E (10 page)

That evening, as I take a moment to sit in between the rain
barrels around the back of our shack, I hear their voices coming from inside,
pitched higher than usual, sometimes speaking over each other.  I've never
heard Apollon and Jonas argue, but now, in my mind's eye, I see them, facing
each other down.  I can't make out what they're saying.  I don't
really have to.  Every once in a while, Miranda chimes in, but mostly it's
the two of them.  I visualize Neveah, sitting quietly on the couch,
watching them, listening, but never saying anything.  I imagine Oscar
snuggled up against her, but then, I hear his footsteps crunching softly in the
dirt.

He comes straight to my spot.  The sun is behind me, so he
shouldn't be able to immediately see me there in the evening shadows, but he
already knows exactly where to find me.  He sits next to me, leaning
against the wall, and, for a moment, neither of us speak.

"Get tired of the bickering?" I finally ask, turning my
face to him.  My hands are resting lightly on my knees, my legs bent up in
front of me.

He gives me a little smile.  But he says, "Neveah
brought home lemon drops."  He opens his hand, in the center of which
are two candies. 

I think about refusing, but I know Oscar would rather share with
me than have two for himself.  I pluck one from his palm and pop it into
my mouth, giving him a big smile.

He takes the other, sucks on it for a moment, then says around it,
"They may be the last ones we get for a while."

I grimace at him, shrug.  "We'll be OK."  I
wish I really felt it.

Again, we sit in silence.  My mouth is filled with the taste
of tart sugar, the fragrant scent of lemon oil.  For just a moment, I feel
peaceful.  I like sitting with Oscar.  Strangely, out of everyone
here, he's my closest friend.

His lemon drop disappears in a final crunch and he licks his palm.

I look at him and laugh.  He grins at me.

I lean in conspiratorially and say, "Hey, what's with Jonas'
scar on his arm?  Did he
mark
himself?"  This is
expressly forbidden by the Eighth Law of the New Covenant.  Any permanent
alteration of the body is against the law-- from piercings to tattoos, to
scarification.  I know from somewhere that once, a long time ago, people
decorated their bodies with these things freely.  But now, any kind of
mark could help you track down your past if you've been erased.  This is
why it's one of the Ten Laws.

Oscar's eyes widen at my mention of it.  He glances from side
to side. 

The way he does it makes me want to laugh, but I hold back. 
I feel like a kid, sitting here with him, sharing juicy secrets.

He turns to me and scoots forward a bit.  "I don't
know," he whispers.  "He never talks about it."  Then
he leans forward even more, hesitates. 

I wait.

His face goes very serious.  "It's a compass," he
says.  "It means 'south'."

My eyes flick back and forth as I think about it.  It could
be a compass, I suppose.  And the bottom line extends further than the
other points, aiming for all intents and purposes, southward.  This seems
an astute observation for a eight-year-old.  I'm about to ask about it,
when Oscar starts explaining.

"Jonas and Apollon came from Outpost One," he
says.  "That's north of here.  They came south.  Through
Outpost Two, and then south again, to here.  And whenever Jonas talks
about leaving, he always talks about heading toward Outpost Four.  That's
directly south.  There's Thunder Bay.  That's east of here. 
It's a real city, they say.  But I've never heard him talk about going
there.  He wants to go to Four, even though no one really wants to go
there.  And he wants to go on after that.  South."

"Hmm," I say, mulling it over.  After a moment, I
say, "Do you think he did it before or after?"

Oscar purses his lips.  "Why would he do it after?"
he asks, logically.  "Too big of a risk, for what?  And it's
definitely been there for a while.  The scars look old."

I nod.  This kid is pretty smart, I'm thinking.  But I
lean in and smile.  "That's
crazy,
" I whisper.

"I know!" he whispers back.  We grin at each other,
co-conspirators. 

I'm about to come up with some insane plan to get him to ask Jonas
about it, when we hear screams somewhere off to the west, and then what sounds
like a gunshot.  We frown at each other, get up, and hurry inside.

***

Oscar is not allowed to come with us-- a decision I'm glad
of.  Even if Apollon and Jonas are being overly cautious, I would rather
Oscar be safe at home.  Of course, he's not happy about this at all, and
even gives me a dark look and a pout as we're heading out.  I counter this
by wrapping my arm around his shoulders and squeezing.  He's smiling when
I glance back at him from halfway down the path.

The Rustler is full tonight, and the card table is already
crowded.  When Lloyd sees me coming, he bows out and offers me his
spot.  Since none of the people at the table are on my no-play list, I
take a seat and toss my silver in.  I glance around at the faces. 
I've played with all of them before, save one.  The girl I remember from
my days as a beggar.  She still looks tough, and her two pets are sitting
at the bar not far away from where mine take up their usual spot.  I watch
as the two pairs greet each other with a nod.  No hostility.  No
friendliness either.  I study the girl again, wondering if she's a decent
player.  She sees me looking and stares back, obviously trying to psych me
out.

"I don't think we've met," I say, tilting my head. 
"I'm Eden."

"So I heard," she says bluntly.  She doesn't offer
her name. 

Jacob clears his throat.  "Eden, Sarah," he says,
nodding from me to her.

Sarah decides for sure that she doesn't like me when I win the
first hand.  Her eyes glint as she watches me take my winnings.  Not
that anyone else looks excited about it either.  I signal Arthur to bring
us a round and make sure I lose the next hand, even though my cards are
decent.  Jonas and Apollon look tightly wound.  Jonas is carrying
tension in his shoulders.  He may have agreed to this, but he doesn't like
it.  Convincing him to let me play again soon will be difficult,
especially if things get catty tonight.  So I have to win.  I have to
make enough to get us through for a while.

I win with three of a kind, and then a pair of eights when I don't
mean to.  I can't help that everyone else who stayed in the game was
bluffing. 

Sarah's eyes narrow on me.

The next hand, I have a straight flush, and there's plenty of
money in the pot.  Sarah raises the bet.  It's my turn.  I
consider folding, but I can't just pass this one up.  I can't walk away
from all that money.  "Call," I say, tossing my coins in.

It's the wrong decision.  The blood drains from their faces
as they scan my cards on the table.  I reach for my money. 

Sarah, twitching, says, "That sure is some interesting luck
you have there, Eden."

But before the sentence is out, Sumter is on his feet with a knife
in his hand.

Everything explodes in one simultaneous blur of motion. 

I kick my chair back, leaping to my feet.  Sarah jumps up,
too, and goes for her belt knife.  A thin silver blade whizzes by me and
sinks its point between the bones on the back of her hand.  Behind me, by
the bar, is a crash.  I grab for my belt knife, free it from its sheath,
and bring my arm up to block Sumter's blow, but I'm thinking I'm too
slow.  Instead, he crashes backward, breaking a chair as he falls to the
floor.  Jonas is on top of him with a knife raised in the air, teeth
bared.  He brings it down hard, slamming it into the wooden floor, slicing
into Sumter's cheek and notching his ear in the process.  Thick red blood
splashes from the wound.  The bar falls silent.  Everyone
freezes.  I glance back.  Apollon stands over Sarah's friends, who
are both on the floor on their backs, with their hands up in submission.

Apollon gives me a look.  I grab my money, pocket most of it,
and back away toward him.  Twenty percent I toss to a gaping Arthur Adner.

Jonas eases off of Sumter, wiggling his knife to free it from the
floor.  "Next time I kill you," he growls.  He takes two
broad steps to Sarah and yanks the small blade from her hand with a nasty
flick.  She yelps, then whimpers.  He looks her in the eye as he
pours someone's drink over both the blades to clean them.  "Both of
you."  He turns his back on them and stalks out the door. 
Apollon and I follow.

We make it outside and ten paces down the street before people
start bursting out of the place, bolting in different directions.  No one
wants to be there when the Sentries show up.  Jonas, Apollon, and I are
not the exception.  We head home at a jog.

***

Apollon tells the tale of our excitement, embellishing it with
words that should probably have stayed in the poems he read them in. 
Miranda is horrified, Neveah listens with a creased brow, but Oscar responds
exactly, I think, as Apollon had hoped.  He only seems disappointed that
he missed being there first-hand.  I thought it would worry him, but
apparently since it is over, and we are victorious, it doesn't faze him at all.

I wish I could say the same for myself.  During the actual
fight I didn't have time to think about dying, about being knifed where I
sat.  Now, it's all I can think about.  I try to stop shaking. 
It's no use.  My fingers clutch my knees.  No matter how stiff I make
myself, I can't seem to stop.  So I chew uncontrollably on my lower lip,
trying to focus on the pain.  The feel of my teeth sinking in, crushing
the flesh into a small bulge between my upper and lower incisors.  The tip
of my tongue pressed against the smooth skin inside my mouth.  The first
sharp, salty flow of metallic-tasting liquid.

The problem is, no matter what I think of, I end up back at the
same place.  I don't want to die.  I can't die yet.  There's something
important that needs my attention, first.  That same restlessness.  I
take slow, measured breaths, but I want to scream.  To run.

Neveah's hand touches my shoulder, then pets my arm.  So
gentle.  So soothing.  I meet her sorrowful eyes, manage to flick the
corners of my mouth into a smile of thanks.  She squeezes my arm.  I
lean against her.  Her arm goes around my shoulders, her hands clasping
each other just below my throat.  I sink back and close my eyes, wondering
again if I have a mother somewhere.  If she ever held me like this. 
If I will ever know. 

I snuggle against Neveah while Miranda and Oscar cook
dinner.  When I finally open my eyes, Jonas is sitting across from us
looking at me with a blank expression.  He's thinking hard about something,
but about what I don't know.  I don't think I'll ever be able to read
him.  He sees me looking and unhurriedly turns his gaze to the others-- to
the dinner of hot corn porridge oozing slowly out of the mouth of Oscar's pan
onto our plates.

After dinner, I decide to take a bath, an attempt at
self-soothing.  This time I run water into every pan we have and place
them all across the stove top.  A warm bath.  It sounds heavenly.

Neveah helps me carry my pans of water to the tub and pour them
in.  She leaves a packet of herbs for me as well-- probably another of her
ongoing ministrations to ensure my foot heals up properly. 

By the time I've finished my bath, I'm no longer shaking.  I
dry myself with the frayed towel, and dress.  Looking in the mirror, combing
through my dark, wet hair with my fingers, I almost recognize the person
staring back at me.  At least, I've seen her before.  My tongue
traces the lumpiness where I've chewed my lip, still tasting blood.  I
pull it down to examine the injury and freeze.

Staring back at me, the girl's eyes go wide.  She holds her
lip down, pinched between two fingers.  A speckling of blood reveals where
she's chewed her mouth.  I hardly notice that.  It's the black
letters, clearly printed across the inside of her lower lip.  One
word.  One name.  "Jason."

I shiver, taking a step back.  I eye the girl warily. 
She gazes back at me.  We're at a sort of impasse.  Her eyes are
alarmed, questioning.  But this is my lip.  Not hers.  It's my
secret.  Even now, the word is inside my mouth.  It has to be upside
down and backward, or I wouldn't be able to read it like this in the
mirror.  That means it's not for someone else.  It's for me. 
Just for me.

I close my eyes and sit down on the toilet, letting out a long
breath through my lips.  My head swirls.  My brain spins.  Ideas
are screaming so loud I can't hear any of them.  I need a moment. 
Just a moment.  Breathing.  I'm OK.

At last I’m able to open my eyes and start to think.  A
jumble of emotion jostles around inside me, but I can approach it from a
distance, halfway logical.  The first question is, why?  Why would
someone risk their life to write a name permanently on their skin?  It is
hidden, yes.  The Sentries missed it.  Or is this why I was erased in
the first place?

The idea brings bile and anger rising from my stomach.  Would
I have risked my whole existence for a name?  For
whose
name? 
Jason.  I repeat it over and over in my mind, trying to feel, to suck any
meaning out of it.  Jason.  Jason.  Jason.  But the name floats
far away from me.  A stranger.  Who was he?