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When the black turns back to night, and I can see the stars again, I realize I gotta get up or I might never. Then where’ll I be? I can just imagine Keep looking in my cage the next day, seeing me sprawled out in the desert, dust on my lips, my arm hanging from my shoulder, limper’n a tug tail.
I’m smart, so I use the prickler to help me to my feet, getting jabbed half a dozen times on the way up. “Thanks, Perry,” I whisper to the prickler. He deserves a name for all his trouble. After all, like so many people in my life, he’s helped me and hurt me. Either that, or I just like talking to plants.
My sling’s a wreck, ripped in at least three places, two holes jabbed in it by Perry, who can’t be blamed, ’cause he hasn’t moved the entire time. Although I guess it could be argued that if he was really on my side he woulda moved. Perry, you baggard, I think, you shoulda moved!
MedMa would be appalled at the state of my sling, so I do my best to rewrap it, which hurts worse’n a snap from Father’s snapper. But I get it done, let out a breathless sigh, exhausted from the strain of the last…how long’s it been anyway? I got no clue. I coulda blacked out for three thumbs of sun movement for all I know. Or just a few moments. More’n likely the real amount is somewhere in between. But which side’s it closer to? And what do I do now?
I got a real problem. If I chase after Raja and the other prisoners with the tools, they might already be coming back, done with whatever it is they’re doing. But the thought of trying to squeeze back into my cage right now…I shudder.
I’m out now so I might as well take advantage.
You’re go
“Shut up,” I whisper over my shoulder as I walk away.
~~~
I ain’t got further’n a rock’s throw away from the edge of the Confinement cages when I see them. The glint of the bright moonlight offa the edges of tools tells me they’re coming back already. Either they’re real fast workers or I was in a pain-induced stupor for longer’n I thought. Too long.
I grit my teeth and hustle back the way I came, around the edges of the cages, past the sleeping non-lifers. Then I’m back at my cage and I’m staring a torturous reentry right in the face. The gap I escaped from looks even smaller, like the cage has a brain and, upon realizing its flaw, recreated itself. There’s gotta be another way.
Back at the front of the cage I stare at the mound where the big rock is covered. The clink of metal tools is carried to my ears on a gust of wind. Hard to tell how far away. Could be a mile. Could be a stone’s throw. If they’re a mile away, I could maybe dig up the rock, move it, slip through the hole, and pull the rock back into the gap. But the rock would be bare, instead of covered like it’s s’posed to be. The Keep would know something knocky was going on.
Voices bounce across the desert like brambleweeds.
They’re not a mile away. They’re back!
I’m ready to rush ’round to the back, jam myself through the first gap that looks big enough, deal with whatever physical consequences I’ve got coming, but for some reason I stop to take one more look at my cage. I gaze from side to side, from bottom to top. I freeze.
The top.
It’s still got plenty of bars, and up there they’re crisscrossed, but each bar appears to be set further away from the one before’n the bars along the sides. Perhaps it’s just enough for a ski
Clink!
The sound is so close I could swear it was right next to my ear. I start climbing.
It ain’t easy climbing with only one good arm, but I don’t weigh no more’n a bundle of vulture feathers. I jam my feet between two of the bars, trying to use the roughness of my moccasin bottoms against the roughness of the wood as a sort of fall stopper. My one good arm does most of the work while my broken one takes the rest of the night off. Well deserved.
Perry’s just staring at me, like the shanker that he is. Thanks for the help, buddy.
I grab as high as I can, pull with all my might, move my feather-light butt up a few feet, and sort of hop with my feet, almost like a horny toad—don’t laugh, that’s what they’re called—and then rewedge my moccasins to keep from falling. It’s slow going.
Grab, pull, move butt, horny toad hop, wedge. Repeat.
The voices get louder. Someone laughs. A gruff voice reprimands. Keep, trying to get control of his prisoners.
I don’t stop for the voices, for the clinks, for Perry’s catcalls. Slow and steady, I keep moving until I reach the cross bar that means I’ve made it to the top. The lid on my cage.
One leg over, then t’other. Take a breath.
The voices stop in front of Raja’s cage. “You’re up next, dog! Get in!” Keep barks, sounding more like a dog himself. I freeze, look down, see Keep with maybe eight other prisoners. Raja drops to the durt, everyone watching him. I’m exposed under the soft glow of the moon goddess. If they look up, I’m knocked! Where are the searin’ clouds when I need them?
Raja squirms like a worm underneath the bars. “Lock him in!” Keep growls, handing one of t’other prisoners a shovel. I’m dead-quiet, and to my surprise, Perry is too. Silent schemers. Placid plotters.
When the big rock for Raja’s cage is in place and covered, Keep and the rest of them move on. I hold my breath. They walk straight on past my cage, not even giving it a casual look. I’m just a runty girl, couldn’t hurt a fly. ’Cept myself, I think, feeling my arm start to throb again.
When they’re past Keep’s hut and a few more cages, I breathe again. My heart’s beating like the party drums after a successful tug hunt. But I ain’t out of the desert yet. Perry agrees, doing his version of a nod, which is basically staying perfectly still and upright. Stay out of this, Perry! I think.
Perched on the roof of my cage, I feel precarious. It’s not that high, but with holes in the floor, it feels higher’n it really is. There’s a certain thrill to it, too, like all my i
The smart thing to do, as Perry suggests, would be to slip through one of the square holes and shimmy on down the bars all the way to the ground. Challenging with one arm, but easier’n climbing up here in the first place. Sounds like a plan.
I start to carefully lower myself between the crisscross, keeping one of the bars under my armpit. As I scrabble at the thin air with my feet, Keep shouts, “Cage check!”
Cage check? What’n the scorch? I lose my concentration and my arm slips off the bar. I’m falling! At the last second, I grab and squeeze as hard as I can with my hand, making a fist around the bar. My feet swing underneath me as I hang on for dear life, rocking back and forth in the wind, which has been picking up steadily ever since I started climbing. A morning windstorm. Not unusual for this time of year.
While I hang, there’s grumbling and groaning as the whole place seems to come to life. Toward the end of my row of cages, I hear Keep rattling along the cage bars with some instrument, shouting out names and then waiting for a response.
“Koda!”
“Yeah.”
Ratatatat along the bars.
“Briggs!”
“Nope.”
“Shut yer tug hole! Smartass!”
Ratatatat…
You get the picture. He’s getting nearer.
My feet are swinging and I can’t reach the side bars. Can’t shimmy down. Can’t slide down. Can’t do anything ’cept hang and swing. My shoulder’s aching and I feel my sweaty hand starting to slide off the wood.
“Bart!”
A growl. Big Bart ain’t in the mood for talking.
Keep’ll pass his hut and then he’s to mine.
I got no choice.