The first thing I felt was straw under my cheek and the steady drip of rain on tin sheets. My eyes fluttered open, blind to shapes, but too sick to speak. Pain curled around my ribs and throbbed behind my skull. I forced myself to remember: I was in the dump, the fire, the leech…
Where am I?
A rough voice cracked the silence.
"Wake up, worm."
I blinked. A woman stood over me, lantern in one hand, her dark hair clamped in a scrap of cloth. The firelight etched sharp lines into her face—cheekbones shadowed, eyes cold. She was Meera: the scavenger who blasted my leg open with salt and neem oil to force the leech free. She had saved my life. She watched me as if I were a skinned rabbit on her chopping block.
"Your eyes are open," she muttered as she spun on her heel. "Good. Now, get up. If you want to stay here, you work."
I tried to sit, but pain lanced down my thigh. The wound had been stitched with coarse thread, but the skin was still raw. My leg felt heavy, swollen. I forced out a nod.
She spat. "Fine. Crawl then. But by dawn, I expect you on your feet. If you can't move, I'll toss you back to the water—see if the river leeches want to finish the job."
I gulped air, my throat scratchy. Raising my head, I took in the small shed: rough–hewn logs, patched holes, a bed of straw in one corner, and a kettle hanging over a pit of coals. The walls were lined with odd things: battered pots, animal horns, bits of salvaged metal.
I tried to focus. Simple solution. Meera's words echoed: salt and neem leaves. Of course…why didn't I ask?
I pushed myself up, leaning heavily on an elbow. My leg trembled. Every motion sparked fire.
"Can… can I get water?" My voice was barely a rasp.
Meera narrowed her eyes. "Water? We all bleed from worms and worms bleed us. You think we have water for luxury? You'll fetch a pail from the stream at tomorrow's first light, or you don't stay."
Before I could answer, she turned toward the fire, methodically stoking coals with a long-handled poker. I remembered the scavengers had a small community here—not far from Thekkady, but deep enough into the scrub that few villagers came. They called this place "Ash Gorge," though no one had named the ravine. It was simply a dumping ground made home.
As Meera walked away, another figure appeared in the entrance: an old man, hunched but alert, silver hair tied in a thin knot. His eyes were pale, almost milky, as though he saw beyond flesh. He carried a gourd filled with something dark—probably homemade oil.
"Child, water is for the living. Eat a bit of this," he said, thrusting the gourd at me. "Smoke water." He meant whiskey made from fermented cassava.
I shook my head. I couldn't face it yet.
He followed my gaze to my leg, winced. "Salt and neem saved you. But you'll live only if you learn your place."
"Thank you," I croaked. I didn't dare choke on the words.
He offered me a wooden bowl of stale rice porridge. The crumbs of rice clung to spoon—no spice, no flavor. I swallowed anyway, each spoonful burning down my raw throat.
Meera gave me a sidelong glance. "You're not dead, I see. I suppose that's something."
Her tone was harsh, but I sensed no cruelty at its root—only a world-weariness. In Ash Gorge, everyone fought to outlast the other. One weakness could get you eaten, sold, or left to drown in your own blood.
A boy—Sudhi—stood by the doorway. Not much older than me, but slender and wiry, with a face too serious for a child. He wore patched hides, choked by soggy straw. He stared at me like I was a snake in his path.
"Don't tangle with her kindness," he sneered. "She'd just sell you again."
I had no retort. I only pressed my bowl to my chest and watched my reflection in the simmering porridge. A bent figure with haunted eyes—no longer wild, no longer free.
The old man—Jagan—cleared his throat. "Meera, if he recovers, he'll help us. He knows the hills." He half–turned to me. "Welcome to Ash Gorge, boy. If you want to belong, earn it. Otherwise…"
I closed my eyes. I will earn this. I didn't know how yet, but I felt the bones of determination stir.
Chapter 6: Into the Hunt
Dawn was a bruised purple. I limped to the stream Jagan had designated, washing my face in cold water that burned my cheeks. The wound throbbed less now—enough for me to push past the pain.
It's only my leg, I thought, splashing water on my eyes. I won't die here.
When I returned, Meera already had a small pack made: dried fish, a chunk of dried cassava, a coarse blanket.
"You walk with us today," she said, handing me a crude spear wrapped in cloth at the shaft for grip. "We're hunting boar. You ready?"
I stared at her, unsure. "I… I've never hunted boar."
"From the sounds of it, you've lived in the forest," she snapped, then softened. "You'll learn. If you don't, you can starve."
She turned away, striding into the gloom. Sudhi followed, slinging a crude net over his shoulder. Meera paused at the door, glancing back. "Try not to slow us down."
I limped after them, stepping onto crushed leaves. The raindrops settled on ferns, beading like pearls. The air smelled of moss and decaying wood.
We wove into the hills, deeper than where I'd skulked before. Twisted roots snared my feet; each step was agony. But old instinct rose. I listened for snapping twigs, the shiver of wind through leaves, the shriek of monkeys alarmed by our approach.
Sudhi trotted ahead, startling every bird. Meera frowned and jerked her spear at him. "Step lightly, fool."
The others were silent, save for Jagan's measured footsteps at the rear. He hummed an old tune—one I recognized from the tribal elders: a lullaby—slow and comforting.
After a quarter mile, Meera crouched beside a thicket. "Wait." She slipped her fingers to her lips and made a low whistle. A hush fell.
Jagan knelt next to her. Sudhi fidgeted. I pressed my hand on the ground. Nothing.
Then, a distant grunt.
A wild boar's call. Harsh and challenged.
Meera pointed ahead—a tangle of underbrush. She shifted her weight, ready.
Jagan produced a single small bell from his shawl and rang it once. An odd gesture—meant to steady the beast's nerves if it approached too fast.
I stood behind them, heart pounding. Memories of arrows whistling at my father's back flickered in my mind. I gripped the spear, knuckles white.
Sudhi whispered, "Wait for my signal."
I nodded, though I understood nothing.
Seconds stretched like hours. The forest held its breath.
A massive boar crashed into the clearing, tusks gleaming, eyes wild. Mud spattered its bristly coat. It charged, ripping through vines.
Meera lunged forward—spear raised. Sudhi flung his net in a wide arc. Jagan stepped into the boar's line, swinging an iron-tipped staff.
I froze. I had never even seen a boar up close outside childhood stories.
The boar's hooves slammed into Jagan's chest. He staggered, but twisted his staff, striking the creature on its flank. The boar squealed, pivoted.
Meera thrust. The spearhead grazed the boar's neck, spitting hot blood. The creature roared, rearing.
It saw me out of the corner of its eye and charged.
I held my breath. Instinct kicked—my father's lessons in the hills awakened me:
"Move with the wind. Let the forest guide you."
I twisted my body, stepping nimbly around a root. I jabbed the spear at the boar's flank. The shaft bounced off close to bone. The creature wheeled toward Jagan, who leapt aside with surprising agility for his age.
Sudhi began humming under his breath—some strange chant that seemed to calm things. Slowly, the boar's breath shallowed, legs buckled.
Meera ran forward, raised the spear one last time, and brought it down between its eyes.
The boar collapsed.
Silence.
Then the forest seemed to sigh.
On the Walk Home
I trudged behind them, panting, my leg screaming at me. I felt both triumphant and mortally afraid.
Sudhi clapped me on the back. "You didn't die. You saved Jagan."
Jagan smiled, placing a wizened hand on my shoulder. "You have the hunter's heart. You listen to the land."
Meera, who had been stern and silent, finally nodded at me. "Not half bad."
My heart buzzed. Meera's approval was rare as a clear sky in monsoon.
We butchered the boar right there. The others cheered softly as Jagan carved meat with deft hands. Meera portioned out chunks to each of us, giving me the largest share.
I sat on a mossy log, sinking my teeth into hot, gamey meat—blood and fat and warmth filling my belly. My leg throbbed, but the pain was a small price to pay for this.
I looked around:
Meera wore patched hides, her hair bound with twine. She moved like a shadow—efficient, ruthless, but with a spark of pride now.
Jagan's shawl was knotted around his shoulders, robes damp. He hummed an old lullaby, lips curling with a secret smile. His eyes, pale as mist, had a new light—pride in me.
Sudhi flexed his young muscles, admiring the size of the boar's tusks. He was still arrogant as a peacock—until… he looked at me and grinned. "Guess you're not useless."
Around us, Ash Gorge breathed—an abandoned ravine turned refuge. Rusted shells of carts dotted the hillside. Tea bushes grew wild beyond the river's edge. Egrets circled overhead, cawing. Fog hung low, so I could almost believe the world beyond this place did not exist.
I finished the meat. The wound throbbed less. I realized the new life I had—my old home was ash; my old tribe, ghost. This was home now. Or the closest I had.
Sudhi jabbed me in the shoulder. "Tomorrow we teach you boar calls. If you want to eat here, you learn our ways."
Meera cut in, voice sharp but not unkind: "And you scrub the pots. Clean the firepit. Earn your keep."
I nodded. My mouth still tasted of blood and victory.
Jagan laid a hand on my head. "Rest. Tomorrow, we begin again."
Meaning flickered in his eyes. "Life here is hard… but we look after our own."
I closed my eyes and inhaled the damp, smoky air. For the first time since the massacre, I felt something bud in my chest—hope.