Ursa

by Tina Shaw

  Jogging along the quiet cobbles, I come to a street I haven’t explored before. At the corner, I rest my hand on the side of a fine stone building, and peer down the street that flickers with gas lamps. There’s music playing down there, and a swathe of golden light falls out into the street like satin. People are coming and going from one of the houses. The row of lit windows draws me like a magnet.

  Crossing to the other side of the street, I find a place to hunker down so I can watch without being seen. There’s a dark doorway, with steps leading up to the foyer of an apartment building. Two stone lions stand guard on either side of the steps. I pull myself up behind one of the lions so I’m on a level with the ground-floor windows opposite.

  What a brilliant sight. There’s a long room filled with Travesters. Men buttoned into grey coats with gold braiding. Light gleams off the bare, powdered shoulders of the women, jewels glittering around their necks, hair worn high. One woman – I can’t believe what I’m seeing, even though my eyesight is sharp – has got what looks like a golden cage worked into her hair, and inside the cage is a tiny blue-green bird on a swing. A live bird. It takes my breath away. Something to tell my mother later. What a scene. It’s like that glass ball I once saw in a shop window. It had a little picture inside – a deer in a forest – and I saw somebody shake the globe to make it snow.

  The music … what kind of instruments? The only music I know is played on whittled recorders, or on Jorzy’s viola. But this, this music is delicate as ice on a puddle, and quick as a fox running through the night, and as light as a breeze blowing through linden trees. And just like the mensha, I’m mesmerised.

  Then something else in the room catches my eye. In the middle of all this finery, there’s a girl. A girl in a plain grey dress with a white collar. Around my age, maybe. And she’s carrying a small animal in her arms. Maybe it’s a dog, again my mind can’t believe what I’m seeing, because there aren’t dogs that small. A puppy? A woman turns and smiles at the girl, except it’s the kind of smile you’d give a servant. The girl does a little hop and a skip, like she’s pleased to be noticed. Though I think she looks bored more than anything. She keeps walking, weaving in and out of the people, who are mostly ignoring her. I find myself wondering what she’s doing in there with all those fancy people. She’s the odd one out.

  Then a long black automobile pulls up to the building, and men get out. My breath catches in my throat. There’s only one automobile like that in Ursa – it’s new, made in another country, people say. The Director, it must be!

  Inside the room the music has stopped, and the people seem nervous, excited. Some run to look out the windows.

  One of the men, wearing a cap with the bear insignia, opens the back door of the automobile. A thickset man climbs out and strides into the building, and through the windows I see him enter the room like he owns it. The people start clapping. He takes a bow, a slippery smile on his face, as if to say that’s only what he expected. The music starts up again, but with a triumphant clash and a bang. And the puppy leaps out of the girl’s arms.

  In the next moment, something streaks out the front door and down the steps, into the street. Without thinking, I jump down from the lion and run after the thing. It might go in any direction and get lost in the alleyways of the city. Instead, the huge open street seems to confuse the little creature. It stops, eyes goggling, in the middle of the road. Lights are coming: one of the older automobiles, its front lights close together, sending cross-eyed beams forwards.

  I launch myself across the street, grabbing the creature and jumping back onto the pavement. The automobile toots irritably as it swishes past, and the driver shakes his fist at me. No matter, I’ve got it.

  It’s warm and panting in my grip. Pointy, tufted ears. The goggly eyes. A thin coat of creamy hair. It’s wearing a tiny silk waistcoat. Little paws, resting on my fingers. Not a puppy after all. A proper grown dog? But one smaller than I’ve ever seen or heard of.

  Then the girl in the grey dress comes running towards me and grabs the dog-thing out of my hands and she’s cooing and petting it, even though it doesn’t seem too bothered by all the excitement. Standing there, I might as well be invisible and I’m thinking to slink away, yet something about the proximity of the girl roots me to the spot. I’ve never been so close to a rich Travester girl. Her skin, this close, is fine as porcelain, and her silky blonde hair is giving off a herby smell that makes me want to close my eyes and dream.

  “Oh, you silly Min-Min,” she fusses. “What were you doing, running away like that? Did baby get a fright? Did baby not like the big, bad music? There, there, little Min-Min, you’re safe now.”

  She seems to remember me at this point. It’s kind of funny, and I’m grinning as she examines me with an uplifted chin and her head on one side. “You’re a Cerel, aren’t you?” Her tone hints at disgust, and she’s frowning at my oversized jacket. Suddenly I’m aware that the jacket is grimy, and my hair sticking out from under the cap is greasy. I step back, thinking I probably stink as well. A wash of shame makes me blush.

  “You must have a reward,” the girl decides, “for rescuing Min-Min.” She turns smartly on one heel and starts crossing the street. “Wait here,” she commands, over her shoulder.

  I’m not her servant, to be ordered around, though I don’t run off either. Instead, I kick my boot against a nearby stone step and stay there, simmering at being told to wait. Especially by a Travester. I’ve been taught to hate the Travesters, hate them like a stone in my throat, in my heart. After what they’ve done to my father, my mother. Yet still I wait – my curiosity is too strong. What will she give me? Maybe some food – there is food being handed around on large trays in that room. And besides, another part of me wants to see the girl up close again and smell her herby hair. It’s like two sides of me are fighting with each other – the hatred and the curiosity – and the battle makes me hesitate.

  Two adults are peering out through one of the windows. The girl is there too, pointing, talking about me. Heat rushes into my face at the attention, along with a dash of fear. Travesters staring at me. Again I get the impulse to run, while I still can.

  But then the girl comes traipsing back out again, a firm grip on the dog, its eyes bulging. She is cradling something in the palm of her hand. A small cup of black paper, as thin as skin, which contains a soft, golden cube. “Go on,” she says lightly, “hold out your hand.” I do as she says, reluctantly, and she quickly gives me the thing – managing, I notice, to do so without touching me.

  I clear my throat. “What is it?” I croak, feeling lost.

  Her laugh rings out, making me want to crush the thing in my fist. Then a thought seems to occur to her. Head tilted, she says, “Why, it is a sweetmeat.”

  We stand like that for a moment, facing each other, the dog quivering between us, our eyes meeting. She’s a Travester, I remind myself, you can’t trust them. But the look in her eyes isn’t about betrayal, it’s something else, something I can feel in myself. Then a voice comes from the house and the spell is broken. The girl glances back over her shoulder: she is being called. Without a word, she nods her chin towards me and goes back across the street, vanishing inside the building.

  Quickly, I leave the area, shoulders hunched and walking fast, before I get any more unwanted attention. Back across the stone bridge, back along the towpath, the sweetmeat cupped loosely in my hand. I get to the bench underneath the yew tree, and sit down so I can have a good look at the thing.

  I touch the edge of it with my tongue: a piercing sweetness. Nibbling, the stuff seems to melt between my teeth. How could something that is food be so soft that it melts in your mouth without chewing? I don’t know any kind of food like that. Apart from ice. And that’s not exactly food. More nibbling, and I detect a lemony flavour, then a faint perfume. Even more nibbling, and a reluctant smile grows on my face; I feel saturated with sweetness. Something extraordinary is happening. It’s not until I’ve eaten all of the sweetmeat t
hat I realise what it is: a sweet, fizzing feeling of joy, not unconnected with the girl.

  Ha.

  I lick the paper clean, then slide it carefully into my jacket pocket. This is something I won’t give my mother, though she would dearly love to feel such thin, soft paper between her fingers. No, this is a treasure to keep for myself.

  3

  The next morning, in the middle of the usual bustle – Babet tidying her bed and pestering Nanna for toast, Marina heading out to work in the Travester household where she cleans and scrubs, somebody digging in the patch of ground in the inner courtyard, people in the other rooms talking and moving about, so that the whole house seems to me like an ants’ nest waking up – Nanna shakes my foot.

  “Jorzy has forgotten his goggles,” she says, peering into my cubbyhole with her sharp eyes that miss nothing. “Hurry and take them to him.”

  I’m still groggy from sleep but get up and take the black-glass goggles from her. You don’t argue with Nanna. The men in Jorzy’s factory have to wear these goggles; otherwise the machinery will spit shards of metal into their eyes or over time the light will make them blind. It’s not like Jorzy to forget his goggles.Usually he goes to work at the factory with the goggles hanging round his neck.

  Hurrying out into the glazed sunlight of early morning, I pause at the doorway to check the street for Black Marks. Two women, with empty baskets over their arms, seem to be heading off to the market. A milk cart rumbles past, its tray chock-full of the big metal urns that hold the milk. A kid runs behind holding out a bucket to catch the odd swish of milk that falls out of the urns. The old woman who sells newspapers, woollen shawl over her shoulders, sits on a stool at her usual corner. The Travester tobacconist is raising the shutters on his little shop. An airship drifts slowly overhead, and I can’t help watching its silent, regal progress. I love the airships, and dream of one day … But remembering the goggles, I break off from my daydream and hurry onwards.

  Running along the cobbled streets, I turn into narrow alleyways, heading away from the river and towards the more industrial district. Even from a distance I can make out the plume of dirty yellow smoke that rises constantly from the factory where Jorzy works. As I approach the industrial area, I pass more and more workshops where men are hammering and welding and drilling. These grimy workshops are great, and if I have time I love to linger outside them, fascinated by the tools and machinery, hoping that one of the busy men will show me how the machines work or give me a small job to do. Papa had a job in such a workshop in this district, repairing automobiles for the Travesters. He promised to take me on as his apprentice when I was big enough. Slowing my pace, I can’t help thinking that I’ve been “big enough” now for several years.

  There is no time to hang about.

  Past the soot-blackened church with its boarded-up windows, past the brewery – orange brick walls rising up, and the sickening smell of hops in the air. A steamtram hisses past, filled with Cerel workers, their blank stares turned inwards. They are the lucky ones, the ones who have clean, easy jobs in offices. Marina wanted a job like that, but to get an office job you have to have a letter of faith from a Travester, and nobody would write that kind of letter for her.

  Finally I reach the gates of the factory.

  I slow to a walk, panting. Best not to be seen running out here; if you’re a Cerel running, there’s always the risk of being shot – shoot before questions, guilty before proven innocent. So I cautiously approach the metal gates decorated with two rearing bears and the scrollwork overhead that I always find confusing: Work, Life, Liberty. How the hell can liberty be used in the same breath as work? And especially when working for the Travesters, which is mostly the only kind of work left these days in Ursa. Talking of which, a Travester guard steps forwards and I wordlessly hold up the goggles. The man, understanding, nods and stands back to let me pass.

  Inside the gates, I pick up speed again, crossing the wide yard at a jog.

  The factory rises up before me – cloud-black, filthy, stained by smoke and whatever else – along with the yawning entranceway. I feel small as an insect. I don’t understand how Jorzy can work in this place every day.

  I go through the black iron gates that stand open all day, and onto the factory floor itself. Despite the urgency of my mission, I can’t help staring, mouth going slack. Enormous machinery rises to the glass skylights in the vaulted ceiling. Everything is black with grime. A gout of steam belches out of pipes that point at the ceiling like guns.

  So much noise! It’s deafening. The constant chug-chug-chug of turning cogs, the shicker-shicker of metal teeth grinding over steel, the pounding of hammers. In among all of this astounding machinery are men, mere humans: grinding, hammering, pounding, lifting, hauling on ropes, climbing up and down narrow metal ladders … and somewhere within all of this hectic activity I hope to find Jorzy.

  At the far end of the factory, I see sparks and a flickering white light, like lightning. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I start to make my way towards that light. Past grim-looking figures and more huge lumps of machinery. A man wearing a foreman’s hat glares at me, but again I hold up the goggles. The men at the back of the factory wear heavy metal helmets over their heads. Sparks sizzle up from welds. Others, working on a conveyor belt, wear goggles like Jorzy’s.

  And there’s my brother, working at a large conveyor belt. Small pieces of machinery are travelling along the belt and into a machine that gobbles them up. Jorzy is picking them up and checking each item as it runs past him. Two other men, both wearing goggles, are also working on the conveyor belt.

  Blinking and squinting, I find the light nearly unbearable, like staring at the sun. The man on the end of the hungry belt glances up then nudges his neighbour. They all look up – only a moment; they can obviously spare no more time than that. Jorzy, seeing me, grins and gives a whistle. From out of the machinery itself, it seems, steps another man in overalls. With a nod at the belt, Jorzy moves away and the new man takes his place.

  “Hey ho, sprat.”

  I hold out the goggles. “Jorzy, can you get me some more powder?” I ask in a low voice, though I reckon my voice can scarcely be heard.

  Jorzy frowns. “More?”

  We exchange a look. And I wonder, not for the first time, if Jorzy has guessed what we do with the powder. He must surely have heard the rumours about the exploding devices. Not very many, just now and then, to shake up the Black Marks. Too many, or too large, and there would be heavy retaliations in the Cerel ghettos.

  My brother glances over his shoulder at the ever-hungry machine. The other men aren’t taking any notice of us, but still. “You want to be careful, Leho,” warns Jorzy.

  I want to tell him that I’m always careful – that I’ve learned from him, my big brother – but the factory is too loud, and it’s not the right place; you don’t know who is listening. I simply nod and walk away.

  * * *

  Nanna has saved me a bowl of barley porridge. The others have finished their breakfasts, and she is rinsing the dishes in a basin of water. “You can go with Marina today to the market,” she says over her shoulder. “And when you come back, you can help in the garden.”

  I might have grumbled – I had planned on going fishing with Bit – though Nanna would have given me a tongue-lashing, or a clout. Besides, I’m the next oldest boy after Jorzy, and Marina shouldn’t go to the market alone. Just last week a woman was stabbed in the kidneys while she haggled over turnips, and her basket was snatched. If you’re injured like that, and if you’re unlucky, you die. There is no hospital for the Cerels, no doctors. Except for our own, unlicensed healers. The legal doctors only take care of the Travesters. So you’re careful, and you get somebody to watch your back.

  Once I’ve licked the bowl clean, getting every last scrap of porridge, I fetch my knife from the cubbyhole, tuck it safely in my jacket pocket and find Marina. She’s helping dig over the garden in the inner courtyard with two others from the building;
they’re going to plant potatoes. She leaves off digging when she sees me, and fetches her basket.

  “Did you hear the explosions last night?” she asks curiously as we go down the stairs to the next floor and along the corridor. We hear cooking noises, a clatter of pans, people making breakfast.

  “Something was happening across the other side of the river,” I tell her. The night sky was lit up with a fire in a Travester warehouse. I was watching, hidden in shadow beside the stone bridge, though I didn’t know who was responsible. Somebody else obviously has the powder to make exploding devices.

  “Really.” Marina gives me a knowing look as we head down to the basement area. She steps lightly through the piles of rubble, her face pale in the gloom.

  “It wasn’t me,” I mutter. “I was asleep.”

  “Of course you were.” She smiles.

  We climb the ladder up to the covered alleyway, then we’re out on the street.

  Nanna’s Travester friend, Marta Gayer, is coming along from the other direction. She’s a plump woman with curly ginger hair, and always a contented look on her face. I bet she has plenty of potatoes, and other good things, to eat.

  “Don’t say anything,” Marina hisses – as if I need telling, which I don’t.

  Nanna’s friend might bring us the occasional bit of food or a loaf of stale bread or scraps of fabric for Marina to sew into clothes for Babet, though Marta Gayer doesn’t like to be acknowledged by Cerels in public. We pass each other like strangers, though the woman winks at Marina as she walks past and Marina gives her a secret smile. Behind us, she disappears through the narrow door. She’ll be going to see Nanna to have her fortune read in the tea leaves. Back in the old days, she and Nanna worked in the same milliner’s shop, trimming ladies’ hats with ostrich feathers and silk. Marta Gayer has still got that kind of work, for Travester clients, but not Nanna.

  In the good old days, as Nanna likes to remind us, we were friends and neighbours with Travesters. It’s hard to believe – Cerels and Travesters, friends? Yes, Nanna nods when she tells us the stories, friends and neighbours. That was before I was born. Before the Director took over Ursa and started his campaign against the Cerels.