by K. A. Holt
“NAA OWA’A,” KLARA SAYS. IT won’t hurt. But she’s leaning over me with a jagged piece of metal so I do not trust her assessment of the situation. She motions for me to open my mouth.
I lick my lips and take a deep breath. Then I open up. My head is in her lap. There is a ceremonial bowl of water on the floor next to us. She begins to hum in that Cheese way . . . the insectlike buzzing sound that is both unsettling and beautiful. As she hums and chants, she files away at my right incisor.
Fist and Natka sit across from us, both uncharacteristically silent. They, too, begin to hum and chant, closing their eyes. The scritch-scritch-scritch of the metal on my tooth is maddening, but I lie still.
Klara dips a piece of rough fabric into the water and wipes it over my tooth. Then she smiles and pats my head. All done. I sit up and run my tongue over the sharpened tooth. I hope I do not slice open my lip while chewing hashava fruit. That would not be very warrior-like.
I smile at Klara and then ask the question that has bothered me since she told me the ceremony was to occur. “Why did you do this? I have killed nothing.”
“Paha’a haikonta is not just for killing,” Natka answers for her. “Is for bravery, for good thinking, as well.”
“You think good,” Klara says in her halting grasp of human language. I smile at her and she hugs me roughly, squeezing tight.
Natka clacks his fake fingers. “Not as ro-ri-ta as we all thought,” he says. Fist gives a warning flick to the side of Natka’s head, but smiles.
I rub my tongue over the tooth again. Smart? This is what they think? Well, I do not know if they are right, but I will take it.
Fist stands and then returns with a plate of dried plini meat and several bowls of seeds and hashava. Now it is feasting time. Celebration. I shall try not to gash open my mouth while we celebrate my smartness.
“Mayrikafsa.” Fist’s voice is low as he shakes my shoulder. I roll over and open one eye. My piles of blankets have been especially soft and comfortable lately, after weeks of intense running drills and knife practice and learning how to fly Kwihuu in complicated maneuvers and in formations with other Kwihuutsuu and their riders. Yesterday was no exception. Natka and Suu chased me from one sun to another, so that by the time the suns went down both Kwihuu and I could barely move from exhaustion.
I sit up on my pallet of blankets, rubbing the dreams from my eyes. Racing horses with Boone. Aunt Billie mixing tinctures. Temple before her red hair and sharpened teeth. Old Man Dan with flames in his eyes. Papa, pale, bent the wrong way on the cooling flats, his mouth moving with no sound. It is the same dream I have over and over. Though I am tired, I’m happy to see Fist’s face leaning into mine. It is much nicer to be awake.
Natka stands along the cave wall, attaching his hand, pulling the ties tight with his teeth. His hair stands on end, proving he has just been woken as well. While I’m glad to no longer suffer my haunted dreams I do not know why we are awake before the suns.
Klara goes to Natka, fussing over him, making those vibrating Cheese noises that I’ve learned to listen to for comfort. He mutters to her to please let him be, so she offers him a biscuit and then offers one to me and Fist as well.
As he does most every morning, Fist puts out a pair of nantolas for me, and as I do on these mornings I refuse to even look at the gum ugly shoes. Fist is more insistent than usual this morning, giving me a light smack and pointing at the shoes. When I shake my head again he gives me another smack, this time a little harder.
“Naa,” I say, regretting that “no” is the first word out of my mouth for the day.
“Is not choice today, Mayrikafsa,” Fist growls. He throws the shoes on my lap. “Do not bring tonton upon this house.”
“Tonton?” I say.
“Failure,” Natka says through the crumbs in his mouth. “He not want you to bring disgrace on us. Though I know this might be . . . difficult . . . for you.” He walks over and slugs me in the shoulder with his fake hand.
“You cannot hit me with the hand I made for you,” I say, frowning and shaking my finger at Natka.
He shakes his finger back, mimicking me. “You took my real hand, Tootie. I hit you all I want.” He slugs me once more, smiles, then picks up my boots from where they lie at the foot of my pallet.
“Hey! Give those back!”
Natka walks to the fire pit.
“No, no no! Okay. Wait. I’ll wear the ro-ri-ta nantolas today. Just please don’t burn my boots.”
“Boots,” Fist says. It’s as if he has just said a word for excrement. He shakes his head, but holds his hand up indicating that Natka should put the boots down. Klara takes them from him and disappears with them.
I tighten the twine on my pants when Fist shakes his head again. “Naa, Mayrikafsa. Only peltan this day.”
What is this? No boots. No pants. “Only peltan?” I whine. “But I will be mostly naked.”
“You will be like . . . Kihuut,” Natka says. Fist nods once.
Klara returns and hands me the peltan—it is one piece of clothing that is made from Kwihuutsuu skin and serves as both shirt and pants, but the pants are very short, showing off nearly the whole length of my newly muscled legs. I disappear to the back of the cave and change. Oh, gods, am I really to spend my day nearly naked, and wearing indecent shoes? What makes this day any different from other days?
I come back to the front room and Klara nods her approval. I tug at the short part, which barely covers my bottom, trying to get it lower. Seeing myself out of the baggy fabric pants and shirt, I realize that while I am growing taller and my muscles look more like boys’ muscles than girls’, my form is also slightly more ladylike now. Well, as ladylike as a form can be that is flat as a washboard, with a skinny waist, skinny bottom, and long matted black hair that is as wild as the winds.
Fist goes to the carved-out kitchen area and returns to us holding a small pot. He hands it to Natka and Natka begins to paint Fist’s face with the golden and silver swirls that still my blood.
We are going on a raid. Now I understand. My heart shoots into my throat like a light arrow. A raid. Is this what comes of the success I’ve earned from creating Natka’s new hand? Is this an order from Klara? If we come back “successful,” I will be a warrior in the eyes of the Kihuut. But I do not know what “successful” entails. I cannot go against my own people.
But are they my people still? My dreams say yes. My life says no.
Natka has finished with Fist’s face and hands him the bowl. Fist slowly continues to paint thin spirals down his arms and across his chest. He uses the tips of his claw-nails to create a filigree across his abdomen. It is somehow both beautiful and menacing, like the Kihuut themselves.
When Fist finishes with his body paint, he motions for Natka and me to stand next to each other. I’ve grown taller since coming to the village, as I am nearly the same height as Natka now. My white skin has become browner as I’ve spent so many days under the suns. My hair is so long that even pulled up in a horsetail it tickles the base of my neck. I am still scrawny compared with my Cheese brother, but not as much so.
Fist begins to hum—starting low with a buzzing coming deep from his throat. He alternates, painting part of Natka’s face, then part of mine, back and forth until he’s done. Fist spins his hand, motioning for us to turn. I feel his hand pull back my horsetail and the coolness of the paint covers my third-eye scar. He paints Natka’s third eye, then turns us back around.
Klara has been standing to the side, watching; now she comes to us. “Mara be with you this day, my kakono,” she says to Natka, her mouth set in a line, stern, but with bright eyes. She turns her bright eyes to me, and says, “Mara be with you this day, my kakoni.” She kisses the tops of our heads, then steps back from us. Fist motions that we should leave the cave.
“What is kakoni?” I whisper to Natka.
He puts a h
and on my shoulder. “It means ‘daughter.’”
Daughter.
The word echoes through my skull and lands in my pounding heart.
“May Mara bless all the Kihuutkafsa today,” Klara calls after us with a buzz in her throat.
I turn and see her standing in the opening of the cave, so tall, so regal. Her face is set, her mouth proud. But her eyes give her away. I see the worry there. I feel it, too.
The whole village has turned out to see us off. It is me, Natka, Fist, Jo, and a few others who make up the raiding party. Ben-ton stands off to the side. He flicks his wrist, magically producing a bunch of scrub flowers tied with twine. He holds the bundle out to me, his lips smiling but his eyes dark.
“For the young warrior,” he says, “wearing the future on her shoulders.”
I work hard to ignore him.
“For luck, then,” he shouts after me, tossing the scrub into the air. My instincts cause me to catch it without thinking.
I walk briskly to the Kwihuutsuu, saddled and waiting for us by the always-burning fire in the center of the village. I look to Ben-ton, who continues to stare at me with . . . what . . . in his eyes. Curiosity? Cunning? Jealousy? Could it be hatred?
I hold up the flowers and he smiles.
Then I feed the bundle to Kwihuu, twine and all.
She is laden with provisions. Bags attached to the saddle are full of biscuits, old but sturdy handbows, canteens of water; there is even a blanket carefully folded and tied to the back of the saddle.
The village does not cheer as we take to the skies. They remain silent, praying to Mara for our safety and success. It is an eerie business seeing so many Cheese and only hearing the howl of the wind and the crackle of the flames.
As the village becomes smaller and we fly higher, I glance at Natka. His face is set, his eyes clear, his bony upper lip clasped tightly over his lower lip. He favors Klara remarkably this morning. His new hand grasps the reins well, as it has through our many practices. He has a handbow tightened around his other hand. He does not look as shaky and bile-filled as I feel. Not even close.
I hug Kwihuu with my knees and she turns to nip at my nantola-clad foot. I must admit, the gum ugly shoes feel nice around my toes. It is like not wearing shoes at all. My feet are as light as the wind.
Our journey is on its second day when Fist signals for us to fly in formation. Most of his words catch in the wind and I miss them, but I do recognize his hand gestures. When we get to the township, Natka is to be part of the landing party. I am to stay on Kwihuu and protect the Kihuutkafsa from the air. I can do this. I can do this.
Our formation breaks and I see homesteads below us. We crossed Maasakota, but not at the point where the Origin crashed, so these homesteads are not part of Origin Township. That is strange, because I know of no other townships on this moon. But as the Kwihuutsuu dip and play in the skies I see that these homesteads are abandoned, nearly lost to the winds and dust.
“Who lived here?” I shout over to Natka. He is tossing bits of dried plini flesh through the sky to Suu, who is snapping her jaws over her shoulder and eating them as if they are the last food on the moon.
Natka shrugs. “Is before my time. Father will not speak of it. Old Kihuut talk stories of traders coming from Hosani. Of soka’a caves.”
“Ghost caves,” I say, feeling a shiver run down my arms.
Natka shrugs again. “Is just stories.” He flies ahead to catch up with the group.
I linger back, looking down at the ruined structures. If the rumors are true, then who were these people? If people came from Hosani, they would have had to be able to leave again. That means working spaceships.
I urge Kwihuu to fly faster. I want to get past these ghost houses. My chest tightens as we speed up and it strikes me how much hotter the air has become since leaving the village. Dustier, too, even this high up. I do my best to point my face into the wind and take deep breaths. Perhaps I am just nervous. Or scared. Or both.
It is another half day of flying until I see movement below.
A homestead.
People running.
And then we are past them, still flying fast and high.
Fist leads his dactyl into a dive and the rest of us follow in the formation we’ve practiced so many times.
My heart tries to leap from my chest, my mouth is dry. Kwihuu screams as she dives. We come through a cloud of dust and as I cough the debris from my lungs I break formation as I’ve been taught, flying a pattern around the perimeter of our group. That’s when my eyes clear from the dust and focus and I fully comprehend where we are. Now I know why there are so many of us in this raiding party.
We are above the center of Origin Township, not just a mere homestead. The suns are low in the sky so it is high summer market time. The homesteaders have ventured from the safety of their cooling grates and are conducting business as quickly as they can, buying and trading for food and livestock, goods and supplies.
Even from above I can see what a haggard bunch they are, skinny from not enough food, sweating through their clothes. It is so gum hot, I feel my skin drying and frying in the suns. It is so much hotter on this part of the moon. I cannot wait to get home.
The homesteaders have scattered, screaming, as we fly the Kwihuutsuu in slashes and dives over their heads. Parcels of food and supplies lie spilled across the scrub as people leap for cover.
If necessary, I am to make Kwihuu dive and scream and scare the people away from the older Kihuutkafsa, who will be doing whatever it is they need to do. I am to fight only to protect myself or the other Kihuutkafsa.
Fist, Jo, and Natka have landed and are running through the market. They seem to be taking things indiscriminately, and stuffing them into small sacks. I do not understand what the people of Origin Township have that the Cheese do not already have in their village.
Natka grabs a woman by the hair and throws her out of his way as he storms a booth filled with empty canteens. The metal canteens go everywhere, rattling and crashing on the rocks that litter the ground. The woman screams and screams, her hands in her hair. She is on her knees in the scrub and she won’t stop screaming.
Natka throws a canteen at her, but still she continues. I nudge Kwihuu to go lower so I can better see what’s happening. Do I know this woman? My blood runs cold watching the scene. It is Virginia. Old Man Dan’s wife. I haven’t seen her in nearly an entire summer’s time as she was with child and under orders from Aunt Billie to stay resting in bed.
Three men come running for Natka, but I skim their heads with Kwihuu, keeping them back. One of them shoots at me from his handbow, but misses. The woman continues to scream. Natka runs to her, swiping at her head with his knife. There is a spray of blood and he calls out, “Lolobee! ”
I taste bile and feel dizziness sweep through me—Mara behind my eyes. Natka has taken Virginia’s ear. She is silent now, slumped in the dirt, blood pooling around her head. Natka puts the ear in a sack and marches back into the booth.
Kwihuu swoops down as I guide her. “Natka!” I yell. “Sonako hee ta!” Stop now! The other raiders are busy with their own battles and no one seems to notice what is happening over here. I cannot be part of this. I cannot do this.
I nudge Kwihuu and she grazes the top of the booth, screeching.
“Natka!”
He emerges from the booth, his eyes shining, and he shrieks into the wind.
He holds up his prize.
It is a baby.
“Naa! Naa kakee!” I am screaming “No baby!” as loudly as I can as Kwihuu circles and dives over him, protecting him from the Origin Township citizens who are now coming after him. Someone shoots a laser rifle at him, grazing his fake arm. He laughs at his luck.
Why are they shooting? Gum ro-ri-ta men. They could hit the baby.
Natka is trying to make his way back to Suu,
through the rifle shots and light arrows, but is not gaining much ground.
I continue yelling at him, but he either doesn’t hear me, or doesn’t care to listen. We cannot take Old Man Dan’s baby. We cannot.
Horses are approaching now, and the men on them engage Fist and Jo and the others in a fierce battle to get closer to Natka. The Cheese warriors are very skilled and not so beaten down from weeks of heat. They easily overcome the humans, and signal Natka that it is time for this raid to be over. He still has his hands full with several armed homesteaders, though, and with me as I try both to protect him and to prevent him from leaving with the baby.
A belching one-man bounces into the market, careening into the melee. Old Man Dan leaps from the vehicle, red faced, sweating. Something glints from his vest. He is wearing Papa’s sheriff’s star. Papa is dead, then. Or was discovered on the flats and disgraced for violating the harvest season laws. It is too much to think about right now. It’s all too much.
Old Man Dan yells, “You keep your hands off my daughter, you evil stinking Flatfaces!” Jo jumps on him, but Old Man Dan shoots her in the shoulder with a light rifle. Jo screams and falls into the scrub. Another Cheese pulls her away and lashes her to a dactyl and then runs back to the fight.
There is enough confusion on the ground that Natka has made it back to Suu and has the baby in a sack on his back.
I fly over to him, hovering on Kwihuu and screaming down, “You cannot take this baby. She is not yours!” Natka says nothing, only lightly kicks Suu and she flaps her wings, readying to take to the sky.
Twisting the reins, I position Kwihuu barely above the ground in front of Suu. “Natka!” I shout, my beast facing his, their jaws snapping at each other. “Listen to me!” But he is not listening. He is waving his arms wildly at me. I turn in time to see a large piece of metal swinging at my head. I duck, feeling a scrape across my shoulder blades. Kwihuu cries out, her blood dripping onto my leg as a gash opens along her side.
I see only white as I leap from Kwihuu and rage toward the person responsible for hurting her. I tackle the man, wrenching the metal from him and hitting him across the face with it. He is unconscious only, I hope, and not dead, but he is bleeding very much. What have I done? I drop the metal, my hands slick with sweat and blood, yet gritty from all the dust.
