Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive.

by Joanne Armstrong

  Bearing the mark of the Unworthy, my life had been rather difficult until that point. There were only a few girls who would talk to me at school, most preferring instead to keep their distance, as though my weakness could somehow be caught. But after the baby’s death, and Marnia’s grief turned into anger, everything got worse.

  Marnia suddenly grabs my wrist and twists it upwards. “The mark of the Unworthy, the weak, the cursed!” Her voice rises with each accusation, her fingers digging into my skin. She leans in close, her nose inches from mine. Her next words are venomous. “How did you survive, when he couldn’t?”

  My eyes are locked onto hers. Her gaze has me frozen. I cannot look away and I cannot move. But I have no answer for her. For the last four years, in my worst nightmares I have asked myself this same question.

  Chapter Five

  Marnia’s white lips begin to tremble. All the bluster leaves her, and she sags. “He was perfect,” she says, her voice thin. “He was perfect.” She drops my wrist and steps back. She is as white as a sheet as Totara guides her away from me.

  The doctor has returned to the room along with Chloe holding the baby, and they are looking at us. He looks rather alarmed, and who can blame him? I’m sure he’s wondering what kind of strange traditions this hub has. He recovers his composure quickly, and announces the good news. There will be no baby for me to guard tomorrow night.

  I make a break for the door while he has everyone’s attention. Outside in the square, I release the breath I have been holding onto so desperately.

  Strong, warm arms encircle me, and Bastian is holding me tightly against him. I’m shaking and I can’t stop. He doesn’t say anything, just stands and holds me. We move together out of the lit square and begin walking back to my pod in the shadows.

  “Do you ever think about leaving?” I whisper.

  He pauses for a minute. “Leaving Greytown… going where?” he prods.

  “I don’t really know. Just… anywhere. Maybe another hub. Or just getting away and looking after yourself.”

  “Why would you want to leave? Survival out there is next to impossible. It’s not perfect, but it is easy here.”

  “Easy for you maybe. Easy for everyone. But for me… I just want to go somewhere my Mark doesn’t mean anything. Somewhere I can just be normal, and not stand out.”

  He’s silent for a while, thinking about what I’m suggesting. As Firstborn, things are a little more complicated for him, because he has a commitment to the Polis. The idea of leaving for the bush is dangerous, and I know it. The punishment for desertion is execution.

  “Have you really thought about this, Arcadia? What you’re suggesting?”

  “Bastian, every time a baby’s born I think about it! I don’t want to live like this!” The rush of words comes to me unbidden, the heat in them from my core. Suddenly it feels so important to me that he understands my point of view. I stab at the cross on my wrist. “I’ll always be different, and now I’m some kind of a witch as well? I sap the life out of healthy babies just because I can…”

  He grabs my clenched fists and pulls them back down to my sides. “Calm down, Arcadia. It’s okay, you’re okay. Those women… they’re stupid, superstitious people.”

  I concentrate on breathing in and breathing out. “I’m sorry. I hate… this. I hate all of this. It’s too hard.”

  “But leaving… is that the solution?”

  “And now you sound like Grandad…” We are nearly at my pod now, and the thought of my sole family member makes me sigh. “I couldn’t leave Grandad,” I say, and I catch Bastian nodding. He’d known that all along.

  Early the next morning I’m helping in the milking shed. I’m grateful for the distraction which the milking brings. The cows don’t whisper when they think I can’t hear them, and they don’t regard me suspiciously out of the corners of their eyes. Cheesemaking is another matter. I try to ignore the other women as I go through the motions, preparing the day’s vat of milk and turning the cheeses.

  I know what they think of me, of course, and it’s nothing new. It’s getting worse though. Their whispering is becoming harder and harder to ignore. It’s as though they don’t really bother to hide their loathing anymore, and every time something happens I feel their distrust deepen.

  I’m done for the day and heading for the changing room when I hear a distressed discussion coming from the cold room. I duck my head around the door to find out what the problem is and see that Karen has one of the soft cheeses out on a slab. There is a grey mould growing all along one side, where it should be completely white.

  “They’re all the same,” she is telling the other two women. They look up at me in the doorway, and I see the same expression on all three faces when their eyes meet mine.

  “You turned them today,” Karen says, and I hear the accusation in her voice.

  Olive is the eldest of the workers, small and slight, with grey hair and a worn face. She takes a step or two back, away from me, until she can go no further. I turn away, unwilling to find the words for a defence, but my withdrawal is not quick enough. Out of the corner of my eye I see her make a sign with her fingers, swift and small, in my direction. A protective sign, as though to ward off evil.

  I try to catch my breath outside the cold room, but it’s only coming in short bursts. I hear muttering from behind the plastic drapes.

  “… dark spirits.”

  “… survive?”

  I have heard enough. I flee to the dressing room where I change as quickly as I can, grab my bag, punch out and leave the cheese shed.

  I did nothing! I want to shout. It wasn’t me! I try to remember whether the mould was on the cheeses when I turned them, but I have no idea. I suppose I was so distracted I took no notice. But I realise it wouldn’t matter anyway. They will believe what they want to believe.

  I can’t get the image of Olive making that sign out of my head. Dark spirits… dark spirits… can they really believe that I have some kind of dark powers because somehow I managed to survive the infant sickness which I contracted soon after coming into the world? And that I killed a baby? And ruined some cheeses too.

  I’m running now, heading straight for the cliff. The last thought makes me laugh bitterly. If I had the power to kill babies, I wouldn’t be wasting it by putting mould on cheeses. Maybe I’d be turning those close-minded old goats into cheeses instead.

  My satchel bounces against my leg as I run up the track. A blast of salty sea air greets me as I come out at the top of the cliff and make my way down onto the rocks. I strip down to my swimming gear – today I came prepared, wearing an old T-shirt and shorts.

  From my satchel I take two of my most prized possessions – my fishing spear and mask. The spear is a very simple contraption Grandad made for me a few years ago when he gave up trying to keep me out of the water. A loop of stretchy rubber attached to a strong aluminium tube allows me to fire a dart through the water quickly enough to spear a good-sized fish. I tie a cord around my wrist so that the dart is easily retrievable.

  When I enter the water today I don’t strike out across the bay. I stay near the shore and allow my eyes to adjust to the gloom under the surface. I take large lungfuls of air to keep me buoyant while I scout, then exhale slowly in order to dive. I’m so used to having control over my breathing now that I hardly think about it. I can stay under the water for many minutes at a time, and always know how far to push myself.

  Over the years I have considered time and again the baby that I was, and why I was deemed sickly. I’ve sought out chances to measure myself up against my peers, making myself run faster and jump higher, constantly waiting for that moment when I fall short of them. I’ve ruled out my heart, so too my lungs as the source of my weakness. I’ve searched for allergies, making myself eat every kind of food available to me, and had no reaction except violent vomiting to a bunch of red berries. After I recovered Grandad tore strips off me and showed me how he distilled it to make a kind of perfume that the
young women liked to wear to attract suitors.

  There aren’t many Unworthy in my hub. Most don’t survive their first twelve months. A teenager with the mark died when I was still a youngster. There was a girl in my class when I first started school who also had the Mark, but she got sick over that same winter, and she died too. I see a man from time to time around the square who is also Marked. No-one talks to him, either. I’m guessing that most of the time an Unworthy baby has the grace to die when it is first exposed to the world.

  This is why I fiercely cling to my twelve. My sisters and brothers. They are all still young, but seven are still alive.

  I asked Grandad when I was six years old why there were so few of us.

  “Why are there no others like me, Grandad?”

  “That’s because you are unique, Dia.”

  “But why does no-one else have the unworthy mark? Is it just me who didn’t pass?”

  He had sighed. “Lots of babies don’t pass. Lots of babies are marked. It is a terrible thing, but they are usually very weak. They are susceptible to diseases, which means they catch colds very easily, and this can kill them.”

  “Will a cold kill me?”

  “No, Dia. You are very strong and there is nothing wrong with you. You have been given a huge challenge - to survive. That is your mission. It’s all that matters.”

  “Grandad, why do they mark the babies if they don’t think they’ll last very long?”

  “That is a very good question, Dia, and one day you should ask someone who can give you the right answer.”

  I’ve never gotten my definitive answer, but I have come to learn it well enough. I live it every day. Why do they mark babies for death? Because after the Marking, the Polis can step back, its job done. They can leave the rest of the alienation up to the hub; the child’s own kind. Being marked as different is enough to set the child on a road of loneliness. Not all survive the ring, but for those that do, the Mark makes them downright unattractive. I think of my survivors. Their only hope for acceptance is from each other.

  For those who aren’t Unworthy, there is still no guarantee of health. Every year, mainly during winter, the medical centre is full of hubbites and Firstborn desperate to get hold of medicines that will assist them through their illnesses. However, Polis medicines are in very short supply, and some have more right to it than others. Death is simply a part of life here.

  A greenmouth darting through the water brings me back to the task in hand. There are a few of them round the rocks. The fish here are so rarely disturbed that my satchel is quickly full. I have three large greenmouth and four fairy fins when I stop for a breather, and dry myself on a large boulder. I pull my tunic back on and a woollen wrap for warmth.

  I’m sitting on the shore cleaning the fish when Bastian drops down beside me. When he’s in Greytown his time is divided between working at the recycling plant and reporting for duty at the garrison. I can tell today has been a garrison day because he’s in uniform.

  Bastian looks at my face then picks up a greenmouth and starts to gut it.

  “Do you want to talk about last night?” he asks.

  I shrug. There really isn’t much to say. But I can’t hide that it’s bothering me. I put down the fish and stare out to sea.

  “I think I’m going to be told not to come back to the cheese shed.”

  He pauses and looks up sharply from the fish. “What happened?”

  “Something went wrong with the cheeses today, and I guess they needed to find someone to blame.”

  He sighs. He knows better than to tell me it’s going to be okay – I don’t need to hear that right now. We pack up the fish and start back up the track.

  “What did they name the baby?”

  “Bethany,” he answers.

  “That’s nice,” I say. It’s a pretty name. “How is she?”

  “Good, I think,” he shrugs. “The vaccine is obviously working, she’s got no spots or anything.”

  I shake my head. “You know that sometimes a weakness doesn’t show itself till later, and sometimes there are no symptoms at all.”

  He stops and turns to face me. “I know that’s happened once, Dia, but it’s very rare. The doctors almost always get it right. Bethany is fine; she’s not going to die. She’s strong.”

  “She’s strong,” I murmur. “I hope so.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder and smiles down at me. “Why don’t you come over and meet her this afternoon?”

  “I’d better not,” I say. “You don’t want me near just in case…”

  “You know I don’t believe that rubbish about you being dangerous to babies. And nor does Chloe,” he says sharply.

  “Well, still. Just in case.” I never go near newborns if I can help it. But this is different, this is Chloe’s baby; Bastian’s niece. I want to meet her, I’m just scared.

  “It’s alright,” he says gently. “It’s safe to love her. She’s not going to die.”

  I swallow and realise that he’s seen through my reluctance correctly. When a baby is marked as ill or weak, it serves as warning for others not to get too close - both physically and emotionally. There is the minute risk of contamination from a sick child, although extremely unlikely as the rest of the population have already proven their resilience. The emotional risk is more subtle. The cross reminds a family not to become too attached. The next sunset will come all too quickly.

  If the baby does survive, the mark has implications as she grows up, as I know so well. As a very active child, the first law that I became aware of was that there was no medical attention available to me. Grandad gave up trying to keep me out of situations that could result in injury and so over time we both became very thankful for his healing skills and herbal remedies.

  “You’d think a baby would have proven that it’s strong by recovering from the newborn illnesses!” I say in frustration. “Why is a marked child not celebrated as a survivor, rather than outcast as a weakling?”

  Bastian considers my outburst thoughtfully for a moment. “I suppose it has its roots in history. The Polis wanted to make sure that our limited resources were being used on raising the strong rather than the weak, but there is more to it than that. The ancients had let all babies live – even the weak ones. In a time of such prosperity, physical weakness and anomalies were never discouraged. Children with weaknesses such as allergies grew to fragile adults with susceptibility to diseases, and they passed them on. Each generation was weaker and less physically able than the last. All relied on medical intervention for survival. Essentially, our species was weakening.”

  I’ve stopped and am staring at him. Bastian isn’t one for long speeches, but aside from that, he sounds like he’s swallowed a text book. A Polis text book.

  “So what you’re saying is…” I start slowly, wondering if he’s really saying what I think he’s saying.

  “That the Polis has the long game in mind. They are working to strengthen our species.” He’s nodding now, pleased that I seem to have caught on to his point.

  I can only accept so much Polis adoration in one session. “It’s for the good of the species then?” He sounds like he’s talking about breeding horses.

  “Yes, every generation we’re getting stronger rather than weaker. The ancients had it the wrong way round.” He catches sight of my Mark, which I am holding out to him, and sees the look in my eye. He stops.

  “Should I take my own life now then? For the good of the species?” I say quietly, never taking my eyes off his face.

  He has the grace to look abashed, and his face is reddening. For a moment, he seemed to have honestly forgotten. “They don’t expect anything of us that they don’t do to themselves you know,” he musters, by way of defence. “Their infants are tested for a whole load of other things that don’t show up without the right equipment out here in the hub. Their babies have to pass with better scores. Plus, their military training is way worse, and all of them have to go through it.”

&n
bsp; “They’re regular saints,” I say. I can’t hide my anger. This is the first time we have ever argued over anything so important, and it feels wrong.

  “You have this idea about the Polis, Arcadia, that they are the bad guys. They’re not that bad, you know. You have to look at things from their side once in a while.” We’ve stopped outside the pod, both unwilling to take our raised voices inside.

  “What you’re saying is that they have our best interests at heart, right?” I spit the words out at him.

  He tries to catch my elbow but I twist my arm away. “What I’m saying is that they’re looking at the bigger picture and that they have to make some difficult -”

  We both notice at the same time that there are people around, all moving quickly in the same direction; towards the square. Argument forgotten for the moment, we both look at each other, then start with a united purpose in the same direction. We are nearly there when I hear the sharp snap of a whiplash. My blood runs cold with dread.

  Chapter Six

  The first thing I see is the enormous marquee, half assembled, like a huge white beast with its innards ripped out. In front of the marquee, and all around the cobblestone square, hubbites gather.

  A teenaged boy is in the centre of the square, flanked by two Polis soldiers. He is stripped to the waist and the pink marks of the first two lashes can be seen clearly across his back.

  The Polisborn who coolly wields the whip is not one I have seen before; the commanding officer at the garrison must have been rotated. He pauses between blows.

  The conversation with Bastian has not left my mind. I sense a shift in Bastian’s ideals. His support of their long view of healthcare makes me feel decidedly uncomfortable, and I can’t help but wonder whether my friend is slowly and methodically being brainwashed. With growing alarm, my attention shifts from the Polisborn officer and the youth in the centre of the square to the crowd of hubbites around me. I feel that my eyes are opened and for the first time I can observe my people as though from the outside.