by K. A. Holt
“That gum tunnel!” Rory might say, laughing and shaking her head. “Tromp, tromp, tromp for a million days and nights. You’d think they were taking us to meet the gods themselves!”
Something flutters along the footpath and I think it’s a sandmoth drawn to the light, but no. It is a small, ripped piece of canvas. My breath catches in my throat. I pretend to stumble and I grab at the canvas. Fist squeezes my arm with his rough hand and pulls me to my feet. He says something that I don’t understand, but probably means “Watch it.” Or “Be careful.” That’s what his tone says.
I hold the canvas in my pocket and take a quick chance to look at it. Though the glow from the flameless flare makes everything look orange, I can see the smudges on the canvas that are red from the dirt. My heart quickens and I know it’s crazy, but I also know Temple is a smart kid.
Sure enough, a little farther down the footpath I see another piece of smudged canvas. She’s ripping up her apron, or her gloves, to leave a trail. She must be! I start walking faster. Maybe we can catch up to her and her Cheese. I need to know she’s okay.
We walk for a long time, and always, just when I’m about to give up, I find another shred of Temple’s canvas and it gives a kind of magical power to my legs and feet to just keep moving, even though I want to collapse.
Fist has started to chant, low and rumbling. I wish I could understand his words. Is he asking for forgiveness? Is he offering a blessing before he kills me? After a time, the chanting becomes more like a low, vibrating singing. It’s like a night beetle calling in the darkness, and even though right now I hate this man, this Cheese, more than anything, it strikes me how beautiful his low singing is. It’s mournful with melodies I’ve never heard. I don’t realize I’ve stopped to listen to him until he gently pushes my arm and I turn around to walk again.
We’ve been in the tunnel so long now I wonder if we’re going to stop and sleep in it at some point, or just keep walking until I pass out on my feet. My thoughts drift to Papa’s lifeless form clumped upon the cooling flats. Aunt Billie isn’t even missing us yet, as we aren’t due home for a few days. If someone like Old Man Dan finds Papa out there it won’t matter if he’s dead or alive, he will seek retribution for our violating the cooling crystal harvesting season.
Up ahead there is a faint glow of dark-red light. Nighttime. I’ve no idea where the tunnel leads, but I’m thrilled at the prospect of fresh air and catching up with Temple. Fist stops singing when he notices the light. He pulls at my arm and we change places, him in front and me behind him.
It is not long before we emerge from the mouth of the tunnel into the night. The storm clouds have passed, leaving a clear night sky, the Red Crescent hanging low, a frown judging us all.
We are at the Origin wreckage, in the middle of the gorge. I have only seen this from such a far distance above I had no idea of the magnitude of the ship—or what’s left of the ship. Its burned-out bulk is like a monstrous skeleton, reaching dozens of hands above me and almost as far as I can see in front of me. I can see where pieces of the ship have been scavenged, where people have cut holes and entered the carcass.
Fist walks through a crack in the wreckage and I follow, awed by the presence of the broken beast that brought my infant parents and long-gone grandparents to this rock. I think of the noises and the smells of the crash. Of the screaming and dying. I see scorch marks on the wreckage and wonder if they are from the crash or from the fighting with the Cheese after the crash. Am I really standing on the same ground where the Origin Massacre took place? I shiver.
It takes many minutes to make our way cautiously through the weathered destruction. When we finally emerge on the other side I see that a small campsite has been set up. Several dactyls graze on something gruesome; there are blankets on the ground, a pile of rocks to the side, having been cleared, I imagine, to make lying down more comfortable. There is a Cheese sitting on one of the blankets, and a figure next to him.
Even though she is facing away from me, I know it’s Temple.
“Temple!” I run to her, ignoring the shouts from Fist, and kneel in front of her. Her head leans heavily against the Cheese’s arm, leaving a faint but bloody streak. Her eyes have a woozy look, but she smiles when she sees me.
“Did you get my messages?” she asks. Her voice is soft, quiet, like she’s half asleep.
I nod and take her hand. It’s cold and damp. “Your little sandmoths led me to you.” My muddled brain wants to offer a reassuring smile, but my face will not comply. “Thank you for letting me know you’re okay.”
She coughs out a laugh and grimaces. “Well, I don’t know if I’m okay, but I’m alive and I was sure hoping you were, too, Rae.” She swallows and her eyes focus a little better. “May we never be tossed in the air by dactyls again.” She puts her hand to her head and winces. I put my hand gently on her wound, inspecting it to see how deeply it goes. It seems to be a scratch, really, not nearly as bad as I thought. Even so . . . Temple is bleeding and I did not stop it from happening.
“He did this to you,” I say. It is not a question. I stand, ready to leap on the Cheese who is next to her; the Cheese who is eyeing me with what appears to be amusement playing at his bony upper lip. He is smaller than Fist, but thicker. I think I am surely faster than he is and for a brief moment I debate grabbing Temple and making a run for it through the gorge.
Temple puts a hand on my arm. “My injuries are from the dactyl, Rae. The Cheese . . . she has been only kind to me.”
“She?” I say. I look at the stout warrior in front of me, all muscle and scales and ferocity. “How do you know?”
“Darker lips, wider hips.” Temple says. She shrugs. “You do not pay attention during lessons, Rae.”
I am not sure I believe her. This raider is a girl? The idea that something of this sort is possible makes my aching head ache more. The gods forbid women to do so many things. But then, I remind myself, the Cheese do not worship the same gods we do. Or possibly any gods at all. See? I do remember lessons.
Now it is Temple’s turn to inspect my injuries. I try not to jerk back as she runs her hand over my cheekbone and nose.
“This is not from a dactyl, then?” she says in a low voice, her eyes sparking in the light of the Red Crescent.
“Fist and I have had some differences of opinion,” I say.
“This should all be a dream, Rae,” Temple says, putting her face in her hands. “But it’s not all a dream, is it? It’s not all just a terrible dream?”
I lean forward and put my arms around her even though it hurts us both. “It’s going to be okay, Temple. We’ll make it okay.”
“How?”
Her question cuts almost as deep as the dactyl’s talons. Because she’s right. How do I know things will be okay? “I don’t know,” I answer, and she buries her face in my searing shoulder.
The woman Cheese sitting next to Temple stands up and goes off with Fist a few steps away, where they talk in a low buzz.
“Do you think Papa is okay?” Temple whispers. “Have you seen anything of Boone?”
I don’t know how to answer her. Did she see Papa crumpled up like that? I don’t want to ask her. I don’t want to think about it.
The woman Cheese walks back over and hands us each a small, rough bag. She puts her hand to her mouth a few times to indicate “eat.” She even seems to smile, showing off rows of sharpened teeth. Temple smiles back, but I do not.
Inside the bag are something like a biscuit, a few pinches of scrub tied with twine, and some small brown balls that do not look appetizing at all. I take out the scrub and frown. “This is food?”
Temple shrugs. The girl Cheese makes an “eat” hand motion again. I am starved, but not inclined to eat scrub. I put it back in the bag and take out the biscuit. It is hard and nearly tasteless—much like the biscuits we cook. I swallow it in three bites. My stomach is far from ful
l but I am loath to eat scrub or to taste the foul-looking brown balls. I see Temple peering into her bag and sighing. If Rory were here she would have eaten everything from all of our bags by now. She was not picky, that one.
I take out a brown ball, and thinking of Rory, close my eyes and toss the whole thing into my mouth. I am expecting something foul, but instead my mouth is coated in smooth sweetness. The ball has melted onto my tongue. I don’t even need to chew. The sweetness glides down my throat and into my belly, and I don’t know if it’s the sheer hunger I feel, or the actuality of the food, but it is the best gum thing I have ever tasted.
I open my eyes to see Temple staring at me intently.
“Temple,” I say, licking my fingers and then reaching into my bag for another ball. “You have never tasted such a wonder.” I put the second ball in my mouth and it is just as wonderful as the first.
Temple gasps and then smiles huge, the melted brown smeared across her teeth. “Rae, what is this?”
“I don’t know, Temp,” I say, eating the last of mine. “But now I know why Rory and Benny haven’t come home.”
As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I regret it. Now is not the time for the blackest of humor. But the food and the sweetness have relaxed my charged-up nerves. I feel calmer, more energized, but less angry. I wonder if it’s something in the food making me feel this way. An herb maybe? My studies with Aunt Billie have only just begun. It is difficult to tell all the roots and herbs apart. She would know, though. Aunt Billie seems to know everything.
Temple begins to chew on her parcel of scrub. She makes a face and I smile. “Not a magical new dinner accompaniment, your scrub?” I ask. Temple grimaces and swallows.
“It’s not so bad,” she says, picking tiny dried leaves from her teeth. “Though I’m not sure I can find the nutritional merit.” She laughs quietly.
I take small crunches of my own scrub, wondering why the Cheese would eat such a thing, and then a wave of exhaustion hits me and the world turns on its side. Of course. The bitter taste on the back of my tongue gently shakes my memory. Sleeping root. The Cheese have drugged us. Such gum stupid children.
As my eyes close I see that Temple is already asleep—it is alarming how quickly her laughter was snuffed out.
13
I AWAKE AND IT IS still night.
Temple is sleeping at my side; Fist is sleeping at the entrance to the tunnel, which I see is now concealed with wreckage, blending seamlessly into the Origin tableau. The woman Cheese is sprawled out not too far from Fist, her snores echoing over to us.
Standing, I shake my head, clearing the clouds from the sleeping root. My wounds are sore, but feeling better. Perhaps there was a healing herb mixed in with the sleeping root. I roll my shoulders and neck, touch the sore spots on my face, my lip. I would not make a pretty sight for anyone looking at me, that is the truth.
I expect the Cheese thought I’d be unconscious much longer than this, but having suffered from so many illnesses as a child, and having had to be sedated to be treated, I have developed quite a tolerance for sleeping root. One point for the weakling Rae.
It is not worth trying for escape. I feel like the worst kind of fool not to even try, with our captors sleeping at some distance from us, but my lessons have taught me that the gorge spans the whole moon. Its walls are so high I cannot see over them. Somewhere up there, the homestead leans in the wind. If only I had the wings of angels to bring me home.
I glance at the dactyl nest in the distance. There is only one dactyl now, curled up, asleep. Too bad those wings won’t do. I imagine it chasing me and Temple as we try for escape, potentially playing tossing games with us in the air once again. It is just not worth the risk to Temple or to myself. So rather than plot and scheme an inevitable failure of an escape, I instead walk softly to the side of the destruction that was once the Origin.
Temple and I—and Boone and Rory, and all of the children of Origin Township—have been told stories of the Origin since before we could talk ourselves. Tales of bravery and sacrifice, stories of horror turned into myths of how unstoppable mankind can be when faced with adversity. I am standing in front of both school lessons and bedtime stories. I put my hand on the metal, surprised at the coolness it holds on such a sweltering night. This is the blackened, hollowed-out history of my people on this moon.
I step through a hole in the hull and into the ship. The many numbered floors above me have collapsed to rubble at my feet, leaving a mess that is thirty summers old and unrecognizable. The dirt and dust that seeps into everything blows in drifts at my feet, and sprinkles down from the jagged holes that tower above me. I try to imagine the ship as it flew through space, holding my grandparents, who were young, with babes in arms; holding other young families; holding hope for the human species; holding pioneers who had been promised distant lands through the Star Farmers Act.
Faded and peeling paint shows the way to exits that no longer exist. Walls are stripped of the shelving and whatever equipment survived the crash. The glow from the Red Crescent eerily reflects off the weathered interior and I wonder if this was what it was like just before the crash—a dark-red emergency glow.
A hand on my shoulder stills my blood. I swallow, turn slowly, and it is Temple’s Cheese. Her throat rumbles, vibrating like a bug. She opens her mouth, her bony, beaklike upper lip showing a row of sharpened teeth. The vibrating in her throat increases in line with the rate of my heartbeat. Her hand does not grip me like Fist’s did, but sits gently, and I am surprised by this.
“You,” she manages to say in a low, guttural voice. “This.” Her eyes look toward the sky that breaks through the holes in the ceiling. “Not . . . sssssafe.” She motions for me to follow her out of the wreck, but I am frozen.
“You speak my language?” I say stupidly. “But how?”
“I have old,” she says slowly, chewing the words. “I learn much.”
“Did you learn from someone?” I ask, the hairs standing up along my neck. “A girl? Younger than me? A girl named—”
She holds out a hand. “Come now. Not sssssafe.”
“But . . . ,” I say, and she, apparently having had enough of me not listening, grabs my hand and pulls me hard, my shoulder throwing lightning bolts of pain down my arm. She is very strong and I lose my footing, toppling onto her. We roll out of the Origin and onto the scrub. There is a deafening crash. A boulder has fallen into the wreck, collapsing more of the ceiling onto where I just stood.
I lie on top of the Cheese, on the scrub, smelling her sweat, feeling her scaly arms under me. She smiles and rolls me off of her. She points to the Origin.
“I have telling you this,” she says, with a smirk.
“What?” I say. “Did you just say ‘I told you so’?” She nods and tries to stifle a laugh. I have never heard a Cheese laugh before. It is a snuffling snicker almost like Heetle when she sees a sweetroot cube.
“What is your name?” I ask the woman Cheese. “I am Ramona Darling but everyone calls me Rae. My sister is Temple.” I look to my feet, feeling a burning behind my eyes that is embarrassing. “Thank you . . . for not hurting her.” I look up and she is regarding me with her shiny black eyes, her head barely tilted to one side, the red ropes of her hair fanning out in the predawn breeze.
“Where are you taking us?” I whisper. “My papa and Aunt Billie will be beside themselves with grief.”
Her eyes roll up to the sky again, and I realize she’s thinking—trying to find the right words.
“I am . . .”—and she smiles—“One Who Talk Too Many Word.” Then she says something that sounds like, “Jo-keel-i-kern-hall.”
“Can I call you Jo?” I ask. “That sounds better to me than ‘cornhole.’”
She looks to the sky again, and smiles, showing off those terrifying, sharpened warrior teeth. “Jo.” She pats her chest. “Is nice. Jo Who Talk Too Many Word.”
“Rae Too Too,” Jo says, smiling.
“No,” I say, “just Rae. Not Too Too—”
“Rae Tootie.” Jo nods.
“No—”
A growl behind me interrupts us. I turn and Fist is there, face narrowed and pinched, disapproving. He says something to Jo, and Jo responds in stiff words like when Aunt Billie tells Papa not to discuss the lack of merits in her biscuits.
“He say,” Jo says to me, looking to the sky once more, then back to my face. “He say your name should be She Who Cry the Most and Never Think Before She Act.” Then she says it in Cheese language and it is full of trilling tongue noises and something like a cough at the end.
“That’s a very long name,” I say, raising my bleeding lip in a snarl, “for someone who has known me but one cycle of the suns.”
“He’s got you pegged like a hat on the wall, Rae,” Temple says from a few hands away where she is sitting up on the blanket.
“He and Papa share some characteristics, then,” I mutter.
Jo goes off a distance while Fist stands, feet apart, arms crossed over his chest, and watches me. Jo returns with handfuls of . . . something. It looks like a combination of small seeds and prairie beetle droppings. She offers some to Temple, who holds her hand out.
“Temple!” I shout. “No! What if they’re trying to drug us again?” Temple licks her lips hungrily, but retracts her hand. Jo regards me, eyes squinting. Then, in one quick stride she is upon me, her claws squeezing my cheeks open. I struggle to escape, but this only causes her claws to scratch my already bruised and sore face.
She pushes a handful of the something into my mouth and I spit it back in her face. She clacks her beaky jaws and squeezes my cheeks harder. I cry out and Temple yells, “Rae!”
Jo smashes another handful into my mouth and presses my jaw shut, forcing me to chew. Instead of tasting like death or sleeping root, the flavor is a combination that is sweet and sturdy. There is no bitterness on my tongue at all. I shoot her a look that I hope can cause physical pain as I reluctantly begin to chew on my own.
