by Angie Sage
Parminter is pulling and pushing us out of the room. “Get a move on, you two. Any minute now they’ll be pumping in the kill gas. We’ve got to get out of here right now.”
We stagger up the stairs but as we reach the top landing I hear a loud clunking noise. I turn to see a huge ribbed tube, like a giant trunk of an elephant, snaking along the landing below. From it comes a puff of dense yellow gas. This truly is a thing of nightmares.
“Kill gas,” Parminter hisses. “Hurry.” I do not need to be told. We haul Andronicus into the attic, where the meeting was last night. He groans as he goes, lurching from side to side and I fear that one of his antennae is torn off. But this is no time for gentleness. I glance back to see the giant tube pushing up the stairs, puffs of yellow gas issuing from its gaping maw, which is lined with shiny red cloth so that it glistens like a monstrous, salivating mouth. Waving tendrils surround the mouth, feeling where to go, pulling the tube upward, guiding it through the house. I hear it scrape along the floor as the tendrils walk it into each room to dispense its lethal dose.
I slam the door fast and Parminter places cushions along the gap beneath it. I see she has already smashed the skylight and cut the sticky black hemp to make an opening. On the rug smears of Vermin blood are now covered with splinters of glass.
Parminter drags the ladder over to the skylight, springs up it and pulls herself out onto the roof. Then, she leans down, her stick-thin upper limbs ready to grab Andronicus. “Push him up to me,” she commands.
Together we push and pull Andronicus up the ladder. He clatters and slips and I hear the scrape of the tube outside on the landing and the scuttling of its tendrils. At last Andronicus is out and I am up the ladder after him like a rat up a drainpipe. As I haul myself into the fresh air, a wisp of yellow swirls into the room below.
I sit on the ridge of the roof taking deep breaths, but Parminter is impatient. “Kill gas rises. It will be out any second now,” she says. “Fly-lift!”
Andronicus is lying straddled across the ridge tiles, limp as an old rug. “Andronicus!” I say, close to his ear tubes. “We will fly-lift you. Understand?”
Andronicus looks at me blearily, “Yerr,” he mumbles. He does not resist as Parminter and I gently spread his wing cases while trying to keep his underwings neatly folded. Then, with some difficulty on the slippery roof, we place ourselves on either side of him, below his outstretched wings.
Suddenly a yell comes up from the street. “Roof escape!” Panicked, I look at Parminter—they’ve seen us. But then I see a long yellow tendril of kill gas drift up from the skylight and I realize they are not talking about us; they mean the gas.
“Count to three and go,” Parminter says. And so we do. Using only one wing each, Parminter and I rise up awkwardly: a three-headed monstrosity lurching into the sky. This is my first fly-lift for real. Parminter says that a fly-lift is something all young Roaches practice, but I in my lonely state never spoke to another Roach until Mama left last year and Parminter found me. Recently Parminter has been instructing me in the art of flying. She told me that the fly-lift is about trust and communication, and said it would be good for me. Last week we practiced for the first time with a sack of flaxseed—much to her mama’s dismay. I found it terrifying until I understood that the trick is to think as one person, not two. But I am still a novice. Luckily, Parminter flies smoothly and with great strength and, as in many things, she gives me confidence.
The voices we heard came from the front of Andronicus’s house, so we head for the back, where he has a long, narrow yard full of ancient apple trees. It is a place where he and I have spent many enjoyable summer evenings together, but today it is far less welcoming, for as we lurch above it, trying desperately to gain height, a shout goes up from below: “Roach! Roach! Roach!”
I look down to see the yard is infested with Vermin and slugs. The slugs are shiny, fat black capsules of kill gas, which a Vermin is feeding into the fumigator—a large yellow barrel from which that sinister trunk snakes out, heading across the grass and into the house through a smashed window, now sealed with a metal plate. The house itself looks blind and scared with all its windows covered with tar and hemp cloth. I feel sorry for it.
Parminter flashes me a look of warning and points downward. I now see one of the Vermin positioning a weapon upon her shoulder; it is always the females who shoot—they are more accurate and deadly. Any minute now we shall be blown out of the sky in a ball of flames and there is nothing we can do about it, encumbered as we are with Andronicus. And then I hear his dear voice whispering, “Save yourselves. Drop me.”
I have no desire to live even a second of life with the image of my dear friend falling to his death, knowing that it was I who let him go. However, I cannot sacrifice Parminter to my conscience. I look into her eyes and I see my answer. “Shut up, Andronicus,” she says. “Just shut up.”
I fear those uncouth words will be her last, for below in the yard I hear the clunk of the safety catch release on the Vermin’s weapon and I await the moment of extinction. I am telling myself that the conflagration will be so sudden and all-consuming that I shall have no awareness of it and that it will be a happiness that my journey to the next world will be in the company of two dear friends, when an altercation breaks out in the yard below.
Another Vermin—from its bulk I believe it to be a male—has thrown the missile-wielding Vermin to the ground and is shouting, “Don’t do it! Stop, stop!” Yes, it is indeed a deep-voiced male.
The Vermin with the missile launcher is not amused. She screams abuse at the male, making Parminter in comparison appear the very essence of politeness. And so, unmolested, we fly laboriously upward, and as we go the words of their fight pursue us, loud and clear.
“Let me go!” the missile Vermin is yelling.
Then comes the male, sounding desperate. “Please, Tana. Please, just leave it. Ouch, that hurt! You don’t understand. One of the Roaches—the big one—is a P.P.!”
“So why’ve we just gassed it, then?”
“It’s a terrible mistake. I just got the call. I was about to go in and pull it out of there.”
“Liar! Whoever heard of a Roach being a P.P.?”
“Okay, then, do it, Tana. You’ll be in an Astro tomorrow and see if I care. We’re through.”
I look down in dismay to see the male Vermin striding away and the female Vermin repositioning the weapon. I know that this time no one is going to stop her.
“Drop me!” croaks Andronicus.
“Shut up, Andronicus!” both Parminter and I tell him.
Far below I see the Vermin steady herself and take careful aim. A second later I hear the whoosh of the missile and I ready myself for our journey to the next world. I feel its heat upon my abdomen and I hear Parminter gasp in pain. I was wrong, I think. This fireball does not consume so fast that we do not feel it. We are going to be aware of every second of our destruction. However, I am curious as to how it is that we are still managing to fly and I see that our wings have yet to catch fire. I find I am watching my beautiful indigo wing case and bidding it farewell. I wonder if it will just quietly melt or will it splutter and sizzle? And then a shout from Parminter breaks into my thoughts: “We’ve done it! Oh, Maximillian, Andronicus, look! Look down!”
I do as Parminter tells me—for have I not learned that Parminter always knows best? I see the ball of flame dropping back toward the ground. We have outflown it. It must have reached its zenith immediately beneath us, and now it is returning to base. I see the female Vermin staring up in disbelief as the fireball drops down to greet her. I hear a deep-voiced yell: “Tana! Tana! Run, run!” But Tana does not run, and in a moment she is the conflagration that we were meant to be.
We continue our flight in silence. It is surprisingly upsetting, this Vermin incident. It is a full ten minutes later, as we are approaching my own dear rooftop with its yellow chimney that Parminter speaks. The words are not welcome: “Maximillian. They have sealed your house t
oo.”
It is true. The shine on my skylight is not the gentleness of rain; it is the suffocation of tar. I think of Mama’s teapot, alone upon its little cushion in a dark house full of gas. It is but a teapot, Maximillian, I tell myself severely. It will survive. Indeed it will utterly unaffected. Kill gas does not affect teapots. And then I remember there is something else, just as—no, even more—precious as the teapot in the house. The little boy, Jonno. I think of him lying in the room where I so neglectfully left him. I imagine the gas creeping beneath his door. I imagine his choking terror, and I despair.
Chapter 18
Parminter’s Pantry
M
Andronicus is a deadweight. My wing aches and my heart is heavy for the little boy and his bear left behind in my attic. I tell myself that there is nothing I can do for him now, that I must think only about getting Andronicus to safety, but it is hard to think that way.
Ah, it’s you again. So once more, young watcher, you are with me on a flight? Like all Wingless you seem fascinated by the art of flying. Very well, I shall try to take my mind off the poor child I have deserted and talk to you.
We are flying to Parminter’s farm. Parminter lives with her mama on the opposite side of the city, where the fields go all the way out to the edge of the Orb. The farm is a truly wonderful place; they grow flax and hemp on the long outer fields and all kinds of vegetables on the short fields near the farmhouse. I was amazed when I first saw food growing in the earth. Until then I had truly believed that food grew itself inside small cylindrical cans. You may laugh at my ignorance, but one does believe what one’s own mama says. It is only natural.
Perhaps you wonder why I know so much about Parminter’s farm? It is because I love to go there. I do not go as often as I would like for I do not wish to become a nuisance. I do not want Parminter’s mama thinking, Oh, not that tedious Maximillian again, always hanging around like a bad smell, as my mama used to say—even though I know that is not the kind of thing that Parminter’s mama would ever think. For she does not believe that a Roach child is a shameful thing. Indeed, she has even named their farm shop just for Parminter, whom she calls “Parmie darling” or “sweetheart.” Since I have come to know Parminter I have been very surprised to discover how much a mama can love her Roach child. Very surprised indeed.
We fly slowly onward through the soft afternoon light and I think how beautiful it is up here. The Orb shimmers like a pearl and we can even see the hazy ball of the sun glowing through the misty whiteness. Below us is our city, a sprawling mass of dusty buildings with a sea of vegetation sprouting from rooftops, hanging nets, extending balconies—anywhere that will catch the precious rays of light. It is a soft and subtle array of color, ranging from dark purples through all shades of green to deep reds and oranges. It really does look beautiful.
But now I see something truly terrible: a tiny distended figure tumbling through the sky, dark against the brightness. It is a new Astro, cartwheeling out of the Bartizan hundreds of feet up in the air, and inside that fat orange suit is a poor, doomed person. It is a despicable practice, designed by the Bartizan to remind all in the city below of the consequences of being a so-called traitor. Beneath its soft colors our city has a rotten core.
Suddenly a shout comes from Parminter. “Maximillian. Look down. We’re being tracked.”
We are flying now over a warren of alleyways deep in shadow and I can see nothing within them, but over on Parminter’s side is the Inner Circle, a much wider road that encircles the center of the city, along which the bigger houses—mine included—stand. And it is there that I now see three Enforcers jogging along at a steady pace, keeping up with us. Parminter is right: they are tracking us. “What to do?” I shout. Far below, the Enforcers stop and one of them points up at us.
“Drop down,” Parminter says. It may sound odd to lose height in order to escape detection, but she is right. The closer we get to the rooftops the harder it will be to see us from the ground. “Turning now!” Parminter shouts. She wheels sharply to the left and I just about manage to keep pace with her and hold Andronicus steady. But oh, my aching wings . . . We drop ever lower until we can’t see the Enforcers—and they can’t see us—and at last, in the distance I see the bright red roof of Parminter’s farmhouse.
Unfortunately our detour has brought us close to the Night Roach Steeple. The gaunt, gray spire rises up from a decrepit old church and is utterly devoid of greenery—a sure sign that it is inhabited by Night Roaches. Any high structure in our city is used for cultivation to make best use of the light. The ingenuity of humans to grow and tend greenery never ceases to amaze me, but naturally they do not cultivate anything on a Night Roach Roost. And this is how, in daylight at least, you can tell the dangerous high places. If there are green things growing, you are safe.
I used to fly by the steeple on my way to Parminter’s farm—it is generally safe during the day—and once, coming from deep within, I heard the sound of a flute playing the saddest tune I have ever heard. I felt as though I had heard it long, long ago in a different world. It made me feel very strange, but oddly happy too. I flew back the next day and heard it again. But on the third day it was gone and I felt so bereft that I decided I would never go near the steeple again. But now I must. We fly quickly by, and all is silent within.
I keep my eye on the telltale holes cut from the masonry where the Night Roaches enter and exit. The brightness of the afternoon should be enough to keep its inhabitants safely inside, but Night Roaches are a wakeful bunch and the sight of three struggling creatures might prove very tempting to any who are watching. However, I avoid looking at the large exit on the south side, where those who have personally offended the Guardian are left. That, I suppose, was the fate of the sad flute player.
But, unlike the flute player, we are lucky. We fly safely by and begin a slow descent toward Parminter’s farmhouse and its red roof, which was painted especially by Parminter’s mama so that her daughter could easily find her way home. We glide in slowly, but it is hard to keep control with the weight of dear Andronicus and our tiring wings feel as though they are on fire. We are very thankful for the farmyard’s deep pile of grass for emergency landings.
Andronicus is lying on the grassy heap with his wings stuck out and Parminter and I are trying to fold our one flying wing back, when Parminter’s mama rushes out to us. “Parmie!” she cries out. “Maximillian! Goodness, what is this? Let me help.” Parminter’s mama does not berate us or tell us we are fools. Instead she helps us carry Andronicus into the storage barn, which is the only place he will fit, because his wings are so stiff from the flight that they will not fold back. She sends Parminter off to get some hot honey water for us all and sets about trying to rub the circulation back into Andronicus’s wing muscles.
I try to help but I am suddenly very weak and useless. Even so, Parminter’s mama—who I am supposed to call Lizzie—does not tell me that I am a lazy good-for-nothing. She tells me to “rest, Maximillian dear, and wait for the honey water.”
The honey water is warm, sweet and reviving and soon I am able to help Andronicus fold his wings back. While I tend Andronicus, Parminter describes to her mama our escape from the fumigators and the three Enforcers who were tracking us. I see a look of fear creep across her mama’s features. “Oh, Parmie,” she says anxiously. “That does not sound good. I think you had all best go into the safe room, don’t you?”
Parminter nods. “Ma, I am sorry. We’ve put you in danger too.”
“Now don’t you worry about me, sweetheart,” Parminter’s mama says briskly. Parminter reaches out and takes her mama’s hand and I see that her mama does not flinch or look revolted. Indeed, quite the opposite: she wraps her arms around Parminter and kisses the top of her head. “Parmie,” she says. “You are a brave girl and I am proud of you.”
I am shocked to hear Parminter called a girl, just as if she were a Wingless one. I learn new things every time I see Parminter and her mama together.
“Of course he does,” Parminter says.
“No,” says Andronicus, “when they saw Maximillian they held their fire.”
“I don’t think that is so,” I say. “It was a squabble between Wingless ones, which is not unusual.”
Andronicus makes a soft clattering noise with his wings. It means, I think, that he disagrees but is too tired to speak.
Out of respect to Parminter’s mama, who does not find it easy to crouch upon the ground, Parminter and I stand up. “I think Andronicus is right, Maximillian,” Parminter says. “They said the big one was a P.P. And that’s you.”
I laugh. P.P. means a Protected Person—someone who has a powerful relative in the Bartizan. “Why ever would I be a P.P.?” I ask. “I have no relatives apart from Mama.” Parminter and her mama exchange what I believe are called meaningful glances, but I do not know why. “Anyway, I cannot be a Protected Person,” I say. “They were fumigating my house.”
Parminter shakes her head. “I saw something you did not. The fumigators were packing up and leaving before they had begun. Someone had called them off. Just as the Vermin tried to call off his mate.”
I am silent, for suddenly I have something to consider—one small boy to be precise. If my house has not been fumigated, then the boy Jonno is still alive! I am so happy at this thought but soon another less welcome one arrives—that by now the little boy must be terrified. I remember when I was his age how frightened I used to be when Mama left me alone in the house all day, and that was without it being dark and sealed with tar.
I think about this while I help Parminter and her mama take down hay bales that are stacked up against a wall inside the barn, and by the time Parminter’s mama is sliding back a panel in the wall, I know what I must do.
