by Jess Corban
Rohan leads us to a table lined with eight large rucksacks, made from hides and fashioned with two straps for carrying on one’s back.
“Our job is to fill these with the supplies we’ll need for our journey. We have three days.”
“Three days? I thought Torvus said we’d have a week to prepare.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll find once a man has an idea, he’s antsy to get it done.”
I count the empty bags again. One for Torvus, six for his men, one for me. “We’ll need two more. Bri’s coming, and I’m not leaving Neechi here.”
“Make that three more,” Jonalyn interjects, looping her arm through mine. My older sister barely reaches my chin, but in this moment she somehow projects the commanding presence of an Alexia.
Rohan looks between us. “Torvus won’t like it.”
I feign annoyance at her. “My friends don’t know how to take no for an answer.”
When he goes to find more sacks, I grow serious with my sister. “Are you sure, Jo? This will be dangerous.”
“Like marching into the Jungle and consorting with Brutes? I know, Rei. But . . . what you said last night, about me doing something, like Mother . . . that’s my purpose now.”
“What about La Fortuna? Your children?”
“Now I have children here to worry about too. I’m going with you for all of them, because something needs to change, for all of us.”
Jase ambles into the hut with Bri and Neechi on either side.
“Where’s Rohan?” the affable Brute asks. It’s barely midmorning and already he appears ready to conquer the world.
“He went to get more rucksacks.” I notice something missing from Bri’s wrists.
“You let her go free?”
Jase looks sideways at Bri, playfulness warring with caution. “She promised to be good.”
“Like an angel,” she says, closing her eyes reverentially for effect.
Jase shakes his head. To me he says, “When he gets back, tell him I’m going to work on weapons with these two.”
With eyebrow raised, I pull Jase aside for a private word. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Absolutely,” he says, loud enough for Bri to hear. “Better to put a weapon in her hand where I can see it than wonder what would happen if she found one behind my back.” He laughs out loud at his own joke. That deep, goofy joy of his gets me every time.
“Alright. But could Neechi tend to the horses before he joins you? They’re worn out from our journey here, and there’s no one better to care for them.”
Neechi’s cheeks turn ruddy and he twists his hands, probably with equal parts nerves and pride.
“Sure,” Jase consents. He calls for a nearby Brute who is busy assembling a strange contraption resembling a giant spoon on a spring which they call a catapult. “Théo, take this . . . man to their animals, will you? Make sure he has whatever he needs to care for them.”
I’m struck by how closely Théo resembles a Brute version of Trinidad—with chocolate-bronze skin, fair eyes, and dark, thick hair twisted into golden-tinged clumps that would hang past his shoulders if they weren’t tied back. He eyes Neechi briefly before instructing him to follow. “Come on then.”
When they’re out of earshot, I turn to Jase.
“You called Neechi a man. Didn’t you mean Gutless?”
Jase stares after Théo and Neechi for a long moment. “Robbing a man of his spirit doesn’t make him less of a man.”
“Do the others agree with you?”
“No, not all. Not even half. But having people agree with you isn’t as important as knowing you’re right. Look at you—I bet most Nedéans would consider you a traitor for being here now, helping us like this.”
“Yes, they would,” Bri answers for me.
Jase ignores her. “But you’re here anyway. Even if none of the others agree with me, I don’t fault the Gutless—the Gentles—for what’s been done to them. That Neechi? He’s doing the best he can with what he’s got. He followed you clear into the Jungle, even with the cards dealt him. I’d say that makes him as much of a man as I am.”
He gives me a tight smile before adding, “That doesn’t mean I won’t fight so others aren’t disadvantaged the same way.”
I think I understand what he means.
Jase leads Bri to a pair of stumps outside the hut, next to an enormous pile of coconuts, moving a bundle of long sticks between them. Handing her a short steel knife, he sits opposite her and shows her the correct places to slice away the tree pulp, then how to lash the tip with a sharp, shiny stone.
“She’s harder to read than a stormy sky,” Jonalyn says, watching them. “Do you think she’ll help us, or betray us?”
I consider last night’s conversation with Bri, and the fact that she’s sitting nearly knee-to-knee with a Brute today.
“We’re talking about Brishalynn. Who knows what she’ll do.” Still, something tells me she has tabled her plans to reach Adoni. “I don’t think she’ll try the same stunt twice. Stab us all in our sleep, maybe—” I play-grimace—“but not run.”
Within a stone’s throw, other groups of Brutes mend, assemble, or clean a plethora of weapons: fat blades on stout sticks, bolas, thin spears, and catapults. Another group lashes thick bamboo poles together, creating what appears to be a type of cage, large enough for a small Brute to stand in. A quantity of similar cages are already assembled, lined in neat rows behind a long hut.
Rohan returns with one more empty bag slung over his shoulder.
“Only found one. We have more at the cave, but we can fill these for now.”
“What’s ‘the cave’?” I ask.
“One of our hunting camps.”
“You have other camps?”
“Six.”
“Do other Brutes live in them?”
“Not yet. In another year some of us plan to relocate to make room for new cubs, but for now we use them when we hunt, and to store supplies. Oh, and for scouting.”
“Scouting?”
“I forgot how many questions you ask,” he says, with a slight twinkle in his eye.
“I forgot how many secrets you keep.”
He sighs. “How do you think we knew you were coming?”
I recall my suspicion that we were being watched, by the river and in the Jungle. “I knew it—I knew something was out there.” Although slightly unnerving, the realization also offers the subtle satisfaction of being right. “So where is this cave?”
“You’ve been there—or nearly there. It’s upstream from the chute.” He fails to completely push down a mischievous grin.
Jonalyn gives me an inquisitive look.
“Oh, I remember the chute,” I say dramatically, snatching a bag from Rohan’s grip. “I’m glad you think my near death is funny.”
“She was fine,” he defends himself to Jo. “It was just a little raft ride.”
“Into the belly of the earth, with Brutes who darted me the night before! How was I to know you weren’t going to leave me for bat food?”
At the mention of bats, I suddenly recall the press of his body against my back, a human shield against the onslaught of crazed creatures. I wonder if he, too, remembers the moment, because he smiles a little, briefly catching my gaze.
“I’d never leave you,” he says. Then, opening the sack, he adds, “Not for bat food anyway. Jaguar, maybe. They’re nobler creatures.”
Jonalyn finds this funny.
I wonder why it makes my insides flutter.
“Here,” he says, divvying up the remaining sacks. “Each will need some dried meat and fruit, cohune nuts, a water flask, and a sleeping net. We’ll divide the rest of the supplies among the eleven of us. If we make most of what we need ourselves, we can leave more supplies for those who remain.”
We spend the next two and a half days assembling everything eleven people will require for a weeklong journey. We’ll skirt the western and southern borders of Nedé, under the cover of the wilds,
all the way to the Halcyon Sea. There, something they call a two-hull will take us to an island, allowing us to approach Phoenix City by sea, so we don’t alert the Matriarch and Alexia to our approach. The “by sea” part sounds terrifying, but Jase assures me it’s safe. Again, not exactly comforting.
At least the preparations keep my mind off the hollow ache that surfaces whenever I’m not busy. What time is there to grieve Mother, to mourn Tre, to suffer the loss of Callisto, when we’re working from sunup to sundown?
So I give myself wholly to the tasks assigned. We mend the sacks where the leather has worn through with thread made of hibiscus tree fibers and a bamboo needle. Sleeping nets are woven with three-ply sisal twine. We wrap servings of dried meat in banana leaves, roast the nuts, and make a paste from plants and cohune oil that Rohan swears keeps bugs from biting. As we forage for fresh herbs to replace the dried bundles we pack, Rohan patiently explains to Jo and me the properties of each leaf, bark, root, and flower we collect. We assemble hunting supplies, fashioning snares and fitting arrows with a strange, clawlike cage for a tip, which Rohan says captures birds with less waste. He seems to know everything there is to know about hunting and the uses of plants, weather patterns, and, gratefully, surviving in the Jungle.
His manner softens toward Jonalyn and me with each new interaction, eventually trusting us to work alone for periods of time while he attends to other matters. I secretly hope his disappearances aren’t tied to Dáin, but if Jase was serious about us all needing to work together—and with Torvus refusing to yield—I can’t, unfortunately, rule out the possibility.
Talking with Rohan becomes more natural, at least on matters of net sizes and plant genuses. I don’t gape at his strangely shaped muscles, or flinch when he accidentally brushes my arm. As fear gives way to familiarity, I study him while we work. He always wipes his hands on his trousers before holding a weapon, as if he must remove any impurity before touching something so sacred. I notice his intense concentration when he’s working, oblivious to conversation around him. Everything the Brute does reflects precision and purpose. No task is frivolous, no movement wasted.
I notice my own strange tendencies too—that I am painfully aware of his presence, or lack thereof, at any given moment. I catch, too, the slight tilt of my body toward him whenever we’re within sight of each other, like a helianthus flower bending toward the passing sun.
Aside from the strange spell he puts on me, as the days pass, we ease into a comfortable partnership.
The other Brutes, too, grow accustomed to our presence, sitting with us at meals, acknowledging us as we pass, asking questions about Nedé, and telling us stories around the fire at night—tales of hunting misadventures, exceptionally large prey, and mischievous Brute antics.
By late Wednesday afternoon, Rohan, Jo, and I have nearly finished packing the sacks with the needed supplies. Bri, Jase, and Neechi have made enough weapons to outfit every Brute in the Jungle, let alone our small contingent of eleven. There hasn’t been a single sighting of Dáin. Despite our tenuous circumstances and unclear future, in this moment I feel peace. As the midafternoon sun slides west, my shoulders relax a little. I actually take a moment to savor, rather than inhale, the unique flavors of the smoked meat, juicy mango, and fresh coconut milk of our meal.
Bri leans across the table to steal a strip of my meat.
I slap at her hand half-heartedly. “So, how’s it going?”
“Fine, I guess, if one can ignore the endless drip of optimism from a certain Brute.” She tips her head, not so subtly, toward Jase. “I have to hand it to them, though—Brutes like their blades even more than Alexia do.” She concludes her hesitant compliment by swiping another strip of peccary from my banana-leaf plate.
“I can get you some more,” Jase offers her.
“Where’s the fun in that?” she asks, the fringe of her blonde bangs framing an exaggeratedly innocent face.
Of all of us, Jase finds her response most humorous, and I smile at his easy acceptance of my testy friend.
Friend. Two months ago, I never would have imagined using that word to describe Bri. Not even two weeks ago. But I suppose that’s what she is now. Of course, our touch-and-go, unpredictable friendship won’t keep me from dishing out a little of what she so easily gives.
I lean toward Jase, only pretending to whisper, “I’m shocked she hasn’t driven you crazy yet.”
He grins. “I think she’s holding back.”
Bri feigns offense at Jase before downing the last of her coconut milk, but in the split second it takes her eyes to meet his and dart away, her act momentarily slips, revealing the smallest flicker of respect for the amiable Brute.
As we finish our meal and the others return to weaponry, Rohan speaks for the first time since we sat down. “Let’s fill the flasks at the stream so we won’t diminish the stores here.”
Jonalyn and I stand to accompany him just as a slew of cubs rustle into the kitchen with Ori and one of Rohan’s hunting partners—Dantès, was it? He’s slightly shorter than Ori, with wild, sun-bleached brown hair, and smooth, deeply tanned skin. A cord strung with shells hangs around his neck. Jonalyn watches the troop with intense interest. I soon realize why: Ori has a tiny passenger on his back, baby Finch, riding snug in a sling.
“Might I help with the cubs instead?” she asks Rohan, a little too hopefully.
He seems unsure. For her sake, I push a little. “Jo’s an amazing Materno. She’d be a big help, and she won’t give anyone trouble.”
While Rohan consults with Ori and Dantès, a familiar muddy cub comes running up with his friends, stopping just short of my legs. He stares up with big, round eyes.
“Seems you learned your lesson,” I tell bold little Pip. “And so have I.” I crouch down so we’re eye to eye. “And I kept my promise,” I whisper, winking at him. “I didn’t tell Jase.”
Pip’s tiny, gapped teeth glow bright white against his clay-brown face. The smallest of his two companions slowly scoots closer, then places a curious, sticky hand on my cheek, as if testing whether I’m real. I cover it with my own.
When Rohan returns, the three boys scamper back to Ori and the other young ones.
“You’ll take Dantès’s shift,” Rohan instructs my sister. “But these aren’t Gutless cubs. Follow Ori’s instructions.”
She nods, then crosses to the other end of the kitchen to help Ori prepare food for the rambunctious lot.
“Thank you,” I tell him, smiling at the way Jo so easily slips into the role of caretaker.
Rohan and I gather up the flasks and make our way to the stream, about half a kilometer from camp. When we passed this bend yesterday, I didn’t notice the deepened bottom here, which looks to have been dug out to create a type of bathing hole. Two Brutes shake themselves dry on the bank, their sparse clothing dripping wet, having been washed right along with their bodies.
We trudge upstream another ten meters. The bubbling water creates a soothing backdrop to jabbering birds and monkey chatter, and the thick foliage along the streambed fills the visible world with vibrant shades of palm green, brilliant red, and cassia yellow. Violet hummingbirds hover and zip from scarlet-bush flower to flower, pausing to drink their fill from each tubular carafe before dashing off again.
When we reach a filling station, I crouch down next to Rohan on the wood platform. Here, a ring of large, mossy rocks surrounds a deeper well of clear water. Using one of the wooden ladles, I begin filling the flasks.
“Will this be enough water for the journey?” I ask.
“There are plenty of water sources on the way. But the first day, to the ruins, we won’t pass a stream until afternoon.”
“Ah.”
We fall into silence, filling three more flasks. I want to talk, but I can’t think of anything not obvious or idiotic to say. Besides, it seems half the time I open my mouth I offend him. So I opt instead to keep my lips shut, trying to enjoy the peaceful collision of water against rock and ignore the con
fusing drumming of my heart against my ribs.
Despite the endless curiosities of the plants and animals around me, I’m more aware of Rohan’s movements—the bend of his elbow as he positions another flask over the stream, the flex of his thigh as he rocks back on his heels, the twitch of his cheek when I accidentally miss the flask’s opening and water splashes off the rim into his face.
Twice I catch him staring at me, twice his gaze darts away, quick as the hummingbirds.
Though no words pass between us, I find myself pouring the water slower than a sloth, lengthening the moments I have here, with him, alone in a world of emerald ceiba and richly scented earth, singing kingfishers and an azure sky. And when I hear a branch snap nearby, why do I hope it’s not another person—someone who might interrupt this quiet moment?
But when the last flask has been filled, I have no choice but to stand and prepare to return to the noise and interruptions of camp. As I sling a few flasks over my shoulder, the waterskins collide with a lump in my pants pocket.