by K. A. Holt
“Use third eye, Tootie,” Jo calls after me, touching the back of her neck to indicate the raw scar on mine. “If Klara think you worthy to be warrior, then be warrior.”
“Aaaaah!” I scream, and take off as fast as I can as the creature darts and dives and pecks at me. I did not ask for a searing-hot stick of metal to brand my skin. I did not ask for this third eye. I do not ask to be a warrior. And yet . . . here I am.
“Run as the wind, Tootie. You pray to Mara today.” Jo snuffles out a long laugh. “Hopefully you will also learn to watch close. Be strong. Be faster.” She laughs again.
I curse her and run, sweating, around the entirety of the open space, which, to me, feels like circling the suns and back again.
I round the far corner of the space and as I do, I pass the man-Cheese with blue eyes, the one I have learned is called Ben-ton, my long-lost cousin Benny, whom I only knew as a babe and don’t remember at all. He brings canteens and supplies to the clutch of boys who also come to the practice grounds every day. He has been watching me these many days, as I shoot or run or fall, and I do not like how his eyes narrow and roam when he sees me. Each time I see him, I find it harder to see the nice things I saw about him on the night of the ceremony. Perhaps I mistook cunning interest for niceties.
“What is your lesson today, cousin?” he calls to me as I stop briefly to catch my breath.
“Mara,” I pant. “Dactyls. Running. Not dying.”
Ben-ton laughs. “Jo likes teaching lessons about harnessing the air as a weapon. She remembers the old days.”
The baby dactyl is so high in the sky now, I can barely see her. It’s nice to have a minute to breathe. “I don’t understand what you mean,” I say.
Ben-ton steps closer, his voice low. “Jo remembers the plague. She was a child then, you know, when the Origin crashed. When, after the fighting, suddenly sickness raged and the humans were blamed. The air brought death. She has been obsessed ever since.”
“Tootie!” Jo yells from the other side of the open space. “Is not resting time!” She blows a silent whistle hanging around her neck and the baby dactyl is upon me like a bolt of electricity. I am running before I have a chance to ask any more questions.
Ben-ton laughs as I fly by, then calls out, “Natka!” He throws a canteen. The boy I fought the first night—the son of Klara and Fist—catches it with ease and drains it. He and a group of his friends are in the same place they were yesterday and the day before and the day before that and so on. They are like prairie spiders hiding and waiting to jump. They practice throwing small rocks tied to long ropes in loops above my head. I flinch as I pass and they begin to laugh.
“La gowa hee ta! ” one of them shouts at me. It is a rough translation but I think he has just yelled “She pees now!” at me.
“Mayrikafsa looa’a kakee! ” another shouts. Again, I am not sure what this means, but think it has something to do with a suckling baby.
“Pitar! ” Natka yells. This is something he calls me all the time. No one will translate, but Klara hates it. She will flick him on the head with her long claws every time she hears him say it. “Mayrikafsa pitar! ” he yells, and the boys laugh and laugh. Ben-ton looks like he’s trying to stifle a grin. Either that or he needs to visit the latrine. Kwihuu dives at my head, scraping my scalp with her beak, and I can’t respond to Natka, though I would ask him how his hand is feeling. I can see it seeping through its bandage. I am only slightly surprised at how not guilty I feel about his lingering wound.
I run now faster than I ever have before, feeling as though my heart and my anger will explode any second and shoot me into the sky like the Origin reborn.
It has been long enough for the suns to begin their descent in the sky and yet, I am still running from the gum baby dactyl. Even she seems to be tiring; her pecking at my head is no longer strong enough to draw blood.
I stumble twice, fearing that at any moment I will be struggling for breath and seeing stars. I am shocked that I haven’t seen them already. There must be something about this village that helps me keep my breath about me. Maybe it is that the heat and dust are less here among the caves and canyon walls than out by the gorge and the homesteads. It is perplexing.
Finally, Jo holds her hand up, swishing her claws together, signaling we are done for the day. I fall to the ground at her feet and roll onto my back, puffing for air, sweating puddles into the dirt. She empties a canteen onto my face and I relish the coolness, slurping what I can from the falling water.
“Rae!” I hear Temple’s familiar shout and for a moment I am lost, not remembering where we are or what has happened. I feel as though I am back in the field, resting, and Temple is coming to tell me of Aunt Billie’s flare or of Boone’s insistence that it is time for supper. How I long to hear Boone tell me how bossy I am, to hear him crooning at Raj, to be able to fuss at him for those busted gogs.
I sit up, shaking water from my face and hair, and see her plummeting toward me, a comet trailing red, as her hair is continually caked and matted with red dirt now. She is upon me in no time, knocking me back down, hugging me, rolling in the dirt. I am laughing at her girlish kisses to my forehead. She is laughing, too, having adopted a few snickers that sound like the Cheese’s. As she laughs, I see one of her teeth has been sharpened.
“Temple!” I push her from my lap and onto the dirt, making her face me. I grab her cheeks, squeezing them between my thumb and forefinger so that her lips splay open and I can see the tooth better. “What happened to your tooth?”
“I got my first kill,” she says with triumph, her eyes sparkling. “That’s what I was coming to tell you. Tootie.” She winks and snort-laughs as she rummages through the woven pack on her back. She pulls out a shell that is about as long as her forearm. “One of the plini. I got it with this.” She puts the shell down at my feet and pulls an old handbow from the sack. It is obviously broken, the laser generator smashed.
“Don’t call me Tootie,” I say. “I am still Rae.” I pick up the shell and turn it over in my hands. It has been cleaned of all traces of living animal. “How did you kill it? Did you smack it on the head with a broken handbow?” I smile at her, mouth closed, not showing my own unsharpened teeth, not wanting to think of her tooth and what Papa would say.
“No, silly,” Temple says. “I used one of these.” She pulls a long piece of metal out of the bag. “It’s like a light arrow, but made of metal. Very effective.”
I take the stick from her and inspect the deadly point. Ah. I see now. The Cheese have fitted the broken handbow to shoot these sharpened pieces of metal. It is genius, really. It requires no charging in the suns and appears to be very effective indeed. I pluck at the strings. The spring action reminds me of the clapping hands on my stone statue so many moons ago. A melancholy feeling settles over me as I hand the metal stick and the handbow back to Temple.
“They sharpen a tooth for each of your first kills,” Temple says, grinning. “I am one of the youngest and quickest of our whole clan.” Her face, beneath the dirt and sweat, is glowing.
“It is not our clan,” I say to Temple in a low voice.
Her smile falls. “You are not glad for me?”
“Of course I’m glad for you, Temple, it’s just . . .” I don’t know what to say. It’s only been a few weeks and already she is so much like them. “Don’t you want to see Aunt Billie and Papa again? Don’t you want to find out what happened to Boone?”
“Can’t I do all of these things, Mayri—Rae?” she asks, her lips tightening into a line. “Can’t I miss Aunt Billie and mourn Papa and dream of Boone while at the same time accomplishing brave and mighty feats that our township does not think worthy of a girl-child?” She is near whispering now, her eyes growing bright in the light of the waning suns.
“I will always believe you are brave and mighty, Temple. You have always been so.” I put my hand on hers. “But I do no
t believe Papa is dead,” I say, not at all sure of this conviction—only that I feel like my bones would know if Papa were gone to the gods. “And I do believe we will find a way home.”
Temple stands and shakes her head. “I am sorry you are not happy for me.” She puts her things back into the bag and starts to walk away.
I jump to my feet. “Temple. Wait! I did not say I’m not happy for you. I only meant, don’t forget where we come from.”
“I’ve heard some Cheese say we are the children of humans, the children of people who came here and murdered innocent Kihuut in order to steal their land,” Temple says, her voice taking on an eerie Cheese accent.
“We are children of humans, Temple, I don’t think there’s any way around that. . . .” She makes Papa’s hush-your-gum-mouth pinched-finger move and it surprises me so much I am momentarily mute.
“They speak of our people murdering those from Hosani, too. That the Origin Massacre was really one where the homesteaders unleashed a magic, invisible weapon. They say we are children of people who doomed humans to never escape this moon.”
She is scaring me with this talk. She sounds like Ben-ton. “Temple,” I say. “Come on. You know where we come from. This is—”
“But really, our ancestors gave us a gift,” she says, interrupting. “Did you know that, Mayrikafsa? A gift. We are not the children of humans, not really.” Temple’s mouth is in a tight line, more serious than I’ve seen in a long time. She looks me dead in the eyes. “We are the children of Oonatka, Oonan, Mara, and Ebibi.” She touches her chest and closes her eyes. When she opens them she says, “We are born of this moon just like the Cheese. Why would you think anything else?”
“Because we come from the other gods, Temple,” I say, my voice rising. “Our own gods.”
Temple shakes her head. “The gods that say girls must stay quiet and covered and work to make the boys happy and healthy? We were born on this moon. Of this moon. Those wrongheaded human gods had nothing to do with it.”
I can only stand and gape as she walks away. Her colored hair has grown longer, wilder. It sways in the breeze and blends with the surroundings.
My thoughts cloud over as I watch her go. What is making her speak like this? Think like this?
“Temple!” I shout after her. “I love you!” She holds her hand up in a wave, but doesn’t turn around.
It has only taken a few weeks and she has forsaken our gods for beautiful stories. My hands go to my hair, my eyes close. Papa will not abide this. I have failed him again.
I am losing Temple.
16
NATKA WILL NOT PASS THE hashava fruit.
“Hashava,” I say again, in my best Cheese accent, feeling color rise to my cheeks, tension building in my jaw as my teeth grind.
Natka says he can’t understand me. He calls me a pitar and Klara flicks him with her nails, making him wince. Fist shoots him a glowering look. By now I have guessed what pitar must mean, and it matches well with the nickname Tootie, which I can’t seem to shake, thanks to Jo.
I don’t know why he won’t pass the hashava fruit. It is dinner. It is meant for us all. He is just being obstinate. He holds no fondness for me and for that I am grateful. I will feel less guilt when I pound his face with my fists.
Fist growls a few words, Klara nods. Natka’s ear membranes throb and his beaky front lip comes down against his teeth twice as he looks at me.
“Shall I create a poultice for your hand?” I say it with a menacing sweetness. “I’m sure I could remember the correct roots. Then perhaps your fingers would work better and you would pass. The. Gum. Hashava.” I smack the floor with every other syllable. He waves his hand at me, smiles with no mirth, and then pushes the bowl toward me with more force than necessary. Finally I have the hashava.
Natka pounds his fist once on the stone floor where we are eating together (gods do I miss civilized tables and chairs), stands, and storms off toward the pool in the back of the cave. Klara blows air through her mouth and looks at me, tilting her head to the side. For a moment I worry she will strike me. But she looks away.
Fist puts his bowl down and stands, wiping crumbs from the dactyl-skin vest he wears over his bare chest. He follows after Natka and soon I hear them yelling. At one point I swear to the gods I hear Natka yell “Rory-ton!” and my heart begins a gallop.
“Rory?” I say to Klara, who is quietly finishing the hashava fruit. She looks up sharply.
“Was she here? Rory?”
Klara’s eyes seem brighter. Wet, almost.
“Ro-ri-ta,” she says after a moment. She blinks several times, clearing the brightness from her eyes, then she crosses them and sticks out her tongue, making a little singing noise. I am shocked speechless by this sudden ridiculous display. “Ro-ri-ta,” she says again, and again the silly display.
“Crazy?” I ask. “Stupid? Ro-ri-ta means something like that?”
“Cray-zee. Stoo-peed,” she says, and nods.
“Oh.” I would dearly love to know where Rory is, or if these Cheese know anything about her. But it appears they do not. Just as they do not know what has happened to Boone. Fist questioned the Cheese who rode the dactyl that scooped up Boone but would tell me only that Boone is not in the village. The Cheese don’t need boys. This does not settle me.
Natka comes storming back, using his foot to push me into the wall as he goes by. My back hits a shelf, knocking over a small figure. Klara is by my side in an instant. She drags me to my feet, yelling at me in Cheese, “Naa loma Kailia! ”
I think she is saying “Don’t touch Kailia,” but I don’t know what that means. Then she yells after Natka, “NAA LOMA KAILIA! ” She is gripping me hard by the front of my shirt, air blowing from her nose in short, hot bursts.
This amount of sudden anger from Klara, who is usually so calm, frightens me. I don’t understand it. We were just having dinner. We . . . I wriggle away from her grip, flatten myself against the wall next to the shelf, and stammer, “Wh-what is Kailia?”
As the word comes from my mouth Klara strikes me hard on the cheek. Natka is quickly by her side, his hand on her arm, murmuring something to her. She blows air at me once more, snaps her jaws, then lowers her head and walks away. I am left against the wall, my breath coming fast and my cheek on fire.
“Kailia her sister,” Natka says to me, his voice as fiery as my cheek feels. “Killed by hyoo-mans.” He grabs my throat with his clawed hand and squeezes until I am gasping. He stares into my eyes, shakes his head, and lets go abruptly.
My hands go to my throat instinctively as I suck in large amounts of air. I no longer find the roughness with girls shocking, though it is still unsettling. The Cheese seem to see no differences between boys and girls whether they be warriors or clothes washers, and I admit, I like this freedom even though it means bruises and split lips. It also means I, too, can hit back, and sometimes that is lovely.
But I don’t get the chance to hit Natka back. He goes out into the night as Klara returns. Fist returns to the room as well. He speaks quietly with Klara. She sighs but then nods. He, too, leaves.
I give Klara plenty of space as she huffs around the room. I have so many questions for her, but even if we shared enough language, I have sense enough to know this isn’t the right time.
The limited words I have learned so far are about shooting and running and the Cheese gods. Not words I would ask her, like “Please help me find my family before my sister becomes a Cheese forever.” Or “I’m afraid my friend was shot by a shine tree and kidnapped by your people and you won’t tell me what you know.” Or “Why did you think me worthy of having a warrior’s third eye branded on my neck, and how can I get the scar to stop itching?” Or “Please tell me about your sister.” I don’t have these words. And so, with Fist and Natka gone, Klara, having calmed down, begins her nightly job of allowing two Cheese at a time into the cave, w
orking with them to settle disputes. My job is to clear the dishes and rinse them in the pool. But first I find the small totem of Kailia on the floor and put her carefully back on the shelf.
They have been arguing for what feels like an entire cycle of the suns. Natka and I sit in the dark cave, the cooking fire providing the only light, as Klara and Fist shout in their sleeping chamber.
Natka and Fist returned not too long after leaving, and there has been shouting ever since. Natka pulls burning pieces of scrub from the fire and flicks them at me. I am too tired and too irritated to flinch. In fact . . .
I stand and walk out of the cave. There is no reason I have to tolerate this. Natka shouts something after me that I don’t understand, but I don’t turn around. I am tired of him. Yes. He no longer makes me angry. He makes me tired. I am a human. A ke’ekutaat. An invader. Not only have I taken land on his moon, I have beaten him in a public fight and taken space in his home. Surely, if I were Natka, I would hate me, too.
I wish I had a knife, a stone, some wire. My fingers are restless, as is my mind. I could placate them both by working on a carving. But the Cheese do not trust me with my own knife. For this I do not blame them. I lean against the outside wall of the cave and slide into a sitting position, staring into the distance.
There is a bustle of activity in the village center this night. I hear a commotion from the area where the Kwihuutsuu nests are, and shouts from the Cheese and a hoot of laughter. There is a charged feeling in the night air that I would have to be ro-ri-ta to miss. The Cheese are preparing for something. But what?
I feel a shadow fall over me. It is oily, blue-eyed Ben-ton. My long-lost cousin. Or perhaps he is not oily. I only know that my belly tightens when I see him, this Cheese who is not a Cheese. I feel danger roll off him like heat from a rock.
