by Estes, David
I wonder where’s she’s going with this. Everyone knows how long Shiva’s been sick. As soon as someone—anyone—gets the Fire, everyone’s always talking ’bout it, making bets on how long they’ll last, thanking the sun goddess it wasn’t them who caught it.
“Your father’s been the real Head Greynote for a long time,” she continues. “Making important decisions, signing trade agreements with the Icers, deciding the future of the village.”
“I already know all that,” I say.
Mother nods again. “Your father’s a hard man,” she says. I already know that, too. My scarred back could tell a thousand tales of my father’s hardness. “I think he’s doing what he believes is right, but he’s way off track.”
“Mother, whatever it is, spit it out.” I don’t usually talk like that to my mother, but she’s been beating around the prickler too long and I’m itching to know where she’s heading with all this.
Mother half-laughs, half-sobs, once more surprising me. “I’m sorry, Mother, I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no, Siena. It’s okay,” she says. Takes a deep breath. “You say what you mean and you mean what you say.” I’ve never heard that expression before, but right away I like it. “What I’m trying to say is…do you believe in the Laws of fire country?”
It’s not at all what I thought would come out of her mouth. I was expecting her to tell me that we both need to be ’specially obedient to my father now that he’s the Head Greynote, or something like that. “The Laws?” I say. “Well, uh, yeah. I mean, we all do. We hafta—to survive.”
Mother grasps my hand through the bars. Her hand is warm and so is mine, so it’s like our warmth combines. “Is that really what you think?” she asks. “Or is it just something they teach you to say in Learning.”
Both, right? I’m ’bout to say just that, but she puts a hand to my face and says, “You don’t need to answer that now, or even out loud. Just think about it. Think about what you want. And when the time comes, you’ll know what decision to make.”
She raises my hand, kisses the back of it, and is gone, disappearing into the night as if she was never here at all.
~~~
What I want? Nothing’s ever been ’bout what I want. My life’s been built with a foundation of duty, a structure of Laws and rules and changes that come with age—a thatched roof of survival. For my people, for me. So my mother’s words are buzzing around in my head like flies, and I don’t got the swatter to knock them down to where I can look at them.
What she said, it almost sounded like…well, like Lara. All her knocky stuff ’bout it not having to be this way and just think ’bout it. Now my mother’s saying I have a choice to make and that I should be thinking ’bout that choice. What choice? It’s hard to be thinking about something when you don’t really understand what that something is.
Sometimes I miss my sister. This is one of those times. My Call-Siblings are too young to really talk to, and they only share the same father as me, not mother, so it’s not the same. Skye is my full sister. Or was my full sister. Who knows whether she’s still alive, what the Wilds did to her.
We used to share everything with each other. She was going to be my guide for the future, tell me all about what it was like to be a Bearer, let me hold her young’uns so I could practice ’fore I had to do it myself.
I can still picture the dark, bouncing curls in her hair the day she was taken. The day of her Call. The day she was s’posed to become a woman. I wonder if by missing her Call she’ll never become a woman, will always be stuck as just a girl, a Youngling. That scares me.
Anyway, I remember her curls like it was yesterday. Perfect little circlets of hair, shining with the luster of a fresh washing. When we were little I used to think she had knots in her hair, and that they just needed to be combed out to be nice and straight, like mine. When I’d ask my mother about it, she’d tell me Skye’s hair was curly, that she took after our grandmother, but I never believed her, thought she was trying to make my sister feel better when really she had knots in her hair.
I lie flat on my back, thinking about knots and sisters, staring up at what stars I can see. The clearness of the day has given way to a cloudy night, full of black chariots rolling across the sky, blotting out the moon goddess and most of her servants.
Think about what you want. A fly. I swat at it, miss, my anger rising.
You’ll know what decision to make. Another buzzing insect. I watch it for a second, and then swing with all my scrawny might. Whack! I hit myself in the head, see stars, but not the ones in the sky. Stars so close it’s like they’re in my skull, or in my eyes maybe. “Urrrr!” I yell, more frustrated’n I’ve ever been.
I close my eyes, try to sleep. There are too many flies, but I keep trying. Keep trying, trying, swatting, swatting, drifting, drifting, until I hear, “Pssst!”
My eyes flash open. The sound was close. I say nothing. A moment passes, and then a voice hisses, “Hey, you! Youngling.”
I freeze, my already still body hardening like tug jerky in the sun. As far as I know, I’m the only Youngling in Confinement. I say nothing.
“I know you can hear me,” the voice says. It’s brittle and cracking, like a worn piece of leather, ready for replacement. I don’t think this voice gets out much.
“So what if I can?” I say to the night.
“What’re you in for?”
“Being an idiot,” I say. “You?”
He chuckles. “I’s framed.”
I can’t help but to laugh, too. After all my mother’s confusing words, and my even more confusing thoughts, this conversation already feels so normal. “I’m sure that’s what they all say,” I reply, probably a bit too haughtily.
“No, really,” he says. “And you’re right, a bunch of the guys in here say the same thing. But not because they want people to believe they’re innocent, but because they are innocent.”
Okay, I’ll bite. “What exactly did you d—I mean, what did they say you did?” I sit up, scooch over to the bars, try to see the face of the man I’m talking to. At first there’s only blackness so black it’s like I’m looking into a Killer’s eyes. Not black even. The absence of light. But then my eyes start to adjust. I’m always amazed how they can do that. It’s like I see nothing, nothing, nothing, and then, Bam! The outline of a face appears, followed by a body, leaning casually against the bars, one leg propped up on t’other.
“You see me now?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“I’m Raja.”
“Siena,” I say.
“Your daddy’s Head Greynote?”
“You been ear-sneaking,” I say accusingly.
“Not intentionally,” he says. His ghost form shrugs. “When it’s quiet like this in here, you can hear most anything.”
“So what if I am?” I say. I’m not being nice, but I don’t know this guy, least nothing more’n his name.
“No need to get all defensive on me. I got no problem with the Greynotes, generally speaking, although it was one of their kind that framed me, I’s sure of it.”
“You better watch your mouth with talk like that. It could getcha in trouble,” I say.
“You’s gonna tell yer daddy on me?” he says.
“I ain’t.”
“Then I guess there ain’t nothin’ to worry about. ’Spect things can’t git any worse for me anyway.”
“How old are you?” I ask, trying to guess. I’ve always liked guessing ages. Usually I can get pretty close by looking at someone, but this is much harder, as this fellow’s sitting in the dark. Based on his voice and mannerisms, I expect he’s rather ancient, approaching thirty by now.
“Why’s it matter?” he says.
“It don’t,” I say. “Just curious. You know ’bout how old I am, so it’s only fair I know yours.” I’m pleased with my logic.
“Eighteen,” he says.
My jaw drops, but only for a second. “Liar,” I say, letting that mouth of mine g
et the better of me again. “I mean, that can’t be right,” I say.
“I got no reason to lie,” he says. “I know I don’t sound it, but my voice ain’t what it used to be. I been in here fer over a year. Lack of food and water and regular speakin’ will do that to a voice. Make it sound old, that is.”
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s say I believe you about being eighteen. Why’ve you been in here so long? What did they say you did?”
“I shouldn’t e’en tell you,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Greynote’s daughter and all.”
“I told you I won’t tell nobody,” I say.
He says nothing, playing my silent game now. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me, or if he’s dozed off, as I can’t see his eyes. Finally, he says, “There was this little girl who lived next door. She was a real nice Totter, friendly as all get out, always saying hi and pickin’ me flowers. She was my little Totter friend. One day, she didn’t come home from Learning.” Raja’s voice catches and his hands move up to grip the bars a little higher.
“Where was she?” I ask.
“Dead,” he says. “They found her in the watering hole, sunk to the bottom with a rock tied to her little ankles.” I hear a sob escape his throat, and I can barely see his shoulders shaking in the dark.
I wait a few seconds, till he stops shaking and goes all still-like. Stiller’n a stone. “They said you killed her?” I say.
“I didn’t,” he says, his voice as strong as it’s been since we started talking.
“I wasn’t saying you did. But that’s what they said?”
“Yeah. They had all kinds of proof. Blood on one of my shirts I hadn’t worn in a full moon. Footprints near the waterin’ hole that matched my feet exactly. Of course, there were a zillion footprints that matched everyone’s feet around the waterin’ hole, but they picked out just mine. But the clincher was a little doll that this Totter was always carryin’ ’round, Josie she called her. Rattier’n hand-me-down socks it was, but she loved it like a real friend, never let it get out of her sight.”
“Where was it?”
“Under my tugskin sleeper,” he says, metal in his voice.
“Someone put it there.” There’s conviction in my voice, which surprises me. Why should I believe this convicted murderer’s story? I just met him. He probably tells everyone this to get them to like him, when he’s really wooloo in the head, getting joy out of watching the life drain out of little girls. But I do believe him. ’Cause of his tears and ’cause I shouldn’t be in Confinement either.
“They had to of, ’cause I didn’t do nothin’ to that little girl. The Greynotes didn’t wanna listen to my side of the story, which is why I think at least one of ’em was in on it. They just declared the evidence and gave me life in Confinement. My momma died one full moon after I got in ’ere, and my daddy a full moon after that. I didn’t get to see either of them again—they were too sick with the Fire to come visit.”
“That’s awful,” I murmur. “I’m sorry, Raja.”
“Thanks for listenin’,” he says. “It helps to get it out. When I can’t speak it, my past is like a horde of burrow mouses inside my stomach, nibblin’ away at me.”
“There hasta be something you can do. Someone we can tell. It ain’t right, Raja. When I get out I’ll tell my father.”
“No! Don’t do that,” Raja says, his voice sharper’n a spear barb. “If you start makin’ dunes, they’ll lock you up too. There’s somethin’ dangerous going on here. A dangerous game by dangerous people.”
“Whaddya mean? Like a ’spiracy?” I say, shifting to my knees.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, but I won’t say no more. Too dangerous for you if you know the rest. They’ll kill me and they’ll kill you.”
“C’mon, Raja. You can’t do that. Tell me. No one’ll know.”
“My lips are sealed with tug-gut glue.”
“Fine. Whatever. I’m going to sleep.” As sad as Raja’s story was, if he don’t want to say no more, then I’m done with it. ’Spiracy—bah! The sun’s probably gone into his brain.
Chapter Thirteen
Although I got a whole swarm of flies buzzing in my head now, I fall right asleep. A day of doing nothing but talking and waiting can make you awful tired. Plus, the sooner I sleep, the sooner I’ll awake to a one way trip back to the village.
When I do awake I feel like I haven’t slept at all. It’s still pitch dark, so dark that waving my hand across my face results in nothing but a waft of air on my cheeks. It feels good. The night is hot, as if the ground sucked up all the sunlight and is slowly releasing it, baking me like a ’zard in a firepan.
I’m instinctively aware that I didn’t wake up naturally. Something woke me. Some sound, some force, someone. “Raja,” I say, sticking my ear between the bars to listen for a response. Nothing. I can’t even hear breathing, but that don’t mean nothing. He might just be a soft night-breather.
“Raja!” I hiss a little louder. No response.
Then I hear it. A clink. Not from Raja’s cage, but from further down the row. The clink is followed by a voice, low, but discernible. “Move out, you dogs!” Keep’s voice, gruffer’n a Killer’s bark.
As my night vision clears, there’s more clinking off yonder. This time I can see much better’n earlier. The black cloud army has marched on to another place, and the moon goddess and her star servants are casting a dim glow on everything. A night light.
I see bodies moving about, a thin line of men. They’re carrying something. Tools of some kind. Sharp and heavy. Axes. Saws. The type of stuff the hut builders use to construct the Greynote homes. Like ours. I remember watching in awe as what was just a big ol’ tree trunk and a patch of dusty land slowly transformed into our house.
I can also see that Raja’s cage is empty. A pile of durt sits next to the hole he crawled out of.
~~~
I gotta get out of this cage.
Something’s going on and I need to know what. If Raja won’t tell me, then I hafta find out on my own.
I could try digging out the hole, pushing the big rock outta my way, but if big guys like Bart can’t get out like that, it seems unlikely a scrawny runt like me’ll be able to do it. I walk around the cage, tapping on the wooden bars with a rock, checking for weaknesses. Seems pretty solid, but…
It’s not made for someone like me. The bars are relatively close together, but not so close that you can’t stick your arms and legs through. Like I did earlier with Circ, hugging and touching hands. In fact, some of the gaps are so wide, I might just be able to squeeze through.
They’re not made for someone with a child’s body, someone so thin and so skeleton-boned that she almost disappears when she turns sideways, as some of the other Younglings like to joke. It’s no joke now.
I try a random gap between the bars, try to force myself between the wood, careful to keep my broken arm tucked safely behind me. But this wood is sturdy and has no give. The wood won’t budge in either direction and the gap is too small. My hips get stuck ’fore I ever really get started.
Moving on, I try to find a gap that’s bigger’n the last one. Most of them are uniform, well measured, but then I find one that seems wider’n t’others. Perhaps it’s just an optical illusion, the moon shadows playing tricks on me, or…
I jam myself into the gap with a running start.
Ahhh! The wood stings me, scrapes me, tears my flesh when it rubs, but I’m pushing forward, making progress, nearly through!
And then I’m stuck. Not stuck like I just can’t go forward any more, but stuck like I can’t go forward or backward or anythingward. Just plain ol’ stuck. Like a tug in the mud.
I’m wedged in so tight it’s hard to breathe. I suck in quick breaths as I try to think, but none of them fully satisfy my hungry lungs. If I got in, I gotta be able to get out, right? Wrong. I had a lot of momentum coming in, but I got nothing going out. Starting from a stuck position, I can’t get en
ough force going to unstick myself. No matter how much I strain—backwards or forwards—I ain’t budging. New tactic required.
Get skinnier.
For me that’s difficult since I’m so skinny to begin with. I mean, I could not eat anything for a few days, maybe shed half a pound, slide right on out. But obviously that won’t work ’cause then the Keep’ll see me stucker’n a ’zard on a skewer. He’ll know I tried to escape. He’ll tell my father. I’ll be sentenced to more time in Confinement. Nope, I gotta get skinnier quicker. Like now.
I count to three. Suck in my breath all the way so all you can see are my ribs. Let out the breath in a groan of effort, straining to squeeze through, my eyes squeezed tight and hard, every pitifully small muscle in my body working together to accomplish the same thing. Inch by torturous inch. And then…
Escape!
It’s not like what you’d expect the thrill of escape to be like, all happy and elated and airy. Well, it’s airy all right, ’cause a rush of air surrounds me as I go a-flying off into the desert. I was pushing so hard and not going anywhere, but then as soon as I breached the bars, all that energy had no place to go but off into the yonder. I crash land in the durt, practically right on my slinged arm, feel searin’, burnin’ ripples of pain tear through every nerve on that side of my body. I tumble, not once, not twice, not even thrice, but four times, rolling and bouncing and kneeing myself in the face, which hurts like scorch ’cause my knee is so bony it’s sharp like a spearhead. I moan and yell out things that would have my mother blushing, and then settle in a heap at the base of a prickler, which proceeds to jab and poke me in the gut with its barbs, adding injury to injury.
I just lay there. For a long time. I got no idea how long. My wrist’s throbbing something awful, and with each thump, thump, thump, I feel like I’m going to vomit up my unsatisfying meal and the tug jerky Circ gave me. The pain is so sharp I think I drift in and out of consciousness a little, too, like I’m in a strange fireweed smoker’s haze. First I see the stars, shining all perky and happy down on me, and then I’m seeing nothing, just black, as if every natural light in the night sky has been sucked into a void, where only the moon goddess can enjoy them.
