Fire Country

by David Estes

  “You said daydream. But it’s night.”

  “Okay. Nightdreams,” he says. Keeping one of his hands tight against my stomach, his other drops to my waist, settles on my hip. “What were you nightdreaming about?”

  “How this is impossible,” I say, at the same time wondering what this is.

  Circ sighs. “Siena, when will you see the truth?” His question startles me. The truth? I don’t even know what the truth is, or where to find it, so how can I see it? So many people are telling me so many different things and none of it makes any searin’ sense. “Sometimes I just wish you’d see yourself the way I see you. How strong, how graceful, how pretty. How funny…”

  Funny? At least he got that part right, I think. I been known to crack a joke from time to time. But strong? No. Try skinny, barely thicker’n a tent pole. Graceful? More like clutzy. Pretty? I think you just shot your pointer into the durt.

  “Circ, no,” I say. “Don’t kid.”

  Unexpectedly, he spins me ’round, pulls me in close, leans in—his lips are so close, like they’ve been so many times before, so close, but different this time, so different, like they’re on fire, like they won’t stop until they’re against mine—

  They stop, hovering inches from me. His words come out in hot bursts of breath. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long, Siena, and I have to before…before you’re Called away and I never have another chance.”

  —and then his lips are against mine, warm and moving and right. Everything I’ve ever wanted. What I want. Not my father, or the Law, or anyone else. Me. My wants. My decisions.

  It doesn’t have to be like this.

  It does.

  It doesn’t.

  I’ve forgotten to breathe and suddenly I’m gasping for air, pulling away from him, laughing and choking—he’s laughing too. A first kiss: inexperienced and somewhat embarrassing, but perfect in every way.

  On my tiptoes, I hug him tight. He leans down and I crane my chin over his shoulder, nuzzling my head next to his, my eyes closed. Everything warm. Everything right.

  My decision. My wants.

  I open my eyes.

  My father stands across the yard, fists clenched at his sides, glaring. Always glaring.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I knew it!” he screams. “You’re a little shilt!” Another pot rattles across the floor, ringing out when it stops against the base of the table.

  I’ve seen my father angry a hundred times, but never like this. So angry, so violent. “Father, I didn’t plan—”

  “I. Don’t. Care!” he spouts. “I saw what I saw. I told you to stay away from that—that—that corrupting Youngling, but you didn’t listen. You disobeyed a direct order from ME! Not only your father but the Head Greynote. How do you think that will look to the rest of the people?”

  My mouth opens to answer, but evidently he’s not expecting one, ’cause he continues his rant. “I’ll tell you how it’ll look. It’ll look like I can’t even keep my own daughter in line. It’ll look like I’m weak. They won’t trust me.”

  “I wasn’t trying to—”

  “Trying?” He takes two giant steps, backing me into a corner in our hut. His veins are popping out of his red forehead. Like snakes they twist and curl across his head, from ear to ear. My head swivels, looking for help, even though I know there’s none. Despite it being the middle of the night, when we got home Father woke everyone up, told them to go for a walk. Sari, Fauna, and Rafi scurried out like little ants, without even looking at me. But my mother, she moved slower despite my father’s black mood. It was another small act of rebellion on her part. And as she passed me I could swear she smiled and gave a slight nod of her head, like she knew exactly what I did, that I was following what she said, thinking about what I want and acting on it. It felt a scorch of a lot like a nod of approval.

  But now it’s just my father and me.

  I think he might kill me this time.

  Even though he’s dropped his voice to a whisper, he’s so close that it thunders in my ears. “Enlighten me, Youngling. What were you trying to do with your face mashed against his?”

  I hafta say something, to explain, to make him understand what I’m feeling, what I want. My mind is blank, emptier’n a prickler shell drunk dry. And my throat is dryer’n fire country in summer. My mouth opens but I have no words, and if I did, they couldn’t come out anyway.

  “’Zard got your tongue?” Father sneers.

  A fire roars up my throat and out my mouth. “I wanna be with him, Father!”

  Wrong answer.

  He grabs me by the throat, hoists me up on the wall, holds me there, choking me. ’Cause I’ve just spoken the impassioned words I been feeling for so long, I didn’t have a chance to take a breath ’fore he grabbed me, so I’m already running out of oxygen, desperately gulping at the air. My airways are closed. Nothing coming in, nothing going out.

  “Be with him?” my father spits. “That’s against the Law, Youngling, not that I should have to remind you.”

  My vision blurs, my arms go numb, then my legs. This is it. I made my decision and now I’ll face the ultimate consequence. My plan failed.

  He drops me and I’m too exhausted and confused to brace myself, so I crumple to the ground, banging my broken arm on the wall. Pain rips through me but I barely feel it, ’cause I’m choking, gasping, sucking down throat-burning gulps of life-giving air.

  There’s a shadow over me but I don’t open my eyes.

  “Know that I don’t do this easily, Youngling. I’m trying to save you from yourself. One quarter full moon in Confinement,” my father growls. “This is your last warning.”

  ~~~

  As it turns out, my plan worked, but I’m hardly feeling happy about it. I was s’posed to sneak out, meet Circ, get caught, get thrown in Confinement for another day or two. But then everything happened so fast—what in the scorch happened anyway?—with Circ, my muddled thoughts, the kiss, my father.

  Everything’s all confused now, out of line, with little hope of ever getting back into line. There’s not much left to do, ’cept continue on with my plan.

  “Hi, Perry,” I say to my prickler neighbor when I crawl into my cage, feeling sandblasted from the windy trek across the desert. It wasn’t Luger who escorted me this time, but a silent-type named Tod, who I didn’t mind much.

  “What’d you say?” Raja says from the cage next door.

  She wasn’t talking to you, Perry says. Welcome back, Sie.

  “Hi, Raja,” I say, crawling over to the side of the cage, too tired to walk upright.

  “What’re you doin’ back here?” Raja looks even skinnier’n the last time I was here, as if everything’s been sucked right on out of him, leaving just skin’n bones.

  “It’s a long story,” I say.

  “How long?” he asks.

  “Too long, but I don’t really feel like talking ’bout it.”

  “No, I mean, how long’re you in for?” Raja says.

  I hate to tell him. I might sound like I’m complaining, when, compared to his life sentence, a quarter full moon is but a blink and a wink. But he’ll find out eventually. “A quarter full moon,” I say, keeping my voice flat, trying not to sound either glad or cut up ’bout it.

  “Ain’t bad,” he says. “Ain’t good neither. A quarter full moon in here can kill someone as skinny as you.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I been in ’ere so long now I’m not real good at conversating no more. I talk to myself more’n real live humans.”

  “At least you’re not talking to a prickler,” I mumble.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  ~~~

  My nerves are coiled tighter’n a rattler ready to strike. Perry seems tense, too, all stiff and silent, so unlike him. The wind’s only gotten stronger from earlier in the day.

  I slept away the afternoon so I’d be wide awake for tonight. Now that
the time’s come, I’m considering waiting until tomorrow night. How can I focus on the task at hand with everything that’s bouncing ’round in my head?

  ’Fraidy tug, Perry says unhelpfully.

  Now you’ve got something to say, I think. But my wooloo thoughts are just what I need to motivate me to move forward with my plan.

  Already the clinks and voices are moving away, soon to be out of earshot. I need to stay close enough to follow them. Relying on adrenaline and chants of ’Fraidy cat! ’Fraidy cat! from Perry, I grab a bar with one hand, trying to think strong and brave thoughts.

  I start climbing, shimmying my way up, one hand grip and foot slide at a time. The horny toad dance. It helps that I’ve done it once already, during a panicked life-or-death climb. This time is less stressful, more controlled. In less’n the time it takes for my father to lose his temper I’m at the top and squeezing between the bars, the only prisoner small enough to accomplish such a feat.

  Lucky me. Skinny me. I blink hard when I remember what Circ said to me last night. Don’t even think those words about yourself. Don’t even joke about them. Not now. Not ever again. I take a deep breath. Okay. No more thoughts about being Runty, or Scrawny, or Skinny. By trying not to think them, I start thinking them more. I pound the heel of my hand against my forehead, trying to dislodge the thoughts, but now they’re all I can think. Skinny. Scrawny. Runty. Skinny. Scrawny. Runty.

  Perry takes up the chant, adding his own flair. Skinniest, Scrawniest, Runtiest!

  Time’s a-wasting, but how I can I safely climb back down when my mind’s full of all this blaze? I gotta replace it with other thoughts, better thoughts. Circ’s arms around me, on my hips. His lips pressed against mine. I feel flutters in my stomach and I’m okay again. Ready to move.

  Ever so slowly, I ease my way over the edge, the wind battering me, threatening to toss me over the side. Getting up was easy, but I don’t want a repeat of the last time when my only option for getting down was a free fall, broken only when my body smashed into the durt. A dull ache throbs through my legs and ribs just thinking ’bout it. Using my hand as a brake, I slide down the side, opening and tightening my fingers to regulate my speed. When my feet hit the bottom, pride surges through me. Even Perry says a few nice words, although I sense a hint of sarcasm in them.

  Time’s a-wasting.

  I move out on footsteps so light a hard-tracking Cotee’s ears would have trouble picking them up. The wind is whipping through my hair and I hafta dodge and duck as brambleweeds come a tumbling past, barely visible until the last moment. As cloudless as the previous night was, tonight’s cloudfull. I can’t see a single star behind the heavy blanket of black and gray. The only light comes from occasional glances by the moon goddess as she peeks between the roiling clouds. It looks like a spring storm’s coming, but it’s way too early for that—we ain’t even had our first sandstorm of the winter season yet.

  I run and run and run, heading in the direction I saw the prisoners taking with their tools. Visibility is poor, good enough to see my own feet and what’s just ahead, but not nearly enough to see much further; so I rely on my ears to alert me if I’m getting close, hoping against hope that their march hasn’t become a silent one, in which case I might not know I’ve caught up until I run right into the back of one of them, a clumsy end to my brilliant plan. I’m also praying to the sun goddess that there ain’t no packs of Cotees out here. They usually stick well south of the village, where the hurds of tug are plentiful, but you never can tell.

  Soon I’m loster’n a blind burrow mouse in a maze of sand tunnels. The wind whips in every direction, starting to pick up bits of sand now, stinging and prickling my skin. If this turns into a sandstorm, I’m knocked. In the morning they’ll find my empty cage, but they won’t find me buried beneath ten feet of sand.

  I’m about to turn back—whichever way back is—when I hear it. A clink, instantly lost on a shriek of wind. Then another. Careless tool carriers. Or carriers who don’t care at all.

  I make desperately for the sound, covering my eyes against the bursts of sand-filled wind, but craning my ear in what I think is the right direction. My heart leaps when I hear voices. Angry. Mutinous. “This is madness. We’re all gonna die out here, you too, Keep.” A voice I ain’t never heard ’fore. One of the lifers.

  “Shut yer mouth and quit yer complainin’!” Keep shouts. “We go back when I say we do.”

  I see them, finally. A haggard gaggle of prisoners, bent against the wind and sand, trudging at a snail’s pace through the desert. No wonder I was able to catch up with them. Just as I spot them they stop. I freeze, drop to the ground, get a mouthful of sand as it splashes up.

  There’s more grumbling, but no one else is as bold as the last guy. When I peek my sand-crusted face over the dune, I see why. Keep’s got a pointer notched, aimed toward the group, keeping his distance. They could rush him, but he’d take out a few of them ’fore they could get to him. And probably none of them are willing to die for t’others.

  They start moving again, and almost right away, the wind dies down, the airborne sand drops back to the ground where it belongs, and the clouds part, revealing the bright and full moon. Strange timing.

  “See! What’d I tell yer?” Keep barks. “I knew it’d clear. Just a warnin’ storm. Nothin’ more.”

  I follow silently.

  It’s a long hike, and now that I’m not worried about a deadly sandstorm popping up, I keep my distance from the prisoners to ensure I’m not spotted. My mind turns to the slight smile and nod my mother gave me ’fore she left the hut last night. She approved of what I was doing, I’m sure of it. My whole life my mother has been this quiet, weak figure, taking everything my father can dish out without even a word against him. But now…now she’s an enigma. She’s still mostly subservient, but it’s like she’s plotting and scheming in the background, delivering cryptic messages to me in prison. I wonder what set her off? Does she know something I don’t? Or has she just had enough of his tirades, of his endless displays of power and authority? I might not be the sharpest pointer in the quiver, but I ain’t stupid either. I know when something’s cooking by the change in the air, the smell. And with my mother, something’s definitely in the pot, maybe not boiling yet, but starting to simmer for sure. An enigma.

  Something about the landscape changes, catching my attention. I look down at my feet. The sand has disappeared, replaced by hard-packed earth. Not necessarily unusual for the desert, but that’s not what caught my attention. Green-stemmed plants poke from cracks in the dry earth, sprouting here and there. I kick at one with my toe and it bends all the way to the ground and then springs back up. Doesn’t crack or break like the dried and withered scrubweeds near the village. These are alive. Growing.

  In fire country, spring brings a hint of green as fireweed, scrubweeds, brambleweeds, and scrubgrass begin to grow with each successive rainfall. But just as quickly as it starts, the growing season ends, chased away by the early summer’s heat. The plants turn brown, die, crack and blow away or become kindling for the summer brush fires that give our land its name.

  It’s still winter and there ain’t no rain, least not in the desert. But maybe—

  I lift my gaze and scan the country ’fore me. The prisoners are a long way off, but are halted, scattering their axes and picks around them. And towering over them: trees!

  —we’re not in fire country anymore.

  In the dead of the night, lit only by the watchful gaze of the moon goddess and her endless legions of star servants, I get my first ever glimpse of ice country.

  ~~~

  I’ve never seen live trees ’fore, but I know that’s what they are. As endless as the sands of the desert, they rise up like watchtowers. And they don’t just go back and back and back. They go up, too. The land rises and rises in an arc, gentle at first, but then steeper and steeper. A mountain! It’s green and brown at the base, but quickly turns black as the trees thin out, disappear completely. An
d higher up, white. It’s like the entire top portion of this bigger’n-anything-I-ever-seen mountain is capped with a white cloak. Unbelievable.

  My breathing’s all tight and heavy. I realize my lips are clamped shut and my nose is doing all the work. I open my mouth, breathe in the cool, night air. Cool? What? But it’s the right word, far as I know. The…air…isn’t…hot. I’ve only ever tasted cool air once ’fore. It was late winter and a spring rainstorm came real early, drowning fire country in three days of wet. On the third day, when everything was dripping and crying, it got downright shivery outside. I asked what it meant and my father said the air was cool.

  Well, that’s what it is now. Cool. Not hot. I shiver.

  Ice country is not hot. Just like Teacher always said when we thought he’d been smoking too much fireweed.

  For a moment, I try to focus on the trees, thankful for the moonlight. They’re exactly like you hear them described. Tall beyond comprehension, they rise like giant spears into the sky, almost disappearing into the few low-altitude clouds drifting overhead. Their—what’s that word for the coating of rough brown that protects the wood inside them? Oh yeah, bark!—their bark is full of so many shades of brown that I wanna rip off a piece and count them all later. Wooden arms shoot off in a million directions, some thick and heavy enough to hold the weight of a man, and others so spindly and thin they look as if they might break off in the wind. But where are all the leaves? In Learning, Teacher told us of the greenness of trees, of their millions of leaves, sprouting and growing, sprouting and growing, and eventually changing color in the autumn and…falling off. That’s it. They’ve fallen off!

  That explains the sudden increase in noise. Besides the men’s voices, which have picked up again, a deafening sound has been added to the mix. Crunching, like when I munch on the brittle flesh of dried prickler. As the prisoner’s pass amongst the trees, each footstep results in a thunderous crunch! that a Hunter could track for miles. Scorch, even I could track it.