Chapter Five

The Thunder

Once darkness had fallen over Istol, Carter’s mother Nala sent a messenger to the trading stall where Michael’s own mother worked.

The messenger soon returned, sheepishly saying, “Um, Miss Williams said she’ll be by shortly, and- these are her words -if Michael tries to go alone, I’ll put out a contract on him.”

Michael and his friends, still poolside, laughed themselves over and Michael nodded. “Got it.”

Michael dried himself off and pulled his clothes on again, always more aware of just how threadbare they were in the shadow of Carter’s house. He stepped out to the front gate to wait and told his friends he’d see them in the morning.

The sky darkened all the more and a rumble growled in the distant clouds.

Michael pulled his collar up to his neck and took a slow breath as the shadow thickened around him. A long and dark storm was coming and he couldn’t feel the end of it being near.

Through an ornate window of Carter's mansion, Carter’s mother Nala glanced at him and went wide-eyed. She came running outside with two cloaks in-hand. “Michael, what on Draendica are you doing, dear? Come inside!”

Michael’s tension fell away. He smiled shyly as rain began to spritz his face. “It’s okay, Nala, really, my mum won’t be long.”

Nala was well into her forties and beautiful as a summer day, much like her son. Her bright smile was so much like Carter’s that Michael often wondered if she’d had to teach it to him step by step, like a family recipe. She had dark, burnished eyes and the ebony skin of some old Crekaen lineage. Her hair was tied up in a lazily wonderful style, displaying her thick curls proudly. She threw one of the cloaks over her shoulders and pulled up the hood, passing the other to Michael.

He took it automatically, urging, “Nala, you don’t have to stay out here. I sent the guys inside so they’d avoid this. I’d hate for you to catch a cold because of me.”

She ignored him effortlessly and proceeded to ask the young man about his day, knowing she wasn’t about to go anywhere.

They spoke gently for a short while, speaking as easily as Michael ever did with his own mother.

The weather took a turn for the worse and yet she stayed until Connie arrived, wrapping him in a soft hug before smiling and saying her greetings to Michael’s mother.

Michael handed her back the cloak and leapt into the back of the cart, waving as they left.

The road was dark the moment their horse and cart was back in Dim-side, for it had been long since the street lamps were refilled with oil in that sector.

Michael had a cowhide pulled across his head to avoid as much of the rain as he could while it drummed down above him.

“How was school, hun?” his mother asked over her shoulder, somewhat muffled by the roar of the weather.

Michael sucked his teeth tentatively, only for it to twinge his bruised jaw. “It was boring.”

“Really?” she asked, a tad too curious.

Michael doubled down and said, “Yeah, nothin’ special.”

The downpour only outlined the silence between them but it was an expectant quiet, and every second it lingered the tension built.

Michael couldn’t bear it. “Who told you?”

Connie sighed and shrugged, urging their horse around the corner of their road. “Does it matter?”

“S’pose not.” Miss Heath.

They pulled around out the front of their house and Michael jumped down into the wet streets. Their house was sloped up a small hill, forcing its shape into two small stories, despite being little more than two cramped bedrooms, a bathroom and kitchen.

They stowed the horse in a small, communal barn and then ran inside to escape the rain.

Michael kicked off his shoes and wandered toward the staircase when his mother’s tone turned stiff. “Michael.”

He stopped and turned tiredly, moving his wet hair out of his face.

Connie lit a lamp and held it close to his face, inspecting the darkest of his bruises, colouring his jaw. “So, who started it?”

Michael winced as she lightly investigated the mark. “Some Mid-side prick. Did everything he could to get to me but it wasn’t ‘till he started screwin’ with Carter that I actually did anything.”

Connie sighed and pulled her hand away. “It’s not goin’ to look pretty but you’ll live. What did ‘Mid-side’ do to Carter, anyway? Takes some serious nerve to hit a nobleman.”

Michael sat down on the staircase as his mother walked over to the kitchen and uncorked a bottle of wine. Michael knew better than to talk around it. “Didn’t hit him. Called him a-” Michael hated to notion of even explaining it, “…a Huri.”

She spilt a splash of wine looking up too fast. “He didn’t.”

Michael nodded, tired to his bones and found himself thinking of something else dark. “I was visiting Almarie and Nora today too. On our way back we nearly ran into a pack of Iron Suits. Saw them drag a rebel out of some hovel before firing a bolt into a crowd of people... then walked away laughing.”

Connie filled her wooden mug almost to the brim and nodded. Her round face and amber eyes always made her look thoughtful, so any sadness upon it made her seem twice so. “You know Hannah, from the marketplace?”

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Michael glanced up at her. “She sells wine, right?”

Connie began pulling her loose braids out and muttered, “She got taken today, too. Her wife was under suspicion of aiding the rebel cause. Iron Suits raided her house but couldn’t find her wife, so they arrested Hannah instead.”

Michael didn’t know what to say. He heard ten stories like that every day and knew his mother did too. It wasn’t new. But it wasn’t old either, it just happened so often that everyone seemed to pretend it was the way things were. The truth was that the imperial conscription decree was only announced at the beginning of the cycle, some seven cresks ago. Had it been over half a cycle already?

Connie seemed to follow a similar line of thought as she leaned back against the kitchen bench and said, “It’s your birthday soon.”

Michael smiled out of obligation, not wanting her to know how much he dreaded the day, especially in the light of the decree. “Sixteen’s an even bigger deal now.”

Connie shook her head firmly. “It’s a lottery, Michael. You probably won’t get picked.”

“True,” he said, simply to have something to say. “Mind if I head up? I’m a little tired.”

Connie nodded and said, “Course, hun. I’mma make some sandwiches if you’re hungry for later, but I’m workin’ the night market all spell to make up for the storm last cresk, so you’ll have to sort yourself something tomorrow.”

Her son nodded and ambled up the stairs to his bedroom. He pushed through the door and the floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he looked over his unmade bed, his cracked closet-door and stack of dusty books in the corner. His little world. The dirty light of the single streetlamp on their road shone against his grimy window. Michael stripped out of his wet clothes and fell into his unmade bed wondering which would be worse, serving in the imperial army or going to military prison for refusing. He huffed grimly.

“As if they wouldn’t just shoot you and move on to the next house,” he mumbled to himself.

*****

The days seemed to blend together when Carter and James left for Ariaton. Michael wandered the halls of his dingy school, visited Almarie and Nora and generally tried to stay out of trouble, something he only did when he was alone.

The bell sounded for the end of history class and everyone rose, adding to the school-wide rumble of movement and chatter as students gathered for lunch.

Michael was too busy daydreaming to notice everyone leaving, and was only jarred back to reality when Miss Heath knocked on his desk with a sharp clunk clunk!

He jumped with a start and she smiled in gentle concern. “You were suspiciously quiet, today. Carter and James away again?”

Michael began to gather his things and mumbled, “Yeah, they go on a trip about once a cresk.” He made for the door and said, “See you tomorrow, Miss.”

“Michael, hold on for a moment,” she said, wandering back behind her desk and bringing out a bundle of familiar parchment scrolls.

Heath sifted through the pile and pulled out one in particular. She unrolled it and leaned heavily on her desk as she looked it over. “Your essay on ‘Imperial Governance’ was.... challenging.”

Michael frowned and picked it up. He’d thought it was rather profound. “Can I re-write it? I'll try to be less wordy-”

Miss Heath smiled, holding up a hand, her face turned stony as the weight of the point settled. Her voice was low as she spoke, “It was a very accurate discussion of our current system of imperial monarchism. However, it was too accurate and exceedingly unapologetic.”

Michael smiled and nodded. “That’s what I was going for.”

“Teachers are being vetted for... anarchistic tendencies." Miss Heath looked ten cycles her senior as she held Michael's eyes firmly. "To address whether we are encouraging 'radical thinking' all papers are to be submitted for peer review by other teachers and reported upon if troublesome material is found."

Michael frowned, wondering who on Draendica could have a problem with it when he realised. “Marlow? Right? You know for someone in the most undervalued profession in the empire I would'a hoped she wouldn’t be such a bootlicker.”

Heath gave a gentle smirk, answering for him. “I won’t say that anyone in particular would report an essay like this, but I won’t not say it. You need to be more careful.”

An ache grew in Michael’s head beating lightly behind his eye. He pushed his palm up into the centre of the pain and nodded to the teacher. As she kept speaking, the purple and red shapes began to meld together and the muscles in his wrist twitched.

“Williams?” she asked, sounding as though she spoke from behind several doors.

Michael knew she was speaking but merely forced his eyes closed and tried to wait out the aching. The spots in his eyes flickered in and out of place. And for the barest moment an echo of a dream seemed to appear in the merging silhouettes. It was a half-remembered dream and even the flicker didn’t reignite the memory. Instead, it only reignited the dread he’d felt when having it.

“Michael!”

His eyes shot open to find sweat had been speckling on his brow. “Sorry! Sorry... I’m good, I just-”

Miss Heath glared at him and folded her arms. “You’re full of shit is what you are, Williams. What’s wrong?”

Michael stepped away toward the door and gave half a smile. “Don’t worry yourself, Miss. Really I’m fine.”

“Michael.”

“Jane.” He looked at her, trying to diffuse the tension with an aching grin. “I’m okay.”

Her face softened a touch and she fumbled with her hands, wondering if she’d overstepped. “Go eat something- and stop writing anti-establishment material before you get arrested!” she yelled as he stepped into the hall.

Michael made his way to the lunch hall and sat biting off pieces of an apple until he spotted Alch from his history class. Unlike the pale Riniglacians of Old, her skin was quite dark and it made her bright blue eyes all the more startling. “Hey, Stag!” Michael called.

She stopped bee-lining to her table and wandered up to Michael, an ever-set frown on her face. “Nice bruise, hun.”

Michael smiled and shrugged. “Thanks, it really highlights my jawline. Have you seen that new guy around today?”

She adjusted the strap of her bag and shook her head. “I don’t think so. I heard somewhere that he had to see a surgeon yesterday because of Taylor.”

Michael raked his mess of hair and leant back in surprise. “Damn.”

Alch huffed. “Don’t beat yourself up. He shouldn’t have been spoutin’ shit.”

"Thanks for covering for us, by the way. Save us a heap of trouble." She shrugged easily and Michael took a bite from his apple, glancing at the table where the fight had erupted many days before. “How’s your mum doing?”

“She’s better, thanks. Went with my dad back to New Rin to get my grandparents. They’re worried about all the tension between Haronia and Redthorn. You know how it is. Our people get sucked into those Ringlish wars all the time.”

Michael nodded and spoke in sign, Send my best wishes, okay?

Alch smiled warmly at the gesture a fluently signed back, Of course. Take care, friend.

Alch was short for Alchforélsul. It meant Brightrose in Ri. In New Riniglacia, traditional citizens named their children after a beautiful part of the day in which they were born. In practice, their names were like poetry, though apparently difficult to cram into a Talisatian forms. When she’d first arrived in school she’d told people to call her Elk, because of how far the spelling went over Talisatians’ heads. Michael took it a step further.

Alch wandered to her table and Michael finished his apple wondering if the entire world really was as bad as it felt, or if it was simply just because he’d started paying attention. Talisatia was fighting rebels and conscripting people as young as sixteen. Cresik was entering another silver shortage, which was the same travesty their Highlord used as an excuse to invade Old Riniglacia many hundreds of cycles ago. The Ringlands were verging on another inter-continental war. The Free State of Rahsalin in Ahuralend, the only people-run nation in Draendica, had just avoided a monarchist coup. Only the Driftiken islands seemed free of trouble.

If you didn’t count monsoons and tidal waves, that was.

Michael suspected they did count it.