Chapter 20
Elia – Eight Years Ago
Coming to this camp might have been the dumbest idea I’ve had.
This is now my second time I’ve been sent to the dunes, and the third kick in the ribs I’ve received today.
The dunes are the worst of the worst. The normal camp is relatively flat – at any point when I’m working, I can see almost everyone else digging and scavenging.
Here, I’m surrounded on all sides by sand dunes at least fifteen feet tall.
The wind makes seeing near impossible, and sandstorms happen frequently.
We’re not allowed to wear glasses to protect our eyes, and half the time I’m searching for relics only by touch, eyes squeezed tight to protect against the blowing particles of sand.
I’m the only ‘normal’ person from camp that’s been sent here, as far as I’m aware.
No one else I’ve met or interacted with has ever gone, and no offense to the people around me, but they look like hardened criminals compared to little seventeen-year-old me.
My guess is most of them are hardened criminals and this is a punishment instead of my dumbass who volunteered to go to the camp.
I mean, I never volunteer to come to the dunes, but still.
The last kick to my ribs was because I dropped my shovel and couldn’t find it.
The wind was blowing so fast that the shovel was already covered when I opened my eyes again, and it took me at least ten minutes of frantic digging before I found it again.
That was ten minutes of not working in the eyes of the guards – hence the kick.
When the day comes to a close with the ringing of the last bell, I try my best to keep moving before the exhaustion sets in.
If I stop and rest, I know I may never get back up.
The thought of reuniting with my parents tends to keep me afloat.
I know it’s been years, but I can’t imagine them never returning to the farm for me.
They always talked about travel and adventure, and most of their plans had included me.
Any local trips always did. The other possibilities – that my parents are injured or dead or, the worst though, that they didn’t come back for me – are pushed to the back of mind.
If I linger on those thoughts, I wouldn’t be able to survive.
“NEXT!” Someone shoves me from behind as I shake myself back into the present. I hurry forward and dump my scavenges on the table in front of one of the main guards.
The guard surveys me through beady eyes, unabashedly roving over every part of my body. “Ah…little lucky Clover, isn’t it?”
I raise one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. I lean forward and separate out the items I’ve found from the day. “These are the relics,” I point at the smaller pile on the right. “And these are duds,” I add, indicating towards the larger pile.
The people behind me in the line are creeping up to peer over my shoulder at my haul. I typically have more than others – that’s always been the case, hence why the name Clover stuck.
The guard scoffs. “Like we would listen to a little leaf like you.” The men behind him chuckle, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
“Believe me or not, but I’m hungry so if we could hurry this along…”
SLAP. My neck cracks to one side as the guard whips his hand across my face. Something wet drips down, and when my hand comes back scarlet, I see that the guard’s ring cut my face.
“I’ll make sure to take note of what you brought today so it comes off your debt,” he sneers. “NEXT!”
I’m once again shoved away by the next person in line.
He didn’t even try to pretend that he wrote down what I made for the day today.
I’m one of the very few people here who don’t receive coin directly at the end of the day.
Most people make one copper a day, maybe a couple more if they had a good haul.
With the amount of real relics I found today, I should have at least earned a silver.
But I doubt that anyone here is keeping a good account of the debt I supposedly still owe.
The few others I know in a similar situation as me are still here year over year too, grudging along, the guards waiting on us to either give up or wither away.
After the slice of stale bread and moldy fruit for dinner, I resign myself to finding a place to sleep.
Out here, there’s no tents or beds or any semblance of shelter.
We use burlap sacks as both sleep mats and blankets.
I try to pick a spot far away from everyone else.
I’m one of the few females in the dunes, and I don’t want to invite any trouble on myself.
I find a nice space on the side of one of the dunes and spread out my sack.
I find my water canteen and pour some onto a spare strip of cloth to clean myself the best I can.
I go to clean the cut on my face, but it seems to have closed and stopped bleeding already.
Satisfied, I lay on my back, hands behind my head.
The only positive aspect to the dunes is that I sleep under the starry night sky.
I find each constellation and call them by name, wishing them goodnight.
Sometimes they’re the only people I get to talk to that listen.
I hear footsteps, and immediately I sit up. A young man with jet black hair, probably a few years older than me, approaches, burlap in hand.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know anyone was back here. I’ll find somewhere else to sleep.” He turns to go, and I make the split-second decision to call out to him.
“Wait!” He stops still, waiting for me to finish. “There’s plenty of space,” I remark, gesturing to the open desert. “I don’t mind if you share it.”
He beams and claims his space only a foot or so apart from mine.
I don’t recognize him, so I assume he must be new.
Together we lay in silence, listening only to the wind.
I miss the sounds I used to hear on the farm – the animals in the fields, the birds chirping, the windchime on the porch, even the children shouting down the street. The desert at night is always so quiet.
Empty.
Alone.
“You can come closer, if you want.” The man’s voice shatters the silence, and I absorb the noise like a sponge. “We don’t have to do anything,” he adds hurriedly.
I take a minute to decide before scooching over to him.
He lifts an arm to allow me to curl into him.
I can hear his heartbeat, and it’s the most beautiful sound in the world.
When he leans in to kiss me, I don’t object, and soon the air is filled with the sounds of our bodies moving and moaning.
For those few minutes, I’m reconnected with my body and to the world.
But when I wake up, and he’s nowhere to be found, my soul is once again floating untethered, watching as my body mechanically moves through the motions.
At least I had one night to escape the loneliness that threatens to drown me.