Текст книги "Fire Country"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Chapter Five

In Learning they told us about a time when men and women were gods and goddesses, and lived until they were sixty, seventy, even eighty. Some of the kids even said their parents told them people used to live until they were ninety or, in rare cases, a hundred, which I think is a bunch of tugblaze. I draw the line at a hundred.

But that was all before the rogue god, Meteor, attacked us. Going against the sun and moon goddess, Meteor snuck by and gave the earth a real beating, fists and feet and head swirling, knocking over mountains and drying up rivers and wiping out most of the tribes. When Teacher told the story, we were riveted to our seats. It was the first time he had all our attention at once. When he got to the part about how the first Heater crawled out of their hiding spots, in caves and deep pits, we cheered and clapped our hands. They were survivors, just like us. We don’t know where the Icers came from, but they musta survived Meteor, too.

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 funny to dump a bunch of sand lice under my sister’s pillow. My mother spent three days scrubbing them all out of Skye’s hair. Father wasn’t too happy and gave me what I thought would be the beating of my life. Skye even said she’d never speak to me again, but a quarter full moon later we were best friends again. Until she snuck a handful of dead eight-leggers into my tugtail soup one night. I didn’t even realize it until I crunched one in my mouth. Blech! She got a pretty bad whooping for her little revenge prank, too, but even that one was nothing compared to what my father gave me t’other day. I screamed like a banshee as he snapped the leather again and again, across my back, my legs, even my buttocks. He was whipping it so hard I could hear him grunting with exertion. It’s times like that I wish I had just a bit more meat on my bones for padding. Or maybe some muscle—that woulda helped. Instead, each blow went straight to my bones, penetrating so deep I thought he’d cut me wide open.

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 scanning the room, seeing who else is bored. Everyone seems interested, ’cept for Hawk and his mates, who are passing something under their legs—I can’t see what. Finally, my eyes settle on Circ. As though he feels my eyes on him, he turns at that moment and smiles. I can’t help but smile back. If I didn’t have him as a friend, I don’t know what I’d do.

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.

“He likes it as much as I hate it?” I offer.

“Something like that,” Circ says.

“Don’t worry about it. I can handle him. And saying something to someone’ll just make it worse.”

Circ looks at me for a long moment, then changes the subject. “Honestly, though, you did look like you had gone far, far away. You were smiling at first, but then frowning.”

I scowl at him. “Must you read my expressions when I’m daydreaming?” I say.

“I must,” Circ says, laughing again. “But you’re dodging the question. What were you thinking about?”

There’s heat on my cheeks. “I was just…” My mind races to come up with something. But I don’t lie to Circ—never have, never will—and my mind knows it, so it just goes blank.

“Were just what?” he persists. I wish he’d drop it, but that’s not the way our friendship works.

I look around. We’re alone now—everyone’s left, even Teacher Mas. “I was thinking what it’d be like if you were my Call.” Dropping my head, I study my feet, noticing how small they look from up here.

“That’s not—”

“Hey, Siena!” a voice shouts from the entrance. I turn to see Lara poking her head in. Across the room and out of the glare of the afternoon sun, she really looks like a boy.

“What?” I say, glancing at Circ, who looks surprised that someone else is talking to me.

“Have you thought about what I said to you the other day?” Lara says.

I wince, not because I haven’t, but because I have.

“I’ll see you at the game,” I say to Circ. To Lara, I say, “Walk with me.”

~~~

I avoid her question all the way to the feetball match. She prods and pokes and rephrases it a dozen different ways, but I just keep changing the subject. At the game, I’m doing the same, studying the match like it’s a strange ten-legged insect with a red tail.

Feetball. Yet another activity I’ve never been good at. Trying to run around while simultaneously kicking and throwing and catching a ball? Well, let’s just say it’s about three too many things for my two left feet to handle at once. Not to mention the hordes of defenders trying to do everything in their power to grind you into the unforgiving desert floor. Yeah, violent sports and me don’t mix. Scorch, any sport and me don’t mix.

I played when I had to as part of the physical activity required during Learning, but never for fun. Thankfully, as a fifteen-year-old female Youngling—also known as a pre-Bearer—I’m exempt from any physical activity that might prevent me from having children in the near future. Which means I get to watch Circ play, which is like watching Greynote Giza paint one of his famous paintings: fluid and natural and graceful. The score is tied and it’s already in extra time, which means the next goal’ll be the decider.

I’m sitting next to Lara, ’cause, well, ’cause I don’t really have many friends at the moment. I don’t know if she’s my friend exactly, but at least she’s not an enemy, and she’s never called me any of the not-so-flattering nicknames that I’m used to. So she’s okay in my book. Although she is starting to freak me out with all of her cryptic messages.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” she says, asking for the fourteenth time since the match started.

Circ takes a pass off his left foot and quickly darts past a defender who tries, and fails, to grab him. His movements are faster’n the lightning we get during the winter storms, but not nearly as shocking. So far he’s doing nothing I haven’t seen him do ’fore. He has three goals and a dozen steals, far more’n any other player.

“I’m trying to watch—”

“Oh, come on. I could see in your eyes that you were intrigued by what I said. That a life of breeding and childrearing and waiting on your Call hand and foot doesn’t exactly excite you.”

“Shhh, keep it down,” I hiss, glaring at her. She might not hate me like most of t’other Younglings, but if she keeps talking like this, using that dirty word—breeding, shh!—she is gonna get me in trouble. Again. I’m pretty sure my father’s threat to chuck me in Confinement is a load of tugwash, but I’m not itching to test him. Especially not so soon after the last time.

“Sorry,” she whispers, rolling her eyes.

“Look,” I say, as I watch Circ dodge another defender by flicking the ball in the air with his feet, running around them, and then catching it in one hand. “Even if I agreed with you, about the…”

(breeding, shh!)

“…about everything, there’s nothing we can do about it. The Call is all there is for us. Without it the older generations would die off faster’n the new ones could be created. Without it we wouldn’t exist.”

“I thought you were different,” Lara says, a hint of disappointment in her tone. “You sound just like a Teacher. Or worse, a Greynote.”

I grit my teeth. Circ throws the ball over the head of an opponent to one of his teammates, who grabs it and throws it back to him. He catches it in midstride, now streaking down the field faster’n a Cotee, rolls it deftly out in front of his feet and then rips a booming shot at the corner of the rope net. I hold my breath for a second, watching the potential winning shot careen just past the outstretched hands of the opposing net guard. I start to stand and raise my hands in celebration, but the ball glances hard off the edge of the wooden netpost and over the boundary line. “No goal!” the judge yells, waving his arms around like he’s swatting at sand flies.

Blaze. That was so close, but now t’other team has the ball.

“All I’m asking is that you think about it,” Lara says.

I already have. But she doesn’t know that.

While one of the players chases Circ’s errant shot, I study Lara. Her eyes are light brown and flecked with green bits. Really pretty, actually. I’ve never really looked at her. I mean, I’ve gawked at her a few times, wondering what she was thinking with her short hair and absence of femininity. Oh and when she started wearing guy’s britches to school I almost keeled over with shock. But now, for the first time, I’m really seeing her. Not the masculine girl who doesn’t seem to fit in anywhere, but Lara, the person, the individual. To my surprise, her face is really pretty. It’s like it was hidden somewhere, like she was wearing a mask, and at just this moment she peeled it away. But that’s not it at all. She hasn’t changed one smidge. It’s me that’s changed. I’m giving her a chance, whereas ’fore I wrote her off as some weirdo. I did to her what everyone else does to me.

I look away, unable to bear my own ignorance. I’m as bad as t’others. But I can make up for it now. I can take her seriously, really think about what she’s saying to me, which is all she’s asking for.

Her words flash back with a vividness that startles me.

It doesn’t have to be like this.

Like what?

Crying because you don’t think you’re pretty, shoveling other people’s blaze, being forced to breed when you turn sixteen. The Call. All of it can be avoided.

It’s dangerous talk. I’ve heard ’bout girls who didn’t agree with the Call, and they all disappeared. Maybe taken by the Wild Ones, maybe taken by the Greynotes to be punished forever for breaking the Law.

The ball is back in play, and the opposing team moves swiftly up the field, zipping around like angry bees. Two of them get a good rhythm going: pass, pass back, return. No one can seem to stop them until Circ comes a-flying in and bashes into one just as he releases the ball. Circ lands on top of him in a heap, but now the ball is past him. There’s another bone-jarring tackle, this time by one of Circ’s teammates, but again, it’s too late as the ball’s already been launched elsewhere on the field.

The Call. All of it can be avoided.

Breeding.

But why? Why avoid the Call? What’s there to gain from it? If enough new Bearers decide to skip out on the Call, then our people’ll just die out faster. The very idea is madness! And it’s not even possible anyway. The only way to get out of it is to die, which I’m sort of trying to avoid, or get kidnapped by the Wild Ones, which doesn’t sound particularly appealing either. And it’s not like I can put in a request:

“Dear Wild Ones, on the fiftteenth of March I’ll turn sixteen, and half a full moon later, will be forced to take place in the Call. If at all possible, I’d appreciate an abduction sometime ’fore then, if you’re not too busy, that is. Your friend, Siena (aka Scrawny).”

Yeah, I’m sure that’ll fly.

I remember when they took my sister. She’d just turned sixteen. It was the night of her Call. Unlike me, she was so excited. “I’m becoming a woman!” she squealed as I helped her put on her nicest dress. She really did look beautiful, older’n she’d looked only a few days earlier—transformed. I could tell she was nervous ’cause she was babbling on and on, but who ain’t nervous for their Call? My father’d already left, so we were walking, my mother, Skye and me, toward the village center, where everyone was gathering. Although it was as hot as scorch, it was a perfect summer night, with every servant of the moon goddess out to watch the event. And the moon goddess herself was full and beautiful, an orange beacon contrasting the dark night sky. That’s when it happened. Skye stopped suddenly, said she needed to take a few deep breaths to prepare herself for what was coming. ’Fore my mother or I knew what was happening, she ducked behind a tent. My mother told me to wait and she went after her. That was the last time I ever saw my sister. The Greynotes investigated, found no signs of a struggle, declared her a runaway and a Lawbreaker, said if she was ever caught she’d be forced to bear her first child while in Confinement. There was talk about the Wild Ones, as there was every time another girl went missing, but even that fizzled out after a full moon or two. After all, no one had any proof they even existed.

I realize everyone’s standing ’cept me and Lara.

She’s looking at me with an eyebrow raised and her head cocked to the side. It’s the type of look I tend to get when I been daydreaming. “What’d I miss?” I ask.

“Circ’s team lost,” she says. “But I think the better question is: What did I miss?”

I’m afraid to tell her, ’cause I know now that somehow, some way, she’s connected outside of the village. And that scares me more’n anything.

Chapter Six

“Please be careful,” I say. We’re in one of our favorite spots, what we call the Mouth, a pair of sand dunes so large that if you look at their profile from a distance they look like a giant pair of lips. They’re far enough away from the village that if we sit with our backs on one of the slopes, no one can see us until they’re practically right on top of us. Even then it’d be difficult, ’cause we always burrow a little hole to get a bit of shade. Our shoulders and knees are touching like they always do.

“Don’t be such a worrier,” Circ says, dropping an arm around my shoulder. I lean into him, feeling a twinge of I-don’t-know-what hammering in my chest. He’s staring off into nothingness, and I take a moment to study his face. It’s a face I don’t need to study, ’cause I have every aspect of it memorized. From his sun-chapped lips to the slight cleft in his chin that you can only see from certain angles, to the way his nose casts a shadow in the shape of a ghost on his cheeks, I could draw his face while sleepwalking. I even know the exact depth of the two dimples that burrow so symmetrically in each cheek, regardless of whether he’s happy, sad, or something in between. When we were just Totters and first met, I asked him why he had holes in his cheeks. I remember his response as if it were yesterday: “Mama says they’re not holes, they’re star craters, and they’re magic.” Ever since that day I still believe there’s some magic in those dimples of his—perhaps they’re the source of his being so searin’ good at everything.

“I’ll be watching,” I add, as if that’ll scare him into being more careful. Regardless, I’m glad the final Hunt of the season falls on a non-Learning day, so I’ll get to watch.

I’ve watched a few Hunts ’fore, and to be honest, the thought of seeing the men shooting pointers and throwing spears into the broad side of a bunch of rampaging beasts curdles my stomach; but the thought of sitting at home worrying about whether Circ’ll make it back okay is even worse, so I’m going.

“I’ll look for you,” Circ says, grinning. “I’ll kill my first tug of the day for you.”

“How romantic,” I say, playing with my bracelet. It’s a leather strap, given to me by my parents when I became a Youngling. All Younglings get one. Fastened to it are seven charms, one for me and one for each member of my living family. For me there’s a tree, signifying my duty as a Bearer when I turn sixteen, to grow my family. My father’s represented by bull horns, for strength and providing for his family, although I think it also means he can be a bit bullheaded sometimes. Okay, a lot bullheaded and all the time. My mother’s got the sun goddess’s eye, the sun, to watch over me. My sister, Skye, is a flame, burning brightly as a beacon for me to follow. Kind of hard to follow her when I don’t know where she is or if she’s even alive. My father’s encouraged me to bury her charm now that she’s gone, but I just can’t. Not yet. Maybe never. For my Call-Mother, Sari, there’s a flower for her beauty. My Call-Siblings, Rafi and Fauna, are a footprint and a raindrop, for a road long travelled and new beginnings. I used to have four others, three for my other Call-Family, but when they died, we all buried our charms together, freeing their spirits to the gods. The fourth missing charm is for my other real sister, Jade. She died when she was only seven, taken by a rampaging summer fire. I never saw her body, ’cause the fire was so hot it took every last part of her. ’Cept her soul, which I know is dancing in the land of the gods. When she died, it was the only time I saw my father cry.

I’m not sure how long I been playing with my charms, but when I look up, Circ’s holding back a laugh. “Did you just make a joke and then space out on me?” he says, smirking.

“I dunno. Was it funny?” I ask. “The joke, I mean.”

He laughs, grabs me under the arms, and lifts me to my feet. “I’ve got to get ready,” he says.

“Me, too,” I say, punching him lightly on the arm.

“Hey, watch it! I bruise easily,” he says, a twinkle in his eye.

I narrow my eyes. “No you don’t.”

“Oh, right. That’s you I was thinking of.” I reach out to punch him again, but he dances away, and my fist wags awkwardly in the air.

“Oh no you don’t!” I scream, giving chase.

It’s a full two miles to the village and I’m determined to catch him by then. The one thing I’m good at is running, unless of course something gets in the way of my two left feet, in which case I’ll probably end up with a mouth full of sand.

He’s already at the top of the dune, his head slipping out of sight. I charge after him, stumbling once when I step in a hole, probably left by a burrow mouse, or some other digging critter, but regain my balance and make it to the top.

He’s standing just over the crest, watching me. “Good luck,” he says, whooping once and racing off toward the village.

I’m after him a split-second later, my legs full of the energy of a day off from Learning, a morning spent with Circ when I was meant to be replenishing our trough from the watering hole, and the anticipation of the afternoon Hunt. Circ’s fast—really, really fast—’specially over short distances, but things are much closer the farther we go. Plus, he loves taunting me, letting me get close and then cutting away, almost like he’s avoiding a defender on the feetball field. All the time he’s laughing, egging me on, trying to get under my skin. But his cries of “Come on, Sie, my grandmother could run faster than you and she’s been dead for fourteen years!” or “I think a sand slug just passed you, Sie, how embarrassing!” fall on deaf ears, as I grit my teeth and stay focused. Left foot, left foot. Left foot, left foot. Laughing at my own thoughts, I lose concentration for a moment and miss a rock that’s suddenly under my foot, breaking away beneath my tread, rolling my ankle to the outside.

I cry out and go down, wishing the layer of sand were as thick as back at the dunes. Instead, it’s like falling on bare rock. My outstretched hands do little to break my fall and probably just make things worse, ’cause they crumple beneath me, roaring with pain. I skid a few feet, my exposed skin scraping against the desert with the force of a winter wind.

I hear a yell from the side, from Circ, but I don’t respond, just lay there panting, internally cursing my silly sense of humor, my lack of coordination, and that burnin’ rock—who put that there anyway?—that all conspired together to trip me up. My shoulder’s coursing with heat and I see the hot red outline of blood seeping through my brown dress. The ankle I turned is throbbing and squeezing against my moccasins. And my wrists, well, they’re the worst—at least one of them is. My left hand is bent unnaturally, my wrist pulsating with a dizzying level of pain; it almost feels like the king of the tugs is stepping on it over and over again.

“Sie!” Circ yells, right next to me now. “Are you…Oh blaze!”

“I think it’s broken,” I say, trying to move my wrist. “Holy sun goddess, searin’, good for nothin’, piece of…” As agony wracks my arm, I let out one of the longest string of obscenities of my life.

“Don’t move it,” Circ says, positioning his body behind mine so I can lean on him. “What hurts besides your wrist?”

“Everything,” I moan, gasping as a wave of nausea-inducing pain shivers through my body.

“We’re less than a mile from the village,” he says. “I’ll go get help.”

He starts to get up, but I yell, “No! Don’t leave me here. Please.” I’m being a baby, I know, but the thought of lying in the middle of the desert—okay, not the middle, middle, but searin’ far out—alone, with vultures buzzing around me, waiting for me to die…

Anyway, Circ gets this look of determination on his face where his eyes are like glass, reflecting the rays of the sun in splinters and shards, his jaw sticks out and gets all tight, and his lips push together. I’ve seen this look many times. It means: I’ll win, I cannot be defeated, I am stronger’n faster and more capable’n any other human on the face of the earth. It’s always kind of scared me and excited me at the same time.

With a tenderness that surprises me, he scoops me up in his arms and takes off toward the village. I close my eyes ’cause the bump, bump, bump of each of Circ’s galloping strides sends eruptions through my wrist and arm. By tucking it against my side like a broken wing, I’m able to reduce the shockwaves rolling through it. I concentrate on my breathing, slow and deep, and that keeps my mind off of the pain for a while. The wind’s whipping through my hair, so I know Circ’s going fast, which, regardless of how little I weigh, is really amazing given he’s carrying me in his arms.

Just when my focus on breathing wanes, and the agony of my shattered wrist comes back like a Killer drawn to the fresh scent of blood, Circ begins to slow.

“What’s going on?” I hear a voice say. It’s his brother, Stix, three years younger’n us, a fresh Youngling.

“Get the Medicine Man!” Circ manages to yell between ragged breaths.

“But the Hunt…”

“Just do it!”

My stomach drops and a fresh wave of nausea rolls through me as he lowers me onto something soft. A bed. When I open my eyes I see Circ’s concerned face, his eyes wrinkled at the corners the same way they looked when I burned my hand in the fire when we were only six. Funny how his face has changed so much over the years, losing his baby fat and tiny teeth, but is still the same Circ I’ve always known.

“Circ,” I say, just a whisper.

“Don’t speak,” he says. “Help will be here soon.”

“But the Hunt…” I say, echoing Stix’s words.

“I don’t care about—”

“They need you, Circ,” I say, clenching my jaw as needles stab me in the wrist. Taking a deep breath, I start over. “They need you for the Hunt. Thank you for everything. You’ve done all you can do for me—the Medicine Man’ll take care of the rest. Get ready for the Hunt and make me proud.”

In a rare display of uncertainty, Circ stands up, sits back down, stands again, starts to walk away, and then turns back. “Are you sure?” he asks.

“Sure as a searin’ Cotee is of tracking a six-day-old scent through a sandstorm,” I say, trying to prove to Circ that I’m okay.

He looks at me like I’ve gone all wooloo on him, but ends up smiling in the end. “I’ll see you as soon as it’s over. Take care of yourself.”

“Be safe,” I say.

He grabs my hand—the good one—squeezes for a nice, warm moment, and then spins and is gone, disappearing behind the tent flap.

~~~

As usual, there’s steam coming out of my father’s ears. I’d try to run away, but it’s kind of hard when the Medicine Man is wrapping your broken arm in something brown and tight. Sear my brittle-thin bones! There’s no way a simple fall like that woulda broken a normal person’s wrist.

“Of all the mousebrained things to do…”

“I’m sorry, Father. We were just knockin’ around,” I try to explain, cringing when MedMa jerks my arm.

That gets Father’s attention and he stops stomping around, his face turning redder’n the noonday sky. Even the Medicine Man stops working on me and looks up. “Watch your mouth, Youngling. I don’t care what kind of slang the children use these days, but I will not have my daughter speak to me like that.”