by Beatty, Cate
Her knife. The backpack. Where was it? It flew off her arm when she fell. She craned her head, looking around to find it. It lay in the water, many feet from her—one strap barely hooked on a rock. The backpack floated, bubbling up and down with the current.
She tweaked the wire again. No use. It just cut tighter into her ankle. She twisted around carefully and stretched out to one of the trees, hoping to untie the wire. The trees stood out of reach, and she involuntarily cried out again. Every time she moved, the wire cut deeper into her. It sliced right through her sock, which was red from blood, and embedded itself into her flesh.
She sat for a moment, thinking. A long stick lay on the ground within arm’s length. Leaning back toward the stream, she tried to get hold of the backpack with the stick. It reached. She manipulated the stick to the strap, ever so carefully. She winced and tears filled her eyes. Each movement she made, no matter how slight, tortured her leg. She got the stick under the strap and tugged cautiously. The pack moved, slipped off the stick, and floated downstream.
“No, please! NO!” she cried.
She watched in dismay as it drifted away and filled with water, soon to sink. All she had vanished before her. She had so little, and now…nothing.
Desperation took over. She looked for anything. Close by she spied a few small stones. She whacked at the wire with them, to no effect, except to cause it to tighten even more. She tugged and yanked on the wire even more, attempting to break it free from the trees. She wept, blood staining the ground under her foot.
She lay back and tried to relax, breathing deeply as Jack taught her. Thirst plagued her. The pleasant gurgling of the water taunted her. It was so close. She looked around and found a small branch with leaves on the ground near her. Picking it up, she stretched it over her head to the stream. It was just inches too short. She’d have to extend herself further. Her ankle throbbed in pain—bitter, piercing pain. She pulled back. Pain and thirst were two awful antagonists, vying for her attention. Thirst won for the moment. She steeled herself and pursued the water again, stretching and biting her teeth against the anguish. The branch dipped into the precious liquid. She brought the leaves to her mouth and sucked the water off them. She repeated this a few times. It brought a measure of relief. She relaxed and breathed slower.
Was this the end? To die in an animal trap? She took the photo of her parents out of her pants pocket and stared at it. After a while, she slipped it back.
The sun moved lower on the horizon, leaving her alone without warmth, without light. Her leg didn’t hurt as much. The throbbing decreased. She wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or bad. Sitting up and glancing at it, she winced as the movement brought a slice of pain. Blood covered her shoe. Her foot squished inside the drenched sock. Then she used the branch to get more water, repeating the method a few times.
She absently turned her head to her left side and gasped. Two feet away slithered a snake. She froze. It stopped and stared at her with its unblinking eyes. With her right hand, she groped on the ground near her for a rock, for a weapon, for anything. All the while she didn’t move her head. She kept staring at the snake, which she recognized as a rattlesnake.
The reptile reclined on the earth near her. It was not coiled—not ready to strike. The creature began to slither again—toward her. Its forked tongue licked in and out of its mouth. But it still wasn’t coiling to a striking position. Joan’s right hand found a rock—a small rock. She fingered it and wished it were bigger.
Steeling herself, she swung the rock over her body and smashed it on the snake’s head. She hit it, but it squirmed and twisted. Its fangs shot out. Poison droplets dangled from the ends of them. Joan used her left hand to grab its neck—or what one might describe as its neck. She caught hold an inch below the head. As she did that, she kept hitting with the rock, trying desperately to keep the fangs and their poison away from her. The body of the snake writhed, and the beast flung wildly around, thrashing Joan in the shoulder and face.
The power—the intensity—of the monster shocked her. It had appeared such a graceful, slender, and fluid creature. But it was all muscle. Strong muscle. Joan did not let go. She pounded again and again. Eventually, she felt its strength lessen. Its body stopped flinging at her and began slapping against the ground. Joan continued hitting the head, stopping when she realized she pulverized the head completely.
She lay back and caught her breath. In the fast approaching darkness, she couldn’t make out if the fangs had punctured her hands, if the animal had poisoned her. The cadaver lay so close to her. With a stick, she shoved at the animal, pushing it away from her. But she couldn’t quite push it far enough. Its carcass lay a few feet from her, and its malodorous smell invaded her nostrils.
She rested, staring up at the branches of the tree. The small flowers on the leaves changed color in the setting sun. The white blossoms now appeared gray. In the blackness of the rapidly approaching night, a chill seeped into her. She maintained her body warmth as best she could, pulling her arms around her and trying to crawl into a fetal position. Her leg throbbed. When she reached a good position, she stopped moving and listened to the sounds of the forest.
They seemed different from the last couple weeks—more threatening. She was totally helpless, and every noise from the forest sounded sinister. Each one meant danger. The stars were barely visible through the trees above her. No moon shone. She drifted in and out of sleep, waking often, at every little sound, and shivering from the cold—and maybe from fear. Once, she heard a twig snap. She jerked her head toward the sound, clutching a small rock. Then she heard nothing. No further sound. No movement. She thought of the dead snake near her.
The following morning she awoke, and the sun shone brightly. It couldn’t have been too late in the day, but the heat already accosted her. It was either terribly cold or hot in this part of the continent.
Using the branch, she reached out to the stream and brought the precious water to her mouth. As she did she spied the carcass of the snake. It moved, rising and falling. Staring in fear, she realized it was covered in ants. The black insects were devouring it.
Disgusted, she turned back to the water, trying to satiate her thirst. After a few dips of the branch in the creek, she pulled out the photo of her parents. Looking at them gave her strength.
Something tickled her leg. She sat to inspect it and gasped. Ants crawled over her ankle. Their black bodies coming together, seeming to form one large black slithery animal, gorging itself on her blood and her flesh. Madly, Joan swiped at them. Screams escaped her lips. The pain came back with a vengeance. As she brushed at the insects, she wept, but no tears came—she was so dehydrated.
Abruptly, someone stood beside her. She couldn’t make him out; the sun shone from behind him, blinding her. He held something in his hands. Joan saw the glint of the sun on the object—a knife. Frantically, she tried to get away, yanking hard at the trap. The wire cut in deeper. Pain shot up her leg and up her spine. Then blackness.
19
Joan regained consciousness in a small clearing with a fire burning in the middle. It was night. She was lying on the ground, her head propped against a log. A colorful blanket covered her. Her one shoe and the boot sat next to her. Across the fire six feet away, a man sat, staring at her.
She had never seen anyone like him in her life. Fear shot through her, panic. He must be a barbarian, like she learned about. His skin had a ruddy complexion, darker than hers, but not near as dark as Kaleb’s. His black hair, perfectly straight, fell long upon his shoulders. No men in the Alliance had long hair. The fashion was short. Something hung in his hair—a feather woven into it. She didn’t move. Maybe he wouldn’t notice she had awoken.
The man stood up. He wore pants and sandals but no shirt. Joan was not accustomed to seeing shirtless men; even at the Center, they were always fully dressed. He looked about thirty years old, with smooth, taut skin. The firelight danced, yellow and gold, on his body, casting shadows to and fro. H
is left arm was badly scarred—a burn. The disfigurement ran up the length of his arm to his shoulder and neck.
Joan could barely see into his eyes, but what she saw calmed her. While Garth’s eyes displayed a lack of humanity, this man’s eyes presented the opposite. They gleamed dark, like Kaleb’s, but more brownish and coffee-tinted than black. There was something soothing at them. But all the same, dread of him consumed her. He was a stranger, and he was different.
He walked over, reaching into a bag that hung at his belt. He squatted down next to her and extended his hand. She recoiled in alarm. He handed her the photo. She remembered. She held it when he came upon her in the trap.
Joan cautiously took the picture. Too frightened to speak, she tried to say, “Thank you.” Nothing came out. Her mouth was parched.
She sat up against the log, grimacing from the sting in her ankle. He pulled the blanket back from her feet. Leaves wrapped around her wound, oozing out a gooey fluid. Although the leg ached, the liquid salve offered relief. Her feet were near the fire, and the warmth spread through them. Matches had been in her backpack, but Joan had been too afraid to ever use them to make a fire. She hadn’t wanted to draw attention to herself.
“Hungry?” he reached toward the fire. Straddling the fire on sticks were carcasses of two small animals. He handed one to her.
She struggled to sit up straighter. “Thirsty,” she managed to utter.
He reached over and handed her a leather water bag. Joan had never seen one before. She popped the wooden nozzle, put it to her mouth, and greedily squeezed the bag. Water burst all over her face and neck. A small smile crossed the man’s face. He took the bag and demonstrated for Joan the proper method for use. A second later, she was gulping enthusiastically.
When she finally quenched her thirst, the man pointed to the food beside her. “Eat.”
And she did. The meat was hot. The fat dripped off it, down her face and hands, and she licked it up, savoring the rich, oily flavor. In the last month, with the exception of the meal from Hazel, all she had eaten were energy bars and the occasional wild fruit or berries. While watching her, the man returned to the other side of the fire and ate the meat.
“Who are you?” he asked, as he picked meat off a bone.
Three words—the most he had as yet spoken. He had a different tone of voice—a powerful, intense, clipped way of talking.
Joan cleared her throat and said, “My name’s—,” she paused. It was still unfamiliar for her to say it out loud. Even out here in the wilderness, the System still had power over her.
“Joan Lion,” she whispered.
He stared at her. His gaze shifted to her right hand—the tattoo. Joan hurriedly tried to cover it with her left hand. Did he know who she was? What she was? Would he turn her in for the reward, too? Unsure how to handle the situation, whether she should she talk or be quiet, Joan choose the former.
She tried to deflect from her tattoo, “What’s your name?”
He spit a small piece of bone out of his mouth, “Arrow Comes Back.”
Joan was mystified. What kind of name is that? she wondered.
“Thank you for cutting me loose,” she gestured to her foot. No response. He tossed a bone into the fire.
“Was that your trap?” she queried, trying to make conversation, to stave any attack.
He jerked his head up. There was a flash of aversion in his face. “Ah, no. Mountain men. They use traps. I’m a hunter.” He motioned to his bow and arrow nearby.
“Where’re you from?” she felt courageous enough to continue questioning him.
He nodded to the west, “I’m of the Children.”
“The children?” Joan asked, confused.
“Yes, I’m one of the Children.” After seeing her puzzlement, he continued, “The Children of the Fallen Star. Our summer camp is two days west.”
“Where exactly are we?”
Arrow Comes Back stood up, brushed off his hands, and reached for a small object sitting near the fire. He offered it to her. “From the snake.”
Joan stared, not comprehending.
He shook it, and it rattled. “The tail. The rattle. You killed it.”
He meant it as a trophy, as if she should be proud. The thought of the snake disgusted her. The sight of the smashed head was still fresh in her mind. She thought of the ants devouring it and trying to devour her, as if she and the snake were the same. She shook her head, “No. I don’t want it.”
He shrugged and slipped it into the bag at his waist.
“Sleep now.”
Standing beside her, he bent over and lifted up the blanket to crawl under and alongside her.
“No,” Joan exclaimed, pulling the blanket from his grasp and tucking it in close to her.
“Only one blanket,” he said matter-of-factly.
Thoughts of Garth returned to her—what she barely escaped, what he wanted to do to her. She picked up the boot and held it in a threatening manner, ready to strike him. He raised his eyebrows, but he understood. He returned to his side of the fire.
“Sleep, Joan Lion.” When he said her first and last names, it sounded as one word. He lay down with his back to her, near the fire.
In what seemed just seconds, Joan heard his breathing—slow, regular, and steady. He was asleep.
When Joan awoke the next morning, Arrow Comes Back was climbing onto a horse, just outside the small clearing. She had not seen it last night. He had two horses, she noticed. With his bow in his hands and quiver slung over his tan shoulder, he said, “Hunting. I’ll be back soon. Eat. Rest, Joan Lion.”
He was a man of few words, but when he did speak, it was with honesty and directness. As a young boy he had been strong, sturdy, and agile—a popular leader among the kids in his community. Every skill came easily to him: hunting, archery, fishing, and running. His name had been Straight Arrow.
At age ten, a fire in his family’s tent burned out of control with flames leaping onto the young, sleeping boy. The blaze burned the left side of his body. Like lightning, it had streaked up his arm, across the front of his shoulder, and to his neck. The conflagration enveloped his legs, burning down to the soles of his feet. It had taken only a few seconds for the fire to do its damage.
It took months to heal—painful, tortuous months. Then the healed skin had tightened up. He could barely move. Slowly and meticulously, he worked his legs and arm by stretching them. While his friends were running, hunting, and playing, he learned how to walk again. His friends stopped coming around. They called him Broken Arrow. In his spare time, when he wasn’t exercising, he taught himself how to carve. In carving he found something he could control—unlike fire. Out of a lifeless hunk of wood, he made beauty. It calmed him. He spent hours chipping, cutting, and hewing away with his knife at any piece of wood he found. It amazed him that through an act of violence and ferocity—that of the knife attacking the wood—something of splendor, beauty, and strength could be the end result.
He kept exercising and working his damaged skin and muscles. He spent days in the forest alone, replenishing himself: replenishing his physical strength, his emotional strength, and his spiritual strength. Over the next few years, he developed back to what he had been—a strong, energetic, skillful young man. His name changed again.
Joan watched him ride off with his quiver full of arrows, bouncing leisurely across his bare, muscular back. Beside her lay a knife. He recognized her nervousness. Next to the knife sat apples—wild apples that were small, rough, and uneven, not at all like the large, round, and red ones back home. Near the apples were what appeared to be cookies and a strip of dried meat. She gobbled down the apples, their tartness causing her face to crinkle. A month ago, the flavor of a simple apple could never have been so enjoyable. Next she tasted the meat. It was tough, and she had to pull hard with her teeth to rip a bite off. She found it quite flavorful, but she couldn’t identify the herbs in it. Picking up a cookie, she smelled it. It gave off an aroma of sugar and nuts. She
took a bite, and an earthy flavor of nuts and syrupiness floated through her mouth. She devoured both of them.
She stood up to test her foot. It ached. She could stand, but it gave out from under her when she tried to walk. She couldn’t leave.
It was early afternoon when Joan heard horses approaching. She sat up, clutching the knife. Arrow Comes Back appeared through the trees. She breathed a sigh of relief. He tethered the horses and came into the clearing. Blood oozed from his hand.
“Joan Lion, my knife?”
She handed it to him.
“What happened?” she asked.
He ignored her, went over to a bush, and sliced off a large branch. A liquid began leaking out of it—the same that was on her ankle. With his one good hand, he tried to squeeze it out on his injury.
“Here, let me do it,” Joan offered.
He went over and knelt beside her. She took the branch and applied the salve to his wound. It looked like deep bite marks. Then she tore off long leaves and placed them around the wound, wrapping it up, like she had seen the physical therapists do hundreds of times at the Center. He watched her intensely.
When she was finished, she said, “There you go.”
He circled around the fire and sat down across from her. Regarding her with his head cocked to one side, he said, “Thank you.” Usually those two words are uttered without meaning, in a perfunctory manner—a throwaway phrase. When Arrow Comes Back said them to Joan, they came straight from his heart, his very being, as if they were a part of him.
“What happened?”
He shrugged, “Ah, I found another trap. It caught a fox. I thought it was unconscious, so I tried to free it. But it wasn’t.”
“Why’d you do that?”
He gazed at her with surprise. Joan didn’t comprehend the predicament she had been in just the day before.
“I don’t like traps. The animals suffer. When I come across any, I either free them or put them out of their misery.”
Suddenly, a flock of birds took flight from a nearby tree, startling Joan. Her recent time in the wilderness taught her birds were a good indication of danger, a warning signal. She paid attention to them. Now was no different. Worry etched her face. Arrow Comes Back watched her, as he began skinning two small animal carcasses.