Something Wicked Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two

by Unknown

  My stomach churns. I shift, legs kicking under the sheets in an attempt to untangle myself. I try not to think about the audition, about standing in front of the crowds, under scrutiny. I am to be examined like a germ under a microscope.

  Mother insists I am wonderful, a blessing. She is expectant, hopeful. My success would mean so much. I picture the possibility, a chance to move up, beyond the sound and grease smell of the machinery that drives us; a chamber in the lower quarters, a route out - provided I am chosen, that I am good enough. I feel nauseous as I dwell on it, remembering what rests on me.

  I force my mind to imagine the success. I might perform in one of the great rooms, my voice carried throughout the city. I imagine the chance to sing, to really sing, a chance to blossom in the music schools. I barely dare hope, the pain in my chest acute at such possibilities.

  I imagine the chance to see and hear, in person, our guiding Voice. To hear, free from the crackle and echo and noise of our gutter dwelling, Him. The thought raises a smile, the purpose of dreams.

  I hear mother before she enters, feet softly padding on the bare floor outside our room. The door creaks, a tired groan, as she pushes it open; the sound of water sloshing on the floor echoes like a vestigial sea. The blocked drain in the corner bubbles vocally as currents disturb it.

  “Time to get up Harin. Today is the big day. Did you sleep well?” Her voice is quiet and eager, hushed but shrill, a slight waver.

  I watch her silhouette in the dim, sepia light of the door. “As well, if not better, than I expected.”

  I see her smile. “Good boy. Now, come have some breakfast, I’ve cooked you something special to set you off to a good chance. We’ve got to make sure you’re at your best.”

  I try not to imagine failure.

  All three of us assemble to head out; mother, me and Trac, my brother. He complains vocally about having to go; he doesn’t want to waste his day sitting in waiting rooms, watching me on stage, bored. Mother tells him that he’ll get to see the middle levels, one of the minor music halls. He’ll get to see the sky. This excites him.

  I feel uncomfortable; my skin crawls. The guard at the gates to the vertical tram glares at us as we approach. His gaze is hard, a thin, lined mouth - a grimace, lines creasing a face well-used to the expression. He stiffens.

  “You got reason to travel?” He’s dismissive, he’s heard too many flimsy excuses from ‘our sort’, desperate, pleading.

  “My son.” Mother reaches behind me to place a hand on my shoulder.

  “He has an audition on surface four, the common music hall. He was chosen at the last selection.” Mother struggles to keep her voice calm.

  “Name?” The guard snaps, he pulls a note pad from his pocket.

  “Harin.” My throat feels dry, my voice is quiet.

  The guard scans the list, running a finger over lines of text. He turns a page, his finger pauses. Looking up, he eyes me, then my mother, face fixed in the same expression.

  “You can go up, you have six hours’ leave.”

  We hold out our arms and the guard fixes the metal bands around our wrists, locking them on with the complex tool clipped to his belt. Only he, or another guard, can remove them. Vivid brown bracelets mark our status at the bottom; after six hours a constant, shrill alarm will sound.

  Testing each with a tug, nodding once when he’s satisfied, the guard turns to open the door. We pass through, muttering our thanks. He ignores us, dismissing us with a single nod of his head before turning back to block the entrance. The door shuts behind us with an echoing clang.

  We are alone as we wait for the vertical tram. The car arrives empty and we enter. The journey up takes just over twenty minutes. We travel in silence. My brother, sat in his seat, swings his legs. Mother keeps looking over to me, a broad smile, taking my hand to squeeze it. My stomach bubbles; I returned the smile each time.

  The lift stops with a jerk, startling us. The lock on the door clicks off and we exit. I freeze, reach for my mother’s hand; I have never been beyond our level.

  Through the clear walls I can see the sky and, painted a warped green by the glass, the sun. I squint against the brightness. I look around, see pedestrians staring at us, openly glaring, hard eyes with arms folded across chests. Others turn their heads as they walk past and give us a wide berth, only snapping their gaze away at the last moment.

  Mother pulls me on. “Come on you two, no time to stand around staring. We’ve got to get to the music hall. Don’t want to be late now.”

  We trot after her. Men and women in dusty uniforms, overalls and aprons, pause their work scrubbing floors, carrying baskets of damp linens and food, to watch us pass - their faces are masks of disdain.

  I focus on the walls and ceilings, avoid eye contact. Crude murals, images of our city floating in the oceans, standing fast against smaller, lesser island states, are etched and painted onto the glass and metal. They are a visual narrative of exchanges, conflicts and combat - frozen scenes from our history, moments of pride, our rise to Third; remembrances of our victory over those who once stood over us.

  The music hall is a plain building, the glass walls are frosted, the doors beaten bronze. The street outside is busy, families from the lower levels are entering, boys my age brought to audition. I recognise the expression they wear; wide eyes and faltering smiles.

  I notice several families like us, dressed in little more than rags, all clearly tagged with brown wristbands. Others wear the yellow of manual labour, ruddy-cheeked parents with large, callused hands. Some wear the uniforms of the lower house servants, a sneer painted across their faces, seething fury and resentment at being forced to mix with us.

  The music hall buzzes with voices, the foyer is crowed and hot. The decoration is simple but makes an impression on me; paintings of our great Voices are numerous. Along the walls I see the pipes that carry the sounds and songs. Boxes, junctions that connect wires and tubes, hum quietly. A hiss escapes at intervals; wisps of steam leave an oily taste in the air. I wonder what it would be like for those Byzantine mechanisms to carry my voice, for my song to become part of the city’s heart.

  The Third City sails alone, a single speck on a vast expanse of constantly heaving water. It passes others, its sibling states, only rarely. Each is an island, isolated, hermetic. Beneath the water, shadows move. Chasing swarms of dancing silver, they break the surface to arc in the air, only to dive back and continue their hunt; leviathans, hidden in the deep.

  At times, the cities dance, performing rituals - a semantic ballet of politics and prestige - exchanging gentle harmonies of rank and station over days of careful choreography. It’s peacock posturing, waltz-step preening. Bedecked in pomp, opulent shows of wealth and glory, lords and ladies on high balconies jeer and taunt - farm animals.

  Young bucks challenge dominance in flurries of motion. Waves crash and the seas shudder, walls shatter in resonance. Noise clatters against fields that falter under assault.

  On the horizon, Third City observes the gradual crawl of Seventh City. Seventh City slowly turns, circling round, its course changed and heading toward its sibling. Third City responds, turning and pulling around to face the lesser state, preparing for the dance. Crowds begin to form in the gardens and on the terraces; a rare spectacle.

  I stare out at rows of seats that stretch out into darkness, beyond the reach of the lights that dazzle and blind me. The boy in the centre of the stage sings. He sounds good, well-practiced and taught. He sings only a few lines of his piece before the choirmaster calls out and tells him to stop. Instructed to leave the stage, the boy walks off, head low and shoulders slumped; the master’s decision doesn’t need to be stated.

  He calls the next boy. The boy in front of me crosses the stage with reluctant steps, I can see his hands shaking; my stomach flips. He stops on the mark and waits for the instruction to begin. Before the choirmaster can command him, a noise breaks out at the back of the auditorium. I look but can see nothing beyond the first
few rows.

  I look down the line I wait in - I’m at the front now. I see faces staring forward at me, most of them turning their expression from me to avoid eye contact. They turn to stare out, attempting to see what is causing the commotion; the sound approaches.

  “Oh my! This is an honour, the boys are blessed by your presence.” The choirmaster, his voice suddenly much softer and more pleasant than it has been, bustles out of his seat.

  I see a small group moving down the central aisle, and I pale when I realise who it is - our great Voice, the Castrato lord. A bustling entourage of servants and doting gentry flutter around him, the lords and ladies fawning for his favour.

  The ladies walk with parasols, in gowns of silk and lace, bound in elaborate corsets, slim-waisted beneath tight coats, their skirts billowing. The women sail in the fashion of the city; gliding. Gentlemen strut with canes in sophisticated long coats. Their chests are puffed in embroidered waistcoats over high-collared shirts with ruffled cuffs and necks, starched knee-length britches worn over white stockings. I hear the click of their leather shoes as they walk; show horses.

  The Castrato waddles, his large frame moving with tired steps. His suit shimmers with bright threads and ornate needlework. His smooth cheeks are red, his brow damp.

  He stops and the choirmaster rushes to him, exchanging quiet pleasantries and offering flattery. Servants rush to assemble his seat - a padded chair, broad and strong enough to support his mass.

  “How are my boys?” Our Voice’s voice is soft, almost feminine, rich and thick, like sweet syrup.

  I know my mother and brother, at the back of the room, waiting for my audition, must see him. I imagine mother’s face, white and trembling, to be in the presence our Voice - an honour.

  “Not as well as we had hoped, even for boys of the lower castes. Not one so far has been of the standard we require. Would you do me and the boys the honour of viewing their performances?” The choirmaster bows his head.

  The Castrato turns to assess us. I turn my face away and hide my wrist behind my back, attempting to shrink myself. As he looks down the line, turning his attention eventually to face the boy still on the mark in the centre of the stage, hands now clenched tight, knuckles white, I see an unsettling smile play across our Voice’s lips; his jowls wobble.

  “Yes, I think I will.” As he sits, his seat groans; the assembled lords and ladies and servants flutter into seats on either side of him.

  I am on the mark. I force my shoulders back and lift my head up. I hold my hands together in front of me. I can feel their eyes on me, but I refuse to look at them. I can see, out of the corner of my eye, the choirmaster and the gentry, their faces screwed and creased; I feel a flush on my cheeks.

  I can see our Castrato reclined in the padded confines of his chair. His face is painted with an unnerving smile; a shiver runs up my spine. His forehead glistens under the lights, beaded with perspiration.

  “Please begin.” The choirmaster’s voice is hard but not unkind.

  I inhale and, stifling the quiver in my limbs, begin to sing. I focus on a point beyond the crowd and allow the pleasure of the music to quell the acid in my stomach. The other boys sang with polished voices, honed over lessons and by skilled tutors. I hope the lack of finesse does not show. I keep my chest calm and think of the times I have sung for my mother and brother, the pleasure I gave them. I open myself.

  I picture my mother at the back of the hall, seeing perhaps my only performance on a stage as fine as this, a genuine music hall. My voice seems to benefit from the acoustics, a pleasing echo as it carries and reverberates.

  My gaze darts to the choirmaster, his expression flickers, a faint smile and I feel my heart leap. I take confidence and continue. There is no objection raised, I am allowed to sing. It seems a long moment. I see our Voice studying me, his expression amused and intent. His cold grey eyes pin me.

  As I reach the end of my piece, I realise I am the first boy to be allowed to finish. I finally chance to look out, to study the assembled audience. I see even the lords and ladies, bedecked in their finery, watching me, their expressions relaxed and almost pleased. I return one or two smiles, faltering.

  “Come forward boy, to the front of the stage.” It is our Castrato; I obey the summons.

  I peer out and, closer to the auditorium now, out of the harsh glare of the stage lights, appreciate the size of the room. I am glad I could not see before. I spot my mother and my brother. Mother is smiling at me, nodding her head. Her arms are wrapped around my brother who stands in front of her; even Trac is smiling.

  “What is your name, boy?” The question is gentle.

  Our Voice leans forward in his chair. His large, plump hands rest on his lap.

  “Harin, my lord.” I stutter slightly and bow.

  “And you are from the slums, Harin? The lowest decks?” My eyes flick to my mother; the question lacerates and I feel my throat close.

  “Yes… yes my lord. We are from the bottom quarters.” I wait for the rejection.

  “You have a natural gift, boy. Wouldn’t you agree, Rin?” Our Voice turns to the choirmaster.

  The choirmaster turns from our Castrato to me, he is smiling, a faint expression, with hard eyes. “Yes. Absolutely, yes. The boy has a gift, precisely what we’re looking for. You know, Harin, boys like you are the reason we bother with these auditions. You have a place in the choir, well done.”

  I cannot answer; my eyes sting. I look up and see my mother openly weeping, her joy clear even from where I stand.

  I have only a small bag containing my clothes and the one keepsake of home - a toy my mother made me from scraps of her old dresses. Most of the boys come with large cases. Some, dressed in fine cloth jackets, wearing short trousers with long socks and polished leather shoes, come with large trunks pulled along on small wheels.

  There are eleven new boys. Two others, Marl and Berin, are from the lower levels. The rest avoid us. We cluster in groups, huddles of peers. I can hear giggles and notice subtle pointing and nods.

  We wait in the grounds outside the school. I rode here alone, said goodbye to mother and my brother at the doors to the vertical tram. There are no parents, the air feels tense; there is a nervous energy - adrenaline and pheromones. At the door to the school, two stewards stand watching us.

  We are above the surface, midway up one of the low towers on the edge of the city. There is a view of the ocean and of fields below. I find myself captivated by the sight of the water, the iridescent surface stretching out to the edge of the world. The sun feels warm on my skin and the air is fresh, clean; the exposure induces a mild sense of panic.

  The choirmaster emerges and stands in front of the door in black and grey robes. His face is stern and he holds his arms crossed across his chest. The noise of conversation dies and we all turn to face him.

  “Welcome, boys. Now, if you will all gather your things, I will take you to your dormitory and we can begin your induction.” He forces a smile, the expression uncomfortable, his features crease in odd formations.

  Our dormitory is large, with high ceilings and large windows that offer a view of the ocean on one side. Our beds are clean and comfortable. We are each given a side table and a footlocker to store our possessions. The room is tidy and well lit. Some of the other boys complain, as though the room is beneath them.

  After we finish locking away the things we have brought from home, we are taken on a short tour of the school by three boys from the older class. They avoid talking to Marl, Berin and me; they pay no attention and say nothing as some of the others from our class jab at us with elbows, whispering cruel taunts.

  Berin looks as though he is ready to cry and, seeing this, they focus on him until Marl and I make sure to walk on either side of him. I refuse to react as they taunt me, striking with sly fists and subtle kicks.

  I sit in the second row from the front in our lecture hall. The boys who were taunting us sit further toward the back.

  “Now, in
order to impress on you boys the importance of the chorus, in the hope that this will incline you toward hard work, we give all new students a short lecture on the nature, role and mechanics of the melodies we will be teaching you.”

  The choirmaster stands at the front of the hall before a large screen, onto which is projected images of the city, illustrations of the various acoustic mechanisms that are its life blood, schematics and diagrams of machinery. Many of the images are familiar, the networks of pipes and junctions that wind their way through the underground parts of the city are the same ornate pipes as in the music hall.

  Our role, as the foundation around which the aggressive harmonies are woven, is emphasised. The complex fluctuations of chorus song are essential to generating a stable field, the strain on one voice too intense and the oscillations too low. I find myself filled with a warmth at the knowledge that I have been seen as capable of fulfilling such a vital role. It is the city’s acceptance.

  After the lecture, we are taken to lunch. We eat in a long dining hall filled with the other members of the choir. The older years and the junior apprentices, who have graduated from the choir and begun solo careers, sit in the positions of rank.

  Seated at the far end of the hall, near the masters’ tables, all but one of them ignores us. He makes a point of coming to talk to us, crossing the hall as boys at the other tables stare at him, turning to chatter and laugh amongst themselves - cruel whispers.

  “Hi, welcome to the academy. I’m Yim, the Castrato’s study.” His voice is soft, his face almost pretty.

  He makes eye contact with me and smiles before looking away; his smile feels genuine, eyes bright. “It can be a little hard settling in but once you’re used to the place it’s quite pleasant.”

  He glances back to me briefly. “It gets easier, once you get to know each other and the routine.”

  As he returns to his table several of the boys exchange hushed comments and laugh. I turn his words over in my head several times before turning back to my lunch. The food is good and plentiful but some of my companions disagree.