But Obel – he’s earned something. He deserves more than this.
Chapter Ten
Mel insists on braiding my hair before we go out. She pulls the strands tight. She says it’s to make me look presentable, but when I ask, “Presentable for what?” she just braids faster. Her hands shake. Our three days are up, and today I get to discover what Obel’s rehabilitation has all been about.
I have been provided with new clothes – nothing showy, not like Mel’s uniform of gilded metal and leather which looks so beautiful on her lush flesh and rounded body. I am clean and neat, and I get the impression that I am being dressed in such a way as to make sure I don’t stand out. That’s fine by me.
It is still early when I put the finishing touches to Obel’s skin and follow Mel and three guards as they lead the way through the warren of tunnels towards the government building. An official joins us and when I turn my head I almost gasp. It’s Karl – Karl Novak, my nemesis from the studio; Karl who laid his hands on me in a moment of rage. But also – Karl, who tried to warn me before Dad’s soul-weighing. Our eyes meet; he gives the merest shake of his head to warn me not to acknowledge him and I look back at the ground. He’s made his way up the ranks swiftly to be entrusted with criminals like us.
I scan each corridor we walk down for Verity. The last time we spoke it felt like an ending – the end of a friendship that had been my anchor through life. Do we still love each other – or do we hate each other now? She was Longsight’s messenger, all the time I was in Featherstone. She hated how I came to speak of the blanks with compassion. And I hated hearing her admiration for the mayor. When we parted ways that last time, it split us in two.
We wait near the wide doors that lead to the square. Obel’s hands are cuffed behind him and I see the fingers of his left hand clench and release, as though he is warming up for a fight. His broken right hand simply hangs there.
Why has Longsight chosen him for this? The finest inker once, but now unable to hold a needle. Why not one of the government inkers?
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of music and cheers – a festive atmosphere has already been set. The sun is bright, and the sky is cloudless blue. Only a week ago, Mayor Longsight brought me out and paraded me as the spoils of battle – moments later he was covered in his own blood. And then he rose again, remember? says a little voice in my head, and I shiver. A trick, I tell myself. But how?
Jack Minnow arrives and stands at Obel’s side and I wish I knew what his secret was. He is too strong, and I am too afraid.
When the mayor arrives, surrounded by bodyguards, the doors are opened, and the cries of the crowd almost knock me back. A stage has been erected, huge speakers stand at the sides and swathes of deep red velvet cover every visible surface. This is going to be something big.
Mayor Longsight is led out by his guards with Jack Minnow at his heels. Meanwhile, Obel, Mel and I are pulled to a side door by Karl and the three guards. We emerge, blinking, in the bright sunlight behind the stage. We are hidden from the eyes of the crowd, but we have the best seats for the spectacle. I won’t miss a thing, even if I want to.
Jack Minnow steps up to the microphone which is front and centre of the stage. He calls for quiet.
“People of Saintstone – it has only been a short while since everything changed.” His dark eyes survey the crowd. “Since the miracle.” There is a sort of collective gasp from the crowd – a miracle is how they see it. “You must have questions. And now our leader is here to answer them. Prepare your hearts and minds for a new message – the new word from our exalted mayor, the only man to triumph over death.”
The roar from the crowd makes me draw back. The people of Saintstone have always been in Mayor Longsight’s thrall, but this is something new. It is adoration, wild worship. He has become their saviour – an incarnate deity. Faces are almost frantic with delight.
And all the time, Mayor Longsight stands statue-tall, soaking up the praise while humbly gesturing for quiet. It is many minutes before the people are calm enough to obey his request, but once he has their attention, they are rapt.
“I have put you through so much,” he says. “I can only imagine your fear and horror at seeing your leader assassinated just a short time ago – and in such a shocking and public way.” There is another murmur: a swelling, fearful sound. “And yet – and yet, my friends – I live.” The murmur turns to cries of joy, and Longsight looks out over the crowd, his expression euphoric. “You have allowed me to live again!” he cries. “The ancestors have spoken to me. It was your faith that they saw, and they have rewarded you. For this is a new era, a time of hope and change and victory.”
The crowd erupts once more, and I turn my head to look at Mel. There is a furrow between her eyebrows. If Longsight has been communicating with our ancestors, then she should have been the first person he told.
Mayor Longsight speaks to the people again.
“When I was in the clutches of death I heard a voice – a message so clear and so pure. I have longed to share this new word with you. I have had to show restraint – to wait until the time is right. I have been given a new teaching and it is good news – good news for all.”
Mel catches her breath beside me. The mayor waits. The silence swells. “You are all good people,” he says at last. “And yet – you all fear the same fate. That, one day, all of your ink will not be enough. That despite all we are taught, all that we know, our sins will catch up with us. Well, what would you say if I could assure you of peace? What if there was a way to absolve you, to atone before you are judged? To offload your sins. Would you believe me? Would you come and partake of this blessed freedom?”
And hope, like a traitor, rises in my chest. A worm wriggling free from a corpse. Yes, I think. Some certainty – a map, a guide, a signpost and a clear path. If I could be sure of a way to be remembered for ever, to be certain that my soul was good enough and that there was an eternity ready to embrace it – well, then I would run to that certainty and nail everything I have to it. I see the same hope shining golden in the eyes of each person in the crowd. Hungry mouths open in awe, ready to taste the bounty that Mayor Longsight is holding out to them.
I swallow. Poison can taste like honey, but it will kill you all the same. Wait and see, Leora, I tell myself. Patience.
“What is it that weighs you down?” Mayor Longsight asks, pausing so long I wonder if he’s actually waiting for an answer. “We mark our bodies to free our souls – but don’t you feel the weight of the ink that shows your evil, furtive, treacherous ways? Don’t you feel it heavy in your veins?” He looks down at his own left arm, empty of punishment marks. I see people in the throng follow suit, looking at their own marks. I let my eyes relax and I read the people closest to me.
The guard at my right has his children’s names marked on his bicep; I can see clearly that he is ashamed of his harsh words to his son.
A person at the front of the crowd has jewels inked at her collar bone. They tell me of the time she stole her sister’s precious bracelet.
We all have guilt.
I remember Obel telling me how he saw our marks and our lives – not as good or bad, black or white, not even grey, but layers of colour swirling into something uniquely beautiful. But all I see as I look around is kindling for the fire in the hall of judgement. Skins that breathe secret sin. Souls that do not deserve an eternity of remembrance.
Souls not worth saving.
We are guilty. We will be judged. We deserve what we get.
No, Leora, I tell myself, shaking off the stupor he has sent me into, despite myself. You are not a tick list of good and bad. Ink does not say it all. It doesn’t even say half of it.
I turn back to the stage. Longsight nods to the wings, and two guards lead a man to the stage – and it is a stage, I must remind myself. This is theatre. The man is slight and quivering with fear. His big, anxious eyes scan the crowd and I see his jaw work nervously. He is ushered forward to stand next t
o the mayor, who takes a step to the side so that the microphone is between them.
“What is your name?” Longsight asks, his eyes smiling.
“Philip. Ph-Philip Knowles.” He leans into the microphone, his wary eyes glancing around.
“You are an inmate of the jail here in Saintstone. So, tell me, Philip Knowles. Tell us all – what have you done?” He says it like a calm teacher to a rebellious child. What have you done? “Come, Philip. What brought you here? Tell us.”
The man’s eyes dart nervously. “I … I stole from the market stall, and when I was chased and caught, I hit Jonathan Delaney, the grocer. I broke his jaw. He’s not been able to work since.”
A disapproving murmur from the crowd. We don’t like violence in Saintstone.
“My daughter was ill, you see,” the man tries desperately to explain. “I have had to care for her – I couldn’t work. We don’t have anything. I never meant…” The man’s attempt at justification is lost in the jeers of the watching people. Saintstone is not sympathetic to those who can’t work, who can’t pay their way, who aren’t useful.
“What does our man Knowles deserve?” Mayor Longsight puts it to the people, as though this is a pantomime or a magic show.
Voices rise – some call for “Ink! Ink! Ink!”: a thick red line, the mark due for violent theft. But I also hear the word I dread: “Crow.” They want him not just marked, but forgotten. It sounds like a howl – like the bay of dogs.
Longsight smiles, and raises his hands. “Those of you calling for the crow – I ask you, do not forget mercy.” He says it like they are overexcited children that he must reluctantly chide rather than grown men and women who have called for this man’s soul to be obliterated. “But, you are right – a sin cannot go unpunished.” Longsight is speaking slowly and clearly; the sound calms the crowd and they hush, ready to listen to his verdict, holding back their eager cheers. “But what if there was a way for this sin to be punished and yet at the same time for this man to be unmarked? For him to experience atonement, forgiveness, freedom?”
I frown then, because what Longsight is talking about is impossible. Unless this man is marked, unless the sin is written on the body, then there is no way he can be free.
Next to me, Mel lifts a hand to her open mouth. I wonder what she has seen that I have not.
Two more guards come for Obel then, undoing his cuffs and chivvying him along one at each of his shoulders. His marks look perfect, I notice, with a flicker of professional pride. Anyone who didn’t know Obel before would think he was in fine health; only I see the slight stoop in his posture and the weight in his steps.
Obel is escorted up the steps to the stage by Jack Minnow. All the inking paraphernalia is set up: two seats – a stool for Obel, and another chair. There is a workstation ready to be used. Obel sits on the stool, looking calmly out at the crowd.
The prisoner begins to weep.
Obel gives Minnow a little nod to show that he is ready, and Mayor Longsight steps to the microphone again and addresses his prisoner.
“Mr Knowles. Do you admit your guilt?”
The man answers. “Yes, Mayor Longsight. I admit my guilt.” The words sigh from him, almost inaudible.
“And you agree that your actions deserve – indeed, require – punishment?”
“I do,” he murmurs, but his quiet voice can’t hide from the microphone and he has called punishment down himself, in front of us all.
“Do you trust in me, Philip Knowles?”
A strange question. And, bravely, I think, Philip Knowles pauses.
People shift their feet and cough, unnerved by the silence.
“I … I do trust you Mayor Longsight.” And there is steel in those words. One of Mayor Longsight’s eyebrows flickers.
“A wise answer.” Mayor Longsight smiles enigmatically. “Now, Philip. Do you worship me?”
The man is silent, but the crowd cheers and that is enough for Longsight.
“If a man could bear your sorrows. If a man could take on your guilt, because he himself had pleased the ancestors where you could not. If a man could be marked in your place, the ink on his skin, your sin in his blood. If a man could do all this. Then, would you worship him?”
The roar from the crowd is terrifyingly loud – the stage rocks with the stamps of the joyous people and my ears ring with their screams of praise.
Yes. A man like that, they would worship.
Chapter Eleven
Jack Minnow steps to the fore.
“People of Saintstone, I call on you to witness and to pass on what you see. You will tell your children, and they will tell their children of this day.”
Phillip Knowles is jostled to the side of the stage as robes of scarlet are brought to the mayor and slipped on over his bare skin. A crown of red roses is placed on Longsight’s head as he is led to the chair. Petals flutter to the ground as he walks, to be crushed underfoot.
The drape of the robes as he sits on the chair before Obel reminds me of water cascading – rivers of blood. He gathers the fabric so that the mayor’s left arm is fully exposed; Obel shifts his stool closer. I see him reach for a razor. He’s preparing the skin; he’s really doing this.
Jack Minnow anoints his leader’s feet with perfumed oil and the kneeling crowd rises.
The machine whirrs to life with its insect-shrill sound and Obel dips the needle into the ink. He holds Longsight’s arm still, his skin taught. He’s managing, despite his broken hand. I hear the higher pitch as needle attacks skin and the hitch of Mayor Longsight’s breath as he submits to the bite.
The line that emerges is wide and red. The mark of a thief.
I breathe deeply and inhale the fragrance of petals blending with richly scented oil. The air is heavy and seductive. The machine stutters to silence. I know what will happen next – Obel’s routine never changes. He will clean, cover and dress the mark. After a moment, when Obel releases him, Mayor Longsight stands, bidding his people to stand with him.
They see his forearm, bound in transparent film. They smell the oil and crushed flowers and they praise him. Their leader – one who sits in the seat of punishment and takes it upon himself. This is a new day, a new teaching, a new era.
Chapter Twelve
“What’s he going to do now?” I say sourly when Mel and I reach her study. “Get a mark for every sneak thief in the jail?”
I’m playing down my shock. Despite myself, I was stunned out there. Longsight took a mark for another. Took on that man’s sin. But now, back in Mel’s office, I feel my cynicism kicking in. Whatever that was today, it was for show. Longsight might believe himself immortal, but he’s pragmatic. There are reasons for the charade and they will be reasons that somehow benefit him.
Mel sits at her desk in silence – she must hear me but it’s as though she has learned to turn my volume down. She stares into space, hand resting on her marbled notebook. She looks like she’s waiting for something. Long minutes pass and she appears to come to, her eyes sharply focused on me.
“That story…” she says. “The one you told me about the king, Metheus…”
I nod.
“You said there were more. More blank stories.” Her expression is at once expectant and nervous.
“Why do you want to know?” It’s not like Mel to ask questions – she always has all the answers. I am angry with her, suddenly. “I thought you knew everything.” She watches me quietly, a small smile on her lips. “Why should I trust you with their stories?” I ask.
“There is much that I do not know, Leora Flint; I admit that.” She looks at me coolly. “The beginning of wisdom is realizing just that – that there is so much more to the world than you can ever know or understand.” She runs her hand through her curls, and her smile becomes mocking. “You, though – you go on one journey and you think you are an expert. You are like a feather – you think you are free but instead you are at the whim of the wind. Do not speak to me about knowledge or fear, truth or faith. Y
our head is turned by a good story, a warm fire, a smile, a handsome face. You flit from friend to friend and wonder why you have none left.”
In the silence that follows, I see her face soften.
“I like you. I like what I see in you. I still do. You gave me hope. I said you were special and I believed— believe it. But you have to act, now. I have reached the end of my own knowledge. I am a seeker of truth and I need your help.” She leans forward. Her face is flushed. “Share their stories with me,” she says softly. “I think it might be important.”
And so it is in this small room, Mel at her desk and me sat on cushions, that I open the covers of the book that is in my mind and the storyteller becomes the listener.
“In a wood, near a village, there was a woodcutter’s house…”
Chapter Thirteen
I tell Mel the stories she already knows, but from a new vantage point. The story of the sisters, who grew up in the wood, and how one became a princess and the other went into exile. Only this time the twin with the ink was the wicked one. The lovers – all the more shocking a second time in the telling. Nate – a new perspective on Saint, a spy rather than a saviour. The sleeping princess who broke free from her parents’ oppression and broke down the walls that surrounded her. The gift given to brothers who had no idea of the trickster’s heart.
Mel pours tea from a tall pot and lets an amber globule of honey melt into each cup before stirring.
“It’s good for the voice,” she tells me as she hands me a cup.
I’ve been talking a long time, and as I told her those precious stories I felt a warm possessiveness which unfolded into generosity – a desire to protect the tales by telling them well. The way Mel closed her eyes as she listened, smiled and nodded when the story resonated, wiped away tears – she made it holy, accepting the delicate, fragile stories as only a true storyteller could.
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