I hate first Friday.
It makes the village crowded.
And now in the heat of high summer,
that's the last thing anyone wants.
From my place in the shade,
it isn't so bad.
But the stink of bodies all
sweating with the morning
work is enough to make milk curdle.
The air shimmers with heat and humidity
and even the puddles from yesterday's
storm are hot, swirling with
rainbow streaks of oil and grease.
The market deflates with everyone
closing up their stalls for the day.
The merchants are distracted,
careless, and it's easy for
me to take whatever I
want from their wares.
By the time I'm done, my pockets bulge
with trinkets and I've got an apple for
the road.
Not bad for a few minutes work.
As the throng of people moves, I let
myself be taken away by the human current.
My hands dart in and out,
always in fleeting touches.
Some paper bills from a man's pocket.
A bracelet from a woman's wrist,
nothing too big.
Villagers are too busy shuffling along
to notice a pickpocket in their midst.
The high stilt buildings for
which the village is named, The Stilts,
very original, rise all around us,
ten feet above the muddy ground.
In the spring,
the lower bank is underwater.
But right now,
it's August when dehydration and
sun sickness stalk the village.
Almost everyone looks forward to the first
Friday of each month when work and
school and early, but not me.
No, I'd rather be in school learning
nothing in a classroom full of children.
Not that I'll be in school much longer.
My 18th birthday is coming,
and with it, conscription.
I'm not apprenticed.
I don't have a job, so
I'm going to be sent to the war
like all the other idle ones.
It's no wonder there's no work left,
what with every man, woman and
child trying to stay out of the army.
My brothers went to war
when they turned 18.
All three of them sent
to fight Lake Landers.
Only Shade can write worth a lick and
he sends me letters when he can.
I haven't heard from my other brothers,
Bree and Tramy in over a year.
But no news is good news.
Families can go years without hearing
a thing, only to find their sons and
daughters waiting on the front doorstep,
home on leave or
sometimes blissfully discharged.
But usually,
you receive a letter made of heavy paper.
Stamped with the king's crown seal below
a short thank you for your child's life.
Maybe you even get a few buttons from
their torn obliterated uniforms.
I was 13 when Bree left.
He kissed me on the cheek and
gave me a single pair of earrings for
my little sister Gisa and me to split.
They were dangling glass beads,
the hazy pink color of sunset.
We pierced our ears ourselves that night.
Tramy and Shade kept up
the tradition when they went.
Now Gisa and I have one ear each,
set with three tiny stones to remind
us of our brothers fighting somewhere.
I didn't really believe they'd have to go,
not until the legionnaire and
his polished armor showed up and
took them away one after another.
And this fall, they'll come for me.
I've already started saving and stealing
to buy Gisa some earrings when I go.
Don't think about it.
That's what mom always says about the
army, about my brothers, about everything.
Great advice, mom.
Down the street at the crossing
of Mill and Marcher roads,
the crowd thickens and
more villagers join the current.
A gang of kids,
little thieves in training,
flutters through the fray with sticky,
searching fingers.
They're too young to be good at it and
security officers are quick to intervene.
Usually the kids would be sent to
the stocks or the jail at the outpost, but
the officers want to see first Friday.
They settle for giving the ringleaders
a few harsh knocks before letting them go.
Small mercies.
The tiniest pressure at my waist
makes me spin acting on instinct.
I grab at the hand foolish enough to
pickpocket me, squeezing tight so
the little imp won't be able to run away.
But instead of a scrawny kid, I find
myself staring up at a smirking face.
Kilorn Warren, a fisherman's apprentice,
a war orphan and
probably my only real friend.
We used to beat each other up as children.
But now that we're older and he's a foot
taller than me, I try to avoid scuffles.
He has his uses, I suppose,
reaching high shelves, for example.
You're getting faster,
he chuckles, shaking off my grip.
Or you're getting slower.
He rolls his eyes and
snatches the apple out of my hand.
Are we waiting for Gisa?
He asks, taking a bite of the fruit.
She has a pass for the day, working.
Then let's get moving.
Don't wanna miss the show.
And what a tragedy that would be.
Mayor, he teases, shaking a finger at me.
This is supposed to be fun.
It's supposed to be a warning,
you dumb fool.
But he's already walking
off with his long strides,
forcing me to almost trot to keep up.
His gait weaves off balance.
Sea legs, he calls them.
Though he's never been to the far off sea.
I guess long hours on his
master's fishing boat,
even on the river are bound
to have some effect.
Like my dad,
Kilorn's father was sent off to war.
But whereas mine returned
missing a leg and a lung, Mr.
Warren came back in a shoe box.
Kilorn's mother ran off after that,
leaving her young son to fend for himself.
He almost starved to death, but
somehow kept picking fights with me.
I fed him so that I wouldn't have
to kick around a bag of bones.
And now ten years later, here he is.
At least he's apprenticed and
won't face the war.
We get to the foot of the hill where
the crowd is thicker, pushing and
prodding on all sides.
First Friday attendance is mandatory,
unless you are, like my sister,
an essential laborer as if
embroidering silk is essential.
But the Silvers love their silk,
don't they?
Even the security officers,
a few of them,anyway,
can be bribed with pieces
sewn by my sister.
Not that I know anything about that.
The shadows around us deepen as
we climb up the stone stairs
toward the crest of the hill.
Kilorn takes them two at a time, almost
leaving me behind, but he stops to wait.
He smirks down at me and tosses a lock of
faded, tawny hair out of his green eyes.
Sometimes I forget you
have the legs of a child.
Better than the brain of one, I snap,
giving him a light smack
on the cheek as I pass.
His laughter follows me up the steps.
You're grouchier than usual.
I just hate these things.
I know, he murmurs, solemn for once.
And then we're in the arena,
the Sun blazing hot overhead.
Built ten years ago, the arena is easily
the largest structure in the Stilts.
It's nothing compared to
the colossal ones in the cities.
But still, the soaring arches of steel,
the thousands of feet of concrete,
are enough to make a village
girl catch her breath.
Security officers are everywhere,
their black and
silver uniforms standing out in the crowd.
This is first Friday and
they can't wait to watch the proceedings.
They carry long rifles or pistols,
though they don't need them.
As is customary,
the officers are Silvers, and
Silvers have nothing to fear from us Reds.
Everyone knows that.
We are not very equals, though you
wouldn't know it from looking at us.
The only thing that serves to
distinguish us, outwardly at least,
is that Silvers stand tall.
Our backs are bent by work and
unanswered hope, and
the inevitable disappointment
with our lot in life.
Inside the open topped arena
is just as hot as out, and
Kilorn always on his toes
leads me to some shade.
We don't get seats here,
just long concrete benches.
But the few Silver nobles up above
enjoy cool, comfortable boxes.
There they have drinks, food,
ice, even in high summer.
Cushioned chairs, electric lights and
other comforts I'll never enjoy.
The Silvers don't bat at eye at any of it,
complaining about the wretched conditions.
I'll give them a wretched condition
if I ever have the chance.
All we get are hard benches and
a few screechy video screens almost
too bright and too noisy to stand.
Bet you a day's wages it's another
strong arm today, Kilorn says,
tossing his apple cord
toward the arena floor.
No bet, I shoot back at him.
Many Reds gamble their
earnings on the fights,
hoping to win a little something to
help them get through another week.
But not me, not even with Kilorn.
It's easier to cut the bookie's purse
than to try to win money from it.
You shouldn't waste your money like that.
It's not a waste if I'm right.
It's always a strong arm
beating up on someone.
Strong arms usually make up at
least one-half of the fights.
Their skills and abilities better suited
to the arena than almost any other Silver.
They seem to revel in it,
using their superhuman strength to toss
other champions around like rag dolls.
