Spark

by Alice Broadway

  Belia’s people were poor and hungry; the land they had been contained in was not good for farming and they had few livestock. They could not break out, and there was little they could do to help themselves. Belia promised she had a way to help them; she assured them all would be well, and at least they were safe. Or so they thought.

  Moriah had hoped that the wall would be a surgeon’s saw – a blade to cut those terrible blanks off. A nice clean amputation to get rid of the poison and save the rest of the body. She knew that soon the people inside would starve to death. But Moriah had underestimated the extent of her sister’s power. Moriah sent spies with ladders, telling them to look over the wall, observe and see whether the people had perished yet. But every emissary came back, head hanging low, to tell her that the people lived; indeed they flourished.

  “What magic is this?” the princess howled. “What sorcery?”

  She envied her sister and wished to steal whatever power Belia held that allowed her people to survive.

  And so she sent another spy. And this time, she gave him a key.

  This man was, by far, the most shrewd and skilful of all her agents. At home, they called him “Saint”, but for this mission he went by the name of “Nate”. He was a master of disguise; Nate could curl his spine until he looked like an old man; he could make his face handsome or grotesque. He could shudder with weakness or shoulder the greatest weights.

  As he walked towards the hidden door in the wall, he came up with a plan. He felt with his fingers through the bracken and thorns, and his hands found the brick and the lock. The key fitted and turned as though it had been used every day.

  He pushed the door, crept through the briars – allowing them to rip his clothing and scratch his skin – and he shut the door behind him, locking it carefully and rearranging the plants he had disturbed to ensure none but he would know of the door’s existence. He took time to shred his clothes some more, and, using the razor in his pack and his own closed fist, he inflicted wounds which made him appear to have climbed rough stone, to have crossed over blades and glass and to have fallen from a height on to the hard ground. Close to fainting from the pain, he crawled and lurched and made his way towards the settlement, towards the place where woodsmoke puffed. Closer and closer he got. Weaker and weaker he became. He heard their chatter, their laughter and their love, and he smiled a cruel smile. He would soon bring silence and death to this oasis.

  A girl came past and screamed at the sight of this bloody and bruised man cowering beneath a tree. But the girl was kind, and although he was marked, and although he was not one of their people, she called for help. And help came. Nate’s wounds were cleaned and bound, his clothes were mended, and he was given food, water and shelter. The good people of Featherstone showed him love and care. He told them he had rebelled against Moriah, and her soldiers had flung him over the wall. He told them he had wanted to join them before the wall closed but had been prevented. He was a wanted man: a freedom fighter. An ally covered in ink. And because his story was like many before him, and because his face looked kind beneath the swelling, the people welcomed him, and soon, Nate was home.

  As Nate regained his strength he offered to work. “Can I hunt or farm or cook?” he asked, keen to discover the secret to their plenty. The people smiled and shook their heads. “We will provide,” they told him. And they gave him the job of teaching the children. He did it well. He taught them to draw and write and read, and what the stars meant and how to read the weather. Each day the children went to him, and he taught them. Each evening the children would return, full to the brim with new knowledge and joy. It was a happy time and the people were thankful for whatever good fortune had sent Nate to them.

  Still Nate offered his help. “Can I gather, can I sow, can I help with the harvest?” he asked. The people smiled and shook their heads. This was one secret they weren’t ready to share.

  One night, Nate stayed awake and stole away from the village, hiding just at the edge of the woods where he could wait and watch. Just as dawn was coming and he was about to doze he heard a quiet rumble of thunder. He looked to the sky but saw no clouds. He kept his eyes up and, all of a sudden, a murder of crows soared overhead. He noticed the way the birds kept away from the village; no wonder he had never heard them. The crows flew near the lake and Nate crept towards the clearing. He saw the birds drop bundles, and when they had flown away he checked them. One had bread, another had meat, another was full of fruit and still another had cheese and vegetables. Whether this was blank magic or treachery from the marked, Nate neither knew nor cared. Chuckling to himself, Nate crept back to the camp and slept. A plan formed in his dreaming mind and, from that moment, evil crouched at the heels of Belia’s people, ready to pounce when the time was right.

  Nate continued to teach. He took the children and taught them songs and stories and rhymes and rules. They loved their teacher and trusted him as they trusted their own parents. For this was the place where no one had anything to hide. They were one.

  They were wrong.

  Nate had one other secret. Every day he would write his stories on his skin, as Moriah had commanded him to. And one day, he was caught; a friend stumbled across him carving marks into his flesh in the forest. The man ran back to the village and screamed for help, and Nate took his chance to hide.

  “He is a spy! He has been marking his body with our secrets. We must hurry, we must be quick!”

  The people gathered and parents told their children to stay indoors while they searched for the man.

  “He can’t be far,” one voice said. “There is the wall to contain him, after all.”

  When every one of the adults went to the forest to find him, Nate stood in the centre of town and whistled. He whistled a song that the children knew. One that they loved, one that he had been whistling each time he lured them with his marked magic. And, as if in a dream, the children came. They held hands and followed him. They followed him through the forest, past the lake and all the way up to the wall. Nate reached for the key and put it in the lock, whistling all the time. He pulled the door open and led the children out, each of them beguiled by the sweet tune. Then, just before the last child had passed through, a yell came from the forest. Nate’s whistle abruptly stopped and he pulled the door to, slamming it shut and locking it behind him.

  Just one child was left weeping and afraid, wishing he hadn’t been so slow as to have been left behind.

  And the parents wailed. They screamed so loud they thought the walls might fall down. But there was no way out. He had stolen their secrets, and worst of all, he had stolen their children.

  The next day when no food came, the people heard screeching which sounded like their babies crying. Instead they found crows, tied to the tops of the highest trees, wings beating but unable to fly.

  Their life was over. All because of the marked man.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ruth’s eyes are closed and a tear shines on her cheek. The Leora who first came to Featherstone would want to point out the problems with the story – show Ruth the inconsistencies. She would say, they’ve got it wrong, again – the blanks have blamed the wrong man. The old Leora would want to show her that it doesn’t make sense.

  But the old Leora isn’t here.

  She knows, I think. She knows all about me.

  “That was Featherstone?” is all I say, and Ruth opens her eyes and nods.

  “Our people have been here since Belia first settled. There will always be new souls wanting to escape the inked tyranny. But” – she gestures to my skin – “not all those who seek refuge are blank.”

  “That story … that’s why people are wary of me?” Ruth inclines her head. “But…” I try to smile. “I’m not Nate – I’m not here to hurt anyone.” Even as I say it, my heart lurches. For I am more like the Saint than I ever knew.

  “I believe you, my dear.” Ruth reaches out a shaky hand and strokes my cheek. “Most of us can see how sweet your soul is and
that you are here to heal, not to harm.” I gulp back tears; she doesn’t know what’s in my heart. “It’s not you that people resent. It’s your history.” Ruth stops and studies me, trying to weigh her words, trying to predict how they will be heard. “You know about your father – that he left us?” I nod. “But I wonder if you know everything.”

  “That’s the main reason I’m here. I want to know the full story.” My heart beats harder at the hope.

  “Are you sure of that, Leora?” Ruth is serious and rubs her forehead. She looks so tired – small beads of sweat glitter on her brow. She should be resting. “Sometimes the stories we tell ourselves are the safest ones. Are you ready to know the man your father was, even if that changes the man you knew?”

  “I’d rather know the whole messy truth than have a neat lie,” I tell Ruth, drying my tears. I feel like the girl in a red cloak alone in the forest – ready to start on a new path. I cannot know whether I will meet a wolf or a woodcutter; an enemy or a friend.

  Ruth breathes deeply and passes me the book, letting me read in silence.

  It is my mother’s – my birth mother’s – diary.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Monday 1st

  Khalid reappeared tonight. Stumbled into the circle at fireside, his face filthy and weary. All those weeks of being lost in Riverton: I was sure he was dead at the hand of the marked.

  Everyone flocked to him, their voices raised as he struggled to answer their questions. As we had guessed, he had been found and arrested after the most recent trip to Riverton to gather food. But, unlike the others, he had escaped.

  “But how?” came the cry. And Khalid held his hands up for silence.

  The man who had saved him was a marked man.

  In the deathly hush that fell, Khalid called in a low voice into the shadows behind him, and out stepped a man. I’ve never seen anything like it. His head was bowed, but his eyes – they were on us all. He looked like a wild dog, waiting for us to drop our guard or attack. Actually, he wasn’t far wrong.

  And he was marked. Marked all over. My eyes swam at the sight of him. I wanted to cover my eyes and shut out all that confusion, all that dirt and sin.

  Khalid told us of his rescue – “This man is a hero!” he said. “He overcame the executioner and cut me down from the hangman’s noose. He hid me in a safe house where I was well taken care of until we came here.”

  I can’t imagine any marked doing that; it doesn’t make sense. They hate us, want us dead. But it’s Khalid’s story. “This man, Joseph Elliot, was arrested for what he did. He was taken and inked with an accursed mark. We left together: he is in exile, and I assure you, he is as much a citizen of Riverton as I am. He is my brother now. I have promised him safety and a home here.”

  Tuesday 2nd

  The elders have been in meetings all day, and Khalid and the stranger have been kept hidden in the elderhouse. But this has, at least, left the rest of us free to talk. And there is much talk. Some say we should kill the stranger before he kills us.

  I don’t know what I think.

  The fireside was short tonight. They will talk more tomorrow, Ruth and Greta said.

  Wednesday 3rd

  The outsider can stay. It was decided tonight, at a fireside that seemed to go on until the birds were calling. We drew lots to see who would house him and Justus won – or lost. So the marked man is in our house, my own cousin’s home, sleeping in the room next to me. If I put my hand on the wall, I can almost feel his marks spreading their decay. And I am so afraid because I don’t seem to mind.

  Friday 5th

  They did a ceremony tonight, the same one they did for those who came in the eradication. He has a new name – a new life here – and he has been honoured for his courageous rescue of Khalid. They gave the freedom to choose his own tree and, more than that, he will wear the feather.

  He promised before us all to honour the elders and be one with the group. His voice did not shake as he made the oath. No marks, no secrets, no lies. Honesty.

  His name will be Joel. Joel Flint. A new name, a new start, a new life.

  He is everywhere – in the street, at the dinner table, squeezing past me in the hallway. Passing me on the stairs. I avert my eyes from his marks. I look away, look anywhere that he isn’t. He may be one of us, but he seems anything but safe. Justus warned me to keep my distance.

  But at night I see him even when I close my eyes.

  Thursday 18th

  There are not enough stones for what I have done. He kissed me. I kissed him. Maybe it’s true that their marks can hypnotize. You can drown in them. But I go under willingly.

  Wednesday 24th

  He has marks that only I know.

  The diary stops abruptly, just at the point where I feel I’m seeing the real person my birth mother was. I turn blank pages frustratedly. And then, close to the back of the notebook, without any date, I see a frantic scrawl.

  I can’t write in this book. Words don’t work. He wants to go back to where he’s from. He sees our suffering and he wants to help us and bring us aid. He sees our poverty; he sees the injustice. He says there is no reason for us to live this way. That he can persuade others to think the same. That blank and marked could live alongside each other. He is a good man.

  He wants me to go with him, but I know the people will see leaving Featherstone as treachery. And if I follow, I will have betrayed them all. I know many still see him as a marked man and nothing more.

  The child in my belly moves.

  This baby will be a blessing; not just for Joel and me but for our land. We both feel it: this is the change we have longed for, a way to bring peace between warring communities. I know every mother believes her baby is special, but this is different. I have dreams every night of Belia and Moriah walking hand in hand.

  The pouches around my waist grow heavier every day. I would carry the earth if it meant I could be his.

  The book finishes there, with so much still to be said. I close it and think about the book I already own, written in the same hand. It tells the next piece of the story.

  Ruth fills in the gaps.

  “When Justus discovered that your mother was expecting a child, he had Joel put out of the settlement.” She takes the book from my hands. “Your father was welcome when he was simply someone who had risked his own life for one of our own, but it was clear that the prejudice still held when he and your mother fell in love. To many, it felt like a pollution. Justus meant well, Leora – believe me. He thought he was protecting your mother from a predator, and many assumed the same. But I know now that we misjudged your father. He would not leave. He hid in the forest and left your mother letters. In each one he told her he would never forsake her; that he would be back for her and their child. Only a few of us knew the full story; most of the town were happy to believe that he was just another marked – another ink-stained snake who had run away with our secrets. He would have been killed on sight had he dared to enter the village.”

  Heat builds in my chest and my teeth clench. Justus. I hold the outrage I feel tightly to me. I won’t forget this. Didn’t he care about my mother? Didn’t any of the blanks see her pain?

  “When you were born your mother cried.” I feel those words like a stab, and Ruth reaches out to me. “No, not for you.” She speaks tenderly. “Oh, my heart, no: for you she only had kisses and sweet, sweet words.” I feel tears run and Ruth lets me cry. This person who loved me, who screamed me into the world; I never knew her. She touched my naked skin, and I can’t even picture her face. I think my heart might break, and my head pounds. Sobs shudder through me and for the first time I ache for her – I miss my mum, the one I never knew existed, the one who loved me from before my world began. I wipe my tears away with a ragged cuff and slam my hand on the table. I have a sudden, absolute certainty and my howling anger needs to be allowed to speak.

  “She never needed to die, did she?” I sniff back tears, but the anger – the rage – rips my thro
at and I want to destroy this whole room. Every bit of their history that they kept. But my mum is not here. She is forgotten and I want to say her name. I want to bring her back.

  “Justus – he did this. He killed her.” I am certain of it. “Tell me, Ruth. Tell me the truth.”

  “They saw the mark on you; it showed as soon as you were born. I was there – I was your mother’s midwife.” Ruth rests her hand on the book and closes her eyes. She shudders at the memory. “Justus saw. He ran to the fireside where the town was meeting and he roared that you were an aberration. A curse.”

  My lips form a snarl.

  Justus. My mother’s own cousin spoke against her? I want to shudder at the thought that I could be related to him. My mum was barely fledged; she could have soared. I want nothing more than to repay the harm he did our family.

  “He blamed your mother. He said it was punishment for her behaviour, that she had given birth to a new Moriah.” She swallows. “His eyes. He has always been zealous, but for a moment that night I thought he might have killed you both had Sana not acted.”

  “Sana?” I frown.

  Ruth nods.

  “She leads our riders – they left on a mission the day after you arrived.” And, in my mind’s eye, I see the spritely, strong woman on horseback whispering before she left, You are so like your mother. “I believe it was she who told your mother to run. You were bundled up, and although she was still weak and bleeding, Miranda left – you were the only thing she took, her prized possession, her only treasure. She kept on repeating the word ‘blessing’; she truly felt you were no ordinary child.”

  I remember what Gull told me about a baby born during the fireside meeting – the tradition that said that child would either be a blessing or a curse. My mother did not see me the way Justus did. She had hope – I gave her hope. I want to please her – I want to believe like she did and to be the one who brings peace. I want to claim Featherstone as my home; I can help them, I am sure of it.