Weeds

Vultures are not allowed within the city limits. I think it's because we make the normal citizens uncomfortable. Soon the people of - what is this city called? I pull out my makeshift map. The sun is rising in the east, and I am south of the whispering lake and north of those three strongholds within a mile of each other. I named those the Triangle Cities. I have never been here before. Circle City will do. The citizens of Circle City must have their own name for their home, but their wall is curved so it should be called Circle City.

Silhouettes poke their heads over the wall three stories above me. I draw a circle on my map to represent Circle City and stow it in the pocket on the inside of my coat. If anyone else saw what I call my map, they would think it's just doodling. That is how I like it. If they don't know what it is, they won't know it's worth stealing.

"Go away!" a squeaky voice shouts down to me. "We won't let you in!"

Typical city dwellers. Always assuming that everyone on the outside is desperate to get in, and mostly that is true. To be within a city meant a consistent food supply, soft beds, and most importantly protection.

Now that I have been spotted it's time to start my usual spiel.

"I'm a vulture, except I specialize in info and lockets. Got anyone you want to know about? Want to get the locket your loved one wore into battle back?" It's not a very fancy spiel I admit, but it gets the message across.

"What in the world are you talking about?" the voice calls down, spitting his words out like little attacks.

I think the creep literally spits at me. It feels like little flecks of spittle touch my face. I hope this is because it is starting to rain, but just in case I step back.

“Do you think she's crazy?” the voice asks a nearby silhouette.

The silhouette shrugs.

"Even if you pretend to be crazy we still won't let you in!" the voice shouts.

"Huh," I say. "I guess none of my coworkers have come this deep into the valleys." Maybe I should have put the circle further west.

"Not everyone who lives outside the cities is an Eater you know!" I say.

"Liar! You just want to come in and either eat us or increase our overpopulation!"

"Talk about being paranoid!" I say under my breath.

"I don't want to come into your silly city!" I shout back.

A stunned silence follows. If learning I did not want to come in surprised him, I could not wait to see how he reacted to my career choice.

"I'm a vulture," I repeat because I am worried the fools on the wall have short memories. "I find things on the outside and sell them to people stuck hiding in the cities."

The sun is high enough that I can make out some of the people on the wall. Three men are looking down at me.

"Liar!" shouts the same voice as always.

I match it to the middle guy, a shorter fellow with a bright red face. I wonder if his face is always that shade or if it is just because I am so upsetting.

"Everything on the outside was destroyed. All the old cities were nuked and even if there was anything left standing it would have been raided clean years ago!"

"Not the battlefields," I say as straight-faced as if I'm telling him the sky is blue. I know this explanation won't go over well, but maybe if I act like pick pocketing corpses is no big deal he might not freak out on me. I am wrong.

"WHAT!" he shouts.

His companions leave their post at the wall. I wish I could get away from his temper tantrum too, but I need more rations and the only way I can get them is to make a trade here. The red faced man continues to flip out about sin and germs and the law, but I block it out and flip through my wares instead.

"You are the one who tells people whether or not their family member died in the war?" asks a new voice.

I like this voice. It is vibrant and crisp and distinctly masculine.

"That is exactly what I do!" I shout back, glad not to have to deal with the crybaby voice.

"Do you have the Battle of Two Toes?"

"Never heard of it."

"It took place on the southern shore of the whispering lake."

"Oh, you mean the Soggy Fish Battlefield!"

"I've never heard it called that."

"What ID do you want me to look up?" I remind myself not to fight with the client and flip through my journal to the S section for Soggy Fish.

"My father, Fri-" he starts, but I have to cut him off.

I don't want to know any names. Selling numbers feels normal. Selling names feels wrong.

"I only write down ID tag number, injuries, and location. No names."

"300888," he rattles off.

I take my time, carefully flipping each page of my journal. I see his silhouette pacing along the wall. It is distracting.

"Okay," I tell him.

"Okay what?" he asks.

This is so strange. This city really has experienced no contact with the Vultures. I feel almost wrong having to explain it to this nice guy.

"Okay," I say and pause. "I looked in my notes. I know whether or not his body is there. Do you want to know?"

"Yes. That is why I asked. Just tell me."

"You have to give me something in return or I won't tell you."

"Oh," he answers, finally getting it.

My hope for payment skyrockets, and then plummets when his silhouette disappears.

"Just go away!" Mr. Annoying shouts. "No one here wants to buy your gross wares! You should be ashamed of yourself! It would be better if you were never born, you are that sinful! The only decent thing for you to do would be to die, but at the very least you could go away!"

"Then come down here and do something about it!" It is generally a dumb idea to say that, but he sounds so pathetic and prissy up there I doubt there will be consequences. I keep my eyes searing into him until he ducks down from the wall.

A sound I have never heard before rolls out of the entrance. Chains rattle, mechanisms shriek, hinges groan, and something heavy scrapes across the entrance to Circle City. My eyes drop to see the gate opening. I take a few steps back, torn between my safety and my wares. No one ever comes out of their cities when an outsider is there, so as far as I know no one ever comes out of their cozy cities. Except I figure the farmers must, but I have never seen them. Great, I wasted running away time thinking.

The gate rattles, shrieks, groans, and scrapes again, sealing off the city and leaving behind a handsome, six foot, black haired man. I feel my heart stumble. Thank goodness this is not the angry red-faced shorty, but I still don't know why he is out here.

"How much does it cost?" he asks.

I sigh in relief. It looks like I will survive the coming winter after all.

"What if she's infected?!" the pathetic voice shouts from the safety of the wall.

The temptation to intimidate him again is overridden by the possibility of a sale with Mr. Nice down here.

"What are you offering?" The best way to get the most is to have them name a price first and then act offended.

"I have a bullet?" he offers, holding it up so the sun glints off of it.

"Oh," I gasp, trying to contain my excitement. "Sure. Why not?" A bullet wasn't edible, but it would go a long way in an exchange, assuming the vulture she usually traded with north of the Triangle Cities was still alive.

He tosses the rare commodity the ten strides between us. I snatch it and stow it in an inner pocket of my pack. I cannot afford to have it slip out of my pocket. Paying upfront means he is a gullible customer. Usually I would try to sweeten the deal, but I am so giddy with my prize I let go of the opportunity.

"300888 is dead,” I say and look down at my notes. "Severed head, smashed foot, burn where his arm used to be attached, and an assortment of stab wounds."

At this point most clients burst into tears or threaten me or at least go away. He does none of these things.

"Take me to him."

"What?"

"I want you to take me to his body," he says, emphasizing each word like he thinks I am the slow one here. "I don't think the whispering lake is too terribly far away. How long would it take for you to lead me there?"

"Half a day," I answer without thinking. I don't want to do this. He will be killed before we get halfway there. He does not know how to evade Eaters. For all I know he might try to reason with them.

"Don't be stupid!" I say. "There are things a hundred times more sinful out there than me. They're messed up in ways you can't fathom: driven mad by the war or starvation or the insanity of crops watered with blood!"

Any normal person would have scampered back into their secure city right about now, but he doesn't.

"I'll give you the other five bullets."

"Will you be able to recognize his corpse?" I ask, eager for a reason we should not do this. "Most faces rot in the weather."

"I know the crest on the armor he wore into battle."

"What if we forget who you are and don't know to let you back in!?" that same Mr. Annoying shouts down.

"I'll be gone a few days at most!"

I bite my lip. Taking a citizen out of a city was a horrible idea. He would most assuredly die out here. Then again, think what I could do with bullets! I found a firing pin and I know where I buried gun powder. If I ever get my hands on the other components I would not have to worry so much about avoiding the Eaters. I could defend myself. Besides, if he dies I don't have to waste time walking him back to Circle City.

"Fine," I snap and start securing my journal and wares back into my pack.

"Great!" he shouts. Why is he shouting? Citizens are weird. "I'll be right back; I just need to grab a shovel and some rations."

I have no idea why he thinks a shovel would be useful. Perhaps he considers it a weapon. Personally, I prefer the run away method to surviving, but if he thinks that will work I am more than happy to let him try while I get a head start fleeing.

He bursts out of the gates panting. "Oh good. You're still here."

I walk away.

"You aren't taking me to Two Toes?"

"Soggy Fish," I correct. "And keep up."

"What's your name?" he asks, trailing behind me. I can hear his pack jangling as he bumbles along. If just walking he made such a racket we would be dead as soon as we hit the main road.

"No names."

"What? Why not?"

"If we exchange names then we are connected. I refuse to feel bad if you die, and I won't have you feeling bad if I die."

"That makes no sense!" he says and unfortunately continues on, listing all the other things in his sheltered life he thinks don't make sense: top sheets, calculus, pajama days, and half a dozen others I don't even recognize.

When he gets to house cats I stop listening. The sun is fully awake now and, in my opinion, choosing to attack my eyes.

"Hey," he says, his voice raised. "Are you even listening?"

"No."

"I asked how old you are."

"How would I know that?"

"How can you not? I was so excited to be old enough to have my own sleeping area inside the city and not have to share my parents', I counted up to it years in advance."

"There are no calendars or clocks out here and no one to care either." That last comment sounds lonely and pathetic. I change the topic.

"Age doesn't matter out here," I say. "Only how fast you can run!"

I take off in a sprint and hear him thudding after me. When I cannot hear him anymore I stop and wait for him to catch up.

"My pack is heavy," he groans once he is back in earshot. "Will you carry it for me?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Well I am paying you to get me to Two Toes and if I collapse under the weight of my gear you've failed your job."

Smiling as wide as I can fake it, I accept his pack and proceed to dig through it. A collapsible shovel, water, some sort of cracker ration, crumpled extra clothes, a blanket and three books.

"Books?" I snatch them out of his pack and toss them off the road. "You packed books?" If it were safe to scream I would've torn him a new one, but you never know who, or what, might be nearby.

"They're my favorites?" His eyes dart down the ditch after his precious books.

I chuck his now lighter pack at his chest and he stumbles back a few steps.

"Don't carry what you won't use!" I snap and keep walking.

After a few seconds I hear his footsteps catch up to me. I am not sure if he picked up his books or not, and frankly I don't care - so long as he stops complaining. Chatting my ear off is one thing, but whining is unacceptable.

He is not talking. I can hear him walking behind me so I know I did not lose him. I thought silence would be nice, but it is getting unnerving. I cannot take it anymore. I glance back to check on him. He is staring at his feet and panting; his back bobs up and down with each noisy breath. Sweat has turned his nice hairdo to clumps. Maybe it was too much to make him run. I see the lake just ahead of us.

"We'll rest here," I announce and lead him of the road.

Shouting in joy, he shrugs off his pack and flops on the grassy shore. He is going to get us killed with that racket.

"Be quiet." I doubt any Vultures would be near an already scavenged battle field, but Eaters could be anywhere.

He stretches and rolls over to the edge of the water.

"Don't," I warn.

He ignores me and cups his hand in the water. I flip him over with my foot and step on his chest to keep him from ignoring me.

"There are three battlefields touching this lake. That means dead bodies. That means don't drink the water. When I tell you to do something, assume I have a good reason and just do it!" I walk away before I give in to the urge to kick him.

He flips back over and wipes his hands off on the grass. I scout out the road and am relieved to see no one traveling towards us. When I return his eyes are closed, but I can see his chest moving up and down as he breathes.

"We should keep moving," I say.

"Five more minutes," he mumbles into the grass.

Just when I was starting to like him and ease up, he reminds me that he is from a world of watches and cakes and bed sheets. The reminder is a blessing. I should not let my guard down.

"It's been five minutes," I say seconds later. "Let's go." I head out and expect that he will catch up.

The sun is high above us by the time we reach the edge of the battlefield. He is looking down at his feet. I notice he has stepped on a dead fish bloated with human blood. His pale face looks up and I watch him take in the horrific view.

"I see why you call it Soggy Fish," he jokes as he falls to his knees.

"The stench can be overwhelming the first time," I say. Get it together, I remind myself. It's not like me to be supportive.

"It's not that," he says and shakes his head. "I just never thought about how many suffered and died out here and this is just one of hundreds of battlefields. How could this have happened?"

"Because humans suck," I suggest. He laughs. It is a strangely happy feeling to have someone to laugh at my jokes.

He seems to have recovered from the initial shock of his first bloodbath, so I try to tell him "Soldier 300888 is by the-," but he interrupts.

"You mean my father?" he says.

I sigh. Normal people are exhausting.

"See that tree over there?" I say and point.

He nods.

"Your father is about five strides past it."

"Wow!" he says. "How'd you remember where he was on this huge battlefield? There must be a thousand fallen here!"

"It's my job to know." Normally I would have left it at that, but his chattiness must be contagious. "It's important to have a good sense of where everything is. If I get lost, I can't find a new battlefield or a new city. Then I don't get fresh food. And believe me, when this is all that is available to eat out here, you need to get fresh food!"

"Wait. Do you mean to say that you - .” He falters.

I can see him trying to wrap his mind around the idea.

"Eat them?" he asks.

I laugh. It is a small laugh. I have not laughed since before the wars. It feels strange. Continuing to mess with him is tempting - I could say 'only in the winter' and watch him faint or puke - but I have things to do.

"It's a joke," I say, conveniently ignoring my first few months alone before I figured out how to get past the farmer's traps. "Your father's head is in the bushes over there."

He nods, then thinks it through. "How could you possibly know that?"

"I may have punted it," I admit while walking away.

"What!" he shouts after me.

"There's not much to do for fun out here."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm sure you can figure out which pile of putrid parts he is by yourself." It's time to cut ties. If we part on a negative note he is less likely to seek me out in the future.

"But you'll be back, right?"

I keep walking.

"Right! You need to work, but you'll be back."

I keep walking.

"I know you will," he says. He has no grounds for such confidence.

I am better off away from that lunatic before he attracts Eaters with his noise and his positive thinking.

"Huh," I say to myself once I am alone. "I guess the mountains do look like two toes from this angle." I realize that I said that out loud and blush. I must have caught the bad habit from spending so much time with a citizen.

Picking through bodies I have already searched is boring because I doubt I will find anything. Since I am here already I might as well expand my grid. Stepping over broken legs and smashed craniums, I make my way to square A-9. Fully cataloging a battlefield could take years. I often exaggerate to clients just how comprehensive my list is, but it's not like citizens will come out and fact check, not normal citizens at least. The sun toes the horizon and I remember the client. I have wandered too far; he is out of sight. Square A-10 will have to wait for another day. I pull out my graph of the battlefield to pick a route back to where I left him.

The crest of two bluebirds facing each other catches my eye. My heart twists as I look closer and recognize the half melted face of my eldest brother. I always hoped he had deserted his comrades and was perfectly safe in a city far away, though long ago I had stopped asking. I had run across family before, but I had been Jaisn's favorite and he mine. He smiled when I brought him the weeds I thought were flowers and hugged me the longest when he went off to war. We were connected. I know his name and he had known mine. He might have thought of me as he bled out. I fall to my knees. The clients' reactions had not been so silly after all.

The wind rustles abandoned banners and wafts my brother's stench into my nostrils. My knees sink into the loose dirt. The sun slips away, leaving only a tiny sliver for me to stare at my brother by.

"Hey," the client waves a grimy hand in front of my face. "Anybody home?"

His sudden presence startles me, but I am too numb to flinch.

"Why is your shovel dirty?" I hear myself ask.

"I buried my father. That was the whole point of coming here."

"Why?”

"The guardian of the sky won't let the dead pass on if he can smell their physical shell rotting."

"You really believe that?" I feel another laugh coming on, but my grief rips it to shreds.

"No," he admits.

The concern on his face makes me uncomfortable.

"But it makes us feel better to know we can do something. Like we can move on and not worry about their body being eaten."

"But what about the poor scavengers that lose out on a meal?"

"When it's someone important to you, you need to know they won't end up coming out the other end of animals."

"I think I'll do it too." I stand and hold out my hand. "Loan me your shovel."

He passes it to me and puts his hand on my shoulder: a gentle act I had not felt since before the world fell apart.

"Go away now," I say. The words barely making it out as I choke on rusty emotions.

He backs away.

I shove the bodies I don't care about out of the way and scrape the few sticks and chunks of dead grass off of the dirt. I have never shoveled before and it takes a while to get the hang of it. Scooping does not work. Stabbing the ground, twisting the shovel and then lifting out a chunk of earth works the best. My arms burn and my back creaks. Flecks of dirt stick to my sweaty skin. I stand back to admire my accomplishment in the moonlight.

I think it's deep enough. Habit tells me to search my brother’s neck for a locket and ID tag and see if early days Vultures forgot to empty his pockets, but this is family. I skip the looting and roll him towards the hole. My arms burn in a new way and my hands slip on his armor. His body thuds into the bottom.

I attack the mounds of dirt, kicking and shoving them into the pit. I need this to be over. My grief brims and pours out in lung wrenching sobs. I smear the remaining dirt onto his grave and snuggle up to my brother one last time.

When dawn breaks the client comes back and kneels next to me. I sit up and lean my head on his shoulder. Crying is exhausting. The lake shimmers in the morning sun and the right side of my neck is being baked, but I don't feel like moving yet.

"You know," he says. "I have some cousins who died on the Farthering battlefield. I'm sure I could find some way to pay you to take me there."

"Sure," I whisper, anything to keep him supporting my head for five more minutes.

Two Months Later

"This is ridiculous!" he shouts one morning, throwing up his arms and walking away from the flint and tinder I had set him up with.

His antics never cease to make me laugh these days.

"What's wrong?" I ask, trying to keep the giggle out of my voice.

"My name is Therin," he says and stares me in the eye.

I'm not amused anymore. I try to squirm away from his piercing gaze.

"I thought we agreed no names."

"No. You insisted and I let it go when you were just my guide!" he shouts.

I turn away.

He continues, calmer this time, "I think we are a little more than just travel companions after last night."

"Shut up!" I shout at him and stomp to the opposite side of our camp, trying to hide how red my face is.

"Hello," he says and approaches me with one arm extended. "My name is Therin."

I do not like where this is going. He knows I don't want to connect with him, to know his name, to mourn his inevitable and, chances are, near death.

"What's your name?" he asks.

I wince, but know it's too late to turn back. We will be connected now.


Six Years Later

Sweat makes a mockery of my nice outfit by the time I finish. It's a special occasion. I want to look nice for him one last time, but I could have forgone the heels. With the back of the shovel I smooth the loose dirt even with the ground until it is hard to tell where his grave lays. It's better this way. It is more important to me that no Vultures or Eaters find Therin's body, than I be able to find his grave again. Besides, he always used to say I have a better memory for places than the guardian of the sky. I will be able to find him again. I hurl his shovel into the brush and turn to leave.

"We can't leave Daddy's shovel!" says the little boy clutching my hand.

"Don't carry what you won't use," I remind him with a small smile.

He looks up at me, returning the smile. This simple act eases my heart. He lets go of my hand. My heart tenses with every step he takes away from me.

Little Therin scouts farther down the road, disappearing from sight. I turn back one last time to see his grave. I always knew the outside is no place for a citizen. Yet somehow it surprised me when Eaters ripped his throat out. I never should have let him come with me.

I hear my son whistle like the mourning dove, telling me the road is safe.

I wish he had never told me his name.

I wish I had not told him mine.