by K. A. Holt
Ben-ton sits next to me and clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
“What?” I say, not feeling guilt over the lack of politeness in my tone. The day has been long, I have much to ponder. I miss Boone, who was always good to help me ponder things. I miss Aunt Billie, who would let me talk and offer no comment. I miss Rory. Gods, I miss her. These thoughts cause such a feeling of longing that I almost gasp, as if I’ve been punched in the stomach; punched in a place that is sore from being punched over and over again.
“It gets easier,” Ben-ton says in his voice that shares a Cheese and human accent. I look at him and wrinkle my nose. I do not want to hear sympathies from him—this man who looks at me with such scorn while Jo works me to death every day. He waggles his fingers and with a flourish produces a crystalline rock from behind my ear. Handing it to me, he smiles.
“You should smile more, Tootie. You’re prettier when you smile.”
I contemplate punching him in the ear. But instead I say, “Can I ask you a question?” I gaze into the distance. The Red Crescent glows.
“Of course,” he says, his back straightening.
“Why don’t you have a Cheese name? Ben-ton does not sound like Cheese to me. Why am I not Rae-ton? Or Temple, Temple-ton?”
He clears his throat twice and there is such a pause I think he will not answer. “It is because I did not pass a test,” he says. There is another long pause. “Ton means ‘fail.’”
“What test?” Now I turn to look at him, but it is he who is gazing into the distance.
“I am not a girl.” Half of his mouth turns up in a smile even though his eyes close slowly. “My long blond hair as a ten-year-old boy did me no favors.”
I know this is not funny. It is terrible. A terrible thing happened to young Benny. And, even so, I cannot help but to laugh. Just a little.
“Were they very surprised when they found out?” I ask, trying to temper my smile.
Ben-ton shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “You should have seen their faces.” He pretends to clack his upper lip like a Cheese, and waves his hands over his head.
This is too much and I burst out laughing, quickly clapping my hands over my mouth to stifle the noise.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just . . . oh, Ben-ton, what a thing to have happened.”
“They stole me for vengeance, you know. After the death of Kailia.”
“Klara’s sister?”
Ben-ton nods. “She was the last female Kihuut born in the village. A fierce warrior. Killed during a raid out on the plains years and years ago.”
A falling sensation fills my belly. “Out on the plains?”
Ben-ton turns to face me. “Coincidentally where your father killed a Cheese, if I am not mistaken. Does he still keep the box on the cooling-grate mantel?”
I nod, having momentarily lost my words. The Cheese Papa was always so proud to have killed . . . could that have been Klara’s sister?
“The Kihuut were very angry about this murder, so they returned and killed a woman in retribution. An eye for an eye. Then they took me to replace Kailia and, well, surprise.”
My mother was killed as an act of vengeance?
“My gods, Ben-ton.” These are the only words I can muster.
He shrugs. “They were to feed me to the Kwihuutsuu, but I promised I could learn; I could be helpful. And yet, from there, I failed other tests, too.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“The third eye. I flinched. I showed weakness. I proved I would not make a warrior. And now not only do I pay every day for not being female, I pay every day for being weak.”
“Pay for it? How?” I ask. He always seems busy to me, has people he talks to and laughs with, seems not to want for anything, seems, in fact, to pretty much own his way in the village.
He turns to me, eyes flashing. “I am not a warrior. Did you not hear me? I am relegated to serving and staying at camp. I will never, ever escape.” Ben-ton stands. “Keep passing the tests, Rae, and you never know. You might be krasnoakafsa one day. Beautiful warrior. Chieftess. Though Natka begins his final warrior test in the morning, Kihuut law says he can never actually lead the Kihuut. He is not female. Many of these people have accepted you wholly. You were born of this moon, just as they were.”
Ben-ton takes my hands, reminding me of Papa. His hands do not offer strength, though. I feel his sweaty palms and it makes my skin crawl. He squeezes my fingers and when he pulls away there’s a piece of canvas in my hand. Written on it, in a childlike scrawl, are the words “Let me help you.”
He smiles as his eyes narrow. “Your path continues to be written, Rae. Tootie. Mayrikafsa. It is up to you to choose who you shall be. Don’t let wagging tongues dismay you.”
“What wagging tongues?” I am still holding the scrap of canvas. I do not know where to put it. I do not want it.
“While you are accepted by many, not every Kihuut is in love with the angry ke’ekutaat girl-child. Some would see a male Kihuut become leader rather than a female invader. Though if this angry ke’ekutaat had a knowledgeable adviser . . .”
My voice lowers, my jaw clenched. “No one wants me to be a leader, Ben-ton. Right now I’m just trying to stay alive.”
Ben-ton looks me up and down. “Why do you think Jo trains you so hard? Why do you think you live with Klarakova and A’alantka? You fought hard that first night, Rae, and now you find yourself conveniently in a place of prominence. They have been trying to find someone worthy of replacing Kailia for years.”
The crass tone and absurdities of this conversation cause my stomach to roil. “You think I want to be where I am? That I invited the Cheese to puncture my shoulders and fling me into this world?”
I stand and drop the canvas scrap at his feet. It blows against his nantola-clad foot.
Ben-ton shrugs. He begins to stroll away but then stops, turning, his face glowing red in the evening light. “Do you know the word for ‘Kihuut warrior,’ Rae?”
I shake my head.
“It is Kihuutkafsa.”
I say nothing.
“Do you know the word for ‘chieftess’? It’s krasnoakafsa. The word for the chieftess’s warrior adviser? Tontakafsa. Now think. Use that human brain of yours.” He taps his head with one finger, his eyes flashing. “Mayrikafsa does not mean ‘she who cries a lot,’ Rae. Not even close.”
He continues walking away, the breeze blowing his long hair, the light of the Red Crescent gleaming off the jagged scar that runs from the middle of his neck, down the back of his left shoulder blade.
“What does it mean?” I call after him, but he doesn’t answer.
What does any of it mean? I shiver and walk back to the cave. I don’t want to be a warrior or a leader or a replacement. I want to go home.
17
I SCRATCH AT THE BACK of my neck. The scar over my third eye itches fiercely, like a ghost tickling my neck with dried scrub.
“Ho laa! ” Fist shouts at me, and by now I know he means, “Pay attention!”
Usually, it is Jo who gives me these lessons, but today Fist is the one who brought me to the practice grounds. I do not know where Jo has gone.
Klarakova offered me the usual seeds and chicory drink this morning, and when Fist came storming out of his sleeping chamber, he was dressed in his raiding outfit, wearing his necklace of ears, but not painted with the gold and silver swirls that indicate a raid. He was gruff as always, and he shoved my shoulder into the wall, causing me to spill some of my drink at my feet. “Tokonata. Hee ta,” he said in a growl. Practice. Now.
Klara gave him the look she does, and clicked her beaked lip against her bottom teeth. This is the only thing I have ever seen that chagrins Fist enough to quiet a building rage. He blew air through his nose like an angry horse and stomped from the cave.
I do no
t know what sours Fist’s mood. I am still not always sure of the Cheese and their feelings and intentions. Not like I can still read Temple, even as she grows longer hair and adds sharpened teeth by the week. I think maybe he is upset because Natka has not returned home after four days out with his Kwihuutsuu. This is Natka’s final challenge for becoming a man—to go on a raiding party and come back successful. I shiver to think what “successful” means.
For me, it has been nice with Natka away. I have had a respite from worrying whether I will be drowned in my sleep or strangled on my way to the latrine. Training has been better, too, with the boys minding their own business as their self-proclaimed leader is off punishing humans. Even Ben-ton has only eyed me from afar, sensing perhaps that if he speaks to me again I might practice some newly learned violence on him.
“HO! LAA! ” Fist shouts again, and throws a rock at me. Two weeks ago I might have had a bruise on my cheek from that rock, but now I catch it and immediately hurl it toward his head.
He darts to the side, the rock barely missing him.
I can’t help but smile. He does not smile back, just beats the fabric pillow he is holding to his chest.
“You want me to shoot at you?” I yell to him. “I have real arrows.” I point to the retrofitted broken handbow. “Very dangerous! I almost just killed you with that rock. Imagine what I could do with sharpened metal.”
He marches to me, the pillow bouncing against his chest. Before a word comes from his mouth his foot sweeps my legs, knocking me to the ground. He kneels, a knee to my chest. It’s all happened so quickly my eyes are having trouble focusing on his face, which is now inches from mine.
“Ho. Laa.” He says it slowly, his Cheese mouth chewing the words, his eyes narrowed, the sides of his head throbbing. His necklace of shriveled ears dangles in my face, making my stomach roil.
“Why do you do that?” I say, my voice low. Sometimes I forget that I hate Fist. Sometimes I forget that I hate what the Cheese have done. This is not one of those times. “The ears.” I spit the words into his face. “Why do you take them and wear them? It’s horrible.”
“Lolobee! ” he shouts, his face spreading into a slow, menacing grin. He removes his knee from my chest and grabs my hand, pulling me into a sitting position. He squats next to me, holds up the necklace, and counts the ears. “Lolobee, lolobee, lolobee, lolobee . . . lolobee.”
“Yes. I can see you have a bunch.” I swallow my rising bile. “It is terribly foul.”
Fist puts a hand up to the throbbing membrane on one side of his head. “Naa lolobee,” he says. Then he holds up the necklace again. “Maa lolobee!” He smiles.
“You take ears because you have no ears? Or you take ears to make humans look more like Kihuut?”
“Ja!” he shouts. Yes! Which doesn’t really answer my question. He stands and walks back across the training field. He smacks the fabric again and motions for me to shoot.
“This seems like a bad idea,” I shout to him.
He grins and nods his head and even though just a moment earlier I remembered how much I hate him, that feeling begins to fade again, replaced by a strange kind of affection. The constant flip-flopping of emotions wears at me. These Cheese. I do not know how to feel.
While Fist is an ear-stealer who is often violent with me and is far from kind, he has kept me fed and alive and is making sure I am taught the ways of the Cheese. He even protects me from his own true-blooded child. As far as Fist is concerned Temple and I are Cheese now, no longer human. I truly do not know what to make of it. It is very confusing.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I yell at him. This is mostly true.
At this, he laughs. We have been picking up more and more pieces of each other’s language over the past several weeks. The idea that Mayrikafsa could hurt A’alanatka is hilarious to him. I whip the handbow up as fast as lightning and shoot while he is still laughing. Fist darts to the side almost as if he is dancing. The arrow sails into the stone behind him with a zing and a crack.
Fist points at me and smiles. “Ja!” he says.
It is perhaps the first compliment I’ve ever received from an adult of any species. I can’t help but smile and look at my feet.
There is yelling in the distance. Fist and I both turn to see what it is. Jo is running to us, waving her arms. She speaks quickly and I don’t understand any of the Cheese language except Natka’s name, Kwihuutsuu, and owa’a, which I’ve learned (by uneasy means) is the word for “hurt.” Fist and Jo take off running, away from the practice grounds and back toward the center of the village.
“Wait for me!” I yell, and chase after them. I actually catch up, which is a miracle. My legs can pump faster now, my breath comes stronger, my arms are tighter, my stomach harder. I do not know if it is the Cheese food, or the sunsup-to-sunsdown activities that are making me this way. Maybe a combination of the two. Usually, if I run like this, I have a breathing attack, but I have not had one since coming to the Cheese so many weeks ago.
We enter the village center, breathing hard from the sprint. I am covered in a fine layer of sweat and dust, but the Cheese clothes I’m wearing seem to wick away the dampness so that I stay cool, even in the blasting heat of the midmorning suns. My feet are heavy, sweaty, and hot, though, because I still wear my own boots. No matter what Klara says, no matter how many times Fist yells and slaps my legs, I will not wear those ridiculous Cheese shoes. I will not.
Klara pushes through a crowd of Cheese surrounding Suu, Natka’s cawing Kwihuutsuu. She cries out—the noises from her throat rising above the nervous chatter of the other Cheese. They move away from Klara as Fist approaches, his face set, grim. Natka is on the ground and even from a distance I can see he is covered in a shiny sweat, his eyes closed.
Shine tree has its name for two reasons. One, the leaves sparkle in the suns, so beautiful, attracting prey from great distances. Two, when struck by a shine tree needle you break out into such an impressive fever, your body shines with sweat. But, often, by the time the shine sweat has set in, it is too late.
Klara and Fist carry Natka to a cave at the edge of the village; a place I have not been before. Jo and I follow at a distance. I show her my hand with the four fingers.
“I have wondered about this . . . hand,” Jo says.
“They got to it in time,” I say. “Saved me from the shine tree poison. My aunt Billie is a great healer.”
Jo’s eyes widen a little. “You aunt is healer?”
I nod. “She is the physician for our whole township. I had just started learning little tinctures and things when . . . when . . .”
Jo regards me and I see that she looks at me differently now. Does she hold respect for me because of my aunt, because of what the future could have held for me? Or because I suffered the tragedy of having a finger chopped from my body?
“There was someone else,” I say in a low voice. I stop walking. Jo stops, too, and stares at me intently. “Another girl. Hurt by the shine tree. Taken by Cheese—by Kihuut.”
Jo swallows and looks away for a moment, then back to my face.
“Rory,” I whisper. “My friend.”
There is a scream from inside the cave where they took Natka. The poison is taking hold. Jo and I run to the mouth of the cave. Inside, a very old Cheese is leaning over a writhing Natka, who is on a table made of stone. Fist, looking grimmer than usual, holds Klara, who is openly weeping, back from the table. It was she who screamed. I know because she does it again.
Jo tries to restrain me, but I break her grip and go into the cave. I hold up my hand so the old Cheese can see.
“Shine tree,” I say loudly, over the wails of Natka and the moans of Klara. “Where was Natka struck? You will have to remove that part of his body.”
The old woman is smoothing back Natka’s hair from his sweaty face. She is muttering a chant over his left hand, which has sw
ollen to an almost unrecognizable state.
“Has that worked before?” I ask. “The chanting? I don’t mean to sound like I am smarter than you, but I have experience with the shine tree.” I have learned in my weeks here to defer to the older Cheese in the village. Apologize at will and maybe they will listen to you or offer you what you want. If you show respect you will gain respect. Sometimes. Fist is a different matter entirely.
Jo whispers to me, “This is rare here, injury from Ebilil plant. I do not know how he found such tree. Ebibi has called Natka to his kingdom. Is very sad, but full of honor.” She touches her chest and closes her eyes.
“But he doesn’t have to go,” I say. “He doesn’t have to die, Jo. I know how to save him. Or at least how to try to save him. They will have to take his hand.”
Jo’s ear ovals throb in and out quickly.
“Will you ask them for me? If they’re willing to try it?”
“Tear apart body created by love of the gods? I think not, Tootie.”
“Just ask. Please.”
Jo translates for me and the old Cheese scowls. She grabs my hand and inspects the area where my finger used to be.
I make a chopping motion with my other hand. “You’ll have to take his hand.” I look at Fist and Klara. “I’m sorry, but it is the only way. And it might be too late.” Natka is moaning softly now, writhing slower. He is still shiny with sweat, sliding on the rock tabletop. His hand has darkened, and ribbons of blackness crawl up his arm.
I point to the ribbons. “This is the poison. It will go to his heart. It will kill him.”
The old Cheese says something to Fist and Klara, who both look at me.
“We can save him,” I say to them, my voice rising, pleading. “He does not have to go live with Ebibi. He can stay with us.” I hold up my hand. “I did not go to Ebibi.”
Jo pulls my hand down. “What you say goes against the gods, Mayrikafsa. Ebibi has made choice. Is time to say good-bye.”
“I do not accept that,” I say, surprised to feel tears burning my eyes. “Natka and I are far from friends, but he does not deserve this pain.” I go to Fist and Klara. “No owa’a,” I say. “We can stop the owa’a. Well, it’ll hurt worse at first, but then be all better. Hopefully.”