Feathertide Page 14

  I didn’t complain as they brought with them much-needed supplies: baskets of fruit and bundles of bread sodden from the rain, which we had to toast back to life in front of the stove.

  ‘Someone must be really upset to unleash this tempest upon us,’ she said, scooping up the dogs and stroking them one by one, murmuring soothing lullabies into their ears. ‘But we have survived worse. Let’s just hope the sirens don’t sound, then we’ll have to climb to the roof and wait there for it to be over.’

  Sybel told me that years ago the water had drowned the city. It swept into the buildings like an uninvited guest and occupied every room. Instead of going to the main square for coffee, people would go there to swim. Cafés floated and people had to sit on tables rather than chairs to keep their feet dry. The central gallery was destroyed and paintings were carried away down the canals, along with masses of fruit and vegetables and old, soggy bread. The water was a thief, taking whatever it wanted, rifling through shops and ransacking houses. She had to wear fisherman boots up to her thighs, but it wasn’t long before the water filled them and she was wading through it up to her shoulders. People had no choice but to climb on their roofs, fearing the water would reach their beds and drown them while they slept. One hundred people died during the great flood and the Church of One Hundred Souls was named in honour of their memory.

  As the storm tore up the city outside, we played cards inside; warming our hands round cups of bubbling hot chocolate. On the fourth night, Sybel appeared in the doorway with a more hopeful look on her face.

  ‘It looks like the storm is finally tiring of itself. In the morning, our shutters will be open once again.’

  She was right, of course. By first light, the air was clear and calm, clouds fluffed the sky like clotted cream. People who had kept their doors locked for days, nervously slid back their bolts and slowly emerged into the world. Thankfully no deaths had been reported. The dogs were thrilled to be having their daily walks again and snuffled suspiciously at the uprooted trees and broken branches which lay strewn across pathways. This time, instead of hurrying past the bakery with a quick smile and a wave, I stopped to buy bread. The proprietor seemed pleased that I had finally found time for a quick word and took the opportunity to swirl the gossip round my ears. I left with a loaf under my arm and news that the grocer and his mistress had been washed away after one of their secret moonlit meetings. Storms uproot more than just trees and it isn’t just the worms that try to wriggle out of the dirt.

  After our walk, I left the dogs with their usual feast in the courtyard and headed back outside. The water was still filled with slush and debris, twigs and leaves, splinters of boats too late to be saved and broken flowerpots bobbing on the surface. Across the canal, I noticed the Keeper of the Hours, distinctive because of his long white beard and the long robe he wore. In his hand he held a long stick with a net fastened at one end, and I watched as he swept it through the water. It reminded me of home, where the children tried to catch crabs at the port; the memory made my heart feel too heavy to carry. The Keeper of the Hours raised his hand by way of greeting and I waved back, noticing that the water ran pink.

  ‘Storms keep me busy,’ he called, pausing to rest.

  ‘What are you doing with the net?’ I called.

  ‘Unclogging wishes.’ He loosened a collection of dried rosebuds and a mash of sopping paper, which had congregated near the steps. The pink tint in the water was the colour of trapped wishes.

  ‘Won’t those wishes come true now?’ I asked, watching as he finally pushed them along.

  ‘They will if they find their way to the sea,’ he replied.

  ‘You should be called the Keeper of the City.’ I laughed, remembering all the places I had seen him. ‘What else do you do besides restore time, polish door handles and unclog wishes?’

  ‘I rescue the occasional stranded cat,’ he called over his shoulder as he disappeared in search of more wishes to save.

  I was eager to get back to the university before Leo Hawkins had a chance to notice the missing documents, but the lagoon’s temper still quietly seethed, and Sybel advised that we had to wait a few more frustrating days.

  One evening, I found myself meandering down the Street of Lost Buttons, which brought me to the entrance of Vesper Square. It was the only place open since I wasn’t brave enough to drink alone and the churches were all too dark and empty. It was still a little early for these shops and not all of them had lit their lanterns yet. Even the accordion player was still asleep in a doorway. Stepping onto the cobbled courtyard felt like stepping into a fairy tale. The shops were narrow and crooked with pointed roofs like the hat of a witch. In the middle sat a gurgling fountain, which could just as easily have been a cauldron. The shop doors were held open by stone weights in the shape of animals: an owl, a fox and a duck. It was a welcoming gesture, but I preferred to peer through the bow windows at the wonders within. There were snow globes and wind chimes that I could hear tinkling from behind the glass, even though there wasn’t a breeze to stir them; a shop full of ticking clocks, and another filled with jugs and amphoras and copper cups. Across the cobbles, the windows revealed an odd assortment: flowery slabs of soap and incense; painted eggs and thimbles; sponges brought up from the bottom of the deepest oceans; velvet cushioned boxes filled with the sound of crunching snow or buzzing bees; teapots that played the song of a bird once you lifted their lids; brikia and thuribles hanging from long chains. The last shop seemed to float in the middle of a little canal, and could only be reached by crossing a small white bridge. As I stood wondering what curiosities it sold, I noticed a curtain blind shudder slowly open as though it was being manually wound. On the window ledge there were toppling jars just like the ones I had seen hanging from the Bridge of Longing. A flash of a face I thought I recognised appeared, quickly followed by a hand beckoning me inside.

  The sound of the accordion player filled the air and looking over my shoulder, I could see a few more people had begun to tumble into the square. A boy, too young to be awake, was cloppeting around on a stick horse, creating an endless chatter between his feet and the cobbles. Stepping onto the bridge without fear, I made my way towards the door, lifted the latch and stepped inside. The shop was part library and part garden and I wasn’t sure if its owner was a bookbinder or a botanist or something else entirely. I made my way through piles of paper waiting to be bound and plunged into a tangle of green. It felt like I was walking in a park or breathing in a forest. I wasn’t sure what was for sale or whether there was anything to buy, but peeling back a large leaf I finally saw a counter. Behind it, sitting on a stool, was the Keeper of the Hours. He was watering a pot of overgrown ferns.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I am always a little late to open, because as you know I have so many things to do. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.’

  I shook my head. I hadn’t been waiting at all.

  ‘Very good. So you are here for your telling?’

  ‘My what?’ I frowned at him, not sure what he meant.

  ‘Your token. What else would bring you here?’

  ‘You sell them here?’ I asked excitedly.

  ‘No, no, they are not for sale; they are offerings from the bottom of the canals.’ He stepped to one side to reveal the wall of shelves behind him. Lined with so many jars, I was reminded of the confectioner’s shop at home. My eyes flited between them, finding not sweets but many different objects; dried rosebuds, tiny apples, paper stars, wooden yellow suns, wing feathers, olive branches and acorns. A few minutes later I realised they were all like the handles on the wishing doors, and the one I had opened had been filled with acorns. This shop was some kind of storage place for wishes.

  ‘Pick a jar, then reach inside to find your telling token. It should feel like a smooth stone.’ He spoke in a weary voice as though he had been doing the same thing for many years.

  I scanned the jars once more until my eyes came to rest on a jar of feathers.

  �
�That one,’ I said, pointing to the top shelf. The Keeper of the Hours was so tall, he lifted it off with ease, unscrewed the lid, shook it up and offered it to me. I plunged my hand deep into the feathers; they felt warm and comforting. Swirling my fingers amongst them, I felt dozens of flat stones. Finally, I chose one, I lifted it out and held it in my palm. I squinted to see the inscription, but the light was too dim. The Keeper of the Hours kindly held a candle above my head so I could make out the letters more clearly: The City of Murmurs.

  ‘What does it mean?’ I asked, holding it out for him to see.

  He was quiet, but seemed to be pondering an answer. ‘Perhaps it simply means that you will never forget what you find here; it will always call to you.’

  Before I left the strange shop, I noticed all the empty jars again in the window and called back into the hidden green depths, ‘What are all these jars for?’

  I wasn’t sure if he could hear me through all the thick foliage, but then came a muffle of words, ‘To collect the mist, of course.’

  Rushing home, I was more restless than ever to get to the university and to find Leo Hawkins.

  CHAPTER 20

  We have been invited to attend a masquerade ball,’ said Sybel, busy spooning breakfast into the dogs’ bowls. I could hear the scrape of metal as she ground the last dregs out of a large tin. ‘It will distract you until the lagoon is safe to cross.’

  A masquerade ball. I laughed. The idea brought with it a rush of childhood memories when I believed I could grow a carriage out of a pumpkin seed and would spend hours following the faint scuttles of mice hoping to transform them into horses. It sounded like a fairy tale. ‘But why would I be invited?’ I asked.

  ‘Because I am and you will be my guest,’ she said simply. ‘It is all rather tedious for me now, but for you it will be a novelty and quite exciting, I imagine. I wouldn’t want you to miss it.’

  I nodded as she leaned in closer. ‘The first time is always the best. We must, of course, wear our disguises. That’s half the fun.’ She clapped her hands in delight at the thought of it. ‘It’s difficult for a woman of my proportions to hide who I am behind a mask and a cloak, and therefore rather pointless, but I still wear them; it’s the rule you see.’ She lifted the reins from the hook and handed them to me. ‘Take the dogs out and I will meet you at the mask shop in one hour; I have some errands to run first.’

  Walking around the city, my head was filled with the thoughts of the ball. Everyone there would be hiding themselves, just like me and for one night I wouldn’t be any different. I smiled, excited by the thought of it. After our usual jaunt in the park, I left the dogs at home and headed towards the mask shop, eager to find my disguise. It was while I was crossing the Bridge of Solace that I got the strange feeling of being watched again. I didn’t know where it had come from, but it unnerved me and I pulled up the collar of my giant coat and quickened my pace. After some distance I slowed down again, stopping to buy a slice of olive bread, but when I stepped back onto the street, the feeling of uneasiness had returned. Instinct compelled me to pull my hood tighter around my face and lower my head to the ground. Now I was more concerned with being followed than getting to the mask shop, and, in my panic, I had become lost, winding deeper away from the crowds and further into the empty streets. Behind me I could hear hastening footsteps, echoing close to my own. Then a voice called out, the words were indistinct, but somehow, I knew they were meant for me. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my arm, and I span round to find the face of a man I didn’t recognise. I wasn’t sure what I saw in his eyes. Anger? Surprise? Curiosity?

  ‘You have something I need,’ he said, breathless from his chase.

  His words gave me flight and without waiting to find out what it was he wanted, I shrugged myself free, dropped the bread at my feet, and ran faster than I had ever run before; swooping round corners, soaring over bridges and squares, slipping through passageways, trying to lose my pursuer. To escape, I flew. Breathing hard, I needed to find a place to stop before I collapsed. Thankfully in the middle of the next street I spotted a brightly painted yellow door; it popped up like a wish.

  Moving closer, I held my hand against the beat of my heart until I could feel it steady itself once more, then with a deep exhale, I turned the sun-carved handle of the door and quickly disappeared inside. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the small dark interior, but when they did, I saw there were lots of tiny paper suns dangling from string and bowls filled of crinkled copper-coloured balls. Lifting one into my hand, I sat down on the little wooden ledge. Just like in the other wishing room, I could see the canal through a hole in the ground, ready to catch my wish. My chest ached, my legs shook, and I felt a twinge deep in my ribs. I closed my eyes, rolling the little paper sun between my palms, a soothing back and forth movement, waiting for my nerves to recover. I wasn’t quite sure how the wishing rooms worked, but I remembered watching the Keeper of the Hours unclog paper from the canal and knew they needed to find their way to the sea, and so I dropped my paper sun into the water. Yellow for happiness, I thought, as I finally pushed open the door and tentatively checked for any sign of my pursuer. All was quiet, and, satisfied that I had lost him, I stepped back onto the street. Using the bell tower as a navigation point, I wound my way back through the city to the Street of Inkpots, where Sybel told me I would find the mask shop. When I arrived, she was already there waiting.

  ‘You look like you’ve been running!’ she exclaimed, taking in my dishevelled appearance, but I just nodded, not mentioning the strangeness of my afternoon. ‘Sometimes whatever it is you are running from is the very thing you should be running to.’

  Who was the man who had been following me? I tried to convince myself that he must have mistaken me for somebody else, but he had been so insistent, so sure it was me he wanted to talk to. I couldn’t for one moment think what it was he needed from me, unless he had somehow seen my feathers. The idea made me gasp in alarm, and I began to imagine he had been sent from the Boat of Floating Freaks and Oddities? What exactly was it waiting for, moored on the edge of the city? I tried to push the dark thoughts from my mind, but I knew they would linger.

  Above the door of the mask shop swung a little wooden sign, and written upon it in an elaborate flourish of green was the word carnevale. Its dark windows were split into many tiny squares and were so grime-filled and grease-smeared that your eye wasn’t permitted to see what lay hidden within. The building had a weariness about it, like it had hobbled away to sulk in a back street. It reminded me of a hunched troll sitting at the foot of a bridge. Sybel leaned her weight against the door and pushed it open. A bell sounded and even that seemed reluctant. I was not prepared for the sight that awaited me then: row upon row of masks, all colours, sizes and shapes. I stared in open-mouthed wonder. It was the kind of place where I imagined a secret handshake or a surreptitious wink might permit you secret entry into a forbidden society. My eyes travelled up and down and along the shelves, but, before I had chance to look properly at one, my eye was already being distracted by another. Encouraged by Sybel, I drew closer and marvelled at each unique and intricate design. There was a whole shelf filled with animal faces, a fox and a horse and a rabbit with long straight ears; cats and mice and frightful bears. Each one seemed to tell its own story; varied and endless and alarmingly real, I thought they might actually come to life before my eyes.

  ‘They are all so beautiful,’ I whispered. They all seemed to be watching me and, in amongst the many masks, there hung rail after rail of cloaks, filling the shop with their swish of secrets whenever you brushed past them.

  ‘Do you see any you like?’ There was something in her tone that hurried me, but when I looked again, the choice was an impossible one.

  I liked them all. I touched my fingertips to the smooth faces, tracing the swirls and stars on the surfaces. Some had the flamboyance of stage feathers, encrusted with jewels, some the simplicity of silver squares or blocks of colour. Musical notes danced across
the cheeks of others and golden bells sang from tassels when I shook them. Carefully, I lifted one from its hook; it was made of simple black velvet with two oval holes cut out for the eyes. It had no strings or ribbons to hold it in place and I wondered how it would fix to a face.

  Suddenly the owner appeared from the back room. His hair was a puff of misty grey like the head of a dandelion, or the snort of a cow in a winter field. Wisps so thin that I could see the mottled scalp beneath. His arms were covered in splashes of paint right up to his elbows and a streak fell across the bridge of his nose. I recognised him instantly. He had been for a reading the day I was waiting for the rat-catcher. He had arrived so early that Sybel had found him on the doorstep and had brought him in with the milk.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said, remembering me. ‘I see you like The Morretta mask.’ He hadn’t yet noticed Sybel who was trying to hide herself, rather unsuccessfully, behind a cloak stand.

  I looked down at the mask in my hand. ‘I don’t know which one to choose,’ I admitted.

  ‘Well, that one’s a good one if you are planning a night of seduction.’ He took the mask and held it against his face. ‘Watch.’ Then he let go, but the mask didn’t fall; it stayed on his face.

  ‘How are you doing that?’ I asked, thinking it was a magic trick.

  He dropped it back in his hand. ‘There’s a button here, see.’ He held the mask out for inspection and I could indeed see the little knot of a button sewn onto the inside. ‘You just bite it between your teeth and keep it there so it doesn’t fall off.’