The Glass Arrow

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The Glass Arrow Page 9

by Kristen Simmons


  It’s been so long since I’ve said it, I scarcely recognize its feel on my tongue. The word sounds strange, like I’m speaking a foreign language. I almost wonder what else has drifted away, but the Driver boy is watching me again, so I don’t worry about that right now.

  “Aiyana,” I repeat, then point to him. “What’s your name?”

  He looks back blankly. Even if he did follow, he wouldn’t be able to tell me.

  “Your name should be Kiran,” I tell him. “Because your eyes, they look like…” I pause. I don’t know why but I feel like I’ve said something stupid again. The Driver, Kiran, looks over at me when I stop talking, and nods as though he wants me to continue.

  “Well, what do you want me to say, Kiran?” I ask him. The name fits. I’m pleased with myself for thinking of it.

  He leans back against the wall again, not understanding a word I’m saying. So I talk. Because no one has listened for a long, long time.

  CHAPTER 7

  “YOU’RE A LONG WAY from the Driver camps,” I say, not expecting an answer. Though Silent Lorcan came to trade with us, we never went to his home. It’s somewhere in the valleys where the rivers meet. At least, that’s what my ma always told us.

  Kiran’s leaning against the plaster wall, looking towards the barn. There’s a chestnut mare out in the back that’s sleeping standing up. One of her rear hooves is cocked, and her head hangs low.

  I go on.

  “Ma was raised in Marhollow, one of the towns in the outskirts, where people still live the old ways.” When he doesn’t respond, I explain, “With families, I mean. All living together because they want to. Anyhow, the Magnates sent Trackers to raid the town when the census was low and took all the girls that were auction age. That’s how she came to the city.”

  She was torn away from her family, her sister left behind. Not unlike I was.

  “She got kicked out of the Garden when they found out about the baby—about me. They gave her a Virulent mark, and sent her to the Black Lanes. But she wasn’t having any of that, so she left.” I picture my ma’s fierce smile. The way the puckered X scar would stretch when she was mad. “The gatekeepers figured she’d be better off dying outside their city.” I shiver at the words, but that’s how my ma told the story.

  “She was alone in the mountains when I came. For years it was just her and me. Sometimes Lorcan too—the Driver I told you about. He came to trade with us. I wasn’t more than hip high when he taught me how to set a trap.”

  By five I was cleaning my own game while Ma cooked. Fishing on days I couldn’t hunt. Gathering the roots and plants that my ma had told me weren’t poisonous.

  I look at the Driver boy and for the first time I wonder if my ma named Lorcan the way I named Kiran. It’s not like he could talk to tell us his real name. Strange that I never questioned it until now.

  “When I was seven, Ma and I went down to the outskirts of Marhollow so she could visit her family. She made me stay above the tree line while she snuck in to see her parents and her sister at their farm.”

  The bitterness returns to me as I say this. I’d never been to a town or met my grandparents before. I didn’t get to meet them then either.

  “She came back at nightfall, carting the whiner. Salma. Her sister’s daughter, my cousin. The census in the city was low, and so the Magnates hired Virulent thugs—Trackers, we called them—to raid the towns for young girls to bring to the meat market.”

  Lots of women fled into the mountains then. Some of us even became friends. But as the Tracker raids increased and more Magnates started hunting, our numbers dwindled. Soon it was only Lorcan that came to call.

  “Salma was nine when we took her in. She hated my ma for what she did, for saving her life. She never really got over it. I used to tell her just to go back to town if she missed it so much, but she never did that either. She’s all bark and no bite, Salma is.”

  I turn to Kiran who, when he hears me stop, motions for me to continue again. I wonder if he just likes the sound of my voice. This makes sense to me. I like the sound of the wind through the trees. I don’t speak tree language, but the whisper is soothing all the same.

  “We lived that way for a while, just the three of us. My ma trained us to hide from Trackers. And when Lorcan visited, he’d teach me to fight. Salma hated that he was mute and couldn’t bring her news from the city.

  “Then one day, I think I was eight or nine, I found a woman sleeping by a nearby brook.” I smile a little at the memory. “She was all swollen up with babies. Two of them.” I motion to show her belly. Her feet were thick too, and bleeding from all the walking they’d done to get away from town.

  “Her son jumped out of the bushes while I was watching and he hit me with a stick, right between the eyes.” I laugh at the memory now, but at the time, I was so mad I shoved him into the stream and held him under until Metea pulled me off.

  “Bian,” I say. “A year older than Salma.”

  It feels better to remember him at ten than the last time I saw him.

  “It wasn’t long before Metea’s labor started. We worked all night, Ma and me, cleaning her, cooling her. We made her tea from baneberry roots to ease the pain. The twins were born just before dawn. Tam and Nina, she named them. Nina after her ma. Tam after the man she loved—Trackers had raided her town and killed him.”

  I take a deep breath, remembering the night of Tam and Nina’s birth as though it has just happened. Blood and sweat. Metea’s silent struggles. Bian’s crying. And my ma’s reliance on me. How proud she was of me. How proud I was of myself.

  I’d never been so scared in my life. I think about telling Kiran this—but for some reason, I don’t.

  My stomach begins to hurt at the next part of my story. I want to stop, but the words just keep coming.

  “I was eleven when she got sick. My ma. Fever.”

  My voice cracks. But this time, Kiran does not encourage me on. He’s watching me intently, mouth closed around a long piece of grass he’d been chewing.

  I remember how she told me that this was the way of things. That to have life there must be death. To have joy there must be sadness. And that I must not be angry with Mother Hawk because of it.

  But I was angry. I’m still angry.

  “Metea and I gave her herbs for the fever, but the sickness took her eyes, made her see things that weren’t there.” It makes my heart pinch to remember my ma’s crazed words during those last hours.

  “I tried to remember the fever cures, but none of them worked. And when Metea said Ma couldn’t take any more we made her a strong sleeping draught from bloodroot. So strong she didn’t wake up again. I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I finish suddenly.

  I’m exhausted. The story has left me with a hollow feeling inside. I don’t care that Kiran is still here. I don’t care if he wants to kill me even. I just want to lie down and sleep. And for the first night in some time, I don’t want to dream about the mountains.

  I lay my head on Brax’s neck. He’s already passed out, and his steady heart calms me. I close my eyes. I must fall asleep quickly, because I don’t hear Kiran leaving.

  Maybe he stayed a while. I don’t know.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING I see that the Watcher is no longer wearing the key to my bracelet. I stop looking at his chest strap because it’s such a disappointment. I don’t know where he keeps it—somewhere inside, but unless he opens the door with his hand scan, there’s no way to get in.

  The days grow shorter, not just because winter is coming, but because Kiran begins visiting every night. With the motions of his arms and his pointing fingers, he tells me he’s got some kind of plan in the works to get me out. I don’t know what it is exactly, but he seems confident. At first I’m skeptical, but every day brings new hope, and every night he shows up empty-handed, more disappointment.

  But it’s not all disappointing. We talk a lot.

  At least, I talk a lot.

  A Pip
comes by on my eighth day and gives me a few changes of clothes and two wool blankets—my only shelter against the rain that pelts me half that afternoon. I find myself reluctant to change out in the open, because on one side of my yard the Watcher can surely see, and on the other, Kiran might.

  Not that he’d be looking.

  During the daytime I can’t help but glance over towards the barn. Sometimes I see Kiran outside doing his normal working routine. He wears his riding pants, his boots, sometimes a button-down shirt. His clothes are always filthy, but his handkerchief, rolled and tied in a loose knot around his neck, always seems clean. I remind myself to tell him to mess it up later so that no one will catch on to his disguise, but I always forget once he arrives.

  Occasionally our eyes will meet and we’ll both look away quickly, to check if anyone else has seen us. No one ever does.

  On the tenth day the yard is unusually quiet during rec time. Drawn by the Governess’s voice, I stretch my chain to its limit and squint at the back of the building, where she’s called the girls into a line. From here I can see Daphne’s red hair in the middle of the pack. It puts me at ease that she’s around, for some reason.

  A man steps out from the building and says something to the Governess. He wears a suit the color of eggplants and a floppy-brimmed hat, which he takes off as he makes his way down the line.

  I cringe and fall back a step.

  It’s Mercer the Pimp. He comes sometimes after all the paperwork is done from the auction to pick up the stragglers for the Black Lanes. Most of his girls are Virulent, but every once in a while he’ll buy a few First Rounders to sell them to his own clients in the Black Lanes. It’s everyone’s biggest fear.

  Two girls are chosen—two who have been here longer than me. Neither of them put up a fight as they’re ushered into the building by Pips.

  Before Mercer leaves, he lifts his hand and waves. It’s not until the other girls turn their heads that I realize he’s waving at me. Even at this distance I can hear his laughter as I scram around the backside of the office.

  I bite my nails to nothing waiting for him to come get me, too, but he doesn’t show up. Someone else does, though. Another Driver, to work at the barn with Kiran. I recognize his silver hair and skinny, warped stature. He used to run the rental barn before Kiran came. He mostly stays out of view, but in the early evening, I catch a glimpse of his ferrety face as he leads a string of sweaty horses back to the barn. I think he must be delivering the animals to the rich city people. He leaves at sundown that night, and in the nights following as well. I don’t tell Kiran this relieves me, because now he can keep sneaking over.

  I do tell Kiran all sorts of things, though.

  I tell him about my capture and Bian’s sculptures. About Straw Hair and my anger at Daphne for standing by. About my family. I tell Kiran things I would never admit to anyone else because Kiran is safe to me. A trap for my feelings and words.

  I stop being afraid of him sometime after our first week of night talks. I gradually stop thinking about where my weapons are or how fast I need to run to escape. Sometimes we play ball, sometimes we just sit together. Sometimes while I talk he stretches out on the grass and looks up at where the stars should be if the sky weren’t so muddied by haze. Sometimes I lie beside him.

  But not too close.

  I begin to learn each expression of his face, even the slightest ones, and what his gestures say. A raised brow means he’s interested. A tightening around the corner of his mouth means something’s bothered him. His shoulders hunch more when he’s tired. His eyes never lose their gleam.

  Sometimes I swear he knows what I’ve said. He’ll nod at just the right time, or open his mouth and then close it again. Or almost smile. But then other times he does these same behaviors for no reason at all. I think they just must be a part of how he listens.

  Sometimes I think he’s frustrated that he can’t understand me, and to be honest, I am too. I want so much to hear the sound of his voice; not just the deep flat tone that I’ve created in my head, but his real voice, if he has one. One night I tried to teach him to speak. We must have looked like fools—me showing him how to stick his tongue out and say “ahhh,” him mirroring me in silence. We both ended up in fits of laughter.

  His stayed silent, of course.

  It’ll be hard not having him to talk to when I get out of here, but the twins and I won’t be able to risk any communication with the outside. Not even the people in the outliers. If we’re going to stay alive, we don’t need to give anyone any reason to come looking for us.

  Sort of like the Drivers, now that I think about it.

  * * *

  ON MY TWENTY-FIFTH NIGHT I wait for Kiran, as I have every night since his first visit. When I see him emerge from the darkness of the barn, I wait expectantly. Just like every night before this one, he shrugs and shows me his empty hands. His plan for getting me out is failing. He leaps over the stream, hesitating like he always does to check for the Watcher, and joins me behind the office wall.

  Something’s on his mind. His brows are knitted together, and his lips are drawn in a straight line. Usually he’s more relaxed, more confident, at night. Like a mountain lion, I think. Lazing out on the grass, stalking around his turf.

  “What is it?” I ask him, holding my arms out questioningly.

  He points to a small pile of stones beside the wall. I’ve placed one there each night so that I know how long it will be until the Pips come back to get me for auction. I figure I’ve got twenty-eight or so days in here. About that time they’ll need to begin prepping me for the meat market.

  I count out the stones. Twenty five. My throat grows tight. I hold up all my fingers twice, then once more. “I’ve been here twenty-five days,” I tell him. I’m glad my ma taught me how to count.

  He points to the main facility of the Garden and holds his hands out.

  How many days before you go back? I hear him say in my mind.

  “Three.” I hold out three fingers. If Kiran can’t get me out by then, I’ll be taken back with the others.

  Now I can barely swallow.

  He slouches on the ground, resting his forearms on his knees and looking irritable. After a moment he points to me, then over the Garden towards the heart of the city. He mimes the snooty look of a Magnate typing on a messagebox as he pretends to look me over. At least, I think he’s pretending. His typing fingers slow, and his eyes linger somewhere around my waist before popping back up.

  The auction?

  “Yes,” I manage, nodding. Somehow, I’ve managed not to think about the auction in several days. He picks up a pebble and flings it across the yard towards the barn. I hear it clap against the wooden siding.

  “Your plan to get me out won’t work?” I gesture so he understands.

  He shakes his head.

  “Are you sure?” I wish I knew what he wanted to do, then maybe I could help him. We could work together. As it is, I’m stuck trusting him blindly.

  He’s still shaking his head. I groan quietly. Breaking me out would have been dangerous, probably even impossible. I know this, but I still can’t help but feel like Kiran’s not trying hard enough.

  It’s warmer tonight, and I’m sitting on one of the wool blankets. I don’t offer the other to Kiran. If he wants it, he can take it. We’ve worked out that much over our past three weeks together.

  My bare feet, now hard with calluses, stretch out in front of me. My straight legs are about as long as Kiran’s bent, and our toes are very close. Almost close enough to touch.

  He’s looking at my feet, and this makes me look at my feet. I feel the need to cover them, so I try to pull the slinky dress down, but he stops my arm with his large hand. His nails are caked with dirt and when he sees me looking at them his cheeks get a little darker.

  “I don’t mind,” I say.

  He hasn’t touched me since that day the Watcher slapped me. My skin feels like ice next to his, even through the fabric of my dress. But
I’m not cold, he’s just so warm.

  Then he leans forward very slowly and traces his finger very lightly along the twisting scar around my right calf. It’s at least a half inch thick and always lighter than the rest of my skin. Like a tattoo of a white snake.

  The tickle of his fingertip on my leg sends a bolt of heat right into my belly, and I gasp before I can stop myself. My hand snaps up to cover my lips. The blush burns my face. And then I hold as still as I possibly can, like this will erase everything that just happened.

  My voice is a little higher than normal when I finally speak.

  “It’s from a wire. The Trackers that caught me had one.” I can still remember the freezing cold, then the burn. The way the metal tightened, tearing into my skin and flesh. “They gave me surgery for it at the infirmary, but they couldn’t get rid of the scar. The Governess doesn’t care. It disappears with concealing powder.”

  Kiran’s still staring at my leg. I jerk both knees into my chest and hide them in my skirt.

  “I know about doing it,” I say.

  Something has caught Kiran’s attention and he’s looking the opposite way. I look over his shoulder to see what he’s staring at, but I don’t see anything. When he turns back, his face is mild. He’s not even irritated anymore.

  “I mean, Salma told me. I’ve never … you know. I don’t see how anybody would want to. All the jabbing and slobbering and grabbing. I don’t know why all the girls at the Garden are so set on getting Promised.”

  A renewed desire to sabotage the upcoming auction fills me. Kiran’s looking up at the sky now, and his hands are clasped together over his knees. I gaze for a moment at his wavy hair, silver in the moonlight, and then pick a fistful of grass just to busy my hands before I do something stupid like reach over and touch it.

  “A few years ago I followed Salma down to the edge of Marhallow, to the farms outside of town. She met a boy in the woods, and they … Well. They didn’t know I was there, but I saw them. So I know how it works.”

  I don’t know why I just told Kiran this story. I don’t know why I’m talking out loud about these things at all. I don’t normally even think about them. But Kiran’s hand on my leg did something to me, and now I’m thinking about all kinds of crazy things.

 

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