‘But why?’ I ask. ‘Why does she want to get to Solomon’s Eye? Isn’t it just a prison?’
Callister frowns at me. ‘You don’t know?’ He taps ash over the edge. ‘Probably better if she tells you herself. She’s got this way of telling her story… Better than I could, anyway. I think she can manage it, though. Getting us there, I mean. From what I hear, there’s nothing but ruins, jungles and storms ahead. But I guess if anybody can take us through, it’s Reid. She’s mad, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes you need a touch of madness if you want to get anything done.’
We disembark from the basket and make our way through the shanty town on the bridge. The routes between the shacks are relatively thin, but Callister navigates them with his native aggression, making himself twice his size through the sheer force of scowling.
We pass a building where car doors are used as swinging saloon doors, and we pass headlamps used as street lights, and ancient-looking engines rumbling away and powering all the tiny yellow lights everywhere.
There are doors to dreams here, as well: dreams of distant ports, bright islands and dark coves where furtive figures dart to and fro. From all of them stride more sailors and adventurers, bustling around or meandering drunkenly. Once again, I wish I had more time simply to stay and explore this place.
Callister arrives at the front door of a bungalow-sized shack with a tall chimney, from which a white stream of smoke is writhing, and he wastes no time in hauling open the reclaimed front door. A gust of warmth pours out. There is a great blazing furnace to one side of this wide room, flames licking the black walls of their housing. Callister stamps his feet and ushers me inside after him. ‘Alder!’ he calls.
The walls of the hot bungalow are covered in all manner of golden things. From golden weapons, such as swords and shields and guns, to golden tools, including hammers and tongs, and even more peculiar artefacts, like the golden horseshoes hung over the door. The glorious centrepiece of this display, however, sits beside the furnace, where there is a shining anvil made entirely of gold.
The very idea of this golden workshop is absurd, but delightful, because I know that there is no way that gold is strong enough to support things like anvils or hammers or swords. It is a soft metal, surely? It is as if some troublesome soul has played a prank on the place – wrapping every available artefact in gold leaf.
From between a pair of oily hanging curtains strides a great man with skin so dark that it causes the flecks of gold scattered across it to look like stars. From his thick arms hang golden bracelets. When he grins at seeing Callister, I can see that most of his teeth are gold as well. But most impressive about this man are his eyes, each of them housing an iris as golden as the rest of his ornaments.
The robed man opens his arms wide as if to embrace Callister. ‘My friend!’ he says, warmly. ‘It is good to see you again! Come, come. Tea, is it? And tales of the cities. It has been far too long.’
I can see the beads of sweat forming on Callister’s forehead already. ‘I’m not here long, Alder. Captain’s orders. We’ve gotta make haste. Hunting her white whale at last.’ He chews at the end of his cigar and drops his satchel on the nearest workbench.
‘Of course.’ Alder nods politely and rubs his hands together. He empties the satchel and makes a little pile of gold trinkets. ‘You do not have much of an eye for the yellow stuff, my friend,’ he comments as he sorts through. His gold-rimmed eyes peer intently at each article. ‘Fake,’ he says, of a watch, and pushes it aside. ‘Leaf only,’ he says of a locket, before running the chain through his fingers. ‘Ah, but this chain… yes. This I can work with.’
I exchange a glance with Callister, who shrugs.
Before long, Alder has made a large pile of fake or unusable gold items, and a very small pile which the goldsmith deems worthy. ‘A disappointing haul,’ he says. ‘But I can work my magic, even for this. What do you need, my friend? More cogs for your engine, yes?’
Using his cigar, Callister points at me. ‘Alder, I’d like you to meet an acquaintance of mine. This is Manderlay, the musician. Manderlay here needs a new string for his fiddle.’
Alder the goldsmith is an imposing figure. He stands with his arms folded and his golden eyes taking me in while I find some space and open the case to my violin. The thin steel of her three remaining strings feels out of place among all the gold. I wipe at my brow – the heat in here is stifling.
Alder makes his way around so that he is standing beside me. He seems unaffected by the fire of the forge. It makes a glittering shadow out of him.
‘A fine thing,’ he says, of my violin. Then, ‘You need a new string, I see.’ The goldsmith reaches out, and with the tip of one of his gold-flecked fingers feels the dark space where her fourth string should be.
‘Steel is so unsubtle,’ he says. ‘Make music with steel and it will suffice, but it will be a strict thing. A predictable thing. But make music with gold… Ah. Now there is the art. There is the subtlety.’ Alder raises his hand to his chin, thoughtfully. ‘Yes. I can help you, Manderlay. I have forged strings before, and I would be happy to do so for you. Your offering is enough for this. But you should know that any string forged by my hand will change the songs you play. They will be sweeter, softer, brighter, just as gold is to steel.’ He turns towards me. ‘I could replace all four strings, should you wish it.’
It takes me a few moments of careful thought to come to a conclusion, and Alder is kind enough to give them to me while he goes in search of whatever tools it is he might need. But in the end, I feel as if I would be more comfortable with the hybrid version of my instrument. That she should have the three strings that mark where I have come from: that old, strict sound. And that she should have a fourth golden string, which will mark my journey so far and where I am going next.
‘Please, only the one,’ I tell the goldsmith.
‘Very well,’ says Alder, golden teeth glinting as he grins. He gets to work.
Callister’s cigar slowly becomes a stub as he watches Alder work. The two of them exchange some good-natured banter, in the manner of old friends reunited, and I head across to the front of the bungalow, where there are two small open windows and a little relief from the heat of the forge. I unfasten my coat, and squint through the grime and soot to try and see what is happening outside.
I catch sight of sailors. Among them is a familiar figure.
The windows distort him, but there is something unmistakable in the manner of his solemn gait. I move across to the second window, where I see the same – a dusty old knight, striding across the bridge and carrying something in his arms.
Pulling open the door to the forge, I emerge into the street. ‘Thyme?’ I call, trying to find him. But I only glimpse the last white flash of his tabard as he vanishes from sight.
I make my way after him. Down the next street, between tall shacks, I catch sight of him again – trailing some sort of wires or cables as he turns another corner.
At a crossroads, beneath a latticework of tiny yellow lights, I pause, and this time catch a better glimpse – the glint of his armour, and the bulky object held in his arms – as he moves into an alleyway. The crowds here are too noisy, so I do not call again. I stride straight across to the mouth of the alley, where I stop.
Frowning, I watch as the frayed edges of Thyme’s tabard wave in the winds, and hear the clinking of his heavy metal boots along the paved road. He is carrying what looks like a television set, or perhaps two, with cables dangling and plugs bouncing along the ground. I make to catch up to him and ask what he is doing here, but before I carry on, there is a hand on my shoulder.
‘Manderlay?’ says Callister, out of breath. ‘What’s got into you?’
‘I saw…’ I turn back to the alleyway to try and point Thyme out, but I can no longer seem to place him. There are only sailors, meandering about beneath the thousand yellow lights of the bridge.
‘You saw what?’ he asks, wheezing. ‘Bloody hell, I haven’t jogged that
much in years!’ I notice that my violin case is over his shoulder, along with his satchel.
‘I don’t know,’ I tell him.
Callister rights himself. ‘Well, don’t do that again,’ he says.
I take one more glance about the crowds. No sign of the dusty knight.
‘Sure,’ I say, mystified. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Right,’ says Callister. ‘Come on, now. We should get back. The Captain’ll be wearing a hole through my deck with her pacing.’
*
Back aboard the Metronome, I seek the cabin where the birds are kept. Dozens of beady eyes observe me as I enter. I am struck by the structures of the cages, as if this is a miniature city made of buildings filled with birds.
Of course, I could have used the map room for practice. But then, my first ever audience as a musician was composed entirely of birds. My parents never approved of the sounds that I made when I was eight, after being gifted my grandfather’s old instrument. In fact, they took to sending me to the bottom of the garden whenever I wanted to practise. I struggled on despite them, and played with the birds in the trees as my audience. I liked to imagine that the songs I played were birdsong and that I was serenading the doves.
I open the case to my violin and see the golden string for the first time. It is a peculiar sight, as if a beam of sunlight has fallen over it. I draw my bow and tighten the horsehair, pulling off any errant strands. Then I run some rosin down the length. It is a wonderful comfort, to arrange my fingers at the end of a bow once again, and to see how strong they have become. I can only smile, remembering what March said to me back in Babel – words I dismissed as nonsense. ‘Think young,’ he said.
Replacing the bow in the case, I take my violin out and tune it. This time, I take care not to break another string.
Around me, the birds begin to quieten down, just as they did back in my old garden. As if they are listening.
And when I reach the golden string, high E, and begin to pluck and tighten it, the sound is somehow sweeter than I remember it being. At its perfect point of tuning, I pluck and hold the body of my violin close up to my ear, and the quiet in the cabin is wonderful, filled with the sweet humming of the string. Only the Metronome ticks on, like her namesake.
I close my eyes until the sound fades. When I open them again, Reid is there.
Her arms are folded and she is regarding me steadily. ‘The first song, then, master map-maker,’ she says. And I notice that March has arrived as well, and that he is lounging upon a cage nearby without his heavy pack or rifle.
‘Before I play,’ I say, ‘I want to know why you want to go to Solomon’s Eye. I made the mistake of giving the map to the wrong person before, and I don’t want to do that again.’
‘Will,’ says March, ‘we really don’t have the time—’
Reid interrupts him. ‘It’s fine, Sleepwalker,’ she says. ‘It is a fair request, after all. For who would be mad enough to brave all the seas between here and there without good cause? I can respect a man who does not fly so blindly into peril.’
March grumbles to himself, and sits back on his cage.
‘When I was a girl,’ says Reid – all the birds in the room cease their twittering, as if they too are listening to her tale – ‘I served aboard a galleon crewed by the finest figments belonging to the finest dreams in all of dreaming. The ship’s name was Sparrowhawk, and her captain was the mighty Captain Murdock – the bravest figment I have ever known. I was the only dreamer on board, and naught but a mere cabin girl, but still they treated me with respect and friendship. And under the command of Murdock, we went out night after night into the deepest wild dreams, in search of treasures and wonders to bring home. We saw such sights, those countless nights, and we braved such adventures. For years, I sailed with the crew of the Sparrowhawk, until disaster struck.
‘One night, lost beyond the farthest reaches of dreaming, we were greeted by a black boiling of clouds. A storm was ahead of us, and the winds were driving us inevitably forth. We had faced many a storm at sea before, understand, but none like this. I saw crewmen being swept into waves as high as the tips of our masts, our supplies tumbling beyond severed ropes and our sails almost torn clean from their rigging. And the only man beyond the chaos was Captain Murdock, tied with rope to his wheel and guiding us through, the force of his will against the storm.
‘A great maw in the dark opened, deep in the storm, and a shattering of lightning raked the masts, turning them to bright splinters. And there, the sea itself parted, revealing a blackness like no other, the dark of the nether beneath us, and great waves like hands smashing together against her hull. No ship could survive such a calamity. The storm and sea conspired against her, and not even Murdock could hold them at bay. I watched as the Sparrowhawk was torn apart, and we all fell into the dark.
‘In the dark, beneath the waves, surrounded by the splinters of my ship, I heard a song. It was low, beneath the storm, and though I was being tossed to and fro, and though the sea was pouring into me, and though I was alone and young and frightened, I heard that song, the song of Solomon’s Storm, formed of its thunder and rushing waves and howling winds. I held on. I swam, and grabbed hold of a spar of wood, and floated through the worst, gasping for breath whenever it was given.
‘And when later I regained my senses, my head full of pounding, I lay sand-encrusted upon a white beach with the sea lapping at my feet. I saw spars of wood sticking from the sand, and a long piece from my chest. Bodies were strewn from dune to distant dune. Somehow, I was still asleep. And though dozens of the crew were dead, more still were alive, and rising from their stupor much like me. The Sparrowhawk did not survive, but her crew did. Even Murdock, worn and harrowed, and commanding us to regroup and find survivors.
‘There, upon that white beach, I recall clearly fixing my eyes on the horizon and seeing a sea like none I had seen before. Because out there, the storm that wrecked us still raged, filling the sky all around our bright island, and I knew that we had not escaped from the storm, but instead were contained within it – at the eye of it.
‘Murdock knew we were lost and marooned. Murdock knew that rescue would not come. But Murdock was also a learned figment, and had heard of the island at the eye of the storm before. He knew that we had somehow stumbled across an ancient place, hidden for ages beyond ages. He knew that it was Solomon’s Eye.
‘Murdock came up with a plan. You see, there was only one way he could send for help.’ Reid lowers her eyes, and I can see a glinting there. ‘He could send a dreamer. He could send me.
‘My dear captain told me to find a new ship and crew, brave enough to travel deep into the wild dreams, through Solomon’s Storm to rescue all the survivors of the Sparrowhawk the next time I fell asleep. As he told me this, he woke me, as gently as he was able – by twisting the spar of wood through my chest.
‘And as I was woken, I heard a song. I could hear a mad fluting, as the island faded. The notes of the song were delivered on the gentle wind from some distant place among the trees, and I remember those notes clearly, clearer than the song of the storm, and clearer still than the strange sea that surrounded us. For it was the song of the island, and the place where the crew of the Sparrowhawk were marooned. The song of Solomon’s Eye itself.
‘When next I slept, I returned to Babel. I did as I was told, talked to many captains and tried and tried again to get help. By the Gods, I tried. But who would listen to a little girl with no more than a pair of songs to guide her? So I waited, and I worked my way up through the ranks until I earned my own captaincy. I had the song of Solomon’s Eye etched into the skin of my face, so every time I see myself, I am reminded of the urgency of my cause. And after a time, I found Callister, and helped him to build his finest dream: the mighty Metronome, swiftest ship in dreaming. And here I stand before you, the time having come at last. The time when I will return to Solomon’s Eye, and rescue the crew of the Sparrowhawk.’
Both of Reid’s fists are cle
nched. Lamplight dances in her eyes.
I am convinced of her cause. And instead of giving reply, I give her what she is longing for. I nestle my instrument beneath my chin, pushing my beard aside. Then I raise my bow, close my eyes and let my fingers remember the first song of Solomon’s Eye. They arrange themselves across the strings, and I play for Captain Reid. I give her the first song – a pretty, fluttering introduction to the series, performed almost exclusively across high E.
The song comes back to me easily, and I find my foot tapping along to the rhythm.
Alder was right. Playing his golden string is different – so much sweeter than steel – and I play as I have not played in years, feeling the joy of the song fill me from the tips of my fingers to the tips of my toes. I give Reid the first part of her map, and I hear her coarse laughter – born of joy, or relief, or some other emotion – beneath the notes of the song. She can begin her journey at long last. She can rescue her lost crew.
Smog
We pursue June’s fleet through wild dreams.
Over black swamps, where clawed trees scratch at the Metronome’s underbelly and crocodiles snap in our wake. Over a steaming sea that covers her copper parts in condensation, and on to a colder climate, where icebergs float, and penguins halt in their march to watch us pass. We pause above a rocky island to get our bearings, before flying low over a sea so placid that for every tick of the Metronome’s engine, ripples cascade across the water, and for a time I am given to believe that we are skimming the sea instead of flying over it. Always, the sea is full of life; whales slap the waves with their tails, dolphins call out to us and flying fish cascade beneath us, defying gravity in a silvery reverse waterfall.
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