Fire Country (24 page)

T
he night paints pictures with the strange strokes of a devilish artist.

Everything’s different in the dark. The dunes are rolling humps and heads and tails of gargantuan monsters, asleep and heavy. The pricklers stand firm and tall, like soldiers on guard, ready to fight the dune-monsters the moment they awake. The wind is on the verge of visibility, a silent hand that holds the brush, sweeping it in wide arcs that leave the landscape changed with each stroke.

It dries my tears, too. As I circle ’round the northwestern edge of the village, far enough away that to the guardsmen I’ll be little more’n a brambleweed bouncing along the desert, I find my legs. Although I’m scared and sad and bone-weary, I’m not broken. My mother saved me and I won’t waste it.

Southwest, where the river lies dead like a snake and the rocks hold hands like lovers.

Vague directions, but enough to get me started. What’ll happen when I get there, wherever
there
is? I don’t know. All I know is that my sister left by choice, not against her will like I always thought, like they always told me—and my mother helped her do it. The revelation is huge for me. All of Lara’s talk about girl’s being strong and living the way they want to live was fun and made her who she was, but I never took it that seriously. But knowing my mother and sister were of a similar mind and took real action makes all the difference. It gives me hope.

When I reach the western edge of the village, I stop, look back. Twinkling lights of a raging fire sparkle and dance. I wonder if my mother got caught out or if she made it back to her bed. I wonder if Goola’s discovered Bart yet, swimming in his own dark blood. My sixteen years of existence lie in the village. I look up and Circ
winks at me between overlapping shrouds of gray cloud cover.

I turn my back on the village, scuffing my moccasins in the durt just enough to scrape off the dust of my old life.

~~~

I’m barely a half mile southwest of the village when the alarm sounds. They’ve found Bart.

They’ll organize quickly, start the Hunt. This time not for tug—for me. With cries and wind behind me, I lengthen my strides, pick up my pace. Run as fast as I’m truly capable of. The britches my mother made me feel weird and restricting against my skin. But at the same time, they make running so much easier. There’s nothing to swirl ’round my feet, to trip me. Wearing britches makes me feel alive, somehow.

Something feels heavy in my shirt, glancing against my ribs every few steps. When I rove with my hand I find a wide pocket. And in it: a sheathed knife. I pull it out, feel the swirls of the carved handle against my palm. From tou
ch alone, I know what’s carved on the hilt. The sun goddess’s eye. The matching knife to the one my mother killed Bart with. Fresh tears swim in my eyes but I blink them away, tuck the knife back into my pocket.

I run for miles and miles, never slowing
. For once in my life, my feet manage to keep out of each other’s way. At first I navigate by instinct alone, but eventually the night’s cloak is tossed aside and the stars show me the way.
Southwest.

Sometimes the rhythms of the desert wh
isper songs in my ear. They’re ’bout lives long past, ’bout heroes of old whose incredible feats of bravery are destined to be repeated by new heroes.

But not tonight.
Tonight I hear different sounds. The sounds of the Hunt. Heavy feet, shouts. They’re muffled and perhaps miles back, but they sound like they’re on top of me, like Bart was not that long ago. I find myself glancing back more’n more frequently.

When I start running with my head turned perpetually behind me
, I run smack into a prickler. No doubt one of Perry’s friends. The shock of the barbs piercing my skin, and my head ratcheting off the thick plant focuses me. I’m clumsy. I’m imperfect. But I’m not done yet. I won’t be caught tonight. Tomorrow maybe, but not tonight.

I drag myself to my feet and start again, plucking out prickler barbs as I go.

This time, I stop looking back, for I know what’s back there. A torn world, a shredded life, those who’d harm me, blame me for the death of a horrible person like Bart. My father, the worst one of all, secure in his knowledge that he’ll never hafta suffer the pain of the Fire, ’cause of his agreement with the Icers, etched with the blood and lives of the poor souls of the village, men like Raja.

In a world where there’
re so many things that can kill us—sandstorms, wildfires, wild beasts, the Fire—where the Law rules all else, I woulda been forced to reproduce steadily from age sixteen till my family was full. My mom didn’t want that for me. That knowledge keeps me going.

I gotta tell Circ. The words slip into my mind so casually, like they have for ten years. He’s always been the
first person I tell anything to. Now that he’s gone, I wish I never had anything to tell. The yearning to be near him grows stronger with each crunch of my feet on the brittle desert landscape. To feel his knees against mine, to see his dimpled smile, to talk with him, laugh with him. Oh, Circ.

Circ, Circ, Circ.

Where are you?

Age
s later, when the sun casts a reddish smear on the edge of the horizon, I stop. My heart beats firm and fast, but not wildly. My britches and shirt are soaked through with sweat. I’m breathing heavy and tired, but not out of breath. There’s fight left in me yet.

With the added light, I finally turn to surv
ey the desert to my back. There are black dots in the distance, but they appear to be miles away. Maybe Hunters, maybe something else, like a pack of Cotees, fresh on the blood trail left by my prickler wounds. I can’t stop yet.

Life goes on all ’
round me as the desert wakes up. Tiny-nosed burrow mice peek from their holes, snuffling at the wind, darting back inside when I tramp past. Lazy-winged vultures cast shaky shadows across the sand as the sun edges over them. Piles of busy fire ants stream from their anthills, forcing me to zigzag to avoid trampling them under my feet.

I don’t run anymore, but walk in long strides. The sun beats on me
, but I don’t mind, as it’s spring, and there are worse things’n sun in spring. After the early spring rains, clumps of scrubgrass and pepperweed poke from the sand, the beginning of the regrowth. Already the pricklers are looking less brown and tired, more green and awake. I wonder how Perry looks now, whether he’s changed. Probably not—in my memory he’ll always be the brittle-brown wisecracker I knew.

I eat lunch while I walk
. When poking around in my shirt and trouser pockets, I found my mother left more’n just a knife with me. Thick strips of tug jerky and crunchy shards of fresh-cut prickler bits were packed in leather skins. The jerky gives me strength, the pricklers give me fluids. They won’t last long—maybe a day or two—but at least I can focus on getting as far away from the village as possible, rather’n finding food and water.

Water, as it turns out, ain’t a problem. The rains come in the afternoon, and I
drink to my fill. With no one ’round, I strip off my shirt and let it catch the rain, and then wring it out into my mouth. Although the prickler moistened my dry tongue and throat, it can’t compare to the downpour. I’m drenched and half-naked and excited and more alive’n I been in a long searin’ time.

The rain’ll cover my tracks, too. The Cotees might be able to stick with me, if that’s what was following me back there, but if it was th
e Hunters, well, they’ll hafta turn back, no matter how much my father screams and rants and rages.

I’m free. The thought pops into my head and I wonder what it means. Free of what? Of my father, yeah, I s’pose so. Of my duty under the Call to Bear children to a random guy. Yeah, that too. But am I free really? I guess time’ll tell, like it always does.

As I continue on, the rains slow and then stop altogether, but the sky keeps wearing its gray blanket, blotting out any sign of the sun. The break from the heat is much needed.

Darkness falls early, as if the sun goddess has given up the fight against the clouds. As everyone who lives in fire country knows, Mother Nature is a powerful foe.
I know I hafta stop sometime, to rest, to gather my wits, to sleep, but the time don’t feel right so I don’t. Into the night I trudge, stopping only when I hear the hair-raising sound of Cotees howling to the south.

I’m
dead on my feet, and I wish I’d stopped two thumbs of sun movement ago, when maybe the Cotees were too far to gather my scent. But now I can’t stop, ’cause stopping means they’ll catch me. I veer further west, off course, knowing I can get back on track once danger has passed.

For t
wo awful miles I hear nothing ’cept the sound of my own ragged breathing. Then there’s another howl. Closer. Much closer. Too searin’ close for burnin’ comfort.

I break into a sprint, my muscles aching against me, screaming for mercy, getting ignored by my heart and brain which know full well that this is l
ife or death. Out here all alone against a pack o’ Cotees, I ain’t got a chance.

More howls, different now, not just sounds of interest, but sounds of delight, as they close in on their prey.
I can’t outrun them—I’ll hafta fight. My fingers close over the knife handle in my pocket. When to turn? When to fight? I run a little further, delaying the inevitable.

Something jumps out from the sand, grabs me, bites me on the ankle. I fall, my tee
th chattering as my chin slams onto the wet ground. It’s got me by the ankle, chomped down so hard I feel like it might tear my foot right off my leg. But what is it? Not a Cotee, that’s for sure. It came from the front, almost out of the sand, like a snake from a hole. But the bite on this thing ain’t no snake.

I twist my body ’
round to get a look at my attacker, crying out as the slight motion sends quivers of pain up my leg. I was right, not a Cotee. Not a snake neither. A searin’ trap, set by some baggard Hunter who’s too much of a shanker to go out and work for his food. And now he’s got me in it, clamped between the metal teeth of a well-anchored mouth.

The pain is nothing compared to the fear. The Cotees are so close I can hear the
snuffle of their wet breathing and the trod of their padded paws in the durt. By the time the Hunter finds me I’ll be in ten different pieces. Like with Bart, I got no chance. But in honor of my mother, I’ll fight anyway.

The first of the Cotees slinks into sight, not running hard,
knowing
by some sixth sense that I’m just setting here waiting for him. His lithe movements remind me of how Goola, in all her nakedness, approached Bart confidently, so sure she’d win his affection. Behind him, six other brown four-legged forms approach. A small pack, but far more’n I can handle on my own.

As they circle me my heart hammers in my ches
t. I’m scareder’n I ever been ’fore.

I could just let them take me, so I can be with Circ. Find my place i
n the stars. I can’t. I can’t ’cause it’s not what Circ would want.

My hand aches and I realize with a start that I still got the knife, my fingers biting into it so hard
they’re hurting. I ease my grip slightly, gritting my teeth at the pain from the trap’s teeth in my leg. I ain’t a fighter. I’m not built for it.

The first Cotee closes in, snaps at me. I swing hard, put everything I got into it, slashing the knife forward like a spear. The Cotee jumps back, which I realize was always the plan, and I mis
s, my momentum throwing me facefirst into the durt.

In more pain’
n I can swallow down, I know my only chance is to get outta the trap. Stuck like this, I’m ’zard stew. I pull as hard as I can, straining against the metal jaws. “Arrr!” I roar when a red hot burst travels through my nervous system. But I manage to stagger to my feet with the clamp still grabbing my ankle. I’m up, but hobbled, and still unable to move outside of the range of the tether that holds me.

I notice the Cotees are
shying away a little, perhaps ’cause of my pain-filled yell a few moments ago. They mighta mistook it for a cry of anger, of violence. Maybe that’s what it was. I yell again and they move further away. Once more I release a bellow into the night, but this time they just stare at me. They ain’t fooled anymore and my dry throat is growing hoarse.

They close in, blood in their eyes, licking their lips.

“C’mon!” I yell and it doesn’t faze them. They just keep moving, padding along, vicious and graceful.

One gets too close.
I jab the bugger in the neck with my knife, surprised at how easily the sharp weapon slides through his fur and skin and inside him. Warm liquid flows over my hand and when I pull the blade away it’s coated with red. First blood has been spilt.

The Cotee almost looks surprised, it’s jaw wagging open, it’s eyes bugging out, like it’s wondering how the scorch an outnumbered runt of a girl managed to get the best of him. He staggers like he’s had too much fire juice, goes down on one knee, and then collapses, tongue hanging from his mouth and eyes rol
led back into his head. Dead. ’Cause of me, who ain’t the fighter.

The others waste no time. They pounce from all sides, biting and clawing. I hack with my kn
ife, but it’s fruitless. There’re too many and I’m too weak. I fall to the ground, part of a moving pile of hair and squirming bodies and stars, oh how many stars, peeking in from between cracks in the mass of animal bodies surrounding me. Circ watching. Watching. Watching.