Bruno wanted to cry out but his jaw was held shut by Miss Hope’s consuming Talent. He decided instead, the Shadows in the story as his guide: I won’t forget this. I won’t forget what was written there. Because Bruno had the sense – contrary as it felt – that what he’d read in Tall Tales from Pitch End was of greater importance than anything he’d been taught. Anything he’d read in The Wrath, anything from the lips of Miss Hope or any Elder. Then the strangest thought, electrifying: that more than any other thing in Pitch End, those Tall Tales were true.
VI
The Wintering
‘Come collect yer daily dose of Decency-Draught, guaranteed to fortify!’
‘Donate to the Elders, folks – dig deep! Their comfort is our joy!’
‘Potatoes! Carrots! Parsnips! Ten pence a bag, twenty pence a pair!’
‘Fresh fish! No fish fresher than fish just outta the sea and into yer hand!’
Noon in Pitch End. Bruno was sitting on a mooring post not far from where his father’s Forgetting had taken place ten turns before. His hands lay open, palms up, beseeching the sea, seeking the cool caress of mist, something to soothe where the ruler had struck. But the more minutes that passed the more traces of Miss Hope’s punishment showed – rising and livid and undeniable. Bruno tried to close his hands, winced, but promised himself he wouldn’t cry. He looked out, around –
Market-sellers were trying to out-holler one another, hunched under awnings with wares on the road, or leading donkeys as dull as damp brushes, saddle-baskets stacked up with nothing much. Outside The Fish in the Pan pub Enforcers were seated on barrels, throwing a game of BOX and downing pints of black beer, smoking and comparing the size of their rifles. Cat-Sentries were padding across the spine of the rooftops, awaiting an errant word or action, always the everywhere-eyes-and-ears of the Elders. Fishing boats were returning from their mornings, seagulls whirling above like furious halos, heckling and swooping and trying to unpick fish from bulging nets.
This was the sum of everything, all sight and sound of Pitch End.
‘Alright – two bags for twenty pence! Bargain!’
All was so familiar, nothing in Pitch End new. Like waking each morning and being presented with the same set of dull and threadbare clothes to wear, not a thing ever changed. Bruno shut his eyes, weary, and tried to consider the future.
Fifteen turns old. He would Come-Of-Age in June when he took his Leaving exam and finished at Hedge School, and then he’d be handed his decided life. Regardless of exam results, this was how it would happen for all those Coming-Of-Age: an envelope slipped under the door at night, a white card inside with a single dark word that would be his calling for the rest of his life; one of the following:
ENFORCER
FARMER
SHOPKEEPER
FISHERMAN
STREET-SWEEPER
MARKET-SELLER
Or, rare though it was –
TRAINEE ELDER
Others in Hedge School whispered their desire for this last. Hoped for it, then dared not to. Bruno had decided too: if he was made a Trainee Elder, he would run away. But he knew what his card would tell him; generations of fathers gifted their lot to sons. Everyone stayed as they were. The word contained in his envelope would be:
LIGHTHOUSE-KEEPER
The job itself wasn’t his worry. He liked time spent alone, and isolated in the lighthouse on the brink of the western headland would bring plenty of that. Even Coming-Of-Age didn’t bother (for as long as he remembered, Bruno had always wished himself many turns older than he was) – it was the fact he had no choice. He thought the cards likely had already been written, since birth or before! His role in life noted, ticked off. Something else to think about was what he’d do in the lighthouse. Last time the place had given out light was at least two turns before, the Temperate’s explanation being: ‘Why would we need a light to be guiding boats into our harbour? Doesn’t anyone we’d ever want coming into Pitch End know the way already? Might be seen as an open and rightly-warm invitation to any foreigner passing by! No – best darken it, and we’ll all sleep safer in our beds.’ So what other work would they have for him?
He tried to clench his fists and managed it, though the pain cost him unfortunate tears, a slow roll of syrupy blood and a great deal of inward swearing.
‘How’s Bruno? Ye daydreaming as usual?’
Bruno opened his eyes.
From one of the rusted fishing boats dragging itself towards the jetty, Mr Pace had called. Bruno managed to wave, contemplating as he’d done many times the prospect of stowing away aboard one of these vessels. He could slide too easily into daydreams of distant and glittering shores, brighter places, happier people.
Before Bruno himself could reply –
‘Less chat, more graft!’ the Harbour Master shouted back at Pace, repeating another favourite bit of Elder Advice.
Ten turns since his father’s Forgetting and Bruno noticed the unkindness of time on Mr Pace; watched him leap from the boat and stumble, hurry along the jetty like a half-lame hound and work to fasten the tow rope to a mooring post, panting.
‘Make sure ye tie that up good and tight this time, Wither!’ shouted the red-eyed Captain. ‘Don’t want it drifting off loose again! Got it?’
The Captain and Harbour Master exchanged a grin, a chuckle.
Pace didn’t reply, just tipped his hat to the Captain.
‘Ye shouldn’t let him call ye that,’ said Bruno. ‘Ye’re a fisherman now and not a Witherman.’
‘Bruno,’ said Pace with a sigh, setting his foot against the post and tugging on the rope, ‘old Pace here will always be a Witherman.’
‘Even not dealing with the dead any more?’ said Bruno. ‘Not sending them out to sea?’
They shared a small look. And in the small silence Bruno heard the low, slow tick, tick, tick of the clock in Pace’s chest.
‘I’ve towl ye a dozen times before,’ said Pace, lowering his voice. ‘Some things shouldn’t be talked about. How are ye anyway? How’s Definitive History these days?’
Bruno didn’t reply.
‘That good, eh?’ said Pace. ‘Here, take this for yerself. Get some sherbets or whatever ye buy these days for fun.’ He added a black penny to Bruno’s hand.
‘Thanks,’ said Bruno, and he pushed it into his trouser pocket.
‘What happened to yer hands there?’ asked Pace. ‘That blood on them?’
‘Nothing,’ Bruno said, clasping them together. ‘Just got into a bit of a fight.’
‘Ye need to watch yerself,’ said Pace. ‘Did I ever tell ye about the time I got into a scrap with Scabby McCormack?’
‘Scabby?’
‘Oh aye,’ said Pace. ‘Called him that coz he had all these scabs on his knees, always falling over, big clumsy lummock he was, always bullying too. But one day, I decided I’d stand up to oul Scabby, so I took me fist and I—’
Pace stopped.
‘Scabby McCormack,’ said Bruno, thinking aloud. ‘Was that Marshall McCormack? Because it was his daughter that I was—’
‘Anyway,’ Pace shouted suddenly, ‘shouldn’t Master Bruno Atlas be in school? Lunchtime must be near enough over by now, I’d be thinking.’
Bruno looked around – a Cat-Sentry had arrived close on one of the mooring posts with ears stiff and sharp.
‘I should be going now too, Atlas,’ said Pace. His head was dipped.
Bruno checked the Work-Dial near the jetty – the needle’s shadow was vague, but was inching back into the realm of WORK sure enough.
‘Aye,’ said Bruno. ‘Better be off.’
Pace leaned close to Bruno and muttered, ‘Sorry about that, but ye’re as clear as a rock pool for thinking, Bruno. Ye need to learn to hide yer worries away from them that would want to be knowing them. Take care of yerself.’ Pace chanced a hand on Bruno’s shoulder, a shaky squeeze, then hobbled off towards The Fish in the Pan.
Bruno remained, wondering about how easily he could be re
ad, and worrying. He watched one of the fishermen clamp a hand around the fat purse of a black bream’s body, the other sliding a blade in and up – tail to eyes in one swipe – and then plucking the tangle of guts from inside, flinging them into the sea. The fisherman looked at him, then laughed at the disgusted expression on Bruno’s face.
Yes, thought Bruno, I’m much too easy to read.
He stood and turned, dread crawling across his body like a fever, symptoms being: Hedge School, Sabitha McCormack, Miss Hope, Definitive History…
But on his feet and only a moment later, came a sound. Loud enough and clear enough to stop everyone and thing dead: men on the markets, the Enforcers, fishermen, the fold of waves, the breath in Bruno’s chest…
The sound of laughter.
Sudden light in the sea mist, a shred of blue-white, wavering, moving towards the jetty.
Another burst of laughter, the urgent blast of a foghorn –
‘Bruno, come away from there, quick-smart! Come away!’
Pace had returned. Stooped a few feet behind Bruno, he held out a shivering hand. But Bruno didn’t shift, eyes too besotted with approaching light.
‘Load yer weapons, prepare to fire,’ a voice behind him ordered.
‘What is it?’ another voice demanded.
‘Nothing,’ said the first voice. ‘It’s – it’s just nothing. Now get back all of ye! Wither – tell that boy to get back!’
Finally Bruno turned – a half-dozen Enforcers were behind, all kneeling with rifles aimed towards the mist. Towards the ‘nothing’.
‘Bruno!’ shouted Pace, his throat nearly tearing with the effort.
Then Bruno saw: the prow of a boat rushed clear of the mist, a lantern with a blue-white flame swinging high on the mast, speeding towards the jetty as Pace cried out yet again, straining to snatch Bruno away. But he’d already turned, running as the first boards of the jetty snapped in two under the charging boat. Bruno barely leaped clear of it before the Enforcers thought to fire, bullets finding echoes in the rust-stained hull as the boat came on and on, unstoppable –
A moment of exquisite terror: Bruno imagined the boat charging on and not stopping until it met the Elm Tree Mountains, cleaving Pitch End in two –
A scream –
Another pounding moment –
The Cat-Sentry on the mooring post, too keen to bear witness and record, was crunched beneath the fishing-boat –
It came to a slow stop; shuddering, reluctant, and only inches from where Bruno and Pace were sprawled on the ground. On a hull rough with barnacles, fragmented letters tried to declare: The Wintering.
Echoes of the boat’s arrival bounded through Pitch End – Enforcer gunshots, the snapping of wood and grind of metal, and the masts of fishing boats moored along the (now ruined) jetty clashing like frantic limbs.
Slowly, Bruno and Pace got to their feet. Slower still, market-sellers and fishermen began an approach. And further away again, the noise of the boat, the following press of silence, was drawing others: more Enforcers, more Cat-Sentries…
‘Everyone just be staying where they are!’
And Marshall McCormack.
‘Be leaving that boat!’
The Marshall passed close and Bruno examined his face: a scar descending from hairline to brow like a seam of bright silver was the only flaw, a thin chink in otherwise immaculate armour. And though he knew he should have Forgotten, Bruno remembered that night from which all things could be traced – scar a fresh wound, inflicted on a face that had interrogated, ordered, insulted, executed…
‘Wither! Be staying back! And get that child away too.’
Child? thought Bruno.
An Enforcer swooped on Bruno and Pace and took them by the scruffs. Bruno twisted, half-turned, and succeeded in shrugging him off.
‘This is an official Enforcer matter,’ the Marshall went on, voice not loud but as clear as struck glass. ‘No one is to be taking even a step closer.’ He brushed past Bruno, whispering to an Enforcer, ‘It’s like we were warned. This is the missing boat. Get Temperate Thomas.’
‘Why not just send a Sentry, sir?’ asked the Enforcer.
The Marshall gave him a look.
The Enforcer obeyed without more reply, running up South Street towards the town hall.
The Marshall turned on the watchers.
‘Did ye not hear me?’ he said. ‘Away now. The Dial says WORK, if ye know what that means and ye know what’s good for ye!’
‘Ye heard the Marshall,’ said another Enforcer, laying a hand on Pace.
‘A’right! A’right!’ said Pace, shrugging him off. ‘We’re going, rightly-obedient.’
Pace began to steer Bruno away through the crowd who were all retreating under order, but all slowly, curiosity like a glue on their soles. Bruno dragged his feet too, trying to snatch a better look at the boat, his breath swift, excitement and some fear fluttering in his chest – the boat, that laughter, the rush of its arrival, all as fierce as an accusation. Maybe, and just perhaps, Bruno thought, things can change in Pitch End.
Just as he was about to lose sight of The Wintering there was another scream from the crowd.
Bruno broke free of Pace, turned and was pushed to the ground once again, this time by a rush of Enforcers – a soaring of shrieks, human and gull, and through the stampeding legs of the townsfolk, Bruno saw a man aboard The Wintering, standing tall and screaming. A screaming which shifted into laughter – manic eyes wide and red-rimmed, mouth wider still and black.
The Enforcer’s bullets had no effect at first. The man shrugged them off like pellets of paper, but increasingly he cowered, body forming a shield around something. Bruno looked and looked and noticed a large crate tucked under the man’s arm, something he was keen to protect, splintered and bound with knotted lengths of seaweed. Then, brief and in no more than a glimpse, there was something else seen by Bruno: the cracked face of a clock, without hands, protruding from the man’s chest…
‘Gumbly-the-Witherman,’ Bruno heard Pace breathe.
Only the Marshall managed a true shot.
It struck the Witherman’s cheek and he stopped, looking directly at Bruno. Then Gumbly collapsed, the crate tumbling from his hands and pitching into the water.
Every Enforcer stormed The Wintering in a heartbeat. Marshall McCormack too, medals gleaming, pistol releasing a ribbon of smoke following its fatal shot. He crouched over the fallen Witherman.
Bruno got up, most senses asunder but still wanting to watch, to know, to capture every exchange, every moment, remember it.
Enforcers searched the fishing boat, kicking doors open and upending more crates – ‘Come out with yer hands in the air in the name of Pitch End!’ – and then returned to the Marshall to report. ‘No one else aboard, sir.’
‘Of course there isn’t,’ said the Marshall, and he slapped the Enforcer around the neck. ‘Fool. Now retrieve that crate from the water.’
Rubbing his neck, the Enforcer grabbed one of his fellows and the pair of them returned to the jetty.
‘School,’ said Pace, his fingers grinding into Bruno’s shoulder.
Bruno watched the Enforcers wade into the water like tentative children, rifles held aloft, submerged to the waist before they could reach the crate that Gumbly-the-Witherman had been carrying.
A nudge at Bruno’s leg – he looked down and saw a Cat-Sentry flow past and up South Street. Like the proudest feline returning with a bird between the teeth, Bruno knew it would hasten to the Elders then to present what it had just witnessed. Then it would be for Temperate Thomas to decide what these events meant for the people of Pitch End.
‘I said be going,’ said Pace. Bruno heard – almost felt in the chambers of his own chest – the fraught tick, tick, tick of Pace’s clock-heart.
‘Ye what?’ asked Bruno. ‘And miss more of this? What’s in the crate? Where do ye think he’s come from? Do you think he—’
‘Quiet, Bruno,’ Pace told him again, teeth gritted. �
��In the name of Pitch, none of yer arguing. Not now. And tell not a one about this. Not a single soul, do ye hear me?’
‘But why is Gumbly—’
Then Bruno noticed – the Marshall was watching. His eyes met Bruno’s, then shifted downwards. Bruno looked too – his father’s medallion, silver chain, silver eye with silver storm-petrel enclosed, was lying on the ground, its chain snapped. Must’ve fallen off when I got pushed, Bruno thought, and he kneeled and gathered it up in one hand. And when he looked up again, he saw the Marshall flinch as though he’d been stung, or shot.
‘Why is he looking at it?’ Bruno thought aloud.
‘I towl ye,’ whispered Pace, ‘ye give too much away, Bruno. Now away with ye before it’s too late.’ So Bruno said nothing more, only turned away. But in turning he saw a final thing. On the side of the crate being brought from the water was a symbol splashed in silver paint: a half-shut eye, a storm-petrel inside, and words stencilled below:
DO NOT BE OPENING THIS CRATE UNLESS YE WISH TO BE BRINGING A RIGHTLY-EARLY END TO EVERYTHING!
VII
Old Town
When Hedge School wound up that evening Bruno fled swifter than usual. Freed, he sprinted up the steep slope that ended in the meeting of North and South Streets, and there stopped in the quiet of the town square. The heart of the town, Bruno supposed, but a heart arrested. Dominated by the town hall and the tall, lopsided Clocktower – its hands unmoving, frozen at midnight (or midday, depending on who you talked to) – all of Pitch End rose slowly then steeply towards this alarming pinnacle, marking the town’s highest point, from which everything could be observed.
Bruno could’ve (should’ve) gone home. Without delay and like everyone else in town – to tea and toast, then bed and sleep filled with unmemorable, rightly-decent dreams. But Bruno didn’t want to go home. Couldn’t. He needed to know that what he’d witnessed on the jetty was a real thing, not a daydream he’d sunken into. That he’d seen the Witherman shot, the crate fall, the symbol on its side. The warning not to open. Because soon, he knew, the event would be as fully Forgotten as his father, same as all the dead and bygones and past things of Pitch End. Wiped away by the Elders.
Tall Tales From Pitch End Page 5