Dedication
For Michael,
who is my window on the future and my future itself.
Contents
Dedication
Prologue: The Bio-Indicator
The Grand Hotel
The Rumor
The Landfill
Memory Day
Chosen
The Master’s House
Green Tea
The First Test
The Lesson
The House on Ski Slope
Truth
The Eye of Heaven Shines
Chief Warder November
Bio-Diversity for Bio-Indicators
Taming the Shrew
The Weavers’ Guild
The Secret Under My Skin
My Name
Geology Lessons for Bio-Indicators
The Tablelands
Broken Bonds
The Sweater and the Dress
The Investiture
What’s Lost
The Future and The Past
The Battle of St. Pearl
The Meeting
Recovering What’s Lost
How My Light Is Spent
The Master Thief
The Winter of Our Discontent
The Aeolian Lyre
Also by Janet McNaughton
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue:
The Bio-Indicator
The shuttle flies back and forth effortlessly. Marrella has learned the lessons of the last six months well. Her inflamed hands work without thought, leaving her mind free to travel far from this dingy weaver’s house, back to the shining city. She wants to visit the places she loved, greenhouses where the bio-jewels grow, divining parlors where channelers talk to the dead and predict happy futures. She’d even settle for an expensive shop filled with fine garments made from the very cloth she is now learning to weave. But, predictably, her imagination fails her and she’s back in her grandmother’s hospital room. The whisper of the loom becomes the old woman’s ragged wheezing. The memory of Gran’s hot grip seizes her like a phantom wrist-iron.
“Marrella, you know I’m dying,” she had rasped. Her words carried the sting of an unexpected slap. It was the first time she’d spoken the truth.
“Please, don’t,” Marrella had whispered. Please, let’s play this game a little longer, the one where you take care of me.
“Marrella, I must.” The grip had tightened on her arm, telling her there was no escape. “There are things you must know. The money is gone. Every bit of the fortune I had hoped would see you safely married. It’s a good thing I’m dying, really. They’d have to throw me out soon or indenture you to the hospital for my debts.” Marrella had shuddered. All those months she’d passed the menial staff without dreaming she could become one of them. Her grandmother seemed to read her thoughts. “Never mind, my love. That won’t happen.”
“But what will?” Marrella asked. “There’s no one but you.”
“I know. But I’ve made arrangements. We can’t have you in a workcamp now, can we?” Her grandmother smiled, coaxing.
Marrella knew what that smile meant. She wasn’t going to like what came next. Before, she could have sulked or argued. Not now. She bowed her head. “Where are you sending me?”
“Try to understand, dear. I’ve done the best I can. There’s a Weavers’ Guild on the other side of the island. They’ve agreed to take you as an apprentice.”
Better than a workcamp. “But, Gran, why so far away?”
So far from everything.
“This city’s too dangerous. You’ve never even seen the Core. A pretty girl like you, almost seventeen, it’s too risky. You’ll be safe with the weavers. They’ll care for you.”
Marrella’s eyes fill with tears now, remembering. “Not like you did, Gran,” she whispers, “not like you.” The door opens and Marrella bends over the loom, letting the long gold curtain of her hair hide her face, even though it no longer does this job well. She wipes her eyes on her sleeve quickly, pretending to examine her work. She looks up to find not Maya, her teacher, but Nora Merchant, the First Weaver. Marrella isn’t surprised. “I suppose you’ve come to talk about my headscarf ceremony?” she asks.
The First Weaver frowns. Marrella does not even pretend proper deference. Marrella knows the other apprentices call her “that snotty city brat” behind her back. This pleases her. But Nora does not answer. Instead she says, “Show me your hands.” Marrella hesitates, then thrusts them forward.
A rash has blossomed over them like some hideous bio-jewel. Her skin is cracked and red, and now it weeps clear liquid. “How long have they been like this?”
“Oh, weeks,” Marrella says, trying to sound as if she does not care. When the First Weaver lifts her hair, she forces herself to keep still.
“And your hair? How long has it been thinning?”
“Not as long,” Marrella pulls back and gathers her hair protectively.
“But, my dear, your scalp is starting to show.”
“All the more reason for my headscarf ceremony. When I take the headscarf of a weaver, no one need see my hair.”
Nora Merchant ignores this rudeness. “Marrella, I know it’s been difficult for you to adjust. We almost never take apprentices from the gated communities of St. Pearl because it’s too hard to give up the comforts of that life for this. But we could not refuse a dying woman’s plea. You have not enjoyed this work, and yet you’ve done well. You have real talent. But you’re reacting to the yarns, the dyes. This won’t stop if you become a weaver, and we cannot afford the medicines that might ease your suffering.”
Marrella turns hot and cold at once. “You’re going to turn me out, aren’t you?”
The First Weaver smiles. “No, child. We promised your grandmother we’d care for you. We could keep you as a servant, but there’s another option. What do you know of the Way?”
“It’s some sort of religion, isn’t it?”
“I can understand why you might think so, but no. Masters of the Way are the keepers of knowledge. Do you know what a bio-indicator is?”
“Someone with special sensitivities who reacts . . .” Marrella pauses as she begins to understand. “You think I could be a bio-indicator?”
“Yes. There’s a community up the coast, Kildevil. The Weavers’ Guild is strong there, and a Master of the Way lives just outside the town. If you agree, you can move there this fall and begin your training. Bio-indicators were first used in the Dark Times, when the earth was in turmoil. They allow themselves to be ritually exposed to the environment to assure people that toxicity levels are low. The role isn’t as dangerous now as it was a hundred years ago, but bio-indicators are still treated with great reverence. Also, the Way will be able to provide the medicines you need. Masters of the Way have embraced technology and live more comfortable lives than we weavers do.”
Marrella feels her heart lift. “My life would be normal again?”
The First Weaver shakes her head. “Marrella, the nanotech world you call normal is only for the privileged of St. Pearl. Outside the city, it is unknown. You will be more comfortable than you have been with us, but there will be few luxuries.”
Marrella sighs. The shining city recedes a little further into her past. She folds her inflamed hands and bows her head slightly. “I will go,” she says. “What choice do I have?”
The Grand Hotel
We sleep in the basement of the Grand Hotel. It had a name once, but no one remembers now. The warders call it the Model Social Welfare Project. We call it the workcamp. But the walls keep out the rain and snow. We sleep on beds. I don’t have to beg or lift scrip cards or
satisfy the stranger whims of strangers to earn my food like I did when the Tribe had me, when I lived in the Core. But we work hard in the landfill, and sleep doesn’t come easy at the end of the day. So I listen at night while some of the kids whisper their stories, from before. When they had families and homes. One after another. “I had a mother and she loved me . . .” “My father had a job. He used to bring us candy . . .” “My grandmother sang this song . . .” And I believe they did have families because most kids who hit the streets too young never make it here.
I don’t tell my stories. Not ever. If asked, I say I don’t remember. But that’s not true. I keep my memories to myself because they aren’t like anyone else’s. Not comforting. Not beautiful. Others cling to the past like shreds of an old blanket. My memories are more like shards of glass. I drift off to sleep tonight hoping I can take the others’ memories with me to make my dreams. Hoping I will not fall into the same loop of haunting shadows that cannot be understood. But tonight is no different from any other. Once again, I’m in the strange city. The air is hot and breathless. We are at the edge of a green field enclosed by fine buildings—some made of stone. One has a rounded, green roof. I look around without straining because my head is resting on Someone’s arm.
Suddenly, I’m in another place. Darkness crowds the circle of bright light that holds me. There is music and noise. I am captivated by a yellow bowl on the table in front of me, bright in the unfamiliar lights of nighttime. Without warning, arms rip me from my chair. I hear a woman howl after me, a wordless wail. Then only darkness and the sound of running. I wake with a jolt.
Those are my memories. If I told them, who would believe me? What do they mean? I only know that I was once held by Someone. Who? If I could just shift my gaze a few centimetres, what would I see? When my heart is quiet again, I lie awake wishing I knew. If I had a memory of Someone—a mother or a father, maybe I would be someone, too. But I am nothing. Just a voice inside my head. I only know that Someone once held me safe, even if I got lost after. Even if I was left behind. And Someone gave me my Object, the only thing I’ve managed to keep with me all this time. Whatever it is.
As I lie thinking, a sound creeps into the darkness. It grows until I recognize the hum of a fuel cell. The lights of a vehicle sweep past the frosted windows. Who would come here so late? But the sound doesn’t stop. It continues up the hill. The only house up there belongs to a Master of the Way. I’ve never seen a vehicle go there before. A little kid whimpers. Before anyone else hears, I slip out of bed and find her. She’s sitting up, her eyes wide. “The lights,” she whispers. “Are they coming for us?”
I smooth the sweat-flattened hair off her face. “No. Don’t worry. Lie down.”
She shakes her head. “I’m scared.”
“Lie down,” I say again. “I’ll stay, all right?” She nods. After a few minutes, her eyes start to close. She puts her thumb in her mouth and goes to sleep, but I stay. Just in case.
The Rumor
When the warders turn the arc-lights on, some girls groan and cover their heads. I’m tired from the sleep I lost last night, but I reach for my gloves almost before I’m awake. Gloves are the most important thing. I tie mine to the bed frame while I sleep, but as soon as I get up they go around my neck. These gloves are made out of kevlar. I got them when another kid was chosen for food service. She threw her gloves into the air and said, “I’m out of here.” They landed at my feet. Other kids reached for them, but I was faster. I never let go.
When my gloves are safe, I shuffle into my UV suit and follow the others to the latrines.
Most mornings are flat. This one isn’t. Excited whispers buzz back and forth. “. . . late last night, after lights out.” I remember the vehicle and listen hard. “She’ll have a U-R of nine,” a girl says. “They all do.”
“Right. Nine,” someone snorts, “and what’s she do? Nothing.”
U-R. Use-Rating. We all have them. Kids say, “You are what U-R.” Ten is tops. Working in the landfill, you never get past two. Kids with more specialized jobs, the gardeners, the food servers, get to three or even four. Street kids have no U-R. No one worries if they disappear, if they’re taken for organs, or if the death squads “retire” them. Death squad. The memory opens like a tear in my mind and out of that blackness comes Hilary, pushing me to the darkest comer of our hiding hole while black-gloved hands reached for her. Hilary, putting a finger to her lips to keep me quiet. And me understanding, understanding everything. Hilary, looking back just once, then disappearing forever into the harsh light of day. The shell of something that looked like Hilary lying in the street when we came out at sunset.
DON’T THINK. DON’T THINK. DON’T THINK.
I open my eyes. I have not crumpled into a ball on the floor. Hours have not passed. I let myself breathe again. I haven’t been swallowed by that blackness for a long time now. Not like before. When I start to listen again, the kids are still talking. “What do we need a bio-indicator for anyway?” one says.
“I don’t know. Maybe they do some good.” Now I know what they’re talking about.
The Landfill
We leave after breakfast, grabbing UV visors at the door. Because the ozone layer is degraded, it isn’t safe to let the sun touch your skin. We live daytime in the workcamp because they give us protective clothing. In the Core of St. Pearl, people like us live nighttime, sleeping through the harmful light of day. My first few years here, I used to think I’d go blind. Daytime still seems strange to me.
About sixty of us kids and three warders walk down the road that leads to Kildevil. We never actually go to town, though. That would be a big mistake. Instead, after a few hundred meters, we turn into the landfill. The UV visors don’t filter the air, only the light. The air is sweet with the smell of grass and trees. When I first came here, I was afraid of all this living stuff, but now I like it. Even the landfill looks nice today, like somewhere you wouldn’t mind being. It’s springy under my feet, layer upon layer of stuff people once threw away. How could their lives be filled with so much that they could throw all this away? No one knows.
We fan out. I always find a place alone at the edge of an excavation and work hard so no one bothers me. I take my gloves off the string around my neck, fit my hands into the stiff fingers that still hold the shape of yesterday’s work, and begin.
Our job is to find anything useful. Plastic bottles, bottle caps, glass. Bundles of papers. Styrofoam. We work with our hands so things don’t get more damaged than they already are. That’s our job in summer. In winter, we help with the hydroponic trays. It’s nice in the middle of the winter to be in rooms filled with trays of lettuce and tomatoes. That’s why they heat the hotel in winter. Hydroponic work doesn’t take as much time, so we have classes in the mornings. They like to say we are educated here. We learn to read and write and add and subtract, things I already knew before I came here. They also teach us how the environment was degraded by the techies.
I’ve hit a good patch in the landfill today. Lots of bags of high-grade paper, clean and dry. After about an hour, one of the little kids notices, a new kid named Alice. She works her way over and moves in on me. I don’t mind. The landfill is hard work for little kids. But then Melissa sees us. “That’s too easy for you,” she says to us. “Clear out.” This happens all the time. There’s no point in trying to argue. The tattoos on Mel’s face show how important she was in her Tribe. They must have turned her out for her to end up here, and they would only do that if she did something really bad, like kill another Tribe member. I start to move away but Alice doesn’t.
“That’s not fair,” she said. “We found this first.” Alice doesn’t know anything about the Tribes. She has a real name, Alice Icecutter. That means she came directly here when her family failed. She never lived on the streets. She has no idea how dangerous it is to stand up to Mel.
Mel faces Alice down, standing head and shoulders above her. “Forget it, kid,” she says. “This patch is mine now.”
Everyone waits to see what will happen. The warders watch, but they don’t move. My spine coils into my body. It’s stupid to stand up to Mel, but if Alice doesn’t back down, I’ll have to help her. I can’t just watch. After a long moment, Alice turns to me.
“All right,” she says, her back to Mel. “It’s yours.”
Mel grins, showing several broken teeth. “Good thinking, kid,” she says. “I’m personal friends with Lem Howell. Make me mad and one night he’ll get you.” Her laughter follows us all the way to the patch she left, which turns out to be mostly broken glass.
I don’t believe Mel for a minute. Nobody knows Lem Howell. He lives up the valley past the Master’s house on a place called Ski Slope. We never see him, but kids say he’s crazy. Worse. They say he eats anyone who gets close to his house. But he wasn’t always like that. Every year on Memory Day they tell us the story of the technocaust and how Lem Howell went crazy. Memory Day is almost here.
Memory Day
Memory Day is the last day in October. It’s a turning point in the year. The week before, we close the landfill for winter and spend days in the sorting sheds, packing the things we collected all summer to be sent away. After supper they keep us in our sleeping rooms in the basement so the warders can seal off the top floors and disinfect the growing areas. Most kids don’t mind. They spend evenings making little dolls called “guys” out of scraps of cloth and paper. Some guys are just twists of paper with faces drawn on, but some are real dolls. Kids who’ve never been to a Memory Day before will spend hours sewing their guys. There’s a girl named Poppy who has only been in my sleeping room a few months. She’s given her guy arms and legs, sewn on a face, used dead grass to make hair. She hugs it at night when she sleeps. No one tells her not to. The guys are important to Memory Day. I hate them.
For me, the week before Memory Day means I lose my time with a lastbook. There are only ten lastbooks but most kids never touch them. One has a page that stays blank no matter what you download into it. I’ve marked it now so I don’t take it by mistake. No one takes care of the biblio-tech. Lately, the lastbooks get stuck when I download new scripts. There aren’t many titles, mostly reference scripts for schoolwork and stories about street kids who find happiness in Model Social Welfare Projects. I don’t think the writers were ever street kids. I don’t think they’ve even visited a place like this. But I love to read. The lastbook is my best friend.
The Secret Under My Skin Page 1
