Cyrus

As I wake up, the first thing I notice is the smell of rain. I relish in the moment, dissecting the smell into its parts. The first note is sagebrush. With the rain it will already have begun to burst to life, painting the desert floor with a sea of yellow. The second note is sand and red rock. Just yesterday it was dusty and punishing, taking the heat felt above, and doubling it from below. Today, if only for a moment, it will be dark, soft, and cool, as if ready to promise life. The desert is beautiful but it’s also a liar.

The third note I pick up brings me back to reality. Manure. With no small effort I pull off my rough wool blanket. It’s summer, but the rain has brought a morning chill. The couch I’ve been sleeping on for the last 3 months is in that sweet spot where it’s broken down and soft, but not so much that you begin to feel the springs beneath. I sit up and, blinking, look around the main room of my father’s trailer. It’s early, and the remaining clouds give the morning a gray light, but I can see well enough into his room to know he’s still asleep. The empty bottles on the floor and him fully dressed in bed tell me everything I need to know about where he was last night. I’ll be gone long before he wakes up.

I get dressed, put on my boots that have been too small for me for weeks, and begin to wrap my hair in a tsiiyéél. It’s custom for the men in my community to use white wool ties, but I use one dyed blue like my mother used to do. Stepping outside I head for the barn and realize it’s quieter than usual. The rain. Our neighbors will have realized it’s too wet to work their fields today. So instead of the dust and endless chatter of a combine harvester, I get to take the familiar walk to Indigo in peace.

Indigo is a painted mare, a gift from my grandfather when I turned 12. She was just a foal then but now, at 4 years old, she’s fully grown although still thin from not getting quite enough to eat. But we have that in common. I gather feed for her, taking note that we are running dangerously low. But the rain will bring a wealth of foraging for her soon enough.

After saddling up, we head for the gate of our property. I can sense we are both still waking up so I walk alongside her for the first half mile or so of trail. Passing over the hill that separates our property from the community grazing land, I begin to hear groaning from 2 or 3 of our heifers. Indigo hears it too and offers no protest when I mount and quicken our pace. We arrive at the herd and my heart drops. Another calf dead. It’s the third calf slaughter of the season, calves I was put in charge of. Was I going to be responsible for our people not reaching our quota?

Just then I hear a roar overhead and I look up to see a ship hurtling past. Was it a routine shuttle or a reconnaissance ship to monitor the conditions of our herd? Before I was born a family was accused of killing and hiding a steer to feed themselves. The Vorarae saw it as an act of open rebellion and the entire family was executed in the middle of town. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead as I remember the elders had warned us that surprise inspections could happen at any moment.

The ship continues on its route out of sight and my shoulders lose their tension. I look down at the most recent loss. I helped birth him, watched him grow and play and learn. What I see now is a hollowed out memory. An abandoned cicada skin. The chaotic tearing and thorough cleaning could be only one culprit. I imagine finding the coyotes that did it. I imagine shooting them somewhere like a leg, so I could follow them and watch them die. What would my grandfather think of that?

“All life is sacred and interconnected, you need to open your eyes to the Hozho, the beauty way of life.”

I already know what would happen anyway. I would hear their yelping as the sun went down. I would follow the sound back to their den, and there would be a litter of pups waiting for the spoils of the day. I wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger, not that I could afford the bullets anyway.

I look up at the mountains around me, their reddish brown pillars climbing up to and mixing with the now fully risen sun, like they’re sharing an artist’s palette. Behind me last night's storm continues on and I remember the smell. It is a beautiful land, there is no denying it. But my ancestors and the elders had an easier time seeing the beauty way of life. The worst they had to deal with was the white man, belagana, as my grandfather calls them. They were nothing compared to the invaders I’ve always known. Invaders that demand 100 head of cattle this year from my people or our provisions will be cut in half. Those kinds of cuts will mean starvation. That’s the worst part of this job, raising cattle that I know could feed thousands of my people, but they’ll never taste it.

The Vorarae take the most calorie rich foods for themselves. There is no concern or thought for taste, diversity, or balance to their diet. Just numbers. And that’s all we are as humans too, numbers. 1,200 people to a community. More than that brings a risk of revolt or a sense of nationality. Less than that hurts production and slows the machine that is their empire. The numbers are what have spread them across the stars.

Indigo snorts impatiently and scratches at the dirt, a reminder of the work that needs to be done before the warmest part of the day. “Yeah let’s get this over with”, I agree.

I reach into my saddle bag and pull out my drone. I send it down one direction along the still live electric fence line while I head the other direction. The Vorarae tightly control what technology humans can use, anything that boosts productivity but doesn’t lend a hand in rebellion is accepted. I fly it carefully, knowing that if I lose it to a rogue gust of wind or tree branch, the approval process for another will be a nightmare I can’t afford. Within 10 minutes I find it on my controller's small screen display, the space in the fence line that the little mutts had entered in. It’s easy to spot because of the massive area of turned up dirt. My heart sinks for the second time today when I realize it wasn’t a gap or break in the fence that allowed them in. They had dug under. They must have worked together for hours in the night to dig a hole big enough to slip under the electric wire at the base of the fence. I fly my drone in for a closer look. I smile to see singed hair on the line above the hole. At least they didn’t get away with it scot-free.

Their creativity means that what I’d hoped was going to be a half day repair will now be a month long project to lay fence skirting and stop them from digging. Or at least it will make it harder for them to dig a hole in one night. As we set off to get a shovel to bury the hole, I see a truck coming down the road that runs along the fence. My heart rate quickens as I realize the truck belongs to exactly who I hoped it would be. Haseya.

As she comes to a stop in front of me she yells out her open window, “All hail Cyrus the Great!” Instead of a traditional Navajo name, my parents named me after a Persian King. I used to beg my mother to let me change it. One day I came home from school crying because the other kids wouldn’t stop pronouncing it “serious”. She told me that wasn’t so bad, and that “Sirius is the brightest star in the night sky, and you’re the brightest of them all.”

Haseya can call me anything she wants. She steps out of the truck smiling. “Wanna hear some news that will take your mind off that hole in your fence?” She leans against the side of her flatbed casually, crossing one boot over the other. I feign interest in the pommel of my saddle to avoid staring, scratching lines in the leather and rubbing them out again.

“Absolutely” I reply. Haseya and I grew up together and she always had a talent for taking my mind off things. When my mother died she was my only friend. We would climb the water tower in the town square, bury badger holes to watch them angrily dig out again, and practice throwing rocks at saguaro until the sun went down. We were both 10 years old then and now, 6 years later, she was usually on my mind for new reasons.

“My dad told me that the elders are going to call a special meeting for everyone between 15 and 18 years old,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. This definitely grabs my attention. When we turned 12 the elders gathered everyone my age to a special meeting to give us our work assignments. It was obvious that I would be assigned to ranching, it’s what my father and my grandfather were assigned to and I’d already been learning from a young age. But it wasn’t unheard of for reassignments to be made. Maybe this was all about to become someone else's headache.

She smirks, reading my hopeful expression. “Yeah great news for you but I don’t trust anyone else with my babies,” she says, kicking the dirt. Haseya had been assigned to sheep farming. Their usefulness beyond meat meant that she had a longer time to grow attached to them. Everything from the tie in my hair, to the blanket on my couch, to the soft cinch across Indigo’s stomach had come from her careful shepherding. She was born for it.

“Who knows, maybe we’ll get to work together.” I say, instantly regretting it. “Or…on second thought I don’t know if I could handle the smell.” She smiles and raises an eyebrow, clearly seeing through my attempt to stay cool.

“Yeah because your friends back there smell like daisies, huh?” she says, pointing with her lips to the herd behind me. “But seriously, I heard my dad telling my uncle that he’s thinking about taking on an apprentice. Maybe that’s one of the assignments being made tonight”

Haseya’s father, Mr. Benally, as he insists I call him, will never take me on as his apprentice. His hatred of my father aside, he has always looked down at me. Before the invasion he and his family were wealthy merchants and landowners. During the first attacks, when the most death and destruction came, our people were largely spared because of our remote location in what was then called the four corners region of the Navajo Nation. Then, almost overnight, trade routes were eliminated, government agreements were dissolved, and no one owned anything anymore. Still, the Benally family had status and connections, and to Mr. Benally, my father and I were trailer trash.

“Yeah maybe.” I say distantly. Deep down I know I’ll never be considered for a different work assignment. Being the son of the town drunk doesn’t open many doors.

“Anyway, the meeting is tonight at the bonfire, I’ll save you a seat.” she says, reaching for her door handle.

“You mean you don’t want to stay and help me see to the affairs of my kingdom?”

“Sorry your majesty, you and the royal steed are on your own.” she gestures to Indigo who is investigating the cow’s stock tank and doesn’t seem to like what she sees.

I watch her pull away and I smile at our brief but surprisingly flirtatious conversation. Deep inside I feel rising joy fighting against creeping anxiety. What if I lose her? What if she doesn’t feel the same way? I don’t have any family I care about, I don’t have any other friends. I bury the thoughts back down deep and continue on to my shovel, ready to smother my feelings with the heat of work.

Back at the trailer, I walk Indigo back to her corral. She’s happy to be back with her own water and feed, in the shade of an especially tall Juniper tree that was here before my grandfather set up our ranch on this plot of land. My grandfather no longer lives with us. His responsibilities as a town elder have aged him and he doesn’t have the energy to come help with the ranch like he used to. I cringe as I think about the dead calf and the stress that will bring him as he reports on the productivity of our people.

Inside the trailer I find my father awake and somehow still nursing a hangover. He’s dressed up more than usual though with a clean shirt and jeans, his hair done neatly into two braids, and he’s wearing his favorite belt buckle he won on a rodeo tour when he was much younger. Even though he doesn’t take care of himself anymore, and offloads most of the work around the ranch to me, he’s still somehow the strongest man I know. Some things, like bull riding, and losing your wife, seem to change you in ways that stick forever. We never talk about my mother and it’s clear we never will. And I prefer it that way.

“Your grandpa called, there’s a meeting tonight-”

“I heard, did he say what it’s about?” I say, cutting to the point.

“No he didn’t but something in his voice sounded off, like he was distracted,” he says. I let myself hope that was because he already knew I was being reassigned. “Listen I know I haven’t been much help around here. I want you to know I’m real proud of the way you’ve stepped up-”

“It’s fine, I don’t need help,” I interrupt again. He isn’t going to get the satisfaction of clearing his conscience in a momentary state of soberness. I shower the dirt and sweat of the day off of me but before I can get the soap completely out of my hair the shower slowly trickles off. Clearly my father had been generous with the water from the cistern while getting himself ready. I swear at the shower head and towel off.

As I get dressed I can smell my father has been preparing mutton stew. My mouth waters so much I nearly drool as I realize I’ve only eaten one ration bar today. We’re allowed mutton and goat meat because of its lower calorie count than beef, but we can rarely ever afford it. I wonder to myself what my father did to get his hands on it. When I come out of the room there is a bowl waiting for me. My pride flies out of the window as I take his offering and devour it. My body’s reaction to the meal is visceral. When was the last time I had a vegetable? The softened carrots and potatoes fill a void I had forgotten was there, but the best part is the broth. Savory and meat infused, drinking it feels almost existential. Like this is the purpose of life, to move, and to breathe, and most importantly to eat. I remember the coyotes that took my calf. What were they doing if not fulfilling the purpose of their life?

“All life is sacred and interconnected…” I think to myself.

I finish my bowl but I still eat the evening’s ration bar, I want to feel full.

As the sun goes down we head for the town center. I can see other families approaching the bonfire with people my age. Some of them had been my friends in primary school, before we finished our schooling and were placed in mandatory work assignments. The town center is located near a sandstone formation called Tségháhoodzání, or Window Rock. The man made memorials and administration buildings are a reminder of a time when our people were a great Nation. Even though the buildings have started to fall apart, Tségháhoodzání still stands unchanged by time. My grandfather once told me, if the Vorarae knew what it was to us as a symbol, they would have destroyed it a long time ago.

The bonfire is roaring now as everyone has gathered in, fifteen to eighteen-year-olds are seated in front. True to her promise, Haseya has saved an open seat next to her, which I waste no time filling after I notice two of my former classmates eyeing it. I pretend not to feel their glares. In total there are eighteen of us, ten girls and eight boys. Across the fire from us are four chairs, three of them are filled with the town elders. My grandfather nods at me but doesn’t betray any emotion. The fourth chair is a stranger, a white man. His neat and monochrome clothing reminds me of something I’ve seen either on a video or a flier somewhere, but I can’t recall it.

When my grandfather stands up to speak I get comfortable in my seat. I know we’re about to hear a long story. Storytelling is important to my people, it connects us to our past, teaches our values, and keeps our language alive. My grandfather goes through the story of Earth’s creation, of the plants and animals, and humans and their sacred duty to protect the balance of life on Earth. He tells of the First World and its darkness, and how my people, the Diné, made their way out of it to the present world and its elements. I notice the stranger shift impatiently in his seat. In response I listen to my grandfather more intently. He arrives in his story to the Invasion. He tells of the first attack, when tens of thousands of Vorarae ships came and used their invisible fire to wipe out a third of the Earth’s population. He lists the famines, the failed rebellions, and the total governmental and economic collapse that followed. When the ships had eliminated all of the defenses that were worth their time, that’s when they began to harvest. Our oceans were the main export, with water being taken off world and shot in jetstreams towards their outposts. The humans that had survived had to barter for their existence. Productivity meant life. Recognizing humans to be the most advanced species on Earth, the Vorarae then introduced the Trial.

This being an apparent segue, my grandfather sits down and the stranger stands up to speak to us. Haseya and I glance at each other, realizing now this meeting is not about work assignments. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead and I look down at Haseya’s hands, which are wringing themselves in her lap.

“Thank you for that introduction Mr. Akeen. My name is Cillian White, I’m here representing the organizers of The Trial,” the man says as he begins to walk around the fire in what seems to be an almost militant stride.

“As you all know The Vorarae are bound by very strict codes and practices. These codes are what have allowed them to become an intergalactic species with a history and technology that dwarfs our own.”

Interlocking his hands behind his back he continues with the tone of a well-rehearsed speech. “Built into their code is a fundamental belief in their own evolutionary superiority. For this reason they’ve allowed Earth to host the Trial every year with a chance to prove our biological right to rule Earth through combat on equal terms.”

I remember where I’ve seen this man’s uniform before. Just last week I’d come into town to pick up salt licks and I’d seen video playing of this year’s Trial. Another man in the same uniform had introduced this year’s contenders. Far from being equal combat, everyone sees The Trial as an annual show from the Vorarae of their superiority, and a bloody reminder that even without their technology, rebellion would end only one way. I turned away from the video but the reactions from the others in the shop told of a short and gruesome battle.

“With permission from the Vorarae of course, this next year’s Trial will feature contenders that have been selected using new and cutting edge analysis. This will allow us to choose those best suited for the Trials unique challenges.”

Immediately a chorus of complaints comes from the parents behind us. Among them I hear my father shout out,”What do you mean they’ll be selected, the contenders have always been volunteers.”

Apparently prepared for this, Cillian White signals and a dozen men in matching uniforms emerge from the surrounding darkness, all of them equipped with riot gear and stunners.

He continues undisturbed,”This year the honor of fighting for the freedom of all humanity will go to three individuals who meet our unique criteria, and if chosen, their community will receive double rations for the year.” With this the crowd falls silent, considering it. The first one to speak out again is Mr. Benally.

“And what if we refuse?” he says, stepping forward defiantly. With a wave of his hand, Cillian White signals to the nearest guard who fires a blast from his weapon, knocking Mr. Benally back several feet and onto the ground in an unconscious slump. Haseya screams and runs to him. I want to run and help her but I’m frozen to my seat. Even in my fear I can think clearly enough to know I’ll hate myself forever for this cowardice.

“Please consider what your people stand to gain if one of your children is chosen. Consider what humanity as a whole stands to gain if they win the Trial. You’ll perhaps understand that the end justifies any means. Let’s begin the scan.”

Two men come forward, flanked by armed guards, with scanners in hand. They take height and weight measurements, prick our fingers for blood, and scan our whole bodies. The guards pull Haseya up from the ground where she’s cradling her father’s head and I begin to boil. When they’re finished the scanner emits a red light and two soft beeping tones. At first I worry but then I realize all of them have been ending the same way, one red flash, two soft beeps. The men are in front of me and my legs are weak. Have I always been this much of a coward? The blood is leaving my limbs, I don’t even feel the needle prick me. My hearing becomes muffled. I refuse to pass out. One of the guards holds my eyelids open wider as the scanner passes over them. The man with the scanner finishes, and watches his display waiting for the results. Thanks to the bright light in my eyes I have to squint to see clearly, but there’s no mistaking the green light from the back of the scanner, followed by three quick beeps. The man looks up at me and smiles.