by Jen Minkman
“Why don’t I get us some cakes?” I suggest after we scout a nice location close to the stage and start setting down our belongings. “We still need dessert, right?”
“Brilliant.” Annie flashes me a grin so wide that it makes me think of wild, Current celebrations and booming music under electric lights. It’s funny – she reminds me more of the noisy, numbing parties they throw than Royce ever will. With him, the beat is steady and slow, seeping into every corner of my soul.
Gradually, the sky turns dark. Candles are lit and rush lights in holders are placed at strategic positions to illuminate the square. The lights are a cheap way to light up the dark. They smell horrible, but somehow they always make the town during Oorol look so cozy.
High-end gas lights are dangling from a chandelier above the main stage. The musicians need more light to see by, and this is the best the Currents can do for their own people without sharing their precious electricity with us.
“Hey, Enna,” I hear a voice pipe up behind me. When I look over my shoulder, I see Alke and Sytse approaching our little group. “You got any food left?”
“We brought some potato chips,” Sytse adds, plunking down on the blanket next to me. “So we can swap.”
I want to ask him about his visit backstage, but I can’t – not with Annie and her brothers sitting with us. “So, all is set up for tonight?” I ask cryptically.
He smiles. “Sure is.” He and Alke exchange a look that sets me on edge, not because I feel left out, but because they look slightly anxious to me. What the heck is going on?
Before I can ask anything else, more light floods the stage as the rest of the gas lamps are turned up. Mayor Edison appears, his entrance met with a loud round of applause from the Current spectators on the bleachers. I half-heartedly clap along until the noise dies down.
“Citizens of Skylge,” he says, his voice amplified by a loud-hailer. “On behalf of the city council, I welcome you back to our Oorol festival. We have a marvelous line-up tonight, starting with Josiah’s Jazz Band, continuing with Royce Bolton, our gifted pianist, and finishing off with,” his eyes momentarily dart to the flyer he’s clutching in his hand, “Twarres, a band from the mainland. Fryslan, to be exact. Please put your hands together for the first performance of this evening!”
Josiah and his trumpeters spill onto the stage. I like them – their music reminds me of the Frisco Band recordings we have at home, but some of their songs can be soulful too. They’re actually a favorite with both native Skylgers and Currents.
“Want to dance?” Alke courteously extends a hand and I take it with a smile. I’m so glad that we managed to stay friends after our break-up. There’s no awkwardness between us whatsoever. Our history as childhood friends may have been helpful.
We twirl around and hold each other’s hands, while other people around get up to dance, too. This is our chance to stretch our legs, because Royce’s performance will be all about quiet listening and dreaming away and not so much about the explosive energy I’m feeling right now.
Alke whirls me around in a frantic jive and all I can think of is how this would feel like if Royce were holding me. I can’t wait to see him up on stage. The world is spinning out of control, and I don’t care.
Panting for breath, we finally sit down and drink some of Annie’s beers while Josiah’s band packs up and makes way for my boyfriend.
“Pinch me,” I say to Alke.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Never mind.” It still feels like I’m dreaming, but I know I’m not.
Dani scoots closer to me and leans on my shoulder, suggestively whistling as the lights dim and he makes his way to the grand piano. My mouth turns dry when Royce turns his head and peers into the audience as his fingers stroke the keyboard. Maybe he’s looking for me, but he can’t see me in the dark. That’s all right – he knows I’m here. And I know, when he starts to play, that the prelude echoes a melody reminiscent of Kathleen Ferrier’s song, to let me know he’s thinking of me and the song I played for him. In this massive crowd, we are each other’s best-kept secret.
I close my eyes and let the tune sink in, remembering the night I visited him in his cottage and the kiss we shared. His music is so mournful, so full of longing that I’m surprised it has never drawn out the Sirens. The muscles in his strong arms flex when the melody morphs into something wilder, more insistent and mysterious. His dark hair falls over his forehead and hides his eyes from view. He doesn’t need to look in order to know he has utterly captivated the spectators with his performance.
“Wow,” Dani mumbles when his recital is over after what seems like a delicious eternity. “That was mind-blowing.”
“Yeah.” I shrug noncommittally on purpose, because I can feel Sytse’s eyes on me. “As expected.” My eyes don’t follow Royce as he leaves the stage. Instead, I peer at the flyer lying on our picnic blanket. “How long is Twarres going to play for?”
“That depends,” Sytse says, his mouth twitching with nerves.
“On what?” Dani wants to know.
He exhales. “Just watch.”
And so we do. Under everybody’s watchful eyes, four young men and one woman wheel gigantic carts containing instruments onto the stage. Actually, one of the carts seems to contain a stack of barrels connected by wires. Some kind of mainland drum set? The woman steps forward and introduces herself as Mirjam, the singer of the band. As the other band members set up their equipment behind them, she plays a beautiful acoustic song on guitar while singing in German. After a roaring applause, the others join in, playing another simple song on two guitars, one viola, and drums, the lyrics in Frisian this time. I look up at the band with a smile, still a bit unable to believe that the Skelta managed to invite this band from the mainland to play at our festival. They sound good, and they’re clearly proud of their heritage.
And then, a blinding light floods the stage. I yelp, raising a hand to shield my eyes. Before I can even say anything, a collective gasp runs through the audience as the full band segues into their next song, which sounds unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. The guitars cut through the air with a strangely distorted sound. I can hear the woman’s voice, loud and clear, and she’s not using a loud-hailer. Her singing seems to be amplified somehow.
“Oh my God,” Dani hisses. “They’re using electricity. In front of everybody.”
“No way,” I blurt out, but I realize it’s true. Somehow, Twarres has hacked into the Grid. My jaw drops when my eyes adjust to the light and I can make out its source. A brilliant spark running between two dark pillars that look like charred wood.
“Is that – burning charcoal?” I venture.
Sytse flashes me a self-satisfied smirk. “It is charcoal, but it’s not burning. Those two pillars are conducting energy, creating a current between them. Tesla calls it an arc light.”
Only then does it sink in that the vocalist is now singing in Skylgian. The lyrics jolt me out of my stupor. “Trochloftich folk fan Skylge,” the vocalist sings in our old tongue, “wês jimmer op dyn Skylgerlân great, fol eare en trots.”
Respectable people of Skylge, be forever proud of your Skylger land full of honor and pride. She’s singing to us, not to the Currents, and she’s blasting out her message in a foreign language the Anglians don’t understand, by means of forbidden electricity. No wonder Sytse and Alke were nervous before. This is going to cause outrage. Palpable excitement hovers over the crowd. Already, I can see Mayor Edison jumping up from his seat in the grand stand, storming down the steps in a huff to put an end to the performance that’s breaking every single law on the island.
Meanwhile, the crowd around us is getting agitated. Lots of people here still understand the old tongue, even though it is prohibited to speak it in public places. Twarres is inciting us to stand up for ourselves and break the bonds of slavery to St. Brandan’s Fire.
“What are they doing?” I say breathlessly, still unable to believe this is really happeni
ng. “They’ll get arrested.” Nervously, I glance around. Most of the people in front of the stage are Skylgers, but I do spot some Currents in the audience on the town square, too, and they don’t look too pleased.
A deafening drum roll ends the band’s protest song in Skylgian. “Welcome to our show, all of you,” the female singer addresses us in Anglian once more. “We have an evening filled with entertainment planned for you.”
“Not if he can help it,” Dani comments, pointing at the mayor, who has finally managed to push through the gathering and is presently climbing onto the stage.
“You are to stop this travesty at once!” he blares, trying to grab the strange device the singer’s holding in her hand. This seems to be the thing that’s amplifying her voice, because Edison’s protest suddenly increases in volume too.
“What travesty?” Mirjam calmly replies.
“You are abusing St. Brandan’s Fire.” The mayor turns red in the face.
“Not at all.” She turns sideways to address the audience. “We’re not plugged into your Grid. We don’t need your Grid to generate electricity. We can make our own.”
A stupefied look spreads on Edison’s face. He stumbles back, like a flustered actor who has realized he’s forgotten his lines. Frantically, he starts to look around him, dashing to and fro to inspect Twarres’s instruments. Meanwhile, Mirjam hasn’t stopped talking to the crowd staring up at her from below.
“Please, don’t be servants to your Current elite anymore,” she pleads. “They’re about to lose their edge. You’ve seen what we can do. You can all be a part of this – all of you.”
I blink. Out of nowhere, she’s tackled to the ground by three police officers rushing up to grab her. I hadn’t even seen them coming. With a sickening thwack, her head hits the floor and blood starts to trickle from her nose. The other band members seem to be frozen for a split second before they sprint forward to help their friend.
“How will you stop the Sirens?” Mayor Edison hollers at the top of his voice. “You can’t! You know you can’t!” He turns toward his own people on the bleachers. “We can’t allow them to insult St. Brandan,” he continues in a dark voice. “Some people should be put back into their places.”
It’s only when I feel the crowd pushing into my back that I realize fights have broken out behind me. All of a sudden, the town square has turned into a living nightmare. Police officers are everywhere, trying to force the gathered Skylgers to leave, but my people aren’t too eager to move. Some of them are still watching the events unfolding on stage with morbid interest, others are kicking and screaming at the law enforcers dragging them away from the stage. Currents are trying to beat them into submission, spurred on by Mayor Edison’s words about our civil disobedience and disregard of their holy ancestor. A nauseating, claustrophobic fear clawing at my insides debilitates me when I suddenly feel the hands of a law enforcer on me and he yanks me away from my brother and friends. It only takes a split second to completely lose sight of them in the clamor around me.
“Let go of me!” I howl, shaking off my paralysis and trying to fight off the policeman. “You have no right.”
I lash out at him, but of course he easily dodges my punch. His face is a flinty mask. “Resisting arrest?” he growls. “Don’t make it any worse for yourself, young lady.”
“I haven’t done anything,” I gripe, but of course my protest falls on deaf ears. Amidst the violent commotion, there’s nothing I can do when the law enforcer marches me toward the left side of the stage, his hands like iron grips around my shoulders. As soon as the crowd disperses a little, though, I try to wrestle myself free and make a run for it. Bad move – this side of the stage is full of Currents, some of them already fighting the Skylgers, some of them looking for trouble. I gasp when my eyes land on a familiar face with burning, blue eyes and dark eyebrows knitted into a worried frown. He’s on a low platform behind the stage, specially erected to accommodate the artists after their performances and supply them with refreshments.
“Royce!” I call out, cupping my hands around my mouth to make myself heard over the din, to reach out to him over there, safely sequestered away in his own world.
He catches my eye, just before a cluster of hands grab me and knock me down. I taste blood on my tongue as I tumble to the ground. Desperate for help, I look up and search his eyes once more. I see his gentle mouth and remembered how he kissed me. My gaze lingers on his face. He locks eyes with me once more.
And then, he looks away. Only now do I notice his two older brothers and his father standing next to him holding glasses of champagne. They all look perplexed and slightly disgusted by the fights that have erupted everywhere. Mr. Bolton laughs awkwardly and points at me, and Royce joins in, as though he has never seen me before.
He’s pretending not to know me. After all the things we shared.
The world grinds to a stop and drains my heart of all the warmth I kept tucked away there. Cold washes over my entire body. As they start to drag me away, I don’t attempt to call out to him again.
16.
I hang my head in shame when Heit shows up a few hours later to bail both me and Sytse out. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one to resist arrest and kick up a fuss. In jail, we weren’t in the same cell – I was stuck in a horrible, dark hole together with some fierce-looking Skylger women, and he was behind bars in the men’s holding cell across the hall. Every once in a while my brother smiled at me to encourage me. I could see a strange kind of admiration in his eyes. Maybe being in prison together felt like a bonding moment to him. Siblings, standing united against the Current oppressors.
“Thanks, Dad,” Sytse mumbles demurely as we follow him down the hall. “I will pay everything back. The Skelta will help.”
My father whips around and unexpectedly fixes Sytse with a fierce, blazing stare. “Why did you have to involve Enna in this? You knew what that Frisian band was up to. How they were trying to start a riot. Your sister could have been trampled to death or mortally injured.”
Sytse sighs impatiently. “It wasn’t that bad. Besides, Enna needed to see Tesla’s invention. Everyone out there needs to know the truth. We’ve sat back and played at complacency for far too long.”
“You could have made sure she was nowhere near the stage,” Dad doggedly maintains.
“She is standing right here,” I interrupt sourly. “And she honestly doesn’t give a shit right now.” My voice suddenly cracks with the deepest sadness I have ever felt.
Dad slips an arm around my shoulder. “What happened, darling?”
“Her Current friend ignored her pleas for help,” Sytse says when I remain silent, making me flinch. So he saw what happened – he must have been behind me, escorted off the square by another policeman.
I glare at him, but I have nothing to say. He’s right. Royce was a complete jerk back there. When I think of how he was standing on the platform with his family, looking down on me from above, I suddenly seethe with anger. In troubled times, he obviously turns to the familiar comfort of his Current life instead of standing up for ‘real’ people like me. I want to hold on to this anger eating away at me, because I know what will inevitably come once it drains from my body. Misery. Disbelief. Disappointment.
Only hours ago, Dani and I were giggling about me having a Current boyfriend. What’s left now is a sickening sense of betrayal. Royce is not my boyfriend – not if this is how he acts when I’m in trouble. He’s not my friend, even.
“I told you,” Sytse says softly. “I warned you about him.” To his credit, he doesn’t sound smug about it.
Hot tears pool in my eyes as I follow my father and brother out the door. Outside, the square is deserted and strewn with litter that the cleaners haven’t picked up yet. The gas lamps on stage have been turned up, replacing the arc light that caused the whole town to get into a neighborly brawl. Well, it wasn’t just the damn light – I hope Twarres made it out unscathed under the Skelta’s protection after their provocative pe
rformance.
My vision blurs when I spot five people wheeling the grand piano off stage. No, I tell myself. No tears. This is not going to happen to me. What Royce did is inexcusable, and I’m going to hold him accountable for it.
“Where are you going?” Sytse exclaims in surprise when I stalk over to my lonely bike still leaned against a lamp post. “Eida is waiting for us with her carriage.”
“I’m not going home,” I bristle. “Not yet. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Well, where are you off to?”
“Upper.”
“Enna,” Dad tries to calm me down. “Don’t be foolish.”
“Foolish?” My voice shoots up. “Well, sorry to be so damn irrational, Heit. Guess I just wanted to believe in something for a change. Something out of the ordinary. And if Sytse is allowed to dream about changing his stars, then so am I.”
Before I can see the impact of my spiteful words on his face, I grab my bike and cycle away as fast as I can. Up, through the streets of Lower Brandaris. Past the Tower that glows with a pulsing light at night. Soon, I reach the Longway stretching out through the woods. My legs are screaming, begging me to stop and spare my acidified muscles, but I don’t heed their warning. On and on I ride, zipping past Dead Men’s Caskets and the Upper Brandaris town border. Sweat pours down my back. I’ll get to Royce’s house if it kills me. I have to speak to him – tonight.
It’s only when I’m standing at the gates of the Bolton mansion that I lose my nerve. If I ring the doorbell, will he answer? I can see the front door up ahead, illuminated by twinkling artificial lights. With a hammering heart, I press the button on the left side of the gates and wait.
“Yes?” A small box underneath the bell crackles to life. The voice sounds too old to belong to Royce.
“Can I speak to Royce Bolton, please?” I say, trying to make my Anglian sound a little bit more Current than usual.