by A. G. Henley
He gets in the line that’s forming, jumping up and down in front of Petrel, who does his best to subdue his brother-in-law before he vaults off the platform.
As I get closer to the side, all I can see is the shifting, red-yellow glow from an enormous bonfire below. There’s some music, laughter, children howling in play. The sounds of Groundlings having fun. Too bad it won’t last after we show up.
Shrike steps to my side. “I asked Osprey to serve lookout duty during the feast.”
My lips twitch. “Bet he’s happy about that.”
Shrike shrugs. “No one exactly jumped at the chance. But we can’t leave our homes unprotected or be unprepared for the Scourge.”
“Agreed.” The sounds from below are more muted now. The first of our people must have hit the ground. “We should probably have at least two more along the perimeter to be on the safe side.”
“You volunteering?” Shrike asks, cocking an eyebrow like he already knows the answer.
“Nope.” I shake my head firmly. My plan for the night is to stuff myself with food and get blitzed on spiced wine.
“That’s what I thought.” His gaze comes to rest on my waist. “Make sure that knife stays hidden.”
I yank my shirt down irritably. Shrike thumps my shoulder and slips over the side onto the ladder. He still moves nimbly for a man his age.
I wait until he’s about halfway to the ground before I climb over. The reinforced rope of the ladder, while strong, should really only carry the weight of two or three adults at a time. I glance below me as I descend. The music’s definitely stopped now.
In fact, it’s dead quiet.
2.
Shrike jumps off the ladder at the bottom and says a few quiet words to our group. My feet hit the ground a minute later. The earth is hard-packed from the lack of rain lately, but it still feels almost spongy compared to the ass-flattening wooden boards we live our lives on above.
The trees hover over me, claustrophobic instead of comforting. And I swear the temperature dropped ten degrees since I left the treetops. Then again, that might just be the Groundlings’ friendly reception.
They sit and stand in small groups around the huge fire. Their dark heads and flat eyes are all trained on my people, clustered only a few steps away from the bottom of the rope ladder. Some stare openly, sizing us up. Others watch us out of the corners of their eyes and whisper. I hold my head a little higher.
The boy I’d seen running out of the gardens stands with a couple of friends; they’re all holding groaning plates of food. Now that I’m closer, I can see he’s only about eleven or twelve years old. His face still has a touch of roundness to it. His well-worn clothes, randomly sprouting patches of light gray or brown rabbit fur, hang on his scrawny frame like he inherited them from someone a lot bigger. He sees me watching him and studies me right back as if I’m some kind of tree bug he’s caught. I’m tempted to wave two fingers on top of my head like antennae.
“Welcome. Please join us,” a smiling man with shoulder-length red-brown hair says. He gestures around the clearing with a mug of something that I pray he’s going to share. I’m not sure if I’ve seen this one before, but then again, they all look about the same. It’s like trying to tell ants apart.
Breeze answers him. “Thank you. We brought food to contribute to the feast.” Her voice is even frostier than it was in the trees.
“Our Council hasn’t arrived yet . . . so I’ll just say a few words in their absence.” The Groundling man coughs a bit and launches into a speech about the meaning of the Summer Solstice celebration, or something equally worthless. Breeze makes a short, stiff reply. My attention is on the Groundlings.
There are at least three times as many of them here as there are of us. It feels dangerously unbalanced. If they wanted to obliterate us right now, it wouldn’t be too hard. The good news is that they don’t realize our small group represents the sum total of our people. For all they know, we left a huge force above. Our treetops protect us in more ways than one.
The clearing is hushed after Breeze finishes. Then one of their boys—a man, really—says something in a low voice that makes the others around him snicker. I frown; the joke was clearly on us.
This Groundling has a tree-trunk chest and arms that his sleeves can barely swallow. What the hell are they feeding them down here? I wouldn’t want to take him on in a fistfight, but knives are a different story. I’d shred him. The handle of my hidden weapon tempts my fingers again.
The tense silence breaks, and people restart their conversations. I can finally take a closer look around. Our hosts made an effort to decorate, stringing garlands of huge white flowers around the clearing. They smell good, although they’re almost overpowered by the irresistible scent of roasting meat. A spit, half-hidden in rising smoke, straddles a large hole in the ground to the side of the clearing, and a nearby cooking pot exhales something delicious-smelling. My stomach roars like a starving predator, but first I need a drink.
“Well,” Petrel says, dropping the death grip he had on Moon’s wrist, “what now?”
“Food?” She gestures to the pit and the pot.
“I vote for alcohol,” I say, spotting a Groundling man and woman dipping mugs into small barrels by the roasting pit.
“Second that,” Petrel agrees.
Moon lifts an eyebrow and sniffs. “I’ll take some water, then, if you’re offering. I might as well drink some of their unlimited supply while we’re down here.”
“Good idea. I’ll get you a cup as soon as I can figure out where they’re hiding it.” Petrel scans the clearing, then whistles softly and elbows me not too subtly in the ribs. “Here comes trouble.”
I follow his gaze. It’s her—the new Water Bearer.
She moves through the clearing, her head tilted slightly to the side and held unnaturally still, as if she’s listening intently. I guess she is, and that’s how she manages to glide so surely around the knots of her people that she obviously can’t see. Wildflowers wind through thin braids in her long hair, and her dress skims her body in all the right places. I try my best, but I can’t take my eyes off her.
She’s definitely coming our way. My heart picks up the pace and my palms start to sweat, although I’m not sure why. I hate the feeling; it’s like I’m an intimidated kid.
She stops a few feet away from our group.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen her up close. Her eyes are the drenched color of greenheart bark after it rains, but they’re covered with a strange milky sheen. She’s staring somewhere above our heads like she’s lost in thought. A scar that’s visible even in this low light trails out of her hairline. If her eyes give her a dreamy look, it’s balanced by her pursed lips which are nothing if not determined.
“Welcome,” she says to our group with a tentative smile. “I’m Fennel. I’ll be taking Aloe’s place collecting water for our communities when the Scourge returns.”
Her people go quiet all of a sudden. Several of them are scowling at her back. My father steps toward her.
“Fennel, it’s Shrike. Has Aloe joined the Council then?”
She turns her head toward him when he speaks. Her smile grows, an unfurling leaf.
“She was accepted this evening. She should be here soon.” Her fingers run along the pocket of her dress, back and forth, back and forth. It’s the only real sign I can see that she’s anxious. “Shrike, could I . . . I’d like to meet my Keeper.”
I’m so focused on those fingers that I almost miss her last words. Petrel elbows me again as Shrike turns toward me, beckoning me forward with a short wave. From the looks on their faces—a smirk from Petrel and a small frown from Shrike—neither of them missed my obvious interest. I take care to replace it with a nonchalant look. Shrike introduces me to her by my full name, Peregrine.
She sticks her hand out to shake mine, a move I’m not at all expecting. My people don’t shake hands a lot with each other, much less with Groundlings. I feel all eyes on me.<
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I glance down at my hand. Tree sap, dirt, and sweat. Fantastic. I should’ve made more of an effort to wash before coming down. I rub my palm across my pants.
I’ve taken too long: her smile droops uncertainly. But to her credit she thrusts her hand further in my direction. I don’t want her to feel how grungy my skin is, and I really don’t want to have to answer any questions from Shrike or Petrel about why I was clutching the Water Bearer’s hand. So I barely touch her. Her palm is satisfyingly warm against mine, like a warm cup of tea on a cold morning at my post.
“Hello, Fennel,” I say, trying to be polite. My voice sounds strained, even to my ears. Surprise crosses her face. Did I say something wrong already? Wouldn’t be the first time.
An older Groundling woman—it’s Aloe, I realize—makes her way across the clearing toward us followed by two men. The Council of Three. One of them is stooped and slow with a bush of untamed gray hair. He has a pleasant smile on his face. The other is younger with weathered skin and long, stringy dark hair. He glowers at our group like he’d just as soon spear us as eat with us.
Aloe is thin; her bronzed skin hangs from the bones of her face and arms. Her sooty hair has streaks of light gray like the first rays of sunlight spiking the night sky. Her eyes are closed, and she uses a cane, unlike Fennel. Not that it makes Aloe look any less confident; she’s just as self-assured. She stops behind her daughter. How did she pinpoint where we were? The Sightless are fascinating.
“Though I don’t wish the Scourge to return,” Aloe says, “they will. It’s good that you’ve met.”
“Congratulations on your acceptance into the Three,” Shrike says. He sounds quietly pleased to see her. “You’ll serve your community well.”
She doesn’t exactly smile, but her serious expression warms somehow.
Fennel speaks to me, her voice more playful than before. “So, were you chosen because you’re a good hunter? Aloe says Shrike is deadly, as deadly as she’s ever known a man to be.”
I don’t want to come off like an arrogant jerk, so I choose my words carefully. “I can use a bow and arrow.”
“Ha, don’t let him fool you.” Of course Shrike can’t let the opportunity pass. He’s the one who taught me to shoot. “Peree’s one of our best archers. We’re counting on him tomorrow.”
A smile plays around the girl’s lips. I frown. What’s so funny? Is she laughing at me?
“Come, eat, and let the dancing begin!” The Groundling man who made the speech gestures to us from the bonfire. “We have some anxious boys here, waiting to find out if the girls they’ve had their eye on for the past year will dance with them.”
Some people laugh, but not the brawny Groundling that made the crack about us earlier. He’s glaring at me like he wants to rip my head off. It’s not hard to guess who he’s about to ask to dance as his eyes slide over to Fennel.
I study her face for clues to how she feels. There’s none of that subtle pressure to look away, like there is with sighted girls. As I watch, she catches her lip between her teeth and her body stiffens. Why? Doesn’t she want to dance?
“I’m sure we’ll meet again, Peregrine, like Aloe said.” Her face is composed again.
“Call me Peree. Everyone does,” I say.
“My friends call me Fenn.”
Fenn. She has a nickname.
The musicians are playing again. The Groundlings have pushed back to make space for the dancing, and people are pairing up. A stout boy approaches a girl with a mass of waist-length curly hair. He speaks to her, and she throws her arms around his neck. He leads her out among the other pairs to dance. Several adults clap and smile.
Fennel turns away, probably to go dance with Big Boy, who’s making a beeline for us. But instead she turns back to me.
“Peree? Would you like to dance?”
If she surprised me before by shaking my hand, she stuns me now. I just stare at her.
“You know, dance?” she says, as if it would be the most normal thing in the world. “I’m not bad, really. I won’t even step on your feet much.”
Is she joking? Making fun of me? She’s still smiling, but her offer seems genuine. I have no idea what to do, so I say the first stupid thing that pops into my head. “Lofties and Groundlings don’t dance together.”
“Why not?”
Because our people will kill us? Is that a good enough reason for her? And how is it that this Sightless Groundling girl is braver than I am? I wouldn’t have had the guts to ask her to dance in a million years.
“No idea. Tradition, I guess.” I still haven’t given her an answer; I’m a total coward.
She holds her hand out to me again like she’s daring me to take it. My eyes narrow.
I never turn down a dare.
I reach out for her hand, but at that moment frantic birdcalls tumble out of the trees. My first thought is that for a fellow Lofty, Osprey’s birdcall is god-awful. My second thought is a long, creative curse, because his warning can only mean one thing.
The Scourge is here.
3.
The clearing dissolves into chaos. People scream, shout, drop their mugs of the spiced wine I never got to taste.
My people scurry to the ladder. Petrel chases Moon and Thrush up into the trees. Shrike and Breeze try to keep people calm—not an easy task—as they wait their turn to climb.
“Peree, come now,” Shrike says gruffly.
I should go, but Fennel’s hand is frozen between us. She turns her head like she’s listening to her people panic behind her.
The Groundling boy, the one I think is her brother, sprints toward us from the other side of the clearing. He dodges people throwing buckets of water on the fire. The rest of the Groundlings tear off in the opposite direction, toward the path to the caves. The boy’s clearly coming for Fennel.
I tuck her hand under my arm. “Come on.”
I lead her to him, trying to keep her close to my side so she isn’t tripped up or plowed into. The boy yells her name and takes her other hand. His black eyes almost spin with fear as he takes her away. They go straight to Aloe who points in the direction of the path and the caves.
I don’t waste time getting back to the rope ladder. Only Shrike, Breeze, and a few other Lofties are left on the ground.
The flesh-eaters are coming.
The creatures shriek and groan as they tear through the forest. They lunge into the fading circle of light cast by the gasping remains of the bonfire, the ground shivering under their feet.
Blood and pus melt out of open sores on the fleshies’ gray, sagging skin. Tattered hair molts on their heads over dirty, torn clothes. Some scream, others’ flap wordless lips. Their tongues search the skin where mouths should be. And their warped faces, maddened with hunger, all turn toward us.
Watching the Scourge from the trees is like getting a splinter. Being on the ground with them is to be impaled.
Breeze hurries up the ladder.
I push Shrike forward. “Go!”
“You first.” His teeth clench and his eyes flash. No chance he’ll change his mind.
I leap onto the ropes. The ladder jerks as he jumps on after me. It better hold.
I don’t look down, focusing only on reaching the trees above. The faster I get up, the faster he gets up. The horror-stricken faces of our people flicker eerily in the light of the torches above as they watch us climb.
I reach the top, clamber onto the platform, and turn to help my father. I can barely see him in the dark. More important, I can barely see the flesh-eater only a few rungs behind him.
It howls and claws at his foot, missing by a finger length. Shrike’s face is a mask of sweaty concentration as he climbs.
“Faster! Come on!” I shout, joining the chorus of people around me.
The fleshie gains ground. Its hand closes on Shrike’s ankle. He kicks it off.
“Move it, Shrike!” My bow’s lying uselessly on my pallet; I pound my fist on the platform.
Luckily s
omeone else’s bow is closer at hand. An arrow zips off a bowstring just above my head.
Breeze’s shot is perfect. The fleshie flails, then falls, slamming onto the ground. One leg bends sickly and snaps under its weight. The thing screams in agony and doesn’t move again. Two other fleshies grabbing at the end of the ladder spin with the impact of my grandmother’s arrows. Dark blood spurts from their wounds like grotesque fountains, illuminated by the last of the firelight below.
Shrike clears the top of the ladder, puffing like a pair of bellows. I haul him up, and we gather the rope ladder quickly back up onto the platform.
“Thank the stars.”
Breeze cups my father’s face for a moment, her expression devout, before moving on to reassure and comfort other people around the Aerie. Not even a glance for me. I’m used to it. Breeze has never taken much interest in her grandchildren, at least not the ones that came from the Groundlings via the Exchange.
I glance around at the pale, crumpled faces of our people. Thanks to the safety of our trees we don’t have many close calls with the flesh-eaters. Some are crying, but not Breeze. She’s as tough as greenheart wood.
I collapse on my back next to Shrike to catch my breath. Petrel pats us both on the chest and gives me a pointed stare before hustling Moon off home to rest. I know what my cousin’s look was for. I should’ve been up the rope quicker, not wasting time helping a Groundling. He wouldn’t be alone in telling me that if anyone else but him had noticed.
Shrike chuckles. I turn my face to him. He’s just as pale as everyone else, but his mouth is turned up at one corner.
“What?” I ask warily.
“Just thinking I should’ve gone up the ladder before you after all.”
I pull a face. “No doubt about it, old man. But why do you say so?”
“You were the one with the knife.”
We snort with laughter, drawing incredulous glances from the people around us.
4.
I wake early the next morning, just before sunup, my thoughts on the day ahead. My first day as the Keeper.
