Heather

The Sun is worshipped, heralded, anticipated for, despaired without. We look to it for stability and strength, praise the light it sheds upon us, anchor ourselves to the conviction that, no matter how bad things get, the promise of a new day, brought by the rising Sun, gives infinite hope to our selfish, wretched people.

But the Sun does nothing in order to rise every morning; it is unmoving, unfeeling, deaf to our laments and thanks alike. Instead, it is the Earth that toils ceaselessly during the night as we sleep or work or fuck or stare at the ceiling with hot, grainy eyes that don't want to see, bringing us this coveted light, day in and day out, continuously, nonexpectantly.

And yet, it is the Sun who is venerated for its dedication to us mortals, for its endurance over millennia. It is the Sun that is worshipped for its brilliance, its stoicism; and the Earth, for all its toil, is all but forgotten, left to drag its ravaged, decaying husk with its ravaged, decaying cargo endlessly around and around.

I adore the Sun. I bask in its warmth and revel in its refractive light and forgive the blisters it causes on my shoulders. But I put my faith in the Earth, in that slow, steady drudge as those it carries laugh and weep and enmesh themselves in stupid, petty nothingness. I trust it, with all my heart, to guard me and watch over my solitary, frail soul during the night.

It will bring me my light every morning. It will carry me through my years, even if I have not the strength to crawl, until my debt is paid and I am an indentured servant no more. Until I am free to die it will carry me; it will carry us all.

And even still, even though I am one of the many who are aware of this, I do not love the Earth as I should. Because to love is to sacrifice; to love is to be willing to take another's place.

And I do not envy the Earth.

We are behind on the harvest this season.

The weather glares and freezes at random, and while it has always been difficult to predict his moods, we find that he has now turned the wind bitterly against us, and we sometimes can do nothing but allow her to shriek with fury until she is hoarse and spent of energy.

The cold season has come still earlier, bringing with it a faction-wide desperation, a frantic attempt to salvage what is left before all is laid barren. An unexpected frost has stunted growth. Half of the harvest will be blighted. We will have to do what we can to salvage the rest. I worry about the young ones who will have to double their schoolwork in order to plant and tend enough seedlings to catch up during next season.

I pick my way through rows of squash, carefully inspecting them before choosing the passable ones to haul. Their leaves are mottled and fall easily. It feels strange to see such young, new leaves prematurely blackened with age before they're even fully unfurled from their stems. They are inconsistently attended to and suffer from malnutrition. They are constantly stressed; their exhaustion is plain to see.

The land has gotten more worn, more weathered. It is dry and cracked, scattered with weeds that look like spots of dark mold from afar. It has become harder to keep the invasion out of the crops; they have been made weaker over time and cannot fight for themselves.

We now must work harder to glean even half of what was once reaped. We've taken to burying kitchen scraps, animal dung, even dead birds; any attempt to provide more nutrients to the weary soil. We pray it will work before we break our backs trying to make the next quota.

The generations before us used to enjoy an abundance every harvest, enough to feed themselves and the other factions generously for months. Or, so they tell us. I wish there were elders who could remember what the generations were like previously, but we rely on the Heads to share their wisdom and the history of the faction.

I have chosen a spot in the far corner of the field, away from the other faction members, but more importantly, close to the neighboring field of corn. I briefly look up from my work, absentmindedly rubbing the small of my back, and survey the now-browned and sheared husks nearby.

I remember spending what felt like hours among the gigantic stalks as a child, running my fingers over the long leaves as I conversed with the ears of corn growing in their leafy cocoons. I used to talk about them with my grandmother as she brushed my hair into a braid, telling her which mood the wind was in as it whispered or rustled or sighed through the leaves.

I enjoyed these times I spent my grandmother, partly because she would allow me to speak instead of punishing me for making noise, but mostly because she was gentle, and wouldn't yank the comb painfully through my hair or shout at me to stay still the way my mother did. I suppose she had carried the burden of harvests long enough, and then it became my mother's burden. I cannot blame her for it.

When the time came for my grandmother to walk into the fields, I followed, unthinkingly trailing the familiar maroon of her skirts, before my mother realized and dragged me back by the arm before the Dauntless guards noticed. I remember watching my grandmother disappear among the towering stalks quietly shivering in the wind, and I wished to follow her. I didn't like that my mother was once again restraining me, and I wanted her to let me go.

My mother cried, and I wasn't sure why, but seeing her tears had made me cry in turn. As we turned back towards the living quarters, I protested, and wanted to wait for my grandmother. It was then that my mother told me she wouldn't be returning from the fields. Even though I was young and didn't fully understand what had happened, I knew that with my grandmother had gone the time of gentleness, to be replaced by a new era of something, though I did not know what exactly that was.

I had a friend in Candor, named Verity, whom I met one year during Inter-Faction Week. We would make bracelets out of flower stems and help each other fasten them. She once told me the story of when her grandmother became ill with an affliction. Her entire body became paralyzed, except for her left eyelid, which would flutter feebly whenever anyone tried to speak with her. After a few days, she had regained enough strength and movement to write shakily on a piece of paper, 'I want to die in peace.' Verity's mother would not hear of it, and she spent the rest of her years in confinement and desolation.

I feel that way sometimes, paralyzed with fear, and it makes me wonder what life might be like in one of the other factions. But before long, I have to turn on my side and deep-belly-breathe, and be thankful that I have parched, yellow-green grass and soft, wormed apples instead of single-file beds in rooms with windows that only allow for muted, white-gray light.

I breathe in this way now, deep and from my belly, as I try to focus on the harvest in front of me. I have something important to do. I urgently need to speak to him, but I'm not sure what to say, or how to say it. I'm not sure if someone will see, or if it will bring him more trouble.

There are tiny spiders that live in gaps and corners. They eat the small sugar ants that would otherwise plague our bunkhouses. We have a symbiotic relationship.

One day, I find a minuscule spider tucked away against the washbasin. Before long, it is joined by a slightly larger one. The smaller spider gets spooked easily and skitters away whenever I try to gently clean the tiny, curled ant carcasses around it. I find myself becoming exasperated with the smaller spider; I wish it would understand that I'm trying to help it, instead of being so fearful for its life that it puts itself further in harm's way. I have to keep shepherding it back to the shadow of the washbasin and hope it stays hidden, so that my parents do not find it. The larger one stays stolidly in place; day after day, I can count on it to be in the exact same place as before.

A few days later, I find the smaller spider's carcass next to the larger spider, its legs curled into a ball. I feel a sense of regret and guilt that makes me feel ill, one that I cannot quite explain. The larger spider continues to stand resolutely in place, in the same corner.

I keep a small plant of rosemary by my bedside, and feed it sunlight whenever I can. It makes my mother happy; she rubs it, 'for good luck,' and breathes in the fragrant sap. I do the same; it helps to calm me at nighttime, when I can hear the crunching of Dauntless boots outside of my window, along the rows of bunkers we have been confined to during curfew hours, or when I wake at random from a dream, still able to feel soft, dark-brown hair against my neck.

My small rosemary plant has become infested with tiny, white flies, and I place it near the larger spider, hoping to rid the plant of these pests. The spider continues to stay in place. I even killed a fly and placed it near the spider, almost as an offering; a plea to help rid my favorite, my only plant of its scourge. But the spider retreated, as if disgusted with being thrown a dead carcass instead of fresh meat. I removed the fly and the plant, and the spider continues to stand in the same corner, day after day, unmoving.

The dinner bell rings. I bide my time and slip casually behind him as we are turning in our tools for the day. As he hands his rake to the Dauntless packing it into the shed, he turns and sees me, frozen and wide-eyed, a small stem of milkweed in my hand, and he stares back for a moment before continuing to the showers. I hand in my rake and follow the women to the communal showers eyes on the floor don't look at any of the women not even for a second nod and thank them for the towel and quickly undress at my cubby. I bring my work shirt into the stall with me and quickly scrub it with the hard bar of soap I just used for washing 'you've already lost your jacket, you should be thankful we didn't leave you to find your own replacement, now you only get one set of work clothes and you will be grateful for it' fuck you as if that stupid jacket was the thing that I lost I'll never fucking forgive you but I'll never let you know it eyes on the floor

I pull on the dry, stiff shirt hanging in my cubby and leave the damp, wrung work flannel in its place. I quickly comb my hair, yanking it through the frayed ends before making my way to the Mess Hall with the throng. Ever since I came back from questioning, I've tried not to spend too much time with any singular person, in an attempt to protect myself and them. I give what I believe to be a bright smile to Jade, Hazel, the twins, anyone I see as I pass their respective tables, before settling down near some vaguely familiar faces a few years older than me. I nod and smile along with the conversation, but their group is established, with friendships that run deep, and although they don't seem to mind my presence as they chatter amongst themselves, I feel like an outsider, an intruder into their group.

I see him out of the corner of my eye, sitting by himself a few tables away, and I'm careful not to look directly at him. I train my eyes on the group I'm sitting with and do my best to follow the conversation on the outside, while desperately trying to decide what I will say on the inside. I'm scared to steal away into his bunkhouse without being caught, let alone to speak with him, but I hope he will listen. There is so much I need to say. I hope he will forgive me. We will have to see.

When the Earth has been used without remorse, She does not remain beautiful. It is evident in bare branches white with fungus and in deep, craggy furrows where fresh, flowing water once gave life and vitality. She used to be beautiful and mild and generous. And now that She has been leveled and drained and burrowed into and eaten alive from the inside out, She does not wish to be beautiful any longer. Perhaps, if She becomes truly hideous, we will finally leave Her be.

I do not envy the Earth.