Feathertide Read online

  I had begun to navigate my way through the city with surprising ease and enjoyment, so different from the world I had left behind. From my window in the whorehouse, I could only ever have imagined a moment as thrilling as this. Slowly, my shoulders dropped and my eyes lifted as the map of the city slowly grew in my mind. Where I grew up, distance was measured by the number of fields between one place and another, but here it was measured by the number of bridges. Sometimes I explored a different way, one I had never been before, knowing that it would eventually lead me back to the Street of Lost and Found. From the corner bakery, it was left to the apothecary or right to the marketplace where the barges were stacked with deliveries and sent on their way. Across from the market stalls, where the canal ran at its widest, lay the Night Shops of Vesper Square. Beyond that was the clock tower. I wondered if it was the same place that Professor Elms had fallen in love all those years ago; I smiled at the thought of it.

  It wasn’t long before I realised that if I pulled tightly on the rope at certain points, then I could steer the dogs in the direction of my choosing. Out of the hectic alleyways, we trundled along the Street of Shining Puddles, where the peddler of sugared almonds wheeled his creaking cart. Visitors arrived early on the little water buses that chugged in from nearby islands. Their luggage was piled high on the damp flagstones, while they loitered with dainty white parasols held aloft to keep out the drizzle or the sun. The city had a fast-changing temperament. Forgetting a parasol was never a problem; they could often be found strung out above the streets like washing on a line, and visitors were encouraged to help themselves. At the end of the Street of Brewing Teapots there stood a large public park, known for its abundance of bluebells. A parade of flower sellers spent all day trying to tempt the visitors with their posy bundles and fragrant scoops; the scent drifted through the air and into the neighbouring streets. The park offered many secluded spots for secret lovers, but the dogs were just grateful to find the shade of an old leafy tree, and, with their noses nestled in their paws, they quickly fell asleep. I too must have dozed off, and when I awoke the dogs were gone.

  A flood of fear drowned me, and my heart rattled the cage of my ribs. The dogs were nowhere to be seen, no trace – nothing. They had simply vanished. By now they could have been anywhere and I had no idea how long they had been missing. I crunched up and down the gravely path, glancing in all directions, rummaging in the privets as though by some miracle I would find them there and pull them out like rabbits from a magician’s hat.

  My distress must have been clearly visible, because as I let the privets spring back into place, a little old lady - dressed in black - reached out her arm to touch my hand. She began muttering some words of consolation, which I didn’t understand. I realised I was shaking and sank onto a bench, trying to figure out what to do. Sybel would be furious and grief-stricken if I didn’t return with every last one of them unharmed. How foolish I had been to fall asleep. I tried to think rationally. The dogs were curious creatures by nature and greedy and had probably grown bored of the park and its limitations. Half a dozen boisterous dogs galloping round the streets couldn’t be too hard to find. With renewed hope, I walked the length of the canal, glancing fearfully every time I saw the unguarded steps leading down into the murky water; I worried they may have slipped in and drowned, but quickly shook such alarming thoughts from my mind. I cursed myself; it seemed I was losing things far more quickly than I was finding them in this city.

  Just around the corner, I came upon the Bridge of Solace where I stopped. In the middle stood a gypsy woman clutching the handles of a wheelbarrow. Closer inspection revealed her hair was matted with mud and twigs and thistles. She chewed on her cheek noisily and hummed a tune I didn’t recognise; it sounded like a nursery rhyme. She had no eyebrows; in their place was an arch of multi-coloured jewels. I was momentarily mesmerised. If the lonely woman from Lemàn’s stories had been true then this is what I imagined her to look like all grown-up.

  ‘What’s your pleasure?’ she wheezed, tilting the wheelbarrow up so I could inspect the clutter within: pots of herbs and trays of half-withered flowers, paper bags with muddy potatoes and tomatoes, lettuces, cucumbers and artichokes, all past their best. Jars of beetroot balls and shaved garlic and twisted grubby fingers of ginger as well as crusty baguettes tied with filthy string. Nothing appealed, but until she moved out of my way, I couldn’t pass. I looked again, my eyes searching for something useful.

  ‘Thyme,’ I replied, reluctantly tossing a coin in her wheelbarrow. It missed and we watched as it sank below the water. For a moment her eyes narrowed in suspicion and she stopped her relentless chewing. I tossed another one, and this time it landed at her festering feet. She collapsed quickly like a deckchair to scoop it into her palm, and, after several minutes of rummaging, she pulled out a bundle of thyme and thrust it into my hand.

  ‘Have you seen six dogs?’ I asked, not sure her glassy eyes saw much of what was in this world.

  She mumbled and pointed over her shoulder. Then with a cough-inducing chuckle, which created sudden spasms in her chest, she picked up her wheelbarrow and hobbled away.

  I dashed in the direction of her pointing, down the Street of The Tired Hermits, until I came to a wide avenue lined with trees, but there was no sign of the dogs.

  I stopped to ask the almond peddler if he had seen them, and he pointed down the long path ahead, towards some kind of great monument in the distance.

  I didn’t wait for him to say anything else. I leaped up and sped down the path. As I approached, I could see the statue of a man with a bronze lion sitting at his heels. Beneath them, there was a circular pond filled with fish and turtles and for a moment I didn’t notice the missing dogs or rather I didn’t realise the splayed dark shapes at the foot of the monument actually belonged to them. I thought they were part of the lasting tribute to some great historical figure. It was only when one of the dogs kicked its legs in the dust, that I realised I had at last found them. Such was my overwhelming sense of relief, that I closed my eyes and sank to my knees. Any passer-by must have thought I was worshipping this historic hero with such pride and admiration. A great tribute to the past, but in truth I had no idea who he was.

  The dogs, catching my scent, scrambled to their feet and trotted unashamedly towards me, as though I had been the one to get lost, not them. It was late and I didn’t have the energy left to scold them, so I quickly picked up the harness and knotted them in.

  Leading us through the city, the darkness draped itself over the domes, skewered on the spires, blackening the bridges, tumbling across the tiled roofs and glooming the gates. Lanterns slowly burned on street corners, allowing me to navigate my way, deciphering the dusk. The Bridge of Longing, its name carved into the stone, appeared up ahead, its lights twinkling in welcome. As I approached, a strangely marvellous sight greeted me: along both sides of the bridge, dozens of little jars hung haphazardly from hooks. All of them were completely empty, their purpose a mystery. We continued a little further until the dogs came to a curious standstill and I could hear the sound of biting and crunching. Peering down, I could see the ground was scattered with chestnuts, probably fallen from the cart of a passing street vendor. The dogs were delighted, snuffling at this unexpected treat, and were in no mood to be hurried home, despite me tugging on their lead.

  This part of the city was old and quiet, like a hidden manuscript with a story still to tell. Wearily, I leaned back against the railing and decided to give the dogs another five minutes to crunch their way through the chestnuts. It was then that a plaque on the wall opposite caught my eye. I was alert to the name written upon it, which seemed strangely familiar. I reached inside my pocket, fumbling for the address the Keeper of the Hours had given to me and stared in disbelief – the name on the paper matched the name on the plaque; the Street of the Pomegranate Dealer.

  As I glanced upwards at the crumbling walls, scorched brown from the sun, I realised I was in a residential neighbourhood;
standing in front of what must once have been the Uccello Hotel. Dragging the reluctant dogs behind me, we crossed the bridge and passed along a narrow street perfumed with the oleander trees that grew nearby. A sweet, distinct lament floated down from one of the rooms, growing louder with each footfall. Pausing, I tried to find where something so beautiful was coming from, and my eyes fell upon a half-open window; golden light slipped out like a secret lover.

  A young couple hand in hand stopped, as I had done, enraptured by the sound. Nobody spoke; we just stood there, unable to move, simply listening to the voice that drifted around us, and my feathers danced. In the half light and shadows, I could see a silhouette moving against the wall of the room behind the window. Teasingly, it arched across the ceiling and flickered away again.

  Moments passed, how many it was difficult to say, but I suddenly realised I was alone again. The young lovers had wandered away and the street stood empty. I looked again at what the Keeper of the Hours had written, and then back at the street plaque. There was no mistake; this was it, the street where Lemàn had met my father all those years ago. My heart quickened. I set off along the canal, without removing my gaze from the window and the singing that came from behind it. I was almost directly below now, with only a stretch of silent water and a twenty-foot scale between me and whoever was inside. Quite abruptly, the singing stopped and there was a rattle at the window, then a face appeared and two arms stretched out to reach for the shutters. A girl, maybe a little older than me, looked down and noticed me immediately. For a brief moment, she held my startled gaze. Her hair floated around her, spilling over the ledge like sunflowers. Like an inquisitive cat, her face was small and triangular, framed by the golden light of the room beyond. My feathers tingled with excitement, touched by something inexplicable. I had never experienced anything like it before. It wasn’t the same sensation I had felt standing at the top of the tree or being on the boat in the storm; this was something quite different. This time it wasn’t a warning; it was a wanting.

  She hesitated, then smiled, before pulling the shutters towards her and latching them shut. I stood quite still, half expecting her to open them again and call down to me, but what would she say? And what would I say in return? Nothing happened, and the moment had gone. There was nothing left to do, but move on.

  The next corner revealed the Church of One Hundred Souls, as I knew it would from Lemàn’s revealed memories. It was a small, square box wrapped like a gift. Its walls slumped with the weight of regret and confession. Always open, no matter the hour, I felt compelled to enter.

  After the afternoon’s madness, I didn’t trust the dogs to be left outside, so I led them up the steps and through the open door. Everyone was welcome here, I’d been told. Inside, the cool air hung heavy with incense. I blinked it all in, letting my eyes adjust slowly to the shadows. The church was empty and still dark apart from the tapered candles flickering in trays of sand to my left and to my right. Reaching into my pocket, I dropped one of my last coins into the collection box, and selected a candle from the box. Lighting it, with the prayers of others, I pushed it into the sand towards the back and closed my eyes. I had never really prayed before and was unsure of the rules, or if indeed there were any. I wondered if I needed to address my prayer like a letter. I wasn’t sure if this was the same, so I whispered my thoughts into the solitude and they fluttered away like moths attracted to the bright flame of hope. I tiptoed across the uneven mosaic floor with the trail of dogs behind me, their claws skittered against the floor, the sound echoing high into the vaulted ceiling. Ornate pillars supported the lower walls and the altar was roped off, a sacred place not to be disturbed by the unblessed. I didn’t venture any nearer.

  About halfway up, I selected a pew and we settled ourselves along the left-hand side. In front of me there was a large wooden cross which rose into the gloom and above that, a tiny window allowed in a pinprick of a twilight sky. I knew it was an opening to release the souls, I had seen one before, drawn in a book. Kneeling, I prayed for the ones I loved. I prayed for Lemàn to sleep without waking to a pillow damp with tears and for Professor Elms to find love rather than to lose it. I prayed for Sybel’s happiness and I prayed for the father I had not yet met. Thinking it prudent to count my blessings, I added thanks for my safe arrival in the city and for things I was still to discover. This was everything that mattered to me, and for now it was enough.

  CHAPTER 17

  There you are,’ cried Sybel, when we finally trundled through the gate, much later than expected. Clearly, she had been waiting in the courtyard, fretting over our late return. Even knowing where someone is doesn’t stop you worrying.

  The dogs were so tired they barely made it to their straw pen before collapsing into a snoring huddle, their splayed legs twitching in immediate sleep.

  ‘I lost … track of time,’ I said, wiping the hair out of my eyes and handing her the bundle of thyme from the gypsy on the bridge.

  ‘Ah, I see you met the gypsy woman,’ she said, brushing the filth from the roots. ‘I think she has brought you good fortune. Now wash your face and come to the kitchen; I have some exciting news.’

  At the tap outside, I splashed my face with cold water and held a cloth to the back of my neck. I felt dizzy, with a kind of seasickness, which swept over me, and I had to steady myself against the cold wall for a moment, letting it pass. There had been too much chaos for one day.

  ‘Are you unwell?’ asked Sybel, as I entered the kitchen.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I replied truthfully.

  She held her palm flat against my forehead and then replaced it with her lips.

  ‘Hmm,’ she pondered. ‘No fever. Probably just too much walking; it was unexpectedly warm today and despite your bandages you will insist on wearing that coat.’

  ‘It hides me well,’ I mumbled, but she didn’t hear or if she did, she didn’t question me further. I tried to focus, but exhaustion weighted me and even sipping tea was an effort I could barely manage.

  ‘Is it too strong?’ she asked, mistaking my weariness for distaste.

  Before I had chance to protest, she was already lifting a jar of dried flowers off the shelf. Unscrewing the lid, she grabbed a fistful of crumbling leaves. ‘This should revive you,’ she said, crushing them into another pot of water and turning up the heat until a smoky peppermint smell chattered noisily into the kitchen.

  ‘I was thinking about your father today.’

  This surprised me.

  ‘I know the hotel isn’t there any more, but I sense you won’t find your answers there anyway.’

  ‘No,’ I mumbled.

  ‘I have another way.’ Sybel poured the tea into a mug and handed it to me. ‘Wait here,’ she said, disappearing into the corridor.

  The tea was light and refreshing and despite the steam rising off it, I drank it in quick, welcome gulps. She returned with a dusty yellow newspaper and began flicking through the pages, which were so old they almost crumbled in her fingers.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ I asked, bewildered.

  ‘Here it is!’ she exclaimed, swivelling the paper round so I could read it.

  At first, I didn’t see anything of significance, but when my eyes came to rest in the bottom corner of the page, they widened in surprise. It was a blurred image of a man with his arm wrapped around the shoulders of another man in mutual respect. Although it was difficult to make out, I could see one of the men had the features of a bird: feathery hair, a long, sharp nose and round, hooded eyes. His limbs were long and thin and his feet shoeless and splayed out like those of a great sea bird. I gasped. There was no mistake, he looked like me and even though the newspaper was black and white and yellow with age, I could tell his eyes were the same beautiful blue that Lemàn spoke of. Underneath the image, a caption read: ‘Secretive bird tribe uncovered by Professor Bottelli, leading ornithologist at the University of The City of Water.’

  Tearing my eyes from the page, I looked up at Sybel. Her eyes
glittered with excitement.

  ‘Is that really him?’ I whispered in disbelief, trying to smooth out the creases in the paper to make the image clearer. I squinted again at the page searching for a date, but it had worn away to nothing more than a dark smudge.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered back, ‘I’m certain of it. Your feathers triggered a memory and then when you mentioned Sky-Worshippers and a place of mist it reminded me of something I’d read a long time ago about a bird tribe on a floating island.’

  My mind loosened as though someone had finally untangled a thousand knots, and let the threads run free. It was like the jagged edges of a puzzle had suddenly been made smooth and were beginning to slot together after all this time. The mist was dissolving, and the way ahead was a little clearer.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ I said, not lifting my eyes from the paper. ‘And to have kept it all this time.’

  ‘I never throw things away. If something had meaning for you once, then maybe it will again. I grew up with nothing, so now I keep everything. They are piled high in a tin cupboard on the roof, I’ve spent most of today rummaging through them; I almost gave up, there are so many. Besides, in each of these newspapers at the back, amongst the obituaries, there are messages from people offering their gratitude for my help and there are many I have helped. You must never underestimate the power of gratitude. On darker days, I read them one by one to remind myself of my worth. It’s more potent than any tincture. It chases away the shadows.’

  She answered my next question, before it had even left my lips.

  ‘Tomorrow we will take the boat out to the university and see what else Professor Bottelli can tell us about your father.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ My eyes widened.

  ‘Yes, tomorrow. No point waiting any longer; I think you’ve waited long enough, don’t you?’