Vivian Amberville - The Weaver of Odds

by Louise Blackwick

  Another round of polite applauses followed.

  ‘However,’ Darien went on, his eyes fixed on the snivelling woman with a napkin pressed to her trembling mouth, ‘my wife and I never truly realized how fulfilling—and how fragile—the life of a child is. Not until we lost our own daughter to Black Flu last year, in July. Which brings us to our well-thought decision of adopting one Ala Spuria orphan,’ he drew another dramatic pause, ‘from whence the reason why today, all our angels have numbers pinned across their fronts…’

  There was a general murmur of fumbling sustained by several dozen children looking down at their paper number, pointing at one another’s chests. The light muttering was soon brought to an abrupt halt by a strict-looking Miss Burlington. With the corner of her eye Vivian noticed the painful end of Old Lumbersides peeking threateningly from under her armpit. Darien’s voice erupted once again from behind the podium.

  ‘Miss Burlington, the urn please.’

  Martha Burlington sauntered across the room carrying a glass bowl through which a small heap of paper could be visible. Vivian spotted the burned imprint of two fiery-red imprints on Martha’s forearms and felt a surge of satisfaction.

  At that precise moment, a little chubby boy shifted to the right revealing a pale round face with enormous sea-green eyes, ear-to-ear smile and a mass of silver hair. Vivian stared at the freshly-emerged figure, her heart loudly beating in faith. It had to be her; it had to be hole-in-the-wall Kate . A woman who looked in her late fifties stood by Kate, holding her hand. The silver-haired girl did not seem to have caught Vivian’s eye from across the room, for she continued to watch the urn proceedings, looking wholly fascinated.

  The director of the stray children shelter cleared his throat, eyes fixed on his youngest audience. ‘As founders of this establishment, we would like to be the second pair of parents today starting a victorious adoption precedent. Miss Kate over there has been successfully taken into custody by Miss Patricia Lara of London Town. Aniya and I wish to continue that pattern—’

  It was indeed the girl beyond the wall. More applause followed just as every pair of eyes turned in Kate’s direction. The older woman, who could have only been Patricia Lara in person, suddenly burst into tears. Vivian noticed the director deliberately overlooked mentioning Patricia Lara lived in London Town’s Floods . Patricia Lara was of the ghetto.

  “ Kate… she’s free! ”

  Just then, as if afraid that anyone from the reception might change their mind about giving her the adoption, Lara pulled the little Kate away from the event. Vivian felt as though she had swallowed an ice cube. The white dove had taken flight. Kate might have been free but she was still stuck here. She would have given anything to follow Kate out of the room.

  ‘As we strongly want every child here to have an equal chance to be adopted, we will resort to a play of odds in establishing who will be our youngest family member.’

  ‘He’s gunna pick one of us,’ whispered a chubby boy on Vivian’s immediate left. ‘He’s gonna extract a ticket and I’m number twenty-three. There are seven hundreds seventeen of us. No number this low ever gets extracted.’ Vivian noticed his voice revealed a mixture of excitement and desperation.

  ‘I’ve got two-oh-nine, is that better?’ whispered Vivian back, her eyes still fixed on the man holding the glass bowl.

  ‘Dunno. Care to switch?’ chirped the boy. His heavily-freckled face went scarlet with what must have been nerves.

  A stone silence now pressed the room. Every pair of eyes seemed to be clinging onto Darien’s every word. The little boy elbowed Vivian as he passed her an urgent look.

  ‘In this urn here I have numbers representing each and every one of you,’ he told the children. ‘My wife Aniya will extract a number from the bowl. I will thence read the number out loud and ask for the child to come forth and speak out their name. Aniya, if you may.’

  The woman took a minute to wipe the tears off her cheeks with a silk napkin before plunging a hand into the bowl. At that moment, a thought stirred inside Vivian and her taste buds remembered—

  “ Like biting into an orange. Once you can taste it in your mouth, know you will grip it in your hand. It’s just you and the orange taste in your mouth. ”

  The little freckled boy looked nearly on the edge of tears. He was now eye-balling Vivian with an intensity that commanded action. As Aniya started shuffling the paper-notes with her fingers—her cerulean eyes in the ceiling—the boy whispered a terrified ‘Oi, l-last chance!’

  His last urging lit inside Vivian such a powerful yearning to switch numbers she no longer cared whether Miss Burlington would spot her do it. There was such a good—near exhilarating—feeling about the number 23 that Vivian became convinced it was going to be extracted. There was no whatsoever logic behind her conviction; it was pure conjecture.

  Kate’s message of hope had doubtlessly been a sign. The moment of truth had come. There was indeed life beyond Ala Spuria. Yesterday’s orange taste returned to her tongue, inciting her senses. The sparkle in the boy’s eyes had spelled it; it was time to act. She pretended to tie her shoelaces as the boy vigilantly dropped his paper-number at his feet.

  The woman finally seemed to have decided herself upon a ticket. She lifted a little piece of folded white paper at eye-level, while the urn with the remaining tickets was taken away from the podium. Darien joined his wife Aniya as she opened the paper, her face swamped in anticipation and dried-up tears.

  ‘I would ask the one baring the number twenty-three to come forth and introduce oneself,’ said Darien.

  Vivian hardly finished pinning the number to her tunic when it really dawned on her what had just transpired. She shamefully sneaked a look at the boy who ought to have been selected in her stead: his yellowing expression was utterly dumbfounded. In the game of odds, he had just come second.

  Vivian took several uncertain steps towards the podium, her heart pounding and her ears ringing. It all felt surreal.

  ‘Don’t be shy now, little one,’ uttered Darien.

  Vivian bashfully lifted her head high enough to discern his face shone with glee. Even his wife seemed to have finally brought her sobbing to a standstill. Darien and Aniya looked in their mid-forties. Upon drawing closer, their countenances came into focus. There were countless worry-lines dappled across Darien’s forehead whereas Aniya had crow-claws creeping under her blue eyes. Vivian’s first impression was one of two prematurely aged adolescents.

  Darien placed one hand on her skinny shoulder, his mouth breaking into a loud smile. ‘What’s your name, darling?’

  Vivian hesitated, but then mouthed. ‘Vivian, ser.’

  ‘There is no need to call me “ sir ” Vivian. As of today, we are your family and nothing would make us prouder than you calling us mom and dad .’

  Miss Burlington did not miss the chance of tossing Vivian an unpleasant smirk, as her new adoptive family pulled her in what must have been the first hug of her existence. Surely Martha knew she had switched numbers, yet given the overwhelming presence of British press, she refrained from causing a scandal by exposing her.

  Vivian searched the room for any sign of Kate’s return, but she seemed to have irreversibly taken off with her adoptive mother during the number lottery. Despite the uproar of applause her number coming out of the urn had caused, Vivian felt alone in the room.

  Kate was gone without knowing how well her advice had worked. She left her reality, possibly never to emerge again—gone without knowing Vivian had finally woven a different fabric to blanket her life. And that it was hole-in-the-wall Kate who had lent her the different-natured thread. Would Vivian ever get a chance to thank the girl who had given her hope? She felt she owed everything to Kate. Would she ever see her a
gain?

  Everyone approached her, eager to capture the most of what came about on the podium. As the audience chanted a heart-warming “aww ” , Aniya broke into a fresh set of tears and Vivian’s coal-black eyes met Darien’s. In spite of herself, she could not find words strong enough to describe her feelings. She was finally on a path, but what would that path bring?

  ‘There you have it ladies and gentlemen, the third Amberville. Upon signing the adoption papers, we will be taking Vivian home today, as well as for all days to come. I now invite you to follow in our footsteps and adopt an Ala Spuria orphan today.’

  And in the sound of loud applause, Vivian Amberville stepped into the future she knew to have created…

  Syzygy

  It was November the twenty-third and what a dreadful day blighted Great England. Huge black clouds floated menacingly on a dreary sky, ominously announcing a tempest. Within minutes, a hailstorm had crept over Buckinghamshire, burying the streets under gems of ice.

  The third downpour of the day.

  A road coiled along, past a pond which usually revealed barefooted children building mud puppets. At the time however, all voices were muffled by the maddening sound of falling hail.

  So heavy were the downpours, so menacing the winds that several awnings had unfastened from their hinges and lay askew. Now grubby and desolate, petered out across the main boulevards, they lacked a soul to put them right. Such vindictive weather forecast could only have fitted the age. And just how well it fitted…

  The road narrowed slightly past an over-imposing cathedral. It was followed by a necropolis of jam-packed dwellings, and along with it all, a city hovered in sight. Milton Keynes had long depicted a war of worlds, all fighting for supremacy since the economic fallout.

  Milton hosted the privileged side of town: standalone houses, access to drinkable water and a functional sewage system. Nicknamed “the Restrict”, Keynes mainly enclosed the Floods and the Ghettos. It included vast areas of swamps and improvised shelters garlanded with soiled laundry.

  From the Restrict, one could not see the stars. The skyline was heavily obscured by a loom of corroded copper pipes supplying the city of Milton with fresh water.

  Such was life in the Ghetto.

  Encircling the area, not very far from the city’s deteriorated hub lay a rusted plaque informing the entrance to 3 Sulgrave Court . And just there, in front of a lofty willow-tree that uncovered the obvious signs of having been split in the middle by lightning, just near a tuft of spiky weeds sprouting out of an ancient well, there stood a colossal red-bricked Manor.

  There lived the Ambervilles.

  A towering metal fence kept trespassers off the premises and prevented unwanted loitering. The fence was there to mark the border between the misery of the ghettos and the city’s lavish fringe.

  Dividing the Amberville Manor from the rest of society, the fence was the final frontier towards a world of opportunities. Judging by the Manor’s pressing presence nobody knew whether the impenetrable fence was there to keep the world from getting in or its inhabitants from escaping.

  Just like the newly-constructed Congress Pyr of Arabdai, the Manor was somewhat befuddling to gaze upon. It had the uncanny vibe of making people feel small when measured against its soaring greatness, regardless of their trade or social status.

  Many wandering souls had fallen prey to its terrible beauty within a glance. Even more were those driven mad with longing for its walls; green with envy for its sumptuousness. The red-bricked Manor was the living statement of will for power, accumulation and avarice.

  So was life outside the Ghetto.

  They called it the urban oasis of the ghettos. It was the last breath of fresh air before plunging into the haunting toxicity and poverty of The Restrict. In a sea of grey, it was the red beating heart of the city. Except its mechanical heart was beating no more…

  ‘ Twenty-three, ’ thought the girl, casually letting her plastic die slide out of her hand, and the 24-faced polyhedron rolled across the luxurious carpet and only pulled to a halt when the number twenty-three faced upward.

  ‘Twenty-three,’ she said, this time aloud, and the unlikely number showed up again, as imagined, its little plastic number a vivid, vibrant orange.

  There was a certain desperation in her voice as she cried ‘Fifty-four!’ her vision blurred by so many tears, and her little plastic Kiscube rolled fifteen, only to flip back onto thirteen, then twenty-one only to finally stop upon the black number five. Blinded by a mounting anger, she snatched the little plastic die and tossed it across the room, knocking over an empty glass.

  ‘Do you need anything, little miss?’

  Vivian Amberville finished wiping her face clean. Her little “die accident” must have drawn the butler again. The man had really taken his legal guardian duties to heart, checking up on her every so often. She often wondered whether he knew about her nightmares.

  ‘Little miss?’

  She had dreamed about them again: the pale woman with raven hair and violet eyes; the man in a great beard, and eyes as dark as hers. She knew they were her parents for they had visited her dreams before.

  Tonight, however, the dream seemed broken in some way. Vivian had dreamt them dressed in gold, their once warm eyes now cold and void; their presence menacing. Moreover, there had been thirteen dead crows at their feet.

  ‘May I tempt you with a late cuppa to quiet the nerves?’ the butler insisted.

  Vivian made sure her voice sounded even, before venturing a reply. Miles need not know she’d been crying.

  ‘How ‘bout a story?’ she replied, tucking herself in. ‘And bring along that wit of yours.’

  The door creaked and a man nearing the end of his life gently stepped into the room.

  ‘If little miss so wishes,’ he set aside a large silver tray loaded with cups, biscuits and a large teapot wearing a teacosy. ‘Third time in as many days. At the rate you’re asking, poor old Miles would be running short of curious things to tell.’

  Vivian sat up in bed. ‘Miles, you’re a natural, you are. Your stories keep on brewing.’

  The butler hip gave a rusty squeak as he slowly sat in a nearby chair. ‘I see your thirst for stories isn’t deterred by an old man’s need of rest. What for story tonight?’

  Vivian’s coal-black eyes eagerly sparkled. ‘How about a Manor tale?’

  ‘A Manor tale, eh?’ Miles furrowed his silver eyebrows. ‘Wouldn’t dream you’d ever find interest in the old crib,’ he sighed. ‘Well little miss, as you may already know, the Amberville Manor had sheltered its occupants since the Economic Fallout of twenty-two twenty. Built in the architecture of the old kingdom—’

  ‘—Miles,’ Vivian interrupted, supressing the tiniest of chuckles ‘I’m already on sleeping drugs. I don’t need more from you.’

  She knew Miles was an old man with a natural flair for reminiscence.

  ‘Tell me a recent story. A true story. For instance—’

  Vivian paused for a moment, watching the colour draining from butler Miles’ crumpled cheeks. He seemed to anticipate what was coming.

  ‘—for instance, I wouldn’t mind knowing…’ Vivian continued in a progressively more fervent tone ‘…where my folks are going when they leave home,’ she barely contained the fervidness in her voice.

  ‘Little miss, we’ve been through this before. Your health is still too frail—’ he started.

  ‘—to know my parents have left me?’ Vivian calmly said, observing the butler’s mounting look of panic. ’They’ve been away for weeks.’

  ‘Your parents haven’t left you. They’re on a little trip.’

  ‘Am I supposed to believe they’re still abroad without any means
of contacting?’

  Miles seemed to be losing the little colour he still retained in his face. ‘Your parents are in the Dublin Floods, little miss. Running a multi-national franchise is no easy task.’

  ‘In the Floods, are they?’ her eyebrows were one continuous seam. ‘Funny you keep mentioning that. I was in the library the other day again, reading through a rather curious fact. Turns out the Floods are called Floods because the bloody ocean rose a full fifty feet and sank the shoreline. Dublin Floods? Make that Dublin swamps. Major cities of the world? Well underwater. For a good century, too.’

  ‘M-master Darien and milady An-Aniya—’ the butler stammered through watery eyes.

  ‘—they abandoned me, haven’t they? I made their life hard and wanted me no more.’

  Miles lowered his ancient face. He looked positively ashamed of himself. Vivian raged on.

  ‘I simply cannot believe— after years of fighting the Madhad adoption law, they just… gave up?’ her voice was now shaking as much as the butler’s, but her eyes looked set. ‘Something doesn’t quite— it’s just that— the Aniya and Darien I knew would never just leave .’

  ‘They as good as left you, little miss,’ said Miles, his watery eyes now pointing at the floor. ‘No child should ever be raised by servants.’

  The seam between her eyebrows suddenly broke, and Vivian’s coal-black eyes riveted on the butler.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Knew this accursed day would come,’ he muttered ‘Been much too bright for your age, I always said. Too curious to believe that old wives’ tale.’

  ‘What tale? Miles, is this about the hole in the Manor’s western wing? What is it you’re not telling me?’