Fire Country

Unfortunately, Teacher’s lesson today is much less interesting, all about Laws and duty. Although I hate to admit it, the lashing my father gave me taught me a lesson. Since then I been careful in class. No daydreaming, no problem. I keep my head up, try to focus on what Teacher is saying, and try to ignore the nasty comments directed my way by Hawk and his gang.

The snapper scars’ll be the worst yet. Worse’n the time I thought it’d be fu

I couldn’t see a searin’ thing ’cause I was bent over, tears and pain and hair in my eyes, but I did hear my mother scream a few times for him to stop; and she musta come at him, ’cause I heard him curse and then there was a crash. Sari’s kids were crying and she was trying to comfort them, but compared to me, they had nothing to cry about.

It still hurts to sit down, but I manage.

Circ and I haven’t talked much. I think he feels embarrassed that he got a beating from Hawk, and I don’t really have anything more to say about it all. I thanked him for helping me with the blaze, and for standing up for me, and that was that. I believe our friendship could survive anything.

Life goes on in the village. Late summer gets closer and closer to winter, skipping autumn altogether this year.

There are a lot of lasts this year. The last winter before I’m child-big, my last year of Learning, the last time my father’ll be able to call me a Youngling. One good thing about next spring’s Call: it’ll mean I can move out of my father’s hut. I just wish I knew who I’d be living with.

Teacher Mas is going on and on about the history of the human race. Don’t get me wrong, some of it’s interesting stuff, like how people used to live in these big cities, with tall metal structures where everybody went to work, kind of like the Glassies, I guess, ’cept it was all people, not just one group. I’m not in the mood for it today.

I find myself sca

I always get scared for him ’fore a Hunt. The last Hunt of the season is in three days’ time, and already I feel a little jittery, like I’ve got fire ants in my dress or something. In three quarters of a full moon’s time the tug hurds’ll migrate elsewhere, beyond our reach, off to mate and find food for their new calves. Even Younglings are eligible to participate in the Hunt, if they pass the test, that is. Of course, good-at-everything Circ had to go and pass the skills test the moment he turned twelve, and he’s been going with the Hunters ever since. So far he’s been lucky, coming back with nothing worse’n a bruised foot from being trod on or a gash from a tug horn. But I’ve seen men—skilled, capable men—return home with half their head caved in, or missing a limb, or worse.

It would be dangerous enough if the Hunters had only the tugs to contend with. The problem with tugs though, is that they’re so full of hunger-satisfying meat that they draw all kinds of attention from predators that are much nastier’n the Hunters.

So, as usual, I’m nervous for Circ, and for myself, too, I guess.

Circ looks back at Teacher, but I keep looking at him, and for just a second, I allow myself a brief daydream, a much needed respite from the real world I live in. What if, in a different world, in a different time, he was my Call? He’s the only one under the watchful eye of the sun goddess who really knows me. Would all my problems go away? Would I be just Siena, not Youngling or Scrawny or Tent-Pole? As I gaze at the face of the only person who seems to know exactly what I need and when I need it, I can almost picture what it’d be like. I mean, forget about all the stuff about going to bed with him—he’s my friend and I’m no shilt, so I’d rather not think about that—but the rest’d be amazing, right? Waking up and making breakfast with him; playing games with our children; spending the day together, at least when he doesn’t hafta go off for another Hunt. A beautiful dream, but then, of course, there’d be another Call, another wife, Call-Children. I know, I know, that’s just the way it is, but it’d still suck having to share him.

Like my mother’s always had to do with my father. Although nowadays I don’t think she has any problem sharing, considering how hard he’s become, I hated watching before, when she used to laugh, laugh, laugh at things he’d say. And then he’d go off to bed with one of his other Calls and I could see the hurt in my mother’s eyes. I hurt for her, wish there was another way.

Breeders.

The word pops into my head like a burrow mouse from its hole. Lara’s word, not mine. But it’s true, ain’t it? Naw, I can’t think like that—not when it’s only months ’fore my Call.

Something thuds against my shin. I cringe and almost hiss out Ouch! ’fore I catch myself and remember where I am. I glance at Circ, who’s shaking his head. He’s the one who kicked me. I don’t know how much time has passed while I was lost in my thoughts, but all t’other Younglings are standing up and leaving our open air Learning hut.

“Try to focus, Siena,” Circ says. “I know it’s hard, but I don’t think either of us wants Blaze Craze again, nor face the wrath of our fathers.” By the wrath of our fathers he means the wrath of my father. He got away with a warning and a secret pat on the back for standing up to three Younglings at the same time, while I got the beating of my life.

I realize Circ’s asked me a question, but I didn’t hear it, just see his face full of expectation. “Huh?” I say.

“Are you daydreaming about daydreaming now?” he says.

“Was that the original question or a new one?” I ask, trying to keep a straight face but failing miserably.

Circ laughs and it’s like we’re not Younglings on the verge of major changes in our lives. We’re new Younglings again, or maybe Midders, with not a care in the world. Life is fun and I ain’t scared of my father and the future holds more possibilities’n living with strangers, a flock of children in tow.

“It was a new question. I asked what you were thinking about when I snapped you out of it,” he says.

“Ugh. Don’t say that word. Just hearing it makes my flesh hurt,” I say, reaching a hand over my shoulder to gingerly touch my back. Even through the dress my skin feels raw, like someone’s rubbed it with sand, or maybe rope.

“It’s not right the way he beats on you,” he says.

“Like you’ve never been snapped,” I say.

“Not like you,” he says, shaking his head. “A few snaps to the wrist and Father’s done. He says it hurts him worse than it hurts us, and I believe him, too. But your father…” He trails off, looking away.