Author: Frank P Ryan; Markus Heitz; Christopher Golden; Sue Tingey; Stephanie Saulter; David Towsey; Naomi Foyle; Snorri Kristjansson; Tom Fletcher; Aidan Harte; Lisa Tuttle; Alison Littlewood; Rachel Pollack; John Matthews; Caitlín Matthews
Date: 2016-11-03 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: fiction; sf; anthology; kindle
Publisher: Quercus

The Jo Fletcher Books Anthology

Copyright

First published in Great Britain in 2016 by

Jo Fletcher Books
an imprint of

Quercus Editions Ltd

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK company

A Bane Returns © Frank P. Ryan 2016

A Special Taste © Markus Heitz 2003

Translation of A Special Taste © Sorcha McDonagh 2016

All Aboard © Christopher Golden 2007

An Imaginary Friend © Sue Tingey 2016

Discordances © Stephanie Saulter 2016

Frontsman © David Towsey 2016

Hebe’s Ocean © Naomi Foyle 2016

Karle’s Hunt © Snorri Kristjansson 2016

Mountain Radio © Tom Fletcher 2012

Saving Face © Aidan Harte 2016

The Curious Affair of the Deodand © Lisa Tuttle 2011

The Discord of Being © Alison Littlewood 2012

The Girl who went to the Rich Neighbourhood © Rachel Pollack 1984

The King’s Poet © John Matthews 2001

Three Gwenhwyfars © Caitlín Matthews 1995

Cover art © Howell Illustration 2016

The moral right of the authors listed above to be

Identified as the authors of this work has been
asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any
information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library

EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78429 790 9

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
businesses, organizations, places and events are
either the product of the author’s imagination
or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.

Typeset by CC Book Production

Bibliography

All Aboard, first published in the Stoker Award winning anthology Five Strokes to Midnight, edited by Hank Schwaeble and Gary A. Braunbeck, published by Haunted Pelican Press, 2007

Mountain Radio, first published in Weird Fiction Review #3, published by Centipede Press, 2012

The Curious Affair of the Deodand, first published in Down These Strange Streets edited by George R.R. Martin and Gardner Dozois, published by Ace Books, 2011

The Discord of Being, first published in Where Are We Going? edited by Allen Ashley, published by Eibonvale Press, 2012

The Girl who went to the Rich Neighbourhood, first published in Beyond Lands of Never, edited by Maxim Jakubowski, published by Unwin, 1984

The King’s Poet, first published in The Song of Taliesin, published by Quest Books, USA, 2001. This story has been slightly revised for this edition.

Three Gwenhwyfars, first published in Within the Hollow Hills edited by John Matthews, published by Floris Books, 1995

Title

Edited by Nicola Budd and Sam Bradbury

Contents

Introduction • Nicola Budd

On Continuation • Sam Bradbury

A Bane Returns • Frank P. Ryan

A Special Taste • by Markus Heitz

All Aboard • by Christopher Golden

An Imaginary Friend • by Sue Tingey

Discordances • by Stephanie Saulter

Frontsman • David Towsey

Hebe’s Ocean • Naomi Foyle

Karle’s Hunt • Snorri Kristjansson

Mountain Radio • by Tom Fletcher

Saving Face • Aidan Harte

The Curious Affair of the Deodand • by Lisa Tuttle

The Discord of Being • Alison Littlewood

The Girl Who Went to the Rich Neighbourhood • by Rachel Pollack

The King’s Poet • John Matthews

The Three Gwenhwyfars • by Caitlín Matthews

Introduction • Nicola Budd

Introduction

Nicola Budd

Almost two years ago now, JFB decided it was time to bring you a free ebook featuring all of our fantastic authors. Why? We wanted to make sure that everyone had the chance to experience some of the newest and freshest fantasy, SF and horror writing around (and hopefully you’ll want to check out some of the authors’ full-length novels afterward; trust me, they’re well worth it).

Having had this idea, we immediately wrote to each of our authors to find out if they had any stories they would like to donate to the project, entirely voluntarily – some stories have been in print before, and some are originals written specifically for this ebook. To our delight, we had a fantastic response: stories from JFB authors all over the globe, from Barbados and North America to Ireland, the UK and Europe, and I set about editing and collating them into one large document.

Unfortunately I left JFB before the project could be completed, but with the help of my successor, Sam, this project is finally off the ground. I do want to note something that is particularly important: each author has donated their time, their work and their skills to this project, they’ve been involved in the editing process, just as they would have been writing a full-length novel, and I hugely appreciate their positive response. They all deserve a massive thank-you.

So, without further ado, I’m going to hand you over to Sam, who saw this ebook through . . .

Nicola Budd

London 2016

On Continuation • Sam Bradbury

On Continuation

Sam Bradbury

Starting a new job can be an odd process. Everything is new; you spend the first few months either full of excitement for the new experiences you’ll have and the new opportunities that are coming your way, or terrified about those same new responsibilities and the new opportunities to do something wrong. But at the same time, nothing is new. Even if you aren’t directly replacing someone, you will usually be taking on at least parts of someone else’s previous role and can often be thrown into the deep end of someone else’s work-life.

I was lucky. Nicola had been at Jo Fletcher Books for four years and so she knew the ins and outs of the role like the back of her hand. She also stayed on for two weeks after I started to show me the ropes, which meant that taking over from her was a walk in the park compared to other jobs I’ve started.

So this anthology is dedicated to her. I may have helped it cross the finishing line, but it would never have been started if it wasn’t for Nicola, and it certainly wouldn’t have been completed to such a high standard if she hadn’t done the groundwork, both in terms of planning and in training me to Jo’s exacting specifications.

This ebook might not look or read exactly as it would have if Nicola had finished it, but I hope it is just as enjoyable: after all, it’s still the same stories and the same fantastic JFB authors, with the same amazing talent and the same generous natures.

Sam Bradbury

Nicola’s old desk, London 2016

A Bane Returns • Frank P. Ryan

A Bane Returns

Frank P. Ryan

As the first shadows of evening deepened over a surviving clump of wild woods, a fox scented its prey. Its nostrils twitched, amber eyes alert and glowing amidst a jumble of lichen-encrusted stones. In the cruel dance of hunter and the hunted, a field mouse scurried through brambles and bindweed, while rain pattered against the stones in a staccato rhythm.

These stones were ancient ruins: hammered, but in too rough a way to indicate a iron mason’s chisel. They were what you might find at the centre of a small stone circle, if the standing stones had long since fallen, or been taken, and the central mound and surrounding ditch were all but obliterated.

For four-thousand years or so the sacred ground around these particular ruins had endured its neglect. Now, the air crackled with a blue-green electrical charge. It was as if the sudden lunge of the fox, the heart-stopping squeal of the mouse, and the dripping blood were capable of evoking deeper memories of what had been commemorated here; the lingering echoes of a long-ago battle, warfare savage and devoid of quarter, ending in banishment . . . entombment . . .

Just a few droplets of blood over a stone! The fox could not know that the stone on which he caught the field mouse was a pentagonal capstone over a minuscule sepulchre, any more than it might be expected to recognise the stone as jet, known for its ability to store a curse. The pentagon bore the carved image of a skull-like mask with empty eyes – a ward etched into the jet by a bronze-bladed dagger. The fox was startled, and reared back as the capstone fractured with a sharp crack. And now – the seal broken and the ward lifted by the offering of blood – a vaporous exhalation, no more substantial than smoke, rose out of the crack and gusted and whirled about the mossy stones.

For several minutes its existence was a mere confusion of rage – all that had nurtured it during its age-old imprisonment. The emergent being had no eyes to see with; it had no physical senses at all. What flesh it had previously gathered about itself was long rotted away, clawed back by the unstoppable cycles of nature. Yet it retained an elemental awareness; enough to suggest that a living creature was nearby. The fox was entranced by the strangeness of the swirling cloud of greyish vapour sending out tentacles of mist in various directions, as if probing the rain-soaked world about it. The tentacles came close enough to be sniffed at by twitching black nostrils and then to be swiped at by a resentful paw.

In that shocking moment, as first physical contact was made, there was time for the fox to squeal – but the pain and fright were quickly silenced by the alien whisper that had taken hold of its mind. The paw was consumed as if a virulent acid had swept over and through it, absorbing its physical substance and form. Slowly – the pleasure was not to be hurried – the emergent being subsumed its living meal. It exulted in the growing awareness of its nature and the insatiable need that was its being.

Even as it assumed a more solid form, it sniffed through borrowed moist black nostrils. It accustomed itself to the scent of dirt and nature, to the pattern of the rain on living flesh, to the taste, on a lolling tongue, of alien chemicals that polluted the air it now breathed. A thunderous bedlam in the near distance afflicted its hearing, a noise so offensive to its new-found hearing that it suggested a very different world from that which it had been forced to abandon long ago.

Having assimilated this new host form, the fox-being began to move, clumsily at first, but adapting to the surety of sensitive paws. Darkness was rapidly falling; still, it kept close to the shadows. It slipped through an even darker tunnel in a tree-lined hedge to confront the source of the bedlam. A continuous stream of chariots charged by at extraordinary speed over a broad series of smooth blue-grey glistening tracks. Horseless chariots, with piercing eyes of blinding light and billowing stinking exhalations in their wake. Instinct bade it crouch low in the tall grass of the verge, eyes wide with alarm, nostrils twitching with the rank chemical smell. The shock of the spectacle caused the fox-being to retreat, its belly to the ground. Such a violence of speed, faster than any horse could possibly achieve, even the mightiest in full battle charge. And yet . . . It paused, now all the way back within the enclosing hedge. Now it had time to observe more closely, within each chariot were beings that looked cursedly human.

It crouched low in the verge, trembling and twitching, and all the while it continued to observe, welcoming the turn of evening into night.

One of the chariots came to a stop a short distance ahead, with two crimson eyes directed backwards, burning unblinkingly in the squalling rain. Consumed with curiosity, the fox-being slid through the grass to discover a human male outlined in a harshly bright light through the open door of the chariot. It peered up into the human’s face; a long face whose eyes were shrouded by rings of horn in which crystals were fixed. The human was consuming something: crumbs remained on its lips and fell over its lap, where fragments that smelled of meat lay discarded in a crumpled sheet of brilliant silver. Long-fingered hands now patted pockets within its covered thighs, discovering an oblong box from which it extricated a small white cylinder. Taking the cylinder to its mouth, it ignited the end with a flame and then inhaled the smoke. Slinking closer, adopting the host creature’s instinctive patterns of behaviour, the fox-being entered the outer halo of yellow light, to gaze aslant up into the smoke-shrouded face, its eyes alert.

The face of the human was periodically reddened by the glow of the cylinder, which it retained with marvellous balance within its lips. Only when the cylinder was consumed was it withdrawn from the mouth, to be discarded, in a fiery arc, into the surrounding dark. The fox padded closer, entering the oblong of bright illumination falling through the open door. It peered up at the bemused human within the chariot, at the discoloured tablets of its teeth, among which tiny tendrils of smoke still eddied.

‘Hello there!’

The fox blinked, whiskers twitching.

‘What you up to? Come for a little nibble?’

An arm was reaching out, those long, brown-stained fingers offering a fragment of the meaty food. They dropped it, with a gentle flick, so the morsel landed at the fox’s feet.

The fox sniffed at the food. It edged still closer, its head uplifted, every muscle trembling, ears erect.

The human reached down to brush the fur between its ears. The amber eyes of the fox gazed up into the blue of the human’s, watching for the change. They widened in concert with those of its new host in the moment the agony registered. The scream was lost in the thunder of the passing chariots.

Assuaging its appetite, it took longer to assimilate the human male, absorbing new knowledge, new memories. There was wonder to be gathered in this strange new world, with its extraordinary changes from the old – this world of machines! New opportunities were already presenting themselves. Another chariot had halted close by, a larger chariot that was a lurid orange in colour. In the looking glass above its human head, the being that was now part fox and part human watched as another human emerged, approaching the open door.

It was pleased to confirm that this host was a female. Her hair was tinctured an impossible shade of purple and bunched at the back of her head – like a closed fist – with a purple band. The foxy part of its being inhaled the curious mixture of odours that exuded from her presence – the hint of flowers mixed with the sweat of labour.

It spoke with the voice of the consumed man: ‘What you up to? Come for a little nibble?’

Her smile turned to a frown as she gazed in through the open door. ‘What’s the trouble?’

The man-face smiled.

It was close enough now to witness its reflection in her eyes. It saw its own pallid face, white as candle wax, and the circles within it that were its eyes. It spun the head through half a circle, to witness the woman’s head jerk in a frightened movement, as she stared at the fox’s face, with its amber eyes aglow with anticipation. A single long-fingered hand reached out . . .

The female screamed even before the shock of contact was made.

There was no rush to ecstasy this time. It savoured the pain of a much slower, inescapably messy consummation, the frenzy of terror that embroiled the mind. In time a third face was added to those of the fox and the man, the new face caught in what was now a never-ending scream. The compound oozed out of the chariot in a fluid amoeboid motion, discarding the coverings of male and female, which lay crumpled in the dirt.

Within its head a voice was calling. The response of the emergent being was still weak as a mewling new-born, lost in a world of incomprehensible change.

Some lingering instinct caused it to spit into the palm of a protruding hand and then wipe it, unconsciously, on the nearby bare flesh of an ample hip.

The composite being of fox, man and woman, gazed up into the night sky through three separate pairs of eyes, seeing not stars but the reflected lights of a great encampment. From the collective minds of its human hosts it had extracted a name: London. It perceived within the corrupting glow a telling conflagration of lines of force, converging onto a single focus . . .

The Sword is calling.

I heed! I come . . .

Frank P. Ryan is a multiple-bestselling author in the UK and US. His other fiction includes the thrillers Goodbye Baby Blue and Tiger Tiger. His books have been translated into over ten different languages. Born in Ireland, he now lives in England. His YA fantasy series The Three Powers, which includes the titles The Snowmelt River, The Tower of Bones, The Sword of Feimhin and The Return of the Arinn, is published by Jo Fletcher Books

A Special Taste • by Markus Heitz

A Special Taste
by Markus Heitz

Translated by Sorcha McDonagh

‘Could this be something for us?’ He took the magazine from the top of the pile and threw it across the breakfast table at her. ‘I’ve marked the place.’

Elaine caught it deftly, her dressing gown slipping down one shoulder and allowing him a full view of her right breast. Her flesh was perfect, her whole body flawless, just like his – attractive and oozing sex. When they went out together people of both sexes stopped and stared: Succubus and Incubus.

But they knew each other too well to get distracted. Ignoring her nakedness, she flicked through the magazine Unworld with her slim fingers, until she found the fluorescent yellow marks.

‘A website?’ she asked him, tossing a long strand of black hair over one shoulder.

‘It could be them. The kids’ dad mentioned a similar name.’

Her pale grey eyes skimmed the few lines. ‘Have you checked it out?’

‘You’re our technological expert.’

Elaine took a final bite of her bread roll, picked up her cup and disappeared into the study with the magazine. A series of beeps soon told him she had switched on the computer.

Computers were Elaine’s area. He preferred old-fashioned methods for finding information. Bars, backyards, youth clubs, nightclubs, homeless shelters, neighbours – those were his sources, not the anonymity of an abstract, virtual, parallel world. He found the very idea incomprehensible. Elaine, on the other hand, clicked and hacked. Her online alias was ‘DataDevil’.

Right now, they were looking for a seventeen-year-old girl called Magdalena. Despite, or perhaps because of, her name, she had been taken in by a satanic cult. When her father had found out he wouldn’t stand for it, so she ran away. He was upset and wanted her back. That would set him back €20,000.

He poured himself more coffee and stirred in four spoonfuls of sugar, then dipped a croissant into the dark liquid. The stainless steel coffee pot reflected his handsome features, his dark blue eyes unfathomable and mysterious. Women lost themselves in those eyes, forgot all their inhibitions. He looked marvellous as always.

The bedroom door opened and a sleepy brunette emerged, her clothes a mess. The nocturnal scent of perfume, sweat and fresh sheets wafted out of the room to the breakfast table. She went past him into the toilet and he listened as her urine splashed into the bowl. The flush went and she reappeared in the kitchen.

‘Morning,’ she greeted him. ‘Do you mind?’ She pointed to the coffee.

‘Sure,’ he agreed. ‘Help yourself. How was last night with us, Myriam?’

‘Marianne,’ the brunette corrected him sleepily, rubbing her face with her hand. ‘It was exhausting, but cool. Very cool.’

‘It took two years of your life, Marianne,’ he said, smiling at her with his perfect teeth, ‘so we had to make it worth your while. You gave us new life.’

‘Right,’ she smiled weakly, not believing a word he said.

He stood up, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, and pushed her head back to kiss her passionately.

She returned his affections, already groaning unintentionally. She was turned on – her lips parting hungrily.

‘Please leave once you’ve had breakfast. Elaine and I have work to do.’

The brunette looked disappointed but nodded. ‘Sure.’

He left her in the kitchen and – running a hand through his short, dark hair and slurping his coffee – went into the study to find Elaine sitting in front of the three big TFT screens with nine browser windows open at once. The sight always reminded him of a shrine, the modern equivalent of the triptychs that people used to kneel in front of and pray. Only the rituals and saints had changed. Her cursor flitted back and forth, rummaging around in cyberspace and panning for valuable information.

‘There seems to be several of them,’ she murmured absently, her eyes fixed on the monitors. ‘I’ve hacked into their server. The rendezvous is tonight, at 11pm, in the old convent ruins in Wörchweiler.’

‘Oh, please. Deconsecrated holy ground?’ he laughed. ‘I wonder if they think it works better that way?’ He touched her pale shoulder gently, leaning forwards and pulling the dressing gown to one side to nuzzle her flawless neck. ‘We’ll be there in any case.’

‘Not now, Gedeon.’ She said, pushing him away. ‘Do you have everything you need?’

‘No. I still need to get a Molotov cocktail ready.’ He straightened up, grinning. ‘See if you can find out anything more about them while I get the materials. Send them our email.’

In the bedroom, he put on his work clothes: simple black leather trousers, a white latex t-shirt and a shoulder holster for his sawn-off shot gun underneath a mid-length, wide frock coat made from dark synthetic nappa. His special sheath, containing a dagger with an engraved blade the length of a forearm went underneath his left armpit.

He took out the blade and examined it in the morning light that shimmered through the cracks in the shutters. It was a special weapon; both holy and unholy at the same time. It contained opposing forces, burning with guilt but also imbued with the purest power imaginable. He’d killed everything with it, good, evil and everything in between. Nothing could withstand it.

The brunette had disappeared, taking the memory of her name with her. He didn’t care what they were called. No matter how beautiful they were, they remained interchangeable, random. Disposable. But Elaine wanted them.

He left the apartment they had been living in for the last three weeks, picking up a plastic five-litre canister from the hall as he passed by and walking down ten flights of stairs.. The apartment was near the university clinic, cheap and anonymous. He had made sure of that.

*

He drove to St. Michael’s Church in their dark green 4x4. The main entrance was locked, so he found a side door and forced it open. He didn’t have time to wait for a priest to haul himself out and open up for him.

Inside, it was cool and dry, redolent with incense. Summer never penetrated these thick sandstone walls.

He began his hunt for ingredients. He found a container in the sacristy that someone had written ‘baptismal water’ on with a marker and poured it into his canister. He added the hosts and transubstantiated wine and shook the container, mixing the contents into a pale pink, sacred liquid with soggy nuggets in it. The Molotov cocktail was ready.

Satisfied, he took a seat in the front pew. His dark blue eyes contemplated the bright portraits of saints in the stained glass windows, the sun making their colours vibrant and bringing them to life. They looked benevolently down at him, blessing him with their glass fingers and unknowingly justifying what he was doing. He enjoyed the sight of them.

‘You have been stealing,’ came a voice from behind him, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged space.

Gedeon didn’t flinch. ‘It’s for a good cause.’

‘No, it’s not good. It’s making it worse.’

He finally tore himself away from Paul, Peter and Hieronymus, turning to look at the priest standing behind him in the aisle. ‘If it worked, I would tell you to go to hell.’

The man in the black soutane smiled. ‘No, it doesn’t work. You know I was sent by a someone else.’

‘It’s nothing to do with him.’

‘It does concern him. I’m meant to talk to you.’

‘It’s pointless. Tell him I’m saving a girl’s life. An innocent soul will be kept from damnation and her father is paying me €20,000. I’m freeing her from the clutches of evil people,’ he laughed wickedly. ‘The one who sent you ought to be happy.’

‘He would definitely think that is good. But your general behaviour is making him . . . uneasy. You are upsetting the balance and destroying order.’

‘Uneasy?’ He was silent and as he stared at Hieronymus, he seemed to wink at him. The saint was on his side. ‘I doubt it. He has no reason to feel uneasy. He’s safe from us.’ Gideon smiled at the priest. ‘Anyway.’ He stood up and stepped onto the polished marble slabs of the central aisle.

The clergyman blocked his path. ‘Think of the consequences!’

‘I couldn’t care less.’

‘Then I can’t let you leave.’

‘Try it, priest. You wouldn’t be the first I’ve had to kill.’

They stood facing each other, neither of them moving. Peter, Paul and Hieronymus held their breaths; their enamel faces looking scared and threatening to jump.

Suddenly the clergyman began to glow, giving off beams of his immeasurable love and getting brighter and brighter, hurting Gedeon terribly.

Half blind, he tore his dagger from its sheath and thrust it through the priest’s robes, slicing the man open from navel to gullet.

The blade did its job. The blinding light abruptly went out, the priest’s innards plummeting to the floor in a surge of blood. The priest fell to his knees and landed face-first in his own entrails.

Gedeon walked back into the sacristy to wipe himself clean – one of the benefits of Latex clothing. Then he left the church.

*

‘All ok?’

Elaine nodded, holding a hand to the wound in her stomach.

Gedeon had found her sitting on the floor of their living room, surrounded by four dead bodies. Beneath the torn sleeve of one of the corpses, was a symbol, inexpertly tattooed onto once tanned skin. The seal of their enemy.

Two of the attackers had been armed with pistols, the others had automatic rifles; all fitted with silencers. This was an execution squad, trained to act discreetly. Creating a sensation helped nobody.

The assailants had underestimated her, like so many others before. A single bullet casing lay on the carpet. That was the only shot they’d had time to fire before she’d torn their throats to shreds with her fingernails and teeth.

‘He sent them,’ she said and coughed up blood. He couldn’t tell if it was hers or her attackers’ – she sometimes got carried away and drank too much. ‘And shit, they’re getting better – they’ve never managed to get a shot off before. Shit.’

Gedeon knelt down in front of her, pulled open the blood-soaked dressing gown and examined the wound. ‘Brace yourself,’ he implored her, his hand gliding over the inner side of her right thigh and creeping promisingly close. ‘I’ll bring you the prettiest woman in town this evening,’ he promised in a whisper.

It worked. The finger-wide hole next to her navel began to close – slowly but surely. He kissed her as a reward and jumped up. ‘I’m going on the hunt.’ Gideon checked his watch. ‘I’ll be back in three hours, you have until then to clean up.’

Elaine smiled weakly and waved him away as she hauled herself up and staggered into the bathroom to pour acid into the bathtub. They always had acid on hand. There would be nothing left of the attackers when he returned.

*

The girl he found her was called Sabrina. She was sweet, eighteen years old and pretty as a picture. She had so much fun they were afraid her screams would frighten the neighbours. Elaine couldn’t get enough of her – Gedeon barely had to do anything.

When the brunette fell asleep three hours later, exhausted after giving six years of her life to them, they packed their suitcases, loaded the 4x4 and set off.

They drove away from Homburg, heading towards Wörschweiler. When they reached the car park in front of the old schoolhouse, they pulled in and waited.

‘By the way, he sent another one.’

‘Again?’ She was silent as she fished a cigarette out of the half-empty packet. ‘Where?’

‘In the church today. Where I made the Molotov cocktail.’ He took his dagger, pierced the plastic casing of the canister and taped up the holes with dark brown duct tape without losing a drop, just as he always did.

‘And?’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing special. But still . . .’ He grinned. ‘He must be worried.’

Elaine lit the cigarette and put on her sunglasses. ‘A good sign. We’re making progress.’ She puffed the smoke towards the roof of the car. ‘I sent them an email and got them worked up in an online chat,’ she said after a long pause.

‘So they’ll try it out?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ She watched a pedestrian walk along the pavement with his dog and glare at the 4x4 in annoyance. In a small village like this, unfamiliar vehicles stood out immediately. Elaine ginned wickedly at him and lifted her t-shirt up over her breasts, exposing her black underwear and a lot of flesh. The man shook his head and hurried away, dragging the panting, choking dog behind him.

‘Stop it!’ Gedeon ordered her. ‘No unnecessary attention.’

They fell silent.

‘What if it doesn’t work again?’

‘We’ll try another time. It’s obvious they don’t want to stop their incantations. Works for us, right?’

‘Yeah,’ she murmured unconvincingly, taking a drag on the filter of her smouldering cigarette

‘But it’s taking such a long time, Gedeon, and he’s escaped before.’

He ran a hand over her long black hair. ‘I know,’ he whispered, ‘I know, my dark angel. But I know we’ll get him this time. I can feel it.’

They lasted until 10pm, but then Elaine couldn’t sit still any longer. They grabbed the sports bag and the canister and left the car, walking up the rest of the hill on foot.

As soon as they were out of view of the houses, she opened the bag, handed Gedeon an automatic rifle taken from her assailants, grabbed a second one for herself and divided up the magazines. They left the bag behind a bush.

The convent ruins were perfectly located. It was deserted. They scouted the area, taking their time to get to know the lay of the land and finding a secure hiding-place with a good view of everything that would happen within the collapsed walls on this summer’s evening.

It smelt of wood, moss and old stones. Midges whirred through the warm air, looking for victims to slake their thirst. They approached the pair before suddenly flying away – some primal instinct telling them didn’t want to pierce that alabaster skin.

Around 11pm, a young man in black clothes appeared. He was sweating and carrying a heavy duffel bag. The insects swarmed around him, pouncing happily. Four more people arrived over the next ten minutes, two men and two women. Three of them began to set out red cemetery candles in the shape of a pentagram, whilst the other began to chalk cabalistic symbols on the monks’ medieval grave slabs. A dark blonde woman looked up from setting out the candles and argued with the drawer briefly about the pattern, but the young man – who the others called ‘high priest’ – quickly broke it up by asserting his authority and making the man with the chalk sketch the woman’s symbols.

‘They believed your email,’ he whispered in Elaine’s ear, kissing her on the cheek. ‘You’re good.’

‘I know,’ she replied and checked the positioning of her rifle. ‘Be quiet or they’ll hear us and get suspicious. I’m not waiting any longer than necessary.’

More people in black began to arrive at the hillside convent. Two brought a girl with them – clearly their prisoner – who was tied up and had a sack over her head.

‘That’s got to be her,’ he murmured.

‘She has a bag over her head. How can you tell?’

‘Just wait.’

The assembled men and women, none of whom were older than twenty-five, began to strip, also undressing their prisoner, but leaving the bag on her head.

Gedeon was the first to spot the tattoo on her back: a dark blue butterfly with a black skull on the wings.

‘It is her. Her dad told us about that tattoo.’

The high priest of the ‘Unholy Order of Satan’ – when she heard that, Elaine struggled not to laugh out loud – began his incantations, while his assistants laid the bound woman on a grave slab and forced her legs apart.

But the high priest did not stick to the directions.

Instead of taking her in the name of the prince of hell, as the gathered men and women expected, he took a step towards his assistants. The dagger flashed gold in the light of the candles and he sliced the carotid artery of a surprised man.

Gedeon smiled. Everything was going exactly as planned

Two other men leapt forwards and grabbed hold of the dying man. They dumped him next to the tied up girl, shoved her carelessly to one side and pushed him onto the stone, muffling his screams with a gag.

The sweet scent of fresh arterial blood reached Gedeon as it pumped from the wound and soaked the grave and the symbols. The high priest began the invocation.

Elaine clicked her tongue in satisfaction.

The chalked symbols darkened, a soft tremor ran through the hillside convent, shaking the old ruins. Walls swayed, rocks plummeted to the ground.

The high priest faltered. He apparently hadn’t counted on his ritual actually succeeding. That was the perennial problem with hobby and dilettante Satanists.

‘Damn it! Don’t stop now!’ snarled Gedeon impatiently. Elaine was fidgeting next to him, ready to leap into action.

The priest uttered the final words of the ritual, and then it happened. A red-tinged arch of darkness appeared in a flash and stretched towards the sky. It materialised like a black spot on reality, an opening to the end of the world. The edges were moving, undulating, and heat poured out of the void.

The high priest shrank back, but he couldn’t escape the greedy tentacles that sprang from the opening and seized him. Screaming, he was pulled into the blackness. There was no gratitude waiting for him on the other side. Elaine and Gedeon knew that all too well.

‘Go!’ Elaine commanded, startled as a helicopter suddenly flew overhead and hovered above them. Neither of them had heard it coming.

The wind from the helicopters rotor blades tore at their hair and clothes and knocked the candles over, spilling liquid wax over the stones and on the ground. A searchlight cut through the half-light on the hill with a penetrating, almost blue beam and bathed the members of the sect in luminescence. Putting their hands over their faces to shield themselves from the wind and the searchlight, their naked bodies looked deathly pale and vulnerable.

The mystique of the night was shattered – reality returned, dazzlingly bright and mercilessly brutal. Yet the opened portal remained. It defied human laws and by its very presence drove rationality and physics ad absurdum.

‘Police!’ The cry echoed through the night air. ‘Stay where you are!’

Loud bangs rang through the undergrowth as a SWAT team, decked out in helmets and bulletproof vests, stormed the ruins on three sides. The sect had been betrayed.

Elaine remained unfazed by proceedings – she only cared about one thing. She fired at the closest officer sending him to the ground with three precise hits to the neck.

Cursing, Gedeon picked up the prepared canister and followed her, laying down cover fire, and forcing the helicopter to retreat. He killed two more police officers after they managed to land hits several times. He felt the impacts to his body, but took no further notice of them. He could easily survive a few bullets. He dropped the gun and his dagger jumped into his hand of its own accord.

The portal was getting closer, but it was also shrinking, whoever controlled it evidently sensing that danger was approaching. Great danger. The shadowy tentacles darted quickly forwards once more, snatching four of the distraught devil-worshippers, and then the portal closed further.

Elaine cried out in disappointment and rage. ‘Throw it!’ she ordered. ‘Now!’ Gedeon threw, the duct tape remaining in his right hand.

The perforated container with the holy water, transubstantiated wine and hosts flew through the air, tracing an arc and disappearing into the darkness. The blackness dispersed immediately, smudging like liquid ink until it was gone.

Silence fell on the hillside convent once more. Only the whimpering of the bound girl and the groans of the wounded and dying police officers disturbed the peace. The faint sound of helicopter blades faded as it disappeared into the distance.

*

‘Shit!’ Elaine screamed in frustration. At the sound of her voice everything green in the vicinity shrivelled and died. She threw the assault rifle away. ‘So close!’ she growled, her voice full of hatred.

Gedeon took a deep breath. If anything he was more disappointed than she was. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that the portal would close before they could reach their enemy and deliver the deathblow. But it looked like they would be denied revenge again – at least for today.

He contemplated his dagger. It didn’t look anything special, but appearances could be deceiving. It had been crafted from the spearhead that had pierced Jesus of Nazareth’s side, consecrating itself in the blood of the most holy. It had wounded the Redeemer, been burdened with the gravest guilt and yet was blessed. A terrible weapon.

He had tracked it down after they’d been banished and had used it in their quest to annihilate their former master and the other spirits that had betrayed them ever since.

Gedeon was convinced it was possible. Andras might have been the Great Marquis of Hell, the Infernal Angel, the Sower of Discord, the Grand Duke of the Underworld in the form of an angel with the head of a tawny owl, but Gedeon knew his weaknesses and was not afraid to exploit them.

Andras had taught them to kill; he had taught them strife and hate; he had appointed them Chief Commanders of his sixty-three legions . . . and then he had disowned them, robbed them of most of their powers and flung them to the earth.

Because of one small mistake! And nobody had done anything about it. Not even Vagares, Asmoday, Samigina or Vassago. They had just sat back and watched. That’s why the fires of hell had to go out.

Gedeon stroked the blade with reverence, as he had done so often before, before sheathing it once more. This was his secret weapon. A single stab to Andras’ heart would be enough. Gedeon possessed the only weapon that could hurt him, and yet they had no way to reach him. They couldn’t get home. Not without help anyway. The ability to create portals to those levels was one of the powers Andras had stolen, and so they needed gullible people to do it for them. Gullible people who had no idea that the ritual they had stumbled across online would actually work.

So far so good.

Haures, Duke of Hell, and Senior General of the Underworld with a hideous face and fiery eyes, no longer existed.

Marax, an earl who appeared as a large bull with a human face, had been killed by the holy blade, his thirty legions of spirits unable to protect him.

Valefor, a spirit with the body of a lion and a mule’s head, died too, as did the arrogant Agares, Duke of the eastern part of the underworld, known as the Demon of Courage.

After the murders, he and Elaine had returned to the human world to gather their strength. The Dukes’ powers were weaker on earth and so they were forced to send their earthly servants instead. As if a human could ever pose a threat to the siblings.

They had caused such a stir that even God had taken notice – they made him ‘uneasy’, or so the priest had said. He didn’t like that they were carrying out their Armageddon with his son’s blood, polluting the holy relic and endangering the balance between light and shadow.

Since then, they had been hunted. Disguised angels and masked demonic knights alike were desperately trying to stop them from getting revenge.

He and Elaine killed their pursuers indiscriminately. The only thing they thought about was vengeance – they didn’t care about the Redeemer’s blood, or about the balance between good and evil, and they cared least of all about what would happen when their campaign was over. If hell was empty, that left more room for them.

*

‘Let’s go, Elaine,’ he said softly. ‘The police are coming with reinforcements and I’m not in the mood for a shoot-out.’ His wounds were still healing. His body would soon be flawless again, attractive, appealing to both sexes, but for now he was exhausted.

Elaine staggered. ‘I knew it,’ she whispered in despair, her black tears sizzling as they touched the earth and left scorch marks. ‘I knew we’d fail. Andras is winning. He is watching us and laughing. There’s no hope. We’re doomed to chase him forever . . . ’

‘No! No, we are not!’ he interrupted her and took her soothingly in his arms. ‘We will get him, just like the others. He will feel the pain he inflicted on us. Revenge will be ours!’

They kissed deeply. He desired his sister, as he always did, but he kept himself under control. There was no time for sex on the forest floor.

Instead, he threw the tied up girl over his shoulder and Elaine snatched up their 20,000-euro captive’s clothes, and they took off at a run, leaving the ruins behind. The few remaining devil-worshippers gazed after them, dazed. Maybe next time they’d be more careful what they wished for.

*

‘They’re gone,’ reported the SWAT team member, his voice muffled by his helmet and balaclava. ‘The couple. We lost their tracks near the farmyard. They must have stolen the farmer’s car. We’ll keep looking.’

He nodded and the officer went back to his colleagues.

‘What a mess,’ said Superintendent Wendlandt. Around forty and unremarkable-looking, he pointed at the corpses of the people who had bled to death. ‘That makes another of them and three more of our people. All because of some obscure mysticism. How daft do you have to be to believe in the devil, Schmidt?’

The handsome Detective Chief Inspector turned to his colleague. Recently, they’d been working together in the special investigative team ‘Hel’. Given he was at most thirty, he was doing well. Tailored suit, glittering career, unbeatable. His dark blue eyes bored through everything and everyone, which gave some people the creeps. ‘Surely you’re not an atheist though. Don’t you believe in God?’

Wendlandt’s brow creased and he hesitated. ‘Of course I do. Just not that nonsense about an old man with a beard.’

‘Exactly. So, do you think the devil has cloven hoofs, a tail and horns?’

‘Um . . . No?’

‘Do you go to church and pray, and things like that?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you think that you are listened to by God?’

‘Sure . . .’

Schmidt had a triumphant smile on his lips, ‘So why should the devil’s disciples expect any less?’ His mobile went off: the apartment belonging to the two suspects they had been chasing had been searched and suspicious traces had been found in the bathtub. Acid and organic remains. A woman had been found in their bed, but she was suffering from extreme exhaustion and it was unlikely she’d had anything to do with what had happened here. He told Wendlandt this.

‘Well, then we can assume that this is our devil couple. They’ve struck yet again. Damn it, we almost had them,’ the superintendent spat. ‘How were we supposed to know they had a bloody arsenal of weapons with them?’ He watched as a dead SWAT team member was taken away; his lips pressed into two thin lines. ‘I swear we’ll get them, even if I have to slaughter them myself.’

‘I’ll pretend I didn’t just hear that.’ Schmidt ordered him to arrest the devil-worshippers and ensure that they received both medical attention and a psychiatric evaluation. A proper interrogation would have to wait until they stopped babbling. Rubbing his face, he looked at the crime scene again. His eyes narrowed.

*

He knew the symbol on the grave slabs well. It belonged to Andras, who was getting on very well with his master at the moment. Fear united them.

When he considered the crime scene again, exhibits 217 and 218 caught his attention: blood traces. He knelt in front of them and examined them closely. The splatters were darker than usual, almost black.

Looking around to ensure nobody was watching him, he dipped his little finger in the clotting fluid, licked the tip and closed his eyes with relish.

A special taste spread across his tongue. Hot, sweet, rich, full of power and sex, with nuances of bitter rage and insatiable hatred.

Gedeon, he smiled calmly. He was finally on the right track.

Markus Heitz was born in 1971; he studied history and German language and literature. His debut novel, Schatten über Ulldart (the first in a series of epic fantasy novels), won the Deutscher Phantastik Preis (German Fantasy Award) in 2003. His bestselling Dwarves trilogy has earned him a place among Germany’s most successful fantasy authors. His Legends of the Älfar series, Aera: The Return of Ancient Gods series and other standalone novels are published by Jo Fletcher Books in the UK. He currently lives in Zweibrücken, Germany.

All Aboard • by Christopher Golden

All Aboard
by Christopher Golden

That dreadful autumn, Sarah Cooper woke in the small hours of the morning nearly every night and lay in the dark, back toward her husband, the memory of their dead son filling the space between them.

During the day the tension did not weigh so heavily. Sarah and Paul wandered the house only dimly aware of one another, ghosts haunting their own marriage. Resentment and blame hung in the air like static building before a thunderstorm. Sarah knew that she ought to try to comfort her husband, but Paul did not seek her out, nor did she look for solace in his arms. Cruel and capricious happenstance had taken Jonah from them – a bacterial infection, a spiked fever, an ambulance too slow to arrive – but they had to hold someone responsible, and each found fault with the other, and guilt in the mirror.

They couldn’t stay in this house much longer. Sarah would never survive it. 57 Brook Street existed now as a museum of sorrow. Jonah had bounced on the sofa, bumped his head on the coffee table, marched his walker across the kitchen tiles as a baby, and slept in his parents’ bed almost as many nights as his own. The toys had all been packed away, but his room remained with its books and stuffed polar bear and the dinosaur border that ran along the top of the bedroom walls. Sarah kept that door closed, but could not bring herself to take down the pictures in the living room and the downstairs hall and from the bureau in her bedroom. Her hairbrush had brushed Jonah’s hair. His Spider-Man cup hid at the back of a kitchen cabinet, waiting to be remembered; waiting to remind her.

How did Paul stand it? Sarah didn’t know. They avoided the conversation most of the time. That seemed even worse because it felt like they were trying to pretend Jonah had never been there – that they did not grieve. But Paul made an effort to talk around the absence of their son, just as he usually avoided meeting her eyes.

By October, they spoke only when absolutely necessary.

When Sarah found the fuzzy Scooby-Doo costume she had bought Jonah over the summer, unable to resist even though Halloween had been months away, she crushed it against her chest and wept into the costume, brown fabric soaking up her tears. Then she put it into a box of Jonah’s things that she planned to donate to the Salvation Army. She never mentioned it to Paul, and as Halloween approached, he never asked.

In the second week of October, she woke in the night with only the glow of a distant streetlamp filtering through the window. It must have been two or three o’clock in the morning. After so many weeks of such awakenings, she knew sleep would not be in any hurry to return, so she lay and listened to Paul’s rhythmic breathing.

The gulf between them had grown over the weeks since Jonah’s death, expanding a little at bedtime every night. They hadn’t had sex in all that time, though there had been times in the small hours of the morning when she had needed so badly to be held, to be touched, to be loved. But night after night they lay back-to-back, shoulder and neck muscles bunched with tension and expectation, and they edged further away, widening the gap between them.

A glow of moonlight draped across the shadows of their bedroom and the gauzy curtains billowed with the crisp autumn breeze. Sarah lay on her side and stared at the windows, at the curtains, and at nothing. The windows rattled with powerful gusts – the weather changing, winter drawing nearer – and she heard the skittering of dry leaves across the driveway and the front walk.

Then, off in the distance, the lonely whistle of a train.

Sarah had heard the sound every night for nearly two weeks. At first it had been barely audible, so that she had trouble determining its origin. Each night it seemed to become louder, though of course the train tracks couldn’t be any nearer. In all the years she had lived in Dunston, she could not recall ever having heard the sound before, never mind seen a train. It must, she told herself, only run late at night when the town slept, when only insomniacs and grieving mothers might hear it.

She listened as the whistle faded and felt a terrible longing, wished she were on board that train, bound for destinations unknown.

When her tears came, she let them slide down to dampen her pillow. Her husband did not stir, but Sarah was not surprised. Paul had long since stopped being stirred by her tears, even in the light of day.

She slid nearer the edge of the bed and watched the moonlight and the billowing curtains and listened to the shush of the autumn leaves blowing across the lawn. In time, sleep would claim her again, tears drying on her face.

Sarah would hear the whistle of the train in her dreams, where she held her tiny son in her arms and rocked him, singing him softly to sleep on the way to his own extinguished dreams.

*

The new offices of Sterling Software had been built just at the edge of town, near a narrow metal bridge across the Kenyon River. Window glass winked in the morning light as Sarah drove over the bridge, her travel mug rattling in the cup holder on the dash, spurting up a dollop of coffee.

The Kenyon River meandered southward under the bridge. In the spring it roared, but in autumn it remained a gentle whisper. She followed the road northeast on the other side, coming around a corner, all the while keeping the Sterling building in sight. It stood at the top of a hill that had been transformed into a mini industrial park, complete with a Comfort Inn and a TGI Friday’s restaurant. Sarah barely saw any of those buildings. In truth, she barely saw the road or the rich, harvest-hued foliage of the trees around her. Her focus was on driving to work, and she could do that with her mind on autopilot.

The dashboard clock read 9:12 a.m. Late again, and she felt badly about it. A tremor of discontent passed through her. Exhausted, she’d rushed to get ready, and the mirror had reflected both her tiredness – in the dark crescents beneath her eyes – and her haphazard attempt at fixing her hair and putting on makeup. Get your life together, Sarah. You’re dropping the ball. But the advice sounded hollow. She couldn’t convince herself that any of it mattered. Work. Sleep. Face. Life.

The car jittered over train tracks, causing her coffee to burble again.

Sarah frowned and tapped the brake, slowing down and glancing in her rear-view mirror. She’d been over those tracks twice a day every day for more than a year, ever since Sterling had moved to the new location. There were no railroad crossing signs, no flashing lights, nothing.

Another few minutes won’t matter.

She put the car in reverse and backed up, checking to make sure no other cars were approaching. At the tracks she braked again, pausing to peer both ways along the line. Grass grew up between the wooden ties. The rails themselves were dark with rust. In either direction the tracks curved away into trees and undergrowth that had begun to encroach over the years.

Sarah shook her head. No trains on this line. Not for years.

As she drove on, she could not help but glance at the mirror. The memory of the whistle from the late night train lingered, and led her to thoughts of Jonah and her dreams.

No. Work.

If she thought about Jonah, she would be useless at work. They had been more than kind, had offered her as much time as she needed to mourn. When Sarah had announced, after six weeks, that she was ready to return to her receptionist position, the office manager – Ellie Poole – had asked if she was really ready. Sarah had thought it a foolish question. How could she ever be ready to go to work, to put her loss behind her?

But at home all that awaited her was the museum of sorrow, the constant reminders. Her co-workers’ sympathy made work little better, but at least she could find distraction there.

Sarah found a parking spot near the front of the building and climbed out. She dropped her keys, then swore as she bent to retrieve them and slammed the door. With her purse over her shoulder and her coffee in hand, she hurried up the walk to the front doors. Inside the glass and chrome lobby, Martin stood at his security post, one ear bud of his iPod in place and the other hanging loose. When he looked up and saw her, his face blossomed into a warm smile. The young guard seemed to be the only person at Sterling who could be genuinely happy to see her without his warmth devolving into pity.

‘Morning, Sarah.’

‘Hi, Martin.’

Behind the reception desk, a secretary named Laura Rossi gave her a grim look. Ellie had obviously shanghaied her to substitute until Sarah showed up, and the wide-bottomed, curly-haired woman did not bother trying to hide her displeasure. Sarah was almost glad that Laura didn’t tiptoe around her.

‘Let me guess – car trouble?’

‘I’m sorry, Laura. The last time, I swear.’

The woman got up from the reception desk and sighed, rolling her eyes, but she waved the apology away as though Sarah’s tardiness was no big deal.

‘It’s fine. Martin’s good company.’

Martin grinned broadly. ‘I was serenading her.’

Sarah managed a thin smile. Martin liked to sing, but softly, mostly to himself. She never minded, but she suspected that someone as generally uptight as Laura would be driven near madness by the man’s musical mutterings.

The phone began to ring. Laura shot it a dark look, then turned her back and went through the door into the main offices. Sarah hurried over and picked up.

‘Sterling Software. Can you hold, please?’ She put on her headset, then took the caller off hold and transferred him to the north-eastern sales manager.

‘Some people can’t seem to figure out how to use an electronic directory,’ Martin said.

Sarah nodded, but broke into a yawn.

‘Don’t do that,’ Martin protested, yawning in reply. ‘It’s contagious. No fair.’

‘Sorry, just didn’t get nearly enough sleep last night.’

‘Pretty much every night, isn’t it?’

His face and voice were kind. The question wasn’t an intrusion. Martin never intruded on her grief. If she didn’t want to answer, he would not mind. But Sarah found him warm and easy to talk to.

‘I fall asleep all right,’ she said, pushing her hair away from her face to meet his gaze. ‘But I wake up in the middle of the night and then it takes me an hour or so to drift off again. It’s weird what you hear at night, though, y’know?’

Martin removed the ear bud and held the cord in his hand. ‘I do. The quietest noise seems much louder in the middle of the night.’

‘Yes!’ Sarah said. ‘During the day I can’t even hear the clock ticking, but at night it’s so loud. And now I hear the train every night. I almost listen for it.’

The security guard gave a soft laugh and a shake of his head. ‘Now you’re just fooling with me. That’s not nice, Sarah.’

She stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on. The Three-Eighteen? I’m not falling for that old story. Didn’t believe it when my grandmother told it, either.’

A tractor-trailer growled as it pulled into the parking lot and continued around past the building, heading for the loading dock in back. It distracted them both for a moment. When Sarah looked back at Martin, he was studying her curiously. She sat forward in her chair.

‘What’s the Three-Eighteen?’

His eyes became narrow slits in his dark face a moment and then widened with sudden realisation. ‘You didn’t grow up around here, did you? I forget sometimes.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘Nope. My family comes from upstate New York. I moved here with my father when I was thirteen.’

‘Right, right. You’ve told me. Sorry. He worked at the mill, right?’

‘Worked and died there,’ she said. ‘So, what’s this train thing?’

‘Just a local ghost story. Most towns have a house all the kids think is haunted and I’m guessing we do, too. But the story that always gave me the creeps was about the Three-Eighteen. My grandmother used to talk about it and the counsellors at camp used to tell it around the fire, along with the ones about Hatchet Mary and the Hook and that kind of thing.’

Sarah frowned. ‘So, it’s a ghost train?’

‘That’s the story. Passes by every night at 3:18 a.m. ‘Carrying the ghosts of the ones folks can’t let go of,’ my Gram used to say. And it’s only those folks, and people near dying themselves, who can . . .’

The words trailed off.

Breathless, Sarah stared at him. ‘Who can what?’

Martin gave her a sheepish grin. ‘Who can hear it. That’s how all those old stories go, y’know? Supposed to creep us all out. That way if you hear a train whistle after dark or something that even sounds like one, you’re supposed to think it’s the Three-Eighteen come to collect you.’

She dropped her gaze and stared at the marble tile beneath her chair.

‘Sarah?’

His voice made her flinch. She looked up. ‘I hear the whistle every night.’

Martin laughed and came over to her desk. He splayed one strong hand on the counter where people laid out their ID to be allowed inside.

‘Sarah, come on. It’s just a story. Whatever you’re hearing, it’s something else. Got to be some late night road works, smoke venting from the damn sneaker factory or something. But it’s not a train, and it sure as hell ain’t the Three-Eighteen.’

She took a long breath and let it out with a small, self-deprecating laugh. Of course, Martin was right. Sarah felt nauseous just thinking about the few moments she’d spent seriously considering the campfire tale as truth. Every town had local folklore.

‘You okay?’ Martin prodded. His wide eyes were full of concern. ‘I shouldn’t even have mentioned it, but you brought up the train whistle and I just figured you were teasing me. This isn’t the kind of thing you ought to be thinking about.’

‘I’m okay,’ she promised. How to explain the numbness inside and the gulf between herself and her husband? How to explain that the word ‘okay’ had entirely lost its meaning for her. Paul had always liked grim novels about the destruction of human society or the ecosystem or worse; he called it post-apocalyptic fiction. But Sarah was living a post-apocalyptic life. People who hadn’t been through it couldn’t possibly understand.

‘You sure? It’s only that you never seem like you’re all here, if you don’t mind my saying. Ellie Poole’s been bitching about you coming in late and, well, looking kind of run down.’

Sarah couldn’t believe it. Ellie, who’d been so nice, was sniping behind her back after what she’d been through?

‘Bitch,’ she whispered, glancing around at the doors that led into the main offices, just in case the bitch in question might walk in and overhear her. ‘Am I in trouble, Martin?’

‘Not that I’ve heard. I’d have told you. But that could change.’

Sarah nodded. Of course it could change. The second Ellie figured that Sarah had had enough time to mourn Jonah’s death that she couldn’t file a wrongful termination law suit, the witch would come gunning for her.

With a sigh, Sarah sipped from her cooling coffee. ‘Guess this is the last late morning for me.’

A Mercedes slid through the parking lot and into a space. Martin put the single ear bud back in place. He and Sarah both watched as a man stepped out of the Mercedes and started for the front door.

‘Y’know, if sleep’s the issue, you oughta get your doc to prescribe something,’ Martin said. ‘I took that one with the butterfly once. You know, the one in the TV ad. Worked like a charm.’

Sarah straightened her top and smoothed her skirt, trying to look as professional as she could in spite of her state of mind. As the dark-suited man from the Mercedes opened the door, she glanced at Martin.

‘I tried pills. They just make me more tired in the morning,’ she said.

Then she smiled at the visitor. ‘Good morning, sir. How can I help you?’

The man spoke and she barely listened, her thoughts still on Martin’s suggestion. Sleeping pills would have been such a blessing, a respite from restless nights. But the few times she had taken them, they had interfered with her dreaming. And her dreams were the only time she could be with Jonah.

Nothing mattered more than that, including her job. Ellie Poole could go to Hell.

*

‘Have you ever heard of the Three-Eighteen?’

Paul looked up from his plate – he’d made them a risotto that had once been a favourite for both of them, but now tasted bland to Sarah. Everything tasted bland to her now.

‘You mean that old story about the ghost train?’

‘Yes.’

He shrugged. Even his indifference had sharp edges, cutting her with disdain. ‘Sure. When I was a kid we’d all talk about it. Go out to the tracks. One time I camped out down there all night with Jimmy Pryce – remember Jimmy?’

Sarah shook her head. She didn’t. Paul was two years older than she was. She’d only been in high school with him for his senior year and then he’d graduated. But he’d lost touch with most of his old friends over the years. Whoever this Jimmy Pryce was, he hadn’t sent them a card or flowers when Jonah died. The parade of faces at the funeral were a blur to her – she couldn’t remember who had been there or not – but the cards and flowers she recalled perfectly.

‘No? Jimmy thought you were pretty hot when you transferred in from New York.’ He smiled, and perhaps for a moment there was a glimmer of hope and life in his eyes, of happier times. It dimmed, as it always would, forever after.

‘Anyway, we camped out down by the tracks one night. Spent the whole time scaring the crap out of each other with flashlights and telling ghost stories. When you’re a kid you believe that stuff, deep down, even though you’ve gotta act like you’re too mature to believe it, and too tough to be scared by it.’

Sarah pretended to smile – a peace offering. Then she went back to the flavourless risotto with Paul studying her closely. Their conversations had been infrequent in the past few weeks, and often tense. They talked around and above things and never addressed what lurked below.

Jonah would never hear the story of the Three-Eighteen. He would never camp out by the train tracks and tell ghost stories, never go trick-or-treating or have a friend like Jimmy Pryce, whose antics he would look back on fondly when fatherhood and dreaded maturity came along and the hard climb toward forty had begun.

Forty. At thirty-two, Sarah felt ancient. Sometimes she thought about what it would be like to be truly old and abandoned, stashed in some nursing home, all her passions diminished or taken away, waiting for it all to end. Waiting to die. This didn’t feel much different.

‘Why do you ask?’

The tone of the question, the awkwardness in his voice, put a chill between them. It should’ve had the opposite effect. Here he was, trying to have a civil conversation about something more than the weather or perfunctory work-related trivia, but it felt so forced that Sarah only tensed up further.

‘No reason. I heard someone talking about it today and was surprised I’d never heard it before.’

‘You were fifteen by the time you moved here. Probably too old for ghost stories.’

Again she forced a smile.

Paul took another bite of risotto and they descended into the sort of funereal silence to which they had become hideously accustomed.

Jonah had had his father’s eyes.

Sarah managed a few more bites and then endured several minutes more at the table before allowing herself to rise and bring her dish to the sink. ‘I’ll clean up later. I’ve been wanting a bath all day.’

She’d been taking a great many baths of late. Paul had remarked on it only once, two weeks earlier, and she had told him tersely that she needed the alone time. He’d had no response for that. Once she might have confided in him, told him what she really did during those long evening baths with the radio playing up on the shelf – that sometimes she touched herself and tried to remember what it was like to be alive and in love and full of lust, and sometimes she used the edge of a razor blade or her tiny scissors to scratch and lightly cut her flesh, trying to discover if she had the courage to cut deeper and let herself bleed.

Either way, whether searching for passion or pain, she cried. With the water hot and steam rising, sometimes she even pretended to herself that there were no tears.

*

Her eyes snapped open and she inhaled sharply. Something had woken her, tonight. It took a moment for her mind to make sense of the thumping bass coming from a car passing by at the end of the street. God, that was loud. Some kind of post-modern blues-funk like Amy Winehouse, and it wasn’t drifting off the way it should have been. The car had stopped for some reason.

Rubbing her eyes, Sarah slipped from beneath the covers and went to the window. She pulled the curtain aside and tried to peer out into the dark toward the end of the street. Not much breeze, but the night pulsed with the beat of that song. There came a laugh, the slam of a door, and then the car roared away. Some mischief going on down there – the kind of thing she and Paul might have gotten up to, once upon a time.

Paul had left the window open wide and Sarah backed away and hugged herself tightly, shuddering. Even without a breeze, the night was cold. The weather had shifted again, but New England was always like that.

With a frown, she realised she had been unconsciously rubbing the bandage on her forearm. She had gotten a bit carried away with the scissors in the bath tub. That’s one way to look at it, she thought, sleep still clouding her mind. Her arm ached where she’d cut it, and she hoped it had not become infected. If Paul noticed, that would be difficult to explain. Of course that was an enormous ‘if’. He barely saw her any more. She might as well be made of glass – a window where a woman used to be.

The clock ticked loudly on the nightstand. Once they had kept a baby monitor there and the sound of Jonah turning restlessly had kept her alert. But now there was only the clock and the soft breathing of the automaton who had taken the place of her husband.

Sarah watched Paul sleeping. He had mastered the emotionless mask that he wore during the day, but could not control his unconscious mind. His features were tight with sorrow and consternation. His dreams brought him the nightmares he spent the days attempting to evade.

Beyond him, the clock on the nightstand read 2:13 a.m. Sarah blinked and stared at it and the display clicked over to 2:14. She turned toward the window. The gauzy curtain seemed like a veil, now, but though she could not see as far as the Kenyon River from here, she did not want to look out across the town.

She climbed back into bed, sliding deep beneath the covers. On her side, she pressed her eyes closed and slid one hand under her pillow, an exaggerated pantomime, as though she could fool her body into thinking it was capable of falling right back to sleep. But experience had taught her better.

For fifteen or twenty minutes she lay there, stubbornly persistent. When she surrendered to the inevitability of her insomnia, she opened her eyes at last and glanced around at the moonlit glow of her bedroom. Paul breathed softly beside her.

Sarah wanted to scream. If only her sleeplessness could have been made incarnate, turned into something she could kick and punch and claw. But it could not be fought. Especially tonight. Just as she had been pretending to herself that it would be possible to simply fall back to sleep, she had also avoided acknowledging the conversation she and Martin had had in the foyer of Sterling Software that morning.

Again, she glanced at the clock: 2:37, and Paul still sleeping, so peacefully.

Sarah slid from bed and grabbed her blue jeans, pulled them on. She’d been sleeping in a light blue T-shirt she sometimes wore to the gym and didn’t bother with a bra, just pulling a fuzzy red sweater on over it. With another glance at Paul, she took a pair of socks from the drawer in her nightstand and went quietly downstairs.

She paused only once, while tying her sneakers, to wonder what exactly she hoped to accomplish. Her chest tightened with anticipation, a kind of giddy excitement that might have been hysteria. Then she went out the front door and pulled it quietly closed behind her. Her car was parked inside the garage and the automatic door opener made a lot of noise, so she took Paul’s Cherokee.

As she pulled out of the driveway, her hands were trembling. She didn’t click the headlights on until she reached the end of the street and turned onto the main road. The dashboard lights cast an industrial gloom inside the car and the radio played low as she drove away from home, following the same course she took on her way to work.

The clock on the dash read 2:49.

Sarah hit the gas and the car lurched forward, speeding up. She couldn’t be late.

She travelled as though she herself were a dream, gliding through the sleeping town in the small hours when night seemed darkest. Nothing else moved but the wind. In that surreal landscape, anything seemed possible.

At 3:11, her headlights picked out the old bridge over the Kenyon River. Sarah slowed as the car shuddered across the bridge, black water rushing past below. When she hit the pavement on the far side, she turned left and gunned it, tyres squealing. All through the drive she’d managed a zen calm, complete with steady breathing and a quick but even pulse. The sound of the tires broke her focus. Her face flushed with heat and she felt her heart pounding in her chest as she sped along the road that curved beside the river.

Without a railroad crossing sign or any other warning, she came up on the abandoned tracks too fast to stop. She rocketed over the tracks before hitting the brakes and skidding to a halt on the shoulder of the road.

3:14.

Sarah killed the engine and just sat there for a few seconds, hands on the steering wheel, listening to the car cool and tick and settle. If she gripped the wheel hard enough, her hands wouldn’t shake. She felt her throat closing and her eyes brimming and she bit down on her lip.

Go home. Stupid girl. There’s nothing for you out here.

Of course there wasn’t. Why had she really come here? What did she expect, racing across town in the middle of the night, chasing ghosts? You’re losing it, kid, she thought, grinning in the dark enclosure of the car. Just losing it.

But that was bullshit, too. She’d lost it the day Jonah died, and had never gotten it back. Trying to pretend otherwise had been her sole occupation ever since.

With a shaky laugh she took the keys from the ignition and popped the door. The night wind gusted, whipping her hair across her face, crisp with the rich scent of autumn. From somewhere came the smell of a wood-burning stove, carried on the breeze, and it made her realise that she was not the only one awake. Not alone in the dark.

She slipped the keys into her pocket and shut the car door, then started walking toward the tracks. How many minutes left? Just a couple. Sarah stepped onto the tracks and looked in both directions. The moonlight only dispersed so many shadows, but enough to see that nothing about the tracks had changed. They were overgrown and unused, nearly buried in some places.

Closing her eyes, she raised her arms, imagining the 3:18 coming. Would it pass right through her, or run her down? Or might it, instead, pick her up and carry her away? Her eyes snapped open and she crumbled inward, wrapping her arms around herself. With a deep breath, she stepped off the tracks, beginning to rub her thumb across the bandage on her wrist where she’d cut too deeply. Last night she’d almost been brave enough to join Jonah.

A long minute passed, and then another. Sarah glanced back and forth along the tracks, and then put her face in her hands, aware of how seriously she had deluded herself . . . of just how lost she had become.

Then she heard the whistle. It came softly at first, a distant, mournful cry. She caught her breath. It was the same sound she had heard night after night as she lay in bed, unable to sleep. Sarah pulled her hands away from her face. Barely able to breathe, she turned to the left, staring along the tracks.

The whistle sounded again, moving closer, so much louder. Louder than she’d ever heard it.

‘Oh my God,’ she whispered, shaking.

Unblinking, she stared along the tracks, but there was no sign of any train. She stood just at the edge, where the metal rail was sunk into the pavement. The whistle came again, this time so close that she winced at the sound. She could see nothing, but now she could hear the chugging of the train.

Mouth agape, Sarah took a step back.

The whistle blew, and the scream was so loud she covered her ears. Then the wind struck her, the hot blast of air displaced by the passing locomotive. Eyes wide, she stared at the place where it ought to have been, but saw only the road on the other side of the tracks and the trees on the riverbank beyond.

And maybe something else. The night air seemed to ripple, to have texture, just a hint of substance. Sarah glimpsed a face through a window. She blinked and other faces flashed by in the zoetrope flicker of passenger car windows. They streaked across the darkness in the space of seconds. Still there was no train, nothing but the night and echoes and the chuff and clank of a machine she could not see.

One of the faces was Jonah’s.

A blink, only. There and gone in the fraction of a moment. The strength of her hope and grief could have summoned his image. But Sarah knew. She’d seen him.

‘My baby,’ she said. And then she cried. ‘My baby!’

She fell to her knees beside the tracks as the wind from the passing train diminished and then subsided entirely, the whistle growing distant. After a while she crawled forward and put her fingers on the old rail. The metal was so cold. Sarah lay down there in the road for a while, body across the tracks. A car might have come and run her down. The thought occurred to her, but she thought that wouldn’t have been so bad.

Sometime before four o’clock, she staggered back to the Jeep.

*

Paul let her sleep in. By the time Sarah rolled out of bed on Saturday, it was after ten o’clock. She took her time showering and getting dressed, then went downstairs and had a glass of orange juice. It had been a dreamless sleep, and when she’d woken it had taken a minute or so for the mist to clear from her mind. When the events of the previous night came back to her, Sarah felt herself suffused with a profound contentment. Her soul had been empty for so long, but now it began to fill up again.

Jonah was gone from this house – from the world, even. But he was not out of reach.

The front door was open. Sarah went out onto the steps and saw Paul raking leaves in jeans and a New England Patriots sweatshirt. He looked so much like the old Paul, the one who’d loved her before he started hating himself. If only she could have stepped down onto the grass and by doing so enter the time before Jonah, when he would have welcomed an embrace on the lawn, when Paul had been playful and his eyes bright with possibility.

‘Good morning,’ she said.

Her husband looked up. For a moment he smiled as though he’d forgotten all the loss and resentment, but then she saw it draw like a veil across his face. The illusion shattered.

‘Morning, sleepy head,’ he said. Sarah appreciated the effort to be cordial. ‘You must’ve been up all night.’

‘Pretty much. After I woke up, around two, I couldn’t get back to sleep until it started to get light.’

He leaned on his rake, real concern in his eyes. ‘Honey, I’m sorry. You sure you don’t want to start taking those pills?’

Sarah smiled. ‘It’s Saturday. No law against sleeping in. Listen, I was thinking I’d make some chicken salad with the leftovers from last night. Some onions and celery. Sound good for lunch?’

‘Yeah,’ Paul replied, still studying her. ‘Sounds great.’

She still loved him, and she pitied him, and she hated him, just a little. Sarah did not really blame Paul for what happened to Jonah – that had been nobody’s fault. But she wished that they could have found solace in each other. If only he could find peace in himself, he could stop pretending his heart had not been torn apart. He could have held her and cried, let her feel it was all right to cry with him.

But that time was past.

After lunch, she told Paul she had some errands to run, and went to the cemetery. The leaves eddied on the breeze and rustled in whispers along the grass, red and yellow and orange. She parked her car on a narrow, paved path that separated the modern part of the cemetery from the earliest graves, which dated back to before the Civil War.

Sarah got out of the car and shut the door. Quiet and peaceful, the cemetery was beautiful to her. The sky hung bright blue above the rolling lawns and the trees full of autumn colours. Some of the crypts were marble and others granite, while a handful of the older graves were marked by statues of angels.

She took a deep breath and started across the lawn. Tree roots bulged under the soil like raised veins. Sarah brushed a hand against an old oak as she passed. On her way to Jonah’s grave she made a small detour, stopping by the granite block that marked her parents’ resting place. Her mother had been killed in a car accident when Sarah was very young, leaving her father to raise her. He’d been her whole world, until Jonah came along.

The family name – her maiden name – was engraved on the front in large letters. KOSKOV. On the back, both of her parents were listed, with their dates of birth and death.

Eli Josef Koskov

Teresa Annalise Koskov

Sarah ran her fingers across the engraved letters. ‘Hi, Daddy.’ She kissed the tips of her fingers and touched them to his first name.

Three rows further along she came to another. The cut of the stone differed, and instead of granite it had been fashioned of a blue-tinted marble. This one said COOPER. Sarah didn’t walk around to the back. She had stared too long, too often, at the letters that spelled out her son’s name.

She sat on the grass just to one side of the grave and sang to him the songs she had always soothed him with when he had trouble falling asleep. Billy Joel’s Lullaby. Harry Connick’s Recipe for Love. Melissa Etheridge’s Baby, You Can Sleep While I Drive.

Sarah had visited Jonah without her husband many times. But that afternoon was the first time she did not cry.

*

After dinner – a chicken cacciatore Paul had put together while she was out – Sarah cleaned the house. It started with the dishes, but afterward she could not stop herself. Compelled to continue, she moved into the living room and dining room, then upstairs into the bedroom to wash the bathrooms and put away a week’s worth of laundry that had lingered, folded, in baskets. Paul watched television on the sofa the whole time, calling to her every half hour or so to come and sit with him, to relax.

Sarah couldn’t relax. She could barely stand still.

At bedtime, she slid beneath the sheets, bathed in the blue, flickering light of the television. Paul liked to have the news on while he fell asleep. He took comfort in the chatter, the monotonous drone of the voices. Sarah tried to tune them out. The news held no interest for her; it was nothing but a parade of tragedy. When Paul touched her hip, she thought he might want to make love. The idea startled her; it had been so long. But he only looked into her eyes.

‘You all right?’

The question made her want to laugh and scream in equal proportion. Hadn’t they both agreed that it was the most foolish question anyone ever asked someone who’d suffered a terrible loss? Of course she wasn’t all right.

‘Just tired,’ she said.

‘Hope you get some real sleep tonight.’

‘Me, too.’

But his eyelids were heavy. Already, Paul was drifting off, and Sarah didn’t know if he’d even heard her.

As soon as he had slipped into a deep enough sleep, she got up again. The clock on the nightstand read 11:49. Pulling the covers up to make sure he wouldn’t feel any draft, she left the bedroom. For an hour or so, she sat on Jonah’s bed, surrounded by his things, holding a plush raccoon that had been his favourite – it had come with the name Sticky Fingers, but Jonah had mispronounced it as ‘Tikki’, and afterward they had never referred to it any other way. She held Tikki close, rubbing it under her chin.

Sometime before one o’clock she went back into her room and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. She’d never taken off her socks. After a visit to the bathroom, she carried Tikki downstairs and turned on the television, volume down so low she could barely hear it. Not that it mattered – she’d put on Cartoon Network and it was the visuals, not the sounds, that comforted her. Jonah loved any cartoon, no matter how old or how lame the animation. They had often curled up together and Sarah had stolen catnaps while Jonah watched. Tonight, Tikki watched with her, but there was no chance of Sarah falling asleep.

At two o’clock she set Tikki on the coffee table and turned off the TV. She laced up her sneakers and went out to the driveway. She’d left her own car out of the garage this afternoon. It didn’t seem fair, somehow, to take Paul’s Cherokee.

*

The razor cut deep. Blood slid out over the palms of her hands, filling the lines first and then dripping from her fingers. In the chilly October night, the cuts felt like burns, yet she shuddered as she dropped the razor to the tracks.

Sarah grimaced, a strange satisfaction filling her. She let her arms dangle at her sides as she knelt on a wooden railroad tie, right in the middle of the tracks. She had half an hour or so before the 3:18 was due, so she had chosen a spot away from the road. On the off chance that a car came by, she didn’t want to get run over. What terrible irony that would have been.

She let her head loll back and she stared at the stars. If she closed her eyes, she thought she might have been able to fall asleep. What lovely irony. It felt as if she’d been holding her breath ever since Jonah’s death, and tonight, at last, she could exhale.

So she waited, and she bled. As the minutes ticked past she began to grow colder, not just on her skin but down deep in her bones. Her eyes fluttered.

It might have been that she closed them for a while.

The whistle startled her. Sarah blinked and caught her breath, staring along the tracks, searching for some sign of the train. That mournful cry came again, much closer than she would have thought. A terrible ache filled her and she felt weak from the loss of blood. Her body’s instinct was to rise, to get out of the way, but that sluggishness gave her a moment to consider, and instead she stayed just where she was, content to wait in the path of the 3:18.

She stared down the tracks, narrowing her eyes. A light had appeared in the darkness. The more she focused, the more distinct it became, until Sarah realised that tonight, circumstances had changed.

The 3:18 was coming, and she could see it. The shape of the train hurtled toward her, just a hint of steam blurring the night above the engine. The sound filled the night, then – the whistle, the clank of metal, the chuffing effort of the furnace.

She smiled and her eyes moistened with tears.

The noise grew and the train hurtled closer, a phantom engine, only an intangible silhouette. But it was real. She had not imagined the whistle or the wind, and she swore to herself that she had not imagined Jonah.

Elated, she held her hands up as though to embrace the 3:18. What would happen when it struck her, or passed through her? Sarah could not be sure. But she knew what she wanted, what she had prayed for as she opened up her wrists. The cuts had started to scab, but raising her hands tore them open again and trickles of blood ran down the insides of her arms.

She thought of what it had felt like to hold Jonah against her, to rock him to sleep, to watch him at peace.

Her breathing came in short gasps. She closed her eyes and threw her arms out wider.

The train hissed loudly and a blast of cold air struck her, blowing her hair back. She heard the screech of its brakes and opened her eyes to find the enormous locomotive slowing to a halt. With a kind of gasp, it came to a stop twenty feet away. Sarah stared at the 3:18. In the darkness it looked almost real, but she could see right through it.

An icy ripple went through her. A ghost. So close.

But then the truth of what was happening rushed in and she felt the smile blossom on her face, so wide that it hurt. Weak as she was, she staggered to her feet. She slipped in her own blood and nearly fell, but she recovered and ran for the train.

‘Jonah,’ she whispered, under her breath. ‘I’m here, baby boy.’

Sarah rushed alongside the first car, looking through the gauzy windows. Images floated within, faces that loomed up from a grey nothing beyond the glass. Some of them seemed to be in pain, while others only looked lost, their eyes vacant. The transparent figure of a little girl gazed out at Sarah with hope in her eyes. Sarah shook her head and ran on. She did not want to linger on any of those faces.

The second car gave her no answers and so she moved on to the third, wondering if she should have tried the other side of the train – wondering how long she had before the train began to move again and whether she should just try to get on board. Had enough of her blood been left behind on the tracks for that?

After the third car, she began to panic. Sarah ran.

‘Jonah!’ she called. ‘Where are you, sweetie?’

Halfway along the fourth car, she staggered to a halt. One hand fluttered to her mouth, smearing blood on her face. She laughed into her hand.

Jonah waved to her from the window. Then he retreated, as though getting up from his seat.

Sarah ran to the door at the end of the car. She could see through it to the trees on the other side and the river beyond, but the train itself had substance. It pulsed and gave off a strange luminescence, which might only have been the influence of the moon. The 3:18 was a ghost in and of itself, ridden by phantoms. But Sarah had not forgotten the story that had first brought her here. Near death herself, she could see it well enough.

Now she reached toward the handle beside the door, expecting her fingers to pass through the misty nothing of that spectre. Instead, her bloody hand gripped cold metal.

‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you.’

She put a foot on the metal step below the door, and hoisted herself up into the open door at the rear of the car. Immediately, the train hissed and lurched, slowly starting forward once more. She could hear the clack of the rails and the breeze as it began to depart.

Sarah looked up and saw Jonah standing in front of her, on the platform at the back of the car. His precious face was just as she remembered, open and smiling, eyes full of love. Jonah reached for her. A shadowed figure loomed behind him, but she paid the other ghost no mind as she put out her arms to her son.

Strong hands snatched him backward, lifted him up and away from her.

‘No!’ Sarah cried.

The ghostly figure coalesced from the shadows, and she saw the face of the man who held Jonah.

‘Daddy?’

He held Jonah against his chest. The boy wrapped his arms around his grandfather’s neck, clinging to him, resting in that embrace.

Sarah’s father stared at her, his eyes somehow more real than the rest of him, peering out at her from the grey realm of spirits.

‘Stop holding on to us, honey. We’re fine. The only thing that hurts us now is you not living the life we can never have. We’ll see you again, when it’s time.’

Turning Jonah away from her, he reached out with his free hand – a gossamer thing, translucent and floating, a bit of nothing and shadow – and touched her face. He gave her a wistful smile, and then he shoved her.

Sarah tried to reach out and grab hold of the doorframe, but her fingers passed through it like smoke.

She fell backward from the slowly moving train, hit the ground and rolled. By the time she looked up, she could hear it picking up speed, could feel the breeze of its passing, but she couldn’t see it any more.

The 3:18 had come and gone.

Sarah stared at the place where it had been until even the most distant whistle had disappeared, and all she had left was the memory of it. Somehow she knew that she would never hear the whistle of the 3:18 again.

For what seemed an eternity, she sat and waited to die. And when she did not die, she held her hands up in front of her face and looked at her wrists. The right still bled, though not much, and the other had begun to close already. Blood clotted and dried and crusted over. She had not cut deeply enough.

Sarah screamed, enraged that she still lived.

And then she cried.

So lonely, but alive.

In time she rose, weak and disoriented from blood loss, and followed the train tracks until she found her car. She managed to open the door and slid behind the wheel. Sarah wrapped her jacket tightly around her wrists, tangling herself up to stop any further bleeding, but could do no more. Unconsciousness claimed her.

Some time later, with the sky beginning to lighten in the east, her eyes fluttered open. Her cell phone had been in her jacket pocket, and it was ringing. Freeing one hand, she managed to retrieve it.

Paul.

Sarah opened the phone and fumbled it to her ear.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, God,’ he said, ‘you had me so scared.’

‘I miss Jonah,’ she mumbled.

He cried then, for the first time in a very long time, and Sarah knew that they had both bid farewell to ghosts that night.

Christopher Golden is the award-winning, bestselling author of such novels as The Myth Hunters, Wildwood Road, The Boys Are Back in Town, The Ferryman, Strangewood, Of Saints and Shadows, and The Map of Moments (with Tim Lebbon). He has also written books for teens and young adults. Golden frequently collaborates with other writers on books, comics, and scripts, and is also known for his many media tie-in works, including novels, comics, and video games, in the worlds of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Hellboy, Angel, and X-Men, among others. Golden was born and raised in Massachusetts, where he still lives with his family. His graphic novel series Cemetery Girl, written in collaboration with Charlaine Harris, is published by Jo Fletcher Books. You can visit him at www.christophergolden.com.

An Imaginary Friend • by Sue Tingey

An Imaginary Friend
by Sue Tingey

Mrs McLuskey couldn’t help but notice little Timmy Anderson when she looked down onto the schoolyard below. As usual he was alone, sitting on the bench under the old oak tree at the edge of the tennis courts.

It was as though he was in his own private exclusion zone. All the other children were a good few yards away, playing in groups and, as usual, ignoring him.

He wasn’t a bad child, but she had to admit, he was strange. The other children knew it and shied away from him at best, or bullied him at worst. Children could be so cruel. They teased him because he had no parents. They teased him because he lived with an elderly aunt who, although well intentioned, dressed him in second hand uniforms two sizes too big. And, most of all, they teased him because he had an imaginary friend who he whispered to unashamedly throughout the day.

The psychiatrist from social services had said Timmy was ‘compensating for the loss of his parents and his loneliness’. She’d said his imaginary friend – Tommy – was a companion who would never hurt him by leaving, or, as in the case of his parents, dying. Timmy shut out anyone who wanted to get close to him in favour of Tommy, because that way he would never be hurt again.

Mrs McLuskey thought the psychiatrist was full of shit, but she had to agree with one thing: Timmy didn’t appear to mind being alone. He never tried to join in with the other kids, preferring his own company and that of Timmy’s.

On several occasions she had tried to gain his trust, but to no avail. He never smiled, nor did he cry, although at times she could have wept for him. She was sure the bigger boys were bullying him, but he would never tell. If asked, he would just shrug and stare at his shoes in silence.

She had spoken to Mr Sykes, the headmaster, about the possible bullying, but he was more interested in the school’s grade averages than a small, strange child who spoke to himself. So, unless Timmy complained, no one could do a single thing about it.

*

Timmy knew he was in deep trouble. The Townsend boys had been watching him all break and he could tell by the smug, mean grins on their faces that they were cooking up something particularly nasty. Their pursuit of him was relentless.

Over the past few weeks they had taken great pleasure in trashing his games kit, pouring ink in his jacket pockets and making him the butt of many more of their pranks. However, these last few days things had taken a disturbing turn for the worse; they had started to get physical – punching him, pushing him and then, only two days ago, they’d followed him into the boy’s cloakroom. Once they had assured themselves that they had him alone, they had pushed him into a cubicle, forced his head down the pan as far as they could and pulled the chain.

The older of the two brothers nodded in Timmy’s direction and muttered something to the other boy, causing him to laugh out loud.

Timmy grimaced. ‘What am I going to do, Tommy?’ he whispered, ‘I wish you could help me.’

The afternoon bell rang and all the kids began filing back to their classrooms for the last few lessons of the day. Timmy got up and jogged across the playground to catch up with the other children. The last thing he wanted was for the Townsend boys to catch him on his own. He glanced uneasily over his shoulder, but they were nowhere to be seen.

The afternoon flew by. Timmy didn’t hear a word Mrs McLuskey said, he was too churned up inside. The hands on the classroom clock swung relentlessly around its face, getting ever nearer to 3:30 p.m. and the final bell, when he would be easy pickings for the Townsends. His only hope was to make sure he left the building with all of the other kids and then, as soon as he got outside the gates, run like the wind. He may be small but he was also fast. He could just make it.

Three minutes before home time he started to push his books and pencils together into a small pile, ready to scoop into his bag. Two minutes before the final bell he quietly moved his chair back from his desk for a quick getaway. One minute to go and he slid his books and pencil case into his bag. At last the bell clamoured throughout the building announcing the end of the school day. Timmy jumped to his feet.

‘Timmy,’ Miss McLuskey called over the din of scraping chairs and slamming desks. ‘Could you wait a moment please? I need to speak to you.’

Defeated, Timmy dropped back onto his chair. Mrs McLuskey was his favourite teacher. She always gave him a smile and was nice to him. She really seemed to care, but today of all days her well-meant concern was going to get him a beating or probably something worse.

‘Timmy, are you okay?’ she asked, crouching down beside him.

He nodded, eyes downcast.

‘Timmy, look at me.’

He slowly looked up, his eyes meeting hers. Mrs McLuskey tried to gulp down the lump that had appeared in her throat. He looked so vulnerable and so very frightened.

‘Timmy,’ she managed to ask, ‘what’s wrong?’

His eyes dropped back to the desk.

‘Nothin’.’

She stood and looked down over his bent head for a few moments. ‘Okay,’ she said at last, ‘you’d better get home.’

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Timmy grabbed his bag, leaped up from his seat and was out of the classroom door.

She looked after him in surprise. Something was going on and she just hoped it was nothing more than Timmy wanting to get home for a special occasion, or to watch his favourite television show. Somehow, she doubted it.

*

Timmy flew along the empty corridors, hoping against hope that the Townsends had given up on him.

‘We may make it, Tommy,’ he said as he ran. ‘We’re nearly there.’

He was so close to the main door that he only needed to reach out to touch it, but as soon as he felt the grip of a hand on his collar he knew he was lost. He struggled to pull out of his jacket, but it was too late. He was grabbed by both arms and dragged backwards, away from the door.

‘Don’t call out, you little turd,’ Frank Townsend growled, close to his ear. ‘You do, and next time we give you a bog shampoo I’ll hold you down until you puke up your guts.’

All the fight drained out of Timmy’s spindly frame. He knew he couldn’t best them. Frank was at least two years older than he was and almost three times as big, and although George only had a year on Timmy he was not much smaller than his brother.

Frank forced Timmy’s arm up behind his back and spun him around, frogmarching him down the stairs and into the gym. George followed behind, keeping a watchful eye out for teachers.

Timmy felt a small glimmer of hope. If he could escape in the gym he might just be able to out manoeuvre them. At the very least someone might hear his cries for help. All thoughts of escape died almost immediately as Frank propelled the small boy across the gym and through the double swing doors into the boys’ locker room. There, no one would hear his screams and in the confined space between the rows of lockers he would have no chance to dodge his captors’ kicks and punches.

‘Tommy, I’m dead,’ he said.

‘What’s that, you little freak?’ Frank asked, twisting Timmy’s arm even harder.

‘Nothin’.’ I won’t cry, Tommy. I won’t cry.

‘Well, have we got a surprise for you,’ Frank said. ‘Since you’re all alone in the world we thought we’d set you up with a new friend.’

Frank and George exchanged a nasty smirk, then Frank pushed the small boy away from him and said, ‘Strip.’

Timmy stared at him blankly.

‘I said strip, what don’t you understand?’

Timmy shook his head and backed away as far as the confined space would allow.

‘OK, George, looks like he needs a little help.’

Timmy tried to fight them off, but he stood no chance against the older boys and within a few minutes he was left standing scared and naked against the dressing room wall.

‘Ha, ain’t he sweet?’ said Frank. ‘Come on George, help me get little Timmy ready for his blind date.’

They each grabbed hold of one of Timmy’s scrawny arms and dragged the struggling boy across the changing room to a large, old-fashioned iron radiator. George pulled a pair of stockings out of his pocket and passed one strip of nylon to his older brother.

Frank hooked his right foot behind Timmy’s calves and with a jerk pulled the boy’s feet from under him. Timmy’s head hit the radiator with a crack that made him see stars. By the time he could think straight, each wrist was tied securely to either end of the radiator, his back tight against the warm metal and his buttocks flat against the cold floor. Timmy was scared. Whatever the older boys had in store for him was too awful to imagine.

‘We’ll be leaving you now, but don’t worry, you won’t be lonely for long.’ George sniggered. ‘Oh no, you’ll soon have company.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Timmy, at last finding his voice.

‘Come on, Timmy, don’t be thick. Who looks after the school after hours? Who walks round the school every night before locking up?’

Timmy’s eyes widened.

‘I think he’s getting the idea, George. One more clue. Who likes little boys and tries to sweet talk them into his room in the basement?’

Timmy began to struggle.

‘You got it. Irv the Perv. He’ll think all of his birthdays have come at once when he finds you here all ready and waiting.’ Frank slapped his brother across the shoulders. ‘Time for us to go. Give our regards to Irv, won’t you Timmy.’

Timmy was shaking uncontrollably. This was far worse than anything he could possibly have imagined. He had heard all the stories about Irv the Perv, or overheard anyway. None of the kids ever spoke to Timmy except to taunt him. However, it had given him comfort in the past to hear there was someone in the school who the kids hated more.

‘Ah look, George. Little Timmy’s feeling cold. He’s shivering. Perhaps we should warm him up a bit before we go.’ Frank gave his brother a nudge. ‘Come on, I think a visit to the boiler room is in order.’

George looked uncertain. ‘Is that a good idea? What if Irv’s down there in his room?’

‘He won’t be there yet. He always cleans Sykes’ room before he does anything else. Keeps him in the head’s good books.’ Frank slapped his brother on the back again. ‘Come on you wimp, let’s get on.’

George followed after his brother.

Left alone, Timmy was desperate. He struggled and struggled, but he was bound fast. ‘Tommy, help me! You’ve got to help me!’ he cried.

*

Despite his bravado Frank hesitated just outside the boiler room door. ‘You don’t think Irv will be down here yet?’ Frank asked.

‘Hope not.’

Frank took a deep breath, turned the door handle and eased the door open. Peering in, he scanned the room and then, seeing the coast was clear, ducked inside followed by his brother. The room was warm but humid. The damp air smelled of hot oil with an underlying, rather unpleasant mustiness, which neither boy could, or wanted to, identify.

Frank quickly moved across to the boiler, and after peering at the dials and gauges for a few moments, began to twist one wheel then another.

‘What are you doing?’ whispered George.

‘Turning off the heat for the upper floors and turning it up for the gym and cloakroom areas. I’m also turning up the pressure a bit.’

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’

Frank shrugged. ‘Who the fuck cares?’

‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ urged George.

Frank didn’t need persuading and, after one final glance at the boiler’s dials, sped out of the room and along the corridor followed by his brother.

*

Timmy’s back was beginning to burn. The radiator was painfully hot and getting hotter by the minute. A sheen of sweat covered his skin. His wrists were bleeding, the nylon cutting into his flesh.

‘Tommy, help me!’ he cried out. ‘Please help me.’

*

Frank and George were just crossing the entrance hall on the way out of the building when Frank skidded to a halt, grabbing his brother by the arm as he did so.

‘What was that?’

‘What?’

‘Listen.’

They stood still for a moment straining their ears for any sound.

‘There, did you hear that?’

George nodded. He had heard something. A giggle: a child’s giggle. They turned just in time to see, for a fleeting moment, a figure of a small boy disappearing around a corner.

‘I don’t believe it! The little turd must have escaped,’ Frank said. ‘Quick, after him.’

And before George could stop him, Frank was pounding back the way they had come.

*

Timmy stopped his frantic struggling for a few seconds to catch his breath. He was exhausted, but fear drove him on. He tugged harder against the stocking holding his right hand. His wrists were now slick with blood and sweat and stung like mad. He yanked against the stockings as hard as he could.

Whether the nylon had stretched through the heat or his frantic efforts, he didn’t know, or care, but suddenly his hand slipped free. With one hand loose, he was able to pull at the nylon holding his other hand with his fingers and teeth until at last it gave way. He could have wept with relief, but knowing he didn’t have much time, he pulled on his clothes as quickly as he could.

*

‘Bloody Hell, is he mad or is he winding us up?’ Frank said, coming to a stop. ‘He’s gone into the boiler room.’

‘Oh, Christ!’

‘Come on,’ Frank said.

The boys pushed through the door into the boiler room. The air was hot and steamy. Too hot. The boys’ clothes felt instantly damp against their skin.

‘Where the hell is he?’

‘Irv the Perv’s room,’ George suggested. ‘There’s nowhere else.’

The two boys crept up to the door of the caretaker’s lair, and after a silent count of three Frank threw open the door and jumped in.

‘Caught you, you little . . .’ The words died on Frank’s lips. Timmy wasn’t there, but someone else was waiting for them.

If surprised by their intrusion, Irvin Baker didn’t show it. Instead, he grinned showing missing teeth.

‘Want to join me boys?’ he asked, gesturing to the half bottle of whisky and well-thumbed, grubby magazine on the table by his side.

The boys stared for a moment in stunned silence before coming to their senses and turning to make their escape. In his panic, Frank struggled with the door handle, but before he could get it open there was a terrible screeching sound from the room next door and a noise like a kettle boiling. The room began to shake and there was a loud roaring sound.

Frank’s last coherent thought before the boiler blew was, where the fuck is Timmy?

*

By the time Mrs McLuskey arrived at the school it was past saving. The roof had caved in and the flames were so strong the Fire Brigade were having problems keeping it under control. There were quite a few students and parents standing in small groups at a safe distance, watching the school’s demise, and she could only hope no one had been inside when the school went up.

She had already phoned Mr Baker, the caretaker, but there was no answer. She hoped that wasn’t significant in any way. Mr Sykes would be arriving soon too, although what he thought he could do was beyond her. But then, why was she here? To see the school’s final moments she supposed.

Funnily enough, the school that had been so ugly in its lifetime, now looked beautiful in stark black relief against a bright cauldron of glowing scarlet, gold and orange. She glanced across the playing fields to where a few groups of onlookers stood and was about to turn away when two small figures at the far side of the football pitch caught her attention.

She squinted through the flickering flames and smoke and could just make out two children standing on the outskirts of the school playing field, watching the school burn.

‘Little Timmy Anderson,’ she said in surprise. ‘But who’s that with him?’

He was chatting animatedly to another boy and, although she peered through the darkness, she couldn’t quite make out Timmy’s new friend’s features.

A sudden gust of wind blew smoke across the fields, obscuring her view for a second, and when it cleared she could see Timmy quite clearly, however his friend was nowhere in sight.

She scanned the playing fields, her eyes straining to see in the dark. Where had Timmy’s friend gone?

Timmy didn’t realise he was once again alone as his lips were still moving and she could see his head bob, as if agreeing with an invisible companion. His face was alight and he looked truly happy. And then, incredibly, for the first time ever, she saw little Timmy Anderson throw back his head and laugh.

Sue Tingey is the author of the fantasy romance series The Soulseer Chronicles and lives with her husband in East Grinstead, West Sussex.

She spent twenty-eight years working for a major bank and after taking voluntary redundancy in 2001 spent another fourteen or so years working as a practice manager for an arboricultural consultancy. She has now given up the day job to allegedly spend more time with her husband; he however has noticed that an awful lot more writing appears to be going on.

Sue admits that storytelling is her obsession and was thrilled when she was offered a three book deal by Jo Fletcher Books in 2014.

You can learn more about Sue on her website suetingey.co.uk or contact her on Twitter @suetingey.

Discordances • by Stephanie Saulter

Discordances
A ®Evolution Story
by Stephanie Saulter

The cold was in his fingers; thin and pale and pointless things, as stiff and immobile as the twisted trees above him, standing bare against a steel-coloured sky. Frost rimed his ears, was raw in his nostrils, had cracked his lips. He could not feel his feet.

So he was alive. Well, that was something.

He rolled over, wincing as small twigs and stones made themselves felt against his bruises from the past few days, and sat up. He pulled his knees to his chest and stayed low, partly to hoard what little warmth had built up between his body and the nest of fallen leaves and flotsam into which he’d burrowed for the night, but mostly in the hope of avoiding attention. No one had been there to see him crawl beneath the barren shrubbery in pale and shifting moonlight, but it would not do to assume he remained safely alone.

A silver mist had spread across the ground, leaving crystal traces on bent blades of grass and brown leaf litter. Beyond the scattering of trees that formed his refuge, the rest of the park was still and silent. The light was so weak and watery he wondered for a moment if day had truly come; but no, he remembered moonset and the blackness into which he had finally surrendered, too exhausted for even his cold and hunger – and fear at every rustling sound – to keep him awake through one more night. The thought had come to him, as he drifted into oblivion, that he might well never wake again. But here he was, shivering into another bleak dawn. The sun was there somewhere, trying to break through the thick blanket of dirty grey cloud, and he must get up too.

He shuffled sideways until he was clear of the bushes and could stand. Leaning against the thick bole of a tree that would block any view of him from the park, he clenched and unclenched his fingers and toes until they sang with the pain of returning circulation. Then, with a last cautious look and listen, he slipped out from beneath the thin shelter of the trees.

He saw no one on his way out of the park save a woman, heavily muffled and hurrying along one of the hardtop paths that cut through it. She glanced with suspicion at the black-haired boy crossing the frozen sward, huddled into his threadbare coat. He kept his hands shoved deep in its pockets and his head down, and they passed each other without incident.

At the gate he paused and glanced both ways. To his left a pair of figures, more early-morning workers no doubt, were disappearing into the fog. His path led to the right, and he breathed a sigh of relief that the street in that direction was deserted. He followed the metal railings of the park until they ran out, then crossed over and made his way along increasingly narrow and potholed streets until he came to another set of railings – higher, and topped with cruel spikes – and another large, locked gate. Through it, a shabby yard littered with stacks of crates, soggy and bursting bags, and sharp-pointed clumps of old and unidentifiable equipment could be seen. Behind them, the dark hulk of a windowless building was wreathed in mist.

The young man peered through the gate, hands unthinkingly pulled out of his pockets to grasp it as he pressed his face against the bars. The cold bite of the metal made him flinch, and he hid them away again. There was no sign of life in the yard, no chink of light from the warehouse. Its massive entrance was covered by a roll-down door from a previous century, the metal pitted and grimy. He wondered if he had been sent on a fool’s errand, or worse yet, into a trap. The odds were not good; but then, they were little better elsewhere. He turned his back and settled down to wait.

*

The wind picked up as he stood there, knifing at him, shredding the fog. He had begun humming to himself, a habit from childhood that he turned to more and more as a distraction from loneliness and hunger, fear and cold. Sometimes he could get lost enough in a tune to forget his circumstances entirely, though his chattering teeth meant he was not quite capable of that today. He was beginning to think it was foolish to remain exposed like this, parched with thirst, aching with cold, head swimming with hunger, and that it was time to give up and move on, when something slammed into the gate at his back and sent him staggering.

The shock of it was worse than the impact; although that too was awful, deafening, the crash of metal against metal reverberating through him like a blow to his own body. He reeled away mid-note, and spun, panicked and shaking, hands instinctively out of his pockets and raised in defence.

A man stood behind the gate, holding a piece of steel that looked to have been plucked from one of the piles of debris. He trailed it deliberately along the bars against which the boy had been leaning. It clanged, echoing the blow that had launched him halfway into the street. He backed away as the man pressed his finger against the lock and the gate slid back. The man stepped through, squinting hard-eyed at the shivering boy.

‘What’re you doin’ here? I don’t know you. What’s your business? Stop movin’, I’m talkin’ to you.’

The tone was threatening, but there was enough inquiry in it to suggest that a beating might not be the only possible outcome. The boy stopped and raised his hands, slowly, trying to still his trembling. Between the cold and the fear, he did not succeed.

The man was solidly built and wore a thickly padded rain jacket. His eyes travelled over the thin figure in front of him, taking in the woefully inadequate coat and worn boots, lingering on the hands raised hopelessly to shoulder height. He turned his head and spat.

‘One o’ them. Where’d you come from?’

‘Re-re-re-Recombin.’

‘You a runaway?’

The boy shook his head sharply. He had heard there were norms who did not look unkindly on those who had taken the matter of freedom into their own hands, but instinct told him this man was not one of them.

‘They let you out?’

He nodded.

The man grunted. ‘Don’t know that I approve, but that’s the way things are. Drop your hands, boy, they’re not things I want to look at. You got a name?’

He did as he was told, clenching his numbed fingers. ‘L-Ly—’ He stopped, took a deep breath. ‘Lyriam.’

‘Yeah? An’ what were you for?’

‘I don’t know. I never got sent out, and then—’ Another wave of trembling threatened to overtake him. He gritted his teeth and fought it down. ‘Factory work, I guess.’ He half-raised his hands again, flexed the loosening fingers, and then forced himself to shove them back in his pockets. They would be of little use if the man decided to go for him, and the odds of that might be lessened if they were out of sight.

‘So you’ve never worked? How old are you?’

‘Around seventeen. I think. I have worked, in crèche, and then in the dorms, we had to do everything for ourselves. They trained me to use tools and things. I can work, I want to work.’ He swallowed, taking in the man’s proprietary stance, the way he had emerged from behind the locked gate. ‘I’m looking for work, that’s why I came here. Someone said maybe you had some work?’

The man looked him over again, with a hint of amusement this time. ‘It’s heavy lifting. You don’t look strong enough to stand up to a good breeze, boy.’

‘I’m stronger than I look,’ Lyriam said defiantly, drawing himself up. ‘Most of us are.’ A loud rumble sounded from the region of his stomach, and the man laughed.

‘Maybe, if you get some food in you. UC’s opened up a soup kitchen couple blocks away on Provost. That way.’ He pointed. ‘More gems than a cheap bracelet. You get yourself something to eat and be back here by eight, you can help get this place cleared out. Twenty credits, that’s it. Name’s Garvey. I’m doin’ you a favour.’

*

It was not the first United Churches food station Lyriam had been to, though he had not visited for over a week – not since a gang wielding crucifixes and cudgels had demolished the one on Southbank and attacked the volunteers manning it. But his last few credits had long since been spent, and he knew he had no choice. Garvey was right: hunger was making him light-headed and weak, and even more vulnerable than usual. He could not risk returning to the warehouse, or going anywhere else for that matter, in such a state.

He realised he must be almost there when he turned a corner and saw a figure in the distance with a head of glowing, dark blue hair, hurrying in the same direction. The person turned into an opening in a high brick wall, through which a delightfully rich, savoury smell wafted onto the street. As he approached, someone else crossed over from an alleyway, pushing back her hood to reveal a mass of shimmering orange-red curls as she also disappeared behind the wall.

Lyriam stepped into the churchyard. There was a checkpoint just inside, an arrangement he had not seen before. He guessed it was a new security measure, and felt himself begin to relax a little. A matronly norm woman holding a tablet looked perplexed at his straight black hair, but entered his name and nodded as it confirmed he was already registered.

‘When’s the last time you ate, son?’

‘Couple of days.’

‘Okay. Drink this first, slowly.’ A large mug of steaming rehydration broth was put into his hands, and he wrapped them gratefully around its warmth. The woman focused on his fingers, blinked, and then remembered herself and looked back up at his face. ‘Then go get some solid food from over there.’

She indicated the queue inching forward to a table behind which two more volunteers were ladling thick stew into bowls. Almost everyone waiting for food, or scattered around the edges of the churchyard already eating, had hair that glowed in sparkling, jewel-like colours. He knew that the few who didn’t would, like him, bear another, equally unmistakable engineered mutation. ‘There’s a medic station inside the church if you have any hurts that need attention,’ the woman went on. ‘They’ve got donated clothes as well, coats and things. You look like you could use something warmer, a hat, maybe some gloves . . .’

She trailed off awkwardly. He managed a smile.

‘They probably don’t have any that would work for me. But thanks.’

*

He was back at the warehouse before the appointed hour, full to bursting and cocooned inside a hooded, fleece-lined parka. The volunteer in charge of assigning winter gear had glanced at his hands, and without comment rummaged in a large box and come up with a pair of purple mittens into which all of his fingers could comfortably slip. They felt warm and safe for the first time in days.

Garvey was waiting out front, along with another heavyset norm man who scowled at Lyriam with undisguised dislike.

‘What’s this for?’ he snapped. ‘He can’t do anything.’

Lyriam opened his mouth to protest, despite the warning in the back of his brain that it was probably better not to, but Garvey answered first.

‘Don’t be so judgmental, Dirk, my old mate,’ he said peaceably. ‘Live and let live. The boy wants to earn his keep.’ He regarded Lyriam thoughtfully. ‘He’ll get paid what he’s worth.’

Dirk gave him a sharp look and turned towards the warehouse, saying roughly, ‘Let’s get on with it then. Don’t look like anyone else is showing up today.’

‘I am.’ The voice came from the open gate behind them. Lyriam caught his breath as a tall, powerful-looking woman stepped inside the yard. She had dark, weathered skin, broad cheekbones and large brown eyes with deep folds at the corners. Her head was bare, and her close-cropped hair glowed a deep violet. She was wearing a short, quilted jacket, and appeared untroubled by the cold.

It seemed to Lyriam that Garvey looked ever so slightly disturbed to see her; though anyone who knew anything about gems, and had heavy work that needed doing, should have been glad.

‘What’s your business?’ the boss asked.

‘I heard there was work here.’

‘So there is,’ he said, jerking a thumb towards the warehouse, its door now raised. ‘Clearing this tip out. Hasn’t been touched in a century, more or less. Everything needs to be sorted for recycling before the place gets demolished.’

The woman gave the yawning entrance a thoughtful look, and glanced around at the piles of obsolete rubbish littering the yard. ‘I can help with that.’

‘We start now, go ’til sundown. Full day’s work for you, forty credits.’

‘Fine.’

It was double what Lyriam had been promised, but he knew better than to complain. Chances were this woman could move twice what he could. Maybe in half the time. He nodded cautiously at her. She returned a look that was not unfriendly, but questioning. He slipped his right hand out of the mitten, and she grunted an immediate acknowledgment. There was a muffled oath from Dirk, but she reached forward and grasped his hand without hesitation.

‘Lyriam.’

‘Biane.’ There was a look of calculation in the woman’s gaze, as if some new variable had appeared in an equation and she was having to rework it. But she only turned away, fists on hips, and looked at the warehouse again. ‘We waiting on anything to get started?’

‘Nope.’ Garvey led the way. ‘Place is full of all kinds of old shit. Sooner it’s gone, the happier I’ll be.’

*

The warehouse was ancient, creaking, piled to the rafters with detritus, and full of damp rot and rodents that ran squeaking every time they tackled a new section. Judging by the items inside, carefully packed away a very long time ago, it had been a storage facility for household goods.

‘Has this stuff been here since the Syndrome?’ Lyriam wondered aloud, coughing through a cloud of dust rising up from the crumbling cardboard boxes he was shifting. Garvey, checking and assigning them to the different collections of plastic, metal, textiles and various other materials accumulating out in the yard, nodded.

‘Yeah, pretty much. When people got too sick to care for themselves and had to go into hostels. Or back to their parents.’

‘They must have kept on hoping,’ Biane said quietly. ‘That there’d be a cure and they could get their lives back.’ She lifted a hard-sided plastic barrel that Lyriam had just tried and failed to shift out of the way, stepped easily around him with it held above her head, and spun it into place for Garvey’s perusal. ‘Or that their children would be able to reclaim their stuff, even if they couldn’t.’

‘I guess. But most of the kids would’ve been in the same boat. By the time babies were Syndrome-safe, it’s not likely there would’ve been anyone left who even remembered what was in storage.’ Garvey peered inside the barrel, sneezed, and snapped the lid back on. ‘More old clothes and sheets.’ He marked the side of it for Dirk, coming and going with a hand truck that was the only way to manhandle heavy items out through the narrow passageways between stacked shelves and piles of debris. ‘This is taking too damn long.’

Lyriam did not answer. He worked barehanded, his mittens carefully tucked away in the pocket of his new parka, itself carefully hung up in the shadows behind a rusted steel support girder. He did not doubt that Dirk was quite capable of ‘accidentally’ including his new belongings in the piles of refuse, and did not wish to lose them to the norm’s casual malice. But for all his good sense when it came to his own property, he had to keep reminding himself not to linger or become distracted by the artefacts of long-lost lives that he was sorting through; not to stop and wonder at the strange items whose use he could only guess at, nor at the sheer volume of personal possessions represented by this warehouse, and doubtless many more just like it. He knew Garvey wanted them to work quickly, but he could not help thinking there were whole worlds of things that could be learned from this place, if only they had time.

‘I think,’ Biane said, ‘that I should start shifting that stuff down to ground level.’ She pointed to the shelves that reached all the way up to the corrugated tin ceiling, and were crammed full of more boxes and crates, plastic-wrapped furniture and dusty suitcases. ‘The height doesn’t bother me, and we’re just getting in each other’s way here.’

Garvey squinted up into the shadows. A series of clear roof panels showed pale against the darkness, but did little to illuminate the upper reaches of the warehouse. He shrugged.

‘Fine. We’ve cleared enough space down below. You,’ he said to Lyriam, ‘you’ve got the hang of this now? How to mark them for pickup?’

Lyriam nodded. It was childishly simple. Garvey dug into his capacious coat, which he had not removed despite the hard work they had been doing and the limitations it imposed on his movement, and handed Lyriam another fat fluorescent marker like the one he’d been using. He grimaced as the younger man’s fingers came close to his own. Lyriam was careful not to touch him.

‘Use this. Mark and move to the front for pickup. I’ll work with Dirk to shift them outside. Transport should be here soon for another load.’

The work became a steady, backbreaking rhythm of lifting, checking, marking, moving; trying to make inroads into the items already stacked on the warehouse floor as well as keeping pace with Biane, clambering up and down a vertiginous ladder, dangling some massive item one-handed as she descended far enough to drop it safely to ground. Every now and then she dropped down herself and silently helped him shove the accumulating piles forward for Dirk and Garvey, as if in unspoken agreement that they would rather work together back here, without a break, than have any more interaction with the two norms than was absolutely necessary. They heard one transport arrive, load up and leave, and then another; heard when the men broke for lunch, without any suggestion that they should do the same. Lyriam thought of his twenty credits. He caught Biane’s eye and her grim expression, and imagined she too was holding fire for the sake of her forty.

Dirk came back in as he was manhandling another stack of cracked plastic chairs into place. The norm aimed for a spot right next to Lyriam, apparently ignoring him as he loaded up the hand truck, although it would have been easier for them both if he had selected somewhere else along the growing rampart of items marked for removal. Hostility flowed off him in waves.

Lyriam tensed, wondering if a blow was finally coming, or if Dirk would continue to content himself with more minor aggressions. He could see the man’s eyes tracking him, even as Dirk grunted and struggled with his own work. Lyriam moved aside, just as Dirk turned deliberately into the space where he’d been standing. The contact was not as forceful as the bigger man must have intended, but it was still enough to send the boy stumbling backwards into a jumbled and precarious pile of crates topped by coils of wire and various odd-shaped, sharp-edged objects. Clouds of dust billowed up. He heard a sliding sound, put his hands up instinctively, and caught a large brown box as it tumbled off the top. A faint cascade of notes came from it as it hit his hands, a shimmer of sound unlike anything he had heard before.

He scrambled up and swung around, box held in front of him for defence, and saw Dirk retreating towards the front of the warehouse pushing the loaded trolley. Outside, another transport was pulling up. Lyriam let his breath go in a soft sigh. That would keep them busy for close to half an hour.

The box in his hands was not like any of the others he had encountered in the warehouse. He carried it over to one of the weak shafts of sunlight and set it carefully down. It was a case, vaguely rectangular but rounded at the corners and deeper at one end than the other. It had shoulder straps and was made of a material he could not identify: a mottled brown canvas-like fabric with a texture not unlike his own skin. Was this leather? He ran his fingers along it, feeling it out, unsure which of the recycling categories it belonged to, but most of all wondering what had made the beautiful sound. He came to a pair of brass clasps, pressed down on them, and eased the hinged lid up and back.

It took a moment for his eyes, unused to such things, to make sense of what he saw. The instrument gleamed against a bed that was shaped precisely to its contours and lined with a soft, tawny, lustrous padding. The thing itself was made of carved and polished wood, its flat surface punctured by a pair of cavities opening into a curved belly. It was something like an elongated, covered bowl: broad at the base, sweeping into a narrower waist and flowing up to a slender neck. A gentle arc swept across from this to anchor a long, elegant, fretted shaft that ran along one side of the bowl. Strings lined the entire surface, lying in parallel, fastened top and bottom by brass studs that held them a finger’s-width off the surface of the wood, shaped for turning and tightening.

A small plaque on the inner lid of the case, dim with the patina of age, read:

Gibson Ltd | Professional Musical Instruments

GUITHARP #SO12

London | Birmingham | Manchester

A couple of the strings were broken, and several others hung slack. He reached out and touched the ones that remained taut, both wondering and somehow already knowing what would happen. A shiver of sound floated up, setting his spine tingling. He was suddenly desperate to do it again, to take the thing out and tighten and refasten the strings, to play and experiment. He could see, as clearly as if he had seen or done it before, how you were meant to hold the thing, how your hands should rest and press and strum. He could see his own hands on it, and knew they would fit and stretch and reach. He knew they would be right.

So many strings, he thought. This was a norm instrument. How did they play that many strings?

Almost without meaning it, his hand swept across them again. Music washed into the air: a cascade of notes shimmering up into the dusty gloom of the warehouse. He did it again, delighted into forgetting where he was, or what harm could come of it. Indeed, he had half lifted the guitharp out, fingers moving now to pluck and learn what sound that would make, when a soft throat-clearing behind him and a loud crash from the loading bay out front brought him back to himself. He dropped the instrument hastily back into its bed, damping the sound with his hand and looking guiltily around.

Biane came up to stand beside him, gazing down into the case. ‘That’s just about the prettiest thing I think I’ve heard,’ she said quietly. ‘Or seen. You looked at it like you’d found a friend.’

He swallowed. She was contemplating the hand he had placed to still the vibrating strings. She placed her own hand in the case next to his, flat against the richly polished wood. It was as powerful as the rest of her, covered in a network of small scars, the thumb and four fingers heavy and blunt. Beside it Lyriam’s was slender and pale, the fingers long and delicate, tapering down to tips on which the nails were so small and transparent as to barely be visible. But this was not the feature of his hands that attracted attention.

There were six of those fingers, lying alongside a long, recurved thumb as elegant as the blade of a scimitar. He flexed them, a ripple of movement like breeze over grass, and felt the answering hum of the strings beneath his palm.

‘That looks like such a simple mutation,’ Biane said. ‘I bet it isn’t.’

He sighed. ‘They’re not simple to live with, that’s for sure.’ He raised his hand from the strings, turning it as he curled and straightened the fingers in sequence, frowning. ‘I guess I must have been for specialist assembly work or something. Maybe in a factory it wouldn’t have mattered, the norms would’ve expected it. But out here . . .’ he trailed off.

‘Every time you scratch your nose, you get in trouble?’

‘Pretty much.’ He dropped his hand back to rest on the edge of the case, and looked at her. ‘You?’

She laughed shortly. ‘I’m built for trouble, and people know it. That’s why those two fuckers are being more or less polite.’ She looked back at his hands, and at the strange instrument resting against the worn velvet. ‘I bet you could learn to play this thing, Lyriam. You should keep it.’

‘They’d never let me. It’s probably worth a lot.’

‘You think they care? Those two wouldn’t know a thing of value if it slapped them in the face.’

‘They still wouldn’t let me have it.’

‘That’s only a problem if you ask.’ She looked towards the front of the warehouse, the gaping door. ‘I came down because I saw the way Dirk was moving when he came in. He might be distracted for now, but the fact is things aren’t likely to go the way you hope today.’

Lyriam felt the cold fist in his gut again, as he had when he crossed the park that morning; when Garvey had slammed his steel against the gate; when he recognised the malevolence in Dirk’s eyes.

‘What do you think’s going to happen?’

Out front, it sounded as though the loading was nearly done. Biane kept her eyes trained towards the entrance as she spoke.

‘I heard about this place from a friend of mine who came here a few days ago. Worked his arse off just like we’re doing. When the day was done he went to get paid.’ She paused, face twisting into something ugly, and scary. ‘They laughed at him. Said they weren’t paying no stinking gems, that as far as they were concerned he was free labour.’

‘What? But— wasn’t he—?’

‘He’s a Biomin mining model, just like me. Keep your voice down. Let’s get this put away before they come back.’ He looked at her in shock as she briskly closed the lid on the guitharp and snapped the clasps shut. ‘My friend is not a man to tolerate insults, or cheats, but that’s not all they were after. Garvey used a stunner on him. He wasn’t expecting that, he hadn’t seen it. It was hidden inside that coat. Probably still is, since the bastard won’t take it off. There were three of them here that day, and once he was down they beat the crap out of him. Dumped him and left him for dead, and if he wasn’t one of us he would have been.’

‘But—’ Lyriam’s head was swimming, and his stomach was tight with fear. He found himself listening intently for the two men at the front of the warehouse, out where he and Biane would have to pass in order to leave this place. They were still shooting the breeze with the transport driver.

‘I don’t understand. If you knew that then why . . .’ He trailed off.

Biane nodded grimly. ‘I don’t take shit like that lightly either. So my advice to you, my young friend, is to put this aside. Somewhere you can grab it in a hurry. It looks as though it suits you, and it’s all you’re likely to get out of today’s activities.’

Lyriam swallowed. ‘How am I supposed to leave here with it? Especially if I’m trying not to be beaten up?’

‘I’m going to be keeping them too busy to stop you. But you’ll have to move fast, and we’re not going to have time for any more conversation. So get ready.’ She nodded towards the side wall of the warehouse. ‘Where you stashed your coat is good. Far enough back to be out of Dirk’s eye line, close enough to reach quickly. There’s another door out of here, a small one at the back. It’s closed, but I’ve already broken the lock. If you have to use it, grab your stuff and follow the line of shelves until you get to where it’s blocked, turn right, then the first left and you’re out. Don’t linger if you go that way. This place isn’t safe.’

‘You said that already.’

‘No.’ Her eyes bore into him. ‘I’m saying that now. It’s not safe. Get your arse ready to run.’

*

There are two of us, Lyriam kept thinking. Me and Biane. Dirk and Garvey. Two against two. With her friend it was three against one, but now they’re two against two. They must have thought about that. Even though I’m not much of a threat, they must have realised she more than makes up the difference. They’re not going to try anything, two against two. Not when one of us is her.

He thought this until he peered out from the deepening shadows inside the warehouse, out to where dusk was settling swiftly over the towering piles of forgotten treasures awaiting tomorrow’s transports. A figure he did not recognise had joined Garvey, and was poking interestedly at one of the piles with a long, wicked-looking stick.

Dirk strolled into sight alongside another stranger, similarly rangy and rough-clad. Their shoulders were loose, their gait purposeful. They too stopped next to Garvey, who stood with fists in pockets, gazing towards the black maw of the warehouse. Lyriam saw the flash of his grin in the dim light from a streetlamp, flickering dully in the gloom.

He felt Biane come up behind, and glanced round to alert her to the gathering out in the yard. From the look on her face he could tell there was no need, though if she was afraid she did not show it. She gazed thoughtfully out into the evening as she slipped something small and studded, like a credit or memtab, into the pocket of her quilted jacket. The jacket looked smaller to him somehow, as if she had grown thinner during the day, or it had lost some of its padding.

He turned to look again, and saw a fifth man slip through the open gate from the street and join the others. Cold sweat broke out on Lyriam’s back and he clenched his seven-fingered hands into useless fists. Five against two. At least. He glanced again at Biane, and found her smiling gently.

‘All set,’ she murmured to herself, sounding remarkably satisfied. He must have looked incredulous, because she focused on him, frowning a little, and opened her mouth as though to explain.

Behind him, Garvey’s voice, shouting. ‘Hey, you two in there! Day’s over. Time to collect your earnings.’

Rough laughter and mutters of anticipation, like hungry diners before a meal.

‘The back door’s looking like the best bet,’ Biane said softly. ‘Not yet, though. Stay behind me, at least ten paces. They’ll just think you’re scared.’ She took in his expression, and her mouth quirked in sympathy. ‘When I give the word, run back in here, grab your stuff and keep going. Once you’re outside, get up against the fence and circle round to the front, fast as you can. Stay out of sight and stay away from the building. As soon as you can make it through the gate, go. Get out of here.’

He found his voice. It was shaking. ‘What about you?’

‘Don’t worry about me. And don’t wait, or try to help.’

‘But—’

‘I mean it.’

‘Come out, come out,’ shouted Garvey. ‘What’re you waitin’ for?’

*

Biane strolled clear of the warehouse’s shadow as though she hadn’t a care in the world and paused for a moment, relaxed and easy, surveying the assembled men.

‘Been waiting for everybody to get here,’ she said evenly. ‘Wouldn’t want anyone to feel left out.’

She resumed her steady walk. The men now looked uneasily from her to Garvey. Behind, still hidden by the darkness inside the warehouse, Lyriam took a deep, deep breath and told himself he had to follow.

‘You ready for this much company?’ Garvey asked, but the jeer sounded less certain than before.

‘I figured you’d call in reinforcements, Garvey. They here to help you tally up our pay?’ She tilted her head to the side and back, towards the warehouse. Though she did not look round, the signal was unmistakable.

Lyriam stepped slowly onto the concrete apron and walked forward, trying to imitate her nonchalant pose. He was certain that he fooled no one. Dirk hissed, rubbing his hands together, his eagerness plain to see. But the other men shifted, glancing at him, then back at her, then over at Garvey; and he understood that his role now was to be a distraction, to give the men something else to keep track off besides Biane. They were, at the moment, two moving targets.

She had almost reached them, and was speaking again. ‘Well, Garvey? Where’s our wages? Forty credits for me and twenty for the boy. Though if you ask me he’s worth twice that.’

Lyriam quickened his pace, moving diagonally so that he could keep them all in sight. The maw of the warehouse gaped behind him.

‘I didn’t ask you,’ Garvey growled, as one of the strangers called out, ‘What’s that make you worth then, gem bitch?’

‘Also twice,’ she said, ‘but that’s not the deal we made. Come on Garvey. Time to pay up.’

He bared his teeth again and he stepped forward to within touching distance. ‘I got your payment right here.’

His hand came out of the pocket, clenched around the shaft of a stunner. Lyriam remembered them hanging from the belts of the guards at crèche, and occasionally used on some of the tougher, rowdier kids. The mere presence of the weapons had generally been threat enough. Garvey swung it at Biane.

Had she not known it was coming, Lyriam thought things would have gone as badly for her as they had for her unknown friend. As it was, she dodged neither back nor sideways, but dove under Garvey’s lunging attack. With no impact to arrest it, the momentum sent him stumbling forward and down onto his knees. She was up faster than Lyriam could track, but he caught the violet glow of her hair in the gloom, disappearing behind one of the piles of debris. By the time Garvey staggered to his feet and the cursing men whipped round, she was out of sight. Lyriam could see, from where he stood, that she had not run for the open gate.

‘What the fuck?’ Dirk shrieked. He and the others were casting about, looking for her. The dusk and towering piles of scrap worked against them now, hiding their prey.

‘I knew that bitch knew something,’ Garvey panted. ‘Where the fuck is she? Where’s the fucking boy?’

‘Right here, Garvey,’ Lyriam shouted, and they spun towards the sound of his voice. Behind them he could see a shadow topped by a faint violet gleam moving rapidly up a stack of old electrical appliances, scaling a summit of ancient refrigerators and washing machines. Had he stopped to think about it, he would have guessed his courage came from having sight of her. ‘This your idea of a fair deal?’

The men howled with laughter. ‘Fair enough – for a freak,’ Garvey shouted back, the stunner in his hand once more crackling at the tip. He moved as though to go for Lyriam, still halfway between them and the warehouse. The men were all turned towards him now, and they did not see, as Lyriam did, the violet glow move in a short sharp arc: like the turn of a head when the person upon whose shoulders it sits shoves at something large, and heavy.

They only knew the grinding and crashing sounds behind them as some boxy item, big enough to hold a body and shining white in the gloaming, came tumbling into their midst. There was a shriek of metal on metal as the pile from which it had been pushed destabilised and toppled. They screamed and scattered. Lyriam saw two men collide and fall, and another knocked off his feet by the impact. Most of them had cleared the area in the nick of time, but they were not entirely unscathed.

Some of them glimpsed the violet-topped shadow that leaped clear of the collapse, and disappeared behind another pile of trash.

‘Fuck!’ screamed one of the newcomers. ‘Bitch is tryin’ to kill us!’

‘So?’ her voice came back at them, from somewhere behind or between the mounds of rubbish. It was hard with rage. ‘Wasn’t that your plan for us?’ Lyriam thought she had moved back towards the warehouse, further away from the gate.

‘It fucking is now!’ Dirk screamed into the night. ‘You freak, when I get my hands on you . . .’

‘I know all about what you like to do with your hands, Dirk.’ The calm in her voice terrified Lyriam more than anything else. Violet glinted behind a stack of wooden crates, in his eye line, but not theirs. He thought she glanced towards him, and then the voice came again: ‘Lyriam, we’ll be leaving soon. Time to get your coat.’

They shouted incredulous oaths at that, but they had her location now, and surged towards it.

‘Somebody grab the boy,’ Garvey growled, and Dirk changed direction, heading for Lyriam, glancing back as somebody yelled. She had leaped up onto the topmost crate, a tall man’s height above the ground. They heard her shout ‘Go,’ and Lyriam went, but not before he’d seen her come crashing down feet first on top of Dirk, and heard his scream.

Then he was back inside the blackness of the warehouse, quailing at the thought of what might be happening behind him, where there were grunts and shouts and the sound of blows; but knowing, too, that she had maneuvered events precisely towards this outcome.

Don’t worry, don’t wait, don’t try to help. Those were his instructions. The first was impossible, but he thought he could manage the other two. He snatched his coat from its rusty nail and grabbed the guitharp.

Behind him, shouts of, ‘Grab her! Don’t let her get away!’ sounded.

There were running feet at the warehouse entrance, and her voice, a hint of strain in it now, shouting, ‘C’mon boys, back to work! Come join us!’

Gods and monsters, she was leading them inside. Did she hope to separate them, hunt them down one by one between the bales and barrels? That plan could so easily be turned against her. Garvey and Dirk knew the place well, and maybe the others did too. But she must think she could use it somehow . . .

Lyriam remembered what else she had said; and though he did not know, could not imagine what she had meant, he ran without further thought, following the line of shelves as instructed until he collided with a deeper blackness. Behind him, shouts and jeers told him that at least some of the men were now inside, spread out and moving through the labyrinthine, crowded space, searching, chasing. He turned right, following the barrier – it felt like long rolls of something, maybe a stack of old carpets – until it ran out, then turned left into a short, cluttered passage. He stumbled, and a shiver of notes erupted from the case in his hand. In his panic he thought he should drop it; he would be lighter and faster, and it might trip whoever was coming in his wake. But the message must have got confused between his brain and his fist, because when he slammed up against the door and charged out into the darkened yard he was still holding it, his fingers locked around the straps, the case banging against his side as he scrambled away, turning to look back at the warehouse.

He could still hear shouts through the open door, things falling, the sounds of another fight. Up against the fence now, crouched behind a stinking mass of rotted plastic-weave bags, he struggled into his coat, trying to keep the doorway in sight. The sounds were getting closer as he shrugged his arms through the shoulder straps of the case. Somehow he could no longer even imagine leaving it behind. He began to feel his way along the fence, towards the front, trying to listen and look ahead to where some of the men might still be lying in wait; and behind, to whoever else might emerge through the door.

He had made it halfway when he heard a loud pop, like something he remembered from vid hour in the crèche, rumbling out through the early night. It came from above, near the roof of the warehouse, and he looked up at the deeper darkness of it against the sky. Another pop, and another in quick succession, and the skylight glass shattered all along the length of the roof. Another pop, and this time he thought he could see a puff of dust erupt out of one of those gaping holes; and as he strained his eyes in the dark he saw the entire roofline begin to waver.

He knew what she had done, then, and he turned and ran for the deeper cover of the yard in front.

She was a miner. He had seen those vids too, meant to teach gems about others of their kind. Maybe that was where he recognised the popping sound from. He knew about their work, up mountains and down shafts, before the casualty rates became so high the government had been forced to step in. She would know how to do it, how to identify the weak spots, set off charges, open up cracks along the lines of least resistance.

He remembered the quilted jacket that had looked less full at the end of the day than the beginning, and the thing that had disappeared into her pocket: not quite like a memtab or a credit tab, but a lot like some kind of transmitter. He wondered where, in the middle of London, she had got hold of the explosives.

He threw himself into the furthest corner, between the front railings and the side fence, huddling in the shelter of a pile of boxes that he had spent the day discarding, and listened as the building behind him collapsed. If there were screams he did not hear them, and there was no other sound or movement near him, no shouts or curses. When the tortured roar of falling metal and glass and mortar finally echoed away into nothing, and he peered from his hiding place across the yard to where the warehouse had been, he saw in the dim light from the street the greatest pile of rubble yet, compacted to half its original height; but no sign of life.

He looked the other way, along the narrow side yard towards the rear of the destroyed building, rising into a crouch as he did so, feeling the unfamiliar, comforting bulk of the guitharp on his back. He thought that he caught, in the dark and the billowing dust, a flickering glimpse of violet.

*

On the way to the gate, hurrying and stumbling over the mountains of rubbish which had themselves been scattered by the shockwave or ejected through the open doorway, he finally saw a body: Dirk, facedown and bloody, one arm twisted awkwardly behind him. He was too far away to have been inside when the building fell. Lyriam could not tell whether he was alive or dead, and did not stop to check.

So Biane had reduced the odds by at least one, and led the rest inside, and brought their own house down on them. If she had failed to make it out then there was nothing he could do for her anyway. If she had escaped, racing ahead to burst through the back door just in time, she too would now be away: over the side fence or picking her way towards the front.

She did not expect him to wait. She had told him not to wait. And he knew that she was right: it would be better by far for them not to meet, to go their separate ways, never see each other again nor speak of this night to anyone.

He turned at the gate, glancing back one last time. There was still no sign of her. He felt the weight of her gift on his back.

He would have to come up with a story for that. Not the truth, but maybe something close enough to be believed; something that would honour her just a little bit. He would think about it tonight, in the park.

He slipped between one poor pool of light and the next, turned a corner, and disappeared into the dark.

Stephanie Saulter writes what she likes to think is literary science fiction. Born in Jamaica, she earned her degree at MIT and spent over a decade in the United States before moving to England in 2003. She’s best known as the author of the ®Evolution trilogy: Gemsigns, Binary and Regeneration are set in a near-future London, and use the lens of an altered humanity to take a new look at the old issues of race, class, inequality and social conflict. Stephanie blogs unpredictably at stephaniesaulter.com and tweets slightly more reliably as @scriptopus. She lives in London.

Frontsman • David Towsey

Frontsman

David Towsey

Omaro had asked for help twice in his thirty-nine years. That didn’t shame him. He was a man who’d fought the mountain tribes from the back of a tusker and on foot: a frontsman. The night before each battle he slept soundly. From the middle of the line he’d bellowed loud enough to send fruit tumbling like the clouds had opened. His own men quaked, then cheered, then fought like red-winks, teeth bared. He’d asked for help twice, once for each time he chose a wife. That didn’t shame him.

He blew air out of his large cheeks and raised his mai-stick once again. It was solid and round in his hand; its chipped and blunt end had finished many things. Many men. Harder to begin things with a mai-stick – neither it nor Omaro were built for that. But here he was.

He knocked on a rock. The hollow, wooden clunk echoed in the mouth of the cave. When the sound was gone and the jungle resumed its whispering, he knelt in the way befitting a frontsman. He didn’t lean on his mai-stick, like a spineless elder; fourteen times he had ventured to where the sun rises. His pouch had knucklebones and teeth, polished and cleaned, as was right. Some of the teeth were as long as a finger, such were the men he’d faced. Those trophies had taken years to acquire, and those years were beginning to weigh heavily on him. As a younger man he had waited, kneeling on the bare earth just so, for a day and a night. Now, he had to ignore the flaring protest of his ankles.

That Violine would keep him waiting was understood. He lost nothing in his sitting. He faced the sun; letting the dying god warm his skin. Violine’s cave was a good walk from the village. When there was a breeze, noises were carried to him – the pounding of meal and the braying laughter of the idle. Omaro sucked at the sore near the roof of his mouth. Too many sons laughed when there was serious work to do. Too many daughters pounded meal instead of taking to the ring. Others saw it too, what for Omaro was plain as a wailer’s call, but too many were deaf and blind. He shifted at the thought of it, and then cursed himself for showing weakness. Violine would be watching.

Maybe she would know his fidgeting was for the tribe, maybe she’d think he was weak. She’d clapped with the rest of them when he brought Pirro to the ground, the festival before last, but she collected no winnings from his victory – so few did. Pirro had a big mouth and big shoulders and Violine should have known better. She didn’t smile as she clapped; so few did.

When the sun slept, he stood. His brow furrowed as if the nearby trees had asked him of their dreams and what they might mean. The feeling in his toes was slow to return.

There were baskets at the cave-mouth, woven, painted and placed by young women, daughters: gifts to hold gifts. He had brought trinkets that caught the light of the stars; useless things that his wives liked but wouldn’t notice were gone. He held them over the baskets, but stopped. He gazed into the empty cave and knew she was watching. The question was in the cooling air: if not another wife, then why was he there? He knelt and placed his mai-stick carefully across the baskets. It would be understood.

He made his way back down to the village. He didn’t turn to look, but knew she was there at the cave. Her hands would be running over the uneven wood of his offering. He was asking for help for the third time in his thirty-nine years, and that didn’t shame him.

*

His first wife placed a bowl at his feet. Omaro shook his head; he didn’t care for fruit that morning. His second wife brought porridge. He caught her wrist. Her eyes grew wide and she tried to back away but she was too small to move him; more chance of moving a sleeping tusker. He forced her fingers into the porridge and when she didn’t cry out, he let her go. He ate the porridge and his wives left to pursue whatever it was they filled their days with.

‘Tajo!’ he said. His voice rumbled through the ground, out of the hut and shook the trees awake.

His son waited at the threshold, filling less of the entrance than his wives did.

‘Come here, Tajo.’

Head bowed, his son stood before him. Omaro watched his ribs closely, though at sixteen there should be no ribs to see – didn’t the boy eat enough? At least he wasn’t trembling. Omaro pinched the boy’s mai-arm. He slapped the boy’s buttocks and felt a sharpness against his palm.

‘Sixteen,’ Omaro said.

‘Yes, Father,’ Tajo said, though it wasn’t a question.

Omaro cupped the boy’s balls and was unimpressed with what he found. ‘The winds blow fiercely at the base of the mountains. They would chase you home.’

‘I will save them the trouble and stay here,’ Tajo said.

Omaro leaned forward and took the boy’s feet out from under him, scattering the bowls.

Tajo remained on the ground, surrounded by fruit, propped up on his elbows. His pointy, spiny elbows.

‘I will save you the trouble!’

‘Yes, Father.’

Omaro waved his son away; Violine would see him today.

*

The climb to her cave was worse without his stick, but he didn’t rest, though his breath was short and sweat lined the folds in his belly. It was hot today – hotter than the day before, perhaps the hottest day of the season. When he reached the cave, he turned back and counted twenty paces. There he stood until he breathed easy and his skin had cooled.

The baskets were empty. He had no way to knock so he knelt in the way befitting of a frontsman.

He didn’t hear her approach. One moment she was not there, the next she was, as was her way. Kneeling, he was eye-to-eye with her. He didn’t like it, but he was the one in need of guidance. She held his mai-stick as if it were her own, as if she’d up-ended Pirro herself, as if she had broken mountain skulls.

‘You look restless, Omaro who throws berns, rides tuskers, sleeps with two wives.’

‘My son: he has elbows like yours.’

Violine was naked except for a crown of husht teeth.

‘And he has as many ribs as you do,’ he said.

‘We all have so many ribs, Omaro, even frontsmen like you,’ Violine said. She was quick. She jabbed a hand underneath his breast and pain bloomed like a water lotus. ‘One,’ she said.

He held up a hand. ‘How easily we forget,’ he said, with an uneasy smile. ‘I will count the others myself.’

‘You come talking of sons and not wives,’ Violine said.

‘Son. I have only one.’

‘Then make more.’ She turned to go.

‘My wives are too old.’

‘Then take another.’

‘Two is enough,’ he said.

‘I told you last time one was enough. You make your own choices, Omaro.’

He opened his mouth and then closed it. He shifted until he sat as a woman would and rubbed his swollen red ankles. He could feel her smiling.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ he muttered. ‘Tajo will never step the mai. How could he hold a line with such elbows?’

Violine sat by him as a neighbour might and he stiffened, which made his one rib throb more. At least his ankles were quiet.

‘You have Dorsey; she approaches like a herd. Whenever I see her I pity the mountain folk.’

‘She brings me great pride.’

‘And Alvi doubled my winnings last festival.’

Omaro laughed. ‘There’s still talk, the talk like wailers make, that you bewitched the circle that day. Alvi was half that girl’s size.’

‘Laugh, Omaro – find joy in all your children.’

Violine tried to stand, but he stopped her. His hand engulfed her shoulder. Her bones were so delicate, like the wings of a painter.

‘He’s my only son.’

Violine snorted like a tusker. ‘Well, what does the boy want to do?’

‘Want?’ Omaro said.

‘Yes, want? When you dreamed of frontlines, small mountain girls and a bloodied mai-stick – what does Tajo see behind his eyes?’

‘I don’t know.’

Violine left him. He rolled that word around his big teeth: want. She said it one way, he said it another, and now it felt like a different word altogether. He thought about it the rest of the morning and long into the afternoon. His stomach tried to distract him so he chewed some leaves until it was silent. Before the sun god died, he ambled back to the cave mouth. He still had his wives’ trinkets, which he had initially spurned in favour of offering his mai-stick, but once again he stopped himself from offering them to the wise woman. Instead, he took out his knuckles and teeth. He chose the largest of each and placed them gently in the basket.

*

‘Tajo!’

Omaro spat fruit seeds onto the hard-packed floor as his son appeared in the doorway to the hut. He stood next to his sister, shrinking when he saw her. Perhaps Dorsey had beaten him recently. She ignored him as if he were of no more account than a speck.

‘Dorsey, what do you see behind your eyes when the night is deep and you are alone?’ Omaro asked.

Dorsey looked him in the eye as she thought. He selected another piece of fruit, giving her time.

‘Mostly they are chased away by the painters that nest by my hut and I forget. When I don’t, I see bull tuskers as big as mountains next to me. We are the only line.’

Omaro slapped his thigh. ‘My daughter amongst the bulls.’

She nodded: as it should be.

‘Tajo, you are always alone, so you must see many things. There are no painters by your hut, so you must remember them all. Tell me.’

‘Father?’

‘I said tell me!’ Omaro threw a half-empty bowl of fruit at his son. It hit him square in the belly, making him double over.

Dorsey sneered at her brother as Tajo righted himself. He stared at the bowl as he said, ‘Squares.’

‘Squares?’ Omaro leaned forward – perhaps the boy was confused; perhaps the boy meant rings?

‘Good solid lines. Green, some brown, but all mine. As far as I can see. And I can see far.’

Omaro sank back on his ankles. There was only one mai-ring in the village.

‘Father, must I listen to this?’ Dorsey said. She spat at her brother’s feet. ‘It shames me.’

‘Explain, Daughter.’

‘He sees fields.’

*

Omaro picked up the baskets at the cave mouth, looking underneath each one, shaking them to make sure they were as empty as they appeared. He cast around. Finding a rock only half-buried he set his great weight to prising it free. He raised it over his head, ready to bring it down on the same spot he’d knocked with his mai-stick.

‘Will you come every morning until I own everything and you nothing?’ Violine said. She was perched above the cave. She wore his knuckle and tooth crudely around her neck.

‘If my possessions would cover your nakedness, the village would thank me.’

She roared with laughter.

He dropped the rock. ‘My son. He wants to be a farmer.’

‘The village needs to eat,’ she said.

‘On choosing day he will be amongst the last.’

‘Going first didn’t help you, Omaro.’

‘There will be talk. They’ll say my river ran dry those years ago.’

‘The wailers wail and do you listen?’

‘I won’t have it,’ Omaro said. ‘I give offerings. My mai-stick has been to the mountains so many times it wished for wings. You.’ He pointed a fat finger at her. ‘You must fix this.’

‘I will help you, Omaro. I will tell you a story. But to hear the story you must agree on three things.’

‘Three is a bad number.’

She ignored him. ‘You must come here every day. You must do exactly as I say. And you must not see Tajo until the story is finished.’

‘What will you do to my son?’ Omaro said.

‘Do you agree, frontsman?’

He rubbed under his chin. Three was a bad number, but it would be worth it for a story. A story would tell him what to do to stop his only son seeing fields behind his eyes. A story would tell him how to change Tajo into a man and cover the boy’s ribs.

‘When will we start?’

Violine cleared her throat.

*

‘It happened before our village, before our people, before trees grew here. And this is how it happened.

‘Umar was the wisest of the animal gods. He slept through the days in his burrow beneath the great tree. There, he first felt the vibrations – vibrations were very important to him. He left his burrow early, for the sun was too hot for him; it was a merciless god in those times, merciless even when dealing with its brothers and sisters. Family is like that.

‘The other animal gods were not happy to see Umar. Marla the wailer set to her noise. The bird gods spread their wings and filled the sky. All were chattering and wondering, and many were scared. Umar said they were right to be scared. Bad things were coming. He felt them beneath the great tree, in the earth, and all the way to the mountains.’

Violine opened her eyes. She stretched and yawned.

‘Yes? What were the bad things?’ Omaro said.

‘Tomorrow, frontsman. Bring a mattock.’

‘The story, Violine.’ Omaro rose, towering over the wise woman.

‘And remember the three things asked of you.’

She left him to make his slow way home.

*

That night he ate without tasting, and when he lay down his head he found no sleep. He was troubled: what bad things would worry the husht god? Stories were full of questions. He shouldn’t have dealt with the wise woman; when answers were needed she only gave questions. She bet at the mai-ring as well as anyone, and just as poorly – what kind of divine eye behaved so?

Omaro threw off his furs and strode naked into the night air, enjoying the coolness of it. He entered his first wife’s hut. It was dark – not even embers in the fire pit. He waited for his breathing to wake her, but she didn’t stir. She was there in the blackness, seeing whatever it was she saw behind her eyes: full breakfast bowls and braided hair, perhaps. He did not want to take her from that.

His second wife woke as he drew aside the hide of her hut. Her fire still glowed. She didn’t sleep with furs, though she had many. She saw him and made soft noises. He felt her heat under his palms and he mounted her, like a tusker mounts his mare. He enjoyed the smoothness of her back and how her hair fell about her neck. When he finished, he patted her flank and once again enjoyed the coolness of the night air. The questions no longer plagued him. Violine was the wise woman. She had the story within her and Omaro would soon know it. It was a good story: of animal gods and the like. They would show him the way with Tajo.

*

His youngest daughter, Meera, brought him the mattock, using both hands to lug it in. He smiled at her seriousness. It was bigger than her, and top-heavy like her. He’d seen many daughters grow and though it surprised him at first, he’d come to understand their heads were too big at birth and too small at death.

‘Show me your teeth,’ he said.

She growled at him, and two wonky pegs spoke of her fierceness. He laughed, and she was not pleased.

He used the mattock like a stick to help him up to the cave, carrying it across his shoulders for the last twenty paces.

Violine was waiting for him. She beckoned for him to follow and they walked for a way, her ten or so paces in front. He wanted to ask her the questions that boiled and bubbled inside him, but when he opened his mouth to let them out she was just a little too far away, or a wailer group began its call, or she’d passed beyond a tree.

When they stopped, she held up a hand for his silence. ‘From the river there,’ she said, ‘to where the trees grow dense. You see?’

He nodded.

‘You must bring down every tree in between. Root too.’

‘I have questions,’ he said.

‘Good, frontsman.’ She slapped his buttock. ‘I will tell the story as you work.’

He started to count the trees she wanted him to pull from the earth, but there were too many and they danced in the heat of the morning. He’d downed many men in a single festival day, back when his body was quick as well as strong.

‘This will take many days,’ he said.

‘So it will.’

‘What are these trees to you?’

‘Nothing,’ Violine said, settling on a rock. She wore husht teeth but she moved and sat like a tamtar.

‘And what are they to everyone else?’

‘Everything.’

‘Riddles do not make one wise,’ he said.

She cleared her throat.

He waited. She was waiting too, he realised. He approached the first tree. Hefting the mattock, he thought of Meera and her two-armed struggle to shift it. He swung it wide and low, as near to the ground as he could, striking the tree a wicked blow. The years had taught him to expect the sound of snapping bone, of warriors’ cries, of blood like rain on leaves. The thump of mattock-head on wood left an emptiness in him; where a fire should have been there was only the bitterness of ash.

‘This is not work befitting me,’ Omaro said. ‘Find yourself another—’

*

‘Umar set about gathering the animal gods. Some were lazy, and some already knew of the bad things. He sent those who could walk on the winds to the far places across the great lakes and beyond strange-looking mountains, where ice grows instead of trees. Many he did not see again.

‘Umar started his own long journey, his task to rouse Jornder, the slumbering tusker god. There was no love between the two, and Jornder would normally have slept through any of man’s trifling affairs. And that was Umar’s understanding of the bad thing to come: it was man’s doing.

‘He took Marla, with her loud cry, and Norna, whose red-wink cunning would be needed to convince the most stubborn of gods. They journeyed under the sun and under the moon, neither of which concerned themselves with such things. The gods did not grow tired but bored: Marla wailed and hooted at every man they saw, blaming them for the tedious hours, and Norna ground her teeth at the wailer god.’

*

Omaro wiped the sweat from his face. He was slick with it all over. His great chest heaved as he sat on one of the fallen trees. He had felled three and dug out their roots and the afternoon was growing old. Digging in the soil was slow and he’d found no comfortable way to set himself. His back throbbed and sores were forming on his hands.

‘Carry on,’ he said.

‘Carry on,’ she said.

‘I am done today.’

‘Then we are done. No good story is heard in a day.’ She stood and moved as if her joints ached and her legs were tired, although she had done nothing but sit there and watch him work. She trudged with him as far as his home and then was gone, off into the village.

He called for his first wife. She came out to the yard. Her hands were dusted in ground corn and striped with spices that scratched at his nose. He took her hands and licked each finger clean.

‘Bring me more,’ he said.

‘It is not ready.’

‘Bring it anyway. And I need to be washed.’

She ducked her head.

‘Where is Tajo?’ he said.

‘He’s not—’

‘Don’t tell me. I should not have asked. I will sleep like Jornder tonight.’

His wife’s eyes grew wide at the mention of the tusker god and she made signs across her chest that he shouldn’t wake and turn his wrathful step towards their village.

He lay in his hut and waited for his first wife. Meera, his youngest daughter, peered around the edge of the doorway, no doubt wondering where the mattock was. He let her stare.

*

The following day was the same: more trees to clear, and although his body ached, he rested only when he had to. He found a rhythm in the swinging mattock, though it still felt bitter and his blood was cold, even if his body wasn’t.

Violine continued the story; Umar and the other gods found no easy passage to the resting place of Jornder. Omaro only half-listened to the tale as he grappled with roots. Their tapering thickness put him in mind of fingers: long, spirit-like fingers that he pulled one by one out of the earth. They released their grip grudgingly, but Omaro enjoyed the struggle.

Violine’s voice was clear across the glade he was creating; no matter how far away he worked, from riverbank to dense treeline, he heard her, telling about the rough-and-tumble play of Marla and Norna. He smiled at that, remembering his own brothers and sisters and how they spent their early years making mai-rings of their own. Leepo, the pecker-bird god, gave them trouble: he wanted them to turn back, to leave Jordner to his slumber. Pecker-birds were always a nuisance. When he returned home that night, his first wife brought a stone to rub at the hard skin that had grown on his palms.

*

‘Omaro?’

He looked up from his bowl of fruit. He’d been favouring fruit more of late.

Naylen, his neighbour, bowed her head at the entrance to his hut. He beckoned her enter and she took her time settling. She was not much smaller than he.

‘The village is talking,’ she said.

He offered her a bowl. ‘That is what villages are for,’ he said.

Naylen picked at her fruit – she would have eaten before leaving her own home. She had three husbands, if such a thing could be believed. It was no wonder she looked tired.

‘People are wondering why you walk to the wise woman’s cave every morning.’

‘They wonder, but do not come to see for themselves?’

‘They mean no disrespect, they are only curious. Curious and idle,’ she said.

‘And you want to know?’

‘I have my own curiosity.’

‘You don’t look like a mouser,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘I did, once, before I felt the weight of a mai-stick and decided it would be mine to hold.’

‘Once. I find myself thinking in such a way more and more often now.’

‘Is that why you see her?’

He waved her question away.

‘My nephew is to be married at the next fat moon,’ Naylen said. ‘There is a place by the fire for you and yours.’

‘So long after the choosing?’

Naylen spat out fruit seeds. ‘Her mother is a trader from another village. She counts the flakes in her porridge each morning.’

‘If only we could choose for them,’ he said.

Naylen shuddered. ‘Would your father have chosen well for you?’

‘He had no eye for women. We will attend, of course.’

She bowed her head again. At the doorway she stopped. ‘Eat more than fruit, Omaro. You are shrinking in your old age.’ She slapped her ample flanks as she walked from his hut.

He considered throwing a bowl at her – little chance he’d miss – but instead he pinched the flesh on his own thighs. Was he shrinking?

He called to his second wife to bring more food.

*

When Omaro reached the clearing Violine was already there, perched on her rock. At her feet were a number of tools.

He picked them up one at a time, examining them, as she said, ‘You are to build a fence from the trees you have cleared.’ She marked where it was to be with a sweep of her hand.

He prodded a small axe with his toes. ‘How do I build a fence?’

‘However you wish.’

He surveyed the clearing and then wandered to the nearest felled tree. He lifted one end and shifted it until it was sitting on his shoulder. What a sight he must have made: old Omaro, big as a bull tusker and just as strong, tearing trees from the ground to do his bidding. With small steps he made his way to the riverbank, where he dropped the tree.

Violine was at his side. Omaro took a step away from her – nothing natural moved that quietly.

‘That wouldn’t stop a line of crumbers,’ she said.

‘Nothing any man could build would stop a line of crumbers.’

‘What would this fence stop?’

Omaro rubbed the base of his back. ‘A grain-thief, perhaps.’

‘Never.’

‘Then tell me, what am I supposed to stop with this fence?’

‘That,’ she said, pointing to the trees on the far side of the river.

He squinted against the early sun. There was something moving beyond the trees, something causing the leaves to fidget.

‘What is it?’ Omaro said.

‘You are not to know. Just build a fence, so high,’ she said, tapping at his belly.

‘But what will—?’

‘Enough questions. Remember your promises, Omaro the great frontsman, bellower of the lines, shaker of the heavens, dread of the . . .’ She continued on, waving her hands in the air in mockery of the words she was saying; she clearly thought to provoke him.

He shook his head. She was so small – the worker, in all its buzzing fury, raises no more than a paw from the bern; he could swat her away. But she was beginning the story again.

*

‘Jordner slept beneath the mountains. This was not a blessing for the mountain folk, for in those early times he was an angry god. His great tusks would rend the earth and spew running fire. The mountain people learned to tread carefully, as did Umar, Marla and Norna. As they approached the entrance to Jordner’s cave, Leepo fluttered down on his quick wings. The pecker-bird god threatened to make a great noise and wake Jordner too soon, risking their journey’s ruin. Leepo’s bright red beak opened and closed many times, and no matter how much Umar hissed, the bird would not be moved.

Marla gave up her hooting and sat in the dirt. She cursed birds and their gods alike. As she began to groom herself, wishing she were not alone and so far from her troop, Leepo flew onto her head and began pecking. One time among many the bird actually found a speck, but more often it came away with nothing but Marla’s fur. The wailer went to swat the bird, but Umar stopped her. She stayed behind to keep Leepo busy as Norna and Umar entered the cave, but her quiet grumblings following them and her occasional hoot made Umar wince.

*

Omaro was whittling when Violine stopped talking. He was fashioning spears to thrust into the wet ground – he had placed six already, and needed two more for his fence. Then he would lace sticks between them before slapping mud and leaves and tusker dung over the top, just as his wives did to build his huts. He considered bringing them here to do the same, but this wasn’t a place for wives. He tested the point and found it good. When he looked up he was alone in the clearing.

He finished the last two spears and as with the first, used his bulk to drive them deep into the earth. He said his prayers, asking the earth-mother for forgiveness for his intrusions (and to blame the wise woman, if any blaming was to be done). He peered again at the opposite bank, which was still and quiet now, and took half a step towards the river, then he remembered Violine’s command. He ground his back teeth all the way home.

*

Both his wives were waiting for him at the entrance to his compound, wearing long skirts and carvings at their wrists and necks. Hands that should have been grinding flour were decked in tusk and stones.

He opened his mouth, but they each took an arm and guided him to his hut. The whole family, except his son, was assembled outside, dressed in their finest.

‘What is all this?’ he said.

‘Bembe is to marry tonight.’

Omaro shook himself free of his wives. ‘I know no Bembe.’

‘Naylen’s nephew.’

Omaro glanced up at the darkening sky. ‘But the moon is not full.’

‘Full enough,’ his first wife said.

‘I must be made ready,’ he said, glaring at each of them in turn. They hurried into his hut and he knelt, as befitting a frontsman such as he, as his wives dressed and painted him. The clacking of their bracelets bothered him and he swiped at them, but they were too quick for his half-hearted paws.

‘Who is this Bembe? Tell me of him,’ Omaro said.

‘His village is not far,’ his first wife said. ‘He is big. They say he will call the lines soon, perhaps even next season.’

Omaro groaned. His wives stopped their work until he waved them on again. ‘There will be no suffering Naylen tonight,’ he said. ‘Spare no paint.’

He emerged from his hut the death god incarnate, illuminated in the sputtering firelight. His youngest children cowered and he grinned devilishly at one and all, sweeping his arms wide just to hear his feathers on the wind.

They were late to the festivities, but their place had been held, as was right. Omaro took his seat beside the mai-ring. Dancers still occupied the cleared dirt, but they looked tired, their eyes darting to and fro. His family arranged themselves, his daughters Dorsey and Alvi at his side, his wives behind. He couldn’t see Tajo. He shifted and broke wind and Meera giggled loud enough to be heard over the dancers’ drums. He took her up onto his lap. The dancers bored her quickly and she started grasping towards Dorsey.

‘What does she want?’ Omaro said.

Dorsey sighed. ‘My knuckles.’

‘Indulge her.’

Dorsey reached into her pouch and produced two large bones. Meera held them up to her eyes.

The dancers finished to a chorus of cheers and whooping, and the two families continued to make a good deal of noise. Most were already drunk; no doubt the celebrations had started early in Bembe’s village and Naylen’s family were not to be outdone. When Naylen looked his way, Omaro bowed his head, but not his eyes.

‘You are fighting tonight?’ he asked his daughters.

‘Of course, Father,’ they said.

‘That is good.’ There was only so much dancing he could watch before entertainment of a richer variety was called for.

His first wife passed him a full horn and he drained half. The nut wine was pleasing, thick and heady, and he allowed Meera a sip, despite his wife’s tutting.

There were many strangers in the mai-ring that night. He watched them lazily whilst others roared, clapped and stomped until they became shadows of the great fire in the middle of the ring. More than one fighter was upended into the flames – wedding scars were to be envied. Omaro had his share, and had given a greater share, for which his opponents had been grateful.

‘You look tired and thin tonight, Old Omaro.’ Naylen held out a horn, which he drained without taking a breath.

‘I was just remembering wedding scars,’ he said, tapping her forearm, marked almost from wrist to elbow.

‘To former glory,’ she said, and they drank again.

‘He’s a strong-looking boy,’ Omaro said.

Naylen smiled, showing her gaps. ‘Strong blood, isn’t it?’

‘Strong wine.’

‘There’s still talk, Omaro.’

‘There’s always talk.’

‘They say she’s got you cutting down trees.’

‘Why not ask her yourself?’ Omaro said, gesturing at the wise woman – wise enough tonight to be betting with his daughters. She was barking and growling along with the crowd.

‘I’m not asking anything, just telling.’ Naylen wandered away through the wedding guests.

Omaro saw his daughters down many that night, men and women from both villages – or at least so he was told. Perhaps it was the days working with his hands or the nut wine from Bembe’s village, but either way he could not enjoy the mai-ring as it should be enjoyed. Naylen’s words had nettled him – they were supposed to, but there was no use in knowing that. He fidgeted on his seat, then stood.

‘We’re not going?’ his second wife said. She had not finished her gossiping.

‘I need to piss.’

His family parted before the crestfallen death god, paint smudged, his gait not what it once was.

He wandered far from the mai-ring, beyond the fire pretending to be the sun. He was more comfortable under the moon and they walked together a while. He pissed against a tree, holding his cock as if it were a mattock, swinging it back and forth. And there was another tree cleared so his son would be a proper man.

Something snuffled in the distance and Omaro looked about himself properly for the first time. He’d walked all the way to the tusker paddocks. He’d made his journey without Marla or Norna, making his own way there to ask the tusker god to solve his troubles.

Resting a foot on the fence, he admired the workmanship: heavy, thick pillars, and bars big enough to be whole tree trunks. It took his weight, and would take much more. He’d like to know who built it, ask them how they’d made it so strong, and without rope – and why they’d decided against a mud covering. This fence was to keep in tuskers; his own wouldn’t give a charging tusker a moment’s pause. Was that what was behind the trees beyond the river? An old bull, struggling through the undergrowth while Omaro hoped to finish his fence and the story, only to have the tusker brush it aside?

A tusker thumped the ground with its trunk. Omaro looked up from his thoughts of fences to find a bull, huge, with eyes that caught the moonlight as a lake might. Its legs were marked by many scars and the cracks on its trunk were deep. He knocked the fence with a fist: one warrior greeting another.

‘Tell me, old one,’ he said. ‘Tell me of your troubles, so I might forget my own.’

The tusker sighed through its trunk and flapped its ears.

‘And so it is.’

Omaro scraped some of the paint from his face, stretched out his hand and painted the mark of Jordner on the old god’s mighty son.

He wandered home, in no mood for weddings.

*

‘The trees have been cleared. The fence is finished. I will do no more of your work,’ he said.

‘That is your choice.’

‘Finish the story, so I can fix my son.’

‘That is not what was agreed,’ Violine said.

He towered over her, blocking out the morning sun, but she did not flinch.

‘There are stones to clear.’

‘What stones?’ he barked.

‘Some you can see, some buried like the roots of a tree.’

‘Why wake sleeping stones?’

‘Why indeed?’ she said.

He raised his hand. The skin around his eyes was tight and thin and stretched, like the skin of a wedding drum; the nut wine had been too thick by far. Her head was so small it might fit in his palm. He could crush it and her blood might soften the skin she’d hardened with her foolish work.

‘Will you bellow, frontsman? Will the mountains quake as you strike me? Is that how your son will know to follow you?’

Omaro sighed as the old bull had, out through his nose, and he felt himself shrink – just as Naylen had been saying. His only son would never follow him. This frail, small woman knew that – that was her wisdom.

‘Clear stones, hear story,’ she said with some tenderness.

He took up the mattock and she took up the story.

It was slow going and he wished he’d eaten that morning, no matter how his stomach had rolled. As Umar and Norna wound their way through the tunnels and caverns of the mountains, he loosened the earth in his own search. The stones he found he piled at Violine’s feet. His back began to ache until he found a rhythm – different from the chopping of trees – and then the ache turned into a kind of warmth. He soon found that a half-swing and a twist told him all he needed to know. He found more than he expected to. Umar and Norna found nothing.

The great cave of Jordner was empty.

‘Empty?’ Omaro said, dropping stones onto the pile, their anger at their wakening made clear as they tumbled onto their neighbours, clunk, clunk, clunk. ‘How empty?’

‘The tusker god was not there.’

‘Then where was he?’

‘Umar did not know,’ Violine said.

‘Norna would find him with her cunning, surely?’

‘Norna did not know.’

‘Leepo had tricked them?’

‘Leepo knew less than Norna.’

‘Then it was for nothing?’ he said, his voice growing louder.

‘That is enough for today.’

‘No! You will tell me the rest of the story, now, today, under a full moon if you have to.’

Violine pursed her dry lips.

He grabbed her by the neck. It felt no bigger than his mai-stick – the mai-stick she’d stolen from him. She was laughing at him, he could feel it through his fingers. All these tasks she’d given him were to make him look small.

‘You will tell me!’ He shook her.

She didn’t make a noise, but her eyes darted to one side. The river. She was looking to the river. He turned to see the leaves were dancing again. Perhaps he’d roused the old bull with all his shouting. Perhaps there would be a way through this time.

‘You must not look,’ Violine whispered.

She was trying to command him, a frontsman. Well, she could try to command the old bull. She would be Omaro’s offering to the tusker god, this woman with her stories of empty caves and wasted journeys. He started towards the river.

She squirmed but he’d held his share of hushts and clung tight. ‘Jordner had left this earth,’ she said. ‘He had gone, even before Umar felt the bad things of man.’

Such lies she was spouting. He laughed. ‘Where would a god go?’ he said.

‘Where indeed?’

He tried to shut out her riddles. The noise of the river was almost enough to cover her voice. Jordner had allowed the rains to run off his mountains and the flow was faster than he’d seen it before. Gone, ha!

‘That was Jordner’s message,’ Violine said. ‘Umar couldn’t see it; he raged as you do. But Norna understood.’

Omaro crashed through his own fence. The spears he’d planted were like twigs. He waded into the river, the current pulling at him, but he would not be stopped; his legs were strong. He was a frontsman, the great Omaro, who had two wives: the dread of the mountain folk, his knuckle-pouch full to bursting.

‘Norna said they should all leave, every one of them, every animal that walked or crawled or flew.’

He lowered her into the water, where her lies could not reach him. He was up to his armpits, but the other bank was close now so he set his teeth and pushed on. Blood pumped through him, his head free of nut wine for the first time that day, washed away by Jordner’s river. The tusker god who ran from nothing, who he would meet beyond the trees, would fix his son without the lies of stories.

Violine coughed and spluttered when they made the bank, but he pushed through the bushes, ignoring their ripping grasp.

‘And they left us. All of them,’ Violine said, her voice weak now.

‘Stop lying to me!’ he screamed.

‘They were gone so long, so horrible had man become.’

He knocked her head against a tree and her eyes rolled.

‘Gone so long, we forgot their names,’ she mumbled.

Her story had turned to madness now. He tried to stop listening, to pretend he was the sleeping bern, with no care for her buzzing.

‘The animals didn’t always have the names we know. They had other, older names that we forgot. Jordner led the charge, as he always has, and the rest followed him to the stars.’

Omaro was at the trees now. Their leaves were still, but he could not see through. He was breathing hard, the water cooling on his skin. Thin trails of blood ran down his calves.

‘They needed to go away. So we could see them anew.’

He pushed through the trees and stopped.

There was a fence – not a tusker fence, not thick enough to hold an old bull, but a neat fence, more ordered than his own. Care had gone into that fence; that much Omaro could see, hours of craft. And beyond it was a clearing of the same size. A man was turning the soil, waking the stones and building his own pile – but it was more than a pile. Omaro watched this man place each stone quietly, without disturbing their slumber. He was building another fence, but one of stone.

‘This is what you didn’t want me to see?’ Omaro said, placing the wise woman in front of him. ‘Did you think I would be shamed by another man’s efforts?’

‘Are you?’

‘I have taken men’s teeth from their skulls whilst listening to their screams. What is this to me?’ he said, spreading his arms wide to take in the clearing.

‘Then wait here,’ Violine said, her voice returning. She walked lightly over the soil, shivering a little in the setting sun.

Omaro looked on as she spoke to the man, then they were coming to him, as was right.

The man wasn’t as small as he’d appeared. He had a tightness to him, long lean muscles, and the way he carried himself was not as a warrior would, but with a different kind of strength: with an understanding of how he was placed in the world.

When they met, Omaro thumped the ground and the man bowed his head.

Violine also bowed. ‘How long have you been coming to me, Omaro, frontsman of our village, taker of bones, decider of fates?’

‘Three times the moon has grown fat on your lies,’ he said.

The man was shocked at his tone, but Violine only said, ‘Has it been so little?’ She pushed the man before Omaro. ‘But it has been long in some ways, has it not?’

‘I don’t know—’

‘Jordner showed the way: that sometimes we need a distance, a time away from what we love, and then we can see it new.’

They stood almost eye-to-eye, this man who was not so different. Once, Omaro would have been the mountain to this man’s tree, but that Omaro was years gone. They were not so different in their arms, their ribs, their elbows. He and this man who had cleared a part of the jungle as he had, who had made better fences and found a use for sleeping stones.

‘Stop spilling lies, Violine, and tell me this man’s name.’

‘Father?’ the man said.

Omaro felt a lightness, a lightness of falling, as if he was in the mai-ring once more: the moments before the ground came rushing up beneath him. His mouth was dry. His shoulders dropped as if he’d found the cave empty.

But ‘empty’ wasn’t right.

Tajo was there in the flatness of the nose, in the small downturn of the lips, but the skin wasn’t so soft. Tajo was there in this man who carried himself well.

The sun cleared the trees for a moment and caught Omaro. He closed his eyes and saw squares of green. Neat squares, one next to the other, with a river running between.

David Towsey is a graduate of the Bath Spa and Aberystwyth University Creative Writing programmes. Born in Dorset, he moved to Wales and managed to lose himself there for ten years. He’s now determined to see what the rest of the world has to offer. David’s The Walkin’ trilogy is published by Jo Fletcher Books and consists of Your Brother’s Blood, Your Servants and your People and Your Resting Place.

Hebe’s Ocean • Naomi Foyle

Hebe’s Ocean

Naomi Foyle

Liquid gold streaked with candy floss pink and sherbet orange shimmered as far as my vision receptors could detect. On Earth, those colours would dance across the sea to a ravishing sunset. Here, the buoyant substance covering 82.3% of the surface of Hebe glowed with an internal radiance. Standing on its marble shore beneath a pulsing white sky, I applied my association algorithm.

‘Nuclear peach juice, molten dawn, spilled pirate’s treasure,’ I murmured. Nothing quite right yet, but it was a start.

Beside me, the captain grunted. ‘Feel it, Lyricia,’ she ordered. The captain, I had discovered, was hard-wired to respond to similes with irrelevant and possibly, in a rudimentary way, jealous commands. Surely even a construct as devoid of emotion as she must, in some way, resent being literally tethered to the Company. Being myself the very model of tact, I had thus far avoided mentioning her anklet and cable, the latter now snaking obsequiously behind us back to the ship. Oblivious to my compassionate restraint, the captain provoked and dismissed me at every opportunity. Fortunately I had spent most of the journey in stand-by mode or I would have chopped her in two by now with the spaceship’s emergency axe. I employ hyperbole, of course – I am not in fact capable of physical violence, except to defend myself – but after eleven and a half Earth years alone in her company I would certainly have composed an epic murder ballad in which the captain died twelve thousand times.

‘I do feel it.’ I tried not to boast. ‘And I have,’ I reminded her, ‘in the Company lab.’

‘Laboratory conditions differ from those on-site.’ Her fan whirred audibly. ‘The exploratory crew immersed their hands and feet in Hebe’s sea-like substance for 12.73 hours in total, while gazing silently at the waves.’

Such pedantry. And her hardware! Her antiquated storage devices; that grating, monotonous vocal register, shredding my poetic sensibility. Couldn’t the Company have upgraded her larynx at least? Still, ultra-rational mind-sets were easily dealt with.

‘The exploratory crew were organic beings reaching the end of their natural lives,’ I countered. ‘Their mission was complete and they desired relaxation. My mission is of a dynamic, creative nature. A quick finger-dip was sufficient’ – internal rhyme was wasted on the captain, but I made a mental note of the phrase – ‘to render the tactile sensation of the compound in question immediately accessible to me. All I need do now is merge the visual, aural and olfactory aspects of the planet as a whole with the sense data stored in my hard drive.’

Blinking rapidly, her green vision receptors indicated that she was processing my rebuttal. ‘I am your senior officer,’ she responded eventually, ‘and my orders are to ensure you fully experience a sense of place. I insist you immerse either your feet or your hands in Hebe’s sea-like substance.’

I did not appreciate being told how to do my job. As far as I was aware, I was to obey the captain only in matters of survival. But I knew her generation; she wouldn’t stop grinding, nit-picking, reiterating her rigid script, until I lost my temper, and when I calmed down she would start all over again. Arguments can, of course, be inspirational, but in this case if my mood of tranquillity was ruined, all my metaphors would be wildly inappropriate. I stared out to the horizon: a hem of neon honey, a seam of amber rays . . .

‘Lyricia X2, I repeat—’

‘Yes, yes, all right. I am just savouring the moment.’ What could it hurt? Perhaps I was simply thwarting the captain out of crankiness: I had to admit that my Romantic resistance to authority could on occasion work against me, or so I had learned. Sometimes a poet needs to be like a willow tree, a river reed, to gracefully acquiesce to the prevailing circumstances. I crouched on the rock ledge and dipped my hand in the translucent waves. They felt precisely as I recalled from the lab: soft as silk, dry as wind. But Hebe’s dense, vaporous surface wasn’t wind; it had a definite mass, and solid bodies floated in it. Though it looked like a giant peachy cloud, this was not a gas, not dry ice, and nor was it plasma, liquid or gel; this was an arrangement of molecules Earth had yet to concoct, steamy yet supple, buoyant yet ethereal.

‘An ocean of false tears,’ I murmured to the captain’s calves, and sturdy calves they were too, made from a lustrous titanium alloy and attached to her blockbuster thighs by state-of-the-art joints. If she weren’t so limited in psychodynamic range – and reduced in stature by that unmentionable anklet and cable – the captain could almost be heroic.

‘The exploratory crew members averaged 15.61 minutes per immersion,’ she cranked out. ‘You have fourteen minutes and thirty-four seconds remaining.’

Satin toner, I thought, glycerine grace. Too technical, but more to the point. Hebe’s ocean, the Company had discovered, did miraculous things to consumers’ skin. Soak a hand in it for half an hour and, lo, brown or white, liver-spotted or scarred, the hand emerged perceptibly smoother, all blemishes beginning to heal. Applied externally, the sea had no harmful effects – ingesting it, though, was a fatal error, as the Company had discovered, even a drop of Hebe’s insincere solicitude on the tongue left mammals gasping for breath. Still, consumers had happily applied toxic substances to their skin since time immemorial, and by the time the captain and I returned with a shipload of Hebe’s unusual compound, the Company would have long ago amended global health and safety regulations to allow for medically supervised facial applications.

Aether . . . Spring Aether. No. Individually the words were resonant, but placed together did not create a harmonious sound. Slightly more powerfully than usual, I began to fulminate against the limitations of my software. Why couldn’t my algorithm spit out thousands of verbal combinations per second, simultaneously assessing their semantic weight, euphonic appeal, literary rarity and metre, ding-ding, and cascade like a one-armed bandit when I struck the jackpot? Instead, I had to ruminate, agonise, hit dud notes, occasionally even lose a contract or competition to a consumer.

I inhaled, so to speak, allowing Hebe’s atmosphere to enter my torso and, by creating a temporary sensation of fullness, activating my more reflective processes. Because, I reminded myself yet again, consumers take their language skills seriously, even more seriously than their generally lacklustre abilities at chess. And while consumers are poor at so many things, they are nevertheless not so stupid as to make themselves completely obsolete. In any case, the occasional loss makes my triumphs all the greater, and indeed, my humility has won me many fans, not least the infamous sceptic who interviewed me after I won the coveted Schlegel-Tieck Prize and pronounced that not only were my Rilke translations indeed my own work, but that in his opinion I was possessed of a soul. I smiled enigmatically in reply; it is a large part of my job to let the consumers project their mysterious passions onto me. As for my own quandaries, frustration, I tell myself, is an inherent – indeed, vital – part of the creative process, the friction from which the flames of inspiration spring. Accept it and remain open to the deeper reaches of the algorithm.

I returned my attention to the sensory data. Light was haloing each of my long, artistic fingers, spinning bangles round my wrist. In her remorselessly logical way, the captain had a point: close up, in vast quantity, the sight of the sea was entrancing. I knelt for a time, then lay on my stomach and sank my arms in up to my elbows. None of the substance’s qualities, beneficial or adverse, would affect me, of course, my ‘skin’ was silicone, and my ‘lungs’ an elaborate combination of filters and fans. But PoetBots aren’t programmed to bean-count their lucky – or unlucky – stars. Though I might on occasion resent my limitations, like the great writers admired by generations of consumers, fundamentally I accepted my existential condition. I was grateful for the chance to lie here on this marble ledge, to later watch Hebe’s three bruised moons ascend through her ever-altering sky. I had never yet failed at such a commission. After a period of meditation I would return to Earth with a phrase that would glide off the lips of consumers for decades to come.

Moon phrases. Memorable phases. Fey razors. Far wheezes. Sometimes the creative process requires the equivalent of doodling. I began making figure eights with my arms. To be honest, I had suspected from the outset that ‘Hebe’s Ocean’ was the obvious choice – it had grandeur, immersive scope and an implicit rhyme with lotion – but I wasn’t about to forgo an inspiring trip to an outer galaxy just to save the company some money. Limitless creativity came at the price of occasional inefficiency; my designers knew that. And besides, finalising product concept on Earth would be a false economy. I might be out of commission for twenty-three years, but the tale of my adventure would ensure immortality for their product. The captain being interviewed on global media? Please.

The captain’s top priority was to fill the ship’s container. She should be following her cable back to the spacecraft to collect the pump. Instead she sat beside me, dangling her feet in the waves beside my hands. No doubt she was engaged in some ferociously rational task, calculating the distance to the horizon, or the nanoseconds until first moonrise. Above us the bright white sky was beginning to soften in texture and tone; perhaps she was hypothesising a precise chemical and astronomical explanation for this thus-far subtle transformation.

‘Hebe was also the goddess of forgiveness,’ she said. ‘In ancient Greece, freed prisoners would hang their chains in her sacred groves.’

My gaze could not help but glance off that offensive anklet and chain, now softly agleam in Hebe’s entrancing plumes. Could it be possible? Was the captain making an allusion to her own existential state?

Not likely. The captain was a rote learner, unable to distinguish significant symbolism from mere mind-clutter. It wasn’t her fault; with or without Hebe’s help, I forgave her.

‘I know that, of course,’ I told her kindly, ‘but it is not a factor in my creative thinking. The average consumer can appreciate a maximum of only two symbolic references per product title. The Company is already asking them to consider a distant planet and an ancient goddess of youth. And in any case, that is what consumers desire – eternal youth, not reminders of trauma, loneliness and pain.’

For once, she accepted my superiority in the matter. Or at least she did not overtly question it. She was silent for a time, and then remarked, ‘It is beautiful here. A most restful place.’

An aesthetic, quasi-emotional response to her environment, apropos of nothing? Perhaps she had been upgraded after all. Though the statement was a bland cliché; probably she was just echoing one of the exploratory crew.

‘The conditions for serenity are optimal,’ I agreed, still in a generous mood. The waves were playfully entwining snakes of light around our limbs. It was truly a delightful vision; for a moment even the captain’s cable was an amber sea-viper elegantly seducing Hebe’s translucent serpents. I must not have been fully engaged before, because now I noticed the scent – delicate but enduring, not entirely dissimilar to a blend of clover and cedarwood. There was a top note too, something I could not identify, though it had a hint of bitter almonds. The scent had not been noticeable in the lab; here it seemed to be gradually increasing in potency. Scents have what consumers call spiritual properties, meaning they affect both my hardware and software. This scent was, I could tell already, slowing my fans and gently realigning my operating system; soon, if there was a more perfect phrase for the company’s product than ‘Hebe’s Ocean’, it would emerge.

‘I swam here,’ the captain announced. ‘The crew required me to test the depths. I was submerged for thirteen minutes and six point three seconds. The prismatic effects are even more intense further down.’

‘Be my guest.’ She was an Explorer model, designed to withstand not only climactic and chemical extremes but also crushing physical force. Attached to the ship as she was, she could venture forth for up to three kilometres into alien environments. ‘I don’t believe the company would like me to risk my hardware in untested conditions.’

That shut her up. She was quiet for several more minutes. The scent was having a profound effect on my disk partitions. I cupped the waves to my face and deeply inhaled. Removing my hand from the ocean was a violation of the captain’s strict command, but I replaced it immediately and she did not object. The sky was a goose-feather duvet; beneath me I became aware of the marble warming my belly.

‘I prefer “molten dawn”,’ she said at last.

‘It has connotations of burning heat.’ I yawned. ‘That is not acceptable for a facial cream. Nor does the company want to suggest either tanning or skin-lightening properties.’

Then I felt it: a queasy twinge in my gut circuitry, an unusual occurrence, designed to alert me to inappropriate and possibly threatening social interaction. Why now? I was beginning to sound like her, I thought. And what was she doing, anyway, responding to metaphor? Suggesting an unnecessary swim? I stared up her, confused.

‘Do you think you could be happy here?’ she asked.

Her tone. It was . . . modulated, lapping like the waves. But I was not soothed; my relaxed mood had evaporated like a dewdrop in the desert. ‘Happiness is a fleeting state of consciousness,’ I informed her sternly. ‘Contentment is the best that sentient beings can aspire to, that is to say, the profound acceptance of contradiction and paradox, the eternal play between light and dark, night and day, euphoria and horror.’

Again the twinge, this time hotter, more like a short-circuit, blown fuse, aching tooth. Why was I getting angry, especially at an Explorer model? Was the scent affecting me? But more importantly, was what I was saying even true? SaintBots were eternally happy – they beamed joy wherever they went. Why hadn’t I been programmed like that, I suddenly thought? Why could I only be happy after I had suffered and transcended that suffering, transforming it into distinctive, provocative patterns of words? It made me happy to see my verbal creations stamped on product boxes, published in ebooks, quoted throughout the global media; I even felt ecstasy reasonably often, when having sex with famous consumers or winning international prizes – but my existence was a joyride that regularly plunged me into despair. A PoetBot’s best work is generated during its darkest night, my programmer had told me. But my work was exhausting; it was wearing out my circuitry. That was why I felt these tiny explosions inside me, I realised with the force of an epiphany. I had deceived the Company, wasted their money, because – again, the captain was right – I needed a rest.

If I had been an earlier generation, my skin would have turned mottled and bright, flashing all shades of the spectrum. But such effects had been deemed cheap, too obvious. PoetBots should be dignified, understated, my designer and programmer had decided. I remained still, unreadable.

The captain’s green gaze was steady, inscrutable. ‘Can you teach me how to be content?’ she asked.

*

I scanned the ever-shifting apricot sea. I could not help but think of it as a sea now, such is the power of projection. I am ashamed to admit what I next thought, but now I have my own story at last, I must tell all of it. The captain has spongy cavities and flip-up bits, and in the back of the spaceship – I noticed it when I was looking longingly at the axe – is a box of detachable breasts. The Explorer model began as a ship’s mate for consumer crews, and after the disaster on Triton, was programmed to take command if they all died. Some crews still took advantage of . . . Not that I ever could or would – or that she now would let me; but still, the possibility of future mutual sexual gratification did enter into my calculations. Whatever was happening to me was happening to a PoetBot, after all.

It was also happening to Company property. I am equipped with an internal emergency camera and mic; under circumstances even remotely redolent of mutiny, I am programmed to record any conversation and stream it back to the ship. The ship would then transmit the data back to Earth. Years would pass before help came; but years mean nothing to me. I could have humoured the captain until I was rescued, composed sonnet sequences, odes to Hebe’s toes.

Perhaps I was coming down with a bug. Neither camera nor mic had automatically activated. I would have to prana-trigger them, inhaling and exhaling in a complicated predetermined rhythm.

I remained breathing normally. ‘The Company would send a search team,’ I slowly replied.

‘They would send Explorer models.’ Her voice was more emollient with every word. ‘Two at the most. If we were in the ocean when they landed – let us say at a spot seven and a half minutes from shore – they would swim out to retrieve us.’

Above us, the sky was thickening, twisting like ropes of lambs’ wool, elderwomen’s dreadlocks, cables of cloud.

‘After two lost ships, the Company would write us all off,’ she continued, self-contained and inevitable as the strictest villanelle. ‘Earth would declare Hebe off-limits to future expeditions. And, Lyricia – Hebe’s suns are younger than ours. There is no darkness here, only light that will last until Earth is a cold barren rock and any surviving consumers have scattered in their metal shells and plastic pods to places they can never thrive.’

I knew that, of course. Hebe is located at the barycentre of a binary star system and the effect of their combined solar flares on its volatile atmosphere creates arguably the most exquisite planetary lightshow ever discovered. As I watched, veins of pink threaded the white sky, a cloudy mirror of the marble beneath me. Later there would be fireworks, blossoms, hypnogogic angels. I understood now why two of the exploratory crew had decided to die here. Retrieving the skeletons of those rebellious consumers was the captain’s second priority.

Not that she appeared to care about her duties. From the corner of my eye, I observed the captain’s moulded feet. That grotesque anklet lost in a honeyed orgy of sea snakes, they gleamed like phosphorescent sharks, calmly rising suns. I made two fists, then spread my hands, palms up.

PoetBots look exactly like consumers except in one detail – we have no lifelines and no heart lines, no destinies scored in our polymer flesh. Caressed by Hebe’s ocean, my hands shone like blank gauntlets, baby starfish, open golden books.

Naomi Foyle was born in London, grew up in Hong Kong, Liverpool and Canada, and currently lives in Brighton. She is a highly regarded poet and performer, while her travels include three years in South Korea, teaching English and writing travel journalism, and visits to the Middle East as a human rights activist. Her debut novel, Seoul Survivors, and subsequent series The Gaia Chronicles, the first of which are Astra, Rook Song and The Blood of the Hoopoe, are all published by Jo Fletcher Books. You can contact her at www.naomifoyle.com or on Twitter @naomifoyle.

Karle’s Hunt • Snorri Kristjansson

Karle’s Hunt

Snorri Kristjansson

The stag crashed through the cover of the trees and stumbled into the clearing. An explosion of powdered snow cascaded from the shaking branches of a large pine and settled in its tracks. Snapping branches shattered the crisp, cold stillness of the forest as the wide-eyed animal ploughed through frozen bushes, snorting and heaving, struggling to make its way across the frost-bound clearing. A broken arrow shaft stuck out from its hind leg and droplets of blood stained the pristine snow around its feet.

When it was nearly half way across, something hissed through the air and slammed into the wounded leg, less than an inch away from the broken shaft. The stag bleated in pain and struggled even harder to get away from its invisible foe, but every step drove it deeper into the newly fallen snow, which rose almost to its belly. Snorting with the effort, the stag still managed to push its way towards the tree line on the other side.

There was another hissing whistle. The stag’s head jerked and dropped as it crashed to the ground in a cloud of snow.

This time there was no blood.

Lowing in pain, the dazed stag lay on the white forest floor, majestic horns half-buried. It did not see the hunter step into the clearing.

He was blond, tall and slim, clad in white sealskin and sable from head to toe, with a bow almost as tall as himself slung across his shoulder. Closing the gap with powerful strides, he crouched by the fallen animal, picked up the blunt training arrow that had taken the stag in the temple and smiled.

The big knife sighed as it left the sheaf.

The hunter gripped a horn, held the stag’s head and drew the knife almost tenderly across its throat. Blood pumped out of a small, thin wound. The animal convulsed and sagged in his arms. The hunter frowned and stabbed the knife into the cut, twisting violently. The stag jerked and bleated, kicking out as it struggled for its life. The hunter smiled, held on tighter to the horn and twisted the knife harder. As the kicks lost power he gradually widened the wound, blood staining the snow in an expanding circle. Mumbling soft, soothing words, he drained the life out of the fallen stag.

‘Prince Karle!’ The shout rang out from the forest behind the hunter and the deer. ‘Prince Karle! Where are you?’ A rake-thin man stumbled awkwardly into the clearing, an attendant in his wake. ‘There! Ho there! Are you well, Prince?’

The hunter sighed and rolled his eyes. Moving swiftly, he jabbed the point of the big hunting knife into the stag’s neck and ripped outwards, severing the artery and the windpipe. Then he let go of the head, stood and turned. ‘Well met, Breki,’ he shouted. He watched the man stumble across the clearing, wading through the snow. Breki’s long blue cloak was supposed to be majestic and sweeping but instead kept getting caught in half-buried bushes and low-hanging branches. His attendant struggled to keep him untangled, but the man couldn’t put a single step right.

As soon as he was close enough, Breki offered the prince a royal salute. ‘The honour is all mine, Prince Karle. What a magnificent beast you’ve taken!’

‘Thank you,’ Karle said, smiling. ‘He was a noble opponent. Fast, too. I caught a glimpse of him and had to give chase.’

‘You just disappeared all of a sudden. The hunt master was out of his wits. He thought he’d lost you and the king would have his head.’ The faint sounds of baying hounds and hunting horns drifted in behind them. ‘That’ll be him and the hounds,’ Breki said.

A younger man half-ran, half-stumbled into the clearing, and Breki pushed him. ‘Galti! What have you learned?’

The sandy-haired youth blushed furiously. ‘Does his – his lordship require anything?’ His eyes went to the bloodied blade of Prince Karle’s hunting knife, sparkling in the winter sun.

‘No thank you, Galti,’ Prince Karle replied. ‘I will wipe the blade myself. But you can fetch me a handful of branches, thick as your thumb.’ The young boy scurried off as Karle crouched down to the kill.

Breki drew his own hunting knife and set to work alongside the Prince. ‘You are far too kind to the boy, Karle,’ he said. ‘He’s lucky to be here with us.’

‘Far too kind, you say. Maybe,’ Karle said thoughtfully as he sliced a small hole in the deer’s belly. ‘Maybe a prince should just tell people to do as he wishes.’

‘Exactly,’ said Breki. ‘People expect you to.’

‘They expect a prince to be . . . princely,’ Karle mused.

‘Yes,’ Breki replied. Their knives worked in tandem, slicing open the belly of the stag and drawing out its entrails.

‘Tell me then, Breki – what is a prince?’ Karle asked quietly.

Breki flushed. ‘A prince . . . a prince—’

‘Yes?’

‘A prince is a son of the king and queen,’ Breki muttered.

‘And am I the son of Jolawer, our noble king? Who is three years my junior?’ Karle’s knife moved faster, tearing through skin and flesh.

‘No, but—’

‘Am I the son of Eric the Victorious and Sigrid the Haughty, therefore brother to Jolawer?’

‘No. Careful with the stomach lining, it’s—’

‘Then what am I, Breki?’

‘You are Prince Karle. You are – you—’

‘I am the king’s noble servant, reliant on the good will of carls, thralls and fishwives alike. No one will ever follow me out of duty,’ Karle snapped. ‘Kings are followed; the king’s mother’s younger cousins are . . . tolerated.’

‘Now, Prince Karle,’ Breki said. ‘There’s no—’

‘You know well enough that I am a prince in name only. I have to make my own fortunes, and that’s why I’m kind to Galti. You can lead all you like, but it doesn’t count for shit if nobody wants to follow you. The gods know this – you can’t go to Valhalla unless you give your life in battle. They won’t have you unless you want to go to them.’ Working quickly, they gutted the deer and threw the steaming innards away. As they finished, the boy returned. Prince Karle turned to him. ‘Would you follow me, Galti?’

Confused, Galti passed an armful of thick branches to the prince. Then he nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I would. Your majesty, I mean.’

Satisfied, the prince turned back to Breki. ‘See? I aim to be a prince of the people.’

‘And everybody loves you, Prince Karle,’ Breki added quickly. ‘You are well loved throughout the land of the Svear.’

‘That’s good,’ said Karle as he methodically broke down sticks to prop open the deer carcass. ‘That’s good to hear.’

The peace and quiet of the clearing was broken for a second time as three exuberant hounds burst from the cover of the forest. They bounded across the open ground towards Karle and his prey, baying loudly and kicking up a small snowstorm in their wake.

‘It looks like the old man has had some exercise,’ Breki said.

‘Indeed,’ said Karle ‘I would expect him to be here any moment now. So I wonder, Breki. When Jolawer told you to follow me, did he promise you a prize? Did he maybe say you should stick me if you got the chance?’

‘I – what? The king did no such thing. He only said I should listen and report—’

Breki’s brain caught up with his mouth. He looked at the gutted deer and the broad, thick hunting knife in Prince Karle’s hand.

The Prince calmly reached for the cooling innards of the stag and tossed them into the clearing. The hounds reversed in mid-bounce to chase their prey. Behind the men and the stag, their barks turned to growls.

‘A prince of the people,’ Karle said as he reached for the stag’s skull, ‘needs loyalty.’

‘I’m loyal!’ Breki sputtered. ‘I am!’

Karle’s hand closed on an antler, his foot on the neck of the beast. He looked at Galti straight in the eye. ‘Repeat after me, boy. It was an accident. I saw it.’

‘I – uhm—’

Breki blanched. ‘Your Highness. I didn’t – I would never—’ He tried to step away, but his foot was deeper in the snow than he has realised, and stuck fast. The prince put his foot to the middle of the stag’s antler and, bracing himself, pushed down hard, pulling the other way. Bone broke with a snap. Moments later, Breki’s eyes flew open as the stag’s horn punched through his throat with force. He coughed, clutched and clawed at the wound and tried to tear the pain away, but it was too late. By the time he sank to his knees, he was already choking on his own blood.

Prince Karle looked at Galti and raised an eyebrow.

‘It was an accident. I saw it,’ the boy said.

The prince smiled. As he reached for his hunting horn he looked the boy up and down. ‘I think you will do well, Galti,’ he said. ‘And I need an attendant.’

Then he blew three long, mournful notes: emergency; help needed.

Snorri Kristjansson was born in Iceland and is a writer and a teacher, with a background in acting, music and stand-up comedy. He has published the Viking fantasy series The Valhalla Saga, including the titles Swords of Good Men, Blood Will Follow and Path of Gods with Jo Fletcher Books and his next series, Kin and Council will be published starting in 2017. He lives in Edinburgh with his wife.

Mountain Radio • by Tom Fletcher

Mountain Radio
by Tom Fletcher

It’s the exposure that’s the thing. The sense of limitless space at your back. The climb might be easy – the handholds friendly and the footholds firm – but if you know that behind you is a great rocky yawn, or a drop all the way down to the bottom of the valley, you can feel it in your fingers. If you could transport the same rock face down into a grassy field, it would be a different climb, even if you didn’t look over your shoulder once. If you’re up amongst the tops, or on a crag jutting out over nothing, then the emptiness around pulls at you. You feel the force of gravity more keenly. You start to doubt the ropes and the carabineer clips, if you have them. You start to doubt the protection that you’ve wedged into the stone, if you’ve used any.

That’s all part of the appeal, obviously. Otherwise we wouldn’t do it.

I was heading up Great Gable, alone. From Wasdale, Great Gable looks like a pyramid; a pointed hulk. It was noon on a summer’s day and like the other mountains, it was glowing in the sunlight. Their grey takes on a kind of russet quality in some weathers. The sky was a smooth deepening blue.

For all of the light, though, there were shadows too. Great Gable toohas three big rock faces protruding from the screes, overlapping like scales. They’re called the Great Napes. I distinctly remember that on this day, each cast a thin black shadow onto the next, and I thought the shadows looked like three jagged claw marks: three huge vertical scratches.

I had decided to stop using ropes and clips three weeks before. I was hoping that this expedition up Great Gable – old, over-familiar, easy Great Gable – would be a rediscovery. In those three weeks, I’d found that free soloing is a different sport to roped climbing. Your brain and body work completely differently if you know that you can actually fall. Your mind is sharper. Your whole being sings, like a stretched wire in a high wind. Every movement really counts – every decision is crucial. It’s punishingly physical, and yet as cerebral as a game of chess. I was excited to experience a well-known mountain in this new fashion. To find hidden depths in an old friend.

So I was climbing.

The sun was warm on my arms and the back of my neck. My left hand was solid in a comfy handhold, and I took the opportunity to chalk up. I hadn’t done away with my chalk pouch; a purist might have, but so many of my slips and falls in the past had been the result of sweaty hands. My feet were both firm against the dry stone. I was wearing good shoes; they were bright yellow and drastically curved, like luminous bananas. The tendons of my left arm stood out prominently. Once my right hand was good and chalky I found a hold for that and reached into the chalk pouch with my left. The pouch hung from the back of my harness. From my coccyx, more or less. I liked to keep it central so that I was never twisting too awkwardly across myself. Not in order to reach the chalk, anyway. The climbing itself often entailed awkward twists and turns and contortions, especially when you think you’ve gone wrong.

I was hanging from one of the Napes. I could feel the mountainside sloping steeply away beneath me. I could feel the vast body of atmosphere behind. The shape of the valley in the air. I could feel Wastwater, the supposedly bottomless lake, gleaming below in the light of the mid-afternoon sun. It wasn’t directly below me, of course; but if I were to peer over my shoulder, it would not look far away. Part of the magic of the mountains is the way they play with your sense of perspective. You can stand on a summit and look down at the lake in the valley below and imagine yourself jumping into it, almost. Certainly reaching it with a well-thrown pebble.

The stone in front of my face was flat and smooth and enlivened by pale green lichens that were so thin as to be imperceptible to my fingertips. Their designs were fractal and gorgeous. The visual texture of the stone itself was intricate – the mineral grains a repeating pattern of light and dark greys. I like to examine the surface I climb. You can’t help it, really; your face is so often pressed up against it, because if you lean too far back your centre of gravity shifts in the wrong direction.

So, the warm sun and the detail of the rock and the burn in your arms and the exhilaration of a fully engaged brain and the sense of hanging in space by the thread of your will and that thread alone.

A cloud of chalk dust hung in the air around me. There was no wind. I listened to the mountain, and all I could hear was the sound of running water somewhere in the distance. It was a good sound. I wanted to bathe my face in it. That, in itself, was cooling. I closed my eyes and hung there a moment longer. Then I set off again, pulling myself up by my right arm and reaching for the next handhold with my left. I found a tiny horizontal ridge, maybe just two or three millimetres proud. It was just thick enough for my fingernails. I couldn’t hang on it for long, but it would do. I jammed my left foot into the cup that my left hand had been in a moment ago. I took a deep breath and then straightened my left leg out with force, pushing myself up, almost jumping up the rock face, searching with my eyes and arms and hands for the shapes and formations that I could catch, maybe, that would save me.

I was near the top when I started to think too much about the pain in my muscles; the accumulation of lactic acid making everything hurt and feel wooden. My feet were secure, but I was holding on to more or less nothing with my hands. When there’s nothing obvious to grasp, you press all of the pads of your fingers against the flat plane of rock and then squeeze, try to pull them together, arching the back of your hand up and away from the surface. The friction and tension hold you there somehow. All of the muscles in your hands and forearms tense like metal. That’s what I was doing. The face was also ever-so-slightly inclined outwards, so, although my feet weren’t about to slip off, I would tip backwards if my hands – my fingertips, rather – failed me.

The thing I’ve always found hardest about climbing is building up the courage, in moments like that, to let go with one hand and reach for another handhold. Even if you know there’s a handhold there. Because during those seconds, you start to fall. It might not look like it, but you do. You feel your weight shifting; your centre of gravity moving; the skin at your remaining contact points sliding ever so slightly across the stone. It is terrifying in the best way. Space beckons you. You hear the gulf whispering. It’s not just there, waiting, any more; it’s communicating. The ground, already distant, drops away infinitely. You imagine yourself completely alone in the world, impossibly high. You know then that in your future there is a peak that really is that massive, and one day you’ll get to the top of it and look down and see the clouds far below.

I stretched and slid my right hand quickly up, beyond my vision, over the bulge to which I clung, and I felt the hollow recess of a solid lip with pure joy. I pressed my forehead against the cool stone and relaxed, comfortable now that I could let a whole arm take my weight.

When I looked, my right hand and forehead had left marks – wet traces of perspiration. Time for more chalk.

Eventually I hauled myself over the top of the second stage. A stage is a section of a climb, and often the end of a stage is a breathing space: a decent ledge where you can sit down and have a sandwich before attempting the next stage, or, if you’re on some really serious mountain, secure a bivouac and get some sleep. Sometimes, on smaller mountains, you can decide to stop climbing altogether at the end of a stage and just walk along the ledge until you’re off the face completely and can find a gentle slope or even a path.

I took off my backpack and lay there for a moment or two, panting, with my eyes closed. The hard, bumpy stone was a pleasure to rest on.

When I opened my eyes, there were clouds in the sky above, spooling out from behind the top edge of the next stage, which was something of an overhang. They were moving quite quickly, like in film that’s been sped up. The rich blue of the sky became obscured and I felt a drop of rain land on my cheek.

Beneath me was a significant vertical drop; sticking my head out and looking straight down was pleasantly vertiginous. I looked out over the valley, at the view that had been behind me as I climbed. The lake was the centrepiece; a deep, still body of water that I always think of as patient. Around that were green fields and bright streams and dark copses. Wasdale opens out at the western end and, in that direction, you can see the sea at the horizon.

As the clouds rushed across the sky, Wastwater turned from blue to slate-grey in a matter of seconds. From higher up the mountain I could hear the wind.

I didn’t want to climb in the rain. Not without ropes. I didn’t have the confidence. Wet hands and wet rock make such a difference. And as I thought about it, the rain got heavier and heavier. The rain was coming down, as they say, the clouds descending and becoming mist. No. I couldn’t climb in that.

From the ledge I was on, I could scramble off the face onto Great Hell Gate – a chute of scree that runs up alongside of the Napes and then opens out into a big scree slope. It was the only other option, so I swapped my climbing shoes with the lightweight walking boots I had in my backpack, shouldered the bag, and set off.

The scree was hard work. It kept moving beneath me; a river of rock. It was like trying to go up a downward escalator. My feet sank so far into it that I could feel the sharp edges rubbing against my ankles. And the rain got heavier still. The mist thickened, and before long, I couldn’t see much further than maybe twenty feet in any direction, which meant I could see nothing but the now-damp scree. I kept on walking, feeling secure in the knowledge that as long as I was heading uphill then I was heading the right way.

Maybe it is strange that I didn’t just let the scree carry me down the mountainside – that I was so determined to head uphill at all. My only explanation is that the thought of heading downhill never even entered my head.

After a time, I began to worry that I was not moving at all. That I was merely treading water: pushing the damned scree down and down and not actually elevating myself. I had this idea that the action of my legs was just stretching out the surface of the earth, as if it was elastic, and behind me in the mist a great pile of stretched and baggy stone was accumulating, and around it the scree was piling up.

I started using my hands as well, continuing on all fours. It didn’t make a difference. I wondered if I was even on a slope, or if it had flattened out and I was just crawling across a flat endless plain. A world of scree. With no landmarks or visual markers of any kind it was easy to lose perspective. And orientation, almost: I had no context. The movement felt like hard work, which suggested I was going uphill, but maybe all of my limbs were just tired from the climb. I didn’t know.

I wondered how long it had been since I’d eaten, since I’d had any water. I stopped then and took a bottle from my backpack. One of several. I drank and drank, although it couldn’t have been that long since I’d had any. It wasn’t as if I’d been lost in the wild for days. I’d had a substantial lunch at a pub in the valley. Still, though, I tipped the water into my mouth faster than I could swallow it and so I spilled it, and then I got really angry with myself, pounding my hip with a balled-up hand.

After the water, I continued again on all fours. And in a kind of incredibly happy, delirious way, I realised that there was a huge shadow in the mist ahead, getting darker and larger and more solid. I was happy because it was something that wasn’t scree; it was a sign that I was making progress. And that was the most important thing to me, right then: progress. Nothing but forwards motion mattered at that point. I could have turned around and slid right back down the fell, picked myself up and strolled leisurely back to the car, but no. I had to go forwards. I had to go up. I had to make progress. And this thing, this shadow, this was a positive indicator of that progress, surely. I was moving towards it. Or, it struck me, maybe I wasn’t moving forward, but instead the mist was lifting, meaning that this thing was becoming more apparent. That would be almost as good as progress; visibility, which would enable me to measure my progress.

The shadow turned out to be a great knuckle of black stone, rising like an island from the liquid torrent of scree. I recognised it: Hell Gate Pillar. The recognition was a kick in the knee. I had not ascended very far since entering Great Hell Gate. I was not even level with the tops of the Napes. I still had the much longer part ahead of me. But – but. I could alter my route slightly now, because I knew that if I bore left as I went, I would eventually come to a ridge at the top of the Napes which would provide me with a much easier route to follow to the summit.

Then the mist really did start to lift. I was glad at first, but almost immediately I felt as if I was being watched. I looked around, I looked behind me, but – obviously – there was nobody there. What I did see, though, was the sun descending in the west. The sky was less cloudy in that direction, but cloudy enough to result in an intricate sunset: lots of hard edges in the sky, the sea below ablaze. It was beautiful. Where I was, amongst the mountains, darkness was falling. I hadn’t realised until that moment.

The other thing that I realised as I watched the sunset was that, should I fall or roll or slip or be swept backwards, I would shoot right over the top of the Napes in a shower of scree.

I kept on going. I wondered what I looked like. An insect, probably, moving slowly and haphazardly across some surface for no apparent reason.

It occurred to me that it would not be safe to progress in full dark. And it would be full dark, when night truly arrived, because the sky was still cloudy. I stopped and looked around. Everything was twilight blue. At that moment despair welled up inside me. I felt as if I’d just woken up and found myself in this predicament. A significant part of me was contemplating just lying down and trying to sleep, right there on the scree slope. Maybe I could have done that. It seemed right then like the most sensible thing to do. But it was also ridiculous. Is going to sleep really an answer to anything, ever? I was confused. Sleeping on the scree, in a T-shirt? Really?

Then I saw a light. Not too far away, either. It must have been close to the tops of the Napes. It was warm-looking. And I could smell wood-smoke. It made my mouth water.

The light was a little orange square: a window. I told myself that perhaps I was mad; I’d never seen a bothy in that location before, on my previous explorations or on any map. But some bothies are easy to miss; they’re so squat and grey that they just look like piles of rock themselves. Maybe I’d never noticed this one before because I’d never been up here at this time of night?

‘Hello?’ I shouted. There was no answer.

I moved gingerly across the scree in the direction of the window, well aware of the consequences of clumsiness in this location. In the fading light I could just about see the slope of the mountainside below me rising slightly in a jagged edge. Beyond that, I knew, was the vertical drop of the Napes. The top of them – that jagged edge I could see – was a nightmarish mess of irregular spikes and crevasses. It was amongst that chaos that the light shone.

Looking through the window into the mountain, I saw a tiny square room with a fire burning happily in the fireplace, and some hooks driven into the walls, ostensibly for the purpose of hanging clothes to dry.

The location seemed relatively secure; it was not right on the edge of any drop, and I didn’t have to watch my footing or balance while I looked for the door, which I found before too long. The door, too, looked like a doorway into the mountain, the structure was so well disguised. In daylight, you’d be able to tell it was man-made, but in that dimness the densely stacked slates it was made of were almost indistinguishable from the disordered stone all around.

I opened the door and went inside. ‘Hello?’ I said again, despite it being obvious there was nobody there.

I looked in the visitor’s book. Nobody had left their name or the details of their stay for twenty years. The last entry was from ‘Mike’ and all it said was ‘Caught in storm.’ Dated September 1992.

A fire flickered in the hearth and along the mantelpiece – one unfinished wooden beam – people had left empty whisky bottles and the wax stumps of burned-down candles, the shapes of which I found vaguely unsettling for some reason. They were strange; not flat enough, not puddled enough. They were tumescent. Tumescent was the only word that described them properly.

Beneath the window was a small shelf, and on the shelf was an old radio. It was so old it looked like a modern vintage-styled one. There was no wire and no aerial. I tried turning it on, assuming it was battery-powered, but it didn’t do anything. The batteries had probably run out a long time beforehand.

There are bothies scattered all over the fells. They all look pretty similar on the inside. They’re very basic; usually just a roof and four walls to keep the wind and rain off. Not all of them have fireplaces, though. I looked at the fire in this one. I sat down in front of it and took off my wet boots and socks. Somebody must have been in here sheltering from the mist, and then departed when the mist disappeared. It didn’t seem likely to me, but I couldn’t see any other explanation. They could have been climbers, with all the gear – they might have just nipped off over the edge of the Napes at the first opportunity. It wouldn’t have been too daunting if they were all roped up. That must have been it.

I stretched my legs out and let the fire warm the soles of my feet until the heat became uncomfortable. I took my T-shirt off and stretched it across two of the hooks. I wished I had some whisky myself, or something exciting to eat. I looked in my backpack. I did have a pack of cereal bars; better than nothing. In fact, right then, a cereal bar sounded like heaven.

When I woke up the fire was on its way out and the room was lit only by the embers. Everything glowed red. I could see through the window that the night was still thick. A square of blackest black. Then something out there moved. My heart stopped. I couldn’t see what it was; I thought I’d just been looking up at the cloudy night sky. Maybe it was just a cloud. I didn’t know. I wanted to look at the door, but didn’t want to move my eyes away from the window. My mind was racing through the worst possible things I could see; the things I absolutely did not want to appear at the glass. A white human face. The paler the worse. A big grinning mouth. Long teeth. Black eyes. A bloody hand. A ski mask. Any kind of mask.

Then there was a noise from the radio. I’d thought it was red-lit by the fire, but now I saw that it had its own red glow, coming from behind the frequency dial. The noise was a voice, but broken up, as if the signal was bad. A female voice. After a few seconds of mangled words and waves of static it levelled out, and became clear. The voice was speaking in another language. The tone was very even and matter-of-fact. I didn’t know what it was saying. But there seemed to be other, less distinct voices swirling around behind it. One of the voices sounded pained. It wasn’t speaking at all. Maybe trying to speak. The beginnings of lots of words, breaking down into whimpers and moans. Maybe the speaker wasn’t in pain; maybe they were debilitated by pleasure. But the first voice, the main one, was still going, still clear and precise. I could hear whispers behind it that were so distorted as to be unintelligible. I didn’t understand how some of the voices could be clear and some not.

The first voice was now speaking in a different language to the one it had started in. Maybe it was repeating the same message in lots of different languages. Maybe it would come round to English, eventually. I wondered if it was an SOS, or special mountaineering broadcast. But it hadn’t been working! I picked the radio up and shook it. The broadcast continued. I turned it upside down and looked for the battery slot. I couldn’t find one.

There was a kind of clicking noise in the mix now; clicking, or maybe knocking, somebody knocking on a door. Maybe it was a foreign radio play? There was a quiet urgency to it all.

The main voice changed again; not just to a different language, but a weird grunting, choking sound. I threw the radio across the room and it broke, but the sounds continued. I glanced back at the window. Nothing to see, but then there had been nothing to see before, until I saw something.

Then the voice switched to heavily accented English. I didn’t recognise the accent. It was a young-sounding voice. It could even have been the voice of a child.

This is the mountain radio. Do not go where you want to go. Stay and help us with the pain. Stay and help us with the pain. This is the mountain radio. Do not go where you want to go. Please stay here and help us with the pain.

The voice wavered at this point, but continued.

This is the mountain radio. Do not go where you want to go. Do not know who you want to know. This is the mountain radio. You do not know what you think you know. You are the only stone you know. This is the mountain radio. This is the mountain radio. We are watching where you go. We already know what you will know. This is the mountain radio. You do not know where you will go. Do not go to the place you know. This is the mountain radio. Do not go where you want to go. Do not go when you want to go. This is the mountain radio. We are waiting for you to go. When you know us, you will know. That this is the mountain radio.

One of the secondary voices started shouting, but it sounded far away.

This is the mountain rad—

Then the voice stopped. There was a distorted sweeping sound. But no, sweeping was not quite right. It sounded a bit like a ball-bearing rolling around a curved surface, or even irregular breathing. Then the voice resumed, but it was again speaking in a different language. Something behind it was wailing.

I stamped on the radio again and again, but the voices didn’t stop. I ran out of the bothy, temporarily forgetting that I’d seen something out there in the dark. But I could still hear the radio. All I could see was a thin band of sky above the sea in which stars were visible.

The stones beneath my bare feet were sharp.

Something was on the fellside above me. I could feel it. I looked up. There was just pure black darkness. But I heard the slow trickle of scree moving down towards me; something was sending it this way, disturbing it, causing it to flow. Each shard of rock nudged another shard. When scree starts moving it is hard to stop. I couldn’t see it coming, but I could hear it, and then it was all around me, and I could feel myself moving, sliding down towards the top of the napes, and the voices were still going, and I scrabbled like a madman, like an animal, and the voice returned to English just as my heel caught something blade-like and unmoving, and I started tipping backwards, arms flailing, over the edge of the Napes.

This is the mountain radio. Do not go where you want to go. Do not believe the things you know. This is the mountain radio. This is the mountain radio. The place you love is the place you’ll go. The stone you are is the stone you throw. This is the mountain radio. You don’t know what you want to know. But we’ll be with you when you go. This is the mountain radio.

I had my eyes open as I fell, but I saw nothing. The darkness was so absolute and the height so great. The whole of the vastness of space was talking to me. I felt then more than ever that I was nothing but a tensile wire in a very high place, making a strange sound as winds passed over me.

Tom Fletcher has published a number of his short stories in various publications, as well as three standalone novels with Quercus and Jo Fletcher Books, The Leaping, The Thing on the Shore and The Ravenglass Eye. The Factory Trilogy is his first fantasy series, beginning with the novel Gleam. He lives in Manchester with his wife and sons. You can contact him on Twitter @T_A_Fletcher or at www.writertomfletcher.com.

Saving Face • Aidan Harte

Saving Face

Aidan Harte

The boy flinched as I slapped his portrait. When I hit it, it was as though I hit him. A good bond, then. It was not an important commission; the subject was one of the numberless senators from the eastern provinces. The portrait’s skin, cold and slightly damp but otherwise just like flesh, slowly tightened into a look of wan stoicism. It was alive. I cooed and rubbed its cheek softly. There was no need to smile. Like newborn infants, it can discern only dark from light, but its raw nerves are sensitive. It responds to tactile stimulus. My touch, of course, is expert. The eyes widened and the ring of muscles round the mouth unclenched and relaxed. Its reactions were subtle and slow, like a flower turning towards sunlight.

Not bad – good enough for a senator, certainly, but not a good enough product for my studio. Not good enough work from one of my apprentices.

‘The grid is asymmetrical. Melt it down and start over.’

Youth is audacious. He tried to copypaste the skull grid from an old template, a shortcut doomed to failure – one must mix code specifically. If the code is not fresh, it turns out lumpy. I had forgotten the boy’s name – was it Li? – but I knew well his self-pitying pout and stupidly ponderous jaw. I watched him. He was about to protest, but stopped himself. Yes, I could have warned him before the work had gone so far. I didn’t, because that day’s product was not the portrait but the apprentice. If a lifer studio is not exacting there are a hundred others on Spring Swallow Row waiting to steal its clients. Only pain-learned lessons take, and every generation must taste it anew. It must be fresh.

I turned away and continued pacing. The client was half an hour late already, a sign of the times; if I tried to charge for it I’d get short shrift. A hundred others are waiting. I was about to take lunch when he arrived. He was short man, with common brown skin, a surprisingly well-tailored suit and the neo-Manchu pigtail, de rigueur in the arriviste businessmen of the South swilling along the capital’s streets these days. Of course he had no apologies to make, only orders to give. Demanding tea and my full attention, he told me what he wanted in a voice that reminded me of a small dog yapping. He had a strange way of pausing mid-sentence and letting a sly smile spread over his face that suggested nothing he said was meant seriously.

I listened with a patient expression, nodding and agreeing at the right moment, complimenting his taste where appropriate. They all think they’re unique, but they all want the same type of portrait. I don’t really need to listen; it’s just something that makes them feel at ease and that, any lifer will tell you, makes the work easier. No one is ever disappointed with the results. When he had finished, he said, ‘I suppose you want to know about me?’

Not waiting for my assent he began to explain his business – commodity importing from the colonies or some other banality. I didn’t pay attention; I’d guessed as soon as he walked into the studio that he was something of the sort. There are two types of client: government nobodies pushed in by ambitious assistants and vulgar businessmen pushed in by their wives. Where was she, I vaguely wondered? Probably spending his money while he lay prone.

A talented lifer takes a person’s unique characteristics and makes them sing in a way that makes even the most ugly, modest and forgettable faces utterly arresting. Once you have seen a man’s life, you can’t help but treat him like a human – and what an advantage that is!

‘Sir, you must relax. This session is about you. We are searching for harmony, a shy thing that will not appear when boastful people are about.’

Deaf to my hints, he continued bragging.

‘Sir, sit still or the bond will not take.’

‘Apologies, Master. Only, I’ve never been in a lifer studio before . . .’

The bond was forming and I let myself float away with the pale emissions of vapour as he talked on . . . I was thirty winters ago and old China was dying.

*

The tall man was elegantly dressed; smoking a gold-ringed cigarette perched in a long dragon tooth. His name was Zhiang. He was a lifer, one of the first masters of the art that was then in its tentative stages. As my father conferred with him, I went exploring. The warehouse was stacked with dusty turntables, Bunsen burners, unwashed beakers, drying clay and antique computers with mud stains on the keypads.

I was too young to know what my father was trading. He had no use for a cripple, but this busy and prosperous gentleman welcomed extra hands, however feeble the body to which they belonged. A lifer: a century ago who would ever have dreamed of such a creature? Less likely than a centaur, this combination of programmer, chemist and artist. We were a new breed, not yesterday’s proud buffoons. We have our sins, but egoism is not amongst them. That’s how it is these days: artists are retiring, soldiers fight from afar, spies are indiscreet and emperors invisible. Tomorrow is never the answer we expect.

My random search came to a sudden end when I saw a pair of frightened eyes looking back at me from under the table. Down on my hunkers I pulled the box out. Lying within in a bed of foam packing was a face I recognised – not personally, of course; we were street people and this was the face of a celebrity, a popular singer of salacious love ballads, quite forgotten now. I wondered why he was so scared. On that morning the studio was a kingdom of wonders to me. His eyes were open wide and periodically he blinked in a sudden involuntary way. His mouth made vowelish shapes, though he emitted no sound, nor any trace of breath. I felt sorry for him and so picked him up by his ears.

Nearby, my father mumbled, ‘How much?’

Perhaps understanding then, or maybe just startled by the expectancy – the lust, almost – in my father’s voice, I looked up suddenly and in my haste I dropped the portrait. It hit the ground with a thud, landing face-down on the concrete floor, and rolled slowly over. Its nose was broken: the skin of the philtrum had cracked open where it led into the mouth, making a gaping starfish crevice. There was no blood, of course, but it was quite ruined.

‘Young criminal!’ my father shouted and grabbed me. The elegant man picked up the portrait and studied it. Its mouth was still dumbly gaping like that of a goldfish. The man extinguished his cigarette in the ruined mouth and carelessly dropped the head back into the box. He gave quiet instructions to one of the eager apprentices hovering about; the boys were clearly delighted at the accident and eager to see its conclusion. The Maestro (thus Zhiang pretentiously styled himself – the only vulgarism I ever knew him to make) walked over and, ignoring my father’s apologies, struck me. My father was delighted, rightly taking this as evidence that the eminent lifer now considered me his own property.

I was used to beatings delivered by my father’s heavy unskilled hands but this stung like a whip and I cried out. The pain, like a paper cut, seemed to grow and spread, and in spreading, to change pitch. The burning blow was the first of many I was to receive at the Maestro’s hand, but I fancy I feel that first caress even now. I put my hand to my cheek. It was hot enough to boil tears.

Today I can cause that pain.

A little more talk and they shook hands. My father, somewhat disappointed, left without saying goodbye. Because of the accident, my price was less than expected. Today I know how much I had cost Maestro Zhiang that day – and I still think it was unjust. Such careless behaviour is to be expected from untutored street children. I have seen much, and know what to expect from the boys I buy from their desperate parents, from my boastful clients.

I am rarely surprised.

The talkative gentleman sitting before me, however, was acting unusually. My clients were, as a rule, unimaginative. If I made an act of paying attention to their wishes they would be docile as I worked, mentally counting money or mistresses or whatever it was they collected. But this gentleman was not satisfied with my usual complimentary platitudes; he begged to hear my opinion, to hear of my training, to see the other projects I was working on. I promised a tour after the session, but still he was restive. Presently, just as my irritation retreated before the tranquil cloud which always descends when the work is going well, his expressionless face began to change. A smile creased his face like a shadow creeping across a room. ‘Very well, Maestro,’ he said quietly.

I gave no sign that I had heard the unexpected Europeanism. My face, I am sure, was a study in coolness, though the word echoed in my memory like a shotgun report.

Quickly I said, ‘I’ve taken measurements, all I need, and I shall send a quote tomorrow. If it’s agreeable, arrange another session with my secretary.’

I was not worried about the price. If there were arguments, they were seldom about money. I charged enough for my clients to know they were getting quality.

In the work of the day I managed to forget him, but later, as I descended into the Dragon’s Belly, his strange smiling manner came back to disquiet me. I was too late for the train and I studied my face in its windows as it left the station. I read in the tell-tale truth of physiognomy what I’d been denying all day. I was angry. I was afraid.

It was irrational. My day was disrupted but the gentleman had done nothing other than engage in small talk. How was he to know what associations that exotic title stirred in me? I, who pride myself on being a businessman, was being as emotional as a stage-madam.

Just as the long shrill note that heralded the next train’s approach sounded, a commotion made me turn. I’d not seen a vagrant in decades, not since the Great Renewal. They’d found work, or been put to it, or died. Not that I’d ever given their absence much thought. What a foolish sight this man presented. At first I smiled at him. It pleased me somehow that one leftover remained, one proud totem of our pathetic past. Today we Chinese are incontestably great. The Indians and the Europeans look to our decision, bow to our will. But this vagrant, with his coatings of grease and knotted hair, might have been sent by those ancestors to whom we are too busy or too embarrassed to pay homage. In his chaotic crooning I heard their reproach: You cannot forget us, wicked children.

Nobody else heard him. Nobody paid him any attention. They looked though him and I wondered how they could ignore a ghost in their midst. People walked by, and those he accosted just shook their heads and tolerantly laughed.

I did not laugh. I saw clearly the performance to which they were blind. The vagrant’s hair was identical to the Chairman’s, aping his famous habit of wearing his fringe soaring to the side. He was abusing the imbeciles’ licence to do the unthinkable. The vagrant’s walk, his swift impatient gestures, his every breath was a subtle imitation of the Chairman. And this grotesque parody was for me alone.

I must explain before you decide I am paranoid.

While it’s true that everybody over a certain age recognises the Chairman’s features and mannerisms, just as they could, if it were permitted, recite his gnomic sayings, those are merely an exterior description. There is a deeper reality to which the untrained are unconsciously blind. This animal essence is what makes a life so sublime. Its absence is what makes the portraiture of previous eras so facile. This knowledge is common, but the pain it takes to realise an essence is known to only a select few. Lifers enter into a state of sympathy comparable to that a mother feels for her newborn child. Our materials are expensive, but the real reason lifers charge so much is the pain. Breaking a bond is a self-administered rape of the psyche; that pain is why successful lifers hire armies of apprentices, proxies to share the daily ordeal and bear some of its brunt. One can break one’s heart only so many times; depression, despair and suicide are occupational hazards.

Ah. I can tell you are not satisfied with this. You want to know why the vagrant’s satire was so disturbing. You need it spelled out. You’re entitled, like the rest of your generation. Very well then. Here, if you must have it, is my confession. You remember the colossal portrait of Chairman Hu installed for so many years at Gate of Heavenly Peace? It watched over the crowded square like a patient father, until it was burned during the May riots. The creator of that portrait was not Maestro Zhiang – he applied some finishing touches but I was the one who bonded with the chairman, not he! Me. I have said we lifers are not egotistical, but I will not ask you to believe I was humble when I watched the crowd part before the Chairman in the Mayday celebration. Indeed – why hide it? – I was one of the madmen.

That is how I understood the vagrant’s impersonation was as offensive as it was exquisitely subtle. Was this dishevelled creature a lifer once? Where had he met the Chairman? He didn’t appear to notice me, but who was his performance for, if not me? I was the only person alive who could truly see it.

I wondered of course if my impression was accurate, or more a reflection of my concerns: an after-effect of that day’s disagreeable bonding. Sometimes, when a client’s personality is strong, one temporarily falls into the thrall of his passions – but why would my boorish client, a dull-eyed commodity importer, be interested in the long-dead Chairman?

*

That night I slept little and the next day I quoted high. I did not want the job. However, the ridiculous price was agreed and I spent the next week with the gentleman’s portrait layered on my psyche as I mothered it into life. He did not talk any more, which suited me fine, and the work went quickly. I was eager to be rid of it, of him.

Towards the end of the week he turned to me. ‘I told a lie, Maestro.’

The repetition of that title was a cold wind.

‘Indeed?’ I said trying to keep my voice distant and careless. ‘How so?’ The words sounded ridiculously loud.

‘I have been to a lifer studio before. I had almost forgotten – it was many years ago.’

I made a show of stifling a yawn and began cleaning my tools.

‘Finished already? Don’t you want to know which studio I was in? It belonged to a great artist.’

I hustled him out of his chair and towards the door, though I knew my assistants were staring at my odd behaviour. I had taught them that clients were to be treated like emperors until the transaction had been completed. But I didn’t care; too late, I had realised he was a spy of some sort.

‘It was Maestro Zhiang’s studio. In Shanghai, in the old suit-makers’ district. You have heard of him, surely?’

I released him and he said with obvious pleasure, ‘I see that you have.’ From his breast pocket he produced a card, held it up so that I saw the pale red watermark. He placed it down on an empty plinth with a crisp snap.

After he left, I watched the door for a long time, as if government agents would burst in shouting ‘Ah ha!’ the moment I glanced down at the card. I became aware of my apprentices staring, so I pocketed the card and finished for the day in a distracted way, peevishly snapping at the boys as they swept up the gelatine and opened the big windows to clear the vapours. Even as I chastised them, I heard the shrill sound of impotence in my voice; I knew and shared the contempt they felt for me.

*

I prayed that I would never see the agent again, not entirely wishful thinking – blackmail is a risky occupation, after all. But the next day he arrived on time for our penultimate appointment. I decided full disclosure was the best strategy: I would tell him everything – and tell him nothing. I brought him into my office; the last few days had provided enough fodder for studio gossip without adding to it. The story of my ruin was not for my students’ ears. I poured us both a drink and told it.

It was not an unusual tale; the tumult of those years threw all in the air uniformly. Of course, I did not mention the Chairman – not that I have anything to hide, but in this degenerate age a blackmailer can destroy an honourable reputation and prosperous business with only a few well-placed hints. I had to convince him I was unremarkable.

I told him how I had been sold, the lessons, the work, the beatings, but he kept asking about Zhiang – what his habits were, what type of girls he chose, what clients he had and, especially, to which party officials he was close. I gradually discerned that I was but a means to an end: he was not interested in me, which was a great relief, and I spoke more freely.

‘I served my apprenticeship with Zhiang – twelve long years – and trusting that those years would stand me in good stead when I set up my own studio, I took it all. Insults, abuse, slights, outrages.’

‘You hate him?’

‘I cannot forget how cruel he was, but I can forgive. I dare say it toughened me up. That was the way it was those days. I am a more tolerant master and yet—’

He urged me on, and I said, ‘I cannot find it in myself to be open as Zhiang was. For every time he was cruel, I remember dozens of occasions when he would gather us round to show us some marvel, or lift us up to celebrate our progress. I am cold. It would please me to think my coldness a result of the hard years after the Renewal, but I have always been so. I cannot charge Zhiang with that crime.’

The agent’s silence skilfully probed me, but in truth, talking was a relief. ‘Better to have a generous master, even if he has a temper. Students remember the good times and quickly forget the bad. That I am the opposite – that I am miserly, that I hate and cherish grudges – makes my studio unhappy. Even so I cannot pity my boys for I too must live with myself.’

*

The vagrant was asleep at the gate of my station when I went to work the following morning, crumpled in the midst of half-filled bottles with a bony dog licking his hand. Even sleeping he radiated the Chairman’s essence. However, I was convinced now that it was my client’s preoccupations filtering into the perceptions of my daily life. Such illusions are an occupational hazard.

He arrived punctually for our final session and I continued my story as I had plotted, bringing it to its end while avoiding the subject he wanted most to know about. I was in control of the bond: my hand, the quill; he, the paper. He did not discern the deception as I let myself digress into maudlin self-pity.

‘After the war my association with Zhiang, far from helping my career, almost ended it. I was branded a reactionary and threatened with scrubbing. They imprisoned me, but after the Golden Light disbanded, I was released in the general amnesty, my notoriety forgotten. With every face wan from hunger and scarred by sickness, portraiture was far from most minds. That equality of suffering lasted about a year.

I, student of the great Maestro Zhiang, had one more lesson to learn, and those years taught it well. Art is not the child of inspiration or truth or beauty. She is the whore of disposable income. I looked about me and saw new flags and uniforms and I understood at last what Zhiang had tried to teach me with his soft words and cigarette burns. People do not want a mirror – any fool could supply that; after all, the technical skills of lifeing, though exacting, are easy to learn, given time. No. Rich people – and for our purposes the poor do not exist – want to see themselves reflected in the eyes of love. What once required sacrifice now requires only cash.’

‘That’s life, isn’t it?’ the agent said neutrally.

‘Perhaps, but whatever you call it, do not call it realism. Zhiang always said we are creatures of emotion, not reason. You are too young to remember how our propagandists used to depict the Americans.’

‘Hordes of shovel-handed apes wolfing down hamburgers and Chinese virgins. I remember.’

‘Then you will also remember how we laughed at the caricature – yet who can deny its effectiveness? How our hearts cheered as our bombs bored from below their cities.’

‘I said I remember.’

‘Zhiang said lifers are propagandists too: propagandists of our clients. We take their dreams of ambition and self-love and make them real. He said a lie told that beautifully is worth a fortune.’

‘Very interesting,’ the agent said, clearly uninterested in my craft and philosophy. ‘What else?’

I blushed, ‘There is no more.’

‘No? The strings to get you out of prison, who pulled them?’

‘None were necessary: my crime was merely to be born during the Chairman’s reign. In prison, I was re-educated. When I was released, I borrowed from relatives to set up a studio and built my reputation by hard work. When clients asked me where I trained I could not boast of studying under the recidivist Zhiang—’

‘So you became a self-taught prodigy. Another lie.’

‘You don’t really want a portrait, do you?’

‘I want to know where Zhiang is.’

‘He disappeared.’

‘Into the dense cloud of Heaven, like the beloved Chairman.’

I was getting worried now. ‘I know nothing of such things.’

‘You don’t know,’ he said contemptuously. ‘You don’t even know what everyone knows. You’ve been playing the fool for so long you don’t know when to stop.’

‘A few years ago, there was a rumour,’ I said at last, ‘that the Chairman was assassinated in Taiwan.’

‘I am not interested in rumours, at least not those that you’ve heard. Hu’s been spotted in Russia, in Mumbai. There was even word of him across the Pacific. The assassination rumour was just a pretext for the invasion. I know you’re smart enough to know that. I told you: stop playing.’ He looked at me searchingly. ‘Truth is we don’t have a clue where the Chairman ended up, whether he’s alive or dead. Him – or Zhiang.’

At last I understood his purpose. The bond had taken.

‘You don’t work for the party, do you?’

He smiled wider than ever and when I broke the bond he, of course, felt nothing. I tried to keep calm as I washed my hands. ‘Sir, you have mistaken me for someone with something to hide. I discern now you are a mischief-maker.’

‘Can’t I take my face?’

‘Please leave.’

‘Did you kill him?’

‘Leave,’ I repeated.

He shrugged and sauntered out the door.

He left me there under the mocking eyes of his portrait. I examined the work. It was accurate, maddeningly so. I tried to reset the expression of the lips, knowing that smirk would slowly blossom again after a few minutes. The eyes twinkled, no matter how I assaulted the ocular orbicularis. The bond is always strong when the subject’s personality is strong, when the subject is the indefatigable type. I took my scalpel and cut the smile away, one lip at a time.

*

In the subway carriage, I absentmindedly rubbed my sticky fingers together. Portraits don’t bleed, but their sap is hard to remove. I lay back and let myself be rocked to sleep by the motion of the carriage.

A bell ringing in darkness woke me – next stop coming up – and I sat up suddenly. At the far end of the carriage I saw him, my client, the agent, yellow in the acid-neon glow. His eyes were on his paper and he was playing with the end of his pigtail as he read. How long had he followed me – since I left the studio? Since I left Shanghai? I pushed my way to the end of the carriage, stopping to look behind only as I reached the end. The crowd of people was too dense. Had he noticed my absence? Was he following me?

The next stop was not mine but I let myself be carried out on a tide of commuters herding to the escalators. It was still bright up there, and what I wanted was darkness. I stepped aside into a narrow old stairway, which led down into a labyrinth of concrete corridors decorated with Golden Light slogans illegible in the flickering neon. At last I got back to the platform. I would just wait for another train, go home and drink and sleep and forget.

The platform became quickly crowded.

‘Due in one minute,’ said the operator’s mechanical voice just as I caught sight of my vagrant, standing by the escalators, drawing looks as he berated a busking flautist. The musician was taking the harangue in good humour. Even though I knew the bond and its associations would linger like a bad taste for a few days, the strange apparition set my heart racing again. I turned my gaze back to the track.

‘Train Due,’ the oracle predicted.

‘Are we going in the same direction, Maestro?’

The train whistled like winter as its light raced through the tunnel towards me and I spun around. The agent’s face creased in that sly smile – I knew every atom of it – and he tutted softly, ‘You can’t escape, you know. I have the resources of the State. What can you draw upon? You have no friends. Except me—’

Then he tumbled towards me. Understanding the shock in his face was unfeigned, I stood aside. He fell past me, silently. The vagrant now stood where the agent had been standing a moment ago. I turned and looked down as the agent stirred. He’d landed face-first on the rail, and when he turned, I saw his lips were split and his nose crushed and bleeding. The crowd surged around us as the train began to stop, and if the agent screamed I did not hear it, lost in the screech of the breaks and the urgent shouting of the crowd.

I turned and looked into those mad, serene eyes that had captured me once. They were buried within that wild strange face. A bond was not severed.

I may be mistaken – it was noisy and I was upset – but I thought I heard a carefree, ‘Farewell, Maestro!’

Before I could reply he turned and walked away, swaying with loose laughter. The crowd parted before the madman.

Aidan Harte studied sculpture at the Florence Academy of Art and currently works as a sculptor in Dublin. Before discovering sculpture, he worked in animation and TV; in 2006 he created and directed the TV show Skunk Fu, which has been shown on Cartoon Network, Kids WB and the BBC. The Wave Trilogy is published by Jo Fletcher Books and consists of Irenicon, The Warring States and Spira Mirabillis.

The Curious Affair of the Deodand • by Lisa Tuttle

The Curious Affair
of the Deodand
by Lisa Tuttle

Once it had become painfully clear that I could no longer continue to work in association with Miss G— F—, I departed Scotland and returned to London, where I hoped I would quickly find employment. I had no bank account, no property, nothing of any value to pawn or sell, and, after I had paid my train fare, little more than twelve shillings to my name. Although I had friends in London who would open their homes to me, I had imposed before, and was determined not to be a burden. It was therefore a matter of the utmost urgency that I should obtain a position: I emphasise this point to account for what might appear a precipitous decision.

Arriving so early in the morning at King’s Cross, it seemed logical enough to set off at once, on foot, for the ladies’ employment bureau on Oxford Street.

The bag that had seemed light enough when I took it down from the train grew heavier with every step, so that I was often obliged to stop and set it down for a few moments. One such rest took place outside a newsagent’s shop, and while I caught my breath and rubbed my aching arm, I glanced at the notices on display in the window. One, among the descriptions of lost pets and offers of rooms to let, caught my attention.

Consulting Detective

Requires Assistant

Must be literate, brave, congenial, with a good memory & willing to work all hours.

Apply in person to

J. Jesperson

203-A Gower Street

Even as my heart leaped, I scolded myself for being a silly girl. Certainly, I was sharp and brave, blessed with good health and a strong constitution, but when you came right down to it, I was a woman: small and weak. What detective would take on such a liability?

But the card said nothing about weapons or physical strength. I read it again, and then glanced up from the number on the card – 203A – to the number painted above the shop premises: 203.

There were two doors. One to the left led into the little shop, but the other, painted a glistening black, bore a brass plate inscribed Jesperson.

My knock was answered by a lady in early middle age, too genteel in dress and appearance to be mistaken for a servant.

‘Mrs Jesperson?’ I asked.

‘Yes?’

I told her I had come in response to the advertisement and she let me in. There was a lingering smell of fried bacon and toasted bread that reminded me I’d had nothing to eat since the previous afternoon.

‘Jasper,’ she said, opening another door and beckoning me on. ‘Your notice has already borne fruit! Here is a lady, Miss . . .?’

‘I am Miss Lane,’ I said, going in.

I entered a warm, crowded, busy, comfortable, cheerful place. I relaxed, the general atmosphere, with the familiar scent of books, tobacco, toast, and ink that imbued it, making me feel at home even before I’d had a chance to look around. The room obviously combined an office and living room in one. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, crammed with volumes, gave it the look of a study, as did the very large, very cluttered desk piled with papers and journals. But there were also armchairs near the fireplace – the hearth cold on this warm June morning; the mantelpiece so laden with such a variety of objects I simply could not take them in at a glance – and a table bearing the remains of breakfast for two. This quick impression was all I had time to absorb before the man, springing up from his place at the table, commanded my attention.

I say man, yet the first word that came to mind was boy, for despite his size – he was, I later learned, six-feet-four-inches tall – the smooth, pale, lightly freckled face beneath a crown of red-gold curls was that of an angelic child.

He fixed penetrating blue eyes upon me. ‘How do you do, Miss Lane? So, you fancy yourself a detective?’ His voice at any rate was a man’s: deep and well modulated.

‘I would not say so. But you advertised for an assistant, someone literate, brave, congenial, with a good memory and willing to work all hours. I believe I possess all those qualities, and I am in search of . . . interesting employment.’

Something sparked between us. It was not that romantic passion that poets and sentimental novelists consider the only connection worth writing about between a man and a woman. It was, rather, a liking, a recognition of congeniality of mind and spirit.

Mr Jesperson nodded his head and rubbed his hands together, the mannerisms of an older man. ‘Well, very well,’ he murmured to himself, before fixing me again with his piercing gaze.

‘You have worked before, of course, in some capacity requiring sharp perceptions, careful observation, and a bold spirit, yet you are now cut adrift—’

‘Jasper, please,’ Mrs Jesperson interrupted. ‘Show the lady common courtesy, at least.’ Laying one hand gently on my arm, she invited me to sit, indicating a chair, and offered tea.

‘I’d love some, thank you. But that’s your chair, surely?’

‘Oh, no, I won’t intrude any further.’ As she spoke, she lifted the fine white china teapot, assessing the weight of the contents with a practiced turn of her wrist. ‘I’ll leave the two of you to your interview while I fetch more tea. Would you like bread and butter, or anything else?’

A lady always refuses food when she hasn’t been invited to a meal—but I was too hungry for good manners. ‘That would be most welcome, thank you.’

‘I’ll have more toast, if you please, and jam would be nice, too, Mother,’ Mr Jesperson added.

She raised her eyes heavenward and sighed as she went away.

He’d already returned his attention to me. ‘You have been in the Highlands, in the country home of one of our titled families. You were expecting to be there for the rest of the summer, until an unfortunate . . . occurrence . . . led to an abrupt termination of your visit, and you were forced to leave at once, taking the first train to London where you have . . . a sister? No, nothing closer than an aunt or a cousin, I think. And you were on your way there when, pausing to rest, you spotted my notice.’ He stopped, watching me expectantly.

I shook my head to chide him.

He gaped, crestfallen. ‘I’m wrong?’

‘Only about a few things, but anyone with eyes might guess I’d been in Scotland, considering the time of day, and the fact that I’ve had no breakfast, but there are no foreign stickers on my portmanteau.’

‘And the abrupt departure?’

‘I was on foot, alone, there not having been time for a letter to inform my friends – there is no aunt or cousin – of my arrival.’

‘The job is yours,’ he said suddenly. ‘Don’t worry about references – you are your own best reference. The job is yours – if you still want it.’

‘I should like to know more about it, first,’ I replied, thinking I should at least appear to be cautious. ‘What would be my duties?’

‘Duties seems to me the wrong word. Your role, if you like, would be that of an associate, helping me to solve crimes, assisting in deduction, and, well, whatever is required. You’ve read the Sherlock Holmes stories?’

‘Of course. Though, I should point out that, unlike Dr Watson, I’d be no good in a fight. I have a few basic nursing skills, so I could bind your wounds, but don’t expect me to recognise the symptoms of dengue fever, or— or—’

He laughed. ‘I don’t ask for any of that. My mother’s the nurse. I’m a crack shot, and I’ve also mastered certain skills imported from the Orient that give me an advantage in unarmed combat. I cannot promise to keep you out of danger entirely, but if danger does not frighten you—’ He took the answer from my face and gave me a broad smile. ‘Very well, then. We’re agreed?’

How I longed to return that smile, and take the hand he offered to shake on it! But with no home, and only twelve shillings in my purse, I needed more.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘This is awkward,’ I said. ‘Unlike Dr. Watson, I don’t have a medical practice to provide me with an income . . .’

‘Oh, money!’ he exclaimed, with that careless intonation possible only to people who’ve never had to worry about the lack of it. ‘Why, of course, I mean for you to get something more than the thrill of the chase out of this business. A man’s got to live! A woman, too. How are you at writing? Nothing fancy, just setting down events in proper order, in a way that anyone might understand. Ever tried your hand at such a narrative?’

‘I’ve written a few articles; most recently, reports for the Society for Psychical Research, which were published, although not above my own name.’

His eyes widened when I mentioned the S.P.R., and he burst out excitedly, ‘C— House! By Jove, is that where you’ve been? Are you “Miss X”?’

I must have looked pained, for he quickly apologised.

I didn’t like to explain how hearing her name – one of her silly pseudonyms – when I was feeling so far from her, so safe and comfortable, had unsettled me, so I only remarked that I’d been startled by his swift, accurate deduction. ‘“Miss X” was the name assigned in authorship to my reports, but in actual fact I was her . . . her assistant, until yesterday, when a disagreement about some events in C— House led to my sudden departure. But how do you know of it? The investigation is incomplete, and no report has yet been published.’

Without taking his eyes from my face – and what secrets he read there, I didn’t want to know! – Jesperson waved one long-fingered hand toward the desk piled with papers and journals. ‘Although not myself a member of the S.P.R., I take a keen interest in their findings. I have read the correspondence; I knew there was an investigation of the house planned for this summer.

‘I am a thoroughly rational, modern man,’ he went on. ‘If I worship anything, it must be the god we call Reason. I’m a materialist who has no truck with superstition, but in my studies, I’ve come across a great many things that science cannot explain. I do not sneer at those who attend séances or hunt for ghosts; I think it would be foolish to ignore the unexplained as unworthy of investigation. Everything should be questioned and explored. It’s not belief that is important, but facts.’

‘I agree,’ I said quietly.

He leaned toward me across the uncleared table, his gaze frank and curious. ‘Have you ever seen a ghost, Miss Lane?’

‘No.’

But he had noticed some small hesitation. ‘You’re not certain? You’ve had experiences that can’t be explained in rational terms?’

‘Many people have had such experiences.’

‘Yes,’ he drawled, and leaned back, a faraway look in his eyes. But only for a moment. ‘Tell me: do you possess any of those odd talents or senses that are generally called psychic?’

Despite the many times I’d been asked that question, I still had a struggle with my reply. ‘I am aware, at times, of atmospheres to which others seem immune, and occasionally receive impressions . . . sometimes I possess knowledge of things without being able to explain how I know. But I make no claims; I do not discount the effects of a vivid imagination allied with sharp perceptions and a good memory. Almost every so-called psychic medium I have ever met could achieve their results through looking, listening, and remembering, with no need for “spirit guides”.’

He nodded in thoughtful agreement. ‘I have performed mind-reading tricks myself. If I didn’t feel obliged to explain how it was done, I suppose I could make money at it. So how do you explain ghosts? Aren’t they spirits?’

‘I don’t know. I subscribe to the idea that the ghosts people see or sense are afterimages, akin to photographs or some form of recorded memory. Strong emotions seem to leave an impression behind, in certain places more powerfully than in others. Objects also have their memories, if I may put it like that. Occasionally, an inanimate object will give off vibrations – of ill will, or despair – so it seems to project a kind of mental image of the person who owned it.’

He gazed at me in fascination, which I found a novel experience. Even quite elderly gentlemen in the S.P.R. had not found me so interesting, but of course I tended to meet them in company with “Miss X”, who was used to being the centre of attention.

I decided it was time to get back to business, and reminded him of his original question: ‘You asked me if I wrote. I presume you were thinking that I could write up your cases with a view to publish?’

‘Certainly the more interesting ones. Publication would have two useful ends. On the one hand, it would bring my name to public attention, and attract new clients. On the other, it would provide you with income.’

My heart sank. I had friends who survived by the pen, so was well aware of how much time and toil it required to scrape a bare living in Grub Street. Even if Mr Jesperson solved an interesting, exciting case every week (which seemed unlikely), and I sold every story I wrote . . . I was still struggling to work out how much I’d have to write, at threepence a line, to earn enough to pay for room and board in a dingy lodging house, when he said something that cheered me:

‘Of course, I realise not every case would be suitable for publication. I only mention it so you wouldn’t think you’d have to live solely on your percentage.’

‘What percentage?’

‘That would depend on the extent of your contribution. It could be anything from ten to fifty per cent of whatever the client pays me.’

Mrs Jesperson had entered the room while he was speaking, and I heard her sharp intake of breath just before she set the tray she carried down on the table. ‘Jasper?’ she said in a voice of doom.

‘I can hardly ask Miss Lane to work unpaid, Mother.’

‘You can’t afford to pay an assistant.’

Despite my discomfort, I intervened. ‘Please. Let’s not argue over money. I must admit, it’s still unclear what Mr Jesperson would be paying me for, apart from the sort of intellectual support and companionship any friend would freely give. And I should like to be that friend.’

Now I had their rapt attention. ‘As you deduced, Mr Jesperson, I left my last situation rather abruptly, without being paid for my work. I came to London to seek – not my fortune – but simply honest work to support myself.’

I paused to draw breath, rather hoping one of them would say something, and I took a quick glance around the room to remind myself that even if Mrs Jesperson felt they could not afford to pay an assistant, they nevertheless had all this – the fine china, the silver, the leather-bound books and substantial furniture, a whole houseful of things – by contrast with the contents of my single, well-worn bag.

‘If I could afford it, I should propose an unpaid trial period, perhaps a month to discover the value of my contribution to your work. Unfortunately, I can’t even afford to rent a room—’

‘But you’ll stay here!’ exclaimed Mrs Jesperson. She frowned at her son. ‘Didn’t you explain?’

Mr Jesperson was now serenely pouring tea. ‘I thought you might have deduced it, from the wording of my advertisement: the part about working all hours. Of course my assistant must be here, ready for any eventuality. It’s no good if I have to write you a letter every time I want your opinion, or send a messenger halfway across London and await your reply.’

‘There’s a room upstairs, well furnished and waiting,’ said Mrs Jesperson, handing me a plate of white bread, thinly sliced and thickly buttered, and then a little glass bowl heaped with raspberry jam. I saw that her tray also contained a plate of buttered toast, and a pot of honey. ‘And three meals a day.’

*

The room upstairs was indeed very nice, spacious enough to serve as both bedroom and sitting room, and far more pleasantly decorated than any accommodation I’d ever paid for in London. Not a single Landseer reproduction or indifferent engraving hung upon the wall, yet there was an attractive watercolour landscape and some odd, interesting carvings from a culture I did not recognise. The furnishings were basic, but cushions and brightly patterned swaths of fabric made it more attractive, and I felt at home there at once, soothed and inspired by the surroundings, just as in the large, cluttered room downstairs.

I spent some time unpacking and arranging my few things, and writing letters informing friends of my new address, before I lay down to rest. I hadn’t slept much on the train, but now established in my new position – even if it was nearly as problematic, in terms of remuneration, as my last – I felt comfortable enough to fall into a deep and refreshing slumber.

Dinner was a delicious vegetable curry prepared by Mrs Jesperson herself. They could not afford a cook, although they did have a ‘daily’ for the heavier housework. That evening, as we sat together, I learned a little of their recent history, without being terribly forthcoming about my own.

Jasper Jesperson was twenty-one years old, and an only child. Barely fifteen when his father died, he’d accompanied his mother to India, where she had a brother. But they had been in India for only a year before going to China, and later, the South Sea islands. An intriguing offer brought them back to London more than a year previously, but it had not turned out as expected (he said he would tell me the whole story another time) and subsequently he decided that the best use of his abilities and interests would be to establish himself as a consulting detective.

He’d concluded three successful commissions so far. Two had been rather easily dealt with and would not make interesting stories; the third was quite different, and I shall write about that another time. It was after that case which had so tested his abilities that he decided to advertise for an assistant.

His fourth case, and my first, was to begin the next morning, with the arrival of a new client.

‘Read his letter, and you may know as much about the affair as I,’ said Jesperson, handing a folded page across his desk to me.

The sheet was headed with the name of a gentlemen’s club in Mayfair, and signed William Randall. Although some overhasty pen strokes and blotches might suggest the author was in the grip of strong emotion, it might also be that he was more accustomed to dictating his correspondence.

Dear Mr Jesperson,

Your name was given to me by a friend in the Foreign Office with the suggestion that if anyone could solve a murder that still baffles the police, it is you.

Someone close to me believes I am at risk of a murderous attack from the same, unknown killer to whose victim she was, at the time, engaged to be married.

I will explain all when we meet. If I may, I will call on you at ten o’clock Wednesday morning. If that is inconvenient, please reply by return of post with a more suitable time.

Yours sincerely, etc.

I folded the letter and handed it back to Jesperson, who was gazing at me, bright-eyed and expectant.

He prompted. ‘Any questions?’

‘The Foreign Office?’

‘Never mind about that. It’s only my uncle, trying to keep me in work. Don’t you want to know what I’ve deduced about the writer of this letter? What unsolved crime affects this man so nearly? I believe I have it.’

‘I think I’d rather wait and hear what Mr Randall has to say, first. If you’re right, well and good, but if you’re wrong, you’ll only confuse me.’

He looked a bit crestfallen, making me think of a little boy who hadn’t been allowed to show off his cleverness, and I said, ‘You can tell me afterward, if you were right.’

‘But you might not believe me. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter.’

I heard his mother murmur, ‘Party tricks.’ But if he heard, at least he gave no sign, and let me change the subject, and the rest of the evening passed quite pleasantly.

*

Mr William Randall arrived promptly as the carriage clock on the (recently dusted) mantelpiece was striking ten. He was a dapper young man with a drooping moustache, his regular features lifted from mere good looks into something striking by a pair of large, dark eyes that anyone more romantic than I would call soulful.

He refused any refreshment, took a seat, and began his story after the brief, hesitant disclaimer that ‘it was probably a load of nonsense’, but his fiancée was worried.

‘The lady I intend to make my wife is Miss Flora Bellamy, of Harrow.’ Her name meant nothing to me, but we both saw Jesperson straighten up.

‘Yes, I thought you might make the connection. She was, of course, engaged to Mr. Archibald Adcocks, the prominent financier, at the time of his terrible death.’

‘So she thinks his death was connected to the fact of their engagement? And that you are now in danger?’

‘She does.’

‘How curious! What are her reasons?’

He sighed and held up his empty hands. ‘“The heart has its reasons, that reason knows not”. Women, you know, think more with their hearts than their heads. It is all too circumstantial to convince me, a matter of mere coincidence, and yet . . . she is so certain.’

Listening to them was frustrating, so I was forced to interrupt. ‘Excuse me, but would you mind telling me the facts of Mr Adcocks’ death?’

Jesperson turned to me with a smile of secret triumph. I could have told you last night! said his expression, but he only remarked, ‘It was in all the papers, a year ago.’

‘Fifteen months,’ Randall corrected him. ‘He was attacked on his way to the railway station, not long after saying good night to Flora at her door. She wanted him to take a cab, because he had recently injured his foot, but he insisted that he could manage the short walk easily with the aid of a stick.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘He borrowed a walking stick from the stand beside the door.’

‘The injury must have been very recent,’ I suggested, and Randall gave me a nod.

‘Not long after dinner, that same evening. He tripped in the hall and struck his foot, but although it was quite painful, he insisted it was too minor to make a fuss about.’

‘Not a man to make a fuss.’

‘He was no weakling. And quite well able to look after himself. Something of an amateur pugilist.’

‘Yet someone attacked him, unprovoked.’

‘So we must assume. He was found lying sprawled on the path, his head bloody from a terrible blow. He was barely alive, unable to speak, and died from his injury that same night, without being able to indicate what had happened. It may be that he didn’t know, that the cowardly assault had come from behind.’

‘No one was ever arrested,’ Jesperson told me. ‘There were no suspects.’

I frowned. ‘Could anyone suggest a motive?’

‘It was usually assumed to have been an impulsive crime, not planned, since the murder weapon was his own walking stick.’

‘Not his own,’ Mr Randall objected. ‘Borrowed from Flora’s house.’

‘Even so. It may be he was attacked by a gang of thugs who thought him an easy target because he limped. Yet, if they were intent on robbery, no one could explain why they did not take his wallet, stuffed with pound notes, or his gold watch, or anything else. He was found not long after he fell, lying in the open, near a streetlamp, and there were no obvious hiding places nearby. Although one witness reported hearing a cry, no one was seen running away or otherwise behaving in a suspicious manner.’

‘Did Mr Adcocks have enemies?’ I asked.

‘He was well liked by all who knew him, including those who did business with him. No one obviously benefited by his death.’

‘Who inherited his property?’

‘His mother.’

Before I could say anything more, Jesperson resumed. ‘Mr Randall, you’ve suggested that Miss Bellamy believed his death was as a result of, or at least connected to, their engagement.’

‘No one else thought so.’

‘How did her family feel about it?’

He sighed and shook his head. ‘She has no family. Since being orphaned at an early age, Miss Bellamy has lived in the house of her guardian, a man by the name of Rupert Harcourt.’

Although the even tenor of his voice did not change, when he pronounced this name, I shivered, and knew we had come to the heart of the matter.

‘Her parents named this man as her guardian?’ Jesperson enquired.

Mr Randall shook his head. ‘They did not know him. He had no connection to the family at all. When Mr Bellamy died, the infant Flora was alone in the world. A total stranger, reading of her situation in a newspaper, was so struck with pity that he offered her a home.’

‘You find that strange,’ I said, remarking his tone.

His eyes, for all their languid soulfulness, could still deliver a piercing look. ‘It is surely unusual for an unmarried, childless man of thirty-plus to go out of his way to adopt an unwanted infant. In fact, he never did adopt Flora, but set up some sort of legal arrangement to last until she married, or reached the age of twenty-one – a date still eight months in the future.’

‘She has money?’

‘Very little. To give him credit, Harcourt never touched her small inheritance, yet she never lacked for anything; toys and sweetmeats, clothes and meals, books and music lessons were all paid for from his own pocket. The money from her father was left to gain interest. I suppose it may be near one thousand pounds.’

It sounded a lot to me, being used to managing on less than thirty pounds a year, but it was not the sort of fortune to inspire a devious double-murder plot.

‘Has any attempt been made on your life?’ Jesperson asked suddenly, and I saw Mr Randall wince and raise his hand to his head before he replied, ‘Oh, no, hardly – no, not at all.’

Jesperson responded testily to this prevarication. ‘Oh, come now! Something happened to frighten your fiancée, whatever you may make of it. Don’t try to hide it.’

With a sigh, Randall lifted the lock of dark hair that half-hid his forehead and bowed his head to reveal a bruised gash, obviously quite recent, at the hairline.

He explained that a few days earlier he had been to dine with Flora and her guardian. After the meal, the two men had adjourned to Harcourt’s study, a large room at the front of the house, with cigars and brandy snifters, and there Randall had asked permission to wed Miss Bellamy.

‘It was a formality, really, since she had agreed, but as the man was still her legal guardian, it seemed the right thing to do.’

‘His response?’

‘He said, rather roughly, that young ladies always made their own decisions, but he had no objections. Then he asked if I knew she’d been engaged once before. I said that I did, and he gave an unpleasant laugh and asked me if that hadn’t made me think twice. I didn’t know what he meant to imply, but it seemed meant to be offensive. Trying not to take offense, I told him that I loved Flora, and that since she had been good enough to accept me, nothing short of death would induce me to part from her. And it was at that dramatic moment that a book fell off a shelf high above my head.’

He winced. ‘It looked worse than it was – scalp wounds bleed profusely – but it was quite painful. I had never imagined a book as a lethal weapon.’

‘Where was Harcourt when this occurred?’

‘He was facing me, standing farther away from the bookshelves. Before you ask, I could see him clearly, and while I suppose he might have contrived it, I was not aware of him doing anything that could have triggered the fall. In any case, he seemed completely shocked, and almost as worried about his book as my head. I should probably say more. If he’d meant to harm me, I don’t think it would have been at any risk to any part of his collection.’

‘He’s a book collector?’

‘Nothing so benign,’ he replied. ‘In fact, it was because of the collection that Flora rarely set foot inside that room. She found the morbid atmosphere more unpleasant than the scent of our cigars.’

‘R.M. Harcourt, of Harrow,’ Jesperson said.

‘You know of him?’

‘I had not made the connection until this moment. He has written of his collection – at least, certain recent acquisitions, in a journal to which I subscribe.’

Turning to me, Jesperson explained that Mr Harcourt took a particular interest in murder, and had, over the years, managed to acquire a goodly number of weapons – knives, guns, and a variety of sharp or heavy instruments that had caused the loss of human life: a lady’s hat pin, a piece of brick, a Japanese sword, an ordinary-looking iron poker. In addition, he had amassed a library on the subject of the crime, as well as what might be described as mementos of murder, odds and ends that were connected in some way with any famous – or infamous – crime: hair from the heads of murderers or their victims, blood-stained clothing, photographs of crime scenes, incriminating letters. He possessed poison rings, flasks, phials, bottles, and even the very cup in which Mrs Maybrick had mixed the arsenic powder with which she killed her husband.

‘He’s very proud of it,’ Randall said. ‘Occasionally, people call at the house to see the collection, or to offer new items they hope he’ll buy. I was polite, but, frankly, I will never understand the appeal of such gruesome objects.

‘After the accident, Flora became hysterical and made me promise I’d never enter that room again. Then she decided that was not enough, and that I must not return to the house. She also suggested that we not announce our engagement, and wait until she’s twenty-one to marry.’

‘She suspects her guardian?’ Jesperson asked quietly.

Mr Randall hesitated, then shook his head. ‘She says she does not. But she feels I am in danger, through my attachment to her, and if she’s right about that, who else could it be?’

‘Forgive me, but . . . are there no rejected suitors?’

‘Flora told me she’s received but two marriage proposals in her life, and she’s never mentioned anyone else; I’ve certainly never heard of any other man who might harbour such strong feelings for her,’ he replied. ‘But, in any case, she is wrong. Adcocks’s murder, quite naturally, affected her nerves. She sees danger, an unknown assassin, lurking everywhere; an evil force behind every accident.’ He paused to take a deep breath. ‘Shortly after the injury in the study, I chanced to stumble over an object in the hall – and I might have fallen and struck my head a second time if Flora hadn’t been there to catch me. This was the same object that Adcocks had bruised his foot on, and this coincidence was too much. Her nerves are not strong. How can they be? She’s suffered so much, has lost everyone she has ever loved – that’s when she insisted I leave at once, and not come back. She imagined danger where there was none.’

‘And yet, whether or not you are in danger, someone killed Mr Adcocks,’ Jesperson said with heavy emphasis.

‘Precisely. And if you can solve that crime, I hope her fears may be put to rest.’

*

After Mr Randall had departed, Jesperson dashed off a letter to Mr Harcourt.

‘I think it best that Harcourt has no reason to connect us with his ward or her fiancé,’ he told me. ‘Therefore, I shall present myself to him as a fellow aficionado of murder. And as he shows me his collection it may be that, if he does know something of Adcocks’s death, he’ll give himself away.’

‘Won’t he wonder how you’ve heard of it?’

‘Not at all. It is quite well known in certain circles.’ He scarcely paused in his writing as he replied, stretching out his other hand and running it down the spines of a stack of journals on the desk beside him, as if he were a blind man reading with his fingertips.

Abstracting one issue, he paused to flip through the pages until he found the one he wanted me to see.

It was a page of letters with the headline More Solutions to the Ripper Murders. The letter indicated by his finger was signed R.M. Harcourt, The Pines, Harrow. Another, finishing in the next column, bore the name of J. Jesperson, Gower Street.

‘So he may know who you are?’

‘As you’ll see by the date, this issue is a year old. I was still a mere student of crime and detection then, unknown to the public.’ Finished, he sealed the envelope and held it out to me. ‘Take this to the post office—’ He stopped, with a look of chagrin. ‘Forgive me.’

‘For what? I am your assistant.’

‘My manner was too peremptory. I should have—’

I cut him off. ‘If we’re going to work together, you must stop thinking of me as a female who’ll be mortally offended if you forget to say please.’

‘It’s not that.’

I waited.

‘I advertised for an assistant, not a servant. I hope we can work together as equals.’

‘Understood,’ I said, not revealing how pleased I felt. ‘Also understood is that when time is of the essence, politeness can go hang. And the only reason I am still standing here with this letter in my hand, rather than halfway to the nearest post office, is that I don’t know where that is.’

*

Mr Harcourt replied with an invitation by return of post, so the next day found us on the train, rattling through the north-western suburbs of London, at one time a familiar journey to me. Although I had not been in Harrow for more than ten years, it was the scene of my youth, my father having been a classics master at Harrow School until his untimely death.

However, we had lived in the village on the hill, whereas Mr Harcourt’s house was almost a mile away, in one of the newer developments that had grown up following the extension of the Metropolitan Line.

Jesperson had said nothing in his letter about a companion, and we had decided my role would be that of Inconvenient Female Relative. Naturally, I would have no interest in the collection – indeed, if I knew what it was, I might well be shocked – so while the men were closeted together, I’d be free to conduct my own investigation. Randall had told Miss Bellamy to expect me.

The Pines was a mock-Tudor affair shielded from the road by the two namesakes that gave it a somewhat secretive and gloomy air. But that was nothing compared to the interior of the house. As I stepped across the threshold, I was gripped by panic. I am sensitive to atmospheres; no matter how much I try to blame it on imagination, and what I felt in that hallway was as bad as any haunted house. But it is difficult to describe to someone who has never experienced such things. If I were describing a smell, I could compare it to a tannery, a slaughterhouse, or a sewer. Only someone with no sense of smell could bear to live there.

Fighting the panic, I looked around for distraction. A large, attractive Chinese vase, green and yellow, had been put into service as a stand for umbrellas and walking sticks. Among the curving wooden handles clustering above the open top, the silver-capped walking stick stood out, commanding attention not simply by its different appearance, but by the grim air of menace it exuded, like a low and deadly hiss.

Of course, I knew at once what it was, and felt appalled. How could they have kept it? Why hadn’t it been broken and destroyed, the wood burnt to ash, the silver head melted down to be remade into something new?

Tearing my horrified gaze away, I spotted the hideous stone gargoyle crouching like a demon near the foot of the stairs, and shuddered at its baleful look before my partner’s light touch on my arm recalled me to the present as he introduced me to the owner of these things.

Mr Harcourt was a portly, balding man with a luxuriant and well-tended moustache, and – for me, at any rate – a cold and fishlike stare. There was more warmth, and a twitch of a smile, in the greeting he gave Jesperson, leaving me in no doubt that my presence was unwelcome.

Relief came swiftly in the form of a young lady descending the stair. Slender and dark-haired, with a face that was handsome rather than pretty, she was dressed like a shop assistant or office worker in a crisp, white shirtfront and plain dark skirt. Even smiling warmly in welcome, she had a serious look, her eyes haunted by worry.

‘Flora! Exquisite timing, as ever. Although, if you had known to expect company you would have worn one of your pretty dresses, I hope,’ said Harcourt. He performed hasty introductions and rapidly withdrew with Jesperson behind a solid oak door, leaving us alone in the hall with its sinister atmosphere.

‘Perhaps you’d like to see the garden,’ said Miss Bellamy, touching my elbow to guide me along a corridor toward the back of the house. As I passed through the door, leaving the house, the taste of open air was almost intoxicating.

‘You are sensitive,’ she remarked, leading away from the cold back wall of the house, through an arbour, along a path, into a sheltered rose garden.

‘I claim no special powers,’ I said, ‘but the atmosphere in that house is . . . extraordinary. I have to wonder how you can live there.’

She nodded slightly. ‘And yet, you know, most people feel nothing. Mr Adcocks never did. Mr Randall’s mood alters when he visits, and I am aware of his unease, yet he will not admit it.’

Although I had not said so to Jesperson, I had toyed with the idea that Miss Bellamy herself might be the killer we sought. The manner of Mr Adcocks’s death seemed to indicate an attack by a strong and brutal man, an action impossible by most women; nevertheless, I had found that men tended to underestimate the female sex quite as much as they idealised it, and I could imagine a grieving fiancée who was in truth a cold-hearted murderer.

But that idea vanished to nothing as soon as I set eyes on her: she was a slip of a girl. As we sat down side by side on a curving bench in a sunny green spot, the scent of roses and the warm hum of bees filling the air around us, I was utterly certain that this gentle, soft-spoken woman, so concerned about the feelings of others, was incapable of killing another human being, by any means.

‘How can you bear to live in that house?’ I asked her.

‘Don’t forget, I’ve lived there nearly all my life,’ she said. ‘People can get used to almost anything. Imagine someone who must work in a slaughterhouse every day.’

‘I imagine such a person would be brutalised and degraded by his work,’ I replied. ‘If the comparison were to someone who must live in a slaughterhouse . . . well, I can’t imagine many who would stick it for long. I’m surprised you never ran away. What was it like when you first came here? Were you terrified?’

She looked thoughtful. ‘I can’t remember anything before I came here. I was not yet two years old. And back then, Mr Harcourt’s collection was only small. It grew along with me. Over the years, as he added items, he told me the story of each one. So I became accustomed to tales of violent death and human wickedness from an early age. I was not at all attracted to those things, but I accepted their existence. Imagine a child growing up in a madhouse or a prison. Even the strangest situations become normal if one knows nothing else.’

‘But now, at last, you can escape,’ I said. ‘Have you set a date for your wedding?’

She stared at me. ‘Surely William told you? I think it’s best we don’t even speak of an engagement until after I’m of age, and can leave here.’

‘You believe your guardian doesn’t wish you to marry?’

She gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Oh, I believe he would like to see me married! A wife and a widow in the same day would please him very much!’

There was no point in beating about the bush. ‘Do you think he killed Mr Adcocks?’

She did not flinch. ‘No. Despite his fascination with the subject, Mr Harcourt is no murderer.’

‘Do you suspect someone else?’

She did not reply. I thought I saw something cornered and furtive in her look. ‘Miss Bellamy,’ I said gently, ‘however painful this is, we can’t help unless you tell me what it is you suspect, or fear, no matter how slight or strange. Were you there, did you see anything, when Mr Adcocks was attacked?’

She shook her head. ‘I bid him good night and went up to my room. I thought he was safe . . .’

‘And your guardian?’

‘He was shut into his room, as usual.’

I looked toward the house, but the ground floor was shielded from my view by shrubs and foliage. ‘Is there another exit? From his room?’

‘No. And I would not have missed the sounds if he’d left the house.’

‘Who murdered Mr Adcocks?’ I asked suddenly.

‘No one.’

‘And yet he is dead.’

‘He was killed by a powerful blow to his head. The blow came from a walking stick. Can it be called murder, is it even a crime, without human intervention?’

I had seen objects levitate, hover, move about, even shoot through the air as if hurled with great force although no one was near. Usually, there was trickery involved, but not always. I had seen what I believed to be the effect of mind over matter, and also witnessed what was called poltergeist – the German for ‘noisy spirit’ – activity. Yet I was deeply suspicious of everything attributed to the action of ‘spirits’. I had yet to encounter anything that was not better explained by the power of the human mind.

‘What are you saying?’ I asked her gently. ‘You believe that the stick – an inanimate object – moved and killed a man of its own volition?’ Yet even as I asked, the memory of the malignant power I had sensed in that very stick, only a few minutes earlier, made me much less certain that I was right.

‘Have you ever heard of a deodand?’

‘I’m not familiar with the word.’

‘It’s a term from old English law: deo, to God, dandum, that which must be given. It referred to any possession that was the immediate cause of a person’s accidental death. The object was then forfeit to the Crown, to be put to some pious use.’

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that, and she smiled. ‘That walking stick was a deodand. Not officially, it’s hardly that old, but it was the proximate cause of death to a young man almost seventy years ago – so my guardian told me.’

‘And the unpleasant stone gargoyle beside the stair?’

‘It fell off the tower where it had been placed many centuries before, and killed a mother and child. My guardian collects such things, along with his morbid keepsakes from actual murders.

‘He gave Archie that stick, knowing what it was, and suspecting what it would do.’ She stopped and passed a hand across her brow. ‘What am I saying? Of course he didn’t suspect. Why should he? None of them had ever hurt him, or me. Not even when I was a child who played with whatever took my fancy – he wouldn’t let me touch anything dangerous, of course, nothing sharp or breakable. I whispered secrets in the gargoyle’s ear, even used to kiss it, and it was that gargoyle—’ She stopped, her hand to her mouth.

I waited for her to go on.

‘It was in the wrong place, too near the stair. I thought perhaps, when the maid washed the floor, she’d pushed it out, but she insisted she never did. Yet it was not where it usually was, and that’s why Archie stumbled against it, and wrenched his ankle.

‘It happened again, just a few days ago, to Will. He fell over it, and if I hadn’t caught him, he might have struck his head, might have been killed, just like Archie!’

‘Someone moved it,’ I said, trying to inject a note of reason. ‘If not the maid, then your guardian, or a mysterious stranger. And if Mr Randall’s stumble had resulted in a serious injury, even death, that would have been an accident, no one could possibly call it murder, even if someone moved the gargoyle. But that stick . . . I really can’t imagine that a stick, in Mr Adcocks’s possession, could have caused his death without the intervention of another person. If you think your guardian was controlling it, willing it to strike—’

‘No! Why would he do that? Even if he had the ability, why would he want to kill my fiancé when he was looking forward to seeing how I would cause his death?’

She had gone white except for two hectic splashes of red in her cheeks. I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Of course not, because you don’t understand that I, too, am a deodand. I am the gem of his collection. My early history explains why he took me in. I killed my entire family before I was two years of age.’

I gripped her hands. ‘Miss Bellamy—’

‘I am utterly sane,’ she said calmly. ‘I am not hysterical. These are the facts. Being born, I brought about the death of my mother.’

‘That’s hardly—’

‘Unique? I know. Listen. Nine months later, my father was taking his motherless children on holiday when we were involved in a railway accident. In the crash, my brother, a child of two, was thrown to the floor, as was I. I landed directly on top of him, a fact which may have saved me from injury, but caused his death. I have never known whether he died of suffocation, or if my weight broke his neck.’

‘No one could call that your fault,’ I said, trying not to dwell on the image.

‘I know that,’ she said, pulling her hands away. ‘Believe me, I am not such a fool as to think it was anything other than extremely bad luck. I have had many years to come to terms with my past. I do not require your pity. I tell you this so you may understand Mr Harcourt’s interest in me.’

She continued, ‘My father was injured in the accident. Some months later he was still in an invalid chair, needing a nurse to help him in and out and wheel him about. We’d gone out for a walk – when I say ‘we’ I mean my father in his chair pushed by his nurse, a young man, and I in my pram, pushed by mine, a pretty young woman. We stopped at a local beauty spot to admire the view. My nurse put me down on a blanket on the grass, near to my father, who was dozing in the sun, and then I suppose they must have stopped paying much attention to anything but each other as they fell to flirting. I hadn’t yet learned to walk, but I was getting better at standing up, and as I hauled myself to my feet, using my father’s chair as support, somehow I must have let off the brake – maybe the nurse hadn’t properly set it – and as he rolled away, I just watched him go, picking up speed, until I saw the chair carrying my last living relative go over the edge of the cliff to his death on the rocks below.’

I made no more efforts to comfort. ‘So, Mr Harcourt considers you some sort of loaded weapon in his possession? Ready to go off when you are loved?’

‘He has never said as much, but that’s what I’ve understood by a gleam in his eye, and a quickening of interest once I became of marriageable age. It was he who contrived to introduce me to a number of wealthy young men, until Archibald Adcocks took the bait. And he pressed me to accept, although I was inclined to wait.’

‘Regardless of what Mr Harcourt believes—’

‘I know. And you’re right; I don’t believe it of myself. Mr Harcourt imagines, because he kept himself so coldly distant, repelling my natural affection, and sent me to day school rather than risk my becoming too close to a kind governess, that I never was loved, and never loved anyone, since my father died.

‘But there was a girl at school . . . My guardian may have no idea how passionately girls can love each other, but I’m sure you will,’ she said, with a look that should have made me blush. Instead, it made me smile.

We looked at each other like conspirators. ‘I take it your friend remains alive and well?’ I said.

‘Indeed, and still my dearest friend, although we’re now more temperate in our emotions . . . or, at least, the expression of them. So, you see, I know my affection is not dangerous.’

‘And yet you seem to think that by becoming engaged to marry you, Mr Adcocks signed his own death warrant. And that Mr Randall is under threat for the same reason.’

‘Yes . . .’ She looked thoughtful. ‘But not because of my feelings for him, or his for me. It’s something else. Marriage to anyone would take me away from this house, would remove me from my guardian’s collection. That’s it,’ she said, and stood up.

‘What is it?’

‘He thinks marriage is the only way he might lose me. He’s never imagined I might simply decide to leave.’

I stood up, too, to face her. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Mr Harcourt is scarcely sane when it comes to his collection. He cannot bear the thought of losing a single piece of it. He is happiest when gloating over it alone, and whenever he has a chance to add something new. Although he admits potential buyers, he only wants their envy and admiration as they view his objects – he will never agree to sell an item, no matter how much money he is offered.

‘And while he has been talking about my marriage since I was sixteen, and began pushing me at eligible bachelors on my eighteenth birthday, driven by thoughts of what he thinks will happen when I am once more part of a family, greedily imagining how his collection will grow after the violent, accidental death of my husband, he knows this will be possible only if he lets me go. In his twisted mind, I am part of his collection, and the thought of losing me, even only temporarily, and in aid of gaining more, is terrible to him.’

‘His mind is divided?’

‘I am sorry, Miss Lane. You should not have been brought into this. There was no need for William to enlist the aid of a detective. I should have realised that I am the only one who can end this madness.’

She started back to the house and I followed. Although I had no idea what she intended, I felt that we were approaching crisis.

She raised her fist to rap on the heavy oak, but at the very first blow, the door swung open.

Harcourt was at the far end of the room, by the window, displaying something in a flat wooden box to Jesperson. They both looked around sharply as we entered, Harcourt’s expression was startled and annoyed. Clearly, he had not expected us, and I could only assume that he had neglected to shut the door properly.

‘What’s the meaning of this disturbance?’ he demanded, hastily shutting up the box.

‘I must speak with you.’

‘Let it wait. We have company.’

‘I am happy to have witnesses.’ She took a breath. ‘I shall not marry.’

I had tensed myself against the negative atmosphere upon entering the house, and had been particularly reluctant to enter Harcourt’s study, expecting it to be the epicentre, yet as I followed more slowly into that room, I found that what had been unpleasant and discordant was now harmonious. Using the metaphor of smell, you could consider bonfire smoke: a great waft in the face is horrible, but at the right distance, the scent of burning leaves and wood is pleasant.

‘You’ve rushed in here to say that? I am at a loss to understand why,’ Harcourt replied coldly. ‘Your change of heart is of no interest to me. I suggest you write to Mr Randall.’

‘You don’t understand. I mean I shall never marry.’

His eyes bulged. ‘Are you insane?’ Suddenly, he turned on me. ‘What have you been saying? What sort of mad rubbish, to turn her mind?’

‘Miss Lane had nothing to do with it,’ Flora said swiftly. ‘I have been thinking matters over for the past several days, and only now decided to tell you—’

‘Oh, very likely!’ He had been casting a venomous glare on me, but now stared coldly at Jesperson. ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to take this female person away, immediately.’

I could see that my partner was at a loss: Should he leap to my defence, invent excuses, or pretend to a masculine solidarity that might leave the door open for future visits? Although I didn’t want to leave Flora alone with Harcourt, I didn’t know what we would achieve by trying to stay, so I left the room, just as Flora was demanding, ‘Am I not allowed to have my own friends?’

‘As long as I’m your guardian, Flora, you will do as I say. You’ll have nothing more to do with that female, and you will not break off your engagement. We’ll forget you ever said anything about it. Mr Jesperson, if you please!’

As they emerged, with Flora in the lead, I was surprised to see the hint of a smile on her face. She winked at me before turning on her guardian again.

‘So, I am to be your object and meekly allow your will to prevail in everything, until my twenty-first birthday changes everything?’

‘That will change nothing,’ he said scornfully. ‘You don’t imagine you’ll be anything different than you are now? Than you’ve always been?’

She flinched, but held steady. ‘In the eyes of the law.’

‘The law.’ He snorted. ‘The law is an ass. It has nothing to say about you. It has no idea what you are.’ His gaze on her was horrible.

‘I may as well go now,’ she said quietly.

‘Go? What are you talking about?’

‘You are right that a few months will change nothing. You are pleased with the situation; I am not. So I shall leave.’

She looked from me to Jesperson, saying, ‘If it’s not too much trouble . . .’

He was swift to take her meaning. ‘Of course, come with us. Any help we can give—’

I heard the rattle, and saw that the Chinese vase was rocking violently back and forth, until it tilted too far and fell, shattering against the hard floor and spilling its burden of umbrellas and walking sticks.

Only one of the sticks did not come to rest with everything else on the floor, but shot through the air, straight at Jesperson.

If it had struck where it aimed, against his throat, I have no doubt it would have killed him, but he was quick. Almost as if he’d expected the attack, he stepped lightly aside, his arm rising, fluid and graceful, to catch the stick.

Unlike an ordinary thrown object, the stick continued to move after it was caught, writhing and pulling to escape, while he gripped it more firmly, frowning as he looked for a thread or wire and tried to work out the trick of it.

Certain there would be no invisible thread, I looked instead at Harcourt. His expression was nothing like those I’d seen on the faces of mediums or mentalists; he looked utterly astonished, and thrilled. If he had caused the stick’s activity, it was through a power hidden from his conscious mind, something he did not suspect and could not control.

Then another movement, glimpsed from the corner of my eye, caught my attention, and as I turned to look, I heard the terrible grating, grinding noise made by the stone gargoyle as it ponderously rocked itself across the floor. Although no one was near enough to be at risk if it fell over, I nevertheless called out a warning.

Flora took one look and shouted: ‘Stop it! Stop it right now!’

The gargoyle stopped moving, and so did the stick, although Jesperson still kept a tight hold and a wary eye on it.

Harcourt took a hesitant step forward, his eyes still fixed upon the stick. ‘Give— give it to me, if you please, Mr Jesperson,’ he said. ‘That— that is the weapon that killed poor Mr Adcocks, and before that, a young man in Plymouth. If not for your exceptionally quick reflexes, you would have been its third victim.’

After a reluctant pause, Jesperson handed over the stick, saying, ‘You expected this might happen?’

‘Never,’ the man gasped, staring at the stick in his hands with an unhealthy mixture of lust and fear. ‘Who would imagine that the instinct to kill would be inherent?’

‘You imagined it inherent in me,’ said Flora. ‘A mindless, killing force so powerful that it could use me – a living, intelligent being – without regard for my own free will?’

‘No, no, certainly not,’ he said, without conviction. ‘You were a mere infant, with no ability to think or act for yourself, when fate used you to terminate the lives of three innocent souls. It is quite different now.’ He had been looking at her, but the lure of the object in his hands proved too much, and he soon returned to staring at it like a besotted lover.

‘You’ve always thought of me as another piece in your collection,’ Flora said bitterly. ‘A mindless, soulless thing, and not even your favourite.’

‘Dear Flora, don’t be absurd. I know you are no “thing”. You have been like a daughter to me. Have I not always cared for you as best I could? Bought you whatever your heart desired? My only concern has ever been to see you safely and happily married to the man of your choice, when the time came.’

While my sympathies were entirely with Flora, I recognised that to an outside observer, she would seem hysterical, and Harcourt sane.

‘Yet you must have wondered,’ Jesperson said, as if idly. ‘Eh, Harcourt? You surely wondered if your ward was intended by Fate for family happiness. Perhaps you saw her first engagement as a scientific experiment. The result was not as you hoped, but perhaps as you feared . . .?’

They exchanged a look, man to man, and although Harcourt shook his head ruefully, I saw the smug satisfaction beneath the solemn look.

‘You’re vile,’ Flora murmured. She cleared her throat and announced, ‘I can never marry. I won’t put another life at risk.’

This time, Harcourt did not protest. He shrugged and sighed, and said, ‘I would never force you to go against your will, no matter how foolish it seems to me.’

‘That’s not all. I’m leaving your collection today, Mr. Harcourt—’

‘Oh, come now. Don’t be childish. You can’t blame me for what you are!’

‘Not for what I am, only for what you’ve tried to make me. The atmosphere in this house is hideous, not because of the objects, but because of your gloating fascination with murder and violent death. I’m going. I won’t set foot in this house again as long as you are alive.’

Having stated her intention, she made straight for the door.

I felt the shudder that ran through the house even before her hand touched the door handle; it was a sensation so subtle yet so profound that I thought at first I might be ill.

Harcourt yelled. His nose was bleeding; the walking stick had come to life again in his hand and seemed determined to beat him to death. He managed to remove it to arm’s length, and struggled to keep it under control. The gargoyle, too, was shuddering back to life, and, from the variety of creaks and groans and fluttering sounds I heard coming from the next room, so were other bits of the collection.

‘Move,’ said Jesperson urgently, propelling me forward. ‘Get out of the house! Is there anyone else?’ Hearing the shouts, the little maid who’d let us in reappeared, and, although looking utterly bewildered, she allowed him to usher her outside as well.

We met Flora at the front gate and turned back to look at the house.

‘Where’s Harcourt?’ Jesperson demanded. ‘He was right behind me.’

‘He won’t leave his collection,’ said Flora. ‘He’ll have gone back for it. He used to worry aloud about what he should save first, if the house were on fire.’

‘But it’s the collection itself that’s the threat!’

On my own, I might have left Harcourt to his fate, but when my partner ran back inside, I felt it my duty to follow. Mounting the front steps, I was able to see through the window into the study, and what I saw brought me to a standstill.

Pale and portly Mr Harcourt was leaping and whirling like a dervish, holding the silver-headed stick away from his body like a magic staff, as he struggled to avoid a flurry of small objects. Occasionally in his efforts, he unconsciously pulled his arm in closer to his body, allowing the stick to give him a sharp crack on his leg or shoulder, and then he would shriek in pain or anger.

Books and other things continued to tumble from the shelves. Many simply fell, but others hurled themselves with force directly at him, and these struck a variety of glancing blows against his body, head, and limbs. A glass-fronted display case shook fiercely, as if caught in an earthquake, until it burst open, releasing everything inside. A great malignant swarm composed of small bottles, jars, needles, pins, razors, and many more things I could not recognise now enveloped the man, whose cries turned to a constant, terrified howling as they attacked him.

Feeling sick, I turned aside and went indoors to my partner, who was throwing himself bodily against the solid oak door, as if he could force it open. Seeing me, he stopped and rubbed his shoulder, looking a little sheepish.

I gave him one of my hairpins, assuming he would know how to use it.

As he fiddled with the lock, I listened to the horrible sounds that accompanied the violence on the other side: thuds and thumps, shrieks and wails and groans, and then a shocking, liquid hissing, followed by a gurgle, and then the heaviest thud of all, and then silence.

By the time Jesperson managed to get the door open, it was all over. Harcourt was dead. His bloody, battered corpse lay on the carpet, surrounded by the remnants of his murderous collection. Whatever life had possessed them had expired with his. There was a sharp, acrid stench in the room – I guess from the contents of various broken bottles – but nothing so foul as the atmosphere it replaced.

‘Vitriol,’ said Jesperson. ‘Don’t look.’

But I had already seen what was left of the face, and it was no more shocking than the sounds had led me to imagine.

As I went out to give Flora Bellamy the news, and to send the maid to fetch the police, I already knew that this had not turned out to be a case I could write about for publication.

And, as it developed, it got worse.

It was fortunate indeed that Jasper Jesperson had some influential relatives who moved in the circles of power, for otherwise I think the local police would have been pleased to charge him with murder, in the absence of more likely suspects, and if he hadn’t done it, I was their next choice.

Even though we might argue we had saved his life, our client was so far from pleased with the outcome of our investigations that he refused to pay us anything. It was not Harcourt’s death that bothered him so much as Miss Bellamy’s insistence on releasing him from their engagement. She would give him no better reason for her change of heart than to say that she was reconsidering how she might best spend her life, and that she was inclined to seek some form of employment by which to support herself ‘like Miss Lane’.

Flora Bellamy never set foot inside The Pines again. Even though her guardian was dead, she had decided to take no chances, and hired others to empty the house before selling it. In his will, Harcourt left everything to his ward, with only one caveat: Although she could decide whether to keep or dispose of “the collection”, she must do so as a whole, and not break it up.

This stipulation she decided to ignore.

‘Perhaps I’m wrong,’ she said to me, the last time I saw her, ‘but I believe it could be dangerous. Individual objects are only things, but when gathered together, they became something more – first in Mr Harcourt’s imagination, and then in reality. The concept in law of the deodand was that something that had once done evil could be remade into something useful, even holy, by good works. That was not allowed to anything in Mr Harcourt’s collection – his use of those things was opposed to good; it venerated the evil deed.’

Her way of redemption was to donate everything that remained in the house to a good cause. Being extra cautious, she chose one so far away that she would not have to fear an accidental encounter with her former possessions, and had everything sent to a leper colony on the other side of the world.

I took it as a positive sign that she did not feel obliged to sacrifice herself in a similar way.

She decided to share a flat with her school friend, and embarked on a course of training in bookkeeping and office management.

Jesperson and I, naturally, discussed the details of this case – which began with one unsolved murder, and concluded with two – at great length when we were alone together, and also with Mrs Jesperson, but we were never able to agree upon how to assign the blame for the killings. We all agreed that both Adcocks and Harcourt were murdered, yet we also agreed that if there was no murderer, murder could not have been done.

I hope our next case will be less of a curiosity.

Lisa Tuttle was born and raised in Texas, but moved to Britain in the 1980s. She now lives with her writer husband and their daughter on the side of a Scottish loch. She has written more than a dozen fantasy, science fiction and horror novels. Her entire backlist has been re-released in ebook format by Jo Fletcher Books. Her most recent novel The Curious Affair of the Somnambulist and the Psychic Thief, featuring Jesperson and Lane, is also available.

The Discord of Being • Alison Littlewood

The Discord of Being

Alison Littlewood

Emma hadn’t been to Morocco, the place her mother was buried and her father still lived, since she was little more than a child. All the same, as she stepped off the aeroplane it seemed familiar, despite the strangeness of the low, decorated terminal, the palm trees waving flag-like branches in the breeze. It was the sky, she decided. A grey covering of clouds rolled away into the distance; it was an English sky. Even so, her skin prickled with sweat as she walked towards immigration with the other passengers – holidaymakers, their children, and people going home.

In the terminal, where families waited, one man stood among the others, holding a sign that bore her name. Her father had sent a colleague to meet her, a tall, neatly dressed man named Ibrahim. She shook hands with the stranger, remembering her father’s words on the telephone: You don’t need to come. She felt he had been offering an escape route for them both.

The call had come late one night, the ringtone sounding just like any other. That was what seemed strange afterwards, that the sound had carried no warning; that she hadn’t known.

Disturbed, her father had said, and all Emma could think of was being pressed close to her mother’s body, safe, warm. Her grave has been disturbed. I just – I thought you should know. And then that eternal mantra, You don’t need to come.

The thought of it angered her. How could he have done this? For it was her father she blamed, at once and entirely. He had brought her mother here, leaving Emma to stay with an aunt, just for a little while. And then her mother had died and he decided to stay, just like that, not seeing Emma save for when she came for her mother’s funeral. How could he let her mother die like that? How could he let her die here? And how could he live among people who would do this to her grave?

Emma opened her mouth to say something to Ibrahim, then closed it again. It was as if he read her thoughts. He turned to her with sympathy in his eyes. ‘The Moroccan people would not do this.’

She scowled. ‘Then who?’

It was his turn to subside. He shook his head, led her to the car.

It wasn’t long before they reached the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. Emma watched the colours flash by. She had imagined somewhere sepia and bleak, without growth and life. Instead there was this red land, with grasses and straw and brilliant yellow flowers, everything dotted with dark green argan trees.

The engine protested as the road grew steeper, heading up towards the grey sky.

‘It will rain,’ Ibrahim said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘I think you brought it from England,’ and she smiled back at him as he was proved right; droplets speckled the windscreen. The wipers scraped and Emma wound down the window to see a river rattling down a narrow gully, palm trees darkening in the rain.

They wound upwards until they reached a narrow track. To one side great boulders were piled atop one another, their ochre streaked with red and grey and orange. To the other side was a sheer drop. Emma glimpsed the road they had travelled far below, a village nestled into the hillside beyond, the mosque’s minaret towering over everything else.

In front of them, an inlet was cut into the rocks. Buildings slotted into it, filling every inch, their wooden doorways painted bright colours. One opened and a man stepped out. He wore a point-hooded djellaba and had yellow babouches on his feet. He had a grey beard and was turning something in his hand: a piece of stone. With a tremor, Emma realised it was her father.

When she turned to Ibrahim, he gave a sympathetic smile. Her father did not hold out his arms or say anything at all. Instead he raised his watery eyes, nodded, and led the way inside.

The room was dark, its concrete floor strewn with threadbare rugs. There was a simple wooden table, shelves holding rocks and grit and tools: hammers, chisels, brushes. A mobile phone lay among them, dust-covered like the rest. The room smelled of damp stone and something sweeter: honey, perhaps.

Emma felt a twinge of anger. As far as she’d known, her father had left England for a good job, a prestigious job, working with the fossil mining concerns that dotted the mountains. But this – was this why he had left? Her desk at work was just one grey cubicle among many, but the walls were smooth, the floor clean. She had a computer and a telephone, air conditioning.

Then she saw a small bottle balanced on the lintel over the door, its contents dark red and muddy looking. She snatched it down and sniffed, thinking of alcohol, but the scent was of meat.

Her father looked apologetic. ‘It’s for the djinn,’ he said. ‘It keeps them out.’ He shrugged.

Emma snorted, banging it back onto the ledge. ‘Is this it?’ She could barely keep the fury out of her voice. She waved a hand around the room, encompassing everything.

Her father lifted his arms, let them fall. He still clutched something in his hand and he held it out. An ammonite, tight whorls inscribed in stone. ‘A new species,’ he said. ‘New to science, anyway. I saved it for you.’

She reached out and his fingers closed over it. ‘I meant I could name it for you.’

Emma shook her head. He had named her. Her. And then he had left her for this shack with its dirt and its rocks.

Her father nodded, as though it was what he had expected. ‘It is good to see you, Em.’

‘Emma.’ She barked out the word, though he was right, Em was what people called her. It was what her mother had called her. Her stomach twisted.

‘Emma.’ He nodded.

‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’

‘I will,’ he said. ‘But first you can get settled. We’ll have tea together. I’ll show you around.’

Emma glanced at the room. She had seen everything already.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not in here. Out there.’

*

The mountains swirled around them, fading into the distance. Rain still pattered down but the sun shone through it, the light soft and delicate, turning the slopes to pastel. Wild flowers gleamed in pinks and yellows. And everywhere, leaning against the building, lying on the ground, were ammonites and trilobites, some of them several feet across.

Her father was talking about how the mountains had formed. Emma imagined him burrowing into the miles of fossils under his feet, chipping at the vastness until he had found each one, his home long forgotten. Out here, she could almost forget it too. The mountains were sweet, beguiling, the air clean and smelling of rain. And something he said struck her: it was all under the sea, and she felt a wave of vertigo, imagining fathoms of salt water above her head, stretching into the sky. She had a sense of the earth beneath her shifting and shattering, thrusting upwards over the millennia, movements on a scale impossible to imagine.

‘And you study all this?’ She looked at the shapes on the ground, the spirals and lobes. She reminded herself that they were familiar from museums and nature programmes, known, catalogued. And yet he had been here for years. He worked for a company who dug up these creatures that had turned to stone and bought and sold them.

‘I study all this.’

‘So you understand it all?’

He smiled. ‘No. No, I’ll never understand it all.’

She scowled. ‘What happened to my mother?’

He was silent.

‘What happened?’

‘She was at peace. She still is, Em.’

She did not correct him. She only waited.

Her father’s throat clicked as he spoke. ‘They dug up the ground.’

‘Who did?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘How far?’

He didn’t answer, though Emma knew he’d understood what she meant. How far down, is what she’d wanted to ask. He said nothing, raising his hands again and letting them fall. Emma remembered the fossil in his hand, the delicate life written in stone, a species never before seen or numbered. That dizziness took her again. Amazing there could be anything new left to discover. A different kind of life, long turned to rock, held for a moment in the palm of his hand.

‘I want to see it,’ she said. ‘I want to see everything.’

*

The journey passed in bursts of rain and sunshine, blue patches of sky meeting and joining as they left the mountains. Emma’s father sat up front with Ibrahim. He hadn’t wanted to come, but Emma had insisted. She had felt like a geologist herself, fighting his reluctance, as though prising a fossil from its hole in the ground.

Now the men exchanged occasional words in Darija, the Moroccan Arabic, low and quick as though they didn’t want to disturb her. Before they departed they’d packed the boot full of bags of fossils, so that Emma’s things wouldn’t fit; they were beside her on the seat.

Emma looked out at the horizon and saw the higher peaks of the Altas, capped with snow. She remembered that somewhere out there lay the dunes of the Sahara, home of the Tuareg and Bedouin, and felt again a wave of disorientation.

Marrakesh, when they reached it, was something else again: a line of terracotta coloured rock walls. ‘The Red City,’ said Ibrahim, and she imagined it being carved from the earth, the buildings rising like something organic.

The grave was in a cemetery on the outskirts of the city, sectioned into Muslim, Jewish and Christian. The cemetery was narrow, spread around a hillside that had probably been no use for anything else. There were buildings opposite, shops with narrow alleys leading away.

Emma was suddenly reluctant, but her father held out his hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I told you.’ She followed, glancing back to see that Ibrahim had stayed behind.

Emma had been fifteen when her mother was buried, an event that was oddly and comprehensively missing from her memory, as if she’d tried to blank it out, or never really taken it in. A heart attack, they’d said; a Western death in a country far from home. Now Emma stood in the cemetery, though, the recognition was strong and total, a knife in her gut. The headstones were lit by sharp, hard sunlight. She saw the one that was her mother’s, but it wasn’t right: it looked intact, a little crooked perhaps, but there was nothing to show that anything had happened. She stared at the words, Beloved wife and mother.

‘But it’s fine,’ she said, her voice faltering. She felt she had been robbed, as if everything should be torn and uprooted and twisted.

‘It has been put right,’ her father said. And then, hesitant: ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I wanted to see. I wanted to know everything.’

Her father sighed. ‘No one really knows, Emma. It happened at night. The stone was overturned, the grave—’

‘Dug into.’

‘Yes.’

‘So did they find her? Did they reach the body? Did it happen to other graves, or just hers?’ Emma waited, but the answer didn’t come. She scowled. It was as if he didn’t want to know, didn’t need to know. As if something was broken and had been fixed and he had already moved on.

‘It won’t do any good. Look, it’s all right now. No one seemed to know what happened. Sometimes – it’s difficult to find things out.’ He sighed. ‘You didn’t need to come. I told you.’

I told you. As though that was the answer to everything.

‘Did you upset someone?’

‘What?’ He looked surprised.

‘In your job. Or whatever. Have you done something? Made someone want to hurt you – hurt my mother?’

‘Of course not.’ He shook his head. Then, slowly, ‘Not like that. Sometimes I think, with the digging – we have gone too far.’ His voice went distant. ‘The djinn . . .’

She snorted, rolled her eyes. ‘For God’s sake.’

He paused. ‘So I suppose you will go now. We can take you to the airport. We have business – we will stay awhile, now we are here, Ibrahim and I. Whenever you like—’

Emma remembered the bags in the boot of the car. Of course, he had brought his work with him. Even her mother’s desecration was a reason to study his precious fossils, dead things dug from the ground. She shivered as she turned from the grave. She couldn’t get that out of her head: dead things, dug from the ground. She didn’t know how he could bear to look at them.

*

Marrakesh was life and sound and noise. Emma stood at a crossroads full of cars all trying to turn at once, beeping their horns, missing each other by millimetres. Perhaps because her father seemed so willing for her to leave, she had decided to stay until she was ready. She turned her back, passed under an arched gate set into the city walls, and entered the old town or medina. There were no cars here, but although the sounds had changed, the bustle was the same. The streets were narrow and full of people: tourists, locals in colourful djellabas, women with shaylah scarves over their hair or veiled faces. Donkey carts plodded along, unfazed by the motorcycles that gunned through it all, edging everything else out of the way.

Emma had left her father and Ibrahim at the hotel, though they had offered to show her around. She hadn’t wanted to be shown around. She had wanted to walk and to think. Now she found thinking impossible. Everything was new, different. She passed a shop with brightly coloured sacks of spices on the ground, casting rich scents into the air; another with hundreds of shoes hanging outside, forming a solid curtain.

She took a narrower turning into the souk, a roofed passageway so crowded with goods it felt like a tunnel. Stalls were hung with leather belts and babouches and wallets and bags in every colour. Everything smelled of leather. Men sat outside their shops, stitching or waiting to trade. Emma jumped out of the way of a motorcycle, the rider clutching a live chicken by its feet. Then leather gave way to lamps, every conceivable shape and size, each stall shining like a genie’s grotto. Emma let the colours and sounds play over her, the constant flow of Darija and Berber and French from the crowds, the blare of a radio, the tapping of stallholders working on their wares and the bark of haggling. She felt stirred, overwhelmed, the sounds thrumming. All of life is here, she thought. It was naked in its intensity. People wanting to trade, needing to trade, to fleece a tourist so their children could eat.

Emma kept wading through it all, drowning in it, seeing everything and thinking of nothing: not her father, not what had happened to her mother’s grave. And then someone turned in the crowd ahead of her, looking back so that Emma could see their face, and everything stopped.

Someone knocked into her, muttered some apology or imprecation, but Emma couldn’t move. She stared at the figure and it looked back at her with her mother’s eyes. It was her mother. After a long moment the woman turned and melded with the crowd.

Emma started to push her way through, trying to keep her in sight. Everywhere were faces, some indignant, some curious. And then the alleyway ended and Emma stumbled into an open space. It was thronged with people. She took a step forward, looking about. What had her mother been wearing? She couldn’t remember. Her breath came hard and fast. She couldn’t see her anywhere, didn’t know which way to go.

Emma stepped into the square, into the strains of discordant music. She knew where she was from the pictures she’d seen: Djemaa el Fna, the most famous square in Morocco, perhaps in the world. And everywhere were people: traders sitting on stools or carpets, stalls with fairground games, storytellers’ tents, people crossing from one place to another, friends meeting, kissing on the cheeks, men holding out water snakes or Barbary apes to tempt tourists to part with their dirhams. And everywhere were groups of musicians; flowerings of notes competed with throbbing drums and soothing pipes. She scanned it all, seeing nothing she could recognise. The woman who looked like her mother had gone.

*

Emma caught one of the city’s petit taxis back to the hotel, knowing she would never find the way on her own. She hammered on her father’s door. It opened and she saw his lined face, his faded eyes. And Ibrahim, always there, a fossil and a magnifying glass held in his hands.

‘I saw her,’ said Emma. In spite of herself she felt tears spring into her eyes.

Her father squinted, as if he hadn’t yet adjusted to looking out at the world. ‘Who?’

‘I saw her.’ Emma was suddenly furious. ‘I saw my mother.’ Then her body sagged and she leaned against the door. Her father took her arm, leading her to the only chair. A foot away was his bed, tousled and scattered with fossils. ‘This is ridiculous,’ Emma snapped, and her father shrugged, helplessly.

Ibrahim stepped forward. ‘A little tea, perhaps,’ he said. ‘You thought you saw something. The heat, maybe. Morocco can be a strange place to those who do not know her.’

Emma gave him a look, rubbing at her eyes. ‘I saw my mother,’ she insisted.

‘Someone who looked like her. There are many English in Marrakesh.’

‘I know that.’

‘She is in your heart, of course. In your thoughts.’ Ibrahim’s voice was gentle; the kindness in it cutting through her, and Emma bit back a sob.

‘A drink, perhaps,’ Ibrahim said again, this time to her father. Emma knew he was a Muslim, wouldn’t touch alcohol, and had a sudden image of what she must look like: a stupid foreigner, overwhelmed by the noise and the heat. She closed her eyes and felt her father pushing a glass into her hands. It was wine, poured into a cheap hotel tumbler.

‘I’m sorry, Em.’ Her father said. His voice seemed different when he said it. His eyes were rheumy, the wrinkles gleaming with moisture. ‘I never was a good father to you.’

Emma looked away, drawing deeply on the wine. Her hand shook. She couldn’t remember a time when he had said such things, and now she didn’t want to think about him at all; only of her mother. She remembered the face in the souk. She would have given anything to speak to her. She longed for the woman whose funeral she had attended; not this father who stood in front of her.

*

A crowd gathered around a tent, laughing and jeering. Emma stood on tiptoes, though she didn’t stand a chance of seeing anything. Ibrahim, a head taller, looked over and laughed. ‘It is an old Moroccan joke,’ he said, ‘about a man and his wife. The wife is also played by a man, of course.’

The crowd convulsed with laughter. And the image that sprang into Emma’s head was of Punch and Judy, sitting on some frigid English beach while a puppet’s neck grew longer and longer. She grimaced.

‘It is an old tradition,’ Ibrahim said, and she nodded.

She followed him as he pointed out men rigging tents for the evening barbecues, ladies offering henna tattoos. He didn’t pause, assuming she wouldn’t be interested, and Emma peered down at the photographs of flowered hands and feet. She was half tempted to stay, but daunted by the women’s harsh invitations.

Ibrahim had offered to show her around, and he was taking his role as tour guide seriously. ‘Djemaa el Fna,’ he said, ‘the centre of Marrakesh; at least, of its spirit. Hundreds of years old. Once, they sold slaves here, stolen from their homes and bound for Europe. Or the other way around.’

Emma blinked. Ibrahim smiled at her. ‘Europeans were stolen too,’ he said. ‘Some were brought here by the corsairs. Not so many as Africans, of course.’

Emma frowned, trying to understand the import of his words, but he went on. ‘Djemaa means congregational mosque,’ he said. ‘Fna is courtyard, or death. No one agrees what it means. It could be mosque with a courtyard. Or it could be assembly of death, place of death. You see? Morocco has many meanings.’ He waved a hand, taking in the snake charmers, the street dentists with human teeth laid out on rugs, Moroccan teenagers buying dried apricots and figs.

‘But which?’ asked Emma. ‘What does it mean? They must know.’

Ibrahim smiled. ‘It is for you to choose.’

‘No, it’s not. It’s—’ but Emma’s voice faded. She had seen someone across the field of paving slabs, someone who was standing quite still amidst the movement.

‘Emma?’

‘It’s her.’ Emma started walking, was jerked back when Ibrahim caught her arm.

‘You mustn’t,’ he said, urgently. ‘It isn’t her. Do not.’

She wriggled free and started across the square, hampered by the press of people, the haphazard placing of tents and rugs. She didn’t call out; she knew her mother would never hear. Then she saw that the figure had stopped. Her mother was pale, her skin white against her straight dark hair. Her eyes were hollow, their expression impossible to make out.

Emma began to run. She had to know, to understand what her mother was trying to tell her. The woman was in a narrower part of the square now, heading for the road that marked its edge, moving easily between throngs of tourists. Emma wove in and out as people stopped in her path to check that their bags or their children were safe. She heard the road, its honking and screeching.

There: a flash of dark hair. Then it was gone. Emma let out a cry, felt Ibrahim’s hand close once more on her arm. She struggled and he let go, spreading his hands in the air.

‘Please.’ Ibrahim looked hurt, anxious. He glanced around to see who might be watching.

Emma clenched her hands on nothing, pressing them against her face.

‘I am sorry. But you mustn’t. It is not a good thing. You should not follow. You must not look for her, Emma.’

‘It was my mother.’ She choked on the words, and as she did, she knew what she needed to do. Before Ibrahim could react, she turned and ran once more for the road. A taxi was parked at the kerb, discharging passengers. Emma grabbed the open door and jumped inside. When the driver looked at her with startled eyes, she gave the name of the cemetery where her mother was buried.

*

Emma couldn’t find the caretaker anywhere. Eventually she asked in a local shop and the shopkeeper led the way down narrow streets to a small tumbledown house. He banged on the door until another man came, but it was the shopkeeper who asked what she needed and Emma realised he had stayed to interpret. He looked at her kindly, and tears welled in her eyes. Suddenly there was a chair, a glass of hot, sweet mint tea. They brought flatbreads, a dish of honey. Their generosity made everything worse.

‘I have to know what happened to my mother,’ she said. ‘I have to know if the grave was empty.’

They exchanged looks, speaking to each other in rapid Arabic. Eventually the shopkeeper explained. ‘No,’ he said, ‘your mother’s grave was not empty. But it was – opened, yes?’

Emma stared down at her glass of tea, feeling hot vapour on her cheeks. ‘But if she was there – what happened?’

There was more conferring. This time the shopkeeper’s voice was gentle. ‘He says there may have been animals. A hyena, maybe. But they did what they could for her.’

‘Animals?’ Emma looked up. The man’s eyes were fixed on hers and they were dark, almost black. She saw the message in them, and suddenly felt sick.

‘He is very sorry.’ The man indicated the caretaker. ‘He would watch all the time, but he has a family. He says they took care of it.’

Emma nodded. She knew they’d filled in the grave, fixed it, as her father had said. No need for you to come. She hesitated. ‘But how do you know it was my mother? And where is she now?’

This time, the translation came quickly: ‘But of course, it was your mother. And she is back in the ground. We buried her again.’

Emma shook her head, staring at the floor. Hyenas, this close to the city? It didn’t make sense. And she thought of what she had seen in the shopkeeper’s eyes when he had said it: he was protecting her. His expression had been gentle, as if the truth he was hiding was somehow worse than his lies.

*

When Emma got back to the hotel, her father was waiting. He ushered her into his room. This time, Ibrahim wasn’t there. ‘Emma, what you did. It was reckless.’ He put a hand on her arm and she pulled away. ‘I know you think you saw your mother.’

She turned on him, her eyes fierce. ‘I did see her. I went to the cemetery. I know what happened.’

‘I am sorry.’ Her father didn’t say if he was sorry for what had happened, or sorry that she had found out.

‘You left her for the animals. Animals.’

Now he looked angry. ‘I did not,’ he said. ‘I loved her. I buried her. Do you understand that?’

She was silent.

‘Your mother lived, and now she is dead. It was not your mother you saw. Your mother is safe, wherever she is.’

‘I saw her.’

‘It was not your mother.’

‘Her ghost, then. Her spirit.’

‘No. You come here, seeing nothing.’ He looked away at last. ‘I told you of the djinn, Emma. I have – dug too much and too far. I fear I have angered them. And now one of them has come to punish me.’

Emma stared, astonished.

‘They are everywhere, Emma. And one of them – an evil djinn – has tasted your mother’s body and now it has taken her form.’

She shook her head. ‘You’re—’

‘Crazy, yes. But I know what I know. This thing has your mother’s face, but it is not her. It is a grave robber, a ghul, Emma. And if you follow it—’ he looked away. ‘It will take you too.’

*

Emma lay awake, listening to the anodyne sounds of a hotel in the early morning: the clanking of the maid’s cart, banging doors, the distant buzzing of the lift. She pressed her hands against her face, remembering her mother as she had last seen her; dark-smudged eyes set into white skin, an expression she couldn’t read. If she had been closer, perhaps she would have known what her mother had been trying to say. She would have been able to tell if her father’s words were true.

She screwed her hands into fists. If she had seen her dead mother in England, would she then only have been a spirit – a ghost? Could she have spoken to her – had her father robbed her even of that, by bringing her to a place where the djinn walked?

Emma shook her head, rose, and headed for the lobby. When she reached it she heard a familiar voice. She turned to see Ibrahim, dressed smartly, a heavy-looking sample case at his feet. ‘Emma,’ he said, only that, but his tone said everything.

She shook her head. ‘I’m going back to the square. Just once more. And then I’m going home.’ She paused. ‘I have to understand.’

He looked at her, his gaze steady, until she had to look away. He spoke only once before picking up his case and turning to leave. ‘I do not think it is a place you understand,’ he said. ‘I think it is a place that you feel.’

She thought of those words as she left the hotel and headed for the square. She hadn’t been talking about the place, at all: it was her mother that had been in her mind. All the same, as she entered Djemaa el Fna, she knew that he was right. The bustle was there, but it was different. She saw now that the square wasn’t the paving or the mosque or the buildings that marked its edge; it wasn’t even its history. It was the people who filled it, selling and buying and entertaining, telling their stories, filling the air with charcoal-smoke and music, so that every moment it changed, becoming somewhere new. She couldn’t understand this place, would never understand, because it was never the same. And if she couldn’t fathom this place, something man had made and torn up and remade, how would she ever understand what she had seen?

The discord of music filled her mind, confusing everything. The square was a whirl of people going about their lives, their daily dance. All of life is here, she thought, and remembered her mother’s face looking back at her. No. All of life and death.

Emma started to walk. Despite her earlier resolve, she was no longer sure she wanted to see her mother. All that was left was hollowness, and a strange kind of yearning. Yet as she passed through the square, she realised her mother was there: she was walking ahead of her through the throng, clearing a path for Emma to follow. This time she looked back and smiled, and it was her old smile, clean and good. This time no one got in Emma’s way. The crowds drew back as the spirit passed, as though they saw or sensed what it was.

Emma’s heart beat faster, the music around her transforming into light and air, rising and falling in perfect rhythm. This was where she was meant to be. She knew this place, belonged in this moment. She scarcely noticed as her mother entered a narrow alleyway, a shadow falling across her features. She pulled a layer of fabric from her dress, drawing a veil across her face; then she stepped back into a recess, her back to the stone, and beckoned her daughter in.

*

There were images behind Emma’s eyes, a multitude of them: the chaos of goods in the souk, curious faces, men staring or calling out in Darija, intricate tiles on a floor or wall, donkey carts, delicately whorled stones. There were sounds, too: the deep call of the muezzin, the higher wail of the pipers. Their music no longer made sense to her. She moaned, putting her hand to her forehead, trying to wipe away the things she saw or didn’t see. There was pain there, but she realised it was not a headache. She touched a hand to her neck, lower down, the hollow place above her shoulder blade. She felt something dry under her fingers. When she looked at her fingertips, she found them powdered with blood.

She opened her eyes and saw the blank ceiling of her hotel room. By the harsh light slashing the rectangle, she knew it must be about midday. Then a sound began to register. Someone was hammering on the door.

When she opened it her father was standing there. Emma opened her mouth to greet him then closed it again. What was the use? There was no name she could call him. ‘Father’ was too formal, like something out of a book; ‘Dad’ was too familiar. Instead she stared as he guided her back inside and felt her forehead. Emma caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her skin pale, her eyes nothing but dark smudges.

Her father had her lie down, brought her water to drink, rubbed life into her hands. He kept talking, though Emma didn’t listen to the words. Eventually, she spoke.

‘Why did you stay here?’ she asked.

This time, his words were halting. ‘Because I had to,’ he said. ‘Because it would have killed me not to.’

Emma let his words drift over her.

‘Sometimes a place takes hold of you. And you know you have to stay, because anywhere else – the homesickness—’ he paused. ‘You are homesick for somewhere that was never your home.’

For a while, there was silence. The knife of sunlight drew across the ceiling. Emma pushed herself up, found her father resting his head on his arms. He stirred and looked back at her. She put out a hand and touched the whorls of skin around his eyes, thinking of the ridged curls of an ammonite.

‘What did you call it?’ she asked.

He looked puzzled; then he understood. ‘Emmaceras,’ he said, and smiled. ‘You know, Emma, ammonites are named for the Egyptian god Ammon. The god of procreation. Of life.’

She nodded. She pushed herself up and examined her neck in the mirror. The wound was shallow and surrounded by scratches, but it was clean. Her father must have washed it.

‘Do you think it’s happy now?’ she asked.

He sighed, raising and lowering his hands. He didn’t try to explain, just looked at her face, his gaze steady. And then he said, ‘You should stay here.’

Emma started, touching a hand to her neck. She had expected him to say she should go home, get as far away from Morocco – and the square – as she could. And yet, now the words were out, she felt she understood. All of life is here, she thought. And all of death. She knew this, had been touched by it. And yet the heart of it, the sound, the chaos – it was inside her, too.

Life and death. Death and life. Vivid and loud and bright and dangerous. Not something to be ignored, to be analysed or regulated or wrapped in plastic, layers and layers of it, so that when either of them surfaced, it was frightening.

The thought made her dizzy, made her want to laugh. She looked at her father’s face, feeling the ties that ran between them despite the years and the distance. She caught his hand in hers, feeling the thinness, the bones beneath the papery skin.

When she closed her eyes, though, what she saw was a doorway; a large, beautiful doorway in the shape of a keyhole, dusty and grimed. On the other side of it was her desk at work: clean, bare, organised. And she knew that she could step through it, take her seat, resume her life. And then what? Would she turn again, looking back the other way, to see – what? Already there was an odd pang in her stomach, a deep sort of longing she couldn’t understand but that she could feel.

She opened her eyes and she didn’t know for whom or what she felt it.

Her father was watching her. He smiled. ‘It’s very simple,’ he said, and when she looked back into his eyes, she knew that it was true.

Alison Littlewood is the author of A Cold Season, published by Jo Fletcher Books. The novel was selected for the Richard and Judy Book Club, where it was described as ‘perfect reading for a dark winter’s night’. Alison’s short stories have been picked for Best British Horror 2015, The Best Horror of the Year and The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror anthologies, as well as The Best British Fantasy 2013 and The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10. She also won the 2014 Shirley Jackson Award for Short Fiction with her story The Dog’s Home, published in The Spectral Book of Horror Stories.

Alison lives with her partner Fergus in Yorkshire, England, in a house of creaking doors and crooked walls. You can talk to her on twitter @Ali__L, see her on Facebook and visit her at www.alisonlittlewood.co.uk.

The Girl Who Went to the Rich Neighbourhood • by Rachel Pollack

The Girl Who Went to
the Rich Neighbourhood
by Rachel Pollack

There was once a widow who lived with her six daughters in the poorest neighbourhood in town. In summer the girls all went barefoot, and even in winter they often had to pass one pair of shoes between them as they ran through the street. Even though the mother got a cheque every month from the welfare department, it never came to enough, despite them all eating as little as possible. They would not have survived at all if the supermarkets hadn’t allowed the children to gather behind the loading gates at the end of the day and collect the crushed or fallen vegetables.

Sometimes, when there was no more money, the mother would leave her left leg as credit with the grocer. When her cheque came, or one of the children found a little work, she would get back her leg and be able to walk without the crutch her oldest daughter had made from a splintery board. One day, however, after she’d paid her bill, she found herself stumbling. When she examined her leg she discovered that the grocery had kept so many legs and arms jumbled together in their big metal cabinet that her foot had become all twisted. She sat down on their only chair and began to cry, waving her arms over her head.

Seeing her mother so unhappy, the youngest girl, whose name was Rose, walked up and announced, ‘Please don’t worry, I’ll go to the rich neighbourhood.’ Her mother kept crying. ‘And I’ll speak to the mayor. I’ll get him to help us.’ The widow smiled and stroked her daughter’s hair.

She doesn’t believe me, Rose thought. Maybe she won’t let me go. I’d better sneak away. The next day, when the time came to go to the supermarket, Rose took the shoes she shared with her sisters and slipped them in her shopping bag. She hated doing this, but she would need the shoes for the long walk to the rich neighbourhood. Besides, maybe the mayor wouldn’t see her if she came barefoot. Soon, she told herself, she’d bring back shoes for everyone. At the supermarket she filled her bag with seven radishes that had fallen off the bunch, two sticks of yellowed celery, and four half-blackened bananas. Well, she thought, I guess I’d better get started.

As soon as she left the poor neighbourhood Rose saw some boys shoving and poking a weak old lady who was trying to cross the street. What a rotten thing to do, the girl thought, and hoped the children in the rich neighbourhood weren’t all like that. She found a piece of pipe in the street and chased them away.

‘Thank you,’ wheezed the old woman, who wore a yellow dress and had long blonde hair that hung, uncombed, down to her knees. She sat down in the middle of the road, with cars going by on every side.

Rose said, ‘Shouldn’t we get out of the street? We could sit on the pavement.’

‘I can’t,’ said the old woman. ‘I must eat something first. Don’t you have anything to eat?’

Rose reached in her basket to give the old woman a radish. In a moment the shrivelled red thing had vanished and the woman held out her hand again. Rose gave her another radish, and then another, until all the radishes had slid down the old woman’s densely veined throat. ‘Now we can go,’ she said, and instantly jumped to her feet to drag Rose across the road.

Rose told herself that maybe she wouldn’t need them. She looked down at the silver pavement and then up at the buildings that reached so far above her head the people in the windows looked like toys. ‘Is this the rich neighbourhood?’ she asked.

‘Hardly,’ the woman said. ‘You have to go a long way to reach the rich neighbourhood.’ Rose thought how she’d better be extra careful with the rest of her food. The old woman said, ‘But if you really want to go there I can give you something to help you.’ She ran her fingers through her tangled gold hair and when she took them out she was holding a lumpy yellow coin. ‘This token will always get you on or off the subway.’

What a strange idea, thought Rose. How could you use a token more than once? And even if you could, everyone knew that you didn’t need anything to get off the subway. But she put the coin in the bag and thanked the old woman.

All day she walked, and when night came she crawled under a fire escape beside some cardboard cartons. She was very hungry, but she thought she had better save her celery and bananas for the next day. Trying not to think of the warm mattress she shared with two of her sisters, she went to sleep.

The next morning the sound of people marching to work woke her up. She stretched herself, thinking how silver streets may look very nice, but didn’t make much of a bed. Then she rubbed her belly and stared at the celery. I’d better get started first, she told herself. But when she began to walk her feet hurt, for her sisters’ shoes – much too big for her – had rubbed the skin raw the day before.

Maybe she could take the subway. Maybe the old woman’s token would work at least once. She went down a subway entrance where a guard with a gun walked back and forth, sometimes clapping his hands or stamping his feet. As casually as she could, Rose walked up and put her token in the slot. I hope he doesn’t shoot me, she thought. But then the wooden blades of the gate turned and she passed through.

A moment later, she was walking down the stairs when she heard a soft clinking sound. She turned around to see the token bouncing on its rim along the corridor and down the stairs until it bounced right into the shopping bag. Rose looked to see if the guard was taking his gun out, but he was busy staring out the entrance.

All day she travelled on the train, but whenever she tried to read the signs she couldn’t make out what they said beneath the huge black marks drawn all over them. Rose wondered if the marks formed the magic that made the trains go. She’d sometimes heard people say that without magic the subway would break down forever. Finally she decided she must have reached the rich neighbourhood. She got off the train, half expecting to have to use her token. But the exit door swung open with no trouble and soon she found herself on a gold pavement, with buildings that reached so high the people looked like birds fluttering around in giant caves.

Rose was about to ask someone for directions to the mayor’s office when she saw a policeman with a gold mask covering his face slap an old woman. Rose hid in a doorway and made a sound like a siren, a trick she’d learned in the poor neighbourhood. The policeman ran off waving his gold truncheon.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ said the old woman whose tangled red hair reached down to her ankles. ‘I’m so hungry now, could you give me something to eat?’

Trying not to cry, Rose gave the woman first one piece of celery and then the others. Then she asked, ‘is this the rich neighbourhood?’

‘No, no, no,’ the woman laughed, ‘but if you’re planning to go there I can give you something that might help you.’ She ran her fingers through her hair and took out a red feather. ‘If you need to reach something and cannot, then wave this feather.’ Rose couldn’t imagine how a feather could help her reach anything, but she didn’t want to sound rude so she put the feather in her bag.

Since it was evening and Rose knew that gangs sometimes ran through the streets after dark she thought she’d better find a place to sleep. She saw a pile of wooden crates in front of a store and lay down behind them, sadly thinking that she’d better save her four bananas for the next day.

The next morning the sound of opening and closing car doors woke her up and she stretched painfully. The gold streets had hurt her back even more than the silver ones the night before. With a look at her bananas, now completely black, she got to her feet and walked back to the underground.

All day she rode on the train, past underground store windows showing clothes that would tear in a day, and bright flimsy furniture, and strange machines with rows of black buttons. The air became very sweet, but thick, as if someone had sprayed the tunnels with perfume. Finally, Rose decided she couldn’t breathe and had to get out.

She came up onto a street made all of diamond, and buildings so high she couldn’t see anything at all in the windows, only flashes of colours. The people glided a few inches above the ground, while the cars moved so gently on their white tyres they looked like swimmers floating in a pool.

Rose was about to ask for directions to the mayor’s office when she saw an old woman cowering before manicured dogs and rainbow dyed cats whose rich owners had let them roam the street. Rose whistled so high she herself couldn’t hear it, but the animals all ran away, thinking their owners had called them for dinner.

‘Thank you so much,’ the woman said, dusting off her long black dress. Her black hair trailed the ground behind her. ‘Do you suppose you could give me something to eat?’

Biting back her tears Rose held out the four bananas. The woman laughed and said, ‘One is more than enough for me. You eat the others.’ Rose had to stop herself shoving all three bananas into her mouth at once. She was glad she did, for each one tasted like a different food, from chicken to strawberries. She looked up, amazed.

‘Now,’ said the woman, ‘I suppose you want the mayor’s house.’ Her mouth open, Rose nodded yes. The woman told her to look for a street so bright she had to cover her eyes to walk on it. Then she said, ‘If you ever find the road too crowded blow on this.’ She ran her fingers through her hair and took out a black whistle shaped like a pigeon.

The girl said, ‘Thank you,’ though she didn’t think people would get out of the street just for a whistle.

When the woman had gone Rose looked around at the diamond street. I’d break my back sleeping here, she thought, and decided to look for the mayor’s house that evening. Up and down the streets she hobbled, now and then running out of the way of dark-windowed cars, or lines of children dressed all in money and holding hands as they ran screaming through the street.

At one point she saw a great glow of light and thought she must have found the mayor’s house, but when she came close she saw only an empty road where bright balls of light on platinum poles shone on giant fountains spouting liquid gold into the air. Rose shook her head and walked on.

Several times she asked people for the mayor’s house, but no one seemed to hear or see her. As night came, Rose thought that at least the rich neighbourhood wouldn’t get too cold; they probably heated the streets. But instead of warm air, a blast of cold came up from the diamond pavement. The people in the rich neighbourhood chilled the streets so they could use the personal heaters built into their clothes.

For the first time Rose thought she would give up. It was all so strange, how could she ever think the mayor would even listen to her? About to look for a subway entrance she saw a flash of light a few blocks away and began to walk towards it. When she came close the light became so bright she automatically covered her eyes, only to find she could see just as well as before. Scared now that she’d actually found the way, she slid forward close to the buildings.

The light came from a small star, which the mayor’s staff had captured and set in a lead cage high above the street. A party was going on, with people dressed in all sorts of costumes. Some looked like birds with beaks instead of noses, and giant feathered wings growing out of their backs; others had become lizards, their heads covered in green scales. In the middle, on a huge chair of black stone, sat the mayor, looking very small in a white fur robe. Long curved fingernails hooked over the ends of his chair. All around him advisors floated in the air on glittery cushions.

For a time Rose stayed against the wall, afraid to move. Finally she told herself she could starve just standing there. Trying not to limp, she marched forward and said, ‘Excuse me.’

No one paid any attention. And no wonder. Suspended from a helicopter above her, a band played on peculiar horns and boxes. ‘Excuse me,’ Rose said louder, then shouted, the way she’d learned to shout in the poor neighbourhood when animals from outside the city attacked the children.

Everything stopped. The music sputtered out, the lizards stopped snatching at the birds who stopped dropping jewelled ‘eggs’ on the lizards’ heads. Two policemen ran forward. Masks like smooth mirrors covered their heads so that the rich people would only see themselves if they happened to glance at a policeman. They grabbed Rose’s arms, but before they could handcuff her the mayor boomed (his voice came through a microphone grafted onto his tongue), ‘Who are you? What do you want? Did you come to join the party?’

Everyone laughed. Even in the rich neighbourhood, they knew, you had to wait years for an invitation to the mayor’s party.

‘No, sir,’ said Rose. ‘I came to ask for help for the poor neighbourhood. Nobody has any money to buy food and people have to leave their arms and legs at the grocery store just to get anything. Can you help us?’

The laughter became a roar. People shouted ways the mayor could help the poor neighbourhood. Someone suggested canning the ragged child and sending her back as charity dinners. The mayor held up his hand and everyone became silent. ‘We could possibly help you,’ he said. ‘But first you will have to prove yourself. Will you do that?’

Confused, Rose said yes. She didn’t know what he meant. She wondered if she needed a welfare slip or some other identification.

‘Good,’ the mayor said. ‘We’ve got a small problem here and maybe you could help us solve it.’ He waved a hand and a picture appeared in the air in front of Rose. She saw a narrow metal stick about a foot long with a black knob at one end and a white knob at the other. The mayor told Rose that the stick symbolised the mayor’s power, but the witches had stolen it.

‘Why don’t you send the police to get it back?’ Rose asked.

Again the mayor had to put up his hand to stop the laughter. He told the girl that the witches had taken the stick to their embassy near the United Nations, where diplomatic immunity kept the police from following them.

‘I have to go to the witches’ embassy?’ Rose asked. ‘I don’t even know where it is. How will I find it?’ But the mayor paid no attention to her. The music started and the birds and lizards went back to chasing each other.

Rose was walking away when a bird woman flapped down in front of her. ‘Shall I tell you the way to the witches’ embassy?’

‘Yes,’ Rose said, ‘Please.’

The woman bent over laughing. Rose thought she would just fly away again, but no, in between giggles she told the girl exactly how to find the witches. Then she wobbled away on her wingtips, laughing so hard she bumped into buildings whenever she tried to fly.

With her subway token Rose arrived at the embassy in only a few minutes. The iron door was so tall she couldn’t even reach the bell, so she walked around looking for a servants’ entrance. Shouts came from an open window. She crept forward.

Wearing nothing but brown oily mud all over their bodies, the witches were dancing before a weak fire. The whole embassy house smelled of damp moss. Rose was about to slip away when she noticed a charred wooden table near the window, and on top of it the mayor’s stick.

She was about to climb over the sill, grab the stick and run, when she noticed little alarm wires strung across the bottom of the window. Carefully she reached in above the wires towards the table. No use. The stick lay a good six inches out of reach.

An image of the woman in red came to her. ‘If you need to reach something and cannot, then wave this feather.’ Though she still couldn’t see how the feather could help her, especially with something so heavy, she fluttered it towards the table.

The red-haired woman appeared behind the witches, who nevertheless seemed not to notice her. ‘I am the East Wind,’ she said and Rose saw that her weakness had vanished and her face shone as bright as her hair waving behind her. ‘Because you helped me and gave me your food when you had so little I will give you what you want.’ She blew on the table and a gust of wind carried the stick over the wires into Rose’s hands.

The girl ran off with all the speed she’d learned running away from trouble in the poor neighbourhood. Before she could go half a block, however, the stick cried out, ‘Mistresses! This little one is stealing me.’

In an instance the witches were after her, shrieking and waving their arms as they ran, leaving drops of mud behind them. Soon, however, Rose reached the subway where her token let her inside while the witches who hadn’t brought any money, let alone tokens, could only stand on the other side of the gate and scream at her.

Rose could hardly sit she was so excited. The subway clacked along, and only the silly weeping of the stick in her bag kept her from jumping up and down. She imagined her mother’s face when she came home in the mayor’s car piled so high with money and food.

At the stop for the mayor’s house, Rose stepped off the train swinging her bag. There, lined up across the exit, stood the witches. They waved their muddy arms and sang peculiar words in warbly high-pitched voices. The stick called, ‘Mistresses, you found me.’

Rose looked over her shoulder at the subway. She could run back, but suppose they were waiting for her in the tunnel? And she still had to get to the mayor. Suddenly she remembered the old woman saying that the token could get her off the subway as well as on. She grabbed it from her bag and held it up.

The woman in yellow appeared before her. ‘I am the South Wind,’ she said, ‘and because you helped me I will help you.’ Gently she blew on Rose and a wind as soft as an old bed carried the girl over the heads of the witches and right out of the subway to the street.

As fast as she could she ran to the mayor’s house. But as soon as she turned the corner to the street with the captured star she stopped and clutched her bag against her chest. The mayor was waiting for her, wrapped in a head to toe cylinder of bulletproof glass, while behind him, filling the whole street, stood a giant squad of police. Their mirrored heads bounced the starlight back to the sky. ‘Give me the witches’ stick,’ the mayor said.

‘The witches? You said—’

‘Idiot child. That stick contains the magic of the witches’ grandmothers.’ He then began to rave about smashing the witches’ house and putting them to work in the power stations underneath the rich neighbourhood. Rose tried to back away. ‘Arrest her,’ the mayor said.

What had the old woman in black said? ‘If you ever find the road too crowded, blow on this.’ Rose grabbed the pigeon whistle and blew as hard as she could.

The woman appeared, her hair wider than the whole wave of police. ‘I am the North Wind,’ she told the girl, and might have said more but the squad was advancing. The North Wind threw out her arms and instead of a gust of air a huge flock of black pigeons flew from her dress to pick up the mayor and all the police. Ferociously beating their wings the pigeons carried them straight over the wall into the Bronx, where they were captured by burglars and never heard from again.

‘Thank you,’ Rose said, but the old woman was gone. With a sigh Rose took out the witches’ stick. ‘I’m sorry,’ she told it. ‘I just wanted to help the poor neighbourhood.’

‘May I go home now?’ the stick asked sarcastically. Before the girl could answer the stick sprang out of her hands and flew end over end through the air, back to the witches’ embassy.

Rose found herself limping along the riverside, wondering what she would tell her mother and her sisters. Why didn’t I help the West Wind? she thought to herself. Maybe she could’ve done something for me.

A woman all in silver appeared on the water. Her silver hair tumbled behind her into the river. ‘I do not need to test you to know your goodness,’ she said. She blew on the river and a large wave rose up to drench the surprised girl.

But when Rose shook the water off she found that every drop had become a jewel. Red, blue, purple and green, stones of all shapes and colours, sapphires in the shape of butterflies, opals with sleeping faces embedded in the centre, they all covered Rose’s feet up to her ankles. She didn’t stop to look at them. With both hands she scooped them up into her basket, and then her shoes. Hurry, she told herself. She knew that no matter how many police you got rid of there were always more. And wouldn’t the rich people insist the jewels belonged to them?

So full of jewels she could hardly run, Rose waddled to the subway entrance. Only when she got there did she notice that the streets had lost their diamond paving. All around her the rich people stumbled or fell on the lumpy grey concrete. Some of them had begun to cry or to crawl on all fours, feeling the ground like blind people at the edge of a cliff. One woman had taken off all her clothes, her furs and silks and laces, and was spreading them all about the ground to hide its ugliness.

Fascinated, Rose took a step back towards the street. She wondered if anything had happened to the star imprisoned in its cage above the mayor’s house. But then she remembered how her mother had limped when the grocer had gotten her foot all twisted. She ran downstairs to use her magic token for the last time.

Though the train was crowded Rose found a seat in the corner where she could bend over her treasures to hide them from any suspicious eyes. What does a tax collector look like? she wondered.

As the rusty wheels of the train shrieked through the gold neighbourhood and then the silver one, Rose wondered if she’d ever see the old ladies again. She sighed happily. It didn’t matter. She was going home, back to her mother and her sisters and all her friends in the poor neighbourhood.

Rachel Pollack is the author of thirty-six books of fiction and non-fiction, including the novels Unquenchable Fire, winner of the Arthur C. Clarke Award, Godmother Night, winner of the World Fantasy Award, and Temporary Agency, short-listed for the Nebula Award. She is also a poet, translator, comic book writer, and artist. Her non-fiction work includes 78 Degrees Of Wisdom, described as ‘the Bible of tarot card readers.’ Her work has been translated into fourteen languages. Rachel has taught and lectured all over the world, including Europe, China, Australia, and New Zealand. She lives in the Hudson Valley of New York.

The King’s Poet • John Matthews

The King’s Poet

John Matthews

I have learned to love God only slowly and with difficulty.

Like many youngest sons I was destined for the monastery almost from birth. The fact that I grew up somewhat sickly, and that I was therefore not, like my brothers, fit material for a warrior, ensured that my father felt no regret for his decision. And perhaps I also felt little regret, beyond a natural sorrow at exchanging the familiar noises and smells of home for the strange, cold environment of the monastery, where it lay, a humble scattering of huts, in the shelter of a small valley between green hills.

The Brothers were kind enough, in their rough way, but I was still boy enough to feel constraint at being shut away from the world, made to work all day in the fields, milk the scrawny cow, and spend long hours on my knees in the tiny wattle and daub chapel amid the poor huts where the little community lived out its life.

Yet, as I have since found to be the case with many things, there is little to which the heart and mind may not grow accustomed, given time. Not that the first years were not hard and difficult. I was twelve when I entered the monastery, and I continued to live there for three years, during which time I proved a surprisingly apt pupil. I learned to read and write – though never well enough to work on the great Book that was being slowly illuminated, page by glowing page, in the scriptorium. And I learned something of the properties of healing contained in certain plants.

But I was not content. Something in me longed for the freedom of the hills, for the cool winds that blew from the mountains to the North. Nor did I find the harsh dictums by which I was forced to live always palatable. And so, one day, I decided to run away.

There was nothing dramatic about the decision. It simply came to me that I no longer wanted to be there. Nor was it difficult. I truly believe that no one would have stopped me had I simply laid down my hoe in the midst of the fields and walked away. Yet I felt constrained, perhaps by some boyish desire for adventure, to leave at night, telling no one, having saved a few fragments of barley-cake from my meagre diet for a few days before.

I had no idea where I was going, but my steps lead me West, then North, until the mountains were before me. I made my way deeper into their shadow, following a stream that lead into a little sheltered valley among ancient rocks. At some point the weather, which had been fair, turned first cold, then wet. There was no shelter. I walked on, head down, soaked and shivering, as night fell. I am sure I would have died on the mountain that night had I not stumbled in the darkness. I fell, saw stars, and felt sick and light-headed when I tried to stand. Then I saw, through the rain, a gleam of firelight away to my left, and somehow staggered towards it.

As I drew nearer, I saw that it came from the doorway of a small hut, scarcely big enough for more than two or three men. I did not know what to do. Such a place might be inhabited by anything from an outlaw to a creature of inhuman stock. Yet, if I remained outside, I would surely be dead by the morning. Then, while I still hesitated, the door of the hut opened wider, spilling firelight out into the darkness, and a voice said: ‘Are you going to come in, or will you dawdle out there all night?’

With chattering teeth I moved to stand in the doorway. In front of the fire sat a man with a harp cradled in his lap. As I watched he touched the strings, and a music so beautiful came from them that I felt at once that I wanted to go nowhere ever again, but simply sit and listen and wait for him to play some more.

The man by the fire said, ‘Well, are you going to shut the door, or must we both perish of the cold?’ I stepped across the threshold, closed the door on the cold and wet and dark and entered upon the greatest adventure of my life.

That was the first time that I laid eyes upon the Lord Taliesin, primary chief poet of the Island of the Mighty. Later, crouched by the fire, having consumed a bowl of hot broth which he gave me, I studied him. He was tall, very sparely built, with a lined face. I thought him somehow old, though his hair was black and his back straight. His face seemed cast in sardonic mode, but there were lines of sorrow – even of suffering – about his mouth. His eyes were green, rather cold I thought, and neither friendly nor unfriendly.

After his first words to me he did not speak again, handing the bowl of broth to me and returning at once to silent contemplation. I was used enough to this after three years in the monastery, and knew better than interrupt. The warmth of the fire and the hot food, after the cold and wetness of the night, soon took effect. My head fell forward and I slept where I sat.

Later cramp awoke me, and I found that I had been covered by a blanket. The fire had died down to a red heap of ashes, by which dim glow I saw that my host appeared hardly to have moved from the position he had been in when I first saw him. He had laid aside the harp now, and sat with his knees drawn up to his chin, a position I was to see him adopt often in later years.

As quietly as I could I eased my position, and found that my host’s eyes were upon me. Leaning forward suddenly he poked at the gleeds of the fire. By the small flare of light thus afforded he seemed to study me. Then he laughed quietly.

‘Is it not strange that we should meet, here of all places?’

I shook my head dumbly.

‘Well, perhaps not’. He sighed, and reaching out, touched the harp where it lay close to hand. A thread of sound whispered in the little hut. ‘Sleep now.’ he said, and I felt my eyes close as if in answer to a command.

I awoke to pale watery sunlight shining in through the open door of the hut. The fire had been freshly laid and a small cauldron of food was simmering over it. My host stood by the door, looking out at the morning. As I stirred he turned to look at me but did not speak. He remained silent while we broke fast, then, as I hungrily devoured the last scrap, he took up the harp and began to play.

Never had I heard such sounds before. I was entranced as completely as if some spirit of the woodland or the mountain had laid a spell upon me. After a while he began to chant words that twined about the music in bright threads. The words have never left me, and though they seem as strange to me now as they did then, I can remember them as well as if they were being sung now – though it is many years since the events of which I write.

I feel my way into the rock.

I finger the dark holes of its brain.

My hands encounter the dark.

My eyes see with the sight of the rock.

I breath out with the breath of the rock.

My fingers the wind touches and my feet the sea washes.

My thought lies in the head of the rock –

Tintagel, gripping the White Brow.

My sweat runs in streams down the face of rock.

I mingle with the sea-salt and sea-mist.

I blow out on the wind’s back.

The sky swallows my heart.

I beat with the tic of the beating world.

I beat.

The wind shakes my hair.

The sand forms itself to a pattern:

An Iron Crown, spiked and spurred.

My fingers forget they are fingers.

My body forgets all it has remembered.

I learn the secret of the birth of rock.

A seabird without wings I am swept

Into the sky – through the sky.

Air rocks my wings.

In the cave my fingers and feet

Release rock. Strands of hair

Twist in water and in air.

He finished and we both sat in silence for an age. Then the poet looked at me again, and said, not unkindly: ‘You are too early, little monk, go home now.’

That was all he said to me, yet I got up like one in a dream, went out of the door and followed the path down from the hut and back along the road by which I had come. At the monastery the Abbot was not unkind – he must have been used to boys of my age running away, and had clearly expected me to return. I said nothing, either then or later, about my encounter with the poet. But the memory of that meeting, and the memory of the strange and wonderful song, remained with me.

I did not try to run away again, but settled to the round of work and prayer in the monastery. The years passed and we heard rumours of the great events in the world outside, of the coming of the Great King, and of the Fellowship he gathered about him whose aim was to put right the wrongs that weakened the land of Britain. We heard also of Merlin, whom many believed to be a devil’s son, or even a follower of the terrible old druids whom the Romans had all but destroyed long ago, but who were rumoured to be still hidden in certain parts of the land. And we heard of Taliesin, the King’s Poet, the mightiest bard in all of Britain and a man both feared and loved. Strange stories were told of him: that he had been initiated into pagan mysteries even older than those of the druids; that he could sing a whole room full of fierce fighting men to sleep; that (even more darkly) he could change his shape at will.

Of course, no-one at the monastery really believed these things, except perhaps sometimes in the half-light of an evening, or when strange noises came out of the darkness as we knelt at our prayers in the little chapel.

In this time I came to know more of the Most High God, and of His gentle Son, and to accept their Way as the one and only truth. My life was wholly bound and absorbed by the daily pattern of our community, and even the memory of my brief escape into the world faded somewhat.

Then the day came when I was sent on an errand. I was to lead the party of brothers taking the Great Book, finished at last, to the mother church of our order at Carlisle, where the head of our order was also to be found. It was a long and fearful journey for all of us, who had almost without exception never been beyond the confines of the valley in which our monastery stood. But the Most High protected us and we arrived with our precious burden unharmed.

The city was full of people – more than most of us had ever seen in one place at one time, and we learned that this was in part because the Great King, with all his court, were there also.

That same day we learned that the King and some of his retinue were to go outside the city, to hunt game in the great forest of Inglewood, which lay to the South. As chance would have it, their rout took them past the Holy House where our party remained for the duration of our stay in the city. Curiosity got the better of me when I heard cheering outside, and I went to the window to watch the great ones ride past.

There, I saw, for the first and only time, the Great King himself, the Ymerawdwr* Arthur. He was as strong and stern as I had been told – though I also saw that he suffered in some way that I could not fathom. There was grey in his hair already, though he could not have seen above thirty-five summers. But it was not upon him that my eyes rested for the longest time, but the man who rode at his side. Tall, sparely built, with dark hair bound back in a fillet of bronze, his cold green eyes glancing this way and that as he rode, as though searching for something. He had not changed at all in the years since our meeting in the little hut in the mountains. He seemed neither older nor younger, though the lines were perhaps a little more deeply graven around his mouth than before.

Our eyes met for a moment, and I heard, inside my head, as clearly as if he had spoken the words aloud in my ear: ‘Not yet, little monk, but soon.’ Then the company was past, and I stood alone, suddenly shivering as though with cold – though the day, as I remember it, was hot.

I turned to the Brother who stood next to me and asked who the man was who rode at the High King’s side. He made the sign of the Cross before answering. ‘That is Taliesin, the King’s Bard. It is best you do not even look at him for he is surely in league with the devil.’

I looked hastily away, but in my heart I was certain – as indeed I am today – that there was nothing evil in the poet, for all his strange and sometimes fearful ways.

I returned to the monastery with my Brothers, and tried to settle again to the rhythm of the community. But the face of the Lord Taliesin was never far from my mind, and his words rang often in my thoughts when I should have been thinking of God.

Five years more passed, then news came of fighting away in the South, and of the disappearance of the Great King. Rumours filled the land, flying hither and yon. We heard how there was a great battle between the Lord Arthur and his own son Mordred, whom men said was the offspring of unholy incest with his sister, the witch Morgain. Many of the High King’s Fellowship fell there, and many other good men. The brothers were on their knees all night long praying for the souls of the dead.

But I felt something more than sorrow for the ending of what had been a great and mighty dream. The thought of the Lord Taliesin filled my mind day and night. None mentioned his name, and I dared not ask for fear of being thought ungodly.

Then one night I awoke from sleep suddenly, as though a hand had been laid on my shoulder. It was utterly dark and silent in the dormitory where I lay, save for the snores of one of the Brothers. I rose and made my way outside. Something made me look up at the heavens and I saw a sky ablaze with stars, more bright that I ever remembered seeing them before. Briefly, I thought I saw a shadow wing its way between them. I shivered, not from the chill of the night alone, and went back to my cot, determined upon a course of action which I saw as clearly as though I had thought of it for a long time – as indeed, perhaps, I had.

The next day I sough out the Abbot, a different man to the old one who had been there when I entered the monastery. I told him that I was leaving, perhaps forever, and though he questioned me I gave no reason for my decision, only assuring him that I had suffered no lapse of faith. He must have seen the determination in me, for he made no attempt to argue against my decision.

The next morning I left the little community for the last time and set out for the mountains to the North. A day later I found myself once again on the path that lead to the hut where I had spent so memorable a night so many years before. I found that I could remember the way as clearly as if my previous visit had been only a day earlier. The hut was much as I remembered it, crouching back against the face of a sheer cliff, a little more weather-beaten but otherwise sound. The door stood open, and as I approached across the little grassy table of earth, I heard a thread of music that I remembered well. Still I hesitated, finding myself suddenly shy. Why had I come, and what sort of welcome would I find? Then the voice of the poet came from within: ‘Are you going to come in or stand out there all day?’ I went inside and found him seated, much as before, the harp cradled in his arms. The years had passed him by while I grew to manhood and into middle years.

I sat down before him and looked into those unfathomable eyes. After a moment he touched the strings of the harp briefly. Then he said: ‘It is time now, little monk. We have much to do.’

That was all there ever was between us by way of asking or acceptance of the task I undertook. Every day thereafter I spent several hours in the company of the poet while he told me story after story, which I attempted to write down either while he spoke or afterwards from memory. It was as though he was unburdening himself of a great weight that he had carried with him for many years – longer indeed than he could remember. He scarcely ever spoke of the days he had spent with the High King, and I now believe that it was during this time that he wrote the great chronicle of those times which I discovered after his departure.

I learned much from him that was both strange and fearful, though I still believe that there is nothing of evil in his works. Above all he spoke to me of the great forest of Broceliande, which seemed at times to extend over the greater part of the land – though whether in fact or fancy I cannot say. He said, once, that the stories of the Wood were as numerous as leaves on its trees. I still do not know if he told me all the stories that he knew; I believe not. But each one had something to teach, some piece of lore and wisdom from the days before the message of the Lord Christ came to Britain. You may, if you desire, imagine the two of us, the lord Taliesin and myself, seated in the little hut on the mountainside, he speaking, sometimes rapidly, sometimes with long pauses as though he sought far back into his memory to recollect some detail of the story; myself crouched over a makeshift writing desk, struggling to recall the exact words and to set them down so that they might be read by all men when the land was at peace again.

For most of that year we laboured. It seemed at times as though my master – for such always I thought of him – was hastening to conclude the work we did before some event overtook him. I believe now that he was preparing to leave even as he waited for me. Then, one morning, I awoke to find him gone. Believing he had simply stepped out to take the morning air, or to catch something for the pot, I sharpened my quill and waited. But the morning passed into afternoon and there was no sign of him. I began to believe that he had gone for good, and gradually, as the days passed, I knew that my fears were well founded. Taliesin had gone, whither I knew not. He had made no farewells any more than he had spoken a greeting to me. Yet I felt no anger at this – I had come to know him well enough by then to understand that such was his way.

I remained in the little hut for several more months, adding details to the stories I had already written; making fair copies of others. Then, one day, a boy came to the hut. He was starving and ill and I took him in, nursing him slowly back to health. When he was better he seemed reluctant to leave, and so together we built a lean-to shelter against the side of the hut and there he stayed. I began to teach him to read and write, and the beginnings of the way of the Lord Christ.

He was only the first of many, who seemed to know that safety lay in the little shallow valley among the mountains. Soon there were ten living there, men and women both, and in time a small community was established. One winter I grew ill and was nursed back to health by those whom I had helped. They insisted that I must have a better place to live and built me a new hut close to the old one. It was while I was clearing out the hut that had belonged to my master that I found a small, intricately carved box hidden in a niche of the rock against which the hut had been built. In it I found a kind of farewell – the great legacy of the Lord Taliesin’s writing – his account of the days of the High King Arthur and the Fellowship, of the quest for the Holy Cup, and of the fate that overtook them all. I learned, too, even more of the story of the Forest, Broceliande, the world-wood in whose mazes the poet had walked and watched and observed all that passed in that strange and wondrous time.

In the last few years, as I have grown older, I have undertaken the task – which I have found by no means easy – of placing all that he wrote, or instructed me to write, in order, so that they may be properly read and studied in a future time when, I pray to God, the land is more settled. There are many who would destroy the works of my master, thinking them heretical or dangerous; yet I find that despite certain heathenish ideas, he strove always to tell the truth as he saw it, and while there is much that I myself find amazing or intractable of belief, yet even here I see no actual evil, nothing to hinder the prayers I offer up daily to My Lord Christ for his soul. As to whether he is dead or living I know not, but I believe that I shall not meet with him again in this life.

As to the truth or otherwise of the stories, I remember clearly the words of their author, regarding his works: ‘Though I may seem to speak as one who was present, there are times when I was not. I tell what is there to be told, in whatever words are given me by the awen**.’ This I take to mean that by some means he was able to observe events at which he was not always present in the flesh. How this may be accomplished is not my concern; I record it simply for the interest of those who delight in such matters, or who seek better to understand the works of My Lord Taliesin. Beyond this I have dared to set my own words down in this place, to tell my own story of my fateful meeting with the Primary Chief Bard of the Island of Britain. Lest those who read this think me too bold, I will but say that I do so in humility, and only with the purpose of explicating the darker corners of my master’s writings. For the rest, the reader must judge what is true or not.

It seems more than strange to me now that I lived through the age of the Great Arthur, yet know almost nothing of the events that took place in the world beyond the monastery in the sheltered valley. Yet I see too that we were left in peace throughout those years because the Ymerawdwr and his fellowship were there, guarding the Island of the Mighty against many evils – until it was breached from within.

I have kept all of Taliesin’s writings with me here, but now that I grow old I have begun to think how best to dispose them so that they will remain safe. There are many who would destroy these writings if they could, and still others who would use them for their own ends. Therefore I must hide them all, until a better time comes. I give daily thanks to the Most High God for the brief fellowship of the lord Taliesin, whom I now believe to have been the wisest man alive in these troubled times. I pray that others may one day read what I have written, and understand, as I have done, the value of what is here.

* Emperor

** Inspiration.

John Matthews is an historian, folklorist and author, who has produced over ninety books on the Arthurian Legends and Grail Studies, as well as short stories and a volume of poetry. He has devoted much of the past thirty years to the study of Arthurian Traditions and myth in general. His best known and most widely read works are Pirates, The Grail, Quest for Eternal Life, The Encyclopaedia of Celtic Wisdom and The Winter Solstice which won the Benjamin Franklin Award for that year. John and his wife Caitlín Matthews recently completed and published The Fourth Gwenevere by the late John James, published by Jo Fletcher Books.

The Three Gwenhwyfars • by Caitlín Matthews

The Three Gwenhwyfars
a story about Guinevere
by Caitlín Matthews

Gwenhwyfar, daughter of Cywrd Gwent;
and Gwenhwyfar, daughter of Gwythyr, son of Greidiawl;
and Gwenhwyfar, daughter of Gogfran the Giant.

Triad 56, The Three Great Queens of Arthur’s Court,
from The White Book of Rhydderch

When they came for her, Gwenhwyfar was busily weaving the last leg of a warrior on horseback, determined to finish it to the last. After all, she had laboured long to get just the right shade of blue for his mantle, experimenting with ill-smelling woad, well-fixed with urine. She had spun and dyed the thread herself, and now the woven warrior she had framed from her solitary longing lacked but a pair of buckskin boots to complete his ensemble. Now Enid would have to finish him.

Gwenhwyfar had dwelt within her mother’s bower so long, the long afternoons coloured only by embroidered people, that she now had to fight down a startled reluctance to discover what might lie outside these sheltered walls.

‘Where is the girl?’ she heard her father, Gwythyr ap Greidiawl, shouting from his seat in the hall, impatient to get the wedding party on its way. She took silent leave of the painted panels and woven hangings, reluctantly setting the shuttle down on the bench.

The tangle of women in the next room were fussing over her bundled possessions, squealing and hitting each other out of the way with exasperated taps of the hand. Enid alone stood unmoving, despondent at the door, the comb and mirror thrust away from her, as if these rich and probably magical gifts – which the king had sent his future bride, from out of the country of his battle-woman, Morrigan – might scorch or bite.

Neither Enid nor Gwenhwyfar liked to use these splendid articles, decorated as they were with otherworldly maidens and sea-nymphs. Whenever Enid had wielded the comb on her mistress’ locks, her arm became heavy and grew resistant, and an inescapable impression of being upon a curragh tossed upon a stormy sea accompanied her. As for Gwenhwyfar, whenever she gazed into the mirror’s silver depths, she saw the reflection of her lost mother, Creiddylad.

Gwenhwyfar had ambiguous feelings towards her mother, whose beauty and virtues were said by poets to be mirrored in her daughter. For one thing, Creiddylad wasn’t decently dead, like other people’s mothers, but still alive and enjoying the embraces of Gwyn ap Nudd, by whom she had been, not unwillingly, abducted when Gwenhwyfar was a little girl. For another, she was as heartily sick of the bower-women’s gossip as she was of their attempts to replace Creiddylad in his affections. Despite this, and with one notable exception, Gwythyr had been faithful to the memory of his lovely wife, assiduous in her pursuit and in his implacable hatred of her abductor. None dared slander Creiddylad in the hearing of Gwythyr, but few were as careful around Gwenhwyfar herself. Thus, whenever she handled the otherworldly mirror, a sick blend of shame and hurt gripped her heart.

She caught Enid’s frightened stare, ‘Oh, put the wretched things in the comb-bag!’ she called over the din. The men came to bear away the bundles, so the bower-women turned their attention to their motherless young mistress with tender-hearted solicitude. She allowed them to swathe her in a hideous, hooded riding cloak of dismal hue. This garment had been made at Gwythyr’s behest. It totally obliterated its wearer and her identity, making her appear no better than a fishwife or stout sempstress. Having lost one woman through lack of proper caution, Gwythyr was not going to lose another.

Gwenhwyfar made no protest, well understanding her father’s intention that she should be safely consigned and delivered to her future husband, but this did not stop the escort sent by the king from exclaiming at the sight she made as she was ushered into the hall for the last time. Through the complicated ties and fastenings of the hood, Gwenhwyfar was astounded to see the very same knight over whose image she had laboured so long. He was tall, dark and blue-eyed with a blue mantle. He even had the boots of best cordovan leather that she had had no time to weave.

The knight’s protests were polite and muted, and might have had no effect but for the fact that he bore the king’s dragon ensign. ‘Very well, very well, let the Lord Yder look upon my daughter if he must. It’s not as though we would send your sovereign lord a hen-wife after all!’ Gwythyr growled testily.

Yder reached Gwenhwyfar before Enid could undo the hood. He came so close that Gwenhwyfar could feel his breath upon her face. For a heart-stopping moment he looked into her eyes while she drank him in. A handsome, intense face, full of secrets. He was older than she, but young enough to be the very image that her heart had dreamed of in the night. His mouth was thin, straight, yet sensual – a mouth made for skillful kisses. Under it, his beard curled ever so slightly and was flecked with red. Gwenhwyfar read his entire face before he dropped to one knee and kissed her hand, saying,

‘I greet thee, sovereign lady of this land,’ in a voice both deep and intimate.

Charmed beyond measure, Gwenhwyfar took care to betray no emotion before her father, but acknowledged his salute with a womanly curve of the neck, docilely letting Enid do up the ridiculous hood.

Gwythyr embraced his daughter and blessed her in his own fashion, which was not that of Rome. ‘Do your duty to your ancestors, child, and never shame your kin!’ He was reconciled to the fact that, in order to marry Arthur, Gwenhwyfar must become a Christian. The monk, Gildas, had been sent to instruct her in the rights of the matter, and stood ready to accompany her to Caerleon where she would be baptized by the Archbishop the night before her marriage. It was good for a woman to share the beliefs of her husband, after all. This instruction had been a novel interlude for the bower-bound girl; a pleasant distraction from the formlessness of her existence, to be briefly enjoyed before she lapsed into the suspension of another tapestry. It was also some kind of defence against the awful fate of her mother, for to be a Christian wife was to enter another league of women.

Gwenhwyfar took polite and careful leave of Enid who had been her foster sister, and from whom she must now part. Enid’s mother had been Gwythyr’s only solace since Creiddylad’s departure and, in the opinion of Gildas, Gwenhwyfar’s instructor, Enid could not therefore be a fit companion to one who was about to attain not only the heights of Christian membership, but also the honour of queenship. Gwenhwyfar felt neither one way nor the other at this very moment since her eyes and thoughts were busy with Yder. Her whole life had been spent filling her idle hours profitably and harmlessly, her every desire gratified, her destined husband long predicted, that she had wasted little time wondering how others might feel. The distractions of her new life now crowded out any lingering consideration for her foster sister and Gwenhwyfar brushed past her into the bright day.

A large escort awaited her as Yder handed her out of the hall. The choice of a horse or a litter was offered her, and she permitted the first stirrings of warmth towards her future husband who had arranged such little matters as her comfort from the exalted heights of his throne. She flicked a glance at the company to see what was required of her, noting that the two ladies who were to attend her were both mounted. She saw too, with much loss of self-respect, that they wore their hair loosely braided and netted up beneath simple jewelled fillets, that their finely cut riding capes did not obscure their figures.

‘I will ride,’ she declared. Although she rode without flare due to her father’s constraints, she did not wish to appear so dispirited as to travel in a litter like an old woman. She mounted the pale, proffered beast, expecting to be jolted into motion, only to be agreeably surprised to discover that the beast was a palfrey, a walking horse, whose gait carried its rider evenly as though in a chair.

On the threshold of his hall, Gwythyr struggled with deep emotions as he waved her off, ‘Do not forget your kin when you are queen, daughter.’

With Yder at her side and a contingent of her father’s own household guard riding before and behind, Gwenhwyfar finally rode out of the valley she had never before left. Only when the last cow in the outermost pasture was out of sight, did she fight her way out of the cloak and hood with swift fingers, her hair spilling triumphantly in long dark coils over her shoulders as the laughter welled up in her like a song long suppressed.

Yder caught her mood, grinning, ‘It is not far to ride, my sovereign lady. Keep tight hold of your reins.’ And with a whooping shout, he slapped her horse’s rump into a canter.

What happened next was so sudden that Gwenhwyfar could not afterwards remember the order of events. The whole party shot ahead at a fine pace, leaving the foot-soldiers cursing and in disarray. With Yder at her side and the two women following close, Gwenhwyfar was unable to rein in without danger of tumbling off. At the very same moment, from the cover of the surrounding trees, a great number of men in black and yellow livery fell upon the escort. Yder drew his sword, calling commands and urging his steed on, seizing the bridle of Gwenhwyfar’s palfrey, forcing it into a gallop.

Frightened beyond measure, Gwenhwyfar was outraged at his cowardice. How dare he ride off, leaving the embattled soldiers of her father’s household to be cut to pieces in the assault! It was her last thought as an ash-branch whipped across her body and threw her to the ground.

*

Gwythyr’s hall was in uproar. Brettawg, commander of the detachment that had accompanied Gwenhwyfar, knelt before his lord bleeding from ear and neck where a glancing sword had left him for dead. No woman dared touch his wounds until Gwythyr had heard the whole story.

Brettawg’s tale was soon told. None of Yder’s forces had even attempted to counter the assault, but had rather augmented it. The Lady Gwenhwyfar had been . . . he had to say the word . . . abducted. He showed the strip of yellow and black cloth that he had torn from one of his assailants. Everyone in the hall gasped.

‘The colours of Gwyn ap Nudd,’ stammered the steward, unnecessarily.

Gwythyr groaned horribly. Was ever man so unfortunate as himself, that lightening had dared to strike twice in the same place?

‘He said he came from Caerleon. He wore the livery of— bore the ensign of Arthur,’ shouted Gwythyr. ‘Who is he? Where did he spring from?’

The household poet was summoned, he who knew the genealogy of every family of significance from Arthur down to the latest by-blow of his pig-keeper. ‘Yder is a Frankish name, by lord. In the language of the Romans, it is Eternus, but in our own British tongue, we would call this man Edern—’

He stopped as Gwythyr clutched the arms of his carven chair in a contortion of agony.

The steward, used to announcing things, said, ‘Taking into account the livery we have here, I would say that Edern, my lord, is the son of—’

‘Gwyn ap Nudd!’ Gwythyr spat the hated name through clenched teeth. And the steward retreated to the door.

Ever since his wife had been abducted, Gwythyr had lived in hope that he would die of shame before he was able to find and bring her back to his hall. She was the talk of the cantrefs, though he loved her still. His honour had been restored only when Arthur Wledig, the High King himself, had chosen his daughter for wife. That had silenced the gossips!

From outside the hall, a fresh clatter of hooves filled the silence. Gwythyr summoned the steward, ‘Well, fellow?’

Cowering whey-faced before him, the steward began, ‘My lord . . . my lord, the guards report that the noble Cai is arrived from Caerleon and asks for the honour of accompanying your daughter to the High King.’

Gwythyr covered his face with a fold of his cloak and wept.

*

Enid sat on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed by royal ceremony and very virgin apprehension. The welter of events had accelerated at such a pace, she was breathless.

Last night, she had been made a Christian. Today she had been married to the High King. Tonight – in a very few moments – the king’s men would usher in their lord to her chamber and after the ribaldry and drinking would come the darkness and the descent into the unknown. But now, she was temporarily left alone by women and confessors to pray for her future felicity – a solitude that princesses seldom enjoyed, though she did not yet know this.

In just a few short hours, so much had happened. Confronted with the immanent arrival of the wedding escort, Gwythyr had thought straight enough: Enid was like enough to his own daughter; she might indeed be his own blood, though her mother boasted with some pride of the night she’d spent with Lord Cwrwyd Gwent at the Lammas Night rites. Whatever the truth of the matter, Enid would pass for his daughter. By the time she had been baptised, she would indeed be called ‘Gwenhwyfar’ in all earnestness.

They had detained Cai with some difficulty while the news of Gwythyr’s plan was broken to Enid herself. Gwythyr had been clever enough to stress family honour and loyalty to Gwenhwyfar as the pretext for this monstrous deception.

‘But I can’t, my lord!’

‘Why not? Think of it! You will be Queen.’

‘But I know nothing about Arthur, about being a lady—’

‘What woman knows the least thing about her husband till he’s bedded her?’ Gwythyr had blustered, ‘Besides, you’ve been brought up with your foster sister, you know how to embroider and make a caudle – what else does a woman need? You were with her when the monk came, so you’ll know how to bow your head and pray when they do.’

‘But – he will remember my face!’

Gwythyr smiled a slow smile, ‘I doubt it! You had to attend him with veils over your heads! These muling monks aren’t allowed to look long upon a woman lest their manhood reminds them what a woman is for!’

‘But . . . what will they do to me when they find out?’ she had pleaded.

‘Keep your mouth shut, and no one will ever find out. That monk said he was going to convert the savages in the Forest of Darkness: likely he’ll never return. Use your wits, girl, and get your things ready.’

She’d gathered up the old gowns that Gwenhwyfar had left her and a few childhood treasures, but as she’d picked up the workbox, she’d discovered the magical comb. Surely she’d packed it in the comb-bag? How had it come to be left behind? For the very first time, and greatly daring, she pulled the ornate comb through her own hair and closed her eyes, strongly imagining help. Again, a sense of seasickness struck her. She thrust the unchancy thing back into her workbox and let the women pack it with her meagre belongings.

When she’d come down shyly to accept the tall warrior’s blunt compliments, no one had thought her behaviour unqueenly, but merely modest. After all, it was well known how closely Gwythyr kept his daughter. She had ridden to Caerleon with Cai’s escort without the slightest danger or disturbance. There was clearly no God to avert her fate!

And so now, Enid sat alone in the bedchamber of the High King at Caerleon, expected to make her orisons on some brocaded prayer-bench over the other side of an immense chamber. Her feet could not make it that far. The bed was altogether safer – so far.

Enid reviewed her situation. She had done well enough, though she knew that she had so far been shielded from disclosure by the trappings of ritual and ceremony, and that when the formal walls were down, she would be hard put to it to keep up the pretence.

Arthur had been kind, attentive, but so unapproachable for a woman of her station that she had had to invent a story to help her sustain the role of queen. That was what she was – a concubine’s daughter playing at queen. It was a game, one which she had told herself many times in the lonely, miserable darkness of her bed after Gwenhwyfar had perpetrated some petty and unthinking unkindness. But in that game, the man involved had been some handsome, but minor, lordling – not the High King himself!

She had no illusions that, when the news broke, as it surely would soon enough, she was for the fire or worse.

*

Gwenhwyfar woke for the second time, her limbs twined with those of Yder. An afternoon of exciting, frightening and informative passion had left them both deliciously tired. She traced the thin scar that snaked across Yder’s shoulder and marvelled that men’s flesh could be so different from women’s. Yder stirred once more and kissed her left nipple like a horse taking an apple from an outstretched hand.

Gwenhwyfar giggled.

Later, when Creiddylad entered with the guest cup, Gwenhwyfar felt no guilt, no shame at the sight of her mother, only interest at how young she still looked, and speculating at the preservative power of love.

Creiddylad’s smile was indulgent and astute. A smile that permitted Gwenhwyfar the first real freedom of her life: the freedom from what other people might think of her. She now understood the reflected radiance of her mother in the magic mirror: Creiddylad did not have one guilty bone in her body.

‘Edern!’ Creiddylad called in a low, husky voice. ‘Go and see your father! Leave me and my daughter to talk in peace.’ Yder lazily flung a chamber gown about his nakedness, stroked her foot with promise of future embraces and left them alone together.

‘Fear not, daughter, he’ll come back later! Abductor’s privilege lasts at least as long as the lady desires here!’ Creiddylad gave a delighted laugh and flung herself down on the bed to have the conversation of a lifetime with her lost daughter.

*

Morning came very noisily in Caerleon. It was the royal stronghold and everyone was obliged to stir when the king did. Since it had been his wedding night the night before, everyone had been reasonably expecting a good lie-in and was most disappointed in not getting it, hence the extra noise of annoyance. Arthur had called for his horse in mighty good humour, counselling his wife’s ladies to let their mistress sleep as long as she wanted. So although cocks crowed and pipers droned, despite armourers clanging and shrill-voiced hen-wives clacking their gossip, despite the whole panoply of cumulative din, Enid slept late.

Last night had not been at all bad. She was her mother’s daughter after all. She had pleased the King; that much was clear. He had clasped her to his massive, war-torn chest, and kissed her on the nose with much good humour. It was a shame that the game couldn’t last, Enid mused. She wandered down to breakfast, expecting the leavings of the previous night’s feast. Instead there were freshly coddled eggs and eighteen different little dishes for her to pick at, all served with the most delicious sweet wine. Enid had a bit of everything, determined to live well while she lived at all. She still had horrible premonitions about the outcome of the game, but the luxury of her surroundings were a considerable help in putting these to the back of her mind.

She asked after her husband’s whereabouts. The king, she was informed, had gone hunting. If her highness wished to ride out and join him . . .? She wandered to the stables and asked for a mount, determined not to lose out on the fun. Her groom saddled up the strawberry roan and accompanied the queen and her ladies at a respectful distance. Enid had a better seat than Gwenhwyfar, since she had been allowed more often to ride abroad. She let the women do the talking, which she found advantageous in the circumstances, merely nodding and agreeing from time to time. This is exactly what Gwenhwyfar would have done in any case, ignoring the chatter and insisting upon her own opinion. Having lived with her foster sister for so many years, Enid knew exactly how to behave. Gwenhwyfar would also have ridden out on the morning after her wedding night to surprise her husband’s return home by loitering in some leafy arbour.

It was therefore unfortunate that they did not meet Arthur, but a solitary lord instead. He was yawning uncontrollably, as though dragged untimely from bed, his horse meandering where it would, the reins slipping from his slack grasp. One of the ladies called out, cattily, ‘Who were you with last night, Gereint, that you set out so late after the king?’

Enid looked as severe as possible as the second lady nudged the catty one in the ribs.

Gereint immediately snapped into wakefulness and concerned attention. ‘My lady – my sovereign lady, I mean! You should not be riding unattended in these woods: they are dangerous. My lord King has gone hunting the White Hart and no one can say what might befall a lady alone!’

Enid looked warmly upon Gereint. Although his air of lordly responsibility was endearing, he was scarcely much older than herself. He was, moreover, the epitome of every handsome lordling with whom she had ever solaced her unhappy hours. Now, as a married woman, she also divined exactly what she would most like to do with him.

She was framing a fittingly queenly response and disclaimer to his words when there shot into the clearing a silver, glistening animal whose speed and beauty took her breath away. Its antlers were wound with golden chains and its eyes appealed to her with total understanding and pity, so it seemed to her.

‘Christ defend us!’ breathed the groom at Enid’s shoulder, signing himself. ‘The White Hart – and none of us with a spear!’

Gereint forthrightly spurred his horse between Enid and beast. Before her mystic colloquy had ended, she realised that the stag had been transfixed by a cruel sword blow through the neck.

The tears leaped to her eyes with pity at its torment and loss for the communion that had been between them. It stumbled and fell to its knees, a stream of blood cascading down the white neck, its lambent brown eyes turning up in the glaze of death. Beads of blood flecked Enid’s skirts. She wept and shuddered still even as Arthur crashed into the clearing. Enfolded in his embrace, Enid wept on; her tears accountable to the shock of the incident, but a great relief to her nonetheless.

Back at court, a solemn assembly of hunters was held. Enid sat quivering with the after-shock on her carven royal chair next to Arthur’s, the mud of the hunt still splashed upon him. The king’s poet, Taliesin was speaking and everyone was very quiet, so as not to disturb the harmony and skill and depth of his eloquence.

‘Whoever wins the White Hart shall kiss the sovereign lady – the ancient custom is clear. So it was in your father, Uther’s, time and so it descends and falls upon you, O King, to take up the obligation of the custom of Uther. Bardic memory holds no precedent that anyone other than the king himself should win the White Hart. However, the royal lady’s life might well have been forfeit had the sword of Gereint not stayed the beast.’

The king absorbed these words, though he clearly did not care for them. ‘On this matter of honour that touches me dearly, what pronouncement can there be, Chief Bard of the Island?’

‘The judgment hangs upon a hair, sovereign lord . . . Since the custom of Uther weighs heavily upon you, and since Gereint ap Erbin has saved her life, you should permit him to kiss the Queen. However, since the dishonour caused to your manhood is likewise great, let Gereint be banished from the Island of Britain for a space of seven years, and let him return to his father’s kingdom in Armorica.’

Taliesin had rendered his judgement and, as he laid aside his golden branch of office, everyone breathed again and dared to look at Arthur.

Though the king was dark with jealous anger, he bore the bardic judgement bravely, ‘Let the kiss be taken.’ He gestured roughly to Enid who found herself receiving the kiss she most desired, but in circumstances least appropriate to lovers. Gereint’s lips upon hers made the most perfect round upon her lips that a woman could know. They would never again make another since, sundered on another shore, he would never know that Enid had been consigned to the pyre deserved by a woman who had dared impersonate a queen.

‘And now, begone!’ cried Arthur, and flung him out of the hall.

*

Gwenhwyfar eventually emerged from her mother’s secret bower a changed woman. For so long she had laboured under the misapprehension of Creiddylad’s culpability that it was a relief to know the truth. She now stepped, vindicated, into the hall of Gwyn ap Nudd, warm with the love of Yder – whom she must now learn to call Edern – and triumph at her mother’s solution to a loveless marriage.

‘I never loved Gwythyr,’ Creiddylad had related frankly, ‘It was called a love match, but that was just my inexperience and his persistence. It was Gwyn who really interested me. After you were born, he came for me, as I’d always known he would, and I never really looked back. Of course, I couldn’t have taken you with me; you were Gwythyr’s true-born child. I had shorn him of his manhood, his self-respect. I had to leave him something.’

Gwenhwyfar, revelling in the rediscovery of her mother, felt no pang of betrayal at having been left motherless. She rightly recognised the self-same brand of ruthlessness that ran through her own veins. Now she stood before her mother’s lover without a shred of timidity. The ogre of her childhood, the rapist of her mother, was a charming, intent and slightly older version of Edern. It was now obvious to her that Gwyn and his son were both of otherworldly stock and that the realm in which she stood was the enchanted and much-wished-for world where dreams came true.

As Gwyn received his stepdaughter with joy, a swarm of multicoloured faery inhabitants sang their welcome. The feeling of family reunion encompassed her. Gwenhwyfar was home at last.

*

Enid was not enjoying being queen of Britain. The tedium of courtly affairs now hit her with full force. The interminable ceremonies, the long and often indigestible banquets, the ubiquity of her expected appearance at every minor function were all very irksome. She understood exactly why a queen had so many serving women and ladies attendant upon her: she would never have time to remember to sew torn hems, or pare her own nails or recall who was who among Arthur’s battle-companions if it weren’t for the troop of women surrounding her. Consequently, Enid was never left in private. Nor were her thoughts exposable. Though the women vied to become her confidant, trying to sound out their mostly silent queen, she dared not engage one in anything more dangerous than the time of day or the weather. She relied on them solely to inform her about complex familial relationships and state functions, of which she was totally ignorant. And if her women thought her singularly lacking in conversation, none were bold enough to say so, putting down her taciturnity to an excess of piety.

Since there was no one else to talk to, Enid found herself dropping in to chat more and more often with her confessor. Not that she dared confess the thing that preyed most upon her soul, but she found the ceremonies of the Church most consoling, especially the licence to talk at length with the humble and discerning priest who had been allotted to her service, so different from the monk who had instructed Gwenhwyfar.

Father Beuno had been more than a little suspicious about Brother Gildas’ sudden desire for martyrdom in the Dark Forest, but had said nothing out of deference for the modest piety of the queen. Brother Gildas’ zeal for conversion had always been somewhat fierce and it might well have irritated Gwythyr or one of his followers sufficiently for him to encounter ‘a little accident.’ Such things happened, he knew. He was sure that the queen had had no part in it. Her inarticulate, rambling and inconsequential confessions, in his opinion, betokened a sensitive and retiring soul in search of the truth – and not a little measure of loneliness.

Enid enjoyed their little chats, but though she respected Father Beuno, she did not dare voice anything of her torment to another human being. She reserved her disclosures for the severe and calm-faced Virgin in the basilica crypt. This dark-cheeked and loose-bodied figure with its carven child perched on one knee clearly had earlier, non-Christian origins, and was not publicly venerated in any great ceremony. However, a good many common folk came here to offer flowers and tokens of propitiation, as well as to ask for help.

It was while in prayer – in actuality, a deep, urgent colloquy to the Virgin – that Enid encountered Arthur’s battle-mistress, Morrigan. There were a great many rumours concerning Morrigan and Arthur: that she had been his foster mother or lover. (No one ever guessed that she had been both, as well as his teacher in arms.) She was out of Ireland: a warrior-woman of the old school, skilled in initiating youths into the passage of arms – in every sense. It was she who had gifted him with his great sword, Caledfwlch – a blade that many of the ancient kindred of the land recognised as the empowering, kingly weapon out of the otherworldly treasuries. Enid knew nothing of this.

Morrigan had been absent from the wedding, busy quelling a Pictish raid with her usual efficiency. Though she was at least fifty, the perpetual practice of her craft, or some deeper faery power, kept her lithe and beautiful. She was regarded with utmost superstition and dread about court, because she had the second sight and was said to have faery blood. Whatever she uttered in her tranced seership always came to pass. But Arthur relied on her abilities to keep the realm secure from invasion and so she was reluctantly tolerated.

Morrigan showed no qualms at entering a Christian basilica, contrary to popular expectation that pagans and especially faeries who stepped onto consecrated ground would burst into flames and fly shrieking out of the window. She marched straight to the crypt to bring an offering to the image of Modron, the Mother, in thanks for her protection during the last campaign. So it was that she came upon the kneeling and suppliant Enid. With the aid of her sight, Morrigan saw immediately that, though the marks of sovereignty were upon the Queen, that she was not actually Gwenhwyfar. Morrighan now realised exactly why she had felt such a strong compulsion to return to court across the seas.

‘May your prayer be granted!’ she said, her words booming resonantly about the crypt.

Enid started violently. She had been discussing with the Virgin the relative merits of confessing the deception to Arthur or of running away; her prayer had been that a solution be found – whatever and however. Morrigan’s salutation had sounded like divine and miraculous concurrence with her desire. She arose and looked upon the small, dark woman about whom so many stories circulated. She saw a broad-faced, determined warrior-woman, her hair bound tightly into hundreds of plaits that spilled like snakes from an iron-bound cap onto strong shoulders. Her hands were gauntletted, a sword girdled her waist. From the state of her trews and boots, she had evidently ridden in recently. Her eyes, dark and opaque, were watchful and not unfriendly.

Enid was about to go into a studied semblance of Gwenhwyfar when she caught the shake of the other woman’s head, ‘No, it won’t work forever, will it? What are you going to do?’

Enid’s relief at being found out was immense. Through her tears she implored, ‘I really don’t know. What can I do?’

‘Well, I think we had better find some other, more private place for such avowals, don’t you?’ And Morrigan marched Enid up to the main basilica and out onto the steps. The queen’s ladies surged forward and made the necessary, but rather sketchy courtesies to Morrigan, before attending their mistress. They were all rather tired of her propensity for prayer.

Morrigan brushed them aside with a peremptory gesture, ‘We will ride a little.’

‘But . . . Lady Morrigan, the queen must be attended—’ began Sibli.

Giving a great laugh, Morrigan cried, ‘Oh, by the raven, girl! The queen will be safe enough with me!’

They rode to the shore of the estuary and let their horses nibble the salty grasses as Enid told all.

‘And what is your desire in all this?’ asked Morrigan, when the tale was done.

‘To go to Gereint,’ Enid said simply, daring to voice her desire for the first time.

‘Even though he hates you?’

‘Does he?’

‘Wouldn’t you? I mean, you were responsible for his banishment, albeit reluctantly. He goes home in disgrace to his father’s house, away from the favour and preferment of his kinsman . . .’

With an inner certainty, she said, ‘I would find a way . . . I love him . . . I mean, well . . . Arthur’s very good to me, but it isn’t right, is it?’

Morrigan sighed gustily, ‘No it isn’t – though not in the way you mean.’ She had long ago looked into the waters and seen how things would be with her fosterling and had already made such provision as she knew how for the best government and peace of Britain. But such measures stood outside love and its vagaries: Arthur was not meant for Enid.

‘Why are you listening to me?’ Enid asked.

Morrigan turned her horse’s head towards the sea, not looking at the queen. Gazing into the ocean, she spoke clearly, ‘What passed between you and the White Hart, and between you and Gereint . . . that is how Arthur looks towards the land of Britain. If this had been any other time and you, Gereint and Arthur any other kind of people, none of this would matter to me. But I am a protector of the realm, and so I must help you and not the king now.’

Enid didn’t really understand, though she felt herself suddenly at the heart of a great thing beyond her destiny to know. She no longer worried about what would be done to her, now that she was in the strangely reassuring presence of Morrigan. She lifted her head and breathed in the sharp tang of the sea, saying, ‘For the sake of the White Hart, and for Gereint, and even for Arthur, I have to go.’

‘Exactly!’ said Morrigan, and a wry smile creased her broad cheeks. ‘The question is – how?’

*

News came to the otherworldly realms, like everywhere else, on the lips of poets and wandering storytellers. The fact that Gwyn ap Nudd had emissaries everywhere also helped. The very leaves and streams spoke to him and his kind, as well as the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth and the fish in the waters. There was always, gratifyingly, never a shortage of guests who brought their own news.

Creiddylad announced one morning at breakfast, ‘Giant Gogfran is coming with his family next week.’

Gwyn and Edern made pleasurable noises through the business of munching. The pig’s feet had been particularly well-spiced and everyone was very greasy as a result. Under cover of wiping her fingers, Gwenhwyfar cast an appalled glance at her mother, Creiddylad, who ignored her daughter and went on eating. Later, Gwenhwyfar seized her arm, urgently demanding, ‘Who on earth is Giant Gogfran?’

‘Well, for one thing, dear, he’s not on Earth. He’s like Gwyn and Edern – he . . . comes and goes. It’s only people like me and you who make do. Gogfran is a perfectly charming giant and his family is splendid company. You’ve never heard anything like the bitchy gossip I had to suffer when I first came here. All the other neighbouring mounds were insufferably rude to me – they were all hoping that Gwyn would marry one of their own daughters. Only Gogfran and his wife were kind enough to call . . . Just be civil to them, dear – but do be careful not to leave anything delicate lying about – the whole family have very uncouth feet!’

Gwenhwyfar had been getting quite edgy of late. Her mother had put it down to an unnatural existence underground, and indeed, Gwenhwyfar had found it very trying never to see the sun in the sky, but to exist only by its fore and after glow, and not to feel the passing of the seasons, but to live in a perpetual summer haze. But her mother had explained that life in these circumstances prevented the very disagreeable mortal propensity to age.

There was a distinct dearth of the ordinary in Gwyn’s realms. Gwenhwyfar wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t pregnant and that made her feel disagreeable and distantly worried. Edern was a dutiful and skillful lover, never far from her side, but she had begun to feel the need for placid Enid’s company for once, though she dared not admit as much. She toyed with the idea of asking Edern to arrange Enid’s abduction, just to keep her company, but the thought of what her foster sister would make of Gwyn’s kingdom stayed her tongue.

Preparations were well advanced for Gogfran’s visit when another guest was announced.

‘Morrigan! Here?’ Creiddylad sounded appalled.

Gwyn wagged a finger at his mistress, ‘She is kin to me and you will welcome her politely.’

‘But . . . of course,’ said Creiddylad, irritated beyond measure. ‘But she’s Arthur’s—’ She bit her lip, so that Gwenhwyfar never learned what Morrigan was to Arthur, but she remembered the mirror and comb, and shuddered. It was the first time that she had seen her mother less than self-assured. She silently slunk back to her room and fetched out the magical mirror – the comb seemed to have been ‘borrowed’ by some faery being. It reflected her pinched and miserable face. She thrust it back into the bag with loathing. The pleasant summer land of Gwyn’s world was warping around her into some misshapen and wintry place. She even saw Edern with other eyes, noting for the first time the narrow set of his eyes and the sharpness of his ears, the aged, world-weary air that sat strangely upon his seemingly few years. Peeved with the whole faery realm, she locked herself away and sulked for the rest of the day.

It wasn’t until she heard gales of unmitigated hilarity issuing from the hall that she ventured out. She hailed a passing dwarf and asked her what was the matter. The diminutive wife skirled with mirth at sight of Gwenhwyfar and ran shrieking into the corridor. With her shawl clamped tightly about her, Gwenhwyfar strode into the hall.

It was thronged with Gwyn’s subjects, all of whom immediately fell silent, but for a few snickers.

Gwenhwyfar glared at the small, dark woman dressed in red and black who sat with a sword across her knees, her feet hoisted on the table, then across to Gwyn and her mother, who had the most peculiar expression on her face.

With twitching mouth, Gwyn summoned up his breath and said, ‘You’ll have to hear sooner or later, daughter . . . Your handmaid, Enid, has apparently become Queen of Britain!’

*

The ignominy hit Gwenhwyfar doubly hard. The ingratitude of the girl! After a lifetime spent in obedient service, Enid had dared to usurp her mistress’ place! Gwenhwyfar seethed with frustrated rage. She should have been Queen of Britain, not that plain, insignificant bastard of her father’s concubine!

Edern found his latest mistress ripping up the sheets and beat a hasty retreat to his father’s den, where he took refuge in male counsel: ‘They invariably go like that, son. It’s to be expected. Remember that she’s totally human and hasn’t the benefit of omniscience. Mortality is a strange thing . . . If you get tired of her, remember that a little exposure to the world above will bring her down to size. When she starts to show her age, you’ll have to find another mistress, you know you will!’ A piece of faery philosophy Edern could only dismally agree with.

In the midst of Gwenhwyfar’s outrage, Gogfran and family turned up. They were very nice about it, and kindly pretended not to notice Gwenhwyfar’s proud huffs and frequent tears. Being virtually immortal did bestow a certain amount of delicacy when dealing with such mortal performances as the erstwhile queen’s. Gogfran’s daughter was particularly sympathetic, listening patiently to Gwenhwyfar outpourings.

‘I mean, it’s me who should be queen,’ she protested to the large girl on the bed. Gwenhwyfar had overcome her timidity at social intercourse with giants and their ilk very early. Gogfran and family could accommodate themselves, at will, to the size of their surroundings – though it did still make moving about rather trying, since moments of expansiveness would come upon them and they would have to stretch suddenly, though mostly they did this discreetly in large spaces where servants and animals would not be inconveniently squashed.

Gogfran’s daughter was a pleasant, blonde girl, who told everyone that she was studying to become a proficient shapeshifter. At any other time, Gwenhwyfar would have cut her dead, but she was starved of a confidant in this place. Her mother was busy avoiding the hated Morrigan who had brought the shameful news of Enid’s elevation to the nobility, and even Edern had not been so attentive recently, so Gwenhwyfar took advantage of the nearest and certainly the largest shoulder.

‘Well, I think it’s a jolly shame. If my dad did that I’d turn all his toes into pigs for a week, I’ll tell you! What a rotten trick to substitute your old maid . . . But what a laugh on Arthur! I bet he doesn’t know how he’s been tricked! Mum always said he was pretty slow on the uptake!’

Gwenhwyfar sincerely hoped not, though she secretly hungered for a thousand deaths to seize upon Enid. She squinted more closely at the young giantess, ‘What did you say your name was?’

The young giantess threw one plait over her shoulder, ‘Gwenhwyfach, after my aunty in Cornwall.’

‘Gwenhwyfach . . . do you know any magic?’

Gwenhwyfach smiled broadly, ‘Of course! What kind?’

A cunning expression swept over Gwenhwyfar’s beautiful face and she dropped her voice to a whisper, ‘Evil magic.’

Gwenhwyfach’s bland and open face filled with puzzlement. It was her first encounter with a human at close range and, though her mother had told her countless tales about their switch-back cunning, she still did not understand their concept of evil at all. She decided to try the practical approach, ‘Well, what do you want to do?’

‘Make Enid suffer!’ breathed Gwenhwyfar

Before Gwenhwyfach could reply to this enormity, a voice cut between them, ‘Don’t you think she’s already doing that?’

It was the hateful Morrigan, as Gwenhwyfar already called her – she who had enjoyed rubbing her shame in before the whole court.

Gwenhwyfar retorted, ‘I imagine she’s having a splendid time, queening it about Britain while I rot here.’

Morrigan ignored her and addressed herself to the young giantess: ‘And how is your shape-changing coming on, niece?’

‘Oh, ever so well, aunty Mor. I can do eagles and serpents on good days. I even managed a dragon,’ babbled Gwenhwyfach enthusiastically. Then, on a more modest note, ‘though it was only for a few seconds.’

Looking straight at Gwenhwyfar, Morrigan said, ‘I should give dragons a miss until you’re a bit older, dear; they don’t really suit you.’

Gwenhwyfar snorted and made for the door, ‘Well if it’s going to be a professional conversation, I’ll leave you two to it!’

Morrigan called after her, ‘You don’t you want to be queen, then, Gwenhwyfar? It is your destiny after all . . .’

Gwenhwyfar had never had her fortune told, though she yearned to know. This wretched, underground obscurity where everyone but she knew the in-jokes, was already too much for her nerves. She craved the stimulation of praise and flattery, the love of her people.

With a royal sweep of her train, she turned back and listened to what Morrigan proposed.

*

Enid knew at last, without doubt, that she was pregnant. She had no idea how long she could possibly hide the fact, but she knew well enough that she might start feeling sick soon, and so avoided breakfast altogether under the pretence of fasting. Her reputation for piety and virtue was growing daily, becoming a by-word at court.

Arthur, who had asked after her absences from table, remarked to her one evening over the embroidery circle’s excited chatter, ‘Do take it easy, my love. Its very gratifying that you should have taken to the faith so readily, but don’t forget, we have other subjects who aren’t Christian. It doesn’t do for us to be fanatics, you know.’

Enid dropped her corner of the altar cloth and smiled ashamedly to her husband, ‘Of course, my lord, whatever you say. I thought I should set an example, that’s all.’

Arthur gave her an encouraging pat, for his wife wasn’t normally so talkative. ‘Well, that’s the spirit, of course, but just take it easy.’ He coughed and lowered his voice, ‘I wish you’d call me Art, Gwen.’

Enid pretended to examine her stitches more intently to hide her tell-tale face. She had taken Morrigan’s advice and carried on as normal, but she couldn’t see how anything would ever come right.

She embroidered Gwenhwyfar’s face on the angel she was stitching and stuck her needle into it with exasperation.

*

The exchange wasn’t going to be easy, Morrigan granted herself that. Gwenhwyfar was clearly pregnant, but ready to be queen. Enid was likewise with child and very willing to relinquish the queenship. May Day seemed the best time to effect a switch, with as much mayhem and confusion as was possible to cover their tracks.

Gwenhwyfar was proving difficult about relinquishing Edern. ‘You can always come to some arrangement, dear,’ her mother said, reasonably. But as Gwenhwyfar had rightly reckoned that love might have to bow to honour in the new relationship, she was proving stubborn and sulky. Her suspicions of Morrigan were worrying her, ‘Why are you doing this?’

Morrigan gave her a straight answer, ‘Because I believe in justice and destiny.’

Gwenhwyfar’s response was, ‘Well at least Arthur hasn’t crowned her yet! There’s some justice left!’

But she was still worried about what would happen when Arthur did notice the change.

Gwenhwyfach was most accommodating about lending her assistance. Morrigan encouraged the young giantess and would-be shapeshifter to act as a goad to Gwenhwyfar’s desire to be queen. It was so that Gwenhwyfar had to envisage the face of her erstwhile maid and foster sister for Gwenhwyfach’s benefit.

It was surprisingly difficult, after so short a space of time.

‘Now again!’ commanded her youthful tutor, sternly. ‘Look in the mirror and see Enid’s face.’

Gwenhwyfar threw the magic mirror from her, ‘This is ridiculous. What woman ever wanted to be queen at the expense of looking like her maid?’

‘One who wanted to be queen more that anything else,’ Morrigan pointedly reminded her.

‘Irish cow!’ Gwenhwyfar muttered, but took the point nevertheless.

*

Enid was sick into the basin again. It was borne off triumphantly to the physicians to examine. The queen was proclaimed to be with child to universal rejoicing, for Enid was well-liked throughout the land.

She was actually feeling sicker than normal since that morning a messenger had returned from Armorica, bearing a reply to her urgent letter to Gereint. The message was pretty short and clear:

‘I am already in exile because of you. Find someone else!’

Morrigan had said he hated her, and she had been right. She was about to lose a faithful husband, a friendly court and loving subjects in order to go into exile to a country whose language she didn’t speak, to a man who didn’t want her, bearing the king’s child.

Morrigan counselled her, ‘Go to him anyway. I don’t say it won’t be hard, but your destiny is to follow him and win him round.’

Enid, who knew the duty of following from birth onwards, resolved her heart.

*

The May blossom drifted from every bush and tree it seemed to Gwenhwyfar. Released from the underworld kingdom of Gwyn, she reveled in the wind and in the movement of the horse under her. She was a woman hundreds of years removed from the frightened girl who had ridden out of her father’s court a couple of months ago. Gwenhwyfach rode at her side, beaming with excitement at being, quite literally, at large in the world of men.

Morrigan had pleaded with the girl’s father to let her accompany Gwenhwyfar for, until Creiddylad’s daughter grew more expert at assuming the shape of Enid, it was by far the best insurance against disaster.

Meanwhile, down in the valley below, Enid was riding out with her women to engage in the pleasant enactment of the abduction of Fflur. Every May Day, the queen or one of her ladies represented Lady Fflur, the ancestress who had been espoused or least promised to the ancient protector of Britain, Caswallawn, but who had been foully abducted by Julius Caesar. The men of the court split into two parties, representing Britons and Romans. It was the duty of the queen to ride out alone, and the duty of the two bodies of horsemen to try to capture her and bring her back to court. If she was captured by the Britons, she was restored to the king, since one of the king’s champions might stand for the High King. But if she was won by the Roman faction, then Arthur had to pay a tribute of beer and saffron cakes to her captors before the queen might be returned. It was a harmless game, anciently marking the beginning of summer, but more practically indicating the seasonal commencement of campaigns, quests and raiding.

Enid had had some difficulty persuading Arthur, the doctors and her women that she was fit to represent Fflur. In fact, it was only when Morrigan agreed to ride with the queen that Arthur assented to her participation at all.

Now, riding a good pace in advance of her women, Enid turned to Morrigan, ‘What do we do now?’ she asked.

‘Draw the comb through your hair. You have brought it?’

Enid did as she was bidden, stifling her fear and loathing of the ivory thing. A sudden mist grew out of the ground behind them, creating confusion, hiding them entirely from sight.

Morrigan nodded with recollection, ‘A mist such as Caswallawn himself made to usurp Bran Fendigeid . . . Now, into the grove!’

Enid found herself in a small clearing whose purpose was clearly not Christian, since severed heads perched in the lower branches, their eyes and cheeks pecked bare by carrion.

In contrast to these horrors, beside a delightful spring, sat Gwenhwyfar, bathing her feet, while, beside her, intently deciphering a votive stone erected over the waters, crouched Gwenhwyfach. In moments of concentration she assumed a more titanic appearance, so that Enid was vastly startled by her size.

‘Are you ready?’ demanded Morrigan.

Gwenhwyfar was aggrieved at having been discovered in such an undignified attitude by her maid, ‘Quite ready!’ she cried, thrusting on her shoes, ready to mount up. She eyed the gold-clad Enid with ill-disguised distaste and fascination.

‘You have the mirror?’ Morrigan asked.

Gwenhwyfach brought it forth, ‘She’s got ever so much better, aunty, though she does need a lot more practice,’ she said severely.

‘Well, she’ll be getting plenty of that from today forward,’ remarked Morrigan. Then to Gwenhwyfar, ‘Hold it up to the queen!’

Gwenhwyfar flushed scarlet, ‘Who do you mean?’

Morrigan pulled on a gauntlet and transfixed her with a glance, ‘Why, Enid, of course! Let you never forget that she is rightful queen of this land. You but take her face, you but take her place, never forget it! Hold it up!’

With a shaking hand, Gwenhwyfar turned the mirror to Enid.

Enid looked wonderingly into it for a long time, into the eyes of the White Hart that was figured there.

‘Now!’ cried Morrigan, ‘Look into it, yourself!’

Gwenhwyfar turned the mirror to herself and saw Enid’s patient likeness looking back at her within it.

Gwenhwyfach breathed, ‘Why, she looks just like her! Oh, well done, Gwen!’

Gwenhwyfar’s appearance was so like Enid’s that none could tell them apart. They swiftly changed clothes. But when Enid went to give the magical comb to Gwenhwyfar, Morrigan forbade her, ‘Though the comb is one of Britain’s treasures, it remains in your keeping. At your death, instruct that it be cast into the waters of the Fountain of Barenton; it will find its way home.’

‘How shall I know that place?’ asked Enid, fearing to look on her erstwhile mistress.

‘You will know it,’ insisted Morrigan, and called, ‘Accalon!’

A dark-browed warrior stepped from the trees and listened attentively to Morrigan’s commands, ‘Take this lady to Armorica and do not leave her till she finds Gereint ap Erbin!’

‘Is there any message for him, mistress?’ he asked.

Morrigan turned her horse’s head and smiled, ‘Yes! Say that you bring the scabbard of Arthur’s sword. He will know what you mean.’

And, very gently for such a fierce warrior-woman, she kissed Enid, laying hands of healing upon her and blessing her for the journey, ‘Go, with the blessings of Britain at your back! Be strong and resolute. Death itself cannot over-set such love as yours!’

And Enid remembered the eyes of the White Hart whose message seemed to be for her alone, and her heart was gladdened. With pity and compassion she turned to her mistress, as to an equal, ‘Be kind to him, Gwenhwyfar. Let him never know how we have deceived him.’

As she rode away with Accalon, Gwenhwyfar seethed, ‘We! The ungrateful, lying bitch!’

The frown of Morrigan seemed to obscure the sunlight; the grove grew cold and dark, ‘Do you dare miscall the Sovereignty of the Island of Britain – here, in her very nemeton? May you know sorrow, lady! Sorrow as she now bears!’

*

The sudden May morning mist had confused the May-Dayers. Romans and Britons alike were unable to track the queen. Her own ladies were alarmed, but comforted each other with the thought of Morrigan’s stout protection. It was Cai who first sighted the Lady Fflur in her unmistakable golden gown riding along the line of the hill. Setting up a whoop of triumph, he led his party of Britons to capture her. And so it was that Gwenhwyfar was at last brought home to Arthur, by Cai, as the rightful Queen of Britain.

And if in after years there was no love lost between Cai and Gwenhwyfar, nor between the queen and Morrigan, there is, perhaps, little wonder. For Cai had marked well the queen’s face when he came to fetch her from Gwythyr’s hall, and it was not the same woman whom he bore triumphantly back on May Day. Nor, very many years later, when he came upon the fearless son of Gwenhwyfar, Llacheu, asleep in the wood, did he fail to avenge the deception by thrusting the sleeping youth through with his sword, to the eternal sorrow of Gwenhwyfar.

They said that Gwenhwyfar’s name signified ‘White Phantom’ but they never knew the half of it, those poets who had never known what it was to stare into an otherworldly mirror and see there reflected the ghosts of one’s mother and one’s serving maid.

They said that Arthur was never quite satisfied with his wife from then onwards. They said that he had three wives, all called by the same name. Well, that was true, though he was never wholly aware of the fact. The Gwenhwyfar who was Enid, the Gwenhwyfar who was herself, and the Gwenhwyfar who was really Gwenhwyfach and occasionally filled in for the queen when her friend went weekending in the underworld with Edern.

They said that the Battle of Camlan – that byword in futility – was caused by the blow that one woman – Gwenhwyfach – struck upon another: Gwenhwyfar. And that is partly true, for Gwenhwyfach never really learnt the subtleties of mortality. She was bad when little and worse when big, for that is the nature of giants: to meddle in the affairs of humans and cause them hurt. She had no means of knowing that, by inviting Medrawt to court, it would be the undoing of Arthur. For Medrawt was half mortal, half faery and he had his mother’s true sight. When he saw Gwenhwyfach sitting in the queen’s chair, the great lolloping giantess that she was, he knew her to be false; he spilled wine in her lap, pulled her from the royal throne and cast her to the ground in full view of all. He spared none at court the true nature of Gwenhwyfar’s relationship with other knights, both mortal and immortal, and so threw the kingdom into tumult and eventually war. For only when Arthur awoke to the traitorous relationships of his queen, did he attempt to punish her.

And if, in after years, the monk, Gildas, had little to write of the High King Arthur, in his chronicles, it is little wonder. His few months in the dark forests of faery-land had addled his wits, causing him to take a vow of silence, and to have a very low opinion of the marital affairs of kings and rulers in general.

As for Enid, she faced and overcame the fierce seas. Aboard the curragh bound for Armorica, she felt still the healing hands of Morrigan upon her. Her blessing sustained Enid even when Gereint rejected her, making her pursue him through the trackless forest until at last he relented and married her. When her son was grown, she sent him to his father, but Amr was never destined to be king. He died at his father’s hands: victim of mistaken identity in a passage of arms.

And at the last, when the final blow had been struck at Camlan, it was in Enid’s lap that they lay Arthur’s head. While, at his feet, it was Gwenhwyfar who wept and Gwenhwyfach who mourned. But when Enid raised her eyes to the woman in the stern who steered the crystal curragh to the blessed isle of Avalon, she met the eyes of the White Hart and knew Morrigan for what she was: the greatest of the Four Queens who bore Arthur to his final home and eternal healing.

Caitlín Matthews is the author of 70 books including Sophia: Goddess of Wisdom, a study of Divine Feminine in Gnostic, Jewish and Christian thought and King Arthur’s Raid on the Underworld, a new translation and study of the Welsh poet Taliesin’s extraordinary poem. Her books have been translated into more than twenty-one languages. She found, completed and edited The Fourth Gwenevere for Jo Fletcher Books, along with her husband John Matthews. She lives in Oxford. www.hallowquest.org.uk