The First Binding, page 12
I sobered immediately, knowing a test ran through his mind.
“What story were they performing, hm?”
Picking through my routine normally served as the best way to pin the play onstage. The family had been going through a series of news of late, though. Khalim had made a point of intensifying my quizzes in frequency and difficulty during this time. Not something I enjoyed as a child, as you can imagine.
My mind tumbled, recalling the sequence I’d gone through. The pulley had moved a pair of canvas sacks dressed to look like wraiths. At least, that’s what they had been fashioned to resemble the last time I’d worked the mechanism. The drums and rain signaled a storm. That only narrowed it down to a handful of possible stories. The key rested in the smoke.
“When come they demons—ash and ember
on clouds of reddest smoke
with cries of rain
and sounds of thunder
two things man must remember:
burn quick and fast
purest white,
and truest oak
to cast Ashura asunder.”
The lines had come to me in an instant, surprising me. “Demons in Dinture.”
Khalim smiled. Not wide and brimming. No obvious, beaming pride there. It was a gentle and content thing.
But to me, it meant as much as a thing could to a child.
“Good man.” He gave me another gentle shake. “It’s a good man that knows his stories, ah?” Khalim jabbed a pointer finger to my chest lightly. “It’s in your blood. You keep to that, master it, and you’ll be the greatest teller of tales this world’s seen.”
My smile came thin and forced this time, like stretching the thin film that forms over boiled milk. I took care to not let it break into something obviously so fake. Khalim’s comment had tugged at a part of me I hadn’t managed to properly bury. A hollowness aching to be filled with the knowledge of my parents. The question left my mouth before I’d realized it. “What is my blood, Khalim?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but I rode over him.
“Who were they?” My voice carried leaden weight on the last word. “You never talk about my parents. But you always bring up the blood.”
The skin around Khalim’s eyes wrinkled as he gave me a kind and sympathetic look. His mouth moved through a series of expressions as if struggling to find the right one.
After all, what face do you make when trying to answer an orphan boy’s request? Especially one that’s been long avoided?
“They were ravel and trash.” The voice echoed down from a passage on the left. It was smooth and rich like fresh cream, carrying a touch of honeyed sweetness. Though none of that made it into the words themselves. Somehow, through the softness of it all, a hard edge ran through what he’d said.
I turned to face the speaker.
Makham strode toward me, his loose and flowing skirt swishing as he moved. He wore a shirt made of the same soft and slack material. His entire ensemble had been dyed several times to finally reach a rich shade of blue somewhere between morning skies and sapphires. He had a face sharp as a knife, and his eyes were canted slits of the dark brown of freshly turned earth. He may have carried himself tall and proud as a cat, but he came off as a worm to me.
I glared at him, fighting to keep my breath steady as my chest heaved.
Makham ran a thumb and forefinger over the neatly trimmed and slender scrap of hairs he called a beard. His hand moved through the short and greasy curls atop his head. Each dark lock pressed flat to his skull before springing back into shape. “Your parents were gutter crawlers, ji? They rooted around for garbage to pilfer and peddle. Then one day, they found the jewel of the lot”—his gaze settled knowingly on me—“you.”
Khalim’s hands gripped me tight, fingers digging into what little meat I carried in my shoulders. His eyes were undoubtedly boring holes into the side of my head in a look I’d grown to know all too well. A warning to keep calm and not let the performer rankle me.
“So, what else would they do but sell you.” A smile, like a slit in cold stone, passed across his face. “And what else would come of it but Khalim taking you in.” Makham put a hand over his heart, squeezing the spot in mock agony. “He has a soft spot for collecting broken bits of trash.”
I let the comment pass, clenching my jaw hard enough to crack a tooth or two. “We’re all Sullied here, Makham.”
The performer blinked. He worked his mouth as if chewing over a particularly tough piece of meat. It looked as if I’d bested him and he’d turn to leave, deciding digging into me wasn’t worth it this night.
I was wrong.
His lips twitched, pulling to one corner in an expression fit for a snake. “True. We’re the lowest of the low of castes here, but what does that make you, ah?” He touched a finger to the tip of his nose. “You’re casteless, orphaned. Your blood isn’t worth piss and shit. And that’s about all you got from your parents, ji? They were bloodless curs who—”
I pulled free of Khalim’s grip and charged Makham. My scream echoed through the understage, taking on an odd and resonant tone as it warbled through the metal workings.
I reached Makham’s side before he could register what was happening. My clenched fist hammered into the space below his navel, causing him to buckle. Another blow landed just above his hip. The hailstorm of punches came without thought. It was the bone-deep anger of a kid full of questions with no answers. Something that needed a place to be directed.
And Makham just so happened to be the perfect fit for it.
One of his hands snapped to the side of my head, cuffing me with enough force to send me off-balance.
I flailed, hands grabbing tight to his skirt. Fabric tore as Makham shoved me away, trying to stop me exposing his genitals. The motion caused me to rock back toward him. A primal scream left my lungs, and I opened my mouth. My teeth found a home in the soft meat of his thigh.
Makham cried out.
“Kala mahl, Ari!” A pair of hands clasped my shoulders and wrenched.
Khalim’s words finally registered with me. He’d effectively said, “Blackened shit.”
I lashed out with frenzied kicks, trying to reach Makham but falling short.
Khalim hauled me farther away and swore under his breath.
The performer’s chest heaved, a dangerous light kindling in his eyes. “You bastard. Gutiya!”
A flash of white strobed through my vision. Soft red peppered my sight next, muting the scenery of the understage. Makham’s slap rang out with a fleshy impact that could have rivaled the drum from earlier.
“Qutha!” Another slap.
Khalim didn’t stop it, using his strength to keep me from retaliating. But he barked something I couldn’t quite make out. His words warbled and sounded distant like he was underwater.
Makham raised another hand, his eyes dark slits and glimmering.
“Enough!” I finally registered Khalim’s voice. “You kill him, you’ll be working the understage, ji-ah?” Khalim held out a hand between myself and Makham.
The performer sucked in a breath, lowering his hand and glowering at me. Makham racked his throat and spat a glob of spittle, the color of dirt, at me.
It struck my left cheek and rolled down to the side of my chin. I flailed harder against Khalim’s hold, unable to break it.
“Stop. Stop.” He squeezed me tighter until I relented. Satisfied I wasn’t going to shake my way free and charge after Makham, he released me.
I pinched a part of my shirt, the only suitable piece of cloth I had to my name, and brought it to my face to wipe away the spit. It stained the fabric over the month’s grime, dust, and oil that had accumulated in my work. Parna.
The residue came from a leaf that, when mixed with lime paste, served as a cheap chewing tobacco. It also provided a state of mental euphoria and stimulation. The plant managed to addict most people within a few uses.
I had developed an immeasurable abhorrence for it. Mostly because the cruelest person in my life happened to chew it, and its stains ran down through the understage—my home—courtesy of that same abusive person.
I stared at the stain with a level of heat that could have set the clothing aflame.
Khalim pulled me out of my reverie by turning me to face him. “You shaken up here?” He tapped my temple twice. “Ah?” He shook my head. “Oi, speak.”
“You heard what he—”
Khalim waved my protests off. “I don’t care what he said. He’s one of my leads. If he leaves, who’s going to take his place, ah?” I opened my mouth to speak but he talked over me. “You? No. You’ve never spent a day onstage. We’re Sullied, boy. It’s hard enough getting someone to act in this troupe. Most people won’t spend a copper round on us if they can avoid it. They want us to beg for tin chips.” He thrust his chin up at that, dismissing the notion with a look. “We may be skilled and talented—among the best—but our caste is our caste. Makham is irreplaceable, ji-ah?”
I knew better than to argue with him then. “Ji.” I conceded, noting that Khalim had said nothing about my worth. If he so desired, he could easily dredge up another urchin or orphan, teaching them what I knew in a matter of weeks. So I moved the subject back to something else he’d said. “I could act. You said yourself, all the things about my blood.” I hoped my enthusiasm didn’t bleed into my voice.
If he had picked up on desire, he didn’t show it. Khalim looked me levelly in the eyes. A soft sigh escaped his lips, an odd sound in the understage, so usually filled with the raucousness of contraptions. “Maybe one day, ah? Maybe. But first get that temper under control. You think I’m hard on you?” He arched a brow. “I work every actor harder than an ass.”
I tried not to snicker at that, then worked doubly so when I thought of how well the word fit Makham.
“And you do have the blood. A stock to be proud of. Something any of us Sullied would give all of our own souls for. But that doesn’t mean anything right now. Not today.” He cupped a hand to the cheek Makham had spit on, giving it a few gentle slaps. “One day though.” Khalim rose, turning to leave.
“Wait.” I reached out for him unconsciously, catching myself in the act and pulling my hand back. “You were going to tell me about my parents?” I failed to keep the plea out of my voice, hearing it crack at the end like a pane of glass under stone.
Khalim didn’t face me, keeping his gaze fixed down the hall. “You struck Makham, one of my performers. Ari, I like you, but that can’t pass. Makham will talk. You know how he runs his mouth. I can’t have my actors thinking some whip of a boy can get away with that. If any of them leave. Any. I am ruined. You’re going to bed without food. I’ll tell you about your parents another time … if you behave. Ji-ah?”
I didn’t answer, looking down to my bare feet and wriggling my toes. No response came to me no matter how hard I tried to find one. He’d denied me something every sinew inside me screamed for. All I had ever gotten was little snippets of my parents, usually the same old bits of how they’d given me up. Worse if Makham or the other actors were around.
Moisture welled along my eyes, forcing me to blink them shut. The tears ran along my face down the same path Makham’s spittle had. I sniffed and brought my shirt to my face a second time, wiping with the knowledge I’d end up dirtier for it than if I left my cheeks alone.
I don’t know if you’re aware of what it’s like to be deprived of your past, your parents. The idea that there is nothing connecting you to anyone in this world apart from your work. There is a certain hollowness, singular and all encompassing, that fills you. The notion that you are all that is—nothing more—and when you’re not much on your own, it’s a rather crushing thing.
I didn’t know my family name. I couldn’t remember my parents’ faces—their voices. No memories of their touch, what they smelled like. It was like I existed for the sole purpose of running the understage. I was born to scurry beneath a world of imagination and storytelling, eternally deprived of the opportunity to ever be part of it. Only to watch, listen.
A knot formed in my stomach, drawing my attention to a different kind of emptiness. I pressed a hand to my abdomen. I’d run myself ragged working the understage, and the adrenaline had finally passed, bringing to light my hunger. All of which would go unassuaged now.
I cleared my throat and stifled my sniffling. A bone-deep weariness took over, urging me to head to bed and end the night. It seemed the practical thing to do. After all, we’re all spared the hardness of the world and its pains when we sleep. And our gnawing hungers follow.
My appetite plus the chastisement reminded me just how small I was. And the understage only served to accentuate that as I moved through it.
The ceiling sat far enough out of reach that it would take at least six of me standing on top of each other to brush my fingertips against it. Each piece of stone, unlike the next and mortared irregularly, was larger than my skull. Every contraption meant to add to a performance stood a beastly thing beside my rail-thin body. It was as if everything inside the place was meant to drive home just how pitifully tiny I was in comparison. How insignificant.
Just like Makham said. Just like Khalim had implied; maybe not by intent, but he’d done so nonetheless.
I shook my head clear of the thoughts, making my way to the farthest wall. None of the contraptions needed for my job littered this space. I’d kept it meticulously clean. Well, as clean as possible.
A series of wooden beams protruded from cracks in the stone flooring, held in place by cement that had been unceremoniously dumped into the holes. Flat planks ran across the tops of the pillars and created a crude scaffolding. No ladder or construction marked out a clear way to climb it.
Countless nails, each thicker than a man’s pointer finger, lined one of the wooden beams. I’d collected them—which is to say, stolen—from excess stage materials Khalim had bought. Hammering them into the beams had taken me a considerable bit of effort and time in having to go through bricks. They tended to fail under the repeated stress of driving a nail into thick wood. Scrounging up more had been a sizeable part of the endeavor.
But in the end, I had my place. A part of the understage free from anyone. Somewhere safe and all to my own. Out of reach.
I grabbed hold of one of the nails, wincing as it flexed within the wood. My body told me I was undernourished of late. The shifting piece of metal told another story. I clambered up the makeshift rungs, blotting out the acute spots of pain from where the edges of the flat heads dug into my tender heels. It didn’t get easier no matter how many times I’d done it. And my feet had refused to build up the calluses that would have spared me. I slapped my hands to the platform and climbed atop, rolling onto my back.
A low sigh of relief passed through my lips. The bars of tension that had formed through my back and arms slowly softened. The momentary reprieve from the pain and stiffness left me with no delusions. I knew I’d be sore as a pack mule the next morning. But for now, I had peace.
Thin bands of pain across my face, still stinging, reminded me that it was a hard-won peace. I inhaled and let myself nurse dark thoughts of Makham as my eyes turned to the window nestled above. The twin panes of glass sat neatly within the dark wall. A lip, almost a full foot in length, protruded from where the window rested. The temptation took hold of me to get to my feet and grab hold of the edge. A little more effort and I could look out and catch a bit more of the outside.
Of a world I barely knew and, according to some, I would never get to see any more of than a fleeting glimpse.
Fatigue won out over temptation and I rolled to my side in defeat. I grabbed an old pair of grain sacks, each longer than me by a foot. I had found each of them by the far exit to the theater over a month ago. They weren’t terribly comfortable, sinking in places as I shifted in the night. And without anything keeping their mouths properly sealed, they were prone to puffing out clouds of soot and sawdust. The odd bits of hair trimmings and fabric scraps would occasionally find their way free as well. I wasn’t burdened with an abundance of proper stuffing for the makeshift mattresses.
Satisfied that I’d placed both of them close enough together to prevent me from slipping into their pinched ends, I eased myself onto the sacks. My hand went to the side, brushing against coarse wall as I fumbled blindly for my blanket. The patchwork of discarded clothing caught against my pinky. I snatched it, pulling it over myself. The cloth’s hem tickled my ankles, and no amount of shuffling or kicking would ever make it so it would cover the ends of my feet. The next sigh I released came from resignation, not weary relief.
But, I’d returned to my true home now. The home within the understage—my bed. My place of dreams and where I could run errant and free in worlds not bound by my birth, caste, and the crushing weight of the opinions of others who never cared to know me better than what they saw me as.
For some of us, the only true safety we have is in our dreams.
My bed was a place I could escape to any world in. Any legend, myth, or adventure. There were no bars here.
My eyes drifted back to the window, but I shut them. A different promise drowned out the one of the outside. The idea that tomorrow was another day, one where I could possibly impress Khalim. A perfect performance could be all that led me from the understage to the theater itself. I lost myself in the thought, and just before a dream could coalesce around the comforting idea, a sharp sound tore me away from it all.
Another crack, like a thin, flat stone against glass.
Something was at my window.
NINE
A PROMISE OF A STORY
There’s a certain kind of fear that comes to all children in the middle of the night. It’s an unseen hand of ice that takes hold of your heart. The kind of cold that spreads through the rest of you until you chill entirely. It’s the unknown something that lurks just outside your reach, and with but a step, it can take you. The shapeless fear that a child’s mind can all too quickly give monstrous form to.
