The Dirt Eaters Page 9

  After breakfast, Roan heads to the food preparation tent. Raven has been intimidating Feeder, and Roan means to do something about it.

  “You were in Raven’s tent last night.”

  Feeder smiles mysteriously. Without a word, he picks up the carrots he’s been chopping and turns to leave. Roan grabs his arm. As he does, he sees a raised cut behind Feeder’s ear. He reaches to touch it.

  “What’s that?”

  Feeder pulls away.

  “Nothing.”

  “It looks as if something’s been stuck in there. You’ve been hurt.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Feeder gazes steadily at Roan. He stands upright, almost proud.

  “You seem different.”

  “Because I know who I am now. I do. I know who I am.”

  “What did Raven do to you?”

  Feeder, never losing his crooked smile, ignores Roan’s question and strolls out of the cook tent.

  That wasn’t Feeder’s usual smile. He’s not himself, Roan thinks. Feeder’s mouth moves but the words aren’t his. He’s been changed, and it has something to with that strange wound. Why did Raven do that to him?

  That evening, alone in his tent, Roan practices. Kicks, leaps, rolls, swordplay. In one year, his power and speed have become formidable, though no one else is fully aware of his progress. Once the sweat is pouring, Roan pulls the scorpion brew out from his pack, takes the cap off, fills his mouth with the liquor, swishes it around, and spits it out. Bottle in hand, he stumbles out into the night air, certain his watchdog will soon be upon him. Brother Raven, never one to disappoint, instantly appears.

  “Sister Raven! Look what the Prophet gave me for my birthday!” Roan throws his arm around Raven for support and breathes heavily into his face. “Wish me a happy happy!”

  Raven can’t take his eyes off the bottle. “Happy birthday, Roan.”

  “Well, are you just gonna stand there? Have a drink!”

  “I really shouldn’t, it’s late.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Raven, just one!”

  “If you insist,” says Raven. He lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a long, deep swig of the harsh beverage. Savoring the aftertaste, he eyes the weaving Roan. “This is as fine a sting brew as I’ve tasted.”

  Roan leans against him. “Best you can get, I hear. Have another.”

  Raven swills again. “Exceptional.”

  “Enjoy!” says Roan. He sways and stumbles, nearly falling in the dirt. He pauses a moment, mustering as vacant a look as he can, then grins stupidly at Raven. “You know what? I gotta go to bed. G’night, Brother, you’re a good man.”

  Roan trips on the way to his tent, then falls through the entryway. “I’m okay, I’m okay!” he calls out. As soon as he’s inside, he turns to peek through a crack in his door. Raven has another long swallow, gasps, then stands there for a moment, bottle in hand, waiting to see if Roan’s going to reclaim it. After a few seconds, he smiles and returns to his tent, greedily clutching the precious brew.

  Next morning, Roan hovers outside Brother Raven’s tent, listening. Even with Raven’s large capacity, Roan calculates that drinking that much scorpion brew will keep the Brother snoring until well into late afternoon.

  Brother Wolf’s class has never been harder, since Roan’s mind is occupied with what he must do that day. Arriving at the sand painting area, he bows to the brethren, picks up his small crock of sand, and marshals his excitement by dropping the grains in place until the bowl is empty. He goes to the large supply pot, dips in his crock, then taps Brother Stinger on the shoulder. The supply pot is bare. Stinger, puzzled, checks for holes.

  “Go to the streambed and fetch some more.”

  The words are few but what he hoped to hear. Roan leaves quickly, running along the streambed until he comes to the place where the sienna-colored sand has accumulated on the shallows. He stops for a moment to see if he’s been followed. No one. He seizes the opportunity. In half an hour he arrives at the base of the mountain. Over the past year, Roan’s seen the camp boundaries with Brother Asp. Saint has taken him far off into the townships and up Barren Mountain, but never anywhere near here. Why?

  The stone here is multihued, the tones shifting from yellow to orange to red. But there’s no blue, no color resembling blue at all. What was the mountain lion talking about? Roan searches frantically. The rock face goes on for miles, and there’s no sign of a cave.

  He pulls the snow cricket out of his pocket, hoping the insect will lead him to the right place, but the cricket does nothing.

  Roan sits facing the rock wall. He estimates that he has a little over an hour before he must be back at the sand painting. It’s longer than he should be taking, but the Brothers are so entranced by their work they rarely notice the passing of time.

  He stares at the mottled stone, shining in the sunlight, for the next half hour. Then, at the moment he is ready to rise in defeat, a cloud passes over, and Roan sees it. The shade on the rock shifts, bringing out darker hues. A hundred yards east, where a mossy green scrub grows up against the stone, the red tones in the rock turn blue.

  Roan runs to the spot, and sees that the layer of moss isn’t attached to the stone. He touches it, and it gives a little. The moss is woven into a camouflage blanket, similar to the kind that disguises the tents in camp. He feels around the edge of the moss and finds a kind of latch. As he lifts it, the blanket swings back, revealing a large opening in the rock. He steps in.

  A torch and a fire stone are mounted just beyond the threshold. A piece of steel hangs from a chain. Striking the metal against the stone, sparks fly, lighting the torch. Roan edges slowly into the shadows until he comes to an enormous carved stone. It’s a figure of the Friend slaying the bull. Holding his torch overhead, he can make out a grate suspended by pulleys. They must tie the sacrificial animal to that, Roan reasons, then stand beneath it.

  In the flickering torchlight, he notices color on the cave walls. Moving closer, he sees it’s a group of paintings. Most are images he’s seen before: the Friend, His birth from the stone, the slaying. But in one, a man is tied to the grate, suspended high in the air. His blood spills on the Friends gathered below. Roan’s stomach churns. The sacrifice will be human.

  Heart racing, Roan illuminates another painting, a burning village—and over it, a hand wielding a sword. The arm of the swordbearer is visible. It is covered in a ladder of thin parallel scars. Beside the painting hangs a cloth. Roan lifts it and slips into an adjacent cave. It’s as if a hand had reached into his chest and wrenched out his heart.

  The cave is full of masks. Masks of bone and tooth. Staring at him is the most grotesque mask of all, red and leering. The red skull mask worn by the person who stole his sister.

  Roan backs out of the vault, gasping. Part of him had suspected this. Part of him hadn’t wanted to believe. But now he knows. He knows.

  Hatred and rage surge through Roan’s body. He wants to burn the Brothers’ tents, listen to their screams as they lie trapped in their beds. Stab them, spear them, slash their throats, crush their heads, let them bleed into nothingness.

  We watched revenge consume the world. And we turned away from it. We established this new community at Longlight, and we will never again raise a weapon, for fear of what we’ll become. You cannot get peace from war. Remember, Roan, remember.

  But Roan no longer accepts his father’s words.

  He shouts into the darkness. “I will fight, Father!”

  Yes—he will. But not until he’s certain of victory. Until then, he will retreat. Retreat and wait for his opportunity. I have a goal, he thinks. I will find Stowe, and I will avenge the destruction of Longlight. I have no choice now but to hide my intentions and wait.

  In the glare of sunlight, Roan feels raw, exposed. Sprinting back down the stream, he worr
ies how he’ll keep his vile discovery a secret. As he approaches the camp, he stops to retrieve the concealed bag of sand. No one even looks up when he returns. Resuming his place, Roan sprinkles sand on his appointed spot. He watches each grain fall slowly, controlling his emotions in this way. He must reveal nothing to the Brothers. And while the sand drops, he plans his escape.

  At dinner, Roan sits beside a bleary-eyed Brother Raven as Saint intones the blessing. “His heavenly blade freed us from evil.”

  That heavenly blade brought evil to my door, thinks Roan, rage threatening to blister through his facade. How could Saint pretend to be my friend? How could he lie to me all this time? How could he oversee a massacre? Struggling to maintain his composure, Roan dutifully bows his head with the other Brothers.

  Saint brings the prayer to a close. “With His love we will free the world.”

  “We are Brothers. We are Friends.”

  Silently, Roan vows: I am your enemy, and one day I will tear you down.

  “The big day is coming soon. Excited, Roan?”

  Roan looks up at Raven with false cheer. “Very.”

  Observing Raven’s puffy eyes, Roan has a revelation. Images of Raven whispering to Feeder in his tent and the cut behind Feeder’s ear flash through his mind. Suddenly he knows without a doubt the person in the grate will be Feeder. Roan is meant to be baptized in Feeder’s blood.

  Raven smiles back at him. “How do I know you’ll pass the last trial with no trouble at all?”

  Roan shrugs amiably.

  Once dinner’s finished, Roan finds a spot of high ground, and in the muted light of the setting sun he contemplates his escape route. To the south is Fandor, ruled by a clan still unconquered by Saint. But if he can believe anything Saint says, they’re crazed and bloodthirsty. East is where Longlight once stood, and all the lands around it are controlled by the Friends. His only choice is to go west, over the Barren Mountain, into the Devastation. He’ll need time, perhaps a week, to gather what he needs for the journey. And he’ll need the motorcycle.

  “The most beautiful time of day, isn’t it?” Saint’s voice is warm behind him.

  “Without a doubt.”

  “You’re getting very close to the final joining, Roan. Your next trial is imminent. If you are successful, you will be baptized into the Brotherhood.” Saint puts a hand on his shoulder. “You know you will never find peace until you’ve seen justice for Longlight. It’s a situation that must be resolved.”

  “I agree.”

  “I want you by my side, Roan. But I need you looking forward, not back. As soon as you complete the trial, I want you to take part in a Visitation.”

  “A Visitation?”

  “You know Brother Wolf and I lead groups away from time to time. You were told they were trade missions. But now that you’ve attained the third level, you may know the truth of it. One day we will unify all the lands and take the City. To do that, we must be strong at our core. The Visitation is our way of achieving a perfect balance. In it we transform ourselves. Through it, we become the purifying Wind of Fire. The Visitation passes like a dream. We do it for the greater good.”

  During the Madness, they called genocide holy, a cleansing.

  His father’s voice echoes as Roan bows his head humbly. “I’d be happy to be part of it, Saint. Thank you.”

  “You make me glad, Roan of Longlight.”

  Everything Saint does is calculated, Roan realizes, to bind me to him. Because he thinks I have some kind of special power. Something the City wants. Something they could use. Something I can’t see. What?

  Back in his tent, Roan takes out his mother’s pack. Inside is a bedroll, a water bag, some scraps of dried food. He’ll need more provisions. Clean water. Feeling two lumps in the outside pockets, Roan looks inside. His father’s shoe. His sister’s doll. He grips them both, imagining their owners’ faces.

  ROAN FLOATS ON A PAD OF TWIGS ON THE WATER. ALL HE SEES ARE WAVES.

  “ROAN!” IT’S STOWE’S VOICE. “ROAN.”

  “I’M COMING, STOWE! I’M LEAVING HERE SOON!” ROAN CRIES, BUT A HIGH-PITCHED SCREAM OBSCURES HIS WORDS.

  THE OLD GOAT-WOMAN IS SITTING ON THE EDGE OF THE RAFT. “COME TO ME FIRST,” SHE SAYS. “YOU MUST COME TO ME.”

  THE FINAL TEST

  IT COMES AT NIGHT, IT HAS A BITE,

  AND LEAVES ITS STINGER IN YOU.

  YOU WILL NOT CRY, YOU WILL NOT DIE,

  BUT ONE WRONG WORD WILL KILL YOU.

  —LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS

  THE MOON PULSES FAINTLY behind a luminous haze in the orange-black night sky. Outside Brother Raven’s tent Roan smiles at the loud snoring he hears. Raven is still recovering from the previous evening’s binge. Roan treads lightly to the opposite side of the encampment to find Feeder also sleeping. He gently nudges the cook awake. Feeder’s eyes snap open, and he sits up abruptly.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “Sh!” Roan commands in a whisper. “You tried to tell me what was going to happen. ‘One comes, one goes,’ you said. I know what it means now. There are always seventy-five Brothers in the camp. One Brother is sacrificed for the new one. This year, you die for me.”

  “I won the lottery.” Feeder smiles. “It’s the first time I’ve won something in my whole life.”

  “You don’t have to die. We could run away.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  “It would be hard, but we could try.”

  Feeder shakes his head. “I’m staying.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve finally found my purpose.”

  “What?”

  A beatific expression spreads over Feeder’s face. “I didn’t understand before. I was afraid of everything. But then something wonderful happened. Brother Wolf spent hours talking with me. Brother Raven invited me to his tent. They helped me see who I am. Helped me find my destiny. You see, I’m not going to die. I’m going to live. Forever.”

  “They did something to you, Feeder. Put some kind of drug in you, maybe. In that cut behind your ear.”

  “Before, most of the Brothers thought I was a fool, stuck in the kitchen, too weak to fight, afraid to go on Visitations. But everyone thinks I’m important now. You should see the way they look at me. The respect.”

  “Feeder, they want to butcher you.”

  “You’re jealous. You liked me better weak, so you could lord it over me. But I’m strong now, and I’m no longer afraid.”

  “Then come with me.”

  Feeder stares at Roan with wild, glazed eyes. In the shadowy light, the cut behind his ear seems to be throbbing. “I’m staying. And so are you. If you go, you’ll ruin it for me. I’ll lose everything. You can’t go. I won’t let you.”

  Roan, bent on preserving his own escape, improvises. “You’re right, Feeder. Forgive me. I didn’t realize you wanted this.”

  “I do, more than anything.”

  “Then you’ll have what you want. But you mustn’t tell anyone that I suggested leaving. If you do, they’ll lose faith in me. They’ll cancel my initiation and you’ll miss your chance.”

  Feeder winces. “They can’t do that.”

  “They won’t. Not as long as they’re sure I’m committed. But if there’s any doubt in their minds, you know that will change everything.”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  “Thank you, Feeder. I needed to be sure it’s what you wanted. Sleep well.”

  There’s no time to spare. Roan must leave at once. He’ll have to get more provisions, without Feeder’s help. He pads his way to the cook tent and gingerly negotiates the dim interior. In the wavering half-light of the torch at the entrance, he loads the pack he brought with dried goat meat and fruit and fills his water sack from the cistern. Then—a sound. He ducks behind the c
hopping block.

  Two voices, slurred with drink.

  “Be right there, I’m just gonna grab a handful.”

  One of the Brothers enters the tent.

  Roan watches the man’s shadow glide to the chopping block, his hand reach into the jar that holds the dried fruit. Roan doesn’t breathe. The Brother drops a piece of fruit. It hits Roan on the head, and bounces onto the clay floor.

  “Damn!” The Brother bends over to pick up the lost tidbit, inches from the frozen Roan.

  “Hurry up!” growls the voice outside.

  “One second!” the Brother hisses, still reaching. Roan is poised to spring.

  “C’mon, or I’m finishing this bottle myself!”

  The Brother sighs and saunters out.

  Roan exhales, then takes in some more air. When he figures the two Brothers are out of earshot, he puts on his pack and looks out the entrance. They’re gone. He winds his way behind Saint’s tent to the small enclosure. He lifts the canvas door, ready to leap on the motorcycle. His heart sinks. The bike is gone.

  Saint took it. Where did he go? What do I do now? Roan’s head buzzes with questions. There’s no escape without the bike; Roan wouldn’t get more than a few miles. The only reason for leaving tonight is his fear of Feeder talking. He’ll have to wait. And pray that Feeder stays silent.

  After the wake-up bell next morning, Roan strolls by Saint’s tent.

  “He’s not back yet,” says Raven, appearing behind him.

  “Where did he go?” asks Roan casually.

  “Come, come, he didn’t tell you?”

  Raven touches Roan’s cheek. Roan jerks back. “It makes you nervous, doesn’t it? How different your life would be without Saint. You know, the last trial is both the simplest and the most difficult. But don’t worry—soon you’ll truly be one of us.”

  “Is that where Brother Saint’s gone? To prepare my trial?”

  “Be ready. He could return at any time!”

  Roan’s relieved: clearly Raven hasn’t spoken to Feeder yet. Roan heads off to Brother Wolf’s class, only to find out it is cancelled. Brother Wolf and many of his classmates have been called away. Preparing himself for what is coming, Roan returns to his tent and puts his sand-painting furs in the top of his pack to conceal his supplies. Then he picks up his hook-sword, goes to the practice area, and works out until the bell. By the time it rings, he has mastered some of his growing anxiety. Taking what he hopes looks like his sand-painting gear, he fastens his weapon in its sheath and heads for the midday meal.