The Dirt Eaters

by Dennis Foon

“I was an initiate with the Brothers.”

  “How far did you go?”

  “Third stage.”

  Lumpy whistles. “And then you left?”

  “That’s right.”

  “They wouldn’t like that. There’ll be a price on your head, dead or alive.”

  Roan points to his hook-sword. “Are you interested in finding out the price?”

  Lumpy laughs. “I’ve seen what those Friends can do. I have no interest in making contact.”

  Roan nods somberly. “It might be better for us to go our separate ways.”

  Lumpy reaches for his pack, and pulls out his blanket. “It’s your choice. I’m heading west, whatever you decide.”

  Roan’s eyes rest on a moonlit sky thick with stars. His hook-sword near his hand, he keeps a sharp eye on his companion. Lumpy baffles him. How long has he been here, wandering alone in the Devastation? What was it that disfigured him so horribly? And why does Lumpy think Roan’s lying about Longlight?

  As a yellow mist obscures the stars, Roan’s startled by a gasping sound. Grabbing his hook-sword, he sits up, ready to take on the threat. But it’s only Lumpy in a restless sleep, wracked by sobs. As Roan’s breathing returns to normal, the snow cricket wriggles out of his pocket and scrambles over to the weeping Lumpy. Crawling onto a mound on Lumpy’s hand, it rubs its wings together. Its song has an odd lilting quality that Roan has never heard before. As it sings, Lumpy’s tears stop, and soon he’s returned to a deep, peaceful sleep. Roan’s never seen the cricket sing to someone else before. Perhaps he was meant to meet this unusual guide. Comforted by the thought, his eyes grow heavy, and he gives himself over to the night.

  After a breakfast raid on the termite hill, Roan and Lumpy get underway.

  “Where exactly are you heading?” asks Roan.

  “All you need to know is that this route takes us farthest from Barren Mountain, which is where the Friends will be coming from.”

  The hard-packed flats make for easy hiking, but as the sun rises there’s no escape from the heat. Roan wraps his blanket around his head to avoid the blistering rays. But Lumpy welcomes them, taking off his cloak to let the sun bake his blighted skin. Roan tries not to stare at the state of Lumpy’s body, but it’s impossible to ignore.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?” says Lumpy, catching Roan’s gaze.

  “How did you get the disease?”

  “You mean you’ve never seen it before?”

  Roan shakes his head.

  “I thought Mor-Ticks were everywhere.”

  “Not on my side of the mountain.”

  “You mean in Longlight?”

  “That’s right.”

  Lumpy chuckles. “At least you keep your story straight.”

  Roan ignores the jab. “What are Mor-Ticks?”

  “They’re little bugs with a shiny green shell, like emeralds. They crawl on you, sparkling, hundreds of them. For a second it’s like your skin’s turned a beautiful green. Then they dig in and make these mounds. It was the second worst pain I’ve ever felt.”

  “What was the first?”

  “When their eggs hatched and the larvae exploded out of my skin. That’s why some mounds have the craters. Most people don’t survive for more than a few days.”

  “But you did.”

  “Yes, I’m a freak of nature.” Lumpy’s arm shoots out, and he points at Roan’s foot. Roan jumps, but there’s nothing there. Lumpy laughs bitterly.

  “Don’t worry,” he tells Roan. “We’ve passed some Mor-Ticks, but they won’t hurt you. You’ve got protection.”

  “You?”

  But Lumpy falls quiet, withdrawing into his thoughts.

  Over the next two days, Roan and Lumpy trek on a dried-out riverbed, its high banks providing cover. Lumpy walks in silence. From time to time, Roan tries to make conversation, but Lumpy won’t bite. He simply picks up the pace, walking so fast Roan can do nothing but increase his own speed and maneuver the terrain, evading the little lizards that scurry among the stones. His hand remains close to the hook-sword, always vigilant.

  Toward the end of the third day, Lumpy stops abruptly and glares at Roan’s hook-sword.

  “What do you take me for?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You might be a reader, but I’m not stupid. Longlight is a myth. I’ve heard the stories, everybody has.”

  “What stories?”

  Lumpy snorts. “Don’t play with me.”

  “I’m not. Tell me what you’ve heard.”

  Lumpy sighs. “Just before the end of the Abominations, a group of rebels left the war and went east to find a place where they could create an oasis of peace and learning.”

  Roan nods with recognition. “Those were the First Ones.”

  Lumpy eyes him. “That’s right, they’re called the First Ones. So you have heard these stories.”

  “My great-grandfather was a First One.”

  “Then what is somebody from the legendary village of peace doing with a hook-sword?”

  “I told you, I was captured by Saint.”

  “Well, you’re carrying the sword now, aren’t you?” snaps Lumpy, stomping away.

  Roan tries to catch up, wanting to explain, but Lumpy won’t have it. He merely walks faster. Roan’s only consolation is knowing they’re increasing their distance from the Friends.

  For another five days they keep up their pace, constantly on the lookout for pursuers. They speak only as necessity requires. Every night, while Lumpy sleeps, Roan practices his martial movements, in preparation for whatever threat may come. When he’s ready to rest, the cricket sings him to sleep, and Roan dreams the same dream of Longlight.

  THE VILLAGE IS RUBBLE, THE FIRE HOLE SMOLDERING. THE STREETS ARE EMPTY. THEN ROAN HEARS SOMEONE SINGING. A MELODY HE KNOWS. IT’S HIS MOTHER'S VOICE.

  HER SONG COMES FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SHATTERED TOWN HALL. HE RUNS TOWARD THE BUILDING AND GLIMPSES HER BACK, HER LONG BRAIDED HAIR AS SHE DISAPPEARS INTO THE RUINS.

  HE RUNS THROUGH THE DOOR. THE HALL IS EMPTY. HE LISTENS. HEARS FOOTSTEPS. BEHIND A FALLEN PILLAR, HE GLIMPSES HIS MOTHER MOVING TOWARD THE OUTSIDE. HE CHASES HER INTO THE APPLE ORCHARD, WHERE RIPE FRUIT IS HEAVY ON THE BRANCHES. HE SEES HER STEP OUT FROM BEHIND A TREE.

  “I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU, ROAN. I’VE MISSED YOU SO MUCH.”

  ROAN STUDIES HER FACE, HER DARK EYEBROWS, HER BEAUTIFUL LIPS CURLED INTO A SMILE. HE TAKES A TENTATIVE STEP TOWARD HER. “IS IT REALLY YOU?”

  TEARS RUN DOWN HER FACE. “HOW CAN YOU DOUBT IT?”

  “MOTHER, I’VE MISSED YOU TOO.” HE TAKES ANOTHER STEP FORWARD, BUT A STRAND OF WEB CATCHES HIS ARM, WINDING ITSELF AROUND HIM. AS THE THREAD COVERS HIS FACE, HE SEES HIS MOTHER’S FACE CHANGE. NOW HER FACE IS THE FACE OF STOWE.

  “ROAN! DON’T GO, PLEASE. WHERE ARE YOU? I NEED YOU!”

  THE WEB THICKENS AND HE’S HIDDEN FROM STOWE, THOUGH HER ANGUISHED CRIES STILL PIERCE HIS HEART.

  Every morning Roan wakes tormented from this dream, as if the web barrier still binds him. The real Stowe is trying to reach him, he knows. But in the dream he can sense the malevolent force behind her. It alarms him. What’s happening to his sister?

  Roan keeps his troubling dreams to himself and walks each day lost in contemplation. But this morning his thoughts are interrupted when he and Lumpy come to a clear running stream. Lumpy eyes it suspiciously and sniffs.

  “What do you think?” asks Roan.

  Lumpy starts gulping it down, and Roan joins in. It’s the deepest stream and the freshest water they’ve yet encountered. After they’ve filled their water sacks, Roan sets the cricket on a rock, strips, and jumps in. It’s so cold he has trouble catching his breath, but the feeling of fresh water on his filthy skin is exhilarating.r />
  “Come on in!” he yells.

  With a crazed screech, Lumpy leaps into the stream with his clothes still on, soaking in the shallow water. Roan grabs his own clothes, and rubs his shirt and pants on the rocks.

  “Blood doesn’t wash out.”

  “I’m working on the stink,” replies Roan, wishing Lumpy was wrong, that somehow the dark blotches of blood would disappear.

  At midday, as they round a bend, they see a village in the distance. Lumpy scrambles up the riverbank and into the brush, heading away from the town.

  “What are you doing?” calls Roan.

  “Avoiding trouble.”

  Roan’s incredulous. “But we can get fresh food there.”

  “We can live without it.”

  “I have some old coins I can use to buy supplies.”

  Lumpy’s eyes narrow. “What if Saint’s put a bounty on your head?”

  “I won’t tell them my name. I won’t say where I’m from. I’ll just use my coins to buy us some fresh bread and vegetables. Wouldn’t you like to eat some real food for a change?”

  “If you want to go, go by yourself,” says Lumpy, with finality. He holds out his hand. “Maybe we’ll meet again.”

  Roan hesitates, feeling the pull of the village, the chance to visit with other people, to have a roof over his head. He’s still unable to completely trust Lumpy. How can he, after all that’s happened? But who’s to say the village will be safe? Lumpy’s helped him and guided him. He’s clearly no ally of Saint’s.

  Roan stands a moment, then grips his companion’s scarred, disfigured hand and smiles ruefully. “You’re right. It’s a stupid idea. Let’s get out of here.”

  Lumpy offers his crooked half-smile in reply.

  That night, as Roan and Lumpy sit chewing their dried food by a glowing moss fire, Roan muses about the village they passed.

  “Why did you want to avoid that place? The price on my head’s reason enough for me, but what were you afraid of?”

  “I told you. Everyone this side of Barren Mountain knows what Mor-Ticks can do.”

  “But there are no Mor-Ticks on you.”

  “Would you bet your whole village on it?”

  Roan is silent.

  “When people are afraid, they do terrible things,” says Lumpy gravely. “Have you ever been stoned? Beaten with sticks? Thrown down a ravine? That’s what happened to me in the first three villages I went to for help.”

  Roan shakes his head in disgust. “Didn’t you fight back?”

  “Is that the way they taught you in Longlight?”

  “No, and they’re all dead because of it.” Filled with a frustration he doesn’t understand, Roan spits into the moss fire, making smoke and a few sparks that fly up into the air.

  Lumpy glares at him. “Idiot!”

  Roan, realizing his mistake, throws dirt on the fire.

  “Too late,” mutters Lumpy.

  “Do you think anyone saw it?”

  “Let’s not wait around to find out.”

  They grab their packs and stumble off into the moonlit night. Through the long dark hours, weary as they are, they don’t stop even to drink. Lumpy noiselessly slips through the brush, careful to not break any fallen sticks that might leave a trail. Roan follows, shamed by the thoughtless act that has put them at risk. Twigs fly back as Lumpy pushes through, and Roan allows branch after branch to slap against him. It’s a penance he feels obliged to pay.

  “ROAN, YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG WAY.”

  ROAN GLIMPSES STOWE, PEEKING THROUGH A BLUE LACE CURTAIN. THE CURTAIN FLUTTERS.

  “TURN BACK.”

  ROAN TURNS. THE BROWN RAT IS LOOKING AT HIM.

  “KEEP MOVING WEST.”

  “TURN BACK, ROAN, TURN BACK!”

  “IT’S A TRAP,” THE RAT SAYS. “KEEP MOVING. WEST.”

  “What are you doing? Wake up!”

  Roan, surprised, sees Lumpy’s face inches from his own.

  “You were walking like you were in some kind of trance.”

  “I was—” Roan stops himself. “Sorry, guess I’m tired.”

  “Yeah. We’ve been pushing pretty hard.”

  Lumpy sits, leaning against a tree. The first light of day is filtering through the leaves. Roan looks down at him. “Why won’t you tell me where we’re headed?”

  Lumpy picks up a stick, mumbling, “It’s nowhere special.”

  “I’d like to know.”

  “I’ve heard rumors.”

  “Of what?”

  Lumpy, embarrassed, turns his face away from Roan. “A healing place. A storyteller came to our village years ago and talked about it. Physicians and rebels gathered there after the Abominations.”

  “You think they can help you?”

  “Probably not. It’s a long shot, likely a myth, but if Longlight is...was real, then maybe...”

  “And you know where this place is?”

  Lumpy nods.

  “What are we waiting for?” Roan exclaims. Wrapping his coat around his head, he trots off, Lumpy close behind.

  THE LABYRINTH

  OASIS EXISTS. I KNOW IT DOES, THOUGH I MYSELF HAVE NEVER SEEN IT. BUT ANYONE WHO PAYS HEED TO TALES OF IMMORTALS THRIVING IN CAVES OF LIGHT IS A FOOL.

  —LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS

  FIRED WITH ENTHUSIASM to reach the healing place, Roan and Lumpy push themselves to their limits, sleeping little and resting less. They drink what water crosses their path and feed on tree sap and grubs, which to Roan’s relief are much easier to eat than termites.

  As they near their destination, the terrain changes abruptly. The ground is torn up where bombs once blasted the roads. Huge pieces of concrete and steel lie scattered like scraps of paper. They’ve arrived at the ruins of what appears to have been a small, prosperous city. Hollowed-out, half-collapsed buildings, some standing ten stories high in sections, line the broken sidewalks. The rusting relics of smashed cars and overturned buses, the first Roan has ever seen, litter the ruptured streets. There’s no sign of life apart from a few weeds and vines that thrust up from the shattered remains, but there are many shadows, and the travelers become more and more apprehensive.

  “This is the place?” asks Roan.

  Lumpy nods his head. “This was the last city the rebels held. Bombs were dropped on it for four weeks straight, night and day. If what the storyteller said is true, some rebels came back to keep the healing place alive. The building must be here somewhere.”

  They weave through the crumbled concrete, searching block after desolate block. Lumpy doesn’t say a word, but Roan can feel his companion’s tension, his growing desperation. Just as Roan begins to doubt they’ll ever find it, there, in tatters, is a white flag with a bold red cross hanging over a large, damaged entranceway.

  Lumpy points at some broken letters above the threshold: H...P...T...A...L. “Do you know what they mean?”

  “Some of the letters are missing, but I think it once spelled hospital.”

  “What’s a hospital?”

  “A place people went to be healed. They had medicines there, and special machines and doctors and nurses. The red cross on that flag means first aid. This must be the place you heard about.”

  “Let’s go!” shouts Lumpy. He squeezes through the en­trance, followed by Roan.

  Inside, the hospital is all walls and rubble. They pick their way through hallways blocked by dead ends where the ceiling has fallen in or floors have collapsed. It’s obvious this structure had once been filled with beds where people were healed; countless skeletons lie entangled in the rusting frames, fragile wisps of cloth still clinging to the bones.

  “This might not be the place,” says Roan.

  “It’s a hospital,” Lumpy replies, a quav
er in his voice.

  “It was once.”

  Through a gaping hole in a wall lies what must have been a clinic. This area is in much better condition than the rest of the hospital. There are a dozen beds, the cabinets are intact, and the floors are dusty but free of rubble.

  Lumpy rifles through the cupboards. Roan joins him, but most of the cupboards are bare, and the few jars they do find are empty. Lumpy slams the last cupboard shut and slumps down on a dust-covered bed. Roan can see tears clouding his dark eyes.

  “Raiders must have gotten to this place. Let’s go,” Roan says gently.

  Lumpy shakes his head. “I’ve staked a lot of hope on this place. I’m not ready to leave yet.”

  Roan nods sympathetically and squeezes back through the dark corridor, planning to wait outside. Pondering his companion’s dilemma, he distractedly steps out into the light of day. For one critical moment, the bright sun blinds him. In that instant, two spears push against his ribs. Behind them, five horses but only one rider. Brother Wolf.

  “We don’t intend to harm you, Roan of Longlight. The Prophet lives. He wishes to see you.”

  Hearing his former teacher’s voice has a galvanizing effect on Roan. He empties his mind, completely focusing on the threat. Four Brothers are off their horses, two with spears. Where are the other two? A quick glance doesn’t reveal them, so he deals with the immediate danger. He feints, pushing one spear aside and grabbing the other with his free hand. He pulls hard, dragging the Brother off balance, and knocks him against the wall. Roan turns to the other assailant, blocking the man’s spear thrust. Leaning in, he grabs his opponent’s arms and hauls him down. Jumping on the fallen man, he whirls to face the other Brother, who is now back on his feet. The two of them leap into the air, but Roan is faster. Grabbing the Brother’s arm in midair, Roan yanks it toward him and deals a precise blow to the vital point below the armpit. The Brother groans, falls. Roan reaches back, grabbing his hook-sword from his pack. But Brother Wolf has already dismounted.

  “You’ve improved,” says Wolf, aiming a kick at Roan’s neck and swinging down with his own sword. Roan blocks the kick and deflects Wolf’s weapon with a crash of his hook-sword. But Wolf’s fist lands a ringing blow to Roan’s ear. Momen­tarily stunned, Roan can’t stop his teacher’s next sword stroke. It hits Roan’s hilt with such force that his hook-sword flies from his hand, out of reach. “Sur­render,” orders Brother Wolf.