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The Firebird Chronicles

Page 16

by Daniel Ingram-Brown


  Christchurch to Waterloo.

  Waterloo to King’s Cross.

  King’s Cross to Leeds.

  Three steps. Easy.

  I look back out of the window as the sun blares, and my reflection fades.

  Easy, I tell myself again, but it’s hard to trust when the world seems so vast.

  * * *

  I wake up, my cheek still pressed against the letters. The ribbon has left a mark on my skin. I feel disorientated. I’m not sure how long it’s been since Fletcher left. I wish he was here. I wish he hadn’t gone.

  I look at the letters to distract myself, staring at the handwritten address. Why write letters if you’re not going to send them? I run the end of the ribbon through my fingers, enjoying the feel of the lace, and find myself tugging the loose end a little. The bow shortens.

  They’re not mine, I tell myself. It’d be wrong to open them.

  I tug a little more.

  Almost without noticing, the bow slips open and the letters tumble onto my lap. There must be about ten of them, each neatly sealed, each addressed by the same hand, each dated. I spread them out.

  They’re not mine, I tell myself again. It would be wrong to open them.

  Fletcher would open them, I think.

  I find the earliest letter. It can’t have been written long after Libby’s mum went missing. I turn it over in my fingers. It has the same musty scent as the beach hut. I run my finger along the line of the seal.

  It would be wrong to open it.

  And then I’m slipping my finger under the fragile paper. It’s brittle and dry. The seal is loose. It opens almost without me realising. Before I know it, I’m pulling the letter out and unfolding it. I know I shouldn’t read it, but I need something to do, something to distract me, and now it’s open …

  Dear Libby …

  * * *

  It’s been three hours since I left Christchurch. I picture Scoop huddled under the boat. Thinking of her alone makes me uncomfortable.

  I’m leaning against a river fence, the iron railings cold on my legs. A boat passes, a crowd of partygoers on its deck, its music loud. Lights dance on the water.

  My head is swimming. Around me, the air buzzes with noise: a busker’s saxophone, the whirl of fairground music and the constant babble of conversation. I’m surrounded by a village of wooden cabins – a market. They look like gingerbread houses, lined with lights, piled high with chocolates, candles, decorations and little glowing snowmen. I can smell roasting chestnuts. It all seems a bit … fake.

  I’m in London, on the South Bank of the River Thames, so a sign hanging from a tree made of teddy bears tells me. This is the Christmas market.

  It’s packed. A boy on a skateboard tries to push through the crowd but soon gives up. Flipping up the board, he disappears into the sea of people. Above me, blue and white lights hang across the market, spilling into the trees, causing star-like explosions in their branches. Beyond, a giant wheel rises, its glass carriages carrying people through the night sky.

  I can’t take it in.

  So many people.

  I walked here in a daze, searching for a tower I glimpsed from the train as it pulled into Waterloo – a giant, twisted spike of glass and metal. It reminded me of something deep in my memory … or imagination – another tower, another three towers, but made of rock. I don’t know where the memory comes from or how it found its way into my mind. It’s like a cuckoo’s egg – a memory of a different home. It feels like a dream. But somehow that tower awoke the memory, and I had to try to find it.

  It’s somewhere behind me now, I think. I lost direction amid the corridors of buildings and queues of traffic. Instead, I found myself here by the river. On the other side, a building spreads beyond the big wheel. It looks like a matchstick model of a toy palace. From its tallest tower, a clock shows the time. A bell sounds, echoing across the water with a deep boom. I count each strike in my head. One … Two … Three … Four. These winter nights begin early. The sound wakes me. I need to find my way across this city. I begin to move back towards the station, threading through the crowd. I’ve seen entrances that lead underground. There are trains in the tunnels under this city. They’ll carry me on.

  Waterloo to King’s Cross. Step two.

  As I enter a doorway and begin my descent, images of a portly man dressed in red flash on screens that line the walls. ‘Season’s Greetings,’ he says, winking. ‘What will you wish for this Christmas?’

  * * *

  I stare at the letter, a secret message from mother to daughter.

  Dear Libby,

  I wish I could see you. I wish I could tell you how much I love you.

  I’m writing this because I need you to understand. I need to explain. And yet, at the same time, I know I will never send this. It’s funny, I hadn’t realised, but I already have a hiding place for it in my head – under the old floorboard, where I used to keep my treasures as a child – my shells and stones. That says it all. That shows the deep conflict that runs through my life. I am like this letter, full of words never to be spoken.

  I don’t know how I got here, and I can’t excuse it. I remember leaving your breakfast on the table that morning, not even stopping to put my coat on. My legs had a momentum of their own. I don’t know exactly what prompted me to walk out the door. I was aware of the cloud I’ve been living under these past months, of course. But, although that may have been the trigger, it wasn’t the cause. Rather, it was an amalgamation of everything, of what my life had become.

  I want to justify it, but I can’t.

  As I’ve grappled with that cloud, I’ve become aware of something else: another me, another self, lurking in the shadows – a past self. She was there that morning, under the surface, silent and un-named. For so long, I tried to ignore her, to push her away. I tried to be what everybody expected of me. I did as my father told me, Libby. I put my pen away, the source of my life. I did as my husband told me, to shelve my dreams, to focus on what mattered – being a good wife, a good mother, a good woman, while there was still time. But she was always there, living alongside me, quietly in the darkness – the girl I tried to hide, tried to kill.

  I used to write Libby, all the time. I’d scribble on the corners of my schoolbooks, on the backs of envelopes, on my hands when there was no paper to be found. I marked my skin. And I used to draw – nothing special, just doodles, useless smudges of ink. I wore pretty dresses and loved to dance. I loved to listen to music. Where did that child go?

  I know full well.

  She never left. She was always there in the shadows, growing in bitterness, biding her time.

  That morning, she quietly inhabited me, led me away and brought me here.

  But what am I supposed to do? Hide? Wait? For what? For my life to expire? I’m not her anymore. But I’m not me, either. I don’t know who I am. I’m lost, incapacitated, a useless cripple. This disease seeps into my body. My legs are getting worse. I must lean on that wretched stick even to move. I’m slowly decaying.

  You’re better off without me, Libby, without this war that rips through me. I hide it well. You may not have heard the bomb blasts, but it has torn me. I cannot be known as a Joyner any longer – joiner – that always made me laugh. I’ve gone back to using my maiden name, Speller.

  I’m torn, Libby. And I’m scared I’ll tear you.

  I needed you to know.

  Your loving, unworthy, mother.

  I put down the letter. How can someone live feeling so divided? I can’t tell if I’m sad or angry. The letter’s heartbreaking. Libby’s mum’s hurting. But it also feels selfish, self-obsessed even. I picture Libby, the girl caught by the bomb blast of her mother’s life. This isn’t fair. It’s an injustice that needs righting, a chasm that needs bridging.

  Chapter 28

  The BLACK LAKE

  Grizelda stood at the top of the CENTRAL CHASM, her toes flexing over the edge, a sheer drop below. Ribbons of black cloud slid from her shoulders
and threaded into the hole. A moment later, they looped back up, circling down again, as though beckoning the old woman.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, impatiently. ‘I’m getting too old for this, ya know.’

  A thick band of cloud hovered in front of her, swaying like a cobra eyeing its prey.

  ‘Alright, alright, keep yer hair on.’

  Grizelda slipped off her shoes. She’d done it a hundred times at that other hole, the Abyss, but it was different here at the heart of THE ACADEMY. It made her uneasy.

  ‘Get a grip,’ she muttered.

  Pulling a coil of rope from her cloak, she found a rock to fix it around. Once it was secure, she tied the other end around her waist and returned to the hole.

  ‘Well, ‘ere goes nothin’.’

  Leaning back over the chasm, she let the rope take her weight. The black cloud slithered into the darkness. With a huff, the old woman pushed herself out and began to abseil down, descending into the caves below.

  * * *

  Slowly, carefully, Grizelda moved through the STORY CAVES. The cloud slithered ahead like Ariadne’s thread, guiding her through the labyrinth. Every so often, it doubled back, slipping around the old woman’s waist before continuing onwards.

  ‘I’m goin’ as fast as I can,’ Grizelda muttered. ‘I’m not gettin’ any younger, yer know. Yer don’t want me havin’ a fall and bashin’ me head open, do yer? What good would that do yer? All yer pretty plans would go up in smoke.’

  The old woman followed the cloud through the maze. She prided herself on knowing the STORY CAVES as well as anyone. She’d spent long enough in them, after all. But she didn’t recognise this part of the network. The tunnels seemed to be narrower, darker than she was used to.

  Just as the caverns were becoming impassable, the old woman pushed through a crack and found herself in a vast chamber, its ceiling disappearing into the darkness. It was bigger than any chamber Grizelda had seen before. She couldn’t see the far side. How did such a place exist so deep underground? She was standing on a small, stony bank. Apart from that, the whole cave was covered with water, but it was black water, thick and lifeless. Sleep sparkles hovered in the air, but they cast no reflection on the lake.

  The old woman stopped at the edge of the water. ‘Now what?’ she asked. There was no further to go.

  The cloud slithered forward, brushing the surface of the water. When it neared the centre, it snaked down, piercing the lake’s skin and disappeared below.

  Grizelda was left alone.

  She fidgeted, stones shifting beneath her feet. She didn’t like it here. It gave her the heebie-jeebies. And it made her feel … vulnerable. That wasn’t a word Grizelda cared for. If the cloud left her, she had no idea how she’d find her way out. The thought of wandering the darkness until she collapsed didn’t appeal at all.

  ‘Pull yerself together,’ she muttered. ‘You haven’t come all this way to lose yer nerve now, have yer?’

  She tapped her foot, waiting. ‘Come on, come on, what’s keepin’ yer?’

  Just as she was about to call out, something shifted in the middle of the chamber. A shape emerged from the lake. She peered through the gloom. A black boat was rising silently from the water. The vessel was simple, with a high, arced prow. The cloud circled the boat as it floated towards her. There was a figure aboard – a tall man, draped in black, standing at its helm. He didn’t seem to be rowing or guiding the boat in any way. He was just standing as it drifted towards her. Grizelda had the unnerving feeling he was watching her.

  The Ferryman. She shivered. There weren’t many things that scared her, but the Ferryman was one of them. She’d always hated stories of him as a child and demanded they not be told. The Ferryman was tasked with carrying souls to the world of the dead. If there was one thing Grizelda didn’t like, it was the thought of death itself; her death, her life being snuffed out, ended, full stop.

  The boat reached the bank and stopped. The Ferryman didn’t move.

  ‘Well, ain’t yer gonna invite me aboard?’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Talkative down here, ain’t yer? Right then. Well, there ain’t no point standin’ around.’

  Grizelda waded into the BLACK LAKE, the bottom of her cloak becoming sodden and heavy. She clambered awkwardly up the ferry, pushing her legs over the side, until she toppled into it, landing like a sack of potatoes.

  Standing, she brushed herself down. ‘Don’t help or anythin’,’ she muttered.

  ‘Right then. I’m ready. Cast off, or whatever it is yer do.’

  The hull of the boat scraped against the stones as it moved away from the shore.

  Grizelda twisted her cloak nervously. Where were they going? She still couldn’t see the other side of the cave. ‘I can’t breathe underwater, yer know?’ she blurted.

  Again, she was met with silence.

  As the boat drifted towards the centre of the lake, the cloud began to wrap itself around Grizelda. It encircled her, until she was completely hidden, held in a black cocoon. Then, slowly, the boat sank down into the BLACK LAKE and disappeared.

  Chapter 29

  Source

  The train rocks me gently, lulling me into a fitful sleep, and before I know it, another two hours have passed.

  The landscape is dark now, although I can still see its outline against the navy sky. Every so often, I glimpse snow in the twilight. Red brick cities have replaced sleepy villages, and the horizon seems to have gathered into hills, although maybe it’s just low hanging cloud. London feels far away. I’ve been dreaming about rumbling through the tunnels of the big city, emerging into King’s Cross, its girders like phoenix wings. I keep replaying the moment I walked past a crowd gathered around a trolley, half-buried in the wall, “Platform 9 3/4s” written above. This is a strange world.

  The train’s beginning to slow now. Warehouses and crowded streets close in. We’re pulling into a station.

  LEEDS

  I sit up, suddenly awake. I’m here, here in Libby’s city. I spring up and join the queue of people waiting to leave the train. I jig from foot to foot, unable to keep still. I’m here. I’ve made it.

  But what now?

  * * *

  I read each of the letters in turn – January, February, April, August, December, then almost one a month throughout the following year.

  The conflict is clear throughout. Sometimes the letters are poetic. Libby’s mum talks of the sea, of the debris on the beach, of the gulls – painting pictures with her words. Other times, the letters descend into a sort of madness. She repeats the same phrases again and again: that she loves Libby, that she’s sorry, that she can’t explain or excuse her behaviour, that she’s a burden, that Libby is better off without her. And the pen, her silver pen, the one she used to write her stories – our stories – she returns to it often. She calls it her source – a source of life but also of conflict.

  At one point, she tells of how she’s locked the pen away. She’s never going to use it again, she says; she can’t control what it releases. Mortales spring into her imagination, threatening and accusing her. One name keeps coming up – Falk. It seems familiar, although I can’t place where I’ve heard it before.

  A few letters on, it’s clear she’s taken the pen out again and is writing. There’s an uncontrolled quality to her words.

  I read on, gripped, not sure how much time has passed.

  I pick up the next letter and stop. It’s the last one. It’s dated January of this year. Why did she stop writing in January? That’s almost a year ago. It gives me an odd sensation; like perhaps I’m drawing closer to the woman we’ve been watching these past weeks. I pause a moment longer and then rip open the envelope and begin to read.

  * * *

  I hold the map book close to my nose. It’s hard to see it in the dim street light. I bend the cover back to make it easier to read, but the road I’m looking for is right on the fold. Typical. De Lacey Mount, there it is. I trace my finger over it and look
up, trying to work out where I am. The bus stopped opposite Norman Row. All the roads here have the same name: Norman Row, Norman View, Norman Grove, Norman Mount. It seems someone had a severe lack of imagination. I scan the red brick wall ahead, looking for a street sign.

  Back Norman Mount. There it is, hiding below a satellite dish. At least I know I’m heading in the right direction.

  Rows of red brick houses run down the hill. Coloured lights flash in some of the windows. One of them has a large reindeer in its garden, an inflatable Santa stuck to the wall.

  I walk through the slush, water soaking into my shoes. I don’t notice it really. I’m too preoccupied thinking about what I’m going to do when I reach Libby’s house. Will I knock? Will I wait outside until I see her? I have no idea.

  As it is, my questions are answered as I turn onto De Lacey Mount. A teenage girl stands at one of the yard gates, halfway down the road. She’s yelling at a man in the doorway. I freeze, my heart almost stopping. It’s her. It’s Libby!

  I dive behind a parked van and peek out, my back pressed against the metal.

  She’s a couple of years older than when I last saw her, but it’s definitely her.

  I’ve found her!

  Libby’s yelling, but I can’t take in what she’s saying. My mind’s racing. I peek out from behind the van again, trying to focus.

  ‘You can’t make me go!’

  ‘Don’t make a scene,’ replies the man in the doorway. It’s her dad, it must be. I can see the resemblance.

  ‘I don’t care who hears! You can’t make me!’

  ‘It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow, Libby. We’re going to see your aunt and that’s final.’

  ‘But I hate her!’

  ‘Libby!’ Her dad looks shaken.

  ‘It’s not what Mum would have––’

  ‘Your mum,’ her dad interrupts, raising his voice. He stops himself and takes a breath. ‘I’m not going to talk about this now, not in the middle of the street.’

 

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