by Tina Shaw
“Life’s not too bad,” Marina murmurs, “when you have at least one good friend.” She starts humming a tune under her breath.
Is she talking about Marta Gayer? She’s only “friends” with us now because of Nanna’s readings. “Why do the Travesters hate us?” I ask suddenly. It’s easy to know why we hate them, but it’s hard to think about it the other way round.
My sister stops humming, her dark brown eyes growing serious. She takes so long, I don’t think she’s going to answer. “You’ve heard the rumours, I suppose, about the Director’s parents?”
“Yes. And?”
It’s whispered that the Director’s parents were killed by a group of bandit Cerels. It’s whispered that his hatred of the Cerel peoples was instilled in him from birth by his grandparents, who raised him in the mountains of Ar. Could you brainwash a child like that, so that he’d spend the rest of his life seeking revenge? It makes me think of my own parents … what would I be prepared to do to avenge their suffering? The answer pops into my head straightaway and helps me understand something about the Director.
“Well,” says Marina, “maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s just that we are outsiders.” Her gaze surveys the street ahead, yet her sight seems to look inwards. “When I was small, there was this Travester girl at the school who hated me …”
Cerel children once went to school. Marina had had a taste of it before Cerels were banned from the schools. “This girl, I don’t know why, took against me. I had to sit in front of her in the classroom – we each had our own little desk with a lid that opened up where we put our books–”
“You had your own books?” I marvel out loud. My friend Eric once told me something similar, but I didn’t believe him.
“Yes, it was a different time, Leho.” Marina carries on smoothly, intent on her story, “And each day this girl would do something nasty to me. Pinch the back of my arm so I yelped and the teacher would frown at me. Or put glue in my braid, which I wouldn’t know about till I got home and tried to brush out my hair. Once she put a dog turd inside my desk. I cried that day.”
We turn into Market Street. The stone buildings, old merchant houses, loom above the street. They’re mostly abandoned now, too damaged even for Cerels to live in. I’ve explored them, and nearly broke a leg when I went through a rotten floor, hitting the ground below.
More people are passing now, also heading for Market Square. I can hear one of the Director’s broadcasts coming from the square: Cerels, you must work harder! Work makes you free!
“But why did she do those things?” I bring my attention back to my sister, perplexed. How could anybody not love Marina?
She shakes her head, a sad smile on her lips. “I don’t know,” she murmurs. “It didn’t seem to make any sense. We weren’t any poorer than anybody else really, so it can’t have been snobbery. Maybe it was just because I looked different. My hair was dark, while hers was light. Yellow, like straw. Her eyes were blue, while mine were brown. I was the only Cerel in that class. Perhaps it was something as silly as that.”
An airship passing overhead blocks out the sky between the high buildings, so that the street dims for a few seconds. I gaze up at its ribbed grey belly. It’s heading in the direction of the House of Law, the place where high-ranking Travesters gather to make sure the city is working the way the Director wants it to. It’s a Fonecian ship, judging by the painted eye on its undercarriage, and I wonder if it’s come from the Outer Islands, maybe bringing fancy goods and fabrics to trade with Travester merchants.
“What happened to that girl?” I ask, once the airship has passed.
“Oh, I’m not sure. We got taken out of school. She’s probably married to a Travester shopkeeper, I suppose.” Marina goes quiet then, as we enter Market Square.
* * *
Our family sits around the table in the soft lantern light, sucking and crunching on the chicken bones from the soup – leftovers from Marta Gayer’s household. Her “payment” for the reading. I hope Nanna made up a good one, full of treasure and handsome strangers, so maybe she’ll bring us some proper meat next time.
Jorzy starts to light his pipe. “It’s been a while since we heard the family history,” he says, glancing across at Nanna.
Ma lifts her chin, her scarred face soft in the light. “Yes, tell the history,” she agrees. “I’d like to hear it again too.”
The history is as familiar as a favourite shirt, or the oversized jacket I always wear. The history cheers us up – even dour-looking Nanna looks more cheerful – and reminds us that as long as you have family, things can’t be all that bad.
“All right,” says Nanna, putting her gnarly hands on the table.
“I am the mother of your mother,” she begins, casting her gaze around the table. Babet’s eyes are wide above her bowl, and even though I’ve heard this story many times before I’m just as riveted. Nobody stops eating. “My parents were Bartold and Sirry. They lived in this very house, along with aunts and uncles and children and three dogs. Only our clan lived on the ground floor back then. Bartold was a merchant, and travelled the land buying and bringing back goods to the city to sell.”
Jorzy holds a lighted stick to the pipe, his eyes cast down so you can’t see his face and what he’s thinking.
“The parents of my parents were Jochim and Matilde. They too lived in this house. Jochim was a tailor and Matilde was a seamstress. They made very fine clothes for the wealthy of the city. They worked side by side in their business. A good team. Every day rich people came knocking on their door, wanting clothes.”
The next part I know nearly by heart.
“The parents of Jochim and Matilde were Jorzy and Krista.” My brother Jorzy was named after this earlier parent. “They came from the country, after many years of wandering with the clan, wanting to settle in the city. Sewn into the lining of their coats, they brought with them beautiful gems and gold, which they had picked up in their travels. They lived above the narrow shop at the far end of Newbolt Street. They were jewellers and sold fine jewellery to the wealthy of the city.”
A sigh issues from Marina. Her head is bent over some darning, but a sadness emanates from her. I also find it sad that our family came from such a thriving background and now we are nothing.
Nanna continues, ignoring us, lost in her dream of the past. “The parents of Jorzy and Krista were Baba and Theressell. They lived in a caravan, drawn by a horse, and along with others of their clan, they travelled the land. Theressell earned a living by reading fortunes …”
Jorzy tips me a wink. Nanna likes to think she has inherited her gift of reading tea leaves from this distant relative. Though nobody is quite sure whether Nanna is actually psychic or not, she uncannily knows things before they happen.
“Baba was a handyman. When they passed farms or orchards where they were known, people would call out for him to stop and fix this or that. Baba could fix anything.”
Babet puts her chin on her arms, her dark eyes fixed on Nanna. I can picture all of these people, my distant kin, as clear as if I’ve met them. Baba, in my mind, is a husky, broad-shouldered man, not that tall, but solid of build. Theressell has long, thick dark hair, like Marina.
“The parents of Baba and Theressell were also of the travelling clans. Their names were Marek and Jip. Nothing is known of them except their names. Their parents were Chard and Thray. Their parents were Jasay and Midda. The names of their parents are unknown to us.” Nanna’s voice has grown soft and husky. “The parents of the unknown parents were also unknown. There were many parents before them, unknown to us, going right back to the very first parents who lived on an island of sand and trees, in the middle of a river – here, where Ursa now stands.”
Nanna’s gaze is black in the smoky glow from the lantern. She has gone so far back in time she’s transported herself and the rest of us to a place where there is no present – no Black Marks, no worries. She closes her papery eyelids for a few seconds. Nobody moves, as if spelled b
y the mensha.
Then Nanna’s eyes blink open and I know she’s back in the present.
“All right,” she says, pushing back her chair, “off to bed, the lot of you.”
4
As soon as I hear Nanna’s wheezy snores coming from her mattress in the corner of the kitchen, I scramble out of my cubbyhole and pad through the sleeping building.
The night is warm, the sky tinted a dark orange. An airship motors silently overhead, heading towards Via Parada, maybe making a night delivery or ferrying some high-ranking Travester to the House of Law. From one of the buildings across the street come the faint notes of a guitar. It’s a lonesome sound, and makes me shiver. Trotting along the street, I keep to the shadows like a rat, moving from one hissing gas lamp to the next.
Along the black, silent river and across the stone bridge, then I cross into the Travester district, going back to the building on Trabant Street where the girl lives. The street is dim and empty, although lights shine from behind blinds in the house. Do these Travesters ever sleep?
Climbing up behind one of the stone lions, I stare at the girl’s house, willing her to appear in a window. Now and then a shadow-figure moves behind the blinds, somebody walking through the long room, but there’s no sign of the girl.
There are smaller windows on the upper floor, and I wonder if it’s another apartment where another family lives. But then, Travesters don’t huddle together like we do; they don’t have to. They might have the whole building for themselves. Which room would belong to the girl, and what would such a room look like? Maybe she’ll have pictures that she’s drawn stuck on the wall, like Marina has tacked up for Babet. Pictures of unicorns and dancing monkeys. How many other children live in the house? And more importantly: how can I get another sweetmeat?
Eventually the lights go out. Reluctantly, I climb down from my perch and head home, feeling strangely lonesome as if the guitar has cast its spell over me. I think about the girl weaving among all those people at the party, and how she looked different from them, the odd one out, the way I feel sometimes, even though I’ve got people all around me. As I trudge through Market Square, I plot how I can meet her again.
* * *
“Hello Ma,” I call out the next day, entering her room. A sliver of light from the shutters falls across her hands, her face, and her lips are moving – I can tell by her staunch expression that she’s rehearsing more phrases for the pamphlets.
She raises her chin towards me, and smiles. “Leho!”
I nod at the grimy boy standing nervously behind me, and go over to the spindle-back chair where my mother sits. “Come on,” I say to Bit, who is still lingering in the doorway.
“Who else is there?” she asks sharply, aware now I’m not alone.
“Only me, missus,” says Bit in his reedy voice.
“Call me Freya,” says Ma.
“He’s from the building down the street,” I explain.
“Ah.” She smiles. “Hello. I don’t get many visitors these days.”
I could say something about that – like how she doesn’t allow visitors, unless they are trusted, how she doesn’t like to go outside in case the Black Marks single her out, how she thinks she’s protecting all of us by staying hidden – yet I keep my mouth shut.
Lifting one of her hands, I rest it on the head of the dog Bit has got on a lead. A white and tan mongrel with brown eyes.
Ma jerks her hand back. “What–?”
“It’s all right,” I say quickly, “it won’t bite.”
Me and Bit exchange a worried glance. I thought she’d like the surprise, except maybe I was wrong. Yet she reaches out tentatively and feels the animal’s soft coat. Then she moves her hands over its face, feeling the drooping ears, the long snout, the hairy chin.
“Oh, Leho,” she sighs, and I know it’s going to be all right.
Feeling her way, with one hand on the dog, she gets down onto the floor, tucking her feet beneath her, and places both hands on the dog’s back.
“The miracle of a dog,” she says softly.
The dog licks her face. She laughs. Pleased, I grin at Bit and he flicks his orangey eyebrows. It’s a success.
Back out on the street, I give Bit a coin I’d found the night before. Should be giving it to Nanna for food, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, I reason, crossing my fingers anyway. Besides, I caught a fish in the river this morning, which in my mind makes up for it.
“We’re going up to the ruins,” says Bit, “if you want to come.”
I glance back at the doorway, thinking of the chores Nanna will give me if I hang around, and nod. The pair of us set off down the street, two no-account boys.
Washing hangs overhead on wires stretched between the buildings. We turn into Thessel Alley, which opens into a tiny square with a dead fountain. Apartment buildings rise up blankly on all four sides. Not a good place to feel nervous or to have somebody tailing you, and I try to ignore the watchful windows.
The dog between us, we walk around the fountain, its empty stone bowl filled with debris, and go into Fishmongers’ Way. There was once a big fish market down here, according to Nanna – as a girl, she was sent to buy fish for the household. Cartloads of fish from the lakes still come into the city – once or twice I’ve seen the big cart filled with baskets of ice and fish, trundling through the cobbled streets – yet the Cerels never see any of it, except for when Marta Gayer gives us a fish head or two for soup.
We turn left and nearly bump into a patrol coming out of a barracks house. We hurry into a doorway, Bit pulling the dog against his legs, and try to make ourselves invisible.
“That was close,” I whisper, peering out. We haven’t done anything wrong – yet – but they’d still clout a couple of boys like us around the head.
The tight pack of black uniformed men, their boots loud on the cobbles, are going the other way. I’m about to start off again when two of the Marks peel away from the main group and approach a building. They don’t bother knocking, just burst through the door.
Bit, beside me, is quivering. “What the–?”
“Shut up!”
It’s not long before the Marks come out again, hauling a young man between them, his boots scraping the ground. “Please don’t take me,” he cries. They ignore his pleas, dragging him along the street back to the nearby barracks.
“Come on,” I say to Bit, unnerved. The Cerel might’ve been younger than Jorzy. We set off again, though it takes me a while to regain my confidence.
There are a few small shops in this street, and we slow down to study the window displays.
“I am so hungry,” says Bit, staring at a bread shop.
The display of rolls and loaves in the window looks so delicious that my mouth immediately fills with saliva. Crusty rolls, golden-brown loaves, a plait of shiny bread. Bit presses his hand against the window. The scent of baking bread is overwhelming, hypnotic. Even the dog is drooling.
“Hey, whatcha doing?” a voice shouts.
Even before the burly baker can stride to the door of his shop and shake his fist, we’re running hard down the street, not daring to look back. Left into Tor Street, then we crash against each other, bursting with laughter at the sight of the man’s angry face. I lean against the stone wall of a building to catch my breath.
Calm again, we wait for the traffic to clear – automobiles and steamtrams full of workers – then we cross and go quickly down an alleyway, I don’t know its name. So narrow, it’s more like a tunnel, with the tall buildings nearly seeming to touch at the top. No washing hangs here; these are commercial buildings.
Out of the alley and back into sunlight, and there in front of us is the entrance to the Cerel cemetery.
We quickly cross the street to the gates, hoping nobody’s taking any notice of two Cerel boys. The cemetery is like a park for us Cerels, and it isn’t exactly a forbidden place, though it’s not a place for boys to be seen loitering by themselves. We could get in troubl
e – from both Black Marks, and our own people. Once through the gates, our boots loud on the gravel, it feels better, safer. There are trees here, and high stone walls, broken in places, and the slabs of stone markers we can hide behind if need be. The ruins are at the back of the cemetery.
We walk in silence along the gravel paths that run through the cemetery. The older part is overgrown with roses and brambles, but there is a new area over to the right that is still being used by the Cerels. Trees offer shade here, and the dog looks around happily for birds, though Bit doesn’t let her off the rope. You wouldn’t want a dog going after bones here.
“Something to show you,” mutters Bit, taking one of the paths on our right and heading towards the new section.
He leads the way to a stone marker that has several names etched on it. Because the cemetery is running out of room, they put several bodies in each grave. I shiver, thinking of them all crammed in together. Bit points at the bottom name, freshly etched into the stone.
“Marek Rudd,” he says. It’s the name of a fish, a country name. “My father,” adds Bit, frowning at the grave.
I stare at the marker, stuck for words. Me and Bit have known each other for ages – ever since he first came to Ursa and I rescued him from a gang of big boys who were snowballing him – yet Bit has never mentioned this. A father buried.
“You sure it’s him?” I ask. “Your father?”
Not that I doubt his word, except how would you know your father was in there? Most fathers have been taken away and put into wild camps: that’s a given. It’s rare for a father to be returned to his family, either dead or alive.
Bit, tight-lipped, nods. “Yes. I saw him. We brought him here.”
I look at my friend, the dark orange mop of his hair that means he’s only half Cerel, is picked on by the bullies, and I can’t help myself, I have to know. “Where was he?”