Emmi Itäranta - The City of Woven Streets

I will need some kind of boat or raft.

This part of the island is so far from the city that it is almost like a tiny village. It does not take me long to find what stands for the village square, and there is what I am looking for. The deep-green water pump is decorated with a forged-iron sun. I pump the handle a few times. Water spurts out. It is clear, not muddled by the flood. I rinse the cup and drink until I am no longer thirsty.

The few houses stand dark and still. I do not hear words or footsteps. I begin to wonder if everyone has fled further up the hills, but a strong scent of burning seaweed wafts in the air. I scan the grey sky: smoke from a chimney paints a trail across it. The rain has stopped. Mud smacks under my boots as I cross puddles and streets barely wider than paths.

After a brief search I find the source of the smoke. There is a yard behind the house, a mess of piled stones and crooked bushes and weary wild herbs. There is also a boat.

It is small and the paint has peeled off, and the wood used to construct it was probably felled long before my parents were born. But it is still a boat, and it is mounted on a skewed cart on wheels. It would be easy to move to the edge of the water.

The back door of the house is open. White steam puffs forth from the inside. I hear clattering of dishes. I smell boiled seaweed and grains, and realize I am extremely hungry. I crack the side gate open and step into the yard.

A short man emerges, bony and olive-skinned. A bald spot grows on the crown of his head, his boots are in need of repair and he is carrying a steaming bowl in his hands. He stops in his tracks when he sees me.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ I say. ‘Could I possibly borrow your boat, please? I promise I will return it as soon as I can. I will even pay for it.’

It is not too big a lie. I intend to bring the boat back with some compensation.

The man stares at me and says nothing. I take a step towards him. He hurls the bowl at me, but misses. It lands next to me on its side. Cooked grains and seaweed broth pour out.

I take another step, trying to look as friendly as I can. The man recedes towards the door, then turns, runs back in and slams the door shut. I hear the sound of a key being turned in the lock.

I look at the food remaining in the bowl. I wipe my hand on my trousers and ladle the rest of the grains into my mouth with bare fingers. Only a handful remains. I carry the bowl onto the doorstep.

My knuckles hurt as I knock on the door.

‘I would just like to borrow your boat,’ I say. ‘Please.’

‘Go away,’ the man says from the inside.

I see a curtain part slightly on the small window next to the door. I try to peer in. It is hard to see anything. There is no light inside the house. The window glass reflects a white-and-grey sky, and the rocky hill behind. And my own face.

That is when I understand.

The tattoo is clearly defined on my forehead, the skin around the mark red and swollen.

‘Take your plague elsewhere,’ the man says. His voice is caught in the rigid old stone-and-wood structures, warped by them.

I look at the boat. I look at the locked door. I look at the boat again.

It is not smooth gliding. The vessel is barely even a skiff. It rocks and tilts and rotates, and one of the oars is missing. I use the remaining one for punting the boat along, although it is a mere stub compared with a proper pole. For a moment something underwater scratches the bottom, and I wait to see if water will come seeping through. But despite its infuriating shape and tiny size, the skiff seems well enough put together, and my feet do not get wetter than they already are.

Staying away from the busy neighbourhoods is not difficult. Few people wish to live near the House of the Tainted, and in this area the northern shoreline of the island – considerably changed after the flood – is all but abandoned by former inhabitants because few tolerate the stench and fumes from the Ink Quarters. Just in case, I pull my hood down to cover my forehead.

The angle of the light behind the clouds has changed by the time I eventually reach the abandoned house where Janos, Valeria and I used to meet before we talked to Irena. As I expected, the ground floor is underwater. I paddle clumsily around the building with my one oar and find the same thorny vines that cover the door we used before, now half-drowned. I push them aside with my oar. There is a window behind: it looks barely large enough for me to climb through. I tear a piece off my trouser bottom and use it to tie the skiff to a hook rusting in the wall. The ancient wood of the window frame is swollen shut, and eventually I have to break the window with the oar to be able to get in. I arrange the vine to cover the boat: it may not fool anyone who comes close, but from a distance, at least, it will conceal my vessel and my way in.

Everything smells of dampness, and the planks feel fragile under my feet. I stay at the edges of the room. I try to find a place where I will not need to move too much. At the centre opens a hole where the steps began once upon a time. If I dared to go closer, I might see the lowest steps of the wide staircase underwater, leading nowhere. I might see the pages of abandoned books floating in the weightlessness of water.

My body is heavy. I curl down on the floor and place the oar next to me. The corners of the room are growing darker. I have nothing to give me light. My forehead stings. My throat is sticky with thirst. I wonder if I should go out in search of food and water before nightfall, or wait until dawn. I do not dare go. I may not find my way back in the dark. I stay.

Someone cries out in the distance, a bird or human, I cannot tell. Shadows spin closer. I hold onto myself and onto what is left of the world I know.

Darkness has rested in the room for some time, when there is a knock on the window pane. I grab the oar and get to my trembling feet. A hood-covered figure pushes its head through the window, halts for a moment and vanishes. A leg appears, then a whole body. I stay in my silent corner and raise the oar. The figure that has entered the room reaches a hand out through the window. A lantern floats into sight, bright orange and holding a live fire.

‘Eliana?’ a voice says.

I think I recognize it. The figure steps closer, steps back when the floorboards give a little, then steps closer again with more caution. It places the lantern on the floor and removes the hood.

I lower the oar.

‘Some people might consider showing their faces before approaching terrified runaway criminals in abandoned buildings,’ I say.

‘And some people might be happy that they’ve been found at all,’ my brother replies.

Shriek-like laughter pours from me and draws tears with it.

‘They are,’ I say. ‘Very happy.’

Janos takes another wary step nearer and I close the distance. He pulls me into a wide hug. He smells of ink and soap, and just a little of sweat.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asks and steps back. I feel his eyes skim over my forehead. They make an attempt to look away but return to the mark.

I remember Mirea’s downturned face, her fingers scratching the rash on her instep. I see her swimming away from me, turning herself into a story I will be able to tell one day, but not yet.

‘Mostly just bruised and starved,’ I say. ‘Do you have any water?’

Janos takes a skin from his belt and hands it to me. I drink.

‘There’s more in the boat,’ he says. ‘Finish it, if you need to.’ He pushes a hand into his pocket and gives me a piece of bread wrapped in cloth. ‘And eat this.’

I do. The bread is soft and crusty, no older than from this morning. I could choke on it and die content. Janos watches me.

‘There will be food where we are going,’ he says. I hear a smile buried behind his concern.