As I look at the FLUNs, my thoughts drift to the hepers. I quickly try to think of something else, but my mind keeps boomeranging back to them. I see them walking in the middle of the Vast, map in hand, eyes swiveling around, trying frantical y to fi nd a shelter that does not exist. A dawning realization, then a sense of inevi-tability when they see the dust clouds in the distance, the hunters bearing down on them. Then the arrival of claws and nails and fangs fl ooding over them in a sea of ardent desire.
I wish I'd never met them, never talked to them; that they'd remained crude savages in my mind, incapable of the speech or intel igence or humanity that I'd thought separated me from them.
The appearance of Ashley June in her dress and ful y made up quickly banishes these morbid thoughts. She's— in a word— resplendent. They've cut no corners on her dress. A tank- style silk chiffon gown, blazing lava red, fronted with ornate crystals. A tasteful touch of plumage. But it's her face that's the true marvel.
Soft and graceful, without compromising the fi ne angles of her jawline. And her eyes. They cast a spel , those hazel green eyes, they really do.
“I wish,” she says a little shyly, “the dress were a little brighter.
With some green to match my eyes, and a lighter red to comple-ment my hair.”
“It's fi ne.” I shake my head, knowing I can do better. “You look amazing. I really mean that.”
“You're just saying so,” she says, but I can tel even she doesn't believe that.
“It's all over for me now. You know that, don't you? all night, in front of everyone, I'm going to be ogling you with big eyes, sweaty palms, and a heart hammering, pounding away. You're the death of me, Ashley June, you really are.”
She gives me a funny look, a frown creasing her smooth forehead.
“Sorry,” I say, “was that overkil with the cheese?”
“No, it's not that. I liked it. But who's ‘ Ashley June'?”
I stare at her. “You are.”
The day my father and I burned the journals and books, we stole out of our home at noon, carry ing heavy burlap sacks.
I was just a young boy, and I cried the whole way there. Not loudly; not even sobs escaped me. But a trail of tears fel from the corner of each eye, and though the day was hot and the distance relatively long, those tears never dried.
We found a clearing in the woods. By then, our shoulders hurt from the weight of the sacks and we were glad to unburden ourselves of them. My father told me to gather some wood, smal twigs and sticks, nothing too big. When I got back, he was hunched over on his knees, his face almost touching the ground as if in deep, penitent prayer. In his hand was a magnifying glass he was using to direct the sunbeam onto a pile of leaves. He told me not to move, 198 ANDREW FUKUDA and I stood where I was, absolutely still . Without fanfare, a wisp of smoke rose from the pile of leaves that grew thicker and darker. A fl ame suddenly burst out, devouring the leaves in its midst.
“The sticks,” he said, stretching out his hand to me.
The fi re grew. Every once in a while, he'd hunch down and blow into the fi re. It'd rear up in anger and surprise, venting sparks. He placed two shorn branches into the fi re and sat back. The fi re roared with a ferocity that frightened me. He told me to fetch the books and journals, and I brought them over to him.
For a long time, they lay next to him. He sat without moving until I realized he could not muster that last ounce of wil power for that fi nal, irrevocable act. He asked me to come to him, and I did, sitting in the cozy warmth of his lap. I held a picture book, my sister's. I knew every drawing inside, the color of every dog and cat and house and dress.
He took a deep breath, and for a moment I thought he was going to explain again why we were burning the books. But instead his whole upper body began to hitch, as if he were trying to contain loud hiccups. I put my hand on his broad hand, muscles and rocks under his coarse skin, and told him it was okay. Told him I understood why we were burning the books, that because Mommy and sister had disappeared, we could not keep anything in the house that would cause unexpected visitors to ask about them. I told him “it was too dangerous,” reciting back words he'd earlier told me that I had not understood and still did not.
I think he meant to go through each book with me one last time.
But for what ever reason, he did not. He simply took each book and threw it into the fi re one after the other. I stil remember the feel of my sister's picture book pul ed away. I did not resist, but the feel of the journal against my fi ngertips as it was whisked away and tossed into the fi re felt like something lost forever.
We left an hour later, when there was nothing left of the fi re (or books) but dying embers and gray ash. Like my father, ashen and gray, his inner fi re smothered out. Just before we crossed the clearing, I went back for the burlap sacks we'd forgotten to take with us.
They were lying right beside the pile of ashes. As I bent to pick them up, something came over me: I blew softly into the embers the way I'd seen my father do. Fine ash kicked up into the air and into my eyes. But right before my eyes shut, watering against the sting, I saw the smal est glow in the midst of the black ashes. Red, orange, a re-surgent spark of an ember. It was a drop of the June sun in a sea of gray ashes.
It was not until years later, in a schoolyard on a drab gray night, that I saw the color of that red glow again. It was the color of her hair, a girl I have never seen before but from whom I cannot look away.
When she turns to me, our eyes connecting even across the length of the schoolyard and through the kaleidoscope of crisscrossing students, I remember that red ember glowing in the dark ashes like a June sun.
Her designation is Ashley June, I think to myself.
Alone in the library, standing before her in the beams of the midnight moon, this is the memory I share with her.
The press are out in ful force when we step out of the library. As far as the brick path extends to the main building, reporters and photographers are lined along each side. Mercuric fl ashlights pop everywhere, not that they bother us. An escort leads us at a maddeningly slow pace, stopping us every few steps to pose for a camera or to answer a few interview questions.
Ashley June's arm stays hooked in mine the whole time, her wrist bent at the crook of my elbow. It's an awesome feeling. Alone, I would have hated the fanfare and onslaught of media attention.
But with her next to me, I'm comfortable and at ease, and I sense the same is true for her. The soft weight of her hand on my arm, the occasional moments when the side of her hip brushes lightly against mine, the sense of togetherness as we navigate down the path. I think it's because we're masters of this game of image projection and deception that we're so comfortable with the media. A pose, a sound bite, an image: right down our all ey.
“How has your training gone? Do you feel prepared for the Hunt?”
“It's been great, and we're chomping at the bit to get on with it.”
“Is it true that the two of you are an all iance?”
“It's no secret. We're together.”
“Which of the hunters do you think will chal enge you the most?”
And on and on went the questions.
The usual y short walk takes us almost an hour, and there's no letup of media and curious guests once we get to the main building. They're still arriving in droves, guests and media, in carriages of various shapes and sizes; the horses are sweaty and out of breath as they are led away to the stable out back.
Inside, there are even more media and onlookers. They're cor-doned off behind velvet ropes, and our escort thankful y takes us past them without stopping. “To the main hal ,” he says, glancing quickly at his watch.
They've spared no expense in decorating the main banquet hal . Gold chandeliers descend from high ornate ceilings, casting a misty mercuric light over each table. Onyx- embedded table silver, porcelain plates commissioned during the neo- Gothic Ruler era, wineglasses encrusted with diamond shavings set on embroidered violet linen tablecloths. A fl ower basket sits center on each table, double- layered jade stemming from the Selah dynasty. Tal windows with decorative swagged velvet curtains loom over and around us. Guests cluster at the windows facing east, gazing at the Dome.
It sits like a sliced marble bal . At the far end of the banquet hal , the grand staircase ascends to the second fl oor, its perfectly centered red carpet bright and lush like a swol en tongue. In the center of the hal is a large dance fl oor, gleaming under the mercuric lights.
The hunters are separated, each to his or her own assigned table. When Ashley June removes her arm from mine to be taken to her table, it feels like a tragic parting.
High- standing Palace offi cials sit at my table, their spouses peppering me with nettlesome questions. The food comes out in waves, tuxedoed waiters and wait- resses with ruffl ed front blouses balancing trays of dripping meat as they maneuver between tables. Large bibs are tied on us, draping over our tuxedos and gowns from our necks to knees. They quickly become splattered with droplets of blood as we eat. After days of eating endless plates of meat sopping in blood, I can barely stand the sight of more. I hardly touch my plate, citing overexcitement with the Hunt in two nights.
Throughout the endless courses of meat, I steal glances at Ashley June. She's in her element, engaging the guests at her table with charm. Even during the main course when the fattest portions of meat are served, she still has their rapt attention. This setting plays to her strength. It's how she's always lived her life of deception. Offense is the best defense. I recal her words.
After dessert— cakes and souffl és, for which I claim to have regained my appetite— a succession of speeches are made by a handful of top- ranking offi cials. I spend my time gazing at Ashley June, who's in my line of vision. Her slender arms fl ow graceful y out of her gown, the gleam of silvery light along her arm like the refl ection of moonlight along a river. She gathers her hair from the back and with the expert sweep of one hand brushes it over her shoulder, exposing the sinuous nape of her neck. I wonder if she is thinking of me the way I am of her: incessantly, obsessively, helplessly.
