Comet Weather

by Liz Williams

  “Is she here?”

  “Yes. I spoke to her.”

  Ward frowned. “When was that?”

  When a star froze time.

  “Not long ago. She snuck back here. Sort of confronted me.”

  “Shit.”

  “Then she fucked off and I thought she might have gone prowling round the house to see what she could find – she’s that type.”

  “Look,” Ward said. He picked up a rosebud scarf and ran his thumb along its hem, with a curious precision. “You know I said a while ago, when we were talking about Miranda, that I may have been a bit of a tit.”

  “I do recall that, yes.”

  “Well, I think my cousin Ben is being a bit of a dick. A lot of a dick, actually. I haven’t met this girl he’s seeing – at least, I don’t think I have but Caro can’t stand her, Laura can’t stand her –”

  “I can’t stand her.”

  “No, obviously. But I’d be surprised if you could. Although you’re not really the jealous sort, are you? Or have you changed?”

  “I’m not jealous but I do prize loyalty. Well, I’m not jealous when I’m not provoked.”

  “Mmmm,” Ward said.

  “Ben didn’t tell me we’d split up. I didn’t know! He ghosted me – is that what they say these days? On Tinder?”

  “I’ve no idea. I can barely manage a mobile phone even with my opposable thumbs.”

  And besides, Serena thought, you wouldn’t have to use Tinder, because women have always thrown themselves at you. Or Grindr. Which of course had been part of the problem originally. She said, “When someone pisses off and doesn’t tell you but tells everyone you’ve become a bunny boiler because you keep texting them and trying to find out where they are?”

  “Has Ben actually done that? Told everyone you’re a bunny boiler, I mean.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s a shit if he has.”

  “Ward, the thing is – we think, Stella and I think, that Dana Stare has done something to Ben.”

  “Done something to him? Like what? Poisoned his coffee? Brainwashed him? From what I understand from Caro, she’s a Goth, not a member of the KGB.”

  “I know it sounds a bit mad.”

  “Okay,” Ward said. He put the scarf down and with one hand flicked back a floppy lock of hair. “I think it’s time to let you know that I am aware, let’s say, that there is stuff that happens around your family which is not, let’s also say, totally normal.”

  “Oh?” Serena’s heart gave a big, painful jolt. “What do you mean?”

  He was looking at her closely. “Supernatural stuff. Not ghosts – well, all right. Ghosts as well. Not just ghosts. Christ, I always used to think I was articulate.”

  Serena opened her mouth and closed it again.

  “Um,” she said.

  Ward laughed. “Come to that, I always used to think you were articulate.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I don’t want you to think I’m a lunatic.”

  “I don’t think you’re a lunatic,” Ward said, rather gently.

  “I feel like Lois Lane. Or Buffy. Maybe Buffy, because Lois isn’t pretending to be someone normal, is she? That’s Superman.”

  “Yes, that’s Superman. You forget, Serena, that I knew your grandfather, when I was a mere slip of a lad. So did Richard, and so did Caro. We’ve known your family for a long time – too long to not notice that there is this, ‘stuff’, that happens around it.”

  “Oh.”

  “And,” Ward said, “I think you should know that it’s not just your family.”

  Stella

  Did he, Stella wondered, ever stop talking? He was trying to get to her, she thought. It wasn’t quite needling, Tam Stare wasn’t actually rude to her, but it was just on that knife-edge between what might have been curiosity and what was probably an attempt to wear her down.

  “So what do you think, Stella?” About all this, about life, about the universe. About music: whether, for instance, Major Sorto was preferable to anything produced by Reo Nada, a subject on which Stella did in fact have an opinion. But then he ran out of musical knowledge and went on to global warming. On and on.

  Eventually, Stella said, “Look. Would you mind just shutting up?”

  “All right,” said Tam, affably enough, and did so, for about three minutes. Then he said, “You can see a long way out to sea, can’t you? What do you reckon’s out there, then?”

  “I haven’t a clue.” She paused for a moment on the ridge and looked. The shore seemed a long way off again, but she was sure that they hadn’t been walking in circles. The landscape was too open for that, with the markers of thorn and brake. Far out to sea, it was even lighter: a thin green sky between the cloud race, the sort of late evening sky in which the new moon’s curve might have hung. But somehow she did not think that they would see the moon here yet. And she could hear the sea, its distant boom. Tam seemed filled with an odd, febrile excitement. He bounced slightly on his heels, clad in a pair of worn-down Nike. If the circumstances had been different, Stella might have thought he was on coke, but even if he’d taken some before entering this land, it would have worn off by now and he showed no signs of sniffing. Twitchy, though, and maybe she should be reading that as shifty. Probably hiding something, probably hiding lots, but what was it in this particular instance?

  “I don’t like the look of that sky,” Stella said. The mass of cloud was building up over the sea and she could smell the fresh, metallic odour of rain on the wind. The breeze, rising, stirred her hair and then the first heavy drop of water struck her hand. A sizzling flash of bright blue-white lit up the thorn trees and Tam’s pale, startled face.

  “Shit.”

  “I think we’d better find some shelter,” Stella shouted above the sudden thunder. The low thorn trees wouldn’t provide much. As the rain began to pelt down, they stumbled along the ridge. Within minutes, Stella’s hair was plastered to her face. The parka would keep out the worst of it, but not for ever. As they ran, Tam grabbed her hand. Stella didn’t feel up to a struggle. His fingers were icily strong in hers, and he was pulling her along. Then they came up over the final ridge and there at last was the shore. The breakers were thundering onto the shingle, dragging the stones into the ink of the sea with a crackling rush.

  “There’s a hut!” Stella shouted. It stood perched, rather lopsidedly, on a spur of sandy soil running above the shingle. They raced for it, skirting the edge of the stones, and wrenched at the door. It opened easily and Stella and Tam fell inside.

  “Thank God for that.” The hut was very small, furnished only with two benches and a table. You might be able to lie down, but only just, and it would help a lot if you drew your knees up. But you would have to upend the benches or put them outside. Let’s see how long we have to hole up in here, Stella thought. She sat soggily down on one of the benches instead.

  “Brrr.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Tam said, through chattering teeth. He must have been chilled to the bone, given his earlier dunking in the marsh. He sank down opposite her and rammed his cold hands into his pockets. “Wonder how long it’s going to last.”

  Stella shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “There’s nothing to eat in here.”

  “I could murder a cup of tea.”

  For a moment Tam looked wistful and almost sympathetic. “Tea! Yeah, that would be great.”

  “Except we haven’t got any tea. Or any milk, or any water. Or a fire. At least we’re out of the rain.”

  Tam grinned. “Bit like being in the army. On manoeuvres.”

  Stella gave him a curious glance. “Been in the army, have we?”

  “What, me take the King’s shilling? You must be fucking joking.”

  “I think that might be the navy,” Stella said.

  “I never wanted to run away to sea, either. Landlubber, me. Although I quite fancy being a pirate.”

  “Yes, I can see that might appeal.” She thought wistfull
y of Dark, whose assistance she could really do with right now.

  “Anyway, the army, definitely a big fat no. I don’t like being told what to do.”

  “Neither do I, actually.”

  “You’re pretty fit, though, if I may say so.”

  Stella regarded him narrowly, but decided to take that remark at face value.

  “Yeah, I suppose so. I used to swim. I run a lot.”

  “Marathons?”

  “I’ve done a couple. I did the London marathon a year or so ago. Came, like, several hundredth.”

  “Well, it’s more than I’ve ever done. Run for the pub if closing time seemed a bit close. Buses.”

  But he did not look unfit. He was whip-thin, and Stella could see real muscles under his top now that it was so wet. No, stop that, this would not lead to good things. Maybe he was angling for a compliment. She grunted instead and a short silence fell.

  It was, in any case, difficult to be heard. The roof of the hut must be corrugated iron or similar, for the rain drummed and banged on it, deafening and relentless. Behind that was the roar of the sea. Stella shivered, suddenly glad that the hut had no windows. This was a night to be in and now that she thought about it, how was it that they could see? She said so to Tam.

  “Eh?”

  “I said, where is the light coming from?”

  He looked genuinely surprised. “I dunno. I thought there was a bulb but now you mention it, there isn’t.”

  “I somehow doubt any electricity company has got this far.”

  “Yeah, but – sometimes in these places, you come across weird shit. Anomalies.”

  “Right,” Stella said. She wasn’t totally sure that she knew what he was talking about but she didn’t want to let on.

  “Sometimes it’s like time’s all muddled up. Technology where it shouldn’t be, that sort of thing. It’s like the Matrix.”

  “A projection?”

  “Yeah, a bit.”

  “So when did you start – exploring – these other places?”

  He shook his head. “It’s always been there. Family thing, you know?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Listen,” Tam said. “The rain’s stopping.”

  Bee

  Bee watched the coast slide by. They were leaving the headland behind them now, and the open sea lay ahead. It was, so Dark had informed her, the English Channel. She had been installed on a bench on the starboard side of the boat and it had been strongly implied, if not actually stated, that she was to keep out of the way. Bee, practical as ever, did not take offence at this. But despite the exhilaration of adventure, and the comforting presence of Dark, she could not help worrying. What was happening back at the house? Had anyone else been snapped into another realm? What about Apple Day? She wondered if this was a kind of fairyland experience – would she return to the same moment that she had left, or later, or what? How did this work? She didn’t fancy finding that it was a hundred years later and she, all unthinking, might spring out across the strand to crumble into dust. Bee told herself firmly that Dark would never let this happen. He came and went as he pleased, after all, or appeared to.

  But then, Dark was already dead.

  She brushed a strand of hair from her face, spattered with salt spray. Even the sea smelled fresher, here. Across the boat, she could still see land: red cliffs, very Devonian, and the low hills beyond, more heavily wooded than in her own time but still patchworked with fields. From the way that the sun sat in the sky, they were heading east. She looked up as Dark came to stand beside her, then he plumped down on the bench.

  “Captain’s going to be on deck in a minute.” He said this with a touch of deference, unusual for the usually confident Dark.

  “Where are we? That looks like Slapton.” She stood, a bit wobbly, and shaded her eyes, trying to see the tower of the chantry.

  “Yes, that is indeed. You’re well informed.”

  “We spent a holiday down here when we were kids. Look, you can see the lagoon.” Surprisingly unchanged – but then, in geological terms this was hardly a blink of an eye – the long pale bar of the beach rolled by.

  “Dartmouth soon.”

  “Oh, I love Dartmouth. There are some really good pubs.”

  Dark laughed. “That’s not quite what I’d expected you to say, madam.”

  “I love the Cherub.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “It’s not still there, surely? It was old in my day.”

  “Built from ship’s timbers, so they say. And has a ghostly cat.”

  “I remember the cat,” said Dark. “It wasn’t a ghost, though. Not then.”

  “It’s supposed to have a lot of ghosts.”

  “It can have another one, then. When we return.”

  Being dead evidently didn’t stop you from planning road trips, Bee reflected.

  “In my time – this time – a respectable lady like you wouldn’t have any business setting foot in a pub like the Cherub.”

  “Good thing I was born four hundred years later, then. I’d have been able to stay at an inn, though?”

  “Yes. But things were different. Are different.” He shook his head. “I become muddled, even still.”

  “So what’s a respectable lady like me doing on an English warship?” She paused. “She is a warship, isn’t she?”

  “She is a warship. Halfway between carrick and galleon. Called the Pelican, first, but renamed in honour of Sir Christopher, his arms. A patron is important, you see.”

  Bee nodded. “Your fellow sailors. Can they see me?” There were men swarming all over the vessel, but Bee had attracted no attention. Something of a relief.

  “They cannot. You are a spirit to them.”

  “My turn, eh?”

  He smiled. “Your turn. But the Captain is a different matter. He has what they call the sight.”

  Bee had not known much about Francis Drake, apart from the story about playing bowls on Plymouth Ho. And he was said to have owned a drum that could be beaten in times of national peril: Drake might return again to save the nation, a bit like King Arthur. Bee had seen its replica in Drake’s old home of Buckland Abbey. After meeting Dark, however, she had done a lot of reading. Whereas a boy, perhaps, might have been thrilled to find himself on what was essentially a privateer, Bee could not approve. Drake was a slaver, when all was said and done, and a pirate. She knew it was a different age. Now piracy was seen as romantic, a little comical due to Johnny Depp and those movies, and Bee had laughed along but it wasn’t funny, really: it was about murder and theft, and snatching people from their homes into horror lifelong.

  She had spoken to Dark about it. All men took others as slaves, he had said, it was commonplace. He did not like the idea himself, thinking that all should be free. But he had not sailed with Drake then, only later, against the Spanish and then to the Americas. Bee thought that he had probably died somewhere near Puerto Rico. But now Dark was here and so was she.

  “So where are we going?” she asked.

  “Ah,” he said. “We have a mission, the Captain says. But I don’t know where and what.” He stood, quickly. “He’s here.”

  Bee also stood. Drake was on the deck, looking a little like his portraits in a jerkin, if that was the right word, and shirt. Serena would know the proper names for them… She recognised the neat beard and brown hair, but his eyes, when they came to rest upon her, were compelling: almost black and slightly prominent. She called to mind something Dark had once told her, that the Spanish believed Drake to be a witch. She found herself standing a little straighter.

  “Madam,” Drake said. He gave a small bow.

  “Captain Drake.” She hoped that was the right thing to say.

  “Welcome on board.”

  “Captain, why am I here?”

  The smile broadened, a little vulpine. “You have powerful friends, my lady.”

  “I do? I am a countrywoman. I don’t know many high-ups.”

  “The star spirits.”

>   “Ah. I see what you mean.”

  “We are in England’s dreaming,” Drake said, “untied from time.”

  “Yes. You – forgive me – you were killed off the coast of Panama, I believe?”

  “Yes. No honourable death. A form of the flux. I don’t remember much, nor where they put me, save that it would have been into the waves. But now I stand before you, quite restored, and things are as they ever were for me, though I no longer fight. Not the Spanish foe, anyway,” he added, with a reflective look. Then, with another bow, he was gone down the deck. Dark stared after him.

  “I’d best get on.”

  “Sure. Don’t let me hold you up, Ned.”

  She sat back down on the bench and watched the coast slide by. There indeed was Dartmouth, the entrance to the river ringed by a myriad small boats. Then the bay and more red cliffs, the slopes of what would one day become Torquay. The Hind veered off at this point, out into more open water with the distant blue shimmer of the Isle of Portland in the distance. A breeze lifted Bee’s hair: she put her finger in her mouth and held it up to the wind. The coldness told her that it was blowing from the east. The sun was starting to sink, now. She looked back to the hills and saw it reddening. But ahead, over the Isle, the sky was indigo-black. Dark reappeared, with a piece of bread which he gave to her.

  “Captain says there’s a storm coming,” he said.

  Serena

  Serena gaped at Ward as though she’d never seen him before. He stared back, mouth tightened in apology, brown spaniel eyes contrite. “Your family? What sort of stuff?”

  “Not the same stuff. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. Our stuff is to do with the women. It’s a secret and it’s never actually been confirmed to me, but I think I know what it is. Quite honestly, sometimes I wonder if this isn’t everyone.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Round here, in England, the world. If every family hasn’t got weird magical shit going on under the surface.”

  “I don’t think they do, Ward.”