Feathertide

by Beth Cartwright

  Desire is the sea. Love is the rock, solid, strong and defiant. Desire rushes to embrace you, and shower you with affection, wrapping itself around you and filling every crevice. But it is a disguise. With every touch desire reduces you, gouging out your surface, eroding your senses until you crumble; slowly sinking out of sight. We reshaped each other as lovers often do and then watched each other wash away, until there was nothing left, but sediment. Desire has no boundaries, but it is love that sets them straight. Desire is ruinous; love is the ruin left behind.

  Memory-wrecked.

  One sulky evening, Sybel called me into the kitchen, and told me to sit. She poured herself a gin, downed it in one wince-filled gulp, and poured herself another before any words had been spoken. I knew I was about to hear something I wouldn’t like.

  ‘I have a confession.’

  ‘Go to church,’ I suggested light-heartedly, trying to delay the inevitable.

  ‘Not every confession is a sin.’ She got up and paced the room, then sat back down and held her head in her hands. I had never seen her nervous before.

  Silently, I waited, unsure of what else to do. Then she reached across the table and took both my hands firmly in hers.

  ‘I have seen Elver,’ she said solemnly.

  That got my attention. ‘What? When?’

  ‘She needed my help.’

  ‘Help with what?’ I asked. Now it was my turn to be nervous.

  Sybel sighed, pausing to choose her words carefully. ‘With her return,’ she said eventually.

  I tried to whip my hands away from hers, but she sensed my movement before I had time to make it, and quickly tightened her grip around my wrist.

  ‘Her mind was fixed. I’m sorry; there was no persuading her otherwise.’

  ‘When will she leave?’ was all I could ask.

  ‘A few nights from now, when the moon is at its roundest. There will be time for you to say goodbye.’ She hesitated. ‘If you want there to be.’

  I got to my feet and left without saying another word. Later, lying on my bed, I could hear the sound of her breathing in the corridor outside, like the low, heavy pant of a running bear. She didn’t knock or try to come in; instead I heard her utter the words, ‘She was always leaving, no matter what you did’, into the keyhole, but they weren’t enough to unlock the door.

  In the middle of the night, I crept into the kitchen in search of a remedy to help me sleep. The shelves were better stocked than any apothecary I had seen. Each one was filled with pots of herbs and plants, and I had watched Sybel brew them up enough times to know what to do. I began lifting them up one by one, squinting to read their labels: barrel fever, black dog, dropsy, grippe, quincy, and winter fever. They had been arranged in alphabetical order, but the words were unfamiliar to me and I stumbled over their meaning. Standing on the tips of my toes, I moved my hand deeper, shifting between the pots to find what was hidden at the back. It was there that I felt my fingers touch the smooth glass of a jar. As I pulled it towards me, I recognised it at once.

  ‘What are you hoping to find up there?’ came the sound of Sybel’s voice.

  Guiltily, I withdrew my hand as she entered the room, but as always, she knew what I was doing.

  ‘It’s yours if you want it,’ she said, but there was a hint of warning in her voice and my hand wavered.

  ‘Why didn’t you open it?’ I asked.

  She shook her head firmly. ‘No. For there to be heartbreak, first there must be love. It’s not just the sadness it takes away; it’s everything else that comes before.’

  I returned to my room, leaving the jar untouched upon the shelf. Later, as I fell asleep, my mind drifted back to the jar buried deep in the bottom of Lemàn’s drawer, and now I understood why it had never been opened. What is a world without memory? It is far worse for a heart to have never felt love, than it is for a heart to be broken. A broken thing is still beautiful.

  Sybel and I didn’t speak much during those days of the growing moon, not because I blamed her for anything – I didn’t. I needed time for my bitterness to fly, then fall and finally float away, and I knew that eventually it would. I wanted to be ready when it was time to say goodbye.

  It was almost dark when I reached the water and for a moment, I thought I had come too late. The moon was already high in the sky and the waves, like quick black cats lapped up the milky spill of its light. The world was so full of murmurs and the quiet shushing of the sea. I didn’t notice her at first, swimming towards me, then I felt her gaze and turned my head in her direction. Neither one of us spoke, not for what seemed like a long time. She disappeared under the water and I felt my shoulders stiffen in a moment of panic. I didn’t want her to leave yet, there were words left to say. Then to my relief, she reappeared again, much closer this time, and I could see her face, pale as a church candle.

  ‘I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would,’ she said.

  ‘I wanted to say goodbye,’ I replied.

  She swam right up the lagoon wall where I was standing and pulled herself a little way out of the water. I could see her hips were shining; the flesh I remembered was now a pattern of thick iridescent scales glinting at me in the moonlight. I crouched down, kneeling on the damp stone, reaching out my hand to touch them.

  ‘How?’ I asked.

  She smiled. ‘The ancient Art of Meta.’

  Making sure that my eyes weren’t deceiving me, I continued to brush my hand along the beginnings of her tail; smoother than I thought they would be, perhaps because of the coarseness of the skin that was there before.

  ‘Sybel used ancient roots of unspoken herbs to transform earth to water. The last few days I watched my legs fuse together and my skin oil itself back into scales. Tonight, all I had to do was stir in the salt and the moonlight.’

  It was like a fairy tale. Beautiful and wicked all at once.

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you said goodbye to your father,’ she said sadly, ‘but it is better that the person who helped you to say goodbye is still there afterwards to help you remember it.’

  I nodded, lowering my eyes to conceal the emotion I felt, but I could never pull them away from her for long and I lifted them to meet her gaze again.

  ‘I always told you the truth … from the beginning you knew who I was,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, you did,’ I conceded. ‘I should have listened. I should have tried to understand you more,’ I said.

  ‘As I understood you,’ she replied wisely.

  ‘Yes, like that.’ I paused.

  She reached her arms out of the water and slowly began to unbutton my coat. ‘It doesn’t suit you,’ she said, with a smile. I shrugged it from my shoulders and felt it slip down my arms until it fell silently behind me onto the grass.

  ‘You’re always hiding … how exhausting it must be for you.’

  Her eyes marvelled at my feathers one last time and I marvelled right back at her luminous scales, savouring every moment of the magic, and locking it in the drawer of memory.

  ‘Know that you are beautiful,’ she said, silently lowering herself back into the water.

  It was the last thing she said, before silently floating away into the scar of moonlight. The enchantment had ended. Once, I thought I saw her turn back, but whether it was in doubt or just to admire the twinkling lights that had brought her here in the first place, I would never know. When I was finally ready to leave, I retrieved my coat from where it had fallen and, instead of fastening it back around my feathers, I threw it as far into the lagoon as I could, until it too was lost in the darkness, and washed far out to sea.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whispered.

  I realised then that the woman I had been told to fear didn’t live deep in the forest all alone, or at the bottom of the sea with her slick stone heart. The woman I had feared all this time was within me, and I had carried her everywhere, so heavy and dark. Now I found the courage to turn and face her. Quietly stepping forwards, I took her in my arms and that
long-held chasing fear finally became the gift of self-acceptance.

  The canals that night ran the colour of turquoise wishes. Everyone longed for freedom.

  CHAPTER 41

  There was a certain wisdom in saying goodbye. It helped me to understand so much more of myself and my place in the world. Losing Elver meant I had found myself, and was finally able to cast off the weight of my shadows and move unhindered through the city. Sybel had laughed and clapped her hands together when she first saw me leaving the house without the weight of one of her coats.

  ‘Have you not noticed the people all around you?’ she encouraged. ‘The ravenous gypsy wheeling her barrow of filth; the nocturnal inhabitants of Vesper Square; the rat-catcher whose face has been half-eaten by disease; the Sky-Worshippers above us and the mermaids below; the Keeper of the Hours and the people whose hearts are so broken that they have to carry mist home in jars. Then, of course, there is me: a monster with a gift and a heart so full of love, but no one to give it to only a pack of flea-bitten dogs, and you.’

  She lovingly squeezed my shoulder, and I realised just how much I meant to her. I should have known it from the moment she trusted me to look after her dogs. When you love something so much, giving it to someone else means everything. I smiled at the thought, knowing that I had so much to thank her for, most of all for not taking away my feathers. Now I loved how the sunlight warmed them, changing them from orange to gold; the way the rain washed them clean with scents from far away. She had helped to unwrap my gift and I had finally accepted what lay within.

  ‘You see, here you are not so very different at all.’

  It was this warmth that compelled me to write a letter to Lemàn and in it I revealed everything.

  I told her about the wonder of the City of Murmurs; about Sybel and the dogs; about loving and losing and how my heart had anchored me here. I revealed that I no longer hid my feathers beneath my clothes, and how I was proud to have them. I laughed, imagining her hand flying to her mouth to hide the gasp of disbelief and then her delight as her eyes skipped over those words. What a remarkable letter! She would realise how much her little girl in the cellar had changed, and how she had stretched her wings. Lastly, I told her the most important thing of all – that I loved her.

  I let my pen hover for the briefest of moments, before swiftly folding the paper and sealing it in an envelope. Tucked within it was a much smaller envelope addressed to Sorren. I still didn’t understand everything of her story, but I understood enough to know there was nothing to forgive. My message to her was brief, but every word was infused with warmth and gratitude.

  Leaving the house, I rushed down to where the boats waited for the stir of wind to release them. At the edge of the water something made me stop. It may have been the cry of a seabird, or the stab of my conscience, but whatever it was, it served as a reminder that my letter couldn’t be sent – not yet anyway.

  Hastening back to the house, I ripped open the envelope, unfolded the paper, and in a flurry of words, I continued writing the rest of the story. Lemàn longed for the truth and it was time to share it all with her. Later that day, I stood watching a boat depart until it was lost in the distance, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before her eyes fell upon my words, and absorbed their meaning. It wouldn’t bring my father back, but I hoped it would bring some sort of peace, especially after such a long time of wondering. If nothing else, at least I could give her the gift of his name; Eddero.

  In amongst everything, there was still one person I wanted to see and so, instead of going home, I walked along further the water and waited for the lagoon boat. When it arrived, I slid along the wooden seat to the end where I could feel the gentle breeze in my feathers. I watched the sunlight glittering along the surface of the water and I sat and watched it dance. Along the salt line I could see a cluster of crushed shells, too fragile to bear the weight of the water.

  Pushing the door open, he didn’t see me at first and I took the opportunity to just stand and watch him. He was always so thought-filled and I could see his face was deep in concentration. His face was more unshaven than I had seen it before and there were dark shadows under his eyes. In his hand he held a pencil and I could hear the long loops of his ideas being etched on to the paper. He rubbed at the back of his neck, suggesting too many hours spent hunched over his work. Then he stretched back in his chair, taking only a moment to rest before continuing work. Suddenly, he looked up and saw me.

  ‘Hello,’ I mumbled, finally stumbling into the room.

  He didn’t respond and his face was impassive. I was so used to being able to read it that I was thrown off balance. Tentatively, I perched on the edge of on a chair without invitation, and I saw him raise his eyebrow in a gesture of disapproval. I did not have his permission to touch anything in this room and I rose to my feet at once, and retreated behind it as though it was my protectress. Still he didn’t utter a single word. My eyes suddenly took in the room; it was littered with boxes, and half-packed crates scattered the floor; rolled-up parchment and stacks of knotted packages were propped high against the wall; a suitcase stood near the door. It was then that I noticed all of the feathers were gone.

  ‘Are you leaving?’ I asked, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

  When I turned my attention back to him, he was no longer watching me; he had returned once more to his writing – it was as though I was no longer there.

  ‘Are you leaving?’ I repeated hastily, taking a step forward.

  The writing ceased, and I heard the quiet patter of his pencil as he dropped it onto the paper. Rising to his feet, he turned to face me and I wilted under the intensity of his stare.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘I—’

  He shook his head, and pushed his chair back from the desk. Calmly moving across the room, he stopped to open the cabinet that was once so full of stuffed birds. I could see now that it was almost empty. My question seemed to have reminded him that there were still things left to pack. With his familiar tenderness, he lifted one of the few remaining birds from its stand and took it over to the table where he began wrapping it in brown paper. Everything was done with such careful precision.

  ‘Are you here to say goodbye?’ His tone was flat; he gave nothing away.

  ‘Goodbye …. what? No!’ I answered in a strangled little voice. I had come to say sorry, not goodbye. A terrible sickening feeling rose from my stomach, and I swallowed it back. I was not forgiven.

  Leo sighed heavily. ‘I will return to the north at the end of the month. From there I might join an expedition to the mountains in search of new discoveries.’

  Might. The word held doubt, but his tone had the bitter chill of autumn: crisp and brittle and changing. ‘There is no reason to stay.’ His sentence felt more like a question, and I pounced on the hope that quivered there.

  ‘Yes, there is,’ I blurted.

  Leo’s head swivelled, and his eyes fixed on mine, waiting for something more.

  ‘You’re my—’ I faltered. What was he? More than someone who shared my love of birds; someone who had devoted hours of his time patiently helping me discover who I really was; someone who was with me every step of the way as I searched for the father I never knew. He not only saw my difference, but he understood it better than anyone else could. He knew I was something other, but to him it didn’t matter; he wanted me anyway. My heart was a puzzle and he was its solution. I had not prepared the words I wanted to say and I needed to find them fast. My heart stopped, then I took a deep breath.

  ‘The mistake I made – it wasn’t you.’ My voice broke on the final word because it was that word that meant everything.

  Nothing happened, and then all at once it did. He crossed the room and pulled me into his arms and the smell and familiarity of him was so overwhelming that I didn’t think I would ever let go. I felt his breath on my neck and my feathers rose to meet it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I’m so very sorry I didn’t te
ll you.’ He silenced me with his kiss, letting it fall on my lips like a drop of warm rain.

  I knew then that I had come here for so much more than forgiveness.

  CHAPTER 42

  That summer, Leo invited me to my first opera. Even though Sybel had known how our story ended, she hadn’t expected it to fill her with such happiness. She insisted that I wore her dress the colour of forget-me-nots; the one that had hung for so long unworn, from a hook behind the door. Something so beautiful shouldn’t be shut up in a room, she insisted, as she helped to pull it over my head. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the dress or about me. Then taking the brush that Marianne had given to me, she swept it through my curls in long gentle strokes. Afterwards, I tried pinning up my hair using a dozen different clips, but it quickly escaped and I could feel it tickling against the back of my neck. With my glossy fiery feathers all aflutter, I opened the door and Leo stared back at me as though I was made of magic.

  Later, walking through the twilight streets, the passion of the music still lingering, I suddenly felt compelled to stop at the entrance to the Street of Purring Cats.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Leo, wondering why I wasn’t going any further.

  Out of nowhere, a bird suddenly appeared, landing on my shoulder, as if it had been conjured there by a magician. Leo laughed in amazement, and it vanished into the sky. I bent down to pick up a feather it had left behind. Twirling it between my fingers, I tried to understand its message. It was just an ordinary street; like the countless others I had seen in this city.