INK (Excerpt)
INK (Excerpt)
SCHOLASTIC
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either
the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 18 19 2 0 21 2 2
Printed in the U.S.A. 23
First American edition, January2018
Book design by Elizabeth Parisi
I
was older than all my friends when I got my
first tattoo.
My mother loves to tell the story. I wish she wouldnt. At
two days old youre meant to get your birth mark, but I got sick
instead, and Mom canceled the ceremony.
Moms friends said, You need to get her marked, Sophie.
What are you going to call her?
But Mom told them she would wait u ntil I was better. I
would be named and inked then. She ignored their whispered
warnings of what happens to babies who die unmarked. And so
for twenty days I remained formless and void until one day my
mother said, Let her be Leora.
And I was Leora. The word was punched with minuscule
needles into my flesh. Tiny letters that have grown with me for
sixteen years.
We are not afraid of death. When your marks are safe in your
book, you live on after you die. The life story etched onto your
body is kept foreverif y oure worthy. When we preserve the
words, pictures, and moments imprinted on our skin, our story
survives for eternity. We are surrounded by the dead, and, for as
long as their books are still read and their names are still spoken,
they live.
Everyone has the skin books in their homes: Our shelves are
full of my ancestors. I can breathe them in, touch them, and read
their lives.
But it was only a fter my father died that I saw the book of
someone Id r eally known.
We w
ere lucky r eally, seeing death walk up from a distance. It
meant we could be prepared. We massaged his skin with oil; he
told us the stories of his ink and smiled when he showed us the
tree on his back with our names on it. He was ready when he went,
and his skin was prepared too. I watched his strong arms deflate,
leaving the skin wrinkled like an old apple. I watched his straight
back bend as though hed been hit in the stomach. He stopped
looking directly at us a fter a while; the pain was all he saw. It
seemed like the sickness sucked him away, just leaving his shell.
But the shell is what counts.
People had brought us flowers and food to make those final
days easier. Little love tokens for Dad when there was nothing
else they could do. We werent the only ones whose hearts were
breaking; Dad was precious to so many. The kitchen smelled of
wilting petals, stalks moldering in stale w
ater, and the casserole
we hadnt gotten around to eating. It was like death was catching.
Mom wrapped the blankets more tightly around him and wiped
sweat from her brow. Dad shivered and his breath sounded
crackly.
Yet when death came that bright day, in late autumn, I was
not ready. I could still taste the coffee Id drunk at dawn after
Mom woke me with a frantic whisper.
Sweetheart, wake up. I d
ont think he has much time left.
I hurried to his side. The gaps between his breaths grew lon-
ger. Mom and I leaned close and held his hands. I wondered
which would be the final gasp, the last silence before he woke in
the afterlife and breathed again. Suddenly, with a gasp, Dads
eyes opened and he looked straight at me. His hand gripped
mine. He eased his other hand from Moms and grasped the
pendant he always wore around his neck. It was a slender, rough-
hewn wooden leaf with a suggestion of veins e tched into it that
hung from a leather string. It was as much a part of Dad as his
ink; Id never seen him without it.
Leora. His voice was hoarse. This is for you. Leora, d
ont
forget. You w
ont forget me, w
ill you? Please, d
ont forget me.
T
he morning a
fter we open Dads book, Mom
goes back to work. She says that it is time, that we need to
go back to our normal lives, or, at least, work out what our
new normal is g oing to be. Normal is very important to Mom;
shes always been effortlessly popular, sociable and busy, com-
mitted to the community, and I think shes always been a bit
bewildered that her own daughter is such a loner. I decide to get
out of the house too, but head to the market; there is no school
today; my year are all on study leave. I know I have to engage
with all that again, with revision and final exams. I will have to
same for their loved ones and for the countless unknown p eople
who came their way each day. Mom is a reader; its more of a call-
ing than a job, I suppose, but it does paynot everyone consid-
ers that a real job. Its hard to explain what makes someone a
reader, but the best way is that some of us can read the meanings
behind markswe can see beyond the immediate message to
what the ink expresses about that persons heart. My mom can
look at your family tree and tell who is the favorite child. She
can look at the age marks on your hand and tell which year
almost broke you. She can look at the marks that describe your
qualifications and tell whether you cheated. P
eople admire read-
ers, but they also fear them. Mom once told me that everyone
has secrets they want to keep.
We shouldnt really have secrets, though. Thats the whole
point.
I have the gift too. Ive been able to read p eople since I was a
child. Mom says she worked it out when I got into trouble in my
first week at school; I had asked a boy why he d idnt live with his
real dad. When his angry mom showed up at the door demand-
ing to know who had been gossiping about them, Mom knew I
must have read between the lines on the boys skin. But just
because I can do it doesnt mean I want to do it as my job. I love
the glimpse it gives me into p eoples marks and lives, but some-
times I get tired of ink shouting out the inner world of strangers
as they pass by. I dont think I could bear their anxious faces if
they were sitting across the reading table from me, knowing that
if their marks chose to reveal the truth, I could see everything.
Cutting through the path between the hall of judgment and the
government building, heading toward the market stalls beyond
it, I realize Im smiling. I wish he were h
ere.
Its cool today. The first day with a chill in it this winter. The
shock of it has made everyone wrap themselves in extra layers.
Its strange to see less skinI feel a little cut off, walking past
people when I can only see the marks on their faces and fore-
arms. It feels good, though; I feel less naked today, and not simply
because of the linen shawl wrapped around me and buttoned at
my shoulder. Just sometimesand I would never say this out
loudit feels nice to hide my marks.
The market is h
ere most days, and I plunge into a mass of
striped canopies, yells, and p eople. I try not to breathe in as
I walk past the butcherthe smell of the meat hanging there
makes me feel queasy. I gasp air once I reach the fabric stall.
The earthy fragrance of the cotton and the spiciness of the dyes
are alluring. Inhaling the colors, I imagine my breath coming out
in rainbow puffs. I walk among the crowds, watching the ground
ahead of my feetits easier this way. Just for today, I want to
tune out the snippets of conversation and let p eoples marks
become background noise. I feel content to have only Dads marks
in my mind while the memory is still fresh.
I follow my nose u ntil I can make out the fruity tang of the
grocers stall. Wooden boxes hold the grocers wares, propped up
so we can be tempted by their deliciousness. The grocer is smil-
ing, his green apron dusted slightly with dirt. Hes holding a
paper bag open and waiting to take my order. His sleeves are
pushed upwere always supposed to have our forearms on
displayand I can see so much of him from them. Hes thirty-
six and brightthe smartest in his class, clever enough to have
had the pick of trades, but t heres death in his marks. I read of a
youth cut short by the passing of his older b rother. He looks
happy now, though, and his marks twist to tell me he has a family.
I read joy in his inktheres abundance in his life beyond the
glut of apples and beans in the boxes around him.
I ask the grocer for onions and begin to fill a brown paper
bag of my own with grubby potatoes. The carrots look good and
the tomatoes smell fresh and sweet.
Do you know whats happening in the square? I ask.
Theres a stage set up and lots of people are gathering.
He shakes the bag of onions and swings it closed, holding
the corners tightly.
Havent you heard? T
heres going to be a public marking,
he says as I pass the bag of potatoes for him to weigh while I choose
some pears. I hear suppressed excitement in his voice, and some-
thing e lse too; is it fear? Theres not been one for years.
A lot of things have passed me by recently; Ive been so caught
up with Dad. I glance down the street, hesitating. Ive only ever
heard about public markings in school; Im intrigued. I pay the
grocer, pick up my bag, and join the crowd heading toward the
square. Someones shoulder bumps mine in their rush to get by
me. Voices rise, and as I get closer the path is packed with every
one drawn to the center of town to see whats going to happen.
By the time I reach the square, a large crowd has already
clustered around the stage, and Im stuck near the back. A
woman next to me nods and leans toward me. Her eyes are
bright with excitement. They say Mayor Longsight is coming
here t oday! she says breathlessly.
You know that I honor and admire the leaders that have
gone before me
and they, in their...
wisdomhe pauses
briefly, and we all know he means the oppositechose to do
away with certain parts of our tradition. But its time. Its time we
returned to the old waysfor all our sakes, in these dangerous,
dangerous dayswe must recover our heritage, and not forget
the decisions our ancestors made.
At this, he is interrupted by an enormous cheer. He signals
for quiet and smiles broadly. I can see his white teeth even
from where Im standing.
For too long, my friends, we have seen truly abhorrent crimes
treated as mere misdemeanors. This must stop. Punishment
must be meaningful once more. And so, although today is
momentous, soon it w
ill be more common to see a marking in the
square. Not frequentlya public marking is not something to be
given lightlybut for the most heinous crimes, yes. We cannot
continue to gloss over the sins happening within our own society.
There is more applause, and he waits a beat before con-
tinuing. He d
oesnt seem to crave applause; he looks almost
embarrassed by it.
For too long we have allowed ourselves to slip into apathy,
but now we cannot afford not to be vigilant. There has always
been a threat from the blanks. No one believed that they really
went quietly after the great expulsionbut we chose to think
that they w
ere living peacefully, posing no risk to us. And yet
Iam h
ere today to tell you that we are paying the price for our
apathy.
might one day choose to play with him. This man tried to change
one h
umans eternity, and in return he w
ill forfeit his own. He
will know what it is to have his future wiped out.
I look around at the silent crowd and feel the cold air drive a
shiver through my body. T
heyre g oing to kill him. T
heyre g oing
to kill him in front of us allis that what everyones here to see?
I desperately try to remember if I learned about this in school.
I dont want to witness this. Someone coughs, and the people in
the crowd begin to shift their feet and whisper to one another.
Mayor Longsight is looking at us, his face serene. Hes com-
pletely in control. I relax a little. I shouldnt worry. I close my
eyes and picture his marks, and once again I think of the words
we said when he was appointed, I whisper them to myself and
feel calmer. He is good, he is wise, he is the best of us. He is not cruel,
he loves us, we will not fear. He does all things for our good. I tell
myself I am not worried. I am not afraid.
Hold him, please, Mayor Longsight says to the guards. His
voice is gentle and courteous.
They force the man to his knees and place his forehead onto
a wooden block that has been waiting on the stage. I look at my
feet, but hear the man groan and struggle against their strong
arms. T
here is a gasp through the crowd and I c ant help but
look back up againLongsight has a slim case in his hands. I
watch him open it carefully, and with a flourish, he takes out a
knifeshort-bladed but gleaming in its readiness. He stands
over the criminal, one foot on either side of his body, grasping the
prisoners hair to hold him still and to reveal the bare skin of his
A
s I run through the square, past the hall
of judgment and the museum, I try to picture my fathers
book. I try to envisage each page I turned, each moment of
his life. I cant help but read p eople as I dodge past them:
Fourteen, loves m
usic, hates her s ister.
Loves his lover, has tricked his wife.
Her dog is more of a friend than any h uman shes known.
Fifty-six but feels eightyso many sicknesses have taken her joy.
Past the bakery, keep running. I need to get home, away
from the noise, away from the visual cacophony, away from t hose
voices cawing at me.
makeshift bandage was red and his hair looked wet. He blinked
his eyes open and when he saw Mom he reached out his hand.
Im fine, love. It was only a knock. Dont worry the doctor
I just need to rest up, Dad winced a little as he spoke.
Oh, Joel, she said. What have you done? Mom sounded
annoyed rather than scared and I knew Dad must be all right.
Just an accident. No ones fault. H
ell live, the man said
again.
I felt then that they might be cross if they saw me, and I
scampered home. The door had locked behind me when I left to
follow Mom, so I found a window that was half open and climbed
into the h
ouse through it.
It was dusk when Mom and Dad got back. Julia, my best
friend Veritys mom, was with them.
Ill just sleep down h
ere tonight, Dad said, yawning. So
Mom made a bed of cushions and blankets on the floor near
the fire because Dad was too tall for the sofa and too heavy to
take upstairs. I sat on the stairs and listened to their whispered
conversation.
I didnt know who else to call, Mom murmured. Hes had
some painkillers, but I think he could do with some stitches.
You shouldnt have involved me. If Simon ever found out...
I dont understand why you d
idnt just take him straight to the
doctor. T
here was anger in Julias voice, or maybe it was fear.
You know I c ouldnt. Please, Julia.
Julia sighed. Do you know how risky this is? And Im no
nurse.