Page 64 of The Infinite Glade
Soldiers could pin his hands behind his back, take away his ability to fight, but the Remnant Nation could never take away the Orphan’s name.
My name is Minho.
Separated from the others, far from the sounds of Pilgrims shouting and soldiers stomping, a Junior Grief Bearer threw Minho into the shadowed depths of the Maze. At least the size of the structure would block out the noise from Roxy. He couldn’t stand the thought of her hearing the sounds of pain as they escaped him. The Orphan had taken all his previous beatings and wounds in silence, but he knew what they were about to do to him would be different, animalistic. He himself dreaded hearing his own primal wails to come.
“Here.” The Junior Grief Bearer pointed in a circular motion. “Hell awaits.”
On his knees, Minho watched soldiers step forward in a line, standing only a few feet from him, and one-by-one assemble a makeshift Hell, far from the real one in Nebraska. A soldier dumped a bucket of ash in a circle. Another stepped up and threw an arm full of stones and debris. And another. The debris smelled of the fires of war, and the next soldier stepped forward with what smelled like gasoline. Which meant only one thing. Fire.
Someone lit a match, and flames whooshed up in front of Minho. A hellish fire pit formed, just big and bright enough for him to see Orange slumped over on the other side of the flaming debris.
“The Godhead . . .” Minho tried to speak up but broken ribs made it hard. “The Godhead is here . . .” He said it as loud as he could, but the Remnant soldiers in charge of torture couldn’t care less about killing the Godhead. Their motto might have beenKill the Godhead, but most Orphan soldiers, who’d been robbed of every human emotion, only cared about the first part:Kill. Kill. Kill.
“Silent, now!” The Junior Bearer-in-training sprayed the remaining gasoline across Minho’s face. His eyes stung and watered; he coughed and spit out what he could, his lungs already fighting to keep each breath moving in and out of his body. “These are traitors to the Nation! There can be no worse crime. Torture them as you will.”
Blinded by the sting of gasoline and the earlier punches to his eyes, Minho listened for footsteps, trying to count how many soldiers gathered in line to beat the remaining life out of him. He knew most of them would lack the slightest creativity in their torture, stick with simple things they knew best— like stomping his head, or stabbing him between the ribs to separate the muscle away from his bone.
He coughed and coughed to clear his lungs, but if he’d spit up any blood, he couldn’t taste it or see it anymore. He rubbed his eyes with his broken shoulder and tried to peek across the flames, but he could only see swirls of colors. “Orange . . .” he sputtered through a cough.
“Orange?” repeated a random soldier. He spit in Minho’s face—such a childish, simpleton thing to do. “You’ll be seeingred,traitor.”
And then Minho received his first punch, right in the temple. It had begun.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
Lake of Promise
“Read any more of that chicken scratch yet?” Isaac pointed to the captain’s log that sat closed on Ximena’s lap.
She shook her head. “Chicken scratch?”
“It’s what we call things scattered all over the place like chicken feed. Kletter’s scribbles.” For the first time,Isaachad to explain something toXimena, and not the other way around. Small victories. “You don’t have chickens in your Village?”
“Of course we do. We feed them corn, not scratch.” She sighed, but also allowed a small grin to appear. “Whatever that is.”
Isaac almost smiled back. Almost. He’d run dry of such things for now. “Scratch is just broken pieces of corn, mixed with other grains and stuff.”
“Don’t let the boy confuse you—I’ve seen his handwriting and it’s certified donkey scratch.” Frypan chuckled at his own joke, pretty proud of himself, apparently. He tapped his walking stick on the bench of the Berg as he nudged Isaac. “You good?”
Isaac looked back at Jackie and Miyoko. Trish’s body lay between them, wrapped in the black cloth of the Villa. Nothing feltgoodabout any of it. “I’m good,” he lied.
“Uh-huh.” Frypan titled his head at Isaac, as if there was something more the old man expected of him.
“What else is there to say?” Isaac asked.
Frypan nodded. “What else is there to say . . .” he repeated, while certainly looking like he had something new to say. “Well, let’s just speak frankly. Trish . . . that girl loved Sadina more than life, and the feeling was mutual. And with Sadina being your best friend, and Trish a close second, this is pure trauma for you. I’ve been there, son. I’ve been there. And I’mhere, for you.”
They sat in silence for a while, Isaac on the verge of tears. Finally, he found the strength to speak. “Trish wanted to have a big coop of roosters when she built her own yurt someday.” He thought back to those brighter times on the island with Trish and Sadina. “I told her they’d all end up fighting each other, because that’s what roosters do. But she swore up and down that she could make the roosters live happily together by giving them extra scratch. And when they had more than enough, she thought they’d be friends. Best friends. Simple, sweet. Dead wrong.” He stared at the small, wrapped body at the back of the Berg and rubbed his shoulder, thinking of all the crazy ideas he’d never hear again from Trish. All the petty fights he’d never have to break up between her and . . .
Sadina.
“I can’t think about losing Sadina, too.” A few tears leaked out, dripped down his cheeks.
“Then don’t,” Ximena said, as if it were that easy. “Let’s keep you busy, your mind occupied.”
“Those two, Isaac and Sadina,” Frypan said, raising his eyebrows at Ximena. “They’ve been best friends since they were old enough to eat sand.”
Isaac tried to make light of it. “It’s a joke, we didn’t actually eat sand. Not on purpose, anyway.”
