Ghoulish Song z-2

by William Alexander

  The stranger stepped back and put both hands in the air, a gesture of harmlessness and surrender. She looked like a sailor, dressed in oiled leather and squidskin. She had her hair tied up in several braids to keep the River winds from tying knots in it, and she carried a worn wooden lute case strapped to her back. Sunbaked wrinkles creased the skin around her eyes.

  “Hello there,” said the stranger. “I go by Luce Strumgut, and that’s what you may call me. My barge is beached just a little ways upstream. I’m here to see if someone stranded and alive lit this here fire. Am I right in thinking that you’re both of those things?”

  “I’m stranded,” said Kaile, “and I’d rather not be. But there’s some disagreement about whether or not I’m alive.”

  Don’t tell her that! Shade whispered nearby, her voice small and fierce. She won’t take us away from here if you tell her that.

  The stranger cocked her head sideways, clearly surprised. “You look living to me. Certainly compared to some. And I do mean to take you away from here, if you’re willing to go.”

  Shade shrank away, putting distance between herself and the eavesdropping sailor. Kaile stared, astonished. “You heard her. I thought no one could hear her but me.”

  The sailor nodded. “I heard something, certainly—but it might not be my business to know what it was I heard. It’s probably not my business to know what I might have just seen slink off into the fog and the trees. Whether or not you’re entirely alive is certainly no business of mine. But regardless, you’re welcome to follow me and climb aboard.”

  She turned around and walked along the shore, boots crunching against pebbles.

  Kaile shared a look with her shadow.

  Pick up a burning stick, if you can. I need light to follow, and the lantern is still empty. I need at least a little bit of light.

  “I don’t think she’ll let me bring open flame onto a barge,” said Kaile, but she took hold of a half-burned piece of driftwood anyway and used it as a torch. Then she gathered up her other few belongings in the satchel and hoisted it over one shoulder.

  Maybe you should leave the flute here, Shade whispered. It’s from here. It washed up here. Maybe it’ll make more unquiet mischief if you bring it with us. Maybe it wants to be a part of that other thing, that horrible thing.

  “It doesn’t,” said Kaile. “I’m sure that’s the very last thing that it wants. I think we should keep it.”

  She held up her driftwood torch and followed the sailor, leaving the bonfire to burn itself out. Shade followed very close behind.

  Kaile still heard snatches of ghoulish singing in among the trees. She walked faster.

  A small and oddly shaped barge emerged from the fog as they approached. Lanterns burned at posts on all four corners. It had no enclosed cabin. A mess of machinery sat at the stern, and protruded from the sides.

  Luce Strumgut climbed aboard without looking behind her. Kaile dropped her torch once safely near the lantern light. A wave of River water lapped over the stones and extinguished the tiny flame with a sharp, sudden hiss. Shade made an unhappy noise, but said nothing.

  Kaile paused at the base of the ramp. Things had not worked out well the last time she had followed a stranger onto his barge. But she knew of no other way to leave the Kneecap, and she very much wanted to be far from this place and its unquiet bones.

  She followed the sailor and climbed aboard the barge. Her shadow came with her.

  “Welcome aboard the Cracked Drum,” said Luce with a grand and mocking gesture. “It’s not an inspiring name. It’s not an inspiring craft, either, but luckily we haven’t far to go.” She pulled up the ramp with both hands, and then raised her voice. “Cymbat! We have a guest. One, at least. Possibly two, by the sound of them. Come introduce yourself.”

  A stooped and lanky figure came crawling out from behind the machinery. He did not look at Kaile, or speak to Kaile. He didn’t look at Luce, either. Instead he focused on the gearworks, adjusting this and that with an oddly twisted wrench. The fingers of his free hand kept in constant motion, and tapped out a complicated rhythm against the side of his leg. Sometimes he squeaked and muttered to himself, but he made no kind of sense that Kaile could hear.

  Luce pointed in his direction. “This is Cymbat, the cracked drummer—cracked like every other gearworker in Zombay—and the Cracked Drum is his craft. He’s absolutely terrified of drowning, I can tell you—won’t even touch the water—so I trust his fear to keep us afloat, if nothing else does.”

  I wonder what it was that hurt all the gearworkers, Shade whispered.

  “Just working with gears did, I expect,” said Luce. She didn’t seem to notice that the shadow had spoken, and not Kaile.

  Shade drew quickly away from the sailor, and away from Cymbat’s frenetic motion, to crouch near the brightest lantern light. She clearly didn’t like being overheard.

  Luce took up a long oar and pushed the Cracked Drum away from the Kneecap. The bottom of the hull scraped against pebbles, and then they were free in the open water. Cymbat increased the pace of his tinkering. Gearworks whirred and ground together, turning pistons and propellers. Kaile watched him continue to tap out a drumbeat against everything he touched.

  “You’re both musicians,” she said to the sailor. “He’s a drummer. You carry a lute.”

  Cymbat barked a laugh without turning around.

  “Well noticed,” said Luce Strumgut. “It’s true, of course. We are both of the Fiddleway—and Fiddleway musicians have been searching for you since you played one particular tune yesterday, somewhere in Broken Wall.”

  The Cracked Drum turned against the current and pushed its way upstream, toward Zombay.

  * * *

  Kaile stood very still in the center of the barge.

  “You’ve been looking for me.” She was not at all sure what to make of this. “Since yesterday, you’ve been looking for me.”

  “We have,” Luce said. “We don’t actually know your name, though, so I’d be obliged if you finally introduced yourself.”

  Kaile did not introduce herself. “I was alone when I played that tune in Broken Wall. I was alone in my room. It used to be my room. It isn’t anymore. How did you know? How could you have heard me? How did you find me now? And how do you know so much without knowing my name already?”

  The sailor leaned casually back against the barge railing. All of her movements seemed casual. “That right there is a whole fleet of questions. I don’t know your name because you haven’t told me yet, even though I’ve told you mine—and also his.” She nodded toward Cymbat. “That isn’t very polite, but I don’t begrudge your wariness. We did meet under strange and stressful circumstances.”

  Luce paused, expectant.

  Kaile frowned. She wanted to get more information, and she did not feel inclined to give any. But the sailor kept waiting, so she said, “I’m Kaile.”

  “Hello, Kaile,” said Luce. She paused again, still waiting, as though expecting Kaile to continue her introductions. But Kaile didn’t look in her shadow’s direction, and Shade made no noise at all.

  “How did you know I played a tune in Broken Wall?” Kaile asked again.

  “I know because I heard it,” Luce told her. “So did every other Fiddleway musician. Some sounds carry. Shadows carry them. And I found you on the Kneecap because you played that selfsame tune again, and we all heard it again. Sound also carries over water, if the River lets it travel. So Cymbat and I hopped aboard this ramshackle barge and came to fetch you.”

  Cymbat let loose an indignant and gibbering sound.

  “It is ramshackle,” Luce insisted. “That’s just about the kindest word I can use to honestly describe this craft. I’ve never sailed worse. It will take all the good luck that we three can pool together to reach the docks alive.” She caught herself, and glanced at Kaile. “Forget I said that. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

  Kaile heard River waves smack against the hull, and tried very hard not to think about sink
ing. She looked up at the foggy glow of the Clock Tower—the only thing she could see beyond the barge railing—but she couldn’t tell how far away it was, or how much farther they had to go before reaching the docks.

  Some sounds are carried by shadows, she thought. She wanted to ask more about shadows, and shadow sounds, and how someone’s shadow might be severed by a song. But she didn’t ask. Not yet. It felt cruel to call attention to Shade while she cowered in the corner.

  “Why did you come to fetch me?” she asked instead. Then she wondered whether she should be so demanding of her rescuers, and if it might perhaps be a good thing to show more gratitude. “Thank you for doing it,” she added quickly. “I’m really glad you did. But please tell me why.”

  Luce Strumgut gave Kaile a long look before answering. “The Master will explain it better, when we bring you to him. But I can tell you that only the very best musicians hear their shadows whispering. The first time any one of us plays a weighty piece of music, our shadow takes notice. Every solo tune becomes a duet after that, with shadowy accompaniment. And if someone can let loose a tune to catch the attention of every single musician’s shadow in Zombay, then we take particular notice. We offer that someone the chance to audition.”

  The word “Master” sounded ominous to Kaile. She stared at the sailor, trying to judge how trustworthy she might be. In that moment, in the fog and the dim lantern light, Luce looked a little like a weatherworn version of Kaile’s own mother. It made Kaile want to trust her—but the reminder was also an ache. It made her angry and sad by turns.

  Kaile shook her head. Regardless of whom she might look like, Luce Strumgut was a musician of the Fiddleway. Kaile wanted a reason to trust her, and she chose that as her reason.

  “My grandfather was a bridge musician,” Kaile said. “His name was Korinth. He taught me how to play. He never mentioned auditioning, though.”

  “You had a good teacher,” said Luce. “But he wouldn’t have told you about this, not until you were ready. Are you willing to audition? I hope so. We did spend a lot of effort to find you.”

  Kaile was surprised to notice how much she did want to. She wanted to play beautiful music in the very same place where Grandfather had played. It would be like a conversation, every note an unspoken word. And if she had a place on the bridge, then she would have a place where she belonged. She wanted that so much that she had trouble breathing. But she also had doubts about shadowy accompaniment.

  “I can hear my shadow whisper,” Kaile said in a whisper of her own. “But she hates me. I don’t think she’d ever accompany me on a piece of music. She doesn’t much like my company.”

  Luce lowered her voice to match. “I did notice that the two of you walk around separately,” she said. “I can’t see where your shadow actually is, but I noticed where your shadow isn’t. Never seen such a thing before, and I’ve sailed to just about every sailable place. How did it happen, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I played a tune,” Kaile told her. “The one you heard. But my shadow didn’t just notice. She left. She didn’t go far, but she left, and now I’m dead. Everybody thinks I’m dead.”

  Luce snorted. “That’s just a piece of silliness that people say, like thinking ruddy-haired folk bring thunderstorms when they snore. They don’t. My late captain, eleven years drowned, had bright red hair and snored like a beast in pain, but storms didn’t come thundering overhead any more often because of it. I am a bit concerned about the disconnect between yourself and your shadow, I won’t deny that. Seems like it might cut you off from the world a little. But you’re clearly not dead because of it. Don’t worry about that. Too many other things need worrying about.”

  Kaile sighed relief. She doesn’t think I’m dead. She doesn’t think I’m a ghoul. She isn’t going to throw me overboard for haunting the barge. She isn’t going to maroon me somewhere. She doesn’t think I’m dead.

  The sailor looked thoughtful. “That ramshackle bone-house on the Kneecap was certainly dead, though. The one holding itself together with a song. And I have seen that happen before. Always in flood time. The drowned get restless at flood time, and the River gets distracted and loses its proper hold. And by the way, it was a piece of mad brilliance to throw a catchy counting song into the workings of its music.”

  “Thanks,” Kaile said, and stood up a bit straighter. “I don’t really know why it worked, though.”

  “You do know, more than likely,” said Luce. “You might not have words for that knowledge, but you know it all the same. I once heard a pair of Northside scholars squabble about whether speech or song came first. Did the earliest people learn how to sing, and then eventually use their voices for more mundane things—or did they make words first and eventually learn to raise up those words in singing? On and on they fought over this, like children hurting their heads over riddles about eggs and guzzards.”

  “So what do you think?” Kaile asked, rather than trying to guess at it herself. The sailor clearly had an answer in mind and was itching to give it.

  Luce broke into a sly grin. “The interesting question isn’t ‘Which came first?’ Language and music were the very same thing in the long ago. I think it might be more interesting to ask ‘Why did they split in two?’ And I don’t have an answer for that one. But here’s the compass point of this chart I’m sketching for you: You can say with music what you can’t say otherwise. You can understand with music what can’t ever fit into words. And you can shape music to reshape the world, just as words do in charms and curses. Sailors learned that first.” Luce proudly tapped the tip of her nose with one finger. “We sang chanties to the rhythm of oar and hoisted sail. It’s madness to trust your own weight to a bit of bark adrift on water. It’s only ever possible to face up to that madness with a song. So we made the music necessary to hold a barge together—or a bridge. The madness of the bridge, of walking and living and building whole houses high above the River, is only possible with many songs. You can hold anything together with the proper tune—or you can tear it apart.”

  Kaile mulled over the shape of these unfamiliar ideas. She listened to River waves as they smacked against the side of the hull.

  Luce frowned. She cocked her ear to catch the same noise. “Flood’s coming soon,” she said. “Might even arrive tonight and smash this silly tub before we get back to the docks.” She slapped the barge railing behind her. Then she looked sheepish. “Probably not, though. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

  The sailor took out her lute and played a cheerful sort of River chanty—something to hold the barge together. Otherwise they passed the rest of the trip in silence.

  When Cymbat finally steered the barge against a pier, they docked directly underneath the empty Baker’s Cage. Kaile peered through the fog to make sure it was empty. She was glad that punished bakers didn’t need to spend the night caged. Mother would be back in it tomorrow morning, though—unless floodwaters came in the night and washed away the Baker’s Cage first. Kaile hoped that that might happen.

  “There,” said Luce as she tied up the moorings. “Smooth as butter mixed with greatfish fat.”

  Then Cymbat turned around, caught sight of Shade in the corner, and started to scream.

  Eleventh Verse

  THE SHADOW SHIED AWAY from the drummer and screamed back at him.

  Luce dropped to a crouch and pulled a fish-gutting knife from her boot.

  Kaile waved her hands in the air and shouted for everyone to please calm down.

  It took a long time for this to happen, and even then the calm was fragile. Cymbat wouldn’t go anywhere near Shade, or vice versa, and Shade wouldn’t go anywhere at all without a steady source of light.

  Luce agreed to bring a lantern, and took the largest one down from its pole.

  “Do you have any spare lamp oil?” Kaile asked. “Ours ran dry.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Luce admitted. “Poured the last of it into these lights this afternoon, when I felt the fog coming in.”
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br />   Shade made an unhappy noise. She didn’t say anything else as she followed Luce and Kaile down the barge ramp, carefully keeping inside the lantern’s warm glow.

  “Come on, Cymbat!” Luce called behind them.

  Kaile heard the drummer squeak and mutter as he followed from a distance. She also heard the wood and metal sounds of barges rocking themselves to sleep at night.

  Luce squinted, trying to see through the fog. “Few enough are docked here tonight,” she said. “Good. Most of the captains must have gone looking for a safer harbor.”

  “What about the Cracked Drum?” Kaile asked.

  “Not worth worrying about,” said Luce. “It sinks all the time. Then the drummer spends a few days building it again. Now, let’s see if anyone is still renting out carriages after nightfall. I’d rather not walk up the ravine roads myself.”

  Southside “carriages” were former wheelbarrows, built to move the stones of Broken Wall to wherever they might be needed—and then repurposed to move people around. Most had a simple wooden bench bolted into the wheelbarrow basin. Sometimes the benches had cushions on them, but usually not.

  A carriage signpost stood at the base of the switch-backed road to Southside, and two wheelbarrows stood waiting underneath it.

  “I’ll need to rent them both,” said Luce with a long sigh. “I don’t think Cymbat will willingly ride in a carriage with your disembodied shadow.”

  Kaile said nothing. She recognized both of the wheelbarrow pushers, and both of them recognized her. Old Jibb looked quickly away. Brunip stared openly. He raised his iron arm a little bit, as though about to wave—but then Jibb kicked him with his spring-shaped leg, and Brunip let his arm drop.

  “Hello, gents,” said Luce, walking right up to them with a sailor’s swagger. “I’ll need to hire the both of you: one carriage for myself and the girls—and the girl, I mean—and one for the distracted fellow coming up behind us. Please take us all to the Beglicane house on the Fiddleway.”