The Dirt Eaters Page 4

“Maybe I’m too young to know,” Roan replies. “What’s your purpose, Brother Raven?”

  “Why, to serve the Friend, of course.”

  “Perhaps when I learn more about the Friend,” says Roan, warily choosing his words, “my purpose will be the same.”

  “I’m sure it will. I wonder, my good fellow, why Saint’s arranged to eat with you.”

  “I couldn’t begin to guess at his reasons.”

  “Yes, yes, Saint always has reasons. And now you’ve gone and dashed my hopes of having some light shed on them.”

  “I wish I could be of more service.”

  “Hmm. Me too.” Brother Raven’s face opens in a bountiful smile. “It’s so very advantageous to have friends.”

  Roan is thankful when they arrive at Saint’s tent.

  “Be careful how brightly you burn, Little Brother,” warns Raven.

  Despite his nervousness, Roan’s glad to finally cross Saint’s dim, narrow threshold. He passes several empty rooms, following a glimmer of light that takes him into a large tent attached to the main structure. He’s surprised to see a fire burning in the center of the area, the smoke rising through a hole near the tent’s peak. Saint sits on a carpet decorated with images of serpents. Books are scattered everywhere, and Saint is picking through them.

  “Good, you’re here. Roan, tell me what these are about.”

  Roan kneels on the rug and lifts a volume. “This is called Alice in Wonderland.”

  “Ridiculous. What else?”

  Roan picks up another. “This is the Holy Bible.”

  Saint takes it from him. Feels it with his hands. Sniffs at it. “So this is what the old God smells like.”

  “Would you like to learn to read a passage?”

  “Heresy and lies,” Saint snarls, throwing the book into the fire. Roan leaps and pulls it out, smothering the flames in his clothing. In Longlight, books were treasured. The thought of burning one infuriates Roan.

  “Our Friend is the first God and the last God. There’s no room here for pagan lies. Throw it back in the fire,” Saint commands.

  Roan hesitates, controlling his fury. “This text is thousands of years old. It records two of the great religious movements. The struggles and the wars of their prophets.”

  Saint is silent, mulling over the boy’s words. Then he speaks. “You have a strong mind, and I will not argue with your logic. Put the book in that box.”

  Roan, satisfied, places the Bible in a large chest, adding it to a pile of books inside. Beside them, he notices some lockets of hair, tied with ribbon, and a few children’s toys. A play-ring, a rattle, a wooden top.

  “Are there children here?”

  Saint takes a moment to reply. “Not here.” Then, “Find me a book,” he orders.

  Roan picks up book after book, reading Saint the title and giving a brief description of the contents. Sappho’s love poetry, Frankenstein, Hamlet, a Volkswagen Beetle repair manual, Crime and Punishment, Plato’s Republic, a biography of Michael Jackson, The Biology of Orcas, the Kama Sutra. Dozens of books. But Saint keeps muttering the same thing: “Useless!”

  “What kind of book are you looking for?” Roan asks querulously, immediately regretting it as Saint bellows, “Some­thing I can use!”

  Roan sifts through the dusty volumes until he discovers a history of the combustion engine and describes it to Saint. “That’s more like it,” says Saint, who leafs through the book and then puts it in the chest. “You’re on the right track. Keep going.”

  Roan finds another well-worn book. “Here’s one on soil decontamination.” He opens the cover, and his chest goes tight. “This is from my father’s library,” he says, his eyes smarting. He remembers his father holding this book, hunched over it, taking notes. I’m touching what you touched, Father.

  Saint’s voice breaks in. “Was the soil contaminated in Longlight?”

  Roan breathes, trying to let his sadness go. “Yes. When the First Ones arrived, this book showed them what plants would introduce bacteria to detoxify the earth.”

  “We’ll put that book on our list, then,” says Saint. He points at a gold-embossed volume. “What’s that?”

  “It’s called The History of the Qin Dynasty in China,” replies Roan, scanning some pages of the thick text. “In 221 B.C. one man conquered all the other warlords and created an empire.”

  “Where was China?” asks Saint.

  “It was a very old, huge country on the other side of the great ocean. This man, he called himself King Zheng, was the first to unify the country.”

  “We’ll read this,” pronounces Saint.

  Roan turns back to the title page and shows Saint the first word on it: “The.” Saint stares at it.

  “Do you recognize the letters?” asks Roan.

  “Of course I recognize the letters,” snaps Saint.

  “The T and the H make a sound together: ‘th,’” Roan explains.

  Saint squints at the letters. Then, after a few moments, he turns to Roan. “How did he conquer the other warlords?”

  Roan scans the table of contents. “That’s not until chapter 3. We’ll get there eventually. Read the first word.”

  Saint shrugs. “Let’s start with chapter 3.”

  “We should read the first two, they’ll provide—”

  “Chapter 3. Now.”

  “Chapter 3 won’t be any easier.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You’re going to read.”

  One look at Saint’s intimidating face convinces Roan that, whatever Saint’s motivations, he’d better start reading fast. And so he begins the tale of King Zheng. He reads, both fascinated and repulsed, about how the king used spies to ferret out his rivals, how he employed terror to demoralize his enemies and brilliant battle strategies to decimate them.

  “A brilliant man, inspired,” Saint sighs.

  “I suppose.”

  Saint eyes Roan. “You don’t agree?”

  “I find it difficult. All the brutality and murder.”

  “Yes,” says Saint, “you were no doubt shielded from these things in Longlight. But there are many men like King Zheng in the world, and the more we know, the better prepared we will be for them. That’s enough for now. We will continue with this book tomorrow.”

  “You don’t want me to teach you how—”

  “Time is short, Roan of Longlight. It will be more productive if you read to me. Now, let’s have our supper.”

  Roan follows Saint to a smaller, canopied room where a table is set with roasted rabbit and potatoes. Indicating that Roan should sit, Saint cuts up the meat and places a charred leg on each of their plates.

  “Thank you,” mumbles Roan. Following Saint’s lead, he picks up the leg in his hands, bites into it, and chokes the meat down.

  “You did very well in the practice session today,” says Saint.

  Roan, watching Saint ravage the meat, breathes deeply. “Brother Wolf is an excellent teacher. He made the moves easy to follow.”

  Saint studies Roan’s face. “With no experience, you kept up with some of my most skilled disciples.”

  “I hope I didn’t offend anyone.”

  Saint laughs. “Of course not. You have a gift.”

  “I’m not aware of any gift.”

  “Your people must have known of your talents. Why didn’t they do more to protect you?”

  Roan, bewildered, struggles to make sense of Saint’s words. “I don’t understand.”

  “The Friend teaches us that life is precious and must be defended. There is no sin in that. You excel in the art of combat. You accomplish with ease where others struggle. This is no accident. It’s a gift. It has always been in you and should have been nurtured. By denying it, you make yourself weak.”

 
At the sound of horses and men dismounting outside the tent, Saint wipes his fingers on a cloth, rises, and puts his hand on Roan’s shoulder. “I look forward to our reading tomorrow.”

  In the frigid night air, Roan nearly collides with a large stallion. Steam jets from the animal’s huge nostrils, and a crossbow is strapped to its saddle. Roan stares at the formidable weapon and a group of four hulking Brothers, their cloaks mud-crusted, swords hanging from their belts, who have their road-weary eyes set on him. Roan nods to them as Saint, an imposing shadow against the light of the entryway, motions them inside.

  Roan lingers a while, gently patting the horse’s muzzle. He shivers in the cold. For the first time in his life, he is questioning what he has always taken for granted. Would the people of Longlight have survived if they’d known how to defend themselves? Why were they so opposed to fighting? Why did their values seem so wise then and so foolish now? And what was his gift? Had his father known about it? Would he disapprove of Roan using it now, despite all that had happened?

  Roan knows he mustn’t trust Saint and his silver tongue. But why not gain whatever skills he can while he remains here? Saint had said that Roan wouldn’t survive outside the camp without Saint’s protection, and he can’t help but feel the truth of that. There is so much he doesn’t know.

  Roan is suddenly aware of Brother Raven’s presence. Raven doesn’t approach him, though, so Roan pretends he hasn’t noticed. Walking alone, he winds his way to his tent. He will practice some of the exercises he learned this morning. Surely there’s no harm in that.

  THE PROPHET’S DESTINY

  IT IS SAID OUR WORLD ONCE SHIMMERED WITH MESSAGES CARRIED ON BEAMS OF LIGHT, CONNECTING THOUSANDS OF CITIES. IN THE WARS THE LIGHT WAS SNUFFED OUT AND ONLY ONE CITY SURVIVED. OUR CITY. THE CITY.

  —ORIN’S HISTORY OF THE FRIEND

  THE FIRST SIGNS OF SPRING are the dandelions that rise defiant despite the unyielding ground. The land around the Friends’ camp is barely thawed, but the weeds are bigger than any Roan’s ever seen, and every part of them is gathered and eaten. The snow cricket, like Roan, is particularly fond of the tender new leaves, while the Brothers are most interested in the flowers, which are fermented and made into wine.

  There’s much to be done. Care and training of horses, relentless domestic chores, crafting and repairing of weapons, grounds maintenance. In the months that have passed, Roan’s learned that each Brother has a unique schedule. He’s adapted to his own routine with remarkable ease. It distracts him from the sadness and anger and confusion that have plagued him since the destruction of Longlight. But there’s no escaping his pain at night, when he’s haunted by memories of his parents, Stowe, and all the other people he loved.

  This morning, like every morning, is martial arts with Brother Wolf. Wolf spends much time showing his disciples “kill” points: spots on the body where a well-placed blow will cripple or slay the opponent. Roan has never questioned the instruction, though he doubts its intent is solely defensive. He works hard on his technique during the sessions with Brother Wolf, but early in the morning or late at night, alone in his tent, he practices his forms alone. This solo practice is part of another secret he keeps: what happens in his dreams.

  The dreams come to him unexpectedly. Sometimes he’s sleeping, sometimes he’s awake.

  THE MOUNTAIN LION PACES THREATENINGLY BEFORE ROAN.

  A HOOK-SWORD APPEARS IN ROAN’S HAND. THE LION LEAPS, ITS CLAWS RIPPING ROAN’S SKIN. ROAN SWINGS THE BLADE, SLICING THE LION ACROSS THE SHANK. THE LION RIPS ROAN’S THROAT, LEAVING HIM A BLOODY MESS ON THE GRASS.

  “DON’T HOLD BACK,” THE LION SAYS.

  “BUT I’LL KILL YOU,” ROAN WHISPERS.

  “YOU MUST DO WHAT IS NECESSARY. TRY AGAIN.”

  ROAN’S BLOOD FLOWS BACK INTO HIS BODY, AND HIS WOUND CLOSES UP. HE STANDS, HOLDING THE SWORD. THE LION LEAPS.

  The dream comes again and again. Roan has learned to strike hard and fast, managing to overcome the great beast as often as he himself is struck down. But he remains uneasy when it comes to applying these skills with Brother Wolf. He feels torn, keeping this secret from his master. Maybe one day he’ll feel secure enough to show Brother Wolf how adept he’s become. He would love to see the surprise on his master’s face.

  Every afternoon, Roan sand paints with Brother Stinger. He works contentedly now, but the skill was hard-earned. Initially he lacked the patience to sit cross-legged for hours, tapping out a few grains of sand at a time. Instead of focusing on the work, he would fidget, and his mind would wander to the terrible memory of the Fire Hole, or to the moment he lost his sister’s hand, or to his fights with the dream lion. Inevitably, his funnel would slip, the red-brown sand would miss its mark, and Brother Stinger would gaze sternly at him with unblinking eyes.

  But one day, as Roan fought to concentrate on the falling sand, the snow cricket wriggled in his pocket. Startled, he nearly dropped the funnel. But something had shifted. A deep feeling of repose came over Roan, and his eyes settled on the tip of the funnel. As he lightly tapped it, the sand flowed, and to his amazement, he could see each grain individually. It was as if the grains had grown larger, and Roan’s eyes tracked them with such precision they appeared to stop in the air, floating. He felt he was using his eyes for the first time, actually seeing. That afternoon, when the bell rang ending the session, Roan was astonished. Three hours had passed in what seemed like five minutes. Brother Stinger looked at him with just the hint of a smile, and from then on, Roan was taken under his wing, receiving advice on how to further refine his concentration and focus. Stinger isn’t a demonstrative man, but Roan can feel his warmth.

  Most days, after sand painting, Roan is happy to while away the hours with Brother Asp. The man’s mild temperament and interest in learning remind Roan of the adults in Longlight, and he has become Roan’s favorite of the Brothers.

  Saint had directed Roan to share his father’s soil decontamination book with Brother Asp, and Asp had listened eagerly.

  “My boy, we’re blessed to have you. Others under our watch can benefit from the knowledge you provide.”

  Asp seemed almost too kind and gentle to be one of the brethren. He began to take Roan out into the bush to forage for healing plants, and their time together provided Roan with the opportunity to explore the outer edges of the Brothers’ camp and get glimpses of what lay beyond.

  Still, he hasn’t been outside the defensive perimeter, and he’s going a little stir-crazy.

  One sunny afternoon, Roan sits guiding grains of sand onto the painting, feeling more peaceful than he has since before losing Longlight. The scent of new growth infuses the air, the cricket is quietly chirping in his pocket, and he is entirely en­gaged in his activity. But this idyllic moment is broken when Roan is unexpectedly summoned to meet Saint.

  When Saint is not out of camp on one of his trade missions, Roan sees him often, but always at the end of the day. Roan will sup with him, then read aloud into the night. Months have passed, but they still remain with the history of King Zheng. Obsessed with the topic, Saint insists on going over each chapter again and again, committing many sections of the text to memory. With the aid of stones and roughly drawn maps, he delights in reenacting the battles described in the book, reviewing the errors the losers made. Roan, to his surprise, finds he also relishes the game. He’s an inventive strategist, adept at deploying imaginary troops, anticipating attacks, and improvising lightning actions.

  Approaching Saint’s tent, Roan remembers how, one evening, after one of his more clever moves had eliminated half of Saint’s “army,” Saint had shaken his head in wonderment. “Where did you learn to do that? I didn’t see that in the book.”

  “I played chess with my father,” Roan told him. “This game doesn’t seem much different.”

  Saint smiled. “Except that these pebbles are men. Men who died under Zhen
g. Men who could die under my command.”

  Roan went silent, recognizing the truth in the statement. He’d been helping Saint develop tactics to fight wars, to capture and kill the enemy. Human beings.

  Yet despite understanding the deadly intent of the game, Roan feels compelled to keep playing, and today, if at all possible, he will win.

  “You sent for me, Brother?” Roan queries as he enters the Prophet’s tent.

  “Today we finish the saga of King Zheng,” announces Saint, handing Roan the book of Zheng’s exploits. Roan can hardly believe the moment has come. He reads to the last page, closes the cover, and sighs.

  Saint has been hunched over the rug, sharpening a long sword. He turns to Roan. “Read me the chapter about the building of the Great Wall again,” he commands.

  Roan winces. “I thought you had it memorized.”

  “I do, but I enjoyed watching your face when I said that.”

  Saint rises and lifts his sword, moving it slowly in the air. He looks gigantic, unstoppable. Lowering the sword and moving closer to Roan, he speaks with quiet intimacy. “If Zheng hadn’t forced his people to build the wall and the nomads had invaded, his citizens’ suffering would have been far worse, don’t you think?”

  “It’s possible,” concedes Roan.

  “He acted in the interests of his people. Without a strong defense, everyone dies. You, better than most, should know that.”

  Roan broods silently.

  “The man was cunning,” says Saint.

  Roan challenges him. “Then why did he need to burn books and have scholars buried alive or worked to death building the wall?”

  “The Masters of the City did the same. Do you know of what I speak?”

  “I know the Wars were fought with them. And that they won.”

  “Exactly. Like King Zheng, when they took control, they acted without hesitation. Thought breeds dissent. Eliminate the thinkers and you control the population. So they closed the schools, burned books, and executed anyone who had knowledge that was not in their service. That’s the real reason no one knows how to read and why we live in chaos.”