Of Metal and Wishes (3 page)

Jima sits back on her knees and stares at my little coin lying among the lovingly placed offerings. “Be careful, Wen.”

I scoff, too angry to do anything else. “Careful of whom, exactly?” I gesture at the bolt of purple cloth, the bottle of rice wine, the package of salted fish, the carved letter opener—all offerings left in exchange for wishes. “Who is this Ghost, that people think he is worthy of their best things?”

Jima folds her prayer. “He was once a worker here.”

“Did you know him?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve only been here for two years. But Onya said he died on the factory floor. It was an ugly death.”

“Any death on the killing floor is bound to be ugly, Jima, and my father told me there are at least three of them each year. Why would this one worker have the power to become a ghost?”

“I couldn’t say,” says Jima, “but he cares for us and has granted many wishes. He does not deserve your contempt.” Jima touches her prayer and then sets her own offering—yet another molded tallow candle—between a small jar of curing salt and a thick roll of fine wire that was probably stolen from a maintenance closet. “He might even punish it.”

“We’ll see.” And maybe I would deserve it. From the look on Jima’s face, her wish means a lot to her, and she has been nothing but kind to me. It’s not her fault that I can’t bring myself to believe. “Thank you for trying to help,” I offer, touching her sleeve. “I hope your prayer is answered.”

She wraps her arm over her middle. “Me too,” she whispers.

“THANK YOU FOR
bringing me my stethoscope,” my father says when I enter the clinic. He finishes off a crust of bread and dusts the crumbs from his lap. “Lati said the Noor were rude to you when you came to drop it off. He was afraid you’d be distressed.”

I will not tell him what happened in the cafeteria. My father seems like a fragile twig these days. Losing my mother almost snapped him in two. So I say, “Lati doesn’t need to be concerned about me.”

He gives me a gentle smile as he gets up from his chair to wash his hands. “The Noor endured a difficult and uncomfortable journey, and the decontamination process was unpleasant. I think they can be forgiven for not displaying their best manners. I knew you would understand.”

I’m not so sure, but I will not argue with my father. “Do you have any appointments this afternoon?”

“Only Hazzi. He’s having trouble with his hands again.”

I think back to what my father has told me about how he treats arthritis. “Will you use ginger oil? Or maybe mustard leaves?”

“We’re out of mustard leaves, so today it will be the ginger. I’m going to massage it into his fingers.” He sighs. “It won’t last long, though.”

“Why does he continue to work here if he struggles so much?”

My father turns away from me to gaze at his shelf of medical texts. “If he could stop, he would,” he says quietly. “Wen, you know that people who cannot work are not allowed to stay.”

“Yes, but Hazzi has been here for many years—”

“Which has only given him more time to build up a debt to the company.” He strokes his finger down the spine of a book. “It’s easier than you might think. And once that happens . . .” His shoulders sag as he trails off.

I stare at his back, trying to translate the words he’s not saying, but before I can, he draws himself up and looks over his shoulder. “You did an excellent job with your stitching this morning.”

I bow my head to hide my proud smile. “I know some of the knots were not perfect.”

Father chuckles. “Soon I’ll have you doing all my suturing. I know she’d have preferred silk over pig’s legs, but still, I believe your mother would be proud.”

I look down at the delicate embroidery on my gown, a thousand stitches, all exquisite. This was made to suit the future Mother planned for me, a life of relative ease, dwelling in beauty and creating it. This is not the dress of a factory girl, and certainly not of a doctor’s assistant, which is apparently my future now. And I need to accept that. Besides, my dresses are why I stand out like a cardinal among sparrows—the reason the Noor noticed me in the first place, the reason Lati looked at me the way he did.

“Can I buy a work dress?” I blurt out.

Father looks me up and down like he’s noticing me for the first time. “I suppose your mother made your clothes a bit fancy for a factory life, even a sheltered one.”

I smooth my hand over my skirt, running my fingers over a swirl of vine and thorn. “She didn’t know I would end up here, obviously.”

He blinks. “Obviously. And yes, I think we can manage it. Just one, though, all right?”

I nod eagerly, then slip on my heavy apron and help my father with afternoon tasks. I chop and stew a pot of ginger, create a paste of dried peppers and oil, and make sure all my father’s instruments are clean and ready. Hazzi comes in midafternoon with his fingers curled against his chest. As my father helps him onto the examination table, the old man says, “So, Guiren, I believe the Ghost favors our Wen.”

I expect my father to laugh, because he is a man of science who does not believe in things that cannot be proven. Instead his voice is sharper than usual as he asks, “Why do you say that?”

As Hazzi tells the story of what happened this morning with the lights, my father listens in silence. I don’t understand it at all, but when Hazzi is finished, my father remains quiet for a few moments and then speaks slowly, as if he is choosing every word: “That is a very interesting story. Perhaps I will speak to someone about fixing the wiring in that hallway.” His eyes meet mine. “Wen, why don’t you go buy your dress now? The company store closes soon.”

I remove my apron and excuse myself. Though I long to ask more questions, it would be disrespectful to stay now that I’ve been dismissed. I walk to the front of the factory, my soft shoes crunching over a few paper-thin metal shavings along the hallway. Before I exit the administrative hall, the awful shift whistle blows. I tense when I hear the scuff of boots and the throaty sound of the Noor language. They must be starting their shift, which runs late into the night. I edge along the wall and peek around the corner. Sure enough, in they shuffle, rubbing their eyes as if they’ve just awakened. The rust-haired Noor boy is at the front of the procession. He has dark circles under his eyes like the rest, but his shoulders are straight and his movements are anything but lethargic as he steps out of line and begins barking instructions to the others. As the Noor boys and men pass him, he shakes each one by the arm and slaps them on the back, as if he is trying to jolt them into alertness. A few Itanyai workers stride by, and one of them—whom I recognize as Iyzu, a friend of Lati’s and the boy Vie has her eye on—slides his hand over his shoulder in contempt. Rust-Hair locks eyes with him and then turns away as if Iyzu’s opinion of him doesn’t matter at all. This Noor does not know his place, and when I see Iyzu’s sneering expression, I know that will make life at the factory harder for the rust-haired boy.

I am glad the Ghost doesn’t exist. Maybe the Noor have enough enemies.

I stay out of sight until Rust-Hair joins his Noor friends on the killing floor and the metal door shuts behind him, then I walk to the squat building off the central square of the compound. The store makes it unnecessary to leave Gochan One, because technically everything we need is here. Out in the Ring, of course, are the things not allowed inside the factory gates. Like alcohol and cigarettes. There are also a bunch of hair salons that turn on a pink light at night, signaling they’re open for another kind of business. The factory gates close promptly at midnight, though, right after the middle shift ends. All the workers live on the compound, and it’s easy to get locked out. The gates don’t open until thirty minutes after the day shift starts, and getting stuck outside is another way to lose pay.

At the company store they have no use for bronze coins from the Ring; it’s either company coin or credit—which comes straight out of your pay, for your
convenience
. I show my father’s work pass and my own identification papers, and the steel-and-silver-haired matron at the register waves me toward the garment section.

The clothes are made by the girls in Gochan Three. They make other things, of course, things that ship all over the country, and to wealthier countries that find it cheaper to buy from us than pay their own people to do the job. Here, One supplies Three with meat, and Three supplies One with brown things. The color of the puddles in the road after a rainstorm. The color of dead leaves. I wander around the store for a good long while, avoiding the inevitable, but then I try on a basic work dress, the same as Vie’s and Onya’s and Jima’s, the same as every secretary and office girl who works here. It doesn’t feel right at all. The size that fits in the chest is loose on my waist, and the size that fits my waist prevents me from drawing sufficient air into my lungs. I go for the size that permits me to breathe and almost cry as I stare at my new getup. No longer a peacock, I am a mud hen. No longer my mother’s child.

“Get over yourself, Wen,” I whisper to my reflection, swiping hot tears from my eyes. I fold my forest green dress and shove it into a paper sack, then sign the promissory note that makes me the owner of this ugly brown dress that would have made my mother gag.

My old dress feels like it weighs a thousand pounds as I carry it back to my home above the clinic. I don’t spot the blood on the floor until after I’ve passed the administrative offices, but then I wonder how I missed it. I raise my head and see the clinic door is hanging open.

There’s been an accident.

My heart picks up its pace, as do my feet. I glance down to see the droplets, then a bloody boot print, then a long smear leading straight through the clinic’s entrance. I lift my skirt and jog, watching my steps so I don’t slip in the blood. I haven’t dealt with anything more than a deep cut or a throaty cough, and this looks worse than that. I’m glad this didn’t happen this morning when I was here alone. But now my father is here and I can help him. I like to be useful, because it’s in those moments of complete concentration that I feel best, most protected from the noise and strife and grief that has invaded my world.

A long, low moan is followed by a higher-pitched gasp, desperate enough for me to hear it echo down the hall. I swallow back dread and plow forward, tossing my sack into the corner as I come through the doorway.

And stop dead. The impish Noor boy is on my father’s exam table, sweat dripping from his forehead as he stares down in horror at his foot. I can’t tell how bad it is because my father is hunched over him, blocking my view. The imp’s right boot is lying on its side in front of the table. Right next to it is another set of boots, and those happen to belong to the rust-haired boy, who is standing by his friend’s head. His gaze darts over to me, and his already strained expression tightens.

The imp cries out, and Rust-Hair offers him his hand. Imp clutches it, his tanned knuckles turning white. It must be hurting the rust-haired boy, but he only whispers softly to his friend in their throat-catching language.

“I need to put him to sleep, Melik,” my father says to Rust-Hair. “So I can set the bones and repair the lacerations.”

Melik nods. “I’ll tell him.” He leans over and speaks to the imp, gently stroking the other boy’s barely-there hair. The imp’s eyes go wide as Melik translates. He shakes his head frantically, sending drops of sweat onto the cloth that covers the table.

I take a step to the side, unsure of whether to run upstairs or offer to help. My father must hear my tread, because he looks over his shoulder and makes my decision for me. “Ah. Wen. Perfect timing. Get a soporific sponge ready for me, will you?”

Melik’s eyes are back on me. His gaze travels down my body to the sack on the floor, where the sleeve of my green dress has unfurled. With my head bowed, I tie on my apron and go to the basin to cleanse my hands. I scrub at my fingernails with a bristle brush and lather the antiseptic soap between my fingers, all the way up to my forearms. Then I dry my hands on a clean cloth and begin assembling supplies.

I try to ignore the metallic taste on the back of my tongue as I prepare the soporific sponge. I challenged the Ghost to prove himself to me, and now this boy is lying on my father’s table. His blood is dripping between his broken toes and from the top of his foot, where two shards of bone have pierced his flesh and made it look like meat. He is shaking. His tan skin has paled to a sickly green. When he turns his head and sees me, his eyebrows come together and shoot upward. He recognizes me. And he looks terrified. Does he suspect what I’ve done? He couldn’t possibly know about the Ghost, could he?

He squeezes his eyes shut as every muscle in his body tenses. My father is probing at his foot, wiping the exposed bones and torn flesh with purplish antiseptic. I swallow hard and step forward with my tray, which holds the sponge soaked in a solution of opium, mandrake, and henbane. The imp flinches as I come near.

“His name is Tercan,” Melik says to me, watching my face.

I duck my head and focus on Tercan. When I open my mouth, I speak hesitantly. “Tercan.” His name falls from my tongue all twisted and ruined, but the imp boy, despite his agony, actually tries to give me an encouraging smile. It’s merely a twitch of his pale lips, but it makes me want to get his name exactly right. What he did to me earlier seems insignificant in this moment.

“Tercan, this won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you,” I promise him, but as I look at the wound, I know his time at Gochan is over before it has started. He can’t work with a mangled foot like that. He may not even be able to walk again, which means possible starvation, both for him and for whomever he was planning to send money back to. He’ll be turned out into the Ring, far from his home in the west, and who knows if he’ll make it back there?

Did I cause this? No. No, I couldn’t have. There is no Ghost, and this was an accident.

With steady fingers I grasp the sponge between the metal teeth of the clamper and lift it to eye level. As I explain the ingredients, and how it will put Tercan to sleep while we fix his foot, Melik translates smoothly . . . until he hears the word “fix.”

“You cannot fix this,” he says in a low voice, making one of those quick, sharp gestures at Tercan’s foot. He leans over his friend, and it is all I can do not to step back. His eyes are so round, so pale, the jade irises striped with flecks of amber and blue. His mouth curls up at one corner and he adds, “Unless you have some magic we don’t know about.”

“I . . . I don’t—,” I stammer.

“She means we can put his foot back together and stitch it up,” my father says, raising his head from his work to look at Melik, unflustered by this Noor boy who doesn’t seem to know his place. “You are correct that he will never be the same.”