It was the slightest movement from the diver, the tiniest revolution of his helmet by the smallest degree, but it was enough – enough that the black porthole at the front of his helmet was staring at me, like a great black pupil composed of shadows. It was Slint noticing me – watching me with his unbearable abyssal gaze. I turn and leave the grey docks, in search of sanctuary.
Enough of this terrible place.
*
The map room is as I left it, a musty space where the sound of the Metronome’s ticking is muffled by its thick wooden walls. Except, this time, it has an occupant. He is sat at one of the room’s long tables, and has a lantern lit to illuminate the intricate work he is hunched over. He is wearing a pinstripe waistcoat over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled back. And when he turns to see me enter, I notice that he has a great black moustache of the same colour as his well-oiled hair. His eyes are agleam, as if there is a great deal of work occurring behind them, cogs turning inside his head.
He twirls the delicate-looking tool he is holding between his fingers, and then flicks the lens over his right eye away, which is one of a collection hanging from a strip of leather about his forehead. ‘Can I help?’ he asks.
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him, pausing in the doorway. ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’
‘You’re not about to start welding or hammering something, are you?’ The man’s accent is distinctly London. He examines me for the tools that would produce any such offending noises, and seems to be pleased to find none of them.
‘You don’t look like a member of the crew,’ he says.
‘I’m not.’
‘Good.’
He flicks the lens back down over his right eye, before turning back to his work. ‘Bit of peace and quiet is all I ask. You’re welcome to stick around, so long as you don’t start making a racket.’ The Londoner returns to his intricate operations.
I head inside, locating my violin where I left it, and turn back to him, my fingers paused on the rough twill of the case. With his complicated tools, the Londoner appears to be piecing together a device similar to the Metronome – fashioned out of clockwork. I notice that the man’s hands are completely steady. He works with the precision of a surgeon.
‘Are you making a clock?’ I ask.
The Londoner replies, muttering beneath his breath to keep his hands steady. ‘I tried a couple of times, back in Babel. And they were brilliant. Better than anything I could do awake. So accurate they’d never fall out of time. The problem, though,’ he says, as he delicately screws a fixture into place, ‘is that the time they were meant to be measuring was always wrong. Bloody nuisance, really. Drove me mad. You can make the world’s most perfect clock, and it’ll always be wrong because time is wrong in dreams. It always passes too fast, or too slow, depending on your mood.’
The man leans back from his work and looks up at me.
‘I’m Callister,’ he says. ‘Of Callister’s Clocks. You’ve probably heard of me, because I’m the best damn watch-smith in Britain.’ He flicks the lens over his eye up again and folds his arms, observing me properly. ‘And who the bloody hell are you, tramping around on my ship and leaving your soggy coat all over my chairs? Those things are made of Owlwood. Do you know how bloody difficult it is to find Owlwood in dreams? Near damn impossible. And it’s the only wood we could find that could soak up the ticking.’
I remember that the Captain mentioned this man. She called him the ship’s chief engineer, no less. Suddenly a lot of things about the Metronome make sense. ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him, and reach for my damp coat.
Callister laughs at me, a great bellowing sound. ‘Don’t be sorry, you bloody great fool. I’m only joking. Leave your damn coat where it is. And to answer your question, no, I’m not making a clock. I gave up trying to make clocks a long while back. These days I have the pleasure of putting together great big flying boats in the sky so that mad captains can go chasing bits of sheet music across half of bloody dreaming. But this,’ he nods at the stack of work in front of him, ‘is more of a hobby. Something to pass the time.’
‘Well, I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’m Manderlay. The man with the map.’
‘Ah,’ says Callister. ‘The Captain told me about you.’
Setting his tools aside, Callister wipes his palms on a rag and stands, and when he advances his hand, I shake it, and the sensation is pleasant. I am momentarily astonished by the clarity of the tattoo on my wrist when I glimpse it – the heart for Lily. Indeed, it seems as if I am growing younger the longer I spend dreaming.
‘Let’s see the damage, then,’ says Callister.
It takes me a moment to realise that he is asking about my violin.
I unlatch the clasps and draw her case open, to reveal her just as she was: lovely, worn from decades of use and currently so sad to see because she is still missing her fourth string. I run my fingers across the varnished wood of her body and idly trace her F-holes. It is as familiar as tracing the lines of my own skin.
The ship’s engineer drops the lens back across his eye and peers closely.
‘A thing of beauty,’ he says. ‘You much of a fiddler?’
I shrug. ‘I played for the London Philharmonic, once.’
Callister chews on his bottom lip as he considers my violin. ‘You know, I did see them play a long while back. And they were bloody brilliant. Never heard anything like it. Bit of a change from my old shop, too. Nothing but ticking all day is enough to drive a man to despair. But the London Philharmonic… well. That was something.’
I smile. ‘I should never have left them,’ I tell him.
After spending a good long while examining my instrument, he says, ‘Nope. Don't reckon I can help you with this myself.’
‘Surely you must have a length of steel wire on board somewhere?’
Callister straightens up and twists the end of his moustache thoughtfully. ‘Absolutely. But nothing so slender. And truth be told, I’d struggle to shave enough off any of the cables we have. No, I don’t think I can help here. What you need is an expert. Someone who knows his instruments. And lucky for you, I know just the guy.’
‘Someone on board?’
Callister laughs. ‘My lot wouldn’t know good music if it slapped them in the face! It’s all dub this, and house that. Bloody great lot of useless lumps. But this map of yours is meant to lead to Solomon’s Eye, right? Which means heading out into the deep wild dreams, way beyond the cities. And Reid likes to go by the Golden Gate, traditionalist that she is. Luckily for you, the guy I know just so happens to be set up there. So, way I see it, you head on up to the Captain and let her know we need to make a quick stop at the Golden Gate, and I’ll take you to meet my man when we get there, and he’ll fix your fiddle for you. How does that sound?’
‘Sounds wonderful, Callister.’
‘Mm,’ he says, and returns to his work. ‘Go tell Reid, then. I’ll be up on deck myself, once we’re clear of Binary. Can’t stand the bloody place, myself.’
I close my violin case and head to the doorway with a spring in my step.
‘Manderlay!’ calls Callister before I can leave. I turn to see him sitting back in his chair. He is winding the back of the device he has been working on with a small key, and for the first time, I can see it for what it is. Made of copper, and brass, and maybe even gold, and glinting with the small jewels he has used to weight it, is the shape of a clockwork bird. Its head is currently against its breast, and its wings are folded in, but when Callister is done winding and removes the key, it begins to move.
The clockwork bird first raises its head, sharp beak flashing in the lamplight. Its eyes are rubies, and they glitter like fire. And then, ticking and juddering, the bird slowly raises its wings. One feather at a time, they part from its sides and splay themselves. With its magnificent head held high, and its wings spread broadly to either side, I recognise it for what it is. The bird is a miniature version of Metronome’s figurehead. Another phoenix, glaring f
iercely in the lamplight, beneath the warm gaze of its creator.
‘Say,’ says Callister, thoughtfully. ‘Got any gold on you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Mm,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll find some somewhere.’
The Golden Gate
The air outside is warming as we leave the clouds above Binary far behind. It is night now, and the crew have lit a scattering of orange-glowing lamps about the ship.
I cast furtive glances around as I ascend onto deck, but there is no sign of Slint in his huge suit. The decks are mostly empty except for a scattering of crew making adjustments, the regal figure of the Captain behind her pointed wheel and the solitary silhouette of March stood on the shallow forecastle, above the ship’s figurehead. The ship ticks steadily beneath my feet.
I ascend the aftercastle and address Captain Reid, whose eyes follow the stars.
‘Callister says we need to make a stop at the Golden Gate.’
She nods, curtly. ‘Then we shall.’
I attempt to make myself useful among the crew, and chat with them as they work. I speak to an investment banker adjusting a peculiar fluted valve, a yoga instructor elbow-deep in the deck and a man who tells me that he is homeless when he is awake, who listens intently at patches of the deck with a stethoscope, occasionally tapping at it with a hammer. I am put to work following a bearded zookeeper and handing him tools from a box as he works at the gyroscopes keeping the Metronome balanced. I feel like a caddy, keeping his golfer’s clubs ready.
Beyond the railings is a wide vista of land, lit by the yellow moon hanging on the horizon like a counterfeit sun. The sky is awash with rolling pale clouds, and the lands are similar, rocky and mountainous and ridged in pale yellow where they reflect the moon.
I am reminded of the good years. The years I spent between home and distant lands, travelling to every continent, working hard. The thing about sailing is that by the time you reach your destination, you really feel as if you have earned it – as if that city out there, sparkling in the night, is the reward for all your work between the open waves. I saw places I never imagined could exist, those years, and I met such people – such wonderful, strange and endlessly fascinating people – that it is a wonder I ever came home. But I did come home. Year after year, I would return to my family, for lengthy holidays of months at a time.
After a while, Lily learned to smile again, and so did Sammy. And every time I returned to our cosy house in Edinburgh, Sammy would be a little bit taller and a little bit smarter. I would unlock the front door, and there she would be, standing instead of crawling, or calling me Pa instead of gurgling, and Lily would show me all the photographs she took while I was away – of Sammy’s first steps, and of Sammy teething, and of Sammy trying out various foods for the first time. In return, I would show them both my own photographs: the streets of distant cities, the sailors I sailed with and the mighty ships we used to cross the longest stretches of sea.
I know that I upset Lily every time I left. But I still think back fondly of those times. I made enough money that Lily did not have to work, and so that she could buy everything that Sammy could possibly want. And though I know my wanderlust was selfish – that I sailed not for my girls, but for me – I do hope that Lily was proud of her husband, and that Sammy was proud of her father: the wild adventurer who returned from time to time, with brand-new tattoos and brand-new tales to tell.
Eventually, I head across to March. Below us, there are glinting points of light, like lighthouses in the dark. We are passing over a warm but mysterious land.
I notice that March has unclipped his side-arm. ‘If I gave you a gun,’ he says, ‘would you be able to use it?’
I decide that I will not be offended by the question. After all, he is young, and he does not know very much about me. ‘Please don’t offer me a gun,’ I tell him.
March regards me steadily. ‘I won’t lie. Slint worries me. The thing is… most nightmares look like people. Makes sense, right? Most people are afraid of other people. The evil dentist, the bad man who follows you at night, the clown that lives under the staircase. And all of that is fine by me, because it makes them easy to predict. I know how to deal with a nightmare that looks like a person. But… I don’t think Slint’s human, or even close to human. I don’t know what’s inside that suit, and it really worries me.’
I can see now why I am being offered a weapon, at least.
‘I still don’t want a gun.’
March carefully fastens his side-arm closed. ‘All right, Will.’
‘Where is he? Slint, I mean?’
‘Somewhere below deck,’ says March, quietly. ‘Waiting.’
Time passes in a comfortable quiet. I lean against the railing and watch as the beak of the Metronome’s figurehead cuts through the air. A long way below, I catch sight of the coast, yellow-rimmed waves sloshing gently against curving beaches and rough cliffs.
'Someone back in Babel told me the sun never sets. I suppose he was lying.'
'No,' says March, 'he was telling you the truth. The sun's never set on the Capital.'
Wordlessly, I point at the moon.
'I can see why you're confused, but you're thinking about it wrong. Every place has its own sky here. The tower has its endless day, and the Golden Gate has its endless night, and every other place has a sky that suits its mood.'
We watch the sky together for a while. Eventually March leaves, off to patrol the ship.
Before long, a new city comes into view. This city is dark and obviously abandoned. It sits between the sea and a huge black lake, and from the horizon looks like a strange kind of mountain, formed of buildings that gradually get taller closer to its centre. By my reckoning, it does not look as if this city was subjected to any great calamity. Just that whoever was living here decided to leave. The very limits are being slowly washed into the sea, and instead of being disturbing, I find the scene somewhat serene.
Behind me, I hear Callister’s voice.
‘All right, you motley lot!’ he calls. ‘We’re in need of gold.’
I turn to see that he’s holding a small leather satchel open to the crew.
The crew approach him, and when they do, they each drop something into the satchel. First, the investment banker donates his gold watch. ‘For the Captain,’ he says.
The yoga instructor donates her earrings. ‘For the Captain,’ she says.
The homeless man reaches into his mouth and tugs out his golden tooth. ‘For the Captain,’ he says, with a wince.
And one by one, they all come, every last man and woman on deck, and even some from below. I wonder what is happening here, and what it has to do with fixing my violin. And more than that, I wonder at their devotion to Reid. I wonder what she has done to inspire such selfless giving in her crew.
Something big and dazzling comes into view below the ship, and I am startled from my thoughts.
We have come to a bridge. Except, where the city beneath us is abandoned, this bridge is still very much alive. It is a long tower bridge, and every square yard of it seems to be covered in small yellow lights – indeed, it is encrusted in lights like stars, as if they have fallen from the sky all in one place. The effect is that this long bridge, reflected brilliantly in the dark waters beneath it, looks as if it is made of glittering gold.
But this is not what makes me laugh. Nor is it the group of sailing ships I can see docked beneath the bridge. Nor is it the signs of industry I can see taking place all across the surface of the bridge, or the network of thin streets between the shanty towns, all as brilliantly lit as the rest.
What causes me such delight is the fact that I was expecting some kind of literal golden gate. I was imagining something close to the gates of heaven as they are in stories. But what I have found here makes so much more wonderful sense. Because I know this bridge. I saw it once while awake, without all the lights and the folk occupying it. In waking life, the city beside it is bright and bustling
, and in waking life, that bridge is inexplicably red.
Because those are the ruins of San Francisco, and that is the Golden Gate Bridge. We have come to the Golden Gate, and in dreaming, it really is the colour of gold.
*
I descend from one of the glittering golden towers of the bridge in a large basket, like that of a hot-air balloon. This close, it is possible to see that the lights woven everywhere around the bridge are something close to Christmas lights, thousands of small yellow bulbs joined together with endless ribbons of cable.
I lean over the edge and admire the shanty town below us, where there are the figures of sailors belonging to the dark ships docked beneath the bridge, mingling with locals. The entire bridge seems to be a great port town, where all manner of travellers bustle and trade.
‘I don’t get to come here too often,’ says Callister. He is beside me, wearing a well-tailored pinstripe jacket and smoking a cigar. The satchel full of gold is tucked in beneath his arm. ‘Take it in while you still can,’ he tells me. ‘This is it, really.’
‘What do you mean?’
Callister blows a billow of smoke out through his nostrils. ‘There are no more people after this. No more cities, or towns, or ports or anything like that. No more doors. We’re heading into the unknown, Manderlay. The deep wild dreams. The places where nobody bloody comes back from intact.’ He squints upwards, to the place where the Metronome hangs in the sky like a clock thrown into the air.
‘Callister…’
‘Hm?’
‘This might be a strange question. But – back in Binary, March insisted that I come with him so that he could keep me safe. But… it’s just the two of us, here. Is the Golden Gate safe enough that we don’t need a Sleepwalker?’
At this, Callister chuckles. ‘That’s what he told you? No, no. March just didn’t want Reid running off with you while he did his business in Binary. That’s the only reason he took you with him.’ The watch-smith glances over at me. ‘You’re his bargaining power,’ he says. ‘Reid’s not especially fond of Sleepwalkers, from what I know – and especially not Sleepwalkers with guns. Hell, neither am I, truth be told. The only reason he’s been allowed on board is because she needs your map.’
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