Spice City

By Sally Startup

The harvest of the Forest earns coin for the city elders, but Willow the young tree speaker knows that others meet the hidden cost. She wants to help oppose the Harvesters, but who should she trust? And does Rock, the city boy who agreed to be her companion, have stronger feelings for her or not?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bees Nest Books
• Release date: Jun 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311469403

Sally Startup

Sally Startup lives in Hampshire, England. She writes books for children and young adults and has a PhD in writing for children from the University of Winchester, UK. She used to work as a medical herbalist and is interested in plants, nature and green issues.

Book preview

At the Highfire Tavern after dark, on the first night of Winter’s Heart, everyone was waiting for the skin dance to start. Willow had asked Rock to go there with her. She had been in the Spice City for less than one moon. Rock had grown up in the city and claimed not to be interested in tavern skin dances, but in the end he had agreed.

Most city workers got a three day holiday at Winter’s Heart, so the tavern was crowded. Willow and Rock had been lucky enough to find a small bench to sit on, sharing it with an old man who wore a battered hat decorated with crow feathers. Willow was squashed in the middle between Rock and this stranger. Suddenly, the old man turned to her and spoke.

That’s honeywood, that, he said, pointing down at an empty wooden mug she held cradled in her hands.

The mug had contained hot, spiced cider. She had finished it some time ago, but could not return the mug to the serving counter without losing her seat.

I know, she replied, aware that her hillish clothes marked her clearly as a newcomer to the city. Even so, she already knew that honeywood came from the Forest. Honeywood bowls and mugs gave a sweet flavour to any food or drink served in them.

Listen to it, the old man whispered close to Willow’s ear.

Surprised, she looked at him more carefully. The creased and weathered appearance of his skin suggested that he often worked outdoors. The fabric of his plain clothing was worn and patched. Most of the other people in the Highfire Tavern wore very new clothes made of fine, richly-coloured fabrics.

Willow knew enough not to admit to her talent publicly anywhere in the city. Now that the Harvesters were in control, such things could be dangerous.

The old man winked at her.

Are you a Rat? she asked him, boldly.

That was what city people called those who opposed the Harvesters. She and Rock had come to the Spice City with the intention of joining the Rats and helping them.

Tell me what you hear from that honeywood and I’ll tell you who I am, the old man answered quietly.

Willow felt Rock twist himself around until he was pressing closely up against her shoulder, facing the stranger. Laying a hand on Rock’s knee to tell him she wanted to continue, she placed the fingertips of her other hand against the mug and listened. What she heard made her shudder.

How could I not have realised? she whispered aloud. The Harvesters take the whole tree, roots and everything. Nothing’s left to grow. They only want the wood for bowls and mugs. The tree would have been happy for them to take a few big branches if they had left the rest. Why do they have to be so greedy? Now the wood in this mug is slowly dying and all the rest of the tree it came from is dead or dying, too.

And that’s why you’re here, or so I heard, said the old man, so quietly that Willow had to strain to hear him over the background noise of the busy tavern. The harvesters will have taken all the animals that lived in the tree, too. Probably even the stones under the tree’s roots as well. The thing is, see, a branch gives wood for a hundred bowls, but a whole tree’s enough for thousands. So they take everything. That’s the harvest.

I almost forgot, Willow murmured, speaking half to herself. I liked having a mug that sweetens the drink inside it. I never even thought to listen to it. I almost forgot I could.

She glanced at Rock, who was staring at the old man suspiciously. On their recent arrival in the city, the two youngsters had quickly found out how much had changed while Rock had been away. The Harvesters had grown in power. Now all the city elders were Harvesters. They had begun to persecute the Rats, who wanted to stop the harvest of the Forest and bring back the talents and the old ways. No one publicly claimed to be a Rat anymore.

I think you two must be Willow the tree speaker and her companion, Rock, the city boy who can animal talk, said the man. My name is Syme Deadlander and I’m a Rat. He whispered the last word even more quietly.

How do you know who we are? asked Rock at once.

Well, you do look hillish and I was looking out for you, see. I know your friend Goshi. He writes letters to me. I picked one up from the Travellers’ Exchange just a few days ago. He wrote it before you left the hills, as soon he knew you were planning to come here. A pack traveller carried it, but they went a round-about way and took longer to get here than you did.

Goshi was a sour old man from Willow’s village. He had not said anything to her about Syme Deadlander. But he had given her some of his secret hoard of coin to help her survive in the city. No one needed coins in the hills, but no one could manage without them in the Spice City. Rock and Willow each carried a small amount of Goshi’s coin in a belt purse. The rest of what he had given them was sewn into the seams and hems of Willow’s heavy wool cloak and outer skirt. They had been trying to get by on as little of it as possible, hoping to make it last.

Whatever Goshi told you about us could be lies. Have you actually met him? Rock asked the old man.

Syme Deadlander grinned. His teeth were yellow and sharply pointed. Yes, he replied. A long time ago.

How do we join the Rats? asked Willow, still remembering to speak in a whisper.

Syme Deadlander held something in his closed fist. First, listen to this, he said, holding it out. It’s a honeywood nut.

Lifting her hand from Rock’s knee, Willow allowed Syme to drop the nut into her palm. It was pale brown and furrowed with deep, reddish grooves. Without letting go of the honeywood mug, she listened to the nut.

It was hard to concentrate in the noisy tavern. Willow bit down on her lower lip. The bitter winter wind outdoors had dried and broken the skin of her lips, making them sore. Now their sudden stinging pain was a distraction.

Carefully smoothing her expression, she forced herself to ignore the sensation. After a while she became absorbed in the task of tree speaking, caught up in the excitement of meeting a new form of honeywood out of the Forest. Being a nut, it was saturated with stored liveliness waiting to expand.

This is so strong, she said at last. You could soak it in oil or milk and use it for flavouring, but even afterwards you could still plant it and it would grow into a new tree.

It must be like that so forest animals can swallow it and excrete it again later, Rock suggested, so the trees can travel about.

Keep it, Willow. Use it for flavouring and then plant it somewhere, Syme told her. Now, as for joining the Rats, first you need to know what you’d be getting into, see? We’ll be drumming in Blue Fountain Square tomorrow. Starts at dusk. Come along and watch how it goes. Then afterwards, you make up your own mind.

A moment later, the noise from the tavern around them quietened. Looking over the heads of the people standing in front, Willow could not see much. But it was obvious the skin dance was about to start.

Syme got to his feet.

This kind of skin dancing’s not for me, he said. Come to Blue Fountain Square tomorrow.

Then he left, making his way to the stairs that led down to the ground floor of the tavern. Willow noticed many of the smartly dressed city people taking a step back as he passed by them.

Opening one of the leather pouches attached to her belt, Willow dropped the honeywood nut inside. It knocked gently against a little carving that she always carried in there. The carving had been made by her village friend, Hest. He had been trying to carve a mouse, but it had come out looking like a scrawny rat.

Rock was swinging his legs over the back of the bench to stand behind her. Climb up, he said. You won’t be able to see otherwise. He was considerably taller than Willow.

Leaving the empty honeywood mug on the floor, she followed his advice, although the bench was alarmingly wobbly to stand on. Rock steadied her by resting his hands against her waist, not seeming to mind that she was now in the way of his own view.

When he had asked her how she would like to celebrate Winter’s Heart, she had said she wanted to see a city skin dance. They were so often advertised in news-sheets that she was curious. Rock had seemed uneasy about the idea at first. In the end, he had agreed to go with her to the Highfire, but talked her out of visiting any of the cheaper taverns by the wharves.

Someone lit a pair of big lamps in front of a raised platform on which three musicians now stood. To the side of the platform, Willow could make out a beautifully carved wooden pole fixed into the ceiling. The musicians played some quiet music to begin. Soon, a young man emerged from the shadows and came to the pole. He wore nothing but a small leather wrap belted around his hips. His skin was covered in painted patterns.

The single dancer pulled a thin knife from the sheath that hung on his belt. He lifted the knife high above his head until the blade glinted in the lamplight. Then, on a beat of the music, he lowered the knife and sliced it into the skin of his own chest. Showing no sign of pain, he then replaced the knife in its sheath, grasped the pole with one hand and began to dance around it. Sweat glistened on his back and shoulders as he twisted and tilted his body in long sinuous movements.

This was nothing like any kind of skin dance Willow had seen or heard of before. She had previously only known the kind that happened outdoors, when many dancers had stitchbark threaded through piercings in their skin and tied onto slackvine ropes attached to the top of the dance pole.

The tavern dancer circled the carved pole many times, always touching it with one hand, still moving his body in slow undulations. Then, as the music grew louder, the dancer let go of the pole and stepped away from the musicians’ platform. He began to travel around the crowded tavern, going right up close to people, arching his back and pushing his chest out to display his bloody wound.

Willow soon realised that some people were slipping coins into the belt purse on the dancer’s little leather wrap. At first she thought this was to reward a good dance. Then she noticed that the ones who had paid were reaching out to touch the blood running down the dancer’s chest. People were taking his blood on their fingertips, touching their own faces and marking themselves with it.

Shocked, Willow found herself looking at her own dance scar on the palm of one hand. It had been earned very differently. Last summer, at longest days, there had been a skin dance organised by the young people of her home village. They had danced by moonlight in a grove of trees.

Willow had been told that skin dancing was for reminding youngsters they were no more important than any other living thing. She could not think what it did for these city people, who were taking blood from someone else’s wound and paying for it in coins. If the dancer was the only one to suffer, did that mean the ones taking his blood thought they were more important than he was?

He’s taken dusk, Rock whispered, tightening his grip around her waist. Look at his eyes. He can’t feel any pain.

He’ll feel it tomorrow all right, if someone with dirty hands touches that wound and poisons it, she replied, beginning to wish she had not asked to see a city skin dance after all.

Remembering that Rock had skin dance scars of his own from before he came to the hills, she wondered just what kind of dances he had once taken part in.

When the tavern dancer eventually passed close to her, Willow peered critically at the young man’s wound. She thought it looked fairly clean and was not very deep. The snaky movements he was making pulled at the flesh of his chest, opening the cut even further. His eyes were dark and empty. He was dreaming awake. She could not tell how many old scars covered his chest. Even his skin paintings were now smeared with blood.

At last, the dancer returned to the platform and the musicians finished with a final run of notes. Willow stepped off the bench as Rock climbed over it to stand beside her.

Had enough? he asked.

Yes.

As Willow turned to go towards the stairs, she found herself face to face with two strangers. One was an extremely good looking boy. The other was a young girl of perhaps twelve or thirteen summers. The crowd behind must have pushed them forwards. Too many people seemed to be trying to get down the staircase at once, now that the dance was over.

The boy looked close to Willow’s own age of fifteen summers. He had curly blond hair and bright blue eyes. His skin was a soft shade of pink. The girl had browner skin and long curly black hair. They were both quite plainly dressed in trousers and matching jackets. The boy also wore a second, thicker jacket, but the girl had only the one. Both of them seemed to be staring at Willow and Rock.

Haven’t you ever seen hillish clothes before? Rock addressed them rudely.

He had swapped his city clothes for rough hillish wool last winter, on the journey that had taken him to Warner, Willow’s home village. Seeing a flash of anger in his dark eyes, she worried that perhaps he would rather have his old clothes back.

This made her chew at her bottom lip without thinking. Too late, she remembered it was raw from winter cold. She nearly cursed aloud at the sting this time.

In Warner she would have used a skin salve from the herb cupboard to protect her lips. But there was no herb cupboard in the lodging-house room she shared with Rock. To make a salve, she would have to buy the ingredients. In Warner, she could have picked the herbs almost anywhere, and shared her talent in return for beeswax to mix with them.

The light-haired boy had not moved. He smiled at her. Reaching into the leather bag hanging over his shoulder, he brought out a very small pot.

Your lips look sore, he said. Try some of this.

Willow blinked in surprise. How much do you want for it? she asked warily.

It’s free. We work in Red Dawnweaver’s stillroom and she’s asked us to give out free samples, the boy explained. Her brand is new. She wants people to try her products and find out how good they are.

As Willow took the little pot, Rock grabbed her other hand and began pulling her towards the crowd around the stairs. She tried to resist, not understanding what was wrong.

Rock turned to look back at the two strangers. What are you talking about? he asked them. How long has Red had a stillroom?

The young girl answered. It’s been open four moons. We work there. What’s that to you, leaf-face?

Without replying, Rock turned away again. Still holding Willow’s hand, he led her quickly through the crowded tavern room, down the stairs and into the street. As soon as they were out of the door, she pulled up the hood of her cloak against the cold.

Oh, sow’s tits! said Rock, before she could ask him why he was so agitated all of a sudden. We’ve got to run, Willow. That’s Caul Driver.

He was looking at a tall man standing near a lighted window on the other side of the street. The man’s heavy leather clothing marked him out as one of the elders’ people.

TWO

Rock led the way, still pulling Willow by the hand. They ran along dark alleys, across rickety wooden bridges over stinking drains, past windows lit up with Winter’s Heart candles, and past the blank shutters of closed workrooms. Several times, Willow gasped out questions, but Rock would not answer.

At last, they reached their lodging-house, where they hurried up the staircase to their room. Rock shut the door firmly behind them. Willow lit the lantern and then began to lay a fire in the stove, waiting for him to explain.

I know he saw us, was the first thing Rock said. But maybe he didn’t recognise me in the dark. He could have just been there as a minder for those two youngsters.

I don’t understand. Are you saying the elders’ man knows you? Did you know those two who gave me a free pot of salve?

Let me see it, he said, still not answering Willow’s questions.

Ignoring him back, she lit the kindling using her firestone. When there was a strong fire going in the stove, she took off her cloak, but not the woollen jacket underneath. Finally, she got the little pot of salve out of her jacket pocket.

I wonder if it’s a good salve, she said, handing it over to Rock at last.

He held the pot up to the light of the lantern, turning it around in his fingers. Harvesters’ rubbish, he said. Look at that, it says Red Dawnweaver on the label, but the little picture like an upside-down tree is Capability Reader’s brand. Red’s so loyal to him she hasn’t even got a brand of her own. Why on earth would she want to open up a stillroom?

Who is Red Dawnweaver? Willow demanded, almost shouting. Rock often infuriated her like this, even now that she counted him as one of her closest friends.

He was staring at the pot in his hand, still turning it round and round. She’s my mother, he answered. And my father’s name is Capability Reader. And that elders’ man we saw is Caul Driver, who sometimes works for my parents when the elders don’t need him. I don’t know the two youngsters, but the whole lot of them are Harvesters and I’ll be happy if I never see any of them ever again.

Oh, was all Willow dared to say at first. When Rock got upset he would sometimes avoid talking at all. She would have loved to hear more, but knew any further questions would only push him into silence again. After a long pause, she added, Can I have the salve back, though? It was free and my lips are still sore. I don’t want to use Harvesters’ medicine, but I haven’t got a lot of choice if we’re going to make Goshi’s coins last.

Frowning, he handed her the little pot. She opened it and took some of the salve to rub on her sore skin. At the same time, she absent-mindedly listened to it, not really expecting a response. Harvesters’ medicines were usually very dead. Much to her surprise, she discovered traces of some rather lively fresh greenroot leaves in the mixture. She did not know if that meant there was a tree speaker working for Red Dawnweaver, or if there had been some kind of accident in the stillroom.

Willow knew that a stillroom was a workshop for making medicines, as well as everyday skin creams and hair dyes. An apparatus called a still was used there to make concentrated perfumed liquids that could be stored for many seasons without spoiling.

No tree speakers were supposed to be in the city anymore, but there were plenty of healers. And, unlike tree speakers, who could make their own medicines for healing, the city healers had to buy medicines from shops which sold the products made in stillrooms.

Do you really not want to see your parents? she risked asking Rock.

No, I really don’t, he replied. He was crouched in front of the stove, watching the brightening flames.

Aren’t you even a little bit glad to be back in the city? she coaxed. It isn’t all bad. I like the shops and the craftspeople. And I like the spices.

She saw his shoulders drop as he relaxed a little. Then he laughed. You really can’t get enough of the spices can you? he said. I thought you’d spit out your first taste of neezle dumplings and complain your mouth was on fire.

They were hot, she admitted, but so delicious.

As the room warmed, they sat side by side on the bed. There was nowhere else in the room to sit. For sleeping, Willow used the bed and Rock had a nest of blankets on the floor. They were close friends, but not lovers.

Rock, she asked him seriously, still carefully trying to discover his thoughts without causing him to retreat into silence, if you didn’t miss the city, why have you come back? Was it really only to help me find the Rats?

She thought she already knew the answer. After spending some time in the hills, Rock had travelled with Willow to the marsh villages. There, he had fallen in love with a girl called Kezzy, who had not loved him back. Rock had been heartbroken. That was when he had decided to accompany Willow to the Spice City, running away from his own feelings.

I came here to join the Rats, that’s all, he replied stubbornly.

But you could have joined the Rats last winter when you first ran away from home, instead of going all the way to the hills and ending up in Warner.

Rock had run from the city after developing the talent of animal talking. It had happened to him just as the Harvesters were getting rid of all