Firstborn

by Lorie Ann Grover

  Lalo shakes his head. “Let’s hope the harm was small, and that it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Right,” I agree, but Mirko only stares at the horizon.

  “So, how was the briefing?” he asks.

  I ignore his question and rush on with my own concern. “Someone stole the belongings I locked in my cupboard, Lalo, and I’m pretty sure it was Jilbon. After he went to the infirmary, while I was at dinner.” We glance at him. His rapion lies curled on a medic cloth at his feet while Jilbon smirks, picking his teeth.

  “See, Lalo?”

  “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head.

  I cross my arms. “So tell me how I report it. I’ll go to the governs this time and not tempt my rapion further.” Now Mirko struts back and forth between us.

  While rocking his javelin in its holder, Lalo whistles Els down from the sky. She lands next to his worn boots and rakes the sand for bugs. It’s obvious Lalo’s stalling. Finally, he answers. “You shouldn’t report it, Tiadone.”

  Mirko squawks. Els stares until my rapion quiets.

  “Why?”

  “It would only please the Madronians.” He checks over his shoulder, and weaves a hair twist behind his big ear. “I told you they believe controversy makes soldiers stronger. Same reason no one told about your conflict. Yes, they’d take the report. But then they’d make things more difficult for everyone else — and you for complaining.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I kick a weed clear out of the soil. Its roots lie upturned like a withered claw.

  Lalo reaches out and squeezes my arm. “I am sorry about your cupboard theft, but if someone hadn’t lifted your things today, it would have happened tomorrow. For all we know, it could have even been a Madronian. So forget it, and go forward. Oh, and keep everything in your pack. It’s the only thing respected between patrollers.”

  I huff, and Mirko clicks his beak.

  “Lalo!” a boy at the fountain calls. “How many days until your service ends?”

  “Two!” Lalo calls.

  The boy raises an encouraging fist, but Els leans heavily against Lalo’s ankle. Sorrow sticks to their faces like that dinner slop stuck to my spoon.

  Lalo sighs. “Well, I have duties to finish, Tiadone.” Els jumps into his arms. “I return to Lookout tonight. Be strong this year,” he says. He pats my free shoulder and walks back to the fire.

  Refusing to make eye contact with Jilbon again, I drag myself toward the spring. Els’s and Lalo’s grief follows me. His loss will go so far beyond what I’ve just had stolen that it can’t be compared. Creator Spirit, comfort them; and then I add despite myself, and make Jilbon sick to his stomach!

  I hitch my pants up over my complaining stomach and walk out of the Common. This is such a stupid game, Father! My mind rages anew. We are here to do a good, important work — defending our village from threat — and the Madronians make everything so difficult. Thieving results, and no one cares. Well, in this case, it was retaliation, but still, there’s no justice.

  I wipe my eyes, kneel in the dirt, and tear a bulbous nob off a nearby prickle plant. Mirko peels away the tough, ridged skin with his beak and talons, and we share juicy bites.

  The sky is now a deep purple, stretching over our heads. Long finger clouds thrust to the east. I lean back and squint at the tiptop of the Mesa. Like a pointed nose on a broad face, the Lookout Tower juts darkly into the air out of the rippled rock. From the rotunda, the lookout can see in all directions in case rapion signal danger.

  Sour juice spills down my throat. I wince at the tang and lick my lips clean. Shivers cross my skin, as I try to take in this beautiful mesa, even more imposing at night. This is the place of my R’tan people. I’m going to work Perimeter as my ancestors did, despite the danger. And I will be the first declared male bearing a Singer to succeed.

  “We are going to serve, Mirko. Not for the Madronians, but for the R’tan. We’ll raise alert for the Triumvirate, and we’ll find our own food when we have to. Tonight’s loss is nothing. I can even replace Frana’s herbs.”

  Ratho comes out of the latrine, and he and Thae head to the spring. Sticky juice drips off Mirko’s talons and beak onto the back of my hand. “Hey, that was my bite,” I say, and smile for the first time today.

  CHAPTER 21

  BOLA

  Someone nudges my arm. “Psst. I only wake you because I must patrol with you.” I open my eyes to Ratho’s trousers. He’s bent over and adjusting his boots. At least he speaks to me this morning. And it’s not a bad sight, his backside. Though he means it so. A blush warms my face. I roll off of my amulet so it is not smothered and dulled.

  We have a breakfast much like dinner, although no food is withheld this morning. We are in training immediately.

  “Chamber of Verities,” I swear. Mirko scratches at the dirt and looks up at me.

  “You shouldn’t swear,” says Ratho. “Especially by R’tan mythology.” I narrow my eyes. Mythology? “If a govern heard you, we would be severely penalized.”

  As if I don’t know? “Well, this ridiculous bola just rapped my knuckles again.” I lift my hand. The swelling bulges red at the base of my fingers.

  Ratho shrugs. “That’s no excuse. You offend the Four-Winged Condor.”

  A snort escapes me. Mirko crouches and waits for my next attempt with the accursed weapon. His fierce expression compresses his eyeridge. I squint in the bright light and yank off my poncho. Even though the sun is barely clear of the edge of the desert, a bead of sweat already rims my brow. What has happened to autumn?

  I drop the material to the ground and gaze at the boys practicing well beyond Ratho and me. Their bolas whip through the air and encircle the drill posts planted in the sandy dirt, winding faster and faster, until the balls slam the wood. Crack!

  Jilbon’s partner seems most adept. My jealousy brews, and I immediately vow to ignore the two, or at least notice them no more than anyone else. They aren’t worth my thoughts.

  I turn back to Ratho. The Drill Govern assigned us here, far to the side, to practice by aiming at the dead pine only a short distance away. The burly govern adjusted his head cloth, pulled the back tail of his robe through his hefty legs, and looped the material under his waist thong. We followed him in his makeshift trousers to this removed spot. He said we’d be a danger to everyone until we grew familiar with the weapon. Here we would only maim each other.

  “You’d better progress quickly,” he said after teaching us how to throw. He tugged his robe free and it fell again to cover his squat boots. He fingered his bola ropes and said, “Your life depends on it. This will feed you on Perimeter and bring down a desert cat.”

  “Watch this, Thae,” Ratho now says. He grips the handle, from which hang three ropes, and raises the weapon in a whirl above his head. The three rocks within their sacks at the ropes’ ends blur and wiz. Ratho leans forward and lets the bola loose while Thae flies behind it out of danger. Whipping through the air, the rocks lose speed and twirl into the red soil. A cloud of dust rises as the balls drag the ropes to a stop. “Closer that time,” says Ratho.

  Thae dives and drags the bola back the short distance to him. Ratho takes it from her talons, and drinks from his water sack.

  I shake out my hand and adjust my grasp. “All right. Another try.” Mirko sits up straight. “Revenge on the tree!” I yell, and circle my head. The round force tugs the rocks in opposite directions. I spin them faster, aim, lean forward, and let go. Whoo, whoo, whoo, they fling. The collision with the pine rings across the air. “Yes!” I yell, raising my fist.

  Mirko speeds to the tree and works at freeing my bola. He pretends to peck the eyes of the desert cat we have just downed in our imagination.

  “Did you see that?” I shout at Ratho.

  He and Thae turn. “No. I was looking the other direction.”

  I humph as Mirko flies back, dragging the bola. The rocks bounce over the ground. He isn’t strong enough to lift the weapon higher. Yet. When he reaches m
y feet, he drops the bola handle. Breathing heavily, he smiles up at me and chortles before he cleans the dust from his face with his wing. Ratho and Thae shrink from him.

  “You should be happy for my success, Ratho. We are a team. We are going to need each other.”

  “Thae and I will work to cover the partnering.”

  Mirko and I both gape at their audacity. Ratho assumes the throwing stance and hurls his bola. It bounces to the ground short of the tree.

  I smirk. “Maybe we will work to cover the partnering,” I say, and Mirko chirps. Ratho’s ears tinge red as Thae flies to retrieve the weapon.

  I untangle my bola and prepare for another throw. I’ll master this before Ratho!

  The twirl above my head breaks rhythm, and the rocks clack against my elbow. “Chamber of — ” I drop my bola and fling my arm to hurry out the pain as the bruise spreads.

  “Don’t swear,” says Ratho.

  Step to the right, lunge, straighten, twirl, lunge. The pattern repeats, making my javelin feel as if it was cast in lead. Step to the right. I squeeze the shaft until Father’s carved patterns press marks into my palms. Twirl, lunge.

  Madronian javelin routines supposedly strengthen the mind and body and mimic the flight of the Four-Winged Condor. R’tan used to do similar drills to mimic the glory of creation by the Creator Spirit.

  My foot wobbles on a pebble, which causes Mirko to dig his talons into my shoulder cover. He chitters encouragement as I watch the boy before me and hurriedly mimic the right move. Thrust, thrust, thrust. We jab the weapons forward and arc the wood over our heads in the closing victory sweep.

  I stretch out the tight kinks in my back before the Javelin Govern calls for the pattern repeat. You’d think, given the hard rays of the sun, they’d let us practice in the shade of the Mesa or near those few cottonwoods in the dip across the way. No, that would make sense.

  The long-limbed instructor with a dangling mustache inspects a patroller’s javelin in the front row. Mirko’s chitters cause the govern to look over, but he doesn’t approach us.

  Next to me, Ratho assumes the ready stance, as if eager to begin again. I can’t catch his eye. Is he so prejudiced because Mirko’s song reflects back to the Oracles? Whatever the case, in hours we leave for Perimeter, and we really will need each other.

  I shake my head and rub my tired calf muscles. One thing at a time, Frana always says. One furrow in the garden, one seed planted, and, before you realize, one tomato bursting between your teeth. One thing at a time, and right now, it’s one more javelin pattern.

  Ratho and I move into formation once we reach the Commons. Offering a prayer to the Four-Winged Condor with the Mesa at his back, Droslump spreads his arms wide. At the same time, Ratho rubs the back of his head where a lump is raising. He was struck hard for stepping aside at the spring for the Bola Govern instead of Droslump. Not as if they bothered to tell us rank earlier.

  “It is so,” Droslump concludes. “Come forward for Oblation and assignments.”

  We gather by twos into straight lines. Each patroller is given a wafer and a sip from a black clay goblet. It is a Madronian ritual meant to cleanse away our supposed unworthy service.

  A dark-skinned apprentice hands an animal-hide map to each pair of boys. “Front point one. Front point two,” he assigns Jilbon and his partner. The spring trickles in the background as the appointments continue. After each location is given, rapion study the maps and fly slightly forward at a pace the boys can follow.

  “And last, the initiates.” Droslump grimaces. His crowded teeth nibble a wafer, and he places a thin disk in each of our mouths. I try not to move. His curved, pointed nails hover a moment above my tongue.

  Next, he slurps a swallow of wine then holds the cup to my lips. I barely brush the edge of the goblet. A drop of hot redness slips onto my tongue, and the spiced bitterness fills the wafer. I swallow the mush while Ratho receives his portion.

  Droslump steps aside. The apprentice, who is not much older than we are, hands us a map. “Wide point eleven and twelve, one of the farthest positions.” He shakes his head, making his hair tuft sway.

  Mirko and Thae attempt to see the ragged leather map Ratho and I tug. Drosump glares. Instantly, Ratho gives up the struggle. I clutch the map, and we start walking, not even sure where to go.

  “Peace of the Four-Winged Condor on you, Govern,” Ratho calls back. Droslump ignores him and tips back the goblet. A line of libation leaks from the cup and dribbles down his sharp cheek.

  I sign a farewell to the apprentice, and he returns one to me. We pass the spring, and the latrines, until eventually the mesa we have just settled into starts to diminish over my shoulder. We walk out onto the high desert, where no one but patrollers are permitted. All the other boys and rapion are tiny spots splayed over the huge expanse. Mirko studies the map and leads us south.

  CHAPTER 22

  FIRST NIGHT

  Finally,” the patrol calls to us. They stand beside a dying fire with their hands on their hips and their packs already on. The clearing is empty but for one rintell tree and a couple stacks of rocks.

  “Good greeting,” I yell back. It’s wonderful to have arrived! Ratho was slow to believe Mirko was reading the map correctly, but eventually he conceded.

  “You always had to lead when we were little too,” he mumbled.

  “And I was good at it.” He didn’t argue with that.

  For several miles we topped knolls and hiked the empty valleys until all the other patrols were out of sight, and the mesa faded. It’s amazing the Lookout will still be able to see rapion signal flame from here.

  Mirko flies to the tree’s lowest branch while we come to a stop beside the cairns, one tall and one short. “Go on; move a stone, left to right,” says a boy with pimples all over his face.

  “Does it count the days then?” Ratho asks.

  “Brilliant, these two, Pensot,” the other answers.

  I lift the top rock and set it on the shorter pile. Ratho straightens it.

  “We knew you’d be the initiates,” Pensot jibes. “Later than ever. Now we have to hike back with poor light.” Under his breath, he curses.

  Ratho rolls his eyes, and I huff. It’s not as if we are so late.

  The other patroller wipes his upturned nose on the back of his hand. “With a declared male and Singer, this lot is worth a pile of goat pellets.”

  “For certain, Finden,” Pensot jeers.

  Mirko pierces the air with a shrill note.

  Gesturing for protection from evil, the boys duck and cross their chests. Ratho glances at me, and I smile in return. Side by side, we’ve fought off enough bullies in the village. The look says we can take these braggarts as well.

  Keeping an eye on Mirko, the Baltang patrollers recover their bravado. “Dung clods. Thanks for reporting!” Pensot goes to shove me, but Ratho knocks him off balance by driving his elbow under the patroller’s raised arm.

  I drop into a fight stance, my javelin stripped from its holder and balanced in my grip. The point is aimed at Finden’s meager chest and does not waver. Thae and Mirko flap about our heads while the Baltangs’ larger rapion stay aflight, with extended talons.

  Please, don’t attack, I beg Mirko silently, glancing between him and the Baltang. “Want to rethink your welcome?” I ask.

  Finden nods, but Pensot has to take a step forward and spit at me. Within a second, Ratho grabs and twists his arm, throwing him completely off his feet. Thae circles in celebration while Mirko trumpets.

  Scrambling to help his partner up, Finden says, “Let’s just go, Pensot.”

  Brushing off his trousers, Pensot shrugs. “Sure. Why waste our time?”

  Mirko shoots high above and dives at their rapion, who race to their partners’ shoulders for safety. The boys block their faces as Mirko screeches past the four of them.

  When he returns to rest on my shoulder, the Baltang quickly inch backward, away from camp. Yet, they still dare to call out slurs in th
e dusk.

  “Plumdogits,” Ratho shouts back. I can think of worse. Mirko crows, and Thae flaps to the taller cairn. We stare at the boys until they disappear beyond the slope. The air seems to slowly cool at the same rate as Ratho withdraws. But maybe, I’m only imagining it.

  “Thanks,” I finally say.

  Ratho pets Thae without acknowledging me. Definitely, I’m not imagining it.

  I can’t decide if I’m flattered he protected me or offended he thought he had to. “I could have taken him.”

  No answer.

  Well, as least we acted as if we were a team. “I’ll gather brush for the fire,” I say. “You two want to search for food?”

  He shrugs.

  Silently, we walk off in opposite directions.

  I stoke the fire against the darkness. Ratho rubs sand through the bowls and pot I found earlier in the crevice of the tree. They were lodged beside a large hourglass hanging from a branch. The only other notable part of our position is a latrine trench behind dense shrubs over the ridge to the south.

  “The lizard and bluben soup wasn’t bad,” I say.

  “I’ve always hated blubens,” Ratho complains. What’s not to like about blue lichen? It has a gentle tang.

  Mirko stretches on the cairn. It’s officially my guard, so he is watching the starlit, flat sand speckled with shrubs that hunker before the distant dunes. Thae naps on Ratho’s pack, and will assume Mirko’s position when the hourglass has emptied. I’m thankful Droslump’s briefing at least explained regular shift changes.

  “It’s amazing how a little lizard really has a lot of flavor when it’s boiled.” I pick at a bit stuck in my back teeth. Ratho places everything back in the tree, then hands me my spoon and stashes his own in his pocket.

  We both move closer to the flames. The warmth the land was shimmering earlier is completely gone, but for now, the fire beats back the chill.

  Mirko crows that all is safe. When I raise my hand in salute, he waddles with pride, settles, and glares into the night. His rapion eyes are perfect for such a task.