Love your Enemies: Chapter 1

You can't exactly call this a road. It's nothing but a long stretch of mud, really, decorated here and there with rat corpses, piles of rotting rubbish older than me that no one has ever bothered to remove, and the spilled-out contents of broken sewage pipes no one knows how to fix. But humans aren't allowed to use proper roads. I know what a proper road should be: I've seen the pearly-white one that leads out of the city, lined with trees instead of ruins. We are not allowed to use that road – it is only for the elves. We are too lowly to deserve decent streets, so we have to share this mud track with the rats and stray dogs, which is about all we're worth to them.

I avoid a puddle of muck and switch the bucket of water to my other hand, some sloshing onto my bare, muddy feet. You can't exactly call it water - or at least, that's what Grandmama says when she's in one of her fouler moods. I've never known water to be clear and see-through; I've only ever had it like this: brown, slightly slimy, and tasting faintly of sand and rotten salad even after we've strained it through Ophelia's old socks and boiled it twice. I suppose one gets used to it, especially if there's nothing else.

I look up at the elf city to my right, its high, gleaming white walls glaring forbiddingly down at me - so different from the ruins on the left of the mud path, all that's left of how we used to live before they came. Even the Rebel graffiti ("Freedom!" - "Elves OUT" - "Death to the Emperor") doesn't make the walls any less menacing; the untidy scrawls only cover an eighth of their immense height and look like nothing more than an ant's feeble attempt to challenge a giant. The city wall is as far as we ever get - legally, that is. No human is allowed to step inside the city; we are locked out, forbidden, banished to where they don't have to see us. And when they do see us - from the top of the wall or from a carriage passing on the clean elven road - they make sure to remind us with a contemptuous glance that we're nothing but dirt to be scrubbed away.

I reach the place where the elf road crosses ours like a bridge - a favourite spot for the more reckless Rebels to throw mud from, even though it's dangerously close to the city gates and the watchful eyes of the guard. It's better not to stop here too long - they might suspect you of being up to something - but my hand is hurting so much and my back aches so badly that I have to set the water bucket down for a while. A new guard is standing by the gate today, lazily watching the road and not really paying me any attention.

Up on the wall, I can see a girl walking with her father. I wish I had a father. No matter how hard I try, I can't remember what it was like to have one. No one in our village has a father, or an uncle, or a brother, or a husband. The elves needed them elsewhere, so there's only been women in the village for as long as I can remember. The girl on the wall has noticed me: she doesn't spare me more than half a glance; the half glance she does give me is full of fear and disgust. It's as if I'm a cockroach to her, some evil, disease-carrying drain creature that should best be removed. She can't be more than ten. When I was her age, I had never worn any shoes in my entire life yet. I had never slept in a real bed. I had never lived in a house with solid walls and a door that closes properly. I still don't.

The guard is still pacing slowly up and down before the gate. I'd better continue on my way now before he sees me lingering here... Suddenly, just as I'm bending down to pick up the bucket, he turns and looks straight at me. I quickly lower my head, feeling my cheeks redden, and nearly spill half the water in my hurry to get away. I must have imagined it. I must have imagined it! I can't have seen what I saw just now.

He smiled at me.

An elf actually smiled at me. At me, a lowly, dirty human. Cautiously, hesitantly, I turn around and look back. The guard is still watching me, still smiling. Smiling! This is so impossible that it's starting to frighten me. I half run the rest of the way to the low hill dotted with small, crooked shacks that make up the human village, not daring to look back.

"Katarina! Katarina, hurry up!" Even from this distance, I can see that Grandmama is wearing her most menacing glare. She is standing in the doorway of our little house, her hands on her hips. "Come on" she yells. "I need that water now, not next year!"

I open my mouth for a poisonous retort, but wisdom and the gathered experience from seventeen years of living in the same one-room shack as my grandmother take over just in time and I shut it again. I wend up the narrow path past the other huts, picking my way through piles of rusty tins and squashed plastic bottles and trying not to stumble over someone's escaped chicken or step into an unidentifiable pool of sticky, slimy something. For an instant, the image of the guard, smiling at me with such unmistakeable kindness on his face, flashes through my mind again. How can he have looked at me that way, when all around me are the signs that the elves' highest goal is to make us feel as unwelcome as possible before eradicating us completely?

I wipe my feet on our "Home Sweet Home" doormat which Mama picked up from the Great Rubbish Dump one day – that huge mountain of debris which is all the elves left us of our old city. It's quite a contradiction really: Mama keeps preaching about leaving behind falsehood and not lying to each other, but everyone who wants to hear has to step over this lying doormat first. Because you can't exactly call this tiny house "home", and in my honest opinion not even the lacy curtains Grandmama insisted on do anything to make it especially sweet. A real home isn't this small and cramped, with hardly enough space to think straight in; a real home isn't made up of rubbish materials, corrugated metal, rotting wooden planks from who-knows-where and rusted car parts; a real home doesn't let in everything from wind and rain to mosquitoes and stray cats.

"Took you some time," Grandmama remarks as I put down the pail of water by the door, accidentally spilling some. "Don't waste it, you clumsy girl!" she cries, quickly grabbing it and spilling even more herself.

A tip for dealing with Grandmama: Nothing you can ever do will earn you even the smallest word of praise from her lips. But that's okay, because she only means half of all the nasty comments she flings your way.

"Where's Mama?" I ask, picking up my knitting from on top of the old washing machine that serves as our cupboard.

"Never you mind!" she snaps, bustling off towards the kitchen where she starts ladling water into our battered old kettle. "Get on with that scarf, why don't you?"

I slump onto the floor next to Ophelia, who is, as usual, trying to disentangle the mess which is supposed to become a sock one day, and muster the scarf Mama is making me knit for our old hypochondriac neighbour, Sylvia. "What makes it so important?" I ask. "I've never seen her wear anything we've knitted for her."

Grandmama sends me a withering glare. "If you're not happy, send your complaints to that address," she says, jabbing her finger in the general direction of the elf city. Her solution to all life's problems is simple: blame the elves. Sometimes I wonder whether they really are responsible for everything from a leaking roof to Grandmama's rheumatism – but it's true that ever since they destroyed practically all human civilisation and enforced a long list of strict rules, life has become a lot harder than it was in the Old Days.

Though I shouldn't get started on the Old Days. It's Grandmama's favourite topic. Once she starts gushing about them, there's hardly any stopping her. Most of what she babbles I don't even understand – it's all things we no longer know, because they no longer exist. Things like holidays, or airplanes, or shopping malls, or chocolate chip ice cream. Dream on, Grandmama; they're not coming back. These are the days of growing your own food in a tiny miserable vegetable patch and trying to defend it from next door's scrawny goat. These are the days of hiding anything remotely forbidden in a hole beneath the floorboards, just in case the Raiders pop by and start looking for a reason to arrest you. These are the days of trying to palm junk off on the neighbours in exchange for wool or meat because there's no shops to buy things from. These are the days of waking up in the middle of the night hearing the Raiders take someone away – and being so relieved that it isn't you. There is no going back – the elves have made sure of that.

Beside me, Ophelia is squinting at the hopeless bundle of knots in her hands. "I hate knitting," she groans, tugging at a thread and making the whole thing even worse. Wafts of smoke drift from the kitchen corner, filling the whole shack with the pungent smell of rotten wood burning.

I try to focus on my scarf, but keep making mistakes. My mind is somewhere else – and I know precisely where, though the very thought makes my heart go wildly pop-pop-pop again. I left it down on the muddy road, there by the city gate, numbed by that smile I can't have seen but can't forget. No matter how much I try to think of other things, no matter how often I tell myself that the elves are evil and that it must have been just my empty stomach playing tricks on me again, I cannot get that smile out of my head.

Never before have I realised how beautiful the elves can be. Why do they mar their features by giving us only nasty looks? Today, an elf smiled at me – and that has made him the most beautiful elf I have ever seen. Though of course I shouldn't be thinking that – I can feel my face go red and hope against hope that for once, Ophelia is more interested in salvaging her hopeless sock than observing her little sister. If she starts questioning me that would be far too embarrassing for words – seeing as I am totally overreacting, have no idea why he smiled at me (it may just have been a new nasty trick to mess with my feelings and make me confused), and anyway, I'm not even sure it really happened.

"Katty. Katty!" I jump so violently that I lose four rows of my knitting, bringing today's progress back to zero. "Where is your head, girl?" Grandmama exclaims. "I was talking to you!" Her arms are crossed in that forbidding pose that means "No Buts". "Fetch me some tomatoes from the garden," she commands. "Ophelia, you can set the table. We'll be just the three of us tonight."

I'm half-way out the door already when I hear the last bit, and hesitate. That cold feeling reserved for Raid nights and disasters is trickling down my back. "Why; where' Mama?" I ask, though I know it's pointless.

"She's out, silly; now get me those tomatoes before I wallop you."

I bang the door behind me – the force makes the whole shack shake and I listen with satisfaction to the rattling and clanking of the pots and pans hanging on the wall. What is Mama thinking, staying out this late? The sun is already setting, turning the horizon into a thick red soup. The Raiders might come any time after nightfall – and running into them out of doors after hours is not a good idea. Doesn't Grandmama care? And what is Mama doing, anyway?

This is not the first time. Mama has disappeared before, sometimes for days on end, never explaining where she's been or what she's been up to. I have seen her come home sometimes in the middle of the night, whispering with Grandmama and hiding things in our secret cellar underneath the floor. I have never overheard anything that could have given me any answers. All I know is that it's some sort of service or errand important enough to risk a run-in with the Raiders for – and that it must be illegal. But why would she risk something like that?

Actually, I should be used to this by now. Mama does so many things I don't understand – like making us knit things for free for ungrateful neighbours who do't even wear them, or insisting we hang hang up half the washing out of sight in the cellar. I just wish I knew why – but Mama and Grandmama keep avoiding our questions.

But that's how it is this world: you don't ask questions, and when you do, you don't expect satisfactory or truthful answers. No one trusts anybody here. For all you know, they might be in the Raiders' pocket. They might get intimidated or tortured into blabbing things they shouldn't. They might forget themselves and let the wrong things lip to the wrong person at the wrong moment. Knowledge can kill. You don't tell your loved ones something that might bring them into trouble. It is safer to keep the truth hidden inside your own four walls, beneath the floorboards. Sometimes it feels like the truth is a secret everyone has forgotten long ago – made themselves forget, to be safe.

But I don't feel safer this way. I wish I knew what was really going on. I wish I knew where Mama keeps going. I wish I could go with her and see that she's all right. I wish we could be free with one another, I wish we didn't have to be afraid of telling the truth. I want someone to be open to, someone I could tell anything to without fear. I wish...

"Katty! How difficult is it to pick three tomatoes?" Grandmama yells from behind the lacy curtains. "If you want any dinner you'd better get a move on!"

Sighing, I yank some of the more decent-looking tomatoes from their stems and go back inside, wiping my feet on the lying doormat.

***

"There. And be glad I'm giving you anything at all," Grandmama says, unceremoniously plonking a cracked plate in front of me. "Pray," she shoots in Ophelia's direction, and Ophelia obediently ducks her head so her fringe flops into her stew, and murmurs something inaudible that I hope God understands because I don't. "Please let Mama be safe," is the only prayer in my heart tonight. No, that's not true. There's a garbled mixture of "let me see that elf guard again" and "oh please forgive me for thinking of him so much" filling my mind right now. I should be ashamed of myself.

"They say Cal's been released again," Ophelia pipes up as soon as she's said 'Amen'.

"Again? How many times have they caught her already?" I ask with a mouth full of stew.

"This must be the fourth time," Ophelia says. "Essie thinks it's even more. It's a miracle they don't execute her."

"Ha; they must be too chicken," I say. "Just think how the Rebels would react! I think that would be the one thing to get them boiling over, and the elves know it."

"Nonsense!" Grandmama exclaims. "The elves could have squished them out long ago if they wanted to. Take Cal away and you'll have a leaderless chaos. The elves want the Rebels to exist."

"Grandmama, you're not making sense," I remark.

"You just don't want to admit that this so-called Rebel movement is simply playing into their hands. It gives them reason to arrest and execute whoever they please and pretend we deserve it."

I prod a piece of meat with my fork, wondering if it's the rat meat Ophelia brought home yesterday. "Do you have any better solution, then?" I ask. "Other than sitting on your bum whining about the elves all day?"

"You watch your tongue!" Grandmama snaps, half jumping from her seat.

Just then, a faint knock on the door prevents a family fight from breaking out. We all tense momentarily before realising, with a flood of relief, that a Raider would knock differently – or, more likely, not at all. Grandmama gives me one last, scorching glare before turning to open the door. A hunched figure with a mess of bedraggled black hair half hiding her face looks in from the gloom: Josie. I could have guessed.

She gazes past Grandmama at our plates of food with dark, hungry eyes. "My sister," she begins in a cracked half-whisper, as she always does, holding out a grubby hand. "She's starving. Anything will do." Most of the villagers doubt she even has a sister, which is probably why she shows up here so often. Seems she's figured out Mama is one of the few who believe her. But then, Mama knows it's true.

"Come in," Grandmama says gruffly. She takes another bowl and tips a bit from each of ours into it. "Sit!" she commands, then bustles off to the kitchen. I'm sure she's only doing this in case Mama finds out.

Josie doesn't look at us but immediately starts shovelling mouthfuls of stew as though she hasn't eaten for days – which quite possibly might be the case. You have to be really lucky to find food on the Great Rubbish Dump, and that's where she lives. They say it's because of her mother – something she did brought on the fury of the Rebels, who would have killed her if she hadn't fled first. They don't expect you to survive long in the ruins – apparently they're contaminated. And, sure enough, she died not long after, leaving Josie alone to fend for herself and her little sister, whom no one has ever seen. Sometimes she tries to exchange stuff from the Rubbish Dump for food. She has a knack for finding things no one else can, maybe because she dares to look where everyone else thinks it's too dangerous. Once she offered to help in the garden, but you can't turst her; she disappeared with all our carrots and Grandmama made Mama promise never to let her work for us again.

I keep an eye on her now as she eats; I don't like the way she sometimes glances around as though looking for something to steal. There's this unspoken rule that we humans do not steal from one another; if the Rebels catch you or someone turns you in, you're dead. But Josie doesn't abide by rules. She might look timid, but she's not afraid of the Rebels and I've even heard that she's tried stealing from the elves. Though that does not make her brave – only desperate.

"There." Grandmama dumps a bundle in front of Josie's nose. "I'll let Katty show you out," she says, giving me a significant look that means: Make sure she doesn't make off with our vegetables again.

Sighing, I get up and open the door for her. There had better be no Raiders about or I'll make Josie responsible for my death. Or I could always pose as an informant and hand Josie over to them, though I doubt my conscience would let me. Besides, any informant is an instant target of the Rebels – not only the informant, but her whole family. They burnt a suspect's shack down just last month; it was terrible. I tell you, between the Raiders and the Rebels there's hardly anything you can do right if you want to survive.

Josie spills forth profuse thanks all the way out the door. It's only three steps to our makeshift garden gate but I make sure not to let her out of my sight for even an instant. She dawdles, opening the bundle and breathing in the smell of the potatoes Grandmama has given her.

"Come on," I say, opening the garden gate for her.

"Can't I take just one tomato?" she asks, eyeing them longingly.

"They're not really ripe yet," I reply. "And we have to eat too, you know."

"Oh." As if she's never thought of that before.

At the gate, she turns around. "Have you ever been in the elf city before?" she asks.

"Of course not!" I exclaim, taken aback. "What are you thinking?"

"They have beautiful apples in the palace gardens," she says dreamily.

"You've... been there?" I can't help being curious.

"The Rebels go there all the time." She shrugs. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Because it's dangerous?" I suggest.

"Not if the Rebels are making a racket on the other side of the city," she says. She gives me a sidelong look. "Your family has done a lot for me. Especially your mother. My sister would be dead if not for her. I wish I could repay you somehow." She glances around as if making sure no one's there, then whispers, "Do you want to come with me? Two of us can take more than just one."

What? We hardly even know each other. This is the most we've ever spoken to each other before. Why should I trust her? And what if we're caught? The city is strictly out of bounds to humans, on pain of death. And I've seen those executions and it means very painful death. I don't think apples from the palace gardens would quite be worth it. I'm not as desperate as Josie yet. On the other hand... the thought of setting foot in that forbidden city gives me a kind of thrill. I wonder what the elves' houses look like. I wonder how they live. And real, fresh apples... There's no fruit trees in the village ever since the Raiders cut them down, so the last time I had an apple feels like ages ago.

"Katty!" Grandmama's face is peering at me past the lacy curtains.

"I need to get back," I say quickly. "Maybe..." I don't think I should make any promises. But I think Josie understands.

"I'll bring you back something," she says, smiling. Then she's off down the mud track, the bundle of potatoes hugged close to her chest – and just as I'm turning to go back inside, I see her hand disappear inside her pocket, clutching a fat, half-ripe tomato.

***

I awake to the sound of whispering. It is still dark. Ophelia is lying curled up beside me, hogging our threadbare blanket as usual. The flare of a match brightens up the room and I can see Mama's silhouette as she lights a candle.

"No," she is whispering, "but I might have to bring more next time." The flickering candlelight enhances the lines on her tired face. She has removed the loose floorboard and is dropping things down into the hidden cellar beneath. "We'll soon be all out of medicine; has Josie found any again?"

"She didn't say," Grandmama murmurs. "You should be careful of that one, Helen. If she lets even the smallest thing slip..."

"I know," Mama sighs tiredly, closing the hole in the floor again, "'the elves will put two and two together and be after us in no time.' But we need it. They need it. This might be the last hope..."

I shut my eyes as she steps towards our side of the room. I probably should not be hearing any of this. She kneels down beside me and reaches across me to loosen the blanket from Ophelia's hand and give me my share of it again. She strokes my forehead with her callused hand, the cold metal of the wedding ring she has never taken off in all these years somehow reassuring against my skin. "You know," she says softly, "one of them is about the age Joseph would be now, if they hadn't..."

I hope she doesn't notice me tense. Joseph. Our little brother who was taken away. He never talks about him usually, and Grandmama forbids us to mention him around her. She stayed in bed for a week after they took him, and it was a month before she started speaking again. Seeing her in that state was almost as frightening as watching the Raiders that night, following the sound of his crying which we could not hide, destroying anything in their way until they found him.

"I wonder sometimes," Mama goes on, "whether..."

"Shh," Grandmama whispers. "There is nothing you could have done. They would have found him anyway, sooner or later."

"No," Mama sighs as she lies down beside me. "We both know there are ways. I just wish I had known sooner."

Grandmama blows out the candle and we are plunged into darkness. After a while, I dare to open my eyes and look up at the hole in the ceiling right above me. Something is going on, something they won't tell us. I know better than to get mad and think they're not trusting us enough. They only want us to be safe. But I'm so confused... A lonely star winks down at me and somehow I'm reminded of the elf guard who smiled. Could it be one elf is different?

Somewhere out there, the Raiders might be arresting someone even now. The Rebels will be in the elf city, staging some sort of attack and causing havoc to celebrate their leader's release and probably get her caught yet again. Josie will be in the royal apple orchard – I don't know why I suddenly care so much, but I sincerely hope she is safe, even though she's a lying little thief. It makes sense to be for everyone who's against the elves.

But can I be against all elves? An elf smiled at me today – and that small gesture makes me wonder whether, despite everything, I might have been wrong.