Of Metal and Wishes

  “Really? Where would you go?”

  “To the south. I want to see the ocean.” It’s the only thing I can think of. It’s not like I’ve made a plan.

  “That doesn’t sound very practical. And I think Guiren would miss you.”

  “I’m not sure he would,” I whisper.

  “Would you like to know one of the things that kept me alive when I should have died?”

  The question startles me, and it takes me a while to summon the words to tell him I do.

  “When I was too hurt to move, when I thought nothing could make the pain go away, your father told me stories. Some were grand, like Kulchan and his warriors, like pirates and genies and treasure and conquest. But others were about the little girl who owned Guiren’s heart. How she was full of relentless questions, how she challenged him, how she delighted him with her stubbornness. How she shattered her mother’s favorite vase and he had to punish her even though he didn’t want to.”

  I am surprised to find myself smiling. “You could have fooled me.”

  The Ghost laughs. “I wanted to meet this little girl so badly it made me want to live.”

  My heart clutches in my chest. I am not that little girl. “My father is a good storyteller.”

  “Yes, he is. But the best stories are true.”

  “Why won’t you meet me, then?”

  “Isn’t this enough for now?”

  No. “I suppose.”

  “Good. Now, tell me a story. Tell me about the southern sea.”

  My fingers find the tip of my braid and play with it. I don’t know why I suddenly feel shy. I think it’s because I am realizing that the Ghost knows so much about me, has known me much longer than I’ve known him. I feel as naked as I actually am, and that thought sends a jolt of anxiety straight through me. “You can’t see me, can you?”

  “Not right now, no.”

  “Not now?”

  “I can hear you when you’re at the altar, but I can see you as well. When you’re in the cafeteria and in Mugo’s office, too.”

  I groan. I’ll be back there tomorrow morning. “How do you do it? Is it magic?”

  “If you consider lenses and mirrors magical, then yes.” His voice is less hoarse now, like our conversation has been the oil it needed to run smoothly.

  “I don’t, but I also don’t understand how they help you see.”

  “Then leave me to my secrets and tell me a story.”

  So I do. I talk and talk, whispering in the dark, telling him about waves and saltwater on my tongue. About crabs and the sun sinking into the ocean, how I expected it to send steam billowing into the sky and was disappointed when it didn’t. He laughs in all the right places, asks questions that tell me he’s listening. I talk until I’m the one who’s hoarse, until I run low on stories and confide that I am terrified of the morning.

  “I will make this better for you,” he says softly. “I want to see you smile.”

  I want to tell him I might, if he were to talk to me face-to-face, but I know he doesn’t want that. I think he is ashamed of how he looks, but I can’t imagine anyone with a voice as kind as his being ugly. I don’t say that, though, because I don’t want him to fall silent. So I say, “I’m smiling now.”

  It’s true. I’m no longer hollowed out, no longer alone. His voice has filled in some of the gaps. He’s here with me, and I know that now. But I don’t know how to say that. I feel stupid even trying.

  “I am too,” he says. “So this is your offering for tonight. It’s more than enough.”

  With a start I hear my father come into the clinic and drop his satchel on his chair. “My father is home.”

  “Sleep well, Wen,” the Ghost says. I like how he says my name, low and heavy, like it carries weight.

  “Ghost?”

  “Yes?”

  “You know my name—can I know yours?”

  “If you ask Onya or Hazzi or even your father, I’m sure they will tell you.”

  “I want to hear it from you, though.”

  He chuckles, husky and close, even though I know he is several floors away. “Is that a wish?”

  “If you want to call it that.”

  In the silence I hear my father washing his hands in the sink downstairs. Any moment he will come up. Finally, as the tap switches off, the Ghost says, “My name is Bo.”

  It’s a simple name. A nice name. It brings him near, makes him human. “Can I call you Bo from now on?”

  “Please,” he breathes, so quiet, as my father’s weight makes the steps creak.

  “Sleep well then, Bo,” is all I have time to say before my father walks through the door.

  I pretend to be asleep while my father goes to the washroom and disappears into his alcove. He moves heavily, like the day has sucked him dry. I felt the same way a few hours ago, but now I am the opposite. As I poured out my words to Bo, he gave me something back, and now I am wrapped in the dark, warm and still, all of me quiet.

  Long after he has stopped listening, before I drift into dreaming, I whisper my final words to my Ghost. “Bo . . . thank you.”

  FATHER WAKES UP EARLY and announces that the clinic will be closed for the next two days. “I need to purchase supplies,” he says. “This sickness has nearly emptied us out of willow bark, clove and eucalyptus oil, opium, and antiseptic.” He holds up our bottle of topical antiseptic and shakes it, showing me it’s nearly drained. “I’m going to go up to Kanong.”

  The factory gives my father a tiny budget for supplies, but he never says no to anyone, so I can only assume he’s already run through the yearly allotment and needs to use his own money to get more. Kanong, a large town nearly a full day’s walk away, has a huge black market where supplies can be had much cheaper than in the Ring.

  “Be careful,” I say as he puts on his hat and coat. “And pray we don’t have any medical emergencies!”

  He kisses my forehead and says he’ll be back tomorrow night. After he’s gone, I drink my tea in the silence he’s left behind and get dressed. Mugo told me to wear the white muslin, but I can’t bring myself to do it because that would make me feel like a whore. And also because it’s missing its bottom tier thanks to those evil spiders. I put on the rather staid cream wool; its only extravagance is the edging of black lace around the waist, cuffs, and hem. I twist my hair in a thick bun at the base of my neck. I think it makes me look older, and I hope that might make Mugo leave me alone.

  I have no idea how Bo manages it, how he knows what I need, but when I arrive at Mugo’s office, I’m certain he’s done something to the evil typewriter. It practically purrs for me. The keys respond to my lightest touch, and the ink is sure and solid on the page. By lunchtime I’m through the stack of notes from yesterday and ready for another.

  Mugo is agitated this morning. He paces his office while he talks on the phone to a cattle supplier, hurling curse words and even threats. The rancher wants a better price for the bulls, but Mugo is ruthless. Also, maybe desperate. I can tell by the whine in his voice. Gochan One has not been producing its quota, mostly because of the sick factory workers, and that means the money is not flowing as it should.

  Vie peeks in at the lunch hour. I know she thinks I’m an idiot for paying the Noor debt, but she also seems to be in a good mood, and I am happy to see a smiling face. I depart for the cafeteria with her as soon as Mugo allows it.

  She is telling me about her latest outing with Iyzu and his parents in the Ring when the Noor file in for their first meal of the day, and my eyes drift to Melik before I can stop them. He looks as hungry as the rest, but he has his arm around Sinan’s bony shoulders as they walk to the cafeteria line, and when I see him slip a bun from his own plate onto his brother’s, I have to look away. It makes things too confusing.

  “You’re not listening to me,” Vie complains.

  “Wh
at?” I blink at her. “You were telling me about how Iyzu’s going to take you out for First Holiday.”

  Vie and I have celebrated First Holiday together many times, silly schoolgirls weaving through the crowd, elated to be free of our parents, stuffing our mouths with candied dates and burning our tongues on dumplings ladled straight from the pot, giggling at the strong men flexing their huge muscles, and shrieking at the fire-eaters and sword-swallowers.

  Vie rolls her eyes. “I was telling you I have a boy for you, too, and we can all go together.” She leans forward and winks. “Lati’s had his eye on you for some time.”

  I swallow a bite of rice and beans. “Wait . . . Lati? What?”

  Vie looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed!”

  “I’ve only talked to him once.” I can barely get the sentence out, because Melik has risen from his seat and is walking toward us.

  Vie keeps chattering at me. “You are coming with us tomorrow night. You need to get away from the factory, Wen.” She pats my arm, but I don’t even look in her direction. I’m too busy staring at Melik, whose jaw is set with determination as he stops in front of our table.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks me.

  Vie’s mouth drops open, as if she can’t believe the nerve of this Noor who doesn’t know his place. She clutches at my hand like she’s trying to offer me support. But I don’t need it.

  “I don’t see why I should talk to you about anything,” I say, loudly enough for everyone at the surrounding tables to hear.

  His cheeks flush a ruddy red. “Please, for a minute.”

  Everyone is looking at us, and I immediately regret drawing attention to myself. I stand up so he’ll be able to hear me as I say from between clenched teeth, “Leave me alone. It hasn’t been hard for you lately, so I don’t see why it would be a problem for you now.”

  He tilts his head to the side. “Did you pay our debts?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, but Vie makes a skeptical noise that gives me away.

  Melik’s gaze snaps to her and back to me. “You didn’t have to. We would have—”

  “How will you pay your debts if you’re wasting your coin on a whore?” I blurt out before I can think better of it.

  Melik’s eyes fly wide. “What?” And then his expression changes, dawning with understanding. He looks around nervously, then gestures toward an empty section of the cafeteria. Thinking he’s going to make his confession, I follow him until he stops near the far wall, away from ears but not from eyes—everyone in the cafeteria is staring. Vie is gaping like she’s never seen anything so scandalous. Iyzu and Lati stand near the food line with their trays piled high, frowning and whispering as they watch us. It’s almost enough to set me in motion, but not quite. I want to hear the truth from Melik, even if it hurts.

  “Did someone say something to you?” he hisses.

  I scoff. My heartbeat is pounding in my temples. “I saw it myself.”

  His mouth becomes a tight line as he nods at me, and then he speaks in a low voice meant only for my ears. “And you found it so easy to believe I would do something like that.”

  Actually, it was so hard to believe that it hurt like a blazing brand on my heart, singeing me to ashes. If I’d heard a rumor that Melik had visited a whore, I would not have believed it. But I cannot deny what I saw with my own eyes. “Easier than anything else I did yesterday.”

  Like paying his debt after he broke my heart.

  His jaw is working, like he’s grinding his teeth. “Then you’re a stupid girl, to judge so quickly. I guess that makes you the same as everyone else around here, though.”

  “What about you? You blame me for Tercan’s death. You had no trouble believing I wanted him to be hurt. I can tell by the way you looked at me.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “Sinan overheard you confessing.”

  So that’s what happened. Tercan was unconscious when I whispered to him, but Sinan might have been awake, listening quietly as I poured out my sorrow and guilt. I can’t imagine what he told his brother, but my guess is that it was colorful in the way only teenage boys can manage.

  “And you believed so readily,” I say. “Do you know what actually happened?” The acid is pouring out of me now, gushing through the tear in my heart. This has been brewing inside of me ever since Tercan got hurt, all the beatings I’ve given myself over this, all the moments I’ve hated myself. The defiance rises from me like a giant wave, ready to lay waste to everything.

  “I didn’t believe in the Ghost. I tossed out a tin coin and told him to prove he was real.” My fists are clenched in my skirt. “I thought nothing of it, and I’m sorry for all of it. I’ll live with the regret for the rest of my life. But I never told the Ghost to hurt him. I’d never . . .” My voice breaks and I stamp my foot to try to keep control of myself. “I’m glad you believe me to be so bloodthirsty, though. I’m happy it was so easy, because that tells me all I need to know about you.” I brush my hand over my shoulder, showing this awful, cruel boy exactly what I think of him.

  Melik steps back as he takes it in. He’s gripping his upper arms so tightly that his fingers are white. His mouth opens and closes a few times, and then he says something in Noor that might be a curse, because he spits it with such venom. He closes his eyes and inhales sharply, pivots on his heel, and stalks back to his table.

  The cafeteria is silent. Melik and I have supplied today’s entertainment, and we are riveting. I smooth back a lock of my hair that has wormed its way loose from my bun, straighten my skirt, and walk from the cafeteria with my head held high. As soon as I leave, the whispers and guffaws rise from the workers, but I don’t care what they think, or even that Lati, who is apparently my date for First Holiday, saw the whole thing.

  I spend the afternoon typing, thinking of Bo and wondering if he’s watching me. He said he could see what happens inside Mugo’s office, and so I spend a full hour smiling like an idiot. I daydream for a bit as I file things away, wondering if Bo will talk to me tonight, if he’ll tell me something about himself. My musings make the time go fast—and keep me from stewing about Melik and how much I despise him.

  As I’m getting ready to leave for the day, Mugo comes out of his office and hands me a note. “Deliver this to Ebian,” he instructs. His fingers stroke mine as I take the paper, and I force myself not to snatch my hand away.

  I walk slowly to the entrance of the killing floor. I’ve been there only once, the first day my father was showing me around. I had to flee quickly and find a place to throw up. I really hope that doesn’t happen today. It would be hard to clean vomit off this wool dress.

  I swing the door open, expecting to be greeted with a crash of sound, but the only thing I hear is the lowing of the cattle from the distant edge of the killing floor. Everything else has stopped. A group of men is gathered around the central machine on the floor, the giant, whirring system that sends the razor-sharp meat hooks flying around the room to pick up the flayed cow carcasses and carry them from station to station to have parts of them hacked off and packaged. In some places the hooks are eye level, carrying the meat past the men with the long knives. But then the hooks flow up, sliding what’s left high over the floor, across the vast space to the giant refuse bins. The hooks are still now, and the men gathered around the machine are gazing at a spot about twenty feet off the ground, where the hooks rise to their highest point. A tall, rickety wooden ladder has been propped against the main column.

  “What’s going on?” I ask one of the workers, a rail-thin man standing next to me, holding a clipboard. He must be one of the meat inspectors, who my father told me are paid mostly to look the other way.

  “Something jammed. We turned off the power so he could unblock it,” he says, and points to the man on the ladder.

  It’s Melik.
>
  He climbs steadily, a look of total concentration on his face. Despite myself, despite everything I said to him a few hours ago, despite the fact that we have no use for each other at all, my feet carry me forward until I bounce off Sinan, who is standing at the edge of the crowd, his eyes fixed on his brother.

  “Why him?” I whisper.

  “He’s the tallest,” Sinan answers in a very small voice.

  Melik reaches the top of the ladder and raises his arms high, trying to catch hold of the metal pipes that run alongside the hooks. He wraps his fingers around one and edges himself to the side. It groans with his weight. His boots are on the top rung of the ladder, but the rest of him is suspended over one of the huge conveyor belts piled high with beef flanks. Melik holds on to the thin pipe with one hand as he reaches for a spot between two empty hooks.

  As his fingers stretch, I think of Bo, how his shirt got caught on one of the spinners, how he went from whole to ruined in an instant. Melik pokes at whatever’s gummed up the gears. He’s biting his lip, leaning far out from the ladder. Sinan scoots closer to me, like he needs an anchor. His fear for Melik is contagious. Or maybe, I hate to admit, I have enough fear for Melik all on my own.

  Finally Melik pries a small object from between the thin rubber belts that slide the wickedly curved hooks along. When he pulls it out, it brings a glittering snowfall of metal shavings with it. With it pinched between two fingers, he slowly inches back until his feet are stable on the ladder. He flips the object into his open palm and frowns at it. It is at that exact second that the slaughter machines of the Gochan One killing floor roar to life.

  Heads jerk up and a startled shout comes from the workers as the spinner jolts and the belts start to move. Several of the men look around in confusion. Melik clings to the main column as the thunder of the machinery shakes his ladder. His eyes widen as the gears whir—and then send the meat hooks flying right at him.

  The moment lasts forever, and every detail is carved into my heart. Melik twists on the ladder. The first hook slides by him, skimming over his shoulder, but the second snags his chest. He is slammed against the column as his blood rains down on the Noor standing below him. Sinan screams like the child he is.