Red Moon Rising

by K. A. Holt

  6

  TEMPLE AND I HAVE BEEN in the hiding pit for hours. So much for studying poultices and tinctures. Aunt Billie and Papa fight in fierce whispers. I don’t understand one gum thing that’s happened today.

  Not.

  One.

  Gum.

  Thing.

  My face is still a bloody mess. It still burns from Papa’s slap.

  Temple’s hand is on my arm, patting out a beat to a song. I know she’s trying to calm me and keep me from panicking in the dark. Keep my breathing steady. My gogs are on and set to night sight, but I know I’ll have to turn them off soon. The solar batteries haven’t held their charge properly in over a moon, so that now they’ll work for barely a few minutes if they aren’t in direct sunlight. I’ve been clicking them on every time I feel the dark crawling up my neck. Then I turn them off again. Then on. Click, click, click, click. One, two, three, four. Fight, fight, fight, fight. Every now and then Temple’s stomach will growl to add its own beat to our maddening new song.

  The metal creaks as Aunt Billie peeks into the hiding pit. “Get on out of there,” she says, throwing the metal sheet wide open and holding her hand first to Temple and then to me. We climb out, filthy from the red dirt, the blood, and from the hard riding this afternoon. Papa glowers, his handbows scattered on the table. A glass of spirits sits in front of him.

  “The Red Crescent hangs low tonight,” he says, his voice sounding like crunching scrub. “Aunt Billie feels it is too dark for an ambush.”

  I swallow. My throat is dusty and dry. “Papa—” I start, but he holds up his hand.

  I pull my thumb to my mouth and chew the nail. It’s the same color and shape as the Red Crescent outside.

  Papa starts to speak and then stops. He takes a sip of the spirits and grimaces. Then he lifts his eyes to look at me. His hair, matted from sweat and grit, falls across his forehead in a black slash. When his eyes finally meet mine, they’re tired and round, not angry slants like this afternoon.

  “The Cheese you saw today is named Strength of the Suns—A’alanatka of the Kihuut. I call him Fist. His dactyl is—was—named Hoot. I was feeding Hoot some biscuit crumbs when you shot him through the eye. After, I should add, I tried to stop you.”

  “Stop me?” The buzzing bewilderment in my head just keeps growing. “You were being eaten!”

  Papa flails his arms out to the side, crosses them over his head, and flails them out again. His movements are sloppy with spirits.

  “This means ‘stop,’ child. It means ‘whoa.’ It means ‘wait.’ It does not mean ‘shoot at me freely until you can shoot no longer.’” Papa’s eyes flash, his hands ball into fists.

  “I was . . . ,” I say, swallowing hard, “I was protecting you. Protecting the family. Being a leader, making quick decisions.” I nearly whisper the last part. My face burns as I look at the floor.

  “A leader?” Papa barks out a laugh that cuts inches off my stature. “In your childish wish to thrum your nose at what girls ought to be doing . . . in your fool-headedness, you grazed Fist and gave me that.” He sloppily points to his hat hanging on the tackboard by the door. There’s a hole burned clear through the front and out the back.

  “Fist goes to great lengths to work with me in trying to create a peace between the homesteaders and the Cheese. As I am the Sheriff Reverend of Origin Township, so is he a keeper of peace among his own people. It was difficult for us to forge this union; difficult to build the trust necessary to work together. We have kept the alliance a secret, but with his people becoming more restless and my knowing that at any time something could happen to change this tentative agreement . . . I felt it time to introduce you. Rae, if the Cheese ever come after you or Temple, you are only to shout Fist’s name and you will be left alone. At least that was our original bargain. Now, I do not know.” He takes another sip of spirits and mutters, “Gods help us all.”

  My mouth is dry as scrub. Does he not see I was trying to protect him? I didn’t know. I didn’t—

  “Fist has—had—become something of a . . . friend.” Papa rubs his hand over his face and sighs. “While our gods do not allow us to walk over the threshold of Old Settlement structures, Fist’s people believe in no such gods. He is not just helping me keep the peace, he is helping me discern whether Old Settlement has any usefulness to the township.”

  At this, Aunt Billie gasps. Papa cannot meet her eyes. I, too, am shocked to hear that not only has Papa made friends with a Cheese, he has allowed that Cheese to go against the gods and trespass on sacred ground.

  Boone’s father used to argue endlessly that Old Settlement was not sacred ground; that we knew of no actual deaths that had occurred there, and that it was abandoned and not eternal sleeping grounds. But Papa said until he had proof that the people left the settlement of their own accord and did not somehow perish there, he would not forsake the gods by stepping foot on their sacred ground, nor would he allow anyone else to do so, either. Boone’s father thought this was ridiculous, but he was only a scholar and Papa is the Sheriff Reverend.

  Papa holds my gaze, though he cannot hold Aunt Billie’s. “I was intent to introduce you to Fist, and show you three that not all the Cheese are to be feared. I was intent to show you that a leader must sometimes make difficult decisions for the good of the township, for the protection of its people. But now—”

  “Why teach us this today?” I whisper as I swipe away the chewed thumbnail that has found its way to my lip. Is Papa ill? Will Temple and I be orphaned, only to live with Aunt Billie, who would not smile even if she was dipped in a cold bath? Not that Papa ever smiles, either, but . . . I feel dizzy and sick at the thought.

  Papa shakes his head. “Fist was gravely offended today,” he says almost to himself. “The Cheese will seek retribution.”

  “Why today?” I ask again. Aunt Billie hands me a biscuit and a drink.

  Papa slams his hand on the table. “You gum child!” he shouts. “Don’t you see? Fist is a leader of his people. He makes the rules. Fist has aligned with me so that we can work toward mending fences. But now . . .”

  I want to yell, to interrupt, to say, “You’re mending fences with the people who killed Mama? Who stole Benny? Who took Rory? The Cheese who gave chase the other evening was just playing? Only scaring me for the fun of it? How lovely.” But I say nothing. My hand goes to my pocket, squeezes the little statue. I contemplate throwing it against the wall.

  There’s a BANG-BANG-BANG on the front door, the metal vibrating with each strike. We all jump. Papa grabs one of his handbows and lurches at the door, flipping the peephole open. He flips it shut just as quick and swings the door open. The stink of a one-man wafts in, and the stink of something else does, too. Old Man Dan and his rangy son, Pete. Pete is so skinny and slithery he shares the single seat of the one-man as if he were his father’s shadow. And he is his father’s shadow in so many ways.

  Pete wrinkles his nose at my filthy appearance, and winks at Temple. She spits across the room and it lands at his feet.

  “Temple!” Aunt Billie shouts. “Oh, gods, what have you done to my nieces today?” She grabs us both by an earlobe and drags us to the bedroom. We can still hear Old Man Dan yelling, though.

  “Word in town is that you’ve wed and bled a Flatface.” I can hear the taunt in his voice. “Ain’t nobody keen on your bringin’ trouble down on us, Zeke.”

  Aunt Billie winces. We may all be terrified of the Cheese after what happened with Mama and Aunt Billie and then Boone’s family, but we’re strictly forbidden from calling them Flatfaces. Ever.

  “I have an ally, Brother Livingston,” Papa says, his voice low. “And you’re good to call me Sheriff Reverend Darling, not Zeke.” Papa pauses. “You were not at studies today, Pete.”

  I can only imagine the look of discontent Pete must be flashing.

  “Pete was helping me in the fields, S
heriff Reverend Darling,” Old Man Dan says, his voice thick and syrupy with contempt. “We work at the Livingston homestead during planting season. We don’t fancy-foot around, wearing dresses and playing games with the Cheese.”

  I want to go poke Old Man Dan in the eye. I never fancy-foot around in my dress! I work. Hard. Every day. I only wear the gum skirt because no one will let me wear any pants!

  “My ally is willing to span the divide, Brother Livingston,” Papa says through gritted teeth. “He is my concern, and mine only. I’m not wed to him. He is not my brother or my kin. He is a . . . great asset for all residents of Origin Township.”

  “Nice speech,” Old Man Dan says. “But everyone in Origin Township knows the Cheese are not to be trusted. You ought not to have meddled with them in the first place. And now—if the rumors are true—”

  “And where did you come by these rumors?” Papa interrupts. “To whom may I offer my thanks for opening their wide and industrious mouth?”

  The spirits have loosened Papa’s tongue.

  “Never you mind that, Zeke,” Old Man Dan says. “I mean, Sheriff Reverend Darling. I just came by to find out what’s true. If we need to warn folks to add extra protection to their homesteads, and you, as Sheriff Reverend, say nothing—”

  “Good night, Brother Livingston. I have had a tiring day and do not wish to stand here jawing with you. Unless, of course, you and Pete would care to partake in our nightly worship.”

  And here, I imagine Old Man Dan sneering just like Pete, but with dirtier teeth.

  Papa shuts the door before Old Man Dan can say anything else.

  “For the sake of the gods, wash your faces, and then to bed. Both of you,” Aunt Billie says. “This house will be silent after prayers.”

  I hear a belch from Old Man Dan’s one-man powering up. Then I hear Pete say loudly, “Don’t worry, Pa, Rae will toss her skirts around and protect us all. From our hats.” Their laughter trails on the wind as they drive off.

  My jaw tightens as I look through the bedroom doorway and see, once again, the hole I shot in Papa’s hat. I could wallop Pete with one arm behind my back and both eyes sewn shut.

  Temple and I scrub ourselves at the basin, the water turning pink and nasty. We put on our sleeping clothes and climb into our cots. Aunt Billie puts a hand on each cot as she kneels between us. Papa comes and kneels beside her. He leads us in our nightly prayers to the gods, asking for our health and safety, thanking the gods for everything bestowed upon the family and the township, and offering sacrifice in the form of daily devotion to the gods’ will. He ends as he always does, intoning, “All we need is borne on the wings of angels and for this we are grateful.”

  I think of these angels, visiting in the night with buckets of water on their wings and scavenged metal slung across their backs. It strikes me suddenly as a ridiculous notion, even though this is what I’ve been told all my life. How does the water appear in the troughs? Why do the angels not strap us on their backs and deliver us to the Red Crescent, where we were meant to live? Why do the angels bring us water and supplies only to ultimately leave us on this moon to bake and suffer?

  Papa leaves the room as soon as he’s done murmuring the prayers. Aunt Billie stands and smooths the apron over her skirt.

  “Will we go to the field tomorrow?” Temple asks.

  “I don’t know,” Aunt Billie answers. “We shall see how the night goes.” She walks out of the room, leaving us bathed in the deep-red twilight of the Red Crescent. I look out the cloudy plastic window, thinking of how this day could have turned out differently.

  “Good night, Rae,” Temple whispers, and reaches across her cot to hold my hand. “I like your hair.”

  7

  MY EYES OPEN WIDE. WHAT woke me? Was it a dream? A sound? I put my hands to my chest. No tightness. I’m breathing easy—other than the start that woke me. I scan the room. Papa is snoring softly in his bed. Aunt Billie is a smooth mound in hers. Temple is curled in a ball at the end of her cot. The clouded plastic window offers a deep-crimson light from the Red Crescent hanging in the sky. Maybe it was Papa’s snoring that woke me. My eyes are heavy again, closing against the night.

  A rustle.

  My eyes fly open again. What’s that noise? I slide my legs over the side of my cot and go to the window. I press my face against the cloudy plastic, trying to make out any shapes in the night. There’s a figure standing next to Heetle, patting her mane.

  “Heet—” I start to shout, but a hand clamps over my mouth.

  “Hush!” Temple whispers. She’s on her tiptoes so she can reach my mouth. “You know what he’ll do if he sees us? We don’t know how many of them are out there.” Her hand is sweaty against my face.

  I swallow hard. Temple takes her hand away.

  The dark figure grabs Heetle’s bridle and leads her away. “He’s taking Heetle,” I whisper. “I have to go stop him.” I throw my knee up on the jagged window ledge, my hands pushing on the plastic, but Temple yanks me back.

  “You can’t go out there, rockhead,” she hisses. “Rae. He’ll take you, too.”

  She’s right. I know she’s right. But my heart is seizing. Heetle is my best companion and a harder worker than I am by a hundred. I can’t imagine my days without her.

  The figure—and the horse—move silently out of sight, my heart still clanging in my chest. Temple swipes her long, filthy blond hair out of her eyes and says, “Just be happy he didn’t try to take us, too. We got lucky tonight, Rae.” She really is too smart to have barely nine summers.

  “I hope they don’t eat her,” I say. “Those gum Cheese.”

  “Well, you did shoot one of their dactyls,” Temple whispers.

  “I know it,” I say. “But it was trying to eat Papa.”

  “Not actually,” Temple says.

  Heetle is gone. This is the worst thing that has ever happened, excepting Rory.

  Aunt Billie walks to the window, a blanket pulled around her shoulders.

  “What’s the ruckus?” she asks quietly. Papa is still snoring. He could sleep through the Red Crescent cracking in two and landing in the gorge. Aunt Billie peers out the window.

  “A Cheese just took Heetle,” I say around the rising lump in my throat. “Just walked right off with her.”

  Aunt Billie puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Rae. Under the circumstances, though, I think we’re very lucky this is all they took.”

  “Unless they’re coming back,” Temple says. Aunt Billie shoots her the stink eye and Temple shrugs.

  “Back to bed, both of you,” Aunt Billie says. Her face is unmoving, unmoved. I know she must be thinking of when the Cheese took Benny, so many summers ago. Temple was just a babe, and I was barely out of training pants. Mama sacrificed her own life to save us, but Aunt Billie ran to the hiding pit. It is a night I don’t remember, but it haunts me even so.

  “The morning comes early and the work goes late.” Aunt Billie pushes us gently toward our cots.

  “But, Aunt Billie!” I say, turning and facing her straight on. “How will we clear the big boulders without Heetle? How will I get to the cooling flats? How will I do anything?” I run my hand through what’s left of my hair and feel the grit of the afternoon still clinging to my scalp. Thank the gods it is so short now, so much less stifling in the heat. Papa is still angry that I cut it, I’m sure, but at least now we have bigger problems to fight over.

  “Get your rest, Rae,” Aunt Billie says. “Take deep breaths. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

  But I don’t want to rest. I don’t want to talk about it in the morning. I want my gum horse back. I turn back to the window, clenching my fists at my sides. Aunt Billie sighs. I hear her tucking Temple into her cot, but I don’t move. Maybe if I stand here and stare long enough, Heetle will hear my thoughts and escape.

  Aunt Billie puts a hand on
my shoulder and whispers, “I’m sorry about Heetle, Rae. But you’re safe, and I’m not sorry for that at all.” She puts her hand on the back of my head and then I hear her walk across the room and climb back into her cot. Papa grunts and his snores start back up again. It’s funny that Aunt Billie has to pat the back of my head now. She used to pat the top of it, but I guess I’m getting too tall.

  The morning comes quickly even though I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, worrying about Heetle, trying to hold back the anger that bubbled up into my head, making my eyes hot and watery.

  Papa says nothing at breakfast when Temple blurts out the story. He just drinks his chicory and shakes his head, staring absently out the window.

  A bang on the door startles us all. Papa reaches for his handbow as Aunt Billie peers through the peephole. She drops her hand quickly, though, and I see an almost smile play at the corners of her mouth. She swings open the door and Boone is standing there, holding Heetle’s armor. It’s stacked so high in his arms I can’t see his face. He tries to carefully set it all down just inside the doorway, but it falls into a huge pile and he grins sheepishly.

  “Sorry about the mess. Mama said I’d better bring it back right away in case Raj breaks it or something since we can’t afford to replace . . .” He looks from me to Temple to Papa to Aunt Billie and back to me again. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “The Cheese took Heetle in the night,” I say, staring at the scuffed metal tabletop. “Just walked away with her.” Temple nods to confirm my story.

  “Oh no!” Boone says, putting his hands up in his hair. “Did you give chase?” Then he says to himself, “No, Boone, of course they didn’t. That would’ve been suicide.” He absently rubs the place where his ear used to be.

  Papa sets down his cup of chicory and tugs his beard. “Boone, take Raj home and come back in your one-man. Think you can get it started?”

  Boone looks skeptical. “Maybe, I don’t know. It’s been a long time since we even tried to start the gum thing up.” His eyes flash up to Aunt Billie, but she says nothing about the swearing.