Red Moon Rising

by K. A. Holt

Papa grunts, but says nothing. We decided on the ride over not to tell him or Aunt Billie, or Boone’s mama, about the lone Cheese or the shine tree. There’s nothing any of us can do about either one of those things, except worry and invent stories. And I don’t like to worry Aunt Billie and Papa more than necessary. At least on purpose.

  Papa sighs deeply and sweeps his long arms across the table, collecting our chalk and slates. He abruptly stands, pulling his satchel out from under his chair and slinging it over his shoulder.

  “We’re going to Old Settlement today. For just a little while. I have to make sure the scholars are obeying the laws. I thought . . . after everything”—and here he stares at me, hard—“you would all benefit from meeting an . . . acquaintance . . . of mine.”

  “Old Settlement?” I say, my heart thrumming instantly. “Right now? Does Aunt Billie know you’re doing this? Maybe we should find a handbow for Temple—” Papa holds up his hush-your-gum-mouth pinched fingers. I can’t help it, though. Old Settlement!

  I lean over and whisper “Old Settlement!” to Temple and she shares an eye roll with Boone. I don’t know why they’re not more excited.

  Abandoned ancient homesteads from before the Origin crashed!

  Mysterious buildings that belonged to people who were not the Cheese!

  Drawings and carvings that can’t be translated!

  This is everything the scholars have studied since before I was born. Maybe keys to the mystery of getting off this godsforsaken rock. Everything I’ve always wanted to see.

  “What changed your mind?” I blurt out. “About taking us to Old Settlement? I thought it was off-limits for anyone who is not a scholar—or the Sheriff Reverend.”

  Papa rubs his beard, then puts on his sheriff’s hat. “Stop asking questions, Rae. Don’t ruin it.”

  I bite my bottom lip and shove my hands into the pockets of my apron. I grip the armless statue next to my knife. Maybe there will be old wires or twine at Old Settlement that I can scavenge to make new arms. The thought makes me nearly forget Papa’s coarseness and smile anew.

  “Saddle up Heetle, Rae. Boone, is Raj up for the ride?” Boone sucks in his cheeks, then opens his mouth to speak.

  “On second thought,” Papa says after seeing Boone’s hesitation, “Rae, I want you to remove Heetle’s armor and have Boone help you put it on Raj. Then saddle them both up.”

  “What?! But . . . ,” I say. “I mean no disrespect to Boone”—and here I toss him a feeble glance that’s supposed to be a smile—“but Heetle needs her armor. She’s still getting used to it, and if she’s not accustomed to it before high summer, well—”

  Papa holds up his fingers again. I really hate it when he does that. “Do as I say, Rae. Or we won’t be going anywhere.”

  I bite my bottom lip again and wonder why Papa hates me so much. Then I stomp out to the side of the house, with Boone and Temple right behind me.

  I flip the latches under Heetle’s belly and up under her throat. I unsnap the casing around her full snout and remove the shades from her eyes. Temple is cooing to her and letting her snuffle her hands while I yank and tug and grumble.

  Boone is silent, taking the lightweight pieces of polymer as I hand them to him. Soon he has a stack on his arms nearly up to his gum eyeballs.

  Heetle whinnies and stamps her feet in a little dance and I shake my head, trying to stay mad and not smile. “I know, girl, you think you’re free of that mess. But you’re not. Just for this afternoon.” I shoot Boone a look so he knows what I said is true—just for this afternoon. He sees my look and then stares at his dusty boots. They’re so worn that his mama has patched them in places with canvas. Then it hits me. Oh, Rae, you’re such a rockhead. Of course Raj needs the armor for our trip today. He’s nearly as old as Boone’s boots—in horse years. And you can’t patch a horse with canvas when he gets worn out.

  I throw Heetle’s saddle onto her back and situate the bridle while Boone and Temple work on getting the armor snapped and strapped to Raj. Raj doesn’t seem too happy about it, but once he’s running across the open plains, I know the old beast will think differently. I walk over to make sure the armor is secure. It’s loose in some places but there’s nothing to do about that. Raj is all skin and bones compared with Heetle. There’s only so much adjustment the armor plating can take. If he were to wear it all the time I could probably scrounge some metal and wire and fashion up a few new buckles, but he won’t be. This is Heetle’s armor. Maybe someday Raj will get his own.

  “Clamp on tight with your knees,” I say to Boone. “We don’t need you sliding off in the middle of the gum plains.”

  “I’m not a rockhead, Rae,” Boone says, his nose twitching up in the briefest of snarls.

  I don’t say anything, I just hop onto Heetle and pull Temple up with me. A black mood is settling between my eyes and the fact that it’s happening on a day when I am about to see Old Settlement makes me feel even blacker.

  “Hyah!” I yell, giving Heetle a squeeze, and she bursts out and away from the schoolhouse in a cloud of red dust.

  “You best slow her down!” Papa yells after me. He’s riding the one-man. It belches its stink into the air, mingling with the dust, and my face crinkles with the gum yuckness of it all. Temple pulls out her handkerchief and ties it around her nose. My handkerchief is in a ball on the floor next to my cot. Blast.

  I pull back on the reins and Heetle slows to a trot. Boone and Papa catch up to us, and Papa takes the lead. He lets one hand rest easily on the cage that surrounds the seat, while he steers with the other. It’s hard to miss that the hand resting on the cage is the one with his handbow. The plains are common territory for both the homesteaders and the Cheese. We are all supposed to have easy access and safe passage, but that’s not how it always works out. It didn’t work that way for Aunt Billie’s son, Benny, who was taken like Rory.

  Benny. The only boy ever taken by the Cheese. A special badge worn by the Darling family. I wonder if Papa told Boone’s mama that we were making this trip today. I doubt she’d give permission. But then, it doesn’t make sense that he wouldn’t ask her first. No one is as straight up and rule-following as Papa. Sheriff Reverend Darling of Origin Township would never in a million years hide anything or lie to anyone. Of course she must know.

  Heetle snorts against the stink of the one-man and I steer to the side a bit, hoping to miss the biggest of the belching white clouds coming from the pipe in the back. Boone trots Raj over to the other side and I see that the armor is already turning a very light blue. I feel bad that I was angry about sharing it. Papa was right. Today, Raj obviously needs the armor more than Heetle does. It’s good to see it working, cooling him off. A true test for the summer. A true test for Heetle’s summer. I don’t know how Raj will survive.

  Papa slows the one-man as we ride over a small rise that then dips into a valley.

  And there it is. Old Settlement. It’s laid out just as Papa has always described, just as I’ve seen it when I close my eyes. Homesteads taller than three of our cabins stacked on top of one another—made from something Papa calls “brick.” It’s an ancient building device we’ve not had the luxury to use. Papa says it takes too much water and we cannot spare it. The buildings look like they’ve been made from dust and dirt, as if magically conjured. It’s hard to believe it takes water to do this.

  There are shorter buildings. And a long one. There are not just whole buildings, but what I think must be ruins, too, and a tall structure that is beyond anything I could have imagined, with stairs and pillars and a frozen clockface set in a triangle holding up what’s left of the roof. It’s all so fascinating . . . and beautiful. I know Rory would laugh if she could see me, openmouthed, staring at broken-down buildings like they were flowers or sweet cakes, but I can’t help it.

  “I think your brain is smiling,” she’d say, punching my arm. And I’d grab her hand and hold i
t behind her back while I tickled her neck until she screamed for mercy.

  Oh, Rory.

  Don’t think about Rory.

  The buildings are on the right and left of us, but none are in the center. This, I know, was called a road.

  In the middle of the road stands a Cheese.

  His hands are on his head, his scaled face is painted in the silver and gold swirls I’ve come to fear. The fat ropes of his hair are tied up on the top of his head to look like a horse’s tail. A similar fat rope lies coiled in a box on the mantel above the cooling grate back at the homestead, taken from a Cheese that Papa killed many, many summers ago. It’s a talisman now, proof that humans can best even the strongest warriors. Temple and I are not allowed to touch it.

  A dactyl flaps its large and scaly wings, but stands other­wise still next to him, two heads taller at least. It snaps its jaws into the wind and looks like it’s smiling greedily at us.

  Papa slows down the one-man so we can catch up.

  “Do not move from this spot,” he says in a low voice. “I will come back to fetch you.” Then he speeds up the one-man and heads straight for that gum Cheese. Temple turns to look at me with wide eyes, and Boone walks Raj over. Where is the acquaintance Papa wants us to meet? Has the Cheese done something with him? Papa should not approach the enemy on his own—that violates several of the rules he repeats to us every day.

  Without a word, Boone and I slip on our handbows and follow slowly behind Papa. Temple squeezes her arms around my waist. We are his deputies today, whether Papa likes it or not.

  5

  I CANNOT HEAR ONE GUM word they’re saying. The wind whips around us, directionless, blowing grit and dust into my face. I pull on my gogs and tap the right side once to zoom. It looks like they’re . . . talking. But I know that isn’t possible because the Cheese and the homesteaders do not speak the same words. The Cheese’s hands stay on his head as Papa seems to talk to him. The dactyl’s head clicks from side to side in a way that seems to say, You are looking mighty tasty, homesteaders.

  Papa turns his face against the wind and shields his eyes against the suns. His other hand—the one with the handbow—flies up to press down on his hat as a gust tries to take it from him. The suns glint off the sheriff’s star that is always pinned to the right side of his vest.

  When the gust dies down, Papa points to us and says something to the Cheese. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out . . . what? It’s too small for me to see. The Cheese doesn’t move his eyes from Papa, but his lips move and the dactyl suddenly lunges forward.

  I hear the creature shriek. Temple looks at me, her eyes huge. We haven’t had many lessons on dactyls, but there was one I will never forget. A dactyl lunges with certain speed when it begins eating. And often, a dactyl will begin eating its prey before the prey has been fully killed. Dactyls shriek in pain . . . and in joy.

  The dactyl is about to eat Papa.

  “Stay with Boone!” I order, dropping Temple to the scrub. I charge Heetle into the valley. I hold my fist out, the holoscope of my handbow bouncing around, trying to compensate for my rapid, lurching movement. My gogs show the dactyl lunging at Papa again, I hear more shrieks, and then a burst of dust blows in front of me. The gum gogs try to focus on the dust and I lose sight of what’s happening. I’m blind to the scene now, my gogs having gone staticky; I rip them down around my neck and as Heetle hurtles toward the obscured triangle of the Cheese and Papa and the dactyl, I take aim at the pink, scaly shimmers that break through the dust cloud.

  Zip-pew!

  Zip-pew!

  I let fly with two light arrows.

  Papa swings around and waves his arms wildly, and I fear he must be already in his death throes.

  Heetle is so fast, I’m through the dust cloud and can hear nothing but my slamming heartbeat and her hooves pounding the scrub. As the wind takes another direction, I hear one more scream from the dactyl. The Cheese’s hands are off his head now and he’s gesturing at me and at Papa. Probably instructing the dactyl to finish off Papa quickly so it can carry the rest of us off for supper.

  Papa goes down on one knee and the dactyl lunges its pointy head at him as it screams again.

  Zip-pew!

  Zip-pew!

  Papa’s arm flies up. The dust is everywhere. His mouth is moving, but I can’t hear him.

  I shoot two more light arrows and this time the dactyl’s shriek is different. I’ve struck my target. I can only hope it was in time to save Papa. The dactyl is now horizontal and the Cheese is down next to it. Papa is hunched over. I’m close enough now that I slow Heetle and jump off, running toward the scene.

  “You leave my papa be, you gum rockhead!” I shout. Then, repeating the words Papa says every night when we pray to the gods before we sleep, I yell, “We will not be threatened by the Cheese! We live on the wings of angels! Oh, gods, deliver us from harm!”

  I’ve reached them now, and having also reached the capacity of my lungs, I bend over, elbows on my knees, taking great gasps of dust and hot air from the one-man chugging off to the side. I lift my eyes to the scene. The Cheese’s eyes are round with surprise, his arm bleeding and burned. The dactyl is dead, a black hole where its left eye should be. Papa stands and walks to me. Relief floods my body. I was on time. I aimed well. Papa is safe.

  I push myself up off my elbows, taking more-measured breaths now. I smile at Papa as he rushes to me. Then my smile shatters as he smacks my face with the strength of ten men.

  “What have you done, girl?” he says, spit flying into my face. His eyes look like Heetle’s when an electrical storm is coming. “What in the name of the gods have you done?”

  There are no words. They’ve been slapped from my head, sent flying into the scrub along with a mouthful of spit and maybe some blood. I sputter, my face burning not just from the slap, but from confusion, shame. I can’t grasp how I have messed this up. I saved Papa from the dactyl. I protected the family from the Cheese. I did not back down. I showed the backbone of a homesteader.

  The Cheese stands, his hands dripping with blood. It takes me a minute to realize he is not terribly injured, but has harvested the heart of the dactyl. I remember learning of this custom after the Cheese took Rory but left behind a dactyl corpse, lost in the fight. They had taken its heart but left the rest of the dead creature. We ate stringy dactyl for days.

  The Cheese drips slowly up to me, close enough to get blood on my boots. I see the burn mark on his arm where my light arrow grazed him. The metallic paint on his face shimmers in the light of the suns like nothing I’ve ever seen. Prettier than a shine tree. But under the pretty paint is a lined and frowning face covered in scales. His upper lip is bony and pointed, almost like a beak. And with his hair piled on top of his scalp, I see the fleshy ovals on the sides of his head, the skin tight as drums. Cheese ears are like lizard ears, Papa has told us during lessons, even though we are not sure what lizards are. This is the first time I have seen a Cheese this close up. He is much less human than I thought.

  While he is not human, and I might not speak the Cheese language, his pinched and shaking face very clearly tells me he is angry. He shouts something I can’t understand and points a dripping, bloody hand at me. I take two steps back. The Cheese keeps shouting and jabbing his finger at me until Papa steps in front of me and holds out his hands. He says something to the Cheese.

  Papa speaks Cheese?

  The Cheese grabs me by my hair and forces me to my knees. I cry out, my heart banging in my chest. Why is Papa doing nothing to help me? How can he be so calm? Do his eyes no longer function? Can he not see what the Cheese is doing to me?

  Still holding my hair, the Cheese thrusts the dactyl heart so close to my face I can feel its warmth. It smells terrible. I try to turn away, but his grip is tight. He shouts something at me and jerks my hair so that I have to face his bloody hand holding the heart
. He leans in so close I can see the details in the creases of the scales on his face. I can see the paint cracking from his angry expression. I want to cry out, but I dare not open my mouth. My heart ricochets through my rib cage, a sandmoth caught in a trap.

  The Cheese leans forward, never taking his eyes from mine, and takes a bite of the heart. A fine spray of blood hits my face as the organ bursts between his beaky lips. Blood and viscera drip from the heart, from his hand, onto my skirts. I choke back bile.

  “It is Cheese custom.” Papa’s voice is low and steady. “Each rider shares a special bond with his dactyl, and must eat of its heart when it dies.”

  I am crying now, my tears and snot mixing with the blood spatter on my face, pink ribbons trickling from my chin. As the Cheese chews slowly I can see so many emotions on his strange face. Or maybe I am just feeling them because he is still so close to me. He’s angry and ferocious, but there is such a sadness, too. The sadness seeps into my own heart.

  He releases his grip on my hair. I stand and Papa quickly puts his arm around my waist, pulling me away from the Cheese. He holds on to me tightly and I lean into him, pressing my face into his hard chest, ruining his shirt.

  The Cheese shakes his head and throws the rest of the bloody heart at Papa’s boots.

  Papa keeps one eye on the Cheese as he turns his head slightly. “Get on Heetle and go home as fast as you can. Send Boone to his homestead. No more fields today. When I get home, you and Temple better be in the pit, or so help me.” His voice is so low that it shakes. It rumbles. It growls like a stormy wind. He puts a hand on my arm, and I feel that it, too, shakes. I turn and run as fast as I ever have. I heave myself onto Heetle and yank Temple into the saddle, roughly, by one arm. She screams at the bloody sight of me, starts to ask questions, but I give her Papa’s pinched-finger move.

  “Papa says to go home, Boone. No more fields today. Don’t leave the homestead.”

  And then I kick Heetle gently and she’s off like the wind.