Chapter 7: Of Pigs and Gods
I'M AROUND BACK in a small space that’s wedged between our shack and the Outpost's concrete wall. The sky is a slab of grey stone. The ground is slick with mud. Sitting against the shack's wall, I wrap my arms around myself and close my eyes against the restless feeling.
I want to run, but I don't know why. Not to flee, but to get... somewhere. Here is wrong. Doing nothing is wrong. I'm overwhelmed by the need to fulfill some unnamed task. My fingers press into my arms, as though I could hold myself back. I make myself breathe. I count backward. I've gone through the cycle from ninety-nine to zero three and a quarter times when I hear the front door creak. Footsteps head in my direction. Small, light footsteps.
"Eden?" Oscar says as he comes around the end of the junk wall. He knows I'm here. There's no use in pretending.
"Hey Oscar," I say, shifting.
He squints into the shadows, then smiles and joins me. Without reservations, he sits in the mud beside me. "Why are you out here?"
I shrug. "Just thinking."
"About what?" he asks. He's a kid. He hasn't learned when not to ask things yet.
"I just feel weird," I say. "Like... like bored or something."
He turns and eyes me, but says nothing. We sit there. After a long while he says, "You're playing cards tonight?"
"Yeah.”
"Are you worried?"
"Nope."
He nods. "Apollon and Jonas will keep you safe," he says. "I will, too."
I look at him and he's grinning. This big, goofy, toothy grin. I start laughing despite myself. "No offense," I say, "but you're like... seven... or something." I choose the number on the upper side of my estimated range, because I don't really want to offend him.
"Eight," he corrects, but he doesn't sound offended. Just factual.
"Eight?" I ask. "No way. Eight?" Most eight-year-olds could eat him for dinner.
"Yeah, I know," he says, and at first I think he's deflated, but then he just seems thoughtful. He pauses, then adds, "Sometimes people underestimate you when you're small. It's a good thing."
"You think?"
"That's what Apollon says."
I snort. "Apollon knows a lot about being little."
Again, he's laughing. "He knows what it's like not to be." He shrugs. "Maybe he was little, too, when he was a kid."
Somehow I doubt that. Apollon was probably born with bulging biceps and feet the size of Sentries. Instead of pointing this out, I say, "If you're small you have less weight to carry around, so you can be quicker. That's a good thing."
"Yeah," he says. "Apollon says that, too."
And that pretty much exhausts my wisdom on being small. I change the subject. "So, how long have you been living with these guys?"
Now Oscar hesitates. It makes me wonder if I need to learn when not to ask things, too. His eyes scrunch up and I can see him mentally counting, his little mouth working quietly. He looks at me and says, "A year and seven months. About."
I want to ask more, but I can't quite seem to do it. Instead, all I say is, "Yeah?"
But that's all it takes. Surprising me with his willingness to share, Oscar launches into his story, as if he's known me forever. Maybe he just needs to tell it to someone, or maybe he's really this trusting.
"... and we weren't doing so good. You know. It was really cold out and mom was sick for a while. She just kept getting sicker."
I feel my stomach curling slowly in on itself, not liking where this is going. "And your dad?" I ask.
He shrugs. Shrugs can mean anything, but this one clearly says "What dad?" He picks up a clump of mud and starts squishing it through his clenched fingers. "I think it was me," he says after a long pause. "I think she was worried about me. That's why she did it."
I swallow. "Did what?"
"Stole a blanket. I guess someone had washed it and set it out to dry. So she just took it." Silence falls over us again.
He's really squishing the mud now, his thin fingers opening and contracting again and again. I manage to find my voice, even though I'm pretty sure I know the ending. "What happened?"
His eyes flick to the mark on my forehead.
I put my arm around his back. He leans in and rests his head against my shoulder, closing his eyes. I wonder, is this what it's like to be a mother? To try to comfort, when you wish you could be comforted yourself? But there is something comforting in it— in sharing someone else's pain. We sit for a long time and I find myself wondering if my mother ever held me like this. Surely she did, but even the idea of her is an absolute stranger to me. At least Oscar can remember. "What was she like— your mom?"
He lets out a shaky sigh. "I don't know," he says. "I guess I remember things like the way she smelled. She had this old apron she wore and she was always wiping everything off on it, even though the apron was dirty. And when I was little, we would make boats out of things, and float them in the puddles. But mostly she just worked as hard as she could to keep us alive. Her hands looked really old. Older than the rest of her."
Again, we sit in silence for a while. Then I ask, "How did you end up here?"
"Mom knew Apollon and Jonas," he says. He straightens so he can turn his head to look at me, but he's still tucked mostly under my arm. "Sometimes she'd sell them things. When they found out what happened, Apollon decided they would look after me." After a moment he adds, "Jonas didn't really want to, but Apollon made him."
"Really?" I ask. "But Jonas loves you. And what about Neveah and Miranda?"
"Jonas loves me now," Oscar says. "But he didn't want to be here, in the Outpost. Him and Apollon came here from Outpost One, and they were going to keep traveling. But Jonas thought I was too little to do that, so taking me on meant staying here. And he didn't want that."
"They came here from Outpost One?" I ask. I never expected this. "Which Outpost are we in?"
"This is Three," he replies as though he's not really thinking about it. "Neveah joined up with us not much later," he says. "We knew her already, and I guess Apollon and Jonas thought they needed someone to look after me. A girl, I mean." He shrugs.
"And Miranda?"
Oscar sits up straight and glances at the house. "Jonas rescued her," he says carefully.
"Rescued her?" I ask. I know this is a touchy subject, but Miranda's not here, and I want to know.
Again, he looks at the house, but when he looks back at me, his eyes narrow conspiratorially. He leans a little closer, his voice hushed. "Donegan hates her," he says, "because of her mom."
I match his whisper. "Her mom?"
"He was in love with her. Well, that's what they say. But then she ended up with Miranda's dad. He had a little shop downtown. He was a mech."
I nod. This explains Miranda's creations.
"Things were OK for them, I guess. But Donegan hated her. He always tried to make things hard for them. Something happened— Idunno. And Miranda's dad died. I guess Donegan thought her mom would go to him, but she didn't, and he just got madder. He kept at her, said he knew she loved him and all that. But she'd quit drugs, see, and she didn't want to be around that stuff." Again, he glances at the wall behind us. "So she took up with some supplies-runner and left."
I blink. "Without Miranda?"
He nods gravely. "Just left her," he says. "And with her gone, Miranda was the only one left for Donegan to be mean to. He sent his goons after her and they had her cornered in an alleyway. Jonas kind of stumbled into it, but you know Jonas."
I don't, really.
"He chased them off and saved her," Oscar finishes. "And she's been with us ever since."
"Wow," I say. "That explains why Miranda hardly ever goes outside." But really I'm thinking about Jonas. I'm thinking about how, when I woke up yesterday morning, and everyone else was still asleep, his arm was still thrown over me. How, in that moment, I felt safe
for the first time I can remember. I wanted to stay there forever. I had someone to protect me. It didn't matter that Jonas doesn't seem to care the rest of the time, when we're awake. That arm was enough. And it's been enough to stand between me and nightmares, pushing them away when they come, for the past three nights since I've been here.
Oscar is nodding.
"So why does Jonas want to keep traveling?" I find myself asking.
Oscar looks like he's about to answer when we hear a noise around front. He climbs to his feet. "I don't know," he says, but I can tell his answer is lacking due to distraction. "He just wants to go somewhere." He heads off around the junk wall.
I sigh, climb to my feet, wiping off mud, and follow him.