Killers are dangerous, but they’re also not stupid. They’re very clever hunters, attacking only at night when you can barely see them, isolating their prey so they always have the advantage in numbers, going after the weakest link, that sort of thing. But this time was different. They attacked a foe with greater numbers in broad daylight. And they went after the strongest from our village, the Hunters.”
“Yeah, but they were only trying to get to the tugs,” I point out. “The Hunters just happened to be in the way.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s still strange.”
I nod. “Any theories?”
Circ rubs his chin, which has a thin layer of stubble. I guess he didn’t have time to shave. “The Greynote Hunters are being especially quiet about the whole thing. Honestly, I feel like they’re hiding something. Your father didn’t say a word about it after the Hunt, just told us we all did a good job and that we would have to pitch in to bury the dead and secure the tugs before the Cotees and vultures get to them. I’m exempt because of my injuries.”
Weird. Everything about the way my father’s been acting is weird. “But besides the Greynotes, do any of t’other Hunters have any guesses?” I ask. “There hasta be some reason for the attack.”
Circ shrugs. “Some of the guys are saying the Killers must be desperate for food, that they’re having difficulty finding it elsewhere.”
“Makes sense,” I say, closing my eyes.
“Maybe…” Circ says, slowly, drawing out the word like he wants to say more.
“What? What is it?” I ask, opening my eyes to look at him.
“Well, I don’t want to scare you, but—”
“That’s usually what people say ’fore saying something scary,” I interrupt, smirking.
Circ smiles, but it’s only half of one. Something’s clearly on his mind. “Okay, let me rephrase. I do want to scare you, so I’ll tell you what some of the other guys are saying. A few of them think the Killers were targeting us.”
“The Hunters?”
“Maybe the Hunters, maybe the Heaters in general.”
“But why would they do that?” I ask. “I mean, they killed a bunch of Hunters, but their entire pack died in the process.”
Circ throws up his hands. “I know, I know, it sounds crazy. But what if they were out for revenge? And what if that wasn’t their whole pack and they only sent a small death squad to kill us? And what if they’re not done yet? And what if—”
“Whoa, whoa, hold up, Circ. You’re sounding all wooloo. Are the guys really saying all that?”
Circ nods. “They’re saying it might be the start of another war with the Killers.”
My breath catches in my chest. Another Killer war? “But the Hunters’ve stayed within the boundaries, right?”
“Of course. We never even get close to the edge of the hunting zone we’ve used for the last hundred years, since the last Killer war. But what if someone else is?” Another what if. Circ’s setting some kinda record.
I think back to everything they taught us in Learning. A little over a hundred years ago the Heaters got greedy, started hunting tug outside of their normal area, where the Killers roamed the desert, started taking more meat’n they needed to survive. As Teacher put it, “The balance of nature kicked in.” In other words, the Killers started doing what they do best: killing. They attacked the village every night for days and days, distracting the guards on one side and sneaking in on t’other to drag away women and children, leaving only smears of blood and claw marks in the durt as evidence they’d ever been there. By the time the war was over and the Hunters realized that all they hadta do was reign in their hunting zone, the Killers had wiped out half the village. To replenish our numbers, the frequency of Bearing was increased to every two years for all eligible Bearers. The Bearer age was dropped to fifteen. That lasted for twenty six years ’fore returning to normal. Lucky for me. If it hadn’t, I’d already be child-big, my first child on the way, compliments of some unknown guy.
&n
bsp; But who else’d be stupid enough to Hunt in Killer territory? The Icers? Not a chance. They never leave the safety of the mountains. The Glassies? It’s possible. After we held them off a few full moons back they might be looking to try again. The Wild Ones. The words pop into my head and my eyes widen.
I look at Circ, who’s watching me, letting me think. “Do you think it’s the Wild Ones?” I ask.
Circ shakes his head, but he’s not saying no. “I really don’t know. Honestly, until Teacher Mas mentioned the Wild Ones I didn’t believe they existed.”
“Well, who else could it be?”
“A few guys are saying the Marked are behind it.”
The Marked. Another fictional group who might just turn out to be real. Growing up, we’ve always talked about them as if they’re real, the same way you talk about the sandmonster as if he’s real. You know, just to scare each other. The thing is, I’ve heard some of the adults talk about the Marked, too, not that that necessarily means anything either. If the stories are right, the Marked is a tribe of all men, covered from head to toe with strange painted markings. Like the Wilds, they’re a feral group, eating raw flesh and washing it down with fire juice.
This whole conversation is becoming too confusing.
“I need to think,” I say. “I’m going to see Veeva before my father sends me away to prison.”
Circ looks at me oddly. “I thought you said it was only a day in Confinement.”
“It is. But it’s more fun if I’m dramatic about it. Plus, I wanna talk to someone normal for a while.”
“What? I’m not normal?” Circ says, his hands out and open.
“You’re some kind of freak of nature,” I say. “I mean that in the nicest way,” I add.
Circ laughs. “I’d say Veeva is anything but normal.”
“To me, she’s the most normal,” I say.
~~~
Sometimes a madhouse is the calmest place of all.
When I enter Veeva’s tent, it’s chaos, but I feel perfectly at home and more relaxed’n I have all day. You’d think she has a dozen kids, all of them between the ages of zero and three. I know that’s physically impossible, not to mention illegal, but still, with the number of bundles strewn about, I wonder if she’s not hiding them all somewhere, behind the bed maybe. Her tent is so unlike our hut, where everything hasta be in its place, that it’s laughable. Besides the bundles, there are clothes and blankets everywhere, unwashed pots and pans piling up in the center of the tent, and lines of wet laundry drying across most of the small space. I can barely see my friend through the clutter.
When Veeva looks around the edge of one of Grunt’s giant shirts and sees me, she says, “Thank the sun goddess yer ’ere, Sie. Grab a bundle and git over ’ere.”
I screw up my face. Not the welcome I was hoping for. I’ve had enough blaze for a lifetime, and although baby blaze is much smaller, it’s just as stinky. But Veeva’s always been a good friend to me, so, obediently, I grab the first unbundled white cloth I see, and I take it over to her, who’s got naked little Polk flat on his back on his tiny bed, his six-full-moon-old arms and legs waving about, grabbing at the air, like he’s trying to get his hands on something invisible that only he can see.
Veeva’s wearing a shapeless brown frock and a look that could kill. “I tell you, Sie, if there’s any way you can avoid the burnin’ Call, do it. I swear to you this searin’ baby is the spawn of the lord of the underworld, if you believe in that sorta thing.”
“Hi to you, too, Veevs,” I say, grinning. “What’s the little tug-face done now?”
She takes the cloth from me, lies it flat on the bed. Picks up Polk and places his butt in the center. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it, Sie.” She looks around, notices how many used bundles there are. “Or maybe you would. He’s been lettin’ it fly from both ends. Projectile vomit from his mouth, and spewin’ blaze from the other end. He’s relentless. I think he’s tryin’ to break me.”
With expertness that a year ago woulda seemed impossible, Veeva bundles the cloth around Polk’s torso, tying it off perfectly. I guess a little practice goes a long way.
“There’s no way to avoid the Call,” I say, moving around the tent, grabbing used bundles. I’m careful to keep whatever’s inside, well, inside.
“What you sayin’?” Veeva says, Polk now in her arms. She’s got her frock pulled way down, her big breasts hanging out as if she’s alone and not having a conversation with a friend. Polk knows what to do—he goes right for her teat.
I look away, grab a few more bundles. “You said if there’s any way I can avoid the Call, to do it. I’m saying there’s no way.”
“I wasn’t bein’ serious, Sie. I know as well as anyone that it can’t be skipped. By the sun goddess, you can be so serious sometimes.”
I realize then that I was saying it more to convince myself’n Veeva. Lara’s words are haunting me even more’n I thought. I need to talk to her once and for all, tell her to quit asking me ’bout what she said, tell her I’ve thought ’bout it and I don’t believe her and I’m going to obey the law from here on out, even if that means breeding. No more getting in trouble for me.
But how can I get her to believe me when I don’t even believe myself?
I leave without telling her about Confinement.
Chapter Ten
I don’t know what to expect from Confinement, ’cause I’ve never been there ’fore. And most people who have don’t really talk ’bout it.
Father doesn’t even bother to take me himself, he’s too busy snoring away. One of the younger Greynotes draws the short straw and hasta get up ’fore even the butt crack of dawn to make the trek with me. I don’t complain, don’t say anything, just get on with it. Complaining’s never gotten me anywhere so I don’t see the point.
The Greynote’s name is Luger and he’s a real baggard. With dark, slitted eyes so narrow I can hardly tell if they’re open or closed, he almost seems excited to drag me into seclusion. He’s far too jittery for this early in the morning, always twitching, like every part of his body is moving in unison all the time, every moment of every day. I feel bad for his Calls, the ones that hafta sleep in the same bed with him as he jerks and twitches all night long, even while sleeping.
When he speaks, his mouth reminds me of a burrow mouse, pulled tight in the center, only able to open to a tiny gap, just wide enough to shove a bit of food in it. And his nose is like a vulture’s beak, long, narrow, and pointy. He’s not an attractive man. But, hey, I’m not one to judge someone based on appearance. It’s his attitude that really grizzes me off.
“You’re lucky to get just a day,” he whines. “I would’ve given you a quarter full moon for what you did. If your father wasn’t the Head Greynote…”
“He’s not the Head Greynote,” I say, staring forward as we trudge across the desert in the dark.
“Two, maybe three days,” he says. “The Fire’s got Shiva by the balls.”
I wince and go silent. Three days and my father’ll be the Head Greynote? He’s already so full of himself I’d hate to see the power trip he’ll go on when he’s at the top of the food chain.
Time passes, the sky lightening with each step. My fists are squeezed tight.
The calm of the desert can be eerie sometimes. When the Cotees are howling and the wind is whipping through the dunes, at least you know the world is alive. But now, it’s so quiet, with only the sound of our soft treads to break the silence—it’s almost like we’re walking in a dead land. Which makes us the walking dead, I s’pose.
As we continue on, however, the wastelands gradually begin to awake. First I see a ’zard emerge from a hole. He’s a biggin, too, with prickly burs all down his back, starting at his head and going to the tip of his long tail. He’s one of those bag-throated ones, with a big ol’ sac on his neck that fills with air each time he breathes. It’s kinda knocky, if you ask me. He scurries into our path, watches us approach for a few moments, and then wriggles away. He’s
lucky we’re not hungry, or he’d end up in the stew.
Next I see a fire ant hill teeming with activity. Fat, red ants of all shapes and sizes scurry around like their lives depend on their ability to do a bunch of stuff ’fore the sun goes down again; and the sun goddess’s eye’s not even really up yet—it’s just a glow of orange on the horizon.
The fire ants bring my thoughts back to the Marked. One of the stories I heard a lot as a Midder was that if the Marked found someone trespassing on their land, they’d bury you next to a fire ant hill, and let the nasty little biters do the rest. When they’d come back a few days later, you’d be nothin’ but a buried pile o’ bones. Talk like that always freaked me out, but in a fun, sandmonster kind of way. If something’s not real, it’s fun to pretend that it is. But now that the Hunters are talking about the Marked like they’re real people—prisoner-burying-next-to-fire-ant-hill kind of people—well, now the thought of them ain’t so fun.
What if they’re the ones disturbing the Killers? How the scorch are we s’posed to stop them? Those are questions my father as Head Greynote’ll hafta deal with. For a moment I feel sorry for him. A very quick moment.
After a lot of trudging, and just as the top curve of the sun is peeking above the horizon, the winds pick up. At first it’s a nice breeze, more’n welcome under my rather sweaty circumstances, but soon becomes a gale force, swirling the dust and sand around like little miniature tornados, what we call dust devils. They can be dangerous, but only if there’s a whole bunch of them spittin’ up sharp rocks and such. These ones are just an annoyance, coating our lips, cheeks and pretty much everything else in a thin layer of dust. The good thing though, is that Luger can’t talk to me with weather like this.
When the winds eventually die down, I spot something in the distance, the first real structures we’ve seen since leaving the village. A line of boxes, like little Greynote huts all in a row, ’cept not covered. Only I know that no Greynotes live all the way out here in the desert. This is Confinement.
