The Gracekeepers Page 12

  The messenger seemed restless now that their bodies were separate. He was shifting on the boards, rubbing his hands over his scalp, prodding a toe into the water to scare off the fish.

  “I should move on,” he said. “You never know when the next storm is coming. If I don’t go now, I could be stuck here for a while.” He left a long pause, watching Callanish from the corner of his eye. He went to take her gloved hand, then seemed to think better of it. “You could put a pot of coffee on and I could stay for a while longer. We can talk about your great-great-whatever and the maps. Come on, little fish. It’ll be good for you.”

  Callanish stood and walked over to the messenger’s boat. She waited until he lumbered to his feet with a sigh. When he got back into his boat, she tugged his rope off the dock and threw the coil into his boat without a word.

  “Aren’t you even going to say goodbye to me?” The messenger leaned his arm along the boat’s edge and looked up at her, the coquettishness an awkward contrast with his shaved head and muscled shoulders.

  “Farewell,” she said, and the messenger turned his boat and sailed back into the night.

  She knew that she would sit on the porch every evening and watch for him until he returned. Not for the man that he was—he could end up under her house, picked clean by the fish, for all the difference it made—but for his message. If the feather meant anything to her mother, she would know by the response. If there were no response, then Callanish would know that she had not been forgiven. Without forgiveness, she would be forever haunted by her mistake; nothing more than the ghost of a ghost.

  11

  NORTH

  The scent of North-West 1’s pine needles crept from the trees, across the fields, over the houses, past the harbor, and all the way into North’s nostrils as she dozed in the swaying cocoon of her coracle. She was dreaming of Whitby: his long, strong limbs wrapped tight in net, dropping down into the water. His fingers and toes nibbled by fish, his body dropping piece by piece to the ocean floor to be buried in sand. The earth exhaling, pulling him in.

  She coughed awake, her nose full of soil. An afternoon nap before the show had seemed like a good idea, but now she regretted it. She didn’t want the image of Whitby fish-nibbled and land-buried.

  Landlockers spoke of North-West 1 in favorable tones; they loved the woody, earthy scent of the pines, and believed that the needles brought luck. That was all nonsense, North knew. Pine trees smelled of dirt and mold, like all other trees. She breathed in deep so that her nose would become accustomed and blunt the sharpness of the smell.

  On either side of her, shadowed figures snored. North listened for the rhythm of Melia’s breath, and decided that she still slept. She hoped that Melia dreamed of shifting colors in far-north skies, or a bed stuffed with feathers, or pork-dumpling stew. Anything but Whitby.

  She got to her knees and pressed her face to her bear’s furred belly to steady herself. That was a good smell. Why couldn’t everything smell of warm fur and saltwater and fresh seaweed popping in the fire? Then the world would be perfect. Well, not quite perfect: she remembered the soft web of the gracekeeper’s fingers, the sun-clean scent of her skin, the flutter of North’s baby inside her. That was a new world; a kind of perfect she had never thought to imagine.

  She peeled back the edge of the canvas and peeped out, careful not to let too much light seep into the coracle and wake the sleepers. The Excalibur had already docked in the harbor.

  Red Gold, in all his raw-cheeked and paper-shirted glory, stood among the chaos of the harbor, charming the landlockers. If they weren’t moonstruck by the excitement of his stories, then they were certainly reassured by the steadiness of his feet on the ground. North knew that landlockers found Red Gold familiar in a way they could not quite explain. They would not accept him as a true landlocker, but although he wore his tiny brass bell like all the other damplings, they knew he was not a dampling either. She would never understand how Red Gold could talk to landlockers with such ease. They chose land over sea, stagnation over motion, the stench of rotting wood over the fresh ocean breeze. They were another species entirely.

  She tried to tell from the set of his jaw whether Avalon had told him about the baby. It would be difficult when the child came, she knew: to make sure the bear was never alone with it, and carry on doing her act, and somehow get enough food for all three of them, but she would just have to…she would…she had no idea what she would do. All she could do now was carry on.

  North glanced down to check that her bear was still sleeping, then pulled herself up to sit on the edge of her coracle. She raised a hand to greet Dosh and Dough, who were already sunning themselves on their coracle’s taut canvas. Her dress was loose, so she did not worry that they would notice her bump. She hadn’t minded the gracekeeper seeing, but that had become a trade, an exchange of secrets: the outline of a bump for the touch of webbed fingers. The opening of a box she hadn’t known was locked.

  Past the tight line of coracles and the docked Excalibur, the island rose. Northern islands were usually uneven, and this one dipped and stretched messily, the central copse of pines obscuring the other side of the island. North knew from an overnight stint on a prison boat a few years ago that it was a conservative island, and revivalism was popular. She hoped that Red Gold would remember, and save the subversion for another night. Judging by what was being loaded into the trade boats, the fields here were mostly wheat, peas and broad beans—unusual, as the southern islands were usually better for farming crops, the northern better for animals. Bread with honeyed peas for dinner, then, and North couldn’t argue with that. She only hoped that the landlockers would love the show enough to include some of their hard-traded meat in with the payment.

  She took a deep breath, grateful that her nose had got used to the smell of the trees, and leaned back against the taut canvas. The Excalibur had been lucky to find a berth; every other space was occupied by messenger cutters and medic galleons and fruit-trading clippers. Looming over them all, its sides draped with painted depictions of the blue-eyed, blue-robed Virgin, was an enormous revival cruise ship. North shivered; it was several spaces away, but so huge that its shadow would soon be cast over their coracles.

  Above her, the sky was barnacled with clouds. The sun was starting to fall, spreading swathes of orange and pink as it went. Junk traders sculled in the shallows; when flotsam washed ashore it belonged to the landlockers, but if the damplings could drag it up when it was still in the water, it was fair game. North would hail one of them later, to see if she could trade some treats for her bear.

  Behind North there was a rustle, a sigh, as one of the clowns shifted position.

  “I hear the clams on this island make a decent pine-needle vodka,” said Dosh. Perhaps the trees were good for something after all—though North wasn’t sure she’d ever drink something that tasted of pine.

  “Can’t be worse than the liquid fire that Bero usually serves up,” she stage-whispered back without taking her gaze down from the sky. “I bet it’s the same stuff he uses to breathe flames for his act.”

  No response. North sat up, resting her weight on her elbows, and tipped her head right back to look at the clowns upside down.

  Dosh was regarding her with a serious expression. “Sweet North, I know you jest, but you speak a true fact. Bero has spent his whole life filling us with fire. Inside each one of us is a raging inferno waiting to take hold. Inside me, and you, and Red Gold, and even Red Gold’s kind and generous wife.” Dosh rolled over and gave her an exaggerated wink, turning each tattooed limb to tan the underside. “Now, when you go ashore to seduce those clam boys, you watch yourself among those trees. You’ve got a flame inside you. Don’t set them alight.”

  North laughed and tipped her head back to the sky. She would be going nowhere near the trees, but she didn’t need to tell Dosh that; the clowns wouldn’t venture any closer to the shore than they had to for tonight’s performance.

  North ducked back into her
coracle, ready to wake her bear and Melia so that they could get ready. The islands might not be North’s favorite places, but they needed to perform tonight. They needed to eat, of course—but more than that, they needed the distraction. The ghost of Whitby lurked in the corners of every coracle. If glinting lights and Red Gold’s roar and the scratch of the gramophone weren’t enough to distract Melia, then North was lost.

  —

  Behindcurtains, North and her bear waited. Most of the circus stayed in their coracles before a performance, but tonight North wanted to watch the show. It was good to see the grace and glory of her fellow performers. Sometimes she needed to be reminded of the point of all this. The glamours had re-dyed the blond braids among her dark hair and draped her body in brown fabric. She’d do the simplest version of their act: a dance, a kiss, a bow to the crowd. Then back to the mess boat to feast and comfort Melia and try to avoid Avalon’s spiked, knowing gaze.

  Red Gold played it safe, beginning with a subdued version of the maypole. In the olden days they’d called maypole dancing a sin. It was pagan superstition, worshipping false gods. But things change. Now even the most devout revivalists didn’t dare reject the gods of the land, for fear the crops would fail. North admired the way that Red Gold managed to braid the revivalist beliefs together with the old traditions—not forgetting a healthy dose of sensuality from the androgynous, ribbon-bound bodies. She couldn’t help wondering what Callanish would make of the maypole if she were here.

  BEHOLD THE BEAUTY OF THE DANCERS’ RIBBONS, boomed the ringmaster’s voice around the big top, AS RED AS A TULIP, AS GREEN AS THE GRASS—at this he swept his arms wide as if glorying in the joys of spring—AND WITH THIS DANCE WE GIVE THANKS TO THE GODS OF THE LAND FOR BRINGING NEW LIFE TO THE WORLD, and out slid Avalon, demure and maternal as the revival boats’ Virgin in her pale blue dress, AS I TOO THANK THE GODS FOR THE NEW LIFE, and Red Gold beamed from ear to ear, pointing his smile from one side of the big top to the other, OF MY BELOVED SON, and the audience broke into applause as Avalon curtsied, her padded belly swollen as a poppy about to burst.

  Such nonsense, thought North. Red Gold was far too clever for the landlockers, and they didn’t even realize. Damplings did not worship the gods of the land, and if Red Gold were thanking anyone for that child, it would be the real gods, the ones of the sea. But then again—Red Gold was born a landlocker, and he had slapped her when she had gone to snap a twig from the tree. Maybe this was not just an act for him.

  The clowns cartwheeled offstage, and North pulled her bear into the embrace of the curtains to keep out of their way. Her bear had been so good about having Melia in their coracle, and despite the fluster of tonight’s show he stayed quiet and calm. As a reward, after tonight’s performance she would find something to trade for the fish-belly and purple seaweed that he liked.

  Ribbons off, costumes on, a trio of grins at North and her bear, and the clowns raced breathless back onstage. As the ringmaster’s voice echoed across the island and North peeked out from behind the curtain, Cash, Dosh and Dough began the act for which they were named.

  Dressed as old-fashioned bankers, in suits and garishly patterned ties, they plodded around the stage, dragging their briefcases along the ground as if they were full of rocks. Just as the crowd was getting riled up, throwing decades of pent-up rage at the clowns, they opened their suitcases. Inside sat stacks and stacks of paper money—it was genuine too, scavenged and traded and stitched back together when it tore. And it certainly did tear when the clowns began to throw it into the crowd. The clowns’ white-painted faces and blackened eyes blurred to skulls as they threw the money faster and faster.

  Whatever the truth, over time the landlockers had learned to blame the banks, the relentless drive for more money, for the rising seas and the loss of their land. Once upon a time they’d had a whole planet of fields and plains and deserts and forests. Now they had to make do with the patched-up corners of gutted cities, to cluster their homes around half-dead copses, to scrape what they could from their tiny footholds in a swallowing sea. They needed a scapegoat, and the clowns provided it. North should have known that this island would like this act the best. Revivalists were always angry.

  As the clowns’ act continued and the clams in the crowd grew more aggressive, she shrank back into her bear’s furred embrace.

  Out the clowns tossed the money! Loudly they crowed about their wealth! Sneakily they rubbed together their greedy hands and discussed their nasty plots!

  The clams were on their feet, stamping and braying, crumpling the notes and throwing them back onstage along with the curses. North tried to glance over at Red Gold, but her view between the curtains was narrow and she could not see him.

  It seemed to North that the clams were shouting louder than ever, and her back vibrated with the beginnings of a growl from her bear. She turned in his grasp to tap his nose—but, if she was honest, she felt like growling too. Even though she couldn’t see him, she knew that Red Gold would be watching carefully. They’d all suffered violent crowds and chilly nights on the prison boat, but the ringmaster knew better than to risk that now. Although he had not spoken to North about it, she knew that he had noticed Melia’s emotional state. There was a time for risk—and there was a time for safe acts and full bellies. North would never make a ringmaster, but she knew that much.

  She took her bear by the paw and led him deeper into the shadows, ready for their cue.

  —

  That night on the mess boat, Bero served the crew endless cups of fire. North found it easy to refuse without anyone questioning her. They seemed grateful that she was looking after Melia; although they all loved her, caring for the bereaved is a burden that few people want to carry.

  So North delivered the meager portions of sweetened peas and seeded bread to her coracle, ready to ensure that her bear and Melia both cleared their plates. She dropped into the coracle to find Melia perched bird-like on the edge of her bunk, smacking chalk between her palms. Her bear was hunched on his bunk, eyeing Melia as if he was not sure whether she was a threat. The coracle vibrated with the growls sounding low in his throat. The lamplight gleamed on his teeth as his lips peeled back.

  “Look, North!” crowed Melia, smacking her palms and letting the dust fill the coracle. “Ghosts!”

  Chalk snowed down on the bunks, the boards, her bear. He blinked it out of his eyes but let the rest cake his fur. North would bring him all the fish-belly he could eat as a reward for not biting Melia’s hands off.

  It did not take long to calm Melia; just an acknowledgment that yes, there were ghosts, and no, they did not disappear because they could not be seen. The peas and bread were dusted with chalk, but they ate them anyway. A little chalk on the tongue was worth it for something for their bellies to grip.

  As North washed and groomed the chalk from her bear she kept an eye on Melia, who was eating her dinner in silent slow motion. If she needed to wash and groom Melia too then she would, but she would rather not have to. Once crossed, certain boundaries could not be forgotten, and she hoped one day to look up to Melia once more.

  Finally her charges slept, and North stepped across the coracles to the mess boat. Red Gold and Avalon held court at the head of the table with Ainsel looking on sulkily, the clowns seemed to take up more space than their lanky bodies suggested, the glamours whispered and crowed among themselves—and so North sat at the far end of the table, hoping that Bero would not be too busy with his bartending duties to talk to her. Most of the seal-fat lamps hung at the top end of the table, and she felt soothed by the shadows.

  She’d just slid on to the bench when Bero, ever the eagle-eyed, thumped down beside her.

  “Evening, bartender,” North said solemnly. She picked up the end of Bero’s long braid and held it above her top lip like a mustache. “I am honored to frequent this gentleman’s establishment.”

  “Evening, young sir,” Bero replied. “And may I say what fine facial decoration you have there. Why, it m
ust soak up your alcohol like nobody’s business. How does it ever reach your mouth?”

  “I’ll thank you not to think of my mouth, you impudent seahorse. Now apologize and kiss my salt-hardened feet.”

  “I shan’t, you old dogfish. And now we’ve got that out of the way, tell me—”

  At this, Bero leaned in to North, so close that his beard tickled her cheek. He wiped a smear of chalk from her shoulder where she had missed it during her wash.

  “Tell me,” he said, “how are you?”

  North let go of Bero’s hair and reached for her tin cup, unscrewing it and then screwing it back to the table. “I’m—it’s—Melia won’t talk about Whitby. She eats and sleeps, and she’ll nod if I ask her a question, but she’s like a doll. If I threw her into the sea I bet she wouldn’t even swim. And when she does speak—Bero, it’s nonsense. She says she hears bells. Under the water.”

  “Like that old superstition?”

  “Right. I can’t even remember what it is, really. That the bells are a curse? That they herald storms? But we’d know if another storm was due. Red Gold would know, at least. And sometimes I…” She tailed off, her indecision lost in the chatter of the mess boat.

  “Go on.”

  “I worry about my bear, you know? Who will look after him?”

  “Don’t lose today in worries about tomorrow. No one knows what’s coming with the dawn.”

  “But I do know what’s coming, Bero. Red Gold is going to make Ainsel and me live in a house on land. He’s going to make me be a landlocker.”