Intrigued, I followed her back to the large room. She opened up a panel in the wall, revealing a host of knives and two crudely drawn human-sized body outlines covered with splits and cuts. She wrapped a leather belt several times around her waist and slid knives into the belt loops until she wore at least two dozen.
Removing a strip of fabric from her bodice, she held it over her eyes. “Will you do the honors?”
I’d seen her do this before! “That was you!” I cried, amazed. “My parents were watching your show the night I met Indigo.”
A smile stole across her lips and she squared her shoulders. “Impalement art. You get a front-row seat, no charge.”
I secured the cloth over her eyes, then sat on one of the benches to watch. Graceful as a cat, she turned to face the painted people. She bowed her head dramatically as she removed two knives with her right hand. Then, quick as a flash, she swung her arm. With a loud thud, the blades landed simultaneously on each side of the head, a sliver of space between the outline and the knives. I held my breath as Katalina hurled the rest, forming a precise line around the body. Never once would she have nicked an actual human.
I clapped. “Katalina, you’re amazing!”
She held one last knife. In a split second, she flung the knife toward the other outline, so hard I felt the impact of it in my feet. It sank deep into the wooden heart of her victim.
“That felt good.” She laughed, removing the blindfold and tucking it away. “They do not let me kill the volunteers from the audience.” She unbuckled the belt. “Your turn.”
I laughed, but my stomach felt queasy at the thought of throwing a knife at someone, aiming to kill. “I can’t throw like that, Katalina.”
“Bah.” She tugged me to my feet and wrapped the belt around my waist. After yanking the knives from the wood, she loaded them into the loops. “First I will teach you the technique, and then you practice.” She put her hands on my hips. “Left hip slightly forward,” she said, and pushed it there. “Hold the blade like this. Ah, not so tight. Relax. Step forward and bring your arm around.” I made the move in slow motion. “The key is the wrist. Cock it back and forth.” She stepped back and lit one of her skinny cigars. “That’s it.”
As if I could remember all that. I focused. Step forward—arm back—hinge wrist—release.
The knife tumbled through the air, smacked the wall, and clattered to the floor. I tried again, with the same result.
“Relax your shoulders,” Katalina said. “Do not grip so tight.”
Over and over I threw the knives. Not one stuck in the wall, and my arm was starting to ache. Katalina retrieved the knives and loaded me up again. “Try slowly. Do not throw so hard. The knife is sharp. If the point hits, she sticks,” she huffed. “I told my father this would be impossible. Keep at it. I am going to scrounge up some supper for us.”
Despite Katalina’s doubts, I continued practicing. I threw at least a hundred more times. Most of the knives fell to the floor, but a few stuck haphazardly in the wall, even if they weren’t anywhere near the targets. After a time, I heard a rustle behind me and spun around to see Hurricane watching me.
“If you knew how awful my aim is, you wouldn’t sneak up on me like that,” I said.
“May I talk to you?” she asked. We went to the bench and sat down. “Avery, I said some things last night that I shouldn’t have.” She blew her bangs up into the air. “I apologize. I do want to help you.”
“Thank you, Hurricane. I overreacted. I’ve been on edge with all that’s going on. Katalina told me you were there that night. Why didn’t you say so?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if Katalina wanted me to.” Then her shoulders slumped. “She barely has time to talk to me anymore. She’s teaching you to throw? I’ve asked her a hundred times; she always says no.”
I realized Hurricane resented me. Maybe she thought of Katalina as an older sister. It made sense, as she’d never had a mother. “She’s only doing it because her father made her. Hurricane, you’ve been a great help to me. I couldn’t do this without you. Katalina truly admires your ability.”
“She does?” She sat up.
“Oh yes.” I smiled. “Why else would she want me to work with you?” I certainly did not want to add to Hurricane’s feelings of alienation. “Would you please tell me what else you know about energy? Did you do energy work with Indigo as well?”
“Yes, he had his own obstructions to manage. Indigo spiraled down into a dark place after their mother died.” She tucked her hair behind her ears.
“How did Indigo use his power?”
“I honestly don’t think your abilities are anything alike. His felt . . .” She frowned, searching for words. “Harsh, almost hostile. But to me, yours feels quiet, like . . . like a mother’s love.”
I smiled. I liked the sound of that.
“Indigo can control people, make them do things,” Hurricane said. “But as far as I know, he never saw memories. I’ll talk to Mr. Moralis when he returns; see if he knows more.”
“I can’t control my visions. They just happen, usually when there’s turmoil around me. I most assuredly cannot make people do things. I don’t believe my mother could, either.”
“Well, she certainly had Mr. Moralis wrapped around her little finger.” The minute the words escaped, Hurricane slapped her hand over her mouth.
“My mother?” It took me a moment to grasp what she meant. “Hurricane! What are you insinuating?”
“Please don’t say anything to Katalina,” she whispered, glancing back to the tent’s entrance, “but I think your mother was Mr. Moralis’s mistress.”
Chapter Seventeen
Violence in the Streets
Hurricane told me that she’d seen my mother secretly visit Mr. Moralis on numerous occasions in the months leading up to the Midsummer’s Eve festival. “I didn’t know who she was until I saw her come into the tent with your father. A moment later, your father snatched you away from Indigo.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” My mother would not have told me to come find Mr. Moralis if she was having an adulterous affair with him. But I had a bitter tang in my mouth. I asked Hurricane if she’d said this to anyone else. She had not. “Good. I don’t want you spreading false accusations about my mother.”
But later, as I lay in my little cot in Geeno’s crate, doubt crept into my mind like a troublesome weed. Is that why my father wanted to keep me from the Gypsies? He’d reacted so strongly when I’d mentioned them. I did not like the thought of my mother hurting my father in such a way. My mother would never do that. Or would she?
I went to work every day at Cross Street Ironworks, the boys and I doing our best to keep up the heavy workload. Now that I was staying with Geeno, I had to tell him I was working late. He insisted on helping, so I swore him to secrecy and let him stay. After the whistle blew at the end of each day, we said goodbye to the others, lingering until they left. We finished the day’s tabs together, then crept home, hiding in the shadows of the street, only stopping to pick up food. My guilt ebbed somewhat as I ensured Geeno ate a hearty meal each night. The hot potato man always saved us leftover goods before he packed up his pushcart for the night.
The people of the crate village had punched a hole in the top of the refinery’s colossal steam boiler, creating a spray of hot water. We all used it to wash up. Monday and Tuesday night, after scrubbing the soot and grease from my skin, I met Khan at the pier to go to the Gypsy camp. I spent hours honing my focus with Hurricane and my throw with Katalina.
But Wednesday night, I told Khan I was too tired. Instead, I left Geeno and headed toward Wallabout Docks. I tried to talk myself out of my foolish curiosity. On the one hand, I told myself, I’ll sneak in, just to listen. No one will recognize me. On the other, I argued, Am I insane? If someone rats me out, I’ll lose my job! But I kept walking.
The street was quiet. I pulled out the paper to make sure I had the correct address. At the top it said, Attention Worki
ngmen! Secret Meeting of the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers, Wednesday at 7:30 pm. Corner of Wallabout Place & Keap Street. I was in the right place, but the meeting started half an hour ago. Was it over?
On the corner was an old brick warehouse. From the navy yard beyond, I heard the sound of water slapping against the wooden ships, and the clang of rigging moving in the wind. The large arched wooden doors marching around the building were all closed tight. I scanned the darkened windows. On the fourth floor, I saw light flickering behind the glass. They must be up there.
Attached to the side wall, I noticed a steel stairway, its switchbacks rising upward, similar to the stairway at the Works. I could climb up and peek into the window. No one would see.
As carefully as I could, I climbed the stairway, stopping whenever it creaked or whined. Near the top, men’s voices reached my ears, but I couldn’t make out their words. I had to get closer. Finally, I peered over the windowsill.
There were maybe fifty men gathered, lanterns lighting the space. I recognized a few. They sat on chairs, listening to a speaker on a box in the center of the circle. His fist pumped the air, and his clear voice brimmed with passion. “We’ve heard it before, ‘We mean to uphold the dignity of labor. To affirm the nobility of all who earn their bread by the sweat of their brows.’ Well, now is the time! Join with me, my brothers, to end this involuntary servitude, to end the grievous conditions under which we work, and to show the big industrialists they can no longer tyrannize the common man.”
This was greeted with whoops of affirmation. When the room settled, the man spoke again. “In exactly one week from tonight, we will show them our power, we will show them our unity. We will strike!”
A chant started, spreading throughout the room. “Strike! Strike! Strike!”
The steel workers were planning a strike. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride in these men, in their devotion to the cause, but what did it mean for the boys and me? I’d heard enough. I hastened my way down the stairs and sprinted back to Geeno’s. I did not tell him what I’d seen, but I fretted we’d be swept up into the danger that lay ahead.
The next night, I anxiously made my way toward the waterfront to meet Khan. I had yet to see Nikolai Moralis. Katalina assured me he would be back from his travels by the end of the week. It was hard to wait. I was desperate for answers about him—and about my mother.
The streets were particularly crowded. I pulled my hat lower but kept my eyes and ears vigilant. I was surprised I didn’t see Khan sooner. One moment I was alone; the next, a strong arm wrapped around my shoulders, forcing me into a darkened alley. A mangy dog glared at me from the other end as if I’d come to steal whatever it was shaking back and forth in its teeth.
By this point, I knew to whom the arm belonged. “Khan, you scared me half to death. We have to stop meeting this way.” I stepped back, laughing, but his face remained serious.
“You’ll be glad we did. You were about to turn the corner into a street full of angry protesters.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s a rally. From what I’ve seen, hordes of workingmen are marching tonight for the Knights of Labor. They’re up in arms about the rape and murder of those two young sisters who worked at the shirtwaist factory. Apparently it was their employer, Norman Bale, who did it. They arrested him today. The Metropolitan Police are out in force, hoping to contain the mob. If we turn north on Seventh, we should get ahead of them.”
Sweat seeped into the back of my shirt. I quickly told Khan about the secret meeting of the steel workers.
“Avery, why do you put yourself in situations like these?” he huffed.
“I don’t know. I tried to talk myself out of it, but this involves my job—the people I work with, Khan. I had to find out what’s going on.”
“Well, I’m glad they didn’t catch you spying on them.” Khan unbuttoned his jacket, his knives a comfort to us both. “I’m going to walk a little ways behind so I can watch out for you.”
“All right.” I removed my knife from its sheath and slid the blade into the sleeve of my coat so I could hold it inconspicuously. Then I stepped from the alley and headed north, hugging the building. There was no sign of the rally, but the side streets were overrun with men hooting and hollering.
Rallies and strikes were rarely peaceful. My nerves felt raw, exposed. I flinched at a shriek from an organ-grinder’s monkey; I spun away from a grasping woman begging for a handout for the baby bundled in her arms.
When we reached Seventh Street, the crowd thickened, clogging the area. They obstructed buggies and carriages. Drivers whipped the poor horses, which had nowhere to go. Here, sagging clapboard structures looked as dirty and broken-down as the people sitting on their stoops spitting brown tobacco juice onto the sidewalk.
I took a deep breath as we turned the corner. We were almost to Kent Avenue, the last street before the docks. A line of people waited along the sidewalk for the rally to pass. We wove to the front. The street was clear. They’d closed it off to horse carts and coaches; even the vendors were nowhere in sight. We just had to cross the street and disappear into the crowd on the other side.
Easier said than done. I leaned forward and looked toward the head of the rally. The men were closer than I’d hoped. Dusk was settling in, long rays of light reaching between the buildings. I took a deep breath and stepped onto the cobblestones, Khan right behind me.
A nightstick came down, blocking my way.
“Can’t cross here.” A police officer stared down at me. “We’re keeping people off the streets.”
I nodded and stepped back onto the curb. Somehow the congestion behind us had become a solid mass. The rally advanced forward. In all my life, I’d never seen anything like it.
The men were packed so tightly they looked like a swarm of sticks and signs and fists. The ground trembled with their advance. There was something noble about the unions, though. The workers risked everything to stand up for what they believed in, just as my father had done when he’d disobeyed orders in order to save Khan and his grandmother.
The police officer in front of me pushed us back as hundreds of officers came marching in neat rows from the opposite direction, toward the union members.
Cold claws seemed to dig into my spine, squeezing the air from my lungs as I struggled to remain calm. The space between the protesters and police rapidly diminished. They were less than ten feet apart when Khan hauled me back into the crowd. Something exploded behind us, almost knocking me down.
Chaos broke out. Smoke plumed into the air. Khan wrapped his arms around me, shoving his way through the panicked, screaming people. I held on to Khan with all my might.
I jerked as gunshots rang out from behind. More screams.
When we were finally out of the fray and far from the commotion, Khan held me for a long time. “I can’t go to the Gypsy camp tonight,” I said, as I sobbed into his shoulder. I didn’t understand why there was so much violence. Is this really the only way for people to make themselves heard?
Chapter Eighteen
Dead Crow
On Friday evening, I set out once again to meet Khan at the Northside Pier. As soon as he saw me, he hugged me tight. We’d spent most of the previous night huddled in the back booth of a tavern. Getting up for work this morning had not been easy.
“Did you see the papers today?” he said, pushing off from the dock. “Two policemen and four workers dead.”
“It’s hard to miss. The newsboys are shouting it from every corner.” I stared into the fathomless depths of the river. Our boat ride that night was quiet, haunted.
As he navigated the dark waterway, Khan softly sang a song his grandmother had taught him. “Babylon’s falling to rise no more. Oh, Babylon’s falling, falling, falling. Babylon’s falling to rise no more.” His words gave me chills.
At the Gypsy camp, I met Hurricane in the blue tent of the elders and spent the better part of an hour trying to clear my m
ind. It was more difficult today, given the curious elders huddled around us, watching. Just as I began to get control over my frenzied thoughts, Katalina’s loud voice broke the silence. She entered with a gangly boy in tow. His mop of hair hung over his face and his ruddy cheeks suggested he’d been running.
Katalina had the boy by the ear. She addressed the elders. “Pardon the interruption, but Pesha has been caught lighting fires—again!” She glowered at the boy. “We do not tolerate arson, Pesha. And within the confines of this camp, it is inexcusable.”
“Who are you to tell me what to do, Katalina?” Pesha scoffed. “Just because your father is head of the camp, you think you can order me around?”
One of the elders approached them. “Pesha, this is very dangerous.”
“Don’t worry. Soon as I save up some money, I’m leaving. I’d rather live in the city anyway.” He spit on the floor.
As the elders discussed what to do, Hurricane cupped her hand to my ear. “Can you see his aura, Avery?”
I shifted my gaze and saw a dark swirling cloud around Pesha. Tentatively, I nodded.
“Get him to look at you,” she murmured.
I called out his name. “Hey, Pesha.”
When he looked up at me, images flooded into my head, of Pesha being picked on by some of the other Gypsy boys. They called him a sissy and a scalawag. I saw him shoved, knocked to the ground.
Hurricane spoke softly, so no one else would hear. “Focus, Avery. Push your energy toward him.”
Without looking away from Pesha, I did as she instructed. I thought about Geeno’s insects, what I’d done with them. I imagined radiant light flowing through my third eye, flowing toward Pesha, flowing into him. His dark energy began to lighten, shading to gray. Still looking at me, he straightened his shoulders, and the muscles of his face relaxed.
But when a tear slipped down his cheeks, he flushed and looked away, swiping at it with his sleeve. His head hung low; his aura began to darken once more.
The Tombs Page 13