CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:

Deane Scythe

"He's awake." Manu said, hitting the shoulder of the man beside him. "What now, baas?" His companion turned his attention away from the girl he had been monitoring and made the short journey across the inside of their lean-to, arriving at last over the boy. He nodded, his lips drawn tight with no hint or suggestion of a smile or any pleasure at this revelation. "So, him is, baas?" Manu asked, seeking aural confirmation. His companion merely nodded. Manu ran his hands over his face, rubbing his weary eyes. "We should him turn in, I think. Of this winter, on reward compensation, we could make good start. You tell me when the council meeting to call, baas." His companion betrayed a frown and put a hand on Manu's shoulder.

"You may call the council to meet, Émanuel, and we will need to decide, of course, but first, I want to speak to him." The man said. His voice was deep, resonating from a place near his core and vibrating as though it was the voice of the earth, pushing from the center of the world to its surface. Deane watched as both men, Émanuel and his nameless companion, silently spoke through a series of subtle facial expressions and even more subtly through glances. It seemed to him that their language was one wholly unbreakable. At last, Émanuel nodded once and turned away. Deane caught a brief glimpse of a figure lying across the lean-to on a table cushioned by one long pillow. He imagined it was Moxie, though he had little more than fancy to base his belief on. Whole belief traditions have been formed on as much or less, he reassured himself, recalling the brief time he had spent in a strange place called catechism, in another life. The moment - like his recollections of catechism - was so brief that it was over before he could finish his thought. The nameless man peered down at him again. His face was weathered though Deane could have mistaken him for a Prairie Dog, and something about his appearance... perhaps his eyes... looked familiar. Deane tried to think, but it hurt his head to make an effort and he gave up, somewhat willingly. Had he only imagined he'd heard that voice before? All his suspicions were brought to an abrupt end when the man spoke again, this time to Deane. "So, we meet again."

Their conversation had been brief, but when the man left Deane to rest, it was clear that too many thoughts were preventing him from sleeping. For starters, he'd been apprehended by a gang of wanderers, which was as much as they called themselves, and they had brought him back to their camp, knowing that if they left him alone, the cowboys would find him and bring him to their ranch to become a slave until death.

"It's not our primary occupation, but it is important to every man and woman here among us," the man had said.

"What is your purpose then?" Deane had asked, but he'd been given no answer. All the company here had their own purposes and uses, and without each and every one of them, there would be no chance of survival.

"You're a boy of District 10, you know the winters and summers here. These are the songs of the seasons, how we get by." The nameless man had continued to tell Deane some things he wasn't certain he needed to know: the council did not engage in charity, they did not seek unity or peace with the settlements of the District, and they did not stay in one place for very long. "This life is grueling and often unkind," the man had warned. "Some of us are wanted by the Peacekeepers, and some of us a thought to be fables, tall tales told to children for amusement. We would have this anonymity remain. We look after each other." The most important question came next.

"Why are you telling me all this?" Deane asked.

"You are a wanderer now. Once you're with us, there's no going back."

Deane had shaken his head then. "You're wrong. I can always go back." But now, left to ruminate on what he'd been told, Deane wasn't as cocky over his chances. He'd thought it impossible to escape the Ranches, and he'd accomplished that feat, but this one seemed to be more daunting. If he tried an escape, where would he go and what would he find out in the wild of District 10? His head wasn't an issue anymore; when he moved it, there was the promise of some discomfort, but the pain that had kept him under had vanished. With this new dexterity, he took a chance at looking around. Four large wood-cut poles were buried into the ground, standing up straight except for their leaning against each other at the top of the shelter, which was substantially high up. Deane squinted and made out a leather thong tightened around the four poles at their meeting point, the knot making it a tight tie and a secure structure. Aside from looking clean cut, the wood of the poles were not treated, so Deane guessed that they used to be small trees, each cut skilfully at the trunk and – most likely – at the top. Stretched over them as if a tight heavy blanket was a large canvas made of animal's skins; ribbing, running in vertical strips up the structure, connected each piece of canvas. Deane traced each line with his eyes, following to the flap that might have hung loose in the breeze if it the leather thong stitching didn't loop along the inside edge and hook to metal spurs – at least that was what they looked like – flattened and curled to serve the purpose of hook. The hooks were stitched into the canvas flap beside its looser companion. The overall effect was a make-shift door between the outside world and the world inside. Considering the low howling on the other side of the canvas, Deane supposed the world inside was warmer than the world outside. He couldn't tell what time of day it was, as he looked at the space beneath the "door" into the shelter, but the light was weak and the shadows inside were large. These thoughts brought his attention, at last, to the girl lying across the shelter from him. They were roughly at the east-west cardinal points of the circular shelter, and between them, at center, was a warm fire: its smoke made certain identification of the girl impossible, but of what he could make out, he was hopeful that the familiar outline belonged to Moxie.

Moxie: at one point, Deane reflected, the name would have produced an equal and opposite reaction to the leap he felt in his chest. We've been so long together, it's silly to think she wouldn't be important to me. He shrugged it away, even though his lone success was in convincing himself that he wasn't thinking about her... as he was thinking about her. He'd only let her go for a minute, but that had been all the Fates needed to spirit her away; if that figure across the shelter was hers, this would present a very rare opportunity to take a hold of her and never let go. While he wasn't thinking about her, he knew that when he found her again, he'd never leave her side, nor would he let her wander from him either. They had survived together through an impossible summer heat and into the early stretches of winter; he didn't want to sing the songs of the seasons without her harmony. He shrugged that thought away too, with as much success as his first try. These sorts of thoughts he'd only had for Thatcher; he didn't want to have them: they caused so much agony that he couldn't bear to have such thoughts for anyone else than his brother. Clearly, the Fates had other plans designed for him because, to this point he knew he was doing poorly at not thinking about Moxie, and now he could think of no one else.

"Moxie?" he called out weakly from his side. The figure across from him stirred. She turned her head around slowly and squinted through the smoke. She was covered in shadows therefore Deane could not see her clearly. "Moxie?" he tried again, his voice a little stronger. The girl bowed her head.

"What do you want?" she said. Her voice was changed – affected somehow – but underneath the changes, Deane could tell it was her!

"MOXIE! It's Deane!" he said, excitedly. Slipping off his table, he tried to rush across the shelter, but fell. His feet were bear and their tips were blackened. This description did little to explain how they felt, though: pain wasn't even an adequate word. Before he had a chance to struggle to his feet again, Moxie was beside him, lifting him up onto the table again. He looked into her face to be certain it was her, and the eyes that stared back were wild and bloodshot, dark curves underscoring them dramatically, her pupils dilated but her expression distant.

"I know it's Deane," she snapped in a hushed voice. "You shouldn't have followed me." Deane scowled at her.

"Why? Because you were planning how to run away all along?" he accused, uncertain about his meaning behind the accusation. Did he really think she had been trying to get away from him? Perhaps a small part of him thought she was capable of being subversive like that, but he'd packed five feet of dirt on that small part because he'd never had reason to doubt her after that first three days.

"Don't be stupid, Deane," she shot back. "If I was planning to run away, do you think I'd run into danger?" Deane frowned at her, but in response she cast an ostentatious glance around the shelter and returned her questioning gaze to Deane.

"What is this place?" Deane asked in a hushed voice.

"It's the camp of the Wild Folk," Moxie said, a slight sense of fear creeping into her voice. "Only it's not just the Wild Folk here." She had no time to say more because there were footsteps outside the shelter, and at the sound of them Moxie dashed across the shelter and lay back down on her resting spot, casting one final warning glance at Deane before she resumed the pretense of being asleep. Deane swung his blackened toes up onto the table and reclined as the two men materialized inside the shelter from outside. The man who had spoken with Deane made his way to Moxie and appeared to stand over her, watching her for a long time. The other man, Manu, went to Deane. Manu looked like he might be part Wild Folk and part something civilized. He wore furs laden with snowflakes, his face was weathered and worry marks were etched deeply into his skin so that he looked like he wore a frown perpetually. He didn't speak to Deane as he rounded the table and lifted one of Deane's feet to inspect his toes. He muttered something like paa bohn and shook his head. He dropped Deane's foot and looked up at Deane as heel met tabletop. Deane winced but stared back defiantly. Manu's expression changed. "Pas mal," he said. "That hurt?" he asked Deane in a strangely accented voice.

"You dropped my injured foot, you spineless idiot," Deane spat. "Does that hurt? Yes!" Manu smiled.

"It good," he said and seized the other foot more roughly. Deane tried to swat at him but couldn't reach, and his failure caused Manu to laugh a dry cackle. Then, he thrust Deane's foot down, causing Deane to yelp. "That hurt?" he asked again, though this time Deane was sure it was because this man was a vicious little bastard. The other man approached Manu and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Enough," he said and everything stopped. "Can you walk?" he asked Deane.

"Not anymore," Deane spat in Manu's direction.

"Try," said the other man. He nodded to Manu who moved behind Deane and lifted him up off the table, despite some wriggling and thrashing from the patient himself, propping the boy up against the table's edge and straightening his feet on the ground. "Try," the man repeated. Deane took a very cautious step forward. His toes protested every amount of pressure put on them, but Deane was more interested in being defiant toward his captors than responsible for himself, so he gritted his teeth and took a few more painful steps. "No," the man said as Deane began to deal with the pain and walk easier. "You're not fit. Manu will have to carry you. You must come with us." Deane protested as Manu strode toward him and lifted him into the cradle of his arms.

"Where are you taking me?" he demanded.

"Council Meeting," the man said, dryly. Then, he put on a smile. "We're going to decide what to do with you, brother wanderer."

They were very cautious to keep the identity of their location hidden from Deane. Rather than carry him directly outside, Manu brought him to the back of the shelter first, wrapped him tight in a few layers of furs, and then tossed him haphazardly over his shoulder, cackling all the while, "That hurt? That hurt? That hurt?" Deane made him out to be both a vicious little bastard and a simpleton. After being hoisted over Manu's shoulder, Deane was taken outside. He could see only the tracks of footprints in the snow, and he could feel and hear the wind as it danced around the camp, but the physical structures of the camp were invisible to him as he could only look at Manu's back or the ground on either side of him. The trek was short, though others joined in it as they made their way to the council meeting. Deane was aware that they had entered a large room when the environment around him changed dramatically: no more was there snow on the ground but in its place, packed earth with dead flattened grass and patches of soil showing, the smell of smoke from a greater fire than the one in the shelter, and the sound of a myriad of voices – high, low and midrange, male and female – echoing off solid walls. When he was put down – an act done with surprising gentleness – Deane took in the new building.

It had a skeleton of thin wood poles arched so that the tops were buried opposite their bottoms in the earth, Two long poles ran from one end of the building to the other, each on the upper corners of the sides of the structure, and the poles stretching the width of the building were tied with leather thongs to the poles running the length of it. In the center of the skeleton, length-wise, a larger pole ran from one end to the other, a small hole cut in its center. The hole stood above the fire – an oculus of a sort – and gave ventilation for the smoke to drift through. Long strips of animal skin canvasses stretched over the skeleton of the building, and each canvas – treated in the same fashion as that of the shelter – was attached, additionally, to the poles running the width of the building. Their attachments were of strips of leather stitched into the canvas, and tied in knots to the poles. Ultimately, Deane concluded, this building was made to be more permanent than the shelter he'd come from because the skins looked hardened by weather, and their tautness Deane assumed accounted for the echoing of voices.

He looked around him at the people in the building. They were all wearing furs, all sitting around the fire and all talking to each other at the same time. No one wore a fur that looked much different from the next person so their gender identities were hard to distinguish for Deane. Focusing on their voices didn't help either: if there were women among them, they had low voices; if there were men among them, they had high voices. He gave up and sat where he'd been placed, which was close to the fire but not so close to the "council". It didn't matter that he was there by the way the folk took notice of him, which was another way of saying that there was no extraordinary notice being taken of him. A few faces turned when he was brought in but by the time he got to looking around him, they had shifted their attentions elsewhere. If he'd been able to understand them in their conversations – which were not entirely in his language but a mix of several languages spoken intermittently (depending on the conversation pair) – he'd have understood that much more notice of him was being taken than it appeared: he was the topic of conversation, along with another well worn thread concerning Moxie and the nameless man. All conversations ceased when the nameless man stepped forward and was joined by a person Deane immediately knew to be a woman. The woman was dressed in flowing cloth, tight from her waist to her neck but billowing below her waist to the floor. She wore a pair of feathers in her hair and a fur cloak covered her shoulders and fell to her waist, open in the front and fastened below her chin. She wore a fierce expression on her face, and by it her entire presence commanded silence – perhaps awed silence – and respect. All attention was on the pair.

"We now the council meeting begin," the nameless man bellowed.

Deane followed along as best as he could, but the way they spoke made it difficult for him to understand what was being said. He thought they began with a discussion about sustainability in their current location, which was a discussion that prompted a number of the Wild Folk to give their own opinions – all of which differed from the next person, based on how they argued with each other – but it was when the woman raised her hand that all fell silent. She spoke deliberately but not in the language Deane understood. Her word, it seemed, was final because the topic was not pursued further when she had finished speaking. The nameless man led them into another topic, which Deane thought was about food. He was given no confirmation about this guess, however; it was also a heated debate for a select few folk but they managed to reach some sort of agreement among themselves because their arguments did not last as long. They spoke about winter, Deane guessed based on their physical gestures, and on this topic there was no debate. Finally, the nameless man turned to face Deane and all gazes followed except for the woman beside the nameless man.

"A guest we have. His name Deane is. The ranch boy he is who escaped. Him we have found; about him we must decide now. Should with us he stay? Must he to death go?" Deane looked around the room, his sense heightened by the suggestion that death was an option to wager on. He met the eyes of all the council but the woman beside the nameless man. No one spoke, but many bore condemning eyes, some bore hungry eyes, some bore scheming eyes, others (surprisingly) sorrowful eyes. Deane couldn't guess what the verdict was based on these different expressions but he knew that whatever it might be would be nuanced, and in the end he might have wished for a death sentence – should he be given life. Hadn't he just escaped from a situation of that nature? Work to Live, Live to Work. He repeated the hateful phrase over many times while the tension mounted in the room. All those eyes containing all those thoughts and no spoken words; he had never felt more cornered before than he did now. It was the woman who spoke, though, and to Deane's astonishment, she spoke his language as he might speak it.

"Deane lives because he is meant to live. If we decide that he must die, we will never know the reason for his light in the world. If we decide that he must live for the sake of reward compensation, we may as well kill him ourselves. If we decide that he must live and make use of him," her sentence ended abruptly and for the first and only time that they would know each other, she looked at him. He'd seen her before, not with his waking eyes. Sometimes Thatcher said he saw the Fates when he was asleep, and Deane had always told him not to talk like that because those types of folk always ended up with a bad ending to their stories. His scolding was intended not for Thatch though but for himself for also being visited by the Fates (so he thought) in times of greatest hardship. He knew in that moment, beyond a doubt, he was looking at the Wisdom Woman, though she was much younger in person than in his visitations. She gave him pause and he knew that she knew it. When the moment had matured beyond use, she spoke again. "Somehow, he has an important choice to make. We are pebbles on his path. Do we trip him now? Do we lie in wait for him to pass by? Do we close the cracks between us and give him safe passage?" They looked into each other a moment longer and then the gaze was broken. The woman looked away and went quiet again, and though Deane continued to look at her, she would never look upon him again. The nameless man raised his arms and the decision-making began. Deane was asleep when Manu picked him up again and brought him to rest in the shelter at the conclusion of the council. They had made a decision, but it could wait for Deane to wake.

Drake Tyler waited a long time before leaving the woman and entering the shelter wherein lay his protégé and his oldest daughter. She had many things to tell him yet, but he had stopped her from speaking them; in his heart, Drake had known that the Fates brought Moxie and Deane together for a purpose and he'd known from the moment he'd first seen the boy in the Compound. Bidden to look for a strange boy in need, it had been on that night a couple months ago that Deane's worth had been determined in Drake's mind. Now, as he hesitated outside their lean-to, he factored in all that had just happened, all that he remembered from his young adulthood and all that the woman had told him might yet happen. Taking a deep breath, he envisioned the Old Fifty Yards Tree with its dead branches stretched out eerily, like arms waiting to embrace a body or two, and with his new knowledge he inserted the two bodies connected by necklaces of rope to the branches. Side by side, hands held, they swung in the breeze, lifeless, free.