Emmi Itäranta - The City of Woven Streets

Mirea startles and tries to push the leaflet behind her back, but the guard has already seen it. And it is not Bug or Oyster or even Moth. It is Stingray.

‘You. What is that?’ she asks.

Mirea is speechless. I am frozen in place. I do not dare to look at 479.

‘Bring it to me,’ Stingray says. ‘Right now.’

Mirea begins to move. She climbs the steps to the hatch of the hold and hands the paper to Stingray.

‘Get out,’ Stingray snaps. ‘The rest of you too!’

Other prisoners gather between Mirea and me. She is already on the deck. As I stand there on the dirty floor and wait, there is commotion ahead. Wind swallows the words waving outside. Eventually I climb through the hatch. The day is glass-clear, burnished with bright-spun sunlight. Apart from Stingray, Octopus, Moth and Ant are among the guards today.

‘Keep moving!’ Octopus shouts and gives a push to a couple of women to make them walk faster.

Stingray is standing next to Mirea. Her hair glows orange like straw on fire, and she is studying the pictures in front of her eyes. Prisoners are gathered around them.

‘Who gave you this?’ Stingray demands.

Mirea stares at her feet and remains quiet.

Stingray crumples the paper in her hand, drops it and crushes it under her boot. Her fingers fall to the handle of the whip.

‘Its contents are lies,’ she says. ‘And blasphemy. Just like the rumours circulating in the house, which without any doubt originated from this piece of paper.’ She leans close to Mirea and speaks in a voice that is soft, yet taut at core. ‘Why are you all here?’ she asks.

Mirea’s lips move, but I cannot hear the words.

‘Louder,’ Stingray says. ‘Tell everyone.’

‘Because we are sick and tainted,’ Mirea says in strangled sounds.

‘What are you tainted with?’ Stingray continues.

‘Dreams,’ Mirea says.

‘And why does the Council in its great mercy let you live?’

‘Because we work,’ Mirea says.

‘Correct,’ Stingray says. She straightens her back, stands tall and gleaming in the early afternoon, and looks around. Her voice hits us clear and metal-hard. ‘Dream-plague will claim the lives of each of you in time, and the only way to deserve your place in the House of the Tainted in the meantime is work. And honesty.’ She turns back to Mirea. ‘Now, will you tell me where you got this piece of rubbish?’

Mirea does not look up. I begin to feel terror. I did not wish for her to get in trouble. I should have been more careful. This is my fault.

‘Will you tell me?’

I cannot get my mouth open.

Mirea is quiet. Stingray raises her whip. I think she is going to lash it across Mirea’s face. Mirea still says nothing.

‘Very well,’ the guard says. ‘Back to work, all of you.’ She keeps the whip raised. ‘You will be among the first to dive today,’ she says to Mirea. ‘Take your place.’

Mirea looks up and begins to move towards the nearest dais. Stingray lowers her whip.

The rota starts: the first row dives and the hourglass is turned. They bring their harvest, blood-red branches and some white ones. They dive again. When the sand has settled at the bottom of the hourglass, the guards throw the rope ladders down. The divers begin to climb. I step on the dais, waiting for my turn. When Mirea tries to climb over the rail to the deck, Stingray stops her.

‘Not you.’

Mirea stares at her. I glance around. Octopus is watching in silence, her face still. Moth is handing blankets to shivering prisoners. I catch the movement of her head as she turns away.

‘You are going back,’ Stingray says. ‘Unless you have something to tell me.’

Understanding spreads on Mirea’s face. Her mouth opens and closes again. She does not look my way. Without a word she looks down and jumps back into the water.

Words gather within me heavy and cold. Still I do not speak.

It is my turn to dive. Before I do, I take note of where Mirea is. Moth prepares to turn the hourglass. She is looking into the water, too.

The sea is cold and heavy and pulls me in. I seek Mirea with stinging eyes until I see her. Her movements are slow, weighed down. Through the thick sediment I spot a cluster of blood coral further away. The reef is turning white, but deeper there are still branches that spread like tendrils of hot blood. I try to estimate whether they are too far. I see others wondering about the same, making tentative swimming movements towards the branches that would certainly buy a better meal or warmer night, then deciding against it. They are just out of reach; even if we could get special permission to use long-handled hoop nets instead of baskets, we might not be able to reach deep enough.

I kick back to the surface to breathe.

During the following dives I keep an eye on Mirea and only manage to collect a few thin branches. Eventually the bell begins to clang, and it is time for the rope ladder. Shivering, I climb up the side of the ship. Mirea climbs behind me. I step onto the board, and the blankets Moth is offering are already close. I think of the hot herbal drink, which has hardly more taste than water but restores warmth to the body for a moment.

Then I hear Stingray again.

‘Back,’ she tells Mirea. ‘Unless you have changed your mind.’

Mirea’s body is blue with cold and all colour has vanished from her lips. Words slither within me, they are slimy and swollen inside.

I hear a splash as Mirea plunges back into the water. Moth is offering me a blanket. My hand is already touching it.

I turn back.

‘It was me,’ I say.

Stingray spins around and stares at me.

‘What did you say?’

‘Let Mirea back into the ship,’ I say. ‘The leaflet was mine. I lost it and she found it by mistake. She barely had time to glance at it. Please let her out of the water.’

‘You,’ Stingray says. ‘In that case, you’d better go and fetch her.’

I look at the guards. I look into the water. My hands and legs tremble with cold and the weight of the heavy words. I jump into the sea.

Salt water floods into my eyes when I open them, but the stinging is no longer as unbearable as it was on the early dives. I turn around until I see Mirea, and my heart knots into a tight twist.

She is swimming towards the deep-growing corals.

Don’t do it, I think. Those rewards will not save you. And they don’t need to; I have taken the blame, as I should. But she does not hear me.

I go after her. She has been in the sea for too long. She does not have enough strength left for a dive that even the most experienced of us do not dare try. She swims deeper and deeper, and is always just ahead of me, slightly too far for me to reach. Once I manage to grab her ankle, but she slides from my grasp in the water, slippery as a fish. I feel the pressure in my chest and swim to the surface for air. I expect her to do the same any moment.

When I break to the surface, I take deep breaths until I am no longer gasping.

‘Where is 317?’ Moth yells at me from the deck. I am still waiting for Mirea to appear on the surface. I begin to understand she is not coming.

I dive.

She is there, deep enough to pick the blood-red branches next to her, but no longer able to do so. I see immediately that her limbs are cradled by the sea, back and forth, not moved by any will of her own. I swim towards her, kicking hard and not moving fast enough. I need stronger lower limbs and larger feet, webbed like a seagull’s, and wide fins to replace my hands. I need a chest that will hold the breath of a dozen men, so I can give her half of it and make her move of her own will again.

My head begins to feel like it is squeezed by invisible hands, inside and out. Shadows float before my eyes, and lights, and their embrace is deep and silent. I am close enough now. I wrap an arm around Mirea, clutching her tight against my chest so the hunger of the sea will not tear her from me, and kick as hard as I can towards the surface. Strength is bleeding from me, whatever little there is left. The water no longer feels so cold. I continue to swim, but I hang in the water-space now without weight to pull me down or lightness to lift me up: suspended, like a bird with a great wind under its wings. A shred of seaweed, ready to be claimed by the waves, until fish and time tear it to dust.