Before the Sky Fell

[ 9 ] The Split

-9-

The Split

Whik exhaled a frosty breath as he pulled back the pouch of his slingshot, one hand extended and the other against his cheek. Jasper had called that hand Whik's anchor, his foundation, his attempt at keeping a point of reference. He'd said Whik must cherish that hand, lest he ever lose it. It was the only way to ensure he could repeat the same shot twice.

His prey moved up the tree trunk, its spotted tail swooping through the air. This was one of the white squirrels, harder to kill than red squirrels, according to Tully Grimley. The squirrel stopped on a branch, eyes focused on everything. She couldn't have seen Whik hiding behind a mossy log, his pebble aimed at her belly. Whik dug his toes into the dirt, put his weight against a tree, and exhaled as he steadied the shot.

It scurried about the bark, moving this way and that, poking eyes out from knots in the wood, so Whik took another breath. The exhale was the best time to shoot, when his fingers didn't shake as much. Whik had practiced his shot on leafbugs. He had killed plenty of those, though leafbugs were much smaller than squirrels. The furry creatures seemed to have more life than a stick that moved. It wasn't easy to kill a living thing, Whik suspected. But could leafbugs even feel?

This exhale wasn't right either. The fur stood up on the squirrel's tail, as if she knew she was being watched. Whik lowered his aim. He wondered if she had a mother, or a sibling to take care of. Her eyes were big round things, long eyelashes blowing in the wind.

Whik breathed in, tasted the fog on the air, then exhaled slowly. He pulled the band back farther.

"He can't do it," came a voice.

The pebble flew through the air. Whik's hold on the log gave way, sending him falling into the underbrush. His hand smashed against a rock, splitting skin.

Tully Grimley was over him, leaning himself against a tree, his belly bouncing in fits of laughter. The squirrel ran down another trunk, off into the distance, the pebble bouncing after it.

"He has a lousy shot," Tully said, walking out from the tree. "Did you see that, Torra? Come out from there."

Torra Grimley emerged from the forest, holding back a smile. "You sort of startled him. Nobody can shoot when they're startled."

Tully walked closer, his shirt sagging, belly fat exposed. "Especially orphans."

"I had the shot," Whik told him. He brushed dirt from his legs.

"You didn't have the shot," Tully spat. "You can't kill a squirrel. You can't kill nothin'."

Whik tucked his slingshot into his waistline and grabbed his bag of pebbles. "You don't know that," he told them. What else was he going to tell them? They didn't know whether Whik would have killed it. No one but Whik knew that.

"I can kill," Tully said, stepping closer. His brother sat on a rock, hands against his face as if he were watching a puppet show. "Torra knows I've killed things before. A cat once, when it wouldn't leave the barn. You ever killed a cat?"

Whik stepped back, his bare feet curling around a fallen branch. He looked to his hand. A scrape ran across his thumb, blood pooling around the cut. "I've killed a hundred leafbugs. Have you done that?"

Tully's cheeks puffed up, his eyes widened, then he let out a bellowing laugh. "Leafbugs? Hey, Torra, did you hear that?" Tully wiped his mouth. "Whik has killed a hundred leafbugs. I've killed a thousand flowers Whik, just by stepping on them. Does that count?"

Whik's face reddened. He knew what was happening. Tully was reeling him in, leading him on like a minnow to a trap. "That doesn't count. That's stupid."