Spark
Page 4
These are the people who have been terrorizing us, all this time. Be a good girl, or the blanks will come for you, I was told as a kid. Every time a child went missing we would fear that the blanks had got them. Poisoning our livestock, our water, our people.
Seeing so much blank skin is nightmarish. My head throbs and my feet feel like they’re on a delay – as though everyone’s eyes are making the air thicker and harder to walk through.
“You should know something before you go in.” Gull’s voice is quiet, her head just barely tilted my way. We must be nearly at the elderhouse. “Don’t let them frighten you. All they expect is honesty.”
I want to laugh. If only it was that simple. I’ve got a pocketful of truths and I don’t know which to choose.
My thoughts are broken by the clatter of hooves, and a crowd gathers around a group of riders on the far side of the square. There are about six riders on horseback, and just emerging is a cart drawn by two horses – there are more people on the wagon, and a long-haired man with grubby skin flings a sack on to the back and climbs up.
“What’s happening?” I whisper to Gull, but she’s absorbed by the action and doesn’t notice me.
“Good luck!” shouts a voice, and it is followed by others offering well wishes and cheers. Some of the people on the cart wave and call out goodbyes, but before they move off, a woman on a chestnut mare shifts the horse into the crowd, making a space in which she is the centre. Her eyes meet mine.
“That’s Sana,” Gull tells me in a voice so soft it almost misses me. She and I take a step back and I drop my gaze. Sana urges her horse closer and I find my face level with her boot, able to smell the musty warmth of the horse and hear its breathing.
I look up, and the blanket covering my head slips. People either side of Gull and me move away, and disapproving murmurs pulse through the group.
The woman, Sana, holds out her crop and raises my chin with it. We stare at each other silently. She has dark curls which skim her jaw and bright eyes that give her a playful, impish look. She must be about the same age as Mum – and my birth mother too, I suppose. I try to stand my ground and not look away, but when she speaks my courage fails.
“We riders leave today on another raiding mission,” she calls out for all to hear. “We will be gone just a little while – don’t worry, we will return with the things you need. Saintstone has so much, they don’t notice when a little goes missing.” There are a few cheers, but most are looking at the two of us – at this woman, and at me to see how I react to the news that this group are heading to Saintstone on what I now realize is a looter’s errand. Her gaze is thoughtful as it rests on me. “A shame to leave now, when we have a guest.”
For a moment, I feel hot anger in my chest. This is how they survive, then – by robbing us. Longsight was absolutely right.
Glaring at the woman, I let my anger and disdain show. I will not be easily cowed. Urging her horse closer still, she leans down and, looking around to make sure she is far enough away from the crowd to go unheard, she speaks softly.
“You are so like your mother.” She sizes me up with secret warmth in her eyes. “We will talk on my return. Welcome, Leora.”
As I open my mouth in dazed astonishment, she abruptly calls out to summon the others, and the riders depart. I stare after her and then realize Gull is tugging on my sleeve.
“Come on,” she says. “We’ll be late for the meeting.”
The elderhouse is a taller building than the others, made of grey stone and clad in strips of weather-beaten timber. The tall, thin windows reflect the dark sky back at me, and it seems ghostly still apart from a woman standing at the top of the steps waiting, her hair blowing back in the cold breeze. She gives an exasperated grimace when she sees Gull.
“Oh, Gull, can’t you take that hood off for once?” Gull pulls her hood down and makes the exact same face I pull when my mum tells me what to do.
“Mum.” She bows her head and mumbles, “I’ve brought her.”
“I see that.” The woman smiles briefly. She has highlights of silver in her long mousey hair, freckles on her cheeks and a mouth that looks much quicker to smile than scold. “Now, leave us – see if Fenn wants a hand, but don’t go too far. I’ll need you again when the meeting’s over.” Gull nods and walks away, and as she goes I see her bend and pick something up from the ground and put it in the pouch around her waist. As she stands, our eyes meet. Mutual curiosity ebbs between us; I wonder what she thinks when she sees me.
I follow Gull’s mother into a gloomy hallway – it’s a bit like an ordinary house inside, nothing ornate or special-seeming, a far cry from the aged dignity and opulence of our government building. This place has the same tired look and institutional smell as school or the truth-teller’s room. There are doors off the wide hall and a staircase which is blocked off by a waist-height door: more of a suggestion of privacy than a real attempt to prevent anyone getting past. The tiled floor must have once been lovely with its faded yellow-and-red pattern, but now the tiles are cracked and uneven, some missing. The front door shuts, leaving us with even less light. Gull’s mother ushers me in to the first room on my right and I steel myself for the inquisition.
There is a low, circular table of raw wood with cushions around it. The room is large, and the soft-looking bolsters that surround the table are beautiful but clearly not new. They are embroidered with cross-stitch and I wish I could pick them up and examine them one by one – my inker’s mind would love to play with the motifs, turning them into marks and ink. From where I stand I can’t tell whether they depict scenes, text or just simple patterns. Obel would have me sketching them in an instant. To me they’re exquisite, but they’re ordinary here; the colours are faded and the images blurred and worn.
Four people, including Gull’s father, Solomon, are already sitting around the table, cups of coffee in front of them, and they move further apart for Gull’s mother, who guides me gently to a stool by the window and gestures for me to sit. Everyone is quiet and reserved. Cold air slices through the loose glass and I wrap the blanket around myself more tightly.
I wait and watch. Somehow whatever I had expected of the blanks, the most shocking thing is sitting here watching them drink coffee and murmur quietly to each other. I even catch a suppressed giggle and a cough. Blanks aren’t meant to be like this. They’re not meant to laugh and chat and drink coffee. They’re not … normal. I close my eyes and see that blank man kept behind glass in the tank at the museum, and I remember the throat-clutch of fear that place always brought me: the lists of the dead, the tales of the feral violence and evil done by the blanks. A gesture from one of the elders – an older woman – and everyone bows their heads and closes their eyes. Some sort of prayer, perhaps.
At home, it would be obvious who was who: I would only have to look at their skin and I’d know what their roles were, who was most worthy of respect: their marks would tell me. But here, without ink, they all look the same to me.
Something about the silence and the fog outside and probably my exhaustion lulls me into a kind of trance. I let myself ease into the silence. My eyes close and I smell the coffee, the wood; even the walls seem to have a certain fragrance. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I see little flashes – my brain trying to create some picture. I tune in to the sound of everyone breathing. One person’s breath whistles slightly in their chest. I begin to relax and someone coughs, and I open my eyes to find everyone staring at me.
“The meeting will begin.”
The voice comes from the elderly woman who has been sitting, straight-backed. Her grey curls spiral down to her shoulders and her brown eyes are kind. Her shoulders are soft and she looks like she is not afraid to take up space and take command. Her brown skin, with its wrinkles and lines, makes me think of a shaken blanket or furrowed earth.
“Last night’s community fireside time took an unusual turn.” She lowers her eyes and I see a small smile. “We were joined by a newcomer.”
Ruth assents with a small nod. “A marked girl, Justus. Wearing one of our feathers. Feathers that only the elders can bestow – and are only given to those who have done a brave act.”
He scowls.
Ruth nods to Solomon.
“Her bag, please.” I feel panic in my chest. Of course, they took my bag. My mind traces back to try to work out what was in it – what they could have found. Solomon lifts my canvas sack and carefully empties its contents on to the table.
From where I stand I try to take inventory. A notebook, half-full of sketches, the rest of my clothes, the dull metal key for the studio, some food and an empty flask. Obel’s letter.
They pass this last between them, poring over the words.
Eventually Ruth turns to me. “You have come from the marked. And as such you have no doubt been told many things about our community. Terrible things. It must be strange to see that we are just … us.” I drop my eyes and she laughs. “Don’t be embarrassed. We all believe what we are taught, until we can learn to teach ourselves. I hope that this will be an education for you if nothing else. Perhaps it’s an education that can work both ways.
“Now. This” – she opens her arms – “is our government. You’ve met Tanya.” I nod at Gull and Fenn’s mother and smile shyly. “And this is her husband, Solomon.” He looks my way without changing his expression. In the light of day, he seems younger and less frightening, although still solemn. He has very blue eyes and lines around them that suggest he smiles often. Just not now, not at me. “This is Justus Spellar.” The greasy-haired man holds my gaze coldly. “And this is Kasia Main.” A broad woman with blonde hair and a kind and soft face nods at me. “And I am Ruth Becket. Our group of elders changes each year – some stay, some go, but our values never change. We must work together, grow together, agree together. There is no class or difference in status. We are all citizens and therefore all equal. I tell you this for many reasons, but mainly so that you know there is no one you need to impress – all views count here. This meeting today is to decide what to do with you.”
I can’t help looking at Ruth’s skin, and feel a longing to mark it. She both intrigues and repels me. Her skin looks soft and loose and would be beautiful with flowing shades making it look like bark or moss or spilled wine. I want to know how ink would play in her wrinkles and how the needles would feel against her flesh. But she is empty, and with her skin’s silence there is a disquieting peace. I want to mark her, so I can place her. I want to mark them all and own them and pin them down with needles and ink. A violence shudders through my hands. They must not see how conflicted I am: that I don’t know whether I am here to light the fuse or extinguish the spark.
“The thing is, my child” – and Ruth smiles at me with her eyes – “we don’t know you and you don’t know us. Your marks tell us some things. We have not yet forgotten their meanings or their prominence. I am the last of our community who remembers Saintstone—” She sees my mouth open, and seems to anticipate all my questions and simply raises a hand as if to say wait. “But we believe that marks are not the whole truth and, indeed, that often they shade the truth. Distort it. We want to talk about why you’re here and why you’re not there. We need to know about your pendant. And I would like to hear about that crow that sits on your chest.”
I am being scrutinized, and I stand taller, letting my shoulders straighten and my crow tattoo peep out at them.
“Let’s begin at the beginning.” Ruth’s voice is warm, encouraging. “Will you tell us your name?”
“Leora. Leora Flint.”
“Your age?”
“I’m sixteen. I think.” I feel my cheeks flush.
“You think?” Justus, the sour-faced man, who has been noting down my answers, jumps on that.
“I’m not completely sure of the true date of my birth. But I’m either sixteen or I’ve recently turned seventeen.” I take a deep breath. “In fact, you may have more idea than I do. I’m here to find out about my roots – about my birth mother, Miranda Flint.”
A gasp at that. A collective drawing in of breath. They glance at each other. Justus is frowning as he writes, his cheeks a shade ruddier.
“Miranda Flint,” says Ruth, her expression unreadable. “Well, well. Let us come to that. You travelled from Saintstone?”
I nod.
“And you were given directions by Obel Whitworth?”
I nod again and see Tanya close her eyes suddenly, as though in pain.
“So that’s where your boy ended up, Tanya,” Justus says, but he is silenced by a glare from Solomon. Ruth continues.
“And why have you left?”
I am here to warn you that Mayor Longsight will see you all wiped from the earth, and soon.
I am here to spy on you and take information to the Mayor, so that he can better destroy you.
I am here to tell you to renounce your stories, to take up ours instead, and to make peace with us.
I—
“I left because I wasn’t welcome in Saintstone any longer. I’m considered a traitor and a half-breed. It appears that my father lived here, in Featherstone, and that my mother – my real mother – was part of your community. From what I have been told, I think I must have been born here, amongst the—”
“Blanks – that’s what you call us, isn’t it?”
I nod. I wonder what they call themselves.
“And that is how you know Obel Whitworth?” Ruth’s tone is soothing and encouraging – I find myself lured by it. “Because he is living in the town of Saintstone?” I nod; she’s piecing it together.
“And so, exiled from Saintstone, you have come here – to discover your blank history?” I nod again. “I see.” She folds her hands decisively. “Well, Leora – we have much to discuss. You should know that this is not an easy decision for us. There is more to consider besides your marks. Your father was a hero, Leora – that is why he wore that feather. But he was also a traitor. He betrayed us—”
“—as all marked have and as all marked will,” interrupts Justus, his voice thick with rage. Ruth pauses, waiting for his words to fade into tense silence.
“My proposal,” Ruth says to the group, “is that we spend these next days and weeks testing this girl and teaching her. We will decide whether we can trust her – not in a few hours, but over time.” There is agreement from all but Justus. “We can learn much from each other, I hope.”
“A few weeks with a traitor in our midst could be our death sentence,” says Justus coldly. “We must allow the community to decide. You cannot make this decision – this dangerous decision – alone.”
There is a pause, and then Ruth says: “Of course, you are right. This is for us all to agree – not just the elders. We will make that decision tonight at the fireside. And Leora, you should know this: if you are to remain with us for any length of time – be it days or years – you must live by our rules. No marks, no secrets, no lies. Honesty is our watchword here.” She passes me Obel’s letter and I am dismissed.
No marks, no secrets, no lies. Honesty.
I have a sick feeling in my stomach. Honesty is the one thing that I cannot give them.
Chapter Seven
Gull is waiting for me when I leave the building.
“They’re going to talk about it some more tonight, at … at the fireside, they said. Looks like you’re stuck with me for now at least.”
There is a pause, and when she doesn’t say anything, I say, stupidly, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not a problem. You’ll be bored, though,” she says with a shrug. “Shall I show you around?” I nod, yes.
Gull is tall, and she walks quietly, with her eyes on the ground and her shoulders slightly hun
ched. There’s something about her that makes me think of someone trying to avoid a fight, but ready for it all the same.
As I walk next to her, for want of any conversation, I unfold the paper in my hands to read the letter of introduction from Obel.
He was always a man of few words.
This is Leora.
She is who she says she is. The feather was Flint’s.
I trust her.
Obel.
I feel the warmth in those words: I trust her. Words for me as much as the blanks. I fold the note and slip it into my shirt. But the warm glow fades, for I’m not to be trusted; I am here to spy on these people and ruin them. Then I think of Mel and her belief that these people just need bringing back to the right path. I try to imagine my birth mother, one of these blanks, and my father. They came together once. Perhaps – and I wonder whether this is Longsight’s voice in my head or my own – I could be the one to unite these two communities. To repair what has been broken for so long.
“How long ago did Obel leave?” I ask Gull. “He’s your brother, isn’t he?”
“I was too small. I don’t remember.”
I bite my lip in frustration. We continue in silence again.
As we walk slowly through the town, I’m struck again by the similarities to Saintstone, but everything here is smaller, shabbier than back home. It’s like Saintstone but washed out and tired. The similarity confuses me more than difference would have. I had imagined a place completely alien from the town I’d left – a place where there would be no reminders of the past.
And I can’t help thinking that this isn’t a town equipped for war. That these tired-looking, grey-faced people are not the terrifying figures of my nightmares. What is Longsight so frightened of? I think of the riders who left this morning. Some threat.
“I’d never really imagined you people having pets,” I say, smiling at a dog at the heels of a woman who hurries past us, avoiding eye contact.