I walk up the worn stone steps, over the grate near the entrance, and push one of the big doors open. The cold wind fights with the warm air as I walk in and ease the door shut. My hair has blown into my face in spite of the clips, and I search my pockets for a handkerchief so I can stop sniffing. Everyone goes to different venues for their results: wherever their new mentor has asked them to come. My results meeting is happening in one of the basement rooms; it’ll probably be cold down there but I can feel sweat prickling under my arms. I unpin my brooch and take my shawl off.
The woman at the reception desk, Beatrice, knows me well. She’s worked here for as long as I can remember. She smiles. “Big day, hey, Leora?” I can’t help but grin too. “I can’t believe you’re getting your results; I remember when your dad would bring you in here, carrying you in that blue sling. It feels like that was only a few months ago.” She must notice my smile fade because she changes the subject, checking the book in front of her. “Sorry, Leora, you don’t need me distracting you. Mel will be ready for you soon.”
I tuck my shawl into my bag and sit nervously in reception, the minutes crawling by. Just when I think I’ll take a moment to go to the bathroom to calm myself and check my hair, my name is called. A young man with short, neat hair and a studious-looking face gestures for me to follow him behind the welcome desk. We walk through a corridor and down a tight flight of steps into the dank basement, where the offices and storerooms are. The man knocks on one of the doors, nods at me and walks away when a voice from inside says, “Come in!”
Mel is seated at a table, wearing her official storytellers’ apparel: the breastplate and skirt of our traditional garments. Hers are golden. Her legs are hidden by the table as she sits down, but I can just see glimpses of stories on her ankles as she crosses them. I think I spot the depiction of The Lovers, hands entwined. That was Dad’s favourite. I’ve only heard about the illustration of The Sisters on her back; it’s meant to echo the trees on our backs. Moriah stands like the tree; she is spring and summer all in one day – a life in full bloom. The White Witch is below, upside-down, like a reflection, like roots buried deep. She is the decay of autumn, the death of winter. I’d love to see the mark in real life. The stories, ones we all know, cover her. She was chosen when she was just a child to preserve our fables. She has no family to remember or be remembered by; instead she lives with the honour of being an open book, telling our community’s stories. We mustn’t forget them. Even though we have them printed on paper in books in almost every house, it’s the skin that matters – her skin. That’s what lasts, and as each storyteller takes on each tale, embracing the pain, spilling blood as they are inked on their body, they take on the soul of our community and preserve our history.
Mel’s study is small and feels more welcoming than it seemed from the outside. There are illustrations on the walls – similar in style to the marks she has on her body. On the wall behind her is a wooden engraving with the words from Saintstone’s creed:
The stories are our past. Through our past we shall live our present.
I notice a pile of floor cushions in rich colours at the base of a bookcase which is overflowing with books piled on top of each other. An open book rests on one of the cushions and it’s easy to imagine Mel curled up there reading. A tall lamp with a yellowish glass shade gives the light a golden tone.
As she sits, her round stomach rests in folds and her chest is pressed more firmly against the leather and gold breast piece. She is given only the best food, and plenty of it so that her skin is soft and her bountiful body has ample space for all her marks. Her uniform is designed to show her marks clearly at all times. I wonder if it digs in, but I guess she’s used to it.
She smiles, and her brown eyes flash with a sense of humour that lightens the nerves I’m feeling. “Leora Flint?” she asks. “Take a seat.”
We chat politely for a minute – she offers me condolence for Dad. I feel small in Mel’s presence – as though I’m a child trying to fit in with a grown up. She can’t be more than ten years older than me, but Mel has the calm of someone who knows who she is, knows her purpose. She lives for our society and it’s clear that she loves it. Her voice is deep and strong, her storyteller training has given it richness. It sounds as though each word has been warmed in her mouth to make it easier to receive. She looks younger now that I see her close up and her freckles make me imagine her as a girl. Her red hair is pulled away from her face and the curls flow down her back.
“Go on, then, how do you think you’ve done?” Mel grins impishly.
I stare at her. If I say I think I’ve done well, will I sound boastful? If I tell her how distracted I was after Dad’s illness will it sound like I’m trying to make excuses for bad results?
“Um, I have no idea.” My voice quivers. “Have I passed?”
Mel makes a show of slowly flipping through the papers on the desk. Finally, she looks up.
“More than passed.” She smiles broadly and passes a page listing my results across the table. “You’ve done so well, Leora – exceptional marks in everything. It looks like you’ve got your dream: you’re going to be an inker! If that’s what you still want, that is.”
My hands are on my hot cheeks; I’m so relieved I think I might cry. Mel steps round the desk and places a hand on my shoulder.
“Were you really in any doubt, Leora?” she says as she lets go of my shoulder. “I didn’t imagine you would be so nervous.”
“I – I just missed so much work. I wasn’t sure I’d done enough to catch up after—”
“You’ve had a lot to cope with. But things are going to change now – and you can forget about all those subjects you’ve never cared about and just do the things you enjoy.” She gives me a little wink when I looked shocked; I’m used to adults telling me how important everything is. “You’ve done what you needed to do. You can get on and enjoy training now.” Mel sits back in her chair and I resettle myself, letting my shoulders relax a little.
“There is just one thing we should discuss.” My heart sinks as Mel pulls out a sheet from the papers in front of her. “The examiner has made an additional recommendation – an alternative to a career in inking. You’re the first person I’ve mentored, but as far as I know, that’s quite unusual.”
“I don’t want to be a reader,” I blurt out and Mel laughs. Her lightness and calm are comforting. I’m relieved she isn’t offended.
“No, it’s not that.” She looks down at the paper and frowns a little. “It’s … interesting though, especially given who your father was. They’ve said you’ve got all the skills that would suit flaying. They would fast-track you – you wouldn’t need to do any additional study to qualify.”
My brow furrows. “A flayer? Like my dad?” Mel nods and passes me the sheet of paper that I read out loud.
“The candidate shows impressive dexterity, care for detail and admirable tolerance for blood. Her obvious skills as a reader, while useful in inking, would also be a great asset to a flayer, which is a trade that is in great need of new recruits.”
“I think you’ve got a choice, Leora.” She leans forward. “Do you want to stick needles in the living or scalpels in the dead?”
Chapter Twelve
I stare at her for a long moment. Seeing my confusion, she puts a warm hand on my arm. “Let me tell you a story, Leora. It’s one you’ll know; in fact I told it at a public marking recently. But perhaps it will help you make up your mind.”
Mel stands and shows me the picture of Saint on her thigh. I’ve seen his statue so many times in the square. I nod and she clears her throat, ready to begin.
The Saint
There was once a man in the kingdom of the marked who did nothing but good. He loved the poor and cared for the sick. He lived simply, gave generously, and spread a message of kindness wherever he went. His skin told a tale of unblemished righteousness; the people called him Saint.
One day Saint wandered right to the boundary of the ki
ngdom. He came to a wall that was lichen-covered and forbidding. Saint called on God for guidance and soon found a section that was crumbling and lower than the rest. Testing the broken brickwork gingerly, Saint scaled the wall and came down into a new territory, away from the towns he knew and into a rugged and empty-looking land. He was looking for new needs to meet; new souls to save, so on he walked. He walked through oppressive forest and eventually came upon a town that throbbed with darkness and heaved bleak trepidation on to Saint’s heart as his feet stepped through the city gates. Saint was afraid, but he told his timid mind to hush. If ever there was a place that needed him, this was it – fear or no fear.
For a while Saint thought the land was abandoned. Perhaps God had already judged this place and destroyed the evil within it. He entered a lonely looking square with a well, but no bucket to lower and fetch water. He sat by the well, unsheltered from the beating sun, and with every breath his mouth became drier. His cracked lips stung, and each time he swallowed he felt the tightness of his parched throat and the deep longing for something to ease his desperate need. For hours he sat and waited for something, someone to help him. Just at the moment he thought he could wait no longer and prayed for his thirst to be sated by death, a woman came past, a crow perched on her shoulder and a bucket hanging from her bag by its handle.
“Help me, please,” begged Saint, his voice cracking with dry desperation. “Bring me water or I will die.”
The woman looked at Saint, taking in his marked body, glancing at her own bare skin, and she smiled. “It will cost you.”
Saint fell at her feet and promised her all his worldly goods in exchange for a drink. Slowly the woman shook her head. She told Saint her terms, and if only he had tears to cry, he would have wept; but he simply nodded and watched as the woman swung her bucket on its rope and brought up clear, gleaming water for Saint to drink.
His parched throat was revived and he thanked the woman with all the voice he had. She looked at him with disdain and told him to follow her, for Saint had promised his soul to the woman. The crow cocked its head and clicked its beak. Anyone listening would think it was laughing.
The blank and ghostly woman was, of course, the White Witch. She ruled the town with her dark power. Each person Saint saw was empty in body and soul. Unmarked, unloved, unknowable. How he longed to share his knowledge with them. How desperately he wished to heal their wounds and lead them into righteousness. But the Witch worked him long hours, scrubbing floors, cleaning latrines, feeding the animals, and he barely had enough energy to live his own life let alone bring life to others.
One day, after years of faithful service, Saint was sent into the forest to get food. He was sent with a child from the town who would help him carry his goods back. To pass the time, Saint told the child stories, and the child listened with shining eyes. Soon the child brought more and more helpers on their daily errands. The children were entranced by Saint’s tales and they begged him to tell them more and more, again and again. Saint treated them kindly; he didn’t make them walk further than their small legs could bear and he showed them which herbs would ease their sickness and which foods would bring them strength. Before long, Saint had a troupe of young followers all charmed by his kindness and wisdom.
But, one day, the youngest child in the group told his father of all the adventures Saint took them on, and the man knew that soon the children would love Saint more than their own parents. The child recounted the tales Saint had told them and the man saw that Saint was no longer their slave but was, in fact, taking the children captive. Because, for as long as the White Witch had ruled, stories had been forbidden. Saint was hauled before the Witch, who passed judgement and called out his sentence: death by flaying.
Saint was tied up and paraded before the townsfolk, who stripped him and jeered at his marked skin and his kindly soul. The blank masses roared as the Witch came at him with her knife. She sliced into his beautiful skin and peeled it off, inch, by inch, by bloody inch. All the while, her crow pecked and she taunted him, and told him to turn from his goodly ways and submit to her. She mocked him as she ripped his story from his sinews. But with each tug, with each cut, Saint sighed in agonized ecstasy. She could take his skin, but she couldn’t take his life.
“My soul is free!” he cried as his skin gave way. “At last, at last, my soul is free!”
Legend has it that is how Saint returned to his own land: muscles and sinews, bones and tendons on display. Draped around him like a kingly robe was his flayed skin, no longer encumbering that pure soul. Never was there a man as good as Saint. From that day, women and men have set their souls free by imitating the Saint; taking off their worldly clothing, their skin-stories, at their death so they may live on in the next world. And they will never stop telling stories or the tale of the Saint.
“So you see,” Mel says quietly, “both roles are essential. The inker marks the skin and unburdens the soul, but the flayer is the one who frees it from its prison. You will honour our society with whichever trade you choose. But choose wisely, Leora.”
Chapter Thirteen
I pass the statue of Saint as I leave the museum, my mind buzzing with thoughts. He looks so noble and at peace, towering over the square. His teeth in a skeletal smile, his muscles on display to show his strength and power. Somehow he is more potent in his flayed state than any man I’ve seen. I think I’ve made the right decision. But I suppose I’ll also always wonder how things might have been different. Mel seemed quiet after I told her my choice. Is she disappointed? Would Dad have been?
I rub my arm where my new mark will go. There’ll be no turning back soon. Ink to show that I am an inker. It’s what I’ve always wanted.
It still is.
I go round to see Verity and, of course, she’s done brilliantly in all subjects. She’s all set to start at the government on Monday. She has to begin working in the archives, getting to know the systems like the other trainees, but her mentor has assured her that a career in funerary preparation is on the cards.
“An inker! You did it, Leora. And I can’t believe Mel is your mentor – you are so lucky!” We talk excitedly and then I notice the time and jump up.
“I’ve got to get back! Mum’ll kill me if she finds out I saw you first – act surprised if she tells you. Well done, Vetty – I’m so happy for you.”
I dash home and have just enough time to catch my breath before Mum gets back.
“So?” she says as she sets her shawl and bag down. “How was it? I am dying to know!”
I tell her the news and she squeezes me into a tight hug. I can hear her laughing and she says, “Oh, Leora – an inker! You’ll be wonderful. I couldn’t be more thrilled.” I don’t tell her about the choice Mel gave me. It’s my secret and I want to keep it close.
Verity and I go to the government inker together the day after our results. We each hand over our certificate – it’s the most official document I’ve ever seen, all crests and signatures and fancy penmanship. Then we are sent to different rooms to receive our marks.
I don’t think the pain ever gets easier to bear. The ink bites its way into my wrist. This is a larger mark than our small age spots. My mark will show a crossed pen and a sword with a pool of ink beneath it. The inkers’ mark. It will be beautiful when it’s healed, but for now all I can feel is the pain. I breathe deeply and try to let my mind take me somewhere else.
I attempt to engage my inker in conversation. I ask how many people he’s marked today. I thought he might open up because I’m going to be an inker too, but he just kind of grunted when he read my notes. He seems bored. For a second panic overshadows the pain; I don’t want to be bored. But then, my days won’t be spent like his. Mel told me that my training will be at a studio, and not the government inkers. I’ll be able to work on people’s chosen marks, not just have to churn out the same official marks day after day.
When we’ve both finished, Verity and I admire each other’s marks through the film that pro
tects them. Her inker has done a good job – the lines are fine and clear. Her mark is a wheel with a set of scales beneath it. Our wrists are red and sore, but soon enough they’ll be something we’re proud to show, something that people’s eyes will flick to automatically to see who we are and what it is that we do.
Chapter Fourteen
“I’m going to freeze,” I tell Verity when she opens the door to let me in.
The end-of-exams party the day after we get our marks is practically compulsory. Everyone is invited and everyone goes – even me. I’m dreading it a bit; it sounds just like school, only probably with alcohol. We’re not really allowed to drink yet, but there’s bound to be someone who has convinced their parents to buy some booze. Plus, from the conversations I heard at school, lots of other people are hoping their parents won’t notice a missing bottle of something. I’d rather stay at home; I’ve never been that close to anyone else at school, except Verity. But Verity – who manages to be friends with everyone – has made me promise I’ll go. It’s almost worth it just to stop her saying “rite of passage” every three minutes.
Verity and I are walking to the party together. Everyone will be wearing traditional celebratory clothing and I’d like to have a serious chat with whoever thought bare legs, bare stomachs and bare arms was a good idea. The pleated skirt and the chest piece are both made from leather – a less fancy version of what Mel wears every day. I don’t know how she does it.
Verity looks at me with undisguised dismay. “I don’t know how you think you’ll manage to freeze when you’re wrapped in all that nonsense.” She tugs at the layers I’ve covered myself up in. “You look like you’re about ninety.” She shakes her head and steps to the side so I can come in.
Ink Page 7
