Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. (4 page)

“I’ll cope with that if it happens,” I reply, waving away his concern.

I understand that he’s being protective, but his anxiety is a reminder of the greatest distinction between us, and it grates. I turn my face away from him and move to fill the pots with compost.

Bastian is Firstborn, which means he’s valuable to the Polis. Important. Worthy… of all sorts of things, including medical attention. Whereas I am Unworthy. If something happens to me, I’m pretty much on my own.

It’s also the reason that he knows nothing about my night outings, and I have no intention of him finding out. Much as he looks after others, he might draw the line at weak babies, believing that the personal risk was too great. He would never understand the compulsion that sends me out when a baby is exposed, and would find ways of stopping me.

“You’ll be there tonight?” Bastian asks, changing the subject. “At the naming ceremony?”

I shrug. “You know I will be. Once we’re old enough, all the women have to be there.”

“I could wait for you afterwards, if you want some moral support.”

“That would be… yes, please. Although I hope that everything will be…”

I don’t look at him, but I can feel him watching me in the silence that follows. His tone is serious when he says, “It will be ok. Chloe is healthy, and young. She’s looked after herself. The baby will be fine.”

“I’m sure,” I nod. “I just want tonight to be over.”
No-one knows better than I the repercussions of a baby not passing inspection. For many mothers, the stigma of having birthed an Unworthy baby is difficult to bear, only reversed when she leaves it in the circle. For the baby of course, it means almost certain death.

But not for me. Even the elements didn’t want me.

Bastian smiles, thinking of his sister the last time he saw her. “You’d think she was carrying a Counsellor, the way she acted after she found out she was pregnant! Special food and Polis medicines, not having to meet even half of her quota.” He shakes his head. “With all that special treatment, it’s surprising any babies fail the inspection. In the hubs it’s just a physical exam. I mean, when was the last time we had one here in Greytown?”

I can’t answer him, and simply shake my head.
Three days ago
, I think, but it sticks in my throat. Each and every rejected infant is etched into my memory, and not just because of the hours spent on damp leaves in the forest. It’s also the weight of expectation which the mothers place firmly on my shoulders. My existence gives them hope, it’s as simple as that. Until the baby’s death, when it’s dashed again, and they have to live with the loss of their child. At that point, I’m no longer a symbol of hope to them but a painful reminder that their child wasn’t strong enough to survive in our world.

I’ve stopped what I’m doing and am staring at my hands. This is the biggest issue of contention between us, and I have learned to hold my tongue for fear of giving away my most closely guarded secret. Bastian is looking at me, waiting till I come back from where my thoughts have taken me.

“There is something I want to talk to you about while I’m on Reprieve. Something important,” he says.

“Oh?” This sounds interesting. His eyes are smiling, so I’m intrigued rather than worried. I can also see that he’s not going to tell me anymore right now. Just then Grandad calls from the pod, and we tidy up what we’re doing to head inside.

As we move down the path he takes my grubby, earth stained hand in his, and when I see him smile down at me again a jittery, jumpy feeling starts in my stomach. Perhaps I do have an idea what he wants to talk to me about, and it makes me excited and shy at the same time.

At the door to the pod he takes his leave. “I should really call round to Mum’s,” he smiles apologetically. “But I’ll see you tonight. I missed you, Arcadia,” he says, and squeezes my hand.

I stifle my dopey smile in the hallway. I’m still not looking forward to the Naming tonight, but with seeing Bastian afterwards, my mood has lightened considerably.

Inside, Grandad has made three mugs of tea.

“He’s not stopping?” he asks me.

I shake my head. “He hasn’t called at home yet.” I turn away from his knowing look. I go to wash up, giving the heat on my face time to cool.

We sip in silence, the sounds of other workers returning home reaching us. Across the hall, the Martell children are home from school, loud voices combining with the clomping of their shoes. Before long we hear the screen in their pod come on. My eyes flick over to ours, mounted on the wall of the main room. It’s hardly ever used. When I was little, Grandad would heavily censor what I was allowed to watch, even though I would beg and plead with him. The brightly coloured images held such appeal for me. As I got older I was able to regard the panel with a little more discernment, and could see a certain regularity to the shows. Stories of great valour, where the hero often sacrifices their own comfort for the good of others, or documentaries about our history and the history of the ancients, who lived in the time before the Sickness. Through it all, the strong overtones of conformity and submission.

“Arcadia,” Grandad brings me out of my reverie. “Don’t let that boy limit you.”

I have to think for a second about who he’s meaning, he’s caught me completely by surprise. I frown into my tea. “Limit me?”

“Don’t let him tell you what you can and can’t do.”

His caution confuses me. “If you mean Bastian, he’s never limited me. He only wants me to be safe.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” he nods. “He thinks that you need looking after. He wants to wrap you in a soft blanket.”

“Well, what’s wrong with a soft blanket?”

“You can’t wrap yourself in it forever. Plus, what happens to him when you no longer need it?”

I’m starting to feel very uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is taking. “Come on, Grandad. Bastian is Firstborn. I’m Unworthy. If he does want to look after me, then I’m the luckiest girl in the hub.”

“Your mark has nothing to do with it,” he says. “You need to choose a partner on his own merits, not on how grateful you feel that he’s looked your way.”

How can he use the word “choose” as though I have options? I am undesirable to everyone because of my mark. An Unworthy mother is likely to pass on weakness to her children. Why would anyone willingly enter into that kind of relationship? The fact that Bastian might be willing to overlook it is nothing short of incredible. However, I know him well enough not to be surprised. He’s got a heart that matches his height.

“He’s not the first one who’s looked my way, Grandad, he’s the
only
one. How many suitors do you see? I’m seventeen. Chloe has already had her first baby. And the other girls -”

He puts his hand over mine on the counter. “I know how hard this must sound. I just don’t want you to be in a rush to settle down.”

I shake my head in confusion. I’m not sure what he wants me to do, how he can expect me to live as though I’m not marked?

Chapter Four

The evening comes too soon, and I’m one of the last women to make my way down to the square in the failing light. I pause on the edge of the floodlit cobblestones, bright with electric blandness. To the side of the square, bars and girders have been stacked neatly, in readiness for the construction of the marquee tomorrow. The Spring Festival will take place here in three days’ time.

There are two festivals a year, both organised and run by the Polis. Spring is my favourite, because except for just the once, Bastian has always been with me. At the Autumn festival I feel listless and alone, having just said goodbye to my friend. Polis officials welcome home the Firstborn at the Festivals, and thank them for their ongoing service to their country. They also put on a banquet for them and give them lavish gifts; pets and toys for their children, perfumes, fabrics and furniture.

For the rest of us, the three-day event is all about music, dancing and food. It’s mostly about the food - roast meats such as venison, goose and wild pig, and sweet treats like cream doughnuts and spiced apple cakes. The children have their own special activities like races and games, and they have their own tent for food. Now that I’m grown up I don’t take part in their competitions, but part of me still wishes that I could. I love winning, and the last three years haven’t been as much fun. I have to admit that part of the change has been down to Bastian as well though - he just doesn’t enjoy the Festivals as much as he used to when we were children and only goes because he has to. I used to tell him that being in the Firstborn Army had gone to his head; made him think he was above it all.

Outside the barracks some of the soldiers are playing cards, rough shouts mingling with the sounds of frogs and crickets from the brush. I skirt the square, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. I can’t avoid the guard post altogether though, and when I am near it a shadow detaches itself from the building and I nearly run into him.

“Well, hello,” a male voice says.

I look up at an unknown face atop the grey and black of a Polis uniform. With the return of our Firstborn, some of the Polis soldiers stationed here have been rotated. This one is so fresh faced he mustn’t be much older than I.

Here we go again, I think. There are usually a few Polisborn, mainly men, who like to form relationships with the locals during their tours of duty in the Sector.

“I’m just -” I start.

“Don’t be in a rush to run away,” he says smoothly, catching my arm near the elbow. I know better than to push him away.

“Um, excuse me please.” I step to the side, but he mirrors my actions.

“Cole!” a female voice cries out from the porch where the card players have stopped and are giving us their full attention. “New Boots, get back here!”

There are some jeers and guffaws, covered by dramatic coughing, and I know what’s coming.

“I was just getting acquainted…” Cole starts.

“With an Unworthy!” The card players erupt into laughter and my would-be admirer blanches in shock. He steps back from me, shock changing to disgust, and high tails it inside the building.

I turn my back on the roars of laughter, hide my burning face in my scarf and dart across the rest of the square to the medical centre. Over the last year I’ve begun to appreciate the distance which the Polisborn afford me because of my Mark, but that doesn’t make the initial realisation of my status any less unpleasant. No-one wants to be reminded how unacceptable they are.

The medical centre is the last place I want to be right now, but chances are there will be a naming, and all the women of the family are expected to be there to welcome the new arrival. I have learned to keep my distance though. The first week after a baby’s birth is the most unpredictable, when anything can happen. Even with the nano-patch applied at birth, many are sick within twenty-four hours. This is when the examination takes place, and those that are sick are marked, as I was. Unworthy. The exposure follows.

Coming to naming ceremonies is something of a rite of passage for us. We feel we’re grown up, invited into the women’s world, and we get to see what goes on. I had been so excited to come to my first, four years ago. The doctor had gone into a separate room where the mother and baby were, the inspection took place, and they had come out together, all smiles. The baby was fighting fit, without even a shadow of infection.

Tonight, the large room is crammed full, just as it was four years ago. Women lean against the walls or sit on the floor, catching up with news. The energy radiating from the group is palpable – squeeze this many bodies into a small space and the resulting buzz is deafening. It looks as though the examination is still in progress and I have to wait with them. I can’t see Auntie Marama anywhere, but I’m guessing she’s with Chloe and the doctor.

I slide around the door and fit myself against the wall beside it, silently begging not to be noticed.

My plea goes unanswered. I hear a hush start near me and begin to spread. I don’t look up. I don’t need to; I can feel their eyes on me. For a moment the room quietens, and then, a little self-consciously, the buzz of conversation resumes.

I have known these women all my life. They are my family – they live in my section of Greytown, but there is no love here. At best, they mistrust me, and keep their distance. At worst -

“What is
she
doing here?” the sharpness of the voice cuts through the chatter in the room. I keep my head down, but lift my eyes to see a woman wearing a wild expression, her finger outstretched towards me. I lower my eyes again, and try to disappear.

“Shh, don’t make a fuss, Marnia,” another voice soothes. I know them both. Marnia and her sister, Totara. Marnia was the mother at my first Naming Ceremony, and is in her early twenties.

“I’m not making a fuss, Tara. She shouldn’t be here.” I can hear that she is coming my way and inwardly I groan. I suck in a deep breath, steeling myself for the onslaught.

“You. Out.” Right in front of me now, I can see her boots just about toe to toe with mine.

“I’m here for Chloe,” I mutter.

Looking up, I see her wide, dark brown eyes locked onto my face. She looks furious, unhinged.

“It’s alright, Marnia.” Totara is at her elbow, trying to calm her. “She’s only here because she has to be. She won’t make any trouble.” She shoots me a look, and I nod.