Dove Strong

by Erin Lorence

  “Not my fault, not my fault. Hey! Worm!”

  The runt of the tiny diggers, who’d been spying, froze with her twig-like arms tensed.

  “Whatever happened to that water you were supposed to leave our guest, Worm? You think she’s part scrub bush—doesn’t need to drink for weeks? Yeah, you better run.”

  He kicked a dirt clod that exploded against the tattered fur racing for the tunnel’s entrance.

  Oh, yeah. Skinks bite.

  “Twinsies, Micah!”

  Mr. Brae’s shout caused me to slap a hand over my prayer result papers.

  He held up what looked like a weird, V-shaped potato. It was actually conjoined twin potatoes. “Have you ever seen anything like it? I’ll call this half Micah and that side Melody. But don’t think because they’re your namesakes you two get to hog the potato to yourselves.”

  He waggled a finger and set the potato in his bucket as if it were an egg. He lunged at the ceiling with his pole.

  His son—Micah—leaned closer. “I know about you. You’re Dove Strong. Your Uncle Saul went with my brother to the Council last time. So. Did he—your uncle—ever turn up?”

  “No-pe.” I let the p pop in the silence. “Dead.” We’d never had physical proof of this, but it was our obvious conclusion to why he’d never returned home from his journey. The same one I was about to take.

  “Er...well. And...and how’s your father, Dove?” His skinny chest puffed out, and he became all-knowing again. “Your dad’s Jonah Strong. Yeah, I know all about him too. Terrifying when crossed. Commands wasps to fight for him. See? I’m not so clueless. And I’ll bet—”

  “Dead.” My dad would be dead three years in October. Shot by a trespassing vandal he’d confronted.

  I waited for Micah to finish stuttering. “My cousin had a pet raccoon once named Berry. It’s dead too, if you want to ask about it. Buried it under a pine.”

  His toe twisted in the dirt. “It’s not my fault I didn’t know...about your dad. I’m never allowed out. So, what?” His large eyes narrowed. “It’s like you and a bunch of kids swinging around in the trees, then?”

  “Don’t be a lamebrain. My mom’s fine. And my aunt and grandparents. Enough with the interrogation. I need to get going. So tell me—who’s been called to go to the Council?”

  Skink boy blinked. And then glared past his dad at a woman and girl on the other side of the space—his mom and sister, no doubt, and perhaps Melody. His twin and the potato’s other namesake, since she seemed about his size. Both mom and daughter prodded the ceiling with sticks like Mr. Brae, only less excited-like.

  “We—my dad and I—haven’t...a hundred percent decided yet. It’s complicated...lots of things to consider about who should go.”

  Another obstacle. And all I needed was to be out of here.

  My cheeks ignited like torches. Hot waves pulled at my body, filling my muscles with strength. Making them swell until I was sure I loomed huge and terrifying—like Gilead. For the first time since I opened my eyes underground, I didn’t tremble like a newborn calf attempting to walk.

  “You haven’t decided? You—your family—has known for seven years—has had seven years to pray for God’s direction! For His answer. His answer, not yours. The decision of who’s traveling with me isn’t yours to make. It’s God’s. So don’t say you haven’t decided. At least...”

  Calm down, deep breath.

  I obeyed myself so I didn’t explode like the kicked dirt clod. I relaxed my clenched fingers, which oddly still showed up skinny and weak as clover stalks. “Have any of you paid enough attention to hear God’s answer about peace?”

  He stayed silent, but I didn’t bother to clarify. Even cut off down here in these tunnels, he had to know I referred to the Reclaim—the hearsay about a future war between Christ’s followers and Satan’s. A battle to reclaim America.

  No, it’d be more than a mere battle if it happened.

  It’d be a bloodbath.

  Those of us who didn’t believe that God had promised this war—which was every person I knew except my bloodthirsty brother Gilead—referred to the Reclaim as the Rumor. Because that’s what it was.

  The Rumor. Unbiblical. No heavenly signs supporting it. But it got respect since it was almost as ancient as my grandparents, who were alive when it cropped up over sixty years ago—right after all true Christians were exiled from pagan American society.

  In my mind, this proved that the Rumor—or OK, fine...the Reclaim—was a lie. Or, more kindly put, a dream. Fabricated by some of our people who weren’t satisfied with their lives. Christians determined to make something better of their futures here on earth.

  But even those of us who scoffed at the Reclaim still prayed for God’s clear direction for peace...or for whatever else He wanted. Because every seven years, God chose a member from each Christian household to make the risky trek through the Enemy’s territory to his or her nearest Council, most often hidden on a mountain. For us, we hiked to Mount Jefferson—sixty miles from home as the crow flies, according to my grandpa.

  This year, God had appointed me.

  I’d become one messenger of hundreds...or even thousands...starting a journey for one of the fifty Councils meeting in our country. On September fifteenth, a month from now, the Councils would tally our nation’s votes. After coming to a consensus, they’d announce the new decision. Unite and reclaim our land by force? Or peace.

  Of course, the decision was peace. It had always been peace. It would always be peace.

  Why did God appoint messengers every seven years? Perhaps He knew if He didn’t allow that consistent seven-year timeframe to address taking back the land, the least content of us would have taken measures into our own hands long ago.

  For sure, the idea of the Reclaim squashed the amount of random violence cropping up on our side. It kept our revolutionists patient and preoccupied, busy crossing their fingers and dreaming of a different future.

  Micah snatched up a spear from the soil. “Yeah. Peace.”

  He harpooned a nearby parsnip on the ground, and it burst open revealing its frosty center. Before I could grab it to suck out the moisture, he’d kicked both fragments at the dirt-clump pile.

  Seven more years of hiding. Of letting the devil’s workers dump poison and garbage on our doorsteps while we stood by and watched. In this past year, Gilead had destroyed more of his junkyard tinkering projects than he’d completed in fits just like Micah’s.

  Something nudged my arm. A mud-caked, rusty can jammed into my open fingers. Water sloshed over its dented brim.

  I gulped it all and clamped my lips against the wave of nausea. The water giver detoured to her vegetable pile, avoiding her brother who murdered the ceiling with his spear.

  4

  When my shadow blocked her light, Micah’s mom didn’t pause in her methodical hunt for crops—unlike the girl next to her, who froze with her stick midair and stared.

  Those eyes...I’d seen them a million times before—in the faces of baby mule deer. Each time, they’d whispered the same panicked question as hers. Run away or stay close to Mama?

  I turned my back on them. “Mrs. Brae, I’ve got to get out of here. And since God hasn’t called any of you to make this journey, I’ll carry your result to the Council. I’m delivering another neighbor’s result, since no one in his family’s been called either. One more isn’t a big deal. It’s nothing to me.”

  Mrs. Brae’s back stiffened. Then she eased down her spear until it supported her weight like a walking staff. Relief pulled her cheeks’ hollows into a smile.

  I could almost hear her silent relief, Hallelujah. Send the doomed neighbor girl into Satan’s realm. Spare the Brae family.

  “We’ve new neighbors?” At my elbow, Mr. Brae smeared his forehead with a black rag, beamed, and waited for my response.

  “Yes, sir.” I folded my arms across my queasy stomach. “The Joyners. They’re tree dwellers like my family—moved onto the north end of our prope
rty a few years ago. William—I mean, Mr. Joyner—felt God was telling him and his wife to stay home this time around. Their baby girl isn’t quite a month old yet.”

  Mr. Brae ran his fingers across the earth sky. “William...William...Will. Little Willie. Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town. Upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown—”

  “He was a friend of my dad’s from jail.”

  He gaped. Right. He wouldn’t have known about my dad’s arrest.

  But having to tell the whole story about how my dad had been convicted of environmental terrorism for burning trash forever dumped on our land by Satan’s minions—blah, blah, blah—was downright tiring.

  I went with the four-second version. “Dad got a year for burning tires.”

  Mrs. Brae clasped her hands. “Nehemiah. She’s offering to deliver our prayer result for us.”

  He hummed while reaching into the bucket at her feet. The onion he’d found rustled in his fingers. There was a crunch, followed by a sharp smell. “I’ve got ears, Emily. I heard. But one wee skinny girl carrying three results? Satan would be on her faster than a rattler on a bunny. Every demon in Oregon...oh, baby doll! He’ll hunt her with a vengeance that won’t stop ’til she’s dead.”

  I squared my shoulders instead of flinching. Like he won’t be trying anyway.

  “No.” He took another dripping bite. “We must be fair and give Dovie here a fighting chance. I’ve decided now. Melody will carry ours.”

  The girl with deer eyes squeaked. Mrs. Brae closed hers. I glared.

  “No!” Micah hurtled over piles, his spear clenched in his fist. Chest heaving, he snatched the onion from his dad. It disappeared into the shadows with the faintest thud.

  “No. Dad. I’m supposed to be the one. Remember? Me. Me, Micah. Not her.” He thrust his harvesting stick at the girl who’d buried her face in her pants.

  “No!” Mr. Brae’s roar made me stumble back. He grimaced at his empty palm. “I will not lose my last son! If God is sparing the Strongs their son, then He will spare ours too!”

  The fury evaporated…a thunderstorm passing, leaving behind rainbows and blue sky. He cocked his head, beaming, and stretched a wavering hand in the air above his daughter’s head. “Melody. Daughter. I appoint you official Brae messenger. You, my squirrel, will scamper along with Dovie and deliver our family’s result. Which I will jot down momentarily.”

  Melody ignored the high five and remained on the ground like the cast out onion.

  Why didn’t she speak up and either accept her commission or reject it? Wimpy mouse.

  I cleared my burning throat to refuse to travel with her since she hadn’t been called. To announce I’d go alone. That it didn’t matter I was sixteen and a girl. And that it wouldn’t matter if I carried a hundred prayer answers or none at all. I hadn’t been chosen for my strength...or for what I knew about surviving in the world. Otherwise, Gilead or my grandpa would be here in the Brae’s home now. I’d been selected for my gift—my unique connection with the Spirit. I’d been born with my whole being wired to hear Him. I’d understood when He’d promised to faithfully guide me. Plus, I knew I’d make it to Mount Jefferson because of my grandma’s gift. She’d seen me there.

  Again, I cleared my throat. “Sir—”

  The ground tilted upwards to meet me, surprising me into silence. My flashlight’s metallic clunk warned me I was passing out.

  Another...obstacle.

  The blue room dimmed. The deer eyes faded.

  5

  The footsteps were as stealthy as plunking hailstones.

  I’d woken a while ago—back in my black burrow on the fur mat—and had spent my time in the dark praying for guidance…and for the world to stop rolling like a tumbleweed.

  When the steps got closer, my fingers tightened around the flashlight. I felt for the “on” sensor.

  I had a pretty good instinct about the footsteps. But I waited until the owner breathed over me to turn on my light. The beam blasted him full force in the chin.

  “Gawww!” Micah staggered backwards with one hand shielding his eyes, the other holding his chest.

  “Yeah. I’m awake.” I smiled at the heart attack I’d given him. He deserved it for being creepy like that.

  He crawled forward. “So, now you understand? You saw for yourself that my dad’s—”

  “Manic?” I clutched my spinning head and sat up.

  He shook his. “Insane. No. Not crazy crazy...but...well, you saw. I’ve had to deal with him like that since…you know. Since my brother never came home. And my dad sort of cracked.

  “The point is he’s too far gone to understand I’m the one,” his fist thudded his chest, “who’s supposed to go to the Council. I feel like I’ve been...been...born to do this. I’ve got to stop hiding down here like a coward and do this for my family. For...you know...God. Don’t you think He’d want me to? I mean, yes. He does. Plus, I’m stronger than a girl. Mel, that is. Sorry. No offense to you being a girl—”

  “Don’t apologize. I know I’m a girl.”

  He leaned in, locking his gaze with mine. “You and me, Dove. We leave now, and they can’t stop us. And if you’re still sick, I’ll help you walk. Even if I can’t carry you, we only need to be far enough away from here by morning so they can’t find us. I put water in your bottle and packed food. You like mole jerky?” He tried to hand me my backpack but settled on leaning it against my unreaching arm.

  My ears had pricked when Micah first started to speak. Huh. Maybe God’s called him. But my thoughts had taken an accelerated 180-degree turn.

  To sneak away...to hide from his parents...all to prove he wasn’t a coward. And without any clue about what God wanted.

  “Forget it, Micah.” I flopped back down. “Pulling something like that on your dad and mom—for us to start a journey in deceit and lies—and against God’s will, would be plain stupid. We wouldn’t last a day. Well, you wouldn’t.”

  “But...no. Dove. No! Are you so blind you can’t see I’m right? Why can’t you understand my dad knows I’m the best choice? Here’s the thing...”

  I yawned. He’d be here a while, trying to convince me I was wrong.

  Good luck with that.

  I rolled so my back faced him. He could stay all night if he wanted. As long as he left me alone enough to pray.

  At some point, he gave up, and when I paused to grab my water bottle from my pack, it was silent. I shined my light around the empty burrow and let it go out. Good.

  But a few moments later, more footsteps padded toward me. Melody’s were lighter than her twin’s. This time I turned on my flashlight before she reached me, directing it at the ceiling so the whole space shone bright except where our shadows stretched.

  “Sorry.”

  “For what?” I unscrewed my water bottle. “I was awake. And it’s killing me—I’ve got to know. Is it day or nighttime? It’s impossible to tell in this skyless crypt.”

  “Oh. Uh, night I guess? Um...”

  “Spit it out. Melody, isn’t it? So I can get back to praying.”

  “Sure. Yes. Sorry. Oh, uh...I was wondering how you knew you were the one who was—is—supposed to go to the Council?”

  “I’ve known for a long time. Over a year.” I squinted at her, my lips at the container’s opening. “But you want to know how? Uh, prayer? I ask. God answers. Plus, then there was my grandma’s dream. Though it only reaffirmed what I knew—that I’d been chosen.”

  She scratched the dry grit of the floor with her finger. A row of squiggles, backward question marks. “Oh, yeah. Your grandma. Dad told us about her once. My big brother Zech could sort of do that too...well, before he, you know. Disappeared. You’re lucky still having someone that receives dreams or visions or whatever. Easier for you, knowing.”

  Mmm. Lucky me, knowing—because of my grandma’s dream—the lives of my family, and most likely thousands of nameless others, depended on me getting to the Council. Knowing the violence and ugliness resulting
if I didn’t. Knowing I wasn’t only another messenger, but the messenger for some reason God hadn’t yet revealed. And because of His silence, I wasn’t about to mention this to the Braes.

  “Sure, Melody. Real easy.”

  She nodded, still doodling swift marks.

  I flung up my hands. “It’s not easy. And it has nothing to do with my gran. I’m going because God said, ‘go.’ And when God says, ‘go,’ I go.”

  “God says...so God speaks to you? As in, He talks to you like a real person? And you can hear Him?”

  Before I could confirm, she unleashed her next round of questions. “So, what about me? Has He told you anything about me...like if I go, will I get home OK?” She studied me through spider-leg lashes, so different from the Strong family’s invisible blonde ones.

  “Yes, Melody. I can hear Him. And no. I don’t know about you.”

  She went back to her question marks but then flung both arms around her knees, reeling them into her chest.

  “I don’t want to die like my brother. Or be lost forever. Or trapped...up there.” Her lips pressed the ragged fur of her pants, so the only other words I understood were “I’d be dog food,” and something about being hunted.

  Her raw fear began to ooze into my thinking too. So, to try to block out her morbid mutterings, I wracked my gray cells for something to say. For anything to make her stop before she pulled me under too.

  But comforting people’s not my thing.

  What should I do? Jab her in the shoulder and say, Hey, you. No worries. You’ll be back eating roasted mole around the fire with your family by Thanksgiving. So turn that frown upside down.

  I couldn’t. Because I’m no liar.

  I placed my hand on her shoulder. “You won’t be alone, though.”

  I waited a few moments before I dropped my hand. Huh. She wasn’t the least bit comforted we were in this together.

  I jerked my thumb off the light’s sensor and settled down on the matted pelt. You don’t know how fortunate you are to be partnered with me, wimpy mouse.

  But after staring at where the stars should be, I began to bite my thumbnail. Was she really better off with me than if she were to head out solo?