The Dirt Eaters Read online

  The assembly applauds as Governor Brack rises. With a solemn gesture, he calls for silence.

  “Citizens, we are here tonight to honor our mighty protectors, who have once again fulfilled their obligations to us.” At Brack’s right, Alandra joins politely in the applause. “All of us in Fairview, gentlemen, offer thanks to you and to the Friends you serve, from the bottom of our hearts. And now,” continues Brack, “it gives me great pleasure to welcome the man who was my partner in making a miracle, the resurrection of Fairview: the ambassador, Mr. Harrow Wing.”

  Roan’s body grows cold as a man in a feathered cloak and beaked helmet enters the room. It is the Bird Man, the one who visited Longlight, the one who made the demands his father would not meet. Roan hunches over his plate, the pulse in his heart throbbing.

  “Dear friends, it does my heart good to see how Fairview has prospered. I look around me and recognize so many faces.” Though he can’t identify it, the voice makes Roan’s hair stand on end. Expecting the worst, his eyes dart to the hall’s exits. The ambassador sizes up the room. “Oh, Malaborn White, still cheating on your diet!” A plump man chuckles and wags his finger. Mr. Wing looks at a pregnant woman. “Alicia Keet, I see you’re due again. You are prodigious. What’s this, your fourth?”

  Alicia smiles at him. “Fifth, Your Honor!” The crowd applauds appreciatively at both the ambassador’s keen memory and the woman’s fertility. The Bird Man ruffles his brilliant plumes and directs his gaze to Roan’s table. Roan lingers over a sip of wine, the glass obscuring his face, and wishes the ambassador’s voice wasn’t so distorted by the mask.

  “Can’t miss you, Yorgan Max. We’re birds of a feather, you and I!” The vain man in red and yellow silk rises to display his outfit. The ambassador hoots. “I mean, how could anyone forget that hideous suit!” The crowd guffaws as Yorgan Max slides back into his chair, stone-faced.

  “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you,” the Bird Man says, pointing directly at Roan. “My, aren’t you an elegant young man!”

  Napkin in hand, Roan dabs the sweat from his upper lip as he slips his meat knife onto his lap.

  “That’s Korr, a visitor to Fairview,” Brack interjects. “A bit of a barbarian, I’m afraid.”

  The Bird Man cocks his head to the right and to the left as all eyes turn toward Roan. “Come, come, dear Korr. Grace us with a glimpse of your handsome visage.” As the ambassador lets out a high-pitched cackle, Roan’s stomach lurches. Raven!

  The Bird Man coos, “So young and so unique.”

  Lowering his napkin, Roan wraps his hand tightly around his meat knife.

  “Korr. Couldn’t you have searched your imagination for an alias with more flare, Roan of Longlight?”

  Murmurs of “Longlight” sweep through the crowd like brushfire. Raven caws, “Take him!” and the raiders charge for Roan, while others scramble to block the exits. But Roan has his knife at the ambassador’s throat before the first person screams.

  The Bird Man raises his hand, indicating everyone should hold their position. Brack, however, lurches toward Alandra, taking her in his grip, the point of his dagger aimed at her heart. Alandra locks eyes with Roan, and Roan drops his knife, stepping away from Raven.

  In that moment, the Bird Man turns, smashing a bottle over Roan’s head. The last thing Roan hears as he topples amidst a shower of broken glass is Raven’s mocking laughter.

  Roan wakes in a dark chamber, head throbbing. The floor beneath him is cold and hard, gritty-greasy to the touch. The room stinks of human sweat, urine, and blood. He tries to stand, but the ceiling is too low, and as his head hits it, a paroxysm of pain travels the length of his spine. Roan feels the spot where the bottle hit. It’s sore and damp with blood. On his hands and knees, he crawls along the walls until he locates a door. Locked.

  Footsteps. Then the muffled sound of voices. The door swings open, and a bright light blinds Roan. He covers his eyes for a moment, but he can tell from their voices who it is. Governor Brack and Brother Raven, the Bird Man.

  “Ah, safe and sound,” chirps the ambassador. “I couldn’t resist the temptation, but such sorrows Saint would have inflicted on our beloved governor had my blow killed you.” He murmurs in Roan’s ear. “The one you betrayed will soon be here to claim you.” Brother Raven turns to Brack. “The physic has been procured.” Circling, he slides his finger behind Roan’s ear. “I shall relish your presence as a docile obedient Friend.”

  Feeder, Roan thinks. The men from Fandor.

  Raven insolently brushes his wings in Roan’s face, then, cackling, takes his leave.

  Brack leans in for the last word. “I owe you an apology, Roan or Korr, whatever you call yourself. I thought you were a scrounger at first, but I was wrong. You turned out to be a gold mine. You can’t imagine how lavish a reward they’ve offered for you.”

  “A step up from selling children, Brack?”

  Brack spits in Roan’s face, then turns to follow the ambassador, locking the door firmly behind him.

  Enveloped again by darkness, Roan props his back against the wall. He wipes his face and takes in a long, deep breath.

  THE SKY’S DEEP RED, DOTTED WITH DARK BLUE CLOUDS. FLOWING BENEATH ROAN’S CLAY FEET IS COARSE BLACK SAND THAT DRAWS HIM FORWARD, AS INEXORABLY AS A RIVER’S CURRENT. APPROACHING THE EDGE OF A GIGANTIC SANDFALL, HE FORCES HIMSELF NOT TO STRUGGLE AS IT STEADILY PULLS HIM INTO AN ABYSS.

  WHEN HE OPENS HIS EYES, ALANDRA THE GOAT-WOMAN IS WAITING THERE FOR HIM.

  “TELL ME WHERE THEY’RE KEEPING YOU,” SHE INSTRUCTS ROAN.

  “IT’S VERY DARK. NO WINDOWS ANYWHERE. A CEILING SO LOW I CAN’T STAND UP.”

  ALANDRA NODS. “THE WINE CELLARS. IT’S BRACK’S WORST JAIL.”

  “SAINT’S COMING.”

  “WE HAVE TO GET THE CHILDREN OUT BEFORE HE ARRIVES.”

  “DON’T WAIT FOR ME. TAKE THEM YOURSELF.”

  “NO. UNDERSTAND: IT DOESN’T WORK WITHOUT YOU.”

  THE FLOOR BENEATH THEM QUAKES AND CRUMBLES, AND ROAN FALLS IN A CASCADE OF SAND.

  Roan’s once again captive in Brack’s cellars. He stretches, spreading his aching body across the floor. The cricket makes its music. Comforted, Roan gives himself over to the sound. And a new thought emerges.

  When he was still in delirium from the Nethervine’s grip, Roan had left his body. He’d seen himself and others, heard their conversations, all the while floating invisibly above. Could he free himself from his body again, this time consciously?

  Roan settles against the wall, trying to picture the light around his body. At first there is only blackness. But he continues, taming his frustration with his breathing, creating a tunnel of breath-wind through his body. After what must be a hundred breaths, a spark flashes. Roan’s mind leaps to grasp it, but it disappears.

  A wave of despair washes over him. But then, relaxing into the sound of the cricket’s song, he begins again, concentrating on the air filling his lungs. This time, a voice comes to him. His own? Someone else’s? No matter.

  “Do not reach for it. Let it be.”

  The blackness around Roan remains heavy and still. No movement. No light. But he stays with his breath. Waits.

  Another spark.

  This time, Roan lets it go.

  One spark becomes two, two become four, four, eight, doubling and doubling until he’s enfolded in a brilliant luminosity. With it comes a feeling of exceptional well-being, a sense of connectedness, as if his skin is the meeting place of within and without.

  Roan focuses on a point at the top of his head and breathes, pulling the glow in. It fills his head, whirling behind his eyes. He breathes again, and the light spirals through his chest, expanding him. The brilliance jets down his spine, through his legs and feet and—he is floating. Outside his body. He can see himself, the
flesh part of himself, sitting in that dark, gritty corner. But the rest of him is something else. He is part of the light.

  THE CHEF’S DESSERT

  HERE COMES THE JABBERWOCK TRUCK, THE JABBERWOCK TRUCK, WITH ANY LUCK YOU’LL BE ON IT! TO THE CITY YOU’LL GO, AND SOON YOU’LL KNOW, THE SURPRISES IT HAS IN STORE!

  —LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS

  DRESSED IN HER GATHERING CLOTHES, a pack on her back, Alandra speaks to the gatekeeper.

  “Off gathering already, Alandra? What if some of the Blood Drinkers come sniffing around for their dead? I’ll call a guard to go with you.”

  “Not to worry, the governor himself told me it was safe.”

  The gatekeeper chuckles. “Those raiders did a job yesterday.”

  “Still, too many took wounds. My apothecary’s dangerously depleted.”

  “Well, then, you’d best be getting on with it.”

  Roan hovers overhead. He relishes his newfound invisibility, though he wishes he could find a way to communicate.

  Entering the red woods, Alandra stops and sings.

  Time is wasting, are you near?

  Now I need you to appear.

  The moss in front of her jolts up and Lumpy, covered in dirt, scrambles out.

  “That was fast. I didn’t think you’d be able to get here so soon after the battle.”

  “Where’s Lelbit?”

  Lumpy looks up. Lelbit drops from the thin branches to the ground.

  “I’m glad to see both of you safe.”

  Lumpy shrugs. “I’d have been dead a long time ago if I hadn’t learned how to hide and not be found.”

  Lelbit snorts.

  “Okay, okay, one pair of Blood Drinkers uncovered me, but Lelbit corrected their mistake in a blink.”

  “Are the rafts ready?”

  Lelbit pulls up a mound of moss, revealing the two rafts they’ve constructed.

  “The battle put a crimp in our schedule,” Lumpy says. “And these aren’t easy things to make. They have to be watertight, able to hold a lot of weight, and raised on the sides.”

  “Can you finish the next one by yourself? I need Lelbit’s help.”

  “Was Roan recognized?” Lumpy asks worriedly.

  “Yes.”

  Lelbit grimaces, but before she can move, Alandra grips her arm.

  “I know where he is. You can enter by way of the waterworks.”

  Roan, hovering above them, smiles to himself. No, you don’t. Not exactly.

  “I have a plan,” Alandra continues. But the roar of an engine sends the three running through the trees to a concealed rise. There they have a clear view of the road approaching Fairview. “Too soon,” Alandra sighs.

  Roan recognizes him first.

  “Saint,” Alandra shudders.

  Lelbit lifts an arrow to her bow.

  Alandra stops her. “No. We have too much to accomplish to risk bringing down the wrath of the Friends.”

  Following Saint are ten Brothers on horseback. And lumbering along behind the Brothers is a truck. Lumpy’s eyes widen. “I heard rumors some were still running, but I didn’t believe them.”

  The Jabberwocky Wagon. “It’s come for the children,” Alandra curses as the rumbling truck comes closer. The vehicle has a picture on its side of an inverted triangle with a circle on top. It’s the same symbol little Marla drew, thinks Roan, the same one that was drawn on my cast. Only this one has a giant tongue that reaches down to lick the circle. Frustrated at his lack of speech, Roan is grateful when Lumpy asks the question he longs to have answered.

  “What’s that picture mean?”

  “Ice cream,” sighs Alandra. “Ice cream. The children think the Jabberwocky Wagon is filled with it.”

  As Alandra arrives back in Fairview, Saint and his entourage are being warmly welcomed by Brack and Brother Raven. The Friends that came with Saint stand by him, while the town’s residents, out in full force, admire the extraordinary motorcycle.

  From above, Roan observes the livid scar that trails from Saint’s ear down the length of his neck. But the prophet seems as strong and commanding as ever. Roan’s attention is diverted by the shouting of the children, who run toward Alandra.

  “It’s here!” yells Lona, bursting with excitement.

  “When’re we getting our ice cream, Alandra?” Bub shouts.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I wanna go now!” yowls Lona.

  Alandra takes the little girl by the shoulders. “Don’t worry. We’ve got a few things to do first.” She gathers them all close to her and whispers. “This is very important. When you go back to your rooms today, I want you all to fill up your packs with warm clothes.”

  “They told us we didn’t need nothing,” says Bub.

  “Yeah,” adds Gip. “Our new parents will have all that for us.”

  “Everything new and nice,” pipes in Lona.

  “I know,” replies Alandra, putting on a cheerful facade, “but it’s a long journey. And as your healer, I have to be certain you don’t catch cold. Be sure to tell the others, all the new ones too. If anyone gives you guff, tell them it’s healer’s orders.”

  “Healer’s orders,” Lona solemnly repeats.

  “Alandra! There’s someone here I’d like you to meet!” Brack calls.

  Roan wryly observes as Alandra covers her imminent be­trayal with a reserved veneer. “Alandra, meet the Prophet of the Friend.”

  Saint beams at the sight of her. “So this is the healer who saved Roan.”

  Alandra takes his outstretched hand.

  “Thank you,” Saint says. “Roan means a great deal to me.”

  Roan can tell Alandra’s surprised at this display of fondness. Saint is utterly convincing, his tone open and honest. It’s hard to believe he has deadly intentions.

  “Forgive me,” Saint says, “but I’m anxious to speak with my disciple. You will be joining us for dinner tonight?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Alandra replies.

  “Excellent.” Saint smiles, and with that, he and the governor head for the wine cellars.

  Roan directs himself back to his body. Upon contact, he grows unusually heavy, weighted down by the loose chains that dangle from the wall to his manacled wrists and ankles. Saint is approaching through the open door.

  While joined to the light, Roan was free of emotion, but now, in Saint’s presence, blood pounds in his temples.

  “Hello, Little Brother. It’s been too long.”

  Roan remains silent.

  “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  “Sorry about the bike.”

  “It was much easier to replace than the other thing you took from me.”

  “What was that?”

  “My trust. You shamed me in front of my men. And you shamed the Friend Himself.”

  “You invented the Friend. You invented it all. I’ve seen the proof.”

  For a moment, Saint is taken aback. Then he nods with understanding. “Is that what this is all about?” he asks. “Yes, I found a book. But only after the Friend revealed Himself to me on the mountain. My revelation was real. I heard His Word. I am His Prophet. The book helps me to understand that experience.”

  Roan searches Saint’s eyes in the flickering light, trying to find truth there. It’s impossible to tell.

  “The City wants you, Roan. They’ve ordered me on pain of death to return you to them. You and your sister united would give them unlimited power.” He lowers his voice. “Roan, the Friend could use that power to contain their madness. Join me. Together we can bring justice to the Outlands.”

  “Why should I believe your intentions are any different from the City’s?”

  “The City is evil, Roan. You’ve
seen the evidence of that. It wants to enslave all of us. I’ve witnessed the hideous things the City does to people.”

  “To children, you mean, with your assistance.”

  Saint grimaces. “Roan. The Friend wants the terror to stop. I want the terror to stop. As we speak, Brother Wolf is at our encampment, making preparations. Join us, Roan.”

  Roan glares at him. “Were the children of Longlight sold too?”

  The Prophet’s eyes brim with emotion. “You met Kira. You’ve been in my empty house. We all make sacrifices, my Brother. I’ve made them too.”

  “Brother Saint, you chose your pain.”

  Saint smiles ruefully. “Stand with me. Stand with the Friend, Roan. King Zheng created a nation that lasted over two thousand years. He had his wall to build, and we have ours. Sacrifices will have to be made. But that is the cost of freedom.”

  “King Zheng was a tyrant. His nation was never liberated from dominance and control.”

  “But the unity he brought gave his people the strength they needed to survive.”

  “A strength constantly tested at their cost.”

  Saint moves closer to Roan, his eyes desperate. “The City sent me once before to claim you. I protected you then. I will not be given a second chance.”

  “Then why don’t you make a cut behind my ear and insert the drug? Raven said you’d bring it. I know it’s effective.”

  Saint spits out the name: “Raven! Nothing would make him happier. I want an ally, not an automaton.”

  “I will never be your ally.”

  Vehement, Saint grabs the front of Roan’s shirt. But Roan jerks forward. Looping his wrist chain over Saint’s head, he yanks it against the Prophet’s neck. “This is for my mother, for my father, for my aunts, my uncles, my friends.” Saint flails, but Roan tightens the links, engorged with the fever of revenge. “You...killed...them...all.”

  “If you kill him, you’re the same as him.” His voice? Whose is it?

  The instant of hesitation is enough. Saint detects the weakness, and a blow to Roan’s head breaks his hold on the chains.