Chapter Three

Shoo went out early the next morning to see that the boy was all right.

‘Sleeping,’ she said, when Fliss asked.

‘Are the soldiers still there?’

‘Still there.’ It was all she would say. In the night she had hardened herself. There would be no more tears, no explanations.

She doesn’t want to make me soft, Fliss thought. So I won’t be soft.

She waited for the Old One to call. But he called Shoo and she fed him his morning broth. Fliss went out. She walked in the trees, away from the wall. There were things she might gather — fern shoots, berries — but she ignored them. Let Shoo do it. If nobody wants to talk to me I won’t talk either, and I won’t work. But she settled herself down and went back in mid-morning and did her chores. She knew that Shoo could not behave in any other way or love and fear would overcome her. It was the Old One who made her angry.

She heard the whisper of her name in the afternoon. She approached the bed, and although his eyes were closed he said, ‘Don’t be angry, girl. It can’t be any other way.’ It surprised her that he spoke directly, not inside her head.

‘I’m not angry.’

‘Oh, you are. You are punching me with all your might.’

‘No.’ She picked up one of his hands. It was as light and dry as dead twigs. She placed it on top of the other. That was the way she thought of him — serene. No agitation in his hands.

‘Are you going to tell me now?’

‘Not yet. Easy, child. Leave anger for the boy.’

‘Will he be angry?’

‘Oh, he will. He’ll try to kill you.’

‘But I saved him. Why would he kill me?’

‘You can run. You can climb. And he’ll be weak. After a while he’ll get used to you.’

‘Why would he kill me?’

‘He’s used to killing. And you’ll be the first thing he sees. Don’t get too close. Let him calm down. Then bring him here. Do it gently, child. You’ll be nothing to him.’

‘Why will I?’

‘Because you’re black, and the only black people he knows are servants and slaves. He’ll treat you badly, you know that.’

Fliss did know it. She had not been a servant but a slave child, which was worse, and in the streets she had seen how fine ladies and gentlemen, Despiners and Carps and Krohns and Morisettes and their underlings — their agents and retainers and grooms and ladies’ maids — had treated black servants. Some of the gentlemen carried thongs called flickers and used them to sting orders — do this, do that — on bare arms and shoulders instead of speaking.

‘Do you really need him?’ she asked.

The Old One sighed. Perhaps it was a laugh. ‘Yes, him. If he keeps his temper he will do. Besides …’

Fliss waited but the Old One had finished.

‘Besides what?’ she said.

‘I’m tired now, Fliss. Sit by him when the sun comes up. That’s when he’ll wake. Take him some food, he’ll be hungry. Water, too. And be careful. Bring him here, even if —’ was that a smile? — ‘you have to make him chase you.’

More questions would be useless. Fliss went out.

If the boy has a temper, she thought, so do I. Wait and see.

She slept and woke that night, slept and woke, and had the stove alight, water boiling and porridge heating before Shoo rolled from her bed. Shoo had softened again. She dropped a handful of dried berries into the porridge. She stroked Fliss’s hair back from her eyes.

‘He doesn’t want me to go. Just you and the boy.’

‘I’m taking my knife,’ Fliss said. ‘If he tries to kill me …’

‘He’ll hardly be able to stand up after a day and two nights. His muscles will be like … porridge, and his joints …’ She made a sound like a creaking door.

‘Good,’ Fliss said. She tied half a melon and some berries in a cloth. She took an empty gourd to fill with water on the way.

‘How long is he here for? Where will he sleep? Not in our room?’

‘I’ve put some dry moss and fern in the shed.’

‘For a Despiner?’ Fliss made a cawing sound of amusement.

‘If that’s what he was. He’s not any more.’

‘What’s a Despiner? A turd wrapped in silk. We used to say that. A Morisette was a maggot in jam.’

‘Fliss, it’s late.’

‘Yes, I’m going.’

She let Shoo hug her, then started out, walking easily among the half-seen trees. Her feet knew the turns in the path. She knew exactly how long it would take to reach the wall. The boy would wake at sun-up. She would watch him as the light came from behind the hills and lowered into the darkness of the plains. She liked to see dawn flicker along the wall. It seemed to make a pause. It takes a breath, Fliss thought. It doesn’t really want to go down there.

She stopped in the underbrush at the edge of the clearing where the boy lay. Another step and she would see him — and what she wanted was to run away. Why did the Old One force her to do this, what right had he got? The answer was waiting in her head. For the wall. She did not know how or why; all she knew was when. When the sun came up, when the boy woke. When she took him to the Old One, when he told them what to do. These ‘whens’ went on for ever. They went on into the dark.

The sky began to lighten. She saw rays of sun shoot across the sky from the hilltops and light begin to press into the dark, forcing it away. It sparkled for a moment on the wall and then the wall became unseen again.

Fliss saw the boy where Shoo had rolled him. He was shapeless under the rug she had spread on him. The light touched his face, and she thought: too white, sour milk. Beyond him on the other side of the wall four soldiers were sitting around the embers of a fire. Their heads turned in unison at something down the slope and they sprang to their feet, kicked earth on the fire, straightened their jackets and caps, and stood with rifles shouldered, at attention. Two officers on horses rode up. Fliss recognised the one the boy had stabbed with his own sword. Just as she had seen Despiner in the boy’s face, she saw Morisette in this man-boy — a thick-bridged nose, eyes that glistened like yellow jewels, lips out-thrust like an open purse. Ugly, she thought, and too white, like the boy, but with hot red in his cheeks, as though he lived in a permanent rage. She did not know which was worse, Morisette or Despiner. Morisettes were crueller, most people said, but Despiners were more proud and arrogant.

The man dismounted. He tried to stride but had to limp past the soldiers towards the boy. He was younger than Fliss had thought — perhaps no more than twenty, perhaps even less. The limp made him furious. He pretended it wasn’t there. Somehow he sensed the wall and stopped two steps short. He wasn’t going to lose face by bumping into it. Instead, he shouted something, angry and loud. No sound came through, but rage found a way, for the boy stirred under his covering. And suddenly he was awake: Fliss saw it in his stillness. He leapt like a cat, throwing the rug aside and clawing at his hip for a knife or sword. He landed on his feet, facing the wall, and two of the soldiers shot at him. He flinched, then understood and made a screech of derision. He had no weapon at his side, so he turned his screech at the man facing him and stepped forward to spit. Although he had leapt from the ground, an animal reflex, Shoo had been right: after his long sleep his muscles were porridge, and he staggered sideways, then backwards; his knees gave way and he collapsed like a loosened puppet at the feet of the man on the other side.

Fliss laughed. The officer — the Morisette — laughed, too, and shouted some word — a sneering one from the look on his face. She did not want to share amusement with him, so stopped herself and watched the boy struggle to his feet. He stood swaying, making fierce inarticulate sounds. She was sickened by them both. Their rage, their stupidity, seemed to suck everything in — herself, the trees, the stillness — and make it less. She wanted to turn her back and walk away.

The boy picked up Shoo’s rug and threw it at the officer. He tore out tufts of grass and threw them. They slid down the wall. He made frustrated cries, then suddenly was still. She saw an idea take him. Shoo had folded his jacket under his head. He picked it up and threw it at the officer’s face, but it slid to the ground. He ran after it, better now, getting his muscles back, and spread it on the grass, with the Morisette emblem, the open hand, plain to see. He stood away from it in his white shirt and red trousers and black boots — small-boyish, Fliss thought. And small-boyish in his actions too. He opened the front of his trousers and pissed on the Morisette emblem. She saw the urine, warm from his long sleep, steam in the forest air. Stupid, she thought.

The Morisette did not think so. Red with fury, he hacked at the boy with his sword. It bounced off the wall. He yelled at the soldiers and two of them fired at the boy, then all four charged at him, stabbing with their bayonets — and he stood easily, finishing his piss. Their frenzy lasted only for a moment. The Morisette stopped hacking. He stood the soldiers in line, raised his sword, brought it down, and the four men started singing, while he stood facing the wall, chest puffed out, sword across his heart, his other hand saluting.

How pathetic, Fliss thought. One of them pisses and the others answer with their stupid song. She knew the words, had heard them too often, and almost seemed to hear them through the wall:

Glorious Morisette, bringer of prosperity,

Bestow your peace and plenty on us now …

She turned away and slipped further back in the underbrush. She did not want to see their mouths mouthing, their eyes, drunk with pride, glistening in the morning sun. The sun was meant for better things.

Fliss waited until she thought it might be over; but no, the boy had pulled his trousers down and was showing them his backside. She waited again, listening to birdsong and feeling the breeze on her face, then looked again; and he was turning his head about and seeing at last where he was, and shrinking a little from it and not knowing what to do. He pulled up his trousers. He seemed smaller.

She stepped out from the underbrush.

‘Would you like some breakfast?’ she said.

He made a startled huffing and a sideways step of surprise.

‘You’re the one …’ He meant that it was she who had pulled him through the wall.

‘I’ve got some fruit. You should drink some water first.’

He stepped at her. ‘How did you do it? How do I go back there and kill him?’

‘You don’t,’ she said. ‘You eat first, then you come with me.’

He felt for the knife in his boot, dug for it, yelled with rage. ‘You took it. You stole my knife.’ He made a rush at her.

She stepped away and laid the bag of fruit on the ground. ‘Somebody probably took it while you were sleeping.’ She found a flat place for the gourd. ‘Yell out when you’ve finished. I’ll come back.’

Again he rushed, clumsy from his sleep, and she evaded him again.

‘You’re a Despiner, aren’t you? Despiners are thick in the head.’

‘Slave,’ he panted. ‘I’ll have you whipped.’

‘How? If you can’t catch me?’ She slid into the ferns at the edge of the clearing, circled round and peered at him from the other side. He took a step one way, then another, made half-starts but did not know where to go. He was like a bear at a bear-baiting, not knowing who to fight or who his enemies were.

The men on the other side of the wall still watched. The Morisette sat down to rest his leg but kept his sword unsheathed — his useless sword. They’re all as bad as each other, Fliss thought. But she wondered what the boy had done to earn such hatred, and to hate so much.

He picked up the gourd, flipped the lid back-handed at the wall and gulped the water until it was empty. He took the half-melon from the bag, scooped out flesh and swallowed it half-chewed; scooped again. He ate the berries she had brought, and stood with juice dripping from his chin — waiting, Fliss understood, for a servant to bring a cloth and wipe him clean. She laughed inside herself. He would learn.

He wiped his chin with the back of his hand. He wiped his hands on the grass. Fliss stepped out.

‘If you’ve finished we can go,’ she said.

He looked at her as if he would charge again, but held himself back.

‘You’re one of these people who live in the forest?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Rule land. Rule claims it. So you do what I say. Do you have a name?’

‘Do you?’

He made an angry sound. ‘Slave,’ he said. ‘That’s what you are. Black as an ink slug. I found you and I claim you. I’ll name you too. Slop’s your name. Come here, Slop.’

Fliss smiled at him. She had known years of this sort of treatment. The wall stood between her and it. She felt sorry for him.

‘If you stay out here alone you’ll starve,’ she said. ‘I’m going now. You’d better follow. And bring your gourd.’

Her calmness, her steady voice, widened his eyes and made his face flush.

‘Gourd,’ he said as though it were a word he had never heard. He raised his boot and crushed it into the ground.

Fliss kept her anger in control. She might have shrieked and clawed him. She had spent hours cutting that gourd so the lid fitted tight on the bowl. Still in her even voice, she said, ‘You shouldn’t have done that. Now you’ll have to drink out of your hands.’

‘Slave,’ he answered. ‘Get my jacket and wash it.’

She looked at the garment, sodden by the wall. ‘I’m tired of this. Are you coming? If not, starve.’ She turned and walked into the ferns and heard him shout at her to come back. She kept on straight, flicking her way past fronds and branches. His yelling spiralled after her, followed by a crashing of undergrowth. She stopped. You did not break things that were alive, not unless there was no other way.

‘Stop smashing things,’ she said as he came into sight. ‘They belong here, you don’t.’

‘What?’

‘You’re on this side of the wall and you don’t smash everything you find.’

‘Bitch,’ he panted. ‘No one tells a Despiner what to do. Take me somewhere I can talk. Where’s your headman?’

‘There’s no headman. There’s an Old One. I’m taking you there. Then you can talk as much as you like.’

‘Old one? What’s that?’

‘You’ll find out.’ She started off again, and heard him panting and still crashing behind.

She found her usual path and followed it to the stream that wound down to Shoo’s house. When he came into sight she said, ‘If you want to wash you can do it here.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

‘You smell bad. I thought some water might help.’

He started a retort, then stopped and seemed to smell himself.

He washed his hands and face at the stream; stripped off his shirt and boots and trousers and stepped into a deeper part. She saw that he liked the coldness as he waded to his waist — and saw that his nakedness did not trouble him. She was nothing, a piece of furniture, not a person. He was probably used to steaming baths and maids to soap and dry him. In some mansion, she thought, and sneered at Despiners. A pool in a stream was better, the forest was better.

He dried himself with his shirt and pulled on his trousers and boots.

‘You’ll have to go back for your jacket. We haven’t got any clothes for you.’

‘I’m not wearing that. It’s Morisette. I’ll shit on it next time.’

‘How did you get in Morisette clothes if you’re a Despiner?’

‘They put me in their army. To humiliate me.’

Fliss understood. She had watched Despiners and Morisettes for most of her life. She had a sudden stricken feeling of being dragged to their side of the wall, and she jerked free by turning and walking away.

‘Hey,’ he cried.

She took no notice.

He ran after her. ‘You stop when I say.’ He grabbed her shoulder and tried to force her onto her knees. Fliss made a cat leap. She had grown up in the streets, fighting for food. She caught the boy on his throat with the side of her hand, and as he choked rammed her heel into his hip, sending him sprawling into a sickle thorn beside the path. He lay for a moment, sucking in breath, clawing it in, then he tore his way free from the thorns. ‘I’m going to kill you,’ he croaked.

He would try but she would not be there. She vanished into tall ferns on the other side of the path, thinking, whatever the Old One wants him for, he won’t be any good.

Something changed. She heard his grunt of surprise. Heard Shoo’s voice: ‘Stand still, boy.’

‘Who—?’ he managed to say, half-strangled.

‘Get back in the stream. Wash that blood off yourself.’

‘Nobody,’ he managed to say. ‘Nobody tells—’

‘I need to put something on those scratches. Otherwise you’ll be crying half the night.’

‘Woman,’ he said. ‘Out of my way. I’ll—’

‘What? You’re on the wrong side of the wall to talk about killing. Fliss,’ she called.

Fliss stepped out from the ferns, and Shoo said sharply, ‘Stand still, boy. And tell me your name. Unless you want to go on being “boy”.’

He closed his eyes. Drew in a long rattling breath. Changed something in himself by an effort of will. Somewhere in his training had been ‘self-control’. He found the place.

‘I am Kirt Despiner. I am third in my line. You are slaves, but …’ he struggled, made himself go on, ‘I am on your side of the wall, as you say. So, for the moment, I will do as you say.’

‘Good,’ Shoo said. ‘And just so you understand how things are …’ She motioned Fliss to speak.

‘Wash off your blood,’ Fliss said. ‘Then put on your shirt and follow us.’

Kirt Despiner obeyed.