Petra K and the Blackhearts (23 page)

“Look at his chest,” I said. Abel dropped his dagger, then opened Archibald’s shirt, revealing a deep carmine scar around his heart, blackened, like Abel’s own. Abel gasped.

“He was an innocent. Just like us.”

Abel nodded. He began to weep himself, then released the ousted dictator.

I escorted Archibald back into the Palace. I took him to the room he had let me sleep in, and found a stuffed toy to put him to bed with. The tears, once begun, sprung without ceasing.

“Stay here,” I said. Archibald cried, and within moments he was asleep.

M
EANWHILE, THE PEOPLE OF THE CITY
had overtaken the Palace. Doors were broken down, and the looting of the treasures became an ugly sight. But aside from that, it was a night for celebration. First, the prisoners in the cages that hung on the road to the Palace were released, then bonfires were built around the grounds, and musicians—Half Not, Zsida, and Pavaian alike—were called to play. And play they did, into the early dawn, as whole sides of ox and mutton from the Palace’s own rations were turned over spits. There was a turkey stuffed with a pheasant, which was in turn stuffed with pigeon, all roasted over the coals. Potatoes where chopped up with red-hot paprika and doused with sunflower oil, then fried. Honey and poppy pastries were unwrapped from wax paper, and logs of cherry strudel were passed out for dessert. Everybody sipped mead and soon became dizzy and brazen on its effect. It was luxuriant and decadent, a feast fit for victory.

I was drunk on the food. I sat against an old chair and watched men and boys take turns jumping over the dying fire. Soon somebody broke out a hurdy gurdy, and another dragged out a half-broken cimbalom, a dulcimerlike instrument played like a piano but with tiny hammers hitting its strings. Deklyn produced a mandolin, and the sound of traditional Dravonian music filled the air: ancient song that rhapsodized the country’s founding, the trials of the tribes that had settled the land. Then they sang centuries-old drinking songs. The music infected me, and before I knew it I was dancing around the fire. One boy was my partner, then another, before I found Deklyn twirling me around in circles before we collapsed onto the dirt.

“You should get some sleep,” he said.

“No way,” I said. “I’m going to enjoy this while it lasts.”

“We couldn’t have done this without you, you know.”

I looked away from his gaze. It was too intense, like he wanted to possess my spirit, the way he so easily possessed anything else he wanted.

T
HE PARTY LASTED EARLY INTO THE DAY
. The doors to the Palace had been thrown open and dragonka raced up and down the hallways. The mess they made was precocious and wonderful. They had luxury in their blood, and once they got a taste of it, they smothered themselves in its fat, rolling in Archibald’s bed sheets, napping in the crystal chandeliers, tearing smoked meat from the hooks in the kitchen and gobbling rare and expensive truffles as though they were popcorn. The spirit of Ruki Mur wrested herself from the Palace walls and flew above the city, wings spread, hovering like a zeppelin for their amusement, the tiny dragonka swirling around her, paying homage, chasing each other under her ghostly protection. Floating in the air they looked like bees swarming around a hive or like cherubim around a cloud.

And so they played through the day and into the next night as well. It felt to the people of Pava like freedom had been so unbearably long in arriving. They simply could not contain themselves. Great races took place throughout the Palace and in the Imperial gardens. Then, as the beasts mellowed, Isobel gathered the dragonka together for a song. Their voices rose over Pava, infecting the dreams of the city’s children; for a dragonka song can strengthen one’s imagination, and this song roused them to fantastic heights. The children of Pava experienced a collective dream that night, and would be surprised in the morning when they compared their dreams. It was a beautiful, original song and all the Blackhearts felt content for its duration, as though good-natured spirits were in their midst, clapping through the clatter of the ivy that swayed in the wind. As though the night sky was brightened with the song.

But there was still an emptiness inside of me, one I felt might never be relieved. I made my way past children sleeping in the grand Palace corridors, even stepping gingerly over a few Kubikula who had come above ground to join the celebration. The ballroom was empty now. The dragonka spirits had departed, and the rest of the JRM were outside. I got down on the floor
and lay on my back, staring at the hole in the ceiling. I felt like the room began to move, but no—it was the hole that began to swirl. It was closing, like a wound healing itself. I knew Luma was there, frolicking in the spirit world, with his heart very much alive in this one, giving life to a good person. The hole closed and sealed itself, disappearing into the ceiling as though it had never been there at all. It left me with this thought:
The universe is empty, but it is full with what we give to it
.

“Petra K,” came a voice. It was Archibald. He was dressed and had obviously been up for a while already. “I have just come from a meeting with the elders of the Zsida, Half Not, and Pavain communities. The Ministry of Unlikely Occurrences has been officially disbanded.”

“But who will lead Pava?” I asked.

“Me,” he said. “I am still monarch, aren’t I?” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Only that now I will only take council with the wisest leaders from across the county.”

“I am glad,” I said.

“I have something for you,” he said. From his tunic he produced an orb that glowed dimly in the twilight.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I insisted that the dragonka that nurtured my heart be kept alive in some fashion. This is the spirit of Luma, encased in crystal. Hold it.” I took the orb from him. Indeed, the ball was warm and radiated Luma’s unique charm. I held it close to me.

“I have had enough of spirits around me. And Luma belongs to you. Thank you, Petra K,” he said, then disappeared into the Palace.

F
OR THE FIRST TIME IN SO LONG
, I thought of my mother. With the Palace waking up, I departed, walking past the charred remains of the battle. On the Palace lawn I saw pieces of the golden dragonka
strewn about, and Half Not beggars come to reclaim the precious metal from their lifeless bodies. A final golden kiš-dragonka—the lone survivor of the battle—flew at me, buzzing around my face. I swatted at it and watched it fly dizzily away. Farther on, I saw that the propaganda posters of Archibald had been set on fire, ash from the burned paper used to etch black hearts on the wall.

I
CROSSED THE
K
ARLOW
B
RIDGE
, the statues of the city’s founders and saints looking over me, as though appraising my steps. And, finally, into Jozseftown I strode. The markets, on this early morning, were open, as though nothing had happened. I walked unnoticed through Goat Square and down my street, to our ivy-covered townhouse. Up I went, not through the door, but scaling the latticework to my window.

I had come home, but there was no home anymore. I crept past my mother’s door, and took the stairs two at a time to my attic bedroom. There, I slept for what felt like days, though it was only overnight. When I woke again, I looked out my window, over the city. An automaton walked stiffly down the street; an errant goat clopped loudly on the cobblestones. Somebody was reopening the marionette shop across the street. It was my neighborhood. Wistfully, I took a fountain pen from my desk and dipped it in black ink. I carefully drew a heart over my chest. At that moment, I knew my home was not my home anymore. I packed a small bag, keeping Luma’s orb in my pocket, and headed down the steps.

I paused by my mother’s door, then quietly pushed it open. I walked to her bed, hearing her breathing come heavy in a restless, fitful sleep. On the night table I saw a pot of tepid tea. From my pocket, I took the wind-up dragonka song box. I cranked the handle and let it play a little. My mother’s face became placid, and, I believe, content. I placed it by the bed. After that, I left the house, for good this time.

I
STOPPED BY THE BROKEN FISH FOUNTAIN
. The crowds had returned to Jozseftown again; the market stalls were all open and filled with wares. It was almost as if nothing had changed.

Hesitantly, from the crowd, an old woman fixed her eyes on me, then hobbled in my direction. She was dressed in fine silk material, with a peacock feather that extended from her hat, and looked like she might have come from the Palace district.

“I want to thank you. It is Pivo. I got him back. I was just sitting there, eating a bowl of kasha, and through the window flew my Pivo, my only companion in my old age.”

“Your drangonka?”

“Yes. My neighbor had turned him in to the Boot. I was sure he was dead. Thank you.”

“Ma’am, I am not a Blackheart.”

“This is no time to be coy. They told me to look for the black heart,” the old woman said, glancing down at my open collar. I realized the mistake, the inky black heart I had traced.

“I’m not …” I began to protest again, but was interrupted by a voice behind me.

“It was the people of Jozseftown. You have them to thank.” It was Deklyn.

“Then thank them for me,” she said, hobbling away, back to her own home and her dragonka.

“Do you think that you are entitled to be a Blackheart?” Deklyn asked.

I shook my head while I put my hand to my chest, covering the place where the heart would be, as though taking an oath of innocence.

“I saw that messy stain you drew on yourself. No need to hide it,” he said.

My face reddened, and I turned away from him. I felt shamed, like I had been caught playing a private pantomime in front of the mirror. I looked shyly over my shoulder: he was still there, considering me.

“Come on,” he said. “Come with me.”

I
WAS WELCOMED INTO THE
B
LACKHEARTS
’
OLD LAIR
by Abel, and Liverpool, a dragonka he had acquired from the Palace.

“I am ready,” I said.

Deklyn smiled.

The others crowded around. Deklyn sterilized a needle over a paraffin lamp and dipped it into a bottle of black ink. I undid the top buttons of my shirt and steeled myself by biting down on a cinnamon stick.

“With this mark you will never have to worry about being alone, you will always have somebody to watch out for you. You will always have a family. So it is with one of us, so it is with all of us,” Deklyn said. The other Blackhearts cheered their approval, patting me on the back. Abel leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. Rufus frolicked in his pen, and the spirit of Luma glowed a bright purple in its orb. The tattoo—the black heart with a jagged break down the center, broken like their city was broken by the great Pava River, like their families were broken—would make me one of them. I closed my eyes as Deklyn pressed the needle into my breast, breaking the skin with its black potion, forever marking me as Petra Blackheart.

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M. Henderson Ellis
is the author of
Keeping Bedlam at Bay in the Prague Café
(New Europe Books, 2012) and the founding editor of one of Eastern Europe’s most distinguished English-language literary magazines,
Pilvax
. A Chicago native and graduate of Bennington College, Ellis has lived for the past decade in Budapest, Hungary, and lived previously in Prague.