Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Dahlia
I dream about Maple and wake up crying.
Sleep is intermittent, the gaps filled with feeding and tending to Spero, but as I swing the door open at first-light, and peer down the long, carpeted corridor, it becomes apparent the other occupants are not early risers.
Which explains the noises from last night, moans and giggles, squeaking beds and the thumps of feet passing my door.
During one of my night feeds, I explored the supplies Tomar provided, enough canned food for a week and another huge, shapeless black shirt like the one I woke up in. I presume they are his so I only plan to sleep in them, not wear them out. I have two pairs of pants and a modest shirt-dress. Then again, being attractive is not a priority.
On an exciting note, I realised I could use my linen neck wrap, typically used to shield me from the weather, as a carrier for Spero.
Feeding it over one shoulder and under one arm, I can slide Spero in at my chest and have full use of my hands. It’s not ideal for the desert, not with the Redwind, but it’s perfect for the crisp and steady atmosphere here at The Bite.
With Spero secure and well-fed, I close the bedroom door behind me and head down the corridor after convincing myself all night that I would explore and find supplies.
An entire month here, perhaps, and I do not want to rely entirely on Tomar or, worse still, Lagos.
The floor creaks as I pass other doors, heading toward the end where an open stairwell appears to lead downward. So, I’m not on the ground. I have no memory of getting here yesterday, meaning I don’t know what to expect.
I take the stairs and when my foot hits the floor at the bottom an opening to my left leads down four ceramic mosaic steps into a ruby-hued room with tables and chairs, but I can’t see further inside from here. To my right— Oh , I know exactly where I am. I recognise the small grey door and the lovely, jewellery-adorned woman standing at a tall desk.
The pretty House Girl I met yesterday leans over the stone counter, her bulbous cleavage spilling out for the man she is speaking to like an offering and not a subtle one.
The man is scary. Rotund. Light from outside reflects along the smooth, white surface of three parallel scars on his cheek. Perhaps claw marks from an animal or nails from a woman. I squirm, discomfort rising in my legs. I’m not a prude, or maybe I am, but not voluntarily. Being pure and sweet are part of my Trade.
I clear my throat as I approach. “Hello,” I say, and they stop talking.
“You!” She turns toward me while a smirk builds on the rugged man’s face, his abundance of cheek lifting. “I didn’t know it was you Lagos carried in here yesterday.” Her brow rises on Spero. “That baby best not keep me up.”
You’re up anyway.
Smart-mouthed retorts build along my tongue, but I simply smile. “He won’t.”
I walk through the grey door and out into the empty streets. First-light dew clings to the walls and drips down white spikes that lance from the cave ceiling.
The Bite is a ghost town at this hour. As I cross the stony path, I find myself walking toward the Exchange Hub with sick curiosity spurring me onward.
Pieces of wood are nailed from frame to frame, making entering or opening the Hub impossible. I try to shake the pit of guilt my mind wants to drag me into. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t murder anyone. I press my hand to the wooden slat and test the structure for possible weakness.
“Miss him?” Lagos’ amused voice drifts down my spine.
I clench my teeth and force my legs away from the building, embarrassed. Guilty, also, that I was considering what might be inside.
Then something comes over me, annoyance too consuming to fight, and I spin around to face him. “Are you following me?” I want to say that I felt him the other day at the cove, watching me. That I know he must have followed me to the Hub.
“I have fond memories at this Hub.” He looks at me, bored. “Just yesterday, I butchered an Endigo here. You’re welcome.” Looped over his arm is a heavy wire, similar to the zipline. He is dressed in blue denim jeans with rips at the thighs and an open black shirt that showcases rows and rows of tattooed abdominal muscles.
I swallow and snap my gaze up to his eyes. “You have no respect for life.” Shaky legs lock me still while my neck cranes to hold his near-black gaze. “Why? What happened to you?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Your baby will kill hundreds of men and women when he is a man. Far more than me if The Trade gets a hold of him.”
“Why did you interfere then? Why help us?” I ask, feeling my brows furrow. I hardly recognise the strength in my soft voice. “Did you think I was Maple? What do I owe you for this?
“Nothing.”
I shift nervously as he approaches. He doesn’t merely walk, displaying a gait more predatory, powerful and smooth.
“Then, why?”
He gets too close for comfort. “I went there for the Shadow baby,” he whispers, deathly quiet like his lips are right in my ear. “Not you.”
“But—" I stammer, and step backward. Need space. Air. “You told Tomar to kill Spero. You want to kill him. Why not let the Endigo do it?”
“I draw the line at cannibalism.” He smirks. “No matter how annoying the food on the menu is.”
I swallow. “He was not going to eat u?—"
“Are you so sure?”
Cupping the back of Spero’s head, I seek comfort. “He said he wouldn't harm me.”
“Oh, I didn’t know he said that.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” I ask, genuinely shocked that he would be. “I didn't consider you to be someone who uses sarcasm.”
“So you consider me?”
“What?” Embarrassment stabs at my temples. “No. I don't. He didn’t deserve to be ripped apart, that is all. He was born that way. Just like Spero and you. Just because he is hard to look at?—"
“No, little girl.” Lagos crosses his thick arms over his chest, biceps bulging beneath his hands. “You were born this way. He’s an abomination, and so is the Shadow baby.”
There is no emotion in his voice.
“And you?” My lower lip wobbles. Never in my life have I been this argumentative, but this Xin De male gets under my skin. “Some kind of supreme being? I don't care what you have seen in the desert or what you do willingly to survive. There is no excuse for kill?—"
His huge hand grabs my face, cuts my sentence off, and squeezes my lips to a puckering bow.
“There will come a time, little Lace Girl, while I'm babysitting you across the Great Waste to your Common Community that you'll beg me to kill for you.” He steps closer. My body vibrates below his, reacting to strange energy between us, and Spero starts to cry. “You'll breathe with heavy relief, might even wet your knickers, when you hear bones snap, knowing they are not yours.”
As I search his gaze for empathy, for a glimmer of humanity, I get lost in empty pits of darkness and hatred.
“Never,” I whisper.
“We'll see.” He drops my face like a scorching ember and strides past me toward the docks, calling out, “Stay away from that Hub, Lace Girl. What you’ll see inside will give you nightmares.”
I watch him walk toward the dock at the end of the path, mulling over his words. He means the man is still inside. Will someone clean up? If this were a Trade community then a member would be out to take care of this.
Who does that here?
With a sigh, I turn from him and decide to keep my distance where possible. I don’t like the way he makes me feel, not at all.
I’m… intrigued by him. What makes his life meaningful? He obviously cares for Tomar, so he’s not… void. I don’t want to hate him. If I can only see a tiny piece of kindness, a moment of compassion, then I feel I might be able to see past his cruelty. See good in him.
Oh, my. I grip my forehead.
Flustered, I set off at a steady pace.
I spend the rest of the day slowly searching the outskirts of The Bite. Whenever I see people, I head down a path, keep to the quiet corners and shadowed pockets.
If Spero is as special as implied, I feel a discreet presence is what is best, but I won’t sit in a room for a month.
If Tomar can pick his Purpose, then maybe I can, too. Can’t I?
Thoughts about my new life roll in my mind as I wander. I am following a rocky ledge that cuts straight to the water when I see an old dinghy. Inside, matted nets and tangled pots are stacked carelessly.
Stepping closer, I peer in and see a plastic bottle battered and bent from its life on the ocean floor. I blink at it, getting an idea. If I fill it with shells and rocks, it will make a little rattle.
Spero makes a gurgling sound, so I cup the back of his head before reaching for the bottle.
“That’s not yours.”
I straighten to find an old man limping toward me, his hands tremor in front of him. He is wearing a plain shirt that was perhaps once white. His jeans are covered in muck from fishing and black suspenders hang like two twin loops at his thighs. “That’s my bottle.”
I gape at him. “It’s trash.”
He lifts a bushy grey brow at me, sceptical. “Is it?”
“There are little holes all over it.” I wave at it. “You couldn’t put liquid in it.”
“Still mine. Still not yours.” The old man hobbles to the boat, clambering in, his hands convulsing.
I stare at him, feeling sorry for whatever makes his body vibrate like his veins are frenzied. With convulsing fingers, he starts untangling the net.
He struggles, grumbling to himself. His bitterness runs deep. I bet he didn’t even look at the bottle, or me, or Spero. He is too blinded by some kind of resentment he holds.
I cringe as I watch him trying to direct the net and weave the tails around. The knots are tight, water and salt logged. The thin, stiff rope is erratically webbed by a wild ocean.
Even though he won’t let me have the bottle, sadness slides through my chest. I’m not bitter. I am not hardened by The Cradle, so I really see his situation. Understand it.
I sit on the lip of the old, metal boat without looking at him because I am sure he hates that and start on the other end of the net.
He grumbles. “What you doin’?”
“Helping you.”
A sneer curls his lips. “Why?”
I shrug, the word lonely bouncing in my mind, but he doesn’t need to hear it. Maybe I’ll be helpful, so maybe one day, when another girl asks him for something, he won’t turn her away. He’ll see them as a real person who needs something that he does not.
“I can’t exchange! I got no trade for you. Go away.” He tries to tug the net from my hands. Even though I’m small, my dexterity is fine, so I keep the rope between my fingers.
I don’t look at him as I fuss with the salt-locked webs. “I won’t ask for anything.” Ignoring him and his dubious gaze, I hum to Spero as I work.
Quietly, I sing.
“Good first-light, to you, my Collective and friend. We head to the ocean, it's days there we spend. Though the Redwind is howlin' with a fist full of sand. We prefer it's hard slapin' to The Trade Master's hand.”
I smile at Spero’s gurgling, then turn my chin and look around the curtain of my red hair to the old man. He is watching us, frozen in thought. A blank expression has softened his sneer.
“You’re from the Half-tower?”
I nod stiffly.
“And the infant?”
Not willing to answer, I return my attention to the net and continue weaving with my fingers around the knots.
“You Trade Fisher?”
“No.” I throw a piece of net to the side, needing to untangle a section further down the line to loop it back. “I accompanied one.”
“Accompanied? You’re not…” I hear him lean back, the boat creaking, as if realisation shoved him to his spine. “You’re a Lace Girl. Damn. My sense of smell is rot, or I would have smelt that La Mu shit.”
“Shit?”
“No.” His voice has softened. Hostility dwindling. “Nice smell,” he offers. “Wish I could smell it. Salt burnt my nostrils. There ain’t nothing left in there.”
“Can you still taste?” I ask.
“Not much,” he grunts.
“That’s a shame. Food is one of life’s great experiences. At least, that is what my friend used to say.” What Maple used to say.
“Yep. It’s a shame,” he says, turning back to his side of the net.
A little smile touches my lips.
While we work like this for many minutes, my mind rolls, entertaining me with ideas and memories. I remember Maple talking about great experiences. Food. Soap. Friendship. And, apparently, sex, but she was never meant to discover that.
It's not for Lace Girls.
It is for Trade men.
She wasn’t meant to change her tea, so the Deep Sleep didn’t come, and feel what it was like to relieve a man. ‘Like exploding while peeing,’ she said. Which sounds awful, not lovely, and that is why we Sleep. The man can be himself throughout, enjoy us without fear of judgment, and we exist without impure or uncomfortable memories.
Or worse—egos.
Like the House Girls have.
But… But what if the Lace Girl enjoys it? Like Maple does—did.
Why can’t she lie with him while awake, show him her desire? Is that not healing and soothing?
Does this break boundaries? I wish I had someone to ask, but the House Girls have no interest in getting to know me.
Can I make a friend?
With my hand working on the net, I gaze over at the old man. Is there an age limit or gender exclusivity on friendship? I haven’t interacted with men much, but I like him; his softer side makes me smile.
Spero suddenly hiccups and then starts to cry. So I quickly finish the last knot and stand. “I have to go feed him. Thank you for letting me help.”
The man doesn’t look up, but I swear I see his eyes droop. “Very well.”
“I can come back tomorrow.” I swirl my finger along Spero’s back as he cries, trying to distract him. “I could help with the pots. They need new ties.”
“No,” he grunts.
My heart twinges. “Oh, okay.”
I hide the rejection that buckles my brows, turning and heading toward the main path that cuts upward from the docks.
The House is about halfway up on the other side of the stone path. The girl from yesterday and another with blonde hair cross in front of me, eyes following my gait, mouths gossiping.
“That’s the Lace Girl. Lagos said she is off limits.” I hear as I dart to the side she came from.
“A Lace Girl, really ?” She sniggers. “Aren’t they like pets?”
Yeah, a friend would be nice.
I do my best to ignore them and keep walking. I can see the edge of the fence line peeking out from behind another rocky dwelling.
“Here!”
I spin to see the old man hobbling toward me with the crumpled bottle in his shaky hand. “I don’t know what you want it for, but—” He starts talking, and I beam as he places it roughly into my palm. “I used to be a Trade Fisher, and that was a Trade. This is yours. Meaningful Purpose is a virtue. You can take the man out of The Trade, but you can’t take The Trade out of the man.”
“For a rattle,” I admit, smiling.
“Huh?”
“I’m going to make a rattle.”
I think he smiles at that, as if he likes the idea, but it’s such a flash expression it disappears as quickly as his attention. He is turning and leaving me standing in the middle of the main path before I can ask him again if I can visit tomorrow. He might sift more trash from the ocean floor, and I can find more treasures.
“Thank you again!” I call out to his limping form, and he waves his hand in a kind of shooing motion. I am a fly, and he is playing the bitter old man.
Right, I get it.
I press my chin to my chest, staring at Spero, whispering, “Tomorrow, we will need to find out his name.” The infant fusses and squirms. “I think he likes us.”
Then, an engine rumbles to life. Movement catches my eye. A stream of salt-kissed air from the docks mingles with smoke and oils. I gaze toward the commotion instinctually, my attention captured.
At the foot of the path, the catamaran bumps the jetty a few times before slowly drifting from the edge, heading away from The Bite.
Tomar is correcting the zipline, but Lagos is a large, looming form at the rear. Statue still. Narrowed, black eyes cut from the bottle in my hand to the direction the old man walked and back again.
I didn’t steal it…
If that is what he thinks.
Easing away from the massive Xin De male’s tangible gaze, I stride to The House, ignoring the pulsing energy that seems to stir whenever his attention is aimed at me.
* * *
As I wander downstairs the next day, two men are waiting in a line. The House Girl and the man from yesterday are at the counter again, but this time, his hand is gripping her wrist, and she is trying to tug it free.
“Listen here, bitch?—”
Then he sees me. He stops, the hate and hunger within his leer slither down my body, making me shudder. His eyebrow rises when he sees Spero, and his slow grin churns my stomach.
She grabs his face in her hands, redirecting his gaze. Her heavy-lidded eyes and sweet, inaudible words compelling him.
I dart past them.
It’s none of my business and nothing unusual. I often saw men bothering House Girls in the Half-tower. Men display little restraint with them. Desire flares to the surface. Unlike with my Trade, where they ignore us. We belong to one man, while a House Girl belongs to no man.
After a small stroll around the town, I trace my steps back to the rocky ledge behind the main walkway.
As I approach the dinghy, the old man is already pulling in a load of fish from his first-light adventures on the ocean. My Ward would leave at night, take on the seas in the dark, and return just before crown-light. So, I was right in assuming the old man did the same, given his Trade background.
Stopping behind him, I say, “I made the rattle. I used shells and a few rocks. He likes it. So, what’s your name?” I inadvertently jig, bouncing Spero on my chest. I look the old man over. He is in the same clothing, though his suspenders are pulled over his shoulders, and his shirt seems to have been cleaned.
“Tide.”
I knew he would have a geographical name; most Trade members do. Unlike Xin De men and women of importance, they have city names from the old-world, while some girls like me are flowers. “Can I call you Tide?”
“Well, that’s my name,” he grunts, hunched over in the boat with his back to me, sorting the fish into different buckets.
“I know.” I sit down on the ledge and cross my legs. “But some men prefer sir.”
“I am not a sir.”
I smile, and even though he didn’t ask, I introduce myself. “I’m Dahlia.”
“A flower, of course. What would you be doing now if you weren’t on the run, Dahlia?”
I might have been thrown by that assumption and question were it anyone else asking. For some reason, I feel comfortable with this grumpy old man. “How do you know I am on the run?”
“Everyone here is.”
So, that means he is also on the run—or was. I wonder why? But since he didn’t ask me what I am running from, I won’t ask him. “Well, I would be with my Collective, sewing or sleeping.”
“Sleeping?” He laughs once, a husky sound that vibrates around overused lungs. Then he stops, like the sound was painful to make. “At crown-light?”
I like his laugh; it is harsh and makes me smile a little harder. “I mean,” I shrug, unapologetic, “I like to sleep. Everyone does, really, or maybe it’s just… I miss it. I haven’t had much the past few days.”
“Well,”—he nods his head toward the net— “you gonna get down ‘ere and help me, or just sit there and watch me break my old back?”
I feel my lips curve even wider and climb to my feet. Cupping the back of Spero’s head with one hand, I brace the edge of the boat with the other. I climb in and get to work on the nets.
I catch a whiff of lemon from his shirt as I settle down beside him. “You smell nice.” I remember he has very little sense of smell, and he’s alone on this boat all day, so who is he grooming for today? “You might not know that, so I thought I’d mention it.”
“Smell like what?”
I inhale him again, and he pretends to be offended, leaning away. “Lemons and fish,” I answer him, picking up the net.
Tide huffs an amused sound. “I like lemons.”
I beam, happy to have a friend. “I like lemon and fish together, probably one of my favourite meals, and I used to?—”
A tremoring hand touches my arm, cutting me off mid-sentence. I peer over my shoulder at him, this close to him I can make out all his wrinkles, the lovely lines of age that many don’t get to wear.
“You’re a sweet girl,” he whispers, his face tight with seriousness. “You need to stop talking to strangers. Someone will take advantage of you. I heard what happened with The Fish. Got no Exchange Hub now ‘cause of it. Lagos and Tomar are still not back. People misbehave when they leave. That’s the only reason I’m letting you sit with me again.”
Taking a heavy breath, I mull over his warning, trying to understand each part. I want to know who The Fish is? He must mean the Endigo man. Did they call him The Fish? And what do Lagos and Tomar do when they leave? Probably get more runaways or supplies from the Half-tower. Then… are they in danger? If they don’t return because they have been shot, what will I do? But I mostly want to know why Tide doesn’t want me to sit with him ‘for any other reason.’
“The only reason?” I ask, pressing for a nicer response.
“Yep,” he grumbles, turning back to his net.
I swallow my silly sense of rejection and focus on the woven rope between my fingers. “Anyway, I wasn’t talking to strangers. I just wanted the bottle, and you were petty about it.”
He coughs another raspy laugh. “Petty?”
“Yes.” I nod, lifting my chin. “Today, I’ll have”—I scan the small metal vessel, from broken pots, to webbed lines, fish, and general rubbish until I see an old hand vanity with a cracked mirror. “I’ll take the mirror then as a trade. This is not a friendship, merely an exchange.”
“Take it.”
“Good.” I nod stiffly.
Taking hold of a pot, I begin to untangle it, thinking. A month is a long time to just sit around. Spero sleeps so much, and my room is so small it takes minutes to clean each day, so I need a Purpose. It feels utterly unnatural to exist without one. Risking a look at Tide, I watch him huff and grumble as he counts the fish. I know I’ve forced myself on him. It never occurred to me that he may truly want to be alone. I saw his bitterness as a facade, perhaps I read him wrong.
Or maybe I just need to try harder? It just seems… human to be social, but then, humanity is slipping away from our species, year by year. Still, I am Common and find myself desperate to engage.
I have never had to make friends before, not once. I was given my Collective and my Ward. I didn’t choose any of my companions, which has left me without the skills needed to form a friend-type relationship. I’d be happier here with someone to talk to, to confide in. It feels desperate and odd—forcing myself on people—but I don’t want to be alone.
I thought maybe Tomar would be around more, but he only drops things at my door, offers tiny conversation a few times, and then leaves.
“So, Tide, you’ve been around a long time,” I chirp, still keeping my tone bubbly. A groan of annoyance leaves him, almost tangible, but I decide to find it amusing instead of hurtful. “How do you make a… a friend-type relationship?”
“A what?”
I smile softly. “A friend.”
“Do I look like I know?”
“No,” I say. I stare back at the pots and sigh. “I guess not. If I find out, I’ll let you in on the secret.”
He laughs at that, a rattly old sound that almost causes a coughing fit. There is no way he is as bitter and dark as he makes out to be, not with a great laugh like that.
After a few hours, Spero starts to bumble at my chest. I grab the hand mirror and stand. “See-you tomorrow, Tide.”
This time he stops me before I leave the boat by saying. “You’re doing fine.”
His words have meaning, his tone gentle, and both warm my heart. “Fine at what?”
“You pay attention, and you offer something.” He doesn’t look at me as he works. “You did fine in making a friend. Some people don’t want it, remember that. I don’t want it. Some people just ain’t made of the right stuff for friendship. I ain’t.”
“How do I know who is?”
“You don’t, so you’ll probably end up gettin’ rejected, hurt, and that’ll shape ya. I’d hate to see that happen.”
He likes us, Spero.
“See-you tomorrow, Tide,” I say again, my tone sing-song and teasing, earning me a grunt from the old man in the boat.
My not-a-friend friend.