‘As a matter of induction, the oldest of my order – the once great and prosperous Order of Liars – told me the tale of an ancient tome they knew to once exist. Within that tome, now lost to the ravages of time, was written the story of Creation’s last secret. The pages of that book said that, when God slept at the end of the seventh day, there was the tiniest sliver of doubt at the back of His thoughts, buried like a worm in an apple.
‘This was the first lie. The lie which all liars must learn and remember.
‘The book said that while God slept, dreaming the first dream, His doubts… awoke. It said that God’s doubt was made up of seven questions: seven shards of doubt, which, among all the impossible colours and sounds of God’s dream, became seven voices – seven voices that echoed God’s doubts back at him in seven different ways. The book did not say what those seven questions were, but it did attach a name to the voices. In that most ancient, hallowed and secret of tomes, those voices were called the Seven Satans, and it was written that they were the first nightmares. God’s own nightmares.
‘And there the Book of Lies finished, half burned as it was when our citadel was sacked by Solomon’s knights – the eldest among us killed, and our most hallowed of lies almost forgotten. It was only half a tale, half a lie, and the last of its secrets were lost. Nobody knows what happened to the Seven, or where they went. But those in my order whispered the first half of the story to one another, and it reached all the way through generations to me. For I am the last liar, and none but thou and I have heard the story of the Seven Satans. None but thou and I know they even might have existed, once.’
Thyme’s voice is low, now, and he drops his hands and his head, as if he has no more energy to hold them up. I can see long lines across his brow. ‘This was my first lie,’ he says, ‘and it will be my last. Remember it well, Manderlay the Bard, and have faith.’
Around us, the storm growls louder and the static of his many screens pours into my ears like waterfalls. I stand and brace myself against a wall. There is a new sound beneath the rest now, ticking in time with the skyship’s engine. It sounds as if the Metronome is developing a kind of cough.
I can only frown at Thyme, apparently returned to his deep contemplations and meditation. I do not know what to make of his wild story and why he has stowed away on board. Most of all, I do not know why my ghost keeps leading me to him.
I am given little time to consider, as the engine’s cough becomes steadily more apparent. Something bad is happening to the Metronome. I rush to the entrance to Thyme’s grotto, ducking beneath a coil of cables. I should climb back above, and help if I am able. And then, tell them that there is a stowaway on board. Let Reid deal with the old knight.
Thyme’s voice calls out to me as I go, and I turn. His arm is raised, and with one gnarled finger he is pointing at his sword, where it hangs like an icon on the far wall. I can see the static of his screens as they cascade white light across his pale skin. He is grinning his wolfish grin, teeth bared, as if I am prey.
‘Remember, Manderlay!’ His voice finds me above everything. ‘My sword is the sword that once guarded the gates of Eden! Should it be pulled from its scabbard, then it will burst into bright flames! Remember this, and have faith!’ He raises his face up to the light and I can see the glint of madness in his eyes. For a moment, I am afraid. ‘Above all else, have faith!’ he cries.
*
The Metronome’s ticking is slowing, like a clock winding down, and the crew are milling about in a panic. Nobody seems to know what to do.
I run into Callister rushing along a corridor, and am almost bowled over. He helps me up before continuing. ‘Come with me!’ he orders. Every flash of the white lamps lends him years, and I realise that he is getting so much older while I find my youth.
I make to tell him about our stowaway – about Thyme, but he interrupts me. ‘One of my main gears has gone and bucked a bloody tooth,’ he tells me, ‘and by my count we have just under two hundred ticks until the whole damned engine skips a beat and throws us out of the sky. No time to chat, Manderlay!’
Behind the watch-smith is the Bosun, the sleeves of his coat rolled up. The heavy man’s shirt is torn, and by the monochrome light of the lamps I am unsure whether there is more oil there, or blood. I lag behind. ‘There is a spare!’ Callister yells back at me, over the noise of the storm, ‘but the only way to replace the broken part is by either stopping the engine, or doing something very foolish. So we’re gonna do something very foolish indeed and jump the entire central gear-shaft!’
When the three of us reach the door leading out onto deck, the Bosun retrieves a claw-hammer from his belt and begins to hack at the boards nailing it shut. The ship ticks around us, but slower, so that it feels like a pendulum losing its momentum.
Callister pulls a new cigar out from somewhere within his waistcoat, bites the tip off, spits it out and places the rest in his mouth. He does not bother to light it. ‘I’ve forced us to reduce speed as much as I can, which’ll have the Captain in a fine mood. But if I hadn’t, we’d all be halfway to the bottom of the sea by now.’ He glances up at the ceiling, unseeing, but I can hear him counting down beneath his breath. ‘A hundred ticks left, maybe,’ he says.
The Bosun rips at the last plank across the rattling door.
Callister pulls his jacket closed and fastens it. ‘The only way we’re staying in the sky is if we pull three levers at the same bloody time, freeing up the new gear-shaft and letting it brute-force the old one out. I’ve got lads waiting to catch it below. There’s one lever up front, which I’ll get to, and two on the aftercastle, which are for the both of you. Bloody great copper things, set into the wood in a way that makes them bloody difficult to pull because I didn’t reckon we’d ever need to do anything like this mid-flight. Can’t miss ’em.’
The door finally comes free, and the Bosun leans against it. It shakes beneath his broad shoulder. Callister looks from him to me. ‘At the count of fifty ticks from my mark. Got it? Fifty exactly. On fifty, you pull your lever. And I don’t care how much the wind wails, and the rain splashes, and the whole damn ship sounds like she might be tearing in two, you get to those bloody levers and pull them on fifty, or I swear to the almighty I will find you both in awakening and make sure you never sleep again. Got it?’
I do not think that I am prepared to face the storm. I swallow hard and pull my own coat closed. ‘You take port,’ yells Callister to the Bosun. ‘And you take starboard,’ he yells at me. I still have my harness around my shoulders, but I do not know if I will have enough time to use it. I brace myself against the wood of the deck. ‘On my mark!’ shouts Callister, biting down on his cigar so hard that it bends upwards. I take a last few deep breaths, as if I am about to dive into a deep lake.
‘Go!’ calls Callister.
The Bosun does not need to pull the door back, because when he lets go of it, the winds slam it against the wall. The corridor is instantly filled with a tremendous and freezing cold gale, along with the first lashings of rain. I begin counting down from fifty in my head.
The first up is Callister, who vanishes instantly into the dark. Next is the Bosun, a little less steady despite his superior size, who rushes to port. Last is me. Battling up the final few steps, I finally experience the full force of the storm, and it is a wonder that I am able to stay on my feet.
The winds are so strong that the rains are horizontal and sharp, endless lashings, a wall of water so icy that it feels as if I have frozen instantly. The only thing allowing me movement is the fact that we are currently facing into the wind, and that I can use it for a little momentum, to push me across to the starboard railing.
I was correct in assuming that I would not have time to attach my harness to anything. I have already lost fifteen ticks. The howling of the storm around me almost completely muffles the Metronome’s failing engine, so that its ticking is an absence of noise rather than a presence.
I count on as I pull myself towards the uppe
r deck. There is an almighty flash of lightning and the ship is lit up. I catch a glimpse of the slick deck, railings bent and dented. By the time I reach the steps leading up to the aftercastle, I believe that I have only twenty-five ticks left. I have used half my time.
I haul myself up two steps at a time, feeling the rains pound against my back. It does not feel as if I have time to breathe. When I reach the top there is another great flash of lightning, and I am granted a startling glimpse of the state of the Captain.
Behind Reid the boiling clouds of the storm are whirling. The golden buttons of her coat have torn free, so that a stream of red whirls out behind her. One of the chains keeping her attached to the deck has snapped and is trailing along with the rest. But still she stands tall behind her wheel, wild eyes reflecting the lightning.
I notice that her wheel has been so badly damaged by the storm that it is now a crescent moon, and though I have only the slightest moment in which to see her, I believe that the expression across her face is one of fierce anger, as if it is her wrath against the storm.
There is no sign of the Bosun. I have twenty ticks left. With my feet slipping, I skate across to the back of the upper deck, where there are indeed two levers, one to either side. I crouch down, with fifteen ticks remaining, one hand on the railing nearby, my other on the lever. I say another little prayer to whoever might be listening. Then I look up and try to locate the Bosun in the dark. In the next flash of lightning, I see him.
The Bosun has been caught up in an errant gust of wind. I can see him clutching hold of the port railing, but he is on the wrong side of it, having been blown overboard. The bulk of his body is trailing out behind him. I can see the wild panic in his eyes. I have ten ticks remaining. There is another flash of lightning and I have no time left to consider how to respond.
I make a decision.
Clutching hold of the lever beneath me, I tear at my harness until it comes clear.
Six ticks remaining.
The rain stings my eyes.
Four ticks remaining.
With all the strength I can muster, I whip my harness around through the air, throwing the far end of it as hard as I can.
Three ticks.
In the next flash of lightning, I see the Bosun as he is swept into the storm, tumbling wildly. But my harness catches the lever he was meant to pull.
Two ticks.
I haul as hard I can on my own lever, and with the harness, the other. And though I cannot feel my own hands for the rains, and though I am sliding to find purchase against the deck, I am sure that something moves. I let go of them and wrap my arms around the nearest section of railing.
Something is happening beneath my feet. The ticking of the Metronome’s engine has been replaced with a kind of grinding thump.
For a few moments, I worry that I was too late, that my timing was off, but then the grinding stops, and is replaced by a new tick. It is a quick ticking again, healthier than before, and as it erupts into life, the ship bucks. We are speeding up, and the rains whip harder across me. I try to shield my face against the torrent and wonder how, if at all, I am going to make it back below deck.
The darkness seems to go on forever, along with the cold and the trembling of the ship. But I believe that I glimpse a flash of colour ahead of us. I stare out, hooding myself against the wind and rain. And there, I am sure that I see it again. A flash of colour, a window of blue in the black, swallowed up as quickly as it was revealed. The ship shudders beneath me as the Captain hauls against the wheel, finding us a new current to sail across.
And then, all at once, we are free.
With the storm trailing behind us, we soar into clear air. There is a sudden blue sky above, and a sudden blue sea below, and the last smatterings of rain as the clouds behind us spit their contempt.
I am so dazzled that I remain in position. I can breathe again, and for a long while I simply crouch there on the upper deck, unable to move.
The ship begins to slow down, by the Captain’s hand. Eventually I am able to stand on shaking legs and see where we are. Solomon’s Storm whirls about us in an enormous loop – surrounding our little sea of calm. But above is a blue sky, empty and fresh, with a happy yellow sun. The open waters below us sparkle pleasantly. The air is warm and soothes my poor rain-whipped skin.
We have come to Solomon’s Eye.
The Metronome looks as if it has been to hell and back. A lot of railings, pieces of machinery and even whole sections of hull are battered, bent and broken. Those pylons meant for the lightning that still remain are black stumps. The only intact part of the ship appears to be her tick, which is healthy and slowing to a leisurely pace.
Upon wobbly legs I venture forward. At the prow of the ship I can see the shape of Callister as he too begins to move, one hand against the base of his back, and though I am very sorry for the Bosun, I am so glad to see that my friend the watch-smith has survived.
The Captain, who is still clutching hold of her wrecked half-moon wheel, has her head bowed. As I move up to her side, she stumbles and falls to one knee. But even in that position, she does not let go of her wheel.
Instead, she cries out, her voice so hoarse that she wheezes her triumph, and I hear her call beneath the blue sky. ‘Solomon’s Eye!’
The Captain’s clothes are torn, and her skin looks bruised and beaten, but still she raises one hand to the sky as if she could anchor herself to it. ‘Murdock,’ she says. ‘I came back for you. I kept my promise. I’m here, now. I’m here.’
*
The crew blink bleary eyes as they shudder onto deck.
Despite the state of the ship, there is a great deal of cheer. Hammers and welding torches are brought to bear with enthusiasm, and those chunks of hull deemed unredeemable are broken off and left to drop to the gentle sea below.
There are wispy white clouds above us, like the storm’s afterthoughts, and as we move at a leisurely pace through the blue sky – through this great patch of calm – our clockwork home begins to look something close to herself again.
I have been set to work hauling some of the black stumpy pylons from their places and throwing them overboard. The crew chatter and laugh around me as I work. Most seem anxious to see what comes next. To see what we came all this way for.
Nobody has been able to pry the Captain away from her broken wheel. She sits, cross-legged beneath it, with one hand still guiding us onwards. She looks as worn as her ship, almost a skeleton of herself, but there is still that determination in her eyes. Reid has delivered us through conflict after conflict, across great wild dreams to be here. She is not letting go yet.
The Captain still has her eyes fixed on the horizon, and is keeping silent. I would guess that she is listening for something on the wind.
Before long there is a cry.
‘Land ho!’
We gather at the prow.
Ahead of us is a great tropical island. The sun reflects on countless palms, across which the flitting forms of tropic birds can be seen. The hills could be compared to mountains for their gushing green waterfall slopes, arranged almost theatrically around rocky tips, all the way down to deep patches of thick jungle below. All is surrounded by a long and golden belt of beaches, pockmarked with rocky caves and long hooks of sand, reaching out into sea as if the island is an octopus and they are its tentacles.
There are no signs of human dreaming anywhere, except for the object at the very centre of the island.
It is this that brings the crew to a temporary silence. The ticking of the Metronome seems loud beneath our feet. There is a building at the tip of the tallest hill, upon a plateau surrounded by the rim of a dormant volcano, as if it is walled in. The structure is difficult to see, except for in those places where it directly reflects the bright sun, because it appears to be made entirely of silver. The crew murmur among themselves, unsure of what to make of it.
Could this be Solomon’s prison?
‘Prepare to make landfall!’ cries Reid. S
he hauls herself back up to her feet, and pulls back on a lever. The ticking of the skyship’s engine slows, and we turn gradually to port.
The crew begin to rush around, making final preparations, but I wait at the prow, standing above the blackened beak of her phoenix figurehead, and watch the mysterious island we head towards, thinking about nightmare kings and ancient Sleepwalkers.
Callister joins me as we slowly soar about.
‘You did good back there,’ he tells me. His clothes are torn in places and his moustache is now completely grey. He claps a hand on my shoulder. ‘We made it, after all,’ he says.
I sigh and lean against the railing. ‘The Bosun…’
The watch-smith shakes his leg idly, to free it of something. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘We’ll find him sooner or later. The crew always come back to us, when they dream again. Like… they’re magnetically attached to the ship or something. I don’t bloody know.’ He shakes his foot harder. ‘Bloody great lot of useless lumps, leaving bits of cable all over my damn deck. Can’t train them to save their lives…’ He trails off as he looks down.
A green vine is winding its way around Callister’s leg and tightening.
He looks up, meeting my eyes. ‘Oh bloody hell,’ he says.
The ship rocks as a long trunk of wood erupts from the deck behind us. I turn, too late to shield myself, thrown onto my back. The Metronome is shaking beneath me, and there is a screeching as if she is screaming. The air is pushed from my lungs and I have to take a moment to try and catch my breath. In that moment, all hell breaks loose.
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