by R. J. Lucas
“You have a lot of anger built up in you. Don’t let it be your undoing. Instead, harness it and use it when necessary, like you did today.”
A few seconds later, the cell door opens, and the healer girl strolls in. She walks directly over to me. As she approaches, she shifts her eyes away. I’m not sure if she is frightened or just shy. She kneels and brushes her hair behind her ear. It makes me think of a waterfall of cascading milk the way it falls across her collarbone.
She smells sweet, like lavender and honey, a stark contrast to the stench of my surroundings. I am acutely aware of how bad my own body must smell, and I feel a bit embarrassed. But her presence makes me feel alive and my energy renewed, like the awful things around us do not matter.
“Are you hurt?” she asks.
I look down at myself, realizing I haven’t even assessed my own physical well-being. I am always so worried about Papa that I sometimes don’t think about myself. I don’t see any damage on my arms or feel any lumps on my face.
“I think I’m ok,” I say.
The girl nods and looks over at Papa and the other prisoners and I realize my mistake.
“I mean…” I quickly try to find an injury. “My side. My side is hurt. I think I was cut.”
I lift my shirt and present my injury like it’s something to be proud of, like it’s something I have discovered just for her.
She doesn’t even blink when she sees the injury. I’m sure she’s seen so much torn flesh and broken bones that my insignificant wound barely registers as an injury to her. She lays her hands on my abdomen. Her touch is soft and gentle, and her hands, cool and refreshing, like the gentle breeze on a warm day. A tingle rushes up my spine and chill bumps form on my arms.
“Do you think I’ll survive?” I ask her as she puts the healing salve on my wound.
“You’ll be ok,” she says with a half-smile.
“My name is Neeka,” I tell her. “Neeka Featherstone.”
I wait for her response, focusing on her lips. She tilts her head, causing her hair to fall forward and hide her face from me. After a moment, she brushes it back and tucks it behind her ear again. The motion gives me a clear view of her right eye and the color causes me to catch my breath. It is silver, like a shining sea of stars surrounding a void that seems to hold the answer to everything.
I am captivated.
She looks up at me. Our eyes connect and I am entranced in a prison where I don’t mind being a captive.
“I’m Amari Winter,” she says with a smile.
Lost in her gaze, I’m oblivious to my surroundings until I hear the guard yell, “Healer. Let’s go. You’re done.”
She looks away and gathers her supplies with a sense of urgency. As she leaves the cell, I find myself longing for her to stay just a few moments more.
I resign myself to the fact that I’ll need another injury soon.
13 - Before Eden
The guard yells at three other men to come forward. I barely notice the commotion though, as I am still intrigued by the healer girl as she disappears down the corridor. The sound of steel collars clamping around the necks of prisoners snaps me out of my trance. I look over to where the guards are securing them. They are all average size and build with skin as dark as night. The guard makes a joke about giving the audience the midnight package.
The men are shuffled from the cell and toward the door that leads into the arena. One glances at me with wide eyes as he walks past. As they disappear around the corner, I wonder how they will fare and what they will possibly have to fight. Minutes later, I hear the doors to the arena open with a skin crawling screech of rusty metal on metal before slamming shut again, sealing the men’s fate.
I think about why the world must be this way; people fighting for entertainment. The haves holding so much power over the have-nots. It makes me want to know how it is Solomon came to be in charge. I look at Papa and wonder how much he knows. He and Solomon were friends growing up. He must have seen so much. I know he has secrets, and it might be time for him to start sharing them with me.
I’ve heard a few stories in my life about the old world, but never from Papa. I know many years before I was born, there was a catastrophic event that destroyed most life on the planet. A few survivors gathered near Eden, before the place even had a name, and tried to start a new life. Using scraps from the old world, they were able to build a settlement that became a safe haven and eventually, their new home. Life was difficult and only a handful survived. Our species was on the verge of extinction until beings from another world came to help. These beings were called, “Xulguns”. They were the salvation for humanity.
What I don’t know is why they turned hostile or why they no longer help us.
“Are you doing ok?” Papa asks, scooting a little closer to me.
“Why are things like this?” I ask Papa. “How did it all come to this?”
“Oh,” he says, not prepared for me to be thinking quite so big picture under our current circumstances. He decides to respond vaguely. “The powerful will always try to control the weak.”
“No. I mean what happened that led to Solomon taking control? You said you and Solomon were friends. What happened to him? What happened to the Xulguns that caused them to become Blue Demons?”
Papa looks at me and takes a deep breath. “What I’m about to tell you is secret. Solomon would have you killed if you were overheard talking about it.”
He stops talking and I look up to see another prisoner leaning toward us. I stare at him until he retreats. Apparently, the whispers about what I did in the arena have afforded me a certain level of respect among my fellow prisoners. He gives us privacy and Papa continues.
“I never told you about this because I didn’t want you to carry the burden and the danger that comes with this information. Simply talking about it can be a death sentence.”
“Well, now is the time to tell me because I don’t think things can get any more dangerous than they already are.”
“When Solomon and I were little boys,” Papa says, not responding to my brash comment, “around six or seven years old, the Xulguns showed up. People were afraid at first, but soon we learned they were friendly and here to help. Humanity began to thrive, and humans lived together peacefully with Xulguns. Over time, Solomon began to change. Especially in his late teens. He fell for the Xulgun queen, but after several years, she still had no interest in him. She fell in love with another human with whom she had a child. Jealousy and rage drove Solomon mad and around the age of twenty-five, he concocted a plan. He killed the queen, her lover, and took the infant girl captive with the threat of death if the Xulguns did not leave Eden.”
The sound of the doors from the arena opening interrupts Papa. It is followed by sounds of the crowd cheering and some unfortunate soul screaming, maybe alone and dying on the grounds of the arena. Moments later, a single prisoner returns. He walks over and sits beside me and takes a minute to catch his breath.
He has just seen two others die and probably had to kill someone or something to be able to survive himself. His eyes are bugging from his head and his breath is shallow and ragged. He is exhausted, in every sense of the word.
The guard yells for Braam. They collar him and escort him down the corridor. It must be getting closer to the main event. Perhaps Braam is it. He turns back to me, smiles and shrugs as if none of this matters. Seconds later, I hear the hinges of the arena doors squeak as they open.
“Are you ok?” Papa asks the man sitting near me.
He doesn’t respond. He stares off at nothing, nearly catatonic.
“We are trying to have a conversation,” I say to him, but still, he says nothing.
“He’s in shock, Neeka,” Papa says. “Leave him be.”
I look at the man for a moment, frowning at him, but finally I ask Papa to continue telling me his secret story.
“I don’t think he’s paying attention to us,” I say.
“Ok,” Papa agrees and tries
to remember where he was in the story. “The Xulguns left and now reside far from the Dread Wastes on the other side of Terror Valley. They are extremely hostile to any human, which is understandable. As long as they continue to supply Solomon with power cells, he promises not to hurt or kill their young queen.”
“Some people think it’s a lie,” says the black man sitting next to me. He seems to have his bearings again after surviving the arena.
“No one was talking to you,” I say to him.
“There are some that believe Solomon no longer has the child,” the man says, refusing to directly respond to me. “There are some that believe the child was stolen from Solomon no more than a year after he stole her from the Xulguns.”
“Well, aren’t you just full of useful information.” My sarcasm is evident.
“I’m Isaiah by the way,” he says and reaches out his hand. “Isaiah Barclay.”
“I’m Neeka,” I say, cautiously clasping his hand and then letting go quickly, as if the handshake might be a trick of some sort. “And this is Papa.”
“Papa! What a nice name.”
“You can call me Jeremiah,” Papa says with a smirk.
“Very well then,” says Isaiah. With names exchanged, the humanity starts to ooze back into his face. The cold exterior that had surrounded him immediately upon returning from the arena starts melting away as he talks with us.
“If Solomon no longer has the girl, then why are the Xulguns still here and supplying us with power cells. Why haven’t they attacked us or left?” I ask, trying to make Isaiah defend his bold claim.
“Because they think Solomon still has the girl. This is all rumor, by the way. No one knows for sure and most people that have an idea do not want to talk about it for fear of death. But Solomon and his loyal lobcocks are not here in Arcmire to take our heads. No one here cares what we talk about. We are all criminals, outcasts or swindlers anyway, including the spectators.”
“What do you think Papa?”
“Who knows,” Papa says and shrugs. “Anyway, enough about that. How are we getting out of here?”
I watch his face for a moment and wonder if he knows more than he is admitting, but I drop it for now.
“So, planning to escape, are we?” Isaiah’s eyes seem to light up at the thought.
“You have any ideas?” I ask him.
“Most people don’t last long enough to even attempt an escape. I’ve been here the longest of anyone currently here.”
“And how long is that?” I ask.
“Thirteen days.”
“How have you survived so long?”
“I know how to handle myself well enough, but you never know what you are gonna end up with out there in the arena. I guess I’ve been pretty lucky.”
“Well, Papa and I plan to get out of here as soon as possible.”
“And where do you plan to go?”
“Back to Eden,” I tell him.
Isaiah laughs and shakes his head. “No one ever goes back to Eden. Why would you want to? You should find an outpost and make a new life for yourself.”
“I have my reasons.”
“Listen, girl. We can all escape together, and you and your papa can come back to my settlement. You will love it in Graven Pointe.”
“Graven Pointe certainly is one of the better settlements,” Papa says. “They make kiju there to supply the Royals as well as Krum for the rest of us.”
“Yes, kiju. We have beautiful vineyards, flowing water and plenty of vegetables unlike many other settlements.”
“If you supply the kiju, you must have Solomon’s protectors there as well,” I say.
“We do, but only a few. It is still the best place to live outside of Fairebourne.”
We hear the door open again and Braam walks back in from his fight. He has a deep gash above his eye, which is apparently the source of his blood-soaked face, and what appears to be a broken middle finger from the distorted angle at which it points. He strolls over to us without a care in the world.
“Looks like you survived,” Isaiah says.
“Looks like it,” says Braam.
Isaiah points his thumb at me and smiles to Braam. “This silly girl wants to go back to Eden.”
Braam laughs. “Even if you made it, Solomon would kill you before anyone knew you had returned.”
“What about being Eden’s hero and all that bobblegash?”
Braam laughs again. “That’s exactly what it is—bobblegash.”
14 - Slave Healer
Braam’s reaction to the arena is different than everyone else’s. He is so used to violence and fighting that when he comes back in, he can pick up right where he left off. Anyone else who survives needs to transition out of that kind of headspace before they can have an actual conversation.
“Did you ever hear the one about the baldagaar who got a job as a bookie?” Braam jokes.
The rest of the prisoners are less than amused.
“This guy knows what I’m talking about,” Braam says, turning to Isaiah and slapping him on the arm.
Braam is still trying to tell his joke when the door to the cell creaks open. It sounds different than the oversized entrance to the arena. The double doors to the arena are heavy and groan as they scrub against the ground. They are accompanied by the sounds of screaming spectators and moaning victims. The whole experience of entering the arena sounds and feels like dread and death.
The entryway for this cell, however, is much different. At least it is now that I’ve seen her. It’s where Amari enters, bringing a sense of hope, optimism and excitement. She steps inside and makes her way to Braam, but I feel like she’s here for me. She glances in my direction for a second, but quickly turns away as she approaches Braam. Her profile offers a slight upturn in the crease of her lips and I smile.
“Hey, duv,” Braam says. “Would you look at my finger?”
“Sure,” she says. “Just as soon as we close up that gash on your forehead. Sit down.”
Braam sits on the bench and she squeezes the wound shut, applying the salve with a gentle touch. She holds it for a moment, and I keep expecting Braam to wince, but he doesn’t. She applies a bandage to his head and ties it around the back to hold it tight.
He holds is finger up in front of her face and we can all see it is bent at a grotesque angle.
“This may hurt a bit.” Her voice is so low I can barely hear her.
The corner of his mouth lifts along with his right eyebrow.
“Okay then,” she says.
Amari takes his hand in hers. The size difference is almost humorous. Her frame is tiny next to his massive body, yet he obeys her without hesitation. She uses her other hand and massages the dislocated finger with a soft touch. As I watch the procedure, I find myself feeling jealous.
Maybe I should dislocate my finger.
Without notice, she yanks his finger, popping it back in place. And my jealousy dissipates.
“Are you done girl?” Braam asks as if nothing happened.
“Not yet. Now hold still.” She dips some salve from a jar and rubs it between her hands and wraps them around Braam’s finger. “This will keep it from swelling.”
As she continues to hold his massive hand in hers for a few seconds, I feel my jealousy return. I long to have her touch me. She is about to leave, and I don’t want her to. My mind races with ideas to keep her here a bit longer. I raise my shirt and look down at my wound from earlier, trying to be discreet about it. No one notices. Their attention is on Braam and Amari. When I pull the bandage from the cut, I see it is completely healed. But how? I’ve never had a wound heal that fast.
“Done.” I hear Amari say as she turns to leave.
I look around and see a small rock on the floor just beneath my bench. Its edge may be just sharp enough to do the trick. I slice my skin in the same spot where the old wound was, wincing from the pain. But I hide it well.
“Wait,” I shout as I drop the rock behind me.
Amari turns and looks at me.
“My wound from earlier… it is bleeding again.”
Her eye narrows, clearly questioning my claim. But only for a second before it widens, and she advances toward me with a subtle smile. She tries to hide it by lowering her head and letting her hair fall in front of her face. Maybe she wants more time together as much as I do.
“Leave her,” the guard says. “You’re only here for the big guy.”
Amari turns to the guard. For the first time, she expresses anger. “An open wound can become infected or cause her to bleed to death!”
“Everyone in this cell is going to die before the end of the month anyway,” the guard says.
“Is she supposed to die in here where there are no paying customers, or out there?” Amari says, her voice steely. The guard tries to think of something to say but comes up with nothing. “And what will you tell the fat man when one of the livestock he paid for ends up dead before he gets enough quill to recoup his investment.”
“What? Are all these plugtails made of porridge?” the guard shouts and crosses his arms. “Do as you must.”
Amari, content she has won the argument, turns and scoots closer to me. I raise my shirt and she leans in to examine the lesion.
“So, the wound just reopened on its own, huh?” She glances up at me with a smirk. Her hands caress my side like birds alighting onto a branch.
I smile, unsure of what to say.
Papa slides over close to me and Amari. “Where did you learn to heal?” he asks. “Have you always been good at it?”
Amari nods, but does not speak.
“Where are you from?” Papa continues his inquiry. “Do you have a home in Arcmire?”
“Less chit chat,” the guard shouts from the doorway.
Braam swaggers over to the guard. “Hey. Did I ever tell you about how I had a baldagaar for a bookie…”
As Braam jokes with the guards, Amari seems to relax enough to talk with us.
“I live with a man named Hugo Neddington. That’s his name, but everyone here calls him fat man.”
“We’ve met him,” Papa says.