Open Season

The hunter-collector’s shift ran from the moment the autumn sun cast its amber rays beneath the horizon until the blackcaps sang to beckon the early hours of the morning through the knitted pines that surrounded Cardended. It was an annual task, lasting from the Autumnal Equinox until the first snow of winter. Some considered the position the most important of the Triad, a fact Arjen learned when he was personally invited to Mayor Baird’s residence in Cardended’s sole cave instead of receiving his selection via the small flyer posted in the village center. All other villagers aged 17 to 35 found their names in the center, next to a symbol designating their seasonal position. Youth was essential, especially for the hunter-collector, the Mayor told him over a cup of clover tea. For to hunt-collect was not only to keep the Jar at an appropriate level but to protect the 200 residents of Cardended from their shadowy maker.

“As Splodge demands it.” Mayor Baird handed Arjen a small carving knife and a wooden spoon carved by the village’s children each summer when the maples were ready for harvest. He was offered no lantern or manner of illumination spare for the full moon and the countless constellations.

“Are you sure Splodge was correct in choosing me?” Arjen could imagine his brother in his 25th year, Matthias, creeping through the trees like a silent predator, knife held as a glistening fang. But he had only just reached the age of qualification, a time when most were satisfied to be given the sacred duty of a sweep-cleaner or creator-performer. All work was sacred in the theoretical eyes of Splodge, Mayor Baird assured those who wept upon realizing that they were not Cardended’s sole hunter-collector that year.

“Do you really wish to doubt the word Splodge? Mayor Baird’s eyes twinkled a harsh grey, reminiscent of the stone walls surrounding Arjen and him. The two had much in common, Arjen realized. The same icy chill, the stoic resilience only birthed by having one's innards carved out.

Arjen decided that going against the being he was meant to appease was not of the forethought associated with a hunter-collector, so he placed his instruments in the largest pockets of his tawny coat, thanked the Mayor and the Stone Tablet, and left for the woods. Thin needles crunched under his feet as he reached where the stone path ended, and the open maw of the forest began. The Mayor never heard from the Tablet if Splodge had created the forest, nor did the ancient text on its surface give any indication. It was easier to assume that the trees parted for the hunter-collector, that the fallen branches and ancient boulders were on his side for the night. It soothed the acrid lump in Arjen’s throat that seemed to twist like a wounded animal each time he considered the consequences should he fail to keep the Jar full.

Fire, he imagined, or a fog that tugged skin from flesh. His mother always pulled him from the creator-performer’s shows before the failed hunter-collector had to watch Cardended fall before them. But he always heard the screams of the audience from the sight that made children swear on the present and future graves of their loved ones to never fail the task. Arjen could almost hear them now, the cries that pierced eardrums and kept his hands gripped at his knife and fingers running over the small splinters that coated the spoon to remind himself that they were still there. That he was all that stood between Cardended and its benevolent maker. That he should be happy, no, thrilled to be given this position. He attempted a smile, but it slipped from his face just as quickly as it emerged.

“Arjen?” A slim figure, frail as a baby elk, flickered into view, and Arjen reflexively stretched his knife at its throat. The motion was slow and clumsy, the hilt nearly slipping from the moisture between his fingers, and the figure laughed in response, green eyes melting into a pitying smile.

“If you’re trying to kill me, you might want to be quicker than that,” the figure laughed again, playfully swatting Arjen with a broom. There was no malice in its voice — her voice, Arjen told himself as the stark moonlight revealed more of her features.

“Are you trying to scare me to death, Evonna? I thought sweep-cleaners were supposed to stay at the Jar.” Her grin softened at his concern, though her teeth remained bared. They were just as crooked as they were when Arjen first met her, the marriage-friend of Matthias, whose partnership was only officiated by the Mayor three years prior.

“We do when we know where our hunter-collector is. Most arrive just as the sun starts to set.” There was no malice in Evonna’s voice, but Arjen still found himself staring at the needles below him.

“But no matter. You’re here now, just as Splodge demanded.” Arjen’s eyes snapped to attention at her words. They had grown cold and formal, laced with the Mayor’s rhetoric and candor. Of course, she and Arjen still had a job to do.

“How is the Jar?”

“We’ve spent the last hour scrubbing it clean and making sure its pedestal is free of dirt and blood.” Evonna nodded to herself, speaking for all of the sweep-cleaners as was customary.

“And its levels?”

“We think a wolf reached our summer stock before we could stop it. But, we don’t think you should strive to fill it completely just yet. If you do three every night, you should reach the minimum level in a week.” The minimum was designated by a large, gold band that wrapped around the midpoint of the Jar, and Arjen felt the lump burrow further as ‘three’ echoed through his skull. It was lower than he assumed, but the number seemed to encase him in its endless shadow.

“Are you alright?” Evonna stepped forward, running a slim finger over the bags under his eyes, brought on by a brief bout of insomnia in the days preceding the selection. His father had told them no less than ten times of the shame he felt having aged out of the Triad without being blessed with the role of hunter-collector, how so many would maim their loved ones for a chance to be the savior of Cardended that year.

“If it's the dismantling that concerns you, I can take care of that. Just bring me a kill, and I’ll make sure the others aren’t paying attention.” Evonna’s eyes glazed over like she was imagining herself alone in the woods, a pile of fresh kills at her feet. She should have been selected for her second time, Arjen decided, or Matthias for his first, or anyone able to keep their throats clear and hands steady around their blades.

Arjen shook his head, fingers fumbling around the knife. He had to fulfill both sides of his position — hunt down the sacrifices and collect the parts necessary to offer Splodge. He only wished it was an easier and less gruesome part to remove in one go with his spoon, but perhaps he should feel lucky that the Splodge only required human eyes and not any number of internal parts that would require more effort and skill. The lack of reasoning behind the eyes was not lost on Arjen, as the Stone Tablet spoke nothing of the exact sacrifice. Still, the people of Cardended had been harvesting eyes from outsiders in the nearby mountains for decades, and Splodge had yet to destroy their village. Whether by coincidence or the true power of the unseen deity, no one dared to test their luck.

Evonna sighed, leaning against her broom. The shuddering pines cast heavy shadows that gauged darkened chunks from her face, but Arjen could still feel her eyes piercing through him, daring him to admit that the sweat on his brow was not from the coat placed over his earth-dyed shirt. That he needed the assistance, or the replacement, of one whose body was more attuned to the art of sacrifice. After a few moments, she relented, taking her time to brush his leather shoes free of twigs and pebbles.

“Tilly spotted some movement further that way.” She pointed to where the landscape rose to several heavy peaks, further from Cardended than Arjen had ever traveled. “If you go now, you might be able to get your three in one go. Now, as Splodge demands it, find Its proper sacrifice.” Before Arjen could mutter another word, she scuttled back to where the Jar stood, languidly sweeping the ground as she went.

The terrain grew more treacherous with each step Arjen took up the mountain, and he wondered at what point it was acceptable to blame his lightheadedness on the altitude. He had never killed another living creature before, a rare occurrence among the boys of the village who seemed keen on launching rocks in homemade slingshots at every squirrel or warbler they crossed. No, his father and Matthias aided their fellow man in securing enough meat for Cardended in the form of freshly skinned elk or beavers strung by their leathery tails. The act seemed simple in motivational performances done before each hunt where blood ran sweet as berry juice and wounds were as temporary as rips in clothing. Of course, a human was different, though Evonna warned him against using such words for a creature as warped by savagery and a lack of Splodge as an outsider — “creatures of pure deception,” Evonna told him following her first and only tour as hunter-collector five years prior, “never trust a sound that comes from their maw.” And yet, Arjen couldn’t help but assume that even an outsider bled and howled in pain, though he had never seen one himself. Would it alert the others around it? Kick and buck like a wild deer? Arjen hadn’t considered how to lure one away, how to hold himself steady when he made the fatal cut — right through the chest as the creator-performers displayed.

His first taste of bloodshed came soon, right as he caught sight of the thin rope that separated the outsiders from the land surrounding Cardended. It came as a loud crunch followed by a cry that pierced the silence around him. The rocks had grown treacherous, so much so that Arjen had to plant his hands against them to drag his body further up the mountain. As Arjen approached the figure, he noticed a canister of light brighter than fire illuminating a crimson tear in its pants from which a fallen fir branch sprouted from both ends, impaled deep within raw flesh.

The outsider continued to scream like the sound was trying to claw out of its throat, but it soon withered into a faint whimper as hands grasped at the branch, flinching just as fingertips jostled the fir. Arjen took a single step closer and then another. But, just as his knife could hardly graze the back of the outsider’s head, his breathing turned ragged, like his lungs were drowning in air. The altitude, he told himself. Only from the altitude. His footing grew unfocused, engendering a low choir of leaves and dry soil.

“Who’s there?” The figure rocked its neck back and forth, trying to catch sight of whatever was behind it. When its face caught the light, Arjen could make out heavy features plastered over skin pale and shimmering with sweat. A shock of yellow hair clung to its forehead, reminiscent of Arjen’s father when he returned from a morning of collecting lumber. Reminiscent of his own before it darkened into a heavy black during his fourth year. The figure continued to struggle, attempting to lift itself from the bag pinned beneath it, but the wound in its thigh pulled it to earth each time. The sight was almost enough for Arjen to pity the outsider, and he wondered if this was how Matthias felt when he stumbled across a rabbit half-mauled by a wolf and ready to be put out of its misery. Arjen remembered spitting up bile onto the rabbit head Matthias tasked him with crushing with a smooth stone. His brother stroked his scalp and made up stories about how he, too, could hardly kill when he was fifteen. The lie of past cowardice was as bitter as the saliva that filled Arjen’s mouth as he reached the figure.

“Are you alone?” The path further up the mountain was silent. Arjen kept his eyes trailed on the rope barrier as he stepped in front of the outsider.

The figure nodded, closing its eyes as perhaps another wave of pain engulfed its body, and Arjen couldn’t fathom how perfect this gift truly was. There was no one to miss it, no one who would come searching if it vanished into the woods. The hunter-collector moved closer, fixated on the purple of its damp shirt. If the figure noticed the faint shake of his hands, it said nothing on the matter.

“My cellphone’s in my backpack. Do you think there’s service out here?” Its voice was strained from screaming as though its throat had been rubbed raw with brittle stones.

“Cellphone?” Perhaps a crust of deception, a malicious lie from an outsider, just as Evonna had warned him about. Arjen imagined a venomous snake plunging its fangs into his hand as he searched the bag or some other beast looking to maul him. But the outsider looked pitiful, too unsophisticated to have planned something like that. Besides, Arjen realized with a hint of pride, Splodge would be unlikely to let one of Its hunter-collecters die in such a way.

“Please. It’s in the side pocket” The figure’s voice quivered slightly as a filthy hand attempted to reach behind it and tug at a metallic mechanism on the side of its bag. Arjen knelt beside it, keeping his body just out of the outsider’s field of vision. Its neck was thin and wiry, almost begging Arjen to slash through it. His knife lay ready in his hand, almost vibrating with excitement as he planted his knees into the ground to remain steady. The motion was bound to be simple. A knife falling to sudden rest deep within soft flesh. His blade just barely grazed the air around the figure’s neck when the being below him stretched its hand again, this time reaching for his coat. The appendage was warm, Arjen realized, with a grip flimsier than his hold on his knife. It tugged at fabric, begging Arjen to reach inside of its bag.

Arjen kept his blade close to the figure’s flesh, sliding his other hand into the bag. Several clear containers of dried fruit and nuts fell to the ground, the sheen of the material almost glowing in the canister’s light. Next came something hard and flat, nearly the size of Arjen’s palm. Its glass front was cracked from the fall, and Arjen scowled at his distorted reflection. Was it a weapon? Was the outsider aware of Arjen’s intentions with it? Keeping his knife at the ready, he held it in front of the figure, whose hand swiped it from Arjen.

“My phone.” Arjen watched the relief wash over the outsider’s face, a grateful smile twisted with pain pointed in his direction. So the outsider was not deceiving him. Arjen grew aware of the smoke of the figure’s breath in the autumn air. It looked so human, though he knew he should want to believe otherwise. But, his eyes went back to the device. Was it a weapon? A mirror of sorts?

“Damn it! It broke” The figure frantically tapped at the broken glass before throwing the object – not a weapon, Arjen realized, as it landed with a soft, gentle thud – to the ground. Even a broken knife can split a throat open. What could have been tears dripped down its cheeks, face translucent with fear. Like a half-mauled rabbit staring at the stone held above it.

“Am I going to die out here?” The outsider seemed to whimper, smearing its face with dirt as it swiped across its eyes.

Arjen remained silent, blade so close to its neck he could almost feel the heat of the figure’s blood against his skin. Perhaps Arjen could have completed the action and freed the poor outsider from its suffering, but the figure seemed to notice his presence again and began to crack its eyes open. They were unlike the cold darkness of rabbits, the shallow emptiness of small food mammals. No, they were wide and alive and almost glowing with fear, a pale blue similar to his own. Arjen’s knife took a different route, carving through the fir branch until only a small stump remained to seal the figure’s wound. His throat seemed ready to strangle him until he was sure the figure wouldn’t bleed out in front of him. Of course, Arjen thought to himself, as he spun a lie of how long an eye could last before it rotted to putrid jelly as he slipped the knife back into his pocket. The figure had to be closer to the Jar before the dismantling could begin, lest his rancid eyes offend Splodge.

“Here,” Arjen winced at the figure’s screams as he dragged it to its feet. It was taller than him by a head or so, and Arjen craned his neck to examine the outsider’s face. Supposedly his stature played a role in Splodge’s decision, or at least Mayor Baird assumed so given the decades-long trend of people of Cardended able to hide within the most minute brush being selected as hunter-collecter. The outsider had managed to grab its canister, muttering something under its breath of the dangers of the night. Its face was drying but remained pinched in softened agony.

“You are in need of a healer. My village is just down the mountain.” The words seemed to soothe the outsider enough to get it to start moving, and Arjen felt a tinge of guilt that he quickly smothered within him. He swallowed a mouthful of saliva — whether from disgust or desire, he wasn’t sure — as he forced himself to imagine the slaughter of the outsider. The warmth of blood against his hands, the death rattle Evonna took great pleasure in describing to him. But, Arjen’s thoughts quickly turned against him, flickering back to the cellphone, the moment of honesty that Evonna swore was impossible. Though he kept himself and the figure in motion, he mentally redrew their route away from the Jar and toward Cardended. He needed a moment to gather his thoughts, he decided. He wanted to smile as brightly as Evonna when he completed his task.

“A village? I thought it was illegal to build in these parts.” Arjen stayed silent. Of course, an outsider would not have heard of Splodge and Its many miracles, the allowance of Cardended being one of them. Though part of him wished to espouse the greatness of the shadowed deity and the Stone Tablet it spoke through, doing so could reveal the need for the eye sacrifice. Arjen doubted that many outside of Cardended would be willing to give their eyes for Splodge of their own accord.

“How did you fall?” Arjen couldn’t say that he cared to understand the methods by which Splodge delivered the figure to him, but the asking itself felt necessary. He was drawn to a moment in his seventh year, one that occurred right after a memory that had long since been jostled from his brain by the rock he landed on after tripping and falling alone in the woods. Evonna had been the one who found him, and she asked him his name, the name of his brother and parents, over and over until Cardended’s healer was able to examine him. She later explained that so long as he was answering, it meant that he hadn’t succumbed to the bloody gash that still existed as a tender scar on the side of his head. It meant that he, much like the figure, was still alive.

“I’m not sure what happened. I think I just slipped or something. Wait, stop. Stop!” The outsider planted his good heel down. It was panting now, chest heaving like it was unable to get enough air.

“Can we just… for a few minutes?” Arjen allowed the body to lower itself to the forest floor. Its pants had grown dark and slick from where blood continued to ooze from the puncture wound. The outsider’s face was beginning to turn the gray of morning dew, eyelids drooping until only slits of blue. He wondered if the figure truly did require the healer’s assistance, how much blood a creature could lose before it lay lifeless and ready for the forest to consume it.

“As long as you need.” Arjen slowly circled the injured body. The lump in his chest had returned, bitter this time. He could almost picture the open gaps in the forest where the Jar stood, guarded and scrubbed by the clean-sweepers until the glass and gold shimmered like newborn stars.

“Hey, what’s your name, kid?” The outsider pointed its canister at Arjen, the strange brightness of the beam forcing him to look away.

“Oh shit. You really are just a kid. What are you doing out here?”

“I’m Arjen. I’m a hunter.” He left his answers simple and without the decorative edges Mayor Baird often ascribed to titles of both people and positions. An outsider had no need to know what a hunter-collector was, especially one who may not last the night, whether by Arjen’s hand or its injury.

“A hunter? Catch anything good out here?”

“Nothing yet. I don’t have much experience.” Arjen squinted against the beam until his eyes met just above the figure’s. He couldn’t look it in the eyes, not while they were still bursting with light.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself! I’m sure you’ll catch something, Arjen.” The outsider nodded, a thin smile forming on its face. It nearly reminded Arjen of his father’s approval at Matthias’s outdoor activities, a grin that grew joyously bared whenever the older son brought in a bountiful hunt.

“I was never much of a hunter myself, but my dad used to be.” The outsider’s smile grew warmer like it was picturing a pleasant memory. Arjen felt a ghost of a similar gesture cross his face as he recalled the nights his father and Matthias came in with rows of squirrels tied to a line of rope by their tails. The heaps of fur and blood and teeth they threw onto the kitchen table for his mother to butcher. He wondered if the figure could understand that, if it ever stood horrified yet amazed at the light fading from a creature’s eyes.

“He mainly went after deer and elk. Brought back enough meat to treat us on the weekend.” It nodded at the blade shimmering from Arjen’s pocket. “I guess you’re not going after anything that big, right?”

Arjen stared at the figure. It was smaller than an elk, less broad and prepared to lower its antlers at a predator.

“I doubt it.” The figure smiled again at that, and Arjen had to look away to avoid its eyes. If Evonna had ever conversed with a sacrifice, she never told him about it. Maybe there was something to that, keeping your victim voiceless, thoughtless.

“Oh, and I’m Jerome. If you help me up, I can shake your hand.” The outsider waited until Arjen ushered it to its feet before sticking out its hand. Its rip was limp and cold, almost soggy to the touch, and Arjen gritted his teeth to stop himself from recoiling. Another hand reached around to land on Arjen’s back, forcing him further into the figure’s presence. The outsider was shivering slightly, but its smile remained static, like it was afraid to let it drop. There was a strange scent about it, pure iron that seemed to ooze from his pores, a musk that invaded the crisp cool of the night. Arjen motioned to his blade once more, forcing his eyes to flicker to the outsider’s chest. Its shirt was damp with sweat, but Arjen could still make out the divet between pectoral muscles, a series of bones his knife could slip between. He held the thought until the scorching lump returned, this time rising until it floated above his mouth and nose and reached his eyes, oozing from gaping sockets. From how much it burned, Arjen half-expected to see blood or acid when he swiped at them, but the liquid was clear and cooled as it reached his chin.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry, Arjen.” The outsider tightened its — no, his — embrace, one hand moving to push Arjen into the crook of his neck. He didn’t bemoan the tears or mucus that soaked his neck. No, if anything, his features only softened further.

“It must’ve been scary finding me like that, but I’ll be fine, okay? You got me out of there. So please, don’t cry.” The words were jittery like the outsider was not adept with comforting those younger than him. Arjen sighed as he realized just how flawed the outsider’s logic was, how warped and tainted it must be to think that that was what upset him. The issue was not that the outsider nearly died, impaled until his body ran dry. No, the issue was that he remained alive and smiling and holding Arjen until his tears relented and the outsider released him.

“The village is down this way.” Arjen sniffled and kept his voice as icy as possible as he led the outsider further through the rough thicket and spiked vines. Several sheets of fleece-like moss rested against ancient stones, perhaps enough to plug a wound more effectively than a sprig of fir could. For a fleeting moment, Arjen imagined stuffing the outsider’s leg with the plush substance, and he quickly shook his head as if to dislodge the thought. If not this outsider, then another would have to be found, another creature in human-form with shimmering eyes and a warm smile. And, if an outsider had to fulfill the sacred duty of pleasing Splodge, then why not this one? Still, the thought persisted, weaving itself into an image of the outsider in Cardended, covered in the ivory sheets the healer draped over each of her patients. In reality, Arjen knew it was only a naive wish, and that, even if he managed to lead the broken figure through Cardneded without punishment from Mayor Baird or Splodge Itself, he doubted that the healer could do much, assuming that she was even willing to examine an outsider. Yet, he couldn’t accept the idea of it being impossible. The man was far too alive for Arjen to let him die, to sink his spoon deep within cavernous sockets and pluck out what Splodge most desired.

The outsider grew heavier as the stony roofs of Cardended erupted into view, hands clinging to Arjen in an attempt to keep himself upright. The canister had slipped from his feeble grasp several paces behind them, as did his bag when Arjen told him to drop the leaden garment. They would find it again when he was well enough to return home, Arjen promised, feeling the lump lessen as he did so.

“Where is home for you?” Arjen turned to watch the outsider, who seemed surprised by the sudden question. He imagined the figure coming from a land made of the inorganic, where beams brighter than fire lit the night sky. The opposite of forest, which seemed keen on chewing him up and leaving him battered and scarred.

“There’s a city about an hour from here by car, Alba. I moved there for college, and, well, I guess I never left.” He let out a weak laugh, punctuated by a bead of cold sweat dripping from his chin. The words rang hollow for Arjen, who was unsure of what ‘car’ or ‘city’ referred to, but he nodded, urging the outsider to speak into continued consciousness.

“I grew up closer to this forest though, maybe just a few minutes from where the trail begins in Umberton. My dad and I would go out every night and try to map out constellations. They always seemed to shift once we reached the highest peaks.” The outsider suddenly sighed, a single wheezing exhale. His words were slurred and clumsily fitted together as if he was unsure of what he was saying. “I can’t say I dislike living in Alba, but you never get skies like this over there. I’ve been trying to convince my girlfriend that we should get a place near Umberton. She hates it when I come out here alone — too many wild animal attacks, she says — so I keep telling her that if we both here, she could come with me. Smart, right?”

“She has a point. It’s dangerous to be here alone at night.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing you found me.” Arjen refused to watch the man smile. “I probably would’ve been picked to death by birds or something if you hadn’t shown up.”

“Maybe.” Arjen grit his teeth and looked behind him, where the pines seemed to huddle closer, blocking his view of the mountains. It was doubtful that the man could make it back to where he fell from in his current state, but Arjen couldn’t help but spin an image of himself dragging the limp body up to the peak where another outsider would find him. If only he hadn’t been the one to find the figure. If only the man shuddering in his arms, body growing cold and boneless, had better footing. If only he had killed the man the first chance he got… The final thought invaded Jerome’s mind before he could stop it, and he shook his head as if to force the words out of his skull. No, he had to imagine that this was at least better, that Splodge would be willing to reward his attempts at kindness.

“Well, I showed you mine,” the man chuckled. “What’s your village like?”

“You’ll see it when we get there.”

“C’mon. Humor me at least?” He stumbled slightly, and Arjen stuck out an arm to catch him. His fingers brushed over the man’s pants, wincing at the warm wetness of blood. Arjen refused to look down, lest he see the darkened stream forming at their footsteps, slow yet constant.

“Cardended is safe and where we are headed. Nothing more.” Arjen was unsure why he was withholding information from a dying man, or perhaps the act of dying was precisely the reason. No hacked tree should learn of the chair its body will construct. The outsider should remain innocent of his intended use for Cardended, that he should return to Alba without the burden of that knowledge. If Arjen told him about Splodge or the Triad or his true position as a hunter-collector, it would be worse than killing the man himself.

“Safe sounds nice….” If the man said anything else, the wet rattle at the back of his throat silenced it. Arjen allowed himself to remain voiceless beside him, realizing with a hint of shame that he could not conjure up any more questions. The man muttered something about the cold, but the nothingness swallowed up even that.

They had just reached where the thicket cleared into the outermost storage sheds of Cardended when the man slumped forward, dragging himself and Arjen to the ground. His chest barely moved with each haggard breath he took. Arjen forced the outsider onto his back. He could hardly make out the man’s features without the beneficent canister, but his eyes seemed to shimmer under the moonlight, tears a set of shooting stars grazing his shadowed cheeks. The man seemed to stretch out to the village beside him before his hand came crashing down to earth, landing with a hollow thud against cool pine needles. His motions were a slow dance reminiscent of hunting plays, a fallen creature struggling against the inevitable, and Arjen knew what he had to do next.

Arjen found where the fir wood still lay dormant in flesh and pulled against it, freeing the wooden cork from its foreign vessel. The stream quickly morphed into a river, gushing a darkened fluid that the forest floor readily absorbed, taking hearty gulps deep beneath its needles and fallen leaves. There was nothing more for Arjen to do but take the man’s – no, Jerome’s – hand and grip it tighter as the man quickly lost the strength to grip back, as if he was willing his own spirit into Jerome’s frantic gaze with each futile squeeze. Jerome’s eyes were fixed on the village forever out of reach as they grew vacant and lifeless. Eyes that Arjen swiftly removed with his wooden spoon, dismantling the body as was necessary for the hunter-collector to do. The body remained as it was, ready to be plucked and scavenged until nothing but a dying canister of light, backpack, and mysterious cellphone remained. Arjen told himself that the tears dampening the man’s shirt were bits of dew clinging to fabric, that the tracks quickly flooding his own cheeks were nothing but the rain.

“See? I knew you could do it!” Evonna greeted him as he approached the Jar, Jerome resting neatly in the palm of his right hand. Arjen placed him into the glass receptacle, wincing ever so slightly as he hit the bottom with a wet splatter. His blue still shimmered against the sea of acrid red, perhaps forever searching for the warped constellations he once witnessed. Arjen tried to think that Splodge was granting him this honor, even years before this fated moment, though he quickly winced as the lump returned, hardened and all-consuming. Perhaps this was his punishment instead for delaying the inevitable – the shaken-out thought forcing its way back in – for finding light in eyes where Splodge meant to place pure darkness.

“Do you think you can hunt-collect two more? There should be time before sunrise.”

Arjen forced himself to turn from Jerome, face cold and stoic and dripping with something warmer than rain as he turned toward the sweep-cleaner.

“As Splodge demands it.”

***

Sarah Licht is a poet and writer based in Titusville, Florida. Their work has been featured in publications including The Grinnell Review, Screen Door Review, Beyond Words and Landing Zone Magazine.