Spark

by Alice Broadway

  Fenn, Gull and I are at the storehouse, sorting through the supplies. The riders don’t just bring back food: there are shoes and boots of various sizes – all worn-looking. There are a few tools in various states of decay. There is a hacksaw without the blade, which strikes me as a deeply useless thing. Piles of blankets and sheets – there are people sitting to examine them and mend the inevitable holes. I swallow back a rush of guilt that reminds me how these would be considered in Saintstone: rags, fit only for the dog’s bed or for mopping up leaks. Now I see these things differently: an extra blanket will be such a blessing for Blake and Penny’s new baby. Despising my ignorance a little more today, I willingly crouch down next to Gull and Fenn, and lend my hands to the work.

  “You must have had a good laugh when you saw your rubbish leaving the town,” Gull says bitterly. “I can just imagine you sending it out to the dump, dirty charity for the rats across the river.” She’s sorting clothing into sizes and doesn’t look up, but she sounds sad – sad and embarrassed.

  “Gull, I didn’t know. None of us did.”

  “You know we would look after our own needs if we could.” Fenn’s voice is cold. I am so used to him ignoring me that I jump, startled. He glares at the pile in front of him, dropping a half-folded pair of trousers on to his lap. “Do you think we like relying on your scraps? But what do we have? We’ve got this useless land that hardly grows anything. You have the mill and lights and school and food. Perfect land for growing, for grazing. You keep us low, you keep us tired and weak. Sana is right about you.” His cheeks are flushed with anger.

  “Not me.”

  Fenn stands and kicks away a sheet with a frustrated sigh.

  “You expect us to trust you, as though you haven’t come from the enemy?” he snaps, his eyes hard. “If you’re one of us then you’d better start proving it.”

  With that he’s off, hands thrust into pockets. Gull and I look after him. I put a hand on her arm. It feels so thin underneath mine. So fragile.

  “Blame me if you need to,” I say quietly. “Saintstone has treated you terribly. But I am not your enemy. I’m part of Featherstone now.”

  And I mean it with all of my heart.

  On the way back to the house I see a small, alabaster-pale stone and I hesitate briefly before picking it up. I slip it into the pouch that was once Ruth’s.

  The next day Gull comes home with a tunic, the selvedge ends ready for stones to fill the hem. Gull passes me a needle and we cut thread. I start on the sleeves, trying to create deep pocket hems to fill with stones. And with each stone I add, the weight of it sinks deeper into my lap and I wonder how anyone can believe they have sinned this much.

  Sana’s next lesson takes place in the stable; she hands me a curry comb and tells me we’re grooming the horses. I have no idea what I’m doing; the horses are huge and I flinch when one whinnies at me.

  She speaks first. “I understand that Ruth had been telling you our stories, yes?”

  “Yes.” I concentrate on working a knot out of the horse’s mane. “Some of them are very similar to ours… I mean, the ones they have in Saintstone.”

  “Ah.” Sana laughs and the horse she’s grooming swings its head close to her. “Well, we’ll get on to that, I’m sure. But for now, I’ll pick up where Ruth left off. I believe the last tale she told you was about Nate? I know that you call him the Saint.” I nod, and Sana looks at me appraisingly, as if trying to work out what will be the right match for me to hear next. “Well, I have a different story for you. One that not everyone knows. Let this be a secret – between you and me.”

  I nod again, feeling a flare of warmth that I am trusted by someone.

  She pats the horse firmly on its flank and begins, her voice low and lulling as she speaks the sacred words.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Lovers

  What do you do when you’re ruled by power-hungry, narcissistic maniacs?

  What do you do when one of them is your brother?

  Of course, with your brother, Metheus, being told every day by your mother that he was the sun – that he was the source of light and life for all those around him – well, eventually that had to go to his head. After all, the world revolves around the sun – it was only natural that Metheus wanted the world to revolve around him. And when he met Luna, it got even worse. He called her the moon. The moon only shines because of the sun’s light. She didn’t seem to mind, though.

  And that left you and the people. You, together, were only the earth: at the whim of the sun’s rays.

  The sun and the moon set themselves up as the only truth, the only voices to be heard and obeyed. They needed everyone to love them, worship them, obey them and serve them. And they ruled with all the cruelty of the sun’s fire and all the remote apathy of the cool lunar rays.

  And the people accepted their rule. Things weren’t so bad. Although their minds felt empty, at least their stomachs were full. But you longed for another way. Maybe, if he was the sun and she the moon, then you were the wind. Yes – you were the wind. You could whisper in people’s ears without being seen. You could propel them into the path of the truth, bluster around them until the detritus was blown away and they could see as they should. And so, wind that you were, soon you had a group of faithful brothers and sisters. People who had seen the light and knew it didn’t shine out of Metheus’s backside.

  Metheus threw a banquet one day – he was always throwing banquets. Some of your friends came.

  As the wine flowed, more boastful and arrogant did Metheus become. He taunted his guests, including your friends. The desire for justice burned in your heart.

  A beautiful chest had been brought to the banquet – mysteriously, no one knew who the giver was. It was filled with bottle after bottle of the most delicious wine. As the casket grew emptier and Metheus grew drunker his voice carried across the banqueting hall.

  “I am so favoured by the ancestors, they will not allow me to see decay!” he declared. “See how they gave you a ruler so splendid and wise.”

  “Wise indeed,” you murmured, hating him.

  He banged the chest on the table.

  “In fact,” he boomed, “I am sure I am the only man in this room who is flexible and strong enough to fit in this chest.”

  You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. He was not subtle.

  But his wife, Luna, only smiled indulgently.

  “You are the delight of all the world, my love,” she assured him. “What you say is surely true.”

  “Immortal, too?” you asked quietly. “Able to survive anything? Even … a day in that chest?”

  “Three days!” cried your brother. “In fact, put me in this chest, bear me on to the waters and let me die. And three days later, I will be restored to you – I will return, alive for ever.”

  You looked at your friends and each nodded their heads. He was begging to be killed, and who were you to disobey your lord and master?

  Metheus lay down in the chest, keeping one bottle of wine (“for my final journey,” he winked) and you each drove a nail into the lid, watched all the time by a strangely serene, smiling Luna. It took many of you to carry the chest and your feet slipped on the muddy banks of the river as you heaved on ropes and pushed him into the rapid waters. You watched as he bobbed a little way downstream before one end began to sink lower and lower, and with a gasp of bubbles the chest was submerged as it was swept along with the furious waters.

  You prayed: the whole of creation had seen him boast; seen it was his own wish. You held your hands up for the ancestors to see, you washed them in the river. His blood was not on you. His fool’s destiny was his alone.

  And so, when you saw him on the third day of mourning, you thought you were seeing a ghost. Pale and thinner, he looked spectral. But you could see from the smile on his face and the laugh in his eyes that all his devious soul was still within him. Luna presented him to the people as a hero returning from battle. For he had fought death and won.
He had received the favour of his ancestors and now he held immortality in his veins. You had never loved him, but today, for the first time, you truly feared him.

  One night, as you walked past the throne room, you heard voices. You stopped to listen, as you often did.

  “Oh, it is good to be divine, my dear.” You heard your brother’s gloating voice dripping through the cracks in the door. You had to strain to catch the queen’s placid reply.

  “You didn’t hit your head while you were in that box, did you, darling? Divine, indeed! You do remember how the plan played out?”

  “Tell me again, my moon. I like to hear the story.” You could have sworn you heard her sigh.

  “It’s no great tale, Metheus, my angel, my light,” she said, indulgently. Something in her voice reminded you of your mother. “We planned every nail in that coffin of yours, remember? Your poor brother’s face…” And they both howled with derisive laughter. Soon she spoke again. “My love, glorious you may be, but divine you are not. You were under the water for no time at all. When you sank out of sight, your faithful servant down the river pulled on the ropes and drew you out of the depths. You were no more drowned than I am.”

  “Ah, but I sank and then by magic I was revived. I remember it, I drank nectar.”

  “No, dear,” said Luna calmly. “I used a hammer and broke you out and you had a cup of tea – remember? You had better not start believing in your own legend.”

  “I didn’t think I would get so tired when I became immortal,” you heard him murmur. “But I find I am slipping away again. I must sleep.”

  “You must, dear one,” you heard her say without emotion, and you crept away.

  And so you planned another banquet. Your brother would be the guest of honour. His wife was not invited. And you told the truth of what you had heard in the throne room to a few of your friends. Let us feed him wine, you said. And then, when he is drunk, we will force him to admit the truth, in front of everyone. That he is not divine, not immortal, but just a trickster.

  Again, there was wine, again there were your friends – those you entrusted with the secret. And again, your brother began to talk.

  Metheus spoke of many things. How he hated the poor and the sick – a drain on the kingdom’s resources. There would be no more hospitals, no more free schools. Only those as strong and brave as he would be allowed in the kingdom.

  “We will determine their strength with a test,” he murmured, his eyes bright. “And those who fail … well. They have no place in this life.”

  You lifted your eyes to the heavens and prayed that the ancestors could see his cruelty and your own innocence.

  “Immortality is so very fatiguing,” Metheus said, yawning. “You wouldn’t believe the stress that is involved in living for ever. I choose clothes every morning and then I wonder why I bother wearing things that will wear out. My own skin is more resilient than any silk or velvet.”

  “Remove them, then,” you snapped, patience worn out. “Let your own body be unfettered.”

  And he did. He began removing his clothes, a little more drunken madness slipping out with each piece of naked skin. “Why adorn myself with gaudy cloth when my own body is this beautiful? I am invincible; why clothe myself in the rags of mortality?” And Metheus began leaping about the banqueting hall, his faithful people hastening after him to protect his modesty. Your own friends clutched their sides and laughed, and you were delighted. He was proving himself as crazed as you had hoped.

  “Why do we eat this animal?” He gestured to the shoulder of lamb on the table. “Why consume this lowly creature when I am the never-ending one? I can feed you. I can be your meat, my people, and your drink.”

  “Go on then!” you cried, through your laughter. “Show us how.”

  And he began carving away his own skin.

  You screamed. You struggled to wrest the knife from him, but he seemed possessed of a terrible strength.

  So caught up in his own madness was he that he seemed to feel no pain and see no blood. He kept on talking. “Come and taste, come and eat. You will never be hungry again. For my body will not see destruction, it will be restored and you will know that I am the favoured one.”

  You reached for the knife in his hands, slick and sticky with blood. You wrenched it from him at last. You had only wanted them to hear him boast, to see how crazed and wild he had become. You had never intended for his grandeur to lead to such destruction. He continued to rave and to fight you for the knife until his words began to slip away with his blood, with his soul. And you sat on the ground, clutching his body in your hands, eyes on the sheets of skin that surrounded you; and you could only see the blood on your hands.

  When Luna woke and wandered down to breakfast the next morning she saw red footprints wherever she looked. She followed the ruby-red carpet to the banqueting hall and when she saw you still holding your brother, still trying to wrap Metheus in his skin, still praying that the ancestors would show mercy, she screamed.

  She confessed to the people that they had been duped, that Metheus’s supposed death and resurrection were no more than a trick. That he was no more immortal than they were. She took off her crown and it was buried with their fallen ruler. She left the land, never to be seen again.

  And so you came to rule, and rule you did, with wisdom and caution. You warned the people that from that day on no man should ever seek immortality. No man should be the sun; no woman should be the moon. No one should ever think they were better than another. And from that day on, no man would lord it over them; no one would claim to be a king or queen. They would be one, and their skin, intact and beautiful, would be the sign that they belonged to the earth and would never again seek to become the sun, moon or stars. And every year, on the eve of his death, you fell to your knees and mourned the tragic loss of your skinless brother and his poor deluded soul.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The tale stings like a flaying as I listen. But that’s my dad’s funeral story, I want to say. Only told all wrong. It should be a love story – it should be beautiful. It should show how our skin can be broken and love can last and how our own souls will live on for ever. Not a tale of horror, greed, lust for power.

  The difference between our stories is like the light refracted through a diamond. The same prism, but the light thrown and scattered in different directions. And each takes us down a different path and each takes us further and further from each other.

  This is the stuff Mel wanted to know – how the blanks and their stories shape their lives and lead them further away from the truth. She seemed to think that if only she could understand them – these blanks and their tales – she would be able to save them. Her faith in the stories is so deep; I wonder if she thinks she could change their minds. Her magic words. Maybe she wishes she could break the spell that has been cast over these people – the one that keeps their eyes closed to the truth.

  Sana’s face is unreadable as she gauges my reaction. I’m not ready to answer her.

  Which one is true, which is the lie? Their story or ours? Or perhaps both are a little true and a little false all at once?

  I break the silence. “It’s the same as a story my father used to tell me. But not quite.”

  “Your father told us his version,” she tells me, still not looking my way. “But the elders ordered him to stop. It’s not worth hearing lies when you know the truth.” I look at her quickly; her words remind me of something, or someone. Her mouth is grim.

  I want to delve deeper but I don’t know where to begin. I tuck my thoughts away, like a stone in my pouch – I’ll look at them more closely later. Instead, I coax Sana to tell me more. “Did you like him?” I ask, as we put the brushes away. “My dad?”

  Sana pats the horse and brushes hair and dust from her clothes. “Come for a walk.” Her smile is back, but strained. I get up and follow her towards the hill where the fire is burning. For a while I don’t think she means to answer me. But then she says, �
�Did I like him? I don’t know. He loved my best friend – almost as much as I did.” Her eyes are bright as she shares her memory. “He switched something on in her – lit a spark I’d never seen. She was even more beautiful when she was with him. Her laugh, her joy – it was infectious.” She smiles and walks more slowly now we are nearer to the fire. “I lost a bit of her when she gave her heart to Joel. I suppose that’s how it goes.” She swallows and we stop, standing close to the fire, both gazing at the flames. It looks so different in the light. The fire’s mystery and power seems muted in the daylight. Even the smell of the wood and the smoke isn’t as good.

  “And then you lost her completely,” I say, my voice quiet against the crackle of burning logs.

  “Losing my best friend hurt like nothing I’ve ever experienced,” Sana says.

  I want to tell her then – want to say that I know what it’s like to lose your best friend. Verity may be living, but she’s out of reach. Just like Mum and Oscar and everyone else. Love is the one thing that lures me back to Saintstone. The tantalizing joy of being with people who hold shares in your heart and soul. And now I only have more people to love – more people to hurt and miss and mourn – here in Featherstone.

  Love is a bloody business; I don’t know why we do it. Except… The look on Sana’s face: love’s agony is the pain of ink on a needle buried into skin, the necessary sting, and something beautiful blossoming under its touch.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Do you even remember what all of these are for?” I ask the next afternoon, a couple of weeks before her birth day, while Gull and I sew stone after stone on to her tunic. I’m teasing her, but she only gives me a brief, distracted smile.

  “Oh … lies I’ve told, things I’ve done and said that I shouldn’t – things I haven’t done and said that I should have,” she replies, her voice vaguely sing-songy, as though she’s repeating words she’s been told. “But I try not to remember all the reasons. That’s the point. When I gather stones, I can put them in my bag and forget. They are each a moment of penance and purification all at once.”