“Have you ever met a Marked?” I probe, snapping her out of her thoughts.
“They come ’round sometimes,” she says. “To trade and such. But only their leaders. And they only speak to our leaders.”
“Was this Brev guy with them?”
“I dunno. I don’t even know their names,” she says.
~~~
After getting settled in Skye’s tent, we go to meet the Wild leaders. Well, technically I’ve already met them, but I wouldn’t know them from anyone else in the throng.
They set in a large tent, almost as big as our hut back home—well, not home, not anymore, and not our hut—it was always my father’s hut—all in a line. Three girls, three leaders, none older’n twenty. Dim light flickers from torches sticking from the ground, casting an eerie glow over everything. They take turns saying their names.
“Crya,” says the one on the left with silky black hair that falls like rain to her waist. Although she hasn’t cut her hair like so many of the other girls, her skin is wound with markings, as many as Feve had.
Next, on the right, is, “Brione,” with a voice like a hammer, firm and strong. She’s built like a tug, with arms the size of my legs and shoulders that could plow through a hut wall. She’s gone even further’n the other girls, shaving her hair to the scalp.
The girl in the center, average-looking with brown eyes and standard-length short hair, finishes, her voice as pleasing as tinkling glass. “Wilde,” she says. “Welcome to Wildetown.”
And with that single introduction, everything clicks into place. Not the Wild Ones, but the Wilde Ones. Although there is a wildness ’bout all the girls in this place, it’s not what gives them their name. This girl, as plain and unspectacular as an old moccasin, started it all when she escaped the Call. I never knew her name but everyone told stories ’bout the first girl who went missing—the first girl who was kidnapped by the Wilde Ones. Really, she left to start the Wilde Ones.
Too engaged in my thoughts, I don’t reply. “And we already know your name,” she says. “Your sister has told us so much about you.”
~~~
I tell them everything. Or at least everything important. I don’t tell them ’bout kissing Circ, or ’bout what happened to him, or ’bout my “talks” with Perry. I also thought the bit ’bout almost getting myself killed and being rescued by one of the Marked’ll make me look like a Weakling—like they need any more proof of that!—so I skip it, too. I stick to the facts ’bout my father, what he’s doing with the prisoners in Confinement, ’bout his agreement with the Icers, ’bout the cure for the Fire. I wanna ask ’bout the Marked leaders, ’bout Brev, but I keep it inside, sealed up tighter’n one of my father’s skins of aging fire juice.
When I finish, Crya leans back casually, disinterested; Brione leans forward, plants her elbows firmly on the table in front of her; and Wilde doesn’t move at all. None of it seems to surprise her.
“Thank you,” Wilde says. “We already knew much of what you told us, but this…cure…that is interesting news indeed.”
My mouth gapes open. “You already knew most of it?” I say in disbelief. “Then why haven’t you done anything about it?” I feel a surge of heat rise up in my chest as I remember Raja and t’other lifers, innocent prisoners.
“Do something?” Crya says, standing, her tone as sharp as a Hunter’s blade. “What the scorch is that supposed to mean? You think we give two blazes about the Heaters? Think again.”
I shrink back against her stare, sensing a history of violence behind Crya’s fierce eyes. She’s not one to be trifled with. “Sorry—I—I just—it’s all so fresh,” I finish lamely.
“It’s alright,” Wilde says. “Down, Crya.”
Gritting her teeth, Crya sits. Brione looks amused by the exchange. “Crya’s our Killer,” Brione says, and I’m not sure whether she means someone who kills or a real Killer, transformed into a human girl. Perhaps it’s both.
Wilde turns back to me. “Unfortunately we can’t do much to help the Heaters. The Greynotes have the village by the prickler, so to speak. We’re just doing our best to survive. We only monitor what’s happening in the village to ensure they don’t find us. I’m sorry, Siena, there’s not much we can do for those in Confinemement—at least not yet, not until our numbers are greater.” Her voice is so steady, so calm, so truthful. I believe every word she says.
“I understand,” I say. “How many, uh, Wilde’s are there?”
“One hundred and sixty two, including you,” Wilde answers.
I raise my eyebrows. “So many,” I say. Although there’ve been plenty of rumors ’bout the number of “kidnapped” girls being on the rise, no one knew the extent. Probably part of the cover up by the Greynotes.
“Seventeen more arrived from yer Call group,” Skye adds helpfully.
I scuff the ground with my shoe. There are so many questions I wanna ask, but I’d prefer to talk to Skye ’bout them, so I stay silent.
Chapter Thirty
That night there’s a welcome party. Apparently they’ve been delaying it till my arrival—the last from my Call group. All t’others snuck out of the village the day ’fore the Call, but my mother’s illness prevented her from helping me to do the same.
When night falls, torches are lit in a circle ’round a massive fire pit, as big as the one in the center of the village. The afternoon was rainy, but tonight the sky is clear; the edge of the moon goddess peeks over the top of the canyon, surrounded by her servants. At first everyone just sits ’round the fire, eating fried prickler and scrubgrass soup, and drinking collected rainwater and prickler juice.
Earlier that afternoon Skye told me how the Wildes don’t eat meat. Though they can Hunt, they choose not to. Instead they plant and harvest pricklers, scrubgrass, fireweed, and other roots and plants. Most of the year they grow them in the big prickler field I ran into earlier, but during the hot summer days, they dig them up and maintain them within the canyon, so they don’t get burnt up by the unforgiving sun. So not only are the Wildes not feral, they don’t eat meat. It sickens me how my father and the Greynotes use rumors and lies to spread fear in the hearts of the Heaters.
I’m not sure how I’ll feel after a few full moons of eating only plants, but tonight the prickler, which is garnished with some aromatic herb, is delicious. I eat everything on my plate and go back for seconds, which is allowed as part of the celebration. “No burnin’ rationin’ tonight!” Skye says. “Tonight we dance!”
I laugh, thinking she’s had a bit too much of the fireweed she’s been puffing on ever since we sat down, but then the music starts. It’s just a coupla drums at first, slow and thumping, but soon escalates into a cacophony of entangled sounds including a dozen sand shakers and at least that many reed flutes.
Skye is the first one up, and tries to pull me with her, but I wrench my arm away, embarrassed. She shrugs and starts dancing, moving her hips provocatively, raising her arms above her head and wriggling them like snakes. For a brief moment she’s the only one dancing; but soon dozens of other girls clamber to their feet, shrieking and laughing and dancing. Soon Lara, me, and t’other new Wildes are in the minority of non-dancers. Captivated, I watch as the beautifully toned bodies writhe and twist under the firelight. As the music’s tempo gains momentum, the girls dance faster’n faster, until their movements are wild and animal, some of them carrying sticks tipped with fire, waving them ’round, painting beautiful fire art in the air. Their shadows wash the canyon walls with gray and black, coursing left and right, pulsing, pulsing.
Although I’m still sitting, there’s energy in my veins and my heart’s beating wildly. I wanna jump up, join them, be free, but old habits die hard and my father’s voice echoes through my head: Bearers are solemn, controlled, living and dying for their Calls and their children.