Breeder: An Arrow's Flight Novel

by Casey Hays

  One jailer grunts for me to follow her. I hesitate for only a moment, looking up once more. I no longer see the crowd of women, and the ladder edges slowly up the side and disappears, abandoning me. Reluctantly, I turn toward the jailer’s broad, rippled back and trudge despondently behind her, attempting to keep up with her long stride. My mind is crowded with visions of what else the Pit holds for me. I scan the walls, trying to formulate some sort of plan in my jumbled brain about how in the world I’m going to get out of this place.

  The Pit is a tremendous thing, and I am merely an ant in comparison, crawling across the wide expanse an inch at a time. The analogy only magnifies my unease, and I have a sudden and ridiculous premonition where I’m being crushed right out of existence by some giant foot.

  In the very center stands a long, rough barracks with a thatched roof—the home of the jailers. It is enormous—large enough to house many of them at once. Yet surprisingly, it still appears small compared to the Pit itself. Next to the barracks a large, stone fire-pit has been built—and behind it, an outhouse. The wall of the Pit is at least fifty feet high all the way around and made of smoothed stone impossible to climb. My heart drops. Without the ladder, there is no escaping.

  All along the edge of the Pit itself, small, cave-like rooms have been hollowed out of the stone, rugged and harsh like wide mouths with chapped and crusty lips. I brush my eyes past them in wonder. It must have taken years to hew so many. Each entrance is fitted with a bamboo gate, closed tight with a wooden lock. There are at least two-hundred of these caves.

  Two hundred! My breath catches in my throat.

  It is deathly quiet, but I see one of the males. He sits on the ground just inside his cave, and shock overwhelms me at the sight of him. He wraps long, dirty fingers around the bars of the gate, flexing them ever so noticeably every few seconds. His beard is thick and matted and twisted into an unruly mass of ugliness. He stares at me with sad, vacant eyes sunken deep into his head, and for a moment, my heart threatens to squeeze in on itself and stop beating.

  Could this be him? Is he my chosen mate?

  He is the first of the stock that I’ve ever seen, and I can’t stop staring at him. His eyes? They haunt me. They are full of emptiness—bounties and bounties of nothing. A life that begins with the confines of the nursery behind the big wall that separates them from us—boys from girls—and ends here. And I see for the first time what becomes of them—these boys whom I have never seen again.

  In his expression, there is no sign of life, of happiness, of emotions of any kind. He’s simply . . . blank.

  He blinks once and turns away, and as we pass him by, a sense of relief wrapped in guilt envelopes me. This one is not mine. And so, I rally myself for the next cave . . . or the next, where my own mate awaits.

  The jailer finally stops abruptly, without my noticing, and I blindly collide into her, knocking the breath clean out of myself. She only growls at me and reaches down for a set of wooden keys around her waist. Her large fingers fumble with them for a few minutes, searching for the right one.

  Eventually, to my dismay, she manages to find the key even as I hoped she wouldn’t. What a pleasant surprise it would have been for Mona if the jailers had lugged me back to her to say, “So sorry, Mona, but we seem to have misplaced the key. I guess you will have to find another duty for Kate after all.”

  I shake my head despondently. From what I’ve seen so far, I can’t imagine a jailer ever saying something so proper. Or myself being so fortunate.

  The jailer swings the door open wide and motions me through. I shift my feet nervously and peer into the darkness within. Somewhere inside, he awaits. My own sad, thin, disconnected nightmare of a mate. Does he know I’m coming? Has he longed for the day he would meet me? Is the stock even capable of such a thing? Or will he greet me with the same indifference of the male we passed by?

  I glance at the jailer warily.

  “Come on, girl,” she says gruffly. “I don’t have all night here.”

  A breeze kicks up, scuttling a puff of dust into my eyes. I squint and bend away. I think I hear a voice in the wind, whispering indecipherable words—wispy, smooth and quite strange, but they cause me to hesitate on the precipice of the life I am about to begin.

  Once I step through this entrance, my destiny is sealed. And yet, I have no choice. I purse my lips, my breath stilling with the suddenly silent air.

  In that moment of hesitation, something odd happens: He comes barreling out of the cave, hollering and flailing his arms in every direction. I stare, stunned, as he forces his way through the entrance and straight toward me. Screeching, I jump aside.

  His skin, surprisingly, is bronzed rather than pasty white from lack of sun. His light hair catches in the setting rays, lifting ever so slightly with his quick movement, and his face is lined with determination—with hope of escape. Is that what I see?

  A victorious half-laugh, half-sob bellows from him, but it is short-lived. He hits solid muscle as the jailer ever so casually steps into his path. With a thunderous thud, the breath gushes out of him. He crashes to the ground and rolls to one side, moaning. The jailer’s expression never changes as she clutches him by his collar and drags him back into the cave. She retreats a few seconds later, and as if nothing has happened, she motions for me to step in.

  I stare at her.

  Is she crazy? She still wants me to go in there? With that?

  The thought flashes through my mind that I should flee. I just might be fast enough to outrun her.

  My eyes flit all around us, but the dark hole of the cave entrance gapes at me, promising me that running is futile, and it will swallow me up regardless. I watch for some movement within. I don’t understand. I thought all the males were content. Never have I heard of any one of them trying to escape.

  Of course, until today, no one has heard of a breeder refusing to breed.

  With a final pleading look at the jailer, who only glowers, showing no sympathy, I can do nothing but step inside. And by the time I’ve changed my mind and whirled around to quickly jump back out again, I find I’m clutching the bars as the gate slams with a loud crack and locks firmly into place. A sharp cry escapes me.

  This is it. My home for the next three days—and my life—until the day I can no longer bear children. I close my eyes, lean my head against the bars, and note a final tear gliding down my cheek as if to seal my fate. All the fight drains out of me, and misery begins to set in. I turn, pressing my back against the bamboo gate, and sink to the ground in anguish.

  Chapter 4

  “Be on your guard against men; they will hand you over to the local councils and flog you in their synagogues.” Matthew 10:17

  The cave is small, very small and damp. And dark . . . . And it has successfully swallowed me up.

  The floor is made of dirt, and only a small amount of the fading light seeps in. A mat, much larger than mine, is carelessly tossed against the farthest wall, covered with thin blankets. A hole in the ground serves as the toilet. This is all. No comforts whatsoever.

  And the smell! I swallow hard to keep from gagging. It’s fresh and raw, wet and sour, and it seems magnified by the impeding darkness. It’s worse, so much worse than I’ve imagined . . . so much worse than Mia described. My shock turns slightly to anger.

  How could Mona send me here, to this putrid place? How could she expect anyone to perform a duty surrounded by such filthiness and with males who are covered in this same foulness?

  I raise the collar of my shirt up over my nose to ward off the stench.

  When he suddenly and painfully moans, all these other thoughts vanish. He moves; I scramble to my feet and back toward the opposite wall, watching him closely.

  He lies in a dirty heap, but he lugs himself up, clutches his stomach, and leans his head against the stone surface. I stiffen and press closer to the wall.

  I can’t see him clearly. I wish I could—this man I’ve been prepped for all these years and who will def
ine who I am from this day forth. What is he like? The momentary sighting of him outside the cave walls was not satisfying enough, and a strong urge to have a closer look is all I can consider for a moment. Perhaps it will ease my tension to look at him. Will I be repulsed? Fascinated? Disappointed?

  He spots me through heavy lids. At first, I can tell he’s disoriented, as if he’s waking from a dream. He shakes his head to clear it and focuses on me.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  His voice is hoarse, but it bounces off the shadows of the cave loudly. I stare at him, not speaking. I have never been so frightened. I tremble, palms pressed against the cold surface, wishing I could disappear into the wall altogether.

  “I asked you a question,” he snarls, pressing a hand against his head. A one inch gash, like a red smile, graces his brow. “Who are you? Can’t you speak?”

  I’m taken aback by his question. It angers me a little.

  “Of course I can speak!” I snap my words at him like a lash, trying to sound as tough as I can, but inside I don’t feel tough at all. I shrink closer to the wall as my eyes hone in on him like a hawk, wary of his movements.

  “What’s your name, then?”

  “Kate. My name is Kate.”

  “Kate? Well, Kate, why are you here? Are you a spy?”

  “What?” I crane my neck to get a closer look at this male. It’s so hard to see him in the dark shadows that permeate the entire cave, but his questioning must have some validity. Either that, or he’s testing me. I want to see his face. I don’t recall Madam Belle covering this kind of introduction in our lessons. “Why would you think that?”

  “After what I’ve been through, the real question is ‘Why wouldn’t I?’” He moves, using the wall behind him for leverage to hoist himself up. I shift my position, clench my fists, ready to defend myself if necessary.

  “Man, that broad was solid as a rock.” He pushes past me as I squeeze away from him, and he topples onto the mat. Stretching to his full length, he groans. “I guess I won’t be getting out today, then.” Once settled, he leans up on one elbow painfully gritting his teeth. “So Kate,” he wheezes. “May I call you Kate?”

  I squint. “It . . . is my name.”

  He laughs, and it is the fragile sound of something broken. “Right. So. What’s your story, Kate?”

  “My story?”

  “Yeah, you know. If you’re not a spy, what are you in for?”

  “In for?” What a strange question.

  “Yeah, why are you here? How long you staying? What’d you do to end up in this place? Where’s your family? You know, the usual.”

  I study him curiously. I know very little about how the stock should behave, but he seems . . . unusual. I paid enough attention in my lessons to know that Madam Belle did not teach us how to hold a conversation with a mate. In fact, I’d never heard of conversing at all. And the words, the phrases he uses? I have never heard anyone speak in such a way, and I struggle with what I should say before I settle on something safe.

  “They sent me to you,” I finally say. “I’ve been assigned.”

  The man lifts his head and stares at me. Only now I see in the fading light that he isn’t a man at all. He’s a boy, probably no more than seventeen or eighteen years old. This does not, however, calm my anxiety about being paired with him. It doesn’t matter at all.

  “Assigned to me? Well. Wasn’t that nice? They’ve given me a girl. What a hospitable gesture. And just look at her, all clean and shiny. Just for me.” He suddenly raises his voice and yells as loud as he can. “YOU PEOPLE SURE KNOW HOW TO MAKE A GUY FEEL WELCOME! THANKS A LOT!” He levels his eyes at my shocked face. “There. That’ll teach ’em.”

  His words reverberate off the walls, echoing back at us in vibrating rounds, and I’m stunned. He laughs a quiet, sad laugh that in no way matches his recent outburst. What kind of a mate is this? He speaks in riddles and behaves so strangely. Mia did not tell me the stock have their own language or that they are so rude when they first meet you. And I am here for three days! I feel a million tiny needles of regret pierce me all at once.

  Why didn’t I just do what I was told? Why did I have to speak up? Look where it’s landed me?

  I shift uneasily and hopelessly stare at the floor while this male busies himself with tearing the end of his shirt loose to press against his bloody forehead. He seems to have forgotten me. He’s so distracted, so uninterested . . .

  I check myself as this thought permeates me.

  He’s uninterested!

  I raise my eyes, and my heart leaps with an inkling of hope. Can it be?

  In my complete lack of desire to ever be mated, I have to admit, I paid as little attention as possible to a great deal of the lessons. But I assumed the stock were trained—just as I was—for this moment. But—

  What if I’m wrong, and he knows nothing?

  I’m exhilarated beyond description for a moment, and I can think of only one thing. Safe. I’m safe! If he knows nothing about the breeding—if I could be so fortunate—I would thank the Archer until the end of my days. If only he never has to know, and we never have to—

  My excitement is suddenly disrupted by a more reasonable and very chilling possibility. Perhaps Madam Belle’s lessons were thorough for a reason. The prospect crashes in on me like a thousand falling stones, and I don’t want to believe it. But what else could it be except that . . . I’m supposed to teach him! I feel my gorge rising, and I take several deep breaths, my hand finding my throat.

  I can’t do it. I won’t!

  I wouldn’t even know where begin. The uncomfortable gestures and ease of words Madam Belle forged upon us made my insides leaden. And as revolted as I was just by hearing them, by seeing the things I would one day be expected to perform with a male—I couldn’t. I just couldn’t vocalize, let alone educate anyone on how to take part. No. I can’t.

  After a moment, the boy slides over and pats the mat beside him, and I freeze. An invitation? Maybe he’s not as uninformed as I thought. I don’t know how to respond, so I simply stand here gaping at him in sheer panic. And when all the options running through my mind fail, I do the only thing I can do. I sit down in the dirt.

  He watches me for a moment.

  “I’m Ian,” he finally says.

  I nod stiffly, but I don’t answer. I don’t care to know his name. I just want to get out of here. I want my hogan and my blankets, and I want to see the sun come bursting through my window tomorrow morning. I choke back a sob that threatens to climb out of my throat.

  My distrusting eyes don’t stray too far from him. He is a hulking shadow with barely perceivable features, intimidating and mysterious. And yet, he makes no move to threaten me, and I find myself admitting he doesn’t appear to resemble the monsters from my nightmares. This, however, does little to ease my fears.

  “So Kate,” He sighs and waves his hand around the darkening cave with his bloody makeshift bandage before pressing it to his head again. “I hope you like what I’ve done with the place.” His tone is easy now, and he cocks his head to the side. “How did you end up in this part of the world? Or better yet, why?”

  I frown.

  “I live here,” I reply.

  “In this hell hole?” Shock leaps into Ian’s voice at the thought. “You mean . . . you live in one of these cages?”

  “No.” I furrow my brows, confused. “No, not in the Pit. In the Village.” My warm, safe hogan crosses my mind again, and tears spring to my eyes.

  “The Village?” He drops his hands and stares. “What village?”

  His question, sincere as it may sound, irritates me.

  What is wrong with him? Is he serious, or is he mocking me?

  I’m beginning to think Mona has given me the slowest mate of them all.

  “Our village.” I say emphatically. “The one you came from. Remember? The nursery?”

  Ian shakes his head, confusion in his voice. “Noooo . . . I don’t know what you’re talkin
g about. I’m not from any village around here. And I’ve never been in a nursery, that’s for sure.”

  I huff, disbelieving.

  “Is that so? Then how did you get here?” I ask suspiciously.

  “I don’t know!” He’s irritated. “I was out hunting, and then everything suddenly went black. When I woke up, here I was in this cave with a terrible headache to top it off.” He waves his hands around the room again. “But I can definitely say that I am not from around here. I’d remember this place.”

  I gawk at him. He was hunting? Males don’t hunt. Males don’t do anything but breed. Males live in leisure.

  “Then, where did you come from?” I test him, my chin jutting out boldly at his insistence. He says only one word.

  “Eden.”

  I squint at him.

  “It’s my village,” he bursts.

  I’m stunned—and filled with a sense of heart-wrenching pity. To think that this boy has created for himself some illusion of the truth; that he would even be capable of such a machination seems impossible. He glares at me with an air of confidence that is so convincing it frightens me, and I press my back against the wall, hoping for sure this time it will open up and let me in. And then, a different thought begins to formulate inside my head.

  He’s not slow. He’s mad. Just my luck. I should have known I’d be given a crazy one.

  “There is no other village,” I say, a quiet but sharp defiance in my tone. I feel a sudden obligation to educate him. “You have been misled by your own mind.”

  He stares for a minute. Then he laughs.

  “Yes there is, Kate. There are villages all over the place.” He leans in confidentially. “You can trust me on that one.”

  Trust him? I can’t believe we are having such a conversation. I can’t believe my first night in the Pit is being spent debating unrealistic ideas with my mate. How did it come to this? Where did he learn such strange ideas?