Feeders

They fed.

The bones crunched pleasantly between Toma's teeth. "I wonder what this is?" he said. It was meat of some kind, dark red and gamey with thick, smooth bones. Toma often saw birds in the compound and this definitely wasn't bird.

Grom chewed without passion, and Toma could already hear his old friend's complaints. The meat would be too tough, the bones not crunchy enough, the blood too thin.

The Handler who had brought the food watched them eat for a while, then left.

When she had gone, Toma whispered to Grom between mouthfuls. "This is a good batch, don't you think? Best ever."

Grom let out a grunt that made him sound more animal than man. He kept eating though.

"I don't know what you have against our food. It's really quite good."

Grom stopped chewing, looked at Toma. "I eat this to survive. I don't have to like it."

Toma opened his mouth to say more, but Grom cut him off.

"Don't question why. Remember, I've seen the Outside. Eat, don't talk."

Toma nodded and went back to the bones.

Helps keep our teeth keen, Grom had said once about chewing on bones. Toma didn't care much about that, even though he knew a man with no teeth didn't live long. The texture of the bones, the crackling sound and sweet marrow in the centre was reward enough.

When they were done and the last of the blood had been lapped up, Toma ambled behind Grom over to the massive fig tree. The tree stood in the centre of the compound. The area around the tree commanded a view to the walls in every direction.

This was Grom's territory, the high ground, the most sought after in the compound. Grom had held it for as long as Toma could remember. Sometimes another man had sat in the boughs for a night or two, or worn a track doing vigilant circles around the base. With so many contenders in the compound, occasional lapses were inevitable.

Grom always got it back.

Several other men scurried away as Grom and Toma returned from the meal. Been sitting the throne while the king's away, Grom used to say. He didn't say things like that anymore.

Toma flopped down into a comfortable nook in the trunk. It was cool there. The days weren't so hot yet, but summer threatened. Grom looked all around the compound, meeting the eye of any who cared to hold it, before he too lay down.

"What's it like?" Toma gazed off at the setting sun, soon to disappear behind the walls of the compound.

"What's what like?"

"The Outside." Toma pointed to the wall. "I mean, does the sun ever set out there?"

Grom chuckled. Toma didn't know why, but questions about the Outside often made Grom laugh. "Yes. The Outside is just like here. Only there are different kinds of walls and the people have better breath."

"Better breath?"

Grom looked at Toma with a twinkle in his eye. "Oh yes, the Handlers have the best smelling breath you could ever hope for."

"You've been that close to the Handlers?"

"Of course. I've even spoken with them."

"Spoken..." The Handlers came to the compound to feed the men, and sometimes they stood the walls and watched for no apparent reason, but they were an unknown. To have mingled with them, spoken to them, was hard to believe. Grom's casual admission to speaking with the Handlers made it sound no different than speaking to the men in the compound.

If anyone other than Grom had claimed to have been among the Handlers, Toma would have spat on him for a liar.

"Are there any men out there?"

Grom tensed a little.

Toma wondered if he had asked the wrong thing. "There are only men here, and I've only ever seen Handlers on the Outside, so I wondered."

"It's good to wonder sometimes," Grom said. "There are men out there, but those men are nothing like us. They're small, smaller than the Handlers. Docile. They look after the menial tasks for the Handlers, repetitive things. Recording, counting, arranging." Grom peered around the compound. "Not at all like here."

Toma nodded, though sometimes things that Grom said didn't make any sense. What could there possibly be so many of that someone's job was to count them?

The Outside seemed full of things that didn't make sense. Despite Grom saying the Outside was no different to the compound, everything Toma had heard failed to convince him. Some stories had it that the Handlers rode around in metal cages faster than a man could run. Someone had once whispered that the Handlers took men from the compounds and ate them, or sacrificed them, or both. No one ever seemed really sure. Grom had been Outside, but he would usually only talk about it with vague words and descriptions that only added to the mystery.

"One day you will see the Outside. You'll understand then."

"I will?"

Grom nodded, his expression grave. "I won't be around for much longer. Our food, it makes us wild and strong, but it is not sustaining. We all die young in here."

Young? Grom was the oldest man Toma knew. He must have been at least thirty years old. How much longer did people live on the Outside?

"Why don't the Handlers feed us...sustaining food then."

Grom bared his teeth, chipped and ragged, his eyes scanning back and forth across the compound. Those eyes almost glowed in the waning light. "They need us to be strong. We have a purpose Toma, though it may not seem like it sometimes. Only the strongest here survive, and it is the strongest whose seed the Handlers use to continue the species."

Grom snapped his gaze down to Toma as if a sudden thought struck him. "On the Outside they don't even eat meat."

"No meat? What do they eat then?"

"Fruit, vegetables, grains. Plant food."

Toma didn't know what the words for these other foods meant, but they sounded disgusting.

"You've been Outside already, you know," Grom said.

"I have?"

"We all have. We were all born out there, lived the first three or four years there, among the Handlers. You don't remember?"

"I thought they were only dreams." Images of soft things came unbidden to Toma's mind. The sound of crystal chimes clinking in the breeze. A bed, a pillow filled with feathers, a haunting high-pitched voice humming a melody. Toma remembered the Handlers, who were always gentle, and one Handler in particular who he called "ma".

Grom shifted restlessly. It would be full dark soon. Toma saw several other men gathered near the wall, talking with heads close. One looked like Vod. The thought of Vod thrust Toma's memories of the Handlers aside.

Toma would have rather not thought about the encounter with Vod a few years ago.

Grom had been on the other side of the compound. Vod had been tormenting Toma, and Toma, thinking himself capable of defeating the other man, had challenged Vod.

Vod had driven Toma's face into the dirt, and only Grom's hurried arrival had saved Toma's neck from being broken. Toma hadn't forgotten that. He doubted Vod had either.

If he could wrap his hands around the neck and crush the life out of anyone in the compound, it would be Vod.

Toma pushed the memories of Vod away. Instead, while Grom was being talkative, Toma thought he might try out something else he had wondered about.

"Grom, why am I here?"

"We are here because we are men."

"No, that's not what I mean." Toma rolled to look at Grom, so large still despite his hints that he might no longer have the strength to fight. So fierce to all the other men, except Toma. "Why am I here with you, resting beneath the tree? No one else is allowed to come near you."

"Your smell."

"My smell?"

Grom tilted his wizened head. "We have a better sense of smell than even the Handlers know. They must think it magic that I singled you out. But no, you smelt right, so you can sit with me under the tree."

Toma didn't know what Grom meant. Everyone smelt different, but no more right or wrong than anyone else.

Like always Grom knew when Toma hadn't understood. "It will make more sense when you've been Outside again."

"Why are you so sure I will go Outside?"

"The Handlers always choose the strongest. You must keep this place, the tree, the high ground. Defend it always when I'm gone. If you do, and I think you can, you will be the one the Handlers choose."

Grom had never spoken of this before.

"Where are you going?"

Grom pointed down the hill. In the purple light Toma saw that the men by the wall had started towards the tree. Vod led them.

"It won't be long now," Grom said. "Surely you noticed that I haven't fought anyone for a long time. I may look strong still, but my body is weakening."

Grom looked at Toma, his eyes bright even in the dimness. "I've lived on my reputation for the past few months, but now Vod has worked up the courage to challenge."

"But if you're gone..." Toma's eyes locked with Grom's. How could he explain that the embarrassment of his defeat to Vod still stung?

But he didn't need to explain. Somehow Grom knew from that look what troubled Toma. "Don't worry. That was years ago--you've grown since them. Vod won't find you such easy meat now."

Grom leapt to his feet, and Toma did likewise.

The challengers stopped at the edge of Grom's territory.

"Grom. You are weak," Vod said. "Your place is now mine."

Vod held his head high, but Toma could sense his fear. He challenged, but not with confidence. Perhaps some of the others, eager for a change in Grom's status, had goaded him into it. Perhaps that was why Vod had brought Croufa and Dal as allies, weaker men who Vod could be sure wouldn't try and usurp his place, or strike him down when his back was turned.

Grom on the other hand looked relaxed, even eager. Toma would have said that Grom would win easily, if not for their conversation.

"Your words are like butterflies," Toma called out, proud of how his voice boomed in the now silent compound. "If you want it, you must take it."

Vod glanced at Toma, then returned his gaze to Grom. "Your runt speaks. When I'm finished with you, he'll be next."

Grom said nothing. He stood ready, his chest rising and falling.

Others had gathered. A challenge to Grom's authority affected everyone in the compound, and all would witness this duel.

Vod snarled and charged. Grom mirrored it. The two men clashed together with a thud. They grappled, went to ground. A cloud of dust leapt up from their struggle.

Grom had spoken of his weakness, but Toma could see no evidence of it. To Toma it seemed Grom must win. Vod fought enraged, snarling and grunting.

Except for his heavy breathing, Grom fought without a sound.

The two men tore at each other. Grom secured Vod's face with one hand and landed a punch that must have broken Vod's nose.

Grom had all but overpowered his opponent when Vod made a lucky hold, and brought pressure onto Grom's arm. Toma heard the snap of bone, and knew it must be over then. Still Grom fought on. He never even cried out.

With Grom unable to defend on one side, Vod began to land blow after blow to Grom's chest and head. The men gathered around began to murmur. They could see what Toma had seen--that Grom was still the mightier, and Vod's lucky attack was the only reason he still lived.

Finally, after more punishment than Toma had known a man could take, Grom fell.

In the end, broken and beaten, Grom crawled away behind the tree, down the other side of the hill. Toma had seen men injured like that before. None had survived. Toma couldn't protect him. The weaker ones in the compound, eager for some retribution on the man who had ruled them through might, would harry him until he died.

Vod stood and beat his chest, screamed triumph. Blood flowed freely from his forehead and nose.

Toma felt his own blood rising. Something from deep inside urged him to unleash his strength against Vod.

But he waited, waited just as Grom had taught him, waited for Vod to cool, to lose the battle frenzy, to feel the injuries Grom had dealt him.

When Toma struck, it had to be fast and deadly. He had to beat Vod with the least effort possible. After Vod, others would challenge, until none were left or Toma had fallen.

It would be a long night.