by The Awethors
Rebecca P McCray
Copyright © 2015 Rebecca P McCray
All Rights Reserved
Dedication
Dedicated to my father, tireless editor and grammar guru; to my super beta readers that hold nothing back; and to all the talented Awethors that contributed time and effort to make this anthology possible
The Dreaded Birthday
Tip stopped by the river’s edge, stepping down from the bank to stand by the flowing water. Wiping sweat from his brow, he scanned the terrain behind him, letting his eyes pick their way across the tall grass and nearby vegetation stalks. No movement. He breathed a sigh of relief.
The summer heat made his efforts to run full speed through the fields seem crazy, but he had been successful in losing his pursuer. An hour before, about ten of them had abandoned their chores and started the game with Sri, his older brother, as the chaser, armed with a satchel of paint balls that would stain clothing, skin, and pride. However, if Tip was the last one tagged, he’d win. He smiled. Even though Sri was four years older — well, almost four years since his sixteenth birthday was tomorrow — Tip was faster. When they raced, he usually won.
As he gazed across the water, he snatched the small container from his side and bent down to refill it. Little ripples a few feet away might indicate a small fish, yet as he shifted to catch a glimpse of it, all he could see was the high sun reflecting off the water. His container full, he capped it and returned it to his waist.
He needed to start moving again as a sedentary target was an easy target. Then, something snapped behind him. He spun around and ducked at the sight of an object flying toward him. It connected with his forehead, snapping his head back and propelling him backwards. As a sticky substance ran down his face, he flailed his arms to catch his balance, but couldn’t stop the momentum. Cold water rushed over him and he gasped for a breath before he went under. The current started pulling him away from shore and he fought to find footing on the slick riverbed before slipping too far into the middle to stand. Finally able to anchor himself on a craggy rock, he pushed to his feet, the water nipping around his hips.
On the bank, Sri grabbed his stomach, howling with laughter. He pointed and slapped his best friend, Reni ― sporting a bright red stain on his own shirt ― on the back. Other targets emerged from the vegetation, each already taken down by his brother.
Yellow painted the entire arm and hand of one girl, which she waved in the air and circled around her face. “Blue’s a good color for you, Tip,” she said. “That’s going to be hard to explain to your mother.” Turning to Sri, she asked, “Anyone left?”
His brother straightened up and shot a wink in his direction. “Nope. Tip wins again.”
“I think that depends on the definition of winning,” the girl said. She snorted and motioned for the others to follow her back toward town. “We better get back to the fields before they realize we haven’t finished our chores.”
As the other kids left, Reni’s smile faded. He flicked his eyes to Sri and then back at Tip, still waist deep in the water. “So, tomorrow’s the big day.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Do you think what happened to your older brother…you know, the mark…do you think it’ll happen to you?”
Sri ran his hands through his brown, shaggy hair. Despite being wet with sweat, the bright, purple tips ― a distinguishing characteristic of their species, the Liputs, with the color changing daily ― sprung back like a halo around his head. “Maybe. Probably not. Why would it? It’s not like I know how to fight, so what good would I do for Lady Anyamae in her struggle against the Tyrnotts?” Loosening a knot at his waist, he handed the bag of remaining paint balls to Reni. “She marks those that can serve her as warriors. Growing produce is hardly a worthy skill.”
As Tip neared the edge of the water, Sri held out his hand to his brother. Taking the offered assistance, Tip found a solid piece of ground and hoisted himself out of the water.
“Sorry about your face, but you ducked at the wrong time. I was aiming for your chest.” Sri ruffled his hair.
“You’re really not worried?” Reni continued.
Tip held his breath. How could his brother not be concerned? Trul, their eldest brother, was the first and only of the Liputs to ever be marked, waking on his sixteenth birthday to discover behind his left ear the brilliant mark of the Miyran that appeared as a red, winged creature landing. Being marked meant expulsion from the village because harboring one would bring the wrath of the Tyrnotts on the entire community. After a few days, traders returned Trul’s ravaged body in a box. That was three years ago. Now, the family was on edge and hadn’t Sri just said himself that he wasn’t a fighter? Facing the dangers outside the walls without any training was akin to a death sentence. He squeezed his dripping shirt as he waited for the answer.
After staring in the distance for a moment, Sri shrugged. “Not really.”
Reni gnawed on his lip. He didn’t seem convinced.
Sri punched his friend on the shoulder. “Don’t be so serious. Tomorrow, we’ll play another round. And you’d better be rested or Tip will win again.”
“Can’t have that happen,” Reni said, eyeing Tip as he chuckled. “That last shot was hilarious. See you tomorrow, Blue-Face!” He pushed through the stalks and disappeared from view.
“You’re really not worried?” Tip could hear the shakiness in his own voice. He’d already lost one brother and didn’t want to lose another. He wiped away the water collecting around his eyes.
Sri’s eyes softened as he looked at Tip. “Maybe a little, but I’ll let you in on a secret.” Leaning closer, he slung his arm around his brother’s shoulders. “I’ve been stashing money aside. While it’s not a lot, it’s enough to buy a seat on the air transport to the city. I’d just have to make it to the station, which should be easy. Nobody was prepared when Trul was marked, least of all him. While there’s no reason she’d mark me, I’m ready enough. Don’t worry.”
That sort of made sense. Tip sniffed as his brother propelled him forward and tried to focus on how he was going to explain the blue paint to his mother after he finished his chores. Thinking of her surfaced a story she once told him about being lost in Caldot, the large city where the Liputs sold their produce each fall after the harvest. She’d been about his age and wandered down a narrow, twisting alley after a small ball. A few turns later and she found herself on a dark and dingy street. Following the sound of voices, she stopped at the next intersection and peered around the corner. Two Tyrnotts were discussing how they were going to dispose of something. While she hadn’t met one, she’d recognized them by their dark, straight hair and the scars lining the left side of each face as though a claw was raked down them. At their feet was a girl, sprawled on her back, blood pooling at her side. A bright red mark shone behind her ear. She turned her head toward Tip’s mother, her eyes pleading for help. Then, her body convulsed and she called for help, which was squelched when the nearest Tyrnott plunged a sword into her chest. Her eyes glassed over, though remained pinned on his mother who fled back to the main square and her parents, fearing that the Tyrnotts would one day identify her. Though that never happened, she shared the story on more than one occasion, emphasizing the plight of the marked.
He learned more in class about the dangers in Caldot and with the Tyrnotts, yet none of the stories resonated like the one his mother experienced. When Trul was marked, she’d been devastated and given the condition in which his body was returned, her fear was warranted. While they’d never know what happened, did Trul die much in the same way ― afraid and alone? Could Sri really handle himself against such brutality?
After trudging behind Sri for a short while, they reached the broken irrigation motor, their chore for the day, and he tried to steer his thoughts to the task at hand. Most of his friends worked in the crop fields, but his family was more skilled in building and repairing machines, resulting in afternoon tasks frequently consisting of maintenance. He pointed out
what appeared to be the problem and moved over to help Sri start the repairs. This might be the last day they tackled a job together.
Letting his thick mane of light brown hair fall across his eyes, he stole a glance at his brother, whose full face mirrored his own. However, where Tip was lean and wiry, Sri sported defined muscles and broadening shoulders. If the opportunity to train had presented itself, he was certain those muscles would have made him a strong fighter, yet that’s not how they were raised. ‘Settle your disputes through negotiation. Violence solves nothing.’ The rhetoric was drilled into them at school, and while appropriate for life in their little community of Kentish, physical conflict was a matter of survival outside the protective, electronic barrier that encased the town. It was a life the Liputs avoided at all cost.
They worked side by side until the sun began to set, then packed up their tools and headed for home. While their antics were nothing new in the community, Tip’s bright blue face earned him some smiles along the path through town, though each passerby’s gaze turned downcast at the sight of Sri. Everyone knew about his looming birthday and the possibility he might be marked by Lady Anyamae, the last surviving Miyran heir and founder of Caldot. Since Anyamae’s enemies would punish the Liputs if it was found that they’d hidden a marked one, they feared what the next day might bring. After all, a decade earlier, the Tyrnotts committed near-genocide of several villages found harboring the marked, which had subdued some of the resistance against their self-appointed rule. The guilt associated with forcing Sri to leave and fend for himself was nothing compared to the fear of facing the Tyrnotts’ wrath.