String Lights

Part II: Slaughtered (Chapter 7)

"Are you coming?" called Lia.

It was late at night. The wind howled outside the windows as I climbed down the ladder and joined my sister on the landing.

Downstairs, we slipped on our huggers—thick outer garments designed for winter, given the name for the way they seemed to hug someone's middle. The cold was biting, unforgiving; the unmistakable scent of rain hit my nostrils as the two of us plunged into the moist air. We walked in silence, squinting in the dark to avoid splashing in the puddles formed by the sky's late-night crying session.

"I hate this thing." I reached up and pulled at the scratchy, lacy collar of my tunic. Lia had forced it onto me that morning, insisting it was proper for the occasion, but I was having a hard time coping as I never wore anything so fancy—or so uncomfortable.

"It's just for a couple of hours," said Lia. "I don't like this material any more than you do."

"I don't see why I couldn't have worn something simpler," I muttered grumpily.

"Cricket, you know why we had to resort to this. People don't bother making purely white clothing these days—it's a hassle and there's no use for it. I feel grateful enough that the Grant girls let us borrow their tunics."

"It's not like anyone can see white anyway," I said, kicking a pebble and watching it roll away.

"Oh, yes, they can," said Lia grimly. "There's going to be some light where we're going. And where there's light, there's color."

"But how will they?" I found myself asking. "Get the light, I mean. Even the glowphid population is thinning out."

"It's a respect for the dead," Lia answered quietly. "They'll find a way to obtain it somehow."

There was a pause, and she added softly into the midnight's misty air, "But I suppose that today, for once, the light won't seem so beautiful."

･･･⛧･･･

"Where are we?"

We had finally stopped in front of a small and shabby-looking hut sitting on the outskirts of the village. I scanned the sagging roof, the walls covered in what looked like ivy. Lia, undeterred by the dilapidated look of the building, stepped forward and lightly tapped an unfamiliar rhythm on the door. When there was no reply, she tried it again.

"Lia?" I began tentatively. "I don't think anyone—"

But as she knocked the third time, the door creaked open. A pair of wary eyes poked through the narrow opening and surveyed the both of us.

"Good, you're here. Hurry and get inside."

I followed Lia inside and was startled to find that the inside of the shack did not match at all with its dingy, run-down appearance. I found myself standing in a wide and open room, whose wood floors, though lacking some sheen, seemed to be neatly swept.

The biggest surprise, however, turned out to be the owner of the voice.

"Carson!" I said with realization, turning toward him.

He nodded at me, though his smile seemed to be marred with stress.

"What's the—" Then I saw it, and my fingertips met my lips as I covered my mouth in horror. "Carson . . . your hair . . ."

Even in the dim light, the difference was obvious. The space where a bouncy, little brown topknot had once sat . . . was now empty.

"It was the soldiers," he said heavily. "Some Erebans I met in the forest." He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable at my stricken expression. "It's all right, kiddo, I'm really fine."