Comet Weather

by Liz Williams

  She made her way towards the shoreline. A wind began to blow across the marsh, thin and insidious. Stella shivered and pulled her hoodie more tightly at the neck. She paused, turning to look back over the dark and silver land – someone stood there, watching her. Stella yelped and stumbled but no one was there. She looked around wildly but the marsh was empty. She forced a breath of cold air into her lungs: in, out, in out. Keep walking. But the back of her neck prickled as she did so.

  At first she was worried that the shore didn’t seem to be getting any nearer, but then she saw that this was deceptive. She could hear the rush and hiss of the sea now. And something else – a voice.

  “Help me!”

  Oh God, thought Stella. What now? It was coming from one of the pools – no, that was wrong. There was a boggy area between the pools, and now she could see a figure, struggling. There was a splash. Stella, not without serious misgivings – a trap? Who the hell knew who or what was out here – ran along the dyke.

  “Hang on!” she called.

  Whoever they might be, they were going down fast. Stella grasped the spear-like branch of an alder.

  “Can I take this?” It snapped off in her hand, which she was inclined to view as a ‘yes.’ It wasn’t very thick and it might not be strong enough. It might snap. She held it out, braced against the tree.

  “Grab that. Can you get your legs free?”

  “I think so!” The person was covered in mud; she was unable to tell if it was a man or a woman.

  “Try and swim. Don’t wade.”

  A hand grasped the end of the alder pole and the weight nearly pulled Stella in. She gave a small shriek and wrapped her arms around the tree. Slowly, by degrees, the person hauled themselves to the edge of the bog and rolled out into the reeds. Reaching out as far as she could, Stella took the slime-covered hand and pulled the person up the dyke. They stood up, shakily.

  “Cheers,” the person said and there was something about that voice, something familiar.

  “Oh shit,” said Stella, aloud.

  It was Tam Stare.

  Bee

  How could you get lost on your own property?

  Bee had gone down to the end of the orchard to put some tea leaves from the big urn onto the compost heap. Serena’s show was in full swing. The orchestra were just beginning to set up and the sound floated through the trees, rattled by the rising breeze. The wind had swung around, stirring Bee’s hair. She reached the compost heap, heaved aside the piece of old carpet which rested on top of one of the sections and hurled the tea leaves into the gently decomposing mass of old cabbage stalks and last summer’s runner bean stems. Then she pulled the carpet back over the mess and turned back.

  And that had been that, for some time. She remembered coming up to the halfway point of the orchard, the old owl tree, and noting that it had a number of handy twigs on which slices of toast could be hung: they’d do this for the actual Wassailing in January, putting the bread up for the tree spirits as was traditional. But she couldn’t remember a great deal after that, and it was now later – much later. The blue, racing sky above the orchard had darkened into sunset storm and the wind was now huge, roaring through the orchard. Bee sometimes felt that the house was a ship, meeting the Atlantic gales head on, and she felt that now and thought of Dark. Come to think of it, where was Dark? He was rarely far away when she walked the orchard. The orchestra had been playing for some time, but she had only just realised this. Mercury – they had started with Mercury and then they had gone on to Jupiter. And now – they were still playing but Bee did not recognise the tune and, returning slowly to her own senses, she wasn’t even sure if it was the same orchestra, because surely George Hazelgrove wasn’t supposed to be on until later and it should be a band now? It sounded different, and very far away. She turned to look back down the marching ranks of trees and found that, instead, she was nose-up against a gate.

  Bee stepped back. Well, that had never happened before. The gate was wooden and silvery with age; patches of lichen were scrawled across it in ochre and light grey-green. It had a round iron ring for a latch and it was set in an old brick wall. After a moment’s hesitation, Bee raised a hand, took hold of the ring and lifted the latch. It moved easily. The gate opened and she was through.

  It was a garden, but not one that Bee had ever seen before. A geometrical arrangement of box hedges – a maze garden, Elizabethan? – ran down a wide green lane to a meadow, and beyond that was a dark stand of trees, and beyond that, water. She could see the gleam and glint of it in the sun, for there was sunlight now, and warmth on her face, and the scent of the box and chamomile and thyme.

  “Okay,” said Bee aloud. She glanced back. The gate was still there, standing solid. Let’s hope that continued. She did not like the idea of adventuring without a way home – but perhaps when she opened the gate again it would lead somewhere else? Bee put that thought firmly aside and walked down between the box hedges. Apart from the oddness of the situation, it felt to her like a normal garden. Her namesakes hummed amongst the spikes of lavender. It occurred to her that this was also a very well-stocked herb garden: there were plants that she did not even recognise, though many that she did. She leaned down and crushed a leaf of mint between her fingers, releasing its wild, fresh smell. It was stronger than the mints she grew in her own garden and there were other, different, things, too. She could not pinpoint it – and then multiple flashes of yellow, white and scarlet shot over the box hedges and came to rest in the big heads of a thistle. Goldfinches, lots of them, and the different thing was birdsong. She could hear a great many birds, chattering and squabbling in the trees and in the high hedges of pleated beech that marked the garden on both sides. Even at Mooncote in the heart of the English countryside, there were not as many birds to be heard. Or as many butterflies to be seen. Bee watched a dance of them, scraps of sky among the spires of lavender. Those were Large Blues – once extinct in the South West, although she’d read in the summer that they had been brought back through conservation efforts and were doing well. Surely not as well as this and she did not remember seeing them in a garden before: they were found on hills, she had thought. But the blue butterflies swirled up towards the light, undeniably present, the sun catching their dappled wings.

  Thoughtfully, Bee walked on, noticing other details. No traffic noise. No contrails, blurring lines across the blueness of the sky. The trees at the bottom of the garden were unfamiliar. All she could smell were the scents of the garden, rich as incense. And something else, an indefinable feeling of difference, displacement, wrongness? As you would expect, Bee said to herself, if this was in fact the past. The meadow was full of flowers, spikes of orchis as well as buttercups and daisies. As she came closer to the tall stand of trees which separated the meadow from the water, Bee looked up at their elegant draperies and realised that they were elms. The discovery made her gasp. She had never seen an elm like this, outside books. The trees had succumbed to Dutch Elm Disease before Bee was even born, though their names still lingered throughout the district: Elm Lane, Elmbridge Road. But here they stood, healthy and hale. Bee placed a wondering hand on their rough, striated bark, slightly sun warm. Then she wove her way through the grove, through another meadow and down to the edge of the water, coming out onto a pebbled shore. It was an inlet. Nowhere near Mooncote itself, though the red earth of the farther shore looked as though it might be Devon. On the other side of the water, a headland struck out into the silver expanse, covered in trees. And on the water, riding at anchor, there was a ship.

  “Oh, wow!” said Bee, aloud. She found herself giving a huge, involuntary grin. A proper ship, a real ship, with a figurehead and furled sails and a great square stern. As it swung around on the tide, she could see the prancing deer outlined on the wood. The scarlet and white of the St George’s cross snapped from the top of her mast and someone stood waving on the deck. Bee, abandoning caution, waved back.

  Of course it was Dark. Who else would it be? She’d alway
s wanted to see his day and age, had asked endless questions about it. What did London smell like? What did you eat? Did you ever meet a witch? Dark had done his best to answer but some things he simply could not remember. And like everyone, he had favourite anecdotes, which Bee was happy to listen to.

  It’s only when a person dies that you remember all the things you should have asked them. But that wasn’t going to happen here and so Bee asked him anyway, wrote it secretly down. The mysteries of the past should not be lost and now, it seemed, she was about to experience them for herself.

  Stella

  Tam Stare couldn’t stop laughing. He doubled over, dripping water and mud. Stella regarded him coldly.

  “Have you finished?”

  “Sorry,” Tam gasped. “Can’t tell you what’s so funny.”

  But Stella thought she knew. Regardless of his state of filth, she grabbed a fist of his clothes – shirt? T-shirt? Who could tell? – and thrust him into the grove of alder. There was a faint whisper of protest from the tree. “Here’s a suggestion. You came here after me – to bring me back? Make sure I didn’t get back, maybe? And then you fucked it up and now I’ve rescued you.” She let him go and stepped back. “I wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known who it was.”

  Tam spluttered. “That’s why it’s so fucking hilarious. Partly, anyway.” He sneezed. “Jesus. This mud. I’m freezing.”

  “You look a real sight.”

  “I’m not looking forward to when it dries.”

  “There’s always the sea.”

  “Yeah, the sea. You don’t know this place very well, do you, love?”

  “Having never set foot here before, obviously not. And don’t call me love.”

  Rather to her surprise, Tam considered this, then said, “All right.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Tam said, “I didn’t come after you, actually. I didn’t know you were here. It’s not all about you, or your sisters, you know.”

  “So what are you doing here, then?”

  Tam gave a sudden shiver, wrapping his arms around himself. There was always the chance, Stella thought with a lift of the spirits, that he might get pneumonia. “I came looking for something else.”

  “And did you find it?”

  Tam smiled. “Wouldn’t be telling you that, now, would I?”

  “Well,” Stella said. “You’ve got a choice. I’m going to keep walking. You either follow me or you don’t.”

  She did not like the thought of turning her back on him. He was not to be trusted, or believed. But she did not think she could drive him away. Even in his sodden state, he was stronger than she was and any struggle might end both of them up in the marsh. She’d have to try and lose him. She had no intention of teaming up.

  “I’m going the same way as you,” said Tam. “To the sea.”

  Serena

  Once the clock had resumed ticking, Serena had no option but to get on with the show. She flung clothes at Emily and Janie, focusing on getting them dressed and out, just as she did in the big catwalks. Dana Stare had melted into the crowd: Serena caught a glimpse of her pointed pale face and then she was gone. Serena looked around for Bee or Luna, but she still could not see them – presumably they were sorting out the food. Stella? She could not see Stella either, and Nell, having only technically been gone for a few minutes, had not returned from the house. Serena didn’t like the thought of Dana roaming about the property but she couldn’t abandon the catwalk, either. Now just wanting it to be over, Serena got on with the job and it was with a substantial sense of relief that she ran out with her models and took a final bow. As she did so, she saw Ward standing at the front of the audience, holding a cup of tea and looking, in a tweed jacket, as though he was playing the part of an Englishman in a period movie.

  As soon as the models had jumped down and joined their families, Serena went out to find him.

  “Are you all right?” Ward said, frowning.

  “No.”

  “Serena, what’s wrong?” He put a gentle, supportive hand on her arm. Now playing the part of Sensitive Romantic Lead. But actually Serena was grateful. Sod feminism for a moment – she gripped his hand – but she wasn’t going to swoon in his arms.

  “Ward….could you hold the fort here for a minute? Keep an eye on the clothes.”

  “Don’t let anyone run off with anything? Keep their sticky bun-infested mitts off the taffeta?”

  “Thank you!” She kissed him on the cheek and ran through marquee, orchard, garden to the house. Luna looked up as Serena ran through the kitchen.

  “Serena, I need to tell you something, about your show –”

  But Serena cried, ‘Back in a minute, just going to the loo.” She spared a moment to be relieved that Luna was there: she felt like a sheepdog, rounding up sisters. The house seemed empty and, after the crowded orchard, somehow civilised. Serena ran into Abraham’s study and fumbled the drawers of the desk where the gemstone box was kept. She wrenched it open, knowing that the box was gone.

  But the box was still there, untouched.

  Clutching it to her, Serena sank down into her grandfather’s chair. It was a moment before she thought to tip the stones out onto the green leather surface. They were all there: diamond and jasper, emerald and magnet and chrysolite. She turned them in her fingers, watching them spark in a shaft of the sinking sun. That reminded her that they were still less than halfway through the event. Serena put the stones back in their box and carried it into her room, where she stashed it in a cupboard under a lot of old quilts. And where was Dana now?

  She went quickly through the upstairs of the house, opening doors. The place felt fine, but that didn’t mean a lot: what if she was wrong? In one room, she found Nell, changing a sweater.

  “Oh, Serena! Were you looking for me? I’m sorry I’ve been so long. I was just putting on something a bit warmer. That wind’s surprisingly cold.”

  “No, no, just looking for the cat. For Tut. Something spooked her,” Serena lied. “It makes her throw up.”

  “Oh, poor puss. She’s not in here. Hey, your show was great! I see one of your models came down from London.”

  It had been Nell who had spotted Spica in the London flat, Serena remembered.

  “Yes, so good of her, she had to dash back up to town, though. Her career’s really taking off.”

  “What’s her name? I’ll look out for her.”

  “Er, Nadia Radislav,” said Serena. “She’s, um, Romanian. She might be changing her name, though. Career thing.”

  “I thought she looked Eastern European. Those cheekbones.”

  “Anyway, so glad you liked it, thanks for your help,” said Serena, feeling terrible, and shut the door.

  Downstairs, she found Luna was still in the kitchen.

  “Serena, have you seen Bee?” Luna looked worried.

  “No. Is she out in the orchard?”

  “No. Caro’s doing the food table. I haven’t seen Bee for ages.”

  “Is Stella still doing sound checks?”

  Now that the catwalk was over, it must be getting close to band time, Serena realised.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know if Ben’s turned up?”

  “I haven’t seen him or his band.” Luna gave a scowl. “No loss either, if you ask me.”

  “Hold the fort,” Serena said. “I’ll go and look.” Leaning closer, she hissed, “One of the stars turned up. On the catwalk in the marquee. Spica.”

  “I know, I saw her. That’s what I was trying to tell you. She’s not still there?”

  “No. She vanished. Things went a bit pear-shaped for a bit.”

  “Nothing happened in the house as far as I can tell,” said Luna. “I feel a bit weird, actually. Like something’s going to happen.” She gestured at her belly.

  “Maybe it’s just this.”

  Serena patted her shoulder. “Me too. Feeling weird, I mean. As though something’s in the wind. Hang in there.”

  Luna nodded un
happily. “I’ll do my best.”

  Outside again, Serena found that the wind had in fact changed. Rather than that chilly northern whistle, it had swung around to the west and it was stepping up, a big salt-laden Atlantic breeze, chasing the sheep-clouds before its herdsman’s breath. It made the whole world feel different and Serena, who loved these westerlies, paused for a moment and took its sea-draught into her lungs. Better! She could hear the unmistakable sounds of musicians tuning up. Chill out, Serena told herself. They loved the show, no one noticed a bloody alien in the middle of it, and now we’re going to have some music. And maybe an equinoctial gale into the bargain. But the sky was blue, except for the scudding clouds.

  To the background cacophony, Serena ran back into the orchard and conducted a quick search. She glimpsed Seelie and Ben’s other band mates but she couldn’t see Ben himself. Thank God for that. The bloke on the sound stage said he hadn’t seen Stella for half an hour, perhaps more. Serena did a quick circuit but could not find Bee, either. She went back into the marquee where Ward was loyally guarding the clothes.

  “We need to take these into the house,” she said, picking up an armful.

  “Want me to wait here?”

  “No, you can help. Everyone’s outside.”

  “Where did you go? Is everything all right?”

  “I was looking for the cat,” Serena said. Get your story straight. “Something spooked her.”

  Ward raised an eyebrow. He knew her better than her cousin, she realised, or perhaps was more cynical. “Oh really?”

  “Well. All right. That’s what I told Nell. Actually I was looking for that woman, Dana Stare. Ben’s new girlfriend,” she added, in case he didn’t remember. But it seemed that he did; his eyes widened.