It’s a seriously great show. We all loved it; everyone did! But Mandy? She didn’t just love it, she was obsessed – she was addicted. She’d stare at the screen as if she was eating it with her eyes. She used to record every episode, and play it back in slo-mo, freeze-framing, and all the time scribbling away. There were stacks of notebooks and scraps of paper in her room. ‘Recipes?’ I said to her. ‘I mean, recipes? Seriously? What’s the point of recipes if you got no fragging ingredients?’ And she’d give me that look again. It was like talking to a wall.
One day, we were sitting on the bed waiting for the show to start. I always got that fluttery feeling in my tummy when the music came on, and they showed those clips of contestants in past episodes cooking away all over the place: quail consommé in Victorian England, ragi parathas in Harappa, an entire medieval banquet with roast suckling pig and sweet potatoes, and those langues de chat and petits fours in a Parisian salon. It was that episode when they went back to ancient Crete and had a pressure test for calamari dolmades on a bed of rocket–cilantro salad, and at the end of it, Mandy turned to me and said – and I remember this clearly, cos it was just the weirdest sentence I’d ever heard – ‘I would have caramelised squid ink for the vinaigrette.’ I just looked at her. ‘What? It would totally bring out the fetta,’ she said, as if I was the idiot.
When the show was over, Mandy took me by the hand and stood up. ‘There’s something I want to show you,’ she said. I followed her out of the room and down the stairs to the basement. She moved a pile of broken-down crates, and reached behind the pipes to bring out a battered old box. It had a long wooden handle, and the flaps on top hinged open showing neat drawers stacked on top of each other. Inside were an assortment of knives, metal spoons, a long, cylindrical thing made of wood, a pair of what looked like pliers with wire mesh at the ends, and all sorts of other stuff. ‘My tools,’ she’d whispered. Then she took my hand and held it really hard. ‘Stella, I’ve put my name in for the try-outs.’
I really thought she’d lost it. Okay, so she had somehow – god alone knows how – managed to collect all these bits and pieces of junk, and she’d read just about everything she could lay her hands on about cooking, but that was all just theory! All the other contestants, in the whole history of MasterChef, had been from the Elites. People who had money and resources – some of them even (so people said) had kitchens, not that they had much to do in them but play around with different blends of Newtri, but still. They came from a different world. She didn’t stand a chance.
I was so wrong.
She aced the try-outs. At fifteen, Mandira became not only the youngest contestant to compete on MasterChef, but the only one ever who wasn’t an Elite. Imagine, one of us, a girl from humble old Sector 87 up there on screen for all the world to see. Everyone went crazy. ‘Mandira the Marvel!’ the headlines screamed. ‘Teen Cooks Her Way Into History!!’ Mandy became a star overnight.
She came back after a month, and she was glowing. Seriously! She literally couldn’t stop talking about all the food that she’d eaten: ‘Oh my god, Stella,’ she’d say, ‘the peas. You pick them like this,’ she pinched her fingers together and twisted, ‘and then pop the pods,’ she flicked her thumb and index finger together, ‘and just eat them straight, and … oh … they were soooo … ‘ And she’d put her fingers on her lips like she was remembering the sweetest kiss, and she’d be lost for words.
A month later, the day the first round was broadcast, practically the whole block came over to watch. You should have seen her prep that halibut! Most people haven’t even seen a fish – not outside Planet Ocean Aquarium anyway – but she had that fish deboned and on the slab as if she was born with a – what did she call it? – a lithium-ion fillet knife in her hand. What a party we had that night! And the week after, and the week after that, until all the contestants had been eliminated, one by one, and it was down to the final three: Jerome with the floppy hair, Sherna the big-boned girl from Sector 47, and our Mandira.
When she left early this morning for the shoot, she seemed a little distracted, I guess. I put it down to nerves – I mean, even Mandy has gotta get nerves – but now I’m not so sure. Before she left, she took me to one side. ‘Stella, I’m going to beat them all. I’m going to win,’ she said. It wasn’t even a question. ‘Sure you are, Mandy. You’re the best,’ I said. And although I meant it, not just that she was the best cook, but that she was The Best, my best friend, it came out sounding pretty lame even to me.
But now as the silver van approached the shining steel gates of AgroGlobal headquarters, I wondered if she had meant something else altogether. A security guard scanned our ID chips and the gates slid open. The van drove up to the main gate, and my guys, the suits, got out with me. They walked me to the entrance, one on either side. A grey-haired man was waiting for us. He introduced himself as Professor Gulati, head of nutritional research, and shook my hand gravely. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said politely, like I had any choice. ‘We need your help.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s Mandira. She’s a friend of yours, I believe. The thing is,’ he coughed slightly, ‘she’s disappeared.’
I felt like my brain had just fused.
‘What do you mean? That’s not possible, is it? I mean, isn’t that supposed to be impossible? You mean … you’ve lost my friend?’
‘Calm down, Miss Jordan.’
‘I AM CALM!’ I shouted. What about the tracker – the implants they put in all the contestants before they entered the Portal? What about the safeguards and rules and scanning and regulations? There had been a ton of them, all ratified by international treaty. Nothing was allowed into or out of the Portal except the contestants. They were stripped and scanned before each episode. We’d had it drummed into our heads forever: messing with time was a serious business, and nothing, nothing could be allowed to destabilise the Chronologic. One little mistake and our whole present could disappear, vhooop, up its own wormhole.
I was too busy freaking out to notice my surroundings, barely registering the long, gleaming corridors and glass archways. Professor Gulati finally stopped at a door and held it open for me. ‘We’d like you to take a look at the footage,’ he said. ‘Maybe you can spot something we’ve missed. You knew Mandira …’
I seriously didn’t like the way he was talking about her in the past tense.
‘We think she may have been planning this.’
‘She wouldn’t!’ But as I yelled, a vivid picture flashed in my mind of Mandy, that stubborn, crazy look she had in her eyes and I knew: she would. She totally would. Mandy, you idiot, what have you done? I groaned inwardly. You are in an insane amount of trouble.
Inside the screening room, there were five or six other men and women already sitting around, waiting for me, it seemed. There were desks and a large screen. Professor Gulati ushered me into a chair, and then turned to a guy wearing headphones sitting at one of the consoles. ‘Roll the film,’ he said, and then, as the lights went down he leaned across to me. ‘Rural Punjab, 2014,’ he whispered. ‘All this is unedited footage. Shot this morning.’
Jerome looked a bit awkward in his long shirt, and he kept tripping on his baggy trousers, but Mandy looked really good on screen. She and Sherna were wearing long tunics and loose trousers gathered in folds around the ankles. Mandy’s top had little spangly mirrors and embroidery on it. It was really colourful against her cocoa-coloured skin and she looked – well, I have to admit that skinny old 2D looked quite beautiful as she stood there listening to Judge Kumar explain the challenge. ‘Makki ki roti and sarson ka saag lunch for fourteen. Forty-five minutes to prep, cook and plate up,’ he said. The presentation was what Judge Dingle called ‘fast an’ dirty’, but it still had to be spot on: the steel plates shiny, the tumblers filled to the brim with frothy jeera-spiced lassi. And the ghee had to be made from scratch. It was tough, but it was supposed to be.
Eac
h contestant was at their cook station in a different section of the screen, shot at different camera angles. The clock was ticking, and my heart seemed to beat a shade faster as I noticed that Sherna was falling behind. Jerome was already dry-roasting spices to season his sarson ka saag which lay in the bowl in a smooth, bottle-green swirl. Mandy was rolling a wooden spindle expertly between the palms of her hands to whip the curd for frothy lassi, but Sherna was still struggling to get the right consistency for her roti dough. I heard one of the judges mumbling off-screen, then out loud: ‘You might want to add a bit more flour, love. Thirteen minutes to plate.’ She looked up, smearing one hand across her forehead and streaking her hair with dough.
‘C’mon, c’mon,’ I found myself muttering under my breath. Of course I wanted Mandy to win, but – well, it was impossible not to want them all to make it. I glanced back to Mandy’s corner of the screen – and it was empty.
There was a lot of commotion on-screen, people shouting and running, the camera careening around all over the place. And then the screen went blank.
When the lights came on, Professor Gulati turned to me. ‘Well, did you see anything? Anything at all? Something we might have missed?’
‘I … I don’t understand.’ I shook my head. ‘She can’t have just disappeared … what about the tracker?’
‘We … ah … found the tracker …’
I winced.
‘… but no sign of Mandira.’ Professor Gulati stood up. ‘What about before she left? Did she say anything to you? Did you notice anything different in her behaviour?’
I shrugged. ‘No.’
‘Miss Jordan, you do realise the seriousness of what has happened? The Chronologic may have been compromised. We no longer know what might happen.’
‘Well, surely if something had happened, then, well – I mean, shouldn’t we already know about it by now? Everything feels about the same to me. You’re still here. I’m still here.’
They asked me all kinds of questions about Mandy, and I answered them all. Well, most of them anyway. But all I really wanted to do was to get home, get back to somewhere dark and quiet where I could think.
It was late at night when they finally dropped me back. Marra and the others were really relieved to see me, but I just couldn’t face any more questions. I had a Newtri and then slumped off to bed. I lay there for hours, it seemed like, until the house was still and silent. Then I crept downstairs and opened the door to the basement. I moved the crates and reached behind the pipe. I pulled out the toolbox and opened it. Right on top lay a piece of paper. I unfolded it carefully and smoothed it out.
Dearest Stella,
I guess by now you know I’ve gone off-grid. I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me, but I owe you an explanation. It’s the least I can do. When I go to MasterChef today, I’m not coming back. I’ve decided I can’t live like this any more. You remember in school they taught us all about the Dying Out? Years before it happened this guy called Einstein said that if the bees disappeared, mankind would only last another four years. Well, he was wrong about that. Maybe we would have done if it hadn’t been for Newtri, but we’re still here – you’re still here. I know all about the Chronologic, I know it can’t be changed, but I asked myself why? Why can’t we change history? I’ve been in the past, Stella, I’ve eaten fresh strawberries, I’ve bitten apples, I’ve tasted freshly baked bread with a hunk of creamy brie, I’ve licked tandoori chicken masala off my fingers and drunk peppermint sherbet.
Maybe I can’t change anything – but I know I’ve got to try. Perhaps if people know what life will be like without the bees, they’ll be able to do something about it. I don’t know. All I do know is that I want to live my life – and if I can’t cook real food, I might survive, but I think I’ll die.
Look after yourself my darling Stella-bella. And know that I will always be
Your best friend forever,
Mandy xxx
I couldn’t believe I would never see her again. That my friend – who I saw this morning – was not just dead, but that she must have died a hundred years ago. I tried to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Instead, I found myself filled with this strange, insane, bubbling, uplifting feeling. The Chronologic was broken. Or if not broken, then at least cracked. And through that little crack, the light came in. Fragging hell, Mandy, what on earth have you started? And then I started to laugh. Because I knew that even though everything was exactly the same, nothing ever would be, ever again.
Cast Out
Samhita Arni
I was eight years old when I discovered what happened to the girls who tried to do magic. It was the day they brought Dewi to the beach. She was the most beautiful girl in our village, but on that day her head was shaved and she was dressed in sackcloth. Her face was streaked with tears. There were deep scratches on either cheek, and her arms were badly bruised. The Blacksmith pulled her by steel chains wrapped around her wrists towards the boat by the water.
It wasn’t really a boat. Just a barrel, sawn in half.
The Blacksmith pushed her onto her knees, and the Headman stepped forward, carrying a whip.
Before us, they flogged her. I winced with every lash. But Dewi never cried out. I could see her bite her lip, the sweat gather on her brow. As blood began to bead and stain her sackcloth shift, Dewi’s mother, standing right in front of me, screamed.
It felt like it went on for hours, lash after lash. I turned my face away, burrowing into my mother’s dress, but she grabbed my chin and forced my head forward, to keep me watching.
Lash after lash.
Later, I found out what had happened. Dewi and her sister, Indah, had been out in the forest, gathering wood, when they had been surprised by brigands – fierce, desperate men who haunted our forests and preyed on travellers.
The men had surrounded the two girls, and held them down. They had broken Indah’s wrist as she struggled to break free, and had kicked Dewi in the ribs.
Dewi, scared and angry, did the unthinkable.
The thing that we’re all taught never to do. The thing that we know if we ever show a sign of, we’ll be killed.
She set them on fire with her magic.
Dewi confessed, after twelve lashes. She’d had the magic for years. Then the Blacksmith pushed her into the barrel, and set her out to sea.
Far off on the horizon, a Demon Cloud glimmered.
We watched her drift, borne by the ocean, towards the cloud.
Every child knows that the world is round, and there are two vast continents separated by an ocean that girdles the world. North is a land shaped like the wings of an eagle and studded with mountains. South is a continent formed like a flower and filled with green forests.
Once, there was a third land, East, a continent of beautiful lakes and shining cities with spires that pierced the sky. The kings of North and South envied the king of East, and together waged war on him. They ordered their sorcerers to build a mighty weapon with the power of a thousand suns. This weapon turned the shining cities of East to ash. Mountains toppled, the earth quaked and split, and the ocean rose up to claim the land. The people of East, dying, cursed their foes in North and South.
That curse took shape and form, turning into the black Demon Clouds that scour the skies above the ocean and hound our ships to this day as they sail between North and South.
Some tales speak of clouds that unleash a rain of fire. Others tell of clouds that expel poisonous fumes. There are even more sinister tales – of shrieking faces glimpsed in the clouds, of demons who descend to eat the sailors, and send their bones, picked clean, back to the shore. But still ships set sail, for the rewards are plentiful: spices from South are much in demand here in North, while our silk commands exorbitant prices in South. Ships that attempt the crossing must carry onboard a pair of powerful sorcerers, who can keep away the clouds and ward the ship’s course.
Once there were many mag
icians in North and South, but now there are few. Any boy who shows the slightest sign of magical ability is taken immediately to the king’s stronghold, where he is trained by the king’s magicians to guide and protect our ships.
But no girl can be a magician. If it is discovered that we can wield magic, we suffer a sentence worse than death.
We are set on the ocean, hands and legs bound, hair cut off, and our magic stunned by a special brew of herbs. An untrained magician is no match for the clouds. Even if Dewi could have bested the Demon Clouds, she would still succumb to thirst and hunger, adrift on the vast ocean.
Can you imagine a more miserable death?
A few months after Dewi’s fatal incident, my mother went into labour and delivered a baby girl. And late one moonless night when my sister was only a few weeks old, I woke up to find that my mother had disappeared and the cradle was empty.
I crept out of the house, and saw my mother, carrying my sister, headed towards the beach. I followed her. The baby squalled as the wind broke across the waves. I remember that my mother was tired and wan after her lying-in, and she walked slowly across the sand. She carried my sister in a small basket made of reeds.
When my mother reached the shore, she knelt by the water’s edge and placed the basket on the waves.
And she watched my sister disappear into the night.
I have asked myself many times why I didn’t say something. Why I didn’t scream, why I didn’t shout out. Would that have stopped my mother? If she knew I was watching?
Eat the Sky, Drink the Ocean Page 3