The Sun Dwellers (The Dwellers Saga)

by David Estes

  I learned all about the ways of the world when I turned seven: the bleeding time, what I would have to do with a man when I turned sixteen, and how the baby—my baby—would grow inside me for nine months. Even though it all seemed like a hundred years distant at the time, I cried for two days. Now that it’s less than a year away, I’m too scared to cry.

  Veeva told me all about the pain. She’s seventeen, and her baby’s five months old and “uglier than one of the hairy ol’ warts on the Medicine Man’s feet.” Or at least that’s how she describes Polk. Me, I think he’s sort of cute, in a scrunched up, fat-cheeked kind of way. Well, anyway, she said to me, “Siena, you never felt pain so burnin’ fierce. I screamed and screamed…and then screamed some more. And then this ugly tug of a baby comes out all red-faced and oozy. And now I’m stuck with it.” I didn’t remind her Polk’s a him not an it.

  I already knew about her screaming. Everyone in the village knew about Veeva’s screaming. She sounded like a three ton tug stuck in a bog hole. Veeva’s always cursing, too, throwing around words like burnin’ and searin’ and blaze—words that would draw my father’s hand across my face like lightning if I ever let them slip out of my mouth—like they’re nothing more than common language.

  In any case, everything she tells me about turning sixteen just makes me wish I didn’t have to get older, could stay fifteen for the next seventeen or so years, until the Fire takes me.

  It’s not fair, really, the boys get to wait until they’re eighteen before their names get put in the Call. I would kill for an extra two years of no baby.

  Veeva told me something else, too, something they didn’t teach us when I was seven. She told me the only good part of it all was when she got to lie with her Call, a guy named Grunt, who everyone thinks is a bit of a shanker. I’ve personally never seen him do a lick of work, and he’s always coming up with some excuse or another to avoid the tug hunts. Well, Veeva told me that he makes up for all of that in the tent. Most of what she told me made my stomach curl, but she swore on the sun goddess that it was the best day of her life. To her, shanky old Grunt is a real stallion.

  But even if there was something good about turning sixteen, there’s still no guy in the village that I’d want to be my Call. I mean, most of them are so old and crusty, well on their ways to thirty, and even the youngest eligible men—the eighteen-year-olds—include guys like Grunt, who will also be eligible for my Call because Veeva has to wait another two years before she can get preggers again. No matter how much of a stallion Veeva claims Grunt is, I don’t want to get close enough to him to even smell his fire juice reekin’ breath, much less lie with him in a tent.

  “Siena!” a voice whispers in my ear.

  I flinch, startled to hear my name, snapping away from my thoughts like a dung beetle scurrying from a scorpion. Laughter crowds around me and I cringe. Not again. My daydreaming’s likely cost me another day on Shovel Duty, which we like to call Blaze Craze when our parents aren’t listening.

  “Youngling Siena,” Teacher Mas says, “I asked you a question. Will you please grace us with an answer?” One of the only good things about turning sixteen will be not being called “Youngling” anymore.

  I feel twenty sets of eyes on me, and suddenly a speck of durt on my tugskin shoes catches my attention. “Can you please repeat the question, Teacher?” I mumble to my feet, trying to sound as respectful as possible.

  “Repeating the question will result in Shovel Duty, Siena, which will bring your total to four days, I believe.”

  I stare at my feet, lips closed. I wonder if Teacher not repeating the question is an option, but I’m smart enough not to ask.

  “The question I asked you was: What is the average life expectancy for a male in fire country?”

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. It’s a question that any four-year-old Totter with half a brain could answer. It’s blaze that’s been shoveled into all our heads for the last eleven years. “Thirty years old,” I say, finally looking up. I keep my eyes trained forward, on Teacher Mas, ignoring the stares and the whispers from the other Younglings.

  Teacher’s black hair is twisted into two braids, one on either side, hanging in front of his ears. His eyes are dark and slitted and although I can’t tell whether he’s looking at me, I know he is. “And females?” he asks.

  “Thirty two,” I answer without hesitation. I take a deep breath and hold it, still feeling the stares and smirks on me, hoping Teacher will move on to someone else. The fierceness of the fiery noonday sun presses down on my forehead so hard it squeezes sweat out of my pores and into my eyes. It’s days like this I wish the Learning house had a roof, and not just three wobbly walls made from the logs of some tree the Greynotes, the elders of our village, bartered from the Icers. I blink rapidly, flinching when the perspiration burns my retinas like acid. Someone laughs but I don’t know who.

  Teacher speaks. “I ask you this not to test your knowledge, for clearly every Youngling in fire country knows this, but to ensure your understanding as to our ways, our traditions, our laws.” Thankfully the heads turn back to Teacher and I can let out the breath I’ve been holding.

  “Nice one, Sie,” Circ hisses from beside me.

  I glance toward him, eyes narrowed. “You could have helped me out,” I whisper back.

  His deeply tanned face, darker-than-dark brown eyes, and bronzed lips are full of amusement. I hear what the other Younglings say about him: he’s the smokiest guy in the whole village. “I tried to, dreamer. It took me four tries to get your attention.”

  Teacher Mas drones on. “Living in a world where each breath we take slowly kills us, where the glass people kill us with their chariots of fire, where the Killers crave our blood, our flesh, where our enemies in ice country and water country close in around us, requires discipline, order, commitment. Each of you took a pledge when you turned twelve to uphold this order, to obey the laws of our people. The laws of fire country.”

  Ugh—I’ve heard this all before, so many times that if I hear one more mention of the laws of fire country, I think I might scream. Nothing against them or anything, considering they were created to help us all survive, but between my father and the Teachers, I’ve just had enough of it.

  Watching Teacher, I risk another whisper to Circ. “You could have told me what question he asked.”

  “Teacher would have heard—and then we’d both be on Blaze Craze.”

  He’s right, not that I’ll admit it. Teacher doesn’t miss much. At least not with me. In the last month alone, I’ve been caught daydreaming four times. Wait till my father finds out.

  “The Wild Ones steal more and more of our precious daughters with each new season.” Teacher’s words catch my attention. The Wild Ones. I’ve never heard Teacher talk about them before. In fact, I’ve never heard anyone talk about them, except for us Younglings, with our rumors and gossip—not openly anyway. My head spins as I grapple with his words and my thoughts. The Wild Ones. My sister. The Wild Ones. Kendra. Wild. Sis.

  “It is obvious I have captured the attention of many of you Younglings,” Teacher continues. “It’s good to know I can still do that after all these years.” He laughs softly to himself. “Surely you have all heard rumors of the Wild Ones, descending on our village during the Call, snatching our new Bearers from our huts, our tents, and our campfires.” He pauses, looks around, his eyes lingering on mine. “Well, I’m here today to confirm that some of the rumors are true.”

  I knew it, I think. My sister didn’t run away like everyone said. She was taken, against her will, to join the group of feral women who are wreaking havoc across fire country. The Wild Ones do exist.

  “We have to do something,” I accidentally say out loud, my thoughts spilling from my lips like intestines from a gutted tug’s stomach.

  Once more, the room turns toward me, and I find myself investigating an odd-shaped rock on the dusty ground. Hawk, a thick-headed guy with more muscles than brains, says, “What are you gonna do, Scra
wny? You can’t even carry a full wash bucket.” My cheeks burn as I continue to study the rock, which sort of looks like a fist. In my peripheral vision, I see Circ give him a death stare.

  “Watch it, Hawk,” Teacher says, “or you’ll earn your own shovel. In fact, Siena’s right.” I’m so shocked by his words that I forget about the rock and look up.

  “I am?” I say, sinking further into the pit of stupidity I’ve been digging all morning.

  “Don’t sound so surprised, Siena. We all have a part to play in turning this around. We must be vigilant, must not allow ourselves even a speck of doubt that maintaining the traditions of our fathers is not the best thing for us.”

  “I think the Wilds sound pretty smoky,” Hawk says from the back. There are a few giggles from some of the more shilty girls, and two of Hawk’s mates slap him on the back like he’s just made the joke of the year.

  “What do we do, Teacher?” Farla, a soft-spoken girl, asks earnestly.

  Teacher nods. “Now you’re asking the right questions. Two things: First, if you hear anything—anything at all—about the Wild Ones, tell your fathers; and second—”

  “What about our mothers?” someone asks, interrupting.

  “Excuse me?” Teacher Mas says, peering over the tops of the cross-legged Younglings to find the asker of the question.

  “The mothers? You said to tell our fathers if we hear anything about the Wilds. Shouldn’t we tell our mothers, too?”

  I look around to find who spoke. Lara. I should’ve known. She’s always stirring the kettle, both during Learning and Social time, with her radical ideas. She’s always saying crazy things about what girls should be allowed to do, like hunt and play feetball. My father has always said she’s one to watch, whatever that means. I, for one, kind of like her. At least she’s never made fun of me like most of t’others.

  Her black hair is short, like a boy’s, buzzed almost to the scalp. Appalling. How she obtained her father’s permission for such a haircut is beyond me. But at least she’s not a shilt, like so many of the other girls who sneak behind the border tents and swap spit with whichever Youngling they think is the smokiest. I’ve always admired Lara’s blaze-on-me-and-I’ll-blaze-on-you attitude, although I’d never admit it for fear of my father finding out. He’d break out his favorite leather snapper for sure, the one that left the scars on my back when I was thirteen and thought skipping Learning to watch the hunters sounded like a good idea.

  “Tell your fathers first, and they can tell your mothers,” Teacher says quickly. “Where was I? Oh yes, the second thing you can do. If the Wilds, I mean the Wild Ones, approach you, try to convince you to leave, whisper their lies in your ear, resist them. Close your ears to them and run away, screaming your head off. That’s the best thing you can do.”

  Pondering Teacher’s words, I look up at the sky, so big and red and monster-like, full of yellow-gray clouds that are its claws, creeping down the horizon in streaks, practically touching the desert floor. And a single eye, blazing with fire—the eye of the sun goddess. It’s no wonder they call this place fire country.

  Chapter Two

  “Why would the Wilds whisper lies in my ear if they’re going to kidnap me anyway?” I ask Circ the first chance I get after Teacher dismisses us from Learning. My voice sounds funny because I’ve pinched my nose shut with my finger and thumb.

  Circ laughs at my voice, and then says, “They’re not going to kidnap you, Sie.” I snort, because his voice sounds even funnier with his nostrils clamped tight. My fingers come off my nose for a second and I get a whiff of the blaze pit that sits a stone’s throw to the side. Screwing up my face, I pinch harder, until it hurts. A little pain is better than the smell.

  “I don’t mean me me. I just mean hypothetically speaking. If the Wilds were to try to kidnap me”—I look at Circ, trying not to laugh at the sight of his squashed nose—“or any other Youngling girl, why wouldn’t they just grab her from behind, put a hand over her mouth, and carry her away in a burlap sack?”

  “Maybe they’re all out of burlap?” Circ says, cracking up and losing the grip on his nose. He sticks out his tongue as the foul odor sneaks up his nostrils. The tips of his moccasin-covered feet are touching mine as we sit cross-legged across from each other. We’ve always sat this way since we were just Totters.

  “C’mon,” I say, clutching my stomach, “I’m being serious.” The only problem: it’s hard to be serious when I can’t stop laughing.

  “I don’t know, Sie, maybe it’s easier if they can convince you to come with them, rather than having to haul your tiny butt away with you kicking and screaming.”

  It’s a good point, but still…

  “Something just doesn’t smell right,” I say, and we both crack up, but then just as quickly fall over gagging from the thick, putrid latrine air.

  “Let’s get this over with, then we can talk,” Circ says, covering his mouth and nose with a hand.

  I smile behind my own hand. “Thanks for helping me with Blaze Craze,” I say.

  “Just promise me you’ll stop daydreaming in class.” He plucks his shoes off with his spare hand, one at a time, and then pulls his thin white shirt over his head. I’ve seen him shirtless a thousand times, from Totter to Midder to Youngling, but this time I force myself to look closer, because of what all the other Youngling girls are saying about him. Circ is so smoky. What I wouldn’t give for five minutes with Circ behind the border tents. You’re close with Circ, aren’t you, Siena? Could you give him a message for me? Of course I say I will, but I never do. If they don’t have the guts to say whatever they want to right to his face, then they’re not good enough for him. Plus, the thought of Circ behind the border tents with some shilty Youngling makes me a bit queasy.

  Anyway, I try to see Circ from their perspective, just this one time. To call his skin sun-kissed would be the understatement of the year, like calling a tug “Sort of big,” or a Killer “Kind of dangerous.” It’s like the sun is infused in the very pigment of his skin, leaving him golden brown and radiant. He’s strong, too. Almost as strong as iron, his stomach flat and hard, his chest and arms cut like stone. But he’s always been this way, hasn’t he? Still staring at his torso, present day Circ fades from my vision and is replaced with images of him growing up. Circ as a Totter, five-years-old, small and bit pudgy in his stomach, arms and face; Circ turning eight and becoming a Midder, less chubby but still awkward-looking, with too-long arms and legs; Circ at twelve, a full-fledged Youngling, much taller and skinnier than a tent pole, not a bulge of muscle anywhere on him.

  The images fade and Circ stares at me. “What?” he says.

  “Uh, nothing,” I say, shaking my head and wondering when Circ became so smoky. It’s like with every passing year he became more and more capable, while I stayed just as useless as ever. He’s good at everything, from hunting to feetball to Learning. And all I’m good at is daydreaming and getting in trouble. He’s smoky, and as my nickname suggests, I’m scrawny.

  “You were daydreaming again, weren’t you?” His words are accusing but his tone and expression is as light as the brambleweeds that tumble and bounce across the desert.

  “You caught me,” I mumble through my hand.

  I see his grin creep around the edges of his fingers. He stands up and offers a hand. “Care to shovel some blaze with me, my lady?”

  Despite my self-pitying thoughts, he manages to cheer me up, and I take his hand, laughing. He pulls me up, hands me a shovel. While I carry my shovel, Circ wheels a pushbarrow, and we follow our noses toward the stench, which becomes more and more unbearable with each step. You’ve done this before, I remind myself. You just have to get used to the smell again.

  If the smell is bad, the heat is unbearable. Although the heart of the summer is four months distant, you couldn’t tell it by the weather. The air is as thick as ‘zard soup, full of so much moisture that your skin bleeds sweat the moment you step from the shade, as if you’ve just taken a dip in th
e watering hole. All around us is flat, sandy desert, which radiates the heat like the embers of a dying cook fire. With summer nipping at our heels and winter approaching, almost everything is dead, the long strands of desert wildgrass having been burned away months earlier. A few lonely pricklers continue to thwart death, turned brown in the sun, but rising stalwart from the desert; we call them the plant of the gods for a reason, bearing milk even in the harshest conditions. Without them, my people might not survive the winter.

  We reach the edge of the blaze pit and look down. It’s a real mess, as if no one’s been here to shovel it for weeks, maybe even months. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

  “Maybe we can just cover it with durt,” I say hopefully.

  Circ gives me a look. “Don’t be such a shanker—you know it’s not full yet.”

  “I’m not a shanker!” I protest.

  “Well, you sure sound like one,” Circ says, grinning. Now I know he’s just trying to get me all riled up.

  Determined to prove him wrong, I roll up my dress and tie it off at the side, and then clamber down the side of the pit, feeling the blaze squish under the tread of my bare feet. Gross. Some even slips between my toes. The smell is all around me now, a brownish haze rising up as the collective crap of our entire village cooks under the watchful eye of the hot afternoon sun. Not a pleasant sight.

  Gritting my teeth, I start shoveling. The goal is to even it out, move the blaze that’s around the edges to the center. You see, people come and dump their family’s blaze into this pit, but they’re sure as scorch not gonna to wade down into the muck and unload it in a good spot; no, they’re gonna just run up to the pit as fast as they can, dump their dung around the edges and then take off lickety-split. That causes a problem: the blaze keeps on piling up around the edge, usually the edge of the pit closest to the border tents, until the pit is overflowing despite not being even close to full. Then a lucky shanker like me—not that I’m the least bit shanky—gets punished, and has to use a shovel and old-fashioned sweat and grit to move the blaze around. Or if the pit is full, you get to cover it with durt so people can start using the next one. That’s what I was hoping for earlier.