Fire Country

I cry out and go down, wishing the layer of sand were as thick as back at the dunes. Instead, it’s like falling on bare rock. My outstretched hands do little to break my fall and probably just make things worse, ’cause they crumple beneath me, roaring with pain. I skid a few feet, my exposed skin scraping against the desert with the force of a winter wind.

I hear a yell from the side, from Circ, but I don’t respond, just lay there panting, internally cursing my silly sense of humor, my lack of coordination, and that burnin’ rock—who put that there anyway?—that all conspired together to trip me up. My shoulder’s coursing with heat and I see the hot red outline of blood seeping through my brown dress. The ankle I turned is throbbing and squeezing against my moccasins. And my wrists, well, they’re the worst—at least one of them is. My left hand is bent u

“Sie!” Circ yells, right next to me now. “Are you…Oh blaze!”

“I think it’s broken,” I say, trying to move my wrist. “Holy sun goddess, searin’, good for nothin’, piece of…” As agony wracks my arm, I let out one of the longest string of obscenities of my life.

“Don’t move it,” Circ says, positioning his body behind mine so I can lean on him. “What hurts besides your wrist?”

“Everything,” I moan, gasping as a wave of nausea-inducing pain shivers through my body.

“We’re less than a mile from the village,” he says. “I’ll go get help.”

He starts to get up, but I yell, “No! Don’t leave me here. Please.” I’m being a baby, I know, but the thought of lying in the middle of the desert—okay, not the middle, middle, but searin’ far out—alone, with vultures buzzing around me, waiting for me to die…

Anyway, Circ gets this look of determination on his face where his eyes are like glass, reflecting the rays of the sun in splinters and shards, his jaw sticks out and gets all tight, and his lips push together. I’ve seen this look many times. It means: I’ll win, I ca

With a tenderness that surprises me, he scoops me up in his arms and takes off toward the village. I close my eyes ’cause the bump, bump, bump of each of Circ’s galloping strides sends eruptions through my wrist and arm. By tucking it against my side like a broken wing, I’m able to reduce the shockwaves rolling through it. I concentrate on my breathing, slow and deep, and that keeps my mind off of the pain for a while. The wind’s whipping through my hair, so I know Circ’s going fast, which, regardless of how little I weigh, is really amazing given he’s carrying me in his arms.

Just when my focus on breathing wanes, and the agony of my shattered wrist comes back like a Killer drawn to the fresh scent of blood, Circ begins to slow.

“What’s going on?” I hear a voice say. It’s his brother, Stix, three years younger’n us, a fresh Youngling.

“Get the Medicine Man!” Circ manages to yell between ragged breaths.

“But the Hunt…”

“Just do it!”

My stomach drops and a fresh wave of nausea rolls through me as he lowers me onto something soft. A bed. When I open my eyes I see Circ’s concerned face, his eyes wrinkled at the corners the same way they looked when I burned my hand in the fire when we were only six. Fu

“Circ,” I say, just a whisper.

“Don’t speak,” he says. “Help will be here soon.”

“But the Hunt…” I say, echoing Stix’s words.

“I don’t care about—”

“They need you, Circ,” I say, clenching my jaw as needles stab me in the wrist. Taking a deep breath, I start over. “They need you for the Hunt. Thank you for everything. You’ve done all you can do for me—the Medicine Man’ll take care of the rest. Get ready for the Hunt and make me proud.”

In a rare display of uncertainty, Circ stands up, sits back down, stands again, starts to walk away, and then turns back. “Are you sure?” he asks.

“Sure as a searin’ Cotee is of tracking a six-day-old scent through a sandstorm,” I say, trying to prove to Circ that I’m okay.

He looks at me like I’ve gone all wooloo on him, but ends up smiling in the end. “I’ll see you as soon as it’s over. Take care of yourself.”

“Be safe,” I say.

He grabs my hand—the good one—squeezes for a nice, warm moment, and then spins and is gone, disappearing behind the tent flap.

~~~

As usual, there’s steam coming out of my father’s ears. I’d try to run away, but it’s kind of hard when the Medicine Man is wrapping your broken arm in something brown and tight. Sear my brittle-thin bones! There’s no way a simple fall like that woulda broken a normal person’s wrist.

“Of all the mousebrained things to do…”

“I’m sorry, Father. We were just knockin’ around,” I try to explain, cringing when MedMa jerks my arm.

That gets Father’s attention and he stops stomping around, his face turning redder’n the noonday sky. Even the Medicine Man stops working on me and looks up. “Watch your mouth, Youngling. I don’t care what kind of slang the children use these days, but I will not have my daughter speak to me like that.”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“I DON’T CARE!” my father screams, his face suddenly right next to mine. I flinch back, and MedMa does too, accidentally pulling my injured arm awkwardly again.

“Ouch!” I yelp.

His face is an inch from mine. His breath smells acrid and raunch, like it does when he’s been smoking the Pipe of Wisdom with the other Greynotes. He lowers his voice, deepens it too, and says, “Youngling, you are approaching your Call, the most important day of your life. You simply ca

“It’s Circ, Father, not some random guy.”

“I don’t care if it’s a three-headed Cotee with wings,” he says, “you will NOT spend time with him anymore.”

My heart stops. Well, not really, but it feels like it does. In reality, I can feel it throbbing and pumping away, not only in my chest, but in my wrist and head, too. “You can’t do that,” I say, my voice just a whisper.

“Yes. I can.” All I want to do is jump up, scream at him, flail my arms like a wooloo person, scratch with my nails, do anything—anything—to get my anger out.

But I don’t do any of that for two reasons. First, my arm’s halfway in a sling so flailing’s out of the question. And secondly, I know all too well from experience that doing any of that won’t help. It’ll just grizz my father off even more and then there won’t be any chance of me seeing Circ again. Like he’d probably pull me out of Learning, or throw my bony behind in Confinement like he threatened before.

So I just stare at him, seething inside, thinking, I hate you I hate you I hate you, over and over and over again.

“I don’t want to keep you apart, Siena, but you leave me no choice,” he says, stopping my anger-filled thoughts. I gape at him. Siena? When’s the last time he called me by my name and not “Youngling” or some variation? It’s been years, I reckon. His eyes almost look like they used to, ’fore they became someone else’s, a tyrant’s. There’s a flicker of light in them for just a moment, and then it’s gone, maybe forever.

“After the Call you won’t be able to be friends with him anyway. It’s just not proper.” His words sting, but not ’cause he’s saying them, but ’cause I know he’s right. The Bearers aren’t friends with the men, ’cept for their Call. But I can’t imagine not being friends with Circ, passing by him with a subtle nod, like we hardly know each other.