MARKS- Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Pain beats inside my head, a rhythm matching my heartbeat. Each step on the cobblestone streets feels like someone is pounding the bottom of my feet with a steel drumstick. Great Saints. My muscles ache, no doubt exhausted from Scarlett’s sudden chatter and the extra orders we filled today.

Mera’s not at the stove when I open our door. The quietness of the house beckons to me, longing for secrets and words written in silence. I climb to my room and shut the door behind me. Crossing the worn floorboards, I peer out the window to the street below. No blue and red of a guard’s tunic stands out amid the drab grey and brown houses.

I let the curtain flutter shut and go to my mattress and lift up the far corner. Underneath is a seam I have stitched closed. I carefully unknot the thread, and when the opening is big enough for my hand to pass through, I reach in and grab my pen and a piece of paper.

A tremor of fear and a pulse of giddiness flood through me at the same time. I tuck my legs underneath me, press the paper out flat, and before I can talk myself out of it, put down the sentence I’ve been saying in my head all day.

Rain will pour on the King’s celebration. Gretta Marks.

As soon as the ink dries, I rip the sentence from the paper, then wad it up and stuff it in my pocket.

The front door closes downstairs, announcing Mera’s arrival. She’ll be starting dinner soon, and will likely roast me over a fire as well if she finds out what I’ve been up to. I’ll have to figure out where to get rid of the paper. And be careful now that I seem to be running into guards every turn I take. Maybe there’s a place I can hide the paper at work. But no, that’s too risky. I can’t leave my words some place associated with me. And though I’ve been thinking about it all day, I can’t figure out a good place to hide the bits of paper I write on. My words can’t be destroyed, a testament forever of my words and my choices.

Just like the marks on my arm.

The smell of cooking fish wafts upstairs. I stuff the paper down the front of my dress and head downstairs. Mera stands over the stove, then looks over her shoulder at me. No smile; but no scowl, either. Mera is one of few facial expressions. She unwraps another fish from its paper wrapping and gives me a pointed look. “I thought we’d have fish for dinner.”

I smile and swallow down a chuckle. “It smells great.” I cross the room to where she stands. “What can I do to help?”

“It’ll be done soon.” Mera plunks the last fish down into the pan. “Can you take these papers and put them in the wood bin?”

“Sure.” I grab the papers, now moist and reeking of fish, and head toward the back door. The alley is cramped and stinks of a million things: trash and urine and everything either people don’t want to keep or don’t want anyone to see. Our bin by the back door is small and piled half full with wood and kindling for the stove. I wad up the fish wrapper, some sort of old newspaper. I suppose it’s good use for the old bits the printers can’t sell. I imagine they give the fish vendors a good price which benefits both of them.

I open the lid to the bin then stop.

Newspapers. Old ones.

Skies above, that’s the answer. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? My wad of words would easily get dismissed amidst a pile of paper. Like the ones the fish are wrapped in. Or the stacks of newspapers in a printer’s shop. What do they do with all the leftover ones?

I push the fish papers down into the bin and wipe my hands on my dress. There is still a half dozen or so printing shops still left in the city. If I can find out what they do with their papers, it might give me the place I need to hide a few things.

It’s risky, but it has to be a better hiding place than between my breasts, right?

The fish - to the vendor’s credit - is fresh and tasty, fried to perfection under Mera’s careful eye. My feet tap a rhythm under my chair as we eat, eager to be out walking toward a shop, running toward a solution that could mean freedom. But rushing out will make Mera come alive with suspicion. And besides, I can’t live in her house and risk her life without being friendly. Mama wouldn’t have wanted that. So I make myself talk to her. Energy thrashes through my veins, though. Eventually I sit on my hands to keep from strumming on the table in a fit of adrenaline.

After I wash our dishes, I sit and talk with Mera while she knits. I never got the knack of working with needles. Pens and words are my craft. And colors now too, I suppose. I trace my fingers and revel in the color on them. The protection that rainbow of leftover dyes gives me is warm and comforting, like a blanket. Or a mother’s embrace.

I suck in a breath. Saints, I miss Mama. My father, too. Thomas and Lucas. And Ashtin. Sweet baby, at least she doesn’t remember anything. About any of us.

I stare at the dye on my hand, and the image of Lucas’s arms covered in blood flashes through my mind. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and in one breath the room is hot. Too hot. The stains on my fingers blur and blend, the colors tumbling over each other. Blue sky and the green of the corn stalks. The worn yellow dress Mama wore and the deep chestnut of her hair set against it. All the colors of that day. The colors of black ink on my hands, and dirt, and blood. So much blood. I tried -

“Gretta.”

My eyes snap to Mera. She tilts her head, studying me. Then she nods to the shelf. “Why don’t you read to me for a bit?”

I nod and grab a book from the stack. The first time I woke in her house screaming from nightmares, she learned that silence and idleness were open invitations for my past to overwhelm me. I need distraction. The book’s cover is soft and faded, and I open to where we left off a couple nights ago. Mera only owns three books, and I’ve read each of them dozens of times out loud. Still, I lose myself in them. These tame words on the page in front of me mock me with their lack of power. People don’t really die just because it’s written in a book.

If I wrote a book, I could do all sorts of things. Erase memories. Heal wounds. Kill kings. But the book would survive. And my name would be attached to every sentence I write; my words and my choices never forgotten.

I push that truth aside and focus on the words I’m reading. Soon enough I’m lost in the tale and the monotony of my own voice. When darkness clings to the windows, Mera decides it’s time for bed. In my room I change into my nightgown, running my fingers over the three marks on my arm before I push the sleeve down.

I watch the moon, barely visible behind thick clouds, then look across rooftops to where Ashtin lives. Smoke rises up from dozens of houses, and I pick one billow and imagine it’s hers. I picture her nestled between her new mama and papa. Maybe a baby sister or brother plays on a rug before the fire in front of them. Perhaps someone reads my Ashtin a story before they tuck her into a warm bed for the night.

She is well taken care of. And she’s a girl, so she can’t be forced to be a guard. That was the best life I could find for her. I don’t know if Ashtin has the power I do. I hope for her sake she doesn’t. I hope she’s forgotten everything. Even me. She’s safer that way.

Cold creeps through the window pane so I turn my thoughts and eyes from Ashtin and climb into bed. The thought of her still lingers in my mind. The weight of her little body in my arms as I traveled to the city. The agonizing cries she made because she was hungry and Mama wasn’t there. The way her cheeks flushed red when at last a woman helped me feed her sugar water, and for the moment my sweet baby sister was satisfied.

She’s seven now. I hope she is well, her world painted the pink of healthy cheeks and the yellow of warm days and the green of a happy, full life. I hope she is the apple of her papa’s eye, just like she would’ve been to ours. A sweet pang ripples through my chest as I hold Papa and Ashtin in the same thought. I should have done more for her. But I couldn’t.

I flex my fingers and words dance to mind. I can’t write sentences for Ashtin. I dare not put my name and hers together. She’d be the first the King would go to if ever my papers are found. And if I kill myself with my words, so be it, but I’ll not let another die because of what I write. But maybe there’s still a way. Maybe I can make the kingdom better for someone. And in that way, won’t Ashtin’s world be better?

The moonlight casts a faint beam in my room, bathing it both with light and hope. There’s more I can do for my sister. I curl over on my side and beg sleep to find me. Tomorrow will be an early day.