by K. A. Holt
I get back on Heetle and sweep the canvas to the side. I crack two flameless flares and hold one in each hand, along with the reins. The tunnel is dark and narrow, dusty. The cuts in the walls seem fresh. Is this a new tunnel cut into A’akowitoa? A fresh scar? How long have the settlers been working on it? Questions tear through my mind as Heetle and I fly through the darkness. Feeling Heetle’s power as she runs energizes me. Aunt Billie and Papa would never let me run her at full gallop, worrying she would collapse from heat exhaustion or injury. But now, as we speed through the tunnel, and I feel her power under my legs, I do not doubt her strength or stamina.
We have not been galloping long when the interior of the tunnel changes. I slow Heetle down to look around more closely. The walls are narrower, smoother, and carved into them are the same female figures with wings as were on the platform in Aunt Billie’s tunnel—the tunnel she said was created by the people of the Red Crescent. The homesteaders must have found this one, an unfinished work, and finished it on their own. I think on this a moment. There really could not have been a way for them to follow Natka and me to the village. Somehow this revelation is not as much of a relief as I want it to be. I gently kick Heetle and she picks up speed.
We will make it to the township as fast as we can.
And, hopefully, my plan will work.
28
TIME PASSES YET ALSO SEEMS to stand still as we fly through the darkness of the tunnel. When we find the exit into Maasakota, the Red Crescent glows red in the night. Heetle and I camp for a few hours, and then we set out for the Origin. We will find a way to the homestead from there.
Pushing aside the hollowed-out boulder, I kick at the caged opening of the tunnel Aunt Billie led us through. I kick and kick and kick, letting out all my angst and energy from the past few days. Soon the metal bends and the lock cracks. With a scream and a grunt I push the mangled cage open and walk Heetle through the entrance.
We both drink deeply from the pool of water and then we’re off again. We take a skittish ride on the moving platform, and a precarious walk up the stairs, but we make it aboveground.
Heetle is beyond exhausted when we emerge into the full heat of the summer suns. We gallop long and hard until we reach our destination. There is so much dust on my face, the sweat won’t drip. I slow Heetle to a stop, jump from her back, and wipe my mucky face with my hands. I untie the horsetail at the top of my head, gather it again along with the loose hair that has come undone during the ride, and braid it. My fingers are clumsy, not just struggling to remember how this works, but fumbling to keep the thick, matted ropes of hair in the braid at all. This is as good as I can do to clean myself up as I lead Heetle to the Darling homestead.
I tie her under the same awning she was stolen from. The trough is dry. I will have to see to that. Making one more pass with my hands to clean my face, I am unsure whether I should knock at the door, or just walk in. I feel like a stranger here.
I knock and wait.
There is rustling behind the door, but no quick movement. No eye appears at the peephole, but the door opens a crack. I see no one. Then . . .
“Ramona?”
I look down to where the voice came from. Papa. In a makeshift chair with horse-cart wheels. He maneuvers the chair backward, moving the wheels with his hands, then opens the door wider.
“What are you doing here?” His face is lined, shadowed in the dim light of the cabin. His sunken eyes look wet. He cranes his head around me. He is again wearing the Sheriff Reverend star. My throat tightens as I realize it was Papa who must have ordered the raid. Not just Old Man Dan.
“I have come home,” I say, swallowing my anger. Papa continues looking around me. He grips a light rifle across his lap. “I am alone,” I say, stepping into the house and holding out my hands to show I hide nothing. As my hands move, his briefly reach out to me, as if I was attempting an embrace. There is an awkward moment as he realizes my intent. He snatches his hands back and once again grips the light rifle.
“What do you want?” he asks, his face flushing pink. His hair has grayed. There is a white stripe growing down his beard. His face is grizzled, blackness smudged under his eyes.
“I want nothing,” I say, dropping my hands. “Well, other than water for Heetle and maybe some for myself.” I take a step closer to him in the dim room. The wind blows outside, banging the awning rhythmically, as if our stiff conversation should be a song. “I am home, Papa. To stay. Where is Aunt Billie? Temple?”
Papa licks his lips and holds tight to the rifle. His eyes keep darting to my face, my peltan, my shoes, back up to my face. His expression is one I cannot read.
“I have heard there will be a trial,” I say, speaking slowly. My hand dangles at my leg, in case I must grab my knife. “A trial for the Cheese who stole me and Temple.” I smile even as my heart pounds, not knowing how the conversation will turn. “I can testify against them. I want to testify.” It is terrifying how easily the lie comes.
The room is suffocating with pauses. “The trials are over.”
I do my best to stifle the gasp shattering my chest. The trials are over?! But there would have been so many of them. How could that be possible?
“Why would you have testified against them anyhow?” Papa continues. His wet eyes have turned steely. “I heard you were one of them now. Fighting with them, like a man would. Creating unmentionable havoc.” His eyes flash and I finally see a recognizable Papa in this mysterious form in front of me.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” I say. Neither of us moves closer to the other. The air between us could spark and explode like a flare at any moment. “Me? Home? I am not your enemy. I did return Brother Livingston’s baby, remember.”
“Why didn’t you come back with the men, then?” Papa asks. “If you wanted to come home so badly? Why did you fight them so fiercely?”
It’s a good question and I struggle for an answer. “It was mass confusion, Papa,” I say, hoping I sound sincere. “The attack came at night. It was as if a dream had come alive. How was I to know what was happening? I thought, at first, it was a native-upon-native fight.”
The awning continues to tap in the wind, the stillness of the room crawling over my face, my arms, my hands, making my fingers twitch toward my knife again.
“Can you tell me about the trials? The outcomes?” I hope my questions seem reasonable, that my voice sounds less shaky than it feels.
Papa’s hand goes to his beard in a gesture I know means frustration. “Guilty, of course. Now we sentence them.”
“We?”
“The elders.” Papa is watching my every move, my every expression. He does not trust me. I don’t blame him. I do not trust him, either.
“Of course,” I say. I drop my eyes, try to seem demure, hope he will give more information. I have lost more time than I thought.
“Take water from the basin in the back,” Papa says finally. “For Heetle. And for the sake of the gods, Ramona, clean yourself.”
“Water,” I say, trying to keep my face as unreadable as his. “From the wings of angels.”
Papa looks up and sniffs. “Yes. Thank the gods for all they bestow. Now go water your horse.” He clears his rusty voice as I turn to walk away.
“Ramona.”
I look over my shoulder at him, in the shadows, in his wheeled chair. “Yes?”
He clears his throat again and his eyes move from my face to the ceiling. “Thank the gods also that you are home.” His eyes return to my face. I cannot tell if this is an order or a declaration. His hand clenches the gun.
Once Heetle is watered I go back inside and speak to Papa. “Aunt Billie and Temple,” I say. “I wish to see them.”
“You will not leave this homestead dressed like that,” he says.
I step toward him. I could easily overpower this shell of a man. Throw him from his chair, march to th
e village center. But no. That is not how I will do things. That would, ultimately, accomplish nothing. Seeing him like this has cooled some of the vengeance roiling in my blood. There has to be a better way. There is always a better way. I take a breath.
“I do not think my old dresses will fit anymore,” I say simply.
“Take something of Aunt Billie’s. Now. Change. Then I will take you to them.”
I walk past him through the shadows, and I see, sitting on the mantel over the cooling grate, next to the box that holds the rope of Cheese hair, my armless statue. I forgot it after all this time. I wonder who took it from my apron pocket and put it in such a place of prominence?
I look from the mantel to Papa, who is staring at me intently. His jaw works as if he’s about to say something, but he says nothing.
In the bedroom I find a dress and put it on over my peltan, keeping my knife firmly strapped to my thigh. The skirts feel odd and heavy against my legs. The blouse is scratchy, the sleeves too short and too tight against my muscles. The whole outfit is so confining. How in the secrets of the gods did I ever survive wearing cumbersome, stifling clothes such as these?
I return to the front room and Papa nods, wheeling his chair past me, the light rifle still in his lap. “You may accompany me as I check on the prisoners. Then you will be delivered to Aunt Billie.” He eyes me, again, hard but curious. “Hopefully, you have retained some of her teachings. Once you have proven your allegiance to the township, Aunt Billie will need extra help. The elders grow feeble. The workload is immeasurable.”
His statements surprise me. He wants me to continue learning her healing ways? To attend to other homesteaders? I cannot help but remember Aunt Billie in the Origin wreckage, speaking of me becoming her apprentice.
I shake the thought from my mind. I want to ask how the Kihuut are faring, who is injured, whether they will all be sentenced to death or if there will be any clemency at all, but I bite my tongue. It will not do to seem too worried, to seem as though I care about them.
I follow Papa outside and watch as he expertly rigs his chair to the one-man and slides into the seat. The engine sputters stinkily to life and I go to Heetle.
Following a good distance behind Papa, we ride to the center of the township. There is a clot of men stacking metal slats in the town square, with more men drilling holes into the ground. They are building something and my stomach turns as I imagine what it might be.
“Gallows work,” Papa confirms, nodding his head toward the men. “Once the scaffolding is complete the sentencing will begin. I suspect it will be the largest hanging this moon will ever see.”
Near the construction work, there is a crowd of people surrounding a pen that looks hastily built. It is taller than me, but not by much. The Kihuut are crammed inside. I see Jo, Natka, Klara, a few others. But not Temple. The townspeople jeer at them, some even throw things between the metal bars. Rotten food, trash. The Kihuut are quick to throw it back at them, riling up the crowd even more.
I jump from Heetle, a cloud of dust surrounding me. “What is this?” I say, marching up to the crowd, anger flushing my neck and cheeks. Natka sees me and yells, “Sister!” but he speaks in Cheese so the townspeople do not know he speaks of me. He is covered in dust and sweat and dried blood. He snaps his upper lip and I see confusion play at his tired eyes as he takes in my appearance.
Heads turn. Eyes take me in. There are gasps. Papa has removed himself from the one-man and wheeled up to the crowd. “Back away from the prisoners,” he shouts. “Remember who you are. Remember the words of the gods. Are you animals, too? Of course not.” The people back away, some looking ashamed, others looking angry.
Papa turns his attention to the two men doing a poor job of guarding the prisoners. “You.” He points to the biggest one. “Take her to the schoolhouse.” He then looks at me hard. “For her own protection.” The man rushes at me, pinning my arms behind my back. I do not resist, so he doesn’t have to drag me away. I hope Temple will also be at the schoolhouse.
The surly guard, armed with two handbows, pushes me into a cart.
“What?” I say. “Why so heavily armed against a mere girl-child?” I smile sweetly and then regret this taunting. Not smart, Mayrikafsa.
The guard sits beside me in the cart, and powers us through the scrub. Several minutes later we halt in front of the schoolhouse.
Before we even get inside, I hear shouts.
“You are a human, you gum child!” It is Old Man Dan yelling. “A HUMAN!” I hear a slap, and a cry.
The guard, who has me by the arm, pushes open the schoolhouse door. Temple holds her cheek and Aunt Billie stands in between her and Old Man Dan, face aflame, eyes sparking.
Her attention is diverted by the gust of hot wind that blows into the stifling building as we come through the door.
“Look who showed up today,” the guard says, shattering the thick silence that has followed what I suspect now was Aunt Billie’s cry. Temple’s expression is so obstinate I think I could set her hair on fire and she would not make a sound.
The guard pushes me toward Old Man Dan.
“So,” Old Man Dan says. “You tired of playing native?”
I swallow all insults and retorts, look to the ground and say, “I came to testify against the Kihuut.” I look up at him. “But discovered I was too late.”
Temple shoots me a look that would melt rocks, and she snaps her sharpened teeth at me. Her hair has been cropped closely to her head. An unraveled ribbon falls against her cheek. Her clothes are clean, covering her arms and legs, and she fidgets, pushing the sleeves up and down, chewing at the buttons on her blouse with her teeth.
“Gone feral, that one,” the guard says, taking a step back.
“I would have you keep a civil tongue around—and about—my nieces,” Aunt Billie says, walking to me and looking me up and down.
“You should have accompanied me home, Ramona.” Ben-ton speaks from where he is seated in the corner. I did not recognize him at first, dressed as he is in clean, well-fitting human clothes. His hair is trimmed and shines yellow. He stands and walks to me, his gait awkward, shuffling, as he approaches in his heavy boots. I wonder what has become of his nantolas.
“We could have watched the trials together. I have never seen justice served so justly—or swiftly.” He smiles at me in such a condescending manner I would smack his mouth from his face if my actions would not land me in the pen with the Kihuut.
I swallow my hatred and work to keep my voice steady. “Seems a shame, then, letting them fester in that pen. Why not kill them now? Why waste time with gallows? End the misery. Forget these terrible times. Begin anew. Praise the gods.”
The sarcasm in my voice needs to be tempered or I will ruin everything. I bite my lips together to keep from speaking more.
Old Man Dan is upon me suddenly, looking me over, walking circles around me. “At least you remember your natural language,” he says, seeming to have missed my sarcasm completely. “Whether it’s civil or not, at least it’s not that godsforsaken slurry of clacks and bleats.”
I tighten my jaw, but then release it. I know that Temple remembers human language, too, but she must be refusing to speak it. I say nothing more. Old Man Dan squeezes my cheeks so that my mouth opens.
“Brother Livingston!” Aunt Billie protests. “Remember your place!”
“You got pointy teeth in there, too?” he asks. I snarl at him, showing my one sharpened tooth and then shake my head loose from his hand.
“We’ll take care of that soon enough,” he says. “But first we remind you of human decency.” He again looks me up and down, sneering in disgust.
“Go get the soap, Benny,” he says. Ben-ton smiles and nods at me as he walks out of the schoolhouse. “Welcome to rehabilitation,” Ben-ton says as he glides past. The tone of his Cheese-accented voice has changed ever so slightly an
d I wonder if he has the brain capacity to realize things here might not be quite as lovely as he dreamed.
“When did you earn this position of importance?” I ask Old Man Dan, not responding to Ben-ton. I step forward, crossing my arms across my chest. “Smacking around the children of the Sheriff Reverend. That is a father’s right, not yours. When did it become acceptable to go against the teachings of the gods?” I look to Aunt Billie. “Papa knows of this?”
“Of the violence?” She eyes Old Man Dan coldly. “No. But because of your papa’s . . . predicament . . . the township sought an assistant for him. Someone to act in his place on days he is unwell.” She looks to me, her eyes open, unblinking, communicating something. Is she telling me that Papa had nothing to do with ordering the raid on the village? Or is she telling me that this is all my fault?
“And they chose him?” I say, frowning, then regretting my impertinence. I must not cause trouble. It is not the time.
“I worked in his stead while he was being punished for violating the harvesting laws.” Old Man Dan chews the inside of his cheek as he grins. “The township figured since I had a taste for the job, who better than me to help out now.”
I feel many inappropriate retorts on the tip of my tongue.
“We shall rehabilitate in gentler ways, Brother Livingston,” Aunt Billie says, stepping toward him.
“Or I could just do it without you present.” He gives a nod to the other man, who takes a step closer to Aunt Billie.
“I will rehabilitate,” I say, holding up my hands. “No need to get pushy.”
Temple spits on the floor right at my feet. She looks up at me through her glower and all I see is hatred. I remind myself that this is only temporary. She won’t hate me for long. I hope.
Soon, Ben-ton is back with the soap and Old Man Dan takes me outside the schoolhouse.
“Strip. Now.”
I stare at him hard, not moving. He sighs and goes into the schoolhouse. Aunt Billie comes out in his stead.