The Gracekeepers Page 8

  “Behold, the brave and wondrous performers of the Circus Excalibur, marvels of acrobatics and the taming of the most dangerous beasts.”

  Behind Jarrow, the circus crew began to assemble on the dock. First came an elegant man around Callanish’s age, with feathers in his long hair and colored streaks across his cheeks. Although he bowed to her, he seemed distracted.

  “My son, Ainsel, lord of the horses. Even the most jaded of audiences are struck dumb by the poise and bravery of his horseback skills.”

  Next came three uniformly beautiful men, with hair dyed various shades of pink—though how they had made such vivid colors, Callanish couldn’t imagine. It was years since she’d seen anything so bright.

  “And here are Teal, Cyan and Mauve, our glamours. They can seduce a crowd of hundreds with their dances around the maypole.”

  The three beauties were languid, unimpressed, knowing. They would be terrible gracekeepers.

  “They also show their skill as artists of our attire and decoration, which I’m sure you will agree is like nothing you’ve ever seen. And—ah, steady now, watch your step on to the dock—I present our clowns, Cash, Dosh and Dough, who promise to shock and offend you. Not that you, ah…” The captain coughed, seeming to remember the purpose of a gracekeeper. “Not that you might wish to be offended. In which case they shall not. Keep moving, crew!”

  Jostling up against the pink-haired men came three gangling, shifting women. They had their sleeves rolled up, displaying tattooed designs on their forearms: one gray-shaded bones, as if her insides were outside; one a constellation of pale stars on a blue background; one a mass of color that looked like layers of birds’ wings in flight. The starred one caught Callanish staring, and bared her teeth. A moment later she seemed to think better of it, and glanced away awkwardly. Something in that movement struck Callanish as strange, and then she realized that the tattooed women were the tallest she’d ever seen—and then, with a shock, she realized that they weren’t women at all. She looked more closely at the pink-haired men, and felt suddenly foolish for not seeing that they were women. Or was it the other way around? She dared another glance, but still couldn’t be sure.

  As the crew shuffled along to make room for the others, she heard the faint tink of bells from their clothing. She wanted to tell them that they didn’t need to wear them here—that her visitors were almost all damplings, and she didn’t care anyway—but she did not want to embarrass them.

  Next came a short, broad man with long-healed burns covering his right arm, a thick beard, and a braid of dark hair down his back. He nodded to her as he stepped on to the dock. Callanish couldn’t understand why he was holding his left hand behind his back—but then she looked closer and realized that his left arm was missing, the empty sleeve pinned neatly to his shoulder.

  “Bero, king of fire. It bested him once, as you can see, but now he is its master. Though his fire-show may make you gasp, I assure you he is in complete control. Now!” Jarrow clapped his hands and turned to see who was next on to the dock, but faltered in his speech. “This is Melia, our acrobat.”

  The woman—if she was a woman; Callanish could not be sure—waiting to climb off the boat had curly blue hair and huge muscles layered along her upper arms and shoulders, tapering to slender hips and legs, then impossibly small feet. Callanish wondered how she managed not to tip over. A younger woman with long dark hair, scattered with braids as bright as gold, came up behind the acrobat.

  “And finally, our very own north child, performer of death-defying…”

  The acrobat went to step off the boat, and stumbled. Her tiny feet didn’t seem to be the problem, though; her entire body shook, and Callanish was sure she could hear her teeth knocking together. The dark-haired woman—Callanish thought that the man had said her name was North, but it was hard to keep so many new names in her head—had to help the acrobat on to the dock. Although North was not beautiful, there was a set to her jaw and a purpose to her movements that Callanish found striking. She wondered what this woman did in the circus; she did not seem fragile enough to fly through the air, nor sturdy enough to lift heavy things. She did not soothe the eye like the pink-haired women, or confront the gaze like the tattooed men. Perhaps she could have made a gracekeeper.

  The acrobat’s stumble seemed to have thrown Jarrow off his stride, but he tried to continue. “All thirteen of these fine performers will…” He cleared his throat and continued in a quieter voice. “All twelve of…”

  He trailed off. For a moment Callanish was confused, and then she remembered who she was, why people visited her. Her gaze strayed to the deck of the boat, searching for the familiar shape. There: a bundle wrapped in striped silks.

  Jarrow turned his back to the crew and addressed Callanish in an undertone. “Please forgive my boisterousness, Ms. Sand. It is merely a habit, born from years of addressing restless crowds. I meant no disrespect.”

  “Mr. Stirling. Please do not worry. I understand. But I must tell you, I fear I cannot help with what you need.”

  “We require only one thing of you, and then we will be on our way. We can pay.”

  Callanish glanced along the line of people. The Excalibur’s crew filled the entire dock, spilling over on to the porch so that she had to stand right in the doorway of her house. After the solitude of the storm, it felt strange to be in the presence of so many people. But it did not matter how many of them there were, or how much they mourned. She had no graces, and so there could be no Resting. She was about to turn to them, to explain, to apologize, when from the line of boats came a low rumble. Her mind cycled through memories of the sound: wind in the chimney, rough sea battering the underside of a dock.

  “North,” said the pregnant woman, and she made the word sound like a curse. “See to your beast.”

  The rest of the circus crew turned away, embarrassed, and looked to Jarrow as if for instruction. Avalon did not check that North did as she was told, but tucked her arm into Jarrow’s, smiling up at him. It seemed that she was used to being obeyed. Only Callanish, half scared and half curious, watched North’s progress. She wanted another look at the bear.

  North stepped across the coracles to the one that was growling. As she lifted the canvas she stumbled, and instead of putting out her arm to stop her knee hitting the edge, both her hands flew to protect her belly. She glanced up, guilty, and saw that Callanish was watching. The moment stretched as they stared at each other, both determined not to react. Then North lifted the canvas and disappeared into the coracle.

  She might not be as visibly pregnant as the dark-haired woman, but Callanish knew what she’d seen, and she’d had enough. The mass of people was fine, the strangeness of their costume was fine, even the lack of grace was fine. But not this. She would do whatever was needed to get these pregnant women off her porch, and hope that they never came back.

  “I am sorry,” said Callanish. “I regret that I do not have the necessary equipment, and without a grace to mark the mourning I cannot—”

  “Is that all?” said Jarrow. “In that case, you must not worry on our account. We shall simply mark our own mourning.”

  “I am sorry,” said Callanish again. “The grace is a traditional part of the Resting. It would be wrong to perform the service without it.”

  The woman with the muscled arms lifted her head and looked at Callanish. “Please,” she said.

  She spoke quietly, but her voice had the power of a shout. It wasn’t clear whether she was addressing Callanish or Jarrow. The word was enough to make up Callanish’s mind. If this were the quickest way to get the pregnant women to leave, then she would do it. Besides, if she didn’t, then they would have to drop the body into the sea themselves. The end result would be the same, but without the dignity of the Resting. There was no grace, but who would know? Who would care? She was not sure whether the growing list of her crimes made each one larger, or smaller still.

  “Bring me the body,” she said, “and I will prepare for t
he Resting.”

  The acrobat climbed back into the boat and began lifting out the bundle wrapped in silk. The man with the burned arm stepped forward to help her, but she turned her back and would not let him board. As she lifted the body and turned, the bundle fitted her exact shape.

  Callanish did not mean to watch the woman struggle, but she could not take her eyes away. The woman stumbled on to the dock, landing with a thud on her knees. She managed to stand without letting the bundle touch the dock. Her arm muscles tensed as she lifted. She shook, but she did not drop the body. She made her slow, stumbling, graceful way to the house.

  Jarrow broke the tension by placing an arm around Callanish’s shoulders and leading her into the house, away from the rest of the crew.

  “This is—ah—delicate,” he said. Callanish waited. “We need the fabric back. It’s our mainsail and our big top. Without it, we can’t move on and we can’t perform. Can he be put in the—that is, can you sink him, or…” He seemed to struggle to find the right words.

  “I understand,” she said. “I will provide fabric for the Resting and return your silks. What is the man’s name?”

  The acrobat appeared in the doorway. “Whitby,” she said. She raised her arms, presenting the body to Callanish, and tipped her head to the ceiling as if she was about to roar. Instead, she spoke in a whisper as quiet as a ghost. “He’s the reason that the sea is calm. She wanted her sacrifice, and now she has it.” The acrobat blinked and swallowed hard. “His name was Whitby Gaunt. Please Rest him well.”

  “Of course.” Callanish gestured into the house, where the acrobat slid the body on to the table. Callanish went to the window and stood with her back to the room, to give her a moment to say farewell. Moments passed. Callanish knew without looking that the acrobat was still there; she could hear the ragged sounds of her breath. From outside the house came the shuffle of feet on the boards and the gentle thunk of the boats bumping together. Callanish wanted to say something—to comfort the acrobat, to assure her that the Resting would be noble, to explain to her that the grieving would soon be over. The practiced words would not come.

  “Do not feel ashamed that you are still alive,” Callanish said.

  When she turned to face the room, she saw that the acrobat had walked out of the house. She had spoken only to herself.

  Callanish closed the door, pulled off her white silk gloves, and began to prepare the needles and ointments for the body. Whitby, she repeated in her head. This time, she did not want to feel nothing as she tipped the body under the water. She would think of her mother, and the crew would think of Whitby, and the words of the Resting would not be meaningless. For that moment, they would all be connected.

  8

  NORTH

  Most of the people North loved were dead, but this would be the first time she attended a Resting. When she’d lost her parents, she had been too young to mourn, or even to truly understand what had happened. That loss brought new responsibilities, as losses tend to, and a small bear was enough to keep a small child very busy. She could not miss her mother and father, as we cannot miss what we do not remember having. Instead she could only miss the idea of a family—though she found that the Excalibur was not a bad substitute, considering the options.

  Although North did not know what to expect for Whitby’s Resting, she did not have time to wonder. Her only concern was to make sure that neither her bear nor Melia cracked under the weight. In the days and nights since the storm, Melia had been traveling in the Island of Maidens with the glamours, as her own coracle was at the bottom of the sea.

  “I can’t stand it any more,” she whispered, red-eyed, to North as they queued for their dinner in the mess boat. “They barely sleep, always chattering about something or mixing up endless pots of colors. I know they’re being quiet now, but I promise, as soon as they get back to their coracle they’ll have to spatter out all the words they’re saving up.”

  “They can’t be that bad, Melia. They fixed up that scrape on your arm, didn’t they?” North used the mention of the wound as an excuse to pull Melia’s hand away from it. She hadn’t stopped picking at the graze, and so it would not scab over, and so it would not heal. North had asked Cyan to tape a dressing on, but Melia had peeled it off again.

  “I don’t care about that. You don’t understand, North, it’s—Everything in that boat is so bright that it hurts my eyes. I can’t rest. I can’t grieve. There’s no peace anywhere.”

  Melia could not know that there was a spare bunk in North’s coracle. The only reason it was spare was that North shared with her bear, and she had not told the rest of the crew for fear that they would find it strange. But there were more important things than appearing strange.

  “Stay with me,” whispered back North. “Me and the bear. We’ll make room for you.”

  Instead of replying, Melia tucked her hand into North’s and gave it a squeeze. North was still finding her way with grief, but helping Melia lessened the ache.

  The dinner rations were small, and consisted only of dampling food; they hadn’t been able to perform without their big top, and with only one sail their progress had been slow. Then again, progress through the doldrums was always slow. The food was strange too: it looked like cockle and sea-kelp stew, but it had a salty-sour aftertaste that North could not identify.

  She chewed her stew, saving half for her bear. It would not last long, this time spent motionless. Soon they’d feel the wind in their hair, and eat eggs and bread, and come alive in the spotlight in front of hundreds of adoring eyes. Soon this would all be over, and things could go back to normal.

  —

  The next morning, the circus crew assembled on the dock, dressed in their plainest, palest clothes. North wasn’t sure if it was disrespectful to wear the white dress from her funeral waltz, but it was the lightest-colored fabric she owned, so it would have to do. The gracekeeper wouldn’t know it was part of her act, and the rest of the crew would understand. They were dressed in a mishmash of clothing: Mauve in creamy scraps of silk, Dosh in panels of faded blue canvas, Bero in a white shirt that strained over his chest. It was the best they could do, and North was sure that their ragtag appearance would have amused Whitby. The gracekeeper, at least, had a decent outfit on: white dress, white gloves, white slippers, all made of silk. She’d fit in beautifully at the circus in that get-up. North couldn’t help imagining her doing somersaults on the back of a horse, its jeweled reins held between her teeth.

  She took her place on the dock beside Melia, trying to control the shake in her legs. It felt wrong to be surrounded by sea yet be standing on something that did not move with the steady flow of the water. Even though it wasn’t really land, it still juddered her knees, messing up the sway and flow of her movements.

  There were too many people to fit in the gracekeeper’s tin boat. She seemed to have anticipated this; the lines of empty birdcages stretched for half a mile in every direction, but she had put Whitby into the sea as close to the dock as possible. Maybe that wasn’t for their benefit, thought North. Maybe she couldn’t be bothered to sail out to the faraway cages.

  Red Gold and Avalon took the rowing boat with the gracekeeper. Ainsel headed the line of crew on the dock, though he didn’t seem pleased about it.

  “Let us think now of Whitby Gaunt,” said the gracekeeper, “and of the ones who mourn him.”

  Her voice was the exact opposite of Red Gold’s crowd-pleasing gusto. She spoke calmly, quietly, but with enough power to silence an entire big top. As soon as she began the Resting she seemed to go into a trance; she tilted her head to the sky, almost glowing, like those paintings the revival boats unrolled over the sides when passing the “heathen” ships. The Virgin Mother. The Holy Queen. Gracekeepers were holy, in their way, but were they virgins? North couldn’t remember. She focused on the gracekeeper, trying to imagine her kisses on a stranger’s mouth, her pale limbs wrapping around a stranger’s body—and if she could imagine it, did that mean it was true
? She could imagine that Whitby was still alive, waiting behindcurtains for his cue, grinning to think of them all mourning for him as if he were gone. She could imagine it, so…

  North pressed her feet hard against the metal of the dock. She must concentrate. It was easier to think about the gracekeeper’s gloves, the gracekeeper’s voice, the way everyone went quiet when the gracekeeper spoke. If she thought about that, she would not have to think about Whitby. North shut her eyes, took Melia’s hand, and allowed herself to miss Whitby as if he was really gone.

  —

  North could not sleep. The inner deck of the coracle was even less comfortable than the bunk, and at least on the bunk she had the softness and warmth of her bear’s fur. But she still didn’t want Melia to see them sharing, so Melia and the bear had a bunk each, and North slept on the deck between them. Or at least, she tried to.

  It didn’t help that Red Gold and Ainsel were still pattering around on the Excalibur, hissing at each other and trying to do repairs by the light of the seal-fat lamps. They’d attempted to set sail that afternoon, but the Excalibur was too damaged in the storm. Red Gold had to turn back before they’d made it to the posts that marked the edge of the graceyard. The gracekeeper seemed even less pleased than Red Gold at their return to her house. She’d allowed them to dock, though, and said they could stay until the boat was fixed. She had not offered to help, she had not joined them for dinner on the mess boat, and she had not spoken to anyone else in the crew. North assumed that she thought she’d done her job and that she didn’t owe them anything else. Did she think they wanted to be there? That they enjoyed floating pointlessly above hundreds of corpses? North could not wait until they set sail again.