Fire Country

In a world where there’re so many things that can kill us—sandstorms, wildfires, wild beasts, the Fire—where the Law rules all else, I woulda been forced to reproduce steadily from age sixteen till my family was full. My mom didn’t want that for me. That knowledge keeps me going.

I gotta tell Circ. The words slip into my mind so casually, like they have for ten years. He’s always been the first person I tell anything to. Now that he’s gone, I wish I never had anything to tell. The yearning to be near him grows stronger with each crunch of my feet on the brittle desert landscape. To feel his knees against mine, to see his dimpled smile, to talk with him, laugh with him. Oh, Circ.

Circ, Circ, Circ.

Where are you?

Ages later, when the sun casts a reddish smear on the edge of the horizon, I stop. My heart beats firm and fast, but not wildly. My britches and shirt are soaked through with sweat. I’m breathing heavy and tired, but not out of breath. There’s fight left in me yet.

With the added light, I finally turn to survey the desert to my back. There are black dots in the distance, but they appear to be miles away. Maybe Hunters, maybe something else, like a pack of Cotees, fresh on the blood trail left by my prickler wounds. I can’t stop yet.

Life goes on all ’round me as the desert wakes up. Tiny-nosed burrow mice peek from their holes, snuffling at the wind, darting back inside when I tramp past. Lazy-winged vultures cast shaky shadows across the sand as the sun edges over them. Piles of busy fire ants stream from their anthills, forcing me to zigzag to avoid trampling them under my feet.

I don’t run anymore, but walk in long strides. The sun beats on me, but I don’t mind, as it’s spring, and there are worse things’n sun in spring. After the early spring rains, clumps of scrubgrass and pepperweed poke from the sand, the begi

I eat lunch while I walk. When poking around in my shirt and trouser pockets, I found my mother left more’n just a knife with me. Thick strips of tug jerky and crunchy shards of fresh-cut prickler bits were packed in leather skins. The jerky gives me strength, the pricklers give me fluids. They won’t last long—maybe a day or two—but at least I can focus on getting as far away from the village as possible, rather’n finding food and water.

Water, as it turns out, ain’t a problem. The rains come in the afternoon, and I drink to my fill. With no one ’round, I strip off my shirt and let it catch the rain, and then wring it out into my mouth. Although the prickler moistened my dry tongue and throat, it can’t compare to the downpour. I’m drenched and half-naked and excited and more alive’n I been in a long searin’ time.

The rain’ll cover my tracks, too. The Cotees might be able to stick with me, if that’s what was following me back there, but if it was the Hunters, well, they’ll hafta turn back, no matter how much my father screams and rants and rages.

I’m free. The thought pops into my head and I wonder what it means. Free of what? Of my father, yeah, I s’pose so. Of my duty under the Call to Bear children to a random guy. Yeah, that too. But am I free really? I guess time’ll tell, like it always does.

As I continue on, the rains slow and then stop altogether, but the sky keeps wearing its gray blanket, blotting out any sign of the sun. The break from the heat is much needed.

Darkness falls early, as if the sun goddess has given up the fight against the clouds. As everyone who lives in fire country knows, Mother Nature is a powerful foe. I know I hafta stop sometime, to rest, to gather my wits, to sleep, but the time don’t feel right so I don’t. Into the night I trudge, stopping only when I hear the hair-raising sound of Cotees howling to the south.

I’m dead on my feet, and I wish I’d stopped two thumbs of sun movement ago, when maybe the Cotees were too far to gather my scent. But now I can’t stop, ’cause stopping means they’ll catch me. I veer further west, off course, knowing I can get back on track once danger has passed.

For two awful miles I hear nothing ’cept the sound of my own ragged breathing. Then there’s another howl. Closer. Much closer. Too searin’ close for burnin’ comfort.

I break into a sprint, my muscles aching against me, screaming for mercy, getting ignored by my heart and brain which know full well that this is life or death. Out here all alone against a pack o’ Cotees, I ain’t got a chance.

More howls, different now, not just sounds of interest, but sounds of delight, as they close in on their prey. I can’t outrun them—I’ll hafta fight. My fingers close over the knife handle in my pocket. When to turn? When to fight? I run a little further, delaying the inevitable.

Something jumps out from the sand, grabs me, bites me on the ankle. I fall, my teeth chattering as my chin slams onto the wet ground. It’s got me by the ankle, chomped down so hard I feel like it might tear my foot right off my leg. But what is it? Not a Cotee, that’s for sure. It came from the front, almost out of the sand, like a snake from a hole. But the bite on this thing ain’t no snake.

I twist my body ’round to get a look at my attacker, crying out as the slight motion sends quivers of pain up my leg. I was right, not a Cotee. Not a snake neither. A searin’ trap, set by some baggard Hunter who’s too much of a shanker to go out and work for his food. And now he’s got me in it, clamped between the metal teeth of a well-anchored mouth.

The pain is nothing compared to the fear. The Cotees are so close I can hear the snuffle of their wet breathing and the trod of their padded paws in the durt. By the time the Hunter finds me I’ll be in ten different pieces. Like with Bart, I got no chance. But in honor of my mother, I’ll fight anyway.

The first of the Cotees slinks into sight, not ru

As they circle me my heart hammers in my chest. I’m scareder’n I ever been ’fore.

I could just let them take me, so I can be with Circ. Find my place in the stars. I can’t. I can’t ’cause it’s not what Circ would want.

My hand aches and I realize with a start that I still got the knife, my fingers biting into it so hard they’re hurting. I ease my grip slightly, gritting my teeth at the pain from the trap’s teeth in my leg. I ain’t a fighter. I’m not built for it.

The first Cotee closes in, snaps at me. I swing hard, put everything I got into it, slashing the knife forward like a spear. The Cotee jumps back, which I realize was always the plan, and I miss, my momentum throwing me facefirst into the durt.

In more pain’n I can swallow down, I know my only chance is to get outta the trap. Stuck like this, I’m ’zard stew. I pull as hard as I can, straining against the metal jaws. “Arrr!” I roar when a red hot burst travels through my nervous system. But I manage to stagger to my feet with the clamp still grabbing my ankle. I’m up, but hobbled, and still unable to move outside of the range of the tether that holds me.

I notice the Cotees are shying away a little, perhaps ’cause of my pain-filled yell a few moments ago. They mighta mistook it for a cry of anger, of violence. Maybe that’s what it was. I yell again and they move further away. Once more I release a bellow into the night, but this time they just stare at me. They ain’t fooled anymore and my dry throat is growing hoarse.