The Scourge (A.G. Henley)

The Scourge (A.G. Henley) - By A.G. Henley


Chapter One



I duck out of the storeroom and into the main cavern, stepping carefully across the uneven floor. My fingers ache from being trailed along the frigid stone walls for hours. Rubbing my hands together to generate warmth has all the effect of kindling a fire with chips of ice.

My footfalls echo in the stillness as I move down the passage toward the mouth of the cave, counting my paces as I go. The sun pours in, diluting the darkness. I can barely tell light from dark, but I know I’m almost out when I hear Eland’s voice. He never ventures in alone. He hates the caves almost as much as he fears the Scourge.

“Let’s go, Fennel,” he calls. “The celebration’s about to start, and I’m starving. There’s roasted boar and fresh bread, bean and potato stew, blackberry pie–”

I laugh. “Is your stomach all you think about?”

“No, I think about lots of other things.”

“Really? Like what?” I reach out toward his voice.

Eland’s hand, grimy from digging up vegetables and herbs in the garden, finds mine. Grimy or not, the warmth is a relief. “Like how we’ll trounce the Lofties in the competitions tomorrow.”

I can’t help smiling at his confidence. This is his first year to compete. He and the other twelve-year-old boys have talked of little else for weeks. Everyone looks forward to the Summer Solstice celebration for the feast, the dancing, and the chance to beat the Lofties—with spear and knife, if not bow and arrow. It’s a highlight of the year, so different from the solemn Winter Solstice when the Exchange takes place.

The shadows shift as we pass under the canopy of trees. I wrap my hand around Eland’s sapling-thin arm—roots and creeping weeds on the forest floor have sent me sprawling more often than I want to remember. We reach the clearing, the heart of our community, where a bonfire sizzles and sputters to life. People shout to each other as they make their way down the paths from the gardens and the water hole, their work done for the day. The luscious fragrance of gardenia winds through the air. Someone must have strung garlands as decorations.

Our home, like those of all the other Groundlings, nestles into the embrace of the towering greenheart trees circling the clearing. Eland pushes open the door of our shelter. Aloe, my foster mother and his natural mother, calls to us from inside.

“Come in here, Eland . . . are you presentable? Comb your hair and be sure you clean the muck out of those fingernails. Fennel? Did you finish in the caves?”

I move to Aloe’s side, where I know her outstretched arm will be, and take her hand in mine. Her skin is weathered but warm, like the surface of the enormous clay cooking pot in the clearing that never quite cools off. She smells of rosemary, from working in the herb garden, and something else I can only liken to the scraps of pre-Fall metal we sometimes come across in the forest.

“There’s plenty of blankets and firewood, but we could probably use more salt meat,” I tell her.

“We can store what’s left of the boar after the celebration. We’re fortunate the hunting party came across such a large one, and so near to home. The Council is pleased.”

“When will they meet?”

“Soon. Sable and Adder want to perform the ceremony before the Lofties arrive.”

Aloe will join the Groundling Council of Three tonight. One more reason to look up to her. Aloe is the most capable person I know. I was given to her as an infant to foster because she’s Sightless, like me. She taught me to rely on myself first, and others only when absolutely necessary. Her guidance made my childhood much easier.

“Can’t we come, Mother?” Eland says through clenched teeth. He’s combing his hair, but it sounds like he’s stripping the bark off a dead tree. “We want to see you accepted into the Three.”

“Try not to make yourself bald, my love. And no, you can’t. The acceptance is private, like all meetings of the Council.” She kisses him, and her stick taps away toward the door.

“Congratulations, Aloe,” I say. “We’re proud of you.”

“As I am of you both, my children. I’ll meet you later, at the celebration.”

Eland follows her out to check on the preparations, mucky fingernails forgotten. The scent of burning wood and roasting meat rushes into my nose and throat as he opens the door. It makes my mouth water. Animated voices burst through the clearing like startled birds.

I wash my face and hands with the water from our basin and sit on my bed, a low wooden pallet along the wall. I work my fingers through my hair—the same color as the fertile soil of the gardens, I’m told—and a thrill runs through me. I wonder if I’ll be asked to dance tonight.

When a boy asks a girl my age, seventeen years, to dance at the Summer Solstice celebration, it usually means he’s singled her out as his partner—for life, not just for the dance. My best friend, Callistemon, is convinced Bear will ask me. I’m not so sure. We’ve all been friends since childhood, and I haven’t noticed any change in how he treats me. Calli says she can tell by the way he looks at me now. I laugh, but it bothers me that I can’t see what she means for myself.

I don’t know if Bear will ask me, and I’m even less sure what I’ll say if he does. He’s courageous and loyal, and there’s no boy I like better. But . . . maybe I’m just not ready to partner. Aloe didn’t until she was a few years older. I don’t really remember her partner, Eland’s father, but people say they were happy.

I take special care with my hair all the same, twisting it into thin braids here and there, and tucking in the fresh wild flowers Aloe left by the basin. It can’t hurt to look my best.

Eland crashes back through the door to fetch me, and I follow him out. The bonfire blazes now. The heat isn’t necessary on such a warm evening, but a fire makes everything more festive. A group across the clearing from our shelter howls with laughter. Hearing the musicians warming up sends another jolt of anticipation through my body. Calli calls to me as Eland scampers off. She’s talking before I even sit down.

“You look so pretty, Fenn. I love how you fixed your hair! I’m so nervous . . . do you think anyone will ask us to dance? Well, I already know who’s going to ask you.”

I cringe. “Shh, he might hear you.”

“Relax. He’s way over by the roasting pit. Oh, who do you think will ask me? What if no one does? I’d be so embarrassed . . . but I hope it’s not Cricket. He’s so serious. And short.”

“There are worse things than being short and serious . . . like being chronically unwashed.” We both snicker. Hare, one of the boys our age, never picked up the habit of bathing regularly.

“No danger there. I heard Hare’s asking Clover,” Calli says.

“Clover? Really?” She’s been saying she won’t partner with anyone since we were about seven.

“That’s what I heard,” she says, and I don’t doubt her. Gossip is rampant.

More people enter the clearing now, greeting each other with high spirits. Calli and I stand when Rose stops to say hello. Her tinkly voice reminds me of the wind chimes we made as children using pebbles and bits of shell dredged up from the water hole. We touch her tidy round belly, which is as firm and warm as a healthy newborn’s cheek. Not long ago, Rose and Jackal exchanged bonding bands, the leather strips partners wear around their arms as a physical sign of their commitment to each other. Soon after, they announced she was expecting and due when the trees finally shed their leaves. It’s a good time of year to give birth. The baby will be too young to be taken up in the Exchange, this winter at least.

“She’s so lucky,” Calli says as Jack leads Rose off. “They seem so happy.”

“For now,” I say.

“I can’t stand the suspense! I want someone to ask me to dance and get it over with!”

“Why? It’s not like you have your heart set on partnering with someone in particular.”

“I don’t want to be the only one not asked, you know?”

I do know, although I think I’m more willing to suffer the humiliation of not being asked than to agree to partner for life with whoever might feel like asking me today.

“Here comes Beaarr,” Calli says, wickedness in her voice, “looks like he’s bringing you an offering.” I elbow her.

“I snuck a few slices of boar for you both. Be careful; it’s still hot,” Bear says, his voice a low and familiar rumble.

I blow on the meat and then test it out with a nibble. Delicious. Not many large animals are left on the forest floor, and hunting them is always a risk because of the Scourge, so boar’s a special treat. The muscular texture and rich, smoky flavor evoke cherished memories of past feasts: music, dancing, rare carefree moments.

“Maybe this is your old friend, Fenn,” Calli says, like she does every time we eat boar. I smile and agree, like I do every time she says it.

I was almost killed by an animal when we were about ten. We were playing hide-and-seek in the forest, and I was the seeker. Aloe made me memorize every path, bush, and tree in the area around our homes, so most of the time I could pinpoint where I was when we played. But on this day I was lost. As I wandered around hunting a familiar landmark, I heard what sounded like a gigantic boar snorting and charging toward me through the underbrush. Just before the animal reached me it squealed as if in pain and ran back the way it had come, leaving me shaking but alive. I don’t know what caused it to turn around.

“So Bear, who will you ask to dance tonight?” Calli teases.

“Better worry about who’s asking you,” Bear says. “From what I hear, Cricket’s got you in his sights. That is, if he can see you from way down there.”

We laugh at Calli’s tortured moans.

“Don’t you think it’s unfair that only boys can ask girls to dance?” I say. “Why can’t it be the girls’ choice for a change?”

“Tradition,” Calli says, in a high-pitched imitation of our teacher, Bream’s, voice.

“Our traditions protect us from the Scourge,” Bear says in the same voice. He leans closer to me, the smell of toasted wood clinging to his hair, and murmurs, “Who would you ask, if you had the choice?”

I chew a mouthful of meat to buy time. A voice bellows right above us, saving me from having to answer. It’s Calli’s father, Fox. He isn’t one of the Three, but he’s sure to be eventually, when Sable or Adder either die or become too infirm to do their duties.

“Ready for tomorrow, Bear?” Fox sounds like he’s had one too many cups of the spiced wine.

“I still want to know,” Bear whispers to me, before pushing himself to his feet. “We’ll do our best,” he says to Fox. “I hear the Lofties have a new crop of–”

“Rumors, rumors,” Fox says. “Pay no attention. We have the advantage, as always.”

Soon they’re debating which shape of knife is best to use in the fights, or what spear grip will produce the most accurate throw. Other men join them to strategize. Some of the younger children run around us, shrieking with excitement. I lean back on my hands, enjoying the sounds of the people enjoying themselves.

“Fenn?” Calli says.

“Hmm?”

“Aren’t you scared?”

I know what she’s asking about. Now that Aloe joined the Three, I’ll take over her duty and collect the water for our people when the Scourge comes again. I spend hours in the caves every day stocking the storeroom with supplies and food so we’re ready, but we’ll still need water. I shrug, feigning confidence. “Aloe says protection is the gift of our Sightlessness.”

Which may be true, but I’m still terrified. The sighted say the creatures’ bodies are open in patches, weeping pus and thick, dark blood. Their deformed faces are masks of horror. They roam the forests, reeking of festering flesh, consuming anything living. People who survive the attacks become flesh-eaters themselves. Death is better.

I’m supposed to be safe from the Scourge, like Aloe, but I haven’t been tested. I will be soon. To hear the agony of their hunger, smell their disease, feel their hot breath on my skin . . . the idea fills me with dread and loathing. But Aloe has never shown her fear to others, and neither will I.

“I won’t be completely alone, anyway. I’ll have my Keeper,” I say. Calli snorts. The Lofties say the Keeper’s job is to kill flesh-eaters and deter other fleshies—our nickname for the Scourge—from getting too close to me. But everyone knows the Keeper’s really there to ensure the Lofties get their share of the water while the Scourge is here. Secretly I’m just happy someone will be with me, even if it’s a Lofty in the trees. “Aloe insists her Keeper was important.”

“Self-important,” Calli mutters. “And devious. Don’t trust them, Fenn.” We all know the fate of Groundlings who cross Lofties. They’re found with arrows in their chests. Or in their backs. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens.

There’s a rustling, more deliberate than the wind, in the leafy branches above our heads. I sit up.

“What is it?” Calli asks.

“The Lofties are here.”

The talking and shrieking abruptly cease. The clearing is silent except for the chattering of the fire. Fox finally speaks, sounding stiff and formal—and more sober than I expected.

“Welcome. Please join us.”

The woman who answers sounds equally uncomfortable. “Thank you. We brought food to contribute to the feast.”

“Our Council hasn’t arrived yet . . . so I’ll just say a few words in their absence.” Fox clears his throat and continues in his best speechmaking voice—the one Calli and I have heard many times when we were in trouble. “Groundlings and Lofties come together once a year on this day to feast, to dance, and to engage in friendly competition.” I smile as some of the boys quietly scoff at the word friendly. “The Summer Solstice celebration is a reminder that every year given to us since the Fall of Civilization is a blessing, something for us to treasure. It’s a time to reflect on the year that has passed, and to anticipate the year that will be. We honor those who came before us, our elders, many of whom gave their lives to ensure we would have a future.” He pauses. “And we offer a prayer of protection for those who come after us—our children, and our children’s children. May they always be safe from the Scourge.”

The Lofty woman responds to Fox’s traditional words of welcome with their customary response. “We appreciate the hospitality of our Groundling neighbors. We too pray for peace and protection, and for a year of prosperity for all forest-dwellers.”

A respectful silence follows, promptly broken by Bear’s less-than-respectful whisper that the Lofties will need a prayer of protection tomorrow. Calli giggles.

“What are the Lofties doing?” I ask as conversations around the fire slowly start up again.

Bear answers. “Standing around, looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. As usual.”

“It’s kind of sad. They come to the Summer Solstice celebration every year, but they never seem to have any fun,” Calli says.

“They should invite us up to their little nests if they aren’t comfortable down here,” Bear says. “Wouldn’t kill ’em.”

“Why do we bother to celebrate together, when we all keep to ourselves?” I ask. “We can do that anytime.”

“Tradition,” Calli and Bear intone.

“Maybe it’s time for a new tradition.” I stand up, shaking out my skirt. “Where are they, exactly?”

“Over by my family’s shelter,” Calli says. “What are you doing, Fenn?”

Finding out who will be in those trees when the Scourge comes. I weave around the clusters of people, listening for voices I don’t recognize. But I smell the Lofties before I hear them—the intense, slightly bitter resin of their homes, the greenheart trees.

“Welcome.” My voice sounds too loud in my ears. “I’m Fennel. I’ll be taking Aloe’s place collecting water for our communities when the Scourge returns.”

The Groundlings behind me fall silent again, their stares heavy on my shoulders. A Lofty speaks, his voice deep and gravelly.

“Fennel, it’s Shrike. Has Aloe joined the Council then?” Shrike is Aloe’s Keeper. She doesn’t talk about him much, but I’ve always gotten the sense she thinks well of him.

“She was accepted this evening. She should be here soon.” I worry the pocket of my dress with my fingers. “Shrike, could I . . . I’d like to meet my Keeper.”

There’s silence, then someone moves toward me, crunching leaves under their feet.

“This is Peregrine,” Shrike says.

I hold out my hand. It stays extended in front of me for what seems a very long time. I think of myself frozen that way, a welcoming statue found years in the future by someone who happens across the clearing. Embarrassed, but determined not to show it, I thrust my hand out even further.

A hand finally brushes mine. I can tell it belongs to a man. There are calluses on the ends of his long fingers. This Lofty smells different from the others, more like . . . honeysuckle. I liked playing around the honeysuckle in the garden as a child, avoiding the preoccupied bees and soaking in the sweet, sunny scent. It’s the fragrance of summer.

“Hello, Fennel.”

I’m surprised. I pictured my Keeper middle-aged, like Shrike, but this Lofty doesn’t sound much older than me. And while his hand is rough, his voice isn’t. It’s quiet, almost melodious. More like the calls of the warblers that wake us each morning than the predatory screech of the falcon he’s named for. All the Lofty men are named for birds, while the women have ridiculous names like Sunbeam, Dewdrop, and Mist.

“Though I don’t wish the Scourge to return,” Aloe says from behind me, “they will. It’s good that you’ve met.”

“Congratulations on your acceptance into the Three,” Shrike says. “You’ll serve your community well.”

“Thank you,” she says.

Aloe’s voice is different, gentler, the voice she reserves for Eland. She has a bond with this Lofty. I wonder if I’ll have a similar bond with my rough-handed, soft-voiced Keeper.

“So,” I say to Peregrine, “were you chosen because you’re a good hunter? Aloe says Shrike is deadly, as deadly as she’s ever known a man to be.”

“I can use a bow and arrow.”

“Ha, don’t let him fool you. Peree’s one of our best archers. We’re counting on him tomorrow.” Shrike sounds proud, like he’s talking about his own son. Maybe he is. We don’t know much about the Lofties.

Fox’s voice booms across the clearing. “Come, eat, and let the dancing begin! We have some anxious boys here, waiting to find out if the girls they’ve had their eye on for the past year will dance with them.” The crowd laughs, even a few of the Lofties. People all around the fire begin to talk normally again, and the music starts up. I’m relieved that the collective attention seems to have turned away from me.

I smile politely at my Keeper. “I’m sure we’ll meet again, Peregrine, like Aloe said.”

“Call me Peree. Everyone does.”

I nod. “My friends call me Fenn.”

The music starts up. I should go. Bear, or someone else, may be waiting to dance with me. Whether I want to or not. I turn away . . . and a mad idea grabs me.

Ask the Lofty to dance.

I hesitate. Is Aloe still nearby? Can she hear us? She’s one of the Three now, tasked with managing our complicated relationship with the Lofties. There’s no rule against dancing with them, but that’s only because no one has ever tried. Aloe—not to mention the rest of my people—might be furious with me. I decide I don’t care. At least I’ll have made my own choice.

“Peree? Would you like to dance?” He doesn’t say anything. I bite my bottom lip. “You know, dance? I’m not bad, really. I won’t even step on your feet much.”

“Lofties and Groundlings don’t dance together.”

“Why not?”

He’s quiet again. “No idea. Tradition, I guess.” I half expect him to say it in Bream’s voice.

I hold my hand out, palm up this time, challenging him.

I never get an answer. Shrill birdcalls rip through the air—Lofty warning calls. The music dies, and for a moment the clearing is quiet. Then the screaming starts.

The Scourge is here.