Strikers

by Ann Christy

  “Do you remember the grasshopper?” he asks softly.

  I laugh because I do remember. It wasn’t the first kiss we’d shared, because he’d kissed my cheek and I his since we were nine or ten, but it was the first time he’d kissed my lips. I was fourteen and he must have just turned fifteen. And just as he did, under that hot summer sun behind the school, a grasshopper disturbed by us had jumped right onto his face. We’d both leapt back, surprised, and the moment was gone as fast as the grasshopper who decided his new perch wasn’t to his liking.

  “I remember it,” I say and squeeze his hand.

  “I wish no one had seen us,” he says and I can hear the regret in his voice. The regret is because it wasn’t just our first real kiss, it had been our last as well.

  “Me, too,” I say.

  I’m pretty sure that this would be the perfect time for him to try again. We aren’t drowning, there are no teachers to run and tell his father, no Army ready to send him to do his duty. And best of all, I think I’m ready for him to kiss me.

  He doesn’t.

  Instead, he kisses my hand and lets it go. He smiles at me, guileless and quite clearly unaware that he has missed the perfect moment, then runs a lock of my hair through his hand, letting it fall to the deck with the rest.

  “We need to get Marcus to go below and get some sleep. The wind is coming up, so you should get ready, braid your hair, or put it up in one of those cute buns or something. We might need the money from selling it soon, so you should take care of it.”

  He grins and winks to give lie to his mercenary words, so I smile back and go.

  Our watch is smooth sailing, which is a new term for me but one I like immensely. The river is free of obstacles and there isn’t a single port to go past. A vast marsh, the likes of which I could never have imagined, stretches to the west as far as I can see and beyond. Skeletal trees, their branches almost absurdly crooked, reach up out of the marsh at intervals while others crowd in patches with great knobby knees poking up out of the water all around them. It’s beautiful, but creepy.

  There are other vessels on the water, barges and wider sailing vessels loaded with goods, but most of those we pass quickly. I keep my braid tucked up under a cap and wear a baggy shirt, which gives the impression that I’m a boy. It works, from a distance. So far, Marcus assures us that no one knows we’re on his boat. Even his cousin at the port wasn’t sure until he saw how carefully we approached the port. I’d like to be sure any suspicion stays far from us.

  Once full night falls, Marcus returns, eager to get back at the wheel. He’s pleased with our work and that makes me happier than I might have expected. There something very satisfying about doing a job you’re completely unprepared for relatively well.

  Cassi comes up a few minutes after Marcus, which I’m sure she thinks is discreet, but she’s not fooling anyone and Jovan gives Marcus a hard look when he sees her mussed hair. She see it and says, “No, Jovan. You can settle down right now. It’s not like that.”

  It takes Marcus a few seconds to catch on but he bristles when he understands and says, “I’m not that guy.”

  “Alright, now that we’ve got that out of the way,” I say, sarcasm fully engaged.

  Cassi snorts and starts some food going on the deck stove, shaking her head as she goes. “I’m keeping watch tonight,” she asserts, lighting the stove and handing Jovan the coffee pot so he can fill it with water. She raises an eyebrow and adds, “So I was sleeping.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Despite everything, the days pass in such peace that it seems a long time ago we were stumbling through the dark woods in abject fear. It’s given me time to think, which is both good and bad. I’ve had time to think of my father and the half-brother who must surely have heard the news by now if the gate-keepers or Maddix passed it on as promised. It gives me time to think of my mother, to worry whether or not she’s eating and wonder if she’s at all worried about me in turn. Or is she simply angry that my Striking brought people with questions to our home and interrupted her nightly bottle? I’ll probably never know.

  Other thoughts crowd in, demanding their turn at the forefront. I’m not immune to a little self-pity now and then, and the uncertainty of our future probably adds to that. I push those fearful thoughts away as soon as I realize it because they won’t help me right this minute. Surviving now is the best road to having any future at all when it comes right down to it.

  Cassi seems content to stay on the boat forever, and I confess that I’ve grown rather fond of it as well. Jovan seems to be taking to the work of manning a boat like he was born to it. At least, Marcus claims that is the case. Now that we’re so far from where we left Maddix and Connor, it seems silly to worry over a little more distance, and I’m not the only one that can smell the change in the air. Marcus tells us that it is the scent of the Gulf. The ocean. While Cassi is almost beside herself with excitement over the prospect, I’m anxious to see it, too.

  Weslyn, the town that Marcus is from, rolls into view one early morning while the sky still has hints of pink dawn in it. A radio I didn’t even know Marcus had squawks suddenly and the smile on his face after he answers calms my immediate panic. It must be a family member, given the way they interact on the radio, but he is discreet where we’re concerned, only saying that he’s brought home some friends.

  The port isn’t a large one. It isn’t even really a port, but rather a community of people whose living is made on the water and who therefore, need extensive pier facilities. There’s a larger pier, now empty, at the far end that looks big enough for trade or passenger vessels. It must be if the signs posted all over it are a reliable indicator.

  Like every other port we’ve seen, this one is a mix of old and new. Gray boards are interspersed with newer brown ones, the smell of fish is pervasive, and the tiny shops that border the piers are so close together they’re almost piled atop one another.

  The marsh in this area is absent save for small patches to the sides of the piers, which is handy for more than just building a town on firm ground. It keeps boat traffic from approaching except at the piers and no one in their right mind would try to walk across it. The mud is deep enough that it can suck down a full grown man, Marcus claims.

  Jovan and Marcus do the docking and tying up, Cassi and I remaining unseen below until the situation can be figured out. We busy ourselves by creating disguises, sticking with the standard boy disguises since it’s been working well up to now. For Cassi it’s a more difficult problem because she is so obviously a girl in every way. Clever binding, a bit of padding around her middle and a cap hiding her hair transform her into a rather pudgy fresh-faced boy. I’m skinny and wiry enough that it’s almost too easy to turn me into a boy, but my hair comes past my butt and I do look like my head is just a little too big with it all wrapped up under a hat.

  The wait is interminable and by the time Jovan pokes his head down, the entire main area of the boat is as clean as it’s probably ever been. Even Marcus’s unusually large clothes stash is neatly folded and separated by type in the storage areas.

  “Wow, we should trap you two down here more often,” Jovan says and whistles in appreciation.

  My scowl wipes the grin off his face and he clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. We’re good but you guys are going to need to just go straight to where we’re staying. It’s pretty clear of people right now, but you know the drill.”

  A last check of our disguises, mostly to tuck stray curls back into Cassi’s cap, and we go. When I step onto the pier, I feel almost immediately unsure of my feet. It feels like I’m wobbling, or rather, that the ground is wobbling beneath me. The dizziness only lasts for a few seconds, but the disturbing sensation lingers in the background while we follow Jovan.

  Just off the piers, a town almost immediately begins. There are no outskirts, no gradual increase in the number of buildings. It just begins, full and crowded. Houses with tiny yards crowd around narrow streets.

  The s
treets are laid out in imprecise lines, following the contours of the land rather than barreling through it, but I can see the distinct lines of a typical town center at the end of the street we’re hurrying down.

  My inclination is to hug the sides and try to remain out of sight, but Jovan whispers that we should be casual and walk like we’re just another group of sailors with a destination in mind. It’s a surprisingly difficult task, but I think we do a passing job.

  The house we come to is a little larger than the others, but not so much that it stands out. Green shutters, tall windows and a fresh-looking coat of paint give it a friendly air, but it’s still just a regular house. For some reason, the notion that Marcus was wealthy because his family owns boats had taken root in my head. Compared to the citizen housing in Bailar, it does seem that way, but most of the houses we’ve passed are in the same neat and well-tended state.

  We’ve no chance to knock. The door swings open even as we come up the walkway. A small woman, plump in every way, smiles out at us and welcomes us inside. Marcus stands behind her and his grin widens when he sees Cassi in her chubby boy disguise.

  “Well, this is going to be interesting,” I say, smiling.

  Jovan must realize I’m talking about Cassi meeting Marcus’s family because he grins back and says, “Oh yeah, and I’m going to enjoy watching it.”

  After showering and changing into clothes provided by Marcus’ mother, Susanna, we look more ourselves again. Or, perhaps I should say, Cassi looks more herself. I don’t look anything like my regular self in the dress Susanna left hanging for me on the back of the door.

  There’s a full-length mirror in the room and I almost cringe to see myself. I’ve lost weight, which I couldn’t afford to do in the first place, but seeing myself like this really makes it hard to ignore. Cassi sees my discomfort and gives me a swift peck on the cheek before leaving me alone to finish dressing.

  I’ve never had a great deal of extra weight on my body, but I’ve done well enough gardening to avoid looking scrawny. And no matter the source, Connor and I have always managed to provide ourselves with enough protein to grow straight and decently muscled. That is not the case now. I’ve descended past scrawny into skinny territory and I look malnourished, with hollows under my eyes and cheeks. My ribs stand out as do my hip and collar bones. When I put on the dress, much of that fades away and I wonder if she chose the color to counter my pallor on purpose.

  The dress is simple and pretty, made of cotton in a pattern of tiny white flowers against a pale blue background. Hints of yellow in the flowers brighten the fabric even further. I’ve had very few dresses in my life, mostly when I was small and my mother was still making an effort. I’ve not seen myself in one since, and the difference is striking. I look almost pretty.

  I take some effort with my hair, combing out each tangle until it gleams then braiding two small sections away from my face to keep it neat. Aside from my boots, I have no shoes. I guess it would be too much to hope for that anyone else in the family is my size and wouldn’t mind me wearing theirs, but Susanna left me a strange pair of slippers. They almost look like they are made of rubber, with two thin straps that come to a point. It takes me a few tries to figure out the joined strap is meant to go between my toes and the loud slapping noise they make against my heels brings out a laugh.

  I hesitate when I near the bottom of the stairs and the noise of laughter and conversation grows. I feel a bit naked with my legs showing, especially given their current thin and scarred up state. There’s no help for it and I’d prefer not to look timid and give a bad first impression. I lift my chin and make sure there’s just the right curve on my lips when I enter the main room where everyone is gathered.

  The smell of cooking food is almost overwhelming. I’ve been smelling a hint of it—meat, something sauce-like and more—since Cassi opened the door to walk out, but now it’s almost like a fog enveloping me. My stomach makes such a loud noise it sounds like my guts are twisting around on themselves. For all I know they might be doing just that. Either way, it’s loud enough for Susanna to hear as I pass into the room and near her chair.

  “Well, if that isn’t a call for dinner, I don’t know what is,” she says brightly.

  Her words come out sounding as round as her cheeks look. The vowels are drawn out and the words almost luxurious in the way she speaks them. Marcus has the same sort of accent, but his is less pronounced. As the others—several of Marcus’s brothers, their wives and two small girls—file past me into the dining room, I hear more of the same. Most were introduced to us before we went up to shower, but I’m pretty sure more have arrived and I can’t remember anyone’s name anyway.

  Their kitchen is large and inviting, full of homey touches. A long table crowded with chairs and benches beckons. Mismatched cloth napkins lay across equally mis-matched plates. A waft of cool air kisses my bare legs from behind and I turn to see Susanna in front of a huge metal cabinet taller than I am. Tendrils of frost curl out and I realize it’s like the giant cool-room in the school, except smaller. I don’t remember what those are called, but I’ve never seen anything like it.

  Before I can think twice, I step in front of it and reach in, feeling the cold air and touching a pitcher so cold there’s ice bobbing in the liquid.

  Susanna gives me a curious look and asks, “Have you not seen a refrigerator before, child?”

  Of course, that’s the name of it. I feel like a fool when I answer, “Only one that’s like a room. They have one at our school.”

  Her brows draw together and I can see the pity in her expression, but she says, “Well, I imagine not everyone really needs one, but it gets so hot and humid here that milk sours coming out of the udder! Go on and take a seat. Marcus, get out of that chair. Let the ladies have the padded ones.” She ends by tsking and muttering about bad manners as she shuttles hot food and cold pitchers to the table.

  After much shuffling of chairs and re-introductions, and my immediate forgetting of names yet again, we set to. The dinner is remarkable and nothing like I have ever eaten before. Spaghetti with sausage made of alligator and pork—an alligator sounds awful and I hope I never meet one—salad, fresh hot bread dripping with butter and spices and endless glasses of iced tea are devoured with equal fervor by all. I’m confused by the pasta until Susanna demonstrates how to twirl it onto my fork and tells me not to worry about the stragglers. Marcus then demonstrates by sucking up a long noodle, spattering sauce in the doing.

  Conversation is easy and they are kind enough to avoid the topic of our flight while we eat. I can see everyone, not just Susanna, evaluating Cassi. But like everything else they’ve done so far, they do it kindly.

  It’s quite clear that Marcus has no intention of hiding his interest in her, and equally clear that the family is interested in this choice of his. But it’s not the kind of judging that I would expect in Bailar, where individual considerations are the least important ones. There, family worth and earning potential are the more prominent issues. Families care if two people get along, of course, but love is rarely the primary motive in a match where one or both have anything worth owning. I suppose in that way, at least, the poor have it better than the wealthy.

  I feel nothing like that at this table and the interest is on her as a person. She doesn’t disappoint. Her bright and bubbly personality is perfectly suited to this place. By the time we’re all stuffed and plates are being pushed back with satiated groans, she is perfectly comfortable hopping up to help clear the plates with Susanna. It seems entirely natural and in no way forced.

  Once cups of rich black coffee are served, the mood shifts and I don’t need anyone to tell me what’s coming. We’re going to turn to the topic these welcoming people must have been intensely curious about since we appeared. Susanna studies her cup for a moment and the children are shooed off to play in another room. It feels strange to tell our story to a room full of people, but they are offering us aid instead of taking the gold for turning us i
n, so it only seems fair.

  Jovan tells our story, with Cassi and me adding bits as needed. The people around the table are rapt, coffee forgotten and cold in their cups or else absently sipped. It’s so strong that I feel jittery and switch to water, also cold and sweet-tasting, after politely emptying my cup.

  He’s kind enough to leave out the conditions under which I lived and I don’t offer those details up, but Cassi is quite frank about her own prospects had she stayed in Bailar, and the reasons she welcomed escape with us when the opportunity arose.

  There is utter silence around the table when we’re done. Not so much as a breath can be heard. For one unreasonable moment, I think we made a mistake by telling them about the fish Jovan stole and then Susanna breaks the spell.

  Her voice is full of compassion when she says, “You poor children.”

  My defenses go up immediately. We didn’t tell them our story to gain pity or so that anyone would feel sorry for us. The way she says it, like we’re small and defenseless, just doesn’t sit well with me.

  She notices me stiffen and waves her hands as if to retract her words. “I didn’t mean it like that. You were very brave to do what you did and I don’t think I could have managed any of it. Please don’t misunderstand me, dears.”

  For a moment she searches for words, the others watching her and waiting for her to take the lead as their mother, the woman of the house. She meets my eyes and I see the strength there, the grit that it took to raise all her children with a husband who leaves for weeks at a time for his work in a world inherently hostile to the survival of the young.