by Susan Kim
“I’m sorry.” It was not the first time Esther had felt both frustrated and embarrassed having difficulty deciphering even the most basic of sentences. But Joseph was gazing off, deep in his own thoughts.
“I’m teaching Uri to read,” he said at last. “He asked me.”
Esther nodded with chagrin. Even though Uri’s intelligence had been apparent to everyone from the start, he was even younger than Silas.
“If you’d like,” Joseph added, “you can join us.”
Esther hesitated.
She had a clear memory of her sister, Sarah, attempting to teach her. Night after night, the two girls sat at the table in the apartment above STARBUCKS COFFEE. Sarah had printed out the alphabet on a sheet of brown paper. As stubborn in her own way as the younger girl, she had been exacting and strict, and Esther had reacted with typical resentment and defiance.
It had been, Esther now recalled ruefully, a disaster.
Yet this was a new situation. Esther was not being forced to do anything; she would be choosing to learn, for a very real reason. And if a little boy like Uri could be taught to read, she thought with a flare of competitive feeling, why couldn’t she?
“I’d like that,” Esther said at last in a shy voice. “If you don’t mind.”
And it was different now.
Joseph’s kindness and patience made every lesson a pleasure and eased Esther’s anxiety. Uri already worked at a far higher level than she could ever hope to reach. By the time Esther could make her way, shakily, through a book of fairy tales, he was reading books about things she found incomprehensible: The history of medicine. The space race. The early days of the internet. Yet Joseph didn’t even seem to notice any difference between his two pupils, and so she quickly lost any self-consciousness. His pleasure in words was infectious, and he took pains to pick a diverse and unusual selection for both students to read, proving to Esther once and for all that books were, in fact, as distinct as people.
For the first time, Esther understood what her sister had tried to instill in her so long ago: Reading was a source of not only pleasure and comfort, but knowledge. And because of that, it seemed wrong that only a few of them—Joseph, and now Uri and herself—had access to it.
If she could learn to read, Esther thought, then anyone could. If more people knew how to decipher a publication, they could take the experience away with them, to share with others. As their knowledge spread, everyone would benefit: not only those who lived on the top two floors, but all the people who lived in the District. And perhaps everyone in Mundreel, as well.
Esther had an impulsive thought, one that was unformed yet so audacious it made her smile. Perhaps it was not enough to merely shelter and care for the sick. What if she could somehow help others—just one or two, whoever was willing or interested—to learn to read, as well?
She had no idea how such a proposal would be met or if such a thing was even possible. Yet the more she thought of it, the more it seemed like something worth doing.
TEN
THERE WAS A RESOUNDING CRACK AND THE BOY, AGED THIRTEEN OR SO, reeled backward.
Blood began streaming down his flushed face. When he put his hand up and saw that it was covered in red, he let out a furious roar and charged at the one who had hit him with an empty vessel. But he slipped on the wet tiled floor and pitched forward. Clutching his attacker by the shirtfront, he dropped with a thud. There, the two wrestled on the filthy ground, crashing into tables and chairs as the air filled with the fumes of spilled proof and encouraging shouts of laughter from onlookers.
Ever since Gideon had opened the secret room, it had been like this every night. In short, his plans had succeeded far beyond anything he could have imagined.
It started as a rumor: Proof was available downstairs. Within a day, word had begun to spread and the place began drawing people: mostly boys, but some girls as well.
First out of curiosity and then with greater avidity, they drifted down singly and in twos and threes to the food court in the basement. There, they approached the armed Insurgent who stood guard in front of a locked door at the end of the hall, not far from the storeroom. Behind it was a windowless room.
Inside was a network of rusted pipes that led to a huge vertical drum that was discolored by dust. On a nearby table lit by torches, Nur dispensed drinks from various bottles that were either clear or colored amber, dark red, pale yellow, or blue.
Gideon had asked her to run the place, owing her something as he did. He was also guilty that he no longer called on Nur for her personal services and had been avoiding her in general, even though she often came looking for him. Ever since their disastrous encounter before his partnering ceremony, he had been repelled by her presence; he couldn’t see her without feeling her clawing arms. And once she learned how to count, he had to admit that she had turned out to be a surprisingly competent and shrewd worker, one of the best he had.
It was Nur’s idea, for example, to dispense the proof in small servings, no more than a single sip that she herself policed. Since she charged only three fragments, it seemed cheap to her customers, who had initially come out of curiosity. Although most choked and made faces when they first tasted the fiery stuff, the low cost made it easy to buy another and still another. By the second or third visit, one swallow never seemed like enough and thus it kept people asking for more—so much so that a boy could easily hand over nine, twelve, even fifteen pieces in a single evening without even being aware of it.
By the end of the first week, Nur was bringing in close to two hundred glass pieces every night. That number nearly doubled by the second week. Even after she had taken her cut, the amount of which Gideon never asked after or questioned, that made proof by far the most successful item in the District, more so than even food or water.
Yet the success brought risks, as well.
At first, only Insurgents came to drink. These were people Nur knew well, boys and girls she had lived with and who would comply when she asked them to pay up. For all of the loudness and foolish behavior brought on by their drinking, the crowd was mostly orderly. Yet that started to change as more and more strange faces began appearing.
The Outsiders were gaunt and filthy. They were only children, the same as everyone else, but living outdoors and scrabbling to survive had made some of them unpredictable, argumentative, and even violent on occasion, especially after a few sips of proof.
Nur watched the boys, strangers to her, who were now struggling on the floor. She had become accustomed to such fights; at least one broke out every night, and she was always quick to break it up if it looked like it was getting out of control. Warily, she watched for a moment as the two rolled on top of each other, knocking into walls and furniture. A torch fell over, which she was quick to set straight.
Then one of them, the boy with the gash on his forehead, seized a metal chair and threw it at the other. It glanced off his shoulder and flew straight at the table where Nur was standing, along with her bottles and bucket of glass. Narrowly missing her, it crashed against the wall behind her with a deafening clang.
“Hey!” she shouted.
Furious, Nur jumped around from behind her station and came straight at them. Although she was small, she was fearless as she waded in between the two, yanking one up by the collar. “Stop it!” she screamed in his face. She turned to the other and attempted to grab his fist, which he had pulled back to deliver a blow. “That ain’t allowed in here!”
In her new domain, getting yelled at by Nur made most boys, even the inebriated, sheepish and compliant. But the stranger just stared her down, his eyes mean and watery. Then, to Nur’s shock, he gave her a violent shove. She flew backward and crashed against her table. She could hear the explosion as her container of glass fragments hit the floor. Several bottles tipped over and their contents began to glug out. In the next second, frantic patrons lunged at the flow, attempting to lap it up.
Helpless, Nur scrambled to one side.
All
of the customers were on their feet and pushing one another, shouting and throwing punches in their eagerness to get a free drink. They didn’t even seem to care about the glass fragments they were skidding on and trampling. When Nur saw people grabbing new bottles and attempting to open them, she ran to the door.
“Help!” she screamed at the boy who stood guard outside.
Eager for action, the guard, a hulking sixteen-year-old, waded back inside with her. As he pushed his way through the mob, he began swinging his weapon, a club with the words LOUISVILLE SLUGGER printed on the side. The air was soon filled with the sickening sound of wood cracking against flesh and bone as people screamed. The ground underneath grew slick with puddles of spilled proof mixing with blood. Even so, others continued what they were doing: raiding Nur’s supplies, attempting to drink what they could, and stuffing any bottle they found beneath their robes.
By the time it was all over, an unnamed boy, stinking of drink, lay unmoving on the dusty floor that was littered with broken bottles. Many others had been injured, some badly; they had all stumbled away or been carried out by their friends. Now Nur crouched next to the body, picking up glass fragments that were sticky and flecked with dark red. She had to steel herself to check under him for any that were missing. Shuddering, Nur forced herself to concentrate on counting even as she could hear the boy’s breath grow fainter and fainter and then stop altogether.
Wiping her hands off on her jeans, Nur took the bucket of glass and stood, refusing to look down as she went from torch to torch, extinguishing each one.
There was nothing left to steal. Yet out of habit, Nur made certain to lock the door behind her.
No one seemed to know who the dead boy was. Because no one would claim him, Gideon ordered the body dragged to the garbage room and tossed into a far corner for the rats.
He was bothered by the violence, not out of any feeling for the child or those who had been injured, but because of the effect it might have on his newest and most popular attraction. By Nur’s count, she had lost seven bottles in the melee.
Gideon cursed the idiot of a guard who had acted in such a clumsy and stupid way. It was a mistake, he realized too late, to have used the boy for such a delicate job when all he brought with him was size and strength. The guard groveled and wept, tears staining his ugly face as he begged for leniency, but Gideon banished him from the District for good. And even that was too generous, Gideon thought with contempt.
Then Gideon made a decision.
When he had been living on the outside, he had heard rumors of a notorious enforcer. According to Insurgents who spoke of him, the boy was an expert at weaponry, skilled at bringing order to lawless areas and pursuing and eliminating troublemakers. He was said to work for whoever would supply him with the best food, water, and shelter: variant or norm, it didn’t matter. He would even switch sides in a single town if the terms suited him. Gideon admired such lack of sentiment. If only half the things people said about him were true, the boy seemed to possess the traits that Gideon most admired: practicality, shrewdness, and steeliness.
With any luck, the fighter could be enlisted to help out.
Gideon sent out five of his best runners with instructions to cover the city. He hoped that through word of mouth, his invitation would reach its intended target.
Soon, to his delight, it had.
Two days later, Gideon was told that someone was waiting for him on the market level. No one had seen him arrive. When he came out, Gideon saw a stranger standing alone amid the milling crowd. He was sniffing a handful of what looked like figs and talking with the girl who was selling them.
It wasn’t difficult to pick him out.
The boy looked old, perhaps seventeen or so, and was what Gideon assumed girls found handsome: tall, lanky, with an aquiline nose and watchful eyes. Yet what stuck out most of all was that everything about him was pale. He wore a white shirt and white jeans, both of which were impossibly clean. His face was dominated by a pair of blue mirrored sunglasses, the only note of color. The cap that he wore, with a number 37 stitched on it, was white; and when he pulled it from his head to scratch his scalp, Gideon was surprised to see that a shock of white decorated his dark hair.
“Trey?”
The boy didn’t turn. “Let me finish here.”
The visitor leaned in to whisper into the girl’s ear. A blush came over her face and she giggled. He dug out several pieces of glass from a back pocket and pressed a few into her palm. The girl’s blush deepened and she grinned a thank-you. Then she turned to help another customer.
The boy had a grand sense of himself, and this could be both good and bad, Gideon thought. Trey studied one of the figs and bit into it, savoring the taste. Then he returned the leftover pebbles to his jeans. “Glass,” he remarked as if to himself. “First time I used it.” He spat out a stem.
“Yeah?” Gideon said. “Where you get it?”
Trey’s eyes flickered up at Gideon and, behind their reflective cover, looked him over. “Outside. Off a dead boy.”
Gideon nodded, glad to hear that his influence was spreading. “I’m Gideon.” He didn’t extend a hand; he never did.
“What you want? I want to get going before it too hot.”
Gideon could not help it; he was distracted by the boy’s strange appearance. He gestured to his hair. “Why you look like that?”
“Maybe I seen a ghost.” Trey chewed and swallowed. “Maybe I am one.” He put his cap back on and, when he smiled, Gideon saw that his teeth were unusually white, too. “Why you call for me?”
“To work here,” Gideon replied.
“Do what?”
“Keep order.”
Trey shrugged. “I ain’t one to stay in one place long.”
“I make it worth it.”
“What with? Glass?” His smile was scornful.
Gideon kept his voice even. “It going to be the way now, everywhere.”
Trey shrugged. He was already looking around, appraising the marketplace. Although it was crowded and noisy, people were behaving in an orderly way; they waited their turns to trade and buy, paid what was asked, and didn’t argue. “Things look pretty peaceful.”
“Ain’t here I mean.”
As he descended the staircase with the grooved metal steps to the lower level, Gideon was surprised that Trey didn’t follow. When he turned to look, however, he was startled to discover that the boy was right behind him. To his consternation, Gideon had never heard his footsteps.
As if reading his thoughts, the pale boy smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m always right there.”
They headed across the food court in silence. Gideon opened the door at the far end, revealing the large room where proof was sold. When the boys entered, Nur was polishing the bottles that lined the table, dressed in a formfitting top and jeans.
The stranger doffed his hat again, exposing his partly white mane. “Trey,” he said. He extended a hand and, when Nur placed hers in his, kissed it with delicacy. She started, not sure what to make of him, and, blushing, withdrew her hand.
As Gideon explained the purpose of the room, Trey didn’t appear to be listening; he kept his eyes on Nur, who smiled back in a self-conscious way as she continued working. Yet he was clearly paying attention.
“I seen the stuff drunk before,” Trey said, “but not in a place like this. This new.” He seemed appreciative, then thoughtful. “Bottles should be that way.” He pointed. “Away from the door. And tables go that side. So she see who come in and go out. Safer.”
Gideon nodded, impressed by the suggestions. “I give you twenty pieces a week. Plus food and a room. How that sound?”
Trey nodded his approval, but Gideon wasn’t finished with his interview. “What weapon you use?”
Trey chewed his lip. “What I always.” He pulled something from near the ankle of his jeans and held it out: a small white pistol with a blunt muzzle.
Gideon smirked. “That?”
�
��It may be little, but it do the job.” Trey put the weapon back. Then his eyes fell on someone across the room. “Who that?”
Gideon had been ignoring the boy who sat in the corner. Eli was asleep, head down on a table next to an empty bottle. Gideon looked at him with a flare of both disgust and embarrassment. He had probably begged some proof off of Nur, who had taken pity on him.
“Introduce me,” Trey said.
“Eli.” Gideon crossed the room and kicked at his foot. “Eli. Wake up.”
Eli awoke with a grunt. He blinked, getting his bearings. He saw that Trey was holding out an empty bottle. With a fuzzy smile, Eli stood and took it into his quivering hands.
“Now stand down there,” the stranger said.
Still barely conscious, Eli agreed. He wandered down to the far end, past Nur, who ceased what she was doing to watch.
“That good,” Trey called. “Now hold it up . . . beside your head.”
Eli stopped. He did what Gideon instructed. The bottle trembled next to his temple.
“For true?” Gideon himself was a little alarmed. “What if you miss?”
Trey shrugged. “Miracles happen.”
In one motion, he whipped out the small weapon, aimed it, and fired.
It made an astonishingly loud bang in the windowless room. Both Nur and Eli screamed as the bottle exploded in Eli’s hand, the shards spraying by his face and into his hair. He dropped to the floor, a trickle of blood running down his cheek, moaning in terror.
“He okay.” Trey’s voice was dismissive as he put back his weapon. “He ain’t hit.”
“I saw,” Gideon said, taken aback.
“So. We good?”
Gideon smiled. He even let Trey shake his hand, an intimacy he never allowed anyone.
“We good,” he replied.
Despite the prevalence of illness, the mood on the upper floors was festive.
By now, the Outsiders viewed Esther with a kind of awe; she had not only saved them, unbidden, from a slow and certain death, but also treated them with kindness and respect. As patients grew stronger, Esther brought them into the library, where Joseph read out loud to them. The stories, fanciful tales of imaginary characters, were popular enough; but to her surprise, the idea that the words themselves were somehow recorded on paper seemed even more remarkable.