Sparkers (5 page)

My apprehension grows. As if sensing this, Aradi Imael gives me a reassuring smile. “I think you could do beautifully, Marah. Auditions are in five and a half weeks. We'll find you a solo to play. Why don't you stop by my classroom after school next Thirdday? That will give me a couple of days after our concert to think about repertoire.”

I get to my feet, thanking Aradi Imael profusely. Then I step out into the wintry night, filled with excitement and hope.

I
sleep late the next morning since it's Seventhday, the start of the weekend. At breakfast, I explain Aradi Imael's proposal to Mother and Caleb.

A cloud seems to lift from around Mother. “What an opportunity! I'm so glad, I've been worrying all week about your education. . . . I must thank your teacher.”

After we polish off Caleb's spiced oatmeal, she disappears into her study. Caleb remains at the table, reading. It's a market day at the Ikhad, so I take my cloak from its peg, eager to leave for Tsipporah's stall.

Want to come?
I sign to Caleb.

He shakes his head.
I'm learning about fungi
, he signs earnestly. There's a strange air about him, like he's trying too hard to look innocent. I almost have the impression he's waiting for me to leave. I watch him for a moment, but soon he's absorbed in his book again, and I decide I'm imagining things.

Outside, I tighten my cloak against the biting cold and set off at a quick pace. At the Ikhad, the Seventhday market is in full swing. Merchants' voices rise above the creak of cart wheels and the melancholy neighs of horses as they vie for customers. At one stall, women in furs and plumed hats examine a stack of hand-knotted carpets only kasiri could afford. I brush past them and weave through the vegetable stands. Two farm boys standing guard over several bushel baskets of turnips watch the swelling throng with their mouths hanging open. The way they're gawping, they must be from some remote village in the northern reaches of the city-state. Granted, the aisles
are
especially crowded today, and the shoppers' conversations seem unusually agitated.

When I reach Tsipporah's stall, Gideon the pancake vendor is missing. A tarpaulin is spread over his griddle.

“Tsipporah, where's Gideon?”

“Good day, Marah,” she says, her wizened face carefully blank. “All well at home?”

“Why wouldn't it be? What's wrong?”

Tsipporah draws her eyebrows together. “Marah . . . Gideon has died.”

I stare at the empty stall. For as long as I've been visiting Tsipporah, Gideon has been a fixture of the Ikhad, always ready with a free treat for his fellow vendors. How can he be gone?

“What happened?” I ask.

“He took ill,” Tsipporah says, tugging her knit cap lower over her white hair. “Do you remember the dark eyes sickness we heard about last weekend? That's what it was. It was very sudden, his daughter said. And it's not just him.” She gestures at an open newspaper spread over the poetry section. “Three other such deaths were reported in the
Journal
today too.”

That must be why today's shoppers are so worked up. Still, if it turns into a real outbreak, I'm sure Ashara's physicians will find a way to treat it.

Business is brisk this morning, leaving me little time to dwell on Gideon's empty stall. I leave the Ikhad toward noon, hoping to meet Leah for lunch. A few solitary snowflakes drift down from the blank gray sky as I walk back to Horiel District. When I knock on the Avrams' door, it swings inward, and a three-year-old boy peers out.

“Hello, Ilan. Can I come in?”

“Who is it?” It's Leah's mother's voice.

“Gadi Yakov?” I call. “It's Marah.”

She comes to the landing, shooing her son out of the way. Gadi Yakov is tall and sturdy and wears her braids pinned up in a crown. Today her face is drawn.

“Is Leah around?” I ask.

Gadi Yakov sighs. “Come in, Marah.”

Puzzled, I follow her into the familiar apartment. In the kitchen, Ilan has returned to building a tower of blocks with the help of his sister Yael. Ruth, the eldest after Leah, greets me from near the window, holding Ari on her hip.

“Leah's sick,” Gadi Yakov tells me, removing her apron and winding the strings around her chapped hands.

“Oh, I'll come back another time then,” I say, turning to go. Then I hesitate. “What does she have?”

“I'm not sure,” her mother says. Something in her expression sends a shiver up my spine. She motions me into the hallway and continues in a low voice, “She's running a high fever, but . . . it's no ordinary illness. Her eyes have turned black.”

My heart stops. “Can I see her?”

“It could be contagious,” Gadi Yakov begins, but I'm already halfway down the hall.

“Marah, wait!”

I turn the loose knob of the girls' bedroom door. “Leah?”

She's lying in bed, awake. I hasten to her side and kneel on the floor, drawn to her eyes in spite of the dread sloshing around inside me. Normally a lively brown, her irises are now so dark I can barely distinguish her pupils. The sight is paralyzing.

“Marah,” she says. Her lips are puffy and dry.

“Leah . . .” I slide into a moment of panic, thinking of Gideon the pancake vendor. What if Leah . . . ?

I don't let myself even think it. “How do you feel?” I ask.

“Cold,” she says, shaking beneath the heavy quilt. “Tired. I have an awful headache. Everything aches.” She offers a wan smile. “But I'm glad you're here.”

“I have some exciting news.” I tell her about Aradi Imael's friend, the headmaster of Qirakh, and my decision to audition for the Xanite music school.

“Oh, Marah!” Leah's cracked lips break into a real smile. “I'm so happy for you.” With some effort, she sits up and scoots to the far side of the bed, peering down at something on the floor. “Want to see Raspberry?”

“Raspberry? Don't tell me you named the bird.” I walk around the bed. At the foot of the nightstand is a battered hatbox pierced with air holes. The lid is off, and Leah is gazing fondly into it.

“Yael named him,” she says.

I peek into the box. Though Leah has mentioned the injured finch every day at school, I haven't seen it since that afternoon in the park. The red-throated bird is nestled in a soft dishcloth, its left wing bound to its body with a strip of rag. A saucer of water and another of seeds lie within pecking distance.

“I can't believe it's still alive,” I say.

Leah beams, falling back against her pillow. “He's a tough little one. Mother tried to take him out of my room last night, but I wouldn't let her. If I can't see my siblings, I'm at least going to keep Raspberry.”

I snort.

“That's the advantage of being sick, you know,” Leah adds dryly. “People have to cater to your every whim.”

“Do you think it'll fly again?” I ask, anxious to steer the conversation away from her illness.

“I hope so.” She kneads her forehead. “Yesterday after school I asked Aradi Lamech if he had any advice for taking care of a bird with a broken wing.”

“Aradi Lamech?” I say, making a face at the mention of our science teacher.

Leah shrugs. “He likes me all right. And he does know a lot about animals. The first thing he said was most rescued birds die of shock pretty fast and mine probably would too. So I told him I'd already had Raspberry for five days. That shut him up.”

I giggle.

“Anyway, then he talked about what to feed him, how to keep him calm . . .” Leah yawns, and I realize my visit is tiring her.

“I'm going to let you sleep,” I say, getting up.

“Wait.” My friend is silent a moment. “I've seen my eyes, Marah. Mother told me I'm not the only one. I'm scared.”

“Don't be scared,” I say even as my stomach drops. “You'll get well.”

Back in the kitchen, Gadi Yakov is ladling up bean soup for Leah's siblings. Ilan and Yael wait at the table while Ruth feeds Ari spoonfuls of purée.

“Would you like some, Marah?” Gadi Yakov asks, setting two bowls on the table.

“No, my thanks.”

“Is Leah asleep?” she says.

“Not yet, I don't think. We were looking at . . . Raspberry.”

Gadi Yakov makes a sound of irritation. “That filthy bird. Leah pitched a fit when I suggested moving it out of her bedroom. Her
sickroom
.”

I struggle to hide a smile, but my amusement is fleeting. I can't forget Leah's night-black eyes.

“Can I visit her again?” I have no intention of staying away, but I should at least pretend to ask permission.

She sighs. “Talk to your mother first. And tell her I don't think Caleb should come back until Leah's better.”

At dinner that night, I pick at Caleb's latest concoction—mashed potatoes with salted fish—until Mother asks me if I'm all right. Everything comes spilling out of me, from Tsipporah's tidings to Leah's black eyes.

By the time I finish, Mother and Caleb have both gone still. I stand and drift from the table, abandoning my supper. In our room, I sink onto the edge of the bed. A few minutes later, Mother comes in and sits next to me. I don't protest when she drapes her arm around my shoulders and pulls me close.

After going to bed, I lie awake on the mattress on the floor listening to Caleb breathing softly on the bed. We read three folktales together before turning out the light, comforting stories about loyal friends and homeward journeys, but still he wouldn't stop clinging to me, his fingers clutching my shirt, his breath on my cheek.

I turn restlessly under the covers. It feels like hours have passed when the door creaks open. I lie still. Even with my eyes closed, I can feel Mother standing over us.

• • •

I
T
SNOWS
DURING
the night. In the morning, glittering icicles hang like daggers from the eaves. I begin my homework after breakfast, but my thoughts keep wandering to Leah. At last, I give in.

On my way to the Avrams' apartment, I pass people gathered in knots on the street corners, clutching newspapers and talking of the illness. Everyone already seems to know of someone, kasir or halan, who's died.

I stay with Leah and her invalid house finch for most of the morning. When Gadi Yakov brings her a hot infusion of horehound leaves, I help her drink it. Between sips, she gives me a smile, half embarrassed, half grateful, but I'm only doing what she would do for me if I were in her place. I wish I could do more.

I return home around lunchtime. When I reach the Street of Winter Gusts, there's a boxy black auto rattling in the cold in front of our building. I stop dead. What's a kasir doing on our street?

The auto's back door swings open, and the little girl from the Ikhad hops out. Her dress snags on the running board where it rises to swoop over the back wheel. Above the gleaming hood, the girl's halan tutor looks out through the windshield. Then she steps out of the auto too, her heart-shaped face pinched with annoyance.

“You're here!” says Sarah, running up to me and seizing my icy hand. “Can we go inside?”

“Inside?” I say, uncomprehending.

“Gadin Sarah wished to call,” Channah says. “We were just leaving, as nobody appeared to be home.”

I can tell by her uneasy expression that Channah feels the impropriety, or at least the profound oddness, of a kasir girl visiting a Horiel apartment. But she makes no move to steer her charge back into the auto, and Sarah looks so eager I suppose I must let her in. She's a kasir, after all. And she is kind of sweet.

Luckily, there is no sign of our nosy neighbor, Gadi Yared, in the entrance hall. Channah and I hurry after Sarah as she skips up the steps.

When we reach the fourth floor, my guests follow me into our apartment. The kitchen is empty. Mother is putting in extra hours at the District Hall this weekend to finish a pressing project, but Caleb should be here. He must be in our bedroom.

“Please sit down,” I say, embarrassed. The wooden floor has never looked so scuffed, the gas range so battered.

Channah pulls out a chair for Sarah, who plops onto it, her legs dangling. Channah and I also sit, but then I jump back up.

“Would you like tea? May I take your coats?”

Channah wraps hers more tightly about her narrow shoulders. So much for halan solidarity.

Sarah, on the other hand, offers me her coat, revealing a delicate orange frock. “I only drink our cook's spiced tea, but Channah will take some of yours,” she says.

She's awfully presumptuous. I glance at her tutor, who nods, so I fetch the tea tin from the pantry and brew a pot. After pouring glasses for Channah and me, I sit down at the table.

“May I ask why you're visiting?”

“To hear the rest of the story!” Sarah says.

Channah sniffs. “Gadin Sarah gets fixations,” she says under her breath.

“I do not,” says Sarah, sticking out her chin. “I like Marah. And I want to find out what happens to Frost.”

I hide my smile. Channah's view of the matter is probably right. It occurs to me that Channah might not like me because I remind Sarah of their ill-fated visit to the Ikhad. That wasn't exactly Channah's best moment as a chaperone.

Sarah stands up. “Where's your room, Marah?”

Channah breathes in sharply, but Sarah is already in the hallway. I catch up to her and nudge open our bedroom door. To my surprise, Caleb isn't there. Where could he be?

Sarah spots the bookshelf and rushes to it. “I knew you'd have books. Look, Channah, I have a book of tales like this one!”

“Don't touch without Marah's permission,” her tutor says from the doorway.

“It's all right,” I say distractedly. “Could you hold on a moment?”

I dart back into the kitchen, but no one's there. I check Mother's bedroom, even the study, but Caleb's gone. I've never discovered him missing before. Mother doesn't let Caleb leave home alone, lest he be run over by a cart or an automobile he can't hear.

I'm tempted to go out searching for him at once, but I have no idea where to look. Besides that, I have my hands full with Sarah and Channah in the apartment. Anxious, I return to my room to discover Sarah sorting through our books. She tosses most of them aside, pronouncing them boring, but then she happens upon my foreign grammars.