The Strange

by Masha du Toit

  Elke brought up her internal display, but her hopes were almost immediately dashed. The display appeared, but the silver icons appeared that should have displayed time, location, temperature, and all the rest of the data she needed, were all zeroed out. She paged through the other functions and hope gradually dwindled. For whatever reason, none of them worked in this world.

  She came to the mapping function and had to suppress a yelp of delight as a thin thread of silver stitched its way across her vision. No place-names were indicated, and little information except what she’d seen since they’d entered this world, but it still worked. No longitude and latitude, and the only suggestion of coordinates was the north indicator, but it was much better than nothing.

  Here was one small thing that had gone right, one secret she had from their captors, and it gave her leverage. Wherever she went from now on, she could not get lost.

  Elke watched the tiny thread that indicated her progress across the landscape grow another notch and felt the first stirring of hope.

  Her attention returned to the conversation that was still going on around her.

  “What’s a niche?” Noor was asking.

  “That’s their word for worlds,” said Kiran. “Niches. There are tons of them. I used to memorise the names, when I was a kid. My father made them into lists for me. Dhulka Rahm, Dhulka Halq, Dhulka Bhood...the one you call the Real, they call Serrago. Dhulka Serrago.”

  “Who are ‘they’?” asked Noor.

  “Strangers,” said Kiran.

  “Aren’t you a Stranger then?”

  “Sometimes,” said Kiran.

  “Isabeau was asking me about that,” said Noor. “And it made me wonder. Is there a test? Like, a DNA test, that will show who’s Strange, and who’s a realsider?”

  “Of course,” said Kiran, and “No,” Jinan said simultaneously.

  “I’m sure Jinan knows better than I do,” Kiran said with a snort, but the look she gave Jinan had less venom than before. “Can’t you, really?”

  Jinan shook her head. “Well. We can, to a point. We can determine that it’s statistically likely that you are descended from a group of people who probably lived in a certain part of a certain world. But our database is incomplete. The match might be with some completely different group that we don’t know about yet, that we’ve not sampled yet.” Jinan looked coolly at Kiran. “So, no. There’s no marker in your DNA that identifies you as a Stranger.”

  “Really?” Kiran frowned, but it had no anger in it. “I didn’t know that.”

  Jinan shrugged. “Many people don’t. There’s been so much interbreeding, over the centuries— And more than interbreeding. Just look at how similar our languages are.”

  “That’s true.” Kiran looked speculatively at Jinan. “I’ve often wondered about that.”

  Noor curled her legs up onto the seat and wound her arms around her knees. “What’s going to happen to us?”

  Kiran absently fingered the chain attached to her manacle. “Whatever it is, it will be according to correct procedure. That’s one thing you can be sure of, strangeside. There’ll be some custom or tradition that’s been followed for centuries.”

  This drew a grunt from Jinan. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

  Kiran just shrugged.

  “But isn’t slavery illegal?” Noor looked from Kiran to Jinan.

  “It’s illegal in most parts of the Real world,” Kiran explained. “And in the Babylon Eye. But these are different worlds with older laws.”

  “Do you know what they’re going to do with us?” Noor asked Jinan.

  Jinan avoided her eyes. “Slavery has existed for centuries. There are many laws and customs surrounding it.”

  “What does that mean?” When Jinan didn’t respond, Noor looked at Kiran. “Do you know?”

  Kiran gave a humourless laugh. “I guess, that since they haven’t simply killed and dumped us, they’re going to decide what each of us is good for and put us to work.” She touched her tattooed chin. “That’s what this is about. Marks us according to the categories they find important.”

  “Oh.” Noor stroked a finger along her own tattoo. “I did notice that they’re all a little different. Can you read them?”

  “Strangeside tattoos are not like writing, exactly.” Kiran stretched her unmanacled arm, sliding her sleeve back to expose the patterned skin. “Different curves and marks go with different families. Some of it is writing”—she traced a line of graceful interlocking marks down the inside of her wrist—“ but most of it is subtler than that. It’s all about where the mark is on the body, how heavy it is, the colour, how it intersects with another tattoo. It all means different things, depending on how they’re used together.”

  Kiran glanced up at Jinan, who was glaring at her, stiff with disapproval. “Oh, dry up,” Kiran said. “I can talk about it if I want.” She gave Jinan a challenging look. “I think that since the girl’s been tattooed, she deserves to know what her own marks mean.”

  Jinan turned her face away and closed her eyes again.

  “So.” Kiran turned back to Noor. “Face-marks are all about where you fit in. For high-caste people, that means who they’re related to. Their family. Your father’s line is usually above the eyebrows, and your mother’s near the mouth. So that’s how you can tell I’m what you people call a baster. Mixed, you know? I have my father’s line here,” she touched the hair-thin line that curved from the tip of each eyebrow to her temples, “but I have nothing here,” she touched the skin above her upper lip.

  “Glims and other lower castes, their facial tattoos are more about their work, their specialities, their skills. I’d guess the chin-lines indicate that we are slaves, and which world we’re from.”

  “Not the world.” Jinan was unable to resist correcting her. “It indicates the languages we speak. And then there’s the slave-line, of course.” She closed her mouth abruptly, as if to stop herself from saying anything more.

  Noor was silent for a long time. When she spoke again, it was to Elke.

  “Do you think we’ll ever get back again?”

  “Back home?” Elke shook her head. “I don’t know, Noor. We’ll have to wait and watch for opportunities.”

  “Do you think—” Noor glanced around to see if anyone was listening and continued in a lower tone. “Do you think this is what happened to my mother? Maybe they’re taking us to the same place?”

  “I’ve been wondering about that,” said Kiran.

  Elke looked out the window again. The sun had moved, casting their shadow across the plain. The shadow showed the tall pillars that held up the track, and the carriages racing along. It rose and fell with the landscape, which was dryer now, the vegetation scrubby and sparse with bare patches of reddish-brown sand. In the distance, black smoke stained the air.

  Factories? Elke strained to see but could make out nothing more.

  A flight of birds kept pace with the train for a while, so close that Elke could make out their bright, intelligent eyes peering in at her. They were dark-feathered, like crows, but with something of the graceful lines of a swallow in their swept-back wings.

  “So, that must be why they kept us all together,” Noor said suddenly.

  “What?” Elke blinked to dispel the weariness that dragged at her eyelids.

  “What Jinan said about the chin-tattoos and language. All the people in here are Reals, did you notice?” Noor indicated the other passengers with a jerk of her head. “But they put Kiran and her”—she glanced at Jinan—“ in here too, and they aren’t Reals. I thought at first that it must be a mistake, but maybe it’s because we all speak the same languages?”

  “That’s possible,” said Kiran. Something outside the window caught her attention. “Hey,” she said. “Look.”

  Another train track had come into view, tall pillars set at regular intervals. Beyond that, yet another. Trains were moving along these distant tracks, locomotive-beasts turning their cranks.

&n
bsp; “They’re trees!” said Noor and for a moment Elke didn’t understand. Then she saw what Noor meant. The pillars that held up the train lines were each subtly different from the rest, just like trees were. Their thick poles were trunks, and what she’d taken for metal fretwork were, in fact, branches, all curving upward to support the track. Or maybe to form the track itself? Elke wondered if they were still alive and growing.

  “Look.” Kiran pointed.

  The sandy plain was coming to an end, and a dark ridge of mountains stretched the entire length of the horizon. The mountains rose into a series of peaks, curiously regular, as if the rock had crystallised into narrow, vertical facets. Beyond them, the sky was packed with clouds.

  “Think that’s where we’re going?” said Elke.

  Nobody replied.

  Blindfolded

  Isabeau placed her hand on a wall panel.

  “This one?” she whispered, and Meisje nudged her with her nose.

  Isabeau held her breath as she pushed, feeling the metal sheeting give a little. The panel slipped out of its groove and slid a little to one side, opening a gap.

  The space beyond was dark.

  “You guys better both stay here,” Isabeau whispered to the gardags. “You’ll attract too much attention.”

  She eased her head and shoulders through and looked carefully around. When she was sure that all was safe, she climbed all the way through. To her relief, neither gardag tried to follow her. She’d been far from sure they’d obey her command to stay.

  She was behind what might be a bed, curtained off by pale fabric. It was so dark that it took a few moments before she was sure that no one else was nearby.

  Why no lights? She’d expected the lazaretto to be bright and hospital-like.

  A nearby sound made her freeze, heart bumping. The sound came again, a quiet exhalation of breath. Somebody lay on the bed, asleep, it seemed.

  Isabeau rose and peered around the curtain, only to see another curtain a few steps away. She drew back as rapid steps approached, but whoever it was hurried past without stopping.

  Voices murmured and wheels squeaked. A curtain rattled as it was drawn along a metal rail.

  Isabeau clenched her fists. Somewhere, among these curtains, were Ndlela, Mack Jack, Tomas, and Diesel. She had to find them.

  Slowly at first, and then more confidently, Isabeau slipped between the curtained partitions. Behind each curtain was a bed, and in each bed a sleeping patient. Her heart sank as she realised how many beds she’d have to search to find her brother or her friends.

  The lazaretto was much larger than she’d expected.

  The beds stood in rows, each with a partition screening it off. It all had a hasty, thrown-together feel. Some of the screens were made from blankets, others from cardboard, bed sheets, or curtains. The only lights were the colls, and they were dim and widely spaced.

  At a wider gap between the curtains, Isabeau paused, looking first one way, then the other. To the right, a soft light glowed. Sounds came from there too—low voices, and the quiet clatter of objects on a metal tray.

  Maybe she should make sure she knew the way back to the open panel before she carried on. Her stomach clenched at the thought that she might already have lost herself in this labyrinth. Quickly she retraced her steps, only relaxing when she saw the slightly darker patch on the wall that indicated the shifted panel.

  Okay. That’s fine, then.

  Isabeau moved from one screened-in bed to the next. In the dark, she had to go right up to each bed to see the occupant. At first, she moved with utter caution, expecting to be challenged, but soon she saw that not only were the patients unconscious or asleep, but all of them wore bandages over their eyes.

  Once, Isabeau emerged under a curtain to find a biosuited nurse bending over a patient. Isabeau froze, but luckily the nurse was facing away, and never saw her.

  Isabeau wondered if she should try to get hold of a biosuit herself. Then, if somebody saw her, they might assume she was a nurse. But she quickly discarded that idea. It would take far too much time, and she’d probably get caught if she tried to steal a suit.

  Just as she was about to give up hope, she finally found Tomas. He lay with his face turned to one side, breathing deeply and evenly.

  “Tomas,” she whispered, hardly above a breath. She touched his arm and drew back, shocked at how warm it felt.

  Tomas moaned and stirred but didn’t wake.

  “Tomas. It’s me, Isabeau.”

  Nothing.

  She wondered if she should have brought Danger along with her. Maybe the familiar presence of the big gardag would help bring Tomas out of this unnatural sleep. The thought of Danger reminded her that she’d planned to ask Tomas about the diadem. She could not ask him, but maybe he had it here with him?

  He wasn’t wearing it.

  Where would the nurses have put it?

  Isabeau looked around the enclosed space, then guiltily back at Tomas. Surely, he’d be fine with her borrowing the diadem, especially if he knew how much she needed it?

  A box stood next to the bed. Isabeau quickly sorted through the few objects she found there, wishing that she had a colltorch. The box held a shirt, some socks, a belt, and a small booklet. No diadem.

  Isabeau crouched, frustrated. She picked up the booklet again. Could this be Tomas’s logbook? If it was, it might have the number to the lock on Tomas’s cubby.

  She slipped the book into a pocket. “I’ll bring it right back,” she promised the unconscious Tomas, ignoring the sour twist of guilt in her belly.

  Ndlela lay in the next bed. He was asleep, but unlike Tomas he woke when she bent over him and spoke his name.

  “Issy?”

  He reached out, and she caught his hands.

  “Ndlela. Yes, it’s me.”

  He seemed groggy, more than half asleep, frowning behind his blindfold. “What are you doing here? Does Alexander know—”

  “Alexander?” Isabeau remembered the kewer nurse. “Oh, him. No. But listen. I’ve got so much to tell you.”

  Quickly she explained about Noor, Kiran and Elke’s disappearance. “So, you see,” she finished. “I had to come here to see if you were fine.”

  “No.” Ndlela sounded more than a little grumpy. “You’re just telling yourself that, but really, you just came because you wanted to, just like you always do.”

  Isabeau was speechless at the injustice of this.

  “Are they really gone?” Ndlela lay back into his pillow, sighing as if even that small movement had tired him. Isabeau remembered that he was sick, and her anger drained away.

  “They really are gone,” she said. “Elke left Meisje with me, and I’m looking after Danger. Tomas is also here in the lazaretto, he got sick too, just like you.”

  “I know,” Ndlela mumbled. “Alexander told me.”

  “Why is it so dark here?” asked Isabeau. “And why are you blindfolded?”

  Ndlela touched the bandage. “It’s to protect my eyes. Alexander said that while I’m sick any light at all can damage my eyes permanently. It’s the way the disease works.”

  “Oh.” Isabeau looked at her brother. He wasn’t as sick as she’d pictured in her worst imaginings, but he was clearly too weak to walk. She realised that she’d hoped he would come away with her out of the lazaretto and help her figure out what to do. Instead, she wasn’t even sure he understood anything she’d told him.

  “Listen,” she said at last. “I’m going to go see if I can find Diesel or Mack Jack. Maybe they’ll know what to do.”

  This roused Ndlela a little. “Diesel’s in the next bed.”

  “She is?”

  “Alexander organised it. He’s really nice. But Mack Jack’s somewhere else in the lazaretto, I don’t know where. He’s really sick.”

  “Oh. Okay. Listen, I’ll be right back. I’ll just go check in on Diesel.” Isabeau ducked around the cardboard partition that separated the beds, and went up to the figure that lay there.
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br />   “Diesel?”

  Diesel lay quite still. For a chilling moment Isabeau wondered if she might be dead, then saw the slightest rise and fall of her chest.

  So that pamphlet was wrong. It had stated so confidently that no Strangers were infected, and here was Diesel, a Stranger, so sick she hardly seemed alive. But maybe she’s not really a Stranger. After all, how can you tell for sure?

  Isabeau scrunched up her face in frustration. That was ridiculous. Where were these thoughts coming from? Kiran had been right to speak of the pamphlet with such scorn. It was just a lot of lies that somebody had dreamed up.

  Why do that, though? What do they get out of making up lies? All at once, the feelings that Isabeau had been fighting to keep at bay, overwhelmed her. Nobody to turn to. Nobody to answer her questions, nobody to reassure her. How could she judge what was real, and what was made up all by herself like this? She couldn’t even talk to Ndlela. It wouldn’t be fair to worry him with her doubts and problems, sick as he was.

  If only Mom was here. The thought pushed up inside her despite everything she could do to keep it down. It sprouted like a seed, tender shoots breaking through the soil, searching for warmth and light. She remembered the way it felt to lean against her mother, safe in the circle of her strong arms. The wordless way her mother had understood what was wrong, where she hurt, what would soothe.

  A sob shook Isabeau and she buried her face into Diesel’s blankets, smothering the sound.

  I can’t cry now. Her breath snagged on a sob as she struggled to control herself. I can’t cry now. Somebody will hear me. With an effort, she straightened and wiped her wet face on her sleeve.

  Nothing had changed. Diesel was still lying there, hardly moving.

  Isabeau forced herself to be calm. We’ll find her. We’ll find Mom, and everything will be okay.

  When she was sure she had herself under control, she went back to Ndlela’s bed.

  “Okay.” She touched his hand. “I’m going now.”

  He grunted sleepily. “Bye then.”

  “Bye.”

  Isabeau waited. When Ndlela didn’t say anything else, she made her way back to the open wall panel where the gardags waited.