by Thea Prieto
It’ll start hurting again, Tie whispers.
It’s going to get worse before it gets better.
Just a little longer, says Tie. Finish the story of three kings.
It’s not important anymore, says Mark.
Important, thinks Sky. Vital is a container filled with withered bits of food and seven jars of water. But Important is Tie and Baby, Teller in the upper cave praying to Moth for water, and Green trying to take the Dark Sickness away.
Just remember me tomorrow.
Green would want the story, says Sky aloud, surprised at the strangeness of Green’s name in his mouth, like a dot stamped on his tongue.
Tie inhales slow.
Green isn’t here, says Mark flatly.
A dead silence expands, carrying responsibility and guilt and sorrow. Sky quickly speaks again.
Green said stories made living easier.
Tie slowly exhales.
One, she says suddenly.
One what? asks Mark.
It’s my turn in the counting game, she says. If it’s going to be my last story, I want to hear the end. I want to hear it even if it hurts—
Don’t talk like that, says Mark.
You’re the one who wanted to talk about Teller—
All right, all right, just—I’ll tell it, says Mark in a rush. I guess I had seven fingers raised, and we were at the part where the first king died.
Then start outside the second city, says Tie impatiently.
Outside the second city, stammers Mark, outside the second city, the progeny brought the thirsty people water from the first city. So it was said they could create water from nothing.
Instead of raising a finger in darkness, Tie says Two.
Inside the second city, says Mark with a slower voice, the progeny opened the rich people’s homes, allowing the starving people to enter. So it was said the progeny could cure all hunger.
Cure—a Green word. It pops the air, sticks in Sky’s throat like a gasp of hope. A cure to make living easier, to return Teller’s low and steady storytelling. Tie cured and running powerful down the bluffs. Green’s bonfire lit again. Even as Sky wills the word to life, the waking truth, like an empty water drum, pries his heart wide.
Tie says Three quietly, as though speaking to herself.
And when the progeny reached the second king, says Mark, who was covered in the smell of the stolen perfume, they called out the name of the first man, waking first life.
Atom, said the progeny. Split.
And the perfume answered the call, says Mark. The perfume on the second king split his skin, ripping him apart.
The story staggers to a halt and then Mark says, I’ve got eight fingers raised now.
Tie nudges Sky with her ankle, motioning his turn in the counting game.
One, says Sky, lifting his pointer finger into the darkness before remembering no one can see it. Not Tie or Mark next to him, not Teller in the cave above—not Green. The hopelessness opens his heart wider, making him greedy for stories, for any cure at all.
Outside the third city, continues Mark, the people listened to the progeny until everyone spoke as one. So it was said the progeny was of the people.
Two, says Sky urgently.
Inside the third city, says Mark, the progeny were given the power of kings, and they spoke for so many years that their hair turned white. So it was said the progeny could not die.
Sky forces himself to say Three, and then feels his part in the counting game drift by. The story shoves coldly past him with its pretend, deathless progeny, reminding him only of what words can’t cure.
And finally one day, says Mark, when messengers arrived with the gift of oil, the progeny, who had forgotten the Nations of the World, called out the name of the first man, waking first life.
Atom, said the progeny. Divide.
And the oil answered the call, says Mark. The oil began to glow and it grew so bright that all the people and the entire city disappeared, leaving nothing but red earth.
The hush afterwards lengthens, squeezing into the places Sky thought hope was supposed to live. When Mark speaks again, he is hurrying to a finish.
That makes nine fingers on my hands, he says. My last finger is for the gods, because then Moth flew into the sky.
Another quiet moment passes. Three breaths—four. Mark’s voice sharpens.
I don’t know what this has to do with the thing I found in the tide pools.
Tie speaks with a slow, hard voice.
Even if it’s a gift from the gods, then we can’t forget who we are and what we need to do. Gifts didn’t help those people, and they won’t help us. That’s what the story means.
A low-hanging silence, then the sound of Mark’s movements. A shuddering exhale from Tie.
Ready to move? asks Mark, and Sky stands to lift Tie’s legs. One, two, three.
Although Tie cringes when Mark and Sky lift her, she does not cry out. Mark shuffles backwards toward the bottom of the narrow tunnel, Sky hobbling forward until he has to stoop low into the sleeping chamber. The air in the little cave is only slightly cooler than the air above, but when Sky settles Tie onto her side, so she can rest against the smooth and bowled stones of the floor, Sky feels the cool dampness of the ground like bone-deep relief. The chilled rocks feel the way Vital should, solid and lasting.
The moment Tie settles with a pained gasp, Mark’s footsteps are back in the tunnel.
Get the wash water, he says to Sky, and he only just places the wash water safely in the sleeping chamber when he hears Mark’s voice raised in the cave above.
Where’s Teller? he shouts.
Guilt and dread—it returns to strangle Sky. Tie asks him a question he does not hear. He is running up the tunnel and crouching among the shadowed corners of the cave with Mark, searching in the darkness for Teller.
Where did he go? asks Mark again, but a thought hits Sky in the stomach and he’s scrambling into the main passageway, ducking his face away from the fiery breath of the cave entrance, the plastic cords on his feet sizzling against the cooked stones. Teller alone, empty and thirsty in the quiet loneliness—I left him alone with the Dark Sickness.
The tall tunnel to the storeroom smells differently than when Sky passed through it before. The first part of the tunnel is thick with the smell of burning hair, but near the end there is a distinct sweatiness, a dense wetness. When Sky steps into the storeroom and pauses to listen, he can hear it just faintly, No, quiet but fast, shallow but it is there—irregular breathing.
As Sky rushes to loosen the brick from the wall, he already fears the worst. Teller’s naked skin scalded and bleeding where he dragged himself across the baked stones of the main passageway, his hair curled up and scorched against his skull. In Sky’s mind, Teller’s melted fists have slammed through the plastic lid of the container and all seven of the water jars are empty, all of the roots gone. Teller will croak his lies of determination and hope when the light falls on him, because the food has awakened his body, the water loosened his jaw, and he will look at Sky with wide, irresponsible eyes and be unable to speak for himself ever again.
But the light from outside winks red into the storeroom, and for a long moment Sky cannot draw air into his lungs. His mind is slow to take in what is before him, the real merging with the untrue images in his mind. The inflamed burn wounds on Teller’s sprawled body are seeping, yes, but he has also buried his seared toes and fingers into the liquid mud of the storeroom. The plastic container has not been disturbed, but lying next to Teller’s twitching body is an entire water drum capsized, all of its contents being sucked quickly into the ground. Sky feels the softness underfoot, the muddy soil between his toes, and as Mark’s quick footsteps in the tunnel beat closer, Sky shuts his eyes. He shuts out Teller and the empty drum and Mark is there, screaming Waste and Save it, the walls of Sky’s mind swirling with shadow writing and the dead and the past and we are alone—the darkness cares nothing for us.
CHAPTER
SIX
Under his vibrating shock, Sky knows he is helping Mark drag Teller’s thrashing body through the main passageway. Teller’s thighs and chest are rippled with blisters, white sores ringed purple and cracked in the centers. His grip on the leaking welts of Teller’s knees must be painful, nerve wrenching, but Sky does not let go—cannot order his fingers to let go. His own feet must be scorched as well, though there is only a dull throb in his heels. The blazing sunlight steams through Mark’s hair, the wet trails on Mark’s cheeks flash, but Sky does not hear the words shouted from Mark’s lips. As he carries Teller into the lower caves and drops the jerking pile into the shadows, Sky’s mind is sunk to the mud between his toes and fingers, the lush sludge that has already dried on his skin and started to crack.
Mark is pointing furiously at the smoking cords on Sky’s feet, so he unwraps the bands from his sore toes— disconnecting himself—and watches as Mark uses the cords to bind Teller’s ankles and wrists into a gathered bunch. With his arms and legs fastened behind his back, Teller can only rock his arched body into small leaps, tugging at the knots. His ribs pump air quickly and his throat is working below his clenched teeth, but Sky’s mind still ranges nothing, everything around him a slow disquiet.
Then Mark is in the tunnel, hurrying toward Tie. Sky follows him into the darkness with motions stalled and shadow-trailed. The sensation reminds him of treading water in the ocean, filth and garbage floating all around him, and for a moment his ringing deafness feels like stillness. His mind detaches from his strange limbs, his white anxiety, like he has drifted into a different cave, like he is hearing a story. None of it is real, he remembers Mark saying, none of it is true.
But then Sky feels trembling against the hairs of his neck, the sensation of words being shouted into the darkness and bouncing back at him from the cave walls. This will be no talk to escape into, he knows. This will be no secret story written in clay.
The volume around Sky rises. Words register as pulsing gulps in his mind.
He’s killed us, Mark shouts.
Be quiet, yells Tie. Be quiet.
Mark chokes a scream, or maybe a sob. He shouts louder.
He’s killed us all.
Stop, yells Tie, you’re not helping. Just think, think—
Teller’s not going to stop, hurries Mark. He’s not thinking, he’ll keep going to the storeroom—
—just need to think, what can we do—
We, what do you mean we? shrieks Mark. How would either of you know what to do? I’ve been doing everything all summer—
Stop, please, says Tie. This hurts, it hurts, be quiet—
You think this hurts? yells Mark. Think how much it’s going to hurt when we’re out of water, when the roots stop growing—
Mark gasps at heaped sobs. The throbbing in Sky’s head tells him he’s been holding his breath.
We’re all going to die, says Mark.
Stop, says Tie like a moan. Just tell me how much water is left.
Not enough, snarls Mark, and the rain is too many days away.
Then, says Tie, you’ll just have to set up the fog net sooner.
The storms will destroy it and then we’ll have no fog net either, yells Mark, especially if you’re not strong enough to help fix it.
The evaporation jars—
—barely enough for one person—
Then—then will there be enough water, says Tie, if Baby and I are gone?
What are you talking about? says Mark in a high voice.
Will there be enough?
There’s enough for, I don’t know, a few people, stutters Mark. We started with enough water for six. The last of it might get some of us past the storms—
Then just wait, says Tie in a flat voice. The problem will solve itself.
I told you, says Mark, his voice rising again, you’re not going to die. It’s Teller that’s dying, he’s been dying all summer, and now we can’t trust him. He’s going to keep trying for the water—
In the darkness, Mark’s breath is coming fast.
There’s no other way.
Sky’s ears are completely open.
We need to help Teller die, says Mark.
Those aren’t words, whispers Tie.
We have to—
Can’t do that, says Tie louder.
He’s dying, shouts Mark, and he’s using our water to do it. He’s killing us as he dies—
Teller’s our friend, says Tie, her words rearing. He helped take care of you when you were a child, he tells us stories when we’re scared—
Be quiet, says Mark.
—he used to give you his food when you missed Mother—
Shut your mouth, screams Mark between his pacing footsteps. He’s going to die no matter what, we’re going to miss him no matter what—
—he’s not dead, Mark—
He’s dying. He doesn’t know who he is and he’s suffering. We would be helping him and helping ourselves.
We can’t do that to him, says Tie.
It will be the same as when Green put Little One out to sea.
No breath in the cave, only sharp, prickling memories.
That’s not the same at all.
How, how is that not the same, Tie? says Mark and his pacing stops. Little One was born dying, she was dying with Song, and now Teller is suffering.
He’s still alive, Mark. We can’t just push Teller out to sea while he’s still alive.
The ocean’s already killed him, hurries Mark. He was dead the moment he cut his foot, he’s been a waste of water and food ever since—
No, says Tie.
Listen to me, says Mark. We have no choice—
No, says Tie louder.
Green would do it, pushes Mark. He’d do it because he’d have no choice.
Tie sobs.
We don’t have a choice either, says Mark quieter.
The darkness inhales.
Sky, says Tie, what do you think?
Sky’s stomach twists into his throat. The word Teller is slippery and sick in his mouth.
Sky, if you’re going to help carry Teller to the beach, you need to agree to this. This has to be your choice, too.
His mind screams silently at the blackness, at the Vital mud in the storeroom, between his toes, Responsibility and Shouldn’t, shouldn’t have let the ocean climb—
This is important, says Tie louder. Sky, you aren’t a baby anymore. You need to say something.
This is stupid, says Mark. He doesn’t know what we need.
Sky, yells Tie, her pained gasps quickening. You won’t get another chance. You need to speak now.
His tongue burns with stomach acid. Eyes flared to the underground darkness.
Sky, shouts Tie.
Useless, snarls Mark as he moves around the cave. I’ll do it myself.
What are you going to do? says Tie at once.
I’m going to finish Teller quickly, shouts Mark.
The pounding of a fist on a bare chest.
I’m going to kill Teller right now.
Teller, weeps Tie.
There’s nothing left to discuss, shouts Mark. This has to happen. We have to do this.
Tie sobs.
I know, she says.
Footsteps in the tunnel.
Sky’s chest thumps, his legs moving quicker than his thoughts, seeking out noises in the tunnel above—the float of Mark’s voice in the upper cave. Sky’s feet are numb underneath his body, working on their own to search out the words he cannot speak.
And slowly, like a rising hum, Mark’s stammering breaks through to Sky’s mind.
Teller, I have to, have to—
Mark’s words are fast, desperate, a shouted whisper pressed into a long whine.
Has to happen, do you understand? Like Green did for Song and Little One, I have to, don’t want to but have to, we love you, I love you—
Shadows blink about the cave—Mark darting in and out of the red morning light drifting down from the main passageway. S
ky’s toes creep him into view of Teller’s lurching knees and Mark’s muddy fingers gripping the heaviest object within reach—the strange, wooden globe from the tide pools. Standing over Teller, Mark’s eyes and mouth are full moons, Responsibility fixed below the globe raised high over his head. Mark inhales a gasp that rips the air from Sky’s chest, and with his entire lunging weight, Mark drives the globe downward.
Bone cracks under split flesh. A sucking sound as Mark lifts the globe from Teller’s snorting face. The chopping repeats—a clap, clap, crunch that flattens Teller’s nose, crushes his liquid mouth, broken groans wrenching open Sky’s plugged ears, his flared eyes that must Look—can’t look, can’t, my Friend, my whole life shrieking Please, should not have, should not have to Kill him, please—Kill him quicker.
The striking ends suddenly with a pop—the globe cracks in two against Teller’s face. Pebbles inside the globe spill across the stone floor with the sound of rain, sticking against the red of Teller’s cracked cheeks and caved teeth. The gurgling in Teller’s throat—it slowly drowns as silent, unsuccessful coughs, his lungs attempting to clear their fluids behind a collapsed jaw. His body tries for five more soundless breaths, five more agonies to save itself, and the sixth breath pulls in nothing but shivering, a trembling that increases, quakes and jolts, before it slackens.
The halves of the globe clink and roll to the floor below Mark’s weaving knees. His thick arms are limp, his feet turned inward. This child, Sky’s mind whispers, this stranger. When Mark slumps to the ground and curls up on his side, Sky does not immediately understand the rattling noise from Mark’s mouth, his chest inhaling, reeling up for a cry, and when the sobs do come, they shriek and shudder throughout the caves.
Have to do everything, cries Mark. Don’t want to, don’t want, should not have, not have—
The repeating words—they are Sky’s, his unspoken answers for Tie. From Mark’s wet and twisted mouth, the begging is just as useless—too late to change anything, the words Forever as weak as damp clay. Teller’s crumpled mouth empties itself drip by drip, becoming a hollow Mark’s noise cannot fill, and as the heaviness of the mistake fills the shadows, Sky loses his chance to speak, to Confess, his words for Teller always and from now on missing.