Petra K and the Blackhearts (10 page)

“She wants to meet your girlfriends,” teased Jasper.

“OK,” said Deklyn. “If we are going to be partners you might as well see how we live. Let’s go, just leave Luma here.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Special delivery,” he answered, picking up the flowers. “Come along if you want.”

I paused for a moment, then my curiosity got the best of me. Again I followed Deklyn through the underground passages.

“Have you always lived under the baths?” I asked. His intentional mysteriousness was beginning to annoy me.

“No. The Newts took care of me for a while, but I am a child of Jozseftown, so I prefer to live here.”

“And the others?”

“They all have their own stories. Jasper, for instance, came from St. Cecelia’s.”

“The orphanage?”

“Yes. But it is more like a prison to those who live there. And if you stay too long, they recruit you for the Boot, which might sound nice for somebody like Jasper, but the orphan recruits all get sent to the southern marshes, where they work in the sulfur mines.”

“And Abel?”

“Nobody knows. Not even him. He just showed up one day wandering around the streets of Jozseftown, with no memory of who he was or where he came from. We had to name him ourselves. Abel: an ancient Pava hero, you know.”

“I know,” I said.

“Of course, you went to school. But where does your schooling get you down here?”

I had no real answer, so I just scoffed. From there, we walked in silence.

Before long, a strong smell of something like rotting vegetables began to overtake me. It was accompanied by a faint but definite sound of singing. As we continued along the corridor, the stench of the place intensified: we arrived at an opening and I could see an enormous cavelike room, at the center of which light from street lamps streamed in through a hole from above, illuminating the small mountain of trash that dominated the space. I could see childlike creatures scampering over the mess. They would wait for another bundle of trash to fall from above, then compete with each other in picking out rusted metal and bits of food, throwing whatever was unusable down a sewage canal. In the corner an old Victrola phonograph was playing.

“Kubikula,” Deklyn said.

“I thought the Kubikula were just a legend,” I responded. In history class we had learned the story of a race of prisoners of war that had been sentenced to life underground. It was said they had evolved into stubby, scaly, monstrous creatures.

“Where do you think your trash goes? Straight down here, in exchange for the Kubikula not rising up, or raiding markets after hours. True, every now and again a dog or goat disappears from above, after which you can smell cooking meat rising from the sewers, but mostly they keep to the pact.”

“So what do you want with them?”

“We,” he corrected me. “You are in this too now.”

“We,” I said, liking the sound of that word, despite my reeking surroundings.

“I have known the Kubikula since I was small. They are good to have on your side, because nothing that gets thrown out in this city escapes their notice. And they are hoarders by nature. You can find almost anything in their storage rooms.”

“And what are we looking for?”

But before he could answer, a small Kubikula ran over to us. She obviously recognized Deklyn, as she threw her arms around him. The Kubikula was just a child, but she looked so much older, her skin pale as alabaster, and limbs stocky from being hunched all the time in cramped underground spaces.

“Here you go, Sytia,” he said, calling the girl by name. No sooner did Deklyn give her the flowers than other Kubikula began to crowd around, putting their fingers on the petals, pulling the stalks toward them to get a better smell of the bouquet.

“That’s one thing that never gets thrown out: fresh flowers. Come on,” said Deklyn. “Soon they will have devoured them, and we will become the next most interesting things.” I followed Deklyn into the Kubikulas’ inner sanctum. We passed chambers that were filled with spare metal scrap, chambers with piles of dead flower petals, chambers crammed with animal bones. Finally we came to a back room where there was nothing but paper piled high to the ceiling. Deklyn immediately began to rifle through a stack. I plucked a piece of parchment from the top of one of the piles: it was a deed to the ownership of a dragonka. Somebody had just thrown it away, perhaps out of shame or guilt, to
rid themselves of the evidence of something they had once held dear. Heaven only knows what happened to the dragonka itself.

“Those come by the dozen, these days,” said Deklyn, taking the paper from my hands and tossing it aside. “What we are looking for is a map.”

“A map to what?”

“The city,” he said. “But not exactly. Before Archibald and this sham dragonka fever, the government put a lot of money into building a pneumatic mail delivery system underground. Archibald had it discontinued, and it has since fallen into disrepair. I have been working on fixing it, but to really make use of it, I need to know all the places it reaches. I could just follow where the pipes go, but that could take weeks, and they might lead me to some places that are too risky to explore.”

I began to hunt amongst the papers with real purpose. Through reams of dusty, sometimes greasy stacks of wax wrapping, documents, and deeds, we searched. I found a bunch of maps, even ones so old they looked like they should be on a museum wall, but not the exact one Deklyn was looking for. I unfolded one that depicted the city of Pava. Perhaps it was the first time I had seen what Pava looked like from above: the black serpentine river separating the two sides of the city, making Pava look like a giant moth resting on the cold terrain, poised to lift its speckled, sparkling wings and flutter off again at any moment. Or, I reconsidered, like a big broken heart, the bridges like stitching holding it together.

I looked at Deklyn, his black heart tattoo visible through his white blouse. I can’t explain the feeling that came over me. It wasn’t affection—for I still hated the boy—but I understood that his fate was the fate of Pava. And I loved Pava. He noticed me watching him.

“What?” he said, pausing.

“Nothing,” I said. “But what is the Jozseftown Resistance Movement?”

“I can’t tell you right now. It is only in its beginning stages. But we are not going to let the Boot dictate what happens here. Jozseftown became world famous from the Dragonka Exchange. And we mean to protect it.”

“I can help,” I said.

“No,” said Deklyn. “It is too dangerous for you. A Pava School girl.”

I looked away, feeling resentment burn within me. As if to prove him wrong, I rifled through the papers with more intensity.

Soon curious Kubikula children began to wander into the room, putting their grubby fingers on my clothing, smelling my hair.

“OK,” said Deklyn. “Finding the right one was a long shot, anyway. The rumor is that Archibald had ordered them all burned, and the creators of the network exiled.”

“What is he so afraid of?”

“Just information. If the JRM can join with other movements against him, it would be a real threat. But as it stands, we are divided. Not to mention, finding an entranceway into the Palace below ground would be invaluable. And I am told the map shows one.”

I wanted to hear more, but a Kubikula girl put my finger in her mouth. I screamed, and suddenly more Kubikula children began pouring into the room, attracted by the noise.

“Let’s get you out of here before they decide to make a meal of you,” he said, perhaps only half joking. We left quickly, a cluster of Kubikula children trailing us into the adjoining sewers, until they were called back by their elders.

We made it away safely, but on our way back to the Blackhearts’ lair, I noticed that we were being followed by Sytia. She was running. We stopped and let her catch up with us. She was very excited, carrying a pouch in her hands. We paused to see what she had brought. From the opening she pulled a tiny beast. I could see that it was a dragonka pup. But it had a bizarre coloration, like
somebody had dipped it in a murky gold mud. Also, more shockingly, it had long sharp fangs and red eyes, and its forearms appeared stunted and unusable. Stranger still, its wings appeared to be made of metal, and were sutured to its body. It was a terrifying and bizarre-looking beast: half machine, half dragonka.

“Where did you get this?” Deklyn asked the child. She pointed to the dark tunnel. The dragonka had come to her as trash! Deklyn shook his head. “This isn’t the first mutation we have seen. Somebody is doing experiments on the dragonka. It looks like they are fashioning them into something bizarre and vicious. They must be discarding their misfires.” He handed the mutant beast back to the Kubikula girl.

By the time we arrived back at the Blackheart lair, the others had fallen asleep, and I had to lift my exhausted dragonka from Abel’s protective clutch. Deklyn guided me to the entrance of the sewer, where a ladder led me back to the fountain.

I
thought I would be hearing from the Blackhearts soon after that day, but it was actually quite some time before they contacted me again. My absences from home were growing longer and more conspicuous, and now that Luma was training for competitions, he had become more and more rambunctious, flying around my room, scampering from my grasp when I just wanted to pet him out of loneliness. I knew I could not keep Luma a secret from my mother any longer.

As it turned out I didn’t have to.

One morning I awoke, and Luma was simply not there. The open cage, and bedroom door—which stood ajar—told the story. Downstairs I could hear mother moving about in the kitchen. I crept quietly down the stairs and peered in the door. What I saw amazed me: mother was holding her palm out and feeding pomegranate seeds to Luma, who was sitting up on his hind legs on the butcher’s block. It was the first time in so long that my mother’s interest was stirred. She was even laughing a little when the dragonka stuck his tongue out to take the red seeds from her hand. I stood unnoticed at the door, and suddenly felt like I was looking
in on a scene from my mother’s past, from when before I had been born. My mother even appeared years younger, with a smile spreading across her face, her beauty enthralling even in her nightgown and with hair uncombed. I knew I should not be spying like this, on something that was my mother’s private happiness. It was a lonely feeling, but one that also made me brighten inside.

I had been selfish, I realized. I wanted to rush into the kitchen and tell mother that—to confess something, though I was not sure what; no to confess that I had snuck out my window, because I knew that I would continue to commit such misdeeds, but to confess that I was Petra K, that I had always been Petra K and always would be, and I was at once sorry and very proud of that fact. For once it looked like mother would understand. For only a moment I had forgotten completely about the dragonka.

But when I entered in the kitchen, I confessed nothing. I stood by my mother and Luma, continuing to watch, feeling like a small child again. “What should we do?” I asked, not because I wanted advice, but because I wanted mother to know that I thought she was worth asking.

But when she turned to look at me, the entire picture crumpled. My dragonka was one thing, and I was quite another. Her eyes steeled as they pierced me. I shrank back to the door, but mother called me back.

“Petra K,” she began. I knew she was angry, because she was whispering. “What have you gotten us into?”

“I had no choice,” I began.

“I don’t want to hear your excuses!” she spat. I could talk back to anybody, except my mother. Even when I was right, my words just got trapped in my throat, my lips unable to form them, as though I was speaking a foreign language.

“Tell me who you stole it from,” she said. “Tell me now.”

“I didn’t steal it,” I said. But the words just fell flat from my mouth. This was one of those times when no matter how true the response, it sounds like a lie, even to your own ears.

“Speak up,” Mother said, even though I knew she could hear me well enough.

“I didn’t steal it,” I said louder.

“You are turning into your father,” she shouted.

It was then that my mother grabbed a broom. She struck out at me with it, as though I was a rodent that had gotten indoors. She was not used to moving quickly, so I dodged the bristles easily. I almost wanted to let one blow land, just so she wouldn’t feel like such a failure. Instead she took a few more futile swings, then crumpled onto the floor. I approached her silently. I took the broom into my hands, then gently pried it from her grip. She let it go easily. Her hands were so old looking. My heart, as always, filled with pity and love for my mother.

“Come on, it’s OK,” I said.

“I tried so hard,” she said. “I tried so hard to keep you from turning into a deviant. But I failed. I failed terribly.”

In such a situation, I knew it was my turn to care for her. That was what both of us expected of me.

“Let’s go outside today,” I said, forcing a bright smile.

“But I haven’t been out in such along time,” Mother said.

“I know. That’s why it will be great,” I answered.

Her demeanor changed in an instant. Anger took too much energy from her. I watched her tense expression relax. From that point on, my mother was like a huge doll I could take charge of. I escorted her into her room, helped her out of her night things, and selected a perfect winter outfit for her. It was perhaps too dressy for just going out to walk around Jozseftown, but that was alright. For me, at least, it was a celebration. She let me comb her hair and put some rouge on her cheeks. There was nothing to be done about the tea-stained teeth, but at least I could count on her not smiling.

When we were done, she looked like I remembered her from before she began locking herself in her bedroom. Which means, great: my mother all over again. I locked Luma in his cage with some water and food, then took Mother by the hand and
guided her to the front door. I opened it, and a blast of cold air invaded the hall. We pushed forward and stepped outside. Her head perked up like a flower leaning to sunlight.