boy named Rat: Chapter One-From Twelve To Two

Hansing Republic. The land of Ayer, a mysterious fluid-like substance that's been powering the nation for centuries. It's running out. It's up to 13-year old fugitive Thian Mann to save his country.

CHAPTER ONE: TWELVE TO TWO

Rats. Filthy rattus norvegicus crawling around hills of Abaddopolis city waste. The rodents flitting into daylight for brief seconds before slinking back into the shadows outnumbered the human city dwellers twenty to one and yet, it was rare for a rat to be spotted. Their presence was most definitely felt by the residents at one time or another, but nary a word spoken of them from the street vendors selling trolleys of imitation watches to the corporate drones prancing about boardrooms in their business suits. But every single one of them had either encountered one in the flesh or would come across the critters in their lifetime. And true to Hansing Republic’s inherited legends and tales, bad luck would follow.

The founder of the great metropolitan labyrinth known as Abaddopolis, a maze of sombre granite and pretentious fibreglass, was Jeth Ma. And he, as ridiculous as it may sound when uttered, had been murdered by a rat. Scientists pored over religious scrolls and sacred text to ascertain the claim. Their faith clung onto the possibility, for Jeth Ma was the first, last and only prophet of the Mahra, the most dominant and accepted ideology imbued in a significant portion of the populace,

Jeth Ma was a brave soldier. He had been purveyor of hope during the old Hansing Wars. He had been a kind father. A wise teacher.A firm army general.A wonderful husband. Jeth Ma was handsome. He was muscular. He had a green eye and blue one-eyes that pierced the souls of those who found themselves latched onto his gaze.

According to the holy Mahren Scrolls of course.

According to the holy Mahren Scrolls, Jeth Ma had literally been hanging on a Manila rope for his dear life when a large yellow-eyed rat scampered over and nibbled his lifeline away, sending the beloved prophet plunging into the depths of Hunter’s Abyss. And the Mahra never gave him back because apparently and quite accurately, people are ungrateful beings wallowing in their own self-pity. Like warthogs in mud.

Jeth Ma’s unfortunate end sloshed around in Thian’s mind as he stared unblinkingly at the writhing creature in front of him.

Thian. Thian is the name of the raggedy schoolboy hunched over a rattrap, granola bar in one hand and the other one tugging at his hefty bag. There was a mischievous-looking yellow-eyed rat whimpering and hissing, its torso clamped down tightly by the trigger bar and rod. The black haired, dark skinned boy stared and stared, masticated chunks of his granola bar in his mouth.

School hours rarely bequeathed any excitement for the sixth-year students hurling themselves onto the courtyards and classrooms of Uhra Institute, the ‘gateway to success’ or perhaps more accurately, the ‘gateway to the City Council’. Most of the students ended up in the council one way or another. Most of the students spent their classes toiling away at history books and arithmetic and their recesses goofing and gossiping. Not Thian. He was a serial class-skipper.

The most solitary student of Uhra was entranced by a lowly gray rat behind the cafeteria amongst unhygienic wooden crates and trash cans. The cafeteria ladies plodded about their domain ignoring the open back door. Indifferent to the grime and muck around him, Thian laid his chest down on the dirty cement and watched the rat’s tail whip around.

“It must suck to be you,” he spoke. He poked the squirming rodent with the wrapped end of his granola bar and watched as it hissed at him.

Unperturbed, he went on.

“Everybody hates you, you know. Your kind murdered our prophet. They drop life sentences on murderers don’t they?”

Another hiss.

“But you just wanted food right? I’ve got news for you, rat. This cafeteria’s got the worst food in the solar system. Everything they serve looks and tastes like buffalo poop. I mean, I’ve never tasted buffalo poop myself but if I did, it would probably taste like what they dump onto our trays.”

Hissssss. And Thian could swear the rat was trying to scratch his preening face.

“Do you like granola bars?”

The rat was clearly getting more and more aggravated at the curious human boy’s rapt attention to his dire situation. Thian pulled himself into a kneeling position and placed a hand on one end of the trap. Another fit of savage hisses erupted.

“Relax mister,” he hissed back playfully, and yanked back the trigger bar as hard as he could, his knees holding down one end. The gray creature seemed alarmed at the unexpected assistance. Once it realized death wasn’t imminent, it made a bolt for the nearest stack of wooden crates.

“Hey, wait!” Thian found himself shouting. To his surprise, the rat froze halfway between the trap, its close encounter with death and the fish crate, sanctuary. It swivelled its tiny head around, its menacing glare meeting Thian. Trying to recompose himself, Thian extended a trembling hand.

“H-h-here. This granola bar is better than anything you’ll find in that cafeteria mister.”

An awkward moment of silence followed. The boy with the granola bar and the rat ogling back.

Klang!

A small cauldron whizzed past Thian’s head, missing it by mere centimeters landing noisily on the dirty cement behind him with a warning thud. The granola bar fell out of his hand and he crouched behind a wobbly stack of fish crates. One of the gungy cafeteria ladies must have spotted him. He could hear the sound of galoshes stomping his way. He craned his neck to reaffirm his assumption and sure enough, a burly big-breasted woman with terrible complexion was just a few feet away, frying pan tightly gripped in one hand.

“I saw yaboyyyy! What’d you do with that filthy creature huh?”

Ogre-woman Thian thought to himself. Thian looked around. The rat wasn’t anywhere. And his granola bar was gone.

“YOU!”

He turned to come face to face with the shadow of Madame Ofa, the most grotesque-looking of the three sisters who ran the cafeteria. Her nostrils flared, unfortunate snot spewing out like geysers. Thian didn’t dare meet her gaze.

“Recess isn’t for another hour! Get back to class boyyyy! Where’s my rat? I saw ya,” and like a bad punchline, she added,”boyyyy!”

Thian shuffled his feet for a few seconds, shrugged, and bounded off for History with Madame Kach.

“Where ya going boyyyy? Don’t you dare tell anybody ‘bout the rat ya hear?” the red-faced cafeteria lady shrieked after the fleeing schoolboy, pounding her frying pan against the crates, toppling it over,”Why can’t ya be like other kids?” 

Half a second trailed before the ogre-woman added, “BOYYY!”

Thian grinned to himself as he yanked open the fire escape door, and proceeded to speed past snout-nosed prefects patrolling the halls.

“That boy’s at it again, Trace! Report him!” one bespectacled prefect yipped.

“You report him! I don’t like what happens when we report the freak!” his peer responded.

Clothes reeking of whatever was smeared on the ground behind the cafeteria and shoelaces dancing in mid-air, Thian reached the door bearing 2C-MADAME KACHE. He was late. That was obvious. He peered through the little glass window. It’s not like it made much of a difference. Most of the class was already either asleep or halfway to slumber-land.

Madame Kache was a frail lady, gray hair in a painfully tight bun. In her pale gray dress, she floated around the room like a ghost, unfazed by the sea of bored faces. As wobbly as her nature seemed to be, tardiness was something she never forgave. She would seethe and snipe at any and every late student with derogatory choices of words. Madame Kache could make you feel like buffalo poop.

Thian knew.

This would be the ninth time he was late for her class. For the first time that day, Thian checked his clunky wristwatch.

12.29. He was almost half an hour late for history class. Madame Kache was trailing off into ‘war tactics used by Hansing soldiers.”

Thian sucked in what felt like a gallon of oxygen and heard the doorknob click as he pushed it open. Madame Kach’s glare had already pounced.

The solitary schoolboy  gulped.

Sonja gulped. And gulped. Her voice quivered.

“Oh dear, I’ve gotten the nameplate wrong. Oh dear!”

She slumped lower in her chair, pinched her nose and sighed, staring at the fancy-looking brass nameplate held in her hands. Sonja shifted unbeasily.

“She’s going to blow a billion blood vessels over this!”

“What have you done wrong now Sonja?” her pudgy-faced colleague weaved her way around a towering stack of boxes, each stuffed with countless files. She peered over Sonja’s shoulder and raised her eyebrows.

“You are in trouble, Sonja. Better get that fixed before she finds out.”

Sonja let out a heavy sigh.

“I know I should, Madame Mariel but she wants it today! The Prime Minister’s coming for a visit and…” she trailed off, despair sinking in the nameplate she gripped.

“And you’re going to be swallowed alive. Sonja. Sonja. Sonja,” Madame Mariel responded with a hint of a chuckle. A decade working under the city council as a clerk had honed her ability to shrug off problems faced by newer employees and interns. It was an absolute delight for her when they messed up.

“Maybe she’ll let it slide,” she said sarcastically to Sonja.

A snicker later and the snarky clerk was off to her own mahogany writing perch, leaving Sonja to wallow in her worry.

Sonja set the plate down noisily on her desk and checked her wristwatch.

12.34pm. Lunch hour was in 26 minutes. Prime Minister Jeb Walters was scheduled to pay the building a pre-election visit an hour after the main Abbadopolis city councilmen had had finished their lunches. 

Her boss had lunch by herself on the 5^th floor and would only stop by Sonja’s floor after lunch hour to collect any assignments or to assign new ones.  She glared down at the nameplate again. Sometime before 2pm, she was going to die. Or she’d be fired.

Unless she came up with a plan. Quickly.

“Oh Mahra, spare my life today,” she whispered to herself nervously and tucked the broad nameplate into a paper bag. She snapped up her purse and slipped into her heels. There was still a report to write up by afternoon’s end, but Sonja knew her priorities.

“Where are you off to now, Sonja?” busybody Madame Mariel hissed as Sonja passed by, heels clapping against the marble floor.

“Oh, I’ve got to get it fixed, Madame Mariel. I’ll be back as soon as I do.”

“Lunch isn’t ‘til 1pm,” the old clerk replied flatly. Sonja scowled.

“I’ve got to get this fixed before 2. You know that. There’s no way around it.”

“That doesn’t change anything, dearie.”

Sonja cringed at the word ‘dearie’. She knew superficiality when she heard it. Madame Mariel was a shark and new employees were helpless minnows. Whatever to that. She had already survived a few months and she wasn’t going to succumb to some nosy hag. Turning on her heel, she checked her watch again.

“No time. Get me in trouble if you must. I’ll just inform The Boss you smoke cigars on the 4^th floor balcony when you think everybody’s gone home. Have a pleasant lunch, Madame Mariel.”

Sonja swore her wristwatch was ticking away angrily, scorning her for the delay as she galloped off in her heels. Madame Mariel was left seething at her desk.

“You think you’re so smart eh? Wait, Sonja. Just you wait!”

The young college graduate smiled as she stepped into the spacious elevator. She could still hear Madame Mariel croaking rebuttals when the doors closed and the lift proceeded to descend to the lobby. The end of the nameplate was jutting out of the paper bag as if to taunt her. Sonja stared back at her reflection in the air conditioned lift.

Good. Her makeup hadn’t run yet. Maybe she’d redo her lips a bit later. Her black hair was styled into a bob to complement her tan complexion. All those subscriptions to fashion magazines had not gone to waste, she thought to herself, reviewing her attire. Sonja was grateful that employees at her level weren’t required to wear the cerulean robes the higher-ranking officials swept around the city council in. As elegant as the color was and as much as she highly revered the Mahra, those robes morphed every wearer into sad sacks of blue. Her mustard-colored shirt dress was comfortable and  striking. And the cheeky crisp tuxedo collar threw the frilliness of her garb off just enough to garner the compliment of secretary Madame Dahvi as she marched into the capacious domed lobby of the great Abaddopolis Hall, the overflow of lighting from the army of lit crystal chandeliers looming overhead.

“Hello, Sonja. That sure is a pretty dress you have on! I adore that collar!” the friendly Madame Dahvi chirped from behind her enormous foyer desk. The secretary’s desk lamp caught the million-watt smile and Sonja politely smiled back.

“Thank you, Madame Dahvi. You’re the only one to comment on it today. I bought it over the weekend. 

"Oh, and I adore your new perm!”

Sonja gave as she received. And her compliment was genuine.

“You’re off for lunch a little early aren’t you? Have you swiped out?”

And Sonja’s smile twitched slightly, eyebrows furrowed.

“Erm-I’ve got an important errand to run,” she hastily declared before adding “for The Boss.”

Madame Dahvi emitted a tiny gasp and waved her arms from behind her desk, ushering Sonja off.

“Go, go. I’ll see you after lunch. We really should have lunch sometime Sonja.”

Sonja huffed. How many minutes had she wasted at the lobby? She glanced at her wristwatch.

12.50pm.

“Oh Mahra!” she yelped and sprinted halfway to the revolving doors of the main entrance before discovering the difficulty in running in six-inched heels and wound up hobbling the rest of the way. A dribble of old councilmen in their traditional garb glided past her whispering to each other. Sonja brushed past them and caught a whiff of cheap cologne, garlic and what smelled like old lotion. This quickened her pace. The stench was unbearable and Sonja needed to get away. She stumbled to the doors and pushed forth.

“Smells like somebody bottled flatulence and decided to use it as a cologne. Eek,” she said to herself, shaking her head and crinkling her nose.

The sunlight hit her senses like an ice cube on a heated skillet. Sonja was so accustomed to air conditioned interiors, she had forgotten how excruciatingly hot Abaddopolis got during midday. Well, whether it bothered her or not, Sonja had a mission-she had to get the nameplate fixed before 2pm. 

And she would try not to let the myriad of street vendors and colourful shops entice her into spending her precious but flimsy salary. Or her growling stomach chewing out her common sense. No. Sonja wouldn’t allow herself to be distracted. Or she’d answer to The Boss.

12.54pm.

“Oh Mahra!”

And Sonja was off, immersing herself in the busy streets of Abaddapolis.

Thian glared at Madame Kache rummaging through her binder. What a terrible woman. She had given him a thorough scolding, peppered with snide remarks aimed at everything from his attire to his parentage. Thian didn’t mind the latter. He failed to understand the former. He wasn’t that dirty. Nevertheless, every time Madame Kache opened her mouth, something unpleasant would come out. When she uttered the word ‘detention’, Thian had balled his fists and stormed off to his seating position, tucked away in the back of the gray classroom.

The history teacher whipped around to face her whiteboard, marker in hand, and began to write. Any teacher foolish enough to turn his/her back to Thian’s class deserved what he/she got.

Splat. A single spitball was sliding down the ‘L’ in OLD HANSING WARS. Thian chuckled to himself. He wasn’t alone. A choir of snickers and giggles from those who were still awake rattled the stale classroom air. Madame Kache’s shoulders shuddered slightly, but she continued writing.

Splat.Splat! Two more spitballs landed on a diagram of Old Hansing War tactics. Another round of laughter. Madame Kache slowly turned around to face the class. The veins in her forehead seemed ready to burst.

“I do not care who is responsible for the balls of saliva. All of you are being punished! Detention for all of you! All of you”

Groans rippled across the seated students.

“And a test at the end of this period!” the history teacher made sure to enunciate each syllable, jabbing the air with her bony index finger.

Madame Kache’s tests were particularly difficult because nobody bothered to remember the barrage of dates and factoids she assaulted them with every Monday and Thursday. History was not a subject Thian could see himself passing. Well, neither could he imagine scraping by in his other subjects, but Madame Kache’s was the worst of the lot.

“Open your textbooks to page 451.”

Thian murmured a swear word before plunging his hand into his backpack. The fact that his history textbook even had a page 451 to turn to was incredulous to him. He set the ratty book down and searched for the page.

“Madame Kache?” a squeaky voice piped. The history teacher looked up from her book. The rotund bookworm, Alisa May, had her hand up.

“Yes, Alisa?”

“Well, seeing as I’m the only one who actually did my homework, maybe I could be excused from detention? I havepiano re-

“No!” Madame Kache screeched like a tortured bird. The rest of the class laughed as a red-faced Alisa May squirmed in her seat.

“Well, how about Thian then? You already gave him detention before you gave us detention. That isn’t fair.”

Particles of dust floated around Madame Kache, caught in the glare of the sunlight streaming in. Her face was twisted in an unpleasant expression of haughtiness. Thian gulped. His history teacher loved dishing out punishments.

“Yes, Alisa,” she said slowly “you are right. Thian. You will pick up the trash in Blocks A and C after detention.”

Thian could feel all eyes on him. He managed a casual shrug. If he had claws, he’d slash the smug look on Alisa May’s balloon face. As the class returned to their hefty history books, he stuck his tongue out at Alisa May, four rows in front of him.

“I saw that, Thian. I can call your mother anytime I wish to” Madame Kache spat. All eyes were on Thian again. He felt his cheeks flushing a slight pink. And before he could stop himself-

“Go ahead and call, Teach. Won’t matter.”

A ring of ‘ooohs’ filled the classroom before lapsing into dead silence. The only audible sound was the chrome wall clock’s persistent hands. The young schoolboy stared down at his scuffed up school shoes. 

He could hear Madame Kache approaching his table, each step laden with malice. Maybe she really

would call up his mother. Maybe she wouldn’t. Most teachers reeled themselves in before even dialling the first digit of his mother’s number. But Madame Kache thrived on fear and dangerous consequences. 

If she knew a student would get the beating of his/her life at home, she’d close in on her prey quicker than it would take for Thian to utter an ‘I’m sorry Teach.”

Thian could see the pointed tips of his history teacher’s gray shoes. Her fingers were drumming on his desk and her exhaling was very audible. Or maybe that was the sound of nostrils flaring. Thian didn’t dare look up. He heard Alisa May mutter something sarcastic though he couldn’t make out the exact words.

“Thian. What did you just say?”

The schoolboy didn’t reply. Thian was always chockfull of verbal rebuttals and replies, but he wasn’t sure of what to say to the aggravated history teacher. Maybe he’d make a run for it. He was fast. He had never seen Madame Kach run but he was sure he could outrun her lanky legs.

“Well?” and she tapped her foot impatiently.

No response.

“Then that settles it. Follow me to the principal’s office now, Thian. Gather your things and we’ll go r-

Bonnngggg!!

It was the Mahra prayer bell and at least for Thian, his savior. He sprinted for the door, making sure to pause in front of Alisa May for a quick but very audible ejaculation of ‘YOU’RE BUFFALO POOP ALISA MAY!’

As the rest of the class filed two by two to be led to the prayer tower, Madame Kach struggled to come to terms with Thian’s escape. Temporary escape, she thought to herself. She strode to her desk and reached into her turtle skin purse. Her fingers grazed the small LCD screen of her phone. Madame Kache smiled.

“Temorary escape, Thian” she whispered.

Sweat beads were parading down Sonja’s fatigued face, mucking up her mascara. More than 30 minutes consumed and she hadn’t managed to locate Ali’s Displays, the shop she had ordered the nameplate from. Abaddapolis’ streets were a quagmire of street vendors, unfinished government projects, and wailing beggars. Sonja was definitely not in one of the high-end boroughs of Abaddopolis, what with the shanty shops lining the wide back alleys and drunkards slumped in front of drug stores. Then again, Sonja could find drunkards flailing about in the high-end Nang and Rakk areas too.

She had ordered the nameplate from Ali’s Displays because some blogger had suggested it. According to the blog post, it was cheap and fast. That was true. But Ali, the shopkeeper, hadn’t followed through on his promise to make the change Sonja wanted. Her Boss was adamant that her middle name be left out. And no initials. Unfortunately for Sonja, she only found out the day after she made the call to Ali. She had sent him text messages. Probably a million of them. Each one wordy and each one stressing ‘NO MIDDLE NAME’ The only reply she had gotten was a disappointing ‘LOL. K’

A few months into her promising new career and Sonja could be fired over a crummy nameplate.

“Pretty girl, buy some pretty necklaces eh?”

“Cascade Valley lentils! Traditional! Authentic! One bowl just 5 Doits! Just 6 Doits with spoon!”

“Original Dr. Meh headphones!”

“Yeah, right,” Sonja muttered to herself, evading the barrage of street vendors shoving their goods in her face. The smell of lentils spoke to her stomach, but she pressed on. Each vendor cart had colourful little umbrellas blossoming over their sweaty owners. Sonja made sure to grab as much shade from the scorching sun as she could while navigating the streets.

Ali’s Displays was located on Palm Street the last time she checked, but trying to relocate Palm Street was giving her a headache. Sonja didn’t dare approach any of the seedy-looking vendors for help. No good came from being friendly to any Kampton resident. Most had tattoos. Sonja didn’t trust people with tattoos. Even some of the 10-year olds wandering around Kampton probably had tattoos.

Sonja was getting more and more frustrated with each stomp of her heels. She shouldn’t have walked to the area but the city trains were unreliable. She felt so tired now and she was sweating through her dress. And she couldn’t smell her Dinah Fort perfume anymore. Her hair felt icky sticking to her skin. If only Madame Dahvi could see her now.

“Hey lady,”

Another heckler. Sonja trotted forward, ignoring the street-dwellers and squinted to focus on faded signboards overhead. She was on Palm Street. Sonja didn’t realize the street was so long.

“Hey lady.”

Sonja could taste sweat on her lips. Sweat and mascara. She hoped the Prime Minister wouldn’t see her before she got her makeup redone. Her Boss would probably keep her out of sight anyway.

“HEY LADY!”

She whirled around to face a hairy street vendor with the most outrageous beer belly she had ever seen and yelled ‘WHAT? I’M BUSY HERE!”

“Busy doing what? Circling the same block four times?”

Sonja bit her lip. Four times?

“What are you looking for?”

The man didn’t look as threatening as most of the Kampton people wandering the streets. He had a rainbow-colored hand towel tucked into his left pocket, thought it was very stained with things Sonja was not interested in discovering what they were. Sonja tucked in her pride and wiped her sweat-drenched forehead.

“Ali’s Displays. I’m looking for Ali’s Displays. This is Palm Street right?”

“Right behind you lady. You should have asked me three rounds ago. Now you’re sweatier than a pig on a treadmill.”

Sonja turned around. There was a cluster of vendor carts. A row of faded green buildings stood behind. 

The signboard was hidden behind one of the vendor cart umbrellas.  Sonja sighed and checked her watch.

1.40pm.

“Oh Mahra!” she cried and hurried off.

“You’re sweaty! You want to borrow my towel lady?”

Sonja didn’t even bother to answer his question.

The Second Formers were marching towards the Prayer Tower in pairs, each class led by a teacher. There were 5 Second Form classes and they moved in orderly fashion. Each Form had their 30 minute turn at the Prayer Tower everyday. Good Mahrems recited three passages from the holy book in front of their statues once a day. Thian liked to spend this time huddled in a corner of the library instead of reciting Mahra prayers in front of the massive bronze hawk statue erected in the Prayer Tower’s first chamber. But today was different.

Thian was on the run.

He zipped past a gathering of prefects by the staircase preparing to oversee students making their way to prayers.

“Hey!” one of them called out as Thian bounded down the stairs. He had an idea of where he would hide until the end of the school day. There was always an empty classroom in Block G, mainly because aside from the first floor, the construction was incomplete. Situated a good 10 minute walk away, Thian figured he could reach there in half the time if he ran as fast as he could.

Uhra Institute had a total of 7 blocks to cater to the attending six Forms. Every block was 3 stories high, save for Block A with its Prayer Tower notching up 6 levels of its own. The older blocks were constructed of yard-thick stone walls, not unlike those of a medieval castle. But with Abaddopolis’ swelteringly hot weather, the students and teachers felt like dough being baked when cavorting the halls of these blocks.

It didn’t faze Thian though.

It was exhilarating to romp the halls of Uhra, messy black hair flying in his face. Frayed anti-smoking posters flapped as he passed and the pounding of Thian’s shoes on stone reverberated through each block he zipped through. There were halls upon halls lined with hundreds of little square windows, not unlike the ones used in old factories.

Aside from the Second Formers, every form was engrossing itself in classes. Most were doing so in quiet fashion. The loudness of Thian’s gleeful sprint prompted several teachers and prefects to explode into the halls with cries of ‘WHAT IN THE NAME OF MAHRA IS GOING ON?’

All this elicited laughter from mischievous Thian whose heart was overcome with the thrill of escaping the wrath of Madame Kache. He finally reached Block G’s first floor, panting and sweating. Thian looked around. It was eerily quiet. The newer blocks were made of good old economical cement. The walls were unpainted and untouched. Virgins. Not a single poster or spray-painted profanity.

Thian decided he’d settle in one of the empty classrooms and proceeded to a doorknob. He gripped the doorknob and clouds of dust rose up like angry bees. The door creaked slightly as he stepped inside the stuffy dark classroom. By the spillage of light from his entrance, he could make out a few chairs and tables stacked against a wall. There were two small windows barely letting any light in and Thian was disappointed to discover the fluorescent lamps on the ceilings didn’t work as he flipped the switch.

Just as soon as he uttered the words ‘Oh well’, he felt a stinging sensation on his left ear. Someone was pinching-no, clamping down on it with a vengeance. Thian yelped in pain.

“Not going for prayers, Thian?”

Madame Kache stared down on him, a look of triumph apparent on her aging face. Thian tried to wriggle out of her grip but for a frail old lady, Madame Kache sure was strong.

“Now then. Let’s make that call to your mother, shall we?”

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­Ali was a big burly bearded man with bushy eyebrows and English riddled with more grammatical errors than Abaddopolis had manholes. And the capital city of the Hansing Republic had a lot of manholes.

“What you want? I give you what you want no? Why you not happy?”

Sonja brushed aside her disdain and shook the brass nameplate in the taller man’s face. The shopkeeper seemed agitated, but Sonja didn’t care. It was 1.48pm and she was going to plough through.

“I sent you text messages! I specifically told you to not include my boss’ middle name or even its initial! No L! No L!”

Ali lumbered over to his cash register. His shop was tiny but crammed to the brim with an array of mock nameplates, stickers, and signboards in Arabic, (improper) English, and Mahren. The walls of Ali’s Displays were also swathed with clocks. Dozens upon dozens of angry ticking clocks. Arabic perfume wafting in from the back of the shop was giving Sonja a headache.

“Look, I don’t have a lot of time. Can you whip out a proper nameplate in-

She checked her wristwatch. 1.47pm.

“Oh Mahra! 10 minutes! Please? I’ll pay whatever I have! Just get it done!”

The rotund shopkeeper patted his belly and flashed a yellow grin.

“Now, even though I give you your nameplate-

Sonja waved her finger, “No. You gave me the wrong nameplate.”

“Even though I give you your nameplate,” Ali repeated,” I will make new one in 1, 2 and-

“Hurry up!”

“OK. OK. I go. Wait here.”

Ali wandered off into the backroom and to Sonja’s dismay, slammed the rickety door behind him leaving the anxious 24-year old to glare at her wristwatch. She ground her teeth and paced around impatiently. 

The only reason she had chosen Ali’s Displays for the nameplate was the price. Employee claims took forever to process according to Madame Dahvi regardless of whether it was 1 Doit or a million Doits. And 

Sonja wanted as much as possible to splurge on more soft dresses with tuxedo collars.

Ticktick. Ticktick.

It was gnawing at her patience. Sonja felt the urge to barge in through the backdoor.

Ticktick. Ticktick.

That was it. She grit her teeth and began to stomp off towards the closed door.

“Ah! You very lucky!”

Ali reappeared at the doorway, startling Sonja who wobbled slightly in her heels. She was so tired.

“Lucky? You’re kidding me right?”

Ali handed her what looked like a tangled mess of newspapers, cellophane tape and twine. Sonja glared at it like the shopkeeper had just shown her a rodent’s carcass.

“Take it! I did the right one when you send me so many messages.”

Sonja peered at Ali’s bearded face suspiciously and the two stared at one another. One face with a wry smile and the other twisted into a look of exasperation. But the chorus of ticking clocks snapped at the lingering moment and Sonja gripped the carelessly wrapped nameplate and gasped at the wall clocks.

1.53pm.

Sonja bolted for the front door, disregarding Ali’s howls for another payment. The sunlight was harsh. 

The street vendors began assaulting her with another wave of crude sales pitches And the roads were considerably busier than when Sonja left the city council building. She could still make it, but Sonja had to do one thing before pounding the pavement.

“Oh Mahra! Get me there in 7 minutes!” she yelled to the sky, freeing her aching feet from her six-inch heeled prison, and made like a starved cheetah after a gazelle.

Madame Kache studied the young face in front of her. It wasn’t one of contempt though it was a frown. 

The young schoolboy she had by an ear was clearly disappointed that there didn’t seem to be a way out. But his hazel eyes darted around the bright room searching and searching.

“Thian. I’m going to let go and you won’t try and run away. Because if you even so much as take a step towards the door, I’ll have you expelled. And won’t it be so much worse facing your mother then?”

Thian attempted to roll his eyes, but the history teacher tightened her grip. She shook her head. The boy was breathing heavily now.

“Why can’t you be more like your classmates? Take Alisa May for example. What a love-

“ALISA MAY IS BUFFALO POOP!”

Madame Kache was taken aback by the outburst still echoing in the empty room. Nostrils flaring, she dug out her phone and seethed.

“I have your mother on speed-dial, Thian.”

Jabbing at her phone vigorously, Madame Kache shot the overwhelmed schoolboy the kind of look boxers gave their defeated rivals. Thian let out a sigh of despair as he heard the unmistakable caller tone his draconian mother cherished-the opening passage from the Mahra scrolls recited by some old scholar with a bullfrog of a voice.

Madame Kache had won.

Sonja’s black leggings were stretched, torn, and soaked in sweat; her dress wrinkled with visible ‘sweatspots’ and her hair askew. She spent a millisecond wondering whether she should ‘freshen up’ before seeing her Boss.

“No time,” she hissed at her wristwatch. 1.59pm.

Wading her way through the mass of TV vans, cameramen and reporters, Sonja felt a ping of regret. She felt embarrassed in her messy state. A few reporters couldn’t resist awkward glances but she bound up the steep city hall stairs.  The young woman then burst into the building. The swarm of paparazzi awaiting the arrival of the prime minister in the lobby glared. A brief moment of silence ensued before the eruption of flashes blinded a wobbly Sonja.

“No! No! No! NO!” Sonja yelled histrionically, stamping her feet and clutching the nameplate. Every eye and camera lens was on her. Runny make-up on her blotchy red face, Sonja plunged into the sea of paparazzi, arms out as if she were swimming. The nameplate knocked a few photographers in the face eliciting a bout of swearing. Sonja didn’t care. She was frantically trying to get to the lifts.

Suddenly, she felt a small hand grip her right wrist and guide her through the maze of people. Everything was a blur and before she could shout at having her heels knocked out of her hand, Sonja found herself facing a line of gold lifts. Madame Dahvi was at her right, her trademark secretary smile in place. She began picking at Sonja’s wrinkled dress.

“Oh Sonja. You look-

“Did The Boss ask for me?”

“Yes, actually. A few minutes before you came in. You should change before you go and see her. Reapply your makeup and eyeliner. I’d love to help but I’ve got to get back to work. Prime Minister’s already-

“Here? Already? Then how come the press are still waiting for him to arrive?”

“They sent a decoy to Nang borough. If you think there are a lot of reporters here, you should have seen the fleet chasing the decoy. The ones here think he’ll be arriving soon, when in fact, he arrived when you-

“2.01 pm Madame Dahvi!” Sonja slammed her hand on the lift button pointing upwards. The doors slid open almost instantly and she hurled herself into the lift.

“Sonja! I really think you should make yourself look more presentable! I don’t-

But before Madame Dahvi could finish her sentence, the doors had closed and Sonja was on her way to the 5^th floor. She was face to face with her reflection again. Only this time, there was nothing to admire. No shoes. Her heels had drowned in that sea of people in the lobby. Her once chic bob now resembled an abandoned bird’s nest. Torn leggings. Crumpled shirt dress. Sonja smelled like a men’s locker room after a football game. And her face looked like melted ice cream.

“I can’t see her like this!” Sonja shrieked. But the lift doors had opened with a mocking ‘ding! 5^th floor’ and a stream of cerulean-robed officials entered the lift. Sonja stepped out, avoiding looking directly at the old men. They must have been staring. Or smelling.

The 5^th floor was the most luxuriously decorated of all the floors. It was quite possibly, save for the Cerulean Sky Temple a few blocks away, the most grand floor in all of Hansing. Sonja’s eyes trailed along the gold and platinum trimming on the walls and office exteriors, the marble hawk ornaments glinting in the chandelier light, and the elaborately painted mosaic swathing every inch of the ceiling. An army of painted golden hawks spread out gloriously overhead.

In the center of the rectangular room, a haughty-looking woman sat behind a computer screen engrossed in her stapling duties. Sonja walked briskly to her, trying and failing miserably to adjust her hair.

“Err, this is Sonja. Is Madame-

“Yes, she’s in. You know where her office is.  Hall to my left. Room at the end with the hawk’s beak doorknob. You’ve been called there so many times, you might as well just move your desk in front of her door, though...no, it won’t be necessary. She’s been looking for you.”

The woman peered at Sonja’s exasperated state and Sonja detected a hint of a grin.

“Go on now.”

Sonja turned towards the long hallway in front of her and started sprinting before

“No running!” hissed the woman at the counter and Sonja lapsed into a half-lope, half-tiptoe..

The hallway seemed to stretch forever to the nervous Sonja. She could barely see the end, though it was brightly lit. Old men in blue cloaks were exiting and entering doors, stacks of papers in arms and muttering to themselves. Sonja was careful to avoid attracting attention, but she needn’t have worried. 

The flittering employees were too concerned with their own work.

“Oh great Mahra, if the Ayer could be generated or mass produced or,” and a short man with a gray goatee paused to look at Sonja, “you. Can you not hear?”

“Err-what?”

“Listen.” He said before bounding into a nearby room and slamming the door. Aggravated but curious, 

Sonja strained her ears. She could make out a high-pitched shriek. A bird or some sort. Maybe a hawk. Several members of the city council kept hawks as pets and it was encouraged that they were brought to work so as to bring in good luck. Silly superstition. Or maybe not. If Sonja had a hawk, her day would have turned out better.

The shrill noises were emanating from somewhere ahead and Sonja could finally make out the dark mahogany double-doors and the distinctive golden beak-shaped doorknobs. She gulped. The shrieks were getting louder and louder as she approached her boss’ office. Dread consumed Sonja.

She found herself mere inches from the doors, the hawk’s beak glinting at Sonja under the lights overhead.. Sonja could hear two distinct voices deep in conversation inside the room. One a hoarse voice peppered with coughs and the other, the familiar one, an icy commanding one. A full minute plodded by before she mustered enough courage to give the dark wooden door a weak little knock. It was barely audible even to her but the sounds from inside came to a stop and a shuffling of shoes ensued before the doors swung open to a startled Sonja. 

Madame Kache was getting impatient. The boy’s mother was not picking up and with each passing round of the religious caller tone, she became increasingly aggravated, shifting in her seat, but never taking her eyes off the sulking boy in front of her.

Thian watched his history teacher, color seeping back into his face. Almost five minutes had passed and his mother had not answered Madame Kache’s call. He fought back the urge to flash his flustered teacher one his trademark mischievous nasty grins.

“This is not over. You still have detention. I wonder how your dear mother will respond to your late arrival. I am sure you looking forward to explaining to her why you will be picking up trash after school every day after school this week.”

“Every day? You said today! That’s not fair!”

“I have the authority to punish my students however I see fit! Arrrghh! This is ridiculous!” and Madame Kache chucked her phone back into her purse disgustedly. Thian glared. And she glared back. Thian was not pleased to be on the receiving end of Madame Kache fits.

“Go back to class already! Just because your mother is not available to talk does not mean she will not find out what is going on at school, Thian! Go! GO!”

She had stood up, pushed the desk in front of her hysterically. This alarmed Thian so much he emitted a little yelp. He swiftly left the room, careful not to lock eyes with the furious woman standing over the fallen desk like it was a carcass. Her breathing could be heard even as Thian closed the door behind him, but just before the door clicked shut, the naughty schoolboy whispered into the room a soft, but triumphant “Ha ha.”

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­ An elderly man clad in a cerulean blue cloak peered at Sonja through his rectangular spectacles. He was a few centimetres from Sonja’s trembling face. She averted his gaze and crinkled her nose. He smelled like...bottled-up flatulence. Her eyes caught sight of the Hansing Republic seal on the collar of his cloak. Alarmed, she snapped her head up and gasped.

“Jeb Walters!”

The prime minister was standing in front of her, one hand holding the door open, the other adjusting his glasses. He looked a far sight from the sharp tailored leader splashed across The Mahrem Gazette and Hansing Times. His graying hair was tucked under a high embroidered headdress of gold and light blue silk. Age may have scraped away at his hair and face, but his firm jaw remained square and clenched. Jeb Walters’ piercing blue eyes bore into Sonja’s own common brown ones.

“Yes. That is the name I was born into. And who,” he frowned and poked Sonja’s shoulder gently with his finger ”are you?”

“S-S-Sonja. Sonja Devi.”

“Sonja...Devi? Are you a Mahra?”

“You know me better than to hire otherwise, Jeb,” a cold voice spoke. Jeb Walters pushed the door open further to reveal an oval room of black marble floor and dark mahogany cabinets; a row of rectangular windows covered with heavy black curtains suffused any trickle of natural light that may have sneaked past the tinted windows. The single source of illumination emanated from a lamp perched upon a heavy raven writing table, a stiff high-backed chair behind it. Sonja’s eyes widened at the sight of the chair’s glowering occupant. A broad shouldered middle-aged woman, gray and black hair fastened into a bun with silver clasps. Donned in a teal blazer and crisp gray pantsuits, the woman sat cross-legged and scraping her desk with a long black nail. An opal-encrusted ring glinted under the desk-light. Sonja could make out the distinctive beak-like nose and the unblinking gray eyes drilling into her.

Sonja shuddered and clutched the nameplate. The prime minister faltered.

“Yes. Yes of course. Do you know this young lady?”

“She is my assistant, Jeb. What is it, girl?”

Still in shock at finding herself face to face with the prime minister of Hansing Republic, Sonja scrambled for a prompt verbal reply. Without thinking, she thrust the packaged nameplate out and blasted a slew of unrecognizable mutterings.

“Speak clearly, girl. I do not comprehend gibberish.”

“Here is the nameplate you wanted before...before-

“Before the prime minister arrives? Yes, well, as we both can clearly surmise, you are too late for that.”

And every syllable was drawled out at the expense of Sonja’s nerves. Her shoulders sagged but she held out the nameplate nevertheless, trembling. The elder woman seemed to be fiddling with something in her hands. Sonja’s boss let out a frustrated sigh.

“Another miscall from that teacher of his, More trouble for certain” she grumbled before averting her attention back to Sonja “Place the package on my desk, girl. Yes, come here now...Jeb, please close the door.”

The light flooding in from the hallway shut out as prime minister Jeb Walters heeded the woman’s request. Sonja was enveloped by near-darkness. She could only make out her boss’ thin red lips and sharp chin under the glare of the lamp. A guppy to an anglerfish’s lure, Sonja walked, entranced, to the desk. Though she could not see, she could feel Jeb Walter’s eyes on her back. The air in the room was cold and yet, sweat trickled down her back and her palms.

Thud. She placed the package down.

Silence. Then Sonja’s boss manoeuvred the package around slightly, picking at its sweat-soaked edges like Sonja had just presented her with mildew-ridden loaf of bread. Ali had sheathed the nameplate in brown paper and clumsily stapled its edges. It took but a few seconds to  unravel. Jeb Walters strode to Norma’s side and all three pairs of eyes stared down at the brass nameplate.

Sonja gasped.

The prime minister let out a disapproving ‘hmmm...”

And Sonja’s agitated employer remained silent for a moment. Her breathing was getting heavier. Sonja’s eyes had become watery, obstructing her vision slightly, but she could still make out why she would never trust a blogger’s recommendations ever again. There, embedded into the nameplate was her boss’ full name, middle initial included.

NORMA L.. MANN

ABADDOPOLIS CITY COUNCIL-HEAD OF MAHREM AFFAIRS AND CULTURE MANAGEMENT

 

“Is this what I asked of you, girl?”

“N-n-no, Madame. I-I-I-

“Did I not make it clear I did not want my middle name or its initial on the nameplate? Do you see what it looks like it spells?”

“Y-y-yes, Madame, b-but-

“And yet you still present this to me. Late and in a revolting state. I am not referring to the package, 

though it is gruesomely wrapped. I am referring to you. When the employees in this building see my assistant, the one I selected. You  reflect me, are you aware of that”

“I know! I’m sorry! I-

“Hair askew. Sweat-soaked. And you smell like a bodybuilder after a four-hour session at an outdoor gym.”

“Funny, Norma. She had the nerve to say I smell like bottled-up flatulence!” piped up Jeb Walters.

“When was this?”

“Around lunch hour, as I was arriving in the lobby. This is Italian cologne! Bottled-up flatulence my arse! I’m the prime minister! I’ll smell like a warthog’s backside if I choose to!”

Tears streaming down her cheeks, over her trembling lips. Sonja did her best to reign in any more tears, but the fact that she had said the prime minister reeked of fart within his earshot had struck her and a fresh gush of teardrops burst forward. She let out a barrage of apologies.

And Norma L. Mann cleared her throat and pushed the nameplate away.

“Sonja Devi.”

The young lady continued sobbing, cursing Ali the shopkeeper in between hiccups.

“Ali? Is this the name of the person responsible for this nameplate-this mistake?”

Sonja nodded hysterically. Maybe her boss would understand...

“Wrong, girl. This is nobody’s fault but your own. And I think,” and she leaned forward to allow the lamplight to catch her eyes. In the gray eyes staring up at her, Sonja saw an alarming calmness. Her voice steady, Norma went on “that your little remark regarding Prime Minister Jeb Walters’ choice of cologne is the last straw, don’t you?”

“N-n-no! Please! I need this job! My parents need this! I-

“You know, girl. When I interviewed you, I thought you were, out of the other applicants...the most like me. Punctual, meticulous, intelligent, and guided by faith and morals. You have the academic achievements certainly, but I fear I was wrong. Oh I despise making mistakes but it appears I did commit an error in hiring you.”

Sonja’s heart lurched.

“You have one working day to clear your things from your desk and arrange matters with the human resource department. I bid you good luck with your future endeavours, though if you would place more faith in the Mahra, I am certain luck is not necessary. You may” and she tilted her chin to the door 

“Leave now.”

It took Prime Minister Jeb Walters’ approving ‘harrumph!” and Madame Norma’s final address to her for reality to collapse into Sonja’s consciousness.

“You are fired, Mademoiselle Sonja Devi.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

I've got quite a few chapters in my laptop. I'm tentative about putting out there. I'll post the prologue and maybe the first few chapters. Feedback makes me nervous but I know I need it to improve and grow as a writer. So...bash away! Be brutally honest!

Reviews

[CecilA]

Normalmann! Great punch. I need a shower now.

Profound. I love it. I like the link with Thian. As I suggested earlier, your rewrite will reveal the items you need to redress. Also have you read the whole story aloud? It will help you with a couple of weak areas.

I can't wait for your next chapters.


Thanks for sharing this interesting story with us.

Sincerely,

Cecil A