Chapter 1 #2
My jaw clenches as we pass beneath the centermost archway into the main stairwell and descend its aged spiral steps. Despite my prior assurance, I tug on my companion’s arm, trusting he’ll interpret it as a wordless request to slacken the pace instead of a discreet maneuver to buy more time.
“About earlier, I’m sorry for pressuring you. I have no intention of replacing your wife.”
He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t realize you had interest in remarrying, especially since . . . well, ya know.”
“I get it,” I say, rubbing at an invisible tear that becomes real as I consider what’s at stake if tonight doesn’t go to plan. “It’s just . . . I don’t want to die.”
It’s a risk. Discovering that I have ulterior motives for courting him—that his convenient circumstance of being a widower with an established family drew me in more than his spirited impressions and clever puns—may wound his pride.
But if soliciting his carnal nature is no longer an option, perhaps I can appeal to his empathy.
The purple glow of the sconces mounted to the rough limestone walls shines through his helmet, and I think I see his blank eyes blinking as he attempts to deduce how my urgent desire for marriage links to my fear of death.
I continue, “The selections for the Hunt will be chosen at midnight tomorrow.”
He halts mid-step. My stomach plummets as he shifts his arm away from my grip, fists clenching at his sides. “You want to marry me to get out of being drafted for the Hunt? Why would you want to desert your duty?”
My hands clamp onto the rusted rail along the inner ledge of the spiral staircase that continues for miles, stretching to the depths of this underground haven—a haven that will always protect those like him from the sun and from those mutated by its corrupting light.
He’ll never stand before a Sol. He’ll never know the consuming fear that rises with every image of the charred shells of humanity displayed on the ceremonial screen.
Not a single Guard of the Gate will ever have to face eviction into the merciless world of light, never have to lose sleep from the looming probability that they will be killed by the golden-veined monstrosities or, worse, become one.
Protection comes at a cost.
Only one of us will have to pay it, and it isn’t the man across from me.
“My duty?” I practically spit, tone darker and sharper than it should be.
Though the lapse in the facade is cathartic, I can’t make a habit of wielding my words like a knife, not if I want to be heard.
I take two measured breaths before my voice returns to false levity, its own kind of subversive weapon. “The Hunt is a death sentence.”
“The Hunt is an honor,” he corrects, reciting word for word from Chancellor Bren’s speeches. “It allows those who contribute least to Caligo’s welfare to make the ultimate contribution of eliminating the threat above.”
He speaks matter-of-factly, as if hunting and killing Sols is a simple enough task. As if thousands of women haven’t lost their lives in futile attempts to accomplish that objective. As if I should be eager to follow in their footsteps in the name of honor and duty.
“You really think the only significant contribution a woman can offer is to marry and multiply? Is it not enough to be a hard worker and a considerate neighbor?”
Unwed, childless women are those who “contribute least” to society, according to Caligo’s warped constitution.
Strange how everyone seems to forget it was drafted at a time when men were the significant minority after the massacres from the Last War.
Although I loathe the notion that single women who hadn’t procreated were seen as more dispensable, I somewhat understand the logic from the repopulation angle.
But now that the male-to-female ratio has long since recovered to a near even split, the mandate holds more so out of tradition than necessity.
If those of us with uteruses fail to serve as wives or wombs, we risk becoming sacrifices.
He bristles. “Not as much as serving your family. Without a husband or child, you have no direct stakes in Caligo’s future; no one you love who’ll outlive you, who’ll feel the lasting impact of every choice you make.”
I hate that it stings, hate how his regurgitation of the tired narrative stirs up a tightness in my throat.
But most of all, I hate my body for putting me in this position—pleading to a man who believes I can’t possibly care for anyone who’ll live long after my death until I’ve pushed a wailing newborn out of my womb.
“What about those of us who want to be a wife? Who’d give anything to have a child?
There are no exceptions for women who are eligible for the Hunt by no fault of our own.
” Though my voice breaks, I force myself to hold his gaze.
He needs to hear this, needs to believe that it’s not as simple as we’re all taught.
His fists unfurl, spurring me to continue.
“I’d give anything to have all of those things. I want someone to wake up beside me every night. Someone who’ll appreciate my secret sourdough recipe and boast about my shoulder massages to his friends. He’ll swear he has the best wife out of all of ’em.”
My lips curl as I welcome the familiar daydream of a husband wrapping me in his arms as soon as he comes home.
He’d pull me away from the sink and lift me onto the bed.
I’d scold him for messing up the pile of laundry I just folded, and he’d promise to help refold after we’re finished.
That’s the future I once envisioned for myself.
Being needed. Treasured. A woman of infinite value to a man who’ll keep his vow of “till death do us part.”
I’d thought I had it, once. I should’ve known dreams weren’t meant to last.
A warm palm braces my shoulder, squeezing once before dropping it. “Maybe someday you’ll get that.”
But he won’t be the one to give it to me.
I shake my head at the unspoken implication.
“I won’t if my name gets called tomorrow. No matter how many times I’ve tried, what I have to offer has never been enough.” Before he can interrupt, I plead, “Please. I’m begging you. I can be
whatever you want me to be, do whatever you want me to do. I’ll be the perfect spouse. You’ll see.”
His knuckles turn white. “I won’t betray my wife to help you avoid your duty.”
A hot tear streaks down my nose. I turn my head away and offer a curt nod as a final goodbye, knowing it’s the last we’ll see of each other.
There’s nothing else I can say to this man that would break through decades of purist brainwashing.
As quickly as my laden legs will carry me, I trudge down the worn stone stairs.
No footsteps follow.
No objections to my exit.
Not that I expected either.
With a sigh, I take the remaining steps two at a time while avoiding the foundational cracks from the ever-shifting fault lines that Chancellor Bren has sworn to fix since he was first elected three terms ago. I wipe the tear from my face, and glide down the last few steps.
An arched doorway etched with R1 marks the first residential level.
I slink beneath it, in tow with a line of tiny brown beetles that greet me with their musty spritz.
The breathy moans that drift beneath more than one poorly sealed threshold remind me that the reeking insects aren’t the worst of my neighbors.
At least the six-legged creatures don’t advertise their romantic activities well into the late morning hours, making it a near daily gamble on whose orgasms will haunt my dreams.
Yet another punishment of failing to find a husband: being sentenced to live among the other “low contributors” in compact cabins that are within spitting distance of one another.
Could be worse, I guess. At least the housing is free, albeit positioned in an echo chamber with a proximity to the surface that’s a bit too close for comfort.
If Caligo is ever breached, we’ll be the first to go.
I quicken to a jog and cover the side of my face as I pass by a particularly vocal bunch that makes a habit of leaving their door wide open.
Most of the sconces on this level have been dimmed as folks settle in for the day, ready to sleep off the sun’s waking hours, yet the one beside a dented steel door painted with three constellations remains fully lit.
Of course they’re waiting up for me.
I brace myself, then shove my key into the knob. Before I finish twisting it to the right, the door swings open, revealing two identical pairs of disapproving green eyes.
“Where in the burning pits of the sun have you been, Orelle?”