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First Smile, 3 months old.
Tanya climbs into the cramped little bunk next to Francisca, who sings a soft lullaby in a language she assumes is Italian. She reaches over and caresses the forehead of the baby in her arms with her thumb. His dark eyes blink up at her as he furrows his brow.
“He keeps making that face.” Francisca says, adjusting the rags wrapped around him. “Like he’s confused.”
“Has he made a sound yet?” asks Tanya.
Francisca shakes her head. “I don’t understand why he’s so quiet. Even when he cries, he doesn’t make a sound.”
“Maybe it’s, I don’t know, because we didn’t eat for so long.” Tanya says. “So things didn’t develop right.”
“Do you think that’s the only thing?” Francisca asks. “What if there are other things wrong? What if--”
Tanya puts a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t think about that right now. We’ll deal with it if and when it comes.”
“Right, right.” Francisca says. She looks up and around at the other bunks where their fellow passengers curl up on beds made of wooden planks and old clothes. There’s no way to tell if it’s even nighttime. Clocks and watches either slowed down or broke within the first few months after boarding. With a sigh, she turns back to her baby.
“What about a name?” says Tanya. “You still deciding between Marco and Giovanni?”
“I’m actually, um, thinking about Grey.”
Tanya cocks her head to the side. “Grey? What happened to preserving Italian culture?”
“It was his father’s name,” says Francisca. “I’ve just, I’ve just been thinking about him a lot lately. Besides, I’ll still teach him to speak Italian, or at least read and write it.”
“That’s a good idea. I can’t believe how many languages we got on this train.”
Francisca takes a deep breath and continues her lullaby.
“Fa la ninna, fa la nanna,
Nella braccia della mamma,
Fa la ninna bel bambin.”
Grey turns his attention away from Tanya and back to his mother. He pulls his tiny hand out from the confines of his rags and brushes it across her mouth. She takes his hand in her own, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Fa la nanna bambin bel,
Fa la ninna, fa la nanna,
Nella braccia della mamma.”
His face relaxes, then the corners of his mouth twitch up. He smiles, and Francisca smiles back with tears in her eyes.
First Word, 5 years old.
Grey holds on to the umbrella hook that replaced Gilliam’s hand as he lifts him up from the floor and sets him on his lap. He turns Grey around to face the table. A piece of yellowing paper lies before them with each letter of the alphabet written at the top in Gilliam’s neat script.
“Now, you remember what sound each letter makes, yes?” he says.
Grey nods.
“Very good.” Gilliam says. He picks up the lump of charcoal lent to them by Painter. “Do you think you can write some letters for me?”
Once again, Grey nods and takes the charcoal from Gilliam’s hand.
“Let’s start with T.”
Dragging the charcoal along the paper, Grey draws two lines: one horizontal, and one vertical.
Gilliam smiles with approval. “Perfect. Next is R.”
Grey bites his lip and draws the letter as best he can. It’s a bit squiggly compared to Gilliam’s example above it, but at least it’s recognizable. His letters a week ago were just a mess.
“Now A.”
That letter’s easy, just a triangle with feet.
“And I.”
No problem. Two horizontal lines and a vertical line between them.
“You’re doing very well, Grey.” Gilliam says. “Just one letter left, alright? It’s N.”
Grey looks up at the alphabet at the top of the paper, listing the letters in his head until he reaches the right one. Satisfied, he writes the letter next to the rest, then looks up at Gilliam, who smiles.
“Do you know what that spells?” asks Gilliam.
Turning back to the paper, Grey narrows his eyes and tries to remember what sound each letter represents. When Edgar needs to figure out a word, he just makes the sounds with his mouth until it all comes together. But no matter how hard he tries, Grey can’t do it. Everyone else on the train can make sounds and say things. It seems that he’s the only person in the whole wide train that--
Grey blinks with surprise when the word appears in his head. It’s not just the letters and sounds, but the image, the memories. He looks up at Gilliam again and waves his hands back and forth.
Gilliam laughs. “That’s right, Grey. It’s train, and it’s the most important word you’ll learn.”
First Knife, 8 years old.
Edgar bounces on his feet behind Curtis. He keeps trying to see what Curtis is getting out of the box on his bunk, but he’s too short. Grey has two inches on Edgar already, but Edgar’s energy dwarfs him. Sometimes people forget that Grey’s there when Edgar stands next to him. He demands attention from everyone around them. It can be annoying, but Grey usually doesn’t mind. It’s always awkward when people try to talk to him and expect him to talk back.
“What’re we doin’?” Edgar asks. “You gonna teach me to fight? It’s complete shite that I haven’t learned yet. How’m I s’pposed to kill them front bastards if I can’t fight?”
“Language, Edgar.” Curtis says as he continues to rummage through his box.
Grey frowns. Adults don’t seem to like it when Edgar says certain words, even though they say them all the time. Tanya says they’re grown-up words, but Edgar doesn’t care. He usually says whatever he wants, even if it gets him a smack on the head from Curtis, or worse, a kick in the stomach from one of Wilford’s soldiers.
“Language my arse.”
Recently, Edgar started to speak with an accent similar to Gilliam and some other passengers, but not quite. Gilliam says that it’s an Irish accent, whatever that means. He used to speak like Curtis and Tanya, but then he learned that his mother was Irish, and that Irish people speak a certain way. Edgar begged Gilliam to teach him, and now Edgar speaks with this strange, exaggerated lilt.
Gilliam also said that Grey’s mother was Italian. Grey can write a few words in Italian, and something in his chest swells up when he does. He’ll look at the words and try to remember his mother saying them, if she said them at all before Wilford’s guards took her away.
Curtis pushes the box into the corner of his bunk and turns around, holding a knife in each hand. “You’re gonna learn to throw these.”
Edgar beams at him. “Finally!”
“This one’s yours,” says Curtis, handing a knife to Edgar. He turns to Grey and holds out the other. “And this one’s yours.”
“What? No way, man! He’s a baby.” Edgar says, looking at Grey, aghast.
“He’s a just a year younger than you,” says Curtis. “Probably. I think. Regardless, he needs to learn this stuff too.”
Edgar huffs, but doesn’t complain again. Curtis takes them to an aisle between some empty bunks especially cleared out for this lesson. A cloth with a circle painted on it hangs on the wall at the end of the aisle. It’s dotted with a few holes from when some of the adults practiced throwing knives themselves.
Curtis kneels down between them and holds out his own knife. “Now, hold the handle with your first three fingers and your thumb.”
“What about the little one?” Edgar asks.
“Just let that one hang off then end, ok?” He looks back and forth at the two of them until they place their fingers around their handles as instructed. Curtis has to adjust Edgar a few times, but Grey gets it on the first try.
“Once you got the grip right,” says Curtis as he stands up and raises his knife, “Take a step back, then--”
He throws the knife. It cuts through the air in perfect circles until it hits the target right in the middle. Edgar lets out a laugh.
“Bullseye!” Edgar says.
Grey frowns, wondering why people say bull before some words. He thinks it’s some kind of animal that lived on earth, but he isn’t sure.
“You ready to try?” Curtis asks.
Edgar nods, grinning. “I was born ready.”
Curtis purses his lips, but doesn’t say anything as he goes up to the cloth on the wall to take back his knife. To Grey, he seems uncomfortable with the comment. Every once in a while, Edgar will say something and Curtis will make some face, as if he’s sad or sick. Grey asked Gilliam about it once, but Gilliam just said to ignore it.
Once Curtis is behind them again, Edgar takes a step back and throws the knife. It hits the wall at least a foot from the target and clatters to the ground. “Aw, shite.”
“Don’t worry,” says Curtis. “Nobody’s good at first. Grey, you have a try.”
Grey looks down at his knife and makes sure that he’s still holding it right. He pictures the movements Curtis made, and positions his body to match each one. With a deep breath, Grey throws the knife as hard as he can.
There’s a thunk, and knife sticks out from the wall, only an inch to the right of the circle. He turns to look at Curtis and Edgar, who just stare at him. After a moment of silence, Grey pulls out the scrap of paper and bit of charcoal he keeps in his pocket, then scribbles down What did I do wrong?
Curtis blinks and shakes his head, coming out of whatever stupor that caught him. “Um, nothing. I mean, you’re holding your knife out a little to far, but-- Look, lemme show you.”
He goes over to the wall and takes Edgar’s knife from the floor, and Grey’s from the wall. When he returns, Curtis hands over Grey’s knife and repositions him before he throws the knife again. This time, he hits the circle. Edgar crosses his arms and scowls.
“Beginner’s luck,” he says.
First Tattoo, 10 years old.
“This is going to hurt, but I’m afraid it’s necessary.” Gilliam says as he wheels his chair up behind Painter. “We only have so much paper for you to use.”
Between Painter’s fingers is a dull sewing needle. Grey eyes it with suspicion, not sure if it will break his skin. He doesn’t object to the idea of getting tattoos so that he doesn’t have to write words down all the time to communicate, but the needle and the ink made from who knows what give him pause.
Still, he holds out his forearm when Painter reaches for it, and braces himself for the pain. Painter dips the needle into the little cup of ink on the floor, then digs it into Grey’s skin. First there’s pressure, then a sting, and then a burn that sears through his muscles and bone. He tries to tug his arm back as tears well up in his eyes, but Painter holds him fast.
“Stay still, kid.” Painter says. “It’ll take longer if you move around.”
Grey looks at Gilliam, who gives him a reassuring smile. “Everything will be alright, Grey. I promise.”
Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, Grey holds himself as steady as possible as the pain continues to rocket through his body. Gilliam says it has to be done. Gilliam says it will be ok. If Gilliam says it, it must be so. Gilliam is kind and smart and generous and takes care of him and is always right.
Two hours later, it’s over. Grey lies in his bunk, staring up at the ceiling and cradling his arm to his chest. A dull ache pulses through his veins under the bandages, but at least he isn’t crying anymore. He sniffs, his nose still stuffed from the silent sobs he made before. Grey tells himself over and over again that it’s all worth it, sick with shame over the doubt in the back of his mind. Gilliam has never done wrong by him or anyone. Gillian sacrificed an arm and a leg to feed the other passengers when everyone first boarded the train. Nobody likes to talk about that, but Gilliam told him. Gilliam said it was important for him to know.
The bunk shakes, and Grey looks over the side to see Edgar climbing up. The person trying to sleep in the bunk below swears at him when Edgar steps on his hand, but Edgar spouts a quick apology and keeps climbing. He plops himself down next to Grey and smiles, his eyes bright and twinkling.
“So?” he says. “Let’s see 'em.”
Without waiting for Grey to respond, Edgar grabs his arm and pulls off the bandages to reveal the red, swollen words carved into his skin. He frowns at them, then looks back at Grey, shaking his head.
“Why the hell would Gilliam make ya get these?” asks Edgar. “What’s he thinking?”
Grey shoves him and snatches his arm back. He traces his thumb over the words, trying to think of a way to explain it to Edgar without writing it down. Gilliam gave him a long explanation as to why ‘who what when where why how’ were the best words for his first tattoos, but Gilliam isn’t here. He’s in his tent in the back with Curtis and McGregor, where Grey isn’t allowed to listen.
Edgar rolls his eyes. “I’m not sayin’ he’s stupid or nothin’. I just don’t understand ‘im sometimes.”
Wrapping the bandages around his arm again, Grey shrugs. That’s understandable. He doesn’t always understand Gilliam either.
First Kill, 12 years old.
McGregor wants to start a fight with Wilford’s guards tomorrow. Edgar eagerly asked Curtis what he can do to help, but Curtis just told him to stay in the back and not make trouble. Furious and disappointed, Edgar abandoned his own bunk under Curtis to climb into Grey’s. They used to be able to fit in one bed, but now their legs are growing long and gangly and knock together as they try not to push each other off. Grey still likes it, though. It’s much warmer with another body to hold onto.
Edgar talked for hours, complaining about Curtis and Gilliam and Tanya and anyone else he could think of that stood in his way and kept him from rebelling with the others. Grey just nodded along. He knows that when Edgar gets going on a rant, there’s not much that can stop him. Now, the only noises Edgar makes are snores as he sleeps, one arm slung over Grey’s chest.
Grey can’t sleep. One of the men in McGregor’s group, Grey doesn’t know his name, doesn’t want to start their rebellion tomorrow. He thinks they should bide their time, gather more information, more supplies. Earlier that day, he yelled at McGregor, telling that Gilliam was putting ideas in his head, and that someone needed to “shut that old bastard up for good.”
How anyone can think of hurting Gilliam completely baffles Grey. Clearly this man is dangerous, maybe even out of control. What if he tries to hurt Gilliam while everyone’s asleep? What if he succeeds?
The questions run through his mind so much that Grey can’t calm down enough to sleep. Anxiety just buzzes in his chest, loud and sickening. What could they do without Gilliam? Surely it would be chaos with no one to lead them. McGregor or Curtis might step up, but Grey doubts it. They’re too caught up in plans of rebellion.
A low shuffle catches Grey’s attention. He turns towards the sound to see the man creeping down the aisle towards Gilliam’s tent. A lump appears in Grey’s throat as he watches the man go by. All of terrible things he’s imagined over the past few hours seem to crash down on him, and he doesn’t know what to do. Anyone else could say something. Anyone else could just scream.
Grey sits up, pushing Edgar’s arm off of him. He grabs Edgar’s shoulders and tries to shake him awake, but Edgar just shoves him away with a grumble. Grey takes a deep breath and looks around for anything else he can use to stop the man from getting to Gilliam. Tucked into the corner of his bunk is the knife Curtis gave him five years ago. He grabs it, and crawls over Edgar to get out of the bunk.
Instead of dropping to the floor, Grey climbs through and around the other bunks, following the man from above. He treads lightly, careful not to wake anyone up. A minute ago, waking someone up was all he wanted to do, but now he wants to do this himself. He needs to do this himself.
The man just touches the curtain over the door to Gilliam’s tent when Grey leaps onto his back. His knife sinks into the man’s neck and thick, warm blood gushes onto his hand. Crying out in agony, the man slams back against a wall, knocking Grey’s head on the hard surface. Even as his ears ring and pain shoots through his head, Grey pushes the knife in deeper.
There’s a sharp sting in his side. The world goes white, and Grey doesn’t remember the rest.
First Kiss, 13 years old.
Grey wakes up on a cot in Gilliam’s tent with Edgar sitting on the edge, looking over him. His whole body aches, and his vision is blurry, but he’s alive. Pulling out his left arm from under the blankets, Grey points to the second word tattooed on his wrist: what?
“You almost got yourself killed taking out that traitorous fucker last night, that’s what.” Edgar says with a laugh.
How?
“Ain’t it obvious?” says Edgar. He pokes at the blankets, making Grey wince in pain “He fucking stabbed you, man! Just missed your kidney, you lucky bastard.”
Biting his lip, Grey tries to recall what happened. He shoves the blankets down to point to Gilliam’s name over his heart, then to where? on his arm.
“Oh, he’s fine, don’t worry.” Edgar says, shaking his head. “He’s out there right now, tending to the wounded and telling people what to do with the bodies and whatnot.”
Grey frowns at him. What?
“You missed the riots, man! They were right spectacular.” Edgar laughs again, then deflates, sighing. “Didn’t do nothin’ though. We’re still stuck at the back of this shite train.”
Turning his head to the side, Grey looks around Gilliam’s tent. It’s smaller than he remembers from sitting on his lap, learning all the different letters in all the different alphabets.
“Tanya told me somethin’ I think you’d like to know.” Edgar says.
Grey blinks up at him and arches his brow.
Edgar smiles. “She says it’s your birthday. That you were born three months after boarding, and we passed the bridge three months ago, so it’s at least around the right time.”
Reaching out and taking Grey’s hand, Edgar purses his lips as if he’s not sure what to say next.
“I want, I want you to have a lot of them. Birthdays, I mean.” Edgar says.
He holds on to Grey’s hand as Grey moves it to point to another tattoo. Why?
“Because you’re brilliant in a fight! We’re gonna need you next time we push our way to the front.” Edgar says. “I know I’m an arse to you sometimes, but it’s just frustrating that you pick this stuff up so quick. I didn’t even get to punch nothin’ and you got to, well, you know.”
Grey nods.
“And it’s not just that. You, you’re my friend, alright? I like having you around.”
Why?
Edgar sighs and rolls his eyes. “Look, I don’t got words I can just point to in order to say what I mean. I gotta think about all of ‘em and find the right ones, and I can’t always do it.”
It’s tempting to ask why? again, but Grey just squeezes Edgar’s hand. Edgar gives him a strange look, moving his eyes up and down Grey’s face as if searching for something. He sighs again, and Grey wonders what it was and if he found it. Before he can ask, Edgar leans over and kisses him.
Grey lies still, eyes wide with shock as Edgar presses his mouth against him. Some kind of warm, flutter feeling grows in his chest. It’s something like the anxiety he felt last night, but nice, if still nerve-wracking. Last night he killed someone. Last night he almost died. Last night began the riots, which ended the lives of so many others. Grey knows that he might not, but he wants to have more birthdays, too. He makes a decision, and throws his free arm around Edgar’s neck to kiss him back.
After a moment, Edgar pulls away, resting his forehead against Grey’s.
“Don’t you do that again, alright?” Edgar says. “Not, not the thing we just did. The almost dying thing. We, er, you can do the other thing again if you want.”
Edgar smiles down at him, and Grey smiles back.