First, we hold our breaths and drop. This is crucial, especially when every instinct is telling you to stay on your feet, to fight through the wind and the sand. To drop is to admit defeat. Not in a sandstorm. Remaining upright just quickens your death. You can’t outrun a sandstorm—the sooner you realize that the better.
Second, we curl up in a ball, throw our hands and arms over our faces—which makes me glad Lara took my blade, ’cause I’d probably have impaled myself—continue to hold our breath. To breathe is to die. The sand’ll get in every nook and cranny—that’s inevitable. But by breathing you’re inviting it in. The only issue is that you don’t know how long the sandstorm’s gonna last. It could be thirty seconds, or way longer. If it’s much longer, you hafta do more’n just hold your breath.
So third, we stuff our heads into the top of our dresses. Well, in Lara’s case it’s a boy’s shirt, but you get what I mean. Our clothes are over our heads, which creates a small breathing space. It won’t last forever, but it’ll keep us going for a few moments, maybe more.
I can’t see Lara, ’cause my eyes are closed and my head’s stuffed in my dress, but I know she’s doing the same. The bare parts of my arms and legs are getting stung over and over again by the hordes of sand that batter us like bee stingers. I can almost feel it chipping away pieces of my skin, shaving it all off until I’ll really be Skeleton-Girl, a set of walking, talking bones.
Soon though, the pain subsides ’cause my skin’s got a layer of sand so thick it’s like tug leather, protecting me from the second wave of sand. I take breath after breath, slow and deep, not panicking. Even so, each breath feels more strained’n the last, like I want more air’n my shirt’s got left. Time ain’t on my side, that’s for sure. If the storm don’t end soon, I’m a goner, no better’n the Glassies.
I take a breath, my lungs aching for more. The next breath’s even less satisfying. I can still feel the wind lapping against my body, but I can’t tell if there’s sand in it. My final breath is as deep as I can make it, sucking as much of the life-giving air into my lungs as I can. I hold it, hold it, hold it, start to feel dizzy. If I wasn’t already on the ground, I’d probably faint.
I can’t hold it, not one second longer. I hold it another second. Then one more. Maybe a third, I don’t know, time is moving so slow right now.
I pop my head out of my dress, gasp at the gritty air, take everything in, air and dust and wind, my lungs burning. The storm’s over, and although the air’s far from clean, it’s also far from deadly. Lara’s head is still in her boy’s shirt. She’s not taking any chances and apparently she can hold her breath a lot longer’n me. I tap what I think is her shoulder—she’s so covered in sand it’s hard to tell—and she comes up, poking her head out like a turtle.
“It’s okay,” I say.
Together, we look ’round. The sand is uneven, full of human-size mounds of sand. The dead and the living. But which is which? Some of the humps start to rise up, emerging from the sand like a child’s monsters, crusted with sand and looking less human’n creature. Although the faces are dusty, the brown sun-kissed skin shows us just who survived the storm. The Hunters. There’s not a single pale-white face among the living, not that I can tell, but I’m not ’bout to stick ’round to take a count, and neither is Lara.
“We need to get the burn out of here!” Lara says.
I’m with her there. ’Fore anyone notices our presence, we dash back to the village.
~~~
That sandstorm saved a lot of lives. The Hunters. Lara’s and mine. Probably everyone’s in the village. The first of the season. Short, but a real doozy. It got every last one of those fire-stick-wielding Glassies. They burned their bodies in a separate pile to our dead ones.
I feel Circ’s hand in the storm.
Lara and me went straight to the watering hole and got cleaned up, and then snuck into the crowds when people started emerging from their huts. When she saw me, my mother squeezed me like she was a Totter and I was her tug-stuffed doll. I told her I couldn’t make it home from Learning fast enough, and ended up hiding out in a different hut with Lara. Her eyes told me she didn’t believe me, but she didn’t push it.
My father shoulda been thanking the sun goddess for sending that storm, but instead he was mad at me for not getting home in time, and at the Glassies for attacking, and at the dead Hunters for not surviving. Same ol’, same ol’.
The Greynotes have been hush hush about the whole thing. The only announcement they made was that we woulda won the battle anyway, if not for the sandstorm, but I saw what I saw. They were dead in the sand. Deader’n dead. Vulture meat. It’s as plain as day to me, but to the rest of the folk who were hiding in the huts, they’ll believe anything the Greynotes tell them. But the Greynotes can have their secrets.
The only thing that’s certain: the Glassies’ll be back. And the next time we won’t have a sandstorm to save us.
Lara’s more excited ’bout the whole thing’n I am. It’s been a full moon since it happened and she’s still going on and on like it was yesterday.
“It was like fate, Sie,” she says.
I got too much on my mind to be excited about much of anything. I turned sixteen yesterday, which is just my luck. If I’d been born a little over a full moon later, I coulda turned sixteen and then waited six full moons ’fore the next Call. Instead, my Call’ll be at the next full moon.
“It was stupid, is what it was,” I say.
“Come on, you know that’s not true. There was a buzz running through your blood just like mine. I saw it in your eyes before you tripped.” She laughs.
“Thanks for the reminder,” I say.
“Would you have used that knife on one of the Glassies if that storm didn’t hit?” she asks.
“I ain’t talking ’bout this,” I say, scooping a shovelful of blaze. I was daydreaming in Learning again. Lara agreed to keep me company while I sweat it out.
“I would have,” she says from the edge of the pit. She’s perched like a raven on a prickler bough. “I would’ve jumped on a chariot, stuck my blade right between one of their ribs.”
“They woulda shot you with those fire sticks first,” I say.
“I would’ve been too fast,” she says. “Just a blur. Sear that sandstorm for wasting our big chance!”
I drop my shovel in a pile of blaze, glare at her. “You know what? You’re wooloo! Completely out of your mind, one hundred percent, grade-A tug wooloo.” She stares at me, but I’m not done. I’m too hot, too tired, too searin’ broken after Circ. “There’s a wooloo farm with your name on it. I think when you got all that muscle you lost half your brain. No, more’n half. Three quarters. You woulda died out there, just like me. That sandstorm saved both of our worthless, Pre-Bearer lives, and you know it!”
When I finally finish my rant, I’m breathing heavy and my muscles are all clenched up. The sun’s beating on me like always, but it feels like it’s right on top of me, just hammering away at my skull. Lara’s mouth is open, shocked. I can almost see the wheels turning in her one-quarter brain, calculating the odds that she’ll ever speak to me again. Her mouth closes. The solution? Zero.
Then, in the unlikeliest of responses, she breaks into a huge smile. “Sie, you know what? That was one of the funniest rants I ever heard in my life. We are one and the same, you and I, only I’d figure you’re more likely to get yourself in trouble with that mouth of yours than I ever would. Now, what in the scorch is eating you? There’s got to be something.”
I blink. “Uh.”
“Come on, Sie. Out with it. Something’s behind that mouth of yours, and I want to know exactly what.”
Okay. Here goes. “I turned sixteen,” I say, turning away from her, my feet sinking into the mush.
She laughs. “Is that all? I turned sixteen a full moon ago. That’s one thing you can’t stop, Sie—time. I’d rather jump in front of a hurd of tug than hafta try to halt the days from ticking past.”
She’s a
lready sixteen. I didn’t even realize it. I mean, I was pretty sure we’d be in the same Call, but I’d never confirmed it, never thought to. Why is she not bothered by it? In a full moon we’ll both be sitting there, waiting for the name. The name of the guy we’ll be Bearing children with. Not in a few years, but like, later that day. Well, not Bearing them exactly, but making them, or creating them, or doing whatever it is we’re s’posed to do. And from what Veeva says, there’s no way ’round it. You gotta do it and you gotta do it naked. I’ve confirmed it about ten times with her. Can I keep my clothes on? Do I hafta see his…prickler? Her advice: “Wait till it’s dark as scorch and make it quick. In and out. You might e’en like it. I did.” Thanks, Veeva, that really helps.
“Ain’t you scared?” I ask, turning back to face Lara.
She shakes her head. “Sometimes I wonder about you. Have you still not thought about everything I told you? I ain’t doing the Call. It ain’t for me. It ain’t for you neither, but I can’t make that decision for you.”
I’m flabbergasted. The Call isn’t something you skip, like Learning or Shovel Duty. It’s the whole point of our lives up to this point. The only way anyone’s ever missed the Call is if…
“You think the Wilds are gonna kidnap you?” I say slowly. All of sudden I forget ’bout the Icies, ’bout the Marked. It’s gotta be the Wilds she’s working with. It’s gotta be.
She laughs for the third time, looks up at the sun goddess. “Yeah, they’ll kidnap me alright.”
Then she gets up and leaves. So much for keeping me company.
~~~
I don’t know ’bout a lot of things Lara said, but she was right ’bout one thing: you can’t stop time, can’t even slow it down. I know, I’ve tried.
First I tried not sleeping. I figured that sleep is like wasting a third of a day in a blink of an eye. Sleep is skipping time, making it pass faster. So for three days straight I didn’t sleep. I snuck out, romped ’round the village, splashed water on my face, held my eyelids open with my fingertips. You know what? Those days still went right on by like I wasn’t even moving. Sure enough, I blinked and they were gone, just like all the rest.
So I filled a jar with stones and whispered a blessing to the sun goddess on each one, which represented the days left till my Call. If I could keep those stones in that jar, the days couldn’t pass. I woke up the next day, excited to watch my plan take hold. The sun rose, but I swear it was moving slower’n unusual, which got my hopes up, but by the time I left Learning it was sinking down, down, down, like always. That day went faster’n most.
You can’t stop time. It’s the most powerful force in the universe. And this time it seems to have taken sides with my father. The Call is coming whether Lara believes it’s something we should do or not.
I often wonder whether there are others just like us, living the same lives, but different. Like is there another Siena out there somewhere, not Scrawny but Strong? And a Circ who still lives, having never gone on that mission? Another Lara who doesn’t hafta count on the Wilds to kidnap her to escape the Call? I know it’s just my imagination creeping up on me in that quick and subtle way that it does, but I still wanna believe it’s true.
I hafta believe.
~~~
Three days to the Call. I’ve asked Lara half a dozen times why she thinks the Wild Ones are gonna kidnap her but she don’t have an answer. Or she won’t answer. I’m beginning to think she’s convinced herself it’s true to calm her nerves. Or maybe there’s something to it. Could she really know the feral all-girl tribe? At this point anything’s possible, I reckon.
Veeva’s been giving me tips all quarter full moon, like “Don’t let yer Call take control when you lie with ’im. Show ’im who’s boss.” Like most of what she says, I don’t even know what that means.
Father’s been extra nice to me, which basically means he hasn’t yelled at me or pulled out his good friend, the snapper. That’s ’bout as good as it gets with him.
Mother seems happy too, although she’s always tired these days. “My little girl is growing up,” she says today, while we’re sitting together mending a pair of Father’s britches. They’re from the battle with the Glassies and they got holes in both knees. One of the nice things ’bout being a Pre-Bearer is that I been done with Learning for a quarter full moon. I still gotta go to some Pre-Bearer thing later today and tomorrow, but that’s it.
“Do you think Skye’s alive?” I ask.
She stops with her needle and thread, turns her tired eyes to me. “Does she feel dead?” she asks, pointing to her heart.
“I—I don’t know. I never really thought ’bout it that way. I guess…” I think ’bout Skye, ’bout her raven-black hair, ’bout her contagious laugh, ’bout how she was everything I’m not. Popular, coordinated, pretty. There’s no sadness for her in my heart. No. She doesn’t feel dead.
I shake my head.
“Well there’s your answer,” she says matter of factly.
“But Circ doesn’t feel dead either,” I say, feeling my heart crumble even as I say it.
“Siena,” she says, putting down the britches. “You can’t do this to yourself. Do you see him sometimes?”
I nod. I see him in everything. But I can’t tell her that. Instead I say, “Sometimes.”
She curls an arm around me, pulls me in. “I still see my first love, too,” she whispers. “Sometimes.”
My head jerks, eyes widen. “You mean, there was someone else ’sides Father?”
She laughs and it reminds me of Skye. They were always a lot alike. “Your father is my Call.” She drops her voice even further, looks ’round as if the hut walls might be listening. “Brev was my true love.”
I straighten up, all my attention on my mother and this surprising revelation. “Who was he?”
She stares at me wistfully and I can tell she’s looking right through me. “The son of a Greynote. Kind eyes, bluer than the winter rains. Soft hands, but strong, too. Oh, I remember spending too much time kissing him behind the border tents.”
“Mother!” I exclaim, shocked. “But that’s where the shilts go.”
Her grin makes me grin, too. “I wasn’t shilty, Siena. I only ever went there with Brev. Besides, people doing what makes them happy ain’t shilty.” It’s funny hearing her saying that ’cause it’s what I’m always thinking.
The door slams and Father clomps in. My head is spinning, both ’cause of Brev and how she just said ain’t, which I ain’t never heard her say. In less time’n it takes for a vulture to swallow a burrow mouse I’ve learned so much ’bout my mother, more’n I ever knew ’fore. I desperately wanna ask her what happened to him, where he is now, whether she ever sees him, but now Father’s here, scowling at us like we’ve just spit on his moccasins.
“You’ve got Call Class,” he says gruffly.
I stand up, meet my mother’s eyes for an instant, share our secrets without words, desperately wanting to ask her more. Smiling, I follow my mother’s Call outside.
~~~
Call Class. Our chance to ask questions. And we got plenty.
There are ’bout thirty of us. Me, Lara, and a bunch of others who’ve never really tried to talk to me. The Teacher, a squat woman with laser-sharp eyes, is whacking away the questions with an ease that can only come with experience. She must teach Call Class a lot.
“Can I choose my Call, because there’s this guy…?” one girl asks, twirling her hair with one finger. Everyone knows the answer to that question, so it makes half the class crack up. I just stare straight ahead.
Teacher sighs, but answers anyway. “All Calls are at random. An eligible Pre-Bearer’s name is selected and then an eligible male name is selected. Listen, Younglings, because this is important. You do not get to choose your Call because it doesn’t matter who it is. All that matters is that you Bear children and help our tribe survive. That’s it.”
“What do I do if I don’t like my Call?” a whiny girl asks, apparently not g
etting Teacher’s message.
“Deal with it,” says Teacher. “Next.”
“How do I know if I’m satisfying my Call?” asks one of the shiltier girls, grinning slyly. “You know, when I lay with him.” She’s only asking what everyone’s thinking.
“I’m sure you know the answer to that already,” Teacher says, unblinking. A few Pre-Bearers giggle and the shilty girl blushes and ducks her head. “Next.”
“What if I miss my Call?” a familiar voice asks from beside me. My heart stops. Every head in the room turns to look at Lara. And ’cause I’m sitting next to her, they look at me too. Guilty by association. There’s a speck of durt on one of my feet and I’m determined to stare it away.
“No one misses their Call,” Teacher answers, as if it’s a perfectly valid question. “Next.” I can still feel the eyes on us, but then one by one, they turn back to face the front.
“Why’d you ask that?” I hiss.
“Just for fun,” Lara says, grinning.
“You got a funny way of having fun.”
“Now it’s your turn,” she says, winking.
I raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Ask a question. A real question. Not something that she’s heard a million times, that she expects you to ask. Something else. Try to rattle her. For fun.”
I shake my head. “You’re wooloo,” I say, but immediately start thinking about what question’ll surprise the unflappable Teacher.
Another girl asks, “Do I have to have a Call-Sister?”
Stupid girl, I think. This is stuff we’ve been learning for years. Teacher sighs, but responds, her voice monotone and rehearsed. “A Call-Family is comprised of a man and his three Calls, who Bear his children. Every three years, each Call-Mother is required to become big with child and Bear a new child. They take turns until the family has grown to its maximum sustainable size, which includes three children per Call-Mother, or nine children total. It’s at this time only that it will be considered a Full-Family and Bearing shall cease. Next.”