Alexandra Duncan - Salvage

My head goes light and gray spots fizzle through my vision.

They stop at the blanket next to me, the nearest man’s feet a handsbreadth from where I kneel alongside the parts bin. They whisper among themselves. Then one, a tall, skinny Nau with his voice barely breaking into manhood, steps forward.

“My father asks, how much?” He points to the bolts of cloth propped up against the wall behind the vendors.

“Which one?” The man tending the cloth reaches a hand back and pats the bolts. “Different weights, different prices.”

“The gold one.” The boy points to a thick roll of fabric embroidered with flying cranes.

For a bridal gown, I realize. My modries all said the Nau dress their daughters in the color of the sun when they marry. What will the girl who wears it think of the birds? Will she know what they are, or will she trace their stitched wings in wonder? Does she yearn for something of the vastness beyond her ship’s hull?

I grip the metal burner. That girl’s fate is no longer mine. I may be cast off, but I am also free. I am my own, and I mean to stay that way.

The Nau boy turns my way. My limbs lock, ready to fight, ready to flee. For a brief moment, his eyes meet mine.

Run, my body screams.

But then his eyes slide away and come to rest on something behind me. I follow his gaze—a horse tethered outside a hair cutter’s shop. I am no one to them. I am merely another repeating shape in the tapestry’s pattern—a soiled groundways girl, like all the others in the market. And I am glad of it. I watch the Nau pay for their fabric and continue down the street.

I shove fifteen rupaye into the vendor’s hand, too shaken to bargain with her, and hurry for home, stopping only to pick up a bag of rice for Rushil along the way. The late afternoon sun catches the dust stirred up by passing feet and trains, dissolving the sky in an orange fog. When did it turn so late?

Inside the shipyard, the lights burn in Rushil’s trailer windows, but our own sloop is dark. I peer into the berth.

“Miyole?”

I climb up into the ship and blink until my eyes adjust. There. She’s still curled beside the wall, as usual.

I crouch beside her. “Miyole?” Impatience and helplessness rise in the back of my throat. “Miyole, wake up. You can’t sleep all the time.”

She stirs and blinks up at me.

I make myself smile. “I’ve got something for you. A surprise.”

Miyole stares at the burner, dead eyed.

“It’s not working right now, but I’m sure I’ve got the fix for it.” I hold it out to her, smile still firmly in place. “You could start making your creatures again.”

She takes the burner from me, turns it over in her hands, and then rolls over to the wall again.

“Miyole!” I shake her shoulder. “Don’t you want to take a look at that metal Rushil said you could have?”

She shoots me a tired glare, then pushes herself to her feet and walks mechanically from the ship.

“Miyole . . .” I follow her to the lip of the hold.

She doesn’t look back, only walks deeper into the lot in the falling dusk.

I’m only trying to help, I want to say. But she’s too far gone to hear. I watch her disappear into the maze of docked ships and shadows.

I sink down on the loading ramp. I was so certain it would work. I was so certain I would see some spark of her old self again once she caught sight of the burner. I heave up the bag of rice and balance it across my shoulder. Most like it’ll come back to us cooked and served up in round pewter dishes, but I’m too tired to fight Rushil about debts tonight. I knock on the thin trailer door. The lights are still on, but he doesn’t answer.

Streetlights tick on along the side of the lot facing the street. I should find Miyole, make sure she’s okay. I should try to talk to her again, explain I didn’t mean to yell, that I was only worried. I drop the bag of rice on the steps and turn to go.

“Shoulda gone with me, chikni,” Shruti calls down from a ship top in the neighboring lot. The red-gold ember of a cigarette lights his face. It’s a bigger ship he’s perched on this time. Eight engines stacked in rows, with gleaming white shield tiles. He sucks in, then lets out a breath of smoke into the sky.

“Let me alone, Shruti.”

“Just saying, I would’ve put you up for favors alone.” Shruti taps the cigarette ash over the side of the ship. “I wouldn’t have tried to squeeze rice out of you, too.”

“It’s not like that.” I cross my arms over my chest. “He isn’t—”

“Maybe not yet,” Shruti interrupts. “But you can bet it’s coming anytime. He’s a hard one, Rushil Vaish. You seen his ink? The tiger? That’s for the Marathi Wailers. They make their new blood cut a man before they give that mark.”

All the breath goes out of me. “Come how?”

“The Wailers.” Shruti points to Rushil’s trailer. “He’s one of them. Didn’t you figure that out yet?”

Pankaj. That’s how Rushil knew about him. What he said about the straight and narrow . . . And the tiger. I knew I had seen it somewhere besides Pankaj’s gate. It’s one of the marks on Rushil’s arm. An ache throbs to life behind my eyes. Rushil’s been wearing his sleeves rolled down ever since we went to get my tag, hiding his arms. He didn’t want me to see. He didn’t want me to put it all together.

“I hear they’re always on the lookout for girls to fill their brothel beds,” Shruti goes on. “Maybe that’s why he hasn’t made his move yet. He wants to recruit you. Maybe Miyole, too, for later.”

“Stop,” I say, but my voice shakes. Not Miyole. Never Miyole. The world has gone dark around the edges. How could I have missed all the signs? How could I have been so stupid, so blind?

“Whatever.” Shruti tosses the butt of his cigarette over the fence into Rushil’s lot. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I—”

The trailer door swings open, and Rushil leans out. He smiles at me. “Hey, sorry. Were you knocking?” Then he sees the look on my face and shoots a dark glare up at Shruti. “Is he bothering you again?”

Shruti makes his eyes wide and innocent as he shakes another cigarette out of its pack and fits it between his lips. Could he be right? The debt, the favors, the kindness—is it all to draw me into trusting Rushil? Is it all some kind of trap?

“No. No, he’s . . . he’s not.”

Rushil sends Shruti a warning look. He starts to step out of the trailer but notices the cloth bag slumped against the bottom step. “Is that rice?”

“Right so.” The darkness only grows, as if I’m watching everything through a blood-stained veil.

“Excellent. Thanks.” He scoops it up and holds the door open for me. “You want to come in?”

“I . . .” I try to think past the roaring in my ears, the anger and fear spiking my blood—run, fight, run, fight.

Rushil smiles on with his funny, lopsided mouth. Is Shruti lying about him? When Rushil looks at me like that, I can’t fathom him doing any harm. But the tiger. And he knew Pankaj. And he knew about the Wailers. But if he’s one of them, why hasn’t he sprung his trap yet? Why didn’t he give me over to Pankaj when we were inside his gate?

I don’t know, but if I run, I’ll never find out.

“Course.” I send a deliberate glare Shruti’s way and step up into the trailer.