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I flop down, tired. The room is suffocating; I grasp around my neck, feel the scrim of sweat and dirt under my jawline. I don’t even need to lift my arm to smell the odour exuding off me like a dog in heat.
It will be my escort who’ll make the discovery. When he comes to summon me after dusk, he’ll smell my odour flowing out through the cracks along the door frame. He’ll sprint around, look inside through the windows, the shutters having already been retracted. He’ll see me still sitting in this chair, sullen and tired, my chest rising and falling, breathing hard, eyes wide because I will, though resigned, still be very afraid. He will see the emotion pouring off me in waves. And then he’ll understand. He will not call for the others. He will want me for himself. He will leap through the glass windows – so frail in the face of his desire, like thin ice before a blowtorch – and even before the shattered shards have reached the ground, he will be upon me. And then he will have me, devouring me with fangs and nails in just a few—
And then, just like that, I realise something.
The blinding whiteness of the outside feels like acid dropped on my eyeballs. I let the light leak in a little at a time, until I can see without blinking, then without squinting.
It is hours before dusk, when the sun has just begun its descent. The sun isn’t going quietly: bleeding red into the sky, it infuses the plains with an orange-and-purple hue. Without the Dome to cover the heper village, the mud huts look exposed and inconsequential in the plains, like rat droppings. Soon the light sensors will detect the arrival of night and the glass walls will arc out of the ground, form a perfect dome, and protect the hepers from the world outside. I must hurry.
There’s a glimmer in front of the mud huts, like a hundred diamonds twinkling in the twilight. The pond. It’s been staring me right in the face the whole time, while thirst ravaged and odour oozed off my body. How could I have been so blind? All the water I could possibly want, for drinking and washing, within easy access. The only danger would be the hepers, of course, who might not take kindly to my intrusion. They’ll be confused, of course, on the arrival of a stranger somehow able to withstand sun rays. But I know how to handle them. Bare my fangs, snap my neck side to side, click my bones; I’m a master at impersonation. They’ll likely scatter to the four winds.
Suddenly upbeat, I plough on towards the heper village. Gradually, the mud huts begin to take shape, growing in size and detail. Then I see the hepers, a group of stick figures moving slowly around the pond, stopping, moving, stopping. The sight of them both excites and unnerves me. There are five of them. They haven’t noticed me yet, nor would they have: nobody has ever approached them during the day.
When I am about a hundred yards away, they see me. One of them, crouching by the pond, shoots straight up, his arm jacking forward like a switchblade sprung out, pointing at me. The others turn quickly, heads pivoting towards me. Their reaction is instant: they turn and flee, bolting inside mud huts. I see windows shuttered closed, doors slammed shut. Within a few scant moments, they’ve all vacated the pond, leaving upturned pots and pails around the pond in their wake. Just what I was hoping for.
Nothing stirs. Not an opened shutter or a cracked door. I break into a trot, my dried-out bones dangling in my body, snapping with every jarring step. My gaze, fixed on the pond, thirstily draws water out with the bucket of my eyes. I am getting closer, fifty yards out.
A door to one of the mud huts opens.
A female, that female heper, steps out. A look of rage on its face, but fear, too. It grips a spear in its right hand. Hanging off its hip is a simple flat slab of dark hide leather, almost like a wide belt. A deadly row of daggers lies strapped in taut against the leather, their blades strangely curved at the hilt.
I raise my hands with wide-open palms. I’m not sure how much it comprehends, so I use simple words. “No hurt! No hurt!” I shout, but what ekes out instead are hoarse, indecipherable sounds. I try to push the words out again, but I can’t gather enough saliva in my mouth to lubricate my throat.
The setting sun, directly behind me, douses the heper village with colour, like bright easel paint dripping onto drab leather shoes. My shadow extends long and preternaturally thin before me, a long, gnarled finger reaching out to that girl heper. I’m nothing but a silhouette to it. No; I’m more. I’m the enemy, the predator, the hunter: that’s why the other hepers fled. But I’m also something else: a mystery. A confounding contradiction, because although I am in the sunlight, I am not disintegrating. And that is why the female heper has not fled but stands in front of me, puzzled, curious.
But not for long. With a primal scream, it strides towards me, its body at a slant, one arm extended backward. It flings its arm forward in a violent blur.
It takes a moment before I realise what’s going on. And by then it’s too late. I hear a whistling sound as the spear cuts through air, can even see the wooden length vibrating slightly from side to side as the spear slices towards me. Right at me. In the end, I’m just lucky. I don’t move to avoid the spear – there’s no time – and it whizzes through the space between my head and left shoulder. I hear and feel the whoosh by my left ear.
And then the heper is reaching down to its dagger strap; in less than a second, it’s unstrapped a dagger and is instantaneously flinging it with a rapid sidearm motion. The dagger shoots out of its hand, flashing in the sunlight. But way off. Way off. Like a mile off – the dagger sails harmlessly away.
Figures, I think. These hepers are nothing more than—
But then the gleaming dagger begins to curve back towards me, its trajectory that of a boomerang, blinking wickedly fast in the light. As if winking with mischief. And before I know it, it’s coming right at me. I dive to my right, hit the ground. The dagger swooshes past my head, giving off the harmonic overtone of a singing bowl. I land ungracefully, get the air knocked out of me. The ground is hard, despite the layer of sand and grit.
This heper girl – it knows what it’s doing. This is not just for show. It really means to maim me, if not kill me.
I leap up, hands raised high, palms opened emphatically. It is already reaching down towards the strap, where three more daggers lie taut against the leather. Like hunting hounds pulling restlessly on a leash. In the blink of an eye, the heper has unstrapped a dagger and is already drawing back its arm. To unleash the next throw. It will not miss this time.
“Stop! Please!” I yell, and for the first time, the words come out clearly. It pauses midthrow.
I waste little time. I start walking towards the heper again, pulling off my shirt as I do. It needs to see my skin, the sun on the skin, see that I present no danger. I toss the shirt to the side. I’m close enough to see its eyes follow the shirt, then shoot back at me.
It is squinting; I stop in my tracks. I’ve never seen anyone squint. It is so . . . expressive. The eclipsed half closing of the eyelids, the wrinkles coming off the corners of the eyes like a delta, the brows contracted together, even the mouth frozen in a snarl of confusion. It is a strange expression, it is a lovely expression. It pulls its arm back again, the dagger glinting in the sun.
“Wait!” I shout with a craggy croak. It halts, its fingers whitening as they grip the blade tighter. I undo the buttons of my trousers, take them off. My socks, my shoes, everything off. Just my briefs left on.
I stand like that before it, then slowly move forward.
“Water,” I say, gesturing at the pond. “Water.” I make a cup motion with my hand.
It moves its eyes up and down my body, unsure and suspicious, emotions sweeping off its face, naked and primal.
Eyes fixed on each other, I walk past, giving it a wide arc, and head to the pond. It’s more like a swimming pool, the way it is rimmed with a metallic border, perfectly circular. Before I know it, I’m on my knees, my cupped hands pushing through the plane of water. The water, when it flows down my throat, is heaven’s wet cool on hell’s coaled fire. My hands spring back into the water, ready to cup more into
my mouth; and then I’m done with formalities. I plunge my head into the water, gulping down the blissful sweet cool wetness, the water reaching up to my ears.
I come up for air. The heper hasn’t moved, but its confusion is carved even deeper into its face. But it’s no longer dangerous. Not right now. I throw my whole head back into the pond, my dry, coarse hair gulping up water like straws. The pores on the back of my neck flinch at first contact, then they open up, delighting in the cool aquatic contact.
When I come up for air the second time, the heper has made its way down to the pond. It sits in a crouched position, its arms placed flat atop its kneecaps, the way monkeys do. Figures. It is still half gripping a dagger strapped to its hip, but with less urgency now.
The water’s effect on me is almost instant. Synapses in my brain start refiring; my head feels freed of cotton wool, more like a well-oiled machine. Things begin to dawn on me quickly. The dusk, for one, how it is so quickly ceding to the night. Very soon – within moments – the Dome is going to emerge from the ground.
I take off my underwear and leap into the pond.
The water is overpowering at first; the sudden cold pummels air out of me. But there’s no time to dilly-dally. I submerge my whole body under water, the frigid liquidity a shock to my system. The water, even in the subdued light of disappearing dusk, is surprisingly clear.
I can stand. The bottom is a gentle decline, smooth and metallic to the touch. I don’t waste any time. I scrub myself, my face, my underarm, all the crevices and nooks in my body. I am not gentle with myself: I scrub myself raw. I turn my fingers into pitchforks and rake my scalp, washing my hair as best and quickly as I can.
Then I feel it. A deep vibration coming from the bottom of the pond, weak at first but getting stronger quickly.
The heper stands up. It’s looking at the perimeter of the village, then back at me. I understand immediately. The Dome is about to start closing. I need to get out now.
I run out of the pond, spraying up water with my thighs and knees. Hop over the edge, start sprinting.
The vibration is now a full-fledged thrumming that shakes the ground. Then a loud click, and the hum turns into a loud groan. A wall of glass emerges out of the ground, encircling me.
It ascends faster than I expect. Much faster. It is shin-high and then knee-high in a matter of seconds. I sprint to the glass wall, leaping up from a few yards away. My hands land on the top of the glass; they find a tenuous grip on the near corner of the smooth top. My legs scrabble and thrash on the glass walls for traction even as it continues to rise. But the glass is made slippery by the water dripping off my body. I’m about to slip off. If I fall now, there’s no way I’d be able to mount it again. I’d be trapped inside.
I close my eyes, shout a silent scream, and heave my arm across the top of the glass width. My hand finds the outer edge, and from there it’s easier. I pull myself up, roll over the top width, and fall on the other side of the Dome, on the outside.
It’s not a graceful fall. I land on my side; my vision whites out momentarily. Already the wall is twice my height and still rising.
The heper girl is standing beside the pond. It picks up my briefs, holds them up for closer examination. Its nose crinkles – “crinkle” is this thing hepers do when they pull their facial skin together – in mild disgust. And another emotion crosses its face, an unfamiliar, nuanced one. It’s disgust, but there is a hint of something else: laughter? No, that’s too strong. A hint of a smile touches its lips and mouth, barely perceptible. As if the smile doesn’t quite have enough energy to break the surface.
The heper girl impales my briefs on one of its flying daggers. One quick look at me, and it flings its arm. The dagger sails through the air, my briefs waving like a flag, arching just over the enclosing Dome. The dagger lands a few yards from me, my briefs draped over it like slain prey.
The Dome closes with surprising quietness.
I dislodge my briefs from the dagger. They do stink. In fact, now that I’ve washed myself, the briefs positively reek. And then I do something I’ve never done before. I crinkle my nose. Just for size, to see how it feels. It feels forced and alien on my face, as if something artificial were cinching my nose.
The heper girl walks over to the glass walls of the Dome. I can’t see it too clearly; the purpling skies cast a reflective smear over its face. I walk over until we’re standing only a few yards apart, separated by the glass wall. It stands close to the Dome, its breath frosting the glass. A small foggy circle that disappears as quickly as it appears.
There’s fear on its face, there’s anger, there’s curiosity. And something else. I look into its eyes, and instead of the glossy plastic shine I’m used to in people’s eyes, I see something different. Flecks dance in them, like the trapped flakes in a snow globe.
I turn and walk away. On the way back, I pick up my clothes, quickly put them on. I turn around to take one last look at the Dome. The heper hasn’t moved; it stands stationary, watching me.
Hunt Minus Two Nights
THE EVENTS THAT transpired yesternight at the Introduction,” the Director says, “were a tad on the aggressive side.”
We are back in the lecture hall after a quick and sombre breakfast. Gaunt Man and Crimson Lips had sat nervously at their own table during breakfast while everyone else veered far away. By their look, neither one had slept a wink all day. A strange quietness hung over everything, the tables, the chairs, the soppy breakfast food, like the mist that hovers over a beaker of acid. And the dining hall was emptier than usual, the escorts oddly absent. We were half expecting staff officials to come trooping in during the meal to lead away Gaunt Man and Crimson Lips. But they never came. That seemed to set Gaunt Man and Crimson Lips at ease as we headed over to the lecture hall after breakfast.
I’m also relieved, but for a different reason: I don’t smell anymore. At least, not enough to attract attention. The quick scrub down at the pond seems to have done the trick – nobody seems hot and bothered by any odour. Or perhaps after the heper killing at the Introduction yesternight, everyone’s become desensitised to smaller amounts of heper odour. Either way, I win.
The Director is anchored behind the lectern as he speaks. If anger brews within, he hides it well beneath his clinically precise articulation. His eyebrows do not arch, his head does not snap forward. He speaks with the disinterested emotion of one reading random epitaphs, without a hint of reproof for the very serious breach that was committed. His slender voice: the quietness of a razor blade sashaying from side to side, daring contact.
“You had your fun. But consequences . . . There are consequences to your actions.” His eyes don’t gaze anywhere close to Gaunt Man and Crimson Lips, who are now sitting especially rigid in their seats. “In society, the parameters are clear. It is a capital offence to hunt and kill a heper. Kill and be killed. However, yesternight’s killing was not – shall we say, technically – an illegal hunt. It was part of the training of the Palace-endorsed Heper Hunt. As such, it falls under the overall auspices of the Hunt.”
I see Gaunt Man and Crimson Lips relax a touch.
“But there are consequences. Because a heper, old and emaciated as it may have been, was killed. Gone. No more. Years of possible scientific research never brought to fruition. It will simply not do for its death to go unaccounted for. A crime against a heper is a crime against the Palace. And so there must be consequences for these dastardly acts. Punishment must be meted out.”
Gaunt Man and Crimson Lips stiffen in their seats again. “Of course,” the Director continues, his eyes drifting down and settling upon them, “nothing can be done against you.”
Their heads cock to the side.
“We have invested too much in you,” the Director continues. “To expel you and seek a replacement so late in the game, mere nights from the Hunt, is simply not a feasible option.” His voice drops off as he gazes at the empty seats in the back row. “But punishment must be meted out. So nobody gets a
ny notion that the government is getting soft. Because a capital offence demands a capital punishment. Or two. Or three. Or seven.”
His next words are razor-sharp. “You will have noticed that the escorts are gone.” It is an ambiguous statement. And then it is not. A chill runs down my spine. And he says nothing else as he walks slowly across the stage to another lectern, this one made of glass.
“So, with that unpleasantry out of the way, some good news to report. A rather pleasant surprise, in fact. The Palace has directed us to host a banquet Gala. Hundreds of dignitaries will be arriving, high-standing officials, men of influence, their wives and mistresses. It is very short notice, but we do have a smidge of a window tomorrow evening. This Institute used to host many a banquet Gala back in the day, so it’s shovel-ready. The facility just needs a dusting up. It’ll be ready. And so will you. We’re cancelling all other training events. Who needs training, anyway, just chase down the damn things and eat them.” He peels back his sleeve like a snake shedding skin and delicately scratches his bony wrist.
“And one more thing. The media will be covering the Gala. We want you looking your best. Tailors are arriving in a couple of hours to measure each of you. They’ll be busy with you the rest of the night.” He runs his hand back along the gelled arc of his hair. “Two nights after the banquet, the Hunt will begin. All guests to the banquet are required to stay for the start of the Hunt. And so you will have quite the send-off, what with the hundreds of spectators and media coverage. Should make for quite the spectacle.”
