The Dirt Eaters

by Dennis Foon

  “The time has come for a choice,” states Saint solemnly.

  Brother Wolf casts a discerning eye on Roan. “You are ready to begin your initiation into the Company of Friends.”

  Brother Asp asks the question: “Do you wish to join us?”

  Roan glances at Brother Raven, who smiles with transparent guile. For a moment Roan hesitates, then he looks at selfless Brother Asp; Brother Wolf, whose generosity belies his gruff exterior; Brother Stinger, so subtle and demanding; and Saint, who favors him above all others.

  An unearthly silence descends over the Brothers. Roan hears the old goat-woman’s voice, clear and certain.

  “DO NOT HESITATE. THIS IS YOUR PATH.”

  Emboldened by her affirmation, Roan replies firmly, “I would be honored.”

  They move to a rise. Roan looks down to see that many of the brethren have gathered for the announcement. Saint places both of his hands on Roan’s shoulders, nodding with pride.

  “His initiation will begin!” Saint shouts out to the Brothers, who raise their arms in the air, “For the Friend!”

  “Now you fast,” says Brother Wolf.

  Brother Stinger gazes at Roan with clear eyes. “Stay focused.”

  “I’m very proud of you,” Brother Asp says, clapping Roan on the shoulders.

  Brother Raven, grinning with all his rotting teeth, simply gives Roan a wink.

  Roan accepts their goodwill with thanks, then excuses himself to attend to his duties.

  It is the afternoon of a full moon, and Roan is anxious to return to the sand painting. The painting is over half complete now, and the central image is clear. It shows the Friend, his eyes blazing, his huge arms reaching down. The top of a bull’s head is also becoming visible, its horns of sand poking at the Friend’s skin. It’s hard to imagine this rich portrait is simply sand grains sprinkled on stone. The artistry is exceptional. Roan can hardly wait to see the painting finished.

  “Would you like a potato?” calls Feeder, trotting up to greet him.

  “No thanks, can’t eat it. I’m fasting.”

  “It’s delicious. Fire-roasted.”

  Feeder’s words are friendly, but Roan can see that he’s scowling. “What’s wrong, Feeder?”

  “I suppose you’re happy now.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You realize that once you join and learn the secrets, there’s no turning back. The Friends will never let you go. It’s forever.”

  “Nothing’s forever.”

  “Yes, it is—for someone. One comes, one goes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Feeder forces a smile. “Forget it, it’s just poetry.” He reaches to shake Roan’s hand. “Congratulations. You de­serve this.”

  There’s something disturbing in Feeder’s forced grin, and while Roan tries to penetrate the meaning of his words, the cook slumps away. Brother Raven is openly observing from a nearby grove. What does he hope to discover? Roan considers confronting him, but is prevented by a stream of Brothers approaching and offering their congratulations.

  By the time the moon rises, bloated in the east, Roan is laboring at the forge with Brother Asp. Weapons and tools are made here; tonight Roan holds a piece of red-hot iron with tongs while Asp pounds the metal flat and bends it into the shape of a shovel. When their work is complete, Brother Asp turns to Roan with concern.

  “You are troubled.”

  Roan phrases his response carefully. “I heard some Brothers talking after I accepted the invitation to begin my initiation...”

  Brother Asp sips some water and hands Roan the flask. “Everyone is very excited about the joining.”

  “What does it mean, ‘one comes, one goes’?”

  “It’s from our primary teaching story. The first initiate was the Friend. One of his final trials was to slay a bull. We use that phrase, ‘one comes, one goes,’ as a kind of blessing with new initiates.”

  “It didn’t sound like a blessing.”

  “Perhaps that was because you had no context for it.”

  “Maybe,” says Roan, deciding to speak no more about it.

  “You have nothing to fear, Roan of Longlight.”

  But for the first time, Brother Asp’s words are of no comfort.

  Before dawn, Roan is shaken out of a deep sleep. He groggily opens his eyes in a halo of lantern light. Brother Stinger smiles.

  “It’s time for the first trial of your initiation, Roan.”

  A Brother lifts a veil and places it over Roan’s head, plunging him into complete darkness. Shivering and disoriented, he is led out of his tent into the chilly air. Hands guide Roan, leading him forward. His bare feet stumble on the uneven ground. After a while, he hears the sound of running water. They’re walking near the stream, he realizes. As the volume increases, he knows they must be moving toward the mountain, the stream’s source.

  The sound gradually crescendos to a roar. Brother Stinger’s voice rises over the thunderous water.

  “The world was nothingness. Then the great stone cracked and the Friend was born. He lifted the darkness and we could see.”

  The cloth is wrenched off Roan’s head, leaving him blind in the glare of the newly risen sun. He turns from it to see seventy-five Brothers behind him. The waterfall that feeds the stream cascades down a cliff a few feet ahead. Each of Roan’s hands is tied, a Brother controlling either rope. They lead him to the waterfall, then, pulling his arms wide with the ropes, hold him under it. Roan manages to grab a large breath of air just before the relentless torrent pours down on him. It pounds on his head, his shoulders, but he does not buckle. Minute after minute passes as Roan holds his breath, fighting the urge to panic. Finally the lack of air takes its toll and he can feel the inevitable pull, water dragging him down into itself. Suddenly the ropes slacken and he falls to his knees. With all his strength, he pulls himself from under the deluge, dragging in great gulps of air.

  The Brothers unbind his wrists. Saint is above him, holding a long, shining sword.

  “His love lights the world,” says the Prophet. “His blade frees it.”

  Saint holds out his left arm, the ladder of scars glistening white. He pushes the blade between two of the scars, drawing blood. He takes Roan’s sodden arm, making a similar cut, then lets his own blood drip into Roan’s wound.

  “We are Brothers. For Eternity.”

  The company of Friends repeats: “Brothers. For Eternity.”

  Each of the brethren, one by one, press their arms against Roan’s, scars against his open wound, saying: “We are Brothers.” When all seventy-five have finished, Saint hands Roan the sword.

  “His blade will free the world. We serve the Friend.”

  Seventy-six voices join together. “His blade will free the world. We serve the Friend.”

  Roan feels himself being raised up by ten hands as the Five, smiling, surround him.

  Saint gazes into Roan’s eyes. “The Friend welcomes you.”

  “You are welcome!” shout all the Brothers, cheering him.

  Roan’s never felt so celebrated.

  “THEY MAKE YOU FEEL POWERFUL.”

  He feels giddy, elated, extraordinary.

  “THEY MAKE YOU FEEL LOVED.”

  As various Brothers shake his hand, pat him on the back, embrace him, Roan beams with delight.

  “AND ARE YOU? ARE YOU REALLY?”

  Roan sees the rat from his dreams sitting on the shore.

  “WHO IS THE FRIEND? WHO ARE THESE BROTHERS?”

  Roan looks at his new Brothers. He sees Feeder on the shore, watching jealously, doing his best to smile. Raven is grinning, but also scanning Roan’s body, as if searching for the best place to slip in a knife. Saint, proud, triumphant, appears full of secrets.


  It’s true. Despite all his time here, Roan doesn’t know anything about these men.

  “NO. YOU DO NOT.”

  Roan is carried on the Brothers’ shoulders back down the stream. His elation has faded. All the cheering and congratulations seem hollow. They enter the meal tent to feast on roasted eggs, fresh juices, and meats. All the while, Roan smiles and nods at the Brothers’ good wishes. But the food is dry in his mouth.

  THE RED-HAIRED WOMAN

  OF THE PROPHET’S ORIGINS, RUMORS ABOUND. NOT BORN OF WOMAN BUT OF ICE AND FIRE. ICE FOR THE COLD STEEL HE WIELDED TO SMITE THE WARLORDS. AND FIRE FOR THE NEW LIFE HE BREATHED INTO THE SOULS HE FREED FROM SLAVERY.

  —ORIN’S HISTORY OF THE FRIEND

  “WE NEED to talk.”

  Determined to get to the bottom of Feeder’s cryptic comments, Roan has sought him out. He’s decided on the direct approach.

  “About what?” Feeder mumbles, not looking up from the cabbage he’s chopping.

  “What did you mean, ‘one comes, one goes’?

  “It’s a blessing,” he says, shrugging Roan off. “We say it to all the initiates.”

  Feeder looks past Roan wen he hears the sound of Saint’s motorcycle pulling up behind them. Without so much as a glance at Roan, he picks up his cabbage and retreats into the cook tent.

  Saint, the bike still idling, motions Roan to join him.

  “Do you have some business with him?” asks Saint.

  “Not really,” says Roan.

  “Good. I have something special to show you.”

  Roan climbs on the motorcycle and they burn off, going down a trail that takes them onto the fertile plain. They pass flat sections of land where plants are being harvested by rugged farmers. As they pass, the people smile and wave at Saint, who lifts his hand in greeting.

  “Over there!” Saint shouts back through the wind.

  He points to a big parcel of land that’s covered in the herbal plants Roan picked with Brother Asp.

  “We’re reclaiming all that, thanks to you!”

  Roan gazes on the fields with pleasure. The farmers have implemented the plans he found for them in the book on soil decontamination. His father would have been proud.

  Saint roars on, eventually coming to a village gate. Its wall is armored with a strange collection of flattened metal barrels, ancient car parts, and iron sheeting. A woman, red hair flow­ing past her shoulders, looks down from the guard tower and smiles broadly. She puts her fingers to her mouth, letting out a piercing whistle. The gate clanks open, and Saint and Roan motor in.

  From up on the guard towers and beside the gates, a dozen brawny women holding crossbows and spears shout greetings to Saint.

  Saint shuts off the engine, and they step off the bike. Roan’s surprised by the apparent strength of these women, the first females he’s seen since joining the Brothers.

  “This is my village,” Saint says, as the red-haired woman strides up and kisses him hard on the mouth.

  “Roan, this is Kira. Kira, Roan.”

  Kira is tall and muscular, roughly the same age and nearly the same size as Saint. She slaps Roan on the shoulder. “You are sturdy, aren’t you? Saint’s told me all about you, Roan of Longlight.”

  “What has he told you?” Roan asks.

  “Oh, you don’t want to know!” she laughs. Saint, blushing, laughs too. Then she pokes Roan in the ribs. “Only good things, kid! He can’t stop bragging about you! C’mon, let’s eat.”

  She puts her arm around Roan and guides him down a cobblestone path. As they pass rows of houses with salvaged metal walls and sod roofs, Roan marvels at how Kira speaks to Saint. Her joke made the great man blush!

  When they arrive at Kira’s house, Roan is astounded by its opulence. Solar heaters and lights, stained glass and polished wooden tables. He turns down a hallway, and through the beads that cover a door he sees a beautiful baby nursery. He continues on to the living room, where a huge mural shows an armored warrior bursting out of a stone, sword lifted to the sky. The Friend, Roan guesses. Roan looks up. A ceiling mural shows the same scene as the statue at Saint’s altar: the Friend is slaying the bull, surrounded by the dog, the snake, the bird, and the scorpion.

  “Do you like it?” asks Saint.

  “It’s beautiful. How long have you lived here?”

  “No time at all. I’m simply a frequent visitor.” Saint chortles. “No one possesses Kira.”

  “I could possess him, if I wanted,” smiles Kira. “I like loving a Prophet, but I can’t think of anything that would be more annoying than living with one!”

  Laughing, Saint kisses her.

  Saint’s comfort around Kira, the way they joke together, reminds Roan of his parents. For a moment he allows himself the fantasy—then he notices the mantelpiece, on which sit two human skulls.

  Kira steps over to them. “This one is my mother. This one is the man who killed my mother.” Kira points out a hole in the second skull. “And this is where my spear pierced him. That moment gave my life back to me.” She looks at Roan with sad eyes. “Saint told me what happened to your people. I’m sorry you haven’t had the chance yet to make your peace. The day you execute your parents’ killers, that day the pain that strangles you will release its grip.”

  For a moment, Roan pictures his father standing beside him, looking at those skulls, silent, eyes brimming with tears. Roan longs to have him back, to embrace him, to ask his help.

  Saint pats Roan on the shoulder. “You’ll have your day, my friend, I swear it.”

  The aroma of a steaming casserole draws them to the table. Kira stands behind the chair at its head, lowers her eyes, and speaks.

  “Friend who brings us this food, we thank you. Friend who brings us together, we thank you. We pray for the day you will rule.”

  “So be it,” says Saint. The three of them sit, and Kira lifts the lid.

  The meal is simple, a goat curry with potatoes and blue beans. Although Roan doubts he’ll ever get used to the smell of meat, he has no trouble consuming Kira’s spicy stew. She could teach Feeder a few things.

  “Were both of you raised in this village?” asks Roan.

  “No,” replies Kira. A somberness weighs upon the word.

  “You came here after your mother died?”

  “Exactly.”

  “How old were you when you took your revenge?”

  “Younger than you. But we’d been enslaved for years before I found my opportunity to strike.”

  “What was it like, being a slave?”

  Roan immediately wishes he hadn’t asked so rude a question. But Kira doesn’t seem bothered by it. “I understand your curiosity.” Her eyes bristle with intensity. “Before the Friend came into my life, I wished for my death every single day.”

  Roan looks over at Saint. The Prophet’s jaw is clenched, the muscle in his cheek moving.

  “It’s a history we share,” Saint murmurs.

  Roan feels the cricket tickle the palm of his hand. He finds his eyes focusing deeply on Saint and Kira, seeing beyond their faces into the past. Beatings, endless drudgery, witnessing the murder of loved ones; nothing to cherish, everything to fear; hunger, pain, loneliness. They gained their dignity by denying their torturers’ delight in their suffering. They were raised in violence, and now they embrace it. Roan thinks of his life in Longlight. Every day a gift, every day designed to make him stronger. Love that continues to surround and protect him.

  Kira pulls the thin recorder from Roan’s pocket. “You play that thing?”

  “I’m learning.”

  “Play something for me.”

  “I’m just a beginner.”

  “Please,” coaxes Kira.

  Roan sighs, lifts the recorder to his lips, and plays a simple tun
e of Longlight, one his mother used to whistle.

  “What a lovely song,” Kira says. “Who taught you to play?”

  “No one. But a friend of mine took lessons. He started with three-finger tunes like this one.”

  “Did many play music in Longlight?”

  “Yes, almost everyone. I was supposed to start learning guitar.”

  “You’ll become accomplished at the recorder instead,” Kira says.

  “I suppose,” Roan replies, saddened that the music of Long­light will never be heard again.

  When the meal is over, Saint pushes his plate away.

  “I have a few things to discuss with Kira,” he tells Roan. “Why don’t you explore the village?”

  “Here,” Kira says, handing Roan some candies. “Some­thing to sweeten your day.”

  Roan steps outside, the sun warm on his face, rolling a candy over his tongue. Kira’s house is completely covered in flattened metal. Even the roof is polished tin. Curious, he wanders around the side, examining the craftsmanship. In Longlight, there had never been access to the quantities of metal he’s seeing here.

  As he passes under a window, he hears Saint’s low voice, and it is bristling with irritation. Quietly, Roan moves close to the wall, listening.

  “I don’t confide in Raven. He travels everywhere and knows no master.”

  There’s a pause, and then Kira speaks, cheerlessly. “We lost the baby.”

  “Not another.”

  “We tried everything.”

  Saint sighs. “There will be more.”

  “And Roan?”

  “I hope I get answers before they do.”

  “You haven’t discovered why they needed them both?” Kira asks.

  “No. He has many abilities. He reads and learns incred­ibly fast. He’s as good as our best warriors, with only months of training. Stinger says Roan’s focus is like none he’s ever seen. He suspects there’s more beneath the surface that Roan doesn’t yet trust enough to show. But why is the City so desperate for both? My instincts say it’s related to that cricket.”