Verse 11:

 Kaleidoscope Melancholy

The breeze caressed the leaves, and Sonsee returned to the shade beneath the trees, leaning against a great trunk and staring out over the waters. They’d left the Garden only moments ago, but already she could feel the energy returning to a near harmony.

Her shoulders heaved, and with one breath, she let out all of her worries. She was here. The water bubbled up from the bottom of the Spring and made little waves at the surface.

“It’s real.”

A soft, brushing sound. Something against leaves; the grass whispered. In a flash, Sonsee reached for her hip and grabbed a bundle of wooden shafts, whipping them apart, where they unfurled and connected by chains to form a single, six-foot pole. At the tip, a spearhead glistened in the afternoon light. From the business end of the spear, a young blonde girl in a modest dress stared up at her with big, frantic eyes.

Sonsee’s brow, crossed with the intent to kill, inverted into a look of confusion. Her lips parted, as if she felt she should say something, but nothing came out. At last, the words climbed from her stomach to her throat.

“What?”

“Ah…” Janna sputtered. “Ah… Hi…” her voice weened upward. “My name is Janna, nice to meet you.”

Janna flashed a wide, trembling smile that betrayed her anxiety. For some reason, when Sonsee saw her little expression, her big, kind eyes,  the edge in her heart softened, and the adrenaline left her veins.

“Hello,” she pulled her spear back, performing a quick twisting motion that caused it to break apart into short shafts. “I’m Sonsee-array, nice to see you.”

Janna stuck out both of her hands in a clumsy, sweet way, and Sonsee took them without thinking.

“Oh-” The word slipped out of Janna’s mouth, and she studied Sonsee’s hand, blinking.

Sonsee took note of how quickly the girl assumed so an inquisitive state of mind, and wondered aloud, “Is something wrong?”

“No…” Janna mumbled. “It’s just that… I’ve never met a woman with rough hands.”

Sonsee was dumbstruck, and peered down at Janna, who was averting her gaze. Without warning, she burst into a bellow of laughter, and Janna almost jumped. This time, it was Janna studying Sonsee’s expression, and taking in such a deep-hearted laugh, a kind she’d never heard from a woman.

Sonsee’s laughter tapered off, and her face grew cold. “Have you ever met a woman who killed a coyote?”

The look on Janna’s face was priceless to her. “You-?”

Sonsee’s stoney mask broke, and more peals of laughter followed. “I’ve never killed a coyote before,” she wiped a tear from her eye. “I hurt a few, but I wouldn’t eat coyote.”

“Huh?” Janna leaned back. “Eat?”

Sonsee nodded and made an affirmative sound. “I’m a hunter, for the most part, guiding is a side job.”

Janna realized that her hands were still holding Sonsee’s, and pulled them back.

“Have you been here before?” Sonsee wondered.

“Yes,” Janna regained some confidence. “My house is right by the little stump that leads here,” she explained.

“You live in that little farmhouse?”

“Mhm, just me and my dad.”

Sonsee’s brow furrowed a little. “No brothers?”

“Nope.”

“Hm…” Sonsee pondered something for a moment. “Your father does the fields?”

Janna’s mouth popped open in surprise. “How did you know that?” she asked.

“Your hands aren’t rough like mine,” Sonsee rubbed her palm with her thumb. Janna blinked away and assumed a near sullen expression.

“He doesn’t let me work… My family is from Nujabe, it’s a little country in south Klouve. We usually have big families, so daughters need to study to teach the younger ones. My mother died when I was their only child, so it’s passed onto me now. Dad works the fields now, but it’s getting harder for him…”

As she continued, her eyes seemed further and further away. Sonsee’s arms drew closer together, unsure of what to say.

“Well… what do you know?”

Janna perked up. “Hm?”

“What have you learned?” Sonsee repeated. “From your time inside.”

“Ah…” Janna collected her thoughts. “My mother was a schoolteacher… After she died there was no one else to do it, so there’s no school here. The butcher runs a little bookshop, and I get a lot of texts from there, most of what they have is almanacs and guides to farm equipment, but I read most of the ones on medicine.” Her voice began to pick up. “There isn’t a whole lot of new stuff, but there’s a great back-catalog, and some of it goes over my head, but it’s a real hoot to have it all there…”

Sonsee watched her get carried away and decided to stop her. “So, you want to be a doctor?”

“Yeah,” Janna smiled and gave a soft laugh. “I think it would be great.”

“And where did you get that idea?”

Janna tilted her head back a touch. The thought was a little more tender, something she hadn’t shared before.

“Well, when I was five or six, I got really sick with some kind of fever…” she began. “Back then, it was unheard of for a child to survive that out here, my dad got super anxious, he told me about it.”

“What happened?”

“There was a new doctor in town, his name was Dr. Love, he had just arrived from Fenway, where he’d had some kind of apprenticeship. I remember being in the sickbed, I could barely even stay awake…”

Janna fell deep into the haze of her memories from that time… 

“Do ya’ think ya’ can do anything, Doc?”

“…”

“Please, there has ta’ be some-”

“…I’ll do my best, Mr. Halloway.”

“…”

“We just need to be strong, like a horn, Mr. Halloway, that can resound inside of her…”

“Dr. Love was a pretty nice man…” Janna rambled, before her eyes snapped out of her reminiscence. “So then, why are you here?”

Sonsee’s reply was to the point: “Mr. Jepta needed a guide through the desert, I did it.”

“Really?” Janna tilted her head. “It doesn’t sound like that’s it. You wanted to come here, didn’t you?” She pointed to the waters.

Sonsee had just met her, but already she saw that Janna was a trustworthy person. On reflection, it was out of the ordinary, but the girl had a kind, warm exuberance that put her at ease. Sonsee’s face grew somber, and she began.

“I’m from the Atamape people, we lived along the coast.”

“Lived?” Janna wondered.

Pain flashed behind Sonsee’s eyes. “Yes. When I was a child, the army slaughtered us in our village. I don’t know what they wanted, but everyone I know was killed.” She rubbed her arm with a pensive, far-away look. “But there were stories… from the elders…”

Sonsee glanced at the water. “…About a garden where there was no war, and any illness would be healed.” She bit her tongue. “It renewed your spirit, and it was where the dead went.”

All of a sudden, Janna felt very small. She’d heard pieces of folklore from her father, but those were mostly stories she knew were written to teach children lessons. This was different, a much larger experience that she didn’t understand.

“But that was a long time ago,” Sonsee added. “Five or maybe six years, if I’m right. After that, I wandered the desert for some time and ended up learning how to read and write your language in a little town called Wrin. there was a school there, and a woman who taught me all of that…”

Sonsee ended up lost in thought, reminiscing. “Sorry,” she snapped out of it. “I don’t think about my life very often.”

Janna studied Sonsee’s expression intently, reading her eyes in that moment. It was a messy array of emotions. There was sorrow there, for sure, but also nostalgia, peace, and a sort of bruised happiness. In all, if she had to put a name to it, she would have called it,

“A kaleidoscopic melancholy.”

The sound of the waters brushing against the shore, the occasional movement of an unseen critter in the trees; it was all very quiet.

“Do you think you could tell me more stories?” Janna broke the silence.

Sonsee’s expression was finally clear; she blinked, cocked her head a few degrees, and shrunk her mouth in a look of pleasant surprise. “Yes… I think I could.”

They passed the hours sitting beneath a tree in the Garden. Sonsee told her about the Atamape people’s legends, about how there were two coyotes in the moon who were the light and dark, about the soaring petrichor that led the founder of their tribe to the stream that saved his life in the desert, about the man with a snake’s tail and hawk’s head who lived behind the sun and danced to keep it shining during the day.

—

The outer boundary of Sigrit was only minutes away. Gallow and Gideon’s boots crunched up the tiny pieces of dirt and stone that made up the beaten path to town. Few words were exchanged on the journey, only a few minutes walking and they were already on main street.

“Clarke.” The word sent a pang through Gallow’s chest, but he kept a tight lip and forced his hands into his pockets. “You said there’s an inn in town?”

Gallow took a couple steps before answering. “Yeah. And it isn’t Clarke anymore.”

“Oh?” Gideon smirked. “A smart move.”

“I haven’t been going by that since I left your unit. It’s Gallow now.”

A chortle jumped from Gideon’s throat. “Gallow? Gallow what?”

“That’s it.”

“Hm…” Gideon relished in some superiority. “You mention that pretty casually.”

“Yeah,” Gallow’s voice cut a little deeper. “It’s my name.”

“No, desertion,” Gideon corrected him. “That’s a crime, you know. If you want to push it, I could haul you all the way back to a tribunal. No redemption law is gonna save your hide this time, now that you’re an adult.”

Just then, they stopped in front of the saloon.

Gallow chuffed. “Are you gonna be on my back forever? I don’t get why you hate me so much, Gideon.” It felt good to use his first name.

Gideon flashed him a stare to freeze his sweat. “Captain Jepta, to you.”

“Well, I figure since we’re both adults now…” Gallow sneered.

“You wanna know why I don’t like you?” Gideon’s voice was as stony as his face. “You’ve got no respect, you never had any, and you didn’t have the resolve to serve in my unit. That’s why I didn’t like you, from the first day.” His brow creased. “If you wanna play sheriff, go right ahead, but you’re playing.”

With little more, Gideon turned and pushed off at a brisk march straight through the saloon doors. Gallow watched the back of his head disappear inside, and he stood there, his devious smirk gone.

It was gnawing at his brain. “That word…” he thought. “He loves that word…”

—

“Back in those long days…”

Five years ago, a defeated-looking young man was struggling to keep his back straight in a lineup of older boys. From where he stood, his eyes could drift to the Andeidran flag hoisted twenty feet away.

A gray morning. His hair was cut, static filled his head, he was barely conscious of the people around him.

There was nothing around them for miles, not a trace of civilization in the thick forests of the east coast. Down the dirt clearing that made up the assembly field, the sickly green-colored flaps of a tent flew open, and a boot touched the ground, the end of a scabbard hung by its top. A man stepped through the dust until he came to a complete stop in front of the line. He didn’t even bother to look at each of the recruits.

“Good morning, boys!” His voice was booming with a nasal quality, sharp and demanding of respect.

“Today is your first day of basic. I am Gideon Jepta. That is the last time I want to hear those two words in succession, do you understand? You will address me as Captain, and if I’m in a good mood, Captain Jepta.”

In his own personal haze, Ajax snickered, muttering below his breath, “Gee, what could his mood look like?”

In a second flat, a fist to the gut had blown his smile away. Ajax’s knees buckled; he couldn’t even look Captain Jepta in the eye, his head was turned downward, anticipating the ground, when a flash caught his attention.

Ajax found the strength in his legs to stop himself before his chin met Jepta’s saber. Moments stretched on for what felt like hours when Jepta finally pulled the sword away. Ajax’s palms dug into the coarse dirt to soften his fall, scuffing his hands. Large gulps of air filled his lungs as he recovered from the immense shock of the blow; everyone else just watched until he was able to look up.

Jepta’s head blocked out the sun.

“If you want to survive, act like it.”

He let those words stick in Ajax’s mind like knives, and resumed speaking to the group, who were now guaranteed to be on their best behavior.

“I am twenty-nine years old, I’ve served this country for twelve years. I led the unit that ended the Andeidra-Demeena War. I have over a hundred-and-fifty confirmed combat kills. I have never fired a gun.”

Boot camp lasted eight weeks, and each day was like trying to escape the eye of God. When Ajax’s uniform wasn’t fastened properly, he had to clean up after breakfast, and he learned to make himself inconspicuous. When his facial hair grew a little too thick, he was given a razor and told to dry shave, so he learned to wet his face with his saliva. When he couldn’t land a single bullseye for all of target practice, he cleaned every rifle while the rest ate. There was no way around that, and so he learned to close his eyes, pull the trigger, and pray.

The moon was coming up a little earlier that night, a sign that the seasons were changing. It was a garish orange color, like a fruit rising off the horizon into the dusk sky. Ajax remained, hard at work, or as hard as he could be, polishing the guns.

Still, the eye of God was over him. The moon? No.

“You hungry, Captain?” Ajax glanced over his shoulder to Jepta without slowing the pace of his hands.

Jepta leaned against one of the wooden beams that held up the cover of the shooting range, his arms were folded, uniform pristine. “No.”

Short, precise.

Ajax returned to his work, but lacked whatever focus he’d been able to drum up. Jepta’s gaze bore into his back like heavy slabs of concrete; it didn’t take long before he turned his head again.

“Hey, what’s your problem with me?”

“Hm?” Jepta cocked an eyebrow.

“Why do you hate me?”

Ajax’s heart was racing. He’d never been so bold in his life; it was exhilarating in a way, to take out some of his frustration, but he knew that he was walking on the razor’s edge for a severe punishment.

Jepta’s expression shifted subtly; it wasn’t his typical sternness, but it wasn’t angry, either; it wasn’t softer, it was just… honest.

“I don’t hate you, Clarke.”

Ajax’s head tipped back, as if he were sizing his captain up, analyzing him in disbelief.

Jepta pushed off the post, assuming a wide stance. “No, I mean it. I just understood, the moment we met, that you were nothing like me.”

“Whaddya’ mean by that?”

Jepta took a second to process his instinctive understanding into simple words. In that pregnant pause, Ajax noticed that the cicadas had begun their droning tune.

Jepta found the answer. “You don’t have any resolve.” 

“What?”

“You’re timid… Your whole life, you’ve been afraid, haven’t you?” Jepta’s words bashed his skull. “A lot of people live like that, every day, until they die. That’s why I don’t identify with most people.”

Ajax wasted no time mulling over what he’d said. “What does ‘resolve’ mean?”

Another first happened; Jepta locked eyes with Ajax, and tried, for a brief moment, to figure him out.

“Herron!” he shouted in the direction of the mess hall. In seconds, someone had appeared, silhouetted against the warm dining lights. It was Isaiah Herron, the rifle instructor, breaking out into the cool night air. Where Gideon was the “Saint of the Sword,” he was the “God of the Gun.”

Isaiah’s short, stocky frame moved much swifter than one might imagine, considering he looked almost like he was wearing armor. He stopped at attention once he reached them under the rifle range’s cover.

“Yes?” his voice was heavy, husky.

Jepta said it casually: “I want you to demonstrate the Death Horse against me.”

Isaiah’s already pale, freckled face drained of color, but he refused to let his eyes betray his shock. “Against… you, Captain?”

Jepta didn’t even have to nod, just hold eye contact.

Isaiah released a sigh. “Alright, let me set up.”

Ajax watched him pull four rifles out of a locker, four he’d just cleaned. Isaiah ran his hand along the stock. “Not bad,” he muttered in his direction. With the pace and delicacy of a clockmaker, the God of the Gun loaded each of the four rifles, attaching two to a weighty belt he wrapped around his waist so that they crossed in an ‘x’ behind his back.

Jepta assumed his position at the other end of the firing range, illuminated by the cold moonlight. His posture was loose, controlled; his hand hovered over the handle of his saber. Opposite him, a good twenty feet away, stood Isaiah, two rifles in hand.

The cicadas chirped.

Jepta spoke softly, but every word was distinct. “Clarke, this is the result, not the product.”

The cicadas chirped.

“Herron, go!”

The chirps stopped.

At his command, Isaiah’s hands threw the rifles up, grabbing them at the triggers and squeezing each, launching two bullets in Gideon’s direction. He spun halfways, letting go of each gun and, hands faster than lighting, pulled the bolts of each one to reload, catching them less than a second later and firing another two rounds.

“What the-?” Ajax held his breath watching the display of skill.

As the bullets hurled towards him, Gideon took the first step. He moved with all the deliberation of walking underwater, and watching him gave one the sensation they were seeing slow-motion.

No fear, no fear in his eyes. Only a path of golden light that spread out before him. His body danced with uncanny ease from the path of each bullet.

With five shots fired from each gun, Isaiah threw them into the air and twisted his torso, bending his knees and reaching his arms behind his back to grab the two other rifles. Another torrent of lead came whizzing down the range at Captain Jepta.

As if it were a rehearsal, Jepta grabbed the handle of his saber and lifted it from its sheath. It flashed silver in the moonlight. He was unstoppable, watching him was like watching the seasons change. The saber arced through the air as gently as the breeze, nailing each bullet that he did not make the effort to dodge.

Only a few feet remained between he and Isaiah, and the hail of gunfire continued to crack away.

“There’s a bluebird I keep caged up in my heart…”

One foot closer.

“When I dance like this, I’m dancing to its song…”

A whoosh through the air, a sharp cracking sound. Jepta’s blade had pierced Isaiah’s jacket.

Ajax’s hands trembled. “No way,” he thought, mouth agape. “He just…”

A moment later, Gideon pulled the tip of the saber from Isaiah’s chest, the sound of crumbling iron tickled the air. The scene was dead still, enough for Ajax to see the protective layer of armor Isaiah wore beneath his uniform, now with a decent chunk broken out of the breast.

“That’s crazy… Does he just… expect this to happen??” 

In truth, Isaiah always wore some amount of weighted clothing to accustom his body to strain. Years of this habit had resulted in the physique that allowed for the Death Horse technique, so called because the sound of gunfire was like the pounding of horses’ hooves in quick succession. Gideon was aware of Isaiah’s armor, and had factored it into his attack, both of them were aware that he could have easily shattered it, perhaps even struck into his heart, if he had really gone for a killing blow. Isaiah’s respect for Gideon was not purely based on rank, he had long acknowledged the Captain’s superior ability.

“Clarke…” Jepta called without looking at him. “An explanation is impossible. This was a demonstration. I hope you can understand me a little better.”

Ajax stood in stillness. The cicadas chirped again.

Isaiah let out a long breath. “Good show, Captain, I’m still a little rusty, though. It’s been a while.”

“And a good exercise,” Jepta gave a pallid, respectful smile. Without warning, his head snapped back in Ajax’s direction. “Clarke, I want these rifles cleaned before you retire.”

Ajax almost fell back. “Wha-?”

“You heard me! If you hurry up, you might get some leftovers.” Jepta and Isaiah left the range, the latter carefully setting his guns down on a table with the others. The ‘demonstration’ had worked up the captain’s appetite.

The row of rifles to be cleaned seemed to extend as far down the table as it did the evening.

“Resolve…” Ajax pondered. “It can’t be explained, it can only be done…”

Crickets chirped. Men ate.

—

Gallow shut the door to his office. In the thick darkness he wandered to his desk and found an oil lamp. After turning the switch, he plopped down into his chair and stared at the flame for a while.

How long would Gideon stay? He felt like there was something he wanted to tell him, but the words weren’t there. Perhaps it was not something to be said at all.