A Wish in the Dark

by Christina Soontornvat

  The people lived blessed lives. Wise old sages traveled down from the mountains to share their wisdom, heal the sick, and grant wishes. But most people in Chattana had all they could wish for — at first.

  The city prospered and grew. The houses stacked on top of each other, higher and higher. The canals became crowded. Unfortunately, magic doesn’t like a crowd.

  As Chattana swelled, the wonders thinned away. The shy giants wandered north and never returned. The singing fish were netted for rich men’s dinners. Bakers began frosting their cakes with plain sugar — it was cheaper than luck and just as sparkly. And the wise sages stayed on their mountaintops.

  At first the people of Chattana didn’t mind. They were successful and too busy to care about those old-fashioned things. The city spread wider. Buildings rose higher. There was more of everything, but it still wasn’t enough. Greed made people careless, and that was a mistake.

  No one knows how the Great Fire started. In one rainless night, the City of Wonders became the City of Ashes. Every building and nearly every boat burned. Chattana had always been isolated from its neighbors, but the destruction was so great that no one could have helped them anyway. The few who survived the Great Fire suffered miserably. The sun seared down during the day, and at night there was no shelter from the drenching rains. Disease spread. Fights broke out over what little food remained.

  The people missed the wonders then. They despaired, sure that the end was near for all of them. But somewhere among the ruins there must have been one luck-frosted cake left. Because out of the forest came a man who carried magic that no one had seen in more than a century.

  That one man turned everything around. He brought Chattana back to life.

  Nok kept her head bowed, but she couldn’t resist popping one eyelid open. The Governor walked past her, leaving the scent of lemongrass trailing behind him.

  Another snap from Nok’s mother, and the prisoners sat back on their heels, palms still pressed together at their chests. Nok blinked, hardly able to believe that she stood just a few yards away from Chattana’s great hero.

  He looked ordinary. Nok didn’t know what she’d been expecting. It’s not like he would be floating in on a cloud, or anything like that, but the man standing before them could have been any man. He was taller than her father, but not by much. His face was smooth and pale, the color of milky tea. He smiled briefly as her father greeted him, and only then did faint age lines appear at the corners of his eyes.

  Her father seemed in awe of him, too. Or maybe he was just afraid of messing everything up. He could hardly meet the Governor’s eyes as he stepped forward and cleaned his glasses yet again.

  “This is a very special day for us all,” her father announced. “His Grace, our Governor, honors us with his presence. As you know, His Grace gives such thought and care to your reform. We are . . .” The warden looked down the line of prisoners, and his eyes became glassy and sad behind his spectacles. His voice drifted off.

  Come on, Dad. You can do it, Nok thought, willing him to gather up his thoughts.

  Nok’s mother cleared her throat softly.

  “We — we are so blessed to have you with us today, Your Grace,” her father stammered. He was supposed to give a longer speech, but he must have forgotten it. “We will now serve a meal, after which my wife has planned entertainment in your honor.”

  Nok’s mother smiled stiffly. She flicked her fingers at the kitchen staff.

  Nok’s nostrils filled with the smell of garlic and meat. The cooks carried big steaming pots out of the kitchen to the tables under the pavilion. They set the pots on top of metal stands that cradled Crimson orbs to keep the food bubbling and hot.

  The prison children all perked up. The moonfaced boy even licked his lips. Nok wished they wouldn’t look quite so hungry.

  The prisoners bowed, then made an orderly rush to the pavilion. Nok herded the twins behind their brother, to wait their turn to be introduced to the Governor. She told herself not to be nervous. After all, she’d been practicing what to say to him for weeks now.

  As she waited, her eyes wandered to the boy with the sticking-up hair. He had been near the front of the line, and he was already slurping up the last bits of food from his bowl. She tried not to stare, but she found her eyes drawn to him. He seemed so different from the other children. He looked around, taking in everything. He stared at the Governor intensely, though he kept a respectful distance.

  Suddenly, he turned his head and then stood up and hurried toward the boy with the round face, who had tears running down his plump cheeks. A full bowl of chicken and rice lay spilled on the ground at his feet.

  Two older girls stood beside him, cracking their knuckles. The boy with the sticking-up hair strode up to the tallest girl and without a word, stomped on her bare foot. Nok gasped.

  “Nok!” her mother snapped.

  She turned to see her family staring at her. Even her father looked mortified. With a flush of embarrassment, she realized she was supposed to be greeting the Governor at that very moment.

  Nok’s practiced speech flew right out of her head. Her cheeks burned as she bowed. “I’m very sorry that I was distracted, Your Grace. It’s just that . . .”

  “Just that what?” asked her mother, impatience edging her voice.

  Nok pulled down the cuffs of her dress. “It’s just that I think that boy over there is fighting.”

  Her mother’s lips parted, horrified. “What boy?”

  Nok pointed him out. The older girl was howling now, clutching her wounded foot.

  Nok’s mother stormed toward the children. “You there,” she said to the sticking-up-hair boy. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The boy froze. “Oh, ma’am, I, well, I just saw —”

  “You saw that we were busy, so you thought you could misbehave, hmm?”

  “No, ma’am, it isn’t that. You see, these girls —”

  The girl he’d stomped on wailed and hopped on her good foot.

  “Hush!” snapped Mrs. Sivapan. “You dare to start fights on a day like this?” She looked ready to swallow the boy whole.

  His spine straightened. Nok couldn’t believe the way he was looking at her mother — as though he was right and she was wrong.

  “My friend has been waiting for this food,” said the boy. “And they —”

  “How dare you talk back to me!”

  The Governor glided toward the boy and spoke in a deep, smooth voice. “Allow me to handle this, Madam Sivapan.”

  The entire courtyard hushed. Nok’s mother patted down her hair as she stepped back to make room for him. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  The boy swallowed and wiped his palms against the sides of his trousers. He bowed to the Governor. When he raised his head, he had a hopeful, almost happy, look in his eyes.

  The prisoners and staff had inched closer to see what was going on. Everyone pretended to eat as they leaned forward, listening.

  “Is it true, child?” asked the Governor. “You were fighting?”

  “Your Grace, it is the greatest honor to finally meet you,” the boy said breathlessly. “I know that of everyone, you will see that —”

  “Tut-tut,” the Governor chided. “Now is not the time for flattery. It is the time for truth. Tell me. Did you hurt this girl, yes or no?”

  The boy stood wide-eyed, with his mouth open. He nodded.

  “Do you know why I’m here?” the Governor asked.

  “To . . . to make sure we’re being treated fairly?”

  The Governor stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment. “I am here to remind you all of the price of breaking the law. Tell me, child, are the nights dark here in Namwon?”

  The boy nodded.

  “As they should be,” said the Governor. “Chattana is a city of light, but that light must be earned. That is why I had this reform center built here, away from the city. To remind the people that wickedness has a price. You see, light shines only on the worthy
.”

  The boy continued staring, speechless, as the Governor took a half step back. He raised his arms, palms up. The air grew thick, the way it does before a storm. The hairs on Nok’s arms stood on end and her scalp tingled.

  Everyone in the courtyard seemed to be holding their breath. A pinprick of light appeared in the Governor’s palm, like a hovering firefly. It shone brighter, then brighter still, swelling to the size of a marble.

  The little ball of light was blindingly bright, even brighter than the orb that powered the Governor’s boat. But it didn’t seem hot. If anything, the courtyard felt a little cooler than it had a moment before.

  A chill raced up the back of Nok’s neck. She had grown up surrounded by the Governor’s magic, but few people ever got to see him actually use his powers. She shivered, thrilled and frightened at the same time. The man may have looked ordinary, but he was far from it.

  Everything in Chattana — every orb, every cookstove, every boat motor — all of it ran on the Governor’s light-making powers. Once he arrived, there was no more need for fire, no more danger. The orbs lit the night; they powered magnificent machines; they had made Chattana prosperous again.

  The city had transformed in more ways than one. The Governor hadn’t just made light. He had made laws. Chattana had become the City of Rules, the City of Order. Now there would never be another Great Fire. The people would never have to suffer like that again.

  The Governor reached his other hand into his pocket and drew out a glass orb, clear and thin as a soap bubble. “Light shines on the worthy,” he repeated, placing the orb into the boy’s hand. “All others fall into darkness. Tell me, child, do you want to remain in darkness forever?”

  The boy’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He shook his head.

  The Governor closed his fingers over the light in his hand and touched the glass orb. The air between him and the boy wavered and crackled. A second later, everyone in the courtyard gasped.

  The Governor’s hand was now empty. The light had traveled into the orb, filling it with a Gold glow. Trapped inside the glass, the Governor’s light was still bright, though a little less raw and frightening than it had been a moment before.

  “Tell me,” said the Governor. “Will you be a good boy from now on?”

  The boy stared at the light in his hand, speechless. Nok realized this might be the first time he had ever been this close to a Gold orb.

  Nok’s mother stepped forward. “He will, Your Grace — we will see to that, of course.” She turned to the boy. “I hope you appreciate His Grace’s generosity! For him to give you that light — and Gold light, no less! — is a kindness I’m not sure you deserve. But, please, Your Grace, allow us to convey our gratitude to you with a song we have prepared in your honor.”

  She clapped her hands overhead, the signal for the women prisoners to break into the number they had rehearsed for the occasion.

  The small courtyard rang with the sound of their voices. Nok’s mother beamed. Her siblings smiled perfect smiles. Everything was back on track and going smoothly.

  All eyes were on the Governor, who bent down to whisper some last comforting words to the wayward boy before turning to watch the prisoners’ performance.

  But Nok was watching the boy. He stood staring at his palm. The hopeful, happy look had left his eyes.

  The orb in his hand had gone dark.

  You’re no fun anymore,” said Somkit. He said this a lot lately.

  “I thought you wanted me to lie low,” said Pong. “Stay out of trouble.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t mean for you to turn into a tree stump. Besides, since when do you listen to anything I say? Seriously, what’s up with you?”

  Pong shrugged. He knew he’d changed. No more scuffling with older girls, no more arguments with guards. Pong had become quiet. He just didn’t feel like talking.

  It had been three months since the Governor’s visit. Pong had been so excited that day, even though he hadn’t dreamed that he’d actually get the chance to tell the Governor how much he admired him. And when the chance did come, everything had gone so very wrong. Pong would have thought it was all a bad dream if he didn’t still have the faded glass orb tucked behind his mat in the boys’ bunk room.

  Every night Pong lay there, with the used-up glass close to his head. He could still remember the orb’s beautiful Gold glow — so much brighter than the Violet orbs they had to make do with at Namwon. He could still hear the Governor’s words. Not the words of his speech — those famous phrases printed on posters and in schoolbooks. No, the words that haunted Pong were the ones the Governor had spoken in his ear as the prisoners began their song.

  “Look at them,” he’d whispered to Pong, nodding at the prisoners. “They go free, but they always come back. Year after year, the jails are full. The world is full of darkness, and that will never change.” And then the Governor leaned a half inch closer to Pong. He looked into Pong’s eyes with his own cold stare. “Those who are born in darkness always return. You’ll see. You and I will meet again.”

  And then the Governor had squeezed his fingers tight, and the orb in Pong’s hand had gone dark.

  That was when Pong realized how stupid he’d been. Had he really thought he’d grow up to work for the Governor himself? The Governor would never let someone like him even come near. Pong’s dreams of a life outside Namwon vanished in that instant. Things wouldn’t be any different out there — not for him.

  The world is full of darkness, and that will never change.

  It didn’t matter what he and Somkit did or how old they got. They would be in the dark wherever they went.

  Pong didn’t share his thoughts with Somkit. He closed them inside himself, where they hardened into a physical thing, making a box around his heart. And when night fell and the lights of Chattana blazed across the water, and Somkit chattered on and on about orb motors and the latest speedboat models, Pong stayed silent. He turned his face away from the river gate. If anything, the lights only made Namwon seem darker.

  Though the nights had changed, the days for Pong and Somkit were the same. For Somkit, that meant fruit scavenging.

  Mangoes were the only fruit the prisoners were allowed to have, and only then because they dropped straight into their arms. But the prison guards, like most people in Chattana, lived for their fruit. Once a week, after payday, they would wait on the boat dock and wave down the fruit boats heading to the floating markets in the city.

  The prison children would press their faces against the metal gate and sniff the sweet scent of mangosteens and rambutans, the acid aroma of the pomelos and green oranges. They would suck the fruit-flavored air down their nostrils and roll it around on their tongues. But there was one fruit boat they would not smell.

  Durian is called the King of Fruits. It’s creamy and rich, more like custard or pudding than something you’d expect to find growing on a tree. Its flavor is musky, buttery — sweet at first, tangy at the end. It makes the back of your neck hot to eat it. It tastes like heaven.

  It smells like the opposite.

  After flagging down the durian boatman, the guards would carry the enormous spiky-skinned fruit to the wooden table under their shaded pavilion. They hacked the fruit open with a machete, careful not to get the juice on their hands or clothes. They scooped out the yellow flesh inside and rolled their eyes back in their heads with pleasure.

  After an hour, the ground all around the table would be littered with piles of durian husks, stinking like a dying mongoose. That’s where Somkit came in.

  Somkit was the only kid in Namwon who didn’t mind the smell of durian. He was happy to gather the stinking, sticky rinds and cram them into the trash baskets by the river dock. The guards rewarded him for his help by letting him scrape up any remaining fruit. The baskets didn’t do much to hide the smell, but luckily the trashman would come in his boat that same evening to dump them downriver.

  One hot afternoon, the guards had just finished off a pa
rticularly ripe, particularly smelly durian, and more husks littered the pavilion ground than usual.

  Somkit held one of the rinds, scraping out the last bit of flesh with his fingers. “Hey, Pong, help me take these to the trash.”

  “No way,” said Pong, holding his nose and breathing through his mouth. “That’s your thing, not mine.”

  “Come on, don’t be a jerk.” Somkit coughed.

  Pong’s ears tuned to the raspy sound. Somkit had trouble breathing. Running or doing anything active could make him collapse into a fit of coughing. A few times it had been really bad, and Pong had watched him choke and gasp like a fish drowning on dry land.

  “Are you okay?” Pong asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” said Somkit. But he coughed again, three times. His eyebrows shot up with each cough like someone was poking him in the ribs.

  Pong was pretty sure it was a trying-to-get-out-of-work cough, but he rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Fine, let’s get it over with.”

  He gulped in a big breath and started picking up the rinds with the tips of his fingernails. The juice oozed onto his wrists as he followed Somkit to the trash.

  The trash baskets sat near the river dock, on the other side of the guards’ storage hut. The baskets reeked sweetly, like raw chicken left in the sun all day. Pong opened the lid and gagged at the rotting smell of old durian mixed with old bananas, old orange peels, and old eggshells. He dumped his durian rinds in with the rest.

  “I’ll go back and get what’s left,” said Somkit. “Cram all that down to make room, okay?”

  “Oh, come on,” protested Pong.

  “Just do it,” said Somkit, making the same eyebrow-cough as he walked away. “I’ll be right back.”

  Pong waited, craning his face away from the durian stench. When Somkit still hadn’t come back, he leaned around the corner of the storage shed to look for him. It was the hottest part of the day, and the prisoners lay dozing or chatting in the shade on the other side of the courtyard. The guards, full and happy, reclined on the steps, picking their teeth.