The Secret Under My Skin

by Janet Mcnaughton

  I half expect a lecture about sulking, but as soon as I enter the kitchen I know I’m wrong. Erica looks as if she has a secret. William is serious but seems pleased as well. “Please sit down, Blake,” he says, almost formally. “Erica told me about the recording. We’ve been talking about your future. It’s unthinkable to send you back to the workcamp now. Even without this political upheaval, I don’t think we could have done that.”

  Erica interrupts eagerly. “You see, Blake, knowing that you’re one of the Disappeared makes you, well, almost like family. If your mother had reached the Beothuks, we would certainly have known her. And we were wondering if you’d consider staying here?”

  “In Kildevil, you mean?”

  Erica laughs. “No, here with us. We have no children. You have no family. It makes sense for you to stay here and be—ours.”

  I’m stunned. “You want me?”

  “Yes, we do. You’d be like a daughter to us.”

  I can’t speak. I nod my head numbly and smile. “I would like that,” I finally say. William gravely shakes my hand. Erica hugs me. Then I think about the education Marrella is promised and take a deep breath. “But if I stay here, what would I do?”

  Erica smiles. “You could be apprenticed to a weaver. I think Donna might take you.” But the tone of her voice tells me she’s certain Donna would. So that’s my future. I’ll stay in Kildevil for the rest of my life, apprentice as a weaver, maybe even learn to love Fraser if I can.

  Alone in my room again, I wonder what’s wrong with me.

  Finally, I’ll belong to someone. That’s what I’ve always wanted. And I do love Erica. Why don’t I feel happier? Before I go to sleep, I open Michelle’s book to the poem by Milton again.

  When I consider how my light is spent,

  Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,

  And that one talent which is death to hide

  Lodged with me useless . . .

  I close the book. That’s what’s wrong.

  The Battle of St. Pearl

  “Blake, wake up.” Erica is shaking my shoulder. It’s dark and her voice is urgent. I could be dreaming but I’ve never felt this tired in a dream.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Something’s happening in St. Pearl. Signals are getting out. Fraser came for us.”

  I’m on my feet and dressing before Erica has finished.

  “What do they see?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. I didn’t wait to hear. Fraser can fill us in while we walk.”

  But Fraser doesn’t know much, either. “Donna woke me up and told me to get you to the Hall fast as I could,” he says. “I didn’t stop to ask questions.”

  It must be two or three in the morning but Kildevil is wide awake. Children are playing in the streets and everyone is walking to the Hall.

  When we get there, it’s almost like a party. People have brought food. They eat and talk while they watch the HD, the holograph display, in the air in front of the stage. The signal fades in and out. What we see doesn’t make much sense. People running along alleys, people throwing burning torches, then, after a break of about five minutes, a long shot of the city.

  “That’s from Signal Hill. They must be on the Hill,” someone says. The signal fades and everyone groans.

  Erica works her way around to Donna. “What’s happening?” she asks.

  “They started picking up transmissions around midnight.

  Some kids were using the HD to play games and they noticed signals getting through. Whatever this is, it’s not official. People seem to be running around with cameras pinned to them, and someone is transmitting the signals through the jamming.” Donna turns her eyes from the cylinder of static that now fills the center of the room. “It looks as if rebels are trying to take over St. Pearl.”

  The night is long and frustrating. Signals fade in and out, sometimes disappearing completely, only to resurface somewhere else along the bandwidth. The fragments we see tell us so little. Someone is fighting but who? Is anyone winning? By dawn, when most people have fallen asleep, the signals stop.

  It goes on like this for four days. In Kildevil, everyday life is reversed. People do only what’s necessary, sleeping in the daytime and spending their nights glued to a beam of static that gives us only occasional glimpses of a confusing struggle. After the first night, William joins us but Marrella won’t. “How can I, knowing Carson is somewhere in there?” she asks when we’re alone. Donna does, I almost say but I swallow my words.

  How much longer can this go on? I wonder. Here in Kildevil, the suspense is terrible but what must it be like in St. Pearl? I think about the Tribes. Where are they in all of this? The ordinary street kids, like Hilary and me. Life must be unbearable for them. On the morning of the fifth day, I wake to find flowers dancing in the middle of the theater. It’s a children’s program. HD transmissions have returned to normal. I don’t know how to change the display to find the news. I look for Erica but she’s asleep a few rows down, so I tug on William’s sleeve. I point to the flowers, which have fallen into a giggling heap on the floor. William rises groggily and disappears into a control room. Suddenly, a man in uniform is sitting at a desk three times over, each image facing out to form a triangle. People wake at the sound of his voice and sit up, silent and alert.

  “. . . may resume normal activities,” he says. “We will restore services as quickly as possible.”

  It’s over. We’ve failed. But Erica looks up at me, her face shining. “That’s General Ryan,” she says. Everyone sits motionless, listening.

  “. . . the Commission will be dismantled. The military has no desire to rule, and councils will be established to discuss the transition to democracy as soon as possible. We anticipate full cooperation of the Weavers’ Guilds. Indeed, we cannot hope to succeed without them. In other parts of the continent, the fighting continues and we may be called upon to send troops to restore order.”

  A cheer goes up from the crowd. But he continues. “Those killed or wounded in the taking of Signal Hill will be returned to their families as soon as possible.”

  We spend the rest of the day trying to piece together what happened, watching programs filled with people who have never appeared on HD before: Tribe members with tattooed faces, shop owners, street cleaners, musicians. Gradually, we learn how they took the city of St. Pearl, neighborhood by neighborhood, until the military arrived to help them. But our celebrations are muted because the list of the dead and wounded has not been released. On the second day, messages begin to come through. One by one, the boys who were taken away contact their families. No one from Kildevil was killed, they say, and everyone relaxes. But the day after, when the list of wounded is released, Carson Walsh’s name is on it.

  A week later, Donna comes to our door carrying a personal message from General Ryan. “Carson’s badly hurt,” she says. “He’s going to lose his foot and part of his leg.”

  A shocked silence follows her words. Finally, Erica says, “Donna, I’m so sorry.”

  “Well, at least it was an accident. He was pinned behind a metal door when they brought armored vehicles into the fortress. He’s going to be in hospital awhile longer. General Ryan has offered me passage to St. Pearl.” She bites her lip. “Of course, I’ll go, but such a long journey among strangers. I’ve never been so far from home.” I’m used to thinking of Donna as fearless. Outside Kildevil, I realize, she would be a very different person.

  Erica puts her hand on Donna’s. “Would you like someone to go with you?” Erica turns to William. “You should go, William. Donna will feel safe with you and Carson needs support. Your presence would mean a lot to him. What do you think?”

  William looks surprised. “Of course, if that’s what Donna wants.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful,” Donna says.

  William warms to the idea. “There are people in St. Pearl I could talk to about the idea of opening a university.” He looks very happy, then remembers hims
elf. “Of course, I’d spend most of my time with Carson.”

  “Just having company on the trip will help,” Donna says. Donna and William begin to plan their journey. I look at Marrella, who has said nothing. She is trembling and pale. “I don’t feel well,” she says. This time I go with her. I sit on the bed beside her until she stops crying. In spite of everything, I cannot dislike her now. “A hunter needs both legs,” she says finally.

  I remember the first time we saw Carson, dressed in animal skins. His grace was like the flight of the osprey. Gone forever now. “It’s terrible,” I say.

  Marrella sniffs, sits up, and looks at me with that strange strength she shows at the oddest times. “When he comes home, I will care for him,” she declares. She is going to be fine.

  Erica is alone when I return to the kitchen. “How is Marrella?” she asks.

  “I think she’ll be all right.”

  “I wonder why she’s so upset?” Erica says.

  I consider telling her but the secret belongs to Marrella and Carson, not me. “Where’s William?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Gone with Donna to see if passage can be arranged for both of them. They’re hoping to leave tomorrow. And you missed the rest of the news. There’s a meeting in Kildevil tomorrow night to discuss the return to democracy. Donna says Fraser has been helping to organize it.” Erica smiles. “And there’s good news for you, too. I thought you’d apprentice with Donna. Of course, that isn’t possible now but she says Clara will be happy to accept you. You start tomorrow afternoon. First Weavers almost never take beginners, Blake. You should feel honored.”

  “I do,” I say and I try. After a moment I think to ask Erica, “Will I wear a headscarf?”

  “Not until you weave your first respectable piece of cloth,” she says. “It’s a badge of honor, given in a special ceremony.”

  I try to imagine myself as a weaver but I can’t. The future seems so blurry. “Erica,” I say, “what happens now? Everyone seems to think things will be better. But will they?”

  I feel guilty for asking but Erica says, “That’s a good question, Blake. I wish more people would think about it. Is everything going to be better? Not right away. In fact, some things may be worse at first.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “People hated the Commission, and they had a right to, but the Commission gave us stability. Even our food moves through Commission-run lines of supply. I’ve been stockpiling, because this seemed inevitable. Even so, when the Commission is dismantled, our standard of living is going to go down.”

  “What’s going to happen to the workcamp?”

  “Maybe it could be more like a school. Then, eventually, the children might be integrated into Kildevil.”

  I’m surprised. “It sounds like you’ve been thinking about this.”

  “Yes, I have. I’ve always wanted to do something for those children. I guess that’s one reason why I encouraged William to look for you. I hope we’ll talk about it at the meeting tomorrow night. People have to take things slowly and not to expect everything suddenly to be exactly the way they want. Even with the best of intentions, it may take the military a few years to set up elections. In the meantime, we’ll lose a lot of the comforts we’ve taken for granted. It will help if people feel they’re doing something positive when that happens.”

  “Do you really think it will be that hard?”

  “Yes. Remember, I know my history. There have been similar events, the French Revolution, the end of the Soviet Union in Europe. People long for freedom and they expect it to bring wonderful things overnight. But at first their lives are often worse. Most don’t know that.”

  “Couldn’t you tell them?”

  “People won’t listen to things they don’t want to hear, Blake. It’s better to keep them busy and lower their expectations gently.” She stops and smiles. “Now, you’ve got quite a day ahead of you tomorrow. Just relax this afternoon.”

  I remember what Erica said the next day as I pass the workcamp on my way to Clara’s. It’s so quiet, it almost seems empty. Warder November’s military exercises stopped as soon as St. Pearl fell. I wonder what’s happening inside now. Would people in Kildevil really accept the children? I remember the first time I passed through on the way to the workcamp. Even now, the memory of their coldness chills me. But things are changing. Men at the wharf wave to me as I pass. Everyone seems cheerful. Maybe their attitudes will change, too.

  Clara welcomes me at her door. “I’m right pleased to take you under my wing, Blake,” she says. “We’ll make a fine weaver out of you.” I glance nervously toward her loom and she laughs. “Don’t give that a thought, child. It’ll be some time before you’re ready for the loom. We’ll start you off with something simple.” What could be simple about weaving? I wonder. “Winding,” Clara continues. “There’s always lots of winding and unwinding to be done. Simple work but important and time consuming. I’m not feeling well today, so that’s where we’ll start.” She hands me a wooden rod with a peg at each end. “This is a hand reel.” She starts it for me, holding the center bar, expertly dipping it back and forth, taking the loose yarn up into a tidy skein. “See? Work it like this and in no time you’ll have your skein. Now you try.”

  It’s much harder than it looks. The yarn behaved so nicely for Clara but in my hands, it slips off the reel, sags when I wind it, or just tangles at my feet. After a few minutes Clara says, “You’re probably just nervous about being watched, Blake. I’ll leave you to it.”

  But the harder I try, the more difficult it seems. Soon, I’m close to tears. I’ve never been good with my hands. When Hilary tried to make a thief out of me, she gave up laughing. “Blay, you’re all thumbs,” she said. But now I’ve got to learn. Becoming a weaver is my only chance. I clench the bar until my knuckles turn white but my work only gets worse.

  “How you coming with that, then?” The voice behind me is gentle but I jump and the reel flies out of my hands. “Fraser, don’t creep up on me like that!” All the anger I feel toward the wool and myself flies out at him. Poor Fraser blinks as if I’ve slapped him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I cry. “It’s just, I’m getting nowhere with this damned thing.”

  Fraser picks up the reel and sits on the bench beside me, unwinding the worst of my work. “You just need practice is all, Blake.” There’s no anger in his voice. I feel even worse about yelling. “Here,” he says, “put your hand on mine and get the rhythm of it.” I like the feel of his hand, warm and soft under mine. He dips the reel over and over, and I begin to get a sense of how it works. I smile. “There,” he says. “Just don’t try too hard. Tension is everything.”

  “How did you learn this?”

  “The weavers raised me till I went to Uncle Rob when I was seven. First thing I can recall is crawling on the floor among some weavers’ apprentices. They set me to work as soon as they could, to keep me out of mischief. Uncle Rob says if he’d known how much trouble I was going to be, he would have let them keep me.” Fraser tries to laugh without success. Even I feel the sting of this insult. I squeeze his hand just slightly. My eyes stay on the reel but I feel him relax.

  When Clara comes to check on me, I’m winding an almost-respectable skein by myself. She looks relieved. “Well, Fraser,” she says, “you know we don’t encourage apprentices to receive gentlemen callers while they work, but in this case I think you’ve done some good.” I blush deeply. I don’t know what embarrasses me more—my clumsiness or Clara’s joke.

  Taking the hint, Fraser moves off a little. “Are you coming to the meeting tonight?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” I say.

  “Fraser,” Clara says, “I’ve been fighting a migraine all day. If I don’t rest tonight, I may not be able to work for the rest of the week.”

  Fraser looks upset. “But you and Donna are the senior weavers.”

  “Yes, but I’ve been in touch with her. We both think someone younger should chair the meeting tonigh
t,” Clara says. “We won’t live forever, you know.” She turns to me. “Eat supper here if you like, Blake, so you don’t have to walk home and back. I’ll let Erica know.”

  Fraser still looks dismayed but Clara has made up her mind. When she leaves us alone he suddenly looks shy. “I wondered if you’d sit with me tonight,” he asks.

  “Of course.”

  He smiles. “Good. I’ll let you get back to work. See you this evening.”

  The rest of the afternoon is easier. Clara is too ill to teach so she puts me to work with dye vats in a shed behind her house, moving the wool to make sure the dyes are taken evenly. I’m much happier here. The job needs no skill. Now I know it will take real effort for me to become a weaver. I have no talent for the work at all.

  The Meeting

  Leaving Clara’s house that evening, I try to put my worries about weaving aside. Who knows? In the months ahead, I might discover some hidden ability. Besides, what’s happening tonight is more important than anything in my life. When I reach the end of the street, Fraser steps out of the shadows.

  “You were waiting for me?” I ask. “I thought you’d be getting ready.”

  “Plenty of hands to do that work,” he says. “I wanted to make sure you found a seat with me.”

  Fraser’s straightforward regard warms my heart, but I can’t imagine telling him that. Instead I say, “What’s going to happen tonight?”

  He smiles. “A real exercise in democracy. Everyone can speak on any issue. The weavers hope this might be the start of local government.”

  “You like this a lot, don’t you?”

  “I do. When you get this close to something you’ve always wanted, you can’t just sit around and wait for someone else to do it. I’d like to run for office myself one day.”

  His enthusiasm makes me so happy, I laugh. “Fraser, I never pictured you as a politician.”