Octavia's Brood: Science Fiction Stories From Social Justice Movements

by Walidah Imarisha

  “The story says the Holders’ tongues became heavy and clumsy. They couldn’t tell the stories anymore without mixing up the details. The people thought the Holders were going mad; some thought a great illness had come. The Holders themselves became frustrated and angry. Some threw themselves from the cliffs into the ocean. Others sank into general village life to become herders or farmers. My family once had a strong line of Holders.”

  “What happened to the stories?”

  “Oh, well, we have stories—legends and tales that mostly serve to warn the young to not act rashly, or to scold the unscrupulous trader. But very little is told anymore of the making of All. My people are very absentminded, it would seem. We forget so easily! Everyone in the Outer Isles knows this about All.” Makati chuckled. “But they are no better, I can tell you that.”

  Makati stood with his canvas bag of tools, his hand above his eyes to shield them from the sun. “I am done now and must be going. It was good to talk to you.”

  Cy smiled. “Thank you for the story, Makati.”

  Back in her cell, Cy wondered at Makati’s story. It had made her think of the story of the binding. She hummed a short tune as she fingered the frayed hem of her tunic. The tune was that of an old verse, one she and the other children would shout during a game of chase. It took a few minutes before Cy remembered all the words:

  Papa yelled, Do you know what you did?

  No Papa, no memories do we hold.

  Mamma scolds, Do as you’re told!

  We children run, we don’t know what we’re told

  For we have no memories of our own

  The Memorial took them all to hold.

  She ran through the little song a few times before letting out a laugh. “Well, that certainly does take on a new meaning now,” she said aloud, thinking of Makati’s story.

  The object of the chase game was to pull little pieces of colored cloth from the waists of other children. The idea was that the cloth scraps were memories a Memorial had taken, and without the memories the children would always be in trouble with their parents for forgetting what they were told.

  Cy thought of Makati and his story from the Isle of All. How could it be that the Holders of All had lost their stories? Why was it that on All there were no Memorials? It was troubling to Cy that on All, and perhaps elsewhere in the Outer Isles, the people would have no way to recall the stories of their own making. Cy whispered the last line of the rhyme, “The Memorial took them all to hold.”

  Cy lay back on her cot. The binding did not stop the people from remembering things on their own, of course. She certainly remembered things from her past. But without the collective memories of the Memorials, the past was utterly lost. Cy wondered if the stories of All could be found in the Long Memory. If so, what did it mean that she could find them but not the people of All, the people they rightly belonged to?

  Had other places lost their memories and stories as well? Not in the north. The whole of the uprising was based on remembering past wrongs. Cy paused. Or was it? Were the people truly remembering or were they just reacting to immediate wrongs, based on which house armed them? Cy thought of the settlement project, the fighting in the north, Holt’s most recent actions against the Long Memory. The Memorials were powerless to stop this repression from happening against themselves and their own, and the people did not rally to the cause. Some complained, muttered angrily against the actions of the council, but there was no fire behind their words. None outside the Memorials seemed called to action.

  “Where are the people in all of this? Why do they stand by and let this happen?” Cy remembered Ban saying as Ban had stomped around their favorite fig tree in the Central Library garden. Her friend had received a letter from her father saying that the Riverland shipping guild would not cease transporting Holt’s goods. Ban lobbied her father, vice chair of the guild, for months, but it was to no avail.

  “It’s like everyone has forgotten how important the binding was, how momentous. It is meant to protect and safeguard the Archipelago. But they allow it to be stripped away and replaced with Holt’s preposterous Act for the Containment of Threats to the Archipelago.”

  At the time, Cy had laughed at the mocking tone in Ban’s voice as she spoke of Holt’s act. But now, in light of Makati’s story and her own capture, Cy now saw nothing amusing. In fact, a creeping realization began to fill her. The people don’t remember the importance of the binding. It is not their memory.

  “The Memorial took them all to hold,” she whispered.

  Cy shifted on the cot, covered her eyes with an arm for a moment. Then a sharp rap on her cell door startled her, and a harsh voice shouted, “Prisoner, clear away from the door!”

  A guard entered, followed by three others dressed in uniforms of the Provincial army. Moving quickly toward Cy, they lifted her, and before the familiar burlap sack came down around her head Cy saw the crest of House Holt embroidered the soldiers’ coats. Cy’s heart pounded.

  Out of the cell, the guards went left instead of the usual right to the courtyard. After ascending several flights of stairs, her guards pushed Cy roughly into a room, forced her to sit. She heard an ominous click as cold metal touched her wrists.

  A moment later, light flooded her vision. The room came into focus in bits and pieces. Walls of large stone like the rest of the prison, but the floor of this room was a deep polished amber wood. She sat on a small wooden stool at a large table, hands shackled together and chained to the floor. Across from her sat another person—it was Councilman Holt himself.

  “Do you know how long you have been here in this castle, Cy?”

  “This prison, you mean?” Cy met Holt’s eyes.

  Holt pursed his lips. “Four months.”

  Cy spoke again, fear making her mouth dry. “After all these months, I cannot imagine what there could be between us that needs discussing.”

  “What is between us?” Holt gave a snort. “Your existence! That is what remains between us. Your existence and that of the other Memorials held here.”

  “Held here?” Anything to avoid the word imprisoned, thought Cy.

  “The war in the north moves apace,” he continued. “The people are aligned with this progress. But so long as you and the others are here—”

  Holt stood and moved toward an open window. “Well, then there is always the threat of the question Why?”

  “You fear the people remembering,” Cy said. She tried to make Holt look at her, but his eyes would not leave his view out the window. “That they will remember you took me and the others away. That you killed many and burned the libraries, and they will ask why. And you will have to answer.”

  “Oh, shut up!” Holt snapped, finally stepping away from the window. “Only the nostalgic will truly question your absence and care. The Long Memory fades, and soon enough memories will be what they should be—myth and legend.”

  “You cannot render memory powerless, Holt,” Cy said. “You could round up each and every Memorial in the Archipelago and let us rot in these cells. You could ensure that each newly born Memorial never has their skill fostered. In that you could most definitely end our line. But you will not eradicate memory.”

  Even as she said it, though, Cy wondered about the Isle of All and doubted.

  The binding, Makati’s story, her own memories—it all meant something.

  Whispering to herself, Cy mused, “A people who remember will not be exploited again. A people who remember will take action.”

  A horrible realization began to take form in Cy’s mind. People were not remembering. They could not remember those things of the past that shape the present.

  “Memories are supposed to be shared. It is what gives them power.” She said this loudly, though it was directed as much to herself as to Holt. “Perhaps it is time the people remember for themselves.”

  Cy looked directly at Holt.

  Holt peered back at Cy, leaning closer. “What?” He forced the question through gritted te
eth.

  “Do your worst, Holt. But without the Memorials, memories will have to go somewhere. Each person holds her own memory of what she has lived through and seen. You cannot take that or destroy that, for it is human.”

  Holt’s face purpled. In a few strides he rounded the table and then drew a short sword from his belt. He yanked Cy’s head, exposing her neck. Cy’s heart beat erratically and her face flushed. Her eyes traveled down to the blade and its hilt, on which the crest of House Holt was inlaid in gold. In an instant Cy wasn’t in the room with Holt. She was far away in a moment of her past life, lying on hard-packed dirt, screaming as a man pulled her away from the prone dead body of her father. There was a flash of swords, one very nearly cutting Cy in the stomach. In this long-buried memory, Cy saw the glint of light off the hilt, the flash of a crest.

  Just as suddenly Cy was back in the room with Holt. With the sword at her throat, Cy’s chest heaved. She felt bile rising in her throat and thought she would be sick. Why had she not been able to put it together before now? The memory of the council hearing, the one she had always struggled to see through. She always lost it as Holt rose to speak, under his house crest.

  “It was you,” she gasped. “Your armies killed my people. It was House Holt.”

  Cy strained forward, pulling on her restraints.

  “Oh, ho! She remembers. She remembers what truly remains between us.” Holt smiled wickedly.

  Cy struggled hard against her shackles. She wanted to leap at Holt. To hurt and maim him. Cy could only see the crest, and it filled her with a panic and rage she had never known.

  Cy screamed, “I don’t need the Long Memory to know what you and your wealth have done to my people! I lived it! Others will remember too!”

  Holt struck Cy across the cheek with the hilt of his sword, knocking her to the floor. “Your people are weak!” he spat. “They remember nothing of who they once were. Only that they are now lawless barbarians.”

  He commanded his guards: “Remove her!” Then he stood with his back to Cy as she was hoisted up, dazed from the blow. “As a Memorial, Cy, you should know it is easier to control what people do with their memories than one might think.”

  • • •

  Several days later Cy was given time outside in the small courtyard. She was anxious since her meeting with Holt, sensing that his anger would have repercussions. She had formulated a plan, and when Makati came to garden, Cy wasted no time.

  “Makati.”

  His eyes grew wide as they fell on the large and swollen bruise on Cy’s cheek.

  “I need a favor. I do not think I will be given time outside again. I am sorry to have to ask. I do not wish to risk your safety or overstep any bounds of our friendship, but I need this from you.”

  Nodding, Makati stood up straight. “What do you need?”

  “I need you to send a message for me, to the west. To the Riverlands.”

  Cy chewed her lip. This next favor carried more risk. “I also need some way to send a message among the other prisoners. Makati, do you . . . are you friendly with any of the guards or the cooks?”

  Makati stammered for a moment. “A letter to the Capitol Isle I can send. I have a friend I write to sometimes. It will not look suspicious. But to communicate with the other prisoners?”

  “A few days back, I was taken to Holt. He is angry and I fear he has plans. If I can get word to a friend in the Riverlands, I think the other prisoners and I can at least buy some time until—” Cy broke off, frustrated. She could only hope Ban was in the Riverlands.

  “I know a few of the guards. We play cards together. They too are from the Outer Isles. And, like me, many of them do not agree with what is being done here. I can ask.” Makati trailed off nervously.

  Cy reached out and held Makati’s shoulders. “Friend. Thank you!”

  “I have some paper here. I can take the message and leave you with the rest and with my pencil.”

  Cy quickly wrote the note to Ban telling her friend where she was and what she planned.

  Then Cy wrote a message on the other piece of paper:

  My name is Cy. I am a prisoner here also. I believe Holt means to act soon. There is an old tradition among the Archipelago: in a conflict, wronged people will plant themselves outside of the home of the aggressor and refuse to eat until the other agrees to share a meal. It has been used in this very fortress a very long time ago. I am sure you have seen it in the Long Memory. I am sending word outside to trusted Memorials. They will ensure the people know. Would others join a hunger strike?

  Cy handed Makati the bit of paper. He did not read it but rolled it up and placed it in his gardening bag.

  “Thank you, Makati,” Cy said, her voice heavy with emotion.

  Makati nodded and left through the small door.

  Cy was right in predicting that her trips to the courtyard would end. Five days went by during which she had not been taken out once. She paced her cell, her new daily routine, waiting for food.

  Then one day, when her first meal of the day arrived, there was a small message tucked under her bowl, scribbled in haste on the same piece of paper as her original:

  My name is Je, I am an Easternling from a library on the coast. I have already started refusing my meals. This tradition you write of is particularly strong amongst my people. If enough of us went on hunger strike and if you can truly get word to the outside then we could pose a challenge to Holt.

  Cy ignored her meal and just sat holding the note. She felt a tingling in her fingers. That undeniable feeling of something big beginning. Cy wrote back and left the note in the same spot under her bowl. She had to trust that, however the note had made it to her, it would make it back.

  In time a reply arrived but not from just Je. Notes from other captive Memorials crowded the paper, creating a conversation. All supported a hunger strike. Cy got down on her belly and squeezed under the cot. There she pried loose a small stone behind which she had stowed Makati’s pencil. Retracting it and pulling herself out from under the cot, Cy bent over and began to write. She was hardly able to contain her anxious excitement:

  There are nearly one hundred of us being held here. Eighty of us on hunger strike would be enough. When you receive this note, mark your name and find a way to pass it to another Memorial.

  Cy also retrieved a small square of paper from under her mattress and wrote a letter to Ban explaining more of the emerging plan.

  That night, Cy sat at the door waiting for the guard to arrive to take her untouched bowl and plate. It was risky, she knew, but she had to make sure the guard knew to get the message to Makati.

  Cy sat so long that she fell asleep, but she awoke with a start when the guard came. She pressed the notes into the guard’s hand.

  “Please, Makati needs to get this.”

  The guard recoiled, but after a moment he took the papers.

  • • •

  One week later Cy’s door was thrown open by four soldiers, not guards, who grabbed Cy and dragged her down a corridor. She heard the shouts of more soldiers, the sound of others being taken out of their cells. All Cy could think was that the day of execution had finally come. Perhaps Holt had intercepted the letters. She thought of Makati, and a panic built in her like that she felt the first time she was taken to the courtyard. An acrid bile taste filled her mouth. She fervently hoped Makati’s part in this remained undiscovered. Her stomach clenched and her heart raced. Then she felt gravel beneath her feet and blinding sun above.

  A soldier shoved Cy, and she hit the ground hard. Around her, others were made to kneel.

  He means to execute us all at once, Cy thought, fear flowing wildly.

  But after a time all went quiet, and nothing more happened. They had all just been left kneeling in the hot sun. At first perplexing, it became torturous. With the burlap sacks over their heads, the bound Memorials were suffocating. Cy’s knees went numb. She sucked in air, but it was devoid of oxygen. Her head swam, and she thought she would v
omit.

  Hours passed. At the brink of losing consciousness, Cy finally heard footsteps and then a great commotion as soldiers yelled at everyone to get up. She stumbled, then was accosted and dragged back inside to her cell.

  No message came with the meager evening meal. Cy could not imagine eating anyway, and just sipped the water. Thirst burned her throat. Her head ached. Once the water was gone she lay on the cool stone floor and fell asleep.

  This became the everyday routine: pulled from her cell with others and dragged outside midday, then hours spent hooded and kneeling in the hot sun. Cy felt her strength waning both physically and mentally as weeks dragged on. The few times Cy tried to reach the Long Memory she nearly passed out. This more than anything made hope seem fleeting.

  Some weeks into this torture, they knelt in the yard one day not baked by sun but soaked by rain. Not a refreshing rain but a thick soup. Unless Cy kept her head bowed, the burlap over her head stuck to her mouth, suffocating her even more. Cy was so fixated on how sore her neck and shoulders felt in this position that she almost cried out in surprise when she felt the shackled hands of the person to her left nudging her own hands. Then she felt a small roll of paper between fingers. Cy carefully accepted the scroll and held it so tightly that her nails dug painfully into her palms.

  Back in her cell Cy lay on the floor. She was so tired, so thirsty. Her body ached all over and she felt hot, unable to cool off even on the cold stone floor. Slowly she unclenched her hand, fingers stiff, to pluck out the note.

  It consisted of all the past notes and a collection of names. Some she recognized from the Central Library. Others were unknown to her. Seeing so many names, Cy suddenly felt much less alone. She counted the names and then counted again. Eighty-six.

  Cy retrieved the larger square of paper Makati had left her with. She tore off a small piece and wrote a note to Ban, copying the names of all the Memorial hunger strikers. She beseeched her friend, “Compel the free Memorials and anyone sympathetic to our plight to honor the tradition we invoke and to think of us who are locked away for the crime of remembering.”