Chapter 6
Jane
Jane woke up at dawn to go for a run; even in foul weather she loved the steady beat of her shoes on the ground, and the burn of air in her lungs. Even now with the blood throbbing in her bruises. She stopped for the usual rituals: a tea made from anise seeds and the mantra she’d been taught: I am the earth where seeds of wisdom grow.
Afterwards, she crossed the Collegium grounds, between the sacred star anise bushes, passed the classrooms, the white student Cella temple, and the Beekeepers tending to the hives. They wore white, their faces covered with veils. She circled the snake-crowned Pythia statue, the matron of oracles. She was over fifteen feet tall, a serpent coiled around her shoulders and her throat. Jane stopped to touch her fingertips to her brow in honour. She couldn’t help the feeling that someone watching her. She tried to act normal.
She continued past the lighting-struck ash tree the Weather Witches circled for their rites, and the Seedsinger statue of an entwined Green Jack and Jill wearing mostly leaves. Jane was never sure if she should blush, it was such a private moment at which to pray. She preferred the Pythia and her steady gaze. She went through the front gates, following her usual route. The Enclave was pale and perfect, like the inside of a pearl. The light was misty, softening the edges of the houses she loved, and the tidy streets, the red front doors, the trees standing guard, branches bare and bright as swords. She passed Lee’s mansion-of-many-houses, rickshaws painted to look like candy, and solar lanterns strung like stars. She kept running, trying to make sense of the night before and of the headaches that she needed to control, now more than ever. She ran until her breath was fire in her throat but she was no closer to a solution.
She found herself back at the old house. No one else had moved in and she liked the feel of the empty quiet rooms. The parapet loomed over it, casting constant shadows that had frustrated her mother’s attempts at growing flowers. Nothing showed prosperity like flowers you couldn’t eat, beautiful orchids and oleander bushes with no discernable value beyond their beauty. The garden was weedy now—dandelions always found a way to thrive.
The paint was peeling off the walls inside and dust had rolled into the corners like tumbleweeds. Some of her childhood books were still piled against the mildewing curtains of her old bedroom. The pages were damp and tattered, at odds with the delicate and fussy artwork. Detailed renditions of the Cataclysms and the Lake Wars unfolded under her fingertips. Even bedtime stories couldn’t escape the Directorate.
There was the first Green Jack walking out of the forest in a mask of oak leaves, awakening green numen in unsuspecting people sleeping in their beds or drinking their morning tea. None of them looked as though they thought their heads might explode. He was always named Jack and she never could decide if he looked happy. She imagined it was a lot of work cleaning up after decades and centuries of rampant neglect, from burning oil fields to garbage heaps that never decomposed, to wars.
The Cataclysms were painted in reds and browns and gold, more streaks of colours than intricate details. Smoke and fire burst from giant cracks in the earth. The seas heaved and boiled. Crops withered, people starved, the Ferals in the Badlands turned cannibal. Or so the stories always said. The Ferals weren’t a single people so much as a cautionary tale of what would happen to you if you disobeyed the Directorate or left the safety of the Cities: hunger, madness, savagery. Jane kept turning the weathered pages, finding the maps, with Elysian City with its glowing Rings full of light and joy, to the farm domes and the dark Spirit Forest and the suggestions of other cities in the distance.
When the droughts followed and desperate thirst set in, the Lake Wars began. The faded pages showed bodies pressing against the newly built wall, frantic to reach the lake. The maps lines changed. When the cities closed, everything changed. There was a very old man who lived near the cella who still called Elysian City ‘Toronto’. That was long before the Protectorate was formed, protecting the Green Jacks and hiding them away. The experiments created feral dryads who lived in trees and used human body parts as decorations, but no more Green Jacks.
Lots of answers, even in these pages, for questions everyone knew better than to ask. But no answers about the numen growing thorns in her body. And she wouldn’t find any hiding here with her old storybooks. Red dust, a church steeple and a pink moon.
Especially when the morning bells rang, making her jump. She’d spent too long here as it was. The bells announced the gates opening for the Elysians who were vetted to drive the rickshaws and clean houses. It also meant she was already late for her Oracle duties.
She left the house, running on the sidewalks. None of her old neighbours spoke to her. The house with the girl who’d been taken away was still dark, all these years later. She made her way to the wayfarer cella in the parapet. The novices gathered there on Blessing Days to be taken into the City where the Collegium allowed novices to predict more personal omens for the Elysians. Mostly they asked about food or love, like everyone else.
“You’ve been running again,” Kiri wrinkled her nose. Candlelight glinted off her gold sunflower necklace. There was no electricity in the Cellas, it interfered too much with numen. It was too ancient, too primal. Always more questions than answers. “I just don’t think sweating like that is good for you.”
She changed into her blue chiton with the silver snake necklace around her throat. Kiri wore dark brown and the tattoo of the black tree on her nape reached its roots under the neckline. As a Seedsinger, she would be surrounded by Elysians today, all begging for fertility spells for their bellies or their gardens. Usually she sang to the seeds; learned how to collect them, store them, and plant them. Her dorm room was like a witch’s cave, full of strange seeds and dried vegetables.
Jane secured the leather straps of her sandals around her ankles even though it was still too wet and cold to be wearing sandals. The Numina were expected to float gracefully above the mud, both metaphoric and literal, to dispense the benevolence of the Collegium. There could be nothing that made them relatable to the others, only the chitons, the tattoos of their talent, and the numen. They were the Collegium’s personal Greek chorus, moving and speaking as one.
But in the Cella antechambers, they were still very much themselves. Asher shoved her hard, bruising her already-bruised shoulder as he passed by. Kiri caught her before the stumble turned into an undignified sprawl. Again. She also shoved Asher back because she liked shoving people and hated him in equal measure. “You really need to punch him right in the face, just once. He’ll leave you alone then.”
Jane smiled uncomfortably. Never mind that she’d been trained not to make a fuss or embarrass the family name, after last night and her near-encounter with the Investigator, she needed to keep her head down even more. “I can’t hit him,” she said for Kiri’s benefit. “He might like it.”
“Ew. I never thought of that.” She smiled, showing a lot of teeth. “But I’m sure you can fix that by hitting him harder.”
When the silver bell rang, the novices took their positions. The Oracles lined up on the left, approaching the small shrine. There was a candle, a bowl of water, and a basket of star anise seeds which they gave out along with their omens. The Collegium thought it a nice gesture, something symbolic for the Elysians to hold on to, but they just used the seeds for stomach tea. Kiri went to the right, digging her hands in a large wide bowl of earth to awaken her numen. They found each other again on the train.
Elysium City was grey and blue today, the light glinting off black water flooding between some of the buildings. Bridges connected windows high up above the submerged streets. It made Jane dizzy just to think about crossing them, swaying in the wind with nothing but rope to hold you up. She turned back to Kiri who was pouring mint tea into china cups. There were candied violets and the maple cakes usually reserved for Festival days. Jane ate three cakes.
The mood inside the City was dark. Jane felt it like a stain on the skin. She pulled the vei
l of her chiton up over her head like a hood. Faces were never covered outside the cella, there were too many security restrictions. Still, it helped a little. She held onto the bench of the wagon as they began the last part of their journey. The Blessing wagons were different than the ones used for transport in the Enclave; these were painted azure-blue with elaborate scrollwork and bells along the edges. They were festive and cheerful, calling the Elysians to follow them into the bright and beautiful Rings.
Line-ups had already formed at the crossroads outside the Cella. A tree grew around a column and Elysians left behind votive tokens like tin cans shaped into leaves and torn fabric strips knotted for good luck. It had its own kind of roughshod beauty. Jane remembered reading about Clootie trees in Ireland that served a similar purpose.
Each novice was assigned a soldier in a metal leaf mask and hers was young enough to still have pimples. She sat on the stool he set out for her, and took out the gold slotted spoons shaped like leaves from her pouch, along with the bone straw. The blue silk smelled like star anise, that licorice sweetness that clung to all Oracles. She had a glass jar filled with water and crushed cranberries but inside the cellas they used real blood or the ashes of dead Oracles.
When the Elysians approached her for a reading, she stepped out of her sandals and stood on a mound of earth to awake her numen. She tried not wonder if the tingle at the back of her neck would build into a crushing pressure, into burning and pain.
Jane concentrated on the miniature stories unfolding in her hands. The spoons were a tool, like tarot cards and tea leaves—simply a way to find the pattern in the chaos. She fit them together, and used the straw to blow a spray of liquid through a small hole. When she pulled the leaves apart again, she deciphered the stain of red left behind. Otters were for joy, swans for deceit, horses for destiny, though the Directorate frowned on destiny. True omens were reserved for the Diretcorate and the farms. This was simple fortune-telling, a little truth to make a larger truth more palatable.
As long as she concentrated on the omens, the pain in her head was a low burn, barely noticeable.
Again and again the questions came, how will I feed my children if the rains don’t stop, how will I feed them if the hot months follow, will I find love, will I ever see my son again? Where was my daughter taken? Jane swallowed misery and nausea, and answered as she was ordered: No one is truly lost. The Directorate knows best.
She felt Cartimandua’s pale eyes on her, felt Asher’s fist in her face.
The last Elysian hesitated in front of her. He had black hair and a katana he’d been forced to surrender in order to approach her. He looked uncomfortable but determined. She smiled encouragingly. “What do you want to know?”
He just half-smiled and waited. He didn’t speak. “Whatever I see then?” She asked after a long moment. He nodded.
Droplets splattered inside the gold curve of the pressed leaves. Teeth for hunger, and knives for violence, both fairly common omens for a City boy. She should have said something about the hunger he was feeling: how he could find a meal in the Rings, how hunger made you stronger. But there was also a swan in a circle. “Your secret is safe,” Jane said.
He jerked as if she’d slapped him. When backed up, she caught his wrist, holding on tightly. There was more to see, more he needed to know. “Wait.”
Sometimes there were messages within the messages, and sometimes she had her own language to decipher.
An oak leaf.
Jane sucked in a breath. Oak leaves were always for her; a warning to pay attention.
He looked alarmed, staring more intently at the red drops, random as bullet spatter. It wouldn’t tell him anything. The oak leaf was speaking to her. It meant she could trust him. But the swan meant something different for him. “Don’t trust anyone,” she warned him, glancing over to make sure the soldier hadn’t heard her. “Your secret---.”
“Killian, what the hell?” A girl with black braids darted up the Cella steps and shoved Jane away. Jane staggered and everything went white, just for a moment. She saw the fat pink moon, a church spire, rooftops covered in red dust, the road leading away from the City. She saw a red fox in a field of crocus flowers, she saw guns, she saw fire, she saw leaves.
The soldier tasered the girl before she could make sense of the images. Numen shot white fire up the back of Jane’s head like lightning. She was surprised she didn’t smell her own singed hair. She held onto the column beside her, knuckles popping under her skin. She couldn’t fall over, couldn’t faint or react. They’d know something had happened with her numen. She couldn’t explain it, not now, not ever.
The girl sprawled on the ground, simmering with fury. Even forced to lay on the wet pavement, she showed more bravery than Jane had ever felt. This wasn’t someone who hid, though judging by the images Jane had seen, she ought to consider it. She was a like one of those tiny puffball mushrooms in the woods, ready to explode with poison. It was innocuous until someone fed it to you.
Killian’s hands were up in surrender but he was standing over her, trying to shield her. The soldier traded the Taser for a gun, the black merciless eye swinging between them both. His hand trembled slightly. “Please, don’t,” Jane said to him quietly. “She didn’t hurt me.”
“She could have, Numina. The next one might. There are rules. We have orders.”
“I know,” she agreed. “And I’m grateful you were so quick. But she’s nothing.”
The girl’s black eyes flashed. Jane might have winced at her choice of words, but they were effective. The soldier lowered his gun. “You’re both banned from the Blessings for six months,” he said. He aimed a recorder at their copper bracelets. It looked like a tiny metal pencil with a blue tip that lit up. The microchip in their bracelets flashed once in response. “Now get out of here before I change my mind.”
Killian hauled the girl away, even as she spat curses under her breath. He didn’t look back. Jane smiled weakly at the soldier. “Shall I read your omens?” she asked. Nothing distracted people like a glimpse into their own future.
He looked pleased, excited. “I’ve never been read by a proper Oracle.”
She didn’t correct him by reminding him she was still a novice, just drew more blood-red liquid into the straw. He watched her so reverently it made her feel slightly ill.
“Long day,” Kiri said a half an hour later, pushing the earth-brown veil off her head. “I heard more details about strangers’ sex lives than I ever want to know. And no matter how many times I tell them I don’t need the information for the blessing, they just won’t stop.” She leaned back on the bench. “I prefer the ones who want more eggplants instead of babies. Who the hell would want to have babies in this pit, anyway?”
Jane massaged the back of her aching neck and tried to look as if she was paying attention. The others were mostly quiet and tired; Kiri was the only one who could talk through a coma. Rain pattered lightly on their heads. It was soothing, the coolness a balm to the fire still burning at her nape.
Until the wagon pulled past a man sleeping on a rusted metal gate. The contrast of the gilded wagon with the brittle pavement, the grey buildings, the man’s rusty gate, were deliberate and calculated. So were the Protectorate soldiers who descended on the sleeping man from across the street.
They moved between the wagons, guard dogs growling and straining at their chains. It was over in minutes. There was screaming and blood and red teeth.
The captain nudged the man with the toe of his boot. Another soldier picked up the burlap sack he’d used as a pillow and upended it. Wet leaves tumbled out, no doubt gathered from the saplings growing out of window panes all around them. Forbidden but surely not worth such a mauling. “Not him,” the captain said, looking at the clumps of leaves, disgusted. They walked away, leaving him pressed against the wall, clothes and flesh torn off his legs.
“We have to bring the Green Jack home,” one of the soldiers explained to Jane when he caught her expression. �
��The streets aren’t safe.”
Green Jack Page 6