Ursa

by Tina Shaw

  Looking around, I can see the trouble in their faces, though I could be wrong. I’ve been drinking my beer quickly in case they send me off again before it’s finished, and things are getting a bit hazy. The other voices in the pub seem to be getting louder. Some argument is going on over where the beer is served.

  “What is this Caucasas place, anyway? It sounds all right to me.”

  The third man glares, then lowers his eyes to his beer. “It’s a wasteland,” he growls.

  “He’s right,” says my know-it-all brother. “There’s nothing there, except some fields of undersized sunflowers. Nothing much else grows there, I’ve heard. It’s in the north, so the winters are long and hard, much colder than here.”

  “Fresh air, plenty of land, room to spread out,” I mutter, licking foam from the tankard. “Sounds good to me.”

  Jorzy frowns in my direction. “That’s because you’re not thinking it through.”

  “He might as well send us to the moon,” mutters Moustache.

  “Why doesn’t he just put us all out of our misery?” asks the other man keenly.

  Jorzy leans in, a fierce expression in his eyes that reminds me of Nanna. “Because if people found out then he would be ousted, as easily as his predecessor. He has to be seen to be fair.”

  Moustache snorts in disgust.

  “We must act,” murmurs the other man. “Sooner, rather than later.”

  Yeah, right. They’ll never get their act together.

  Fed up, I leave them to it. Outside the pub, I bump into a short man wearing a cloth cap and am about to apologise when he claps me on the shoulder.

  “You look just like your father!” he says.

  “What?”

  He holds out his hand, grinning at my surliness. “I’m Hern,” he says.

  We shake and I take a closer glance at him. He’s pale of face, though his hair is dark like a Cerel. “Ma has told me about you.”

  He gives a sad smile. “I think of your mother often,” he murmurs, and clasps his hands together. “D’you know, back in the day, she had so many admirers. If you were down on your luck, Freya wouldn’t hesitate to help you out.” His sad gaze seems to look into the past, then he remembers me. “But Leho, well met, young man!”

  I watch as he darts into the pub, and for some reason I wonder if he’s going to meet Jorzy. These days, nothing would surprise me.

  16

  The next evening when I get back to the building, Marina is sitting on her mattress playing peaknuckle with Babet. She jumps up when she sees me in the kitchen and grabs my dirt-grimed hand.

  “It’s all worked out,” says Marina, her eyes glowing.

  I shake her off, heading for my cubbyhole. “What’s worked out?” I want to lie down in my quiet bed and rest. My back hurts from bending over squash and radishes all day, and my head aches from the heat. The city has taken a deep breath and refused to exhale. Each day I come home with the shirt sticking to my back and a stale stink under my arms.

  “Leho,” she says, catching up with me in the hallway. “I’m leaving the city after all.” She’s breathless and her eyes are gleaming with excitement.

  I want to be happy for her, but it’s not exactly a cause for celebration. I stand warily outside my cubbyhole, putting my hand on the faded wall to steady myself.

  “How will you get out?”

  The four city gates are guarded by Black Marks and the barren outer land around the city is patrolled: nobody leaves or enters the city without papers or a special dispensation, which of course Marina doesn’t have.

  My sister, a spot of pink in each cheek, speaks rapidly. “It’s all arranged. There’s a special way, not something you’d expect at all.” Her dark eyes gleam. “Once I’m clear of the city, everything will be fine. Things are different out in the country.” With a secret smile, she touches her belly. “I’m going soon, before the bump starts to show.”

  So that’s why Nanna was so angry the other day.

  My eyes slide away from her, thinking about all the things that can go wrong and what will happen if she gets caught.

  “You shouldn’t go alone,” I mutter helplessly.

  She gives me her old lopsided smile, and I feel a twinge of guilt at not sharing her happiness. “Who says I’ll be alone?” She pokes me in the ribs, as if sharing a joke. “I’ve got a friend who’s going to help me.”

  That’s a surprise. “Who?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “And where will you go – to our aunt and uncle’s?”

  I can’t help it, the sarcasm. A black hole is opening up before my eyes. I don’t want her to go and I don’t want her to have an illegal baby. Part of me wants to hurt her, to make her cry and change her mind; to get an abortion. I want our life to carry on like normal with no extra turmoil.

  Marina puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be angry, Leho,” she murmurs. “This baby …” Her eyes go even darker. “I can’t explain. It’s not something I would ever have planned, of course not, but now it’s happened I have to go through with it. It’s the future, Leho.”

  Somehow, I can still meet her steady gaze. “The future can kill you,” I tell her, sounding like Jorzy.

  “So?” she retorts, lifting her chin. “That doesn’t mean you have to stay stuck in the past.”

  “And what about Jorzy? Have you told him yet?”

  “He knows already.”

  That will be why my brother has come back late the last two nights stinking of beer, and probably will tonight as well. It’ll break his heart if Marina risks everything taking off like this.

  “He’ll get over it,” adds Marina, defiantly.

  She stalks back down the hallway to the kitchen and her room. I can hear Nanna in the kitchen now, moving pots around. Leaning my forehead against the cool wall, my shoulders slump while a wave of hopelessness sweeps through me. Marina shouldn’t have to creep out of the city like a criminal. She could have her baby – if that’s what she wants to do – here, with us, and not among strangers. I’ll kill the Director myself and all of this will go away.

  “Hey ho,” a voice calls from the other room.

  It’s Jorzy, back from the factory. I hear the clatter of his lunch tin on the table. Babet’s high-pitched voice calls out for him to come and play peaknuckle with her. There’s a bright laugh from Marina, and Jorzy promising to play, as soon as he’s had a wash.

  Then my brother is in the hallway, jostling in front of me and holding up his hands for me to punch, like we used to practise boxing.

  “Come on, ratfinks, give me a good one.”

  But my head is full of Marina leaving. I push past him, run past Nanna working at the wood stove, and jog through the building.

  With hands shoved in my pockets and hunched shoulders, I stalk through the city streets, not even seeing where I’m going or watching out for Black Marks, like I always do, to avoid them. Let them stop me! I’ll lay into the first one who tries, gods help me.

  There’s a crowd outside a pub. My shoulder knocks into some bloke.

  “Hey!”

  I’m hurrying on, oblivious, the future pressing down on me.

  When I finally look around and take notice of my surroundings, I find myself turning into Emee’s street. Up ahead there is some kind of commotion. Slowing down, I come back into myself. It’s the Director’s automobile, pulling up to the kerb outside the house. People are gathered out front, waiting to greet him. There is the aunt, her face powdered and hands clasped in front of a midnight-blue umbrella of a dress. Several men have stiff white collars propping up their chins.

  And there is Emee, hovering beside her aunt. Emee in a golden dress, holding the little dog against her chest, her gaze fixed on the automobile. She is … glowing.

  The dog sees me first. Then Emee. She looks, looks away, looks again. She frowns at me, right out in the open and leaning against the wall of a building opposite. My fury and despair have nearly melted away, yet it’s left me feeling coolly in
different. I don’t care about what might happen to me.

  A man opens the door of the black automobile and the Director steps out. The aunt comes forwards, bobbing her head and gushing. The men stand to attention. They all seem ridiculous. And Emee, standing among them all, frowning and pouting.

  Then her face clears. The Director has stopped in front of her and I watch as he lifts Emee’s hand to his lips. It’s just a fleeting moment before he’s ushered into the house though it makes a big impression on me.

  Promptly, the exclusive crowd follows him inside the house. The curtain dressings are drawn tight, so the people inside are hidden from the street. Some music – guitar and lute by the sounds of it – is struck up.

  But outside, left behind on the stone step like a golden mannequin, stands Emee.

  She glances back at the house, and for a moment I think she’s going inside. Instead she sets off, on her side of the street, towards the park, and I lope along on my side. She disappears through the entrance that’s framed by the metal arch. The lamps in the park haven’t been lit yet, so it’s gloomy among the grey trees. Immediately I relax, being off the streets and out of sight. It feels cooler, too, after the heat of the streets. Up ahead, under a linden tree, Emee holds the back of her hand to her cheek. She’s been kissed by her true secret admirer.

  “I can’t stay for long,” she says as my boots crunch towards her.

  “Nobody’s asking you to,” I respond sullenly.

  She tips her head to one side. “You’re in a mood.”

  “What’s the Director doing at your house?” I’m certainly in no mood to fool around, or to be made a fool of.

  “Oh, he wants to consult my uncle on an engineering problem. Something very important, top-secret.”

  “So you have a party.”

  Her laughter rises swiftly, like music, and its falseness repulses me. “No, silly. That’s not a party. We are having a special dinner, of course! Then my uncle will take the Director into another room when they are ready to discuss the engineering problem.”

  “They could do that at the House of Law,” I persist, wanting to score a point.

  My anger seems unreasonable. Just because the Director is visiting Emee’s house – what should I care? Or maybe it’s because he kissed her hand.

  “Ye-es,” she drawls, “they could talk about it at the House of Law. But how much more comfortable to do it at our house.”

  Her tone contains an echo of the aunt and, simmering, I remember the caged bird twined in her hair.

  She turns with a secret smile and I follow her to a bench by a fountain – the water the only sound in the park – and we sit side by side.

  “Why are you in such a mood? I thought you Cerels are supposed to be a happy-go-lucky bunch who don’t let anything worry you too much.”

  A snort. “Is that what the Director says?”

  “The Director says many things,” Emee says mysteriously. “Well?”

  The fight goes out of me. “I’ve got over it.”

  Emee sighs. “I should get back.” Though she makes no move. “My aunt is besotted with the Director.” Besotted, the word rings in my head.“It’s embarrassing.” She sighs. “They probably won’t notice I’m gone. Not until they sit down to eat.” A dark pause. “Although the Director does like to talk to me – he’ll miss me if I’m not there.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “Oh,” she says breezily, “all sorts of things … he has a brilliant mind, you know.”

  A movement through the long grass rustles behind us. Maybe a rat; hopefully not a snake.

  “Still, things would be different if my parents were alive.”

  “Do you miss them?” I wonder.

  Emee plays with a ribbon on her dress. “I miss being part of a proper family. They died when I was so young, though I still remember my mother singing to me.”

  The water in the fountain burbles on. A yawn escapes me. It’s nice and cool here, sitting in the dark. I should like to sleep in this park away from the sticky heat.

  “Where are your parents?” she murmurs.

  “My mother is at home with us. My father is in one of the wild camps.”

  Her brow furrows. “Wild camps? What are they?”

  “You know,” I say, not paying much attention, “where they keep most of the men.”

  “What men?”

  We look at each other. Her face is a grey oval, her eyes dark in the gloom, just like mine are dark all the time. I’m staggered, but she’s not faking it: she really doesn’t know. Thoughts fly through my brain like arrows. Jorzy is right, the Director doesn’t want the Travesters to see him in a bad light, to see him as he really is – a tyrant. So the Travesters are living a lie, only they don’t know it. If they did know the truth, would it be enough to bring down the Director?

  “The Cerel men,” I tell her carefully, watching her face. “Black Marks take away the fathers and husbands and keep them in wild camps so they won’t cause trouble.”

  Emee gives a little gasp, then turns away. I can tell she’s thinking hard and it gives me hope when she doesn’t dismiss the idea straightaway. “But,” she says, “if that’s correct, then perhaps the Director doesn’t know?”

  I push back my hair with a sigh. “He knows. It’s his order. It comes from him.”

  “I don’t understand,” she says faintly, gazing at me with wide eyes. “He’s the Director of all of us, the one who oversees the city and takes care of us all – even Cerels.”

  Part of me doesn’t want to enlighten her; she might not talk to me again. I’m in too deep already. “Emee, he only takes care of Travesters.”

  “I have to go now,” she says then, looking confused.

  With a crunch of gravel, she leaves me alone in the dark.

  * * *

  Bit lands the first fish. A good-sized jakard, pink in the sunlight, its sharp teeth flashing. We crouch over the fish as it flips and gasps on the grass. Bit works the hook out of the jakard’s mouth, trying to keep his fingers clear in the process. The jakard can deliver a nasty bite, latching onto a finger and cutting to the bone, even in its death throes.

  I hand my opened knife to Bit and watch as he presses the blade down into the top of the fish’s head. It finally gives up its struggle.

  “Good size.” I wish it was me who’d caught it.

  Bit glances up, his face glowing. “If you don’t catch anything, we’ll share it.”

  “Don’t worry.” I grin. “I’m going to catch something tastier than an old jakard.”

  As Bit guts the fish, I put a dead cicada on my hook and cast the line into the river.

  The water is metallic blue-grey this afternoon, and every now and then a brown leaf floats past. The end of summer isn’t that far away. The days will start to get colder until the first light snow comes. Eventually more snow will come, blanketing the city. Then the river will freeze over. Yet even then, we can still fish. Before he was taken away, my father showed me how to throw a line into the water between the creaking sheets of ice. The river’s in hibernation, Papa told me, but it never stops moving.

  I watch my float move downstream on the current. It bobs under, and I feel a tug on the line wrapped around my finger. I flick up the rod and the line tightens like wire. Something’s there. Feeling the pull of resistance, I quickly start to reel it in. Suddenly a fish flips out of the water, making a graceful arc.

  A gasp comes from Bit. “Look’t the size of it.”

  Working the line rapidly, I bring it in – not too fast, not too fast! It’s the big one, the one I’ve been hunting all this time, I’m sure of it. Its silvery back cuts through the water. Then it dives, heading for deep water. The line whizzes out of the reel. Please let my line be strong enough to hold it!

  The rod bends towards the water, the line taut. Please don’t break! Running along the bank, I start hauling in line, drawing it in closer. Again the fish cuts through the water. Then again it leaps.

  �
�Look’t it!” cries Bit.

  I’m aware of nothing else. There is just me and the fish. I haven’t even noticed we’ve come to the stone bridge. The fish is visible now – huge, speckled silver, thrashing in the shallower water. A granddaddy of a trout. A beauty.

  “Come on,” I breathe, “easy now–”

  Tail flicking, it’s coming into the shore. Nanna will want it for the pot – she’ll kill me if she finds out I let it go – but I can’t take a fish of this size and beauty. Splashing into the shallows, I start to reach for it. I want to hold it for a few moments in the gentle current, just to know I’ve held it, then I’ll let it go, back to the deep water where it belongs.

  A shot rings out. The fish bucks, water hits my face. The fish is lying on its side, still, and its blood seeps into the water like dye.

  Up above, leaning over the parapet of the bridge, a Black Mark is putting away his pistol. Another one is hurrying down the stone steps. I’ve barely registered what’s happened when the Black Mark, in his shiny black boots, splashes into the water beside me. The man grabs the fish, holding it aloft by the gills. His companion on the bridge laughs and nods.

  “Bring it up,” he shouts. “We’ll take it back to the barracks.”

  Without a single glance at me, the man deftly pulls out the hook and strides off carrying the fish like a prize.

  Quietness settles back over the river as if nothing has happened.

  Still seeing the silvery-pink fish leap out of the water, I turn and trudge back up to the bank. I feel like crying. Water drains out of my trouser legs and into my boots, as if my body itself is weeping.

  Bit, squatting on the bank, averts his face. Neither of us speak. A bird sings five notes, over and over again, as if trying to tell us some message. I turn my face up to where the bird might be. It seems like everything bad about the city is crystallised in this moment.

  “Here,” says Bit, standing nearby.

  He’s holding out one half of the jakard, a long bony fillet.

  Wordlessly, I take the piece of fish, looking at it. Coming back to myself with an effort, I dig in my jacket pocket and pull out a folded square of brown paper. Putting the fish on the grass for a moment, I open up the paper and tear it evenly in half, giving one piece to Bit. We squat there in silence, two skinny boys, wrapping up our pieces of fish.