A Country of Ghosts by Margaret Killjoy

Author:Margaret Killjoy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: AK Press
Published: 2021-08-22T00:00:00+00:00

Obviously, alcohol only has the effect of borrowing happiness from the future, and waking up was harder on my body than I would have liked. But soldier habits—even those newly formed—die hard, and I couldn’t manage to sleep much past dawn, so I woke with an aching head and shoulder. Carsa and leftover potatoes were waiting in the kitchen, so that helped. And for a moment, when I was lost in my self-loathing for having caused my own hangover, I remembered that roughly a week prior I had been shot in the arm in the heat of battle—suddenly, a hangover seemed a pittance of a problem.

Sakana was in the kitchen, along with ten or so volunteers, cleaning the place.

“I’d like to help,” I said, while sipping carsa with my good hand.

“I’d like you to too,” she said, though I knew by then she was only teasing. “But you’ve got a genuine war wound and can’t really do much good.”

“There’s a lot of not much good I’m doing,” I said.

Sakana put down her scouring pad and walked up to me. “It’s fine. When I told you about everyone pulling their own weight, I think I might have glossed over the part where we help each other out.”

“Yeah, okay,” I said, not quite convinced.

“Let me show you around the festival,” she said. “You’ll barely recognize Moliknari from yesterday.” She hooked her arm through mine and we left the hall.

The city was indeed transformed. Bright banners hung from rooftops and an entire shantytown had been built overnight, leaving only narrow walkways through the streets. People snored on cots and on the pavement under heavy furs and wool, and the smells of barley grits and spiced meat filled the air as others began to cook breakfast.

The central square was mostly free of squatters. In the middle was a block of ice the size of a house, with scaffolding up its side and at least a dozen workers crawling over the thing with chisel and hammer, carving it into something.

“The town’s population more than doubles when we host a festival,” Sakana said, leading me past a makeshift ball court. Children from five to ten, bundled up for the weather, were playing some game that seemed to involve hitting one another in the head with a comically-large hollow leather ball.

“These people are from all over Hron?” I asked.

“In a summer festival, absolutely. A midwinter festival only attracts maybe a third the travelers a summer one will—most of these folks traveled less than a week to reach us. There are, I think, three midwinter festivals happening this year, spread out across the country.”

“What are they for?”

“Frenna,” Sakana replied.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll see.

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