Chapter Twenty-Eight
I’m still on the sofa when I wake at dawn, lying under a blanket Mum must have covered me with last night. The sofa isn’t quite long enough for me and I’m aching from being curled up all night.
Mum raised me to believe in order; that obedience was the way to a quiet and happy life. When I was at school I quite liked rules. It made me feel safe that I knew what I had to do, and knew what it took to be good and to be praised by the teachers. My faith in the system – in our marks and our eternities – has always been iron clad. As long as I stick to the rules, everything is neat and good and safe.
But the rules say that if Dad was marked with a crow, he deserves nothing more than the fire of judgement.
The rules say that his soul has already been marked out for destruction.
In which case, why am I fighting to save his book, if he’s already doomed? And if he is, then can one wrong action really damn a good man?
For the first time in my life, I’m doubting my faith, and it terrifies me.
For the first time, I want to change the rules.
For the first time I wonder: does it matter what it says on your skin, when what’s at stake is your soul?
Before Mum wakes, when it’s barely light out, I walk into the town. I arrive at the museum as it’s opening and ask for Mel. I wait for a few moments in reception, everything empty and quiet in the hour before the shops open. I’m studying the intricately tiled floor, avoiding eye-contact with the person at the desk, and then I’m told to go right down.
I knock and she calls cheerfully for me to come in. When I do, I see that she’s with a little girl who has olive skin and deep, dark eyes that watch me closely. Mel greets me and introduces me to her companion.
“This is Isolda.” When she sees my curious look, she explains further. “She’s my charge – apprentice, if you will.”
The girl looks about six and is wearing a miniature version of Mel’s storyteller’s skirt and chest piece. It looks like she’s playing at dress-up. She fixes me with a bold stare and goes to sit under the desk. I look around me with pleasure. The room is cosy and lined with books. Comfortable chairs occupy either side of a cluttered desk. The whole impression is one of warmth and rich detail.
“Do you have time to talk?” I venture.
“Of course. Did you get my cards? I probably should have visited you at work, shouldn’t I? I’m sorry, I’m new to this mentor thing.” She gives me an irreverent grin. “I’m glad you’ve come. In fact, there’s something I’ve been wanting to show you, Leora.”
She turns to the little girl and tells her we’ll be back soon, then leads me out of the room.
“Have you always had a charge?” I ask as soon as the door closes behind us. “She’s so young.”
We walk up some creaking wooden stairs marked Staff Only. The staircase is narrow and I follow Mel, who turns her head towards me now and then as she speaks.
“Not always, no. A charge is a receptacle, for want of a better word, for all that I have learned. I intend to pass on my stories to her.” She smiles. “It’s the right time, Leora. It’s time for me to pass on my stories to the next generation. Isolda needs to know the stories perfectly and will be marked in exactly the right way. Not that I’m planning on going anywhere, but it wouldn’t do for me to die and for the stories to be lost with me, now would it?
I nod in agreement, but I wonder. It’s a strange life for a little girl.
“What do her parents make of it all?”
Mel pauses, an odd expression on her face. “She has no parents,” she says quietly. And then I remember, and blush at my insensitivity; storytellers have no family.
“I’m sorry, I just didn’t think—” Mel shrugs. She carries on up the stairs, her right hand trailing gently on the handrail.
“To be a storyteller, you have to be without family. Isolda’s an orphan; I was given up at birth. My parents couldn’t cope or something.” I begin to speak but she waves a hand. “Don’t be sorry; it’s worked out for the best. I was chosen to be a candidate for storyteller when I was very young. They kept an eye on me as I grew, to make sure I was bright enough, and then when I was about the same age Isolda is now I was placed with a guardian. She was a storyteller, and she trained me, just as I will train Isolda.”
“Is that why you don’t have a family tree?” I ask. As we climb the stairs I can see her back, filled with stories but empty of family. I’m aware these questions might be impertinent but Mel makes me feel like I can ask them.
“I don’t have any of the usual marks; I am not permitted to. My skin belongs to the community. I don’t have a story: I am our stories.” She speaks in a totally matter-of-fact way, but I can’t help feeling sorrow at the idea of not being able to leave your own mark.
We reach the top of the stairs and Mel leads me through another door that isn’t for the general public. “And here are the storybooks.”
She turns to me with her arms outstretched and I see shelves full of books. The room is decorated in gold and red. Beautiful images surround the bookcases. They are packed with skin books, but the books look slightly different. Perhaps they are bound differently to the usual books of the dead.
“Plenty of bedtime stories here, Leora.” She walks to a shelf and selects a book, removing it from its place gently.
“All these books are the stories of our society. They’re exceptionally precious. And I get to be part of this.”
She looks at me, beaming with pride. But all I can think is, we’ll remember your stories, but who will remember you?
I spend time walking the shelves, breathing in the scent of wood that has been meticulously cared for and polished with beeswax, pulling out books at random. There are no names on them, and I feel uncomfortable that I can’t greet the dead and ask their permission to read them, like I do with my ancestors at home. They have no names, just story upon story. It’s a curious feeling: a skin book is so intimate and yet these are anonymous. Mel is obviously energized just being here. I suppose it’s a reminder of her purpose. She smiles broadly.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?”
I have to ask her.
“Have you ever … questioned all this?” I blurt out.
Mel looks at me thoughtfully. “Tell me what you mean,” she says gently.
“What if…” I steel myself, forcing myself to ask the question that sounds so close to heresy it terrifies me. “What if our marks don’t matter? What if all this,” I wave my hand around the room at the shelves of stories, “is just a way to try to get us to be good? What if,” I whisper it, “what if there is no afterlife?”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She puts her arm round me. “Those are big questions. I’m not surprised you’re asking them now – death forces our minds to travel to dark places.” I don’t reply, but she’s right. I never thought such things before. “You might be surprised. Most people ask these questions at some point.”
I look up at her. “Really? But everyone seems so certain.”
Mel lets go of me and runs her hands over the shelves around us. “Because most people are. But they have had their moment of struggle. They question and they doubt and then they come to believe.” She smiles sympathetically. “I’m convinced by the evidence, Leora. These stories have been handed down since the beginning. If you compare all these books you’ll see that at its core, each story is identical. The words I’ve been taught are the same words used the first time the stories were told. I believe it’s our story – our history.”
I frown, trying to get my head round my confused thoughts. “So you believe in a real White Witch, a real Moriah, a real Saint?”
“More or less, yes.” She looks at me compassionately. “Everything can be misinterpreted. There are some who like to use these stories, to twist them to fit their own schemes. But however they’re used, the stories remain the same. One woman who is pure of heart, with marked skin. Another who is rebellious and cursed and blank. To the pure of hea
rt, the truth is obvious. Marks show that we have integrity; they show that we know the secrets of the heart which will be revealed even if only on the day of judgement.” She looks around at the shelves. “Look to the stories for answers, Leora. You have my permission to come here any time. This is your own history; it can be your way back to sure faith.”
She makes it seem so simple.
Mel escorts me out of the room filled with the storytellers’ books and we walk down the stairs. At the bottom she gives me a friendly hug.
“I know this is hard, Leora. Give yourself some time. You don’t need to force it – if all this is true, and I believe it is, it will be true whenever you’re ready to return. Just don’t give up on it, OK?”
I nod. I do feel calmed by her reassurance, by all that wealth of history. I take a deep breath and ask her the question I came here to ask. “You go to the weighing of the soul ceremonies, don’t you?”
Mel has turned to go, but at my words she stops with a foot on the cold stone staircase. “Yes I do. I get to tell each person’s final story. It’s an honour.”
“Can you tell me something about it? Have they made the judgement already, or will they discuss it during the ceremony? Are they still gathering evidence?”
Mel sits on a step and pats the stone next to her. “You’re thinking about your father’s ceremony, aren’t you? It’s coming up soon.” I nod mutely. “Well. There will be all sorts of things happening at the moment, Leora. Someone in the government will be studying his book and making copious notes about what they read.” I think of Verity. “Then, every weighing I’ve been to opens with a prayer calling on the ancestors to give wisdom and insight. The judge invites friends and relatives to come to the front and share stories and memories about their loved one – sometimes those stories can help influence the judge’s decision, if it’s hanging in the balance. After that, he will read out the verdict.”
“Will I have to speak?” The idea of standing in front of everyone and telling tales about Dad is terrifying.
“No, of course you don’t have to.” Mel nudges me with her knee. “But you might feel you want to say something once you’re actually there.”
Shaking my head I smile. “I doubt it. I think I’d die of nerves!”
Mel appraises me. “I think I know what might help. You know that every citizen can choose a story to be read at their ceremony?” I nod. “Well, would you like to hear the one your father has asked for? I think it will give you strength. The story he has chosen is about life beyond death, Leora. Your father’s hope was certain.” And right there, while we’re sitting on the steps, she tells me a tale.
The Lovers
Once there was a King and a Queen who ruled their kingdom with wisdom and grace. He was as bright as the morning sun and she was as pure as the full moon. Their love was sure as dawn and beautiful as sunset.
The King had a brother, whose jealousy was hot as fire and sharp as ice. The brother saw how the people loved their King and how the Queen adored her husband. He wanted to know how it felt to be treasured, and he resolved to remove the King and his line from the throne so that he could take it and enjoy the adoration for himself.
The brothers were competitive, as brothers often are. They loved to challenge each other to duels and contests. The King’s brother knew just how to lure the King into his wicked clutches. He held a banquet for his friends, and invited his royal sibling. After the food was eaten and the wine was drunk, the brother revealed a beautiful chest made from the most intricately carved ebony.
“Whoever fits into this trunk can keep it!” announced the brother.
The King smiled. He had already noticed that his brother’s friends were, to put it politely, rather portly and tall. I’ll win this easily, thought the King as he watched guest after guest attempt to squeeze into the box.
Finally it was the turn of the King. He stepped into the box and lay down, curling his legs close to his chest. He fitted perfectly – it was as though the chest had been made for him.
“Aha, brother! I think I have succeeded where your friends failed!” the King cried.
Just as he did so, his brother heaved the lid of the trunk shut, and the hefty guests sat on the chest while it was locked and wrapped in chains. The men carried the box outside and threw it into the river. The King floated away – the trunk was now his coffin. It came to rest beneath a tree and, as the tree drew in the goodness of the King, it exuded the most wonderful scent.
Soon, the mourning Queen, who ruled in her husband’s absence, heard about this fabulously fragranced tree, and when she saw it she knew in her heart that this was where her missing husband lay. She found the chest, hidden beneath the trunk of the tree, and brought it home, glad to know her husband could now rest in peace.
The envious brother, who was looking for ways to claim the crown now that the King was dead, was enraged to discover that the King had been found, and he crept to where the chest was kept, opened it and chopped the King’s body into pieces. He scattered them far and wide and returned to the kingdom, gleefully sure his brother wouldn’t be heard of again.
But love as strong as the Queen’s love for her King can’t be stopped that easily. The Queen put her son in charge of the kingdom while she searched for her husband. As she wandered the land, she would find a foot in some fallen leaves, a shoulder in the reeds, his head drifting on the ocean’s tide. Years passed, and she had gathered all but one piece, which had been eaten by a beast. She stopped her search and took the parts she had back to the kingdom and arranged them in their correct positions.
While she had been away, the King’s brother had fought the son, trying every day to usurp his royal position. He was a vicious and insatiable enemy, and the son often despaired. Every day, however, the King’s son grew stronger.
There is a certain magic that comes with true love – if you’ve experienced this kind of love, you’ll know that this is true. There has never been a love stronger than that between the King and his Queen. The magic worked quickly. Before long, the pieces of the King’s body joined together and his blood flowed and his lungs filled. Hampered though he was by his missing piece, (for the beast had chosen his most private part as a delicacy), he was able to return to the kingdom with most of his kingly stature intact. His brother cowered at the sight of him, but the King, in his kindness, did not destroy him.
The King passed his crown to his son and descended to the depths, where he and his Queen ruled over the dead with all the justice and wisdom with which they had ruled the living. Their son battled the King’s brother – it was bloody and fearsome, but the son won.
And soon the brother found himself in the underworld, once again under the King’s rule and never again to rebel.
Mel and I say the adage that ends the tale together. I know it off by heart.
“This tale is told to remind us that we will live beyond death,” we recite. “Although our skin must be sliced, and our bodies must be buried, our souls – and our love – will last eternally.”
Mel stands, her marks stretching with her long body, and takes my hand. “Your father loved your mother, Leora. But, more than that, when he knew he was dying he chose this story to show his confidence. This is the choice of someone who is not afraid of death, who knows with absolute certainty what will come next. Now good luck, my dear. Don’t worry yourself about the ceremony; you’ll do the right thing. I know it.”
We say goodbye and she heads back to her basement office and her little blank student and I leave.
For a moment I waver over what I am about to do. It’s so tempting to think that everything will be OK. That I shouldn’t be afraid.
But I don’t quite believe that.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Obel has obviously been at the studio for a while when I arrive. He looks tired, and I wonder if he slept here. The look of relief on his face when he sees me takes me aback. I had assumed I wouldn’t be welcome. Really, I’d expected to be fighting for my jo
b.
“You have no idea how glad I am to see you.” He stands quickly and takes my coat, hanging it up for me. “I know yesterday was a mess. There were things I said…”
“Things we both said,” I say ruefully.
“Leora, we might have to just agree to disagree for now. What is undeniable is that you’re a very fine inker and I would like to continue training you, regardless of what we both believe. What do you say?”
I hesitate for a moment, then nod. My head is too full at the moment to make decisions. For now, I will just keep working at what I love.
“Good! I need you today,” Obel says, passing me a letter. “After the business with Karl yesterday, the powers that be need to come and investigate. He’s left me with a lot to clean up, that boy.” He gives a wry smile.
Scanning the letter, I see that someone called Jack Minnow is coming to the studio today. The note says he will be helping Obel go through the paperwork that is required after Karl marked a man without Obel there to assist.
“They work fast.” I frown.
“Yeah, I only reported it last night. Either they don’t have much work to do, or they’re keen to check me out.” Obel swallows and I see his nervousness just beneath the surface.
We go through our accounts of the previous day and ensure our stories match. I clean the studio and set up while Obel opens up the shop. The inspector from the government could come at any time, so we might as well carry on as normal while we wait for him.
We have a couple of enquiries, and I book a woman in for a consultation later in the week. I’m just filling in the appointment book in the reception area when I hear the bell on the door clang loudly. I look up and a tall man in the official black uniform of those high up in the government is letting the door slam behind him.
“Jack Minnow,” he says. “I’m here to see Obel Whitworth.”
He’s bald and tanned, and he towers over me. He must be even bigger than Obel. His shorn hair shows intricate marks on his head and I read what I can see of him in a flash. They are all based around predators. Their meaning is clear. His scalp is a cackle of hyenas and I read that it’s his tribute to the banishing of the blanks, with all the violence left in. I read such joy in the gore, it chills me. I try to keep my voice steady.
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