The Dirt Eaters (14 page)

A searing loneliness consumes Roan, and he falls silent. In the darkness, he strokes the straw hair of Stowe's doll, making a scratching sound.

“What was that?”

“Something of my sister's.”

“You had a sister?”

“I was escaping with her. I was beaten down. She was taken.”

“She's dead, then.”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Why?”

“Dreams.”

“You've seen her in your dreams?”

“She calls me. But there's something different about her. Changed. I can feel danger and I'm worried it might be coming from her.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't know. I think I'm supposed to be here. It feels right. Somehow this place is connected to it all.”

Roan wakes refreshed the next morning. Curiously, no dreams or visions disturbed his sleep, but a rollicking appetite prevents him from considering the matter. When Sari joins them at breakfast, Roan's slightly embarrassed at the mountain of biscuits, jam, and yogurt he and Lumpy have piled before them.

His mouth still full, Roan looks at Lumpy, then back at Sari.

“We'd like to accept your offer to winter in Oasis. Orin invited me to work in the library while I'm here. Are there any other tasks we can help you with?”

A wicked smile breaks out across Sari's face. “Wonderful. You can help Haron harvest the radishes! You should be even hungrier by lunchtime.”

While Sari leads them through the labyrinthine passageways, she explains, “Haron is the oldest of all of us. Over a hundred.”

“He doesn't look that old,” says Roan.

“Not a day over ninety,” adds Lumpy, with a smirk.

She takes them into the garden, and waits with quiet patience while Haron, in a single graceful gesture, pulls up a radish and places it in a sack.

“Roan and Lumpy are here to help,” Sari tells the old man.

Without so much as a glance at them, Haron pulls himself up and reaches high over his head, stretching. Then he walks over to a storage shed and gathers for each a small wooden trowel and a large woven bag.

“Fill these up. That section over there,” Haron whispers hoarsely.

“Good luck,” Sari says, an amused look on her face, and leaves.

“What was she smiling about?” Roan asks Lumpy.

“I don't want to think about it, but I'm sure it's something good for us. At least,
she
thinks so.”

On the other side of the garden, Roan and Lumpy begin yanking up radishes. Their energy flags only after their bags are half full and their faces are covered in dirt and sweat.

As they inch over to the water cistern, nursing aching backs, they observe Haron still languidly harvesting the crop.

“Bet you he hasn't finished a quarter of a bag,” says Lumpy.

“Let's find out.”

Filling a mug with water, Roan walks across to where the old man is harvesting. He's surprised to see that Haron's large bag is nearly full of radishes.

Haron nods his thanks for the water and drinks deeply.

“I knew your namesake.”

Roan looks at him, confused.

“Your great-grandfather Roan,” Haron says. “We fought to­gether in the Last Battles. I saw him for the final time at the Parting. He was an extraordinary man. Greatest leader I've known.”

“The Parting?”

“That's what we called our decision to quit the war and split up. Your great-grandfather went one way and started Longlight. My group came here.”

“There are others?”

“Yes. They went farther away and even deeper into cover.”

“Do you think they survived? I mean, could Oasis be all that's left, now that Longlight is gone?”

Haron doesn't answer. After a look that penetrates Roan to the core, he hands back the mug and returns to his work.

Adrift in a sea of unknowns, Roan is relieved to find Lumpy still awaiting the word on Haron's radish status. It's more fun than it should be wiping the smile off his face.

“Haron's bag is almost full,” Roan solemnly reports.

Lumpy charges back to work, tugging up radishes at an impossible clip. Roan matches him pull for pull, but soon their hands and fingers are throbbing, and their spines feel as if they'll never straighten again. Bags only two-thirds full, they collapse in the dirt, too sore and tired to go on. At that moment Haron passes by, leisurely lugging his bag, which is overflowing.

“Don't worry, boys, the first time's always the hardest,” he says, biting into a radish.

Determined, Roan and Lumpy remain until they've finished filling their bags. Delivering their radishes to the kitchen, exhausted and wanting only rest, they are then swept off to the community bath.

The bath is a pool of water heated by a steaming fissure in the rock. It's big enough to accommodate ten people, and when Roan and Lumpy arrive, both men and women are soaking naked in the waters. Lelbit, the archer, is among them.

Lumpy hesitates. “Maybe we should come back later.”

“You're not the only one who's lost his skin,” one of the men says as he stands. His own skin is horribly scarred. “I was caught in the Red Rains; a lot of us here were. Come in. You're in good company.”

Lumpy looks at Roan and shrugs. They strip off their robes, then step into the water. It's very hot, with a slight scent of sulfur. A far cry from the cold streams they've been splashing in.

The steaming water makes Roan buoyant. It would be easy to enter into a blissful state here, but he has something else in mind. He signals Lumpy to start up a conversation with Lelbit, who's resting her head on the pool's edge, eyes closed.

“Not now,” Lumpy whispers.

“Go on.” Roan nudges Lumpy.

Annoyed, Lumpy nudges back, but he loses his balance and bumps into Lelbit. Her eyes open, and Lumpy grins nervously.

“Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

She shakes her head. Lumpy keeps going. “This bath is amazing, isn't it? Everything here is amazing. The mirrors are amazing, the goats are amazing...”

Lelbit puts a finger to her lips. She closes her eyes again and lies back to enjoy the bath. Lumpy slides Roan an irritated glance. They both take Lelbit's lead and surrender to the soothing waters.

Looking for a place to set down their overloaded lunch plates, Roan and Lumpy notice Lelbit at a table by herself. Shyly, Lumpy heads over to ask if they might join her. She pulls out a chair beside her, and Roan sits down across from them.

“Sorry for disturbing you before,” Lumpy says.

Lelbit shrugs and has a bite of her bread.

“I heard you found this place the same way we did, looking for the old hospital,” Lumpy says.

Lelbit holds out three fingers, and makes a gesture with her hands of things falling. Then holds up the three fingers again, and pushes down one. Then another.

“Three of you, but only you made it to the infirmary?” Lumpy guesses.

Lelbit makes the falling gesture again, this time over her head. Then points to her mouth. Lumpy shudders.

“The Mor-Ticks got in your mouth,” he says.

She smiles wanly and pours Lumpy a glass of water.

He takes it from her. Their eyes meet, sharing a thousand hurts Roan can only begin to imagine.

WINTER IN OASIS

THE PARTING WAS NOT THE ENDING BUT THE BEGINNING. OUR BEGINNING. THE BEGINNING OF NEW HOPE.

—
THE BOOK OF LONGLIGHT

T
HE DAYS TURN TO MONTHS
as Roan and Lumpy enjoy the pleasures of Oasis. Lumpy and Lelbit have become fast friends, and Lumpy has even taken to goat herding, an activity that Roan knows his companion finds malodorous. But overseeing the animals while they graze on the winter grasses is a small price to pay for afternoons in the sun with his new friend.

Roan is happiest in the library. He spends long hours painstakingly reconstructing the text of a damaged book. For some unknown reason, Orin has given him the task of accurately gleaning the meaning of each sentence. The book is about the raising and education of children, and Roan often finds himself lost in memories of his own childhood. In his spare time, he pores over modern history texts, trying to better understand the events that led to the Abominations. Assisted by the library's map collection, he's able to track the geography of the Last Battles as well.

Roan's curiosity about the past is matched by Orin's interest in the present. The librarian is fascinated by Roan's experience with the Friends, and he has no end of questions about it.

“The Friends claim they limit their Visitations to one a year. Is that what you've observed?”

“That didn't stop them from raiding the Fandor camp,” Roan replies.

“So there are inconsistencies in their belief system?”

“There are inconsistencies in Saint,” Roan says, still struggling to make sense of what he knows. “He's not completely his own master.”

“Because he's beholden to the City?”

“It's not just that. He's bound to this faith he's created. I found a book on Roman religions he keeps hidden in his bedroom, and the pictures in it seem to be the source of the religion of the Friend. Once I told him how each symbol in his faith was connected to a constellation.”

“He didn't know?”

Roan shakes his head.

“And your observation threatened his authority as the one Prophet.”

“Yes, but that wasn't all,” says Roan. “I can't explain it. I could feel his fear. It frightened him that he didn't know, I think. And maybe that he'd never been told. Sometimes I wonder if he found that book, or if it was given to him.”

Roan's jolted by a wild laugh. “What's the difference? Saint's a fraud, and we'll use it against the butcher!” The speaker's a young man with black curly hair and blazing eyes, dressed in a torn, multicolored shirt and ragged trousers. Not exactly what Roan's come to expect of the Forgotten.

Orin is obviously irritated by the intrusion. “Good day to you, Kamyar. So glad to see you're back,” he grumbles.

“I'm happy to be back too,” nods Kamyar, not taking his eyes off Roan. “How could I miss the opportunity? I had to see him for myself.”

“I don't suppose I can blame you,” sighs Orin.

“So,” says Kamyar. “I hear we nearly killed you.”

“Things have turned out just fine,” says Roan.

“Hmm. I think the verdict's still out on that,” Kamyar replies.

Orin breaks in. “Roan, Kamyar is part of a secret we guard. You see, some of the Forgotten venture out of Oasis from time to time as storytellers.”

“I've heard of them,” says Roan.

“You don't say,” Kamyar interjects, a mischievous grin on his face.

“Then you know the storytellers travel from village to village in the guise of beggars, offering a tale for a bite to eat.”

“And in return, we do a bit of feeding ourselves. Of the mind,” Kamyar elaborates. “Each story's a seed, planted to get people to question the lies of the City. To stop for a moment and ask why. Something you might consider doing.”

Orin harrumphs in protest, but Roan's curiosity is piqued. “And you told the story of Longlight.”

“An excellent tale that was,” says Kamyar. “The people loved it. They did. It gave them hope. Now, unfortunately, it's turned tragic.”

“But they think it's a myth.”

“Nothing's more powerful than a myth.”

“It was real,” Roan says angrily. “It was my home, my family.”

Kamyar smiles. He moves so close to Roan their noses almost touch. “So naïve. The only thing that makes them real is you. And you have no idea who you are.”

Roan bristles. “What does that mean?”

“Enough!” snaps Orin. Kamyar backs off.

“I'll come back at a more opportune time, Orin, to consider the stars.” And he's gone.

Orin is apologetic. “Forgive him. Storytellers live in constant danger, and they become a bit outspoken and, well, let's not mince words—rude. But you've been so generous with your answers. Perhaps you have a few questions of your own.”

“What do you know about the Dirt Eaters?”

“Oh, the Dirt Eaters, ha!” the old librarian chuckles and scratches the bald patch on his head. “Not enough, my friend. They are fascinating, though very secretive. We have no facts about them, only rumors.”

“Do they actually eat dirt?”

“Apparently. Well, many medicines are made from dirt of one kind or another. But it is said they ingest a rare kind of soil that allows them to enter into an alternate reality, one that transcends time and space.”

“Does anyone who eats this soil become a Dirt Eater?”

“I don't think anyone who wasn't a Dirt Eater has ever had access to it, or even really knows what it is. But I imagine a Dirt Eater would need to possess a combination of genetic propensity and specialized training. We believe their numbers are quite small. We suspect they are very powerful. Perhaps they can even see the future and travel with their minds.” Orin clears his throat. “At least that's what I've come to understand. Well, I'll leave you at your work now.”

Orin shuffles off, but Roan is given no time to reflect on their conversation.

“Beware the Dirt Eaters,” Kamyar mutters.

“You were spying on us?” Roan says irritably.

“A wise man learns to keep his ears open.”

“And what do you hear of the Dirt Eaters?” Roan asks.

“They believe they know the future,” Kamyar says disdainfully.

“What's so bad about that?”

“What if they're wrong? What if there are other possible futures they don't want the rest of us to know about? What if dirt doesn't make you see at all—what if it makes you blind? Ask yourself, Roan of Longlight, is there only one good story in you?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“I think you do,” Kamyar smirks. “Here's some free advice. Ask many questions. Accept nothing at face value. Create the future as you go.” With that, he turns and vanishes into the catacombs.

Kamyar's a bit overbearing, Roan thinks, but there's nothing wrong with his counsel. Be cautious. Be careful who you trust.

As the days pass at Oasis, Roan often shares a quiet meal with Sari, who takes a deep interest in him and his journey. She's fascinated by his tales of Longlight and his family. When he tells her about the masked invaders and what he found at the Fire Hole, she lowers her eyes and speaks with quiet ferocity.

“This injustice is a terrible blight on us all.”

A sharp desire for vengeance surges through Roan, annihilating his sadness.

Sensing his distress, Sari speaks firmly. “There was nothing you could do.”

“No, not then. I was raised not to fight. Never to hold a weapon. Never to strike out in anger. But I could do something now.”

“You struck out at Saint. Many have tried. You're the first to succeed.”

“I wish I had killed him,” Roan mutters. Then he sighs. “My father would be devastated to hear me say that.”

“You don't know that, Roan. All you know are the beliefs Longlight practiced. You may not fully understand the reasoning behind their purpose.”

“They refused to fight. Just as you do.”

“We carry weapons. We have no qualms about defending ourselves. Or even killing when necessary. In the Parting, those who chose Longlight embraced a philosophy of complete non-violence.”

“Why?”

She takes a long look at him before speaking. “Their vision has left an indelible mark you cannot escape. You will always question the ways of violence and power.”

“What good will that do me?”

“You have tools to defend yourself against terror and domination. With what you know, you can defend others. Your father would not be ashamed of you for doing that.”

“I don't think he'd understand it.”

“I suspect he might,” Sari says. “And I'm sure he understood that this ability bestows power on those who exercise it. You will never use or accept this power easily, Roan. Your integrity will make you a great leader.”

Roan chews slowly, thinking on her words.

Later, in his room, Roan sharpens his hook-sword, honing its edges razor sharp. He holds the sword in his hand, feels its weight, and swings it into the air. He focuses, meditates, contemplates, but nothing comes to him. Is there some truth embodied in his weapon? What did Sari mean about him becoming a leader? What does she know? He senses that she wants something from him, but he can't figure out what it might be. All he can do is follow his instincts and hope they lead him well.

That night and every night after, before Lumpy comes to bed, Roan practices his fighting exercises. He reviews Wolf's lessons on stance and strategy and hand-to-hand combat. He relives his war games with Saint, and their discussions about battle tactics and the politics of conquest. If he has to use these skills, he'll be ready.

The peaceful months at Oasis work their restorative powers on Roan. He slumbers deeply, without dreams, or at least any dreams that he can remember. Each morning, he awakens more and more revitalized. Something deep inside is healing, he realizes. Whoever these people are, whatever their expectations, he knows they wish him well.

When he's not in the library, Roan sometimes gardens with Haron. It brings back memories of many similar moments with his father. Good memories.

“Tell me about Longlight's garden,” Haron says to him one afternoon.

“We grew carrots and peas and cabbage and corn, potatoes and herbs, all kinds of beans and tomatoes in a little greenhouse.”

“Those seeds came from the old gardens we kept in the valley near Heather Mountain.”

“Where the Devastation is now?”

“That's right. The gardens there were big enough to feed a thousand people. One day your great-grandfather woke in a high dudgeon. He insisted we get right to preparing seeds, start sorting and drying them. He pushed and pushed, so everybody got on with it, even though it was a good month before it would usually be done. The second those seeds were ready, the announcement was made. We had less than one day to evacuate. The new Masters of the City had located us.”

Haron pauses, revisiting memories of that day.

“It seemed impossible. Our camp was secluded, secret. The other leaders demanded to know where Roan, your great-grandfather, had got that information. His explanation was met with skepticism, frustration, and anger. He insisted we stop fighting. We were to break up into groups and form new societies based on a plan he'd laid out for us. There were many who trusted him; the man was wise as well as perspicacious. Some of us decided to do what he said. Those who did not accused us of being cowards. They stayed, convinced they were safe. This was the first Parting. Those who left split into four groups, each going separate ways. Our group was only two days away when we saw the airplanes. It was our grief to witness the clouds of noxious smoke released over the valley.”

“Where
did
my great-grandfather get his information?”

“It came to him in a dream. He said the instructions were given to him by a brown rat.”

Roan, unnerved by Haron's words, sits heavily.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. I think so. Just tired.” But Roan is filled with excitement, and as soon as he can he excuses himself, his head spinning.

With each step, new questions swirl into Roan's mind. A brown rat! Was it the same one that visited Roan in his dreams? Did his great-grandfather also see the mountain lion and the old goat-woman? But his musings are halted by Lumpy's voice in the distance. There's a quality in it he's never heard before.

“Show me again.”

In the archery cave, Lumpy is taking target practice from Lelbit. As Roan peeks in, he sees her put one hand on Lumpy's shoulder, then use the other to guide his pulling hand back to draw the string and arrow. Lumpy lets go, and the arrow flies straight into its mark, a painted circle a hundred yards away.