I, Alien

NOBODIES by Adrienne Gormley

I LIMP INTO MY old village of Green Hollow, wincing at the cold as my left rear foot drags through the snow. I duck behind the houses and search for the food pile, the one the Real People are to leave so that we Nobodies may eat. I do not find it, not here, not there, and I fret. How will I survive Testing so I can become a Real Person again if I do not eat? There are too many Nobodies about, and I am merely one of them.

As I slip between the houses, I think back to when I lived here as a child and could run and play among the other Real People. Alas, I am no longer a child. I do not have a name, I do not have a gender, I do not legally exist. Nor will I until I become an adult, if I live long enough to be accepted as one. Then I wince from the hunger that gnaws at me and I return to concentrate on looking for the food.

I catch my bad foot on a snow-covered clod and stumble. I recover, despite my hunger-induced dizziness. I move into a clump of ornamental bushes, where I know my hairless, mottled Nobody hide will blend into the shadows.

As I settle in the shadows, my nose twitches. Mmm, dried fruit. Meat. I lift my head and sniff again, then move toward the scent, grasping at branches to keep myself upright.

I pass several homes before I stop again. I flare my nostrils, questing for the scent of the food, and I find it. Now I know where to find the food. For some reason, it is behind the home of the Chief Family. I do not know why it is in a private area, as such food leavings are supposed to be public. I hunch down, making sure my forefeet are firmly placed, and think. My memories tell me that the Chief Family is not due to leave food for the Nobodies again for some time, so why they have food out now is a puzzle.

At times, I am not sure it is worth the effort to search out the food scraps. Usually I hunt or fish, but there is my injury, and it is so cold. I know the law requires that I travel alone, and yet I mourn. I don’t believe any of my clutch mates are still alive.

The bone-deep ache in my left rear foot nags at me as I approach the food cache. I worry about what I might find there besides food. I stoop down once I am behind the Chief Family’s house, afraid some Real People might see me. Even when I was still a child, I was never welcome here. Now that I am a Nobody, it is worth my life to be seen.

I hear ragged breathing and look around for the source. Then I realize; it’s me. I try to stifle the sound.

I circle the yard slowly, trying to pinpoint the food cache. The smell hits me and I home in on an open bag, not far from the back gate, well away from the stables that house the Chief Family’s farm animals.

Food! What does it matter if some of it is stale and dry? I do not care about the quality; I care only that the food exists, and that I can eat.

I rotate my ears to listen as I chew, and hear my second stomach complain that it has not had anything in too long. Too many sun cycles passed, it tells me. I snatch at the items on the top of the pile, watching, one eye turret turned to the yard, another pointed toward the food cache. I have to take what I need before other Nobodies show up to claim a share. I fret, because I know I am weak. I clasp what I can in my hands, glad I at least have all three fingers on each, Having only three of my four feet working right is problem enough.

I crawl into the shade of a nearby bush, hoping that I am still invisible. The mottled skin pattern from my birth clan is an asset I appreciate. As I chew on another bite, I keep watch for any who might challenge me for what I have taken.

Food. Glorious food. I feel blessed to have found a store of food that is not rotting. I take in the aroma, and I have to fight to keep from gorging. I settle down on my haunches, forelegs tucked under me, as the ache gnawing at my second stomach eases. I find that I have a bit left over, which I wrap and tuck into a small carry sack, one I made at the beginning of my Test from the hides of some rockhoppers.

To my left, I hear the scratch of claw on stone and turn a wary eye to watch. When I see the source of the noise, I tense. I have suffered too much at the hands of the Nobody who is approaching, even when we were both still children and Real People. The other’s long nose is twitching as it approaches the food cache, and I see its muscles rippling. The other, who always bullied the rest of us, was born into the Chief Family and may return to its birth family if it survives. The bully moves without pausing to where the food pile is. I can tell from the way it moves so confidently, the way it sniffs about, that it already knows the food would be there. The bully does not travel as one who is looking, or one who feels a Nobody’s need to hide.

I tense as I realize the bully knows the food is waiting. Then my spirit hurts, as I become aware that the Chief Family has secretly left out food for- this former child, hoping to violate the laws of the Test. How can we become true adults if we don’t have to strive for adulthood? Is the law there to be ignored?

Such favoritism is a violation of everything I ever learned, where all Nobodies are to share any food left out, and all food that is left out is to be in public areas. I am not surprised that some families would want to secretly help their Nobody young. Every family wishes to continue. I am shocked to find the Chief Family doing this; they are supposed to be moral arbiters of Green Hollow.

I stuff everything I haven’t yet eaten into my carry sack. I hope it is enough to see me through until I can find something else. I hold the sack close to my bare hide, and make my escape.

Not soon enough. I limp to the edge of the village, not pausing for anything, not even when the bully trots after me, shrieking in public.

“Thief! Cripple! That was my food!”

Wrong. Wrong. The food is for all Nobodies, and we are to remain unseen, but I do not say that aloud. Besides, I have left more than enough food behind to see the bully through a famine. How selfish can one be and still hope to become a Real Person?

The thaw has come and I still limp a little, but I have managed to make it this far. The woods around me are bursting with growth and the sun is warm on my back. I can still feel my bones rattle against each other, but at least there are fleshy buds and shoots I can chew. I also know a small pool at the base of a short cascade where there are plenty of silverscale fingerlings who do not know how to avoid a net made of reeds.

There is still some snow on the ground in the shady places, but I know how to avoid them as I climb into hidden hollows. I have no idea what I will find there except shelter, or maybe a sleeping rockhopper. Then, when I settle down into the lee of one overhanging rock face, I find that there is a patch of odd fungus growing there. There is no gain without risk, I tell myself, so I pry several off their rocks and carry them away.

As I sit, leaning against the rock wall, I stretch out my legs. I see my adult hair is growing, in odd patches. I relax; my Test will soon be over. I will succeed or fail, and if I fail, I can only live wild or die. That, I know after my hungry winter, is a good reason to study any potential food source. The Real People of Green Hollow have little enough to eat as is.

I reach out a hand and touch a patch of hair on my leg. I need to know that it is real. I touch it again, and feel a tingle of anticipation thrill through my body. So soft, much softer than I remember my mother’s being. Could this be the new adult hair, and it only grows coarse with age?

I see that I have inherited my father’s pale amber color. My hair gleams in the afternoon sun. What is interesting is the silver patch that grows on my left rear leg, above my old injury.

I take out some of the fungus I found. I lift it to my nose and smell. My eyes sting and I swivel them away. I blink; the smell is pungent. I wonder what will happen if I cook them?

I crawl farther back into the lee of the rock, where I start a fire with some dried brush and the leavings of a deserted windwalker nest. I spear a fungus onto a stick and hold it over my small flame, and wait as I let the heat work its magic. Soon the scent of the fungus changes, and I feel my stomachs demanding I eat it now. The scent is, what is the word—savory— and it is all I can do to keep from eating it whole. Instead, I take a small bite and roll it around my tongue so I can enjoy the flavor before I swallow it.

I sit and wait, afraid that what I have eaten will turn on me, ripping my first stomach to shreds, making me bleed out my fife here in the rocks. Instead, my first stomach ceases its complaints, so I take another bite, then another, and before I know what is happening, I am snapping at the end of the stick on which I roasted the fungus. I want more, so I take another few pieces out of my pouch and roast them, and eat them until I can eat no more. I look around my rock shelter for more, but I see only a few very small growths in a hidden nook.

I decide to leave them to grow, but I also plan to look for more of this fungus in other rocky places over the next few moons. I want to keep myself well fed on them until I can get back down to the pool where I have my fingerling nets. And maybe, later, I can gather spores to take back with me.

I relax as I settle down by the pool, and I bask in the warmth of high summer. The sunlight is as dappled as my formerly bare hide once it threads its way through the leaves to the ground. Around me, in the brush, I hear the sounds of the small creatures that indicate the forest has grown used to my presence.

Light sparkles off the rippling water, and the small stream that feeds the pool chimes as it dances down the rockfall from above. This place is a good place to stay, and one in which I can live comfortably. It is far enough from Green Hollow that I should not be interrupted, yet it is near enough that I can return easily when I am ready.

I study my left hind leg as I stretch it out over the soft ground cover on the bank. It is still a bit stiff, but I no longer limp, and I can move easily when I need to.

As I watch the ripples in the stream, I wonder how things are going with the Nobodies who stayed closer to Green Hollow. How many, I wonder, have managed to find something that will prove to be of benefit to the Real People?

I check to make sure the year brand that I received to mark the start of my Test has not blurred too much with time. It would not do to be identified as one of the Nobodies from a later year. I wiggle my ears with pleasure as I see that the spirals and interlaced arcs are still visible through my hair. I am satisfied.

I review the skills I have learned during my Testing.

I know how to fish not just for fingerlings, but for the larger silverscales, which provide such succulent flesh. I know to seek out and harvest the barbleberries that infest the forest. I burble to myself when I think of the barbleberry seeds that Real People have thrown away, thinking they were useless. And, oh, that fungus! I wipe away the trail of drool that runs down my chin as I think about it. I have not yet figured out how to cultivate the fungus, but it is what I wish to contribute. If nothing else, I can lead harvesting groups to the mountains.

The line attached to the net draws taut. I reel it in and pull out the flashing, flipping silverscale. I dash its head on a rock to stun it, then slip it into a reed bag. I drop the net back into the pool, then secure the line with a rock. I hope to start my journey back in the next few days, and I want to smoke as much of the meat as I can. I already have several packets of fungus spores in my carry sack, to take back as my benefit.

Brush snaps behind me, and I hear grumbling from beyond the bush screen. I scramble to my feet. A screen of vines, woven into the barbleberry brambles, shakes as if a bull lorox is tearing at it with all four horns. Better safe hidden, I decide. I scramble up the rocks beside the stream and shelter behind the rocks and brush on the crest above the cascade. Once there, I tilt an eye into a small gap so I can see what is going on below.

My hearts thump in dissonant rhythm as I see a trio of People force themselves into the clearing. I recognize them; they are Nobodies from my Testing group. They are together! I shiver with anger. They risk their lives, as well as the fives of any others they approach. Like me. I itch and fret, wondering what they are up to now.

One of them is the bully who was born to the Chief Family. The bully seems not to care that it has company. I curse silently, adding the bully’s behavior to what I saw at the village when I was there. And I wonder; how does the Chief Family expect to get away with law-breaking, and how does the bully plan to prove itself worthy of adulthood benefit? Has it found a benefit yet?

“That cripple was here,” the bully says to its companions. “I can still smell it.”

“It’s not here now,” the smallest of the three says. “Let’s go, before any Real People see us together.”

“Forget the Real People. The cripple stole some of the food my Family set out for me, and I intend to take back what I can, even if I have to skin it. And I’ll take whatever else it has at the same time. Why should I work to find a benefit for those idiots back there if I can take it?”

The third Nobody, whom I recognize by its crooked nose as one of the bully’s childhood followers, says something and lays a hand on the bully’s shoulder. The bully turns and hits Crooked Nose. As I watch, the three of them fight among themselves. I shiver, glad I am not part of their group. And I am grateful again I was never a friend with any of them when we were still children.

The bully knocks down Crooked Nose, then he and Shorty beat it until it collapses. Then the bully looks up and stares at Shorty, both eyes forward. The bully attacks Shorty and drives it to the ground, too, all the while muttering that it cannot leave witnesses. I am beyond shock, my legs locked in my fear, because I know that I am next, as I watch it snatch a piece of deadwood and beat Shorty. The two on the ground finally stop moving as their life fluids trickle out onto the verge. No witnesses. I know that I am to be next.

The bully looks up from the two bodies and moves toward the rockfall where I am hiding. I shift back, away from the clearing, huddling down to avoid being seen. I am a short distance away, just into the wooded area beyond, when the bully scrambles to the top and finds the sanctuary I just left.

“Stop!”

I am not a fool. I run, pushing through the brush, branches whipping my face. I do not care as long as I escape from the bully. Strange bully, thinking I would listen to it, after watching its behavior back at the rock pool.

I climb into the nearby mountains, finding my way through culverts and chimneys in the heights, slipping through angled tunnels as I attempt to get away from the bully. It follows, and it is very noisy. I wince as I hear the various small creatures who live in the low scrub as they scurry for shelter from this angry, loud monster.

I move into a canyon I have not yet seen, and travel along the banks of the small stream that flows there. I come to the end, a rock wall. The stream gurgles out of a fissure in the rock, with small plants—belly flowers—low around it. Their perfume fills the air. I bend over and scoop handfuls of water, still keeping one eye turned to watch behind me. I know the bully still follows, and I need to find a way to escape. This canyon is not the way, yet I am not sure how to get out of it.

I no longer think of the bully by any other designation than the Murderer. That is what it has done, and from all the teachings I learned from the village wise ones during my childhood, it has forfeited its right to becoming a Real Person.

Still, I wonder about history, as I think back on the low survival rate of other groups who have been Tested. I know that Testing those who enter puberty is to weed out those who are not worthy of surviving, but after what I have witnessed, I wonder if our past survivors haven’t been those who are most like the Murderer. What determines fitness to survive, after all?

I stretch after I drink my fill, aware of the aches in my joints and the sharp itch of the scratches on my arms and legs. Some of them are weeping yellow, and when they drip off, they leave a brown spatter in the dust.

The sun batters my eyes until I am not sure which way to turn. I move back and forth at the base of the rock wall, looking for an opening. There is none.

I do find a foothold, so I stand on my rear legs and reach up with forelegs and arms, searching for holds. I pull myself up the rock. Once my rear feet are above the canyon floor, I meld with the rock face, then look for a higher hold.

I find one; a tough spur to my left. Can I reach it? I lift my hand, and my three fingers encircling the stumpy gray stone. I tug on it; it feels firm, yet I hesitate. Do I trust my weight to this? Behind me, down the canyon, I hear the enraged bellow of the Murderer. Trust it I must. I lock the joints of my fingers and pull myself higher, then look for something for my right hand to grasp. My left forefoot is also questing for a niche where I can insert my toes, and I manage to find both at once. Up I go, not daring to look down or behind.

Sweat trickles off my eye turrets as I move upward, each eye swiveling around, as I look for something new to grab on to. Then I find I am on a ledge, where I rest, for fear of collapse.

I look around to find a route to the top from here. There is a trail; narrow, but workable. As I get ready to move on, I look around, and inhale sharply. The Murderer is just below me, climbing the cliff face after me. It is silent as it climbs, except for the deep grunts as it fights for breath. I draw back, surprised, and hope the Murderer doesn’t see me where I stand.

I crawl to the bottom of the narrow path I have found and look up it, then look back. I inhale sharply again as a large hand lifts up over the ledge. I move up the narrow trail, holding on the cliff face as best I can.

“Why run away?” the Murderer asks from behind me. “You won’t live to return to our village anyway.” I come to a bend in the trail and look back. The Murderer is standing on the ledge. I shiver.

“Give me what you have,” the Murderer calls out.

“Why do you think I have something?” I start up the next part of the trail, the cliff now on my right.

“Because you’re still alive!”

I hear the Murderer’s feet as it starts up the trail. It is moving faster than I am. I turn one eye around to watch behind me as I move into the cleft, and I see the Murderer moving around the first in the trail. Too close. Above me, I see the trail curve into a small cleft. A sharp wind is whistling out of it.

“Do you really want it?” I ask.

“Give it to me! Maybe I’ll let you live.” The Murderer stops below me, holding out one of its hands.

I move the fore part of my body out of the cleft, holding one of the spore packets in right hand. With my left, I worry open the twist that holds the packet shut.

“Take it!” I hold the packet up and empty it onto the wind.

“No!” The Murderer scrabbles up the trail, and reaches out for me. I draw back into the cleft, and watch as the Murderer misses its step on the narrow trail. The Murderer screams once, and I hear a thud, followed by a rattle. I move forward and look over the edge, holding tight to another spur of rock, and watch the small avalanche the Murderer’s body starts as it bounces its way to the foot of the cliff.

The chill of the autumn wind ruffles the hair on my back as I make my way into Green Hollow. I hope some of the others from my group have survived their Testing. I do not want to be the only one of my age group to return. I carry the remaining packets of fungus spores in my sack, with what is left of my travel rations. I have returned, in time.

I reach the village common and look around. One of the people standing near the well swivels his eye turrets, then dashes off. He will bring the elders to complete the formalities of my Test.

The elders come and question me according to the law, then they take away my bit of fungus. When they return, they hold their hands out to me, accepting me as a Real Person and giving me back my gender. I stand to face them. Once I choose a life task and a name, I can consider selecting a mate and raising my own family.

“I wish to be a lawgiver,” I tell them. I do not say that I want to change some of the harsh laws, like the ones that destroy so many of our young. I will have to be very careful about how I go about that. “For a name, I will wear my distinctive mark.” I show them the leg. “Call em will take the name of Silverleg.”