Rae Carson: The Shattered Mountain

They set off, and Mara moves as fast as she dares. She keeps between the back walls of the hutas and the looming cliff face. It provides the best cover from shooters on the ridge, but the smoke huddles here, and within moments most of the children are coughing.

A smoking pile of rubble marks the end of the hutas , and Adán lets a small sob escape. It’s Julio’s family home.

Mara grabs the hand of the nearest child, to absorb comfort as much as to give it, and says to them all, “We wait for a break in the arrows, then we run, as fast as we can, to my father’s house. Understood?”

Their sooty faces bob up and down.

“Reynaldo, are you strong enough to carry the little one?” She’d do it herself, but she might need her hands free for her bow.

“I . . . yes.”

“Good. Wait for my signal.” She peers out of the smoke, into the clearer plaza. Large blackened lumps pepper the paver stones. They steam and smoke, and bright red peeks through cracks in their charred surfaces. Maybe, with all the smoke and the chaos, the children won’t recognize them for bodies.

Arrows rain down toward the smithy. Is someone trapped there?

Shouts sound from the ridge, and the arrows cease to fall. Thank you, Julio.

“Now!” she shouts, and the children burst from cover into the plaza. Adán leads, and Mara yearns to sprint after him, but she takes up the rear, yelling, “Go, go, go, almost there!”

Her father’s huta is in decent shape compared to the others; only the back wall burns. But that means the fire will soon spread to the gully.

Mara guides them around it to the gravelly slope. “Everyone, into the ditch. It’s steep—grab the bushes as you slide down . . . that’s it.”

The tiny girl is the last of the children to go down. Mara lifts her and lowers her into Reynaldo’s waiting arms.

“Keep your heads down,” Mara orders. “Follow the gully until you reach the stand of cottonwoods. Hide there. If the Inviernos come, run. If I’m not back by the time the sun touches the earth, run.”

“You’re not coming?” Adán says, his voice coarse with coughing.

“I need to find my pá. And any other survivors. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Maybe you can find my sister,” a boy says.

“And Mamá,” says a girl of about ten. “She made me go, and then the roof . . .”

“Muffin, my goat,” says the tiny girl.

Oh, God. She can’t possibly save them all. “I’ll do my best,” Mara says. “Now go! Be brave, be smart. Reynaldo is in charge until I get back.” And she steps away before she can change her mind or hear any more about lost loved ones.

Mara enters Papá’s huta . Smoke fills the common room; she can barely see an arm’s length in front of her. “Papá? Are you here?” A dagger of guilt twists in her chest. If he’s dead, it’s her fault. “Papá?”

She shuffles around blindly, feeling with feet and hands. Her shins knock the table, and she works around it, searching for a body. She doubles over with coughing. Her lungs are on fire, and dizziness wavers her vision. She drops to the floor and breathes deep of the clearer air before moving forward on hands and knees.

Mara finds the settee that her father loves to offer to guests, the prayer table where he burns candles to God, the shelf where he keeps his manuscripts. She does a complete circle of the room, ending up at the kitchen area—but there is no sign of Papá.

At the edge of the hearth is her father’s travel bag, the one he uses when he leaves the village to do God’s work.

Supplies. They left Julio’s pack in the meadow, but they’ll need something to get them to the next village.

It is a good thing she has practiced sneaking out during so many dark mornings, because she can find everything she needs, even sightless. She grabs the tinderbox, her favorite skinning knife, a cooking pot, a round of cheese, a package of deer jerky, last night’s bread loaf, a small pot of honey, a half-empty flour sack, an extra quiver of precious arrows.

Her father’s bag barely holds everything. Despair almost consumes her right then. She has enough to feed five children for only a day. Two if they ration. But the nearest village is almost a week away.

Maybe they can supplement their food on the way. She’ll assign the littlest ones to watch out for certain plants as they go. They’ll make it somehow, even though Mara is not a very good hunter.

Papá presented the bow to her as a Deliverance Day gift, as a show of wealth more than anything. See? My daughter doesn’t use a sling like the rest of you. Only a pine bow will do. She took it up only because it was an efficient way to scare predators from her sheep, not because she expected to hunt regularly.

The sheep! Her sweet, stupid sheep. Abandoned in the meadow without a moment’s hesitation.

She slips the bag’s strap over her shoulder. “Papá? Where are you? We need to—”

Something crashes into her back, knocking her to the floor. A huge weight pins her down, and she fights to breathe.

“You wicked girl!” her father rages. A fist crashes into her shoulder blade. “You brought this down upon us! With your sin. And now you steal from me? Before leaving me to die?”

She squirms out from beneath him, but he catches her ankle. “No, Pá! I came back to find you. I was worried—”

He reaches for her face, misses, grabs a chunk of hair instead, ripping it from her scalp.

Blackness edges her vision. She knows what will happen next. Her mind will go away. To a place where there is no pain, where she can watch, detached, as he pummels her.

Not this time. The children need her. She claws her way back from the edge of consciousness, to where grit from the floor grinds into her raw, damaged scalp and unrelenting fingers dig into her lower leg. She tries to yank her ankle away, but his grip is firm.

Terror builds inside her, becomes fury, becomes strength. She channels it all into a single, tremendous kick to Papá’s face.

He releases her ankle.

She scrambles back toward him. “Pá? Papá?” She shakes his limp body. “We have to go! Please . . .”

Blood oozes from his nose, soaks his beard. Did she kill him? She reaches for his neck to check his pulse, but the back wall of the huta collapses. Sparks shoot into the gully where the children are fleeing.

Mara grabs the travel bag and darts outside, leaving her father behind.

SHE pauses at the edge, about to plunge into the gully, but movement catches her eye. There, by the smithy. A dark shape in the smoke.

Mara can’t tell if it’s a person or a horse, but either one is worth the risk. She dashes toward it. Arrows rain down around her, and her greatest fear roils in her heart like a black cloud. If the Inviernos are shooting again, it means Julio no longer distracts them.

She plunges into the cover of smoke, choking and coughing. “Hello!” she calls. “Anyone here?”

“Here,” comes a tiny voice.

She drops to her knees and crawls toward it. It’s Carella, the smith’s wife. She huddles against the stall, clutching her small daughter in her lap.

“Barto is dead,” the woman moans. “Dead, dead, dead.”

Mara should feel sympathy, but all she can muster is panic. “On your feet, woman! Or your child dies too.”

Carella blinks up at her. Tears streak her ash-dusted face.

“There’s a group of survivors waiting for us,” Mara says. “We’re making a run to the next village.”

Carella whimpers, clutching tighter to her daughter.

Mara slaps the woman across the face, but then she chokes out a sob, shocked at herself.