Wanderers (21 page)

“Not working!” she yelled at Aras.

Desperate, Esther looked around for anything else she could use. In Prin, everyone used dirt to put out fires. She searched farther and as she did, her eye fell on an orange plastic sack:
ARM & HAMMER BAKING SODA
.

On an impulse, she ripped it open and dug a hand into the soft, white powder. Cautious, she tossed it onto the flames, and they died instantly, sending up a plume of smoke. With that, she hoisted the heavy bag and upended it over the fire, shaking it to spread it evenly. Within seconds, the entire inferno had been extinguished.

“What'd you do?” Aras asked.

“I'm not sure,” Esther answered. Yet there was no time to explain.

“Skar!” someone shouted from outside.

Esther took a quick glimpse through the window. A figure stood on the edge of the parking lot. He wore a bow across his wiry chest, and his quiver still held two arrows wrapped in dripping cloth. Although she had only met him twice, she had no trouble recognizing Tarq.

“Skar!” he shouted again.

He sounded more desperate than angry,
Esther thought.
Maybe he could be reasoned with.
When she moved to the door, Eli grabbed her arm.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm going to talk to him.” When Eli started to protest, she cut him off. “We got no other choice.”

“Let me go instead,” he insisted. But Esther shook her head.

“I know him. I bet he thinks it's beneath him to shoot a girl.” Unsure, Eli turned to Aras, who nodded.

“Let her go,” was all he said.

Esther pushed open the metal-and-glass door with a screech of rusty hinges. As she stepped outside, the light of the setting sun blinded her for a moment. Although she had spoken with assurance, her heart was pounding.
I better be right,
she thought.

Back inside, Aras was already scrabbling through their supplies until he found what he wanted. It was the primitive throwing stick Skar had fashioned from wood and a sharpened bicycle spoke.

“Keep it on him,” he said to Eli as he handed it over, “in case she turn out to be wrong.”

In the parking lot, Esther stood still. On the other side, shimmering waves of heat danced around Tarq, making it seem as if he were standing in a field of tall grass. She held her hands in front of her, palms up, to show she was unarmed.

When he saw who it was, Tarq's face darkened with anger. But he did not raise his weapon, Esther was relieved to see. She crossed the lot, taking care not to make any unexpected movements.

“Where is Skar?” he said.

Esther shook her head. “That doesn't matter. What matters is she wants to stay with us.” As she drew even closer, Tarq visibly tensed; still, he did not cock his bow and arrow.

“Answer my question,” he said in a harsh voice. He nodded toward the diner. “Is she inside with the others?”

“No,” Esther replied. “So you'd better go, 'cause we ain't handing her over.”

In one move, Tarq was on her. Seizing Esther with one arm, he grabbed an arrow, which he pressed against her side.

“I have no fight with you,” he said into her ear. “But I will kill anyone who tries to stand between me and my partner.”

Tarq wrapped an arm around her neck. Esther could hardly breathe; although he was not much bigger than she was, it was like a band of steel around her throat. She gagged from the overpowering stink of gasoline that enveloped them both. Now he jabbed her with his weapon; it broke through thin cloth and bit into her ribs.

“Are you going to tell me where I can find her?” he said.

“He's got her.” At the window, an agitated Eli drew back the stick as he attempted to take aim. Then he put it aside with a grunt of frustration. “It's no good,” he said to Aras. “He's got her too close. If I miss, I'll hit her instead.”

Aras only nodded. “Then all we can do is wait.” Although he seemed calm, his knuckles were white as he held his dog's chain.

Esther felt the hot spill of blood down her side. She struggled to break free of Tarq's grip, twisting her neck into the crook of his arm and trying to pry his fingers loose, but it was no good; he was too strong. She had always prided herself on finding options when none seemed left. But as her mind continued to race, she realized she had nothing left but the truth.

“Killing me won't bring her back,” she whispered. “And you'll have to kill me, because I ain't telling you where she is.”

Tarq hesitated.

The girl was right; taking her life would not bring him anything. And even if she were bluffing, he could not help but feel a flicker of admiration for her courage. But he was aware that there were faces pressed against the diner windows, watching. He could not bear to look weak, especially in front of others.

“Very well,” he said, his voice hardening. The girl had stopped fighting; she hung in his arms as defenseless as a pigeon . . . and just as easy to destroy. She seemed to be daring him to do it, which infuriated him even more.

Tarq made his choice: He had to finish what he started. But before he could shove the steel-tipped arrow between her ribs, he heard a familiar voice.

“Stop!”

Like a ghost, Skar materialized from behind a cluster of trees on the far side of the parking lot, looking taller than her slight frame. Tarq noticed she wore a new bow across her chest and that a skinned rabbit dangled from her belt. Trailing by her side was another norm, apparently a girl, heavily cloaked and hooded.

Tarq hesitated, and in that instant, Esther was able to wrench herself free.

From inside the diner, Eli lifted the stick again. “She's clear,” he hissed to Aras. “Should I shoot?” But Aras held his hand up, listening.

“Wait,” was all he said.

“Skar,” said Tarq, his small teeth gleaming in a wide grin.
How easily he smiled,
Skar thought,
when he wanted something badly enough.
In three steps, he crossed the asphalt lot toward her. “I have come to take you home.”

The variant girl stood still. “I already am home,” she said.

Tarq made a dismissive sound. Then he went to take her by the wrist. With a swift move, Skar avoided his grasp; she knew better than anyone that it was like a manacle, impossible to break. “I do not expect you to understand.”

Tarq stood there, more rattled than he cared to admit. This Skar seemed a completely different person than the one he knew, both stronger and older; and she appeared to mean what she said. For the first time, he felt flicker of unease and so he decided to change his approach.

“Things will be better,” Tarq said. His voice softened and he spoke with as much sincerity as he knew how. “Maybe I have not always done what is best. Maybe I should have treated you in a different way. You are written on my skin, and in my soul.” He reached an awkward hand to brush her face, but, unmoved by his words, she again evaded his touch.

“And you are also written on my skin,” she replied in a toneless voice, “but only because you have done so against my will, and with your fists and your feet. I am no longer yours. “

Tarq's eyes grew steely. “You cannot undo what our laws have decreed.”

“Then I no longer accept our laws.” Skar seemed to spit the words. She held out her hand and the cloaked figure next to her stepped closer and took it. “This is my partner now.”

Tarq stared at the obscene sight before him. Skar was openly holding hands, intertwining fingers, with a girl with strange golden hair. His mind could not take it in and he burst into incredulous laughter.

“But she is a norm,” he said at last in a mocking tone. As his laughter died down, he could not disguise the disgust and horror in his voice. “And she is a girl. Have you decided you are now a boy, Skar?” He gestured at the circle tattooed on Skar's upper arm. “Didn't you make another decision a long time ago?”

At this, Skar smiled for the first time. “I'm still a girl,” she said. “And I love this girl.”

Blind rage flared in Tarq's breast. Without thinking, he stepped forward and smacked the female norm once across the face, hard. She fell to the ground, her hood falling back to reveal a face so hideous that Tarq recoiled. The day's unreality increased, and the variant felt faint. Yet he wasted no time.

He seized Skar by the throat so quickly, she had no time to use her weapon; the knife she had pulled from her pocket fell to the ground. “You will not bring me such dishonor,” he breathed. “I will see both of you dead first.” Then he began to squeeze.

“Tarq,” said a voice.

The variant boy looked around. It was Esther.

Standing next to her was a norm, a boy, who stood with a throwing stick pointed directly at Tarq. He did not seem all that comfortable handling the weapon, yet he was standing so close, it would have been impossible for him to miss. On her other side stood a boy with long hair and dark glasses. He was holding onto, barely, a wild dog on a chain, an animal that snarled and growled, its sharp-fanged jaws flecked with foam as it struggled to break free.

Outnumbered, Tarq let his weapon clatter to the ground. Then he released Skar. She fell to the side, choking and coughing. With difficulty, she crawled to Michal, and the two girls clung to one another.

The variant boy squeezed shut his eyes, bitter in defeat. Then he raised his head high as he braced for death.

Killing him was certainly what he would have done in their place. He comforted himself knowing he would at least die as he had lived, with bravery and honor, and as a warrior.

Yet after a few seconds, nothing had happened.

The boy holding the wild animal was addressing Esther in a lazy voice. “We kill him or no? Whatever you say.”

“No,” replied Esther, distracted. She was too busy staring at her oldest friend, Skar, who was now helping Michal to her feet. She should have noticed them growing closer on the road, yet she had been preoccupied with other things. It made all the sense in the world, yet she was still surprised. “Skar?”

Catching her gaze, Skar gave a shy smile. “Yes,” was all she said. Michal put her arm around Skar, and Esther smiled at them.

Incensed, Tarq snatched up Skar's knife and again turned to Esther.
This time,
he thought with blind fury,
he would finish the job.
But in the next moment, he was thrown to the dusty ground and pinned there by Eli.

“Give me the knife,” a voice said.

Surprised, Eli looked up. It was Skar. Eli forced the weapon from Tarq's grip and slid it over.

“Now bring him to me,” Skar said. As the others watched in silence, Eli obeyed, dragging the struggling variant boy up with him and pushing him in front of her, who held the weapon high.

Panting, Tarq faced his former partner with a look of defiance. With one swift movement, Skar reached across with the blade as if to caress his face and Tarq gave a cry of surprise, not pain. She had drawn a new and bloody line on his cheek.

He recoiled when he realized it was shaped like a teardrop.

“You only live because of our pity,” she said. “And now everyone will know it.”

Eli let Tarq go. Then they all watched as he stood and stumbled back down the highway.

As Skar began slapping away the dust that marred her robes, Michal put her arm around her. “We don't care what others think,” she said. Although she saw no judgment in anyone's eyes, she could not help but sound defensive.

“It doesn't matter,” Esther said. “Variants and norms, I mean . . . we're all the same.” She turned to the others. “I saw it once. Aima's baby, in Prin? They told everyone it died, only they really left it for the variants.”

The two girls stared at her.

“I always wondered,” Skar said at last, a smile dimpling her face. “We could never make our own babies . . . we always found them. And now I know.”

By the time Tarq returned to the variant camp, he could barely remember his original plan to kill Skar and then concoct a reason for her disappearance. All he knew now was that he had been humiliated. He tried to use mud to hide his new scar, as he had once taught Skar. But it still tormented him beneath the dried dirt, itching and burning like a taunt.

When he reached his home, he was told that Slayd wished to see him.

What happened next was a blur. The variant leader spoke to him alone, with poorly disguised fury. It seemed that in Tarq's absence, people had reluctantly at first and then in greater numbers come forward and told Slayd their suspicions, strange things they had noticed in the past. Unusual noises coming from Tarq and Skar's home late at night. Bruises that no mud could disguise. A once-happy girl made fearful and depressed.

“Can you tell me,” Slayd said, though it seemed he already knew, “what they're referring to?”

Tarq did not have the will to defend himself; he merely shrugged.

“How is my sister?”

Tarq hesitated. Then he shrugged again, shutting his eyes. “She is living.”

Slayd's eyes narrowed. Reaching across, he wiped away the mud caked upon Tarq's face and saw the mark of pity that had spared his life.

Visibly restraining himself, Slayd ordered a punishment he deemed appropriate: Tarq was to be Shamed. Shaming did not entail physical banishment, as the norms' Shunning did; it was more devious than that. For although one who was Shamed continued to live with the others, no one could speak to him or socialize with him. It was the lowest form of existence within the variant community; it was like being buried alive.

As mortified as he was, Tarq could not believe his ears at first. “Please,” he said.

Then, weeping, he begged to be beaten instead.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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A
FTER
T
ARQ LEFT
, E
STHER STEADIED HERSELF AGAINST A STRAGGLY TREE
near the restaurant's front door. The air was thick with the stink of gasoline, melting plastic, and smoke.