This Soil Still Gives

THIS SOIL STILL GIVES

by Natasha Ramoutar

(Content Warnings: Death, loss, trauma, PTSD, war)

My little sister was born blue. The azure tinge ran from crown to feet, pooled in each little finger and toe. While it subsided a few days later, my mother was so struck by the image that she named her Krishna. It was a name long buried in our history, and in truth, she didn’t remember where she had first heard it.

Stories passed between our family members as worn fabric, unpolished jewels; the kind of mediums that caused magic and detail to evaporate. After incessant pestering, my mother once admitted that the mauve veil in her closet allowed us to speak with the dead, but my pressed ear found nothing but silence. Likewise, the jewelry box meant to turn lead into gold only spat out tarnished copper coins.

Bloom, my neighbour and closest friend, helped the midwife deliver Krishna at the back of our home in the Rivulet Quarter when I, too queasy from the sight, nearly fainted. Afterwards, I scrubbed the blue baby in a bucket of water, watching her gasp at its cool touch.

It wasn’t any surprise that Krishna and I looked like night and day—her with skin like milk and coal-coloured hair, and me with bone-white strands and mahogany flesh. My father, a lieutenant, had come home in an urn many years ago. Her’s, a postman, was claimed by the chaos of the mech raids. Men were like that in our family, gone before they could be properly documented in our minds.

When I choose to remember my sister, I come back to her fierceness. Chasing rabbits across the field, gathering them up in her arms. Stealing the headmaster’s prized calligraphy pen on a dare. Roughly brushing the tangles in my hair, braiding circlet upon circlet. Pushing my mother aside when she tried to wash the dishes, sponge already in hand. Telling every boy in her class, chest puffed and nose in the air, that she would end the war. Rooting cornflowers in the planter box outside our window, fingernails rich with soil.

•••

Because of the raids, I had never liked the sight of any mech from afar. I liked this one even less close up.

If Bloom shared this sentiment, she didn’t show it. She stroked the dust off of the decommissioned weapon, tenderly guiding tomato vines around the severed head. It looked uncanny in the community garden, a place for wiry basil and full-flowering zucchinis. 

“You gonna help me or what?” Bloom asked with a laugh from atop the platform. From that height, the sunlight hit the begonias she had placed in her hair, petals adorning her twists.

I leaned against the ladder and I held up my clipboard, the papers rustling from the light breeze. “Helping out lots over here!”

Flipping to the third page, I marked off today’s report on the soil and water levels. This was the biggest grant that Bloom and I had ever received. 

We had worked on many of the decommissioning projects following the Pangean demilitarization. In those first years, we had dismantled and remodelled these giants amidst what felt like glass peace, waiting to be shattered. Scrap parts returned to the cities they had ravaged through our community salvaging and rebuilding projects. Over the course of a decade, we found ourselves transfiguring these robotic titans into everything from water filtration systems to irrigation assistants. Our grantors came from science, technology, and post-military branches of the government and private investors in clean tech. We had never been commissioned to do an arts project before, and the heritage fund had given us more than our last three projects combined.

Bloom had always been artistic, even when we were kids. I thought if anyone could make me feel tender towards this creature, it would be her. But here I was, staring at the severed head of the SZ-427 Minerva X, feeling an icy chill sink into my bones. I traced the metal with my eyes, the faded red and white plates, the laurel carved into the forehead with shades of emerald, a bronze circlet like a halo behind it. Most of the Minerva lines were indistinguishable from one another, save for the abnormally large pearl embedded on the left side of the laurel. There was a rumour that these were used to identify the rank and origin point of each unit, but there was no documentation to support that. None that we could find, anyway. This one’s gem was a shimmering blue.

“Did you think that peace would be so slow?” asked Bloom as she wiped the enormous helmet with a wet cloth. “It’s all snail’s pace.”

I thought back to when the mechs were still being piloted, surging through the towns. How we hoarded food in the basement, taught the rats to do backflips and the spiders to spin our names. 

“All we did back then was wait. Now isn’t any different,” I said as I turned to face Bloom. I could see a figure approaching from a distance.

“Aw, don’t get sad on me, Fangs,” said Bloom as she clapped a hand on my shoulder. I could see grief tugging the edges of her lips down, weighing heavy on her eyelids. The side effect of shared remembrance. At times like this, I found myself thinking of the days we shared a can of diced tomatoes or split a macaroon we had scavenged from ruins just outside of the city. Before the mechs encroached on the city, they razed the heritage homes dotted across the grasslands. We would sneak out to salvage whatever opulence we could, savouring desserts we couldn’t afford.

As I mustered a weak smile, she was pulled backwards. 

Nano grinned wolfishly behind her, arms around Bloom’s waist. “Fangs, you aren’t picking on my girl, are you?”

These days, love outweighed grief, tilting Bloom’s mouth up more often. She brushed Nano’s hair back—lately styled with a side shave, lavender strands falling to the left—and kissed her cheek.

“Nah, she’s done for the day,” I replied.

“But I haven’t finished reworking the left plant! I have to—”

“Nope,” interrupted Nano. “You heard the boss. You’re done for the day!”

I could hear Bloom protest as Nano guided her away, but she didn’t look back. I took one last glance at the Minerva, and left.

•••

The trains were especially rough today, jostling me against the crimson vinyl seat. I felt my pendant rattling against my chest below the folds of my jumpsuit. Outside of the window, the city blended into itself, flowers curling up lamp posts, ivy clinging to the sides of mass production era buildings. This city's rebirth had been a collective effort. As Bloom and I were remodelling the Minervas, others applied herbs, flowers, and vegetables upon each wounded building. These days, it wasn't uncommon to see planter boxes overflowing with basil outside of the bank, sweet peas climbing around the arch of the arcade, or rows and rows of lavender lining the entrance of the post office. When Bloom and I couldn't find supplies locally—which was almost always—our shipments came piled high in that building, a space of the warehouse permanently carved out for us.

Even throughout the war, the use of the postal service was part nostalgia and part security. While government and militias alike would send letters through the mail, it was equally used by new flames sending love notes. Between transporting high security documents and navigating battlefields, couriers had one of the most dangerous jobs—and one of the best paid. It was for this reason that my mother wasn’t surprised by Krishna’s father’s death. She had told Krishna that he had gone "beyond the veil" and Krishna, misunderstanding, had written him letters everyday for three months, scrawling the Veil township’s post office address on the top left.

I couldn’t help but hold my nose when I stopped by the post office. While most people thought that lavender was soothing, the smell reminded me of death. When the city's rebuilding began, we were drawn to planting roses and lavender. No one said it out loud, but I think we all hoped the scent might drown out the lingering stench, the smell that now clung to the bricks of the houses and nestled into the cracks in the concrete. That scent brought me back to my sister, her left hand smudging the ink as she penned these letters.

I held the pendant up to the sun by its thin chain. The grains were set between two plates of tempered glass, encircled by a gold frame. In the sun, they liked to shift, morph, and dance. Before my eyes, they stretched outwards in the form of a leaf. They seemed drawn to the same type of greenery that overlaid the city. Most days, they transfigured into branches and blades of grass, plucked petals and roots.

No one knows how our family came to own this artifact, which my grandfather had once called the Grains of Time. He liked to weave tales, so the origin point was always shifting. In one story, my grandfather’s grandfather was preparing dinner and found it as he gutted a fish he had caught that evening. In another, it was mysteriously placed in my grandfather’s great-uncle’s pocket in the desert after a mirage dissipated. The only fact I could truly verify was that it had come through my father’s lineage, which, like many genealogies today, had been lost long ago. For once in our faded history, the magic hadn't completely evaporated, even if the details were buried. My mother had given it to me as a memento of my father but, by then, I had stopped pressing my ear against the veil in search of voices.

Pulling back towards the centre, the sands reshaped into a laurel. I thought once again of that sinister Minerva and slipped it back beneath my clothes.

Outside of my family, there was only one person who had any inkling of what the Grains of Time might be. When my grandfather’s tales failed me, I went to the Academy in search of the truth. There I met Pyre, an archaeologist who preferred to spend his days in the stacks rather than out on the field. He had found a reference in a classifieds ad from 600 years ago: For Sale: Exotic Sand Pendant, accompanied by a blurry image. Pyre searched for anything that preceded the document, and I sought out anything that came after, but we ran up against dead ends on both sides. Now and then we would find new information, but the sources always seemed to fizzle out as we tried to trace them. As the train approached University Station, I thought I might hop off and visit his office to see if he had come across any new leads.

Through the window, I could see they had repainted the building. My little sister’s face adorned the facade, dark hair swarming in the wind, dirt across her face, a recreation of the photo that had been plastered across every website, every glossy magazine cover. With my breath caught in my throat, I let the doors open and close without leaving my seat.

•••

Most days, I don’t get to choose how I remember Krishna. She was ten years old. Mom was visiting our aunt in the Cove Quarter. It was only for a night. We were going to have leftover pasta for dinner. 

Krishna and I ran down the stairs when we heard the sirens. The state had authorized them. Of course the state had authorized them. Against their own. Against their kin. We didn’t have a proper shelter, but Bloom’s family did next door. 

The entire front of our house had been torn away. I darted out to the road. Krishna stopped where the living room had been. She reached for something. In her hands, the only gift from a father she never met. I screamed for her to come outside. She clutched the model of the postal truck tighter.

This is the photograph everyone has seen. Malcolm Barry’s The Postal Girl. I didn’t even see him that night. Only the Minervas, swarming the city. Especially the one that stepped on our home. Flattened it like an anthill.

Barry’s camera would have been on burst. Everyone shot in burst during the raids. I know he has the shot that haunts my memory. The blood, spreading below the rubble.

•••

Night blanketed the town by the time I got home. I had ridden the train all the way to the Delta Quarter at the end of the line, ten stops past my own. I mindlessly swiped the notifications away on my phone as I walked up the ramp, unlocking the door to my flat with a quick scan of my thumb.

My stomach fought against itself, growling in hunger but churning nauseously. I settled for a cup of hot water.

I crawled into my bed without changing. My eyes stared wide at the ceiling. The chill of that thing, the severed head all covered in vines, was still slithering across my body. And after that, the photo. It churned my insides. I closed my eyes, but I could still feel every muscle tense, and hear my near-empty stomach groan. With a sigh, I turned and slid off my bed. I unlatched the clasp on the chain and held the pendant in my palm.

The Grains of Time only ever stopped moving at night. I placed the pendant on the floor, lights off, curtains shut. The sands glowed, their light illuminating the ceiling, still in the form of a laurel. I scowled at it, resisting the urge to launch it across the room.

Instead, I slid my feet one behind another in small circles across the tiled floor, my body still facing the light. The routine had to be perfect, or else it wouldn’t work. An angle off and the sequence would be worthless. Old magic was fickle and precise. After receiving the Grains, the routine had come to me one night innately. It was woven within me like my blood or skin or muscle but in practice, it was as elusive as memory.

A five step spin started the routine, my body opening slowly on the first two steps, pivoting on the third step, returning to the front on the fourth and fifth. The air around me trembled. I stomped my right foot and let it hover, crossed in front of my left knee. My hands rose, right hand above my head, left hand by my waist as though clutching a spear. I lifted my gaze to the wall, eyes piercing the darkness. The Warrior.

A three step spin. Pivoting on the second step, the first and last in perfect symmetry. The ground shifted below my feet, trying to ebb and flow. I stepped forward on an angle with my right foot, my left coming to rest in my hand. My right palm reached for the corner of the room, my left pulling my foot in line with my head. The Dancer.

A one step spin. One powerful step that flung me around, as though independent from this body. I could feel it now, the way the air and ground were restless around me, the way a fine mist had come to settle in this room. My left foot stepped out, right crossing in front as I sank lower, knees splaying. I lifted my hands to my mouth, my left pinky finger connecting to my right thumb – forming a flute. I closed my eyes. The Bard.

Feet staying where they were, I offered my left hand forward as the flint, my right index finger and thumb as the match. I brushed it against my wrist. Even from behind closed eyelids, I could see the light of the flames as they rose and spread and grew. The way it sauntered down my arms, spread across my chest, stretched towards the tip of each strand of hair. The Beggar.

I opened my eyes, and watched these hands turn to starlight.

•••

It’s not that I asked to come back here, to this awful memory. It’s that the Grains seldom took me anywhere else. Most days, I don’t get to choose how I remember her. This was no different.

By now, I’ve memorized every aspect of this scene. The way the ground shakes, rippling energy from each step of the mechs. The bite of the air, spiralling with the dirt. Each time, I see myself, pulling my sister up the stairs towards the exit. Behind a fallen building, Malcolm Barry places his camera to his eye.

I couldn’t rewatch this again, though. The timer had already started. I had 120 seconds, all that the Grains of Time would give. I knew what I needed to find, what had been irritating me since I saw Bloom picking at it this morning.

With quick strides I made my way away from the scene and towards the belltower to the east, fearlessly passing collapsing buildings. When the Grains brought me back in time, they also protected me. Faced with death, I would just be sent back to my own body. It was a far less pleasant sensation than the timer running out, though.

After sliding under some rubble, I landed squarely at the entrance. I sprinted up the stairs, careful with the rhythm of my breath. I emerged to face the old bell, its surface covered with a thin layer of dust. Approaching the open space, I steadied myself against the ledge, facing west.

The Minerva had made its way to my house. I watched as its leg came down on the housing complex. It was as I thought: embedded in its laurel was the pearl, shimmering blue.

The cold that had gripped my body slackened. In its place, an unruly heat emerged. I could feel my fingernails digging into my palms, threatening to draw blood.

•••

A metal bat. A small saw. A screwdriver. A hammer. A knife. A trowel.

Deep in the night, at a time when the other staff were curled under their covers, I made my way back to the garden with these supplies. With the bag slung over my shoulder, I climbed the ladder to the platform above. I stood before the Minerva’s head, bat held above my head, ready to swing.

Bloom’s work wove its way through each opening, each empty metal plate. The tomato vines curled, leaves cradling the machine. I knew that in time the yellow flowers would come to kiss this cool surface, that the fruits would nestle together in its shade. I wavered and dropped the bat, picking up the screwdriver and knife instead.

By the end of it, my tools were scattered on the ground, my hands nicked from my shoddy extraction work. I held the azure pearl in my palm, the blue muted. In its place, I left a single flower, plucked from elsewhere in the garden.

I went home and sat for a long time, my reddened eyes fixated on my pendant.

The sun rose. I thought of the cornflower, in all its tender glory, catching the first light of day.