Glass Town Wars

by Celia Rees

  “But you are a soldier.” She frowned. “I thought you’d like that.”

  “No armies, no fighting.” Tom shook his head again. “And no other people.” He traced a finger over her silvered skin. “Just us,” he whispered. “Just us.”

  * * *

  “Are you sure this boy is what you want? Are you really sure?”

  The voice made her start. It was accompanied by that sardonic laugh, clear and loud. Was he here, somewhere in the garden, watching from the shadows, smiling, waiting for her under the pomegranate tree? She sat up, suddenly alert, as if she could see him, but there was no one. It must have been a trick of light and shadow. The sound, just an owl hooting. There was one perched on the corner of the pavilion. It was looking down at her. A big bird with tufts of feathers like horns and something odd about its eyes—and there were words in his call, words she recognized. She rose to come closer and it was gone with a quiet soughing of its huge wings.

  Tom stood up, stretching and yawning. “It must be nearly morning. Hadn’t we better go?”

  “ARE YOU SURE YOU’LL BE OK?”

  Lucy nodded.

  “No one is to come in, remember. No one. Any interruption could be dangerous.”

  Lucy nodded again. “What if someone does? Want to come in, I mean.”

  “They won’t. Doctors’ rounds were ages ago and I’m in charge of Tom’s care, remember? So no one, none of the other nurses, needs to come in. Tell them I’m in there, giving him a flannel bath—need a bit of privacy. You’ll think of something.”

  With that he slipped into Tom’s room. He put his old monkey-skin bag down on the chair and just stood for a while, listening to the sounds all around him: the machines doing Tom’s breathing, the monitor beeping and, further away, traffic, an ambulance siren mixed into the hum of the huge building, alive and active, like a great hive, twenty-four hours a day.

  Time to get started. The girl was right: he would not have all night. He’d made most of the preparations before coming here, fasting and purifying himself. He opened his bag and took out a small bottle, emptying the black liquid contents into a small bark cup. He drank it off in one, grimacing at the bitter taste. He waited for the herbal draught to take effect. That was why he’d arranged to do this thing after he came off shift and why he would be going home on the bus. He lit a sage smudge stick, blowing on the end until it was glowing, being careful, keeping it well away from the smoke alarms. It was a risk but it was important to cleanse the space of bad energy. This was a hospital: people suffered here, died here—who knew what bad stuff, what negative chi, might be trapped in this room, unable to move on to another place? He then turned and bowed to the four directions—South, West, North, East—muttering a prayer to honour each one and to ask for the help of the guardian spirits who lived there; he held his hands in prayer to reverence Mother Earth and opened his arms wide to Father Sky. Once he’d done that, he was about set.

  Some shamans used all kinds of other stuff—special stones, pipes, crystals and such—but for Joe it was pretty much him and his drum. He took it out now, an oval wooden hoop covered in stretched skin painted with pictograms and symbols. To Joe it was a living thing. It spoke to him. It had been given to him by a noaidi, a shaman of the Sámi peoples. Joe had travelled far in his search for knowledge.

  He began to walk slowly round the bed, tapping the drum softly, singing his song. He was a soul catcher, a natural, marked out as such from childhood. He’d worked with all kinds of lost and damaged souls, but coma patients were tricky. No knowing how far the soul had wandered, whether it wanted to return at all, or was getting ready to transcend, leave for good.

  As he drummed and chanted, he began to get a sense of things. Tom was with another, in the Middle World, the World of Dream. He was happy there. Didn’t want to come back. So he would not, could not return on his own. Joe would have to go get him. Joe was descending inside himself, going deeper and deeper, but his senses stayed alert, waiting for a guide. A white shape, broad wings outstretched, heading straight for the window, its sclerotic eyes blinded by the light. Joe flinched back, anticipating the impact, but the bird landed on the sill. An owl, a barn owl. It looked at him for a long moment with its sad, black eyes. It swivelled its big, round head, winding to look behind it, then it was gone, its silent wings shining in the moonlight as if sewn with pearls.

  Joe pulled his cloak tighter around him. The tugging wind hinted at rain. Britain, he guessed. He was in Britain. He should have been used to the climate by now. North. High moorland, few trees in the rocky ground, and he could feel the cold breath of the Old Ones on his face. He was in an ancient landscape. Very ancient. He could feel the age of the stones. They held inside them all knowledge: of what had been; what is; what is yet to be. He could hear the run of trickling water, see it pooled in hollows thick with fern and spiked with rushes. He put his hand down to touch the rough, wiry bushes that grew low about him. He was unfamiliar with the flora but he guessed heather as he bent closer to see the colour and taste the scent of the tiny bell-like flowers.

  He stood as still as the rocks about him and listened, searching for a suitable spirit animal. He sensed a hare near, asleep in its form, but there was plenty of other life about. The place was busy with it. All around, he could hear the snuffling, scuffling and scurrying of animals—mice, weasels, badgers going about their business—but most were too small or slow for his purpose. A handsome fox stopped to look at him. He stood quite still on delicate black legs, his fur a blaze in the moonlight, and stared with yellow eyes. He twitched one black-tipped ear then the other. Joe kept the fox’s eyes on him and was just about to merge when he heard a cry like tearing silk and an owl flew by, crossing the moon as it did so. That was the one.

  She wasn’t hard to find, seated in a chair made from slabs of stone. He landed on a bush not far distant and settled to watch. Perhaps the rocks had naturally formed that way but Joe didn’t think so. This was a seers’ chair made for the ones who wander to be kept safe on their journeying and on their return. Made by those who had lived here a long, long time ago. Their trackways still criss-crossed the land; the stones that they had placed still bore the marks that they had made and whispered of their presence here.

  She sat straight-backed, her feet firmly planted on the ground; hands resting lightly on the two slabs of stone that made the arms of the chair. She was travelling now, her eyes open but unseeing. She was a natural—he knew straight away. One who could slip out of her skin, step from this world to another as easily as she might leave the house. How had she learnt? he wondered. From whom? With his people, the apprenticeship was long and hard. Maybe there were folk hereabouts who lived by the old ways, kept the ancient wisdom alive. Maybe she didn’t need a teacher. Maybe the land itself had taught her. All that did not matter. He’d found her, and through her he’d find Tom.

  He spread his wide wings and swooped, landing on her knee. The grip of his talons made Emily glance down. She was looking at the owl with human eyes. There were words in his purring call. Words she knew.

  THE AIR WAS COOL as they took the steep road down to the harbour. The cockerels were only just beginning to crow. The sun had yet to clear the hills; there was still an orange glow behind Glass Town.

  “The tide is turning.” She stopped.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do.”

  “Well, shouldn’t we hurry?”

  She didn’t answer that. “I… I had a dream. Well, I think it was a dream. I heard a voice in the garden.”

  “Whose voice?”

  “Rogue’s voice.”

  “He’s gone. You heard them say so.”

  “What if he hasn’t? What if he’s here somewhere, waiting?”

  “He can’t have you. Not if I’m around.” Tom took her hand. “Anyway, you’re leaving, going to the other side of the world, to a place where he will never find you.”

  “I know. But what if I go there…” her voice dropped to
a whisper, “and lose you?”

  “But why would you?” He frowned. “I’m coming with you.”

  “After I heard Rogue,” she said, shivering, “I saw an owl, as close as you are now. It was there to tell me something. Owls rarely bring good news.”

  They were above the harbour now. Annie was waiting, her bundle on one side, Keeper on the other. The last of the supplies were being loaded, great nets swinging across to the decks. The gangplank was still down, but there was urgency about the orders being given. A ripple in the surface of the water, a slight shimmer in the perfect reflection of the ship, a movement in the houses and buildings of the town mirrored there. Glass Town: mutable, changeable, nothing permanent about it. In the outer harbour the mirror water was taking on colour, turning from steel blue to bright, burnished copper. The tide was on the ebb, going out, and it would take the ships with it.

  She found her feet dragging, held by a sudden reluctance to take the steep, worn steps down to the docks.

  “It was only dreaming. Come on.” Tom put his arm round her. “We have to go. You have to go and I’m coming with you—I promised, didn’t I?”

  “There you are!” Annie was looking out anxiously from the hood of her cloak. “Where have you been? All yer boxes are stowed.” She looked up at the net swinging above their heads. “That’s the last of them now. You were supposed to be here last night. Commander Parry’s been that mithered—” She broke off and looked at Augusta and Tom, standing close, hands clasped. “So that’s the way of it, is it? Well, you,” she addressed Tom, “think on. Owt happens, you answer to me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tom said.

  “Don’t ma’am me. I’m plain Annie.”

  “Yes, Annie.”

  The dog gave a growl and half bark, as if adding his own warning.

  “Hush, Keeper. It’s all right now.” Annie put her hand on the dog’s head. “I had to put the muzzle back on,” she said by way of apology. “He don’t like sailors.”

  The shout went out. “All aboard who’s coming!”

  Annie hurried for the companionway, Keeper following reluctantly, tail between his legs; he didn’t like water, either.

  Parry and Ross were up on the quarterdeck, beckoning impatiently. Men in naval uniforms and Lord Nelson hats. Tom didn’t know one from the other but he guessed he would soon find out.

  “Come on, then.” He turned to Augusta. “We better go.”

  She didn’t reply. She was looking past him, her eyes huge and wide, her hand to her mouth. A man was coming towards them at a steady, easy pace, neither dawdling nor hurrying. Dark-skinned, with his long, dark hair braided, a bright patterned blanket wrapped around him, bag over his back, a hat pulled down over his eyes. He could have been a lascar, from the Indies, from South America. Sailors came from everywhere. The docks were full of them looking to take ship. But she knew that wasn’t his purpose. He looked up at her, his large, dark eyes unusually round and brightly glittering under the hat’s broad brim. She’d seen those eyes before. He was going to take Tom from her. He had to go home—that was the meaning of the words behind the owl’s call.

  Tom frowned. There was something about the man that looked familiar. He knew those broad features; knew there would be a gap between his front teeth even before he smiled.

  “Come, Tom.” The voice was deep and gentle with a lilting accent, a voice Tom recognized even though he couldn’t quite place it. “Say your farewells. It’s time.”

  LUCY HAD STATIONED HERSELF outside Tom’s door, not quite sure what she would do if anyone wanted to go in there. “You’ll think of something,” Joe had said. She scanned the corridor for signs of activity. Everything was quiet. Visiting time was over, but they were used to her being here at odd times. She’d become part of the ward, part of the furniture. They didn’t even notice her any more.

  She glanced at the closed door and wondered what Joe was doing in there. He hadn’t explained; just went in with a leather bag over his shoulder and shut the door. There were sounds coming from inside, just audible. Drumming and a deep humming, maybe singing. It was pretty faint but she looked up and down the corridor, in case someone else heard it and demanded to know what was going on. She had her story ready. Sound was supposed to help coma patients and people played them all sorts: music, talking, even football chants.

  She looked at her watch. Time seemed to be passing very slowly. It actually wasn’t that long since Joe had gone in but it seemed like ages. She jumped as the ward bell buzzed. A nurse walked past to open the door. Lucy busied herself with the hand-sanitizer dispenser.

  What if someone did want to go into Tom’s room? Whatever Joe was doing in there would probably be unorthodox enough to get him sacked. Even worse than that: to interrupt him might harm Tom, and mean he was lost for ever. Lucy realized with an uncomfortable jarring to her heart just how much she wanted him to come back. But what then? How could he possibly feel the same thing? He hardly knew her. She was in no way important to him. Besides, he already had a girlfriend. True, she hadn’t been here lately but she’d be back with a vengeance if he came round: #miraclerecovery, #goodbyeloserlucy.

  Lucy sniffed and searched for a tissue. This was stupid, crying over heartbreak that hadn’t even happened yet.

  At last, the doors opened and Joe came out. His face was greyish, clay coloured and he looked at least ten years older. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead and stood in spikes on the back of his neck; his scrubs were patched a darker blue under the armpits, down his back. He carried his bag as if he was transporting ten-kilo kettlebells.

  She moved towards him but he waved her back.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I’m all sweaty. I need to shower. Go in to him. Stay with him as long as you can.”

  “Is he…” she began. “Have you—”

  He shook his head again. “Too soon to tell. But if he wakes, he’ll need to see a friendly face.”

  Joe went off down the corridor and Lucy went into the room.

  “If he wakes…”

  Suddenly, it seemed as if after all this time lying like a sleeping prince in a fairy tale Tom might actually wake up.

  She went over to the bed. He looked just the same.

  Lucy bit back her disappointment. “It can take time,” Joe had said. She’d just have to be patient.

  LUCY LOOKED AT HER WATCH. It was getting late. She’d have to go soon or they would throw her out. There was still no change in Tom. The only sound was the electric pump attached to the ventilator.

  She was nearly at the end of the novel she’d been reading. Just one more paragraph to go. Had he heard any of it? Had it all been a big fat waste of time, like Natalie said? Did it even matter? She forced her focus back to her book. Might as well finish it now.

  “I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath, and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how any-one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth.”

  As she spoke the last words, she was aware of a new sound. A choking sob coming from the bed. The book slid from her lap on to the floor. She was over there in less than a heartbeat, her hand on the red emergency button.

  Tom was coming round and he was crying. His cheeks were wet with tears and he was sobbing, struggling against the machines that were giving him life.

  * * *

  The crash team were there in seconds and Lucy was hustled out. She retrieved her book from the floor and left the hospital, not sure when she’d be back. Would he want to see her again? There were more important people in his life. He didn’t even really know her. He’d been unconscious the whole time. If she turned up, he’d wonder who she was and what she was doing there. It would be awkward, difficult. She’d just be taking up space. If she’d helped him just a little bit, she was glad of it, but it was time to step away, melt into the background again. She was nothing to him.

  T
ears caught in her throat as she walked down corridors that she had come to know, breathed the familiar hospital smell: disinfectant and hand gel. She probably wouldn’t be here again. The smell would always remind her of him. The quiet time in his room. Just the two of them. She swiped the tears from her eyes and she told herself not to be so stupid. People would think she’d lost someone when the opposite was true. He’d come back to the world, but his world did not contain her. She was nothing to him, she reminded herself again. Nothing.

  “HI. Is that Lucy?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  But she knew it was Joe: the accent, the deep voice on the edge of laughter.

  “It’s Joe. I still have your number. Tom’s come round. He’s out of the coma.”

  “I know,” she said, sharper than she intended. “I was there.”

  “Course you were. Course you were. Doctors are amazed. Busy explaining it: locked-in syndrome; spontaneous recovery. It happens. Rarely, but it happens. Let them think that. I’m just glad he’s back. I’m sure you are, too.” There was a pause. “Anyway, thought you’d like to know he’s doing well. Coming on in leaps and bounds.” There was another pause, longer this time. He cleared his throat. “You haven’t been around. Just wondered if there was a reason for that?”

  “Oh, you know…” She was tempted to say, I’ve been busy, but that sounded trite, cheesy, like bad dialogue from a movie. Besides, she couldn’t lie to Joe: he’d see straight through it. “I, um, didn’t want to be in the way. He doesn’t really know me. There are other—more important—people in his life.”

  “He wants to see you. He keeps asking, ‘Where is the girl who was reading?’”

  “Why?” It was all she could think of to say.

  Joe laughed. “Maybe he wants to discuss the book with you. All I know is he asked me to ring you.”