Page 2 of Beyond The Maples
I inch backwards, not at all soothed by his words. His bosses are Deacon’s parents, and they work directly for the government. Despite my friendship with their son, I can’t risk they’d take pity on me and let me go. Once again, I scold myself for not just waiting until his return. Just as I’m about to run again, I spot a long wooden board with its end shoved into a dust pile. It’s leaning up against an overturned pail like a seesaw, giving me an idea. I start to turn, as the two men inch towards me at the end of the aisle. The taller one reaches for his back pocket and I spot the telltale ends of plastic cuffs.
I nod my head, not willing to say anything, in case the one lug somehow recognizes my voice. Both guards relax slightly, thinking I’m surrendering, yet with every stride forward, I step backwards. Just when they are at about the right distance, I leap onto a crate beside the board, giving myself enough leverage to slam my foot down on my improvised catapult.
It slings the mound of fine powder all over the place. My own eyes sting a little as it envelops the area, but the column of powder is nothing compared to what the two guards have to deal with. One screeches as the other falls to the ground covering his face, spit flying out of his mouth.
I don’t hesitate.
I bound down the last aisle, hauling myself up broken crates and metal barrels at a section nearest the fence. I leap, throwing myself over the top. I fall, for the second time today, landing marginally better this time. Tingling pain shocks the bottoms of my feet, but I bite down a yelp. I can hear an angry commotion from behind the fence, urging me to move along, even as my knees threaten to lock on me.
I run as far as I can, which is not very long before there’s a distinct metallic taste in my mouth and I’m forced to slow down.
I move past the dried, cracked earth, kicking away the odd tumbleweed that I don’t even have the energy to grab for kindling. My pace slows as I finally hit the outskirts of the dense residential area of town, zigzagging my way home through the rundown streets. Just in case someone decides it's worth their time to try and track me down, but it's unlikely.
Everything is quiet as I turn down our little street; the rundown houses piled so close together there’s hardly room to sneak between them. My body relaxes as I see the familiar beat up shack, the rusted tin roof patched and worn. It’s not much, but it works.
It’s home.
I sneak into the house as silently as possible, cursing as the door creaks, old hinges groaning under the weight of the thick wood. I listen for movement; silence greets me, so I flop down on our old couch in the main room, unwilling torisk waking the tiny tyrant sleeping in our shared bedroom. I drift off to sleep, thinking of all the things I could have done differently already today.
Iawake sometime later to a throat clearing. My mouth is dry and my eyes are itchy. I curse myself for falling asleep again without at least hydrating. Groaning, I lift myself up to see my little brother sitting across from me, sipping tea with a smug smile on his face.
"You look rough," Linden frowns.
"What is wrong with you? Were you just sitting here watching me sleep?" I scoff at him. "Weirdo."
"What's wrong with me? What's wrong with you! I thought you were dead until I heard snoring that resembled a cave beast call. You look like you fought in a war last night too, by the way." He cocks an eyebrow at me, half humour, half concern lacing his tone.
"It was a rough day yesterday."
He studies me and takes another slow sip of his tea. Letting out a long sigh, he runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair. He knows, of course. Knows all I have to do to keep a roof over our heads, to keep food in the cupboards, medicine in our younger sister's lungs. Keep him in the medical program. Linden has always seen things in black and white, which tends to irritate me because that is the luxury of a younger sibling, isn’t it? One who doesn’t have to get creative to keep us afloat in our ever crumbling world.??
Our house, if you can even call it that, is a tiny two-bedroom shack made of odds and ends we've all helped scavenge over the years. The cracked windows are all boarded up to seal out the dust that comes in thick clouds now most of the day; rolling through the cities and towns, choking everything in its path.
They say it's because the forests lay barren all throughout the continent. The plants and roots that used to hold down the dirt and dust simply don't anymore, leaving it to be picked up and rolled over in the unrelenting winds.
People fight over which god has forsaken us the most. The four elemental Gods who used to rule our world with love are all but a distant memory, taunting us with their inaction. Is it Ethra, the god of air who keeps pummelling us with these brutal storms? Or is Dyea, the one whose magic has vanished so thoroughly that not even a weed can grow, who’s more to blame? Who have we offended the most? Does it even matter at this point?
Indoor light is by lantern, fireplace, or the skylights we've maintained. Electricity is forbidden, used only in select government establishments. Thick dust particles catch the light streaming in through the roof, and I let out a groan. Something like guilt makes a home in my gut. I failed embarrassingly this morning. I’m going to have to figure out another air filter soon. Willow really can't be breathing in this many irritants, especially with us stretching out her medication.?
"The clouds are bad today, but they should ease up by this afternoon," Linden offers, following my worried line of sight.
I smile at my little brother. Our brilliant little scientist.
This is the case with siblings, isn’t it? One minute you want to throttle them and the next minute you're filled with such intense adoration you could cry.
We've always been opposites, in our brains, and otherwise. I sometimes wonder if people can tell we're siblings; Willow and Linden being much more fair than I am. My father used to joke that we are like a human gradient when sitting in the order of our age.
Willow is a carbon copy of our mother, with her straight white-blonde hair. Her eyes are technically hazel, as are our whole family’s, but so light they are more aqua with a hint of sunny orange in the center. She looks so much like our mom that sometimes she’ll do something and my heart will sink into my stomach, stamped with grief.
Linden is the happy medium. His golden locks sit easily in their waves. His eyes, a rich jade on the outside and a warm brown on the inside, are big and round.
I am the darkest, although my skin is still considered fair. My hair takes on a ruddy light brown. In the years where I saw the most sunshine it would streak brassy blonde, but it’s been some time since that happened. Now it sits mousy and dull, an overwhelming wavy mop. Also, unlike my siblings, my eyes are dark. In year five of school, I got my first boyfriend, and after our first kiss, he told me my eyes reminded him of dirt. Very charming.
All three of us share our mother's upturned nose. It’s most delicate on Willow; giving the distinct impression she's looking down on you even when she's a great deal smaller.
"Where is Willow anyway?" I ask, finally bringing my brain back from my ever-wandering thoughts. "Did she leave for school without saying goodbye?" I peer around the corner, searching for the icy blonde locks and lanky limbs.
"So, about that…" Her head pops up from behind the weathered loveseat Linden's sitting on, and I jump at her sudden appearance.?
