by Thea Prieto
What if there’s blood? Sky says into his palms.
Not all the blood will be bad, says Teller to Tie. Not all blood lets in poison.
I’ll make sure there’s still food and firewood by then, says Mark. I’ll make our fires less often.
Mark pulls the unburned end of a floorboard from his fire and the smoke swirls thick. The firelight dims on Sky’s chest. The darkness in the cave grows, the shadows filling with dangerous memories.
When Tie whispers, her eyes are like holes poked in sand.
What if it’s like Song and Little One? she says.
Song, murmurs Sky’s old misery. He was so young he only remembers Mark keeping him outside the caves, the tunnels echoing with screams.
You’re stronger than Song was, says Teller to Tie. Baby will be stronger than Little One. I know babies mean less food and water for everyone, but remember the mother story. Mothers are very special.
We’ll have extra food and water, mumbles Mark at Teller, if you give up your share.
The wash water has to be boiled for a long time, says Teller with his eyes closed.
Sky, are you all right?
Everything needs to be clean when it’s time.
Sky’s scared.
And Baby should cry right afterwards, do you understand?
Teller, I’m scared too. Let’s talk about something else.
Tie, this is important.
Let’s have another story.
Listen.
Not the mother story. The story of three kings?
Tie.
Or the Enemy Ocean story?
I won’t be here to help.
Tie pulls Sky against her body and presses her head into his. Though her grip pinches, her knotted hair is thick and warm. There is a soft knock from inside her stomach, a small beat against Sky’s shaking chest.
Baby likes you, says Tie into the top of Sky’s head. I hope when Baby comes she’s just like you, quiet and helpful.
Teller closes his mouth and Mark looks at the metal tools in his hands. With one of the pokers, Mark begins stabbing the burnt stubs of firewood into bits of kindling—quick, angry chopping. The silence glares and Sky wishes Tie would stop petting him. There are cracks in the stone floor, sharp lines and shapes. Some of the cracks are wide enough to fit Sky’s entire hand, but none of the cracks are wide enough to hide his whole body.
She? asks Teller at last.
I hope Baby’s a girl, says Tie. We have enough boys already.
Mark nods at the splintered wood chips.
Can you tell a story now? Tie asks Teller. Please, nothing with mothers. I miss Green, I still miss him all the time. Can we hear one of his stories?
Teller closes his eyes again, and Sky stiffens his crying mouth. Don’t be a baby, Mark will tell him, don’t be a child. But even Mark’s eyes start to leak, to admit, filling up the missing places of Green, Song, Mother, overflowing with Missing, and when Mark slams down the metal poker and leaves the fire quickly, Sky tries to call after him with a missing voice. Mark disappears into the blackness of the caves as the words cluster in Sky’s throat—Mark, Brother—but the emptiness grows faster. The tunnels are dark and smothering. Sky’s words come out tangled.
What did you say, Sky? asks Tie.
He said Mark, says Teller.
I think he said Mother, says Tie. Don’t listen to Mark, Sky. Mark’s awful.
Tie, says Teller, you have to work together.
I hate everything he says, says Tie.
You have to try harder.
No.
You have to learn. Sky too.
The firelight sinks to orange, moving shadows into their naked laps and bowed faces. As the moments pass, the nighttime blackness slowly takes the stack of sticky roots, the small pile of kindling, and it presses cool against the back of Sky’s neck, ready to gulp words and names into emptiness, into the Missing, all around them the Dark Sickness closing in.
Teller’s eyes revolve from the thickening gloom to Sky.
Sky, says Teller. Do you remember the Enemy Ocean story?
Sky nods at Teller.
Tell us how the story starts.
Sky’s mind is suddenly zero. He shakes his head.
You remember. The story starts with the Nations of the World.
Sky nods quickly.
What happens next?
They decide to fight.
They decide to go to war, corrects Teller. War means people fighting and dying.
Like us? asks Sky.
Teller and Tie look at each other.
Sometimes, says Teller cautiously. But we make peace too, so we can help each other grow food and collect water and feel happy.
Peace, thinks Sky. Like being included. Forgiven.
Wars also have armies, says Mark’s bodiless voice.
Flash pain. Sky sees white sparks after Tie’s elbow surprises into the side of his head.
Sky, are you all right? asks Tie. Mark, we didn’t know you were there.
Mark crawls back from the darkness and up to the fire, his feet sliding over soundless rocks. With his head tucked low, his hair almost covers his red, swollen eyes. His voice is low and upset, Sky doesn’t know how much Mark overheard, but Sky is grateful to have Mark near again.
Wars have allies and enemies, says Mark.
The dim fire waves orange and brown, bringing the nighttime closer. Teller’s face is already hidden in the dark, but Sky knows his eyes are saying things to Tie.
Tie lowers her head. Although she speaks into her chest, her words reach out. They sound like Peace.
Mark, do you know what comes next in the story? Tie asks.
Mark’s eyes remain low, examining the large, twisted root he turns in his hands.
The flood, says Mark. The Nations called for teeth and blood to stop the Enemy Ocean from advancing. Green said when the world’s soldiers came together they created an army so large their marching shook the ground flat.
And when all the soldiers spoke together, they roared like a storm, says Tie.
Mark nods down at the large root in his hands and without looking up, hands it whole to Tie. With a short claw of broken glass, he halves another smaller root, brings the first half to his open lips, puts the other half on the ground near Sky. No one speaks when Teller’s portion is stored in a jar. No eyes lift from the dying firelight. The root will feel dangerous until Mark starts chewing, Sky knows, this root grown by Mark, cooked by Mark, still belonging to Mark.
The cave’s blackness spreads over Teller’s chest and legs. Only his cracked hand, resting empty and without food at his side, is lit orange and brown.
Sky, says Teller, his voice jumping mouthless from the dark. Who did the army fight?
The smoky root mush is less dry, the taste less bitter and starchy, if Sky lets small bites soften in his mouth before chewing. The root also lasts longer this way.
The Enemy Ocean, says Sky finally.
Why?
Don’t know.
You do, says Teller. You have to remember everything, Sky.
Because, says Sky and then with a bigger voice, because the Enemy Ocean turned to poison. Then it sank the islands and it began to take the land.
And?
And homes.
From who?
People.
The progeny, interrupts Mark. They were from different places and looked different from each other and told different stories. Some ate roots like us, but others ate wheat or rice or the flesh of creatures. They all hated each other before the war, but they became allies when the Enemy Ocean awoke.
Mark glances at Tie and at the same moment Sky’s memory flickers, a splash to the first time he swam in the ocean, the heat of the brown waves, the floating, gritty plastic. Green’s beard moves as he warns Sky not to put his face under the seawater, his supporting arms dropping away, leaving Sky to kick and paddle on his own for the first time.
Promise to stay near the beach, Green said. There’s no swimmin
g away from here.
Sorrow quickly blankets the bright details of the memory, a grayness brought on simply in the remembering, the past changing itself, altering the meaning of Green’s words, but still, beyond and beneath the painful missing, Sky does not recall any fear of the ocean, no pressing, no piercing terror. Sometimes, thinks Sky, untrue things happen in stories.
Teller nods at Mark.
There were also different kinds of soldiers in the army, says Teller.
As he speaks, Teller takes deep breaths. His hand spasms make his fingers grip and release, grip and release. The firelight colors his knuckles orange then brown, orange then brown.
There were soldiers from all parts of the world, says Teller. Some were stronger than others so they were given important tasks, like caring for everyone’s food and water. Some of them had to work all day and night, and some had scars on their faces, signs of their bravery from past wars.
One of Mark’s hands moves halfway to the scar on his nose, then drops quickly back to his root.
It was only a rock, mutters Mark, referring to the chunk that fell from the cave ceiling and created the scar that would name him, but Sky can tell Mark is pleased.
There were also soldiers with wisdom, says Teller, his hand moving slightly toward Tie. They knew the firewood story, the mother story, the story of three kings, all the stories about wars, and not just the wars that were won, because it’s important to remember mistakes too, so they won’t be repeated and the dead won’t be forgotten.
Tie bows her frown, her finger tracing a jagged crack in the ground.
And there were young soldiers in the army, says Teller. They were strong and brave even as the Enemy Ocean rose, after Moth flew into the sky. With all the progeny cooperating and working together, the army was powerful, not just because it was large but because it had many brave, smart, and different people in it.
But it was too late, right? asks Sky.
The small circle of fire breathes red and brown, and a black dot grows in the heart of the coals. Sky can feel the air in the cave changing, swirling around the word Peace, around Wisdom, around all of them sitting close and together, and he is excited, excited to be a part of the story, to be included, with everyone finally patient with each other, Forever—I want everyone to be helping each other and safe and happy forever.
But when Teller speaks, his voice is Careful. Care. Full.
Yes, Teller says to Sky, but there’s more to the story than that. What’s important is that everyone worked together.
That’s not only what’s important, says Tie.
In the near darkness, Sky can see Tie’s head lift, her hand falling from the tall shelf of her belly. When she speaks, her words are empty tins.
Sky’s right, says Tie. It was too late for the Nations to win.
We can change that part of the story, says Mark, glaring at Sky. We can give the story any ending we want. It doesn’t matter.
Yes it does, says Tie, her voice starting to boil. We already left out the parts when the Enemy Ocean turns to radiant blood and all the sea monsters wash up on the beaches. We’re already forgetting those parts of the story, Green’s story, and now we’re going to forget the ending too? The story always ends this way, when Green told it and when Song told it before him.
Teller lifts his hand to say Stop.
That’s how the story goes, she says to Mark. That’s how the story ends.
A story is made of many parts, says Teller. The ending isn’t the only important part.
Yes it is, shouts Tie. Is this all we do? Remember only the happy parts of stories, of Green—
It doesn’t matter, interrupts Mark loudly, his flat hand chopping downward. Just because you miss him doesn’t mean I’m awful.
So Mark heard Tie from the shadows, hating him, hating his words while he was in earshot. Sky ducks his guilty head but Tie charges her voice at Teller.
Mistakes, she shouts. You want to remember mistakes? How about Green’s mistakes? I have to be special but he gets to decide how he dies?
Tie, what do you mean? whispers Teller.
Tie’s outrage flares open, sucking the air from Sky’s lungs.
You know what I mean, she yells. You all know what I mean.
Tie, says Teller.
The Nations tried to stop the Enemy Ocean—
Please—
—and they failed, they died and they failed—
The coals in the fire blacken, sink to smoke, but Tie’s cries continue in the tunnels, her fists lunging at shadowy, unspoken ghosts. Mark darts away again, and this time Sky hears the clank of the metal buckets in the main passageway—Mark going to the beach for wash water. It is still scalding outside, the evening too hot and energy-sucking to leave the cave, but Sky scrambles after Mark with Tie’s angry voice leaping against the cave walls.
I don’t want a baby, I don’t want to be special—
Tie’s words multiply and overlap in the tunnels.
I want Green, I want things like before—
The massive space outside the cave meets Sky’s skin like a burst of fiery breath. The open night still burns with the daytime storms, and it thickens Sky’s skin to rubber as he listens to the sound of Tie’s yells, her screams—Song’s screams. He hops eagerly away from Tie’s snapping words and after Mark, blistering the soles of his feet on the cooked ground and sweating precious water as he climbs down the dunes. With the growing sound of the sea, the increasing smell of ocean rot, there is also a distant, rising glow at the shoreline.
And then brightness, brilliance—an enormous rolling blue. At the beach, the waves crash into color, spreading a pebbled and heat-rippled light across the sands. The glimmering fades, it smashes bright again, constant movement, the entire coastline breathing and glowing blue. Radiant, Sky whispers to himself, Radiant. The breakers shimmer around the dark shape of Mark, two buckets hanging from his hands, but when Sky runs up to help him collect the wash water, Mark throws an arm out.
Stay away from the water, says Mark. Red tide.
But it’s blue, says Sky, though he doesn’t remember Green ever mentioning a blue tide.
The color doesn’t matter, says Mark. It’s all poison.
Like the Enemy Ocean? asks Sky, but Mark turns quickly, his knuckles slamming the air from Sky’s stomach.
It’s just a story, shouts Mark with his fists still clenched. Do you hear me? Just a story. None of it is true.
Sky sinks down to the scorching sand, holds his knees against his knotted belly as Mark trudges back to the cave with the empty buckets. Sometimes, Sky scolds himself, untrue things happen in stories. He repeats this to himself while he watches the light and dark colors pulse along the beach, tells himself Radiant as the waves roll blue and toxic, but the word he feels is Lonely under the pressing, piercing night.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sky crouches in the deep and crowding dark. Blinking does not change the cave’s blackness. Days of sleep have not weakened it. The small, painful lights no longer appear when he rubs his knuckles into his closed eyelids, so he grips the split floor of the cave. His fingers and toes dig into cracks worn smooth by bare feet, into the damp stones that suck warmth. At least he remembers their names. Hard. Slippery. There are broken rocks as well. Sharp. Dangerous. He thought he knew the words for darkness too, but without light all talk has shrunk quiet. After so long in the lowest sleeping chamber, waiting out the storms and the choking heat of deep summer, it is not the usual dark of sleep or tunnel crawling. In the stillness, closed in by the smells of stale smoke and sour bodies, the blackness has grown. It pours into Sky’s open eyes, widens inside of his ears. What used to be shallow, dormant breathing is now one large noise bouncing off the cave walls, and under the weight of the underground darkness, he cannot tell where the others are anymore. He cannot reach to them and he cannot bring himself to speak to them. In the shadows, his loudest words are his oldest. Thirsty. Hungry. Afraid. These words will not end the Dark Sickness.
There is a thin scratching, the sound of wood scrubbing. The noise quickens. Sky licks his lips when he tastes the bitter smoke. A distant light opens—a swelling red in the cave above—and when Mark’s stick of lit firewood bobs around the curve in the tunnel, Sky has to shield his eyes against the thudding brightness.
Come look, says Mark. I found something.
The sleeping breath around him breaks. A listening quiet.
Come see, says Mark, and the stabbing light retreats to the upper cave.
Waking movements in the shadows. Sky drifts his hands into the dark and touches the cool skin of Tie’s back. She has already lifted herself onto her hands and knees, but when he tries to help her stand, she throws his arm away. Clutching the wall of the tunnel, she climbs out of the sleeping chamber on her own, so Sky stretches his fingers into the blackness to find Teller. He feels the burning in the air before he feels Teller’s hot and sticky face, his shaking limbs. Teller has managed to turn himself onto his side, but it is Sky who rolls him onto his stomach so he can crawl.
Ready? whispers Sky when Teller has lifted himself. One, two, three.
With his arms wrapped around Teller’s middle, Sky heaves him a step forward. Teller groans, readjusts his arms and knees under his body, and Sky heaves again. Though Sky was to conserve his energy with sleep, to slow his heartbeat and tighten his breath into a small, hungerless lump in his stomach, he is quickly exhausted, his parched throat sucking hoarse. He rests frequently, listening to Teller gasp, and by the time they reach the cave above, Mark’s low fire is already too hot to sit near. There are pots of drinking water and wash water resting in the coals, as well as carefully cropped roots warming, a collection of clean water jars ready to be filled, a small heap of sandy wood chips—all Mark’s work. The smoke drags upward into the main passageway, which is nighttime dark, and Mark and Tie rest at the cooler end of the cave, their heads bowed to a shape between them, a large and orb-like object.