Ever Winter

by Hackshaw, Peter

  “Now we’re getting along, I suppose I’d better give you a name as well,” Henry said to the snow leopard, “I don’t know many names, so let’s see what ones you like.”

  The snow leopard stared at Henry, then looked out the window. The sky was cloudless as they sped under it.

  “What about Ragnar?” Henry said, recalling a name from a story once told to him by Mother. The creature remained unimpressed and Henry changed course, so the ship was once more in sight. He thought of characters in the books he’d read and spoke the names of those. “Georgie? Caderousse? Dega? Eddie? Jacopo?”

  The animal yawned, seemingly bored by the car journey now too. Henry turned the car sharply and the creature looked at him, seeming annoyed as it sank its claws into the seat to steady itself.

  Henry thought of the names of the Orfins. Boo, Leaf, Q-Tip, Dibber, Yaxley… They meant nothing, those words, but they suited the people they belonged to.

  Henry couldn’t use the names of Father, or Martin. It didn’t seem right. It would be different if Henry had a bairn. He knew that John would be a good name for a bairn. But not for a snow leopard.

  He scrutinized the creature. It wasn’t a naïve Georgie, a meek Dega, or a coward like Caderousse. The snow leopard was none of these. The snow leopard was a strong, dangerous creature. A wild, primitive killer. A beast. Then he recollected the day they’d found the big cat injured and that Hepburn had spoken the creature’s name.

  “What was that which Hepburn called you? Your science name, Panthera something?” Henry asked the creature, who of course said nothing in reply.

  “Panthera. Do you like it? I believe I do. Panthera?” Henry spoke and this time the creature reacted, with a loud mewl and a tilt of the head which the movement of the car almost turned into a nod. “Panthera,” Henry affirmed. “You’re no cunk. You’re true grit, with spikes upon.” He sounded like Father, when he spoke those words. Deeper, somehow.

  Back at the ship, Hepburn awaited, ready to start the next module. The car door opened and the animal leaped from the leather seat within, skidding to a stop on the ice before setting off on its own adventure around the containers.

  “From now on, we call the animal Panthera. It’s from his science name and I think he likes it.”

  Hepburn acknowledged it in silence, unmoved and uninspired, then Henry asked sheepishly, “Hepburn, what’s a science name?”

  Panthera started to join in with the training modules. Rather than just run beside Henry as he exercised, when Hepburn projected assailants onto the terrain, the creature would attack those that posed any immediate threat. He no longer ran next to Henry, but rather aligned with him; taking strategic positions, understanding the hunt as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They became a unit and Hepburn acknowledged it, amending the training modules to include Panthera as an attack dog.

  “I’m fast. We’re both fast. Me and Panthera. Now I want to fight. It’s time, Hep.”

  It wasn’t what Henry expected. At all. Firstly, he thought Hepburn would reject his idea and say he wasn’t up to optimum fitness, physically or mentally. When he got the nod from the robot to begin the combat modules, he assumed he would be starting with an elaborate move of some kind. Something that would get the best of Lanner or any of his men. Something not even Father could have done.

  Instead, Hepburn showed him how to stand in a defensive position, and they spent several hours focusing on balance as the robot struck at him with his arm, elbow, or leg. The snow leopard watched intently, unsure at first if Henry was in genuine danger, or if it was a game of some kind.

  Henry begged Hepburn to stop several times as he could no longer raise his arms to the blocking position, or even worse, use his shin to block kicks. This was a new level of grueling fitness training, and after the first day, Henry was frustrated with his lack of progress.

  Henry limped to the cabin that evening and used the abundance of ice to bring down the swelling in his legs. Panthera gave him the warmth he needed, sensing he was in pain, and not in the best of moods.

  The next day was a repeat of the last and the routine was identical, yet the bruises on his limbs had bloomed and continually blocking the unceasing strikes from the robot grew ever more painful as the day went on. Panthera lost interest and went exploring on his own, coming back only when the day drew to a close.

  That night was subject to something remarkable and glorious, however. Hepburn had not been present at mealtime and had been otherwise distracted in the control room. As Henry massaged his legs in the cabin in the dim light of the wind-up torch, the ship came to life and a strobe of lights flickered throughout the hallways and cabins, finally remaining on.

  “Hepburn!” Henry screamed, forgetting his aches and running up the sloping corridors toward the stairwell. “The ship is alive again! It’s woken up! Look how it glows! Everywhere!”

  The snow leopard followed him, equally as startled and excited by the illuminations. The innards of the ship looked totally different in the brilliance of light. Colors presented themselves and dank corners became unhidden.

  Hepburn stood in the control room, triumphant, if ever such a word could be said about a robot.

  “What did you do? It’s amazing!” Henry yelled, marveling at their surroundings.

  “I’ve made a breakthrough. I had to replace much of the wiring, solder and re-route some of the circuitry, but we have very limited power, sufficient for lighting and, I hope, communications. It’s generated mainly from solar cells today, but it is a start.”

  Panthera hopped onto a chair and sniffed at the flashing buttons on the console.

  “What does all of this do, then?” Henry asked.

  “It used to control every aspect of this vessel, which is no longer seaworthy. Most of it is just these lights.”

  “It looks real pretty, though. I’ve never seen anything like it afore! Like you’ve plucked stars and put them on that table,” Henry replied.

  There was a hum in the control room as the electricity surged through the wires and circuits of the computers that adorned the room. It was barely audible, yet Henry was aware of a presence. Something inhuman. He’d never heard anything like it before, but he realized that the things that made Hepburn walk and talk, the things that made him what he was, they were all of this.

  “So, can you communicate now, Hep? With others?”

  “Not at this moment, but I can look at the vessel’s log whilst you sleep, which might tell us more about things. Go to sleep, Henry. Tomorrow you will learn how to punch, and once you do, you will throw punches until you can no longer raise your arms. This is conditioning.”

  Henry huffed, but complied. He clicked his fingers and Panthera followed him to his cabin bed.

  Twenty-One

  Canary, Caged

  She’d heard the screams. They all had. And she knew – although she’d never heard such a sound come from his lips – that the screams belonged to her brother, Henry.

  Yet there was nothing she could do. Bound and gagged in a bedroom suite somewhere in the belly of Moonbird, the stench of her own urine on the clothes she wore. Iris was embarrassed by the fact, but knew, like everything else, it was not her fault.

  Hilde, also bound with her arms behind her back, leaned into Iris’ body, to comfort her by being as close to her as she could, unable to put an arm protectively around her little sister. Their tears met and they shared a look of terror, uncertain what was to befall each of them. Only able to imagine what was being done to the brother they’d thought lost until that moment.

  The screams, unceasing and inhuman, seemed to last for an age. Not just carried from the scene immediately as their brother was dragged from the vessel, or heard as he was led into the square, through silenced crowds. Distant, even in the Bone Yard, Henry’s agonizing screams could still be heard.

  Mary was unmoved. Sitting upright on the edge of the bed beside them, distrait, as if she were listening to an entirely different sound to everyo
ne else in the favela.

  Iris looked at her, amazed how she could remain so calm and unaffected. Mary had not been the same since the attack on the homestead and hadn’t spoken to any of them in weeks; she had somehow drawn deep inward where none could reach her, or perhaps even projected miles outward, eons from them all. Iris envied her ability to close out the noise and hide away from all that had happened to them. Iris couldn’t escape any of it and she realized, although her own mouth was gagged with a filthy rag, that she was screaming just as her brother was, sharing his pain and hoping he could hear her, though it all seemed caged inside her. The inward screams of a captive.

  Mary shook her head, as if remembering something, half-smiling to herself despite the gag in her mouth. Iris wondered if Mary would run if she’d not been bound like her sisters, or if she’d remain upright on the edge of the bed taking in her surroundings. Docile.

  Finally, the noises ceased. As if the screams never were. Iris thought she had imagined them and that Henry had not found his way to the Favela and had not met the king. But she knew the truth of it and her only puzzle was whether he had died already, or suffered still beyond the winds that carried his cries. Part of her hoped he’d died and that the pain was over for him. That Henry was with Mother, Father and—

  Footsteps. The witch, Catharin, came for her then, an elderly lady as crazy as the king himself. Catharin spat on the carpeted floor, punctuating her entrance. She went straight for Iris and took her by the arm, kicking Hilde out of the way, cackling at Mary, who acknowledged nothing. Iris tried to escape the woman’s grip, but Catharin was rough with her and spiteful, pinching the skin of Iris’ inside arm which made her scream out once more.

  One of the accompanying guards closed the door behind them and Iris saw her sisters for the last time.

  Iris traced her fingers over the figures carved in ice on the bars of the birdcage. Her nails, though bitten, had been painted burgundy, with glitter nail polish. Her eyes were jet black where ash and volcanic rock had been smeared from lids to temples, to make her look otherworldly. To show it off, her hair had been scraped up in a bun and she wore what Catharin had called a lemon chiffon lace bridesmaid dress that had been kept in near perfect condition. Iris had at first wondered if the dress had once belonged to Catharin, who could have been over a hundred years old, but she thought it more likely that it had been taken from someone, as were most things. Iris shivered from the cold, wishing she had a pelt of some kind around her instead.

  At least her feet were warm. There were no shoes to match such a dress in the Favela and Iris was permitted to keep her boots on.

  The great hall stank of blood and sweat. It was dark inside and every space was occupied. Those who had sat in the pews had to stand, because others had blocked their view. All eyes were upon her and there was an atmosphere in the room; a great expectation.

  Toward the back of the room where Iris stood, a hole cut into the ceiling allowed light into the room and the steam and heat from the scores of bodies to escape and prevent the building from melting from within. Snowfall entered the room with the light from above and separated the birdcage from the crowd. The effect was beautiful.

  Iris was nervous. But she’d been well prepared. From the moment the witch, Catharin, had taken her, she’d been held in a great house made of ice and the lessons had begun with much ceremony.

  She recalled a female guard sat on a chaise, flicking through the faded and worn pages of a brochure of some kind. Iris’ bonds had been untied some days previous and the marks caused by them had faded from her wrists and ankles. At the time, Iris had deliberated how much she could hurt Catharin, or whether she could kill her before the guard could pry her off. That thought was broken by the sound of music, which came from a small white cube the size of a thumbnail that the old lady had placed before them.

  Catharin had closed her eyes and nodded her head to the music, which filled the room to Iris’ alarm. The only percussion she had known was the clap of hands, or the sound boots made in the snow. The only strings she had heard had been the wire that whistled in the winds about the homestead. The only vocals she had heard came from her family, from songs remembered and passed down, but never in such perfection; notes sung like they were played by hand somehow. Iris had never heard this song. It was new – which meant it was extremely old. The words sung were beautiful and crafted in a way so unlike the speech of the modern world. Iris felt her heart race and realized that her right foot had been tapping along to the beat of the music and her fingers danced against her thighs. She felt so much through the music. Joy and great sadness, peace and so much excitement. The song finished and Catharin, opened her eyes finally.

  “Once upon a time, old ‘un folk would venture underground with a yellow bird they called Canary. When its wings flapped, it meant the air was bad. The canary was their light. They held it dear. But it was also their slave. Their fodder. You, my little bird, are our fodder, and you shall sing for your sup. Sing songs like that’ un.”

  “I can’t. I can’t do that. I’ve never—”

  “You will. I will teach you, and beat you if you can’t. Lots more music where that came from, hidden in that little box. Only you and me get to unlock it. It’s a priceless treasure, this ‘un, powered by the very sun itself. More anteek in years than even I, if you could ever believe it.”

  Iris had asked where it had come from and all she’d learned was that it was found in Moonbird and could be charged by the sun. It held many songs, of many different voices and sounds. Fast ones and slow ones. Uplifting tales and heart-breaking ones. Iris was intrigued and touched by it all. It was like her forebears were speaking to her. Showing her a world that had died off.

  “Dunno who put the music in there. But I wondered over whether this was all the music from the old world, or whether there was more of it. Did this one Great-Great leave us music that all thought the best of the lot, or was it noise to most?” Before leaving Iris alone for the rest of the day, Catharin said, “Pick a song. Learn it. If I like what you sing, you get a chowder in the morn. Otherwise you go hunger some.”

  “But—”

  “It’s this, or salvaging in the ruins of the underbelly. A girl your age and size? It’d make a nice graveyard for you in no time. Let them sisters of yourn go visit them pretty bones. Singing for sup? This is the charmed life up here. This is what you will do.”

  Catharin and the guard left Iris alone then, to listen to the tiny sound box.

  The first song she played became the song she would fall in love with for the rest of her existence. It took weeks fed on morsels to earn a proper chowder and she’d been prodded, poked and – once – bitten by Catharin, the witch. She’d thought about hurting Catharin on most days, but she had become frightened of losing access to the music in the little box, which kept her spirits high and made her want to get up in the mornings.

  Catharin, surprisingly, had a wonderful voice. After many lessons, she had told Iris the full tale of her ancestor, a famous actress loved by all in the world. When the Ever Winter came, she had been stripped of her riches and imprisoned in a cage, where she was to sing for all. She belonged to all. Catharin had been born into her status and her slavery. The girl hated and pitied Catharin equally. If Iris closed her eyes, she couldn’t believe that the notes sung to her came from the old lady. Yet the old lady was just that; her voice did tire and her breath was short partway through a difficult song. Was that the very thing that made Catharin so bitter and twisted?

  Finally, Iris was ready for her moment. The big reveal of the debutante. The long-awaited new Canary of the Favela.

  She looked over at the old woman, Catharin. She felt that somehow, for Catharin, it was a bittersweet moment. The old lady had done her duty and found her successor. She had trained Iris how to sing and perform. She had guaranteed the music for years to come, and Iris understood then that her only reward would be to fade from people’s memories; to become invisible like the elders that had come to
age before her.

  Iris was nervous, but she was ready to command the audience. For endless hours she’d practiced, scolded by Catharin every time a note was wrong, or even a phrasing or gesture slightly off. In the end, she found that she could sing. She could pour her heart into the music and sometimes, the words would bring images to her as she sang; the faces of those she loved that she would never see in this world again.

  Music had become a drug to Iris. She needed to hear the sounds from the little cube every day. Sometimes she just played the same song, over and over. Other times she would skip tracks until she found what she was after; what she needed for that day, or that hour.

  Catharin screamed for quiet in her shrill voice. Near silence filled the room. Lanner stood by the doorway, Iris could see his silhouette. The room was a single, breathing creature. A great beast, made of many.

  Iris steadied herself, holding onto the bars of the cage in which she had been placed. The cage was beautiful and it was hers. It was the barrier between Iris and all that filled the darkened room. The snow that fell beyond its intricately carved bars was another.

  She took a deep breath as all waited. Iris hadn’t started, but she already had command over them.

  Sitting beside the cage was her band; an old blind man with a cigar box instrument devised out of junk that had a single string to it and a younger fellow with his hair in a mess of tangled curls, holding a sealskin drum upon his knee.

  They waited, as the crowd did, for the Canary to sing.

  She took her time, feeling an invisible energy build in the room. Still the snow crept into the room from the breach above.

  “We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when…”

  Twenty-Two