by David Estes
“Goyer!” Luger shouts. Quite a few people cheer. I don’t know him, but apparently Goyer has lots of friends. An older guy, maybe twenty five, stands, smiling. It’s a kind smile. He seems like a nice man to have as a father, but as a Call? Uck! Kaya stands frozen for a moment, takes a deep breath, and then walks to meet Goyer between the two groups. Goyer reaches out and accepts her hand. They walk away, toward whichever tent or hut he’s in. There’s no time to be wasted—there’re children to be a-Bearing!
My stomach is roiling, full of acid and fear.
Luger calls another name, one of the shilty girls. She somehow manages to stand in her skin-tight dress. She pouts her lips at the men, drawing smiles from more’n a few of them. Where’s she get that kinda nerve? I wish she’d give me a bit of it.
“Marrick!” Luger shouts. More cheers. A happy, smiling guy stands. His lucky night. The shilt hikes her already short dress up even more so she can strut her way over to him. They walk away holding hands and just ’fore they slink behind the cover of the village, I see her grab his backside. Classy.
Things speed up after the first few as Luger and everyone else involved get into a rhythm. Grunt gets a pretty doe-eyed girl who looks like she might throw up. I watch Veeva’s expression, which darkens, as if she may go on a murderous rampage. Things are ’bout to get even more interesting in their already interesting tenthold.
I look ’round. The blanket’s already half empty. I’ll be Called any second.
Another girl. Another guy. Another happy, baby-making couple.
Luger pauses, looks right at me, eyes narrowed. Smiles. “Siena!” he shouts with greater fervor’n for any of the previous girls.
I shiver when an unexpectedly cold wind gusts through my dress. I feel a raindrop on my face. Then another. Rain or shine, the Call must go on. After sitting cross-legged for so long, my legs are cramped up and I struggle to pull them out from under me. When I do, they’re all tingly. In fact, my whole body’s tingly, almost like I’m not in it anymore and I’m watching everything unfold from outside of myself. If only it was that easy. If I could separate myself from my body, let it do what it hasta do without me really being there, perhaps I could get through this.
“Siena!” Luger cries again, drawing a laugh from the crowd. I’m taking longer’n the other girls to stand.
I push to my feet, feeling wobbly and like I might faint, my head hot, my palms sweaty, my body cold and shivery. The rain is misting down now, coating my skin with a thin layer of moisture. My dress is quickly becoming saturated, clinging to me like the tight dresses the shilts are wearing. I wait, feeling eyes burning my skin from every direction. But one direction is the hottest and I turn that way. My father’s eyes are looking right through me, wide and dark and ready. Ready for his daughter to be taken away by a strange man. Not his problem anymore. The best day of his life. ’Sides when I lost Circ, the worst day of mine.
The whole village waits for the name.
“Bart,” Luger shouts.
I clench my eyes shut, as tight as my fists at my side.
No, no, no!
I’m dreaming, ain’t I?—this ain’t happening. I’m back in Call Class, daydreaming, and at any moment a question from Teacher’ll snap me out of it. Or, no, I got it, I’m at my Call, but I’m daydreaming there. My name hasn’t been called, not yet, but I’m dreaming up the craziest, worst-possible Calls I could possibly get, freaking myself out.
I open my eyes, blink, watch huge, muscled Bart stand, his scarred and gnarled face curled into the most vicious grin I’ve ever laid eyes on. Shirtless, he’s huge, easily three of me. The memory of him in his cage in Confinement shudders through my mind:
“Please, nice Greynote, sir, can I share a cage with her?” He licks his lips.
I look away and we keep going. Luger doesn’t say a word.
Behind us, Bart hollers, “Just as well. I’d probably crush her under me anyway.” He laughs, a gritty, throaty sound that reminds me of the growl of the Killers that got me here in the first place.
My body starts shaking. I clench my miniscule muscles, try to stop it, but I’ve lost control. I hear laughter from some of the girls behind me. Crush her…
Just a dream.
Bart!
Just a dream.
The rain on my face, so wet and soft and real. No dream. This is real. All of it. This is my new life.
I realize Bart’s walking to where we’re meant to meet and I’m still standing there, glued to the blanket. Wind lashing my face. Rain drenching me from head to toe. Considering my options.
Run? How can I run when an entire village is watching me? How far’ll I get? Five feet? Ten? No chance. I can go with Bart, try to fight him off in his tent, knee him where the sun goddess’s eye don’t shine, make a break for it. The chances of that working: near zero. I’m a piece of kindling and he’s an entire tree. And fighting’ll just make things worse, make him more likely to hurt me.
It’s the last thing I want to do, but I’m out of options. I gotta go with him, lay with him, bide my time until I can get away.
I’m still shaking, but I manage to put one foot in front of t’other, start toward him, my eyes on the muddying ground. His hand comes into view, extended, waiting expectantly. “Come, my prize,” he growls. I take his hand and he yanks me forward, almost pulling my shoulder out of its socket. But I don’t cry out—don’t want to give him the satisfaction—just grit my teeth.
When we enter the tent sector, he slides his hand up to my arm, squeezes hard, like my father likes to do. It hurts like scorch but I stay silent. He stops, looms over me, leans his face close, so close I can smell the rancid stench of whatever he ate for dinner—probably raw meat. “You’ll do as I say,” he says. It’s not a question so I assume it doesn’t need an answer.
I say nothing.
The back of his hand flashes so quickly I don’t have any hope of protecting myself. It lashes the side of my wet cheek with a stinging pain that reminds me of being caught in the sandstorm. Realization comes with more impact’n if the sun crashed into the moon: he’ll hurt me no matter what I do. Might even kill me without even trying to. He’s three times my size and I manage to break my own bones without much help, just by tripping. Not only is this the worst day of my life, it might also be my last.
The wind goes silent, as if even it cannot bear witness to what’s ’bout to unfold. The rain continues pelting down.
I decide quickly. I’m seared if I’ll let it happen. Burn him. Burn the Greynotes. Burn the Call. I’ll go down fighting; for Circ, for my sister, for Lara, wherever she is, for my mother, for myself. Scrawny? Not anymore.
Today I die Strong.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Bart’s tent’s a mess. Empty fire juice skins lay discarded on the floor. The bitter odor of stale fireweed covers everything like a permanent haze. Durty clothes are strewn ’bout in a way that’d make my mother cringe.
I nearly jump out of my skin when I sense movement to the right. Someone else is here.
Goola. His other Call, a shilty girl who he’s always parading ’round like a trophy. When he’s not in Confinement, that is. She slinks over.
“Ooh, what have you brought home, Bartie? A new play toy?”
Bart shoves me toward the bed and I stumble on the debris under my feet. I barely manage to keep my balance. “Not tonight, Goo,” he says. “Tonight is my time. Get out.”
Goola struts over to him, unloosing the top of her dress as she walks. Just ’fore she reaches him it falls away, dropping to her feet like a fallen cloud. She’s got nothing on underneath.
I gawk at her as she stands there naked, like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do. Whereas I’m all skin and bones, she’s full figured with magnificent hips and breasts so full they’d make even Veeva jealous. She puts a hand to Bart’s cheek, strokes it, rises up on her tiptoes, kisses him full on the lips, twisting and turning her head wildly. I see flashes of her pink tongue as she rolls it along hi
s lips, slides it into his mouth. I might just get lucky. If Bartie and his trophy Call, Goola, get all tangled up, I might just be able to sneak out of here. I take a step toward the door, my eyes never leaving the lip-locked pair.
Bart grabs her hair from the back, pulls her head away from his, snarls, “I said not tonight! Get out!” He pushes her out the tent opening, still naked as the day she was born. She’s shouting obscenities the whole way, both at him and at me. I’m not her favorite person right now.
He leans down, plucks a basket from the corner. To my surprise, it’s got a baby in it. I hadn’t even thought about the fact that Goola woulda had a child with him already. She ain’t exactly the motherly type, and thinking of him as a father is like thinking of a Killer as a pet. “Take Bart Jr. with you, too, Woman,” he says, depositing the basket outside. He pulls the tent flap shut, ties it off.
He turns his attention to me. Reflexively I cover my soaked chest with my arms. “See how easy she makes it look,” he says, grinning. “If you want it, things will go much smoother.”
If he means wanting to kick him in the crotch repeatedly, then yes, I want it. Anything else, not so much. I back away, my mind churning, my eyes roving, trying to come up with any way out of this. Seeing nothing but pain. Go down fighting. Be Strong.
He steps toward me, suffocating me in the tiny space. A baby cries outside. “Get away from me,” I say.
Bart laughs. “Can’t do that,” he says. “You’re mine now. And I do what I want with my things.”
I take another step back, feel my feet sink into the soft bedding on the ground. He takes a big step forward, closing off any avenue of escape. There’s a glow in his eyes, a fire, a red hot desire. For me. To make me another one of his possessions.
I dive back, roll across the bedding, smash into the side of the tent. After the winter winds, a lot of the tents weren’t looking so strong, and I doubt if Bart’s the type to have rebuilt it from scratch. The tent wall blooms out, but holds, retracts, pushes me back into the center of the bed. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bart grabbing for me, trying to get hold of my feet. I kick out, catch him in the eye and he lets out a howl, grabbing at his face. “You little shilt, I’ll kill you,” he snaps.
With every bit of force I can muster, I bash into the tent wall again, hoping it’ll cave in, give me a chance to escape in the confusion.
It holds, almost feels stronger’n the previous time, as if Bart’s anger is giving strength to his house. His turf. I’m completely knocked.
He grabs my feet and pulls me to him, batting away my flailing arms with ease. Smiling, he’s actually smiling, although his version of the happy expression makes me quiver inside. It’s too much teeth and not enough lips. And no dimples.
As if he’s practiced it his entire life, he swallows my ankles with a massive hand, clamps them together, and then uses his other paw to wrench my arms over my head. Roughly, he throws his weight on top of me and I can feel all of him bearing down on my body. The foul stench of his fire-juice-soaked breath comes in waves, rocking my senses and threatening to knock me out. I’m tempted to give in to the nausea, to hurl or faint or both—that’d put a quick end to all of this—but I won’t. Not today. Today I fight.
I throw a knee up hard, trying to catch him in the midsection, but he’s in control now and easily holds it down with his powerful legs. He’s breathing heavy, almost as if all my fighting and kicking and scratching is exactly what he wants, exactly what he hoped for. I shudder when I realize I’m only acting as a stimulant to every perverse fantasy this demon of a man has.
I cry out when he rips at my dress—my purity dress—his fingers like claws, tearing and shredding.
Oh sun goddess, no! Please, no, Circ—where are you?—come back to me.
Please.
Please.
My dress rips away and it’s just me underneath, frail and bony and Scrawny, barely covered by the thin fabric of my undergarments. It’s like my dress holds whatever strength I have left and when it falls away I’m left with nothing, only fear and exhaustion and weakness.
I feel him, his arousal, on top of me. He’s panting now, excited to take me, to take all of me, to take everything I have left. To chew me up and swallow me, making me a part of him forever and ever and ever.
I’m screaming now, crying and yelling things I’ll never remember, straining to get him off me, but he won’t budge, won’t move an inch. I’m his.
The tent door flaps open and a light breeze wafts through, tingling my sweat- and rain-soaked skin. Is it Goola? Come to reclaim her man? I try to look past Bart’s thick shoulder, but I can’t see anything but his flesh, hot and rough.
“Woman, I told you to leave us!” Bart yells without looking back. His lip is curled in anger and for a moment I think he might take it out on me, hit me in the face.
But then something strange happens. His mouth gasps open and his eyes go wide, like he’s been struck by lightning. With a shudder, he collapses on top of me, smothering me like water on the dying embers of a cook fire.
I can’t breathe, can’t move, and something warm is dribbling onto my skin.
“You’re okay now,” I hear the voice say, soft and gentle, almost cooing. A voice of comfort, one I’ve heard a million and a half times growing up, when I was sick or skinned my knee or sad about the things the kids said at Learning.
My mother.
Bart’s body is rolled off me and she’s there, her face weary and anxious and smiling, her eyes bright despite looking so sunken. “I’m so sorry, Siena, I came as fast as I could, but the Fire, it…”
And then she’s crying and I’m crying and we’re holding each other, me ’cause she’s dying and out of strength and ’cause, despite all that, she came—she came!—and ’cause I’m still pure and she saved me and Bart’s…
“Is he dead?” I blubber over her shoulder. My eyes flick to Bart’s body, which has the handle of a knife sticking from his back, the blade lost in his flesh and inner parts. The handle of the knife is etched with swirls and with the sun goddess’s eye, the sun—her symbol, the same one that’s on the charm dangling from my bracelet. My mother did it. Not weak like I’ve always thought. Strong.
She pulls me back, her face a red mess, says, “It matters not. We must hurry.”
The perfect crown of hair she created earlier is in shambles, collapsing in broken, wet strands onto my face. I push them away. “Mother, I don’t understand. Hurry where? We hafta tell the Greynotes what happened, that you saved me, that Bart’s an animal. They’ll believe us, they will!”
Mother’s eyebrows drop, her soft wrinkles full of compassion. She never had wrinkles until the Fire came. “This was not the life for your sister,” she says and I startle.
“Skye?” I say. “Skye was taken.”
“No,” she says. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t tell you, couldn’t tell anyone. I sent Skye away from here. To a safe place. She went to live with the Wild Ones.”
Her words don’t make sense. The Wilds? But they’re feral, they’re not civilized, they’re… “Kidnappers,” I say. “They took her.”
“Siena, I know this is a lot to take in, but you have to trust me. You have to go now. Your father, he’s a monster.”
She knows what I know. “Mother, I know, I know, I found out about the agreement with the Icers, how they give us wood and meat and we stay out of ice country, how the prisoners didn’t do anything wrong, how they’re forced to work, ’bout everything. We can tell the people. We can tell them!”
“You don’t know everything,” she says. “Your father, he’ll never get the Fire.”
She’s speaking in riddles. “I don’t understand, Mother. He’s not invincible. The plague’ll take him just like everyone else, just like you.”
“The Icers give him medicine,” she says. “Some kind of herbal drink. It fights the Fire. It’s part of the agreement with them. The most secret part. But I watch him, I see what he does—he can’t hide his treacher
y from me. We have to go.” She grabs me and pulls me to my feet, hands me a freshly sewn set of Hunter trousers and a shirt. For the first time in my life, I put on something that’s not a dress.
~~~
The night is empty. The rain has stopped as suddenly as it started. Although the distant sounds of frolic and laughter hum from the center of the village, the Call party is like another world, something completely foreign to where we are.
Bart lies inside the tent surrounded by his own blood.
We run.
At least it’s our best attempt at running. My legs are cramped and tight and sorta tingly, both from Bart crushing them beneath him and ’cause of my mother’s words. My father gets a cure for the Fire from the Icers? I have so many questions, like Why don’t the rest of us get the cure? but I know there’s no time. When they find out about Bart, the Greynotes’ll come for us and there’s only one punishment for murder. Life in Confinement. A knife in the back’ll leave no question as to guilt. My mother by actions. Me by association.
My mother’s struggling to run, too, ’cause killing Bart and the Fire have sapped the last of her energy. We cling to each other, hold each other up, four legs and four arms and two hearts, all stuck together in one person. I don’t know where we’re going or what we’ll do when we get there, but I’m happy I’m going there with her.
Like me, she knows the best spot for sneaking out of the village—the point furthest from any guard towers. So that’s it, we’re leaving. Even as I realize it, I know it’s for the best. With Circ gone and her soon to be, I have no reason to stay. The village only carries pain for me now.
“Siena,” my mother says, stopping, breathing hard, leaning on me. “You have to run like you’ve never run before. Southwest, where the river lies dead like a snake and the rocks hold hands like lovers. You have to hurry. Your father, the Hunters…they will come after you.”