Athena
Nearby a crow cawed and she awoke. The early morning light surrounded her with its cerulean hue. She woke up outside on the ground again. She didn't remember leaving her yurt, she didn't remember wandering the dark, she didn't remember stopping, falling to the ground and sleeping undisturbed for the rest of the night, but she knew she'd done all those things, because she'd been doing them every night for months.
Last night she sleepwalked a full four hundred yards from the village, to the edge of gecko turf. She needed to walk back home before her mother's daily visit. She hugged herself in the chill morning air. The guards on the outskirts avoided her gaze and pretended they didn't see her, but after she passed them they stared with a mixture of shame and pity. In town she walked past the home of her late husband's father. No one was awake to see her. Where she usually drew icy stares and snide put-downs instead the chill morning air and silence greeted her. She thought about spitting on the ground but decided she'd made enough empty gestures just walking past. No need to waste water.
She arrived at her yurt made of blue plastic tarp and bighorner skin. It was behind her father's house, like a shed, or a coop for livestock. Merely temporary, her father told her husband years ago. Once you're settled you'll make a proper home, for your wife and children.
She lifted the plastic flap and gazed into the dim interior. Small animal bones hung from the frame and rattled in the breeze. On the opposite end was the only furnishing, a rough hide bedding stuffed with foam that would never biodegrade, one end still stained with the blood of her miscarriage.
She laid down on the bedding, laid down in the room where her son died. She stared unblinkingly at the ceiling, and waited. It took her mother two hours to come visit her and in all that time she never moved. She sat and stewed in her loss, as she had for years.
Her mother came late in the morning, arms laden with foodstuffs. Only enough for a day or two, so she'd have an excuse to visit again soon. She brought water, too, even though Athena only had to walk to the Colorado to drink her fill. Athena didn't acknowledge Artemis' presence, didn't stare away from the ceiling until her mother finished organizing the food in order of when it was to be eaten. First she lay tomorrow's breakfast farthest from her daughter, then tonight's dinner, then next to Athena's head she sat lunch, which Athena was supposed to eat in front of her. That was the routine for years, and this morning was no different. After she set down lunch, her mother sat at the door of the yurt and waited to be acknowledged.
"Hello mother," she used the formal word. She savored making her mother wait, and stared blankly at the ceiling for some time before speaking. It was the only control she had over their interaction.
"Hello, Athena dear," her mother mechanically replied. Without being told to Athena sat up and began eating the mutfruit and freeze-dried apples in front of her.
"Drink the water," Artemis commanded and her daughter complied. As part of a desperate, sad ritual she'd ordered friends and family in good health and fortune to spit in the bottle, hoping their saliva would transmit their prosperity to her daughter like a disease. For years it hadn't worked, but she didn't know what else to do. Nothing seemed to make her daughter any less of a burden on her and her husband. Although the tribe was rich by their deals with Caesar and his legion, her husband was getting older. The time was coming when their children would need to look after them, but their eldest daughter's husband made it clear Athena disgusted him, and that as long as they were providing for her he would not provide for them. It was bad etiquette, but their eldest blood son was dead. His younger brother had left for the Legion and his charity couldn't be relied upon. They had no other options. Something had to be done about Athena, and soon.
When the nameless granddaughter of Harpy left the tribe, Artemis thought she had her opportunity. For years the girl known as Arama (when she was known as anyone at all) had apprenticed under Dark Mother, the tribe healer, but once she left (and good riddance to her, thought Artemis) Dark Mother needed a new apprentice. The position of tribe healer was not well-respected, but it was the best a widow with a poison womb like her daughter could hope for.
Talking to Dark Mother hadn't been fruitful. Artemis was loathe to do it (when Athena was pregnant with her dead son, Artemis forbade Dark Mother from anything to do with the pregnancy or the birth), but she was in dire need. She went to the witch's tent and after making introductions a few times with the far-eyed pariah she begged to have her daughter taken on as apprentice. Dark Mother was unmoved.
"The nameless child shall return," she spoke. There was no doubt in her voice, not the slightest hint. Artemis was sure it was delusions, and argued that Arama's death in the wasteland was all but certain, and where it wasn't certain capture and enslavement were. Dark Mother didn't even acknowledge her arguments, and when she pressed further the woman seemed surprised to see her, as though they hadn't been talking. Artemis was discouraged, but not defeated. Where Dark Mother was unmoved, the elders would see reason, and force Dark Mother to take on a new apprentice. After all, Arama wasn't coming back, and the office of healer couldn't be vacant, no matter how derided.
Arama did come back, though. Artemis was in the process of swaying the elders, speaking to them individually when she found time. Although Harpy always had the final say, she figured if enough elders were convinced by her arguments he'd have no choice to agree to her request and in doing so tacitly admit his beloved grandchild was gone. But she came back.
"I can't believe that child is back and no one is upset!" she complained to her daughter as Athena quietly ate her lunch, "Surely someone must want answers! Someone must want penance! How can we trust her? She came back with all her hair cut off, michoo, it's such a disgrace!"
Athena knew about Arama's return and she didn't care. Although the granddaughter of Harpy was oft a source of gossip and scandal in Dry Wells, the two girls stayed clear of each other. Her mother warned her the girl would try to steal away her husband, and that she must work extra hard to not lose him to her. She took her mother's words to heart and worked extra hard to please her husband, and it seemed to work. Even though she was bloated with child and her feet hurt and her back was sore and her head was pounding she went to extra lengths to cook meals, tidy their modest home, and please him sexually. To make it easier she drank alcohol to numb the pain. She had been so proud of her efforts, her seemingly rewarded efforts. And then their son died. And then her husband died. After that, Athena didn't give a shit about Arama. But she wasn't willing to tell her mother that. Instead, she ate, and she listened, and she waited for her mother to remind her of her tragedy.
That was how every visit from her mother ended, every day. As though she forgot, as though the pain was not fresh in her memory, as though living in the yurt her son died in, on top of her dead son's blood, was not reminder enough. As though living just a few houses away from her husband's family, on either side, who every time they saw her told her their son was dead, that it was her fault despite the fact that he died on a routine raid not unlike the ones he'd participated in ever since becoming a man, as though they did not remind her enough. As though all the other women of the tribe, who shied their eyes or whispered to each other when they saw her around Dry Wells, did not remind her. As though her very reality did not seem carefully constructed to remind her every second of every day of the loss that everyone demanded define her.
"Remember to stay strong," Artemis grasped her hands when she was finished eating and told her, "You must not let the loss of Eagle or his child to ruin your day."
"I will, mother," she did not look her in the eye. She sat for awhile after Artemis left, staring at the ground between her legs. As a child she relished being alone, and the feeling was only stronger with age. When she was married, her preference for solitude had waned, and she found comfort in the man (sometimes he still reminded her of a boy) that she had been paired with. But even still, she could not help but appreciate the time he was away on raids and other manly duties, and after he died her guilt about such feelings gnawed at her. The guilt was not as great as her relief at being alone, though. At least when she was by herself no one would pity her, or scorn her. She was tired of scorn and pity.
She sat in silence for awhile longer. Occasionally the wind rattled the bones of her yurt, but otherwise all was still. She listened and when she could no longer hear nearby voices she stole out of her home and slunk through the village to the outskirts again. She still vividly remembered the day she fled Dry Wells as a child, the day she earned her cruel jewelry and met the Legion for the first time. The memory was as fresh as it was when it happened ten years ago, but her fear of encountering it again was weaker than her fear of stewing in her loss. Even as it warned her to stay, she fled as she had before.
She was not quick enough, not quiet enough. Eagle's younger sister, who was still particularly affected by his death, caught her. The girl, whose name was Juniper, was carrying a bucket of water on her head, fresh from the Colorado. When she noticed Athena, her eyes went wide with fury, and she stopped to let Athena pass.
"Murderer," she whispered to her sister-by-marriage, but otherwise did not stop her. She could not see the face her late brother's wife made, but it was twisted in anger and guilt. Athena did not look back. Juniper watched her flee at a brisk pace and spat at the tracks her feet made. Deep down, she was so scared of losing her husband too, that she could never possibly confront her fear. Deep down, she felt so sorry for Athena she couldn't help but scorn her. What else could she do? Weep forever? Not when derision was so much safer.
Athena made it to the shore and collapsed. The weight of everyone's expectations was too much. Her face in the mud, she couldn't help but smile. It was perverse and freeing. Confident in her solitude, she began to play, pretending to swim in the soft soil. She rolled around in the dirt, free and innocent like a child. She rubbed it all over her face, her body. Everything about her was ruined already, that's what they said. Dirt couldn't hurt.
She wished she could sink into the shore. She lay on her back as she had in her home but instead of hide ceiling there was the open sky, reaching out to forever. She wished she could fall upwards, fall into it and never stop falling. She made herself dizzy staring up. She rolled over on her side a vomited all the food her mother made her eat. She sat up and stared at it, the fruit and apple chunks swirling into the soil. She crawled over to the Colorado and drank. She splashed some water on her face and sat up.
The afternoon sun beat down on her shoulders oppressive and hot, but the water from the river kept her cool. She splashed some on her face so she couldn't tell if she was crying or not. For a long time she sat and stared at the opposite shore. A gecko tentatively made its way to the water, oblivious to her presence. She thought about screaming or standing up and waving her arms to scare it off, but she let it lap from the Colorado in peace. Suddenly it gave a throaty ribbit and took off running in the splayed-leg gecko way. She couldn't help but laugh a little, and immediately felt guilty, even though no one could see her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement further down the shore.
Sensing it was not merely another gecko she directed her attention to it and could just barely make out some human figures. One of them was in a boat, and the other stood on the shore. Something felt wrong about the two of them, so she stood up out of the lapping waters and crept silently towards them. She slipped between the rocks and found a good vantage point from which to watch them without being seen herself. When she was closer she recognized the figures.
It was Arama, and the strange man who sometimes acted as Caesar's liaison with the Twisted Hairs. She recognized him by his wolf's-head hat. He picked a canvas bag up out of the boat and handed it to Arama, who struggled to carry it away from the river. She sat it down next to two other similar bags and returned to the Legionary. Athena snuck closer to hear what they were saying.
"...It'll be about 0100 hours, like you suggested. Sync your watch, I don't want you getting hurt," he said without compassion. They spoke in low tones, clearly conspiring something sinister.
"Don't worry about me. Worry about you, and worry about your shit," Arama hissed boastfully, "If these are duds I'm not going to be the one facing two hundred angry warriors."
They grinned at each other like coyotes closing in on prey. The way they looked made Athena scared. She wasn't quite sure what was happening, but the man departed before she could learn more. Arama buried the sacks in a shallow pit and walked away with that confident swagger that drove the Twisted Hair men wild. Athena dug the bags up but didn't understand their contents, metal disks and bricks of some sort of clay. She carefully re-buried the bags and hurried away fearfully.
For the rest of the day she stayed in her yurt. On the way back into town she passed a whole gang of warriors who gave her pitying stares, but she didn't even notice. She was too concerned about what she had just witnessed, what it could possibly mean. Clearly there was some collusion between Harpy's granddaughter and the man from the Legion, but what did it mean? Why did it make the hairs on her arm stand up. She contemplated it as she chewed her dinner, roots and yucca and dried gecko. For once she didn't go to bed exhausted with grief, but her new sense of foreboding wasn't better company.
She awoke outside her yurt again, but this time she wasn't outside the village. Instead she had sleepwalked to the village center, and had fallen in front of elder Harpy's house. It was early enough in the morning that no one had seen her, and she nervously hurried back to her yurt. Inside her was some new feeling, something that made her body quiver with energy. It felt like embers being stoked in her heart, and they compelled her to do something, anything about the secret meeting she'd spied on the day before.
When her mother came by to give her food, she was alert and sitting up, waiting at the edge of her sleeping mat. Artemis was surprised to see her daughter so energized. She took it as a good sign, but continued her morning routine as she had hundreds of days before, without acknowledging her patiently waiting daughter.
"Hello mother," Athena said when she was done laying out the foodstuffs. There was a new tone to her voice, urgent and strong.
"Hello Athena, my dear," Artemis replied mechanically.
"Mom, I saw something yesterday I'm really worried about," Athena launched right into her worries, catching her mother off guard with her outburst, and the way she addressed her mother in the informal way.
"I'm sure it was nothing dear," Artemis dismissively waved her daughter's concerns away. She didn't want Athena to be any more upset than she assumed she always was.
"I saw Arama talking with the man from the Legion. I'm worried about what they're planning. It didn't sound good," Athena pressed. The words spilled out of her like smoke from fire, "I'm worried they want to harm our family."
"Athena, that's nonsense," she made her mother scared. Something about the conviction behind her words shook Artemis to her core. She felt the need to nip it in the bud. Perhaps if she pretended hard enough that her daughter was being paranoid, it would come true.
Athena for her part was deeply disappointed by her mother's skepticism, especially since the day before she was calling for Arama's persecution simply for being different. Here was proof that there was something sinister behind the nameless girl's behavior, and simply because it came from Athena's mouth her mother wouldn't hear it. Her mother's discouragement was enough to tamp down the fire inside, and she numbly agreed to Artemis' half-hearted defense of Arama and the Legion liaison.
She ate her cold lunch (leftovers from her parents' hot dinner) in defeated silence. Her mother, afraid to speak out against any member of the tribe for fear her daughter would accuse them of treason next, opted to quietly watch instead of gossip as usual. She glumly appraised her daughter's mental state as even more lacking than she'd hoped. Perhaps the humane thing to do would be to send her out into the wasteland, to die of starvation. She was unwell, and there was nothing in Dry Wells that could save her.
"Remember to stay strong," Artemis told her as she always told her when she finished eating, "You must not let the loss of Eagle or his child to ruin your day."
She was too distracted to clasp her daughter's hands this time. Athena did not say her requisite assurance, but she didn't notice. She left without another word. For some reason that set off the spark in Athena's breast again, only this time it was from anger.
Anger took hold of Athena's heart, a deep and abiding rage so pure and righteous at first she didn't even know why she was angry, she simply embraced the flame. As it radiated through her limbs the reason made itself clear to her.
She wasn't sad. In fact, it was years since she was last sad. True, the passing of her husband and their baby was a tragedy that would mark her forever. There was no escaping that. And she had been sad for a long time afterwards. But that was four years ago. No one can mourn forever, she angrily asserted. For so long she'd felt, no, she'd been told to feel grief and sorrow and misery every single day.
She wasn't even a person anymore, she realized. She'd been replaced by two dead people, even though one of them wasn't even a person. Maybe someday he would've been, but he'd never been given that chance. He never had a chance to live his life and now she was being barred from living hers. She still blamed herself for his stillbirth but her anger was so righteous and all-consuming she ignored her guilt. She could blame herself all she wanted, but no one in the Twisted Hairs had any right to make her blame herself.
For a long time she felt her anger. She wanted to stand up, to leap out of her yurt and run through Dry Wells. She wanted to scream, to scream at her mother, to scream at all the mothers. To scream at everyone, to tell them that she was a person, she was not her loss. She had thoughts and feelings besides those for Eagle and her unnamed son. She didn't, though.
Instead, she quietly and carefully got up, and left her yurt. She slipped between adobe houses and hide tents and made her way to the house of her husband's parents. After she confirmed no one was home she slithered through the window. It was a simple house, one room for parents, one room for children. In the parents' room was an old metal trunk, former United States Military issue. She picked the lock with a nearby clothespin. Inside, sitting on a delicate lace table cloth was their family's ancestral weapon. Both were pre-war relics. When he was still alive Eagle had wielded the weapon on raiding missions and hunts. It was an AEP7 laser pistol, carefully maintained through generations of warriors. Eagle's younger brother was not quite old enough to use it. She took it, and the small energy cells beneath the tablecloth. She stole her way out of the house, out of the village. She hid near where she saw Arama bury the canvas bags and waited.
Later, after Dry Wells fell to Caesar's Legion, she would carry the pistol everywhere she went. Although the loss of her people would follow her forever, eventually she stopped grieving. She would never forgive Julia, but she allowed herself to stop grieving. She had the right.