Of Metal and Wishes (7 page)

These dorms have narrow, bare hallways, low ceilings, and small rooms that hold eight men each. Whereas the newer dorms have indoor shower rooms with heated water, these older dorms have no such thing. Out back there are a few spouts lined up along the walls, and that’s where the Noor can clean themselves. But in the winter, when the temperature drops and the ground frosts at night, it will be torture for them.

As I near one of the old dorms, I look around to see if anyone’s watching. It would not be good for my reputation to be seen going into the men’s dorms, and especially into this one. But except for the night-shift workers, who are still sleeping, nearly everyone is in the cafeteria or working the killing floor. The square is deserted. Despite that, my heart skips as I run the last few steps to the dorm, hoping no one is peeking out a window at exactly the wrong time. It takes a few frantic tugs to pull open the thick wooden door at the entrance, and when I do, I am hit with a wave of stale, humid air and the smell of men, of salt and sweat. I can’t imagine what it’s like in the summer, but fortunately, it’s empty then. Even now, in the fall, it’s stifling.

I step hesitantly out of the stairwell and into the dimly lit corridor. “Melik? Are you here?”

After I call a few times, his rust-colored head pops out of the last room on the left. “Wen? What are you doing here?”

I hold up the bottle of antibiotics as I walk down the hall. “I have the medicine for Tercan.”

He squints at me, leaning out of the doorway enough to give me a glimpse of the pale, untanned skin of his shoulder, and then disappears back into the room. When he emerges, he is pulling on a white undershirt. His overalls hang from his hips, and the buckles clank around his knees as he walks down the hall. For a moment I want to run. My breath comes shallow and quick. He is big, and he’s not even properly clothed, and I am all alone in this dorm with him. If someting happens to me, I will be blamed. My reputation will be ruined. I should leave.

Now.

But . . . the eagerness in his expression is not greedy or lustful. No, all his attention is focused on the bottle of medicine in my hand. He meets me halfway and takes it from me like it’s a hunk of solid gold. “This will make him better?”

“It will keep him from getting sick. With an injury like his, infection would be bad. He could lose his foot. This might help keep that from happening.” I don’t want to raise his hope too high—but I don’t want to steal it away, either.

His jade eyes search my face, and I know they will haunt my dreams. “We will pay you back for this.”

I shake my head. “No. You don’t have to.” He’ll be too busy trying to pay for basic necessities and attempting to scrape a few coins together to send home. He cannot afford this medicine.

He scowls. “We
will
pay for it.”

It has been such a long day, and I don’t want to argue with this stubborn boy who does not know his place, even though I’m starting to like that about him. “How are you going to manage that? You’re not even working right now.”

His jaw tightens. “Tercan should not be left alone. We’re . . .” His broad shoulders slump. “We’re afraid they might come and take him, that they might expel him from the compound or just put him on a train out of town.”

They might. Right now Tercan is taking up space an able-bodied worker could occupy. He is eating food meant for people who can make money for the company.

I pull the still-warm buns out of my pocket. “I brought these for you. And for Tercan,” I add quickly.

Melik inhales the scent and his stomach growls. He puts a hand over his belly. I offer him a bun. “You haven’t eaten all day, have you?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to do any of this, Wen. Why are you?” He raises his eyes to mine, and I almost tell him. But if I did, he would hate me. He would know how bad I am, and I like the way he’s looking at me right
now
.

“Because you’re far from home and you deserve some kindness.” As it slips out of my mouth, I realize I believe it. “Now go to your shift. I’ll sit with Tercan until sundown. No one will come after that.” The bosses will all be in their comfortable homes in the Ring, far from the smell of blood and the weight of misery that hangs over this place.

I could get addicted to the way this strange Noor boy is looking at me. It’s curious and wondering and warm, like spring. He takes one of the buns from my hand and whispers something in his throat-hitching language. Then his hand moves so quickly, in the sharp, sudden way I associate with the Noor. But when the backs of his fingers brush my cheek, it is a slow and gentle touch, one that both startles and quiets me. It’s a moment suspended in time, and I want to dwell in it for a while, at least long enough to help me understand what’s happening, but he doesn’t give me the chance. He whirls around and runs back down the hall, boots clomping, his head nearly bonking against the low ceiling with every stride.

“Let me get him presentable!” he calls over his shoulder. I walk slowly down the hall, giving him a chance to cover his friend, who I’m sure is almost naked in the humid air of this dorm.

When Melik gives the all clear, I enter the room and sit on the sleep pallet next to Tercan’s, which is against the wall beneath the single, tiny window in the room. He is lying on his back, his foot propped up on a rolled-up pallet, deep purple circles under his sleepy eyes. I wonder which of the Noor gave up his bed for Tercan. Probably Melik.

There’s a single bare lightbulb suspended from the ceiling, and by its light Melik watches me settle in as he wolfs down his bun. “This is not the place for a girl like you,” he says with a full mouth.

He’s right, of course, but I can’t tell him why I’m willing to risk it. It’s not because I’m good or selfless. It’s the opposite. I focus on measuring antibiotics into the little dosing cap the apothecary gave me, as if this medicine can turn back time and make Tercan like he was yesterday morning. “Go to work and don’t worry about it anymore.”

He thanks me and runs off again, to take his place on the killing floor, to wield his long knife. I wonder if the Ghost has received my prayer yet, and if he’ll do what I asked. Maybe I should have gotten him a bun too.

Tercan eats half of his bun, then vomits it up. He is pale and sweaty. I go out back and wet a rag with water from one of the spouts. I wash down his face, his arms and legs, trying to make him more comfortable. I peel off the bandage and peek at his foot; it’s terribly swollen and bruised, but there are no red streaks, no pus. A hopeful sign.

Tercan’s being brave. He stays still, lets me do what I have to do. When I’m finished, he gestures at me, putting his hand on his chest and extending his open palm toward me. I don’t know exactly what it means, so I smile at him, hoping that’s the reaction he wants. He smiles back, but I can tell from the glaze in his eyes that he is in agony. I let him suck on an opium stick until he is asleep, then I pull it from his mouth and set it next to his bed. I leave after sundown, happy for the cover of darkness as I sneak from the dorm.

I skip dinner and trudge back to the clinic, looking forward to a hot bath to wash away all my regrets and sorrows. I walk through the doorway to find my father waiting for me. His expression is tight, and his skin has a grayish cast to it.

Mugo is standing next to him.

“We have excellent news for you,” Mugo tells me, grinning wide and showing his chipped tooth.

I look to my father for some hint of what’s going on.

“Underboss Mugo is in need of a new personal secretary,” he says in a hoarse voice. He cannot meet my eyes. He holds up a work pass. My name is written on it. “You start on Monday.”

I SWALLOW MY SCREAM
and stay rooted in place, once again remembering the cautionary tales about girls who run from the wildcats in the forest. I bow my head and stick my hands in the pockets of my dress to keep Mugo from seeing them tremble. “As you wish.”

Mugo claps his hands. “It’s settled, then. Wonderful. I’ll see you bright and early on Monday morning,” he says to me. He seems to think he’s done something great. Either that or he’s very excited. He shakes my father’s hand and leaves.

My father and I stare at each other for a long time.

“What happened to Jima?” I finally ask. “Did he fire her?”

Father presses his lips together and nods. “This afternoon.”

“Why did he choose me? I don’t know how to be a secretary.”

Father sighs, a heavy, mournful sound. “Mugo says Vie can teach you.”

“Did you tell him I can suture? That I can help you? Did you—”

“He said I have no need for an assistant. I’m so sorry, Wen. I had no choice.”

It takes a minute for his words to sink in. My father can’t afford to have me here, eating company food and wearing company clothes. And Mugo knew this, because he has access to all of the books. “What did he threaten you with?” I whisper.

Father shakes his head firmly. “You don’t worry about that. You worry about yourself. Do this job, and earn your keep, and you’ll be fine.”

It would be so much easier if he sounded like he believed what he’s saying. “I have to take a bath,” I announce, louder than is necessary in the small space of this clinic.

“Okay,” my father says. He’s not going to ask me how I’m feeling. And that’s all right, because I’d never tell him. That I wanted him to fight for me, that I wanted him to refuse. That I wanted him to protect me.

My mother would have. She may have been a fine lady, but she would have ripped Mugo’s hair from his head. She would have slapped him across the face. She would never have allowed this to happen.

Except she did, because she couldn’t stay alive, and now I’m here. Another layer of her peels away from me all of a sudden, and I scramble up the stairs and retch into the water basin. When my stomach stops heaving, I take a scalding bath and scrub every inch of my skin until it’s red and sore. I braid my wet hair very tightly. I lie in bed in my nightgown, every inch of me hurting, and I welcome it. I’m not screaming out loud, but my body is silently shrieking.

Sleep eludes me. A few hours after my father quietly makes his way into the curtained alcove that serves as his room, I get up. I am not alone; my father is here, but I have been abandoned all the same. The loneliness is suffocating, and I can think of only one being who might understand it. I pull on a dressing gown and my soft woolen shoes, and I pace the corridor. When I can’t hold myself back any longer, I creep down to the cafeteria, to the Ghost’s altar.

Like last night, the prayers and offerings are gone, including mine. My heart lifts. Maybe the Ghost is going to protect the Noor. Maybe he will do what I ask. I kneel in front of the candles, thinking of everything I’ve learned about him since I’ve been here. On my first day here Ebian told me and my father that the Ghost eliminated the rat problem in the grinding room. Onya claims he magically fixed her typewriter. Minny insisted that the Ghost somehow kept her from being fired for missing too much work when her son was ill. So many stories, and though some are of the Ghost’s wrath, most of them are tales of how the Ghost made miraculous, wonderful things happen.

“I think you’re a nice ghost,” I say, testing how it sounds in my mouth. It doesn’t quite ring true because Tercan’s face flashes through my mind, reminding me that the Ghost has the power to do terrible things. Maybe he is punishing me now, giving Mugo the idea that I should be his secretary.

I slide the tip of my finger through the long tongue of flame coming from one of the tallow candles. “Ghost, are you there?”

I wait for the taps, but they don’t come. I curl in on myself, until my forehead rests against the edge of the altar. “I don’t have an offering for you, but I do have a need.” I close my mouth as soon as I realize how selfish I sound.

As I’m getting up, I hear the metallic scraping coming from my left, from a side hallway I’ve never been in. “Hello?” I call, straightening my skirt and taking a few steps toward the hall.

There’s a spot in the darkness of that hallway that’s just a bit denser than the rest of it. “Is someone there?”

The spot doesn’t move. But as I inch closer, I am quite certain it’s the silhouette of a man—except it isn’t shaped quite right. Maybe it’s not a man at all. “Ghost?”

The dense spot gasps and moves very fast. A door slams. I don’t stop to think—I run. I reach the door and rip it open, then fly down the steps, which are lit only by yellow emergency lamps.

I hear footsteps.

I descend two flights quickly while the air grows colder against my skin and the hairs rise on my neck. Jima said people don’t go down to the basement anymore, that the last few who did never returned. It’s possible they simply got lost, of course. This place is immense. I pause on the bottom step, trying to get my bearings. There are four hallways, each one going in a different direction, all dark. I should stop right now and go upstairs.

But somewhere nearby someone lets out a breath he’s been holding.

I cling to the stair railing. “Come out right now! Why are you hiding?”

My hands grope for the switches on the wall at the base of the stairs. The lighting in three of the hallways comes on, but the hallway to my right stays completely dark. The ever-present pipes line each of these corridors, coiling together in the corners, intersecting across the ceilings, carrying who knows what. The lights flicker in their steel cages, showing barren cement, closed doors—and no movement. So I take a few steps into the dark hallway, until the light around me turns from gray yellow to brown black, stopping before I sink into inky obsidian darkness. I’ve never been afraid of the dark, though now I wonder if I should be. But when I am rewarded with shuffling up ahead, a faint footfall, a soft clanking, I can’t resist.

I move forward slowly, my hands out in front of me, my feet skimming along the ground. “Please, I know you’re up there!”

“Stop!” The voice is loud but hoarse, like a door with hinges in dire need of oil. He sounds panicked. “Don’t move!”

“I just wanted to talk to you,” I say, taking another step. My foot catches on something and there’s a noise like a thread’s been snapped.

A weighted net drops onto me, tangling around my body and pulling me to the floor. With a startled cry, I try to rip it off, but it’s made of some kind of slick material that slides through my fingers like water. From behind me there’s a metallic scrape and a scuttling sound, like a crab on a stone.

I manage to turn my head enough to see what’s making the noise, and I scream.

There, coming from under the stairs, creeping slowly into a pool of light, is the biggest spider I’ve ever seen. Its body is the size of a tomcat. It moves stiffly but surely, every step stabbing the ground with a sharp
click
. Its black legs arch around a low, fat body that almost drags on the ground. From behind a coil of pipes beneath the light switches comes another, and yet another emerges from one of the lit hallways. They each have two black, bulbous eyes and a row of six smaller eyes above those. And when they step directly under the light, their abdomens gleam metal-smooth. They’re not animals—they’re machines. Bloodless and soulless and way too close. I whimper, struggling in my net. Almost in unison, the things slash their curved silver fangs down twice before raising them again—and walking straight toward me.

I crawl with spastic, scrabbling movements into the dark, away from the spiders, which are now lined up in a row and marching down the hallway. Beneath the weight and tangle of this net, I can’t get to my feet, let alone jump over them to get back to the stairs. The only way to escape is by going forward, but I only succeed in trapping myself further in the net. It’s suffocating me. I am choking on my fear.

Footsteps come toward me through the darkness. “Get
up
,” whispers the hoarse voice.

“Help me,” I plead, fighting to free my hands. The net is wrapped around my head. I can’t see anything now. But I can hear. The metallic spiders are closer. I kick my legs, the panic making my muscles twitch. I don’t want those silver fangs embedded in my skin.

There’s a tug on the net, and I’m pulled upright. “This way,” the owner of the voice says.

The spiders’ footfalls are right behind us. The man pushes me ahead of him, and then he wraps an arm around my waist and he’s almost carrying me. My toes are sliding along the ground. “In here.”

As I continue to fight hopelessly with the net, my companion shoves me into what appears to be a little nook, possibly used for electrical or emergency access. He presses in behind me, filling my ears with the scraping sound of metal against cement. Is he holding some sort of weapon? “We have to keep out of their way,” he says.

“What are those things?” My voice is high and tremulous. I’m about to start screaming and I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.

“Security precaution.” He smells of green tea, mint, and . . . plum cakes? His body is warm against mine. We’re both breathing hard. The scuttling spiders come closer, closer, and I flatten myself against the wall of our cinder-block hiding place. Cold pipes against my chest. Moist stone beneath my hands. The net almost strangling me.

Better than silver fangs buried in the flesh of my calves. I shudder. My companion presses even closer. He’s muttering to himself and picking at the net like he’s looking for something. Then, as the spiders’ clicking footsteps pull up parallel to our hiding spot, he stops moving entirely. We stand silently, waiting, and after a second of pause during which my heart ceases to beat, the spiders continue to walk down the hall, their scuttling reduced to a mere whisper in the dark.

The man’s body relaxes and he returns to pulling at the net. “Shouldn’t have made it so hard,” he mumbles. “They weren’t meant for you. Not for you.”

A second later he seems to find what he’s looking for. He pulls at just the right spot, and the net simply falls away from me. He guides me into the darkened corridor.

“Time for you to go back,” he says, dragging me toward the light. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Wait.” I try to pull my arm loose from his extremely strong grasp. “Who are you?”

He laughs, a quick, impatient sound. “I think you know the answer to that, Wen.”

“You know my name.”

“Of course I do.” He says it like it would be ridiculous of me to expect anything else. His strides are long, but there’s a hitch in each step, along with a faint clanking every time he swings his arm. He must be carrying something.

“Are you a thief? Have you stolen something from upstairs?”

“Why would I need to steal anything? People give me their best treasures.” He pulls up short before we enter the part of the corridor where a hint of light could reach us. I step forward, but he doesn’t follow. “You wanted something from the Ghost tonight,” he says from the shadows. “What was it?”

“It’s none of your business,” I snap, but my voice breaks in the middle as I recall the terrible loneliness and dread that drove me to the Ghost’s altar.

“Are you sure?” And then, in the dark, I hear the pings. Two metallic taps against the pipes. Coming from a few feet behind me.

I gasp. “A joke. You played a trick on me. I thought—I thought the Ghost was—”

“Real?”

I nod.

“I’m real,” he says quietly.

“But are you the Ghost?”

“It depends on your definition.”

The sadness and solitude in his voice is a language of its own, one I speak fluently. “Are you the boy who died on the killing floor?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he whispers.

“But you’re alive.” I dive back into the dark, and my hands land on his chest. His warm, breathing chest. I can feel the heat and the rapid rise and fall, even through his shirt.

He jerks away from my grasping fingers, sinking farther into the murk with a soft clanking noise. “Not really. I’m not . . .” He curses. “Why did you follow me down here?” he roars. “No one comes down here!”

I stumble backward, away from his anger. “I’m sorry. I wanted to—I don’t know. I just . . . needed the Ghost.”

The harsh rasp of his breath echoes down the hallway. “You can’t come down here again. It’s very dangerous. Promise me!”

“I promise!” I blurt out, eager to calm him down. He sounds like a wounded animal there in the dark, and I can’t reach him. Can’t help him. I know I should run, but I don’t want to. The Ghost is alive, has been alive all this time. And he’s been alone down here for the past seven years.

“Please,” he says. “Don’t tell anyone you came down here. Don’t tell them you saw me.”

“I won’t. I swear I won’t.” I mean it too. I don’t want him to be hurt.

“All right,” he says, the sawing of his breath quieting a bit. “You can go. Just. Go!”

I bolt for the stairs, almost thinking I can hear those scuttling spiders behind me. I hit the steps and pull my skirt out of the way of my shoes as I go up two at a time. I nearly miss the landing for the main floor and keep going, but manage to slow myself down long enough to wrench open the metal door and stagger into the hallway. With my skirt flying out behind me, I keep sprinting until I burst through the doorway of my father’s darkened clinic, dash up the stairs, and dive onto my sleeping pallet, still wearing my shoes and dressing gown.