Fire Country

Well, that’s what it is now. Cool. Not hot. I shiver.

Ice country is not hot. Just like Teacher always said when we thought he’d been smoking too much fireweed.

For a moment, I try to focus on the trees, thankful for the moonlight. They’re exactly like you hear them described. Tall beyond comprehension, they rise like giant spears into the sky, almost disappearing into the few low-altitude clouds drifting overhead. Their—what’s that word for the coating of rough brown that protects the wood inside them? Oh yeah, bark!—their bark is full of so many shades of brown that I wa

That explains the sudden increase in noise. Besides the men’s voices, which have picked up again, a deafening sound has been added to the mix. Crunching, like when I munch on the brittle flesh of dried prickler. As the prisoner’s pass amongst the trees, each footstep results in a thunderous crunch! that a Hunter could track for miles. Scorch, even I could track it.

They’re walking on dead leaves, the ground covered in a thick layer of them. In the dark and from a distance, I can’t make out the colors, but in my mind I picture them as red and gold and blue and yellow and every other color imaginable. Beautiful, fallen leaves, just like Teacher always described them.

As soon as they get beneath the trees, they start working. Keep’s barking orders, pushing them this way and that, shoving one guy—it’s Raja!—against a tree. He bounces off of it like it’s stronger’n stone, goes to one knee, stands back up. Then he does the strangest thing. He hoists his axe over his shoulder, and slams it into the side of the tree with enough force to knock it clean over!

’Cept it doesn’t fall over, doesn’t so much as budge one little bit. It just stands there smiling at him, like they’re having a good ol’ chat. So he chops at it again. And again. And again. I watch in fascination as he keeps it up for a good long while. He stops, moves ’round to the other side, and keeps at it. Meanwhile, all ’round him, the others are doing the same thing. Swinging axes at trees, whacking at them like they got a bone to pick with them, like each tree is their worst enemy.

I’ve gotta get a closer look at this.

Heading east, I make my way toward the border of ice country in a wide arc, staying low to the ground, watching and listening for any signs that they see me. Everyone keeps working. I see the leaves on the ground, covering every last inch. If I step on them they’ll crunch. So I slide my feet slowly along the ground, pushing through them. They make a gentle swishing sound, but it’s too soft to draw anyone’s attention.

When I reach the tree line, I look up. I’ve never felt so small in my life. The tree monster stands over me, rattling his branches and laughing. I could squish you like a bug, he says in between chortles. My thoughts, getting the better of me, as usual.

Tearing my gaze from the tip-tops of the trees, I touch a hand to the bark. It’s rough. Rougher’n chipped and chiseled stone. Not at all like the smooth wood that we use to build our tents and huts.

Although I have the sudden inexplicable urge to stay within the confines of the trees, to walk amongst them, touching them, learning them, I wade back through the leaves and step onto the hard earth, which’ll ensure my feet don’t make any unwanted noises. The cool breeze raises strange bumps on my arms and the back of my neck. I shiver again. I feel weird all over.

Shaking it off, I creep along the trees, careful not to step on any of the twisted and curled leaves that’ve blown off into fire country. Each leaf is my enemy, capable of giving my position away. Step, check for leaves, step, check, step, listen, leaves, step.

I make it within twenty feet of the workers, stop, slide my feet along the ground to avoid crunching any leaves, duck behind a big ol’ tree, clinging to the bark. Peek my head out.

That’s when the first tree dies.

Chapter Eighteen

C RASH!

The tree falls to the ground like thunder, sending tremors through the soles of my moccasins. They killed it. They killed the tree.

CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!

The pure, cool night air is filled with a cacophony of more trees falling, brought low by the axes of the prisoners. Each tree falls perfectly into the desert, as if they prefer to die out in the open, under the gaze of the moon goddess than in the company of their brothers and sisters.

“Good work, tugs!” Keep yells. “One more round and we’re done fer ternight.”

I see Raja standing over a fallen tree, his elbows on his knees, his face aimed at the ground. He’s exhausted. Panting. Chopping down trees is hard work. The others are in similar positions. These’re the lifers. Most of them woulda been in Confinement for quite a while, so they’re ski

“Back ter work!” he roars. I really don’t like him anymore, want nothing more’n to take his bow and shove it up his—

One of the prisoner’s falls. Not Raja, but a guy near him. Just keels right on over, like he ain’t capable of staying on his feet for one second longer.

“Sear it all to scorch!” Keep growls. “We got another diver. Put ’im with ter others.”

Raja lifts his head, looks at Keep. “I really think we should—”

“Yer not ’ere to think,” Keep says. “Put ’im with ter others, or I put a pointer through yer skull.”

Raja just stares at Keep, as if he’s considering the offer, but then stumbles over to the guy on the ground. I see him whisper something to him, and the guy’s eyes flash open for a moment, but then close again. There’s defeat on his face, which is ghostly white under the moonglow. Too tired to fight on. Too tired to chop trees. Too tired to live.

Another prisoner comes over and helps Raja carry him out into the desert. I shrink back, keeping the tree between me and them, unable to tear my gaze away from the prisoner’s body. They carry him to an area littered with broken white-painted branches and round sun-bleached rocks. I hadn’t noticed them ’fore, but now that I see the strange white objects, they look so familiar, as if I’ve seen something like them ’fore. “Drop ’im!” Keep orders.

Facing away from Keep, Raja makes a face, ignores the order, lowers the body gently to the earth amongst the sticks and stones, as if it’s some sort of altar. Touches the man’s face gently. Leaves him there.

Dead under the moonglow.

~~~

The men are chopping again, distracted, and I wa

I’m so close to the working men now that each chop, chop, chop goes straight into my head, as if they’re chopping at me and not the trees. My head starts to hurt.

Keeping my eyes on Keep, who’s walking around shouting “encouragement” to the workers—like “Hurry it up or I’s fixing ter beat the livin’ scorch outta yers!” or “Don’t make me put a pointer through yer brain, tugs!”—I reach the body. Fixing one eye on Keep, I aim my other eye at the white objects.