She let that sink in.
“Holy shit,” Falkirk whispered.
“They have experience with taking down big insects,” Nikaya said. “It’ll take some convincing. But they might be willing to help.”
“Okay, okay,” Falkirk said, still trying to figure out if she was joking, or hallucinating. “But who are they?”
“You know who they are. A warrior. And a mother.”
She didn’t need to let that sink in.
CHAPTER 4
Home
The herd moved as a single unit across the grass, antennae and abdomens bobbing in unison. Even in old age, without orders from their queen, the Alphas marched in formation, their feet landing in the same tracks. At first light, the sun baked their hides, making them hot to the touch whenever Sheba gently redirected them around a boulder or a stream.
These long walks had become Sheba’s favorite part of the day. She would begin by mounting one of the stronger Alphas—usually Juke or Gai Den, who barely noticed her weight. Sheba did not have to be bigger than the ants to make them follow her. She needed only to be taller. She and Mort(e) once tried moving the herd on foot, and later with a bicycle they found. But putting a saddle on an ant allowed them to move like the Alphas, to blend in. The former soldiers became so docile in their old age, yet still needed their morning exercise to burn off energy and keep from going insane. Sheba and Mort(e) learned the hard way what happened if they failed to keep the ants occupied. In a scuffle the year before, one Alpha died, and the other was so mangled that her sisters began to pick at her open wounds.
Once every few months, an ant would either become ill or sustain an injury, and putting her down became an act of mercy. Though Sheba killed an Alpha in a rage years earlier, euthanizing the animals had become a solemn ritual for her, full of regret and quiet longing for some life she barely recalled. Thus, the ranch became a melancholy place, a living graveyard for a species that would soon go extinct. It didn’t help that Mort(e) branded the Alphas with the names of soldiers with whom he had served during the war, every single one of them now dead. But it was beautiful in a way. Here, the love that the war took away from Sheba could spring again. Caring for these animals, having them depend on her, gave her a purpose. It made it easier whenever she stared at the mountains and wondered what else was out there.
On this particular day, Gai Den bucked a few times as the herd crested the hill overlooking the valley. To calm her, Sheba stroked her antennae. She led the ants toward the brook, one of their favorite parts of the walk. They examined the stream, sometimes conferring with one another like scouts on patrol. She pulled on Gai Den’s reins so the herd could pass. When the last few stragglers took too long, she gave a nudge to get them going.
Sheba drifted to the rear again when the herd climbed the hill, this time to keep an eye on the older ones. Anansi’s legs had become so weak that they shook when she walked. She had one more season in her, at best. Though Sheba had grown to love these creatures, she hated that they showed no emotion whenever one of their own disappeared. With each death, the herd tightened its formation, as though the recently deceased had never existed.
Sheba took so long with the hike that Mort(e) stood waiting for her on the roof of the house, where he had spent the previous day fixing broken shingles. He promised to work on it only in the mornings and evenings, to avoid the sun, so he must have been out there simply waiting for her return. She liked this about him. He once told her that he behaved like a loyal dog because of all the time he’d spent with her.
Mort(e) tipped his straw hat before continuing with his work. Sheba locked the gate to the pen behind her. The ants went about their insect things, cleaning each other’s antennae and walking in circles to scout the area. She watched them for a while before heading to the house.
“When are you going to be finished with that, Old Man?” she asked. “No one can take a nap around here.”
“Thought it would be today,” he said. “The winter really did a number on this thing.” He tossed a rotten shingle. It landed in the grass by her feet.
He asked how the herd did this morning. She said they were fine, though a few of them definitely showed their age. Mort(e) said they would hold off on euthanizing any of them; they had stored enough dried meat in the smoker for now. “Unless you think one of them is really hurting,” he said.
“No. They’re still stubborn.”
“Good.”
He kept hammering away, his tail stiff. Sheba went inside to fetch a drink. While the hammer continued whacking overhead, she sipped the water and thought about what would be left of this life once the ants were gone.
She still had nightmares. No matter how much peace she found in this new life, no matter how much she trusted Mort(e), none of it made a difference. She dreamt of the tall man approaching her as she suckled her children. He towers over her. She tries to fight him. He overpowers her. She runs away. And the worst part: She exalts in staying alive, right before realizing that she has left her children behind. She does not go back for them, because she knows they are already dead. She knows she has failed them.
While Mort(e) suffered during the war, Sheba lived out her days as a pet, with no recollection of the years passing, only images of a soft rug, bowls of food, the warm radiator on her side, the reassuring sound of the kettle boiling. She lacked nothing under the Queen’s watch. Life became so comfortable that she barely remembered her doting master, or the sweet little cat who cuddled with her. Even to this day, she caught herself thinking of her life as a pet more than her own children. Their voices came to her now and then, but only in echoes that soon died out. She had no history to call her own. Only fragments of someone else’s past.
In recent months, she dreamt of the first few days on board the boat where she had transformed. She recalled the smell of salt, and the strange motion of the water. And the dream often ended in the same way, with her commandeering the wheel, spinning it hard to starboard, and heading out to sea. And whenever she did this, the Old Man vanished, leaving her alone in the great expanse, under a sky the color of fogged glass. Sometimes she would see Mort(e) staring at her from a rocky beach until the mist covered him over.
She asked him if their arrangement—a eunuch cat and a fertile dog—was normal in the former world. He told her that normal had become a rather nebulous term these days. She could tell that he had dreaded this question for a long time. By answering it, he admitted that he could not give her everything she may have wanted. He could not do for her what the father of her children had done, back when they were still animals. “If you leave . . . let me know,” he said one night before falling asleep. “Take extra water and some weapons.” No bitterness or resentment. He always told her that things change. They are taken away, or they leave, or they die.
One morning, Sheba noticed Anansi limping by the edge of the pen, favoring her right hind leg. In great agony, the ant pitched forward and dug her mandible into the dirt. Her antennae smacked the ground, reaching for anything but feeling nothing. Sheba stared at her for a while, the awfulness of it freezing her in place. She barely noticed Mort(e) standing beside her.
“I think it’s time for Anansi,” Mort(e) said. “Are you okay?”
Sheba said she was fine. Mort(e) pointed at the shed, where they kept the spade shovel. He offered to take care of it.
“No,” Sheba said. “It’s my turn.”
“I can do it, if you—”
“I’m fine. I’ll do it.”
Anansi had once been the most active of the herd. Less than a year earlier, she slipped out of the formation and wandered off on her own. Sheba tracked her for two days. By the time she caught up with the Alpha, the poor creature was starving, unable to follow instructions. Left with no alternative, Sheba constructed a trap to catch her. She dug a hole in the ground, covered it with leaves and branches, and then lured the ant with the pheromo
ne extracted from the others. Anansi came charging at her. Sheba led her to the hole and jumped over it, while Anansi fell through. When the ant attempted to climb out, Sheba threw her some food. The Alpha ate ravenously, then lifted her head to beg for more. Once she was calm enough, the ant staggered out and let Sheba tie a leash around her neck. Sheba walked her to the ranch without incident, though it would not be the last time she had to retrieve a wayward Alpha.
Euthanizing an ant was a two-person job. Mort(e) retrieved the spade. They used a rope to pull Anansi a little closer to the fence. The Alpha allowed them to lead her to a thick tree stump that Mort(e) had sunk into the ground. Oblivious, Anansi examined the rope with her antennae. Sheba climbed to the top bar of the fence, spade raised, while Mort(e) whispered soothing words to the ant. Then he pulled the rope hard, pinning Anansi to the flat surface of the stump. Before the ant could react, Sheba jammed the spade into the root of the beast’s neck. The movement, which they had rehearsed so many times, took less than a second. Anansi collapsed.
As always, Sheba wrapped her furry arms around the Alpha’s neck and rested her face on the skull. A few of the other ants meandered over, inspected the body, and ambled away. Tomorrow, they would tighten the herd once more.
A few days later, Sheba and Mort(e) hiked to the fork in the river, where they would meet with a representative of Lodge City to trade in ant hides. They carried the hollowed-out shell on a canvas stretcher with handles fashioned from canoe paddles. Whenever an ant died, Sheba lit a fire on the hilltop, signaling to the beavers that they would bring the pelt the following day. The rodents used the material for all sorts of items, from cookware to armor to roof shingles.
Mort(e) had worked out this relationship with Lodge City a little over a year earlier, not long after they first noticed a glow coming from the riverside at night. Sheba asked him what it was. “Just the beginning,” Mort(e) said gravely. Though relieved that there were no humans in Lodge City, Mort(e) said they’d have to move the herd west. Sheba recommended reaching out to the new settlement. She had met only a handful of people while living on the ranch—drifters and traders, mostly. She wanted to see more. Mort(e) told her, once again, that he didn’t trust outsiders, having already seen enough experiments with utopias. His utopia for two was the closest anyone would get.
Sheba wouldn’t let it go. She mentioned all the things they could buy from the beavers that would make life easier on the farm. Flashlights. Solar panels. A real plow. First aid kits. “You said beavers made good hoarders,” she said.
“I said moles.”
“You said beavers.”
One morning, she mentioned it again over breakfast. “You’re going there anyway, aren’t you?” he sputtered. “After all I said. Like I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Yes.”
“All right,” he grumbled. So the next day, they went to the city. Upon meeting the beavers, Sheba removed a severed ant claw from her backpack and said they would like to establish a trade. That afternoon, Sheba and Mort(e) enjoyed a feast of insect stew with Nikaya, the matriarch of the beavers, who agreed to barter with them. Using false names, Mort(e) insisted that the beavers keep their working relationship a secret. Sheba told him later that the old rodent may have figured out who they were. “Good,” Mort(e) said. “Then she knows that if she talks, I’ll kill her.”
On their way to the fork in the river, Sheba and Mort(e) encountered a few obstacles in the trail left over from a recent storm. They waded through a calf-deep stream, swollen by the rain. A dead tree blocked their path. They carefully lifted the remains of Anansi over the trunk. Mort(e) almost slipped in the process, but they managed to keep the carcass from falling.
At the river, they noticed the odor of the beavers’ scent mounds—piles of mud laced with their piss, marking their territory. This angered Mort(e). The columns indicated another expansion of Lodge City. The stink became so overpowering that Mort(e) asked to stop so he could try to locate the source. He spotted the mound about thirty yards ahead. The pile of dirt came up to his waist. Looking around first, Mort(e) kicked the mound, knocking it over. He recoiled when this released an even stronger scent. Sheba asked if he felt better. “Yes,” he said. “Too bad about that mound, though. Must have been a pretty bad storm.”
A beaver named Chingachgook had been their contact for over a year now. He usually brought a wheelbarrow full of items to trade. The beaver knew them only by their aliases, Arthur and Madre. But when they reached the meeting spot, they found no one there. Sheba and Mort(e) set their haul on the ground. She sniffed the area and concluded that Chingachgook had yet to arrive.
So they waited. Small talk about what to eat for dinner that night eventually turned into a two-hour-long reminiscence about the days before the war. Mort(e) said that he liked the sound of rivers—they reminded him of the rushing water in the metal pipes of his masters’ house. As a house cat, Mort(e) found this noise fascinating, along with the leaky radiators and the droning electric can opener. He asked her if she recalled any rivers from before the Change. She said she remembered her master taking her to some body of water, though it may have been a pond.
With no sign of Chingachgook, Sheba suggested that they retire to the ranch. She wondered if something had happened to the beavers. There had been no problems with their bartering before. In their last meeting, Chingachgook even suggested euthanizing one of the ants sooner, as his wait list now included over a dozen people.
“He must have found a better way to make a living,” Mort(e) said, grunting out the last words as he lifted the pallet. “Or the matriarch’s dead, and our little arrangement is over.”
“Would you like that?” Sheba asked. “Would you want things to go back to the way they were?”
Mort(e) paused. “No. You were right. Trading with these people wasn’t so bad.”
A good enough answer, she decided. They headed for the ranch, lifting the pallet over the trampled mound.
Upon returning they went about their chores for the day. While Sheba fed the herd, Mort(e) repaired more shingles, leaving the damaged ones in a pile on the front lawn. The familiar noises of the ranch made her feel safe. Despite the cold, leaves grew on the branches again. They had defied another winter here.
For dinner, Mort(e) barbecued some leftover ant meat with fresh onions. Sheba found the aroma overwhelming. Mort(e) admitted that his sense of smell might be going, and he needed to give it some shock treatment every once in a while.
It was Fifth Night, the night before their day of rest. Fifth Nights always included a nice meal, a fire if the weather called for it, and quiet conversation in the den. For the first year or so, they typically devoted the time to watching movies. The previous occupants of the house left behind an old VCR that drained all the juice in the solar panels. Mort(e) thought that the actors in the films were insufferable, talking in a way that would never work in real life. Sheba, on the other hand, found the movies fascinating. They watched The Wizard of Oz so many times that the Old Man asked for a moratorium. He didn’t understand why people would simply burst into song, especially when hunted by flying monkeys, and he bristled when Sheba suggested that he resembled the Cowardly Lion. When the VCR mercifully died, they moved on to books. In the previous winter, they’d recovered a stash of paperbacks in an abandoned cabin. Mort(e) had started and stopped three books in the last month, the most recent being Paradise Lost. He took it personally when he didn’t like a book, though that seemed to be his way of enjoying it. Sheba meanwhile told him about a volume on naval destroyers of the Civil War, her fourth book about the sea in the last six weeks. Mort(e) asked why she stopped reading the other stories she liked, tales about warriors, both animal and human—Joan of Arc, the Greek myths, all that. When she said she wanted to see the ocean, Mort(e) suggested that they find a canoe and take it upriver, so she could get a taste of the seafaring life. It sounded like a good idea, but she wondered
if he merely meant to placate her. A canoe ride was a long way from sailing the Atlantic.
When the conversation died down, Sheba finally told him that she was worried about the beavers. “Did they have another fight with the bats?”
“Probably,” Mort(e) said. He reminded her that beavers can dig in the ground, and bats can fly away. They’d both be fine.
“Are you thinking about moving the herd again?” she asked.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
They had maybe one more summer here. Whether people interfered with their way of life, or the herd dwindled to a few sickly Alphas, they couldn’t stay forever.
“And besides,” he said.
“Besides what?”
Mort(e) took his time, popping a hunk of meat into his mouth and chewing. “You want to see what’s out there.”
Mort(e) carried the plates to the kitchen. Sheba remained on the couch. She used the poker to flip the smoldering log onto its side. Mort(e) said he would go to bed early. Sheba told him she’d join him soon enough, that she was in the middle of a chapter on a big naval battle. Once she heard Mort(e)’s body settle into the bed, she watched the fire until it died out. Then she quietly entered the bedroom and curled next to Mort(e) and fell asleep.
Sheba woke in a panic. Early morning light penetrated the blinds. Mort(e) sat propped on his elbows, his ears stiff on his head, whiskers fluttering. He smelled it, too. Some intruder—an animal. Maybe more than one. Not Chingachgook. Not a beaver at all, or a bat. Something she did not recognize. She reached for the rifle under her side of the bed. Mort(e) retrieved his. They rose silently from the mattress.
They had rehearsed this scenario many times, so much in fact that Sheba began to resent Mort(e)’s constant need for preparation and planning. And yet, as her heart raced, she watched herself do the things Mort(e) taught her. She belly-crawled past the bedroom window to the hallway. Then she took her sword from a hook and strapped it over her shoulder. Rifles raised, she and Mort(e) headed for the kitchen. No one had been inside. Everything remained in place. The plates from the night before sat in the sink. She gave Mort(e) a thumbs up, and they moved to the den. They checked the peepholes drilled in the wall. She saw nothing, though the odor of beavers now mingled with the mysterious animal scent. Mort(e) knelt by the door, cracked it open. She stood behind him, her finger on her trigger. With the interior secure, they would scan the perimeter.
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