by Casey Hays
She waves her hand toward Madam Belle, who bows her head solemnly while I blush a deep red that most certainly makes the sarong I’m wearing look even whiter, if possible. I’m suddenly grateful I’ve eaten so little. My stomach churns angrily.
“You are of age. Your Destiny is set,” Mona continues, and I try to concentrate through the dizziness that threatens to sweep me straight off my chair. “And you are now ready to begin a new life of productivity. You will become a vital part of our community from this day forth.”
Another shout of agreement rises from the crowd.
“You are by far one of the most beautiful of all the women in the Village. It is no wonder the Fates have consulted with the Archer and made such a determination. And so the Archer has chosen your life’s path. Walk it proudly, Kate.”
The crowd claps vigorously until Mona once again raises her hand to quiet them.
“Once Clotho revealed your Destiny, we began our search with great effort for the perfect mate.” She smiles tenderly and softly says, “We’ve found him.”
And yet another cheer pierces the blue sky and my heart all at once. I sink lower on my throne. The garland tips dangerously to one side.
Mona still smiles. I hold my breath. Mentioning my mate brings with it the full awareness of the reality of this day. It will happen. I will soon be taken to this man, and left alone with him—a man I don’t know.
The panic suddenly and involuntarily invades me with no warning, and my body trembles with desperation. I have to do something. Now!
In an instant, I’m on my feet, yanking the garland of flowers from my head. I squeeze it so tightly that a few of the petals break loose and flutter toward my feet. I scan the wondering faces of the crowd. Courage. I hear that tiny voice inside me again and, lifting my chin, I toss the garland of honor aside. A gasp circles the clearing as each woman and child stares in amazement at me—this brazen girl on the platform. All eyes are on me now, and the fear of what I’m about to do causes the words to stick in my throat. The silence swells inside my head until it is very, very loud. Mona’s eyes harden.
I clear my throat and look at her first. “I—appreciate what you’ve done for me today. This has all been very . . . beautiful.”
Mona’s face softens with approval, and she beckons me to continue.
“However,” I swallow, and at the word, Mona tenses, a warning in her eyes. “I will have to refuse your last offer. I prefer to be given another role.”
I hold my breath. Mona stands completely still, but I know immediately I’ve crossed a line. I see it in her narrowed eyes that suddenly become two small slits disappearing inside her head, and I’m forced to absorb her murderous glare.
“Please?” I whisper so quietly it’s a wonder she hears me at all.
And before I can say another word, she releases a guttural laugh. I freeze in my spot.
“Refuse our offer? Kate, my dear, you don’t appear to understand. This is no offer. It’s a command of the stars. You will mate. Tonight.”
“No.” I stand my ground through all the shaking that sends my knees knocking together. “I will not. If you wish to give me some other duty, I will not refuse. But I cannot—”
I don’t finish my sentence. The back of Mona’s hand crashes into my face and sends me toppling backwards over my chair. I fall in a crumpled heap of shiny, white satin on the grass, stunned by the unexpected blow. My breath gushes out of my lungs in a long, wheezing cacophony, and for a moment I fear I will not be able to take in another breath. The music has stopped; the women stand silent.
Mona jerks me up by my hair as I take in a precious and painful breath, my hand automatically flying to grapple with hers. She leers in, puffing hot, acrid breath into my face. The heat of it causes me to stop struggling. I wince, closing my eyes.
“You. Do. Not. Refuse,” she poignantly pronounces each word slowly and deliberately through clenched teeth. A white-hot flash sears my eyesight, and she fades out and back in as it clears. “And because of your lack of gratitude, you will spend not one, but three days in the Pit with your mate. Happy birthday!”
Three days!
She shoves me, and I hit the ground hard as she faces the crowd. In a booming voice, she addresses them.
“No one decides against what Fate has already determined. Remember that! We honor the decision of the Moirai.”
She scoops up the garland and slams it back onto my head. At her order, hard hands of the guards seize me.
“No! No, please. Mona!” I struggle against the fingers gripping my wrists, but they are so strong. I twist my body toward her, pushing against the guards, pushing against my fate, pushing against a life that sends my heart reeling to a premature death. “Please don’t force me. I beg you! Mona!”
She whirls and takes two long steps until we’re face to face, inches apart. Her green eyes glare straight into my soul, it seems. I yank from the guards’ grasp and fall to my knees. I promised I would never resort to begging, but I forget even this in the wake of my sudden and fresh fear of the Pit. I bend low and clasp Mona’s feet.
“Please. Give me another role, Mona.” I whisper with the rawness of an animal being led to the slaughter. “Please!”
My supplication lays me flat against the ground at her feet, humbled to the lowest level I’ve ever been, but she ignores my tears; disregards my pleas. Her answer is a hard kick to my jaw that sends me flailing backwards. The shock overwhelms me, and my hand automatically flies up flat against my aching cheek as if involuntarily promising to ward off another attack.
“Stand up!” Mona’s anger emits from her like steam off boiled water, and obediently, I stumble to my feet. All around us the women stare wide-eyed, locked in complete terror. I catch Mia and Diana standing together, hands clasped. Tears well up in Mia’s eyes; Diana’s are pleading. I read her message in them. She hopes I will stop now and do as Mona says. Layla, standing beside her, shakes her head and mouths one word: Don’t. Her troubled eyes glisten.
I lower my trembling hand and pull myself to my full height. I’ve done all I can do within the bounds of my power. I know this, but I do not heed their warnings. My eyes flick from them to Mona, and I raise my bruised jaw in a final stand.
“You are an embarrassment to this community, Kate,” Mona hisses. “Much hard work and preparation has gone into this day to make it very special for you, and this is how you repay the kindness? You should be utterly ashamed of yourself.”
Before I can blink, the guards have hold of me again. They hoist me up onto a homemade litter, kicking and screaming all the while, and I’m jostled uncomfortably through the Village toward the Pit. The rumbling crowd follows—because they don’t know what else to do. They always follow. The music peals loud in my ears. Tears stream down my bruised face, but I have no strength left to protest. My heart is too heavy, my body too weak. I have failed to save myself. I sink back against the pillows in resignation and despair. And I sob.
Diana walks as close as she can to the litter, with Mia on her heels. She raises her hand once in a salute, as if to say she understands. I see so much compassion in the gesture that, for a moment, I think I will be fine.
But from a distance, I see the Pit, and panic embraces me all over again.
Chapter 3
“And they begged him repeatedly not to order them to go into the Abyss.” Luke 8:31
The Pit lies just outside the perimeter of the Village, not too far away, but far enough to keep village life and Pit business distinctly separate. To serve in this capacity is an honor, but the Council is eager to be discreet about the particular details of this responsibility. Some things are simply unmentionable. And the girls who have already reached maturity are not allowed to disclose the full details of their experiences to anyone who is not of age. It is strictly forbidden.
So of course, I know nothing. Not really. Only what Mia tells me, which I am hesitant to hear. Madam Belle’s teachings may have been accurate in theory, but there are many
things we cannot learn ahead of time. No one can teach the fear, the uncertainty, the utter hopelessness that a girl feels as she is unwillingly dragged toward the Pit and its mysteries.
I clutch the side of the litter, chew desperately on my lower lip, bury myself in the pillows, and hope against all hope that this is a nightmare, and I will wake up soon. I look at no one, speak to no one. My thoughts churn rapidly, searching for some escape, for some way out of this madness. Leaping from the litter and running for the forest seems preposterous, but it crosses my mind.
When I was just a little girl, a woman came often to the nursery. I don’t think she was supposed to, but she came all the same. She read to me, taught me the meaning of the words. I soaked up all of it, not just the words but the reason for them. One day, the woman smiled down at me and said, “Ah, Katie, remember the words. They will set you free.” She hugged me close against her warm, pungent body. Then, the fire in her eyes lost its sparkle as she continued. “You are beautiful, child. And one day, they will take you away to the Pit. You can count on it. But be brave, child. Be brave, and remember all that I’ve taught you.”
I’ve never quite understood what the woman meant, but I’ve never forgotten. And it wasn’t until I turned thirteen and was released from the nursery that I really began to give my future some thought. And the ideas I formulated about the Pit—about the stock and the one male in particular who would one day become my mate—terrified me beyond any nightmare I’ve ever experienced. Dark things with wings waiting in the shadows of my mind to sink ugly teeth into my flesh are no match for the fears I’ve created of the Pit. The Pit is a dark thing itself, fierce and frightening, and no amount of preparation could have countered these feelings.
The woman? She is long gone. Two years prior to me leaving the nursery, she vanished—just like that—and with her disappearing the only sense of peace I’ve ever enjoyed faded into a sweet, unreachable memory. I know now that she is dead. And even though I have never discovered her significance in my life—why I meant so much to her . . . as much as she meant to me—her absence leaves me empty of any kind of hope. And today, her words sear me like a brand and fashion a raw sore where they lie against my heart. Be brave.
I will try.
The Pit is just that—a large, deep hole in the ground in a vast, empty area outlined by a dense woods and low bushes. Nothing grows in or near the Pit itself. It is dry and dusty, and the wind blows the sand around in hot, spastic spurts. Physically, there is nothing comfortable or inviting about the Pit. But it’s not the physicality that frightens me, as dreary as it is. No, it’s what the Pit represents, what it expects, that sends my body to trembling. It’s the monster that swallows young breeders on their birthdays and spits them back out, used and broken . . . and changed.
I close my eyes, try to remember if there has ever been anyone—any other girl whose desire matched my own. Have I witnessed the same reluctance before in any heart—a heart longing for another way, another destiny?
I crinkle a furious brow as the injustice of my plight. And I remember Meg. Meg talked often of another life. Of a place where dreams came true by merely thinking them into being; a place she never found. Meg did not adjust well to her duty in the beginning, and it took some time before I saw her heart tamed, and her body trained for the inevitable in a kind of resignation. But I remember, too, that her eyes held something of resistance always, and I knew then she never fully resigned. And because of it, she lost her life.
But was it worth it? Was she content in the end? It’s difficult to recall.
The Pit moves closer; my heart thuds; sweat trickles from my hairline down each temple. And Meg fades away in the heat of the day.
A rugged, wooden ladder has been lowered near the edge. The hefty women carrying my litter suddenly halt and unceremoniously dump me onto the ground. With a shocked cry, I tumble forward, smacking the side of my head on the hard dirt. I sputter, spitting dust from my mouth, and lumber to my feet. And I stand straight and still, eyes down, not daring to speak. Speaking has rendered enough trouble for one day.
The crowd emerges from the woods with hot, curious eyes gaping in anticipation, and I feel like a specimen on display—a new and rare species under their scrutiny. But I take a deep breath, and remind myself that I’m not the first frightened girl to be escorted to the Pit, and I won’t be the last. This isn’t about me; it’s about principle. It’s about duty and responsibility and playing the part even when you don’t believe the part was truly written for you. Yes. These women are here on principle alone. I drive this idea into my brain, try to convince myself of it even as Mona squares herself face-to-face with me and steps in close. But in this very moment, it is strictly about me.
She brushes a hand against my hair, gently adjusting the garland of flowers that still clings limply to my now-dirty locks. Satisfied, she steps back and smiles.
“Don’t fight us on this Kate. It’s your destiny. I think you will be pleased with our choice of a mate for you. He is one of the finest of the stock. You will make beautiful babies—strong and healthy, too.”
She smiles and then does something very out of character: She hugs me. There’s nothing tender in it. Her muscles are tense and unfamiliar with such a gesture. I’m completely thrown off guard, and I stand rigid with shock, praying for the moment to pass quickly and thinking only of her fist slamming into my face.
Mona motions for me to descend the ladder. I stay put, planted in my spot, my chin jutting out stubbornly. Mona frowns, and a terrible trembling shakes throughout my whole body.
“Don’t make me throw you in, girl. Your mate already has enough to look at with that ugly bruise on your face.”
She steps toward me, solid and serious. It is unwise to continuously contradict Mona. One glance at her—the beautiful twist of her muscular build that somehow still manages to appear dainty and refined, even in its solidity, the dangerous curve of her full and frowning lips, the brilliant caution flashing in her eyes—and any woman in the Village knows she’s lost the battle against her before it begins. And so I wince in my resistance, readying myself for another blow.
It doesn’t come. Instead, two strong sets of hands suddenly grasp my arms, forcing me to the top of the ladder.
“No, no, no!”
I kick. I squirm. I try to twist free, but nothing works, and as I wrench against the guards, the other women stare, amazed by the spectacle before them. Never have they seen a breeder fight so resolutely, and I can tell it frightens them. When one of us doesn’t comply with the established rules of the Village, it rarely bodes well for the rest. We’ve seen one too many times how the Council handles a troublemaker; seen how her actions can trickle down to the rest of the clan and wreak havoc. A guard caught stealing, a nanny leaving the nursery after dark, a violently intoxicated jailer—each instance dealt with swiftly and harshly in an attempt to restore quick order. We all long for order. It’s written in the stars after all.
In this moment, I am the threat . . . and they sense it.
One guard slaps me, stunning me long enough for them to lug me to the lip of the Pit. Soon, I’m dangling dangerously over the edge near the ladder. The ugly guard scowls down, ready to strike again. I grab for the rung, clinging as desperately as a leaf in a wind storm clings to a branch. After a moment, suspended in the air, I gain my senses about me and scramble a few steps down out of the guard’s reach.
Mona looms over the top of the ladder, hands on hips, her golden hair outlined in shadow by the setting sun.
“Be a good girl, Kate.”
Her voice carries a soothing tone that runs over me like lavender oil, but from this angle she looks even taller, more menacing, and it contradicts her tenderness. The others line the edge of the Pit like curious, little birds on the nursery wall, and a bitterness bites at me.
No one cares how I feel. Not one of them. Does no one remember her fated day?
I catch the eyes of one young girl. Liza is her name. I remember her fr
om the nursery. She’s a year or two younger than me, and her voice is exquisite. I can’t recall whether she will be a singer when she comes of age; more than likely she will. But the fear painted on her pale face as she stares at me wide-eyed reflects my own as if I look into a mirror, and I am assured of one thing. I am not the only one who fears the ways of the Village.
My lip quivers as I defy tears.
“Please, Mona,” I attempt one final plea. “Give me some other duty in the Village. Not this. Please, not this.”
The sun sinks an inch, and Mona’s frown edges into view. Her voice is soft. “It is not my decision to make. It was made long before today. This is your place. Now learn to live with it.”
And in the blink of an eye, she disappears from sight and is replaced by Tara, who sneers at me and kicks at the ladder. It swerves dangerously, and I have no choice. I scurry down before she has another chance to kick.
And then . . . I’m in the Pit. And my blood turns cold.
The presence of doom is overwhelming, tugging at me from all sides. The jailers wait for me—big, strong, hard-faced women who keep the Pit running. There is nothing warm about them, only coldness and harsh eyes and angry grunts. They live here year-round, tending to the needs of the stock.
This is what we call the males of the Village. Stock. Men whose sole purpose is to produce offspring, an undemanding duty. Madam Belle explained it well. “They live in leisure all the day of their lives. They are the fortunate ones,” she proclaimed. “Not a care in the world other than reproduction. If only we were all so blessed.”
I doubt the stock agree with her sentiment, if they can feel at all.
I’ve never seen jailers before, and I’m astounded at their size. They’re massive—all muscles and tendons. Each one is at least two heads taller than me, with necks as thick as the one on the boar at my celebration. Their steps are announced with booming thuds, and I swallow the lump in my throat as I survey them. I certainly would not want to find myself an enemy to any one of these women.
