by Katie French
I'm about to ask for an early night and shuffle toward the girls' hall when a strange pounding begins. Drum beats echo from the high ceilings. The people begin gathering around the carousel. Ethan's hand finds my elbow and soon the four of us move as one; Clay stands behind me and Rayburn beside him.
“What is it?” Clay asks, his eyes on the two men before the carousel, pounding their palms on large drums. The boom, boom, boom seems to synch up with the thudding of my heart.
I shake my head. “No idea.”
Prema shuffles by and I snag her arm. She swivels. Her look of surprise turns to a scowl like I'm a bug she's discovered in her tea.
“What's going on?” I shout over the drumming that echoes around the cavernous space.
She nods toward the front. “It's a Naming. Men on the right. Women on the left. Best get to your spots and zip your lips.” She hobbles forward, her slippers scraping on the cement floor.
My eyes dart between my three boys. Sometimes I would give anything to be a man. “Guess I'll see y'all later.” I try not to sound bitter.
Clay puts his hand on my shoulder. “We don't gotta do what she says. You stay with us.”
I look around to see if this is possible, but already almost everyone has separated. As I turn, Stephen clomps in our direction. I shake my head. “Not worth making trouble. I'll hang with Mage. Go before the meathead blows a gasket.” I nod to Stephen, who's trying to get around a clump of old ladies. I slip between a group of women and weave through the crowd toward the front. The heat intensifies with all this flesh, even though the sun has dropped and isn't baking us from above. The smell of hardworking women permeates the air: a salty musk, sprinkled with the tang of laundry soap or cooking oil. Soon, the sounds pick up, drums mostly and a strange chanting. Around me, women's lips move in unison as the drums pound, pound, pound. Will they lose themselves in the beat and start tearing things apart? It feels like we're inside a diseased heart. I search frantically for the boys. What if we have to run? What if I can't find them?
The noise stops. The Messiah slips up the steps of the carousel, his hand on Andrew's arm. He's wearing the same gossamer gown we saw him in earlier, his brown hair long and gleaming. A heavy necklace decorated with religious symbols dangles from his neck—a cross, a Star of David, a crescent moon and a star, a large gold bird of prey with wings outstretched. Next to him, Andrew looks like a study in opposites with his tidy pants and T-shirt, his short bowl haircut. His round goggles look silly on his serious face. He frowns as he helps the Messiah up the sagging steps, and then takes his place beside the prophet.
The Messiah's cloudy eyes scan his people. They stand, barely breathing, as he looks over the throng, almost a hundred faces all glued on him. He better have something good to say.
He holds up a hand and waves it over the crowd like he's calling for silence, though he already has it. Just before he drops his hand, I see a small tremor there, a tremor he's trying to hide. How bad is his health? What will happen if he takes a turn for the worse? Andrew will step up? He'd kick us out in a heartbeat. Or worse.
“Gods' people,” he says, his voice booming through the silent food court. “The half moon is upon us. Tonight we ask the Gods for continued sight and celebrate the Naming.”
There's a murmur of agreement from the crowd. Somewhere a baby lets out a cry. Then silence.
The Messiah pauses, his hand on Andrew's shoulder, his cloudy eyes locked on the crowd. “The Naming began with our forefathers who planted this seed and brought us to this holy land. Every moon we bring forth the male candidates, selected as our best and brightest, to join the throng of the Brotherhood. Tonight we celebrate brothers, Mordecai and Kemuel.”
Two teenage boys are ushered forward. Kemuel is the boy from the van and behind him must be his brother, Mordecai. They look like twins, though not identical. Mordecai is broad-shouldered where Kemuel is narrow. Mordecai's hair is straighter and blonder than Kemuel's dark blond, curly mop. And Kemuel looks like he's about to throw up as they are led onto the carousel. Unlike the Messiah, when they step on the platform, it jostles and squeaks. The boys stand at attention, their arms locked at their sides. Kemuel's terrified eyes flick up as the Messiah brings out a tattered scroll. The boy is ready to bolt; his eyes look like a jackrabbit's in the hawk's shadow.
The Messiah holds up his crinkled parchment. On it are strings of text that look like they've been cut from other books and pasted on. He begins reading. “He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighties. It is He who has sent forth His Messenger with the guidance and the religion of Truth, so that we may prevail over all others, and none can bear witness to the Truth as the Gods do. So it has been in Jerusalem and Mecca, Harajuku and Sabarimala. So it is with the Citadel.”
The Messiah stops and spreads his arms wide, looking every bit like a crucified Christ-man. Even the light from the open ceiling seems directed to illuminate his glory. It's no wonder these people follow him.
“Bring forth the holy water!” he shouts.
The drums pick up and the chanting renews around me. Sight, sight, sight, they chant. The hairs on my arms spring up. Kemuel's eyes go as wide as a trapped musk hog. He looks like the Messiah is about to gut him, but still he stands, trembling. Mordecai looks less afraid, but now there's fear in his eyes too. Behind me a woman begins quietly crying. What are they going to do to these boys?
Two giant men bring a silver bucket and hand it to the Messiah. He lifts a silver dipper and begins giving drinks to each of his men at the front. They nod, dip their heads, and drink from his ladle. Finally, he comes around to the two boys standing on the carousel.
The chanting drops away and the Messiah raises the bucket.
“I Name you, Mordecai and Kemuel, in the blood of the Gods: Jesus, Buddha, Mohamed, Yahweh, and countless others. With this holy baptism you are now men of the Gods and part of our Brotherhood.”
He raises the full ladle to Mordecai who, with trembling hands, takes it and drinks. The Messiah nods, takes the ladle back, and refills it. He holds the full ladle out to Kemuel.
Kemuel stands motionless, his eyes wide with fright, trained on the ladle. He makes no move to take it. The Messiah holds it up, waiting. Someone behind me yells, “Drink, boy.” The woman continues sobbing.
With trembling hands, Kemuel reaches for the ladle. He lifts it toward his mouth. Someone yells, “Go on.” Kemuel's eyes dart around the crowd.
With a cry he tosses the ladle at the Messiah and bolts.
The Messiah wipes a hand down his water-doused face as Kemuel's footsteps pound away. Slowly, he points a finger toward the boy.
“After him.”
Chapter 9
Men rush after the terrified boy. Behind me a woman shoves forward, keening wildly. The woman is the one I heard crying earlier—she must be Kemuel’s mother. Now she's clutching her face and wailing. She uses her body as a battering ram, smashing people out of her way. One of the Middies pushes up behind her, grabs her elbow, and attempts to drag her back. The wailing woman shakes her off.
“Leave him be!” she wails. “Let him go!”
More shoving and pushing as men surge to grab her. Mordecai, who's been watching this open-mouthed, jumps down from the carousel and launches toward his mother. The Messiah's mouth moves, though no words reach us over this racket. It doesn't matter. I spot Clay's head above the crowd and he shoots me a frantic look. He struggles toward me, but gets pinned behind a wall of bodies. I slip around an elderly woman and a hand cinches around my wrist.
I turn. Stephen flashes me a nasty smile.
“Messiah said all dusts are to be put up for the night.” His other hand clasps around my free arm. “Let's go, pretty.”
I struggle, but his hands are big as baseball mitts and his grip is unbreakable. He scowls and drags me along. I crane my neck to catch a view of my boys. A wall of burly men is corralling them. Goddamn these people. If they hurt Ethan—
Stephen yanks me so hard my shoulder socket twangs with pain. He flashes a nasty smile, his bearded upper lip curling. He shoves me into the empty store that serves as my bedroom and slams the grate. I glare at him as he fumbles with the padlock.
“What’s wrong with the water, Stephen?” I ask, now that he can't reach me.
He flashes me a startled look and then his eyes harden. “None of your business, dust.”
“What'll they do to that boy?” I gaze out into the hallway. Women wander back down the hall, murmuring with hushed voices.
Stephen clicks the lock and stands. My eyes fall on the wide sore that has sprouted on his neck: red and goopy.
He points a massive finger at me. “What'll happen to that boy is what he deserves. We do what the Messiah decrees, or the Gods punish us. Kemuel put this whole community in danger. He'll be dealt with.” He grips the grate, rattles it loudly, laughs, and strides away.
I walk over and curl up on the dirty mattress. The bloody stain, now dried to a brown rust, reminds me of Mama. I tuck my head to my knees as the emptiness seeps in. At least on the road we were together.
That night I dream of swirling sands that swallow me. Of clawing cactus clutching me with spiked limbs, piercing my skin. Of the Messiah with eyes like frosted glass staring at me, seeing through me. Lastly I dream of waking to find Mama in a pool of her own blood.
When I sit up, gasping, it's that image that stays with me.
“Bad dream,” a voice behind me says.
I whirl around. The morning lights are on in the hallway. Mage sits Indian-style on the other side of the grate, working on a paper animal in her lap. Watching her deft fingers fly over the paper helps my pounding heart to slow.
“Where did you learn to do that?” I ask, slowly standing. My legs are boiled leather from yesterday's work.
Mage finally looks up. Her face is neither kind nor menacing. “My papa.”
“You mean the Messiah.” I walk to the grate. The bars between us rattle a little as I crouch down next to her. She shrugs and goes back to folding. In a moment she has a crinkly snake in her palm. She slips it through the bars and I take it.
“Thanks,” I say. A peace offering perhaps? I put my hand on the bars. “You look fretful as a snared rabbit, as my Auntie would say. Did what happened last night bother you?”
She tucks her golden head down. “I liked him. He was in my class in the Willow Room.”
I nod, weaving my fingers through the metal bars. “What'll they do to him?”
Mage grabs the grate, her fingers inches from mine. She stares into my eyes. “He'll be put out. They think I don't know what that means, but I do. It means he'll die. The coyotes will eat his guts.”
It's hard to meet her wide gray eyes. I swallow. “Do they do that a lot?”
She shifts, one strap of her jumper sliding down her bare shoulder. “When they won't drink the holy water. When they break the rules. When someone starts causing trouble.” She ticks each reason off on her fingers. “Breaking rules means you die, so pretty much everybody follows the rules.” She lifts her eyes to mine. “Nobody wants to be put out.”
“I came from out there,” I say. “You can survive.”
Mage shrugs again. “I don't want to think about it.”
“Maybe I'll break a rule. Then they'll let me out of this hell hole.” I mull this over for a moment. I'm sure they'd just find another way to punish us.
Mage frowns. “I said I don't want to talk about it.”
“Fine.” I drop down and sit on the frayed carpet next to the grate. I don't see a breakfast tray. “No bacon this morning?”
“You can come out and eat in the food court.” She crawls on hands and knees to the lock and fiddles with it.
“Any chance I can see my mother today?” I ask. “You know how she's doing?”
Mage nods, not looking at me. “The same. They say she's resting. They won't let me in.”
My heart sinks. I want her out. I want her with me. What's it going to take to make her well? Whatever it is, I'm going to figure it out. There's no way I'm losing her again.
I follow Mage into the food court. After we wait in line and get our trays—a pink slab of ham, four ripe strawberries (which I pop into my mouth instantly), and a weak tea that smells of mint—we find the boys. Ethan's eyebrows go up as Mage slides into the chair next to him. Clay reaches for my hand.
“How're you?” he asks, his eyes searching my face.
“Fine.” I swallow my unease with a sip of tea.
Clay turns to Mage. “So, you're the Messiah's daughter?”
Mage nods, a big bite of greasy ham making her red lips shine.
Clay leans in on his elbows. His shirt's become as thin as paper, draping over his lean muscles. “Tell me,” he says, zeroing in on her with his sky-blue eyes, “you ever heard of a woman named Nessa Vandewater? Or Marlin Tate?”
I clamp my hand onto Clay's and squeeze. This isn’t the time for question and answer. I’ve only just regained Mage’s trust. “Mage makes these great paper animals. Can you show us one?”
Clay frowns. “But I want to—”
My foot finds his shin with a swift kick. He shoots me a look, but stops talking.
Mage pulls a piece of bright blue paper out of her pocket. She begins folding. “It's called origami,” she says, making a crease. “My papa learned it in some of the books he had brought here.”
“The leader of the only free society in the west and he has time for paper folding?” Clay flicks his eyes to me, probably wondering if he'll get another kick.
Mage makes a complicated fold, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth. Ethan's eyes follow her slender hands. He watches so intently that he startles a little when she finally flips her head up, a paper hawk pinched triumphantly between two fingers. “My papa's favorite.”
We all smile and nod. Clay touches a finger to the bird, his eyes narrowing. “A bird of prey.” Clay draws out the words like they mean something. I'm about to kick him again when his eyes snap up.
“Get down!” he yells, reaching for us.
A gunshot cracks through the food court.
Chaos.
Everyone's bolting, scrambling under tables, sprinting for the exits. A woman with a toddler hugged to her chest is crawling under a row of chairs, the child wailing. I grab for Ethan as my eyes search the crowd. Where did the gunshot come from? Then I see the shooter striding up, a gun clutched in his hand, his eyes wide with a crazed terror.
Kemuel.
His dark hair is a tangled mess. His clothes are tattered and one shin is a scabby. His thin face contorts into a look of rage, fear, and shock. He holds a handgun like he's never been allowed to before. However, that doesn't stop him from aiming it at anything that moves.
We slip under the table and huddle around the metal post as he stalks through the food court. I pull Ethan to me on one side, Mage on the other. Clay scoots up behind me, his body a taut wire. Rayburn balls up like a hedgehog.
Kemuel stalks through the play area, his gun out, arm extended. His cheeks puff in and out with panting breaths. A chair scrapes and he aims at it.
“Where is he?!” he screams, flecks of spit raining from his mouth. “Where's the Messiah?”
No one answers. Somewhere a child wails. My eyes flick toward the exits. We're right in the center of the room. If we bolted, we'd be a target for sure.
“No?” Kemuel screams, veering our way. “The coward won't face me? Then give me his daughter.” Beside me, Mage stiffens. I rub my hand up and down her bare shoulder. “Where's Mage?!”
Stephen stands, unfolding his bulk from under a table. He holds out his hands, smiling. “Kemuel, my boy, why don't you just put the gun down and we'll go talk to the Messiah. I'll get him to reinstate you, brother. Just put down the pistol.”
Kemuel aims at Stephen, the gun barrel bobbing around. Silent tears trace down his pale cheeks. “You made me scrub out pig pens with my bare hands.”
St
ephen holds his hands up, still smiling, though it's fading fast. “Listen, little brother, it was all in good fun. We do that to all the boys before they're Named.”
Kemuel wipes a sleeve across his eyes. “You rubbed it on my face. That wasn't fun!” Kemuel fires.
The gunshot cracks through the food court. Stephen's mouth drops open and he turns, but too late. The bullet burrows into his chest, spinning him, arms wide like a dancer. A spray of blood flies from his chest, then his back. He falls and lands hard and heavy. There's the slow patter of blood as it dribbles on to the concrete. One foot twitches. Then he is still.
I stare at his body, blinking. Dead. He has to be.
People scream. Someone bolts toward the exit. Kemuel moves like a man stuck in molasses. He shakes his head, murmuring, the gun loose in his hands. He stares at the man he just killed. Before we can bolt, he turns. His eyes land on Mage beside me.
“Go!” I scream, pushing them away. Kemuel runs at a full clip. Ethan scrambles forward, bumping into Rayburn, who's unrolling. I push Mage from behind, but she's stuck too. Tears stream down her face, her limbs move like noodles. I shove her. “Go! Now!”
A hand grabs my collar. I'm yanked back. A chair skitters and smacks into the concrete. Above me stands Kemuel. He aims the gun. The dark round barrel centers between my eyes, a hungry black void in the center. I throw my arms over my face.
He shoves me away. I wheel through space until my back and then my head bang against the concrete with twin thuds. Stars burst in my vision. Above, the ceiling blurs.
The sound of a scuffle. I push myself up, my head swimming. He's got Mage by the arm. He hauls her upright and presses the gun to her temple.
The table flies forward as someone explodes from beneath it. Clay. He dives at Kemuel and tackles him. Mage falls back, skidding across the concrete. Clay lands on Kemuel, his hands around the boy's throat. Kemuel aims his gun at Clay's head.