I stumble through the doorway, my robes still damp from sweat and river water.
Off.
I undress. The pile of crumpled garbs lands on the floor. I throw on my brown overalls and collapse onto my bed. One arm wrapping around Tim as I shut my eyes.
…
"Wake up."
A shake at my shoulder.
"Des, we need to go now."
A tug on my beard-hair.
I roll over. Flashlights scratch up the room like sharp nails.
Captors?
My heart kicks back. I snatch the hatchet from under my pillow, adrenaline surges.
"Where are they? Tell me, boy!" I shout.
"Woah, woah! I just wanted to go to the showground with you. It's starting soon—we have to go quickly."
"What about the flashlights?" I hiss.
"What is a flashlight? Did you have another vision?"
I look around the room.
Morning? But it was dark. And I just lain down.
I approach Tim fast, staring into his reflective eyes. He looks back, flinching slightly. I look further. Two bloodshot wild red orbs blink rapidly. A wreck. Pale. Mud-streaks black across a face I barely recognize.
My palm twitches, curling, as if still gripping… something. Or letting it go.
I collapse back onto the bed, wiping my face. I glance at my hands.
I remember.
I sob silently.
Did I do that? Was that really me? Who am I? What does he see in this man called me?
I let myself unload.
Tim runs to me, hugging tightly.
"Why are you crying? Is it because of me, something I did?"
I wipe my tears and hold his face.
"It isn't you. It's me." Sniff.
I blow hard into my dirtied hands.
"But I can't help you feel better."
He hugs me tighter. "It was because I wanted to go to the showground, right? We don't have to go."
No.
"You are already perfect, Tim. Don't ever think otherwise because of me or my failures."
I stand, Tim's legs hover off the ground as he keeps holding me.
Pull yourself together. He can't see you like this.
I keep my hands around him and force my well-practiced smile.
"Lead the way," I say, voice steadier than I feel.
"But?"
"We will make it in time, I won't hear another word."
I march out the house, dragging at my legs.
"Would it be easier if I let go?" He asks softly.
"No, not at all."
I step forward.
Then again.
With each stride, my hips twist and my spine arches.
The balls of my feet begin tingling incessantly.
Must be blisters from dragging.
No. Don't think about it.
My toes continue onward carrying those stones that remain unturned; nails still-folded grasp at unfound clovers.
I walk. Over rocky mounds, steadfast. Whitened hair blows, dandruff falls in my eyes.
I blink, clearing my vision.
Then I see, a clay-covered field comes into view, bustling with activity.
I stop to bend over. My legs are shaking.
"You okay?" Tim asks jumping off me.
I collapse onto the hardened ground, ears straining.
"It's just my bad leg from earlier nothing to worry about."
"Des? You sure it's all alright?"
I press my forehead deeper into the padded dirt. "Yeah. Just catching my breath."
Liar.
He nods at me then turns to watch the scene, his energy transforming into something contagious.
"Quiet. It's starting." someone in the crowd shushes everyone.
"I can't hear it," Tim jittering as he speaks.
A hush rolls across the field.
Crawling closer to the edge of the mound we observe the show.
"First topic: TheNear-Extinction Of The Pluffer." The announcer's voice carries across the humid stench.
A gasp ripples through the crowd.
"Why is this even happening?"
"They are so cute."
"Must be the Norts!"
The announcer speaks:
"Both the representative of House Hutches and the beast management guild have commented on this crisis and its impact on spirit-meat prices."
Someone yells a muffled complaint.
"They had this to say:
'We cannot ignore their role in the ecosystem.
Pluffers are the food, the life-blood of our western spirit-animal economy, especially the oceanic kind.
Lose pluffers, their predators starve and the zerg breed. Then everything else collapses. This is no small problem, and it will only make your lives harder.
Many black-trading thugs dealing in kidnapped zerg have been caught slaughtering baby pluffers.
This is an unforgivable cruelty.
Only obtain your zerg from safe, certified sources. Only House Hutches can honestly assure you, that our zerg sales do not harm the environment or animals in any possible way. We train better, source better, and sell better.'"
"Sell better my ass, I lost money because of you."
"Shut up."
The voice raises over the crowd.
"'Support your local community. Buy House-official produce.'"
The crowd's voices wash over me. Words about ecosystems, about cruelty, about demons.
Demon. Is that what I am now?
A Killer
My shoulders stiffen. Quickly I look over to check if he saw.
Didn't notice, good.
He's watching the rowdy crowd in amusement.
Laughing too.
I should be happy. This is what I move for. Him safe. Him smiling like that.
So why does it feel like this...
How can I explain this feeling to myself?
Like I'm watching him through a window?
No.
More like I'm watching another person watch him through the window.
...
I continue listening.
"Their Tamer also said this and I quote what is written here:
'It sickens me to my core that people would even buy illegal zerg. Their deplorable actions will ruin our livelihoods and hurt struggling families. If you catch them, call them what they really are: Demons. Their deeds make these desperate times even harder for the common folk.'"
"You hear that, fellow gamblers? We're officially demons now."
A loud cheer erupts. Another group boos.
"Taking our money, taking our pluffers — learn respect you demonic beasts!"
"Learn to grow a beard first!"
Laughter booms, but the boos strike back.
Tim covers his ears and giggles to himself.
Someone small too far to see walks away stamping their feet.
Wait… is that Marcus?
Too funny — he looks so angry.
"Next topic: The Northern Refugee Crisis."
Someone at the back spits into to dirt and treads it in.
"The Protection Board has heard your concerns and delivered them directly to the Sky Palace. Many citizens fear northerners taking jobs or spreading their so-called demonic bloodlines. This is what Cardinal Valiard wished to say regarding this matter:
'Our faith teaches redemption. Northerners must be allowed entry, our doctrine will not be abandoned. It is the principle of our beliefs. Remember, Demons are not bred from blood. It is their minds that are corrupted. This only makes them more dangerous.
However, worry not — we have inspected their spirit cores before they are allowed admission into your communities. However, if you see any suspicious behavior from a northerner, do not hesitate to report it immediately so we can keep you and your family safe from potential harm. Fearmongering will not be tolerated.'"
What in the word does that mean? The crowd grows agitated.
"Damn Nort's taking all our work!"
"And they ain't doing anything about it!" a woman yells, hiccuping, taking a sip from her drink.
"You heard the man — it's our faith. I'll follow the heavenly word to earn my reincarnation."
"Ain't gonna give us more money."
"Hear hear."
People clap loudly and whistle.
"I wouldn't trust a northerner with my life."
"Brother, you are a northerner."
"That was my dead mother, not me. I inherited my skin and my passion from my fellow mort's in the mines."
"Rightly so."
A few more nods.
"I'm just glad someone has the balls to finally admit us half descendants are not the same kind of people as them."
"True words!"
"Shut up, all of yer's I'm trying to hear!" zeke pipes up from the front, they fall silent.
"Final topic: Food Shortage."
"Lousy farmers." They throw their bottle into the distance.
Should I be tolerated too?
The voice continues.
"Patriarch August Yin of House Rashka has spoken. Grain prices have drastically risen because farmers have grown lazy and complacent. The luxuries provided by transcendents, namely: Protection from demons, protection from bandits, secure jobs, stable markets — are all taken for granted."
August has long criticised landholders for hiring northern labourers, arguing that reliance on these outside workers has weakened the discipline of simple labour.
He said this.
'Guided by the Grand-Experts, we have reached our final conclusion.
If harvests fall short, quotas must rise.
We can only sell what is made. It is unfortunate that those indulgent and greedy, 'filthy farmers' cannot provide what we, the community, desperately need to eat.
Their hypocrisy is clear.
They hire northerners and line their own pockets.
Only they are to blame.
We believe in redemption, but tolerance for the sloth of the refugees will not be extended any further.
They have thinned out our pride as men and it is blasphemous.
Remember, farmers only profit off of your hunger, not from your fullness.'"
"Fuck Farm-ers!" a voice shouts
"Fuck Farm-ers!" another cheers.
How ungrateful.
Talk down to me instead. I'm the one who deserves it.
Two people brawl to the ground.
"Clear out! The announcement is finished. We need this space." The announcer projects a foul-mouthed warning.
The cheering dies down.
An awkward cough.
Those two stand up and trudge off.
Followed by the rest of the hundreds of people.
They disperse, kicking up dirty oranges as they carve their paths into the coloured dirt continuing on with their day like nothing even happened.
Tim tugs on my sleeve, ready to leave.
That was interesting, right?" He looks up at me, smiling.
"Yeah. Very... educational." The words dry my tongue as they come out.
"Des? You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"That thing. Where your face goes like this."
All the excitement leaves his face and he stares at me blankly.
I blink.
"Sorry, buddy. Just thinking bout some stuff."
"About what?"
About whether I'm still the person you think I am.
"About the sky. Doesn't it look like it might fall one day?" I answer.
He grins.
"So that's what's made you so worried all these days. Silly the sky can't hurt us"
We walk back, his hand in mine leading me.
"Where are you taking me?"
"There's somewhere I need to go."
I follow him.
He trusts me completely.
This thought should comfort me.
But does it?