The Scourge (A.G. Henley) - By A.G. Henley Page 0,11

either. He doesn’t really talk about Mother now.”

I remember he said he was fostered, mostly because he told me so casually. The subject of fostering isn’t really taboo among Groundlings; we just avoid talking about it. We don’t talk much about the Exchange, either. It only reminds us why we hate the Lofties.

As Bream is fond of telling us, countless people were consumed by the Scourge after the Fall, generations ago. The scattered, frightened survivors saw that birds and tree-dwelling animals were safe. So they took to the trees, building homes in the tops, complete with rope ladders that could be raised when the flesh-eaters came. They fashioned bows and arrows and learned to use them with lethal accuracy to provide food and to protect themselves. But the trees were crowded and food was scarce. Resources had to be protected. People with dark coloring were arbitrarily forced to the forest floor to become Groundlings. The Exchange began soon after.

Once a year all the weaned Groundling and Lofty babies are sorted. The fair-haired, light-eyed children are taken by the Lofties to live high above the ground, in the sunlit warmth and security of their tree-top aeries. The dark babies are taken by us, to live in fear of the Scourge.

I was a Lofty baby, born with the wrong coloring, and without sight. I often wonder who my natural parents were. If they were relieved to see me go. Raising a Sightless child in the branches of trees can’t be an easy prospect.

Peree swings between two trees, the branch he hangs from groaning under his weight. “There’s the track . . . but you know that already.”

The sled’s at the top of the track, where I left it yesterday. I pick up the harness and begin dragging. The bottom grates against the wooden tracks. Almost instinctively I know the noise is attracting attention of the wrong kind. The hair on my arms stands up as if preparing to run.

“Here they come,” Peree says bleakly.

Flesh-eaters throng around me like flies on a carcass, and fear shoots through the top of my head, blocking out almost any other thought or feeling. It’s all I can do not to sink under the weight of it. I sing under my breath, a song the men sing as they prepare for hunts, meant to build courage. The whistling of arrows and the sound of bodies hitting the ground are my accompaniment.

I pull the empty sled down to the water’s edge and fill the first sack while the water laps around my ankles. It’s cool and enticing. I want to swim out. All Groundlings can swim, and I’m no exception, but as far as I know the creatures can’t. One survivor supposedly escaped the flesh-eaters by treading water for hours before slipping safely back onto land after nightfall.

I’ve never swum alone, but I think about trying it now. I take a few steps farther into the water, the sack slipping out of my hand. The urge to dive in is powerful. After a moment I grasp the sack more firmly, and turn around.

Dragging the sled, with the sounds and smells of the creatures fueling my fear, is almost unendurable. I want to cry, or scream, or commit some terrible act of violence as I pull. But each time I near the top of the hill, Peree’s calm voice—equal parts encouraging, coaxing, and soothing—keeps me moving forward. Still, by the time I tie off the last sack, I feel like one of the creatures—miserable, and mostly dead.

I trudge back through the forest to the caves. Peree speaks as I step into the darkness. I’d almost forgotten he followed me.

“See you in the morning.”

More to myself than to him, I mutter, “I hope not.”

I sit with Calli and Eland later, the rough wall jabbing into our backs. Dinner is dried rabbit and rehydrated beans from the storeroom. I should eat to keep up my strength, but I’m not hungry. The dense, wrinkled texture of the meat is how I imagine the creatures’ skin feels. When I try to swallow it, I gag.

“Bream was even more boring today than usual,” Calli complains. Eland snorts in agreement. “Between the darkness and his voice, I barely stayed awake. Bear kept poking me when I drifted off, thank the stars.”

“He was talking about the Fall again,” Eland moans.

We could all recite Bream’s rotating lectures about the Fall of Civilization—and we sometimes did when we were confident we wouldn’t be overheard mocking him. But I