The Harvest Supper

We had grand feasts back home. I lose track of the days here, but the weather feels about right. About this time every year the farmers would make their harvest in Amphitrite. Bundles upon bundles of food were collected. The city would save food for the winter. And then there was the ration sent across the prairies to Government Island. But after all was divided, there was always extra for a feast.

Atlas was good at nothing else, no special trade or reason to boast. But they knew how to celebrate. I remember that. The Harvest Supper was the one event my father would take me to. I would walk in between them, one hand clasped with my dad and one with my mom. There was a bounce to their steps. I remember the laughter. People wouldn’t look at me funny. They wouldn’t whisper. One year, a young man gave me a cloth bunny he had won at some armature archery competition. It was stuffed with feathers, buttons for eyes. I held it tight, grinning the entire night.

Torches lined the sidewalks, lighting the streets. The townspeople gathered so many tables, lining them down the street. One big table, multicolored with tablecloths pulled from storage, saved for this gathering. The women scattered fall leaves across the surface and the best plates were dug out of boxes. The men had spent the previous weekend hunting game. Then, all day, the women gathered and cooked. My mom would always help them make the side dishes and bread. I knead some dough, too. They said I was a good kitchen helper. The men swapped stories from the year. The children played hide-and-go-seek. On the windy years, they flew kites.

Then, as Helios began to set, the food sat steaming on the tabletops. Everyone stood around, hand in hand, thanking Clieto for her good graces on that year’s harvest. Then we ate and ate and ate. I used to think I had to eat the most on that night, like it would help hold me in the dead of winter when rations were small. I have since learned the stupidity of such a thought. I loved those days, when rivalries were forgotten and the people gathered.

We didn’t go last year. My father said something about the town requesting our absence. I think he meant my absence. He tried to recreate the gathering at our house, making a small meal for us. But it wasn’t the same. He tried, but it just didn’t feel right. They died four months later…in a fire. The town didn’t set it, but they might as well have. We should have gone to the dinner. We shouldn’t have let them exclude us, made us exiles. We should have remained a part of the city. Things might have been different then.

Captain served a game turkey for dinner tonight. I remembered the harvest. I remembered when my family was alive. And then I left for my room and cried.

Fall Soups and Fireplaces

I can feel fall in the air. It’s different here. Back home, fall came with a crisp shift in the wind. It wound down the cliffs, bringing with it thoughts of the arctic. I still remember the cold needles that pricked my skin when it came. On many levels, it felt like jumping into ice water. Breaks in the breeze brought the warmth of Helios’ rays, reminding me that winter had not yet arrived. Then the wind returned, bringing a thinner air. With it, came the sound of rustling leaves. We mainly had pines, but somehow the trees spoke more in the winter. Fireplaces were lit, burning wood perfuming the valley. It was death before the brightness of snow.

It’s different here. I can hear the waves crashing more, promising to bring winter storms shortly. I can still hear the rustling of leaves. I hear that more on this island. The wind brings with it a spritzing of water. It settles on my pores, chilling me in a new way. I still smell the burning of wood in fireplaces, but it’s not sweet like pines. It’s deeper, darker, reminding me that this is not where I belong.

My winter coat has begun to grow. With my clothes as ratty as they are, I find myself welcoming the opportunity to transform. It protects me from the wind, blocking any gust from reaching my skin. Layers upon layers sheltering me. I love the feel, like a fuzzy blanket covering my body, but allowing me still to move freely. I love my coat. Pure white. It’s harder at camp to keep it clean. Many nights, I return with a greyish coat instead. But it is still mine. Do I stand out? Probably. But it doesn’t matter. They see me for only a second before I attack. It’s a challenge, but I would not give it up. White is pure. I have a coat that reflects purity. I like that.

One thing I enjoy about the change of seasons here…Cook has begun making more soups. The boys complain it’s not as filling, that the only reason they make soups is to save costs. I find the soups and stews comforting. They warm me from the core outside, providing a furnace inside against the chill. It is the one comfort that doesn’t remind me of home. Not to mention I’ve made friends with the kitchen hand. He’s a boy about my age; charcoal black hair with striking blue eyes. Xenophanes is his name, but I call him Xeno. He thinks my wolf form is neat. So, if I’m careful, I can sneak to the kitchen just before curfew and he’ll give me an extra ration. He’ll tell me about the drama in the kitchen and I find myself laughing. Hopefully the change in the weather has brought a new change to my existence here. If so, I can see myself liking camp…well, maybe I shouldn’t go that far. But I can tolerate it, at least.

The Dream...or Memory?

I had a dream last night. It was so vivid, so real. It has me afraid to fall asleep tonight. I don’t want to revisit it. I don’t want to think about it. But it haunts me. I’m going to tell you, okay. I’m going to write it down and hope it goes away.

I was in a field. It looked like the ones back home. Pine trees towered above me, blocking the sky. Through patches, I could see the blue, but clouds were starting to cover. I could feel the chill against my skin. A storm was coming. I could smell it, the fresh smell of water that hovered in the air, threatening to drop the temperature. I had been walking a long time. I had been daydreaming. I was miles from home. I had to get back.

I don’t remember what happened after that. The next thing, I was standing, soaked. The rain trickled down on me, kissing my face, dripping from my chin. The woods surrounded me. I normally felt safe in them, not today. They confined me. I was overcome by bark and pine. It threatened to tell. It threatened to fall away and reveal me. But not just me. My hands shook as I looked at the body lying before me. Dead. I have seen dead bodies before. My dad never knew that. He thought I was a kid. He thought I was sheltered from such things in the world. But I wasn’t. My first time seeing a body, I snuck up to the doctor’s office with a friend, but I still can’t picture who. We peered inside. The man was naked on the operating table, chest spread open for the autopsy. I remember the eyes, vacant, clouded. These eyes were not the same. Vacant, yes, but still held the fear.

The rain had dampened the boy’s hair, glistened his button nose. I counted myself lucky. The rain had cleaned what must have been a mess. The scratches and tears in his skin were washed clean, leaving behind raw wounds. I looked down at my trembling hands. I trembled from the cold…it had to be from the cold. I had done nothing wrong. I had just found him. But there was something in my stomach. I could still feel it. The summersaults, the twists. I knew something about this scene. Somehow. I searched all day, but couldn’t remember the gap in my dream. I didn’t do that to him. It looked like teeth marks, but they weren’t mine. It couldn’t be mine. But maybe. The boy was my age. So young.

Why did I dream this? Maybe because I know I’ll have to kill on the battlefield. But it felt so real…like it was real. Like it was a memory. But I’ve never killed anyone. I don’t remember killing anyone. But his eyes stay in my vision. Their terror, their stare. I don’t think I can forget them. What did it all mean?

I am Immortal

It’s been two weeks. I’m still at camp. There were days when I had convinced myself they were just organizing my release. That was until today. I watched Zeno leave camp today. The general called him to the battlefield. He would have graduated in six months, but they needed soldiers, some mission. I don’t get it. The general barely paid attention to him.

I guess he is good. I try to remember that he is human. It’s funny to think that way. I’ve been labeled. I’m Immortal. Therefore I am not human? I feel human. I think human. Sometimes I wonder if they label us so they can justify treating us different. After all, if I were “human” I would not be here at such a young age. If I were “human,” they would never try to label me as the curse of the country. Then again, if I were “human” I would not hold an ability that justifies such a claim. If I were human, I couldn’t run under a four minute mile. If I were human, I couldn’t knock a grown man off his feet. If I were human, I couldn’t transform into a wolf. I like not being human. I like showing off at camp. I can propel myself up the exercise walls without increasing my heart rate. I can laugh at the boys I pass as they struggle not to vomit during our ten mile run once a week. I like feeling stronger than them.

Zeno really was the only one who was any match for me. He’s seven years older than I am, but our strength was becoming almost evenly matched. I hate him. But he challenged me. He was my drive to improve. My stupid war with him kept my mind off the obvious. I am here, training to enter into a war. I am here, training to be a killing machine. I feel sick every time I think of it. I hate him, but what am I without him? He was the only one who could see me for what I am. He didn’t see the wolf. He didn’t see the little girl whose family was murdered. He saw me for who I am and he hated me. But I hated him, too.

I can’t say I was too sad to see him go. Who knows? Maybe camp will be better with him gone. He was grinning as he rode toward the port. But I don’t think he will be grinning on the battlefield. Maybe he will be. He seems more of a natural killer than I will ever be. Maybe he should be their killing machine. I’ll stay here. It’ll be different. I can prove my worth here. But I won’t stay forever. If the general can’t get me out, then I can just get myself out. I am Immortal after all. I am above the human race. I can do it. It’s just going to take some time…and no more distractions.

The General

Today was such a good day! In the twilight of the morning, we prepped the camp; sidewalks were swept, windows were washed, barracks were cleaned, crisp flags were raised. The camp looked almost new by the time we had finished. After breakfast, the captain ordered distribution of our new uniforms. Blue wool. They had been ironed, edges sharp. It felt different, wearing clothes that fit, not feeling the cool breeze drift through worn holes. They felt heavier on my shoulders. But I was warm for the first time since fall had crept into the pines. I did notice my lack of buttons compared to the others. It’s the first time I cared. But I’m different. They don’t have a four paws button. Zeno had six. By far the most. But who cares? I’ll be gone soon, anyway.

We stood in rows. I tried to stand straight, my shoulder back and head held high, listening to the whipping of the flag high above. The grinding of carriage wheels quickened my pulse. I was moments from earning my freedom. Following the black carriage were twenty black horses, marching in unison. The carriage continued, a black hawk flying low under the pines. I could barely keep from bouncing with joy as they stopped. We waited forever, while the soldiers set up the perimeter. I could see their training as they moved. They had graduated from this camp, no doubt. And now they were out. Just like me.

He stood tall, a giant even compared to Captain. His shoulders were so broad; I bet he could pick up a house without much trouble. But his eyes, dark brown, they cut through us. He saw us in our best uniforms, standing without a sway…unimpressed. In fact, the same frown cut his face for the entire time…with one exception. Captain first had me run an obstacle course. I jumped over walls and weaved through debris at record breaking speed, all while the boys threw things at me. They volunteered happily, but no one hit me. I was too quick. I looked at him, wanting to impress, but he remained stone.

Then, came the battlefield. We divided into two colors, except for me. Everyone knew I was on team red. Their swords were wood sticks with sponges dipped in their team’s color. I had to forget about him for a time, focusing on “killing” as many as I could. I stalked the outskirts, watching them. I knew these boys. I knew their movements. When the opportunity presented itself, I attacked. I threw them to the ground, pushing a painted paw against their necks. I wasn’t with a victim for more a few seconds. I cut threw them, driven to take them out, to prove my worth. It was thrilling. When the whistle blew and I turned around I saw it. It was ever so slight, but when we met gazes the corners of his lips turned. He left, but I know I’m getting out of here. Soon.

A Break in Routine

Six months have passed. The days blur into one long routine. I still think my father will walk through the bunkhouse door, his broad shoulders filling the space. He was my protector, my defender. I knew, when I wrapped my fingers around his hand, that nothing could hurt me. Last I saw him, I stood just past his waist. I wonder how tall I’ve gotten here. I wonder, if I stood next to him, if I would stand closer to his shoulders. I want to see him at my door, proclaiming with his big grin that today we will throw out our plans.

I remember one day he announced we were going to a farmer’s market. A wagon train had come in from Amphitrite to sell goods. I remember the wagons. They were taller than my father. I had to strain my neck to see. Makeshift tables lined the streets, the colors of their produce bright against the wood buildings. I only remember bits and pieces, but I remember the colors the most; green apples and orange vegetables, red tomatoes bigger than my fist and corn practically sparkled against the sun. The entire town was out. At some point, someone decided to play their fiddle. I clapped my hands amongst the crowd building.

I remember being disappointed when we left early. My father was mad at something. I don’t remember, but maybe I had wandered off for a time? Anyway, I wish he would come through the door. His smile would take away the gloom, I know. I hope on many nights that he survived, that he’ll come to save me. Then I remember the heat of the flames. He couldn’t save me that night. He was big and tough but couldn’t stop them.

There are no farmer’s markets here. There are no reasons to break from the routine. Rise at dawn, run the camp’s perimeter, eat breakfast, conduct daily chores, attend education class, eat lunch, run the obstacle course, attend weaponry class, combat training, eat dinner, participate in competitions, honorary buttons awarded, go to bed, start again. Tomorrow it changes. General Scopas is visiting. I can feel the vibration from the officers. They are planning big showcases.

I know I will be part of the festivities. The general will want to see my progress. Zeno has spent the day sharpening his swords and polishing his shoes. He cares more about the visit than I. General Scopas is not the farmer’s market. I don’t think he is exciting at all. But, something inside makes me want to please him. Maybe I should polish my shoes and patch the holes in my uniform. Maybe he is the key to leaving. I don’t care if he takes me to the battlefield. I can easily go home from there. Yes. I will show him how great of a solider I am. I will show him that I deserve to leave. Goodnight for now, my friend. There is a lot to prepare.

Who is Pandora?

I remember a meadow a few miles south of our house that occupied most of my afternoons. When my father was done with his morning teachings, I would always migrate there. The pine trees parted, revealing a clear blue sky…most days. Small yellow flowers danced with the green grass. I spent most of the time lost in thought. Looking back, it was silly. I thought about drama with the other children in the city…like who cast me a dirty glare on the street. I would daydream what it’d be like to live normal. Other times, I pretended I was a princess in some faraway land. 

Such time wasted on little thoughts. I have much bigger things to think about now. The biggest? Who am I? Others have their own opinion. King Menelaus, well, he thinks I am a monster. But he is more than willing to use this monster for his own advantage. To him, I am as Cerberus is to Hades, serving and yet untamed. Zeno also sees me as a monster, but maybe not as horrible. Yet, his opinion is shaped by the fact I am his competition. I can beat him in our kilometer sprints. I may not be stronger in hand-to-hand practices, but I am quicker. I stand in the way of him dominating daily tests. Therefore I hinder his pursuit of becoming general. He has never said it, but I know he sees an obstacle when he looks at me. And, worse, a girl. 

His view is annoying. I tire of the competition, especially as I nurse a sprained ankle from an “accident” he undoubtedly caused. That’s okay because he’s nursing a sprained wrist from the same “accident.” Like I said, he’s stronger, but I’m quicker. I still tire of the pursuit. It is not in me. Yet, even with the pain and torment, I would take that over the Captain. He sees an innocent child, which makes things worse. He treats me like a baby with his special privileges. There’s guilt in his eyes. He wants me to be a good warrior and I make him proud when I excel, but he hates training a girl so young. He thinks he is corrupting me. He thinks the boys torment is damaging to me, that I am a weakling he needs to protect. Doesn’t he see his “help” makes things worse? How am I supposed to fit in when he treats me different? 

I find it odd. They all have determined their opinions of me, but I haven’t figured it out. Am I a monster or a victim? A soldier or a child? Do I even like who I am? Do I want something different? Why can they make up their minds when they can’t read my thoughts? How do they know without a doubt who I am when it is a mystery to me? Who am I? Do you know? Can you tell me? Because I don’t think anyone has it right.