(Note: I am too lazy to add italics. So if the writing suddenly goes into present tense, you'll know why.)
CHAPTER ONE— UNTOUCHABLE
The thump of footsteps on the cold ground made Émon’s head snap up. He felt a bead of sweat slide down his face, warm against the frosty air. Every muscle was ready to move. But the sound came from a fellow laborer bent under a load of bricks, his steps slow against the beat of Émon’s heart. Émon allowed himself to breathe again.
The man’s gaze turned toward him, Émon smiled. The man’s weary frown became a scowl. “Grin while you can, brown-eyes. You’ll be worm meat by sundown.” He trudged past.
Émon sighed, creating a cloud of steam. “And a good morning to you too, Master Sunbeam.” He didn’t need a reminder. He brushed his dark hair out of his eyes and rubbed his numb fingers together. Why didn’t an overseer just confront him and get it over with?
Back to work. He picked up another mud-and-straw brick and placed it on the load in front of him. The bricks now formed a neat cube. Émon frowned at the load for a moment, retightening his sash around his tunic. What do I care if the bricks are stacked right? Most of the other workers just piled them in a heap.
He didn’t know why he felt the need to do a good job. He tried not to care.
Émon stood and stretched his arms, hearing his back joints pop. Once again, he would hoist the huge load to his back. Once again, he would haul it from the brickyard to the storehouse. Two hundred and sixteen steps. Enough beats to sing— or chant, since he couldn’t get his throat to form a tune— seven verses of a song his mother had taught him.
A curse upon the spider-mark
The ink that creeps beneath our skin
The brand that makes us who we are:
A blight to those “untouched by sin…”
The song got more sarcastic with each verse. Émon liked it. After all, it wasn’t fair that a poorly-tattooed spider on his breastbone could make him an Untouchable. His mother said that twenty years ago the tattoo had been only an inconvenience. Now, however… His gaze strayed to the metal-spiked walls ten yards away. No, not fair at all.
“Émon—”
He spun, fists clenched, but relaxed when he saw the sun-weathered man. “Traistal, don’t do that to me.”
Traistal eased down his load of bricks and straightened, crossing his arms. “Nervous today, are we?” His tone was careless, but the look in his gray-green eyes made Émon’s hope sink.
“They know it was me, don’t they.”
“Afraid so.”
“An overseer’s coming to—?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Émon rolled his shoulders and felt the scabs wrinkle. They’ve just begun to heal, too. “It’s going to be a bad one, right?”
“They’ll lay your guts open for this one.”
“Oh.” Émon blew on his fingers to warm them. “Optimistic as usual, I see.”
“Of course.” Traistal wry smile faded. “Afraid?”
He scoffed. “Fear is for the weak, the pitiful, the higher castes. I don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“You’re terrified, aren’t you?”
Émon stared at the far wall for several seconds. “Traistal, when am I going to stop getting myself in trouble?”
“Probably when you die. Nothing like death to teach submission. But look on the cheerful side— if you keep this up, your scars are going to outnumber mine.”
Émon half-smiled. He’d seen Traistal’s back. “Not a chance.”
“We’ll see.”
Émon looked up at the pale sky to stretch his neck. “I heard the men in H-section are making another tunnel.”
Traistal shook his head. “Too disorganized. They won’t make it ten feet.”
“I was thinking I could help out anyway. I’m not bad at digging—”
“I thought you weren’t going to escape.”
Émon tucked his hands under his arms. “Mom’s getting better.”
Traistal showed his skepticism without moving a muscle. “Just concentrate on surviving today, all right?”
“I’ll try.” Émon paused, deciding it was time to change the subject. “So I had another dream last night…”
“Yes, people generally do.”
“About Eiamar.”
Even after two years of knowing Traistal, Émon couldn’t decipher his expression. “And?”
“He was standing on this fog-shrouded hill, looking up at the stars. I don’t think he saw me.”
“And what did the creepy magic voice say this time?”
Émon hugged his cold hands tighter against himself. “Nothing. I just saw the picture, that’s all.”
Traistal knelt beside his load and traced his fingers over the small white scar on his temple. “That’s all.”
“Traistal, why won’t you tell me about him?”
“I already have. That was eighteen years ago, Émon. It has no bearing on this situation.” He touched his scar again. He always did when Émon mentioned Eiamar. “I suspect— no, I’m positive— your mysterious Eiamar is different than the one I knew; that thought leads nowhere.”
Émon plopped down, cross-legged. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
“I agree wholeheartedly.” Traistal touched the load, preparing to lift it. “I’ll be back to gather up your remains when the overseer’s through with you.”
Émon started to rub his toes. “You’re encouraging.”
“When am I not?” Traistal smirked. “Just remember to be useful. If you’re useful, they won’t kill you.”
And if not… Well, those were the terms.
“All right, then…” Traistal heaved the load to his back. “Stay warm.” He turned and walked out of the brickyard. Émon swallowed bile and hoped he could stay alive through one more beating.
If this were his first day or week in the Untouchable camp, that would make sense, but what is a born Untouchable doing using a phrase like “it wasn’t fair”? Seems it would make more sense to say something like “why should a poorly-tattooed spider” or such. You see?
