Feathertide Read online

  ‘Lemàn is a great storyteller,’ I added.

  ‘I’m sure she is. But you’re not imagined, are you?

  I smiled.

  ‘I have several appointments tomorrow, one with the rat-catcher. No one knows the intricacies of this city better than him. If the Uccello Hotel is here, he will know where to find it and if it’s not—’ she paused ‘—then I have no doubt that he will be able to tell us what has become of it. His ancestors have lived here since before the record books began. I will ask him for you, but are you prepared for change?’

  I nodded; prepared or not, I had to know.

  All morning I paced the house, waiting for the rat-catcher to arrive. Every time there was a knock at the door, I leapt from my chair and peered into the corridor trying to catch Sybel’s eye as she led each visitor into the kitchen, hissing through my teeth, ‘Is that him?’ Each time, she shook her head and waved me away with a warning glance, before shutting the door firmly behind them. All that remained was the warm waft of bread drifting down the corridor. Sybel’s business was just as private as the business in the whorehouse. Revealing the soul is as intimate as revealing the body – maybe even more so – and I continued to live in a world of closed doors. I thought about resting my ear against the wood and listening, but I didn’t care to know this man’s future – I only wanted knowledge of my own – and so I stayed in my room and waited. Time passed slowly. I could taste every metallic tick, and feel every echoing tock. It felt as though I was doing penance for a crime I hadn’t committed. I tried to console myself with the books on the shelf, but I kept reading the same line over and over again, and nothing was able to hold my attention for long.

  I was getting nowhere. Unable to settle to even the simplest task, I shuffled around the room, picking up objects, but not really looking at any of them before placing them back on the shelf. The Uccello Hotel was my starting point and I didn’t want it to be my end point too.

  Finally, I heard Sybel’s voice in the corridor saying her prolonged goodbyes and even before the latch fell, I was waiting for her in the kitchen.

  ‘He’s not coming, is he?’

  She lifted a bubbling pot from the stove and began to crush a bunch of herbs inside, stirring it with a twisted root, before replacing it and waiting for it to boil again.

  ‘He will be here at sundown,’ she said. ‘It won’t be long now; you just need to wait a little bit longer.’

  ‘Sundown!’ Why hadn’t she told me that before? I had wasted all day listening for the rap of knuckles upon the door. I heard the chime of the hour – it was already late – and I stood up.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To wait by the door.’ If it was nearly time, I wanted to be ready to greet him.

  ‘Why on earth would you want to wait there?’ she exclaimed. ‘He won’t be coming inside.’

  A while later, and still in the kitchen, I heard what could only be described as a faint rattle at the little window, and Sybel crossed the room in a single stride and pushed it open with a judder. Lowering herself to the ground, she shoved her face through, searching the darkening street for the rat-catcher, and I heard her voice call out, low and full of whispers, followed by the scuttle of footsteps advancing quickly towards her. She straightened with a groan and went to fetch the pot from the stove, poured the contents into a jar and sealed it with the lid before the heat could escape. Then she returned to the window. I could hear her voice, the words indistinct, and his raspy replies, which were all too quiet to understand. Finally, she handed him the jar and he snatched it with a slosh. Dropping a coin on the ledge I watched it spin, and before it had even landed, he was gone.

  ‘Why didn’t he come inside?’ I asked, fearful of the answer she would give.

  ‘A rat-catcher! Inside?’ She laughed mirthlessly and began scrubbing vigorously at her hands and her arms all the way to her elbows. ‘A man who catches rats is never far from disease. You should see his face – what’s left of it!’

  I shuddered – my imagination was another curse I carried. ‘Does he know where the hotel is?’ I asked, trying to push the pity from my voice.

  She shook her head.

  ‘But you said he knew every part of this city.’ I couldn’t say any more as my voice began to break with the weight of disappointment; a heap of snow on a trembling branch.

  Suddenly Sybel rose from the table and handed me a coat. ‘He may not know where the hotel is, but he gave me the name of a person who does.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked, already fumbling over the buttons.

  ‘To find him.’

  CHAPTER 15

  The sky was scarred with the encroaching night and the darkness would soon conquer the light, but for now we could still see enough of the way.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I repeated breathlessly, as we sped through the streets.

  ‘It’s not far,’ she replied.

  We continued deeper and deeper into the narrowing streets. Once again from across the water, I noticed a luminous huddle of shops. They were unmistakably the same ones I had seen the night I arrived. Their glow was so inviting when everything else was shuttered and somnolent. A ragged man with the happiest grin was sitting at the entrance of the street, playing his accordion for no one to hear but us.

  ‘What is that place over there?’ I asked.

  Sybel didn’t need to look; she knew what I meant, and answered without hesitation. ‘Those are the Night Shops of Vesper Square.’

  ‘Isn’t it a little late for the shops to be open?’ I asked, curiously.

  ‘Perhaps it would be anywhere else, but not there. The merchants of these shops are nocturnal. Their ancestors were cave dwellers, and they much prefer the light of a candle than the sky.’

  The Night Shops. I remembered what Professor Elms had told me about the tokens, and how on the reverse I would discover my fate in this city. My fascination nearly got me lost. Sybel was no longer next to me, but had gone on ahead and was already at the end of the street about to disappear around the next corner. I raced to catch her up, my feet slapping against the uneven flagstones. It wasn’t long before we were standing at the foot of the giant clock tower. Its face was midnight blue and each Roman chapter was marked by a different design: a spinning wheel, a pair of lovers, a woman seated between two pillars, another taming a lion and an angel blowing a trumpet, a cloaked man with a lantern held aloft to light his way, a woman sitting upon a throne holding a sword in one hand and balancing scales in the other, an acrobat hanging upside down from a tree, a tower struck by lightning, a sun, a moon and a twinkling star.

  Wheezing and panting, I tried to catch my breath. I may have been less than half her size and less than half her age, but I was no match for Sybel’s speed. She pounded the streets like a bear, with the speed of a whippet.

  ‘I told you I had the speed, but not the stamina, and these days my dogs need both.’ She patted me hard on my back and I fell to my knees. It seemed I had neither. Apologising, she helped me up, and I managed to finally straighten my body.

  ‘The rat-catcher is right: there is one person who will surely know about the Uccello Hotel,’ she said, tilting back her head back and squinting into the distance. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t think of him myself.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked, following her sky-fixed eyes.

  ‘The Keeper of the Hours … now follow me.’

  The building of the clock tower was damp and dark. In the corner, an old staircase spiralled upwards into further gloom and we rattled our way to the top.

  ‘Hello!’ called Sybel, her echo disturbing the silence.

  Suddenly a figure took shape like an apparition clad in darkness. Then a light flickered in front of me, and a man emerged holding a candle in one hand and a can with a long spout in the other. Sybel greeted him like an old friend and I realised he was the same man I had seen polishing the handle of the indigo-blue door.

  ‘Have you come to watch me restore the hours?’ he aske
d. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Restore the hours?’ I questioned, forgetting my shyness of strangers for a moment.

  His eyes fell upon me and I stepped back, blushing into the shadows.

  ‘The city clock loses time, so somebody has to fix it,’ explained Sybel.

  ‘Yes, twice a day, once in the morning and then again in the evening. Turning and twisting and oiling.’ He sighed wearily, holding up the can as proof of his endeavour. ‘I have numerous jobs in this city, but most importantly I restore the hands and move them on, for they always fall behind. People need to know when time is lost.’ I could see his dark, ancient eyes sag into the deep lines on his face and his beard wilted down to the button that held his robe together. He was like a Christmas log felled in the snow. There are more ways to measure time, I thought, but held my words in a net of timidity.

  ‘We are looking for something.’ said Sybel. ‘And because you know this city better than most, we have come to ask for your help in finding it.’

  The Keeper of the Hours shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as though standing still for too long made him uncomfortable. He didn’t like to keep still. ‘Ah, well, I can help you find lost time.’ He seemed to heave the words out of his chest, as though speaking was a great effort.

  ‘Why, where does the time go? I asked curiously.

  The Keeper of the Hours considered my question. ‘Time is neglected, forgotten, squandered, people fritter it away like careless gamblers. In a single moment everything can change and you can lose it all. People always want it back, but time is unredeemable.’

  I frowned.

  ‘We’re not here about time,’ said Sybel.

  ‘Well, I must go to ring the bell, so, whatever it is, we will have to discuss it on the way,’ he said, and with unexpected speed hurtled himself down the stairs. He strode across the square with his hand held around the candle and disappeared into another tower. I had seen it on my walks around the city, an unmistakable structure, tall enough to skewer the stars. Its bell was large and loud and shook the whole city when it rang, before it faded back into silence. A reminder of time lost.

  Inside was a small square room and stone steps twisted up and out of sight. I could hear the Keeper of the Hours and his footfalls, but I could no longer see him. Every twenty steps or so there were sconces fixed to the wall, and he lit the candles at each turn. I knew he was lighting them for us as, from the look of the well-worn steps, he knew his way. I soon grew cold and tired and my neck ached from trying to see to the top. I lost count at one hundred and twenty-three steps. Finally, I heard what sounded like a heavy bolt being slid open and the scrape of a door and to my relief we had arrived. The Keeper of the Hours rested his candle on a ledge. Although evening had settled in, patterns of light still chased each other across the sky like wilful children protesting about being sent to bed too early.

  It was a small square slab of a room, open to the sky on all sides. A roof steepled above and from it hung the largest bell I had ever seen. I had never been afraid of heights, and as I stared down at the city, I realised this was the highest I had ever been, higher than any of the trees I had climbed. Roofs rose up and then sloped back down again, impossible to know where one ended and another began. I was sure you could cross the city in half the time, just by jumping from one roof top to another. Shapes of buildings lurked like prehistoric beasts, glowing green and bronze in the fading light, and I was reminded of how much of the city I hadn’t yet discovered. I was so amazed by where I was and by what I could see, that if someone had given me a telescope and told me that if I put my eye to the lens then I could see all the way home, I would have believed them.

  ‘It’s so high up here,’ I marvelled, watching the Keeper of the Hours as he reached for the bell’s thick coarse rope, twisting it three times round his hand. ‘Is it so people can be closer to God?’

  ‘Don’t let all the churches here deceive you; this is not a God-fearing city,’ he replied solemnly. He told me that many years ago the mayor decided that he wanted the moon for his daughter and so he built this tower to reach it. Soon after, he died, and the tower was never finished. Then a group of thieves sailed in and, noticing the unfinished tower, decided they would use it to spy on the wealthy merchant ships docking for the night. They were caught and thrown to their deaths. The tower was only finished when a king decided he needed somewhere to lock away his daughter, too tempted was she by the wrong sort of love, if there was such a thing. Now it was for stargazers or people wishing to have a view of the city from above and the endless stretch of sea. It was a navigation point to find your bearings in a coiled city.

  I breathed in the cool night air. A few stars had already begun to appear as though they had been stitched into a dark-blue cloth. Night was almost upon us.

  ‘There are over two billion stars out there somewhere,’ said the Keeper of the Hours, noticing my amazement. ‘Some of them are no longer there; even though we can still see them; it’s the best magic act of all.’

  My thoughts flew back to Professor Elms, and to Lemàn and my father; none of them around, but still very much there, even if I couldn’t see them any more. I felt the now-familiar ache of longing in my chest, and tried to keep my sadness inside.

  ‘Between each star lies miles and miles of empty space and between us and them even more.’

  It was unfathomable, a beautiful skyscape, an after-dark performance, the star-studded event. It made perfect sense and I thought of Lemàn reaching them in her balloon and making them shine and sparkle.

  ‘Cover your ears,’ ordered the Keeper of the Hours. ‘It is time to let everyone know that lost time has been restored once more.’

  Then he tightened the rope around his hand, in a lasso of time, and the bell swung its heaviness until its chimes echoed around the room and spilled out into the sky. A flock of birds had been resting above us and the sound sent them spluttering into the distance. I reached out for them, but as I did, I felt a swoosh of air and Sybel pulled me back from the ledge.

  ‘You are too close,’ she warned, before returning swiftly to the safety of the steps.

  The Keeper of the Hours dropped the rope and retrieved the candle. I watched the birds soar and slide and disappear. Loss can be felt so suddenly and in so many different ways.

  ‘Do you know a place called the Uccello Hotel?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’ The simplicity of the word startled me.

  ‘Yes?’ I repeated, hardly daring to believe his answer.

  ‘Well, I knew of it.’

  ‘What does that mean? Did it change its name?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘It no longer exists; it was closed more than a decade ago. Where it once stood, there are now only houses.’

  I felt a sinking feeling of despair; no wonder I couldn’t find it.

  ‘Can you tell us where it was?’ asked Sybel.

  ‘Can I see it from up here?’ I asked, racing back over to the ledge, but in a dark city everything looked the same. The buildings were a slumbering herd of unfamiliar creatures.

  ‘Perhaps you could write the address down here, or draw a little map for us,’ said Sybel, pulling a piece of paper and a pen from her pocket and handing it to him. In his big looped handwriting, an address emerged.

  ‘Here.’ He handed me the piece of paper, which I folded and slipped into my pocket.

  ‘Perhaps someone living there now remembers something from before,’ Sybel said, before we were ushered back onto the steps. Spoken from a prophetess, her words offered some comfort at least. The Keeper of the Hours insisted we went first, and I heard a faint hiss every time he snuffed out the flicker of a candle behind us.

  ‘Why do you want to find the Uccello Hotel?’ he asked, as we eventually stepped back into the square.

  ‘My father stayed there,’ I replied simply, too tired to be swaddled in secrets any longer. ‘I thought that perhaps someone from the hotel might remember him, or know where he is.’
I had nowhere else to start.

  He paused. ‘And was your father from this city?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t really know where he was from. I don’t even know his name.’

  The Keeper of the Hours frowned. ‘So, what do you know about him?’

  ‘Only that he was a Sky-Worshipper, who came out of a silver mist,’ I said. I didn’t want to reveal too much, but I wondered if he knew more.

  Bending down his long frame, he looked at me, more in careful scrutiny than with a cold, hard stare, his candle held aloft illuminating my face. Wisdom glinted in his eyes. ‘I can see now that you too are more air than earth. His eyes seemed to see what was hidden beneath my coat and I clutched at my buttons. He shook his head. ‘Do you realise that the only person you are hiding from is yourself?’ Then he straightened up with a creak, like a branch burdened with sheltering birds, before he stretched away into the night.

  CHAPTER 16

  Little by little, parts of the city became more familiar to me, and so too did its inhabitants. The dogs were quick and restless creatures and at first it seemed they were the ones taking me for a walk. Ducking under the wisteria, we left our yard on the Street of Lost and Found past the house with the geraniums and the doorstep with the muddy boots, following the smell of bread until we reached the corner bakery. The proprietor was a smiling man with a bristling moustache. Since his bread had risen long before the sun, he spent most of his morning leaning in his doorway, arms folded, watching the world pass by. Sometimes, he preferred to sit on a stool. The first time he saw me, he laughed heartily at the pantomime display of the dogs speeding by with me tumbling behind them. I could still hear him laughing three streets later. After that he always raised his hand in cheery greeting, but I was still too nervous to engage in conversation, grateful not to have the time to stop.