The Shadowless Man. The object of Daisy’s night terrors featured in the story that had brought her here. A man of many identities; a trickster and a teller of tales, who could, depending on the circumstance, be either the King of Faërie or the Lord of the Kingdom of Death.
Stories and songs are his currency, Mabs had told her. Riddles too. She had been speaking of Alberon. But in this version of the Orpheus tale, Hades and Oberon seemed to be interchangeable. Of course, it was only a dream, she thought, looking up into the brilliant sky. The sky-ship was still sailing there, sails unfurled like Northern Lights. And yet she could feel the sand beneath her palms, smell the sharp scent of the surf, feel the chill of the sea wind against her bare legs. It all felt so real. Was she dreaming at all?
Dream is a river that runs to the sea, the dead girl on the train had said. And if Mabs were to be believed, the Night Train itself was powered by dreams and riddles and ballads and stories. Over the sea to Norroway, she thought, and felt the hairs on her arms rise as if in response to the words.
Once more she looked up at the sky-ship, gleaming in the moonlit sky. Then she closed her eyes and thought once more of the Oracle’s riddle:
Who can find me an acre of land,
Between the salt water and the sea sand?
‘The answer is Dream,’ she said aloud. ‘The second part of the riddle is Dream.’
And then she opened her eyes to find it was daylight once more, and that she was standing on the bank of a broad and fast-running river, while far beyond, in the distance, stretched a bone-grey, bone-dry expanse of sand. The sky was grey; the ground was grey, but the river – if it was a river – seemed made up of shining fragments like pieces of tinsel, or fireflies, or flares of incandescent gas. And up, behind and over her there loomed a shadow dark as Death, which, when she turned to look at it, revealed itself to be a cliff so high that it vanished into the clouds.
‘Those are the cliffs of Damnation,’ said a voice at Fay’s side. ‘And on the far side of the river Dream is the Kingdom of the Dead.’
Four
Fay turned, and saw a young woman standing beside her on the bank. Her hair was closely cropped, and her eyes were dark and sweet as honeycomb. She was wearing ripped jeans and a T-shirt printed with the words: LONG AGO AND FAR AWAY. She looked vaguely familiar, though Fay could not quite place her. And in one hand she held the rose that Fay had found on Euston road, as long ago and far away as anything from a fairy tale.
‘Who are you?’ said Fay.
The young woman smiled. ‘I am many things. A woman of the travelling folk. A tailor bee. An old friend. Today I am a messenger, here to deliver a warning.’ She held up the rose to inhale its scent. The flower was slightly faded now, but the scent was still surprisingly strong, filling the dead air with sweetness. ‘Nothing is scented here,’ she said. ‘Nothing beautiful grows here. This is the Shadowless Land, a province of the Kingdom of Death. And only by leaving your shadow behind can you hope to find your daughter again.’
‘My shadow?’
The young woman nodded.
‘But wouldn’t I also lose the memory of my former life?’
The young woman shrugged. ‘Lord Death takes his toll. His rules date back to the birth of the Worlds, and memory cannot linger in the Shadowless Land, where Life is nothing but a dream, and even Love is forgotten.’
‘I could never forget Daisy,’ said Fay.
‘Then take your chance,’ said the young woman serenely.
Fay thought back to the tale of King Orfeo and the Oracle. ‘To free your lady,’ the Oracle said, ‘you must find the madcap mushroom, which grows in the caves on the shores of Dream, under the cliffs of Damnation.’
She turned once more to the dark-eyed woman. ‘To pass into the Kingdom of Death, I need the madcap mushroom,’ she said. ‘Can you show me where it grows?’
‘I can show you,’ the young woman said. ‘But to use it here is dangerous. It gives the taker the power to pass through the islands of Dream at will. But Dream is a dangerous country, my Queen. You will need all your courage and strength to cross it with your mind intact.’
‘And yet I must,’ said Fay, ‘if I am to reach the Hallowe’en King and ask him to free my daughter.’
The young woman said, ‘Very well, my Queen. I will show you the madcap mushroom, which grows in the caves deep under the cliffs. This I will do, in return for my life, which you saved in Nethermost London. But I cannot help you in Dream. There you will either cross over, or drown.’
And with those words she led Fay into the shadow that lay at the foot of the cliff that reached above them into the clouds. For a moment the darkness was so complete that Fay had to feel her way along the rough, dank walls of the passageway. But little by little, as they advanced, her vision began to adjust, and she saw that she was in a cave that was broader and higher than any Fay had ever seen or imagined. There was a lake in the distance, lit by dim phosphorescence, and in the nooks and cracks in the wall there grew small five-petalled flowers that looked like strawberry blossoms and gave off a sweet and earthy scent.
‘No, not those, my Queen,’ said her guide, as Fay stopped to smell the flowers. ‘Here is the madcap mushroom, that led King Orfeo into the Lands of Death, and which, if used correctly, will take you to the Hallowe’en King.’
She indicated a fungus that was growing out from the side of the wall. ‘A single dose,’ she said, ‘will take you into the realms of Dream. But whatever you see there, keep moving. The bubble-worlds and skerries of Dream are not for you to inhabit. And if you reach the Lord of Death, take nothing, not even a handshake from him, for if you do, you and your Daisy will stay in his kingdom for ever.’
And at that the young woman’s image dissolved into a golden blur of bees that fanned out over the shining lake like a plume of dragonfire.
‘Wait!’ called Fay. ‘How much is a dose? What is the answer to the final riddle? And’ – her voice echoed forlornly around the enormous cavern –‘tell me, how did King Orfeo come to lose his shadow?’
But there was no answer from the young woman who had guided her, except for the distant drone of bees, far away, in the darkness.
Five
Her feet were sore. Fay realized that she had left her shoes on the beach. She was feeling cold, too, so she took Daisy’s blanket from her pack, and tied it, sarong-style, around her waist. The madcap mushroom that grew from the wall gave off a faint and pallid glow. Correctly used – what did that mean? Was she supposed to smoke the thing, or swallow it? She didn’t know. And what would happen if she were to use it incorrectly?
There’s no time for this, she thought. I’m so close to reaching Daisy. The mushroom might be poison, or she might use it incorrectly, but she couldn’t know until she tried. And so she broke off one of the thin pale stems of the fungus growing out of the wall, brought it close to her face, and inhaled the scent of the madcap mushroom.
A bitter luminescence drooled out of the broken part of the stem, and a scent of something muddled and sweet – and by now, very familiar – filled the air of the cavern. It was the scent of the madcap smoke, but oily, and less volatile: the scent of something that has grown for far too long away from the sun. It made her remember how long it was since she had eaten or drunk anything. But there was nothing to be done about that until she was back in her own world – for had not the tailor bee warned her? And so she inhaled the madcap scent, and tried not to think of anything, and felt the world blossom around her, turning the dark of the cavern into an astonishing plume of sounds and scents and colours.
‘My plaid shall not be blown away,’ said Fay to herself. The meaning of the mysterious phrase might have been unclear to her, but its power was unmistakable, for the colours responded to the words, making spirals in the dark, which beckoned to her eagerly. Well, for want of a plaid, Fay thought, she could at least keep her blanket close, and wrapping it tighter about her waist, she clutched her backpack to her chest and prepared to face the ons
laught of Dream.
The Hallowe’en King
≈
An first he played da notes o noy,
An dan he played da notes o joy.
An dan he played da g’od gabber reel,
Dat meicht ha made a sick hert hale.
Child Ballad no. 19: King Orfeo
One
It came to her first as memory. Memory is a bubble, thought Fay, in a river made of Time, and the river Dream took hold of that thought and shaped it into a tiny world that spun and sparkled like a bauble on a Christmas tree—
That Christmas, thought Fay. Our first one together, the three of us, when Daisy was only eight months old. Allan brought the Christmas tree home, and we hung the baubles all over it – glass baubles that were silver and scarlet and gold, and sparkled like all the worlds of Dream…
For a second, Fay could actually see herself inside the bauble. And then she was there – in London, at home, with Allan sitting beside the tree and Daisy beside him, on the floor, among the wrapping paper.
Allan was wearing a red checked shirt, a Christmas present from Fay that year, and Fay a white cashmere jumper. Daisy was in her pink sleepsuit, her stuffed tiger under one arm. And the scent was cut pine and cinnamon, and orange peel and nutmeg and clove, and Fay knew without looking that there would be Christmas cake in the kitchen, and apples baked in spices, and mince pies dusted with sugar, and wine mulled with sugar and allspice. She knew that night would bring them stars, and a new moon and a spark-ling frost, and stifled laughter, and long slow love, and a feeling that this could never end…
‘It never has to,’ Allan said, looking at her and smiling.
His voice was warm and familiar, his presence impossibly real and strong. ‘No, no, this is a dream,’ she said. ‘I have to find Daisy.’
‘Daisy’s right here,’ Allan said. ‘Everything you want is here. Dream is a river that runs through every world there is, or was, or can be imagined. And Dream has brought you back to me. Wouldn’t you rather stay here?’
‘Oh, Allan,’ said Fay. She did want to stay – to be here at a time when things were safe and good, and they were a family – but how long does a dream last? Fifteen seconds? A minute? More? Already the colours were fading; the plaid of Allan’s shirt had changed from bright red-and-black to a dusty rose. Daisy’s eyes were on her now (Her eyes were blue. Remember that, thought Fay to herself), looking wide and anxious. This is for Daisy, she told herself. This is to bring Daisy home.
‘Allan, I can’t. I love you, but—’
‘Please, Fay, don’t forget me,’ he said. ‘The thoughts of the living are all the dead can hope for. Memory keeps us alive. Let it go, and I may as well never have existed at all.’
‘I’m sorry, darling. I have to—’
‘Don’t go. Just take my hand and stay with me. Here, where no one can reach us.’ He stretched out his hand and smiled at her. ‘Don’t be afraid. Just take my hand. We can be together for ever.’
This isn’t fair! Fay thought. Why did no one tell me Dream would be so cruel?
She closed her eyes and clenched her fists in the fabric of Daisy’s blanket. What made you think it would be fair? said a dry voice in her mind. Is Life fair? Is Death fair? So why should Dream be different?
The voice was vaguely familiar, although she could not place it. Was it a voice from Norroway? The Night Train? Nethermost London? In any case, it spoke the truth from deep within her memory. To get your Daisy back, it said, you must give as well as take: and when you have given all you can, then maybe you can earn your reward…
Allan was watching her, hand outstretched. His eyes, so kind and familiar, were dark with pain and foreknowledge. ‘You’re going to forget me,’ he said. ‘You may not mean to, but you will. This memory, and so much more, will be lost like a soap-bubble in the sun. And when you set foot on the shore of Death, you will have nothing left to pay your debt to the Hallowe’en King.’
‘Pay him what? What debt?’ said Fay.
‘The price of Daisy’s life, of course. When you can walk shadowless at noon…’ They were the words of the Oracle: the last part of the riddle.
‘Do you know the answer?’ she said. ‘Please, Allan, I have to know.’
Allan sighed. His face had become as insubstantial as morning mist. ‘I speak as I must, my love,’ he said. ‘I speak as I must, and cannot say more.’ And then, both he and the dream were gone, and Fay found herself on a sandy shore, with tears on her face, and no memory of why she had been weeping.
Two
The sun was shining. The sky was blue as only mem-ories can be. Fay felt a warm well-being in every part of her body. The sand was warm under her feet, and she realized that she was barefoot, and wearing a blanket around her waist. She had a backpack with her, too; a broken, ragged scrap of a thing, empty but for a large, cone-shaped seashell.
The blanket was old and faded. The pack was missing both its straps. And yet there was something that stopped her from simply leaving them behind. She put a hand into her pocket, and found a key ring, on which hung a tiny notebook. Opening the notebook, she saw that on the penultimate page someone had scrawled the mysterious phrase: My plaid has not been blown away.
I’m supposed to remember what that means, thought Fay. Why can’t I remember?
There was a little girl on the beach, building a castle in the sand. She must have been about six years old, blonde, and wearing a yellow dress. Her eyes were blue and filled with stars. Your name is Daisy Orr, thought Fay. You’re Daisy, and I love you.
She went over to the little girl and sat down on the hot white sand. Daisy looked up and smiled. ‘I made a moat for my castle,’ she said. ‘Now we just wait for the sea to come in.’ And then the child began to sing a song Fay almost recognized:
My father left me three acres of land,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme—
Those aren’t the words, said Fay to herself. And yet, it was the very same song she had used to board the Night Train; to cross the sea to Norroway; to reach the shore of Dream – and now she remembered those things again, like pictures from another life. She remembered the rose, and the madcap smoke, the tailor bees, and Alberon; and, looking down at the hot white sand, she saw what was left of her shadow, fainter than a heat haze.
For a moment all she could feel was dismay. So much of her memory was gone. But the vision of Daisy, asleep, through the cracks in the pavement below Piccadilly was clear, and she knew what she was here to do. The first of the Oracle’s riddles was bees, the second Dream, and the third, the third…
‘Your father,’ said Fay. ‘I loved him so much. And yet I don’t remember him.’ The thought filled her with a sudden grief. Was this the price of her journey so far? And when would her debt be paid in full?
‘He’s gone,’ said the child. ‘He fell through the cracks between the Worlds, and the Shadowless Man took him away. But you’ll stay, won’t you? You won’t leave me?’
‘Oh, sweetheart,’ said Fay. ‘Of course I won’t. I came all this way to find you.’
‘Then stay with me,’ said Daisy. ‘Stay until the sea comes in, and my castle is all washed away. We’ll lie on the beach and watch the stars and be here, together, for ever and ever.’
But now Fay could see the sides of the dream, like a soap-bubble ready to burst. The sky was several shades lighter already; the sea had lost its rich dark shine. The sun was veiled, and on the sand, there was no longer any trace of her shadow. She held out her arms and Daisy crept into their sheltering circle, but already she felt insubstantial, her body an armful of butterflies, ready to scatter to the winds.
When I leave this dream, thought Fay, will this memory be gone? Daisy, aged six, in her yellow dress, building a sandcastle on the beach? She feared that it would: and yet she knew this was the only way to reach the other side of Dream, where the Hallowe’en King was waiting.
The dream world was losing substance fast: Fay closed her eyes and tried to hold onto the ima
ge of her daughter’s face as it faded from her memory. Daisy’s eyes were blue, she thought. Her eyes were blue. Remember that. And then she raised her voice and sang the last of the Oracle’s riddles:
When you can walk shadowless at noon
Every sage grows merry in time…
And opened her eyes on the dusty, desert, sunless shore of Death – which, of course, was the answer.
Three
The first was Bees.
The second was Dream.
The third was Death.
And Death was all around her. It was in the strange, pale sky; the dusty ground; the thousand tiny fragments that shone like mica in the air. So this is Death. It isn’t so bad, Fay thought as she scanned the horizon. Death’s country is all absences; absence of scent; absence of sound; absence of the sun in the sky. No shadow on the hard, dry sand. No heat; no cold; no pain; no regret; nothing but her consciousness standing on the shore of Dream, with a handful of star-patterned rags, a notebook and a seashell –
This must have been something important, she thought, looking at the ragged remains of the blanket tied around her waist. I brought it here for a reason. Why? But try as she might, she could not recall and, seeing it so faded and torn, she let it fall to the dusty ground, where the wind-blown sands were gathering. Next, she placed the seashell into the pouch of her hoodie and opened the tiny notebook. Maybe it would remind her of what she had forgotten.
She read the words: I’ll never forget her. Whatever it costs. I saw her, asleep in the bluebells. And with that came the memory of looking through a crack in the ground, and seeing a girl, asleep in the woods—
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