30 – The Mantis

The morning air carries a slight chill as I join Isaiah on the porch for his ritual. Golden light spills across the wooden planks, creating long shadows that reach toward the lake. He shows me how to sit and breathe, how to find stillness in a world that never stops moving. “It might feel new and strange,” he says, his voice gentle but firm, “but it’s important. Something to be done with intention and seriousness.”

So I sit next to him with my eyes closed, trying to understand what peace feels like. But my mind races like my legs do – always forward, always planning the next move, the next strike. I feel stupid, like I’m wasting time I could spend training. I crack one eye open and peek at Isaiah. He sits perfectly still, like one of the mountain statues Papa used to tell stories about.

That’s when I notice the fly. It lands on the porch railing, busy cleaning its face with tiny front legs. I watch it with growing fascination – maybe this is what Isaiah meant about finding something to focus on. But before I can settle into the observation, a praying mantis appears from nowhere, snatching the fly with deadly precision.

A gasp escapes before I can stop it. I clap my hand over my mouth, but it’s too late. Isaiah’s eyes open, fixing me with a look that clearly questions my commitment to spiritual growth.

“Sorry,” I manage, trying to keep my face straight.

He closes his eyes again with a small sigh. I turn back to the mantis, watching as it methodically devours its prey. A delicate fly wing detaches and drifts downward like a leaf in autumn. A chuckle bubbles up in my throat. The harder I try to contain it, the worse it gets. Serious giggling ensues.

Finally Isaiah jumps to his feet. “Alright! Fine! Let’s just go then.” He stomps off in frustration.

“Sorry again,” I say, hurrying after him. “But I thought you said meditation calmed the mind and body.”

“I am calm,” he grumbles without looking back.

“If you say so.”

Maybe he’s not doing it right, I think to myself. I don’t dare say it out loud, though.

The saloon feels different from yesterday – darker, heavier with the weight of men drowning their mornings in krum. They eye us as we enter, but this time I don’t feel intimidated. I have something they don’t – purpose, drive, a reason to keep moving forward that’s stronger than mere survival.

“You’re wasting your time going back there, girl.” The voice croaks from the shadows, and I find Braam slumped at a corner table. He reeks of krum and defeat, so different from the warrior who fought beside us in Arcmire.

Isaiah sighs and shakes his head.

“Let me talk to him,” I say. Isaiah nods and heads for the back room.

I settle across from Braam, watching him shift in his chair. The wood creaks beneath him like it’s carrying more weight than just his body. “How are you?” I ask, though the answer is written in every line of his face.

“I’m just great,” he slurs, lifting his cup in a mock toast.

“Have you been here all night?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you having a good time?”

“I’m having the time of my life,” he says with bitter humor.

“I understand if you don’t want to join us,” I say carefully. “I only asked because we need your help, but I know this isn’t your fight.”

“What would you know about it?”

“All I know is you’re a good fighter and you won’t be pushed around.”

“That’s right,” he retorts. “Especially not by you.”

“Your freedom is important to you, isn’t it?”

His eyes focus slightly. “It is. I didn’t realize how important until we left Arcmire. I’d never been free. I was in prison in that stinking hole and before that, I was a protector, which was its own kind of prison. When we stepped into the Dread Wastes, I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. I was free for the first time in my life.”

“I can imagine,” I say.

“No,” he barks. “You can’t.”

“Well, I have news for you. You weren’t free then and you’re not free now. You can drink all the krum you want, but you won’t be free until Solomon is out of power.”

“Solomon is a million miles away.”

“Do you think a man like that will stop trying to control this place? He’s got protectors all over Thaloria! All it takes is one infraction and you’re back in prison!”

“I’ll die before that happens,” he argues.

“Better to die with a purpose than in the street trying to fight off a cadre of protectors.”

He drains his cup and slams it down. “Goatnuts! You can be annoying sometimes.” he mutters as he pushes his chair back and stands up. “This resistance of yours is bobblegash, but I’m bored and have nothing better to do. So, let’s go pound on a few trainees.”

I try to hide my smile as Braam pushes past me toward the back room. Maybe we can get him on board after all.

The training ground buzzes with activity when we arrive. Commander Thomas Bennett cuts an imposing figure despite his lean frame – tall, black, with an air of authority that reminds me of the mantis from this morning. He paces before his trainees, hands clasped behind his back, calling out corrections with precise timing.

“Get your arm up under the chin, Kettle,” he barks at a wiry man attempting a chokehold.

“Commander,” Isaiah says, stepping forward. “I’ve got two new soldiers willing to join the cause.”

Commander Bennett steps away from his trainees, eyeing us with calculated assessment.

“This is Braam, former protector of Eden,” Isaiah says.

Bennett circles Braam slowly, his eyes widening appreciatively at the big man’s bulk. “There’s a lot we can do with this brute,” he says, sniffing disapprovingly at Braam’s krum-soaked state. “If we can get him cleaned up.”

Braam grunts. “Don’t need to be clean to bust heads.”

“And this,” Isaiah continues, gesturing to me, “is Neeka Blackthorn.”

Soldiers gather around us like curious children, probably starved for entertainment. Bennett barely glances my direction, dismissing me with the same look Isaiah had given my failed meditation. “I can probably place the girl as a cook. Maybe an archer. Can you even shoot a bow, girl?”

“No,” I say, ignoring the ripple of laughter.

“We’ll have to see if you can learn.”

“I don’t want a bow,” I tell him. “A bow is too slow.”

“Too slow?” Bennett laughs. “Aside from a blunderbuss, do you know of a ranged weapon that is faster?”

I study the man-shaped targets across the field. “Your targets are… about forty paces out. Yeah?”

“Forty paces from the shooting line,” Bennett confirms.

“And who is your best archer?”

He calls for Dasim, a pale young man with blonde hair and clean features. The soldier brings two bows and quivers, offering me one with practiced courtesy. I shake my head, dropping into a runner’s stance as the others laugh.

“What are you going to do, throw rocks?” Bennett chuckles. “Dasim is my fastest and most accurate archer.”

“Just call it,” I say, feeling the familiar surge of energy in my proths.

I glance at Isaiah and Braam, both wearing knowing smiles. The other soldiers mutter and joke, questioning whether I can even run on my “shotty proths.”

“Ready?” Bennett asks. Dasim nods, reaching for his bow.

I take a handful of dust, letting it slip through my fingers like counting seconds. Fly like the wind, I think. Strike faster than a desert rattler.

“Go!”

Before Dasim can nock his first arrow, I’m airborne. Three knives flash in the morning sun, finding their marks in head, neck, and chest of my first three targets. I land rolling, my proths responding perfectly as I spring up to demolish the final two targets with kicks that splinter wood.

I stand tall and straight and look down the row at the five targets on the right. One arrow sticks out from a single target.

Braam’s laugh booms out, echoing off the canyon walls as he turns to the stunned archer. “Guess you’re not the fastest anymore.”