Fire Country

Both, right? I’m ’bout to say just that, but she puts a hand to my face and says, “You don’t need to answer that now, or even out loud. Just think about it. Think about what you want. And when the time comes, you’ll know what decision to make.”

She raises my hand, kisses the back of it, and is gone, disappearing into the night as if she was never here at all.

~~~

What I want? Nothing’s ever been ’bout what I want. My life’s been built with a foundation of duty, a structure of Laws and rules and changes that come with age—a thatched roof of survival. For my people, for me. So my mother’s words are buzzing around in my head like flies, and I don’t got the swatter to knock them down to where I can look at them.

What she said, it almost sounded like…well, like Lara. All her knocky stuff ’bout it not having to be this way and just think ’bout it. Now my mother’s saying I have a choice to make and that I should be thinking ’bout that choice. What choice? It’s hard to be thinking about something when you don’t really understand what that something is.

Sometimes I miss my sister. This is one of those times. My Call-Siblings are too young to really talk to, and they only share the same father as me, not mother, so it’s not the same. Skye is my full sister. Or was my full sister. Who knows whether she’s still alive, what the Wilds did to her.

We used to share everything with each other. She was going to be my guide for the future, tell me all about what it was like to be a Bearer, let me hold her young’uns so I could practice ’fore I had to do it myself.

I can still picture the dark, bouncing curls in her hair the day she was taken. The day of her Call. The day she was s’posed to become a woman. I wonder if by missing her Call she’ll never become a woman, will always be stuck as just a girl, a Youngling. That scares me.

Anyway, I remember her curls like it was yesterday. Perfect little circlets of hair, shining with the luster of a fresh washing. When we were little I used to think she had knots in her hair, and that they just needed to be combed out to be nice and straight, like mine. When I’d ask my mother about it, she’d tell me Skye’s hair was curly, that she took after our grandmother, but I never believed her, thought she was trying to make my sister feel better when really she had knots in her hair.

I lie flat on my back, thinking about knots and sisters, staring up at what stars I can see. The clearness of the day has given way to a cloudy night, full of black chariots rolling across the sky, blotting out the moon goddess and most of her servants.

Think about what you want. A fly. I swat at it, miss, my anger rising.

You’ll know what decision to make. Another buzzing insect. I watch it for a second, and then swing with all my scrawny might. Whack! I hit myself in the head, see stars, but not the ones in the sky. Stars so close it’s like they’re in my skull, or in my eyes maybe. “Urrrr!” I yell, more frustrated’n I’ve ever been.

I close my eyes, try to sleep. There are too many flies, but I keep trying. Keep trying, trying, swatting, swatting, drifting, drifting, until I hear, “Pssst!”

My eyes flash open. The sound was close. I say nothing. A moment passes, and then a voice hisses, “Hey, you! Youngling.”

I freeze, my already still body hardening like tug jerky in the sun. As far as I know, I’m the only Youngling in Confinement. I say nothing.

“I know you can hear me,” the voice says. It’s brittle and cracking, like a worn piece of leather, ready for replacement. I don’t think this voice gets out much.

“So what if I can?” I say to the night.

“What’re you in for?”

“Being an idiot,” I say. “You?”

He chuckles. “I’s framed.”

I can’t help but to laugh, too. After all my mother’s confusing words, and my even more confusing thoughts, this conversation already feels so normal. “I’m sure that’s what they all say,” I reply, probably a bit too haughtily.

“No, really,” he says. “And you’re right, a bunch of the guys in here say the same thing. But not because they want people to believe they’re i

Okay, I’ll bite. “What exactly did you d—I mean, what did they say you did?” I sit up, scooch over to the bars, try to see the face of the man I’m talking to. At first there’s only blackness so black it’s like I’m looking into a Killer’s eyes. Not black even. The absence of light. But then my eyes start to adjust. I’m always amazed how they can do that. It’s like I see nothing, nothing, nothing, and then, Bam! The outline of a face appears, followed by a body, leaning casually against the bars, one leg propped up on t’other.

“You see me now?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Raja.”

“Siena,” I say.

“Your daddy’s Head Greynote?”

“You been ear-sneaking,” I say accusingly.

“Not intentionally,” he says. His ghost form shrugs. “When it’s quiet like this in here, you can hear most anything.”

“So what if I am?” I say. I’m not being nice, but I don’t know this guy, least nothing more’n his name.

“No need to get all defensive on me. I got no problem with the Greynotes, generally speaking, although it was one of their kind that framed me, I’s sure of it.”

“You better watch your mouth with talk like that. It could getcha in trouble,” I say.

“You’s go

“I ain’t.”

“Then I guess there ain’t nothin’ to worry about. ’Spect things can’t git any worse for me anyway.”

“How old are you?” I ask, trying to guess. I’ve always liked guessing ages. Usually I can get pretty close by looking at someone, but this is much harder, as this fellow’s sitting in the dark. Based on his voice and ma

“Why’s it matter?” he says.

“It don’t,” I say. “Just curious. You know ’bout how old I am, so it’s only fair I know yours.” I’m pleased with my logic.

“Eighteen,” he says.

My jaw drops, but only for a second. “Liar,” I say, letting that mouth of mine get the better of me again. “I mean, that can’t be right,” I say.

“I got no reason to lie,” he says. “I know I don’t sound it, but my voice ain’t what it used to be. I been in here fer over a year. Lack of food and water and regular speakin’ will do that to a voice. Make it sound old, that is.”

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s say I believe you about being eighteen. Why’ve you been in here so long? What did they say you did?”

“I shouldn’t e’en tell you,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Greynote’s daughter and all.”

“I told you I won’t tell nobody,” I say.

He says nothing, playing my silent game now. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me, or if he’s dozed off, as I can’t see his eyes. Finally, he says, “There was this little girl who lived next door. She was a real nice Totter, friendly as all get out, always saying hi and pickin’ me flowers. She was my little Totter friend. One day, she didn’t come home from Learning.” Raja’s voice catches and his hands move up to grip the bars a little higher.

“Where was she?” I ask.

“Dead,” he says. “They found her in the watering hole, sunk to the bottom with a rock tied to her little ankles.” I hear a sob escape his throat, and I can barely see his shoulders shaking in the dark.

I wait a few seconds, till he stops shaking and goes all still-like. Stiller’n a stone. “They said you killed her?” I say.

“I didn’t,” he says, his voice as strong as it’s been since we started talking.

“I wasn’t saying you did. But that’s what they said?”

“Yeah. They had all kinds of proof. Blood on one of my shirts I hadn’t worn in a full moon. Footprints near the waterin’ hole that matched my feet exactly. Of course, there were a zillion footprints that matched everyone’s feet around the waterin’ hole, but they picked out just mine. But the clincher was a little doll that this Totter was always carryin’ ’round, Josie she called her. Rattier’n hand-me-down socks it was, but she loved it like a real friend, never let it get out of her sight.”