Chapter One

POPPI

Poppi sat still in the crack at the edge of the world, her dangling legs at home in the jagged concrete jungle of a bridge left behind. She sat, eyes focused ahead, shivering as the early-morning wind wailed and whipped her. Her teeth chattered, tapping out a consistent, violent rhythm.

 Sighing, she looked back into Bantam’s Firestorm Forest, the overgrown trees crowding her view. She jumped up, dusted herself off, and began her ritual morning trek. Sticks crunched under her bare, muddy feet, keeping her in this moment as she wandered through her forest. The damp, earthy smell easing her anxiety and calming her nerves. Slowly, she weaved her way through the dense trees that had grown thick with moss, her feet digging into the ground that lay bare in the wake of her repeated footsteps.

The trees were deadly still as Poppi glanced around to get her bearings. Her feet automatically corrected, leading her slowly to the left. She jumped over the fallen trees with rough bark and broken branches. She could hear the chainsaws in the distance; the men and women of Bantam were already working tirelessly to meet today’s final quota.

Poppi stopped just short of the edge of the forest and peered around carefully. If she was caught wandering again, muma would ground her.

Poppi peeked out quickly before darting out of the forest. She hurried towards the four overgrown, weedy, vegetable patch fences that belonged to Bastian, Bantam’s famous farmer. Somehow, he managed to grow apples, cabbages, tomatoes, and beets, a feat when the soil is hard, dry, and unforgiving; and water is scarce except when it falls from the sky.

Poppi jumped his fence, waving to the watchful farmer as she ambled slowly back through the patches and towards home. As she got closer, she stared at the sky. It was still early, and the sun was already beating down.

Poppi snuck quietly around the back of her dilapidated house, needing to wash her mud-covered feet or muma would have proof of where she had been. If she was lucky, she would still be feverishly sewing, and Poppi could sneak inside without hassle. Poppi grabbed the bucket and scooped out a splash of water, the sun drying her feet as quickly as she washed. She quietly opened the makeshift front door, a faded blue curtain that kept out the sun, and crept inside.

She walked into the small room. The kitchen, dining, living, and sewing room were shoved together in a clean, but crowded all-in-one mess. Muma sat tucked in the corner of the room, piles of completed clothes stacked neatly around her, carefully coded. Each tower sticking to a clear colour scheme. 

“Poppi,” Muma croaked, clearing her voice. “That you?” Her mouth was full of colourful pins as she spoke. Her hands never seemed to stop weaving.

“’Course, who else would it be?” Poppi said. She casually went over to the bench, grabbing an apple and avoiding eye contact. “Need any help?” Poppi asked, trying to sound helpfully casual.

“Rebecca Rose Poppi.” Her tone changed. She turned to look at Poppi, her eyes narrowing from behind a teetering pile of golden shirts.

Poppi tried to smile sweetly, her fingers giving her away as she restlessly picked at the loose thread on the side of her dress.

“Don’t think I don’t know where you’ve been,” she said, watching Poppi carefully.

“G-gotta wash up,” Poppi stuttered as she quickly sidestepped her muma’s glare, shooting down the narrow hallway towards the bathroom. Poppi shut the chipped, wooden door with a click, and let out a sigh. She shuffled over to the basin where the shard of a cracked mirror sat, broken and jagged. Her face and body were covered in evidence from the forest, no wonder she could never sneak past her muma’s watchful gaze, even when she was on a tight schedule.

Poppi grabbed the decaying sponge and soap and started to scrub. She turned the taps on full blast and received an uneven dribble of water. As she washed, the water that shot down into the white, broken basin turned a dirty, speckled brown. Poppi shook her long hair back, grabbing a handful of pins. She pulled her blonde fringe out of her eyes, making sure to pin it back tightly behind her ears. Poppi’s hair was much too long for a wanderer, an explorer of Firestorm Forest. She twirled the rest of her hair into a tight bun, shaking her head back and forward vigorously to make sure it didn’t move.

Poppi looked back into the mirror at the rest of her face and scowled. Other than her bright blue eyes, she was very plain. Except, of course, for that god-awful, heart-shaped birthmark above her lip. Poppi pulled a funny face at herself and stuck out her tongue before turning on her heel and marching into her tiny bedroom. The air rushed out of her as she flopped down on her mattress, staring at the roof.

Poppi could hear her muma shuffling; her footsteps coming to a halt directly outside her door. She got up to open it, but she was too slow. After a couple of seconds, her muma’s footsteps quietly retreated away without a knock. Poppi exhaled, stepping towards her small improvised wardrobe, which was just a piece of plain, plastic pipe hung from one side of her bedroom wall to the other. There hung her four items of clothing, every piece Poppi owned.

She reached for the green dress in the middle, hanging up between her woolly, winter coat and her one pair of long, black pants. She stripped off her favourite wandering uniform. The multicoloured shift dress was made up of a mismatch of different leftover fabrics, sewed together with jagged lines, like a patchwork quilt. The dress still swam around her shoulders but had grown tight around her hips. Poppi didn’t hesitate, she switched the dresses out effortlessly, marvelling at the new dress she could finally wear today.

The green dress for the quota meeting was the nicest thing she had ever owned. Made from one piece of fabric, all one colour with perfectly sewn seams. For once, it was a piece of clothing that fit her like a glove. It was sleeveless and went down to her knees, but her favourite part was the hood that they had managed to create to cover her hair.

She carefully pulled it over her hair, smoothing it over to make sure it sat perfectly. It clung to every curve. She felt like a noblewoman.

Poppi sat, pulling on her polished, buckled, brown boots.

She was ready.

In the kitchen the piles of clothing around her muma had grown even higher in the last ten minutes. Each pile was teetering at least fifteen high. Without asking, Poppi grabbed the woven baskets down from the top shelf that hung in the kitchen above the small spice rack and began to fold—each type of clothing had a specific technique. They didn’t speak as Muma pinned the provided names onto the front of each basket. Six baskets were packed to the brim with handmade clothes by the time they were finished. The pair stood back, admiring their hard work. Her muma smiled; glad to have met her final quota.

Poppi slowly reached down and intertwined their hands, Muma squeezed her hand back tightly. Neither spoke, but the silence was enough.

It was time.