by Kody Boye
The door opens to reveal my mother, a mixture of emotions on her face. “Kelendra,” she says. “What are you—”
“I’m allowed a few last hours,” I say. “Can I?”
She steps aside to allow me entrance.
I step into my childhood home—into the place I have eaten and slept and grown up in for the past sixteen years of my life—and wait until the door has closed before I turn and wrap my arms around my mother. Here, I am unconcerned about what the world may think, and cry freely regardless of the fact that what little makeup my family owns runs down my face. My mother allows this regardless—cupping me to her chest, stroking my hair, murmuring sweet nothings as she would when I was but a child.
“There there,” she says. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”
“I’ll never see you or Papa again!” I cry. “How is everything supposed to be just fine?”
“It just will be,” my mother says. “Have faith in that.”
Faith? Faith? How can I have faith in something when I’m not even sure if I’ll ever see my mother, let alone my father, again?
The thought instantly reduces me to tears.
My mother continues to hold me as I bawl, unabashedly, like the child that I am. No longer am I a young woman, strong in stature and purpose. Now I am a little girl wanting nothing more than her mother to hold her after the bad dream has come to tell me that my future will never amount to anything.
It takes what feels like hours to calm from my fit, even longer for me to stop crying. When finally the tears cease to come, my mother draws away from me and says, in as gentle a voice as possible, “We should pack.”
“Mama,” I say.
“Time will go by faster than you can believe it, Kelendra Elizabeth Byron. We should do it now, while we still have time.”
“But I… you—”
She presses a finger to my lips to silence me. “Now,” she says. “Let’s go.”
She takes my hand and, without hesitation, leads me to my room.
We pack what we believe is essential. Old shirts, tattered underwear, skirts hanging on by threads, a sweater that has been eaten by moths, a diary that is filled to the brim with my thoughts and prayers and wishes for the future—these are the things that are loaded into the family’s only good knapsack that has been stored away for this very moment, for this very unexpected happening. As I stand there alongside the old bed, unaware if I will ever see my mother again, I begin to wonder what life will be like in the Glittering City and am determined to do anything I possibly can to make life for my mother better.
“I’ll try and send home currency,” I say, lifting my eyes to face her.
She doesn’t respond. Rather, she continues to fold clothes and place them into the knapsack.
“Mama?” I ask.
“There’s no assurance that currency is even used in the Glittering City,” my mother replies, “or if it is even considered to be useful out here in the west.”
“I,” I start. “I’m—”
My mother turns and places a hand on my shoulder. “Do not fret, dear. Just… think of me when you go to sleep at night. Pray for me when you wake up in the morning. Do little things that will let you remember me. That is all I expect from you.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, honey. So much.” She turns back to her work. “Now that that’s done… I think it’s time that we eat something.”
“All right.”
We leave the privacy of our home and make our way around to our cellar—where, inside, we descend and gather the salted meats that have been delicately preserved alongside the canned fruits and vegetables. My mother selects an assortment of these—from peaches pulled from the nearby orchards, to potatoes that have been grown in the fields near our home, to the purified waters and even the spices that are rarely used except for the utmost of celebrations—and gathers them into her arms with care I find exceptional. I almost want to tell her to put them away, that I will likely find food onboard the train that will take me to the Glittering City, but don’t want to ruin this moment. Instead, I nod, I smile, I help her carry the items to the surface, then assist her as we prepare a fire from brambles and twigs in the excruciating heat.
As she cooks, warming the meat and baking the potatoes, I begin to wonder how she will cope without having me as her constant charge and realize her life may be easier because of it.
The thought, as bitter as it happens to be, is sobering. I am, at the moment, a burden upon my mother; and though as much as she loves me and I her, her life is likely to become easier once I am gone.
I keep this personal revelation to myself and wait for the food to cook—making small talk when possible, but mostly keeping silent and in my own thoughts.
When finally the food is done, we head inside and seat ourselves at the table that my family used to always eat at before the war called my father from his home.
“How is it?” my mother asks.
The meat is tough, but appetizing, the potatoes crisp and steaming. The peaches, undoubtedly the most delicious, bring a smile to my face, and I nod and say, “Delicious!” in as happy a voice as possible.
It is obvious that my mother has held back tears for much of the day. While staring at me, and while watching me eat, one falls from her eye. She attempts to wipe it away without me noticing, but I’ve already seen it, and as such, can’t ignore it.
I reach out and take her hand. “Mama,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” she replies. “I was trying to hold it together until after you left.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” I say. “I’m scared, too.”
“I’m not scared, honey. I know you’ll be just fine. I’m just… sad. That my little girl will be leaving for the Glittering City.”
I turn my head.
Outside, the sun is falling, plummeting toward the horizon in the endless cosmos that is the sky beyond our world.
I realize that this is the last time I will see the sun set from my place here at home and instantly am assaulted by tears.
Together, at the dinner table, my mother and I eat the last meal we will ever have together.
I can’t believe that I’m about to leave home.
Three
My mother and I play cards in the hours before my departure to pass the time, and though it is in part helping to distract me from the anxieties at hand, it is also reminding me of everything I’ll be missing once I board the train come nightfall.
“Mama,” I say.
“Yes?” she asks.
“What will you do once I leave?”
My mother remains silent as she plays the final card in her hand—a wicked queen with an indifferent expression—but eventually sighs when she comes to realize that she can’t keep from answering me. “I suppose,” she says at last, “that I will do as I’ve always done: work, eat, and sleep.”
“I wish you could come with me,” I reply.
“I have no real desire to leave the Hills. Besides—what would I do in the city?”
“I—” I start, then stop before I can continue. I can’t think of any purpose my mother might have, any position she might hold, so bite my tongue and instead say, “I’m sorry.”
“For what, dear?”
“Being born like this.”
“Like what?” She frowns. Realization dawns upon her face soon after. “Kelendra,” she says. “Please don’t blame yourself for the way you turned out.”
“I could always refuse to go,” I say. “Stay here and be with you.”
“I don’t believe that’s the way that works, dear.”
I’ve never heard of anyone running away from their chance to go to the Glittering City. It’s too perfect an option, too glorious an opportunity, to simply abandon. Hence why there has never been speculation as to what happens if someone doesn’t want to go. Why toil in a life of poverty when you could thrive in a land of riches?
I’m just about to open my mouth to
say something further when a knock comes at the door, startling me from thought.
“I’ll get that,” my mother says.
I think it might be a SAD agent summoning me to leave early, and for a moment begin to panic. I lean back in my seat, tighten my hold on the armrests, hold my breath, fix my eyes on the door. Then I watch in horror as my mother unlocks and then opens it.
Outside stands none other than Mayor Cynthia herself—who, with a basket full of bread in hand, smiles at my mother as she lifts her head. “Wynonna,” she says. “A pleasure to see you. May I come in?”
“You may,” my mother replies.
The mayor steps into our home and immediately fixes her eyes on me. “Hello, Kelendra.”
“Hello,” I say. Then I ask, “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to congratulate you on being selected,” she says, “and to give you and your mother this.” She sets the handwoven basket of bread on the kitchenette’s simple table and smiles at me. “Eat your fill, dear. We don’t want you going hungry.”
I’ve always avoided breads for fear that they would make me gain weight—for fear that they would cause me to not be beautiful. At this moment, though, I could care less; and because of that, I reach forward, take a small portion, and bite into it.
Mayor Cynthia smiles before turning her attention to my mother, who has since closed the door and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “How are you doing, Wynonna?”
“On one hand, I’m relieved,” my mother says. “On another…”
“I understand.” Cynthia smiles. And she would, too, more than anyone else in the world. At least one girl is picked from the Sandstone Hills every year. Mayor Cynthia has surely seen and talked to her fair share of grieving mothers. “I wanted to assure you that our community will support you during this transition, and that you are free to take the day off from your duties tomorrow to adjust to this new transition. You will still be given your day’s pay.”
“I can’t accept that.”
“I have done it for the girls’ mothers in the past. I will do it again.” She extends a hand toward me. “Kelendra. Will you come with me?”
“Where are we going?” I ask as I rise.
“You will see soon enough.”
I am unsure as to what will happen as I walk toward the door—as the mayor prepares to open it—and as such brace myself for anything.
When the doorknob is turned, I pull in a breath.
When the door is opened, I exhale.
My eyes adjust to the lighting outside.
I gasp.
I stare.
Most of the village has gathered in the street, and though many wear pained expressions on their faces, most break into applause upon seeing me.
“Kelendra!” some cry.
“Congratulations!” another says.
“Why?” I ask, turning to the mayor.
“So you will know that your community supports you,” she says. “And so you know that you will not be forgotten.”
Mayor Cynthia leads me into the street. My mother comes to stand at my side and slides an arm around my shoulder as people approach—offering handshakes, kisses on the cheek, bows of their heads, prayers for safe passage. One little girl brings me a bracelet arranged out of the white weeds that grow in the fields near our gardens and says, “Good luck!” before skipping off into the crowd.
I stare, befuddled at all this attention, and feel a swell of pride within my heart.
These people—this community—has supported me throughout my entire existence. Now I must leave them to live another life.
The crowd parts, and I see Ashlynn and Sondra step forward.
“Ashlynn!” I cry. “Sondra!”
The girls hug me—holding tight, their tears spilling down their faces and onto my shoulders.
“We just wanted to see you off,” Ashlynn says.
“And we wanted to tell you,” Sondra says, taking hold of my hand, “that we don’t hold any grudges.”
“You don’t?” I ask.
The girls shake their heads. “No,” they say.
“We always you would go to the Glittering City,” Sondra continues. “I hoped, and prayed, but now that it’s over, I… can live my life without worrying, you know?”
“I understand,” I say. “Thank you for coming.”
“Come along now,” the mayor says, waving the crowd down the street. “We still have one more young woman to congratulate before night falls.”
Sondra and Ashlynn tighten their embraces around me before stepping back.
“I guess this is goodbye,” I say, struggling to hold back tears in the face of my untimely departure.
“Not goodbye,” Ashlynn says. “It’s, ‘See you later.’”
“See you later,” I say.
The girls nod, then turn and walk away.
I think of all those times we played as children, then of those years we’ve grown into young women together, and realize just how lucky I was to have had them as friends.
I’ll be leaving not only my mother, but my world, behind.
It’s almost too much to bear.
As the sun begins to fall across the horizon, playing tricks on my mind and stringing chords along my conscience, I remember that my time is running out, and I turn and run into the house.
The door closes behind me.
Then it is only me, my mother, and the four walls around us.
* * *
When night falls, delivering unto my world the promise of change, we leave our home and journey down the road that leads to the town square with pain in our hearts and worry on our lips.
The old train station is miles away from our home. Because of this, my mother only accompanies us to the edge of the town square. There is no reason for her to go any further. The vehicles that will take us there are already loading up the stage, the tent, and the furniture within it. Soon, I will be gone, and my old life will be nothing more than a memory of the past.
“I love you, Kelendra,” she says as I watch the spectacle take place down the road. “Always remember that.”
“I love you too,” I say, tearing my eyes away to face her. She has mostly recovered from her crying fit, but still bears signs of weakness in her crow’s feet around her eyes, in the lines around her mouth. Her lower lip trembles as she stares at me—as she leans forward to kiss my cheek. Then she is passing the knapsack off to me and saying, “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.”
“Try and write if you can. The train comes once a year. Maybe I’ll hear from you then.”
“I will,” I reply, tightening my hold on her hand.
I don’t want to let her go. Letting go will ensure the finality of it all. But I have to. I know I do—that it is a necessary act of separation that must occur sooner rather than later. That’s why, in the moments following my thought, I slowly allow my fingers to slip free of my mother’s.
When finally it comes time for the space between us to come clear, I say, “I love you.”
She says, “I love you back.”
Then I turn and begin to make my way toward the town square, all the while knowing that my life is about to change forever.
The SAD guards immediately surround me as we begin to make our way down the hill and toward town square. Their eyes alert, their movements practiced, they hold their rifles steadily as they scan the houses flanking the road. To me, it seems as though they are searching for any possible threat. At this hour, an ambush would be opportune. With no lights to speak of along the roads, nothing could be seen. Only the full moon and the distant floodlights in the square guide our way.
“Should I be worried?” I decide to ask. Given my situation, I do not feel it is an unnecessary question.
None of the Dames reply.
Rather than continue to question them on the matters at hand, I straighten my posture and allow them to continue leading me down the road, all the while wondering if there is a hidden t
hreat in the darkness—a monstrous individual waiting to end my life out of sheer desperation.
There is no such danger, nor does anything happen. Within minutes we are down the road and standing within the heart of the Sandstone Hills.
“Wait here,” one of the Dames says before breaking away from the party and making her way toward another officer.
I watch them speak for several long moments, wondering what it is they are saying and what exactly will happen now that I have been officially emancipated from both my mother’s custody and my own life. I hold the knapsack steady in both arms and listen to the sounds of the night. The cicadas chirping, the crickets singing, the hoot of an owl—all are sounds that distract me from the emotions assaulting me like a sickly plague.
Voices are what stir me from thought.
I turn my head to find Ceyonne, her mother and her younger sister approaching from down the road. They, too, are accompanied by SAD troops, who watch the road just as the ones who’d guided me here had just moments ago.
“Ceyonne,” the girl’s mother says.
“I’ll be fine,” Ceyonne replies, turning to look her mother straight in the eyes. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I don’t want you to leave!” her younger sister sobs.
The teenaged beauty crouches down to look at her younger sister’s face. “I know you don’t,” she says before reaching out to touch her cheek. “But I have to. Okay?”
“Why?” the younger girl asks. “Why do you have to go?”
“Because,” Ceyonne says. “I was chosen.”
“Why did you have to be chosen!” the girl wails. “Why did you have to be so beautiful! Why!”
Ceyonne closes her eyes. She leaves them that way for several moments before she opens them again to look at her younger sister—who, streaked with tears, resembles her so much in the moonlight streaming down from above. “Baylea. Please. Don’t be mad at me.”
The little girl turns and storms up the road without warning.
Ceyonne moves to give chase.
The SAD guards block her advance.
“Let her go,” Ceyonne’s mother says. “There is nothing you can do now.”
