everyone. . . . Look, we’ll fill you in on what we do know at the campfire meeting tonight, with Veidman and Meira.”
“I don’t think they like me.”
“Those two don’t like anyone except each other. Canadians are weird.”
“Are they twins or something?”
Gadya stifles a grin as she passes me the water jug again. “Don’t let either of them hear you say that. They’re a couple—they just look alike.” She watches as I chug more water. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I just got tricked and drugged,” I mutter. “Other than that, fine.”
Gadya smiles. “I’ll take you on a tour of the village, introduce you to some other kids. When I first got here, I felt really alone until I made some friends.” A shadow falls over her eyes. “A lot of those friends aren’t alive anymore.”
“They got killed fighting the Monk?”
“That, or they were taken by—” She breaks off, standing up. “If I say too much now, Veidman and the others will get mad.”
As we start walking around the edge of the clearing, I take in my surroundings. Sloppily constructed cabins are clustered beneath the trees. They’re made of moldy wooden slats, propped up with stones. The roofs are either thatched or made from sheets of corrugated metal, like the shantytowns I’ve seen in government-sanctioned depictions of Europe and Asia. The village looks ramshackle and filthy. I remember what Gadya said about the drones constantly destroying everything. This is probably the best the villagers can do, given the circumstances.
I’m reminded of a book of mythology that my dad gave me when I was six. D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths . It was mostly drawings, which was why I liked it so much at the time. My dad would read the text while I looked at the pictures.
One of the myths was about Sisyphus, who had to roll a boulder endlessly up a mountain—only to have it crash down on him whenever he neared the top. Then he’d have to start his journey all over again. He was locked in that cycle for eternity, as punishment for offending the gods. I told my dad I thought it was a pretty discouraging myth, and that I felt sad for Sisyphus.
“Ah, but the key is to imagine Sisyphus happy, ” he earnestly explained to my six-year-old self. “If Sisyphus is happy, then the story isn’t sad. Maybe he finds a lot of meaning in rolling that boulder up the mountain, even if he seems doomed to us. If Sisyphus ever lost his boulder—or succeeded in getting it over the top—he’d probably lose his entire purpose in life!”
I keep that story close to my heart as I trail Gadya past all the kids rebuilding their shacks. To imagine Sisyphus happy. Is that really possible?
Some of the kids start noticing me, and they stop what they’re doing. All of them are grubby and tousle-haired, smeared with dirt like they’ve been playing in the woods. But I know that none of them have been playing. Their eyes burn with concentration and fear.
“Where’d you find this one?” a redheaded boy calls out to Gadya.
“Yeah, what’s her name?” yells a frowning girl, sounding worried. “Is she safe?”
“My name’s Alenna,” I say, before Gadya can speak for me. I want to stand up for myself. If I have only two more years to live, then I don’t want to spend them living in the shadows.
“She passed Veidman’s test,” Gadya tells them. I notice shirtless boys lurking nearby with wooden spears. Many of them have dark tans, but their skin tones vary. It looks like a mix of kids and ethnicities from all over the UNA. Again, I seek out the blue-eyed boy, but he’s not among them. Maybe he’s from a different village, and was just passing through this area.
A lot of the kids hang back. Others shoot me hostile, challenging glares. An Asian boy with long black hair finally breaks away from the pack and strolls over.
“Hey, new fish,” he says. He’s wiry with a gleam in his eyes. Cocky, but at least he looks lively and intelligent,
“I don’t think they like me.”
“Those two don’t like anyone except each other. Canadians are weird.”
“Are they twins or something?”
Gadya stifles a grin as she passes me the water jug again. “Don’t let either of them hear you say that. They’re a couple—they just look alike.” She watches as I chug more water. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I just got tricked and drugged,” I mutter. “Other than that, fine.”
Gadya smiles. “I’ll take you on a tour of the village, introduce you to some other kids. When I first got here, I felt really alone until I made some friends.” A shadow falls over her eyes. “A lot of those friends aren’t alive anymore.”
“They got killed fighting the Monk?”
“That, or they were taken by—” She breaks off, standing up. “If I say too much now, Veidman and the others will get mad.”
As we start walking around the edge of the clearing, I take in my surroundings. Sloppily constructed cabins are clustered beneath the trees. They’re made of moldy wooden slats, propped up with stones. The roofs are either thatched or made from sheets of corrugated metal, like the shantytowns I’ve seen in government-sanctioned depictions of Europe and Asia. The village looks ramshackle and filthy. I remember what Gadya said about the drones constantly destroying everything. This is probably the best the villagers can do, given the circumstances.
I’m reminded of a book of mythology that my dad gave me when I was six. D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths . It was mostly drawings, which was why I liked it so much at the time. My dad would read the text while I looked at the pictures.
One of the myths was about Sisyphus, who had to roll a boulder endlessly up a mountain—only to have it crash down on him whenever he neared the top. Then he’d have to start his journey all over again. He was locked in that cycle for eternity, as punishment for offending the gods. I told my dad I thought it was a pretty discouraging myth, and that I felt sad for Sisyphus.
“Ah, but the key is to imagine Sisyphus happy, ” he earnestly explained to my six-year-old self. “If Sisyphus is happy, then the story isn’t sad. Maybe he finds a lot of meaning in rolling that boulder up the mountain, even if he seems doomed to us. If Sisyphus ever lost his boulder—or succeeded in getting it over the top—he’d probably lose his entire purpose in life!”
I keep that story close to my heart as I trail Gadya past all the kids rebuilding their shacks. To imagine Sisyphus happy. Is that really possible?
Some of the kids start noticing me, and they stop what they’re doing. All of them are grubby and tousle-haired, smeared with dirt like they’ve been playing in the woods. But I know that none of them have been playing. Their eyes burn with concentration and fear.
“Where’d you find this one?” a redheaded boy calls out to Gadya.
“Yeah, what’s her name?” yells a frowning girl, sounding worried. “Is she safe?”
“My name’s Alenna,” I say, before Gadya can speak for me. I want to stand up for myself. If I have only two more years to live, then I don’t want to spend them living in the shadows.
“She passed Veidman’s test,” Gadya tells them. I notice shirtless boys lurking nearby with wooden spears. Many of them have dark tans, but their skin tones vary. It looks like a mix of kids and ethnicities from all over the UNA. Again, I seek out the blue-eyed boy, but he’s not among them. Maybe he’s from a different village, and was just passing through this area.
A lot of the kids hang back. Others shoot me hostile, challenging glares. An Asian boy with long black hair finally breaks away from the pack and strolls over.
“Hey, new fish,” he says. He’s wiry with a gleam in his eyes. Cocky, but at least he looks lively and intelligent,
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