The Scourge (A.G. Henley) - By A.G. Henley Page 0,3

happen often, but it happens.

There’s a rustling, more deliberate than the wind, in the leafy branches above our heads. I sit up.

“What is it?” Calli asks.

“The Lofties are here.”

The talking and shrieking abruptly cease. The clearing is silent except for the chattering of the fire. Fox finally speaks, sounding stiff and formal—and more sober than I expected.

“Welcome. Please join us.”

The woman who answers sounds equally uncomfortable. “Thank you. We brought food to contribute to the feast.”

“Our Council hasn’t arrived yet . . . so I’ll just say a few words in their absence.” Fox clears his throat and continues in his best speechmaking voice—the one Calli and I have heard many times when we were in trouble. “Groundlings and Lofties come together once a year on this day to feast, to dance, and to engage in friendly competition.” I smile as some of the boys quietly scoff at the word friendly. “The Summer Solstice celebration is a reminder that every year given to us since the Fall of Civilization is a blessing, something for us to treasure. It’s a time to reflect on the year that has passed, and to anticipate the year that will be. We honor those who came before us, our elders, many of whom gave their lives to ensure we would have a future.” He pauses. “And we offer a prayer of protection for those who come after us—our children, and our children’s children. May they always be safe from the Scourge.”

The Lofty woman responds to Fox’s traditional words of welcome with their customary response. “We appreciate the hospitality of our Groundling neighbors. We too pray for peace and protection, and for a year of prosperity for all forest-dwellers.”

A respectful silence follows, promptly broken by Bear’s less-than-respectful whisper that the Lofties will need a prayer of protection tomorrow. Calli giggles.

“What are the Lofties doing?” I ask as conversations around the fire slowly start up again.

Bear answers. “Standing around, looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. As usual.”

“It’s kind of sad. They come to the Summer Solstice celebration every year, but they never seem to have any fun,” Calli says.

“They should invite us up to their little nests if they aren’t comfortable down here,” Bear says. “Wouldn’t kill ’em.”

“Why do we bother to celebrate together, when we all keep to ourselves?” I ask. “We can do that anytime.”

“Tradition,” Calli and Bear intone.

“Maybe it’s time for a new tradition.” I stand up, shaking out my skirt. “Where are they, exactly?”

“Over by my family’s shelter,” Calli says. “What are you doing, Fenn?”

Finding out who will be in those trees when the Scourge comes. I weave around the clusters of people, listening for voices I don’t recognize. But I smell the Lofties before I hear them—the intense, slightly bitter resin of their homes, the greenheart trees.

“Welcome.” My voice sounds too loud in my ears. “I’m Fennel. I’ll be taking Aloe’s place collecting water for our communities when the Scourge returns.”

The Groundlings behind me fall silent again, their stares heavy on my shoulders. A Lofty speaks, his voice deep and gravelly.

“Fennel, it’s Shrike. Has Aloe joined the Council then?” Shrike is Aloe’s Keeper. She doesn’t talk about him much, but I’ve always gotten the sense she thinks well of him.

“She was accepted this evening. She should be here soon.” I worry the pocket of my dress with my fingers. “Shrike, could I . . . I’d like to meet my Keeper.”

There’s silence, then someone moves toward me, crunching leaves under their feet.

“This is Peregrine,” Shrike says.

I hold out my hand. It stays extended in front of me for what seems a very long time. I think of myself frozen that way, a welcoming statue found years in the future by someone who happens across the clearing. Embarrassed, but determined not to show it, I thrust my hand out even further.

A hand finally brushes mine. I can tell it belongs to a man. There are calluses on the ends of his long fingers. This Lofty smells different from the others, more like . . . honeysuckle. I liked playing around the honeysuckle in the garden as a child, avoiding the preoccupied bees and soaking in the sweet, sunny scent. It’s the fragrance of summer.

“Hello, Fennel.”

I’m surprised. I pictured my Keeper middle-aged, like Shrike, but this Lofty doesn’t sound much older than me. And while his hand is rough, his voice isn’t. It’s quiet, almost melodious. More like the calls of the warblers that wake us each morning than the predatory screech of