He, Ehren, and Keim all had Mum’s red hair. Not me. Mum used to tease me, saying that the Capricious Mother kissed me at birth and turned my hair the hue of her beloved blue moon. I asked Mum if the goddess kissed her too, then. She shook her head and replied with a sad smile, “No, she spat on me.”
Guess she spat on my brothers too, then.
Da, tall, broad, and swarthy, grumbled about the draft. “Shattering slavery, that’s what it is,” he muttered. Mum shushed, but it wasn’t anything we hadn’t heard before. As the Bluebloods’ coup dragged on, they demanded new blood to sustain it, and they’d found ways to get it.
The military auto arrived, and Freude set down his duffel bag to say his farewells. He hugged Mum, and she handed him a bag of her vanillekipferl cookies. He kissed her on the cheek and put the bag in his duffel. When he straightened, Mum placed a hand on his face, tears in her eyes.
Freude smiled. Taking a few steps back, he gazed at us together. Ma fidgeted with her goddess pendant. Da put an arm around her waist, stilling her, and a hand on Keim’s shoulder. I hugged the gift Freude had given me, a stuffed toy beastie called an elephant. Ehren stood a little distance away, as if feeling too mature to betray emotion and too upset to look up from his shoes.
Except for Mum, Ehren loved Freude best. Ehren had always done as Freude did and gone where Freude went, until now. Now, Ehren would not look up as Freude shouldered his bag and smiled. He would not look up as Freude turned and walked away from him, away from us.
He would not see Freude again. Neither would we.
A message arrived a year later. Freude had died in an “unfortunate incident.” His remains were not suitable for transport or for proper burial. He had no personal effects. Condolences.
Ehren ran out of the back door with his eyes boiling over with tears. Da held Keim while I asked questions and received no answers. Mum never baked vanillekipferl cookies again.
In the morning, I head to the river to fill my canteen. When I hear raised voices I decide to leave, but as I turn, I glimpse a boy and girl wrestling on the bank of the river. The boy wears nothing but a ragged girding, and he tears away the girl’s shawl in their scuffle, exposing her torso wrap and leaving her head and shoulders bare.
Clouds of dust churn beneath their feet. The girl grits her teeth, her lips pulled back into a snarling grin. The boy, smaller and browner than the girl, wriggles like a weasel, slipping through one grasp and then the next, using his nakedness against her.
I’m entranced. I check my scarf, tucking it more tightly around my neck, and walk to the edge of the water and pretend to wash my dishes. I watch the kids in astonishment. Are they laughing?
The girl, actually a young woman, just slight, tries to bathe the boy, but he squirms and bucks, soaking them both and kicking up dust from the shore. When he wriggles entirely out of her grasp, she gives up in despair.
“Du klines shvine,” she shouts in exasperation. “Tzee kommen har.”
The words slip away before I grasp them, but the meaning is obvious: Brat, get back here.
When the woman notices me her smile fades. She busies herself with brushing mud from her clothes. She wears a common girding, baggy pants tight at the hips and ankles, and a top made from a swath of fabric that wraps her from hips to collarbones. I force myself not to stare at her bare shoulders.
The boy stands several meters away in his mud-caked girding. His chest heaves, accentuating his protruding ribs. Bare-chested, girding in tatters, hair wild—he reminds me of a beastie, like a cunning creature up to no good. His blue eyes gleam with mischief, which puts me on my guard.
“Mikael, tzee kommen har bitte,” the woman beckons.
The beast-child shakes his head, planting his feet and placing his hands on hips.
“Tzee kommen heehar zerook,” the woman yells, her patience gone.
Her words trickle through my mind, familiar, but I can’t quite grasp their meaning.
The boy sticks his tongue out at her and disappears into the trees. The woman throws her hands in exasperation and begins rinsing dust and mud from her clothes. She washes her dark hair with a bar of soap, working the lather through with care.
I wash my dishes a second time, stalling, watching her from the corner of my eye. I see girls and boys like her so often now—older sisters turned mothers and older brothers turned fathers. I guess with near certainty that the boy is her brother.
“Is it good in rinsing my hair now?” she asks suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. Her Northern accent lengthens the “oo” and softens her n’s and d’s.
“What?” I reply, startled. Her dark-blue eyes twist my stomach into knots, such a strange sensation. Not the same as when someone shoots at me, but similar.
“Is it good to you in rinsing my hair now? It will not …” She searches for a word. “… be annoying you?”
I look at her blankly. Then, finally, it clicks. I’m downstream. She doesn’t want to rinse her hair until I’m done washing dishes. “Go ahead. I’m finished,” I blurt.
She nods, saying “thank you” in her native tongue, “Danke.” The word twists in my mind like a key, and the language flows out. Bleak memories, ones I prefer sunk in forgetfulness, surge into my mind. Screaming. Blood. Burning bodies. I blink rapidly, and the past resolves into the present. I see her slight figure again. Pale skin. Blue eyes. Brown hair.
She’s a Blueblood. The realization feels like a knife twisting in my ribs. But, if so, what’s she doing down here? Bluebloods belong up north. Is she a religious deviant? Maybe a cur?
I search for signs that she’s a mixed-blood, a cur, but the woman’s features betray no indigenous features. No vibrant hair or eyes. No slotted pupils or tympanic membranes. No pointed teeth, scales, tail, or claws. A pure-blooded human if I ever saw one—blue eyes, dark-brown hair, and pale skin straight from the ancestors’ bloodlines.
She catches me staring and her face turns the palest shade of pink. I look away quickly, my own face burning and my heart beating like a kettledrum, but I watch in periphery. She squeezes out her hair and twists it up over her head, pinning it in place. Then she retrieves a ragged gray shawl and covers her head and shoulders.
A Blueblood from the north. Could she identify me? If she got a closer look, would she—
The clatter of dishes interrupts my thoughts. I lash out with an open hand, not looking to see what’s upset my satchel. I already know.
My hand strikes the boy in the chest, and he falls over backward. He lands on his rear in the dirt, stunned. He clutches my stuffed elephant. I try to take it from him, but he recovers. I catch the wrist of one scrawny arm before he can escape. He bares his teeth like a small savage. I note their predatory points.
Blue eyes, brown hair, and an indigenous feature. This boy is a half-brother, a mixed-blood, a cur.…
The boy takes advantage of my surprise and kicks at me. I catch his foot and lift him into the air. He dangles sideways, shouting at me in that foreign tongue. The words avalanche through my mind. The boy is exceptionally versed in insults.
He drops my stuffed elephant and claws at my hand. It shackles his wrist like Eisen. Then one of his clawing hands strikes at my face. He misses but snags my headscarf and pulls it from my head.
I glance at the woman, half-expecting her to scream. She must see the silver disk in the base of my skull. She must recognize it and know what I am. She’ll call for help, and I’ll run because that will be my only choice. If the Wahren finds me, its creatures will drag me back, and I’d rather die than go back.
I reel in my panicked thoughts, counting my inhalations to slow my breathing and brace myself.
But, she doesn’t scream. She stands quietly with her hands clasped in front of her, an expression of mild concern on her face.
I look between her and the snarling beast-child and back.
To my surprise,
she begins to giggle. Then she points at her brother. “Endlik! Tzine fett vegkreegen,” she teases. Finally, you get what you deserve!
She doesn’t recognize me. Either she doesn’t see the port, or she doesn’t care.
Relief floods me like a drug. Then comes an idea. I know I should leave. I should release the boy, turn my back, and walk away. Yet, I continue to stare at the boy wriggling and snapping in my hands. So much energy! And the woman …
I glance at her.
Her skin is as fair as the Kaltstein snow and her eyes reflect the deep blue of the frigid mountain lakes—serene, still, and clean. A lock of hair, nearly black with water, clings to her forehead, curling into her eyes. She tucks it away with long, delicate fingers.
Beautiful.
Then I note the sores on her hands and the peeling sunburn on her face. I note her hollow cheeks, cracked lips, and shadowed eyes. I look past the brilliant blue of her irises and see the haunted expression behind them.
Yet, she smiles. Despite the dirt and the heat, despite hard work and an uncertain future, despite terror and loneliness, she smiles. It makes my soul ache like icy hands exposed to warmth, and even though it hurts me, I want to be near her—I need to be near her.
I’m a fool. I know I’m a fool, but I want to pretend anyway. I want to pretend that I’m not what I am. Just for a while. Then I’ll leave.
I nod to myself. Of course, I can leave whenever I need. I’ll walk away as easily as anyone—as easily as my brothers—as easily as my father. Leaving is easy. Why shouldn’t it be? It’s all I have ever known.
She laughs, a sound like chimes in a warm breeze, and my reservations flee.
I carry the beast-child toward the stream. His eyes widen when he realizes what I’m about to do. With a light toss, I send him splashing into the river. He breaks through the surface, spouting water from his mouth and shivering. He scrambles out near his sister.
“Du drecksau,” he shouts, making a rude gesture at me.
His sister continues to laugh, and for the first time in a long time, I feel a smile on my face.
I rested on my stomach on the floor, my chin propped on my hands. I could smell the dust trapped between the floorboards and feel the grit on my skin. The staccato taps of Keim’s pencil played counterpoint to the tinks of sand and sticks pelting the windows from the sandstorm outside. Mum and Da worked somewhere out there in that sand, trying to get the beasties into the barn.
I contemplated the plastic figurines before me, my mind absorbed in childish fantasy. Toy soldiers perched on the backs of legendary herps—dinosaurs! A tyrannosaurus rex clamped his enormous muzzle on the spine of a triceratops. A brachiosaurus crushed the life from a hapless foot soldier.
“Hey, Keim!” I shouted from my spot beneath the coffee table.
“What?” Keim replied, refusing to glance away from his homework.
“Dinosaurs are real, right?” I asked excitedly.
He shook his head in annoyance, muttering to himself, but I wouldn’t be ignored. I clamored over the couch and stood directly in front of his desk.
“Dinosaurs are real, Keim! Right?” I hollered.
“Lights Above, shut up!” Keim shouted, slapping the back of my buzzed head. “I don’t care about your stupid toys. Get out of my face!”
I sat on the floor in shock, the back of my head tingling from the strike of Keim’s open palm. “But dinosaurs are real, Keim.…” I whimpered.
That night, Keim came into my room. When I heard him, I pretended to sleep, afraid he was still angry. But he didn’t pour water on me or stick a herp down my back like I expected. He just stood at the end of my bed and cried.
I stayed silent.
After a few minutes, Keim set something beside my bed and left, closing the door behind him so that all the light from the hallway disappeared.
I slid out of bed and snatched my torch from off my dresser. With a few quick twists, I wound it up. When I clicked it on, it illuminated the glossy plastic of Keim’s blue brachiosaurus toy. I snatched it and tumbled back into bed, curling around my new treasure beneath the sheets.
I held it against my chest, trying to push away the ugly feelings inside me. Because the gift didn’t mean Keim was sorry for smacking me. The gift meant Keim was sorry he was leaving. Not tomorrow or the next day, but soon. Ehren left his toy soldiers on my bed the day he left.
First, Freude. Then, Ehren. Now, Keim.
I hugged the plastic toy harder, missing my brothers more than I missed anything in the whole wide world.
The woman is Sara and the boy is Mikael, but I don’t dare use their names; to name someone is to claim them. I don’t give them my name either, but I teach the boy how to turn leaves into whistles. I gather wood for the woman, and the woman cooks food for me. But each night, I return to my camp and sleep alone. Still, it’s not my fire I think of when the cold of the deep night creeps into my bones, and in the mornings, I wake, gather my things, and find the woman and boy.
Each day, we draw closer to Rettung, and the woman talks excitedly about the future. In stilted phrases, bursts of her native language, and lively gestures, she talks about her plans, her skills, a job, a home, and school for her brother.
I keep my many thoughts to myself. I speak rarely, and never about myself. If I do answer, it’s never truthful, and she can tell. It’s not fair, but she doesn’t complain.
After a hot afternoon, we camp early because a sandstorm gathers on the horizon. The boy and I catch a dune skink in the muddy ravine that was the Traege River. The woman laughs when I clamber out caked in sludge then screams when I flick a clod at her.
I clean the arm-length beastie, plucking the short legs from the snakelike body and emptying the innards, and the woman cooks it into a stew. We sit together in the dusky light, the remnants of our meal in a pot on the ground drawing flies. The skink tasted like coprolite and chewed like boot leather, but it feels good to have a full belly for once. I relax into our routine, content. The woman talks while she mends clothes and I listen.
Silence falls between us. One stitch, two, three, four stitches, and a breath, then she speaks again. “What happened to the people of your family?”
“I’m going to meet them,” I lie.
“Where?” she asks, pausing mid-stitch.
She wants me to stay, but if I stay, who will be the next to leave? The boy? The woman? No, only me. I will be the one to leave.
“Where’s the boy?” I murmur, avoiding her question.
“Sleeping,” she replies, nodding at a heap of ragged blankets behind her. She hems her brother’s shirt. It looks like a patchwork quilt my mother once made.
“Shirt, please,” she says, holding out a hand.
“What?” I blurt, startled.
“For the mending,” she says, her hand hanging in the air and the hint of a smile on her face.
“Oh.”
I look down at my shirt. Tan, lightweight, and simple, I wear a sark any farmer in the Dustlands might wear. The tattered laces allow the front to fall open, exposing my bony chest and my mother’s goddess pendant. The hem hangs agape, a rip running parallel to the seam. I sigh and pull the shirt over my head, the necklace clinking against my chest. I drop the shirt into her waiting hand.
But her eyes are on me, not the shirt. She stares at my torso and arms.
I’ve been careless. Washing away the sludge this afternoon has left me cleaner than I’ve been in months. As the last sliver of sunlight shines across my scars, the nodes in the center of each glisten, small but distinct.
The sun sets, and she drops her eyes.
I wait for her to speak, my stomach churning.
“Where I was child, the sages say …” She pauses, searching for the right words. “… they say, Tyfel spreken vahrhite unt angel leeghen—demons speak truth and angels lie. They say the world i
s not ghetilt—not divided—into light or shadow. They say the world is likt unt shaden—light and shadow. All things are both.”
She picks up her needle and thread and begins stitching the hole in the hem of my shirt. She pauses, gazing past me at nothing. “Some are not believing this. They seek the things that is perfect.” Her brow furrows, and she sews with renewed vigor. “These people—they want to kill my brother. They call him ‘cur.’” She spits the word, not looking up. “His father was my father. His mother was servant, but my father loved her. My father loved my brother.” She chokes on the words. Her sewing slows again, and a tear steals down her cheek.
I wait, standing rigid and shirtless before her hunched figure.
Suddenly, she lifts her eyes to me. “He is mensklik, correct? We are all human.” She points her needle at me, stabbing the air to punctuate each word. “You are human.”
Why is she telling me this? I look away, staring into the distance. Her words twist around each other in my mind. My thoughts take them apart and put them together. They tell me one thing for certain: the woman knows what I am.
I stand patiently while she finishes sewing the hole and replaces the ties of my shirt. How did I allow this to happen? How could I have been so foolish? How could I have been lulled into such carelessness? Will she tell anyone? Should I kill her? How can I kill her? I can’t. How can I even leave her?
But, I know the truth. I must leave her to spare her.
She hands the shirt back to me, and I slip it over the scars.
“I feel a storm coming,” I say quietly. “I’ll get you more wood before I sleep. I’ll leave it nearby.” I snatch my satchel from beside the campfire and toss it over my shoulder. The stuffed elephant muffles the clatter of dishes as it hits my back.
“You will come back tomorrow?” she asks gently as I step out of the firelight. A hint of sadness tinges her voice, as if she already knows my answer.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I lie.
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