by Jason Letts
Trying to quell her excitement for long enough to make a face she thought was like Mira’s, Roselyn imitated Mira rolling her eyes and sighing at one of Fortst’s imaginary facts. Mary had nothing to offer in reply other than a puzzled squint.
“I don’t get it. What’s going on?” she asked.
Roselyn, fretting and shaking her hands like they were on fire, tried to demonstrate anything that would make her think of Mira. She spun her finger in the air to imitate her flying machine, rubbed her hand up and down her left forearm where Mira used to have her static charger, and crafted Mira’s electric club with her hands. These gestures meant nothing to Mary though, only leading her deeper into confusion. Roselyn’s eyes started to well up, troubled by the hopelessness of trying to communicate her meaning.
“No, please don’t give up,” Mary begged. “I want to understand.”
Rolling onto her side, Roselyn felt the pieces of her old uniform shield her from the chain. She took one of them and then rushed over to the fire pit. A piece of charcoal in hand, she plunked down next to Mary and started drawing on the tan fabric. Dragging a pointy corner along the surface, a replica of Mira’s image from the Makara dice started to take shape.
“It’s Mira! What about Mira?” Mary gasped.
She shut her mouth abruptly when some of their bunkmates entered the building. Roselyn finished drawing out the spiky hair and the ponytail before Mary leaned in to whisper.
“Did you find out something about Mira?” she asked.
Roselyn shook her head but then drew a curved scimitar next to the face.
“Mira didn’t have one of those. Clara had one,” she whispered, suddenly lighting up.
When Mary spoke Clara’s name, Roselyn seized her shoulder and nodded her head violently. She pointed to her eyes and then pointed up the mountain. Mary looked taken aback, jarred by this new information.
“So you saw her then? OK, you saw her. And she’s alive? I thought we saw her die! I know, I thought so too. I can’t believe this. I don’t think anybody else knows. What was she doing there? What were you doing there?” she rambled.
“What’s going on?” a male voice interrupted.
Both girls looked up, but it wasn’t immediately clear who had spoke to them. The few women who were in the building were busy stoking the fire. They might’ve thought they were imagining it if things of this nature didn’t happen so frequently.
“Neeko, can you at least show yourself when you’re talking to us,” Mary groaned.
The boy with the pale skin and white hair appeared right before them. He had his head cocked to try and see Roselyn’s drawing, but she quickly flipped it upside down. Like the two of them, he had a stud piercing his ear. There was a smile on his face, one more genuine than the malicious sneers he used to wear.
“Sorry. You two looked really excited about something. What were you talking about?” he asked.
“Oh, it was nothing. Just gossip,” Mary covered, but she choked on the last word.
Neeko hung his head a little bit and looked around awkwardly.
“Really? Because, you know, I saw Jeremy leave with the caravans. I thought that might’ve been it.”
“Yeah, no, we weren’t even talking about anything that important. In fact, we were just about to try and get some sleep. Is that OK?” she said, again faltering with her speech.
“I’ll just head on back to the boy’s bunk,” Neeko submitted, already leaving with his tail between his legs. He vanished from sight a second later, hidden within the rays of light.
Roselyn turned back to Mary and saw the water welling up in her eyes. She had been holding back tears while speaking to Neeko, even though the conversation seemed innocent enough. Putting her arm around Mary, Roselyn tried to ask what was wrong.
“No, not yet. He’s not gone,” she sensed.
They waited another moment, Roselyn watching Mary’s eyes trail out toward the doorway in the corner. Only one tear rolled down her cheek, but Roselyn wished more would come if they could carry away her melancholy.
“So you’re saying Clara is here. She’s been here the entire time we have, and I didn’t know about it?” Mary cried, struggling to keep her voice down and burying her face in her hands. Roselyn rubbed her back and started to think that getting some sleep might be the best remedy after all.
“I should’ve known as soon as we were brought here. I should know everyone’s gifts, but instead I can barely tell you about half the people in this bunk.”
Weeping, Mary lost her words. She wouldn’t look at Roselyn, who didn’t want to see her punish herself in the rare moments when someone else wasn’t trying to.
“Maybe that’s why he picked her instead of me. Maybe if I hadn’t been so lazy. She worked so hard with her stupid toothpicks, and I was just along for the ride.”
Mary rolled away, but when Roselyn put her hand on her shoulder, she came back. Roselyn tried to convey every ounce of sympathy she had with every muscle in her face.
“Fine, you want to know? I wished so hard to know what my gift was, but once Mira showed it to me I just accepted it for what it was—a people locator. But that’s not what it is. I can sense the gifts of others. I didn’t really take the Shadowing seriously, and my mentor didn’t really care, and now I might never know what I’m really capable of. What if I lose my power like you did? Then it’ll all just be a waste. That’s all I’ll be, and I won’t be able to blame him for not caring.”
Roselyn felt her own loss, something she wouldn’t wish on anyone, and she struggled to keep her composure. Her confidence and her grace had grown paper thin, and even the mention of it was enough to wreak havoc with her mind.
“Look, I’m sorry, Roselyn. I wasn’t thinking clearly and shouldn’t have said that. Here, come here,” she said, taking her friend into her arms.
Roselyn rested her head on her shoulder and enjoyed the comfort of Mary’s arms around her. She closed her eyes even as Jeana had entered and gone to her bunk on the building’s opposite wall.
“He’ll come and save us. He has to, and we have to be ready when he does.”
After Roselyn had fallen asleep in her arms, Mary set her down on the bed. Stepping on it, she climbed to her bunk and rolled to face the wall and the etchings adorning it. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled something out and squeezed it with both hands. Between her index finger and thumb, she held the Makara dice with Vern’s face on it, his swishing hair and big smile. Carefully, she placed it on a tiny chip in the wood surrounded by a trio of hearts.
Chapter 3: The Thread That Binds
Out in the fields, Chucky sat on the ground in front of the strawberry patch. Even though a large wooden canopy with leaves screened the sun above him, he still wore a big straw hat. Down the row to his left, a long trail of weeds extended from the very end all the way to where he was in the middle. One by one, he plucked tiny green shoots out of the ground and tossed them over to the side.
Right there in front of him, a big, fat strawberry hung from a stem. Red and juicy, it was so heavy it hung down and touched the moist topsoil. He and his friends had managed a few beans and potatoes for lunch, but Chucky’s hunger had already returned with a vengeance just a few hours later.
He had not forgotten his pledge to find a way to sneak food from the farm, though weeks of trying had forced him to abandon all but his last hope. A few Sunfighters patrolled the farm grounds, which were fenced away from the rest of the camp, snacking as much as they liked but beating any of the slaves who did the same, but the farm master proved a much greater danger.
An older man with bristly, sandpaper like skin, the farm master oversaw the entire operation and personally inspected everyone who entered and exited the compound. Checking everyone over was an effortless task for him though, because his power was to sense edible material. Once, Chucky got up his courage and threaded a miniscule raspberry into the creases at the bottom of a pant leg, but the farm master immediately descended on him. Shaking it o
ut of his pant leg and claiming ignorance, Chucky avoided a beating, but it proved to him that nothing was small enough to slip by unnoticed.
Shimmying along the row, Chucky noticed the guards moving around a little bit quicker. If they were getting antsy, it was a sure sign the workday was almost at an end. The grueling heat made him yearn for a chance to jump in the water or relax in the cabins, and he started counting the minutes. His oily, amber-colored sweat trickled around his eyes and dripped from his wrists each time he went for a weed. Often so much sweat would rain down from him it would prevent him from getting a grip on the weed at all.
After burying a weed instead of plucking it, he threw his arm up to wipe his brow out of frustration. A thick glob landed on a strawberry and started to coat one side before dripping off. Chucky had to stop and look at this. He peered at the little fruit and wondered. Feigning a stretch, he wiped his arm and showered the plant with oil. More of it rained down on the strawberry, sticking to it.
Casually looking around, he checked to make sure no one watched and grabbed the strawberry from the plant. Cupping his other hand, he dipped the fruit in a pool of oil. Hidden within the amber fluid, he brought it to his nose. He couldn’t smell anything but his own sweat.
A bell rang, signaling the end of the work period. People started to get up and walk to the exit, leaving Chucky to decide what he should do with his sweaty strawberry. He couldn’t be sure how the farm master detected food, and so he couldn’t know if his oil would block it. Another beating sounded like the worst thing in the world, and yet this kind of breakthrough seemed like it would work.
Taking a deep breath and feeling his heart beating fast, Chucky slipped the gooey fruit into his pocket, wiping away all of the oil on his hand. He could feel it start to ooze against his skin, making him worry it would squish when he walked. But he walked gingerly and joined the others as they gathered near the exit.
The farm master, his white hair poking out from under a straw hat, gave each slave a long look before he or she was allowed to pass through and enter the rest of the camp. Chewing on a thistle, he would just nod slowly with one eye half open to the Sunfighter guard. Chucky watched from near the back of the line as his peers followed each other like ducks.
Fearing he would be caught, Chucky tried to act natural. Then he remembered how paranoid he was of getting caught even when he didn’t have anything. Not knowing what to do, he just kept his eyes down and tried not to think about the strawberry hidden within his pocket. The line slowly moved forward, and his moment of inspection was close at hand.
Even as he wanted to toss the strawberry away or find a way to break out of line, there would be no way of avoiding it now. The farm master steadily bobbed his head up and down, in tune with something no one else could sense. Back in the beginning, he had been tested frequently, but now everyone knew better than to try and slip something by him. They chose instead to take their chances with the green and red sacks.
Next in line, Chucky held his breath. The sweat ran down his chin and collected along his collar. He felt like he was swimming but suddenly wished more of the oil buried the item in his pocket. The guard to his left gave him a menacing look, making Chucky fix his eyes to the ground. The person in front of him moved on, and the invasive stare of the farm master struck him.
“Whoa there!” he growled, climbing down from his throne-like chair.
The guard, suddenly alert, moved forward with his club in hand. Chucky’s heart stopped. He became lightheaded and was sure he would pass out. The farm master came closer to him, uncomfortably close. Glaring at him from inches away, the old man blinked his gray eyes, making Chucky flinch. In a snap, he opened them again, and the farm master had moved on to the person behind him.
Scowling, grunting, and sniffing, the master and the guard started prodding at the person behind Chucky. While the guard held his arms, the farm master fished his hand into the slave’s pocket. He came up with a ball of topsoil and held it to the eye of its maker.
“Fool! It’s a weak mind that thought this would escape me.”
Hurling the ball at the ground, it broke apart and revealed another strawberry hidden within it. Chucky saw it roll in front of him. There didn’t seem to be any blood in his legs, and he couldn’t believe he was still standing. In a second, the guard had grabbed the guilty slave and dragged him away. Another guard stepped in to fill the post, and the rest of the line moved up.
Chucky looked up, praying to be allowed through, when the farm master again cast his prying eyes upon him.
A heavy hand struck the bare wood of a hut door, causing a rattle echoed by a mouthy dog and a squawking parrot. The sound of shuffling feet followed once the racket died down, and the door swung open to reveal Vika and her exhausted eyes. Her laundry work sat out on the floor behind her, and a crib much akin to a bird’s nest rested on the modest bed.
Recognizing her visitor, Vika’s eyes widened and her mouth quibbled. She clung close to the doorway as Crimshaw, wearing his gruff black uniform and trimmed goatee, stepped forward. He had some papers sticking out of one of his pockets. His presence always meant bad news, but even after he started speaking she had no idea what it was.
“What?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Is he showing yet? Is your baby showing?” Crimshaw repeated.
Vika squinted her eyes and turned back to the baby lying in the crib. Knoll slept quietly like a little angel.
“No, no sign yet. Nothing a’tall!” she jabbered, and Crimshaw scratched his neck and exposed his white teeth.
“That’s too bad. But you be sure and let me know the second you see anything,” he grimaced, speaking slowly and clearly.
“What? Why?” she asked.
Crimshaw, displeased, put his hand to his head and then reached out for Vika’s shoulder. He gave her a pinch as he spoke, his green eyes glaring directly at her.
“Because once your baby shows, we’ll put him into the care of our savior. You won’t need to worry about a thing. He’ll have everything he needs, and when the time comes he’ll be put into training. I had to come and ask because, well, he’s coming here today.”
Startled, Vika’s eyes grew so wide they looked like they would roll out of her head.
“You can’t take my baby!” Vika howled.
She started to struggle, but Crimshaw only held her more firmly.
“That child belongs to him, and you have no choice in the matter,” he declared.
He abruptly let her go and broke his stern gaze at the same time. She felt relieved he would leave her alone, but as he started to walk away she remembered something so irksome she had not choice but to call him back.
“Wait!” she shouted to him, and Crimshaw immediately shifted course.
“What is it?” he asked, spying her again.
“Do you know anything about the ghost? Talk is there’s been strange happenings about the camp recently. What new torment is this?”
“You old hag, there’s no such thing as ghosts. Don’t let your superstitions get the best of you and stop pestering me with your delusions. Just tell me when the baby shows.”
He stormed away, leaving her clouds of dust from his forceful strides. The collie brushed against the side of her leg and she reached down to pet it on the head.
“We won’t let that goon break up our family, will we?”
The collie offered her a soft woof in reply.
Crimshaw continued making tracks through the camp, only stopping briefly to break up a fight between slaves. After he had knocked both parties to the ground, he resumed the task at hand and came to a longhouse near the edge of the shipyard. The longhouse had an adjoining extension along the road, and Crimshaw swiftly approached its door.
Pushing it open, he barged into Mira’s drafting space. She slammed her pencil flat on the table and got up from her desk, positioned where the light coming through a hole in the ceiling would reach it.
“What is it now?” she snapped.
“And how would you know? I didn’t forget a thing and they are perfect down to every last detail,” she glared, folding her arms. Even though he was taller, she had no problem looking him square in the eye.
“I had them checked over with the rest of the shipbuilders, who tell me these plans are worthless. First and foremost, this ship won’t be needing any sails.” He pursed his lips and towered closer, intimidating her.
“But the ship has to have sails. That’s its only method of propulsion,” she countered.
“We’re not having a conversation here. I’m telling you what to do, and you do it. Understand?” The smug look on his face sickened Mira almost as much as his stupidity.
“The boat won’t go without sails,” she explained in a painfully condescending manner.
They stood face to face, neither giving an inch.
“Get rid of them and start over. They won’t be necessary,” he commanded, stabbing the papers with his finger.
Mira looked down at the schematics. Notes were scribbled all over and greasy fingerprints surrounded their edges. The senselessness of it stoked her anger.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just let me work with the shipbuilders directly. Or you could give me some clue about what this whole thing is for. Instead, you make me prepare things, tell me they’re wrong, and then expect me to magically divine the corrections. It doesn’t make sense! What is this ship for anyway?”
“You have no business knowing because you’re a non-believer. That’s why you can’t work with the shipbuilders, and that’s why you’ve been doomed to this petty, odious existence. Only those who have faith in our one savior will embark for the final mission—”
“But it looks like you can’t get there without me,” she cut in, “so just tell me about this mission or how the ship is involved or what you need it to do. Because I’m pretty sure I’ll never guess!”
