Not for Use in Navigation

by Iona Datt Sharma

  “We’ll send someone else about your trouble," she promised. “Even if Thanet can’t come."

  He looked at Kamala, and smiled. Kira was busy, feeding the messenger birds with ice chips from her hands. Grace beckoned and she came reluctantly.

  Kira’s mother lived by the old West India quays, on the industrial edge of the City. Grace had assumed Kira’s father must work on the docks, but when asked, Kira said, “He died when I was little."

  Subsequent questioning had revealed that when I was little meant the summer of 1916. Ned had found that difficult to bear.

  “Don’t wander off," Grace said, as Kira darted away, distracted by the trams rattling noisily past towards Victoria. Services had been restored after the crash, but the railwaymen were striking and the streets were crowded with the overspill. When they left the towpath, Kira seemed reluctant again. “It’s a bit cramped," she said, in tones of apology, and Grace followed her through the little door, opening on a set of steps that led up to rooms behind an ironmonger’s.

  “You’ll be Miss May, I suppose," said the severe-looking woman who met them at the top, wearing a spotless apron and with hair kept in braids very like her daughter’s. “Come in and have some tea."

  Grace sat in the indicated chair and accepted the teacup, feeling herself appraised. “Sugar?" the woman asked, and turned to get it without waiting for an answer.

  “Thank you for your hospitality," Grace said, formally, and set down to business. “Mrs James," she said. “I’m here, on behalf of the Worshipful Company of Salt practitioners, to propose your daughter enter Salt apprenticeship. She’s spent some time with me over the last few months, and I would be honoured to take her on."

  “Salt, then," Mrs James murmured, and Grace read something in her expression – something like irritation or distrust.

  “Excuse me," she said. “I was under the impression Kira had said – well, if I’ve overstepped, I apologise."

  “Miss May," Mrs James said, interrupting firmly, “what’s done is done. Kira, honey, get your old mum some biscuits. And your -" She paused, her expression becoming still. “Principal."

  At that word, Grace relaxed a little. “Mrs James," she said. “Are you quite happy for Kira to train with me?"

  Mrs James looked at her seriously, but without hostility. “Kira’s father was a white man," she said. “If he’d been living, things would be different."

  “I’m sorry for your loss," Grace said, automatic, and Mrs James acknowledged her with a nod.

  “Her father wanted her trained, and I’m going along with his wishes," she said after a moment. “If he was around still – but then she went to you and you’ve been kind enough and things are how they are. You from Jamaica?"

  Grace smiled briefly. “My grandparents were," she said. “I was born and brought up in Liverpool, myself."

  “That’s no matter." Mrs James regarded her. “Better with you than anyone else. And a woman is right and proper. You don’t know where the men have been."

  Grace smiled again at that. “In which case I should mention my two colleagues, Ned and Thanet."

  “Thanet a man, is he?"

  “Sometimes," Grace said, and Mrs James raised an eyebrow. “Birds-in-Flight," Grace added, “not Salt."

  “Thought they weren’t like that any more?" Mrs James said, and then seemed to recollect herself. “No offence meant to your friend. Just you don’t see them too much now."

  “Thanet persists," Grace said, with a grin. “In any case, she – or he, depending – would be teaching your daughter as well as Ned and myself. Would that be a concern for you?"

  “Not if you’ll vouch for them," Mrs James said, and Grace sighed again and sat back in her chair: it was time to be truthful.

  “Mrs James," she said. “I’m a practitioner in good standing. But Thanet – Thanet’s registration has been withdrawn for conduct reasons by the Company of Birds-in-Flight. And Ned was a practitioner like myself, raised at Temple. But he’s unwell, presently, and it’s unclear what his future in Salt practice will be."

  Mrs James nodded. “Conduct reasons," she said, suddenly. “Does that mean, helping people they’re not supposed to help?"

  “Something like that." Grace kept her expression even.

  “And the other." Mrs James paused. “Shell-shock?"

  “Not exactly," Grace said. “But it’s very similar."

  “He was an officer, then," said Mrs James with a grim humour. Grace understood that – officers came home with neurasthenia, not shell-shock, and she didn’t bother to correct the misconception.

  “But I have the utmost trust in them," Grace went on, “and we will all do our best for Kira. She can stay here or she can lodge in chambers – it’s for her to decide, if you’re willing."

  “I’ll come with you," Kira said, her little voice clear and bright. She was standing on the threshold with the plate of biscuits held in both hands. “I mean – if I can."

  She was looking at her mother, then at Grace. Grace read fear and excitement and amazement in her face, and regret too. On glancing around, Grace noted the room was sparse but clean and tidy, with books and brightly-coloured ornaments, and photographs on the mantel, and suspected this had been as happy as a home as it could be, for those who were left.

  “Miss May," Mrs James said. “I know the way of things. You people look after your own."

  “Of course we do," Grace said, startled by her tone. “Ned and Thanet and I look after each other, and we’ll look after her."

  Mrs James nodded. “And in the end, you’ll be her family, more than her flesh and blood."

  “We already are her flesh and blood," Grace said, suddenly snapping to anger. “She’s already one of us. She’s Salt, and so am I, so is Ned. She’s a sister and a daughter."

  “A white man, raised at Temple? You call him your brother?" Mrs James said, then put her hands up, as though holding Grace’s words away from her.

  “You’ll show her a world for than this," she said, quieter now. She pointed out of the window at the street outside, at the dusty road traffic, the stallholders, the dock-workers eating sandwiches one-handed from greaseproof paper, at men with trays around their necks hawking trinkets. “She’ll become – not like you, but almost, and she won’t ever come back here and see it the way she sees it now."

  Grace nodded. “That’s true," she said, honestly. “Temple is my home. It will be Kira’s."

  “Is it the best thing?"

  “We will look after her," Grace said, knowing she wasn’t answering the question, knowing it wasn’t for her to answer. She held still for a moment, letting the moment take its time in passing. “Shall she come with me?"

  “Yes," Mrs James said, finally. “Yes."

  Kira made a small wordless noise of joy. “Kira, you should say your goodbyes to your mother properly," Grace said. “We’ll come back for your things this evening, if that’s suitable?"

  “Yes, Miss May," Kira said with an obedience that Grace suspected wouldn’t last. She nodded respectfully to Kira’s mother.

  “Good luck," Mrs James said, perhaps deliberately making it unclear which of them she was talking to, and Grace grinned. As they walked down back towards Embankment, Kira seemed a girl enchanted, quiet, with luminous eyes. Of the two of them, only Grace turned to look back – and that was when the rock hit her in the side of the head.

  ___

  “My husband is dead," Mrs Ferguson said, flatly. “Nothing to be done for him now."

  “I don’t –" Ned began, then sat back. “Your husband was driving the train at St Paul’s."

  “They’re going to make out it was suicide," Mrs Ferguson said, fiercely. “They’ve been round asking. Was he shell-shocked? Was he drinking? They don’t want it to be their fault is all. And my widow’s pension – well." Her expression darkened. “I need you to show it wasn’t his fault. All that signalling and that, that’s magic."

  “I know," Ned said, sharply. “I was the one who designed i
t."

  “Then go and find out what went wrong." She glared at him, and Ned thought that he might be the first focus for her anger she had had, since the accident. “If you designed it, then who’s right to do it but you?"

  Ned brought his hands together, fingers lacing and interlacing. “My colleague," he said, “may lose her own registration over this."

  “All the more reason for you to get to the bottom of it, then."

  Ned nodded. “With all due respect, Mrs Ferguson," he said. “Why are you so sure it wasn’t – what they say it was? Sometimes" —he hesitated —“a man won’t speak of what’s on his mind, until speaking does no good."

  Mrs Ferguson gave him an unreadable look. “Because of this," she said.

  She pulled a card from her bag and handed it to Ned, who took it without thinking. Ostensibly handwritten, it had been reproduced by a form of Salt magic with which he was very familiar, and the letters spelled out an invitation to a wedding in Penrith three weeks hence. “The bride is your sister-in-law?" he guessed, from the name.

  Mrs Ferguson nodded. “It’s a good family. Alfie was right proud. He was going to make them a proper present – maybe proper silverware, he said, like we never had when we were first married. And we were going to go up for it on the railwaymen’s specials."

  Ned could feel a headache starting. “Mrs Ferguson, I’m afraid I still don’t quite understand—"

  “He had the money for the present on him," she said. “He was going straight after his shift. Why would he have – if he was going to—"

  “Ah," Ned said, understanding. “I see." He paused. “Was your husband shell-shocked, Mrs Ferguson?"

  She half-stood up, and Ned thought for a mad moment that she would take a swing at him. As he held his ground, his own hands damnably shaking, the moment filtered away into silence. Mrs Ferguson sank bank into her chair and took a moment before she rose again, this time with dignity. “He didn’t return the same as he went," she said, voice clear. “But did anyone?"

  “Not in my experience," Ned said, with a calm he did not quite feel. “I’ll write to you in respect of my retention."

  “Thank you," she said, nodding, and gave Ned no look of pity as he took the usual length of time to get to the door and open it for her. “You’ll do," she said, again, on the threshold, and departed.

  Ned turned to go inside, then paused, aware of the sounds of the city, rattling trains and distant crowds, and of the soft, comforting heat of the summer air. The morning chill had quite dissipated. He sat down on the front step, pulled a battered paperback from his pocket, and began to read.

  ___

  When Grace opened her eyes she was lying in the dirt, the sky darkening into azure in a narrow slice between the rooftops. “Kira," she said, blearily. “Kira, where –"

  “I’m here!" Kira sounded terrified, her voice high-pitched. “I’m here, the man helped me."

  Grace forced herself into a sitting position, her head spinning sickly. Her hair rained down street dirt onto her shoulders. She’d been dragged here.“The man?" she asked, turning around.

  The sudden movement prompted another bout of nausea. Grace put a hand to her head and felt her fingers come away sticky.

  “Here," said a male voice, and someone handed her a handkerchief.

  Grace pressed it to her head gratefully and took him in: a man in the rough trousers and jacket of a dock worker, his sleeves dark with dirt and oil. “Kamala’s husband?" she said, stupidly.

  “Amir," he said, nodding, beckoning her to follow.

  Grace breathed, willing the dizziness to pass, and got gingerly to her feet. From their shadowy hiding-place in this alley, the street seemed an unknowable mass of people howling forwards. It had been so quiet, before, and the sky so many shades brighter. “How long was I…"

  “I don’t know," Kira said, her little hand creeping into Grace’s; Grace squeezed tight. “These men were throwing stones. They got you, they didn’t get me but they tried, then so many people, shouting – " She looked up. “Bad words. Then the nice man came running down, he helped."

  “Thank you," Grace said to him. Out on the street she could hear those ‘bad words,’ perhaps worse than Kira knew; she could make out the scrape of metal on metal, and the howl of the mob.

  Amir nodded. “Come," he said, and Grace and Kira both followed.

  Further into the shadows the alley grew narrower until they reached a timbered door hanging wildly off its hinges. As Amir led the way in, Grace’s vision adjusted to the half-darkness, and she realised there were others inside: men dressed like sailors and labourers and dockers, with bright eyes in dark faces, and in their voices she heard India again. They were frightened, holding back; she heard the word “coloured", and then: “mitti attar".

  “Salt," she said, understanding that at least. She lifted her hand to the bar in her ear. “What do you want?"

  “Can you help us escape from here?" asked one of the men, stepping forwards. Grace could make out blood on his hands, scraped and raw, and the recent tears in his clothes. “They think they come from war, and we have taken their jobs, their women. They come wanting blood for it. The Musulmans also, and the ones like you."

  There was bitterness as well as fear in his accented, assured English. Grace wondered how long they’d been hiding and if, in coming to find her, Amir had put himself at risk. “Is Kamala all right?" she asked.

  He nodded, and Grace was grateful. “We should wait this out," she said.

  “They will find us," said the other man. “But if you help us get out—“

  “They’ll destroy me," Grace said, then pulled herself together. “Listen, are any of you like me?"

  A murmur, in the darkness, and Amir stepped forwards, bringing another man with him. Grace couldn’t make out how many had taken refuge here, and could barely make out what sort of a space it was. A warehouse, perhaps, long abandoned.

  “This is Raj," Amir said. He gestured to his friend’s ear, where it was a clear a metal bar had been dragged forcibly out of the flesh. Grace shivered. “He is like you. Not you. The others."

  “The Birds-in-Flight," Grace said, but to her surprise Amir shook his head.

  “No," he said, frustrated. “the others."

  He said something in his own language to his companion. “The others," he said, again but Grace didn’t understand.

  “All right," she said, after a minute. “You two, me, and my apprentice. We’ll have to work together. Kira, you’ll listen to me and do exactly what I say, do you understand? All our lives will depend on it."

  “What," Amir said. “What you need?"

  Grace turned. “Sir," she said to Amir, “may I borrow your handkerchief again? Thank you."

  She showed it to Kira with some disgust, the brightness of her own blood dimming to dark brown. “Old-fashioned magic," she said, wearily, “and not done any more for a reason. Come now."

  “The gift," Kira said, “The blood –"

  Grace nodded, not surprised; Kira learned quickly.

  “Come on," Grace said again, to all of them. Still holding the handkerchief in one hand, wishing the world wouldn’t spin so much, she led the way to the bottleneck of the alley, where the mob milled and shouted in the street. At this distance she could feel the heat of all those bodies massed together, the animal anger.

  “I need you both to be ready," she said, with more determination than she felt. “I’m going to take your heart – your power," she amended, not knowing how common the idiom might be. “Your magical power, you understand? You have to let me take it, I can’t if you don’t."

  Amir and Kira nodded, both looking scared but determined. After a moment, Raj stepped forward, took the handkerchief out of Grace’s hands, and said something under his breath Grace didn’t catch, but she felt the change in the air: the charge of magic rising, fizzing in her teeth. He caught her eye and Grace decided she had no choice but to trust in whatever he’d done. Out on the street, the crowds seemed to be mo
ving with greater focus, and Grace pictured a black or brown body under that mob, and shivered.

  “Ready?" she said, and they all nodded.

  Grace held herself still, setting her mind on the clear, quiet image of the last time she’d done this kind of magic: Ned on the station platform at St Paul’s, saying, use me, if you must. At once she became more than herself, hearing scraps of what must be Hindustani in her mind, and seeing the flash of Kira’s memories, brightened at the edges by the intensity of childhood. Then Grace stepped into the street, into the mob, thinking of who she was and what called her, of what it was to be Salt, of her own and Kira’s and these strangers’ gifts, and threw a great wave of energy into the air around them.

  In another second the mob’s thrown missiles glanced off that invisible surface, as though deflected by a shield; rocks and stones tumbled away, weapons turned on the surface, and even the noise of the screaming, howling mob dimmed and blurred. The mob had been moving haphazardly, dispensing directionless violence, but they had a target now and the noise grew louder. Within the shield, Amir and Raj called the others out from within the alleyway and the men came out from hiding and fanned out, splitting off in every direction. Kira whimpered and Grace thought mad thoughts about covering her eyes, so she wouldn’t have to see the mob of white men in pulled-down caps brandishing domestic, devastating weapons: boat hooks and tools and cleavers, and whatever they’d brought home from their wars. The barrier was dissipating, burning off their magic: through it she could hear chanting, mostly indistinct, although with the occasional word that rose with clarity above the general roar. Those words, Grace thought, with a return of the nausea, ought not to be spoken, not so close to home. And then she took a steadying breath, poured the last of her own energy into the shield, and grabbed Kira with both arms.

  “Run!" she shouted, into the blackening sky above, and didn’t look back.