When they reached the crossroads, they reduced speed, moving slowly toward the herds that had settled down on both sides of the road. On one side were thirty head of cattle from a human-controlled ranch. On the other side were three hundred bison that grazed on land that belonged to the terra indigene. The bison had been drawn to a salt lick the ranch hands had put out a couple of days ago. The cattle had been cut from the main herd and brought to this part of the ranch’s fenced range—the necessary sacrifice in this dangerous, secret warfare.
The men had put out the salt openly, a neighborly gesture, they’d told the terra indigene Wolves who had trotted up to see what they were doing on land that wasn’t leased to humans.
Now those same men climbed out of the trucks and checked their rifles. Once things got started there wouldn’t be time or room for mistakes.
“Company A with me,” the leader said quietly. “Companies B and C . . .” He pointed to indicate that their job was on the other side of the road. “Remember, it doesn’t matter if it’s a clean kill or a killing wound. Just put ’em down, as many as you can. My whistle is the signal.”
Company A moved away from the road and quietly approached the cattle, while the other men crept within firing range of the bison.
All the men raised their weapons and waited.
Bait the Wolves by killing animals they needed for food. That was stage one of the land reclamation project. After all, fewer bison meant more land for cattle.
Bait the Wolves. Stir things up. And most important, don’t get caught.
The leader whistled. The men opened fire and kept firing until they emptied their rifles. Then they ran back to the trucks and drove away, speeding up the dirt road to get back to the bunkhouse or their homes before anyone thought to look for them or wonder where they had been.
They had struck the first blow. Now secrecy was truly a matter of life and death.
Thaisia could be the breadbasket for the world. There are thousands and thousands of acres of land going to waste, providing nothing instead of growing the food the human race needs. One way or another the terra indigene must be persuaded to release some of the land they hold with such selfish disregard for the desperate needs of other species in the world. If the Others don’t want to be bothered with such concerns, let the human race do the work of providing food for those who need it. Let us utilize some of this empty land instead of forcing us to watch our children starve.
—Nicholas Scratch during a speech at an HFL rally in Toland
There is no wasted, empty land in Thaisia. Every place on this continent is full of residents who need what the land already provides. Even the deserts have residents who live on what is available in those places. Even the coldest, remotest areas are not empty of life. When Mr. Scratch talks about the needs of other species, he is really talking about one species, the human species. He and his followers care for nothing else, which is why the terra indigene must care about all the rest.
—Elliot Wolfgard, when asked to respond to Nicholas Scratch’s speech
CHAPTER 4
Windsday, Juin 6
White walls, white furniture, white clothes.
“Please, I need colors. I see the colors.”
“You don’t need colors, cs821. You just need a cut. You’ll feel better after you’re cut.”
“Please.”
“Stubborn little bitch, obsessed with colors. We recommend finger cuts as much as possible. Might as well use up that skin in case we have to remove the fingers to keep her from making drawings that dilute the prophecies.”
The feel of the razor slicing through skin. And then . . . Color. That shade of red that looked like nothing else, at least to her eyes. Floating on the euphoria that came with a cut after she began speaking, she looked at the white walls, at the dark straps that held her to the chair.
“You don’t need colors, cs821. You just need a cut.”
White walls, white ceiling, white furniture, white clothes. As she stared at the wall, part of it darkened, becoming a shape. Four legs. A tail. Massive head with horns. Another dark patch on the wall began forming another animal. And another, until there was a herd of shapes on the wall.
Then she noticed dots forming on the wall just above the herd—that shade of red unlike any other. The dots grew and began to flow down the wall, covering the herd with bloody tears.
Panting, her heart pounding, Hope scrambled out of bed and staggered to the screened window in her room, sucking in cool, early morning air as she pressed her hands against the wood windowsill.
She wasn’t in the compound anymore. The walls of her room weren’t white. The cabin used by the Wolfgard in the terra indigene settlement at Sweetwater had walls made of wood, had floors made of wood. Everything was simple and wood except for the toilet and sink in the little bathroom attached to this bedroom. But some of the drawings she had made since coming to live with Jackson and Grace and the rest of the pack were pinned to the walls. A few were even framed.
Some were just drawings of the pack, of the land, of everything that lived in the Sweetwater territory that came within the boundaries of where she was allowed to wander.
“My name is Hope Wolfsong,” she whispered. “I am not cs821. Not anymore. Never again.”
But the dream. There was more, and the more settled over her skin like a smothering film. Had to get it down on paper to show Jackson and Grace. The dream image of the animal had already faded from memory too much for her to describe with words.
She closed the shutters over the window and carefully felt her way back to her bed and the lamp on the bedside table. She clicked on the lamp and waited. Jackson and Grace sometimes slept on the porch with some of the other Wolves. Sometimes they slept in the cabin’s main room where they could hear her.
No one scratched at her door or growled. No male voice, rough from sleep and vocal chords that hadn’t fully shifted from Wolf to human, demanded to know what was wrong.
Moving as quietly as she could, she gathered her big drawing pad and the colored pencils and pastels that Jackson had bought for her. She started to turn the top page of the pad. Then she stopped and looked at the drawing she’d made just before going to bed last night. She didn’t know if it meant anything, but the last thing she’d added before blinking out of the trance she fell into sometimes when she drew pictures were the words “For Meg.”
She removed the drawing and placed the paper on the desk in her room. Returning to the bed, she sat cross-legged and set the drawing pad in front of her. But the patchwork quilt, which usually delighted her with its shapes and colors, was a distraction now. Pushing it aside, she pulled off the top sheet—white because the Others didn’t feel the need for colors in things that wouldn’t be seen once you turned off the light—and placed it on the floor. Then she settled down, picked up her pencils, and began to draw.
The shapes. Yes, she remembered the shapes. And the sky. And . . .
She searched through her pencils and pastels. Nothing! How could she not have the necessary shade?
She sprang up, pulled open a drawer in the desk, and removed the silver folding razor that had been used exclusively on her when she had lived in the Controller’s compound. Jackson had been told to let her keep the razor because, if she felt compelled to cut, using the razor was safer than all the other things that could be used to slice through fragile skin. Jackson and Grace had bought her paper and pencils, had allowed her to draw, so she had tried so very hard to be good and not cut, but . . .