The Dirt Eaters (17 page)

From a closet, Alandra brings out a metal chair with wheels. Roan stares.

“Where did you get this?”

“As I said, we trade for things.”

“With who?”

“Sit down. I don't want you on your feet yet.”

Roan settles in the chair, and Alandra pushes him outside. The houses on her block are beautifully covered in ceramic tiles with glazes of dazzling hues. Each house has a small, immaculate garden festooned with flowers. Roan even admires the road itself, which is made of sparkling slate. Leaning back as Alandra rolls him along, he sees shiny solar collectors dotting all the rooftops and wires, connected by poles, hanging overhead. They carry electricity, he surmises. The whole community seems to glow.

As far as Roan knows, goods and technologies like these are only available from the City. Fairview must have strong connections there, maybe even connections to Saint. Those links don't bode well for Roan. He won't be safe here for long. He may already be in danger. The moment he's able, he'll flee.

Instead of an outdoor market, there are shops with big glass windows along the main street. Behind each window lie wonders beyond Roan's imagining. Electric bread toasters, eggbeaters, and other shining appliances that he's never even seen in books; all kinds of meats; clothes in the most amazing variety of fabrics and styles. There is an outdoor place where people sit drinking sparkling liquids from glasses or sipping from steaming, finely crafted cups. Roan's intrigued by their frilly clothing, which he can't imagine would be useful for anything but sitting at tables in order to drink, eat, and talk.

“You seem shocked,” says Alandra.

“I've never seen anything like this. It's a different world.”

“Same world, more extreme.”

Two finely dressed young women, each appearing about five months pregnant, saunter over to them. “Who's this, Alandra?”

“He's the one they found at the gates,” says the other, lighting a thin cigar.

“His name is Korr,” Alandra tells them, then singles out the one with the cigar. “How are you feeling, Isobel?”

“Fine,” Isobel says, dragging deeply. “That remedy you gave me worked like a charm.”

“It would work better if you put that out.”

“Don't be a nag,” Isobel says, blowing out a stream of smoke. She catches Roan staring at her.

“Don't tell me you don't approve either.”

“Where did you get it?”

“From the store,” Isobel replies, puzzled. She gives Alandra a look. “Cute. But odd.”

“Would you like one, Korr?” asks her companion.

“He's too weak.” Alandra looks pointedly at Isobel. “And remember, when you start your sixth month, you have to stop. That's in three days.”

“I know the rules. That's why I'm chain-smoking now.”

Continuing the tour, Alandra points out the building where water is purified. Smoke spews out of the plant's chimneys, and there's a steady hum from the generators inside. “Our water table's infected by the lake. Before we had clean water, our people were ill all the time.”

In Longlight, the community used the stuff of nature to purify soil and water: porous stone, healing herbs, mineral compounds. Fairview's method of decontamination uses machines, apparently, adding more pollution to the land. Like much of what Roan sees here, it's strangely contradictory. Alandra points out a thick plume of smoke rising from a single tall chimney up ahead. “Another generator,” she announces. “It's powered by the red stick trees near the lake. They grow fast and are rich in resin.”

Roan faintly remembers Lumpy pulling him through those trees, by the steaming lake. He hopes Lumpy is still out there, still safe. He needs to thank him for saving his life.

Roan wakes from his nap later that afternoon to find Alandra returning home with an empty satchel.

“Your friend ate every bit of food I left for him. The satchel was still hanging on the branch where I left it. Contents missing.”

“That doesn't mean it was my friend who took it.”

“He's made himself a crawlspace using a mossy pad for cover.”

Roan eyes her. “You know where it is?”

She nods. “He knows what he's doing. Herders graze their sheep and cattle in that area, and peddlers often go through there. I even saw some signs that Blood Drinkers had been that way.”

“I have to get to him!”

“Don't worry,” Alandra says. “There was no sign of any struggle taking place. Another thing,” she adds, “this friend of yours likes to eat bugs.”

Roan leans in. “How do you know that?”

“There's a small termite hill there. I found legs and feelers scattered around.”

Roan smiles. Lumpy's alive and feasting on his favorite cuisine.

DIRT

TALES HAVE BEEN TOLD OF A DIRT AND THOSE WHO EAT IT. LET THEM WALK IN THEIR DREAMS, IF THEY WILL. AS LONG AS THEY LEAVE THE WORLD TO ME.

—
LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS

T
HE LONGER HE'S IN FAIRVIEW
, the more Roan finds himself consumed with questions. Alandra is young, at most a year or two older than he is. She's a busy healer who spends every waking moment looking after the residents. She is gracious besides: readily agreeing to take provisions out to Lumpy, making the snow cricket a little bed in a trinket box and providing it with succulent grasses to nibble on.

But Roan can see that Alandra's taken on too much responsibility. A great sadness seems to weigh on her, a dark cloud that seldom lifts. She never questions Roan's past, though, so he doesn't feel he can pry into hers, and his feelings for her are tinged with uneasiness. She seems to be silently judging him, and Roan is sure he's falling short of her mark. He longs for the sympathetic ear of someone he trusts. The old goat-woman hasn't appeared to him since the day he arrived in Fairview. Nor have any of the other figures from his dreams. Have they abandoned him?

During the long hours Alandra's away from the house, Roan exercises to maintain his fitness, tensing and relaxing his muscles. He visualizes his martial arts movements, mentally perfecting his technique. His instincts tell him he won't be safe in this town for much longer. When the time comes, he has to be ready. At the end of his workout, he revels in the time he has to play his recorder, delighted to be teaching himself new melodies.

One morning, Roan takes a moment to examine Alandra's bookshelves. Most of the books in her library are concerned with medicine and healing, but there's some poetry and even a few volumes in a language he doesn't recognize. He's laboring over the words in one, trying to guess their derivation, when the sudden appearance of the well-fed man dressed in black thwarts his efforts.

“So, Korr, you're a reading man.”

Brack, the governor of Fairview. What is he doing here? Roan has met him a few times before, during his wheel-arounds with Alandra. Although they've done little more than exchange pleasantries, Brack has barely managed to mask his antipathy toward Roan.

“Yes, I know how to read.”

“Well, not many of you around, to be sure. Reading is on my list of important things to learn. Right under finding out who you are, where you're from, and why you're here.”

Roan chooses his words carefully. “I'm from the other side of Barren Mountain.”

“Yes, yes, I've heard that, but I'd prefer a more precise accounting.”

Roan meets the man's gaze straight on. “My town is called Rainfall. We're governed by the Lee Clan.”

“And why did you leave?”

“Our village has a tradition. When you turn sixteen, you go out on the road, see the world. Then, when you come back,
if
you come back, you are considered a man.”

“So you're not a man yet.”

“Exactly.”

Brack scowls. “Have you settled your bill with Alandra yet?”

Roan's relieved to move on to other matters. “A bill hasn't been mentioned.”

“We're a generous people here in Fairview, but we don't have much patience with freeloaders. Everyone pays their way, and if they don't, we have a place to put them.”

“Once I'm out of this chair, I'll work until my debt has been paid.”

“Thank you, Governor, but I can do my own bill collecting.” Without either of them noticing, Alandra has made her way into the room and is eyeing Brack coolly.

“Forgive me, Alandra, I just wanted to be sure...”

Alandra smiles. “I appreciate your concern. Truly,” she says. Roan doesn't miss the flush that crawls up the governor's face as she touches his arm.

Brack bows to Alandra, then nods curtly to Roan as he goes.

Once the door closes behind Brack, Roan can't stop himself from making a personal observation. “He likes you.”

“Yes.”

“He seems...old for you.”

“In the early days, when Fairview was sacked, my parents were killed. I was left for dead. Brack found me and carried me to a hospital. They saved my life. When I came back to Fair­view five years ago, he remembered me, took me under his wing. He hasn't gotten out of the habit. I'm like a daughter to him.”

“That look he gave you wasn't exactly what I'd call fatherly.”

“It's more complicated than you imagine,” Alandra says with unexpected vehemence.

“It didn't seem that way.”

She glares at him. “You have no right to talk to me like that.”

Roan looks down at the floor. “I'm sorry. You're right. I just—”

“What?”

“I don't trust that man,” Roan says without looking up. But after a moment, Alandra speaks with a softness in her voice.

“I appreciate your concern, Roan of Longlight.”

Roan's jolted by surprise and fear. “How do you know my name?”

Alandra walks into her apothecary, indicating that Roan should follow. Wheeling through the doorway, he sees the shelves remain crammed with jars: jars tall and stout; jars in strange shapes, one like a turtle, another like a snail; jars translucent, opaque, and sparkling; jars filled with powders in a vast array of shades. Roan recognizes some of the powders, because Alandra's been feeding them to him for different purposes. One the color of cobalt to defeat the Nethervine poison; an amber one to heal his wound; a turquoise dust to strengthen him. Then, on a high shelf, he spots the small, nondescript jar of violet powder half-hidden behind a large, handsomely glazed container.

“That jar. May I see it?”

Alandra passes the jar to Roan. His hand dips, unprepared for how heavy it is.

“The weight doesn't match its size.”

“It's very special.”

Roan nods. “I saw you eat some of this.”

Alandra can't hide her surprise. “When?”

“When I first came here.”

“You were unconscious.”

“Part of me was, and part of me wasn't. I can't explain what happened. But I saw you take this.”

Alandra stares at him dumbstruck, and he knows. “You met me in the dream. You're a Dirt Eater. The goat-woman.”

“My mentor taught me many things about soil and healing. But one of the most” —Alandra stops, searching for the right word—“
compelling
things she gave me is in the jar you're holding. Go ahead. Open it.”

Roan removes the lid. He looks closely at the dark purple soil.

“Everything in my apothecary is dirt. This dirt comes from a place far from here, where a meteor fell over a century ago. Your great-grandfather discovered it.”

“My great-grandfather had something to do with this?”

“He had everything to do with it. He was the first Dirt Eater.”

A flurry of emotions surges through Roan. Did my parents know my great-grandfather was a Dirt Eater? They must have, Roan thinks. Did they believe I'd become one too?

“When we eat this dirt we are able to travel to the Dreamfield. I was lucky to have a mentor who was one of the disciples of your namesake.”

Roan considers the information. A woman's face comes into his mind, and he says the name out loud. “Sari. Sari is a Dirt Eater.”

Alandra nods.

At once, everything clicks into place for Roan. “Sari found you in the hospital. She trained you and then sent you back to Fairview. Sari is the mountain lion, isn't she?”

“Yes.”

“There's still so much I don't understand. Tell me, why can I go to the Dreamfield without eating the dirt?”

Alandra hesitates. Roan finds her expression hard to read, but the hint of resentment in her voice is unmistakable.

“There has never been a Dreamwalker like you. You go without the dirt, without training, without struggle, without knowing anything at all.”

Alandra's words hammer at Roan. He's desperate to learn more. “How long have there been Dreamwalkers?”

“As long as there have been dreams, or so the myths say. But the art was lost. The first person to recover it was Roan of the Parting, your great-grandfather. Still, we are all bound to the dirt. Somehow, though, he had faith you would come.”

“How?”

“No one knows how. We just know you are the one he foresaw.”

“What about my sister?”

“I've told you all I can for now.”

Roan bristles. “Why won't anyone tell me what's going on? I need to know!”

Alandra stiffens. “A little knowledge in the hands of the ignorant is a dangerous thing.”

“Who are you to judge me?”

She glares at him. “Have no fear, Roan of Longlight. I would not presume. But I agree with the assessment of those who do. Your attitude proves you're not ready.”

“If I'm ignorant, it's because I was kept that way. I have shown nothing if not a willingness to learn.”

“Yes, and everything depends on it. Sari believes in you; I pray she's right.”

Alandra pinches some dirt from her jar and inserts it between her gum and cheek. She wheels Roan into the living area, then sits down beside him on a soft chair.

“In a few minutes, I'll become drowsy, and then I'll be there. In the Dreamfield. You need to close your eyes.”

“I've gone there with my eyes open, too. I've seen the lion that way, I've heard the rat speak to me. But it was never under my control. They just appeared.”

Alandra nods, a look of grudging awe on her face. “Follow the line of light from the soles of your feet up your legs, through your spine, and out the top of your head.” She taps a slight indentation in the center of his skull. “Go with the light out of this spot. And keep your eyes closed. That way, if anyone comes into the room, they'll think we're napping.”

Roan closes his eyes and lets his attention drift down to his feet. He breathes softly through his nose, as if drawing some unseen energy up from the floor. Then, like the first flames from a smoldering fire, a column of light slowly rises. Up his legs, merging at his pelvis, shooting through his back and neck and head. A hole opens at the top of his skull and, as the light pillars out, Roan's consciousness flies with it.