Fire Country (11 page)

I wake up.

The light hurts my eyes so I close them immediately. I don’t know what time it is, but it ain’t late, still too bright. Maybe still afternoon.

I realize what woke me up. Voices. Keeper’s growl and another voice, this one as melodious and familiar as any sound in the entire world, like the tinkle of Miss Merry’s glass chimes on a mildly breezy spring morning. My eyes snap open and I shield them from the light with a hand. Using my other hand I push to my feet, feeling every bone and muscle in my body protest, which is strange. It’s the ground that’s making them sore
, and yet, they don’t want to leave it.

I gimp my way over to the bars, toward the voices. “This ain’t right,” Keep says.
“Only one visitor ‘llowed a day.”

The other voice stays low and hard to hear, but I’d know it anywhere. “C’mon. Just…once…kicked by a tug…walked miles…see her?”

“Circ!” I shout.

My one shout is all it takes to win the argument. Whether Keep likes it or not, Circ turns and sees me, sprints over, all smiles and laughs and flashing
mahogany eyes. Keep’s grumbling something behind him, but I don’t care and he goes back inside his hut, slamming the door behind him. I hug Circ through the bars. He’s sweaty and warm, but feels so good. Plus, I’m far durtier, covered in a light brown dust and grime, so I can’t really complain ’bout a little sweat on him considering he’s been walking for the last two thumbs of sun movement.

We pull back but he keeps holding my arms,
which feel all tingly, maybe ’cause I been sleeping on them. “You look good,” he says, surprising me.

“I do?”

“Yeah, you look like you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “So me is all
durty and groggy and boreder’n a Totter with no jinglejanglers?”

Circ laughs. “You is you,” he says. Now he’s talking like Lara too
, in riddles.

“If my father knew you were here, he’d kill you and me both,” I say.

“But he doesn’t.” Good point. “How’s Confinement?”

“Well, the food ain’t bad. It ain
’t good either. It’s neither, ’cause there ain’t any.”

Circ releases my arms, squeezing one of my hands on the way down. When he let’s go, I feel something in my palm. Tug jerky.

“Thanks,” I say, grinning. “Though I won’t be able to hardly swallow it down without some water.”

He looks over his shoulder at Keep’s hut. The door’s still closed. No windows. “Here,” he says, handing me a skin. “I’ve got another one for my trek home.”

“Thanks.” Greedily and with shaking hands, I unknot the leather tie and push it to my dry lips. Warm, clear liquid runs down my tongue. I trap it in my mouth, swish it around a few times to let it moisten every nook and cranny, and then swallow it. The first swig burns a little on the way down, but the second is perfect. “Ah,” I say, tearing off a piece of jerky and shoving it into my mouth.

“I can’t stay long,” Ci
rc says. “Learning’s over, but Father doesn’t know I’m here and he’ll be expecting me home for dinner. I’ll have to run back.”

Mouth full, I garble, “Hard to run with those ribs.” I motion to his bandaged torso.

“I’ll manage,” he says. And then: “I’ve got news.”

I stop chewing. “’Bout the Killer attack?”

He nods, eyes gleaming. “A group of Hunters is being sent out to investigate, day after next.”

I swallow the half-chewed jerky in a big gulp. “Whaddya think they’ll find?”

“Hopefully we’ll find out who’s been hunting on Killer land,” he says.

A lump forms in my throat, but not from the jerky. “Whaddya mean
we’ll find
?”

“I’m going with them,” he says.

~~~

“But why you? You’re only fifteen,” I say. We’ve been arguing for
a while now, pretty much the longest argument we’ve ever had.

Circ shakes his head. “You know my age has never stopped me before,” he says.

“They didn’t let you fight against the Glassies,” I point out.

Circ sighs. “That was different. That was war. This is an investigation.”

“Will you be going on Killer land?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Then it’s a war,” I say.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be dead.”

“No—I won’t,” Circ says. He takes my hand through the bars, which I like. He’s taking my opinion seriously. “It’ll be
a quick out and back,” he says. “I promise.”

I’m about to argue again but his su
dden promise stops me. Circ don’t make many promises to me. I can probably count them all without even taking off my moccasins. And he’s kept every last one of them. Like the time I accidentally kicked the feetball and broke grumpy ol’ Greynote Finn’s window, Circ promised it would be alright and that I wouldn’t get into trouble. He copped the blame and took the punishment for me. Or just before his first ever Hunt and he promised me he’d be safe and kill his first tug. He did, of course. Nope, he never broke a single promise to me. I owe him my trust now.

“Be safe. Please,” I say.

“I will.” His words are solider’n the stone blocking me from digging my way out. “What’s that,” he says, motioning past me, toward the durt in my cage.

“What’s what?”

“Those scribbles in the durt,” he says.

“Just scribbles,” I say. “I was trying to pass the time, do a little sleuthing of my own, try to figure out who’s behind the Killer attack.”

Circ looks impressed. “What’d you come up with?”

“It ain’t us,” I say. “The Heaters, I mean. No o
ne ’ud be that stupid. Other’n that, I’d say the Glassies are a good bet. They don’t know the land as well as us. Mighta done it by accident, or on purpose, to get to us. I don’t know much about the Marked, but they coulda done it too, ’cause they were hungry, maybe even starving. I’m still not sure about the Wild Ones, but I hardly think a bunch of Bearers who don’t Bear could do much damage. That leaves the Icers, who don’t seem the type to come down into the heat of fire country.”

Circ looks intently at my scratches in the durt. “I’d say you did pretty well without nothing but your brains and good sense,” he says.

“You think it was the Marked or the Glassies, too?” I ask, sitting down cross-legged and sticking my feet through the bars.

“I dunno,” Circ says, following my lead. The tips of his
moccasins touch mine, just like they should. Only there’re bars between us. “But what you said makes sense. Hey, Sie?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever wondered what else is out there?” Circ asks.

“More sand, more desert,” I say. “What else is there?” I’m not sure where he’s going with all this.

“The mountains for one,” Circ says.

“Yeah, but that’s out of fire country, Circ. We can’t go there.”

“Why not?”

His question throws me. I
never really thought ’bout it. The mountains ain’t ours. They’re the Icers. We stay on our land, they stay on theirs. We hunt on our land, the Killers hunt on theirs. Everyone’s happy. “We just can’t. It’s the Law.”

“Okay. Let me ask you this: Have you ever wondered about
who
else is out there?”

“The Icers” I say automatically. “And I gu
ess the Glassies, too. Other’n that, maybe the Wilds and the Marked, if they’re real.”

“And beyond them?” Circ says.

“I dunno, no one.” This conversation is becoming more mind-whirling’n the one with Lara.

“It’s a big world,” Circ says, looking up into the sky. I look up, too. The red sky is criss-crossed by thick wooden bars. Not even a single wisp of yellow cloud breaks up the sea of crimson.

~~~

By the time Circ leaves, it’s getting late and he’s probably gonna get a lashing for missing dinner. I feel
bad about it, but I feel worse ’bout him going with the special group of Hunters.

After he
’s gone, I think about everything he said. I’ve never heard him talk like that. About the big ol’ world outside fire country, that is. He almost sounded like he’s ready to run off and try to find it. Well, he ain’t going anywhere without me.

The jerky helped, but not a lot. I’m still ravenous—ready to eat a whole tug on my own—when my one meal arrives. It ain’t nothing to brag about, just a lump of something thick and bready, and a bit of some overcooked, chewy meat, but after having so little to eat all day, I pretty much swallow it all whole. Wash it down with the three gulps of water Keep provides.

Keep goes ’bout his suppertime business without a word, but the rest of the place gets pretty riled up. After a day of everyone keeping silent, sleeping it away, all the prisoners seem to come alive with the food. They’re all talking to each other, cracking jokes and laughing, while I sit cross-legged in the corner, counting down the moments till I’m out.

I
gobble down my meager ration of food, still unsatisfied, and for the first time all day, I’m glad the cage isn’t covered. The heat of the day has melted away to a warm, but pleasant, twilight. The sun goddess’s eye is fiery red—even redder’n the sky—and as it splashes on the horizon, deep purple streaks radiate off a clump of yellow clouds that have accumulated low in the sky.

As I watch, the sun disappears, leaving behind only the ever-dark
ening purples as evidence she’d ever been there at all.

It’s the moon goddess’s turn to watch the world now. I wonder what she’s watching. Whether it’s fire country, ice country, or some
other country like Circ talked ’bout, so foreign to us that it might as well be on another planet.

I’m ’
bout to lie down and do some serious star-gazing, when there’s a rap, rap, rap on the wooden bars on my cage. The night is deepening and I hafta peer through the murk to see who’s there. Keep. “Yer’ve got another visitor,” he says gruffly. “I’m allowin’ it fer special circumstancies, but don’t yer think fer one moment yer can git away with this again. If yer ever in Confinement agin, it’ll be no visitors fer yer first day.”

He stomps away leaving me wondering what special circumstances
are giving me a third visitor. And who that visitor’ll be.

I
get up and move to the bars, hearing voices off a ways. Footsteps head my way, so quiet that if my ears weren’t listening so hard, I might miss them.

Then she’s there. My mother. A soft smile and a warm kiss on my hand.

“Mother? What are you doing all the way out here?” I ask.

“I came to see you,” she says.

“Keep said there were special circumstances.”

“There are. But I would’ve come even if there weren’t,” she says. I believe her. My mother ain’t no liar. In the inky black of night her raven hair melts into the air, as if she’s become one with the sky. As always, she has my eyes in her hea
d, but they seem brighter’n ever before, shining like an animal’s. “Siena, something’s happened. Greynote Shiva…” She trails off and she don’t need to say the rest. It’s obvious.

“Father’s Head Greynote,” I say.
“Head Greynote Shiva’s dead.”

She nods, barely percepti
ble in the dark, only visible ’cause her eyes bob and bounce.

“Head Greynote Roan,” I say, trying the words out on my tongue. I smack my lips. Cringe. Whether it’s an aftertaste from my pitiful meal or the words themselves, I’m left with bitterness on my tongue.

“Yes, Siena. I wanted to tell you first.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way out here—”

“Yes, I did.”

The firmness of her words surprise
me. Mother’s not usually firm ’bout much. She’s always been so wishy-washy.
We’ll have to ask your father. Maybe, but let’s check with your father. Have you asked your father?
Those are her usual words.

Now, everything ’
bout her has changed. She’s being firmer with me, firmer with my father. Standing up for herself. Even standing up for me. What the scorch is going on?

“Shiva was…” she says, grasping the bar as if to steady herself. It sounds weird hearing her say Shiva without the Head Greynote part in the front. It’s almost disrespectful, but there’s no disrespect in her voice. “…a good man. He tried hard, wanted the best for the village. But he’s been sick for a long time, longer than most.”

I wonder where’s she’s going with this. Everyone knows how long Shiva’s been sick. As soon as someone—anyone—gets the Fire, everyone’s always talking ’bout it, making bets on how long they’ll last, thanking the sun goddess it wasn’t them who caught it.

“Your father’s been the real Head Greynote for a long time,” she continues. “Making important decisions, signing trade agreements with the Icers, deciding the future of the village.”

“I already know all that,” I say.

Mother nods again. “Your father’s a hard man,” she says. I already know that, too. My scarred back could tell a thousand tales of my father’s hardness. “I think he’s doing what he believes is right, but he’s way off track.”

“Mother, whatever it is, spit it out.” I don’t usually talk like that to my mother, but she’s been beating around the prickler too long and I’m itching to know where she’s heading with all this.

Mother half-laughs, half-sobs, once more surprising me. “I’m sorry, Mother, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, Siena. It’s okay,” she says. Takes a deep breath. “You say what you mean and you mean what you say.” I’ve never heard that expression before, but right away I like it. “What I’m trying to say is…do you believe in the Laws of fire country?”

It’s not at all what I thought would come out of her mouth. I was expecting
her to tell me that we both need to be ’specially obedient to my father now that he’s the Head Greynote, or something like that. “The Laws?” I say. “Well, uh, yeah. I mean, we all do. We hafta—to survive.”

Mother grasps my hand through the bars. Her hand is warm and so is mine, so it’s like our warmth combines. “Is that really what you think?” she asks. “Or is it just something they teach you to say in Learning.”

Both, right?
I’m ’bout to say just that, but she puts a hand to my face and says, “You don’t need to answer that now, or even out loud. Just think about it. Think about what you want. And when the time comes, you’ll know what decision to make.”

She raises my hand, kisses the back of it, and is gone, disappearing into the night as if she was never here at all.

~~~

What
I
want? Nothing’s ever been ’bout what I want. My life’s been built with a foundation of duty, a structure of Laws and rules and changes that come with age—a thatched roof of survival. For my people, for me. So my mother’s words are buzzing around in my head like flies, and I don’t got the swatter to knock them down to where I can look at them.

What she said, it almost sounded like…well, l
ike Lara. All her knocky stuff ’bout it not having to be this way and just think ’bout it. Now my mother’s saying I have a choice to make and that I should be thinking ’bout that choice. What choice? It’s hard to be thinking about something when you don’t really understand what that something is.

Sometimes I miss my sister. This is one of those times.
My Call-Siblings are too young to really talk to, and they only share the same father as me, not mother, so it’s not the same. Skye is my full sister. Or
was
my full sister. Who knows whether she’s still alive, what the Wilds did to her.

We used to share everything with each other. She was going to be my guide for the future, tell me all about what it was like to be a Bearer, let me ho
ld her young’uns so I could practice ’fore I had to do it myself.

I can still picture the dark, bouncing curls in her hair the day she was taken. The day
of her Call. The day she was s’posed to become a woman. I wonder if by missing her Call she’ll never become a woman, will always be stuck as just a girl, a Youngling. That scares me.

Anyway, I remember her curls like it was yesterday. Perfect little circlets of hair, shining with the luster of a fresh washing. When we were little I used to think she had
knots in her hair, and that they just needed to be combed out to be nice and straight, like mine. When I’d ask my mother about it, she’d tell me Skye’s hair was curly, that she took after our grandmother, but I never believed her, thought she was trying to make my sister feel better when really she had knots in her hair.

I lie flat on my back,
thinking about knots and sisters, staring up at what stars I can see. The clearness of the day has given way to a cloudy night, full of black chariots rolling across the sky, blotting out the moon goddess and most of her servants.

Think about what you want.
A fly. I swat at it, miss, my anger rising.

You’ll know what decision to make.
Another buzzing insect. I watch it for a second, and then swing with all my scrawny might.
Whack!
I hit myself in the head, see stars, but not the ones in the sky. Stars so close it’s like they’re in my skull, or in my eyes maybe. “Urrrr!” I yell, more frustrated’n I’ve ever been.

I close my eyes, try to sleep. There are too many flies, but I keep trying. Keep trying, trying,
swatting, swatting, drifting, drifting, until I hear, “Pssst!”

My eyes flash open. The sound was close. I say nothing. A moment passes, and then a voice hisses, “Hey, you! Youngling.”

I freeze, my already still body hardening like tug jerky in the sun. As far as I know, I’m the only Youngling in Confinement. I say nothing.

“I know you can hear me,” the voice says. It’s brittle and cracking, like a worn piece of leather, ready for replacement. I don’t think this voice gets out much.

“So what if I can?” I say to the night.

“What’re you in for?”

“Being an idiot,” I say. “You?”

He chuckles. “
I’s framed.”

I can’t help but to laugh, too. After all my mother’s confusing words, and my even more confusing thoughts, this conversation already feels so normal. “I’m sure that’s what they all say,” I reply, probably a bit too haughtily.

“No, really,” he says. “And you’re right, a bunch of the guys in here say the same thing. But not because they want people to believe they’re innocent, but because they
are
innocent.”

Okay, I’ll bite. “What exactly did you d—I mean, what did they say you did?” I sit up, scooch over to the bars, try to see the face of the man I’m talking to. At first there’s only blackness so black it’s like I’m looking into a Killer’s eyes. Not black
even. The absence of light. But then my eyes start to adjust. I’m always amazed how they can do that. It’s like I see nothing, nothing, nothing, and then, Bam! The outline of a face appears, followed by a body, leaning casually against the bars, one leg propped up on t’other.

“You see me now?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Raja.”

“Siena,” I say.

“Your daddy’s Head Greynote?”

“You been ear-sneaking,” I say accusingly.

“Not intentionally,” he says. His ghost form shrugs. “When it’s quiet like this in here, you can hear most anything.”

“So what if I am?” I say. I’m not being nice, but I don’t know this guy, least nothing more’n his name.

“No need to get all defensive on me. I got no problem with the Greynotes, generally speaking, although it was one of their kind that framed me, I’
s sure of it.”

“You better watch your mouth with talk like that. It could getcha in trouble,” I say.

“You’s gonna tell yer daddy on me?” he says.

“I ain’t.”

“Then I guess there ain’t nothin’ to worry about. ’Spect things can’t git any worse for me anyway.”

“How old are you?” I ask, trying to guess. I’ve always liked guessing ages. Usually I can get pretty close by looking at someone, but this is much harder, as this fellow’s sitting in the dark. Based on his voice and mannerisms, I expect he’s rather ancient, approaching thirty by now.

“Why’s it matter?” he says.

“It don’t,” I say. “Just curious. You know
’bout how old I am, so it’s only fair I know yours.” I’m pleased with my logic.

“Eighteen,” he says.

My jaw drops, but only for a second. “Liar,” I say, letting that mouth of mine get the better of me again. “I mean, that can’t be right,” I say.

“I got no reason to lie,” he says. “I know I don’t sound it, but my voice ain’t what
it used to be. I been in here fer over a year. Lack of food and water and regular speakin’ will do that to a voice. Make it sound old, that is.”

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s say I believe you about being eighteen. Why’ve you been in here so long? What did they say you did?”

“I shouldn’t e’en tell you,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Greynote’s daughter and all.”

“I told you I won’t tell nobody,” I say.

He says nothing, playing my silent game now. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me, or if he’s dozed off, as I can’t see his eyes. Finally, he says, “There was this little girl who lived next door. She was a real nice Totter, friendly as all get out, always saying hi and pickin’ me flowers. She was my little Totter friend. One day, she didn’t come home from Learning.” Raja’s voice catches and his hands move up to grip the bars a little higher.

“Where was she?” I ask.

“Dead,” he says. “They found her in the watering hole, sunk to the bottom with a rock tied to her little ankles.” I hear a sob escape his throat, and I can barely see his shoulders shaking in the dark.

I wait a
few seconds, till he stops shaking and goes all still-like. Stiller’n a stone. “They said you killed her?” I say.

“I didn’t,” he says, his voice as strong as it’s been since we started talking.

“I wasn’t saying you did. But that’s what they said?”

“Yeah. They had all kinds of proof. Blood on one of my shirts I hadn’t worn in a
full moon. Footprints near the waterin’ hole that matched my feet exactly. Of course, there were a zillion footprints that matched everyone’s feet around the waterin’ hole, but they picked out just mine. But the clincher was a little doll that this Totter was always carryin’ ’round, Josie she called her. Rattier’n hand-me-down socks it was, but she loved it like a real friend, never let it get out of her sight.”

“Where was it?”

“Under my tugskin sleeper,” he says, metal in his voice.

“Someone put it there.” There’s conviction in my voice, which surprises me. Why should I believe this convicted murderer’s story? I just met him. He probably tells everyone this to get them to like him, when he’s really wooloo in the head, getting joy out of watching the life drain out of little
girls. But I do believe him. ’Cause of his tears and ’cause I shouldn’t be in Confinement either.

“They had to
of, ’cause I didn’t do nothin’ to that little girl. The Greynotes didn’t wanna listen to my side of the story, which is why I think at least one of ’em was in on it. They just declared the evidence and gave me life in Confinement. My momma died one full moon after I got in ’ere, and my daddy a full moon after that. I didn’t get to see either of them again—they were too sick with the Fire to come visit.”