We sip tea in silence, the words still bobbing in an ocean of story between us.
After we have drunk the final drops, Mel places her notebook and pen carefully in a drawer and locks it. She stands.
“Come.” She reaches a hand out to me down on the cushions. “There’s something I want you to see.”
When we reach the bottom of the private staircase I know where we are going: to see the skin books of the storytellers. The door opens with a held-breath gasp, as though it has too few visitors. The fragrance of these old skin books is a close, heavy scent that makes the air feel warm. These are the skin books of the storytellers, saved for ever. Our community needs stories and must remember them – they must be handed down immaculately.
Our storytellers learn the tales and speak them word-perfect to the people. More than this though, they wear the stories – their skin is a homage to our history. It’s always the same stories. We must not forget them.
I’ve been in this room once before, when Mel was still my mentor, when she still saw potential in me. When she had plans for my future. She had run her hands over the spines of the books in meditative delight. I remember thinking how sad it was that this was all she would have to show for herself when she died – the marks of stories that were not her own. Even then the cracks in my belief were beginning to show.
Now, though, Mel pauses by one of the bookcases, crouches down, and presses at its base. A drawer springs out. She reaches in and takes out a wooden box.
“You will want to touch,” she tells me. “Do not.”
Undoing the metal clasp, Mel lifts the lid and lets it rest open on its hinged edge. With great care she removes a rectangle of linen and steps aside, so I can see more clearly the item she has revealed.
Skin.
A piece of skin about the size of the palm of my hand. Its edges curl, looking frayed and irregular and showing signs of where it was pegged out to dry. Mel was right – I am desperate to touch it. It looks different from our skin books – thicker and more brittle. If I did touch it, I think, it would feel crisp and rough. I lean in and Mel puts a protective hand on the side of the box. I see hairs, and, on the skin where they grow are goosebumps – as though caught mid-shiver. This has not been tanned in the way our skin books are – the lye removes hair and evens out the surface. This is rudimentary – either due to age or lack of care.
But the biggest shock of all is the mark itself.
Because I’ve seen it before.
I look down at my stomach, as though the fragment of skin has made me transparent. If Mel could see my torso, then she would have seen a crisp, traced outline of the mark I see before me now.
Two women, face to face, hands clasped.
The sisters.
I’ve seen them in my dreams. Their faces are alike – they are twins after all – but their bodies are night and day. Moriah and Belia, the sisters whose divergent journeys are the paths we have followed ever since, one people marked like Moriah and another blank like Belia. Each woman is a queen to her followers and accursed to her enemies. When I dream of them, they are always so sad. But those are just dreams.
“When this was found, by all accounts, it caused quite a storm.” Mel smiles but her eyes are anxious.
“What does it mean?” I ask.
“It’s a symbol of the sisters reunited. After everything – after Moriah is utterly covered in ink and the White Witch—”
“Belia,” I interrupt. “Her name is Belia.”
“Belia…” Mel says, “is utterly blank and bare. And yet, this image seems to depict an idea that at the end – towards the end of their lives and reigns – the sisters came back together. Perhaps even reconciled.”
“It’s incredible,” I whisper. My fingers itch to be able to touch – just once. “You think this was part of a skin book?”
“I do, but a very old one. Some storytellers argue that it is the skin of a storyteller who was alive in the time of Moriah. They believe that this is the final story that storyteller told. There is another theory, fanciful though it may be,” ventures Mel. Her voice is deliberately light. “Some past storytellers have argued that this is the skin of Moriah herself – that this was her final message to her people.”
I stare at her. “A message – a declaration,” I breathe. “A record claiming that the sisters had reconciled in the past – and that blank and marked could do so again…”
Mel watches me, her blue eyes hooded.
“But if the sisters had reconciled,” I go on, thinking aloud, “then surely that would be widely known? People wouldn’t live like this if there was a better way…”
But even as I say that, I think of Sana – Sana, who starved her own people to make them more likely to fight. Jack Minnow, whose eyes light up when he sees violence. Even if they were given every reason, every chance for peace, I think that people would still choose war.
“Whose skin do you think it is?” I ask Mel.
Her voice as she replies is dreamy. “In my wildest thoughts I have hoped that this might be the skin of Belia.” I stare at her in surprise, and she shrugs. “That she came back. That she repented and was marked and rejoined her sister, living under Moriah’s good rule.”
“Is that what you want for the blanks?” I ask. “Even now?”
“I pray for their repentance,” she says, nodding. “That they find hope.” I’m surprised to feel a lump in my throat.
“The blanks have hope,” I say. And I think of the stones, the lake and Fenn’s face when he came up from the water. I remember the day Ruth died and their voices soaring high, sending her soul on its final journey. That was real – as real as this. “They have faith, too. It’s just different to the stories we know. Not wrong. Just different.”
“I’m beginning to think you might be right, Leora.” Mel closes the box, biting her lip as she tucks it back into its hidden compartment. “And when I think of what that might mean for me and my people, it terrifies me.”
Chapter Fourteen
While I wait for the dead of night, that moment when everyone but you is asleep and the world cannot get more silent, I think of Jack Minnow. I want to know what he does each night in the hall of remembrance.
I slip out of Mel’s study, closing the door with as little sound as possible, and head for the steps up to the museum. Mel stayed up late, a thin crack of light visible under her door, but eventually she had gone to sleep.
I reach the reception area. Lights from the town square cast a dim glow across the entrance way. I rattle the doors experimentally, but they are of course locked. I go through the drawers, looking for anything of use, but there is nothing. As I shut one, I knock over a pen pot and hold back a laugh when I see it among the pencil sharpenings: a key.
I hold it in my palm, examining it closely. It is silver and decorative. Gazing at the space around me, trying to work out where it might fit, I walk deeper into the building and try the doors to the library, but the key doesn’t match. I skirt the edges of the large space and I can feel my hope stretching its arms out.
There is one place left, and it is calling me: behind the green door. I can hardly bear to reach my hand out to the handle because I know what I will see, and I know that since I came here last, the only thing that will have changed is me – and that that changes everything.
The handle is cold. I know the key will fit before I try it. A small twist, a dull click, one deep breath and I turn the handle, pushing the door and pulling my fear into my centre. Dust and stale air dry my throat and I splutter – it feels like a neglected space. But they still bring children here; I see evidence of a recent visit – worksheets and pencils, clipboards and a forgotten hat. Of course they wouldn’t stop the school trips to this place – not only is it a rite of passage, it matters more than ever that the children of Saintstone hear this story. They need to be convinced – to be absolutely certain of the threat their enemy poses – because that is the only way. Make your enemy less than human, then make
that less-than-human dangerous, then make the danger feel close. Easy.
The glass-faced exhibits that edge the room are oppressively dark. I know that behind the shiny exteriors there is a blood-stained knife, a severed hand, a damning letter. Evidence. All here to convince the viewer of their own righteousness in the face of blank wickedness. I am repelled by these dark corners – but the centre of the room scares me even more.
I move closer to the tank and force myself to look.
His was the first dead body I ever saw. The man who floats here in the eerily glowing water used to terrify me – because he was proof. Proof of blanks and our victory. I never thought of his life or of the story of his death. He was a symbol – a deterrent and nothing more. Beware the blanks.
I reach out my hands, touch the glass. Tears fall without my realizing. Rain on windows. I wonder – can he hear the tap, tap, tap?
He could be any of them: Fenn, Solomon, Tanya, Gull. He was just a man with no marks and we made him a monster. We boast about not fearing death and yet we relished the horror that this man’s death made us feel. I remember we would lean on this tank as though it were a table. We’d fill out our worksheets, chat and bite the ends of our pencils, all the time treating this man’s grave as little more than a piece of furniture – a thing unremarkable save for its usefulness to us at that moment. My chest heaves and I whisper to this unnamed soul that I am sorry.
Standing here, I remember something, something from those long-ago school visits, and as if in a dream I walk to the thick, black curtain in the corner. I can remember our teachers would always tell us about the escape route in case of a fire.
The fire escape door is there, as I knew it would be. It is locked from the inside by a bolt which slides effortlessly even though my fingers shake. I open the door a chink, and movement catches my attention.
You can sense a spider out of the corner of your eye just from the shape of its movement.
That is how I feel about Jack Minnow. I loathe him, and yet I know him. I know how he moves. He makes me want to run, to retreat, to hide; but he also draws me to him. He intrigues me. Isn’t that how some predators work? They lure you on, even while your mind screams at you to run. But for now, I have the power, because he doesn’t know I’m here. I watch him hurry into the hall of remembrance, and then follow him. This is my turf.
In Saintstone they believe that so long as someone still says your name, then you are not forgotten. As a reader, Mum was entrusted with the reading of the names in the hall of remembrance. There is a tightening in my chest when I pass the threshold; she might be here tonight. But whatever I see, I must stay quiet. I am here as a shadow and no more – it is the only way.
Mum would sometimes take me along with her to the reading of the names when she was on duty. Some days I loved it, the sleepy magic of it – other days I was bored. I wanted to stay at home and play. Those hours of having to be quiet and unobtrusive have served me well, though. People come to the reading of the names to hear particular people’s names spoken or to light a candle or fulfil an oath. It would not do for a child to disturb their time of reflection. It meant that I learned to pass the time quietly and to find the darkest corners in which to settle myself in order to draw or play. You don’t forget the great hiding places from childhood – you only grow too big to fit in them.
I glance unseen into the hall of remembrance and see the readers murmuring the names – a gentle rhythm of plosive and assonance that has, more than once, lulled me to sleep. I see Minnow, sitting towards the back, hunched forward, elbows on knees in the common pose of the worshipper at the hall of remembrance.
I slip in quietly, edging closer and closer to him. The seats are wooden blocks, individual stools rather than the long benches in the hall of judgement. When we mourn we mourn alone – no one can truly share in our sorrow. I know that the stools at the back of the room are piled in columns and tight rows, extra seats in case of a busy day – I’ve never seen them used. They provide a place for me to stand unseen, to watch and listen. It’s easy to tune out the voices of the readers as they list name after name – soon they are just a background buzz. I lean forward, because Minnow’s lips are moving. I lean forward, and I listen.
Relax, I tell myself. Stop listening to your own heart hammering. And soon enough it comes to me – the voice of a man at the end of his tether. The sound of a soul that has given up hope. His prayer is simple; two words over and over.
“Davey Minnow.”
A name I don’t know whispered in the hall of remembrance. A brother? A son? A father?
I remember their faces when I read from my own book – my own paper with names on it:
Connor Drew. Mel. My birth mother, Miranda Flint, and my father, Joel Flint.
I spoke the names that day, the day I renounced Saintstone. Spoke the names that had been wiped from the book of life – names of those not considered worthy, those who didn’t belong, those who were supposed to be forgotten. I walked out of this room with my head held high, showing my cloak of ink – feeling ready to soar with that crow as I left their gasps and shouts behind. Angriest of all was Jack Minnow.
And yet here he is, whispering in the dark.
Some animal instinct tells him that I am here. He lifts his head as though he can sense me. There is no time to think; I keep my head covered and bolt for the door. Heavy footsteps behind me tell me that he is following, but I am quicker – I hear him stumble over stools and knock them down. I sprint with everything I’ve got across the square towards the door.
I reach the door and glance behind me; Minnow has just passed the statue of Saint. I stop, and he does too. We are frozen. Like a magnet repelling us – he can come no closer.
He has seen me, but I saw him too. I heard him.
We each have each other’s secrets in our pockets, ready to draw them out at the right moment. I won’t hold back. But I will wait.
Who is Davey Minnow?
Chapter Fifteen
In my dream I am a bird.
No, in my dream I am two birds. First a crow, all green-black gloss and intelligent poise. Later I am a magpie, clean-striped and cunning.
As the crow and as the magpie, I flit from tree to tree, checking all the time that my quarry has eyes only for me. I drop leaves, stones and seeds at her feet. I will do my job; I will lure her on.
The one with dark hair knows this game – we have played it before. I, the crow, drop a white stone ahead on the path and she follows my trail. She eyes me with amused suspicion; she is not sure whether we are old friends or enemies. I have no such confusion, for I know that I am neither – I am a messenger. Some call me the bringer of death, a harbinger of sadness. To them, I am only an omen. They don’t know me at all. For I am the wise; I am the view from the treetops; I am the guide that leads you to something new.
They call me one for sorrow, but she is the broken one who looks like her body could shatter. All those lines, like fractures. I, the magpie, must draw her and protect her on this journey. I use my clear voice to call her on. The leaves offer her feet a carpet of gold, finer than any royal furnishing. I, like her, have an eye for jewels and I know how to capture her heart. I am not sorrow, I am love, and if she will just follow me she will find love that never ends.
The mark on my stomach, the mark of the reunited sisters, has darkened overnight, I’m sure of it.
I run my hands across it and think of Moriah – she was the one whose skin grew ink of its own. By rights I should be more like Belia, because by blood and birth I am blank – my mother was blank, and I was born in Featherstone. But I was born marked; my name was written on my skin before any hand touched me. I was a curse, a threat, a warning.
Or I was a saviour. It just depends on whose story is being told. It depends on who is listening.
Mel doesn’t wait for me to sit down before she speaks. I can tell from the speed at which she talks – slow, careful, considered – that she has been wanting to say this for a while, sh
e just couldn’t decide how.
“What do you know about automatic writing?” she asks as I sit.
I stare at her.
“Right.” Mel smiles slightly. “I’ll start with a bit of history, then.” I wriggle to get comfortable and Mel shifts her chair so it’s closer to me. “We talked about how storytellers have had the freedom to choose how the stories are inked on their bodies?” I nod. “Well, these days there is just one storyteller for the town, but once upon a time there used to be a community of storytellers. Like the readers in the hall of remembrance, working together.”
“Like Mum,” I say.
“Yes, like your mum. The storytellers were a group of scholars, teachers, prophets and mystics. They often were guided by the ancestors to explain or apply a story in a new way for a new time. It was, as far as I can tell from the written records we have preserved, a time of debate and creativity. There were many personalities, many ideas and messages and yet there was also unity; there was freedom and acceptance of differing views. It was a time of rich diversity and the community flourished.”
“This doesn’t sound like Saintstone,” I mutter. “I thought there was only one voice, one way.”
She gives me a brief, absent smile. I’m not going to provoke her tonight.
“Well,” she goes on, “automatic writing was something that was practiced by those storytellers who were mystics and prophets. They would sometimes go into a trance, or sometimes just be aware that a message was coming, and their hand would write words that their brain had no control over. Their ancestors would speak through them.”
I stare at her.
“It sounds dangerous,” I say at last. “Anyone could make something up and pretend the ancestors had told them to say it. I’m glad we’ve moved past it – it sounds primitive, ridiculous.”
“That is exactly what I have been taught,” Mel says. “I was raised to see the mystics as fools at best and dangerous at worst. I agreed.” She sighs wearily. “Yes, I agreed that it was all that you say – dangerous, primitive. Foolish. That’s what I thought, until…” Mel leans her chair back to reach something off her desk – it’s the notebook she’s been carrying around with her. “Until it happened to me.”
Scar Page 5