Exodia

by Debra Chapoton

  I process her words. I don’t know what vital information I could have, but I can no more contradict her than I can give a speech in front of thousands. It occurs to me that Barrett, or perhaps Lydia, has some odd power over me. My eyes drift back to her. The flower is tucked behind her ear now and she is rummaging through her backpack.

  “Here,” she says. She offers me and Barrett each an apple, then takes a smaller one for herself and twirls the stem off.

  I work up the words to ask Barrett why he isn’t sweating. Between bites he explains all of his gemfry gifts.

  “No one noticed at first. I guess I discovered my uniqueness on my own. My mother died when I was four and my father used to leave me with a woman who cares for kids while their folks work all day. I always knew when my dad was returning. I could hear him speaking with his companion as they walked back from the project. A quarter mile away.” He nods to himself, his face softens to the memory. “I figured it out when I was eight or nine. It isn’t just my hearing that is better than yours. Nobody can hide stuff from me. I can sniff it out. My night vision is pretty useful, too, and I can run all day and all night, no problem.” He spits an apple seed back toward the road and adds, “I’ve done it, too. Once I had to get a message to Ronel, nearly three hundred miles away. And I did.”

  “Mmm,” I say with obvious awe in my tone. I’m thinking too many things to make time for any words. I can’t believe that the government didn’t snatch him long ago. Apparently they know about him, or at least the guard with the whip knows he spies for Ronel. I’m impressed with his running ability. A question forms that my tongue can handle, “Are we running that far?”

  His expression brightens. He laughs. Lydia laughs. And because I always think I’m the butt of every joke, I laugh too. They shake their heads no. I toss my apple core away and stand up.

  “But it’s pretty far,” Lydia says. “We’ll go with you about a hundred miles and then we’ll have to turn back. You’ll be on your own. It’s up to you … and your destiny … just how far you go.” She rises, too, brushes off her backside and smiles at Barrett. She asks him, “Are we good?” A twinge of jealousy stabs at my insides as I imagine them together. She’s a good five or six inches taller than he is, but that hardly matters when there are no Red boys her age.

  “Yup,” he says, “no sights, sounds, or smells to worry about.” He stays on the ground a moment more. He’s waiting for more of my questions. Or he’s waiting for me to do something.

  Lydia reaches for her bag and I bend forward to grab it first. “I can carry it for you,” I say and swing it up onto one shoulder.

  “Careful. It’s full of food and a couple of weapons.”

  “Okay.” I look at Barrett. “I can carry yours, too,” I say. I’m probably too boastful. I grab at the strap and it’s as if the bag is in a tug of war with me. I succeed in lifting it, but I wish I hadn’t offered. “Is this full of bricks?” I wonder aloud. They laugh again.

  “Money,” Barrett says. He motions for me to drop the bag and I do. He unzips the main part and I see the coins. We’ve all heard the old stories of how people used to use paper or plastic for money. That must have been so much lighter. The wealthy carry heavy belt sacks nowadays. My sacks have a few coins each, but I rarely have the need of money, living in the capitol, my castle. I’m glad they thought to bring some.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not stolen,” Barrett says. He zips the bag up and pitches it up onto his back as easily as if it were full of old fashion paper bills. Lydia had said his nickname is Bear, maybe that isn’t short for Barrett, maybe he earned it because of his special strength.

  “I don’t want to take all your money,” I say, looking from one to the other. I sidestep onto the road.

  Lydia hops onto the pavement and assures me it’s not theirs.

  Barrett agrees. “What’s here is one coin from everyone in the Red village who doesn’t blame you for Sarkis Tait’s death. You have no idea what he would have done to that boy if you hadn’t stopped him.” I color at the mention of that name and my deed, but their faces show no negative emotion.

  We begin to trot and Barrett tells me things about my victim that should make me feel better about killing him. But remarkably I’m not moved. I’ll take the money, not as the reward it’s intended to be, but as a loan. I’ll pay the Red village back. With interest. Nothing will lessen my guilt.

  “Oh, oh,” Barrett says and speeds up. He can easily outrun me after all and does so, cutting off to the left and into a dark forest. Lydia doesn’t hesitate to follow. Of course I lope after them. By the time we are totally enveloped by leaves and trunks and brush I hear the soft whoosh of solar-bikes. The only solar-bikes still in service after all the factories burned were confiscated by the government years ago for use as pursuit vehicles. The fact that they are on this road, following us, can only mean one thing: my grandfather has sent men after me.

  * * *

  I am tired of escaping through a forest of heavy vegetation, pesky mosquitoes, and slapping branches. The trail we’ve been on for the last hour isn’t much more than a deer path and we have to stay in a single file, Barrett leading. My backpack has grown heavy. I’m thirsty, but I won’t be the first to ask to stop.

  Thankfully Barrett stops. I wonder if he still hears our pursuers or if his head-tilting indicates some new and more dangerous threat. I glance back at Lydia who is brushing her fingers through her hair. The forgotten flower she had tucked behind her ear dislodges and floats to the forest floor. She snaps a twig off a branch and stabs it through the twist of hair she has made and skewers the bun in place. She sees me gawking and grins.

  My heart stops. She looks away and I reach for the tiny flower, tuck it in my sack before she turns back to me.

  “Tired?” she asks.

  “Thirsty,” I say.

  “Shh!” Barrett scowls back at us.

  We wait. I try not to slap at the mosquitoes, but apparently my blowing at them is just as noisy to Barrett. He signals me to stop. We wait. Finally he seems satisfied.

  “It’s okay,” he breathes the words in a fine whisper. “I know them.”

  “Them? Who?” I search around, overhead, in every direction looking for them.

  “It smells like Vinn Will and Carter Tosh, some of Ronel’s people who help, uh, special travelers. I’ll bet they’re looking for us. Probably saw the solar-bikes and figured there was a fugitive.”

  I cringe at that word. I can’t wrap my brain around any of this.

  Lydia puts her hand on my shoulder, reaches past me with her other hand and taps Barrett. She whispers, “Are you sure it’s safe? Should we hide? Or climb, maybe?”

  Barrett lowers his gold filled bag to the ground and sits on it. He sniffs the breeze again. “I’m sure,” he says in a normal voice. “That’s Vinn. We wait and let them find us. That’s the safest way.”

  Lydia’s hand slips beneath my shoulder strap. She helps me get free of the pack and hangs it on a branch.

  “I wasn’t going to sit on it,” I say.

  “I know.” She opens a side flap and pulls out a small device. “Old Mrs. Delia, my neighbor, says this was a popular item when she was little and went camping with her family. Of course, now camping is more or less our lifestyle. And these things aren’t made anymore … of course.”

  Of course. Not much manufacturing going on beyond the absolute necessities. I watch her take the strange contraption and attach one end to the broken branch she had touched before. I hear a sucking sound and see the rolled up bottom begin to expand, filling, I suspect, with liquid from the tree. She shows me how it works, where to pinch the top, how to attach and release the clips, and how to detach the now full reservoir of pure water.

  “Drink up,” she says. “You were thirsty.”

  “After you.”

  She smiles that smile I can’t get enough of and takes a delicate sip. She pretends to gag and we both laugh. I take the device from her hand and our fingers touch. I guzzle
the rest and show her what a quick learner I am by attaching the thing to a different branch, one I break first. I offer the filled container to her and she drinks half and hands the rest to Barrett. We repeat the process a few more times until we feel satisfied. Lydia tells me my life may depend on this little gadget so I better not lose it. I promise not to.

  “What’s it called again?” I ask as I stuff it into my belt sack.

  “It has some technical name with an acronym, but it’s easier to call it a camp well.”

  “Oh.” I am out of words and ideas. My mouth, so recently wet, dries up. She is standing very close.

  “Hey Vinn!” Barrett shouts. “Carter! We’re over here. Don’t shoot us.”

  Barrett is on his feet and swinging up the money bag. My heart seizes up as I realize this might be the end of the road for him and Lydia. They’ll hand me over to Ronel’s people and go back to Exodia.

  I am not ready for that.

  And I’m certainly not ready for the two men who appear on the trail. I’ve never seen two more grotesque beings in my life. No wonder Barrett could smell them. They smell like death.

  Chapter 4 Death All Around

  From the 1st page of the Ledger:

  Like sheep they are laid in the grave; death shall feed on them.

  THE STINK OF death swirled around, unmistakable, floating in the air like dark despair. Kassandra rose from her bed and quietly closed the window, effectively shutting out the dread of truth. She tiptoed out of the room without waking Katie. Katie would go berserk if one of the lambs had died.

  At the front door she grabbed a pair of well-worn tire sandals and tied the straps around her ankles. She opened up the door only far enough to duck under. She rolled it back down, rose up, and headed toward the sheep pen. The gross smell grew stronger. A single old ewe lay like a woolen lump up against the gate, as if someone had tried to pull her under it. The rest of the flock huddled in the center of the enclosure.

  Overnight the pond had completely disappeared.

  Kassandra ignored the trickle of fear that threatened to overtake her and she ignored the ominous fact of the muddy expanse in order to deal with the immediate death before her.

  The ewe’s front legs were chewed off. Kassandra stared. She was close enough to see that the tracks around the body told a story. She was more than a little concerned by the size of the prints. The sheep died during the night, certainly not of thirst, not this soon, more likely simply of old age. Attracted by the scent of death, a wild dog or bobcat had tried to pull the ewe out, gotten her wedged under the gate, and settled for a dinner of the only parts that fit under the wooden slats.

  Kassandra bristled at the waste. She still stood a good six feet away, but couldn’t make her feet move her body closer. She knew exactly which ewe this was–she knew all of her sheep. This was the first one that Flor, her youngest sister, had named. She had called her Carnation, and picked flower names for every lamb born that year.

  “What happened?”

  Kassandra jumped at Katie’s voice.

  “See for yourself. It’s Carnation.”

  Katie strode past Kassandra, tight-lipped and holding back the tears. “I wish dad would get home.” She opened the gate and pulled the ewe out by her tail. “Grab the shovel. We can’t use the meat and this smell is going to bring trouble out of the north woods. Lions and tigers.”

  “I doubt it. Nobody’s seen one in years. Mom said we don’t have to worry about the non-indigenous species anymore.”

  “Well, we better worry about the indigenous ones, then, because whatever ate off her legs is going to get hungry again and come back.”

  With the two of them working they had Carnation buried within ten minutes.

  “Do you think Flor will notice?”

  “Yeah, she’ll notice.”

  Kassandra looked toward the house and then the pond. It was time to face a discouraging fact. “What are we going to do for water?”

  Katie took the shovel from her and tapped some more dirt over the mound. “Build a well, a pump, a windmill, or something, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  Katie gave a grunt-like laugh. “Should probably ask Deandra. All of her guesses are right.”

  Kassandra walked back on Katie’s right side, her shadow stretching long across her sister’s in the early morning light. As they neared the house their next-to-youngest sister, twelve-year-old Sana, came out.

  “Oh, oh. Sana for sure will have something to say about this.” Kassandra waved at Sana then whispered to Katie, “I’m going to give it to her straight and see what prediction she makes.”

  Both girls were used to Sana’s strange ability. As a second generation gemfry she had a unique gift.

  Katie leaned the shovel against the house and got ready to grab Sana in case she reacted physically to the news. It wasn’t uncommon for the girl to have a seizure.

  Kassandra looked in Sana’s eyes and said, “Carnation died.”

  The younger girl’s eyes widened, rolled back for an instant, and focused on her sister again. Her words came out in her usual cryptic manner, “Addiction near.” She paused then added, “Iron candidate.”

  The little girl shook her head and looked toward the sheep pen. Blood that had puddled on the ground near the gate looked brown. Sana said, “Raid contained.” She ducked back into the house.

  “Whoa,” Katie almost chuckled. “I didn’t expect that. Pretty clear, don’t you think? There’s nothing to fear. The “raid” was contained. How does she do it?”

  Kassandra frowned. “But who is the iron candidate? And what is the addiction?”

  A shrug was the only answer.

  * * *

  Kassandra took her turn in the hidden garden. Behind the house, down a hill and sheltered by a row of leafless trees, her parents had turned a meadow into a two acre field of hand-tended crops. Kassandra didn’t mind the weeding so much, but carrying buckets and buckets of water here when it didn’t rain enough was a chore that she hated. And now that the pond was dry, well, she didn’t want to think about that.

  She knelt on the edge of the first row and let her thoughts escape the drudgery.

  This morning’s sad event had been followed by a hasty breakfast and afterward the girls had worked together to move the flock to the gulches. It was a last ditch effort, quite literally, to get the flock to water. They had to cross an old highway and hope there wouldn’t be any travelers to deal with. It was getting so that some Red travelers were as dangerous as the soldiers. The sheep easily leaped the barriers and settled into the long grasses in the marshy ditches between the east and westbound lanes. An occasional vehicle passed, sometimes going east on the west lane or vice versa, but no one stopped to harass the girls or steal a sheep, Kassandra’s biggest fear. It had happened before, and she prayed it would never happen again.

  The bedraggled sheep didn’t hesitate to slurp from the pools of standing water in the median. The girls stayed along the perimeters. These seven girls, ages eleven to sixteen, were caring guardians and alert sentinels, burdened with more responsibilities and work than girls of a hundred years ago.

  Kassandra finished weeding the first row and stood up to stretch. A v-line of geese flew overhead, the lead goose squawking randomly. No, not randomly, she thought. He was the leader. He encouraged his followers. He was an “iron candidate” for the job of getting his flock to some safer place.

  She got to work on the second row and mulled over Sana’s predictions. There had been talk for as long as she could remember that a special leader, chosen by Ronel, would soon turn up and erase decades of subjugation, a half-century of internal war, and change the retreat of progress to revival.

  Sounded like fairy tales to her. An iron candidate … not likely.

  She got to the end of the second row and clapped the dirt off her hands, stood again, and checked her surroundings. She spotted movement by the old tree near the path that led to the house. A bunny hopped forward then raced le
ft as Kassandra’s sister Araceli appeared.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Kassandra yelled. Sister number five was always late, a dawdler, and something akin to the black sheep of the family. Kassandra and Katie were close, the twins were close, of course, and the two youngest, Sana and Flor, were an inseparable pair, but Araceli was a loner, trying to attach herself from time to time to one or another of her sisters. Independent. Without a single gemfry attribute.

  But that was a good thing, Kassandra thought. That made Araceli more like her, though maybe others would think they were both emotionally maimed. She smiled at Araceli and put her impatience in check. “I’ve done the first two rows. Why don’t you start on the far end and when we meet up we’ll be done.”

  Araceli tossed her braids back. “Can’t I work alongside of you? I’ve got more questions about … you know. Period stuff.”

  Kassandra nodded and bent to start the third row. Araceli crouched across from her and weeded the fourth row. Her first question seemed a practical one. “How are we going to get the stink out of our clothes? I mean, what if we never get the windmill fixed?”

  “Dad will be back tomorrow. He’ll have supplies, lumber and stuff. Or maybe the Dixons will come help us dig a new well. Lots of people have wells they have to pump by hand, you know.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm.

  Araceli threw some weeds over her shoulder. “Two days until TM. I can’t smell like this at TM, Kassandra.”

  The older Luna girl bristled with jealousy. Weekly get-togethers in their anonymous town included church services, market shopping, town meetings, and general socializing. Because nearly everyone attended the town meeting the day was simply called TM.

  There were plenty of thirteen year old boys for Araceli to be interested in. Kassandra remembered how the feelings had emerged when she was her sister’s age. Except that Kassandra had to vie for the attention of boys two years older since there were none her own age. And those older boys didn’t pay any attention to an undeveloped girl with pimples and, she remembered now, stinky clothes. That memory she put away. With difficulty.