Of Metal and Wishes

by Sarah Fine

  “I’ll go to the cottage today,” I say. “My fanciest dresses are there. They’re worth the most.” A lump has risen in my throat, and I’m having trouble getting my words around it.

  My father begins rearranging the little steel basins stacked on the wire shelves over the washbasin. With his eyes focused on his hands and their meaningless work, he says, “I appreciate it.” He pauses for a moment. “And once again, I’m proud of you.”

  His words hurt so much I almost blurt out my secret right there. But I don’t want him to have to share this burden with me. He’s already carrying so much. So I smile gratefully at him. Then I bow my head, jam my hand into my pocket, and rub my thumb over the square coin until it aches.

  The morning passes quickly. Several workers come in with minor complaints, and it’s clear the season of sickness has begun. It always does, as soon as the chill wind from the north begins to blow. My father listens carefully to the quiet symphony inside his patients’ bodies, then tells me what to do. I pass out inhaler sticks of dried thorn-apple leaves for breathing troubles, ginger and horehound sucking drops for the coughs, a tonic laced with opium for a sore throat. One fellow accuses me of trying to kill him when I dose him with a mixture of honey, vinegar, and cayenne pepper to relieve his chest congestion, but my father steps in and assures him that when the burning stops, he’ll be able to breathe again.

  I am more than ready for my lunch break and scoot down to the cafeteria as soon as my father nods that I can go. I want to know if Jima got her wish granted, and if any of the others’ wishes got granted too. I’m so distracted that I don’t see Underboss Mugo until I crash into him as he walks out of his office.

  “Watch where you’re going!” he snaps, then clears his throat and hitches an oily grin onto his face when he sees it’s me. “Ah, Wen. I’m sorry. You caught me by surprise.” He slides a hand over his thinning, greasy black hair.

  I curtsy and step to the side, afraid to meet his eyes. My father said I should never invite Mugo’s attentions, and here I am, nearly knocking him down in the hallway. “Please forgive me, Underboss, I wasn’t being careful. Have a good day.”

  His skinny fingers encircle my upper arm, and I want to rip myself away, but that would be a bad idea. Like running from one of the wildcats that live in the woods at the southern edge of the Ring, which fills them with the thrill of the hunt, the possibility of a kill. “Wen, I know this has been a sad time for you, but I hope you’re settling in here?”

  His breath smells like onions, and my stomach clenches. “Thank you, sir. I’m grateful I’ve been offered a home.”

  He smiles, thin lips curling back like a snarl. One of his top teeth is chipped. “How old are you now?”

  “Sixteen.”

  His smile becomes wider, but he releases my arm. “Such a lovely young lady you’re becoming. You must surely be turning the heads of the young men around here.”

  “No, sir,” I say in a squeaky voice, because I am well and truly scared now.

  He’s looking at me with pure calculation, like he’s adding up all the parts of me to see what I’m worth. “Well, only a matter of time. You come to me if any of them are improper, all right?”

  No words come to me. I can’t move.

  He leans in. “All right? Promise me. I’ll keep them from bothering you.”

  I jerk my head up and down because it’s the only thing that might keep him from getting closer to me. Already I can feel the huff of onion breath on my neck.

  He nods back at me, satisfied. “Good girl. Now, I’m sure Vie is waiting for you in the cafeteria.”

  It’s enough to get my feet going. I mutter a thanks and walk away, acutely aware of his eyes on my back. I manage to make it to the cafeteria before the day-shift workers are given their break, so the only people here are my friends. I sigh in relief and scoot through the food line, stopping only to check in with Minny about how her son is doing.

  She clacks together her wooden false teeth and grins at me. “Doing so well, Miss Wen. Thank your father for me. He’s a miracle worker. He’ll be rewarded in heaven for his work here.”

  My father doesn’t believe in heaven, but I would never tell Minny that. I tell her I’ll stop by her home to bring her boy some of my special ginger drops, which are his favorite thing and the only way we could get him to choke down the medicine that saved his life. She puts an extra bun on my plate and doesn’t charge me for it.

  Vie, Jima, and Onya all stare at me as I approach, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and awe. “We heard about the Noor boy,” Vie says when I reach the table.

  I sit down with my tray. The coin in my pocket suddenly weighs a ton. “He was badly hurt.”

  Onya’s head bobs enthusiastically, the loose strands of her silver and black hair swishing across her round cheeks. “He was the one who lifted your skirt! He deserved what he got!”

  “Is that what you asked for?” asks Vie. “That he would get hurt like that?” She’s looking at me with hungry curiosity, and I want to cry.

  “She didn’t,” says Jima. “She demanded that the Ghost prove his existence, and I guess he thought having a heavy steel rotor fall on the Noor’s foot might do the trick.”

  I flinch. “That’s what happened?”

  Onya arches an eyebrow. “Seems you have the Ghost’s ear.”

  “I don’t!” I nearly shout, then bow my head when several of the men look in my direction. “I never asked the Ghost to avenge me,” I say more quietly.

  “He did it all the same,” Jima replies, her voice strained. “You’re lucky he favors you.”

  My cheeks burn with shame. “He doesn’t.”

  Onya makes a skeptical noise. “But are you a believer now? You should be. The killing floor gives the Ghost opportunities for kindness and cruelty. It’s his favorite place to bless—or strike.”

  Jima pushes away her tray. Once again she hasn’t touched her food. “I told Wen he died there.”

  “It happened seven years ago this season,” says Onya, lowering her voice as she shares her hoarded knowledge.

  I gape at her. “So recently?” I had imagined this myth was as old as the slaughterhouse itself. It’s certainly grown big in a short time. “How can you be so certain?”

  “I was here when it happened. It was just another sad accident at the time, but it wasn’t long after his death that unexplained things began to happen. The night-shift workers reported strange noises. The lights in some of the hallways began switching on and off on their own. Little things at first. But on the anniversary of his death all three spinners fell apart at once, in the exact same way. That was when some of the men began to leave offerings to appease him. Old Hazzi carved the altar and set up the candles.”

  “Why thirteen?” I ask.

  Onya looks over my shoulder at the plastic sheeting that marks the passage to the killing floor. “Men die on the killing floor. Like my Davir did, rest his soul.” She bows her head and wipes her nose on her napkin. “But this one was only a boy. He had a work permit, but most of us knew it was forged.”

  “But they let him work on the floor?” Then I think of Sinan, Melik’s brother. If a boy has his work permit, he has as much right to a job as a man—and probably costs less.

  She nods. “Sometimes, but mostly he ran errands and did the odd jobs, even delivered notes for me on occasion. He was a wiry little thing, always sprinting here and there. Very inquisitive, too, constantly asking how things worked, eager to help the maintenance men fix the machines on the killing floor. Many around here remember him. I know Underboss Mugo must, and Boss Jipu, too.”

  “How did he die, exactly?” asks Vie, who has always loved a lurid tale.

  “The same thing that happens too often around here. A terrible accident. This one involved one of the spinners.”

  I shudder, imagining what the spinners could do t
o a skinny young boy. As my shoulder bumps against hers, Jima abruptly rises from the table and heads for the door, covering her mouth with her sleeve. Onya gets to her feet, then turns back to me. “If you’re so curious about the Ghost now, you should ask your father about him.”

  I blink at her. “What? Why?”

  “Don’t be dense, Wen. He was the one who pronounced the boy dead.”

  I STARE AFTER Onya as she follows Jima out the door. My father knew the boy, the rumored Ghost? Why wouldn’t he have mentioned it?

  “Poor Jima,” clucks Vie, pulling me from my thoughts. She takes a bite of her bun and glances at Jima’s abandoned tray. “Did you read her wish when she took you to the altar yesterday?”

  I shake my head. “She covered it with her hand as she wrote. She didn’t want me to see. Do you know if the Ghost granted it?”

  “Judging by her mood today, I’m thinking he didn’t. Perhaps her offering didn’t impress him.”

  I swallow down a small bite of bun that suddenly feels like a stone in my throat. My offering was a tin company coin like the one I found in the metal shavings this morning. It’s worth a cup of hot tea and nothing more, but I was given something terrible and huge in return.

  Vie finishes chewing and wipes her mouth. “I heard Mugo yelling at Jima earlier because she misplaced some records. He said the meanest things, Wen. I felt so bad for her.”

  I look down at my food and a wave of nausea rolls over me. “Do you think anyone else’s wish was granted by the Ghost?”

  Vie swipes the bun off Jima’s tray. “Apparently, the slurry machine is running properly again. I heard some of the men talking about it at breakfast. And production yesterday was way up. Despite the accident, I guess the Noor are efficient workers. So it seems to me the Ghost granted many wishes. Your challenge wasn’t the only one he answered.”

  The coil of my guilt doesn’t loosen at all. Whatever Jima wished for, she obviously wanted it very badly, and I don’t understand why she didn’t get it. I manage to finish my bun while Vie talks on and on about how she overheard Ebian, the middle-shift foreman, telling Mugo how he’s going to get extra work out of the Noor by charging them exorbitant prices for basic necessities, deepening their debt so they won’t protest too much when he shortens their breaks and lengthens their shifts. She whispers to me in gleeful conspiracy, but I feel hollow. I think of Melik, who does not seem to know his place, who dares to stand up straight and strong even when he is surrounded by people who think he is worth nothing. I wonder if his shoulders will be bowed and his back broken by the end of the feasting season at Gochan One.

  I shoot to my feet so quickly that I startle Vie, who pauses with her mouth open midgossip. “I have to run an errand,” I say, and jog to the door despite the relentless weight of the square coin in my pocket.

  I walk straight to the altar of the Ghost and pull the coin out. I set it on the table amidst all the offerings and scribbled prayers, which have already accumulated in thick piles since last night. Several of them are in Onya’s handwriting, but these are not her wishes. She told me she makes a little extra money on the side by writing out the prayers of the illiterate. She doesn’t charge much, just a single tin coin per prayer, but it is a cost to those who can barely make ends meet. Even hope costs something, I suppose.

  Rich or poor, educated or not, people want many things of the Ghost, and so do I. With shaking fingers I pick through the Ghost’s presents and find my prize atop a neatly folded square of heavy paper. This must be the wish of Mugo, Jipu, or one of the shift supervisors like Ebian. They are the only ones who can afford to waste paper so fine, and Vie told me each of them scrawls a prayer to the Ghost every day. Resting on the paper is an ink stick, a nice one with a good sharp tip. Surely, the Ghost won’t notice if I use it once?

  I tear a corner off a thin piece of rice paper upon which is scrawled a prayer for the weather to stay warm until First Holiday, which is next week and marks the official beginning of the feasting season. On this tiny scrap I write my own wish, a real one this time, not a challenge. I scribble my prayer in cramped letters, working hard to fit them on the triangle of paper.

  Have mercy on the Noor. They should be treated fairly. Please watch over them.

  I blow across the paper until the ink goes from shiny to dull. When I am certain it won’t smear, I roll the paper into a tight scroll. The tiny coil of paper just fits through the hole in the square company coin. I set it at the edge of the altar, behind the first candle on the left, the only empty space on the table. “I’m back,” I whisper. “And I’m asking for your help.”

  I listen hard, but it’s difficult to hear much of anything because the cafeteria is filling with voices and shuffling feet as the workers start their lunch break. Despite that, I swear I hear a faint metallic scrabbling in the pipes, not a tapping exactly, but something. Enough. I stroke the scroll with the tip of my finger, a miniscule offering for an enormous wish. “Thank you for considering my request.”

  I don’t know why this is so very important to me. All I know is that it hurts me to think of Melik’s shoulders slumped, of his head bowed, of his back broken with work, of his spirit broken by Gochan One. I don’t want it to happen. To any of them, really, but especially to him. I listen and wait for a few more moments, then stand up and step around the wide column that hides the altar from the rest of the corridor.

  And immediately collide with a rust-haired boy.

  He grabs my shoulders to keep me from stumbling, but his hands fall away immediately. It’s not Melik. It’s his little brother, Sinan. Up close, he looks even younger, and again I’m stunned that he was able to get a work pass. He has an open, innocent face, one that speaks of jokes and laughter and fun. He is nearly as tall as Melik, but so slender that he looks like he could be snapped in half by a stiff breeze. His hands and feet are huge, though, so I think he will end up big like his brother.

  “Sorry about that,” he says. He does not speak our language as well as Melik does, but I can understand him easily.

  “No, I’m sorry. I seem to be bumping into people today. I need to look where I’m going.”

  The other Noor are pushing by us, eager to get to the cafeteria line. Their hunger is almost palpable, and I think this must be the first time they’ve eaten today. I wonder if they can only afford to buy two meals a day from the company.

  Sinan smiles politely at me even though his eyes drift with longing to the steaming pile of meat-filled buns Minny has just placed in one of the deep bins in the line. “Thank you for taking care of Tercan,” he says.

  “How is he?”

  His smile falls away and he bites his lip. I wonder if he’s translating words in his head. “He is . . . crazy? No. He makes no sense. And sleepy.”

  “The opium sticks,” I say. “They’ll make him groggy, and maybe a bit disoriented.”

  Sinan nods. “We only give them to him for short times. But it is difficult because he hurts so much. Melik is with him now.”

  One of the older men hollers from the back of the line, and Sinan’s head jerks up. He calls out something in Noor and holds up a finger. “I have to get in line. We only have a little time before our shift starts. Foreman Ebian told us we can work longer hours for extra money.” He grins as if Ebian has done a good and generous thing for them, and I want to cry at his innocence.

  Instead I wave him off. “Go eat, then. I can tell you’re hungry.”

  He spins around and joins the line without a backward glance.

  Melik is with him now. This means that Melik is neither eating—nor able to work his shift. I march up the corridor, back to the clinic. I climb the stairs past my father, who is listening to the lungs of one of the slaughterhouse workers. I’m going to ask him about the Ghost, but I must do this first. I pull on my waterproof leather boots and am back out of the clinic in less than a minute, stopping only long enoug
h to have my father write down exactly what I need to get. I stride to the factory gate and settle in for my long walk through the Ring.

  The rough cobblestone streets are dotted with horse manure and are clogged with carts, rickshaws, and steam-powered horseless carriages. Here, near the factory complexes, live the shopkeepers and merchants, the ones who provide for all our extra needs. I walk by a row of hair salons. One of them has the pink light on even though it’s the middle of the day, and two slaughterhouse workers are walking in, their shoulders hunched and their hats pulled low.

  I sniff and turn my face away. My mother was so disdainful of the girls who work in those shops. “They should have learned a proper trade,” she used to say. She was beyond disgusted that they would offer their bodies up like that, and more than once said their activities should be banned by the government council that manages the Ring. Every once in a while the local police do raid this section of town, but it never changes things. If a slaughterhouse worker has spare coin and wants female company, there’s always at least one shop open.

  I walk past the Gochan Two compound, which belches black and yellow smoke, and then past Gochan Three with its acid chemical fumes that blow over the whole town on windy days. Once I leave the factories behind, the streets get wider and cleaner. I turn onto the road that will take me up the Hill on the far western edge, the place that was my home until a few weeks ago.

  I keep my eyes on the ground, on the tips of my boots as they peek out from under my skirt with every step. I don’t want to see the cottage until I’m right in front of it. Already my chest is tight. Already my eyes are stinging with tears. But I am doing something important, so I carry myself straight up to the front door and twist my key in the lock.

  The whole place smells of her, of lotus blossom and apple. It is exactly as she left it, small but neat, beauty in the order of things, power in details. I can’t be here long, or I’ll collapse on the floor and cry. I run to my little room and fling open my closet. Here they are, the colors of all seasons, each one the product of hours of work under her brightest lamp. Each one is a symbol of how much she loved me. I grab two of them: the soft cotton summer dress that looks like a sunset, and a raw-silk dress the color of a sapphire. She had intended me to wear the silk dress at my presentation into upper-class Ring society, at the winter banquet that happens at the end of the feasting season, after Third Holiday. It was something my mother wanted for me so badly, but even when she was alive, there was a question of whether my parents could afford to pay for my attendance.