Wyntertide

by Caldecott, Andrew

‘Wine for a tipsard.’ She did not regard her husband as a drunkard, at least not quite. She judged tipsard a fair label for his current state of decline.

  He raised the test tube. ‘I’ve found a bird enzyme.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  Encouragingly, Fanguin looked dissatisfied. A deeper challenge would keep the stronger bottles at bay.

  Only later did Fanguin open Bolitho’s bequest: De Observatione Naturae, an Elizabethan copy of an early eleventh-century work by an English monk called Hilarion. His passable biologist’s Latin revealed Hilarion to be an intrepid pioneer in his own time, but with an understanding of the natural orders which bordered on the basic now.

  He managed only twenty pages.

  *

  Valourhand’s bequest arrived the following day in her lunch break, accompanied by a provocative note:

  To Miss Valourhand, North Tower rival and friend, I leave a speck of dark matter.

  She took the box, unopened, through the Southern Gate to the Island Field. A large willow had split and bore a curt warning on its divided trunk: HAZARD: DO NOT CLIMB. Valourhand took the notice to be a dare and promptly shinned up to the highest branch of size, where she made herself comfortable in a fork.

  Her scientific discussions with Bolitho had focused on antimatter, not dark matter, which was an entirely different animal, out there in quantity but invisible to even the most powerful telescopes. A speck of dark matter? What could Bolitho mean?

  The tasteful box from the stationers Rorschach & Blot featured telescopes and stars in cream on a magenta background, but expectation turned to numb disappointment, for the box held nothing. She slipped to the ground, grazing her legs, and briefly raged – Bolitho had snubbed her from the grave.

  She speedily reconsidered; Bolitho’s mischief had always had purpose. He liked to tease, not abuse.

  Then she smiled.

  Think outside the box, he was saying, and, Think dark matter.

  3

  Sunday Night, Visiting Night

  Thanks to Snorkel’s meanness and his own Puritan nature, Gorhambury lived close to Aggs, Oblong’s general person, at the eastern end of town in the quarter inhabited mostly by the hardworking poor. It was known as The Understairs – although whether a reference to the menial roles of its inhabitants or the wooden walkways that wound between the crabbed houses at all levels, a less elegant version of Aether’s Way, nobody knew for sure.

  This dismal location shielded him from interruption, until the Assistant Head Librarian entered – or rather, inveigled – her way into his life.

  He fought to keep Madge Brown’s visits to a minimum, but she somehow contrived to establish a routine of visiting on Sunday evenings at six. By seven Gorhambury invariably turned fretful about his state of preparation for the week ahead and at ten minutes past seven Miss Brown would insist on administering a head massage – on the first occasion, almost by force, although in time he admitted to finding the experience curiously soothing.

  Sensitive to Gorhambury’s industrious take on the traditional day of rest, she would depart at seven twenty-five precisely, leaving him a pre-cooked meal far beyond his own culinary talent and ambition.

  On this particular Sunday, a knock disturbed the fretful stage.

  ‘Godfery Fanguin and Orelia Roc, on business of state,’ declared his door grandly, before swinging open.

  ‘What do you two know about business of state?’

  ‘Rather a lot,’ replied Fanguin, striding in and waving a pamphlet in front of Gorhambury’s face.

  The title, Popular Choice Regulations, rang alarm bells.

  ‘Hello,’ said Madge Brown, voice as mousy as her looks.

  ‘Miss Brown and I were discussing library matters,’ said Gorhambury, a little too hastily.

  The librarian smiled. ‘He only has two glasses – you’ll have to make do with cups.’

  ‘Any port in a storm,’ boomed Fanguin.

  Gorhambury’s living space betrayed both his craving for order and straitened circumstances. Four chairs, two metallic and two wooden, rescued by Aggs from employers on the up, hugged a square table. There were no rugs, no pictures and no lampshades. A noticeboard listed Gorhambury’s appointments in the coming fortnight, with outstanding clerical tasks marked in multi-coloured footnotes.

  ‘You’ve been out and about – on your bicycles,’ said Gorhambury huffily.

  ‘We were exploring. We found a charming estate on the valley rim called The Agonies, as in the state of my calves,’ replied Fanguin cheerily.

  ‘No, you did not. You went to Hoy in clear breach of the History Regulations.’

  Fanguin and Orelia exchanged glances. Nothing escaped Snorkel’s eyes and ears.

  ‘We went in search of our rights,’ explained Fanguin.

  ‘He’s being pompous, but it’s true,’ added Orelia.

  The word ‘rights’ discomforted Gorhambury. ‘Rights’ meant challenges, disputes, rulings, trouble. But the ancient paper confirmed that this was law from the founding fathers: first fruit, 1650, when hereditary Heralds ceded political rule to elected Mayors. Gorhambury had never examined the Popular Choice Regulations – nobody had ever stood against Snorkel in his time – and he felt a twinge of guilt. He should have shown more interest as the quinquennial anniversaries came and went. His practised eye discarded the marginal and focused on essentials. From the lawyerly text, startling provisions emerged.

  ‘Well,’ muttered Gorhambury, ‘well, well, well. You declare your candidacy by slapping the Mayor’s bust with a particular velvet glove on a particular day.’ He hunted through the sea of text for the timing. ‘Which will be Saturday week, between nine and two, in the Parliament Chamber,’ he added.

  ‘Let me guess – the bust isn’t there.’ Fanguin grinned at the two women.

  ‘It’s been removed for cleaning,’ conceded Gorhambury. At the time, the decision had struck him as unusually domestic for the Mayor.

  ‘On you go,’ said Fanguin with a smirk.

  Gorhambury stammered, ‘Er . . . Regulation 32. “The Mayor must be present in the Chamber with his bust, and likewise a copy of these Regulations.”’ He shuffled across to his noticeboard. ‘It appears the Sewage Sub-Committee meeting has been moved to that Saturday . . .’ His voice faltered. ‘Unusually, the Mayor will be there, and equally unusually, it’s to be held in the Parliament Chamber – it says due to piling works, but . . .’

  ‘There are no piling works,’ boomed Fanguin, grinning. He was enjoying himself hugely: twenty pounds well spent.

  ‘He has to have the bust there,’ said Orelia, ‘and if he doesn’t, he has to resign and can never stand for election again. He wouldn’t risk that, now would he?’

  ‘Park that one with me,’ beamed Fanguin.

  ‘It’s an open meeting?’ asked Orelia.

  ‘Technically,’ the clerk acknowledged, ‘but sewage and plumbing aren’t much of a draw.’

  ‘Why he chose it, no doubt.’ Fanguin’s tone changed. ‘Gorhambury, advertise the meeting for what it is: our quinquennial chance to stand and vote – nobody else will.’

  ‘Where does it say I do that?’ Gorhambury was feeling the pull of contradictory currents. The Regulations implied notifying the electorate, but candidates, factions and extravagant promises would surely follow.

  ‘There’s the spirit, and the letter,’ replied Fanguin.

  ‘I will do what the law requires. You, of course, are freer spirits.’ He winked clumsily.

  ‘Very true,’ chipped in Madge Brown.

  Orelia felt a surge of sympathy for the much-put-upon town clerk, who had served them so well in their struggle with Sir Veronal. ‘Poor Gorhambury – this is hardly his fault, and it’s his only day off. Let’s leave him in peace.’

  ‘His massage will cheer him up,’ said Madge, rolling up her sl
eeves like a surgeon.

  Gorhambury turned puce. ‘She only does the head,’ he stammered, ‘just the top of the head.’

  Orelia’s arm swept the room. ‘I’m going to liven this place up, Gorhambury, from my unsold reserves – rug, tablecloth and a shiny brass standard lamp with a shade. It’ll be on the shop.’

  ‘Going rates,’ insisted Mr Incorruptible.

  ‘Going rates are what I choose to charge,’ she said as they turned to leave.

  Fanguin gave his verdict on Snorkel’s electoral strategy as the staircase groaned beneath their feet. ‘Slippery as a box of monkeys, that one.’ Then he added pensively, ‘Bomber says I’d make a lousy Mayor.’

  Orelia said nothing, but she did not demur when he added, ‘I fear she’s right.’

  *

  On Sunday evening the chimes of eight initiated a weekly ritual, practised for centuries: the rewinding of Doom’s Tocsin, the gargantuan clock housed in the hexagonal wood-tiled bell-tower in Market Square. As the Keeper of the Clock hauled open the oak door studded with nail heads the size of large buttons, the shadows delivered a sacrilegious proposition.

  ‘May I join you?’

  ‘You may not!’

  ‘In this particular week, in this particular year, I am entitled to, being over eighteen and of sound mind.’ The features of a town unreliable emerged, wearing an uncharacteristically serious expression. ‘Allow me to explain.’

  Fanguin’s outlandish theory had the allure of elevating Doom’s Tocsin, and therefore its custodian, to a prominent role in affairs of state.

  Upon being shown the supporting Regulations, the Keeper relented. ‘Five minutes,’ he cautioned, ‘no more.’

  Fanguin scampered up into the gloom of the top storey, where the great bell hung in a forest of beams, a brooding presence. A feeble light from a single shielded gaslight danced across the rafters. The Keeper cried ‘time!’ just as Fanguin found what he was looking for: five small bells secured high in the roof, their ropes coiled and tied beneath them.

  ‘I never noticed them,’ exclaimed the Keeper apologetically.

  ‘Because you’ve never heard them – because there’s never been cause,’ Fanguin reassured him. He unhooked a ladder, shinned up and, wobbling precariously, felt inside the lowest bell. His hand emerged to wave an old velvet glove. Protected from grime by the brass cloche surrounding it, the glove boasted an elaborate golden R embroidered at the wrist. ‘The clappers are deadened by these! There’ll be one in each of the others, sure as eggs are eggs.’

  The Keeper of the Clocks grew an inch. ‘An ancient indenture lists my duties – one I never before understood: To admit aspiring rulers at due time.’ The Keeper smiled. ‘The genie’s out of the bottle now!’

  4

  Of Nightmares and Agonies

  That night Orelia endured a vivid nightmare. Midget-sized, she pushed through engulfing grass whose blades were actual blades which cut and infected, her skin wounds turning into malformities. Fingers hooked into claws; feet curled to hooves; hair thickened to mane; arms dangled, jointless. A trunk of wood with rough steps offered escape and she climbed, only to fall over a crossbar, crucified. She could not move, but a sawing wind buffeted her face. The upright held a sign at its pinnacle: The Agonies. Untenanted bicycles flew past, just out of reach.

  Below, a cart passed by, drawn by grotesques and piled high with books. A spectral coachman peered up at her: Bevis Vibes. He laughed and the grotesques laughed too, crying, ‘In a bind?’ as they passed.

  Orelia wrestled herself awake to find herself soaked in perspiration. She knew now where she must go, no matter what awaited her.

  *

  On Monday afternoon, she shut the shop and set off again by bicycle. Light grey clouds deepened to slate and mushroomed, their edges sharpening as the intervening blue turned milky: a storm was brewing and she had only a flimsy waterproof without a hood. ‘Wet to go back and wet to go on,’ she muttered, and opted for the latter.

  She hid her bicycle near the roadside sign to The Agonies. Wider than a track and narrower than a lane, the path twisted and turned as if itself in pain. A sudden wind, as oppressively humid as in her dream, flailed the bushes on either side. She slipped on her waterproof and began to jog towards the dark screen of trees crowning the perimeter of the Rotherweird Valley.

  The rain started heavy, quickly turning the ground slick, and she slowed to a crouching walk until blocked by an iron gate festooned with chains and padlocks. She followed a low wall topped with high spear-headed railings towards the escarpment. Beyond, through the bars, sporadic lightning illuminated cultivated vegetable beds, stone paths and espaliered fruit trees fastened tight against the walls. In the corners, funnels fed by gutters spilled the rainwater into brick wells – but there was still no sight of a dwelling.

  At the wall’s end, the drop looked daunting. Clusters of spikes like sea urchins prevented her from swinging round. Below she could see intertwined evergreen trees growing horizontally out into space before rearing skywards. In the rain and failing light, their upper reaches lost definition, dissolving into slabs of darkness.

  Below, a long bare tree trunk lay across the drop, extending just beyond the walled-off area. An explosive clap of thunder decided her. She slithered down on her front until her feet reached the trunk. It had not fallen naturally; she could see heavy oak piles, driven into the bank, supporting each end. Along the topside, footholds had been planed into the wood. It was galling to discover that her grazed knees had been unnecessary: a rope lay coiled under the lip of the bank above.

  As dusk slipped into night, it turned chill. She could not reach the rope, but nor could she climb back, so steep was the incline. Be rational, she chided herself, and when she crouched down and felt along the underside of the trunk, her fingers touched metal: hooks had been hammered in to hold a long pole. She raised it – and a thick rope with knots at intervals plummeted down, missing her head by inches. She replaced the pole, rubbed her hands dry and climbed.

  A trap door at the top slid across. She was entering through a floor, disguised by strips of bark, into a huge treehouse. Candlelight from a hanging lantern flooded through. She slid the trapdoor back across and took in a low-ceilinged lobby with benches, a set of lanterns attached to short staves, hooks hung with coats, small leather boots tucked underneath. Everything was child-sized, but not child-like. Living wood, trunk and branches merged in the walls, but the boarded floor was even. A ladder ascended to another trapdoor, this time locked from above.

  She tiptoed into the neighbouring room, which was lit by the glow of a dying fire. Her torch picked out rows of workbenches set with vices and covered with presses, string, rags and pots of gold paint. Unfamiliar tools lay in neat lines and sheets of different leathers hung from the walls: she had found the bookbinders’ workshop. But the sophisticated childishness unsettled her, as did yet another ladder ascending to yet another trapdoor, again locked. Strange pipes twisted like tree roots across the ceiling.

  She retrieved a lantern from the lobby and lit it from the fire.

  While this room held work, the next held recreation: board games on an array of tables, and hopscotch squares carved elegantly into the floor. Models, some complete and some in progress, hung from the ceiling and wooden sculptures, all finely rendered, often grotesques, crowded the mantelpiece.

  But where were the inhabitants? And why had the outside door been left unlocked?

  The last room on this level was a windowless larder with ducts pumping in cold air, filled with shelves of produce from the walled garden. Lives in balance, she thought. Work, play, husbandry and art.

  A long table against the far wall had been covered with white sacking. Through the scents of vegetables and fruit she caught the tang of camphor.

  The contour of the sacking took shape, and then she saw a white finger, peeking out, clenched and very dea
d. She lifted the shroud.

  Bevis Vibes exuded peace. Death had ironed out the twists in torso and face. Only the discoloration round the neck spoke of violence. Orelia recoiled. She had liked Vibes, thought him a character. She forced herself to reason: surely the unseen residents had not killed him. Not only did he sell their work, his body had been lovingly cleaned and embalmed. Somebody else must be responsible and they had chanced on the body – hence the retreat behind locked doors.

  Why had he been killed? For the book he had given her? If so, Straighten the Rope was a cruelly ironic title.

  She lifted the shroud higher, revealing a hand clawed like a crab. No wonder he wore gloves. Vibes was a child of the mixing-point.

  Had Orelia stumbled on a body in town, she would have reported it at once, but this death came from the twilight world where Rotherweird and Lost Acre connected: a world of man-made monsters, shapeshifters and immortals exempt from conventional rules. She was wondering what to do next when, beneath the patter of the rain, a muffled double thump, as of light feet landing, drew her back to the workroom.

  A man stood below the ladder. The fair hair, freckled skin and the absence of any stubble shadowing the face made him look young, but he had the poise of maturity, ambiguous as so much in this place. He wore trousers and a loose-fitting shirt, but his feet were bare.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked gently. The mild country burr sounded local.

  ‘I’m from the valley,’ she replied politely. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m from the valley too, more than most places. Why are you here?’

  ‘I saw your sign when I was cycling to Hoy – then I dreamed of it.’ Something about the boy demanded candour.

  He looked at her. ‘You have held the stones.’

  ‘I don’t any more,’ she said apologetically. ‘I sold them, not knowing what they were.’

  ‘Ah yes, Baubles & Relics.’

  How could he know so much? She offered a hand. ‘Orelia Roc. And you are?’