‘We are.’
‘You’re not – you’re thinking.’
‘The prisoners entered through the front. Priests love taking names, so let’s check the ledgers in their offices.’
‘Blundering inside church rooms is safe, is it?’
‘Smile, Mitch; you might confuse them.’
Several rows of boxy cabins still rested above the stone building like stumps of broken teeth. The violence had stripped away their fronts to stamp a doll’s-house design onto Torzene’s carcass. Timbers teetered like twigs above the rooms, and guards rushed to wrestle desks from the edge.
There sat Rastersen’s brick hut, and she kept her head down while darting towards the monastery. Two guards ran across the slush, and she turned her face away – she’d watched birds from her bedroom, and they always flitted between stillness and flight to avoid cats.
‘Try to look scruffy,’ Phos said.
‘You’re ahead of me.’
Three dingy huts stood between them and the squat stone building.
‘If we wait for—’ Phos squawked as a hand seized her wrist and yanked her body around. A guard’s bearded scowl glared at her.
‘What you doing? Where you going?’
‘We’re looking for our parents, sir. Everyone ran after the shaking, but we got lost.’
‘Don’t come here: the monastery is for processing adults. What’s your village?’
‘Leester, sir.’
‘Leester? You stinking runts, get back. Your huts are that way. Get near the monastery again, and I’ll slap you.’
Phos faked a smile and nodded before walking away from the monastery, and Mitch followed. She’d walk the wrong way for a minute to colour in her lie.
‘You fibber,’ Mitch said.
‘Always go where you’re not wanted.’
‘Can we find disguises, like cloaks or new tunics? And the monastery’s middle is swarming with guards, so can we try the sides?’
‘Let’s keep looking.’
They stepped over broken timbers, and Phos dished out a hunk of bread to two five-year-olds waiting beside an empty wagon. She glanced back; the forest of huts hid the monastery, and the guard had vanished, so she circled around and hugged the northern fence. The mud here only showed two tracks of footprints.
Phos suggested Mitch keep watch behind as she crept forward, and they reached the ancient building. Age had gnawed the flinty stone, but ahead a dark passage burrowed into the building.
‘Inside, quick.’ Water dripped on her head as an earthy taste crawled inside her nose, and wall moss gripped mortar to make a faint glowing net behind the bricks. Damage had hammered through the ceiling; lanterns and firewood littered the floor; and a door had shaken free to teeter against the far wall.
Phos stepped into a dim, low-ceilinged cellar reeking of yeast. A stack of barrels had burst open, and beer puddled the floor to lap against wheels of cheese. Soil-filled trays held coiled green vegetables she couldn’t name, and a jumble of wood filled one corner.
‘That was a chair, but some nutter’s stolen the screws,’ Mitch said.
‘Didn’t the rooms above use screws? If the screws all vanish, everything crunches together.’
‘Like the door: I know those hinges, and you can’t get the bolts out without breaking wood, but there’re no bolts and no damage.’
Heavy footsteps echoed from the corridor. Had the bearded guard returned? Phos turned towards the doorway and held her breath.
A hulking labourer wearing tattered overalls walked inside. Grey hairs grizzled his beard. He wiped his hands on a grease-smeared apron tied around his waist, and rips showed in his sleeves, though a huge leather backpack fitted him well.
‘Are yous hurt?’ His voice burred through the air.
Phos shook her head. ‘Were you inside when everything collapsed?’
‘I…I was outside, so I didn’t see nothing.’ He stepped inside and checked the door hinges.
Mitch stepped forward. ‘What happened to the bolts?’
‘The metal’s gone and the front’s crumpled, and now there’re holes everywhere. There’re two guards down the corridor, but they didn’t survive – best not go that way.’
He looked away, but guilt had smouldered in his eyes. He was choosing his words, and memories flared inside Phos. ‘You’re the miller…. Your windmill ripped itself apart…. What happened? Did you wreck this place too?’
The miller smiled. ‘I can’t vanish metal.’
‘But you knew the bolts had gone…and what brought you here? What made your windmill light up?’
‘Someone your age should answer questions.’
‘School’s closed,’ Phos said.
‘So you’re taking control?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Cal.’
‘What do you mean you’re called Cal? Are you thirteen?’
‘Caliper – I don’t use age syllables.’ His feet tapped a beer puddle.
‘You don’t. Everyone else does but you don’t. Did you forget about ageing?’
‘No. I got drunk at twelve, and when I sobered up, I looked this way. Happy?’
Phos grinned and leaned against the wall.
‘Let’s start again,’ Caliper said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Phos. My second syllable comes in three months, and here’s Mitch. We school at Leester. Did guards force you inside?’
‘No. I saw a crowd lugged here, but the place collapsed, so I came to help. I’ll not stay.’
‘Why follow the villagers? Who were you chasing?’
He paused. ‘I thought a friend lived here, but….’
‘You’ve still not said why your windmill wrecked itself.’
‘New sails, Phos, and new designs to capture wind and shove its energy into lanterns. My friend needed to notice.’
Questions screamed inside her: what designs, and where had he found lanterns, and who was this friend? Her mouth opened, but no words came, and her neck hairs prickled as a smile waited on Caliper’s face. One question squeaked out. ‘Did you smash this place too?’
‘My turn for the questions,’ Caliper said. ‘I’d ask for two questions, like you, but that’d make a question, so tell me, where are your parents?’
‘No idea.’ Mitch’s voice quivered. ‘They’re building a new village outside, but Phos wanted to search here first.’
‘Don’t hang around – the evening wind will trash this place. Shouldn’t you head back to Leester?’
‘You know why this building crumpled, don’t you?’
Caliper whipped a knife from his apron and whittled out a chunk of cheese from a wheel. He took one bite and slid the rest into his apron pocket. ‘You’d not believe me.’
Phos rattled through her own story as Caliper rummaged through stacks of potted plants and ran his hands over a cloth roll. Once she’d finished, he stood and faced her.
‘I saw people dragged from Leester, but you escaped. Was that luck?’
Mitch shook his head. ‘We were late for school, so we missed the “getting arrested” class.’
‘I never expected this much damage.’ Caliper stroked the door.
‘You expected damage?’
‘I came to patch wounds. There’s months of bandaging work here, but I’ve someone to meet.’
‘We want to find our parents.’
‘We’re all looking, aren’t we? We’ll step outside and find priests to dodge.’
They followed Caliper into the afternoon’s smoky light, but both priests and guards had vanished, and an elderly couple helped each other across the mud. Far off, a crowd swarmed around a burning hut.
‘I’m trying to fit this together, but everything keeps changing,’ Phos said.
‘We’re all befuddled, but try thinking who gains. We saw people gathered, which reminds me of harvest time. Scythe wheat, and you’ve ten thousand stalks, but you’ll not take each stalk to your mill; you bale the lot and haul a wagonload of bales. Tho
se people were being baled.’
‘A harvest of people?’
‘All about control, Phos. I reckon you’re right to say your parents are here, but we’ve chaos now, and a chance to write our own rules. I’m leaving tomorrow, but today I’ll help find your mum and dad. Just go easy with the questions.’
Caliper wandered towards a hut with a crushed wall and ran his fingers over a small handcart. He flicked his hand, and the cart toppled onto its side.
Mitch leaned over to Phos. ‘Shall we follow him?’
Torzene’s rubble needed shifting, but would the miller’s strength shackle her? Questions brought canings now; priests broke orders to scare young girls while parents vanished. Caliper hadn’t explained himself; secrets writhed inside him. Were his words a disguise?
***
Thin rain fell, and Caliper’s boots roughed up a peaty scent from the old monastery gardens – did herbs have ghosts? Caliper raised his hood as the girl strode inside a hut and rummaged through crates, and her copper hair twitched as those long limbs fidgeted. She heaved out a set of blankets before tipping the crate on its side and kneeling to paw through the box. She was all awkward gangle, as if puberty had sneaked up on her.
Phos’s shoulders slumped. She stumbled from the hut and stood head bowed before glancing at him. ‘I need to find my parents, Caliper, but where? I thought there’d be documents.’
Mitch rubbed his nose. ‘There’re five hundred huts here, easy, so if Caliper’s leaving tomorrow….’
Caliper stood in front of Phos. ‘What brought you to Torzene?’
‘We found a journal in a chapel, which listed our names in priest letters, and they saw my parents as special. They searched our house and smashed jars and cut up my dolls – no idea what they wanted, but….’ Phos turned her head away.
Caliper stepped forward but stopped: a fumbled hug helped no one. Light drained from the vault, and it was too late to strike dawnward today, but tonight he’d reach out to build some comfort.
‘Look for sticks and cloth,’ Caliper said. ‘I don’t suppose you’re taught the healing?’
‘Healing’s illegal.’
‘Ah, that’s only words. The church won’t ban healing until it bans accidents, and there’s reeper cloth roll against that barrel, so tear it into strips as wide as your wrist.’
‘Officers!’ Phos and Mitch ducked behind a crate, but Caliper slouched and ambled towards a dark grey brick hut. Two guards led four brown horses towards the shack, and strings of orders rang out. Four priests mounted before cantering dawnward. The other clergymen and guards swapped words with their heads down against the drizzle, and after a few moments they followed the horses. A flurry of loose pages swirled behind the tramping men and fluttered into the clouds.
‘Clears our way, and now yous can come out,’ Caliper said.
‘Can we search inside the brick hut?’ Phos’s voice trembled. ‘That place was important to them.’
‘You’ve been there before?’
She nodded. ‘I…. They used this shack…. They didn’t let me go inside, but they wanted me to hear a woman screaming.’
Villagers had blackened the air around him with a thousand stories. He’d not believed the half of them, but pain showed in Phos’s eyes even as her lips sealed shut. Rot festered in crops and plants, and he’d seen fungus crack open oak trees, so perhaps all this poison sprouted from the church.
‘You’re sure you want to see? Face too much horror and you’ll not sleep.’
‘If Dad had something they wanted, they’d have brought him here.’
‘You should think twice.’
‘I’ve thought a thousand times, and I need to know.’
Caliper might drown himself in the cider, but this girl’s passion kept her rushing; she’d face her own fear to find her parents while he lacked the words to defy a single priest. He followed her to an iron slab, an outer door. It creaked as Caliper tugged it open. Inside, a tiny inner space held another door. Mitch stood behind Caliper.
‘Do I keep going, Phos?’
She nodded.
The inner door squealed open, and stagnant air snuffled at his face as light drizzled from tiny skylights. Glimmer enough to show tangled metalwork woven around a naked body and pinning it against a chair. Dried blood streaked the man’s chest, and Caliper swept his arm back to block Phos’s sight.
‘Let me see. Let me see!’ Phos dashed forward and stared at the body’s face, and her hand stroked the body’s arm as she moaned. ‘Dad’s friend.’
Caliper cursed himself without words: no one could stop the girl learning, but he should find her a gentler path and help her hold back – no one grew up in a day.
‘Priests get impatient,’ Mitch said.
Two bloodstained chairs faced the wall, surrounded by the iron restraints used on animals, and blood had spattered over the wooden floor. Caliper watched as Phos kneaded the body’s hand. A book learner’s hand. Most likely Phos’s dad had the same smooth fingers, so should he shepherd her outside for the comfort?
‘He brought me presents….’ Phos gripped the irons. ‘Why didn’t this metal vanish?’
Was she distracting herself? If distraction helped, he might mention his talking to a woman built from mist and water.
‘There’s a passage further on,’ Mitch said.
Phos paused for a heartbeat before lurching towards Mitch, and Caliper forced himself onward, but his overalls caught on a metal prong and ripped. The passageway tunnelled into a cramped office where three books, a rope and a brass rod sat on a narrow desk.
‘There’re Dad’s books, and that’s his.’ Phos snatched the rod. A sob escaped her lips, but she held the tube up to a skylight and twisted one end. The tube lengthened. ‘Still works.’
‘What works?’
She pocketed the tube and the rope. ‘It shows faraway things like they’re closer. I’ll show you later.’
A hundred years of careful handling had smoothed the book’s edges. Hymnals, verses for church services, and older than any book he’d seen. They’d fit into his backpack.
‘Want me to take those?’
Phos blinked before nodding.
‘Let’s keep searching.’ A drawer offered papers and a heavy rubber-coated rod. His thumb touched a button, and brilliant white light sprayed against the ceiling – his thumb jerked away, and the light vanished.
Mitch whistled. ‘Torches, handheld lanterns. We’re not supposed to see those.’
‘We’re not supposed to own candles, so we’ll take it. Anything else we need?’
‘I need air,’ Phos said.
The sun’s arch had slid eveward, and labourers had battered down a row of shacks to fuel campfires. Lost children latched on to bereaved parents to forge new families, and squeals capered across the false village. Ahead, people toasted bread and made soup at a forge.
Distant cries pealed out from behind, and Phos stopped fidgeting. One moment of silence passed before she wheeled around.
‘That’s Mum’s voice, behind us.’ Phos loped back towards the ancient monastery.
‘Watch for guards, Phos.’
The cries rang out again from one of the surviving rooms on the monastery roof. No telling which doorway in the old monastery led upstairs, but roof timbers had spilled into a ramshackle ramp, and Phos tugged at a plank as Mitch drew up beside her.
‘Mitch, I’ve seen you climb. Can you find your way up with this rope?’
The boy tapped a beam with his foot. One leap, and he ran upward and stretched his arms out before jumping onto a steeper plank and tilting his body. Another jump and another rush forward – he almost reached the top, but wood snapped. Mitch leaped rightward and his body twisted. His feet caught another spar, and he scampered onto the roof.
‘He’s good. Let’s charge people to watch,’ Caliper said.
Mitch disappeared for a few heartbeats, but his rope writhed towards them, a black line against the fading light. Phos took it and climbed o
nto the monastery roof without trouble, but the beams groaned underneath Caliper, and gripping the rope turned his knuckles white. He stumbled onto the roof.
Shadows pooled everywhere, and the surviving walls made a maze of fences rattling in the wind, but those cries had stopped. Phos heaved at one of the wooden panels, but her passion outstripped her strength. Caliper reached out and twisted the wall to open a gap, and she pounced forward with Mitch.
‘Careful, Phos; stay together.’
Centuries of weather had chipped chunks from the flat roof, and Torzene’s collapse had gouged fresh channels; slabs rocked under his feet. He’d not squeeze through the gap he’d opened, but some obstacles only lived in your mind, and Caliper gripped the crushed wall’s underside and pulled until it popped free from the stone.
Three women sat with bruised faces and torn clothes. Rope tied their hands to a bench behind them. Phos cradled a woman’s head, and their foreheads rested against each other while Mitch fussed at their restraints. This had been a hall for meetings or feasts, but chaos had stripped the ceiling away, and two bodies filled a far corner beside a huge table. Their entwined cloaks left him staring; the priests wouldn’t approve of the blood staining the plaster or the slashed tapestries.
The women turned, their faces sodden with dread, but their gaze flickered over his clothes, and they relaxed.
‘Mum, you know our miller, Caliper. He helped us.’
‘Yes, hello, Caliper.’ Her face was fresh with tears, and a livid bruise wrapped her jaw. Phos’s red hair tangled with her mother’s long black tresses, and she spent a moment untangling herself.
‘Hello, Shelaker. What happened?’
‘They tied us here hours ago. I didn’t believe I’d see sky again until this shaking. The whole building twisted, and our roof slid right away. Do you have water?’
‘Here, take it slow.’ A gash ran along her lower leg, but Caliper’s reeper cloth stopped the blood.
‘We wanted rain for drinking, but you came. What happened here, Phos?’
‘Caliper happened, but he’s not talking.’
Caliper stood and corked his water bottle. Still the wrong time to mention Christina; he’d not want to scare the girl, but he’d play with thoughts of bringing Phos to Christina. Fading daylight meant evening winds, and tomorrow’s light would bring more priests, so he needed haste, and he still had damage to heal.
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