Petra K and the Blackhearts (19 page)

“In the name of the Stink Clovers, an offering for luck in the races!” A flame appeared to whip out from its place and snatch the box from the girl’s hands, drawing it back hungrily in to its belly. But the biggest cheer came when a Big Thumb Devil took from a pillow case a barking automated Kina dragonka (that the metal would only scorch did not matter) and threw it into the blaze, where its rice
benzin
cartridge exploded in a shower of sparks.

“Who are they sacrificing the toys to, anyway?” I asked Abel.

“The spirits of dead dragonka,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t get it. I kind of liked that rocking horse.”

“I’m sure you’ll get one someday,” I said.

“I don’t want any stupid toys, anyway,” Abel said in an abrupt burst of anger, kicking the dirt, then stomping over to the Blackhearts. I didn’t understand what I had said wrong, except that maybe life was more difficult for Abel here than I had presumed. I didn’t have time to dwell on it; the tournament was about to start.

T
HE FESTIVITIES BEGAN STUPENDOUSLY
. A team of clownish dragonka trained to walk on stilts came out and entertained the crowd with their pratfalls. They were followed by a display of unique dragonka the gangs had collected: there was a snakelike dragonka that terrified everybody as it was released from its cage and squirmed along the floor in pursuit of a small goat, sacrificed for the occasion. Next a team of uniformly cloned pink dragonka pulled a sleigh around the ring with a tiny figure of Archibald, drawing howls of laughter from the audience. Behind them came an acrobat juggling three balls. When he held them up to the light it was revealed that there were kiš-dragonka trapped in the plasma-filled orbs, like little planets of fireflies.

As the races began I realized something: I had missed the excitement of the competition. My mind was not on Archibald, on the Youth Guard, or even on my mother. The sheer thrill of it all overtook me completely. It was because Luma was a part of me—I was sharing his anticipation. Let what would happen, happen, so long as Luma won. And then, suddenly, it was our turn. Luma looked out into the ring with a determination that brought a rush of joy and pride to my heart. I took him on a walk around the ring, so the audience could decide how they wanted to bet. There were shouts of encouragement and a few jeers from the camps of opposing dragonka, but Luma seemed to absorb all the attention, if not feed off of it.

I
LEFT
L
UMA IN THE RING
. A larger dragonka was brought out, and the ringmaster cracked the whip, signaling the beginning of the mock-joust. The opponent, Agascus, proved worthy from the opening moments of the contest, circling Luma with an unsettling coolness. Luma began to gnash his teeth at Agascus, which was not a good sign: being made aggressive too early, before the creatures had even taken flight. It was Luma who took to the air first, perhaps to get out of a gambit he was losing. Agascus soon followed, continuing his spiraling strategy, always keeping Luma in front of him. Luma had learned a lot from Isobel and he was able to rotate himself in mid-air with ease, ending each turn in a pose that the audience applauded. Luma, unlike the cunning Agascus, had form, and because of it he won over the audience. This, of course, was another strategy, and it began to work. Agascus was quick to anger, hurt that the audience was not siding with him. I realized what a powerful tool it was, and why Isobel had concentrated so much on Luma’s form and poses. He looked magnificent up there, as though being manipulated by an expert puppet master.

But soon things took a turn for the worse. Agascus changed his strategy, staring Luma straight on in the eyes. Luma rose to the challenge, and the two squared off, their wings beating gently to keep them aloft. The crowd became quiet and the air tensed. I realized that I was holding my breath, and had to remind myself to inhale. No two dragonka could stare into each other’s eyes for long without one losing control and attacking. It was a matter of moments.

It was Agascus who lost control first, making a charge at Luma. But Luma, also lost in the contest, instinctively moved out of the way, allowing Agascus to miss his protective collar, and therefore remain in the match. But at the last moment he regained his concentration and gave the other dragonka a tap on the rump with his tail as he passed. It was a dangerous move, one the judges might well have deemed an attack, costing him the
match—but the judges were experienced and realized it was but a taunt, and one that worked because Agascus made another run, this time fixing his teeth firmly on Luma’s neck. That ended it: Luma won again, and the crowd rewarded him with an explosion of applause. It was an excellent showing.

L
UMA HAD WON HEAVILY AGAIN
. This time I said nothing when Deklyn collected the winnings for the Blackhearts. Luma himself was quite content, if not a bit smug, soaking up the adoration of the other children who crowded around my able, young beast. I extracted him from their midst and took Luma over to feed him on a dish of rose water and pomegranate seeds.

“I am taking him home,” I said to Deklyn, who had joined us there.

“No,” stated Deklyn. “And don’t argue. It is too important now to quibble over. He is safer with us.”

“But I need him. Besides, I have
nobody
.”

“You were true to your word, so you can stay with us, too,” he said almost offhandedly. Feeling emotion well up in my eyes, I hid my face from his sight.

T
he Blackhearts’ new lair was in an abandoned building near the center of Jozseftown. There was plenty of room, and their stock of dragonka made the most of it: racing down the hallways and shooting from the windows like cannonballs. Luma had grown in the short time I was gone; he was almost full grown, and, I imagined, so was his heart. I kept the part about Archibald’s experiments with growing hearts a secret, because if Deklyn knew, well, I am not sure what he would have done. I couldn’t take the chance that he would kill Luma outright. I was Luma’s protector, and that meant protecting him from the Blackhearts as well.

T
HE FOLLOWING EVENING
I was trying to fall asleep on the bed of blankets they had given me. I glanced over to where Deklyn was sleeping, without really meaning to look at him. He was so confident and stubborn, it was aggravating; but somehow I kept looking his way, then catching myself and looking away awkwardly.

“What is it, already?” he said.

“It’s just …” I was about to say that I understood him. I understood about losing parents—or feeling like you don’t have them at all. That I felt a shadowy black heart—similar to his—hovering over my own breast. But before I could start, Isobel came rushing into the lair.

“Wake up!” she called, shaking Abel awake.

“What?” said Deklyn, rubbing his eyes.

“It’s Jasper. He has gone crazy. He is out on Goat Square shouting all kinds of things about the Boot. They will arrest him again for sure if we don’t get to him first.”

Deklyn rushed from his place, and I followed as soon as I could get my jacket on and stuff Luma in the portable nest.

Out on Goat Square I could see Jasper standing on an upturned fruit crate, addressing a small crowd that had gathered around him. I hurried closer to hear what he was saying.

“The time for hiding in your homes and shuttered behind storefronts is over! People, all our gold is gone, our dragonka outlawed. I am tired of hiding from these cowards who come in packs like wolves to pick us off. It is time to rise up!” he shouted.

“Easy for you to say!” a poppy dealer I recognized yelled back. “You don’t have a home. You don’t have a family to feed. You would be just as happy on the streets. But I can’t risk my own family.”

“Yes, it’s true,” agreed another.

“It is not so bad these days,” a Zsida map merchant said, trying to calm Jasper. “We have food on the table, we continue our studies. So we give a little gold. The dragonka, they were not for us, anyway. These are the worries of the rich.”

“That is not true,” yelled Jasper. “We—the Blackhearts—have a dragonka. I am not afraid. Let the Boot come and try to take him if they wish. I am not afraid.”

“Jasper,” Deklyn yelled. “Enough now.”

“Enough,” he spat contemptuously. “Apparently, it is never enough. You people are asleep.”

“You are going to get us arrested!” said Deklyn.

“I want arrest! Instead we are racing dragonka like children at playtime. And you—you let a traitor into our lair,” he said, pointing at me.

“Are you accusing me of being in league with the Boot?” Deklyn said, getting up closer to Jasper.

“All cowards are in league with the Boot, like it or not,” he said. Deklyn approached him. Jasper looked like he might attack him, then thought the better of it and stepped down from the fruit crate. We watched him stalk off through the crowd, then disappear into the black coffinlike door of the Stone Pillow.

“He has been drinking mead. He can’t control himself,” said Deklyn.

“The Boot might know about Luma,” I said.

“No,” said Deklyn. “This is Jozseftown. They protect their own.”

L
ATER THAT EVENING
Jasper still had not returned. Deklyn fidgeted on his dragonka chair; then his restlessness got the better of him.

“Come on,” he said. “There is a pagan festival over in the Half Not section tonight with a singing dragonka. It should be pretty wild.”

“Are you sure we should go out?” I asked.

“Jasper is right about one thing. I am tired of being afraid all the time.”

“You are afraid?” I asked, not sure I could believe it.

Deklyn only looked away in what I guessed was shame. My urge to tell him about Luma burned in me stronger than ever, but I could not. I could not trust anybody. And that was
my
shame.

B
Y THE TIME WE ARRIVED
in a deserted apartment building in the Half Not district, the Ceremony of the Maiden Song was about to begin. Except for the time in Archibald’s garden, I had never
partaken in a dragonka song. Before the crisis, these were highly regulated events, because of the songs’ strange and unpredictable effects. Normally, dragonka were taught to sing in chorus: reciting songs that had been passed down through the ages, songs that taught the history of Dravonia through the dreams they conjured. It was only during events like these that dragonka were permitted to sing what came from their hearts. It was considered too unpredictable, and therefore dangerous. But it brought a feeling of solidarity both to the dragonka and the audience, a feeling the children of Jozseftown needed.

Attendants encouraged audience members to sit on the floor: some chose to lie on their backs and gaze up at the sky. After the ambience had been set, a small wagon, pulled on a harness by working dragonka, rode onto the stage. It was festooned with crepe paper, and sparklers blazed along its side; it might have been a Kina wedding-ceremony ship for all its decoration. Once the sparkles burned out, the dragonka that was riding the wagon became visible. It was a stout beast, visibly preening, aware all eyes were on it.

I sat with Luma on my lap, our eyes fixed on the lit-up dragonka who held the floor. Isobel emerged from one of the apartments, her fiddle resting on her shoulder. She came to the center of the circle, and waited for the dragonka to give her the proper signal. With just a flap of its wings the crowd hushed. Silence. It opened its mouth, though a long time seemed to pass before any song came out. (In truth, the sound it made in these moments was inaudible to the human ear, but Luma and the other dragonka heard it, and its voice was fine enough to penetrate the spirit world, where it caused the ghosts that had invaded the courtyard to sway in a melancholy dance and provoked matter that was neither live nor dead to rustle, sending small, almost undetectable sparks off in the air.) But, when the sound did become audible it was like nothing I had ever heard before, neither rough and untamed like the song from the Dragonka Exchange, but dissonant
and alluring, like a riddle in musical notation. Isobel began to play along, letting the dragonka song lead her.

And carried in the dragonka song was a charm that set my mind adrift—dreamily floating into a trancelike state as the song filled the room, sudden and fluid, soft and numbing. The notes of the song bounced around in my body, and I gave myself up to them totally. Dreams of past nights appeared before me in the air. Terrible spiders spun neon-colored webs, catching notes in the sticky silk. Then everything froze. That was when the dreams began to spin around my head like a flurry of pictures.

W
HEN MY HEAD STOPPED SPINNING
I found myself on an empty street in Jozseftown. But it had changed, somehow. The rambling tenements had been replaced by concrete high-rises with small slits for windows. Factories in the distance belched fog into the air, which hovered over the city like a mourning veil. I began to walk silently. Posters of Archibald were pasted to the walls everywhere; it was almost impossible to cast your gaze in any direction without seeing his likeness. I wandered further into Jozseftown. Up the street I saw a child, walking with his coat collar turned up. I immediately recognized him as Abel. He was older by a few years, and he had lost a lot of weight; the clothing practically fell from his skin. After a few steps Abel paused, looked around furtively, then took a tool from his pocket and went to work scraping Archibald’s poster from the wall. Once he got a corner loose, he ripped the poster from its place, then moved on to the next one.

Lost in his work, he failed to notice a group descend upon him. Dressed in military uniforms, emblazoned with gold sun insignias, and led by police dogs, they seemed to have appeared from nowhere. I called out to warn the boy, but my words were soundless: I was an invisible, mute witness to what the dragonka’s dream was showing me. I ran to the scene: the patrol had Abel backed against a wall. But as I got closer I realized its dogs weren’t police dogs at all: they were a trio of golden dragonka winged and
disciplined as trained falcons. The dragonka—with ruby red eyes and claws that shimmered even without sun—appeared to be mechanical versions of the beast I knew. These were nothing like the experiments I had come across before—they had been
perfected
.