by Emily Shore
Don’t you dare.
The clock tower building on the other side is old brick with plenty of notches and grooves. Sure, if I had to climb up onto this side, there wouldn’t be any discussion, and I’d already be swinging myself down into the trap door. But from here, the challenge lures me in. If I don’t try it now, who knows if I’ll get another chance, especially with the sweepers broadening their search for the Ghetto Fox. The urge rears up inside me again ― a crow’s beak hammering into my spine. Taking a deep breath, I haul myself up onto the overhang, swing my legs into open air, trying to keep my body centered as possible...and drop. My knees take the brunt of the force, a mini storm shaking my muscles and bones and almost causing me to lose my balance, but I fix my eyes on a point in the skyway roof to steady myself. If my eyes move, the rest of my body will follow. A giggle rocks my vocal chords, tripping out of my mouth. I did it! The fall is always the hard part.
The trek across the skyway roof is simple, and when I reach the clock tower side and plant my hands on the brick faces there, I smile up at the old building. From here, I can see one of the four clock faces. Like always, she’s a frozen sentry. Like she fell asleep with her eyes wide open, and her subconscious is still watching over the streets. If I’m the silent queen of the city, she’s the ghost queen. We’re a good pair.
My cape never weighs me down when I climb. It’s too light for that, but I still must be careful regardless. Every foothold must be certain as I climb. It’s like a great stone and brick tree but without any branches, which proves more of a challenge but also more rewarding in the end. Fortunately, the base and framework of our old clock tower is larger than the clock face tower itself, making it easier to climb than most. Even so, it’s still difficult to get over each ledge that ascends upward to the clock faces. Each one feels like the overhang of a cliff or what I imagine a cliff would be like.
Just as I prepare to climb onto the final balcony right under the clock face, I make a kissing sound to one of the stone angels. I like to imagine they’ve brought us good luck since no one has discovered our hiding place here yet. After all, who has need of clocks anymore? Day and night don’t even make sense since more work is done at night than during the day.
The details carved into the stone around the clock faces are not only beautiful, they provide good footholds. Whoever decided to use fruit, I hope he’s floating up there where the clouds are fruity jubilee trees. Finally, I make it onto the balcony, and my legs tremble like a drum has just gone off inside me and they’re feeling its tremors. I have to wipe my hands on my clothes to get rid of the sweat, but when I turn my palms over, they’re redder than cherries in summer. It feels...almost right. I’m only missing the dirt under my feet, the wind in my hair smelling of brine and foam and not city grit and the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks ― an army attacking a fortress.
Inhaling deep, I step onto the walkway, weave my way around one of the clock faces, and open the glass door to the inside.
Why am I not surprised to find Ink sprawled on the floor and reading? His heavy trench coat dangles around his shoulders, but he’s kept his arms free of the sleeves so it’s become one great shadow curling around him. He knocks his head to the side to rid his cheek of one impetuous curl the color of white curds. Like the ones I used to eat on our farm before my parents died and I ran hell-bound into the Ghetto before my damn brother could sell me to pay his gambling debts. Even if it’s home to the Hotel, one of the largest selling posts in the country, the rest of it became my playground. Ever since I was twelve years old. Pity I didn’t realize that even if it’s easy getting in, it’s a hell of a lot harder getting out.
“You climbed up here again, didn’t you?” Ink assumes without even looking up from his book. I get a little closer and see loose pages sticking out from the book itself. Reading packed onto reading.
I nod once and slump down beside him, noting more of the inner wooden walls have splintered and peeled off since the last time we were here. Through the window, I can see a few dry leaves nestled in the corners, kept from straying thanks to the giant clock face which acts as a shield from the wind.
“Should’ve figured,” grumbles Ink.
“You worry too much.” Grabbing one side of his coat, I sneak inside for warmth. At least the wind isn’t biting my cheeks so hard and nearly gnawing off my freckles. But I still shiver. The adrenaline has begun to ebb, bringing the lows of my body to the surface. Picking up on my shudder, Ink works one arm around the center of my back and tugs me a little closer.
“Can’t build a fire, but some food will probably help.” Again, his eyes don’t stray from his pages when he gestures to the sack. “Surprise me.”
Earlier, I’d been in such a hurry to rob whatever I could from the shipment, I barely had time to register what was on the cans. Now as I fish through the bag, I must credit my subconscious for recognizing certain pictures.
“Beans, beans, tomatoes, corn, beans, peaches―”
“Peaches?” interrupts Ink, lifting his eyes from his book for a moment.
I wag the can back and forth, but he chews on one side of his mouth for a moment, contemplating. “Better save it,” he concludes.
I roll my eyes. Ink always does this. He wants to save everything for some magical special occasion.
“It’s been years, Ink,” I remind him.
“I think I’ve finally figured out how it works.” He changes the subject, and I shake my head and open one of the bean cans.
After another moment or two, Ink gets to his feet, eyes on the countless gears and mechanisms before us. While holding up the architectural plans, Ink makes his way over to the clock’s inner workings ― its engine so to speak.
“This mini clock face here...” He points to the round face once white generations ago but now sooty and timeworn. “If you turn this wheel above it, it starts the process. And you have to roll that large handle there around and around.”
Digging a wooden spoon into the beans, I take a bite and peer over at the black iron handle, which would take a significant amount of elbow grease to turn.
“Right, and then one of the metal gears pops off and thwacks you right in the eye. Too bad, there goes that pretty face.”
Heaving a sigh, Ink tilts his head toward mine and settles down beside me again. “We both know who’s got the prettier face.” He gives my cheek a light pinch. “Freckles and all.”
I curl up my nose and hand the beans to him. “No one cares about our faces anymore. It’s all about bodies these days.”
“You’re not exactly lacking in that department either.”
My automatic instinct is to give him a slight push, but he’s said it differently this time. More serious. No humor, not even a little trimming the edges of his words. He doesn’t hold my gaze but returns to his beans. It might be my imagination, but I almost think Ink’s pale cheeks have turned a little rosy.
“You realize how much you could sell me to the Hotel for?” I bring up the fair point, crossing my ankles and leaning back against the wall.
“Don’t, Ruby.”
“You’d have enough to look for them for a change instead of just waiting here.”
He shoves the beans back into my hand. “Not discussing it.” He plants his fists on either side of him and unleashes the full weight of his eyes such as he can. Maybe if they were darker, they’d look more intimidating. The blue tides there aren’t even icy. If they were, it’d be better for me. All Ink’s eyes do is remind me of the ocean. The kind that rocks against the cliffs. No matter, what, the tides there will keep going in and out, but they will never stop trying to take down the cliffs. Ink never gives up either.
We’re the same that way. But it means we’re both stuck. Just like the clock face. I want to go, but he won’t leave, and the last thing I’ll do is take away his hope. My hope is this:
I stare at the old snapshot I tore straight out of one of my father’s books. Ever since I found the photo of the mountain
s, I’ve wanted to climb them. The maples surrounding the flatlands of our family’s farm were no challenge for me. And if it hadn’t been for the slave traders closing in on me four years back that drove me into the Ghetto, I would have made a beeline straight for the mountains.
Of course, I’d also never have met Ink.
I stuff the mountains back into my pocket while we figure out how to make it back home.
We wake up when dawn is just a slit on the horizon, well before the sun rises. The pale glow wakes up the buildings all over the city but softens them somehow. They are yawning, not willing to open their eyes just yet.
The wee hours of the morning are the best times to travel safely through the Ghetto. Sweepers and soldiers patrol more at night, but they always regroup around this time.
“Need to get a move on,” says Ink, hoisting the sack over his shoulder, making sure to pick up the empty bean can from last night since we don’t want to leave any trace. “No time for climbing.”
“No problem.”
I stretch my arms high. My muscles are far too sore from yesterday to do much climbing today. Only if the need arises. So, I follow Ink to the iron staircase that winds all the way down to the ground floor. Just as we begin our descent, both of us stiffen at the dull sound of voices outside the tower. We waste no time and scramble up the steps where Ink shoves me up against one of the walls, and we flatten as best we can while peeking around the edge of one of the windows. But we’re too high up and can’t see the ground from this angle, and the voices are too muted from the walls to hear what’s going on. Ink takes one look at me and dead pans. I’m the quieter one; we both know what I need to do.
Making for the door to one of the clock faces, I slowly turn the handle and it just a crack. No one can see me thanks to the face, but I’m able to hear better now. If it was windy, there’d be no chance. As it is, some of the words are broken.
“Searched this...dozens...now. Won’t find nothing.”
I chance a peak around the corner of the clock face. Sweepers or gang members...I need to know; it matters.
“Handprint...fresh. Girl’s fingers if I ever saw.”
“Could be long gone.”
A fresh handprint. Damn. The grease from climbing up the wall yesterday. At some point, I must have leaned my hand against the side. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I look down. No black uniforms of the sweepers. And the brands on their cheeks assures me they’re part of a gang even if I can’t make out what the symbol is.
“What about...clock?”
One of them turns his head, and I shrink back, keeping myself behind the face that acts as a barrier.
“Search it now,” the leader barks.
Petrified, I open the door behind me and command Ink, “Follow me. They’re coming.”
For the first time, Ink hesitates. I’ve never asked him to climb before. He’s never even stepped onto the balcony.
“Ink!” I press him again, more fervent this time when I hear the door at the base of the tower crash open.
Bone crunching panic gives rise to dread. Ink isn’t a climber. Already, I can see the fear welling up in his eyes as I urge him onto the balcony and around to the opposite clock face so we will be facing the empty side of the street. The sound of the boots on the iron staircase is getting closer. We have a minute, maybe less. If only it were sweepers. But gangs are harsher. Only one thing would happen to Ink: they’d try to press him into the gang itself, beat him bloody if he refuses.
I go first and direct him as quickly as possible to the simplest holds.
“Grab the wing of the angel, hold tight.” I still keep my voice low. “Put your boot right here.” I motion to the bulbous stone watermelon jutting out. His eyes start to waver, but I snap my fingers and snare his gaze in mine. Unlike Ink’s, I know my stare holds.
Like a forest flood he’s described my brown eyes in the past. You can wipe away anything in your path.
“Don’t. Look. Down.”
Nodding once, Ink obeys my every direction, and we manage to press ourselves against the stone on this side of the tower just beneath a clock face when the gang reaches the inner room. We can hear their voices but can’t see them, which means they can’t see us. Ink keeps his cheek flat against the stone, closes his eyes, but I can tell every muscle of his is tense, which is good. It will keep him more focused. At least there’s only a light breeze. If it was windier, I’d be worried for Ink.
“Nobody here,” one gang member says.
“No sign anyone’s been here.”
I don’t hear the rest as soon as Ink’s boot slips from the watermelon. Reading the terror in his eyes, I reach over and slam my hand down on his, keeping it rooted on the angel wing. The edge of his boot just narrowly makes it onto the banana directly below the watermelon. Saved by the banana. That’s a new one. A few moments go by until we hear the sound of the gang traveling back down the iron staircase. We can’t risk being seen up here.
“Go on.” I prod Ink, directing him to the walkway.
He’s stiffer than a coffin.
“Ink! Go!” I peer down at the ground, making out the gang leader starting to circle the base of the clock tower. If he looks up, we’re finished.
“Ink, if you don’t move your ass, I’m going to bite you,” I threaten. The last thing he needs is coddling. As it is, my muscles are still aching from yesterday’s climbing antics.
Ink still doesn’t move, except for his eyes which dart to the ground.
I growl under my breath and try a different tactic. “You can do this. You have to. Now, go!”
Gulping once, Ink nods and starts the process of inching forward. Not fast enough for me. He might as well be made of sludge. The leader below still hasn’t looked up, but the rest of his crew have just made it out of the base of the tower. We need to get inside now. Just one more step. He places one foot on the walkway. Letting go is the hardest part, and of course, hard turns into impossible for Ink.
“No, don’t look down again,” I groan when his head lowers.
Too late. Every muscle and bone in his body tenses. He’s tighter than a drum stuck to a stake. At this point, I do the only sensible thing I can. Okay…semi-sensible, considering he could end up toppling over the opposite way and turn into ground Ink-meat twelve stories below. I raise my shoe toward his rear and give it one solid jab, almost letting out a wallop when his knees skid onto the walkway. But there’s no time. Grabbing onto his collar, I pull us both behind one of the clock faces and back into the inner tower for safety. Both our mouths pant, gasps harnessing each other’s while our hearts begin to slow down.
Ink straightens, donning that steely expression of his when his mouth hardens like flint. “You could have killed me!”
“But I didn’t.” I stride away from him and head for the stairs, proud chin raised high as a peak. “Don’t tempt me though.” I swing along the banister and make a kissing noise as he follows me.
“I can’t believe you actually enjoy that. I am never climbing anything ever again,” he vows.
Once we reach the base of the tower, we double check to make sure there are no more gang members circling about. At least we can take comfort there won’t be any sweepers around. Them and gangs don’t mix well. They never did in the past, and they don’t now even if their goals are the same. Since they discovered my hand on the other side of the business district, I’m hoping they’ve returned to search the buildings there, which is good for us. It means east is free and clear, which also means home is free and clear.
Some houses pepper the area near the warehouse district. It’s been a couple months, but we already searched every one of them. Me for supplies, Ink for...other reasons. However, even as I prepare to cross the road that will lead us to one of the abandoned factories, Ink hesitates.
“What now?” I moan, pausing in my tracks.
He’s eyeing the house just off to his left. “The rug on the porch has been disturbed,” he points out.
&
nbsp; “It was probably just a rodent or the wind,” I excuse.
Ink shrugs. “Maybe. No harm in looking.”
No, there really could be I think sarcastically.
I really should stop complaining. For me, hope is the mountains and the cliffs overlooking the sea. For Ink, it’s the thought of who might be hiding in some remote house somewhere in the city. He’s never spoken a word as to who it is, so I’ve just filled in the blanks. So far, all I’ve managed to come up with are two silhouetted figures. More like chicken scratch sketches in my head. If I had more imagination like Ink, I’d fill them in. Colorize each one. His father would have the same foamy hair, his mother the same blue eggshell eyes and bone china skin.
I never tell him that orphan children are the norm these days and how rare it is to see a family anymore. I don’t give him the statistics. I know my own chances are slim, but the sea cliffs are more than just shadowy imprints in my head. Every night before I fall asleep, I can hear the waves crashing against the rocks. I can see the foam crumbling like feathers before another capped wave takes its forerunner’s place. I can smell the salt in the air and the seaweed stuck to the cliffs like scales even while everything around me is stagnant water, mildew, grime and grit.
Everyone needs something to hold onto in this world. I give this one to Ink just like every time before.
He enters the house, never once calling out. I’ve never asked their names, and he’s never offered. The house is small, so it doesn’t take him long to determine it’s empty of anything save for ancient dust and a few small rodents. If we were desperate, we’d drag out our buck knives and go to town, but our raid of the Hotel shipment was good enough. Our system of going on a raid once we reach the halfway mark is a good one. It keeps our bellies full during the cold months. During the summer, we hardly ever need to steal.
“Ink.” My hand caps his shoulder. “No one’s here.” My voice echoes in the desolate house like a prayer in a cathedral.
“I know.”
For some reason, his shoulders look heavier than normal when he eyes the inside. They’ve been bearing hard wooden crosses for too long, but today they’ve turned right to stone.
