Gull stops walking. “You people? You do realize we’re not a different species?”
My heart sinks. “Oh … that’s not what I meant.” I’m blushing. “I’m sorry.”
Gull shrugs. “We’re just the same, only in Featherstone we’re free from all that … mess.” She gestures at my marks and I pull my shawl closer.
I raise an eyebrow. “Mess? Is that really how you see my marks?” It’s Gull’s turn to blush, but she doesn’t look away.
“Honestly?” She takes her hood down.
I nod. “Yeah: honestly.”
“Well, your marks are pollution. Tattooing yourself like that, it’s a rejection of the natural order of things.”
There is so much I want to say. That my marks are me. That they are good and holy. That it is her, with her screaming blank skin, that is deeply, hugely, wrong. But then I pause for a moment and imagine going back through the mirror. What it would be like if I was walking with Gull through the centre of Saintstone. Stares would be the least of our worries.
“No wonder everyone’s looking at me,” is all I say, eventually.
I try to change the subject.
“Have you got a dog?”
Gull grins. “Yes, she goes out with Fenn during the daytime. She’s gorgeous.”
Smiling, I ask, “What’s her name?”
“Lago. You’ll see her later.”
“Where’s Fenn now?”
“Doing whatever they ask him to do today. He’s often working in the fields. But nothing much has been growing.”
I look around. “And they sell what they’ve grown on that market stall?” I point to where people mill around a table with various bits of fruit and vegetables on display.
“We don’t sell our wares – we share. If it weren’t for the riders we wouldn’t survive.”
“The riders?” I ask. “The same ones we saw leaving this morning?”
“Yes.” Her eyes meet mine. “They get supplies for us.”
I feel a renewed stab of annoyance and can’t stop myself from voicing it. “Stealing, you mean?” The people of Saintstone, Morton and Riverton work hard to farm and provide, only for the blank riders to just take it.
“You make it sound like we’re lazy – as though we have any choice.” I raise an eyebrow – that’s exactly what I think. And yet… I look across and take in the sunken cheeks and skinny arms of the woman working at the stall. They’re all like this. Thin, worn and hungry-looking.
“If the marked hadn’t taken our land we wouldn’t need to.”
Gull’s voice is harsh, angry. “We were evicted, sent to live in a land where nothing grows. Where one bad harvest means starvation. Without our riders and the sympathizers in your towns – the crows – we wouldn’t survive.” So, this is what they call the ragged band of rebels that Dad, Obel, Oscar and Connor were … are part of. The brave or foolish few who try to help the blanks. I smile at the thought of them, but Gull interprets this as mockery. “Do you think we like it?” She glares at me.
I hesitate – this doesn’t tally with the version of events I know: the resettlement agreement, with the blanks striking out alone to form their own colony. But just then, a grubby-brown dog dashes up to Gull. She crouches and buries her face in its curly fur. She’s laughing. This must be Lago. At a distance, I see Fenn leaving a small group, walking slowly towards us, unwilling to close the gap. I reach to touch the dog, to let her smell my hands and get to know me, and I see Fenn’s face grow stony and full of ire.
I look right at him – I won’t be the one to drop my gaze, I won’t let him intimidate me. I find I’m glad that he’s not hiding what he thinks – there is no politeness to decipher. He’s the closest thing to a marked I’m going to get here in Featherstone: his emotions are almost as easy to read as ink.
“Leave that dog alone.” His eyes are fixed on my face. I let my hand fall to my side.
“Dad’s serving lunch,” Fenn says, finally looking away from me. “Are you coming, Gull?” He is the kind of blank I had prepared for: cold, hard, vicious. Gull, on the other hand … she’s quiet, and when she looks my way, she gives a half smile, reassuring me, I think.
“We’ll come in a bit. Don’t wait,” she says.
“Wasn’t intending to,” Fenn says gruffly and walks away, whistling for Lago to follow.
He’s like that man, Justus, I think – he hates me so much he cannot look at me.
But then he is right not to trust me.
Lunch isn’t that different to breakfast – some kind of watery soup, and flatbread shared among us. But the kitchen is warm and the food is filling. I feel a constant sensation of nervousness as I sit and eat with Gull, Fenn, Solomon and Tanya. I can’t know what their mealtimes would normally be like, but I sense everyone is on edge. Fenn stirs his soup and picks his bread into crumbs. Finally, Solomon clears his throat and speaks.
“Why did he vouch for you?” His eyes slowly lift to my face.
I put down my spoon.
“What do you mean?”
“Obel.” His eyes are curious. “Why did he vouch for you?”
He glances at his children’s puzzled faces and explains. “Leora brought a letter of introduction with her. From Obel.”
Gull squeaks out a surprised gasp and Fenn lets his bread drop on the table.
“He – he was my teacher,” I begin, nervously. I have no idea what they know about Obel’s life now. “He was helping me get better at what I do.”
“And what is that?”
I swallow, looking at them all – Gull, wide-eyed; Fenn, his mouth hard; Tanya apprehensive; Solomon, his expression not unkind.
“Well, I’m an inker. At least, I was.”
“Obel is an inker?” The quiet incredulity in Solomon’s voice tells me they know nothing about their son.
“Yes, one of the best. He’s famous for it.”
Fenn stands, his chair dragging against the floor. His expression is somehow both sour and sad.
“I’m going to back to work.” He clicks his fingers, and Lago, who has been dozing near the stove, pricks up her ears and scrambles to follow him, her claws clicking gently on the floor. Solomon calls after him without any real urgency.
Wordlessly, Tanya picks up Fenn’s bowl and tips the contents back in the pot. She piles the bowl on top of her own and carries them to the sink. Gull’s face is expressionless as she signals to me to come.
“Let’s go, Leora,” she says quietly.
Back in Gull’s room, she sits on the chair at her desk and gestures that I can sit on the bed. I close my eyes, briefly; a memory of me and Verity studying in her room before the exams flashes into my mind – her with her hair in a messy bun, me crying and telling her about seeing Oscar’s dad marked in the town square. It feels like someone else’s life.
Gull removes the leather pouch from her belt and empties it on to the desk. White pebbles scatter and, in silence, she sorts them into rows and piles. I watch from the corner of my eye, intrigued but not willing to push my luck and ask questions. I’m a terrible spy.
I take my notebook out of my bag. I wish I was good with words, that I could write out everything in my head; but, when I try, it’s pictures that come more naturally than words. My sketches are the closest I can get to poetry.
Whenever I let my thoughts wander, they always seem to wonder about Oscar, so I draw his face: bright eyes hidden behind glasses, his hair wild and unruly, the way the ink sat so perfectly on his smooth, dark brown skin. I draw his hands, strong and gentle, and the exposed bit of his wrist. His mouth, a corner always half-lifted, always ready to smile.
I stop myself from filling the book just with Oscar and draw someone else: someone with furrowed eyebrows, jaw set. I remember him as he was before Minnow got to him and I let my pencil show him in his most perfect element: putting ink on skin. Obel.
And it surprises me, but next I’m drawing a bare torso and shading the deep, dark skin. I draw him at his best too – with eyes th
at were concerned – kind, I had thought. Eyes that shine with compassion.
Longsight.
And Mel. The pencil sways and dances as I let her emerge on the page. I can’t reproduce the red of her hair, but I can show how it trails down her back like a waterfall. I try to show the gold of her traditional dress, the beauty of her ink that tells every one of our town’s stories. But she is too full of colour. Graphite will never capture her. I could kick myself for still caring about Mel. Mel who wants unity. She wants the blanks to surrender their stories and turn to ours. To turn to the truth. Now that I’m here, it seems impossible. It would take a miracle. Or a massacre.
My pencil moves, and almost gives away the secrets of my thoughts before I stop it. I can’t even fully think it, let alone draw it. It flickers like a flame, like wings: a whisper. What if there isn’t just our truth – what if Featherstone’s truth counts too?
Heresy, the whisper bites. Blasphemy, the word kisses my ear.
Chapter Eight
“I told you we were late,” Tanya whispers as she ushers us ahead of her towards the fire and the people congregating around it.
It’s early evening and we are joining the fireside the elders spoke of. This is when the community decides if I can stay, for now at least. My judgement.
I have to convince them to let me stay. Longsight will send word for me soon, to meet my contact, and I need to have something to tell them. Remembering Obel’s crushed hand, I shiver in the warmth from the fire.
“We meet every evening,” Gull explains as we draw closer. “We eat together around the fire, share stories, make decisions, deepen our faith.”
Flames and judgement, I think. I am no stranger to either.
There is a space for us all around the fire; mostly the community sits in family groups. Fenn is with us, and as I cross my legs, trying to get comfortable on the dusty ground, my knee brushes his. He jerks away as though burned.
Once we are settled, Solomon stands and, in a warm, resonant voice, calls out.
“We are one. One family. One people. One heart. One soul. We all share the warmth of the same fire; we all feed it, we all feed from it. Just as these flames require our love and service, so we require the fire’s service. We are one. We have nothing to hide.” He smiles, looking around at the people lit by the golden flames. I see happy, peaceful faces looking back at him, and it reminds me of the way Dad used to be at birth days – always insisting on making a speech, always so openly joyful and proud.
Sonorous voices join Solomon’s as the entire community respond to his words: “We feed the fire. The fire feeds us. We feed one another. We are one. We have nothing to hide.” There is familiarity here – not just in the words that everyone (except for me) knows, but in the ease and the obvious pleasure they gain from being together like this.
The warmth from the flames feels comforting for the first minute, and then the heat becomes oppressive. It’s too hot on my face and I edge my body round a bit. Gull sits, relaxed. She’s picking up little scraps from the ground. Using a tiny dried twig to scrape lines in the dust, stabbing a hole in a leaf and letting it stay on the twig like a sail. I can imagine my mum tapping the back of my hand and telling me off for fiddling, but there is no such formality here. The atmosphere exudes freedom: at least, for those who belong. I wrap my shawl around me more tightly, hiding my marks from view. I imagine what it must be like to be blank, and for your secrets to stay hidden. For the first time that feels appealing, rather than frightening.
Solomon raises his hands and gazes around the people.
“As your elder for this season it is my honour and my duty to remind you of our past and to allow the past to bless our future. On this beautiful evening, I am called to tell you a tale. But first we have a decision to make. A decision regarding our visitor.”
I hear Fenn mutter, “Visitor? Intruder, more like.” Gull nudges him, but looking around the circle, I see concerned faces – he’s certainly not alone in his mistrust.
“This morning the elders met, and we want to ask you to consider a proposition. Our newcomer is Leora Flint, a marked girl who has come from Saintstone.” Solomon waits for the whispers to subside. “And yes, she is the daughter of Joel Flint – who was both a hero and a turncoat. You all know who her mother was.” Solomon’s voice continues, strong in spite of the rising murmur. “Leora arrived with a letter. A letter from Obel Whitworth.” He drops his head and I see his shoulders rise as he sighs. “He vouches for her.” Justus spits on the ground in front of him.
Ruth stands, using a stick to help her keep steady.
“Leora told us that she has been exiled from the marked community of Saintstone for allying herself with the forgotten. Some of the forgotten are crows: those who help us in secret. She comes here with nothing but the clothes on her back. She asks us for mercy. She wants to find out about her roots, about her mother.” Again, the low murmuring. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it sounds softer now. “I am willing to at least give this girl a chance. To take this opportunity to teach her about our way of life, and to share our stories.” She looks at Justus, whose face is stony. “If there is any hint that she is here for any other reason – to undermine our community, to work against us – I won’t hesitate to banish her. But for now, let’s embody our values: peace and tolerance and trust. I put it to our community: Leora should be allowed to stay until such a time as she shows herself unworthy. Please raise your hand if you wish to disagree.”
There are many hands raised, including Fenn’s, and what happens next seems to go on for ever.
“She means us harm.”
“She is marked and not to be trusted.”
“Our land is already speaking out against us – this will only cause more hardship.”
“Our stories will be lost.”
“She will steal our children. She will teach against us.”
Each person speaks and everyone listens, even the little kids, dozing against their parents’ shoulders.
As each person voices their fears, a member of the eldership goes and sits with them and holds their hands. They talk quietly, face to face. Solomon speaks to the elders and calls everyone to order; he has rallied and takes control once again.
“These concerns are valid. I say only one thing.” He looks around the circle. “Let us not shut out someone in need because of fear. That is not our way. More and more we have been looking inward, and now I ask of you all – what has it gained us?”
There is a pause, and Solomon looks at me.
“Child,” he says quietly. “Have you anything to add?”
Everyone is staring at me. I swallow. I sense that this is a crucial moment, and I cast around for the right words.
“You’re right not to trust me,” I say, finally, and a prickle of interest sweeps the circle. “You don’t know me. All you know is where I am from – from a community who hate the sight of you and would destroy you if they could.” I catch Solomon’s grimace; I am not helping myself much, he’s thinking. “But I am here because I want to know where I’m from. That’s the only reason.” Lies, Leora, I think. “If you let me stay,” I finish, “I will work alongside you. I will respect your beliefs and your stories. I won’t force my own on you. That is all I ask – to stay and to listen. I just want to know who I am.” My voice cracks on the last words and I stop.
How much of that was true? I don’t even know any more. All I know is that I’m fighting to stay here, to save my friends. And that perhaps I’m a more convincing liar than I thought, because I almost believe myself.
Solomon nods gravely, then looks to the circle. “A recount, please. Anyone who is against our visitor remaining, please raise your hand.”
This time only two hands are raised, and I’m not surprised that one of them is Justus’s and the other is Fenn’s.
“Thank you for your courage in speaking your hearts,” he says to Fenn and Justus. “Do we all consent that this vote has been fair and that Leora will remain, for
now?” I see Fenn’s jaw clench but he nods, and after a moment so does Justus. “I believe Ruth has expressed willingness to tutor Leora; to teach her our ways.” Ruth smiles in assent and calls out the same words she spoke at the meeting earlier.
“Remember, Leora. No marks, no secrets, no lies.”
The whole community repeats her words, and they resound like a spell.
No marks, no secrets, no lies.
When the group is quiet once again, Solomon smiles. “Good,” he says quietly. “And now – let us return to the past.”
Everyone begins to drum their fingers on the ground, and it sounds like rain or snakes. An oddly comforting sound.
Solomon raises a hand and, like a tap shutting off, the drumming stops. Instead, a hum begins. A hum that goes around the circle, passed from person to person. Low, and from chest-deep, it is passed like a chalice, beginning slowly, then getting faster until the circle is practically vibrating with it. I join in, somehow knowing just when to hum and when to stop. I feel it in my chest, as though we are instruments being played by a passing spirit.
Just when I think the hum can’t get faster or louder, it stops. I don’t know who gave a cue but we all stop at the same moment – even me, as though the vibration in my throat just left me. The silence leads my ears to pick out new sounds, noises I hadn’t noticed before. I hear Gull’s breath, in time with my own. I hear the crackle of wood splitting in the fire. I hear the leaves on the trees that surround us whispering and conspiring with us. It is in this attuned unity that I feel my difference more than ever.
I will watch, I think. I will wait. And then—
And then I will do what I have to do. To survive. To save my friends.
“And so…” Solomon’s voice is like gentle footsteps. “A story.”
Chapter Nine
The Sisters
In a wood, near a village, there was a woodcutter’s house. The house was small, but it looked friendly enough. Neatly planted flowers grew in rows beneath the tiny shuttered windows. An axe rested against the wall; a well-stocked woodpile beneath a canopy. Even on the hottest day, you would see cheerful wafts of woodsmoke puffing from the chimney, and you might just smell the coffee brewing or the cakes cooling or the bread baking or the meat roasting. For the quietest of visitors, the reward was great: a song sung by a voice so pure and light that you would look to the sky to search for birds or angels.
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