Feathertide Read online

  ‘But how can you speak with that in your mouth?’

  ‘Ah, well, you can’t; that’s why it makes the wearer more enigmatic and so full of secrets. The talking must be done only with the eyes. It gives the wearer the chance to decide who she wants to talk to and in doing so, she must reveal herself, but only at the moment of her choosing. It’s how many great love affairs have started – and ended,’ he added quickly.

  I replaced the mask on its hook and shook my head; it didn’t feel quite right.

  ‘What is it like at the ball? I asked, moving along the shelves, trying to imagine people wearing their costumes.

  ‘It is the one night of the year when the Keeper of the Hours does not restore time and lets the minutes slip away, and anything you do slips away with it. It gives people a chance to lose themselves in celebrations held all over the city.’

  But what if you are already lost, I thought to myself.

  ‘You should know that the masks tend to choose you rather than the other way around.’

  ‘Really?’ If he was to be believed then everything here seemed to be filled with magic.

  He nodded enthusiastically and his hair wobbled, and I thought it might blow away. ‘But first you must think about what it is you love most in the world, and it will find you or a version of it will. Our disguise is often our desire.’

  A sudden noise drew our attention. Sybel had got herself tangled in the cloaks and sent the whole stand crashing to the floor. She sprang fluster-full from the mayhem. The owner tutted and squinted into the gloomy corner to see who was responsible for causing such a commotion in his quiet little shop. His eyes suddenly opened wide with recognition and glee. ‘Sybel, is that you?’ He couldn’t disguise the delight in his voice and quickly wiped the paint off his hands with his apron before rushing to assist her. She scooped up an armful of cloaks and began hanging them back on the stand.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said, taking them from her and patting them in a crumpled heap on a nearby table.

  Sybel began shuffling through the cloaks until she selected one and thrust it towards me. ‘Here, I found you this.’

  It felt smooth and heavy in my hands; a dark velvet fabric, with a purple satin lining. I pulled it over my coat and around my shoulders and twirled, delighted by the swish of the hem against the floor. No one would see my feathers under this. It felt like home.

  ‘Perfect. Now for the mask,’ urged Sybel impatiently.

  ‘Choices cannot be rushed,’ said the owner, thrilled to have Sybel captive in his shop. He was clearly going to make the most of this unexpected opportunity. Sybel rolled her eyes, realising her plan for a quick escape had just been thwarted by my indecision.

  ‘Perhaps you would have time for a quick reading while we wait?’ His voice took on the tone of a small child seeking permission for something that had already been forbidden.

  Sybel sighed in defeat and pulled out the pouch from her pocket in which she kept her fortune stones. Such was her reputation, people would sometimes stop her in the street and ask for a glimpse of their future on a bridge, by a fountain, even on the steps of a church, but no one dared ask once they were inside. The warning in her eyes told me to hurry up and I returned to the difficult task of choosing a disguise. I picked up a porcelain mask of vibrant colours and scalloped edges. I held it against my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror, but quickly pulled it off; it felt too hot and cloying against my skin. Replacing it, I reached for another. This one had a bird-like beak and as I fitted it over my face, I shuddered at the mirror. I was reminded of the plague doctors from Professor Elms’ books, and half expected to inhale the drifting scent of laudanum.

  Moving further along the wall, I dismissed the half masks, which didn’t allow for much secrecy, and the heavy-looking joker masks complete with collars and gold trims, which looked heavy and gaudy. It wasn’t until I had almost reached the end of the wall and the shop itself, that I noticed a mask high on a shelf. It seemed to whisper to me and standing on my tiptoes I managed to push it forward from its hook until it dropped, like a wish, into my hand. It was smooth and cool to touch like water. Iridescent scales glittered above and below the left eye hole and two silver fish swam between them. Across the right cheek flew a flock of tiny birds painted in a bright cerulean blue against a white backdrop. Golden ribbons fluttered, one from each side ready to tie it in place.

  ‘This one,’ I said with absolute certainty, lifting it up to the dim light near the counter. Relieved that a decision had at last been made, Sybel scooped up the stones and dropped them back in the pouch with a clatter.

  ‘The mermaid mask; how unusual,’ said the owner, as I handed it to him, together with the cloak.

  ‘The mermaid mask?’ I looked again; I hadn’t realised.

  ‘Ah, yes – mermaids inhabit our waters, but you will be lucky to find one.’ Then he furrowed his brow in a knot of distain, and corrected himself with a grumble, ‘Or should I say unlucky. Cursed creatures,’ he muttered, as he wrapped my purchases quickly and carefully in brown paper. The mask lay protected within the folds of the cloak. Once finished, he tied it loosely with a piece of string and then, dangling it from his finger, he offered me the package. ‘Enjoy your ball.’

  ‘What did he mean about mermaids?’ I asked, as we left the shop.

  ‘I wasn’t listening,’ she replied.

  ‘About them being cursed?’

  Sybel could see I wasn’t about to give up until she gave me an answer.

  ‘Haven’t you heard about the siren’s call? It lures you in and then abandons you on the rocks. Beware of the mermaid whose heart is made of nothing but water, for it will quickly flow away.’

  CHAPTER 21

  Dusk bowed over the city, a prelude to the night of carousing and merriment that lay ahead. As always in these thought-filled hours, my mind would take me home to the familiar damp smell of the cellar, which I never thought I would miss until I was no longer there. I missed Lemàn most of all. That last day, as she stood and watched me leave, I was filled with an unfathomable sadness. Not for me, but for her. At least when my father had gone away, he had left a part of himself behind. Now I had taken it away and left nothing in its place. A jagged thought that kept on cutting.

  Sometimes, it would take all my strength not to rush to the edge of the lagoon and pace the flagstones until the next boat arrived bound west, but the need to find my father was stronger than my need to return. Sybel offered comfort by way of jasmine tea, which we’d sip long after the midnight chimes of the city had died away. We talked and laughed and shared our stories in the warmth of the now-familiar yellow kitchen, but eventually I would return to my room alone, where the sadness would rattle around my bones. They always seemed hollower then. So much had begun to fade: the warm smell of the whorehouse kitchen, the sound of a brush sweeping across the stone floor, the taste of baked pears in a pie, my bed made of wishes and the soft touch of Lemàn’s fingertips lost in my feathers. Her voice was now so far away that even memory couldn’t bring it back. I missed my home. Sleep became a distant stranger, who spoke in a language I didn’t understand. I longed for the past, but needed my future.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Sybel asked, appearing in the doorway. ‘We need to leave soon.’ She was dressed in dark velvet and high stomping boots and her hair was crumpled about her head like tangled lovers’ sheets.

  I unfolded the cloak, lifted it over my shoulders and secured it at my neck with its small silver clasp. It was even heavier than Sybel’s massive coat, and I seemed to move more slowly round the room with it on. Moments later, Sybel appeared again wearing a mask of pentacles and wands.’

  ‘Where is your mask?’ she asked in alarm.

  I pointed to the bed, where it lay still packaged.

  ‘Well, put it on,’ she urged. ‘It’s bad luck to leave the house without it covering your face. Tonight, as soon as you step onto the streets you are no longer the same person. You are a mystery, an en
igma, unknowable for one bewitching night. I have met some of my best lovers at carnivals.’ She laughed. ‘Although it seems like decades ago now.’

  I lifted the mask to my face, and tied the silky ribbons around my head, adjusting it so I could breathe. My reflection in the mirror seemed strange, half bird, half fish, like I couldn’t decide between a life of air or water. We hurried through the streets, which were crowded with people, all wanting to experience their unspoken desires. Sybel’s size made our path easy and she pushed us through. Finally, we arrived in the main square where a long queue of people lined the steps leading up to a large domed building opposite the clock tower. To my surprise Sybel didn’t slow her pace and instead of joining the back of the queue, she ignored it completely and continued across the flagstones, and into the Street of Thickening Plots, far quieter and murkier than all we had left behind. We were now entering the depths of the city.

  ‘Be careful,’ she warned. ‘Eye contact here will cost you more coins than you carry in your pocket.’

  On either side of the street, instead of tables and chairs inviting you to sit and while away the evening, the invitation was for something else entirely. The buildings were badly neglected; some no longer had doors, just open spaces where they should have been.

  ‘Isn’t the ball back there?’ I asked, hoping we had taken a wrong turn.

  ‘A ball, yes, but not our ball.’

  Finally, Sybel stopped abruptly by some steps leading down to the canal. Moments later, out of the darkness, sailed a crescent-shaped boat. The driver steered over to us and Sybel took two tickets out of an envelope, and handed them to him. After a cursory glance, he nodded and she stepped on board, encouraging me to follow.

  ‘We have to go the rest of the way by boat.’

  Soon, we were travelling down canals I had never seen before, where the water seemed to ooze and stutter rather than flow. The streets here had no names, or if they did, they had worn away long ago until no trace of them remained. I thought I had uncovered all the secrets of this city, especially after my daily dog walks, but it seemed I was mistaken. Still, I knew nothing, only whispers. At one point the spaces between the walls were so narrow, they were barely the width of the boat and I feared we would have to swim our way through or be trapped here forever. I needn’t have worried, with Sybel’s strength and the oarsman’s skill we didn’t stop for long and the boat screeched its way through like a burning witch.

  The sounds of the city had dropped away, leaving an eerie quiet. The buildings here were forlorn and abandoned, and instead of windows there were dark gaping mouths, their shutters broken or gone. Steps worn to rubble and roofs destroyed by storms. The stench was foul and festering, and I was grateful for the mask covering my nose. Occasionally I saw a dead rat, floating bloated-belly up, poisoned by the rotting debris that gathered in the alcoves. In the distance, I was horrified to see what I thought was the head of a small child mottled white in the water, but as we drew closer, I was relieved to discover it was just the half-chewed core of a cabbage. The light and shadow played tricks on the mind, a grotesque magic act; the lure of the lurid; sorcery at its worst. Even the birds didn’t nest here, they had long since flown away, such was the sense of decay in the stagnant water. I began to wonder if the oarsman had taken a wrong turn – it felt as if I was being delivered to the gates of Hades – but then Sybel suddenly pointed up ahead.

  ‘Look – we’re almost there.’

  Staring into the gloom, I struggled to see anywhere worthy of hosting a grand ball, but then my eye glimpsed a flickering light, then another and another until it looked like hundreds of demons’ eyes were upon us. High on the upper floor of a crumbling ancient building, I counted eight large windows and realised now that the light came from the candles flickering within. The walls seemed to rise out of the canal like some dark, mythical creature. Once upon a time, I imagined this place would have been truly magnificent with its wide marble steps guarded by two winged lions, its facade warmed to apricot in the sun. Its many imposing rooms filled with dignitaries from far and wide. But that would have been centuries ago. Now the gangrene walls were covered with slime and algae, an infection waiting to spread. A disease harboured in every crevice. The steps too, had lost their gleam, now dark and sunken like cracked slabs in a graveyard.

  ‘Be careful getting out,’ warned Sybel, as I stepped onto their slippery surface. I steadied myself against her arm as the boat silently pulled away and out of sight.

  Most of the ground floor was submerged under the water and we had to walk across makeshift planks of wood on stilts, which rose out of the water like chicken legs. I hitched up my cloak to stop the bottom from getting damp. As we approached the grand staircase the sound of water began to fall away and so too did the darkness. At the top, we were greeted by the sight of a huge carving in the wall: a golden cherub on a winged chariot, holding the reins of two rearing horses. Next to this was an open archway in the shape of an hourglass and the most bewildering sight I had ever seen: the room was full of people, all of whom were still and silent as though they had been paused in time. Sybel fumbled in her cloak and drew out a large brass clock winder. I watched curiously as she slotted it into the wheel of the chariot, which had the face of a clock, and as she began to twist it widdershins, I was amazed to hear the welcoming sound of laughter and merriment, and of glasses clinking together in warm celebration. Through the hourglass, the room had suddenly breathed back into life and time continued, but what time was this, and what magic was I now a part of? It reminded me of the night I had arrived. As we crossed the threshold into the room, my heart burst with wonder and anticipation.

  ‘Where are we?’ I asked, each step I took urgent with excitement.

  ‘The Palace of Sirens,’ she replied.

  The room was fluttering with disguise. It was starlit and moon polished, and, looking up, it was impossible to tell if the room opened straight into the night or whether there was a glass ceiling to protect us from the rain, should it fall. Hundreds of dancing candles exaggerated all movement, as smoke from rolled-up cigarettes and curling pipes drifted into the unfathomable dark. I was convinced then that I would feel the rain if it fell. Above us hung many wooden clocks, too many to count, each one floating on its invisible string. Their pendulums were no longer swinging, their faces still, no shudder of movement, no pulse of time, the hum of all mechanisms had stopped just before midnight. A cuckoo was frozen on its perch with its beak open; its message silenced.

  All time suspended.

  Painted on the floor in blue and glinting gold was a giant clock face. The designs were hidden under the movement of hundreds of quick-moving feet, but I glimpsed a spinning wheel, and a pair of lovers, and I realised it was a replica of the one that stood in the square. Passing by tables I noticed vases full of broken clock pieces. A reminder of timewreck.

  In one corner a string quartet played on. The candles responded with their strange, hypnotic dance. Finally reaching the bar, I stared back into the room; there must have been hundreds of people here. They were all dressed in the same dark cloaks, their faces hidden behind an array of spectacular masks. An enticing, yet mysterious anonymity. I wondered if any of the faces were familiar beneath these masks: the happy baker; the gypsy woman; the Keeper of the Hours; the mask-maker himself or even my pursuer. I shuddered at the thought of him hiding somewhere in the shadows. Tonight, people’s true selves no longer existed. Even the rat-catcher could be part of this world without fear and judgement. For tonight we could all be whoever we wanted to be, an angel or a demon or something in between. I felt like a part of this city, part of a secret society, tucked away in the unreachable corners of long ago. Ancient, guarded mysteries revealed here in this room. The bartender handed me a flute of something sparkling and sweet; a strawberry fizzed at the bottom, and I reached inside and lifted it out and popped it into my mouth. Melting instantly on my tongue, I swallowed the sweet gritty mush; it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.<
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  ‘To disguise!’ exclaimed Sybel, raising her glass.

  I had drunk too quickly and my glass was empty apart from a little green stalk at the bottom. Feeling dizzy, I collapsed onto an old sofa and regarded the continuing celebration. Glasses rose up out of the crowds and people toasted their freedom. A woman with midnight hair and the mask of a cat had made her own dance floor in the corner and was swaying seductively; her discarded cloak floated to the floor and her short dress twisted around her hips. Both men and women looked up from their conversations, words hovered, while the whole room stared, strangely enthralled. She smiled, eyes closed, lost in the moment, and I wondered what it would feel like to captivate a room like that. I hadn’t done it since the night I was born.

  In front of me, a man was entertaining a group of purring women. Their cloaks had been pushed back over their pale bare shoulders, revealing heaving breasts that rose and fell beneath their bodices. Shrieking in delight, they flung their hair-tousled heads back, elongating the white flesh of their necks like swans. He wore the mask of a hundred hearts, but I could see the mischievous twinkle in his eyes as they intensified their pursuit. The room was like a kiln, and I had grown uncomfortably hot watching everything take shape before me, impervious to time. Beads of perspiration had begun to irritate the skin above my mouth, and I dabbed at them with the edge of my cloak just as Sybel appeared with another two drinks.

  ‘What is this place?’ I asked, mesmerised.

  ‘A place of desire. It exists only because we all came here and only for one night. A shared illusion. Nothing more, nothing less. We have stepped outside time. Enjoy it while you can.’

  I frowned. ‘So, none of this is real?’

  ‘For us it is. But morning will arrive sooner than you think, and drag us all home.’