Ursa

by Tina Shaw

  “What is it?”

  Bit shrugs. “My mother thinks it might be one of the Travesters’ religious objects. Like you see around their necks sometimes.”

  It’s like a tiny stick man. I can see a similarity to the little gold figures the Travesters wear on chains. Emee’s single “God”. But this one is wooden, nearly black. Curious, I turn it between my fingers. “Could be old,” I reckon. “My Nanna might know what it is.” I glance across at him. “Shall I show her?”

  Bit nods. “All right. I want it back, though.”

  I’m about to say something else when a scream sounds from outside. I shove the trinket in my pocket and jump off the bed. Bit is already at the door. We run through the building, along the dim central corridor, anxious faces peering out of doorways, and skid to a halt at the end of the hallway where there’s a window overlooking the street.

  “Watch out,” whispers Bit, his back against the wall on one side of the window. I press myself against the wall on the other side.

  Carefully, we peer out. On the street down below there are three Black Marks. A young man, Jorzy’s age, has been shoved, or thrown, against the brick wall of the opposite building. Two women, heads down, are running for their lives in the opposite direction. One of the Black Marks holds a gun to the man’s head. A shot rings out. The man collapses in a heap on the ground.

  With a gasp, I lean against the wall, hoping like hell we haven’t been seen.

  “That was Yule,” Bit whispers across to me. His teeth are chattering. “He works for the gr-grocer.”

  In my pocket, I feel around for the reassuring weight of my pocketknife, my talisman, my good luck charm. Not that it’ll make any difference to the man on the street, or to us, if we’re seen. What will happen to us, me and Bit, once we’re seventeen or eighteen? The Black Marks don’t like the older boys. They know that one day the older boys will grow up to replace the fathers that have been taken away. But they still need them to operate their machinery and run their factories. Unless they decide to use women. Will there come a time when all the boys, no matter what age, will be culled?

  I peep round the edge of the window. The street is empty. Only the body remains, blood seeping between the cobbles.

  “I’m going along the river now,” I whisper. “Are you coming?”

  Bit’s eyes are big as he shakes his head at me, and I don’t blame him. There’s too much at stake.

  11

  This time I take along some props – a hoe and a bucket, a worker’s neckerchief tied round my neck – and I whistle between my teeth as I walk along the towpath. When I come to the Bridge of Angels, I take a deep breath and cross to the other side of the river, continuing on my way as if it’s entirely natural for me to be on this path. And when a Travester couple pass me, going the other direction, they barely give me a glance. I could be any other Cerel labourer going to work in one of the big gardens along the river.

  Another mile and I come to the border of the Director’s property.

  There’s a private path to my left and, barely pausing, I turn into it, leaving the river behind, and follow a plaited willow fence. Anybody could get in here. Though I suspect at night there will be dogs prowling the grounds.

  I come to a simple latched gate, no locks or bolts. With a quick glance to make sure there are no man-eating dogs nearby, I push it open and let myself in. This is the scary part, and I’m too nervous even to keep up the pretence of whistling. Off to my left, through bushes and gardens, is what might be the main entrance – I can see the black automobile parked in front of the house. The house itself is made of yellow stone, and is enormous, at least three storeys high, with a metal roof. Windows gleam down at me like watching eyes.

  It’s too late to turn back now; anybody might have seen me and I’ve got to look like I belong. So with a deep breath, I set off along the gravel path that leads into the garden. It forks before reaching the side of the house, and I take the right-hand path. The plan is to find out where they grow the vegetables, and it won’t be out the front near the driveway. The path takes me around the river side of the house, past low trees cut into shapes – a deer, a large squirrel, a pyramid. There is a terrace here, with tall glass doors. A sound of piano music drifts across the lower lawn.

  Tense with fear, I’m aware of how loud my boots sound on the gravel path. With each step I expect to hear shouts, and I nearly lose my nerve. But I reach the far corner of the house without incident.

  There’s a rustic shed. A long trellis fence, behind which grow rows of vegetables, separates this kitchen garden from the house. There are things I recognise from scratching in the courtyard garden: tomatoes, peppers, cabbages. With a dry mouth, I make my way towards this area. A man steps out of the shed and spots me.

  “What’re you doing here?” he asks gruffly.

  This is the moment when my plan could go pear-shaped and land me in deep trouble. My eyes on the ground, I pull off my cap, doing my best to act like a servant.

  “Excuse me, sir, I’m the new boy.”

  “I wasn’t told about any new boy.”

  “One of the officers, sir, they told me to come.”

  The man says nothing, and I risk a glance at him. He’s rubbing at his thick swatch of hair. His arms are muscled, tanned and covered in a pelt of dark hair. He’s an older Cerel man, and I’m surprised to see he’s about the same age as my father. How has he avoided the wild camps? At least he’s not a Travester worker, who are naturally suspicious, and that gives me hope.

  “They didn’t say anything …” the man mutters. “Though it’s true I’ve been asking for a boy,” he admits, eyeing me.

  Thank the gods! Hastily I drop my gaze again, so he won’t see the spark in my eyes. I’d been gambling on something like this – the need for extra help in such a big garden. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? That I get sent on my way with a clip round the ears?

  The man is still looking me up and down. “Where did they find you?”

  Damn, I haven’t worked out that part of the story. “My mother,” I say quickly, sweating, “she works at the House of Law.”

  “A Cerel?” he asks suspiciously.

  “C-cleaning the toilets, sir.”

  “Ah.” The man sighs. “That’d be right.”

  Hearing his sympathetic tone, I find myself breathing more easily.

  “What’ve you got there?” the man asks, taking hold of the hoe and examining it. “You won’t need this here. We have plenty of tools.” He gives it back to me. “But what d’you know about plants? I can’t have just anybody working in the Director’s garden.”

  Right, here’s the real test. There’s still a chance I could mess up, yet I’ve come this far and that gives me the confidence to look around the kitchen garden with some kind of knowledge. It’s enormous, like everything else here. I point at one of the rows. “Peppers … they like plenty of compost. Sometimes they’ll get aphids, but you can use a garlic spray, or grow garlic nearby.”

  The man’s silence inspires me to take a step forwards.

  “And there’s your garlic,” I point at another row. “When it’s the longest day, it’ll be ready to harvest.” Another step takes me to the onions. “These need good weeding. They don’t like the competition. And there’s your leeks. Carrots, fennel, potatoes …”

  Glancing at the man, I risk a question. “No turnips?”

  “The Director doesn’t like them,” says the man gruffly. “It’s only us Cerels who eat turnips, boy.” Right. I’ll remember that. “What’s your name, then?”

  “They call me Leho.”

  “You can call me Boss.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Here’s the rules,” he says, “you don’t ever take anything from the garden, I don’t care how hungry you are, otherwise you’re out. Understood?”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “And if the Director, or any of his guests, comes out into the garden, you go in the shed, so they don’t have to see you.” The man
pauses, seems to soften. “It’s a good place to work,” he adds quietly, “so you don’t want to screw it up.”

  “I understand,” I say, as meekly as I can.

  “Which way did you come – along the towpath?” I give a nod. “All right, good. There’s a gate down there,” the man points beyond the shed towards the river, “that’s where you’ll come in and out. You’ll only be working in the vegetable garden. There are gardeners who take care of the rest. I don’t want to see you anywhere else on the grounds. Got it?”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “All right then,” says the man. “You’ll do. Get a fork from the shed. You can start by turning over the kitchen midden.”

  The shed is roomy and very tidy. Beneath the windows, a workbench runs along the wall. Pots and seedling trays are stacked at one end of the bench. Plump sacks underneath. Tools along the left wall, hanging on their painted silhouettes. There is a made-up cot against the far wall. A small wood burner and a few personal items tell me that the man lives in the shed. That will explain why he hasn’t been picked up on the street. But it doesn’t explain why the Director keeps a Cerel in such a cushy position.

  The man appears in the doorway behind me.

  “You know, I was expecting a Travester boy,” he says thoughtfully. Flushing, I keep quiet, just waiting to see how suspicious he might be. Boss seems about to say something more, then changes his mind. “Don’t let them see you, that’s all.”

  In the afternoon, Boss comes up silently as I’m on my knees weeding among the beans, sorely tempted to snaffle one of the juicy green pods but glad now that I haven’t. “You can go now. I don’t suppose you’ll have a clock or a wristwatch, will you?”

  “No, Boss.” I’m hot, hungry, tired and blisters have come up on the palms of my hands. I’m looking forward to getting home.

  “All right, then come each day at dawn,” says Boss. “Payday’s at the end of the week.”

  * * *

  Back at the house, I’m stripped to the waist and washing myself at the sink in the communal bathroom when Nanna comes looking for me. “And where have you been, young man? I needed somebody to dig a hole for the rubbish.”

  Drying my face with the scrap of thin towel, I flash her a grin. “I got a job.”

  Nanna blinks in surprise. “What kind of job?”

  “In a garden.” Lowering the towel, I meet her disbelieving glare. “In a Travester garden.”

  She’s shaking her head, hard to please at the best of times. “Payment?”

  “End of the week.”

  “Well!” she huffs. “We can always do with a few more coins around this place.”

  She leaves me alone then and I grin at the stained mirror on the wall, combing my dark hair back off my face with my fingers. “We can always do with a few more coins around this place,” I tell the mirror in a falsetto voice. I saunter back down the corridor to our kitchen, pleased with myself.

  Nanna announces my news at the dinner table. She even gives me an extra potato.

  “Oh, Leho,” exclaims Marina, “that’s marvellous.”

  Ma is beaming. “A nice, safe job,” she says, “out of harm’s way.”

  “Will you be growing yummy things to eat?” asks Babet.

  “Not exactly,” I say. It’s too hard to explain about not being allowed to take anything.

  “Where is this garden?” asks Jorzy, more suspicious.

  Cutting up the potatoes on my plate, I consider lying, then decide they might as well know. “It’s the Director’s garden.”

  Silence thumps over the table. Ma stands abruptly and leaves the room, the sharp sound of her cane hitting the floorboards.

  “What?” I ask. I thought they’d be impressed.

  Nanna clears her throat. “It’s a shock, that’s all.”

  “Does he mean the Director of all Ursa?” Babet asks Marina.

  “Yes, sweetie,” she winces, “that one.”

  Jorzy doesn’t say anything. His face is closed and he avoids looking at me. It’s disappointing: I’d expected my brother especially to be pleased.

  Later, when I’m in bed, arms and back aching, Jorzy pokes his head into the cubbyhole. “What are you up to, Leho?” he asks sharply.

  “Nothing.” His sharp tone stings. “I got the job for you – for you and your friends, to help, you know, with the plan.”

  My brother nods, his face serious. He looks like Papa, or the way I remember our father. “All right, then. But Leho–”

  “What?”

  “Keep yourself safe.”

  That night I dream about my father. We are fishing along the river, walking and casting and talking quietly. Papa is wearing his work trousers, tied up with a length of twine instead of a leather belt. In the dream I remember the belt has worn out, and my father hasn’t got around to replacing it. We cast and cast again. Sometimes we stop at a deep pool for a while. It’s high summer, and the trees are full of cicadas. I tie on a fly that’s like a cicada; a tasty meal for a fish. A mayfly lands on the surface of the water, and a trout rises lazily and gulps it down. That should’ve been my hook, I cry out. My father just laughs. Never regret seeing a beautiful sight, son. What does he mean? I’m confused: I wanted to catch that fish. I cast and cast, getting angrier and angrier, but the trout doesn’t rise again. I look round for my father to help me catch the fish, and see that he’s lying on his back in the grass. Is he injured, or just sleeping? Then I realise, with a sinking feeling, that it’s not my father any more, it’s Boss.

  * * *

  Every day I watch as Boss heads around to the side entrance of the big house and comes back with a pail of food. The first day I eat the cold turnip I’ve brought with me for lunch then watch as Boss chows down on the thick meat sandwich from the pail. The next day, as we sit on upturned buckets outside the shed, he passes me a piece of sausage. After that, he always brings back extra in the pail. Maybe he asks them in the kitchen for extra, or maybe he tells them about the new boy; either way, I don’t care.

  At first I eat fast, like a dog, thinking the food will be taken off me if I don’t swallow it down quickly. But when I understand there will be food at lunchtime, it becomes something to be looked forward to, and I force myself to eat more slowly. A tap on the side of the shed provides drinking water. Chewing and humming, I imagine the Travesters in the household eating the same food: thick wedges of dark bread, slices of sausage, chalky cheese. Maybe even the Director is eating this. When I make some comment along these lines to Boss, he tips back his head and laughs.

  “Sure they don’t eat this food,” says Boss, his eyes wrinkling. “This is peasant fare, boy.”

  On the whole, the Cerel man is kind. If I nick a seedling with the hoe by mistake or trample on a melon vine, he ignores it. And no matter how much I’m tempted – and I am sorely tempted every day – I make sure that none of the foodstuffs in the garden pass my lips. Noticing this, as he seems to notice everything, Boss one day plucks a fat tomato and cuts it into slices with his knife. We both layer our bread with the sweet, succulent fruit. It tastes like the sun.

  It’s like paradise in this garden, and I imagine working here all my life. But then, catching myself, I’ll remember why I sought out the job in the first place. I mustn’t imagine any kind of future here.

  * * *

  One evening, Jorzy takes me along to the pub. The place is as smoke-filled and loud with men’s voices as the last time. A fresh layer of sawdust on the floor gives off a piny smell. I follow Jorzy as he pushes through the throng to his two workmates who are sitting at a table in the corner. The man with the thick moustache leans towards me.

  “Tell us what you’ve seen … him–”

  The other man pushes a mug of beer in front of me. I’m a man now, among other men, and it feels good. “He takes a walk in the garden. Every day, late afternoon, around five.”

  “Is there anybody with him?”

  “No.” Still not used to the hoppy taste of the brew, I take
a delicate sip. “He walks alone.”

  The two men exchange glances, while Jorzy keeps his eyes fixed on me. “How does he seem, on these walks?”

  I picture the solid, straight-backed figure of the Director in my mind. It’s been tricky not to show too much interest, and I’ve only allowed myself glances from behind the trellis. And soon enough, each time, Boss hurries me into the shed, where we spend the time sharpening or cleaning the tools, and that’s been all I’ve seen of the Director. Stolen glances. But a glance is enough.

  “He has his hands behind his back, like a Travester on a Sunday stroll along the river. It looks like he’s thinking about something weighty, the state of the nation maybe.” It’s a joke, though the workmates exchange another meaningful look.

  Another sip of the beer tastes better than the first. Maybe I could develop a taste for this stuff. “Once, one of the Black Marks came out on the terrace, like he wanted to talk to the … to him. Except somebody else stopped him.”

  “So he’s not to be interrupted on these walks,” comments Jorzy.

  Moustache leans in close, and I can smell the garlic on his breath. “What about round the front, at the entrance?”

  “I’m not allowed round there,” I tell him simply.

  “But there are two gates down the back?”

  I give a nod. Suddenly my beer seems to be half gone, and my head feels muffled. “One on either side of the property. Paths that go down to the river.”

  The three men put their heads together. Jorzy, as if remembering I’m still there, flicks me a look. I’ve been useful, now I need to make myself scarce. So much for being one of the men. I scrape back the stool anyway, fingering my cap. Seeing they’re now deep in conversation, I leave my half-finished beer and sidle out of the pub.

  Out in the open air, I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and pause for a moment to study the yellow crescent moon before walking thoughtfully home. Let them cook up their plots and plans. Maybe I’ll work on a plan of my own.

  12

  “Jorzy,” I say, as we sit around the table, “tell us a real story tonight … tell us about the Director.”