24: The Spark to Light a Bonfire

24

Lillian

Cedar holds me steady while thunderous feet shake the nursing bed. She is my anchor in this sudden storm. Lights flash - ice lightning shattering buildings and bones. But these lights are orange, not a cruel blue. 

My hand nestles in something fluffy. The stone walls blur as my gaze moves to observe the source. Tangled in Cedar’s copper curls, I did not register the movement of my hand. Her ears flick in all directions. She winces at a harsh shout. Languages overlap, voices screech over one another. The cave system carries a thousand echoes. The clicks and trills and guttural hisses unify in anger. ‘He with stainless hands’, ‘survivor of the soulless sea’, ‘devil in angel wings’. All I have heard before in relation to royalty; the King of Myan.

Cedar protests when I nudge her off me. The stitches binding my chest strain as I stand. The last of the mob trickles past the entrance: a hole in the wall with a sheer cloth nailed into the rock for privacy. I grab the lantern by the bed, its glow too soft to warm the cold metal. I push the cloth aside and follow the rumble of voices. Shivers threaten to pull my stitches apart but I press on with greedy curiosity. The protests have been more frequent; the last occurred a few days ago when the King relinquished the law against the possession of civilian weaponry. We who live here have grown side by side with hatred; neighbours prying eyes, stranger’s glances. We knew the only thing keeping us from spears in our hearts was a reluctant law. Now, it has been stripped away and we may be felled. Cedar’s hooves beat like hummingbird wings. She throws a shawl over my shoulders for a whisper of warmth and takes the lantern from me so we can hold hands. Light blossoms ahead. 

“Whatever it is, we will live with it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” First, weapons are made legal. The next step would be to justify the murder of groups the King feels threatened by. Groups like us. I’ve lived here a year; it can’t be taken away from me so soon; yet permanency feels futile and I can’t go home as much as my soul craves for the world above and for my family every day. 

The noise from ahead erupts, doom feels ever close. To hide in ignorance would not save me. I must know. Only in knowing can I hide.

“Lillian,” Cedar pulls me to a stop. Our hands are slippery from sweat. I release my tight hold and wipe my hand on the shawl. My head is burning up, though shivers still ripple through my chest. My wounds feel like they’ll eat me alive with the way they dig into my flesh. Cedar grabs my hand and holds it between her palms. I can’t meet her eyes.

“Mo ghrá, you are shaking,” her whisper somehow softens the storm ahead.

“It’s just shivers.”

“No.” Surprise brings my gaze from our hands to her face. She hardly ever says anything negative, even ‘no’ is a stretch. Behind all that emerald is so much depth. I can’t look away. She brings our hands to her chest where her heartbeat is light, yet steady.

“Whatever it is, we will surpass it. You and me. Galltan. Promise.” She rests one hand on my heartbeat. It reminds me of my first interaction with her; waking on her nursing bed, my cherished arm a throbbing memory, my life torn, yet her hand on my heartbeat and mine on hers to remind me of my permanency and the power that remained.  We stay like this; with the voices pattering like rain in the distance; until our hearts match in time. She lifts my hand to her lips, her kiss light as a brush. I try to catch her eye, looking for more, but she is always shy in her affection. She turns, my hand still clasped in hers, and holds the lantern aloft. A bright mass of lights shifts ahead. Underneath the cacophony, water drips and chimes but we leave the peace behind for whatever ugly creature hides in the anger culminating ahead.

It seems that everyone in Grot has awakened to gather in the auditorium: a massive space that erupts from smaller tunnels dotting its walls. Stalactites the size of houses spear from the shadowed ceiling and flattened stalagmites serve as backrests. Cedar rests my weight against one at the back of the cavern. Like a tiny glowing sea, hundreds of hands wave torches at our blackened sky, as if the fire could fly above and ignite their fears. Crumpled papers swim like white fish, held to a tunnel far above where the rock forms a balcony. Usually, our leader, Marja, stands there but the spot is empty, the tunnel beyond dark. 

Kenneth squeezes out of the sea and pulls his boyfriend, and Cedar’s brother, Ainwye, with him. They inhale as if the crowd really were a mass of water, then make their way towards us. Cedar squeezes my hand before she releases it and Kenneth slings his arm around me. We leave the siblings, our partners, to exchange words in their language.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Kenneth speaks in Kinionian, his deep voice just perceptible. 

“Everyone’s here, water waster. What’s going on?”

“Wrong use of that insult,” he grimaces, “and I’ll show you but if you start freaking out, you have to tell me.” He pulls a lump of paper from his apron’s pocket, just like those everyone lifts to the balcony. My pulse picks up. When the paper is mostly straightened, he looks at me and raises an eyebrow. I nod.

He flips the poster to reveal a werewolf carved in brutal lines. Teeth bared. Eyes crazed. Underneath the violent ink, in bleeding red paint, screams ‘Bounty: Award for the heads of monsters and unusual beings’. The inhuman eyes dig into mine. My breath hitches as I wonder if this is not a poster, but a mirror.

“What insult would have been better?” I manage to whisper, staring at the image and the promise of death that lies in the words. Knowing this would be the King’s next move doesn’t soften the dread I feel. This cavern feels like the stomach of a monster.

“Dumbass would’ve worked just fine but waste of water is actually perfect for this.” So I add volume to the roar with those words raw in my throat but the last traces of my voice sound more like a howl than a human shout and I collapse into Kenneth’s chest. 

“Are you freaking out?” Kenneth wraps his arms around me, his bare arms warm through the thin shawl.

“He’s actually done it. He’s actually justified our murder.” His shirt smells like coal and sweat. Its even threads blur and swirl. I pull away to look at him, to imprint today’s features in my brain. His eyes are bronze, the lashes tiny moth wings. His hair is the same as yesterday but speckled with brown feathers; long and dotted like an owl’s. He must be developing an interest in avian creatures. Could he fly away from here if he wanted? Or maybe Marja is sending him on more scouting missions. If she is, could he get caught? Killed? If an arrow pierced his heart, would he be brought back to me a bird or a human? Is a human even his true form? Does he have a true form? My fingers find a nest of feathers in his scalp, so smooth and soft. So much history and pain hidden in a body.

“I might lose you.” My words are likely lost in the noise, but he understands.

“I’m scared too.”

We hold each other, his warmth dispelling my shivers. When the shouts subside and I can hear his breath tingling against my neck, I know that Marja has arrived. The issue has been presented, now she will propose a collective solution. If I were in charge, I’d do whatever I could to protect us from the outside world: barricade our caves, erase any knowledge of our existence. Forget food, supplies and information. We can figure all of that out when we’re safe. 

I give Kenneth one last squeeze before turning to watch Marja’s small figure hobble to the centre of the balcony. One hand she raises, drawing everyone’s attention into her palm, the other holds a crutch and a rolled poster which crinkles under her weight. The roiling sea of light subsides and we wait to be stirred into action. A sound like distant wind surrounds the space, or maybe it is the echo of movement, as Marja shifts the poster to her other hand and leans against her crutch.

“I hear you,” her voice, though faded with age, reverberates through each person. This is always how she begins these assemblies. She lets the poster roll open and its eyes find me again. “I assume this is the cause of our gathering?” she is answered with a scatter of curses, “talk to me.”

“He knows we’re out here and he wants to get rid of us.” 

“Coward!”

“Monsters and unusual beings? He’s the monster.”

“Nothing good will come if we continue to hide. He’s treating us like prey because we act like it. It's time to show Zyrona our teeth. We need to step up and fight.”

Fight? The rallying cry meets a host of approval. I look around at our small community; most of us are old, physically abnormal or in some way disabled. If we could fight, what good would it do? We have no support. Displays of violence would only strengthen the outside world’s perception of us. Striking back is a sure way to get us all killed. We should stay where we are, as we are: safe in our shielded cave, disconnected from the rest of Zyrona. We can hope that the hunted find their way to us and the hunters remain ignorant of the monsters beneath their feet. If the hunters find us, there are deeper cave networks; they haven’t been explored due to a fear of what may lie within Zyrona’s crust but, if it comes to it, isn’t the unknown a better option than the mass executions we know would await us above? 

“Nothing good will come if we fight,” Marja reels in the turbulent energy, “though this cavern makes us look large, we are a small community. If we emerge with violence, we become the monsters they portray us as. Afterall, who here would be considered an unusual being?” She raises her hand high. One after another, we follow, speckling the darkness like stars. Cedar’s soft palm and Kenneth’s calloused hand paint the ceiling. I attempt to join them with my right arm when I remember it isn’t there. That event made me an unusual being. The room is shrouded in silent grief.

“We are bonded because of this. All of us unusual, cast out. We may be monsters, turned, experimented. We may have different views, looks, abilities. But above all, what we possess is community. That is something that can never be taken away.

“We cannot fight. All of Myan would be against us. We will continue to keep each other safe. We rebel just by existing. One day, there will be a time and place for us.” I lean into Kenneth, grateful for his presence in my life. Though Grot can be isolating, detached as it is from the rest of Zyrona, my partners have made this transition bearable. Marja’s voice comforts me, but when I look into Kenneth’s face his lips are pressed in a thin line and he shakes his head.

“When in history has anyone gotten what they wanted when they erased themselves from the world?” he mutters. The air is heavy with whispered conversations, yet, no one objects to Marja’s ruling. That is, until she turns to leave.

“Tara’s dead.”

Tara? Shock flares, spreading like watercolour. Tara headed our pamphlet, everyone knew her. She kept information flowing through the channels of Grot. She organised scouting missions to keep us wizened and safe. Without her, we are ignorant. Being who we are, ignorance is a white flag thrust in the face of death. If no one takes up her job, and soon, we could miss information that would save our lives and those connected to us. Even so, we are spread thin and her set of skills is hard to find.

Tara would have been out the same night as I. Cedar pulls me into her, sensing my worry. The stitches in my chest strain with a shuddering breath. What if whoever found her, caught me instead? For surely, she was killed. That is typically the fate for us here.

Who could take her role? They’d need social skills, dedication, time, the ability to read and write. When I was younger, I used to create ‘newspapers’ for my family as a fun joke. I can’t imagine doing that professionally. Before my incident, I planned to study in Xeoda to become a teacher. Now, any parent wouldn’t let me within a mile of their child. Tara used a typewriter for her pamphlets. I couldn’t operate one without my right hand. I’ve had to relearn everything; from eating to painting with my new dominant arm. Someone more capable will take her role. Someone established here. Someone who isn’t me.

Silence hangs over our bowed heads. Marja is rooted in space, her face crinkled with wrinkles. No one speaks up. I look around for suitable candidates. Cedar and Kenneth are out of the question with their hectic jobs. Ainwye could devote time, but he can’t write in Myan. Criona is nifty with her hands, she spends most of her time making and repairing clothes. She’s good at languages, although, I suppose that’s because I taught her. Pawel is friendly with everyone, people would listen to him, but I don’t think he could handle sensitive topics. My analysis bounces off heads. Each person has obstacles that cut them short of the task. Most of them already have a job that would be difficult to replace. 

“Someone will have to fill her role,” Cedar whispers. I nod and look at her, but she is already smiling at me. Her eyes flit from me to Marja and back again. I get what she’s suggesting; the idea that I could take her place has tickled the back of my mind. But my arm…and my status here…

“What about delivering your medicine? Or gathering ingredients? You need someone to do that-”

“Love, I can get anyone to do that, no offense.” She’s right, of course. And maybe I’m just delaying the obvious, but it's hard to believe that of all the people here, I’d be the most capable for Tara’s job. It’s foolish to think I could take her place. So maybe I can’t, maybe I can make something of my own. Something that keeps us connected and safe. All I need to do is speak up.

“I know I’m new here.” My voice is smothered under the weight of doubt, yet it carries in this great place. The sides of my mouth twitch as everyone swivels to face me, to wonder who in the lost sea wants to make a statement at a time like this. “Hi - um.” I shrivel away and fold into myself. Something nudges my back. I turn slightly and Kenneth lifts a thumb. If they believe in me, then why can’t I?

“I know I haven’t made my place, but in less than a year, every one of you has made me feel welcome. After I was…attacked, I never thought I would grasp anything close to normality again but here I feel safe, seen, heard. I don’t feel like a monster or an unusual being, despite what I grew up to believe; what many still believe. You changed what I thought of myself, of others, and of the world I live in.

“Tara made this change possible with her papers. Whenever I visited the market, her typewriter clicked off the cave walls and illuminated the place with music. She would look up and smile, or say something like ‘Jenna’s hens are having babies!’.” Fond laughter ripples through the room, its resonance gives me strength. “But she wrote more than hens and eggs. She kept us informed. She gathered information on the Cursed One’s progress and Matthias’ new decrees. Without her, we wouldn’t be able to dream of safety or of returning to our families. There would be no question of if we could protect ourselves from the Cursed One’s forces. The answer would be no. With her, it was maybe. We would have sat in our network of caverns full of guilt for who we are. We would hold no hope and hope is the spark that lights a bonfire.

“Tara’s job cannot burn out, someone has to carry the flame and paint the words we need to create more sparks. If you’ll have me, I would like to try.”

In a rush, like a steady inhale, I am enveloped in arms. The warmth of a dozen bodies chases the chill from my bones. Shock courses through me. I hadn’t expected this. No words are needed to express acceptance but still I hear murmurations around me; ‘thank yous’ and ‘please’. Tears prick at my eyes, waving the intertwined shadows. It's easy to lose myself in this mass. Marja’s voice splits the circle.

“That’s all well and good, but Tara’s job is a heavy weight to bear. What makes you able for the job?” Uncertainty traps my tongue, but somebody else speaks for me.

“She’s wicked smart. Give her any job and she’ll have mastered it in half an hour.” Kenneth. Definitely exaggerated. I try not to give anything away in my expression.

“She is all kindness - a most important quality of an informer.” Cedar. But is it the most important quality?

“She administered lifesaving medicine to my aunt.” Someone close to me with a bright smile. I think his name is K’tulo. Any medicine I may have administered is thanks to Cedar. I open my mouth to say so but Cedar nudges me. Her lips are pressed into a stern line.

“She taught me how to write!” A boy with a long fringe covering his lost eye - Argol. My heart throbs, like it always did whenever I taught him. He looks so much like…I bury the past like I always do. 

More voices swell up - some I recognise, some I don’t. Sure, smiles, teaching, and small jobs are nice but do they matter for the job? These people think so. After a few minutes, the affirmations die down and Grot waits for Marja’s verdict. There is a brief pause, and I almost believe she will overrule them all but she lifts her arms, as if embracing me from afar.

“You have spoken. Lillian, we would be honoured to have you as our informer; the spark to light the bonfire.” The cavern roars with applause. I am propelled into arms, hand shakes, head pats. Cedar’s voice is barely discernable as she yells at people to be gentle with my stitches. Somehow, before I know it, I have been pushed to the front to stand beneath Marja’s platform. Her face peeks between a hundred tons of packed stone.

“Today, we mourn Tara’s loss. Tomorrow, Lillian will continue her work. Today is a new day to be seized-”

“- let us arise to it.” Our phrase to close all assemblies. The cavern begins to empty. I turn to follow the crowd, back to bed where sleep and healing awaits. When I reach Cedar’s side, I glance behind me, expecting Marja to be gone. But her eyes are on me. How long has she been watching? How long will she continue to observe my movements? She must notice that I’ve spotted her, but she stands her ground. Cedar readjusts my shawl when a shiver passes through me but it isn't from the cold, it is Marja’s watch. Her gaze is piercing.