The Dirt Eaters

by Dennis Foon

  “Some say the snow cricket is a mark.”

  “The mark of a Dirt Eater.”

  There’s a silence. Then Saint speaks, his words tentative.

  “There must be a connection.”

  “What if...”

  “That, we dare not even suspect.”

  “It’s why the Friend brought you to him.”

  Saint sighs. “We will protect him.”

  “For how long? He will learn the truth.”

  “He will have what he wants, when the time comes. Now that you’ve met him, can you blame me?”

  “No.”

  Silence. Roan strains to hear more, but they’re no longer talking. He moves away, striding over the cobblestones, anxiously pondering what he’s heard. He wonders if Kira and Saint knew he was listening, if they were speaking for his ben­efit. But does it matter? By “both,” could they mean him and Stowe, his sister? Does Saint know if the City has her? And what is a Dirt Eater?

  “WE ARE DIRT EATERS.”

  “You?”

  No reply. Roan devotes all his concentration to conjuring up his dream teachers, wanting to know more. He focuses, calling them with his mind. But they do not appear.

  Roan’s futile efforts are soon interrupted by the beating of a drum. He walks toward the booming rhythm. Turning a corner, he’s struck by a cacophony of sights, smells, and sounds. A marketplace. People, brightly dressed in robes and dresses of vermilion, scarlet, and emerald, mill about the stalls. They haggle, some over the price of fruit and vegetables, others over stuff Roan’s seen only in books, antiquities recovered from the Abominations.

  He stares in awe at the displays. There are dozens of watches—round ones, square ones, silver and gold—and ticking clocks that all show a different time; yellow rubber ducks, green plastic frogs, red and blue fish, every size of plastic container, some melted around the edges; thousands of shiny discs, large and small, with strange images emblazoned on them; televisions, toasters, blenders, computers, telephones. Many of the appliances look as if they could be made to work, if only a power source still existed. Roan examines them all.

  “Interested in rubber ducks?” barks a woman, big and strong like Kira. “I can give you a very good deal if you take more than three.” Roan steps out into full view from behind the display. Seeing him, the woman retreats. “Pardon me, Brother, I meant no offense.”

  “None taken,” replies Roan.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be the new initiate, would you?”

  “Yes,” nods Roan. The woman steps back and breaks out in a wide smile. “It was you, then, who taught Brother Asp!”

  “No, no, he’s my teacher.”

  “Weren’t you the one who read the book to Brother Asp?”

  “He reads!” says an eavesdropper, moving closer.

  “I only read him the one book.”

  Within moments, several townspeople have joined them. A rotund man exclaims, “We’re reclaiming acres of farmland thanks to you, Brother.”

  Roan, flattered, corrects him. “I’m not a Brother yet.”

  “Thanks be to the Friend for bringing you to our land,” says the man.

  “You know the Prophet?” asks a sad-eyed woman. She looks only a few years older than Roan, and she’s obviously pregnant.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re blessed. We owe him everything.” She looks at Roan’s arm, admiring the blood-sharing scar. “Did it hurt much?”

  “Not really,” answers Roan, “nothing compared to what giving birth must be like.”

  The woman’s face turns red, and she seems to be fighting tears. She steps away. Roan, thinking he’s offended her, bows to everyone, taking his leave. But by the time he turns toward her, the woman is almost out of sight.

  Roan threads his way through the curling lanes trying to find her and arrives at a playground filled with swings, slides, and climbing structures. She’s gone. His village had a park, but it didn’t hold a candle to this one. He’s about to continue on when the cricket wriggles in his pocket. Roan pauses for a closer look. Only a few children are playing. He notices that one boy is limping, and another is missing a hand.

  One little girl squats alone, intently drawing in the dirt with a stick. Something inside Roan trembles at the sight. She’s small with hair like straw, and from this angle...He moves closer, then sighs with disappointment. The girl is at least a year younger than Stowe, and her features are completely different, a sharp nose and thin lips. He notices that she’s covered the ground around her with drawings of the same shape. A triangle, inverted, with a circle on top of it.

  “What is it?”

  The girl, her eyes on her task, ignores him.

  “I’m curious,” he says. “What’s that a drawing of?”

  Seeing his feet, she follows his legs to his face. Her dirty face is streaked with tears. Roan reaches in his pocket, taking out one of Kira’s sweets. The girl grabs it and pops it into her mouth.

  “Why are you crying?”

  She doesn’t speak, just points at one of the triangles.

  “Does it make you sad?”

  She points to herself and shakes her head. It hits Roan. She’s mute.

  “Can you hear me?” he asks and points to his ears. “Hear?”

  She shakes her head no.

  A shadow crosses over both of them. Saint. He towers over the little girl, his face grim. But when the child’s face raises to greet him, he smiles.

  “Hello, Marla,” Saint says slowly, so she can read his lips. “Feeling blue today?”

  She nods.

  “Do you know what this shape means?” Roan asks Saint.

  Saint shakes his head and turns back to the child. “Were you drawing a pretty picture, Marla?”

  Marla frowns and draws it again. Saint picks her up, kissing her on the forehead.

  “There was a power plant upstream. It was destroyed during the Abominations. Leached all kinds of poisons into the soil. Three generations later, and children like Marla are still being affected. But thanks to you, that will soon be a thing of the past.”

  “Brother Asp did all the work.”

  “You were book-learned in Longlight, and you had science to help you. Now, you help us.” Saint carries Marla over to a sandbox, gives her another kiss, and sets her down.

  It’s well into the night by the time they make their way back to the motorcycle. Saint stops every few steps to bestow the blessings asked of him. Reaching the bike, he hands Roan a pair of strange-looking goggles.

  “Ever seen anything like these?”

  Roan puts the thick eyepieces up to his face.

  “Night-vision glasses,” says Saint. “Put them on. You’re the lookout.”

  With a last farewell to Kira, Saint revs up the engine and they head back out the gates, everyone waving and shouting good-bye as they go.

  Roan keeps his eyes peeled through the bulky lenses, but he sees nothing until he notices a familiar sort of structure in the distance. He taps Saint on the arm. Saint nods and accelerates to the spot. The bike’s headlamp illuminates a large waterwheel attached to a building alongside a stream. They get off and Roan runs up to the wheel.

  “It’s a filtration wheel, just like the one I described to Brother Asp!”

  Saint slaps Roan on the back. “I thought you might like to taste the water.”

  “I would,” says Roan. He cups his hands under the outflow and takes a drink. “Not bad.”

  Saint has a swallow and nods in agreement. “Asp has a knack for these things.”

  “I wish I could have helped build it.”

  “You have other priorities,” Saint tells him, and strides back to the bike. Before getting on, he turns to Roan. “So what do you think of Kira?”

&
nbsp; “She’s great,” Roan replies, then asks, “Do you have children together?”

  Saint doesn’t answer.

  “Kira has a nursery.”

  More silence. Roan is about to repeat the question but thinks better of it. Looking up at the star-filled sky, he changes the subject.

  “There’s Taurus, the bull.”

  Saint looks at him. “What are you talking about?”

  Roan’s caught by surprise. “The constellation. Taurus.”

  “Show me.”

  Roan points out the stars that make the bull. “You see that bright star? It’s called Aldebaran. That’s the bull’s eye.”

  “Book-learning,” Saint mutters. He looks uncomfortable. “When was it named?”

  “Thousands of years ago. There’s a band of stars up there, continuous. All the symbols of the Friend are in the sky. The dog, Canis Minor. Hydra, the snake. Corvus, the raven...”

  “That’s enough.”

  Roan is startled by Saint’s tone. “What did I say? Why are you angry?”

  “You must not speak of it again,” warns Saint, bristling. “Some might take it as heresy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Revelation came directly to me from the Friend. Not from stars given names an eon ago. From Him.”

  Saint kicks on the engine, and they motor off into the night. As the cricket scratches in his pocket, Roan muses silently on why Saint is so upset. What does it matter if he knows nothing about the constellations, nothing about the stars? Then it comes to him: What Saint doesn’t know makes him afraid.

  THE TRIALS

  THE BADGER DIGS. IT DIGS AND LIVES UNSEEN BY DAY BUT IN THE NIGHT IT HUNTS. THOUGH SMALL, IT IS ABNORMALLY STRONG, AND ITS PREY SELDOM ESCAPES.

  —LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS

  THE DAYS GROW SHORTER, and though winter is still months away, Saint makes a gift to Roan of boots and a sheepskin coat, crafted by the brethren. Brother Wolf’s training has become more detailed, difficult, and deadly. He pushes Roan relentlessly, forcing him to his physical limit, so Roan keeps getting stronger as his tactical skills improve. He becomes accomplished at using his hands, head, feet, elbows, and knees as weapons, directing his breath to focus power in his bones and tendons. He masters the circle technique, which enables a single combatant to escape a group of assailants. Wolf also shows him ways to distract an opponent’s eyes, how to trick an adversary into reacting, and, when attacked, how to yield, withdraw, and then strike with full force when least expected. Roan is now adept at the how and when of striking soft and hard. Of being wind or mountain or tiger.

  After one of their reading sessions, Roan borrows a book called The Art of War from Saint’s library. He’d seen his father studying the book, but he’d never looked at it himself. It explains the importance of disguising your intentions, and Roan uses it as a constant reminder. He never tells anyone how he misses the smell of sawdust on his mother’s skin, or the sight of his father’s chalk-covered hands at the end of a teaching day, or the cheery voice of Aiden, calling to him from the street to play. Roan never divulges the terror he felt when Stowe’s fingers were torn from his grasp that terrible night. Or how sometimes, after perfecting a new killing technique, he is so overpowered by exhilaration and self-revulsion he feels like retching. Masking his true feelings and abilities is a constant battle.

  Though Saint never pressures him, Roan is sure the Prophet hopes to access some kind of information from him. Saint is relentlessly curious about Longlight, asking the most mundane questions about life in the village, Roan’s parents’ work habits, what family meals were like, the kind of furniture his mother most enjoyed building. Saint never tires of hearing about Stowe, the games she and Roan played, the tricks they sprang on their cousins, the stories they were told and loved.

  When Roan questions this interest, Saint claims a shared history. His parents and siblings were also killed when he was young. This talk of family helps him remember.

  Roan wishes he could discover what it is that Saint seeks. The more he thinks back to the conversation he overheard between Saint and Kira, the more he’s convinced there is a connection between himself and Stowe and the City. If that’s where she is, he will go there and find her, or die trying.

  Brother Wolf’s training turns out to be good preparation for Roan’s second trial. One morning, at dawn, just after the raising of the sun, Roan is escorted by Stinger and three other Brothers to the streambed. There, he is given a pick and told to dig out a large stone. The hard-packed dirt doesn’t give easily, so it takes Roan a great deal of effort to expose a substantial rock.

  By now, many of the brethren have gathered around to watch.

  “Pick it up,” orders Stinger.

  Roan squats down, squeezing his fingers around the rough stone. With a loud exhalation, he straightens his knees and lifts the rock. Saint steps through the assembly and ap­proaches him.

  “The Friend awaits this offering at the first summit of our mountain,” says Saint. “It must not touch the ground until it reaches Him.”

  “The second trial begins!” announces Stinger with a yell. The Brothers cheer.

  With Stinger in front and Asp behind, Roan walks alongside the stream in the direction of the mountain. The rock is heavy and makes Roan unsteady on his feet, forcing him to walk much more slowly than his usual pace. By the time they arrive at the waterfall, Roan is coated in sweat, and the rock is slicing into his fingers. His legs are sore.

  Stinger squirts some water into Roan’s mouth. Brother Asp checks Roan’s eyes. “You’re doing well,” Asp mouths encouragingly.

  Brother Wolf peers at Roan. “Now the real challenge begins.”

  The trail up the mountain is a clear path, but it’s on a steep grade that zigzags in steady ascent. Roan keeps his breath stable, but it doesn’t take long for him to feel lightheaded with the effort. He can feel blood dripping from his hands onto his bare feet. Sweat pours in his eyes. Blinking it off, he tries to remain focused, making one foot follow the other. Every step hurts, and the concussion of each footfall shudders through his body. Half-blind, his body aching, Roan stumbles, breaking his fall by lurching against the rock face. Pain flares through his side. The rock slips but he clings to it, hugging it to his stomach.

  The Brothers begin to chant: “The Friend awaits. The Friend awaits.”

  Roan looks up but sees no end to the path. He looks down at the stone, wanting to hurl it off the cliff. Then he hears the rat’s voice.

  “DON’T SURRENDER.”

  Brother Asp rushes to him. “Are you alright?”

  “Yes.”

  “PAIN IS FUEL, ROAN. YOU MUST LEARN TO FOCUS IN EVERY SITUATION.”

  “Are you sure you want to continue?”

  “Yes.”

  “USE THE PAIN. YOU WILL ACHIEVE THE SUMMIT. WE HAVE SEEN IT.”

  His cheeks burning, Roan pushes forward. Chest heaving, legs stiff and raw, he lumbers onward, not stopping until he reaches the summit—where a statue of the Friend stands looking down the mountain. At the statue’s feet are dozens and dozens of large stones like the one Roan is carrying.

  “The Friend arose from stone,” Saint cries out.

  As Roan struggles toward the statue, the Brothers chant, “Born from the stone, born from the stone.” They do so until he drops the rock and collapses onto the ground. The Brothers applaud and Roan lies in the dust, gasping for breath, his flesh on fire. The cheers fade into the background at the sound of the cricket. Roan can feel the little insect in his pocket as it soothes his wounds with its song.

  Roan is given a few days to recuperate from his second trial before resuming his regular schedule. Resting in his tent, he practices playing the recorder. The music he makes is nothing compared to that of the best musicians of Longlight, but he practices diligent
ly. The cricket enjoys his efforts. Perched on Roan’s knee, it appears to listen with rapt attention, feelers quivering. Unconsciously, Roan begins a tune from his past, his sister’s favorite song—a tune she’d sing so often Roan would threaten to sew up her mouth.

  “Then I’ll sing with my nose,” she’d say, and hum the old folk tune through her nostrils, grinning wickedly at Roan.

  Now he is playing it, and thinking of her, praying she’s alive somewhere, hoping she’s safe. I’ll find you, Stowe, as soon as I’ve finished these trials.

  The third trial takes place a week later, at the daily sunset ritual. After the sun goes down, Saint calls Roan forward.

  “Third trial. The novitiate communes with the Friend.”

  The Brothers nod in approval.

  Brother Asp, leading Roan to the front, whispers: “The next few trials will be the most difficult of all. Are you sure you’re ready?”

  “Yes,” says Roan. “I’m ready.” Roan has turned to face the assembly when he hears a bleating sound. The Brothers part, and Roan sees Feeder walking toward him, leading a ram by a rope. Feeder and Brother Wolf tie the ram’s feet, then lay the animal on a rock platform in front of Roan.

  Brother Wolf addresses Roan. “Before communing with the Friend, an offering must be made to honor Him.”

  Brother Raven hands Roan a knife. “For the Friend.”

  “For the Friend,” repeat the assembled.

  Roan looks into the animal’s dark eyes. To deliberately draw blood from living things was considered the greatest sin by the people of Longlight.

  “YOU HAVE DRAWN MINE,” SAYS THE MOUNTAIN LION.

  Expectant eyes are on Roan.

  “YOU EAT IT. YOU CAN KILL IT.”

  Realizing the futility, even the danger, of protest, Roan strokes the ram’s head, whispering, “Forgive me.” Trembling, he draws in air, holds his breath, and slices the blade across the ram’s throat. As blood pours out, the animal spasms, then goes limp.

  The ram’s blood, collected in a vessel below, is lifted by Brother Wolf for all to see. Then each Brother dips in his fingertips and puts a streak of blood across his own forehead. Roan, shaking, does the same.