Aurora

by Julie Bertagna

  ‘Give this to your new husband.’

  Red-faced, he pushes his wedding gift into Candle’s hands – then thrusts his own hands back in his pockets before he changes his mind. But what else can he do for her? And Lily Longhope will have no use for it, not now, no matter what she says.

  ‘It’s a scavenge,’ he tells her. ‘Old world stuff that he likes. It might make him kind towards you. He’d better be.’

  ‘What is it?’ Candle’s narrow eyes widen as the crescent begins to glow in her hands.

  Clay shrugs. ‘Dunno. But watch and see what the Pontifix does with it.’

  ‘Mara’s halo!’ Broom clutches at her heart. ‘From the magic wizz. First the shoes, now this. Today of all days. What’s happening? Where did you find it, Clay?’

  ‘The girl had them.’ Clay shoots his mother a troubled glance. The girl, he remembers, called it a halo too.

  ‘Girl?’ Broom demands. ‘What girl?’

  With trembling fingers she reaches out and touches the halo as if it’s a sacred relic.

  ‘The girl I scavenged from the rocks. I told you.’ Clay’s mind is buzzing again, as he remembers Lily’s words. ‘Mum, the Pontifix’s globe . . .’

  Another clang of the mountain bell drowns out his words. The march of feet resounds in the rock tunnels: the Pontifix’s guards coming to collect his bride. Candle slips the halo into her goose-feather bridal bag before he can say any more. There is panic in her eyes. Clay hugs his almost-sister feeling wretched because there is nothing that he, a powerless slave, can do to save Candle from a marriage she never wanted and cannot escape. At least his mother will be with her, as her palace slave.

  Broom gathers herself together and raises Candle’s chin with her workworn hand. ‘Hold your head up and remember – now you are the most important woman in Ilira.’

  Candle bites her lip and nods, then walks to the door where the Pontifix’s guards wait to escort her to her new life.

  Clay faces his mother as the stomp of marching feet recedes.

  ‘No, I haven’t lost my mind,’ Broom whispers, as if the rock walls might have ears. ‘Those red shoes were Mara’s and that halo . . .’ She shakes her head and gives her son a wobbly smile. ‘Oh, I suppose you’re right, Clay. Mara couldn’t have the only red shoes and globe and halo in the world.’

  But Clay’s heart has quickened. ‘It’s strange though. Lily said—’

  ‘Lily?’

  ‘My scavenge. Mum, it’s weird but she called me Clayslaps. No one else ever has, only you. How could a stranger know my Treenester name?’ His buzzing thoughts are propelling him towards an answer that surely cannot be. ‘She comes from the forest of Candlewood in the mountains and her name is Lily Longhope.’

  Mother and son stare at each other with wide, wondering eyes.

  ‘Lily. Longhope.’ Broom savours each name. No longer upset, she is fiercely concentrated now. ‘From Candlewood, you say? In the mountains? Is it possible?’ she asks herself, fastening a long windwrap around her. ‘There’s a wedding gondola waiting to take me to the palace but – but . . . quick, Clay, take me to this Lily Longhope. I must see her first.’

  SCUTS AND SKY FLEETS

  The citizens of Ilira are pouring out of their mountain caves. It’s easy for Broom and Clay to slip through the crowds that cram the rockways to see the procession of the Pontifix’s bride. No one questions the trusted slave of Rodenglaw, rushing towards the harbour after her young mistress. But Clay is supposed to be sorting through piles of scavenge for tomorrow’s market. He pulls up his parka hood, keeps his face down.

  Mother and son rush under the pelting waterfalls, down past the rusted doors of the mountain dwellers and the labyrinth of market caverns where the air is thick with the smell of dried fish and seal meat, across the steep tracks of the cable trains, past the entrances to the factories of the deep mines.

  As they reach the foot of the mountain, Candle is stepping on to her wedding gondola.

  ‘Let me catch my breath,’ Broom gasps, stopping to drink in the spectacle of the bridal gondola and the crowds. ‘Look, Clay. The people love her, she’s one of their own. How can her father not?’

  Clay lifts his head to risk a quick glance. There’s no sign of a Scut. All eyes are on the wedding – then suddenly they are not. The cheering dies. People lift their faces to look at the sky. Clay expects a celebration kite but sees instead a silver fleet of vessels moving northward, straight and fast. That is not, Clay judges, the sinuous movement of birds.

  But what is the strange silver flock?

  Panic rumbles in the crowd. Then the fleet disappears over the peaks of the mountains.

  Clay tears his eyes from the sky. No time to wonder right now. He hurries his mother on, pulling her into Ale Alley, a worming rockway punctured with stinking caverns. It’s always crammed with revellers gulping down bitter seaweed ale. Today, there’s even more of a crush. Broom screws up her face at the stale reek and steps over frothy ale puddles, trying to squeeze past a man so large and solid he might be a bolder. Clay’s heart sinks to his boots as he sees it’s Pavord, a particularly brutal Scutmaster, and his even more vicious wife.

  ‘Hurry boy!’ Broom shouts at Clay, spotting the danger. ‘A gondola is waiting for us and Rodenglaw is not a patient man. That barrel of smoked oysters should be at the palace already – I want to see it loaded up now!’

  She throws a hurried, imperious smile at the Scut and he rolls aside. His wife gives Clay a thuggish kick in the shin as he hurries past.

  Clay limps through the winding alley until they reach the warren of harbour caves.

  ‘Brute of a woman!’ Broom bursts out, once they’re safely sheltered by a crop of rocks.

  ‘Used to it,’ says Clay, through gritted teeth. ‘Right, keep a lookout and put your scary face on if anyone comes.’

  He unbolts the metal door of the cave where he left the scavenged girl.

  LOST FATHERS, LOST GIRLS

  The girl’s head droops on her chest like a wilted flower. She looks fast asleep but the moment Clay leans over her she becomes a wild, spiky creature – shrieking, snapping at him with her teeth, thrashing about until her hair is in his eyes and mouth. Clay grabs a thick handful of it and yanks the girl’s head back.

  ‘Bite me again,’ he warns, ‘and I’ll leave you here for Kronk.’

  ‘Won’t bite,’ she whispers, her fiery eyes full of fear.

  ‘Lily?’ says Broom. ‘Lily Longhope?’

  She brings the oil lantern over to peer at the scavenged girl and gasps, almost dropping the lamp, looking just as she did when she saw the red shoe – as if she’s seen a ghost.

  ‘Mara,’ she whispers, and sinks to her knees in shock.

  ‘I’m Lily,’ says the girl, hoarsely. She blinks in the light. ‘You know my mother?’

  Broom brings the lantern closer to the girl’s face.

  ‘Mara’s name was Longhope. Her hair was dark as midnight, yours is sunset,’ says Broom. ‘Her eyes were dark too where yours are fire. But you are hers all right.’

  Lily studies the older woman, her amber-brown eyes brilliant and curious in the lantern glow.

  ‘Are – are you Broomielaw?’ she croaks.

  ‘I am Broomielaw the Treenester and this is Clayslaps my son,’ cries Broom, her eyes full. ‘Quick, untie her, Clay.’

  Clay takes his dagger from his belt and cuts through the ropes he bound around the girl. Freed, Lily clambers to her feet, rubbing her arms. She tins to Clay and he steps back.

  ‘No biting!’

  ‘Pollock!’ the girl exclaims. ‘That’s who you look like! Our hunter, Pollock.’

  Broom’s hands fly to her mouth.

  ‘I wasn’t sure at first,’ Lily continues, her eyes flicking from one to the other. ‘I couldn’t see how. But I’ve been sitting here in the dark, working it all out, hoping and hoping you’d come back.’ Her eyes settle on Clay’s astonished face and her dirty, tear-streaked one breaks into a tentative smile.


  All Clay can do is absorb Lily Longhope and her words. The strange thrill inside redoubles and more. His father is alive? And this fiery girl is one of his own people?

  ‘Everyone thinks you both drowned when the Arkiel sunk,’ says Lily. ‘Another story that’s wrong,’ she adds.

  ‘They are alive?’ Broom asks incredulously. ‘Mara and Pollock?’ She pauses. ‘Gorbals? And they live in the mountains?’

  Lily nods at each question and Broom grasps the girl in a great hug, as if she embodies all the beloved friends she thought she’d lost. Then as Lily lists the names of everyone in Candlewood, Broom’s soft eyes spill long-held tears.

  ‘I thought they all drowned when our ship sank,’ Broom explains. ‘I thought we were the only ones who survived.’

  ‘Some died,’ Lily adds gently. ‘But more have been born.’

  ‘Who has been born?’ asks Broom. The look on her face tells Lily that she can’t yet bear to hear who died.

  ‘Lots,’ Lily smiles. ‘Mol called her girl after you. I’ve got pests round my ankles all day.’ The words catch in her throat as she realizes she’d love to have those little pests climbing over her, pulling her hair and squabbling right now.

  ‘Mum,’ Clay interrupts, ‘there isn’t time for this. We need to get out of here before a Scut comes.’

  ‘Yes. And I need to be with my people again,’ says Broom, her eyes yearning. ‘You’ll take us to Candlewood, Lily, won’t you?’

  Clay shifts from one foot to another. ‘Us?’

  ‘It’s where we belong.’ Broom is decided. ‘It’s where your father is, Clay.’

  Lily hesitates. ‘But – but I need your help first.’

  ‘Of course we’ll help you. You’re one of us.’ Broom frowns. ‘But why are you here, Lily, all by yourself?’

  ‘I came with Wing, but he – he,’ Lily stabs a finger towards Clay, her eyes filling, face darkening, ‘killed him.’

  Broom turns to her son, aghast. ‘You killed Wing?’

  ‘Not me,’ Clay panics. ‘Vollony. He killed a two-headed wolfman, with a wolf’s head growing next to his own.’

  ‘It was only Wing in his wolfskin coat!’ Lily cries. She turns to Broom. ‘Mum lied. They all lied to me. I thought Rowan was my dad, but he’s not. It’s someone called Fox in a city across the ocean. And I’m going to find him,’ she finishes.

  Broom’s eyes grow soft. ‘Now who does this hotheaded girl remind me of? Lily, Mara left the sky city so that she could save all of us. It was terrible for her because she’d found Fox after losing almost everyone else she loved. But she wouldn’t desert us when we needed her most.’

  ‘But she lied,’ Lily persists. ‘All my life she lied. She could have told me the truth. The least you can do for somebody is tell them who they are.’

  Broom pulls the girl towards her.

  ‘So you’ve run away and Mara doesn’t know where you are? She’ll be out of her mind!’

  ‘And I’ve lost Wing.’ Grief makes Lily shudder from head to toe.

  Broom shoots an anguished glance at Clay. ‘Mara loved that rat-child.’

  ‘No one likes me being with him because he’s wild. Not even Mum. Well, he’s gone now.’ Lily’s lips tremble but she shakes her head stubbornly. ‘I won’t go back until I find my Fox father. Or else Wing died for nothing.’

  ‘Fox is an ocean away,’ Broom says gently. ‘Mara should have told you, of course she should, but she was so young, like you, and she’d been through so much.’

  ‘I know,’ says Lily quietly.

  ‘How can we help you find your father? Right now,’ Broom remembers, flustered, ‘I’m supposed to be at the palace.’

  ‘Thought you were just about to run off to Candlewood?’ Clay reminds her. He’s been sitting on a pile of nets, frowning.

  ‘I can’t abandon Candle without a goodbye,’ Broom retorts uneasily. ‘Not just yet.’

  ‘Candle won’t let you go, Mum,’ says Clay. ‘Think about it. You’re her slave. She’ll be lost without you, especially now. If you really want to go, you have to just go – now.’

  Broom shakes damp sand fretfully from the hem of her windwrap. ‘I can’t just go. Candle’s like a daughter to me. We’ll steal her away with us – she doesn’t want to be married to the Pontifix. She’s scared. Oh, I don’t know.’ She wrings her hands together. ‘I need to think!’

  ‘The globe,’ Lily reminds them. She glares at Clay. ‘I want my halo back. All I need to do is get the globe from Tuck Culpy, then I can use the cyberwizz to find my father.’

  ‘The Pontifix,’ Broom is bewildered, ‘has Mara’s globe? But—’

  ‘Mother!’ Clay bursts out. ‘If I’m caught in here by a Scut I’ll get my hands chopped off – that’s if I’m lucky. There’s no time to tell everything. We need to get out of here, fast.’

  And best he doesn’t tell Lily what he’s done with her precious halo, thinks Clay; not just yet anyway.

  ‘I’ll take you to Candlewood,’ Lily bargains, ‘if you help me. You’ll never find your way through the mountains without me. Help me find my father,’ Lily’s pleading eyes meet Clay’s, ‘and I’ll take you to yours. Deal?’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Clay, feeling odd.

  The idea that Pollock the Hunter, the father he always thought was dead, is living on the other side of the mountains is a thought too strange for him to deal with right away. The excitement he feels now is to do with Lily, not for the father he was too tiny to remember. And how can he make a deal to leave Ilira for a new life in the mountains when his dream is to become a seafarer and explore the world?

  He jumps at the scuffle of boots outside. The metal door rattles as someone starts to pull it open.

  Clay draws out his dagger; Broom slaps his hand down.

  ‘I’ll sort this,’ she says.

  ‘He carries a gun!’ Clay hisses at her, but his mother is already at the cave door.

  He and Lily hold their breaths as Broom stalls the Scut.

  ‘Listen to her!’ Clay makes a retching sound. ‘He stinks like a festering fish and she’s—’

  ‘Shh!’ Lily puts her hand over his mouth.

  ‘I’ll take the girl as a kitchen slave for the palace – Clay knew I was looking for one – and the Pontifix won’t forget your kindness,’ Broom is saying, in a voice like warmed oil. ‘I will see to that.’

  ‘This wedding’s already cost me a day’s trade,’ growls the Scut, but there’s a sly smile in his voice.

  ‘Well worth it,’ coaxes Broom, ‘if you end up on good terms with a man like Tuck Culpy.’

  The cave door gives a rusty squeal. There’s a rough laugh and some scuffling. Clay reaches for his dagger again but before he can act Broom bursts back through the door, looking flustered.

  ‘Quick,’ she gasps.

  ‘What’re we doing, Mum? Huh? Did you kiss fish-breath out there?’Clay makes the vomiting noise again.

  ‘Never mind that,’ snaps Broom. ‘Just do as you’re told.’

  THE LIGHT OF ILIRA

  Candle’s wedding day spins around her in a dazzle.

  The Pontifix’s guards escorted her down the mountain under the new spring sun as the whirling songs of the windpipers rang out from the cavernous market halls of the mountain. The steep rockways were crammed with cheering citizens, their faces lit with smiles as she passed by. And lit up by her, Candle saw, as the necklace caught the weak sunbeams and burned them into fiery sparkles that made the eyes of other girls narrow with envy as her wedding procession swept past.

  Now Candle steps into the steam gondola that waits in the harbour. The boat is decorated with bright billowing silks from distant Siberian ports. She takes her place in the cushioned seat across from her father who sits bolt upright, looking pained. He is furious, Candle notes with pleasure, that such a fuss is being made over her.

  She bursts out laughing. The gondola’s small funnel is behind Rodenglaw and it seems as though he’s hissing steam from the top of his h
ead. Her father glares at her as a long ribbon of silk slaps across his face. Candle giggles again. After all, what can he do to her now?

  The crowd falls quiet. Candle stifles her laughter and looks around to see why, wondering at all the faces suddenly turned towards the sky. Steam from the gondola clouds her view but she senses the ripple of panic in the crowds. Her father frowns, glancing upward, and orders the gondolier to set off.

  Candle forgets the strange panic as the wedding gondola puff-puffs towards the glass palace on the rocky islet deep in the great fjord. Her old, ordinary self has been left behind in her father’s caves. The wedding has magicked her into someone new.

  Light of Ilira! the people shout from the bridges, waving at the colourful spectacle of the gondola and its bride. Candle’s brilliant necklace surrounds her with an aura of longed-for sunlight after the long darkness of winter. In that moment the girl has a fleeting sense of what Ilira wants from her as the Pontifix’s bride, what she could be in her new life . . . some bright lodestar for her people that might bring Candle her own power in the world.

  The gondola rounds an islet so cragged its rocks look as if they’ve been uprooted violently from an unwilling Earth. The graceful masts of the Great Skua, the Pontifix’s ship, loom in front. Panic fills Candle as the gondola slides into the roughest of harbours and she sees the tall figure of the Pontifix with the vivid silks of his windwrap gusting around him – the man who rules Ilira and who will now rule her young life.

  THE MAGIC GLOBE

  The ceremony is a short, cold shock of words that fly over Candle’s head.

  She stands on the landing rock of the harbour, clutching her polar-bear cloak around her, swallowing angry tears. She had expected a grand wedding in the palace in front of the important families of Ilira. Why be dressed up in furs and gems for a trade deal between two men on a wind-blasted rock?

  Her send-off from Ilira was only a spectacle for the people. Even the painted shaman – whose body charms of bones, walrus teeth and seashells make him rattle in the wind – chants the marriage spell as fast as he can then blows a blessing of air, ash, seawater, rain and earth over them, looking mightily bored.