Firstborn

by Lorie Ann Grover

  A whimper escapes my lips, and sand drives against my teeth. I close my mouth and swallow. Daring to spit would only fill me with more grains. There is nothing to do but keep everything closed and covered as much as possible.

  Long howls chase the blasts. Moans and sighs groan around us. Driving toward the village, the currents of air whip and fall. No wonder the Madronians teach that sandstorms are angry ancestors seething at our failure to worship the Four-Winged Condor.

  My spine quivers. No! The storm is not full of the spirits of our ancestors. It isn’t. It is only the winds crossing the land, stopping to battle, hot and cold fighting for space. And we are the ones caught in the swirl. Father would say even this is sent by the Creator Spirit for our good. Isn’t it?

  I reach out and feel the sand rising slowly around us.

  While the night passes, we shovel to stop from being buried. Once the sides of our pit rise and we are underground, sand only whips in occasionally from the one slivered edge we keep open for air.

  We stretch our arms and legs in the tight area to avoid turning stiff as stone. Our bodies touch and shift against each other as the storm rises and falls outside. It is impossible to know if my pulse speeds from fear or from Ratho’s touch. It takes everything not to roll completely up against him. I blush at the thoughts my mind entertains and pull my amulet out from under my hip so the power can flow freely.

  By dawn, the swirls glitter in the softer streams of air. In the new dimness, I’m able to see enough to turn the hourglass now. My stomach grinds for food, but there is none. Ratho takes a turn watching, so I let myself drift to sleep.

  Father warms his hands over the fire.

  “Creator Spirit, protect Tiadone,”

  he whispers.

  The sandstorm

  roars past the window.

  “Tea?” He turns to Frana.

  “Yes.”

  He pours the liquid

  into my old cup.

  Frana raises it.

  His lips glide over hers instead.

  “Father!” I cry and wake. Mirko raises his head. The winds are quieter, but the sand still flings past.

  “Tiadone, what is it?” Ratho removes his goggles. Thae yawns and stretches. “What’s the matter?” Ratho repeats.

  I pull my goggles off. “Nothing. Just a dream.”

  “Oh.” He nods and turns over. “Looks like we have awhile still to wait. Will you watch now?”

  “Yes.”

  Mirko wedges himself closer to my thigh and bobs his head.

  “It is all right,” I whisper in agreement. But my centerself clenches at Father’s love for Frana. What about me? I am his portion!

  Anger tries to rise, but a cold finger of air tickles the back of my neck. I redirect my thoughts. Another vision. You’d think I was a visionaire! Except it’s definitely the present. Father, too, is in the storm.

  Mirko chitters and tilts his head.

  Ratho’s back rises and falls with each breath. The sand gives beneath him, and his thigh falls against mine. I clasp my hands together to keep from laying my palm on his warm leg. I try to swallow the dry grains in my throat, but they stick.

  Between the visions and my desire for Ratho, I feel so lost. I lift the amulet to my nose and breathe in the musky scent. Creator Spirit, free me from these weaknesses!

  CHAPTER 31

  SURVIVING

  I grip the chilled granite overhang and wiggle out through the thin space we kept clear. Mirko shoots into the blue sky where the brilliant sun blasts into my eyes.

  My boots crunch in the cold sand. Amazingly, scrub brush still dot the desert. Their tenacious roots refused to let go.

  Ratho slithers up and out of the hole. Thae follows with a flap. “Your face is chapped, Ratho,” I say, and give him a hand up.

  “So is yours.”

  I tap the rawness about my face. While opening my mouth, the skin stretches taut and burns. “When we hike back tonight, I’ll gather some aloe.”

  “All I can think of is the Steam Pockets, Tiadone.”

  “Oh, definitely!” We walk over to the cottonwood tree and rehang the hourglass. While I gather wood, brush, and duff peeping through sand ridges, Ratho and Thae leave to scan the Perimeter. They shrink as they hike away.

  Screeching, Mirko drops a limp rabbit to the ground. “With thanks,” I call. He dips a wing against the bright sky and flaps away to hunt more.

  Under my harsh strike, my flint rocks spark. Quickly, a small fire grasps at the dry mound of duff. The flames consume the wood bits I feed to them like my thoughts eat through my joy over surviving the sandstorm.

  Father loves Frana.

  I ball my hands inside my mittens. He has a love I will never have! Well, one he can act on, when I’ll be alone forever.

  The thought rolls, gathers weight inside me, and I hunker forward. My breath buffets the ground and ricochets back into my face. I let the reality blast through my mind with its grief. It’s the truth I turned from through the storm.

  “No!” I thump my fist in the hard packed sand. Why do you get to have someone, Father, when you’ve chosen this for me? I’ ll never have a love! “Why do you get a second?” I shout. “Why?”

  To the east, the empty desert is flayed open by the sunlight. I squint at the harshness.

  After Severation, why don’t I just leave R’tania? Yes, why wait for a Labor Assignment, and a life alone? I could run beyond the forbidden Perimeter and never come back! Find another land. Maybe with the C’shah? I have better skills now. Maybe I could survive the journey.

  There, could I begin again? Would they accept one who wears an amulet?

  While cursing, my lower lip cracks. I spit blood and staunch the flow with my mitten. Mirko bugles from a distance. My father couldn’t leave the Cliffs after Severation; why would I think I might?

  My sobs bulge into the stillness. I coil around the pain, trying to squeeze it to silence. The state Father expects; the state I must stay in to survive.

  Eventually, I sit up on my knees and gently blot my mouth and chapped face with my poncho. I can’t help but think that Frana would have aloe for my sandburn.

  My little fire glows and grows. I add another stick and stretch the rabbit out in the sand.

  At least it’s Frana that Father has chosen. Her bracelet jingles in my mind the moment a breeze nudges my twists off my tender face. It’s Frana, and I have always loved her. She might become my mother, so there is some gain for me too. I wrap the thought and my poncho close.

  As I tend and stoke the fire, my mind explores this crater in my centerself like Droslump’s nails scamble for coins in the dark box of retribution tithes. Maybe because Father has Frana, maybe because I am nearly grown — because I feel so differently around Ratho now — it all makes me lonelier than ever.

  Mirko returns with a worried cry and circles my head. Landing at my side, he nuzzles under my chin.

  “Yes, I have you for now,” I whisper. He brushes his head against my tears and hums. I sniff and finally say, “I am all right.”

  Mirko clicks his beak and takes to the air. My fingers wrap around the cooling dead rabbit. My knife slices through the soft flesh below the jaw until blood beads along my blade.

  CHAPTER 32

  CELEBRATION

  The mood at the mesa springs out to us with cheer. Rapion dive and blast skyward into the night. Celebrations ring from the Common as Ratho and I top the last crest. Beyond the spring, the party whirls around a firepit. Spastic shadows race across the towering stone wall. Boys celebrate with dance and tumble over one another.

  “Come on!” shouts Ratho. He and Thae swoop into the tumult that actually accepts them. Only because thick mash is being ladled from the urn by the Eating Cavern. Frequently served at gatherings for the new year, I’ve often seen how the sweet mixture intoxicates with one bowl. These boys look as if they’ve swallowed more than that already.

  “Strange one,” a handsome youth named Shiz slurs at me.
His dark-lashed eyes are only open halfway. “Bring your rapion, that Singer, and have a bowl to celebrate. We survived the storm! With your return,” he burps, “we’ve lost none.” He stumbles away before I answer.

  Mirko lands on my shoulder and grips tightly. “This isn’t for me,” I whisper. I feel the danger of someone in the flurry seeing back to my former sex.

  One boy races past me and another chases after him. They collide and crash to the sand, rolling and smacking each other in jest.

  I skirt the area. There’s not one govern out here. Why the generosity with mash after the storm? Is it a reward? Well, I prefer a hot steam to a thudding head in the morning.

  Across the crowd, Ratho lifts a bowl to me. I shrug and turn to our sleeping entrance.

  Flecket, a brown-haired boy with twists to his waist, stumbles against me. Mirko shoots above, wings flapping. “Pardon me, ma’am,” the boy giggles. I clutch my pack tightly to my chest. “Would you dance with me?” the boy asks and shuffles his feet. Mirko drives him back until he bumps into Dalen, who recently joined our division. “How about you. Do you want to dance?”

  “Certainly,” he replies in a high, giddy voice.

  Inside the cavern, I flee through the passages toward my bunk. I toss my gear onto my shelf, grab my change of clothes, and rush after Mirko to the pockets.

  I call out before the farthest, and when none answers we duck under the skin flaps. Mirko chortles in anticipation of the steam.

  Within the total blackness, I sit on the ledge by the small pool. I’m too afraid to remove my clothes. It’s exactly as I feared: Intoxicated, the boy could see my former sex. Would you dance with me? Ma’am?

  Mirko chitters as if all is well. He brushes my trousers by flinging open his wings. The air stirs the coals in the corner, and they brighten.

  “He sensed the femininity leaking past my amulet,” I whisper. A slight, twisted thrill rises in me before panic annihilates it. This thing must work fully! The Madronians’ threat is very real. If I ever remove my amulet, even if my remaining femininity is only a whisper, they would kill me as a firstborn female.

  With the tongs, I drop the hot rocks into the water and hold my face over the steam, trying to sweat away these crazy-headed thoughts. Doubly unforgiveable would be to lure a male to me when I’m declared. Both lives would be forfeited — yearly, my Madronian teachers made that clear in my private sessions.

  Mirko’s eyes catch the light of the coals before steam separates us.

  “It was only the mash,” I say aloud to believe it. “He was just acting the fool.”

  I carefully remove each layer of clothing. My gritty toes grip the warm stone as I run my hands down my chest. Small breasts bulge under my palms. I have — little breasts. My waist curves in above the new hair growing at the fork of my legs. Boys have hair there as well, though, don’t they?

  My amulet swings against my thigh. Is it stopping my body at all from changing, like Father hoped but doubted? Why? Why can’t it? A shiver tremors my chill into the steam.

  One arm covering my chest, I squat and let the steam weave around me.

  Mirko sings as though we have no concern. He picks at my twists in the darkness, and my body streams sweat.

  After a restless sleep on my shelf, in the morning I kneel beyond the Common. Little drops of water balance on each pale green, oval leaf, making the glino plant sparkle. I hold the slim branch and run my fingers downward. The leaves are stripped into my palm. This should be enough. I pat them dry.

  Mirko spirals down to my feet, and we walk back to the mesa. His head now reaches my knees, and if I am not in a hurry his gait matches mine when he chooses to walk. He rides my shoulder less and less.

  The horizon lightens and tinges the spring water pink. Mirko chitters along with the splashing sounds filling the empty area. Soon the morning drum will sound, and the Madronians will have their retribution against the patrollers’ headaches and nausea, all that will be left over from the party.

  I duck into the Sleeping Cavern and bump into Shiz, the boy who called me to join the party. “Excuse me,” I mumble.

  “Shhhh.” He squeezes his full lips together. His rapion, Baesa, drapes her girth across his shoulders.

  “Sorry,” I say, and go to step around him but get caught staring instead. His green eyes, still not fully open, are framed by brown twists that skim his shoulders. His smile snags my centerself and flips it. Definitely the most handsome boy I’ve ever seen.

  Mirko pecks my hand. “Oh,” I recover. “Um, glino leaves might settle your stomach, and silence your head.” I open my trembling hand.

  “Thank you,” he says, and plucks a few from my moist palm.

  I clamp my fist closed again. “Just suck on the leaves until you feel better.” He nods, slips two into his mouth, and one into his rapion’s. Did Baesa swallow mash also? She lowers her lids at Mirko, who flaps and takes a strutting step.

  Shiz glances at him and steps back. “Good tidings for your day,” he says as he finally heads out of the entrance.

  “Returned to you.” The sun outlines him until he turns out of my sight.

  Mirko leans outside to watch his rapion even longer.

  “You are shameless!” I roll my eyes and tug him toward our alcove. “Don’t you think Baesa’s wide in the hips?” I whisper. He grins up at me and winks. I huff. “So when did my rapion begin to notice others?” He chitters back as if to say: And when did you?

  I knock my calf against his side and step to our bunk. “Ratho, wake and take some leaves.” He doesn’t respond. “Ratho.”

  Mirko warbles a song that resembles a dirge. Ratho and Thae open their eyes and groan.

  “Ugh, Tiadone. Save me.” He reaches out.

  “Just take a few leaves.” I drop two into his palm and plop flustered onto my shelf. Shiz? Now I am attracted to Shiz as well? You’d think it was rutting season or something.

  Boys stumble through the hall moaning and groaning. I gather my gear. If everyone had just gone to sleep, as I did, and not swallowed mash all night, they wouldn’t complain so now. Like Shiz. I pause and envision him in the sunlight.

  Mirko jumps onto our bunk. He waggles his tail.

  “Oh, stop!” I hiss.

  “What?” asks Ratho.

  “Never mind.” I shove my kidskin into my pack harder than necessary.

  CHAPTER 33

  RETRIBUTION

  The cook bangs his pots louder than necessary. “Morning slop, hot and ready,” he shouts. His dark beard quivers over his supressed laughter. The boys’ necks shorten with each clang. It is the first time I see bowls left behind with food stuck to the edges.

  Our company reports for javelin drill wearing their slotted goggles to avoid the intense sunlight. Rapion sprawl listless in the icy, gleaming sand.

  The Javelin Govern’s booming voice rumbles and puffs out his moustache. “Is the morn too bright for you? Remove your eye gear, you infants, you breast-sucking babes!”

  My face scorches at the words. Despite wearing my winter layers, first thing this morning I tore long sheaves from the yi plant and bound my chest. Thankfully a patch grows by the latrines, so it was easy to gather. Now the strips tighten with the govern’s comment.

  Groaning, everyone tosses their goggles aside. I am thankful the sun doesn’t bother me. Mirko hums quietly on my shoulder.

  The govern slaps his mittened hands. We begin the memorized movements, but he stops us frequently to inspect our positions. “Lift that weak arm! Shift your rapion’s tail! Raise your javelin higher! Turn your face to the sun and pray to the Four-Winged Condor, because you will need divine help to endure this drill!” His wide grin shows dark pockets where several back teeth are missing. Here is the Madronian punishment: higher demands in our usually monotonous drills while the patrollers are in a weakened state.

  Out of the side of my eye, I see Desl, the boy who bunks next to me and Ratho. His face pales, and he sways in the pose. “Continue!” yells the gov
ern.

  In the front line, Creo, usually with the best form in drill, heaves his breakfast. Ratho mentioned he passed out before the party ended last night.

  “Hold!” The govern stalls our current position: javelin in the air, legs in a deep lunge. Creo’s rapion helps him sweep sand over his slop, and they stumble back into position.

  The govern whisks behind them and kicks the boy in his back. Crack! Creo falls into his barely covered vomit. His rapion cowers beside him. “Get up!” the govern yells. The boy is too slow and is kicked again. Whimpering, Creo stands, and I see his poncho is smeared with stomach mess. He faces the sun and takes our pose.

  The govern smirks and continues to walk among us, looking for error. He flicks between our formations.

  My legs begin to tremble as murmurs against Creo slip through the air. Here is another way the Madronians work to make us hate one another. This is idiocy! So they overdrank. It was a celebration. Isn’t their discomfort enough?

  “You swallow mash like a man,” says the govern, “you work like a man the next day.” He keeps us in the pose several more minutes. Shiz and Ratho hold steady on my right. The leaves must have settled their stomachs; most of the boys waver in their weakness.

  Finally the govern calls, “Continue!” I move through the steps, and the shakes melt out of my legs. I wonder how many will touch the mash after the next sandstorm. Word of the glino plant may circulate, and there will be those who risk that the leaves will work. But so many Carterea look unwell. I can’t believe they’ll shovel into the mash as quickly. Now if it was Father’s potato ale, that would be harder to refuse. My mouth waters for the taste.

  When our drill ends, Mirko joins the rapion leaping into the air. I bow to the sun, whose yellow rays warm my upturned face. I’m ready to do the work of a man today. Thank you, Creator Spirit, for my life. Even for life as a man. After the sandstorm, at least I am alive.