2015 Young Explorer's Adventure Guide Read online

  No, Angel was not angelic in any sense of the word.

  But at that instant, Shai did not mind this at all.

  The Cliff

  Vanessa MacLellan

  A champion of NaNoWriMo, Vanessa MacLellan is an avid reader of anything with pizazz. Words have been her companions since she was ten, forcing atrocious adverbs upon her mother. Her fantasy novel, Three Great Lies, has been accepted by Hadley Rille Books and is scheduled for release in the summer of 2015. She’s had three short stories published by online magazines. When not in the office or writing, she bird watches and hikes. Vanessa can be found at vanmaclellan.com

  Again, today, we climb the cliff. Little Fritz gets the farthest. His slim, worm-like fingers dig into the tiny cracks that line the canyon’s gray stone face like the bars of the guards’ gate. Myrtle barely clears the talus fanning out at the base of the ribbed basalt cliffside, her fingers more like unyielding iron. I sit near the full loading cart, watching, knowing I won’t make it up the cliff. An adult almost, my gangly body doesn’t even fit into the smaller mineshafts anymore. I watch the young ones though, and cluck like a cuckoo bird when I hear the guards’ horses pounding our way.

  The clomp of hooves reverberates off the high surrounding walls and I make the call, pulling my right cheek back and clicking my tongue. Then I roll it to make a three-beat squirrelly noise, one that, as little ones new to the pit, caused us to giggle when Ashid and Linton tried to teach us.

  It doesn’t hold the laughter anymore.

  Myrtle ceases her senseless scramble, and Jilly, Bert and Hair Lip Chip surf down the gray stone until they skate across the soft delta of dust at the bottom. Little Fritz dangles by one arm, and I run over in the hopes I can catch his tiny, frail body if he falls, but he drops from one handhold to the next, a little monkey in boy’s skin.

  And then the guard rounds the protruding jut of basalt.

  “Hey, you scabs. You working over here?”

  The guard stares down at us from the back of his roan horse. I wonder if he knows about our escape attempts. The sun glares behind his head so I have to squint up at him. Most of the younger ones won’t look him in the face, but I have to. I’m the oldest.

  “We are working.”

  Behind me Chem coughs, the liquid sound of phlegm and gunk gurgling in his lungs.

  The guard gestures at the mine carts lined up on the track, nearly filled with rocks splashed with bright blues and greens, sometimes stained with orangey blooms, different in texture and dazzling in the sun.

  “Three more carts and you can come in for the night.” He pulls his horse’s head around and trots off. We watch him ride away. Seven cars are full. Thirteen sit empty. Though the colorful rocks are hard to find, three more isn’t unthinkable.

  Jilly grabs onto my shirt, weaving her fingers into the holes of the fabric. “Dani, I don’t want to go back down there. You said we’d be done today. You said.” Her big brown eyes hack at my compassion more than her words.

  I close my eyes, think. Take in a breath. The inside of my nose tickles with crusted dust.

  “Jilly, Little Fritz, Shasta, you three stay out here. No climbing! Sort the rocks and ready the carts for the guards. Timmy Tim, help them out. The rest of us, three more carts.”

  Hair Lip Chip gathers up the torches, lights one by scraping a metal strip against a stone. The ends are wrapped up with cloth, tacky and reeking of something sharp and unnatural. Like pee, but stronger, harsher. Our torches flare up as we touch them to the flame, and give off black smoke.

  Into the mine we descend, tools dragging against the ground. Chem coughs and spits.

  …………………………

  I did see a cuckoo once. I think that’s what it was. A long-tailed shadow that crossed the open mouth of our canyon with high walls. We don’t see much sky down here. Our window above reaches from the narrow tip of the pit where the mine shaft sinks into the earth and widens out near the far end where the hut and guards’ gate are. On that farther end, a trail winds up and out of the pit, a level pathway carved into the hard stone that surefooted horses can traverse. They carry supplies, water and food down to us and take away the rocks the guards find so needful.

  They are just rocks. You can’t eat rocks.

  That was the day I saw Ashid for the last time. Three guards charged up on horseback, a roan, a silver, and a chestnut with white socks, and demanded the full twenty mine cars. I was young then, Jilly’s age, or maybe Shasta’s.

  “And none of that crap you’ve been pulling up. Better ore. Solid copper. We know the vein’s down there. Send the smallest in to find it.”

  I remember how my body tensed. Twenty carts. They never demanded twenty carts before. A labor I couldn’t even comprehend.

  It trapped my mind in a loop of worry. Could we get the twenty carts? Would it be of the bright greens and blues like they wanted, or even better, the orange? I worried about getting the carts out, always heavier when filled with more of the metal. About dehydration. I hoped I could carry my own weight, not let anyone down.

  I didn’t worry about Ashid. She was older than all of us. Smart, quick on her feet. She told night stories with cuckoos and lions and fields of golden grasses in them. She’d almost reached the lip of the pit once, so the tale went. I hadn’t been around long enough to know that the older ones went away.

  After we’d filled the twenty carts, each of us worn down to our heart and soul, the guards hooked the carts up to a horse train and took them through the gate and up the cliffside trail. Ashid was told to go with them. I didn’t know I should have been worried. I didn’t know I should have said good-bye.

  It was past sundown when she followed the guard on the silver horse. And then, slicing the cobalt sky, a cuckoo flew, calling out our warning sign.

  …………………………

  The sun has yet to rise when I climb out of the hut, holding the door with my fingertips until it snaps closed on rusty springs. Nobody else is awake as I face the east, waiting for the sky to lighten and show me that things can change.

  Last night I had a dream, an odd vision of trees, tall and blocking out the blue sky. Maybe a lost memory, from before the pit. Their leaves were as big as hands. Bigger. And they danced and sang and gave off smells. The guards sometimes talk about hunting in forests, surrounded by trees. One spoke about birds that ran on the ground and animals like horses with horns that bounded over logs and stones. I know there is more out there than flies and spiders and those little brown lizards. I close my eyes to the purpling sky, wishing I could still be asleep. In my dreams, my life has more meaning.

  “…going to close the mine down soon…”

  The words slip down from the canyon wall trail, sinking through the still, empty air.

  “…not worth the effort…”

  My ears strain to catch more of the words.

  “…glad to be done with…”

  I crawl closer to the guard shack at the metal gate and fencing that separates our pit from the passage out. Descending along the switchback are two swaying lights.

  “The Commander said to work ‘em till the end o’ the week. Close the place down after that. Moving the kids to Chertwood. The oldest is to be reassigned. The girl, the long haired one.”

  “That’s your business.” The men go quiet; their horses reach the canyon floor, the clopping of their hooves like the heartbeats of stone giants. The lanterns swing under their steady gait. “You restationed yet?”

  “Yep, the Midland pit. You?”

  “Back home.” The man chuckles as my heart threatens to give away my location. “Done with this desert.”

  I turn and run quietly back to my hut, to the children, to the only family I have ever known.

  …………………………

  It rains only a few times a year. The sky above turns gray and just opens up, dumping buckets on us. It transforms the entire canyon into a red mud pit, the clay slurry dressing up the gray basalt. The little on
es love it, splashing around, getting dirt and grime in every crevice. They’ll never be clean again, I think, but smile as they enjoy the water over their skin, slippery with the mud. I remember when I used to splash and play, throwing handfuls of wet clay at the others. A day of celebration, because we can’t go down in the mines. The tunnels funnel the water away, sometimes flooding them. As a little one it was fun, until I realized no work meant half rations. Luckily, this time I’d caught the scent of rain on the wind and kept some bread and apples from yesterday to give the youngest four. They would not have empty bellies tonight.

  We’re day three into the week. I’ve not told anyone the secret I earned in the dark, but they sense something’s changed. The guards demand more and more carts and I fear the dreaded twenty will conclude our time here. And I wonder where Chertwood is, and where will they take me.

  I stand there, in the water, clothing soaked, water washing away the tears on my face, cooling my aching eyes. I’m not sure why I’m crying, it’s just that I feel shredded inside.

  …………………………

  Though we’ve enough work to fill the entire day, I insist we take a break as usual. The children bolt their food and within minutes Little Fritz is dangling from a rock ledge. He’s taken a different crevice that juts into the western edge of the sky-high cliff like a tongue stuck out in mockery. The offshoot is typically in shadow, and right now the hot light of the day’s peak is slipping away. Myrtle and Bert and Chem all stand at the bottom, giggling and watching him. I bite into a cracker, praying.

  “Go for it, Little Fritz!”

  I hold my breath, heart pressed against my sternum as he swings forward and backward, a pendulum on a pivot, and then he lets go. My heart stops. My breath catches. His little hand, reaching, reaching, misses the outcrop he’s aiming for.

  “No!” I race forward, cracker tossed to the ground.

  Little Fritz scrambles for another rock, red and jagged, and cries out as he loses his grip, palm grinding against the stones. Fingers clawing at the stone, he catches hold of a spur.

  “Fritz!”

  He looks down along the rock wall, finds a hollow for his foot, gains a better handhold, looks at his hand, wipes it against his bare side. I catch a smear of red. Then he grins down at us, all teeth and gums. “I’m okay.”

  My heart beats again.

  Later that night, after sixteen carts, Little Fritz relaxes in my arms. I used the same burlap for our feet to wrap around his hand, having washed the blood clean with a little bit of each person’s water ration. His expression is content as I tell the story Ashid told me when I was little.

  “…and she set her feet one at a time. She’d been at it for days, the sun rising and falling four times. Her tummy rumbled, for she hadn’t brought enough food, and her fingers bled from the biting rock. Below her the guards watched, because they were all too big and couldn’t chase her up the wall. They yelled at her and told her to come down. Told her to find the copper. To crawl down the mine. Do you know what Helen said?”

  The little ones sitting around me, in unison, say, “I’m going to fly away, fly away free!” Even Richard joins in, his shifting voice cracking as he carries the ‘free’ longer than anyone else.

  “She stuck out her tongue—” Jilly pokes hers out, causing the others to giggle, “—and focused on the cliff wall. The cracks. A lizard poked his head out of one, letting Helen know that crack was deep. Following the hints from her friends she made it to the top. The guards yelled as she went over the edge, out of the pit. ‘Get down here!’ they said. And what happened to her up there, once she was out of the pit?”

  Little Fritz grins, his tongue poking out from the hole where his two front teeth should be. “She turned into a cuckoo.”

  “A bright yellow cuckoo!” Shasta adds.

  “And then what?” Myrtle asks the children.

  Again, in unison, they say, “She flew away free!”

  Storytime ends and the little ones are set upon their nests. Except for Little Fritz. I hold him still. With them asleep, I can’t ignore the glances from the older ones, but I can pretend. Little Fritz hasn’t earned the worry that’s darkened Myrtle’s face, or Bert’s. I want to protect that face so strongly. I squeeze his small, sleeping body, and he whimpers in protest. I brush back his thick black hair.

  “Dani?”

  Myrtle offers me a bowl. It’s steaming and smells of meat and celery. I nod in thanks but can’t let Little Fritz’s body go; he might wake up. She sets the bowl down and nods at me, only questioning with her eyes. She’s getting older now. She understands.

  The youngest of our tribe sniffs in his sleep and I pet his hair again, soothing out the little line that carves its way between his eyebrows. Keep your peace, little one. I’m watching over you.

  I wonder what my face looks like when I’m asleep, dreaming of greener lands.

  …………………………

  I clutch the little ones close to my chest. I think today is the day. One week. I count the day of rain. We gather together as the sun warms the sky, ready to go to the mine and do our work.

  A guard walks up; his horse is beyond the gate. He hands over a canvas sack of foodstuffs: potato, carrot, some flesh wrapped up in paper. “Twenty carts today.” It’s less food than a normal day’s ration. “Better get on it.” Something heavy reflects in his eyes, especially when he looks at me. A quick dash away from my own, hiding a kind of shame undetected from any of the guards before.

  “Come on, kids,” I say and usher them all to eat some porridge prepared from yesterday’s supplies and ready ourselves for a grueling day.

  “Twenty carts?” Timmy Tim asks. Though still a child—his linen shirt hanging past his wrists—he’s old enough to recognize the enormity of such a task.

  I nod, not allowing myself to speak, afraid of what words might sprout from my mouth.

  We march to the mine and I tell stories of Ashid and Linton, and stories of forests and goats and deer and rabbits: mythical creatures.

  Myrtle gives in. “What’s wrong?”

  I stare at her, catch her gaze, don’t let it go for a second. Then I smile, my cheeks bunch up, my lips curl. “Today is the day Little Fritz makes it out.”

  Everyone cheers. Especially loud is Little Fritz.

  “And we’re all going to help him. We’ll fill the carts, then after the guards check us at half day, we’ll quit the mine and let Little Fritz climb!”

  Myrtle, Chem and Richard don’t know what to say to my sassiness, but I am the oldest.

  Only seven carts are full when the guard on the roan performs his accounting. Even with the day of rain, the week has exhausted us. The rocks don’t have much color to them and the guard grumbles about the quality before he rides away.

  I gather my children around me. “Come here, Little Fritz.” I burlap his knees and hands, paying special attention to the red swollen scrape. I offer him a little bag of the finest dust and tie it around his waist, and another with a ration of food.

  And then I set him free.

  The laughter of the children rolls down the canyon. I want to tell them to quiet down, the guards might hear, but it probably doesn’t matter, and the children know this. Little Fritz takes the western tongue again, secluded and cast in shadow. Like one of the striped brown lizards, he shimmies up the wall, higher and higher, his fingers probing for cracks only his impish body can use. He dips his fingers into the pouch and finds a passage invisible to our eyes. From a nose of rock, he jumps up, snatching a lump that looks like a shadow and hauls himself up. He’s tiny up there, and we cheer him on. “Go, Little Fritz!” My voice rises up with the others.

  In no time he reaches the spot of his fall. One glance for us, a grin, and he launches himself. Suspended in air, he seems to fly, like a cuckoo. I can’t look away. He’s reaching, floating, soaring… He catches a knob, swings, pulls himself up. Collectively, we release our breath. He’s ten feet from the top. Five. His little toes dig into
the wall, smooth like glass from this distance. Three. Two. His hand reaches up, over. His feet dangle in midair, and then, with a wiggle, he’s gone.

  We are silent.

  A gust funnels down through the pit, picking up dust and grit. I shut my eyes and only listen. The wind and horses hooves. And in the distance, a cuckoo cries.

  Where You Belong

  Jeannie Warner

  Jeannie Warner spent her formative years in Southern California and Colorado, and is not afraid to abandon the most luxurious environs for a chance to travel anywhere. She has a useless degree in musicology, a checkered career in computer security, and aspirations of world domination. Her writing credits include blogs of random musings, thriller novel manuscripts, stories in Tightbeam online magazine, KnightWatch Press’ Rom Zom Com anthology, the Mad Scientist’s Journal, several police statements, and a collection of snarky notes to a former upstairs neighbor. She lives in the San Francisco Bay area near several of her best friends whom she refers to as “minions.”

  The cargo game was going on in the hold when we found her, a waifish blonde with blue eyes that took up half her face. Bongo dragged her out from behind the cartons that marked one side out for our playing field. He held her up dangling in the air by the wrist as he yelled for me. “Hey! Lookie here, Dodge!”

  We all stared, players of a now-abandoned game gathered around. I could tell right off she was a stowaway and clearly not born in space. We don’t often see anyone our age that’s planet-born like she was with her upright skeleton grown straight and true with a decent daily protein ration, not to mention the unusual hair and eyes. I’d have guessed her at six years old due to her size, but the way her temper flashed at being found and gaped at I doubled the guess to nearer my own age.