The dizziness making my head spin causes me to stumble from time to time. But I have a guide in the darkness. A bird that was in a cage and now is free.
And then it stops. It lands a little ahead of me on a collection of huge stones – it looks as though an enormous ancient building once stood here. The bird flaps and hops, just feet away. I am dreamily tired; my head feels as though it is swirling quite apart from my brain and body. Is it the same bird? Have I been following twelve, twenty different birds, only to be lost in the middle of the forest? Have they drawn me here? I blink away the sting in my eyes and try to see through the fog. Doing my best to be quiet, I hobble near, and as I reach out to touch the bird it screeches and fights, pecking my hands and beating its way through the branches and briars. I stumble after it, my momentum taking me, pushing me, falling me through the branches, and I see my bird fly away.
And I see.
Chapter Four
All eyes are on me. And there are so many eyes. They glint with the flames of the fire that they sit around, and I blink away tears from the acrid smoke. The only sounds are my panting breath and the fierce roar and crackle of the flames. The air smells of burned coffee and varnished wood and the ghosts of skin books.
I am tethered in place by a magnetic field of uncertainty. Pushing me away is the fear, the insistent, intuitive certainty that I am in danger, that I shouldn’t be here. Drawing me in is the smooth caress of warmth coming from the fire and the people around it. It feels strangely familiar. I feel cords that tug and draw my heart closer, chords that sing of home.
In the end, I don’t have to choose. Two people – one woman, one man, I think – grab me under the arms, dragging me towards the fire. Their hands, their arms, their faces. Empty. They are not gentle; their rough hands hold me firmly. I fall to the ground and am dumped close enough to the flames to feel their kiss, far enough to feel the icy glare of the people. I raise myself unsteadily on my hands: my hair is in my face and my shawl has come off and my pendant swings in full sight. And in the light of the fire I see them fully. A whole throng. And they are all blank.
I look around wildly, searching for a mark, a sign, anything. Blankness looks back at me.
A small child a few metres away looks intently at me and starts to cry. Its wail is joined by other children murmuring and worrying. I hear whispers of “cursed one” and see one woman cover her child’s eyes with her hand.
“What is she, Ma?” I hear one of them cry.
“Is she a witch?” another voice hisses.
Their emptiness, their absence, slaps my face – it’s like they are cloaked, hiding something terrible. Fear makes me dizzy and I sit back. I have never felt so obscenely loud, so uncovered, so bare. And terrified – my drumming heart reminds me – I’ve never felt so terrified.
Beneath the sound of wailing children and whispered comfort from parents comes a deep voice.
“Where did you get that?” The voice comes from behind me, from a man lit by the fire. He has greying brown hair, light-coloured eyes and a beard flecked with white, but there is nothing else – no marks or ink for me to read him by. I feel bile rise. I try to move to stand, but giddiness overtakes me.
He steps closer, leans down, and a leathery hand reaches to grasp my neck. I freeze – I always thought I would fight in a situation like this, but it turns out I am a startled mouse in the clutches of a bird of prey.
But his hand goes to my pendant. He pulls it closer to his face, looks at it, and then he takes it from me – gently, wonderingly. He looks into my eyes as he lifts it over my head, then turns away with my father’s pendant still in his hand. He steps close to the fire and holds it out. That’s when my courage rises and overpowers my fear. I scramble towards him, still on my hands and knees.
“That is mine and you will give it back.” The man turns, an eyebrow raised – the rest of his face remains impassive. He looks at me and frowns ever so slightly and then passes my pendant to the person nearest him.
The fight goes out of me then and I sit without speaking, watching as my pendant, my one remaining memento of my father, is passed around. Each person touches it, looks intently, glances at me.
There are many people here – maybe two hundred. Every age is represented but there are only a few children. An elderly woman is helped to touch the pendant, words whispered to her about what is happening. A small baby grabs the cord and tries to put the pendant in its mouth.
The final person stands and hands it to the bearded man, who nods and consults the woman next to him. I hear her say his name: “Solomon.” He takes a step towards me, and with the deep voice of a god, which seems to shake earth and fire, he says, “Flint?”
How does he know me? The man, Solomon, reaches down and draws me to my feet. He lifts the pendant for all to see and hangs it gently, ceremonially, around my neck once again.
All eyes are on me. A roar goes up in the crowd – of welcome or war, I don’t know – and then the tiredness, the unsteady wooziness, the heat, the fear overcomes me and I fall.
Chapter Five
In my dream, it is night, and I dive into a lake shining silver and black under the moon. My pale arms reach out as I swim to the bottom. There are no rocks or weeds, and I touch the lake bed, cold and slippery under my fingers. Eventually, running out of air, I let myself rise, hands aloft, face up to gather breath. But the surface is not where I think it is and the waters do not open.
And then I’m looking down on myself, trapped in a bottle of ink. My limbs creak against the glass that encases me and I open my mouth to scream. But my lungs fill with ink and my tears merge with the blackness and I sink down.
I am in the ink and the ink is in me. We are one and I am gone.
Someone is nudging me awake, and before I open my eyes I can smell that I’m not at home. There’s a forest-damp scent, mixed with smoke, and it brings the events of last night back so close that I put my hand to my neck to make sure I’ve still got my pendant.
“You need to get up,” a small voice says. “They want to meet with you.” I turn my head, and see a tall, pale girl is standing there, looking at me plaintively. Her white-blonde hair is tightly cropped at the sides and wild at the top, trailing a way down the back of her neck. She is all angles; there seems to be nothing soft about her form. Blank, of course. She tugs at the blankets that cover me and, dazed, I sit and slide my legs out, feeling the cold wooden floorboards beneath my bare feet. I blink. I’m wearing a nightshirt and my legs feel chilly.
Standing, I feel a swoop of dizziness and remember falling last night. My head throbs; I hold on to the bedpost and the giddy feeling passes.
“Who are they?” I murmur, trying to get a good look at the girl who has woken me.
“Just get yourself dressed and come into the kitchen,” she says sullenly, then leaves the room.
I open a curtain a couple of inches to let some light in and look around the room for my bag. I don’t see it. A change of clothes that I brought with me is laid out on a chair, and I cringe at the realization that someone must have got me undressed last night. I don’t want to think about them touching me, seeing my body, examining my ink. Covering myself in a sheet, I open the curtains fully and see trees through the condensation on the window. No people – no one watching me. There is black mould growing at the edges of the pane and the glass is wobbly and grubby. A fresh wave of panic sweeps over me now that my drowsiness has worn off. What am I doing here? Am I doing what Obel wants and finding my roots, or what Longsight wants and turning spy? I lean my forehead against the dirty glass. Outside, a dog gives me a long look before turning and loping down the street.
I am not among friends.
I don’t know what they mean to do with me. I don’t know whether I’ll make it out of here alive. If a blank appeared in Saintstone they would be lynched before they even made it to the courthouse. Is that what awaits me here?
I shake my aching head and slowly get myself dressed. My boots are nowhere to be
seen; I carry my socks in my hand. Their very familiarity in this strange place makes them feel foreign. Mum knitted these. I look at the stitches, at the way the heel was turned and the ribbed cuff, and feel the cavernous sadness at the realization that I know nobody here. I slump on to the bed and blink back tears that sting my tired eyes. I try to think of the people who care about me. Obel’s deep voice, reassuring me. Oscar, close to me in the darkness of the museum, his hand in mine. Mum’s face, her fingers playing with my hair. Verity’s bright eyes and mischievous smile.
They feel very far away.
We ended up getting tattoos together, Verity and I.
We had always planned to, and had even made the appointment, back when we were still friends.
I had gone to the studio on the appointed day, one week after I’d done my deed at the reading of the names. I was doubtful that she would come, but when I turned the corner, there she was. I drank that moment in, as though I knew it might be one of the last times I saw her, and if I close my eyes, I can picture her now: thick glossy black hair in a braid over her shoulder, brown skin that seemed to gleam even in the shade of the buildings. Beautiful silk dress, but the ratty old scarf that she’d had since she was small around her neck. It was her comforter; she was nervous.
“I didn’t think you would come,” I murmured when she saw me.
She looked at me, half contemptuous and half amused.
“I said I would, didn’t I?” she said. “Well, here I am.”
That was Verity all over. She made a promise and she could never go against her word.
Obel let me ink Verity, and then he did me. They’re not matching, our marks, but they tell the same story and they’re both on the top of our feet – so we can see them when we look down. Mine is a small blue egg; Verity’s is a seed pod. We both wanted something that felt like a beginning for our chosen marks: hers, the start of the vine that she would ink up her body, and mine the place the birds grew from – the birds my body had claimed as its theme.
Verity had gone first, Obel watching while I made the mark. He didn’t say anything, didn’t correct or advise. Verity sat like she was being caressed – a small smile on her face, eyes closed. It was her first chosen mark; I’d waited years to mark my best friend, and here I was, inking a seed: placing all that potential at her feet. I prayed to my ancestors as I did it: Please let me be part of her vine. I haven’t prayed much since Dad died. I still don’t know if it makes any difference. But it felt like the right thing to do.
Obel let Verity stay while he did my mark. The pain felt hot and cold all at once. Fire and ice.
At last, the egg was done. I sat up and took a look at the mark. It was black and grey, with tiny specks and flashes of white. Whole. Perfect.
“Are we finished?” I asked. He hesitated, frowning.
“One more thing, girl.” And I remained upright, watching the last addition be made.
And then I saw it appear. A tiny crack in the perfect shell.
He looked up and grinned. “I had to, Leora. It’s what your soul was asking for.” And I remember the spiritual, almost magical, connection between inker and inked, and the way some tattoos are so much more than skin and ink, and I bowed my head and whispered, “Thank you.”
When my mark was covered and Obel was breaking down his workstation, I put my foot next to Verity’s. I tried to make my voice happy.
“Matching marks. Just like we always said.”
She smiled, but her eyes looked heavy and sad.
That crack in the shell. Light was getting in and life was getting out. The crack felt like a lightning bolt, like a fork in the road forcing our journeys in different directions.
Things would never be the same again.
Even if I went back to Saintstone right now, my Verity wouldn’t be there. She isn’t mine any more, and I don’t know how I would ever get her back.
Now, in this dark little room in an unfamiliar town, surrounded by those I have always known as my enemy, I look down at the egg on my foot and feel the need to hide it, to protect the broken shell. So I put on my socks and pad out of the room.
Chapter Six
The front door is open, letting in cold air: an escape route. I could run now and be gone before they miss me. But where would I go? And if I don’t stay, the ones I love will suffer.
While I’m dreaming, someone comes in and slams the door behind them. A broad-shouldered boy with mud-brown hair – older than me, I think – stands staring at me. He’s between me and the door, and any plans for freedom I had. I see him swallow and size me up, pushing his hair out of his face, blue eyes colder than the draught was. His face is all hard lines and cheekbones, like the girl who woke me; he might be nice-looking if he wasn’t frowning so hard at me.
“Kitchen’s that way.” He nods to the room to his left and watches me, unmoving, until I walk across the hall to where the sound of clinking crockery and the smell of toast beckon me. A comforting smell, as frightened as I am.
The kitchen is bright but bare. All the warmth comes from the stove, and for a moment I am able to just observe, before the girl who woke me looks up from her breakfast, meets my eyes and gets out of her chair.
I step forward and realize the boy has been standing behind me. I try to move aside but I end up getting in the way and he steps past with an angry sigh, his eyes flaming at the girl.
“I thought you were keeping an eye on her, Gull.” He speaks as though I’m invisible, or at least, as though he wishes I was. She reddens and glares at him.
“I have been – I’m not going to watch her get dressed, though, am I?” She shunts a chipped mug towards me, and I sit at the worn wooden table.
“It’s lucky I came back when I did.” His voice is shards of ice. “She was going to make a run for it.” I open my mouth to protest but he carries on talking. “I’m going out to get some work done.” He picks up a slice of toast from the girl’s plate. “Mum and Dad are relying on you. Don’t mess this up, Gull,” he calls as he leaves, and I think he deserves the look she gives his back as she watches him go.
I clear my throat. “Thank you for letting me stay,” I say tentatively. I don’t know what I should fear, and so I fear everything.
The girl – Gull – doesn’t hide an expression of curious disdain when she looks at my face. Her gaze takes in my neck tattoo, my marked arms, my crumpled clothes and my socked feet.
“I’m meant to make sure you have some food before your meeting,” she says, getting up and scooping something out of a pot on the stove into a small bowl. “And he’s right – Fenn.” She tips her head towards the door. “I’m supposed to make sure you don’t escape.” Her brow furrows at the memory of her brother’s words.
“I wouldn’t have gone anywhere.” I’m almost sure I mean it. I consider for a second. “I don’t have my boots, anyway.” She doesn’t return my smile. “Am I a prisoner, then?” Saying it out loud makes me feel foolish – like a kid playing at being bandits. But Gull doesn’t say anything and my words fall into an uneasy silence. I drop my gaze and examine the bowl of soupy porridge in front of me. No toast for me – a small but clear message.
“Not a prisoner.” She gives the merest smile. “But … don’t try to leave.” The inference is clear. She drains her mug and washes it up at the sink. “My parents are not popular for taking you in.” She points to the door. “My brother’s a real charmer.” She raises a sardonic eyebrow. “You met my dad, Solomon, last night at the fireside.” I remember the tall, bearded figure with the calloused hands. “You’ll meet my mum when you get to the elderhouse; she’s called Tanya. Eat something, at least.”
I stir the porridge, hoping that it might become less lumpy, more appetizing. The tea Gull gave me is weak and tasteless and there’s no milk. I close my eyes and take a spoonful of the food. Swallowing a hot sip of tea to wash the mouthful down, I shiver and wish I’d brought more layers – the stove doesn’t stop the chill I feel. I glance around. In some ways, it’s nic
er than I’d expected here – ordinary, like any kitchen.
Gull leaves the room, returning a moment later, dropping my boots on the floor next to me and resting a blanket on the back of a chair.
“It’s cold outside.”
I take a quick final sip of tea and hurriedly lace my boots, noticing that most of the mud has been cleaned off them. The front door sticks as Gull tries to pull it open and she sighs, frustrated. She wrenches the door towards her, and it creaks and clatters against the wall with a bang.
“Come on.” She wears a draping rust-brown coat with a hood that hangs low over her eyes. Wrapping the blanket around my head and shoulders, I follow.
It’s like when you dream about a familiar place. You’re in a setting you know, only something is off.
Featherstone feels like that – so almost like home. There are things that remind me of Saintstone but the distances between things are smaller – it takes us only a few minutes of walking through scruffy streets before we get to what must be the centre of town. All the houses are small and dilapidated, but they are cared for: pretty curtains frame misted windows, chipped front doors are neatly painted. But everything looks old, faded, and the streets are grimy with sandy ground, pale stones and rained-on mud. The misty morning doesn’t help make it feel any less dreamlike, or any more lovely; there’s no paving or cobbles on the ground, just earth. As though the village hasn’t been finished: money or resources, or hope, ran out.
The centre of the village is busier; there are flimsy stalls with food and clothes, and then some larger, barn-like buildings. There is one brick building (“the elderhouse”, Gull tells me). The old house, the outbuildings and the sandy ground make it feel more like a farm than a town centre. Dogs are everywhere – each close to an owner, but there is the odd bark and growling face-off. I can smell manure; there must be stables nearby.
I walk past people whose eyes skitter away from me. The sensation of not being known makes me feel untethered. Conversations stop abruptly as we walk past, and I have that breathless, squeezed feeling of knowing everyone is watching me.
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