The Sin Eaters

by Aaron Summers

  The crusher spun to face his opponent. Both men lunged, the crusher still favoring his tremendous strength and the mounted man favoring victory as he rolled to his right, whirled into a crouch, and leapt into the crusher’s exposed flank as he flew through the air.

  The entire movement lasted just a breath. The crowd cooed at his tremendous speed. Fen smiled. The mounted man had feigned exhaustion and won the right to strike such a painful blow. The fight, in the mind of the boy who had never seen a contest before, was over.

  The crowd gasped as the crusher’s ribs crunched and cheered when the pair slammed into the mud. The mounted man brought his knee into his victim’s spine, pulled his left arm back and bent the defeated man’s wrist into a painful angle while pressing his own palm against the man’s exposed neck.

  The grandfather whistled again and the sapling child clapped again. The men disentangled. The victor, clad only in a scant loincloth and a heavy layer of fresh mud, smiled as the judge announced his victory. He turned to help his opponent from the ground but the man had left the ring.

  This was soft. Did no one else care? This muddy man had won, and won well from what Fen could tell, but his opponent would not accept his defeat. The crowd ignored the loser. He had lost, after all. Why should they care?

  “Another!” The victor’s grin widened until it threatened to swallow his face. “Another!”

  No one volunteered. His grin melted. Fen knew how this man felt, with hot blood piping through his veins and the metallic taste of victory fresh on his tongue. But now was the time when the hunter died. Fen’s mother taught him this. Now was the time when the smart hunter butchered his kills, left the waste for the scavengers, and turned to home. To hunt with a fresh kill in your pack was to goad death.

  “You should stop.”

  Fen leapt at the sound of his own voice. Had some more timid child snuck up and spoken for him? The crowd turned. Fen resisted the urge to turn with them.

  The victor flung a hand at him. Droplets of mud spattered the boy’s simple tunic.

  “Speak. Boy want grapple?”

  The man’s judging eyes ran from Fen’s knotted ash-colored hair to his calloused feet, pausing to consider his oversized joints and bowed legs like all people did when they first saw him. Fen’s father told him many times that nature favored the newborn colt when it molded his only son. The blood of the Leyevolki runners mingled with his father’s ancestors in strange ways.

  But his legs were bowed from long abandon in his childhood, not from time spent running. Fen knew he was strong. Almost 15 years among the grasses built his hands into hammers and his back into an oak. He would grow stronger yet, though his body still ached from the cancer. He worried he would never grow taller.

  “Are ape or boy? Speak!”

  Fen felt his treacherous fingers crawling across his scalp and lowered his hand.

  “A boy.”

  “This boy has advice, he does?”

  The snarl reformed into a grin Fen liked less than the first grin. This was mockery. The man held out his hand. He had to take it. You did not run from the hunter. He would chase and then confront you when you were tired. His mother took him to hunt like this. They chased the antelope for most of a day. It sprinted ahead and then bedded down to rest. They followed, running only fast enough to track the animal. Its dehydrated blue tongue hung from its mouth when they caught it. He would not die like that. His knuckles popped as he clenched his fists.

  “I did not mean to speak. The words happened.”

  “Let words talk then. Boy come too, maybe. People be gone! Go make beautiful daughters for Dread Jonah. Go home.”

  Fen could not describe the change in the man’s face but knew its meaning. The man recognized something. The boy walked into the unmarked ring. Two children carried the judge away.

  “Thank you, Wend,” Jonah said while bowing his head.

  The old man waved. Jonah settled on the ground in the common way with legs crossed, hands on his knees, and both arms as straight as arrows. Fen’s eyes darted to the soft places inside the man’s thighs. He even left his neck exposed. This man was not so scary. But no, he tricked his opponent with great success. He was crafty like Fen’s father. Fen copied his posture.

  “You use oil,” Fen said.

  “No law against it. Okat of the Bandits knows this. Chose poor strategy.”

  Fen craned his neck to try and see the long-departed loser.

  “That was Okat of the Bandits? They are alive? My father told me of them. He lost badly.”

  Jonah laughed. Fen decided he liked the man’s face when he laughed. It showed all his boundless energy.

  “Some bandits live. Others not. Thinks is stronger than Jonah. Is not.”

  “Where are you from? I do not know the sound of your voice.”

  The man shrugged. Fen stared at the ridgeline of his shoulders. Bulls boasted less muscle. Jonah followed his newest worshipper’s open-mouthed stare and ran a hand along his shoulders.

  “What does Jonah call voice and boy that make it?”

  “Fen,” he said, dimly aware of the unexpected effort to recall his own name.

  “Simple name, Fen. Who are mothers and fathers?”

  “I have a mother. My father died.”

  His mouth continued working while his eyes traced the grown man’s frame. They ran down his hulking shoulders to the cordage of his forearms. He knuckles were huge like Fen’s elbow and knees, almost sickly in their round bulk. The man’s legs exceeded the mass of his arms. Fen ran a palm against his own, apparently scrawny, thigh.

  “That is sorrow. No boy should lose father. Good to have mother. Who feeds home of Fen?”

  The odd question broke Fen’s momentary rapture. He wanted to be powerful like the man in front of him. That was the only choice now.

  “My mother. She always has. She is a good hunter.”

  Jonah’s face shifted again. Did he have more muscles beneath that skin, too? He crossed both arms across his barrel chest and raised one hand to rub his chin. Fen noticed the mud still covered him. He didn’t seem to mind.

  “Who is mother? Need wife who hunts while Jonah plays all day in oil with naked men.”

  “I… we are Leyevi.”

  She had to have a name. All people had names. All things were named, eventually. Her name must be in there somewhere. Fen decided it didn’t matter. She was his mother. That was enough.

  “Leyevi is running folk, no? Mother runs messages from this tribe to that but also hunts. Curious. Has no name. Name is what person is. Fen is little name for little person. Fen will grow. Darumbull Jonah Balerion.” He spread his hands to release the words, as gifts, to the quiet world. “See? Mighty name for mighty man.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Do words jump again or does Fen think these things? No matter. Jonah is name from mother. Tribe of Darumbull from west where sun sets on border to Hollow Lands where Uralskiye thrust from earth.”

  “Where is Balerion?”

  Jonah laughed. Fen jumped but returned his grin. What did this man have to fear from the world? He shared all his thoughts. None could stop him if they tried. His curling toes held more strength than most men’s arms.

  “Fen knows nothing! Did father and mother not tell stories? Fen knows lightning, yes?”

  “My father told many stories. The world is big. I do not know that place.”

  “Not where. Who. What, perhaps. Balerion was great shadow that burned old cities beyond Uralskiye. Story says was awful dragon that spat fire to smite other worlds. Is story from book, maybe. Balerion one of names for lightning.”

  Fen nodded. Books meant nothing. Anyone would take a name. The lightning dallied here. It bothered, a few times a season, to scorch the grasses and set the herds running. Sometimes a person died. It was more story than threat. Still, he thought he understood. This man Jonah cared very much about the story.

  “Why is that also your name? Your name is too long. I am Fen.”


  Jonah leaned forward, cupping a hand to his mouth to hide his voice despite their isolation.

  “Are Leyevi Fen. Already name grows long. One day, do something big and add name. Darumbull Jonah Balerion was scout in Uralskiye. He watch Hollow Lands for storms. Big storm come, all fury and lightning, and struck Jonah with fire. Jonah became Balerion that day. Is to say, survived lightning. No Darumbull before or since survived lightning.”

  “It is a good story then.”

  “Is all Fen says? Good story? Could be lie. Do not know Darumbull. Maybe is no Darumbull.”

  “That is not so. You speak truth.”

  Jonah rose and turned away, flexing the muscles of his broad back until they flared like a cobra’s hood. The faint, fleshy veins of a prehistoric leaf covered him.

  “Is mark of beast. Is sign for those who not believe.”

  Fen’s fingers tracked up and down every branch and leaf of the raised tissue until he traced the whole scar.

  “This is the mark of the lightning?” he asked as Jonah returned to his seat.

  “Beasts,” he whirled a hand at the sky, “do what will. Only greatness was crawling down from mountain. Storms chose. Others die where they stand or burn down to ash. Is nest of serpents live in sky.”

  Fen nodded. He wanted to learn more from this man from the far west he never heard of where the mountains ended and the Hollow Lands began. His father, who came from a place much closer to those empty wastes, would not speak of the Hollow Lands except to mock the foolishness of their peoples. Those were dead places. The boy knew the Hollow Folk were foolish. He wanted to know more about how they lived but his father would not share those stories. But his father was dead like the lands he mocked. Fen now wanted to grapple, to grow strong. He wanted a name.

  His mother appeared at the ring. The budding dream withered. She held a hide-bound bundle of new goods on each shoulder. Her face was red, her scowl deeper than usual. Someone must have tried to cheat her and lost. It was time to go home.

  Jonah was on his feet before Fen saw him move. He had to remember the man’s appearance was a mask. Maybe all masks weren’t bad.

  “Are mother of nameless boy, no? Boy Fen with mother, no father, no name.”

  Fen watched her face first harden into its familiar stone.

  “He has a name. Leyevi Fen.”

  “Leyevi, yes. Running folk. Armasar? No, too slender. Fierce hunter who feeds family well.”

  “Thundercloud,” she said, forsaking her tribe for the sake of the sub-species that counted so few. “Come, son. We go home.”

  Fen rose to take a bundle but Jonah intercepted it.

  “Let Jonah help,” the grappler said.

  She snatched it away.

  “No. Fen is strong. I am strong.” She turned her steely eyes on him. “You will stay here.”

  They turned to leave. Jonah ran after, bounding from leg to leg like a child. The gathering’s indistinct edge soon appeared. Only the grasses lay between them and their tent. The sun was setting. A cold wind rippled across the meadow. People here did not linger in the night. Fen spied glinting eyes in the waiting meadow.

  “Darumbull Jonah Balerion,” he called as Fen’s mother broke the boundary to the true wild.

  She froze. Even in a place without laws, it would violate a special taboo if she did not offer her name in reply.

  “Leyevi Hemanta Artemia,” she shouted.

  “Good name! Artemia is huntress. Boy does not know it. Name is Mother.” He caught them and slowed to an easy walk. “Jonah likes boy. Will be hunter like Hemanta Artemia or more like father?”

  “Dead?”

  “No. Strong boy. Fen lives.”

  “All things die.”

  “Yes, but what of boy while lives?”

  “I… do not know. He was sick for many summers and only now grows strong. The shamans said to leave him. You see him. He is small.”

  Jonah flung an arm over his mouth. Fen grinned again.

  “Sick?”

  “The cancer. He could not walk for three winters.”

  “Disobey shaman, yes?”

  “We do not obey.” She let the word curdle. “They gave a path. We took another. Do you follow only the same easy trail as those who walked before?”

  “Jonah knows sickness. Rare for child to live. Takes special thing, certain will. Boy grow strong with help. Mighty like oak. Let Jonah walk with you. Path is long.”

  She turned to consider the dying sun as it flung fire into the purpling night.

  “Yes, it is. I took too long. Such people with their mouths. They talk too much. Is not a hide worth a hide’s worth?”

  “Is true. Let Jonah coach Fen.”

  Hemanta frowned and knitted her brows. Fen knew that look because he shared the expression. Neither knew the word. They hardly knew the man. His father would know what to say. He loved to use words. His father was dead. Fen spied a red stain on the grip of his mother’s knife. He hoped this man Jonah would not soon be dead, too.

  “You may walk with us. You will sleep outside the tent and return here tomorrow.”

  The trio headed into the night. Hemanta’s hand never left her knife. Fen watched for jackals in the grass while she watched the jackal on their path. By the time they reached the tent of the miniscule Leyevi tribe, many miles outside the gathering, Hemanta had given her son away to the man who would train him. Darumbull Jonah Balerion slept inside.

  CHAPTER 8 - OBSERVATION

  “Tim!”

  Eliza kicked his sneaker. Of course he wore New Balance. His eyes fluttered.

  “What! What?”

  “Stop snoring. You should be teacher assisting me right now.”

  “With…” he looked around the dimly lit railcar cab. “Everyone’s sleeping?”

  He had a point. The giggling women slept nestled warmly under his thick arms. Charlie had curled down in a corner by himself, his head drooped between bent knees. Jim Finch was awake but staring down the tunnel into the mountain’s black heart. He hadn’t spoken since they boarded.

  The railcar had windows. Eliza didn’t know why. The tunnel was illuminated every hundred or so feet by bulbs that cast just enough light to see the carved walls were a few inches from the railcar. What was there to be seen inside a mountain? They rolled past another light. This train didn’t hustle.

  “Where did you go in the house? It took a while to find you,” Eliza said.

  Tim blinked again and pretended to brush more sleep from his eyes. Eliza saw his cheeks begin to shade. She looked at Lorelai nestled against his chest.

  “Oh.”

  He saw Eliza’s face, glanced down, and gaped at her from behind a blazing red face.

  “Oh, no ma’am. Nothing like that. It’s just, they wanted to talk. So we talked for a long time. It got… really personal. Then they fell asleep but they were so comfortable and I thought Emma was gonna be sick so I didn’t want to leave, and…”

  She held up a hand.

  “I’m screwing with you. It’s fine. That’s Charlie.”

  She nodded towards the sleeping gargoyle. His head hung between upraised knees and his arms were wrapped around him again. The sailcloth shirt strained to contain his indeterminate form.

  “Yeah. You told me.”

  “He’s also the patron. The guy who pays for all this.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, me either. Michael talked about him like a test subject. Though to be fair, he kind of talked about himself that way. Like he doesn’t know himself. I don’t know what’s going on. But listen, I need you to be paying attention. We need to get up to speed, fast. Like your weekend research but faster.”

  Tim started to roll his eyes.

  “I’m serious, Tim. You did good. That’s why I brought you. You’re… you’re a high apple in a tall tree.”

  ThatsNotHowYoureSupposedToSayThatWhoa

  Tim’s blush completed its conquest of his face. Eliza didn’t even know a person’s f
ull face could blush until that moment.

  “I understand, boss. Pay attention all the time.”

  The railcar slowed. Light filled the opening ahead and then they were through it, birthed into an illuminated night. The railcar paused at a platform at the bottom of a sweeping valley. The valley’s walls rose hundreds of feet above them. More buildings, grown from the living stone and banded with tall windows, jutted out along the sweeping valley walls. Eliza moved to the railcar’s front, careful not to touch the automated controls, and stuck her face against the window.

  The valley floor was designed like a park. Sidewalks flowed like streams through the grasses and shrubs. She didn’t see any trees or water features. There were probably limits on what they could practically do up in the mountains, even with the resources available to a group like this. The buildings and the valley continued for what she guessed was a half mile to a sheer granite face taller than the mountain they just passed through. More mountains had to wait beyond.

  Each building supported at least one light pole. Together, they cast more than enough illumination to see by. She guessed it was one, maybe two in the morning, or maybe any time. She didn’t know. Pairs of people crossed the many walkways. Eliza watched one man in blue coveralls push a dolly loaded with crates down a path.

  “This is very… industrial,” she said to no one.

  It was an insufficient term. Anyone could build a factory. This was a fully operational research compound hidden in a valley in the Andes Mountains. Simply powering the thing was a feat of engineering. She had started wondering about their water supply and labor management when someone giggled. Then the other woman giggled. She turned in time to see Jim Finch escort them from the railcar. Lorelai waved a finger at Eliza as they vanished into a nearby tunnel. Tim was grinning.

  “Did you say goodbye, chief?”

  He didn’t answer. The door hissed closed and the railcar rocked forward. They continued down a gentle slope into another tunnel. She moved to the railcar’s left window to watch the distant granite face vanish. Charlie hadn’t stirred.