Heartfelt Sounds (9 page)
For me?
For me it would be hard—he'd kill me!
But isn't that what you want, Naia? Deep, deep down…
…you either want to die or kill them—isn't that true?
The first man begins moving down his rank, tapping men at random. They step from the line, and the second man does the same—but he's yelling. His voice is stark and hard—gray yet brittle. It rakes at my ears like the screech of a poorly tuned zither and I tense. My shoulders rise to my ears.
He comes closer—
screaming.
I notice the men he chooses are frail. That the men both soldiers choose are tiny, feminine—like children.
Like me.
“They're weeding out the weak.” Blue eyes whispers near me. “Priming for the march ahead.”
“Where do the weak go? What do they do with them?” My voice is hurried—panicked.
I feel the man rise his shoulders. He lowers them. Shrugs.
I hear hard footsteps in the grass. Blades
crunch.
“You!”
He comes nearer now—shoving people out. Pulling them to stare into their faces only to push them back into line.
For the march ahead.
A hard hand grips my shoulder.
Blue eyes tenses near me.
We both hold our breath.
As I look into the face of a grizzled old man—tanned. Eyes cut into thick skin that's like cardboard.
Hard, dark, eyes.
…evil eyes.
They widen in recognition—only to curve. Their corners crinkling.
His smile is crooked. Fleeting. All black teeth.
He shoves me out of line.
And onto the ground.
The man Akane stabbed—the old man who tried to capture me…
How is he alive?!
The man leans over me—inches from my face. “You're lucky I care about what meat joins my infantry,
girl.”
the last word is hissed—barely above a whisper. “If you knew who was talking to you—you'd get
up.”
But I make no move to stand. The ground is so nice. So warm.
He snorts—spits. The wad landing squarely on me. I blanch as it hits my face.
Splat—
right in between my eyes.
“Get up,
runt.”
the words are orders—barked harshly at me. I hear men turn in the grass—staring. “Get
up.”
And I scramble onto my knees, I plant my hands beneath my shoulders.
Just as he slides my hands out from under me, the toe of his boot swift. Unmerciful. My jaw slams into the frozen ground—a tooth cracks. My face washes with heat before the pain comes—and it's like a thunderclap in my head. Deafening.
“You were too slow.”
And he moves on. Going down the line. Pulling men out. Leaving them to stay.
I am the only one who can right myself. Who can wipe the phlegm from my face and stand—even though my jaw aches horribly. A lump forms in my throat—choking me. Forcing more tears that burn my chapped skin. But I make myself stand like the others—beaten, embarrassed and defeated.
I want to run.
I want to turn around and go back—start my life over—beg Althea not to let me go.
But the river at my back is brutal. The wind is calling—calling me back to this world. Ordering me to say.
Is this what the Fates have willed for me?
When the clouds above slightly part, the sleet stops. A beam of gold emerges from a sliver of clouds, and the men who earned the chance to stay in the ranks march up the dirt road towards the castle and pause—kicking up a cloud of dust. Moments later they keep going, a man barking cadence. A tuneless sound that's horrid. An insult to the call of the wind.
I look around. There's a handful of us. Maybe fifty or sixty. We weren't worth their time—their training.
Is this my chance to run?
Down the hill comes a single man, purple silks glinting in the single beam of sunlight that pours over the plains. He wears a round cap upon his head, a long feather prowling from it. Bouncing as he glides down the hill. Marking his steps.
He claps his hands loudly when he's close. Hailing us with a sound.
The men run. Sprinting to the man in purple—forming a column of twos. I am last to the formation—closing up the rear. Beside me is a boy who couldn't be more than twelve. His face is red—resembling a ripe peach. He's been crying too—missing his family. Missing what he had back in Felicity.
I'm not alone here.
When the man moves down the column, taking his point at the center of the first line, the men move clockwise towards him. I'm slow to the movement, and his hawk-like eyes flit to me.
He reminds me of a bird. A falcon, maybe. Brown eyes are sharp though his face gives away his age—all folding patches of skin and deep wrinkles. He is hairless and small, his robes swallowing him as she clasps his hands in deep purple sleeves that almost trail upon the ground.
When he approaches me, we are level with each other. I stare into brown eyes that narrow until I bow my head, moving my gaze away. I feel a hand press onto my head—pushing me down, pressing on me. A strong hand despite the elder's size, and I move to the ground—stiffly. He continues to press, forcing my forehead to the grass.
He moves down the line, continuing this. But others get the hint quicker than I have—almost falling to the grass. Begging the elder's pardon. When the old man comes to the boy behind me, the little man growls as he's pressed down. He doesn't allow the man to force him to the grass—he fights it bravely and I steal a glance behind me as I move my head sideways in the grass. I crane my neck behind me and see a grim look of fierce determination on the little boy's ruddy face as the elder presses on him. As he begins to pound on his head with a wiry little fist.
“I will not bow for him.” the boy whispers. “I will never bow for the Dawnlord.”
“Then you will
die.”
“I am a
drudge!”
and the peach faced boy knees the elder in his stomach, forcing the man to the ground with a thump. “We are
drudges!”
the little boy shrieks.
But no one makes a move to stand up from their positions on the ground. No one makes a sound.
The old man pushes himself up from the ground—propelling himself from the dead grass.
“Who here defies our Lord? Who here claims to be a slave? A drudge?”
Silence. The boy breathes heavily. I move my gaze back into the grass. Hiding.
“Who here claims to be a free man? Stand.”
And we shoot to standing, cracking stiff knees. Staring into nothing as we clench our fists and jaws.
My heart climbs into my throat.
“Then do something about this
drudge.”
The columns break off. We surround the little boy as the elder backs away, standing behind us. Watching with careful eyes.
As the men force the little boy up into the air.
As I help.
I bite back bile. My heart thumps—but I don't hear it.
A little voice tells me—
stop.
What are you doing?
Why?
Mindless. I am mindless like a bee to the call of its hive and we carry the boy on a palanquin of human flesh—hands cradle him. Lift him up so he won't have to touch the dead grass below. We move him to his final destination:
The thrashing tide of the river behind us.
It's just a couple of steps away—but it feels like a mile. Like an eternity.
And he's fighting up there—biting hands that feel no pain because we all have gone numb. We've blocked this out—willing ourselves to not let this stain our memories.
Why?
Why do this?
Because if I turn against these people—I'll have no one.
And I'll end up just like this boy. Fighting—thrashing. Edging towards this river.
Because I am a coward.
Because I should have died in that room.
We dump him into the river and ignore the screams.
The day breaks. Rays of sunlight falling upon us like so many drops of gleaming rain.
I force the dead boy from my mind—and the death, the constant
death—
I have had enough of it.
I have had enough of death.
Behind us, the elder claps for our attention with flowing sleeves. Nods as we approach him. “And one final matter of business.” he mumbles under his breath, moving his hands in small circles as he rushes us back into our columns.
“Follow the helper.” he says, ducking his head from side to side as he comes to stand in the front of our two columns, centering himself in the middle. “Follow the helper.” The long feather upon his cap bobs wistfully.
He moves quickly and I struggle to keep up with the rest of the men as he leads us towards the stalwart castle on the horizon. Stacked pagoda roofs gleam in the downpour of sun, and as we near the front of the castle—the large dragon of gold glaring at us with fiery ruby eyes—he takes a sharp left and leads us around to the back. We step upon a courtyard of white stone. A blue lake squat in the center, the water glittering in the sunlight—it's surface unchanged as we move around it. Peaceful.
Behind the courtyard is a forest of great, bowing, willows. Their deep brown branches bare and naked. Raw as their crinkled arms wave in the wind. Bowing to the winter. Giving themselves over to what may come with the spring. The grass creeping at their branches is like hay. Sparse and brittle.
I think to behave like them—to bow with the changing winds of life. Not against it.
But my mind flits to Shanti—her wild eyes. Akane's far away look as she rammed her heel into Chima's skull—again and again and
again.
Chima…she died with hate on her heart.
She died…hating me.
I swallow my tears—but my eyes have dried. I have no more sorrow to give. I am empty.
Empty—like these dead trees of winter.
Yet, warm with the heat of my hate.
We come to a halt before a round shack, a large hole cut into its dome roof belches curling smoke that fades white. Only to deepen into black when a fire inside crackles with intense heat that explodes from the slightly cracked door.
The elder places himself between us and the door. Clasps his hands before his chest. “The Fates must witness your oaths to the Dawnlord before any of you may go any further.” His wiry hands spring open. He does not smile. “This is your moment of truth, men.
This
will be your only exit. Once this ritual is done, you will be sworn to the Cause of Order. Who here still believes themselves to be a drudge?”
Tension covers us like a thick blanket. From the back of the column, I watch the elder's sharp eyes read every one of us. Kneading us out like dough. Peering into our pasts. Seeing what we've been forced to leave behind. My jaw tenses as I wring my hands at my sides and stare into those brown eyes. I want to see nothing—to see no hint of humanity or kindness.
But in him, I see he has a home. A family. Someone he loves, who loves him enough to bestow upon him a glint of kindness. There's a hint of softness in those sharp brown eyes.
And I sigh—I hang my head for a moment.
As the elder claps. Nods, the feather upon his cap agreeing with him.
In an instant, he appears beside me. Grabs my shoulder. “Lead them there.” he tells me, pointing towards the door. “You'll be his helper.”
Gently, he pushes me and I move—lurching forward before slowing myself. Before attempting to walk with a confidence I do not have. A ragged wooden door shrieks upon its hinges when I step into the shack and onto the rough stones of the gray floor. I bring my eyes to my boots. I stop in the doorway.
“Come, then.”
A low voice. A murmur.
I raise my head and stare at the entrails of a smoking forge.
It is spacious for its size, though somewhat empty. To the left lies a long wooden table topped with finished blades. A large tub of smoking water sits at the round shack's heart, as off to the right sits a giant of a man on a tiny wooden stool, a smaller ewer of water about an arms distance away from him. The ewer squeals and smokes, a metal handle jutting out from its side. With a grunt, the large man yanks the handle from the ewer. Something red hot follows, an emblem attached to the metal handle. Angry smoke rises from its circular face as it glows.
The man approaches me. Turns the emblem away as he points at me with the handle. “Are you my helper?”
A square face—a hard jaw that's slightly crooked. The bridge of his nose attempts to jump from his face, but is held back by a sour line of black stitches. Black hair is pulled tightly back. His forehead is enormous. Brown eyes are small, but kind.
For a moment, I am slack jawed—unsure of everything. Uncertain of where I am—lost and sad and
cold.
“Yes.” I murmur.
“Then take this to the coals. Call the first boy in before you close the door.”
And I take the metal handle in my hand. I blink—once, twice. I turn around and look outside—frightened faces meet mine. Yet, they are dulled. Dulled by the deaths and the cold. This march we've gone on—it has hardened them.
I look at a young man to my right. With my arm, I beckon him. “Come on!” I swallow.
He looks to his right and left—frightened opal eyes falling to the others. Gently, they urge him towards the shack. I hold the door open long enough for him to trudge in before I approach the smaller ewer, looking for the coals the man spoke of.
“The back, child. Go to the back.” he calls from his position near the table.
I follow his directions, moving towards the back of the shack with this heavy contraption all but dragging on the wood of the floor. Behind the large vat of water at the shack's center—a couple of strides away—sits a large container of quietly sizzling coals.
“Put it in there.”
And suddenly, the man sits at his ewer, looking over his tan shoulder at me. The boy I called in from earlier cowering near him.
“Go on, before this boy pisses himself.”
I place the lower, circular, end into the coals and listen to them spit. Up above, a small hole has been cut into the dome above and smoke quietly lifts towards the dome's smaller hole. Escaping into the air outside. When the butt of the handle turns an angry red, I heft it towards the big man. Attempt to give him the thing's handle without burning myself.