7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Astrid
Nymia’s smooth skin rubs against my left thigh, the chill of it seeping into my leggings with each step. Her wooden hooves clomp loudly against the cobblestones that lead to the wall that separates this district from the market. Chirping peanaria birds chase behind the sprites, dropping purple and pink feathers as they waddle to the tree line. The road ahead fades into a black blur against the glowing moss that clings to the apex of the dome.
With each step the ever-looming presence of the wall gets bigger. Overgrown grass pokes up between rotting leaves littering the ground. Unclaimed land that hasn’t been cared for in decades surrounds the road on either side. The trees are lush with spring green leaves. Dead and withered foliage decay at each tree's roots. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose a piece of yourself and be surrounded by it, unable to reclaim it. Suddenly I pity the trees. I wonder how different this place would look if its original people stayed. In Primary School, I was taught that the city existed long before humans lived here. Whatever may have happened to the original inhabitants… no one knows, or they’re not allowed to share their theories of a long-debated argument. King Daemon outlawed it long ago after fights broke out and threatened the districts. Anything that threatens his control over the city is ended swiftly.
Papa has been silent since this trip started. His eyebrows knit together, lost in the thoughts so clearly written across his face as we travel. Even if I were to ask, he would brush me off. So, not wanting to miss a thing my first time traveling to a new district I keep my eyes on the scenery and my thoughts to myself. I’ve never traveled down the cobblestone main street before today. It is the only road that leads through the entire city. As we get closer to the gate, the wall takes form, slanted grooves mar the surface as it comes into focus and grows. The same tool marks scour the domed outer wall and something blue sways in the wind. I squint my eyes to get a better look as we trot closer. It's a small cloth triangle strewn up between two trees. I gasp quietly as a woman pokes her head out of the flap.
“What’s with the tent?” I murmur, shifting in my saddle to face the woods, scanning in between each tree. My eyes lock on a small cluster of maybe five tents, and confusion rattles through me.
“They’re homeless,” Papa says, his voice solemn, and a larger more colorful cluster of tents pop up in the trees as we move further down the road.
“They could be helping the farm. We can give them a home,” I insist, knowing with the assistance of this many people we could make tithe without issue. All we need is a couple of extra sets of hands. The road widens as if to welcome us to the gate that will lead us to the next leg of our journey, but nothing could have prepared me for what I see as we approach. Lining the black stone wall separating the Farm from the Market in both directions are tents scattered down the land like a village. Where one ends, another begins. There are so many that they pour over one another. Some of them look to be made from old clothing or bedding. Others are proper tents meant for camping. People mill about, many smudged with dirt and soot, their clothes holey and stained. A community fire crackles with bright embers as women sit around it, helping each other mend clothes or cook while children run amuck brandishing sticks like swords.
“Each has their own story but oftentimes they were traveling with the King’s permission. Lost track of time and their travel pass expired and they were unable to leave. Or, the King canceled their travel papers, leaving them stranded away from their family. However it happened, they are stuck, kept from either leaving the city or getting back to the district they call home.”
“Do they know of the illness?” I screw up my eyebrows, bunching them together and mimicking Papa’s earlier expression as I observe the unwashed, and maskless. Ensuring to keep my distance, I become hyper aware of how my breath collects uncomfortably in my mask. My hands hover near the elastic bands that dig into the back of my ears. I can’t help wondering how they’ve escaped the illness for this long.
“They are aware, but they don’t care, they just want to go home,” Papa says, keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard.
“The extra hands would be helpful for the harvest. The district is so short-handed , their help would be welcomed with open arms. They could find a home here.” I bounce in my saddle with excitement. This is the answer to our problems, with the help of the homeless, we won’t have to ask the King for help. We could do this on our own.
“The ones I’ve spoken to hope to find a way through the gate one of these days.” He shakes his head. “I made them that offer every morning when the plague started to spread. They refused each time.”
My eyes grow wide, my jaw slackens. How can they say no to the safety of a roof over their heads in hopes of getting back through the gate? The thought makes me pause, it’s unheard of. But I understand wanting to go home, and they’ve built a community here. I don’t blame them for holding on to what once was. I would want the same thing if I was in their position. Most of the children are so skinny, their ribs protrude and show through their worn shirts. I make a mental note to start bringing them food. They might not join the community, but they’re just as stuck here as everyone else. Times are hard and kindness goes a long way. Besides, Embla is going to love having this many people to cook for.
A guard exits the small brick guardhouse situated against the wall next to the gate. The structure shakes as the red door slams shut behind him.
“Can I help you, milord?” the guard asks gruffly as he approaches, not bothering to remove his helmet that covers the lower part of his face.
“I would appreciate it if you removed your helmet while speaking to the Lumin of the district you are stationed in,” Papa’s voice takes on the authority of his position.
The guard fumbles with the leather strap under his chin before yanking his helmet off, revealing dark brown hair shaved on the sides and long on top. The regulation haircut for an imperial guard.
“Apologies, Lumin.” The guard bows. “Please don’t call the Shadow Guards,” his voice quivers.
“We must cross and do so quickly,” Papa says, ignoring his plea. He won’t call the Shadow Guards. Everyone in Demendia hates them and he is not excluded from that. Papa hands the guard an envelope sealed with black wax, the King’s crest of three golden roses squished into its surface. I don’t understand why the districts have to be sealed off from each other. I can understand closing us off from the magic and danger of the outside world but not from each other. The guard nods before turning on his heel. He stumbles over his feet, scrambling to recover before he sprints to the guard house.
The iron chains holding the drawbridge in place are thicker than my arm and clank ominously as they sway through the air. The area becomes oddly quiet as the homeless stop to stare. Anxiety cracks through my body, a heaviness settling around me growing with each person that gathers. Curiosity glimmers in the bystanders’ eyes as people continue to collect around our party of two. I wonder if they’re going to ask us for help. Each person looks as if they want to beg us to take them away from here. When I meet their gaze, those watchful eyes dart away each time I turn to them. What are they planning?
The guard returns. The envelope bears a second seal. A woolly cow face has been squished into green wax—the Farm District’s seal. The black seal now broken, Papa shoves the envelope into his pocket. The people around us have become a crowd. A crowd that will break the law and risk execution if they could see their families again, I’m sure.
“We’re going to push the crowd back,” a new guard says approaching from the shack, the gold pins that line his shoulders mark his position as station commander. A squad of at least twenty guards barge out of the small guardhouse.
“I didn’t know that many could fit in there,” I mutter under my breath, and Papa kicks my boot before shooting an unamused glare in my direction. I can imagine the frown that is plastered under the mask hiding the lower part of his face. The guard’s stomp in unison as they move to create a half circle with their bodies, positioning themselves between us and the crowd. The drawbridge creaks and groans as it starts to lower. The crowd inches closer as the bridge comes down, the sound of rushing water accompanied by wooden wheels rattling against cobblestone, and voices filter through the opening, some louder than others.
“Warm muffins!”
“Fresh Obu!”
The shouts of the merchants overlap, piercing the air as one. Underneath the chatter of Market District, patrons trickle down the street, passing the gate, becoming more and more visible with each inch it lowers. The crowd of homeless inches forward with every second, and panic begins to rise inside of me. There are enough homeless to overpower the guards trying to grant us safe passage. My eyes don’t leave the crowd that has cornered us against the gate. They press against the guards, some flail their arms trying to distract the guards while someone else attempts to weaken the guard line that holds them back. A shout echoes from the back of the crowd. Surprise flits through me as the sea of people parts. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry as a group of men carrying makeshift weapons take their places. One in front of each guard, their weapons poised to strike. What’re they doing? Trying to force their way through the gate? That’ll only lead to more executions in Mortis Square.
A battle cry sounds, but I’m not sure if it came from the guards or from the armed homeless. I don’t know if I should be pulling out my dagger or hiding behind Nymia. It doesn’t matter when the fighting starts. I want nothing more but to join in the fight and help the homeless get home, but I have my own problems to confront. Clangs reverberate through the air, and it vibrates with every meeting of swords. The protective circle of guards fights against them, holding back the men that press down on Papa and me. This is nothing like I thought it would be. There’ll be a slaughter when we leave. There is no mercy in the eyes of the soldiers or the homeless.
“Go. Go. Go,” the station commander shouts, waving his hands to usher us across the bridge. My heart pounds in my throat as the drawbridge is still a few feet away from touching the ground. Nymia’s wooden hooves make a hollow thunk with each rushed step. Shouts rumble behind me, they sound close. I know better but I still make the mistake of looking back. Hoping to see no blood was spilled, but instead one of the homeless runs an old, rusted pitchfork through the station commander’s chest. Blood splatters, staining the bridge.
My eyes grow wide as I meet the station commander’s gaze, unable to look away from seeing the last twinkle of life drain from his eyes before his body drops. Not even a twitch of life left. I've never seen someone die before. A panicked need to help mixed with sadness overwhelms me, but I can’t stay here.
“Get off the damn bridge. Hurry!” The rest of the guards scream before the sound of rushing water gets louder, filling my head as it cuts me off from the chaos behind me. I refuse to look back again and make the same mistake twice. Quickly, I cross over the river, the same water that flows a steady stream through the farm district bringing clean water to the community herds. Nymia hesitates before she jumps off the already lifting bridge.
Wooden hooves hit cobblestones, and I send a silent prayer of thanks to whoever is looking out for me. I watch the gate rise quickly, closing with a dull thud. Leaving the chaos locked away in the Farm District.
The warm, yeasty smell of fresh bread and vanilla floats in the air with an undercurrent of urine. I scrunch my nose when I recognize the scent, wishing I didn’t. The cacophony of voices mixed with the smells is overwhelming as it engulfs me.
“Whoa,” I breathe, my eyes roving up the large buildings that take up every available space leaving the streets between them narrow. I crane my neck, following the buildings up, they nearly scrape the apex of the dome with their flat roofs.
“Skyscrapers, carved from the onyx of Mt. Egarl like the walls,” Papa says smiling, I can feel his eyes watching me as wonder fills me like a breath of fresh air. I’ve never seen buildings this tall before. I don’t want to take my eyes off them, I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. Glowing moss clings to the sides of the buildings, lighting the cobblestone roads with their glow. Merchants with carts, and patrons add to the hubbub of the street. I know we're on a mission but as much as I try to stay focused, the need to explore is unrelenting. I want to go into each of the skyscrapers to find the secrets they hold. But I don't want to become one of the homeless. Stuck in another district waiting for a chance to see our family again. That’s not going to happen, no matter how badly I want to veer off course.
“Get out of the way!” A man with a four horse drawn cart swerves. The cart tips up on two wheels as it barely misses Nymia.
“Sorry!” my shout is lost in the crowd as I raise my hand. The merchant shakes his fist, following it with a raised middle finger, still moving down the road faster than the traffic's mellow flow. I spur Nymia forward, matching the pace of those surrounding me. Papa easily stays close as we continue down the street.
“Cinnamon buns! Fresh cinnamon buns!” shouts a passing older lady with blonde hair beginning to gray at her scalp. She struggles to push the weight of her cart down the street but I'm surprised she can push it at all with the weight from the built-in brick oven. The chimney is taller than she is. I have never seen anything like it. A small fire smolders within, illuminating the lines across her face as she opens the thick, metal door. The smell of cinnamon and butter assaults my nose even at this distance, and she pulls out a pan covered in cinnamon rolls. Placing them on her cooling rack, she moves on along the street. I can’t help it as my eyes follow the old woman, my mouth watering at the thought of biting into one of her buns.
“No one here is wearing masks?” I ask hesitantly, not wanting to ask a question I’m not supposed to.
“There is no illness in the Market District. It hasn’t reached this district yet. They aren’t forced to wear masks like those of us who live in the Farm District.” I don’t know how to respond, instead I turn back to the elderly woman who coats the rolls in icing as she walks, hollering again about her sale. “Two cinnamon buns for two silvers!” The icing glistens in the mosslight, and I can’t stop my stomach from rumbling loudly. Embarrassment is warm as it creeps up my neck.
“Hungry?” Papa’s lips quirk into a smile, his gaze tracking mine. My stomach gurgles again in response. Laughter bursts out of us simultaneously, Papa clutches his middle as his deep belly laugh fills the air and spurs on my own giggles. “That answers that question,” he says between chuckles. He approaches the vendor buying two warm cinnamon buns with two silver coins he pulls from his pocket.
He returns and hands me the warm sticky pastry, and the sprites resume their walk. I take my first bite. I moan involuntarily at how good the sticky sweetness tastes.
Mouth full of my last bite, I return to gawking at the skyscrapers as we move through the district. There are so many of them, each identical to the other. The only difference I can see is how the moss chooses to grow on each of the buildings. I can’t help but wonder how they got here, and who carved them from the mountain. Why would someone want to make something so tall?