Chapter 5 #2
Ezran’s voice is rough, his lip quivering. “You shouldn’t have wasted those on me.”
“You were about to pass out,” I say.
“I would have been fine.” He puffs out his chest.
I press my lips shut. I don’t want to argue about this again.
He looks sternly at me. “Clarice’s family should have paid you for your visit.”
I stiffen, then glare. “She just lost her father.”
Guilt flashes across his face, but still he grumbles, “You can’t offer your services for free.”
“You’re the one who claimed I might be able to heal him of desert sickness.”
“I’m supposed to apologize for believing in you?” He clenches his hands at his sides.
“No one recovers from that. You should know better.”
“At least you get to help people,” he says. “I just stare at numbers and letters that don’t make sense.”
My mouth sours. Of course he has to make this about him.
Ezran goes on. “You won’t let me do anything useful.”
“Useful—” I’m at a loss. “You begged to come scavenging with me yesterday and I had to carry you back.”
“I won’t do it again,” he whimpers.
My mouth bobs open, ready to give him a dozen more examples of his foolishness.
He jumps in first, lifting his chin with the mature pout of the fourteen-year-old he is. “You quit school. I should be allowed to.”
I clench my teeth and they crunch on sand. “If you want to work so badly, help Clarice’s family with the harvest. They’ll need an extra set of hands. You can study in the evenings.”
“I want to be a relic hunter.” He has the audacity to sound hurt.
I laugh. I don’t know what else to do. He has to know how ridiculous it is, how impossibly dangerous. At least we’ve arrived at what he really wanted to talk about—the question he’s been scurrying around like a gecko.
“It’s my dream,” he says, defensive now.
“Find another dream,” I say. “We don’t all get to follow them.”
“You’re the one stopping yourself.”
My smile drops. “What?”
“I heard what Clarice said. You told me she got the apprenticeship, not that you gave it to her.” His eyes blaze, flickering with hurt.
My stomach clenches. How dare he? He knows why I stayed; he’s why I stayed. Ezran and his stupid dreams of wandering the desert until he’s lost forever. That would break Gramps’s too-kind heart once and for all.
I stomp over to the hut door, but stop short of going inside. I don’t want Gramps to be part of this.
“Why didn’t you go?” Ezran crosses his arms over his chest. His glower doesn’t quite hide his trembling lip.
“You want me to leave?” I bite back.
Saying the words breaks something in me.
Because when I’m being more honest than even I can bear, I do want to get out of this village.
And not just for an apprenticeship, or to become a healer.
Not even to escape the whispers, the longings, the nightmares—none of the reasons I should want to leave.
I want to escape this cursed place because I want a bath.
I know it’s pathetic. But just once, I want to soak away the perpetual grit, with no sand lining the bottom of the tub, no murky orange swirl clouding the water.
Just once, I want to sink into something clean and rinse this place off me.
To know what it feels like to be completely unsullied by the desert. Even if I can never have that.
“I just want you to stop telling me what to do,” Ezran retorts. “You’re not Mom.”
The words land like a slap. He isn’t usually mean, but I’ve called his bluff. He doesn’t want me here, trying to keep him safe, but he also doesn’t want me to abandon him.
“You can’t ditch school,” I tell him.
“But you did!”
“That was different.”
He juts his chin. “If you want to go study in the city, just leave already.”
“You know I can’t.” I glare right back at him.
“Then stop making me do it instead.”
“Education gives you options.”
He throws his hands up. “Doesn’t matter. I can work just as good as you, Taera. Better even. I’m stronger.”
I hate that he’s right. Not that I’m weak—I’m sturdy as a cactus, or so I’ve been told. The baker’s boy thought it was a compliment. But I won’t let Ezran get away with thinking he can run off and become a relic hunter.
“Then start by actually sweeping the sand from the garden and going to the well each morning—like you’re supposed to—so I can cook for you, and clean up after you.”
With nothing clever to say back, Ezran kicks up dirt. He yanks his ruddy orange sandscarf higher and limps dramatically away from the hut.
“I’m going to the well!”
“You can’t carry it,” I huff, watching him hop-step. He doesn’t even have a pail.
Tipping my head back, I groan. The horizon is washed in an orangish glow, too close to dusk. I yank my eyes firmly back down. Don’t look at the desert. Within the hour it will be dark and Ezran needs to be back.
He needs to take some responsibility. He won’t learn any if I go after him and drag him back here.
I’ll give him half an hour.
I storm inside, kicking a small cloud of sand across the floor.
The hearth gets more force than it needs as I prod the embers back to life.
Root vegetables, thick-skinned from our garden, get scrubbed hard beneath my thumbs.
They’re nothing like the bright jammy berries and pepperspice flowers Mom was able to coax from the miserable ground. My shoulders slump.
When my eyes adjust to the dimness, I spot Gramps snoozing in his corner and my gaze softens.
But not for long. Ezran’s abandoned oatmeal crusts the pot. It’s hardened enough to require a chisel to chip it off. I groan, then chuck the orangish chunks in with the porridge. If Ezran wanted something better for supper, he could get back here and help.
A cool evening breeze murmurs through the empty window. I shiver. The whispers are starting early tonight, their voices tangled and indecipherable as though they’re bursting to slip past the setting sun.
They catch me off guard.
They call me.
I find myself hovering at the window, turnips forgotten. Unease gnaws at me. Time has slipped past, and the sun is nearly down. Ezran is cutting it too close; he should be back by now. Did he fall and hurt himself again? It frustrates me how often he makes me worry.
But I can’t leave him out there.
Swallowing my annoyance, I pad to the shadowed corner of the room and crouch next to Gramps. He’s snoring softly, and I regretfully squeeze his shoulder to wake him.
He snuffles, then yawns wide. “Is it suppertime already? Forgive me.” He pushes himself onto his elbows, wincing. The tea I brewed must be wearing off—if he even drank it.
“No, not yet,” I say. “But it’s almost dusk. I’m going to find Ezran.”
His brows crease. “He isn’t home?”
I look down. “We were fighting. I want to make sure he’s safe.”
Gramps nods, a shadow passing over his expression. “That girl’s father…”
My heart clenches. “There was nothing I could do.”
He squeezes my hand, smiling, but his eyes are haunted. He glances out the window. “Be careful.”
“We’ll be home before the turnips are soft.”