The Scourge

by

A. G. Henley

Copyright © 2012 by A. G. Henley

All rights reserved

Cover design by Jenny Allen

www.be.net/jennyallen

Image Copyright Jose AS Reyes, 2012

Used under license from Shutterstock.com

To RFH - for your love, support, and patience. And for finally reading it.

To ASH and WRH - for being the kind of people
that great tales are told about.

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.