by Joel Ohman
Charley jogged ahead. Slowing, he looked from side to side at the multicolored tangle of shrubbery that shrank back from their path. He took a deep breath and smiled. Sven was right. It was, quite literally, just like a walk in the park.
The foliage grew thinner; they had to be reaching the other side. He had done it; he had led the way, and actually gotten them through the Bramble. Increasing his pace, he squinted into the distance. They couldn’t yet see the outlines of the city, but Charley could see something on the horizon, just peeking over, and growing closer, headed directly toward them.
Travelers.
CHAPTER 3
Travelers
Charley contemplated unsheathing his blades from his back, but ultimately settled for making sure that the twin leather-bound handles were clearly visible peeking above his head. He bounced ever so slightly from side to side, creaking a stiff knee in and then out, and looked over at Grigor, standing impassively at his side. Grigor’s gaze never wavered from the two travelers walking toward them, their silhouettes backlit by an orange and purple sky where the fading sun slid away like a slippery egg yolk over the horizon. Charley and Grigor had been chosen as the advance welcoming party. The others—in particular, a still-loopy Orson—remained back by their fire, safely out of reach of the Bramble.
It seemed the travelers had taken their cue and sent two representatives of their own. Coming into view were a short and squat woman who was almost as wide as she was tall, and a young boy who looked to be a few years younger than Charley. Neither looked like anything they couldn’t handle, but Grigor had warned him to be wary.
The two travelers approached close enough to hit with a stone. Charley and Grigor remained standing, motionless—watching and waiting.
The woman appeared to be middle-aged, yet prematurely grey with short, tightly cropped hair that framed her expansive face. She stopped, not ten paces away, and motioned for the boy to do the same. Charley looked them over intently, without speaking or changing his facial expression. Each of them had the same dark skin and broad facial features so it was obvious they were related. Neither appeared armed, but they were each heavily bundled with layers of clothing and well-worn packs, so there could be any number of weapons stowed on their person.
The woman broke the silence, a smile creasing her face. “Greetings! I am called Marta.” She turned toward her companion and flicked her thick fingers. “My son, Jameson, and I welcome you to the plains country.”
Grigor spoke, his voice a deep rumble like tires crunching on gravel. “Greetings to you as well. I am Grigor, and this is Charley.” His eyes never left the woman. “Where are you from?”
“Why, we are just lowly merchants from Meritorium, buying and selling, trying to eke out a living. Anything to put food on the table—like all of us, right?” She continued to smile, her hands spread wide and stubby limbs gesturing to draw them in closer. Charley thought that she was likely a very successful merchant, the lowly bit all a part of her practiced sales spiel; to be this self-assured while coming face-to-face with the hulking Grigor for the first time was an impressive feat.
Charley broke in. “How close are we to Meritorium?”
“Ah, I knew that the two of you were not from around here. Although you have the Score imprints, of course, so that threw me off.” She gestured to the numbers branded on Charley and Grigor’s forearms. Charley considered Marta’s comment: the System was obviously much bigger than what they had seen in Meritropolis. “And quite impressive Scores, too, I might add.” At this, Charley thought he detected the glint of something flash across her dark eyes—there and then gone. “Not anywhere close to ours,” She rotated her forearm, displaying a still-respectable Score of 89, and her son briefly flashed a 92. Well above the minimum of 50 that had been required to live in Meritropolis, but not yet in the hundreds, like Charley and the other High Scores. “But, to answer your question—we are about a three-day journey across the plains to Meritorium.”
Charley nodded, thinking about their depleted food reserves. Grigor was on the same wavelength, and spoke next. “How is the hunting around here? We are headed to Meritorium, but we need some game, if we are to make it three more days. There are close to a hundred of us.”
Marta opened her mouth to speak, but her son, his eyes animated for the first time, beat her to it. “Not much that’s good eating around here, but about a day’s travel away from the Bramble there is a lot of game to be had. It’s easy hunting, too. I can teach you how to bag some monsters—”
A look of annoyance crossed Marta’s face briefly, before she resumed her practiced smile. She made a shushing motion toward her son. “Excuse him, but yes, if you need game, there is great hunting about a day away from here, and in the direction of Meritorium.” She paused, considering something, her eyes probing and calculating. “And your company is welcome to join ours. We are headed toward Meritorium as well. We have plenty of food in our camp—more than enough to share with your entire company, at least for the day or so we will need until we can get more fresh game.”
“That is very generous of you,” Grigor replied. “We will confer with our camp, but I believe we will all be very grateful to take you up on your kind offer.”
“Well then, it’s settled. We will prepare our camp and begin cooking over the fire. We look forward to your company this evening.” She turned to her son, and they retreated with a wave.
Trudging back to the others, Charley looked at Grigor. “What do you think—do you trust them?”
Still looking straight ahead, Grigor paused before speaking, “I don’t think we have a choice. We used up all of our meat getting through the Bramble.” Grigor took another plodding step on the sandy ground. “Something doesn’t sit right with me, though. What are merchants doing this far out from Meritorium?”
“Yeah …”
Charley was starving, but he was already wondering just how much this meal might cost them.
***
Charley stepped into the travelers’ camp first, hesitant until he smelled a deliciously garlicky scent wafting from the campfire. He had to force himself to approach carefully, trying to take in as much of the surroundings as possible. There was no doubt about it, though; he was hungry.
There looked to be about thirty people in the camp, possibly more. None looked openly hostile, although walking through the middle of their camp, headed toward the fire with the food roasting, Charley did feel a little like a horse being inspected before purchase.
Many of the travelers looked to be hardened men, holding an assortment of weapons and other hunting paraphernalia, some with garish, brightly colored tattoos snaking across their heavily muscled arms. While Charley was certainly not apt to stand out in a crowd for being overly big or impressive looking, Grigor turned heads, even among this group of masculine-drenched riff-raff. Not for the first time, Charley was glad to have Grigor with them.
However, Charley had to admit that he was also glad to have Orson with them, too—and that certainly was a first. Having recovered somewhat from his bout with the plant pheromones—the “love sickness,” as Hank dubbed it, while mocking Orson behind his back—Orson cut an impressive figure. Where Grigor had size that demanded subjugation, Orson had presence, a regal bearing and the authority of someone used to commanding others and demanding respect. And Grigor and Orson, like the rest of the High Scores in their Company, were heavily armed, and—obvious to all watching—highly capable.
Hank elbowed Charley in the ribs and said under his breath, “Do you smell that? I don’t care what you and Grigor said—they’ve earned my trust with just that smell alone.” Speaking loud enough for everyone to hear, Hank shouted, eyebrows raised hopefully, “When do we eat?”
“Shut your piehole, Hank,” Sandy said, her teeth gritting almost as tightly as her fingers clasped to her walking stick, carefully chosen for both peripatetic as well as defensive purpos
es.
Jameson appeared like a wraith from the smoky fire ahead. “Come this way, please. We have plenty of food ready for you.” He smiled, his teeth gleaming white amidst the billowing smoke. “We had great hunting earlier.”
Hank quickened his pace, edging ahead. “You heard him, let’s go. It’s time to eat!”
Charley let Hank push ahead. He was hungry, but not so hungry that he was willing to dash blindly into the smoke. Hank may be an Esau, willing to risk all for a bowl of porridge, but something just didn’t feel right to Charley. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled slightly; he slowed, looking sideways to Grigor without turning his head. Borne of long hunts working together, he and Grigor were increasingly able to slip effortlessly into a synchronicity of movement. Meeting each other’s eyes, Charley slipped right and Grigor left, each giving a wide berth to the smoke pluming acridly outward.
They came upon Marta, her wide matronly figure bent at the waist, hefting large canisters that looked to be made of a chipped ceramic out of the fire. She looked up, eyes widening briefly, before quickly putting a smile on her face. “Grigor, Charley, welcome!”
Charley was taken aback at hearing his name, but then he considered: if she was a merchant; it was sales 101 to remember your potential customers’ names. He couldn’t help feeling uncertain; the cynical part of his mind wondering what exactly it was that she was trying to sell them.
Grigor spoke. “We are very grateful to you for your hospitality.”
“Yes, thank you,” Charley said, his eyes still roving.
Hank appeared from the other side of the smoke, stuffing handfuls of meat into his mouth. “You guys gotta try this—it’s delicious!” He wiped the back of his hand across greasy lips. “Jameson here says it’s a kind of rotthog that is back to being all hog, no dog.” He looked over at a grinning Jameson, who shrugged his shoulders. Hank turned back. “Well, it’s mostly hog, at least—and they’ve been slow-roasting it all day with these little potato things. You’ve got to try it!”
Marta straightened up from her preparations around the fire, “Yes, the rotthogs and other animals, not far from here, make for great eating. And we’ve got plenty for everyone. Please, you and all of your High Scores, do take a seat around the fire.” She gestured to logs scattered around the fire as makeshift seats. “And, Jameson, please take this pot of scraps out to their Low Scores as well.”
Charley felt his face flush. “Thank you, but we … Well, um, we don’t—” He paused, at a loss for words. Grigor and Sandy were both watching him, expressionless, waiting to hear what he would say. Hank continued tearing into a piece of meat, his teeth bared in a lupine grunt, intent on his meal. Orson arched an eyebrow, his shark eyes glittering in Charley’s direction.
Marta extended a juicy-looking packet of what looked to be meat and potatoes wrapped in a large fibrous leaf. “You don’t what, honey?” She continued to thrust the food out to him.
Awkwardly, Charley accepted the packet, feeling as if he had already caved in some way. “We don’t distinguish between High Scores and Low Scores. We’re all the same. Everyone matters in our camp.”
Marta stopped parceling out food, looking at Charley as if seeing him for the first time. “Of course, of course, right you are. Everyone matters. This is merely for organizational purposes, that’s all. We’ve got a lot of mouths to feed.” She began working over the fire again, quickly assembling packets of food that she passed around.
Charley sat down slowly on a log. The smell of the garlicky meat and potatoes wafted up, the spices tickling his nose and causing his mouth to water. Jameson, still holding the pot of scraps intended for the Low Scores, looked to Charley, and then to his mother, who nodded for him to proceed.
Charley watched Jameson back away, into the smoke, and out to the Low Scores.
He didn’t stop him.
Charley looked down, biting into the succulent meat. It was delicious, but he had the distinct feeling he had given up something very important to get it. The realization crept over him: he was Esau. He kept his eyes down, not wanting to meet the gaze of Sandy or Grigor. Slowly, he lifted another bite into his mouth. The taste of the food soured in his mouth.
***
“So, Jameson, tell me something.” Hank picked at his teeth as he talked. Hank was still oblivious to Charley’s earlier moral dilemma, and the awkward silence that had followed until Hank finished inhaling his meal and spoke up. “You said you’re merchants. Well, what exactly do you buy and sell?”
Charley looked up from the remains of his food to see Jameson glance almost imperceptibly at Marta, and then quickly back at Hank with a toothy grin. “We buy and sell combos.”
“Animal combinations?” Sandy interjected.
“Yep.” Jameson thrust out his small chest proudly. “Many of them I trap myself.”
Marta confirmed this with a proud grunt. “It’s true. We have many men in our camp—many large men who are needed for bringing down some of the more aggressive combos.” Charley thought of the hardened cadre of tattooed, muscular men that he had seen when first entering their camp. “But Jameson is one of the best at the tracking and trapping,” Marta continued.
“Not just one of the best—the best.” Jameson flashed a cocky smirk in his mother’s direction.
She snorted, waving her hand dismissively. “And one of the most humble, too.” Charley could tell she was proud of her son, though she tried to conceal it in the face of his adolescent braggadocio. Marta groaned. “Don’t listen to everything this little braggart says.” Her eyes softened, as she saw Jameson’s face fall slightly. “He does have a real knack for it, though,” she said, reassuring him with a little smile. “He’s almost a true venator—maybe someday.”
His youthful pride restored, Jameson flashed another smug look around the campfire, causing Grigor’s face to split into a guffaw. The youthful optimism was contagious; even Charley felt himself fighting back a grin.
“What’s a venator?” Charley asked quietly, still unable to shake the feeling that he had let them all down somehow.
“It’s Latin for ‘hunter’, I know that much,” Sandy said.
Marta leaned back. “That’s right, venator is Latin for ‘hunter’. The name is not unique to Meritorium. In ancient Roman times, the venatores were a special group of gladiators that performed feats of bravery with wild animals in the Colosseum.” She hiked a squat leg up onto her knee, denim pants creaking with the strain. “The venator is a special class of what the Romans called Bestiarii, gladiators that fought wild beasts.”
Jameson’s eyes shone bright. “The Romans fought lions and tigers and bears—but we fight bions and ligers and worse! Just wait until we hunt tomorrow. You won’t believe some of the combos roaming around here!” Charley met Hank and Sandy’s eyes, each reflecting back to their bion hunt outside of Meritropolis: what could be worse than a bion?
Marta watched Jameson, her thick fingers tapping on her upraised knee. “Anyone can fight a wild beast, some more successfully than others, of course.” She looked at Jameson pointedly. “But it takes a very special person to become a true venator, one who can tame the savage beast.”
“You capture the beasts—you don’t hunt them?” Sandy asked.
Marta pointed to the remains of their meal. “Well, we do hunt some of them, of course; your dinner is testament to that. But on the whole, you are right: we aim to capture them unharmed. It takes patience and a little know-how to hunt and kill any animal combo, that is for certain, but it takes real skill to capture one alive. That is what we do.”
Grigor leaned forward. “I have heard stories of this. We would very much like to participate and assist you in any way we can—as a thank-you for your hospitality.”
Marta smiled. “Oh, believe me, you will. In fact, we are counting on it. I regret to say that our hospitality is not entirely altruistic. We could use some more
muscle from the likes of you where we are headed tomorrow.”
Grigor nodded. “It would be my pleasure—” He looked to Orson, who nodded assent in what would ordinarily be a stately curve of his lips, were it not for the sauce staining his mouth and beard. Orson resumed plowing into his food vigorously, head down and dark hair bobbing. Ever since his recovery from the plant pheromones, he had been quieter than usual and possessed a ravenous appetite. Grigor looked back to Marta. “It would be our pleasure to assist your company in the hunt.”
Hank chimed in, looking over at Jameson and matching his enthusiasm. “Count me in!”
Charley picked at a piece of char from the fire that had floated onto his knee, and started to speak slowly. “Well, don’t get me wrong; I want to go on this hunt, too. But, Marta, could you fill us in on some of the details?” Charley knew he should just stop talking, but he thought back to the magnificent llamabill trapped in the vines and its desperate cry for help and he found himself continuing to speak. He met Marta’s appraising eyes. “I mean, I am all for hunting animals when we need them for food, but if we are trapping these animals alive, what exactly are we going to do with them once we catch them?” Charley acutely felt the eyes of the others on him, watching and wondering at this seemingly sudden change of character. Glancing at Sandy from the corner of his eye, he saw her looking at him. He saw surprise in her eyes, but something else too: respect, perhaps?
Marta nodded. “That’s a very fair question. If we are to work together in this way, then it’s only natural you would want to know. Okay, first of all, how much do you know about Meritorium?”
They looked to Orson, now finishing his third helping of meat. In response to their collective gaze, he lifted his head. “Don’t look at me, all I know is that Meritorium is the closest city to Meritropolis.” He looked down again, licked his leaf plate tentatively, and then took a bite out of it. Charley suspected that Orson knew more than he was letting on, but in his present condition Orson hardly seemed interested in anything other than gorging himself, let alone dredging up old memories of his father’s city planning.
