Frowning, March glances down at the blood soaking his sleeve.
‘Oh,’ he says.
*
Back on board the Metronome, I am sent to fetch March’s pack.
I find it nestled in among heavy-looking equipment deep in the belly of the ship. A steady stream of crewmen pass me by as they retrieve spare parts. The usual buzz of industry on board has doubled, but the general feeling in the air appears to be one of relief. We have survived the Metronome’s first real trial, and have come through a little broken, a little bruised, but triumphant.
Given how easily I have seen March wear his pack, I am surprised to find that it is absurdly heavy. It is in the manner of a snail weighed down by a particularly heavy shell that I make my way back to him.
I come to a porthole at the end of a low corridor, and glance outside. We appear to be flying steadily alongside the titanic Smog, and I can see the sullen forms of nightmares lined up on that larger deck, strange silhouettes of a hundred different varieties – all monstrous things born of dark dreams. I wonder what it is that is keeping the nightmare crew of the Smog in check, before noticing the tall figure of Slint, who is stood nearby, back in his massive diving suit. The black porthole of his helmet glares impassively out over the rest of the vessel. Slint is now in command.
I turn from the frost-rimmed window and, one step at a time, make my way back to one of the upper decks, where a small infirmary has been set up. Despite our victory, there is a feeling of dread in my gut. March is hurt. And – though I am not superstitious – it was among mountains like these that I suffered the worst day of my life.
I was on a private yacht named Prince Albert, testing its seaworthiness just outside Reykjavik with its new owner, fifty years ago when it happened. Even though the snowy mountains in the distance were wonderful to behold, and though the cold city was a magnificent sight in the dusk, a slow dread gripped me that evening which I could not explain. And before the sun could fully set, a small motorboat rushed urgently out to meet us, in order to quickly get me ashore. I was told that the harbour-master had great sympathy for my situation, and that a flight home had already been booked.
‘But why?’ I asked, oblivious.
I do not recall who told me that Lily was dead. It might have been one of the sailors aboard the speeding boat bringing me in, or perhaps it was the harbour-master himself. But I remember nothing of Reykjavik, or of who took me to the airport, or of the conversation I apparently had over the phone with Lily’s father. The only memory I have of the city of Reykjavik is those mountains as my flight home soared overhead, feeling as empty and cold and barren as they seemed. And just as quickly as my time in Iceland passed, my time across the Atlantic seemed to stretch on forever – for longer than any sailing trip I had ever taken – until, by the time we set down in Edinburgh, I felt as if I had aged by decades.
The worst was not the fact of Lily’s death. The realisation that she was gone, so suddenly, had not hit me yet. All the way home I was entertaining the absurd notion that the two of us would deal with her death together. No, the worst was when I alighted in Edinburgh, stepped from the taxi and walked up to my own front door. Halfway down the little path that led to my front door, I saw Samantha – still so small, at five years old, and wearing an expression of childish bafflement – and I realised that my own daughter was a stranger to me.
The Metronome’s infirmary is filled with a scattering of crew being treated for minor wounds by other members of crew. March is sat upon a bench with his jacket removed. His arm is currently immersed in a basin of water, red clouds rising. He looks weary, drained of vitality; something of his proud and upright stature has been lost.
He still smiles as I approach. I lower his pack beside him, and am glad to be free of it.
‘Can I help?’ I ask him.
‘You’ve done enough,’ he tells me, as he rummages around with his free arm. There is still a thin layer of desert dust mingled with melting snow coating his trousers and face. For a brief moment I feel a fatherly urge to brush it from him.
March locates some white bandage, and removing his arm from the water, he begins to bind it. I am given a brief glimpse of the deep gash along his forearm.
‘How did that happen?’ I ask him.
‘Just a side-effect,’ he tells me.
I imagine that he must be talking about that feat of conjuring he performed outside: somehow summoning soldiers from his dream in order to fight. I remember my encounter with June, the way that she conjured life back into the wooden handle of my knife, and November, conjuring her whole dream to put out the fires in Binary. ‘What was that?’ I ask.
March binds his arm tightly, and then rests it. ‘Just something the Sleepwalkers are taught to do,’ he says. ‘I don’t think it has a name. Just… using your dream to fight. The last March taught me how, and I’ve seen some of the others do it. August and his sun, you know. I’m not very good at it yet, though. Controlling which bits of my dream I pull through, I mean. The figments from my dream are the easiest, but there’s always side-effects. I seem to bring the desert with them. And this.’ He nods at his arm. ‘Every damn time. Stings like hell.’
He frowns a tired frown. ‘I got hurt pretty bad. Out in the desert, I mean. That’s… that’s sort of what I dream about, every night – the pain. The old March showed me how to get rid of it, but whenever I try to summon anything, it comes back again. He told me I’d get better at it, the more I practise. But the others, the older Sleepwalkers, they can do it perfectly. I don’t know if I’ll ever be as good as them.’
I try to reassure him. ‘You did well.’
March lets out a long sigh. The ship ticks warmly around us in the manner of an old comforting grandfather clock, a homely sound that I am beginning to realise I would sorely miss were it to stop.
March shakes his head as if to clear it. ‘The truth is,’ he says, low, ‘I don’t know how much longer I can hold on here. That fight drained me.’ Then, he pulls his coat back on and stands, stretching in that way the defeated do, as if there is still energy in him despite the obvious lack.
‘I think I’m going to wake up soon,’ he says.
Delaware
The sun continues to confound me..
Whenever I look up from working at repairs on deck, it is in a different place. Sometimes it will be low and cast long shadows, and sometimes it will be directly above us and there will be no shadows at all; it will be very close for a while, and burn the back of my neck, and then it will be a distant cold coin. When I give Reid the next song that leads to Solomon’s Eye, I appreciate why she uses music to navigate. The sky is unpredictable; it changes depending on the mood of each place we pass through, just like March said.
As we coast steadily between two islands – rich wildlife visible on both shores, dreaming the dreams of wild things – I am called to help with a gyroscope near the prow of the Metronome, where the crew have gathered. Unfortunately the piece of equipment in question seems to have been hit full-on by a cannonball, and as such looks more like a twisted piece of modern art than a gyroscope. I give my verdict: ‘It’s a lost cause.’
The crew grumble, but nod in agreement.
‘Go fetch Callister,’ says one, while they get to work removing the wreckage.
I head below deck. As I go, I glance behind us to see if the Smog is still following, but there is no sign of the massive warship. The Metronome is so much quicker that we have left her behind. Slint was made acting captain, with orders to follow in our wake.
I consider Slint as I go. He is terrifying, and powerful, and despite his impact on the Smog, I still do not trust him. Just how close is he to being classified as a nightmare king? And what is it that motivates him to help at all? Still, I hope that he continues to help us. He is certainly an imposing ally – the nightmare that other nightmares fear.
In my search for Callister, I stumble across a corridor that I have not seen before. I head along it, and pass endless small co
gs and coils and gears, as if I am inside the very heart of the Metronome.
There are two very unusual doors at the end. The first is covered in steel plate and locked shut with an extraordinary number of chains and combination locks. And beside it is a perfectly ordinary red-painted wooden door, with a mail slot and the number 29 in silver attached, as if it is the front door to any building in Britain.
I open the red door. Immediately there is the sound of rain.
These are doors to dreams, then.
I emerge into what looks like a small workshop. Around me are shelves covered in all manner of clockwork parts, and were it not for the noise of the rain, I would have imagined that this was just another part of the Metronome. But through a pair of curtains I come to a shopfront, and beyond its rain-smattered windows is a city. I see a man on a blue bicycle trying desperately to escape the sky’s worst by holding a newspaper above his head. A red bus rumbles by, spraying the cyclist as it goes. The buildings all around are tall and white, and I know that this is a dream of London.
The shopfront itself is filled with clocks for sale. Their ticks are not synchronised, creating a melee of ticking, but I think that it is a rather wonderful noise. In my curiosity, I spend some time simply looking at all the marvellous designs, and most remarkable of all, the shelves beside the front desk, where there is a ‘NOT FOR SALE’ sign and rows upon rows of clockwork toy birds.
There is a pigeon with a lever in its back, and when I push the lever, it thrusts its metal head forward as if pecking for seed. And there is a penguin, which, when wound, waddles in little circles, flapping its mechanical wings as it goes.
‘Having fun, are you?’
I turn to see Callister, with his arms crossed, looking angry.
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I was looking for you, and I got lost…’
‘I’m sure you did. Who gave you permission to go rooting around in my dream?’
‘Nobody…’ I place the penguin back on its shelf, feeling ashamed. ‘I’m very sorry, Callister. I should have just left.’
He sighs, his anger fading. ‘You’d be better off knocking first. I guess you’ve been hanging around March too much. There’s a boy who goes stomping around dreams without permission. Well, tread softly, Manderlay. Tread softly. You’ve got no idea what you might disturb.’ He frowns. ‘What did you need me for, anyway?’
‘There’s a gyroscope on deck that needs replacing.’
‘All right, then. Let’s head up.’
As we go, I say, ‘Your dream is very pretty, Callister. I like the birds.’
‘Mm,’ he says. ‘I make them for my boy. Keeps him busy and out of my hair while I’m trying to work. Or rather, they did. Nowadays they’re just sort of… reminders. Truth be told, I’d give anything to have him back and under my feet again.’ The watch-smith pauses in his workshop to gather some equipment. ‘He passed away a couple of years back. Leukaemia, it was. Don’t know what he did to deserve it, but I’ll tell you this much: if I ever meet God, I’m gonna punch the bastard right in his stupid face.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.
‘Not your fault, Manderlay. And anyway, my boy comes back to me sometimes, when I’m asleep. He’ll be running around my workshop and driving me up the walls. My little ghost.’ He shoulders a satchel and opens the door that leads back into the Metronome. ‘It’s funny, really. I don’t know if he’s a figment, or a nightmare, or whatever else. But it’s nice. Sometimes it’s nice to dream of the good old days, when everything was okay.’
Back in the corridor, we pass the other door, chained shut.
‘Whose dream is that?’ I ask, still curious despite myself.
‘Reid’s. No idea what’s in there. But no snooping, okay?’
‘Okay. I’ll stick to the Metronome from now on.’
‘See that you do.’ Callister tweaks his moustache as we go. ‘She tell you her story yet? About why she wants to go to Solomon’s Eye?’
‘She did. To rescue her old crew. It sounded like a fantastic reason for heading there. I’m not sure why people keep calling her mad. She doesn’t seem mad to me.’
‘You mean you haven’t worked it out yet?’
‘Worked what out?’
Callister fixes me with a gaze, trying to see how I tick. ‘Her story. About going to rescue a crew made of figments. Whose figments do you think they are, Manderlay? I’ll spell it out for you: they’re Reid’s. She’s taking us all to Solomon’s Eye so she can rescue her own damn figments. That’s why we call her mad. And that’s why nobody’s been listening to her all these years. It was a childhood dream she had, I’d imagine – exploring the wild dreams, on a ship she dreamed up herself, among a crew of her own figments. She’s been dreaming about rescuing them her whole life. Of course she’s mad.’
I frown, troubled by this revelation – suddenly unsure of the Metronome’s captain.
‘Why do you follow her, then? Why did you build this ship for her?’
The watch-smith laughs. ‘Because she’s a legend. There’s nobody else like Isabelle Reid out there. You’ve got to understand – I only put the ship together. She’s the one who inspires it. She’s the one who gives it all purpose. Trust me, Manderlay. If you don’t see it yet, then you will. Keep a close eye on Captain Reid.’
Making our way back onto deck, it becomes apparent that the Metronome is slowing. Her tick is changed from quick-time to a steadier rhythm, closer to a heartbeat.
‘Why are we slowing down?’ I ask Callister.
*
Out on deck, the air is muggy and filled with insects.
March bats them away, and calls me over when he sees me. He looks tired – there are dark rings around his eyes, and a limp cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth – but he is also excited. The low sun makes his fiery hair seem hotter.
‘Will! We’ve hit some real luck. You’ll never believe it.’
The Metronome has slowed to a crawl. We are circling above an autumnal swamp. The waters are reflective and filled with shapes that might be logs or might be crocodiles, and the trees are an endless golden flourish. From horizon to horizon, the swamp is thick and hot.
Directly below us are ancient stone ruins, sunken at an angle into the waters. Once upon a time they might have been a set of pyramids. Tethered up to one corner of those ruins is a strange-looking contemporary boat, somewhere between a single-man yacht and a hovercraft. It has a folded-up sail, an enormous fan attached to the back and is curiously streamlined in a way that I have never seen before.
Standing beside that vessel, and waving up at us, is the silhouette of its owner.
‘Who is that?’ I ask. March hands me his binoculars.
Adjusting the lenses, I get a better look at the figure below. He looks heavily worn in every aspect, as if he has lived several hard lives simultaneously, from his ragged duster coat and shirt, to the strips of yellowed cloth wrapped around his hands, to his burnt skin. And more than that: there are tremendous scars warping his face, making him hideously ugly, as if he has had a long career as a competitive knife-fighter. Indeed, there are two large knives strapped to his belt, as if to illustrate my thought.
‘Marcus damned Delaware,’ says March, as the Metronome comes to a halt above the ruins. ‘Of all the people I didn’t expect to see out here, he rates as pretty high. He’s an apprentice. May’s apprentice. They’re a funny line of Sleepwalkers – more like archaeologists and explorers than nightmare-hunters. But Marcus has been around for a long time. Knows a lot of things about a lot of things.’ The Sleepwalker clutches his rifle tighter.
We head below deck, down to the hold filled with birds where the Bosun is pulling back the enormous rolling doors. Around us the cages tremble with the excitement of the birds as daylight is revealed. March squints at them unappreciatively. The two of us grab a gangplank and haul it into place, so that it bridges the gap between us and the sunken ruins where the apprentice Sleepwalker waits.
As soon as he
is able, the scarred man boards the ship and shakes March’s hand. ‘Good to see you, boy,’ he says with a warped smile. His voice is very deep, with an American drawl – he is Texan, perhaps.
‘We can’t stay long,’ says March.
‘Nor should you. Let’s get going. I’m coming with you.’
I help the Bosun pull the gangplank back in. He tugs on a rope dangling from above. Somewhere within the clockwork hull a bell tolls, and without a second to spare the Metronome rises from the golden swamp and resumes her course, tick returning to quick-time.
When I turn back to March and the newcomer, they are deep in conversation.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ says Marcus Delaware, leaning up against a cage. ‘The ruins are pretty much empty. Didn’t find what I was looking for, anyway. Hell of a journey to waste, but there were some pretty interesting carvings. This far out, everything starts to talk about something called ‘the first dream’. I’ll be damned if I know what that means, but I’m damn well gonna find out. I mean to come back as soon as I get a chance. Right now, though, I have some news for you. Some things you need to hear.’
As I wander across, March nods at me.
‘Delaware, this is Will. He’s been helping us out. Will, this is Marcus Delaware.’
The Texan shakes my hand; his skin feels like sandpaper. ‘Call me Delaware,’ he says. ‘Everyone else does. You must be the man with the map.’
I nod. ‘Nice to meet you. What’s this news?’
The scarred man crosses his arms. ‘Not good, I’m afraid. I’ve been out here a while now. It’s been a long dream. But you got lucky – I was out here before June passed by. And holy Jesus she’s got a lot of skyships. You seen them? There were dozens, all shapes and sizes: battleships, escorts, and gods-damned pleasure cruisers – every single one of them filled up with nightmares. Hell of a force. I managed to get my boat under some trees before they could spot me. Thought I’d just sit out of sight while they passed on by.’
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