Astra (16 page)

The wall wasn’t spiny and craggy, like she’d imagined, but sheer-sided and crested as if with great rotting black teeth. Two massive white Is-Land banners were draped either side of its arched entrance, the Is-Land Shield standing proud in their centres, and green, gold and red wavy lines running across the tops and the bottoms. It was hard to imagine the loom that could have woven such banners. It would have to be a giant loom in an industrial warehouse, like the alt-meat vat factories.

The road looped steadily towards the archway. As they neared Astra could see that it was crested by a huge sculpture of … a black pigeon, its breast plumped out over the road and its feet gripping the block of basalt it was carved from.

‘Look, Hokma!’ She tugged at Hokma’s waistcoat.

‘I know. The pigeon is the city’s holy bird. For the people who built the wall it represented the goddess of love.’

The woman in front of Astra turned around and addressed them. ‘Gaia is the one true goddess of love,’ she said quietly. Astra flinched. The woman was unnerving. Her face was round and still, her eyes were unblinking and her gappy teeth were as black as the wall’s.

‘Gaia is all goddesses, and all men and women are Gaia’s ambassadors,’ Hokma replied.

The woman appeared to be satisfied with this response. She nodded serenely, and as the bus neared the archway, returned her attention to her companion. It was dark now, because the wall was at least five metres thick, but as they entered Astra could see that the basalt did have millions of little pores in it, like black speckles in the smooth sides of the bricks. Then for a moment, there was no one on the bus but whispering shadows, and the scars on the women’s skulls were two black, twisted eyeholes. A second later the bus re-emerged into the sunshine, and the driver pulled up in front of a fruit market.

This was where Klor and Sheba’s bus had exploded.

* * *

Everyone stood up. Clutching the flowers to her chest, Astra let Hokma put her flap-hat back on, then, one slow, inching step after the next, she followed her Shelter mother off the bus, and out of the bus-stop enclosure.

They stood on the pavement for a moment. The street was zooming with bicycles, carts and cars and the pavement was crowded with stalls covered with red-and-white striped awnings. People were examining
apples, apricots, pomegranates and dates, fruit that must have been grown in the greenhouses. A seller called out to Hokma, who ignored him. Astra stood paralysed in the whirlwind of activity, the sun beating down on her arms.

‘There’s a lot of people here, isn’t there?’ Hokma said.

‘Umm.’

‘Do you know where they go to cool down?’

‘No.’

Hokma pointed across the street to a small park in the shadow of the wall. ‘To Sheba’s Fountain.’

There was a traffic light on the corner. Normally Astra was supposed to hold an adult’s hand when she crossed the road, but she wanted to carry the bouquet properly, so she walked in front of Hokma instead, with Hokma’s hand on her shoulder. She held the flowers up high and the cars and bikes and horse carts all stopped for them.

The pavement was busy, but the park was peaceful, a triangular lawn planted with a circle of apple trees, the grass strewn with blossom. At its centre was a shallow basalt basin, a black lens resting on a slender concave pillar, from which a fragile spine of water rose about a metre in the air, gradually separating as it fell into graceful sprays shining silver in the sun that arced back down to the basin. Astra drew closer and saw there were three gleaming metal cups set into niches in the pillar, which was buttressed by a curving set of steps so that even the smallest child could lean over and drink from the spray. Above the cups was a small silver plaque. It said,
For Sheba, who loved to dance in the trees
.

The Fountain was like a tiny willow tree, eternally weeping on a thin black moonshell. It was too sad for words. But it was achingly beautiful too. Sheba was there: Astra felt her. She wasn’t wearing a flap-hat. Her hair was streaming in a breeze no one else could feel, and she was crying and laughing and dancing at the same time. Her tears were keeping everyone cool, and as they hissed into the air they sang
sister, sister, sister
.

‘Where can we put the flowers?’ she whispered. Hokma showed her a trough curving round the steps for dogs and cats to drink from. The trough had a central bank with recesses for flowers. Other people had been tending it: a row of cherry and apple branches were shedding their petals into the water.

‘Can Tabby take a photo for Nimma and Klor?’ Astra asked. ‘Me putting the flowers down? And one of the Fountain, just by itself?’

‘That’s a nice idea.’ Hokma took Tabby and stepped back to frame the photos. She took the one of the Fountain first, and then Astra knelt and carefully placed Sheba’s bouquet into the bank, making sure you could see the orchids and Sorrel’s freesias and the sprig of apple blossom among the daisies and then she had to check that all the stems were dipped into the water. It didn’t feel right to smile or even look at Tabby. She just kept her hand on the stems for a minute so that the picture wouldn’t be blurry and it would be clear which flowers were from Or. Afterwards Hokma showed her the photos and they were perfect. The Fountain was casting no shadow and on her knees, reaching across the petalled water, Astra looked exactly like she felt: full of awe and respect.
Reverential
. Somehow, she realised, being in this place even for a few minutes had changed her feelings about Sheba. Before she had secretly been afraid of Sheba: terrified of the bus-bomb and scared to ask questions in case of upsetting Nimma. Now she felt like she knew Sheba a little. And she liked her. Sheba wasn’t like Meem or Silvie or any other girl Astra knew. She was pretty and playful, but she was wise and comforting too.

‘When a person returns to Gaia,’ she said slowly as Hokma turned Tabby off, ‘after a while, Gaia gives them back to us, doesn’t She?’

‘That’s exactly right, Astra,’ Hokma said. ‘She gives us back the best part of everyone. Now, shall we let Sheba give us a drink?’

* * *

After they left the park Astra wanted to explore Sippur, but Hokma said that Dr Blesserson was expecting them right away so they took a taxi up a wide road lined with all kinds of shops, a bit like New Bangor Square, but long and thronging with people. The buildings were tall, not like the crumbling apartments on the outskirts, but four or five storeys high. Is-Land flags were rippling from the roofs, and more banners were draped down the walls, giving the city a holiday feeling. But Astra asked the taxi driver, who said it wasn’t a special festival: everyone here celebrated Is-Land every day. They also liked shopping. Beneath the banners, each block was devoted to a different type of produce. First, there was food everywhere: garlands of dried peppers hanging from canopies; colourful bins full of pistachios, almonds, walnuts, sunflower seeds, dried figs, dates and apricots; sacks of grains and pulses, all set out on the pavement to tempt passers-by. Then came a street of soap- and perfume-sellers, followed by a block of Tablette shops, the shiny devices lined up neatly
behind the glass shop fronts. The taxi turned down another long road and here the pavements were filled with clothes, masses of them, all fluttering on rails next to racks full of sunglasses, hats and hydropacs. Astra and Tabby took pictures of everything.

‘Hokma?’ she asked at last, ‘why do people in Sippur wear clothes?’

‘Well,’ Hokma said, ‘for a few reasons. Originally there was a big CONC station here and the Gaians who worked with the internationals wore robes out of politeness. There’s still a CONC travel office, and a lot of visitors, so the habit stuck, I suppose. But also, urban dwellers aren’t lucky like us in the dry forest, or people in rural communities: there are so many buildings and roads here and they can’t plant enough trees to shade everyone, and the Code for melanoma protection only works up to a point. The lighter-skinned people especially need to cover up.’

In the front seat, the taxi driver laughed. ‘There’s another reason too, but only the locals know it, Is-child. The streets are very dusty and there aren’t enough trees to stop the wind, so the grit flies right up into your Gaia parts. Don’t you worry, though, we all go sky-clad at home.’

‘Does Dr Blesserson go—?’ Astra started to ask.

But Hokma wasn’t listening. ‘In a minute, Astra. Driver, take the outer-wall road please.’

‘That’s the long route, lady – and there’s an extra charge for punctures.’

‘I know that. Just take it, please. Astra, be quiet now. I want you to see this.’

Then the taxi was exiting the wall through another massive archway, this one topped with two stone lions, and she was looking down upon a terrifying view: in the near distance an immense crater – bigger than Or, surely – obliterated the land. Its lip was a rim of rubble, its base a cracked dish of bleached soil and it was surrounded by acres of debris: broken sandstone, crumbled tarmac, ancient rusting cookers and refrigerators, twisted metal posts and what looked like fallen logs with nails sticking out of them, all tangled up in wires. Speechless, Astra gaped at the sight.

The taxi turned right, skirting the ruined area and driving slowly along the foot of the wall. People were dragging things out of the pile of unre-cycled metal and it was easy to see that nails and sharp scraps could be falling in the road.

‘Sippur was bombed at the start of the Dark Time,’ Hokma said in her teacher voice. ‘We still don’t know which of our neighbouring
nations was responsible, or why they chose a residential area instead of the old city. Incredibly, the basalt wall withstood the shock, but the radiation fallout was severe. That’s when the last of the Non-Landers fled.’

‘All of this was
houses
?’ Astra asked incredulously.

The taxi driver looked at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘Don’t you worry about the Non-Landers,’ he chuckled. ‘Plenty of homes for Non-Landers in Asfar, where they belong.’

He’d misunderstood her question. She’d meant, how could buildings cover so much of Gaia’s face? Surely there had also been trees and grass and parks here? Had not one tree regenerated?

She opened her mouth to correct him, but Hokma butted in. ‘She knows all about the Non-Landers.’

The driver sniffed. ‘Course she does. I was just saying.’

Astra lifted Tabby to the window, but Hokma’s hand shot out to her wrist. ‘No photos here, Astra.’

‘Why?’

‘There are plenty of photos online, and we’re nearly there now.’ It wasn’t an answer but Hokma suddenly sounded as stern as the bus stop IMBOD officer. They finished the ride in silence, leaving the pulverised moonscape and entering another green, leafy neighbourhood with all of Astra’s questions rattling behind them.

* * *

At last the taxi drove away, leaving them standing at Dr Blesserson’s gate, through which Astra could see a two-storey white wooden house and a long stone outbuilding. ‘How do you know Dr Blesserson will help us?’ she asked.

Hokma rang the bell on the gatepost. ‘I don’t,’ she replied shortly. ‘But he owes me a favour and I’m hoping he’d like to pay me back.’

‘What favour did you do for him?’

‘Shh, Astra. It’s not important. Please just be quiet here and do exactly as I say.’

‘
Hello?
’ A male voice crackled through the intercom.

‘Samrod. It’s Hokma.’

‘But—’ Astra tugged at Hokma’s waistcoat.

‘
Shhhh
,’ Hokma hissed.

There was no reply from the intercom, but the gate swung open. Astra trudged resentfully after Hokma up the long white-pebbled drive. It was
fine to say ‘do as I say’, but only if you had actually given a constable some instructions. They were on a mission and she’d had no orders. It wouldn’t be
her
fault if everything went wrong.

* * *

As she plodded up the drive behind Hokma, Dr Samrod Blesserson emerged from his house. He was wearing a sky-blue linen shirt and white drawstring trousers, and he didn’t come out to meet them but waited in the shade on the front porch until they neared the house. Then he jogged quickly down the steps to greet them. Or Hokma, at least. He ignored Astra, and though he kissed both Hokma’s cheeks, he didn’t smile or seem remotely pleased to see his Birth-Code-Shelter sister. Squinting up at him, Astra couldn’t tell if he was a nice man or not. He was tall like Hokma, and had the same dark wavy hair, square face and full lips as her, but rather more forehead. As well as clothes, he was wearing wire-framed glasses, a watch and an impatient expression.

‘I keep the shots in the clinic,’ he said, jutting his chin towards the outbuilding. That made him look exactly like Hokma.

‘Actually, Samrod, Astra’s frightened of needles. I told her we could see the orchard first, if it’s not too much bother.’ Hokma placed her hand on Astra’s neck and gave a warning squeeze. She hadn’t even known there was an orchard.

Samrod looked at his watch and then down at Astra, for the first time. At first she thought he was annoyed with her. Then he gave a tight little smile. ‘So, an arboriculturalist, are we?’ he asked.

She cocked her head back up at him. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Someone who studies trees. I’d have thought you’d have learned that already in a dry forest school.’

Beneath her tunic her chest got a little hot, but she tried not to hate him, not just yet. He didn’t know yet that she was going to be a genius scientist too.

‘I like climbing trees,’ she said, jutting out her chin too. ‘Especially apple trees. Do you have any of those?’

‘I do. A prize-winning Pink Lady, in fact. And I don’t want her branches broken. Look, Hokma, this is short notice and I don’t have much time. You can show her the orchard afterwards.’

But Hokma was tugging Astra down the path between the house and the outbuilding. ‘Trust me, Samrod,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘you don’t want her climbing your clinic walls.’

Her brother strode rapidly after them. Hokma waited at the orchard gate. It was a small orchard, surrounded by a low stone wall, with twenty or so trees, mostly cherries or plums, all in blossom.