Spark

by Alice Broadway

  That night a mysterious sleep came upon the whole kingdom – including the princess and all those within the walls. Everyone slept so deeply, so dreamlessly, so peacefully that even dawn did not wake them. For good magic takes time.

  As the king lay in his bed, snorting in his sleep, the little velvet bag twitched. And then the bag shifted and then the neck of the bag began to be eased open – as though something within knew how to get out. And in the quiet of a sleeping kingdom, a single severed finger emerged from the bag. After it came its sisters, and soon there were fingers and thumbs upright on the king’s chest, and magic – good magic – moved them.

  Up up up crept the fingers, guided as though by invisible strings, one thumb one finger either side of his nose and they drew together, almost close enough to embrace. And the rest of the sisters stood either side of his lips and did not let them part. No matter how he pulled at them or heaved or struggled, the fingers kept to their posts, and soon he was still and the fingers heard their blood calling to them from behind a great wall.

  No one knows how, but in the morning the princess woke to the blank women screaming that the walls had fallen down in the night. They were free! But the princess did not care about the walls; she only saw that her fingers had returned – and, with neat stitches, they had been reattached. The only clue was the needle between her thumb and forefinger, with its point embedded deep in the pad of the index finger of her other hand. She tugged on the needle and sucked her pricked finger and something – maybe it was magic – told her to stay in the broken-walled town and find her own true destiny.

  And soon enough, the people lived happily ever after.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “We have a story like that one,” Oscar says. His voice is eager. I want to shake my head at him – we were so comfortable just then, so relaxed. Let the stories be, I think. But I am too tired to move.

  I had been piecing it together as Fenn spoke. It’s the sister story of the one Mel encouraged me to read before Dad’s weighing of the soul ceremony. A story about parents hiding the truth from their child in the hope that they might protect her, forgetting all along that she could have saved herself.

  This story Fenn has told is angrier, darker: more of a protest song than a fable.

  It sounds like a story that’s meant to warn the baddies that they can’t defeat the forces of good – not for ever. Magic will save them, if they pray hard enough and long enough. A story about those leaders who will not submit to change – who would murder their own children for the sake of their own power. The blanks aren’t so different from us. Not really.

  “There are similarities,” I say, “but it’s also completely different.” I try to get them to see. “It’s got the king and queen and the curse that comes with their baby, but in our story they’re trying to save her by locking her up. They’re trying to protect her.”

  And then I realize. “They did everything except tell her about the curse so that she could avoid it herself.”

  “There are other stories that we sort of share – Featherstone and Saintstone,” I go on. I expect derision from Fenn, but his expression is thoughtful. “Yours sound like the stories I’ve grown up with, only they’re like a mirror image, or a reflection in water.”

  “Do you remember arguing with me about whether the stories were true?” Oscar asks, and I roll my eyes.

  “You were so smug – telling me they were just stories.”

  “You believed them then.” His eyes meet mine, and my heart turns over, just like it did that day in the museum. “What about now, Leora?”

  “Maybe neither of them are true,” I say quietly. “And I don’t know what to do with that idea.”

  I know deep down that I want to believe. I want something to be real and true. I believed Mel when she told me I would find my way in the stories of the past. But what if they’re only stories and nothing more? And what if so much of their truth depends on the teller?

  I let my tired eyes rest, facing the fire as the flames lull and entrance me, and then a quiet voice speaks as though from the burning wood.

  “Maybe they’re both true.”

  Gull’s sitting up straighter. Her forehead is furrowed and her breath is clearly still causing her pain. But she carries on. “One doesn’t have to cancel out the other.” She stops and looks at us pleadingly. “And aren’t those two versions just saying the same thing in the end?”

  “What do you mean?” asks Fenn.

  “Well, both stories have these people who think they know best.” She coughs for a long minute and it takes time for her to recover her breath. “The king and queen who make decisions to try to protect what matters most to them.” Oscar’s nodding slowly. “But then … sometimes you need to be left to make up your own mind. And that’s what they refused to do. But then … change happened anyway, didn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” Fenn ventures. “One is this happy kingdom and the other is all oppression.”

  “If you’re not one of the people being oppressed, you can be pretty happy,” Oscar says drily. “In Saintstone, people believe that our leaders have our best interests at heart. But then if you question it – even just a little bit – life gets much harder. My dad is proof of that, stuck in an underground prison. And if you question the status quo here, you end up like Obel – an outcast.” Oscar looks around and picks up a blanket he cast off earlier. “It’s like, if we’re all under this blanket.” He grins, stands, and tries to cover us all with it.

  “Watch the fire!” Fenn says, but he’s laughing too. All four of us in a line, the blanket on our laps. I feel a bit silly, squashed with Oscar to my left and Gull on my right.

  “Right, well – if the blanket is on you, you’re happy and warm and you think everything is all right, don’t you? But if you’re on the edge and the blanket is being hogged by the others, you feel the cold – you’re left out in the elements. It’s only the people who are struggling who see the problems. Everyone else can carry on believing everything is OK, because for them, it is.”

  “And that’s why you two are here?” Fenn asks. “This is why you’ve left Saintstone?”

  And I think it is. When I was living like Mum told me to – head down, mouth shut – it was easy enough to feel like Saintstone was a good place, fair and happy. It was only when a bit of cold crept in – when I realized about the forgotten and found out about my dad – that I saw things might not be as just after all.

  “Oscar’s right,” I say. “If you’re in, you’re in, and you can’t see the problems. It’s only when you look at it from the outside that you see the cracks.”

  “But just because there are cracks, it doesn’t make it broken.” Fenn is defensive.

  “I know,” I say. But I think of Gull, limp as I pulled her from the water.

  “We have to go back,” Fenn says quietly, and Gull nods.

  “What will happen?” I ask. But no one answers me.

  Darkness is fully fallen and we settle down ready to sleep, Gull’s head against my shoulder.

  Our decision has been made: in the morning, we’ll return.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “I’m still here, then.”

  Gull’s words force me into wakefulness. I sit up and everything aches. It’s still dark. I look around and see that Oscar and Fenn are gone.

  “They went to get more water,” Gull tells me. “I think it’s nearly morning.” She shuffles nearer to me and we huddle close.

  “I dreamed about it last night, about being under the water.” Her voice is quiet. “You should have let me stay under. I could have saved us all. Broken the curse, just like Belia.”

  I try to get a look at Gull’s face in the misty glow of the dying fire. I can see her hands gripping the blanket tightly.

  “Gull, enough of this. You’ve sacrificed enough. Now you get to live, OK?” Gull nods again, not looking at me. I wish I could know whether she believes me.

  “OK.” She is quiet for a while. T
hen she says, “Can I ask you a question?”

  “I guess…” I say, but I’m nervous.

  “So…” she ventures. “I want to know about your marks.”

  “Oh!” I laugh, pleased and relieved. “I can answer that.”

  “What does it feel like?” she asks. “Does it hurt?”

  “OK.” I think about how best to describe it. “So the first marks we’re given are the age marks. Imagine it’s your birth day. You’ve got to see an official inker at the government building. Your mum has put some cream on your hand – she says it’s magic cream and it’ll make it hurt less, but actually when you’re older, you’ll find out that it was just face cream and it did nothing at all.” Gull snorts and nods. “They call your name and you go into this room and sit you on a chair. The inker always says the same thing: just a tiny spot, won’t take long. But you don’t want to put your hand down because you know they’ll do it then, and so in the end your mum grabs your hand and holds it down on the surface and nods at the inker. And the inker – it’s usually a man but I’ve been trying to change that – switches the machine on – for years you’ll think he does it by magic, but it’s a foot pad on the floor, and he dips the needle into this tiny inkwell thing and draws in this little spot on your hand. And then you’re done.”

  “Wow.” Gull rubs her own hand. “It sounds a bit mean.”

  “It really only hurts for a bit.” I wonder if I’ll ever ink someone again, and the thought that I might not makes me feel desperately sad.

  “That’s an official mark. But then, there are the marks you choose. They feel completely different,” I say wistfully. “It’s as though your body has been hungry for something, and as soon as the ink hits your skin that longing is sated. Until the next time. It’s glorious. It’s release; a kind of untethering.”

  “But you don’t get a choice about the age marks?” Gull asks.

  I shake my head. “No. Some the government choose for us. Marks which tell our age, or if we’ve done something wrong. But they are good for us. In the end. All our marks are for our own good.”

  There is a hollowness to those words, and I feel like the old Leora for a moment. The Leora who could answer all the questions with the right answer, the one who believed because she had been told it was true. Because whatever has happened, I still believe in the marks and all that they stand for. It’s just now I know there’s space for more than one story in the world.

  We sit silently for a while, both thinking, both holding on to each other. We don’t know what’s coming and I think we both would like to stay here in the wood for ever. We could build a house and live like sisters.

  Gull shifts closer.

  “What marks would you make on me?” she whispers.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Letting go of Gull’s hand, I lean forward and reach towards the fire, which has all but burned out. Gull says my name, but I’m concentrating too hard to respond – looking for just the right thing.

  I use a stick to dislodge some of the burned wood, and when I find the right piece I drag it out of the embers and let it smoke a little on the bare ground. The wood that has been burning for so many hours has become charcoal. I dribble the last bit of water on to a clean leaf and test how hot the wood is. It’s warm, but if I wrap a bit of blanket round my hand, it’s fine to touch. I crush the stick into the leaf, letting charcoal splinter and puff into tiny shards and dust. I used to do this with Dad and was always so amazed at how the heavy wood could turn into something so dark and delicate – almost like stale bread, more brittle than chalk.

  I close my eyes. How would I mark Gull if I could? What could possibly reflect her dreamy nature, her kindness, her seriousness, her spark of spirit and mischief? And I think of her at the top of the tree, looking up even higher, beyond the leaves and fine ends of branches. And I see it. I don’t want to mark sins on this beautiful skin – she deserves hope.

  “Lie down,” I tell her, and she does, her head resting on a folded blanket, her eyes shut as though waiting for the pain. I loosen the blankets that cover her and I lift her arm, freeing it from any fabric and clothing. Her pale skin looks golden in the first gasps of dawn, blonde hairs gleaming on her forearms, her hands relaxed, fingers just slightly curled in. It’s like she is asleep – like she is dreaming, and I am the dream she is having. I straighten her arm and let it rest on my lap. I test the skin, as though I am going to tattoo – checking the texture, the movement, the spring of it, and when I brush my fingers across her arm it is like the inside of a beech nut pod – so warm and soft, and I want to bring it to my mouth and sense the smoothness with my lips. I brush the ground to find the right implement and there is a tiny, flexible twig that will be perfect. Dipping it into the charcoal dust, I let it cluster on the end and then I mix the charcoal into the water to make a paste. Holding Gull’s arm firmly, I begin to mark.

  She flinches at my first touch. “Am I hurting you?”

  “No. It tickles,” she whispers, with a tiny smile.

  I spit into the charcoal to make it inkier and then I go again, imprinting her with all that I feel and remember. And the connection is just the same as if I were using needles. Gull’s breath is steady and deep and I wonder if she has fallen asleep, but when I move her hand to get to her inner arm more easily, her fingers grip mine and she strokes my thumb. Her touch makes me forget where I am, and for a while it is like I am back at the studio – connecting once again with a client – being able to read them, and flow through their emotions and memories, hearing their soul, and in a kind of dream I continue drawing tiny dots on Gull’s arm. Every constellation tells a story and she is the sky, she is space – the universe – and she goes on for ever.

  Wild voices and fast, crunching footsteps bring me back and I drop the twig. Gull sits up quickly and wraps her blanket around her as Fenn and Oscar burst out of the dark wood into the clearing.

  “Can’t you hear that?” Fenn shouts, and we just look at him, confused. But then it drifts on the wind, over the rustle of leaves or the scuttling of insects. It is the sound of screaming.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Nothing could have prepared us for the sight that meets us on our return.

  Light is just breaking through and sleep-creased faces stare around the village. Children are crying and covering their ears but they will never be able to forget this sound.

  Above the elderhouse door is a crow.

  A live crow, wings nailed to the door frame.

  In its agony and fear the bird’s poor body rises and falls as useless wings try to beat against their moorings.

  The crow’s screams – for that is the only way to describe the sound coming from this poor bird – the screams are like those of terrified children.

  I try to see where the nails have entered its perfect wings, try to work out if there is a way to release them without causing more pain and inflicting greater injuries. The gleaming black beak stabs and scrapes and pierces my hand, but it is nothing – nothing compared to its own pain. I shout for help and someone passes me a clawed tool which I wedge against the head of the nail, trying to tell the crow to be still, trying in every way not to hurt it or harm it. I wrench one nail out, bringing with it blood and feathers. I hold the bird with my hand, pushing it as gently and firmly as I can against the door, and I go to work on the next nail. Its free wing tries to move and it screeches raggedly, twisting its head to try to peck at my fingers. I release the second nail and, freed, it tries to flutter and flap in my hands but its wings are too damaged. I let it down on to the ground but it just hops and caws and screams that terrible, haunting shriek, dragging itself around in circles in awful scraping, fluttering misery.

  And suddenly, Sana is beside me. She grasps the protesting bird’s neck, jerks her hands quickly, and the flapping stops. And there is silence.

  That silence that follows is almost worse than the screams. Sana stands tall and looks around.

  “They know where we are.”
>
  We step through the door of the Whitworths’ house, and it’s like Tanya is waiting for us. She falls on Gull, envelops her in a hug, kisses her hands. Lago is leaping around them and Solomon bursts in, falling to his knees and sobbing when he sees Gull.

  “Thank you,” Solomon mouths over Gull’s head, and then he ducks his head, as though ashamed.

  I steal away, retreating into Gull’s bedroom, and sit heavily on the bed. I reach underneath it and find my notebook. I turn to a new page, find a pencil and begin to draw again. My ragged hands are sore and blood spots the paper.

  Thinking of Gull in Tanya’s arms, I draw my mum, her kind eyes and generous mouth, her strong jaw. That hurts too much and I turn the page. I draw Sana in the forest, the shape of her small against her horse. I draw the square that day that Longsight was killed, the assassin, a lithe figure all in black, the bloody knife and my mum’s eyes. I draw Gull underwater, mermaidish and serene. I draw the fire at the camp and Oscar and Fenn’s smiling faces lit by the orange-embered glow.

  And I draw stars. I draw every constellation I put on Gull’s arm, and every planet and galaxy that I wish I had time for, and I wonder how a person can hold a universe inside them.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Sana is in the memory room when I finally find her, putting something in one of the boxes. I need to talk to her and find out where I stand after what has happened at the lake. She may be the only one who can sway the community in my favour.

  She looks over her shoulder as I come in and seems surprised but not displeased to see me. She closes the box and puts it high on the corner of the top shelf.

  “Well, well, Leora Flint. You really do have a flair for the dramatic, don’t you?” Sana sits and rests her feet on the table, an oddly irreverent act. “Interrupting a birth day ceremony is forbidden, you know. Luckily…” She stretches. “Luckily the elders have other things on their mind. Like war.”