Pure

by Julianna Baggott

  Pressia shakes her head. Her brain hasn’t even gotten this far yet. The woman is talking about the cross in her chest? “It’s none of my business,” she says.

  “Our stories are what we have,” Our Good Mother says. “Our stories preserve us. We give them to one another. Our stories have value. Do you understand?”

  This reminds Pressia of the first time she heard Bradwell speak in the basement, the idea of preserving the past. Bradwell—she can’t imagine what it would feel like if she finds out he’s dead. Our Good Mother is staring at her. She asked Pressia a question. Pressia can’t remember what it was. She nods. Is this the right response?

  “I will give you my story as a gift. I stood at a window, metal-framed,” Our Good Mother says, running her finger over the fabric of her shirt along the metal cross lodged in her sternum. “With my face poised there, staring at the shuddering sky, one hand pressed to the glass.” She holds out her hand, crusted with glass. “Can you see my near death in your head?”

  Pressia nods. Her mother was killed in a rain of glass. “The weapons,” Pressia says, pointing at them on the floor.

  “Gifts,” Mother says, “from the Death who brought us the Pure, who is also a Death. All men are Deaths to us. Surely, you know that.”

  Does this mean that they’re alive or dead? Do these women kill all men they come across? Is that why they call them Deaths?

  Then there’s a commotion behind Pressia. She turns.

  Partridge and Bradwell are being shoved into the room. They’re here. They’re still alive. Their hearts beating in their chests, their breath working their lungs. She’s so relieved she feels like she might cry.

  “Down, Deaths! Down before Our Good Mother!” the women shout.

  Partridge and Bradwell kneel on either side of Pressia. They both look worse for wear. Their eyes wrung out, their clothes ratty and ashen. But still Bradwell smiles. His eyes shine. He’s happy to see her and this warms Pressia’s chest, her cheeks.

  “Pressia,” Partridge whispers. “They found you!”

  So she hasn’t been captured; she’s been found? Have they been looking for her all this time? She was so sure that they would have parted ways. Partridge would have continued on his quest to find his mother, and Bradwell would have cut ties. He’s survived because he hasn’t let other people weigh him down. So what does it mean that he’s come looking for her?

  Our Good Mother claps her hands, and all the women and children bow and retreat out the door and up the stairs. Only one remains, the one with the spear-like broom. She stands at the door.

  “We thought your two Deaths here were part of a Death Spree,” Our Good Mother says to Pressia. “We don’t take part in the sport, but when they occasionally intrude, we kill as many as we can before they disperse.” She fits her small fingers into the handle of the poker.

  “I’m glad you didn’t kill them,” Pressia says. This gives her hope that El Capitan and Helmud survived somehow. There’s a chance.

  “I am too. They’re on a mission.” Our Good Mother stands awkwardly; the rod of the windowpane fused to the center of her chest makes it necessary for her to pull herself up, using the arms of the chair. She walks stiffly. “We have helped them in that mission, in part because you are a female. We believe in saving our fellow sisters. But there’s more. Something about finding the Pure’s mother.” She paces the room in a slow circle. “A Pure is of value to me,” Our Good Mother says. “Sentimental value, if nothing else.” She nods to the remaining woman, a guard really, who then walks to Partridge, points the tip of her broom-spear at his throat. “It seems to me that this isn’t an ordinary quest, and that even this Pure is not an ordinary Pure. Who are you? Who are your people?”

  Partridge looks at Bradwell, wide-eyed. Pressia knows what he’s thinking—should he say his father’s name? Will this spare his life? Or only make him more of a target?

  Bradwell nods, but Partridge doesn’t seem to trust the nod. Pressia wonders what’s happened between them since she’s been gone. Partridge doesn’t move his head, but he looks over at Pressia. He swallows, the spear tip poised at his Adam’s apple.

  “Ripkard Willux. I go by Partridge.”

  Our Good Mother smiles and bobs her head. “Well, well, well.” She turns to Pressia. “Do you see how he hasn’t been forthright? He holds on to information, doesn’t he? He has things to say that he isn’t. Deaths do this. They can’t be honest.”

  “I’m not withholding anything,” Partridge says.

  “Deaths do not speak to Our Good Mother unless addressed!” the woman with the broom-spear says and she thwacks him across the back.

  Our Good Mother speaks only to Pressia now. “The Detonations hit and many of us were here, alone, in our houses or trapped in our cars. Some were drawn to the yards to see the sky or, like me, to windows. We grabbed our children to our chests. The children we could gather. And there were those of us who were imprisoned, dying. We were all left to die. We were the ones who tended the dying. We wrapped the dead. We buried our children and when there were too many to bury, we built pyres and burned the bodies of our own children. Deaths, they did this to all of us. We used to call them Father or Husband or Mister. We’re the ones who saw their darkest sins. While we banged the shutters of our homes like trapped birds and beat our heads on prison walls, we watched them. We alone know how much they hated themselves, how shamed they were, their weakness, selfishness, their loathing, and how they turned that on us at first—and their own children—and then the world at once.” She sits again in her chair. “They left us to die and we are forced to carry our children, our children who will never outgrow us, and we will do this forever. Our burden is our love.”

  The room is quiet. Pressia wonders for a moment what happened to Our Good Mother’s child or perhaps children. She seems not to have one fused to her at all, only the metal cross, the glass of the panes. Were her children’s bodies burned in pyres?

  “Where did you go when you disappeared?” Our Good Mother asks.

  “OSR captured me and put me in officer training. At first, I didn’t know why. I went to an outpost, a farmhouse. An officer and his wife live out there and work for the Dome. They have crops of food.”

  “Inedible,” Our Good Mother says. “We know of this. We’ve made it that far though not much farther. We watch.”

  “They have my grandfather. He’s in the Dome. Hostage, I guess. I’m on a mission to get the Pure and his mother to Ingership. There are Special Forces out here, this wild superspecies. That’s who we’re supposed to hand Partridge and his mother over to.”

  “Special Forces? Outside the Dome?” Partridge says.

  “The orders are to look for something medicinal when we find your mother,” Pressia says. “They think she’s in a bunker of some kind.”

  “If the Dome thinks she’s here, that’s a good sign, right?” Partridge says.

  “It means we have to find her before they do,” Bradwell says. “We’ve got competition.”

  “My mother and I can’t go back. We can never go back.”

  “We can help,” Our Good Mother says. “It’s not my habit to talk to Deaths, but I must. There is a matter of payment. See, we found the girl, and if you want to make it out of the Meltlands alive to find your mother, you’ll likely need our protection.”

  Pressia looks at Bradwell. Is it true that they need the mothers?

  He nods.

  “I don’t know if we have anything worthwhile to give,” Pressia says.

  Our Good Mother looks down at all the weapons. “Where did you get these?”

  “A butcher shop,” Bradwell says.

  “Are you a butcher?”

  “No. I found the shop when I was a kid, just after the Detonations.”

  “Do you want weapons as payment?” Pressia asks.

  Our Good Mother looks at her and smiles. “I have all the weapons a girl could want.” She holds out her hand. “Give me one to hold.”

  Pressi
a reaches down and lifts one of the knives, handle-first, and bows.

  “Were you with your mother in the end?” she asks Pressia.

  “Yes.”

  “Loss is loss is loss,” she says, touching the blade. “You understand it or you don’t.”

  “What kind of payment are you looking for exactly?” Pressia says.

  Our Good Mother leans forward and speaks to Partridge directly. “We were watching you for some time before my women moved in. Do you know how many could have killed you by now and in how many different ways?”

  He shakes his head.

  “If you want to find your mother, you will need our help. The matter is whether or not you’re willing to sacrifice for your goal.”

  Partridge looks at Bradwell and Pressia.

  “It’s your call,” Bradwell says softly.

  Our Good Mother points the knife at Partridge. “This is the way I see it. You have been here long enough, haven’t you?”

  “Long enough for what?” Partridge asks.

  “To no longer be Pure.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he says. Pressia thinks of scars, burns, marks, fusing, and then, looking at the knife, amputations.

  “Purity is a burden,” Our Good Mother says. “That’s what we’ve found. When you are no longer Pure, when you no longer have that to protect, you’re free of it.”

  Partridge shakes his head violently back and forth. “I don’t mind the burden.”

  “I would like my payment to also be a gift to you. I can end your Purity. You will never truly understand, but I can make you one of us, in some small measure.” She smiles at him.

  Partridge reaches for Pressia. “Tell her it’s not necessary. We can think of some other kind of payment. I’m Willux’s son. That could be useful, right? A direct line?”

  “You’re not in the Dome anymore,” Our Good Mother says.

  Pressia says, “No, we can think of something else.”

  Our Good Mother shakes her head.

  Bradwell says, softly, calmly, “What are we talking about here?”

  “Just a token,” Our Good Mother says.

  “What?” Bradwell says. “A finger?”

  Pressia’s stomach tightens to a knot. No more blood. No more loss, she says to herself. No.

  “A pinky,” Our Good Mother says, holding the handle of the knife with both hands. She looks at Partridge. “The women can hold you down.”

  Pressia feels wild, like there’s an animal in her ribs clawing to get out. She can only imagine how Partridge feels. He looks at her desperately. Bradwell is the only one who seems to know that there’s no way around this. He says, “It’s a gift. You’re getting off light. A pinky, that’s all.”

  Partridge says, “I don’t need a gift. I’m thankful for what I have. I’m glad that Pressia’s back. That’s enough of a gift right there.”

  Pressia wants to tell Our Good Mother to take something from her, but she knows that this would infuriate her. Our Good Mother hates Deaths. She would despise Pressia for any act of self-sacrifice. Then Pressia thinks: Shouldn’t he pay? It’s his mother after all. He came out here to find her, and what did he expect?

  “They’ll send us out with no protection,” Bradwell says. “We’ll never find your mother because we’ll be dead.”

  Partridge is frozen, blanched. He’s breathing hard.

  Pressia looks at him. She states the plain truth. “We’ll die.”

  Partridge stares at his hand. He looks at Bradwell. He’s already put Bradwell’s and Pressia’s lives in danger. This is the least he can do, and he seems to know it. He walks to Our Good Mother and puts his hand on the table. “Hold it down,” he says to Bradwell. “So I don’t jerk away.”

  Bradwell holds Partridge’s wrist so tightly that Pressia sees the whites of Bradwell’s knuckles. Partridge presses his fingers together, exposing the pinky, alone.

  Our Good Mother places the tip of the knife on one side of Partridge’s pinky, raises the back of the knife, and in one swift motion lowers the back of the blade on Partridge’s pinky, right at the middle knuckle. The sound—almost a pop—makes Pressia gasp.

  Partridge doesn’t scream. It happens too quickly. He stares at his hand, the fast-pooling blood, half of his pinky, disconnected. It must be oddly numb for a moment because his face is blank. But then his face contorts as the pain rushes in. He looks up at the ceiling.

  Our Good Mother hands Bradwell a rag and a leather band. “Wrap it tight. Apply pressure. Keep it elevated.”

  Bradwell ratchets the leather band around Partridge’s finger. He holds it in his fist, and then he presses the bright bloody rag to Partridge’s heart. A bouquet. That’s what Pressia thinks of—red roses, the kind of thing you’d see in one of Bradwell’s old magazines.

  Our Good Mother picks up the other half of his pinky, holds it in her cupped hand. “Take him back to your room. Women are waiting on the other side of the door to escort you.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Bradwell says.

  “What is it?” Our Good Mother says.

  “The chip in Pressia’s neck,” Bradwell says. “It’s alive.”

  “No it isn’t,” Pressia says.

  “Yes, it is,” Bradwell says, emphatically.

  “None of our chips are live. Who would ever care about us, stumbling around out here with nothing?”

  “For whatever reason, they were herding you and Partridge together. It’s obvious to me now,” Bradwell says to Pressia. He turns to Our Good Mother. “Are there any doctors or nurses here? Someone skilled?”

  Our Good Mother walks around Pressia and stops at her back. She takes a handful of Pressia’s hair and lifts it, baring her neck. She touches a scar on the back of Pressia’s neck, an old, dulled knot. Pressia feels a chill run down her spine. She doesn’t want anyone cutting into her neck. Our Good Mother says, matter-of-factly, “You’ll need a knife, alcohol, clean rags. I’ll have it all delivered. You’ll do it yourself, Death.”

  “No,” Pressia says to Bradwell. “Tell her you won’t do it.”

  Bradwell looks at his hands. He shakes his head. “The chip is in her neck. It’s dangerous.”

  “You’re a good butcher,” Our Good Mother says.

  “Actually, I’m not a butcher at all.”

  “You won’t make a mistake.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Bradwell says.

  “Because if you do, I’ll kill you. It would be my pleasure.”

  This isn’t comforting to Pressia. Bradwell looks even more nervous. He rubs the scars on his cheek.

  “Go on,” Our Good Mother says.

  The woman with the broom-spear walks them to the door. Partridge looks a little loose in his knees, and Pressia isn’t exactly steady herself. The woman opens the door, and before Pressia walks through it she looks back at Our Good Mother, who cradles one of her arms with the other arm, tilts her head, gazing at her left bicep. Pressia follows Our Good Mother’s gaze, and there she sees the gauzy material of the shirt draw in and puff out—all that is left of her child, just an infant, the purpled lips, the dark mouth embedded in her upper arm, still alive, breathing.

  PRESSIA

  FAIRY TALE

  THEY’RE ESCORTED TO A SMALL ROOM with two pallets on the floor. The woman locks the door behind them. Partridge slides down the wall to sit on his pallet. He holds the wounded hand to his chest.

  Pressia can’t sit down. Her head is ringing now. She has to have the chip removed by someone who isn’t even a butcher? “I can’t believe you think you’re taking the chip out of my neck,” she says to Bradwell. “You aren’t. You know that, right? You’re not even coming close.”

  “They know where you are at all times. Is that what you want? You love the Dome so much, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d like to be their puppet.”

  “I’m not their puppet! You’re paranoid. Crazy!”

  “Crazy enough to come looking for you.”

  “I d
idn’t ask you to do me any favors.”

  “Your grandfather did, though, and I’ve made good on that now.”

  Pressia feels like she’s had the wind punched out of her. Is that why Bradwell came looking for her? Because he owed her grandfather a favor for stitching up his cheek? “Well, consider the debt paid off. I never asked to be anybody’s burden.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Bradwell says. “Let me start over.”

  “Quiet!” Partridge says. “Just shut up!” He’s sitting there pale and shaken.

  “I’m sorry about your finger,” Pressia says.

  “We’ve all made sacrifices,” Bradwell says. “It was time he made one too.”

  “Nice,” Pressia says. She hates Bradwell right now. He found her because he owed a favor. Nothing more. Why did he have to rub it in her face? “Really understanding.”

  “It’s funny to see you in an OSR uniform,” Bradwell says. “Look at those armbands. Are you an officer now? That’s a really nice group of people. They are the ones who are really understanding!”

  “I was abducted and they made me wear this uniform,” Pressia says. “Do you think I like it?” Her voice is weak because she does like the uniform, and Bradwell probably knows it.

  “Stop,” Partridge says. “Bradwell’s right, Pressia. They herded us to find each other. Who knows how long they’ve known where you are? The question is why you?”

  Pressia sits down next to Partridge. “It makes no sense,” she says. “I don’t get it.”

  “One thing sticks with me from what Our Good Mother said.” Bradwell crouches down and stares at Partridge. “You’re holding something back. You’re not being honest.”

  “What am I holding back?” Partridge says. “I’ve told you everything. I just had my finger cut off. Why don’t you ease up?”

  Pressia remembers the necklace. She checks her pockets and, in one of them, she feels the hard outline of the swan pendant, the edges of its wings. Did she have time to secure it before passing out? Did someone find it in her fist and put it in her pocket? She’s relieved that she still has it. She fishes it out and holds it in her palm. “Did you two leave this for me? As a sign?”