The infidels didn't make her hide her face. The infidels didn't print rules on how to properly beat her. The infidels weren't driven from the land, as her sons believe.

  She was there. She saw it with her own eyes.

  The planes fell from the sky, but it wasn't from anything they did. Even when the air was free, those on the ground were not driven away. They simply left. The rubbled tanks were not destroyed by the soldiers of the faith, the infidels destroyed them before they left. She was young when it happened, but she remembered waving to them as they marched through the town.

  No shots were fired. No chants for them to go home.

  She remembered crying when the last one faded from her view.

  Infidels.

  Even that young, she knew. That was when things started getting worse.

  She saw a glimpse of something small, just on the other— no, it was two— they weren't dogs or animals. The shadows slipped behind the sparking pile of appliances again.

  "Oh, my merciful God," she said, running out the door.

  "You two! Yes, you!" she said, "Keep away from that!"

  As she got closer to the dangerous pile, she was better able to make them out. A little boy and a little girl. They couldn't be more than a few years old. The girl was naked, except for an old plastic hardhat and a torn, unbuttoned shirt. The boy just wore a pound or more of mud and dirt.

  "Keep away from it, I say!"

  But the two backed closer to it.

  The woman stopped. They either didn't know what she was saying or were more afraid of her than being electrocuted or burned. She stopped approaching, then glanced up at the night sky. When the infidels left, it was just blotches of fluorescent blue at night, like big, blurry stars. Now the stars were hidden behind their glow, in a night sky that was almost filled, about as bright as a half moon. The sparks always seemed worse the brighter it pulsed. Animals were drawn near the pile for warmth. It was very warm. They found something dead on it at least once a week.

  She wasn't going to let that happen to two children.

  The boy picked up a stick, then waved it in the air before falling on his bottom.

  Instinct made her take a step closer, but she held back the motherly need to run to a hurt child.

  The girl took the stick from his hands and whacked it at a sparkling spot in the pile. A smoldering cat flipped out. The girl poked it twice, touched it with her foot, then worked it back onto her stick for another few minutes on the pile.

  The girl was cooking.

  In the most dangerous, most insane way possible.

  "Oh, my merciful God, no, Child, you kids can't be playing around with that," she said, using her most motherly tones.

  The boy was back to his feet and none too happy to see her a step closer.

  She tried stern and firm, pointing at the ground near her, "Come here." She pointed again, "Here." She did a circle with her finger. "Here. Right here."

  The girl poked the cat with her stick again.

  Fzzzzzaaafzzz. The pile dimmed as the girl adjusted the pokes. The smell of burnt fur was actually a lot fainter than she would have expected. She was, after all, cooking a cat. But electricity cooked in a weird way. It tended to do a good portion of its cooking from the inside out. If the cat was positioned right.

  The boy kept a constant eye on the woman, until the cat smelled done. When he turned his attention to the girl with a stick and a cat's worth of dinner, the woman ran up and snatched the little girl, right out from under her hat.

  The boy kicked and scratched as the little girl silently flailed, but the woman had made up her mind to save them both. She wasn't about to set the girl down until she had them both inside the house. "Reaha! Reaha! Come out and help me," she hollered for her oldest girl as she neared the window to their room.

  Three of them showed at the door. "What is it, Momma?"

  "Quick, come here and catch this one," she said, pushing the boy down with a firm swat on his forehead.

  He was dazed, but wasn't hurt.

  Reaha grabbed the boy, but he popped out of her hands like trying to eat jello with fingers. She grabbed him twice more, each time getting slimed with a layer of mud and grime.

  "Watch yourself, he's liable to kick, might even bite," the woman said, then looked back to the closing door. "Where do you two think you're going?"

  "You said 'Reaha', not—"

  "Help your sister."

  The bathroom was a small, confined space with the smallest of windows and only one door, the perfect place to put the boy down.

  "Whose you think they are, Momma?" Reaha asked.

  "I'm not sure that matters, Child." The woman turned to her youngest, "Ashina, pull that wick up a little, I want a better look at them."

  "But Momma, it's already smoking as it is. You know how Daddy gets about that smell in—"

  "Just for a minute, Child. Just for a minute."

  They looked like they could have been anybodies' kids. They were scratched up, bruised up, cuts on their toes, a few on their ankles. The thick skin on their feet meant they probably never had shoes. The girl had chewed her nails, but just her right hand. The boy acted like he was allergic to water and spilled more than any of her boys. The mother touched a spot on the girl's elbow.

  The girl pulled back, cradled it with her other arm, opened her mouth, but silently screamed in just a heavy exhale. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  The light dimmed. That was all the smoke Ashina was willing to risk. But it was enough.

  Oil lamps were used sparingly. The oil was plentiful, excessively so, but they lacked easy ways of refining it. Dark, thick, black smoke with a dingy yellow flame was hardly worth cleaning the house to use. It was much simpler to stop doing when it got dark.

  The bright side was outside. Unless it was overcast, most nights, moon or not, they could play chess, eat dinner, and dance in the streets. When she was newly married, it wasn't uncommon to have grand dances outside. It was a social thing to do.

  But the state cracked down almost immediately. She was still hazy on just why it was immoral, but it was deemed to be. Just like showing skin, and rules for bedroom doors.

  Few went outside at night, except the men.

  She used to wonder, was even a little jealous about what they did. Now she was just grateful they were gone.

  They put the children in the girls' room. Each would take a turn keeping them quiet and still. Outside was not a safe place to be, whoever they belonged to. The mother would deal with the two in the morning. She needed sleep and time to think.

  But most of all, she needed to look asleep when her husband came home.

  She rose early, careful not to wake him when she left for the kitchen. She most especially did not plan to be in his bed when he woke.

  Breakfast was simple. Buns were all they had. Flour and rice and a bag of dried corn. It didn't leave a lot of variety, but it was what everyone had. Except the leaders. They dined on fish and feasted like kings.

  Buns woke her boys first. Which was fine, her girls weren't allowed to eat with her sons. It was stupid, like most of the rules. But it gave her an excuse to leave and check in on the newest two again.

  "They just sat on the floor in the corner, Momma," her youngest said. "I think the girl's the only one who slept at all."

  "They try to leave?"

  "Not that I saw, but Reaha had them first. She's still asleep."

  The boy looked funny in real clothes. The smallest clothes she could find were still a baggy fit. She remembered when that was a fad her boys had gone through, but there was nothing fashionable about this. She sat by the two in the corner, a bun in each hand.

  "I'm hungry too, Momma!"

  "Shhh! I have some for you, too, but I think you can wait a second, don't you?"

  The boy stared at her like she was insane, looked at the girl, then grabbed both buns from her hands and retreated back to the corner.

  She tried to get one back, but was growled at. Not enough to alert her boys, but enough to stop her. She hoped to find who they belonged to today, without anyone else knowing.

  She was off to a good start.

  The boy wasn't wolfing it down. He just nibbled at one.

  That was a good sign that they weren't starving.

  She handed out the other three. It wasn't a full meal, just a pre-breakfast. They usually had a long wait before the girls would be allowed to the table. By then, the food was often cold.

  She snuck them food whenever she could. Her girls tended to be too thin anyway.

  Her boys left after lunch, her husband had been gone since breakfast. The men worked with shovels digging fresh irrigation ditches. Without powered equipment, shovels were the only option left, and drought was a constant state for as long as she remembered. Back when they had power, irrigation could be pumped for miles to fertile land. It was a tragic irony that most of the land near water was worthless.

  She tied a rope to the two children and led them out of the house. She didn't like how it looked, tying up children like cattle, but they had proven to look sweet, only to turn into chaotic terrors the second escape seemed possible.

  She knew most of the women in her village from prayers. She checked with the gossipiest two first. They knew all the comings and goings and every leaf on every family tree. But they didn't know these.

  She knocked on doors all day.

  Nobody knew, or even saw any family resemblance. And, with food so tightly rationed, none had enough charity left in their hearts to open their homes to two more mouths.

  She handed each a cold bun. It was all she had left in her pocket. They sat on a bench near the edge of the village. The girl was very cute. They both were darkly tanned, brown eyes, black hair. They weren't old enough to really 'look' like anyone. Not yet.

  Her husband had wanted her to have more children. To add to God's army. She wanted children too, but not for that reason.

  A little girl.

  She didn't know about other villages, quality news was rare, but none in this village had had a child in years. Her youngest, Ashina, was one of the last born here, six years ago. She got pregnant easily, but six years was a long time. They should have, even without trying.

  Whose could they be?

  The boy bolted, stopped by the end of his tether. It was another random attempt, he didn't give up. For some reason, he seemed to think that her being distracted loosened the knot.

  Logical, for someone who couldn't be older than two or a very malnourished three.

  She reeled him back in. "Come on, let's go home," she said.

  Both started tugging toward the appliance pile, instigated by the girl. When they both teamed up, it almost amounted to something. She stopped them before they got too close by picking up the little girl. Feet off the ground, their pull was cut in half.

  Instead, she pointed and tugged.

  Another cat. This one was dazed, not dead. Paralyzed, it was still panting. Fresh.

  A decade ago, and even in the worst of when the infidels walked this land, they never ate pets. Chicken yes, cats, never. She considered it. The pile nailed, stunned, or flat out killed something every week or so.

  The boy mashed its head with a stone.

  She looked around. Nobody saw. She covered it with some cloth and hurried it inside. Meat was meat, and it took but a causal look at their cupboards to know they couldn't turn away any food out of pride or stubbornness. She knew eating a lion was a sin, but letting her family starve when one was delivered to her door was a bigger sin.

  Wooden spoons, clay dishes, she barely remembered the taste of metal as she struggled to carve with a shard of broken glass.

  It was just a few pounds, but it made an excellent soup with rice and corn.

  She was surprised that nobody asked where she got the meat, or cared what it was. Not a word. At least, not about the meat.

  "They are not our responsibility, woman," her husband scolded.

  "They are the children of ours. How far could they have come? Fifty miles? All within that are of our faith. Should we turn out the children of believers in need?" She was on her knees, the proper posture for a woman being scolded. "Their parents, whoever they are, should be found. If they are still alive, then they are our responsibility until we find them. If they are not, then they are our responsibility, either way."

  He wasn't swayed. He knew she was right, he just couldn't find the right scripture to let him shuck two more mouths from his table.

  She said nothing else and remained on her knees as he paced. Say as little as needed, that was her secret. It seemed the best secret to survival in these difficult times after the infidels.

  When she first married him, he would never thought of hitting her. Now he had it posted on the door. He went with the flow. The pressure of what everyone else did. They hated the infidels because everything was their fault. She hated them because they left, and this was the result. "If it weren't for the infidels, they'd probably still have parents," she said.

  That set him off. He loved to hate, the two children would now fuel his anger. By the end of his sermon about the evils of the non-believers, he was now dedicated to some level of aid for them as a part of his personal jihad against the infidels.

  Sometimes, she won little wars, too.

  Chapter 3

  Sylia, the name they gave the little girl, was incredibly quiet. Most of the time, they never knew if she was in the room. She was often helpful, at least she tried to be. Drying dishes was a perfect example. She seemed incapable of just drying it most of the way. She spent more time chasing droplets than anyone else spent on actually washing the plate. When done, she had to stack them, all facing the same direction, in pairs, all designs aligned. It was frustrating to Ashina, the one most often subjected to her assistance.

  Then there was the constant playing in the mud. Especially when she got together with Tour, the name they came up with for the boy. Neither was any help with the well. They might make the walk all the way down, but would always have to ride back, and even working together they lacked the strength to wrestle anything bigger than the two-liter bottles.

  The mother continued to look for relatives, but nothing came of it, now nearly half a year later. They were not from this town, or related to anyone in it. The next closest was fifteen miles and that was simply too far to take them.

  Besides, she liked them. They had grown on her. She liked the idea of having a son that her husband wanted no part of.

  Yes, she liked that idea a lot.

  "Momma, you should come out back," Reaha said.

  "Sylia!" She ran over to the burning mound and scooped up the child too near its edge.

  Somehow she had set fire to a pile of dirt that was now pouring black smoke everywhere. It was so hot, she couldn't get any closer that ten feet to find out what was truly burning.

  "Sylia, what in the most merciful God are you doing?" she said, a good distance from a blaze now raging even hotter.

  Sylia seemed completely oblivious to being nearly burned alive.

  She sniffed the girl's fingers. "Fuel! How much did you use?" It wasn't anywhere near winter and the stuff was plentiful, but it shouldn't be wasted. She looked around and found an empty container. It wasn't one of theirs, which didn't make it any better. "Where did you get it?"

  Sylia just kept looking at the pretty flames.

  "Who did you get it from?"

  "Momma, I know you're mad," Reaha said, "but she hasn't made a sound since you found her, I don't know what makes you think she's going to start now."

  She set the girl down, held her hands one at a time, and slapped the backs of them. Very loud, but not very hard.

  Sylia fell to the ground like she had been savagely beaten, tears running down her face without a single sound other than heavy breathing. It was heartbreakingly sad.

  "I'm sorry, Child," the mother said, "but it's for your own good. You can't be setting things on fire. What if you burned the house, or our neighbors'? You can't, just can't, ever do that again. Ok?"

  Sylia just hugged her knees and stared at Reaha while silently sobbing.

  "Come on, get up. Let's go inside," the mother said, taking a careful look at the blaze. It wasn't in danger of burning anything down. Nothing was near it. She thought about using their precious water to try to put it out, but it seemed unnecessary. And, more importantly, it would be a waste of water. Depending on the type of fuel, it may even make it worse. She held out her hand to the child again. "Come on."

  She got up, but hid behind Reaha instead.

  The fire burned and smoldered for three days.

  There were only three bedrooms in the house. One for the boys, one for the girls, and one for the parents. For now, Tour and Sylia shared the girls' room. But that wouldn't last forever. The boys refused to let Tour share theirs— they refused to recognize the boy at all.

  Sylia left her bed of old cushions on the floor and pulled the chair next to Reaha. Reaha had long hair and, for some reason, Sylia was fascinated by the oldest's morning brushing ritual.

  She sat patiently in the chair and stared.

  When Reaha was done, Sylia took the brush and pulled the hairs out, one by one. She straightened them, folded them, then placed them in the trash.

  She did it every morning. It was weird. But harmless. And it resulted in a clean brush, so Reaha didn't complain.

  Tour was still asleep on the cushions. The girls didn't regard him as a boy either, but they wouldn't change in front of him, all the same. Sylia, without being prompted, drug him groggy from the room.

  It had rained that night. Not a lot, just a little, but it was enough to wash most of the sand off the roof and down into the barrels at each corner. Well water was no longer needed for washing, but was still preferred for drinking and cooking. Partially full barrels meant baths. It was a treat.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17