Everland

by Wendy Spinale

  The entire city grumbles with machinery, steam hissing from boilers and pipes. In the gas lamplight, the copper and bronze tubes, wheels, and gears glitter, giving the impression of a city made of gold.

  Most impressive are the young boys running about their business, repairing boilers, filling carts with supplies, and loading some sort of digging machine with coal. A child no older than ten, wearing a tan aviator hat and goggles, pedals past me on a wobbly tricycle. Attached to the bike is a wooden wagon with mismatched wheels. Tins of food and bags of rice threaten to topple the cart. Two boys hang precariously from ropes attached to the copper pipes as they swing from one gas lamp to the next, refueling as they go. In one corner, a bonfire roars beneath an enormous pot. Above it, pipes spill water into the container until a kid standing at the top of a staircase spins a wheel, shutting off the water supply. As the town buzzes with activity, each child appears to have his own job. The number of children gathered in this small underground city awes me. The last time I saw this many children was the final day of school when the first bombs dropped.

  I take in the scene before me, drowning in a cacophony of hissing, grinding, and squealing machine parts. Bella sits on a copper pipe that spans the entire city. She reaches inside her satchel and withdraws a bag of chocolate chip cookies. Using her slingshot, she flings them down to a crowd of small kids, each child waving their hands in the air. “Bella, pick me! I want one!” they shout. My stomach clenches jealously.

  Mikey rushes from the city center, his eyes bright with wonder. “Can you believe it, Gwen?” he asks, tugging my hand. “There’s so many of them.”

  He’s right. There must be a hundred or more boys. The older boys tote peculiar gadgets on tool belts while the littler children do simpler tasks.

  Two boys burst from an adjacent tunnel, not unlike the one we’ve just traveled. Sweat laces their brows while they gasp for breath, as if they’ve just outrun a monster or, worse yet, a Marauder. They drop their rucksacks to the ground and grip their hands awkwardly in what appears to be a secret handshake.

  “Scavengers,” Pete whispers, leaning in close to me. “That’s Pickpocket in the waistcoat and Pyro in the jacket. Judging by their rucksacks, they’ve been out for a few days, scavenging beyond Everland’s borders.”

  Smaller boys notice their arrival and surround them, mimicking the hand gestures and giddy with excitement. Pyro hefts the bulging rucksacks over his muscular shoulders and heads toward a building with STOCK ROOM scribbled in red paint on the piece of wood. The smaller boys squeal with delight as Pickpocket reaches into his pockets and hands out brightly colored marbles.

  “Pickpocket!” His name echoes off the stone and concrete walls, drawing the attention of every boy. Another boy, with shoulder-length hair as black as ebony, storms from the stock room. He tosses a lit cigarette into the water at the base of the fountain as he picks up his pace, shoving past Pyro and sprinting toward Pickpocket.

  “Uh-oh,” Pete says. “This can’t be good.”

  “What’s happening?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, but Jack’s the last person you want to piss off around here,” Pete says, starting toward the boys.

  Bella watches with wide eyes from her perch, unmoving. Scout leans against the fountain, arms folded and head shaking.

  Pickpocket’s smile fades as the little boys scatter.

  “Thief!” Jack says before punching Pickpocket square in the jaw.

  Pickpocket stumbles back, gripping his chin in his hand. Blood drips from a cut on his chin, leaving a crimson trail on his dark bronze skin. Shock fades to anger on his face. It only takes a second before Pickpocket tackles Jack and they are rolling on the floor, grunting and throwing punches. Pyro drops the rucksacks and attempts to pull Pickpocket off of Jack.

  “Cool it, you two!” Pete yells as he bolts toward the boys.

  Jack swings a fist and Pickpocket ducks. Pyro doesn’t see the punch coming until Jack’s fist connects with his nose, sending a gush of blood down his mouth and chin.

  “Bloody idiot!” Pyro growls, holding his nose.

  The altercation takes all of five seconds, but in that short time all three of the boys are bleeding.

  Mikey grips my hand tightly as I follow behind at a distance.

  “Enough!” Pete yells, trying to wrench Jack from Pickpocket.

  Older kids join in the brawl, trying to pry the seething Lost Kids off one another. It eventually takes four boys to separate Pickpocket and Jack.

  Pete breathes heavily as he stands between them. “The next person who throws a punch is banished from the Lost City!”

  Jack wrests free from the two boys holding him back. His lip is split. He wipes at it with the back of his hand, inspects the bloodred streak, and spits on the ground. He points a finger at Pickpocket. “You stole an extra ration, Pickpocket,” he growls. “The punishment for theft is three days in the stockade.”

  Pickpocket rubs his jaw, the open gash marking where Jack’s fist made contact. “I took what I was allotted. Two sets of rations for each day I was gone.”

  “You left midday the day before last. You should’ve only had three rations!” Jack juts a finger in Pickpocket’s chest.

  Pickpocket swipes Jack’s hand from him. “You’re kidding me? And what were we supposed to eat today? It’s nearly suppertime as it is.”

  “And with all of the running we do, it isn’t enough,” Pyro interjects, wiping blood off his face with a handkerchief.

  “Oh, give me a break. We all know you Scavengers eat more than your share of the plunder while you’re out. If I were in charge, none of you would receive rations!”

  “And that’s exactly why you are only second-in-command. If you were leader, we’d all starve,” Pickpocket says through gritted teeth. He backs up and throws his hands out flippantly. “Checks and balances, Jack. You”—he points at the dark-haired boy—“need to be kept in check.”

  Jack balls his hand and lifts it, ready to pummel the boy.

  “I said enough!” Pete yells. “I’m in charge. I make the rules. If any of you have a problem with them, you can take it up with me.”

  Jack lifts his hands as if in surrender and takes a step back. “You’re the boss.”

  “Glad we have an understanding,” Pete says, glaring at Jack as if challenging him to argue. Jack says nothing and instead heads toward a gathering of boys congregated by the statue in the city’s center.

  Pickpocket rubs his jaw again. “Thanks, Pete. He’s getting worse.”

  Pete nods. “We’ve lost three Scavengers in the last month, and the ones that are still running are bringing back less and less each scavenge. He’s not coping with the dwindling supplies very well. I’ll talk to him.”

  “You’d better do it sooner than later. The Littles are frightened of him and the Biggers are about to string him up by his bootstraps,” Pyro says.

  “I’ll take care of it today. Go have Doc take a look at that,” Pete says, pointing at the gash on Pickpocket’s chin.

  Pickpocket rubs his sleeve across the open wound. “Nah, it’s just a paper cut.”

  Pete grins and shakes his head. He cups his hands to his mouth and crows like a rooster. His voice reverberates off the metal pipes. Children spill from the buildings and tunnels.

  “Listen up, Lost Boys! We have guests,” Pete says.

  With wide eyes and gaping mouths, the children stare at me. “It’s a girl,” the younger ones whisper to one another, pointing in my direction.

  “Oh, here we go again with the ‘it’s a girl,’ ” Bella says, rolling her eyes. She deploys her wings and flutters to the ground, landing on the dirt floor with a thud. “What do you numskulls think I am?”

  “She’s so … so huge,” a young boy says. Approaching with caution, he tips his head to the side and raises an eyebrow. “You’re not from Everland, are you? Are you one of those pirates?”

  “Of course not. Do you think I would bring a Marauder down here?” Pete asks.<
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  The boys train their eyes on me, but say nothing. I fidget and try not to meet their gaze. Mikey shifts closer to me, clearly uncomfortable.

  Shaking his head and rubbing his face with one hand, Pete mumbles, “I’m going to have to have Cogs check the air intake. You Littles must be oxygen deprived.”

  He marches to the city center, leaving me feeling vulnerable as the group of gawking boys surrounds me. Pete climbs the fountain, stands on the statue, curls in his bottom lip, and blows out a shrill whistle.

  “Lost Boys!” he announces. “This is Gwen. You will treat her with the same respect you would treat any other Lost Boy. Is this clear?”

  “Or Lost Girl,” Bella adds in a disgruntled tone.

  The boys murmur their reply, but their words are muddled.

  “I said, is that clear?” Pete shouts.

  The boys reply, “Yes, sir!” Some grunt but say nothing.

  “Wait!” a teenage boy calls, peering through goggles with thick lenses. His eyes appear larger than they should behind the glass. “She isn’t a Lost Kid unless there’s a vote. That’s what the rules say.” His tone is authoritative, but still has a hint of hesitancy.

  “Justice’s gotta point,” Scout says, and spits on the ground.

  Justice twists a knob on the side of his goggles. The lenses move forward, protruding from his face like two telescopes. He pulls a spiral notebook from his shirt pocket, flips a few pages, and clears his throat.

  “According to the Statutes of the City of Lost Kids, section fifteen, article five, subarticle A-3, ‘No Lost Boy shall bring outsiders within the city limits without prior consent and two-thirds vote of the Lost citizens,’ ” the boy says, holding up the notebook. “Rules are rules.”

  Bella marches up to Justice and swats the paper pad out of his hand. A few loose pages slip from the metal spiral spine as the notebook flutters to the floor. The boy frowns at Bella as his lips press into a thin line.

  “Do that again, princess, and I’ll dip your wings in candle wax. You’ll be grounded for at least a day or more,” Justice says, glaring at Bella.

  Bella is unfazed and only smirks. “You and your book of stupid rules! I’m tired of them.”

  Justice grimaces. “You do know what the statutes say about retaliating against another Lost Boy, don’t you, Bella?”

  “I’m not a Lost Boy—the rules don’t apply to me.” She crosses her arms, almost as if she is expecting the boy to challenge her.

  “We’re going to have to call an emergency council meeting and make an amendment to include Lost Girls,” he growls.

  Justice bends to pick up his notebook, but Bella steps on it. She leans in close so that she is only centimeters from his face. “Are you sure you really want to do that?” she says. “Remember what happened the last time you called an emergency council meeting? How did that work out for you?”

  Justice releases the notebook, leaving it under Bella’s boot. He stands, rolls his shoulders back, and straightens his waistcoat. “I was cleaning glue from the gears of my spectacles for weeks,” Justice mutters.

  Bella stands on her tiptoes so she’s close to Justice’s ear. “Pete and I found firecrackers on our last scavenge. It’d be a shame if they found their way into your sleeping quarters.”

  “Bella, that’s enough,” Pete says, the tone of his voice indicating a stern warning.

  “Fine!” Bella says. But she leans close one more time and whispers, “I still wouldn’t advise any emergency council meetings if I were you.” She winks, spins on the heels of her boots, stomps to the center of the city, and stands in front of the statue.

  Pete rolls his eyes. “Did you have to do that?” he says.

  Bella cocks her weight to one hip and grins.

  “But the rules state we must vote first. You have no idea if these two are associated with the Marauders,” Justice says, picking up his notebook and flipping through the pages.

  “Gwen and Mikey are my guests. They’re staying,” Pete says, dismissing the altercation between Bella and Justice. He strides toward Mikey and me. “I declare you, Gwen … What did you say your last name was?” he asks.

  “I didn’t say what it was. It’s Darling, Gwen Darling,” I mumble.

  “Hmm, not as bad as Gwen the Immune, but you might consider taking a new name now that you’re a Lost Kid,” Pete says. “All the smart kids do. You could go with Stubbornly. Feisty. How about Cheeky?”

  The boys erupt in laughter.

  I scowl. “Thanks for the advice, Prince Charming.”

  “So is that a no?”

  I give him a light smack on his chest and narrow my eyes.

  Pete winks. “I’m only kidding.” He throws his arms in the air in a dramatic display. “Gwen Darling, do you promise to protect all of those smaller than you, even the Lost Bugs, except when Sous the Chef serves them for dinner because there is nothing else to eat?” Pete asks a little too loudly.

  The littlest of the Lost Boys giggle, some of them scrunching up their noses at the suggestion of eating bugs.

  “I guess so,” I say.

  Pete turns to Justice. “Are you satisfied now?”

  Justice’s telescope eyes scrutinize me before he gives a quick nod.

  “Excellent! Gwen Darling, I declare you a Lost Kid. You will all regard her with the same dignity as you would any other Lost Kid. Anyone who treats her otherwise will have to report to me, and I assure you the Plungers have an endless amount of drains to snake. I’m sure they’d be thrilled with an extra hand or two,” Pete says.

  A hush blankets the gathering of boys, but no one challenges Pete.

  He points at Mikey. “And he’s a Lost Boy, too. No questions asked.”

  A melodious cheer erupts from the crowd. Bella claps with an expression of boredom on her face. “Huzzah,” she says with sarcasm.

  Mikey smiles a muddy grin, still dirty from his earthy disguise. Justice studies my brother with a pinched expression but says nothing. An East Asian boy Mikey’s age raises his hand and bounces on the balls of his feet. “Pete! Hey, Pete! Right here!” the boy shouts.

  The crowd parts as the young boy steps forward.

  Pete rolls his eyes. “Yes, Gabs?”

  “Does she like to tell stories? I mean like real stories. Not the stories you tell because they’re way too short, and I don’t think you really like telling stories anyway. Stories like my mum used to tell about warriors and battles and even fire-breathing dragons that roar so loud it shakes the ground like an earthquake. That’s really where earthquakes come from, you know. It’s dragons who are really, really, really mad. The kind of mad your mum gets because you drew on the walls when you know you shouldn’t. And the dragon mums, they’re mad because someone stole their dragon eggs and the mum dragons are trying to find their babies. Sometimes they dive into mountains and make volcanoes. That’s not really lava, you know. It’s dragon spit that will burn you up and then you’ll know better not to touch the dragon spit because … well, I guess you won’t because then you’d be all burned up. Anyway … does she tell stories?”

  “And that is why we call him Gabs,” Pete says through the side of his mouth.

  The boy peers at me with obsidian-colored eyes hidden beneath overgrown, jet-black hair. He waits for my response, an eager, wide-eyed expression spanning his face. Immediately, I like Gabs, and from the crooked smile on Mikey’s face, I can tell he likes him, too.

  “Well, I don’t know about that. I …” My gaze catches the hint of disappointment in Gabs. When I glance back at Mikey, he’s fidgeting with the arm of his teddy bear. Because he was only five when the war started, hardly old enough for primary school, I realize he doesn’t know how to make friends. He pulls his bear in tighter before he speaks.

  “She tells great stories,” Mikey says shyly, but a frown forms. “Well, she used to when she was just my sister and not my mum.”

  Confused, I glance down at Mikey. “Mikey, I’m not your …”

  Gabs wra
ps his arms around my waist. “Oh! You’re a mother? Will you be my mother, too? I’ve missed my own mum so much.”

  I look at Pete, surprised. He gives me a lopsided smile and shrugs.

  Mikey tugs at my shirt. “Are you really his mother now, too? That would make him my brother. I’ve always wanted a brother.”

  Gabs peers at me and I search for words, but they jumble with my conflicted thoughts. Overwhelmed, I look to Pete for help. He approaches, wiggling an eyebrow at me. Wrapping both arms around my neck, he presses his warm face against mine.

  “I could use a mum as well,” he says, planting a wet kiss on my cheek.

  “Eww, gross!” I say as I wipe the remnants of his slobbery kiss off with the sleeve of my coat. The warmth of his lips on my face brings a rush of heat to my cheeks. I jab an elbow into his ribs, giving him a disgusted look, and try not to let him see the blush I feel growing hot on my skin.

  Pete chuckles. “Well, there you have it. I think this calls for a celebration. Gabs, tell Stock to pull the brew and pop from storage. Take Mikey with you to help carry the tins,” Pete says.

  “Got it!” Gabs says, wrapping a thin arm around my brother’s shoulder. “Come on, Mikey. You’re really going to like Stock. He’s tall and skinny, sort of like the Jolly Green Giant, but he’s not so green. He’s more of a chocolaty color if you ask me. Speaking of chocolate, are you hungry? I’m starving. I’ll take you to meet Sous the Chef, which is spelled S-O-U-S. Not Sue like the girl’s name.”

  Gabs grips Mikey by the hand, but my brother pulls from the boy.

  “Well, what’s wrong?” Gabs asks. “You’re not scared, are you?”