A Clock of Stars

by Francesca Gibbons

  When they were out of sight of Miro’s clock, time was measured by hunger and rounds of hide-and-seek. Evening bells meant go inside. The first star meant dinner. Bedtime was a surprise every night. One minute they’d be jumping on the bed; the next someone had curled up in it.

  There was only one rule: if you heard the king coming, you had to hide.

  The girls started dressing like they lived in Yaroslav. They wore Miro’s clothes: midnight-blue tunics with gold stars, shirts with billowing sleeves, embroidered jackets lined with fur and boots with fluffy tops. Most of it was too big for Marie so Imogen helped her to roll up the sleeves and legs.

  Sometimes the girls talked about home. They talked about it as if it was a place where they used to go on holiday and hoped to return to next summer. They talked about how Grandma cheated at cards and how Mum’s cheesy pasta parcels would melt in your mouth. But there was one thing they didn’t talk about. There was a gap among all of those words.

  ‘Why don’t you ever talk about your father?’ said Miro. The girls were warming their toes by the fire. Miro sat nearby, folding bits of scrap paper into stars.

  ‘Because there’s nothing to say,’ replied Imogen. ‘We don’t have a father.’

  ‘Do you mean he’s dead?’

  Imogen kept her eyes on the flames. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘We don’t know who he is,’ said Marie. ‘Sometimes Mum has boyfriends, but we never like them.’

  ‘Boyfriends?’ Miro stopped folding the paper. ‘Like me?’

  ‘No, nothing like you,’ said Imogen.

  Miro looked sad and she couldn’t think why.

  ‘A boyfriend is a man you might marry,’ said Marie. ‘Not a boy who is your friend.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Miro, brightening. ‘I knew that.’

  He picked up one of his paper stars and threw it into the fire. The flames hissed and the star was gone.

  ‘Perhaps your father is the master of a big house,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your mother has been sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ said Imogen, looking at the prince through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Yeedarsh told me about that kind of thing. Sometimes the serving girl is sent beyond the mountains to have the baby.’

  ‘Our mother is not a serving girl!’ cried Imogen. ‘She just didn’t like Dad enough to keep him. Or perhaps he didn’t like us … I don’t know. We don’t need a dad.’

  Miro picked up the rest of the paper stars. ‘Me neither,’ he said, releasing the stars into the fire. ‘I don’t need anyone.’

  The fire crackled louder. There must have been some ink on the paper because the flames licked blue and green.

  ‘You know … Miro … you never told us what happened to your parents,’ said Marie.

  ‘I did,’ said the prince, sounding a little defensive. ‘I told you they’re with the stars.’

  ‘Does that mean …’ Marie hesitated.

  ‘Does that mean they’re dead?’ said Imogen, cutting to the chase.

  Miro picked up another handful of scrap paper. He folded the first piece into a star before he spoke. ‘My father was the best king Yaroslav has ever known,’ he said. ‘Everyone says so and the Krishnov dynasty has ruled in this valley since the dawn of time. I got my eyes from him.

  ‘My mother was from far away – a princess beyond the mountains. She came here to marry my father and she was beautiful. Everyone says that too. I got my colouring from her.

  ‘Anyway … they both died five years ago … It was a hunting accident.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Marie. ‘That must have been horrible.’

  ‘It was. But Uncle looks after me now – not that I need looking after. He’s looking after the throne too – until I’m sixteen.’

  ‘That’s nice of him,’ said Marie.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the prince. ‘Yes, it is.’

  In the castle garden, the prince introduced his visitors to the velecours. The biggest of these colourful birds was as tall as a horse. The smallest was no larger than a Shetland pony. After they’d been tamed, the velecours were so docile that you could climb on to their backs and race them. And that was just what the children did.

  The only problem was the birds were too stupid to be trained, making them impossible to steer. Riders had to hold on to their velecour’s neck and hope for the best. This was tricky because they moved as though they’d been fired from a faulty cannon – fast and in an unexpected direction. Imogen had so far been thrown into a well, a bush and a wall. Surprisingly, the bush had been the most painful (thorns).

  ‘They don’t look like they can fly,’ said Imogen, sliding off the back of her favourite bird.

  ‘Yes, look, their wings are a funny shape,’ said Marie, lifting one up. The velecour it belonged to squawked.

  ‘That’s because the feathers have been clipped,’ said Miro.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they’re ours. We don’t want them to fly away.’

  ‘But where do you get them from?’ asked Marie.

  ‘The forests. My uncle pays people to catch them. It’s no easy job. You should hear them screeching when they first arrive – especially the ones with babies. They make quite a fuss when they’re being separated.’

  ‘Why do you separate them?’

  ‘It’s easier to tame them individually. And, when they’ve forgotten about the forest, they get released into different parts of the garden where they make new groups … just like the old ones, but with different birds.’

  ‘Then are they happy?’ asked Marie.

  The prince looked puzzled. ‘Happy? Who cares! They’re only velecours.’

  One afternoon, the children were playing outside when Imogen noticed that the giant birds had gathered by the garden wall. They were staring at the gates without blinking.

  ‘What are they doing?’ she asked.

  ‘They look like they’re waiting for something,’ said Marie.

  ‘They are,’ said Miro. ‘Let’s watch.’ He darted behind the topiary and beckoned for the girls to follow. There was a hole clipped into the hedge at just the right height for the prince to peep through. Imogen could see when she stood very straight. Marie could see when she stood on a plant pot.

  ‘It’s best to be hidden,’ whispered Miro. ‘The velecours go loopy at feeding time.’

  The children watched as two women entered through the garden gates. They were pushing a high-sided wheelbarrow. Imogen couldn’t see what it contained, but the velecours started clucking so she guessed it was something they liked.

  The taller woman had a tawny-brown face and her hair was tied up in two knots. The shorter woman was actually a girl. She seemed to look to her companion for instructions – or perhaps approval – Imogen wasn’t sure which.

  ‘Well, that was a successful hunt,’ said the girl.

  ‘That wasn’t hunting,’ replied the woman. ‘It was more like gathering mushrooms.’

  ‘Don’t the Royal Guards know you’re a huntress?’

  The woman scowled. ‘They know, but they’d rather see us starve than let us catch our own supper.’

  That doesn’t make sense, thought Imogen. Blazen Bilbetz is allowed to hunt … He’s worshipped for it …

  The velecours stamped their feet with impatience.

  ‘At least the birds won’t go hungry,’ said the woman as she stuck her hand into the wheelbarrow and removed an enormous worm. It looked like it was made from silk – soft and shiny and squirming to be free. The woman threw the worm high and the velecours sprang up to catch it, squawking with excitement. A flash of beaks, a blizzard of claws – and the worm was no more.

  The girl and the woman threw grub after grub. Some were as big as marrows. Some were no larger than slugs. The birds swallowed them whole. One worm tried to burrow to safety, but a velecour plucked it from the earth at the last moment. Imogen could have sworn she saw the worm wriggling as it travelled down the bird’s throat. Miro
smothered a laugh. Marie looked horrified.

  Eventually, the feeding frenzy came to an end and the velecours lumbered off, calm as cows. Only a young bird remained. It still had its first winter plumage and it squawked with its beak open wide.

  ‘I think he’s still hungry,’ said the girl.

  ‘We can’t have that, can we?’ The woman leaned over the wheelbarrow and removed one last juicy grub. She grinned as she tossed it to the young velecour. The bird trotted off and the girl and the woman slipped out through the gate. The garden was quiet once more.

  ‘Who were those people?’ asked Imogen.

  Miro shrugged. ‘No one important …’

  But Imogen had a feeling he was wrong. Important to who? she wondered.

  And so one day slipped into the next. Imogen, Marie and Miro chased each other through the castle, dodging round the king’s collection. Some rooms were crammed full of collectables: coral, fossils, scales from the last dragon. These places could only be entered with ninja-like care. The smallest slip, even a sneeze, could end in thousands of crowns’ worth of damage.

  It wasn’t until the children played chess that things started to unravel. There were three chessboards in the library and Miro had them all in use. He was playing against himself.

  ‘So you’re the whites and the blacks,’ said Imogen, ‘all at the same time?’

  ‘No. I’m the whites when I’m standing on this side …’ He moved round the board. ‘And the blacks when I’m standing here.’

  ‘But you always know what your opponent is thinking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you always win?’

  ‘I suppose so … It takes a while to finish. That game on the end has been going for years, since before my parents—’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like much fun,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Okay, how about you be the whites? Pick up where I left off,’ suggested the prince.

  ‘No, I want to start from the beginning.’ Imogen began resetting the board.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Miro, rushing over and grabbing a knight from her hand. ‘You’re cheating!’

  ‘Cheating? This whole thing is a cheat. I’m not playing if we can’t start from scratch.’ And, to show she meant it, Imogen continued moving the pawns back to the second row.

  ‘Put that pawn down,’ said Miro.

  ‘I thought you wanted to play.’

  ‘This isn’t how the game’s supposed to go.’

  Miro was getting flustered, rushing round the table, trying to move the pieces back to where he had them before. Imogen watched him. His eyes really were too far apart.

  ‘Well, that’s the thing about playing with other people,’ she said. ‘You don’t get to control exactly how the game goes.’

  Miro glared. Imogen smiled. She’d touched a nerve.

  ‘You promised!’ he cried.

  ‘Promised what?’

  ‘To be my friend!’

  ‘Yes, that’s right – friend! Not servant.’ She flicked over the white king. ‘Or don’t you know the difference?’

  ‘Put that back – put it back now – before I call the Royal Guards.’

  ‘You don’t get to tell me what to do.’

  ‘I think you’ll find I do. Put – back – my – king.’

  But Imogen did no such thing. She swept her arm across the board, sending all the chess pieces tumbling to the floor. Miro let out a wail. ‘Get out!’ he screamed.

  ‘Come on, Marie,’ said Imogen.

  Marie didn’t move.

  ‘Marie, we’re off. I’ve had enough.’

  Marie shook her head.

  ‘Are you serious?’ said Imogen.

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ said Marie.

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  Imogen went to grab Marie’s hand, but Miro stepped between them. ‘Don’t you get it?’ he snarled. ‘You don’t get to tell her what to do.’ His face was centimetres away from Imogen’s. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to stamp on his toes. She wanted to do something to make him be sorry and get Marie to behave.

  But she couldn’t fight them both so instead she turned and left. She marched out of the library, through the castle’s main door and across the square. Before long, she was walking through the city’s bustling streets.

  Imogen stood at a crossroads, not far from the castle. She knocked a row of skret skulls off a wall, enjoying the dry way they cracked on the cobbles. They looked like oversized, smashed eggshells. ‘Not so scary now, are you?’ she muttered, grinding a bit of bone under her heel.

  She hoped the skret were noisy tonight. She hoped Marie was afraid. The way she’d hidden behind Miro … it was like they’d been planning it.

  But Imogen could make her own plans. She didn’t need Marie. She was going to find that door in the tree and she was going to walk back through it. She would feel no guilt when she returned without her sister. Of course, Mum would be upset to begin with, but perhaps after a few days she’d let her have Marie’s bedroom.

  Imogen didn’t pay much attention to where she was going. She didn’t notice the way the houses changed; the way, in this part of the city, they seemed to fold in on themselves. She didn’t notice the stray dogs or the old man who watched her pass with eyes that were yellow where they should have been white.

  It wasn’t until a girl ran by, shrieking, barefoot, and about the same height as Marie, that Imogen began to look around. She watched the girl disappear into the crowd.

  The smell of sausages wafted from an open window. It reminded her of Saturday trips to the butcher’s, when her mum would buy enough to ‘feed a pack of wolves’. Mum would growl and Marie would hide behind Imogen, crying, ‘Can I be the baby wolf?’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ said Imogen to her memory-sister.

  She reached a small square with a fountain. The fountain was made of stone birds standing on each other’s backs to form a pyramid of wings and legs. Some of their heads were missing, but the stone birds were still recognisable as velecours. Water was supposed to spout from the beak of the bird at the top, but there was no water in the fountain today.

  In the distance, Imogen heard barking. People looked about to see where the noise was coming from. A woman ushered a group of children inside, shutting the door behind them. Imogen sat on the doorstep, tucking her feet out of the way of passers-by.

  The barking got louder and faces appeared at the windows around the square. There was a disturbance in the crowd. It ran down the main street like a spark along a fuse. People shouted and stepped aside. Then, just before the spark hit the square, the crowd parted. A human firework jumped out, rolled across the ground and stood up – all in one fluid movement.

  Imogen had never seen someone move like that before. The human firework was a thin woman dressed in green, with her hair tied up in two bunches. In one hand, she grasped a dead rabbit. Imogen recognised her at once. It was the woman she’d seen feeding the velecours.

  A voice from above shouted, ‘Lofkinye, they’re coming for you. Better run!’

  But it was too late. Dogs hurtled down the main street, all fangs and muscle. The woman turned to leave, but the animals blocked her way. She sprinted to the fountain and climbed up, lifting her ankles out of reach of the dogs’ snapping jaws.

  A flash of red and the clatter of hooves announced the arrival of the dogs’ masters. Imogen stood up on tiptoes to get a better view between the grown-ups.

  The two men on horseback wore the crimson jackets and plumed helmets of the Royal Guards, the king’s men. One was skinny and one was plump, but other than that they looked very similar. They cantered round the fountain, forcing onlookers to press tighter against the houses. The woman climbed further up the fountain, rabbit still in hand.

  ‘The game’s up,’ called the thin guard. ‘You know it’s illegal for lesni to hunt and I know you didn’t get that bunny from the butcher’s. Why don’t you come down, save us destroying this nice fountain?’ The woman’s eyes darted from the m
an to the crowd. Her face was full of tension. Eventually, she nodded.

  ‘Jan, hold back the dogs,’ said the thin guard. His partner called the dogs to heel. They obeyed unwillingly, eyes still locked on their prey.

  The woman lowered one foot. She felt around for the back of a stone bird. Finding it, she moved her other foot to join the first.

  ‘That’s it. Keep going.’ The skinny guard turned to the other and grinned. ‘I told you the lesni obey orders. You just have to be firm, show ’em who’s in charge.’

  But, as he turned back to the fountain, his face fell. The woman had dropped the rabbit and was jumping, skirt billowing, fists raised. The thin guard opened his mouth. The crowd held its collective breath. The woman landed on the back of the horse with a thud. She grabbed the guard from behind. The horse turned a full circle and bucked, but both riders stayed on.

  The dogs fought over the dead rabbit, tearing it to pieces in a matter of seconds.

  Struggling free from the woman’s grip, the guard reached down to his boot and pulled out a blade. This time the horse reared on to its back legs. For a split second, it looked like the poster for a great romance. Imogen stared, open-mouthed. Then the riders hit the ground.

  Imogen didn’t see much of what happened next. People were screaming and trying to leave the square. The dogs were out of control, tearing at clothing and skin. Imogen ran past the fountain, heading towards the street she’d come down, but, just like all the other streets feeding into the square, it was packed with people fighting to get away.

  Imogen turned to see the human firework and the guard wrestling on the ground like an eight-limbed monster. The guard had lost his dagger. With one arm, he reached for it; with the other, he held the woman by her hair. A little black box tumbled out of his pocket and landed next to the blade.

  Imogen didn’t want the guard to hurt the woman. All she’d done was hunt rabbits. It didn’t seem fair for her to get chased and arrested while Blazen got praise and free beer. Imogen hurried to the dagger and the guard looked up. His helmet had fallen off, revealing an oily comb-over.