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Rue sighted down the shaft of her arrow, following the bird up from the small pond. It flashed in and out of the tree branches, in and out of existence, but she never lost it, never wavered.
She couldn’t. If she lost it, she didn’t eat today. Wouldn’t eat today.
The crickets and frogs were already chirping as the sun went down, and the air still held a bite of winter as the sun passed behind the clouds. Soon it would dip below the tops of the trees, bringing a memory of winter with it. It didn’t faze her, though. Even with the breeze cold on her exposed skin, the tension of the hunt kept her warm.
There! An opening!
She released the arrow, eyes unblinking, aim unwavering. It flew through the air, straight and true, hitting the bird with a thud she couldn’t hear at this distance. The bird fell with a crash through the wakening trees, snapping branches and raining down bright green leaves and snow-like petals.
Rue slung the bow across her chest and across the quiver on her back and picked her way around the rocks protruding from the dark earth of the forest floor. The bird hadn’t fallen far, and it was big enough that she would go to sleep with a full stomach.
She reached her kill and picked it up by the feet, turning toward her haven, the one place she had away from her family, where she was truly free to be herself, to do what she wanted without criticism or danger. If she took the bird home, one of them was likely to take it from her and eat it, like they had last time—and then she would have no options she cared to entertain.
Her diet was not the same as theirs.
The hush of the forest faded as she approached the shore line. Gentle waves lapped up on the pebbled beach, and Rue turned right, moving parallel to the expanse of water as she made her way toward the tall, steep cliffs jutting into the salt lake. On a clear day, she could see a smudge of land in the far distance, but on most days, she didn’t give it much thought. It wasn’t like she could ever visit; there was no way off this island.
She would know. She knew every rock, every tree. The island outside the burrow was her refuge, her peace. There wasn’t much she could control, but at least she had the forest.
And her hideout.
The rocks on the beach grew in size as she drew nearer to the cliffs. She climbed one-handed, following a trail of boulders into the calm waves. If it had been stormy she wouldn’t make it, but there hadn’t been a storm in weeks. The path to her hideout was clear.
The trail of stones extending from the choppy water turned around the cliffs, and the great yawning opening of a cave appeared. She turned toward the cleft, leaping from rock to rock. Her foot slid on the last stone, slick with water and algae, but she caught herself before she hit the water, holding the bird over her head. Then she was back on the sandy, cool shore in the shade of the cliffs.
Finally, she let herself smile, here in the protection of her cave, away from the prying eyes of the family. Away from the constant inadequacy they piled on her, the expectation, the cold truth of why they kept her alive. A little of the weight that usually pressed down on her shoulders eased, and she breathed in the musty, salty air.
She turned toward the cave yawning open in front of her, the chill air drifting toward her in gentle currents. It carried the scents of wildflowers and old campfires and mildew, and she smiled again as she took her first step into the dark.
A salamander skittered away as she passed, and the rustling of the roosting bats met her ears as she made her way, one hand on the rough, cold, damp wall of the tunnel, the other still grasping the bird. Deeper in the cave, the sound of flowing water echoed on the stones. The currents of air swirled around her, brushing curls of her wet-earth-colored hair back from her face like a lover’s touch—well, like how she wished a lover would touch her.
Such gentleness was not to be her fate. Her smile faded at the intruding thought, the knot clenching in her stomach again.
She rounded a corner in the tunnel, stepping into her second home, her haven, at last. The moment her feet touched the cool stone and soft dirt, the clamp around her chest eased just enough. She took a deep breath, letting herself relax, truly relax, even more than when she’d set foot on the sheltered beach.
This was the source of the wonderful scents she’d encountered at the entrance, something she’d spent years building and perfecting. The one place only she knew about, the one thing in her control.
She strode past the several wooden frames where she had suspended various flowers and herbs from around the island, some edible and some just plain pretty. The dried versions of those in-progress on the frames stood around the room in mixed bunches, either awaiting crafting or dyeing or stuck in carved and molded vases of clay, rock, and shell. A bed of dark earth the same color as her hair lined the wall to the left, sprouting bright white mushrooms Rue cultivated, and just beyond it, a small, burbling stream burst from the sparkling gray rock, dumping into a shallow pool of fresh, clear water.
Rue made her way past all of her projects to the far side of the cave where yesterday’s fire sat cold and dark in a ring of smaller stones. A small hole in the ceiling let in just enough light to illuminate the room and allow the smoke of the fire to escape, and every few days she climbed to the top to a small plot of thin forest where she had replanted root vegetables and herbs. She was almost out this season, since winter had dragged on for so long, but there was enough for her to cook the bird in a roast. But soon she would have to get the land ready for a new crop.
Rue set about preparing the bird, filling a clay pot with water, vegetables, and herbs, and getting the fire roaring. Once the pot was in the coals, she stared up at the small patch of sky she could see from her cooking pit. There were probably another two hours of daylight. It would take most of that time for her food to cook, but if she waited that long, she might be navigating her way home in the dark.
Her stomach grumbled, and she placed a hand over it to quiet it down. She hadn’t caught anything yesterday so had eaten nothing but vegetables and mushrooms. But no way was she eating what the family had caught.
Rue settled into a cushion of pine boughs and dried grass, the scent drifting up as she sat back. She stared at the fire as it popped and cracked, anxious for the taste of the bird to cleanse her palate of yesterday’s debacle.
It had been one of the first warm days of the season, but the waves of the great lake that surrounded them were harsh and tall, filled with whitecaps and unpredictable currents, churning and swirling like on the stormiest of days. Judging from the dark clouds over the land on the horizon, Rue could only assume there was a storm in the distance propelling the forces of the water.
Unfortunately, it meant that anyone unlucky enough—or stupid enough—to be out on the water yesterday was in serious danger of washing ashore on this little island.
Fortunately for the family, exactly that had happened.
Rue had spent the entire day fishing with no luck, and she had a crack in her bow that she hadn’t gotten to repair until last night. Tired and hungry, even after eating the vegetables and mushrooms from her stores, she picked her way along the trails of the forest to her home.
The smell of cooking meat and blood greeted her. Occasionally the family would catch deer, but this was different. Very different. And each step she took closer to the burrow only amplified her dread. Her heart pounded with her footsteps, and she walked faster every few steps until she was sprinting down the final stretch of the trail.
Was she already too late? The smell was a bad sign, but occasionally she was wrong. Sometimes she was fast enough.
But this time, the family was too hungry. It had been a week since their last fresh kill, and they’d been living off the berries in the forest, the fish in the lake, and the remains of the last deer they’d hunted. And the family had darker desires. Bloodier food preferences.
Those preferences looked disturbingly like Rue, the only living human, the only one lucky enough not to be a meal. For now, at least. As long as she obeyed. Played her part. Accepted her role as inconsequential other than the singular reason they’d kept her alive all this time.
Her fears had been confirmed as she made her way past scattered remains of a fishing pack and torn clothing. She’d burst into the house just in time to see the unlucky fisherman’s bones picked clean.
Her stomach churned. If they got hungry enough, if the deer disappeared or the fish moved away, would Rue be their next victim?
She forced her attention back to the cave and took several long breaths, breathing in the musty scent of the mushrooms and the light florals of the dried plants hanging around her. There was no trace of the human meat smell here. Now, the air was slowly filling with the smell of the stew.
She rubbed at her stomach as it settled again, then forced herself to sit forward and stir at her roast. It still needed some time.
Rue reached back to a natural rock shelf behind her and grabbed a covered clay pot. Setting the lid aside, she pinched some of the grainy, white-gray salt from the pot onto the bird. She’d dried the salt from lake water, a process she repeated once her pot got low, but she hadn’t quite figured out a time-efficient way to sift all the dirt from the mix.
Had anyone on that far shore ever figured out how to purify the salt mixture from the lake? Did they eat the same food she did?
How had she even gotten here in the first place? According to Mother, it was when Rue was much smaller, still a baby. Before she could remember. And Mother never let her forget that it was by her grace alone Rue still lived. That she was nothing, protected from the rage of the others only by Mother’s good will. Will that could evaporate if Rue did not do as she was told, if Rue misbehaved too much.
Rue was nothing except a tool. A means to an end. As Mother had said: flotsam. Her heart clenched as the thought resurfaced for the umpteenth time that day alone. It was true. She was nothing but flotsam.
But Mother had still rescued her from the storm waves, protected her. Kept her from becoming the next meal. Yet, that protection came with a price tag.
Rue took a deep breath and worked on one of her latest crafts, a wreath of flowers. If she had to pay a price, she could at least look good doing it.
Eventually the bird was cooked and her stomach demanded to be filled. Then, all too soon, it was time to go home.
