The Dirt Eaters

by Dennis Foon

  Saint pats Roan on the shoulder. “There’s still plenty of light left. Come with me. It’s time for you to spread your wings a little. See Barren Mountain.”

  He hands Roan a goatskin coat and they go outside to a smaller shelter behind Saint’s tent. Saint throws back the oiled canvas door and wheels out his motorcycle. He motions Roan to get on, then revs the engine, and they roar away.

  The first time Roan rode on the bike he was unconscious. This time he’s wide awake, and the rush of wind and landscape is exhilarating. Saint drives to Barren Mountain and motors up a trail that’s barely visible through the underbrush. The forest that was once here is long dead, and the broken stumps of ancient trees are overgrown with a voracious weed Roan recognizes. Nethervines. Their black thorns cause oozing, lethal wounds.

  Roan and Saint disembark on a plateau high up on Barren Mountain.

  “If we continued, and crossed to the valley on the other side of the mountain, we’d be entering the Devastation,” says Saint grimly.

  “I’ve heard the tales of what happened there. Is it still poisoned?”

  “I don’t know. No one has ever returned to tell.”

  Saint leads Roan to the edge of a precipice. In the wide expanse below, he points to a river that curls out for miles. Scattered throughout the landscape are dozens of tiny villages.

  “Everything on this side of the river, from this mountain across that plain, the villages, the people, every blade of grass, is under the protection of the Friend.”

  “What about the other side?”

  “That side of the Farlands belongs to marauders, brutes, killers for hire. The Lee Clan. Beyond them, in the south, the Fandors, the most crazed and bloodthirsty of all. Three other warlords, one more vicious than the next, hold the territory past where we can see. All of them are looking for booty or tribute. One of them destroyed Longlight.”

  Roan breathes, trying to calm himself, but he can’t stop the strange heat burning through his body. “I want to know who it was.”

  The big man smiles grimly.

  Roan’s overwhelmed by images. Of the red skull man tearing Stowe from his grasp, of Longlight’s broken gates, the shattered pots, the bones floating in the Fire Hole. The memories saturate him, feed his yearning for revenge. He shudders. Looking below, he sees in the valley a map of Saint’s ambition. “You want to conquer them.”

  “The Friend teaches us we have an obligation to end chaos. That means a central controlling order under one ruler. My duty is to ensure the Friend is that ruler. Your presence is a remarkable advantage on this quest, because through books you bring knowledge. Knowledge gives us the hidden weapon of strategy as well as insight into our opponents’ tactics. Conquering the warlords will not be difficult. Zheng’s story and our games have given me several excellent ideas. But taking the City, that is the challenge. The City is the true enemy, the heart of the evil that afflicts us all. The reason for Longlight’s fall lies there.”

  “What is the reason?”

  Saint doesn’t take his eyes off the view below. “I don’t have that answer yet, but I will, I promise you. I do know that the City takes what it wants, then destroys the rest. One of those clans on their own would not have obliterated Longlight. No. They’d enslave some people, rape some, but they’d leave the rest to rebuild and pay tribute.”

  “You think the murderers were working for the City.”

  “The Farlands are an irritant that the City wants subdued. The City never completely conquered these lands during the wars, and they are still trying to finish what they started so long ago. None of us is safe as long as the City rules.”

  “Didn’t you get your motorcycle from the City? And the fuel for it? And your tents?”

  Saint laughs. “We trade with the City. There is no choice; it controls all manufacturing. We acquire things, yes, but we also gain information. We find out how it functions, discover its weaknesses. When you see things more fully, you’ll understand. Our final battle lies there.”

  “And how does a band of seventy-five take on a whole City?”

  A strange, faraway look sweeps over Saint’s face. “I was standing right here when it happened, Roan.”

  “When what happened?”

  “I came to this spot in despair, feeling helpless before the City’s power and ruthlessness. All of us in the Farlands were dispersed, lost, victim to petty warlords who never stopped battling with each other. I drove here ready to end it all, disgusted by everything around me. Just as my sword was set to my heart, I was blinded by white fire. I saw Him. The Friend. He stepped out of the flame and told me what I must do: build an army in His image. Free the people in His name. He promised that on the appointed day, I would lead His people to victory over the City.”

  “Was it a dream?”

  “You see the villages there? They are full of thousands who have seen the truth of the Friend. They are ready to join us, when the time comes. If it had been a dream, it wouldn’t have changed their lives. The tragedy of Longlight is that your people were lost before they could join the fight.”

  “I don’t think they would have.”

  “No matter. I only need you. I believe He wanted me to find you, despite the peril.”

  “What peril do you mean?”

  Saint sidesteps the question. “All great actions involve terrible risk. That is the nature of change. The Friend knows that even with all the support I have, I lack the strength to overcome the enemy.”

  “You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  Saint turns, his eyes cloudy. “Roan, I was raised like an animal, scavenging for survival. Uneducated, ignorant. Before the Friend came to me, I was nothing more than a brute. The Friend raised me up, turned me into the Prophet. Yet I was still lacking in wisdom. So he pointed the way to you. With your knowledge and your growing talent as a warrior, everything now seems possible.”

  “What if I refuse to fight?”

  “Longlight was exterminated. Brutally. Should your people pass with no one to avenge their deaths?”

  Roan, chilled, cannot answer.

  “What I say conflicts with your education. But I speak from a place of truth. I see you yearn to punish your parents’ killers, and I see your shame in the face of this passion. Roan, there’s no shame in seeking what is right. That’s the glue that binds your mind, your soul, and your talent. Fight the desire of your spirit, and you are weakened. Stay one with it, and you will become an incredible force. I would be honored to fight by your side.”

  Why does he need me to fight the City? Roan wonders. What’s the peril Saint faces?

  Saint interrupts his musings. “You have a cricket.”

  Roan is startled. “How do you know about it?”

  “Brother Wolf tells me the cricket sings during practice.”

  “I didn’t realize anyone could hear under all the shouting.”

  “Never underestimate Brother Wolf. May I see it?”

  Roan opens his pocket. The cricket lies perfectly still. Saint peers in and his eyes narrow. “A snow cricket.”

  “You’ve seen one before?”

  “Not often. Never in someone’s pocket. It allows you to carry it?”

  “It does what it wants.”

  “It chose you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Saint shakes his head. “Roan of Longlight, you keep secrets from me.”

  “Not intentionally.”

  Saint smiles, then turns his back. The interlude is over.

  The ride down the mountain is fast, and the chill in the wind so intense that Roan tucks his face behind Saint’s back. When they come to the bottom, Saint brakes to a stop and jumps off the motorcycle.

  “You drive,” he says to Roan.

  “Are you serious?”


  “Should I change my mind?”

  Without another word, Roan takes the driver’s seat. Saint points out the pedals, hand controls, gearshift, accelerator, and brakes. “Go ahead, try it.”

  Roan carefully gives the machine some gas and slowly lets out the clutch. The bike lurches forward, nearly throwing him.

  “Hit the next gear!”

  Roan does, and the bike spasms, jolting him high out of his seat. He gives it more gas. The bike surges ahead. Roan revs the engine, and the noise helps drown out the sound of Saint’s laughter.

  The motorcycle gains speed. Once it is running smoothly, Roan raises the gears, feeding the machine more gas, and soon he’s blasting down the road. The wind doesn’t seem to bite like before, now that he’s driving. The magical vehicle is in his grip, and it roars, it speeds, it flies.

  As the rocks and brush sweep by, Roan realizes he’s left Saint far behind. At a flat, clay-packed spot, he pivots the bike, throwing dust, then accelerates and blasts back the way he came, until he sees Saint standing there waiting. Only then does he realize it never even occurred to him to try to escape.

  The sun is low in the sky by the time Roan and Saint arrive back at the camp. Ignoring the curious looks of the Brothers, and Raven’s smirk, Saint drops Roan off and rides back to his quarters.

  Saint’s barely out of view when Feeder surreptitiously motions Roan into the cook tent. “First wine of the season. Time for a taste test!” Feeder announces. He pours them both a glass of dandelion wine, spilling a good portion of it on the table.

  “I see you’ve already been into it,” Roan observes.

  “Have to make sure it’s just right. I thought the golden boy should be next in line.”

  “Golden boy?”

  “Cheers,” Feeder says, gulping down another glass.

  Roan tastes the wine. “Sweet. It’s good.”

  Feeder scowls, slumping in his seat. “I’m sick of making wine, I’m sick of cooking food, I’m sick of everything.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  Feeder shakes his head. “I’m not like you. I don’t come from a special town. I didn’t have parents who loved me and kissed my face all over.”

  “What happened to your parents?”

  “I hope they’re dead.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “You don’t know anything about it. Guess what my parents did for my tenth birthday?”

  “What?”

  “Sold me to a farmer as a field-worker.” Feeder takes an­other swallow of wine.

  “That farmer was a mean bastard. There were six of us. He worked us too hard. After the third kid got sick and died, I ran.”

  “That’s how you came here?”

  “Eventually. When they accepted me as a novitiate, it was the greatest thing that had ever happened to me. It was Utopia, you know?” He picks up the bottle and pours himself more. “But I was no good at anything. I can’t ride, can’t fight, can’t even sand paint. So now I’m the cook.” He stares blearily at Roan. “I wish I was you.”

  With that, Feeder lays his head on the table and starts snoring. Roan puts the bottle and glasses away and leaves him to sleep it off. He wonders if everyone in this camp has some terrible story, some tragic event that brought them here. Maybe it’s good that I’m here, he thinks. I belong.

  THE GIVING OF GIFTS

  AND THE DREAM CAME TO THE PROPHET’S SWORDSMITH. THE HORNS OF THE GREAT BULL FELL BEFORE HIM, AND THEY LAY AS TWO CRESCENT MOONS CROSSED. SO WITHIN THE SHAPE OF HIS WEAPON WAS LAID THE PROMISE OF PEACE.

  —THE BOOK OF LONGLIGHT

  THE WILD STRAWBERRIES that flourish on the southern edge of the camp are the first crop of summer. Roan, delighted by the fruit, forages at every opportunity, relishing the berries’ sweetness.

  “You gobble those up like there’ll be none tomorrow.”

  Roan, his mouth full, grins at Brother Asp. “You never know.”

  Brother Asp smiles. “I have something else for you to try.” He hands Roan a carved wooden instrument. “I found this in one of the villages. Thought you might like to play the cricket some music for a change.”

  Roan accepts the gift, a little awestruck. It’s been eight months since he’s seen anything like this recorder. The craftsmanship rivals Longlight’s. He’s not sure he’s worthy of it.

  “What is it, Roan?”

  “Brother Asp, how did you find the Friend?”

  “I came to Him through my work. The Friend provided a shelter where I might thrive. In this way, I am better able to serve those who suffer. And now, thanks to the Friend, you are here with us. With what you have read to me, along with the experience you’ve related from Longlight, I’ll be able to help many more.”

  Brother Asp smiles again, and leaves Roan to try a few notes on his new recorder. Asp’s friendship fills Roan with guilt, for he has begun preparations for the day he will leave this place and these people. His Brothers.

  Roan was just beginning to settle into camp life when he heard the old goat-woman while supping one night.

  “PUT IT IN YOUR POCKET.”

  Roan looked up to see the ancient creature standing across from him. He glanced around fearfully to check if anyone else had seen or heard her, but the Brothers continued with their meal as if nothing at all was happening.

  “PUT THE DRIED MEAT IN YOUR POCKET,” THE GOAT-WOMAN SAID. “START SAVING FOOD. YOU’LL NEED IT WHEN YOU LEAVE. REMEMBER, A LITTLE AT A TIME, OR PEOPLE WILL NOTICE.”

  Before Roan could protest, the goat-woman was gone.

  What he’d wanted to say was, I like it here. I like my tent, my talks with Brother Asp, my lessons with Brother Stinger and Brother Wolf. Saint treats me like a son. The Brothers care about me, they value me. With their help, I could exact revenge for Longlight and maybe even find Stowe. Apart from the repellent Brother Raven, this is a good place to be. Why should I leave?

  On the other hand, Roan figured, there was no harm in being prepared. So he slipped the jerky into his pocket. From that moment on, he added food from every meal to his hidden stash.

  Brother Wolf’s practices have become more and more challenging as the days grow longer. He pushes Roan, working him harder than the others. But despite the heat, Roan is able to maintain whatever pace Wolf sets. Today’s a particularly challenging workout, and Roan’s muscles are quivering with exhaustion as Brother Wolf approaches him.

  “Superb endurance. You’re progressing exceptionally well, Roan.”

  “Thank you, Brother Wolf.”

  “You’ve mastered some of the most difficult sequences. You do not, however, test the limits of your speed and strength.”

  “I will seek to improve, Brother Wolf,” Roan says. His tone is neutral, but he worries that his secret training may be starting to reveal itself.

  Wolf extends a cloth-wrapped object. “This might help you improve in those areas.” He signals Roan to take it. With mounting excitement, Roan removes the wrapping. It’s a hook-sword, light and perfectly balanced.

  “This is for me?” Roan asks, staggered by the enormity of the gift.

  “My father was never a swordsman, but he was an unparalleled swordsmith. He made two of these, identical in strength and design. One was for me, he said. The other was for my greatest pupil. I’ve taught for many years. This sword belongs to you.”

  “I’m honored,” says Roan, bowing his head.

  “You’ve earned it,” replies Brother Wolf. Without another word, he is gone.

  Roan slices the air with the blade. It feels like part of his hand. But a pall is cast over his excitement when the only person he dreads crosses his path. Brother Raven, back again from one of his harvest excursions.

  Roan’s been overjoyed to be free of Raven, often for days at a time. Ever
y week another wagonload of fresh fruits and vegetables arrived alongside a band of Brothers on horseback led by Brother Raven. It would take five Brothers over an hour to unload each wagon. To Roan’s delight, some of the produce is served at meals, but Feeder supervised the brothers in preserving much of the haul: corn, snap peas, tomatoes, cucumbers, pears, apricots, and much more. The sheer bounty of it puzzled Roan, though. Could that much produce really be given freely, as Raven attested, by “friends and admirers”?

  “Beautiful sword,” Raven says, interrupting Roan’s practice. “That must be one of Brother Wolf’s prized weapons.”

  “It is.”

  “Well, then,” says Raven, tossing him a yellow apple. “Here’s another present for you, Roan. Best apple you’ll ever taste.”

  Roan catches it and puts it up to his nose, savoring the fragrance. A yellow apple, just like the ones at Longlight. The smell’s so familiar. Could it be from the orchard there? Is it possible? Does Raven know?

  Roan looks up to see Raven eyeing him keenly. “Where does it come from, you’re wondering?”

  Concealing his thoughts, Roan bites into the fruit, the first he’s tasted in a year. The last was one of a dozen his mother had given him to share with Stowe and their friends. Roan recalls how he and Aiden ran off with the fruit straight to Big Empty, with Stowe and the others screaming behind. At the treetop, Roan and Aiden pretended they’d eaten them all, and Stowe yelled bloody murder until he handed over the apples, not a one missing. He remembers her giggles and Aiden’s laughter and the juice trickling down their faces, and he aches with sadness.

  Tearing himself from the memory, Roan stares at the apple Raven has given him, hesitant to take another bite. It would be just like the Brother to taunt him like this. But how could he know?

  Brother Stinger’s voice breaks the tension. “You’re required for a gathering of the Five.”

  Roan’s startled to see Brother Stinger looking at him. Perhaps someone has discovered his stash of food or Raven has peeked in on a covert practice session. What kind of punishment would he face?

  But upon arriving at the edge of the stream where Wolf, Asp, and Saint are waiting, Roan finds out he’s been summoned for an altogether different reason.