by Tina Shaw
When the Black Marks are far enough away I take a long shuddery breath, then make my way back down the slope to the bushes. My hands are trembling. Bit, knees to his chin, looks up with dark eyes.
“Did you see who?” he whispers, even though they’ve gone.
Crawling in next to him, I shake my head.
“We should go see who it is,” Bit persists. “Might be someone we know.”
Again I shake my head. I don’t want to see. I’ve heard enough.
* * *
That night, I dream about the day my mother was blinded, and the dream is even more real and terrifying than the real event that’s stored in my memory.
Black Marks came to the house, looking for Ma. I was just a kid when it happened, maybe Babet’s age, but the memories are sharp in my head. Had a neighbour denounced her as an enemy of the Director? We’ll never know. It wasn’t long after Papa was taken away to the wild camp.
The Black Marks came through the building like a storm, scattering old people and making the women scream: we heard them before they burst into our place. I was sitting at the table, drawing with a crayon on a sheet of brown paper. My mother was washing a basin of dishes. One of them grabbed her by the wrist and started dragging her through the building. A plate smashed on the floor. My mother was shouting.
Where was Jorzy? Where was Nanna? I don’t remember that. Maybe it was only me and Ma at the time.
I threw myself after them, latching onto Ma’s skirt. The Black Marks didn’t seem to notice – just a no-name Cerel kid, like a bit of rubbish in the street. So I ended up being bundled into the truck with my mother. Terrifying in itself, being inside one of those awful trucks used to round up people and take them away. And there we were, being taken away.
My mother’s eyes were big in the dark interior of the truck. Normally deep blue like a summer sky, they suddenly looked black. She was wringing her hands. Later, when I was older, I realised she must have been beside herself with fear, because it was only then that she noticed me.
“Leho,” she gasped, “what are you doing here?” She pressed me to her chest, fingers in my hair. “You must try to get away,” she whispered urgently, “the very first chance you get. Don’t think – don’t worry about me – just run!” Holding me away by the shoulders, so she could look at me properly, her eyes were pleading. “Promise me!”
Ages later, maybe two years afterwards, Ma admitted something to me: I was certain I was going to die. I saw only her resolve.
Little did I know at the time, but there had been weeks of rumours about a Cerel uprising. Perhaps my mother had been involved. I was sure Papa had been. There were meetings at odd hours. Whispered discussions in the house with people like the Hern person I’ve never met because Ma sees hardly anybody. Either way, somebody gave up her name.
They didn’t torture her for information. Didn’t need to. Once the officer in charge – Mr White, as they called him – saw me, it must have been an obvious tactic to use her own child against her.
All of these things I pieced together later, the way Nanna works on her rag quilts, adding one patch at a time, until she builds up the whole picture.
They left her alone in a cell, while one of the Black Marks walked me around the compound outside. I remember those big men in their dark uniforms and how afraid I was of them. I remember it was cold out in the courtyard. I remember a rearing horse, hooves loud on cobbles and men shouting. Each time they took me back to the cell, my mother looked a little more grim.
Silently, she pressed my skinny body to her.
Then there came a moment when they took me away and kept me in another room. Maybe for several days. I remember bowls of some horrible porridge and crying in the dark under a thin blanket and sometimes a scream in the night that I was sure was my mother. The next time they took me back, my mother was gaunt.
“All right,” she cried, “I’ll talk, just please, let my son go.”
Mr White took us both to another room – there seemed an endless number of blank, cell-like rooms. This one had a table in the corner, behind which sat a man who wrote down everything Ma said.
I had backed away into another corner, hoping not to be noticed. What was more frightening – the way Mr White just stood there with his hands behind his back, or the way my mother spewed out names, dates, possible scenarios? The man at the table scribbled and scribbled, until Ma stopped talking, and there was only her panting and the man’s pencil racing across the page.
“You’ve got what you want,” she whispered, “now let him go.”
“Of course,” said Mr White sincerely. “I am going to let the boy go – you too – because I am a great believer in examples. The Director is a great believer in examples. You shall be an object lesson for the others.”
My memory here is both clear and hazy at this point. There are tiny jumps in the narrative, perhaps from when I blinked or maybe because I don’t want to remember everything. But there are certain facts.
Mr White threw something into my mother’s face.
With a gasp, her hands flew to her eyes. She collapsed onto the floor, crying out in pain.
Then Mr White was calmly pissing on her. The sound filled the room; there was no other sound. The little boy that was me was glued to the wall in horror. Mr White shook himself off, and buttoned up his trousers. He and the other man left the room.
The boy that was me cowered in the corner, frozen, not knowing what to do. I couldn’t even run to my mother. She was on her hands and knees, hair all over her face, retching. Somehow we must have got back to the house, but that part in my memory is blank.
7
A few days later, and with the excuse of finding a new fishing spot, I lead Bit along the riverbank, onto the towpath and away from our own district, further than I’ve even been myself, and past the Bridge of Angels that leads to the Travester side of the river. I’ve brought some crusts with me, in case it takes all day, and a canteen of water. Hopefully there’ll be an apple tree or some blackberries on the way. I don’t want to say anything to Bit, in case I’m wrong, but I’ve a theory there was a clue in Jorzy’s story about the mermaid and I want to check it out for myself.
“My uncles used to go fishing at the Grey Lake,” Bit is yakking away. “Mam says they used to get heaps of fish there. Nice fish, too – blue trout.”
My mind is on other things, so I don’t bother commenting. There are several lakes dotted around the outskirts of Ursa, but Cerels aren’t allowed near them these days. Only Travesters are allowed to fish the lakes. Wistfully, I imagine hooking one of those renowned blue trout.
“I’ve heard,” says Bit, scuffing along the gravelly path, “they have nudie parties at the Grey Lake.”
I laugh. “Nah.”
“True. They take off all their clothes and swim in the nudie.”
“The bugs’d eat them alive.”
“Yeah.” Bit smiles.
We come into a more forested area. Houses are set back among trees. Big proper houses, all by themselves, not joined together like they are in our part of the city. Houses with gardens all around them. Then my breath catches in my throat: there’s a woman sitting in a little white-framed bower, reading a book.
“See that?” whispers Bit.
We stand on the path, staring. “She’s reading a book,” I marvel, wondering where she got it from. Bet she’s a rich Travester; maybe she’s got a whole library of them in her house, maybe even taken from one of the destroyed libraries.
“Not doing anything,” adds Bit, “except reading a book. Just as well my Mam can’t see that.”
We set off again, though Bit is slowing down, anxiety apparent in his very gait.
“D’you think we’re allowed along here?”
“Don’t see why not,” I say casually, trying to hide my own nerves, when in fact I want to be slinking along under the cover of bushes. “There’s a path. A public path.”
“Yeah,” says Bit, unconvinced.
We
carry on quietly, not speaking, slipping through dappled shadows cast by the leafy trees. Insects are buzzing in the grasses. Twice, we pass a street of houses that ends at the river. Then more trees. Once, a park – sloping green lawn with a white band rotunda. I picture the birdcage woman and her friends dancing in a stately manner on the lawn to a string quartet.
We must be getting near the start of the lake district by now. It’s a bit of a worry, as maybe Cerels aren’t allowed near this stretch of the river. We could get into trouble just for being here. Yet there aren’t many people about, and having walked this far I have to keep going. Twice Travesters pass us, strolling along the path. Apart from getting odd glances, nobody says anything.
Then an old man appears up ahead. He’s dark-haired, so I know he’s a Cerel, in work clothes and boots, with a hoe over his shoulder. Bit and me exchange a look, but continue forwards. The old man starts talking even before he gets to us: “If you don’t have business here, boys, you’d best get back to your district.” And he stares at us darkly as he shuffles past.
We keep walking, yet I’m uneasy now.
“That old man’s right,” mutters Bit, “we should turn back.”
It’s true: we don’t belong here. I’m as nervous as a rabbit. But how can I turn back, when we’ve come this far? “Just one more bend,” I promise.
“And we haven’t even done any fishing,” Bit complains.
“We’re not prisoners in our own city,” I say, sounding like Jorzy. “One more bend, then we’ll turn back.”
A willow hangs over the path, obscuring the river ahead. The water is shadowy deep in the bend, mayflies lighting on its surface. If we weren’t so far from home, it would be a perfect spot to do some fishing. In the shadow of the willow, we pause to peer up ahead. There’s a long stretch of river beyond the bend, forested. On the far side of the river, however, lawn runs down to a small jetty and a beach of pale sand. And there it is, what I was looking for – a magnificent house set among yellow linden trees.
It’s like I’ve seen this house before. It’s almost exactly as I had imagined it. I almost expect to see the mermaid lounging on the sand, her tail in the water.
Bit heaves a sigh, patient as a donkey. “I don’t like it here,” he whispers. “I’m going back.”
“All right,” I reply softly. “I’m coming too.” I’ve seen enough, and the next time I come here, it’ll be on my own.
* * *
Nanna mutters to herself, stirring another pot of soup over the fire, and what I wouldn’t give for a nice juicy steak. I’m hunched drawing at the table as she talks to her pot.“Who will run their factories? Who will do all the dirty jobs that the women can’t do?” She throws in a handful of sorrel she found earlier today and I’m mischievously reminded of a witch in a forest.
Possibly the Cerels’ biggest fear is that the Black Marks will take away the younger men, like Jorzy and others his age: sons, who have seen their fathers taken away at the beginning. It’s something people try not to dwell on, but the fear is always there.
“Eh?” Nanna asks out loud, though she’s really talking to herself. “They won’t do it. They wouldn’t dare …”
I can’t answer – they can do what they like, because they do. They could take the young men away, if they wanted, and put women in the factories. Without men, the Director must obviously be reasoning, there will be no uprisings. Without men, there’ll be no more Cerel brats.
Nanna sighs and turns away from the pot, wiping her hands on her old stained apron.
I shift the piece of brown paper to get a better angle on my drawing. It’s a picture of an airship, of course, and I hope it will cheer up Papa. It’s heading towards a mountain of little houses and a shining sun to sort of show that there are better places in the world to live. The drawing will go in with the letter Nanna is writing this week. None of us know if Papa ever sees the letters, but if there is even a faint chance then it’s worth doing.
“I don’t know why they don’t just exterminate the lot of us,” Nanna says abruptly. Hands on hips, she looks furious. “Like rats. They could lay poison – poison the water. Get it over and done with. Clean out the city.” Her eyes are hard as stone.
I stare at my drawing, shocked. What’s got into her today? Maybe it’s the news about Siri’s son. His body has been found on the street, another message from the Black Marks.
“So why don’t they?” I mutter. It’s not a nice feeling to be compared to a rat.
Then I feel her hand on my shoulder.
“They need us, Leho,” Nanna says quietly. “Remember that. As long as they still need us, we are safe.”
Looking up, I notice the streaks of silver in her pinned-back hair, and I realise that Nanna probably feels as fearful as we all do. “They’ll keep needing us,” I reassure her, “’cause the Travesters don’t like getting their hands dirty.”
She gives me a crooked smile. “That’s right, Leho. Remember that.”
* * *
The next day, I go back across the stone bridge and make my way to the house watched over by the lions. An hour goes by; another. I should be down at the river, trying to catch a fish. I doze for a bit, propped in the sun against the lion’s back. A caretaker comes out and shakes his fist, chasing me away from the spot, but as soon as the grouch has gone back inside, I take up my vigil again. Perhaps another hour passes. I count automobiles (five), airships (three), a matchstick seller (one), birds in the sky (numerous).
I’m about to give up when Emee appears in the doorway.
She crosses the street, holding the little dog, and sits just below me on one of the steps between the lions.
“Stay there,” she says, not turning her head, “where they won’t see you … I’m exercising Min-Min.” She puts the dog down on the step and pulls out a length of ribbon, dangling it above the dog’s nose as you might play with a cat. Her hair, dazzling gold in the sunlight, is also tied with a ribbon.
“I think you are my secret admirer,” she says.
I snort, yet in fact it’s not too far off the truth. She is fascinating to me, simple as that. Underneath there’s more to it than that; we’re alike, even though we’re on opposite sides.
“You must be hungry, sitting out here all day long.” She sighs. “That’s the sign of a true admirer. You’re willing to give up food, water, comfort, just for a glimpse of your beloved.”
My pride kicks in then; there’s only so much I can tolerate. “Where’d you get a ridiculous idea like that?”
She shoots a slightly hurt glance at the lion I’m leaning against. “It’s not ridiculous. Every girl wants a secret admirer. Of course,” she adds haughtily, “you don’t really count because you’re a Cerel.” The little dog is prancing up and down the steps after the ribbon. “My best friend has two secret admirers. One of them leaves a single red rose under her window every night. The other one writes her beautiful poems. It’s ever so romantic.” She sighs again.
All this talk about admirers and roses – and I bet that part about the roses isn’t true – makes me look more closely at Emee. It’s funny I didn’t notice before, but she’s not perfect. I’ve been distracted by her floaty dresses, her dog and her shiny hair, and hadn’t noticed that her nose is a bit too squashed, and her blonde eyebrows are too thick, and her eyes are a bit too close together.
“So what else do you do?” I ask. “Apart from pine for secret admirers?”
She gives a sniff. “I have a full and busy life,” she says, as if reciting a phrase she’s heard spoken by adults. “There are lessons in the morning. After that, lute practice with my tutor. Lunch with the household, often with visitors. Painting, after lunch – I’m working on a portrait of Min-Min at the moment,” she confides to the lion. “Usually we go out for a walk in the afternoon, or visit friends.”
None of that sounds very interesting to me. More like time-wasting. “You’re not visiting anybody today,” I point out, picking at a scab on my knee.
&nbs
p; “No,” says Emee, “and that’s because my aunt is a little poorly. She’s got one of her headaches and is lying down.”
The dog stretches up to sniff at me, its front paws clicking on the stone. I hold out my hand to pet it, but it skitters away.
“And what do you do all day?” she asks.
“This and that.” I shrug. Trying to find food on the street for the family, chopping fuel for the wood stove, weeding and digging the garden in the inner courtyard. Emee isn’t going to be interested in any of those things.
“We’re going to a ball tonight. My aunt had me fitted for a dress especially.” She might be preening, or boasting, yet I detect a sour note underneath. “We shall probably be out all night.”
“That doesn’t sound like much fun to me.”
“Well, I don’t suppose it would – to a Cerel boy.”
“Will the Director be there?”
A pause, and another glance at the lion. “Of course,” she says. “He goes to all the best functions. I have met him several times. In fact …” She trails off, as if she realises she’s about to reveal too much.
I concentrate on my scab to avoid giving anything away. “What’s he like?”
An airship floats overhead, casting a purple shadow across the steps. Emee is frowning, thinking. “Oh, he is, how shall I put it? He is several things, all at once … not like anybody else I know.” By the tone of her voice it sounds like this is a subject she often considers. “He can be very charming, especially to women like my aunt, and they all think he is gorgeous.”
I turn the foreign word over in my mind: gorgeous.
“He can also be very, um, hard.” She flips me a look, her lips parted. “Once,” she says breathlessly, “I saw him slap a man across the face.”
“Really?” Don’t know why that would be impressive; I’ve seen much worse.
“Yes, really! It was at a party. The man had said something silly, I suppose, and the Director slapped him hard across the cheek. There was a moment of utter silence, and then everybody just carried on as if nothing had happened. It was brilliant.”
