What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead trees give no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening striving to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
T.S. Eliot, "The Waste Land"
She claws her way to the surface slowly, pushing aside the moist soil and sand with fragile, spindly fingers. She keeps her large, pale eyes shut tightly as it falls softly on her face. Her nose wrinkles at its acidic smell; her tongue retreats behind thin, cracked lips at its bitter taste. The soil sticks to her eyelashes and tangles in her long, white hair - already knotted and matted with sweat from her desperate trek through the Earth's cool, silent darkness.
She hadn't wanted to leave.
She knew what happened when youth like her were sent to the surface. They died. Or, they returned to the dark years later, broken and dying - their skin shriveled and flaking.
When the surface survivors had arrived and scanned the small, wet cavern with their perpetually squinting eyes, she had drawn her short legs into her sunken chest and wrapped her emaciated arms around them. She wanted to remain invisible, to spend her life listening to the quiet breathing of her younger brothers and sisters; she didn't want to die under an angry, red sun.
Their hands had grabbed her suddenly. They had unraveled her in the dark, pulling her limbs straight and yanking her hair. She had writhed under their tight grasps, revolted by the feel of their papery palms, cracked and burned by the sun.
"You have to go," they had whispered with voices as broken as their skin.
They had carried her - still struggling - up winding paths carved into the bedrock until they reached the loose soil that signified they were near the surface. Two survivors removed their strong, bony hands from her upper arms and stepped away from the group still holding her. They began to dig at the soil and sand, their breathing labored and unsteady. As the wall of earth began to give way beneath their fingers, the rest of the group shoved her, head-first, into the soft dirt. She would either reach the surface or suffocate in the attempt. They would not let her return.
Once her body was over halfway into the hole, the survivors released her hands. She would need them to carve her way up to the dead land. She scrambled to clear the dirt from her nose and mouth, pushing her way into the Earth. As the soil caved in behind her, one of the survivors whispered a question, his voice magnified by the close confines of the man-made hole.
Who killed the world?
As she breaks through the last layer of soil, she recoils. Although they remain closed, her eyes burn from the sudden, brutal light glaring off the biting sand. She finds herself gasping for breath as the heavy heat seeps into her lungs and sets her pale skin on fire. If she could breathe, she would scream.
The world is silent except for the wind. Nothing moves except the sand. She is being re-birthed into a world of fire and blood.
Tears press against her eyelids as she struggles to pull herself out of the Earth. Her feeble legs kick in an effort to propel herself forward. Her fingers grapple to find a handhold in the sand. I am going to die, she panics. "I am going to die," she rasps.
"Not today," someone whispers in a hard voice. Wiry hands grasp her limbs as the kaleidoscopic world of fire burning through her closed lids slowly fades to black.
When she jolts awake, night has fallen and small pinpricks of silver light dot the cavernous ceiling above her. Stars, she thinks tiredly. That's what the survivors called them. Her eyes feel heavy. Grains of sand stick to the exposed areas of her skin. Something digs into her back through the thin material of her long-sleeved shirt.
"Those are stars, and that is the sky," she slurs.
As her senses slowly begin to sharpen, she realizes that she has been placed under a tree and her body wrapped in a piece of dark cloth. She shifts and winces. The bark of the tree has most likely marked her skin like the wrinkles in her clothes when she sleeps.
"Welcome to the Green Place," a voice to her right states softly. She doesn't know what makes a place green, or what green looks like. She suspects that the owner of the voice doesn't either. She glances over at the speaker who is standing. It is a woman. The woman, too, is wrapped in a dark cloth; its frayed ends wave delicately in the wind as she tilts her head in greeting.
"Water?"
The woman nods brusquely and walks over to the tree, pulling out a small flask.
"I only have a little. The water here is not safe to drink," the woman says as she unscrews the flask's cap. The woman's eyes are squinted; she has been on the surface for awhile.
"What is your name?" The woman asks. "What do I call you?"
She takes a sip of the water and grimaces. It is rancid and stale. "Slight," she coughs. "My name is Slight."
"No doubt because of your frame." The woman states, her lips turning up at the corners.
Slight takes another sip before handing the flask back, nodding. "What's your name?"
"You will need to build up your strength if you want to survive the Green Place," the woman replies, ignoring the question. "You must be able to rely on yourself. Do you understand? Only you."
Slight nods as she begins to stand, holding on to the tree for support. Everything hurts.
"Good." The woman turns and begins to walk away. Slight notices the way she favors her left leg. As the woman steps forward, she drags her right foot creating a shallow dip in the sand.
"The world is dead," the woman calls over her shoulder.
"Who killed the world?" Slight whispers before following on shaky legs.
When the sun is bright and the heat overwhelming, Slight digs a shallow hole in the ground. In this hole, she waits - and occasionally sleeps - covered by the dark cloth the woman gave her.
Her stomach is empty, but she cannot forage for food or water during the day. Her fingers trail up and down her waist, touching each rib in turn. Her hands are dry, caked with dirt and blood. Her fingernails are gone. Her skin is blistered and flushed. She breathes in slowly and shallowly.
Everything hurts.
When the sun sinks below the horizon, Slight will be able to rise and find sustenance. The likelihood of a war party venturing out after dark for bullets, gas, water, or breeders is slim. According to those who have lived on the surface longer, most war parties haven't ventured this far east since the Many Mothers disappeared. Still, Slight doesn't take any chances. She must rely on herself to survive.
Slight hasn't spoken to the woman who pulled her from the earth since her first night on the surface. The others whisper that she has no name - that she renounced it and their home when she emerged from the sand. Slight suspects that this is true. She's discovered that names don't matter. Not here. Not where everything hurts.
She sees the woman sometimes at night when she's picking through the marsh looking for something edible. The woman is one of the watchers who crane above the others on stilts. A dark cloth is wrapped around her body, hiding her form and her face. But Slight knows that it's her. She moves forward slowly, favoring her left leg. Each step bringing her closer to the road.
"Fury Road," the boy hisses in her ear one night after he catches Slight staring at the woman and at the road. Slight furrows her brow. She has seen the boy creeping along the outskirts of the marshes. The others say that he doesn't belong here.
The corners of her lips are cracked and bleeding. Her tongue darts out to catch a drop of blood before it falls. "Fury Road," she repeats. "How do you know?"
The boy shuffles forward awkwardly, his right leg crooked and useless. The moonlight shines briefly on his face. Thick scars run down his cheeks and frame his full lips.
"I live. I die. I live again," he states with conviction. His eyes close as he reverently touches the skull-shaped scar on the back of his neck.
Slight leaves him staring at the road.
To distract herself from her ever-present hunger, Slight thinks about her brothers and sisters still living in the ground. Her first memory is of the cavern. She recalls the low ceiling, wet air, and muffled sounds. She remembers sleeping side by side with her siblings, their arms and legs tangled and their breaths synchronized.
Slight exhales slowly, wincing as her already empty stomach contracts further. In the ground, they had to sleep in piles for warmth. On the surface, this contact is unnecessary.
She remembers a little brother running his fingers through her hair and a little sister crying. She recalls her curiosity the first time she witnessed a new sibling being brought to the cavern, and her devastation when one of the older siblings was taken away.
"Not enough food here," the survivors had whispered. "Not enough water."
Slight wrinkles her nose and inhales sharply.
"If they're strong, they'll survive."
"Like us."
"Our resources are our resources. We've proven ourselves. We survived!"
"What have the young ever done for us?"
Slight shifts and adjusts the dark cloth that covers her, willing her muscles to relax slightly if only to relieve the pressure in her chest. "Who killed the world?" She mutters bitterly.
The sun is beginning to sink below the horizon. The wind lifts one corner of the cloth, and Slight watches as hazy tendrils of heat rise languidly from the sand and stretch towards the orange sky. She only needs to wait another hour or so before she can head out into the marsh.
"What is your name?" The boy asks her. Slight ignores him and continues to dig in the soft, wet sand. Occasionally, small lizards and desert rodents will venture into the marsh and die. Their bodies are difficult to find and highly coveted.
Slight had only been on the surface a few days when she witnessed her first murder. One of the others - a tall, slim girl - had found the remains of a small, two-headed lizard in the marsh. She was drowned in a shallow pool of sour water; her body left to swell and rot in the hot, humid environment. Slight had watched the girl's body slowly decay, the sand greedily swallowing her blood and the wind carrying away her long, dark hair.
"Names don't matter here," Slight says decisively. "Only survival."
The boy is silent. Slight shifts, pressing her hands into the sand as she sits on her heels. She chances a glance at the boy. His eyes look tired. His lips are chapped and flaking. His eyebrows draw together as he chews on his bottom lip.
"They left me." He shrugs. "They must have thought I went under the wheels."
Slight looks at his mangled leg. The boy squints at the sky.
"I live," he mutters, picking at a scab on his arm. Grief lines his scarred face.
His mouth tastes sour when she kisses him.
Slight is attempting to filter some of the marsh's stagnant water through her dark cloth when the watchers begin to whistle. Her neck pops as she whips her head around to stare at the road. Her pale eyes glint in the moonlight. Something must be coming.
She wrings the last of the water out of the dark cloth before crouching low to the ground and throwing it over her head and shoulders. The watchers continue their slow march as a rig comes into view. It is traveling from the west. It appears to be from the Citadel - another name the boy shared with her. Skulls like the one on the boy's neck decorate the front of the rig, which is long and black.
Slight shivers. If the boy's stories are true, there is only one rig that looks like that - the one that belongs to Furiosa. She cautiously moves from her crouched position to her stomach, laying flat on the ground. The sand still holds heat from earlier in the day. It is uncomfortably hot on her cheek, but Slight closes her eyes and tries to ignore it.
"Imperator Furiosa is Immortan Joe's favorite," the boy had said as he warily squinted up at the watchers. "She brings him his breeders."
"Breeders?" She had asked quietly. Slight had witnessed a war party capture a man earlier that day. They had pulled him from the wreckage of his vehicle, placed him in chains, and made him run.
"Women. They bear Immortan Joe's children."
She remembered the quiet breathing of her brothers and sisters, the yells and struggles of those sent to the surface before her.
Slight had wrinkled her nose and spat, "The world is dead. It is no place for children."
The boy had shrugged, and self-consciously touched his brand.
The watchers continue their procession alongside the road. Slight holds her breath. Why is Furiosa here? Why is she making this trip at night?
"She's never made this trip at night," Slight whispers to herself. If she had, Slight would have seen the rig before this moment. She opens her eyes and lifts the cloth a few inches off the ground in front of her face.
The rig slides back and forth across the wet sand as the wheels attempt to find traction. Slight watches as two of the wheels sink into the marsh. The watchers continue moving, their dark cloaks rustling in the wind. The rig's engine groans. Slight notices movement around the sunken wheels. Tall, lithe girls in white flit around the rig, willing it to move.
Slight slowly pushes the dark cloth off her head as she sits up to watch the scene unfolding on the road. One of the girls has long hair that looks white in the moonlight. Slight reaches for her hair, but stops. It is no longer there. It had gradually fallen out as her body withered in the sun; she had buried it in the sand.
She remembers a little brother running his fingers through her hair…
Slight shakes her head and watches as bright lights begin to emerge on the horizon.
"A war party!" The boy exclaims excitedly.
Slight jolts. She had not realized that he was near her. He sways on his good leg, eyes closed. Slight draws her legs into her chest and waits. She will not be unraveled again.
The watchers' shrill whistle bounds over the dunes. The rig jerks forward as short, condensed bursts of sound echo in the empty desert from the west. Slight wraps the dark cloth around her body tighter as a large spotlight begins to probe the darkness. She does not want to be seen.
Three loud, sharp sounds reverberate across the road - each fired in quick succession from the east. Slight pushes her hands, still clutching the cloth, against her ears. Her forehead furrows, her nose wrinkles, and her lips snarl in pain. She tastes blood.
"Who killed the world?" She asks the boy angrily. He keens as the gunfire finishes its last reverberation.
The watchers have stopped moving. The world is silent.
When the machine gun fire starts, they are unprepared. The first watcher falls face first into the marsh; his body thumping into the sand with a sick squelch. The others try to run, but their stilts hinder their speed. The second and third watchers fall toward each other in a deadly dance before twirling away to their respective graves.
"Witness me!" The boy yells as he shuffle-runs toward the gunfire. "I live! I die! I-"
His silence is permanent; his impact small.
The fourth watcher falls not far from Slight's position in the sand. She crawls to the body, careful to remain unseen. The body is broken. It arms and legs are twisted and torn; she can see the jagged edges of white bones piercing through the skin.
She reaches out and grabs the the woman's water flask. She searches her pockets for food.
Survival is all that matters.
She jumps as a vehicle explodes behind her. Blue flames reach toward the sky, devouring the area's oxygen and taking Slight's breath away with it. She coughs violently as smoke fills the marsh. She stumbles forward. Her cloth falls to the ground as she falls heavily to her knees. Her hands curl into fists. The scabs where her nails used to be crack open; she feels fresh blood on her palms.
As her coughs subside, silence begins to descend again. Slight focuses on her breath. She is exposed and cannot afford to panic. On the road she hears the sounds of scavenging. Someone is going through the vehicle's wreckage. Slight stands slowly and creeps forward.
Survival is all that matters, she thinks. The world is dead.
The smoke begins to clear and she sees a man. He is blinking rapidly and muttering to himself as he throws guns, ammunition, and others supplies onto a tarp. The dark blood that covers his face glistens in the moonlight.
He pauses, and Slight realizes that he has noticed her. She cannot read his expression. He appears to be in pain, but no cries of distress leave his lips.
Slight moves forward. He watches her warily.
"Who killed the world?" She asks quietly.
The confusion on his face clears for a brief moment.
"We did."