Firstborn

by Lorie Ann Grover

  CHAPTER 34

  PAINS

  Our routine resumes, and everything is as before. One division replaces the other on patrol. The weather intensifies and lessens, with ice freezing and thawing and wind rising and falling. Another sandstorm follows. But this time, Ratho and I are at the mesa, safe on our shelves.

  By morning it has blown itself out. Later in the day, word passes that the Madronians offered mash to the returning patrollers. Maybe mash only serves to dull the senses and memories so we are ready to face Perimeter again after a trial. At least they all returned safely as we did.

  I’ve learned to accept my rapid pulse when Shiz walks near, or Ratho reaches out and touches me. Hiding my thoughts and desires is the only thing I really must control. None will know of the weakness of my amulet if I can help it. If I have daydreams while walking Perimeter, it hurts no one. Dreams are all I will ever have. I’ve decided I will have them.

  Right now it is enough to reign in Mirko whenever we pass Shiz’s Baesa. He swoons, making a complete fool of himself by grinning and nearly drooling. Baesa hasn’t acknowledged Mirko’s craziness. Either because he’s a Singer, or she hasn’t yet fully awakened to attraction. Most rapions don’t until after release. Of course mine would be the one ready to mate.

  In the midst of everything, it seems as if I find a degree of normalcy until one monotonous Perimeter Patrol. The cramping late in the afternoon is a complete surprise. “Ohhh!” I moan as I clutch my abdomen.

  Ratho moves around the fire ring. “What’s wrong?” he asks, kneeling beside me.

  “I, I’m not sure.” Another pain crunches across my hips.

  “Maybe that sidewinder Mirko caught for you was sickened,” says Ratho.

  Mirko looks around my knees and hisses at him. My rapion would never give me unfit food. I grind my fist into my waist.

  Could it be my bloodflow? The blood streams out of my face; surely it will flow straight out between my legs!

  “I think I have a bit of medicinal left for stomachaches.” I grab my pack and jump up. “And I, I think I need to use the trench.”

  “It must be that winder,” Ratho calls to my back.

  Mirko perches in the shrub, and I skid down the ridge, trusting he will alert me if Ratho nears. Not that patrollers don’t respect privacy, but worry might inch him closer.

  At the base of the slope, I straddle the ditch. With shaking hands I check and find no blood on my undergarments. “There’s nothing,” I hiss.

  Mirko chortles encouragement.

  Another cramp bites my gut. A perfect globe of blood drips out of me down into the trough. Tears float over my eyes. I tear open my pack’s secret pouch and pull out the netted sponge Father showed me so long ago. Squatting deeply, I feel for the opening no other patroller has.

  My hand stops. It is too unnatural to push an object into myself. The sponge dangles from my finger by the string.

  “Are you okay?” Ratho sounds closer! Mirko hisses. “I’m just checking, Mirko,” he chuckles.

  I grip the sponge before it falls from my hand and hike up my pants. “Yes. I’ll only be a bit longer.”

  “Well, it’s time for me to patrol. Have Mirko signal me if you need help while I’m gone.”

  I lean against the embankment and gulp down my tears. “I will,” I say, steadying my voice. “Would you bring me back some pinoni to help settle my stomach? I’ve run out after all.”

  “Sure.”

  “But I need the whole plant — with the root.”

  “All right.” His footsteps retreat. He never learned medicinals, so it isn’t an odd request.

  I drop my trousers again. No blood stains the garments, thankfully. I fling my poncho off my head, toss it up so it catches on the bush, and resume my squat. This time I will insert this thing. I am declared male, and this will not stop me!

  I get the thing placed well inside despite my roiling stomach and hesitation to touch myself. It is no different than Father sliding his fingers into a goat for a delivery, right? The tip of the inserted sponge rubs an ache all the way up against my centerself while the thick string brushes my bare thigh. I swallow and pant to ease the violation.

  When Ratho returns I’ll line my undergarment with a pinoni leaf. Hopefully, chewing the stems may help the fiery pain be quenched.

  After swiping a hand through sand, I redress completely. Quickly, I fill in the section of the ditch I used until my blood is covered and then clean my hands thoroughly.

  Climbing the slope, I free my poncho from the shrub. No wonder I’ve had to use a longer breast wrap. I should have faced the truth: my breasts are full now. At least it doesn’t seem I will be big-bosomed like Frana. My smallness is somewhat easy to hide.

  I fling my twists behind my back. Mirko walks by my side, humming a sweetness that calms me. I’ll just lie in the sleeping pit until Ratho returns.

  Mirko and I nest together. The sun sets and a chilled fog from beyond Perimeter billows toward us. Mirko fluffs. The warm, trapped air between his feathers slips from him to me.

  “Tiadone.” Ratho shakes my shoulder until I fully wake. “Here is your plant. Are you feeling better?” I nod a lie. He pulls me up and leads me to the fire. I try to stand straight but bend slightly at the waist. “I’ll take your shift. You look awful, Tiadone.”

  “No, I’m okay.” He brushes the hair from my cheek. I lean into his hand, and his forehead crinkles. Shiz is more handsome, but Ratho would make a good mate. I can’t remember ever not loving him. Even when he withdrew from me, said such horrible things, my centerself couldn’t fully turn from him. His dark eyes narrow, and he places his palm on my forehead.

  I pull away. “I’m okay. Really. I’ll just visit the latrine again. Here, I’ll take the pinoni.” I get up and lurch away.

  “Call me if you need help walking back. Bad winder can really drain you,” he says. I clutch the plant to my chest. If only it was winder.

  Mirko chitters a rebuke at Ratho, swoops around my knees, and rises high into the darkness. He crows as if celebrating! Because of my sabotaging flow bursting past my amulet? What is there to celebrate?

  CHAPTER 35

  TRACKS

  The pinoni stems work faster than I anticipate. As long as I chew a fresh bit occasionally, the cramping eases.

  Firelight fans and falls. At least Ratho finally believed I’m strong enough for my shift, and he lay down in the Sleeping Pit. But now he’s up again.

  “Tiadone! With your illness, I forgot to tell you that I saw tracks along the line at the southern point. Beyond the distant pinyon pine.”

  “Tracks?” I shade my eyes from the fire.

  “Definitely desert cat. Must be moving closer because of the long cold season, driven in for our village goats. The marks turned back out into the open sand, but we need to watch carefully.”

  “Right.” A spark imbeds into my boot, glows bright, then dies.

  Ratho lies down. “I don’t think the cat’s very large. The prints were smaller than my palm.”

  “That’s good,” I say. Mirko stretches one leg then another, and we both peer into the darkness.

  No one has stood against a cat since our arrival at Perimeter. It takes all manner of skill to defeat one before it breaks through the line and attacks the village: goats or children.

  I narrow my eyes to see beyond the flames. There’s nothing out there now. My gaze drifts to the fire, where the glowing embers at the base look like cat eyes. I stare, mesmerized, and wiggle my fingers deep in my mittens.

  The coals flicker like my thoughts do. So much has changed since I have come to Perimeter. My father loves Frana. My bleeding has begun. I have visions shared with Mirko. Unfortunately, we both feel a desire for affection.

  I look over at Mirko, who whistles softly to me. “At least you will mate,” I whisper, “once you return to the Cliffs.” He fills his chest and flaps his wings. When I return to the village, he will mate in love. There is a hope for him after our Severation.
The thought salves my centerself. Until my own future returns fully to mind.

  I kick the sand with the heel of my boot. Oh, stop the self pity. What good comes of it? I have a purpose. I’m raising Mirko for safe return and contributing to the village. There’s worth in that. As Father says, others may declare their firstborn females male with my success. I squeeze my knees close and watch the flames grasp at the darkness.

  CHAPTER 36

  THE GAME

  Spring nudges closer. Mittens, fur-lined boots, and double undergarments are returned for lighter wear. Our chapped lips and cracked skin slowly heal. Most coughs and runny noses fade, except for the youngest patroller’s, Devino. He coughs even now as he passes our bunk on the way to breakfast. So small and thin, it’s hard to believe he is old enough to serve out here.

  I lift a yawning Mirko and place him on the ground. “Come quickly,” I tell him. “Ratho and Thae are already at breakfast.” He nods and trails after me.

  The fresh air sweeps into my lungs. The sun, rising earlier, already crouches on the horizon. I silently greet the Creator Spirit and join a couple of boys at the spring, who leave as I splash water on my face and neck. Mirko dips his beak into the burbles rushing in the trough. He gargles and spews the water skyward so that cold droplets land on my poncho. “Thanks, Mirko.” He smiles, leaps down, and waddles to the Eating Cavern.

  The raucous noise of the Carterea division bings off the walls. Mirko and I slide in next to Ratho. Shiz lurches into us but regains his footing quickly.

  “Sorry,” he says and pushes his offender, Desl, who only laughs in return. Clay bowls are tapped rhythmically against the stone ledge by each boy awaiting his meager portion. Shuffling around his pots, the cook is slow this morning. He barely stirs the slop in his kettle.

  Finally, the apprentice ladles gruel into our bowls from a pot clutched in his skinny arm. The gray ooze plops into mine. A quick spoonful scalds my tongue. “Ow!”

  Mirko whistles concern. I tap the burn against the roof of my mouth and find it’s not bad. “I’m fine,” I say.

  The apprentice moves around the noisy circle, offering gruel to each boy. He looks back at the cook and receives a nod. He skips serving Devino. Bits of anger glow inside me. Why pass him when he’s so sick? It’s obvious the boy is gaunt, and his eyes are glazed!

  The apprentice ladles food into the next boy’s bowl, and Devino is too weak to challenge anyone. I let out a big sigh to cool my tongue while everyone else talks, eats, and burps. Amidst the chaos, I stand with my bowl. Ratho tugs at my arm. “Eat, Tiadone.”

  I shrug off his fingers despite the cook’s glare. When Govern Droslump steps into the cavern, our eyes meet, but I do not stop. I take my steaming gruel to Devino and set my bowl inside his empty one. He stares down at the food.

  The cacophony dies, and the only sound I register is of Mirko’s wings snapping open. I climb out of the eating circle and leave the group as Mirko bugles my defiance and follows.

  Play the game, Father said. Not today. I’ve just stepped outside of the Madronian match. No matter the consequences, I’ve done what is right. It is okay to play if no one is hurt, or we are just uncomfortable, or are forced to work hard. But when a life is threatened, the game has to stop. Frana would say so.

  I walk outside to the north edge of the mesa and slide to the sand. Mirko dives into the lavender shrub. He will find a little breakfast. I close my eyes and let the sun warm my lids. It was the right thing to do. Devino is very ill and needs food.

  Within moments, wingbeats and footsteps approach. “He didn’t touch it,” Ratho says.

  “Devino?”

  “Yes. So when Droslump left, I traded bowls with him. That one he ate.”

  “Hmph.” I open my eyes. “Because I’m declared or because of Mirko?”

  Ratho slides down next to me. “Who knows.”

  “Well, did you eat mine?” I ask.

  “Of course.” He wipes a blob off his lip. “Just as you should have.”

  “No.” I close my eyes again.

  Mirko waddles out with a mouthful of beetles and a wide grin. Legs and antennae scrabble against his beak. My stomach dips. He offers me one by laying it at my feet. It lies on its back with its legs treading furiously. I flip it over, but it’s too maimed to fly away.

  CHAPTER 37

  DISCIPLINE

  The Javelin Govern stomps through our formation. His skin rides the tendons ridging his neck. “Food received is food valued.” I try not to flinch as his eyes drill into mine.

  Mirko leans into my knee.

  “I have been briefed concerning the extravagance shown this morning in the Eating Cavern. As a result, you will drill twice as long today.” My fellow patrollers moan, silenced only when the govern raps his javelin in his calloused palm. “And you will have this extra opportunity” — he stops in front of me, inches from my nose — “by sacrificing mid-break.”

  I stare through the man. Now it is necessary to play the game again. He moves through the rank. To my right, Devino’s rapion is pressed against the boy’s leg. So Devino will miss food, regardless, if there truly was any for today. A huff escapes my lips.

  “And you!” The govern backsteps to me. My mouth saps dry. “You won’t participate.”

  “What?” say the whispers around me.

  The govern lifts his javelin and strikes the back of my knees. I collapse to the sand next to Mirko, who gnashes his beak. His eyes narrow into slits as he stands on his toes. Only my grip on his left leg keeps him from attack.

  “You will carry a message to the lookout and return in time for patrol, or you will receive lashes.”

  “Yes, Govern.” My answer muffles in the sand. A sealed parchment drops next to my nose just as a final kick to my side sends the breath out of me. I curl around the burn.

  “Begin!” The boys start the first drill. Their javelins and arms pulse like the Four-Winged Condor taking flight.

  I grab the parchment, pull my knees to my chest, and rock onto my feet. Bent over, I scurry out of the formation. It would be easy to receive another blow by standing still during this drill. Especially when everyone seethes over the punishment I have drawn on them, which I am escaping. The Madronians stir anger like an old medicinal woman dipping her spoon in a bubbling remedy brew.

  I reach the outside of the formation. Mirko nudges and nuzzles my leg once again. I look to the govern for direction. With his javelin, he points toward the north side of the mesa.

  “The third trail,” he says.

  I tuck the parchment into my poncho belt and jog. Rounding the bend, I count the trails to the third and follow it. It’s steep but eventually arches over an amph and then the Edge of Release. Mirko flies upwards and I climb higher.

  Just before ascending to the top of the mesa, my calf cramps. I slump against the small landing. At least the porous, cold stone cools my moist forehead as the purple rock blurs then comes into focus. The wall curves around me like a cup. Maybe the R’tan carved it as a spot to rest, a nook protected from sudden wind?

  Mirko perches above, a brown spot against a brilliant blue sky. He waits for me to recover.

  I wash a gulp of water over my dry tongue. “I’m coming,” I say, and cross to the final section. Mirko raises his head and bugles. I labor up, grip the handholds, and scramble onto the flat surface of the mesa. Breathing heavily, I gaze across the way. The lookout’s rotunda perches, extending off the edge of rock.

  Mirko sweeps open his wings.

  I heave my pack straight, and tingles pull my spine vertical. “Amazing!” The vast mesa stretches to the south. Across the flat top, red folds into orange and yellow, and, sporadically, purple shadows ring holes where tunnels have collapsed. “Imagine the villas — the R’tan that once lived in this great rock, Mirko.”

  Mirko sings to the beauty. The sun glints off his feathers, and sparkles of light are cast on the pink stone.

  Invigorated, I limp on sore feet across the pebbled rock to the
Rotunda. Mirko walks the remaining steps by my side. It has taken hours to ascend the weaving, steep trail. Midday is here; I will have to hurry down in order to meet Ratho for patrol. This retribution is worse than double javelin drills. But then I am the culprit.

  At least I carry a message that may help our village. My effort has meaning.

  My vision tips left, then right. I steady myself, my amulet swinging out over open space before resting again against my thigh.

  Mirko whistles sharply.

  “Yes, I’ll focus.” The edge of the mesa has no railing, and a stumble would launch me over the side. I slow my pace to walk a straight line.

  The wood landing around the rotunda creaks beneath my boots. The area is empty, as no patroller serves here currently, though a thick scent of simmering meat drifts to me from under the black door. I bend over and draw in a deep breath of sweet, moist meat. Maybe goat? I haven’t tasted any since I left Father.

  Mirko nudges me forward at the same time the door bangs open. A grizzled, yellow-tinged Madronian crosses his arms and plants his knobby feet so wide that my entry into the rotunda is impossible. His brown robes droop, an echo of his skin on his bony frame. Mirko’s warning hum draws the man’s startled look, but the stranger recovers.

  “Well, patroller?” His voice tumbles up his bumpy throat and out his squinched mouth.

  I offer the gesture of respect, but he does not return the honor to me. I quickly remove the Javelin Govern’s parchment.

  He takes it without touching me and fully opens it. “Yes. Yes. I see.” The spittle on his lips bounces and stretches thin with each word. “As you can see” — he flips the document for my view — “it is blank.”

  My mouth hangs open. “What? I have climbed — ”

  “You have wasted my time, patroller.” He turns his hunched back away from me and slams the door shut. Clunk. The scent of goat meat is swept away.