A Circus of Ink

by Lauren Palphreyman

  Her dark eyes bore into the side of my skull. ‘You really care about her, don’t you, Blotter?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She exhales. ‘You know, there’s something that occurred to me as I was moving through the Draft.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was written that you would kill Elle. And you’re connected to the Creators by the ink in your veins, right?’ She looks at me searchingly, and I keep my gaze fixed on the barred door ahead. ‘Why haven’t they killed you?’

  ‘I don’t fucking know.’ I exhale and rub my face. ‘The ink inside of me has changed. I feel it burning sometimes. They’re killing me slowly, I think. I don’t fucking know why. It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?’

  ‘You knew you would die when you didn’t end her life.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you did it anyway,’ she says. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’ I drag my teeth over my bottom lip. ‘When I met her, she . . . she surprised me, I guess. I was curious about her. I hadn’t felt that since I was a kid. It made me feel . . . human.’

  She nods as though that makes any kind of sense. ‘You know, that tattoo you have on your chest—the dandelion seed—it’s strange. Her father—’

  ‘I know.’ I don’t want to talk about her father. ‘You have a tattoo too.’

  I glance at the constellation inked onto half her shoulder and chest, partially concealed by her black braids and tank top. ‘What does it mean?’ I ask.

  She frowns. ‘Elle was right. You really are curious for a Blotter.’

  I turn my attention back to the barred wall ahead. ‘I was only asking.’

  I don’t even know why I asked. I don’t know why I’m talking to Raven about any of this stuff. It’s not as if I really give a shit. Maybe I’m just distracting myself. Maybe I don’t want to think about what’s going to happen.

  I don’t want to imagine what will happen if they catch her. I don’t want her to see me burn. I don’t want anyone to lay a finger on her.

  And I don’t want to be a selfish bastard. I don’t want to want to see her again before I die.

  ‘It’s for my girlfriend. The tattoo,’ says Raven, and her voice is thick. She sighs. ‘She was called Star. She was my version of Elle. The one who got me into this whole sorry mess.’

  ‘She must have been a pain in the arse.’

  She smiles. ‘Yeah. She was infuriating. But she helped me hear the music.’

  I think about the first time I kissed Elle. ‘What, literally?’

  Raven laughs. ‘No. Not literally, Blotter. But the first time I saw her, she was working in a strip club—one of those seedy joints men use to treat women like pieces of meat. I’m sure you know the places I’m talking about.’

  I scratch my jaw.

  ‘She was a dancer, dancing to those awful repetitive beats they play. Only, when she danced, it was as if . . . it was as if she wasn’t dancing for those dirty fuckers with their hands on their dicks; it was as if she were dancing for herself. And when she danced, it was as if she was hearing something else too. It was as if she were hearing music. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.’

  She tilts her head back against the wall.

  ‘I ended up getting a job there, working behind the bar, and when the shift was over, we would dance together. Then I started to hear it too. The music. But my story was to marry a man and look after his house and bear his children. So when she told me about a Circus at the Edge of the World, where we could be together outside of the story the Creators had written for us, I followed her there.’

  ‘But she died?’

  She swallows hard. ‘She was killed.’

  I run a hand over my mouth. ‘Blotters?’

  ‘No. One of the owners of the club. He followed us. Shot her.’ She rubs the back of her neck. ‘I managed to get her to the Circus before she died. So at least she got to see it. But I never did get the chance to kill that cunt.’ She exhales. ‘I guess now, I never will.’

  ‘I’m sorry you didn’t get to kill him.’

  ‘I don’t know why the fuck I’m telling you all this.’

  ‘Probably because we’re going to die.’

  ‘Yeah. Probably.’ She bites her bottom lip. ‘Elle told me a story once. She said that when we die, we join the stars.’

  ‘Yeah? She told me the stars were dreams.’

  Raven snorts. ‘What a load of bullshit.’

  I chuckle. ‘Yeah.’

  She turns her head to me. ‘What do you think happens when we die?’

  ‘Nothing. It just ends.’

  Raven sighs. ‘Yeah. I think that too. It’d be nice though. It’d be nice if I could see her again. Up in the stars.’

  I think of Elle, and I close my eyes, something tightening in my throat. ‘Yeah.’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Elle

  We move from street to street. We paint big neon dandelion seeds on the sides of skyscrapers then hurtle away in Mary’s van, always staying ahead of the Blotters.

  I expected stories of our wet paint and smudged dandelion seeds would spread casually from whisper to whisper throughout the Draft. A story of rebels, and revolution, and hope.

  The story that jumps from one mouth to the next, though, is angry and twisted and not of our design. It’s a story with gnarly roots that thunder through the ground rather than dandelion seeds dancing in the breeze.

  They are saying we are dangerous. We are Darlings. We threaten the One True Story, and we must be stopped.

  This, I didn’t expect.

  I didn’t expect a woman to spit at my feet as she eyed the spray can in my hand. I didn’t expect two drunk men to shout atrocities at Sylvia. I didn’t expect a man to push Rami into a wall, or a group of teenagers to laugh as they pulled Anita’s hair. I didn’t expect to be leered at, or sworn at, or made to feel smaller than I am.

  But still, each time we encounter such violence, I plant something. A seed. Four words. Four words that provoke more jeers and laughter and disbelief. Four words I will use if Jay gets caught. Four words Sylvia tells me are a waste of breath. She says they won’t work, we’re not at the Circus at the Edge of the World anymore. But I have to try.

  As our van swerves from side to side while a Blotter pursues us, though, I have to fight the darkness building in the pit of my stomach. I have to reassure myself it doesn’t matter what these people think of us. We’re doing the right thing. We’re fighting the Creators. We’re drawing some of the Blotters away from Jay.

  And everything is going to be okay.

  But it does matter, doesn’t it? Because stories are true when we believe them. And these people do not believe in stories of hope or revolution; they believe in the Creators. Sylvia and Jay were right. Even if I told these people the story my father left for me, they would not believe it.

  I expected it to be harder to plant stories the closer we got to the Final City, but I didn’t expect it to be this hard. These people hate us. Even though we are trying to help them.

  Sylvia, Rami, and Anita sit around me, silent, as Tom fiddles with the radio in the front. We’re hoping to hear something that will let us know Jay and Raven are out.

  There is nothing though. Just the same broadcast we heard earlier on a loop. As time goes by and the words burrow deeper into my skull, panic starts to twist inside me. It’s as powerful as a tornado. Every muscle in my body clenches with the effort of keeping it inside.

  ‘They’d broadcast it, sweetie,’ says Sylvia.

  ‘What?’

  Her lips are tensed and her dark eyes hard. ‘If they’d killed him, they’d want people to know. It would be on the broadcast.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  But it does not feel right. Something is wrong.

  The Blotters have been two steps behind us all night—never gaining on us, never hurting us. When they first arrived at the scene of one of our paintings, they didn’t look surprised.

  It’s almost as if
they knew we’d be here. It’s almost as if while we are trying to keep them busy until midnight, they are keeping us busy too.

  Jay and Sylvia both thought this was a trap. They said it was written that we would die at midnight. I’m starting to think that might be true.

  My stomach cramps. I can’t lose Jay.

  I should have gone with him. I shouldn’t have left him to do this alone. His power is not in words. If someone stops him, he’ll say the wrong thing. And then he and Raven will die.

  ‘We’ve lost them.’ Mary’s voice cuts over the tinny sound of the radio. ‘We have an hour until midnight. Want to do another one? Make sure they’re still chasing us?’

  For the first time in a long time, I’m uncertain. It’s paralyzing. I don’t know what the right thing to do is. I rest my head back against the cool metal side of the van.

  ‘We would know, sweetie,’ says Sylvia, firmer. ‘They’d broadcast it.’

  I let out a long breath. And then, just because I need to feel as if I’m doing something—anything—to help, I nod. ‘Yes. Okay. One more.’

  I don’t say what I’m planning to do once we have painted the final dandelion seed. But when I meet Sylvia’s eye, she frowns. She knows what I’m thinking. She knows how dangerous it will be. She will try to stop me.

  She will fail.

  No one will stop me.

  If Jay cannot save Raven, I will save them both myself.

  They will not die.

  Stories are true when we believe them.

  My fingers tremble slightly as I put the cap back on the can of paint. I look at the neon pink dandelion seed I have created on the off-white skyscraper wall. This is our riskiest one yet, visible from the main road. A group of people jeers at us as they pass on their way to Raven’s execution. The smell of fresh paint mingles with the salty scent of the ocean.

  I’m turning back to the van when Mary leans out of the door. Something cold and hard sinks to the pit of my stomach when I catch the look on her face. I shake my head.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says.

  I drop the paint can, and it clatters on the pavement. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Not yet. They’re executing him with the others.’

  ‘How long do we have?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes.’

  I force the hot, malleable panic to harden. I meet Sylvia’s gaze. Then she crosses the space between us and pushes me into the wall.

  ‘Elle, no.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘You have one chance to let me go.’

  ‘Listen, sweetie—’

  I headbutt her, and she reels back, staggering against her cane. Her eyes tear up, and blood streams from her nose. I skirt past Anita, but Rami grabs my arm.

  ‘Let’s talk about this. Please—’

  I shove him into the wall and run. Because what is there to talk about?

  I already know what conversation they want to have. They will say this is reckless. They will say I cannot save them. They will say I’m only adding another life to the death count. They will say I’m risking too much. They will say I’m being irrational.

  But if he dies, the hole he’ll leave will swallow me. If he dies, something hollow will scrape away at my insides until nothing is left.

  Right now, I can think of nothing more rational than what I’m doing.

  What is the point in fighting if I don’t fight for this? For them? For him?

  Maybe Sylvia was right all along. Maybe I can’t fight the Creators. Maybe men like them will always have power. Maybe I will never get people to believe in revolution and ink and stories that rage like fire.

  But I can save Jay. I can save Raven.

  I told him I would come for him.

  The concrete jungle blurs into grey around me.

  I will come for him.

  When I reach the killing block, people have flooded the square. There are hundreds of them, ebbing and flowing around the raised stage where a stake has been erected. Their movements are as violent as the ocean beyond, where the waves crash against the cliff.

  My pulse races, and there’s a sharp pain in my side as I push into the tide of people and grab a woman’s arm. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Five minutes to go,’ she says with a grin.

  I repeat the four words I told people in the Draft. She frowns and then notices a splotch of pink paint on the collar of my leather jacket. Her face twists, and she yells something, but I’m already gone, her words swallowed by the noise and movement blurring around me. I grab more people as I move through the writhing masses, planting the seed with them too, determined to be the hurricane that spreads the story.

  And I feel like a hurricane—violent and out of control. Panic twists and rises through my body. I need them to believe me, but they don’t. So I try to feel a connection to the Ink we think runs beneath the earth, except I feel nothing but rage and fear and the ripples of sick hunger coming from the mob as they wait to be fed.

  A wave of excitement crashes through them as a Teller walks onto the stage, his face concealed by the blood-red hood of his robes.

  ‘Once, there was nothing. Then, there was the Beginning.’ His low voice is unnaturally amplified, and it booms across the square. ‘The Creators created the world out of Ink and words. The Creators were pleased with what they created. The Creators are good.’

  I clamber onto the stone podium of the statue of Michael, and I shout my story. A few people turn and jeer.

  ‘The first man sinned once,’ says the Teller. ‘He was curious. And he was lost. For without a path to walk, he wandered away from the One True Story. The Creators are not without mercy. They looked unto him and gave him a great gift. They used the Sacred Stylus to write his story and bind him to the End. He rejoiced, for it was good.’

  Cheers ripple through the night. I scream my words over them and the sound of the waves crashing. A few people look at me with disgust. Some look to the stage with confusion. Others narrow their eyes on the frothing sea behind the killing block.

  ‘For all that Begins must End. Those who do not follow the path to the great End written by the Creators must be Cut for the good of the One True Story.’

  The Teller spreads his arms, and flaming torches light up around the stage. The crowd jeers wildly as a group of five people are marched onto the stage by two Blotters, their hands bound with rope. I do not recognise them. They must be part of a regular Cut.

  Then Raven is brought out behind them and tied to the stake with the others. People scream and hurl things at her, but her dark eyes only look up at the sky as if she alone can see the absent stars.

  A wave of nausea crashes over me. Where is Jay?

  I jump down from the podium and push my way through to the stage. I grab people as I pass, spreading my story. They barely listen, too excited by the murder about to take place.

  ‘The Creators made the Blotters to reinforce the story that leads to the End,’ says the Teller. ‘The Ink that created all runs in their veins. Blotters are holy men who must be revered by all.’

  Someone puts their hand on my shoulder. I turn, fist clenched, and find myself facing Sylvia. There’s dried blood beneath her nose, and she’s breathing hard.

  ‘Where are the others?’ I demand.

  ‘I sent them away.’

  ‘But once, there was a man who impersonated a Blotter,’ says the Teller. ‘Instead of following the One True Story, he was tempted by the weeds that were left by the First Twist. He followed their gnarly roots in search of a different End. He thought he could deceive the Creators.’

  Boos fill the air, and Sylvia’s eyes fix on something over my shoulder. I spin around.

  Jay is being led onto the stage with his hands tied behind his back, surrounded by five Blotters who each sport various injuries. He’s looking around, jaw set, searching for something as he’s bound to the pyre beside Raven.

  ‘But no one can deceive the Creators,’ booms the Teller.

  Jay’s eyes latch onto mine
. Pain flashes behind them. ‘Run,’ he mouths.

  I shake my head. ‘No.’

  ‘And like the weeds left by the First Twist, those who defy the Creators must be uprooted to save the One True Story,’ says the Teller.

  Sylvia spins me around. ‘I take it you have a plan, sweetie?’

  ‘Yes. We need to get onto that stage. Otherwise, my plan will kill us.’

  ‘And if your plan doesn’t work?’

  ‘Then the fire will kill us.’

  Her eyes shine, and something tightens in my throat as she lightly touches my arm, because I can see the belief behind them. ‘Okay,’ she says.

  ‘Those who corrupt the One True Story must burn!’ The Teller’s roar echoes all around the square as Sylvia and I clamber onto the stage.

  I turn to the crowd. ‘Once, there was a world. And the world was grey,’ I shout. ‘In this world, there was a girl, and stories raged through her veins like fire.’

  The Teller turns his head, and I feel his dark eyes glowering beneath his hood.

  ‘She created an impossible door, she created a hurricane, and she travelled to the Circus at the Edge of the World with a Blotter who was supposed to kill her.’

  The crowd jeer at me as two Blotters cross the stage towards us. Above all the noise, I hear Jay’s anguished roar.

  ‘You do not believe me,’ I yell, ‘but if you do not believe in me, you will fear me.’

  I’m lurched back and bound to the wooden post beside Raven. She twists towards me.

  ‘Elle, mate . . .’ Her words are choked.

  ‘For I know what you do believe,’ I shout.

  The stake vibrates against my back as Jay tries to free himself of his binds.

  ‘You believe we are dangerous because we are Darlings.’

  I feel eyes on me from above. It’s the Blotter from the motel sitting on the arm of the statue of Michael. He’s watching me with interest.

  ‘And we are dangerous. And here is something else you should believe.’

  A Blotter punches me in the face, and I taste blood. It drips onto the stage at my feet. The Teller nods, and another Blotter grabs one of the torches around the stage and holds the flame to the firewood piled by our feet. It catches, and smoke twists up into the salty air.