I refuse to keep my eyes down. I’m not here to be cowed or scared; I’m not going to behave as though I am guilty and ashamed. I stare into the eyes of every person sitting in row after row, until they are so high and so far above me I cannot make out their features. It’s the missing people I notice first – no Gull or Verity – although I can see Simon and Julia, Verity’s parents, and Seb sitting with them. He waves and my facade almost crumbles.
Mum is here. I see her face and I nearly cry out – I know the courage it has taken for her to even leave the house. She is sitting near the front, where she can’t see the stares from the people behind her. She has chosen to sit where I can see her, and when I look at her, all I see is love. It pulses from her, almost pounding at my heart. Her eyes, her face – that small, strong smile, the merest nod of support that feels like stadia of cheers. She is not broken; she is not crushed. I have never seen a human so strong, so noble, so beautiful as my mother at that moment. I keep my eyes on her and nothing else touches me because her love is a mountain, her love is armour, her love is a shield that cannot be destroyed.
When Jack Minnow steps forward, a hush inhales around the hall. Was this what he meant, when he said he had more in store for me?
He calls for silence with none of Longsight’s flourishes. When he speaks his voice is matter of fact and calm, but all the more impressive for it.
“Thank you for coming. Today is a day for justice: justice and celebration. I have been given permission to speak on our great leader’s behalf; it is thanks to him that this enemy of our custom – this terrible threat to our commonality – has been brought to be reckoned.”
I don’t know whether it’s because it’s Minnow saying it, or because the people finally have someone to unite them in hate, but Jack Minnow’s words are falling on willing ears. There is a murmur of warmth and support.
“And so, it is my honour to present to you our own Mayor Dan Longsight, whose wisdom and faithfulness is unsurpassed.”
There is some applause. Not quite the powerful adulation of his glory days, but applause nonetheless. How quickly people’s allegiances change. Now I realize that Longsight must live his life in fear of those changes in taste and favour.
Mayor Longsight rises and steps forward. He has only a covering tied at his waist: no gown this time, he is just skin and ink and scar. His ink – oh, his ink is too beautiful for one so crazed with hate. He is covered in the most complex marks: geometry and angles – lines and shapes that speak of sacred numbers, the mysteries of the universe, infinity and abundance. But today I see them dance in skeletal staccato – smooth sides and tight angles look to me like the sharpest of blades. He radiates assurance.
When he speaks, it is brief. “According to our customs and laws, I judge that Leora be marked with the crow and forgotten for ever.”
My reaction is almost one of disappointment. It is very nearly an anti-climax. And yet, the response from the people gratifies Mayor Longsight. This is still a relatively seldom seen and shocking punishment.
I know with certainty then that I don’t believe any more. I remember Connor Drew’s marking, and my unshakeable belief that his soul was being destroyed. We all saw it that way – that his one route to salvation, the only means by which he would be remembered and live eternally, had been cut off. A skin book would be made, but it would be destroyed by the fire of judgement. I saw a man without hope, without any future or purpose in living. I saw in him my own father who, according to our customs, also deserved nothing more than to be instantly forgotten by all at his death. The horror of it grabbed my throat; it kept me awake; it motivated everything – I had to save my father.
And yet here I am, about to marked with a crow. And I feel no terror at eternal damnation. The onlookers may be feeling all that I did on that strange day in the autumn of last year, but I feel impermeable. Shave my hair, mark me with ink – my soul remains.
What hurts is that it’s Obel who will do it.
He pushes me down so that I kneel before the crowd. His hand presses my head forward and I hear the rasp of scissors cutting away a handful of hair at the back of my head. It must be hurting his hand, I think. A block is brought for me to rest my head on as he trims more hair and then shaves the patch clean with a razor. I feel his warm hands on my scalp, the stroke of the blade, the tickle of hair being brushed away. His hands feel steady, even though I know the impossible act of will it must take for him to not cry out in pain as he wields tools in his right hand. The mark won’t be pretty; I know that much.
I wish I didn’t love that sound – the buzz of the machine, the way the note changes when the needle hits skin, the melody of it bouncing around my skull while Obel draws with ink, letting it ram a million times into my flesh. Every time he lifts the machine to dip into ink I feel relief and then he plunges once more. The pain is like bites – the beaky pecks of a crow.
When I stand up, dizzy and sweating, to face the crowd it seems like a held breath is released and the people get to their feet, stamping so hard the room quakes. They clap, they cheer, they jeer – making faces and grim gestures just for me. In this moment, everything they have hated, all the ways they have been mistreated and misled, are thrown at me in a crazed catharsis of screams and wails of celebration.
What happens now? I risk a glance towards Mayor Longsight and, although he is applauding too, I can tell – or sense – he is not finished with me. The fire burns on, and so does his vengeance.
I do the only thing that gives me power, and let my remaining hair fall about my shoulders, allowing my ink to be hidden. Mum used to tell me to keep my head down, but when I look her way, I know that neither of us believe that any more. We both stand tall, shoulders strong and feet planted. We are not meant to bow like snowdrops – heads hanging drooped; we are ancient trees – strong as oak.
And so, I barely notice as two people bring on a new contraption. The audience sees though, and the yells peter out. A hushed silence falls.
A small square of the platform – about the size of my spread-out hand – is pulled up by an inset ring and flipped on its hinge. Into it is thrust a wooden T-shaped frame, just a little less tall than I am. I wish I hadn’t been thinking about trees because now this reminds me of one – the roughness of the wood, the knots and grain showing through. It leans back at about seventy-five degrees and instead of leaves or bark, there are leather straps. My lungs have shrunk, I think – I can’t take in proper breaths; someone has them squeezed in their hands.
Mayor Longsight steps forward once again and I am a creature stunned by fear. Jack Minnow comes up behind me and pins my wrists in his hands. I pull with all my strength, trying to break from his grip. But he’s always been stronger. The mayor addresses his people.
“I take great joy in your loyalty as you celebrate with me the marking of a forgotten. But doesn’t this feel just a little like a sentence that has no full stop? Aren’t we missing something of the satisfaction of seeing full justice be done?” He looks around the room at faces that hold frozen half-smiles, cheers still fresh on their lips – but there is a new tension that hisses in the gaps.
“We are here this morning for justice. And justice is what you will get.”
Minnow pulls me aside then, and my heels push against the base of the wooden T. Leather straps are pulled tightly and buckled by assistants while Jack Minnow keeps hold of my wrists and smirks his delight at me. At last, he has me where he wants me. They have won. He lifts one of my arms and binds it to the crosspiece. My chest is stretched by the reach it forces, and pain sings through my shoulders as my other wrist is bound too. The angle of the frame means I have to lean back as though I am at the beginning of a fall. They made us do trust exercises when we were at school; I only ever trusted Verity enough to fall back and believe she would catch me. The wood creaks but holds me; my chest rises and falls – each breath an effort of will and strength. I can feel the soles of my soft boots beginning to slip forward and the movement makes me han
g lower, leather biting into my wrists.
“Of course, we abide by our own rules – she must have a skin book, she must have her mark of the forgotten read, and her skin book must be burned in the fire of judgement.” It’s hard to see anyone with my head thrown back and it hurts to lift it, but I hear the rumbles of conversation that travel through the rows of people.
“For a skin book to be produced,” Longsight continues, “the body must be flayed.”
Voices rise in a bustle of shock and confusion. My insides freeze and shatter. I have tried to be brave, I have tried to be strong and good, but there’s nothing left. I can hear my mum’s voice screaming and my torso shakes in sobs, heaving against my pinioned arms. I gasp in air and hold it, telling myself I only need to hold on a little longer. I will not let them win; I can’t let them break me – even if they take my skin, they will not take my honour. I clench my teeth – they will not hear me scream.
In my peripheral vision a figure to my right steps forward. The light from the fire catches on something in his hand and a metallic flash sears my eyes. I blink and look again. I know those marks – it is Connor. It’s a final blow that the man who tried to save my father is being made to destroy me.
Longsight’s voice rings out. “As your leader and your judge, it falls to me – this great honour – to be the one to make the first incision.”
I hear someone in the first row cry out, “No!” I hear voices raised in surprise and horror. This isn’t what the crowd want, I think; he has misjudged things yet again. And as the knife is passed to Mayor Longsight I hear my mum calling out to me in a voice desperate and pure, “Be strong, my little light.” But skin is not strong – if it were we would not be able to force ink beneath its surface; our hairs would not raise in delight at the touch of a person we’ve longed for; we would not laugh when tickled or cry when bruised. Here I am with my skin on display, throat bare, stomach vulnerable. My skin will be cut and peeled from me like it was from Saint, but I will not weep with joy at the releasing of my soul. I will only bleed.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Connor Drew is coaching the mayor quietly, so only I can hear.
“A shallow cut, or the skin will be tainted and void. A steady hand, yes. Do you see here where the skin beneath the breastplate is very smooth? It requires a cut that just barely curves upward, like a smile.” I feel him trace a line on my body with his fingernail and my breath shudders. “Follow that course, or the tanning will not be true, and the edges will have to be trimmed.”
He sounds like Obel when he taught me about ink and marks, the calm focus of a master at work.
“Connor,” I whimper, and his eyes meet mine. “Don’t do this. Help me.” He could save me. He could do something. He wouldn’t collude with Longsight, not after everything he’s fought for.
There is a storm of sadness behind his eyes and I can see nothing of Oscar’s bright, fierce loyalty. Connor drops his gaze with a shake of his head.
“It’s him or you,” Longsight jeers. “And who would die in your place?”
Hope drops me then, and Connor clears his throat, ready to continue his gruesome patter.
“One cut, Mayor Longsight, and then I take over – this is painstaking work; it must be done right.”
I see the mayor raise the knife aloft. The crowd is noisy, and I hear people from outside pressing at the doors wanting to come and see. The mayor straddles the frame and looks into my face. A bold girl would spit, a brave person would speak. I am neither. He holds me at my neck, pressing down enough for my breath to catch. I wriggle and shift, trying to move my body away, but he just nods to Minnow, who cracks me across the cheek. I don’t know if it’s tears or blood or sweat that drips from my face, but I am done. It starts with a cut, Dad used to tell me, and then the gentle easing away of skin from flesh.
Pushing my chin up and resting his forearm on my chest Longsight’s panting is in my ear; his spit curdles at the corner of his mouth and his eyes are alight – brighter and more terrible than the fire behind him.
“One cut,” he whispers. “I’ll be sure to make it last.” Biting his lip, breath quivering, he focuses on my skin.
Some people say that when a cut is clean the pain doesn’t register. If that is so, then this was no clean cut.
Sometimes pain can sing, it rings so pure. Other times it screams raggedly. But this pain, oh this pain is a wail. The point of the knife punctures the skin like the wail of a mother whose baby is being wrenched from her arms. The edge draws against the skin like the wail of a mourner. The blade drags and sinks like the wail of a creature caught in a trap. The incision gapes like the wail of families torn apart. The knife lifts like the wail of a child for whom no one will come.
But I don’t cry out – for this is just the start.
Through tears, I see the blur of a bloodied knife being passed back to Connor, and I brace my sweat-slicked back against the post, readying myself for the greater pain to come. He stands as Longsight had, feet either side of my own, but his hand rest on my arm, not my throat.
In a tone that reminds me too much of Oscar, he murmurs, “I’m sorry,” and I squeeze my eyes shut, praying that I might pass out quickly rather than experience hours of this agony. I blink, and the knife is raised once again. He brings it down fast – too fast – and my arm falls free. He leans and slashes through the leather holding my other wrist and then turns, stance bold, muscles tensed, ready to fight.
Chapter Thirty-nine
It takes me a moment to understand, to see. I nearly faint from pain when I bend to unbuckle the straps at my ankles. But after a minute, I stand – free. Bloody and broken, but free. Obel has the mayor pinned to the ground – none of the guards come to help him – and Connor – well, you don’t hand a knife to a criminal. Connor looms over Longsight, the bloodied blade at his throat.
I wait for the crowd to descend. But the people aren’t coming to their leader’s aid. They look astonished, but not angry. I glance around, but I see no sign of Jack Minnow. I wish I was a snake and I could taste the air to get a flavour of the atmosphere. Instead I pause and watch and listen until I’m sure, and it’s … relief. The overriding mood is cautious, shocked relief.
I am surprised to see my own mother on the platform, standing central. She has a bag over her shoulder and she looks so small.
“Were you all planning to watch?” my mother’s voice echoes around the room. “We are a community who pride ourselves on our goodness, who declare it daily on our skin, and we are a people proud enough to enter eternity with bravado. But you would sit comfortably and watch a child be slaughtered? Oh, you weren’t holding the knife – but if you watch and do not shout ‘Stop’, you are sanctioning everything you see. You were sanctioning the slaughter of a child: my child. What were you afraid of? Why did not you call out your horror at what your leader was attempting to do? Had he succeeded, it would have been a sin forever etched upon your soul. But no, you are good people. You would have comforted yourself with that. Whereas these sinners in your midst, these so-called criminals,” she gestures to Obel and Connor, “were willing to stand and fight. They have saved you from blood-guilt and they have saved my girl, my Leora.” I think she will cry, but she puts her palm on her chest and controls herself. “I knew a man once who told me that what matters most is the life we live and not our death. The man who taught me all these things was my husband and Leora’s father. He was a forgotten and he is dead now. He did not want a skin book made, but I begged him to and he agreed. I was so afraid – afraid of life without him and scared of what being forgotten truly meant.” Mum reaches into her bag and pulls out Dad’s skin book. “This is not him, not truly.” She lifts his book. “But if he were here today he would be shocked to see that our divisions have only deepened; he would be astonished at the slavish way you follow your leaders. He would call out your preoccupation with the dead. We must now consider the living – and I include all the living when I say this, no matter what their skin says
about their choices. We must consider the living and we ourselves must choose life.”
This is nothing like the quiet earlier – this is a quiet of peace, of holiness, of knowing that right here a sacred thing has occurred. It is in this beautiful silence that my mum steps forward and kisses my dad’s book.
And then she throws it into the fire.
Chapter Forty
In spite of my protests, Mum allows Verity’s father, Simon, to come with us back to house. I lie on my bed while he cleans and stitches the slice across my torso. He’s a skin specialist and tells me the cut’s not deep. His words are meant to comfort, but I can still feel Longsight’s touch on me. While Simon works he describes his shock – he had no idea what the mayor had planned, he says. But he flushes with shame when I ask him about the mayor’s miraculous new ink. Is there anyone who wasn’t caught up in this?
When Simon is gone I put on all the clothes I can find. I can’t stop shivering and I cannot bear to have my skin on show. I feel dirty: from the prison, from the smoke smell in my hair, from the sweat and the blood and the hands – all the hands on me without permission – and finally, I sleep.
Whatever hope I had that the people would rise up and claim their own right to rule is quashed by morning. Mum wakes me with tea and the news that Jack Minnow has issued a statement. Those who heard his announcement at the town square first thing this morning were given letters – printed copies of his words to pass on to their neighbours. Mum lets me read.
My fellow citizens,
I have written these words a hundred times in my mind and it is something of a relief to finally be able to put my thoughts on paper. The last months have been the hardest and most upsetting in our history.
Since I was a young man I have followed and supported Dan Longsight. I looked up to him, and the day I was made his advisor was the proudest of my life. Not only was he, in my mind, a wonderful and inspiring leader, he was a man I considered a friend – even a brother.
Scar Page 14
