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 touch 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 whisper 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?
Ages 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 survey 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 the 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 two 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 life 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 teeth 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.