The Glass Arrow

by Kristen Simmons

  The Watcher stares at me blankly as I pass in front of his station. The way a dead person stares at some fixed point in the distance. The way my ma saw through sightless eyes after her soul left her body.

  Daphne’s words return to me—about men proving that Mother Hawk doesn’t exist. The idea of it sours in my stomach. But the thought of my ma’s soul going to the next life, of her bearing more children and loving them as she loved me, feels even worse.

  I feel my brows draw together and ignore the guilt I feel for putting her out of my mind.

  After I’m sure the Watcher’s bored with watching me drag my chain through the dirt, I walk back around the other side of the office, beyond where he can see. When I pause to listen I can tell he hasn’t got up to follow. Good.

  Behind the back wall I see something that surprises me.

  A man leading a tired bay mare in a red halter. He’s tall for a Driver; his outstretched arm rests on the mare’s withers without having to reach up. His lanky body fills the typical garb of his people: scuffed leather boots, rawhide pants, a dirt-streaked tunic, and a faded maroon handkerchief rolled around his neck. His hair is messy and ragged, but as golden as the sun in the mountains, and his face has been darkened by a lifetime of outdoor work.

  My next thought is that he must be new, because he’s about to do something incredibly stupid—something I’ve never seen another Driver try in their time here.

  Thirty paces away, he’s leading the mare through a break in the fence towards the narrow runoff stream. He clearly doesn’t realize that it flows from the pond in the rec yard, where it’s been treated with chemicals to keep it looking clean. It’s poisonous. If I hadn’t heard the girls whispering about it the first time I’d been sent here, I would have tried to drink it.

  Just like this boy’s about to let his horse do.

  I don’t think about what I do next. I don’t consider that he’s a Driver and dangerous, maybe even lethal. I don’t think about how the Watcher will react when he hears me. I’m thinking about that horse and how her stupid owner’s about to get her killed.

  “Stop!” I shout, waving my free arm and running towards the stream.

  The Driver sees me a second later, and before I can take another breath, he whips a gleaming dagger from his belt and hurls it directly at my chest.

  CHAPTER 4

  I’M STRETCHED OUT ON the ground, where I threw myself after I saw the weapon. I roll over, and my hands fly over my chest, my stomach, making sure I’m still in one piece. There’s no knife, and when I turn my head I see it planted in the plaster wall behind me. I’m breathing hard, and my body is already humming with the need to get up and run. But I can’t go far. The chain has made sure of that.

  I’m stuck here. A stone’s throw away from a boy who just tried to kill me.

  Scrambling up, I run for the knife. I have to work it back and forth to pull it free, but I never take my eyes off the Driver. When the grip is in my hand I start edging sideways, towards the Watcher office, whipping the chain after me so I don’t trip.

  I take a closer look at my attacker. He’s got wide, shocked eyes, high cheekbones, and his mouth is hanging slack. He must be surprised I’m not dead. He’s young—the youngest Driver I’ve ever seen. He can’t be more than a few years older than me. But it’s hard to say exactly¸ because his face is smeared with dirt.

  His spooked horse is bucking behind him, and though he holds the lead tightly in both hands, be barely turns to calm her. Now that the shock has passed, I can see the horror in his face.

  “That’s right,” I say, trying to puff myself up. “They’ll hang you for that. I’m Unpromised.” I’ve never used this as a shield before, but I do now. I wish I had my earrings to prove it.

  His look remains unchanged, and I remember that Drivers don’t speak the common tongue. They don’t speak at all actually—they’re mute.

  “Unpromised!” I yell slowly. As if this will make him understand.

  A few seconds later, the Watcher comes careening around the side of the building. The metal handle of the wire is ready in his hand and his black eyes are narrowed. I try to hide the knife up my sleeve, but he’s seen it. His thumb presses down on the wire, and with a click, a glowing green rope inches out. The electric whirring sound makes my blood run cold.

  He doesn’t even look at the Driver. He’s only looking at me. As always, everyone thinks that I’m the biggest threat around.

  “Wait,” I say. “Wait, it was him.” I point across the poisoned stream.

  The Watcher is suddenly before me—he moves so fast a short scream bursts from my throat. I drop the knife and hold up one hand. The other, weighed down by the chain, is out to my side. I’m shaking, and the links rattle together.

  I might be scared, but I’m not stupid. Even with a blade I’m no match for a Watcher. He’d break my neck before I could take my next breath. But even though I know this, I hate that I’m not stronger.

  He picks up the knife from the ground, then presses a button which retracts the wire, and replaces it in his chest strap. Then, right in front of my face, he breaks the knife in half with just his hands. His face shows nothing. No emotion at all.

  Only now does he glance at the Driver.

  The boy’s done. There’s no way the Watcher will let him live. Much as I hate being trapped here, I’m worth a lot, and for the first time I’m glad about that. But the Watcher only tosses the hilt of the broken knife across the stream, where it lands at the Driver’s feet. The boy is shocked too; he doesn’t even pick it up.

  “Don’t kill her,” my guard says in a flat, bored voice.

  That’s all he says.

  And the Driver probably doesn’t even understand anyway.

  Solitary was a bad idea. I’ve kept myself off the auction block, but at a huge price. None of the other Drivers have come back here before. No one at all comes back here. But now that this crazy boy has found out I’m here, unable to escape and without so much as a fence for protection, who knows what he’ll try.

  But for now, the Watcher is distracted.

  My mind springs back into action, and I know it’s reckless, and I know it’s too soon and I should stick to the plan, but I can’t let this chance pass me by.

  Much as it revolts me, I fake a sob and bury my face into my guard’s rock-hard arm. I don’t even have to force a tremble; my body is still reeling. I feel his shoulders move as he looks down at me slowly.

  “He tried to kill me!” I say, moving subtly so my face is against his chest.

  And before the Watcher can figure out what to do next, I slide my hand into his utility strap and latch my fingers around the small metal cylinder beside his wire. The key to my bracelet.

  He knows what I’ve done when I jerk ever so slightly as I pull away. In a flash, he’s lifted me off the ground. One hand squeezes my shoulder in a vicelike grip. The other is clutching my throat.

  I can’t breathe. I struggle, kicking my legs out at him, and drop the key on the ground so that my fingers can peel away his grasp. But though my nails dig into his thick leather gloves, they cannot release his hold.

  My spine pops as my weight pulls me down and stretches my back. I begin to panic. I can no longer see his cold stare; my eyes are beginning to slip out of focus. He’s going to kill me. The Driver needed a knife to do it. The Watcher just needs his bare hands.

  An instant later I am weightless. Light as a feather. And then I collide with the plaster wall against the back of the office. A bright explosion of color bursts before my vision, and instantly everything is clear. The Watcher has thrown me, and now he is picking up the key I have dropped on the ground. Straight before me is the Driver. Staring. One of his hands reaches towards me, but it’s empty.

  And then I slump to the ground, and everything goes black.

  * * *

  IT’S THE POUNDING IN my head that wakes me up. At least it’s dark; that helps a little. I groan, and slip a hand around my neck. The skin is sensitiv
e, like it’s been rope burned, and my throat is dry. The muscles ache as I rotate my head in a slow circle.

  The memories come back in one sharp pang. The Driver barn is quiet, and the boy is nowhere to be seen. I think of hiding on the other side of the office, but I’d rather take my chances back here than face the Watcher again. Still too dizzy to stand, I crawl away from the wall, filling the stretchy fabric of my skirt with small rocks and then placing them in a wide half circle around me. It’s not much of a trap, but anyone trying to sneak up will trip over them in the dark. I gather a hunk of chain in my hand—it’s heavy, but if someone gets close enough I can use it to defend myself.

  My eyes close again, and the trickle of the water in the stream reminds me of home, where the moon changes shape and only hides behind clouds, not this nasty haze from the city. I listen to these sounds until the hammering in my brain filters in the other noise as well: the metallic clang from the factories in the business district, the soft thump of club music from the bars and brothels in the Black Lanes where the Virulent live. And if I focus, the faraway scream of sirens from the housing sectors of Glasscaster. The more I focus on it, the more my head hurts.

  Beside me are a water bottle and a metal bowl with three pills inside. The Watcher must have brought it when I was out. Guess he doesn’t want me dead after all.

  I grab the bottle and drink greedily. It took time to become accustomed to this tepid water. Even though it shows mountains on the label, it’s hardly fresh; I can taste the bitter tang of the pipes it’s flowed through. Then I grab a pink pill the size of my thumbnail and swallow it. It’s a meal supplement. The very thing they suspect makes the city girls infertile. If it worked, I’d take a hundred a day just to poison my babymaker so nobody would want me anyway. But Daphne says it doesn’t matter because my body’s already developed.

  As my stomach begins to swell with the overdue lunch pill, I rotate another pill between my fingers and think about the Driver boy. I can’t figure out that look on his face in those last moments after the Watcher threw me. He was probably still confused over why his knife didn’t hit the mark. I can’t believe the Watcher didn’t kill him. If we were in the rec yard, the boy would have been arrested, and at the very least fined.

  Maybe the Governess really does want me gone.

  There are two pills left. The Pips always give me one and a half pills per meal. Most of the other girls get only one, but I can’t keep on weight. That’s because I eat a whole ration only when I’m sure a Pip is watching. They say rotten pills, the outdated ones that turn yellow, make you sick—give you what the city people call plague. It makes your eyes bleed. The Pips screen our pills to make sure they’re good, but I trust them about as much as I trust the Governess. I’d rather starve, thank you very much.

  Why people don’t just eat real food—something you can chew—is beyond me.

  When I’m sure the Watcher hasn’t moved, I crawl to my boots and drag them towards the backside of the building. It’s been three weeks since I was last in solitary, and no one else has been brought in the meantime. Carefully, I count ten hand lengths from the corner of the plaster wall and dig.

  Below the surface my fingers scratch something solid. Plastic. I clear away the surrounding dirt and find a water bottle like the one I’m drinking from. I remove it and give it a shake, then smile when the contents inside rattle.

  I’ve stored some items within that I might need for my escape. Ten or so meal pills—I don’t like them, but I’ll keep them just in case. Strips of fabric from a dress I tore two visits ago. And some herbs I’ve picked from the Garden. It’s not much, but I save what I can.

  The lights from the factories reflect off the gray-green haze, and I can see just a little. I remove the items inside the bottle, even though I don’t like to pull from this supply. Still, my head hurts too bad right now to worry about it.

  Carefully, I remove two dried tear-shaped leafs from the bottle and crumble them between my fingers. If I had a fire at my disposal, I’d make a hot drink, but instead, I place the powder of the teaberry plant on my tongue and swallow it down with another swig of water. My throat burns again, though this time with the minty taste. The teaberry should kick my headache and lower the swelling in my face from Sweetpea’s punch.

  I empty my boots. A small piece of fabric wrapped around five more meal pills is inside, as well as a sewing needle, complete with a bobbin of thread that I stole from the costume room. Finally, I remove the slender metal tip of a beater a nasty little Pip broke over my shoulder one day when I refused to get my leg hair zapped off. I roll it across the palm of my hand, hoping I haven’t ruined my chances of escape with my earlier stunt. These items have been hiding in my boot, crushing my toes for the last week. I place them in the bottle with the rest of the items, seal the lid, and bury it again.

  A couple minutes pass and I begin to feel better. Metea’s voice in my head reminds me to be thankful for that.

  I pull myself to my knees, but when I open my lips to pray, the song is missing. It’s dried up inside of me. I can’t even think of how to start, and this scares me a little. Sweetpea and Lotus and Lily’s voices are in my head, calling me cracked, saying I lay down with sheep. Laughing at me like I’m some kind of freak. Daphne’s in there too, telling me the city scientists have proven there are no gods. Up until this morning I was convinced Mother Hawk would hear me, but now I wonder if the pollution in the city is too thick or, worse, that my call has fallen on deaf ears.

  Because I am still here.

  If my ma was still alive, she’d come for me. Bian would’ve tried something. But Salma—she’s got enough to do just worrying about herself, and with the twins, she’s surely stretched to the limit.

  I chew my nails, fighting back that feeling I get sometimes. That something’s happened to them—maybe that day I was caught, maybe one day since. It sticks to me like sap, that feeling. I try to focus on a new camp and what supplies we’ll need in the colder elevations, but my worries are hard to shake.

  Something crunches lightly over the grass, and I startle. These are not the heavy boots of a Watcher, but someone else. I roll to my feet and crouch low, gripping the chain. Ready to defend myself if needed.

  The noise is coming from the sewer behind the Driver’s barn. I hear a soft whimper, and my heart soars.

  “Brax!” I whisper. “It’s okay! The Watcher’s inside! Come on, Brax!”

  Brax knows to run if the Watcher’s door slides open. It was the first thing he learned when he first came to visit me. I force myself to take a deep breath, and feel my chest expand. The swelling in my nose is down, thanks to the teaberry.

  A large gray wolf, no less than hip height, comes stalking across the grass towards me. He avoids the brook after he leaves the sewer—I suspect Brax can smell the bad water—and sneaks straight up against the outer wall of the facility.

  Then he springs through the air and tackles me.

  I cannot swallow the giggles that bubble from my throat as Brax kisses my cheeks and my neck with his long, rough tongue. He licks and sniffs and snorts through my mess of hair, as though he believes I’ve hidden treats inside my curls. His paws are on my shoulders, pinning me down, and his breath smells a little fishy, but I am overjoyed. Brax is the only good thing I have in my life since I was taken.

  “You’ve gotten so big!” I croon, feeling like a mother must as she watches her child grow up. His eyes are still ice blue and glassy with love and a bit of wildness. I grip his shaggy silver mane and play-shove him to the side. He knows this game well. He pounces, attacking me again with kisses, and then rolls onto his back so I can scratch his belly. His tongue lolls to the side.

  “You’re dirty,” I say. He doesn’t have Pips scrubbing him clean every time he refuses to bathe.

  Brax was only a puppy when I found him, small enough to fit in the cradle of my arm. He came from the sewer, reeking of garbage, too thin. I suspect he wandered through the grating when he was small enough to
fit, and then couldn’t get back outside the city walls. He was wary of me, and I was just as suspicious, not trusting even the wild things in the city so soon after my capture. But eventually he crossed the stream, limping and whimpering because his stomach was twisted by hunger and worms.

  He felt better after I convinced him to eat some mayflower leaves that I found growing wild by the office. I could tell he trusted me.

  Later that night, he nipped at me, and made a playful growling noise that sounded almost like a bobcat. “Burrrrrax!” It seemed only right to assume he was telling me his name. And when I called him Brax he licked the back of my hand. I felt like I had finally done something right. I was so happy I’d hugged him until he’d bitten me to stop.

  He disappeared that night, but returned the next. And on my next turn in solitary, he came back out of the sewer like before. When I’m sent back to the other girls, I’m always scared that he will move on. But he hasn’t yet.

  After we play for a while, Brax quiets, and I lay my head across his shoulder and stare up into the haze. The Watcher has probably thrown a cot for me out into the yard on the other side of the office, but I don’t need it and I don’t want it. If he truly wants to treat me like a dog, leave me out here on the ground with Brax. I’d rather be a wolf than a girl any day.

  I train my eyes on the barn, which is ghostly now in the darkness. I can hear the horses within moving over the straw. They’re probably all padding down for the night, like Brax and I. But something else is awake. I can feel eyes upon me. Watching me. But with Brax as my guard, I am safe.

  I drift off.

  * * *

  I AM WOKEN JUST before dawn by Brax’s sudden shifting. In an instant he’s on his feet. My head, which had been resting on his furry neck, cracks against the ground.

  “Ouch!” I grumble, rubbing my tender skull.

  Brax is hunkered down in a pounce position and the hair on the crest of his neck has begun to stand on end. His black lips have drawn back menacingly over sharp teeth, but he does not growl because he’s smart and knows the value of silence.