Fire Country Page 19

  “Take him, Woman,” Grunt grunts, handing a squirming nine-full-moon-old Polk to Veeva.

  “Oh no, hot stuff, you ain’t gettin’ out of bundlin’ ’im. Not this time. And if you call me Woman again, I won’t lie with you fer a quarter full moon.” Veeva’s got one arm holding the baby, t’other on her hip, and a third hand figuratively clutching Grunt’s manparts.

  I’m trying not to crack up.

  “Okay, okay,” Grunt says, throwing up his tug-sausage fingers. “No need to make them threats of yers, Vee. I’m doin’ the best I can. I gotta fix this burnin’ tent before it kills us all!”

  “I can bundle him,” I suggest, trying to be helpful.

  Veeva warns me off with a shake of her head. She’s got something else up her sleeve. “Mmm, well if you can bundle this beautiful baby of yers and fix this here dyin’ tent, I got a special surprise fer you.” In an act that I find somewhat disgusting, and a whole lot intriguing, she sticks out her chest and shakes her enormous bosoms, which, I might add, are practically falling out of her loose top. Grunt’s eyes get bigger’n the moon and Polk grabs at her bouncing breasts like they might be a fun toy to play with. I’m relatively inexperienced in such things—other’n what Veeva’s told me—but perhaps to Grunt, Veeva’s overly ample chest is a fun toy to play with. The way his eyes’re bugging out of his head certainly seems to indicate it.

  “I’ll do it, Woman!” he shouts, his big ol’ belly flopping as he raises his fist above his head. He catches himself. “Sorry, I mean, Veeva.”

  “Mmm, mmm, mmm, I know you will, my stallion,” she says licking her lips and holding out the stinky Polk.

  Yeah, these are the type of interactions I witness on a daily basis at Veeva’s place. Things that would never—EVER—happen in our hut, which I’m somewhat thankful for.

  While Grunt gets to putting a fresh bundle on the baby, Veeva fans herself with a hand. “Useless, bugger,” she whispers to me. “I gotta threaten ’im like this to get ’im to do any burnin’ thing around ’ere. If he wasn’t so good in bed, I’d throw ’im out on his arse. The baggard.”

  I laugh, both at Veeva’s insults and ’cause Grunt’s got Polk upside down by the foot and is trying to wipe his little butt with an old blanket. Veeva shakes her head. “He’s hopeless,” she says. Then, her eyes lighting up, she turns to me. You got your Call comin’ up soon, don’t you?”

  I shrug. “Yeah. S’pose so.”

  She claps. “Who do you got yer eye on?”

  “My eye?” I haven’t really thought ’bout it, mostly ’cause I’m trying to avoid thinking ’bout the Call at all. “No one,” I say lamely.

  She puts an arm ’round me. “Still hung up on Circ?”

  She says his name so casually, as if he was just an old boyfriend, that it doesn’t even sting as much as usual. “I don’t know,” I lie.

  “You know, he couldn’ta been yer Call anyway,” she says.

  “I know,” I say. “But a girl can dream, can’t she?”

  “Of course!” she says, excited now, her eyes lighting up. “Ooh, before my Call I dreamed of Bearing a million babies with Zerg. You know who I mean?”

  I laugh. “Didn’t every Bearer in your Call wanna get Zerg?”

  She nods. “Yeah, but none so bad as me. That searin’ shilt Mariday got ’im. Lucky bugger. And I got stuck with ’im,” she says, motioning to Grunt, who’s managed to get the bundle wrapped half ’round Polk’s leg and half ’round his arm. Grunt’s just staring at the baby, all confused-like, as if bundling a baby is the most confusing puzzle in all of fire country.

  “Fix it!” Veeva orders, startling Grunt out of his daze. “Or you’ll sleep on t’other side of the tent ternight.”

  At that threat, Grunt pulls at the bundle, desperately trying to untangle it from Polk’s wriggling limbs. I’m laughing so hard I hafta hold my stomach. Veeva gives an exasperated sigh and goes to him, puts her arms ’round his shoulders, massaging them slightly. Grunt is sweating like he’s been working in the blaze pits. “It’s okay, my gorgeous hunk of muscle,” she coos. “I’ll take care of it. Fix the tent and I won’t punish you.”

  ~~~

  Tonight I watch the stars. Now that Circ’s gone, my father doesn’t seem to mind if I go out at night. I don’t even hafta sneak out. I just get up, walk out the door. Sometimes I can feel him watching me, other times he doesn’t seem to notice. But either way, he never tries to stop me.

  I always go to the same place. The Hunters Lodge. The first time I went the guard was hesitant to let me in, particularly after the way we tricked our way in the last time. But after I explained why I wanted to go in and promised not to break or steal anything, the guard let me. Now I’m a regular.

  “Not too many clouds tonight, Sie,” the guard says when I arrive. “Should be a perfect stargazing night.”

  “Thanks, Potts,” I say, entering through the door he holds for me. I know all the guards’ names now.

  I don’t take the long way anymore, the way Circ took me when he brought me here. I have no desire to walk down the dark, empty Lodge halls. Outside I feel much closer to him. So I go right up the middle, under the wooden struts and girders and pylons that keep the Lodge from getting blasted over by the strong winter winds. Into the open air space in the middle. Here I feel protected, safe, loved. I’m never alone here, not really. It’s my special place. A place I’ll never bring anyone.

  I lie directly in the middle, look up at the sparkling sky. I spot Circ immediately, as I always do, brighter’n t’others. “Hi,” I say.

  I know he wants to reply, but can’t. From up there, he has no voice. But something tells me he’s not just a pretty thing to look at. He still has power in him. Power to change things for me, to impact my life. He’ll always impact my life.

  My discussion with Veeva pops into my head. The Call. Not that far off. Scary close now. If I could choose any of the eligible guys in the village, who would I choose? I know the answer. None of them. None of them are Circ.

  But, for the sake of humoring Veeva, I try to think ’bout it seriously. ’Cause I’m going to get one of them whether I like it or not. Grunt pops into my head first and I laugh. Being Veeva’s Call-Sister would be incredible, but the thought of lying with Grunt even once makes me wanna throw a handful of rocks in the air and run under them. I’d take thirty rocks to the face over having to touch him any day.

  ’Cause I’m so anti-social these days, I don’t really know anyone. I barely even really know the Younglings I go to Learning with, much less anyone eighteen or older. There’re a couple of brothers who seem friendly enough, Graum and Baum. They’re Hunters, too, like Circ is—was. Pretty smoky, too. Not Circ smoky, but nice to look at. Either of them would be okay I guess. But there are many more worse options—options I don’t wanna think ’bout right now. Not ever.

  Circ stares at me. I’m sorry, Circ, I say. I don’t wanna, but I don’t know what else to do. If there’s any other way, please tell me.

  He winks, as if to say, I understand.

  I cry.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The bells are ringing from every watchtower.

  The winds have been whipping themselves into a frenzy all morning, dumping grit and sand into the Learning Hut while we sit cross-legged, trying to listen to whatever gibberish Teacher Mas is telling us.

  When the bells start clanging wildly, we all suspect there’s a full-fledged sandstorm a-coming. I follow the stampede out the door, using my pointy elbows to ward off anyone who tries to jostle me amidst the confusion.

  Right away I know it ain’t a sandstorm. Hunters are everywhere, rushing ’bout, strapping on thick, leather shirts and carrying blades, spears, and bows. We’re under attack. By what or who, I don’t know.

  Hawk’s just finished talking to one of the Hunters, and starts to rush off, but I sprint at an angle, catch up to him, grab his arm. “Let go of me! I gotta get ready!” he says, twisting away.

  I squeeze harder, su
rprised at myself. “Tell me what’s going on,” I demand.

  His eyes are wild. Not with anger, but with urgency. “They’re comin’,” he says. “The Glassies are comin’.” My fingers go numb and he pulls away, sprints off to prepare. Even the Youngling Hunters’ll be a part of this fight.

  The villagers are everywhere, running amok, parents trying to find their children, brothers trying to find their sisters, Hunters going to wherever they’ve been commanded to go. The Lodge. Or the guard towers. Or out into the desert to fight.

  I race through the village, instinctively veering toward our hut. But then my mind races ahead of my body, pictures what’ll happen. My father’ll lock us in for our safety, go off to join the Hunters. I’ll be stuck inside with my thoughts, the walls closing in ’round me, no way to escape them. Not today.

  I stop, head in the opposite direction, toward the edge of the village that faces Confinement and ice country. No one’s running in that direction. The Hunters are all going the other way, ’cause that’s where the Glassies are attacking from, taking the quickest route possible, direct from the Glass City to here. Soon I’m all alone, rushing past tents that are sealed up tight, full of scared women and children whose lives are dependent on the Hunters’ ability to once again hold off the mysterious Glassies, who, for some unknown reason, seem determined to wipe us off the face of fire country.

  Even the guard towers on this side are abandoned, the guards called to the front lines with everyone else. I slip out of the village, beyond the border tents. My father’ll be grizzing himself right ’bout now. His precious Pre-Bearer is missing. What if I die? What if I get hurt and can’t Bear his grandchildren, fulfill my duty under the Law? What then? The thought makes me happier’n anything has in a while.

  I skirt along the edge of the village, feeling reckless and dangerous and so out of control that I start to feel in control. More in control’n I’ve felt in a long time. Since Circ’s death I’ve just been bobbing along, like a dead fly in the watering hole, letting the wind and ripples take me wherever they choose.

  Not today. Today I choose.

  As if in anticipation of the impending battle, the wind swirls, so excited that it can’t decide on a single direction to blow in. Off in the desert, mini-dust-devils rise up and spin themselves in haphazard circles, flattening the dry pricklers and last remaining stalks of brittle scrubgrass. Despite the dust in the air, I press onward, shielding my eyes with a hand, both from the sun and the sand.

  When I’m more’n halfway ’round the village, cries of death rise up.

  I pick up my pace, determined to see the battle in all its gruesome glory. I’m full of more energy’n I’ve had in a long time, and I’m almost scared of what I might do when I get to the other side of the border tents, when I see what’s happening. All that pent up energy’s gotta find an outlet.

  I’ve done plenty of knocky things ’fore, like jumping into a Killer/Hunter fight or purposely getting sent to Confinement. Maybe I’ll just join the fight with the Glassies, I don’t know. I feel so alive, like I could do anything, score a goal in feetball without falling over, kill a tug with my bare hands, run to Confinement and break Raja out. Anything.

  I’m almost to the front gate of the village, cries of war and mayhem just in front of me, sending shivers and quivers of energy through my whole invincible skeleton-like body—when I trip. I’m not so invincible after all. I’m running so hard that I literally go flying, completely airborne and flapping my arms.

  Oh no! Here we go again. I’ve just recovered from a broken wrist and I’m ’bout to break a whole lot more on the hard, cracked earth.

  Powerful arms catch me in midair, pull me down, set me back on my feet.

  Oh how I want to believe it—can’t believe it—want to—want to—please let it be him. The only one who’s ever caught me ’fore—besides my father, who I don’t count—so many times ’fore, is Circ. My hero. My friend. Not dead. Just a mistake, a misunderstanding. He’s saved me again.

  It’s not Circ.

  Circ burned on the pylon, sent to the stars.

  The arms are too thin. Strong, yeah, but thin, too, almost like a girl’s. Not a girl’s. Lara’s.

  She’s looking at me like I’m wooloo, and when I see her I look at her the same way. “What the scorch?” I say. “Lara? What are you doing?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” she says.

  “I was, uh…I don’t know. Thanks for catching me. You’re really strong.” It’s the understatement of the year. With her buzzed head, tightly set jaw, and tight cut-off shirt, she looks exactly the way I was feeling when my two left feet got in the way of my glory. Invincible.

  “No problem.”

  The deep bellows of men at war roar past us, colliding with the wind, which has managed to unite its swirls into a pressing gale force that throws my hair back into my face. I push it away, wondering what I’m doing out here.

  I don’t know what to say. “We should, uh, get back, right?”

  “Wrong,” Lara says. “I think you’re out here for the same reason I am.”

  I snap my eyes shut as a smattering of sand whips past. When I reopen them Lara’s giving me one of those looks I grew so familiar with a couple full moons ago. “Don’t start with all that ‘There’s another way,’ blaze. All we’re gonna get out here is a trip to the burner.”

  “Alright then. I’ll see you later.” Lara strides off. As I contemplate what she said, a brambleweed flies at my head and glances off my forearm when I throw up my arms to protect myself. One of its gnarled branches slashes my arm, cutting it deep, spilling my blood. The sharp pain of the wound sharpens my thoughts. The answer to the question Why am I out here? suddenly seems obvious. ’Cause I want to be. I don’t wanna be what everyone thinks I should be, someone’s call, a Bearer, a breeder. I wanna be more. I wanna stand up and do something. Not huddle helplessly with the women and children while the men give their lives to protect us. The last time I did something this wooloo—with the Killers—it was to protect Circ, which wasn’t a choice. This time it’s a conscious decision to act. My choice, even if it kills me.

  I race after Lara, being careful not to trip again. She’s walking slow, almost as if she…

  “Knew you’d come,” she says as I pull astride. “Like me, it’s in your blood to be different.” I say nothing, just match the increased speed of her steps.

  We’re going to fight.

  ~~~

  Maybe it wasn’t such a good decision. We’re on the edge of the village, watching men die.

  The Glassies are winning, their fire sticks intermittently booming, their chariots blazing in a swarm of fire, moving so fast it’s like they have the power of hundreds of Killers’ legs inside them. Their skin is as pale as the white sands of southern fire country, bleached, rather’n darkened by the sun. They are a curious people. A curious people who want to kill us. Sun goddess save us all.

  I see Hawk amidst a large group of Hunters that’ve managed to stay organized, shooting pointers as a collective group, killing anything in sight. But they won’t last. There are too many Glassies.

  “We have to go now or it’ll be over before we get there,” Lara says.

  Which might not be a bad thing, I think. “We don’t have any weapons,” I point out, hoping I’ve found a way to change her mind.

  She reaches behind her and extracts a pair of twin blades, as long as my forearm and sharper’n a Killer fang. “Take one,” she says.

  I do, gulping as I feel the sun-heated metal of the hilt against my palm. “Lara, are you sure…?”

  “You can do this,” she says, gripping my shoulder in one hand and her knife in t’other. She holds it as easily as a Bearer holds her baby. Me, I feel like the blade is as awkward as a tent pole.

  I take a deep breath, my legs wobbling like they’re made of water. All energy’s been sucked from them, from my arms. It’s the strongest wind of the season, almost knocking me off my feet with each gust. This
is no game, no daydreamed conversation with a prickler named Perry. This is real. The only way I can cope is to pretend.

  I picture Circ on the field of battle, majestic and graceful, sweeping his blade like a dance, protecting other Hunters with every swing. The Glassies close in on him, one from the front, one from behind. He’s helplessly outnumbered. Only I can save him.

  “Let’s go,” I say, digging my heel into the dust.

  Lara smiles. “Now!” she cries. We race off together, two girls in a desert of men. Actually, more like one and a half girls. Guess who’s the half.

  We’re halfway to the battle. It’s all happening too fast—too searin’ fast—and I can’t hold the daydream. Scorch, I can barely hold my blade, which is wavering in my grasp. I’m more likely to impale myself on it than one of the Glassies.

  Circ vanishes, gone back to the land of the gods. A fire stick booms and a Hunter drops dead, red all over his chest. The Hunter archers unleash a flurry of pointers and a chariot full of Glassies crashes, pointers sticking out every which way from their skin.

  Too fast.

  The wind swirls, gusts, unites, threatens.

  The sandstorm hits like a tug stampede.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  If you ain’t never seen a winter sandstorm, consider yourself lucky.

  Surviving a sandstorm is more luck’n skill. But when your people’ve been doing it for centuries, you’ve at least got a fighting chance. The Glassies? Not so much.

  Lara grabs my blade, secures it to her leather belt, and in two seconds flat, the air goes from having an occasional burst of sand to being full of sand. And in those two seconds, me and Lara do three things, like we’ve been taught a million times, from Totter to Youngling.