She lit a small fire and pulled her hard wooden chair up close to it. On her lap she opened the Book of Giving and read aloud to herself from it:
‘The Father sent his own children down to earth so that we, his townsfolk, might eat. He made his children in his own image and laid down the commandments of the flesh so that we might be worthy of their sacrifice. Thus He commands us:
‘Thou shalt eat of the flesh of my children. My children are your cattle. Break their bodies as your daily bread, take their blood as your wine. By sharing daily in this bounty shall you be united with me.
‘Thou shalt keep my children silent by paring the reeds in their throats at the time of birth. Their silence is sacred and they must never speak the words of heaven.
‘Thou shalt keep my children from mischief by taking two bones from each finger in their first week.
‘Thou shalt keep my children from wandering by taking the first two bones from the first toe of each foot in their second week.
‘Thou shalt keep my children hairless by baptising them in the fragrant font.
‘Thou shalt keep the mightiest male calves as bulls, that more strong children may be born.
‘Thou shalt keep all other male calves chaste by castrating them in their ninth year.
‘Thou shalt keep their mouths toothless.
‘Thou shalt keep a sacred stock of male calves away from light and unmoving. These shall be my tenderest gift to you.
‘Thou shalt drink the milk of the cows and from that milk make butter, yoghurt and cheese.
‘Thou shalt allow all my sick children to return to their father but while they are in your care, thou shalt keep them from harm.
‘I sacrifice my children for each of you that none shall ever be hungry. Their flesh is sacred. Thou shalt not dishonour me by wasting it.
‘My children are divine. Thou shalt not lie down with them, neither taint their flesh with thine own.
‘By eating of the sacred flesh of my children, may all mankind be one day sacred themselves and join me at my table. The suffering of my children is as nothing when compared to the suffering of mankind. They give themselves freely, knowing they return to me.
‘Thou shalt, at the time of sacrifice, face my children East, that their souls may fly to the rising sun and so to me.
‘My children are your medicine. To heal your eyes, eat their eyes. To heal your stomachs, eat their stomachs. To drive out madness, eat their brains. Heal yourselves; my children are your medicine.’
She sighed and pulled her chair closer to the guttering flames of the fire. There seemed to be no way to warm herself and she feared she was sickening with something. The reading she’d chosen for the evening gave her no comfort, certainly no answers to the conundrum of Richard Shanti. The child Richard Shanti had died and yet Richard Shanti the man was here in Abyrne. Alive and well, though painfully thin, and claiming ancestry to the old families. It was a bold statement to make. Not a risk he would have undertaken carelessly.
There were only two explanations that made sense. He’d either lied, thinking that she wouldn’t be interested enough to check out his claims, or he really believed he was a Shanti from the first families. What was the truth? Surely he wasn’t a stupid man. Quiet, certainly, but not stupid. There was too much knowledge behind those eyes of his. She didn’t think he was deluded either. He had a wild look about him, the ascetic frame of a priest, but that was no reason to suspect he was delusional. No, she would bet anything that Richard Shanti believed he was the true son of Elizabeth and Reginald Shanti, that he had no idea anything else might be the case.
That cleared part of it up. But if he wasn’t in the lineage, if he wasn’t their son, then who was he? And was his identity an important factor in the Welfare of his children?
The centre of her gut twisted and she almost punched herself there to push back the pain. Without any warning at all, she was nauseous. No time to make it to the lavatory. She knelt before the fire and rucked the undigested contents of her stomach into the brass wood bucket next to the hearth. Seeing half-chewed stomach lining sticking to the logs and kindling made it all worse. She heaved and heaved, trying to force the spiky knot of pain from her own belly but once the meal she’d eaten was gone, dampening and tainting her wood supply, nothing was left inside her but a lump of thorns.
She forgot all about Richard Shanti.
Seven
‘Let’s play the dark game,’ Hema said.
They were alone in the bedroom. Their mother had a visitor and didn’t want to be disturbed. The girls didn’t mind; they never got tired of each other.
‘No,’ said Harsha. ‘It doesn’t work any more. Let’s make a new game.’
They knelt in front of a shabby chest and opened the lid.
The toys in the toy box were old and battered, as was the box itself. It contained the playthings of children that had long since departed the world. The box was just big enough for one of the twins to fit into if they took out all the toys, but they were growing fast and the ‘dark game’ was one they played rarely now. For years, they’d taken it in turns to shut each other inside the box and sit on it, competing to see who could stay in there the longest. The stints of sitting alone on the lid or inside with the hard-sided darkness grew longer and longer until there wasn’t enough time to both take a turn in one session. Their natural development had been the thing to make the game less of a challenge. It wasn’t the same when your shoulder was pushing open the lid and letting the light in.
The box was wooden and handmade, probably by a well-meaning father with little skill. Each panel was covered, inside and out, with a layer of stapled-on curtain material. Inside, where items had been pulled out and put back in a thousand times, the faded drapery had torn and through it showed the plain pine boards that formed the floor and walls of the box. Some of them bore tiny holes where woodworms had tunnelled. The curtain material was silky with age and sometimes the girls spent a few minutes trying to stroke the wounds in the fabric closed for the comfort it brought to their fingertips.
The lid of the box was curtain-covered too, but the top side was cushioned with an ancient piece of quilting. The material that covered the padding, although worn, had never ripped. The maker of the box had been far-sighted enough to use a triple layer of old curtain there. Three brass hinges that still looked new secured the lid but the hinges were loose and, though their father had promised to tighten them, he was always too tired to remember. The box wasn’t without its traps. It demanded an occasional sacrifice in the form of a cut from a rusty staple and it would, at times, impart a splinter to a careless hand.
The box smelled of things from a past they had never seen or known. Both Hema and Harsha associated the smell with play and risk and fantasy. Opening the toy box allowed it to breathe and when its sigh came out, the girls entered their magical world; a world that was never the same twice. There was an old wooden train set with pegs on its carriages where carved, painted soldiers stood to attention. A miniature dinner set. Nine silver thimbles they could use as dainty goblets. There was an old teddy bear with stitches where its eyes had been and more baldness than fur. A draughts board with missing pieces. A tin spinning top, its paint all worn away. There were old silk scarves of many colours, a Trilby hat and a Bowler. Deeply suffused in their leather bands, the hats bore the thick smell of trapped, greasy scalps; of strangers the twins only imagined. Dolls, dice, darts. A strange cube of black plastic with nine squares to each side and squeaky, twisting facets. Marbles rolled around at the bottom of the box.
‘I know a game we could play,’ said Harsha, picking out a plastic female doll with long blond hair. The doll wore a pink, red and white outfit: red beret, striped pink and white blouse. A red mini skirt and red high heels. She had a red plastic belt and a red plastic handbag. Harsha looked at her sister and they shared a moment of silent communication.