Red Moon Rising (6 page)

11

IT IS A HAT, LYING
upside down on a floor coated with inches of dust. Light flashes in from the windows and confirms my terror.

It is not just a hat. It is Temple's hat. It is torn. It is bloody. There is long blond hair stuck to part of it like a grotesque horsetail. Temple's hat. Temple's hair.

Temple's blood.

I lean over and heave my meager lunch of biscuits all over Fist's feet. Then, with no mind to what I'm doing, I strike him. A fist for a Fist. I haul off again and pound him in the throbbing oval on the side of his head, and as he takes a step back I slam him in the stomach. I run at him, full tilt, and knock into his scaled chin, feeling the sharpness of his skull bruise the crown of my head. He reels back
and crashes into something I can't see. I reach for my knife in my pocket and once again realize I am not wearing my apron. Gum stupid girl!

The electrical flashes are coming less often now and we are plunged into almost full dark. The windows are so crusted over with dirt and dust only the brightest light can seep through.

Fist is only on the defensive for a moment. Soon he has regained his balance and lunges at me, twisting me around and throwing me up against a wall. There's a crunching sound and at first I don't know if it's me or the wall. Then pain shatters through my body. Doesn't he know you're not supposed to hit girls? He's not my father.

Fist wrenches both my arms behind me and somehow—do the Cheese have three hands?—binds my wrists together. He whirls me around to face him.

I spit at his smeared silver and gold paint.

He smashes his fist into the side of my face and time slows. Stars explode into my vision, pain explodes even brighter. I fall to my knees, blood seeping from my mouth and dripping in long ribbons onto the shadowed floor.

“You don't. Hit. Girls,” I say, spitting blood at his feet.

With flicks and trills of his tongue Fist shouts at me, grabs me by the hair, and yanks my head back so that I'm looking into his face. He pulls my hair tighter until I cry out, and he keeps shouting, his black eyes reflecting the bolt flashes, though I would not be surprised if they flashed on their own. The necklace of shriveled ears shudders at his
collarbone, and I wonder if one of them belongs to Boone. I close my eyes before I am sick again.

He releases my hair and my head sinks back down. I spit more blood and maybe part of a tooth into the dust. Another flash reveals Temple's hat not three hands from me. The hair is not so much as I first thought. Neither the blood. Perhaps she is still okay. Wounded, yes, but alive.

Fist grabs my hair again and this time pulls me to my feet. He shouts at me some more, then clamps a hand on my arm and yanks me forward through the darkness. The air is so close and stifling it is like walking through a room of secrets that have somehow taken solid form.

The storm has all but stopped now and we are drenched in darkness. I hear a crack and then an orange glow lights up Fist's sweating and scaled face as he turns to me. His voice is lower, but still seems angry. Words I can't understand come vibrating at me like shards of metal. Why is he mad at me? Didn't he expect me to fight back? I would just as soon have been left to my own devices at the cooling flats. I did not ask for this. Not on purpose, at least.

Fist waves the light in front of my face and I recognize it as a kind of glowing flare, but without fire. A chemical reaction, Aunt Billie told us years ago when we had several of the things. They had been brought up from the
Origin
on the wings of angels. It looks like the Cheese have found a use for them, too. I wonder if they also use angels for goods deliveries.

He is saying something to me in his rough voice and
gesturing with the fireless flare. I stare at him dumbly, for I'm not concerned with what he's trying to say. I am struck by my surroundings. With the eerie orange light showing me only small glimpses here and there of the room we're in, I am still numbed by what lies before me. An expanse of tables, much smaller than our table at home. Chairs knocked over on the floor, or stacked in the corners. A long, tall table-type thing spans one whole side of the room, with tall chairs bolted to the floor in front of it. Behind the long, tall table is a wall of shattered glass, and along this wall of glass are shelves, some broken, some not. On the unbroken shelves are bottles filled with liquids of varying colors.

Fist stops trying to talk to me and goes behind the long, tall table. He takes one of the bottles off an unbroken shelf and brings it around to me. He pushes me into a chair and it is only then that I realize how tired and weak I truly feel. I am warm, too, which is not unusual, and yet this sweaty warmth is bothersome, and itchy panic rises within me. Am I feverish? Nothing good comes of fevers. If I have learned anything from Aunt Billie working as the township's physician, it's that fevers are a sign of infection, and infection is a sign of bad gum news when the only true medicine you have is ancient and limited.

Fist grabs me by the hair again, but gentler this time. With his other hand he rips the remains of my tattered shirt off, leaving me in only my bloodied, sleeveless shift. My wounds are fully exposed now, as I feel the rest of me is, too. Even more heat rises to my face.

He releases my hair and squats in front of me. He holds up the bottle and tilts his head to the side. His eyes close and then open, staring at me intently. He says, “You. This. Hurt.” His mouth stumbles over the words, but I understand them. I open my mouth to respond, but before I can he's standing as fast as an electrical bolt, one hand grasping my hair at the scalp, the other pouring the liquid from the bottle across my shoulders. It is like the suns themselves have set fire to my flesh. I cry out and struggle to leap from the chair, but Fist holds me fast by the hair, with a knee across my legs. He pours most of the contents of the bottle over my wounds as I shout and hiss at the pain.

Surely, we are in an evil apothecary shop.

He then wrests my head back and pours a slosh across my split lip and into my mouth. The liquid slips down my throat even though I resist, and I splutter and cough as it burns a path into my belly.

I feel a quick heaviness in my arms and legs, a cloudiness in my brain, and I wonder why Fist would have risked so much to drag me into an Old Settlement building only to poison me in the end. When he is satisfied that I am tortured enough, he takes a large gulp from the remnants of the bottle and sighs deeply. Not poison, then. But what is it?

And then I realize. Spirits. Like Papa drinks in the evenings of the nights he snores louder than usual. “For the constitution,” he often says. I guess whoever abandoned these buildings had many constitutions to build, for there's
enough of a supply of spirits to last a thousand summers.

Fist now inspects each of my wounds with one hand, while still clamping on to my hair with the other. Grunting a sound that I hope means I won't die from my wounds, he pulls me to my feet. I am dizzy from the spirits, or from the blood loss, I don't know, but I have no choice but to follow the Cheese as he pulls me roughly behind him, the orange fireless flare leading us out of this room.

The next room is empty but for a pile of . . . something . . . in a corner. Fabric of some sort, I cannot tell. Fist walks to the pile, and, yes, it is a bunch of stained and ripped shirts and pants. There are also discarded vials and needles, empty medicine packets stamped with the Star Farmers seal. But how can that be? Homesteaders have never been allowed in these buildings.

Fist pushes and kicks at the pile until I see that underneath is a hatch, just like the hiding pit at home. I wonder if he means to take us into a pit to hide from the storm. It seems to be over, but they are known to flare back up and last for days.

Fist lifts the trapdoor and descends a rickety set of metal stairs, pulling me in behind him. The stairs go some distance. This is no mere pit. By the time we hit soft dirt my heart is stopping and stuttering from the exertion and from the feeling of darkness closing in on me. Just when I'm afraid I will cry out from the dark, Fist holds the glowing orange stick in front of my face and gestures for me to stay. He then begins climbing back up the stairs.

What?

Is he going to leave me down here? Alone? With no light?

I scramble for my gogs, knowing the night sight will only last seconds. They can barely hold a charge on normal days, and today the suns were blocked by those awful storm clouds.

I click on the gogs and see Fist climbing the stairs. I zoom in, watching his lean bronze back covered in silver and gold spirals as he ascends. His clothes are a shirt and pants combined into one piece. The back and front of the shirt part are open, showing the paint. And the material fits him tightly, almost like a stocking for his body. It's made of a material I do not know. Perhaps dactyl skin.

Fist reaches the top of the stairs and pushes his head and torso up through the trapdoor.

“You gum Cheese!” I yell. “You can't just leave me here!”

I can't see what he's doing, but he's not climbing all the way out. The muscles in his back contort. He's pulling something. And then the trapdoor closes and he begins climbing back down the stairs.

He was covering the trapdoor, I think. Just like at home. He's not leaving me. I am awash with relief. It makes me want to laugh in a terrible way, to be relieved to still hold company with the Cheese who has wreaked such havoc upon me and my own.

My gogs fail and I slide them back down around my neck. I can hear Fist's footfalls clanking down the stairs,
chasing away the crawling darkness. The faint orange glow shows his feet, clad in strange shoes that mold to his toes, showing each digit individually, as if he is wearing no shoes at all. In sharp contrast to the rest of his brutally elegant appearance, his shoes are so ugly they are almost indecent. But practical, I guess. Not nearly as heavy or sweaty as boots, and still offering protection from the blistering sands.

Fist appears at my side and takes my arm. He leads me a few meters ahead and the walls begin to close tightly around us. We are in a tunnel.

There is no end in sight.

12

FIST HAS PUSHED ME AHEAD
of him to lead the way, I guess so I don't try to turn around and run the other direction. He has given me the fireless flare to hold. It only lights a small distance in front of my feet, so I move slow. Plus, I am weak from my injuries and from the spirits, so I'm not sure I could move fast if I wanted to.

I walk, trudging ahead. The tunnel has widened around us. It's big enough for me to ride Heetle through, and only have to barely duck my head. I wonder if, wherever we're going, I will see Heetle again. And Temple and Boone. Maybe even Benny, whom I don't remember at all.

And Rory. Of course, Rory.

“That gum tunnel!” Rory might say, laughing and shaking her head. “Tromp, tromp, tromp for a million days and
nights. You'd think they were taking us to meet the gods themselves!”

Something flutters along the footpath and I think it's a sandmoth drawn to the light, but no. It is a small, ripped piece of canvas. My breath catches in my throat. I pretend to stumble and I grab at the canvas. Fist squeezes my arm with his rough hand and pulls me to my feet. He says something that I don't understand, but probably means “Watch it.” Or “Be careful.” That's what his tone says.

I hold the canvas in my pocket and take a quick chance to look at it. Though the glow from the flameless flare makes everything look orange, I can see the smudges on the canvas that are red from the dirt. My heart quickens and I know it's crazy, but I also know Temple is a smart kid.

Sure enough, a little farther down the footpath I see another piece of smudged canvas. She's ripping up her apron, or her gloves, to leave a trail. She must be! I start walking faster. Maybe we can catch up to her and her Cheese. I need to know she's okay.

We walk for a long time, and always, just when I'm about to give up, I find another shred of Temple's canvas and it gives a kind of magical power to my legs and feet to just keep moving, even though I want to collapse.

Fist has started to chant, low and rumbling. I wish I could understand his words. Is he asking for forgiveness? Is he offering a blessing before he kills me? After a time, the chanting becomes more like a low, vibrating singing. It's like a night beetle calling in the darkness, and even though
right now I hate this man, this Cheese, more than anything, it strikes me how beautiful his low singing is. It's mournful with melodies I've never heard. I don't realize I've stopped to listen to him until he gently pushes my arm and I turn around to walk again.

We've been in the tunnel so long now I wonder if we're going to stop and sleep in it at some point, or just keep walking until I pass out on my feet. My thoughts drift to Papa's lifeless form clumped upon the cooling flats. Aunt Billie isn't even missing us yet, as we aren't due home for a few days. If someone like Old Man Dan finds Papa out there it won't matter if he's dead or alive, he will seek retribution for our violating the cooling crystal harvesting season.

Up ahead there is a faint glow of dark-red light. Nighttime. I've no idea where the tunnel leads, but I'm thrilled at the prospect of fresh air and catching up with Temple. Fist stops singing when he notices the light. He pulls at my arm and we change places, him in front and me behind him.

It is not long before we emerge from the mouth of the tunnel into the night. The storm clouds have passed, leaving a clear night sky, the Red Crescent hanging low, a frown judging us all.

We are at the
Origin
wreckage, in the middle of the gorge. I have only seen this from such a far distance above I had no idea of the magnitude of the ship—or what's left of the ship. Its burned-out bulk is like a monstrous skeleton, reaching dozens of hands above me and almost as far
as I can see in front of me. I can see where pieces of the ship have been scavenged, where people have cut holes and entered the carcass.

Fist walks through a crack in the wreckage and I follow, awed by the presence of the broken beast that brought my infant parents and long-gone grandparents to this rock. I think of the noises and the smells of the crash. Of the screaming and dying. I see scorch marks on the wreckage and wonder if they are from the crash or from the fighting with the Cheese after the crash. Am I really standing on the same ground where the Origin Massacre took place? I shiver.

It takes many minutes to make our way cautiously through the weathered destruction. When we finally emerge on the other side I see that a small campsite has been set up. Several dactyls graze on something gruesome; there are blankets on the ground, a pile of rocks to the side, having been cleared, I imagine, to make lying down more comfortable. There is a Cheese sitting on one of the blankets, and a figure next to him.

Even though she is facing away from me, I know it's Temple.

“Temple!” I run to her, ignoring the shouts from Fist, and kneel in front of her. Her head leans heavily against the Cheese's arm, leaving a faint but bloody streak. Her eyes have a woozy look, but she smiles when she sees me.

“Did you get my messages?” she asks. Her voice is soft, quiet, like she's half asleep.

I nod and take her hand. It's cold and damp. “Your little sandmoths led me to you.” My muddled brain wants to offer a reassuring smile, but my face will not comply. “Thank you for letting me know you're okay.”

She coughs out a laugh and grimaces. “Well, I don't know if I'm okay, but I'm alive and I was sure hoping you were, too, Rae.” She swallows and her eyes focus a little better. “May we never be tossed in the air by dactyls again.” She puts her hand to her head and winces. I put my hand gently on her wound, inspecting it to see how deeply it goes. It seems to be a scratch, really, not nearly as bad as I thought. Even so . . . Temple is bleeding and I did not stop it from happening.

“He did this to you,” I say. It is not a question. I stand, ready to leap on the Cheese who is next to her; the Cheese who is eyeing me with what appears to be amusement playing at his bony upper lip. He is smaller than Fist, but thicker. I think I am surely faster than he is and for a brief moment I debate grabbing Temple and making a run for it through the gorge.

Temple puts a hand on my arm. “My injuries are from the dactyl, Rae. The Cheese . . . she has been only kind to me.”

“She?” I say. I look at the stout warrior in front of me, all muscle and scales and ferocity. “How do you know?”

“Darker lips, wider hips.” Temple says. She shrugs. “You do not pay attention during lessons, Rae.”

I am not sure I believe her. This raider is a girl? The idea
that something of this sort is possible makes my aching head ache more. The gods forbid women to do so many things. But then, I remind myself, the Cheese do not worship the same gods we do. Or possibly any gods at all. See? I do remember lessons.

Now it is Temple's turn to inspect my injuries. I try not to jerk back as she runs her hand over my cheekbone and nose.

“This is not from a dactyl, then?” she says in a low voice, her eyes sparking in the light of the Red Crescent.

“Fist and I have had some differences of opinion,” I say.

“This should all be a dream, Rae,” Temple says, putting her face in her hands. “But it's not all a dream, is it? It's not all just a terrible dream?”

I lean forward and put my arms around her even though it hurts us both. “It's going to be okay, Temple. We'll make it okay.”

“How?”

Her question cuts almost as deep as the dactyl's talons. Because she's right. How do I know things will be okay? “I don't know,” I answer, and she buries her face in my searing shoulder.

The woman Cheese sitting next to Temple stands up and goes off with Fist a few steps away, where they talk in a low buzz.

“Do you think Papa is okay?” Temple whispers. “Have you seen anything of Boone?”

I don't know how to answer her. Did she see Papa
crumpled up like that? I don't want to ask her. I don't want to think about it.

The woman Cheese walks back over and hands us each a small, rough bag. She puts her hand to her mouth a few times to indicate “eat.” She even seems to smile, showing off rows of sharpened teeth. Temple smiles back, but I do not.

Inside the bag are something like a biscuit, a few pinches of scrub tied with twine, and some small brown balls that do not look appetizing at all. I take out the scrub and frown. “This is food?”

Temple shrugs. The girl Cheese makes an “eat” hand motion again. I am starved, but not inclined to eat scrub. I put it back in the bag and take out the biscuit. It is hard and nearly tasteless—much like the biscuits we cook. I swallow it in three bites. My stomach is far from full but I am loath to eat scrub or to taste the foul-looking brown balls. I see Temple peering into her bag and sighing. If Rory were here she would have eaten everything from all of our bags by now. She was not picky, that one.

I take out a brown ball, and thinking of Rory, close my eyes and toss the whole thing into my mouth. I am expecting something foul, but instead my mouth is coated in smooth sweetness. The ball has melted onto my tongue. I don't even need to chew. The sweetness glides down my throat and into my belly, and I don't know if it's the sheer hunger I feel, or the actuality of the food, but it is the best gum thing I have ever tasted.

I open my eyes to see Temple staring at me intently.

“Temple,” I say, licking my fingers and then reaching into my bag for another ball. “You have never tasted such a wonder.” I put the second ball in my mouth and it is just as wonderful as the first.

Temple gasps and then smiles huge, the melted brown smeared across her teeth. “Rae, what
is
this?”

“I don't know, Temp,” I say, eating the last of mine. “But now I know why Rory and Benny haven't come home.”

As soon as it's out of my mouth, I regret it. Now is not the time for the blackest of humor. But the food and the sweetness have relaxed my charged-up nerves. I feel calmer, more energized, but less angry. I wonder if it's something in the food making me feel this way. An herb maybe? My studies with Aunt Billie have only just begun. It is difficult to tell all the roots and herbs apart. She would know, though. Aunt Billie seems to know everything.

Temple begins to chew on her parcel of scrub. She makes a face and I smile. “Not a magical new dinner accompaniment, your scrub?” I ask. Temple grimaces and swallows.

“It's not so bad,” she says, picking tiny dried leaves from her teeth. “Though I'm not sure I can find the nutritional merit.” She laughs quietly.

I take small crunches of my own scrub, wondering why the Cheese would eat such a thing, and then a wave of exhaustion hits me and the world turns on its side. Of course. The bitter taste on the back of my tongue
gently shakes my memory. Sleeping root. The Cheese have drugged us. Such gum stupid children.

As my eyes close I see that Temple is already asleep—it is alarming how quickly her laughter was snuffed out.