Apples in Applath

Chapter 1

Freedom sounded a whole lot better in theory.

Bobby would agree. That is, if he could have responded. Marcus knew they should have let Bobby be found. Better yet, one of them should have stayed with Bobby while the other ran for help. It would have been the right thing to do, even if help meant going back to jail. But Bobby had insisted he could manage, and Marcus really wanted to believe him. Now it was too late.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Nothing was what he thought it would be.

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He was scrunched up in a hollow in the shrubbery. James had helped get Bobby under the bushes and had gone back out, but Marcus was anxious for James to return. He didn’t want to be alone with Bobby motionless beside him, pale as chalk.

At least he’s stopped that awful moaning, Marcus thought, then reddened. It had been awful to listen to, yet surely tolerating a groaning noise was nothing compared to what Bobby had endured.

Their hiding place lay a few yards to the left of the dirt path they’d been on earlier. Eagle-eyed James spotted the space. A good thing it was, too: Bobby was like dead weight, and they couldn’t continue to lug him. Also, Marcus knew they needed to get Bobby’s brain level with his heart to give it oxygen, or whatever oxygen was left with all the blood he’d lost.

Marcus kept glancing at Bobby. His friend’s short, brown curls were plastered against a pasty face, and blood soaked clear through the shirt they’d stripped from him to tie around the mangled leg. A dark stain spread under Bobby’s thigh. It had to have dripped on the path, too. As if drag-prints weren’t enough to give them away. So much for their previous zigzagging and backtracking: even half-brained marshals were sure to find them now.

The brambles shook small, pointy leaves onto Marcus as James wriggled his wiry body into the small space and crouched on the other side of Bobby.

Swept over our steps with a stick, James whispered, tilting his flaxen buzz-cut head toward the outside. Made tracks with my feet as if we continued ahead. Confuse the trackers.

Marcus nodded. He wouldn’t have thought to do that but James was smart about such things. He took a deep breath, relieved to have James back. The hollow was shady and cool after the direct sun, and the floor felt comfortably leafy. Marcus wondered briefly whether this was something’s den and decided just as quickly it was better not to know. His stomach growled. They had been hungry and tired for two days. Now they were also scared, and Bobby could be dying. To make things worse, Marcus’ bladder began cramping. He needed to take a leak but was farthest from the hollow’s entrance. Now what?

He shifted uncomfortably and James glared at him—too much movement must make the bushes over their head move. It would practically broadcast their position.

Marcus pointed in the general direction of his groin and grimaced.

Water some bushes, James shrugged. Wouldn’t matter for smell anyway. Not if the marshals are capable of half a sniff.

Marcus knew what James meant. Bobby had wet his pants when he went limp, and he reeked. They couldn’t leave a bigger trail if they had placed neon pebbles and glittering breadcrumbs.

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Nothing was going according to plan.

Not that there was much of a plan to begin with. Grandma would have shaken her head at him with the disappointed look that always made the pit of his stomach sink with guilt. He hated when she did it but would give everything to see it again. He missed Grandma, even missed her pestering. She understood.

It’s the red hair, she had said, ruffling his carrot-top. We freckled-temper people have mouths and feet that run too far ahead of our reason. He remembered being flustered because she was most definitely not a redhead. What little hair was on her noggin had sprouted in spare tufts of white on an expanse of bald skin covered in brown blotches. She called those liver spots, and that made even less sense to him, seeing how they were on her head. He must have been real little.

Grandma was right. He should have thought before he acted or he wouldn’t have sneaked out the night of the fire. ... He would have been there to help her out. Whether it was his red hair or not, he never did stop long enough to consider what might happen. Not then. Not now. He wasn’t sure whether dead people looked down on the living, but if they could, no doubt Grandma would be frowning. It made him sadder. His bladder cramped again.

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Marcus unzipped and tried to go. It was hard to let out his stream in a half-reclining, half-crouching position, but he figured he’d better get used to awkwardness. When the marshals caught them, he and James would surely each get a Penthouse. Bobby, too, when sufficiently recovered. Not much headroom in those and no peeing-while-standing. Four wide by four tall by seven feet long, bucket in the corner, small flap that can be unlocked to allow the slosh bucket out and the mush bowl in: jail’s accommodations for troublemakers. It got bad in a hurry in there. How long in the Penthouse did you get for running away? He shuddered, pushed the thought away and tried to relax so he could pee.

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You guys waiting till he’s dead? The sound came from directly over their heads.

Marcus startled, turned, and almost fell on Bobby. James reached over with one hand to brace Marcus, while the other flew to his belt for the knife he did not have—a reflex from earlier times. With Marcus no longer at risk of squashing Bobby, James stuck both arms through the brambles and made a hole.

A ball of undulating brown hair dangled about fifteen feet above them.

The hair belonged to a head connected to thin shoulders and torso in a faded shirt which merged into thighs and knees in cutoffs. No feet. Marcus squinted. A child was hanging upside down from a branch far from the main tree trunk. The branch bobbled but the child did not, defying common sense and gravity.

You speak English? the head talked, then disappeared. There was a blur of movement through the air, and the child manifested right side up and on the ground beside their lair.

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James popped like a cork out of the shelter, aggressive.

Laughing, the child flipped neatly back and got some distance between them. Whoa. If I wanted to get you in a mess, I would have dropped a hint with the bounties half-an-hour ago. Saw you coming from a ways away, the head tilted to the canopy. The name’s Monkey, reason’s obvious.

James nodded warily. He glanced around while Marcus scrambled over Bobby and got out, too. The slender kid barely reached to their chins but didn’t look at all worried at the size or number imbalance. Marcus figured didn’t have to, being able to flip and climb like that.

Marcus, he noted. That’s James, and over there is Bobby, he pointed, ignoring James’ dagger eyes. If the kid was with the marshals, they were doomed already. If not, their names hardly mattered. Then again, maybe using their real names was one of the not-thinking-before-acting bits ... too late to fix anyhow. Bobby’s hurt.

You don’t say, Monkey grinned, white teeth sparkling in an olive-skinned face under dark eyes and hair that somehow rearranged itself into a tidy bowl cut. And here I thought he was just taking his beauty nap. Then the grin dropped and the kid flipped backwards a few times and scurried up the tree trunk like a squirrel, appearing a moment later on the same branch above them. Keep a watch, Monkey said, not even out of breath. Good height, less surprises.

Marcus gave James an I told you so look. James pretended to not see it.

What happened to him?

Nothing that’s your business, James growled.

Marcus sighed. James could get like that, especially when he was stressed or scared, and he had to be both. Marcus certainly was.

A trap, Marcus explained. In the reeds by the water. It closed on his leg.

Monkey whistled softly. That’s two miles from here. There was respect in the dark eyes. You carried him all that way?

Just the last few hundred yards. He walked till then, sort of.

The respect grew, and something else, compassion, maybe. That’s far on a broken leg.

James took a step back. How do you know he broke his leg? You been following us? Who’s with you?

Monkey chuckled. Calm down. I saw you coming. Hard to miss a carrot walking, the kid pointed a chin at Marcus, and anyway, it was clear he had a leg problem the way you were barely holding on to him. Carrot here said it was a water trap. I know those. They are built to break bones. How bad is it?

My name’s Marcus. His thigh is really mangled. Marcus’ voice shook. He lost a lot of blood.

Monkey nodded, scanned the horizon, flipped off the branch and dropped back softly to the ground. The child looked about nine or ten years old and seemed to have no bones. Monkey walked toward the shelter, neatly sidestepping James when he tried to block the way.

Marcus grabbed James’ arm. Let him. Maybe he can help.

She. And I can’t help, Monkey said, peeking inside the shelter. But Bear might.

You’re a girl? Marcus blurted, blushing.

What’s with the animals? James snorted.

Monkey raised her eyebrows at James but didn’t take the bait. She stood back up. He’s gonna die, she stated. That’s a lotta blood. Nasty stuff on the traps besides. It makes the blood go bad. Well, what’s left of it. Bear’s the only one I know who may help. Can’t say he’d want to, but you better try.

Who’s Bear?

She didn’t answer. You’ll need a stretcher.

Thank you, genius. If we had one, we would have used it earlier.

Marcus shook his head. Shut up, James. Where can we get one?

Monkey regarded them. You greener than the grass in April, you two are. How long you on the run?

James hissed at Marcus, but Marcus didn’t care. Three.

Just three weeks? She took pity on them.

Marcus blushed redder. Days.

♦

Monkey helped them make a stretcher. Or rather, she made it and they held here and held there and watched. Given the skill with which she wielded the knife she pulled out from under her pants leg, it was no wonder she’d been impervious to James’ aggressive posturing. Marcus figured if she chose to, she could skewer the both of them and be up that tree before they even knew what had happened.

Monkey chopped two thin branches, stripped off any twigs, and asked for a shirt. Bobby’s shirt was on his thigh and James wasn’t parting with his, so Marcus pulled off his own top. He’d be lobster-red in a half-hour, but so be it. The girl cut the fabric into strips, tied them end to end and wove the length of cord back and forth, looping it over each branch and leaving about a foot of slack between the branches. She left the ends of the branches on either side of the wobbly rectangle unwrapped. Handles, she said.

The whole thing took no more than twenty minutes to complete. Marcus knew James was impressed because the usually obtuse James said nothing when Monkey ordered them to get Bobby out of the shelter and onto the stretcher while she took another peek from the tree to check for not so welcome guests.

Now you carry, and we skedaddle. She flipped back down. Coast’s clear for the moment, and we have to cross this open bit before we can get out of sight.

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Monkey led them quickly across the path and into knee-high weeds, then through some thickets and deep into the trees. James, Marcus, and Bobby had kept to the edges of the woods until then—one easily could get lost in there, and they had heard enough stories about the wolves and hermits, both dangerous. Monkey either didn’t care about the dangers or did not show it. She seemed to know a way between the trees, though it was only marginally passable, filled with fallen logs and nasty briars.

The stretcher was an improvement over carrying Bobby slumped between their shoulders, but the tough terrain swallowed up most of the benefit. Marcus heard James breathing hard in front of him, head doggedly kept down. Marcus gritted his teeth and marched on, too. Neither was going to whine to a girl and ask her to slow down. It was a point of honor.

They walked and walked. It could have been ten minutes or two hours. Marcus lost track of time. He couldn’t afford to look around to mark their passage. It took all his focus to keep his hands from slipping from the stretcher and the rest of his body vertical. Just when he thought he could not take another step, Monkey stopped and let out a short, low whistle. A hoot sounded, then another, and suddenly there were two boys there. Without a word they each grabbed one end of the stretcher and trotted ahead. Trotted!

Hey! James began.

Hush, Monkey scolded. You don’t yell ’round here like that. They came to help, so he won’t die before we get there. Understand?

James scowled, but from the way he rubbed his arms, rolled his shoulders, and flexed his fingers, Marcus knew his friend was probably just as glad.

Monkey continued on. Now that he didn’t have to stare down to keep from tripping, Marcus took the opportunity to look around. The forest was dense, and you could see only a little bit ahead. The boys already had disappeared. The trees leaned close. Plenty of low growth snagged one’s pants and left one’s legs and ankles raw with scratches, but the forest floor itself was soft with leaves and rot, springy almost. It made him think of childhood stories he’d read of native people who could move through woods without a sound. Monkey herself made very little noise. If it weren’t for his and James’ constant snapping of twigs and groaning at thorns, silent movement would have been possible. The thought wasn’t comforting. Hermits and wolves: surely they, too, were quiet? Marcus didn’t want to run into either, but couldn’t shake the feeling the former was imminent.

Chapter 2

It wasn’t long before they saw the cabin: a low, uneven timber and turf mass tucked into what appeared to be a rise in the ground. It was more ivy and mud than house, partially underground and topped by a sod roof that further obscured it. The door looked as if a strong wind would dislodge it, and small windows peered like brooding, dark eyes from under the eaves. A stretch of lopsided fence marked a boundary around a patch of dirt, and a rudimentary stone path led to the door. Every post in that fence managed a different angle. The cabin didn’t look like anyplace you’d want to get close to, let alone enter or explore.

Marcus caught James’ eye and his friend scowled and looked away. Marcus sighed. James could be fun company but took long to warm up after the smallest of perceived offenses. James never did like it when Marcus took charge or had ideas that did not mesh with his own. Marcus tended to let things be, but not today. He’d taken the lead in talking to Monkey, and James was punishing him for it.

Marcus took a deep breath and kept walking, matching James’ silence with his own.

Don’t look like much, James muttered once they got within a few yards of the cabin. Marcus said nothing but had to admit the hovel had even less charm up close.

Don’t need to, Monkey retorted. I’d be a lot more cordial if I was aiming to ask the owner to attend to my friend and not feed him to the pooches.

Marcus’ heart skipped a beat. He hoped she was joking about the dogs. He began wondering if they had made a mistake by following this strange kid deep into the forest. There were all kinds of lures in the woods, some decidedly worse than jail or poachers. Was this girl a recruiter for some sick who-knows-what?

He tried to peer beyond the cabin. The forest pressed close on both sides, but there seemed to be a clearing in the back, a patch of grass. Just as he took a step sideways to get a better view, three massive canines bounded toward him from behind the cabin. Marcus almost wet his pants.

The dogs formed a barrier between them and the house, teeth bared and all three barking. James cursed. Monkey did not blink.

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A large shape manifested in the opening of the shack. It unfurled and became one of the largest men Marcus had ever seen. At least he hoped it was a man. It could just as easily have been a bear, with so much hair and fur.

Hush, the man said. The dogs stopped barking, but their teeth were still visible and they kept snarling. Back off, the man ordered, and Marcus’ knees felt weak with relief when the beasts lowered their muzzles and ambled out of sight.

Look what the cat dragged in. Even the voice was like a bear’s, more growl than words.

Marcus froze. James took a step back. Where was Bobby?

They are greener than green, Monkey commented. She didn’t seem afraid. "Three days! Anyway, I dragged them in, and I am no cat."

The huge man came closer, covering more ground in his one step than Marcus could in five. If he could’ve run, he would’ve, but his legs refused to move.

What’d you do to Bobby?

Marcus inhaled. James had guts but also an affinity for bad timing and worse attitude.

I do nothing to him. You want him back as is? I bring him out.

James shuffled his feet, looked down and scuffed the ground. Um, no, I mean, after you help him?

Bear didn’t move.

Please, Marcus pleaded. We’re worried sick. Will you help?

Why should I?

It was the way he said it that surprised Marcus: dismissive, uninterested, even bored. It got Marcus angry. He could feel his redhead tongue rush well ahead of his reason. Why? Because he’s my friend and he is going to die without help and he’s still a kid and because Monkey here said you might know how to help him and that’s the human thing to do, to help someone who’s dying, that’s why. He ran out of breath.

Bear made a noise in his throat between a growl and a hum, and Marcus figured that if anyone was going to be canine-fodder it was likely to be him well before Bobby. One swipe from that man’s paw should also do the job.

The swipe didn’t come and Monkey stayed standing with hands in pockets as if this was the most casual conversation in the world.

Everyone dies. Bear turned around and ducked back into the hovel.

Marcus didn’t know whether to fume for being dismissed or to feel happy he hadn’t been smashed to pieces. He kicked the ground.

Monkey peered at him. You got some spunk, she said. He doesn’t always help but might this time.

♦

She led the way into the cabin, stepping over a raised beam threshold and going down several steps into a room dug into the ground. The space was surprising: much larger than it looked from the outside and not nearly as dilapidated. Marcus wondered whether the outward impression was intentional. Smart, if you want to keep nosy people out.

The dimly lit room had walls and a ceiling of raw beams and was filled with heavy log furniture. The floor was tightly placed wood planks. Furs hung on some of the walls, including what Marcus thought might be a bear’s head. He wouldn’t want to run into that fixture in the night! The ceiling slanted steeply on the right and less so on the left, making the space feel bigger still. A large bed with fur covers stood under the eaves to the right. Beyond it was a wood-burning stove on a patch of flagstones. Immediately to the left of the entry were hooks banged into the wall and a few split log shelves. Several hooks held cloaks or clothing, others were empty. A narrow set of stairs with intertwined branches for railing led up against the left wall of the cabin to a loft. Marcus noted a low armchair tucked under the stairs with what might be an ottoman in front of it. The whole place smelled funny. Like cedar and pine mixed with cabbage, feet, dry dirt, and old sweat.

James sniffed and Marcus turned to tell him to shut up, only to see his friend swipe an arm against his eyes as if he had been crying.

Marcus did a double take. James?! James didn’t cry, not even when the jailers made jokes about which hole in his mother he might have come out of or what hole of his they might use to cure his attitude. James’ eyes stayed dry even when they’d been told they would be transferred to the mines.

Marcus had cried, so had Bobby. Not James.

Public Relations probably advertised the mines as educational work experience for misguided youth, but among inmates the mines were known to be the worst. At least jail had running water. ... Mine wardens were said to be particularly horrid and conditions notoriously miserable: foul food, foul weather, open-air privies, days spent underground, nothing but briars and snakes for miles around. Everyone knew the mines to be pure hell, and no one wanted to spend any part of their sentence in the mines, let alone six years! Bobby and Marcus could not keep from weeping, but James had just shrugged.

Was James crying about Bobby? Marcus felt his own throat tighten. He didn’t want James crying. He wanted James to be the towhead with an attitude who talked them into running and who was always ready for adventure, reasonable or not. James never fell apart. James always had a plan. Even for avoiding the mines.

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I met that man before I got here, James had whispered while they were getting shackled for the long bus ride to the mines. The three of them were part of a shipment of fifteen long-faced youths in assorted shirts and pants. Their jail considered itself cutting-edge in social reformation. Same reason wardens used the euphemism bunkmates instead of cellmates: sounded better. Wearing donated clothes that inmates washed themselves was considered rehabilitative. A life-skill of boxers and holey socks hung on bunk-rungs to dry.

What man? Bobby had asked.

Someone, James had hissed. James always knew someone. Rarely closely—he had a knack for making people angry. As soon as Marcus learned the word mercurial, he knew exactly whom it fit. James had been raised by a gang, and if that group was anything like the bunch he himself had run with, in which individuals turned against each other to gain favor with the marshals, Marcus doubted gang life taught good friendships. Thankfully James usually satisfied his need for scuffles outside the bunk, so the three of them got along reasonably enough. Fighting bunkmates earned long stints in Penthouses. Nothing anyone wanted.

Anyway, James had whispered, his head low to keep wardens from coming to investigate and his body language warning Bobby off further questions, that man said there’s a way, same direction this bus goes, maybe halfway to the mines. There are forests. If we disappear there and hike inland and north, we can get to the border. A few days’ walk, or so. If we cross, we're free. They don’t jail younglings in Applath.

Running away had sounded brave and fun. Crossing the border to a place without youth jails felt like an excellent alternative to the mines. So escaping was all Marcus thought of through hours of the jarring bus ride, shackles clanking against the rows of metal seats and the mine-wardens’ lewd jokes in the background. He doubted fleeing was possible, but dreaming at least took his mind off misery.

Then the bus stalled in the early afternoon. They were let out to cool their heels on the side of the road in the questionable shade of some scraggly trees, still cuffed together bunk by bunk while the driver waited for replacement parts. Given how far in the boonies they were, a long wait was guaranteed.

The wardens became uglier as hours stretched and the heat wilted everyone. Any fear Marcus had of escaping was replaced by rage when one of the wardens taunted the hungry boys, giving them a taste of the mines. No food for y’all till y’all get there who know when tonight, the uniformed man smirked and bit into his second sandwich. Don’t need any barfing on the bus, and it’s no picnic trip for y’all anyway.

As stomachs growled and despair mounted, dusk approached. James, Bobby, and Marcus watched for opportunity. The wardens had to be getting tired, too. The three of them took advantage of a distraction when an inmate fell ill. It was past twilight, and as the wardens barked at the inmates to make room, the three of them scooted slowly into the shadows. Noise from everyone’s shackles created the perfect cover and they slunk into the near dark, where James and Bobby lifted Marcus between them. He relaxed his shackled legs to move in the air as James and Bobby ran.

Adrenaline and giddiness gave them energy. They got another boost when they managed to pick the lock on the leg shackles. It allowed them to run faster, handcuffed together or not. The handcuffs came off eventually, as well, but roaming didn’t turn out as liberating as first imagined. Constant fear of marshals and bounty-hunters kept them jumpy, and as hunger deepened, the prospect of more days without food made them grouchy. Jail food was boring, but at least they did get fed. Nippy nights and empty bellies took the sparkle off of freedom.

Things were getting bad, even before Bobby ended up almost dead in a heartless Bear man’s cabin. Marcus sniffed. His stomach growled. Monkey glanced at him, and he shook it off and concentrated on following her.

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They passed the wood-stove en route to an opening in the back wall when Marcus was startled by a movement in the shadows. Did the canines get into the house? He didn’t have a good experience with the species. Got bitten by one when he was small, and they all seemed to sense his fear and hope to up the damage. The jailers brought the dogs in once or twice. For intimidation, he knew, and it worked. One look at the beasts, and Marcus always agreed to anything just to have the dogs back in their cages well behind the barbed-wire fence.

Not dogs—the movement had clothing.

Oh hi, Blakely, Monkey said.

A head appeared, then a body. No neck to speak of, twisted torso, bowed legs. The kid was deformed. Marcus tried not to stare and hurried after Monkey. Behind him James yelped, It touched my hand!

Won’t eat you, Monkey retorted without looking back.

♦

Monkey disappeared to the left and Marcus followed. The opening in the back wall turned out to be an entry to a smaller rectangular room, maybe a kitchen. Like the main cabin, it was built of split logs. Hazy light entered through a window in the outer wall. The space was warm and more than a little stuffy.

The big man called Bear leaned over something, most likely a table. His back was to Marcus, and all Marcus could see around his bulk was the sole of a tennis shoe suspended in midair. Bobby’s. The kids who’d carried Bobby stood to the man’s right while Monkey took a step in the direction of Bear’s left. Between them they effectively spanned the width of the small room.

Marcus moved closer to Monkey.

Go back if you’re a fainter, she said.

Marcus didn’t know if he was or wasn’t and would have been happy to retreat if it weren’t for the fact the girl did not. He took another step forward and peered over Monkey’s shoulder.

They had stripped Bobby completely naked, and for a moment Marcus thought the girl would turn around. She didn’t seem to care, did not even avert her eyes. Bobby was so sick, it probably didn’t matter, and still Marcus wished they had covered him some. His bareness made it as if he was already dead.

The shirt bandage was off, and Bobby’s right leg looked awful. The two boys kept Bobby’s leg straight while Bear felt his way inside the wound. There was blood everywhere. Marcus’ stomach hadn’t seen food for some time, but apparently he still made bile. He forced himself to breathe. For Bobby’s sake, he would not look away.

He leaned toward his friend.

Don’t touch him, Bear growled.

Marcus jumped back.

Your hands, Monkey explained. Not before you wash. Keep them away.

Behind him, Marcus felt more than heard James falter.

One down, one of the boys said.

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The same boy told Marcus to leave James on the floor. Can’t fall any further, and no use in helping him up. If he’s a fainter, he’ll just go down again.

Bear growled a yes or a shut up.

Marcus fought his own dizziness. Between the three of them, someone needed to stay conscious, and if Bobby was going to die, Marcus wanted at least one friend to be there with him. He swallowed hard, hiccuped, blinked away tears.

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Bear did something inside Bobby’s leg. For such a huge man, he seemed to have very nimble fingers, though Marcus didn’t want to think what it felt like to have fingers poking around in a wound, nimble or not. Good thing Bobby was unconscious.

Once Bear decided the poking was sufficient, he had the two boys press a pair of cloth-padded sticks against the leg as he tied strips