Spark

by Alice Broadway

  And if you were lucky, you might see the door ajar. And if you were brave, you might walk up the path. And if you were good, you might be invited in, and if you were poor, you might be fed, and if you were tired, you might find a chair, soft with cushions. And if you were looking for an adventure, here one might be found. For the woodcutter who lived at the house told stories that took you to wonderful worlds you had never known existed. Moreover, the woodcutter had twin daughters – one as bright as day, with a voice like an angel; the other as shadowy as dusk and quiet as midnight.

  Lovely as the house, the stories and the daughters seemed, when there were no visitors to bear witness, the woodcutter was a cruel man. Each day the daughters were forced to work till their fingers bled, cooking, cleaning and gardening. When their father came home he would berate them, calling them lazy and wicked. But any visitor who called saw only a mask. The man had spun his own life into a tale. A story that read beautifully to the untrained eye.

  Just as, if you moved the wood in the woodpile, you would see insects and worms and spiders, so too, if you looked closely at their storybook life, the worms and bugs and eight-legged things would soon creep out. But no one looked deeply once they had been bewitched by the stories, songs and the girls’ beauty.

  “Sing!” he would hiss at the brilliantly bright twin, Moriah.

  “Write!” he would hiss at the shimmering shadow twin, Belia.

  For the woodcutter was sure that his stories would one day bring his fortune. Each story was meticulously recorded by the sister, Belia. One day, the woodcutter was certain, a king would pass their way and hear Moriah’s song and be so enthralled by his stories that they would beg him to be their court storyteller. He would refuse, of course – claiming humility. The woodcutter saw no reason to disrupt his very pleasant life in order to perform like a monkey at court. And, of course, he knew his cruelty would no longer have a place to hide if he moved away from the cottage and the life he had built himself.

  Instead, he would tell the king that these stories were all written down in a book. A book filled with every story he had ever told. “I’m not sure I could sell it. Name my price? Why, I can’t imagine…” he would say. The king would offer him gold upon gold and the woodcutter would live the rest of his life a rich man.

  And so, each day, the daughter Belia would sit next to her father, pen and ink at the ready, to take down each word he spoke. He would test her, believing that she would attempt to change his story or that she was too stupid to keep up, but each time she read the words back perfectly. He congratulated himself on sending this one to school. At least one of them could read and write; they could make themselves useful. Moriah was beautiful and she had no need of learning. She was the lure and that was enough.

  In his dreams and schemes the woodcutter had never accounted for the possibility of death, which, of course, is the very best way to beckon death to your door. One night he dreamed he had been cursed and, on waking, he believed with absolute surety that the dream was a warning. He grew ever more merciless. He was convinced that his daughters were poisoning him and so he stopped eating. He was sure he heard voices in the trees and became too afraid to cut them down. He grew crueller and his stories became more and more frightening, until at last, the visitors dwindled to nothing.

  “Wasting away, I am,” he moaned. “I have nothing – no food to taste, no work to satisfy me, no one to hear my stories.”

  His daughters tried to coax him. “Just eat a little, Father,” they begged. “We cannot bear to see you starve.” But he just glared at them and bared his teeth. “After everything I have done for you miserable children. All you have brought me is trouble, and here I am, dying” – (“but, Father, eat and you will not die”) – “dying and you taunt me.”

  For he was dying. And that night, a terrible storm blew up and roused a devilish wraith. And as the woodcutter spoke his bitter last words, they were heard by the spectre, and the woodcutter’s final utterance became a binding curse:

  “I will be a millstone around your necks. I will be a rat biting your toes. My stories will follow you, my children. They will haunt you, and taunt you, and you will never ever escape them. You will be smothered by stories until you see the burden I had to bear, and you, like I, will die in misery.”

  And, to spite them, he died then and there.

  The tears the twins cried were sorrowful but dutiful. They couldn’t help secretly wonder if this meant freedom.

  Less than a year after the woodcutter’s death, his fantasy came true and a prince came riding by. The prince was, indeed, so delighted by Moriah’s beauty and song that he begged her to come with him to the palace right away. Moriah, carefree as she now was, agreed immediately and hushed her sister, who reminded her to be watchful and whispered about their father’s curse.

  “All will be well, sister,” Moriah consoled Belia. “See how life has only got better since Father died? That ridiculous curse went with him.”

  As much as Belia admired her sister’s sunny character, she could not agree, and wept as she waved goodbye to her sweet sister.

  But she couldn’t rest. She worried for her sister. One night she had a terrifying dream that her sister was drowning in a lake of blackest ink. She woke deeply troubled and resolved to set out and find her twin, Moriah.

  Belia travelled for days before she reached the kingdom where her sister lived. And there she was struck with fear. For the people she saw in the streets were strange and frightening and their faces were painted. When at last she reached the castle and saw her sister, she dropped to her knees, crying out in horror.

  For she realized the truth. While Belia’s skin had remained clear, her sister had been marked with the curse, like a terrible disease. Stories had destroyed her. They covered her skin in pictures that oozed their secrets to the world. Belia noticed that in the hidden places were the most tragic and truthful stories of all – their father’s cruelty, their mother’s death. And more and more secrets showed themselves. Looking at her sister’s face, she saw a snarl.

  “The curse,” Belia whispered. “Sister, I can help you.”

  “I don’t need your help,” Moriah spat. “And you had better not speak a word of the curse. Why would anyone here call me cursed? When these marks appeared they all thought me beautifully exotic. All in this kingdom wish to mimic me and become marked with their tales. I am the talk of the nations: people bring us all their wealth just to glimpse my skin.”

  Belia looked at Moriah, her skin covered in pestilence, and she wept. It was only a matter of time before the same fate befell her. She begged Moriah to come with her, and together they would find a way to break the curse, but her sister only became more and more angry.

  “I will have you executed,” Moriah screamed.

  And, followed by dogs and wild boar and men with knives, Belia was driven from the kingdom. She was chased into the bleakest, barest part of the forest and, hearing the barking of dogs still in pursuit, she ran deeper and deeper still.

  When she was completely lost, she sat on a fallen tree and cried. She was hungry and thirsty and frightened.

  As she sat and wept, something fell on her with a sharp crack. Rubbing her poor head, she cast around to see what had hit her, and she saw a tiny white stone. Peering into the branches of the tree above, she saw a crow. It flew on, every few metres picking up a stone from the ground, flying a little way and dropping it for Belia to find. She picked up each stone and followed the black tail and the white trail. Soon she had a pocket full of white pebbles and she found herself on the edge of a lake so placid it looked like glass.

  The crow landed next to her, picked up one last stone and flew over the lake, dropping it from its beak, where it landed with a splash in the centre of the pool. Belia paused then, for a moment. It would be madness to walk into the lake to her death. But the crow beat its wings, pressing her on, away from the shore. She waded in, the water soaking her clothes and pulling her under; the stones in her pocket w
eighing her down until she was pulled beneath the surface. She tugged at the pocket, tearing it from her dress, and watched as stone by stone cascaded and sank to the bottom of the lake.

  When she finally resurfaced she dragged herself out of the water, away from those white stones that had so nearly anchored her to her death.

  And as she stepped on to dry land, she knew in her heart that any curse that had once held her had been broken. The journey, the crow, the stones cast off under the waves. Deep magic that was beyond her understanding had occurred. And she was free.

  Belia created a home in the woods, and soon she was joined by more who resisted the prince and princess’s rule. Those who did not wish to be marked, to be defiled, to have their secrets ripped from them and painted on their faces. Belia taught them and read to them from her father’s book and every year, the people would cast white stones into the lake and remember that the curse had been lifted and would never return.

  Chapter Ten

  I listen. At first I am excited – I know this one – but soon my excitement turns to a confused kind of fury. How dare they talk about Moriah, our beautiful queen, as though she was a kind of leper? Is that what they think of me, sitting here, covered in “pestilence”? The heat from the fire makes me feel sick and I long to leave. But I just sit there. I keep my mouth shut and my head down. This is why Mel wants me here, I realize. To witness this distorted mirror image of the truth and do my utmost to destroy it.

  There is a silence after Solomon has finished, a contented one. After a while, Solomon raises his hands again and everyone stands, relaxed chatter between them. I feel eyes on me and see Justus looking at me, a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

  I watch as a member of each household wraps waxed cloth around a stick of wood. As one they step close to the fire and plunge the ends of their sticks into the blaze, waiting for each to catch. The light bearers then lead their family group back to their homes: we follow Fenn, who holds the torch high. Like moths, we follow the flame.

  I’m shivering by the time we get back to the house – the night seems extra dark and cold away from the fire. Fenn puts the blazing stick on to the grate, where embers glow in wait. His face in the firelight is dark – dark brows, dark shadows under his grey-blue eyes. The light catches his cheekbones, flushed from the fireside.

  “We all share the fire,” Gull whispers to me when she sees me watching. “We bring fire back home each night and return it each evening at the fireside gathering. It is always burning, somewhere.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I murmur, blinking away thoughts of the eternal flames of the fire in the hall of judgement. Another distorted version of something I hold dear.

  Gull exhales audibly, not quite a sigh, and I see a sweet radiance in her face. “It is beautiful,” she says quietly. “But it’s more than just beautiful: it’s life. It’s everything.”

  We walk back to her room in silence.

  That night I dream.

  I dream about water again. This time I feel its cool kiss as I dive in; see my hands outstretched through the clear water. I swim with ease; it feels like flight – as though I was made for this. The sun’s rays call to me through the still lake and I am drawn upwards. I step easily from the water, the warmth of the sunshine like an embrace. I look down and see that I am naked. More than naked: one half of my body has been stripped bare; my ink is gone. The right half is still full and talkative while the left is a yawn; an empty chasm.

  I look down at my hands – one marked, one blank – and slowly I bring them together. My fingers shake and my palms grow clammy, and the moment before my hands touch, in that split second of breath between them before they clasp, I see it. Lightning quick, star bright.

  A spark.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gull takes me to see Ruth the next morning, at the elderhouse. I have been summoned for my first lesson.

  I notice that the pouch Gull always wears, full of little white stones, slaps against her thigh as she walks. I am curious about it but I don’t dare ask her just yet. She is like a wild animal whose trust I must gain.

  Mel would want to know too. This is what she hoped for when she sent me here; she needs me to understand their stories. See how far they’ve taken this twisting of the original tales. And then maybe there will be a way to bring them back to the right path.

  On the way to the elderhouse, I notice that among the people carrying bales of hay, watering horses and sweeping the streets are a few little kids. “Don’t they go to school or anything?” I ask Gull when I almost trip over a ragged child who has run past, chasing their dog.

  “Not at the moment.” She shrugs. “We used to have a small school, when times were better. But now everyone is needed: we all have to pull together.”

  I imagine a world where I grew up digging potatoes instead of learning to be an inker, and I shudder the thought away. Inking is all I’ve ever wanted to do.

  I wonder when Longsight’s contact will send for me and what I will tell them when they do. I’ll tell them about the riders, perhaps – but it’s not much, not for a spy.

  Once inside the elderhouse I’m led, by Gull, into a different room this time; bowing shelves hold wooden boxes and a small number of books. Each box has a small handwritten label.

  “What’s inside those?” I whisper to Gull, but her eyes widen and she shakes her head. Ruth is seated at a rectangular table, a jug of water and two glasses in front of her. She smiles up at me and shifts out a seat, inviting me to join her. I glance up at the nearest shelf as I pass close to it – written on the labels are names. Some I can read – Peter and Merry Newton, Ted Yorke – but others are in ink that has faded to brown and I can’t make out the words without getting closer. I want to touch them, and I remember the story of the beautiful girl who was given a locked box which she was forbidden from opening.

  Gull mumbles a goodbye and shuts the door as she leaves. The curtains remain closed and there are candles around the room, each at different stages of burning. The light makes Ruth’s lovely wrinkles look deeper and more carefully sculpted, and her eyes are almost lost when she smiles at me.

  “Welcome, Leora.” She pats my hand and unexpected tears spring to my eyes. I realize it’s been a while since anyone touched me, or even looked at me without suspicion. “I am very glad that the group agreed that you could stay for now. We have much to talk about.” She raises an elegant hand to indicate the boxes. “This is the memory room.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling shy yet unutterably curious. “I’m keen to learn more. Where do we begin?”

  Ruth pours us both some water, her hands showing hints of a tremor, and she takes a long drink.

  “That is a question I’ve been asking myself.” She smiles, and looks just beyond me, as though trying to see something just out of view. “Where do I begin?” Her smile drifts, and she looks pensive and sad. “I suppose last night’s story was a good start. What did you think of it?”

  Again, this is where I wish I could read her; to know how to pitch my answer and know exactly how honest it is safe to be.

  “It was … interesting. A good tale.” I hesitate, seeing if she will say more, but Ruth just chuckles and nods for me to carry on. “We have a story a little like it. But … the differences are greater than the similarities.”

  Ruth nods, knowingly.

  “Many years ago I was told the tale you know. I wonder if you could tell me it now? To remind me?” she says.

  I swallow, but she smiles encouragingly.

  “Well…” And I tell her about the sisters – our sisters. I tell her the truth: that the one who remained blank was cursed, and our Moriah, the beautiful sister whose skin blossomed with marks, was the one to show us the way – the path to righteousness; eternity. And Moriah built a wall to keep the blanks out and to preserve the purity of her new marked kingdom.

  When I finish, feeling dazed by my own words, I look up and see that Ruth is smiling at me.

  “Yes, I h
ave heard your version of our story, Leora. And when I did, I felt such … such horror. Perhaps you felt the same last night at the fireside?” She inclines her head at my reaction to this. “Oh, I could have killed – whoever it was that had stolen our story and broken its bones so horribly.”

  “But ours came first,” I blurt. “We existed before you – before the blanks. Our story is history.”

  Ruth tops up her water.

  “It’s time for you to listen.”

  And I know my lesson has begun.

  “I believe you call it the Blank Resettlement Bill.” Ruth speaks as though the words are bitter in her mouth. “Is that what they tell you in school?” I nod. “We have a better, more truthful name for it: the Eradication.” She lets silence give her words weight, and I hesitate. “You will have heard that it was a mutual decision made for the purpose of peace: that it was decided that two groups with such divergent ideologies could not live well together and so, we went our separate ways. It sounds nice that way: reasonable, fair – for the best. But it was a decision our people were not party to – we had no say and we had no choice.” She swallows, her voice a little hoarse, and takes a drink.

  “I was just a child, younger than you are now; my memory of it is cloudy. But some things stick. Saintstone was our home; we had no intention of leaving. Blank and marked could live together in peace, we thought. When the edict came – only then did we fight. But those who fought had no idea that the marked were prepared for such an eventuality.” Ruth raises a shaking hand and points at the boxes. “Any opposition was brutally crushed. I saw my neighbour stand up to them and be beaten – I watched his skull crack. I didn’t even wait until he hit the ground. I did not fight for him or myself. I ran.”