Scar

by Alice Broadway

  I open my mouth but I can’t speak. Her tone is matter-of-fact, but there is something embarrassed, proud, nervous in her expression. She believes this is true.

  She goes on. “It started the day Mayor Longsight was attacked. At night, I always have this notebook on my bedside table – when I have too many thoughts going around my head to sleep, I scribble them down and it eases my mind enough to let me rest. I had a lot on my mind that day.

  “I wrote down what happened – that the mayor was attacked by a blank terrorist, that he had died. That the town was in a state of turmoil and grief. Then I put my notebook back on the nightstand and went to sleep.” She leans forward. “But, when I woke up in the morning, the notebook was on my bed, open, and I’d filled pages with writing.” She turns the pages and I see tightly written text, in a slanting hand – it goes on for pages.

  There is a silence. Then I say, “You must have been unsettled and written it when you were only half awake. People do all kinds of things in their sleep. Mum used to fold clothes.” I don’t know if I’m explaining this away for Mel’s benefit or my own, but I find the whole thing unnerving.

  She nods. “Exactly what I told myself. I didn’t even read it. I just shut the notebook, decided I’d had a strange dream. The mayor had just been stabbed – there was no time to dwell on it. But last night, it happened again.”

  “Coinciding with Mayor Longsight’s latest stunt,” I say slowly.

  “And so I read it,” she said quietly. “It’s the same story, written out twice. Word for word identical.” Mel’s face is pale, and her eyes beg me to believe her. “I wouldn’t make something like this up, Leora.”

  Mel has more to lose than to gain by telling me this. This is the kind of thing that could discredit her and cause people to doubt her skill and authority. It could make her a laughing stock. If anyone found out, then Mayor Longsight might dismiss her to ensure her voice no longer carried weight in the life and teaching of Saintstone. It would be so much easier for her to keep this quiet. Why should she trust me?

  “I believe you,” I say and immediately something softens between us. We are in this together now, not mentor and student but allies. Mel leans forward and grasps my hand.

  “Thank you.” She comes to sit next to me, bringing the notebook with her. “I’m scared,” she murmurs. “But this is a message – and I think that there is light here,” she taps the notebook, “and hope too.”

  “What is the story about?” I ask.

  “I hoped you would ask.” She smiles shyly. “Would you let me read it to you?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Sisters

  Neither of them could say what had made them come, but here they both were. Moriah and Belia – sisters united by blood and divided by ink – had not seen one another for many years. Belia’s hair was salt- and-pepper grey and Moriah’s rosebud lips were bracketed by lines.

  At first each twin thought they had walked into a trap, a trick of the other’s making. They circled the crumbling cottage, looking for danger, but all they found were thorns and spiders. Belia and Moriah met at the front door, the weathered entrance to the house where they had grown up, and, eyeing one another guardedly, they each placed a hand to the door and pushed. The swollen wood and rusting hinges groaned as they shifted and, for the first time in many decades, light shone into the cottage.

  Belia built a fire and collected clean water from the old well. Moriah washed dust-encrusted cups and drew from her satchel a folded envelope of tea. As steam rose from the enamel kettle over the fire, the sisters sat and warmed their hands.

  “We both left in a hurry.” Belia broke their silence. The women looked around at the house: a museum of their former lives. “You for marriage and me for survival.”

  “You make me sound selfish,” Moriah complained. “I fell in love. Father would have been glad to see me so happy.”

  “Our father fed on our misery. Your marriage was an escape after he left us with nothing but a curse.” Belia’s voice was gentle but her eyes were sad.

  “A curse?” Moriah’s lovely face creased into a frown.

  “You never did believe in it, did you?” Belia tutted and poured the tea.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Beli. I remember Father’s dying wish – but it was a blessing from him. That’s why my skin is illustrated with my story – you can hardly call me cursed.”

  “Something is wrong with your memory, Mora. If our father had a wish it was a wish for nothing but sadness. His life was a failure and so he wanted the same cruel fate for us. That is why you are marked – surely you can’t still believe that your inked skin is good? You may as well be naked for all the privacy your body provides you. It’s obscene to live so blatantly; where is your pride?”

  “This again.” Moriah sighed. “Haven’t enough years passed? Are you still so envious of my good fortune? Don’t think I’ve forgotten the ways you attempted to hijack my happiness and position. Perhaps I can agree that you are cursed, but don’t tar me with the same brush. I am a queen.”

  A crackle of fire, a scent of dust baking in the growing heat, a melodious slurp of tea, but the sisters were otherwise silent. Sun peeped in through the foggy window and left Belia sat in the shadow while Moriah was bathed in dawn light. Two sides, two shades, two sisters, once womb-close and now torn apart by their stories.

  Belia went to the window and pulled down the half-hitched curtain, filling the small space with the light from outside. She turned and saw that there were no shadows now, no cold spots or hiding places. Sitting down once again she poured more tea and gazed thoughtfully at her sister.

  “Moriah, tell me your story,” Belia said softly. “Tell me how you remember life in this cottage back when we were young.” Moriah was quiet for some time, staring into the fire.

  “I remember Mother,” Moriah began. “I remember her voice and how she would sing sweetly when it was time for us to sleep. I used to lie with one eye open and watch her and Father dance. They would try to scold me when I gave myself away by giggling when they bumped into the table, but they were laughing too, and they kissed me goodnight through smiles. But then she was gone. Father would still tuck us in at night, but there was no more singing. He told stories instead, do you remember? And as I grew older I would sing the songs our mother sang, and it made him smile. You were such a quiet child; I wondered whether you ever adjusted after Mother died. But when you began writing down Father’s stories it gave me hope – it felt as though we were a team. He would tell, I would sing, and you would write.

  Then when he died you disappeared too; you spent days walking in the darkest corners of the wood. Father had wished for us to take our stories with us, but you seemed determined to avoid having any story to tell at all. And so, when the prince came by I was more than glad to go with him, for I knew you despised me – perhaps I reminded you of all we had lost. I thought that in leaving you I was giving you what you longed for: the chance to rewrite your life without me.”

  Moriah reached out and touched her sister’s unmarked skin; she held her hand and looked into her dark eyes.

  “I never meant for us to become enemies, Belia. I hoped you would join me, but you were obstinate: bent on destroying all the good things that came my way.”

  Belia squeezed her sister’s hand and smiled sadly.

  “I think I understand more now. I’m sorry I left you; I see now that it must have appeared that I hated you and wished to deny you happiness. I never wanted us to be enemies either, sister; but listen to my story, for I wonder if our father did.”

  Moriah sat back in her chair, ignoring its creaking joints.

  “I remember our mother’s songs too, Mora; and I remember when they stopped. However, this seems to be where the similarities in our stories end. I recall how Father would force you to sing, even when you said you were tired or told him that singing our mother’s songs made you sad.”

  “He just wanted so desperately to be reminded
of her – he … he didn’t force me.” Moriah’s denial comes quickly, her voice high and sure.

  “Moriah, you are a queen, but you do not rule over me. Please listen to my tale as I listened to yours.”

  Moriah’s mouth opened, as if ready to admonish a servant, but she paused and nodded, gesturing for Belia to continue.

  “I was no use to him. I didn’t remind him of the past and I gave him no hope that I would be an asset in the future. He would often tell me that he rejoiced at your birth, Moriah, but that when it became apparent that there was another baby he burned with hatred. I had stolen space in his household, an uninvited visitor. He would whisper to me that I was a curse, a message from evil spirits, a terrible intruder on the life he had planned. He would hold my head and make me look at you and your beauty; he would make me listen to you and he would tell me that you, so like your mother, were his only child. Moriah, I wonder if you ever remember me speaking? Did you ever notice that I was silent? Our father forbade me to speak in the house: my only task beyond the chores he had me do was to write down his stories, word for word. He would take away my food if I got even one word wrong. I hated him and yet wished for his love. When he was dying I kept feeling a tickle in my chest as though I might laugh at any moment, for the only way I could live was if he died.”

  Belia sipped her tea and placed another log on the fire.

  “But he wouldn’t even give me that. He cursed us on his deathbed and it is only because I broke the curse that I am here today.”

  Wiping tears from her cheeks, Moriah said, “I don’t remember … I don’t remember any of that. How can our stories be so different?”

  “People would often say the same about you and me, Moriah: how can they be so different? But we were – we are – and yet we are still sisters.”

  “What do I believe then, if my story isn’t true?” Moriah weeps.

  “Why do you say that? Why do you say your story is no longer true?” Belia asked.

  “Because it can’t be true, not if he did all that to you.”

  Belia only sighed.

  “Sister, I think this is where we have been battling all our lives: each of us with a story, each of us certain that our story is the only one that matters – the only real truth. I wish I had known how you saw our childhood – I had assumed that you hated me like our father did.”

  “I never saw it, Belia – I am so sorry. I was in my own world, I never thought to check what your world was like.”

  “I wonder if this is what Father wanted – to keep us separate from one another by meddling with our stories. Moriah, I don’t think we need to fight about whose story is the truest; I don’t think the existence of my story blots out the need for yours. I think that both stories together give us a new truth – a better, messier truth.”

  “I have been so lonely without you.” Moriah held out her hands to her sister.

  “I have found my missing piece.” Belia entwined her fingers with Moriah’s.

  The story ends with a picture – a line drawing of two women: one inked, one blank, hands clasped, foreheads touching: faces close enough for a kiss.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There is a silence after Mel finishes talking. My heart is beating fast. This story, my dreams, the mark that Mel showed me, inked on ancient skin – and the mark appearing on my own stomach. This can’t be a coincidence.

  I drop to my knees before her and, quickly, before I can think better of it, I lift my shirt.

  Her breath catches. She covers her mouth with her hand. With shaking fingers, she reaches her free hand towards me and touches the mark. At first, she is gentle and tentative and then her touch is firm: wiping at the lines to check, to make sure this is not some trick.

  Minutes pass and at last, Mel lifts her face and looks into my eyes. I don’t know whether I want to laugh or cry. The unbearable energy shooting around my body mixes fear with excitement. This is something; and time will tell whether it is something good or bad.

  “I need some air.” Mel fairly staggers to where her shawl is hung. “Come with me.”

  We walk out into the town square, warm sun stroking our bare arms and kissing our cheeks. Mel is used to attracting attention, especially when she is seen without guards or on official business. But I’m certain that my presence is amplifying the stares. The grass in the centre of the town square is intersected with footpaths, all meeting at the statue of Saint. The patches of green are muddied and worn from the crowd who stood here watching Mayor Longsight be marked yesterday. The statue itself has dust and grime clinging to it – an extra layer on Saint’s skinless form. He has never been so neglected; but then, there is a new saviour now.

  We are given a wide berth by the people who pass by. I’m not sure whether they are awed by Mel or horrified by me, but it works in our favour. We sit undisturbed on a bench and watch the pigeons while we talk together, processing all that we have found.

  “Your story,” I begin, “do you think it’s true – an actual account of what happened for the sisters, or do you think it’s a myth – a tale with a message for us to consider?”

  “Interesting that you put those two in opposition. Can’t something be both true and mythical? For me, I think it confirms our suspicions that the skin I showed you tells of a time when the sisters reunited. So, in that sense, it is a true tale – based on reality. But there’s always more to a story than simply acting as a record. It is meant to sit with us and mature until it becomes something powerful.”

  I understand what she means. “Either way, I don’t think it’s chance that those stories came to you when they did,” I say. “Mayor Longsight claims to have been restored from the dead – this voice appears. He claims to take on the sins of others – again, this voice. It’s as though … as though it wants you to hear a different story.”

  She nods sombrely. “I’m afraid, Leora,” she says quietly. “My stories have always been the ones the people expected – the tales they already knew. I have acted, I thought, in their best interests when I used my voice to support our leaders. But this story – this different ending for the sisters – I would be a lone voice, and no one would want to hear me. Because this story goes against everything we hold dear: the people love their enmity with the blanks; it gives them something to believe in, unites them. They would not know what to do with a message of peace.” She chews her lip. “Mayor Longsight is offering them something extraordinary – the chance to purge sin without suffering. That’s all they want to hear right now.”

  I shift my foot to ward off a pigeon that has come too close and it hops away in a flurry of feathers. Uncomfortable with the thoughts in my head, I say them out loud. One of us has to.

  “But he’s alive. Longsight died and now he’s alive. I’ve seen the wound – it’s like a fresh injury and a healed scar all at once. And the people watched him die – they paraded around his body to pay respects. So, if that happened, then why aren’t the ancestors telling you that story? Why aren’t they vindicating it?” I rub my forehead. “There are no teachings which indicate that such a thing is possible. The ancestors speak to a storyteller for the first time in centuries, and they do not tell of this amazing resurrection, but of the sisters. Why?”

  She looks troubled. “He was dead, Leora. I attended when they let the townspeople come to see his body. For one hour a day they were allowed into the government building and trooped past, his still form on a high platform. I remember thinking he was like the statue of Saint: cold and lifted up for us to remember. And yet, within days he walked with us, like a ghost. I don’t know how it happened, but I can’t deny it.”

  I shake my head stubbornly. “No. The ancestors could have told that story, but instead they spoke of a message left in the preserved skin and my mark appears. That is the story that is real. Mel, I don’t know how it happened, but Longsight tricked us.”

  She shakes her head, but I know she thinks the same. We just don’t know how he did it.

  “Wha
t do we do?” she says helplessly. “I am the storyteller and I have a story… I should tell it to my people. It is my duty.”

  I look at her, at the anguish on her face. “I don’t think you should yet,” I say. “I think we wait. The ancestors are trying to tell you something and they’ve already shown that they are willing to repeat themselves until they get your attention. I don’t think they will leave you now.” I squeeze her arm. “Let’s be patient. We watch.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Be patient.

  Such an easy thing to say, but I had forgotten that as soon as you have to be patient, time slows down.

  Mel gives me freedom to wander, as long as I don’t go outdoors. This means I have the run of the museum and, once I’ve remembered the winding route of the underground access, I can access the jail too.

  I visit Obel often. I have to sit on the floor in the walkway in order to speak to him. He smiles when he sees me. He is clean, well fed and no beatings have marred his painted ink.

  “They still have plans for you, then,” I say one day.

  “Looks like it.” He shrugs. “Not that they tell me anything.”

  A husky voice comes from behind me.

  “Ah, they tell you enough, Obel.” It’s Connor. His dark skin has no shine and his eyes are glassy, but there is playfulness and cunning in his voice.

  I turn to Obel and frown. “Do you know more than you’re telling me?” He sighs and shakes his head.

  “They tell me I am to mark the mayor, they tell me it will win me some comfort. I’m instructed what mark to make and I make it. There’s nothing more to tell.”

  “Come, Obel, I know you’re locked up but don’t let it rot your brain,” Connor says, his tone kind beneath his chiding words. “You’re a blank who lived among us for years: deceived an entire town. If Longsight told the people that, the good citizens of Saintstone would be baying for your blood. And yet … Longsight lets you live and he keeps your secret. Why? Come on, inker, think about it.”