Midnight's Song (2 page)

Let me explain this
logic. The descendants of the “do-gooders” of the revolution and a
number of royals were of the 2
^nd
and
3
^rd
castes. These people had been granted a life of luxury
comparable to only the Magistrate himself. The descendants of the
rebels were of the 14
^th
and 15
^th
castes. These people were
the lowest of the low.

They were only a few
grades higher than dirt, sentenced to a life of silent servitude to
the descendants of the ones that their ancestors “marred.” We were
of the 10
^th
caste, manual laborers in the 4
^th
general working class. From
birth to death, and with no way to move up – only down (unless you
were a special case). The sins of our forefathers were the things
that determined our place in society. Nothing more, and nothing
less.

“Thank you dearest citizens, workers,
and friends. Work hard to serve your people today, tomorrow, and
every day. Whatever outlet you may be watching or listening to this
through; I wish you many blessings and great prosperity in your
life and family for the greater good of our country.”

Finally, he signed off. I let out a
massive sigh of relief. Timed nearly perfectly with the end of the
miserable broadcast was the sound of the door hinge creaking.
Suddenly, the door flung open and I leapt to my feet in excitement.
My father was home.

“PAPA!” I shouted, running into his
arms like the little girl that I still was.

“Lissie!” He shouted at the same time,
happily taking me in his embrace. A few seconds later my petite
frame was airborne as he picked me up and twirled me around in his
big, brawny fisherman’s arms. When I came to a stop and the room
ceased its spinning, I took note of the warm, lively expression on
his ruddy, bearded cheeks. “How I’ve missed my dear
Elissa!”

His words came with that same accented
lilt that my mother and I had grown so accustomed to. It was one
that a few others from the ships had, simply because in our region
we had seafarers from just about every place. While I was amused
with it, my mother was enchanted by it. My father’s smooth, flowing
words were part of the reason my mother had been so attracted to
him in the first place.

Or as he would often say: “It was a
bit of luck, a few soft serenades and a great deal of
love.”

That bit of luck would have to be
whatever feasible force could’ve driven my parents together in the
midst of being separated by 7 largely divided castes. The love was
the willingness of my mother – out of the feelings from an emotion
that no scientist can still fully explain – to forfeit her title as
the heiress apparent of one of the wealthiest families in the
country and give up any claim to the family inheritance just so
that she could be with him.

It was quite the scandal,
really.

This love compelled
her to move down from the 3
^rd
caste to a member of the
lowly, labor-driven 10
^th
. It compelled her to move
down, knowing of all the risks and sacrifices. Knowing that she
would face a reality outside of the comfort she had known for her
entire life. She realized in all certainty that after one year she
would be fully excommunicated from her caste and her family,
unallowed by law to see them or partake in any of their affairs. As
a member of the 10
^th
caste, she also knew that she’d be expected to
work in their same, dark, dusty factories for the rest of her
days.

And she was also well aware that only
one child was allowed to come from this union.

A child that at 16
years of age; would be legally presented with a choice. On her
16
^th
birthday, this child would have to appear before a judge.
Then this child would be presented with the choice to remain a part
of the same, desolate life that her mother had chosen – or to
abandon it and take her mother’s place in the higher
caste.

Should her daughter
stay, she would face a life of hardship. Should she go – she would
be whisked away to a life of comfort. But, it was comfort that came
at the cost of never seeing her parents ever again. The price of
never seeing
my
parents again.

Yet, there was something
beautiful about the life that she chose. Although hard, there was
love. I could see it, and my mother knew it. If there was never
anything else, there were my parents and their love for each other.
And as for my choice, my mother trusted me enough to know that I’d
make the right one. That’s why she chose to stay here.

Papa looked into my eyes and planted a
kiss at the very top of my forehead.

“Tell me,” I smiled in his
warm embrace, desiring to hear all of the details of his latest
odyssey. “How was life on the boat this time?”

He opened his mouth to
speak, his face seeming to tell mountains of storm stories and fish
tales – but they were stories I would never hear. Just as the
stories coming from the pit of his mind began to form themselves
into the first crackling sounds of a word, the front door opened. A
young worker stood at our doorstep, fully uniformed and
trembling.

“There’s been an accident,” he told
us, shaking.

It had taken place on the
big machinery at the cannery and had been like no other accident
anyone had seen before. Papa had better come quickly, the lad told
him, because there wasn’t much time left. As soon as the boy had
uttered such words, Papa dropped what was in his hands and hastily
ran out the door. I followed quickly behind him – picking up my
skirt and running due east toward the factory. I lost sight of Papa
half-way and got lost in a large mob that had gathered around the
factory doors. I jumped into the sea of people and wove to the
front, pushing people out of my way from all directions until I
reached a barricade.

“What’s going on?!” I
shouted above the crowd.

No one seemed to
notice me. The workers only bickered and shoved in a large, crazy
multitude. They chaotically pushed toward the door. A high-ranking
5
^th
caste officer ran to the front of the crowd and began herding
us back. I screamed, but the officer only pushed us
back.

“Dirty
10
^th
caste animals!” He shouted at us, specifically looking at me.
“You should all be ashamed of yourselves! Someone has
died
!”

My heart dropped to my feet and I
stood back up, facing the man.

“Who has died?” I choked
back the tears. “Please, let me through. My mother has been in an
accident.”

When I spoke the last part
of my sentence, everything changed. The official retracted, looking
ashamed. He led me to a door at the back of the building,
apologizing profusely.

I readied myself to face
my fears as an acrobat readies themselves to leap over a great
chasm. I pushed on the door, taking my leap. But the leap I had
prepared to take was much too short for this chasm. The projection
was off – the distance was too great. When I saw what was on the
other side I plunged into the darkness. I approached the seed of my
nightmares with small and chary footing, opening the door to the
room and paling with shock with each step I took closer to her
body.

The sight of her
face was shockingly different. She had been hurt, mangled. Had she
fallen into one of the big machines? Did a heavy load crush her
bones? I didn’t want to visualize what must have just taken place,
but the results were bare before my eyes. For most people, the
shock would have been too overwhelming. I was
compelled by love
– compelled by the
love I had for her – to remain.

I felt as though her
spirit was still looming, waiting for me to say goodbye. As my
final parting act, I grievously took a lock of her hair – grey on
the top and golden on the bottom – and twisted it around my finger
before weaving them together delicately and kissing her on the
forehead. The grieving child inside wanted to believe that my kiss
would send her so much love and health that her spirit would jump
back into her body and bring life again.

The thought turned to be hopeless.
That spirit that I had so wished would give my mother life was null
and void. Whatever presence had been there in the room at that
moment was abruptly, swiftly gone. This parting action had truly
been the last – for I was now living in this world as a motherless
child. My mother’s life and spirit were gone, and I knew that she
was never coming back.

It was the Magistrate’s
solemn decree that the family members of any man or woman who
married outside of their caste assume no contact with the demoted
child. It was said to prevent anyone from sabotaging the forfeited
inheritance, but all it truly did was divide. Grandparents couldn’t
attend the births of their grandchildren. Grandchildren would never
know their grandparents, becoming strangers to them until the day
that they were freed from their separations.

Sons and daughters
in such forbidden unions would never be allowed to see their
parents at weddings, on holidays or even at funerals. They were
forced to remain strangers to them until the funeral was
their own
. The moment of
their death meant that a marriage was over, and the end of a
marriage meant that the walls that had kept our families separate
for 15 years had finally been broken down.

It was without question
that Mother’s family would fight to see me.

I first saw my mother’s
family on the day of the funeral. I stared at their expensive
clothing through the window, realizing right away that they
couldn’t have been from the Katie Isles. One by one, women emerged
from a carriage and made their way into the building displaying
looks of distaste.

The first to emerge
was an elderly woman being lowered down into a wheelchair. There
was a servant wheeling her that had strong arms and a dark
complexion that I knew must have made him a
12
^th
caste. Two younger ladies followed behind.

I didn’t know who
these people were, but their stone faces and dramatic jewels gave
me desire to flee. Before I was forced to greet them or even face
them, I escaped through a door with a sign on it that read
“
The Comfort
Room
.”

I shoved open the door and
fell onto a velvet couch. One look around the room gave me the
coldest, eeriest feeling. The doorknob was of shiny brass and the
floors of the softest green carpets. The walls were lined with
shelves that housed more books than I’d ever seen on the somewhat
illiterate island. This was where death lived and resided, yet it
was lusher than any other home that existed in this place. Death
made out as luxury was anything but comforting.

I put my head in my
hands and wept. The funeral walk was in twenty minutes. As the only
child, I would have to lead it. I would have to lead
them.
Every person would
proceed behind me, including those rich women I hardly knew. I
couldn’t hide anymore, even if they did have intimidating wealth.
If I did, I’d never know who they were to me – good or bad. I found
the resolve to leave the room, telling myself
repeatedly:

“I will be brave. I will
be brave.”

My bravery quickly vanished when I
caught sight of the casket. When I approached it, a chill crept up
my spine. I became a helpless child at the sight, unable to decide
what to do or where to go at that moment. I searched the room for
my father, but he was nowhere to be found.

“This isn’t right. It’s
simply not right,” an unexpected voice came from behind. It was
cold and stoic, but not at all unfeeling. “A mother should not
outlive her children.”

I turned to see the same
old woman that I had been avoiding earlier. This time, she was clad
in a thick fur coat as she sat in a wheelchair directly beside me.
The woman was ancient, endowed with the fruits of her age. Wrinkles
covered her face and veins bulged underneath the black lace on her
forearms.

“It’s no less difficult
when a child loses their mother.”

The relic of a woman
looked up and examined my features. There wasn’t anything in them
that seemed to catch her by surprise. As she studied me, I got the
strange sense that this woman felt like she truly knew me. She
quickly ordered her servant to wheel her away from the dismal
coffin. For some reason, I followed.

“Children are meant to
outlive their parents. Some unfortunately do so from an earlier
age.” She looked at the casket, then back at me. “You need not
fight, child. I know who you are.”

“How would you know that?”

“You favor your
mother.”