by A. G. Henley
Shrike snores loud enough to bring down the roof. Sometimes I think it’s time to move out, build my own place, but I don’t see the point without a family to put in it.
I dress and sit on my pallet to tune my bow. Shrike’s gone over my duties repeatedly since it was decided I’d take his place.
The Sightless are somehow protected from the Scourge, which means they don’t have to worry about being ripped to pieces and consumed like the rest of us. My official job as Keeper is to use my arrows to keep the flesh-eaters from crowding Fennel while she collects water for both of our communities. She might be protected, but it’s still miserable to work all day with the scent of decomposing flesh in your face.
My unofficial job, as we all know, is to make damn sure my community gets an equal share of the water.
A new Water Bearer always triggers the selection of a new Keeper. I asked Shrike why that is, and he said the relationship between a Water Bearer and her Keeper was one of trust and had to be built from the ground up. Which is half mystifying to me and half ironic, given that I’d never actually be on the ground with her.
When the bowstring has the right amount of tension, I gather my arrows into a quill. I should probably wake Shrike, see if he has any last minute advice. I decide against it. I’m full up on words of wisdom.
Light seeps into the canopy outside, turning the world a pale green. Few people are up and about in the treetops yet and only the Scourge is below. The fleshies’ cries are amplified now that I’m outside, although not nearly as loud as last night when I was on the ground. Up here they have to compete with the creaking of the tree branches, the wrestling leaves, and the conversations of the birds. I spot a warbler sitting on the roof of the next home down from us. I see my reflection in its glassy eyes as I walk.
I slip into the kitchens and sit at one of the long tables to eat my paltry breakfast. We automatically put ourselves on food rationing when the fleshies are here. The lone cook grunts a greeting and leaves me to myself.
I was hoping to have a few minutes of quiet time, but Breeze finds me. Her hair is pulled back into a bun, her expression as severe as ever. She doesn’t look any worse for wear after last night. Not that I expected her to.
She goes over my responsibilities as Keeper—again. I try to hide my annoyance. But toward the end she says something that makes me pay more attention.
“Peree, I know you understand your duty. Your father has taught you well, and there won’t ever be a better Keeper than him.” I shove a hunk of bread in my mouth to keep from saying something I’ll regret. “But there is one thing you must always remember.”
“What’s that?” I mumble rudely.
She grips my shoulder, her fingers digging into my collarbone, and looks me full in the face. Her expression is suddenly fierce. She’s not our leader—we don’t really have one anymore—but it’s not hard to see why people tend to do what she says.
“You are not the Keeper of the Water Bearer.”
I raise a questioning eyebrow at her and deliberately keep chewing.
“You are the Keeper of the Lofty people. Your duty is to insure we have the water we need to survive while the Scourge is here.”
I slowly swallow my bite. “I know that—”
She shakes her head. “You may come to feel, over time, that it’s your duty to protect the Water Bearer. It isn’t. She doesn’t need your protection. Your people do.” She pauses, weighing the effect of her words on me. I keep my face neutral; I hate feeding drama. “You are a Lofty. Better than her. Keep her at a distance.”
Fennel’s on the ground. I’m in the trees. How much more distance does the woman want? I swallow the sarcastic responses that threaten to jump out of my mouth, slap a serious expression on my face, and pretend to agree so she’ll let me go.
“I won’t insult you by checking your bow,” she says, smiling now that she delivered her point. “Be sure you keep it tuned. There are more arrows in the armory if you need them. By tomorrow, you probably will.”
I think about what she said as I lean on the railing of the platform that overlooks the dark yawn of the cave mouth, watching for Fenn.
I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time. It’s my chance to prove myself as Keeper, to put to use my years of practice with the bow. And if I’m honest with myself—I rarely am on this subject—it’s also my chance to get to know the girl I’ve watched roaming the forest for years.
I don’t know much about her, but what I do know, I like. And I want to know more.
I’m not sure why she asked me to dance. Was it a challenge? A trick? Didn't she know Big Boy wanted to dance with her? I’d trade my best bow to know what she was thinking. I wish I’d just said yes.
Screw Breeze and her advice. I’m the Keeper. I can protect both the Water Bearer and the interests of my people.
The sun is making a hot nuisance of itself by the time Fenn appears. I can tell right away how frightened she is. She stands frozen in the safety of the cave mouth, her usual easy grace nowhere in sight.
The second the fleshies catch wind of her, they come speeding out of the forest below me, howling and groaning for her, their scabbed and bleeding arms outstretched. They keep a healthy distance away from the dark of the caves.
Fenn shakes so bad I can see it from the trees. I try to yell to her that I’m here, but she can’t hear me over the fleshies’ noise. So I do the only thing I can—take out a couple of the creatures that are crowding her.
I aim carefully, release the bowstring . . . and I miss.
I jerk another arrow out of the quiver and mount it sloppily.
Excess emotion gives the advantage to your prey, I hear Shrike say, like he has a thousand times before.
I take a calming breath and focus on my target: the infected-looking neck of a fleshie. Bullseye. The thing gargles blood and hits the ground. Grimly, I choose another target. Then another. Over and over. Shooting them is about as helpful as picking one or two weevils out of a bag of flour teeming with them. One falls; another takes its place.
Fenn still stands in the cave mouth. You’d have to be crazy to walk out into this. Or you’d have to be the Water Bearer.
She puts something in her pocket and pulls a scarf over her nose and mouth against the smell. Then she takes a slow step outside the safety of the cave and into the putrid embrace of the Scourge.
I remember how I felt last night when the flesh-eaters were coming at Shrike and me. Sure, Fenn’s protected by her Sightlessness, but it still takes a lot of toughness to master that kind of fear. A smile creeps over my face watching her. She’s impressing me all over again.
I grip my bow and shoot another creature at her side. It’s a clean hit, but the thing’s hand brushes her arm on the way down. She yanks the scarf away from her face, wraps her arms around herself, and doesn’t take another step. She stands there panting, her face shining with sweat, for what seems like forever.
She’s losing it. I have to do something.
I yell her name a few times, but she doesn’t hear me. Or she’s too petrified to answer. I lean over the railing and boost my volume. Finally her chin lifts a little.
“Peree?” Her voice wavers dangerously. Shrike taught me that my number one priority is to keep her calm. No water for anyone if the Water Bearer panics and can’t do her job. I take a steadying breath, like before making a long shot with my bow.
“I’m right above you,” I shout. “You’re all right. Stay still; let me give you some space.” I shoot a few more fleshies. I’m glad she can’t see them writhing like upturned spiders after they’re hit or see the blood seeping across their skeletal chests and backs. “There, they’ve backed up a bit. Can you walk?”
She seems to pull herself together, but I can tell she’s disoriented when she takes a step in the wrong direction. She doesn’t usually do that. The last thing she needs is to trip over one of the downed fleshies.
“Watch yourself, there are bodies there,” I warn her. �
�Step a little to your left . . . that’s it.”
She walks in the right direction now, following the path to the main clearing. She moves slowly at first, then picks up the pace when she realizes the fleshies aren’t touching her. Still, they swarm around her like flies on a rotting bird, screaming in her ears with contorted faces.
I use the walkway that parallels the Groundling main path. We built it especially to be able to monitor their comings and goings through the forest. It’s much lower than most of our walkways; only the lookouts really use it. That means I’m alone, or as alone as you get in our community.
I see the wave of new fleshies coming about the same time Fenn seems to hear them. My throat closes in disgust as they throng around her. Her shoulders hunch, but she keeps going. I understand now why Shrike kept on me about practicing shooting and moving. My bow works relentlessly as I walk above her.
“They’re keeping their distance?” She sounds terrified.
“Yes, but if they don’t I’ll take out a few more. Keep walking; you’re almost to the clearing now. It’s to your left–”
“I know where it is.” Now she sounds offended.
Okay, she doesn’t want directions. I try to brush off my annoyance at having my help rejected; I’d be short-tempered if I was in her shoes, too.
She seems to be doing alright for a minute, but then she stops and puts her hands on her knees. Her hair drapes around her face; I can’t see her expression. Time for a new strategy.
I’d been thinking about trying this since I was tapped to be the Keeper. Hell, it worked for me when I was scared as a kid.
“Have you ever heard of a tiger?” I ask her. I try to keep my voice conversational, like this whole situation isn’t completely insane.
“A what?” She stays bent over and her voice is low, but at least she can speak. A fleshie edges up a little too close to her.
“Hold still.” I aim to strike the creature so it won’t fall against her. It’s not an easy shot, but I make it. “A tiger, it’s an animal.”
“Uh, no, I don’t think so.” Her breathing seems to be slowing a little. She stands up straight, but she doesn’t move. She has a long day ahead of her; I need to get her going again.
“They were big cats, amazing hunters, graceful and beautiful, and they had a wild scream that would put the fleshies to shame,” I tell her.
One sprints up to her and howls in her ear as if it heard me. Its eyes bulge with the effort.
“That’s hard to imagine,” she says through clenched teeth, flinching away from the sound.
“For me as well.” I eye the creature as it paces beside her. Aim and release. The fleshie goes down silently. “Are you able to see colors at all?”
“No,” she says, “but I’ve heard some colors are warmer, like red, and some cooler, like blue, with others in between. So that’s how I picture them, as degrees of heat.”
Her voice sounds closer to normal now, so I continue. I tell her a story about a fierce, orange animal called a tiger. It became the savior of humankind and was made the king of all the animals by defeating three evil animals.
I allow myself another smile when she starts walking again.
I reach a firebreak: a gap in the walkway with a rope suspended from a tree branch above. They were created to prevent a forest fire from being able to burn down our entire community. It’s not enough—a gust of wind is more than capable of slinging flames from tree to tree—but it’s something. I test the rope and swing across. The branch it’s tied to complains about carrying my weight.
“I wish the gods would send an animal to fight the Scourge,” Fenn says. She sounds wistful. “How do you know about tigers?”
“My mother told me,” I say. “My foster mother. She knew a lot of stories from before and after the Fall. Stories about animals, and strange tales of our ancestors who lived in the City, in homes as tall as the tops of mountain peaks, and taller.”
It’s my turn to sound wistful. A blaze of sadness or longing—something—flames in my chest. Maybe that’s why I decided to tell Fenn one of Mother’s stories from before the Fall of Civilization: to keep her memory close. I don’t really have anyone else I can tell them to.
“Our teacher told us about the City,” she says. “He said it was a nasty, crowded place, full of evil people. He told us that’s where the Scourge was born.”
That surprises me. “Mother never said any of that, only that it was large and lit up at night by specks of light, like mists of fireflies.”
“You said she knew those stories. Is she . . .?”
I don’t answer, mostly because a huge lump is stuck in my throat, and I really don’t want her to hear it in my voice. I’m an idiot. I’m all choked up by a memory while she’s surrounded by flesh-eating monsters that want to tear her apart.
“I’m sorry,” she says. Her eyebrows draw together, and her voice softens. “How did it happen?”
I can’t tell her about that right now, not with the probable cause of my mother’s death roaming freely around her. I pull myself together in the quickest way I know how: kill another fleshie. Its howl of pain makes me feel a whole lot better.
I reach the platform that overlooks the water hole. The water twinkles in the morning sun, edged by a frill of early summer maiden grass. The shore looks inviting if you don’t count the flesh-eaters crawling all over it.
“The sled track’s in front of you,” I tell her. I forgot I’m not supposed to give her directions. At least she doesn’t bite my head off this time.
She touches the tops of the two wooden rails the Groundlings sunk into the earth generations ago for the Water Bearers. She looks like she’s reassuring herself they’re there. The rails spill down the steep hillside, ending at the sled by the water hole below. It’s waiting to be filled with bags of water.
Shrike said I should expect this part to wear the Water Bearer out both physically and mentally. Fenn seems to know it, too. She stops and mops sweat off her face. It’s warm, but not that hot.
“Are you all right?” I ask her.
“No.”
Uh oh. I can tell from that little falter in her voice that she’s falling apart again. What can I say that will help her keep going?
I remember the tactic Shrike used when I was scared before my first competition against the Groundlings years ago.
He sighed and said it was okay, he should have known. I asked him what he meant, and he said he should’ve known I was too young, too immature. That I couldn’t hack it.
In other words he got me good and mad.
It was worth a try with Fennel. She might hate me, but she probably already hates me. I’m a Lofty.
“You’ve done well so far.” I deliberately add a smug tone to my voice. “Not many of the Sightless are brave enough to take more than a few steps among the flesh-eaters the first time. Shrike told me one woman refused to do her duty at all, and the people suffered for years because of her cowardice.”
Oh, she’s going to hate me alright.
Sure enough, she doesn’t say another word. Instead, she shakes her hair back from her face and marches off down the hill surrounded by her foul entourage. I’m half-glad, half-sorry it worked.
She faces the water hole, the ends of her hair blowing out behind her. With the sunlight etching her dark mane and the water framing her body, I can’t deny it. Groundling or not, she’s beautiful.
While I watch—powerless to help—a new wave of fleshies rush her. They gyrate around her, reaching for her with ravenous howls.
She falls to her knees, curls up on the ground, and puts her hands over her ears. I can hardly see her through the cloud of creatures.
I strangle the platform’s railing. Is she hurt? Sick? Or did she finally lose the last of her self-control? I can’t tell from up here, and I hate not knowing.
“Fennel! Fennel, get up!” I shout.
She doesn’t respond, doesn’t move. I keep shouting and start shooting, too, taking care to hit the f
leshies that are as far from her as possible.
I stare at her crumpled body, my teeth grinding. What can I do from up here? She has to fight her fear or she’ll never last as the Water Bearer. I yell at her again.
She finally moves, pulling her feet under her and stumbling up. I lean as far as I can over the wooden railing of the platform.
“Are you all right?” I shout. Her eyes are shut tight. She clutches her stomach for a second like she might be sick, but she starts her work. I keep firing. I’m going to have to restock the platform with new arrows every night. The fewer creatures harassing her the better.
She fills the first two sacks by dragging them through the surface of the water, and then she loads them on the sled and straps herself into the harness. She strains forward, bending at the waist against the weight of the loaded sled, but she only manages to pull the thing a few feet. She tries again after a short rest. The sled hardly budges. Her hands fall to her knees again. Not good.
I yell to her. “Fenn, listen to me. You can do this. You have the strength. Focus on taking a few steps forward. Just a few, then you can rest. Pull the sled.”
She listens to me. Amazing. She must really be desperate. The sled moves a little farther this time.
“That’s it, and again,” I shout.
She pulls. Then pulls again. Her eyes close and her face knots up, an expression of pure tenacity. She inches the sled up the steep hill, finally stopping under the tree where I stand. She made it.
Lesson learned. Ticking her off works. Encouraging her works better.
I drop my bow and grab the rope I’ll use to lift the sacks into the trees. I work quickly, lowering the end to her so she can tie it to the sacks. Then I haul each bag into the trees: one for us, one for the Groundlings. We’ll deliver it later. It’s hard work wrestling the sacks up, like winching a trussed-up, angry boar from a stand-still. But it’s not as hard as what Fennel’s been doing.
She drags the empty sled down to the water hole again. The fleshies still hound her, but she seems like she’s doing a better job ignoring them now. Or maybe she’s just numb. That’s how she looks. Her face is empty, her movements robotic.