Simia leaned forward. “It’s your name, Sylas,” she said. “Maybe it’s also your mother’s message to you. She’d have known that you wouldn’t believe any of this – how could you? And what better way to tell you that she knew who you really are? That this is what she knew you had to do.”
Sylas looked through the porthole on to the ceaseless motion of the waves and tried to think. Maybe this was what she had intended. But even if it was, how would it bring him any closer to finding her? And yet surely she wouldn’t knowingly do anything to keep them apart?
“If it is a message for me, what do I do with it?”
“Start by believing it,” said Paiscion, patting him on the shoulder as he strode across the room. When he reached the door, he whirled about. “Come! To the deck!”
“What for?”
“To compose a symphony!” cried the Magruman.
“The name!” raged the mercurial voice, possessing Bowe’s mind, ravaging his thoughts. “The name of her mother!”
Tears poured down Bowe’s cheeks as he strained against his bonds, his glistening body twisting on the stone table, his teeth drawing blood from his lips. His mind had almost given up its battle, overwhelmed by the forces that assailed it. He was lost in a vast unending torrent of emotion and thought. Now more than ever he cursed his gift, cursed all that made him the Scryer that he was, for here, in the presence of Thoth, he felt as though all the hate, love, joy, despair, anger, all the gathered feelings of mankind, were flowing through him, possessing him, forcing from him all sense of himself. He felt flayed, empty, exhausted.
And yet, still, he refused to speak. He shook his bleeding head.
A roar of unimaginable horrors sounded in his ears, a chorus of raucous screams and soulless wails, smashing his head against the stone, tearing through his mind. He felt his ears begin to bleed.
“No!” he cried. “Kill me if you will! I WILL NOT tell you.”
He felt a terrible chill pass over his whole body. Something icy and damp crept around his skull. The stench of rotting flesh filled his nostrils with new intensity. He felt his head grasped by cold, deathly fingers, then turned sharply to one side.
“Do you see her?”
He gasped and strained against his bonds. Bound to a chair on the other side of the chamber was a girl. Her face was white and drawn, her frightened eyes streaming with tears.
An overwhelming sob rose in his chest.
“Naeo!” he cried, reaching out to her with a manacled hand.
Once again the chilling, resonant voices of many filled the chamber.
“I will not kill you, I will kill her.”
36
Nature's Song
“What exquisite song must nature sing?”
THE SKY WAS DARK and the low-hanging clouds seemed almost to brush the tops of the shattered rigging. The dank grey estuary extended as far as the eye could see, its vast expanse making the broken carcass of the Windrush seem even more hapless and frail. Everything was in motion: the great tempest of waves that buffeted the creaking timbers; the low fog that muddled the horizon; the drapery of frayed ropes and torn sails that flapped and fluttered in the wind. A powerful scent of salt and seaweed filled the thick sea air, which resonated with the low rumble of waves crashing against a distant shore.
Sylas and Simia sat hunched against the elements on a pile of damp wood and canvas, sipping from large glasses of water, staring out at the great tumult of surf and cloud. Neither knew quite what to say.
“Where do you think he’s gone?” asked Simia after a long silence.
Sylas shrugged. “Don’t know.”
They watched a flock of seagulls approaching the ship, flying low over the surface of the water, rising and falling with the crests and troughs of the waves. A bird turned in a wide arc around the stern of the ship and, making a loud yelping cry, came to rest on the trapdoor through which the Magruman had disappeared.
“How are you doing?” asked Simia hesitantly.
He took another sip of water. “I don’t know. It’s all too much to take in.” He paused and turned towards her. “But… something about it feels… this is going to sound weird... something about it feels right.”
Simia gathered her oversized coat about her and leaned forward on her elbows. “We’ve talked about this before,” she said with a grin. “What do you mean by ‘right’?”
“I’m not sure,” said Sylas, scratching his salty hair. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that there was nothing particularly right about what I left behind. You know, my mum in hospital, my uncle bossing me around… and I’ve never even known who my dad was. Ever since I can remember all I really had was my room and my kites and the things I made up in my head. But since Mr Zhi came – since all this started to happen – it’s been… it’s like I’ve had a purpose. Like I’ve been heading somewhere… somewhere everyone seems to think I’m meant to be, even my mum. And that’s something... isn’t it?”
Simia stared out at the foggy horizon and took a deep breath of sea air. “I think so,” she said. “And this certainly beats sitting around at the mill talking about the past.”
Sylas pulled his knees up to shield him from the cold wind. “And there’s something else – something about Naeo. She feels right too. I can’t really say why, but I feel like I know her. More than that even – when I saw her in the mirrors, it was like seeing myself, but from behind, or from the side or through a thick piece of glass or something. It felt like I was seeing myself... properly…” He caught himself and looked over at Simia with an apologetic smile. “Weird, right?”
“I’m getting used to it,” she said, and drank down the rest of her water.
Suddenly there was a loud bang and they looked along the deck to see the trapdoor clattering against the timbers and the seagull squawking and fluttering in the air. Paiscion’s head emerged from the dark hatch and he climbed up the steps, cradling his gramophone in his arms. He moved with great care, taking each step very slowly so as not to knock his treasured machine against the sides.
“Sorry for the wait,” he said brightly, stepping on to the deck. “It took me some time to find just the right piece.”
“Was it broken?” asked Simia, pushing herself to her feet.
Paiscion sighed as he laid the gramophone down on a crate. “Piece of music, Simia. We are going to create a symphony, and to do that we need a little help from a master.”
Sylas walked up to the gramophone. “Beethoven?” he asked, trying his luck with the only composer he knew.
“No, but good try,” said Paiscion. “Dvoˇrák. Another master. And this–” he pointed at the record and turned to smile at Sylas – “this is his masterpiece. He called it his ‘New World Symphony’. Suited to the occasion, I think.”
His eyes sparkled as he leaned down and took hold of the winding arm of the gramophone. He turned it several times, then lifted the needle and drew it across to the third track on the record. There was a brief crackle and then a long, quiet hiss.
“Now, Sylas,” said the Magruman, straightening himself and smoothing the creases out of his jacket. “Observe, for what you are about to witness is true Essenfayle.”
He closed his eyes, bowed his head and relaxed his arms at his sides.
Simia drew Sylas to one side and leaned into his ear. “This’ll be good,” she whispered.
“You’ve seen this before?”
Simia frowned. “Are you kidding? From a Magruman?”
Suddenly their eyes flew to the brass horn of the gramophone as a chorus of violins erupted from the darkness at its centre, issuing a series of pulses, then quick-fire, staccato notes. When they looked back at Paiscion, his arms were raised above his head, poised in readiness.
And then he began.
First came the quick melody of a single flute and, as its opening note sounded, so the Magruman’s left hand moved, darting to one side. In the same instant a single white seagull feather leapt from the deck and launched itself
into the air, fluttering this way and that as though carried on the wind.
But it did not drift away or fall back to the deck. Instead, as the sound of a horn joined the flute, it began to dance in time with the minute movements of Paiscion’s hand. Then, as the violins took up the melody, it rose in the air, twisting and twirling until it quivered directly before Sylas’s eyes. The horns sounded and in that moment the feather pirouetted on its point like a quill, as though showing off. As the kettle drums rumbled and the music swelled, it began leaping and dancing around Sylas, as if carried by the rhythm of the music. He watched with wide eyes, turning with the feather, flinching as it brushed his face. He was about to reach for it when, as quickly as it had risen, the music suddenly subsided. The final notes died away and the feather floated across the deck to hang in the air in front of Paiscion.
Then the cycle of music began again, but this time, as a single flute sounded, it was Paiscion’s other hand that was in motion, sweeping in a wide arc over the side of the ship. Sylas peered all about him and saw nothing.
Simia suddenly squeezed his arm. “The mist! Look at it!”
He glanced to the horizon and saw that the great white plumes of fog seemed to be shifting, drifting over the waves, away from the Windrush. They moved ever more swiftly, rolling into the distance, churning and billowing like fire smoke and then, as the drums sounded and the music swelled, Sylas saw that it was not only the fog that was drifting, it was the clouds too. It was a strange movement, as though the wind was blowing from all directions at once. The music rose to another crescendo as it did so, a shaft of sunlight slanted between them, followed moments later by another and another. Soon an endless forest of sunbeams had pierced the greyness and the whole estuary was dappled in pools of gold.
“Isn’t it amazing?” cried Simia, jumping up and down next to him.
Sylas nodded, but dared not take his eyes away. The music resolved to the gentle melody of a single clarinet and Paiscion began weaving his hand through the air as though he was passing a thread between the clouds. In that instant the wide fan of sunbeams began to dance: gliding between and around each other in a fluid, rhythmical motion, seeming to keep pace with the music; waltzing over the waves like ballerinas on a stage, moving swiftly, elegantly, in perfect unison.
Then Paiscion’s left hand was again in motion. The feather danced in response, leaping, twisting and looping in time with the sunbeams, rising slowly towards the mottled sky. As it climbed, it wove an impossible path through the great tangle of ropes and beams, dallying to flit and flutter around braces and yards before continuing its ascent. And then, as the violins once again took up the melody and the horns sounded, Sylas nearly cried out, for he looked to the sky and saw two great flocks of seagulls, one approaching from the bow and one from the stern, gliding and swooping towards them. With the pounding of kettle drums, the symphony rose to a new pitch and, as the single feather fluttered and danced like a standard above the mast, three beams of glorious sunlight converged on the ship, bathing all in gold: the bright canvas flapping in the wind, Simia’s flame-red hair as she laughed and jumped, Paiscion with his arms held wide. The seagulls darted above the decks and through the criss-cross of rigging before sweeping high into the air and spreading their shimmering wings to turn sharply into a perfect circle around the mast.
Simia shrieked with delight and clung on to Sylas’s arm. “Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”
Sylas was silent. It was, and there was nothing more to be said. He stared at the circling birds, and the dancing feather lit bright in the sunbeams, and he hoped that it would never end. He listened to the music reach its crescendo and slowly die away to a single cello. Then a new, playful melody emerged in its place.
“Look! Look!” cried Simia, pointing wildly out to the estuary.
He dropped his eyes to the waves. As far as he could see in all directions, fish were leaping: large ones that rose amid showers of sunlit water, flapping their mighty tails in the air; small ones that skipped and skidded on the surface; entire shoals jumping in broad arcs over the tumultuous waves. But what made the sight truly magnificent, what sent a shiver down Sylas’s spine, was that they appeared to be rising and falling in time with the music, playing merrily among its harmonies, splashing and flapping to its rhythm. It seemed to Sylas that Nature had become Her own symphony, Her own glorious harmony of sound and sight. And somehow, standing here on the ship in the middle of it all, they were part of it, and it was part of them.
Suddenly Paiscion whirled about, his hands a blur in the air. “Nature is a symphony, Sylas!” he cried as though reading his thoughts.
Sylas looked up at him and saw, to his surprise, that his face showed no strain, no effort.
“Everything in Nature is connected, everything is in harmony! Essenfayle simply changes the melody!”
He lowered his left hand and suddenly the wide circle of seagulls let out a chorus of yelling calls and broke formation. Moments later they re-formed, now wheeling in the other direction.
“Do you see?” he cried.
Sylas began to nod, his eyes filling with tears.
“Come and stand here,” said the Magruman, taking a backwards step to make space for him.
Sylas stepped forward so that he stood directly in front of Paiscion. He could see the Magruman’s hands leaping and sweeping above him and, in response, the birds, fish, clouds and sunbeams dancing and turning, their breathtaking display keeping perfect time with the melody of the music.
Then, without warning, Paiscion dropped his arms, bent down and whispered in his ear.
“Your turn.”
Sylas froze.
“Me? But I…”
“You are a more worthy conductor than I, Sylas!” yelled Paiscion, seizing him by the shoulders. “You have shown it more than once. Think of the Shop of Things, the Den of Scribes, the river, the Barrens, the Glimmer Glass! Think of the Passing Bell! This is your magic, Sylas. Essenfayle is yours!”
Suddenly a shadow passed over the deck and Sylas glanced up to see the clouds coming together, extinguishing the shafts of light. In the same moment he saw the formation of seagulls falter and the feather, no longer shining in the sunlight, beginning to fall, rocking from side to side. He looked down to the waves and saw no fish leaping. Fog was rising on the horizon.
“It’s stopping!” cried Simia. “Sylas! Do something! ”
“What? Do what?”
“Imagine it, Sylas!” hissed the Magruman at his ear. “Imagine it so!”
Sylas recognised Espen’s words. Imagine it so! He mumbled the words under his breath. He raised his hands and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine the fishes leaping, the clouds parting, the fog rolling away, but in his excited state he found it impossible to hold the images in his mind. He opened his eyes and frowned, then tried to gesture at the clouds with his hand. Nothing happened.
“Let the music help you!” whispered Paiscion. “Feel its harmony, its song!”
Sylas drew a long breath and tried to calm himself. He turned his mind from the gathering clouds and the seagulls yelling above and instead he listened. He allowed the music to wash over him, to enter him, to seize him. For some moments he stood with his eyes closed, listening to the oboes, flutes and horns, and then he heard the violins answering them, echoing their tune, adding to it, developing it. And slowly he started to see the estuary in his mind. He saw the clouds shifting and swirling until a single beam broke through. He saw the seagulls give answer, rising on the wind and looping back towards the mast, and he saw the fish leaping again as if in reply. Suddenly he felt as if the music was inside him, part of him, guiding the beautiful images in his mind. He breathed in time with it, felt it coursing through his veins, warming him, holding him. “That’s it, Sylas!” cried Paiscion. “That’s it!”
He opened his eyes and saw that his arms were raised in front of him and his hands were moving in time with the music. He looked past them and gasped.
The rays of sunlight had returned and were moving across the water in a great ballet. The fish were leaping once more, rising with watery trains that caught and scattered the golden light. Above, the great wheel of seagulls had formed and now turned faster than ever.
“Now do you see?” cried Paiscion, seizing his shoulders. “They are part of you, Sylas, and you are part of them!”
A thrill travelled through Sylas’s body as he realised that he was doing this – that all of these beautiful things were connected through him. He shifted his hand, imagining the clouds parting and the rays of sunshine converging on the ship, and in the same instant it was so. He looked up and saw that the feather had fallen among the rigging and he imagined it borne upwards on a gentle breeze, dancing to the melody, darting in and out of the rope-work, and then he realised that he was watching it happen.
All of this without thought or effort: it was like drawing breath.
Suddenly he heard the return of the single flute and in that moment he turned to look out on to the estuary. For the first time he thought it within his reach, an extension of himself, all of it: the blue-grey waters; the hazy air; even the leaping, dancing fish. And then, without thinking, he raised his hand to the sky and drew it down towards the waves. He heard shrill cries somewhere high above and then, as the violins joined the flute and the music gathered pace, two columns of seagulls dived down in front of him until they reached the surf, then – almost seeming to touch the crests of the waves – set out across the waters. As the melody surged and waned, so the flocks banked and turned, responding to the tiny movements of his hands. The music approached another crescendo and the two lines of gulls became four, weaving among the flying fish: some sweeping left and right over the surface, others darting beneath arcs of silvery scales.
Simia clapped and cried out in excitement, but Sylas could not hear her. He felt consumed, as though he was among the gulls and sunbeams, skipping over the waves. Still the music surged – gaining pace and volume – and all the while his hands were aloft, directing some new performance somewhere out on the estuary.
The Bell Between Worlds Page 38