Content Warning: animal death, mentions of violence and death.

The Child was killing a snake the second time the carriage came by, Helé and Lios high in the sky. His father’s boot pressed firm behind the snake’s head, the creature‘s smooth white body thrashed against the sand. Its beady eyes bore hatefully ahead, glossy obsidian penetrating the orange abyss that swallowed them whole. The Child seethed at it the few times it bared its fangs, briefly wondering if it could feel his gratitude the way his mother said it could. Three days ago, laid in her deathbed, she reminded him of this. Crusted vomit coagulated at the edges of her mouth, tinged with flecks of red that The Child struggled to ignore as he pushed his fingers towards her mouth. Even as he forced the food into her throat, Matá’s swollen passageway rejected the firm lizard meat. His whines for her to eat were met with the dazed look in her eye, unclouding for a moment, but just a moment. 

“Did you thank him for his sacrifice?” Matá asked, tipping her nose to the meat. He nodded. Her eyelashes fluttered in joy. “Then this meal is for you.” 

          The snake thrashed again, kicking up dust into the air. Dry sand bypassed the scarf wrapped around his face and slid down his throat to cling to his windpipe. The Child wheezed, but never lifted his foot, raising the rock in his hand above his head. Sand brushed his cheeks. He shut his eyes. 

Down came the rock. 

His traps never immobilized the prey the way they were supposed to, snaring the prey by the neck inside so all he would have to do is deliver the killing blow. Each time, The Child secured the final knots in the rope the way his father taught him, but he lacked the nuance in his father’s experience – a man born and killed in the Glass Sea. Matá said that’s why the people from the Dome came for his Patá – the same way they would come for him.

Patá loathed the idea of him going near the Dome, or the Reef, or anywhere outside their corner of the desert. Matá said most of his ideas had come from their guardian, that terror thrived in and around the West of the desert. She had tried to reason with him on several occasions that when they were Gone, The Child would have to enter the zones closer to the city – they should teach him how to navigate the Reef now while they could. Their time was on a clock out here. They couldn’t leave problems unsolved like people inside the Dome did. Unluckily for their whole family, the Great Sandstorm filled Patá’s mouth before he came up with a response. 

After unfastening the rope from where it was anchored on a nearby rock, The Child slipped his arms through the straps of the empty trap like a jacket. Even with his petite stature, not yet grown into his hips or shoulders yet, the rope bit through the tattered linen, hugging his shoulder blades tightly. He pressed his fingers to the back of the snake’s neck. He looked for a pulse, silently wishing his thanks, and scanned the horizon. 

Coming across others in the Sea was rare. Besides Matá and Patá, his outside contact limited itself to a nomadic tribe they’d passed from a distance several years ago. They had two children. Both had waved at him and he had waved back. Then, he discovered others like him existed. The world did not exist just for Patá, Matá, and him. 

His parents found each other purely because they were raised together, awarded pity by an older man and his daughter. Most xerocoles were not so lucky, dying out before brushing young adulthood. Smaller creatures like chuckwallas and shrews could burrow their safety away from the torrid wrath of their suns. Patá found it ironic they escaped Helé by digging closer to Hell.

There! In the distance! A silver psammopomp cut across the sand, a whetted dagger through the flesh of the desert. If he hadn’t known or been distracted, he may have missed it entirely. 

The Child knew the carriage came twice a day every six sunsets. It traveled the same path through a pair of boulders despite the side of the transport scrapping the rock face every time. He and Matá saw it and its tracks for the first time a few months ago at the end of an unavailing hunting trip: alternating treads trapped the gravel in perfect triangles. They would see the tracks again when Matá got her infection. She decided his fate then. 

While his hands kept busy with attaching the snake with his belt, he followed the silver vehicle as its sleek body glided across the desert floor. He knew they weren’t close enough but he still kept his lids low, daring to peek through his lashes. 

They didn’t like it when you stared without request, his mother warned. 

Closer. Closer. Parallel to its position, The Child could begin to make out the windshield. The glass was a lighter shade than the rest of the vehicle, though it hardly looked translucent. He wondered how the operator could see through or if there was an operator at all… if that’s why it scraped the boulders. Instinct tugged at his sleeves, a plea to return to his home, but he refused to look away. 

He promised Matá their dwelling would remain a tomb for one. 

The carriage was within yelling distance now. He tilted his body a quarter from its original position, heat pressing into his back and infuriating his abrasions further. His mind kept on the snake, tying and retying the string around its neck. He waited. 

The scraping was louder this time. Shrieking metal grinded against his eardrums and his shoulders jumped to their aid. The rope dug deeper, eliciting a pained squeak from The Child and his eyes scrunched tight. But he forced his form still, welcoming. Keep still. Calm face. Matá blistered hands patted his cheeks from his memory, as clammy and alive as they were two days ago. If you move too quick, they will feel threatened. Like why we don’t run when we see a sand cat, right? But this time, let them make the first move. 

A deadened thud exploded from between the boulders. The psammopomp stopped. Some long, suffocating moments passed and then a distant whirring began somewhere around the collision. All The Child could do was wait. Tie. Untie. 

And they will. 

Even when he became very aware of a bead of sweat clinging to the junction between his ear and jaw, he dared not to move. Distressed chatter carried over. Tie. Untie. Tie. Untie. Tie. “Hey! You!” Wide eyed, The Child turned toward the voice. 

They think they have a right to it. 

A wiry man stood in front of the psammopomp. His arm extended towards The Child, his mauve uniform sleeve rising as he beckoned the boy forward. The Child obliged. Matá’s voice continued to ring in his head. 

You were only a few moons old when the Dome people found us. They came for Patá, they didn’t care about me or you. They wanted him, talked to him– asked him too much. “Stop there,” the man said when The Child came within 10 paces. 

The Child obeyed. Sweat still beaded by his earlobe. When they found us in the cliff – before I ever saw them, they moved like mice – they screamed, 

“Drop any weapons you have on you,” the man ordered, Matá’s voice echoing behind it.

It took a moment for The Child to realize he meant his hunting tools. His stone dagger fell next to him, followed by the handle of his mallet. He had left the head in the sand after he used it to kill the snake. He prayed he wouldn’t have to worry about finding it later. 

“Proceed.” The Child didn’t know this word. He glanced back down at his belt, fighting a frown. Would he have to throw the snake away too? 

The man grew impatient. “Come here,” he said, tone clipped. The Child approached. Up close the psammopomp’s oblong shape solidified. The Child thought it looked like a snake egg. The vehicle stood much taller than he expected, providing him the first reprieve from the suns since last night. Somehow, cold emanated from the metal flanks to strike The Child’s skin, though the Glass Sea’s conditions filtered the touch to a soothing caress. The Child found himself tilting his head up in order to properly see the man rather than just the medium-sized sword sheathed on his hip. On his breast, tiny holes poked through the man’s uniform and areas of the fabric that appeared lighter than others. There had been something attached to his clothing before then that the man had removed, possibly similar to the circular badge on his chest. On it, printed in silver lettering: ‘GENERAL’. As soon as he was within arms distance, the man – general – seized his shoulder and flipped the boy around. The Child’s breath caught in his throat. 

A couple of heartbeats passed before the general let out a disgruntled noise and twisted him back. He held up a severed rope, familiar triangular-shaped knots tied on the ends. The Child’s attempt to swallow was halted by the man’s frigid sword below his Adam's apple. His eyes flitted down to the blade, smoother than any other tool he had seen before, before finding the man on the other end. Hostility unique to mankind gleamed in the general’s expression.

“Are you Nebuun?” He barked. Between the rocks everything sounded louder and repeated, crashing into his head like the waves of a sandstorm. Something began to trickle down his neck. The Child couldn’t tell if it was blood or sweat. 

Keep still. Calm face. 

“No,” The Child said. The word ‘Nebu’ had been thrown around enough between his parents for him to know it was a place and not a particularly favored one. “I’m from here… the dunes. I’m hunting.” He pointed to the rope with his eyes. “It’s a trap for food.” 

For the first time, the man looked away from the boy and eyed one of the boulders. The Child’s position allowed him to catch what he was looking at: an end rope fastened to the rock.

 “We tie them there, so we know where to find them later,” he explained. 

The general’s glare flew back to him. By the way the sword dug in further, he knew he had said the wrong thing. “We?” 

Carefully, he said, “my Matá and me.” 

“Your mother?” The Child nodded. “Where is she?” Grief pangs brushed his chest, but he held firm. He could afford no more time to mourn. 

“Gone.” 

The general’s lips set back in an exasperated snarl. From his brief time outside the vehicle with little to no protection gear, his pale face had pinkened, the arid desert air running its spiny tongue over his skin. While The Child’s fawn skin had built layers to protect him from the Glass Sea’s climate, the general’s only defense was shriveling along with his patience. A decision flickered in his eyes. 

“Do you know how to undo the trap?” A new soft voice coaxed The Child’s focus toward it.

Small, gloved hands curled around the edge of the carriage’s hatch, steadying the figure peering from the doorway. Bronze wisps breached the white hood covering her head, set aflame by Lios’ blessing when she pulled it back and exposed the porcelain features of a young girl. 

“Desponia.” The general’s tone thawed at the sound of the girl’s voice. “Return inside. We’ll be on our way shortly.” 

Desponia’s eyebrows, dense but elegantly trimmed, furrowed. “You said it was entirely tangled in the psammo’s tread.” Her eyes flickered to the section of rope in the general’s hand, then to The Child. “Your strategy doesn’t look like it brought… rewarding results.” 

Unkind words trembled on the general’s lips; his head tilted with bitter amusement. The Child looked between the two. This was not their first time butting heads, it seemed. Yet, despite her age, the general offered none of his thoughts. 

“You know how to undo the trap?” She repeated. 

The Child tried to nod until he remembered the blade. “Yes,” he croaked. Desponia looked to the general with an expectant smile. The Child didn’t have time to gauge the general’s reaction before the sword was removed from his throat and he was being led around the psammopomp. Desponia took a few lofty steps down the extended stairs, her ivory cloak streaming with the wind, before falling into line beside him. 

The same badge on the general’s chest was spread over the back of the uniform as well, but now the image was clearer: a snake swallowing its tail. Replacing his title, a phrase curled along the length of the animal's body. 

“One night awaits all.” The words came out before The Child could think to stop them. The general slowed. Despoina’s boots wobbled in the shapeless terrain, but her pace continued.

“You can read? I thought all xeroes were oral.” She didn’t care to hide her shock. Unaware this was uncommon, The Child only found it within himself to nod. They had only two books in their dwelling – a prayer book and a collection of ancient fables – and Patá made sure he knew their every word, front to back. 

Despoina hummed at this as they arrived at the front of the vehicle. The general gestured to the collection of knots folded under the track with a grunt. 

It didn’t take long for him to loosen the trap. Because the general had prematurely cut the anchor, he had had to crouch against the ground, heat prickling through his linens and against his front, to untie the first few knots. Once that was done, he tugged out a portion of the rope until it pulled taut and began to work at the next knot. 

The general stayed close but faced the surrounding desert, searching for any possibility of ambush, while Despoina continued to keep an eye on him. They spoke about him like his parents did sometimes, like he was only a ghost. 

“He seems like he could be a good fit for Agoge?” The girl offered. Given the readjustment of his shoulders, the general didn’t seem to agree. “Initiation is soon.” The Child paused for a moment. Something inside clicked… felt right. They were talking about… him? His eyes flickered down to his ill-fitting linens. He had never been called “he” before, though he didn’t dislike it. A pleasant feeling continued to wriggle in his chest as his deft fingers worked at unfurling the trap. 

“Your trap, how does it work?” Despoina said, suddenly much closer than before. When he looked up, she hovered a few feet in front of him. 

They moved like mice.

Before answering, his attention darted ahead to the general. Every time he answered a question the man had been more than keen to poke his weapon into his neck and The Child half-expected him to be on his way over, sword extended. 

Desponia continued to stare at him. The suns had shrunk her pupils to points, hideaway islands in a glassy blue ocean. 

Once he determined the general wouldn’t come at him, claws extended, he used his fists and the loosened portions of the trap to explain how the knots were gnarled so tightly that once an animal entered, it would be difficult to get out. She followed his every movement with careful sincerity. 

Despite them speaking the same language, he noticed his tongue held onto vowels longer, delivered his consonants softer. Patá was very particular about his pronunciation, making him repeat words he had trouble with until he cried. If his only interactions were with him and Matá, why did saying ‘joke’ instead of ‘yolk’ matter? They both knew what he meant. Maybe with all his grievances against the Dome and The Child ever nearing it, he knew, deep down, it would come to this. 

He rose to his feet after the trap came free. Some of the knots survived the slaughter and The Child used their mass to wrap the remaining rope around. As he did so, Despoina’s gaze flickered between the trap on his back and the one in his hands. Her face never moved, but her eyes lit up. 

“What’s your name?” Beneath her cloak, she tucked her hands behind her back. The Child looked at the sky for a moment before answering, “Sol.” 

“And how old are you?”

The Child didn’t know how to answer right away. He knew age in the desert was calculated differently than age under the dome. Matá said when Patá told them he was fourteen, they had liked that answer and The Child should say that too, but given his slight build, he doubted even Despoina’s benevolence would be able to look past such a blatant lie. “Eleven,” he said. Despoina grinned. Perfect. 

“Sol, Agoge initiation begins soon and I think you should consider enlisting.” The general turned at this, a clear look of confusion across his features. His mouth was halfway parted to a retort but The Child pretended not to see and repeated, “Ahgo-gae?” Her smile told him his pronunciation was off again, but she offered no comment. “Chryse offers Agoge, a self-defense training and basic education program, to anyone who wants to live inside the city walls. Given the political climate with Nebu currently, we want to offer our greatest protection to all Chrysians.” 

Most of her speech was nonsense to him, but one word stuck out to him.“Chryse…” he said slowly, “that’s the Dome?” 

“Yes.” Relief washed over him with the breeze. Her confirmation was all he needed. As he cycled through rehearsed words, unsure of how to politely ask how to proceed, Despoina beat him to it. She tossed her head over her shoulder to glance at the vehicle. “You can come in the psammo with us.” Amusement crinkled in the corners of her eyes. “So long as it moves, of course.” 

“Despoina,” the general warned. His disdain failed to lessen since he last glared at The Child. “I didn’t think you were–”

Whether she heard him, or his words had been caught in the accelerating air current, she showed no intention of responding. “There is plenty of room in the cabin with me,” Despoina offered. “We can discuss more about the process on the way there.” 

Once they take you from there, my child, you’re in your own hands. For good. Despoina offered her hand out to him. Black gloves cradled her slim fingers and held onto his blistering ones when he gave them to her. His faded linen wrapped only around his palms, so the suede-like material clutched his calluses with care. 

Tread lightly, lighter than you ever have. 

She led him to the psammopomp and up the steps. His steps into the ‘psammo’ were unsure; he rarely stood on ground this solid. The general’s gaze burned his back with smoldering enmity the suns never offered him. 

Before the general mounted the steps, he spoke up. “Not with that thing.” The Child paused in the psammo’s threshold, his catch siddled against his hip. His hand ripped from Despoina’s to thumb the snake’s body, flesh too cool to be alive but warm enough for the illusion, if perhaps afflicted by illness. His fingers retracted, thoughts treading too close to upsetting memories, but still hovered above the creature, afraid to let go. To give the snake up after taking its life…The pleasantness from earlier shriveled in his gut. Giving thanks to the snake’s sacrifice would mean nothing if he threw it away unconsumed. He lifted the meatiest section of the animal in his palm. He had never eaten raw snake before. The Child ground his teeth at the thought. Would it be as chewy as it was cooked? His gaze slid to what was left of the snake’s head. Patá and Matá had killed snakes in front of him hundreds of times, yet The Child couldn’t remember exactly how they had prevented the creature’s venom from tainting the meat. Something squirmed at the base of his skull, that his dagger was meant to sever the animal’s head, but the idea of putting a living being through such pain, such treachery just for him to eat, twisted his insides into knots. No, he realized. Eating the snake right there was not an option, especially if he wanted to appeal to the Chrysians. 

Fight your instincts. 

The General twisted his wrist, gesturing to an apparatus wrapped around his wrist. He flashed the device's illuminated information panel to Despoina, too quick for anyone who didn’t know what they were looking at to comprehend. 

“We do have a schedule to maintain, Sol,” Despoina said patiently. 

The Child hummed before nodding and stepping back down into the desert. Despite lying in it moments ago, the burning sand chewed through his boots. He unwound the snake from his belt and knelt into the sand to wipe a small grave into the ground. “Thank you,” he whispered, pressing two little fingers into the snake’s neck again, holding onto the hope for a pulse. Still, there was none. 

Briefly, The Child feared he hadn’t killed for survival, that the snake’s death had been in vain, but the general clearing his throat behind him reminded him he was wrong. This snake was meant to buy him his escape. He wasn’t out of the desert just yet. Using the side of his hand, he brushed a light cover and laid a weathered rock atop the grave. 

He ascended the steps again. This time the stairs burned against his feet, though not in a way he was familiar with. This was more than cool… biting. Hair rose around his calves and across his arms. Once he stood inside the egg, the general pushed past him and into the front of the vehicle. Despoina now sat on a wide seat, patting the cushioning next to her for him to sit.

Warning pealed in his ears, blending with the return of the whirring from earlier as the steps retracted back beneath the floor. The side hatch began to drone close, his mother’s last words blending with the cacophony of noise. 

May your Patá forgive me.

About the Author

The importance of literature was ingrained into me by my parents, so naturally I found writing at a young age. By second grade, I was planning full-length novels with my friends and scribbling character names, plot ideas, and relationships on any paper materials I could get my hands on. This passion extended into my adolescence, desk littered with receipts and napkins covered in ink – ideas of mine I had during my work shifts. My constant exposure to the art has allowed me to discover how music and life experience influence my writing, permeate the edges of a story and mold a plot from the rich sand swirling in my head like an hourglass. Of those that have made it to my drawing board, a protagonist with complicated origins, one we aren’t sure we should be rooting for, amidst a world against them has always persisted and thus, a story was formed. Part of larger work Thank You for the Venom, this excerpt highlights the beginning of our anti-hero’s journey. We consider the loss of his mother, and how that fuels his need to enter the dome while combatting the political strife and class differences. His future if he fails is illustrated by the desolate conditions of the desert, but the frequent snake motif reminds the audience of the consequences of his success, supporting the major theme of survival. As the novel progresses, this beginning for Sol has been altered, whether he passes the threshold with Desponia or remains in the desert until he joins Agoge, but his journey to a morally gray revolution leader has remained untouched. No matter what his initial choice is, he will always end up as a villain to most and a hero to few, hence why I believe this piece to be the most formidable for my submission to Cave Writing. 

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