IGMS Issue 12

by IGMS

"Know what, Dar'el?" I reached a shaking hand toward his arm.

  He glared once more at his friend, and then guided me quickly across the field and toward the house. "I am sorry. It still does not give him the right to act like a . . ." He snarled, his face twisting while he searched for the word. "Mongrel," he finally said.

  My feet stumbled to keep up. "You're scaring me."

  He slowed. He stopped altogether. The crowd stayed back, a shadowed lump in the far distance. After glancing backward, he cupped his hand over my shoulder. His palm was rough through the fabric of my pretty dress. "Let us get inside. I will pour you a cup of seed wine."

  My stomach turned to rock. Suddenly I had a pretty good guess, too. We went inside.

  In the kitchen, seated in a wood-woven chair at the table Dar'el's own hands had built, I cupped my hands around my mug of seed wine and stared hard into his weary face. "You're telling me I'm supposed to be shared?"

  He flattened his wide hands against the table, and sucked in a breath to speak. But he only shook his head, lifted his own mug of wine, and drained it dry. He drew his fist across his mouth. "Not one of us could afford a wife's passage for ourselves. When we pooled our money, we had enough for two."

  "Two for a village of twenty men?" I stood, pressing my fists onto the table, clenching my fingers so hard it hurt. "Passed around like dinner plates? Taking turns?"

  He reached for the jug of wine and refilled his cup. His hands were shaking.

  "A five-piece buys your dream girl," I snapped.

  He looked up. His brow wrinkled, and his blue eyes flashed with a lidless blink.

  I laughed, but I didn't think any of this was funny. "Mama Iris thought sending me here would keep me from selling myself for medicine." Instead, I was to be passed around for free. I was so angry I didn't even have words for it. But I had a mug. I hurled it with all my strength at the closest wall. It didn't shatter, but it splashed wine and landed with a satisfying thud.

  Dar'el startled. He came around the table, his green hands outreaching. I saw him close in, and just then I did want him to hold me. I wanted him to say he understood and he would fix everything. But instead I felt my upper lip curl. I recoiled. "Don't touch me."

  He didn't. He lowered his hands. "Karla --"

  "I won't do it. I don't know if the program people think they can force me somehow, but there's no way I'm going to do it."

  "The administrators were supposed to have explained this. You were supposed to be a volunteer."

  I gaped. "Are you kidding? Who would volunteer for that? What kind of animals do you think we are?"

  "Not animals --"

  "And what about poor Shandra?" I wilted a little, thinking of her. I had to sit again, because my legs went soft. "She loves him. She won't want to be with anyone else, either."

  The chair across from me creaked as Dar'el sat again, too. "She loves Van'el? Is this true?" he asked.

  "Yes. I don't suppose that means anything to you."

  His jaw tightened. "Of course it does."

  "But not to Arway. You didn't bring us here to love us; you brought us here to use us." I stood again. "You're more human than I gave you credit for."

  He opened his mouth, but I left before he had a chance to speak. Whatever he had to say wouldn't make me feel any better, anyway, and couldn't make me feel much worse. I paused outside the bedroom door with my fingers on the handle. "In the morning, you'll take me to the processing station place and get your money back."

  He stood. He turned to face me, his hand resting on the back of the wooden chair. "I do not think they will --"

  "They'll have to do something, because they gave you the wrong girl." I opened the door and closed it hard behind myself. I stood, shaking.

  I heard his footfalls through the door. He came close, and I whirled to watch the handle. He wouldn't follow me in, would he? My eyes searched the room for something weapon-like, but he only knocked quietly.

  "Karla?"

  I crossed my arms and silently dared him to come in.

  "Would you mind me getting my pillow and my reshka? I will not stay."

  His voice was soft and hesitant. Somehow, it cooled my burning anger. I considered. Then I clicked open the door. I glared at him so he'd know he wasn't in any way forgiven.

  My expression was wasted, because he didn't even look at me. He went straight to the bed and pulled off his pillow, and then he knelt and searched the floor. He reached beneath the bed.

  "What's a reshka?" I asked. Maybe if I helped him find it, he'd leave sooner.

  "My book of faith. Like the one I gave you."

  "Like a bible?" I remembered, though I hadn't read any of it. I didn't know the language, but I'm not sure I'd have read it if I did.

  "Yes, bible." He held up the thick book he'd found beneath the bed. He stood and turned for the door.

  "It talks about what . . . your God? In there?"

  He nodded, and paused in the doorway. "The God of creation who made your world and mine."

  "Really." I didn't think anyone believed in a Supreme Being kind of thing anymore -- but then Reisas was a strangely mixed planet of technology and simplicity. I supposed if any kind of mystic faith survived somewhere, this was as good a place as any. "So you believe in a big plan of some kind?"

  He nodded again. "Yes."

  "And your God, how would he feel about your village sharing me around? Would he approve?"

  Dar'el stared hard at the floor with his pillow in one hand and his reshka in the other. Then he lifted his gaze to look directly at me. "No. No, he would not."

  I had more I wanted to say, but he slipped backward through the doorway and turned into the small room off to the right. A living room of sorts, with a fireplace that wasn't lit, and a long couch of wood and soft cushions. I'd explored that room earlier, searching for the store of books he'd alluded to when we'd first met.

  Was that only yesterday? Our first meeting? I was weary as though I'd spent countless lonely days on this foreign planet. I wanted to sleep, but not in the nice dress Dar'el had given me. I also didn't want to wear the scratchy canvas shift I'd been given. I would have to raid Dar'el wardrobe.

  The tall wooden structure loomed against the wall near a floor-length window. As I came closer, I noticed intricate designs along the front panel, carved in relief to appear as a shower of tiny leaves. I had to touch the leaves because they looked so real.

  I opened the panel to find an array of cotton shirts on hangers. All shirts were the same, collared version in three colors. I chose a blue one. The fabric was soft flannel, and the small buttons fastened smoothly.

  When I closed the wardrobe, the falling leaves on the door again caught my eye. Such attention to detail. This was no piece of ordinary furniture, it was created to be beautiful. The realization made me examine the bed. I had to bring a lantern closer to see the headboard in the darkness, but I did find the same leafy pattern. Again I had to run my fingertip over the wood to remind myself they weren't real.

  What other leaves were strewn through the house? My curiosity won out over my weariness. I carried the lantern into the short hallway that led to the kitchen. Sure enough, the same falling leaves cascaded down the backs of the kitchen chairs. More tiny leaves decorated the four corners of the kitchen table.

  I wandered a little, searching for the pattern like a hidden treasure, and each time I found it, I smiled. On a small shelf by the front door. In the handles of the kitchen cabinets. I was working my way back down the hall when I noticed a glow coming from the living room. I paused.

  Dar'el was on his back on the couch, one arm dangling downward. A quilt covered his legs and draped to the floor. There was no fire in the hearth. The glow that had caught my attention was the wash of pure moonlight through a large window, golden-pink, and so bright I almost didn't notice Dar'el's lantern still burning on the floor beside him. I set down my light and moved into the room.

  He made a low sleeping sound. His reshka was open agains
t his bare chest. His eyes looked open, staring right at me, and I paused, startled. But there was a dull film over his eyes, and when I wiggled my fingers, he didn't respond. So I knelt, lifted the glass cage of his lantern, and blew out the flame.

  I looked closer then, as I knelt. I wanted to be angry with him still, but one dreadlock dangled down the bridge of his nose, and one arm rested beneath his head, showcasing the bulge of a strong bicep.

  I stayed, watching him sleep, bathed in moonlight. Then I reached for his reshka. His limp fingers rested on the book's spine, and I had to ease that hand aside, laying it onto his belly, instead. I carefully lifted the book and closed it, and set it silently onto the floor.

  He shifted. I looked back to his face. His brow wrinkled faintly, and then the filmy coating over his eyes split open and slid out of sight. He was awake. He tensed, watching me as though I might slash him through the heart.

  I rested my hands on the edge of the couch to show him I wasn't holding anything sharp. "I was just moving your book. You fell asleep reading it."

  He continued to watch me.

  "And you left your lantern burning. I blew it out."

  He narrowed his eyes.

  "Are you cold?" I grasped his quilt to pull it over his chest, but he laid his hand over mine and stopped me.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked.

  "I was in the hall, and I saw your lantern and then your book. I told you."

  His grip on my fingers loosened. "You could not sleep?"

  I could have, if my treasure hunt hadn't distracted me. "Did you make the wardrobe in the bedroom?"

  He brushed the wayward dreadlock away from his nose. "The wardrobe in the bedroom? Yes."

  "And the bed, and the kitchen chairs?"

  "Yes. What time is it? Is it early or late?" He drew his arm from beneath his head and worked the stiffness out of it, then sat up. The quilt fell down around his hips. The top of his trousers peeked out.

  "Late. You've only been sleeping a few minutes, I think. Dar'el . . .?"

  He arched his spine to stretch, and kneaded his fingers against the back of his neck. "Hm?"

  "How long ago did you make your furniture?"

  He swung his feet to the floor, looking around himself as though trying to orient. The quilt stretched across his lap, and he jostled to loosen it. "Around the time I built the house. The wardrobe was the first and the rest came in projects after."

  I smiled. "They're very beautiful. I found the leaves in the kitchen, too, and I had to touch every one because they look so real."

  "You like the leaves?"

  "Yes. In the orphanage everything was cold metal, and we didn't waste units on much decoration. Wood furniture is so rare I didn't really understand the difference until tonight."

  "What difference?"

  "The difference of things created by human hands." I reached for his fingers. "Or, Reisan hands. Or whatever." I turned his palm upward, and he let me. I traced my fingerpad over the thick creases and callousness of his skin.

  "Karla."

  I lifted my gaze to find his eyes. They were wide and frightened. "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "What are you doing?"

  I didn't really know. I released his hand and stood. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking, I guess."

  He tried to rise, wrestling with the quilt to free himself. "You are not yourself."

  "What do you mean?"

  "To not think. It is not like you."

  I watched him carefully fold the quilt, and felt each casual move of his arms as a stab in my chest. I'd wanted him to want me to touch him. It had never dawned on me he wasn't interested. "I'm sorry," I said again, and walked toward the hall.

  "You are wearing my shirt," he said behind me.

  I scooped up my lantern and peered over my shoulder. "I didn't want to sleep in my dress. Is that okay?"

  He smiled. "Yes. You look better in it than I do."

  I smiled a little, too, but I couldn't tell if he was just trying to make me feel better.

  He took a step toward me. "Karla, I do not want you to leave."

  "No, you're right. I wasn't thinking, and it's not like me. I shouldn't have woken you up."

  He shook his head. "No, I am trying to say --"

  Pounding erupted on the front door. "Ragin Dar'el! Farin et! Su en Baren Van'el!"

  I startled, but Dar'el outright jumped. "It is Van'el." He brushed past me to move quickly to the door. He slid the bolt. "Jurnesh es nayata?" he asked, creaking open the door.

  Van'el began speaking before the door was fully open. His color was pale, his black eyes wild with panic. Dark blood oozed from a cut in his forehead, and his shirt was torn away from another wound near his ribs. "Vaynar du eshua min eldradet! Kin laren . . . say rayin shurinel . . ."

  "Shandra?" asked Dar'el.

  "Ay. Resta may."

  "What about Shandra? What happened?" I hurried toward Dar'el and clutched his arm. "Is she all right?"

  "I have to help Van'el. You stay here." Dar'el tried to pry my fingers from his arm. "Stay here out of sight."

  "Why?"

  "No," said Van'el, and pointed at me. "They come next for her. Listen."

  Angry shouts sounded in the distance. They were gathering, and getting closer. "What do I do, Dar'el?" I squeezed even harder on his arm.

  "I will go with Van'el and make them think I have you. When they follow me, you go out the bedroom window and run into the trees. Go straight without veering until you find a small hut with a painted roof. There lives our Nanayant. She will protect you."

  "What about you? What about Shandra?"

  "We will find Shandra, and bring her to the Nanayant. Which is what we should have done in the beginning." Dar'el cast a dark look to Van'el, who lowered his head. Dar'el reached for a hoe handle resting beside the door, and looked back to me again. "You are strong, Karla. No matter what you hear, run for the trees and do not stop. Understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Go now and listen for the men to turn."

  I hesitated, watching his face and suddenly wishing I'd let him kiss me a long time ago.

  "Go, Karla."

  I turned, lantern in hand, and ran for the bedroom. The front door clicked shut.

  The bedroom window was already ajar. I pushed up the sash as quietly as I could. I stood listening, hearing angry shouts and the overwhelming rush of the oncoming men. Just when I thought they must be at the door, another yell broke out, joined by an echo of unfamiliar words. Pounding feet moved off, and the voices grew distant. They'd turned, just as Dar'el said they would.

  I crawled through the bottom half of the window. I was mildly aware that my knee scraped something sharp, but I was on my feet and running for the trees without hesitating. I watched the forest shadows bounce closer and closer, trying to judge the distance. Several yards. Many running strides in bare feet.

  I hadn't had a reason to run before, and by the time I hit the treeline, my lungs burned and my ribs ached. I paused to catch my breath and to listen for the sounds of the men. Moonlight helped me make out the shape of Dar'el's house when I turned to search. I saw the black rectangle of the shed. A dark shape moved between the buildings. Then a lantern light swung toward me and lit my ankles. A voice called out.

  I'd been spotted.

  . . . to be continued in issue 13 . . .

  WEST

  by Orson Scott Card

  Artwork by Scott Altmann

  * * *

  It was a good scavenging trip eastward to the coast that summer, and Jamie Teague had a pack full of stuff before he even got to Marine City. Things were peaceful there, and he might have stayed, he was that welcome. But along about the start of August, Jamie said his good-byes and headed back west. Had to reach the mountains before the snows came.

  He made fair time on his return trip. It was only September, he was already just west of Winston -- but Jamie was so hungry that kudzu was starting to look like salad to him.

  Not that hung
er was anything new. Every time he took this months-long trip from his cabin in the Great Smokies to the coast and back, there were days here and there with nothing to eat. Jamie was a champion scavenger, but most houses and all the old grocery stores had their food cleaned out long since. Besides, what good was it to scavenge food? Any canned stuff you found nowadays was likely to be bad. What Jamie looked for was metal stuff folks didn't make no more. Hammers. Needles. Nails. Saws. One time he found this little out-of-the-way hardware store near Checowinity that had a whole crate of screws, a good size, too, and not a speck of rust. Near killed him carrying the whole mess of it back, but he couldn't leave any; he didn't get to the coast that often, and somebody was bound to find anything he left behind.

  This trip hadn't been as good as that time, but it was still good, considering most of the country was pretty well picked over by now. He found him some needles. Two fishing reels and a dozen spools of resilient lime. A lot of ordinary stuff, besides. And things he couldn't put in his pack: that long visit in Marine City on the coast; them nice folks north of Kenansville who took him in and listened to his tales. The Kenansville folks even invited him to stay with them, and fed him near to busting on country ham and sausage biscuits in the cool of those hot August mornings. But Jamie Teague knew what came of staying around the same folks too long, and so he pushed on. Now the memory of those meals made him feel all wishful, here on fringe of Winston, near three days without eating.

  He'd been hungry lots of times before, and he'd get hungry lots of times again, but that didn't mean it didn't matter to him. That didn't mean he didn't get kind of faint along about midday. That didn't mean he couldn't get himself up a tree and just sit there, resting, looking down onto I-40 and listening to the birds bullshitting each other about how it was a fine day, twitter twit, a real fine day.

  Tomorrow there'd be plenty to eat. Tomorrow he'd be west of Winston and into wild country, where he could kill him a squirrel with a stone's throw. There just wasn't much to eat these days in the country he just walked through, between Greensboro and Winston. Seems like everybody who ever owned a gun or a slingshot had gone out killing squirrels and possums and rabbits till there wasn't a one left.