The Hunt (The Hunt 1)

“How long have I been out?”

“Two hours. You were just talking, then next thing we know, you’re knocked out cold,” Sissy says.

“Snoring, too,” Epap sneers.

Judging from the position of the sun, it’s about midday. “This is my usual sleep time. And I’ve been really up and about the past couple of days. Sorry I crashed on you. But I’m that knackered.”

“I was going to kick you awake,” Epap says, “but she let you sleep.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, my voice hoarse with dryness, “and for the pillow, too.”

“You looked like you could use some sleep. Here,” she says, handing over a jug of water. “Sounds like you could use some more water, too.”

I nod my appreciation. The water slides down my dry, sandy throat. I’m a bottomless bucket: no matter how much I drink, I can’t seem to get enough.

“Thanks,” I say, handing back the jug. Hung on the walls around me are brightly coloured paintings of rainbows and the mythical sea. On my right is a bookshelf filled with worn-out books and a few pottery figures.

“How did you learn to read?” I ask.

Epap looks down. “From our parents,” Sissy answers.

I look at her.

“Some of us had both parents here. Most of us had only a father or a mother. None of us are siblings, in case you’re wondering, except for Ben and me. We’re half-siblings.”

“How many parents?”

“Eight. They taught us everything. How to read and write, how to paint, how to grow vegetables. Passed down to us ancient traditional tales. Taught us to grow physically strong, to run long distances, swim. They didn’t want us to get fat and lazy, just waiting for our food to appear every day. We had something called ‘school’ every day. You know what ‘school’ is?”

I nod.

“Our parents pressed us hard, made us learn quickly. As if they feared time was short. As if they believed they might one day be gone.”

“And what happened to them?”

“One day they were gone,” Epap says, an anger tingeing his words.

Sissy speaks, quieter. “About ten years ago. They were given maps describing the location of a fruit farm. We were suspicious, of course, but we hadn’t been given any fruit or vegetables in weeks. Our lips and mouths were breaking out in painful blisters. As a precaution, our parents made us children stay behind. The parents left at the crack of dawn. They never came back.”

“The five of you can’t have been much more than toddlers yourselves,” I say.

She pauses before answering. “Ben was only a few weeks old. He barely survived. And there were more than five of us. There were nine.”

“The other four?”

She shakes her head, eyes downcast. “You have to understand. It was just Epap and me looking after everyone. We were, like, seven years old. When the Scientist came, he really helped us. Not only because of the extra food he’d smuggle in, the books, blankets, medicine when one of us would fall ill. But he was such a morale booster, a great storyteller, really encouraging. That’s why it was so crushing when he flat-out disappeared on us.” She looks at me. “And you’re telling us he’ll somehow lead us to the eastern mountains someday? The land of milk and honey, fruit and sunshine?”

I nod.

“You’re lying,” Epap says. “About the Scientist. And about the heper civilisation over the mountains. There’s nothing beyond those mountains.”

“I’m not.”

“You and your damn poker face. Think you can hide behind that and fool us? Maybe the younger ones, but not us. Certainly not me.”

“Tell us what you know, Gene,” Sissy says gently, earnestness in her brown eyes. So strange to be called by that name. Her eyes, with the sunlight reflecting off the floor, are a shade lighter than I remember. “How do you know about the heper civilisation past the mountains?”

“It’s in some of the Scientist’s journals I’ve been reading. The Scientist made some entries. He had reason to believe there’s a whole civilisation of our kind beyond those mountains. Where hundreds, maybe thousands of us live.” The lies slip off my tongue smooth as silk.

“How did he come by this information?”

“Look, I don’t know. But he seemed to believe so.”

“Liar!” interjects Epap. “If there’re so many of our kind, why haven’t we seen any of them? Why haven’t they ventured out here?”

“Would you?” I ask. “Knowing what you know, would you come out here and place yourself within reach of them?”

He doesn’t say anything.

“It makes sense,” Sissy says. “Any heper colony beyond the mountains would be safe from people. It would take – even with their quickness – at least eighteen hours just to reach the mountains. They’d never get there before sunrise. No cover at all out there – the sunlight would incinerate them all. The distance is the perfect moat of protection.”

“You don’t believe him, do you?” Epap asks incredulously. “We don’t know anything about this guy. He just appears out of nowhere, saunters in with this know-it-all attitude.”

“Epap,” she says softly, a hand on his shoulder. That’s all she has to say. Or do. Immediately, his irritation flutters off him in droves. “We know a lot. Gene’s for real, there’s no denying that. We’ve seen him in the sun, eat our fruit, sleep, just act, well, like us. You saw him blush. You can’t fake that kind of stuff. So he’s one of us. And we also know – whatever you might personally think of him – he’s a survivor. He has learned how to live even in the midst of them. For years. He’s valuable to us, to have someone like that on the outside.”

“But how do we know he’s for us? He might be one of us, but that doesn’t necessarily make him for us! I agree that he’s a survivor. But it’s his survival he’s good at, not ours.”

Instead of disagreeing with him, Sissy looks at me. Her eyes betray wariness and suspicion. She knows. That I’m holding something back. But she has no idea just how much. Otherwise she’d never have said what she says next.

“I think we can trust him. I think he has goodness in him.”

“Excuse me while I barf in my mouth,” Epap says.

“Epap,” she says with less patience now, “Gene’s brought us more information than we’ve been able to cull together in years. In two minutes, he’s told us two lifetimes’ worth of info. That says something.”

“Useless information,” Epap spat out. “Even if it’s true – about the colony beyond the mountains – it’s useless. There’s no way we can get to it, not even close. For us, the mountains are a two-week trek away. We’d be hunted down and killed within hours. Even if we leave as soon as the Dome opens at dawn and get an eight-hour jump on them, as soon as dusk hits, they’ll be flying across the Vast and be on us within two hours. No, that kind of information is worse than useless: it’s dangerous. It puts silly notions in our heads, a fanciful pipe dream that some of us might try to bring to fruition. Think of David, Jacob. Those two were never born to be encased. They’ve wanted out since they were born. Think you can restrain them if they set their minds on it?”

As Epap speaks, Sissy does something slightly odd with her lower lip. Nothing I’ve ever seen before, but I can’t quite take my eyes off it. She’s sinking her upper teeth (no fangs, so strange to see) into her full lower lip, taking a half bite so that her lips turn whitish. She’s quiet for a long time. Then, as the sound of footsteps approach, she says, “Do me a favour? Let’s not talk about this in front of the others again, OK?”

“Sure,” I answer, and then David and Jacob walk in with more bread and fruit. I eat and drink to my fill, the conversation now turned lighter, the younger hepers happy to have a new face with whom to chatter. They tell me of their lives, the routine, the passing seasons, their love-hate relationship with the Dome: how it stifles air circulation and traps the musty heat on hot summer nights; but how it also traps warmth and keeps out cold rain and snow in the winter months. On those winter nights, they tell me, they like to watch snowflakes drift downward from the night sky, melting into dewy streaks upon landing on the Dome. Sometimes, when it is especially cold,

they build a campfire, small enough that the smoke can escape through the pores at the top of the Dome. On those nights, gathered around the fire, snow falling harmlessly about them outside the Dome, they can almost imagine that the normal orbit of the world occurs inside the Dome and that it is the vaster outside world that is fallen, dysfunctional, afraid.

Later in the day, they grant me privacy for the wash I need. And more: a towel, something called “soap”, and a promise not to peek. This time when I strip off my clothes next to the pond, I feel a thousand times more self-conscious alone than when I threw off my briefs yesterday in front of Sissy. The very memory makes me cringe.

I wade into the pond and scrub myself. The soap thing produces miniature bubbles where it rubs against my body. It’s scentless but removes body odour, they tell me. Perfect for my needs. Once in a while, I steal a furtive look at the mud hut they’re all in. The doors and windows, as they’ve promised, remain closed. I listen in that direction, expecting to catch some derisive laughter. But it’s quiet.

I’m scrubbing my hair underwater when I hear something peculiar. At first, I think it’s just my submerged ears playing tricks on me, but when I surface the sound is clearer. A melody of voices, warbling out of the mud hut.

The sound is eerie yet beautiful. I stand captivated, water dripping off my hair into the pond, ripples breaking out in circular emanations around me. I wade out of the pond, towelling off even as I grab my clothes.

At first, they don’t notice me. I peer through the front door, my damp hair dripping onto my hastily flung-on clothes. They are seated in a circle, Ben and Jacob partially facing me, their eyes closed as if in rapture. The warbling brings back memories of my mother. Times when she would sit on the edge of my bedding and stroke my hair, her face barely discernible in the grey darkness of the house. It’s her voice I remember, more so than her face, lilted and unaffected by the sadness or despair that later hunched my father’s shoulders down.

Still unseen, I move away from the entrance and sit outside, out of sight but with the front door cracked open so I can hear. With my back against the scrabbled wall of the mud hut, I let their voices wash over me, even as the warm rays of the descending sun flood over me. Everything about me feels warm and soft, as though the world has gone buttery.