Page 12 of Moon Chosen

Mari bent her head over the paper and worked through the night perfecting the sketch and thinking of the story her mother had told her over and over again—how she and this man who should have captured her, enslaved her, and been repulsed by her, had instead loved her. How they had met in secret, discovering the hidden beauty of Leda’s body, and the miraculous kindness of Galen’s heart. How Mari had been created from their love, and how Leda had been planning to run away with him—to begin their own Tribe somewhere far away, deep in another forest where there were no Companions or Earth Walkers, there were only Leda and Galen and the baby they swore to love.

“Oh, and you, too.” Mari paused in her contemplation of the sketch and touched the rough outline of the canine. “I know your name, Orion, and I know your story, too. But I don’t know your face.” In her life, Mari had only glimpsed canines four times, and then from a distance so great that she saw only their silhouettes, never their faces.

“Fear canines—flee felines—take to the ground or you will be found.” Mari whispered the warning all Earth Walkers knew. “But there is more to the story than that,” she mused as she worked on shading Orion’s fur. Leda had told her that the Companions reflected their canines—that the Leader Shepherds were noble and brave, and that the Hunter Terriers were clever and true, and that when they chose the person that they would be bonded with for life, that person also had those wonderful traits.

“Then why do the Companions enslave us and treat us as if we are animals?”

There was no reply in the silent cave and Mari sighed again, wishing she could get real answers to her questions. Her mother, of course, told her that her father’s canine had been a mighty Shepherd, that he had not been evil or mean. He had been everything a noble beast should be and everything her father, his Companion, had been—loyal and loving, kind and brave. “She says your fur was thicker than a rabbit’s and softer than a fawn’s. I wish I could have known you. I wish I could finish your picture.”

As if she’d just broken the surface after a deep dive, Mari shook herself. That was an impossible wish.

“They killed you before we could get away,” Mari said. “You and my father.” Her gaze went to the infant version of herself swaddled in the life-changing fronds of the Mother Plant. “They caught you taking the Mother Plant’s fronds for me, and they killed you because you would not betray us to them.” Mari closed her eyes, for once wishing her imagination wasn’t so vivid, and that she couldn’t picture the death scene so perfectly in her mind. Even though eighteen winters had passed since the terrible thing had happened, Leda could not speak of it without weeping.

“They followed him to our meeting place, trying to trap me and you, sweet girl. But your father had told me to always, always remain hidden until he called for me. That horrible day, he must have known something was wrong, because he did not call me from my hiding place. I had waited silently with you, smiling and thinking that he was testing me, being sure you and I would be safe.

“But it wasn’t a test. The Warrior sprang on him and tried to force him to give us away to them. My Galen, your noble father, refused. He and Orion died for that refusal.”

“You didn’t give us away, but you left us to this life of hiding.” Mari pushed her matted hair back from her face. “I know it wasn’t your fault. And Mama, she’s done her best. She’s kept me safe all this time—loved me and been my best friend—given me a life, even though she mourns you every day.” Mari smiled sadly at the man in the sketch, wondering for the millionth time how either he or her mother could have ever believed they could make a life together. “Not in this world,” she told him and his ghost. “Not in this lifetime. I know you don’t want to hear this, but the truth is I’m sorry you and Mama met. Mama would have found a Clansman to love, and I would have been born looking like, feeling like, a normal Earth Walker. Mama wouldn’t be so alone. I wouldn’t be so alone.”

Mari worked awhile longer, and then finally put her quill down and studied the sketch critically, waiting for it to dry. Would she show this one to her mother?

Probably not. The first time she’d tried to draw her father she had only known a little more than nine winters. Proud of the scene she’d brought alive from her mother’s stories, she’d shared the finished piece with Leda. Her mother had told her it was a wondrous thing—that she’d captured a miraculous likeness of Galen. But she had also gone pale at the seeing of it, and her hand had trembled so violently that Mari had had to hold the sketch for her. For many days after that, Mari had listened to the muffled sobs that had drifted like lost dreams from her mother’s room.

Seeing that Leda’s hair needed more shading, Mari bent back to the sketch, working on bringing the younger, hope-filled version of her mother to life while she wished that she didn’t have to live a lie and live in fear—always, always in fear. “And I wish I could finally find my own story…”

***

In finding his answer, Dead Eye had become a God. He knew it because of the power that coursed through his body as he had begun to shed his skin! It should have been impossible. The stag hadn’t been one of the Others. Absorbing his living flesh shouldn’t have worked. Even absorbing the living flesh of the Others hadn’t worked for the twenty-one winters of Dead Eye’s life. No matter how many of the Others the People trapped and reaped, none of the People had ever been healed—not truly. Always, always, within a season the People would sicken. Their skins would crack, shed, age, and eventually they died. They always died.

But no more.

Dead Eye stretched out his mighty arms, flexing his muscles and laughing. He had asked for a sign, and the stag had given him one. Let the old men slink about the City begging the Reaper to make their skins last longer, or—if all else fails—to draw more of the Others to the City so that their pitiful lives could continue.

No. Dead Eye would not beg a dead God for those things. And if the People wanted to live, to thrive, they would stop worshipping a metal statue and acknowledge the God who walked in their midst. The proof was as obvious as the power coursing through his body.

First, he must make the People understand. Dead Eye had thought a very long time about how to approach the People. Though he longed to proclaim the truth he knew that the People would not be ready to hear it. No, they would not be ready for a new God, but perhaps they would be ready for a new Champion.

Ineffective old women had been speaking for a dead God for generations. How much easier would it be for a Champion to speak for God?

As dusk fell Dead Eye made his way to the Reaper’s Temple. At first he was glad to see so many of the People gathered there among the bonfires that littered the entrance and the great, broken bricks that paved the way to the Temple. Then he saw that most of them were old, with broken skin and slack, lifeless eyes. He thought they looked like beaten animals that waited witlessly to be slaughtered.

He stepped forward, and then turned to face the People.

“Will none of you approach Her? Will you all be content to die here, in the shadow of Her Temple?” he asked the group, his voice echoing from the massive walls of the crumbling Temple behind him.

“We worship the Reaper from here,” said a white-haired man who was naked except for patches of ragged moss pressed to his oozing skin.

“Turtle Man, She beckons, yet you are content to worship from a distance?” Dead Eye scowled at the old man.

“She beckons for Her Watchers, and they are with Her,” said Turtle Man, scratching at a sore on his arm. “We wait here, as the Watchers tell us, for the next group of Others She draws to the City. If we pray and make enough sacrifices, the Others will come.”

“I think She beckons for more than that! I think the Watchers are wrong. Our Reaper is tired of old women and is beckoning for Her Champion!”

The crowd erupted in shocked shouts. With a flourish, Dead Eye flung off his tattered cloak and stood, bare-chested, before them. He saw the People’s amazement as they took in his shedding skin, and the strips of stag flesh he had cut and packed into the open wounds on his arms and torso. The wounds were completely healed and pink with healthy new flesh that was closing around the stag’s flesh as his body absorbed and digested the creature’s strength. He flexed his arms, reveling in the power that flowed through him. With a grace that was more stag than human, he leaped against the side of the Temple, grabbing one of the thick ropes of living vines that cascaded from the Reapers’ perch, and using it to scale the slick green-tiled outer wall. When he reached the balcony, he jumped easily over the ledge, and automatically dropped to his knees before the huge statue.

“Though She is not pleased by your abrupt appearance on Her balcony, the Reaper acknowledges her Harvester. Present the sacrifice you offer,” demanded the leader of the Watchers in her thin, high voice.

Still on his knees, Dead Eye pulled the rodent from within the pack slung over his bare shoulder. Free of the confines of the pouch, the fat creature began to struggle.