Work Text:
We found them in the back of a turned over lorry that had gotten wedged in a storm drain. Paper lanterns. Hundreds of them. Or so I figure, since I can’t be bothered to count to be sure, and it’s hard to anyway since they come stuffed in compressed plastic bags. Without those bags, they’d be pulp, what with Harran having had plenty of storms to fill up the mentioned drains.
Crane insists we bring them.
There’s very little more set in stone than a thing Kyle Crane insists upon. The man has no concept of undoable or impossible. He says it’ll be so and it’ll be so. Plus, there’s a twinkle in his light brown eyes and there’s absolutely nothing I can do to defend myself against it.
“What you up to?” I ask, pointlessly.
He winks, squeezes my shoulder, and we get to packing.
* * *
We take the long way back to the Tower, which means we stop at two shelters; the market and the garage. Crane hands out a few squished lantern bags, gestures wildly back into the direction of the lorry (which had too many lanterns for us to carry at once), and I stand around with my thumbs in my pants pockets, avoiding the whole people thing as best as I can. That’s what he’s for.
Back at the Tower, I forget all about the lanterns the moment I fall into bed. My limbs are heavy. They ache. My scars are grumpy and my blisters got blister-babies. I’m done moving for the next millennium. I’m 90% asleep and 10% feeling sorry for myself when Crane makes his landing. He makes the mattress bounce. Steals my covers. And talks, running his mouth about his amazing idea and how Rahim loves it and it’ll be—
I smack him in the mouth. Gently.
* * *
Two more hard days— and a night out in the shit because Crane’s an exhausting moron and can’t give the whole hero shtick a rest —later, and he doesn’t let me go have dinner after we get back. Air-quotes up, Dinner, air-quotes down. You know the sort; scavenged mystery tins or thin vegetable soup with expired crackers. He marches me straight through the Tower halls instead and if I hadn’t been so tired I might have caught on how everything was uncharacteristically quiet. Abandoned, almost. No pre- or post-dinner kids flying down the halls chasing each other playing slay-the-zombie-with-wooden-swords. No gossiping on the thresholds of crowded homes. There were people, just not as many.
Crane makes me take all the stairs. Even the last ones up to the roof access door, which he holds open for me. A smell hits me (not a bad one) and I can’t immediately place it. My sad brain cries out in distress. What is it? We know it! It pulls out memory cards, presents them to me one by one, and finally lands on one that says BBQ.
There are people everywhere. Pockets of them are spread across the roof, which does its best to host everyone who’s come. Lights— bulbs dangling off wires —are stretched over their heads, mounted to the antenna at the very top and sloping down like a tent. Music floats through the air, rides along the murmurs of everyone’s idle chatters. I see speakers mounted in strategic locations, and I bet the wires go over to Rahim’s Radio Harran station.
He must be having a blast.
Speaking of.
Rahim bursts into view. He wears a bright grin and his green eyes are open wide and smiling.
“This is awesome, Crane,” he blurts— as if Crane needs any more encouragement cause I think he just grew another half-inch or his head got bigger —before waving wildly into the crowd. Yes, that’s what it is. A damn crowd. “Come on, we’re almost ready!”
I’m not daft. (Well, yes, I am.) I can imagine what it is and that it all goes back to the lanterns abandoned in a lorry.
Rahim scoots off, vanishes between the survivors that loiter under Harran’s night sky as if night wasn’t what you ought to fear.
My stomach rumbles. “Starving now,” I complain. “Feed me.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
* * *
Karim is manning the grills. There’s two. His apron declares him to be Smoking Hot and So Is My Grill and I know exactly who found that apron, looted that apron, and then gave him that apron. I throw Crane a look. He chucks back an innocent smile that shows a thin flash of teeth surrounded by his scruffy beard.
My burning question of what’s on the grill is answered when I notice the thrown open supply crate next to it that’s apparently been dedicated to meats and nothing but meats. I blink. Suppose it is theoretically possible someone did a BBQ-Harran GoFundMe out there, no?
I wince. Horrible choice of words.
Now the two grills make sense, too. One, I guess, is a no-pork zone while the other, more of a free for all.
“Heeeyy, Al Capone.” Karim waves at Crane with a spatula and then scoops two sausages on a plate. He thrusts the plate at us. “One for the lady, one for you.”
Crane huffs. “What’s that? Dinner for ants? Look at me, I’m a big boy.” He picks up one of the sausages, takes a ginormous bite, and wags its sad remains into the general direction of a steak.
Plop. A steak falls onto the plate.
We get some bread, too. A balanced diet, yay?
* * *
Crane has devoured his sausage long before we’ve made three steps. And after that it’s an exercise of walk, stop, talk to someone. Walk. Stop. Talk to someone. He knows everyone by name (unlike me, I keep forgetting) and always has the right sort of questions and comments to give. How that man keeps all that crap straight in his head is beyond me.
I do know Salma though. She’s got Sammy with her who is beyond delighted that he not only gets to stay up past regular bedtime, but he also gets to stay out. On the roof. Under the sky. The roof which has no railings, so Salma doesn’t exactly let him run. around and keeps a constant watchful eye on him.
Crane does some sort of knuckle-rap routine with the boy and then we’re off again and finally reach the edge of the roof where there’s fewer people — but a lot more paper lanterns.
* * *
Brecken, Lena, and Jade have apparently been busy unpacking them and laying them out on small picnic tables. Someone also went around and gathered lighter donations. A whole pile of fire starters sits in a basket on a lawn chair.
We join them, helping with the last few. I notice not all of the ones laid out are the ones we got from the lorry. There’s loads more. Handmade ones.
We work in silence. There’s no small talk between the Tower’s heroes (plus one), who are so used to talking about who’d risk their life next, that sometimes all they want is to quietly share the weight they carry. To forget about the burden for a while. And if no one opens their mouth, there’s less risk someone’ll dredge it back up.
Towards the end, Lena stretches her back out some, fishes for a cigarette and a lighter — and Brecken promptly snatches the cigarette from between her fingers and flicks it down over the edge of the roof. She’s been trying to quit. It’s going poorly, what with her being the only doctor in town, even if she’d finally managed to find two nurses to help. Brecken soothes her scowl with a grab for her hand so he can give it a loving squeeze.
A bit after that, we start handing them all out. Lanterns. Lighters. Matches. Smiles.
I get one too, but that doesn’t last. ‘Cause Crane didn’t. He puts on one of his weaponised pouts. Eventually, I surrender my prize. He lowers it though so I can light it. Got my own lighter for that, thank you, and sink-sssssnk the old zippo goes until its flame licks up and the lantern’s fire catches.
There’s music still on, something quiet and instrumental that drifts from the speakers like a whisper. People sing, but I don’t think anyone can decide on what, so there’s a disconnected, beautiful, gorgeous medley going on in I don’t know how many languages.
Crane lifts the lantern up a bit, lets go, and off it goes. Slowly, the valiant thing crawls for the sky. His hand lands on my neck. I lean into it and look up, then around a little, at everyone else who’d gotten a lantern sending theirs off too. Brecken shares one with Lena. Jade gave one to Rahim. Sammy gets one. Karim gets one— which I guess means the steaks are going to charr and the sausages burn —and one by one their lights crowd up into the star-studded sky.
Crane’s hand on my neck tightens and he directs my head with a push of a thumb. Out across the slums, spread all across, more lanterns rise. More safe houses. More shelters. They spring up everywhere, blobs of colours competing for glory next to the moon and stars.
There aren’t enough lanterns for everyone still clinging on to their humanity inside the Harran walls, so I guess the stars help. They fill the space for those who didn’t get one. And for those who’d not made it. Those who’d fallen. Lost. Those we mourned.
And I’m not so sure what the occasion is; why we’re doing this. Do we do it for them? To honour their memory? Or do we do it because, sometimes, you’ve got to get together — you and everyone you’ve got left — and light the sky on fire so you can see life is still worth living.