A Tangle of Gold

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Huh. That was less funny.

  She’d only been on the R.Y.A. because Princess Ko had blackmailed her. She’d never even liked Princess Ko. Sergio and Samuel were okay if you were in a good mood, but they drove you nuts if you were tired, say. The only one of any value was Elliot. And now he was dead.

  No way was she getting thrown in prison with that lot.

  She left a note for the housekeeper, dyed her hair, changed her eye colour, applied self-modification makeup, printed a set of false ID papers, packed her bike and set off.

  2

  She didn’t know where to go. Probably another Kingdom or Empire would be best—maybe she’d get herself on a ship to the Southern Climes? But she made an insane decision. Before she skipped out on her Kingdom, she would visit Elliot Baranski’s hometown of Bonfire, the Farms.

  It would not be remotely fun, but it was the right thing to do. She owed it to Elliot to tell his mother the truth.

  *

  So, for the first time in her life, Keira rode her bike through the Farms.

  All those wasted years! she thought. And: I’m finally living the tractor-and-bake-sale dream. You think I’m ever going home? Not a chance!

  Etc, etc.

  But she was just being funny.

  The place was her idea of hell.

  Even her bike was depressed. It kept breaking down. Keira was constantly pulling over by the side of a field so she could take out her tool kit. Each time she got the bike going again, the engine seemed to wake up with a wail of despair: Oh, come on, we’re still here?! In the Farms?! When will the nightmare end?

  Then the bike would settle into a moody rhythm, riding the empty highways a while, before once again fading into listlessness and shutting down.

  *

  After three days of riding—staying in roadside inns and eating at diners—she saw signs for Sugarloaf, the closest major town to Bonfire.

  So she was almost there.

  She slowed right down.

  The roads seemed much the same as they had in the rest of the Farms, although locals would no doubt have plenty to say about that. They’d tell her that the soil was a slightly paler shade of black, you see now, and just put your nose up close and give it a big old sniff? You get the teeniest tang of spearmint crossed with the weird stink of that muscle-relaxant ointment? Well, that is the nutrient B17, see, whereas further up the road, you’ve got your B226. Plus, see the teeny loreal flowers that cluster around fenceposts? Well, the ones hereabouts have five petals, not four, see, which is just exactly why my granddaughter, Mary-Ellen, wanted local loreals in her wedding bouquet, which was a shame because turned out her betrothed had an allergy, so his throat closed up, and who needs that at a wedding, not Mary-Ellen, that’s for sure! She’s a perfectionist, see, and this was her big day.

  And so on.

  Or whatever.

  They’d be wrong though, Keira thought, if they tried to tell her that ‘hereabouts’ was different. Hereabouts was exactly the same: too much here, and too much about. Too flat, too far, too horizontal.

  The road signs for Sugarloaf multiplied. They got into a state. She was Five Minutes Away from the Hot Tubs and Water Beds of the Sugarloaf Luxury Inn! What was a visit to the Farms without a tour of the Sugarloaf Cherry Orchard?! A Lifetime of Shopping Dreams awaited her at the Biggest Shopping Mall in all of the south-east region of the Farms!!!

  She passed the Warning Tower. Looked like they’d upgraded recently. She’d seen a lot of shiny new towers the last few days; everyone trying to keep up with the Colour storms.

  She was on the main street of Sugarloaf.

  She was leaving Sugarloaf.

  Be sure to tell your friends and Come Again!

  That was it. Sugarloaf. Done.

  She caught a glimpse of the Sugarloaf Mall on the outskirts of town. It was about the size of her own local nail salon.

  Bonfire was only twenty minutes away. She slowed so much her bike seemed bewildered. A pick-up truck overtook her. The bike growled, mortified.

  Bonfire billboards were appearing. They were mild and polite, as if trying to make up for the hysteria of their loudmouth neighbour, Sugarloaf.

  The Watermelon Inn offered a delicious breakfast buffet. The Bonfire Hotel, on the other hand, had cheap rates and a swimming pool with slide. Le Petit Restaurant didn’t really offer anything, it seemed, apart from its name and address: Town Square.

  Welcome to Bonfire!

  So she’d made it. She was here.

  3

  The first thing Keira noticed about Bonfire was that it must have fallen victim to a recent attack of Mauve.

  Every tree bent so far sideways it either touched, or almost touched, the ground. Some formed arches, swooping gracefully, whereas others just leaned, like a person reaching for a dropped coin. Branches trailed into gutters. Closer to the town centre, a few trees had been propped up and tied to stakes, and then, abruptly, they were standing tall on their own again. So that must be the point where the Mauve had faded.

  It was a hot, dry day, and Keira had the sense that if she herself hadn’t been moving, nothing would be. The few people around leaned in doorways, or sat on benches, and stared. She’d got used to the staring. Her bike was loud. Her clothes were Jagged-Edgian. She was a stranger.

  A couple of kids sat in the branches of a tree. They also stared. She stared back, then blinked. The kids’ mouths were blood-stained. Blood dripped from their chins, ran down their hands in fine lines. Her bike swerved. There were vampires this far south? Awake during the day? Then one of them plucked something, stuck it in his mouth and chewed.

  Huh. It was some kind of berry tree. That was berry juice.

  She turned a corner, still riding slowly, following signs to the Town Square, and realised she was passing the high school.

  She stopped, toes to the street, and peered in through the gate. Elliot Baranski had attended that school. Somewhere in those grounds was a crack through to the World. Elliot had found it.

  Opposite the high school was a Sheriff’s Station. CLOSED, said the sign that dangled from the door knob.

  You could do that? You could close a Sheriff’s Station in the middle of a Saturday? Sure you could. You could do what you wanted in the Farms.

  So long as you did it in a slow, easy-going, freewheeling way, and preferably with reference to your second-cousin’s pumpkin scones.

  At the Town Square, she found a café with tables out front, and ordered coffee.

  She’d been wearing earphones and now she dropped them on the table. The music played on in her head, then dwindled.

  She looked around. There was a pub with a toadstool on its swinging sign. A Candy Shoppe. And that must be the restaurant from the billboard. Le Petit Restaurant. As she watched, a man stepped out of its front door. He was holding a big strip of cardboard. He ripped this in two and pressed both pieces into a trash can. Closer by was a grocery store. A woman approached it. She pulled a bunch of flowers from a bucket. Water droplets scattered. A girl sitting on the fountain’s edge took an orange from her bag and peeled it.

  One item at a time. Man rips cardboard. Woman gets flowers. Girl peels orange. It was like they were (badly) stage-directed. Or like people around here didn’t know that things could happen all at once. They hadn’t heard the word simultaneous.

  ‘Here, I got you an icepack.’

  Keira jumped.

  The woman who’d just served her coffee was holding out a small blue pack.

  ‘I can just tell you’ve got a headache,’ she explained. ‘The way your shoulders are? I was going to offer this right off when you ordered, but you were listening to your ear thingies, so I thought, I’ll bet she gets those ear thingies out, then I’ll bring her this, and that’s just how it all played out, so here, see?’ The woman pressed the icepack against the back of Keira’s neck.

  Keira gasped.

  ‘Good, eh? I know. This heat today! That’s why you’ve got the headache, see? You just hold
it there. Like so. You got it?’

  Obediently, Keira held the icepack to her neck. The shock of the cold had given her an instant headache, across her brow. She held the pack for a long, polite moment, then pulled it away.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  The waitress smiled. ‘I take it you’re just passing through?’

  ‘Actually, I’m here to see someone. Can you tell me how I’d get to the Baranski farm?’

  ‘Well, that’s out on Acres Road. Don’t tell me you know Petra Baranski? That poor woman. What she’s been through! You know, the more I look at you, the more familiar you seem? I guess that can happen, faces being what they are, but have you maybe visited before?’

  Keira spoke into her hand, elbow on the table, trying for nonchalant. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But this seems like a really sweet little town.’

  The waitress sighed, happy, gazing at the square. ‘Isn’t it just?’

  Across the way, an older woman sat sewing on the porch of a spearmint green house. She set down the sewing, picked up a jug and poured herself a glass of lemonade.

  There it was again. Pouring lemonade was a poem in three lines:

  Set down sewing.

  Lift up jug.

  Pour.

  In Jagged Edge, that would have happened in one slick smooth fast move. Not even time for commas.

  Also, it would not have been lemonade.

  ‘You said the Baranski farm is on Acres Road?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  There was a beat.

  ‘Well,’ Keira continued slowly. ‘I don’t know where that is. I’m not from around here.’

  ‘Of course you’re not!’ the waitress agreed. ‘Here, let me draw you a map on the back of this napkin.’

  Out in the square, the clock in the tower struck twelve, each chime waiting patiently until the one in front had stopped.

  4

  Twenty minutes later, Keira stood in the driveway of the Baranski farmhouse and stared at the windows.

  There was a party going on in there.

  So, that was confusing.

  One sad woman was what she’d expected. Instead, there was a crowd and it seemed not to have heard about the Farms rule of one-thing-at-a-time. There was chatting, shouting, laughing, music, passing of plates-glasses-trays, gesticulating, whistles, back-slapping, and all of it criss-crossed and colliding.

  Keira stood by her bike.

  Maybe the loss had sent them crazy? Could this be Elliot’s friends and family engaged in some kind of mob-hysterical grief?

  Suddenly she realised what it was.

  The wake.

  Of course, that’s what it was. He’d been killed a couple of weeks ago, but then there’d been the efforts to retrieve his body from the ravine. Even once they’d realised that no equipment could get down there, the authorities would have stayed in town, asking questions.

  Things must have finally settled down enough for formal rituals. And she was here? Crashing the wake?

  She had to get away, fast, before somebody saw her.

  Right at that moment, somebody saw her.

  A teenage girl with a broad face and braid glanced towards the window and pointed. Another girl joined the first. They both stared out at Keira.

  Now Keira had no choice.

  She approached the porch. The girls, she saw, were moving along the window, heading towards the front door.

  They met her there.

  The girl with the braid had tattoos on her neck. One was a skull and crossbones, the other a reindeer. These seemed inconsistent. For a moment, Keira’s eyes were trapped by the inconsistency. She looked from one tattoo to the other until the girl tilted her chin making the reindeer disappear.

  The other girl spoke. ‘Yeah?’

  This second girl had short hair that was so blonde-white it was worse than the sun. Keira sheltered her eyes with a hand. ‘I came to see Petra Baranski,’ she explained. ‘But that’s okay. I’ll come back later.’

  The first girl stared. ‘Why would you come back later? You’re here now.’

  ‘Yeah. Makes no sense,’ the other girl agreed.

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Ahoy there, sailor,’ the tattooed girl remarked, eventually.

  Keira panicked. What did sailors have to do with anything? Then she remembered that her hand was at her forehead, like someone on the deck of a ship. She dropped it.

  The two girls seemed to take that as a signal. They turned and headed back into the house.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ the blonde asked, without looking back. There didn’t seem any options. Keira followed.

  She’d pretend to be somebody else, she decided. Some kind of salesperson. What would a Farmer want to buy? Well, something for the crops obviously, so what did crops need?

  Here was the party. It was smaller than it had looked from outside. Maybe eight or nine people altogether. They must have doubled themselves somehow, by being so lively.

  Not so much now. They were all silent, staring at her. The only movement was from a few sets of jaws, chewing. A man in a Sheriff’s uniform, a badge hanging crooked from his shirt, raised a pastry to his mouth and took a bite. So, now more jaws chewing.

  Keira was trying to remember what exactly crops were. Well, she knew they grew in fields, and then people picked them or whatever, and eventually they turned into food. But what, in their essence, were they? Once she had a handle on that, she could figure out what crops might need.

  And offer it at bargain basement prices.

  The two girls flanked her. They were smirking vaguely, like a pair of cats that have dragged in a mouse, knowing the owner won’t want it in the living room, but pretending to be proud anyway.

  ‘She was at the front door,’ the tattooed girl announced.

  ‘Yeah,’ the other added. ‘This is—’ She raised her eyebrows at Keira.

  The room waited.

  Crops grew in the earth so they must be plants, Keira reasoned urgently. There was a plant in a pot in her apartment at home. What it had needed was water. That’s why it was dead.

  ‘Watering cans,’ she said aloud.

  The jaws stopped chewing.

  ‘That’s quite a name,’ offered a man in a suit.

  ‘I know who she is,’ said a voice. It was a mild voice; it had a young, harmless sound, which somehow made its words more chilling.

  Take it easy, Keira told herself. There’s no way this kid knows who I am. Wherever he is. Where was he?

  ‘You’re Keira,’ the voice added. ‘Keira Platter.’

  A boy about her own age stepped forward. He’d been hidden by another guy, who was stupidly tall. The one speaking was stupidly short. His hair looked like an electrical-wire disaster and his face was wrong. It was sort of dusting away in chunks and flakes. A disease. That was something. Maybe the disease would kill him.

  ‘You mean the girl from the Royal Youth Alliance?’ someone else was saying. ‘Nah, this one’s got a sort of longer face than her. And different hair.’

  ‘She’s disguised.’

  Now everyone was peering at Keira, arguing amongst themselves, making observations about her nose, her shoulders and the way she held her elbows at a sort of a crazy angle like someone about to swing a tennis racquet. (She dropped her arms and the person speaking said, ‘Oh. Huh. Well, not so much now.’) When the tattooed girl got down on her hands and knees to investigate Keira’s ankles, muttering something about cows, Keira had had enough.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘You got me.’

  It took a while for everyone to be convinced. They’d been enjoying the argument, it seemed. Eventually someone pointed out that it would be strange to pretend to be Keira if you were not Keira, what with everyone being after Keira, and wanting to arrest her, and then the room was staring, silent, again.

  ‘You were in the paper again today,’ the blonde girl told her. ‘You’re missing.’

  ‘No she’s not,’ said the other girl. ‘She’s right here.
Look.’

  Everyone laughed.

  In Jagged Edge, there was a hologrammatic game that kids played, where you had to manoeuvre out of a labyrinth before the monsters got you. Once, when she was very young, Keira had got trapped. She’d run the same loop for hours, swerving and ducking monsters, until she collapsed in a dehydrated fever. Afterwards, her mother asked why she hadn’t just switched off the game.

  Well, here she was in a loop full of monsters again.

  This time she’d beat the game. She’d deliver her ‘truth’, get on her bike and disappear.

  She looked around at the faces, sorting them. There were the two girls from the front door, the short boy with the face falling to pieces, and the boy so tall he was more an object. One of those long, thin objects, like brooms or rakes. There was the Sheriff, another guy in uniform (deputy?), and two guys in suits. A middle-aged woman stood near the sideboard, holding a pair of tongs. So she was the only possibility.

  That must be Elliot’s mother.

  ‘Are you Petra Baranski?’ Keira asked.

  The woman nodded once. Keira breathed out. She straightened her shoulders. She’d taken control of the game. Just follow this path, one step at a time.

  ‘Could I speak with you for a moment,’ she asked, ‘in private?’

  Now Petra used an edge of the tongs to scratch her own cheek. She pulled it away, leaving a red mark. ‘Well, what can we do for you, Keira?’ she said, and Keira’s chest tightened again. It was the tong-scratching thing, really. Why not use your own fingernails?

  Abruptly, Petra smiled. ‘Come on through,’ she said, stepping across the room, people parting before her. ‘We can talk a little. You want a cold lemonade and a slice of pie while we do?’

  Keira shook her head. Petra led her into an adjoining room. She slid the doors closed and sat down in an armchair.

  The doors were frosted glass. Through them, Keira could see the outlines of the others. They were holding their positions like a shadow painting.

  ‘What the heck’s that about?’ said the tattooed girl’s voice, as clearly as if she’d been standing beside her. ‘Why’s she here?’ Several others hushed her. There were muffled giggles, then silence again.