Night Witches (20 page)

A few people cheer, as happy to celebrate as denunciate.

‘Now, go and prepare for this evening’s Festival,’ Reef orders. ‘Tomorrow the Long Night begins, and we’ll need all the lights we can get until Umbra sinks again. Anyone who’d like to repeat accusations against this girl can come and speak to me directly.’

He has reinforcements.

A line of white-clad
Eyes in the Dark
have closed off both ends of the bridge. They have their ways of knowing who to single out for punishment. The loudest troublemakers are dragged away out of sight, Pedla Rue included. Gunshots echo in the dead-quiet side streets. Am I hearing right? Are these
executions
? Now the vision I once had of Pedla Rue’s bullet-blasted death makes sense . . . as much as anything makes sense any more. If this is what they do to people who believe in the existence of witches, what about someone who’s accused of actually being one?

Like water down a sink-hole, the rest of the crowd swirls and vanishes, leaving me alone with Reef.

Not quite alone. As we climb down from the bridge a truck comes belting round the corner. When it stops, the passenger door opens and there’s Zoya’s father, my very own Uncle Mentira.

‘Hurry up, jump in,’ he calls. ‘No time to waste – the train to Corona won’t wait.’

I
turn to Reef. ‘Is Pedla
really
dead?’

He frowns. ‘I haven’t been updated about those civilians. You should go; this could be the last train out of Sea-Ways before the siege closes completely.’

‘Go where?’

‘To collect your medal, of course. You’ve got a guest of honour invitation to Corona City for their Festival parade and award ceremony.’

‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’

‘I wouldn’t joke about something so important.’

‘But . . . I was just at home. Haze was there, and Mama . . . and why are you being so nice to me . . . ?’

‘Calm down, Rain, you’re not making any sense.’

Briefly his palm touches my cheek. It’s still a thrill to feel his skin, even if I’m also wondering,
Did he kiss his parents
goodbye-and-go-well
before they were arrested too?

‘I didn’t mean to upset you back there in the classroom,’ he says. ‘I’d never do anything to hurt you, you know that, don’t you?’

He’s looking at me like he’s seeing me, but how can he know me if I don’t know myself? What is there under my skin that’s got Mama and Haze and Pedla so worked up?

‘Hurry up, Rain!’ calls Uncle Mentira.

I can’t bear this feeling of being torn in half. ‘Don’t make me go,’ I whisper to Reef. ‘I’m scared. Please, tell him I should stay here with the Storms . . .’

‘This is a huge honour, Rain. Think of it, you’ll be a Hero of Rodina!’

‘Reef – you don’t understand. You heard those people . . . shouting accusations at me. They called me a witch!’

‘And we all know there’s no such thing as witches.’

‘So how come your parents could get arrested for believing in them?’

‘Bring her over here, Starzak,’ shouts Uncle Mentira.

Reef steps away from me, eyes dazed. When I start walking towards the truck he doesn’t try and stop me.

‘Excellent!’ says Uncle Mentira. ‘Excellent indeed. I’ve messaged ahead for seats on the train and something more suitable for you both to wear.’

Both? Does he mean Reef? No, Reef has vanished. Ang is in the truck with us.

‘Isn’t this just amazing?’ she beams. ‘Not just me, but
two
of us from the squadron getting the award!’

‘Oh dear,’ says Uncle Mentira. His face furrows into a frown as he glances down at our boots. ‘I forgot about shoes. They’ll have something in Corona, I’m sure.’

‘Are we really going to Corona? Can we tell everyone? They’ll be so proud. My family always said I’d do well flying.’

‘Where else did you think they’d have such an important award ceremony?’ Uncle Mentira beams. ‘No – best not to message anyone yet, either of you. Keep it a surprise. Here, why don’t I take your keypads and look after them; you wouldn’t want to lose them in all the excitement.’

Once we’re on the armoured train and speeding north to Corona – along the very same railway lines Storms have fought hard to keep free of Crux – Uncle Mentira explains what’s expected of us during the procession that will precede the award ceremony. Ang rubs it in that I’ve never been to the capital, while she knows it like the back of her hand.

How well does anyone really know the back of their hand?
I wonder, looking at mine as if it will suddenly burst into leaves and flowers, or go black and drop off. Aloud, I tentatively ask if we’d not be more use to the war effort back in Sea-Ways.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Uncle Mentira. ‘We know you’re an invaluable asset. Ang, you can use the compartment next door to change. We’re on a tight schedule and we’ll need to go straight to the ceremony. Rain, you stay here with me.’

I shrink into the train seat and brace myself for an interrogation. Surely Mama will have messaged him? Surely Reef must be investigating things now? But Uncle Mentira just smiles and taps his fingers on his leg.

I can’t stand the silence for long. ‘I know Zoya told you we were on the Storm squadron. The rest of us weren’t allowed to tell our families.’

Uncle Mentira smiles. ‘Yes, yes, Zoya’s kept me up to date. It’s very impressive. Impressive indeed. Fighting for your Nation. Saving lives. All very important, wouldn’t you say? More than important – crucial.’

He’s always had this way of speaking, as if everything has to be emphasised and jammed into your memory.

‘She’s a really good navigator,’ I add, thinking he must be a bit mad that his own daughter’s not nominated for an award too.

‘Good enough.’ He nods. ‘Not better.’

Once Ang has changed – ‘
Don’t I look amazing?
’
she preens – it’s my turn to go to the compartment next door. I peel off fusty flying gear and slip on a long, gold tunic-dress that has no sleeves and too many spangles. I’m glad I get to keep my boots on. They’re familiar. Part of who I am and what I do. I feel vulnerable in a civilian dress – all thin, bare and breakable. Eye Bright looks out of my jacket pocket. I blink back tears. What’s going to happen to my pet? What’s going to happen to me?

Uncle Mentira knocks on the compartment door. ‘Are you ready? Haven’t you done yet? We’ll be there soon. Very soon indeed.’

Once, before the war and the weird things started, I was looking forward to the Festival of Light. Once I was even afraid of the darkness the Eclipse would bring. Recently, like everyone, I’ve been counting down the days till Long Night begins. Others, in fear; me, in anticipation. I had the crazy idea I could hide in the dark.

How wrong can I be?

I’m blinded by how bright everything becomes. As we approach Corona there’s a surge of power to the train and all the lights get stronger. In Corona there is no sky, only a continual arc of radiance. Roof-to-ground stream-screens beam out bold pictures of sunshine. Walls glow with inlaid lamps. People even wear light-casting clothes.

Ang is impressed. ‘Don’t they look awesome!’ she says.

I think they look well fed, fearless and war-less.

I can’t admire the massive buildings, the sculptures, or the illuminations. I can’t take in the sight of the Festival parade, made up of the Nation’s finest military machines and endless ranks of impeccable soldiers. I barely even register when Uncle Mentira hustles us over to a brand-new Storm with sun designs emblazoned on the wings.

Instead I’m seeing the faces of the crowds in Sea-Ways, uglified by their fear.

I don’t start beating time to the great drum bands. I won’t sing along with the patriotic crowds. I haven’t got ears for the cheers as the Storm is wheeled along in the parade, with me and Ang inside, waving at the crowds.

Instead I’m hearing other voices. Mama crying, – ‘
She can’t help what she is
.’ Haze accusing – ‘
Witch-spawn, changeling.
’
Reef soothing – ‘
Hush, Rain, you’re not making any sense.
’

Nothing is making any sense! Not the great white doors of the Capital Building opening to welcome me and Ang, not my boot-steps on the white carpet inside.

‘Give me your jacket to hold,’ orders Uncle Mentira.

‘Watch where you’re walking,’ says Ang. ‘You nearly tripped over my dress hem.’

I nearly trip over thin air I’m so dazed.

Ang claps a hand over her mouth. ‘Look who’s going to be giving us our medals! They’ll be twice as special now . . .’

Marina Furey is there in full uniform, her own medal glinting. This has got to be a dream. No, I scratch my arm and it hurts.

‘What a surprise!’ Furey cries, shaking our hands vigorously when it’s our turn to be presented in a blindingly bright hall. ‘Well deserved, girls, well deserved!’

I just gawp. How can I look this amazing woman in the eye when I’ve just touched her skin and seen how she dies?

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask in a hoarse voice.

‘All last-moment!’ she grins. ‘An ac-req from Aura, a rush for the train – spick and span uniform waiting for me to mess!’ Under cover of hugging me she whispers in my ear, ‘I can tell from your face you’d rather be back with the squadron too. Don’t worry, we won’t spend the rest of the war sitting here stuffing our faces. I’ll see we get back to Sea-Ways.’

I know she will. I’ve foreseen it.

I blink away that vision and stare where Furey’s pointing – a room-long banquet table loaded with more food than we see in a week at Sea-Ways. Zoya would be dribbling at the mere sight of such a feast, especially now rations on the squadron are tighter than ever.

Furey talks normally again.

‘It’s great to see you get all this praise, Rain. You’ve earned it, every last bit. I’m proud of you. The squadron are proud of you. Tilly says hello, by the way.’

Her face shadows. It must’ve been awful to leave Tilly behind. I wish she hadn’t! I wish none of this was happening!

Ang lifts her Hero medal high, to be captured by cameras and spread to every screen in the Nation. I manage a couple of mechanical smiles, that’s all. Big army soldiers are next in line for their awards.

Time seems to compress. I’m at the buffet. I’m holding a drink. I’m saying,
thank you, thank you, thank you
and hearing my name repeated. The room is too white. I need to get out of here!

Be careful what you wish for . . .

‘Please, Uncle Mentira, can I just go somewhere and be quiet?’

‘Exactly what I’ve been thinking all along,’ he says, suddenly at my side. ‘Come this way, through here, just along here, not that door, this one . . . Yes, it’s part of the hub laboratory. Sit there and wait. No – I said,
wait
. The door’s not yet locked but it could be. It will be. Not that it needs to be. You won’t try to escape, will you? I know you’ll be a good girl for me . . .’

H
ow clever they feel, tricking me like this. How smug they are, in white uniforms, with black tattoos inked on their eyelids. How small I am, suddenly chained to a chair with bane-metal round my boots. Needles stab into my arms and legs. Pads press on to my head. I’m hooked to a humming machine.

White walls, white floor, white ceiling. Whites of eyes as they lean in to peer. White lights in my eyes as they probe. White ice in my veins as I shiver with fear.

It’s some kind of laboratory, one of
the
laboratories in the hub where Aura is housed. I’d never have come here if I’d known. Was Furey in on the trick? Was Ang? Was Reef? I can’t bear to believe it. If I sit very, very still and do as I’m told will they think I must be normal after all and let me go home – wherever home is now?

‘Have a drink,’ says Uncle Mentira.

‘I’m not thirsty.’

‘I didn’t say you were. Drink anyway.’

‘What is it?’

‘Just drink, please. Down in one, or little sips. Do you need a straw?’

I need all this to stop.

‘She won’t drink it,’ announces Uncle Mentira.

‘She’ll drink it,’ says one of the Scrutiners in the room.

They’re all wearing stretchy fibre gloves the colour of dead flesh. They pull my head back. I clamp my mouth shut. They jab my jaw to prise it open. Some of the liquid trickles in. I sick it back up again, all over my gold dress.

‘So sorry,’ murmurs Uncle Mentira. ‘It’s necessary. Required. Essential. How are you feeling?’

‘Cold.’ That’s the only word I can get out.

‘Really? Here’s your jacket.’ He wraps it round my shoulders. ‘No, leave all those pads and needles. We need to keep monitoring your vital signs. Just be good and everything will be all right. We don’t want to hurt you.’

Be a good girl
. Aren’t I being good? Aren’t I doing almost everything I’m told in the hope that if I don’t sprout up I won’t get yanked out? Except I know what people do to weeds. I look around for any sign of Slick.

Uncle Mentira smiles with his mouth, not his eyes. ‘We won’t keep you here any longer than we need to. It’s the science, you see. Always, with me, the science, the chemistry. These blood samples shown here on the screen, they’ve been puzzling me for a long time, but now we’ve got you we’ll be able to set up experiments to explain them.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know what those pictures are.’

‘Of course you don’t. I’ll tell you. The image on the left of the screen is your blood, greatly magnified. Pretty, isn’t it?’

‘Is there something wrong with it?’

‘Oh no! It’s perfectly normal.’

‘Then why . . . ?’

‘Look at the second image.’

‘Is that one abnormal?’

‘No! All nice and normal too.’

‘Then . . . I don’t understand. They both look the same.’

Uncle Mentira punches his fist in the air. ‘Ha! You’ve got it. We’ll make a scientist of you yet. They are both one hundred per cent exactly the same, which is why we’re so intrigued because the sample on the right belongs to someone else. Not a twin, not a sister, not a blood relation of any kind. We took it from a girl named Haze – yes, you know her. Ah, before you ask, yes we did check there wasn’t a mix-up in the blood-taking. Absolutely none at all.’

‘I swear I never met Haze before I joined the squadron.’

Uncle Mentira nods kindly.

‘It’s all right. I know you’re telling the truth. We had no records of her either. Why would we? She lived in the woods all her life, no better than a wild animal. Still, you must admit the physical resemblance is striking. She’s thickset from hard work and tanned from sun exposure. Ignorant, of course, without the benefit of your education. Simple coincidence, a non-scientist might have thought. Then Aura flagged up the match in your blood samples. Impossible for two people to be so exactly the same. We began to speculate. We wondered what would happen if we let the two of you interact. I studied the Scrutiny reports myself. Her behaviour can all be explained by superstitious irrationality on her part. You, my niece, were more puzzling. How very normal you seemed in every respect.’

‘I
am
normal.’

‘Oh, Rain, stop pretending.’ Uncle Mentira puts his hands on his thighs and bends to look me directly in the face, like he’s about to wish me Happy Birthday or offer some family-type advice. ‘We know what you are. Suspected it, tested it, proved it. What we want to know now is . . . what are you capable of?’

What am I capable of?

Not polite speech. Not thoughts that make sense, that’s for sure. I feel as if there are holes in my feet and all my blood is draining away. As if my bones are melting so only a shell remains, sitting in this white room looking like a person but completely hollow inside.

Somewhere outside the Festival is in full progress. Beyond these walls normal people are having normal lives in normal bodies.

Time neither flies nor drags, it ceases to exist. I can’t think how to react or act.

‘A kind of catatonia?’ muses Uncle Mentira as needles jab into my skin and blood is sucked out. He pats me on the cheek. ‘It’ll pass.’

I can’t focus any more. Instead of the white laboratory I see white snow in the forest.

Uncle Mentira gives my cheek a harder slap now.

‘Don’t drift too far. I’ve got a story for you. Your neighbour used to read you stories, didn’t she? Stupid woman didn’t know how wise she was. What do the tales tell us? Once there were witches. That’s what they were called before Aura could study them and give their afflictions a proper name and category. The head witch, the most abnormally evolved, lived on a lake in the forest. She grew old, or ill, or mutated; we don’t yet have evidence to judge. She needed to pass her witch-infection on. Am I making sense yet? Getting through to you? Talking your language?’

His words evoke images of the dead-grey lake where I crashed. I see a hut in the water, raised up on wooden legs, all gnarled and knobbled. I step across the still water and knock on the hut door. No one replies. I push open the door and smell what’s inside – age, weakness, goat-milk and garlic.

Welcome, Rain . 
. . comes a voice as old as stone and dark as the Eclipse.

‘Wake up, Rain!’

A circle of Scrutiners forms a copse around me. They’re so tall when I look up, like silver-bark trees. If they spread their arms birds could land on them. A bird stirs – the corvil in my jacket.

‘Ssh . . .’ I warn it. ‘Ssh,’ I warn the Scrutiners, who are consulting keypads and screens.

‘Ah, you’re back.’ Uncle Mentira breaks connection and waves the Scrutiners away. ‘Sorry for the disorientation. We haven’t yet figured out the correct dosage for keeping you docile but alert. Feybane hasn’t attracted much scientific study until recently, so we’re learning as we go.’

‘I’m fine,’ I croak. The words seem to come out one hour at a time. I’m about to add, ‘I want to go home,’ but then I remember I haven’t got a home. They turned on me. Turned me out. Don’t want me any more.

Uncle Mentira crouches down to look me in the eye as he speaks. ‘We’ve been speculating about what it is you can do for us, Rain. Predictions are limited at the moment, with only Old Nation fey-tales as sources to go on, alongside reports of your behaviour since that initial crash in the Morass.’

I
knew
it wasn’t paranoia. I
knew
I was being spied upon.

‘Haze is full of stories. Full of lies.’

‘Haze doesn’t interest us very much,’ says Uncle Mentira. ‘She was just a skivvy, learning conjuring tricks and keeping goats. She’s had nothing useful to say about the old woman who kept her working in the forest, apart from fanciful notions about controlling light and dark. Presuming they
are
fanciful . . . ?’

For the first time there’s an edge of uncertainty in his voice – or is it fear? I don’t care about his concerns. I’m wondering who’s been making secret reports about me. Was it Reef? It had to be him. First his parents, now me. And he said I could trust him!

I tell Uncle Mentira that I fly planes. That I want to go back to Sea-Ways.

‘Leave military tactics to the experts, Rain. Aura predicts the future by statistical probability, not superstitious bowl-gazing in a bath-house. According to Aura Sea-Ways will fall. It’s a lost cause. A Crux victory waiting to happen. Corona is far more important, more crucial. Corona is Aura’s hub.’

‘What about my friends?’

He shrugs. ‘
Friends
has become a rather inaccurate term for the people you once associated with under false pretences. Still, the reports did say you were loyal. Young Reef Starzak noted repeatedly – and admiringly – how you gave no thought for your own safety if others were in danger. That has been a most useful piece of information. Which is why I brought this . . .’

Without blinking he produces a People’s Number Five Glissom pistol from a pocket in his white coat.

‘I’m not afraid of you.’

‘I know.’ Uncle Mentira connects briefly then goes to the single door set smoothly in the white walls. I notice there’s no handle on the inside. I can also see there’s nothing made of bioweave in the room. No flowers will grow here.

The door opens, just a little way.

Zoya slips through the gap. I’m guessing she found the banquet all right, because there’s a stain of something on her tunic front and a crumb still lodged in the corner of her mouth. Funny to think I made this prediction back in the bath-house –
You get free run of a luxury banquet in Corona
. It seemed so silly and irrelevant at the time. Now everything I foretold is coming true.

Uncle Mentira says, ‘Ah, here you are. Just in time. Come in.’

Zoya squints at all the lights. ‘I’m missing the Festival. Everybody’s out there.’

‘Not everyone.’ Uncle Mentira nods towards me.

Zoya’s surprise is genuine. ‘Pip! What . . . ?’ Then she looks from me to her father. ‘I didn’t think . . .’

‘Of course not,’ he says soothingly. ‘I don’t expect you to. Your job is to do as you’re told. Did you bring what I asked for?’

She nods,
yes
.

‘Good. Safer to ask you to get it than risk taking some ourselves . . .’

My own Cousin Zoya.

‘
Confide in me
,’ she said. ‘
Trust me
,’ she said. I should’ve known she’d have to betray me – who’d blame her? Anything not to be different, not to stand out, not to disobey Aura. It’s just like the vision in the bath-house basin of water – one by one people I care about turn away from me in disgust. What’s left?

Just me. Whoever – whatever – I am.

Little nodes connected to my wrists and scalp send signals to a scanner which scratches out lines on a screen nearby – my blood pressure? Stress levels?

‘Tense, isn’t it?’ says Uncle Mentira. He’s got a curious gleam in his eye, rather like a corvil eyeing up a potential meal. ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t resort to such untidy emotional blackmail if we really didn’t need some answers soon. Proper scientific research takes time we just don’t have.’

A voice from the forest rustles in my mind. An old woman warns,
Rain . . . we haven’t much time . . .

‘Leave Zoya out of this. It’s got nothing to do with her.’

‘That’s not what my trigger finger says,’ replies Uncle Mentira calmly. He holds the pistol to Zoya’s temple. She flinches and gives a little whimper, like a wolf cub would, pinned down by its parent. ‘I don’t
want
to do this, Rain, do you understand that? My personal preferences do not include pointing a gun at my own daughter’s head.’

‘Can’t you just let her go?’

‘Can’t you just give us a show? We need to know if you’re worth all this attention.’

The scanner lines are getting longer and stronger. The air goes so still I think the posse of Scrutiners must be holding their collective breath.

‘It’s OK, Zoya,’ I say, palms out as if to calm the whole room. ‘He isn’t going to shoot.’

I don’t blame her for crying. I am too, inside. ‘He’s serious, Pip! Just do what he says!’

‘Do what?’

‘You
know
!’ she screams in panic as her father presses the gun harder against her skull. ‘Do that thing. The power. The black feathers. I had to tell him about it,
I had to
.’

Black feathers sprouting as I chased Steen Verdessica’s plane out of the sky and into the Morass. Black feathers flying as I caught a Storm so Petra and Lida would be safe. A black feather circling as Haze leans over a bowl of water in the bath-house, chanting . . .

Black Night’s daughter

Bright White’s kin

Let the lights go out –

Let the Witch come in!

‘You want a witch?’ I growl at Uncle Mentira and all the stone-faced Scrutiners. ‘All right. Fine. I’ll show you a witch!’