Glass Town Wars

by Celia Rees

  “It brought you to me. True Thomas. Emily.” She reached out as the net of light swayed under them. “It is quite safe. You grow accustomed to it.”

  “What is this?” Tom asked. “Where are we?”

  “Between Heaven and Earth.” She took their hands and led them across the pulsating, radiating lines of light. “This is the Light Web. We’ve found our place. Our space. There was nowhere left for us in the lower world: humankind has filled all the wild places, our glens and valleys; our rings, mounds and knolls bulldozed and built over; our green paths turned into motorways. So we have made our home here, in what you call cyberspace, between Heaven and Earth. It extends far further than you know. There are no limits. It attracted us from its very beginnings. It has grown and grown and will go on growing. You have created it, so it reflects your collective mind. Wild and undisciplined, full of good things and bad things in almost equal measure. Good and evil, constantly duelling with each other, as they have for time out of mind.”

  “Did you free us?” Tom asked.

  The Lady shook her head. “Someone else did that. Someone from your world. I can find no trace of your enemy. He seems to have disappeared, along with most of the sites he controlled. We rarely act directly. The Light Web acts like a dream snare, holding on to the bad, letting through the good. Do you see the larger lights where the lines meet? Each of those is a site, or a person, we support in one way or another—though they don’t know it, of course. They think that it is Providence, or the Universe, or synchronicity, but we help those who are helping to spread goodness, wisdom, light. Healers, teachers, shamans, believers—young, some of them, very young; others old—all ancient souls who have come to recognize the power for good that this thing you call the internet contains. It is strange: the more material your world becomes, the more people seek for something ‘other’. These wise ones provide just that. We help to connect, that’s all—allow the word to be spread, give guidance, help to light the way.”

  “How do you do that?” Tom asked.

  “We monitor social media, looking for likely causes and candidates. That’s what this is partly about.” She indicated the intricate web of light around them. “When we find someone, they receive help with their project. Always anonymously, but no one turns down money.” She laughed. “Or at least, they haven’t yet. We also help with crowdfunding. We have a charitable foundation in your world that supports many, many causes. Some of our number are among you, passing as rich, philanthropic individuals who are happy to invest, to lend a helping hand. My brother is there now.”

  “How do you fund all that?”

  “Anything to do with the Fair Folk is very popular,” she said. “Our sites do very well.”

  Tom looked at Emily and wondered what those wide grey eyes were making of all this. He was finding it hard to take in, but at least he knew what the Lady was talking about when it came to the internet. He needn’t have worried. Emily was treating it a little like the helicopter and all the other strange things that had come after, one following another. With interest and not a little wonder, but with acceptance, too. That is how things are.

  The Lady smiled as she saw the look that passed between them.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, as though she could read Tom’s mind. “Emily’s imagination is so wide, she can take anything in her stride.”

  Emily smiled back. This was no stranger than any of the places that Tom had shown her. She didn’t fully understand what they were talking about—didn’t need to; her eyes were fixed on the weave of colours pulsing across the web of light. Her capacity for unquestioning wonder was as wide as her imagination, and that was infinite. It made no difference whether she was out on the moors at night, looking at the stars, or here, wherever this place was. Looking for meaning, explanation, would only dull the shining, pulsing brilliance around her, consign it to the ditch of ordinariness. But the Light Web was surrounded by darkness, just like the stars in the night sky. “Good and evil,” the Lady had said, “constantly duelling with each other.” Rogue would always be somewhere…

  Glass Town. How little she’d thought about it, so caught up had she been in what had been happening—and with no way clear way back to it, there had been little point. Now that things had changed, anything could have happened there, but she wouldn’t know.

  “We have to get back to Glass Town,” she said. “Can you help us?”

  “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Annie’s brown eyes grew wide with wonder. There were tears there, joy and relief mixed together. “We’ve heard that many rumours. That you was tack off by Rogue. He’s disappeared wi’ that Zenobia, looks like. That you run away wi’ that soldier lad, Tom. Even took by the Fairish—imagine…” Annie sniffed and dashed a hand at her cheeks. “Here’s me tacking on. Are you safe, my lady? Are you sound?”

  “Quite safe, Annie.” Augusta took her hands. “Quite sound.”

  “And you, milad?” she said to Tom.

  “I’m fine, too,” he replied.

  At the sound of their voices, the yelping and whining at the door became a deep-throated roaring; scratching turned to a battering attack.

  “He’s pined summat chronic,” Annie said. “Wouldn’t eat. Howling all day, all night, piteous to hear. Wouldn’t let no one near him. We had to lock him up, he were that wild.”

  Tom opened the door and Keeper bounded in, swinging his big head from side to side, his jaws clamped by an iron muzzle.

  “Douro’s orders,” Annie explained. “It was either that or he’d have had him shot.”

  His skin hung loose on the bones of his huge frame and he whined like a pup when Augusta knelt to remove the muzzle. She cast the ugly thing aside and put her arms round the dog. He whined softly, nuzzling at her, licking her face with his rough tongue, then he gave the same greeting to Tom, nearly knocking him over, planting his big paws on Tom’s shoulders.

  “Whoa!” Tom laughed and put his arms round the dog. “Let’s get you down to the kitchen—find you something proper to eat that’s not me.”

  “’Appen they’ll have plenty there,” Annie said as they went to the kitchen. “The Duke were due to hold a state banquet. Now he’s gone back to ’is estate, and wi’ that Mina Laury… ‘looking after him’… well, that’s what they’re calling it. Douro’s gone off to found a whole new country—going to call it Angria, so they say. Good riddance, I say.”

  “So if the Duke and Douro have gone and Rogue’s disappeared…” Augusta frowned. “Who’s in charge?”

  Before Annie could answer, Lord Charles Wellesley came sweeping into the kitchen.

  “Speak of the devil,” she said quietly.

  “What’s that, Annie?”

  “Nowt, milord.” Annie sketched a very small curtsey. “I were just about to mention your name.”

  Lord Charles ignored her, his bright hazel eyes on Augusta.

  “Augusta! My dear girl! Where have you been?”

  “Well, I…” Augusta was at a complete loss as to how to explain the extraordinary set of adventures that had befallen her.

  Luckily, Lord Charles didn’t wait for an answer.

  “You missed all the excitement. Rogue disappeared. We’ve put it about that he was banished by the Duke, but really we have no idea where he went and could not care less. He appears to have taken Zenobia with him.” He gave a mock shudder. “A relief to everyone. Without him, his ‘revolution’ collapsed like a paper bag. Johnny Lockhart rallied the troops. Those ruffian bully boys Rogue calls his ‘rare lads’ beat a hasty retreat back to their kennels, the men they ‘recruited’ melting away by the second. Simplicity itself for Johnny to go in with some loyal troops and mop them up. It was all over in no time—hardly a shot fired. That Frenchie was sent packing back to Frenchiland with his hideous machine. The Duke caught wind and left for his country estate at first light, and Douro’s decided he’s had enough of Glass Town and has gone off somewhere to set up the New State of Angria. Leaving me and Johnny and a few others to run th
ings here. We had a meeting in Bravey’s: me, Johnny, Bud, Tree, the doctor, even Young Soult. Glass Town is to be a true democracy. The Tower of All Nations is to be renamed the Tower of the People and every citizen allowed a vote. Representatives of your Dark Lantern Men were there and some of the Original Twelve—Parry, Ross. It’s all here in this morning’s edition.”

  He gave Augusta a copy of the Young Men’s Magazine. The story filled the front page under the headline A Full Account of the Recent Momentous Events by Lord Charles Wellesley.

  “Parry and Ross, you said?” Augusta looked up from the paper.

  “Yes, they’re back.” Lord Charles went on. “They’ve been back for a while, it seems. Rogue’s black freighter was stopping them getting into the harbour. Then it was destroyed in a mysterious explosion, along with the rest of his pirate fleet. Parry and Ross and their sailors helped mop up elements of resistance down by the harbour before coming up here to lend a hand. All peaceful now.”

  Parry and Ross meant escape from Glass Town. Parry and Ross meant taking the North-west Passage through to the Pacific. That had been her dream, for weeks, months, years. All she’d wanted was to leave this place and establish a kingdom, a queendom, of her own. Gondal.

  “They’ll be sailing on the morning tide.”

  “So soon?”

  “They are only waiting on your return.” Lord Charles hesitated. “I know that to go with them was all you’ve wanted. All you’ve wished for. We would dearly like you to stay and help us build the new Glass Town Republic but I know it’s not where your heart lies. It was never me who desired to stop you. Never me who didn’t want you to go.”

  In her mind, she could see the ships moving slightly with the ebb and flow of the water; hear the lapping, the creak of rope and timber. What had seemed impossible for so long was here. A short walk away. All she had to do was take the steep slope down to the harbour. Why would it be so hard to do? Because of Tom. She looked up at him. He was thinking the same thing; she could see it in that slight creasing frown of his. He could come, too. Of course. It was so simple. She felt a great lightness and excitement as the idea caught her. They need never be apart. He would love it there. So much to find, so much to discover. Together. Always together. Pictures and plans tumbled after each other. A whole new world. Theirs alone.

  From outside came the haunting refrain of the Moorishco. Obviously. She smiled as she took Tom’s hands in hers. They would go out now and celebrate, then take ship on the morning tide.

  “Don’t mind me.” Lord Charles strolled to the window, thumbs lodged in waistcoat pockets. “Moorishco are back for Fiesta, I see. The People’s Fiesta.” He peered out pointedly. “I’m blowed how they know…”

  When he turned, he was alone apart from Keeper, gnawing on a great ox bone.

  JOE WAS IN THE HABIT of coming into Tom’s room as often as he could. Not always because he had anything to do. Sometimes, he would just stand by the bed and watch him. He was not aware of any particular time passing.

  When he looked up on this occasion, Lucy was in her usual place in the corner. She moved quieter than a spotted cat. She reminded him of the margay, his favourite among the jungle cats of his country: shy, solitary, clever and the prettiest of all.

  He turned up his watch. “I’m due a break. Do you fancy a coffee?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “OK.”

  “I’ll meet you down there.”

  Lucy took the lift to the ground floor. The hospital was a bit of a maze but Lucy was used to negotiating the hubs and corridors. A woman rushed past her in tears, obviously the recipient of bad news; then a young couple, both heads bent towards a very small baby that they held between them in a carrycot. That’s what this place is about, Lucy thought, as she walked past the little shops selling snacks, books and magazines, gifts and accessories. Strip everything else away and it’s about life and death, going on all the time, in the same place.

  Lucy got her soy latte and found a quiet corner in the Four Seasons coffee bar.

  Soon Joe came over with his Americano. He took a sip and put his mug down again. “They always make coffee too hot,” he said after a moment. “I want to try something, with Tom. Will you help me?”

  “Of course. Anything,” she said. “I’ll do anything. What are you going to do?”

  He didn’t reply to that.

  “I am a shaman,” he said, stirring his coffee with a stick, making the black liquid swirl this way and that. He looked around. “I don’t tell anybody here. They wouldn’t understand.”

  Lucy looked down at her coffee, pleased that he would think that she did.

  “In my country, among my people, we are born, not chosen. The women who delivered me knew as soon as I came into the world; my mother says she knew even before that. It’s not an easy road, not one that parents wish for their child. You are respected, yes—treated with awe, even. But feared also, even hated.” He laughed. “That’s heavy for a little kid. Those who cure can kill; those who heal can harm. Isn’t that what was said here about your own wise women, the ones that people called witches?”

  Lucy nodded. She’d heard that.

  “I come from a tiny village many miles from any city,” he went on. “As I got older, I became restless. I wanted to see more of the world and I wanted to learn Western medicine. I went to Mexico City. I couldn’t afford to become a doctor, so I enrolled to train as a nurse. The shaman can’t cure everything.” He laughed. “Sometimes vaccines, antibiotics work better.”

  “How did you end up here?”

  “A girl.” He smiled, his face lit with memory. “British, a doctor, working with an NGO. When she came back to the UK, I came with her.”

  “Are you still together?”

  He shook his head and laughed again, but there was hurt there this time, a shine about his black eyes. “Nah. I travelled around a bit after we split but wound up back here.”

  “You said you want to try something with Tom?”

  “Yes, I do. But I need you to be there. To keep watch. To make sure no one comes in. I can time it so’s it won’t coincide with doctors’ rounds, and I’m in charge of his other care, but I need you to be there to stop anyone else.”

  “When will you do it?” she asked.

  “I need time to prepare but it has to be soon. Evening visiting. Just before I go off shift. Tomorrow.”

  THE LIGHT OF THE SETTING SUN was on the buildings, rose red and honey gold. The air was warm. Here and there, lights were showing, brightening in the gloaming. Fireflies danced in the corner of the square.

  As the music started, she took his hand and held it high, then she slipped her arm round his waist and held him.

  “Do you remember?”

  “I remember,” he said.

  Whatever was happening in the morning, wherever she was going, he was going with her. What was the point in returning to real life? What real life? Lying in a hospital bed, tethered to machines that were doing the living for him? That was no life. He’d rather be dead…

  He didn’t have to say anything. He knew that she wanted what he wanted from the way she was looking at him, holding him, the closeness of her. She’d gone off with one of the Moorishco girls and came back dressed like her, the skirt beaded and embroidered, the blouse sewn with coins that shimmered as she moved. Her hair was down, snaking round her shoulders. There was a wildness about her; he couldn’t keep up with her. She spun away to dance alone, whirling to the music, like the Moorishco. They were playing for her, playing her even, the music getting higher and higher, wilder and wilder. One of the Moorishco girls was dancing with her now, matching her movements; everyone was clapping and stamping, as they danced faster and faster.

  She came back and threw her arms around him. He felt the heat from her, the sheen on her skin, hair damp under his fingers. She shivered as the night air cooled her and he held her tighter. He bent his face to hers and they kissed. He felt drunk, even though he hadn’t tasted a thing. She broke from him and wa
s away again, grabbing a passing cup and drinking it off before dancing off after the Moorishco as they left the square. He grabbed a bottle of wine from a table and went in pursuit.

  Above them the moon was huge, hanging in the sky, its seas and craters showing like tarnish on its burnished surface. Its bright light took colour away, rendering the world silver and grey with inky deep shadows. Tom plunged into a narrow street, the worn paving shining in the bluish light, the high walls casting sharp shadows across the stones. He’d lost her.

  He followed the twists and turns from one street to another. Finally, he stood, hands on knees, out of breath and panting, wondering which way to go, trying to locate the sound of the Moorishco, which seemed to come from all around, everywhere and nowhere at once. Then he heard a piercing whistle and a low laugh.

  “Over here. What took yer so long?”

  He heard the creak of a garden door and followed her into the shadows.

  Inside, the garden glimmered in the blue and white light, the moon picking up the white of the flowers in dark foliage, the flutter of the moths gathered about them. The air was soft, heavy with the scent of jasmine and oleander. They wandered, hand in hand, down a winding path set in patterns of black and white stones. It led them past a pomegranate tree, laden with heavy red fruit, to the glitter and trickle of water. A fountain playing into a pool starred with water lily and lotus, the moon reflected in the rippling surface. Carp rose and disappeared like green-gold shadows moving in and out of the lily pads.

  Beyond lay a pavilion roofed with vines, the floor thick with carpets and scattered with cushions. It’s like the perfect chill-out area, Tom thought—there was even a hookah in the corner. They sat down and shared the wine and talked of Gondal.

  “It will be ours, love,” she said. “All ours, to do what we like with, peopled how we wish. There could be armies, fighting…”

  Tom shook his head. “No armies. No fighting.”