The Dirt Eaters

by Dennis Foon

  Roan keeps his eyes on the stone floor, his face flushing. “It all happened so fast...I never said good-bye.” He stops, fighting the mass of unresolved grief welling up inside.

  Haron puts his hand on Roan’s shoulder. “What your family shared didn’t require good-byes. They were proud of you, I’m sure, and understood you loved them. They knew you better, Roan, than you know yourself.”

  Roan looks at the old man, uncomprehending.

  “Your great-grandfather, Roan of the Parting, was a visionary. He could see it would take a long time to rebuild the world, generations. And Longlight was set to a purpose. You are the culmination of that purpose. Your parents knew it. That’s the reason you were given his name, the name of your great-grandfather and my old friend.”

  “Why was I never told of this?”

  “These are things best left unexplained. None of us is certain what the future brings. We make plans, we have hopes, we suggest and perhaps even urge a little. Beyond that, we can do no more. All will become clear to you through experience.”

  “Winter’s over. I feel it is time to leave, Haron.”

  “You’re on a path, Roan. You carry our dreams, too.”

  In the dinner cave, those at Roan’s table eat quietly.

  “I heard you were going. Leaving without telling me?” asks Lumpy, looking at his food.

  “You’ve wandered alone a long time, Lumpy. I understand why you’d want to stay.”

  “You do?” Lumpy asks, his face a mask.

  “Yes. I do.”

  In the hours since making his decision, Roan’s determination has hardened. He knows the road will be difficult, but he’s learned some lessons along the way. Lumpy has taught him how to survive in the outside world. And he will.

  Roan catches Sari’s eye. “In the morning.”

  “You’re prepared?”

  “Yes.” But the good-byes to come are a burden on his heart.

  Next morning, Roan finds that Sari has left out a set of travel clothes for him. When he goes to the library to take his leave of Orin and the librarians, they all shake his hand gravely and wish him luck. Orin presents him with what looks like an old, weathered book. But when Roan opens it, he sees that the pages are blank.

  “Where did you get this...how did you find it?” Roan stammers. Paper itself is difficult to find, but an old unused journal is impossibly rare. “I can’t accept it,” he says. “It’s too valuable.”

  “Then make the words count,” Orin says. “Tuck it safely away. One day you’ll feel the need to fill up those empty pages.”

  Relenting, Roan grips the librarian’s hand. “Thank you, Orin. I’ll often think about you, and our talks here.”

  Roan adds the gift to his well-stocked rucksack, hook-sword bound to its side. Then he pulls out two of the books he’s been carrying with him since leaving the Friends. “I’d like to add these to the library,” Roan says.

  Orin fingers through them. “Machiavelli! Plato! What treasures! Oh!” He enthusiastically sits down with them and buries his nose in the pages. Roan gives him a pat on the back. With a last look around the library, he steps into the stone corridor, where Haron waits to bid him farewell.

  Haron cups a fire stone and a piece of steel into Roan’s hand. Roan looks into the old man’s eyes. “Thank you for being my friend.”

  Haron smiles, and as he slides his fingers over the wall, it opens. Sari, Lumpy, Lelbit, and a few guards wait on the other side. The group’s mood is somber as they weave their way through the intricate passages. When they arrive at their destination, Sari pauses before the final doorway.

  “This leads out onto a mountain thirty miles east of the place you seek—the bubbling lake. We’ve packed rope for your trek down. It will be difficult, but it’s the least exposed route. At the foot of the mountain is a dead forest. Its southern edge is overgrown with Nethervines, which you know to avoid. Follow the sun west across the forest. Some poison left from the Abominations still haunts the wood. Do not pause: you will not survive it. You must arrive at the old road before sunset. Continue west along it, and the way will be clear.”

  Roan turns to her. “I’ll miss you.”

  Sari’s eyes are clear and strong. She puts her hands on his shoulders. “You journey for us all. Go straight and true, and never doubt we are with you.”

  “Thank you,” says Roan.

  Sari lays her hand on the fracture that marks the threshold, and the door to the outside world opens. A wall of plummeting water, fed by the spring runoff, thunders before them, sun glimmering through its mist. Blinking in the bright light, Roan follows Sari across a ledge. The others follow. At the far side of the ledge, Sari leaps and kicks a jutting stone. To Roan’s astonishment, a stone bridge slides out from the rock face. As Sari crosses onto it, she blazes with sunlight, again the angel Roan first imagined her to be. He follows her and his lungs fill with fresh, crisp air. He marvels at the expanse of snow-capped peaks, sheer rock cliffs and, far to the west, barren flatlands dappled with melting snow.

  “The trail begins beyond the bluff,” says Sari, pointing.

  Roan turns to Lumpy, arms open, dreading this farewell. But Lumpy’s turned away.

  Lumpy clears his throat. “I’m going with you,” he says as he hoists a pack over his shoulder.

  Roan can hardly believe it. “What about Lelbit?”

  “She figures you wouldn’t last a week out there without me.”

  Lelbit nods in agreement, a slight smile on her face.

  “I can manage fine, really.”

  “Wild dogs’d sniff you out in five minutes.”

  “You’ve taught me a few things.”

  “Not enough.”

  “The place I’m headed, there’s a town there. It might be dangerous.”

  “Good. I was starting to get too soft.”

  Lelbit takes Lumpy’s hand and presses it against her heart. Then she follows the others back into the waterfall. Sari waves a final good-bye before the threshold closes behind them.

  Roan pulls the snow cricket out of his pocket, and they both let the sunshine warm them. The cricket rubs its wings together and sings. Roan turns for one last look at where Sari stood. There, before the waterfall, is the mountain lion.

  “TRAVEL WELL, ROAN OF LONGLIGHT.”

  Roan blinks, and the lion’s gone.

  THE WOUND THAT WOULD NOT HEAL

  THE SCARLET CLOUDS BEGAT THE RED RAIN THAT BURNED ALL THAT IT TOUCHED. AND THE RED RAIN BEGAT THE DEADLY NETHERVINES AND THEIR SEDUCTIVE FLOWERS.

  —THE WAR CHRONICLES

  “THIS LOOKS LIKE the way down,” says Lumpy. He takes a step and slips on the moist orange fungus that covers the rocks. Unscathed, he hops back up.

  “Wait!” Roan breathes, steadying himself, and peers at the slope below. “This way,” he says, and begins carefully stepping down the hidden trail.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m not sure. When I focus I can just see it.”

  Lumpy gives him a curious look, then shrugs. “I’m right behind you.”

  They travel in silence until they find themselves on the brink of a precipice. Lumpy inches his face over the edge, then immediately pulls back, looking dizzy.

  “There’s got to be another way.”

  Roan shakes his head. “The rocks are too slippery for us to make it back up. Our only choice is down. Let’s use the rope. We can anchor it around that tree.”

  “You call that a tree?” Lumpy tests the small, scraggly growth by grabbing around its gnarled trunk and pulling with all his weight. “I guess it’ll do.”

  “Do you want to hang over and have a look?” asks Roan.

  “I’d like to keep my breakfast,” says Lumpy. “Please, be my guest.”

  Roan bin
ds the rope around his waist. Lumpy sits by the tree, digs his heels into a small outcropping, and grabs the rope for extra security. Roan moves to the ridge, energized by the vast landscape, the bracing air, and the endless sky. He looks down at the sheer drop and grins.

  “You actually like this?” clucks Lumpy in disbelief.

  “In Longlight, we had this tall tree, Big Empty. I was the first to climb it. After that, I was always looking for something higher and harder to climb,” says Roan. He lowers himself over the edge. Dangling in the air, he spots a shelf. He swings his legs forward and lands, pressing his chest to the bare rock face, fingers lodged into a crack in the stone. “Come on,” he shouts up to his partner, “hang your legs over!”

  Lumpy leans over the edge. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “You, yeah. It’s the sheer cliff with nothing but air for support I’m not sure of,” calls Lumpy. He grabs the rope and lowers his feet, letting Roan guide them into position. When he’s within reach, Roan secures him on the shelf and Lumpy stands, breathless. He peeks cautiously over his shoulder. “Great view,” he gasps.

  “This ledge keeps going down the rock face,” Roan tells him. “With any luck, it will take us right to the foothills.”

  The footing is tricky, but they’re able to follow the abutment until they arrive at a platform of granite overlooking the land below. Roan and Lumpy sit for a drink of water and take in the view. Gigantic tree stumps stretch as far as the eye can see, tantalizingly out of reach. Infesting their eastern edge, as Sari warned, is an overgrowth of Nethervines.

  “This forest must have been incredible. Look how wide the stumps are. Those trees took centuries to grow,” Roan says sadly.

  “They were cut down in the days before the Abom­inations,” Lumpy explains. “Some people say the trees would have died anyway, when the Red Rains came. But how can they know that would have happened? A storyteller came to my village and told the tale. Funny learning the truth in Oasis about who the storytellers really are and why they do it. It’s a good idea, using stories to change the way people think. It worked on me. You start figuring out things for yourself. After I heard those stories I never trusted the City or the Friends. Hardly any of us did.”

  “Well, the storyteller I met certainly tried to make me think about things.”

  “Like what?”

  “The Forgotten have expectations of me, but they’re vague about what those are, exactly. Kamyar seemed to be saying I should get some concrete answers.”

  “He’s probably right. Think about it. Everything from those dreams to the way you use your eyes. There are things you’ve got to do, Roan, and I’m going to help you do them if I can.”

  The idea of fulfilling some kind of destiny makes Roan nervous. How does he begin to tell Lumpy about his great-grandfather and the brown rat, to discuss what it all might mean, when he knows so little himself? Besides, Sari said they must be out of the forest by sunset. Better to deal with the problem at hand.

  “First things first,” Roan says. “As far as I can see, there’s only one way to go. Once we’re down this lip, we’ll be on those slopes, and they’ll take us right to the bottom.”

  Roan leans over, resting his gaze on the seemingly sheer rock face. After a minute, he sees the way. Bending down, he squeezes his left fist into a large fissure in the rock. “We use the cracks.” Gripping his fist tight to hold his position, he shifts his body and stretches out his left leg, finding a tiny toehold. The fingertips of his right hand slip into a small crack. Once his right leg finds a toehold, he’s facing the rock and ready to go.

  “You have to be kidding,” shudders Lumpy, hanging back.

  “I’m stable. Use me,” Roan commands. Lumpy reaches out, braces his left hand on Roan’s shoulder, and turns his body. Pressing his front against the stone, he lowers his toes onto a slight outcropping.

  “Keep going!” shouts Roan, who’s already begun spidering down.

  Lumpy obeys, making a steady descent. He moves with increasing confidence, finally pulling even with Roan. “We’re doing it!” he grins.

  In that moment of broken concentration, Lumpy’s toehold crumbles. As Lumpy falls, Roan grabs his friend’s wrist with his free hand. Fist aching, barely able to maintain his grip, he shouts, “Find a toehold!”

  Lumpy feels with his toe, detecting a ledge. “Got it,” he yells. But just as he releases his full weight, it crumbles. The sudden jolt is too much for Roan. His fist bursts out of the safe hold, and the two of them plunge down the steep slope, rolling all the way to the edge of the forest.

  Lumpy’s up first. He’s limping, but seems to have eluded major injury. His pack has burst open in the fall, and as he retrieves his things, his eyes and Roan’s settle on a jar that’s rolled into the Nethervines, far out of reach. The healing salve.

  “You need that stuff every day,” says Roan. “Let’s get it.”

  Lumpy shakes his head. “Leave it. Getting poisoned by one of those thorns would be a lot worse than what I’m facing.”

  Roan looks at him. “Are you sure?”

  Lumpy nods. Then he sees a drop of blood on Roan’s sleeve. “You’re cut!”

  “No, we stopped before we hit the Nethervines.”

  “Not quite.” Lumpy points at a narrow branch of Nethervine that curls past the spot where Roan landed.

  Lumpy has a closer look at Roan’s arm. Just below Roan’s elbow is a small thorn. “We’ve got to get it out,” says Lumpy urgently.

  He picks up two small, sharp stones, then delicately grips the thorn between them and removes it. The area around the tiny wound’s already inflamed. “Lie down,” Lumpy orders. “Movement spreads the poison.”

  “I can’t even feel it,” Roan protests.

  “You will, I hope. Get down.”

  Lumpy cuts a length of rope and ties it around Roan’s bicep, above the scratch, making a tourniquet. Then he pries some wood off an old stump and starts a fire. Taking a piece of cloth, he coats it with an unguent he was given in Oasis, heats it, then presses the cloth against Roan’s wound.

  “Do you feel it now?”

  “Yeh,” moans Roan. “I do. It’s burning.”

  “Good. It’s when you can’t feel the pain that you’re in trouble. The more poison there is in your system, the more it numbs you. Stay still.”

  Roan is overwhelmed by a tidal wave of fire. He steadies himself, rising to the assault, mustering every cell in his body to battle the invader.

  Lumpy repeats the extraction treatment four more times, then throws the cloth into the fire and watches as it bursts into flame.

  Looking up weakly, Roan rasps, “Can we take off the tourniquet? My fingers are going numb.”

  Lumpy checks the wound. “The inflammation’s gone down.”

  As the rope is released, Roan flexes his fingers, feeling the blood rush back into them. The sun is still high in the sky.

  “Time to go.”

  “I’m not sure you’re up to it,” Lumpy says.

  “Sari said we have to get across the forest by sunset.”

  “There’s probably still poison in you.”

  “We have to risk it.”

  Lumpy reluctantly acquiesces, but first sets out some food. Roan woozily eats and drinks a little, then gets himself up and pulls his pack on. But the ordeal’s weakened him. Keeping his mind fixed on the wound and mentally fighting the Nethervine toxin prevents him from moving quickly. He feels Lumpy close behind. He can sense his friend’s concern at his every caught breath, every stumble.

  Their footsteps are the only sound in this forest graveyard. No crows or sparrows. No insects buzzing. No rustling of animals or leaves. They are the only living things here, and that dawning realization fills them with dread.

 
“There’s got to be at least a bug. This would be a perfect place for grubs,” says Lumpy. Prying off a piece of bark, he exposes nothing but decay. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  Roan feels in his pocket for the snow cricket, but the insect is still.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Roan looks at Lumpy, worried. “It isn’t moving.”

  “Let me see.”

  Roan cautiously lifts the cricket from his pocket and holds it in his open palm. Lumpy touches it lightly with his finger. Nothing. Lumpy looks at Roan, grief-struck.

  Roan’s heart sinks. The cricket’s been with him from the beginning. Its song has woven itself into his very being, kept him safe, warned him whenever danger was present...

  “We have to get out of here!”

  Lumpy nods. Roan slips the cricket back into his pocket, and they take off at a swift clip, following the sun. But Roan’s unable to keep up. The vibration of every footfall rips through his arm. Drenched in sweat, moving only through sheer force of will, he notices that Lumpy has also slowed his pace, wincing in pain. Without the Mor-Tick salve, the discomfort he was once accustomed to has come roaring back. But the two of them plod on as the sun dips perilously close to the horizon.

  “ROAN? ARE YOU HERE?”

  STOWE PEERS BLINDLY THROUGH A THICK MIST, THEN DISAPPEARS INTO THE VAPOR.

  Lumpy looks blearily at Roan. “We’re almost at the end. I hope.”

  Though Roan knows it’s a bad idea, he lets himself crumple to the ground. “I need to rest now. Just for a few minutes.”

  “No! We’ve got to keep going,” says Lumpy. But once he’s spoken the words, he collapses next to Roan.

  Drifting into unconsciousness, Roan feels hands gripping him below the shoulders, pulling him to where the air feels safe and good. He drinks it in as the dark mists of slumber overtake him.

  Stirred by the warmth of the sun, Roan groggily opens his eyes. Slowly, painfully, he sits up, his arm aching. Lumpy, beside him on a clump of speckled grass, wakes at the sound. A hundred yards behind them is the dead forest. Snow-capped mountains lie beyond.