Maleki:

“Miko, wake up,” I said aloud. The words didn’t even cause him to stir.

I spoke louder, with more emphasis on each word. Still, no response.

“All right, you don’t leave me with any choice. I’ll have to use Father’s special move on you.” I said as I brought my outstretched thumb high above my head.

This was a regular routine for us at this point; at least on some days, he was better than others. Sometimes, I have to slap him around a little, punch him on the arm, or even flick his nose, but this move does the trick when all else fails. This was Father’s self-titled “special move” that could supposedly conquer any beast. It works well on sleeping ones, especially, I’ve discovered.

I brought my hand down swiftly and dug it into his side, trying my hardest to tickle him awake. This wasn’t any ordinary tickle like Grandmother does with her fingertips to chastise us; this is a painful tickle; it makes you writhe in a laughing fit. 

“Ahhh!” He yelled in a shifting panic. “I’m awake. I was already awake, you jerk!”

“Should’ve gotten up then. I did give you several warnings.”

“I hate when you wake me up. Grandmother is much nicer.” He said in a whiny tone as he smushed his eyes together several times to adjust to the light.

“Well, Grandmother is busy with the yield from yesterday’s pickings, and you’re supposed to help her before we go to the healer’s.”

“Ugh, what’s the point.” He said dramatically while sliding his legs out to the side awkwardly to position himself upright. “I hate going there; his puns are terrible, and his healing is even less effective.”

“Hey, show some respect! He does these appointments for free because of Grandfather!”

“You know why they’re free?” He asked me while starting to stand. “Because…they suck eggs.”

I pushed him lightly back onto his bed. Not because his comment offended me, just because it’s funny to watch him get back up.

He shifted his shoulders and positioned his weight with a quick maneuver so that his feet could touch the ground and he could stand again.

“I hate when my legs work.”

“That’s surprising. I figured you would love it since you can escape from your chores.” I said slyly as I put my gloves and boots on.

“No, you moron. I do my chores faster than you do, even without my arms. I hate it ‘cause I have to walk everywhere — having you cart me around is far more enjoyable.”

I tussled his dark brown, unkempt hair with my gloved hand. “Of course you do. Since I have to carry you around everywhere, today you’re going to carry the pack.”

“Fine.” He grumbled.

Miko found his way to our Grandmother, and I headed out to the fields to pull in as much crop before we left. I grabbed the field scythe and looked up to the sun to judge how much time I had. A field of bristly orange stalks rose above my head and extended a few hundred feet. Only part of it was ready to bring in since we planted in cycles so that the growth matched our demand. The excess we did grow went to the livestock or the shelves for long-term storage. Even if we had a bad harvest, it wouldn’t affect us too much since we only grew food to eat and not to sell.

Grandfather used to cut the fields with me, but his age has slowed him, so he spends most of his free time in the workshop tinkering with small metals. He was never much good at this anyway, so he willfully gave this chore to me — a little too excitedly, now that I think about it. Our father used to help with this kind of work, but I have taken it up since he and Mother left. It’s almost like I was raised for this work. I had spent so much time with this tool that it felt like an extension of myself. I knew exactly how it would bend to my swing and the precise angle to cut the stalk without scraping the ground. The blade of my scythe glides gently across the lowest part of the stem in a swift cutting motion. The work is hard and tiring, but years and years of constantly swinging this thing has levitated the tension from the work. At this point, it’s pretty satisfying. The work clears my head, and I can always look at my progress after and feel accomplished. 

After two hours of work, I let the last swing of the scythe carry over to my opposite shoulder in an exaggerated motion. I held myself upright against the shaft of the scythe and felt the sweat in my palms that held the bottom grip of the wooden shaft. I looked down at my body, with arms and legs that were swollen from the constant burst of effort. This really was hard work; the movement of the swing and the balance it takes to keep the cuts clean forces you to use every muscle in your body over and over. Throughout the years of doing this, I started to see the gradual change it had on my appearance and the shape of my body. I was a good foot taller than Miko, which I constantly reminded him of, of course, but my hair made me look slightly taller than I actually was. Grandfather doesn’t let it touch my neck or go below my forehead because he doesn’t want it to affect my work, which makes sense for the forehead part but not the neck part. I asked him about it once, but he told me, “Only heathens wear their hair that long.” My forehead is one long cowlick, so my hair stands tall like a wave, but Miko didn’t get that unlucky trait, so he gets to wear his hair on his forehead. It’s not fair on both counts, but Grandmother Kecila protects him from Grandfather’s teasing since he spends all his time with her.

I looked up to the sky and inhaled a long breath. Far away into the distance, a long wall of gloomy gray clouds extended as far as the eye could see. Lucky for us, the storms aren’t as brutal out here, but these plains are ideal for funnels, so I try to keep an eye out for anything odd before Miko and I set out.

I found Miko next to Grandmother Kecila in the food shed and placed the loops of the pack over his shoulder before reaching around him to loop the tie over the button.

“Already!” He sighed.

“Come on, loser. This time might be the one!” I said with a smile as I hugged Grandmother. “We’ll be back before first dark. However, Miko has to walk, so it might go slower, especially if he doesn’t hurry up.” I prodded loudly without looking at him directly. 

“Let’s just get this over with.” He muttered reluctantly.

Grandmother smiled sweetly at us before softly patting Miko on the head and pushing his hair to the side with a palm to the back of his head as he walked away. “Good luck, boys. Say hello to the good doctor for me.” Her voice was a loud whisper, but she spoke only with love.

“Good doctor.” Miko mocked as we descended the dirt path to the woods. “He’s a fraud.”

“Don’t you want to get better?” I asked.

“Yeah, which is why I think spending our time here is useless.”

“Well, this is something.” I voiced optimistically. “He’s at least trying things. Maybe he has some new concoctions from the items the parents sent a while ago.”

“Doubt it.” He said glumly while looking up to the sky. 

I let him drop the conversation. Our difficult conversations tend to escalate to arguments, and our arguments quickly turn to hands being thrown. Fortunately for me, there’s never much of a fight to be had, though it is pretty fun to watch him crawl over to me so he can punch me in the shins or, depending on the day, watch him run after me to try and get a headbutt in. He doesn’t quit, even with that stupid sickness of his. 

It started when he was four. One morning, he was difficult to wake, and when he finally did get up, his fingers in his left hand wouldn’t move at all. The next day, it was his right hand, and for a couple of months, it continued on a normal schedule. We thought it was some odd sickness that would disappear after a little while. Our parents told us not to worry and that it was just taking a little longer to heal, and we believed them. We carried on playing mostly like normal, but even losing just one hand had messed with his muscle memory. We thought it to be like a cough that lingered for too long, but that idea ended along with our parent’s optimism when he lost access to one of his legs.

He’s ten now, and the disease has progressed much further. We tried everything to make him get better. Different healers visited us. We tried a hundred other medicines and homemade remedies, but eventually, we exhausted all of our options. Our parents left to find a cure, but they’ve never been back since. Occasionally, they’ll send us items to give to the healer so he can make different medicines, but Miko is right that they have all been ineffective.

I think he’s starting to give up on getting better. Or maybe he already has. I looked over at him as we walked together and saw that he was lost in thought. The colour and curl of his hair reminded me of our fathers — a deep dark brown with roots of black. I guess I take more after our mother since my hair is more silky and lighter brown. It always felt like the opposite when they were here, though. I spent time with my father, and our mother babied Miko.