A choked cry carries down the length of the car and everyone turns, twisting in their seats with some alarm to spot the source of the noise. Everyone but Daniyal, who remains perfectly still, his quiet dark eyes fixed on the door to the next train car.
The patrol passes, dragging with them a pitiful little man. His sorrowful mouth and nose are bleeding quite horribly and he whimpers softly, eyes rolling in his skull. You do not recognize his face. As he is dragged past he catches sight of the men sitting in front of you and he clutches to their seats, his thick stubby fingers clinging desperately to Raheel's armrest. “Please, please.” His sobbing voice is thick in his mouth, his tongue swollen, “Please don't let this happen, please. I'm sorry!” They drag him further on. Raheel looks at the man with curious indifference.
They drag him through the door and into the next train car. You cannot look. You do not want to think about what is back there, what Captain Brighten is doing in that car. That horrible train car. Every time you shut your eyes you can see the face of Private Burton swimming up before you.
Nazmiya leans close to Raheel and she whispers. “Do you know that man?”
Raheel's jovial voice has gone flat and colorless. “He is my cousin.”
The poet starts. “You told me that he was dead!”
“I told you that he was shot. And he was. Didn't you see the wound in his leg there? Pity they didn't finish him. We'll never be able to bring him along with us when we go.”
Daniyal's eyes have drifted closed. He seems to be sleeping, but you can see that his body is tense and alert. He is coiled tight as a spring, compressed and restrained, ready to burst free at any moment.
You hear a screaming from the next train car down. Raheel's cousin, it seems, is receiving his reward after all.
* * *
The three passengers talked well into the dark. The warrior and the thief and the poet. They counted with slow precision the average time elapsed between patrols. They memorized the faces and habits of the guards. They counted the number of guns onboard the train, the exact disposition of every piece of ordnance. They debated fiercely the probable number of men waiting in the next train car, how many times they would stop for water or coal before arriving at their final destination, how best to confront the guards, which way they should strike out once they had escaped. Daniyal favored insurrection en mas while Raheel argued for a more secretive and methodical approach. Nazmiya sided with neither, but took careful note of all they discussed. She marked it all down with inscrutable tiny marks on the inside of her shawl. Soon enough the skeleton of her poem was crowded out by scratched plotting.
And now the night has fallen, and you are no longer listening to their whispers.
The guards turn off all the lights in the train. Even the low level emergency lights are shut down. You cannot bear the darkness, near total now that the moon has begun to wane and the clouds to thicken in the sky.
Illumination is occasional and fleeting, a parting of the clouds, a reflection of far-off fire. You do not like what you see when the light does come. The guards coming towards you with pale faces and dark hands and gleaming weapons. An old man licking condensation off the dirty window to keep back his thirst. Fear-twisted faces writhing in noiseless agony, like their tongues have been torn out. You cannot bear to see these things, and so you begin to shut your eyes whenever some faint light steals into the train car.
Some hours before morning they haul Raheel's cousin back. He hangs limp in their arms, his body bloated and sickly, his mouth hanging open, no light in his eyes, his limbs weak and useless. He cannot walk and so they must carry him. He is deposited at a slump into the nearest empty seat.
You find yourself unable to look away from the window. It is like a movie screen, the world depicted through nothing but fantasy, a memory too young to fade. None of this exists through that glass. You have been on the train so long. You are beginning to realize that, even when you did slip away in the city, you never really left the train. Not really. It has a such a pull, such a hold on you. You are becoming bound up with the machine, inextricably tangled.
You look through the lightlessness of the train car. You can make out the shapes of the windows where they gaze out into the night. You can see the forms of dozing and restless alike, trembling like shades as the train vibrates.
You lie quietly in the darkness and you wait.
* * *
She holds your hand and she whispers in your ear. The world is alive beneath you, all the cars on the street below and the gleaming of the steel and glass towers like spikes of raw iron. The lights have all gone out. The air raid siren is howling. Just a drill, she promises. No one is coming tonight. The wind shrieks out a banshee call and its whispering fingers tug at your hair.
She wraps her arms around you and she laughs. Don't be afraid.
She points up at the distant sky. You see those?
“I see, mama.”
All those stars. More than you could ever count. The night is cold. The city is dark beneath you. You stare up, turning until it makes you dizzy. It is more than you can take in all at once. You wonder for one horrible moment if you are falling from the roof. You wonder if you have fallen and what you see as you spin are candles in every window of the city.
She reaches out and she holds you. She lifts you up and rests your weight on her hip. She kisses your cheek.
“Where did they come from?” you ask.
They were just hiding, hiding from the city lights. And now they are all out. That's why they call it a blackout.
“That's not true!”
She laughs and she kisses you again. My precious child.
“There are so many!”
More than you ever guessed, more than you ever thought there could be. Each one of those is a sun in some other child's sky. Every world is staring up at the night sky and they are all looking at each other across the millions of miles. You see? We are not alone. Whenever you feel lonely you go outside and you look up at the stars. You know that I'm looking there too. We're never so far apart. You are never alone. She kisses you again and you can feel the tears on her face.
The next morning she brings you to the train station and presses the ticket into your small hand, packs you off with your luggage dragged behind. To be safe. You'll be safe there. Be good. Make me proud. I love you. I love you.
* * *
You open your eyes. The train is dark. Were you asleep? Your mouth is dry. Your hands are clammy. You are so thirsty. So hungry. There is water on the windows, thin droplets rolling slowly down. You know that it will not satisfy you. Still... to feel the cool glass on your tongue...
There is more water running down the other side of the glass. Rainwater. The rain tap taps on the roof the car. If only you could drink it, if only you could stand out in it and let it lash your skin. If only you could be clean again.
These new guards do not condescend to escort their passengers to the toilet in the next car. They offer a bucket instead. The old man is forced to empty it when becomes full. The smell of waste is so thick and rank, so permeating. It is like a finger pushed down every throat. Soon the stench of vomit lies thick over that of all other expulsions and excrement. You are like an animal here.
The poet is sleeping beside you. Her breath is gentle and soft. Her shawl is bundled up in her hands.
You rub your eyes. You do not think that you were asleep. You can still feel your mother's touch, her hands. You shut your eyes and you stare at the ceiling. You cannot see the stars. Where am I now, mama? How did I get so lost, mama? What did I ever do wrong? You feel a hard lump in your throat. You bunch up your fists and shove them hard against your eyes, hard enough to make you hurt. And then you see them: all those stars. Shifting and dancing and twinkling on the insides of your eyelids.
The stars clear, and you hear a soft noise beneath the sounds of the rain. A shuffling of movement in the dark. A wet breathing.
Your mind runs from fear to fear. What is co
ming out of all that dark? You picture a huge rat with beady eyes and sharp teeth and a twisting naked tail.
It is coming closer. Very close now. You can hear the soft feet pressing on the hard carpet, the gaping of the mouth which draws breath like water into a wide throat. You shut your eyes and you look for the stars there. You feel your fingers curling, tightening.
There is something touching you. A fluttering wet flesh that feels across the back of your hand. Your breath stops in your throat. You want to scream. You can feel the shout rising.
Lightning breaks the sky and in that moment, that harsh afterglow which lasts only a moment, you see the face. Wide soft face. Blood-running down face. Wet mouth grimace face. Small eye shinning face. An animal face.
You cannot stop the scream this time, it rips out of you.
A meaty hand sweeps in the darkness, claps across your mouth. You feel your eyes shaking in your skull. You are back in the washroom and he is standing over you. He is pushing into your mouth his fingers, he is pushing into you his thoughts.
You bite down. You can taste him, his fleshy hand like wet metal. His bones against your teeth, his skin breaking and his wetness filling your throat.
The crawling man shrikes and wrenches away his hand. His cry wakes Raheel and Daniyal and they are on him in a moment, stumbling up from their seats to pin him down to the ground. Raheel shoves a wad of cloth into the man's gaping mouth.
You hear the scuffle, the shoes scraping on the floor, the groaning of the men as they wrestle at each other. The damp thwack of flesh on flesh. Then a spitting out and an unfamiliar voice: “Please, please. Raheel, please!”
The lithe forger sits up with a jolt. “Waa'il?”
“It's me, cousin!” the man hisses. “Help me up, quick before the guards come!”
There is another flare of lightening outside. The two men are rising over the third, pulling him slowly to his feet. His face is chalky white and slick with sweat. His hand bleeds. He glares at you, his small eyes baleful with promises of vengeance.
They tug him out of the aisle and into the seat. You press yourself against the window and you listen with your breath held between your teeth.
“You are not looking so good, cousin.”
Watery laugh.
“Your leg looks infected, friend.”
“Do I know you?”
“My name is Daniyal.”
“But do I know you?”
“You do now, cousin. He is a friend.”
“If you say so. Raheel... you must forgive me.”
“Must I?”
“Please, cousin, do not mock me! I have suffered for my sin. Forgive me, I was never brave, you know that. You remember? You remember the way I ran from the wasps when your brother's foot fell into the nest? The underground nest? The way they rose like a great dark pillar from inside the earth. I thought a demon was coming out of the world. You remember how I ran? I ran away and you ran towards. You pulled him after you to safety and I was not stung once. But I'm not a bad person for that, am I?”
The poet rests a cool hand on the man's brow. “He's running a fever,” she says.
“How many times were you stung, Raheel? A hundred? No matter. I've been stung now. Ha. Been paid for my cowardice. Forgive me, please forgive me!”
“He needs antibiotics, Daniyal,” the poet says.
“Please, Raheel!”
“Oh for God's sake, cousin! Fine, I forgive you! You're forgiven! But now what are we to do with you, eh?”
“They'll never give us medicine. No chance.”
“Can we take him with us?”
“Keep your voice down, for God's sake!”
“Where are the guards? Strange... is the patrol late?”
“Raheel!”
“We're not ready anyway, we need to talk to more people somehow. Get the word around the train car.”
“How much longer can we afford to wait?”
“And anyway, how could we talk to any of them? The guards watch us too closely. We can't just wander about.”
“I talked to some before you came aboard, Raheel. Many are willing to fight. Most. Few of them will be useful, but...”
“Cousin Raheel, are you there? Why won't you look at me?”
“Shut up, Waa'il! You're forgiven, what more do you want? Let me talk. Now, the problem is that we still have no way to get the word out. To tell the others to prepare for the insurrection.”
“Maybe we could pass notes somehow? You know, like we did in school?”
“I never passed notes in school, Daniyal. I was a good girl, remember?”
“I always rewrote the notes when they were passed by my desk. A forger from the first, I suppose.”
“Never mind that! Would it work?”
“Never. We've nothing to write with, and anyway it would be too easy for them to intercept a message.”
“What then?”
“Maybe we could use the girl?”
“Oh, Daniyal! You can't think-”
“She's clever and small and quiet. She'd be perfect.”
“Sharp teeth, too. God, she gave my cousin a good nip!”
“But will she help?”
“She is one of us, Nazmiya. She wants to get out of here just as much as we do.”
“More to the point, she already knows it all. I'd lay good odds that she's listening quite closely to us now.”
Four faces peering back over the seats. Raheel gives a little wave. “You hear us talking, girl?”
You nod.
Waa'il clutches at Raheel. “Cousin!” he moans.
The forger sighs. “I'm beginning to wish the little girl had eaten you, Waa'il. What is it?”
The soft man clutches his cousin's arm. “The reason I came, Raheel! I must speak with you. In private. I must. They are going to make me do it. I'm not strong like you, cousin, you know I'm not. I can't stand the torture, Raheel, I just can't!”
Daniyal's stern voice: “What do you mean? What torture? What's going to happen?”
Nazmiya is looking down the length of the train car. Her voice an urgent hiss, “They're coming.”
A flash of lightning. Panicked eyes rolling in a formless face. A mouth gaping with terror. And down the hall you can hear the click of the guard's boots.
* * *
The rain does not stop. The wind shudders. The storm groans. The clouds glow with eerie fury and light falls in shocked forks down its storm-head stair.
The rage of the storm is a comfort to you. The turbulence gives shape to infinity. How long have you been riding on this train? How many years? You wish that you could sleep.
The patrols come by more often now, taking people at random and dragging them into the next car for questioning. Sometimes you think that you hear the sound of voices crying out, buried in the screech of the iron wheels on the track.
The guards shine ferocious lights on their way, shine them in sleeping faces and waking alike. Pupils dilate and hands are raised to block the harsh stare of the bulb. One guard's flashlight is dying. Every time his patrol passes the beam is grown a little weaker, the white heat light dimming to a dull orange glow. You wait, idly curious, wondering if you will see it die.
There is something beautiful about the rain. You watch it stream across the smooth surface of the windows in sideways patterns drawn there like lines on sand. Washed away by the tide as it comes in again and again and again to recreate the world smooth as glass. Glass and sand. A girl at school told you that glass and sand were the same thing, the same stuff in a new form. Like steam and water. She did not know how to explain it and you did not know how to believe her, yet the statement felt somehow right and true. Glass and sand.
The air is cold. You feel your fingertips crackling with a sticky electricity. What will happen if lightning strikes the train? Will it dissipate, be deflected somehow? Maybe it will run hungry along the walls and the frames of the seats and the bright metal buckles and the cold black iron vents in the ceiling. Everyone's
hair will stand up for a moment. And then the scent of burning meat.
You saw somebody die of electric shock once. Or maybe you only dreamed it, you cannot remember. Teeth glowing in the mouth, sparking as the tongue cooked and the eyeballs turned soft in their sockets. Maybe it was only a dream. Even as an infant, you had terrible dreams. You remember them, the first sparkings of the conscious. You remember the dreams of the womb.
Night folds over the train. The rain is still falling.
* * *
The poet opens her arms to you and you sink into them. She smells clean, even after so many days in the stinking train. It is as though the scent comes from within her, as though her natural odor were not the human stink but rather a smell as clean and clear as sea air. Maybe she is a ghost, a spirit of water and light. You drink her in.
She cradles you. Like a doll. Her fingers running through your hair. Like nylon strands, like plastic web. Her thumb brushing your cheek. Like porcelain painted flesh and a blur of soft red blush.
Your eyes closing, open like a snake's and looking out narrow and bright and alert. A snake curled in the empty body of the doll. They do not know you, how sharp your teeth and clever your tongue and keen your eyes. How tight your grip when you coil. You are raw and natural and inevitable as a hurricane falling. You cannot be stopped. They do not know you yet.
The poet's body is so soft and so warm and so close. You feel the swell of her breast against your cheek, the warm throb of her heart in your ear. The rise and fall of her chest, her belly, her shoulders. She breathes and you breathe with her.
You ask her, “Will you tell me something?”
“What?”
“I don't care. Anything.”
“Should I tell you a story?”
“Not a story. Tell me something about you. A story about you. A true one. About when you were my age.”
“How old are you?”
“Little.”
“Ah. A story about me when I was a little girl.”
You nod.
“What about when I was fourteen? Is that too old?”
You shake your head. “That's alright.”
She licks her lips.
She asks, “Have you ever seen the ocean?”
You have not. You dreamed of the ocean when you were younger. You think of all the books that you have read with a sea lapping at their edges, their narrative coasts sparkling like the diamonds clustered in a jewelry store display case. All the picture postcards and grainy black and white photos of a frozen gray expanse that seems to go on forever. The cresting of the waves suspended like a hammer about to fall, about to crash anonymously back into the sum of the water.