by Tina Shaw
“Tell us the one about Neptune’s twin,” I say to Jorzy.
When I was little, that story used to make me think of the Director. It’s said that the Director has a twin brother.
Jorzy sends me a quick look across the table. The others, intent on Nanna’s ritualistic dividing of the apples, don’t notice anything. It’s like I’m sending my brother a message, the way his story about the mermaid was a message.
“All right,” he agrees. “Why not …”
His gaze goes to the apples, now in quarters on the board. Nanna starts to pass them around the table: two quarters each, plus one extra for Jorzy and Marina. The sound of crunching fills the room.
“As you might know, Neptune is King of the Seas, and he rules all of the mighty oceans. What is not as commonly known is that he had a twin brother. He was called Nullor.” Teeth flashing, Jorzy takes a bite of apple. “Thing is, when the twins were born, their mother was only expecting one baby, so when Neptune popped out–” Babet rolls her eyes at the end of the table, “–his mother gave Neptune dominion over all the seas. Well, by the time she realised there was another bubby, she had to think fast – what could she give this one? She looked around and thought, I’ll give him dominion over all the marshes.”
Jorzy finishes off his apple and takes the pipe out of his shirt pocket.
“There’s nothing wrong with marshes, in my opinion,” he adds, probably for Nanna’s benefit and her attachment to our family history. “Very necessary places, marshes.”
“What about Nullor?” asks Ma, getting caught up in the story.
Jorzy tamps down his nugget of tobacco. “I’m afraid Nullor wasn’t very impressed with marshes. And as he lorded it over his soggy marshes, with the toads and the snakes, his gaze was drawn constantly to his brother and the sea. His brother, I might add, was also better-looking than Nullor and got to carry around a great big trident.”
I’m sucking on my second quarter of apple, trying to make it last, imagining Neptune’s trident. I picture a golden fork, with very pointed prongs.
“All in all, Nullor felt he’d got a raw deal. So he plotted to find a way to claim the dominion of the seas for himself, and get the nice trident to boot. He thought and thought, sitting in his marshes, until he came up with the perfect plan …” Jorzy, enjoying himself, blows a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. “This is what he did: every evening, Neptune had the habit of calling for one of the marsh fairies to come and sing him to sleep. These were sweet little fairies, with a light that glowed in their bottoms, just like a glow-worm.”
Babet giggles. I’ve heard the imaginary games she plays with her friends where the glowing fairies are cast in walk-on roles.
“But one of these fairies was not as sweet and cute as the others. Her name was Mig–”
“She was the bad fairy,” whispers Babet.
The scent of Jorzy’s tobacco fills the room, reminding me of my father, who also used to smoke a pipe.
“Nullor whispered in Mig’s ear, and that night when Neptune called for one of the fairies to sing him to sleep, it was Mig who flew out over the ocean to Neptune’s rock. Well, the song that Mig sang to Neptune that night was an ancient one, and it put him fast to sleep – he slept so deeply that he didn’t notice when Nullor came creeping over the waves and lifted him onto his back. Neptune didn’t even bat an eyelid when Nullor brought him back to the marshes and plonked his great big brother on Nullor’s own rock. And Neptune didn’t even mutter in his sleep as Nullor chained his brother to Nullor’s own rock, and stole off with Neptune’s beautiful trident.
“The next morning, when he woke up, Neptune could see what had happened. He was furious.” Jorzy raises his hands and widens his eyes. “Neptune roared in fury!”
Babet gasps and shivers, and Nanna sends Jorzy a frown. He tones it down, sucking again on his pipe. “Of course, he couldn’t do anything about it – he was chained up good and proper.”
There is a long pause while Jorzy fiddles with his pipe, obviously trying to get the most out of his one gobbet of tobacco.
“What happened next?” asks Ma.
“Oh, well,” Jorzy gives a lazy smile, “if you must know … Neptune was not only handsome, he was also very strong – much stronger than his brother had given him credit for – and the ocean loved him. The ocean loved Neptune so much it would do his bidding on special occasions. That night, while Nullor slept on a rock out in the sea, Neptune stood up on his rock in the marshes and called up the spirit of the ocean. ‘Mother,’ he cried–”
I notice then that we’ve got an extra audience – several of the neighbouring children are huddled in our doorway, listening with rapt attention.
“For the ocean was none other than their own mother,” explains Jorzy. “‘Mother,’ cried Neptune, and his voice rolled across the waves and down into the briny deep, echoing off the very floor of the ocean itself. ‘Mother!’ he roared, ‘I have been cheated.’
“And the sea began to boil and water rose up into a huge tower that took the shape of a woman. The woman looked down at Neptune, sitting on Nullor’s rock in the marshes. Then she looked at Neptune’s rock in the sea, where Nullor was still fast asleep, worn out by the day’s excitement. Seeing that this wasn’t how things were supposed to be, she lifted up the sleeping Nullor on the back of a wave, and sent him far across the seas, to the dark side of the world, where he could rule over those oceans all by himself. Then she set Neptune free, and gave him back his nice trident. And that’s the way it has been ever since. Neptune rules the oceans as far as we can see, while his brother rules the oceans on the dark side of the world.”
Marina sighs, and pushes back from the table. Nanna, too, gets up.
“But Jorzy,” says Babet, “why didn’t the mother kill Nullor?”
“Good question,” he says. “The mother could see that Nullor had been driven by jealousy. So she couldn’t just send him back to the marshes, or he’d do it all over again. And she didn’t want to kill him, because he was her son. She banished him instead. D’you think that was fair?”
Babet frowns, thinking it over. “Yes,” she decides, “that was fair.”
“What would you have done, ratfinks?” asks Jorzy.
I feel in my pocket for the folded knife, and curl my fingers around it. Again I’m thinking of the Director, and remember Jorzy’s secret plans.
“I would have killed him,” I say simply.
* * *
Waiting again behind the lion statue, I see Emee come out of the house almost as soon as I get settled. She crosses the street, pausing at the bottom of the steps. In one hand she holds the goggle-eyed dog, from her other hand dangles a drawstring bag.
“We’re going to the park,” she says, adding graciously, “you can come too, if you like.”
She sets off down the street. I count to three, then follow. It’s not far. A few doors along, she turns in at a gate. A path runs through trees. It’s like a cemetery and I glance around expecting to see gravestones. The Cerel parks are cemeteries. Yet here there are only trees and benches, as if we are in the country, though I’ve only got a hazy idea of what the country looks like; there are probably trees and fields and rustic cottages where peasants roast sausages over open fires.
There aren’t many people in this park. Two littlies streak past, running a metal hoop between them. An old woman sits on a bench beneath a linden tree. A mother walks a baby in a pram with enormous wheels.
Emee, up ahead, has ducked in among the trees. There is a sheltered place, a clearing, almost hidden from the pathways. She flops onto the leaf-strewn ground and sets the dog down.
“I always come here,” she says theatrically, “when I want to think.”
Joining her on the spongy ground, my first impulse is to laugh at Emee and her soft Travester ways. But as always with her, my curiosity gets the better of me. She is an alien species, about which I know nothing. There’s something else about her too, something hidden that I don’t understa
nd.
“What sorts of things do you think about?” I ask, playing the game.
“Oh, you know,” she says airily, leaning back on her hands, “life.”
She is baffling. Why bother thinking about life?
“What about it?”
“Weeeeell,” she drawls. “What is our purpose in life, for example. I mean, is there a reason we are all living in this city, apart from just working and going to parties? That kind of thing.”
I poke at the ground with a stick. It’s not something I’ve ever wondered before. “And what did you come up with?”
“Oh, I haven’t decided yet. Perhaps it’s something to do with learning.”
“Learning?”
“Yes, you know, learning something special about each other, and the world we live in.” She fixes me with a pale gaze. The sun coming through the leaves throws a hazy golden light over her that makes her seem insubstantial, like one of Jorzy’s marsh fairies.
The stick breaks under my hand and I throw it away. How does she always manage to make me feel small? As far as I’m concerned, you live, end of story. There is no greater meaning to it than that. You either live well, or it doesn’t go so smoothly. Other things can interfere with your life, though, and that seems to me to be the main problem. It’s called survival, according to Jorzy. But I have a feeling Emee won’t understand about that.
The little dog, its back leg cocked, pisses on a clump of grass. That’s probably the real meaning of life.
Emee’s still looking at me, expecting something witty. “So, what do you think?”
Is this the kind of thing she and her friends debate – the meaning of life? I try to sort some words into order. “I think we learn something new every day.”
“Oh, yes!” She grins happily. “That’s exactly it.”
And it feels like I’ve won a prize. One minute she’s exasperating, the next I’m infatuated all over again. The trees flutter their leaves above my head and I feel a little drunk, like the time I stole a cup of apple cider from the Black Marks’ barracks. It spurs me on to greater heights. “I think … that, in the end, we are all brothers and sisters, and should treat each other kindly.”
Emee’s brow wrinkles. “Really?” She seems to be thinking hard. The little dog has come back to paw at her lap, and she reaches out absentmindedly for it. “That’s all very well,” she says finally, “although I don’t think we can be brothers and sisters, not really.”
“Why not?”
“Because we are too different.”
Something akin to anger creeps in. “You mean Cerels and Travesters.” I frown, pushing back my overgrown mop of hair.
“Well, yes.” She lifts the dog and stares into his eyes. The creature ducks his head and Emee sighs, putting him back into her lap. “But it’s a very nice sentiment.”
I feel like sulking. Sentiment. It’s an empty word. A Travester word.
“Actually,” she continues, “our Lord says that we must be kind to our brothers and sisters, and help each other.” She adds, as if parroting something she has learned, “So perhaps you have a point.”
“Lord,” I repeat the foreign word. “D’you mean the Director?”
“No, silly, our Lord God.”
Now I’m really confused. “I – we don’t know much about religion.”
The gods of the Cerels were banned well before I was born, though Nanna still prays to them. Some nights, on my way out, I hear her muttered invocations from the mattress in the corner of the kitchen.
Emee looks thoughtful, and we don’t speak for a while. The little dog jumps off her lap and frisks between us. He climbs tentatively over my legs, braver now, and I scratch behind his tufted ear.
“I should like to be this little dog,” I murmur. “I bet he knows about your god.”
Emee gives a shrill laugh. “How could a dog know about God?”
My response is honest. “I reckon animals live close to their gods. They hear them speak, and they can answer back. Have you ever seen your dog look up as if somebody else is in the room, but there’s nobody, and maybe he’ll bark or growl?” She reaches out a hand to pet Min-Min, who is perched, grooming himself, on my knee. “Times like that, he’s probably talking to one of the gods.”
She plucks the dog off my lap. “You talk as if there are lots of them.” I don’t say anything, and find another twig to avoid seeing her expression. “There is only one God,” she says primly. “You must know that.”
Looking at her, darkly, I wonder how Travesters can be so ignorant.
“According to your Director.”
“He’s your Director, too,” she snaps back. “He directs the whole city, not just the Travesters.”
I snort. “Don’t I know it.”
She wrinkles her brow at me again. “The Director cares for everybody, you know, even Cerels.”
“Then why do we live in ghettos?” We are on touchy ground now and I feel a little breathless even talking about this stuff with her, yet it seems I can’t help myself.
Emee glances at me, frowning. “What do you mean, ghettos?” I give a shrug, trying to calm the thoughts in my head. I hadn’t meant to start talking like this. “Go on,” she persists. “You brought it up, now you must tell me, instead of being mysterious about it.”
“I’m not being mysterious.” I’m grinning: I like being called mysterious.
“Well?”
She can be very haughty, the way she sticks her chin in the air and looks down her nose at me. “I can’t explain,” I admit, “though maybe I’ll show you one day.”
Seemingly appeased, the girl turns her attention back to the dog, which is resting on the ground beside her, its tiny paws crossed. She picks up her drawstring bag – made of some delicate, embroidered fabric – and takes out a small box. She lifts the lid and Min-Min sits up expectantly.
“You know what’s in here, don’t you, my precious,” she coos. And, to me: “His treats. Cook made some this morning especially.” She takes something out of the box, and holds it out to the dog.
The savoury scent makes me take a deeper breath. “What is it?”
The dog has the thing now between his paws, gnawing.
“Chicken giblets,” says Emee, watching the dog. “Roasted in goose fat with herbs.”
My mouth fills instantly with saliva. I swallow and clear my throat, but the words come out husky, my voice breaking. “Can I try one?”
“What?” She laughs, her eyes twinkling like I’ve made a joke. “But it’s pet food. Nobody eats giblets.”
“Still–” I croak. “I would like to.”
She holds out another one for the little dog. With a sideways glance, she offers me the box. It’s filled with the brown glistening nuggets. Reaching over, I take one and hold it to my nose to savour the smell. Then I put it in my mouth. Closing my eyes, chewing, I try to make it last as long as possible. It is unbelievably delicious.
“You’re humming!” says Emee, delighted.
My eyes pop open and heat warms my face. It’s what I used to do as a little kid when eating nice food, and it’s too late now to win back my previous gruff persona. Yet her face is serious as she looks at me, as if seeing somebody new.
Ducking my head, the words come out all by themselves: “I should like to die and come back to earth as your little dog.”
Emee gives an indulgent laugh. It was the right thing to say. “They’re only chicken giblets.” But she seems flattered by the idea of a boy wanting to be her pet.
“I … I haven’t eaten them before.”
A look flashes in her eyes, and it might be pity. “You are most woefully ignorant, you know, Leho.” It’s the first time she’s used my name, and I get a funny feeling behind my ribs. She passes the box over to me, as if it’s nothing special. “You can have the rest,” she says graciously. “Min-Min can’t eat that many, and I was going to throw them away.” She gets to her feet, dusting off her dress. “You should stay here while I leave the par
k, so people don’t see us together.”
I watch as she walks away, dog tucked under her arm, enjoying the sight of her ungainly strides as she goes along the gravel path, oblivious to everything around her. I watch until she’s out of sight. Then I stuff the rest of the giblets in my mouth.
* * *
With the wonderful taste of the giblets still on my tongue and a full feeling in my belly, I decide to visit Via Parada, the Director’s haunt. And who will notice me there? Slight and dark as a cricket, I make my way along the wide avenue, sticking to the shadows created by the trees, sticking close to the walls of buildings, until I find a useful spot. A narrow alleyway, no wider than a wheelbarrow. From this vantage point, I can watch the important, busy people in their daytime finery. It seems natural that not one of them should notice a skinny boy leaning against the wall of an alleyway.
Automobiles, too, chug past, heading to and from the House of Law. An airship momentarily blocks out the light as it passes silently overhead, heading for the docking bay. It is rumoured that the Director never travels by airship. Something to do with a fear of heights.
Following the ship’s stately progress, I think how much I’d like to go up in one. What I wouldn’t give to see the city from above, like a bird. Yes, one day … for you never know what might happen in the future. And I’m young, there’s plenty of time to wait. Maybe, when I’m an old bloke, older than Papa, the Director will be dead and the city will be free and even Cerels will be allowed to travel in airships. It’s a happy thought and I’m grinning as the airship goes out of view. After all, anything is possible.
My daydream is interrupted by a sound coming from the alleyway behind me. A man in a greasy apron is putting two metal rubbish bins outside a door. He disappears, leaving the door open.
The smell of chicory draws me towards the door. Inside, there’s the frenetic activity of a large kitchen. A fat man wearing a soft white hat is shouting orders to several young men, also wearing soft hats. Pans are being jostled over flames, dishes shoved into ovens. Steam rises up from a bubbling cauldron. Sinking down behind the bins, I watch in awe. A harried-looking Travester boy, about my own age, is ripping apart lettuces at a big sink. Another boy is scraping bits off dirty platters into a bin. So much wasted food!