black tiger (Black Tiger Series Book 1)

by Sara Baysinger

  Elijah begins to play an old song on his harmonica. Fitting. This is what we do every weekend, just before our one day off. We sit around the fire. Elijah plays his harmonica, Dad sings, and I paint—if I happen to have the resources. It’s a night of warmth and family, so it makes perfect sense that this is how we would spend our last night together.

  “Elijah,” Dad says when Elijah finishes his tune. “Why don’t you play the song your mother always sang?”

  I look sharply at Dad. Elijah doesn’t remember Mom singing this song, of course. He was too young. But Dad often sang it to us, and every time would remind us that it was Mom’s song, not his.

  Elijah begins to play, and my heart stirs with an unquenchable longing. Even in her death, Mom pulls us together, somehow. The haunting melody strikes a chord inside me, making my soul ache and my spirit yearn for what could never be. Dad’s deep troubadour voice fills the room as he sings the lyrics.

  Follow me, little one, to land of ashes

  Where death has its hold so it seems

  Where rivers flow free and the water washes

  Back the control of the supremes

  I shudder. Because I’ve never given much thought about the words, which are too complex for a simple lullaby. So what does it all really mean?

  Tunnels run deep by the northern line

  When you follow the emerald eyes

  Hidden beneath a blanket of vines

  Is a place where our only hope lies

  Shrugging off my apprehension, I stare at the embers, the glowing sparks for which I was named. Mom always said Ember was a strong name. I remember the night before she was taken away, when Dad was trying to convince her to hide in the fields from the Defenders. I was only eight, but the events are fresh in my mind, as though they’d happened yesterday. It was the same day the older chief, Chief Aden, came to visit the Garden. We had a picnic at school in his honor. Mom seemed distracted all day, like there was something on her mind and she wasn’t really listening to me much all afternoon.

  Then evening came, and we sat right by this fireplace. The flames were out, but cinders still burned, red and hot. Mom looked at me, really looked at me, and she said in a gentle voice, “Ember. I gave you that name for a reason.”

  I pulled my knees to my chest and stared at her, uncertain.

  “When the fire goes out, supposedly dead,” Mom said, “the embers remain, tiny specks of charred wood and ash that have the capacity to start a fire large enough to burn down an entire city.” She offered a strained smile, and there were shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep. “That’s you, Ember. Everything seems calm. The fire has blown over, the White Plague wiped away, and our government established. And then there’s you. Ember. The hidden flake of ash, still burning, glowing, igniting into a tiny flame that will someday blow over the entire nation of Ky.”

  That’s what she said before she hid in the fields.

  That’s what she said before she was taken away.

  And I still don’t know what she meant. I don’t know why those were the last words she chose to say to me, and why, if she knew she was about to be arrested, she didn’t hold me and Elijah in her arms and whisper how much she loved us instead of going on and on about my name.

  Because Ember is a pathetic name. Embers are the last thing a fire sees before it dies.

  ***

  It’s late when I go to my room. Rain begins pounding on the roof in a steady rhythm. I crawl into bed and stare blankly at the ceiling. What will tomorrow bring? All day I’ve tried to keep myself together. I’ve tried to adopt the mindset the government wants me to have: I am lucky to have a career. I am lucky to live in this government where food is given freely…as long as we do our part of the work to keep Ky functioning. I’ve tried so hard to be strong around Elijah and Dad, around Leaf and Judd…and even Forest.

  But now I’m alone. In the dark. And the walls of the dam I built are chipping and cracking and the water is pushing pushing pushing until the levy crumbles completely and a tear slips. And slides down the bridge of my nose. And I’m breaking, fracturing into eleven million pieces. A sob escapes me, and I turn onto my stomach, pull my thin blanket up over my head, and curl into a ball that’s strong enough to keep the whole world out.

  I don’t want to face the great unknown tomorrow. I don’t want to go to the city where I have to monitor every single thing I say. I don’t want to be a robot.

  Outside rain patters against the windowpane and thunder rolls overhead.

  Storms. Nature’s beautiful disasters. Rain. Lightning. Thunder. One giant orchestra in the sky. A symphony of merging clouds and electric energy and anger and fury and raging winds. It’s water evaporated and condensed into hard ice that’s returned to its previous state that floods the earth. It’s chemistry. It’s music. It’s power. And it’s frightening and fascinating all at once.

  My spirit is a raging storm. I am thunder. I am lightning. And I’m terrified that if one thing slips tomorrow, if one little thing goes wrong…

  I’ll snap.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mornings are strange creatures. The sun creeping along the horizon, spying on every living being, sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong. It always rises too soon. It’s the bearer of bad news, the grim reaper, and today—today it’s taking me away from the Community Garden.

  And I immediately feel tired all over. But I force myself out of bed and pull on my brown cotton pants and cream shirt, then set to packing my satchel for the big day. I don’t have much, just an extra pair of clothes and an old paddle doll Mom made me when I was little. And paintings.

  Lots of paintings.

  I pause by my dresser and look over my paintings one last time. We’re not allowed to have paper or paint or pictures. These items are too luxurious for menial farmers like us. The only way I ever painted was when Defender Shepherd covered his monthly shift in the Community Garden. The Defenders are on constant rotation as to keep them from getting too close to the citizens. Shepherd’s shift before the Community Garden took place in Frankfort.

  When I was young, around six, I saw him sitting by the road sketching. I didn’t know any better than to approach a Defender. Or I didn’t care. I saw him and Mom talk often enough, I guess I figured he was safe. I remember marveling at his picture of the orchard, so detailed and perfect. I wanted to have the ability to take a picture and capture it on paper like he did. I remember leaning over his shoulder as he drew––he was much more lenient than most Defenders today. I asked him if I could try. He laughed and taught me some basic rules of sketching. I asked him if he could bring more paper, so the next time he came, he did.

  Since then, he’d gather discarded pieces of paper, pencils, paints, brushes, rare canvases, and any other art supplies carelessly thrown away by Patricians, and he’d give them to me with my word that I’d keep them hidden. I haven’t seen Defender Shepherd in years. I wonder what happened to him. If he got in trouble for bringing paper and paint to the Community Garden.

  I run my fingers over the rough surfaces of the brightly colored canvases. These are the pictures I’ve painted since I was a child.

  Just another thing I’ll have to leave behind.

  Dad is cooking oatmeal when I step into the kitchen. My mouth waters. It’s been a good two weeks since I’ve eaten a real breakfast. No more apples for me, please. I’ll take the bland oatmeal. At least it has some consistency.

  “You ready for today?” he asks while stirring the oatmeal. His voice is weak, and I know he’s trying to be strong.

  “I guess,” I say.

  He finally looks up at me, and the devastated look in his eyes rips every vein in my heart out.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he says.

  Oh, no. Not this again. I carefully sit down in a kitchen chair, lean back and pick at the splintered wood of the table.

  “Um. Yes I do,” I say.

  “You could run away.”

  “Where the shoddy
blazes would I run?” I release a half-hearted laugh. “The city surrounds us. There’s nowhere to hide.”

  “Hide in the fields.”

  “Like Mom did? See what good that ever did her.” I regret the words as soon as they fall out of my mouth.

  Dad looks down at the pot of oatmeal and stirs again, his lips pressed together in a thin line and his face reddening.

  Why do I always say the wrong thing? I never think before I speak. The words in my brain slip from my lips like bullets and I’m left in my own cloud of regret, watching the smoke clear, seeing the aftermath unfold before me, the damage done by words that forgot to pass through a filter.

  But sometimes, Dad needs to hear the hard truth. Because Dad’s not afraid to risk the authorities. “Life before slavery,” he always says. But if he hadn’t talked Mom into hiding in the fields when the Defenders came to question her, she might still be here.

  Dad takes a seat at the table and passes me a bowl of oatmeal.

  “If I hide, the Defenders will find me,” I say more gently now. “And then they’ll kill me, just like they killed Mom.”

  Dad scowls. “Somebody’s got to do something.”

  Who? I want to ask. Who will do something? Who will stop the madness of a controlling leader, careless Defenders, and mindless workers who are more than happy to do whatever the government tells them, even if it means starving to death?

  No one. That’s who. Because anyone who has the guts to speak up magically disappears off the face of the earth. Which is exactly what happened to Mom. And far be it from me to inspire Dad to do something incredibly stupid all because of me getting a shoddy career.

  “I’ll be okay, Dad,” I say. “Maybe they’ll give me a good career.”

  “It’s not your job that bothers me. It’s the fact that I’ll never see you again.” In the brief instant his eyes meet mine, I realize that he’s holding back tears. Apart from last night, I haven’t seen Dad cry since Mom was arrested. He’s the rock of the family. Strong. Valiant. Brave.

  My heart gives a violent twist, and I blink back my own tears because nothing strikes emotion more than seeing a strong person cry. I press my lips tightly together before they betray my own grief. I already decided to be strong today. No crying allowed. It will only make things harder for Dad. So I swallow the burning in my throat and force a shaky smile. I make myself think of the boy I met last night—Forest—and the thrill he made me feel just by the look in his eyes and the touch of his long fingers. And my smile feels a little more genuine.

  “I’m actually excited about getting a new career,” I lie. “And we don’t know that I’ll never see you again. They allow annual family visits.” I shrug. “I’ll see you then.”

  Dad lets out a humorless laugh. “They allow the visits, but they don’t provide rides. It’ll take you a full day just to walk here from the edge of the city. And if you’re drafted to the Line of Defenders—”

  “I won’t be drafted.” Holy Crawford, why does everyone think I’m going to be drafted?

  Elijah walks into the kitchen a moment later, his dark hair flattened on one side. He looks at me, then runs up and throws his arms around my neck.

  “Hey,” I say. “Easy, kid.”

  “I don’t want you to leave.”

  Now I can’t hold back my grief. It slides up my spine, wraps around my lungs, and a sob escapes me as I crush him to my chest. The rest of the morning is spent in tense silence. We don’t want to talk about Career Day, but there’s nothing else to talk about. At noon, we walk toward the farmers’ square.

  Today is one of those days in the middle of autumn when the weather can’t decide what on earth to do with itself. The sun is hot, but the wind is cold. The grass is green, but the leaves have turned.

  Summer is ending, winter beginning.

  I can’t help but compare this day with my life. Because my past is warm and green. But my future looks dark and cold with wiry branches and promised winter storms.

  Leaf and his parents join us on the road. We attempt small talk, but it’s useless. Leaf’s mom tries to lighten the mood with sentences that begin with, “Hey, remember that time when…” and Leaf and I both tense up and exchange annoyed glances because we know “that time” will never happen again. So what’s the point of revisiting old memories? At best, they only create a yearning deep inside us to be children again. Children without worries of adulthood and careers and the fact that one-wrong-spoken-word can get you killed.

  The square is buzzing with Defenders when we arrive. They always send more Defenders out on Career Day, because there is always that one person who is shoddy enough to deny their career and make a scene. Definitely more red uniforms out today.

  The black military jeep that arrived in town yesterday is parked by the courthouse. Standing beside it are two people wearing black fedoras, long black slacks, and vests over crisp white shirts. My heart begins to pound. Only one type of people wear clothes that nice.

  Politicians.

  I stop walking and stare in shock.

  “What are they doing in the Garden?” Leaf asks beside me. “They never come out here.”

  He’s right. Usually they just send a delegate—a politician in training.

  Surrounding them are at least ten Defenders. The first politician to enter the jeep is the biggest person I’ve ever seen, proof that to the Patricians, food is easily accessible. Right behind him, an older man with graying hair slips in. The Defender is about to close the door behind them, when someone shouts from across the street.

  “Hold up!”

  I look across the square to another politician jogging toward the jeep. And my heart stops. With blond hair that practically glows in the sunlight, I would recognize him anywhere, even without the builder clothes.

  Forest.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Forest the Builder…is a politician?

  Unbelievable. He lied to me. There I was, talking my heart out about how corrupt the government is, and he’s running it. The sting of betrayal heats up my face, but the one burning question is, why didn’t Forest hand me over to the Defenders?

  “Hey,” Leaf whispers beside me. “Isn’t that the guy from—”

  “Yes.” I sniff back my sudden rage.

  Forest says something to a tall woman with wavy black hair. She wears a black pencil skirt and a gray vest. Another politician, obviously. And a pretty one at that. She steps closer to him and gives him a peck on the cheek, then walks toward the school, two Defenders at her heels. My fingernails bite into my palms. Forest eases into the jeep, and the vehicle takes off down the road, leaving me seething in the dust.

  “I guess that verifies what we already knew,” Leaf says with a laugh as he watches them leave. “Trust no one.”

  I offer a slow nod and follow him toward the square. Forest is a politician. No wonder he seemed angry at my conspiracies. No wonder he knew about the spies. Forget everything I told you here, he’d said. What he told me about the spy was confidential, but why would he share that kind of information with me?

  When we file into the gymnasium, thoughts of Forest disappear, replaced with a new anxiety. The stink of sweat and heat hits me when I walk in, and the buzzing of talking people fills the air. I hug Dad and Elijah one more time, then watch them climb the stairs to the bleachers where they will observe us getting our careers. I’ll be able to say goodbye to them one more time before loading on the bus that will take me to the city, assuming that’s where I’ll fulfill my career.

  “Good luck, Ember.”

  I whirl around to find Ilene Jackson step through the door behind me.

  “I hope they give you a career you want.” She smiles, the wrinkles around her eyes forming crow’s feet. Her husband, Charlie, steps in behind her, a pillar of support.

  I feel my muscles relax as I lean in to hug them. The Jacksons live down the road from me where they work the vineyard. They’re like the grandparents I never had. And now new tears are stinging my eyes,
so I remind myself not to cry, and I pull away from them. Offering an awkward wave, I quickly turn around before a tear slips.

  I join the others my age at the front of the gym. There are only fifteen of us; the Community Garden doesn’t exactly have the largest population. Nothing compared to the hundreds of thousands of people inhabiting the rest of the megacity of Ky. I sit in a chair beside Leaf and stare ahead, struggling to keep my emotions at bay. Grief, anxiety, anger, they’re all there, threatening to register on my face and fracture my emotionless façade.

  I keep my eyes fixed on the microphone on the stage, push all thoughts out of my head, and decide that I’ll at least try to act appreciative when given my career.

  The crowd quiets down when the tall, skinny woman with wavy, black hair steps onto the stage. She must be a politician in training, since she’s assigning us our careers. She kissed Forest on the cheek. Forest is a politician. Why do I even care? I’m not going to think about that lying son of a jackal right now.

  Her black heels click across the stage as she nears the microphone. Flipping on the switch, she offers a cold, no-nonsense smile and lifts a white envelope in the air.

  “My name is Olivia Doss.” Her accent is neat and clipped, like Forest’s. Why couldn’t I figure out Forest was a Patrician by his shoddy accent alone?

  Stop. Must focus.

  “I will be assigning you your careers,” Olivia continues. “Here I have fifteen cards, each one containing a career that will be assigned to each person in the front row.” She lowers her hand. “When I call your name, please come forward to accept your career.”