It wasn’t my first time out in the fields.
Grandma’d let me tag along the week prior. Said it would be good for me to learn how to fend for myself. Learn how to fend off the Ivers. Ivers are brutal—everyone knows that. But not everyone knows that they can be bargained with. Even monsters are reasonable sometimes.
“You just gotta play with their cards,” Grandma’d said. “Lettem know you gettem. See ’em as people, y’see?”
We collected three whole jars that day while Grandma chatted on about Ivers. Didn’t help me to be any less scared none.
The sky was that dull sort of orange it always was. Barely visible through the smog. Grandma parked the 4×4 on the edge of the fields, by the side of the road so’s people’d know if we were missing. She slung the shotgun over her shoulder—finally’d gotten around to fixing that strap, so she didn’t have to carry it anymore. And I wasn’t allowed to use the shotgun. Not ‘til I was older. Jesse’s allowed, but he’s fifteen. But he wasn’t there that day. Grandma asked for me. She said the yung’uns had to learn the way, and I was the only yung’un.
My yellow rainboots squelched in the mud. The red clay was extra squishy. Smelled like chalk and those fish Grandad likes—the sardines.
That day, there weren’t as many faces in the clay looking up at me. That meant I had to look harder than last time. I got on my hands and knees—my pink apron was caked in mud from the last time, but now it was all wet. I sloshed my hand through the thick earth. Wiggled my fingers in it until I found something soft. There were bristles. I called my Grandma and tugged.
I pulled fistfuls of hair out of the mud—one clump in each fist. I didn’t say nothin’. Didn’t want Grandma to know I was scared. So I shut my trap and shook my hands off. Brushed the sticky bits off, smearing my apron.
Grandma got him out the rest of the way. He was one of the Union boys; I could tell by the spikes on the shoulders of his jacket. His skin was still mostly on, too. Had both eyes. Hair was thinning, but he wasn’t in so bad a shape. Best was, though, that his mouth was nice and shut. Chances were, no mud was in there messing up the set.
Grandma wiggled open the jaw. It swung easy, like a picnic basket popping open. And I’d been right. Not so much mud in there as was other goops. And nothing was rotten. His left front tooth was chipped, but the rest were fair game. I got the pliers out of my apron pocket, and the little jar that’d held my peach jelly last fall, and started pickin’. Grandma kept watch with the shotgun, in case-a Ivers.
I wiped each tooth off with my shirt sleeve before dropping them into the jar. Ivers are picky. Like things neat. Fresh as possible.
Once I was done, I wiped off my hands and screwed the jar lid back on—put the pliers away and handed the jar to Grandma.
But we didn’t go. She told me to sit tight and wait while she counted em. I didn’t mind waiting. Being out in the fields wasn’t so bad—it was better than bein’ stuck at home with Jesse. He liked to pull my pigtails.
As Grandma counted in her head, I looked across the ruddy fields. Over the mounds—weaving through the jutting fingertips and flailed boots—a coven of shadows began to collect. I could hear a chitter on the wind.
I looked over at Grandma, saw her look up too. She noticed, but didn’t fright, so I put my hands into the dirt and squeezed the mud through my fingers until my heart slowed down again.
They were closer now. All the way at the tree line. Not shadows. Forms. People.
I got still. Ivers.
Finally they broke from the trees and marched over the field towards us. They got nearer until I could see their eyes and the bitter smell of copper wafted over the pockmarked field.
The one in front was tall. Had metal spikes through his bottom lip and his head was shaved. He didn’t wear a shirt, too, which I thought was a bit improper, even for those times. He walked right up to Grandma and smiled, showing his lovely pearly teeth. So neat and even, except for a few empty spaces.
“You got what I asked for?” he growled.
Grandma nodded. “Deal’s a deal.”
The Iver handed her a bag. Cans—canned food! My stomach rumbled.
But then Grandma put the jar of teeth in her apron. She looked at me, eyes running up and down me like I’d put my dress on backwards again. Her lip pinched up on one side, eyes narrowin’. I looked back, unsure of what I’d done.
She grabbed me by the arm and pushed me forward. The man grabbed my head with his big hands—pried open my mouth and looked in.
“Hmmm,” he hummed, and I could smell the rot on his breath. He grinned, givin’ me an up-close look at his tooth gaps. “These will do nicely.”
Listen to the audio version below:
0 Comments