Ursa

by Tina Shaw

  Bit scuffs his boot in the gravel. “Outside our house, on the street.” His voice rustles like dead leaves under the trees.

  I frown at the grave, imagining the bodies wrapped in cloth, lying beneath the dark earth at our feet. I don’t even think to ask why Bit hasn’t mentioned this before; we all avoid talking about fathers. Nanna might have known – she would definitely have known, she knows everything that goes on in the ghetto – but she also said nothing. Sombre now, I wonder if that’s how we’ll get our own Papa back: dumped on the cobbles in the dead of night, like a message from the authorities.

  “Come on,” shudders Bit, “let’s get on.”

  We continue through the cemetery until we reach the back wall. The stone wall is high along most of its length, taller than Jorzy, except for an area that’s hidden behind a large stand of scrappy trees, where part of the wall has been dismantled by busy kids. We climb over the rubble, the dog following nimbly along, and over the other side.

  There are several ruined buildings in the lot. It was once a glassworks. Bit lets his dog off the rope here, and she pads about to sniff at corners and walls.First, we go around all the buildings looking for new graffiti. Somebody has painted a rude picture of the Director on a smooth plaster wall, and we have a good laugh at that. I’ve got an end of crayon in my pocket, so I add something extra to the drawing that makes us both crack up. Then Bit takes the crayon and draws a speech bubble with the words, “I am evil” inside.

  Pleased with our work, we explore the other buildings, hoping to find a vagrant curled up in one of the corners. Most of the brick buildings still have roofs intact, so they’re dry. If you find a vagrant in a good mood, he might tell you the wildest stories, especially if you give him a scrap of bread in exchange. Some of them travel all over the place, and they’ve seen things I can only imagine. Once we found a Travester vagrant. A man who couldn’t even remember his name. Why was he homeless? Perhaps he’d broken a law and been kicked out. At any rate, he wouldn’t say. But there are no vagrants today, only signs they’ve been here: wine bottles, an empty jar of gherkins, a bundle of rags used for bedding.

  “My brother once found a kind of engine in here,” says Bit, as we go into the last of the buildings.

  I’m impressed. “Illegal?”

  Bit nods. “Probably.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “Dunno. Next time they came back, it was gone.”

  “Maybe the Black Marks took it,” I suggest.

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know.” I frown. “Why do they do anything?”

  Next we go looking for treasure in the long grass that grows around the periphery, even though we ourselves and other kids have been over this ground countless times before. Still, there is always the hope you’ll find something somebody else has missed. We kick our way through the dry grass with our boots, hoping not to disturb any snakes, bending every now and then to examine a rock or a piece of glass. I find a thick iron nail and hold it up for Bit to see.

  “Do you reckon I can make a fishhook out of it?”

  “Maybe, if you can hammer it into shape.”

  “It might be a bit too thick,” I say doubtfully, thinking that it would also have to be a pretty big fish to want to bite this hoary old nail. But I put it in my pocket anyway. You never know when a nail might be useful.

  A boy appears, maybe a couple of years older than us, at the wall. He turns and holds out a hand for a girl in a blue dress, helping her up and over the rubble. He whispers something to her and the girl giggles. Then she glances up and sees us staring, and blushes. Just as well we don’t know each other; things like that can get back to the family and cause trouble. Not that I would tell. The older boy jerks his head in the direction of the cemetery: Get out. Age takes precedence in the ruins, and we grab the dog and hurry away.

  5

  Me and Marina arrive back at our building at the same time.

  “Hello, little brother,” she says in a weary voice. Even her dark hair, tied up in a plait on top of her head, looks ragged.

  I grunt in reply. I’d been thinking about fathers on my way back from the cemetery and am lost in a cloudy, dark mood. It’s all very well having an older brother to turn to, if need be, but I miss Papa. I remember his sunny smile, and the times I used to help him with projects – hammering up a shelf, or making a box for coal out of scrap bits of timber – even if it was just holding the nails for him.

  “I’ve had an excellent day,” my sister says sarcastically, “thanks for asking.”

  She lifts the manhole cover with ease and slips down the ladder. I follow more slowly, pausing to slide the cover over, letting her go ahead. But she’s waiting for me below.

  “And what have you been doing today?” she asks.

  I give a shrug. “This and that.”

  “You’re lucky Nanna hasn’t got you a factory job yet,” she says. It’s an absentminded remark. Her mind is obviously elsewhere. “I wouldn’t mind a different job,” she adds darkly.

  “What about the Haretts? I thought you liked it at their place.”

  She snorts derisively. “Cleaning other people’s toilets and bath scum? Being told what to do by Travesters who barely lift a finger around the place?”

  I haven’t heard Marina talk like this before, and I realise it’s been a little while since I’ve heard her laugh. Yet there’s no time to ponder it, as she bumps into our neighbour Therei who is on her way out. Marina immediately grabs her arm and they go into a huddle, my sister whispering urgently into her friend’s ear as if I’m not there. And what can be so important when it’s time to eat?

  I clear my throat. “Are you coming?” I ask, sounding arrogant.

  Nanna gets grumpy if the family is late for dinner. It’s the last tradition we have left, as she frequently reminds us. Except that isn’t really what makes me interrupt my sister’s rapid-fire gossip. With Papa in the wild camp and barely enough for the rest of us to eat each day, I’m simply not in the mood to be patient right now.

  Marina glances over at me with troubled eyes. I must look like a troll, hunched there in the gloom in my bulky jacket. “I’ll come and see you later, when you get back,” she says to Therei.

  “Make sure you do,” Therei says, also looking worried. Her husband was sent off on a work detail into the countryside beyond the city walls several weeks ago, and nobody has heard anything about him since.

  Marina hurries after me up the stairs and along the corridor. I glance through the open doors as we pass by. Three children are playing peaknuckle in a corner. A woman is chopping up a bunch of greens. I duck my head, wanting to be back in my own private cubbyhole.

  But in our own rooms, there is no escape for me either. Babet is already sitting at the table drawing a picture, and Nanna is bent over a bubbling pot. Jorzy appears from the communal bathroom, his hair slicked back wetly.

  “Ah, I feel human again now,” he exclaims.

  “What were you before?” Marina frowns. “A beast?”

  He raises his arms and roars in her direction. Babet shrieks. Our mother with her cane appears in the far doorway. “What’s so funny?” she asks. “What did I miss?”

  Jorzy roars again and chases Babet around the table.

  Rolling my eyes, I start to slink off towards my cubbyhole. I don’t even feel hungry, which is pretty odd; maybe I’m sickening or something. Nanna hooks the arm of my jacket with her fingers. “Not so fast, mister,” she says, dragging me back. “Carry this over to the table.” She hands me the heavy pot. It’s brimming with a thick stew and my eyes widen. It looks like there’s real meat in it. Even more astounding: Nanna cracks a grin. It transforms her face. “An old friend brought us a rabbit today,” she announces.

  “Who?” Jorzy asks suspiciously.

  “Who? Who?” clambers Babet.

  I plonk the pot on the table and sit down. Nanna starts ladling the stew into bowls.

  “It was Hern,” she tells us.
<
br />   Ma reaches the table and grazes her hand against the back of a chair, sitting. She leans the cane against her leg. “Hern?” she murmurs. “Oh, yes, he is an old friend,” Ma says softly, “a good friend.” She smiles. “If only we had some wine to toast him with!”

  “Never mind wine,” says Jorzy, going over to the tap, “we have the purest beverage in the world.” Filling several beakers, he brings them to the table.

  Nanna puts a bowl in front of Ma. “He’s been out of the city,” she says. “He says he’d like to see you, Freya,” she adds, pointedly.

  We all look to see her reaction. Ma says nothing. A single tear runs down her cheek and splashes on the table. She touches the side of the bowl to find it, dips her spoon into the stew and lifts it to her lips.

  “This is the most delicious stew I have ever eaten,” she proclaims.

  The others are digging in, as if unaware of what is going on between Nanna and our mother. Not that it is uncommon for the pair to disagree, but Nanna is always on at her to go outside, to go back into the world.

  Nanna sighs. “You don’t need to keep hiding yourself away like this.”

  Ma smiles tightly. “Oh, but I do … You’ll remember that time I went to the market with Marina. All I did was speak to one person, while we were buying some vegetables, and the Black Marks later beat him up.” She raises her spoon from the bowl of stew. “I don’t want that kind of thing happening again. So let’s just enjoy this wonderful meal.”

  “Stubborn,” Nanna says to her own bowl. “Don’t know where she gets it from.”

  Jorzy gives a dry laugh. “Come on, how about a story while we eat? Marina, it’s your turn.”

  “Me?” she says, glancing up. “I’m hopeless at telling stories.”

  “You tell good stories,” says Babet.

  “Um, all right,” Marina murmurs, frowning in thought. “Once upon a time there was a mighty … um, tree.”

  “And then?” Babet persists.

  Marina gives a hard laugh. “Oh, I don’t know! Jorzy, you tell the story.”

  He puts his spoon in his already empty bowl. “Once upon a time there was a mighty tree. A very old tree that stood at the edge of a clearing in the middle of a forest.This tree was so old it had seen just about everything there is to see, and it kept its own counsel about most of it. One day, two rather odd figures turned up in this clearing. It was a man with a crooked nose, and a great big black bear.”

  “Ah,” sighs Babet.

  Jorzy continued. “As the tree watched, the man drove a stake into the ground in the middle of the clearing, and he chained the bear to this stake. Then he went away. The tree thought this was rather odd behaviour, but he rustled his leaves and waited to see what would happen.

  “Eventually, the man came back to the clearing, bringing some food for the bear. The bear ate his food and curled up to sleep. This happened every day. While the man wasn’t there, the bear walked in circles around this stake, moaning a little to himself. Very odd, thought the tree. Such a strong-looking bear – surely he could pull out that stake. Why does he put up with this unhappy situation? For even to a tree, the bear didn’t seem all that happy.”

  “What did he do?” squeaks Babet.

  “Well,” Jorzy says knowledgeably, “the tree was actually a magic tree, and when he wanted to, he could talk. So he bent his branches a little lower to the clearing and asked the bear what was the matter. The bear looked up with mournful eyes. ‘I am really a prince,’ he told the tree. ‘That man you see coming and going, he is an evil magician who changed me into the shape of a bear.’

  “‘Why ever would he want to do that?’ asked the tree.

  “‘Because he wants to rule the city instead of me. He turned me into a bear, and here I must stay for the rest of my miserable life.’ And at this point, the poor bear burst into tears.”

  Jorzy gets out his pipe and stuffs it with baccy. The lantern casts long shadows across the walls.

  “The tree didn’t know what to do. He didn’t like to interfere in the ways of humans, but this just didn’t seem right. So that evening, when the magician turned up with the bear’s dinner, the tree grabbed him with one of his branches and lifted him into the air. The magician was most put out. ‘Let me down!’ he cried. ‘Or I will put a spell on you!’ The tree only chuckled – he was too old to be spelled by anybody.

  “And he flung the magician clear out of the forest.

  “Then an amazing thing happened … the chains fell off the bear, and instead of a bear, a young man stood in the clearing. The young man bowed to the tree, and thanked him from the bottom of his heart for saving his life.

  “‘Don’t mention it,’ said the tree.

  “‘I won’t ever forget it,’ said the prince. And he was true to his word. Every year, from that time on, all of his friends and family came to have a marvellous picnic in the clearing to celebrate the kindness of the tree. The children climbed around the tree’s branches, and draped flower strings all over him, and everybody sang lots of happy songs to the tree.”

  Jorzy finally applied a light to his pipe, puffing out smoke.

  Babet holds up a finger. “Did they eat jellies?” she asks.

  “Yes,” says Jorzy, “they ate lots and lots of jellies!”

  * * *

  From behind the stone lion, I watch as a group of Travesters come out of the building and lock the door behind them with a large key. I’m thinking they must have a lot of valuable things in there, if they lock their doors. There is the woman from the party, the one with the birdcage in her hair. Her hair is flat now, and curled around the top of her head like a snake. There’s a man in a long coat and top hat. Another man with a cane. A smaller woman, with a sliver of velvet perched on her head, is talking to the birdcage woman. Another man, clean-shaven. And the girl with her tiny dog.

  This group of smartly dressed people set off walking down the street, the girl dawdling at the rear. Which is the mother? The father? They seem more like strangers to each other than family.

  I jump down from the lion and slouch after them.

  The group heads towards the fashionable part of the city. They don’t once look back, not one of them, so I relax and stroll along behind, as if I belong to this part of the city as well. Truth be told, I probably couldn’t even get a job over here scraping plates in a restaurant or cleaning toilets. Not that I care. I can come into this area whenever I feel like it, to scavenge and spy. One time I found a gold ring, just lying on the street. Nanna sold it and bought meat and medicine and two woollen blankets.

  The buildings are cleaner over this side of Ursa: the stone is butter-yellow, and the window glass gleams shiny-clean. Even the pavement is nicer, with smooth stone flags, not the rough cobbles in our district that kids pull up to throw at each other. It makes me feel good, walking these rich streets.

  Despite my rambling thoughts, I keep my eye on the group ahead. As they pass people they know, the men doff their hats. Behind them, I also doff an imaginary hat.

  How de do, missus. How de do, sir.

  There are shops now, fine shops with big glass windows. Not like the mingy ones over in Tor Street. A jewellery shop displays only a single necklace that glitters on a black velvet bust. A tailor’s shop has a stately mannequin that stares haughtily down at me, and I thumb my nose at it. There’s even a shop that sells only flowers – the scent assails me like a clout round the head. What the hell do they do with flowers?

  Up ahead, the group is turning into a cake shop.

  Casually, I slip into a nearby doorway.

  The girl, hanging back, is speaking intently to the birdcage woman. The woman glances at her wristwatch (a delicate, silvery thing around her pale wrist) and nods. Next thing I know, the girl is standing in front of me, her head cocked to one side, just like a raven, the bony dog in her arms goggling.

  Caught out, I jump. So she had noticed me.

  “Come on,” she says, impatient with me already. “I haven’t got that
long.”

  I trot after the girl, her boots tap-tapping quick as a heartbeat along the stone flags.

  “But don’t follow so close,” she throws over her shoulder.

  Obediently, I drop back. She turns into a covered alleyway with a vaulted glass ceiling. In a loading bay, two Travester men in overalls are lifting a huge wooden crate up into a docking area. The girl, taking no notice of them, keeps walking. I slink further back into the shadows, hoping the men won’t think I’m up to no good; except they’re too busy with their load. The way narrows again, then suddenly we’re in a wide, bright courtyard garden surrounded on all four sides by the walls of buildings. A fountain plays in the centre of the garden. There are useless little hedges, which come up to the height of my knees, containing the four squares of garden. Gravel paths run in-between.

  The girl sits down on a bench opposite the fountain and puts her scrawny dog on the ground. It peers around, as if fearful of being pounced on at any moment, then trots over to the hedge and lifts a leg.

  Sitting at the other end of the bench, I wonder if this is all right. Should I move further away? I’ve had nothing much to do with Travesters, so I don’t know the protocol. There are windows in the buildings looking down at us, yet no sign of people. I put my hands on my knees and stare at the fountain. The splash of water is a lovely sight, the sound soothing. It puts me in mind of things I can’t even begin to articulate. The little dog is bravely exploring the path now, and we both watch it.

  “Were you following me?” the girl asks suddenly, not looking at me.

  The question is too amazingly obvious to answer.

  “You don’t talk much,” she says.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, taking a forthright approach.

  “Ah, it speaks,” she says airily. “My name is Emee.” I tell her my name. “That’s a nice name. I once had a little brown bear called Leho.” The dog starts digging in the gravel with its rat-like claws. “Do you have parents?”

  “A mother,” I tell her. It’s too complicated mentioning my father.