In Archons We Trust

Part 1

I was still not accustomed to the tugging at my scalp, the sharp pain which follows, and the tight hold of the braids. My mother bound flowers and leaves into my hair. She said the juice from the plants keeps my hair hydrated. She always told me the story of how, long ago, back when our people had spires in the stars and were untethered from the dirt, we used to combine these flowers in special waters to create creams for the same protective purpose. We can't make the special waters anymore, but the leaves and flowers retain those important properties; it just takes more time for it to seep in when applied as raw as my mother decorated my hair.

I know how to braid my own hair. My mother was so happy to see me do it for the first time when I was 15, but even now as I'm 18, she insisted on doing my braids because it bothered her how I wasn't as diligent in putting in the flowers and leaves. I was primarily concerned with how the braiding facilitated work in the mines. My sweat already burned my eyes as I picked away at the rock, and the dust only worsened the sting; the last thing I needed exacerbating this condition was my hair sticking to my face and sending streams of salt water until my tears from the stings and my sweat were indistinguishable.

At the end of the day, though, I understand this is a petty concern. I'm thankful for the strength of my arms and my legs, the health of my chest and my head. To only have complaints about the sweat on my brow is a privilege compared to the men older than me by even five years, and even some of the younger boys who have already had misfortunes while working. Some couldn't get through even two swings of the pick without coughing up tar made from dust, humidity, and mucus. Some couldn't get through two swings without feeling a fire burning in their knees, a pressure which threatens to snap their legs apart. Some swung with just an arm. Some had to balance themselves through the swings for their legs didn't work as they used to, assuming they even still had two full legs. Even the mightiest among us, the mitas and the lawas, who managed to grow stronger than most, still struggled in ways I took for granted. Their immense size and power had to be nurtured and cared for delicately for it to see its full potential, my mother said. But, we were not afforded delicacy and care in the mines. Their growth was simply seen as a boost to efficiency to be capitalized on as quickly as possible, so they were given harder tasks before their own brains could even adjust to the change, let alone their bodies. Some constantly bled at the legs from their skin plating deforming and cutting through the flesh. Others formed irreversible rashes where the hardened skin and the soft underlayers met, causing an inescapable suffering which caused the deaths of some for it was so unbearable. Some had twisted and misaligned backs as a result of the muscles forming quicker than the skeleton could keep up with, causing the bones to be stretched, split apart, or even broken. All it took was one fall backward, and the giants would fall silent and limp. I both feared and admired the mitas and the lawas for they possessed agency in their immensity, yet this work left them more vulnerable than many of us. I have yet to reconcile such a contradiction. I suppose what happened on that day, though, which seemed like any other, gave me the opportunity to now think and reflect on contradictions more than I ever had before.

I noticed the doctor in black, and the two strange guards, as I went back to the field with my mother and others. Although I knew not to linger my attention off of work for too long, because the guards are always watching us, ready to whip us at the slightest drop in pace during work time, I couldn't help but stare as I walked to my area with my pickaxe. Most doctors came in white coats with vibrant colors depicting different herbs, and a distinct symbol to mark their role. The only time I ever saw a doctor in black was when one accidentally fell in a pile of coal and dirt. Five of us were whipped for that because the doctor, perhaps too proud to admit his blunder, saw it fit to cast blame elsewhere. But even the stains on his white coat were not as complete and as deep as the black which seemed to drip from the robes of this doctor, and I didn't see any of us being punished. Something else strange was how he inspected us. The other doctors were rough with our bodies, but their aim to fix us in however way they were able was clear...decent health meant decent workers...or, well, decent-enough workers. But this one handled us kindly, put his finger in our mouths, noticed things with just his eyes, let our bodies move with his hand instead of forcing himself on us. Yet, he did not administer relief for any particular illness or injury he saw.