“Aren’t you going to ask?” she said finally.
He guessed that she was talking about her face and arm. The burns, the waxy new skin. “Sure,” he said. “What’s it like being a mermaid?”
Eva raised an eyebrow. “What’s a mermaid?”
“Folklore from the First Givers. Beautiful, deadly creatures that live in the water and are half man, half fish.”
“Sounds uninspired. You read those old stories?” she said. “Why?”
Kenji gave her a half smile. “Why not?”
Eva smiled then, and it was brighter than her glow. That was when Kenji knew that he had finally found someone as dangerously curious as he was.
“What do you think’s at the end of the River?” she asked.
“Maybe there’s another colony.”
“Yeah. Full of terrible rowers.”
They laughed, though Kenji’s voice was tsking again. For once, though, it was easy to ignore the pestering voice in his head telling him to stop asking absurd questions. He was too focused on the beautiful person in front of him, trying to commit her to memory, convinced this would be the last time he ever saw her. That she’d slip away like so many of his artistic dreams.
“Let’s meet again,” she said when they landed at the dock.
Kenji’s heart swelled.
* * *
A new voice. It’s beyond anything Kenji ever imagined. It’s like looking up the Endless River, into the bottomless dark beyond civilization, and picturing yourself traveling into it. The thought made Kenji nauseated.
“What if my voice is just sick and not really dying?” Kenji asks. He shepherds the breakfast on his plate from one side to the other. He doesn’t take a bite.
His voice is quiet this morning; it only speaks in sleepy tones. His skin is dim, the neighborhood is still asleep, and the previous night at the concert feels like an ugly dream.
“You said yourself it’s only a matter of time,” Eva counters. There are dark circles under her eyes. They both slept badly, and their debate has taken on sharp, desperate tones. “Why aren’t you eating?”
“Not hungry. Besides, can’t shine if I don’t eat.” Fewer nutrients means he has less to give back. Kenji knows it’s not a sustainable solution, but it’s more plausible than replacing the voice in your head.
“Maybe you can take my voice,” Eva says, as if suggesting he take her jacket or shoes.
“What? No! This isn’t some weird art experiment, Eva.”
“Isn’t everything art?” she replied, sounding weirdly like his old mentors. “Screw food.” Eva shoves her breakfast away, stands, turns in their apartment like it’s suddenly become a cage. “I can’t look at these walls anymore. Let’s go for a walk.”
It’s a joke between them that they can solve any problem so long as the soles of their shoes hold out.
Kenji follows her silently, too tired and angry and frightened to debate the impossibility of a new voice.
They follow their feet, which lead them downstream, through civilization, such as it stands. Hundreds of buildings, tall and narrow, line both sides of the Endless River, curving up gently to follow the contours of the World. Dozens of little alleys are veined between buildings, where bands experiment and compose in their narrow paths. Murals of mushrooms and glowing people cover every blank space, blending and bleeding together. Even in this sleepy, early morning hour, there are poets and dancers on each corner, showing off their creations, desperate to be heard. There are students, too, palms full of buttons, scrambling for feedback. Some people glow, some don’t, but no one shines too brazenly.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” his voice whispers.
It is, but Kenji also sees a World stalled out on art. And he wonders why.
He and Eva cross into the historic district. The skeletons of the First Givers ships rise above the skinny buildings, their metal frames housing museums and markets. The ships are symbols, ghosts devoured down to their bones, repurposed for other projects. For some reason, the sight of these dismantled ships always makes Kenji’s heart ache.
Why do we consume everything? he thinks.
“Given. Give back,” his voice whispers.
Kenji swallows hard, focuses on keeping pace with Eva’s long stride.
In the shadow of one of the ships, in the middle of the road, amid the steady din of art—the colors, prose, melodies, eager to be noticed—there is one entry that commands attention.
Eva’s masterpiece towers.
It’s a beast of a sculpture, unpainted, contrasting with the bright, attention-grabbing colors of everything else around it. It’s a perfect paper replica of a First Givers’ ship. Ghostly pale, imagined whole. There is a chorus of paper people gathered around the base, and on the top of the paper ship, there’s a ladder rising up. And on the uppermost rung there’s a child, arm outstretched, paper fingers almost brushing the ceiling of the World. Almost touching the place every artist has prayed to, but has never reached.
“Wonder what crazy sculptor made this beauty,” Kenji whispers, and elbows Eva, forgetting their ongoing argument.
“It’s what happens when your partner invents the thinnest, creamiest paper in the World.” Eva wrinkles her nose. “God, my gluing technique was a mess back then.”
“A disaster. What will the public think?” Eva shoves his shoulder, and Kenji grins. Pride swells under his breastbone as he stands at the base of the sculpture, even after all these years. It took him fourteen months to make all that paper for her. Then she took his simple invention and turned it into something extraordinary.
It’s been a while since they last stood here together, shoulder to shoulder. It feels nice.
Then he remembers why they don’t come often.
The historic district is now awake enough that someone’s recognized the paper genius with her beloved sculpture. Suddenly, one person comes up to them, then two, then five. All wanting to talk to Eva about her projects and her techniques, or wanting feedback.
Kenji can tell from the stiffness in her posture, her slight lean back, that the last thing she wants to do right now is talk about art. But she’s polite, chatting for a minute or two before Kenji makes excuses about unfinished obligations at home and steers them forward. It’s a practiced routine. But they only manage to walk a block or so until they’re stopped again.
Then Kenji has the most desperate excuse of all. Without warning, his voice begins to scream again.
He fumbles an apology to Eva and her adoring fans and ducks into an alley between two shops. Fear flashes across Eva’s face as she moves to block him from view. He’s shaking, heart pounding, trying hard to look normal, trying not to make a scene.
“Food poisoning,” he hears Eva say. And the voice in his head screams louder.
It screams for a minute. An hour. A century. All while Kenji is throttling back a scream of his own as his muscles twitch and seize.
Eventually, it stops. Kenji’s left crouching, shivering, elbows on his knees, head in his palms. He glances up and finds Eva, crouched beside him, worried.
“Let’s run away and never come back,” he rasps.
Eva doesn’t reply for a heartbeat. “Let’s go home first.”
They almost make it back without issue.
Then they see the funeral.
There’s a small raft and a small crowd at the banks of the Endless River. And it’s obvious, even from their viewpoint on the road, that the deceased man’s voice has died. He’s glowing so brightly it almost hurts to look at him. The deceased himself, though, is still alive. He thrashes against the bonds that hold him to the boat, cursing, shrieking.
“Betrayer,” Kenji’s voice hisses, still hoarse from screaming.
The mourners are stiff, circling, shielding the boat from onlookers as best they can. Their focus is fixed upward, praying toward the vaulting World above them, faces illuminated by the doomed man’s glow. As the seconds wear on, the voiceless man’s anger melts into tearful pleas.
Kenji doesn’t want to see this. But he can’t seem to will his feet to move. Can’t seem to look away. He keeps hoping that one of the mourners will have mercy on the voiceless man and free him.
No one does.
The prayers end and the boat is pushed off, without ceremony. The crowd of mourners disperses moments later; only a few stay to watch the River drift the dead man’s boat to its center and sweep him and his weeping away.
“He deserves it,” his voice whispers, and Kenji hears the unspoken threat.
Kenji doesn’t quite run home, but almost. His pulse is thumping, his teeth clenched. He hears Eva keeping pace behind him, but he doesn’t look back. He can’t.
Only when they’re in their apartment, safely alone with the door shut and locked behind them, does he turn to her and say: “How do I get a new voice?”
* * *
“So, you’re probably going to hate me for this.”
Eva was standing in the doorway of their living room, arms crossed, a smile playing on her lips. At this point, they’d been together for two and a half years. It’d been half a year since Kenji made his first piece of paper, and they had just moved into their new apartment a few weeks ago, though it was already covered with the detritus of their various projects.
“Probably,” Kenji said, and grinned. He was sitting on the empty living room floor, surrounded by buckets of slurry, his deckle and mould, and a dozen trays full of drying paper. He was trying a new slurry mixture, hoping it would make the paper studier. For the first time in his life, his voice—or his friends and parents—wasn’t admonishing him for not being a better artist. It was freeing.
“You know how much I love you, right?” Eva said, crossing the distance between them and resting her chin in the crook of his neck.
“Oh shit, coercion. Definitely going to hate you now. What’s your idea?”
He felt Eva smile against his neck. “A paper sculpture. A huge one.”
Kenji looked at the mess of half-made paper around him. He suddenly knew what he’d be doing for the next few months. He smiled. “Of what?”
“A First Givers’ ship. As close to life as possible, pointing upstream. Based on historical accounts.”
Kenji’s heart puffed up, threatened to burst. He’d shown Eva all the information he’d ever found about the First Givers, because he was fascinated by history. And she’d actually read it.
“Why upstream?” he asked.
“Why not?” Eva replied, swirling her fingers in a bucket of slurry. “They entered this World, so doesn’t that mean it’s possible to leave, too?”
“No,” said his voice. “That’s absurd. Don’t even think about it.”
But Kenji was already planning, dreaming.
* * *
The next morning, Kenji and Eva borrow a boat and go upstream.
Kenji has always hated going upstream. There is a darkness there that reminds him of all the terrifying stories his parents told him about the fabled Maw. Stories that his voice would repeat back in menacing tones for weeks afterward.
They pass another funeral as they row. But this time, the body is lifeless, not just the voice. The deceased’s skin is dull and dark. There is no stony determination in the faces of the mourners. Only grief.
Eva and Kenji nod respectfully as they pass, but don’t offer condolences. The deceased looks peaceful in her boat.
May we all be so lucky in death, Kenji thinks. He leans harder into his oars.
They keep rowing. Hours pass. The Endless River earns its name.
On the edge of civilization, Eva steers the boat into one of the many empty moorings. The buildings on the shores are smaller, shorter than the ones in the center of the colony, the art larger and more playful, freer from criticism. These are the last strands of settlement before the land gives way to the truffle and tuber farms.
And what’s past the farms? Kenji wonders.
“Nothing. Nothing’s there,” his voice hisses. The unrelenting darkness he saw as he looked upstream discouraged any other questions.
Without hesitation, Eva steps up to one of the sturdy homes and knocks on the door.
“How did you find this place?” Kenji asks. He grips his elbows to stop himself from fidgeting with nerves. Until yesterday, he’d never heard of a voice replacement. Doubts still haunt him.
“You’re not the only one who asks dangerous questions,” she replies.
“Wait, your voice isn’t dying, too, is it?” he asks, panic rising. His own death he could swallow, but not Eva’s.
“At this exact moment? No, no yet.” Eva knocks again, louder.
Before Kenji can reply, the door opens. The woman standing there is like her home, short and stout, and her clothes are neat if a little muted. She glows moderately, modestly.
“So soon?” she asks when she sees Eva, her eyes wide with surprise.
Eva shakes her head. “Not me. Him.”
The woman’s gaze pivots. “And who are you?”
“My partner. The love of my life,” Eva replies. “Kenji.”
The woman studies him for a moment and then sighs. “Right, you mentioned. An inventor, but not an artist. You should probably come in.”
She calls herself Caro. Her house is sparsely decorated; there’s almost no art. Which is jarring to Kenji, but also a relief. Her office is practical, with comfortable tuber-wood chairs. In the next room over, a girl of five or six is sprawled out on the floor playing with a small army of toy musicians.
Caro perches on her desk. One of Eva’s sculptures is in the corner of the room, a miniature of the First Givers’ ship. When Eva dies, it’ll be worth a small fortune.
“So, a new voice then,” she says.
Kenji hesitates. “You won’t … you’re not going to kill anyone for it, right?”
Caro grimaces. “I’m a mortician.” she explains. “Dying naturally is a bit more common out here. For example, a boy from one of the farms died yesterday. Mask wasn’t on right. Asphyxiated on spores.”
“And his voice is still alive?” Eva asks, hand on chin, leg tucked up under her. She is a portrait of ease and confidence. But Kenji knows better, sees her scarred left hand in a white-knuckled clench. The more worried she is, the calmer she tries to seem.
“Should be. They usually last about forty-eight hours or so,” Caro replies.
“And how many times have you done this exactly?” Kenji asks. Instinctively, his hand touches the back of his neck. The small lump there.
“Twice.”
“Both successfully?”
Caro shakes her head. “The first time, his replacement voice died anyway. Not sure why.”
“But the second time worked.”
“Yes. My daughter.” She glances over at the other room. The girl doesn’t notice them, happily chatting to herself.
Kenji tries to keep the shock off his face. In this World, you’re born with the voice in your head. It grows up with you, adopting the mannerisms of parents, teachers, friends. But Kenji never heard of a voice dying in a child before.
He’s beginning to suspect he hasn’t heard of many ugly things that happen in this World.
“Experiments are dangerous,” the voice in his head whispers.
Kenji closes his eyes. Fifty-fifty odds; he’s never been so terrified. But then he imagines himself, glowing brilliantly, tied to a funeral boat, floating helplessly downstream. He still has so many questions he wants to ask before he goes.
“Okay,” he says.
He feels Eva fingers squeeze against his, keeping him anchored. Keeping him steady and here.
* * *
She drew her idea for the sculpture on the wall of their living room. The first of many sketches to come. She drew a person next to it for scale.
“Holy shit,” Kenji said when he realized the size of the creation Eva was planning.
“Hate me now?” Eva asked with a touch of uncertainty.
He draped an arm around her shoulders. “Never.”
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br /> “I need to make a smaller-scale version first,” she said, and made a face. “Hopefully, they take me seriously this time.”
Eva’s first meeting with the Public Areas Committee hadn’t gone well. When she presented her earliest sculptures using Kenji’s paper, they told her competition for space was tough. But they’d been staring at her scars when they said it.
They had been together long enough that Kenji had seen the way people recoiled slightly in the street when they spotted Eva’s hand or face. He’d seen how her parents wouldn’t meet her eyes. As if her scars were a reflection of her character or the beauty she could produce.
He understood now why Eva had been reluctant to return to shore when they first met.
“They’d be idiots to turn down one of the most promising artists of our generation, again,” Kenji said. Eva hmphed, but she didn’t deny it. Her paper sculptures were like nothing the colony had seen before, and people were beginning to notice.
“I want to show the First Givers trying to leave,” Eva said.
Kenji’s voice whispered, “Why would you ever want to leave?”
He could think of a few reasons, but the thought was followed quickly by anxiety.
“Are you going to add teeth marks from the Maw?” Kenji asked. The World’s mighty Maw was the fuel of legends and nightmares.
“Don’t know yet,” Eva said, tapping her chin. “What if the Maw is just a story?”
“What if it’s toothless?” Kenji replied. His voice muttered its disapproval. But Kenji had lots of practice ignoring it now. Especially if doing so made Eva smile.
But the voice in his head had a point.
“The committee isn’t going to like anything that paints the World as less than benevolent.”
Eva’s jaw clenched, but her eyes glimmered. “Well, I’ll just have to be clever about it then.”
* * *
The slimy, eel-like thing in his hand was once the voice in his head. Kenji stares at it in horror, in fascination. It’s about the width of two fingers, and it’s cold, gray, and lifeless. He flips it over with a knuckle, then holds it closer, curious.
Questions Asked in the Belly of the World Page 2