The flood was reminiscent of the red river when he first entered the Ant Farm. Bubbles formed, boiling the waves that quietly crashed in it.
Malik felt an odd nostalgia toward the coursing river, but each popping bubble sounded like a static he didn't want to remind himself about.
Noam returned, holding a rusty mop with a warm towel over the bristles, and handed it over to Malik. "This is our job every morning. If you want a place to stay, you have to help out in cleaning up."
Malik felt the cold broom in his palm, staring at the ocean beneath the porch. "Noam, is this what I think it is?"
Noam gazed outward. "I don't pay attention to what it is much. I've heard some say it's the blood of the shadow. But be careful stepping in there, it might sting."
The shadow . . . so Awan isn't the only one who says it like that. He says it casually, like any other name. Do the tribes fear some names, yet revere others?
Yet if they wanted to be free from things controlling them, why are they mentioning some deity like gospel? And Awan's gone at a time like this—who knows what happened to him.
No. He's fine, I just know he is.
Malik consoled himself within his own thoughts as he kept a close eye on Noam.
The tribesman seemed to look for something in the back of the cabin, piling random boxes on top of one another.
Immediately following that, he heard slight grunts from someone inside.
Emerging from the doorway, Kaya helped Zayne out to the front porch. He rested his arm on the railing as he ground his teeth, flexing every muscle at once.
Zayne looked visibly tired; his face was strained, and he held his hand tightly in his palm.
Malik dropped the broom and paced toward them.
Kaya panted, firmly patting his back. "He was unresponsive. Then, when I waved my hand over his face, he suddenly woke up, holding his hand like it was chopped off."
"Zayne, let me see your hand," Malik said steadily.
Despite his large stature, Zayne struggled to mouth words as he bobbed his head forward and back to calm himself.
Slowly, he removed his palm from his hand.
Skin was flaking off, and the tissue was blood-red. Putting his hand over the flood below would blend it in.
He strained, "Feels like I got flayed, now something's pourin' salt on it." He bit his lip after he spoke.
Quickly, Malik rushed to the open door and yelled, "Get gauze! Zayne's hand is messed up!" he said tersely.
With his back facing them, scrolling through boxes, Noam nodded in quiet response.
Soon after, he found it. He came out holding a bandage and broom. Noam carefully wrapped it around Zayne's hand, avoiding irritating his skin further. The others watched in complete silence as his veins popped on his decaying hand, resisting the urge to scream.
"How did this happen?" Noam gulped.
Zayne breathed heavily, stressing his words. "Don't know. It did that since yesterday, but I didn't pay attent—Gah!"
He palmed his hand in a sudden heave.
"Zayne, follow me," Kaya comforted him, guiding him inside the house.
Helping him lie down on the bed, she went outside again. Pressing her back against the wall, she said, "I don't understand. Why is there just one thing after another? Is this the price you tribespeople pay for living without government?" She blurted out in frustration.
Noam felt a punch to the gut with her words. "T-that's never happened before. In fact, I don't think I've seen people get sick here."
She began to lose her composure. "He's not sick! He's hurt! Get that through your timid head!" she said, pointing at Noam.
Darting her eyes toward Malik, "How do you guys not find any of this absurd? Rituals, stripping's, exiles, Awan's gone, and now Zayne . . ."
Malik put his hands out. "I know, Kaya. None of it makes sense, but we'll be fine. I promise."
For a moment, her eyes glinted amber. "Oh please, you and your promises. You always make promises you know you can't keep. And if it came between us and that blade in your pocket, I'd say it's a pretty safe bet that you'd lean toward the more jagged side," Kaya interjected with a forlorn expression, walking back into the cabin.
Malik tried to reason, "Kaya—"
Slam!
The hinges almost snapped off the door as it sealed shut.
Shaking his head, Noam's heart beat slower after she left. "I know this isn't the right place for you guys. You've seen the nicer sides of the realms. But to us, this is all we got."
How ironic. I'd like to see this 'nicer side' he speaks of. Maybe someday.
Malik chuckled at his epiphany.
Stepping down the porch's stairs, Noam dipped his feet in, and a slight sizzle arose.
Noam held his breath, clenching his hands. "It's not too potent today. Come on, it doesn't hurt as much as you'd think."
Entering with both feet, he quickly scrubbed the red river away from the home. It sloshed like thick sludge.
When the liquid trapped the mop in its ooze, and Noam forcefully pulled it out, threads were attached to it like loose blood vessels.
Malik nearly gagged as he watched from the porch. Reluctantly, he went down the small flight of stairs and couldn't decide which foot to step in with first.
Shortly after, Malik submerged his left foot into the crimson abyss. He closed his eyes, expecting a burning sensation.
Surprisingly, it soothed him. Making small red waves, it petted his skin gently. It massaged his feet to a point where it disturbed him.
Malik stared at the bubbling waters surrounding his ankles. He turned to Noam. "Is it supposed to clean me?"
"Looks like it likes you. You're lucky. Some get bad rashes from it. I get a small bruise on bad days."
I find that hard to believe. This place hurt Kaya, now it hurt my brother. When is it my turn, Land? Why haven't you hurt me yet?
Malik pondered. He began to scrape his rusty mop in the flood, then asked, "There's good and bad days? So this is just routine to your tribe?"
"Either this, or I submit my life to some other realm. At least here, I get some privacy," Noam muttered.
He swirled the mop in circles, driving the liquid away into a field near the cabin.
Malik copied his motion. "Sometimes I wonder why you stayed here instead of going with your grandma or your parents."
"I didn't like the 'joyful' lifestyle they had. I heard of their rituals, and it made my heart jump, so I stayed in Nawra. Grandma stays there because, in her eyes, it's the only place that holds smiles in the Ant Farm," he responded.
Continuing, "I try to tell her the smiles are fake, but she didn't listen. She liked that lie, and I'm not gonna ruin it for her. I'm fine living alone and repeating this day-night cycle."
He paused, holding his broom tightly. "And you asked about my parents . . . they didn't make it here. They died before getting to go on any of the ships."
Malik frowned, looking down as the red ocean lapped at his feet and gently traveled to the runnels in the field behind the cabin.
Suddenly, as the sun glared on their scalps, a clamor of creaking doors opened, and many came out, dipping into the lake, ignoring the sting as they went on their morning regimen.
Among the people, there was an elegant young-looking woman with snow-white hair. She had her hair covering her eyes, but her features balanced with her bright clothing. She helped scoop the blood with an older woman beside her.
Malik speculated behind the tribesman, "So these are also the people of the Ant Farm. I wonder where that name came from."
Noam sniffed, washing the fizzing water, watching it seep into the field. "I'm not really sure. I heard some children start saying it since they saw the ants lined up on the trees. The adults found it adorable, so they just adopted that name."
Malik imagined those ants stabbed through the thorns again. Facing Noam, he gulped. Then, when he turned, the white-haired woman was gone. The flood around her home was completely gone.
"I find that strange . . ." Malik commented, his mouth agape.
Noam shrugged, kicking the relentless lake away with the swab. "Yeah, but better a weird name than a weird realm."
Malik murmured, letting his mop fall, splashing. "None of this is strange to you?"
Noam turned around. "Malik. You're asking a lot of questions for answers I can't give."
For a moment, a heavy silence fell between them.
Then, the tribesman pulled out a makeshift pencil and a notebook with its cover made of tree bark. He handed it to Malik.
"I know that look when you've got a lot on your mind. I'll cover for you, just make sure you come back with your head clear." Noam's frown stayed intact, but it was evident he wanted to smile.
"You know, Noam. In a tribe filled with fear, I'd never expect you to be so calm." Malik gave a full smile, grabbing the submerged mop out of the water.
"Believe me, I'm always petrified. I just learned not to show it. Learned that from a sharp-looking man in Mala when we were leaving. He had chains around his neck and wrists—maybe that was some tradition in that place," Noam said.
Malik tilted his head, feeling the sun brighten. "I think the same way. Maybe he'll give me a word of advice if I see him one day."
Noam gave a half-smirk. "Yeah. Maybe."
Then, Malik put the pencil and woody notebook in his pocket, next to his silent blade. He waved to Noam as he departed. "I'll be back. Take care of them until then," he smiled.
Noam only nodded, continuing his routine.
. . .
Malik saw the entrance to Nawra, and his feet plopped as he walked forward.
Facing the large rampart, it creaked open by itself. The two slabs disjointed and revealed the forest that lost its fog as the flood poured onto the grass beyond it.
Taking another step forward, he felt something bony under his soles.
That's strange. It's sharp, but not sharp enough to cut.
He lifted his foot, and he saw it protruding from the surface of the blood-red ocean.
A black bone layered atop many others—it looked like a rattlesnake with pointed scales.
Malik scanned around and saw that nobody was looking. With a curious expression, he lifted it up with his feet.
Every scale wrapped around it and hugged tightly.
For some reason, this feels familiar, like I've seen it before.
Then, he saw it. They weren't scales—they were vertebrae . . .
He kicked it away, and it fell into the field outside the tribe.
No, that can't be. That was a spine . . . !