Currently

by Sarah Mensinga

  “Then check on her daily.” The Gray Strap pushes past me and heads out the door, shouting, “No, I said that goes on the left side. Is that the left side? I think that’s the I-wasn’t-listening side.”

  “I know how to solve your problem,” Sande whispers as we head back outside. “It’s rectangular and has pages.”

  I don’t answer. I just stare at the barracks buildings—our prisons for the winter. All twelve of them stand in neat rows of four, yet from here they look uneven because they’re built on such a steep slope. The setting sun makes one side of the tiled rooftops burn bright orange while the other side simmers dusty red.

  “Nerry, I am sorry… mostly sorry,” Sande says gently. “I don’t like it when you’re upset, and I wish you’d just trust me. I know we—”

  He stops speaking abruptly, which is strange, so I turn around. I find him staring at the wooden platform, which the Gray Straps have finished assembling, podium and all. They’re now hanging a large poster on the wall of the arch house. I’m used to seeing posters in the barracks, images that remind us to be in our homes before curfew or images that encourage us to visit the Threegod temples, but none of those posters are this large or colorful. It seems to show a factory with deeplanders lined up outside of it. There are also bright red words on the bottom that we can’t read.

  “Hey, what does that say?” Sande asks the nearest Gray Strap.

  “This? Says, ‘do your part.’” The man glares at us. “Yeah, just you deeplanders wait.”

  Cold wind seeps through my wildwool jacket the next morning as I stand with Carnos to hear the Chancellor’s tidewater address. All the villages surrounding Varasay Mountain have arrived now, and almost two thousand of us are crowded into the barracks market, a cobblestone-covered plaza near the arch house. The sun is bright and cheerful but unfortunately not strong enough to warm us, and I hear a lot of the deeplanders around me complaining about how tired they are. It always takes a sunedge or two for everyone to get used to sleeping in the saggy barracks cots again.

  “Are you feeling better?” Carnos asks as we watch a shiny, black automotor park on the other side of the fence.

  “Yes,” I say.

  He was so kind to me yesterday on that dais—worried I would faint and wanting to carry me down the steps. Then later, as we walked back to the barracks, he was concerned that I’d be sad about our postponed wedding. He may not be a complex person, but he is kind. I should hurry up and marry him.

  It’s not Chancellor Noble who climbs out of the automotor. It’s someone younger and skinnier, wearing a striped, gray uppy suit.

  Does Varasay have a new chancellor?

  As troubled murmurs move through the crowd, my thoughts turn to Gren Tya. I tried to visit her on my way to the plaza, but she was still sleeping.

  The young uppy man climbs onto the platform and stands behind the podium, which is draped in the Varasay colors of silver and aqua. He gives us an indulgent wave as if we’re cheering rather than staring, and now that I can see him more clearly, he does look like the Chancellor. He has the same burst of dark hair, scattered freckles, and prominent nose. He also looks just as ridiculous as the Chancellor often does in his expensive uppy finery. The silliest part of his outfit are the black tassels on his shoulders. I’m sure he thinks they make him seem strong and Carnos-like, but I think it looks like some of the strange creatures that live in the deepest, darkest parts of the tide have attacked his jacket.

  “Greetings citizens of Varasay’s lower plains,” the stranger says, and his voice is oddly loud. It must have something to do with the thin, metal contraption on the podium. Uppies do love their gadgets. “I am Giron Noble, and I am Chancellor Fess Noble’s son. My father asked me to speak to you this tide, and I was extremely honored. Not only do I have a deep respect for deeplanders—” here, he pauses for laughter that doesn’t come— “it’s also my job to arrange the details of your stay, and I’ve been working tirelessly on improvements.” Giron now applauds and smiles at us as if we should clap along.

  No one does.

  Rather than let his clapping fade away pitifully, Giron seems to think it best he end with a showy, loud, double clap. It makes his sound device crackle and hum. He then keeps speaking, and what he says sounds rehearsed. “For countless years, Varasay has graciously provided you with homes and the opportunity to sell your goods while the tide passes. I’m sure you are aware that our city has become more crowded, and Mount Varasay, stubbornly, will not grow larger. Every tide it’s more challenging to keep your barracks homes available for you. Therefore, since we here in Varasay City are generous hosts, we ask that you deeplanders be generous guests.”

  Somewhere behind me, I hear Sande mutter, “Giving them two-thirds of our harvest and all of our landrunner kills is already pretty generous.”

  I bristle and look back at him. I didn’t realize he was so close.

  He winks.

  “I’ve always said that deeplanders are a proud people who don’t want charity.” Giron’s voice bounces off the brick walls of barracks buildings two and three. “But there is something you lack that I would love to offer you, which is… an education.”

  There is mild, hesitant applause because most of us know that if an uppy offers something that sounds too good to be true, it’s surely too good to be true.

  Giron smiles in a stiff, toothy way that I think is meant to be kind. “So I’ve come up with a solution. It will give you a chance to repay us for housing you and a chance to learn new skills that will enrich your lives. I’ve asked my people to use the phrase ‘win-storm.’ It’s like windstorm but with win instead of… well, you understand. So now I invite all of you to experience a ‘win-storm’ with me, for every deeplander between eight and sixty-five tides will be awarded a factory job!”

  “A factory job?” I echo.

  “Awarded?” Sande grumbles.

  Giron steps back so we can better see the poster hanging on the arch house wall. “So here, take a look at this. I know many of you can’t read, so it says ‘do your part’ there on the bottom. And right now I’m promising you that I will ‘do my part’ to make sure you always feel at home in Varasay. I wish you calm waters!”

  An uproar of conversation ripples through the crowd, and people shout out questions like, “What about the barracks market?” and “How much will we be paid?” and “How will we care for our children?”

  “At least we’ll be able to pay for our wedding more quickly now,” Carnos says with an uncertain happiness.

  But I only feel dread. I’ve seen tired factory workers in the lower city. I’ve heard about the ugly accidents that leave people without arms or legs.

  “Please! Please. Don’t everyone shout. I’m happy and prepared to answer questions.” Giron smiles so wide his molars are visible. “Now I’ve thought through the age requirements carefully, so either your older children or your elderly will be free to care for your infants and toddlings. Parents can also request alternating day and night shifts. The barracks market has an even simpler solution; rather than operate daily, it will only be open on K’Gar third day, which coincides perfectly with your sunedge day of rest. And there’s no need to concern yourself with shell papers or coins. To simplify things, your earnings will be put into a fund that will pay for the rent and upkeep of the barracks buildings. See? I have thought of everything.”

  Again he claps and seems to expect us to clap too. Again we’re silent.

  At least Giron’s factory jobs will give me good reason to frequently leave the Olin’s barracks unit. When Sande and I returned last night from talking to the Gray Straps and told Bessel I’d have to stay, she stormed off to the arch house to try and solve the problem herself. Of course she had no more success than we did, and she hasn’t spoken to me since.

  “What if we don’t want a job?” Sande shouts. “What if we refuse to work?”

  But Giron doesn’t hear him or at least pretends not to hear. Instead he gives a hasty run through
of the usual reminders about the procedure, curfew, and that we’re required to visit the Threegod temples every sunedge. When Giron’s finished, he adds a final, firm comment that sounds less polished than everything else he’s said. “You deeplanders should be thankful. It’s a hard truth maybe, but if we didn’t let you into our city, you’d drown. Know that a lot of uplanders, loud uplanders, think life would be easier if you didn’t exist. I’m trying to protect you.” He then climbs down from the podium, shooting us a disappointed, somewhat irritated look. Perhaps he really thought we’d appreciate his work assignments. Maybe in some confused way, he believes he’s helping us.

  I think we might welcome jobs in the lower city if they were optional and we could save our pay. But I don’t think many people, deeplander or uplander, like changes that are forced on them, especially changes that don’t seem fair.

  After Giron leaves the barracks with his four burly guards, a Gray Strap tells us that we’ll have to line up in the market this afternoon to be assigned jobs and that those who arrive early will have more options. Since Giron took his voice-enhancing device with him, the Gray Strap’s words are nearly drowned out by the rising hum of discussion.

  “He didn’t answer me.” Sande glares at the poster. “I want to know what happens if we refuse to work. Will they banish us?”

  “Let’s not find out,” I say.

  Carnos’s mother, Itanda, tucks her dark curls beneath her knit hat. “I think it’ll be interesting to learn about Varasay’s mechanical wonders. Those gadgets could make our lives easier. I’d like to drive an automotor up the mountain road instead of pushing a wagon.” She doesn’t look at me while saying any of this, and I suppose she’s surely not happy with my weak stomach during the temple wedding.

  Sande shakes his head. “They won’t teach us what they teach other uppies. They’ll show us how to do one thing, which will probably be something boring, like tightening a bolt, and that’ll be it. I know how those factories are.”

  Carnos turns grimly to me. “Nerene, it will be difficult to marry. I don’t know how we’ll raise the money if we can only sell our goods at the barracks market every…” I see he’s counting days in his mind. Three days for each god, so…

  “Ninth day,” I say gently, helping him out. “Well, if we have to wait until next tide, we’ll wait.”

  “It’ll be hard to save money for anything,” Sande says. And I know he’s thinking about passbooks.

  We part ways with Carnos’s family because they are in barracks building seven which is to the right. Building ten, our building, is on the left.

  “This is how it starts,” Sande says. “I got paid at the track house… maybe I won’t next spring.”

  I was thinking that too, but I say, “At least Threegod doesn’t approve of slavery.” Perhaps there is an upside to the Threegod priests being so powerful in Varasay City.

  “They’ll find a way around that. Why do you think Giron says we’re getting paid even though we’ll never see money? It’s already slavery, it’s just slavery in disguise. The uppies say they don’t want us here, but they also refuse to let us travel the tide. What does that tell you?” Sande picks up a rock and throws it against a nearby brick wall. He then turns to building ten’s entrance, an arched opening that leads to the stairwell. When I keep walking, he says, “You’re not coming in?” He grins and adds, “I bet you want to visit more with my maam.”

  I smile and shake my head. “Sadly I need to check on Gren.”

  She’s in building twelve, and I’m glad that at least her unit is on the ground floor. The Rinians aren’t home, and I guess they’re still at the barracks market talking with other deeplanders about work assignments. I’m also pleased to see that although Gren’s skin is ashy and she’s tucked beneath several blankets, she’s sitting up and wearing her favorite dress—the purple one that she’s sewn a lot of dream markings on. Whenever deeplanders have prophetic dreams, we stitch images on our clothes to remind us of the details.

  “Oh no, don’t look at me like that, Nerene,” she says and then coughs. “You know how the climb gets to me. Give me another day, and I’ll be up and running around the market. Now as for you, seems like you’re bringing me some bad news.”

  I nod, cringing because I have plenty of terrible things to share. “Did you hear what happened with Carnos?”

  “Do you mean, did I hear that you two didn’t get married?” Gren waves her bony hand at me. “News travels fast when you vomit on a priest.”

  I flush. “Bessel thinks I have a nervous condition.”

  Gren snorts. “Bessel couldn’t find a rotten fish if it were stuck up her nose.”

  “I’m still going to marry him,” I say. “Sande and I just have to find a way to pay the temple fees.”

  “Sande and you?” Gren tilts her head.

  “Carnos and I,” I correct myself. “You know what I mean.”

  “I know what you said,” Gren laughs, but it quickly turns into another coughing fit that leaves me worried.

  “Can I make you some tea?” I ask, looking around for the Rinian’s kettle. In such a small unit, you’d think it would be easy to find, but I’m surrounded by stacks of honey candles. The candles are what the Rinians sell in the barracks market, just like how Gren and I sell dried herbs, the Narroes sell carved kelpwood spoons, and the Olins sell woven reed mats. The candles certainly take up a lot of space, but at least they smell pleasant.

  As I search for a kettle and then decide to use a cookpot to heat water instead, I tell Gren about the factory jobs. Thankfully she won’t have to have one because of her age.

  “Now isn’t that a cockled idea,” she says. “What’s everyone going to eat by the time the tide drains out?”

  I hadn’t thought about that, and she’s right, it’ll be tough. We deeplanders sell our goods for uppy money when we first arrive in Varasay, but by the time the tail-end of the ocean passes, we’re usually trading our wares for tinned vegetables and meat instead. No matter how much food we haul up from the deeplands, it never lasts through the winter.

  Gren sighs in a thin, wispy way. “At least I’m good at making little ones do what they’re supposed to.”

  Yes, Gren is wonderful with children, but I have trouble imagining the frail woman on the cot chasing wild toddlings or wrestling uncooperative babies into clean nappers. I sit on the edge of her bed and hold her hand. “You took wonderful care of me.”

  “I did.” She smiles at me with crinkly eyes. “And perhaps this old shell still has a pearl in her yet.”

  I’m not sure what she means, but hearing her use one of her wise-old-lady phrases is reassuring. It’s a sign she’ll get better.

  “Go find that blue tin of mine,” she says. “You’ll have to dig around under this cot, but you know the tin I mean. That Mernor Rinian probably shoved it all the way to the back, even though I told him to put it where I could reach it.”

  I do as she asks, and yes, I know the tin she’s talking about. We usually store our rarest herbs in it, like moss sage and silvany weed, because it can be locked.

  Gren takes the key out of a buttoned pocket on the front of her sweater and opens the tin. As I expect, there are dozens of little cloth bags of herbs tucked inside and some stoppered glass bottles too. Carefully removing the contents and placing them on her knit blanket, Gren then pries up the bottom of the tin. “Ooo, a secret compartment!” she tells me, looking smug. “Oh, huh… I forgot I had a snapper in here. Well, you should take it too.”

  She hands me a thin leather pouch on a cord.

  “Gren!” I can’t believe she risked smuggling a snapper into the city. Paralyzing darts certainly aren’t allowed in Varasay.

  “If you’re working in a factory, you should have some bite ’round your neck,” Gren says. “Who knows what might happen in those places.”

  “I can’t risk getting caught with this,” I say, but Gren wiggles her bony fingers as if flicking my concerns away.

  “Just don�
�t let anyone see it. I always have one on me.” Next she pulls out a sealed, waxed canvas wallet. “Now this is what I was looking for; plenty of paper shells and coins. I’ve saved them up over the years, and it’s more than enough for your wedding.”

  I turn the wallet over several times and then examine the delicate money inside. It’s soft, almost like fabric, and there are images of different shells printed on each bill. There are also about a dozen coins. “I can’t take this.”

  “You can, and I’m going to make you.” Gren noisily shuts the tin. “We both know what happens when you’re in reach of Sande. You must run from trouble, Nerene.” She chuckles. “Run all the way to Riversborn.”

  I laugh too, but it’s good advice. I caught myself listening to Sande’s breathing as we fell asleep last night. And not only was I paying too much attention to the even, steady sound of his breath, I also longed to slip out of my bunk, cross the cold, concrete floor, and join him under the wildwool blankets. And of course I didn’t do it, wouldn’t do it, but wanting to is still a problem.

  Tucked in the middle of the paper money, I find a stiff rectangle of cardpaper that has glossy uppy letters printed on it. There is also a symbol that looks like a weapon with three spikes. “What’s this?”

  Gren glowers at the cardpaper. “Oh that. I got it from some uppy tide merchant… He wanted to buy a child. Can you believe it? I said, ‘no sir, all you’ll get from me is dried rain mint.’”

  I sit up straighter, surprised. “Buy a child? Whatever for?”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t to be kind to it,” Gren says darkly.

  How odd. Tide merchants usually don’t visit our market either, for there are so many other markets closer to the wharf. Yet I suppose there are also plenty of Gray Straps near the harbor, and this type of man probably wanted to avoid them.

  It’s also odd that Gren has kept this cardpaper for all these years. I’m about to ask her why, when she says, “Throw that away, won’t you?”