Sparkers (6 page)

“You have books in other languages.”

“I know,” I say, joining her on the floor next to the shelf.

“Can you speak them?” asks Sarah.

“I've learned to read a couple.”

I watch her inspect my prized books. The first sketches out the grammar of a language written with a huge syllabary. I gave up on it, though I like to leaf through the book now and then to appreciate the mystery of those symbols. The second book is an Aevlian grammar. Since Aevlian uses the same script as Ashari, I learned the basics without too much trouble. The third grammar is for a language called Hagramet, which has its own alphabet. It's more exotic than Aevlian, but not impossible. Tsipporah told me books in Hagramet are incredibly rare, which made the endeavor doubly exciting. Of all the languages I've dabbled in, it's the one I've studied most.

“You should meet my brother,” Sarah says. “He's trying to translate some old books right now, and he's angry because he can't figure them out.”

“There's no need to talk about Azariah like that,” Channah says. Just then, Caleb comes into the bedroom. He freezes at the sight of me and my visitors.

Where have you been?
I sign, my fingers flying as I rise from the floor.

He ignores this.
Who are they?

Sarah scrambles to her feet. “Are you Marah's brother?” she asks Caleb.

The question is predictable enough that he can read her lips. He nods.

Our signing hasn't escaped Channah's notice. “He's deaf, Sarah,” she says.

“So?”

With that one word, Sarah wins me over. My heart swells with a rush of warmth.

Sarah spots a stack of loose-leaf paper on the bedside table. “Can I use a piece of that?”

“Sarah . . .” Channah begins. She falls silent when I hand Sarah a pencil stub.

Sarah bends over the nightstand and painstakingly writes something in the corner of a sheet of paper. Then she holds it out to Caleb, and I make out the question:
What is your name?

My brother looks at me as if to say,
Who are these people, and why are they in our bedroom?
I just nod toward the piece of paper. Resigned, Caleb takes the pencil and prints his name.

Sarah sounds it out. “Caleb?” She beams at him. “I'm Sarah.” She writes her name next to his. Caleb looks at me again. If I weren't furious with him, I would have to laugh. Instead, I glare back at him. He drops his gaze and slips out of the bedroom.

“Will you finish the story now, Marah?” Sarah asks.

“Where did I leave off?”

“Frost and the traders were almost to Ashara, but the ravens that were helping them flew away,” Sarah prompts. She settles onto the floor, sitting cross-legged, and starts drawing on her piece of loose-leaf.

“Right. Well, the traders were near despair, but then Frost called her friends the mice.”

“The
mice
?” Sarah drops her pencil and wrinkles her nose.

I laugh. “Yes. Thousands of mice came scurrying to the travelers' aid. At first, they were disgusted, but when they saw the mice grip the harnesses in their teeth and begin to drag the sleds, they were grateful.

“The mice brought the sleds all the way to Ashara. When they reached the city, the traders gave a great cheer, frightening the mice, who went scampering back to their burrows. The traders began to unload their goods. Suddenly, they remembered Frost. They looked for her to thank her, but she and Silver had already disappeared into the frozen landscape.”

Sarah looks up and seems to contemplate the end of the tale. Then she rewards me with a glowing smile. Scooting toward me, she lays her piece of paper in my lap. “Look what I made for you.”

Underneath her written exchange with Caleb, she's drawn three people and a tabby cat in descending order of height. The humans are labeled, from tallest to shortest, Marah, Caleb, and Sarah.

“My thanks,” I say. “But where did the cat come from?”

“I just want a cat,” Sarah says, standing up and dusting off her dress. She hesitates and glances up at me. “He doesn't have to eat mice.”

I laugh.

“We must be going, Gadin Sarah,” Channah says.

I usher them out through the kitchen. Sarah pauses on the threshold to give me a hug and then waves good-bye again from the landing. Once she and Channah are gone, I return to my room. On the bed is Sarah's slightly creased drawing. I smooth it out and pin it up on the inside of our door.

W
hen I walk back into the kitchen, Caleb is ferreting in the pantry. I march up to him, snatch a jar from his hand, and slam it down on the shelf.

Where were you earlier?
I sign.

He draws back from the pantry, guilt flitting across his face.
Out
, he gestures.
I like to go walking
.

You like to go walking?
I could shake him.
You do this often?

He avoids my gaze.
I thought you'd be gone longer
.

It's not a straight reply, which tells me everything. But before I can react, he counters,
What about you? Those were kasiri
.

Only the girl
, I sign.
The woman is the girl's tutor. She's a halan
.

Caleb looks at me in disbelief.
You just had a kasir girl to tea?

Don't change the subject
, I sign.
You can't go off by yourself like that! What if something happened? You couldn't . . . You're not . . .

He jerks away from me, his cheeks coloring.
I can write, can't I? I'm not a baby!
He turns his back on me and drops into one of the chairs at the table, refusing to face me.

Regretting my harshness, I find a stale spice roll in the pantry, slice it up, and grill it. Then I spread jam on each wedge and offer it to Caleb as a peace offering.

My thanks
, he signs when I set the plate in front of him. He takes an uncertain bite, his eyes fixed on me.
Honey is better than jam on these
.

I laugh in spite of myself. Then, unwilling to let him off so easily, I sign,
How long have you been lying about what you do all day?

He bristles.
I've never lied to you
.

Shevem says truth and lies aren't only a matter of words
, I reply. Shevem was a great philosopher, as well as an artist and composer. Tsipporah gave me his famous book of essays when I was eleven, and Caleb and I both pored over them. His writings are like poetry, lovelier than the lines of the Maitaf.

Caleb frowns.
Shevem also says truth isn't always right and lies aren't always wrong
.

I lift my hands to dispute that and then give up. I'll never win this debate, not when he's spent hours at the Avrams' reading Shevem while I've been in school.

My gaze strays to the cloak hanging from the back of his chair. Something white peeks out from the folds of gray wool: a rolled-up
Journal
folded in half and stuffed into the pocket.

I toss the newspaper onto the table.
Where did you get this?
I sign. Neither of us has pocket money to spend on newspapers.

It was blowing down the street
, Caleb signs. At my skeptical look, he adds,
I swear!

Flattening the front page, I scan the headlines, afraid of what I might find. There it is: “More Deaths from Inexplicable Illness Confirmed.” In the first paragraph, the words “black irises” leap out at me. The article reports four new cases: a kasir banker, a halan autoworker, a kasir cloth merchant, and a halan mother of three. Nothing appears to connect their deaths.

I slide the newspaper in front of Caleb and jab my finger at the article.
This is why you shouldn't be walking around the city by yourself
.

He barely glances at the page.
If you can, why can't I?

I don't want you to get sick!
I sign.

Caleb glares at me.
I can take care of myself
.

Stung, I cast about for a cutting retort. Before I can think of one, he adds,
You were younger than me when you started going to the Ikhad to see Tsipporah
.

That stops me short. I want to argue, but I can't deny the unfairness of it.
Where do you go?
I sign helplessly.

Caleb doesn't answer for a while. Finally he signs,
Just here and there. I like to walk around the city without anyone knowing who I am or that I'm . . .
After a brief hesitation, he taps his ear, then his mouth.

For a long moment, I don't know what to say. The stillness between us stretches on.

Here
, I sign at last,
let's make omelets for lunch. And from now on, just tell me when you're leaving the apartment.

• • •

O
N
F
IRSTDAY
, I
trudge to school alone. Leah is still sick, so Caleb isn't going to the Avrams, though I can't trust he'll actually stay home. Our medsha concert is this morning, and it occurs to me this will be my first time performing without Leah beside me.

At school, instead of climbing the stairs to the music room, I head to the decrepit auditorium for our dress rehearsal. The stage is set up for the medsha, and everyone is tuning. I unpack my violin, trying not to look at the empty chair next to me. My throat feels tight, and my fingers slip on the strings as I warm up.

The sounds die away when Aradi Imael walks out from the wings with her stack of scores.

“Where's Leah?” she asks.

“She's ill,” I say. “The dark eyes.”

For a fleeting moment, Aradi Imael looks shocked, but then her expression eases to one of gentle concern. “I'm sorry to hear that. We'll miss her today. Perhaps you could play her solo in the dance suite, Marah? I have extra parts.”

“I can try to do more than that,” I offer. “I know the places where her part is more important than mine.”

Our conductor blinks at me and then hands me a folder of extra music. I pull out all the second violin parts. Putting two stands together in front of me, I arrange my music on the left and Leah's on the right, already thinking through the passages where I'll change to her part. I can't be two musicians at once, but I'll attempt to preserve as much of the melody as possible.

We turn first to “Where Wind Blows Not.” Aradi Imael lifts her baton, and I tuck my violin under my chin. We breathe as one, and the music begins.

Despite the weekend's grim news hanging over me, my arms tingle. Reuven and I shift from note to note, creating the peaceful opening chords. The cellos enter with the plaintive melody. I play the first violin descant and, as it draws to a close, switch seamlessly to Leah's soaring line. The opening is exquisite, until Miriam falters on her flute entrance. Soon after, Tamar's horn comes in at an unexpected place, and we fall apart.

Aradi Imael raps her music stand with her baton. “Start seven bars before the horn entrance.”

Halfway through the piece, we flounder again. We lower our instruments, contemplating the musical wreckage. The concert starts in two hours.

“Does anyone know the words to this song?” Aradi Imael asks.

“I've heard it sung before,” says Devorah. “It starts with ‘Where wind blows not,' and you sing that over and over for a bit. Then it's ‘Where shadows darken not.' I can't remember the lines after that, but in the end it circles back to the beginning.”

“There's no place without wind and shadows,” Tamar says.

“I think that's the idea,” says Shaul.

“Those aren't even sentences,” says Zeina. “The lines are incomplete, unfinished.”

I see what she means. The song invokes an impossible land without naming a true wish. The yearning is buried in the words that aren't there.

“Think about those words, what they express,” Aradi Imael says. “And then listen to one another. I know you have other things on your minds, but you must play together.”

She raises her baton once more. We start again with new purpose, inspired to create the atmosphere of that imaginary country. This time, the music is something we're all shaping together, and no one makes any noticeable mistakes.

The rehearsal passes quickly. I thought it would be trickier to juggle Leah's part and mine, to judge where to splice first and second violin parts, but the more I open my ears to the whole medsha's sound, the more the music comes alive within me and nudges me in the right direction. I only get lost twice, and I find my place before anyone notices. Aradi Imael looks startled each time I change over to Leah's line, but after a few measures she always nods in approval.

At eleven o'clock, students begin filing into the auditorium, from the littlest children in Preparatory to our classmates in Final. As Horiel's top medsha, we perform for the entire school. The hall, so still during our rehearsal, echoes with coughs and murmurs. Glancing at the pale faces floating in the sea of darkness, I wipe my palms on my skirt.

Aradi Imael bows to subdued applause. As she turns back to us, a hush falls over the audience.

“Energy!” she mouths.

We raise our instruments and look up. Aradi Imael holds her baton poised above the score. In the second our eyes meet, I sense a perfect trust between us. She gives the upbeat, and raw joy sweeps through me as I spring into the theme.

The three pieces flash by, and my spirits soar. It's oddly exhilarating weaving between Leah's part and my own, and I almost forget how much I wish she were here.

At the end of our performance, the school bursts into applause. Glowing with pride, Aradi Imael waves us to our feet. I stand up with the whole medsha and smile as I face the crowd. My heart is warm. The audience claps for a long time.

At the end of the school day, Miriam, Devorah, Zeina, and I leave Horiel together along with Reuven and Shaul. We walk down the street in a cluster, exulting in the success of our concert and trading compliments.

“I can't believe you went back and forth between the first and second violin parts without getting lost,” Devorah tells me. “I've never seen anything like that.”

Shaul begins to describe his efforts to repair a discarded music box to give his little sister for her birthday. He's telling us how he plans to fix the clockwork mechanism when Reuven raises his hand. “Quiet!”

After a moment, I make out an eerie melody on the wind.

“Mourning music,” Zeina says, her voice hushed. “It must be a funeral procession.”

Soon, we encounter the crowd. The street is clogged with silent mourners holding black books with silver lettering on the spine. The Maitaf.

“Do you suppose whoever it is died of the dark—?” Shaul begins, but we shush him.

The sight of the body, draped in blue linen and borne on a litter by four men, steals my breath away. I shudder, disturbed by the Maitafi custom of burying the dead without coffins. Not that coffins make me feel much better. I glance at my friends' drawn faces and wonder if we're all thinking of Leah.

Lately it seems I haven't been able to get away from death. First the woman killed at the Ikhad, then Gideon the pancake vendor. Now, death is actually before me, close enough to touch. Somewhere, the flutes play their hypnotic lament.