Lament for the Afterlife

by Lisa L. Hannett

  ####

  He reaches gov’t house an hour or so before true-dark, whisked across town in a series of discordant blinks. They travelled in a twice-a-day, he remembers, but also in a cab pulled by two goats. Or was that before? No, he thinks. And yes. There were goats and rabbits at some point. A menagerie in paint. There were flamingos and buffalos and whores. Blink: he shuddered and Blink: he was calm. Euri held an umbrella as they trudged along streets paved with flags, as they avoided the stadium, as they swam through clouds. Peytr loop-de-looped under her little upraised arm and rain washed his face clean, rain spattered him ugly, rain soaked the blood into his soul. Soul-drenched, he thinks now, laughing through a mouthful of water. There is no umbrella at all.

  A half amphitheatre of steps rises up to the columned gov’t building, each curved marble slab treacherously wet. Grouped before twelve-foot double doors, construction workers and artisans and dark-suited bureaucrats pose for photos under the façade’s newly rebuilt pediment. The photographer fiddles with his gear, then starts a countdown and Blink: the flash goes in a sulphurous burst and Blink: everyone’s face is bleached, features obliterated and Blink: Peyt’s running, taking the stairs two at a time and Blink: he’s cresting the top step and Blink: gasping, slumped at the base of a classical column, ruining the politicians’ shot.

  There’s still time, Euri says, holding a bottle of cerulean blue varnish up to the sky. The colours don’t compare at all, but Peyt takes her point. An hour or so to make it to the stadium. To make the drop. To deserve the money they’d already lost.

  “We’ll give it back,” he says, taking the box from his pocket, the timepiece from its flattened container. Though the gold is scratched and dented, it still gleams. “We’ll make it up to her, somehow.” Blink. “It isn’t really our fault.”

  Euri is wan with exhaustion. She doesn’t have another trip in her, Peyt thinks. Not today. Blink. “It’s okay,” he says. Dangling the watch from his fingertips, he pretends to hypnotise Euri and Blink: her head nods and fades and Blink: starbursts flash, silver and gold in his hands and Blink: Euri smiles and

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Peytr’s gaze slurps through thick gelatine, bobbles around the woman towering over him. Proper, he thinks, in that snug burgundy suit, those flat shoes so quiet he didn’t even hear her approach. Official, with that floppy silk bow at her throat. “I’m official,” Peytr says, talking slow as he can, inhaling sobering breaths. In and out. In… . She smells so clean, like white soap and powder and Blink: he’s back on his cot, a kid snuggled under flannel sheets with Jean telling them stories and Blink: his legs are twitching and Blink: the woman’s ’wind mentions visiting hours, tourist seasons cancelled and Blink: Closed for Repairs.

  “I have this,” Peytr says, waving the watch around, “bit of business to clear up. Won’t be long. Won’t be long.”

  Blink: he’s floating, seeing her eye-to-eye and

  Blink: he’s crashed, wheezing, blood seeping and

  “Here,” she says, loud and sweet and Blink: the watch is gone, her suit jacket opened and Blink: rebuttoned and Blink: a small purse is pressed between his hand and hers. She folds his fingers over the payment, communicating in reassuring smiles and squeezes and pats. “For your trouble.”

  Blink: her back is turned and

  Blink: she’s signalling, shouting something to the photographer and

  “But I can’t make it in time,” Peytr says, feeling the coins’ weight, feeling space opening inside and around him. Relief and guilt and the promise of a bigger place … “It’s too late. I’ve failed.”

  “No no no,” she says, drifting back to him like a spirit, leaning over on warm, clean gusts of nostalgia. “You did just fine, Pigeon. You couldn’t possibly have done better.”

  “Oh,” Peyt says. “Oh.”

  Again, he watches her walk—Blink: skip—away on silent soles. Blink: he’s light and Blink: he’s mostly air and Blink: he’s rocking in a lullaby sky. There are no vapour trails around him. No airships cutting paths through smog. No rockets. No wordfire.

  The clouds hold their breath and swallow the rain.

  “I’ll just rest here a minute. If that’s all right,” he says softly, lighter now without the watch weighing him down. Coughing, he looks around for Euri.

  “Take your time,” she calls over her shoulder. “Take as long as you need.”

  The tape measure recoils into its pocket-sized case with a satisfying snap. Ned smiles, wipes flecks of nail polish from the tape’s metal tip, and slides it back into her knapsack. Today has been a long time coming. Too long.

  Her toenails have lengthened more than 3mm since the last good window day. They’ve nearly grown bare in the dark interim, leaving the slightest crescent of colour on the tips of her toes. Cerulean blue, speckled with white polka dots. She celebrates the good days with brilliant polish—but until today, the view hasn’t been worth the paint.

  Not more than an hour earlier, a wedge of geese had flown past her window. What a sight! Now Ned’s dying to get at her collection of varnishes. She’s packed a few bottles in her knapsack—they nestle at the bottom like bubbles of promised pleasure, beside her tape measure, a fossilised rain shower (over 250 million years old!), and all the shirts Papa messy-sewed her name into last time he was home—but Tantie will kill her if she stops to repaint her nails now.

  The sun breaks through the clouds, gilding Ned’s face, as her matronly not-aunt accuses her of lying.

  “Don’t be wicked, Ned,” Tantie May says. “There are no geese outside. You know that full well. Be a good girl, now; it’s almost time for us to leave—”

  “Call me Lavinia,” Ned says. “Please, Tantie. It’s such a lovely name. And I’m not fibbing, I swear.”

  Ned’s wordwind flutters in V-formation around her, spilling little white lies in its wake, immediately retracing its path to cross them out. Words swirl through her hair, pale tendrils lifting as paragraphs tornado above her head. Ned pinches the slowest phrases between her fingers, popping them into her mouth before they can escape.

  “We’ve been over this, Ned,” Tantie says, her own wordwind buzzing with ferocious energy, spinning tales of naughty children, bottomless pits, and rotten cheese. “I will not call you Lavinia. Or Clarissa. Or Enchantée. Your name was set down in ink the day you were born. And that is that.”

  “But they made a mistake,” Ned cries, wishing she knew who’d recorded her name—it was meant to be Nell—dooming her with their atrocious penmanship.

  “Yes, Ned. They made a mistake. Just as you did when you thought you saw geese outside.” Shaking her head, Tantie shoos her wordwind toward the bedroom door, swiftly following it. “Your ’wind must’ve obscured your vision, dear. It has been known to happen.”

  Turning away from her not-aunt’s disappointment, Ned steps up on her school chair and peers out the window. The bedroom door clicks shut behind her. Let her leave, Ned thinks. Outside, the sun is wavering. Although it’s gleamed for much of the day, its light now pulses feebly, consumed by a familiar shade of grey. The street is deserted.

  Their paperwork has been stamped with official seals, and likenesses of Ned and Tantie have been inscribed—with ink—into small leather booklets. Ned thinks her picture looks funny. All the artist had wanted was to capture an impression of her face, serious and close-up, but Ned thinks she looks naked without a wordwind tap-dancing across her shoulders.

  Tantie had applied for this set of transport passes more than once. More than once the applications had been rejected. But today the sun shone on them for the first time in 3mm. And then their passes arrived in the morning chute. The train departed for the ’port in less than an hour.

  They’ve finally been given leave to go.

  And there had been geese, even if Tantie hadn’t seen them.

  Ned’s sure she’ll never hear the end of it if she made them miss the ship, after all Tantie’s done to book their passage. So she wiggles her half-polished to
es into thick-soled treaders, tries not to think how much better they’d look tipped in fuchsia. A day like today definitely warrants fuchsia varnish, but that bottle has already been boxed up and sent to Mamie’s.

  Stepping out of her room, Ned makes sure to avoid the ladder propped up against the wall in the hallway. They aren’t taking it with them—Ned had insisted. Tantie had rolled her eyes, her wordwind merging with Ned’s, listing lullabies and recipes for candy as they negotiated. But Ned’s mind wouldn’t be changed, no matter how sweet Tantie’s words were.

  On the bad window days, the ladder inevitably gets positioned near the bathroom. The men ascend its length, disappearing into the ceiling, frightening Ned when she really needs to go. The men’ll sit up there nonstop—sometimes for weeks—knocking around, repairing the machines they keep in the air shafts.

  The machines that cause such a ruckus Ned can’t concentrate on her schoolwork.

  The ones that generate the finely sifted ash that drifts to the ground outside her window, that spoils her view with washes of red and charcoal.

  The ones that make anxiety drench her pants while she avoids the bathroom.

  Outside, ghostly green flashes explode on the horizon whenever the men are around, bright enough to make Ned blink. Sirens sound in the distance. Too far away to know from which direction they’re coming. Ned has to draw the curtains as emergency signs switch on in the tenements a block over.

  Those are the bad window days. Ned knows she and Tantie are in for it whenever the ladder comes out.

  There’s no way it’s coming with them to Mamie’s.

  ####

  Tumbleweeds of ash and newspaper scuttle along behind Ned and Tantie as the pair hurry toward the train station. You know it’s a fuchsia kind of day when people are comfortable enough to sleep outside, Ned thinks. Bodies dressed in coverall suits, faces hiding behind faded chip packets and litter, are strewn across benches or collapsed beside tree stumps. Their legs bent in foetal position, their arms draped uncomfortably across eyes. Ned adjusts her aviator goggles, pulls her hood strings until the world seems almost entirely cut off. Good thing the sleepers’ve got the sense to cover their eyes, she thinks, carefully tying a double-knot beneath her nose.

  But where are their wordwinds? Even sleeping people are surrounded by words, whether dreams concocting incredible falsehoods over pillows, or magnetic ideas landing on slumbering figures like flies.

  “Is it naptime out here, Tantie?” Ned asks, her voice muffled behind the thick canvas of her hood. “Should we wake them from their siestas? What if they miss the train? Then they’ll never be able to leave.”

  Tantie doesn’t reply, but her wordwind launches into a parable about dogs and wounded children. That’s so like her, Ned thinks. Tantie’s mouth remains firmly set. Her grip on Ned’s hand is firmer still.

  The train timetable skids across Ned’s restricted view when the station appears on the horizon. Tantie’s strides grow longer, the pressure she exerts in dragging Ned along increasing as their goal appears.

  “Slow down please, Tantie,” Ned says, stumbling to her knees for the third time. Her treaders are covered in soot; the palms of her hands are lacerated and embedded with chips of gravel and shrapnel.

  Don’t worry, Ned wants to say when Tantie pierces her with an anxious gaze. That train never runs on time—but her lungs are aching with heavy air. Loosening her hood just enough to poke her mouth out, Ned keeps silent, breathing deeply. She doesn’t want to lie to Tantie. How would she know about the trains? She hasn’t been outside in weeks.

  The station is deserted when they arrive. Ned’s overjoyed—maybe they’ll get the whole train to themselves! Her wordwind paints pictures of spinning tops, magpies building nests out of rusty cogs, dented fob watches. Tantie flicks at a haywire word, sends it ricocheting off Ned’s goggles.

  “Take those things off, Neddie,” Tantie May says. “They’re ludicrous.”

  In response, Ned clutches the goggles’ rims, presses them further into her eye sockets.

  “Trust me, the greys have been gone for ages,” her aunt says, taking hold of Ned’s hand. “They were gone long before the screamers blew up. No one’s going to steal your eyes. Promise.”

  Why do greys always go for the eyes, Ned wonders. Maybe it’s because they want to see more clearly in our world, or maybe it gives them some advantage in theirs? Maybe they sell them on the black market, exchanging eyes for babies’ livers and fresh pumpkin soup?

  Tantie shakes her head as Ned’s wordwind transcribes her suspicions across the air. Ned pretends she isn’t looking when Tantie tucks the worst of her worries into a back pocket. Removing her gloves, Tantie works at the knot in Ned’s hood strings until it releases, then pushes the cowl back from her face. Tracing a rough finger along Ned’s smooth cheek, Tantie stretches the goggles upwards on their elastic strap. Ned squirms as her not-aunt unveils her grey eyes, making them a target for bloodthirsty creatures.

  Brown eyes would be so much better than grey, Ned thinks. Brown is a much less troublesome colour, since the creepers seemed to like grey the best.

  And everything is grey nowadays, except for Ned’s toenails.

  The pair of filth-encrusted lenses drop to the ground, forgotten, as an iron engine billows around the corner, chugging toward the station on elegant puffs of steam.

  ####

  The ’port is a blur. A thoroughfare for travellers, all on outbound ships; but also a marketplace for storytellers, copying snippets from each other’s wordwinds while they wait to depart. Ned raises her hood, tries to capture all her words beneath its insufficient shelter. She won’t have anyone stealing her thoughts in this place. No way.

  Preoccupied with confining her ’wind, Ned takes small notice of her surroundings as she’s ushered toward the ship. Artificial breath mixes with the scent of too many bodies, uneasiness filling the unfamiliar space with its pungent aroma. A cacophony of ’winds eclipses the ’port’s humming lights as the crowd ebbs and flows between the entrance and departure gates. Ned blocks her nose, wishes she hadn’t lost her goggles. There are bound to be greys here, she reasons. Neither her words nor her eyes will be safe until they’re both on the ship.

  At the gate, guards carrying bayonets scan wordwinds for signs of trouble, looking for bold statements or those that drip red onto the passengers’ luggage. Ned passes through the archway unhindered, but Tantie is asked to step aside for closer inspection.

  “Tantie,” Ned cries. “What’s happening, Tantie? I can’t go by myself! I don’t know where to go.” She catches a glimpse of the massive ship out the ’port window. It reminds her of a picture she once saw of a catfish. Only this one’s humungous—a fish fit for a giant’s breakfast—and it’s made entirely of wood and steel. Its wings stretch beyond her line of sight. And, somehow, she’s meant to walk straight into its mouth and sit in its belly while it flies.

  Her knees buckle with relief when the guard returns Tantie’s satchel, nodding her through the gates.

  “Hush now, Neddie,” Tantie says, clumps of black words raining into her handbag while she scoops Ned up from the floor. ‘No need to make a spectacle,’ she breathes. “You’ll be all right.” Her face is stern, but her arms quiver while she holds Ned close, carrying her onto the ship.

  The window beside Ned’s seat is shaped like the lozenge Tantie gives her to suck on while the ship takes off. It’s smaller than the window in her room at home, but big enough to take her breath away.

  An army of clouds begin waging war on the ship as soon as it soars upwards. The loss of sunlight doesn’t diminish the glory of Ned’s good window day in the least. It adds drama0—it adds flair!—to the pantomime being enacted beneath her. Tiny fires dot the landscape below, shining like rubies scattered across a bed of smoking grey. Ned reaches a hand out to the glass, tries to grasp one of the glowering embers between her fingertips. Her wordwind frames the window pane, asking “Who is the fairest?” as flashes of lightning shoot up from
black tubes on the ground, chasing the ship across the sky.

  “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful, Tantie?” Ned whispers, her face aglow with ambient light.

  “No, dear,” Tantie replies, her eyes fastened shut as if she’s dozing. Tantie’s knuckles whiten as she clutches the arms of her seat, her ’wind clunking around like the men in the ceiling, shedding stories of sorrow and loss.

  “Will there be views like these where we’re going, Tantie?” Ned asks, completely absorbed by the good window’s spectacle. The ship shudders through a stubborn cloud, briefly surfacing into a painfully bright vista of blue and white. Ned gasps, claps her hands with delight. The sky has coloured itself to match her toes! She’s so glad she hadn’t repainted them after all.

  Tantie swallows hard as the ship drops rapidly, enveloped once more by rampaging clouds. “If we’re lucky, Neddie,” she says, “you’ll never see anything like this again.”

  Ned nods, but hasn’t heard a word Tantie said. She brushes her wordwind away from the window, vies against her own imagination for a better vantage.

  Have those naughty fée swapped her eyes with tricksy ones that will get her into trouble with Tantie May? She doesn’t like being thought a liar. She rubs her eyelids, stretches them as wide as they’ll go, and presses her face to the glass.

  No, she realises. Her eyes are just fine. But Tantie will sure feel bad about not believing her, Ned thinks, as she watches a distant ‘V’ fly in the ship’s direction.

  “Look, Tantie! It’s the geese,” she says, jubilant with vindication. “I told you they were real.”

  Tantie squeezes her eyes shut as the ship reverberates with the sound of word-shot clanging off metal. Incoherent prayers spin around her head, then expand to include Ned in an embrace of benedictions and regrets. Tantie’s wavering words race upwards and back around the ship’s cabin, mingling with the other passengers’ encyclopaedic entries on monsters, nightmares, and survival techniques. Babies cry, spilling alphabet jumbles into the mix. The air sizzles with electric uncertainties. With exclamations of horror, verbal and written.