AMARYLLIS

My mind had scarcely begun to dream before a pair of hands squeezed my shoulder.

“Wake up, Amaryllis,” said a child’s voice.

If the ache in my body was any form of reliable clock, it was past midnight and a handful of hours since we returned to the tent.

I shrugged off the clingy fingers and turned onto my back. The face mingled with shadow in the dark, belonged to an eight year old girl named Lily.

“Chicory’s run away again,” she said.

She watched me grow in size as I climbed to my feet. I was taller than her owed to being four years older, not that being taller than little Lily was a high threshold to beat.

“When did he leave the tent?” I said.

“Just now, he walked into the forest.”

“Okay, go back to sleep.”

Lily did as she was told.

The heat inside the tent was close to unbearable. There was only one thin slit at the entrance to allow relief from the smell of the sweat and farts of the forty-nine other children wedged side by side. Because there were so many children I had no other option but to step on them in order to reach the exit. They were used to me leaving the tent to find Chicory every other night, and they knew it was easier to pretend to be asleep than to kick up a fuss over being stepped on.

Once outside of the tent I took in fresh air and a usual sense of smallness; unbridled nature with huge looming trees lay in every direction except for the wide dirt road ahead.

Remembering it was Chicory that I was looking for I headed left and passed between two large bushes.

I wasn’t scared, but being twelve years of age meant there was little I could do if I was found by something big hunting for prey in the woods.

The guardians told creative tales of wolves and bears in the forest to keep the children too afraid to wander from the tent at night, but the scariest tale they told was the truest one: the implication of the dangers that could befall a child if they were to cross a fugitive newly on the run from Rootwork. A man on the run with nothing left to lose would take a child hostage if it meant he might better avoid jail or execution.

Because the job of orphans at Rootwork was to deliver food and drink and other provisions around the town, and down in the mines, I was able to learn through eavesdropping how the coal-miners had come to work such a horrible job.

When a man worked up debts in Rose Kingdom and could no longer meet his payments he was given a choice: a life in a windowless dungeon cell or life at Rootwork.

If the man chose Rootwork he not only lived in a town owned by the company, he earned a wage not in coin but in receipts which could be spent at the company owned store. The company, being the only place the workers could buy goods, sold the food, drink, and other items the men needed for far more than they were worth, and for that reason the workers became slaves in all but name. They worked for the company for the rest of their lives unless they chose a third option: escape.

The idea of meeting such a fugitive somewhere in the woods played on my mind, but failing to bring Chicory back before the guardians found out he was gone is what really scared me. Tears and cries for mercy were in vain when the guardians decided a rule had been broken and a hard caning was in order.

The caning didn’t stop until the back of the punished child’s hand was reduced to an open-wound deep enough to leave a scar. Chicory, being six years of age and one of the youngest children adopted by Rootwork, hadn’t yet experienced that agony.

I breached the end of the forest and came to a stop before a vast field of knee high grass, spotting Chicory ahead at the top of a small hill. My chest was seizing up from all the running I had done, but the panic of losing him was over, and for that I could breathe a sigh of relief.

Once I wandered over to his side it felt good to kneel on the soft soil, Chicory was crouched low and pulling up fistfuls of grass. Although busily going about this task, Chicory’s face looked as if he were asleep. If I was to reach over and grab hold of him he would have woken up, but not normally. Instead he would have screamed like some pained creature until his throat was hoarse.

Chicory’s bouts of screaming during the night, before I learned better than to wake him, had earned him an even greater amount of dislike from the other orphans than he already had before.

The other orphans preferred to give him a wide berth chiefly because his skin was dark like soil, his black hair tightly curled, his nose broad, nostrils large, and his lips thick like a girl’s; altogether he was different to Rosian children, who had cream-coloured skin, eyes of blue, or amber, or green, and silky hair of various autumn colours.

Chicory, like me, was a half-breed.

He let the blades of grass in his hands be caught by the soft breeze. We were far out of range from anyone that might hear him scream if I did wake him, but so long as I was gentle I could take him back to the tent without having to wake him at all. Perhaps my readiness to stay on the hilltop a while instead of returning to the tent came as a result of the routine Chicory’s strange behaviour had brought about. Spending any amount of time with him was an exercise in patience, but we were spending time together in a way that I didn’t hate.

The cold was starting to bother me because I was wearing a threadbare sleeveless shirt and equally tattered shorts, leaving much of my skin exposed to the breeze. Chicory bundled himself into a ball and began to roll down the hill. The sight of this had me overcome with a sudden fit of laughter, but then he picked up speed. I watched him roll still further and faster down the hill for a moment before gaining enough sense to call after him and give chase.

“Chicory!”

Racing down the hill I dreaded to think what state I would find Chicory in once I reached him. Stopping where I last saw the tall grass rustle I peered down to see Chicory sat upright and awake. Grey bile sopped down his chin, and his face glistened like wet clay.

“Are you in any pain?” I asked.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pathetically.

All around us became still. The field which moments ago felt alive with insects made no sound whatsoever. There were no longer any stars in the sky. Huddling close to Chicory I did my best to try and make sense of the strange veil of darkness which blotted our surroundings. Chicory clung to me with his tiny hands.

“What’s happening, Amary?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

Something blazing bright and gold and as loud as a hundred drums struck the ground to our left. In the absence of any available exit from the blackness which surrounded us I took hold of Chicory and held him in my arms and carried him as I walked at a marching pace back up the hill. With each step I took gold lightning struck with greater frequency, punching down left and right, in front and behind as if teasing the inevitable blows that it intended to befall on us. We reached the top of the hill but Chicory slipped from my arms before I could continue onward with him. I couldn’t hear the screams leaving my own mouth. Another flash of light followed by a deafening noise illuminated Chicory’s terrified expression before he was engulfed by the black shadowy smog.

I felt the heat of the lightning striking me before I was aware of anything else. The extreme pain lasted longer than an instant and engulfed all my senses, but all I could think of was the regret of not keeping Chicory safe.