Fire Country

I look ’round, get my bearings, and continue southwest like my mother told me to. The day is hot at first, but then, like most spring days, gives way to a burst of rain that stifles much of the heat. Three days pass with periods of both rain and sun, stutter-stepping at the whims of Mother Nature. I eat Cotee meat every night, drink Feve’s tea, get stronger with each passing day.

The fourth day since Feve’s departure—which I s’pose is the fifth or perhaps sixth day since I left the village—I spot it, a change in the endless monotony of the desert. From far away it looks like just a small crack in the earth, perhaps a hidey-hole for a ’zard or snake, but as I approach, it grows bigger’n bigger, until it’s a gaping crevice, wide and deep and winding off into the distance.

Southwest, where the river lies dead like a snake…

There’s no water in the ol’ riverbed, save for a few durty puddles from the spring rains. If it ever was a river, it’s long dead. And as for the snake part, the way it twists and turns proves I’m in the right place. Although it’s winding, there’s no doubt it’s meandering in the same direction as I wa

On and on I follow the Dead Snake River, camping along the edge, hoping that each new day’ll bring me to the next landmark—what was it my mother said? …and the rocks hold hands like lovers.

I picture two rocks that look exactly like Circ and me, rock arms outstretched, rock hands entwined. Were Circ and I lovers? Does a single kiss make lovers? As I plod along I’m blinded by the tears in my eyes, as blurry as a knock to the head. Whatever Circ and I were, it went beyond the simple labels of humans. Lovers, friends, family…

…soul mates.

That’s the only one that feels right when I think it. But Circ’s soul’s gone far away, where I can’t reach it, where maybe I can never reach it. I dry my eyes on my sleeve and keep moving.

~~~

I’m down to the last of my Cotee meat. The herbal tea ran out a coupla days ago but it did its job. Although I’ll have scars from the bites, they’re all healed over with no infection. ’Cause of Feve and his bandages and Medicine Man training. I’d have died twice over if not for him.

I ain’t no Hunter.

The women of the village don’t Hunt. They gather and Bear and look after the Totters and wash bloody, filthy clothes. Not Hunt.

But I gotta get food and more’n just prickler skins which leave me feeling unsatisfied. So I take my knife and my speed and both my left feet into the desert to catch me whatever I can catch—a burrow mouse or ’zard or something. I don’t venture too far from the dried out river though for fear of getting lost.

I ain’t no Hunter.

I know I already said that but after three thumbs of sun movement in the desert I prove it. The ’zards are cleverer’n I ever knew. Here I been thinking they scuttle and scamper ’round aimlessly all day, just waiting for us humans to catch them and skin them. The first one I see is back in its hole the moment I give a fu

The burrow mice are no easier. I find a whole nest of them, but no matter how deep I dig, all I find are more’n more tu

I trudge back to the river emptyhanded.

That evening I eat what’s left of the Cotee with a side of prickler. Wash it down with a shirt squeeze of rainwater when it starts pouring. Sleep, wet and exhausted next to a fire that’s all smoke and wet prickler skins.

~~~

The sun goddess drives Mother Nature and her armies of dark clouds back. By afternoon my clothes are dry, as if they were never soaked through in the first place.

When I get hungry I munch on the tug jerky my mother put in my pockets. Soon I’ll have nothing left but the pricklers growing across my path.

Midafternoon, when the sun is long past its apex and starting to sink on down, the Dead Snake River ends. Just ends, like someone filled in the rest of it with durt and sand, made it look like it was never there at all. The tail of the snake—or is it the head?—seems to point off across a wide expanse of flat land. A sure sign as any, so I follow it.

Just as the world is darkening, I spot them. Statuesque soldiers, set out in perfect little rows, directly in my path. Hundreds of them, weather-beaten and proud and probably relatives of Perry. Pricklers. It’s a field of pricklers. I ain’t never seen anything like it. Most pricklers are loners, wearing their solitude like a badge of honor. Occasionally you’ll find a small group of them huddled together—prickler families we call them—but never more’n four in a patch.

As I enter their ranks, they seem to close in ’round me, watch me, like they’re guarding something. But that’s wooloo talk. They ain’t no more alive’n Perry was. Yeah, that’s right, Perry, you heard me!

Night falls while I’m still amongst the pricklers, and I hafta squint to avoid banging into them—there are that many. Something big’n dark rises up ’fore me, but I can’t see what. It’s not alive, that much is obvious. It’s just something big…and dark. A rocky bluff or black sand dune or something.

I can’t see, so I make camp right there within the merry band of pricklers. I’d like to say I don’t conversate with them, but a few of the prickly buggers knew Perry from way back when, so I can’t help but to do a little reminiscing, tell a few stories and jokes at Perry’s expense.

Sleep takes me.

~~~

I awake to lovers holding hands.

It ain’t like I pictured it, with two well-cut statues that resemble humans walking hand in hand, but the landmark is clear nonetheless. The big, dark form that I could feel looming in front of me last night is really a rock formation. On either side, pillars of rock rise up, one with a broad, pluming base that narrows at the woman’s “waist” ’fore curving back out to give her a nice shape. Her lover’s body is bulky and sharp, all angles and edges—no doubt a man. They’re co

A shout rises up in the distance and suddenly the previously barren desert is teeming with human life. Half a dozen forms charge my way. Double that many run in the opposite direction, directly beneath the arch of the giant lovers, hollering as they go. Raising the alarm.

Even from a distance I can see their half-naked, lean, muscular bodies. Their shaved heads. My eyes might be betraying me, but I think I can see their markings, too, dark and twisting on their skin. The Marked. Not just Feve, who might be one of the few civilized ones, but many of them. Racing toward me, carrying sharp sticks.

Uncivilized. Ca

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Feve wasn’t acting his usual self.

With their shouts loud and frightening behind me, I run.

Through the ranks of the pricklers I run, stumbling once, regaining my footing, clipping the side of a small bulbous prickler that seems to jump out in front of me; sliding face and chest first in the durt, scrambling, scrambling, scrambling to my feet; heart pumping wildly, urging me on; two left feet moving in tandem once more, but conspiring against me in whispers. To someone watching, my flight is surely comedic and laughable, but to me it’s terrifying. These feral men’ll catch me, pin me down, and then what? I don’t wa