How About Them Apples? (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
applespice) wrote2011-02-26 11:30 am
applespice) wrote2011-02-26 11:30 am
LJ Idol - Week 15 - Nimbus
The sky has been dark for five days. It is a greenish-gray mass of roiling cloud, sparking with light and shaking the rocks with its deep voice. Sometimes it sends a dust-laced wind ripping across the broken ground, and sometimes the air is thick and heavy and wet. The people wrap cloths around their mouths to keep out the dust and shade their eyes with their hands, looking hopefully upwards. Maybe praying, if they remember how.
And still the rain does not fall.
On the fifth day, Maritza crouches on top of the truck cab and watches, the rubber soles of her boots squeaking on the metal as she shifts her weight. In her left hand she balances her cracked plastic bowl, plucking small pieces of dried meat from it with her right. As she chews, she regards the storm. Down inside the rig, her mother is singing in a language she doesn't know, her soft voice rolling in and out of the wind like a secret call. Maritza wonders if she is singing to the rain, asking it to come down.
The storm is so big it is almost beyond her, a blanket of living darkness wrapped around the dry, ugly world. She wonders if it has been sent to help them, to soothe the thirst as the Olders believe, or if it has come to tear them apart. She doesn't know if she cares which. All she wants is the shattering, the opening, the fall.
"Hey girl, get down offa there!" It is the driver, his scarred face jutting up at her like a fist. "Get your goddamned dirty feet offa my truck!"
The truck is grimed with dust and dirt and Maritza's boots are clean, but she complies. She hates the driver, but has felt his anger across her back too many times to defy him. She is only thirteen and small, made bird-boned with lack of food. He is a big man and he always takes the best for himself. It does not take much for him to leave scars of his own.
She supposes the driver is probably her father, just as he is probably the father of the other children who ride in their rig - some older and thin like her, others small and swell-bellied, with drooping eyes and white tongues. She hates him anyway. Hates his cracked-toothed smile, his meaty hands, and the way the women in their rig cower before him, like being near him is the most loathsome thing in their lives besides dying. Unfortunately for them, dying is their only other choice.
Maritza's mother is still singing when she climbs into the rig. The driver starts the engine, and around them she can hear the roar of the caravan coming to life. Most of the others drive rigs like theirs, but some are in smaller trucks with tarps and tents stretched over their beds, and some even follow on motorbikes, their possessions strapped precariously behind them. There are so few of them now, only fifty in all.
The women in the rig stretch a large patched cloth over the open back of the compartment to keep out the dust, and the weak daylight filters through the fabric in a dozen colors. Around her Maritza can make out the rumpled pallets and nailed-down chairs and meager, broken belongings of the rest of her "family," and she curls her lip and sits as near the back as her mother will let her. The place stinks of sweat and mold and bad breath, and Maritza hates it. Sometimes she dreams of running away, of leaping from the back of the rig like a falling star, bounding off into the endless stretch of land and sky.
Then her mother smiles at her in the semi-darkness, and she knows she never will.
Her mother's name is Gisela, and even in such places as this, she is beautiful. The stark lines of her face are proud and regal, like the princesses from the stories she tells the children, but her eyes are brown and soft. They are always softest when she looks at Maritza, when she murmurs, "mija" and strokes her hair. And Maritza loves her, her and no one else, though she has never understood what it means to love or why she feels this way. All she knows is that her mother is the scope of her world, the compass around which she turns. She would never leave her mother.
Gisela says, "We will be there soon, mija. The great river." For this is where they are going, a river that Gisela remembers from when she was a girl. There they will drink and make a new life, a new world.
All the other rivers they have passed have dried, but Gisela knows that this one is still flowing. "It was the river of my new life once," she says, her brown eyes implacable, "and it will be again. I know it."
And so they followed her into the driest wastes, the broken lands, and constant as a star she has led them. And now, she says, soon.
Barely any time at all has passed when the truck rumbles to a stop. Behind them, Maritza can hear cries of confusion as the other vehicles do the same, pillars of dust rising into the air around them. The door of the cab slams, and Maritza can sense the driver stomping toward them, his anger a pillar all its own, even if she can't hear his boots on the dirt.
The cloth covering is ripped away. The children shriek, if they are not too weak, and the women turn empty eyes toward his twisted face.
"Where the fuck," he says, breathing through his nose, "are we?" This last is almost a guttural scream, and his large hand thrusts out and wraps around her mother's wrist. Gisela does not cry out as she is dragged from the truck. Maritza leaps after her, a wild burst of fury shooting from her belly to her fingertips.
"We've been driving through this hell for weeks!" The driver is shaking Maritza's mother, his teeth bared like an animal's. Around them, the caravan watches, not one of them bold enough to intervene. They know it is like this in the driver's rig - perhaps it is the same in their own. They will not stop it. They never do.
"When are we going to get there!" Spit flies from his mouth and flecks Gisela's face. Maritza realizes that the driver has been into the bottle he keeps in his cab, that his mouth is dry and his head buzzing. He is thirsty and stupid and mean, and he will hit her mother, in front of everyone, and no one will tell him not to.
With a scream of her own, a storm-sound ripped from within the darkest place of her, she is on him. Her small fingers dig into his hair, pulling it back, her teeth find purchase on his forearm. Again and again her boots kick against his flesh, and lights burn white-hot and blinding in her eyes. The driver yelps and shakes her - once, twice, and she is off him, the taste of blood in her mouth. When his fist slams against her head, she drops like a stone.
The world is slanted and swirling. Gisela moves through it, her dark hair flying, a star in her hand. It slashes up, buries itself in the driver's neck. Then there is blood, a great gout of it. It stains Gisela's dress, but she does not step away. She holds her head up, a vengeful princess - a queen. They all stare back at her.
Maritza feels her hands pulling upwards, lifting her. As they pass, the women pull the fabric up over the open mouth of the rig, and Maritza cannot see their eyes. Gisela opens the door to the cab, and pushes Maritza into the seat. There is a moment of nothing, a flash of darkness, and then the engine comes to life. Her mother's fingers stroke her hair, and the world begins to move.
"We will be there soon, mija," she says, and Maritza knows her thin hands guide the wheel. She hears the others following, falling into a ragged line behind. And then, faintly at first, the sound of water on the roof.
And still the rain does not fall.
On the fifth day, Maritza crouches on top of the truck cab and watches, the rubber soles of her boots squeaking on the metal as she shifts her weight. In her left hand she balances her cracked plastic bowl, plucking small pieces of dried meat from it with her right. As she chews, she regards the storm. Down inside the rig, her mother is singing in a language she doesn't know, her soft voice rolling in and out of the wind like a secret call. Maritza wonders if she is singing to the rain, asking it to come down.
The storm is so big it is almost beyond her, a blanket of living darkness wrapped around the dry, ugly world. She wonders if it has been sent to help them, to soothe the thirst as the Olders believe, or if it has come to tear them apart. She doesn't know if she cares which. All she wants is the shattering, the opening, the fall.
"Hey girl, get down offa there!" It is the driver, his scarred face jutting up at her like a fist. "Get your goddamned dirty feet offa my truck!"
The truck is grimed with dust and dirt and Maritza's boots are clean, but she complies. She hates the driver, but has felt his anger across her back too many times to defy him. She is only thirteen and small, made bird-boned with lack of food. He is a big man and he always takes the best for himself. It does not take much for him to leave scars of his own.
She supposes the driver is probably her father, just as he is probably the father of the other children who ride in their rig - some older and thin like her, others small and swell-bellied, with drooping eyes and white tongues. She hates him anyway. Hates his cracked-toothed smile, his meaty hands, and the way the women in their rig cower before him, like being near him is the most loathsome thing in their lives besides dying. Unfortunately for them, dying is their only other choice.
Maritza's mother is still singing when she climbs into the rig. The driver starts the engine, and around them she can hear the roar of the caravan coming to life. Most of the others drive rigs like theirs, but some are in smaller trucks with tarps and tents stretched over their beds, and some even follow on motorbikes, their possessions strapped precariously behind them. There are so few of them now, only fifty in all.
The women in the rig stretch a large patched cloth over the open back of the compartment to keep out the dust, and the weak daylight filters through the fabric in a dozen colors. Around her Maritza can make out the rumpled pallets and nailed-down chairs and meager, broken belongings of the rest of her "family," and she curls her lip and sits as near the back as her mother will let her. The place stinks of sweat and mold and bad breath, and Maritza hates it. Sometimes she dreams of running away, of leaping from the back of the rig like a falling star, bounding off into the endless stretch of land and sky.
Then her mother smiles at her in the semi-darkness, and she knows she never will.
Her mother's name is Gisela, and even in such places as this, she is beautiful. The stark lines of her face are proud and regal, like the princesses from the stories she tells the children, but her eyes are brown and soft. They are always softest when she looks at Maritza, when she murmurs, "mija" and strokes her hair. And Maritza loves her, her and no one else, though she has never understood what it means to love or why she feels this way. All she knows is that her mother is the scope of her world, the compass around which she turns. She would never leave her mother.
Gisela says, "We will be there soon, mija. The great river." For this is where they are going, a river that Gisela remembers from when she was a girl. There they will drink and make a new life, a new world.
All the other rivers they have passed have dried, but Gisela knows that this one is still flowing. "It was the river of my new life once," she says, her brown eyes implacable, "and it will be again. I know it."
And so they followed her into the driest wastes, the broken lands, and constant as a star she has led them. And now, she says, soon.
Barely any time at all has passed when the truck rumbles to a stop. Behind them, Maritza can hear cries of confusion as the other vehicles do the same, pillars of dust rising into the air around them. The door of the cab slams, and Maritza can sense the driver stomping toward them, his anger a pillar all its own, even if she can't hear his boots on the dirt.
The cloth covering is ripped away. The children shriek, if they are not too weak, and the women turn empty eyes toward his twisted face.
"Where the fuck," he says, breathing through his nose, "are we?" This last is almost a guttural scream, and his large hand thrusts out and wraps around her mother's wrist. Gisela does not cry out as she is dragged from the truck. Maritza leaps after her, a wild burst of fury shooting from her belly to her fingertips.
"We've been driving through this hell for weeks!" The driver is shaking Maritza's mother, his teeth bared like an animal's. Around them, the caravan watches, not one of them bold enough to intervene. They know it is like this in the driver's rig - perhaps it is the same in their own. They will not stop it. They never do.
"When are we going to get there!" Spit flies from his mouth and flecks Gisela's face. Maritza realizes that the driver has been into the bottle he keeps in his cab, that his mouth is dry and his head buzzing. He is thirsty and stupid and mean, and he will hit her mother, in front of everyone, and no one will tell him not to.
With a scream of her own, a storm-sound ripped from within the darkest place of her, she is on him. Her small fingers dig into his hair, pulling it back, her teeth find purchase on his forearm. Again and again her boots kick against his flesh, and lights burn white-hot and blinding in her eyes. The driver yelps and shakes her - once, twice, and she is off him, the taste of blood in her mouth. When his fist slams against her head, she drops like a stone.
The world is slanted and swirling. Gisela moves through it, her dark hair flying, a star in her hand. It slashes up, buries itself in the driver's neck. Then there is blood, a great gout of it. It stains Gisela's dress, but she does not step away. She holds her head up, a vengeful princess - a queen. They all stare back at her.
Maritza feels her hands pulling upwards, lifting her. As they pass, the women pull the fabric up over the open mouth of the rig, and Maritza cannot see their eyes. Gisela opens the door to the cab, and pushes Maritza into the seat. There is a moment of nothing, a flash of darkness, and then the engine comes to life. Her mother's fingers stroke her hair, and the world begins to move.
"We will be there soon, mija," she says, and Maritza knows her thin hands guide the wheel. She hears the others following, falling into a ragged line behind. And then, faintly at first, the sound of water on the roof.