33. My first prayer at Carnation

The next morning, there were about fifteen of us in the cell. The night had been eventful, and I had spent it gagged, curled up in a corner, unable to sleep. In the middle of the morning, they released the three gwaks, who said “ayo” to me, and I replied with a silent gesture. I was as thirsty as a thousand demons. I approached the bars and looked at a fly with a sad face. It took perhaps half an hour for him to pay attention to me.

“What’s the matter with you, kid?” he inquired.

“I think he’s asking permission to remove the gag,” one of the other flies interjected, sitting at a table. “It was the gwak that started singing last night.”

It took the guard several more minutes before he gave in.

“You’re not going to start singing, are you?” I shook my head. He scratched his chin and walked over to the jail and said, “It’s okay, turn around and I’ll untie the knot.” He took the gag off me through the bars and asked, “What do you want?”

“Water,” I answered at once.

I was given a glass, and as a reward, I did not speak a word for the rest of the morning. It was about noon that I saw two familiar faces at the police station. They were Dil and Manras. I smiled broadly. They came in with their newspapers, Dil sold one to a fly, Manras two more to those in the cell, and as I clutched at the bars the little dark elf came up and whispered to me:

“Sharpy, this morning Sla came to talk to us in the square. She wants us to tell you that, if you have to pay a fine, Yal will pay it, but that it’s possible they’ll lock you up anyway because what you did is not right.”

“Sla says you’re the same as her mother,” Little Prince interjected.

I grimaced.

“Gosh. But it was the other cove that almost killed us! May the devils take these isturbags…”

I caught a glimpse of the guardian fly, and, fearing that he would say something to Manras and Dil and throw them out, I hastened to say in a low voice:

“Listen, shyurs. Do me a favor. Go to The Ballerinas and look for two people staying there named Zoria and Zalen. Tell them I’m not going to be able to go get my pendant back because I might be well incarnationed today. It’s important. Ah,” I added as they both nodded, very attentive. “If they ask you questions, you don’t answer anything, understand? These people are snoopers. You only say: ‘Draen can’t go get the pendant back because he got pinched’. And you leg it, it runs?”

“It runs, Sharpy,” Dil assured. “Look, Sla also told us to give you… this.”

He handed me a newspaper. And from his expression, which was as readable as an open book, I guessed what was inside without even looking. Sokwata. Or karuja. Apparently, Sla didn’t think the flies were going to let me go just after a few days. I huffed, holding back my nervousness.

“Well, tell him thank you and… Hook it. The flies are watching you strangely,” I said. As I saw them hesitating and looking at me, I smiled at them. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Take care of yourself and don’t do anything stupid. Thanks for the copy, so I won’t die of boredom!”

They left. I opened the newspaper carefully and found the three sokwata pills. Discreetly, I put them in my pocket. And I didn’t open my mouth again all afternoon. It was not until the following night that a fly came and took me out of the cell. He locked me in an empty room with other flies. One of them took out a leaf of smograss from a small box, put it in his mouth, began to chew and accepted the paper handed to him by a companion before saying in a calm voice:

“Draen Hilemplert. Two days ago you attacked the coachman of an omnibus, insulted him, tore off a boot and threw a stone, breaking the window of his vehicle. A lady who was inside filed a complaint for assault. We received a note from the judge. He considered that, although the assault did not cause any injury, your actions were improper and violent and he imposed a sentence of fifty days’ imprisonment in the Carnation House of Correction, three moons on probation, and a fine of ten siatos for public disorder, antisocial behaviour, et cetera, et cetera. Anything to complain about?”

There was silence. I was still processing the punishment. The fly nodded as he folded the paper.

“So you’ll serve your sentence and you’ll have three moons to pay the fine… and you’ll have to justify how you got the money, of course.” He paused, chewed on his paper, and resumed, “You do understand your punishment, don’t you?”

I nodded, and he insisted:

“Then explain to me, why are we putting you in jail?”

“Because what I did was wrong,” I said, though inwardly I wasn’t so sure of that.

The fly continued to chew his smograss leaf and nodded:

“Good. I’m glad you understand. I hope the House of Correction will teach you to control your impulses and become a good citizen. Take him away.”

I breathed in, and when I felt a hand grasp my shoulder, I followed my guide without resistance, wondering what would happen if Shokinori and Yabir appeared at the Hostel and could not communicate with anyone. I sighed, almost feeling guilty about the whole thing. There was no doubt in my mind that Korther was going to wring my ears off as soon as I got out of Carnation.

Although the prison was relatively close, near Tarmil Avenue, they used a police vehicle to take me there. Once there, they gave me a simple bracelet with the number four hundred on it, shaved my head, barely leaving any hair, and an official proceeded to draw up my prisoner card: he measured me, wrote on a form, and, as if my bad luck were not already as great as a temple, as the guards were about to take me to my cell, they had the idea of searching me. The only way to hide the sokwata pills would have been to stuff them in my mouth, and perhaps that would not have worked. In any case, they took them away from me, mistaking them for karuja, because that’s what they looked like. I protested, “Hey, blasthell, that’s mine”, they didn’t listen to me, I told them it wasn’t karuja, they laughed at me. Then I called them thieves, I got angry, one of them took me by the neck, they shook me and, despite my protests which turned into pleas and heart-rending cries, they held firm, they did not give me back what was mine, and they pushed me out of the room. My mood was even darker than the corridors through which they led me to my cell; for, now, how was I supposed to survive without sokwata…

A guard opened the cell. I went inside and heard the gate close before I even turned around.

“Come on, don’t look like that, in a few days you’ll get used to it,” the guard said.

And he left me alone. Well, no, I was not alone, to say the least. In the cell, there were one, two, three, seven other people, I counted. And there were six beds, three downstairs, three upstairs. A kid about the age of my comrades was lying flat on the floor, sucking his bloody fingers and looking up at me curiously. The others were all adults. Four of them were playing cards.

“Do you think our young companion will deign to greet us?” a brown-haired human said in a casual tone.

I rolled my eyes and said:

“Ayo.”

He smirked at me as he examined me.

“Ayo. It’s your first time in here, isn’t it? Let me introduce myself: I am two hundred and three, nicknamed Le Bor. Ten moons in the inn for throwing a few too many words at a highborn noble. And you?”

I looked around the small cell again before answering:

“I’m Draen. Four hundred,” I added, glancing at my bracelet. And I shrugged. “I got fifty days. They say I’m antisocial.”

Le Bor’s smile widened.

“Really? And, in fifty days, we have to make you a social citizen, right? Mm. We’ll see what we can do. Welcome home, kid.”

Others also welcomed me, asked me what I had done to deserve the title of antisocial, and I told them what had happened. I generated a good deal of laughter as I told them of all the trouble I had taken in removing the coachman’s boot, and seeing clearly that my presence was more than welcome, I grew bolder and asked them about themselves. A moment later, I already knew more or less what sort of company I was going to have. The two who were not playing cards were Pockmark, a journalist who had left cartoons in the wrong place, and the Heretic, who, as his nickname indicated, was an innocent defamer of the Daglat. Those who played cards with Le Bor were three: the Raiwanese, a huge elf, friend of Le Bor, who didn’t say a word; Cuckoo, a trickster and street hustler; and Crooked Foot, who proudly called himself a “free trader,” which, to his misfortune, was synonymous with smuggler in the eyes of the Arkoldian justice system. As for the kid, a certain Farigo, I learned his story when, at nine o’clock in the evening, at lights-out, I lay down beside him and asked:

“What about you, shyur? Where are you from?”

The boy looked alarmed and put a forefinger to his lips. I knew why when I saw the jailer pass into the corridor with his lantern. When darkness returned, Farigo whispered back to me:

“My family’s from the Black Quarter. I got caught stealing three weeks ago. I’ve still got thirteen… no, fourteen weeks left,” he said.

He was keeping track of them, huh. Out of curiosity, I calculated how many weeks I had left and counted eight.

“Gosh. And what did you prig?” I inquired.

Farigo sighed.

“Forks.” I arched an eyebrow in the dark, and he added, “And spoons.”

“Thunders. Well, it’s bad luck you got pinched by the flies. So, you have a family?”

I felt more than I saw Farigo being reserved.

“Yes, I do,” he said after a silence. “But… my mother doesn’t want me any more. She told me I’m not coming home anymore when I go out, that I’m a disgrace to the family, and that if any of my siblings starve, it’ll be my fault, because I’m lazing around here instead of working at the mill.” He paused, and I tried to put myself in his place to imagine how he must feel. Mortified, abandoned, perhaps. He surprised me when he admitted quietly, “I did something wrong. And I have to pay.”

I saw him rest his forehead on his crossed arms, and I bit my lip.

“Oh, you are already paying for it,” I said. And I added: “Don’t worry. The guys you stole the forks from are nail-pinchers. They could always eat with their fingers, like any good gwak.” I smiled. “Good night, shyur.”

He answered me in a whisper, I assumed the most comfortable position possible, and after listening for a long time to the quiet breaths of my companions and the silence of the prison, I sank into the first rather deep sleep since the flies had got hold of me.

* * *

The next day was Holy Day and a day of rest. So, after giving us a bowl of clear soup, the guards sent us to the chapel to pray and listen to the priest for an hour. The priest welcomed those who had entered Carnation that week, and gave each of us a candle to light with the large candle and carry around the chapel to the entrance. I was following the procession with my candle and with the face of one who thinks “devils, but what am I doing here,” when, suddenly, taking advantage of the fact that no one was looking, Le Bor blew out loudly, with his lips skewed, and my candle went out. I hissed through my teeth and my lips uttered a silent:

“You son of a rat.”

Le Bor, however, was looking at his fingernails absently. I sighed, and remembering that Rogan had told me some of the bullying he’d been subjected to in the first few days in prison, I thought that this was pretty innocent by comparison, and decided to take it philosophically.

In order not to return to the large candle, I used the flame of the boy I had just behind me to light my candle. Immediately, the priest was scandalized:

“Patron Saint, what do I see! We don’t mix the ancestral flames! Come here, boy. Turn back and ask forgiveness at the altar, if you don’t want to be cursed for your fault.”

Under the mocking, amused, or indifferent gazes of the prisoners, I returned to the altar with a frightened look on my face. And what exactly was I to say? I looked at the great candle, and then at the stone altar with the great Daglat star engraved on it, and I swallowed.

“I’m sorry.”

The priest looked really embarrassed.

“So am I, my son. Don’t you know the prayer of forgiveness?”

“The… prayer of forgiveness,” I repeated, apprehensively, and then I had an epiphany. Rogan had taught me the prayer! I smiled. “Yes, of course I know it! It goes like this: ancestors, forgive those sinners who don’t even give alms to the poor, Patron Saint Spirit! Forgive the souls of the nail-pinchers, may their suffering in hell be light, and on the day they pop off, may the Spirits forgive their stinginess and welcome them to the… to the most comfortable hells of-of… er…”

I fell silent at the astounded expression of the priest. I looked around nervously. In the chapel, there was muffled laughter. Le Bor held his lips tightly together and was as red as the flesh of a watermelon. Blasthell. What on earth had I said? I blushed in my turn, but out of shame, and stammered:

“Sorry, sir. I got the wrong prayer.”

I hesitated, and was about to add a “didn’t I?”, but there was no time, for Le Bor burst out laughing with a low baritone guffaw which echoed throughout the chapel, and the chuckles of the prisoners turned to a roar of laughter. With effort the guards managed to quell the general mirth, and the priest cleared his throat.

“Please light the candle again. With the guards’ permission, I will keep this young boy for another hour. I think he needs it.”

To my dismay, I heard the assent of one of the guards. I sighed, lit my candle, and again went through the ranks of the prisoners with it, being careful not to pass near Le Bor.

When the prayers ended, the priest took care of me. He took me to bathe my head with holy oil and gave me lessons to prevent my soul from turning into an evil spirit when I died. I thanked him, promised him that from that day on I would pray to the Spirits every night, and was sent back to my cell. For hours Le Bor kept asking me to recite the prayers which Rogan had taught me. The whole corridor, including the jailers, listened to me and relayed my words to their neighbors. Oddly enough, the only one who did not seem to be at all amused by the story was the Heretic, who knows why. In any case, Le Bor was having a great time and even rewarded me with a cigar. From what he said, and from what I saw, this man led the life of a privileged prisoner. He got money from his lady, who he said was the best card-player in Arkolda, and, in addition, he played money himself by betting with the guards as well as with the prisoners, and as he assured, sometimes he won a good sum. He had been in Carnation for two moons and had several guards “in his pocket,” as he said. He would buy them cigars, cups of coffee, dandepassion, and other substances, which he shared with his friend the Raiwanese. When I heard all this, I thought Le Bor was my salvation. So, towards the end of the afternoon, I asked him in a detached tone:

“Say, Bor. Do you buy karuja too?”

He looked at me appraisingly.

“No, but I could get some, why?”

I met Cuckoo’s watchful gaze and had a nervous twitch.

“N-no, for nothing.”

And I went and huddled close to Farigo. Of all my roommates, the one I disliked the most—or the one I liked the least, depending on the perspective—was Cuckoo. He seemed to me to be a moody fellow. And a busybody. I knew that sooner or later I would have to resort to Le Bor to get my supply of karuja. But I didn’t want everyone to know about it. It would have been a bit, I don’t know, like revealing my weakness to the four winds. It was something that was simply not done in the Cat world. And not in the world of Carnation, either. I sighed, and ignoring the curious look Le Bor gave me, I buried my head in my arms and closed my eyes.

The next day was a day of work, and the mood in the hallway suddenly dropped. I soon knew what my days in prison would be like. They could not be more tiring and monotonous. We would get up at half past five, have a light soup for breakfast, and then a jailer would call this or that section. Those with long sentences went to the quarries to dig stone or to the factories under the strict supervision of the guards. As for me, I stayed at Carnation, unraveling old hemp ropes to recover the material. It was hard to find a more boring job. You couldn’t talk, you could hardly breathe under the gruff eyes of the guards or you would get a good beating or have your food ration reduced to unsuspected limits… We were like that, silent and hardworking, until noon. We ate. We continued our work until seven o’clock. We would return to our cells, have dinner, and at nine o’clock, we would all go to sleep.

I had a silly problem. When I undid the tarred ropes, my right hand did not bleed like the other, and I was afraid of arousing suspicion. To remedy this, I put my hands together to stain my right hand with blood and pretended to suck on both of them, as if both were hurting. My precautionary technique was more than enough to avoid any embarrassing questions. But, anyway, to die at the stake as a necromancer or to die of pain and thirst for lack of sokwata, to tell the truth… I don’t know which I liked better. Fortunately, Le Bor might be willing to buy me some karuja. That is, if I had the courage to ask him.

Finally, on the morning of the fifth day, as we were having breakfast, I approached Le Bor and whispered to him:

“Bor. Can I ask you something?”

He arched an eyebrow at my nervousness.

“What do you want?”

I hesitated and moved closer to his ear before I said:

“I’d like to buy you some karuja. I don’t have any money. But I swear, when I get out, I’ll owe you big time. I promise, I swear.”

Le Bor looked me in the eye and laughed loudly.

“And you think I’m going to believe you, huh?”

Now the attention of the others had turned to us. I got all flushed and said:

“Yes. I’m not lying.”

Le Bor looked at me, his eyes squinting.

“Are you so addicted you can’t wait a moon?”

I did not answer him, but I gave him a pleading look. He looked at me thoughtfully, and suddenly a smile stretched his lips.

“Okay. But I may be asking you for more than money. A favor within these three walls and this gate. I’ll explain it to you tonight, okay?”

I nodded apprehensively. I could not see what service I could do for him now, not having a nail in my pocket, but I had no doubt that, whatever he asked of me, I would do it. Because, without Le Bor, I was dead.

The jailers soon arrived to take us to the workroom, and all day long I thought of the service which Le Bor would ask of me. I had nothing else to do but think and strain my hand.

When they returned us to our cells, we had dinner, Le Bor began to play the daily game of cards with the Raiwanese, Cuckoo, and Crooked Foot, and I thought he had completely forgotten our discussion of the morning when suddenly, soon after the jailer had passed into the corridor, he dropped the cards and said:

“Everyone, listen. Come, come. Pockmark. Heretic. What I have to say is your business.”

Intrigued, I went to sit at the foot of the bed, hugged my knees, and Le Bor gave me a slight smile before declaring in a low voice to everyone:

“I am pleased to announce that your dear companions Le Bor and the Raiwanese will be leaving your company before winter. And, if you think we’re going to end our lives, you’re wrong: we’re going to fly away like birds through the window. I’ve already got the equipment: I just need a little volunteer to climb up to the window and file the bars. With patience and perseverance, he will surely succeed. A volunteer?” he added.

All of them were stunned by the news, but I reacted quickly, understanding the unspoken proposal:

“I volunteer.”

“Natural you do,” Le Bor smiled. “And, now, I need six volunteers to shut up. Is twenty siatos each enough, gentlemen?”

Crooked Foot huffed.

“Certainly,” he affirmed in a low voice. “But, Bor, are you sure you want to escape? You have only eight moons left.”

Le Bor’s eyes twinkled.

“Eight moons is more than enough time to lose a lady. And there’s no way I’m losing her. Cuckoo, what are you saying?”

He nodded with a disinterested pout.

“It’s your business, I’m not getting involved. Of course, I won’t talk. But you better keep your word and get those twenty siatos ready as soon as you get out.”

“You’ll get them. Pockmark?”

The young reporter swore in turn, and the Heretic rolled his eyes and returned to his bed, saying:

“Do what you will, Two-Hundred-and-Three: I don’t give a saint.”

“I figured as much.” When Le Bor’s gaze turned to Farigo, the boy paled, “What about you, brat? Are you devilish enough to snitch to the guards and prevent Le Bor from reuniting with his beloved?”

Farigo shook his head in fear.

“No, sir. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Of course you won’t tell anyone. Your honor and your life depend on it.”

When I felt Le Bor’s gaze upon me, I raised my eyes to heaven.

“Neither will I, natural,” I said.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” Le Bor complimented me. “Perfect. I’ll just ask that in addition, you manage to get some pieces of hemp rope during the day. We’ll need them.”

I shrugged, looking like someone who was used to planning escapes.

“It runs.”

Le Bor smiled.

“Okay. Well, then…” He pulled several files from under his bed and handed me one. “Get to work, Four-Hundred.”

I took the tool and noticed that Le Bor had left a small black ball in the palm of my hand. The karuja, I realized. I concealed it, and, under the gaze of my roommates, climbed to the window, curled up, and glanced out at the night city. In the shadows of the night, only distant lights could be seen in the factories by the Estergat River and the faint stars shining in the sky. I had only been in prison a week, and yet how I wished I could be out there with my cronies, free and without having to put up with the manias of the guards or drink their filthy soup! I suddenly felt in complete agreement with Le Bor’s decision. I understood perfectly well that to lose eight moons of life at Carnation instead of spending them with his lady was an injustice. Especially since, according to what he said, his only crime had been to curse the ancestors of a nail-pincher. He deserved to get out of there with his head held high.

I grabbed the bars and felt around. The window narrowed outwards. It had a grate, and the bars, vertical and horizontal, were very large and strong iron, but they were not pure black steel. I smiled, stuffed the karuja into my pocket for when I needed it, cast a silence spell, and began to file.