The Dirt Eaters Page 3
Suddenly, a rumbling sound. Something like thunder, but thunder had never made the floor tremble at Roan’s feet. And then, silence. It was as if everyone in the village had caught their breath in the same moment.
“All will not be lost,” said his father. Then his mother’s voice, strong and focused: “Wake them. Go, go, go! Get them out of here!”
In his new tent, in the camp of the Brothers, Roan’s stomach churns. Where is he? What is this place? Who are these people? What do they want from him? He slips his father’s shoe back into his pack and steps outside for a glimpse of the moon. It’s waning, and he can see craters on the shadowed side.
“Nightmares?” Roan cringes at Brother Raven’s honeyed voice. “It’s fortunate that I was coming by.”
Roan doesn’t take the bait, but Brother Raven is undeterred.
“Don’t you like your quarters?”
“They’re fine.”
“Then why out so soon?”
“For some air.”
“Be careful of the night air.”
“Why?”
“You never know what might bite you.” Raven laughs. “You’re a very lucky boy, and you don’t even seem to realize it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re here in our camp, instead of out there. You could be roasting on a spit, or being swallowed by Blood Drinkers, or having your head severed and stuck up on a stake. But instead you’re under the protection of a man touched by God. Lucky boy.”
Roan, not letting on how unsettled he is by Raven’s words, smiles politely, nods good-night, and returns to the relative peace of his quarters.
He lies on his bed and closes his eyes.
A piercing scream. Stowe’s fingernails rip his palm. The raider in the hideous red skull lifts her. Stowe is reaching, reaching for Roan.
Roan’s eyes fly open as he tries to shake the terrible memory. Heart pounding, aching to run, he forces himself to be still. The snow cricket scrambles out of his pocket and onto his chest. In a sliver of light, Roan gazes at its delicate antennae, its eyes unwavering black dots. A comforting sight. The cricket is content, Roan thinks. The cricket stays. So will I. Roan’s eyes, heavy, finally close.
THE NOVITIATE
THE CITY ISSUED THE EDICT. BULLDOZE THE SCHOOLS, BOMB THE LIBRARIES, BURN EVERY BOOK. DISSENT WILL NOT BE TOLERATED. EVERYONE AGREED AND IT WAS DONE.
—THE WAR CHRONICLES
IN THE DIM LIGHT of near-dawn, a tolling bell awakens Roan. His breath clouds in the frigid air. He slips into his new black tunic and pants, woven wool, thick but supple. To all outside eyes, he is one of the Brothers, the Friends. Feeder appears in the doorway with a covered bowl. “I brought you a snack to tide you over till breakfast. Eat it fast, we’re due to make the sun rise.”
Roan quickly swallows the porridge. Feeder seems content watching his every gesture, so Roan says nothing. As soon as he is ready, they step out of the tent and follow the other Brothers.
In a voice filled with trepidation and awe, Feeder whispers, “Is there really such a place as Longlight?”
The question puzzles Roan. “Why wouldn’t there be?”
“Everyone’s heard about it, but nobody’s ever seen it. I didn’t know if it was real.”
“Well, it is.” A pain flashes through his chest as Roan corrects himself. “It was.” Before Feeder can ask him anything else, Roan speaks again. “How did you come to this place?”
Feeder gives him a nervous look. “Same as everyone.”
Same as me? Roan wonders.
As they approach a rise at the perimeter of the camp, Saint joins them. “Thank you for escorting Roan here, Brother Feeder.”
“You’re wel...welcome, Brother Saint,” Feeder stammers, apparently tongue-tied in the presence of the great man.
Turning to Roan, Saint nods. “Follow me.”
Roan doesn’t miss the look of disappointment on Feeder’s face as he leaves him behind to follow Saint in the half-light. They climb in silence to the highest clearing in the camp. In this gray predawn, Roan gasps at the sight of seventy-five men standing in rows, looking down at the dark valley below. Its vast expanse is seemingly commanded by the sound of their breath, exhaling and inhaling in slow unison.
Saint cries out, fist to the sky. “For us He raises the sun! For us He brings the dawn.”
While all watch in silence, Brother Wolf hands Saint a crossbow. Saint fits an arrow, its tip wrapped in cloth, into the bow. Wolf lights the cloth, and Saint sends the flaming arrow into the sky. Reaching its pinnacle, the bolt of fire arches downward, disappearing from view.
For a moment, nothing. No one speaks, no one seems to breathe. Then, at the edge of the horizon, a blaze of light appears. The sun. The Brothers cheer, a roar so loud Roan’s ears hurt. Saint raises his hand. The assembled men fall silent.
“Thank you, Friend.”
And all repeat: “Thank you, Friend.”
The Brothers bow deeply to the sun, a gesture Roan joins. The silence almost seems to echo a reply, but the spell is broken as the procession heads back down to camp for breakfast.
Roan is finishing his second bowl of porridge, blissfully free of meat, when Brother Raven appears. “Good, you’re ready. Time for your morning class.”
Along the way, Raven stops at a well, where he pumps some water into a drinking cup. “Go ahead, taste it! Best water in three hundred miles!”
Roan drinks. “It’s good,” he says politely. But it has a metallic taste, not like the water in Longlight. That water was fresh and sweet.
“Completely untreated,” brags Raven. “Fed by the mountain snows. This little area is unique, untainted. You can even drink the water from that stream. But in the villages, it’s bad. Utterly toxic. Everyone needs water, though, don’t they?”
“Didn’t you say it was time for class?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” says Raven. “Mustn’t dawdle.”
He escorts Roan to a clearing where Brother Wolf is leading twenty men through an elaborate series of kicks and arm thrusts. “I’ll be on my way. The rigor of the noble warrior has a deleterious effect on my appetite.” Raven grins, and with a pat on his stomach, he goes.
Brother Wolf looks up to see Roan. “You’re late,” he snaps. “Never be late again.”
Roan nods, biting back his desire to blame Raven.
“Do your best to imitate what we’re doing. I’ll fill in the gaps for you later.”
Wolf pivots, swoops, and jabs. With each movement, he makes a huge exhalation, a booming noise. His students copy both movement and sound. Beneath the cacophony, from his tunic’s pocket, Roan hears the cricket sing.
Roan focuses on Brother Wolf’s movements. Although he knows it’s impossible, the exercises seem familiar to him. He throws himself with fierce precision into every extension and kick, losing all sense of time and place, until the master dismisses the group. At that moment the cricket stops singing, and Roan stops moving too. He’s surprised to see how high the sun is in the sky; the entire morning’s passed in a blink. Brother Wolf calls him over.
“Where did you learn these movements?”
“I’ve never seen them before,” Roan replies. “I just followed, as you asked.”
Wolf eyes him curiously, then retrieves a sword that’s shaped like two crossed crescents from the weapons rack. “Have you ever encountered one of these? It’s called a hook-sword.”
Roan stares, fascinated. He’s never come across anything like it.
Wolf takes Roan’s hand. “The hook-sword is held like this,” he says. Then he lifts out a battle-axe. “Defend yourself.”
He brings the axe down on Roan, who instinctively blocks it with his sword. Wolf shifts his weight back and swings the axe at Roan’s head. Roan dives, avoiding the bl
ow, then is up again, ready to ward off the next strike.
Wolf holds up his weapon and shouts, “Attack!”
Roan just stands there.
“Attack! Now! Go!”
Roan looks at him, confused. He can understand warding off a blow. But to attack? That kind of thing was forbidden in Longlight, even in play.
Brother Wolf puts down his weapon and gazes at Roan for a long time. Roan seems to detect a trace of concern in his eyes, but Wolf’s hard exterior is an effective mask. “Good balance, excellent reflexes, internal calm. You’ve had no training, ever?”
“None,” Roan mutters. Then he remembers the new and waning moon celebrations in Longlight. They’d practice the postures and movements practically every day. “Well, we did work on a series of stances. Rising Tide...Dragon Eats Its Tail...they were like dances.”
“So you’re a dancer.” Wolf laughs, then turns serious. “With some work, you might turn into something. This discipline requires power, speed, and technique. You have potential for speed, an obvious aptitude for technique, but you have to work on strength, stamina, and skill. Not to mention a determined offense, which was obviously not a priority in your dance class.”
Roan senses that Wolf is a good, serious teacher, and the Brother exhibits no trace of Raven’s deceit. Training with him would be wholly against the precepts of Longlight, would fill his parents with horror. How can it be that the movements had seemed right, made Roan’s body exalt? But now, his survival depends on partaking in these practices.
Brother Wolf smiles, taking back the sword, and for the first time since his arrival in the camp, Roan smiles back.
Roan leaves the clearing and heads for the well. In the distance, he observes Brother Wolf talking to Saint. After a few minutes, Wolf bows to Saint, who goes back into his tent. Roan can’t help wondering if the meeting was about him.
Pulling up the pail, Roan drinks deeply. The hook-sword felt so comfortable in his hands. The fighting, the thing Longlight most abhorred, seemed like second nature to him. It makes him sick and exhilarated at the same time. Roan douses himself with the remaining water, trying to wash away the tension.
Collapsing against a tree, he closes his eyes. The snow cricket wriggles out of his pocket, settles on his chest, and sings.
STANDING ACROSS FROM ROAN, BRIGHT IN THE MOONLIGHT, IS THE ANCIENT CREATURE.
“WHO ARE YOU?” HE ASKS.
HE REACHES FOR HER, BUT WITH A SWIFT JERK OF HER HAND, SHE KNOCKS HIM DOWN. HE LEAPS UP. SHE GRABS HIS ARM AND THROWS HIM BACK ON THE GROUND, HER CLOVEN HOOF PLANTED ON HIS CHEST. ROAN STRUGGLES, BUT HER HOOF IS FIRM.
“LET ME GO!”
“MAKE ME,” SHE WHISPERS.
A bell sounds and Roan wakes into the glare of the afternoon sun, feeling agitated. He can’t remember ever having had dreams as vivid and strange as these back in Longlight. But having uncanny dreams after your life’s been torn in pieces might not be so unusual.
Roan feels his grief welling up, and he’s grateful to see Feeder wave to him, a perfect distraction. Containing his emotions, Roan joins Feeder outside the cook tent. The enticing smell of food causes Roan’s stomach to growl.
“This is my favorite part...Watch!” calls Feeder. With one pull, he yanks off a rabbit’s entire skin, revealing the pink musculature.
Roan tries not to vomit. In Longlight, they consumed eggs from chickens and milk from goats, but to take the animals’ flesh was unthinkable. But now that he’s eating meat, he’d be a hypocrite to avoid the sight of an animal being butchered or skinned. And when the time comes for him to leave the camp, knowing how to prepare meat will be a useful survival skill. So he forces himself to watch, stomach churning. Feeder grins.
“I can do it blindfolded with one hand. Wanna see?”
“No, that’s alright.”
“You’re not gonna believe this.”
“No, I do, I do.”
Feeder flicks his knife on a rabbit’s neck, then turns his back to it, reaches behind himself, yanks, and holds the dripping skin proudly in the air. “Not bad, eh?”
“Impressive,” murmurs Roan.
“Come on,” says Feeder, “let’s get you some lunch.”
“Not hungry.”
“You will be.” Feeder drags him into the empty cook tent, sits him down at the table, and pours him a glass of goat’s milk. “I bet you never saw a rabbit being skinned before.”
“How’d you know?”
“Your face is green.”
Roan laughs and sips the milk. “How did you end up being a cook here?”
Feeder doesn’t look at him, just sharpens a knife. “That’s what I’m best suited for.”
“So you picked what you do?”
Feeder lets out a low laugh. “Nobody picks their job. That’s up to the Five. Brothers Saint, Raven, Stinger, Wolf, and Asp. As for me, it wasn’t much of a decision. This is all I’m good for.”
“I don’t understand.”
“This is what I do best,” Feeder says, with finality.
Roan, realizing the subject is delicate, changes direction. “I understand what each of the five do, except for Brother Raven. Does he have a function?”
“Yes. A very important one.”
“What?”
Feeder gives Roan a guarded look. “Business affairs.”
Roan nods, not quite sure what to make of that. “Have you noticed the smell on his breath?” he asks Feeder.
Feeder bites his lip.
“Do you know what it is?” Roan persists.
“Scorpion hooch.”
“It’s a drink?”
“Scorpion tails marinated in corn liquor.”
“Wouldn’t that kill you?”
“It contains just enough poison to numb the brain and make you a little crazy.”
“But Brother Raven likes it.”
Feeder motions Roan closer and whispers, “I’ve heard Brother Asp nagging him not to drink so much. The scorpion hooch is hard to come by, and Asp’s usually the only one who’s got a supply. He keeps it for medicinal purposes. Brother Raven can’t mooch more than a couple of sips a night. I’ve heard Brother Stinger say to him, ‘If you got your hands on a whole bottle, I’d hate to see what would happen.’”
Roan hesitates, fearing to breach protocol.
“What is it?” asks the cook.
“I’m probably imagining it.”
“What?”
“Brother Raven seems to be following me around.”
Feeder laughs with what seems to Roan a twinge of bitterness. “When you finish the milk, leave the glass there.” He walks out of the tent, leaving a bewildered Roan behind.
Roan throws back the drink and turns, startled to find a dark man with a short, black beard standing before him. “I am Brother Stinger,” the man says, and he motions for Roan to follow.
The seven devotees sit bent over the circle on the huge flat stone. The inner part of the circle now contains the charcoal outline of an intricate drawing that’s partially complete, though it’s still impossible to make out the subject of the artwork. Brother Stinger looks at Roan. “Your color will be sienna.”
He hands Roan some furs and some fingerless gloves. After Roan has put them on, Stinger gives him a small, tube-like funnel and a pot filled with red-brown sand.
“What’s the purpose of this?” asks Roan.
“Its purpose is to allow the Brothers to practice patience, perseverance, and concentration. Where the design has small diamonds, you place your color. These are the last words I will speak to you.”
The rest of the afternoon is spent in silence, each Friend gently tapping his funnel to drop a few grains of sand at a time into their appointed place. Roan tries to stay with the task, but his mind drifts.
Roan wrenches himself back to the present, but too late. His sand has poured out too rapidly, spilling past his designated areas. Brother Stinger notices but says nothing.
His mistake is painstakingly difficult to correct, and Roan is relieved when, just before sunset, the camp’s bell rings. His every joint is stiff and sore, as if he’s been sitting there a week, yet he’s accomplished almost nothing. The sand painters rise, bow deeply. Then each of them picks up an unlit torch and heads toward the rise on the western side of the encampment. Roan follows and at the top finds the entire Brotherhood assembled. Every eye is focused on the sun hovering above the horizon. Brother Asp stands in front of the group, also holding an unlit torch.
“The light dies to live again.”
The Brothers reply. “His light lives forever.”
The sun melts out of sight, spreading red embers across the sky. The instant it sets, Brother Asp lights his torch. “We live by the light of the Friend.”
As each Brother ignites his torch from Brother Asp’s, Roan curses his ill fortune. Brother Raven has neatly dovetailed in front of him. “There you are! I’ve caught you just in time. Brother Saint has invited you to sup with him in his lodgings.”
“Thank you, Brother. I know the way,” says Roan.
But Raven smiles chummily and strolls along with him. “What an impressive first day you’ve had. In my humble opinion, you’re the most intriguing novitiate to come our way in years.”
“You honor me, Brother Raven.”
“Little Brother, the honor is all mine. To be in the presence of one so favored by the Prophet. So tell me, Roan. Which appealed to you more today, fighting or sand painting?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose they both have their purposes.”
“Yes, they do. And what’s your purpose?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Surely everyone has a purpose. How else would one give meaning to this wretched existence?”