“Ha!” The swarthy boy cracked his knuckles.
His companion, a wispy-looking blond, narrowed her eyes. “Obviously, we’re here for the money.” She rubbed her hands together.
“What money?” Toby looked at Ayla.
She looked mystified. “Sebastiane didn’t say anything about money.”
“You should be here for the glory of the Sun,” the younger boy insisted. “Not for your own gain.”
Toby realized that the watchers nearest them had fallen silent and were listening as intently as he.
“You have to admit the money helps.” Another girl, whose hair was a dark brown mass of straw, spoke with a thick Hungarian accent. “We’re here for the glory of the Sun.” She looked at the younger combatant. “But would we be here if it wasn’t for the promise of the stipend for our family?” She shrugged. “Maybe not.”
“If they offer us money, we will turn it down,” the boy spat. “Is that not right, Lenka?”
“Yes, Matus. Those of us left in Croatia know the meaning of true devotion.” The girl’s fine blond hair looked as if she had poked a finger in a socket. It stuck up around her head in a flyaway mass that matched her wide, shocked-looking eyes and two permanent worry lines that sat between her eyebrows.
The crowd murmured its approval and the small group realized they had been overheard. The straw-headed Hungarian tossed her hair and swaggered closer. Toby saw with a jolt that her nails were possibly the longest he had ever seen, like claws. How did she do any work?
“We understand devotion,” she snapped, raising her voice for the benefit of the audience. “But we also know how to survive. The more of us who live to worship the Sun, the greater the glory of the Orb.”
“Ha! The Order will see through your contempt for the Sun’s glory.”
“A bunch of idiots who went blind staring at the sky – I don’t think so.” The crater-faced young man laughed and his companion joined in. The Hungarian couple looked nervous and backed away, swiftly disassociating themselves as the crowd’s quiet developed a hostile edge.
“A bunch of idiots?” The voice that hissed out over the square ended in a sibilance that sent chills down Toby’s spine. When Toby turned he saw a man with the milky eyes of the sunblind, facing the mocking speaker as though he could see him.
“I am Father Dahon. Come to face me,” the man whispered.
The young man and his wispy companion looked at one another.
“I will not repeat myself.” Although he didn’t move, the father’s anger seemed to make him grow in size. Toby stared at him. He had a low widow’s peak and his black hair was oiled back from his brow. His face and hands were deeply tanned, but the arms that protruded from his long sleeves were as pale as his eyes.
The swarthy boy with the terrible skin finally recovered his bluster. He dragged his companion to the front of the group.
“We didn’t mean—” she began.
“Silence.” The father turned to someone behind them. “Are these good candidates?”
From deep in the shadows behind the father a woman appeared. Her eyes were so deeply overhung by her sockets that Toby couldn’t tell what colour they were. Her cheekbones protruded almost as far as her forehead and her lips were so thin and colourless that Toby could barely see them move when she answered.
“The blond is average in colouration; she would make a middling Sun.”
The girl gasped and her partner kicked her into quiet.
“Neither would the boy be any loss.”
The crowd jeered its approval and the couple flinched as their disdain rolled over them.
The father turned back to the couple. “Leave.”
“W-what?” the young man protested. “You can’t do that. We have no way off the island.”
“Then we will allow you to remain on Gozo until the pilgrimage, when you should be able to find passage. You had better hope that you are a better fisher than a devotee. And, as all who live on the island must abide by our rules, we will expect to receive three-quarters of all you catch and mandatory prayers at sunrise, noon and sunset in the island’s centre. You will be watched.”
The father raised his head as if to look past them, dismissing the couple from his world as effectively as though he had erased them altogether. The crowd clapped as they stumbled out of the area reserved for the candidates.
Toby leaned close to Ayla, hoping that she had learned the same lesson he had. “Praise the Sun,” he said, pointedly.
Ayla nodded. “Praise the Sun.”
“I am Mother Hesper.” The woman spoke almost reluctantly, as though her name was precious knowledge that she was squandering by saying it out loud. “Before we enter the sanctuary –” she raised her right hand and spread her skeletal fingers and Toby realized she was making an approximation of the sun’s rays – “we require you to allow attendants to wash your hair.” She gestured and a line of fully sighted men and women appeared, each carrying a sloshing bucket of water. Each wore identical knee-length robes and sandals made from tyre rubber. “If you must address an attendant, you can do so as Brother or Sister.”
“Is she serious?” Toby blinked.
“I suspect she’s always serious.” The boy who answered him was as large as D’von. His dark curls formed a line along his forehead. “I’m Arthur.” His voice was deep. He held out his hand.
“Toby.” Toby shook and smiled. “We don’t know much about this ritual.”
“Your missionary didn’t tell you?”
Ayla spoke before Toby could answer. “He died before he gave us all the details. But from the little he told us, we knew it was something we both very much wanted. Praise the Sun.”
“Well, Summer knows everything it’s possible to know. She studied and studied under our minister.” Arthur shifted and Toby saw the tiny blond doll he had noticed before. “We’re from Cornwall. I heard your accent, you’re St George?”
Swiftly Ayla shook her head. “We’re from Saunders,” she said coldly.
“Where’s that?” Even the girl’s voice was tiny; a squeak, like that of a squeezable toy.
“The Falklands,” Toby added, confident in this part of the backstory they had planned. “It’s basically a big sheep farm.”
“And that’s why you sound Georgian.” Arthur nodded. “No offence but we seceded from St George a few years ago and there’s still a lot of resentment.”
“Too right. Who doesnae hate th’ Georgians?”
Toby spun, alarmed, and came face to face with the lanky freckled girl he had seen earlier, whose dirty-blond hair rose above her head in sharpened spikes. She was eyeing him with deep suspicion. “You sure ye arenae Georgian? Ye sound like it.”
“We hate the Georgians as much as you do,” Ayla snapped. “Believe me.”
The girl must have seen something in Ayla’s face because she sniffed, mollified. “All right. Our dads died in th’ North Brine wars, see – mine and Brody’s. They were brothers.” She gestured to an equally freckly, stocky boy. Brody’s hair was as darkly brown as the girl’s was blond. “I’m Moira.”
Ayla nodded. “My family was killed by Georgians. You won’t get an argument from me.” She looked at Summer. “So we have to wash our hair; then what?”
“Then we go inside,” Summer said. “No one knows much about what happens then, no one has ever told. I just know there are competitions … tests of devotion.”
“We’re good at competitions.” Brody grinned, revealing teeth almost as brown as his hair.
“So are we,” Toby added.
“What sort of competitions?” Rita leaned close. “What’ll we have to do?”
Summer turned to Rita. Her long pale hair reached the waist of her baggy cream dress and it rippled as she shrugged. “No one knows – it’s a big secret.”
Rita tutted and looked at the buckets of water. “Well, we’d better get started.”
Ahead of them a queue was forming. Each candidate had to kneel down and face the crow
d, then an attendant poured a bucket of water over their hair and scrubbed.
“Is that soap caustic?” Rita was horrified. “That’s not touching my hair.”
“They’re checking for dye,” Summer explained, anxiously touching her own gleaming and perfectly brushed golden waves.
One girl at the front of the queue was resisting as the sister behind her tried to force her to kneel. “It isn’t necessary. My hair is fine. Look at it, dark as night.”
“It’s natural, I can vouch for her.” Her partner’s platinum curls glinted as he moved to her side.
“Quiet.” Father Dahon spoke once more. “Either you submit to the washing or you leave without it.”
Toby strained to see as the girl grimaced and, slowly, kneeled.
As the attendant behind her sloshed water over her head, she clenched her fists. Then the woman scrubbed her scalp. When she was finished she pulled the girl’s head up. Dark streaks covered her face from her hairline to her chin.
“Dyed,” she spat, pushing her to the ground. The girl landed in the dirt, her mousey tresses flopping in front of her.
“You can’t treat her like that.” Her partner dropped to the ground beside her. “We believe more strongly than anyone else here. Who would be a better Sun and Moon?”
“You were not meant to be in the festival.” Mother Hesper stared down. “If you truly believe, submit yourselves to the sanctuary to become attendants, as these have done, or sunblind yourselves as an act of worship. Leave.”
The sobbing girl rose to her feet, helped by her companion. They plodded slowly after the couple who had already left. This time the crowd was quiet, simply watching them as they departed.
“Two couples down,” Rita whispered.
Toby nodded. “Eight to go.”
The candidates stood in a line. Toby’s knees ached where he had been held down and his head tingled from being scrubbed, hard. His shoulders were wet and he was grateful for the cool, but the sun was fast drying him out. All along the line, blonds were brighter and water had turned dark hair black. No one else had been sent home.
He squinted sideways to see Ayla untangling her braids. One of the brothers had tried to remove her beads and received a vicious pinch for his troubles.
Summer stood to his left, the doll-like girl looking like a tiny mermaid with her wet hair stuck to her face and arms. Arthur hovered beside her, looking like he wanted to put his arm around her, but didn’t dare. Toby caught his eye and offered a slight smile – allies were valuable in every situation. His smile was returned.
Father Dahon walked the line, inspecting them. When he reached the centre he stopped and turned to the crowd. “True believers of Gozo, our candidates will speak to you for the last time until you meet the true Sun and Moon from among them.”
He gestured and the girl at the far end blinked water out of her eyes. “Me?”
“Yes. Who are you, where in this world are you from and declare yourself – Sun or Moon?”
The girl caught the hand of the boy next to her. Her dark hair was so thick that, even wet, it overpowered the delicate features of her face. “I’m Celeste and this is Aldo.”
The boy’s blond hair was so fine that Toby could see his scalp. His nose was large, but there was something indefinably handsome about his face. He squeezed Celeste’s hand and gave her a smile. “I’m hoping to be the Sun and Celeste the Moon. We have been sent by the priest of the community near Pompeii, in Italy. Praise the Sun.”
Father Dahon inclined his head. “I have heard good things about your community. You have your own colony of the sunblinded, do you not?”
Celeste nodded, then realized that Father Dahon would not be able to see her. “We spent a year tending to their needs, Your Worship.”
“Good, good.” The father moved on to the next couple in line as the crowd murmured its approval.
Toby leaned forward, fascinated, the next to speak was the albino boy that he had seen earlier. He was standing next to a girl with even darker skin than Theo’s from the Phoenix. Her hair was cut close to her head and her tight curls were glossy in the sun. To Toby it seemed almost as if she had been polished.
“My name is Uzuri,” the girl said, folding her arms over her chest.
“And I, Zahir,” said the boy. He kept his eyes cast down, squinting every time he tried to look up.
Their accents were strange to Toby’s ears, clipped yet somehow smooth, like a river flowing over stones.
“Our village is a day’s walk from Cape Town. We were born on the same day, at the same time to two different mothers.” The boy smiled shyly. “Most men in my country would have killed me for the magical powers of my skin, but the moment we were presented to our Solar missionary, he pronounced our destiny – to become the Sun and Moon. Since that moment, we have been preparing for today.”
“And now we are here.” Uzuri held her head proudly, like a queen. “I am to be the Moon and Zahir the Sun.” She looked down the line as if to say ‘and the rest of you may leave’.
Ayla twitched as the Scottish girl, Moira, curled a lip. Again, the crowd seemed to radiate admiration for the pair.
“Ah’m Moira and this is ma cousin, Brody. We’re from Glasgow. We don’t have parents – we were raised mostly by the Solar Mission near the docks. That’s why we’re here. Father Zee said this was the place fer us.”
Brody grinned, his freckles glimmering in the sun. “I’m the Moon an’ Moira’s the Sun. You cannae see it, Yer Worship, with her hair wet, but her Mohawk –” he tilted his head towards his cousin – “that represents the sun’s rays. Praise the Sun.”
“Nice,” Ayla whispered.
“They’ve all got perfect stories.” Toby clenched his fists.
She leaned into his ear. “So have we,” she whispered.
The big lad, Arthur introduced himself next. “We’re from Cornwall, the survivors of the shattered coastline gathered in the old Eden project. Summer’s been obsessed with the sun since she was born; she knows everything there is to know about the Orb and its worship. She’s read every book, taken every lesson. She’s the best Sun you’ll ever get.”
“And you?” The priest cocked his head and Arthur swallowed at the minute gesture.
“I’m with Summer. I’ll be the Moon to her Sun and you’ll never have a better.”
This divided the watching crowd, some cheered and others frowned. “Never have a better?” Toby heard insulted muttering.
“I see.” Father Dahon stroked his chin and took the final step that brought him in front of Toby. He was silent for a moment; then he gestured, sharply. “You?”
“My name’s Toby.” Suddenly their cover story seemed flimsy. What if the father knew the Saunders colony or the missionary stationed there? What if one of the other couples were from the Falklands?
Ayla sensed his hesitation and took over. “I’m Ayla.” Her beads clattered as she glared at the priest. “We’re from Saunders, in the Falklands. Not many survivors there, but those left are true worshippers. Your Solar missionary died not long after he arrived at the island, from a disease he caught in the Argentinan mainland.” She shook her head sadly. “He told us of the Sun festival.” She pressed her hand to her heart and sniffed, feigning deep grief. “Toby and I were with him when he died. His very last words to us were that we should make him proud. All he wanted was to know that he had been the one to find the couple who would lead the festival.” She wiped away a tear and Toby’s eyes widened.
“I, of course, will be the Moon.” Ayla lifted one of her braids. “Toby is the Sun.”
Father Dahon bowed his own head. “What was the name of this missionary priest, so I can remember him in my prayers?”
Toby caught his breath, but Ayla was prepared. “He told us only to call him Father, Your Worship.” She gave a small sob and Father Dahon pressed his lips together. Then he folded his hands and moved on. Toby’s racing heart almost drowned out the crowd’s sounds of sympathy and support. They had
been believed.
Rita and D’von were next. D’von’s eyes were red-rimmed where his attendant had been too industrious with the soap, but he seemed unconcerned. Rita, the consummate con artist, was to tell their story.
“This is D’von.” Rita smiled. “He was a dock rat in Tarifa.”
“I was,” D’von hastened to add to the one part of their story he was comfortable with. “I was a dock rat and it was hard, hard work.”
Rita rolled her eyes. “He heard the Solar Mission preach one day and knew he wanted to come to the festival. He stowed away on the ship I was working. When I heard his story, I was moved. I realized that we were meant to meet. We worked our way from ship to ship till we found one that was heading to the festival.” Rita patted D’von’s hand. “I am the Sun –” she tossed her bright golden hair – “D’von is the Moon.”
Toby held his breath, but again the crowd seemed to like Rita and her story.
The Croatians were next. The girl didn’t wait for Father Dahon to ask her to speak, she stepped out of the line and fluffed at her drying hair, which was already reassuming its flyaway appearance, sticking out all over her head. “I am Lenka,” she said clearly, “and this is Matus. I am the Sun and he is the Moon. Praise the Sun.” She raised her hand, fingers splayed and Matus did the same. “We are from Zagreb, where we worship the Sun day and night, night and day. We want no money, no glory, we simply wish to worship the Sun in the best way we can. This is our way. We are not here to make friends, we are here to win.” She stepped back into the line, ignoring the stunned crowd, who appeared torn between cheering and staring, wide-eyed, settling instead on awed silence. Her heel caught the French girl’s foot and Adele narrowed her eyes and hissed at her, before linking arms with her twin.
There was no mistaking their relationship. They were perfectly in sync as they moved, their mannerisms identical, their heads held at the same angle, the expression in their sapphire eyes the same.
Toby heard gasps of appreciation as the Gozitans took in the sight.
Phoenix Burning Page 7
