Donor 23

by Beatty, Cate

He handed her the bag of shells, and they spilled onto the ground. Joan bent to pick them up, while Old Owl turned to walk off into the thick part of the woods.

  “Where’re you going?” Joan asked.

  “To visit my ancestors.”

  Joan finished picking up the shotgun shells and watched as the old man disappeared from sight into the trees. What did he mean? She decided to follow him.

  She slinked behind him for fifteen minutes, staying at a distance and walking quietly, like Arrow Comes Back did when he stalked the deer. At one point Old Owl stopped and sat on the ground, cross-legged. Joan stopped, too. She waited. He didn’t move. His eyes closed. He almost seemed to not be breathing. Would ghosts appear?

  Suddenly he said loudly, “Following me, Lionheart?”

  She sighed and approached him, “Sorry.”

  “You’re a better shooter than stalker.”

  She smiled, “I was just curious. I…Sorry to disturb you. I’ll head back.”

  She turned to leave.

  “Did you settle your curiosity?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t understand what you meant. The ‘visiting’ and all.”

  “My relatives speak to me here.”

  “Speak to you? You really hear them?”

  A small smile crossed his face, “Not with my ears. With my heart.”

  Joan didn’t understand, and he sensed her questioning.

  “We are creatures of this world—creatures of our physical bodies. We see with eyes. We feel with our hands. You have a picture of your parents to remind you—a picture to hold with your hands, to look at with your eyes. I don’t. But these trees…” he pondered a minute. “This thin sapling here.” He motioned to a seedling of a tree, still bright green, the bark not yet turned brown and rough. “It reminds me of my little sister. She died when she was young. And see that big tree there.” It was an old tree, a thick trunk, with weathered bark. “That makes me think of my father. I sit here with them—with all of them. They speak to me, to my heart. You have a strong heart, Lionheart. You’ll hear your parents, your family. Hunyewat will help you.”

  Hunyewat. Joan was familiar with the name. It was the Great Spirit of the Children of the Fallen Star. During her time in the camp, she had learned that the Children and many others believed in some sort of Great Spirit. They called it by different names. Isabel called it God.

  One Who Sees had explained to Joan that Hunyewat gives them all they have—the warmth of the sun, the camp, the plants, the food. Joan had looked at her skeptically, while she explained. It was not that Joan did not believe in any Great Spirit or that all the difficulties she had experienced caused her to lose such beliefs. It was simply that such a concept did not exist for her, did not exist in the ghetto, and did not exist in the Alliance. It was alien to her.

  Being a donor, One Who Sees had understood Joan’s puzzlement and told her, “I know. It’s strange to understand, coming from the Walled Nation. Old Owl says that even if we don’t know of Hunyewat, it doesn’t matter. He knows us.”

  Now Joan remained standing there in the forest next to Old Owl. Finally, he uttered with his usual irritation, “Go now, woman. I want to be alone.”

  Joan started back along the same path she had just walked.

  Over his shoulder, Old Owl added with kindness, “Lionheart, don’t go back along the path I just walked. Make your own path.”

  Carrying the rifle, Joan walked back through the thick woods. At one point she stopped and sat down, cross-legged, leaning against a tree. She didn’t know what she was doing and wasn’t sure what would happen. But she sat there silently for a while. Did Hunyewat really know her?

  She looked at the trees and concentrated on them. Touching a tree, she thought of her parents. Her parents. They were warm and gentle. The trees are warm. They burst and grow with life, change with the seasons. They breathe. They give us the very oxygen we breathe, so in a sense they give us life. She wished she could hear her parents’ voices. Were they with her, as Old Owl told her? Would they help her do what she must do? She wished they were here. To give her strength. To forgive her. Perhaps she had to forgive herself.

  Two birds abruptly flew near, and one landed on a branch. The second bird flew in circles, singing and tweeting musically. It chirped without end, as if its life depended on it. The melody was tragic and sad—a lament—but at the same time it was inexplicably lively and hopeful. Listening to it, Joan thought the music symbolized what was within her—her thoughts put to melody, her life in song.

  She was Joan Lion. Like Bash explained to her, she had to know her own self. Old Owl was right. She would have to make her own path. She didn’t realize it yet, but it would be a dark, emotional path. The trees along it would be scarred and marked from her sins, but it would be her own path.

  The Alliance flashed in front of her—the System, and what it had done to her. What it had made her do. No more, she vowed. No more. She would forge her own path now. Joan stayed there like that longer than she expected. She didn’t even realize how long.

  32

  Duncan looked at the canyon walls, squinting into the sun. Their camp in the canyon consisted of three tents, one inhabited by Nox and the other two by Duncan and three soldiers. Soon an entire platoon would be joining them. But Duncan wouldn’t be there. He had decided on a plan to escape.

  He poked his head into Nox’s tent. “Sir, have a minute?”

  Nox was reading The Life Of Our Heroic First Governor, but he put down the book and nodded.

  “I’m concerned about the army. They’re bringing 42 back here, but he’s our prisoner, a TEO prisoner. Our responsibility.”

  “Your point?”

  “I just thought a TEO officer should be there.”

  Nox gazed at Duncan. Duncan swallowed under his glare.

  “I mean,” Duncan performed it as he had rehearsed it, “I’m worried about ceding our power—our responsibility—to the army. This is our mission. The TEO. You know how the army sticks its nose into everything. Then they’ll take credit for it when we get 23.”

  Nox raised his eyebrows, thinking.

  “I could drive back to the fort. They’re probably just leaving it now. Then I’d be in charge of the prisoner—the TEO would be in charge, that is.”

  Duncan paused to let Nox think.

  Nox nodded. “That may be a good idea. Do it.”

  Duncan packed his belongings and started off in the durable. First he slowly navigated his way to the mouth of the canyon. After that, when no one in the canyon could see him, he turned north instead of south and headed for the camp of the Children.

  He drove as fast as possible through the rough terrain. He experienced difficulty navigating because the durable had no compass. The army car had been cannibalized from others, just to ensure it drove. Duncan had almost laughed when he first saw the durables driven by the army out here. Although he drove a new car at home, he was used to seeing the jerry-rigged cars back in the Alliance.

  Out here in the wilderness, the situation was even worse. The durable he drove had no windows or mirrors. The seats were planks from what looked like a boat. The steering wheel was an old, round silver platter. As he drove he thought of its history—of the pre-Impact people who would have used the serving platter, offering food to their friends and family on it.

  There were no roads, and it was slow going. After bumping hard over a large rock he hadn’t seen, the durable broke down. Spying three men on horseback in the distance, he hesitated to wave them over, but it was too late. They headed his way. He hoped they were Nomads and could take him to the camp. He wasn’t armed. Since he wasn’t an army soldier, regulations did not allow him to carry weapons.

  The three men rode up, dressed in unkempt clothes. As if in some sort of uniform, all were shaved bald. Scraggily beards hung from their faces. Interwoven in their beards dangled beads of different sizes, shapes, and colors. Tattoos covered the visible parts of their necks. Duncan recognized them from one
time at the fort. They had gambled, bought liquor, and gone on their way.

  In an authoritative manner, Duncan coolly informed them of his need to get to the Nomad camp, Pax City. He did not mention anything about Joan. They kept looking around, wondering if he were really alone.

  “What’re you doing out here alone for, anyway?” one asked.

  “Official business.”

  They glanced at each other, “Deserter?”

  “No. I told you official business. I’ll buy one of your horses. I have money. It’s the paper Alliance money, but it’s good at the fort. You know that. I’ve seen you there.”

  “Yeah, we go there cause we don’t mind taking your money in cards and trading a little with you people. But we don’t care much for your type. Don’t like ya out here in our part of the country.”

  With that one pulled out his gun, “Nobody’s going to find one soldier, a deserter, way out here.”

  The other two got off their horses and approached Duncan.

  Pulling out a knife one of the men remarked, “Don’t let’s waste a bullet on him.”

  The other held a stout, short, heavy baton.

  “He’s a little guy. You can take him easy.”

  Duncan acted swiftly. A kick to the head knocked the man with the knife to the ground. The other one lifted the baton in the air, but Duncan rushed him before he had a chance to swing it and wrestled him. They both fell. Duncan banged the man’s hand on the ground, causing him to drop the baton. He jumped up.

  As that happened, the third man dismounted his horse and came at him, gun drawn. Without wasting any time, Duncan kicked the gun out of the man’s hand and picked up the knife the first man dropped. The third man rushed Duncan. Instinctively, Duncan stabbed him in his abdomen and twisted the knife up and in, toward his heart.

  Duncan felt the man go limp in his arms. He dropped the man, and out of the corner of his eyes saw a hand picking up the baton. Swiveling around to face the other two, he was met with a stinging blow to the head. He fell to the ground, and more blows followed.

  Duncan came to tied up and thrown over the back of a horse, bouncing along the dirt. His face hung down, staring at the horse’s underside. The taste of blood stung his mouth. Pain shot through his chest with each step of the animal—most likely his ribs were broken. He coughed, and he felt a dribble of blood slide out of his mouth. It rolled in a trickle over his cheek, to his eye, to his forehead, and onto his hair. He watched the drop dangle from a lock of his hair, swinging back and forth with the sway of the horse, until it dropped to the ground. Joan, he thought, he wouldn’t be able to warn Joan.

  Joan gathered up the blankets to take them away from the tent and shake them out. They performed this daily chore to help keep the tent clean. She had piled about four blankets and crawled out of the tent with another, when Crackling Fire ran up.

  “Some ruffs caught an army deserter. He killed one of them. They’re selling hits on him before they hang him. Can I go, Shima?” he asked his mother.

  “Alliance army? I want to see this,” Reck exclaimed.

  The two ran off before One Who Sees even had a chance to answer.

  Joan looked at her, “What’s this?”

  “They do that sometimes. The Alliance deserters--it’s their bad or good luck, depending on who catches them. Some of the Children or traders may help them get to the western cities. But it sounds like these ruffs…well, this Alliance soldier had bad luck.”

  “Not my problem,” Joan averred without emotion.

  Joan stacked the blankets, picked them up, and turned to leave when she stopped—almost as if a force pushed her. A breeze whispered in her ear. She dropped the blankets.

  One Who Sees looked up, “You OK?”

  Joan’s hand flew to her throat. Her mouth dropped. She couldn’t breathe. She took a step forward, staring toward the direction the boys had run. Her eyes searched, as if she could see something.

  “Lionheart? What is it?” One Who Sees asked, staring directly at Joan, concerned.

  Joan took off running after the boys. A tight crowd had formed around the deserter. As Joan pressed her way through, she heard loud yells of triumph. Bloodthirsty yells, Joan thought. One Who Sees followed her. When Joan got to the front, she stifled a scream.

  Duncan was tied up and hanging by his arms from a tree, a gag in his mouth. His legs barely reached the ground, but they kept falling out from under him, causing him to grimace from the pain this caused his arms. Blood covered his face. The ruffs were allowing—goading—people to hit him. For a nominal price. Some used their hands and fists. Some threw rocks. One Nomad prepared to throw a small knife.

  “You can throw that,” one of the ruffs instructed the man, as he took a coin from him, “but don’t kill him. Hit him in the leg or something.”

  The man aimed and threw the knife. It sliced into Duncan’s thigh, just as Joan screamed, “No!”

  She ran out and stood in front of Duncan. Hearing her voice, Duncan raised his head. It was an effort. He tried to speak, but the gag prevented him. All that came out was a muffled, “Joan.”

  “Get outta here,” the ruff said, as he pulled her out of the way. Joan twisted away from the man’s grasp and yanked the knife out of Duncan’s leg. He groaned.

  Holding it menacingly, she ordered, “Don’t touch him.”

  The ruffs laughed, as did the crowd. One Who Sees went and stood by her.

  The ruffs stopped laughing and one insisted, “Come on, what’s going on? You ladies move out o’ the way. He’s ours, after all.”

  “No, you can’t kill him,” Joan maintained.

  Her eye caught Reck’s, in the crowd.

  “You can’t do this,” Joan continued.

  She faced Duncan. He held up his face to hers.

  “I told you. He’s ours,” the ruff asserted.

  One Who Sees understood the process. “What do you want for him?”

  The man looked at Joan, “Well, what do ya got?”

  Joan had nothing to offer the man. She owned nothing. Looking at One Who Sees, Joan shook her head.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the man uttered. “Come on, outta here. Go.”

  Arrow Comes Back and Bash rode up. Seeing his wife and friend in the center of the commotion, Arrow Comes Back made his way through the crowd to the front.

  “We have a horse,” One Who Sees offered the men, motioning to Arrow Comes Back’s horse.

  The men looked at the animal. Arrow Comes Back understood immediately.

  He shook his head disapprovingly. “Wife—” but the look in his wife’s eyes stopped him. He knew his wife. She never acted rashly; in fact, he always sought her advice and opinions on matters. She saw things he missed.

  “That true? The horse for the deserter?” the man asked Arrow Comes Back.

  It was a fine horse, young and sleek. Arrow Comes Back looked again at his wife and at Joan, then nodded to the man. The two ruffs regarded each other.

  “Well, I don’t know. He stabbed Harry. Killed him. Brought him here to have some fun with him before we kill him,” one said.

  “How about if we sweeten the deal a little, my good fellows?” Bash walked up.

  He reached into his coat sleeve—into what must have been a hidden pocket—and pulled out a small derringer.

  “This is quite unique. Not many around,” Bash continued.

  The ruff stroked his dirty bead-filled beard, contemplating the offer.

  Bash continued, “I have a box of ammunition for it back at my tent. I’ll throw that in as well.”

  The two ruffs regarded each other again. Then in unison, they said, “Deal.”

  As the ruffs walked away, one holding the derringer and the other leading the horse, Joan began fumbling with the gag. Bash pulled out a knife and worked on the rope around his hands.

  Once the gag was out, Duncan managed to utter, “Joan. Oh, Joan.”

  “Sh, don’t talk,” Joan told him.

  Her hear
t skipped a beat, as she heard him say her name for only the second time ever. His voice was raspy.

  “No, it’s a trap. Nox. A trap. Can’t go,” was all Duncan could manage before he slipped into unconsciousness.

  They carried him to Bash’s tent, and One Who Sees and Isabel wiped the blood from his face. Joan knelt beside him, as he came to.

  “I think he has broken ribs. Lotta bruising. His head’s banged up, too,” Isabel guessed.

  Also in the tent stood Bash and Reck.

  Duncan said, “Joan.”

  Joan replied, “Sh.”

  “No, ask him what he meant about a trap,” Bash countered. “What about a trap? You said something about a trap?”

  Duncan swallowed. There was blood in his mouth. One Who Sees wiped his cheek and mouth again and dribbled some water into his mouth.

  He took a breath, “Not gonna release your friend, 42—”

  “His name’s Kaleb, snatcher,” Reck interrupted, hatred in his voice.

  Bash held up his arm, meaning for Reck to hold his tongue.

  “Nox’s not going to let him go. Gonna keep him. And he’s bringing the army to the canyon, a whole bunch. To catch you. To take you back. You can’t go. Joan.”

  When he said the name “Joan,” it was not to convey information, not to inform her of the trap. Rather he said it as if he was saying something exceptional, significant to him and him alone.

  “We can’t believe him. He’s a snatcher,” Reck said.

  Joan gazed at Duncan. A bloody lock of his hair stuck to his wet forehead. She reached up to push it away but stopped her hand before it touched him.

  Duncan took a hold of her hand. He grimaced in pain, “Joan, I have to say, have to tell you—”

  Reck stepped up behind Joan, drawing Duncan’s gaze from Joan.

  “What?” Joan eagerly asked with anticipation—hope. “What is it?”

  He looked away, let go of her hand and said, “Nothing. Nothing.”

  Joan sighed to herself and pulled her hand out of his, “You should rest.”

  33

  Arrow Comes Back crossed his arms as he spoke, “I’ve planned attacks, and I’ve defended against attacks. We can still try to get your friend. They think they will surprise us. We have to surprise them.”