by Alex Shearer
We sailed on. Kaneesh was at the prow. He turned his glance, with magnificent disdain and an expression of consummate disgust, upon every island we passed, as if they were all several fathoms beneath his contempt, but he was favouring them with it anyway.
I felt a sense of not belonging to, and of being shunned by, each isle we passed. Many had guns and cannon mounted on battlements at their harbours, as if afraid that some wind of change might blow to ruffle their flags and their certainties, and they had to be prepared to protect themselves from it.
The air around those islands all but crackled with malice and intolerance, as if everyone in the vicinity were spoiling for a fight, just waiting for some defiant stranger to come along and deny the prevailing belief. So that those who knew better could make a convert of him, or – more enjoyably – a martyr.
It was not enough for these people to be right, or to believe themselves so. What was far more important was that others had to be proved wrong. Others had to be enlightened, to be shown the errors of their ways and the falsity of their opinions. Nothing more delighted the heart of the true believers than the sight of an outnumbered heretic, fallen helplessly into their clutches.
At the hub of this archipelago of Forbidden Isles was the largest in the sector, the Isle of Quenant, to which we were headed. And here it now was, looming into our sights.
‘That’s it,’ Jenine said. ‘Have a look.’
She handed me the binoculars. I saw the place clearly and unmistakably. On its highest hill, dominating the whole island, was the outline of a massive gibbet, and suspended from that, in dark silhouette, was a great noose. You could have hanged a sky-whale from it.
32
sign of the noose
‘The lovely Isle of Quenant,’ Jenine said. ‘That’s it, and that’s them. That’s where my father is. Locked in some dungeon.’
I moved the binoculars and focused on the docks. Another gibbet stood at the harbour’s edge, its noose dangling like a warning to you to keep sailing. ‘Don’t even think of parking here!’ it seemed to say.
‘We’re not landing at the harbour, I take it?’
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘They’d take us prisoner in a minute.’
Kaneesh altered course; we angled away from the island; then he changed tack again. Still keeping a safe and considerable distance from the shore, we circled around it. A rugged, unpopulated coastline presented itself to our view, with innumerable coves and inlets: a smuggler’s paradise – had any smugglers thought the place worth the risk.
Carla reduced the sails and we floated with the thermals.
‘What now?’ I said.
‘We wait till the sleeping time. Then, when they’re quiet, we’ll go in.’
So we waited and we drifted. If we drifted too far out, Carla briefly powered the engines to bring us back in towards land. The time drifted, too, going slowly by at its own leisurely pace.
I wished there was something we could do to make it move faster. But time wasn’t to be hurried that day. It shuffled along, like an old man with a walking stick, moving with interminably slow steps.
Finally, the hour arrived. We glided into a deserted cove at an unpopulated part of the island. It took some manoeuvring to get the boat in and to thread it past needle rocks and ragged outcrops. But at last we tied up at a sheltered, well-hidden spot.
‘So what now? I wait here? Or what do I do?’ I asked.
Jenine shook her head.
‘I told my mother and Kaneesh what you said. I told them about your offer. They want you to come with us – if that’s what you still want to do.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘What about the boat?’
‘No one will find it here. And no one’s going to steal it even if they did,’ she said. ‘No one dare steal anything here.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why do you think? There’s only the one penalty here for all crimes. Serious or trivial, the punishment’s the same. A piece of rope’s the cure for all ailments.’
I didn’t really believe that the Quenant were ever going to hang me. Not even if they did catch us. Not me. Kaneesh, Jenine and Carla, maybe. But I was from a respectable, well-off family. When I told them who my parents were, surely they’d let me go. It just goes to show how naive and stupid I was. But it didn’t take me long to learn better.
‘So let’s go then,’ I said, ‘if we’re going. Before I change my mind.’
‘All right. Let’s get it done.’
We left the boat behind us in that hidden cove and scrambled up the rocks. From the clifftop the boat was unnoticeable, unless you went to the very edge of the escarpment and peered down.
On the land side, three or four kilometres down from us, in a hill-sheltered valley, Quenant City stood in all its dubious glory. It looked like something from the Dark Ages. And the closer we got to it, the darker and more pestiferous it seemed, with endless alleyways and numerous narrow streets, criss-crossing each other and running in all directions. A map of the place would have looked like a plate of tangled spaghetti.
It was the sleeping time still. There was no natural night on this island, so the inhabitants created their own, with canopies and shades, with blinds and drapes, with heavy blackout curtains and shutters to block out the light.
We walked on, soft-footed and unspeaking, past the first crop of outlying houses. On the upper floors the blinds were pulled and the curtains drawn. But downstairs you could see into the empty rooms. In the lower windows of each house there dangled a small noose. It was a sign of belief and belonging, no doubt, a certificate of allegiance. The only thing you might have hung in such a small noose was a puppet. But even so, they still gave you the creeps.
By the time we entered the city itself, there was the smell of baking bread in the air. Other than the bakers, nobody seemed awake yet. Kaneesh, Jenine and Carla pulled the hoods of their capes up to keep their faces in shadow and to hide their scars.
‘Do you know where we’re going?’ I asked Jenine.
‘Kaneesh does. He knows others who have been here. They told him the way to the centre and to the dungeons.’
So he went ahead and led us on. We walked deeper and deeper into that warren of streets that was becoming the city of Quenant.
It could have been any island capital really, if not for those nooses. They were suspended in every window and hanging from every door, like so many good luck (or was it bad luck?) charms.
We had passed a few roadside shrines on our way too, and in each there had been a noose. In some there was also a small gibbet, with a little figurine of a hanging man, his hands bound and his eyes blindfolded. In mock, carved parchment with ornamental flourishings had been written, Quenant the Martyr. And, Beloved Quenant Be Our Guide.
‘But what do they actually believe in?’ I whispered to Jenine, as we walked on. ‘Other than hanging people?’
She shrugged.
‘They believe they’re right, of course,’ she said.
‘But about what?’
‘Everything. About their interpretation of who God is and what happens to people when they die. About the correct and only form of worship. About how the world was created. All the usual things.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘That’s always it, isn’t it?’ she said, giving me a sharp look, as if I were being foolish. ‘When’s it any different? When’s it ever anything else?’ she added.
And she put on a turn of speed in order to keep up with Kaneesh and Carla, who were hurrying along ahead.
We had good reason to hurry. We hadn’t timed things as well as we had intended. The sleeping time was nearly over. The Quenant were early risers.
The city was waking and coming to life. People stumbled out of doorways. Traffic moved on the streets. There were trundling handcarts and rattling barrows. Everything was done by man and woman power. There appeared to be no powered vehicles. No pack animals either. Maybe they’d all been hanged.
The most startling thing
was that every person we saw wore a small noose around their neck; they sported them like neckties or cravats. Even children wore the same thing: smaller and more brightly coloured maybe, fashioned from cotton rather than string or reed, but a noose just the same.
Kaneesh ducked into a narrow, deserted back alley and beckoned us to follow. He stopped and looked around. Spotting a length of twine which someone had coiled around a post, he took his knife, cut the twine to unravel it, then cut it again into four equal pieces. He handed us one each, took his own piece, fashioned it into a small noose, and slipped it over his head.
We copied his example. Though I don’t pretend that my noose was as good as it could have been. But then I didn’t have much experience of tying them.
More suitably attired to blend in with the locals, and feeling a mite less conspicuous, we ventured back out into the wider thoroughfare. In the few minutes it had taken us to fashion the nooses, it seemed that half the doors of the city had simultaneously opened and half of its inhabitants had tumbled out.
The streets were truly alive now, busy with yawning and bleary people going about their morning business and starting the day. Stalls and shops were opening; shutters were rolled back; doors were unlocked; produce was put on display. And everyone we saw – without exception – wore a noose.
A woman approached us, expensively dressed. There was a noose around her neck too. But this one was fashioned from precious stones that flashed and sparkled. She nodded graciously to a well-attired gentleman coming the other way.
‘Good morning, Believer.’
‘Good morning to you, Believer,’ he responded. And he made a gesture with his hand, as if tracing the shape of a noose in the air, and she responded with the same movement, and they went their separate ways.
‘The Sign of the Noose,’ Jenine whispered.
But I had already deduced what it was. In fact, I could feel my fingers attempting the gesture for themselves, as if in fascinated, compulsive imitation.
We came to a busy square. On the corner, judging from its dome and spire, was a place of worship.
Kaneesh stopped and hesitated. I’d so far thought of him as a man devoid of curiosity outside of his own affairs, but even he seemed to want to look inside.
We went to the door of the church and slipped in. At its far end was an altar, and hanging above the altar, suspended from a beam was a noose, woven in intricate fashion from gold and silver threads. A light burned in a red glass holder.
A priest was leading a small congregation in prayer. He too wore a noose around his neck, but an elaborately woven, ceremonial one – unlike the poorer, mere twine and cotton ones of the faithful. A second noose was around his waist, worn as a belt on his cassock.
The congregation held hymn books, and many had nooses in their hands. I saw that these nooses were knotted and that the knots made the nooses seem like rosaries, while the knots themselves were the beads.
‘Brethren, now we will briefly say our Stations of the Noose.’
The priest took the lead; the congregation responded. The dangling noose above the altar moved in a draught coming from an open window. The noose seemed to nod, as if giving advice and good counsel, proffering a word to the wise, warning you to be good. Or else.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Jenine. Kaneesh and Carla had already gone. I followed her to the door we had come in by, and we slipped back out into the street.
The city was growing ever busier by the minute, and the closer we came to its centre, the more evident it was that preparations for some great festival were underway. There were signs and advertisements and sale boards everywhere.
Quenant the Martyr. Buy Your New Noose for Quenant’s Day.
Quenant’s Day Cards: On Sale Here.
Grand Hanging Souvenir Programme. When Kaneesh saw that, he stopped and gave me some money,
‘Go in, boy,’ he said, pointing to one of the souvenir programmes on display in a shop window. ‘Buy one.’
I did. When I came out with the purchase he snatched it from me, without bothering about his change. Carla and Jenine looked over his shoulder as he flicked through it.
‘Ah. Here . . .’
I looked too. He was pointing at a page headed: Quenant’s Day Events. The relevant part read: Ceremonial Execution of Prisoners.
‘Noon,’ Carla whispered. ‘Noon tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow,’ Kaneesh said. And he folded up the programme and twisted it in his hands as if he wanted to wring its neck.
Fortunately, Kaneesh and Carla and Jenine were not the only ones in capes and hoods that morning. There were plenty of others too. It seemed to be the local fashion to cover your head when out in the street.
So, more absorbed by the crowd than standing out from it, we followed what was now turning into a throng and moved deeper into the city.
33
beggar
There was ever more evidence that tomorrow was a special day; there were souvenirs on offer everywhere. Miniature Quenant’s Day gallows were lined up for sale on the traders’ stalls. There were Quenant’s Day nooses and Quenant’s Day key rings, Quenant’s Day badges and Quenant’s Day hats, Quenant’s Day pens and Quenant’s Day pencil sharpeners, and even – in case of rain – Quenant’s Day umbrellas.
In the windows of the bakeries were loaves of Quenant’s Day bread, along with Quenant’s Day cakes and buns, alongside pastries that might have been croissants or bagels, but which, on closer inspection, proved to be edible nooses, made of gingerbread and glistening with sugar.
Each shop, without exception, had a small religious display in its window, of noose and gallows and hanging man, testifying to the proprietor’s diligent observance of, and fidelity to, the faith.
All in all, it was quite like Christmas must once have been (if what I had read about it was to be believed) with a festive and celebratory feeling in the air. Something unusual and exciting was on the way; something to look forward to.
It was hard to believe, from the atmosphere, that the high spot of tomorrow’s celebrations was to be the Ceremonial Execution of Prisoners. But it was. It was the great highlight of the day. And among those prisoners would be Jenine’s father.
‘Look at them,’ Jenine whispered to me. ‘They’re as good as mad. All going about with nooses around their necks. Yet they act as if it’s perfectly normal.’
‘But it is normal,’ I said. ‘For here. And anyway . . .’ A thought struck me. ‘What do Cloud Hunters believe in?’
‘In keeping moving and staying out of trouble,’ she said. ‘There’s never been a better philosophy.’
‘It was keeping moving that got you into this trouble,’ I pointed out.
‘Well, staying put doesn’t exactly seem to keep some people out of trouble either, does it, Christien?’ she said. ‘After all, there you were, safely sitting at home, but was it enough for you –?’ And she gave me her irresistible smile.
I guess there was some truth in what she said.
We had arrived at the main square. To our left was a cathedral. I looked up to see its rising spire taper to a gibbet, from which the usual and expected noose was suspended. The cathedral doors were open and the chant of plainsong came from within.
Beggars were gathered on the cathedral steps, soliciting alms, their voices ringing out over the precinct. They sat like living, or near-dead, bundles of rags, their faces half hidden in cowls and hoods, as if to add to their appearance of dejection and misery, and to more effectively touch the onlooker’s heart.
‘A little charity, Believers! For Quenant’s sake! Alms for a poor man! Alms! Have no qualms, give alms!’
Kaneesh flipped one of the beggars a coin. It landed by the man’s feet and he seized upon it as if it were food for the starving. He snatched it up and hid it within his robes before anyone else could get it.
In the square, workmen were busy, banging and clattering with hammers and nails, building a podium and constructing gibbets upon it, from which tomor
row’s executions would no doubt be carried out.
‘Where is your father being held?’ I whispered. ‘Where is the prison?’
‘There is no real prison in Quenant,’ Jenine said.
‘No prison?’
‘Just a few cells here, under the town hall, down in its dungeons.’
‘Why’s there no prison?’
‘There’s not enough crime. Or hardly any. They don’t need a prison. A few holding cells are enough.’
‘Why’s there no crime?’
‘Why do you think? There’s no crime because there’s only one punishment – hanging. As I said. So everyone’s very careful not to commit any.’
‘What, just one punishment? Even for . . . well . . . littering?’
‘Even for littering. For everything.’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’
‘See any litter though?’ Jenine asked.
I looked around. There wasn’t a scrap.
‘Who else are they hanging tomorrow?’ I said.
‘Heathens, disbelievers, wrongdoers. Maybe once or twice a year someone does commit a crime. In a fit of anger or a moment of passion or because they’ve had too much home-made wine. And the authorities save them up to hang them as well.’
‘On Quenant’s Day?’
‘On Quenant’s Day. When else? Helps the party go with a swing – as it were.’
I suddenly felt an odd, mad, almost overwhelming urge to take a piece of litter and to throw it on the ground. Just to see what would happen; just to see the looks on people’s faces: their outrage, their shock. My hands even went to my pockets, but luckily for me there was no paper in them, or, I do believe, I might really have done it.
Across the square from the cathedral was the town hall. The inevitable gallows and the unavoidable noose were incorporated into a civic coat of arms which glistened on its gabled front like a great medallion.