Rag and Bone
Pooja Puri
CHAPTER ONE
Zee shivers slightly as he watches the boat draw into the harbour. The rain has
been falling for the better part of the day, at first as a cold, light drizzle but now
threatening the beginnings of a storm. Angry clouds leer across the darkening sky like a
pack of wolves, sending those with business in town scurrying quickly across the
cobbles.
Stood some distance away, at the edge of the docks, Zee remains oblivious, his
attention wholly fixed on the new arrival. It is an ugly piece of machinery; a stark
contrast to the beautiful white schooners used for trade by the town’s authorities.
“Engels,” the sailors call them. “White guardian engels.”
Twice a month they come and go, loaded with silks and spices and returning with
any number of items – metals and woods for the smiths, lush colourful fruits, even paper
for the town scribe. Zee has watched them many times. Born and bred on the water, he
holds a strange fascination for these winged creatures of the sea. Their movement is
like that of swans – quiet and effortless. Their arrival too always becomes something of
a spectacle as sailors, raggers, even passing townfolk, all stop what they are doing to
watch them come in. No-one ever bothers with the other boats whose exhausted
chugging you can hear almost half a mile away. No-one but the raggers.
And, true to form, there it is. Amidst the pitter-patter of raindrops, the drone of
poor workmanship guttering slowly across the water. He hitches his collar tighter round
his neck and curses silently. The weather has already driven most of the other raggers
indoors, to the crackling fire and warm beer of the inn that sprawls haphazardly beside
the docks. Pieced together from fragments of driftwood and metal, The Lonely Bell is
more of a ruin than a building. The beer is not much better. At best it tastes acidic. At
worst, as though it’s been drawn from a pig. But the people who run it aren’t a bad sort.
Once or twice they’ve even fed him. Bread and cheese. A little old and mouldy but a
meal’s a meal. Only a fool would refuse.
“Ai! Ai! Over here!”
Momentarily distracted, Zee turns towards the owner of the voice. A young boy of
about eleven or twelve is bounding in his direction. Zee frowns, stopping the boy in his
tracks. Slowly, he shakes his head. It is a subtle movement, barely noticeable but for
the boy it is warning enough. Reluctant to tangle with the lean, muscular figure in front
of him, he backs away, holding his palms in the air in a sign of apology. Zee nods,
satisfied, and turns back to the water. He has taken half payment for the boat already,
payment that did not include waiting in the rain. The last thing he needs is another
ragger trying to weasel in on his deal.
Though it’s not the boy’s fault. It is an unspoken rule of the docks, its only rule
perhaps; any boat smuggling in forbidden goods is dealt with by whoever gets there
first. To the victor the spoils.
Of course, to the passing eye of the townfolk, it all seems the same. Nothing but
noise and sweat and dirt. But beneath the clamour lies a finely knit web of order and
design. Like the scrolls of paper said to be stacked in the vaults of the scribe, here too
every boat has its place. Whilst the expensive vessels dock closest to town, the other,
smaller boats languish at the edge of the docks, next to a roughshod platform of wood
and nails. Many of the planks are rotten, laid to waste by the saltwater spray. Any
attempt to cross them can easily turn into an ugly battle between life and death as the
sea’s undercurrents swirl hungrily below.
Zee spits impatiently. Only a month earlier, a boy drowned at the very spot on
which he is now standing. Slipped on a dead fish and tumbled right in. He wasn’t the
first. Many a ragger has perished here, their bodies laid to rest amongst the creatures of
the deep. There is never any point trying to recover their remains. Not in these waters.
The sea does not give up its dead so easily.
The thought makes Zee shift uneasily on the spot. For a moment he fancies a
row of sunken faces looking up from the seabed, watching him, wondering if he is about
to join them. But then the boat drops anchor and the faces disperse in a splash of soft
white spray.
The boatman, Rin, is a regular. He is not, however, especially bright.
“Couldn’t bleedin’ see nothin’ could I? Not with this weather. Cloud broke down
on us as soon as we left the coal stacks. A punishment, I s’pose, for transporting unholy
goods.”
Zee stays quiet. He is wet and cold and in no mood for entertaining the
superstitious nature so telling of the sailor breed. Instead, he hands him the piece of
yellow cloth given to him by the client earlier that morning. Rin eyes the cloth and
teases it with his fingers as if checking its authenticity. He laughs.
“C’mon then,” he says. “Best give yer what ya came for.”
The boat stinks of fish and diesel but strongest is the reek of alcohol wafting from
Rin. He has a small, ratty face and an ugly red welt painted across his right cheek. Zee
cannot help but notice that the wound looks new.
“Ain’t it a bloomer?” he says, catching Zee’s glance. “Got this one to thank for
that. ‘Ere, mind yer head.”
He leads Zee down into the hold. At first it is too dark to see anything but then
Rin lights a candle and in the flickering half light cast by the flame, Zee sees what he
has been paid to collect.
For a moment he does not know quite what to think.
Huddled in a corner sits a girl. She is pressed tight to the wall, her head resting
on her knees so that it is impossible to see her face. Her hair is matted and wild and her
hands bloody from where manacles have eaten into her flesh.
“Didn’t leave me any choice now did she?” says Rin. “A bleedin’ animal this one.
As wild as they come.” He shakes the girl roughly. Her dress is torn and dirty like the
sails of ships that have been too long out at sea.
Zee wonders if she might be dead. He has never heard of anyone smuggling in a
person before. The worst thing he’s ever known the boaters to carry is white rum; nasty
stuff that can burn your insides right through if you drink enough of it. But if it’s watered
down right it tastes just like whisky. Perfect for the bootleggers.
“D’ya hear me? I says get up!”
Without warning, the girl lunges at Rin. Taken by surprise he is knocked off his
feet and falls to the ground. He screams in pain as she locks her teeth onto his ear.
Frantically he scrabbles at her hair trying to pull her off. Zee remains where he is. He
has no intention of getting his hands dirty for Rin. In any case, he has a feeling the
boatman deserves it.
But Rin is stronger than he looks. Within a few moments he has broken free;
savage with humiliation, he slaps the girl violently across her face. The sound of contact
is cruel and final and she slumps back to the floor, defeated.
Rin turns to Zee. “Told yer didn’t I? A bleedin’ cat.”
Together their make their way back to the deck, Zee leading ahead and Rin
dragging the girl with a rope from behind.
“Mind ya’self with this one,” he says handing the rope to Zee. “She’ll kill ya as
soon as look at ya.”
Zee ignores him and points to the manacles.
“Ya want ta take them off?” Rin looks horrified.
Zee nods. He’s been around on the docks long enough to know an infection
when he sees one. If the girl’s hands aren’t looked at soon they’ll have to be removed.
Rin spits and curses but does as he’s asked. The girl looks at Zee as her hands
are freed. Her eyes are black and hard like stones.
“What about the feet?” grunts Rin.
Zee stares at the girl again. He shakes his head. He knows that look. It’s a look he’s
seen many times on the faces of sailors vying for a fight.
The last thing he wants is trouble.
CHAPTER TWO
Zee leads the girl through the docks into the soft moonlight of the square.
As they pass the inn they hear the sounds of laughter and conversation but the noise
seems distant as if it belongs to another world. Soon it dissolves altogether and the
night falls into silence.
The rain has already driven most people indoors and Zee is glad for it. Though
the docks have an understanding with the officers of the Undertown, Zee is fairly certain
this does not include smuggling humans. The penalty would likely be severe.
He turns off the street into the crooked dirt track that marks entry into the pits –
the ugliest, filthiest quarters of Undertown, home to raggers, sailors, thieves and the
like. They pass a row of tired, grubby housing, then cut into a side alley which sits
snugly between the slaughterhouse and the tannery. It is empty but not even the dark
can veil the smell of death; a rancid pot of blood and entrails and flesh.
Though Zee has been here many times, he has never quite got used to it.
Quickly, he presses a sleeve to his mouth and pushes onwards, trying hard not to
breathe.
Suddenly he feels a tug on the rope. He turns. The girl has stopped moving. She
leans forward and retches violently as if she’s about to be sick. Zee follows her
movements, wary. He is right to be careful. Almost at once, she rushes forward,
swinging her hands wildly.
Anticipating her intentions, Zee steps neatly to the side and hears the low swish
of her fist as it brushes past his ear. The girl yelps in pain as she falls to the ground, her
hands grazing roughly against the hard stone. Zee hauls her back to her feet. Her
hands are bleeding freely but her face remains set in defiance.
Zee frowns. Not even sailors are this wilful. He removes a cloth from his pocket
and gently presses it against her hand. She winces sharply. He gestures down the alley
then back at her hands. His fingers move swiftly, plucking meaning from the air as
easily as if he is speaking with words.
We need to bind your hands, he says.
A look of sudden realisation dawns on the girl’s face. She nods and clutches at the cloth
Zee gives her. They stop at the back of the alley. Above them, swings a small handpainted sign. In the dark it is just about visible; a black and white trident entwined by a
snake.
Zee knocks on the door.
From inside he hears a muffled yell then a loud, splintering crash. After a few
moments the door is opened by a very flustered little man. His face is red with effort and
his eyes, like two currants, peer out curiously from the fat folds of his face.
“Who do we have here then?” he says, squinting at the blurred figures on his
doorstep.
Zee points to the man’s head on top of which perch a pair of thick, round glasses.
“Ah, oh yes.” The man puts on his glasses and smiles broadly.
“Zee,” he says. “How lovely to see you, my boy. Come in, come in.”
© Pooja Puri 2014