RATED PG-13 FOR VIOLENCE AND DISTURBING IMAGES
CHAPTER ONE-- UNTOUCHABLE
The thump of footsteps on the cold ground made Émon’s head snap up. Despite the frosty weather, sweat slid from his forehead down his face like tears. But the sound came from a fellow laborer, limping by, bent under a load of bricks. Émon watched him. His almond-brown eyes fixed on the man with his usual intensity; he always looked at people. Really looked, never glanced.
Their gazes met. Émon smiled. The man’s face hardened as he turned away.
Émon rubbed his shoulders, reminded yet again of the crime he’d committed earlier that day and the inevitable consequences. He drew a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the dark locks out of his eyes. He forced his stomach to unknot. Why didn’t an overseer just confront him and get it over with?
Heart beating a little quicker, he picked up another mud-and-straw brick and fitted it snugly between two others on the load in front of him. The bricks formed a large cube, tightly stacked on the burlap sheet.
Émon frowned at the load for a moment, retucking his tunic into his sash to hold it in place. What do I care if the bricks are stacked right? Most of the other workers just piled the bricks in a heap.
He didn’t know why he felt the need to do a good job. He tried not to care.
Émon sat back on his heels. Once again, he would hoist the hundred and seventy pounds to his back. Once again, he would trudge the ninety yards from the brickyard to the storehouse. Two hundred and sixteen steps. Émon had counted.
He touched his breastbone, running his fingers over the spider tattoo that marked it. The picture was a sign to everyone in Naryen-Mair. Stay away—this creature is defiled! A few drops of ink beneath his skin had cursed him as an Untouchable and chained him to a work camp since his birth.
He stood and stretched his arms, hearing the joints in his back pop. Again he heard footsteps and pivoted to face the newcomer. Every muscle tensed, then his shoulders slumped in relief. “Hello, Traistal.”
Traistal, black-haired and sun-browned, always kept his chin up as if he were nobility instead of a slave. Though twenty years older than Émon, he had been Émon’s only friend in the past two years. He set down his load of bricks, shaking his head slightly. The somberness in his gray-green eyes made Émon’s heart sink.
“They know it was you,” Traistal said.
“Is someone coming to—?”
“Yes.”
Émon rolled his shoulders, and felt the scabs that striped his back wrinkle. They’ve just begun to heal, too. He tried to speak calmly. “Should I expect a bad beating?”
“They’ll lay your guts open for this one.”
“Oh.” Émon could never fault Traistal for being too optimistic.
Traistal spoke offhandedly. “Afraid?”
Émon cleared his throat. “Traistal, when am I going to learn to stop getting myself in trouble?”
“When you allow the overseers to break your spirit.” He laid a firm hand on Émon’s shoulder. “If I can keep going at thirty-seven, I think you can at seventeen.”
“Sixteen,” Émon corrected.
“Your birthday’s tomorrow.”
Émon’s heart sank further. “Oh.” He gazed into space, the pale gray sky above the walls that caged him in the work camp. Suddenly, he remembered the dream he’d had last night. “Traistal, about tomorrow—”
Traistal shook his head, and Émon read in his eyes what his mouth wouldn’t say. You might not be here tomorrow. Traistal bent to pick up his load. “I’d better get back to work before an overseer catches me dawdling.”
“Traistal, it was another dream about Eiamar.”
Traistal straightened, raised his eyebrows. “And?”
Émon hesitated, remembering the image from his dream: a muscular, blue-eyed man standing on a fog-shrouded hill. “He was gazing up at the stars, I don’t think he saw me. And I just… felt this voice.”
Traistal’s face settled into an expression Émon had never been able to decipher in the two years he’d known him. “What did the voice say?”
“‘Behold, it is Eiamar. He is the answer, the key to the Untouchable’s freedom.’” Émon shivered as he remembered the chilling whisper that had haunted so many of his dreams. “Then the voice faded. And I knew, I don’t know how, that something wonderful or horrible would happen tomorrow.”
Traistal knelt beside his load and absently ran his fingers over a small white scar along his left temple. Émon waited for him to comment, but he didn’t. At last Émon said, “Traistal, why won’t you tell me about him?”
“Haven’t I already?”
“All you said was that you two were friends and then you split ways before the camps were formed.”
“That’s all you need to know.” He touched his scar again. He always did when Émon mentioned Eiamar.
Émon sat down heavily, cross-legged, and massaged his bare toes for warmth. “What does it all mean?”
“It means you have to live through this beating.”
Émon sighed. “Why can’t you tell me?”
“What makes you think I have something to tell?” He heaved up his load. “I’ll be back to gather up your remains after your overseer’s through with you.”
“You’re encouraging.”
“When am I not?” Traistal smirked. “If the advantages of your work outweigh the disadvantages of your rebellion, you’ll survive.”
And if not… Well, those were the terms. Émon and Traistal both knew it.
Traistal laughed grimly. “I hope to see you later.”
“You too.”
“Well…” Traistal paused. “Stay warm.” He turned and strode out of the brickyard. Émon swallowed bile and prayed he would live to see another sunrise.
* * *
An explosion of pain plunged Émon into the world of unconscious. He swam furiously away from it when he first passed out, then slowed when the coolness of sleep obliterated feeling. He sank deeper, savoring the nothingness— he wouldn’t wake, not for a long time. Just floating in the void, heedless… until he descended into a dream, a memory of nearly twelve years ago.
He was five, sitting on the floor and running his fingers over the dirt. Several other children near his age played together in a corner of the shack. Some sort of singing and hand-clapping game. A few of them were probably his siblings, but Émon was never sure. As usual, they didn’t include him in their game. Émon stared at the dirt, listened to their chorused rhyming, a ritual he would never be part of. The only time he’d ever tried, the other children covered their ears and yelled at him to stop.
Émon’s mother, Shaitha, sat cross-legged on the ground nearby, hugging to her breast a sickly baby whose only parent was working a late shift. The child tugged a lock of Shaitha’s silver-brown hair as Shaitha talked to another mother.
Émon didn’t listen to them much, too absorbed in the dirt, too distracted by the children’s game. Just fragments of conversation— something about incomprehensible concepts such as “freedom” and “the old days.” He stopped for a moment when he heard the other woman say, “We have our young emperor to thank for our chains.”
“Feron-Shious,” Shaitha breathed.
“Curse his name.”
Émon raised his head and spoke a rare comment. “Someday,” he said, “I’m goin’ ta punch Feron-Chious in the face.”
Both mothers laughed. Émon smiled, and somehow felt that everything was going to be all right.
With a flash of white light, he was torn from the comforting moment and plunged two years ahead, into a dream of dust, of sweat, of fear.
He was seven, a scrawny boy whose sunburned skin clung to him. He hunched over a tray of bricks molds and pressed mud into them with his hands. His stomach gnawed at him. Food… When will I get food… He glimpsed movement and turned to watch Shaitha kneel beside him. She ruffled his hair. “Rations soon, son. Just one more load and we can rest.”
Émon held up his palms. Blood seeped from raw scrapes where he’d run his hands over the rough mixture hour upon hour. His voice quavered. “They hurt, Momm.”
“I know, Émon, I know.” Shaitha embraced Émon and kissed his head. Émon snuggled against his mother, closing his eyes tightly. If only the pain would go away, the constant ache of his legs and arms, his stinging hands, the knot in his stomach.
Shaitha began to hum softly. A lulling tune, a sad tune, one that made Émon want to cry every time he heard it. Still, it was oddly comforting. Shaitha gently rocked him, Émon clung to her, soothed by the mournful melody.
At last she released him. “Be brave,” she whispered. Shaitha kissed him on the cheek, and her cracked lips left a bloody mark.
She stood. Émon missed the warmth of her embrace, nothing could hurt him when he was in his mother’s arms.
With a deep sigh, Shaitha stacked three sets of molds on top of each other and heaved the load up. She took a single step, wavered.
“Momm?” Émon said uncertainly.
Her breath came a little faster, louder. She quickly dropped to her knees, setting down the trays.
Émon sprang to his feet and bounded over to her side. “Momm— don’t— it’s all right, I can take one.” Hands throbbing, he lifted a tray. It weighed nearly as much as he did, but he vowed he wouldn’t fall.
“Thank you,” Shaitha gasped. She stared for a moment at the trays as if they weighed a thousand pounds, then slid her arms under the burden and lifted it again. “Follow me.” She shuffled toward the kilns. Émon trailed behind, gasping with the effort.
They filed through the gate to the brick-baking yard. A wave of heat blasted them as they entered. Shaitha staggered.
No, Momm. Don’t fall, don’t fall. Émon’s arms felt like they were on fire now, burning with effort. Don’t fall…
“Hurry up!” An overseer snapped his whip in their direction. This was the first day Émon had seen this young man. The new overseer’s face was hard, jaw set; some of the Untouchables were mocking him behind his back, others asking stupid questions and pretending not to understand. Even in his short time of work, Émon had seen this happen before— most Untouchables took great delight in pushing new overseers until they snapped.
A murmur of singing from a corner of the brickyard became intelligible: “Gi-rec, Gi-rec, son of a werak…”
So the new overseer’s name was Girec. Which rhymed with werak, mongrel. Girec turned sharply toward the corner and demanded who was singing. Shrugs, muttered comments, but no one had obviously been singing.
Émon followed his mother toward the kilns. He could feel Girec’s anger rising as the song broke out in another part of the area. It immediately silenced when he turned to face it, only to return, louder, in another corner.
Shaitha faltered again, slowed. Émon focused on her, trying to ignore Girec’s growing rage. Hurry, Momm, please hurry! Shaitha’s thin arms strained, sweat dripping down her forehead.
Now the chant sounded in spurts from different areas. Girec seized his whip, turning from side to side, unsure who to attack. He was losing control, Émon could see it. He turned sharply toward the loudest chorus of the song— directly into Shaitha’s path.
Shaitha came to an abrupt halt, nearly crashing into Girec’s back. She tried to retreat, but her foot snagged on uneven ground. She lost balanced, stumbled sideways, crashed into a stack of bricks that were dry but still unfinished. Mud exploded everywhere, dotting Émon with clay. The pile of bricks toppled and shattered.
Girec whirled, his wrath focusing on Shaitha. “Idiot!” he yelled.
Shaitha lay face down on the ground for a moment, then struggled to her knees. Her blue eyes shone with terror. Girec seized her arm and yanked her up, shouting in his rage. “That was two hours’ work you shattered, bitch!”
“Sorry—” Shaitha gasped.
“I don’t make quota, I don’t eat! You realize that?” He flung her to the ground.
Émon didn’t breathe.
Shaitha staggered upright again. “I’ll work extra tonight, I’ll—”
Girec struck her with a blow that sent her sprawling to the ground. “Not good enough!” His whip was out now; Émon stared as the cord sang through the air, slashed her arm.
She screamed. Émon’s tray slipped from his hands, crashed to the ground. Momm! She screamed again— he dashed toward the overseer, seized his burly arm. “Stop!” he yelled. “Stop!” Girec shouted an obscenity and flung him aside. Émon hit the ground hard, stunned for a second. Another shriek—
Émon staggered to his feet, grabbed a heavy kiln-fired brick and threw it as hard as he could.
The brick hit Girec in the chest with a dull thud. The overseer stumbled back, gasping.
Émon didn’t hesitate. He ran.
Two, three, four bounding steps; Girec’s whip curled around his legs and sent him flying to the dust. Before he could move again, the cord lashed his chest, again and again, ripping his flesh, scattering drops of blood. Pain— blind, burning pain— He screamed until his lungs hurt, and then unconsciousness finally rescued him.
Can you tell I'm happy?
) Don't let anyone talk you out of the "momm" thing, it works, it really does.
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