Excerpt from Yonder by Jabari Asim, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Norbrook nodded. "Not much to do, then."

"Might I suggest that you consider mercy, Mr. Norbrook?"

Norbrook squinted, still studying the boy. "When a horse's leg is busted, we show it mercy by shooting it in the head. Is that what you're advising?"

"Hardly, sir. I'm merely saying that with proper care this boy might fully recover. But it could take some time and no little expense."

"And even then you're not certain."

"No, sir, I am not."

Norbrook rubbed his chin. "Then look away. Both of you. Look away."

I could not. I felt that turning away would be a betrayal, that I would be failing the boy somehow. I watched as he blinked hard. Crust and phlegm oozed from his eyes, and he seemed to see us clearly for the first time. At that moment, Norbrook leaned forward and slit his throat. I staggered to the street, dazed and reeling.

The doctor was at my heels, calling after me. He could just as well have saved his voice, for whatever words he said were lost to me. I heard nothing, saw nothing as I lurched into the dusty lane, taking no heed of the pile of droppings I stumbled through as I made my way to the other side. A general store stood before me, and in front of it was a young boy, a Thief some six harvests younger than myself. In time I came to remember him as a skittish boy, well-dressed, with the satisfied air often found in those of his class. I would also recall that his boots gleamed and he smelled of flowers. At the moment I encountered him, however, I saw only the fear in his eyes, a look so disturbing that it shook me from my daze. At first I thought that my own dreadful expression had frightened the boy. But then I saw that he was looking over my shoulder, and I turned to spy a runaway horse, immense and wild-eyed, racing toward us. A strange silence continued to envelop me until the young Thief squealed. The sheer panic in his voice brought me back to the moment, and my mind awoke to the thundering of hooves. It was by chance that I stood between the boy and the horse. The troubled beast stopped mere inches before me. We were nearly nose-to-nose, its hot breath landing on my face like rude bursts of steam. Something had disturbed the horse as intensely as the scene in the log pen had stricken me; those forces carried us face-to-face, where our shared terror somehow ended in a sudden, eerie halt. I reached out with one hand and stroked the horse's trembling cheek. With the other I grasped hold of his halter. To those watching it seemed that, in an act of uncommon bravery, I had stared the enraged horse into surrender and thereby saved a young life. In truth I had done nothing of the sort.

There were more witnesses than I realized. A small crowd formed, last among them Norbrook. I suspected that he had lingered in the pen to collect one or more keepsakes—fingers, ears, or something worse. The most interested of my audience was Randolph "Cannonball" Greene, a wealthy planter. The others watched as he questioned me, Norbrook looking on from the edge of the gathering.

"Who are you, boy?"

"William," I said, keeping my eyes on the horse.

In a matter of minutes, the planter made an offer that Norbrook quickly accepted. He took his earnings to a nearby tavern, and I rode away in Greene's possession.

My new Thief was common-looking: skin pale as cream with traces of crimson in both cheeks; a hard, jutting brow; a bold though narrow nose; and a slash-like mouth. When closed, the mouths of many Thieves were hard to spot if not for a hint of pink to mark their presence. When I was quite small, the old auntie who watched over me had convinced me that Thieves were in fact born without mouths. An opening, she swore, had to be created with the skillful use of a knife. She said it was a task that she had witnessed while attending several births, though she had never been called on to do it. Some people have suggested that the Stolen could seldom tell one Thief from another, that to us they all looked and smelled alike. That, I must say, is untrue. Our survival depended on figuring out their thoughts and remaining a step in advance whenever we could. Knowing the differences between them was a matter of life or death, and so we studied them with care, often committing their faces, gestures, and scents to memory.

From YONDER: A Novel by Jabari Asim. Copyright © 2022 by Jabari Asim. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc.