Abb held the fan in front of his face and turned the lever, spinning air across his cheeks. The little thing gave a garbled whirr, its bearings rusty, but his face lit with delight. Once he’d finished with it, he gave it an appraising nod, as if all was right in the world.
Harsh light now tunnelled through the roof, brighter and more invasive. I could feel the hungry morning heat tasting its first bites of my face. I slapped my cheek, trying to wake myself up a bit.
‘The sky had something else for you, Little Builder,’ Abb said after a few moments, putting the crank-fan back in its crate.
‘This groan salve is already too much,’ I said. Sometimes Abb’s thoughtfulness overwhelmed me, his gentle heart highlighting the brutality of the previous father to whom I’d been assigned. ‘And would you stop saying the sky had things for me?’
Abb considered the ceiling, stepping out of a strong spear of light. He reached into his pocket and retrieved some things that made me reconsider everything that had happened the night before.
With shaking hands, he offered me three small, gleaming Wisps. I didn’t miss the pleased twitch in his lips as I took them.
My heart raced looking at the three pieces of Cold. I knew Abb was okay with me breaking a few barracks’ rules like sneaking out in the night, and reclaiming rubbish, but never had he encouraged me to break a holy law.
‘We can’t have our own Cold,’ I said, stunned. ‘You’ve said so yourself.’
He nodded, bobbing his head up and down. ‘Perhaps that was true.’
Three tiny Wisps paled in comparison to the might of a Shiver, but it was illegal for a Jadan to keep even the smallest measure of Cold.
‘What do you mean?’
Abb dropped the Wisps in my lap, so I had no choice but to take them. ‘In a way, truth ages, just like we do. You aren’t the same as you were a year ago, nor will you be the same on your next birthday. I think you’re ready for some new truth. So take the Cold. Use the Wisps, or hide them.’ He put a hand on my cheek. ‘Who will know?’
I froze up at his words. How could my father, the best Jadan I’d ever known, encourage such blasphemy?
‘But what about the World Crier?’ I replied, a lump in my throat. ‘He’ll know.’
Abb gave an understanding nod. ‘He let the Cold travel this far.’
‘So?’
Abb sucked his cheek, seemingly testing a bruise from the inside. From the look on his face it was quite painful. ‘So, there are the Noble laws, and there are the Crier laws. They’re not always one and the same.’
I paused, feeling myself getting flustered. This wasn’t a subject we’d ever broached, and I was uncomfortable with his disorienting words. ‘But the Khat …’
‘They’re not always the same, Micah.’ He stretched his fingers, striped with sizzling ribbons of light. ‘But this might be a conversation for another time. Let’s leave it there for now.’
‘Thank you,’ I said in a thin voice, petrified that the Crier might punish me for having the Wisps. But then again, Abb had no signs of plague, or evidence that demons had tried to rip out his eyes, and he’d have been in possession of the Cold for at least a night.
‘Ah, but you can’t thank me yet.’ He smiled. ‘That’s not the last of your gifts.’
‘No more,’ I said, taking shallow breaths just in case. ‘I’m going to have a hard time using all of the others.’
Abb’s face suddenly turned serious. He glanced at the thick boilweed curtain that served as a door, even though I’d heard nothing from the other side.
‘This is not a gift to use, Micah,’ he said, his voice suddenly heavy with emotion. ‘But one for you to remember. Promise me.’
I nodded, a bit afraid of this serious turn in him. A small smirk or tiny laugh usually hovered somewhere about his lips, but right now his face was iron.
Abb placed his fingers on my sweat-riddled forehead. His quiet voice rose and fell in a beautiful lilt I’d never heard before, one which sucked the silence out of the room and transformed it into something more profound, beyond language. My father had a good singing voice, but this felt different from the times he’d forced out the ‘Khat’s Anthem’ or ‘Ode to the Patch’. The devastatingly beautiful sounds coming from his lips left my head reeling.
Then the words stopped almost as swiftly as they’d begun.
‘Again,’ he said in a stern voice, ‘listen.’
I nodded, trying to ready my ears this time.
He repeated the lovely melody, and I caught every last syllable, filing them away like the most precious of my findings.
—Shemma hares lahyim criyah Meshua ris yim slochim—
‘Did you get it?’ he asked, voice soft.
I nodded, concentrating so hard that my ears rang.
‘What does it mean?’ I asked.
‘However would I know a thing like that?’ he asked, removing his fingers and backing away, a bit of the trademark humour returning to his eyes. ‘I don’t speak Ancient Jadan. Now get out of here and find your friends.’ He attempted a broad smile, but winced, the sunlight claiming the bruises on his face. ‘They’re probably eager to give you their own birthday gifts.’
Matty smirked, hands gently slapping his knees in anticipation. ‘What’cha get me?’
The three of us huddled together in a corner of the common chamber, away from the shabby grey flaps that divided the family sleeping areas. Sitting on the sandy floor, our legs were crossed and knees touched so we’d take up the least amount of space.
‘What did I get you?’ I asked. ‘I never thought you would be so greedy.’
Moussa scowled for the group, but aimed a private wink my way. ‘Grit in your figs, Matty. It’s Micah’s birthday. You should just be glad that he got home safe.’
Matty’s face turned bashful. ‘Spout always gets me something when he goes out. Always.’
‘You have got to stop calling him that.’ Moussa let out a pained sigh. ‘Don’t you know that no one calls him that any more?’
I shrugged. In truth, most Jadans in our barracks – and indeed in the streets – still called me Spout, a nickname I’d come to terms with a long time ago. It wasn’t just enough that my loose forehead wasted more water than other Jadans my age, they had to remind me of the fact.
‘I don’t mind “Spout”,’ I said. ‘As long as Matty doesn’t mind me sweating on any future gifts.’
Matty lowered his head, eyes going to his lap where his hand was stroking the small feather that I’d fashioned him from metal and fabric. I don’t know why Matty kept up this fascination. Clearly the creatures were extinct, no possible way they could survive in the harsh conditions after the Great Drought.
‘Did’ja see any birds?’ Matty asked, his tone still hopeful, even after all this time.
‘Here’s the thing,’ Moussa said, giving Matty’s ear a playful flick. ‘Why would a creature live in the sky and choose to be close to the Sun? You should know it would crisp up after a few flaps.’
I rehearsed what would surely be Matty’s next words, holding back my smirk. My small yet vibrant friend said the same thing every time: You know, Cold lives up—
‘Y’know,’ Matty said right on cue, guarding the side of his head against another flick. ‘Cold lives up in the sky too. So if there was