The Dirt Eaters

by Dennis Foon

  “That should have been my choice.”

  “I couldn’t let that happen,” says Saint. “Our faith does not allow it.”

  “Is that statue part of your faith?” asks Roan, nodding at the altar.

  “It’s the center of it. The Friend kills the bull, destroying evil and creating life. Like him, we fight evil and nurture life.”

  “So you couldn’t let me die.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And when I’m ready, you’ll let me leave?”

  “Spend some time with us,” says Saint, a gentle smile on his face. “Accept our hospitality and let yourself heal. There’s much for you to learn here from me and my followers.”

  Saint doesn’t appear to want to hurt him, but Roan’s still not willing to trust him. He has too many questions. What was Saint doing in Shrouded Valley? How did he know where to find Roan? And why does he want Roan to stay in this place? Roan suspects that Saint’s connected to what happened to Longlight, and he wants to find out how.

  “Alright,” says Roan, “I’ll stay a while.”

  “Then you have to tell me your name.”

  “Roan.”

  “You lived in that house?”

  “That’s right,” replies Roan. “Did you get everything you wanted from there?”

  “I saved some books. Whose were they?”

  “My father’s.”

  “He could read?”

  “Of course.”

  “He taught you to read?”

  “He, and my mother.”

  Saint’s brow furrows. His voice acquires an almost reverential tone. “Your mother was a reader too?”

  Puzzled, Roan nods.

  “Did everyone in Longlight know how to read?”

  “Yes.”

  “Amazing,” Saint mutters.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’ve never been outside your village, or that valley, have you?”

  Roan, cautious, makes no reply.

  “If you had, you’d be aware that few people know how to read,” says Saint. “People are suspicious of learning.”

  Roan is bewildered, though he hides his real concern. No one in Longlight ever spoke much about the Outside, and it had never occurred to him to ask why. What else was hidden from him?

  “Why are they suspicious?” he asks.

  Saint sighs. “They blame the Abominations on books.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I blame men.” Saint moves close to Roan and bends down to face him. “You have a gift that became even rarer when your people were lost. Share it with me. Teach me to read, Roan of Longlight.”

  I have something he wants, Roan thinks. Should I give it to him? If Saint has some darker purpose, teaching him to read could be disastrous. But then Roan remembers what his father often said: Reading is like breathing. Words are like air.

  “I’ve never taught before,” Roan says cautiously.

  “I’m patient. It may take us a long time, but I’m sure you’ll manage. Help me with this. Of course, we would have to agree on some form of compensation.”

  Roan chooses his words carefully. “You’re already providing me with food and shelter,” he says.

  “I’ve done nothing more than help someone in need.” Saint breathes slowly, contemplating Roan’s face. “Perhaps there are others in need. You may not have been the only one from your village to survive.”

  Roan can’t stop the quake that surges through his body.

  Saint’s eyebrow lifts. “You agree. It might be possible.”

  Despite himself, Roan whispers, “It might be.”

  A smile spreads across Saint’s face.

  “Teach me to read, and if any are alive, we’ll find them.”

  If any are alive. The words make Roan shudder. Suddenly he’s overwhelmed with rage, an emotion he’s unable to hide.

  “My offer makes you angry?”

  “Your offer seems...fair,” Roan chokes out.

  “Could it be the thought of what was done to your people?”

  Roan nods, not trusting himself to speak.

  “You want vengeance.”

  Roan imagines finding the killers of Longlight, the skull-masked invaders; pictures himself clubbing them, then throwing them screaming into the Fire Hole. He tries to stop the hideous thoughts, but he can’t. They’re too strong. Roan looks up at the giant and the word lurches out. “Yes.” The snow cricket stirs in his pocket, scratching hard against his heart.

  “I can help with that too,” says Saint. “I will teach you the Way of the Friend. You will find He is always there when we are in need.”

  For a moment boy and man regard each other in silence.

  “So, Roan of Longlight, do we have an agreement?”

  “We do.”

  Saint smiles and pats Roan on the shoulder.

  The camp is on a rise overlooking a wide valley. A stream leads off to a nearby mountain. In a paddock, powerful horses stand grazing. Everywhere Roan looks there are tents and looming tent-like structures. All of them are covered with grass and branches, no doubt making their presence invisible from a distance. Under a low canopy protected by a rock wall, seven men bundled in black fur with cowls over their heads sit silently tapping grains of colored sand into the center of a giant flat stone.

  “It’s a form of meditation,” explains Saint. “It takes four seasons to complete the image. When finished, it’s swept away and they begin again.”

  “What will the image be?”

  “A tribute to Him we serve.”

  Roan’s attention is drawn by a clanging sound.

  “Come. There are other activities you may find intriguing.”

  Saint takes Roan to a flat area at the edge of another rise, where men in loose tunics practice intricate sword movements, led by a brawny man with a shaven head. Slashing, leaping, they move with grace and precision. Despite his misgivings, Roan watches with fascination.

  “Did they practice like this in Longlight?” Saint asks.

  “We had no swords,” says Roan. “They were forbidden.”

  “How did you protect yourselves?”

  “We didn’t.”

  “But I saw evidence of a great battle.”

  “There was no battle.”

  “Surely when attacked, your people defended themselves.”

  “We do not fight,” repeats Roan, his eyes locked on the flashing blades.

  Saint makes a small gesture to the man leading the exer­cises. With a word to his brothers, the bald man joins them, bowing to Saint.

  “Friends to all,” he says.

  “The Friend is true,” Saint replies, also bowing, though not as deeply. “Roan of Longlight, meet Brother Wolf, our movement master. Roan has joined us today, Brother. His journey here has been a hard one.”

  “Everything is only as difficult as the mind perceives it to be,” Brother Wolf says, his eyes meeting Roan’s.

  “The massacre of my village was more than a perception,” retorts Roan.

  “The greater the pain, the greater your will must be to master it,” Wolf tells Roan, “unless you wish to be a slave to it.”

  “I’m not a slave.”

  “Then you will find our training useful,” says Wolf, and returns to the acolytes.

  A numbness sweeps over Roan. The commitment he’s made to this strange place suffocates him. There is no going back, no hope of rescue. Longlight is gone. And now he is here.

  Touring the camp with Saint, Roan sees that though no walls surround it, a formidable gully of jagged rocks protects the perimeter. High in the trees, wooden platforms are manned by cowled Brothers whose eyes never stop scanning the valley below. Saint draws Roan
away from the camp’s defenses, introducing him to the Brothers’ other activities. Some Brothers are horse trainers, some are metal craftsmen, some are hunters. Seventy-five Brothers in all, Saint tells him.

  At a tent that stands between two alder trees, a gray-bearded man greets them.

  “Brother Saint! I have a salve I think may help that sore wrist of yours.”

  “Thank you, Brother Asp.”

  Brother Asp’s eyes pore over Roan’s face, penetrating beneath the surface. But the examination doesn’t threaten Roan; quite the opposite. The Brother has a kind, open face that puts Roan at ease.

  “Roan of Longlight. I’m sorry I didn’t meet you earlier, but I’ve been tied up with some medical emergencies.”

  Roan wonders why Brother Asp seems so different, so much softer than the others. Almost like someone from Longlight. Perhaps it’s because he’s a healer.

  Dinner gathers everyone in the main tent around five long tables. Feeder delivers steaming pots of stew and potatoes, ignored by the Brothers as if he’s invisible. Roan’s about to dig in when he notices that no one is touching the food. All stand in silence behind their seats.

  Saint enters and comes to the empty space beside Roan. He lowers his head and speaks. “Born from stone, the First Friend reaches from the sky, giving us all that we have.”

  The seventy-five men speak in one voice: “Born from man, we reach for the sky.”

  “His heavenly blade freed us from evil,” intones Saint.

  “With His love we will free the world.”

  “We are Brothers. We are Friends.”

  “We are Friends.”

  Saint looks around at the assembled Brothers. “Before we eat, I would like you to meet our newest novitiate: Roan of Longlight.”

  There’s an awkward moment before someone shouts, “Welcome, Brother!” from a far table. The men applaud loudly and stamp their feet with no sign of stopping. A wild-eyed man with long yellow hair winks at Roan.

  “They’ll keep going until you return the courtesy.”

  Roan, catching on, claps his hands. The Friends cease applauding and break into a huge cheer. Everyone around Roan grins and shakes his hand. Then Saint sits and begins to eat and all the Brothers follow his lead.

  Saint nods to the yellow-haired man. “This is Brother Raven, Roan. One of my most valued companions.”

  “You are unique, Roan of Longlight,” says Raven, a crooked smile on his face. “Most novitiates don’t arrive strapped on the back of Saint’s motorcycle.”

  “He didn’t leave me much choice.”

  Brother Raven emits a high-pitched cackle. “Choice! That’s good!” Raven leans into Roan. Roan notices that the brother’s breath has an unfamiliar scent, thick and tart. “If you have any problems, talk to me. I’m the helper and the fixer. That’s me.”

  “Good to meet you,” Roan replies courteously, but he can sense the knife behind the man’s smile. The Brother is insincere, it’s obvious, he doesn’t even bother to hide it. Roan eats his stew in silence, mulling over his situation. The Brothers talk quietly amongst themselves, and though he can tell he’s the focus of their conversation, no one interrupts his ruminations.

  When supper comes to a close, Saint speaks to finish the meal, raising his right hand. “Friends to all.”

  “The Friend is true,” the brethren reply, raising their right hands in response. Then the clearing of tables begins.

  As Roan adds his dirty plate to the pile, Feeder takes it. “You’ll get used to this place soon enough,” he whispers. “It’s an honor to have you here.”

  Before Roan can ask him what he means, Feeder scurries away, and Brother Raven is quick to fill the gap. “Roan, let me show you to your quarters.”

  Raven escorts him out of the crowded dining tent. The pathway is lined with lit torches, and as they walk, Raven points out the Assembly, a small sloped amphitheater, with tiered benches looking down on a round, flat area. Before Roan can inquire as to its purpose, Raven indicates the “all-important” multiple outhouse structure and the communal washing area, where wooden basins are used for bathing. Roan stares at the very public space.

  “Confused?” asks Raven.

  “You wash together?”

  “And we all crap together, too,” chuckles Raven. “So uncivilized, don’t you think?”

  “Just different.”

  Raven lifts an eyebrow. “Different? How do you mean, different?”

  Roan peers at this strange Brother, feeling he’s somehow being tested. “It’s all new to me,” he carefully replies. “Unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

  Raven chuckles. “A very politic response!”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Of course, of course! Don’t worry, I come from the middle of nowhere too. A little hamlet near the Rain Plateau. We barely had a visitor in all the time I lived there. I was younger than you are when I left.”

  “Where did you go?”

  Raven gives Roan a probing look. Then, with a glint in his eye, he says, “To training school.”

  “What kind of training?”

  “To tell the truth, I never completed it. I heard a fascinating tale: that a mortal man had become a Prophet. Gone to a mountaintop and descended with a message from a new God. I was curious, so I volunteered to leave and join the Prophet. I was one of the first to meet Saint. I’ll have been with him and the Friend eleven years next spring.”

  Stopping in front of one of a long row of smaller tents, Raven opens its knit doorway. “This is yours,” Raven says. “Get a good night’s sleep, because tomorrow you start the schedule Saint’s devised for you. You won’t be needing those clothes anymore. You’ll find the proper attire in your tent. After we raise the sun, you’ll spend your mornings with Brother Wolf and your afternoons with Brother Stinger. Oh, and Brother Asp has requested what remains of your free time.” Raven gives Roan a confidential look. “You might find the routine a little onerous. If you do, talk to me. I’ll speak to Saint for you. Fix things. Remember, any problems at all, my tent’s next to yours. Barge in anytime.”

  “Thank you,” Roan says, ducking into his doorway, glad to get away from the cloying man. Inside his tent, by the light of a few candles, he sees the floor’s covered with rugs. A thick black tunic lies folded at the foot of his bed, which is a simple wool mat. Roan crawls under the warm blankets, but he still feels cold. He reaches for his pack and pulls his father’s shoe out of the pocket, fingering a patch as he lies back down.

  The faces of the Brothers whirl before him. In one day, he’s met seventy-five strangers, yet it was only a few days ago that he’d encountered the first stranger of his life. The first who had ever come to Longlight. Early that morning, an envoy riding a white horse had arrived unannounced at their gates. Everyone was stunned, but there seemed no reason to turn a single man away. Even more peculiar was the stranger’s clothing: a gown completely covered in feathers. On his head was a helmet in the shape of a beak.

  In the Shrouded Valley, birds other than chickens and crows were scarce, and no one had ever seen feathers like these before: bright yellow flecked with dazzling vermilion; iridescent shades of mauve and silver; feathers a foot long, ivory with red speckles. The children of Longlight followed the Bird Man as he walked through the village, trying to touch his amazing gown. He welcomed their touch, letting out a high, cackling laugh. The children laughed too. But the adults were not amused. Roan could see the fear in their eyes, and for the first time in his life, he felt uneasy.

  The councillors of the village escorted the Bird Man into the community’s meeting room. Before the doors were pulled shut, Roan saw their worried glances, their trembling hands. Roan’s father, his face set in a grim mask, was one of the ten who heard the envoy speak. The meeting went on and on as the children hovered outside the doors, b
rimming with curiosity. The twins Max and Esta, born a year after Stowe, tried to peek in but were quickly shooed away. Most of the children were excited, certain the envoy was here to sell feathers. But Roan’s best friend, Aiden, was his usual cynical self. “What good are feathers?” he sniped. “It’s not as if you can eat them.” Stowe protested. “They’re beautiful. I’d trade my two favorite drinking bowls for one of the shiny red ones.”

  Roan recognized some of the stranger’s plumes from books. As they waited, Stowe begged him to name the long-extinct birds. Peacock. Eagle. Swan. Cardinal. She loved the sound of the words and made Roan repeat them over and over, made him write them down as she chanted them. To her it was an event like no other. This fabulous stranger was a feast for the eyes, a springtime in midwinter.

  After a few hours, the meeting room doors swung open. The Bird Man left abruptly. His smile had vanished. Ignoring the children who begged for another touch of his plumes, he climbed onto his horse and was gone. Roan lingered behind, watching as the councillors emerged somberly from the building, his father in the lead.

  Later that night, he was awakened by his parents’ agitated discussion.

  “Couldn’t we pay him?” his mother asked.

  “The only price he would accept,” Roan’s father said, “we would not pay.” What he said next was obscured by the sound of a bowl, thrown, shattering on the floor.

  “We have to leave,” Roan’s mother said. “We have to leave now!”

  “No. It’s the Prophecy.”

  “That’s only a myth!”

  “It’s our reason for being here. It’s the fulfillment of our existence.”

  “You’d sacrifice our lives—our children—for what could be nothing more than a fairy tale?”

  “Look at me. Your instincts cry out against this. But you know the truth. We always knew this time would come.”

  Roan heard something in their voices he’d never heard before: terror. He wasn’t cold, but he found himself shivering. His mother’s voice, wracked with sobs, tore through him.

  “Why today? Why now?”

  “There can only be one reason,” his father replied.