Ursa

by Tina Shaw

  “Wait! Our people, please listen–”

  Oh the gods, it’s Jorzy, hauling himself up onto the side of the transport. Faces swivel towards him.

  “Listen to me,” he shouts, “it’s a trick. There’s nothing in the Caucasas, nothing but barren land! You are being lured into a trap! There won’t be any shelter for you out there; there’ll be no food, no water. The Director just wants to get rid of you, like vermin. He wants to rid the city of Cerels–”

  A bewildered murmur runs through the crowd. Somebody boos. The Director has already climbed down from the platform and is quickly getting into his black automobile on the other side of the gates. Three Black Marks are pushing their way towards the transport. People are beginning to mill about like lost cattle. A woman cries out as she’s shoved and trampled.

  Jorzy faces them with white fury in his face. “You are being sent to your deaths, my people!” he screams. “You mustn’t go! There is nothing in the Caucasas. Stay here and fight! Stay here and fight for your freedom!”

  “You’ve already got good jobs,” a large Travester man calls out, “what more d’you want?”

  This is greeted by scattered laughter.

  Now Jorzy, pale and taut, is appealing to the Cerels closest to him. “Don’t you see it’s a trick? What will you do when you get there? Have you been given seed to plant crops? Have you been given supplies for the long winter ahead?”

  Several women in the crowd look at each other and shake their heads. The Black Marks have nearly reached the transport. Still Jorzy keeps on.

  “Where will you live? Are there villages? Houses? How will your children survive the long Caucasas winters?”

  Two Black Marks grab Jorzy’s legs and try to pull him down from where he clings to the side of the transport.

  A shot rings out. Women scream. In panic, people are wanting to run, but it’s too crowded to do more than shove and push. Another shot rings out. Wildly I try to see over the heads where it’s come from. Then I spot Moustache against the shop windows, pointing a pistol into the air. Other Cerel men are pushing through the crowd, going against the tide, making for the House of Law where the Director’s automobile is still visible. Cerels nearest to the transport are climbing inside, throwing in their bundles and boxes, as if they might miss out if they don’t hurry.

  “You will never be free,” screams Jorzy, “unless you fight back!”

  I can only watch in dismay as my brother is hauled down into the crowd and dragged away struggling by the Black Marks.

  People are milling in all directions now. I start pushing through them towards Moustache. He’s moving quickly along the closed shopfronts, hugging the walls. If I can just catch up with him, he could help. Somebody has to help Jorzy! They can’t leave him to the Black Marks.

  In the blink of an eye, Moustache has vanished. No! A sob comes out of me. I’m standing panting in the middle of a rushing tide of people. Then Bit elbows me in the side and looks down. I follow his gaze and there’s a black pistol lying on the ground. In a flash, Bit picks it up.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I hiss.

  With Bit following at my heels, I slip down an alleyway. As soon as we’re clear of the area, we take off at a sprint.

  * * *

  Nanna and Ma listen silently as I tell the story at the table. If only it was a made-up story, like the ones Jorzy tells. Nanna’s face is hard. Ma closes her milk-cloudy eyes and goes rigid as stone. I can only guess at the memories she must be revisiting.

  There’s a deep silence when I finish speaking. The sound of a dripping tap fills the room. A distant siren whines like a mosquito.

  Nanna scrapes back her chair and goes over to the bench to put on the kettle. Babet, thankfully, is with Therei on the next floor.

  “We have to do something,” Ma whispers.

  Nanna crashes the kettle onto the stove as if she wants to smash it. Water splashes onto the floor, and the two of us jump. My mother’s eyes flash open. Do what? Even I know there is nothing we can do. Jorzy might be dead already. And if not, then beaten so badly he might as well be dead. For him, there won’t be the luxury of the wild camps.

  “He might be … they might want to make an example of him,” I say, trying to buy him time, if only in my own mind.

  Nanna snorts in disgust and folds her arms across her ribs.

  “I’m damned if I’m going to hide away any more,” my mother says quietly. “Too long I have held back, out of fear, and done nothing.” She turns her head in my direction. “We’re going outside.”

  I’m gobsmacked. My mother has only been out on the street a couple of times since her blinding, more than five years ago. Nanna also stares, speechless. Ma is now standing, one hand on the table, cane in the other, waiting patiently.

  A smack on the back of my head jerks me back to reality. I stagger to my feet, sidestepping Nanna, who looks ready to give me another cuff, and touch my mother’s elbow. I try to read her expression, unsure of what’s going on.

  “Ma?” I ask her.

  She gives a determined nod. “Yes,” she says, “I’m sure. We’re going to get Jorzy.”

  21

  The first person we meet outside is Marta Gayer. The Travester woman takes one glance at my mother and seems to reel back as if struck. She bows her head and hurries off in the other direction, her footsteps cracking along the pavement.

  My mother, wearing a pair of dark goggles, turns her face to the cloudy sky. Luckily, it’s not too bright today. She holds my elbow, cane in her other hand. “Who was that?”

  “Nanna’s Travester friend,” I tell her, hoping it won’t be like that all the way to the House of Law. It’s bad luck to publicly recognise somebody who has been damaged by the Black Marks. Better to turn your back, is my grim thought.

  “What’s it look like out here?” Ma asks, a faint smile on her lips.

  What can I say? The street seems the same as it always does. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “All right. Then let’s go and get Jorzy.”

  I lead her along the street, turning right into Market Street, then coming into Market Square itself. It’s busy. Not everybody has gone to Via Parada. Yet we are quickly noticed. Cerels are always alert out on the street, wary of anything untowards, any unexpected flurry of activity, ready to slip away at the first sign of trouble, and this is an unusual event even for us.

  “Freya,” a voice murmurs.

  A short man in an overcoat and hat steps forwards, giving me a nod of recognition.

  My mother stops, pausing tentatively with her cane. “I know your voice–”

  The little man gently takes her hand and places it on his shoulder. “It is Hern,” he says simply.

  Ma raises the goggles to wipe away tears from her eyes. She is brisk, as if there’s no time to waste. “We are going to get my son, Jorzy,” she tells the man.

  He gives a nod and it’s obvious he already knows what has taken place.

  “I’ll join you,” he says.

  We set off again, Hern walking on my mother’s other side, cane tapping. It’s slow going, much to my frustration. Jorzy, even now, could be bleeding to death. But I can’t prevent the Cerels who come up to my mother – to touch her back, her shoulder, or to murmur a name. They all know her story. There will be people here who worked with my parents all those years ago, when they tried to free the city.

  The flinty-eyed vegetable woman who always gives me a hard time steps in front of us, so we have to stop altogether. I shrink back, expecting harsh words, though the woman only touches the back of her hand to Ma’s cheek.

  “It’s been too long,” says the woman, before going back to her stall.

  By the time we reach the edge of the square, there is a small crowd of people following us at a distance. Glancing over my shoulder, I wonder with surprise what they think they’re doing. Surely these people will get in trouble if they come all the way to the House of Law? Names will be noted. Individuals might be questioned later
. It is an unspoken rule among the Cerels that you don’t let yourself be tainted by another person’s misfortune. It’s not personal, or selfish, but it’s understood you keep yourself safe. And yet here they are, Cerels, out in the open, supporting my mother.

  Ma can sense I’m agitated. “What is it, son?”

  “Th-they’re coming with us.”

  She nods. “That’s all right. Let them.”

  The little man Hern leans forwards to address me as we walk. “People have had enough,” he says. “Oh yes, had enough. This is the final straw. Not all of us have been deceived by this rubbish about a precious land, you know. Some of us have more sense than that. I was born in this city, and I will not be coerced into leaving it.”

  Ma, although pale, is smiling, and pats the man’s shoulder. “Well said, my friend.”

  We are approaching Via Parada now. The crowd has dispersed, though the street has not yet been reopened, and workers are sweeping up litter. A man in a white apron is setting out chairs and tables in front of a cafe, although there are few people about. Even the airship has gone. There is no sign of the transport and I wonder if it’s taken its human load off to the Caucasas. The street feels sad and abandoned.

  “Tell me what you see, Leho,” Ma asks softly. Her expression is calm behind the goggles, yet her hand clasps my arm tightly.

  “We’re going past the shops,” I say gruffly. “There are the gates to the House of Law, down the end of the street.”

  Marching alongside Ma, her cane strident on the cobbles, Hern has gone quiet. Behind us, the crowd hangs back a little. Everybody seems affected by the sight of the House of Law glittering in the pearly light. Will the Director still be there? It’s rumoured there are cells beneath the House of Law lined with sheets of iron so that the screams of the tortured won’t be heard.

  My thoughts fly to Jorzy and what might be happening to him. I’m close to tears, but I swallow down my fear.

  Then we reach the gates and stop. Nobody seems to know what to do next. I look to my mother for guidance.

  “Tell me what you see,” she says again.

  I clear my throat. “There’s the plaza in front of the House of Law. It’s empty. No automobiles, or anything. Maybe there’s nobody here.”

  “There is always somebody at the House of Law,” says Ma. She seems to be thinking, angling her face as if to catch the sound of distant voices.

  “It’s true, it’s true,” Hern says nervously. “Always somebody here, night or day. They’re probably watching us at this very moment, as we speak. There’ll be Black Marks along soon, you’ll see, oh yes, Black Marks.” He peters out.

  “Where are the guards?” I ask slowly, the emptiness of the place dawning on me.

  The little man glances nervously from side to side. “Very true,” he says quietly, “there are no guards. There are always guards. Hm, where are the guards?”

  I startle as my mother squeezes my arm. “Let’s go,” she says.

  “Go?” I whinny in my nervousness. “Where?”

  She lifts her chin, taps the cane on the ground. “Take me to the main entrance.”

  Me and Hern exchange bleak glances. The people behind us are shuffling and murmuring. The main entrance? Oh, gods. Cerels aren’t allowed near the main entrance.

  “Don’t you mean the side entrance, Ma?” I ask urgently.

  She turns her face to me, and I see my reflection in the dark goggles. “No, son. The main entrance.”

  “Oh my, oh my,” Hern is muttering under his breath, “now we’ll be for it, oh yes indeed, this’ll be it–”

  Both me and Hern might have stayed fixed to the spot, except that Ma takes a step forwards, guiding us. Behind us the crowd mills, hesitating, then reluctantly follows. We walk across the stone plaza – the one place in the city I’ve never dared to explore. Even the sound of my boots on the stone flags seems exaggerated and alien to my ears. What the hell is my mother leading us into? I can hardly breathe. Yet at the same time my natural curiosity is alert to every detail. The glass and steel walls of the building loom above us. Up ahead are the huge double doors made of polished copper and decorated with black studs.

  Before we even reach the doors, they swing open and a man steps out. He is wearing a smart black coat and holding a long polished stick that has a trident of black feathers at the top. His shoes are soft red leather with pointed toes. There is a trace of lipstick on his lips and powder on his cheeks.

  “Halt, Cerels,” he says in a fluting voice, “you are trespassing.”

  “I have come for my son,” says Ma in a firm voice, planting her cane. “Black Marks took him this morning. I want him back.”

  The Travester’s face betrays no emotion. “Madam, I repeat, you are trespassing. You must leave this area immediately.”

  “We are not leaving until my son is brought out to me.”

  “Madam, you have no rights here.”

  My mouth’s gone dry. Ma doesn’t respond to the man and simply stands her ground. The Travester, too, is immovable. It seems to be a stand-off and I can’t begin to imagine what’s going to happen next. Surely the Black Marks will come out now and drag us off to the secret cells beneath the House of Law.

  Instead, another man appears, a senior officer. The mark of the bear is stamped on his black leather jacket.

  I frown. This man seems familiar, but I can’t think how.

  The officer steps past the Travester and walks right up to stand in front of my mother. The smell of his cologne is strong, and the scent throws me straight back to that room – my mother on the floor and the officer pissing on her. A chill shivers through me: it’s the very same man. Mr White.

  “Surely,” he drawls, “you don’t want to risk all of these people’s lives for the sake of one mere Cerel?” His pale, straw-coloured eyes are fixed on my mother’s ravaged face.

  Her nostrils have gone white. I know she’s recognised the voice, the scent, as surely as I have. The hand on my arm trembles and I fear she might faint.

  “What would you give,” Mr White continues coolly, “in exchange for his life?”

  Ma, horribly pale, nevertheless raises her chin. She drops her cane and pulls off the dark goggles, revealing her cloudy eyes, blinking in the light.

  “Myself. Take me, in exchange for my son.”

  The officer laughs and turns side-on to her, lighting a thick white cigarette. The musky smoke rises into the still air.

  “We don’t want you,” he says dismissively, “you’re of no use to us. You’re just a blind old woman whose life is over and done with. Nobody wants you.”

  My mother seems to sag as Mr White’s words hit her most vulnerable spots like bullets. Blue smoke drifts around the man’s head. He turns to stare at me.

  “No, we don’t want you, old woman. Though we’ll have this boy.”

  Ma gasps, turning her head to me. “No!”

  Me? I blink, taken aback.

  “A son for a son,” says the officer, matter-of-fact, “that’s fair enough.”

  “No,” she breathes, tears running down her cheeks, and I know it’s not only that her eyes are hurting but she’s imagining losing two sons.

  Mr White shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He’s already walking back to the polished copper doors.

  “Wait–” Without thinking, I step forwards. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Leho, no,” my mother wails, grasping at my arm.

  I shake her off and take another step forwards, meeting the man’s arrogant gaze. “But you must bring Jorzy out first.”

  The officer laughs. “I don’t have to do anything. It is I who dictates the rules here. You either come with me now, or all of you will be dead within the next few minutes.”

  Hern clears his throat. “There are Black Marks,” he murmurs.

  Glancing quickly around, I see that several Black Marks have appeared from side entrances of the building and their guns are trained on us. My mother, hands over her face, is quietly sobbing, all
of her bravado gone. I take another step forwards and now I can see something of the interior of the building. There are figures inside, in poses of intense listening. That bright interior exerts a magnetic pull on me. All of my life I’ve wondered what is inside.

  Mr White, directing himself to the crowd, says, “Go back to your homes. The show is over. Count yourselves lucky the Director is in a good mood today.” And to me: “Come along.” The Travester in his pointy red shoes stands back for us to pass.

  But then Mr White stops with a grunt, slaps a hand to the back of his head. A stone clatters to the flags. There is blood when he brings his hand away. He stares at it in disbelief as if it belongs to somebody else.

  I glance back wildly.

  There are shouts and the crowd is running forwards, coats flapping open, men and women, boots sounding harsh on stone.

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” gasps Hern. Hurriedly, he starts to push me and my mother out of the way.

  A shot rings out. Another. A woman falls. A man staggers and somebody screams. People are running in all directions. I grab my mother’s arm, trying to drag her away. But she breaks free of my grasp.

  “Jorzy,” she screams and, with raised fists, runs directly at Mr White.

  The officer is pulling something out of his jacket when she collides with him, fists flailing. She manages to swing a punch into his face, breaking his nose. Blood spurts down his face. Then he has her arm twisted up her back and holds a pistol to her head.

  One shot, and she crumples to the ground. It’s as swift and brutal as slaughtering a beast.

  No! It’s like I’ve been hit in the guts.

  For some reason Hern is shoving and pushing at me.

  “Move, move, that’s a boy, nothing we can do now–”

  Tears fill my eyes, so I can’t see. I’m struggling for air. My mother!

  Hern keeps pushing at me and I hit out with my fists. I have to go to Ma! She’s lying on the ground; she might still be alive. I have to help her. “Get off me!” I shout. Except the little man keeps getting in the way, shoving and pushing me away from the House of Law and out of the square.