Claudette packaged him up about two pounds, wrapping the red chops in white paper. It cost about six coins, which wasn’t a bad price, considering his wages.
Before he left, Claudette asked him if he planned on attending the summer festival. It was a strange question because it had never been an option before. He told her yes, thanked her, and left. The sun was fading quickly, and he didn’t know how long the blacksmith’s shop stayed open.
Samuel paced back from the pine tree and flung the knife directly into the carved X. And then another, and another, each one close to the target. The daylight had nearly gone, the clouded sky spilling over with red and orange. It didn’t stop him from continuing. The first half hour had been shaky, but his accuracy had increased dramatically in no time. His poor vision was hardly a factor anymore.
“Throwing precision is what these things are made for,” the blacksmith had told him as he pulled back his goggles and motioned to the set of three silver throwing knives that were mounted to the wall display. Samuel touched them gently, the cold metal kissing his fingertips. The knives were simple in design, made entirely of steel, including the handle, and less than half the size of his hunting knife.
He twirled the last knife between his fingertips. It was so light, the small blade perfectly designed for flight.
He was going through the motions, but his mind was on Claudette. She’d talked to him as if he weren’t an abomination. And she was pretty. A heat rose to his cheeks. For the first time in his life, he could dare to imagine a life outside of the roots. A life where he could be a normal citizen, not one bound to the faith. Perhaps one day he could marry a girl.
As he retrieved the knives to make another throw, headlights from an approaching jeep flooded over the line of pine trees. Samuel covered his eyes with his elbow as the vehicle parked and the sheriff rolled down the window.
“Don’t you have a job to do?” the sheriff called out from the driver’s side window. “How do you think the mayor’s going to feel when he hears about you messing up good lumber?”
Samuel walked to the vehicle, his shoulders hunched.
“This isn’t where they cut lumber. I thought—”
The sheriff snorted as he sipped from his flask.
“A joke, kid. Like we don’t have enough pine around here to bury this whole state in. Where’d you learn to throw like that? Ain’t half bad.”
“My father taught me. Not much else to do … that and read the scriptures.”
“Both of those things make me want to puke.” The sheriff lowered an arm out from the open window. “Looks like the mayor was wrong about the estate thief.”
“Huh?”
The sheriff licked stray drops of liquor from his mustache. “Just got back from the mayor’s place. He was packing up for his trip to who knows where, and looks like some more money went missing from his personal safe. Walked in on him beating the shit out of that brat of his when I got there. Kid was wailing like a newborn. He was cowering in the corner like a whipped pup, swearing he didn’t take anything. Pretty pathetic.”
Beat him? Samuel fiddled with the knife.
“Do you think he did it?”
“No,” the sheriff said with a drawl. “Take one look at the kid and you see he’s all bark. Besides. Why steal his daddy’s money? Entitled little shit already gets more than he needs.”
Samuel felt nauseous. “If he didn’t do it, why is he in trouble, then?”
The sheriff shrugged. “I mind my own business. So should you.”
“But, if the thief is still out there, then that means the girl didn’t steal anything.”
The sheriff snorted. “Maybe. Maybe not. Like that makes a difference now. If it’s not a thief, then it’s just a cold-blooded murderer. What’s the mayor hope to gain from keeping that thing around? I couldn’t guess. But me, you, the cleric, and the little mayor, we’re all just along for the ride. Quicker you learn that, the easier it gets.”
“What gets easier?”
“Everything.”
“It’s a bit warmer today.”
Atia was lying down on her back, her glazed green eyes fixed on the ceiling. She turned to face him, but then turned back. He tried to take her dismissal of him as a good thing. She was comfortable around him. At least he thought so. The floral-patterned dress she was wearing was covered in dirt and filth from the day before. Her red hair was caked to the sides of her neck and cheeks, and visible knots were forming near the ends.
“I’ve got a hairbrush for you, if you want it. Would you like to bathe? I’m sure it’s been a while. I think I can get the hose through the window, if you’d like.”
Atia got to her feet and stood by the window.
The sun was beaming through the tiny bars, illuminating the prison cell. Samuel tossed her a towel before resealing the gate. He went through the hall and outside the front door. He looked around for the sheriff’s jeep but couldn’t find it. The mayor had ordered the sheriff to stay by the prison as much as possible, but since he was out of town, the sheriff didn’t bother doing more than give Samuel a ride to the prison. Some days the sheriff would come back after a few hours, but other times he wouldn’t return at all, and Samuel would have to walk back to town in the dark. He was fortunate that summer was approaching. His boots crunched the snow as he went behind the prison and found the tiny utility shed. He got the hose and connected it to the outside water valve, running the water over his bare fingers. It was so cold. Perhaps this wasn’t such a great idea.
He rounded the corner and found the window. Getting on his tiptoes, he guided the hose between the bars. He could hear the water splashing against the cell’s dirt floor.
“It’s cold,” he called out. “Can you reach the nozzle?”
Samuel watched the hose for a few seconds before seeing it pulled farther in.
“Good. Just shake it hard when you’re done.”
He dug into his coat pocket and retrieved the map she’d sketched. The more time he spent staring at it, the more questions he had. How did she know the geography of the states so well? Had she traveled to all the places she sketched? Did she have any family that was alive? How had she survived that long wandering the woods? The whitelands’ unforgiving cold was bad enough, and the wolves, bears, and wild dogs lurking throughout the woods weren’t known for their peaceful temperament.
The hose shook back and forth, cuing Samuel. He reeled the hose back. He sloshed through the wet snow and headed back to the shed. After shutting off the water and putting the hose right back where he’d found it, he went back around to the front and inside the jailhouse. Atia was wrapped in the towel, drops of water falling off the ends of her thick hair. Steam rose from her bare shoulders. She was cold, he knew she was, but she didn’t show it.
He scurried over to the old hope chest sitting in the far-left corner opposite the cell. It wasn’t in the best condition. The wood was rotted through in several places, and various parts were covered with holes and layers of dust. He’d known better than to use it without asking the sheriff’s permission, however.