Chapter One

The ground slips under my feet, dry stones breaking free and sliding out from under my worn boots as I make my way down into the protection of a little gully. It's exactly the sort of place where the tough, hardy scrub of the Wastes likes to shelter, and I can see green at the bottom, past the rough outcrops I'm picking my way over.

It might just be thorn bushes, I remind myself, trying to keep disappointment at bay. I've been out since sunrise, but with the day half gone I've still barely found enough edible greens and nuts to fill a third of my leather pack. A meal or two, at best; not enough to set aside for winter stores.

Anxiety twists my gut at the thought, at the reminder of the sparse crops I've managed to lay in, and I try to push the looming specter of winter aside, focusing on my climb.

Worry won't change things, only work can fix it, my Da always said. Those words have become my mantra in the months since his death, driving me through the grief of his passing, the despair of realizing that, alone, I couldn't till and plant the full acreage of our little homestead. Mine, now, and I can only hope the half-full fields of beans and squash clinging tenaciously to the thin soil will prove enough to get me through the winter.

I draw a sharp breath at the thought, and try to tell myself I'm seeking the tell-tale scent of water rising up from a hidden spring. A sudden gust from down-gully catches me though; I cough hard, losing my footing and sliding halfway down the slope before I find my feet again.

Dust. It's everywhere here in the Wastes, but this near town it's strangely discolored, with an acrid stink. It seems to coat my nose and throat, impossible to cough away; I imagine it clinging to my lungs the way thorn bushes wrap around rocks, digging in and not letting go.

Da used to tell me the dust is what sickens the townsfolk, kills them before their time. Killed my Ma before her time, when I was just small and Da still worked in town. Back in spring, when he coughed the last of his life away, he said those years had finally caught up with him, the dust from the big mine eating away his insides.

Normally, I don't come this near the town in my scavenging, but now I'm covered in a dirty, grimy gray layer of mine dust, my sweat making oily tracks through it, the taste of it foul on my tongue.

I shiver at the sight. I want to flee home and scrub myself in the spring that runs near my cabin, but I'm halfway down the treacherous slope, and the knot of hunger in my belly keeps me picking my way downward, even as I wonder if the food here is fit to eat.

My stubbornness pays off. Past the tumbled scree, a tiny thread of clean water trickles between worn stones, leading me along until the gully widens. Thick, healthy berry bushes grow near the mossy banks, and I can smell the pungent scent of wild onions warmed by the midday sun.

More than enough here to take the edge from my hunger and fill my pack; enough to dry, maybe enough to be worth making into jelly. My mouth waters at the thought. Da taught me how to can and preserve, but I can count the number of years we had enough to make it worthwhile on one hand. Usually, we dried our winter supplies; drying's easy, for the Wastes are quick to suck the moisture out of anything.

I dig the onions first, and find the small, rounded leaves of watercress growing among them. I shove a handful in my mouth, letting the peppery taste soothe my hunger while I line my pack with the onions, hoping they'll cushion the berries enough that I don't lose too many on the trip home.

When I finally let my attention turn to the berries, my pack fills quickly. My belly fills faster; I eat almost enough to make myself sick, the sweet juice staining my fingers and sticky on my chin. When I can eat no more, I sluice my hands and face clean in the cold creek, and lean back, resting against a boulder and enjoying the shade the overhanging bushes provide.

I watch the water, a tiny, clear trickle winding between rocks, no trace of the oily black dust tainting it. I'm still uncomfortable so close to town, but my harvesting has barely made a dent in the bounty of these hidden bushes, and the berries will spoil and go to waste if they aren't picked soon.

I'll come back tomorrow, with Da's big pack and some covered baskets, I decide. I think of the town as seen from the edge of the gully, barely more than a dusty smudge on the horizon, the shape of its buildings hazed by the pall always hanging around it. Not that close, not really, I tell myself; not so close that I can't afford a day or two to strip these bushes of their much-needed fruit.

My earlier worries forgotten, I pause to drink from the stream and refill my waterskin. The wet leather settles cool against my side, and I pull the pack with its treasure of berries onto my back. A glance at the sun tells me I should start home now; the trip is long and darkness falls early in the shadow of the foothills where my cabin lies.

I'm jubilant with my find, my thoughts full of the stores I'll set by, the threat of wintering alone no longer so present in my mind. Until today, I feared I might need to venture into town for the cold season, though I had no clear idea of how I might survive; without food for myself, I would have nothing to barter, and I have no skills to work their machines nor desire to venture into the poisoned depths of the mines.

Now, that fear is lifted, and I even forget the oily dust staining my skin as I set my feet on the rocky path back home. The air is clear, crisp and clean, the only scents the berries in my pack and the sun-warmed stone which rises to either side of me.

I'm distracted, singing softly to myself, the tunes Da taught me when I was just a boy. My steps are quick, sure, and I know these paths well, even when the lowering sun has cast the path into shadow.

When the cleft in the rock widens out into the valley where Da built his homestead, the valley where I grew up and learned to survive, I think nothing of the darker shadows lurking among the brush and fields. I head for the cabin, intent on sorting my pack and laying out my haul, deciding what to store and what to enjoy tonight.

A hand catches my arm as I reach for the door latch, strong fingers digging into skin and muscle. Other hands are on me before I can even yell, grabbing my pack and pulling it free, the straps scoring deep into my shoulders before they yield.