The Dirt Eaters (8 page)

With that, Feeder turns to leave. Roan follows him outside only to see Brother Raven, as usual, standing by.

“He seems excited,” Raven simpers.

“Does he?” Roan asks.

“I could have sworn I heard him talking about a bull.”

“He says you found one.”

Brother Raven sighs. “He should know better than that, speaking of the rituals to you. But I understand. He's jealous, of course.”

“Why would he be?”

“You're a favorite of the Five. You take meals and motorcycle rides with the Prophet. Through Brother Asp, you're a hero in the villages. Brother Stinger's convinced you have a gift of some kind. You received Brother Wolf's most prized weapon, and you have my undivided attention. While poor Feeder—well, let's just say he's been a disappointment. But don't you worry about it, I'll have a talk with him.”

Brother Raven's words only add to Roan's concern. Why had Feeder come to see him? What was he trying to say? He'd seemed so...afraid. Roan needs to find out why.

The next night, on his way to read to Saint, Roan sees two figures silhouetted by candlelight cast on the wall of Brother Raven's tent. One sits. The other stands over the first, speaking close to his ear. The standing figure appears to be Brother Raven, and Roan is able to identify the seated figure as soon as he speaks.

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” is all the person says. But Roan knows the voice. Feeder.

He can't make out the words, but it's clear Raven's manipulating the cook. Roan resolves to speak to Feeder about this strange incident the first chance he gets.

When he reaches the main room in Saint's tent, Roan finds it filled with candles. On the table, in front of the Prophet, is a bottle with a brown scorpion floating at the bottom.

“Sixteen years old today. Happy birthday, Roan of Longlight.”

“How did you know?”

“Brother Asp told me. I think we should celebrate.”

Saint opens the bottle, and Roan smells a familiar thick, tart scent. “Scorpion brew.”

Saint fills two small glasses with the liquor and hands one to Roan. “This is an important moment. Today we toast your entry into manhood.” He lifts his glass. “To Roan of Longlight, newest of our Brothers.”

“I'm not there yet,” Roan reminds him.

“In a few weeks you will be. But you already shine so bright it's fair to say those words. You are a huge asset to our cause.”

Saint throws back his drink. Roan takes a gulp from his own glass, and his mouth explodes. Then he buckles over in a fit of coughing. Saint pounds him on the back, gasping with laughter.

“The brown scorpions are small, but their poison packs a punch,” he says, handing Roan a pitcher of water. Roan drinks deeply, flushing the foul spirits from his mouth. “It's an acquired taste.” Saint smiles.

Roan picks up his glass and swallows the remainder of its vile contents. He manages to keep it down by gripping the table. After a few minutes he exhales, surprised that his organs still seem to be intact.

“Nothing like it,” says Saint.

“I think you're right,” Roan replies, feeling a little dizzy.

“Take the bottle.”

“Are you sure?”

“When it's finished, bring it back and we'll eat the scorpion together.”

“It may take a while.”

“We have plenty of time.” Saint laughs gently to himself.

“What is it?”

“When I was sixteen, that bottle wouldn't have lasted a night.”

“You'd drink a whole bottle?”

“I'd drink whatever I could get my hands on. I had a lot of demons. I was convinced drink would frighten them away.” He looks hard at Roan. “But my demons were older and craftier than I was. I needed the Friend to help me cut them down. You see more clearly. You acquire knowledge and await opportunity. You are patient, Roan of Longlight. You lead by example.”

A whistle outside the door announces a visitor. Saint calls him in. It's Brother Wolf.

“I'm sorry, Brother Saint, but we have some preparations...”

Saint curses, remembering. With hasty apologies to Wolf, he turns to Roan. “Go into the library and find us some new books. I'll be back in an hour or two.”

As soon as Saint is gone, Roan wraps the bottle in a cloth and puts it in his carry bag. Scorpion brew could turn out to be useful.

In the library, Roan lights some candles and begins sifting through the books. He makes a small pile of volumes he recognizes from his father's library. He'll take them to his own quarters to study. Plato's
Republic,
a history of the French Revolution, Machiavelli's
The Prince,
the
Tao Te Ching, The Tibetan Book of the Dead,
and
Satyagraha in South Africa
by Mohandas Gandhi. His father often spoke of Gandhi. He called him “the warrior who never fought.” Roan opens the book and reads about the word “Satyagraha,” which is actually three concepts combined into one. “Sat” means truth. The commitment to see it and express it. “Ahimsa” is the refusal to inflict injury on others. To practice Ahimsa, you must genuinely love your opponent. “Tapasya” is the willingness for self-sacrifice—not in striving for victory, but in helping your opponent also see the truth. Roan's eyes sting. He wants to tear the book's pages out. These ideas killed his parents, killed Longlight. But what lay
behind
his people's self-sacrifice? There had to be more to it than the simple refusal to fight. Gandhi preached Satyagraha for freedom. What was the truth Long­light died for?

As he puts his father's books in his carry bag, Roan feels the snow cricket scrambling out of his pocket. Landing by the door, it bounds away. A little off-balance from the scorpion brew, Roan lurches out of the library and follows the cricket down the canvas hallway. After a few seconds, the little insect leaps out of sight.

Close behind, Roan enters what must be Saint's bed­chamber. It's a simply furnished room, with only a woolen mattress and carpets to cover the floor. The cricket perches on a rug beside the bed. Roan hesitates. This is Saint's private place. Roan doesn't want to leave the cricket in here, so he moves toward it. The insect disappears beneath the rug. Roan, baffled, lifts the fabric, revealing the stone floor. The cricket sits motionless on the smooth rock.

As Roan reaches out his hand for the cricket, he notices a fine crack in the stone. Leaning closer, he follows it until a shape is discernable. An opening. Roan takes his knife out and slips it into the divide, prying up the rock. A metal box. He touches the box, feeling its cool surface. He wants to open it, but he hesitates. This is surely a private possession. He has no right to trespass. He puts his hands back on the rock, ready to close the secret compartment again. But the cricket jumps on the metal box, skidding brightly on the dark mottled surface, and Roan can no longer resist. He grips the lid and lifts it off. Inside is a book:
The Religions of Ancient Rome
.

Roan picks up the book and leafs through it. His eyes catch on an image of a bull being slain by a man, surrounded by a bird, a snake, a scorpion, and a dog. The chapter is called “The Cult of Mithras.” It explains that the cult followed a religion practiced by the Roman army, and an illustration shows a group of warriors praying as a young soldier is baptized in a stream. Another illustration shows the god Mithras being born out of a rock, his sword raised high, fallen stones at his feet. There's another of a cave called a Mithraeum, a place decorated with depictions of Mithras. Soldiers sacrifice a bull to their god, its blood pouring onto an initiate.

Captivated, Roan keeps reading. He learns that thousands of years ago, the sun rose in the constellation of Taurus the bull every spring equinox. While Taurus ruled the sky, the celestial equator passed through the constellation Taurus, then those of Canis Minor the Dog, Hydra the Snake, Corvus the Raven. The same constellations Roan had pointed out to Saint the night they returned from Kira's village.

Over the years, according to the book, Taurus's position in the sky began to change, and the bull was gradually replaced by the constellation Aries. Mithras, whose name came from ancient Iran, was thought to have moved the universe, killing Taurus the bull and bringing in the age of Aries.

Roan is overwhelmed by what he's seeing, what he's reading, and he struggles to make sense of it. A hidden book filled with words the Prophet can't read. But he can understand the pictures. A bird, a snake, a scorpion, and a dog. Brother Raven, Brother Asp, Brother Stinger, Brother Wolf.

“Roan!”

Roan freezes at the sound of Saint's voice. He doesn't answer, he doesn't breathe. Making no sound, he places the book back in the box, replaces the lid, then starts to slide the stone cover back into place. The fit is too tight, it won't go in. He can hear Saint's footsteps.

“Roan!”

Heart pounding, Roan forces himself to calm. Shutting out everything else, he focuses completely on the lid, lifting it, then lowering it evenly into the slot. He replaces the carpet, sweeps the snow cricket into his pocket.

“Where are you?”

Roan glides out of Saint's bedroom. Thankfully, the canvas corridor is empty. He slips into the library, but not unnoticed. Saint is staring at him with narrowed eyes.

“What were you doing?”

Roan, maintaining his concentration, shrugs. “I was in the outhouse.”

“I wanted to give you this,” Saint says, holding up a small box. “A birthday present.”

“Thank you,” says Roan. Inside is a tarnished silver ring hewn into the shape of a badger. “What does it represent?”

“When badgers hunt, they don't stop until they get what they're after. Tenacious. We'll have to be that way to defeat the City. Badgers are also healing animals. They help us not lose sight of our purpose. Put it on.”

“It's so light,” Roan remarks. He can't help but be intrigued by this unusual token.

“Did you find me an interesting book?” asks Saint.

Is Saint toying with him? Has he been found out? Stomach lurching, Roan scans Saint's face. Not an inkling of suspicion. Relieved, he responds to the question. “I thought I'd read to you about the French Revolution.”

“Good. Let's begin.”

Keeping the clamor of his new knowledge at bay, Roan reads to Saint of intrigue, betrayal, and the death of thousands. Saint listens intently. As usual, Roan continues until Saint becomes drowsy. Then he walks back to his own tent, relieved for once not to see Brother Raven lurking nearby. Inside, he carefully empties his carry bag, hiding the bottle of scorpion brew and placing the books in his mother's rucksack.

Roan stretches out on his bed, trying to make sense of this new information. The more he goes over things in his mind, the more obvious and unsettling the truth becomes. Saint must have created the Brothers' religion based on the hidden book's pictures. He was lying about his Revelation on the mountain, about being given the Word by the Friend who appeared to him in a blaze of white fire. That would explain his fear when Roan pointed out the constellations. If the Brothers knew about that, Saint's power as their leader would collapse. This is dangerous information. What if Saint were to find out Roan knows the truth about his God?

Roan still has one more trial ahead of him, and then the baptism of blood. Blood of a bull, just as he saw in the book. But there is no bull here. Roan knows that, and he's filled with dread at the thought of what might replace it.

Roan feels as trapped as he did in the coffin but much more afraid. At least then he knew there'd be an end to it. He breathes, trying to disperse the anxiety that's clutching at him, but it doesn't work. The fear builds and builds until a small shape crawls out onto his pillow. Roan, grateful, watches the cricket rub its wings together and begin to sing.

ON A FLAT YELLOW STONE, THE MOUNTAIN LION LIES SLEEPILY IN THE SUN.

“
THERE ARE ANSWERS TO YOUR QUESTIONS IN THE CAVE WHERE THE RED ROCK TURNS BLUE,
”
THE LION SAYS.

“
HOW DO I FIND IT
?”
ROAN ASKS.

“
LOOK IN THE SAND …
”

THE CAVE

GREAT PAINTINGS THERE ARE THAT NO ONE HAS SEEN OR WILL EVER SEE. THE BROTHERS MAKE THEM OF SAND AND WHEN THE FRIEND'S BREATH CARRIES THEM AWAY ON THE WIND, THE VISITATION DESCENDS.

—
ORIN'S HISTORY OF THE FRIEND

W
ELL BEFORE DAWN
, Roan stealthily passes the snoring Raven's tent. There are a few other early risers getting a head start on their tasks before being summoned to raise the sun. But as he expected, no one's arrived at the sand painting yet, and the canopy provides some cover from prying eyes. Until now, Roan's focus has been on his own tiny part of the painting. He's glanced at the progress of the larger picture but only to admire it for its artistic virtue. But now, under the torchlight, he stands before the huge painting, taking it in, studying it for clues.

He sees that the killing of the bull takes place inside a cave on the side of a mountain. The area around the cave teems with beautiful shades and shapes. He scrutinizes them, trying to make sense of the patterns, but he can't decipher the puzzle.

The morning bell rings; not much time. Roan breathes, calming himself, trying to concentrate on the whole painting in the same way he focuses on his minute grains of sand.

A long streak of blue meanders around the painting, ending at a waterfall near the cave. It's water. Of course. Roan understands. It's the same stream that comes from the mountain ridge about a mile south of where he stands. Follow the stream and he'll find the cave.

Roan ferrets out the large supply pot holding the sienna-colored sand, his sand, and empties all but a little of it into his bag. He conceals the bag of red sand by a cluster of trees near the streambed, and rushes off to the morning ceremony.

After breakfast, Roan heads to the food preparation tent. Raven has been intimidating Feeder, and Roan means to do something about it.

“You were in Raven's tent last night.”

Feeder smiles mysteriously. Without a word, he picks up the carrots he's been chopping and turns to leave. Roan grabs his arm. As he does, he sees a raised cut behind Feeder's ear. He reaches to touch it.

“What's that?”

Feeder pulls away.

“Nothing.”

“It looks as if something's been stuck in there. You've been hurt.”

“No, I'm fine.”

Feeder gazes steadily at Roan. He stands upright, almost proud.

“You seem different.”

“Because I know who I am now. I do. I know who I am.”

“What did Raven do to you?”

Feeder, never losing his crooked smile, ignores Roan's question and strolls out of the cook tent.

That wasn't Feeder's usual smile. He's not himself, Roan thinks. Feeder's mouth moves but the words aren't his. He's been changed, and it has something to with that strange wound. Why did Raven do that to him?

That evening, alone in his tent, Roan practices. Kicks, leaps, rolls, swordplay. In one year, his power and speed have become formidable, though no one else is fully aware of his progress. Once the sweat is pouring, Roan pulls the scorpion brew out from his pack, takes the cap off, fills his mouth with the liquor, swishes it around, and spits it out. Bottle in hand, he stumbles out into the night air, certain his watchdog will soon be upon him. Brother Raven, never one to disappoint, instantly appears.

“Sister Raven! Look what the Prophet gave me for my birthday!” Roan throws his arm around Raven for support and breathes heavily into his face. “Wish me a happy happy!”

Raven can't take his eyes off the bottle. “Happy birthday, Roan.”

“Well, are you just gonna stand there? Have a drink!”

“I really shouldn't, it's late.”

“Aw, c'mon, Raven, just one!”

“If you insist,” says Raven. He lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a long, deep swig of the harsh beverage. Savoring the aftertaste, he eyes the weaving Roan. “This is as fine a sting brew as I've tasted.”

Roan leans against him. “Best you can get, I hear. Have another.”

Raven swills again. “Exceptional.”

“Enjoy!” says Roan. He sways and stumbles, nearly falling in the dirt. He pauses a moment, mustering as vacant a look as he can, then grins stupidly at Raven. “You know what? I gotta go to bed. G'night, Brother, you're a good man.”

Roan trips on the way to his tent, then falls through the entryway. “I'm okay, I'm okay!” he calls out. As soon as he's inside, he turns to peek through a crack in his door. Raven has another long swallow, gasps, then stands there for a moment, bottle in hand, waiting to see if Roan's going to reclaim it. After a few seconds, he smiles and returns to his tent, greedily clutching the precious brew.

Next morning, Roan hovers outside Brother Raven's tent, listening. Even with Raven's large capacity, Roan calculates that drinking that much scorpion brew will keep the Brother snoring until well into late afternoon.

Brother Wolf's class has never been harder, since Roan's mind is occupied with what he must do that day. Arriving at the sand painting area, he bows to the brethren, picks up his small crock of sand, and marshals his excitement by dropping the grains in place until the bowl is empty. He goes to the large supply pot, dips in his crock, then taps Brother Stinger on the shoulder. The supply pot is bare. Stinger, puzzled, checks for holes.

“Go to the streambed and fetch some more.”

The words are few but what he hoped to hear. Roan leaves quickly, running along the streambed until he comes to the place where the sienna-colored sand has accumulated on the shallows. He stops for a moment to see if he's been followed. No one. He seizes the opportunity. In half an hour he arrives at the base of the mountain. Over the past year, Roan's seen the camp boundaries with Brother Asp. Saint has taken him far off into the townships and up Barren Mountain, but never anywhere near here. Why?

The stone here is multihued, the tones shifting from yellow to orange to red. But there's no blue, no color resembling blue at all. What was the mountain lion talking about? Roan searches frantically. The rock face goes on for miles, and there's no sign of a cave.

He pulls the snow cricket out of his pocket, hoping the insect will lead him to the right place, but the cricket does nothing.

Roan sits facing the rock wall. He estimates that he has a little over an hour before he must be back at the sand painting. It's longer than he should be taking, but the Brothers are so entranced by their work they rarely notice the passing of time.

He stares at the mottled stone, shining in the sunlight, for the next half hour. Then, at the moment he is ready to rise in defeat, a cloud passes over, and Roan sees it. The shade on the rock shifts, bringing out darker hues. A hundred yards east, where a mossy green scrub grows up against the stone, the red tones in the rock turn blue.

Roan runs to the spot, and sees that the layer of moss isn't attached to the stone. He touches it, and it gives a little. The moss is woven into a camouflage blanket, similar to the kind that disguises the tents in camp. He feels around the edge of the moss and finds a kind of latch. As he lifts it, the blanket swings back, revealing a large opening in the rock. He steps in.

A torch and a fire stone are mounted just beyond the threshold. A piece of steel hangs from a chain. Striking the metal against the stone, sparks fly, lighting the torch. Roan edges slowly into the shadows until he comes to an enormous carved stone. It's a figure of the Friend slaying the bull. Holding his torch overhead, he can make out a grate suspended by pulleys. They must tie the sacrificial animal to that, Roan reasons, then stand beneath it.

In the flickering torchlight, he notices color on the cave walls. Moving closer, he sees it's a group of paintings. Most are images he's seen before: the Friend, His birth from the stone, the slaying. But in one, a man is tied to the grate, suspended high in the air. His blood spills on the Friends gathered below. Roan's stomach churns. The sacrifice will be human.

Heart racing, Roan illuminates another painting, a burning village—and over it, a hand wielding a sword. The arm of the swordbearer is visible. It is covered in a ladder of thin parallel scars. Beside the painting hangs a cloth. Roan lifts it and slips into an adjacent cave. It's as if a hand had reached into his chest and wrenched out his heart.

The cave is full of masks. Masks of bone and tooth. Staring at him is the most grotesque mask of all, red and leering. The red skull mask worn by the person who stole his sister.

Roan backs out of the vault, gasping. Part of him had suspected this. Part of him hadn't wanted to believe. But now he knows. He knows.

Hatred and rage surge through Roan's body. He wants to burn the Brothers' tents, listen to their screams as they lie trapped in their beds. Stab them, spear them, slash their throats, crush their heads, let them bleed into nothingness.

We watched revenge consume the world. And we turned away from it. We established this new community at Longlight, and we will never again raise a weapon, for fear of what we'll become. You cannot get peace from war. Remember, Roan, remember.

But Roan no longer accepts his father's words.

He shouts into the darkness. “I will fight, Father!”

Yes—he will. But not until he's certain of victory. Until then, he will retreat. Retreat and wait for his opportunity. I have a goal, he thinks. I will find Stowe, and I will avenge the destruction of Longlight. I have no choice now but to hide my intentions and wait.

In the glare of sunlight, Roan feels raw, exposed. Sprinting back down the stream, he worries how he'll keep his vile discovery a secret. As he approaches the camp, he stops to retrieve the concealed bag of sand. No one even looks up when he returns. Resuming his place, Roan sprinkles sand on his appointed spot. He watches each grain fall slowly, controlling his emotions in this way. He must reveal nothing to the Brothers. And while the sand drops, he plans his escape.

At dinner, Roan sits beside a bleary-eyed Brother Raven as Saint intones the blessing. “His heavenly blade freed us from evil.”

That heavenly blade brought evil to my door, thinks Roan, rage threatening to blister through his facade. How could Saint pretend to be my friend? How could he lie to me all this time? How could he oversee a massacre? Struggling to maintain his composure, Roan dutifully bows his head with the other Brothers.

Saint brings the prayer to a close. “With His love we will free the world.”

“We are Brothers. We are Friends.”

Silently, Roan vows: I am your enemy, and one day I will tear you down.

“The big day is coming soon. Excited, Roan?”

Roan looks up at Raven with false cheer. “Very.”

Observing Raven's puffy eyes, Roan has a revelation. Images of Raven whispering to Feeder in his tent and the cut behind Feeder's ear flash through his mind. Suddenly he knows without a doubt the person in the grate will be Feeder. Roan is meant to be baptized in Feeder's blood.

Raven smiles back at him. “How do I know you'll pass the last trial with no trouble at all?”

Roan shrugs amiably.

Once dinner's finished, Roan finds a spot of high ground, and in the muted light of the setting sun he contemplates his escape route. To the south is Fandor, ruled by a clan still unconquered by Saint. But if he can believe anything Saint says, they're crazed and bloodthirsty. East is where Longlight once stood, and all the lands around it are controlled by the Friends. His only choice is to go west, over the Barren Mountain, into the Devastation. He'll need time, perhaps a week, to gather what he needs for the journey. And he'll need the motorcycle.

“The most beautiful time of day, isn't it?” Saint's voice is warm behind him.

“Without a doubt.”

“You're getting very close to the final joining, Roan. Your next trial is imminent. If you are successful, you will be baptized into the Brotherhood.” Saint puts a hand on his shoulder. “You know you will never find peace until you've seen justice for Longlight. It's a situation that must be resolved.”

“I agree.”

“I want you by my side, Roan. But I need you looking forward, not back. As soon as you complete the trial, I want you to take part in a Visitation.”

“A Visitation?”

“You know Brother Wolf and I lead groups away from time to time. You were told they were trade missions. But now that you've attained the third level, you may know the truth of it. One day we will unify all the lands and take the City. To do that, we must be strong at our core. The Visitation is our way of achieving a perfect balance. In it we transform ourselves. Through it, we become the purifying Wind of Fire. The Visitation passes like a dream. We do it for the greater good.”

During the Madness, they called genocide holy, a cleansing.

His father's voice echoes as Roan bows his head humbly. “I'd be happy to be part of it, Saint. Thank you.”

“You make me glad, Roan of Longlight.”

Everything Saint does is calculated, Roan realizes, to bind me to him. Because he thinks I have some kind of special power. Something the City wants. Something they could use. Something I can't see. What?