by Sarah Fine
And now I am sitting with my back against the wall and Melik’s shoulders against my chest, his head lolling in the crook of my neck. This is the closest I have ever been to a boy. His weight on me is crushing, but satisfying in a way I can’t explain. The fuzz of his sheared hair tickles my skin. It’s so soft, like feather down, like a baby’s. If my hair were cut short like this, it would be as stiff as a bristle brush.
“I need you to drink this,” I tell him, lifting the cup to his lips.
He takes a sip and grimaces. “It’s terrible.”
“I know, but you’re going to feel so much better if you drink it.”
His hand closes over my arm, a firebrand pinning me in place. “Is there enough for everyone? For the others who are sick?”
“More than enough.” I hold him tighter as a blazing fierceness coils inside my chest. I will not let this boy die.
He drinks the tea obediently, wincing at its bitterness, and allows me to rub the eucalyptus and clove oil on his skin. His body tenses at the first brush of my fingertips, but almost immediately his breathing comes easier. After I finish, he slowly sinks into a heavy, exhausted sleep. He mumbles something in Noor and nuzzles into my neck, which sends a pleasant shiver down my spine despite the unrelenting heat of his body. His long fingers hold my forearm against his chest, and I am trapped, but for the moment I don’t mind. The feel of his muscles going slack, the steady rhythm of his breaths . . . these are enough for me right now. I stare at the cinder-block wall, thinking of that song my mother sang to me, about a girl and boy in the field of citron, and find myself humming along.
Sinan arrives with a bucket and some clean rags. I wipe Melik’s face with the cool water. He has a nice face, a strong face. A square jaw, a long nose, maybe a bit too long, but it fits him. I learn his features as I clean the fever sweat from his skin. I bow my head when I realize Sinan is watching me closely, and when I can’t bear the weight of his gaze any longer, I say, “Do you want to take over? I should probably get back.”
Sinan laughs. “I think he prefers you.”
My cheeks burn, but not with fever. “He doesn’t know me. You’ll be more comforting to him.”
Sinan makes a skeptical noise and says something in Noor to the other boys, who chuckle quietly. Then he has mercy on me and comes over to take his brother off my hands. He helps me lower Melik’s head onto the pallet without waking him. But when I stand up, it’s like Melik’s weight hasn’t been lifted from me. I feel heavier, rooted to the earth more deeply, like even a typhoon couldn’t blow me away. I wonder if this is how Melik feels every day, if this is what allows him to move through a dangerous world so steadily. I wonder if I will ever know him well enough to ask him. The odds are not good.
I join my father out in the hall. He looks tired but satisfied. He tells me that two of the eldest Noor are very sick and may not make it, but that the others should live through it as long as they receive proper nutrition and ventilation. He goes into Melik’s room and props open the tiny window, which lets in a cool autumn breeze. After he issues some instructions to Sinan, we go back to the clinic. My father sees a steady trickle of patients all afternoon, and I brew up a second batch of willow bark tea to take to the Noor who are too sick to attend their shifts.
Before dinner my father goes to Underboss Mugo and tells him about the flu outbreak. Mugo agrees that the sick Noor should remain confined to their dorms until their fevers break. He even consents to allow Minny and the other workers to brew up beef broth for the stricken Noor while they recover. The cafeteria workers roll out carts of it in big vats, but only to the middle of the compound’s small square. They refuse to take it to the Noor in their dorms, so the Noor must venture out and fetch the broth themselves.
As I leave the cafeteria I hear the whispers: The Noor are being blamed for bringing sickness to Gochan. A few of the men comment that they’re going to ask the Ghost to rid this place of them entirely. One stocky man with a gap between his two front teeth holds up a few company coins. “Worth it!” he crows.
My stomach churns as I watch a few men duck behind the pillar to make their offerings and leave their malicious prayers. My wishes will carry no weight with the Ghost now; I’m fairly sure he despises me for tearing the lid off his secrets. I don’t want to give him any excuse to cause heavy machinery to fall on me, or whatever it is he does to those who displease him, so I stay away from his altar.
I spend most of the next three days at the Noor dorms. Although many of the men gaze upon me with a mixture of suspicion and amusement, they accept my help with obvious gratitude. Sinan teaches me and my father a few phrases in Noor, enough to allow us to ask where it hurts and to offer medicine. I use them over and over again, and the Noor reward me with encouraging smiles when I do, though I’m sure I’m mangling their language terribly. Several of them make that gesture at me, the one where they place their hand over their heart and then extend their open palm in my direction. I can only assume it means “thank you.”
The two eldest Noor are carried away quickly by the illness. But after a bad night and day Melik recovers rapidly. Many of the younger Noor do as well, and they drag themselves up from their beds to help their newly sickened brothers, the ones who gave them tea and held their heads the day before. I cannot help it; I like to watch them together. I cannot reconcile these men who care for one another so tenderly with the image of the Noor fed to me my whole life. Untrustworthy and warlike. Greedy and cutthroat. I don’t understand how the two could be so different.
With the help of the healthy ones, I mop the floors and scrub the walls with antiseptic wash. It leaves the whole place smelling astringent and sharp, but that’s better than the humid haze of terrible scents that accumulated in here with so many sick, dirty men piled on top of one another. I work late into the night, and then I get up early and start the process again.
By the time Saturday comes, Melik is ready to go back to work. Many of the Noor are, and my father clears them one by one. A few hours before the shift is set to begin, I walk down to the dorms to check on the ones who are bedridden, armed with my willow bark tea and a new batch of ginger cough drops, which, it turns out, most of the Noor really like. Sinan in particular is crazy for them. Although I am bone weary and sleep deprived, I am almost smiling as I walk down the hall, because this is it—we’ve gotten the Noor through this with only two casualties, which is much better than we expected. If I still thought the Ghost was a ghost, I might be giving him some of the credit for this. But because he’s not, I know the credit belongs to my father, myself, and the rest of the Noor, who took care of one another when almost no one else would.
I arrive at Melik’s room. He sits on the floor in his newly washed overalls, looking pale but strong. The look on his face, though, is of pure pain. Tercan’s head is in his lap, and Sinan is sprawled out on the pallet next to his. Both boys look desperately ill, sweat-soaked and shivering. The room reeks of vomit.
“Since last night,” Melik says in a choked voice.
“Why didn’t you come get me?”
He grimaces and looks away. “I tried. Underboss Mugo said you and your father were unavailable, and he sent me back here.”
My contempt for Mugo knots my gut. “I’m sorry. I should have come this morning.”
I squat and run my fingers over the boys’ fevered brows. Tercan’s forehead is blazing; his fever is much higher than Sinan’s, much hotter than nearly anything I’ve felt. I lower my head to Tercan’s chest and hear the rattling, wet, labored sounds of lungs filling with fluid. It frightens me, but I try not to let Melik see it. “Can you help me? I want to keep Tercan’s foot elevated, but I think he’ll breathe better if his head and chest are raised too.”
Melik obeys without questioning. “Maybe I should stay,” he says. “I don’t want to leave them.” I think he saw my fear after all.
“You can, but you’ve missed two whole sh
ifts. You need to earn the money. That’s what you came here to do, isn’t it?”
He runs a hand over his short hair. I can tell it used to be much longer by the way his fingers flutter, grasping at red-and-rust locks that are long gone. “Something like that. Mugo has informed me that we will be charged for the broth and the supplies we used.” His smile is full of bitterness. “Broth is very expensive around here.”
Particularly given the fact that the cows are right here in this factory. This is ridiculous. Right then and there I make up my mind to sell more of my dresses to cover some of these costs. But I don’t tell Melik that, because I know he will argue. He will insist they can pay for it, because he is proud. Because he does not know his place.
I do not want him to know his place.
“So,” I say, settling into the corner between the sick boys, pulling out two wooden cups and pouring the tea, “you’d better get moving. You never know when the shift whistle will go off early.”
With a solemn expression he places the palm of his hand over Tercan’s heart and says something in Noor, and I wonder if it’s a prayer. He does the same thing to Sinan. Then he squats in front of me for a few seconds, looking at me with those pale jade eyes in the way I do not deserve. “We will not forget what you’ve done for us. I will not forget,” he says quietly, and then he leaves.
When I recover from that moment, I tend to Sinan and Tercan. I wash their bodies, spoon broth and tea down their throats, rub the last of my eucalyptus and clove oil on their chests, lay cool cloths over their foreheads, and sing them every song I know. Sinan opens his eyes from time to time, sees that I’m there, and falls back into restless sleep. Tercan is much more far gone. There is a faint purple blue cast to his lips, and his breathing is labored and unsteady, like someone is sitting on his chest.
Late in the evening my father comes. He listens to Sinan’s chest and nods to himself, answering some question posed inside his own head. Then he does the same with Tercan, but whatever he hears makes him frown. “This is very bad, Wen. He has developed pneumonia.”
And with those words I know what I’ve feared all afternoon is going to come to pass.
Tercan is going to die.
I REFUSE TO leave Tercan’s side. My father tells me I should get some rest, but he does not argue with me when I say I’m staying. I mop Tercan’s brow, hold his hand, even pray to a God I do not believe in. If this boy dies, I have killed him. I will live with this crime forever on my conscience. That knowledge crowds out all the thoughts in my head until the pressure grows unbearable and my eyeballs ache with it. Until my skin stretches tight and hot. Until every part of me hurts with the understanding of what I have done.
Long after night falls I make my confession. I whisper it in Tercan’s ear while tears roll down my face. How I never knew the Ghost was real, how I never imagined he would answer my challenge in such a horrible way. How sorry I am, how he does not deserve what has happened.
Melik returns a little after dawn, and by that time I ache so fiercely that I can barely move, but I don’t want him to see, don’t want him to guess. I release Tercan’s limp, clammy hand and slowly stand up. Along the walls flowers bloom orange and red, the color of my sunset cotton dress. I blink slowly; my eyes feel too big and swollen for my head. My conscience is choking me from the inside out.
“How are they?” Melik asks as I get to my feet. His voice comes to me from underwater, and I try to shake my head to clear it, but the effort makes me dizzy and I lean against a wall. I need to tell him about Tercan, how his friend will die because of me. I should give him the chance to hate me properly. But before I can get the words out, his expression changes from serious to frantic. “Wen? Are you feeling all right?”
I brush my hair from my eyes, but my scalp is so sensitive that instead of words, only a whimper comes from my mouth. Melik is in front of me right away, ducking his head to try to get me to look at him. He sticks his fingers under my chin and his eyes go wide. His palm is across my forehead in the next instant. “You’re burning up.”
“It’s all right. I’ll go home now,” I say.
I take two steps, and suddenly the floor rushes up to greet me. Right before I hit, the world tilts and I’m in Melik’s arms. His clothes smell of the killing floor, and my stomach roils. But his shoulder is the perfect resting place for my head, which is good because it’s too heavy to hold up right now.
“I’ll take you,” he says quietly.
The cool morning air is pure relief to my burning skin. I lick my dry lips and sigh as the light wind caresses my face. Before I’m ready to give up the breeze, we’re inside the factory again. The sounds of killing are sharp and painful in my ears, and I cringe against Melik’s chest.
“What are you doing with this girl?” The voice is nasal and all weasel. Mugo. He’s in early today.
Melik tenses. His arms tighten around my body. “She’s sick. I’m taking her to her father.”
“He’s already out at the south dorm complex. More flu there. Give her to me. I’ll take her.”
My fingers curl into Melik’s shirt, and his grasp on me turns to steel.
“Oh, sir, she has the same flu the others do. This illness is very bad. Two of our group have died from it. Someone as important as you are should not risk catching it.” Even through my fevered haze I am able to admire Melik’s tact. And to appreciate the way he’s holding me like he’s never going to give me up.
Mugo makes a contemplative noise. “Very well. You may take her.”
Melik thanks Mugo and wishes him a good day before swiftly carrying me down the hall to the clinic. “May I take you to your bed?” he asks. “Or do you want me to put you on the examination table?”
“Bed,” I whisper.
He carries me up the stairs and lays me on my pallet. “I shouldn’t be up here,” he says. But then he gets me a cup of water and holds my head while I drink it. When I’m finished, he gently wipes my face and removes my shoes. He crawls up to my head, and I stretch my fingers to touch his face, to make sure he’s real. His skin is cold against my fevered fingertips. He holds still for me until my hands become too heavy and fall back to the pallet.
“I’m going to fetch your father. Tell me, does he have keys to the front door of the clinic?”
I close my eyes and focus. He’s asking me something important. “He carries them clipped to his pocket watch chain so he doesn’t forget them.”
“And does anyone else have the key?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good. I’m going to lock the door behind me when I leave.”
I’m starting to drift away, but I swear I hear him mutter something about Mugo, and even hearing that name makes me tense up. Then Melik makes me forget everything, because his lips are pressed to my forehead, cool and soothing, and I want to tell him that this could be the only medicine I need.
It’s over too soon, and suddenly I’m in a tiny wooden boat adrift in a boiling sea. Nothing above me but yellow sky marbled with red veins that pulse with my fluttering heartbeat. My feet are on fire; I look down to see the bubbling, roiling water seeping between the cracks in the hull. It covers my feet, ankles, knees, and I’m sinking, boiled alive, my skin peeling from me in layer after layer. Finally there’s too little of me left to hold the soft parts inside. My black conscience bursts free, slicking the water like oil. I watch it from below, blooming in inky swirls, coalescing to form Tercan’s face. His broken, bleeding foot. Melik’s eyes shining with tears. And then a silhouette, human, but something not quite right about it. One of the arms thicker and longer than the other, the head tilted in a funny, off-kilter way. My Ghost. My Ghost who is alive, who does awful, wonderful, cruel things.
Then come the spiders, and their fangs are made of fire. They slash at me for ages, and it hurts even though all of me is gone already, tainting the ocean with my darkness. I scream bu
t make no sound. I pray even though I don’t believe. I beg for mercy I don’t deserve.
Until someone offers it anyway, and I sink into nothingness.
I’m not sure how long it takes me to come back to myself. But at some point I wake up sweating and shivering, and my father is there. He wipes my face with a cool cloth. “You’re through the worst of it,” he says, squeezing my hand. “All you need to do now is rest.”
He leaves me in the dark, and I lie there with my blankets wrapped tight around me. I have no idea what time it is or what day it is.
That’s when I hear the scuttling.
I’m so weak I can barely move, which hardly matters because I’m paralyzed with fear. Tangled in my blankets, I listen to the metallic scraping, the rhythmic clicking, the whir of tiny gears. It’s coming from the corner, by the air vent, or maybe it’s an invention of my fever-crazed brain. The ticking footsteps inch closer, closer, and I imagine those giant spiders with their gleaming, wickedly curved fangs, tearing the meat from my bones.
Then it stops. I lie in a half-mad twilight kind of sleep for a long time, afraid to move, waiting for it to come get me. When the purple pink of the sunrise begins to glow faintly through the window above my pallet, I have gathered enough courage and strength to stick my head out from under my blanket.
No spider is lying in wait for me.
I chuckle to myself, a hollow and dry sound, and rise from my resting place to start the day. I take a bath and wash the sickness away. My brown work dress is hanging in our closet, and I pull it on, noticing both that it’s been cleaned and that it’s noticeably looser than it was the last time I wore it. I tie my apron on tight, wrapping the strings around my waist twice. I am weak, easily winded, and making myself fit for company nearly drives me back to my pallet. My father stirs in his alcove, making sleepy huffing noises that say he’s awake but not happy about it, and I decide to clean up and make breakfast to show him I’m recovered. That he doesn’t have to worry. That I won’t leave like my mother did.
