Ursa

by Tina Shaw

  17

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” says Marina, grabbing at my jacket in the alleyway on my way into the building.

  “Can it wait?” I’m hot and tired and can’t be bothered with any more “surprises”.

  “No, silly.” She laughs, dragging me back to the street door. “You’ll like it, just wait and see.”

  “But I’m hungry,” I whine.

  Again that laugh, and the old Marina is back. “That’s why I’ve brought you this,” and she hands me a paper lump with two cold turnips wrapped inside.

  Still grumbling, I follow her through the streets, munching on the turnips.

  “What’s the rush, anyway? Can’t it wait till my day off?”

  She rolls her eyes. “You disappear on your days off. I never catch you in time.”

  Her dark hair is glossy in the late sunlight and I notice there’s a glow about her. Maybe she’s in love, I think sarcastically, and she’s taking me to meet her special friend. That won’t be much of a surprise for me. I’d rather be resting in my cubbyhole.

  “Don’t be so grouchy,” she teases, poking me in the ribs. “It’s something that’ll cheer you up!”

  “I don’t need cheering up,” I tell her grumpily. But nevertheless even the hint of something nice is lifting my spirits.

  We walk and walk, into an area I’m oddly not familiar with, and I thought I knew most of the city. There’s probably no access to the river over here, maybe that’s why.

  Then we’re walking through an industrial area. The sky is a soft purple and clear, heading towards twilight, and a few worker Cerels are out on the streets going home.

  “Not long now,” says Marina, turning into an unpaved road.

  There aren’t any Cerels here and I’m starting to get nervous. “Where are we going, Marina?”

  She simply gives me that secretive grin of hers.

  The road opens out into a large, barren area with enormous sheds. There are three airships in a field, tethered to tall metal towers and floating majestically above the ground. My heart starts to beat faster. This must be one of the depots – not beyond the gates, as I’d thought.

  Marina leads me across the wasteland towards the open doorway of one of the huge sheds. Inside there’s the sound of hammering and the sizzle of welding, like at Jorzy’s factory, though here they’re all Fonecians – not in their traditional red felt vests, which are maybe only for best occasions, but in grimy overalls. One of them, a young man with skin like burnished chicory, spots us and with a grin hurries over, pulling off big leather welding gloves as he comes.

  “Ydra, this is my baby brother, Leho,” says Marina.

  He’s squat, as the Fonecians often are, and even though he seems a bit shy in front of my sister, I can also see the confidence in his eyes. It’s the natural-born confidence of being a Fonecian – one of the trading clan who hold the monopoly over the airship traffic. And he’s not a Cerel, which means he’s mostly divorced from what’s happening in the city. Cerels and Fonecians don’t have much to do with each other, they’re different tribes, and now here’s my sister buddying up with one of them.

  The Fonecian grips my hand in both of his. “Your sister has told me all about you,” he says enthusiastically.

  Right. And she’s told us nothing about you.

  “Is it still all right?” Marina’s practically bouncing up and down in her excitement.

  “Course,” he says gruffly, and leads us further into the shed, towards a large black object. Is that what I think it is, an engine from an airship? It’s up on blocks and looks deceptively simple. Then I realise Ydra’s saying something and I bring my attention back to him. Marina has melted away – is talking to a couple of women over by a big table covered in metal pieces – and I realise Ydra is explaining the engine to me. I can hardly breathe.

  “Are you working on this?”

  “Yes, at the moment, on this one,” he says in his accented voice. The Fonecians speak a kind of hybrid language from the Outer Islands. “Next it will go to that man over there for adjustments. Then another man will fit it back into the ship.”

  The engine is incredible and my fingers are itching to touch it. There are black pipes, some kind of cooling system, and chains. I want to see it in action, see how it works.

  “Later,” Ydra is saying, “if I can make arrangements, you might be able to join a cargo run.”

  My eyes goggle. “You mean, travel in an airship?”

  “Yes,” he says, glancing over to where my sister is now cradling a mug in her hands, still chatting with the others. “But later,” he adds with a note of caution.

  “Later?” I frown, wondering what he means.

  Perhaps Ydra has said too much, for he claps me on the shoulder and changes the subject. “Never mind!” he says, leading me over to another work bay where a Fonecian is lying on the ground beneath a metal frame.

  It doesn’t seem long at all before we join Marina, yet it could have been hours. The Fonecian probably has to get back to work, though there’s no sense of urgency in him. As he escorts us back outside, I can’t help but notice the looks they exchange, my sister and this foreign bloke. They’re more than friends, I’d wager, even though they simply shake hands in farewell, like any acquaintances would.

  “Did you like that?” Marina asks on our way back through the industrial area.

  I glance at her sideways. My head’s humming after being in the airship depot, though I’m suspicious as well. “So how did you meet him, this Ydra person?”

  “If you must know,” she says, hinting that it’s actually none of my business, “we met one day at the Haretts’. He was delivering a parcel that had arrived for them from Karis.”

  “And you became friends, just like that?”

  Marina beams at me. “Yes, just like that!”

  It’s nearly dark now and the gas lamps are being lit, a man climbing up and down a ladder to get to them. My enigmatic sister is marching along, for all the world without a care, and I know she won’t tell me anything more, no matter what I say.

  “Anyway,” I tell her, “thanks.”

  She throws me a gleaming smile. “I knew you’d like it.”

  * * *

  It’s late in the afternoon and I’ve come across Jorzy sitting at the kitchen table, whittling at a piece of wood with his knife. It looks like a doll for Babet.

  “I – I want to help,” I tell him.

  “Really?” Jorzy raises his eyebrows. “Help with what?”

  Hot in the face, I kick at the table leg. “You know,” I mutter. The incident with the fish is still fresh in my mind and makes me angry all over again.

  Jorzy sets down the whittling, and takes his time lighting his pipe.

  “I’m not a kid any more,” I add, suddenly wanting to lash out.

  My brother glances up. “I know that.”

  “Then let me help.”

  “You’re already helping, Leho. By telling us about the house – about him.”

  “It’s not enough.” I pull out a chair and sit at the table. Footsteps sound in the corridor outside the kitchen, somebody going to the bathroom, and I lower my voice. “I want to be doing something.”

  Jorzy stretches out his right hand, studying the long fingers that are permanently grimy under the nails from his days at the factory. Deep in thought, he makes a loose fist, then rests his hand on the table. The knuckles are white. He must be pondering how much to tell me, and I silently hope he’ll open up for once. Finally he meets my gaze.

  “Look, we’re not ready to move yet,” he says cautiously, with a glance at the open doorway. “Our plans are still only ideas. And it needs the right moment – to strike.”

  “I know what you mean,” I admit. After all, it’s what I feel myself. “Though how long can you sit back and wait?”

  Jorzy shrugs, taps at the wooden doll on the table. “I don’t know, Leho. One part of me wants to jump in and do something radical. Just do it. Yet anoth
er part of me looks around here – at our family – and holds back.” He examines me for a while, though his voice is softer now as he thinks it through. “It’s bloody hard, eh. I don’t know how Ma and Papa did what they did, where they found the guts.”

  “Yeah, I know. They were brave.”

  “Or foolhardy,” says Jorzy wryly. “Maybe I’m not foolhardy enough.”

  “I reckon you are.” I grin. He swipes at my head, but I pull back before he connects.

  “Anyway, what about Marina?” I ask more seriously, something that’s been worrying me. “Aren’t you going to stop her?”

  A shadow passes across Jorzy’s face. Then he gives me a lopsided grin and picks up the half-formed doll. “Right. As if anybody could make Marina change her mind about something.” He glances at me. “She’s as stubborn as Nanna, you know that.”

  “At least you could try,” I tell him.

  Jorzy sighs. “Staying here is no answer, you know that. Not for Marina.”

  * * *

  The next day, light footsteps are running through the house and I’m immediately alert. Yet it’s only Babet’s flushed face that appears at the door of my cubbyhole.

  “Leho!” she gasps. “There’s a girl asking for you!”

  Various possibilities fly through my head, not making sense. “What d’you mean?”

  “A Travester girl,” she cries, grabbing my foot. “Come on, hurry up.”

  I climb out of the cubbyhole, smoothing down my hair as we run through the building. When we get to the street door I point my finger at Babet: “You stay here.”

  She’s grinning and I know she probably won’t take any notice. “Leho’s got a girlfriend,” she sings.

  I shut the door firmly behind me and look around. There’s a cart further along the street that sells turnips and potatoes, and a girl is standing next to it talking to the driver. She’s wearing a long blue cloak, the hood up over her head, but I know it’s Emee.

  “There you are,” she says when I reach her. “Thank you, my good man,” she addresses the driver, who hands her a bag of turnips.

  “How did you find me?” I blurt out.

  With a sniff she says, “That’s no way to greet your beloved.”

  The turnip seller grins and winks, making my ears go hot.

  Her voice drops to a whisper. “I asked around. Everybody seems to know you.”

  I take her elbow and walk her towards our building. It’s hard to know what to do with her; it’s different in Trabant Street where she comes and goes as she likes. But here, do I invite her inside for a cup of chicory? No, that’s no good. The place is a slum, compared to her house. Do we go over to the river? Too far, and we’re bound to be stopped and questioned by Black Marks. Emee herself solves the problem.

  “I bought something for your mother,” she says with clear eyes, holding out the paper bag of turnips, then crinkles her nose at them. “The man assured me that Cerels like to eat these things, though I can’t say they seem very appetising.”

  I take the bag from her in confusion. “Um, thanks.”

  “So?” She raises her pale eyebrows at me.

  “What?”

  “Now you take me to meet your mother,” says Emee.

  I frown at her. “What do you want to meet my mother for?”

  “Because …” She rolls her eyes, though it looks like she hasn’t entirely thought this through. “What you were saying, the other day, about the wild camps … I want to know if it’s true.”

  “You don’t believe me?” I splutter.

  Emee hesitates. “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?” Every time I see her she makes my blood boil.

  She merely smiles at my sudden anger. “I just want to see where you live, silly,” she explains.

  And just like that, the anger dissolves. My mouth goes dry at the thought of showing her through our building. What will a rich Travester girl make of the ghetto? Yet part of me wants her to see how we live. Besides, what have I got to lose? She’s still waiting, honey-coloured eyes watching me patiently and probably reading the flurry of thoughts on my face.

  “Come on then, it’s in here.”

  Beyond the door, the alleyway is amazingly empty, Babet having gone off somewhere. Emee takes my hand in her gloved one. A glance at her cool profile tells me she’s having an adventure and I nearly change my mind.

  “I am allowed out, you know,” she comments airily. “I don’t even need a chaperone.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” I say gruffly.

  “No, you didn’t need to.”

  I lift up the manhole cover and offer to help her, but Emee ignores my hand and nimbly goes down the ladder. I follow quickly, dragging the cover behind me. She steps daintily over the rubble in the basement, not caring that her cream calfskin shoes are getting dusty. We head through the building and I’m aware of her frank curiosity. She greets everybody who appears with a “good afternoon” or “good day” so by the time we reach our rooms it’s like a royal procession, littlies following behind.

  In the kitchen, Babet jumps up from the table where she’s drawing and grabs Emee’s hand. “What’s your name? Where are you from? Are you Leho’s girlfriend?” she asks all in one breath.

  I’m about to tell her to shut up when Emee inclines her head and says, “You have the prettiest nose. You must be Leho’s sister. He’s told me all about you.” I’m goggling at the blatant lie, and also at how smoothly Emee handles the situation. Then she digs in the pocket of her cloak. “I’ve brought something for you especially,” she says, giving Babet a coil of red velvet ribbon. She must have remembered me telling her about Babet.

  “For me?” My little sister’s eyes are like saucers.

  Emee is already casting around and I can tell she wants to investigate further.

  I dump the bag of turnips on the bench. “Come on, then,” I say, leading her into the hallway towards Ma’s room. She asked, so I’ll take her. When she sees my mother, a so-called enemy of the Director, scarred and blind, Emee will probably be scared off. Bad enough that we’re Cerels, but to be thought a rebel as well …

  Emee sits on the bed near my mother, who is in her chair knitting a long stocking.

  “Leho, who have you brought with you this time? I can smell lavender, so it’s not Bit.”

  Emee isn’t as confident now, staring at my mother’s face with an expression of pity and something else I don’t recognise. “This is Emee,” I tell Ma. “She brought us some turnips.”

  “Hello, Mrs–” she starts.

  “You may call me Freya, dear,” says Ma, smiling in Emee’s direction. Her face looks a bit shaky today; maybe she’s had a bad night.

  It’s obvious that Emee is casting around for something to say, when her gaze falls on the shawl my mother has draped over her shoulders. “Did you make that yourself, the shawl?” she asks.

  “This old thing? Yes, I did.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Ma makes them to sell,” I add proudly.

  “Though this one’s for me,” says Ma. “Have a feel – it’s the softest yarn.”

  Emee leans forwards and fingers the shawl. “You’re right, it’s wonderfully soft.”

  “A friend from the country brought me the yarn many years ago, when people were still able to move around freely.”

  “But we’ve always been able to travel freely,” Emee puzzles, obviously meaning Travesters.

  My mother turns her face in my direction, also looking puzzled. “Emee means the airships,” I say quickly, adding for her benefit: “Even though Cerels can’t travel by them.”

  “Oh,” says Emee, “that’s right.” She seems embarrassed. Doesn’t she know we’re not allowed to come and go as we please, like Travesters can?

  “How clever,” she says, fingering the shawl again. “The pattern is so complicated. I could never make something like this!”

  “It’s not that hard,” says Ma, pleased with the compliment. “I may
not be able to see exactly what I’m doing, yet I can still knit a reasonable garment,” she says modestly. “I could even show you how to do it sometime.”

  “Would you really?” Emee turns a little pink in her pleasure. “I’d really like that.”

  “Didn’t your mother teach you to knit?” asks Ma, openly curious.

  “My mother died when I was little.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, child.”

  “It’s all right,” says Emee primly, “I’m used to it.”

  And as easy as that, they start to chat away like old friends, my mother’s hands working the knitting needles as she talks to Emee. Still hovering nervously, I’m hoping nothing else difficult comes up, like the wild camps.

  “Leho,” says Ma finally, turning her head in my direction, “you’re a dark horse, keeping your new friend a secret.”

  To Emee, she asks, “Which family do you come from, dear? Your voice reminds me of one of the girls down Tor Street.”

  “Oh, I’m not from around here,” says Emee.

  My mother looks confused, obviously expecting Emee to live in the Cerel district. “Then where are you from?”

  “I live with my aunt and uncle in Trabant Street.”

  Ma turns her face to me. “The Travester district?” she says faintly.

  Emee answers before I can say anything. “Yes, I’m a Travester,” she says in a voice that is neither apologetic nor arrogant, but simply stating a fact. Apart from Marta Gayer, Emee is the only other Travester to have been in our building in years.

  “Well,” my mother huffs. Her hands, holding the stocking and needles, are still. “That’s a surprise.”

  “I hope,” murmurs Emee, “you’ll still want to teach me how to knit.”

  Holding my breath, I wonder what Ma’s going to say. She doesn’t hate Travesters, like some of us, though she has plenty of reason to, but this is still a test. It could go either way.