Scar

by Alice Broadway

  Chapter Forty-four

  The box

  Oh! A box.

  Now, we know that a box is always rather magical – like a hiding place for a secret.

  I like boxes, I just don’t know how to feel about their lids.

  Don’t laugh at me – I’m telling you, the lid of a box is worse than any trap humankind have created to snare beasts. But then, the lid is also more wonderful than any closed mouth before a song.

  Give me a box and I won’t thank you – not right away – not until I know what the lid is there for. The lid of the box has such an allure – who can resist undoing the clasp, or releasing an edge or placing a key in the lock? The lid invites you, it hypnotizes you. It makes you forget.

  The lid is meant to keep things separate – to keep you from getting to the thing within, or to keep the thing within from getting to you. You will only know which when the lid is opened, and by then, it will be too late.

  You know about the girl who had a box that was locked? She was tantalized by that lid so that it drove her to distraction. Little did she know that the lid was a shield, and when she opened it up all the evil in the world was let out, and it stung her face, bit her lips, slapped her cheeks and pricked her eyes. Oh, what the earth would be if she had never lifted that lid.

  And you remember the brothers who allowed the box to be opened because of their greed? That lid had kept their own hearts safe, for truly, although the gifts were good, the men were not, and they made the gifts become millstones around their necks.

  I know of another box. A box with a lid that should not be lifted, not because the content will harm or hinder but because humankind cannot be trusted to care for what is within.

  But what is a box if the lid is never lifted?

  It is a coffin, of course.

  What is this box you hold in your hands? Dare you open it? Are you brave enough, are you good enough and stout of heart? If you have any hesitation I beg of you to bury that box in the ground, for we cannot bear another day of evil.

  The story comes to me when I draw, as though Mel herself is next to me. I look around in wonder and shake my head at my tired mind’s tricks. My picture is of a box – a precious box that is beginning to crack open.

  Chapter Forty-five

  When I dream again that night, I dream in screams.

  I am running through the forest, vines and briars clutching at my ankles, the heavy sound of pursuit driving me on and on. Ahead, in the distance, are the screams and shrieks of people in agony. I’m too late; I will not get there. Hope is dashed, but still I run. I run until I reach a vast river, a river too fast and wild to cross. Those chasing me are hot on my heels and those who need me are crying out in vain. I stop and almost dive in – rather that than listen to my failure.

  All of a sudden two women are with me, one at my left, one at my right. One has skin like mine, full of ink, and the other’s is empty. Both have ferocious determination in their eyes.

  “You’re ready, aren’t you, little light?” they demand. And they take my hands, draw me back and then, with all the power of the wind and waves and fire and thunder, they swing me, they hurl me, and I fly.

  I am putting on my boots before I have even fully woken up. I have to go – the where and why will have to wait. I must trust this calling that commands me to go.

  Foot follows foot and I run. I get closer to the town and realize the air is different: there is no smoke rising from the hall of judgement; the fire is out. I run harder.

  They have tied up Saint, those men and women I once knew as Sana’s friends. They have bound the statue of Saint as though he were a dangerous beast. With fierce yells they haul on the ropes until the foundations of the statue start to crumble, and with shouts of triumph they heave again. Our Saint comes crashing down, head smashed in to the stone slabs of the town square. Hollers come from the hall of judgement as the vandals laugh and caw at the dousing of the flames. Hurtling past me into the square come men and women of Saintstone, ready to defend, willing to fight.

  I hold back; I cannot tell why. I wait and close my eyes, trying to return to my dream, straining to feel their fingers at my wrists: “Moriah and Belia,” I whisper, “where will you send me?” And then my eye is drawn to an open door – the fire escape. The museum: someone is in the museum. The sisters’ hands bid me go and I run in the dark towards the open door.

  There is no mob, no sound of smashing or destruction. I walk silently through the room of curios and creeping horror and peer into the grand foyer. Piled against the locked main doors are bales of straw and the stink of them tells me enough – they have been doused in fuel, ready to burn. I can hear the voices more clearly now and I creep up the stone steps, hoping that their curve will hide me. All of a sudden, they are in view. Sana and Jack. Sana has an oil lantern at her feet and in its flickering light their shadows are all angles and edges, lending a theatrical tone to their bitter words.

  “We’ve always wanted the same thing, haven’t we, Jack? I could see it in you even when you were a child. This isn’t about taking sides or fighting for our people – we fight for ourselves and no one else.”

  Minnow shines in the lamplight – like a mockery of Saint, he stands tall.

  “You loved your people once, Sana. The embers still glow faintly – how can I be sure your love won’t flicker to flame once again? This is your weakness, for you need their love too. Oh, you mistreat them, and you flog them into obedience, but you have them in awe of you. You could not bear it if they all hated you. For you, power over them is not enough – you need their love. That was Dan Longsight’s mistake. It’s one I won’t make.”

  “You’re no better than me, Jack. Let’s work together – a fire would serve us both. I would be the undisputed saviour of Featherstone and you would have your people’s anger – their rage. You could lead them in any direction then.”

  “Saviour of Featherstone? Listen to yourself, Sana. There is no Featherstone, you have nothing to save – this is a fight you can’t win. You need land and wealth. Setting our museum on fire, knocking down our statue, putting out the fire of judgement – it only wins you Saintstone’s ire. They won’t back down. You will never get all that you want.”

  “Fight me then, Jack. It’s what you’ve wanted all this time, so come on.” Minnow glares, his hands poised as though ready to grasp her neck. He holds himself back, but only just. “Aren’t you going to stop me, Jack? Just think, all these books – this is where you’ve stored them, right? All I have to do is drop this lantern on those bales and your precious museum is history. You can’t just watch those skin books burn – I know you too well.” She pushes her hair out of her face and grins, eyes glittering. She shifts her stance, readying for the attack that will surely come.

  But then, that laugh. The same laugh I heard when he showed me Gull. A laugh that gloats in victory already won.

  “Why would I stop you?” Minnow breathes. “What kind of fool do you think I am? Your little tantrums are my very greatest political strength. Haven’t you noticed, Sana? Every time you hurt this town, the people’s love for me gets stronger. Every victory you celebrate has been planned by me. You only succeed when I allow you to: your miserable attempt to kill Longsight is ample proof. There is always only one winner in these fights: you get weaker and I get more glorious. Just imagine how they would praise the leader who raged against this latest attack. If I can be seen to weep over the loss of some skin books, these dull people will adore me.” He takes a step closer. “Oh, it’s fun to have an enemy – even one as pitiful as you, because it lets the people think they are in danger. And scared people are the easiest to beguile – it is so simple to exploit them. But of course, you know that.” Jack Minnow smiles at Sana. “Burn this whole place down, Sana. It will be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  She pauses, looks about her as though hoping for support, and as she glances round I know she sees me. A small smile rises on her face and she bends down, picks
up the lantern and acts as if cowed, she is ready to leave. At the last moment she lifts the burning lantern and swings it, smashing it into Jack Minnow’s shocked face. He falls to the ground, hitting his head hard. Glass breaks and the lantern almost goes out. Sana hurtles past me, she makes one quick swipe at the bales with the shattered lantern and I hear the whoomph of fresh fire. I can’t let her go.

  I skid into the room of the blanks just in time to see Sana stop and plant the lantern on the glass tank. She grins as she places both hands on the edge of the tank and starts to push. Her face, ghoulish in the lantern light, stretches in horrible glee, and I realize what she is trying to do. I rush forward and brace myself against the other side. I can’t let her win.

  But Sana is strong, and her eyes are wild. She changes her grip to the bottom edge of the glass tank – I can see the liquid inside moving, hear the unearthly groan and creak of skin against wet glass as the man sways. And she heaves – her legs, her back, her arms, her desperation all too powerful for me to hold back. The tank breaks free from its base and I shout out, “Sana, no – the lantern!”

  But this was her plan all along.

  The tank – the box – hits the ground edge first and the crack sounds like stone on skull. Time slows and each shatter and fracture that spreads across the glass grows like a frost, until, all of a sudden, comes the flood.

  The man’s body hits the floor with a sickening thud and the fluid gushes like a tsunami across the floor towards me, pushing Sana towards the open door and forcing me back, deeper into the museum. The smell is chemical, and when the lantern falls the flame does not need to touch liquid – the fumes are enough. With an explosive punch, a ball of fire is launched.

  Chapter Forty-six

  I run towards the atrium. I need to save the books. I know all too well that there is no way out of this place – not at night. The fire is already roaring and pluming smoke. My eyes burn, and my throat tightens, and I know I have reached my final chapter. There is no rescue, there is no saviour; there is just me and fire and smoke. But there is one final thing I can do. I cover my face with my shawl and race up the stone steps, which are a mist of smoke. I almost trip but I dip my head and press on. I run on past the stories and the precious place Dad would always bring me. The smoke is too thick up here and I can’t get my bearings. I pause and look about me – a mistake.

  Jack Minnow reaches me, grabs me by my hair and pulls me across to the open central space where the lantern windows above usually pour down sunlight on to all the floors. He holds me against the parapet, and I fight back as he tries to lift me over it to drop me on the stone and flame below. Shards of glass gleam from his face, blood runs into his eyes. He attempts to wipe it away, and as he changes his handhold on me, I pull free. I should run but I can’t take my eyes off him as he rises up once again, roaring at me with hatred and pain. I don’t mean to do it – I do not plan it – but when I pile into him, to make him stop, to get him away from me, he stumbles backwards, hips clashing into the barrier. It is like watching a monster in fog, and above the shout of the flames, I hear him yell, arms windmilling as he overbalances and fights to right himself. A bluster of smoke chokes me, and I turn to hide my stinging eyes. When the smoke passes, all that is left is the empty space where Minnow stood before he fell.

  In my horror, all I can do is run again. But it is so much harder this time – the heat and the smoke are too much. I am lost – at the top of a narrow flight of steps, away from the main museum. I think I’m hallucinating now, just dreaming of a different place because the reality is too awful to bear. And then I hear it – a rhythmic bang at the door that faces me. I know where I am now, and I know who is knocking.

  Searing my hand on the key, I turn it, screaming out in pain. The door swings open to reveal a scarecrow woman with matted red hair. The tracks of tears shine pale in her ashen face. I turn, scrambling across the ground now. I must carry on.

  Finally, I reach the place I have been aiming for, crawling along, trying to find the least clogged part of the air. I am here, with the books.

  Skin books cower in their boxes and on shelves as though in cages and coops. I lift a metal bookend, which is etched with the letters D–F, and grasp it in both hands, my burned skin screaming. I smash it against the corner of the window, again and again, until there is the beginning of a crack. The heat does the next part and the glass creaks and shatters. I kick against the remaining bars and finally enough space is cleared. My throat begs at me to pant – to get air into my tired lungs, but I resist, holding my hand over my covered mouth. I don’t have much time; my body is already tingling, my vision swirling. I reach up and gather books into my arms, hurling them from the window. I think I see them spread their wings and flap, beating against the breeze and smoke, soaring until they come to land. More books fly, and I release book after book into the cool night air. Black wings flutter, ash falls, paper flies.

  But I can’t free every book; I beg their pages and covers to take off, to drift. But smoke soon wraps its arms around me and grips me with its needy fingers. When it covers my mouth and whispers into my ear, I assent, and with it, I descend.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  The girl.

  There was a girl.

  Just a girl.

  She loved stories, because in the stories her father told her, there was always a girl and she always got rescued. A knight would slay a dragon. A prince would rouse a princess with a kiss. A handsome man would climb a rope of hair. And the girl? She would learn, she would understand, and she would be safe – kept by her rescuer, happily ever after.

  And so the girl grew up unafraid, because she knew that although she may face dragons, curses and tall towers, there would always be a rescue.

  When her father passed away, she felt all the more like a girl in one of the stories – for in them, the parents always died and then the catastrophes would begin.

  She waited for a dragon, but one never came. Instead there was a different beast that threw fire at her.

  She looked out, watchful for a curse that would make her sleep. And yet the things she saw terrified her so completely she felt she would never sleep again.

  She longed for her tower. But instead she was buried under misery and treachery. Her hair was cut before it ever grew long enough to be a rope.

  When she found herself in a deep and melancholy pit, she cried out, sure that her prince would be riding by soon, ready to come to her aid. Her back ached and her nails split, and her clothes were torn to rags.

  Again, she called out, but it only attracted predators and they circled the edge of the pit, biding their time. Surely, she thought, surely this is the time for my rescuer to come? And she shouted again until her voice was lost. This time her call brought a rain cloud and the pit began to fill with water.

  There she was: in a hole too deep, with beasts licking their lips at its edge and the waters rising. She waited.

  She waited until the water was up to her ankles and she gazed into the sky ready to welcome her rescuer when he arrived.

  She waited until the water was up to her knees, and still he did not come.

  She waited until the water was up to her waist and she sighed.

  Her only choices were death, or a rescue, and no hero was going to come.

  And so, the girl closed her eyes, and while the cloud poured ice-cold water down upon her, she imagined.

  She imagined a story where the girl was able to calm the dragon and they were friends.

  She imagined a story where the girl set her alarm clock and woke up without any great trouble.

  She imagined a story where the high tower was her greatest haven, and she kept her hair short.

  And, as she imagined, her back began to tickle, and then to itch, and then to burn and then to sear. She opened her eyes and looked around at the slick walls, up at the terrible creatures, and down at the rising flood. But she did not weep; she was no longer afraid. The girl shook her shoulders and two great black
wings gave a satisfyingly deep crack. She breathed in and she knew without any doubt that the wings would hold her.

  Up she rose, the wings a pulse, a throb of held-back power. Out of the water, out of the pit, past the beasts. Away she flew, beautiful black wings beating powerfully. Knowing more freedom in that one moment than she had felt in all her life.

  Girl rescues girl. Girl flies. And when no one is watching, girl soars to the stars.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  Keep going.

  Never stop.

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  For the rest of your life.

  Can you hear me? I have no voice, not since the smoke.

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  They say to just keep breathing – all I have to do is stay alive.

  But that’s a lot. Can I just have a rest? Can I take a little break from breathing? It hurts. I’ll come back; just let me be quiet and still now.

  Can you see me? It takes some getting used to.

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  My body is healing itself, they tell me. But I don’t know.

  They took skin from my legs and back and stomach to fix my arms and hands. I am a patchwork of pieces. A puzzle unmade.

  Can you touch me? Am I still marked?

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  Or are these just scars? Who knows how to put me together again? Who can read my story now? Do you know what it says?

  Can you love me? Am I enough?

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  Just a girl. Surrounded by souls that are so beautiful. I can see your soul. You are good.