Origin

by Jessica Khoury

  I can’t help it. I burst out laughing with disbelief. “No violence? No violence? You’ve killed how many people?”

  “Pia.” He looks at me with reproach. “You may want to look behind you.”

  I do, and so does Eio. Uncle Antonio tries to turn but is stopped by the prick of a needle against the back of his neck. He goes very still, and so does my heart.

  “Mother,” I breathe. “Don’t.”

  Her face is an icy mask, and her fingers, delicately holding the syringe of elysia, don’t even tremble. “Don’t move, Antonio. Don’t make me do it.”

  “Sooner or later, someone’s going to get injected today,” Paolo says. “Timothy?”

  Timothy comes forward and takes the guns from Uncle Antonio and Eio, neither of whom object.

  “Sylvia,” Uncle Antonio whispers. “We grew up together. Remember? You, me, and Will. We used to sneak into the labs and mix the chemicals, make explosions. We stole all the cook’s knives and hid them in the nurse’s closet. We let out all the animals in the menagerie at once. Remember that day? Old Sato running around, trying to catch that tapir…”

  “Shut up, Tony,” she says and turns to me. “It should have been me,” she whispers. “Only one generation removed…to think it. Here I am, trapped in this mortal, dying body, and you, you ungrateful, spoiled girl, don’t even know what you’ve got. It should have been me. I wouldn’t have disappointed him.”

  Him can only be Paolo. I gape at her, stunned once more by the venom I never knew she had. “You’re my mother.…”

  “I never asked to be” is her reply, and the words seem to crack the earth between us, creating a chasm no bridge could ever span.

  “Well, it seems we’ve all reached an understanding.” Paolo gestures to Timothy and Sergei, and they lower their guns. “There. That’s better. We’re civilized human beings, after all.”

  Over his shoulder, through the trunks of the trees planted in the center of the drive, I see the front gate opening. Who is operating it, I can’t make out. I glance sidelong and see that Uncle Antonio and Eio have seen it too.

  But my mother still has the needle pressed to Uncle Antonio’s neck.

  “If I stay,” I say suddenly, “and swear to do whatever you tell me—will you let Uncle Antonio and Eio go free?”

  Paolo gives me a thoughtful look. “Well, let’s see now. If—”

  He’s interrupted by an earsplitting screech. We all look up to see the Grouch go sailing overhead in a magnificent leap from the roof of A Dorms to the stand of trees in the drive, howling all the way. The branches rustle as he claws his way through them, and then he suddenly swings out and through the gap between the metal bars above the chain link, the same gap through which Ami escaped only this morning. The Grouch disappears into the jungle, his wild screech leaving a fading trail behind him.

  Someone—probably Uncle Jonas—has released all the animals, probably thinking that the ants might decide to make dessert of the menagerie. Parrots squawk and soar overhead, Jinx slips past like a shadow, and a troupe of monkeys do their best to catch up to the Grouch. Last of all, Alai lopes by, sleek and smooth as the wind, and he spares one golden glance at me before vanishing through the gate.

  We all seem to have lost the trail of our conversation, and it is Uncle Antonio who speaks first. He turns his head just enough to see both Eio and me. He gives Eio a long, deep look and a nod, and then he turns his gaze on me. I am terrified by the look I see in his eyes.

  “Remember, Pia,” he whispers. “Perfect is as perfect does.”

  He steps backward, and the needle slides into his neck. Mother, shocked, lets go of the syringe, and it falls to the ground, but not before half of its contents are injected directly into Uncle Antonio’s bloodstream. He crumples like paper to Mother’s feet.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The world opens beneath my feet, and I start toward Uncle Antonio, as do Paolo, Timothy, and Sergei. But Eio grabs my hand and pulls me away, and before they can reach us, we are off and running.

  Shouts echo after us. We do not stop. Through the stand of trees, across the drive, through the gate—I have only a brief moment to turn and see who has opened it for us.

  My father. My meek, gentle, mild-mannered father, who wouldn’t contradict someone even if they said the sky was green and the sun nothing more than a big lemon. He gives a sad little wave as we fly past, and there isn’t even time to call out to him. When I glance back, I see him being overtaken by Paolo and Timothy.

  Please don’t hurt him, I cry out inwardly. He never did anyone any wrong. The small gesture of help, though feeble compared to the hideous betrayal by my mother, is like a gentle salve on the wound she tore open in my soul. It doesn’t heal, but it helps. At least one of them was true, when it came down to the wire.

  Gunshots sing by our ears, and I even feel one bite the back of my leg. It stings like nothing I’ve ever felt before, but of course it doesn’t puncture.

  “Faster!” Eio yells, pulling me along with him. They can’t hope to keep up with us, me with my enhanced speed, Eio with his jungle upbringing.

  They can’t keep up with us, but their bullets can. Eio stumbles as one slams into his right shoulder, but he doesn’t fall.

  “You’re hit!” I pull on his hand, trying to stop him, but he shakes his head stubbornly and charges on, though at a slower pace, and we cut sideways, off the road and into the jungle.

  “Can’t…stop!” he yells, and I realize there are tears in his eyes. “I promised him I would take you away from here—and I will die before I fail him!”

  I cannot argue with that. I see Uncle Antonio fall again, see the life spill from his limbs, see his eyes lose their light. Now I’m crying too, and it makes me clumsy. We’ve outdistanced our pursuers, but Eio is growing weaker.

  “Are you okay?” I yell as I leap over a fallen log. He has to climb over it, and I finally slow to wait for him. “Can you make it? If they catch us, they’ll just shoot you again! For good, this time!”

  “I’m fine,” he insists. “Go. I’m right behind you.” To prove it, he picks up the pace.

  But only for a few steps. Then he stumbles and collapses. I run back and help him sit up. “Eio, you can’t go on like this. You’re bleeding too much.”

  “Mud,” he says, gritting his teeth. “To stop the bleeding. Leaves and mud.”

  I start digging right there, until my hands find the moist soil under the loam. I scoop up handfuls and give them to Eio, who smears them across his shoulder. He gasps with pain and shudders with each touch. I’ve never felt more helpless.

  Once his shoulder is caked in mud, he lies back and shuts his eyes, his chest moving in spasms. My own breathing comes jaggedly, as if my body is trying to mimic his.

  “Eio?” I take his hand in mine. “Eio, what do I do now? Should I get Kapukiri?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “What? What happened to him?” I involuntarily squeeze Eio’s hand in alarm.

  “Not Kapukiri.” Eio opens his eyes and stares up at the canopy. “Papi.”

  Oh, yes. That’s right. Uncle Antonio is dead. The image replays in my head: Uncle Antonio stepping into the needle, falling to the ground, sprawling unnaturally in the dirt. Chills run up and down my skin. I feel as though I’m covered in the flesh-eating ants.

  “Why did he do it?” I ask softly. “I was ready to bargain with them. You both could have been free.” But I know why he did it. I know too well. The noblest life is the one laid down for another.

  Eio shuts his eyes again. I wonder which hurts him more, the bullet or the grief.

  “Go, Pia. I’ll hide; they’ll never find me. Listen. The Ai’oans…they’re preparing to fight. They want to attack Little Cam. You must stop them.…They’ll only get killed.” He winces and pauses to catch his breath. “You have to keep going. I’ll be fine; the jungle is my home. It will…hide and protect me.”

  “Eio…”

  “Go,” he growls, sounding for all th
e world like his father.

  “Fine,” I hiss back. “But don’t go far. I’m coming back for you.”

  His eyes are shut against the pain, but he nods. I reach out and touch his cheek, run my thumb down the square line of his jaw. “Be safe.”

  “I will. You too.”

  “I mean it, Eio. You—you’re all I have left,” I whisper.

  “Go, Pia.”

  I run.

  Eio did not lie. The Ai’oans are in an uproar. The men are filling their gourds with curare, and even the women are gathering spears. I stumble down the row between the huts, looking for Achiri or Luri.

  Suddenly a hand grabs me by the back of my shirt and whirls me around, and I find myself staring Burako in the eye. His face is slashed with red paint, and his hand holds a knife—pointlessly, I think—to my throat.

  “You.” He shakes me and hisses. “Karaíba! Have you come to finish the job?” he asks in Ai’oan. “Come to kill our children, have you? Come to drink their blood? Murderer!”

  “No! Of course not! I came to help—”

  “Liar!” He presses the knife to my skin, and I wonder what he thinks that will solve.

  “Stop!” yells a small voice, and Ami appears at his elbow. “Let her go! She saved me!”

  Burako looks from me to Ami with uncertainty, but he doesn’t loosen his grip.

  Ami puts her hands on her hips and glares at him. “I said she saved me. She’s on our side, Burako!”

  In any other situation, seeing her try to cow the muscled warrior would be funny. As it is, I only breathe in relief when he lets me go. But there is still distrust in his eyes. I can’t really blame him.

  Ami throws her arms around my waist. “You’re here! Pia!”

  “Yes,” I say. “Your arm, Ami. How is it?”

  “I’m fine.” Someone has redone the bandage, so it’s tighter and neater, and I’m glad to see it seems to have stopped the bleeding. I’m also relieved the E13 didn’t leave her unconscious…or worse. But I don’t regret using it on her; if I hadn’t, she might not be alive.

  Ami looks around. “Where is Eio?”

  “He’s coming. He got hurt, but he’ll be okay.” He better be okay or I’ll kill him. “Where’s Achiri and Kapukiri?”

  She leads me to them. The Ai’oans greet me as I pass them, but they don’t stop making their preparations. Their faces are grim and angry and smeared with red paint. I have never seen them like this. I see none of their usual tranquility and acceptance. They remind me of Uncle Will’s ants: relentless, wild, and deadly.

  “Achiri!” When I see the headwoman, I run to her. She is painting Luri’s face with frightening jagged lines of paint as red as blood. I call out to her in Ai’oan. “Achiri, you must listen to me!”

  She doesn’t stop painting, but asks, “What is it, Pia bird? Where is the Farwalker?”

  “He’s hurt. He’s back in the jungle. Can you send someone to find him?”

  Achiri nods and snaps at several of the men, yelling for them to go search.

  I continue, “He sent me ahead to tell you—you can’t attack Little Cam!”

  She inspects her handiwork, grunting in satisfaction “Go, Luri.” Luri trots off after giving me a fierce smile. Achiri wipes her hands on her skirt and turns to me. “What is this now? First Ami comes to us, speaking of evil men who try to kill her, and you help her escape. Then Eio runs off to find you, and he does not return. Now here you are, telling us we should not defend ourselves against the ones who prey on our children?” She looks down at Ami and scowls. “Even if those children are stupid enough to wander off by themselves!”

  Ami scowls back. “I had to give Pia her necklace back!”

  “Silly girl,” Achiri snaps. “And so you go alone into the jungle? Tsk.” She looks up at me again. “Tell me, Pia bird, should we lay ourselves down at these foreigners’ feet to be slaughtered?”

  Intimidated by her strength—and by the angry red slashes painted across her face—I step back. “No! Of course not! Of all people, I know why you should fight! But they have guns, Achiri, and many Ai’oans will die if you face them like this.”

  She looks doubtful, and suddenly Burako appears at my right, speaking in Ai’oan. “We will fight! Do not listen to the foreigner girl. Look what trouble she has brought us!”

  “Shut up, Burako!” Achiri barks. “Kapukiri! Come!”

  The medicine man hobbles over. He alone does not wear face paint. Achiri points at me. “Pia tells us we should not fight. Burako says we should. Eio Farwalker has not returned yet.” She throws up her hands. “Fight or do not fight? There are too many voices and too many fingers pointing in different directions! Tell me, Kapukiri, have you seen the way we should take?”

  Kapukiri blinks owlishly at her, then looks around. The Ai’oans, aware now of the argument, fall silent and gather close to hear what their leader will say. Ami presses close to me, holding my hand in both of hers.

  “I have seen the mark of jaguar, mantis, and moon,” Kapukiri says at last, “in the eyes of the daughter of Miua. She who walks with the jaguar as her guardian and who cannot fall to spear or arrow, she has been sent to guide us.”

  The Ai’oans murmur in agreement, and only Burako scowls.

  Kapukiri extends a gnarled hand toward me. “Speak, Undying One, and we shall listen.”

  He steps back, and I find myself ringed by expectant Ai’oans. Speechless at first, it takes Ami’s steady gaze, so hopeful and confident in me, to bring the words out.

  “Ai’oa, I am, as you say, a karaíba, a foreigner. But you know the story of the Kaluakoa. You know that Undying Ones are only born if many die before them. This was true for the Kaluakoa, and it is true for me.” I close my eyes and draw a deep breath, wishing Eio were here, trying not to think of Uncle Antonio falling to the ground. If I can only hold myself together for a few more minutes…“I have learned today that many did die—and that they were of your blood. The scientists who created me used lies to deceive your people, and they used elysia—yresa—to…to kill them. Their blood was taken and passed on, and now it flows in me.” I hold up my arms, wrists out, as murmurs ripple through the villagers. “I am a foreigner, but my blood is Ai’oan, and this is a terrible, terrible evil. I cannot give you back your dead, but I can try to stop you from adding to their number. Please, do not attack Little Cam. The scientists have guns, and though I know you are all brave and true, your arrows are no match for them. I agree with you; the foreigners must leave. You must take back your jungle. But this is not the way.”

  “What, then?” asks Achiri.

  “Come with me to where the yresa grows.” The idea forms as I speak it, and I know it’s the only thing we can do. “If we destroy the flowers, we destroy the foreigners’ reason for being here. If the yresa is gone, the scientists will leave.”

  I step back to show that I am done speaking. They begin whispering, and the whispers grow louder and louder until Burako has to bellow to make them fall silent again.

  “I do not like what the Undying One has said,” he announces, and my heart starts to fall. “But her words are true.”

  I lift my chin hopefully. He nods and gives me a steady look. “We will go to the yresa, and we will destroy it all. No more shall die today.”

  Ami squeezes my hand and gives a squeal of glee.

  I want to feel her joy, and I am glad the Ai’oans listened to me. But at that moment all I want is Eio and to weep on his shoulder.

  It’s approaching evening when we finally reach Falk’s Glen. There are five guards here; perhaps Paolo anticipates us. But he hasn’t anticipated an entire tribe of Ai’oans. Paralyzing them with curare before they even see us is child’s play to these hunters of the jungle.

  Then our real work begins. The women empty their baskets of weapons, and we fill them with flowers.

  It’s strangely difficult for me to do it, even knowing what it costs for the flowers to be of any use. They are stained with the blood of dozens; but they
are still tied to my very existence. We share a little DNA, these flowers and I. But I must be merciless. Every last flower must go.

  The baskets are soon overflowing, so people begin piling up armfuls. We use shirts and leaves to carry them; some women even thread them in their hair. Purple and gold orchids are turned into garments for the Ai’oa; they are covered in the same flowers that stole the lives of so many of their people.

  Luri finds me and gives me a long hug. “You must not bear the burden of another’s evil deeds, Pia. It is not your fault. We do not blame you.”

  I pull away from her. “If it wasn’t for me, Luri—”

  “If it wasn’t you,” she says calmly, “it would have been someone else. And who can say? If it had been someone else, perhaps they would not have had such a gentle heart as you do. Perhaps it would have been worse for us. Yet we must not dwell on what is not—but on what is. And what is, py’a, is that you have proven yourself to be a friend of the Ai’oa. No…you have proven yourself to be Ai’oan.” She’s barely as tall as me, but when she looks me squarely in the eye, it feels as if she’s much, much taller. “You said our blood is in your veins. Good. We are proud to have you.”

  The vise around my heart loosens a notch, and I want to throw my arms around her and sob into her shoulder. I want her to hold me the way my mother never did, the way I see her hold little Ami, and I want her to tell me everything is going to be all right. But there is still too much pain in my soul, and instead I clench my hands into fists and stare at the ground.

  Luri lifts my chin with one finger. “Little Tapumiri, there are monsters in this world.” She tucks a stem of elysia behind my ear, then smoothes my hair from my face and smiles. “But you are not one of them. Do not take the weight of the dead on your heart. Leave that to the gods. Death is not always sad—for some, it is the doorway to a world where everyone drinks of the yresa, and all are made immortal.”