by Archer Swift
Chapter 12
Around forty minutes.
It was about forty minutes before the two-hour feast began. This year, odd-numbered clans one through nineteen were responsible for the banquet. Last year, our clan (Number 2)—along with the even-numbered clans—set a new standard. Victor had made us spend every minute of the light hours of three days to prepare our contribution. And we had loved every single second of it.
Every year, the clans on roster went beyond the call of duty to make our annual celebration memorable. Being our tenth, this year was bound to be doubly special. It was the one collective highlight we shared. And because we no longer had Earth’s calendar, and no way of tracking our birthdays, this day was considered everyone’s birthday, too. While we didn’t swap birthday presents, that was discouraged, the effort put into the preparation of the food was a monumental demonstration of celebration and gratitude.
The clans not part of the set-up found spots around the open-grassed area in picnic-style, catching up with one another; for these few moments, forgetting all about the daily survival grind.
I wouldn’t get to enjoy these carefree moments this year. While there were several grievances lodged across the clans, as there always were, my alleged offence—assaulting a woman—was the worst case reported. My grievance interview was up first.
“Rist…” Judd’s voice cut through my headspace.
“Er … yep?”
“I’m sorry…” Shoulders slouched, Judd’s voice trailed off.
I rubbed the ridged scar on my cheek. “You don’t have to, Judd … it is, what it is.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
I shrugged and vainly searched for a smile. “Yep, well.”
A long silence enveloped us. In the last twenty-four hours, my view of Judd underwent a hundred-and-eighty-degree flip. His peacemaking efforts now looked like weak, mollifying attempts to avoid confrontation. Cowardly even. Had Ruzzell’s strutting exposed him: unmasked what I had previously assumed was maturity and strength? Or was I just overreacting? Projecting my growing dislike for Ruzzell onto him, unfairly expecting more from him than what was right?
Get over it! This is your best friend you’re ditching here.
“You still with me?” he asked.
“Whuh?” I felt my cheeks pink and I dropped my gaze to the ground, grateful that he couldn’t read my mind.
“I asked whether you’re ready for the interview?” Judd grimaced. “I mean, how you feeling?”
“Just want to get it over, really.” I felt numb about the interview, truth be told. “Listen, um ... you don’t have to keep me company.”
He rubbed his nose. “Yeah, I do...” His features tight and strained, the usual gleam on his open, clean face was now well and truly dulled by the crippling burden mounting on his shoulders. “I mean, I want to.”
Another prolonged pause followed as we both stared towards the mountains in the north.
“You can see them so clearly from here,” I broke the silence, happy to change the subject.
“Beautiful.”
“In a haunting way,” I added.
The four highest peaks, snow capped but for two moons in summer, looked like the ragged lower jaw of a planet-munching behemoth. In the dense jungle shrubbery in which our camp was tucked, our view of these mountainous tusks was obscured. Here at the Gathering Place—the hub of what little collective life the clans shared, the foliage more worn with the extra traffic traipsing through it—we had a postcard-perfect view.
“I wonder what’s out there.” Judd’s voice was laden with a moment of longing, like a caged bird pining for the wide-open skies.
“One day perhaps.” I too felt overwhelmed by a sudden bout of wanderlust; a deep-seated desire to flee the trouble brewing no doubt spiked the yearning. “One day we’ll get to explore them … and this god-awful planet.”
“Yeah,” Judd sighed heavily, “ten years is a long, long time … pinned back in survival, trapped along this narrow little stretch of the river.” There was a tang of resentment in his words—the bitterness of one broken, browbeaten. Suppressed.
“Maybe the Mzees will have some update on Operation: Future Forward, some news on forward progress?” I asked rhetorically, knowing Judd knew no more than I did.
“I’m not real hopeful to be honest. With Victor’s death and Dylain’s growing influence…” his jaw tightened as he shook his head with a hint of resignation, “…I think things have regressed.”
I felt my heart spasm at the mention of Dylain’s name, but I didn’t have the energy to ask Judd to amplify on his comment. There was every chance I’d face our youngest Mzee in my grievance interview. “Anyway, we can dream, can’t we?” I asked, trying to find a smile again to conceal my edginess.
“Yeah, that’s all we can do.” A bead of sweat rolled down from Judd’s troubled brow as he scuffed the bridge of his nose with the heel of his hand. “And even they can’t take that away from us.”
