Pucker (2 page)

 

I
STARED AT THE BOOK with a mixture of hate and fascination. This was my anchor and my touchstone, this brown leather-bound book that was issued to every Isaurian child at birth. Every hour of every day, if you walked down any street or eavesdropped on any conversation, you would hear mothers and fathers saying to their children, “Look it up in Barker's.”

Barker's was the third parent in every Isaurian household. Parents adored it, for it saved them endless hours of explanation. Children hated it, for they disliked nothing more than being told to go look something up when what they expressly wanted was a quick answer. But at eight years old I was well acquainted with Mr. Barker and his juvenile primer.

I snapped open the spine of the book and riffled through it quickly. I already knew some of the pages by heart. Page two was the first thing Isaurian children had to memorize. I could have recited it underwater, standing on one foot, even while doing arithmetic.

 

I was unprepared when my mother entered the kitchen. It was early Saturday morning and the sun wasn't even up; the world was mine and mine alone. I wouldn't have known she was there if it hadn't been for her lemony smell floating into the room. My mother glanced over my shoulder and gave a disapproving shake of her head when she saw I was reading Barker's.

“Out—it's a beautiful day,” she said.

“It's still dark,” I said.

She had a distracted and faraway look on her face, as if she couldn't be bothered with things like sunrise.

I tapped the page with my finger to show her what I was studying.

“Obedient children are boring children,” she remarked.

She was holding a bowl full of plums. This afternoon Cook would make a cobbler from those plums, for every Saturday night we had company—a group of my parents' fellow Seers came to our house. When the Seers came, I was sent to my room. I tried to eavesdrop, but the walls were too thick. I loved Saturday nights because I was allowed to stay up late. As long as I didn't disrupt their dinner, I could do whatever I wanted.

“You have one hour. You need to wash,” my mother began.

“His hands are washed, his teeth brushed, his hair combed, and his clothing clean before he enters the Ministry each morning,” I recited.

It seemed to displease my mother that I had committed “The Obedient Child” to memory. She frowned and left the room.

I thought my mother, Serena, was the most beautiful Seer in all of Isaura and my father, William, the handsomest. Their Seerskins made them glisten and sparkle, as if there were hundreds of tiny stars sewn into their flesh. I couldn't keep from touching them, trying to figure out how their skins were attached; was there a seam somewhere? Most of the time they pushed me away. I was too old for this kind of behavior, and in Isaura showing affection in public or in private was frowned on.

I also think my parents didn't want me to feel bad. They didn't want me to focus on the fact that I was an ordinary little boy. The children of Seers had better-than-average chances of becoming Seers themselves, but I had displayed none of the early signs of prophesy. I made grand predictions and pronouncements all the time, but more often than not I was wrong. It was becoming clear to everybody that I had inherited none of my parents' gifts. Still, that did not diminish my fascination with all things related to Seers. If anything, it increased it.

I turned to page 52 in my Barker's. With my finger I traced the caption under the woodcut:
Seer flayed of his skin
.

I had spent hours examining this illustration. It was a battleground scene that had taken place during the Great War. Dozens of Seers, newly flayed of their skins, lay sprawled on the ground, gasping for breath, their limbs contorted into grotesque positions. In the background men in ragged clothes were climbing up into the hills. From their pitchforks dangled the Seers' limp skins.

My mother gasped. Once again I had no idea she had come back into the kitchen. She snatched the book away from me. She was weeping.

I had never, not once in my life, seen her cry. Nor had I ever cried myself, at least not since I was an infant. The Obedient Child never emoted. If he did, his parents would have to turn him in to the Ministry, for this would be the end of our civilization. That's what every schoolchild thought. Emotion, specifically envy, was what had started the Great War. But there was no need for envy any longer because everybody in Isaura got the same thing. Jealousy had no place in a society where everybody was safeguarded from misfortune.

My mother grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me brutally—so hard I began to cry.

“Wake up!” she shouted.

I had no idea what she was talking about. I clawed at her, trying to get her off me.

My father ran into the room. “Serena!”

My mother stared at me like she had no idea who I was and abruptly let go. I ran to my father.

“That's good, Thomas,” my father said slowly. He looked at my mother, stunned at my show of emotion and hers. “Let it out,” he told me in the same awkward tone of voice he might have used if I were throwing up.

I was bewildered. I had no idea what was going on, but whatever was happening, it was happening to all three of us. It was as if that flayed Seer from my book had jumped out of the pages and into our kitchen and contaminated us all. After the Great War they'd had to build asylums to house the Seers whose skins had been stolen. The Seers couldn't see the future anymore and it had driven them mad. It was said their madness was contagious.

My mother wiped her tearstained cheeks with her fingers and extended her hand to my father, showing him the wetness. “Look, Will,” she said, her voice trembling.

He shook his head at her angrily, then knelt in front of me. I buried my face in his chest. Slowly his hands crept around me and he kissed my forehead. This was another first. I had never in my memory been kissed by either of my parents.

My mother turned her attention back to the woodcut of the slain Seers and her face darkened. “I should tear that page out.”

“No,” I said. “It's my book!” It was the only thing I owned.

An hour later my mother and I set out for the Ministry. When we got there, I went into the Children's Room and my mother continued down the corridor. Because my parents were Seers, they didn't have to wait in line with the rest of the population to get their futures read. They were allowed to forecast for each other, and they did this each morning at the breakfast table. They couldn't forecast for me, however, because Seers were unable to see the future of their blood kin.

Morning was a busy time, and ten Seers were working the Children's Room. Each of them had a queue that was a dozen children deep. I sighed and got in line. What I really wanted to do was roam the halls of the Ministry to try and catch a glimpse of the Maker.

The Maker was a relatively new breed of Seer. The first one had come into existence just after the Great War, and there was never more than one at a time. The most astounding thing about the Maker was not that she saw into the past instead of the future, but that she could
change
a person's past. It was because of the Maker that we eventually opened up the portals to Earth again.

Everything had changed, though. No longer were we satisfied with information-gathering expeditions. Now we trolled the streets of America with just one intent: to enlist a workforce for Isaura. Maybe we reasoned that it was payback for the ills that had been inflicted on our society.

It's not as bad as it sounds. We did have codes of conduct. Enlistment was voluntary. We never forced anyone to come. We also only recruited those who were ill, whose bodies were disfigured in some way. In exchange for the Maker healing them, altering the event that had led to their deformity, the Changed (as we came to call them) washed our clothes, cleaned our outhouses, and swept our streets.

I was desperate to see the Maker work her magic—all of us children were. Instead I was stuck listening to the Seers in the Children's Room, who were doing the most mundane of jobs.

“There's a pothole on Cherry Lane; make sure you avoid it. If you don't, you'll sprain your ankle.”

“Don't eat the stewed pears; they'll give you a stomachache.”

“You're going to fail your history test. I suggest you study a little harder.”

These Seers were the workhorses of the Ministry, many of them very young and still apprenticing. When it came to forecasting the daily events that would befall the citizens of Isaura, Seers were limited in their powers. First of all, they couldn't just see somebody's future at whim. They had to be actually touching that person. Also, they could only see out about twenty-four hours at a time. That was why everybody had to come each morning to the Ministry to be read.

With bigger life issues, like vocations, marriage, and births, Seers could see far out into the future, but not with the same level of detail with which they forecast the day's events. Seers could also see years ahead with storms, natural catastrophes, and diseases.

My parents both worked in Weather. They knew that 324 days from now there would be a blizzard that would blanket the countryside with ten feet of snow. Because of their predictions preparations were already under way: food was being stockpiled, and wood had been chopped and stacked in barns.

Finally I got to the front of the line and stuck my hand out eagerly. Given my parents' odd behavior this morning, I was anxious to hear what the rest of the day would hold. The Seer placed his palm on mine and I readied myself for the odd sensation of being read. It felt like hands creeping around inside you, as if your chest were a bureau and the Seer were pushing aside your liver and your spleen, looking for a lost pair of socks. I had been taught that at the exact moment when my breath caught in my throat, I must surrender myself to the Seer's probe. The sensation was like falling.

Only this time I didn't fall. I heard my mother's voice in my head. She yelled my name—“Thomas!”—and I felt the Seer's energy dissipate inside me and scurry away.

The Seer dropped my hand. “Strange,” he said.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He picked up his notebook and scribbled something next to my name.

“I didn't do anything wrong,” I said, worried that he somehow knew what had happened that morning. That I had cried. That my mother had cried. That my father had kissed me.

“Nobody said you did,” he said, flicking his hand impatiently at me. “It's my job to report when I can't read somebody. Now move aside, please.”

 

My mother was waiting for me in the hallway. “I want to show you something,” she said.

She grabbed my hand, then let it go. She had forgotten herself. Parents did not hold children's hands in Isaura. We wound our way up two staircases and down a hall. Finally we stood in front of an unmarked door. From her pocket she produced a key, and quickly we let ourselves in. We were in a tiny library. My mother breathed deeply. The room smelled of leather.

“Do you know where these books are from, Thomas?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Can you take a guess?”

I pulled a book from the shelf and read the title—
Anna Karenina
.

“They're from Earth,” she told me.

Quickly I slid the book back onto the shelf as if it were diseased. I had been taught that anything from Earth was contaminated, poison. Isaurian children were not even allowed to speak to the Changed.

“Do you want to know how many of these books I've read?” my mother asked.

“No, thank you,” I said. This day was getting stranger and stranger. I just wanted to go home.

She stuck her face in mine. “Don't believe what they tell you about Earth, Thomas. It's not a horrible place. It's not filled with savages. Literature like this could only come from a world where there's love.”

“What's happened to you?” I asked.

She smoothed the hair back from my forehead. “I don't want to frighten you, baby.”

“Then don't call me baby,” I said.

My mother took me home. A few hours later there was a knock on our door. Two of the Changed stood on our doorstep, a young girl and a man. They looked similar, with the same silvery blond hair. They wore baskets strapped around their necks; their wares were displayed to their best advantage. We already knew that they were bringing ripe tomatoes, garlic, and a leg of lamb: the Meals Department had determined that more than a week ago.

“The strawberries are ripe today. I've got a fine leg of lamb,” said the girl. “Butterflied, just as you wanted it.”

She curtsied, but there was no eye contact. She knew the rules. She was not to address me. Isaurian children were considered impressionable and vulnerable. They should have as few dealings with the Changed as possible.

The Changed were good at following the rules, for they lived under threat of being changed back to their disfigured forms and sent back to Earth.