Ghosts of Koa

Taxed

Taxed

Zeika carried Manja up the last hill that looked over their lot in New Co-op City. She stood at the top, stopping to take in the night. The stop home had to be quick before she and Manja went to the Forge. Mama and Baba worked deep in the fields on the other side of Demesne Six, and the civic transport only ran four times a day to accommodate the workers. It would be well past midnight before either of them got home. And there was still so much to do.

Darkness had swallowed their neighborhood, and for the first time in weeks, a bit of the Canopy had cleared so that the moon and stars peeped through. Zeika looked up, smiling at the silver eye. Waning crescent, it looked like, an eyelid half-closed over a shining gaze, heavy with sleep. And no matter how little of it shone, it always filled her up.

She continued on into the black beyond, the gravel beneath her feet gleaming like crushed diamond. The only lights ahead were the tiny kerosene lamps of the Quonset huts in their rail-road style lot. Paused at the edge of the property, she sighed, her limbs feeling heavy and reluctant. She gazed up at the winking moon once more.

A few more minutes won’t hurt.

She hung a left and made her way to the one joy of Co-op City: the gardens. She reached into her robes and locked her fingers around a wad of paper as she navigated her way towards a painted piece of wood labeled “Anon”, which marked the start of their vegetable beds. The kids of Co-op City glided around her knees, giggling and chasing after one another under the sleepy lunar gaze, their white robes flying out behind them. 

From the far right, hens clucked softly as they turned in for the night. The rustling of feathers reminded her of the boy who used to tend to them. The one who had disappeared from her lot and who now stared at her every day from his mount above a shattered looking-glass.

Zeika pushed off the thought and kept moving. At the corner of their garden, she set Manja down under their row of fava beans. The kid clutched her dinosaur bag, laying her head on its yellow snout, her eyes heavy. Guess the kid had had a rough day after all. 

“You okay, kiddo?”

Beneath the willows, Manja smiled and buried her cheek further into the dino’s nose. Her eyes twinkled between the milky fava flowers, their black and smooth paint splotches forming night eyes against white petals. 

Zeika pinched Manja’s nose and knelt down to push back some thick braids of honeysuckle. Beneath, a small square door, its hinges, and a braided lock shined up at her from the earth. With a graze of her fingertip, the lock lost its rigidity. Zeika bit her lip, her eyes searching the night; no one had noticed. 

Quietly, she slid the limp braid lock from its latch and opened the door. Dry old earth spat up from the void. She reached down into the dark and popped off the lid of a coffee tin. From places within her robes, some unmentionable, she took out her tips and Davy’s money and shoved them into the metal tin before replacing the lid.

That makes 5,565 dollars to date. Only 15 grand to go.

That’s how much it would all cost. For the move into Demesne Seven, for the relocation tax, probationary work passes, for a year’s rent on a new place. Only 15 grand more.

Not if you don’t get moving, though. 

Zeika lifted Manja back up from the dirt, where she had been dozing off. She set her on her feet. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat.” She started towards the house, but her arm went taut as Manja stood rooted to her spot, her fingers laced with hers.

“I don’t feel good, Zeeky. My knee hurts. Please carry me?”

Zeika’s eyes widened, and a familiar dread began to gnaw at her chest. “Of course I will, honey.” She hoisted Manja up, wincing as she felt Manja’s limbs drape limply, too limply, against her body. “You’ve had a long day. We’ll get you something to eat and get you down for a nap, okay?”