Ink

by Alice Broadway

  He answered all the questions calmly and the machine did nothing. I was relieved that the questions weren’t too hard: just general queries about new marks and a list of crimes Dad had to confirm he hadn’t committed. The man wrote down the odd note and when he was done, he smiled at Dad and told him he could stand up.

  “Your conscience is clear, Mr Flint. Good, good.” He smiled as though this was all a bit of fun and then looked my way. “Your turn now.” He chuckled. “I promise, you won’t feel a thing.”

  I sat down and took a deep breath, but the moment I put my hand on the machine it began to screech. I snatched my hand away in horror.

  “What happened?” I remember wanting to cry and looking at Dad incredulously. He was trying not to smile.

  The man was smiling. “Don’t worry. I hadn’t reset it properly.”

  Dad was properly laughing now.

  “Maybe you’ve got more to hide than I thought, Leora,” he said. I turned to him and scowled.

  In the end the whole thing was fine; I was asked the same things as Dad, plus a couple tailored for someone my age, like whether I’d ever cheated in school. The machine remained blissfully silent and Dad bought me cake on the way home to make up for laughing at me.

  Cutting through the path between the hall of judgement and the government building, heading towards the market stalls beyond it, I realize I’m smiling.

  I wish he was here.

  It’s cool today. The first day with chill in it this winter. The shock of it has made everyone wrap themselves in extra layers. It’s strange to see less skin – I feel a little cut off, walking past people when I can only see the marks on their faces and forearms. It feels good though; I feel less naked today and not simply because of the linen shawl wrapped around me and buttoned at my shoulder. Just sometimes – and I would never say this out loud – it feels nice to hide my marks.

  The market is here most days, and I plunge into a mass of striped canopies, yells and people. I try not to breathe in as I walk past the butcher – the smell of the meat hanging there makes me feel queasy. I gasp air once I reach the fabric stall. The earthy fragrance of the cotton and the spiciness of the dyes are alluring. Inhaling the colours, I imagine my breath coming out in rainbow puffs. I walk amongst the crowds, watching the ground ahead of my feet – it’s easier this way. Just for today, I want to tune out the snippets of conversation and let people’s marks become background noise. I feel content to only have Dad’s marks in my mind while the memory is still fresh.

  I follow my nose until I can make out the fruity tang of the grocer’s stall. Wooden boxes hold the grocer’s wares, propped up so we can be tempted by their deliciousness. The grocer is smiling, his green apron dusted slightly with dirt. He’s holding a paper bag open and waiting to take my order. His sleeves are pushed up – we’re always meant to have our forearms on display – and I can see so much of him from them. He’s thirty-six and bright – the smartest in his class, clever enough to have had the pick of trades – but there’s death in his marks. I read of a youth cut short by the passing of his older brother. He looks happy now though, and his marks twist to tell me he has a family. I read joy in his ink – there’s abundance in his life beyond the glut of apples and beans in the boxes around him.

  I ask the grocer for onions and begin to fill a brown paper bag of my own with grubby potatoes. The carrots look good and the tomatoes smell fresh and sweet.

  “Do you know what’s happening in the square?” I ask. “There’s a stage set up and loads of people are gathering.”

  He shakes the bag of onions and swings it closed, holding the corners tightly. “Haven’t you heard? There’s going to be a public marking,” he says as I pass the bag of potatoes for him to weigh. I hear suppressed excitement in his voice and something else too; is it fear? “There’s not been one for years.”

  A lot of things have passed me by recently, I’ve been so caught up with Dad. I glance down the street, hesitating. I’ve only ever heard about public markings in school, and I’m intrigued. I pay the grocer, pick up my bag and join the crowd heading towards the square. Someone’s shoulder bumps mine in their rush to get by me. Voices rise and as I get closer the path is packed with everyone drawn to the centre of town to see what’s going to happen.

  By the time I reach the square, a large crowd has already clustered around the stage, and I’m stuck near the back. A woman next to me nods and leans towards me. Her eyes are bright with excitement. “They say Mayor Longsight is coming here today!” she says breathlessly.

  I’m not the type to pay much attention to politics, but there’s something about Dan Longsight that seems to have made everyone take a little more notice, even the kids in my class. He became Mayor about six months ago and he’s totally different from the doddery old men we’ve had before; he’s handsome for one, and younger than most other politicians. For the first time in a while, people are excited about change. I remember the excitement we all felt at his inauguration when we recited the words that invested him with our hopes and trust: He is good, he is wise, he is the best of us. He is not cruel, he loves us, we will not fear. He does all things for our good. I believed those words so strongly my heart nearly beat out of my chest.

  He’s brought in changes too, which we studied in history class with Mrs Oldham. We needed these changes, he said; it was like we’d got lost somewhere. We used to know who we were, what we stood for, and we used to be sure of our strength. That seemed to get more and more diluted with each weak leader that preceded Longsight. His government wanted to bring us back to our roots – to a society where our marks matter, where their power is taken seriously and where we truly see they have the power to change our eternity. So, Mayor Longsight and his supporters wear as little as possible, to show that they have nothing to hide. Anyone can see their marks and know their lives. Mrs Oldham looked embarrassed when she explained this to us; I assume she is the type who feels our marks should be private.

  After seeing him on the screen, and studying him so much at school, the idea that I might actually get to see him sends an excited shiver down my spine. I’m relieved that none of the old mayors shared his views – I don’t think I’d have liked to see too much of their skin. Mayor Longsight, from what I’ve seen so far, might not be too bad.

  Some people say he is Saint reborn, come to purify our hearts and our community. All I know is that it feels like change is coming: change for the better.

  Everyone is pushing, trying to edge closer to the stage so they’ll get a good view. There is constant chatter; it seems everyone else is just as intrigued as I am. There’s a strange intensity and I hear small arguments break out over feet that have been stepped on and latecomers pushing in. The staging is made of wooden sections and there are speakers on each end of it. Thick black fabric encloses the stage at the back and sides, flapping in the breeze. There’s a wooden block in the centre of the stage and I wonder what it’s for. The murmur of the crowd builds and builds, but moments later, when a tall dark figure walks on to the stage, the atmosphere changes. No one needs to tell us to be quiet. It feels like even the birds are taking a moment of silence to stop and gaze in awe of him. A long minute passes, and then cheers start, and we clap and whoop as Mayor Longsight steps towards the microphone. He raises his hands and eventually the noise subsides, becoming a bustling murmur as we wait for him to speak. He clears his throat and his ineffable authority seems to resound through the square. He moves closer to the large microphone. He’s even taller than I expected, and he stands so composed and straight, his confidence shining from him like rays of warm sunshine. I can’t believe he’s here – right here in front of me.

  “Thank you,” he says, and the crowd falls completely silent. “Thank you for being here on this momentous occasion.” Underneath the tinny quality of the loudspeakers, his voice is rich. I wonder what it would be like to hear him speak without amplifiers. “What an honour it is to gather in this way – to stand together as a community, un
ited. United,” he hesitates for a moment and then goes on, “against evil.”

  There is an uneasy murmur from the crowd, and I feel cold despite my shawl.

  “Yes, against evil,” he goes on. “For I am here to tell you what many have suspected – these are dark times.”

  He pauses and looks around at us all. He’s wearing nothing more than a simple loin cloth, but he doesn’t shiver in the chill air. Despite this, from this distance it’s hard to read him; I wish I could see the elegant tattoos on his shining black skin more clearly.

  “You are gathered here to witness something which will be new to many of you – the first public marking in many decades. Some of you – the respected older members of our community – might remember seeing public markings like this before. You know what to expect. You remember those days – better days, I would say. But for the rest of us, this is something we’ve only read about in our school books.”

  He’s right; we’ve all studied markings but no one I know has seen one.

  “You know that I honour and admire the leaders that have gone before me – and they, in their … wisdom,” he pauses briefly, and we all know that he means the opposite, “chose to do away with certain parts of our tradition. But it’s time. It’s time we returned to the old ways – for all our sakes, in these dangerous, dangerous days, we must recover our heritage, and not forget the decisions our ancestors made.”

  At this, he is interrupted by an enormous cheer. He signals for quiet, and smiles broadly.

  “For too long, my friends, we have seen truly abhorrent crimes treated as mere misdemeanours. This must stop. Punishment must be meaningful once more. And so, although today is momentous, soon it will be more common to see a marking in the square. Not frequently – a public marking is not something to be given lightly – but for the most heinous crimes, yes. We cannot continue to gloss over the sins happening within our own society.”

  There is more applause, and he waits before continuing. He doesn’t seem to crave applause; he looks almost embarrassed by it.

  “For too long we have allowed ourselves to slip into apathy, but now we cannot afford not to be vigilant. There has always been a threat from the blanks. No one believed that they really went quietly after the great expulsion – but we chose to think that they were living peacefully, posing no risk to us. And yet I am here today to tell you that we are paying the price for our apathy.”

  Another murmur, almost a groan, rises up from the crowd, and I feel my heart thudding hard in my chest.

  “Yes. We have evidence that the blanks are plotting. They have taken advantage of our weakness. They want to infiltrate and dilute us by weakening our hearts and our morals. You may have heard it yourself; one person at the market says, ‘The blanks weren’t all bad,’ a friend tells you they heard the blanks are a peace-loving people, and a work colleague admits they wonder if the Blank Resettlement Bill wasn’t perhaps a bit harsh? And you admire the spirit of your friends: moderate, optimistic, liberal and open.”

  He pauses and lets his words settle.

  “Drip, drip, drip. The propaganda from the blank spies in our midst (oh yes, they have spies) is subtle, but insidious. They have supporters – rebels – within our own community who willingly feed you lies. They let you believe that they are offering you a light to warm yourself by: nice words that make you feel the blanks are no threat and that you are safe. You settle down by the light of their fire: their words whisper ‘peace’ and ‘ease’. You believe you are finally able to rest. But while you sleep, the rebels will strike and their small, warming flames will become a forest fire that destroys you – destroys everything.”

  He stares at us from the stage, his eyes blazing. And then he roars.

  “Wake up! Wake and rise up!”

  His shout stuns me.

  “Our unguardedness has led us into danger. We have been too willing to trust, and the blanks have found a foothold and are ready to take advantage of our guileless acceptance that all is well. But no more.”

  Looking around I see shocked faces; this is not what we expected to hear. This sounds like a rallying cry: a call to war.

  “We will be ready. We will be alert; always watchful, always wary of the snakes within our ranks. We will recover our purity and reclaim history and make it our present. It is time, don’t you think?”

  Caught up in Mayor Longsight’s fervour we applaud and stamp, and Mayor Longsight signals to someone off-stage, hidden by the black curtain. He waits until we are absolutely silent and bows his head as though he is praying. There is a long, still moment. Then he looks up, right at us.

  “I have serious news. Here today is the proof that the blanks are rising up. It will come as a shock to many, for the man to be punished today walked amongst you; many of you considered him your friend.” He draws a deep breath and then bites out the words. “The judgment was made last week that Connor Drew, one of our esteemed flayers, entrusted with our precious dead, is guilty of skin-stealing.”

  A ripple of shock pulses through the crowd and I shudder. I don’t know who Connor Drew is – he’s a flayer, so Dad may have done – but the idea that anyone would steal skin makes me feel ill. I think of my dad on the flayer’s table and how precious his skin is. Without the skin, there is nothing – no story, no way to live on in the hearts and minds of loved ones left behind. Who would dare steal someone’s history? And why?

  Mayor Longsight signals to one of his aides, and a man is brought on to the stage by two enormous guards. They’re obviously here to protect us from this criminal. Or protect him from us, perhaps? I think as the crowd hisses ominously. The man has chains round his ankles, but his hands are free, his arms held tightly by the men either side of him. He wears a loin cloth like Mayor Longsight’s, only this man’s is dirty white and looks ragged. His skin is black like Longsight’s, only he appears grey with tiredness and defeat.

  Following the men on to the platform is the town’s storyteller, Mel. She’s not much older than I am, but she holds our stories on her skin; she embodies our aims and ideals. If Mel is here, this is even more serious than I first thought.

  “You know your history, my friends. You know how the blanks worked to break our spirits. They removed people’s marks so that their souls would be for ever incomplete. And this man, Connor Drew, may be marked in body, but he is blank in spirit. For he removed skin – of course he did, he is a flayer. But instead of letting it be stitched into a book, he kept it for himself. In stealing one piece, he is guilty of stealing a person’s story, of jeopardizing their journey into the next world, of editing what is left for him to be remembered by. He has worked to prevent us from making a judgement on this soul. This is the work of the blanks.”

  There is a long pause and now no one is cheering; they look frightened.

  “I can confirm, friends, that Connor Drew’s actions were not without motive. He was acting in league with the blanks, aiming to incite a rebellion. He has confessed to having contact with blanks. He is working with them.”

  Shouts rise through the crowd. How could he?

  “Here is evidence of their ways; this is just the beginning. We must fight. The blanks are back and are using our own men to steal our skin, our stories, our souls. They will not stop at this. It is not our souls they truly desire, but our destruction. For the blanks hunger and thirst for our land. They won’t be happy until they have overtaken our cities, towns, homes and beds. They desire our land and will stop only when every one of us is without a home and without a hope in our own world.”

  A woman next to me is weeping. I don’t want to cry, not here, so I breathe deeply against the tears and sickness and tell myself to keep my head. There have been rumours for some time that the blanks are on the rise – that they will return and ruin us. I didn’t want to believe it – I hadn’t believed it, until now.

  “You know our history; you’ve seen the evidence in the museum. When the blanks were among us they maimed and dismembered their victims in or
der to steal their marks, stories and souls. They, a weak and lowly people, clawed at our bodies because they wanted to make us like them. They wanted to overcome our strength and righteousness and claim our land; the land that God gave us and Saint died for. We will not allow this, of course. But justice must be done. Connor Drew stands with those evil blank rebels – and he does not stand alone. He is the first of a plague that we must stamp out. Now, my friends, you know that a person can’t play God without expecting that God might one day choose to play with him. This man tried to change one human’s eternity, and in return he will forfeit his own. He will know what it is to have his future wiped out.”

  I look around at the silent crowd and feel the cold air drive a shiver through my body. They’re going to kill him. They’re going to kill him in front of us all – is that what everyone’s here to see? I don’t want to witness this. Someone coughs, and the people in the crowd begin to shift their feet and whisper to each other.

  Mayor Longsight is looking at us, his face serene. He’s completely in control. I relax a little. I close my eyes and picture his marks, and once again I think of the words we said when he was appointed. I whisper them to myself and feel calmer. He is good, he is wise, he is the best of us. He is not cruel, he loves us, we will not fear. He does all things for our good. I tell myself I am not worried. I am not afraid.

  “Hold him, please,” Mayor Longsight says to the guards. His voice is gentle and courteous.

  They force the man to his knees, and place his forehead on to the wooden block that has been waiting on the stage. I look at my feet, but hear the man groan and struggle against their strong arms. There is a gasp through the crowd and I can’t help but look back up again – Longsight has a slim case in his hands. I watch him open it carefully and with a flourish he takes out a knife – short-bladed but gleaming in its readiness. He stands over the criminal, one foot either side of his body, grasping the prisoner’s hair to hold him still and to reveal the bare skin of his neck. Like a lamb to the slaughter. I don’t want to watch but I can’t look away.