The Dirt Eaters

by Dennis Foon

  “Thanks for pulling me out of that forest.”

  Lumpy smiles. “My pleasure. Just wish I could remember doing it.”

  “Well, what matters is that we’re out.”

  Lumpy helps Roan up, and they have a look around. Just up a ridge is an old asphalt highway. Weeds have split its surface, and in the dried dirt scattered over the road, Lumpy points out an unsettling sign—hoofprints. Then Roan spots something worse: a sole tire track.

  “Have you ever seen one of these?” Roan asks his friend.

  “Motorcycle. I’ve only ever heard of one person having one.”

  Roan nods.

  “You think it’s him?”

  “He must have found another one. All things come to those who serve the City.”

  “Which way do you think those tracks are going?” asks Lumpy.

  Roan focuses his eyes on the tread mark, searching for any minute trace that will give him a clue. Then he sees it. Bits of soil thrown off by the tires. Roan’s eyes follow their trajectory.

  “We may be in luck. He’s headed east.”

  “Still, he may have left some men to go the opposite way,” Lumpy says, examining the hoofprints. “We have to get off the road and stay under cover.”

  They move to where a brush-covered ditch runs parallel to the road. Roan feels the cricket shift in his pocket. Using his good arm, he reaches in and brings it out. “Welcome back,” Lumpy says to the insect. “I guess he was doing some kind of hibernation to get through those woods.”

  Whatever the explanation, Roan’s relieved the cricket has survived. As he bends to set the precious insect down on the grass, the ground tilts and an icy wave sweeps across his whole body. He shivers. It’s a snowstorm, he’s trapped. Trapped, floating on frigid water, the snow falling, falling, falling...

  “Roan!”

  He opens his eyes. Lumpy’s standing inches from him, looking anxious.

  “You’re sweating.”

  “I’m cold, the snow.”

  “You have a fever.”

  Lumpy takes his arm, and Roan cries out. “Don’t, please, don’t touch it!”

  As Lumpy gingerly rolls back Roan’s sleeve, they see his arm has grown huge and purplish.

  “It’s swelling,” says Lumpy, alarmed. “I should have tried to get more poison out when I had the chance. Roan, I have to take your ring off.”

  Roan nods blearily. Lumpy slowly removes Saint’s ring, every movement marked by Roan’s labored breaths.

  “Hey, it’s not that bad,” Roan says, his eyelids heavy.

  “We need to get you help.”

  “I just need some rest.”

  “It’ll have to wait.” Lumpy looks far out in the distance. “There’s some smoke. A village.”

  “Just sleep a little more...,” murmurs Roan.

  “No! We have to go now,” Lumpy insists. Tucking the ring into one of his own pockets for safekeeping, Lumpy clutches his friend by the waist, and they begin their trek.

  In a haze, Roan puts one foot ahead of the other, barely seeing the red-raw bark on the stick trees that shift in the breeze, or the ebony beetles whose thick webs span the spindly branches. Lumpy guides and coaxes him, always driving them on.

  “How’s the pain?” Lumpy asks.

  Roan breathes heavily. In a haze, he glances down. His arm is swollen to twice its natural size.

  “There is no pain,” Roan murmurs.

  Lumpy dribbles a few drops of water over Roan’s parched lips.

  Through the fog that shrouds him, Roan can see that Lumpy is afraid.

  “Hang on, Roan, you’ve got to hang on till I get you there.”

  Roan’s eyes waver as the white cricket sings to him. They settle on something in the distance.

  “What is it?” Lumpy asks.

  Something unusual stands twisted in the bracken behind some trees. Going to investigate, Lumpy pulls out what looks like a harness, roughly constructed, woven from the same red wood that surrounds them. He turns to Roan.

  “Look. We can use this. Stay still and I’ll get it around you.”

  Roan feels Lumpy bind the harness around his waist. He tries to focus, to concentrate on his breathing, but he can’t.

  “ROAN?”

  STOWE IS HOLDING A LONG STICK, PROBING WITH IT INTO THE FOG.

  “ARE YOU THERE? TAKE HOLD OF THIS. ROAN?”

  “Stowe,” Roan mutters.

  Lumpy leans in close to his face. “Stay with me, Roan. Open your eyes. Roan, I’m gonna carry you.”

  Roan gazes at him, the face shifting into view. “Lumpy.”

  “I’m going on the other side of you to put my arms through the other straps. Stay awake, Roan, you gotta stay awake!”

  Lumpy disappears from Roan’s view. Then Roan feels a bump and he’s lifted up, his weight on Lumpy’s back, his legs dragging behind. They slowly start to move. Roan hears Lumpy’s labored breathing as he drifts in and out of consciousness. Through red wood. Red trees. The goat-woman’s forest. “Are you here?” he calls out to her.

  But only Lumpy answers. “I’m here,” he pants. “We’re gonna be okay.”

  Roan’s back is hot and wet from Lumpy’s sweat. His eyes dully scan the stick trees, searching for the old creature, trying to summon her. Then Lumpy’s voice bursts into the reverie. “Talk to me, Roan. Say something!”

  “Red trees.”

  “You’ve seen them before?” asks Lumpy, his voice quavering with each heavy step. “Keep talking to me! Roan! Have you seen them before?”

  “Yes,” Roan mumbles.

  “Where?”

  Roan drifts away.

  Lumpy’s voice calls him back. “Roan! Where?”

  “In...in a dream.”

  Roan feels his body lurch as Lumpy stumbles, falling to his knees on the ground.

  “Sorry, sorry.” Lumpy mutters. “Are you alright, Roan?”

  “Alright.”

  “I tripped, that’s all. Everything’s okay,” Lumpy tells him, but he’s slow to rise up again and, once straight, he stands without moving. “Are you with me, Roan?”

  “With you.”

  Lumpy starts to plod ahead again, one step tottering after another.

  A foul odor taints the air. “Smell...”

  “You’re right, something stinks. It’s in front of us!” As Lumpy moves faster, the stick trees grow thicker, and Roan feels Lumpy push through deepening clusters of web.

  “Look, Roan, look at it!”

  Roan blinks his eyes at a strange vision. Before him is a lake so enormous he can’t see the other side of it. Its waters teem and bubble, brackish brown. The only sign of life is crusted yellow seaweed. The lake he saw in his dream.

  Roan’s fevered eyes follow the shoreline. There are buildings wavering in the distance, set far back from the shore.

  “Do you see the town?” Lumpy asks.

  Roan’s eyelids flutter.

  “Keep breathing,” Lumpy begs.

  But it seems easier not to. Easier to just close your eyes. But something crawls on Roan’s cheek. He lifts one eyelid and glimpses something white. The cricket. It chirps, and Roan involuntarily sips in some air.

  “Just another half-hour or so. Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”

  Lumpy trudges forward. Roan drifts in and out until suddenly the footsteps stop. Roan feels himself being set down on hard ground.

  Someone is shaking him. “Roan, Roan! Talk to me, come on, please!”

  But Roan’s eyes won’t open.

  “Please don’t die on me, please!”

  The cricket creeps across Roan’s brow. Roan’s eye opens a little. He sees Lumpy’s face.

  “We’re here, Roan, we’r
e here!”

  Roan can see red-gray clouds looming large overhead.

  “Roan, listen to me. I have to leave you here. If they see me, they’ll think you’re infected. They’ve got to help you, it’s your only hope.”

  A tremor begins in Roan’s hand, spreads up his arm, and into his chest. Soon his whole body is convulsing.

  In the distance, he hears Lumpy’s voice. “Roan...Roan!”

  All at once, Roan is weightless. A cloud of tiny stars flickers around him. He is part of the sparkling ether, floating high above himself. Everything is glowing, but through the brilliance he can see the village, see himself and Lumpy, see a man in a watchtower shouting down at them.

  “Identify yourself!”

  “I found him caught in Nethervines,” Lumpy calls up, his face hidden by his hood. “Take pity on him.”

  “Why should we?”

  “He told me he has gold.”

  “We got a healer.”

  “Take him and get rich,” yells Lumpy as he escapes back into the forest.

  Two tall men cautiously emerge from the gates, holding battle-axes. They lean over Roan’s body and pick him up. Roan’s ether-self drifts after them, following them through the gates, down a street, into a house with deep blue ceramic tiles.

  THE BLESSED VILLAGE

  ALL THANKS TO GOVERNOR BRACK. HIS PEOPLE WERE POOR BUT NOW THEY’RE RICH. THEY DESPAIRED BUT NOW THEY HAVE HOPE. ALL THANKS TO GOVERNOR BRACK.

  —LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS

  THROUGH THE BRIGHT, flickering light, the room shimmers in Roan’s ether-eyes. Even the faces of the people glow. A young woman motions the two tall men forward. “Put him on the bed.”

  The man with the beard speaks respectfully to her as they lay Roan’s body down. “I wasn’t sure, Miss Alandra, but I was thinking this might be the one you was telling us to look out for.”

  “You did well. Thank you.”

  “His finder said he had some gold on him. No telling if it’s true or not, Miss Alandra, but if it is...”

  She gives him some coins. “For your trouble. If there’s any more I’ll let you know.”

  Roan hovers close to her, studying her face. Why does her voice sound so familiar?

  “We’ll go make our report to Governor Brack now.”

  “Please. No need to keep him waiting.”

  Roan watches the men leave. The woman called Alandra touches his wrists, feeling the pulse on both sides of his body.

  “The toxin’s spread through your abdomen and to your brain. Your heart and lungs are weak but still functioning.”

  Roan can see that his eyes are closed. Why is she speaking to his unconscious body?

  “You’re not what I expected.”

  The white cricket crawls out of his pocket and onto the woman’s hand.

  “Wonderful,” she sighs. “Hello.” It’s obvious she’s awe­struck by the insect. Setting it delicately aside, she lifts a sharp blade and cuts off Roan’s shirt. As she removes his shoes and pants, his knife and coins fall from their hidden pocket. She picks them up, lifts a floor stone, and deposits them inside, along with his pack and hook-sword. She then turns her attention back to Roan, placing her hands over his swollen blue-black arm. She doesn’t touch the arm but glides just above, her eyes closed. Then, combining powders and infusions, she gently smoothes them into a wet, gray-green clay, in which she encases Roan’s arm.

  Alandra slides a tray out from beneath the bed. Hundreds of needles rustle. She selects a very long, thin one, thrusting it an inch into Roan’s stomach. The needle instantly begins to vibrate.

  Roan, until this moment entirely free of sensation, is startled by a stabbing pain.

  With deft precision, Alandra inserts more needles, from the soles of Roan’s feet to a spot between his eyes. When she’s done, a forest of wildly quivering needles juts out from his skin.

  Roan’s ether-body quivers in the same frantic rhythm.

  Next, Alandra reaches into a jar filled with what look like Nethervine thorns. Plucking one out with tweezers, she drops it into a mortar and methodically crushes it into a powder. Adding various substances and a few drops of a clear liquid, she creates a small tablet that she places under Roan’s tongue.

  A singular fatigue envelops Roan as he drifts along with Alandra into a room full of jars. This must be her apothecary. Sliding her fingers to the back of a high shelf, she lifts out a small, inconspicuous vessel. Pinching a tiny amount of the substance inside, she nestles it on her tongue and swallows. She settles into a chair and closes her bright green eyes. After a few deep, long breaths, she is still.

  Suddenly heavy, Roan is slowly drawn back over his own resting body. He descends, weary, folding back into himself. Now one.

  At first, the searing pain is unbearable. But soon the medication radiating out from under his tongue puts him to sleep.

  TALL PILLARS AND HIGH CONCRETE WALLS. EMPTY SIDEWALKS STRETCH FOREVER.

  A MISSHAPEN MAN MADE OF CLAY CRIES OUT AS HE SINKS UP TO HIS WAIST IN THE CEMENT SIDEWALK.

  “I’M DROWNING!” THE CLAY MAN CALLS. HE HEARS A MUFFLED VOICE BEHIND HIM, BUT HE CANNOT TURN TO SEE THE SPEAKER.

  “YOU MUST PULL YOURSELF OUT.”

  “WHAT DO I DO?”

  “QUICKLY. THERE ISN’T MUCH TIME. RAISE YOUR HAND.”

  HE LIFTS HIS LARGE, AWKWARD HAND. THE UNSEEN FIGURE’S HAND EXTENDS TO HIS.

  “PRESS AGAINST MY PALM.”

  “IT HURTS!” THE MAN GASPS, AND JERKS AWAY.

  “GOOD, YOU’RE STILL ALIVE. TRY AGAIN. NOW!”

  THE CLAY MAN SHEDS TEARS OF EXERTION AND ANGUISH BUT SLOWLY DRAWS HIMSELF UP AN INCH.

  I AM THE CLAY MAN, ROAN THINKS. THE CLAY MAN IS ME.

  “KEEP WORKING. YOU HAVE A LONG WAY TO GO.”

  Awake but very weak, Roan tries to open his eyes.

  “Rest,” Alandra whispers to him.

  “Will he live?” asks a voice.

  Prying one eye open a crack, Roan sees a middle-aged man dressed in black through the blur of his lashes.

  “I don’t know yet, Governor Brack,” Alandra answers.

  “Did he say who he was?”

  “He hasn’t regained consciousness.”

  She’s lying to him. She must not trust this man, Roan realizes. Or does she have plans for me she doesn’t wish to share?

  “Where’s the gold?” asks the governor.

  Alandra shakes her head. Brack shrugs. “That companion of his likely poisoned and robbed him, then brought him to us in a fit of remorse.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “How will he pay for your time?”

  “The season is on, and spare hands are hard to find. I’ll use his labor once he’s well enough.”

  “If he balks,” the governor mutters, “we’ll throw him in the lake.”

  Alandra glares at him. “I’m not saving him just to see him dissolved.”

  Brack takes her hand. “Forgive me. My concern is for the community. We need you, Alandra. The children are your priority. It disturbs me to think an outsider might distract you from your duties.”

  “Thank you for your concern.”

  Roan watches Alandra close the door after Brack and take a long, deep breath. When she returns to Roan, she takes his wrists in her hands.

  “Your pulse is growing stronger.”

  She reaches into his mouth and takes his tongue in her fingers.

  Roan gags and his eyes fly open.

  “Don’t move!” Alandra warns, examining his tongue. “Good, there’s some color. You’ve improved already. The needles have done their work.”

  Within a few minutes, Alandra has extracted all the needles, and she supports Roan as he sits up unsteadily.

 
“Where I come from,” he says hoarsely, “needles are used for sewing cloth, not people.”

  “Ah, and where is that?”

  Cautious, Roan answers vaguely. “The other side of Barren Mountain.” He looks around and notices that the room is lit with lamps. Here is something he’s only read about. Excited, he asks, “You have electricity? Light bulbs?”

  “We have a generator. And solar power,” she smiles. “My name’s Alandra, what’s yours?”

  “Korr,” Roan replies warily.

  “Hmm, interesting name.”

  The more he hears Alandra’s voice, the more certain Roan is that he knows it. Where had he met her? Could it have been in Kira’s village? But an even more burning question demands an answer. “Where is my friend?”

  “He left you at our gates and fled, some would say like a criminal.”

  Roan shakes his head. “No, he...he hasn’t been around people very much. Shy.”

  “You’re lucky he brought you when he did. Another few hours, and I couldn’t have saved you. As it is, you still need a lot of rest, and your arm mold must be changed every two days.”

  “I can’t stay here. I have to meet someone.”

  “Your appointment will have to wait. The longer Nethervine poison stays in your body, the more powerful it becomes. If even the smallest amount is left unchecked, it will reassert itself and death will follow. My treatment takes time. But it will remove all the toxins from your body.”

  The woman has saved his life, after all. And Roan feels too weak to do much now. He’ll stay a few days, then slip away as soon as he’s strong enough.

  As if she could hear his thoughts, Alandra smiles. “You’ll need a month to fully heal. Any less, and the poison will kill you. There’s an extra bedroom here you can stay in.”

  “I need to find my friend.”

  “You think he’s still out there?”

  “I know it.”

  She considers. “I’ll take him some food and water.”

  “When?”

  “Now. If you promise to rest.”

  “You don’t know how to find him.”

  “There’s only one place he can hide. In the forest of stick trees. I’ll sing to him and leave the sack hanging from a branch. If he’s there, he’ll find it.”