What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose)

by Beaumont, Delany

  Three

  “What’s he like?” Stace is asking me. She’s burning with curiosity. She keeps following me around, asking question after question.

  “I don’t know. He can’t talk so he can’t tell me anything.”

  “I know he can’t talk,” she says. “You just told me he’s still sleeping.”

  “You’re getting to be like Emily,” I say, irritated. “Criticizing me. You’re taking over for her, huh?”

  She gives me a sour look. “I’m not like Emily. I won’t leave the rest of you behind like she did.”

  Then I feel bad. I don’t want to badmouth Emily in front of the others. I keep trying to think of excuses for her, like maybe she was forced into doing what she did. “Maybe it’s not her fault,” I say. “Maybe she’s…”

  “Sick?” Stace says, finishing my sentence.

  “No, not yet. She can’t be getting sick yet. She’s not old enough. But let’s talk about something else.”

  I’ve stopped by the dorm to check on them, the remnants of my little family, to let them know I’m all right, that I’m still around. I’m around but I’m not with them completely.

  I can’t concentrate on even the simplest game I try to play with CJ and Terry. And Stace ends up crabbing at me, maybe because I’m unable to give her my full attention. Nothing can distract me from the thought of that boy lying helpless two floors below us.

  There’s another boy at the Orphanage, I guess to be about twelve or thirteen years old, who calls himself Finch. He has freckled skin and green eyes, a mop of shaggy blond hair. Just today he’s decided that it’s okay to approach us, to talk to us. Well, talk to me. He doesn’t seem interested in Stace or the boys. Maybe because I’m older but not like the other Elders, I get the feeling he likes me. He acts like he trusts me.

  He’s the first of these children to try to talk to me. He answers some of my questions and asks me some in turn. I don’t know if I can trust him entirely but he has told me a little about the boy in the cellar, the runaway.

  “He’s called Aiden,” he says not long after Stace takes a break from peppering me with questions and decides to wander out into the hall so she can take a look outside. “He lived here for a while but he got old enough to go with the Elders. He’d be gone all day with them. They do all this stuff that we can’t do because we aren’t allowed outside. They think we’ll run away.”

  “But he ran away,” I say.

  Finch shrugs his shoulders, wipes a runny nose on the sleeve of the dirty blue parka he wears constantly, even while he sleeps. “The Elders don’t do that. They like being Elders. I’d like it, to be one of them. To be able to go outside.”

  “So why did Aiden run away?”

  Finch looks bored, like he’s said enough. None of the children here has much of an attention span. They play absentmindedly with each other for a while, then wander off. We’re sitting on the edge of my cot and he begins to stare dreamily at two other kids across the room playing with a set of building blocks. I want to grab his shoulders and shake him, make him pay attention to me. But I know I need to go easy, not scare him away.

  I wait for him to say something more, twitching with impatience. He starts to get up, as if he’s going to investigate what the kids with the blocks are doing but then sits back down and sighs, as if he doesn’t have enough energy to walk across the room. “He’s run away before,” he says at last, not looking at me, as if it’s not really important.

  “He has? He doesn’t like it, being an Elder?”

  “He doesn’t like the, you know… The ones who come at night. The ones who ride the…bikes.” He mumbles into his sleeve, his last word almost inaudible. I watch him hunch his shoulders, pull into himself.

  “Why doesn’t he like them?” My question sounds stupid, far too obvious. Just the thought of the Black Riders frightens Finch, as it does everyone else here.

  I reach out, take his hand, give it a squeeze. He looks surprised, turns and studies my face. He has a yearning, questioning look in his eyes like he’s silently asking how much he can trust me. I wonder how long it’s been since someone has touched him with warmth or kindness. He lets his hand lie limp in mine like a dead pigeon.

  “He told us they hurt somebody, a friend of his,” he says slowly. “A boy he traveled with before he got to Raintree.”

  “So now they beat him to a pulp every time he runs away?”

  Finch looks down at his feet. He’s found or has been given some tennis shoes which are far too big for him. Maybe he’ll grow into them but for now he flops around like he’s auditioning to be a clown in a three-ring circus. “You can’t leave. They won’t let you.”

  “Leave here? The Orphanage? But I thought you said he was gone a lot of the time with the Elders.”

  “Not here but the city.” He holds his arms out, gesturing to a large area far beyond the walls of the school. “Raintree.”

  “Why don’t they let the Elders leave Raintree?”

  “I don’t know.” Now he is annoyed, wants our conversation to end. “They just don’t.”

  I know it’s useless to ask him anything else.

  But I have a name. Aiden.

  Four

  I catch sight of Tetch as I pass by the girls’ restroom on the first floor of the school.

  I’ve been wandering through the old school building for hours. I can’t keep still, feel ready to jump out of my skin. I couldn’t stay a minute longer with the kids in the dorm. Pretending to be interested in what they’re doing, watching them go through the same sleepy-slow routines, engage in the same aimless bickering.

  The only thing I’m sure of now is that William has disappeared. I’ve searched for him everywhere, pacing up and down the halls, combing through long-abandoned offices and classrooms, all the while keeping my eye out for anything useful, salvageable for the boy downstairs.

  Catching a glimpse of Tetch through the open door of the girls’ room, I jump back, startled. I was almost convinced that both of our resident Elders had deserted us, despite having express orders not to.

  But there she is, Tetch in the flesh, standing in front of the girls’ room mirror, bathed in the murky half-light that illuminates the sink, the toilets, all the plumbing fixtures that no longer function.

  I stop to watch her. She’s applying makeup, squinting at her small white face. She rubs at the smeared surface of the mirror with her sleeve. For just a few seconds—for just a fleeting few seconds—I feel a little sorry for her. Who is she trying to beautify herself for? Who is she trying to impress with what little beauty she has? To me, she’s ugly inside and out with no one to care for and no one who truly cares about her.

  I cough a loud, fake cough and smile innocently as I watch her cringe and whip around to face the open door, eyes wide. I stroll calmly into the restroom, just as she had when I was trying to clean myself up in the girls’ room on the second floor. “You can’t come in here,” she says, voice sulky, girlish. “You use the one upstairs, with the kids.”

  “This one’s not much better,” I say casually, looking around at the grime smeared everywhere, taking in the smell. She shrugs and turns back to the mirror, already done trying to assert her authority over me. She studies her face sadly.

  “It’s not that bad,” I say. “I’ve seen worse.”

  I see her sneer at me in the mirror. “Can you leave me alone? Please?” It’s not really an order but more of a request. It’s then that I start to think that I shouldn’t continue to provoke her, that I’m going to need her help.

  While I’m trying to decide on the best way to talk to her, the best way of bringing up my plans for the boy in the basement, she suddenly turns to me and says in a fragile, little girl way, “How’s he doing?”

  The bashful, pleading way she asks surprises me even more than the question does.

  The edges of the sink she’s been leaning over while staring at herself in the mirror are littered with painstakingly harvested beauty products—half-emp
ty containers of blush and eye shadow, lotions, slim tubes of lipstick that remind me of fancy rifle cartridges with soft red mush where the point of the bullet would be. Like I used to collect containers of food, she’s collected these useless things.

  “He’s not good.”

  “Not good.” She repeats this with a voice so low I can barely hear her. I’m not close enough to be sure but it looks like she’s trembling.

  It’s then that I’m suddenly aware of something that surprises me greatly. Tetch cares about the boy lying wounded and feverish below us. This amazes me because I was sure that Tetch cared for nothing but herself. William and Jendra. Tetch and Aiden. There are ties between the Elders I might be able to build on, use to my advantage.

  “We need to get him upstairs,” I say, speaking as softly as she did. I feel like I’m trying not to frighten away a bird that has landed on a nearby twig. “As soon as we can.”

  “Why?”

  I give up trying to be gentle and raise my voice at the stupidity of the question. “He’s hurt. He could even die. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

  Pain, real observable pain flits across her face, replaces that dopey-dazed expression she normally has with something approaching real concern for another human being. But she says nothing, only stands there shifting from foot to foot, rubbing at the side of her nose. She looks so foolish with the blush smeared on her cheeks, her long eye-lashes, wearing a low-cut red sweater two sizes too small like she’s all ready for a hot date.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Move. Him. Upstairs.” I’m shouting now, furious, no longer worried about frightening her away. She hunches her shoulders, pulls her head down, worried I’m going to hit her. Her lips move but no sound emerges. She’s definitely trembling now.

  Then she cries out, “No! I can’t. Don’t—” She turns back to the mirror and looks at herself for a moment, then recoils as if horrified by what she sees. She knocks all the makeup off the edge of the sink and on to the crusty tiles of the bathroom floor with one wild sweep of her right arm. As I listen to the smash of glass and the clatter of metal she darts past me and rushes out the door.

  Five

  William’s scrunched up tight in a corner, wedged between a battered, water-stained desk and an ancient rusted filing cabinet. Keeping perfectly still—although I’m sure he’s heard my footsteps. I can hear the sound my heels make as I pull them free from the little sumps of mud and debris littering this place that try to suck them in.

  Keeping perfectly still—although I’m sure he knows I’m standing right by him. I have to smile at the fact that he’s gone so far as to pull an old mildewed desk chair on rollers in front of his hiding spot.

  “This is worse than being in the school—the Orphanage. Isn’t it?” The sound of my voice produces no movement, no response. “You look pathetic. You must be really scared to be hiding out here.”

  Out here is the small, one-story maintenance shed in back of the school. It took me a while to build up the determination to go outside. But I’d looked everywhere else. This one outbuilding looked like the only place left for William to hide. Unless he left the school grounds, ran away. But after what happened to Aiden I don’t think he’d try it. No matter how frightened he is.

  “Not scared of you.” His voice is muffled, flat, like he’s talking into his sleeve. He kicks the chair away and hauls himself to his feet, grunting and sighing. He steps away from the desk and file cabinet, clearly doesn’t like that I’m so close to him and retreats to the far side of the room.

  Part of the roof of the shed has collapsed. Large sliding steel doors have been knocked off their rollers, one door yawning into the schoolyard, one tipped into the building. The place was ransacked ages ago. Weed cutters and leaf blowers and lawnmowers have been taken apart, their innards spread around like they were dissected by monkeys. Rakes and shovels and hoses are thrown in a pile, all twisted together. And it stinks, a smell of brackish water, mildew and oil.

  “Look at you, William. You’ve got cobwebs in your hair. You’re smeared with all the crud that’s on everything in here. You look pathetic.”

  He gives me a nasty look and for a moment I think he’s going to charge straight at me, tackle me. It’s a well of shadows in this corner of the building, under the intact half of the roof. But I can see him well enough to tell that he’s looking for a way out.

  Instead of furiously charging at me, he edges away, slinks back to the opening left by the sliding doors. But he trips over the handle of a garden tool, falls backward, keeps himself from completely tumbling on the ground with the palm of his right hand which splashes up a spray of muddy water.

  I laugh, not really amused but wanting him to know I’m in control. “Are you really going to try to run? You know there’s nowhere to go. I don’t think you’re going to leave the Orphanage.” He’s up on his feet again, trying to straighten himself up. I take a few steps toward him. “And it’s getting dark out.”

  He says nothing, looks around helplessly. He knows what I want, what I’m going to make him do if we go back to the school. He doesn’t want to go back inside the Orphanage but he can’t go anywhere else.

  “So you’re not scared of me. Even after what I did to Gideon?”

  “You think you’re tougher than they are? You’re not so tough. You’re just a girl. Not even a smart girl. If Jendra were here…”

  “She’d be leading you around by your collar like you were her little puppy. But Jendra’s not coming back here. She’s…”

  “Shut up. I don’t want to hear it.” He’s thinking fast. “I’ll help you take care of him down there, in the cellar. But we can’t move him. They wouldn’t like it.”

  “We’re going to move him.” I hold up my hand. I can hardly see it any longer. “Do you realize, William, we can barely see each other now? It’s dark out already. What if they come back and catch us both out here?”

  This time he tries to run as fast as he can, weaving and crashing through all of the debris. I follow him but step more carefully, not really concerned that he’s going to escape from me.

  When I step free from the crumpled maintenance shed, everything’s swathed in the half-dark of twilight. A soft drizzle envelopes me but it feels good, cleansing. I want to stand outside long enough for my hair to get soaked, for my skin to be slick with the damp. It doesn’t even feel cold to me. I look past the two stories of the school to the side streets of the neighborhood surrounding it. It would be so easy to walk away, to disappear into the night.

  I see William walking from one end of the concrete-covered play area and back like there was a real fence barring him from going any farther.

  I slowly make my way over to him. “I may be just a girl but I’m stronger than you. You know I am.” He lowers his head and keeps on pacing. “Come on, William. Let’s get this over with. Do this for me and I’ll leave you alone. No more hiding in dark corners.”

  He keeps pacing, pacing. Hunches his shoulders against the rain dribbling down the back of his collar.

  “Do you hear that?” I ask him. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at me. “It’s early but it could be them.” He finally stops pacing, stares out at the dark neighborhood streets. I shrug my shoulders. “Maybe not. But I thought I heard something.”

  He turns to me and says, “Damn you. You’re on my nerves like nobody’s ever…” His voice trails off and then he says, starting to surrender, “If we move that bastard and they find out, you’re the one who’s getting the blame. You’re the one who’s responsible for him once he’s upstairs. I’m not involved.”

  I laugh again, like he’s being the idiot now and it’s my chance to be all condescending. “You’re responsible for me. You’ve been dumping the work you’re supposed to do on me. They think you’re in control. Which is totally laughable.” Then I say slowly, wanting him to feel the importance of my words, “I don’t care about preparing food and trying to look after the kids
but this is different. If he something happens to Aiden…”

  William looks away, stares into the night. It’s almost completely dark out now.

  “All right,” he says. “We’ll move him. But I’m not responsible. Remember that, Gillian, I’m not responsible.”

  Six

  “Is he okay?”

  I snap awake, a soft little voice near my ear startling me. I told myself I wasn’t going to fall asleep no matter what, no matter how tired I might be.

  I’m bolt upright in the chair I chose to sit in for a reason. The chair I chose to keep watch over Aiden in. A desk chair that’s uneven on the floor because the rollers have broken off and left small metal stumps behind. There’s a cushion under me that’s been worn as flat as a washcloth and the back of the chair is a fan of hard wood slats.

  The chair should have kept me awake but it hasn’t.

  Tetch is beside me. She looks as disheveled as William did the last time I saw him. Her layers of makeup have worn away, hair straggling limp and greasy. Her face is pasty pale—plump cheeks like blobs of yellow custard on a round dish tinted pinkish gray.

  It takes me a moment to process what’s happening. That Tetch has woken me, that I’ve been sleeping and that Aiden still lies under the blankets I’ve covered him with, still curled on his side and perfectly still. His face is turned to me, eyes wedged tight but his mouth slightly open. A crack in his lips still oozes blood and the bruises around one eye and along his jaw rage angry and purple.

  A circle of candles flicker on either side of the bed. William produced several for me and, most precious of all, a half-full box of kitchen matches. I have lit all the candles even though it seems wasteful. I have to see what I’m doing. I have to watch Aiden carefully.

  We’re in a small inner office on the first floor that’s been stripped nearly bare. It still possesses a small desk and the comfortless chair I’ve slept in. It seems safe to me, windowless, several rooms back from the main corridor. It is here I have dragged a cot all the way down from the dormitory. Here where I have stored the scant supplies I’ve found, blankets and a mattress less soiled than most others I’ve seen, a basin I’ve tried to scour clean for holding water, a few dusty towels.