Wants of the Silent

by McPartlin, Moira;

  ‘Why am I a prisoner?’

  The young woman cut Ishbel’s question with the edge of her hand.

  Ishbel shifted position, her bum was cold and numb. ‘My shoulder?’

  ‘Was dislocated, we relocated it while you were out. It will repair now.’

  ‘Thank you. But…’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ The woman asked

  ‘Did Dawdle not explain?’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  ‘We were shipwrecked.’

  ‘You were not shipwrecked, we found your vessel; there’s no damage. It’s as well as can be expected given its age and history. So I ask you again.’ She clearly had another story in mind.

  ‘This makes no sense.’ Ishbel remembered the collision, Dawdle’s insistence they abandoned ship. ‘What do you mean no damage?’ The woman ignored her. ‘We were fired on by a military vessel. We had to escape the water.’

  The doubter shook her head. ‘And did you see the damage?’ Ishbel replayed the incident, Dawdle’s handling of the vessel, shouting orders, helping them out. But when they were in the water there was no firing. Dawdle, what was his game?

  ‘Try again.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know what game Dawdle’s playing but that’s my story, I’ve no other.’ Ishbel struggled to get to her feet but was pushed roughly back. ‘Look, we have someone who needs help. He has gone through a mutation and is suffering from chemical withdrawal. We need to get him to help.’

  ‘Then why stop here?’

  Ishbel wanted to shout but knew that was unprofessional and would get her nowhere. She shook her head. ‘Maybe you should ask Dawdle.’

  The woman looked angry and pulled the hood back over Ishbel’s head, leaving her in the dark with the thumping of the pot and the sucking of the gums. If Dawdle manoeuvred them here intentionally maybe he could negotiate help for Scud – they obviously had healers. Scud and Reinya should be awake by now and not only would they wonder where Ishbel had gone, but they would have to spend time alone together. What if Scud had died? That girl could be alone with a corpse. Ishbel felt her anger fizz. Whatever happened, she was going to kill Dawdle for this.

  Her belly still rumbled. ‘Can I have some please,’ she asked.

  The pot stopped.

  The hood was lifted but it was the young woman again. She assisted Ishbel to her feet and released her leg bindings.

  ‘Come with me.’

  The building was indeed a wheel. Each stone wall, a spoke partitioning quarters. Rough bedding indicated sleeping areas. In one section a group of about six small children huddled in bedrolls, staring bug-eyed at the intruder. Another room was filled with buckets of grain and crates of vegetables. In another women and small boys stacked bolts of cloth. Ishbel paused to get a better look but the girl prodded her between her shoulder blades, as if to test her injury.

  ‘Keep moving.’

  A clattering banging sounded nearby, the noise growing louder. A fist of nostalgia gripped Ishbel’s heart; she knew, she hoped. And there it was in the next room. An ancient and wooded complicated contraption threaded with hundreds of fibres. At the other end new made cloth folded onto the paved floor. A hand loom for making cloth, primitive and yet surviving. The man who clattered and rocked with the shuttle looked as though he too had survived the last century. In her birthland of the North West Territories every community had a loom and here it was again, something familiar from the home she and her mother left when she was young.

  She was led round the exterior, the outside rim, where people bizzied, mostly, from what she could see, in food preparation. She was ushered under a stone lintel into a smaller passage leading to the chamber of another wheel, an annex of the main wheel. In this chamber sat four men and four women all dressed in rough plaid, woven in colours and patterns of the landscape, mottled auburns and greens.

  And there in the centre of the group, eye to the floor was Dawdle, untethered and unharmed. If Ishbel’s arms had been free he would have felt more than her glare.

  A female oldie with grey hair knotted in the same style as the cook nodded to the young guard and Ishbel felt her bindings fall free. She wrung out and rubbed her wrists. There was no need to stand on tiptoe, even though they were sitting she could see she was taller than all in the room.

  ‘Well?’ was all she had to say to the room, but her eyes stayed on Dawdle’s face. He had some explaining to do.

  The older women nodded now to Dawdle, who took his cue and stepped forward.

  ‘It’s like this Ish.’

  ‘Don’t you Ish me,’ she gritted even though she was calm, kept her voice low.

  Dawdle squared his shoulders and cleared his throat.

  ‘Ishbel,’ he began, ‘These kind people huv agreed tae look after Scud.’

  ‘How can they? We need to get him to Kenneth, he’ll know what to do.’ Ishbel swept her arm round the assembly. ‘No disrespect but he needs specialised care.’

  Dawdle nodded his head. ‘Ah’ve explained that but they’re sure they can help. They huv healers.’

  ‘Healers, but not geneticists.’ Two of the elders stood, the girl closed in, breathing on her neck. ‘Look, I don’t want to be disrespectful,’ Ishbel said, addressing the elders directly. ‘I just don’t understand how you can help him.’

  ‘Ancient arts – you don’t need tae understand,’ Dawdle said. ‘Need tae know basis only.’

  She pointed a finger at Dawdle. ‘You planned this?’ She swung her finger round to the girl. ‘She told me there’s no damage to Peedle.’

  ‘Ah’ll explain th…’

  ‘No.’ she hissed. ‘You want him out the way.’

  ‘Enough,’ said the old knotted lady. ‘Take your squabbles outside. We can help your friend, take the offer or not, but you must leave us soon. We do not want the State searching for you here.’ She clicked her fingers and the girl stepped forward. ‘Take Dawdle to see the quartermaster to arrange the seaware contract and take payment for the bolts of cloth.’

  If Ishbel had been closer she would have slapped Dawdle. The seaware contract? Cloth?

  ‘Wired for profit.’ Ishbel spat at Dawdle as he passed, head still bowed.

  The woman nodded in agreement. ‘This community has hidden from the State for twelve years. We grow each year but will soon be unable to support ourselves. Your friend Dawdle helps us trade.’

  ‘He’s no friend of mine.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but we are indebted to him and we will help this friend, Scud. Now go and bring him here.’

  ‘Did you fix my shoulder?’

  The woman nodded once. ‘It was not difficult. Exercise the joint and it will heal.’

  Ishbel was led from the room, into the open air where she blinked at the dull daylight. Dawdle stood waiting for her. She punched him square in the face. His neck snapped back with the impact. But he’d been waiting for it, she was sure.

  He held his hand up to his nose. ‘OK, ah deserved that, but if you’d known you’d huv held a gun tae ma heid and set the controls fur Freedom.’

  She walked from him back to the van. ‘They can help him, Ish.’ He stumbled after her. ‘Ishbel these folk need me and they’re harvesting everything this coastline gives them.’ He was gaining on her. ‘We’re sitting on a profit gold mine.’

  She stopped suddenly, birled and punched him again. He pulled a rag to wipe the blood that now dripped from his nose. Then held the bloody rag to her. The fabric was the same as the plaids worn by the islanders.

  ‘You saw. Ah supply the fibre from another community, they make the cloth here. They have industry. Ah’m only a facilitator.’

  Ishbel whirled on him again, he stepped back from the punch.

  ‘Do you have any other surprises you want to spring on me?’

  Dawdle stood his ground. ‘That’s how Noi
ri works, Ish, keeping a constant eye open fur the main chance. It’s a win-win.’

  ‘Any more surprises?’

  ‘No, no, Ishbel.’

  Sorlie

  The numbness was complete. I wanted to scream, I wanted to punch Vanora, who stood panting, her body as rigid as my own. Instead I could only gape at the dying embers of our Transport, breathing its last before sinking into the fringes of the bay.

  ‘Poor Kenneth,’ I whispered. He had been alone for so long and had only just found his soul-mate.

  ‘Never mind Kenneth, Arkle was one of the best.’ Vanora’s words were harsh but I could see by the colour on her cheeks and the shake of her hand that she was bluffing.

  ‘No time to gape – move!’ The Noiri man grabbed me, propelling me towards the van.

  ‘What happened?’ I tried to push off his urgent hand.

  ‘How the snaf should I know?’

  ‘Vanora?’ But she was already in the passenger seat, face pinched, and staring straight ahead as if I too had disappeared in the wreck. I started towards her but was held back.

  ‘No time for that now, we ‘ave to get you out of ‘ere.’

  The driver had a permanent drip on his nose threatening to plash but hanging on with a vengeance as he opened the back doors. The van was stuffed full of bio crates, FRAGILE stencilled on the sides.

  ‘Sorry, man,’ he said. He pushed the crates with both hands, sweating and swearing at the bulk.

  ‘There, you’ll just about fit,’ he pointed to the space the size of a boot box.

  ‘I…’

  ‘Move!’ he roared. Even thought he was a smowt, he scooped me up, wedged me into the space like a size ten foot stuffed in an eight boot and pushed the door to. Pressure popped the small of my back when the door clicked, my chest crushed. It was pitch black, the windows had been tarred out. My chest was glued to the door and crate corners spiked my shoulder blades. Travelling in style. I heard the cab door slam then we were off. I set my breathing to shallow and waited for the short trip to the tower to be over.

  After about five minutes I heard another engine roar behind us. The driver swore, the van weaved, braked. The crate pressure released, then whammed me into the door with the velocity of a bullet. I felt a rib snap. A shot fired outside, Vanora roared in anger or pain. More shots. Then silence. I shoved at the door, it didn’t budge. Was it Pirates, the Military, the same beings who shot Ridgeway from the sky? I checked my comms for a signal - dead. No, not dead, blocked, I could see the signal with the cross through it. It had been aeons since I heard Vanora roar.

  My belly turned to water, I felt in my pocket for my knife. I pressed an ear to the window and heard scuffling. Putting my back against the door I pushed, I eased a hand free but didn’t want to punch in case they heard. I might be able to make a run for it. The door didn’t budge. If they wanted the cargo why didn’t they come? I heard a door slam, another engine rev then drive off, leaving the only sound, the thudding of my heart.

  The door inner mechanism felt gritty, rusted. I hooked my finger through it and pulled it up. The force almost broke my finger and the door stayed firm. I pushed it down. Nothing. I levered back into the crates, but there was no room to manoeuvre. Sweat trickled my spine, I leaned into the door again, a panic fluttered on my belly. I couldn’t breathe, it was like the time the power failed in the prison and I nearly suffocated. I balled my fist to punch, then something stopped me. A sound from outside. Giggling? Shouts, laughing. Doors closed, the van engine fired, filthy fumes filled my small space. The van shuddered forward, kangarooed, stalled, laughs, fired again, began to move. I yanked the door, a dread filled me. I kicked, breath short, my ribs ached. The van jounced from side to side, bounced. Somehow I managed to twist my foot up to the tarred window, I kicked, my knee locked. The van bucked. Curdling screams rang from the cab. The crates fell, rumbled, the world rocked, my head under heels and a box on my chest, rolling, rolling and I knew I was done for.

  There were lights, blinding lights. Rough hands held my neck, clamped my throat, throttling me. I struggled as something rigid replaced the hands. I was banded in a collar like a slave.

  ‘It’s OK, son, it’s OK, son,’ a voice said over and over.

  Something soft and warm swaddled me, like Ma’s embrace, floating me to another place. A searing pain burned my lungs and somewhere lower down. My legs. Screaming bled my ears. My screams.

  ‘It’s OK, son, it’s OK, son.’ A sharp pain stabbed the back of my hand and, and…

  Purple and orange swirled in my eyes, like a mushie trip gone bad, but my eyelids were open and I was looking at a ceiling, solid and painted in a hideous manner. I heard breathing. Someone was close.

  ‘Who?’ The word blotted the top of my mouth.

  My body jarred, spasmed and screamed - I couldn’t move even if I wanted to because I was strapped to a bed. Memory dripped back; the tower, the van, the crash.

  ‘Vanora?’ my voice croaked, I licked my lips. There was a movement, a draft of air, the purple and orange swirled, the ceiling moved, like fabric. I was in a tent. A hand laid gently on my arm.

  ‘Where?’ I looked up into the face of a young girl. Her bark brown eyes were curious. Her tight black hair corkscrewed around her broad brow like a mad hat, her exotic looks scared me for no reason other than instinct. My ancestors warning me.

  ‘Shh, lie still,’ she said.

  ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘A while, your injuries were severe. We kept you suspended while you healed.’

  ‘Where am I?’ My voice was misty and frail. The pressure of her hand on my arm increased. I tried again.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Steadie.’

  ‘Steady what?’

  ‘No, Steadie, it’s the name of our reservation.’ There was a slight huff in her voice, like I’d offended.

  I licked my lips again. ‘A reservation?’ The girl nodded. ‘A native reservation?’

  There were hundreds of reservations dotted around the northern lands of Esperaneo. Domestic natives lived with their owners, but the non-domestic natives, the ones who worked in Urban factories, fields and service industry either lived in purpose-built dorms on site or in the reservations. I struggled to move.

  ‘Why?’ I said as I wrestled with the bindings.

  ‘For your own good. We were worried about your neck, back,’ she said, making no move to release me.

  I looked around my gaudy surroundings. ‘It’s a tent.’

  Her laugh was more a croak, as if she didn’t use it much. ‘Sort of, hideous isn’t it?’

  ‘Can you let me go?’

  ‘We say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ here.’ She shrugged a native shrug. ‘But I suppose you’re Privileged so don’t know how,’ she said as she undid the bindings and eased me up to sitting. She smelled of earth and moss. The hair on my neck tingled at her closeness. She’d called me Privileged but I was too sore to argue. I still wore my black overalls but a small badge like a bar had been attached to the pocket.

  ‘Do you need to keep me under surveillance?’

  She ignored my question and I let it drop because she too wore a bar badge. She placed a beaker with a straw to my lips and I almost cried with the blissful taste of the cool sweet juice it contained.

  ‘What happened? We were on our way to a tower. Our Transport destroyed. There were shots. My grandmother. Vanora.’

  She looked quickly to the door, her expression native set, emotionless.

  ‘There was an accident, your van crashed, came off the road and was rolling towards the lake but it stopped just before it plunged. You were lucky. Unlike the driver.’ She ran a slice of her hand across her throat. ‘Stupid boy racers.’

  ‘My grandmother was kidnapped.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘They took her,’ I persisted
.

  ‘That was someone else,’ she said it as if she knew who.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. We just wanted the van. We saved the van,’ she said as if that should matter to me. ‘We couldn’t let a Noiri van disappear into the water – too valuable.’

  ‘More valuable than my grandmother?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘It was Vanora.’ I said waiting for a reaction.

  The girl looked blank.

  ‘You know Vanora, the revolutionary leader.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘All natives know her. She’s the great saviour of the native race. She organised a break out of a thousand prisoners from Black Rock, to save them from DNA dilution.’

  Those dark eyes looked at me with – what? Pity? How dare she?

  ‘She’s building her army. You should be ready to mobilise as soon as she gives the signal.’

  ‘Mobilise for what.’

  ‘Are you joshin me?’ My head hurt bad.

  ‘You better get some rest.’ She turned to leave.

  ‘No, wait. The revolution, you must know. We have to get rid of the Purists, fight the State, free the natives.’

  ‘Haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, mate.’

  ‘Wait, where am I?’

  ‘I told you, Steadie reservation,’ she threw back. But we both knew that wasn’t what I meant.

  I had to get out of here and find Vanora. I clenched my wrist. My communicator was gone.

  ‘Where is it?’ But my fight disappeared as my eyelids gummed.

  ‘You’ll get it back,’ she said. ‘Now get some rest.’

  It was dark when I woke. My head was louping. Lights flickered in from outside and danced on the tent wall, morphing into cartoonville. Sounds of the camp filtered through to my fogged brain. Music – slow, mournful. Someone sang, bolstering the beat, laughter and joyous shouts rang out. The girl returned minutes after I stirred, as if I were movement monitored. As soon as she pulled the tent door back the warmth of the celebration flooded in.