The Rookery

by Deborah Hewitt

  ‘You mentioned . . . a Pellervoinen safeguard?’ he said, clearing his throat.

  She nodded, and Crowley swung the coat over his shoulders.

  ‘My mother used to tell me bedtime stories about Mielikki and Pellervoinen laying the foundations of a magical world together. She gave me fairy tales,’ said Crowley, ‘so that in my dreams I could escape the hell we lived in with my father.’

  He reached for Alice’s coat and held it out to her. ‘I think I know what the safeguard is. Let me show you something – in London.’

  Of all the things Alice had thought he might be whisking her away to, huddling on a London street corner and staring at a piece of limestone was not what she’d expected. The ugly rock was a fairly uninspiring sight. It sat on a plinth, in a glass display case set into a stone wall on Cannon Street, opposite the train station. A pockmarked, misshapen lump. Of course, as a history graduate, she did appreciate its historical value, but she was uncertain of its relevance to the Rookery.

  ‘As interesting as the London Stone is, could you explain what—’ she started.

  ‘What I find fascinating is the fact people walk past it every single day and yet hardly anyone seems to be aware of its history.’

  ‘Its disputed history,’ said Alice.

  ‘You don’t think this stone is the magical heart of London?’ asked Crowley. ‘The Stone of Brutus, Britain’s first king. A palladium, safeguarding the city like the statue of Pallas Athene that protected the city of Troy. The stone that held Excalibur? Or a—’

  ‘Are you showing off?’ she asked.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it showing off simply to declare your expert knowledge and educate those around you on their deficiencies?’

  ‘Unless you’re on an episode of Mastermind, yes, it is.’

  ‘Then absolutely.’

  She shot him an amused look, and he gestured at the display case. ‘So how much of your famed history degree covered the London Stone?’ asked Crowley.

  ‘None of it,’ said Alice. She moved closer to the glass screen and squinted at the lump of limestone. ‘I mean, what is it – a thousand years old?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a historical artefact, but it’s been smothered by so many myths . . . no one knows anything factual about it. It would be better suited to a folklore degree.’

  ‘Or English,’ said Crowley. ‘Shakespeare wrote it into a scene in Henry VI. He had Jack Cade, the revolutionary, strike his staff on the London Stone and declare himself lord of the city. Blake and Dickens also wrote about the stone.’

  ‘Look, Crowley—’ she said slowly.

  ‘In the seventeenth century, the Worshipful Company of Spectacle Makers – the most impressive name for an optician’s you’ll ever hear – had a batch of spectacles that were declared unfit for sale by the courts, so they were ordered to be hammered to pieces on the London Stone.’

  She stared at him, wondering exactly where he was going with his bizarre factoids.

  ‘It was recorded in the court papers,’ he went on, ‘that “the judgement was executed accordingly in Cannon Street – on the remaining part of the London Stone”.’ He paused, his eyes bright, urging her to understand. ‘The remaining part of the London Stone. The inference being that it had originally been bigger and reduced in size or fragmented, with a piece broken off.’ He shook his head. ‘They were absolutely correct.’

  She peered in at the stone again. ‘That a piece of it was broken?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, tapping the window. ‘This is what remains of it here in London. And the fragment that was broken off . . . is in the Rookery.’

  ‘There’s a Rookery Stone? Then . . . why not take me to see that one instead of this?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not . . . quite as simple as that.’

  She gave him a speculative look. ‘You think this is Pellervoinen’s safeguard, don’t you?’ She paused. ‘But what does that even mean?’

  ‘This isn’t the safeguard,’ he said, with a nod at the display case.

  ‘The Rookery Stone, then?’ she asked, trying to piece it together. ‘The fragment is the safeguard?’

  ‘Did you know the London Stone has a guardian?’ he asked, neatly sidestepping her question. ‘The stone has been moved several times, but whoever is responsible for the building that houses the stone . . . is also its guardian. Once, it was the manager of a sports shop. I always thought that must have been an interesting job interview.’ His mouth quirked. ‘Tell me, Mr Smith, do you agree to manage our sales and customer service, work on Sundays until noon, and while you’re at it do you agree to become a protector of the realm and custodian of the legendary London Stone, defending it from all evils, lest London should fall?’

  She smiled distractedly and glanced up at the sleek, modern building that held the display case – an office block?

  ‘Well, I suppose this is probably more dignified than a sports shop,’ she offered.

  ‘I expect so.’ He moved back to the pavement’s edge, his eyes travelling up the pale, many-windowed building. ‘So long as the Stone of Brutus is safe, so long shall London flourish,’ he said.

  ‘Shakespeare?’

  ‘No.’ His gaze drifted down to her face. ‘As a matter of fact, no one knows who said it. Perhaps that adds to its mystique.’

  There was a moment’s silence. It was clear the link he was making. If the London Stone was damaged, London would fall. If the Rookery Stone was supposed to be a safeguard and was damaged, was it reasonable to assume that the Rookery would fall too? But it was the Summer Tree causing destruction in the Rookery, not a stone. Unless there was a connection between them.

  Alice’s energy levels were beginning to sink. Around her, London was coming alive, people threading through the streets clutching briefcases and handbags as they hurried to meetings or brunches. Alice felt like a ghost. Unseen. Standing in the middle of the street, discussing stones and stories while real life flowed around her. She didn’t belong to this world and this city any more.

  ‘If this one isn’t the safeguard, why have you brought me here, Crowley?’ she asked, suddenly tired. He could, after all, have told her all this in his kitchen.

  ‘To . . . examine the stone for any defects.’

  She frowned. ‘Defects? How would you ever be able to tell? It’s covered in them. It’s a weathered lump of—’

  ‘The Rookery is a parasite,’ he said. ‘Did you know?’

  ‘A . . .?’ She stared at him. ‘What are you talking about now?’

  ‘You’ve heard it mentioned that the Summer Tree gives life to the Rookery. Its roots stretch through the entire foundations; the city is built on the tree. Without the tree, there would be nothing.’

  She nodded cautiously. ‘Yes, Bea told me.’

  ‘And my mother told me fairy tales about the Rookery Stone,’ he said, striding past her to examine a glass door that led to the ground floor of the building – there was some sort of financial investor’s centre inside.

  ‘Or maybe not,’ said Crowley. He raised an eyebrow and opened the door, holding it out for her. She’d assumed he was opening the door to the void – which was why her mouth pinched as she stared suspiciously into a brightly lit room with a cosy waiting area and desks decorated with trailing pot plants. This was very much not an icy corridor between worlds.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she murmured to him. ‘Checking your pension investments?’

  He grinned and stepped inside. An older man in a pinstriped suit emerged from nowhere and greeted them with a smile. ‘Did you have an appointment?’

  ‘We’re from the British Museum,’ said Crowley. ‘I believe you were expecting us?’

  The man’s smile faltered and he cast about, uncertain. ‘Not . . . that I’m aware.’

  Crowley turned to Alice. ‘You did confirm our appointment?’ Before she could answer, he turned back to the man with an apologetic grin. ‘It seems my assistant neglected to confirm the arrangements. You really can’t get the staff
these days.’

  Alice gritted her teeth and smiled blithely. ‘You’ll pay for that later,’ she murmured under her breath.

  ‘Is that a promise?’ he whispered, whipping around before she could respond.

  He turned back to the suited man and gestured at the street. ‘It’s in the tenancy agreement,’ said Crowley, striding around the room, peering into corners and through windows. Then he stopped, turned on his heel and treated the man to a brief smile. ‘The lease allows for the British Museum to send a representative every year to check on the safety of the London Stone embedded in your outer wall.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the suited man, frowning. ‘Well . . . feel free to see what you can, but it’s walled off – it’s inaccessible.’ He paused. ‘You’d think the British Museum would know that.’

  ‘Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?’ said Alice, nodding in agreement and throwing a glance at Crowley.

  Crowley gestured at Alice. ‘Could you note that down, so that we can pass that on to the legal department?’ He sighed and stamped a foot on the wooden floor as though testing its strength. ‘Do you have a basement?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the man.

  Crowley’s eyes brightened. ‘Excellent.’ He turned to Alice and nodded at the door. ‘We’re very sorry to have disturbed you,’ he said. ‘We’ll come back when you’re closed.’

  ‘Closed?’ the man called after them as Crowley smirked and swept from the building.

  ‘Well that wasn’t very enlightening,’ he said. ‘But the basement sounds promising for a closer look.’ He glanced around the busy street and ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘What else did your mother tell you about the two stones?’ asked Alice, wandering back to peer through the glass. It really was a very ordinary-looking lump of stone.

  ‘That Pellervoinen opened a door from one world into another,’ he said. ‘Two worlds layered on top of each other, or perhaps side by side. But the Rookery was barren and fragile when it was first made. It needed a strong foundation. Every house Pellervoinen built collapsed. Every river Ahti created dried up. Mielikki’s tree was the only thing that strengthened the land. They built on it and around it, and what they built lasted – all because of the tree and its roots.’

  ‘The roots that ripped open Crane Park Island,’ she said, stepping back from the display case, deep in thought. ‘There’s something interesting about the word “safeguard”, isn’t there? Safeguards are . . . back-up plans. Plan Bs, used if plan A fails. Do you think that Pellervoinen’s safeguard was supposed to prevent the tree growing so recklessly? An opposing legacy acting on it like a block?’

  Crowley frowned. ‘I don’t know. My mother never mentioned anything of that nature, but . . .’ He shrugged wearily. ‘Why would she? I was just a child. She gave me a head full of stories, not nitty-gritty explanations.’

  ‘But it’s logical, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Just as a possibility? In my first membership test, there was a room full of objects from the other Houses, designed to work against the Mielikki legacy. Pellervoinen’s safeguard – the stone – could have been designed the same way.’

  ‘I wouldn’t rule anything out at this stage,’ said Crowley.

  Alice nodded with grim satisfaction. ‘Whatever the case, if we assume the Rookery Stone is involved in what’s gone wrong with the tree, then the tree must somehow be linked to the stone. If it wasn’t, it would make no difference if the stone was damaged. There has to be some sort of physical connection between them if one is affecting the other.’

  Crowley nodded, and his expression grew serious. ‘I think that’s . . . an entirely plausible theory.’

  There was a short pause while they each considered this.

  ‘Have you eaten breakfast?’ Crowley asked abruptly, scattering her thoughts.

  Alice shook her head.

  ‘There’s a cafe up there,’ he said, nodding at a distant building.

  They set off along the street, side by side. It felt strange. It felt normal. Maybe that was the reason for the strangeness; they’d never had the chance to do the normal things like going for a stroll and a coffee. They’d never had the chance to see how it – how they – might work.

  ‘A full English breakfast, please,’ Alice told the waitress, ‘with extra hash browns.’

  The waitress smiled and turned to Crowley. ‘And can I get you anything, sir?’

  ‘Just a coffee, please. Black, no sugar.’

  Alice gaped at him as the waitress hurried away. ‘You can’t do that!’ she hissed.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Just order a coffee after I’ve ordered a huge breakfast!’

  His brows knitted in confusion. ‘Why not?’

  She spluttered helplessly. ‘I can’t sit and gorge myself in front of a – a spectator. It’s not decent. You tricked me.’

  He chuffed out a laugh. ‘Eating is a basic need. But if my non-eating offends you, I’ll be sure to avoid watching you “gorge yourself”. In fact . . .’ He twitched the menu into his hands, opened it up and hid his face behind it. ‘There. Problem solved.’

  ‘I’m just saying,’ she said snippily, ‘it’s undignified to eat while someone is staring.’ She thought she saw his shoulders begin to shake, and her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She swiped the menu away from him. His face was a blank mask, but his eyes glittered darkly.

  ‘I will do everything I can to preserve your dignity,’ he said. ‘Satisfied?’

  A corner of his mouth lifted and she scowled at the tablecloth.

  ‘Let me show you something,’ he said, grabbing the salt and pepper shakers and planting them in the middle of the table. ‘Your theory about a link between the stone and tree?’ He tapped the pepper pot. ‘Imagine this is the London Stone.’ Leaning back, he snatched another from the empty table behind him. ‘And this one is the Rookery Stone.’ He sprinkled a line of pepper grains across the table, placing the pots at either end of the line.

  ‘The two stones,’ he said, ‘are anchors. Pellervoinen connected them.’

  She frowned, something niggling at her memory, though she couldn’t think what.

  ‘To hear my mother’s stories,’ said Crowley, ‘you might have believed he single-handedly roped the two cities together.’ He smiled at the table. ‘Pellervoinen tied the Rookery to an older city with stronger foundations. All it took was one parasitic stone to use as an anchor, the threads of our tie stretching right through the void, from one stone to the other.’

  ‘Like the two trees,’ said Alice. ‘The Summer Tree in the Rookery and the small replica here in London.’

  ‘Anchors,’ said Crowley. ‘Joining one world to another. Laying foundations that could be built on.’

  ‘Two trees and two stones in two cities,’ Alice said slowly, as her thoughts cleared and a memory struck her like an arrow. ‘Tilda mentioned anchors,’ she said, her blood beginning to pound. ‘In the library, when the tree was growing again. She said the anchors were broken. Crowley . . .?’

  They stared at each other across the table in uncomfortable silence. She suddenly swiped up the salt pot and moved it to the edge of the table. ‘Let’s call this the Summer Tree,’ she said. ‘And . . .?’

  Crowley leaned over and grabbed the salt from the empty table.

  ‘Let’s call this one the miniature tree,’ he said, holding up the purloined salt shaker. He then shook a line of salt over the table’s surface, crossing the line of pepper, and placed the salt pot down.

  ‘Two anchors in each city, connected to two anchors in the other,’ he said. ‘Created by Pellervoinen and Mielikki – laying the foundations together. And then . . . Mielikki’s Summer Tree . . .’ He pressed his fingers into the salt near the shaker and flicked it out so that it spread across the table. ‘The roots spread through the city, through the void, increasing the strength of the anchor. Then they built a city over the roots to prevent the Rookery from collapsing into the void.’

  ‘But that’s actually not my theory,’ said A
lice after a moment. ‘In this model,’ she said, looking at the individual lines of salt and pepper, ‘all the anchors are separate – two connected stones, two connected trees – in pairs, instead of all four connected. If they’re separate to each other, why would the trees be affected by a problem with the stones?’ She frowned. ‘Maybe I’m wrong, but Mielikki’s anchors seem stronger. How can a stone – magical or not – be stronger than the Tree of Life? Why can’t the tree survive a problem with the stones?’

  ‘Well the tree isn’t exactly having any difficulties surviving,’ said Crowley. ‘If anything, it’s the opposite.’

  ‘I think they’re all connected,’ said Alice. She snatched up the salt and pepper pots and shook them together, creating a mixed line from the remaining salt pot to the other pepper pot. ‘If Mielikki and Pellervoinen laid the foundations together . . . why wouldn’t they have joined stone to tree? Making them stronger. And if they are joined . . . then a problem with the stones would definitely impact on the tree too.’

  She plonked the pots onto the table. ‘Stone and tree, connected,’ she murmured. ‘Yin and yang. And here we are . . . Pellervoinen’s and Mielikki’s heirs . . . stone and tree.’

  He nodded, and the words unsaid fell into the silence. If Pellervoinen and Mielikki built the foundations, can we fix them?

  ‘Crowley, are you . . . crying?’ said Alice, staring at him in confusion. One eye was beginning to well up and he rubbed at it roughly.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You wafted the damned pepper into my eye.’

  Alice’s eyes widened and she tried to appear solemn and regretful. But it was difficult when the waitress appeared seconds later and surveyed the mess of salt and pepper grains all over the table.

  ‘We . . . had a bit of an accident,’ said Alice. ‘Could I borrow a cloth?’

  ‘What else do you remember about your mother?’ asked Alice, blowing on the steam curling from her second mug of tea. The plate in front of her was empty save for a few errant baked beans.

  Crowley frowned and rubbed his chin. ‘Presumably, I’m supposed to say ‘her perfume’ or ‘her kind smile’ or something along those lines. But I can remember neither of those.’ He gazed out of the cafe window, into the distance. ‘I remember her stories, and I remember feeling safe.’ He paused. ‘Or maybe it was only that I felt unsafe with my father, and so I associated her presence with safety.’ His eyes darted to Alice’s, and there was a bitter smile on his face. ‘Whatever she was to me is shaped by a comparison with him. She doesn’t get to be a memory in her own right.’