Ash rises into the air, slips into the lungs, and seeps into the blood-until it reaches the mind, where it settles like a curse. Black dust moves the will, bends the flesh, and binds all fate to its whisper.
The boy looked at the sky. The sun was nearly up enough for him to feel its warmth, although he couldn't look at it for too long; he had to bend, or it would be a bullet. His feet were well-sunk in the ash dust that covered the field. When he stepped to the next spot, he had to sweep the black from his leg. It looked like a leather shoe, a fine leather shoe. From afar, it looked even more real, and up close, the boy himself had come to believe that he was wearing leather shoes. And if he buried them deep, they could become leather boots, and maybe those leather boots would unfreeze his bones.
Ash almost did everything leather did. It covered the skin as long as it would stay on and kept it warm. It also dyed it black, which helped the boy's legs become warmer, at least warmer than his hands-his shaking knuckles and his red nose that now was almost as red as the faraway sun in the sky.
The boy wanted to put his hands to his nose. His ears, too, were becoming redder than they should have been, and also his cheeks; they all needed his hands. But the diamonds that played hide-and-seek with him in the shallow sea of ash, which rose as high as his ankle, needed his hands more than he needed them. If they didn't, there would be no bullets. His fingertips were red, too. Why red? When his skin would start to turn red, he would feel itching for days, and in this cold, he felt as though his skin was scorching with boiling water.
Jaro always said that it was no coincidence that the word "blistering" is used for both heat and cold, for they burned the same way. The boy remembered a time when he lived under a brighter sun, back in his home where tall trees grew to brush the sky, which was blue. As the wind shook them, the sound of their branches blended well with the splashing of the river and the birds' love cries. There was no tree here, no bird, no river. The boy wondered, had all of the slaves that swept this land with him had homes of their own? Was their home as colorful as his? And if they, too, wished they could flee back to their lakeside cabin on top of the hill, near the tall redwood trees that stretched upright to the sky.
The boy felt something under his leg, and he knew it wasn't just coal. It wasn't big, but it was enough-the third diamond he had found today, and it was enough to keep the bullets away. He slowly moved to the box where he had to put his find.
He couldn't straighten up his hunch,maybe because he had sagged too much, or from the cold, or from not drinking water since yesterday morning.
The soldiers had woken up late today.The ice water was all gone when the slaves were forced out of the shed; there was nothing left to drink. Water was in the air, and the boy couldn't drink water from thin air. There was water in the shed, and bread that was too hard to chew. A fire, too-a hot fire. The boy had reached the box; it was not even half full. They wouldn't leave for the shed any time soon. He tossed the gem inside the gem box and limped back to the unchecked fields. Jaro was with Ruk; they were searching together. The old man could no longer move without the help of willing hands; the cold was too much for him. The boy steered his approach. Where they stood was no warmer than his place of search, and they couldn't do much of a cuddle, but if you have to be cold, better to be cold with friends, the boy thought.
"Hey, boy! Where are you going?" A voice uttered from the back of his head. He knew it was one of the soldiers; he had heard him talk often at nights from the other side of the walls that chained the slave shed. He didn't know his name, but he knew he had to obey his words before he could give him a bullet. So he measured his steps again to where he was sweeping before.
"Boy,go check out that woman. See if she is still alive," the soldier exclaimed.
The boy glanced at the woman.They had left her overnight last shift. Her newborn was dead, and she had not moved back with them to the shed. The soldiers weren't kind enough to give her a bullet; they had left her to freeze in the blistering cold of the night. She was new to the shed, new to MelasOon, too. She was plump still, after two months' work and dry bread and ice water. She was plump despite the cold she had gone through last night. She was plump. Her black skin wasn't red; it was red last night before they left her to die with her deadborn child, but now her face was blue.
"She is dead.Let the boy sweep," one of the soldiers said.
"I swear I did see her wiggle,"the other replied.
"It's so cold even the dead shake.When are we to go back?" another soldier said.
"Go back to where the box is all empty?Boy, go check out that woman, now!" the first soldier shouted.
The boy had no choice; he had to go to the woman. Why did the soldier want to know if the woman was dead or not? He asked himself, and for that he could not find any answer. He stretched his stiff leg and stiff back, straightened up his bones and muscles, and moved headlong to the dead woman that was curling up around the child that was born dead to this dead planet. No wonder the woman had tried to kill herself a few nights before. Who would want to bring life to a place like this? The boy had not made fifty steps when he heard it-a sharp, metallic sound, and it was too familiar to him. The sound of a bullet finding its way into a chamber. A thought occurred to his head as he jolted to the ground right before a drifting bullet passed over his head. He clasped the dirt; every inch of muscle had become stiff, but he knew he can't stay down forever. He had to move, and move fast. He had to find cover. The soldier was trying his rifle on him, and he could hear another bullet being pierced by the needle. Right then, he jerked back up and sprinted for the woman, trying to outpace the bullets. A bullet nearly grazed his shoulder. He twisted and turned, running in a meandering path to the woman's body. Another bullet hit the ground to his left as he hid himself behind the cover of the woman's body. He could see her face, a frozen blue, much like her child. Her eyelids were shaking; despite all, she was still alive. She was trying to give what was left of her warmth to her dead child, who was well covered by her mother's embrace. Her tears were frozen on her skin, and some blood vessels had burst from the cold, and red blood trickled down from her face to her child's slowly. The boy heard another bang as the woman's chest opened and she fell down. He jolted to the ground with her and tucked himself between the woman's body and the ash on the ground, away from the soldiers' sight.
"Ohwee, I got him! I got him good!" the boy heard the soldier shout in excitement.
"Are you still alive,boy? Raise your head if you are! I would give you a clean death if you are!" The boy didn't dare to move; he didn't dare to breathe. The woman's mouth opened, and with what was left of her voice, she said, "I see it now..... the fields of gre...." She couldn't finish her sentence. Another bullet fractured her skull, and she went silent. The boy curled tighter to her.
"We have to leave;it's getting dark," a soldier exclaimed, his voice low. The boy couldn't dare to peek; he feared this to be a trap, too. Why would he fear death? It was better to be dead here than to be alive; he preferred that much himself, too. But it is the nature of all living things to run away from death; Jaro said this often. Maybe it was his instinct, not his will, that wanted
him to live, the boy thought.
The boy couldn't help but wonder what fields of green the woman had spoken of. Was that a field like the woodlands he remembered from when he was a child? Or was it the one his mom narrated in his bedtime stories? Was that field the Mud Man's Paradise, Verbatim, where fairies flew in the sky instead of birds and the dead would last for an eternity? Or was it just her final illusion in her time of death?
The boy wanted to know what the woman's dream was. Was she now reunited with her dead child in fields of dream? Could he himself glance upon the face of his mother in that field? "A paradise, a paradise after death? Can't we have a paradise right here?" the boy thought. He could remember distant memories that weren't short of heaven, but if those memories were of heaven, this place surely was hell-a hell he was now alone in.
He could no longer hear the clinking chains, and that meant that they had left, like the soldier said they would. He raised his hands to his nose, wrapping his fingers around it, and then he tried to do the same with his ears, but the chains didn't allow him to warm them both at the same time. The chain between his wrists was too tight. He even had to put both hands into a single pocket to warm them, a choice made easy since his rags had only one good pocket left.
There were no more bullets for him, but there was also no more fire, no more food, and no more shelter. The woman's blue face was what his would be by tomorrow morning. He raised his head slowly and peered to where the slaves had been sweeping before; no sign of them was in sight, and no soldiers either. He moved to the sweeping area to find footprints to follow, for what purpose he didn't know. He wouldn't be welcomed by the soldiers as much as he would be welcomed by their rifles. Another gemstone found itself between his toes. "Why? Why did I run? Stupid, stupid..." The boy shouted this aloud. He took the gem and tossed it into the sky. If he found enough diamonds, maybe the soldiers would forgive him, spare his life. But the sun was starting to set, and with no light... He looked at the sun, a red sun. The red hue of the sky was turning yellow as it always did at this time of day, and the stars were becoming visible in the background.
And then, all of a sudden, it turned blue. A deep blue. A ship had jumped here-maybe a slave ship like the one he was on when he came with his mother and sister, jumping from one astral rift to the next. It was the first time he had seen the blue aftermath of an astral jump. The sky was a blue hue; the sun was shining blue, as blue as his sister's eyes. And even though the cold was setting in his bones, he was happy; he was finally free to see this with his own eyes-a beautiful sky. And from that beautiful sky, a ship fell. It fell like an eagle falling upon its prey, and to the boy's luck, it fell so close. And as it did, it burst into flames.
The sky was turning back to its usual color. The boy now knew where to go. The fire-he could see its red hue from over the hills. It wasn't that far, less than an hour to walk, and quicker if he could run.
The boy started to walk. Why the ship fell was unknown to him, and it mattered little. All he had to do was find the fire. He walked, and he ran from time to time between his steps. Every time he ran, he couldn't go much further than a hill before he started walking again, slowly, toward the inflamed ship. He was nearly there; that was the only light he could see. The sun was well concealed behind the mountain, and its light was all gone, which made it far easier to spot the fire.
One more hill, the boy said, as he had for the past five hills. But this hill was different; the fire was brighter than ever, and it was true-the ship was there in front of him, and fire was inside. Even from the top of the hill he could feel its warmth. He ran from atop the hill. He ran with an excitement that had been lost to him. He ran like he did among the redwoods, like when he wanted to go home from school. And as he did, he tripped on some stone. He fell and he rolled down the hill and landed on his buttocks near the burning ship. And as he did, he started to laugh a childish laugh.
The spaceship was huge-not that huge; it wasn't a cargo ship or a military cruiser, it was a personal ship-but it was huge enough for him. It was the biggest fire he had ever seen, and it looked really nice to him. The fire looked nice to him, and not the ship; it was all gone, and he couldn't make much of it. But an emblem on the metallic walls of the ship drew his attention: seven golden daggers in a golden ring, all pointing outwards in a circle.
The boy stood and walked around the ship to find a better view of the fire. He had not made more than five steps when he saw that a figure was standing still among the flames, inside the fire. He wasn't burning with them. The boy could feel the figure's eyes lock on him. He was wearing a mask, one with six dagger horns on it. A priest of Myter. From his mother's fairy tales, he had often imagined them as a child when he would ask his father to check under the bed in fear that one was hidden there.
The boy took a step back but didn't dare to run. If the fairy tales held any truth, he well knew he couldn't outrun this beast.
The figure walked out of the ship, out of the fire. He carried little with him: a bag, some fine fabric that he wore-which had withstood the fire as the man had. But the boy knew that this was no man. His mother had made sure to mention that these heretics worshiped three gods. They did worship Myther, the God of his mother's belief, and His lesser half, Myter. The third god, the new god they worshiped, was Karina. They worship Karina. They worship bloodshed, his mother would tell him.
The figure moved closer. The boy was entranced; he slipped a step back when the figure was at his feet.
"I don't bite,"the figure said. He extended his hands to the boy's wrist, to where the chain was wrapped, but the boy pulled his hands back to his side swiftly.
The figure withdrew slightly as he saw the fear glowing in the boy's eyes.
"Do you need help?"the figure asked.
The boy was quiet.Help? What help could a monster offer him?
The figure stood there for a moment and then retreated back into the flame. When he came back out, he carried a second set of fabric in his hands. He approached the boy, and when he reached him, he knelt on his knees. The boy looked at his eyes, the only visible feature behind his mask besides his lips. They were black, and they looked kind. They looked much like the eyes of a human and differed from the monsters his mother had told him of.
"I have to leave.Your clothes are torn; it is better that you wear something warmer. The night is cold," the priest uttered, his voice soft, kind, and gentle. His teeth, although he missed one, were the teeth of a human.
The priest turned away toward the mountains and started to walk away from the burning ship. The boy gazed at the fire. It could last all night, but tomorrow there would be another night and a dead fire. The soldiers would practice their rifles on him. Even if he could find them in this hell, he had but one hope. He searched among his mother's prayers, the ones he still remembered.
"Followers of Myther help those who ask for aid,am I right?" The boy said this with a hint of fear in his tone.
"You know of Myther?"
The priest turned and took a good look at the boy.He was but skin and soot, wrapped in what was more hole and cut than cloth.
"Yet,you fear me. You fear me, why? Ahh, you must worship the Other." The priest took a step towards the boy. "You've heard true. I will aid you. But no aid comes free. Everything has its price."
His words were different from when he had offered new clothing to the boy.The shift sent a shiver that tore the boy apart. Help had never sounded so much like a threat.
The priest stopped. Ash blew around them in lazy circles. He turned his head slowly, the mask unchanging, serene in its false humanity.
"No help comes without price,"he intoned, each syllable measured, merciless and cold. "And if you wish your will returned, your flesh unbroken, your breath still your own... you must follow Myter in His wisdom. The old way is dead. It must die for you, too."
The boy's throat tightened.He couldn't bargain; he had to agree. But to do so was to spit on the memory of his dead mother.
"If you wish your will returned... walk with me. In fields of ray, under the sun's bliss, and among what we know of life."
He did not look back.He did not plead. The priest of Myter stood still as stone, the six golden horns upon his mask glowing faintly in the dim light of the dying fire. His words hung in the air as if they were final.
The boy hesitated. Around him, the ash still swirled. He had picked up the clothes from the ground: a jacket, a pair of boots-leather boots, like the ones he had wished for-and pants. They were bigger than his size, but he couldn't wish for more. He knew he had to go; he couldn't stay. But...
Then the memory came. He saw his home-green, alive, full of rain and laughter. He saw his mother, soft-eyed, whispering prayers to Myther in the garden. He saw his father's face, the last time, before the slavers struck him down. He saw his sister, dancing in the fields, her voice carried by the wind.
And then-nothing.No more memories. Just the dark. The mines. His mother's body, broken and buried beneath stone. The chains. The silence.
He remembered the last words she gave him:"Be kind to all, for then all will be kind to you." Words of Myther, surely-not of his cruel twin, not of Myter. But as he stood there, in the darkness and ash, he thought of his sister again. And wondered if she still lived.
He took a step. Just one.
The priest said nothing,but began to walk once more as the boy trailed him.Was it the right choice? The boy wondered. The fire was dying already behind his steps. To stay was wrong, but was it right to leave?