Day Zero

A dagger is meant for stabbing. It is meant for killing. A dagger has two sharp edges and goes down to a point. If you have a good dagger, the blade is made of iron mixed with carbon. If there's no carbon, it will be too soft. If there's too much carbon, it will be too brittle.
   I had a good dagger. A robber girl needs a good dagger.
 "I'm the best dagger," said the dagger.
 "You're the best dagger," I said.
   We matched each other, my dagger and I. We were not too soft, we were not too brittle. I hadn't stabbed anyone yet, but I would. The dagger had stabbed lots of people.
 "More than you can count," said the dagger.
 "Not more." I could count as high as there were numbers. I could count as low as there were numbers. I could count down to zero.
   Yesterday had been Day One. Today was Day Zero. The important part of Day Zero had already started. We'd left the hideout and were riding through the ravine. The path tilted up, the cliffs leaned in on us. Here the horses had to walk in a single line. Later we would have to be quiet, but not yet. Stones went rattling down the path. Hoofbeats and stone falls echoed between the cliffs. The stone was gray, but later, when we had to be quiet, the stone would be pink. It was a long way up to the top of the world, where the stone turned pink.
   Here the world was small, the stone walls pressing at us, breathing their damp ancient breath. First in line was Gentleman Jack. He was always first, the ribbons fluttering from his horse's mane, the yellow gloves on his hands.
   Primrose. That was the color of Gentleman Jack's gloves.
   I came next. Yellow ribbons fluttered from my pinto's mane, but they were regular yellow, not primrose. Primrose was just for Gentleman Jack.
   Then came Rough Ricky. No gloves, no ribbons. Just the web of scars on his hands and face. We always came first: Gentleman Jack, then me, then Rough Ricky. The rest of the Gentlemen came behind us, but the three of us were always first.
 "And me," said the dagger. "Don't forget about me!"
   I would never forget about the dagger.
 "I have the sharpest point," said the dagger. "I have two edges, sharp as death."
   The dagger was sharp, I was sharp. Together we were sharp, together we were wild.
   Soon the ravine would end and the Plains would begin. In the middle of the Plains rose the Indigo Heart, where there would be gullies to leap and mountains to climb. There would be a thousand-thousand tons of pink stone. That's what I'd been waiting for. Today I'd use the dagger. Today I'd get my name.
 
   We threaded the horses through the three great stones that hid the ravine. Here the world burst upon us, a sea of yellowed grass poking through the snow, and in the distance, the earth shrugging its shoulders into the mountains of the Indigo Heart. When you stay in the ravine all winter, you begin to think that's all there is--the cliffs, the cave, the river. It's easy to forget that the ravine is buried in the Plains, like a hollow egg.
   Today I'd get a house.
 "It's not really your house," said the dagger.
   Today I'd get a grandmother.
 "She's not really your grandmother," said the dagger.
   Gentleman Jack, Rough Ricky, and I still rode first, but now we had enough room to fan ourselves into an arrowhead, with Gentleman Jack making the point. The rest of the Gentlemen rode single file behind. They made the shaft of the arrow.
   The wind shrieked across the Plains. It smelled of cold and snow. The wind was fast, and we were fast, but we didn't shriek. We were practicing to be quiet. Ahead rose the mountains, pink above the tree line but dark with indigo trees below.
   Nothing could go wrong, not on Day Zero. Day Zero was Now. At last I'd arrived at Now. Now was a yellow ribbon in a pony's mane. Now was a cascade of lace at Gentleman Jack's wrists. Now was a pair of primrose gloves, with the letters GJR embroidered on the cuffs. Now was the glint of a ruby in Gentleman Jack's ear.
   Nothing could go wrong, not when Gentleman Jack, Rough Ricky, and I made the head of the arrow.
   I knew we were close when we reached the railroad tracks. It was funny how you couldn't see the Indigo Heart as well when you got close. You couldn't see the mountains, pink against the sky. All you could see were the indigo trees and, minutes later, the red clay road that circled the Heart.
 "There's iron in the clay." The dagger knew everything about metal. "That's why it's red."
   The Indigo Heart was just the way Gentleman Jack had described.
 "Iron is magnetic," said the dagger.
   The dagger was magnetic, too, which meant it would feel the pull of the road. I wasn't expecting to feel it, but I did, just a little tug when we leapt upon the clay.
 "There's a bit of iron in blood," said the dagger.
   It was like the tug of sleep when it was time to wake up. You could break the tug but you didn't want to.
 "Magnets are not like sleep," said the dagger.
   It would be faster and easier to take the road that went winging up the mountain, but it wasn't safe: someone might see us.
   We leapt up the embankment, onto the mountainside. Here, among the indigo trees, the horses slowed, crunching over indigo needles and aspen leaves and pockets of snow. It was winter in the Indigo Heart. The birds were silent; there was just the sound of crunching. The horses wound through the indigos, sidestepped jabs of rock punching through the earth. Above, a hawk sailed in descending spires.
 "Watch where we're going!" said the dagger.
   The dagger meant both of us had to watch. The dagger was in the sheath at my waist, and it was also in my head. But it could only see what I saw, so if I wasn't watching, it couldn't watch, either.
 "We have to remember where we're going," said the dagger. "If something goes wrong, we have to get back to the hideout."
   I couldn't remember a time the dagger wasn't in my head, six inches of carbon and iron, reminding me to be wild. If I ever wished for taming things, like more food or a heavier coat, it would press at my thoughts, cool and sharp. Together we had a blade that cut on both sides. Together we had a spear-point tip.
   Together we were wild.

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Excerpted from The Robber Girl by Franny Billingsley
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