The Keeper: A Brilliant Darkness Story

by A. G. Henley

  The Keeper:

  A Brilliant Darkness Story

  By

  A.G. Henley

  Peree knows what he’s doing as the new Keeper of the Water Bearer, Fennel.

  He knows Fennel’s Sightless. He knows that means the Scourge can’t hurt her while she gathers fresh water for her people. He knows how to wield his bow and arrow to take out the revolting flesh-eaters when they swarm around her. He’ll motivate her, distract her, do anything he can to keep her working. And most important, he'll make sure his people get every drop of their share of the water she collects. Peree knows his duty is to his people and his people alone, and not to the Water Bearer.

  What he doesn’t know is that he's falling in love with her.

  Copyright © 2013 by A.G. Henley

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

  http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/.

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  http://www.polgarusstudio.com/

  Images:

  © Lumir Jurka | Dreamstime.com

  © Nikhil Gangavane | Dreamstime.com

  1.

  Sunset. My favorite time.

  The treetops are quiet at the crease of day and night. The sun sinks silently, tossing glittering handfuls of light at the smooth surface of the water hole below before easing under the horizon. The birds take a break from their constant chatter as if watching the sun’s show, and a breeze usually blows up, cooling the fuming air. Sunset’s peaceful, I guess.

  I’m far out along the perimeter of our community, kicked back against a scratchy greenheart tree near my favorite dilapidated shelter. My bare foot’s propped up on the worn railing of the walkway. I study my bony toes and then the splitting wooden board behind them. I should tell Petrel that this area needs some work. He won’t be happy to hear it. Keeping all the elevated walkways, homes, and outbuildings in good repair is an overly full-time job for the few carpenters we have left.

  The trees supporting this part of the walkway are old and ridiculously tall; they loom over the rest of the forest in our territory. That’s why our Lofty elders built a small shelter here, far from the rest of the community. Great visibility and fewer distractions—a likely spot for lookouts like me to hole up and keep watch for the Scourge.

  I stand, sling my bow over my shoulder, yank my leather shoes back on, and take one last look around. I never get tired of the view. The sun-drenched tree canopy extends as far as I can see, a blanket of dark green forest dipped in golden light. The water hole, shaped like a bean, fans out to my right. Low, rocky hills hunch behind me, concealing the cave system where the Groundlings lay low when the flesh-eaters swarm through the forest.

  I have excellent vision, but I’m so high up I have to squint to see smaller things on the forest floor, like stumps and rocks. I’ve been watching all day and haven’t seen much action other than the occasional rabbit. No sign of the fleshies.

  That’s a good thing—I hate the moldering, ravenous things as much as anyone—but it’s especially good today. I don’t want to miss the Summer Solstice celebration tonight. I need to blow off some steam, even if relaxing with the Groundlings around is guaranteed to be impossible. Then again, once the spiced wine starts flowing, people might loosen up.

  I duck into the shelter to grab the clutch of new arrows I made today. The shafts don’t have the spine I would like; the wood’s too brittle and dry. But the feathers from the carcasses of the geese the Groundlings traded us were perfect for the arrows’ fletching.

  I stroll along the perimeter walkway as it winds its way from treetop to treetop back toward the center of our community. More walkways branch off of this one, leading up or down in the trees. I duck just in time to avoid swallowing a mouthful of low-hanging greenheart foliage. The dark, waxy leaves, while nice to look at, taste like crap.

  The closer I get to our homes the more human voices I can hear. My people sound excited or nervous, probably both. Everyone gets all riled up before the Summer Solstice and the competitions with the Groundlings that follow. I’ll compete with the knife and the bow but not the spear. My foster father, Shrike, didn’t see the point in teaching me to use one. He says they’re too imprecise, primitive; they rely on strength rather than brains. A Groundling weapon.

  Movement on the ground catches my eye as I walk. I give the rope handhold a good pull to be sure it’ll hold my weight before I lean out over it to get a better look.

  The Grounding gardens stretch out below. Long, neat rows of healthy-looking plants traverse the oval-shaped space. My stomach riots at the thought of all the fresh produce they have access to that we don’t. We keep a pathetically small vegetable and herb garden near the kitchens, but we have to trade with the Groundlings for heartier staples like carrots and potatoes and for new soil and seeds every season.

  Between their lavish gardens and the larger game they’re sometimes lucky enough to run down on the ground, it’s safe to say they’re eating a lot better than we are. We don’t call ‘em bottom-feeders for nothing.

  A few Groundlings, all olive skinned and dark-headed, still tend the plants even though it’s getting dark. A thin boy with a tangle of thick, black hair runs in the direction of their main clearing. He’s on a mission.

  I recognize him. His sister’s the new Water Bearer; the one I’ll be the Keeper for whenever the fleshies come again. At least the boy’s around her a lot, and he’s too young to be her intended.

  I first noticed her when I was about twelve. I was creeping along the walkways, tracking a boar on the ground, when I suddenly realized a Groundling girl was in its path. She was the one I’d heard about, the Sightless girl.

  She had no idea how much danger she was in—until the boar charged her. She didn’t scream or run or do anything I figured she’d do. She just calmly faced off with it. I was impressed. I didn’t think twice before killing the animal. I doubt she knew what I did, but my arrow saved her life.

  I’ve watched her ever since.

  I mean, not obsessively or anything. I’m not a pervert like Owl. I’ve caught him more than once on the platform by the water hole, slack-jawed and sweating while the Groundling women bathe or swim. Not that some of them aren’t worth looking at, but spying on them is pathetic. I just pay more attention when the Water Bearer’s around, that’s all.

  As far as I can tell, she hasn’t partnered yet. Tonight might be her night. The Groundling boys choose their partners at the Summer Solstice celebration by asking the girl to dance.

  I shrug off the shot of jealousy I feel as I watch the boy disappear into the forest. It’s not like I’d ever partner with a Groundling girl anyway, no matter how the sunlight melts her dark brown hair into copper or how confidently she moves through the forest despite being Sightless.

  “What are you looking at, cousin?” an amused voice says from behind me. “As if I have to ask.”

  I turn to face Petrel. His short, red-blond hair sticks up in all directions like it’s stretching. It probably is after years of hanging to his shoulders. He cropped it and lost the feathers all we unattached Lofty men wear after he partnered with Moonlight last season. I think he secretly misses his hair, but he didn’t have a choice. It’s tradition.

  I raise my eyebrow. “Then why are you asking?”

  “I just don’t get what you find so interesting about them.”

  I lean casually back against the rope handhold until only my heels rest on the walkway. If the rope broke now, I’d drop like a greenheart seed pod into the gardens below. Only a lot more destructively.

  “It’s my duty, Petrel, remember? Watching out for fleshies, keeping an eye on what the Gro
undlings are up to, checking for forest fires that could burn us all to a crisp . . .”

  He smirks, his lips tugging at the nearest constellation of freckles on his face. “Uh huh. It’s all about your duty. Nothing to do with a certain girl down there.”

  I find my balance against the rope, fold my arms across my chest, and smirk right back at him.

  He chuckles. “All right, Peree, you get a pass this time. C’mon, the Covey’s gathering to go to ground. Grandmother Breeze feels the need to remind us—again—not to get into it with any Groundlings during the Solstice. You don’t want to miss it; it’ll be thrilling. I’ll see you there. I’m going to bring Moon over.”

  I roll my eyes. “She’s expecting, cousin, not an invalid.”

  Petrel holds out his hands and smiles broadly, showing off a mouthful of straight, white teeth. When Moon’s annoyed with him, she always says she was seduced into partnering with him by his abnormally pretty smile. “What can I say? I’m a dutiful partner.”

  “You just can’t leave her alone for long, you mean.”

  One of his blue eyes disappears behind a quick wink. “You’ll understand one of these days, youngster, when you finally decide which of our fine women is good enough to call your mate.”

  I push back onto my feet, swing my bow into my hand, and say drily, “I’m partnered to my work.”

  “Yeah, and that’s really sad.” He plucks the bowstring. I can tell by how much it gives under his finger and by the sound—kind of a thunk instead of a satisfying zing—that it needs to be tightened. “Bows aren’t particularly warm or soft at night, and they’re a bit lacking in the kind of curves that count.”

  I poke his chest with the stave end. “I’ll remind you of that the next time you’re eating what my bow puts on the table.”

  “Won’t make it not true.”

  Petrel snickers and walks off in the direction of the home he shares with his warm and curvy partner. I ignore another jolt of envy. Not that I wanted to partner with Moon. I just wish I knew who I do want to partner with. We need to increase our numbers after the fever that wiped out half our people a few years ago. Shrike’s been bugging me about choosing someone to make new mini-Lofties with. I’m not ready to partner with any of the middle-aged widows quite yet and most of the girls closer to my age are younger than me—too young to partner. It’s a dilemma.

  I stop by the small home I share with my father. Our place sits a little apart from the others. It surrounds a greenheart tree trunk that’s thinner than most, giving us more space inside. Not that we need it; we don’t exactly spend a lot of time here.

  I push open the wooden door built into the circular wall. The place is strewn with dishes, clothes, weapons, tools, and other odds and ends. Neither of us are what you might call domestic. Our home’s pretty much looked like this ever since my foster mother, Blaze, disappeared when I was ten. A familiar sadness prickles in my chest like it always does when I think about her.

  I toss my bow and quiver onto the muddle of bedclothes on my pallet and step over a half-built possum trap to get to the basin. I think about washing my hands and face, but there’s only a little water left. We need more rain—and soon—to fill the community’s collection barrel. It’s running seriously low thanks to the dry weather this year. We could ask the Groundlings to allow us to collect extra water from the water hole, but that’s always a painful negotiation. It’s a hell of a lot easier to hope for more rain.

  I tug my fingers through my snarly hair a few times, then quit. Not trying to impress anyone anyway.

  No weapons of any kind are allowed at the few gatherings we have each year with the Groundlings. The rule is supposed to prevent “accidents.” I tuck my sheathed knife inside my waistband. Being able to defend myself will prevent accidents, too.

  Stars peer sleepily through the thick branches above my head as I move a little higher into the treetops. The kitchens, meeting spaces, and workplaces were planned to sit about as high up as they can get in the canopy to maintain our security. We have to keep the Groundlings in the dark where they belong.

  The Covey—what we Lofties call ourselves when we all get together—mills around the Aerie, a generous platform stretching between four sturdy trees.

  I move toward the community fire pit next to the huge water collection barrel. They’re always kept together in case the flames jump out of the wide clay fire bowl. I light a spare torch and set it into one of the empty sconces spaced evenly around the Aerie.

  My people, their heads topped with varying shades of blond, red and the occasional gray, hold baskets of food for the coming feast. My mouth waters at the sight of roasted pigeon and squirrel, bowls of berries, loaves of bread—the kitchen burst with activity the last few days.

  Petrel and Moon whisper together out of the path of the escaped smoke from the fire. Her silvery blonde hair drifts against his face and their hands rest together on her budding abdomen. She’s showing a little more each week now. I’m happy for them. Really.

  Moon smiles when she sees me. “Good evening, cousin. Are you ready to play nice with the Groundlings? Thrush, will you please stop?” Her face, then Petrel’s, screws up with pain. Her younger brother is playing some sort of game that requires stomping on their feet every other second. “Wait until we get to the ground to play that. On second thought, don’t play it at all. You’ll probably end up at the point of a Groundling spear. Just . . . behave yourself.”

  Moon’s voice trills like a sparrow’s song. I’m not sure if she actually breathes when she speaks.

  “C’mere, Thrush.” I pull him over. At eight, he’s all arms and legs, bones and sinew. I lay my hand heavily on top of his coarse, bright-blond head to keep him still. “Do me a favor?”

  “Sure, Peree.” He eyes me expectantly.

  “Go get my knife from my place. It’s on the chair.”

  “You aren’t supposed to bring weapons to the Solstice celebration,” he says earnestly.

  “I won’t bring it. I just need it right now.”

  “What for?” He pushes on my hand with both of his, trying to press it up and off his head without success.

  “To cut something,” Petrel prods him in the back, “probably you. Now go do what Peree asked.”

  Thrush bolts across the Aerie to the walkway I came from and slides into the railing. His arms pinwheel, and one leg disappears over the edge.

  “Thrush, be careful!” Moon gasps.

  Shrike rushes over from another walkway and grabs him under the armpits, easily lifting him to his feet. He sends him off with what sounds like a few stern words.

  Moon and Petrel wear identical looks of relief and frustration. The fever took Moon and Thrush’s parents; she’s looked after her brother ever since. She has her hands full with that one.

  Petrel glances at the bulge at my waistband. “Your knife, huh?”

  I shrug. “It’ll keep him busy for a while.”

  “Bless you, Peree,” Moon says with a tired sigh. Petrel pulls her into the crook of his shoulder, and she rests her head against him. “If that child makes it to manhood, I’ll be so grateful. I’m bandaging a new injury every single day.” She lifts up her hand, pointing at her palm. “Today it was his hand, thanks to a broken plate. I think he dropped more dishes in the kitchen than he cleaned. Breeze was on her last nerve with him. Not that I blame her.”

  I glance to the front of the group where Breeze and Shrike confer, their expressions all business. My grandmother and father look alike. They’re both short and a bit stout, and they have the same dark green eyes deep-set into narrow faces. The big difference is that Breeze’s thin hair, once light blonde, is completely white now, while Shrike’s gray-blonde hairline beats a slow retreat over the top of his skull. I don’t look anything like the two of them with my height and thick, wavy hair. My natural parents were Groundlings; I came to Shrike and Blaze in the Exchange when I was an infant.

  “We should go down,” Breeze says to the group. She’s not a
ll amped up like the others. She sounds grim, serious, like we’re going into battle. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you all that we need no trouble with the Groundlings.” Petrel throws me an I-told-you-so look. “The Solstice is not the time to pick fights. Save it for the competitions tomorrow.”

  “We have a legitimate complaint with this situation with the water,” Kestrel says, leaning on his cane. He’s not that old, but he’s had a bad leg since he barely recovered from an infected wound in his foot a few years ago. Many of our people sport the scars of living without access to all the herbs the Groundlings can easily forage or grow. Their selfishness kills a few of our people every year. And they call us cold-blooded.

  “The bottom-dwellers know how low our supply is with the lack of rain lately, but they’ve been giving us less and less time at the water hole the past few weeks,” Kestrel complains.

  Others grumble their agreement. Shrike’s hands come up to silence them.

  “I’ll speak with Aloe tonight. She should have joined the Groundling Council of Three by now. I’ll let her know that we’ll need to renegotiate our terms or their wood supply will become as scarce as our water.”

  Aloe has been the Water Bearer for as long as I’ve been alive, and Shrike was her Keeper. He always seemed to have a decent partnership with her. I get the feeling he’s sorry to give up his duty to me now that her daughter is taking over.

  I wonder if the new Water Bearer and I will have the same kind of partnership our parents did. Or maybe she’ll just ignore me like the rest of the Groundlings do when our people get together.

  The group moves toward the rope ladder that will drop us straight down into the heart of the Groundling community. Enemy territory. I touch the knife at my waist.

  Thrush comes tearing back up to us, his face flushed. “Couldn’t . . . find . . . knife,” he pants, his hands on his knees.

  I ruffle his hair. “No problem. Thanks for looking.”