Young Writers Society

2332 words~

The Second Box

- is within the first one-

-an interruption filled with seashells and the scent of home -

All days have melded into one. It has been four hundred days since time was struck still, and you have begun to wonder if it will ever move on. The bellboy tells you that this is so no one within Totem Pole Tower will ever need sleep, and so no one will dream, and you will never remember the nightmares.

But you remember your nightmares still. The bleeding trees, the broken bodies, and the vacant sky like a cup of churning chrysanthemum tea. You think about it, over and over again, as the people in black slide into the elevator. 'Which floor?' you ask, always in a robotic monotone, hand perched like a flyaway bird against the sliding levers. There is little change to this routine. People in the tower do not eat. People in the tower do not sleep. All they do is dance, shuffling from floor to floor in peculiar rhythm, and a voice inside you is always crying for them to wake up--wake up, because it is as though everything inside is sleeping.

The masked men, the reapers, they call you Elevator Boy. The only time you are not Elevator Boy is when the Master calls the workers to council, because that is when all the workers shift into new skins, from employees to slaves.

'You are empty,' the master says, and you believe him, in this tower where all is still. 'You are empty, you are small, you are powerless.'

Your lips form the words before the Master says them.

'By all means you should not exist.'

~*~

Chapter Three

Three Poisons: Snake

Huā had not reckoned it would be this difficult finding her way into the palace. At first, it had been easy--all she had to do was drape a shawl around her head and duck her face behind a basket of flowers, mixing in among the rest of the flower girls as they went to pay their respects to the Queen Empress. Xiaofeng, the head of the flower girls, had told her bluntly that she was being stupid. But Huā already knew that, had known from the moment she promised Abalone she would sneak inside the palace for him.

‘I am worried’, she said, forming the words carefully. For as long as she had known him, Rén had never done something as crazy as setting anything on fire. He couldn't, no matter how often he complained about the way people looked at him in Tiangyedan, how different it was from Neem Garh, yet sometimes not at all.

A nagging feeling wound its way around her throat. He wouldn't, she thought.

But she couldn't be sure.

‘I'll just ask a few questions’—Huā made a circle in the air with her fingers—‘and get out,’ she told Xiaofeng. ‘Nothing stupid, nothing reckless. I am worried,’ she repeated.

Xiaofeng's expression softened. Huā barely spoke, preferring to write or use signage to communicate with ever since she had lost her hearing. If she was making the effort to speak, it must mean it was important. Or whatever. Xiaofeng still did not entirely understand her, and was not sure she ever would.

'Okay,' she had said. 'But if you get caught, it's on you. Our Master and company have nothing to do with this.'

And so Huā had followed the flower girls through the palace's mazelike structure, keeping note of the routes and listening closely every time she passed a cluster of servants deep in conversation. The dragon boy was going to be beheaded, some said, while others whispered about how dangerous it was for the Moon Emperor to be meeting with him in private. Huā turned the knob slightly on her hearing aids, lowering her eyes as the whispers and thunks and all sounds in miniature resounded dully in her head. She had never found need for this function before, but she was grateful that Rén had insisted she buy the newer model during a government rehabilitation scheme two years ago. Two years ago, when she was still in Hyekah, working as an apprentice in a teashop, dreaming dreams that seemed then completely inconceivable. Two years ago.

It seemed like a lifetime.

'...in the Emperor's tearoom? It's absolute madness--what on earth is His Majesty thinking?'

'...trust ... his decisions never...'

'He knows what he's doing.' Huā ducked her head as they climbed another flight of stairs. Nobody paid her attention, as she had anticipated, except for Xiaofeng. She nodded at her, signalling that they had now approached the floor where the Queen Empress awaited them. If Huā wanted to slip off to look for Rén, now would be the time.

'There is not much security on the higher levels,' Xiaofeng had said. 'For whatever reason, although the entire floor belongs to the Moon Emperor's mother. It's ... strange.'

Strange or not, Huā found it easy to slip into the east wing. The entire palace was a fusion of stairs and newer elevators that the Emperor had had built into the original framework ever since the Greater Kingdom’s division. Having failed in her search for a flight of stairs, Huā was waiting for the servants' elevator when she saw them walking up along the corridor: Master Puto and the Head Priestess. Priestess Kouya. Huā swore silently. Not her. If she finds me, I’m… She ducked behind a pillar, peering intently at the odd pair as they neared. Two servants accompanied them, carrying baskets full of fruits. Their faces were all the likeness of statues, expressionless, as though someone had drawn the shutters over their eyes.

'I would like to extend my apologies,' Priestess Kouya was saying to Puto, her stance stiff and awkward. Huā figured she was forcing herself to maintain civility, since rumour had it that she was not fond of the foreigners. 'We did not expect for such a mishap to occur. Hybrids have been known to cause problems, and the integration scheme is only recent. He is the...' Her mouth twisted into a half-scowl. 'He is the first hybrid to be given legal recognition, and the Emperor is in conversation with him as we speak. We hope'--she inclined her head, Huā saw her curl her lip discreetly--'that you will not allow this incident to tar the rest of your stay.'

'Certainly not,' Master Puto replied, craning his neck to look up at her. 'The Symbolists have always prepared themselves for rebuttal and outash. I must say, though, that not all places we have visited are as accepting as your emperor. The idea of a hybrid citizenship has never been heard of before. It makes me rather curious.'

The Priestess sniffed. 'It is nothing much. The citizenship gives hybrids the same legal status as normal citizens. The right to work, get housing, and be inducted into the military for only five years. Legal hybrids cannot be enslaved or killed, unlike illegal ones. There are … other things, but that is the gist of it.’

Master Puto laughed. ‘You do not sound as though you approve.’

Priestess Kouya straightened the Royal Medallion she wore around her neck. ‘Not entirely,’ she said. ‘It does not align itself with the Old Tradition, but the young emperor has always been … innovative in his endeavours. Your demonstration today proves this.’

‘And what did you think of our religion?’

‘I—’ Huā bit on her lip, trying not to laugh. She had never interacted directly with the Head Priestess before, but there was always much gossip surrounding the Priesthood and their austere ideas. Priestess Kouya was known across Tiangyedan for her nettled tongue; her verbal lashes left even the most powerful nobles smarting. It was funny to see that Head Priestess restraining herself in the presence of an outlandish person such as Master Puto. Her pinched nose slowly turned purple; she was blinking so furiously that Huā was surprised her lashes hadn’t tangled themselves into one another.

‘It was quite—interesting,’ she choked out finally.

Huā couldn’t help it. She giggled.

‘I am glad you think so,’ Master Puto said. Lowering his voice, he continued: ‘On that note, perhaps I might share—that is to say, this is already information you are entitled to, although I do not know if you know…’

The elevator doors finally opened with a ding. Huā spun the knob on her hearing aids up all too quickly. ‘The tower … demolish…’ she caught, the words thudding in her head heavily. ‘Bombings in the south … war. If you would assist us—in this gain. Gain. Gain.’ Suddenly, even the quietest of sounds were magnified—every footstep, every thunk and screech and groan and exhale, the creaking of bones and doors, the windows at the end of the spindly hallways chattering like teeth, as though the palace was quivering in the storm, every individual raindrop resounding like bullets against steel. It was loud. Huā clutched her head and keeled over, her hands sliding madly over her hearing aids as she tried to adjust the settings to normal.

One, two, three, lowering the decibel range, spinning the sensitivity as low as it could go, wishing that the device had come with a reset button. Something crashed—perhaps the glass pagoda lamp that had been next to her. The sound pierced through her brain like a barbed arrow cutting through a carp’s bladder.

Finally—quiet. Huā blinked. Her head throbbed, tears streaming down her face. It felt like someone had ripped her vocal cords from her throat.

It took her a while to realise she had been screaming. Somewhere in the confusion, she had dropped her flower basket. Orchids and chrysanthemums spilled over the dull red carpet, shards of glass littered among the petals, glinting at her like broken constellations. She reached out to salvage what she could, only to have her vision obscured by a heavily embroidered hemline. Her eyes travelled upwards. The Head Priestess stood before her, fuming.

Tilting her face, Huā tried vainly to pull her shawl lower over her head. Her heart gonged in her chest. ‘Apologies,’ she said, in a strangled voice. ‘I got lost.’

‘Insolence!’ the Head Priestess screeched. ‘You were eavesdropping! Raise your head.’

A tremor ran down Huā’s spine. She remained immobile, trying to control her breathing.

‘Raise your head,’ the Head Priestess repeated. ‘I will report you to your master.’

‘I do not dare to look you in the eye, madam,’ Huā said slowly. ‘We have been taught to never—’

‘It is a command.’ The Head Priestess tore Huā’s shawl from her face, eyes widening as she noticed. ‘An albino,’ she hissed. ‘How dare you set foot on sacred ground. Call the guards!’ She slapped Huā so hard that her glasses went flying, then pushed her to the ground. The carpet broke most of her fall, but her head collided with one of the huge rosewood lamps that lined the palace corridors. Priestess Kouya’s short, choppy hair bounced madly on her forehead. Huā screamed, shielding her face with her hands and trying to get to her feet.

Later on, Huā would recount to Ren how incredibly powerless she had felt in that moment, how the entire world surged around her in waves, how she had wished—desperately—that her sensory faculties had not vacated her. She was not bitter, she had always insisted, about losing her ears. After all, people had lost so much during the war, and she was young and had plenty to survive on. Later on, she would admit it to him, that she was rarely bitter about anything, but she wished—sometimes, dearly, devoutly—that she had not been born with albinism. Because, to the state, I am immoral. Blow by invisible blow struck her until she yielded, closing her eyes tight, knowing that fighting was pointless. A shard of glass had lodged itself into her cheek. She shuddered, biting down on her tongue to keep herself from yelling out. There had been rumours that the priestess had been especially cranky after the Moon Emperor's invitation to the Symbolists, but Huā had not even once supposed she would be caught in the fray of things. The clashing of Old Laws with New Laws should not affect her or her work. Out of all the places she had worked, very few people had allowed her to feel she was any less capable than them. Yes, she had been labelled as 'exotic'. Yes, people still said things that left her reeling for days on end. But Huā knew she was lucky--most of her jobs were uptown, where people were more open to differences.

'Sometimes,' she had told Rén once, 'I feel like I have tapped my way into a bubble. The bubble will burst, I know, like before. I have seen that. But I do not think I will ever be any less ready for it.'

In Shi Jiāng, there were three things that made a person Irredeemable, according to the Old Laws: hybridity, treachery, and Colourlessness. Even after all her research, Huā had never been able to tell where the hate came from, or how it had been internalised so devoutly by the people of the Old Religion.

All she knew was that she was hated, and that she had not been careful enough.

Her head had hit something hard. Something warm trickled down her neck--blood? she thought, dazed. Spots were dancing before her eyes. Someone had ripped out her hearing aids. Her ears felt heavy and waterlogged, her head vacant, and Huā struggled not to panic as her senses became inundated, as though she were submerged underwater.

Someone’s heel collided with her stomach. She reeled, struggling to breathe. 'Please don't!' she yelled, her voice grating in her throat. She could feel the vibrations on the floor, the pounding, the clatter. Too many people, she thought, anxiously, feeling around on the floor as she tried to get to her feet. The world was a swarm of colour. She stumbled.

I need to be able to see.