Dark Reality 7-Book Boxed Set

by Jennifer and Christopher Martucci

  Chapter 6

  I doze on and off until light begins to spill through the openings around the boulder. I am still shaken by the recurrent nightmare I had, by the past. Time has not dulled the pain, and it has not ended the dreams. They continue.

  My mother is still on my mind. Her death weighs on me with untold heaviness. My throat constricts around the sadness that has collected there. I sit upright, not wanting to be still a moment longer and risk crying. I kick the covering from my legs and stretch. My movements cause June to stir. Her eyelids flutter then open groggily.

  “Is it morning?” she asks, her voice thick and tired.

  “It is morning,” I say and my own voice surprises me. It breaks.

  June scrunches her features. “Avery, what is it? Are you okay?”

  I hate that I have alarmed her. “I’m fine,” I lie and clear my throat. “Must be the way I slept or something. I sound like a frog, you know, a little croaky I guess.”

  “Are you sure?” June looks at me with eyes so wide and vulnerable, I almost feel guilty for lying.

  “I’m fine,” I say and smile. “But if it keeps up, I might be forced to leave the cave and find myself a sweet, deluxe lily pad,” I narrow my eyes and tease her.

  She laughs. The sound is just what I need. Her laughter is delightful. “Hmm, that might work. But I am sorry to say you wouldn’t cut it as a frog.”

  “I wouldn’t?” I ask with pretend surprise. “And why not?”

  June’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “Well, for starters, you hate the smell of pond scum,” she begins counting on her fingers.

  “You’ve got me there,” I confess. “I do find it extra stinky.”

  “Second, you hate eating bugs.” She marks her comment with her middle finger, tallying the second reason, then grins, proud of her clever remark.

  “That is a fair comment. I find bugs as meals revolting.” I nod somberly as if she has clobbered me with her points.

  “And lastly,” she continues.

  “Sheesh! There’s more!” I throw my hands in the air then clutch my head and bow with feigned defeat.

  “And lastly,” she says again with a stern look. “You don’t even like frogs. You can’t be something you don’t even like. You have to like yourself.” She nods her head. She looks satisfied with all that she has said. “So, no lily pad for you,” she concludes.

  I clasp my hands together and interlace my fingers. “Well, that settles it,” I say gloomily. “I guess you’re stuck with me. Lily pads are not in my future.”

  June throws her head back and giggles. Her laughter is contagious and I find myself smiling just before a small laugh slips past my lips.

  “Come on, silly girl. It’s time to get up and start our day,” I tell her.

  I stand and stretch and feel as if every muscle in my body is complaining at once. June copies me and even adds a groan for good measure. Together, we move the boulder blocking our cave and head to the river to wash.

  As we dab ourselves with water, I inform June of a decision I’ve made.

  “So June, I am going out again today, past the perimeter. I need you to do something while I’m gone.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “I need you to hunt on your own today.”

  June freezes where she wades and looks at me, her eyes round with surprise. “Really? You want me to hunt by myself?” she asks. “I thought you said it is too dangerous when you are not close by, that I am not ready,”

  “Well, maybe you should stay put and hang around the cave,” I toy with her.

  “No!” she exclaims quickly. “Uh-uh! There’s no way you’re making me stay inside the cave by myself!”

  “Oh, so you do want to hunt on your own?” I ask as if I don’t already know the answer to my question.

  “Of course I want to, and don’t you dare think about changing your mind, Avery!”

  “Okay, fine,” I say as if she’s somehow convinced me. “You win. You can hunt. But you need to be careful. Be aware of your surroundings.”

  “Yes!” She claps her hands and bounces up and down.

  “Calm down there, Miss Springy,” I tell her teasingly. “I am not sending you out there so you can bounce and play. You have to try to kill something for dinner, and you have to stay close to the cave.”

  I meant to sound playful, but June stops bouncing and frowns. She straightens her posture.

  “I know I am not going today so I can play,” she says quietly. “I am going so I can help. I am going to hunt for us near the cave while you hunt farther out in the woods.”

  Her cheeks are pink. I have embarrassed her.

  “June, there’s nothing wrong with playing and bouncing around. I love that about you,” I tell her. “I was trying to joke around with you. I guess I didn’t do a very good job of it because you are hurt.” I reach out and place a hand on her shoulder. “I never want to hurt your feelings.”

  I am surprised when she shrugs off my hand. “I’m fine,” she says. “You don’t have to keep treating me like a baby ‘cause I’m not a baby anymore. I’m eight, remember?”

  She is eight. How could I forget? I was just a little older than she is when I held her minutes after she was born. I remember twirling and bouncing when I first met her. I remember what the magic of littleness feels like. I do not want her to lose it. I do not want her to feel pressure to grow up faster than she has to. I am the adult, not her. I am here so she can enjoy as much of her youth as possible while learning to survive in the hostile world we live in.

  On a whim, I decide to do something I have not done in a long time. I bounce and splash, scooping handfuls of water and slapping my palms up before the water returns to the river. When my hands collide with the water and smack it, droplets spray in every direction.

  June watches me from the corner of her eye.

  I use both hands to ladle a generous amount then toss it up and whack it as hard as I can. Water cascades over June’s hair. She whips her head around and looks at me, rolling her eyes. She is being stubborn.

  I ignore her stubbornness and continue to caper about, splashing and jumping and laughing. At first, I fake my enthusiasm for June’s benefit. But after a few minutes, my silliness becomes genuine.

  Before long, I am not alone in my frolicking. June joins in. She is splashing, stomping, and flopping in the water, splattering me with as much as she possibly can. My hair is dripping and my clothes are soaked, and I laugh so hard my belly hurts. June is laughing too. She laughs so hard her eyes tear. I guess she needs to see me let loose once in a while.

  “Ah, Avery,” she gasps, but does not say anything more. She does not need to. I can see the relief on her face. She is not mad at me anymore. “I am going to catch a boart today,” she says.

  I am shocked and proud at the same time. The odds of June actually finding and killing a boart are slim at best. I do not wish to sell her short or undermine her intention, but tracking and killing a boart is not an easy feat. Regardless, trying will be good for her, even if it means we will eat a rabbit or squirrel I catch for dinner.

  “I would love to have boart for dinner tonight,” I encourage her and rub my empty stomach.

  “And breakfast and lunch tomorrow too. I am going to get a big one,” she says and sets her jaw. Determination radiates from her. June looks at me then unexpectedly says, “I can do it, you know. I am ready.”

  “I know you are, June. I believe in you,” I say with certainty. “Go for it,” I smile.

  She does not smile, but her eyes shine with satisfaction.

  We play a little longer then I am forced to remind her that my trip will be a long one, and that I must leave now if I want to make it back before the sun sets. We return to the cave and I collect my gear. I reinforce the fact that she must be extremely careful, and then I set off toward the lake.
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br />   I walk through the forest hurriedly. The rustle and stir of leaves keeps me alert. I continually scan trees and brush for any sign of movement, or danger.

  The sun has just risen and the air is already warm and sticky. The woods are rich with the smell of decomposing leaves and logs. I walk for hours. The air quickly becomes stifling. I stop to drink for a moment, and when I do, I look down and notice large, tubular droppings, boart droppings.

  I notice a section of weeds that has been overturned. A small hole has been dug.

  I narrow my eyes, press my lips into a hard line, and stalk past the uprooted earth. I follow and watch the low-growing brush as I clutch my spear. I lower my body when I move, my head moving from side to side. I see more droppings ahead. I continue until I find another patch of ripped-up growth.

  The faint swish of water in the distance distracts me from my trail. My heart pounds. I realize I am fast approaching the edge of the forest where the trees begin to thin.

  I look to the trail then toward the direction of the sound. The rush of water calls to me as if singing my name. I know who lives near it. I know I should stick with following the boart. But I don’t. I follow the strange flutter in my belly, the extra beats of my heart. I move away from the trail and toward the lake.

  I pursue a different animal entirely. I find myself moving toward the rim of the woods. Thin trees are spaced farther from one another and lower-growing shrubs offer little shelter. But I cannot stop myself from shuffling closer. I want to see the other humans again, especially the older boy.

  I inch forward, creeping slowly, until I see the younger children. They are dunking clothes in the water and swirling them around. The woman comes out and wrings what they’ve washed and lays them on flat rocks to dry. The children watch and listen as she explains what she is doing.

  I see the silhouette of another person at the mouth of their cave. It is taller and broader. My pulse picks up speed. He steps from the shadows, out into the bright, golden sunlight, and I have to remind myself to breathe. He is even more beautiful than I remembered. His bronze skin glows in the sunshine, and his short, almost-black hair sticks up on end and looks shorter than it did yesterday. He must have just gotten it trimmed. I am suddenly envious of whoever was lucky enough to run his or her hands through it, close enough to stare into his pale eyes.

  Mesmerized, I move closer. I stand behind a sickly looking bush and poke my head out from beside it. I am sure I look like an idiot but cannot imagine leaving. I want nothing more than to march right over to the family and introduce myself. I want to be close to the older boy for reasons I cannot explain. But the idea of it seems much easier than actually doing it. In fact, when I picture myself going there and speaking to him, when I try to build my courage, my stomach clenches and I feel nauseated. I feel shaky and cold despite the sweltering heat. Still, I know I must go there and overcome the intense nerves.

  I take another step closer, away from the bush. As I do, a man comes up behind the boy. My legs feel spongy. He is about the same height and has identical coloring. He claps the boy on the back, then rubs his hand on top of his head playfully, messing it further. If it is possible, his mussed hair looks better still. He turns toward the older man and gives a lopsided smile. I find myself smiling along with them. I cannot hear what they are saying to each other, but the exchange seems playful, loving even. I assume the man is his father, and I am struck with a pang of jealousy so sharp I clutch my chest. The boy, the man and woman and the children are a family; an entire family intact. I did not know such a thing was possible. June and I were not as lucky.

  I shift my weight from one leg to the next and a branch snaps loudly beneath my foot. Everyone near the lake looks up. Blood rushes to my cheeks and burns there. Then it gets worse. The boy takes off and runs toward me. He is charging for the bush I am standing behind.

  For a moment, I cannot move. I am utterly frozen. But his fast-approaching footfalls force me to act, to move. I stumble backward, then scramble behind a young spruce tree. The boy stops at the bush I was just hiding behind. My heart is hammering so hard I worry he can hear it. I can see him clearly now. He is close, too close, a fact that steals the air from my lungs. I watch him, my body trembling with unfamiliar nervousness.

  His eyes are a brilliant blue-green, pale, like tropical water I once saw in a picture, and his hair is as dark as a raven’s feathers. He is near enough for me to make my presence known to him, and him alone. I know I should step out, yet all I can think is that I am dirty. My clothes are filthy from the hike and sweat coats my skin. But he is sparkling like a gem and I am a grubby stone.

  The knocking in my chest stutters. My shoulders curl forward. I realize I do not want to be seen. I feel something I have never felt before. I feel self-conscious, ashamed of the way I look.

  When the boy moves from the bush back toward the lake, I run away.

  “Hey, come back!” A voice calls out that makes goose bumps emerge on my skin. It is him. It is the boy. He has seen me. “Why are you running?”

  Heat blazes up my neck and sets my face afire. Hot tears burn down my cheeks and blow back into my hair. I do not know what I am more embarrassed about, the fact that I chickened out and ran from him, or the fact that he saw me looking as I do.

  I hear fast footsteps gaining on me, but I do not stop. I am humiliated. I wish I were braver. I wish I were cleaner. But I am neither. And I do not want to meet him like this. I push myself and move quickly, disappearing into the woods.

  I run toward the cave, back in the direction I hiked from, until the landscape becomes too tangled to run. I slow then stop and listen. I do not hear the rustle and crunch of footfalls atop brush and feel confident I am not being followed. I crouch and catch my breath, and silently scold myself for running away. Finding other human beings is everything June and I have ever hoped for. I failed her. I failed myself. I have no idea what came over me. I have faced off with boarts and other wild animals. I have seen death and destruction that haunts my days and nights, yet talking to the bright-eyed boy with the suntanned skin terrifies me in a way I cannot explain.

  I rest for a moment until my breathing becomes less labored. I stand, still feeling the effects of shame prickling my insides. But when I turn, the prickling stops stinging and crashes to the soles of my feet. In that instant I realize that my failure to talk to the boy with the bright eyes and tan skin is the least of my problems.

  Standing a fallen tree trunk’s length from me is an Urthman, glaring at me with lidless pits of blackness, the murderous eyes of a slaughterer.