Fire Lines Read online

  Avery continues. He begins to walk up and down the deck, his hands clasped behind his back. He is too young to be intimidating, and too eager. It isn’t long before he comes to a halt in front of Nor and I. He’s chosen Nor. He makes her stand and her cheeks start to pink.

  “Today’s lesson,” Avery proclaims, “will be read by…” He pauses and looks at Nor. She mutters her name through gritted teeth and he continues. “By Noreen Dyot.” He pats her on the shoulder, a little too hard, and ushers her to the front of the deck. “Make your Council proud, Noreen.”

  Nor takes a deep breath. I mouth, “Sorry,” but she offers me a gentle shake of her head. Avery chose her because she let me jump in with the woman and the baby but Nor isn’t angry. She’s been through this many times before. She plants her feet square and looks straight ahead. Then she begins.

  For forty-five minutes, Nor recites the history of Nhatu. It is similar to the speech that won me the necklace, but less eloquent and more jittery. It is the story we have been told ever since the wall was sealed; a tale carefully crafted to convince us we are lucky to be here, protected from the dangers of the outside world.

  Nor begins with the time before the wall, when Nhatu was still one of The Four Cities. She tells us that The Four Cities were powered by the Fire Stone. A mystical amulet from the First City, Abilene, the stone formed deep in a lake that fed water and life to the other cities. And for hundreds of years The Four Cities lived in peace, with the Fire Stone carefully guarded by the Watchers of Abilene.

  Nor doesn’t elaborate about the Watchers, not the way my father used to when he told me stories by candlelight, late in the evening. She doesn’t mention the Watchers’ wings or their silvery hair. She doesn’t tell us that they live in trees surrounding the lake, or that they can perform somersaults in the air and glide like eagles in the sky. Instead, she moves swiftly on and describes the Second City, Tarynne, with its rocky dwellings and its elephant riders. She talks about the Third City, Esyllt, which was home to the sorcerers and magicks. And all the while, she is careful not to make anything in the first three cities sound exotic or exciting. She throws in words like ‘primitive’ and ‘chaotic,’ because the Council likes those words, and then she comes to Nhatu. Nhatu was known as the Fourth City, and it was always different from its neighbours – ‘progressive’, ‘ambitious’, ‘wise’. Nhatu was stifled by the ways of the other three cities, held back, denied its true potential.

  Nor steadies herself before she reaches the most crucial part of the lesson. The early morning heat is beating down on her thinning hair. A bead of perspiration trickles from her temple to her jaw. Avery and his colleagues watch her, scrutinising every word.

  “Fifty-one years ago, in the city of Abilene, the Watcher known as Mahg was born…” As Nor says Mahg’s name, fear ripples through the deck. Avery fixes his gaze on his shoes and scrapes his fingers through his hair. He’ll never be promoted to silver, not with a delicate constitution like that.

  Nor swallows hard. She explains that Mahg was different from the other Watchers – an outsider who developed a troubling obsession with magick. He delved deeper and deeper into the magickal arts until, one day, he performed a spell so evil it turned his wings as black as his soul.

  “Mahg fled to the lawless Islands on the west coast. There, he discovered the ways of the dark magick. His powers grew. He vowed to take revenge on Abilene and become ruler of The Four Cities. There was just one thing he needed – the Fire Stone.”

  We have heard this story hundreds of times before yet, still, every Red on the ferry holds their breath.

  “Mahg brought an army of savage followers to Abilene and he tried to take the Fire Stone for himself. He failed, but many Watchers were killed and, with their numbers weakened, they knew they must take drastic action to stop him capturing the Stone.

  “The Elders of Abilene summoned a sorcerer from Esyllt and asked him to divide the Fire Stone. Each of The Four Cities was given a piece, and one last piece was hidden by the Elders. But while Abilene, Tarynne and Esyllt were content to wait, praying Mahg wouldn’t return, the Council of Nhatu grew restless.

  “The wise and ingenious Council cared deeply for their citizens and were determined to protect them. So, the Council consulted Nhatu’s most prominent historians, scientists and philosophers…” Nor pauses to wipe her forehead with her sleeve. She mumbles under her breath as she tries to recover where she was, “and philosophers…”

  Avery marches over and waves his hand dismissively; he enjoys telling the final part of the lesson himself. Nor returns to her seat and leans back against the side of the boat. Avery opens his arms and channels his reedy voice into something deeper. “By studying the history of The Four Cities, the wise and wonderful Council learned that magick was the cause of all evil, and they knew what they must do to keep their people safe. They knew they must build a wall, and seal it tight to keep the darkness at bay. And they didn't stop there! After the wall, the Council created the Quarters, which empowered the people of Nhatu to strive, thrive, survive. It’s true – for a while, the citizens of Nhatu pined for the ways of their ancestors. But five years after the wall was built the Council was proved right.” Avery clears his throat, trying not to waver when he says, “Mahg returned and he destroyed Abilene, Tarynne and Esyllt. The world beyond the wall became dark and lawless, devoid of life, full of carnage and chaos, and death. But safe within our majestic flint walls, with the Council watching over us, the people of Nhatu remained unharmed. And we became The One City.” Avery stands with his feet together and his arms straight at his sides. We all rise to our feet. “Today,” he shouts, “the people of Nhatu are safe and happy, protected by the benevolent Council and the high city walls. And so, The Four Cities have become The One City.”

  This is it.

  On cue, we recite as one: “All hail The One City – The Only City – The Metropolis of Nhatu!”

  We repeat the chant three times in unison, then we stand and wait until Avery tells us we can sit down. He scratches his chin and paces up and down between our lines. The blonde woman’s baby starts to cry. We are nearing our stop. Finally, he nods and we fold back into our seats, breathing a collective sigh of relief.

  The first time I rode the ferry with Nor, I was astounded that they forced the Reds to perform, or listen to, this speech every single day. For months, I found myself longing for the forbidden details that my father used to tell me. But then I learned to nod in the right places and say, “Mmm,” in the right places, and let it wash over me. Perhaps there was a time when people questioned the Council’s motives for blocking up the walls, but not now. Nearly fifteen years have passed since they sealed the gates and anyone who remembers what life was like before is too afraid or too tired to care. The visions they have shown us, the scenes I draw on my posters, of what lies beyond the wall – dark magick, decimated landscapes and ruthless scavengers – they have crushed peoples’ curiosity. I wish mine was crushed. You’d think that after everything that happened, with my father, it would be. But it’s not. Every night, in the few moments of sleep I manage to snatch before sunrise, I dream of Abilene. I see Watchers gliding through the sky and a lake so blue it is imprinted on the backs of my eyes when I wake…

  Nor nudges me out of my daydream. “We’re here.”

  When we disembark at the Green Quarter jetty, we go through the permit-checking process in reverse. Out on the street, Nor turns left and waddles towards the hotel where she works as a cook. I cross the road and veer right, away from the canal but towards the wide fast-moving river that flows from the Green Quarter, down through Silver and Gold, under the city walls, and out into the ocean.

  The journey to The Emerald Cafe takes me past our old house. Usually, I avoid looking at it. Its neatly manicured hedges and pretty green door sting my eyes. Today, though, I find myself coming to a stop on the pavement. I look at my hands and then up at the house, as if it might know the answer to the questions that are swarming in my head:
What happened last night? Did those sparks come from me? Did I… I don’t even want to think the word because it is blasphemous and if the Council knew… Did I do magick?

  As though it has heard me, the house blinks as sunlight bounces off its windows and onto a sign next to the door: For Sale, Vacant. Just a few weeks ago, I overheard the new owner telling someone in The Emerald that her husband, a bank clerk like my father, had been promoted. They must have already moved to the Silver Quarter. I look over my shoulder. No one is watching me, they are all too busy with their own lives and thoughts and troubles. I inhale sharply and steal my way to the front door. I peer through the glass at the empty hallway and try the handle. Locked, of course. Turning towards the hedge, I make my way down the side of the house.

  In the short time since the new owners left, the garden has become horrifically overgrown. Ma would hate it. Weeds and unruly grasses have taken over her flowerbeds; Nhatu’s potent combination of vicious rainstorms and blazing sunshine proving a cocktail for growth. I feel beneath the deep crevice below the kitchen window. Is it still there? Yes! My fingers close around cold metal and I pull out the spare key I forgot to hand over when we left.

  I unlock the back door and gingerly step inside. A floorboard creaks and my heart flutters. Memories of my childhood dance from room to room. I want to go upstairs, but my feet refuse to carry me any further so I sit down in the middle of the hall and lean my forehead against the coolness of the creamy wall my father so painstakingly painted. I look down at my palms and my insides swirl. I remember the sparks, and Jennyfer, and the dead rat that I so nearly wanted to eat.

  For the first time in three years I let myself cry.

  Four

  I’m late. When I arrive at The Emerald, the owner, Amin, is already in the kitchen. I shout an apologetic good morning and move from window to window, throwing open the shutters. Then I join him in the kitchen.

  From beneath his long ashen beard, Amin smiles and tosses a scone in my direction.

  “Not happy with the first batch, what d’you reckon?” he asks, turning back to his dough. He often finds excuses to feed me, and I never refuse. My stomach lurches into a growl as I sniff the gently spiced crust. I can’t remember the last time I ate.

  “Tastes okay to me,” I say, mouth already full. Amin laughs and tells me I’ve never had a very discerning palate.

  “I’ll bag up the rest of that batch. You can take ’em,” he says. I must be looking especially scrawny around the edges today because he’s never offered me this much food before. But I learned a long time ago that pride doesn’t get you very far when you’re a Red, so I nod my thanks and start shaping the remaining dough into balls.

  Three large urns of coffee are on the go, the scones are baked and displayed in neat wicker trays, and we’re almost ready to open up, when Amin reminds me it’s the first Saturday of July. My insides somersault. Already? I glance up at the calendar – he’s right.

  “Is he definitely coming?” I ask.

  Amin beams and his eyes twinkle. “He wouldn’t miss this one, not so close to your birthday.”

  I brush my floury hands on my apron and go to freshen up before it gets too busy. In the cramped but clean customer bathroom, I splash water on my face and onto the back of my neck. My hair is already doing its best to escape its pins, and my eyes are grey from lack of sleep. I haven’t seen Amin’s son, Tsam, for a little over four years. I can’t imagine the changes he will notice when he looks at me. That is, if he actually visits us this time. When we were younger, Tsam and I spent hours playing in the treehouse at the back of the cafe. He was like the brother I never had, but when he turned eleven he won a coveted place at an academy in the Gold Quarter, and he left. Amin threw him a going away party and I remember feeling horribly jealous when he ceremoniously switched Tsam's green sash for a gold one. Now, we barely see him. Scholars are allowed to visit their families for just two days, once every six months, but Tsam doesn’t always make it. I used to write him letters, which Amin posted alongside his own, but after everything that happened with my father I ran out of things to say.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, the first morning customers are filtering in to buy scones and coffee. I join Amin at the counter and we flit around one another, serving and pouring, until the rush dies down and the urns need refilling. Our day continues in much the same fashion – customers buy coffees, and scones and biscuits all day long. Mostly, they eat outside, although a few choose the coolness of the seats just inside the door. As evening rolls closer, Amin looks more and more frequently at his pocket watch. Each time, he mutters, “He’ll be here,” and I nod, although I am doubtful.

  At nine o’clock, the sun begins to set and Amin releases a deep, frustrated sigh. He unties his apron and tugs at his beard, shaking his head. I’m about to tell him there is still time for Tsam to make an appearance, but he speaks first.

  “Stay for dinner, Émi? There’s plenty…” Sensing my reluctance, he continues, “I’ll make sure you don’t miss your ferry.” So, I agree.

  When the last customer has packed up and gone home, Amin hands me a bowl of stew and suggests we eat down by the river. I frown at him but he says, “It’s just the two of us, Émi. The Cadets won’t take any notice.”

  I hesitate, holding my bowl in front of me. I’m desperate to sit in the long grass, to feel it tickling my calves and smell the freshness of the river.

  Amin wrinkles his eyes at me and grabs a hunk of bread from the counter. “Come on…”

  Down by the water’s edge, the night breeze kisses my skin and it’s hard to believe that when I return to the Red Quarter I’ll be swelteringly hot.

  “It was one of the first things they stopped, you know,” says Amin.

  “What was?”

  “Nocturnal gatherings… That’s what they called them. No ‘nocturnal gatherings’ in open green spaces.” He waves his hand at our surroundings. “All out of bounds after sunset.”

  I shift uncomfortably and glance over my shoulder, half expecting a Cadet to leap out from the grass and arrest us. Amin has never spoken this way before.

  “No one talks about it,” I say, lowering my voice. “About the time before the wall…”

  Amin balances his bowl on his lap. “They’re scared.”

  “You’re not?”

  Amin looks at me and his eyes twinkle. “Not particularly,” he says. “Although I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble, so maybe we should…”

  I look down at my hands. I want to tell Amin about the sparks, but I can’t find the words and so we sink into companionable silence.

  When we’ve finished our stew, Amin says, “You heard anything more? About your father?”

  The hairs on my arms bristle. “I don’t suppose we will.”

  Amin shakes his head. “He loved you very much, Émi.”

  Tears are prickling at the back of my eyes, so I’m relieved when we hear someone knocking on the front door of the cafe.

  “Mrs Carban left her shawl,” I say, hurrying to my feet, glad of an excuse to leave the conversation. “I’ll see to it.” I let myself in through the kitchen, unlock the front door, and hold out the shawl. “Here you go…”

  “Thanks,” a voice cuts in. “Not really my colour.”

  I look up and immediately drop the shawl. “Tsam? We thought you’d…”

  “Oh, come on. I wouldn’t miss your birthday,” he quips, the corner of his mouth crinkling into a smile.

  I almost hug him but hesitate, and then open the door wider, ushering him inside. “My birthday’s not until next month.”

  “Close enough,” he says, retrieving the shawl and locking the door behind us.

  We stand for a moment, awkwardly observing one another. I am keenly aware of the dirt that’s ingrained under my fingernails and on my skin. I remember, back when we were Greens, my mother saying awful things about Reds: “They might be poor, but at least they could wash.” I pray Tsam isn’t thinking the same about me.


  Tsam’s initial bravado has evaporated. The look on his face asks, What has happened to you? But while I have become increasingly grubbier and malnourished since his last visit, Tsam exudes the glow of someone healthy and happy. Above his elbow a gold band sparkles. When he notices me staring, he nudges it with his forefinger.

  “The knot is the wrong way up,” I say, shocked that he would be allowed to make such a mistake. Tsam glances at his arm and begins to fumble with it. Perhaps they have people to tie their bands for them up in Gold. I help him adjust it. Tsam smiles at me and I look down at my sandals before I start blushing. He is more handsome than I remember. He used to be tall and lanky, his hair cut close to his scalp. Now, he has filled out, become more athletic, his hair flopping over his eyes. I’m about to say that we should go and find Amin when the kitchen door clatters on its hinges. Tsam’s face breaks into a grin that stretches from ear to ear. He throws himself at his father. They embrace and pat one another on the back, then Amin holds his son’s face in his hands. “It’s been too long, son. Far too long.”

  Watching the two of them I remember that my mother’s at home on her own, wondering where I am, and Junas is waiting for his rent. I rest a hand on Tsam’s arm. “I’m sorry, you just got here, but I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  Amin looks disappointed. “Émi,” he says, “stay for a coffee. You have time, then Tsam will walk you back to the ferry.” Amin is trying to be nice, so I resist the urge to tell him I don’t need anyone to escort me. I sit down at the nearest table. “Okay, just one coffee.”

  Amin fetches us each a mug and fills them from the urn on the countertop. Tsam is sitting on the edge of his chair, shifting uncomfortably and looking behind him as if he’s searching for a cushion. Eventually, he slides back and rests his hands in his lap. I wonder whether he is wishing he hadn’t come. He turns to me and his right eyebrow tweaks upwards. “How are you, Émi? Are you alright?”