Cuckoo Song

by Frances Hardinge

  Not-Triss felt the tailor’s grip slacken in surprise. In one wild, convulsive motion she burst from his grasp, nearly losing her balance. Before she could fall, however, a small hand snatched at hers and yanked her in the direction of the door.

  Instinct took over, and she ran. Out of the kitchen door, through room after room. Then out through the front door into the cold, sea-scented darkness, sprinting all but blind over the shifting pebbles, with the short dark figure of Pen by her side.

  Chapter 19

  RUNNING FROM THE SCISSOR MAN

  Pebbles clacked under their hasty steps with a cold, disapproving sound. The wind was against them. Overhead the clouds rolled by, solemn, smoky and vast, the pale face of the moon surfacing now and then. The black waves seethed unseen against the black beach, only occasional frills of white foam visible in the gloom.

  Pen ran alongside her, panting fiercely. Her silveriness of the day before seemed to have worn off, and she was now as dark and solid as she had ever been. Not-Triss could not even start to guess how Pen had contrived to suddenly appear here, let alone why the younger girl had decided to save her.

  Panic had led them down the beach, because it was flat, and panic told them they needed to run fast. Panic had nothing to suggest when the beach ran out and they found themselves staring at the cliff-face of the headland that formed the end of the cove. They halted for a second, staring and gasping for breath, and Not-Triss recovered enough of her wits to realize how exposed they were.

  ‘Head inland!’ she hissed. ‘Into the woods!’

  The pair of them scrambled up the beach, over some slippery wave-worn boulders and into the birch wood beyond. Staring up the steep, tree-covered slope that seemed to climb forever, Not-Triss felt the clammy touch of despair.

  The woods were thick with wet rust-coloured bracken, which soaked them as they struggled up the slope, and hid their own feet from them. The damp moss and leaf-rot were softly treacherous underfoot. The silver-birch trunks gleamed in the darkness like lean and elegant ghosts.

  There was no sound of pursuit behind them yet, but there would be. Not-Triss was sure of that. Mr Grace and Piers Crescent must have gone to find light sources. And scissors, said a fearful part of her mind. She tried to silence it, but she could not rid herself of a mental picture of Mr Grace bounding up the slope after her with a pair of enormous scissors, like the ‘long, red-legged scissorman’ from the old story, who cut off children’s thumbs.

  They tried to throw me on the fire.

  Her lungs started jerking with sobs. She couldn’t think about that. Not now. Not when she needed every ounce of breath for climbing. If they could just reach the road . . .

  But Pen kept falling down. Her legs were shorter. The bracken came up to her waist, not her hips. Not-Triss caught her and helped pull her back to her feet over, and over, and over. At last, when Not-Triss stooped to drag her upright for the twentieth time, Pen pushed her away hard, so that Not-Triss nearly slid back down the slope.

  ‘I hate you!’ Pen’s would-be shout was muffled by breathlessness, and Not-Triss realized that the younger girl was sobbing with exhaustion and rage. ‘I hate you! You stupid . . . Why did you have to happen? I never asked for a stupid . . . stupid . . . toothy . . . stupid . . . monster thing.’

  ‘I know,’ whispered Not-Triss. It was all she could do to keep her voice quiet and calm. Her mind was a thundercloud, waiting for the first crack.

  ‘You spoil everything! Always! Even when you’re just fake you, you still spoil everything. And now you’ve made me run away again!’

  There were lights further down the slope, tame white-yellow lights that swivelled and scanned, foliage feathering their beams. Hand lamps, perhaps, or electric torches.

  ‘Pen,’ breathed Not-Triss, ‘they’re coming. They’re coming after us, Pen.’ With despair she stared down at Pen’s round, stubborn face.

  Please, Pen, please! I’m so close to screaming. Don’t make me carry you! I can’t! I can’t do that as well!

  ‘We’ve got to get up to the road, Pen,’ she heard herself say. ‘It’ll be easier then. And we’re nearly there.’

  ‘Liar,’ growled Pen, as she scrambled to her feet with painful slowness. ‘Lying . . . monster-face.’ Nonetheless she continued her struggle up the slope, sobbing for breath.

  When the rain descended, at first Not-Triss did not know what it was. All she knew was that the air suddenly rushed downward, waterfall-cold, and the forest gave a long exhalation like a sigh of relief. Then she felt the chill, heavy finger-taps of fat raindrops on her skull and understood.

  She closed her eyes in an instant of gratitude. The weather was on her side for once. Their scuffles and rustles would be much harder for their pursuers to hear now.

  We must be near the top. Please let us be near the top.

  It became a chant in her head, and the words had almost lost meaning by the time she scrambled over one more tussock, and found herself staring at the winding, puddle-silvered road. Her legs burned and her head felt light.

  ‘We’re here.’ She could force no triumph into her voice. She realized that she had no idea what to do next.

  ‘Triss,’ said Pen in a small voice, looking back down the slope.

  Not-Triss followed her gaze and felt a tingle of panic pass through her whole frame. The following lights were closer now. She could even make out the dark shapes of figures behind them. So what if their pursuers could not hear them over the rain? They knew that the girls had nowhere to head but the road.

  Not-Triss stared up and down the lane, searching blindly for inspiration, but it was Pen who spoke first, through the dripping fuzz of her hair.

  ‘We need to catch a lift. We need a car.’

  As if Pen had spoken some summoning spell, Not-Triss realized that near the bend in the road the puddles were brightening. A moment later, two circular yellow headlights swung round the corner, their radiance dimpled by the rain.

  Both girls desperately waved their arms at the oncoming car, and Pen whooped to get the driver’s attention. The car showed no sign of slowing, however, and swerved to the other side of the road.

  Before Not-Triss could stop her, Pen broke away from her and sprinted into the road, so that she was standing in the middle of it as the sedan sliced past—

  Bang.

  There was a high-pitched, childish scream. Not-Triss stood gasping amid the rain as the car screeched to a halt ten yards on. There was a small figure lying behind it on the road, face up. Not-Triss’s skin seemed to be covered in ants and she could not feel her insides.

  It was a few seconds before she recovered the use of her limbs, and by then the driver was getting out and staring in horror at Pen’s fallen form.

  ‘She . . . She ran out . . .’ he stammered helplessly.

  ‘She’s got a pulse!’ Not-Triss had insides again, though they seemed to have been jumbled and turned over like the contents of a manhandled crate. ‘She needs a hospital! You need to take her to a hospital!’

  The driver crouched to examine Pen. He was young, with a nice-enough face, somewhat crumpled by uncertainty.

  ‘Where are your parents?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re not here! There’s just you, and you have to do something! She’s cold and she’s got rain falling on her face and she’s been hit by a car!’ Not-Triss could feel herself losing control. If she was not careful, soon her screams would be tearing the forests apart like a cyclone. ‘We need to take her to a hospital!’

  ‘Yes – yes, we will. Don’t be scared.’ The driver smoothed back his wet hair as if ordering his thoughts, then carefully scooped up Pen in his arms. He put her in the back seat, and Not-Triss climbed in next to her.

  This car did not have a starter button like the Sunbeam, and Not-Triss had to watch while the driver wrestled with a crank handle on the front of the car, to get the engine started again. She was close to breaking by the time he climbed back into the driver’s seat.

  As the car drove a
way, Not-Triss saw two lights emerge from the woods and pan after them. Her mind was so full of Pen that it took her a moment to even realize what they had been, and by then they were disappearing around the darkened bend.

  Don’t you dare die, Pen. It was all Not-Triss could think, over and over. I’ll never forgive you if you die.

  ‘There’s a hospital near Ellchester,’ the driver said, obviously fighting to keep his voice calm. ‘It’s about twenty miles. Just twenty miles. It won’t take long.’

  He kept up a countdown as he drove. Each time they passed a signpost, he let Not-Triss know how close they were.

  ‘Three miles,’ he said at last. ‘We’re just passing Bobbeck Ridge . . .’

  It was at this point that something completely unexpected happened. Pen suddenly sat bolt upright, peered out through the wet glass at the signpost, then thumped the back of the driver’s seat.

  ‘Here! You can let us out here! I’m . . . feeling better now.’

  The driver jumped out of his skin, and nearly hit the signpost. He pulled the car up by the side of the road and turned to stare over his shoulder.

  ‘What?’

  Pen looked meek.

  ‘I’m all right now. I just fainted. And now I’m better. And we live down there.’ She pointed to a cluster of seedy-looking buildings on the banks of the estuary. ‘Thank you for the lift!’

  ‘Hey!’ The driver’s face reddened. ‘Were you faking back there?’

  Pen did not wait to continue the conversation, but opened the door and leaped out into the rain with no obvious sign of injury. Not-Triss followed as quickly as she could. They splashed quickly away from the car as the driver gave them a suspicious scowl and began the slow and awkward task of wrestling his vehicle back on to the road.

  ‘You were faking!’ exclaimed Not-Triss in disbelief. ‘But . . . there was a bang!’

  Pen shrugged. ‘I threw a rock at the side of the car, then I screamed. Cars always stop when they think they’ve hit you. You don’t know anything, do you?’ Her determinedly complacent look faded a little after a second, and her teeth started to chatter. ‘I need to use the bathroom,’ she announced without preamble, then turned and started slithering her unsteady way down the wet wooden steps to the riverside.

  Not-Triss stared after her, the rain beating drums on the boardwalk before her. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to laugh.

  Pen, she thought in the quiet of her own head, you’re amazing.

  Chapter 20

  FROSTY WELCOME

  As Not-Triss edged and slipped her way down the wet boardwalk steps, she realized that the buildings on the riverside were surprisingly well lit and crowded for the time of night. All three buildings were made of wood, and had the words ‘J Wilkinson & Sons Boat Builders’ painted on the sides in tall, honest blue letters. The people Not-Triss could see through the windows, however, did not seem to be dressed for boat-building. She could make out sequins, bow ties and bare shoulders, and everybody seemed to be laughing about something.

  Behind the drumming of the rain, music was audible. It reminded Not-Triss of the record that Mr Grace had played, and her heart gave a leap of fear. However, this was not the same crazy, breathless sound, as she quickly realized with a mixture of relief and disappointment. This was jazz that had wiped its feet and put on its best manners to meet somebody’s mother.

  Over a door somebody had nailed a wooden plaque with the word ‘Pink’s’ painted across it in green and white, next to little black silhouettes of a man and woman dancing.

  As Not-Triss was examining it, Pen emerged from a little outhouse nearby. She approached one of the windows and stood on tiptoe to peer in, her breath clouding the pane. As the light from the window fell on Pen’s face, Not-Triss again noticed three fine scratches that ran slantwise across the younger girl’s cheek. They were shallow but dark with dried blood, and Not-Triss felt a guilty pang.

  ‘I can’t see her,’ Pen muttered in an annoyed tone. ‘But she has to be here!’ The younger girl pushed her way in through the door, and with some apprehension Not-Triss followed, feeling uncertain and exposed.

  There were no boats inside. Instead it was filled with dozens of people, all large and loud and moving around. From a central beam above hung a series of gently swinging lanterns made of chrome and pink glass, which bathed the hall in a patchy rosy glow and made everybody look flushed and a bit otherworldly. Lots of the women wore dresses that fell from tiny shoulder straps, and some carried feathered fans. Everybody’s hair seemed to be short and very shiny. The walls were partially concealed by hanging cloths, creamy white with fine vertical stripes of cerise.

  The music lurched into loudness, and Not-Triss could see that there were actual musicians at the far side of the hall, one plinking at a piano, one nodding away with a cornet and a third pouting plump-cheeked into his clarinet. They wore evening dress, bow ties neat against their shining shirt fronts.

  Just for a moment it reminded Not-Triss of drawings she had seen in magazines and on book jackets, of pastel-coloured parties where languid, fashionable women slunk and posed, slim and elegant as fish, and gentlemen passed them flutes of fat-bubbled champagne.

  The impression did not last long, however. The scene around her was too jarringly and robustly real. The accents were all too Ellchester, and some of the girls had knobbly ankles. Two of the musicians were tubby and shiny-faced, as if they regretted having to wear their jackets. People did not glide, and the floorboards creaked under them. Aside from the smell of the river and cigarette smoke, there was another scent which reminded Not-Triss of Celeste’s wine tonic, but also of the way the family car smelt after the tank had been filled. It seemed to come from the large cluster of glasses on a trestle table by the wall.

  Not-Triss was uncomfortably aware that Pen and herself were drawing quite a few odd looks. They were not exactly hostile, but rather the sort of crinkled-brow glances that somebody might direct towards a banging door or a dropped cigarette. The girls were clearly a minor problem that somebody needed to deal with, but nobody had yet worked out who. Not-Triss had a strong feeling that this was not the kind of party that welcomed sudden damp children.

  One of the women nudged a young man with a large reddish nose and looked pointedly at the new arrivals. He glanced across at Pen and Not-Triss, then wandered over and stooped to peer at them as if they were so small that he needed to focus to see them properly.

  ‘Hello there.’ His voice was a bit slurred, and his eyes shiny as if it was raining inside his head as well. ‘Are you looking for somebody?’

  ‘Hello, Doggerel,’ Pen answered promptly. ‘We’re looking for Violet. Is she here?’

  Violet? Violet Parish? Why are we looking for her, of all people? Not-Triss tried to catch Pen’s eye, but in vain.

  Doggerel shut his mouth with a snap, and Not-Triss could see him sorting through scattered memories looking for Pen’s face and name.

  ‘Oh . . . It’s Penny, isn’t it? Yes . . . yes, I remember. Violet’s, er, little friend. Yes, Violet was here. But you’ve just missed her. She’s gone.’

  ‘What?’ Pen’s eyes widened with dismay. ‘But she’ll be back, won’t she?’ She was glaring at him now, willing him to agree, willing the world to agree. ‘She has to come back.’ There was a slight edge of angry panic in her voice.

  Doggerel winced sympathetically and drew his breath in through his teeth. ‘Probably not – you know what she’s like.’ Doggerel swooped one of his hands to and fro, and made whooshing noises. ‘Five minutes in a place, then off again!’ He seemed to notice the look of increasing desperation on Pen’s face. ‘Look, ah, is something wrong? Do you need somebody to drive you two home?’

  Both girls shook their heads, perhaps a little too urgently. Not-Triss did not much like the idea of throwing herself on the mercy of Violet Parish, but what other options did they have? If the party came to an end and they were still out in this lonely spot, either some well-meaning adult would insist on taking th
em home, or they would be on the run again, with nowhere to hide.

  ‘Where is she?’ asked Pen. ‘Where did she go? We need to find her!’ She was looking younger by the second.

  As Doggerel opened his mouth to answer, the door banged open, making any response from him unnecessary.

  ‘Here it is!’ a voice called out above the hubbub. ‘Kid Oliver’s Dippermouth Blues! I drove back for it, so you had all better bloody well appreciate this.’ In the doorway stood a figure in a rain-darkened tan coat and a fleece-lined motoring cap. Above her head she held a gramophone record, still in its sleeve. ‘Pinky – wind up that croaky machine of yours!’

  It was Violet Parish, removing her cap and shaking out her cropped hair, tufty as a fledgling from the rain. Everybody seemed to know her, and there were calls and whistles of approval at her return. A dense gaggle gathered around her, and Not-Triss noticed that a lot of them seemed to be men.

  ‘Somebody get me a drink and a cigarette!’ Violet said as she dragged off her coat, to reveal a long dark-green dress with split skirts. It was not a sultry request, more like a mechanic asking to be passed a spanner. Nobody seemed offended, and soon she had a glass in one hand and was drawing on a cigarette as somebody lit it for her. Her face was still shiny from rain, but she did not seem to care.

  The musicians looked a bit aggrieved at first as a wind-up gramophone was produced, but took the opportunity to seek out drinks and mop their brows.

  ‘Thank God they’ve stopped,’ Violet said quite audibly. ‘Music as hot as a dead frog.’

  As the needle dipped to the record there was a white-noise hiss, and even after the first rude blare of brass there were still spit-spots of static. This was a record that had been places and come back scratched, and somehow the roughness made it seem all the more itself. This jazz had not wiped its feet; it crunched right into the room with gravel on its shoes.

  Pen tried to call out to Violet, but was hushed. Everyone in the boathouse had drawn closer, listening until the mischievous, lawless song ended with a half-mocking salute and a last long note.