‘Ye’ll not want to drink it,’ said the old man on the edge of the dark, before Bruno could say anything. ‘Ye’ll want to refuse.’
Bruno looked to every eye. He hesitated. Then he took the cup and drank, determined – it tasted sweet, then sharp, and he felt suddenly more awake, more alert.
‘It’ll strengthen ye,’ said Conn.
‘How can ye hide here?’ said Bruno, his mind clearing, ripening with questions. ‘Why do the Elders not come for ye?’
‘Why would they?’ said the old man, his agitation returned. ‘If ye think a thing is less than human, has no voice to speak with nor any brains to be thinking with, then why bother yer head by chasing after it, trying to stamp it out?’
‘They don’t care,’ said Conn, ‘coz we’re hardly even here.’
‘That’s what I said!’ said the old man.
The twins sniggered.
‘How come ye’re the only ones left?’ asked Bruno.
The silence this question brought was absolute. Every head fell. Minutes passed, and then a deep, long sigh, and firm words: ‘I’ll tell ye,’ said the old man. ‘I’ll tell ye the truth, how we came to be the last. I’ll tell ye the Tall Tale of the Cinder-Folk.’
That’s where I knew it from, thought Bruno. That’s where I’ve heard the name ‘Cinder-Folk’ before. But he said nothing. Nerves jangling, memory racing, he listened as the old man spoke in a voice still low, still strong –
‘Once upon a time, in the part of Pitch End we know nowadays as Old Town, there lived a peaceful people known as the Cinder-Folk. Peaceful, but wondrously powerful too – not just in Talent, but in their ability to brew concoctions, to bind leaves and weeds and powders to cure any ill.
‘Now, there was one such member of the Cinder-Folk respected above all others: a woman known as Clara, and she was the most potent and revered of all Cinder-Folk. One night she was in her caravan, speaking softly to the raven she kept as her own special pet, and same time brewing a heady concoction that she hoped would soon cure her neighbour of her heartache at losing her beloved, when there was a knock on her door. She opened it to an old man, who was blue and bent with cold and coughing something terrible into a rag. She noticed he was wearing nothing on his feet. “May I come in,” asked the man, “and rest the night here? For I’ve nowhere else to go, my home having been destroyed by a recent storm.” Clara had no reason to doubt the sincerity of the stranger, and she was in any case a kind, compassionate woman. So she opened the door and admitted the man. She boiled water, added a snatch of leaves to a cup and served him a hot tonic.
‘The old man pronounced the drink “Most wondrous!” and asked then: “Tell me, what leaf did you add to make it so rightly-effective?” Clara wondered for a moment, but saw no harm in confessing her secret to this harmless old man. She told him the type of leaf (which I shall not repeat, for fear of giving away Cinder-Folk secrets myself), and he smiled, saying, “Thank you, my dear. I shall know what to look out for now.”
‘But Clara had a warning for the old man: “Do not,” she said, “be using too much of the leaf. Nor must you take it without first allowing it to mature for thirty-six nights and a day. For too much, and at the wrong time, can poison a being, and there is no known cure, even to the Cinder-Folk.”
‘The old man nodded, and after only half an hour’s rest he was on his way, as sprightly as a youngster.
‘The very next night though, the old man returned once again: “Help me,” he said, “for I have been robbed this very night in the shadow of the Clocktower, and have not a penny on me to buy food!” Clara happily, easily, asked the old man in. And once again, she provided for him – bread baked with moccle seeds, and another cup of her brew from the previous night. And once again, the old man pronounced it all, “Most wondrous!” and asked after the seeds in the bread – their kind, where he could find them. Seeing no harm in the old man – only a fierce curiosity, which is no sin at all – she told him where they were to be found (again – a secret I shall not divulge!), and what their qualities were. But again, she offered a warning: “Too many of the seeds,” she said, “and they will make you jabber incessantly, speaking only the most sacred – and darkest – thoughts in yer head.”
‘The old man thanked Clara again, and said he had best be on his way, for he had a meeting that he simply must get to.
‘On the third night – and with Clara expecting just such a thing to happen – the old man returned. His story this time? “I am all alone in the world, my dear. I have seen you create great wonders these past two nights, and you have been most generous to me. But I wonder, can you gift me one more thing?”
‘Clara thought, then asked, “What? What is it you ask of me?”
‘The old man licked his wrinkled lips. “To know the secret of eternal youth.”
‘Clara stood on the threshold of her home, lantern in hand, and this time she decided not to offer her hospitality, but not to resort to rudeness either, for there is no greater sin for the Cinder-Folk. “I cannot help you on that account,” she explained. “Such things are the preserve of nature, and I have no control over them. No good can come of meddling with the nature of Time.” And she made to close the door of her caravan.
‘No sooner had she reached for the door, however, than the old man grabbed it and wrenched it clean off the hinges. Before she could cry out or snatch up one of the many small bindings of leaf or twig that she kept as defences he forced her to the ground, hand on her mouth, and told her, “You will tell me all your secrets, Cinder-Woman, and I shall have all the power you have and more too!” He reached for the jar containing Clara’s supply of moccle seeds, pulled her mouth open and poured them in. Her raven, caged tonight, raged: wings clashed against the bars as it watched helplessly. And then, the effect of the moccle seeds sinking in, Clara began to babble her secrets to the air: how to divine water, how to predict the whims of the weather, how to raise a child who would not be unruly, how to soothe a broken heart, how to reason with Shadows … all this, and how to attain eternal youth: “The secret to youth must be in taking the youth of another – to steal this gift, this period of bliss and danger and wonder and fear, from a child. That is the only way to return something aged to something young.”
‘“Perfect,” said the man. “And how can I do this?”
‘Clara glanced towards her raven.
‘The effect of the moccle seeds was fading, and Clara regained enough of herself to throw off the aged man, get to her feet and cry out for help. But the old man had stolen her knowledge and recalled her warning from the first night … he snatched up the tin containing the leaves needed to concoct her empowering draught and willed her to the wall, forcing the leaves past her lips, into her mouth, down her throat. Too many of these leaves. True to her own warning, Clara collapsed, and was dead within an instant.
‘The man turned to face the raven. “So,” he said, “is it you, a dark creature, who can give me youth, make me young again? Take the youth from a child?”
‘The raven didn’t move.
‘The old man flung the door of the cage open, and as he did the raven took flight, a flurry of claw and feather and beak, tearing the old man’s eyes from his skull. The old man snatched out and took hold of one of the raven’s feet and pulled, breaking it free of the bird’s body (this, they say, is how the first one-footed raven was created).
‘Wailing, blood streaming from his sockets, the man then fled the caravan, on his way upending Clara’s lantern. The one-footed raven escaped too, on its way picking up a stray moccle seed and swallowing it down (this, they say, is how the first one-footed raven of Pitch End learned to speak).
‘Meanwhile, the fire quickly consumed Clara’s caravan. Flame leapt to the next caravan, and then the next, the air rent that night by screams from the Cinder-Folk as many, most, perished in their beds, some still enveloped in sleep, ignorant of their end.
‘But the old man was not without his torment – try as he might to leave
Old Town, he could not: just as he veered close to a street that might take him safely from the flames, Clara’s raven descended, crying, “Fiend! Liar!” and coaxed him back towards the fire. In the end, the blaze everywhere, there was no place to hide, nowhere to shelter. A figure appeared and approached the man, stepping through the flames, unscathed, holding them at bay with his Talent. An Elder, who kneeled and took the blinded man by the hair and demanded of him: “Did ye find out the secret I asked of ye? Did she tell ye?” For they had made an agreement the previous night: the old man asking for a great fortune, and the Elder promising it to him, if only he could force the Cinder-Folk woman to divulge the secret of eternal youth and power.
‘“She wouldn’t tell me,” said the man. “She said not to meddle in matters of Time. Please – help me, Elder. Save me from these flames!”
‘But the Elder did not, for he was selfish and uncaring. “You did not do as I asked, therefore our agreement is forfeit. I shall leave you to the flames.”
‘The man in his fear cried, “Wait! She didn’t say anything, but she did look to her raven as she died! A clue, surely!”
‘The Elder thought, wondered, and then said, “Very well. I am grateful for your information. And to express my gratitude, your death shall be quicker, less painful than if I simply left you.” The Elder flicked his hands and flame consumed the old man, leaving him to a fate no different to that of the Cinder-Folk, his cries no more distinct than theirs as they perished in the rising fire.’
Bruno looked to his empty cup. His thoughts were flying, circling then settling on when he’d first learned that Tall Tale, five turns before.
‘Ye’ve heard it,’ said Conn.
Bruno looked at him.
‘Ye don’t seem rightly shocked, so ye must’ve already read it or heard it told.’
‘Read it once,’ said Bruno. ‘In a book I found.’
‘Then ye’ve already started,’ said Conn. ‘Already begun yer learning, knowing the things them Elders don’t want ye to know.’
‘They’re true, then?’ asked Bruno, heart bursting with hope. ‘The Tall Tales?’
‘I said it was the truth before I started, didn’t I!’ said Conn’s father.
‘Nothing’s that simple,’ said Conn.
‘More truthful than what them Elders put about,’ said the old man.
‘Some bits are true enough,’ said Conn. ‘What Da just told – that’s how the tale was written down and how it was told to us when we all heard it, round the fire as children.’
Bruno was confused – some bits? Surely a thing was either true or not?
‘We weren’t called the Cinder-Folk till after the fire,’ said Conn. ‘That’s one thing. Another is the Elder – some say there was none that night. Or that the old man who tried to steal the Cinder-Folk secrets, who killed Clara, was an Elder himself.’
Conn sighed.
The twins copied him.
‘I believe in it,’ said Bruno.
‘So do I!’ said Dominic.
‘Me too!’ said Donal.
Conn’s laugh was small, not quite bitter.
Then came a sound that made everyone in the room start – the tolling of a bell.
‘Town hall bell,’ said Conn’s father, his voice lower, as though drifting, close to dreaming.
‘Never rings,’ said Conn. He looked to Bruno. ‘Ye’re being summoned. Ye have to go. Now.’
‘I don’t want to,’ said Bruno, though he got to his feet as Conn did, as the twins did, and followed across the room as they rushed to listen with ears pressed tight to the door. ‘Tell me more about the Cinder-Folk,’ said Bruno. ‘I need to be knowing.’
‘There’s need and there’s want,’ said Conn. ‘And for now, ye have all ye need. But here, take this. This is what ye’ll be needing more.’
He took Bruno’s hand, opened it – inside he laid a small, dark coal.
‘What is it?’ asked Bruno.
‘If ye ever want to know more,’ said Conn.
‘Ever want to be calling us,’ followed Dominic.
‘Ever want to find us,’ said Donal.
‘Ever want a hand!’ called the grandfather.
‘Ever need help,’ said Conn in a whisper, ‘then just add a spot of blood to it and it’ll fairly glow, will send signals. And we’ll be there, Bruno Atlas.’
A final kiss was passed like a father to a parting son.
Conn opened the door to the rain, to a Pitch End Bruno had almost forgotten, so completely had he sunk into the Tall Tale. The town hall bell called, almost unbearable in its insistence. And then, not knowing why, Bruno reached for his father’s medallion. He held it in both hands and let Conn see. He didn’t speak.
Then Conn sighed, again.
‘Bruno Atlas,’ he said, with a small shake to his head. ‘Ye’re a dark horse, aren’t ye? Following in yer father’s footsteps? There’s a task and a half.’
‘What do I do?’ asked Bruno.
Conn told him, ‘All anyone can ever do in Pitch End: just stay as ye are. And then hope that when the time comes ye’ll not be alone, and that ye’ll know what to do for the best. Be Bruno Atlas, and all that comes with it. Coz this is only the start. Things are changing, and all I can say is good luck to ye. Ye’ll be needing it.’
IX
The Tall Tale of the Faerie Fort
Leaving Old Town, Bruno had no choice but to join other Pitch Enders. In a throng close to frantic in their efforts to cross the square, they pushed and elbowed and bickered towards the town hall. And for once he felt a kinship with them. All soaked, all worried, all intrigued as the bell sounded its thunderous summons. But as Bruno passed between the tall, wooden double doors of the town hall’s entrance, he alone was stopped. A hand shot out of the darkness and clamped itself around his upper arm.
‘Straight into the Discussion Chamber,’ said a voice on the end of the arm. ‘None of this troubling to stand about or gawking.’
Bruno blinked raindrops from his lashes. His fear took shape – the Marshall, standing stern as the rifle at his side. The medallion beneath Bruno’s shirt, resting over his heart, needled his chest like something alive, aware of its own rising importance.
Bruno swallowed, and could only jerk his head as a response to the Marshall.
He was released, but slowly, and even when the Marshall had let go, the place he’d gripped still throbbed.
Bruno sidestepped into the town hall, quick as was respectable.
The next thing he knew was astounding light. Blood-red like an ill-omened sky and blazing, throbbing in the enormity of the entrance hall, stood a tree with long emaciated boughs bearing countless numbers of delicate tapered leaves, all a wild scarlet, each like an avid but noiseless flame, all aglow.
The Tall Tale of the Faerie Fort.
Fished from the dark waters of memory, the Tall Tale, the words that composed it, rushed to the surface as Bruno remembered. He heard the last section of the story as though a voice was reciting it to him alone in a low, conspiratorial whisper …
‘… and George Pitch, founder of Pitch End, took the scarlet bulb he’d been blessed with by the faerie woman and planted it that very night in the gaze of a full moon (as she’d instructed). He formed a small mound of earth and inserted the bulb just below the surface. Then he wept with thoughts of his wife, murdered in the night by the forces attempting to take control of Pitch End, and his worry for his seven half-orphaned sons. And the tears fell on the small mound, nourishing the bulb below the surface. As the faerie woman had told him, George Pitch lay beside the small mound and slept as an anxious father would beside an ill child – restless, always turning, dreaming terrible dreams of the fall of truth in Pitch End and the rise of evil, of Forgetting and ignorance. And of the coming of a group of men who would seek to control all life in the town. When George Pitch awoke in a blazing dawn, he looked up and beheld a vast tree that had sprouted overnight from the scarlet bulb – each leaf was scarlet, the mass of foliage trembl
ing in the breeze like an inferno. And George Pitch recollected what the faerie woman had told him before she had returned to her natural form and slipped back into the Sea of Apparitions: that any nightmares George Pitch might have had whilst sleeping next to the growing tree would never come to pass, so long as the tree, this Faerie Fort, remained. For the tree was to be a beacon of hope, not only to the Pitch Enders, but to all creatures – visible and unseeable, meek or mighty. And should the tree ever falter or fail, be felled or forsaken, then it would mean the end of Pitch End and all within it.’
Bruno had paused on the threshold to gape but was being pushed on by those anxious townsfolk keen to claim good seats in the Discussion Chamber. None were concerned by or interested in the Faerie Fort. None of them had read the Tall Tale, Bruno decided, and he thought of Conn’s words: in reading Tall Tales from Pitch End, he’d started something. Started to learn what the Elders didn’t want knowing.
He moved and looked closer. Not all the leaves of the Faerie Fort were imparting light. Some were no more than delicate slivers of weak ash and, at the coaxing of a stronger breath of wind, detached suddenly, dissolving in a flicker.
‘A penny for the Elders is a penny for Pitch End!’
Bruno’s attention shifted to a Trainee Elder by the door to the Discussion Chamber. He was shaking a wooden box with a dark slot, shouting, ‘Be generous now!’
As townsfolk passed, their fingers sought whatever coin they couldn’t afford, and with longing and Ever-Winter in their eyes, they deposited it.
Bruno slipped his hands into his pockets and found the penny Pace had given him. His hand shut on it.
More arrivals: Cat-Sentries, wending between legs, the collective hum of their clockwork sending a shiver through Bruno and, following behind like human familiars, the procession of Pitch End Widows. Bruno tried (but knew it impossible) to discern which Widow was his mother. An identical half-dozen, scalp to toe all in black, veiled, their lace-plaited hands held together to enforce the decisive gesture of Official Mourning, dark umbrellas wedged awkwardly between. He thought of calling out, clearing his throat even. He had so much to tell her. So much had happened. Perhaps his mother would acknowledge him, stop, speak?
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