by Thea Prieto
Sky manages to heave Teller one last time before Teller collapses flat onto his side, bloodless and panting. He drags hissing air through his clamped jaw, but even as his muscles gather into knots and contract his knees into the air, sound pushes through his gritted teeth.
Water, hisses Teller.
Mark looks up from the round object, his sun-blistered forehead crossed over flared and sleepless eyes.
I just started the water, how many hands do you think I have? says Mark. If I have to do everything while everyone else does nothing, then you’re going to have to wait.
The word Nothing rings through Sky’s bones, stinging the cores of his eyes, the stem of his voiceless tongue. Days and nights in the suffocating sleeping chamber, saturated in a pooling bodily stench as the other two slept, his mind growing wordless but always quicker, always nervous, in that scream of dangerous memories, that deep underground quiet, a silence broken only by Teller’s groans and spasms and yelps. Dripping water into Teller’s mouth as his teeth snapped, forced to wash Tie where she could not reach, wiping them both low and between their legs like the others used to bathe him as a child. Like babies, he kept telling his inept and frightened hands, bathe them like children.
But Nothing, Nothing, Mark thinks I am Nothing. He told me to stay with Tie and Teller, he told me to keep them fed and washed and empty their buckets while Mark looked for firewood and took care of the food and water, and I only tried to please you, you, my brother, but I am Nothing in the dark, Nothing in Nothingness.
Sky’s face burns and when he stands to rush away, his knees wobble. The effort to move Teller drops Sky’s blood into his feet, flattening his drained body against the floor of the cave. His throat grates as air pulls deep into his chest—one breath, two, three—and gradually his vision becomes steadier, his thoughts more clear.
The Dark Sickness eases.
Slowly, Sky’s heartbeat calms as the shifting firelight pulls the others out of the greasy dark—orange noses and foreheads, mouths smeared with grime. The scar across Mark’s nose has a moving shadow of its own, a ghost hiding in the grooved line between his crooked eyebrows, his hazy eyes. Brother. Powerful. Besides his bubbled sunburns and the new, dark wisps on his breastbone, Mark has changed the least since the last fire. Tie’s square face, framed by all her long, brown knots of hair, is now much sharper, her slender shoulders narrower, than her large, ripe stomach that rests wide in her lap. The rippling firelight makes her belly look like a water drop about to fall from a fingertip, like a smooth stone Sky wants to roll in his hands, but the light also shows the deep gaps between Teller’s shuddering ribs. Teller’s clenched jaw makes strings of his cheek and neck muscles, and the hair on his upper lip shines with sweat. Should not, should not have slipped and let metal poison climb up the cut in his foot, Sky tells himself. He has commanded the thought into his mind for many nights, bracing himself in the blackness. At least Teller has already outlived Song, thinks Sky, and just as Song’s empty body was dragged outside the cave, soon so will Teller’s.
If Mark and Tie can feel the looming Dark Sickness, Sky cannot tell. They both stare at the round object between them while Tie massages the small of her back with her knuckles, as Mark unties the plastic ropes from around his scabbed and burned feet, the cords sandy and melted from the heat of the sun-cooked beach.
It was floating in the tide pools, says Mark. Maybe it can be useful.
He prods at the orb, larger than a human head, and Sky lifts himself to sitting as the globe rocks heavy and hollow. It sways with a small clicking sound inside of it, like rolling pebbles. There is a smooth shell of white paint underneath the skin of brown ocean decay. The white is pocked by brown rot where seawater weathered the paint, but when Sky moves closer he can see carved indents in the treated wood, raised shapes and etched decorations, swirls on one half, sharper twists on the other, two matching circles on the top and bottom.
What is it? Tie asks.
Teller’s red-rimmed eyes peel open.
It’s wood at least, says Mark. Maybe it’s a tool, or part of one.
I don’t think so, says Tie. It has two eyes.
Teller tilts his sweaty face toward the object. He inhales.
A creature, whispers Teller.
Mark straightens back from the object.
Creatures are only in stories, says Mark.
Maybe a jumping creature, asks Tie, like in the firewood story?
Even if it is, says Mark, then it’s a dead creature and it’s useless.
Tie picks up the globe and turns it gently around in her hands. Its insides clink and rattle. When Tie speaks, her voice is vague, listening and remembering.
Mother used to tap shingles together and call them her toys, says Tie. She said the sound scared away the nightmares.
The Dark Sickness, says Sky, surprised by his own rasping voice.
Tie looks at him, her eyes strangely distant.
That’s right, she says quietly. Green called it Dark Sickness.
Sky winces. It has been many quiet nights since Tie’s screaming, since the last time Green’s name was spoken.
That’s why, chokes Teller, his neck threads standing. That’s why Green told so many stories in the summer.
We haven’t been telling stories and we’re fine, says Mark annoyed. We don’t need stories.
Tie shakes the globe so suddenly and viciously that Sky and Mark’s shoulders jump and Teller’s body flexes into an arch. The cave vibrates with the loud, clattering racket, and when Tie stops rattling the noisemaker, her clenched jaw ripples the muscles of her cheeks.
We aren’t fine, says Tie, and the globe makes a final clank when she drops it to the ground.
Mark crawls across the cave, as close to the fire as he can bear, and with one hand held up against his face and his other hand wrapped with plastic cords, he uses the short metal poker to lift the boiling water pots out of the coals.
When Tie speaks again, her voice cracks high and sad, addressing no one.
Green was a part of every task and every conversation, says Tie. And now every memory of him hurts.
As her shoulders wilt into her body and Teller’s muscles slowly release their grip, Mark moves back to Tie’s side, placing a clay bowl of steaming water beside her. With his hand near her knee, Mark’s fogged pupils shine bright with firelight.
You’re a part of every task too, he says to Tie. You know how to tie the strongest cords and you’re the best at fixing the fog net. We wouldn’t have this water if it weren’t for you.
Tie tilts her head, studying the clay bowl.
And you’re a part of all our conversations, Mark says. You always see two sides of an argument.
Teller hacks, clearing his tight throat.
You also know two sides of Green, says Teller. You know all his stories.
The fire wrinkles shadows across the walls of the cave. Mark’s hand moves to Tie’s knee.
You’re holding on too hard, says Mark to Tie. I think if you started to forget Green, you might see your part in everything.
Teller shakes his head slightly as Mark continues.
Maybe if you let some memories go, there will be room for new memories.
Can never forget our past, says Teller.
That doesn’t mean Tie should torture herself, snaps Mark. I would have tortured myself thinking about Mother, if I hadn’t turned my mind to my work.
Ignoring the past, says Teller, doesn’t make it go away.
Lies don’t help either—
Stories are sacred.
Need to move forward—
—to honor and reflect—
Stop, says Tie, her hands raised. Let me think.
Teller and Mark sit quietly, unblinking, and Sky watches Tie press her forehead into her palms, her eyes closed and lips moving without sound. When she opens her eyes, she is looking at the decayed globe again.
What if this thing means the stories are true? she asks.
Teller gazes
at the silent globe.
What if, says Teller, and he sucks in a long breath. What if it’s a message from Moth?
Teller’s sick eyes widen, black and shining, staring hard at the globe.
Mark snorts a cold laugh.
Well, says Mark, I guess our problems are over. Maybe I’ll get some sleep, since we don’t have to worry about food or water anymore.
Teller closes his eyes and twitching lips. He swallows with a gulp.
This is more important than food or water—the stories have always been more important, says Teller. This means Moth might be speaking to us.
What are you talking about, says Mark with no asking in his voice.
Like the story of Moon and Bear, or the story of three kings.
Fever, says Mark low to Tie.
They’ll come and rescue us, shouts Teller.
Rescue, thinks Sky, a word so old it has rotten hollow. Older than Hungry or Thirsty. More helpless than Afraid.
Teller, says Tie with worry lines along her forehead. Teller, drink some water.
Tie hands the steaming water bowl to Sky, but as he tries to dribble water over Teller’s clamped teeth, Teller turns his face toward the ground, his lips stirring quietly. Sky shifts his ear closer to hear words pant and click from Teller’s moving tongue, low and repeating.
When the Great Fires began and Moth flew into the sky—
Teller’s words are pressed so tightly together they sigh, a long prayer called back from so many fiery days ago when Teller spoke over Green’s body.
Determination and hope, determination and hope—
Mark glares, his chin souring.
So now he doesn’t want any water, says Mark as Sky returns the bowl.
Teller, we don’t know what this thing is, says Tie looking at the strange globe. We know Moth flies away in the story of three kings—
Teller, with his lips still turning and eyes staring, nods.
Maybe it would help to hear the story again. We don’t have to sing it like Song or—Tie pauses—or remember all of Green’s words. We can tell the story any way we want.
Tie looks at the globe, at the Moth message, and then at Mark.
We will remember and make new memories at the same time, she says.
Tie sucks the steam from the water bowl through her nose, swirls a mouthful to rinse her teeth clean, and swallows the liquid down.
When Mark has refilled the bowl and finished his portion, Sky is handed the bowl with the remaining liquid. The surface of the water trembles as his shaking hands bring the bowl to his lips, the fluid drenches his sticky tongue, and watery heat expands along the cord of his throat. Sweet. The one word fills Sky’s mind and explodes. Sweet.
When we were young, says Tie to Mark, the story of three kings was your favorite.
I didn’t know anything then, mutters Mark. Anyway, I mostly liked the counting game.
Can you tell the story?
Mark scoffs, pitching a bit of gravel toward the fire, but shies when he sees Tie’s intent face, her asking eyes. After a moment, he shrugs a shy shoulder. He holds up his pointer finger to count One.
The story of three kings, says Mark, begins when the Enemy Ocean awoke—
Before Moth flew into the sky, whispers Teller.
—before Moth flew into the sky, mumbles Mark. There were three kings who hated each other. The first king liked fighting—
Mark glances down at Teller. Teller is watching and whispering, and Mark shakes his head, drops his hand.
I don’t know all of Teller’s words, says Mark.
The story is told in patterns of three, that’s how the counting game works, says Tie. Just count what you remember.
What I remember, repeats Mark, and extends again a single finger.
The first three fingers are for the kings, says Mark, squinting at his pointer finger. One is for the first king, who had the strongest army in the world. Outside his city people were always fighting and inside people were always being punished, but the first king only had to give his word and all the scared people would follow him.
What was the word? asks Sky, the question leaping from his mouth.
Mark rolls his eyes and holds up another finger to count Two.
Two is for the second king, who had the most food and water in the world. Outside his city people were always starving and inside people were always greedy and wasting, but the second king only had to promise riches and all the desperate people would follow him.
And Three, says Mark with three fingers raised, is for the third king, who was elected by his people and who had the largest city in the world. Outside his city people wanted things done one way and inside people wanted things done another way. The third king had enough people to defeat any army in the world, but it could take years for everyone to cooperate.
Mark frowns at his three fingers.
The killing comes next? he asks.
The gifts, whispers Teller from the ground and Tie nods.
Right, the next three fingers, says Mark remembering. The Nations of the World needed the kings to make peace, so three messengers were sent with gifts of gold, perfume, and oil.
Mark raises another finger to count Four.
When the messenger reached the first city, says Mark, the first king cut off the messenger’s head. He stole the gift of gold and named himself the strongest king in the world.
Mark extends his thumb, his open hand showing Five.
When the messenger reached the second city, the second king burned the messenger alive. He stole the gift of perfume and as the smell rose into the sky, he named himself a god.
Mark holds up a finger on his free hand, making the number Six.
And when the last messenger reached the third city, the third king didn’t accept or reject the gift of oil, so his people named the third king a traitor and called for his death.
Sky’s stomach growls loudly at the word Oil, groaning with the thought of greasy root skins and pulpy plant flesh. As he crosses his arms tightly across his belly to silence it, Sky hears another groan from Tie’s direction and he nearly laughs at Tie’s stomach answering his own.
But when he looks into Tie’s face her mouth is twisted into a pained snarl, her brown teeth bared and eyes pinched shut. Like Sky, her arms are held tightly across her stomach, but her fingers search the huge surface of her stretched belly skin, pressing low, around, and under her navel.
Are you all right? asks Mark with Six still raised in the air.
Teller’s eyes are also on Tie.
There’s, says Tie, with her lips curled. There’s water.
You want water? asks Mark reaching toward the fire. There is still Teller’s portion.
But when Mark brings the steaming bowl to Tie, she bows her head and lowers herself onto her side, breasts slumping against the cave floor. A strange damp smell, watery sweet, fills Sky’s nose.
I need, she whispers, to lie still.
With Tie’s eyes squeezed closed and her fingers netted around her bulged stomach, Sky feels the uselessness of his hands, his empty palms. The only thing he can think to do is lift Tie’s head into his lap to ease her angled neck as Mark places the water bowl within Tie’s reach.
Teller watches Mark settle the water bowl as well, the bowl pinned under his thirsty stare. Tie continues to hug her belly, her face colorless.
Say something, moans Tie with her eyes shut. Something.
For an instant, Sky and Mark’s eyes meet, worry finding worry.
Something, repeats Mark. Yes, the story.
Mark clears his throat, leaping six fingers into the air again.
So only the third messenger returned and empty-handed, he says quickly. The Nations of the World could not make—I mean, could not form—and the world was like a knot tightening, like a muscle that becomes more tense as it bleeds—
Mark stops with his hands held up, and Tie’s eyelids flick open. Those are Green’s words, thinks Sky, knowing everyone is thinking the sam
e.
The fire sparks against the cave walls and the wind in the passageway moves through their group silence. When Tie finally speaks, her voice is steady.
That’s why the progeny rose up.
Mark dips his head, his eyes darting sideways at Tie, then at the roots glistening near the fire.
This is the part where someone else counts, mutters Mark.
Want to count first, Tie asks Sky with an exhale, touching his ankles with sticky fingertips, but Teller raises a shaking hand from the ground, his boney fingers tucked into a loose fist. His dark eyes roll away from the water bowl and fix on Mark. Determination and hope, thinks Sky.
As Mark continues the story, Teller’s mouth pulls into a strained grin.
The next three fingers are for the progeny, says Mark. Outside the first city, where everyone was always fighting, the progeny convinced the people to throw rocks at the soldiers, driving them away.
So it was said the progeny could move stones without touching them.
Teller extends a single finger, counting One.
Inside the first city, continues Mark, the progeny opened the prisons, bringing people out of darkness. So it was said the progeny—
—could make blind men see, says Teller as he lifts a second finger, signaling Mark to go on.
And when the progeny reached the first king, grumbles Mark, who wore a crown made of the stolen gold, they called out the name of the first man, waking first life.
Atom, said the progeny. Fuse.
And the gold answered the call, says Mark. The gold grew so hot on top of the king’s head that it melted over his face and shoulders and the first king was roasted to death.
Teller lifts a final finger to count Three, and then lowers his arm onto the floor of the cave, smiling his gapped teeth. He turns his large eyes to the wooden globe near his face, examining the detailed lines. Mark raises a seventh finger as Tie’s body tightens.