Anchored

The human brain interprets an image in thirteen milliseconds. At any given time, more than a hundred billion neurons are firing in the gray matter of an average kid. I learned that on my very last day of school.

The day before I escaped.

In spite of all those speedy, hard-working neurons, humans frequently make very poor split-second decisions. I’m kind of the expert on the consequences of bad calls.

If the semi-truck driver had serviced his brakes properly, my parents might still be alive. If I’d just lied about my bizarre dreams of Terra, Aunt Trina might not have surrendered us to the state. If I’d dealt with things better at the group home, well. There probably isn’t any reality where that would have happened. But if I hadn’t freaked out and screamed at my caseworker when he suggested separating me from my big brother Jesse, he might never have fixated on me.

If so many tiny details in my life had played out just a smidge better, someone else could be stuck making this decision instead of me. Someone else could be responsible for saving the world, and that would probably be way better for, well, for everyone.

Because if I'm being honest, I'm not sure the world deserves to be saved.

A few years ago, Abraham decided to add a chicken to the performing animals in the troupe’s show. We all laughed. I mean, who’s heard of a trained chicken?

Except the audiences went wild for her.

That chicken jumped up for treats. She pecked the poodle on the nose when he got too close. She fluffed up and strutted around on command.

A year later, Abraham’s poodle caught a duck, and we ate it for dinner. We didn’t find the honking little duckling until the next day.

It was all alone—doomed, really.

Or so we thought.

But our chicken adopted that duckling, ushering it around, feeding it, and grooming it. They were entirely different animals, but the chicken didn’t care. Sometimes the duckling would hop into a puddle to splash around while the hen looked on with horror, but otherwise, they were inseparable.

I’m exactly like that duckling.

Although, at seventeen, I guess I’m technically a duck.

Either way, after Mom died, the troupe took care of me. Only, unlike the duck, I can’t ever float or quack or honk. I have to pretend to be a chicken, and everyone outside of my troupe needs to believe my act.

When the first rays of the sun warm my face, I slide out of bed and dress. The first hour or two of every day are the very best—because there aren’t any other ducks around to notice me.

I can be myself.

“Alora,” Betty calls from outside. “Are you awake yet?”

“Mornings are the worst.” My best friend Rosalinde pulls a blanket over her head. Her words are so muffled that if she didn’t say the same thing every morning, I might not understand her. “And they just happen over and over.”

“The alternative is probably worse.”

“Too early for jokes.” Rosalinde throws a pillow at me.

I duck and escape out the door of our wagon.

“Wait,” Rosalinde mumbles. “Raisins!”

As if I’d forget.

I love our troupe’s cook, Betty, but her porridge is disgusting. To be fair, it’s not like anyone makes great porridge. It’s essentially mush, after all. Sugar is too expensive for regular use, but raisins make the tasteless slop almost bearable. Unfortunately, they’re usually gone by the time Rosalinde finally drags herself out of bed. Or, they would be, if I didn’t fill my pockets for her.

“I need water from the stream for washing the pots and pans,” Betty says. “And—”

“You need more firewood,” I say.

“Exactly.” Her mouth snaps shut, her hands drop to her belly, and her eyes look off into the distance. She’s not paying attention to me anymore.

“Is the baby kicking?”

She nods. “He or she is a feisty little thing. Kicks like a mule.”

“Do mules kick harder than horses?” I lift one eyebrow.

Betty rolls her eyes. “No idea, but that’s the saying, Miss Sassy. Now get to Lifting.”

I could physically reach down and stack the enormous empty buckets and then lug them down to the stream with my capable bare hands, but it’s so much easier to reach out with my duckling senses until I feel each bucket, and then Lift them into the air.

With the sun barely rising, it’s dark enough that it’s still enormously apparent when I do, because every time I Lift, light spills from my eyes—like a warning beacon that I’m a duckling to anyone close enough to see.

“At least you don’t need a candle to keep from tripping.” Betty laughs. “Now hurry along. I need water for the coffee right away—you’ve seen Martin without it. No one wants that.”

The six large buckets float through the air next to me as I skip down the path to the stream. They’re easy to Lift when they’re empty, but even once I fill them up, it’s not so bad to Lift them back to the wagon circle. I set them down carefully in their proper places around the makeshift kitchen—one on the table near the breakfast pots. One near the fire for coffee. The rest near the washrack. Betty can’t lift anything heavy right now with her baby due any day, so I make her job as easy as possible.

By the time I come back with several dozen logs and stack them in a neat pile by the fire, Betty’s porridge is almost ready and everyone else is turning out of their wagons, bleary eyed and stiff.

“I’m starving.” I pick up a bowl and ladle it to the brim with porridge. Lifting works up an appetite, almost as much as if I had actually hauled everything myself.

“Don’t be taking a double helping of raisins,” Betty says. “If Rosalinde wants them, she can roll out of bed early enough to get them herself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

But when Betty turns her back, I Lift a handful of raisins and tuck them into my pocket. We’ve been playing this game for years.

Betty looks at the raisins in my bowl and narrows her eyes at me.

I’ve never been caught, but she knows I’m doing it. She’s mostly only pretending to be annoyed. Rosalinde isn’t Betty’s daughter, but we’re all part of the same flock in this troupe. Which is why I can Lift here—safely. Without fear. At least until the citizens show up, the ones who would be appalled that a woman can do what only men can.

Everyone always says they want to be special, but in actuality they want fancy feathers or a shiny beak. They want to stand out. . .while fitting in perfectly.

If they really were different, they’d hate having to hide all the time. I scarf down the last few bites of my breakfast, carefully allocating one raisin to each bite, and head for the arena, dropping Rosalinde’s raisins in her bowl with a wink.

“You better hurry, Alora. I hear the citizens of Spurlock wake up early,” Martin says.

I can’t allow any of them to see my eyes light up, or they’ll know. I trot the rest of the way to the clearing where we’ll be performing before too long.

The framework for the set is stacked against a thick copse of trees. I Lift each piece of wood quickly and, almost without thinking, assemble the risers and fix them in place. I’m careful to loop rope around each of my corners so they don’t look anomalous, but I Bind it all nice and tight. Can’t have anything falling apart mid-show. Once the risers are done, I move to the arena floor, the wooden support pieces flying through the air.

I’ve never talked to anyone else who can Lift, and I’ve certainly never been trained properly, but it comes as easily as breathing, as naturally as running or jumping or riding a horse. Maybe even more so.

Finally, I finish by setting up the tightrope across the top of the entire arena, with a rope ladder dangling from either side. Just after I Bind the last cords and cables in place, I notice little specks moving upward from far downhill—from Spurlock castle. They’re people, trekking up the hill toward us.

Martin wasn’t wrong—they do wake up early here. Luckily, Dolores is already standing at the ticket booth, ready to take their money. Healers may not own any arable land, and they may rely on the patronage of citizens to support themselves, but at least they’re able to travel from place to place. Since they’ve taken me in, I can sleep under the stars and see all the sights Terra has to offer. Citizens may look down on Healers, but this life’s not so bad. Not so bad at all.

By the time I walk back to the wagon ring to check in, Abraham has the animals ready in their pens. The horses stomp their hooves and toss their heads, their feather headdresses shaking. Ironsides the elephant sprays the monkeys, and they shriek and throw clumps of what I really hope is dirt at Abraham. He should’ve moved her water bucket once the elephant finished drinking. I Lift it and shove it a few feet back. Abraham salutes by way of thanks.

Martin walks away from our circle and toward the arena, resplendent in his finest suit, the red lapels freshly pressed, his teeth gleaming when he smiles. Rosalinde's stretching to prepare for her contortionist act in the center of the circle, alarmingly close to Betty’s banked fire. All around me the troupe’s finalizing last-minute details for our performance, but there’s still no sign of Thomas, my partner.

When a rock flies past my head, I whirl around, smiling. He’s headed for the clearing, ready to warm up. I jog after him, excitement filling me along with big, heaving lungfuls of air.

We always warm up as the stands start filling to give people a little taste of what’s to come. Citizens have been known to march all the way out here and balk at the ticket price without something to lure them into the show. Sometimes I Lift Thomas up to the wire for our warm up, but not today. The stands are already filling. My lovely fear-free morning is gone. Now it’s time to follow my one cardinal rule.

No one outside of our troupe must ever discover that I can Lift.

Mom’s been gone for a long time and my memories of her fade more every day, but I can still hear her voice in my head, repeating the same thing over and over. “Keep your ability hidden, Alora. It’s the only way to stay safe.”

Healers can’t Lift like citizens—they can only Heal.

And among the Healers and citizens, only men have powers. Women can’t Lift or Heal. They’ve never been able to do either. A woman’s main purpose in life is to bring Mother Terra’s new children into being.

Except for me.

Martin says if anyone finds out what I can do, the citizens will take me away, ripping me from the people and the life that I love. Or worse, they could decide that I’m dangerous. . .and destroy me.

I’d rather avoid both alternatives.

Thomas climbs up the ladder closest to us, one rung at a time, and I follow after him, a little impatient. Once we finally reach the top, I grab the rods sitting on the platform. Thomas snatches both of his staffs out of my right hand, clearly ready to begin, and maybe a bit annoyed that I’ve been following so close on his heels.

He lifts both sticks over his head immediately, but I land the first strike, our poles thwacking loudly, and we're off. Our routine has changed over the years as we've grown older and bolder. Last month I added the second wire, and that has been my favorite addition yet. We race up one side and down the other, striking and blocking slowly, and then a bit faster. We’ve just started when Martin waves at us, signaling that we’re nearly ready to begin. Indeed, the stands below us are nearly full—which means we’ve accomplished our task.

Healers are allowed to camp near citizen settlements because of the service they provide—Healing for the injured. They pay for that, and it’s enough to buy necessary provisions.

Most of the time.

But if citizens get lucky and avoid injury, or if there’s a lean year, things get dicey.

More than fifty years ago, Martin’s grandfather worked with several other wagon trains of Healers and came up with a plan. They needed another revenue stream, another way to earn money and purchase food and textiles from the citizens. Now pretty much every troupe of Healers performs as they travel. Our shows usually only draw a decent crowd for the first few days in a new place, but it’s enough to cover what we need and set a bit aside. Plus, the performances alert the citizens in each area to our presence, and they bring anyone who’s injured after the shows. It’s a win all around.

When Martin stands up and begins talking to the crowd, the usual expectant buzzing begins in my arms and spreads through my body. It’s always like this prior to a performance. Before my very first show, years ago now, I was terrified, worried that I would completely screw up. I thought the buzzing might make my hands shake, or worse, that I might fall.

Today, I watch, high on buzzy anticipation as Gibby the monkey rides Fuzz the donkey. Biff, Boff, and Buff, our three poodles, jump through hoops, and Ironsides stands on her hind feet, her massive trunk held straight up in the air. The buzzing amplifies when Martin announces Betty's singing and again when he brags about Rosalinde's incredible bending abilities. When Martin announces Roland's strength, the buzzing disappears, because I finally have something to do, some way to contribute. I hide behind the barricade while Roland starts off by lifting small objects. A heavy iron barbell. An enormous barrel with liquid in a chamber at the very top, so it sloshes out. That makes it look full when it really isn't, and then finally, it’s my cue.