Scorched Earth

by Tommy Wallach

  “You are not one of our own,” Grandmother said, though there was no rancor in her voice. “You were banished for trying to do what this one succeeded in doing.”

  “Which is why I nearly died to bring her to you!” Noémie made a visible effort to calm herself. “I have made mistakes, I know. But that one there”—and here she pointed a quivering finger at Paz—“is a monster. She desecrated Chemma’s body. So many cuts—a Wesah would never do this. I will not be treated as if I am no better than her!”

  “Enough!” Andromède said. “You have been heard, Noémie.”

  Athène stared into the fire. In the dancing flames, she summoned up the moment she’d come upon Gemma at the pasture’s edge: skin so pale, flaxen hair turned umbral with rainwater, eyes open. Paz knelt beside the corpse, weeping with remorse, still holding the bloody knife. The rain had been falling so hard, Athène had seen nothing until she was only a few feet from the body, so close she could almost feel the warmth of…

  The rain: like a thousand layers of milky glass, obscuring and distorting the world. Watering the seeds of doubt. Athène stood up and began pacing around the fire. “I have one question for each of you,” she said, first in Wesah and then again in English. She stopped behind Grandmother. “Have you ever known of a Wesah who returned from banishment?”

  The otsapah frowned. “Never. But this is a unique situation.”

  Athène addressed her mother next. “Why didn’t you approve of my taking Noémie as a lover?”

  “Because I didn’t trust her,” Andromède said.

  Noémie snorted but was smart enough to hold her tongue. Athène passed by Flora, who wasn’t much for answering questions, and went to stand behind Paz. “Gemma told me you and Clive were lovers,” she said in English. “You trusted him. So why did you run?”

  Paz’s voice was still hoarse, but she answered without hesitation. “I’d betrayed him before, more than once, really. And even if he had believed me, you wouldn’t have. I was too weak to fight, so he would’ve had to defend me. And you probably would’ve killed us both.”

  Athène completed the circle, ending up behind Noémie.

  “Where were you standing when you saw my Gemma die?”

  Silence. Stillness. Noémie turned around just in time to see Athène draw her blade. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t have done for you,” she whispered.

  “I know,” Athène replied. With a flourish, she opened a crimson smile across Noémie’s throat. Andromède jumped to her feet, as if she might be able to stop what was already done. Gurgling some last apology or indictment, Noémie slumped to the ground. Athène wiped her blade clean on her thigh.

  “You are lucky,” she said to Paz in English. “I am almost doing this to you.”

  Andromède finally recovered her wits enough to speak. “Child, are you mad?”

  “I will never forget that day,” Athène replied in Wesah. “The rain was so heavy you couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of you. Noémie said she saw Paz and Gemma fighting from across the pasture, but was too far away to help. Then, just now, she described the wounds on Gemma’s body. She could only have seen them if she’d been standing close by.”

  “Couldn’t she have gone to the body afterward?”

  “No. She would’ve had to start chasing Paz right away if she hoped to track her in that storm.”

  “So she was the one who killed Gemma?” Grandmother said.

  “Yes. Because I loved her.”

  Andromède still looked shocked. “But didn’t you love Noémie too?” she asked.

  Athène regarded the corpse at her feet. Noémie’s eyes glittered lifelessly, like glass, and the pool of blood was blackening to a crust where it encroached on the fire. “I told Gemma I didn’t, but now I think that was merely the lie that soothes. I will always love Noémie, for how hard she fought.”

  “So you have killed what you love.”

  “Yes. I suppose I have.”

  Andromède was looking at her as if seeing her for the first time. But was that incredulous glint in her eye admiration, or horror?

  * * *

  Three days later, as the sun sank and the sky narrowed its palette to the shades between pink flesh and red blood, the great ritual of mourning finally came to an end. The otsapah clapped three times, and after singing one last hymn to Crow, enjoined the thousands of Wesah present to rise and embrace one another. Standing at the top of the longhouse steps as her mother had requested, Athène was surprised by the sudden buoyancy of the tribe, slightly embarrassed it had taken her this long to realize that rituals such as this one did not come about by accident. The lamentation had never been self-indulgent or superstitious, but eminently practical: the only way to recover from a sadness this deep was to allow oneself to feel it completely, to wallow in it. The tribeswomen had gorged themselves on grief until they no longer craved it.

  As the embracing continued, some of it shading into the frankly amorous, Andromède emerged from the longhouse and came to stand between Athène and Grandmother. Andromède had put on her brass crown and a white robe lined with stoat along the collar—as regal a costume as she possessed. Athène hadn’t seen much of her mother since the night that Noémie and Paz arrived at the Villenaître, but as far as she knew—and in spite of all her supplications—the plan was still to depart for the north as soon as possible.

  “Sisters,” Andromède said, repeating that one word until the crowd calmed, “the Song of Crow has been sung. I hope tonight we can celebrate again with something like the joy we used to know.” A cheer went up: the Wesah were ready. Athène noticed Paz and Flora standing near the front of the crowd, looking painfully out of place. “And though it is time for the tribe to move beyond this terrible tragedy”—Andromède’s composure faltered, her voice cracked—“I fear I cannot move on with you. History shall always know me as the leader who oversaw our greatest defeat, whose eyes were set on such high principles she failed to see the snakes at her feet. Thus I renounce the title of Andromède and will retire here to the Villenaître to live out what life remains to me.” This last statement put an abrupt end to the nascent gaiety. Athène couldn’t believe what she was hearing: How could her mother abandon them in their time of greatest need?

  Andromède went on. “In the past, whenever the tribe’s leader has stepped down, there has been a period of conflict. Whole naasyoon have died fighting to see their chieftain become Andromède. But we can no longer afford to sacrifice our sisters so carelessly. This is why Grandmother and I have come to you today in humble supplication. With your approval, we would name my successor, rather than see the tribe torn apart in choosing her.”

  If her announcement of abdication had been a pebble thrown in a stream, this new revelation was a boulder. It seemed every single tribeswoman was speaking at once, but through the cacophony, one word made itself known above the others: Who?

  Athène was just as curious as the rest of them. She glanced over and saw that both her mother and the otsapah were staring at her. She frowned, understanding and not understanding at once.

  “Sisters,” Andromède shouted. “You know my daughter, Athène. She has been a chieftain for three years now. Her naasyoon has carried out dozens of raids, and all who’ve traveled with her know her to be a skilled hunter and a fierce warrior. More than this, she knows our enemy better than anyone here.”

  The clamoring of the tribe grew even louder. “Because she was fucking one of them!” someone cried out over the din.

  Grandmother raised her hands. The crowd quieted out of respect. “The woman you speak of was named Gemma,” she eventually said. “I journeyed with her, and I saw her heart. Though she may have been born an outsider, she died a Wesah. I believe that the spirits led Athène to Gemma, just as I believe the spirits are leading us to Athène now.”

  The tenor of the tumult began to shift—outrage giving way to skepticism. Andromède must have sensed it, as she signaled for the tribe’s attention again.

 
“Let me tell you one more story before we make our decision,” she said. “A few days ago, a Wesah tribeswoman called Noémie arrived in the Villenaître. Many of you knew her. She was banished from the tribe last year, but she’d come to plead for forgiveness, not with honest contrition, but by spewing lies—lies I was fool enough to believe. But not my daughter. My daughter saw something I could not. She did something I could not. Noémie had been her lover once, but when Athène had to choose between love and justice, she chose justice. She took her vengeance—without hesitation or doubt. That is why she must be the one to lead us now. So we can take our vengeance. What do you say, my sisters?”

  In the silence that followed, Athène heard the wind whistling through the palisade around the Villenaître, playing it like a thousand flutes, before the music was drowned out by the sound of the beleaguered remnant of the Wesah nation all cheering at once.

  Athène stepped forward and bowed her head. Her mother placed the brass crown on her brow. Their eyes met, wet with tears. The cheering broke into a chant. Athène turned to face the tribe, raising both her fists in triumph when she realized it was her name they were calling out.

  “Andromède! Andromède! Andromède!”

  10. Clover

  THEY WALKED THE SNAKING PATHWAYS of Portland Park beneath a lowering sky of gray-silver clouds. The trails were nearly deserted, and for just a few minutes more, Clover allowed himself to pretend he didn’t know why.

  “What’s that one?” Kita said.

  “A dogwood,” Clover replied.

  “And that one?”

  “A magnolia.”

  “And what are these thingies here?”

  “Daylilies. If you’re trying to distract me, it isn’t working.”

  “It wouldn’t say much for you if anything could distract you today. I’m just trying to fill the space.” She was quiet for a few seconds, but Clover could sense another fusillade of idle talk coming. “Do you think you like plants so much because of your name? ’Cause clover is a plant, and your name’s Clover. That’s a pretty funny coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Not really. Most people like clover.”

  Kita groaned. “You’re not listening. What I’m trying to say is do you think a person’s name could change them somehow? Like, if your name was Killer Hamill, would you be more violent or something?”

  At first blush, it seemed like a stupid question. But as Clover turned it over in his mind, checking it for ripeness like a piece of fruit, he sensed there might be some merit to it. “That reminds me of something I read about once, back when I worked for Bernstein. Subconscious suggestion.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s like if I mentioned water a bunch of times while we were talking, you’d be more likely to want some. Or the way just seeing the annulus makes me worry about whether I’m having sinful thoughts.”

  “I do that too! Stupid annulus.”

  “When I was a baby, I must have heard people talking about ‘clover’ a hundred times a day. That had to affect me somehow.”

  “So I’m right?” Kita grinned. “I knew it.”

  “Maybe you are. But honestly, I hope not.”

  “Why?”

  “If you believe what’s written in the Filia, none of us really have free will, because God knows everything we’re gonna do before we do it. I thought science was an antidote to that. Like, if I could understand how the world worked, it would mean I had some control over it. But maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe understanding the mind would mean understanding how every choice we make is built into us from the beginning. Maybe I didn’t have any choice but to be interested in plants. Maybe every road leads to God.”

  Clover could see Kita trying to make sense of his maundering. She was clever in her way, but not particularly given to deep thoughts.

  “Well,” she finally said, “I guess it means we have to be really careful what we name our children, huh?” She giggled, her cheeks reddening. “I mean, you know, our children separately.”

  “Right. Got any good ideas?”

  Kita considered for a moment. “Triumph?”

  Clover grimaced. “Sounds like a soldier.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “You wouldn’t want to limit his opportunities. What about Wisdom?”

  “He’d be lucky to survive primary school with that one. How about Serenity?”

  “Serenity’s for the stupid. Maybe Chastity?”

  Here it was Kita’s turn to scowl. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

  They didn’t say anything for a moment. The mention of children and chastity had injected a sort of fizz into the conversation; Clover immediately felt guilty for thinking about romance when his father and brother were going to be executed in a matter of hours.

  The path emerged from under the cover of trees and joined up with the one that circumscribed Surrey Lake, a man-made pond near the center of the park. Even on an overcast morning like this one, there would usually be a dozen paddleboats out on the water—you could rent one for three bronze shekels from the little hut at the end of the pier—but today the surface of the pond was flat as a mirror, and the boats were all tethered to cleats along the dock, floating beside it like a bunch of upturned leaves. The door of the hut was closed.

  “You ever taken one of those out before?” Kita asked.

  “A couple times when I was young, with my parents. What about you?”

  “Not until today.”

  She skipped away from the path and down the pier. Clover caught up with her just as she’d succeeded in freeing the rope knotted around the farthest cleat.

  “You’re just gonna steal it?” he said.

  “We’ll bring it back when we’re done.”

  “What if the boatman comes?”

  “Then we’ll pay him. Or pull a runner.” She jumped down into the boat, nearly losing her balance as it rocked. “Come on.”

  Reluctantly Clover climbed aboard. Kita pulled the line in and grabbed hold of the oars, and with a few quick strokes, set them gliding briskly toward the center of the pond. A little clutch of ducks had to paddle out of the way, and Clover watched them bobbing gently in the boat’s wake. He sat opposite Kita, who was tapping her feet happily against the hull, occasionally tapping at his feet as well. It made him think of the first time he’d come to Portland Park with Paz, and the moment when the back of his hand had brushed against hers as they’d walked the bowered trails of the Maple Garden.

  He pulled his legs into his chest and held them there.

  “You chilly?” Kita said. “You can have my jacket if you want.”

  “I’m fine.”

  The turn was only a couple of weeks away now, and Clover’s eighteenth birthday a few weeks after that. He wondered if he would see another summer, or another birthday. Clive wouldn’t. Clive had only a few hours left. Would he be cold up there on the gallows, wilting under the gaze of ten thousand people who’d come to watch him die?

  “Clover, are you crying?”

  “No,” he said, then laughed at himself as he blatantly wiped the tears away. “Why would I be crying?”

  Kita stopped rowing and set the oarlocks. As the boat kept gliding forward, she crawled across the bottom of the hull and all the way up his body, pushing his knees down so she could lie on top of him and wrap her arms tightly around his back. He knew he was supposed to put his arms around her, too, but he felt paralyzed, numb. After a moment, she pulled back, so her face was only a few inches from his. She brushed the hair out of her eyes, but her hands were wet from the oars, and her bangs stuck to her forehead like sea wrack, like a disciplinary tattoo. “Are you afraid of me or something?” she whispered.

  “No.”

  “Then kiss me.”

  “It’s either I’m afraid of you or I kiss you?”

  She smiled. “That’s right. It’s your decision. Exercise your free will.”

  But she was wrong. He could do both things. He could kiss her even th
ough he was afraid that she’d betray him like Paz had, even though he was afraid for his father and his brother and Flora, for the Anchor and Sophia and the Wesah nation, for the future.

  So he kissed her, and she kissed him back. They lay there for the next hour—holding each other in a rowboat in the middle of an empty pond in the middle of an empty park in the middle of a city on the brink of war—as if there were nothing in the world to be afraid of.

  * * *

  Clover had known the executions would be a spectacle. Scouts had confirmed that Sophian forces were only a few weeks away from the Anchor, and Chang had decided to try to weather the siege rather than meet the enemy on the battlefield. It would be the first war in living memory, and the citizens of the Descendancy were understandably apprehensive. They needed the chance to blow off some steam as much as Chang needed to take his victory lap.

  Still, Clover hadn’t expected things to be quite this carnivalesque. From blocks away, he could make out the stilt walkers towering over the crowd, each of them wearing the white makeup and bright red wig that the city had come to associate with Zeno. Jugglers and two-bit magicians competed for eyeballs while fortune-tellers and lay preachers made their appeals to the ear. There were dozens of stalls offering everything from singed chicken kebabs to illustrated Filia; a couple of enterprising children sold handmade signs featuring facile, jingoistic slogans: TRAITORS HANG and LONG LIVE THE DESCENDANCY. Someone shot off a firework, which burst prettily against the darkening sky.

  The gallows stood empty; the nooses twisted and untwisted in the breeze. Was it foolish of Clover to hope that Chang might show mercy, or else decide to keep his prisoners as bargaining chips for some future negotiation? Or maybe his father and Clive had managed to escape somehow, as they’d both managed to do so many times before.

  As if on cue—divine punishment for irrational hope—the bells of Notre Fille started chiming. The desultory hubbub began to focus and intensify.