A Hundred Dozen”

Megan Draper

Winner of the Tyner Prize for Fiction

Nominated by C. Vince Samarco, Professor of English

MeganDraperisanativeMichigandermajoringincreativewritingandSpanish. She began at SVSU in Fall 2020. She’s been previously published in two teen anthologies put out by Owl Hollow’s Press, and she has won such awards as first place in the SVSU Veterans’ Day essay contest and two Scholastic Gold Keys. Megan’s also an editor for Cardinal Sins. When she’s not reading, she enjoys watching superhero movies and traveling abroad. She’s an active part of the SVSU writing community and can be found at www.authormeganriann.com.

ThispiecewasoriginallywrittenforCreativeWriting:Fiction(ENGL306), and Megan enjoyed the creative freedom attached to the assignment. The story sprang from her fascination with the desert as a setting and her love of writing about sibling relationships. (She notes she draws inspiration from her own.) Receivingpeerfeedbackhasalwaysbeenoneofherfavoritepartsofherclasses, and this piece expanded to nearly double the length after class discussion. She loves how Dr. Samarco and her fellow SVSU writers push her to create the strongest work possible through thoughtful, critical conversation.

The body still looks like a girl.

Were it not for the rigid angle of her elbows and the mound of sand blown over her pelvis, thebodymight havebeenachildfrom thewestcountry.Her murkyblondehairandpaleskinmatch the others. She might have sat up, rubbed the golden grains from her eyelashes, and asked with a full-toothed smile, “Please, can I have a drink of water?”

But it’s not a child from the west country. Bodies do not sit or rub or ask.

“Why doesn’t she have shoes?” Card points to the bare and blistered toes.

If Sare were here, she would scold him for asking. Sare, though only a few years older than I am, acts as if she were from Mom’s generation. She works in silence because someone long dead decided it was rotten luck to speak when looking at a body. I don’t know if she believes that, or if she just believes enough in our mother.

I am not Sare. Proximity to a body shouldn’t deter conversation. A cook doesn’t stop stirring the pot in the presence of a corn husk. I answer Card, “Her family took her shoes.”

“Why?”

“They might have another child who needed them.”

“Why didn’t they take her?” he asks. He hovers over the closed eyes but doesn’t touch. This is only the third body he’s seen. They are still like blown sandglass to him delicate and unique.

I kneel and sweep part of the sandy blanket away. Rust-colored pants whip loosely around the ankles. The shirt is here, too. Most families can’t afford to leave so much. They must have adamant respect for their dead. Or they haven’t yet gotten used to leaving naked corpses behind. I say, “They have a long way to go. It doesn’t make sense to carry the extra weight.”

“She doesn’t look very heavy.” Card kneels, bravely brushing his fingers over the body’s shoulder.

“Good. Then I don’t want to hear you complain.” I swing my pack off my back, untying the drawstring. I start by stripping off the pants, folding and tucking them into the pack. The fabric is coarse and thin but not the worst desert garb I’ve seen. Some fools from the east country don’t even wear pants long enough to tuck into their boots.

Card and I strip the body to undergarments. Per the burial tradition of the west country, a single coin rests on the navel. The dull, dark metal contrasts with the pale skin. I pocket it.

“What do you think her name was?” Card asks. He stands still as I button up the bag on his back.

“It doesn’t really matter,” I say.

“Maybe her mom was a tailor. Her clothes all fit really good.”

“Really well.”

“I bet she liked tigerfruit lilies better than all flowers. And she liked to do hair, which is why hers is all braided.”

I pat my pocket to make sure the coin hasn’t escaped. “There’s no way to know any of that, Card.”

“Then maybe she had older siblings do her hair like Sare cuts ours. She was scared of the knife, though, like me, so she held super still. And when the haircut finished, she got to play with their pet lemur-fox.”

“

Lemur-foxes don’t live in the desert.”

“But they live in the west country! Uncle Dario saw one before,” he protests. “She had one.”

I shake my head.

Sand slips over my hard-soled boots, covering and uncovering the toes with every step. Our camp looks closer than it is, a soft blur waving in the heat. Our family must have finished unloading the wagons and unhitching the camel-rhinos.

I take a long drink of water from my sling and hand it to Card. The desert spreads across the horizon like precious butter sizzling in a pan. Sunlight colors everything gold. This must be the most beautiful place on earth.

Not that I’ve seen anywhere else to compare. I was born in the desert. Its ferocity pumps through my veins. My people have made this place our home for generations, migrating across the sands as traders and survivors. I don’t know how many nomadic tribes there are. Aunt Mora once said that as long as there are more desert wolves than people, the desert won’t mind. She also believes we shouldn’t talk around bodies.

When we go to the greatest oasis, there are usually four or five other family groups. Most of them have lived here as long as us, some even longer. I’m old enough now that the adults let me sit in while they share news and gossip. Most of the talk consists of which country has recently attacked, what refugees have said, and how bad the next sandstorms will be.

I’ve yet to enter the east and west countries. Sometimes, when we’re close to a border, I can see smoke clouds so large they make my eyes burn. Uncle Dario offered to take me with him last time he went into the city to trade.

“C’mon, boy. I can teach you how to talk to the merchants. There are riches in the cities that can’t be found here,” he’d said.

I’d refused. I imagine the east and west countries to be as ugly as our desert is beautiful. Refugees wouldn’t risk everything to escape otherwise. They cross from both ways, always believing that something better can be earned on the other side. They don’t consider stopping in our desert. I hate them some for it.

When we reach the camp, I’m glad to see we haven’t missed the evening meal. My family gathers in a lazy circle, sitting on bundles of supplies. The twins try tossing bits of salted meat into each other’s mouths. Sare hands me a full water sling as she tousles Card’s hair.

I know what the refugees call us.

Scavengers. Vulture-rats. Magpies. Thieves.

Lookingatmyaunts,uncles, andcousins, Itryto seethemthroughanoutsider’seyes. Aunt Harmony’s belt bears a baron’s seal from the west country, but her headscarf is from the east. My eldest cousin wears a silver necklace tarnished brown a souvenir taken from a skeleton on a dare. The weapon slung across my great-uncle’s back saw both sides of the war before he took it from a guardsman’s grave.

There’s no shame in taking what someone else has left behind. Besides, the refugees are the ones escaping blindly into our desert. They come to us for supplies and advice when desperate enough.They’retheoneswhoscurryacross thesandlikeworm-tailedrodentssearchingforanother crevice to hide in.

When Sare wraps her arm around my shoulders, pride swells in my gut.

“What did you find?” she asks.

“The girl was from the west,” Card answers. “She was going to be a warrior.”

The distance between Sare’s brows closes dangerously. “What?”

Card shrugs. “Or maybe she’d work with medicine like Aunt Harmony.”

“Ignore him,” I say. I show her everything.

“Are you awake?” Card hisses.

We lie cocooned in our bedrolls. Card and I have shared a tent since he was born. Sometimes, when the windthreatens sandstorms, all of us pile into the covered caravan. There isn’t enough room for us all to lay down inside, and I can never sleep. On those nights, I listen to my cousins’ snores and Card’s giggles while Uncle Fare whispers stories of great hunts across the dunes.

I keep my back to my brother. The wall of the tent billows, a shadow moving against shadows. I’m pretty sure he’s going to ask me to go outside with him while he pees. He hasn’t outgrown fearing the dark. “What is it, Card?”

“When I die, will you take all my things and the coin from my belly?”

I flinch. The image of Card, eyes open and tempting the birds, fingers curled stiffly at his sides, crashes over me. Tears gather at the corners of my eyes. I’m glad he can’t see my face. “It’s different when one of us dies,” I answer when I’m sure my voice won’t betray me.

He sighs, a frustrated child. “How is it different?”

“It just is.” Dad died before Card was born. He was a toddler when Mom and baby Milly got a fever from a west country family who’d shared our fire. I remember both times and GreatGrandma before that. I remember the strangled silence as we left the bodies behind. We scavenged as much as we could, but it was a different kind of taking. Shame flushed my cheeks. I understood why the refugees look at us like we’re the dirty ones.

Card interrupts my thoughts. “Probably ’cause we know each other, right? We don’t have to guess.”

I succeed in blinking away the tears. “Sure.”

“What do you think that girl was like?”

Tension spirals down my spine. My shoulders curl toward my ears. “Stop talking about her. She could have been any hundred dozen things. It doesn’t matter!”

In the wake of my outburst, the silence weighs like stones on my chest. I usually leave the yelling to Sare. Before my pride quiets enough to allow an apology, Card’s small voice brims with wonder in the darkness.

“A hundred dozen,” he whispers.

Several days later, when the sun hangs low in the sky, we catch up with the girl’s family. First, we find a small body that smells like sour urine. Desert wolves discovered the body before we did, so there isn’t much. I pretend my stomach doesn’t heave at the sight. Grandpa flips the bloody coin from the body’s navel in the air as we walk, letting the twins shout bets on how it will land.

A few miles later, the bodies of the parents lay half-buried. Their arms are around each other, their mouths full of sand.

“Dehydration,” Aunt Harmony says. She looks away from the bodies when she speaks.

“Shame. We could have traded,” says Uncle Dario.

“They might still have food.” My great-uncle points to the packs on their backs. That sets us all to work. I swarm around one of the packs with my aunts, turning away from the bodies holding each other. Card follows, eagerly peering over my shoulder.

Aunt Harmony pulls out the first treasure. A pair of white working gloves.

“Watersnake skin,” I observe.

She holds them out to me with a smile. I take the gloves and lay them in the sand. We find a baby blanket, a coin purse, another pair of gloves, a pickaxe, an empty canteen, and a change of women’s clothes. The clothes and gloves are evaluated and divided. The pickaxe is freshly sharpened and could make for a good trade when Uncle Dario ventures to the city. What did the refugees think they would do with a pickaxe in the desert?

Aunt Mora deems the pack itself too worn to take. She cuts off the woven cords and leaves the rest. The sun has disappeared behind the horizon, and someone has started a fire. A chill sweeps through me. My feet are glad we won’t be walking more, but I wish we’d moved further from the bodies.

“The desert wolves are probably still inthe area. They know there’s food here,” Aunt Mora says.

I put my hand on Card’s shoulder. He tugs on my shirt. “What do they use those white gloves for?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve never seen gloves that color. They looked special.”

“They don’t need them anymore,” I answer.

“Do we need them?”

I thump his back, pushing him toward the fire. The night cools my cheeks. “Let’s go eat.”

My eyes open to the dark.

“I have to go pee,” Card whispers.

I roll over to face him. He’s only a black outline of curls and small shoulders. Exhaustion pulls at my eyelids. “Go by yourself,” I mutter.

“I don’t want to.”

“Take a torch.”

“Please.”

“No, Card.”

He groans like I’m the one being difficult. “I’ll pee in the tent. I’ll do it.”

I drag a hand over my face. “Fine. Fine, toss me my shoes.”

A second later, they thump beside me. I tug them on, grumbling about little brothers loud enough that Card can hear. A soft fumbling sound tells me he’s putting on his boots. He tugs at the ties holding the tent flap closed, and the hazy light of the stars and moon falls over our bedrolls.

Coals glow in the dented sand where our fire has burned out. I take one of the oil-soaked torches from the caravan and dip it into the coals. Fire catches. Card holds my hand as we walk away from the camp. Normally, I wouldn’t let him hold onto me, but no one is around to see.

When we’ve walked far enough, he lets go and takes several steps away. He turns around and drops his pants. I rub my eyes while he relieves himself. The flicker of the torch and the patter of his pee are the only sounds in the night.

I hear him pull up his pants. I expect him to take my hand again, but I don’t hear him come closer. “Are you finished?”

“I see something,” he whispers.

I whirl, the torchlight bending to the movement. My blood chills.

The desert wolves’ eyes reflect the moonlight like water. The nearest one is close enough that I can see a pale scar along his front leg. Their fur is the golden color of the dunes. I count four, but there must be more nearby. Desert wolves always travel in packs. I’ve seen them during the day when their coat reflects the sunlight like darting rays. In the dark, they are pale and unremarkable like they were shaped from the sand itself.

I push Card behind me. The scarred one bares its teeth. Card whimpers, burying his face in the small of my back.

I wave my torch and shout a wordless warning.

One of the wolves yips back as if to call my bluff.

Card is crying now. I can feel the shake of his frame. My arm waves the torch, but it feels detached from my body. I scream louder.

The lead wolf takes a step back. Its muzzle is thin. Its shoulder blades protrude over the top of its head.

“Go! Leave us alone!” I bark. My heart pounds in my ears as loud as a screeching vulturerat.

It growls. The other wolves echo the sound. I know a threat when I hear one. A shift in its shadow. A lowering of the head.

My lips part.

Just before its paws leave the ground, an arrow sprouts from its breast. A shrill whine simmers in the air. Voices shout behind me. I’m rooted in place as the other wolves’ ears flick and theyhunchbackward.Iswear one of them glancesmournfullyat their deadpackmember. Together they turn and sprint away.

I find myself gasping for air.

“Boys!” Uncle Fare grabs my shoulder. He pulls me against him with the hand not holding his bow. Card still hasn’t detached himself from my back.

“We’re not hurt,” I say breathlessly.

Uncle Fare affectionately pats my cheek. Normally, the gesture would be insulting, but I don’t care. I feel young and vulnerable.

Uncle Fare pulls the wolf’s body over his back, gripping the front legs. Card doesn’t let go of my shirt as we follow him back to camp. Uncle Fare drops the wolf beside the pit where my great-uncle is already rebuilding the fire.

Aunt Mora comes out of the caravan, a knife glinting in her hand. After making sure we’re uninjured, she kneels beside the wolf. I turn Card’s face away as she slices from the throat to the tail. A waft of bodily fluids reaches my nose. My eyes water.

“We can always use more pelts,” she says.

“Fresh meat will be a good change,” Uncle Fare agrees.

I guide Card back to our tent and leave them to finish taking what they can from the desert wolf.

Card slips into my bedroll with me. It’s been years since we’ve slept together like this. I don’t try to dissuade him. His bony elbow pokes my chest, and my arm wraps around him.

“You don’t have to be scared,” I say. As soon as the words have left my mouth, they sound stupid and hollow.

Card snuggles against me. Maybe he has enough faith in me to believe the words. He says, “I’m never going to pee alone.”

I laugh shortly. “That isn’t the lesson you should take from this.”

“Then what is?”

I wasn’t expecting the question, so I say the first thing that comes to mind, “Always carry a torch.”

“So your family can see you?”

“Sure. Exactly.”

We don’t talk, again, but it’s a long time before either of us falls asleep.

I awake to the smell of meat cooking over the fire. We pull on our shoes and duck out of the tent. I don’t see Sare up yet. She’s going to yell at me for what happened with the wolves. I can already hear her lecturing about how reckless I was. Dread sinks in my gut.

“Do you think the wolves found the family?” Card asks. He takes off one of his boots and balances on one foot while he dumps sand out of it.

“Everyone was safe in their tents.” I grab his arm to steady him. His hair curls around his ears. Sare needs to cut it soon.

“Not our family. The family we took everything from yesterday.” I cringe at his phrasing. Family. I refuse to label the bodies with a title so intimate and alive. Took. It isn’t taking if there isn’t an owner. “It doesn’t matter if they did. We’ll never see them again.”

“Because they’re dead?”

“Yes,” I say sharply. My shoulders rise toward my ears.

“They found the little girl before we did, so maybe they’ll come back for the mom and dad.”

I don’t answer, hoping it will put an end to his questioning. My mouth waters as I watch Aunt Harmony remove the cooked meat from the spit over the fire. He continues, “They’re like us, aren’t they?”

“The people were from the west country. They’re not like us.”

“Not the people,” he says exasperatedly. “I mean the wolves.”

My stomach flips at the memory of the bodies I’ve seen torn apart by desert wolves. Bloodied sand always makes bile rise in my throat. Before I can answer, the twins emerge from their tent, bouncing toward Card and talking over each other.

“Dad says you saw the wolves!”

“Did you ”

“What happened?”

“ fight them?

Card lets them drag him away, grinning. The twins are only a few years younger than him. He’s used to being a hero in their eyes.

Despite the sunlight breaking over the horizon, I shiver. Card’s question lingers like sand in my teeth. They’re like us, aren’t they?

I want to deny it. I don’t want anything to connect me with the beasts that tear apart carcasses, the monsters that will likely populate Card’s nightmares.

I think of Aunt Mora’s efficient slice through the wolf’s skin. She’ll have cut it in a way to preserve the largest sections of the pelt. The meat we don’t eat today will be dried over the fire. Whatever fat there was could be used in stews or as grease. She’ll have saved some sinew and tendons for stitching wounds. We’re stocked on most tools, but she might’ve cleaned a few bones to carve into whistles for the twins. The largest teeth can be added to the leather cord Uncle Dario wears proudly around his neck. Wealthier merchants in the cities will buy intact skulls sometimes as exotic trophies.

The process feels so whollyhumantome. Then, Iremember the bodyofthe girl the wolves found. They ate everything they could. No reverence for the dead. They did what they needed to do to survive.

Maybe the wolves would be proud of us for using their dead brother. Maybe they’d recognize that we’re also doing what needs to be done. It’s never been personal.

Two days later, I wake to Sare’s hand on my shoulder. Diffused sunlight fills the tent. She shakes me hard enough to jar my jaw. Her dark brows nearly touch. “Where’s Card?”

When we find him, Card looks like a body. The desert wolves were merciless. His clothing is torn so severely it will do only for bandages or oil-soaked rags for torches. There are too many pieces of him missing. So much protruding white and red. I bend over and vomit.

A burned-out torch lies a few feet from Card.

Sare falls to her knees, the soft puff of sand resounding in the great desert silence. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. No words for even this motionless boy. What rotten luck does she have left to fear?

I slide a hand into his hair, fiercely aware of how his scalp clings to warmth. Tears skid down my cheeks. I envision myself collecting the precious drops of water and dripping them down his torn throat. He awakes, and we go home.

“A hundred dozen,” I croak.

Sare glares at me through her contorted expression. She doesn’t understand.

“A hundred dozen,” I repeat. We say nothing more as we strip Card and leave him naked in the sand.