“Where are they going?” Greychild asked.
Ilania sighed.
“They pass this way every morning. They take their nets to the dockside and drag them back at dusk, like as if this was a fishing village still, though they catch no more than a handful and sell less than enough. They sit out the day in the blistering sun, their lips dry and cracked, their eyes closed over to slits so narrow they can scarcely see. Then at twilight they come back with their baskets and their nets, muttering songs that no-one else sings.”
Greychild peered after the shuffling figures, but Ilania turned away as the hoists and the cranes swung and clanked on the quayside.
“The ships bring us everything we want, but nothing that we need. Here in Arleccra more people live than you could ever meet. Even friends do not know each other.”
An open cart sped by carrying a clamour of drummers calling and chanting, beating cymbals and blaring a cacophony of raucous horns.
“Come with me,” said Ilania and led Greychild away to an empty house nearby. At the top of the dusty stairs they entered a room with a high crumbling ceiling and broken floorboards. A harp stood in the corner between wells of dark shadow, its strings hanging slackly from the old warped frame.
A spinning top lay on the floor painted yellow, crimson and green. Pictures hung skewed from the smoke-stained walls – a mountain with a tongue of fire, a tree whose fruit burned bright as lanterns and flowers dancing in hidden caves, their petals twined tight with desire. A sift of rain fell gently through the open roof and a chill wind coaxed a mournful melody from the harp strings.
Ilania pulled her robe around her shoulders and opened a rusting casket. Inside lay a painted egg, a brightly coloured spindle and a putrefying orange. She sat with her head to one side as if she was listening, then moved distractedly, this way and that until her eyes lighted on a musical box. She frowned as she picked it up, carrying it carefully to the other side of the room before setting it down before the empty window.
Slowly she wound the handle until a tune uncoiled, disjointed notes stuttering into the gathering darkness, while the thrum of the wind in the harp played on. Then she began a languid dance, her arms entwined with her body, a pale smile slipping across her lips. She stopped beside a chequer board laid out on a low table and stared thoughtfully at the pieces until she reached out and shifted one to a different square.
“Are you thirsty?” she asked.
Greychild nodded and watched as Ilania poured tea into two tiny cups. It sparkled with a shimmer of blue and though it was refreshing it tasted sharp and bitter. He noticed Ilania’s hands were stained the same colour as the tea as he slipped into a sudden sleep.
He woke, shivering. The door opened and a child appeared, dressed just like Ilania – a long flowing robe and her hair tousled loose about her shoulders. She ran across the room, skittering and laughing, knocking the spinning top across the floorboards until she came to the music box which Ilania had placed under the window.
She picked up the instrument and carried it back to the corner where it had been. Then she turned the tiny handle until the music came and she danced and she danced, spinning faster and faster, all the time laughing until she fell down in a sprawl of dizziness, nearly scattering the pieces from the chequer board. She hauled herself up and stared at them, scratching her head and rubbing her chin. She reached out and moved one of the pieces just as the music stopped. Then she clapped her hand to her mouth and ran giggling out of the room.
Another night passed and another night more as Greychild woke and slept and woke again and first Ilania came and then the child and they danced to the music of the silver box and moved one more piece on the chequer board. But not once did they meet, not once at all.
Then one night when the moon was full came a scratching, came a pecking at the window frame. The girl looked up from the chequer board, then crossed the room. She pulled the sash slowly and there on the window sill sat a crow. She reached out and cradled it in her hands. Greychild watched as it jerked its head from side to side and then he realised the bird was blind.
He stepped forward.
The girl smiled at him.
“I am Ilania,” she said.
“But…?” Greychild hesitated.
“She is my mother,” the girl explained before he could ask his question.
The crow rolled its head back and forth as Ilania rocked it gently in her arms. Then with one hand she poured a cup of blue tea and let the crow drink. The crow stopped its fluttering and soon fell asleep. Ilania turned to Greychild.
“Are you thirsty?” she asked.
Greychild nodded and watched as Ilania poured tea into two tiny cups. Again he noticed that, just like her mother, Ilania’s hands were stained blue. Without thinking he sipped the sweet bitter brew.
The crow rose up and flapped about the room. Greychild and Ilania followed it out into the darkness, skimming across rooftops, flying along the course of the river until they set down in a field filled with girlen and boys-who-would-be-men dressed in tatters, dressed in rags, smeared about with daubs of mud, their hair gaudied all with feathers. They danced in silence, their heavy limbs dragging to the beat of a drummer who sat hunched under a dark crooked tree.
Greychild watched as a gaggle of crows set upon the bird which had brought them there, strutting and pecking and driving it back to the safety of Ilania’s arms. She stood shielding the crow as she peered at the dancers, till soon enough one of them came closer.
“Dawnflower, where are you going? What are you staring at?” the others called.
But Dawnflower took no notice, seeming to be gazing straight at Greychild, but when he stepped towards her it was as if she could not see him at all. He wanted to speak to her, wanted to embrace the girlen he left behind to go in search of his mother. Then she shook her head and suddenly danced away, to fall into the arms of Hamsparrow.
“I thought you liked the WolfBoy,” he said as he kissed her.
“He was only a boy,” Dawnflower replied. “He was only a boy and he’s gone now. Now I got you.”
Greychild ran towards Dawnflower just as the dancers set off to leave the Echo Field. The crows rose and swirled above them as under the lengthening shadow of the Fever Tree the drummer played on. Dark against the horizon stood the shuffling silhouettes of a fool, a fire-eater, a juggler, a knife thrower and a woman with a flock of circling birds, while behind them a bear and his keeper lumbered slow as slow.
Greychild turned away as the crow struggled in Ilania’s arms. The other crows circled above them, their voices rising to a deafening crescendo until they swooped down, surrounding Ilania, Greychild and the bird. The darkness of their feathers blotted out the dying sun, but their wings were beating slow and warm. And then they were gone. Greychild and Ilania were back in the room. The blind crow flapped between them, but now its eyes were returned. It flew about the room cawing raucously, “On and on. On and on…”
The next night Ilania the mother appeared as usual. She threaded her way past the spinning top then picked up the music box and placed it before the open window. As she wound the handle to release its tune, the wind droned on through the strings of the harp. She moved the last piece on the chequer board.
The game was over.
The game was won.
She tipped the pieces into the rusted casket where they rattled and clattered as the music stopped. Outside a prowl of cats yowled in the alleyway while she sat and gazed through the open window and waited for her daughter to come home.
Celanda
Let me tell you… let me tell you… Ravenhair dodged through unlit alleyways filled with three-card tricksters, burnt-sugar vendors and blind night watchmen until she came to the tree-lined avenues on the south side of the city. This was where the merchants once lived, but now the streets danced with drunken sailors who could find the way to their ships no more and the butcher boys with blood red aprons fresh from the slaughter yards and the killing floor. She chanced
upon an empty house where once sweet music played, but now the dining halls stood empty – only high plaster ceilings fluted with ferns and the dangling remains of smashed chandeliers. All that she found was dust.
That night she lay down on the bare wooden boards, but no sooner had she closed her eyes than she was woken again by the sound of someone sweeping. Ravenhair looked all about, but she could see no-one in the darkness. The gentle brushing continued – and then came a voice singing softly, till Ravenhair was lulled back to sleep. When she woke in the morning and looked about, she saw all the dust was gone – even in the room where she had slept, leaving only a shadow in the shape of herself lying on the floor.
That evening Ravenhair returned from the windowless workroom where she spent all the day sewing button eyes onto pale faced dolls. The dust was as thick as before and all about were cobwebs, clinging to the ceilings and the corners of the walls. Again Ravenhair lay down to rest and again she was woken by the sound of sweeping – but this time the sound was accompanied not by singing but by weeping. Ravenhair lay still, wondering who this could be. She determined to stay awake, to see who would bring a broom to this room – but soon she fell asleep. In the morning when she woke, again all the boards were swept clean, but this time she saw a trail of tears stained across the floor.
Another night passed and another night more, until Ravenhair woke in the moonlight and this time she swore she saw a girl in a shawl of silver and grey, sweeping slowly towards the door. Ravenhair called out and then sprang up and rushed to the stairs to look for her – but the girl had gone.
In the morning Ravenhair rose and combed her long dark hair, before tying it up in the ribbon black that Grandmother Ghostmantle had given her. She became aware of someone standing in the hallway outside the room. She turned and looked, sure it was the girl in the shawl. Ravenhair turned to speak to her, but the girl moved quickly away, hurrying down the long tiled corridors until they reached the door to a stairwell. Ravenhair couldn’t tell if the girl had seen her, but followed quickly as she lit a lantern and descended the stairs. Ravenhair stayed in the shadows and watched as the girl moved gracefully across the basement’s cold stone floor until they came to a room hung with velvet curtains.
On a chair sat Bodran, a boy-who-would-be-man, scarce older than Ravenhair. He wore a robe of sleek purple satin and the dragonflies painted on his long blue nails shimmered and flashed in the room’s dim light. He smiled when he saw the girl.
“Celanda,” he cried. “What have you brought me?”
“Brought you what you asked for,” she replied. “Brought sugared lilac dipped in honey.”
Ravenhair watched, her mouth watering, as Celanda stepped forward and placed a bowl in front of Bodran. He stared at the sweetmeats, reached out languidly towards them, and then pushed the bowl away with a flick of his slender fingers.
“Do not want them now,” he said. “Wanted them when I asked for them. Been waiting all this time. Do not want them now.”
Ravenhair peered around the room. All about were scattered other bowls, each filled with different delicacies, some full, some half-eaten, some scraped clean as clean. A flurry of rats scampered between them, nibbling and preening then scuttling away as soon as Celanda came near them. In the corner sat a song bird, trapped in a jewelled cage. The light from Celanda’s lantern seemed to waken the bird and it began to sing shrill and clear. Bodran covered his ears with his hands, his painted fingernails raking through his hair.
“Take it away!” he screeched, drowning out the bird. “I cannot stand its endless din.”
“But Bodran,” Celanda reproached him, “you were so pleased when I brought you the bird. You said you needed a companion to sing you through the endless night.”
Bodran kept his hands clenched tight to his head.
“Said I needed a companion, yes. But not this creature who torments me, singing when I try to sleep and stubborn and silent when I am awake. Take it away…”
Celanda seized up the cage. As soon as she did, the bird stopped its trilling.
“Wait,” said Bodran. “This cage is so beautiful – and the bird is too. Look at her feathers, how they shimmer and shine. Leave her there. She is quiet now.”
Celanda hovered about him, sighing and shrugging.
“Whatever you want, whatever you choose…”
Bodran clapped his hands.
“You may go now. What are you doing, standing round here, cluttering the place with your fuss?”
Celanda scurried away and Ravenhair stayed close behind her. As they reached the top of the stair they heard the bird begin to sing again and Bodran flinging lilac sweetmeats at its prison.
That night Ravenhair dreamt she was a bird, singing in a jewelled cage. Dreamt she watched Bodran, his sullen face, his sulking eyes. Dreamt that she might kiss him, although she could not, for the bars stood between them and she knew her beak would only peck at his beautiful puckered lips. And so she sang, but as she sang Bodran only hurled abuse at her and covered the cage with a discarded gown.
But it was his gown, and as she shook her feathers, beating her wings against the bars, she could smell his scent in the folds of satin. She tugged and jerked until she had pulled it aside and she could see Bodran again, lounging in the darkness, dragonflies flashing on his painted nails as his fingers flickered around bowls of marzipan and roasted almonds. Ravenhair watched as the door opened and through it stepped Celanda. She smiled at Bodran and sat with him. They fed each other pomegranates, all the while fingering each other’s lips as the pips spilt out. In the cage, Ravenhair hopped up and down, stropping her beak and rattling her perch, warbling, chirruping and shrieking. But Bodran took no notice, he was so absorbed by Celanda. He gazed into her pale green eyes, he stroked her hair, he kissed her cheek.
And then she stood and she was gone and Ravenhair was alone again with Bodran. She sang her sweetest song to him, hoping that this would soothe him, for she could see that he was sad, now that Celanda had gone. But he turned to the cage in a rage, hurling a bowl of cashew nuts so that it dashed against the bars. And then he jerked his old gown away and instead threw a heavy blanket over the cage so that all Ravenhair saw was darkness.
Next day Ravenhair wandered through the house until she came to the room that must once have been the kitchen. There she saw Celanda, frowning. Ravenhair stopped. Celanda looked up and smiled a sour smile.
“I see you clear,” she said. “Don’t think I don’t know you followed me, down to the cellar where Bodran lives.”
Ravenhair nodded.
“Are you going there today?” she asked.
Celanda frowned again, twisting her fingers.
“Every day I go there to take his food and bring his milk. I do not want to go this morning, down to that cold dark basement – the sun shines so bright outside. All we ever do is sit and pick at pomegranates and listen to his stupid bird screeching from its cage.”
“Nothing so wrong with pomegranates,” Ravenhair replied.
Outside the blackbirds trilled as they flitted from tree to tree all along the avenue. Celanda kicked at the door with her foot.
“Today he says he wants oranges,” she complained. “All I got is this.”
She drew one fruit from her pocket. Ravenhair took it.
“Let me go instead,” she said. “Lend me your shawl…”
Ravenhair stood nervous now, her dark hair covered by the grey and silver shawl. The orange fell from her hand and rolled along the length of the narrow corridor. As she grabbed it up she fell against a heavy wooden door and found herself tumbling down the spiral of steps till she landed on the basement’s dusty floor.
“Celanda,” Bodran called irritably. “What took you so long? I’ve been waiting.”
Ravenhair approached. Today he wore a cloak of peacock blue. The dragonflies flashed on his fingernails as he beckoned her closer and stretched out his hand. Ravenhair offered the fruit. Bodran took the orange disdainfully and held it at arm’s le
ngth, peering at it through long velvet eyelashes.
“It is bruised,” he declared, scarcely giving her a glance. “Shrivelled and bruised. Give me another.”
“I have no more,” Ravenhair confessed.
“What do you mean?!” Bodran bellowed. “I asked for fresh oranges, not one putrid fruit.”
Ravenhair turned her face to the floor. She was aware that Bodran was staring at her.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Where is Celanda?”
Ravenhair looked away.
“She cannot come today. She sent me instead.”
“But I do not know you,” Bodran complained. “I have never seen you before.”
“You have seen me now,” Ravenhair declared. “And besides – there are many more girlen in the city outside. Have you never seen any of them?”
Bodran looked sullen and shook his head.
“No – I see only Celanda, when I feel to call her. I only eat the fruit she brings me. I only hear this one bird sing… and only then when it chooses.”
The bird rattled its beak against the cage then sat in silence, ruffling its feathers. Ravenhair looked around.
“Don’t you ever leave this room?” she asked.
“I was born here. I grew here,” Bodran replied. “Never see anything else. All I know is what Celanda tells me when she comes to bring me food. I did leave once, but there was nothing there. Celanda had told me of streets and markets and ships at the quay all down on the docks and of other men parading in robes just as splendid as these…”
He twitched at the edge of his silken gown.
“… but there was nothing. Only whiteness, like as if the sun had burnt it all away.”
“If there was nothing,” Ravenhair reasoned, “then how could I come and bring you this orange, bruised and shrivelled as it may be?”
She took his hand.
“Come with me. Let me show you.”
Bodran hesitated. He gazed about the basement.
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