Feathertide Page 2

  The stairs up from the cellar led into the kitchen and through there into the main corridor. At one end stood the front door, ominous and wide, and at the other end was the door to Sorren’s counting house, which was the most menacing door of them all. Every fairy tale has a Carabosse and she was mine. Skulking against the walls, I would dart in and out of the shadows. They were my only playthings and I had fun chasing them; ever-careful not to let the giggles escape my mouth for fear that Sorren would fling open her door and find me there.

  One corridor wound into another, taking me past forbidden doorways, forever closed, and I imagined that behind each one were banished creatures from the tales Lemàn told me. When I could no longer hear the clanging of pans or the rattling of spoons, I would turn and hurry back to the familiar percussion of the kitchen; it was the place I loved most of all. It was never empty, someone was always in there, baking or washing or stitching, but whenever the whores saw me, they would try to shoo me back to the cellar with the bristles of the large sweeping brush they kept propped up in the corner.

  Sometimes, when I was feeling especially brave, I would climb the staircases to the third and fourth floors where the visitors disappeared for hours behind closed doors. Kneeling down, I peered through keyholes, just large enough to reveal the shapes and movements within, mere shadows, but nothing more. I had learned where the stairs creaked and the doors groaned and I trod barefoot – soundless – to avoid discovery. I listened to the walls chatter or perhaps it was the visitors behind them, sharing their stories. I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t really breaking the rules, just bending them a little bit out of shape, but I knew if I was found, there would be trouble, especially if Sorren found out – well, I shuddered at the thought of what she would do to me and Lemàn. The monster wasn’t hiding under my bed; it was waiting behind the closed door at the end of the corridor.

  Most of the time, the whores were in their rooms with their visitors, but occasionally, Sorren would announce there was to be a party, leading to a flurry of excitement. Barrels of rum would be rolled up the hill or delivered on the back of a cart. The whores would wear their finest attire of lace and silk and fix their smiles of delight, stretching out their arms to welcome the visitors who arrived in their dozens.

  On these nights the bedrooms would be abandoned and their doors flung wide open. Instead they would entertain their audience in the dimly lit salon of the second floor. Sound was muffled by the thick ancient walls of the whorehouse, but, if I listened carefully, I could still hear the laughter drifting down the stairs and the voices buzzing from the pollenated garden above. Like an inquisitive rabbit, I tiptoed round the warren, with Sorren – the vicious, sly fox, ever-watchful – waiting to pounce and claim her prey. But no matter the risk, I could never resist temptation.

  CHAPTER 2

  In the cellar there was a little oblong-shaped window high up along the wall, and it was all I knew of the world. The light that tiptoed in was meagre and timid, and I was forbidden from opening it. It overlooked the gutter and the street beyond to the square patch of grass, where a pear tree grew, small and solitary. An emerald flourish of summer followed by an empty leafless winter; it became my marker of passing time.

  Occasionally feet would hurry past in a blur, but, more often than not, I would sit for hours and watch the birds outside, fascinated by the fluff and puff of their bodies. I loved how they danced and hopped and played in the puddles after the spill of rain. If I listened without breathing, I could hear them ruffling their feathers with the flamboyancy of tiny stage performers, always aware of my gaze, yet surprisingly unmoved by it. I’d try and copy them until I grew dizzy and breathless, then I would quietly slide my chair under the window and stand on my tiptoes, until I was almost able to reach them. If I flattened my nose against the glass and tilted my head at a certain angle, I could see even further. I could see the birds sitting in the pear tree, decorating the lower branches – a giant leafy throne, transformed majestic gold by the deft stroke of autumn. Once again, forgetting Lemàn’s rules, I would reach up and push the window open where I’d leave little scraps of food I’d salvaged from the kitchen. I envied their freedom, how easily they could just lift themselves from the ground and move on: rootless, untethered and wild. Sometimes, they seemed hesitant; waiting for me to follow as though, somehow, they knew I too had feathers hidden beneath my clothes. But, unable to join them, I sadly let the window click quietly closed.

  Instead I drew them. Lemàn brought me a roll of paper and a tin of beautifully coloured pencils. Working quickly, but carefully, I soon had hundreds of sketches, so many that they had begun to replace the fairy-tale characters that had covered my wall. Where once there had been princesses and bears, now there were birds and feathers, and the green trees had been buried beneath an endless blue sky. It wasn’t long before all the fairy tales had vanished, lying forgotten in a world I had left behind. My hidden kingdom had grown much too small, and I was becoming more and more curious about the world and my place in it. I knew there was real magic out there somewhere, and I longed to find it.

  Some of my new sketches were of birds alone in the sky; others were of them huddled together in the pear tree. When I felt most lonely, I would draw myself sitting with them under the branches of the same tree. I once brought them into my room by drawing them all around me as I slept. In those pictures, I gave myself long flowing hair; another forbidden wish. Instead, my hair was shorn to my scalp, a protective measure against the visitors’ desire. Should I be seen, they would hopefully dismiss me as nothing more than a curious boy. But in my pictures, my hair was always a burning sun, streaming across my pillow in great long, golden ribbons. I drew the birds snared in the strands, no longer able to fly away. Once I had run out of wall, I spread them across the floor like stepping stones, and hopped between them, laughing. Sometimes I fell asleep amongst them and dreamed of flying far away. Where would I go if I had wings to take me? I imagined myself soaring and gliding and swooping through the sky, barely skimming the earth before I would let the whoosh of air lift me once again. But I always woke up. Restless and frustrated, I would leave the cellar then in search of a sense of freedom, no matter how small.

  Always, I was drawn to the small door at the end of the corridor. Past where all the jars of jam and the pots of honey were kept, to where Sorren spent her hours. The door stayed mostly shut, and, whether it was locked or not, I did not know, because I was never brave enough to turn the handle. Once, though, the door had been left ajar and a dim light was seeping out. Edging closer, I could see Sorren standing alone in the shadows. Wisps of her hair had loosened from their pins and fell softly against her neck. In that moment, she looked captivating, but I knew what was hidden beneath: a beautiful cake made of curdled milk. Pressed against her face, I thought she held a handkerchief, but when she lowered her hands, I could see she had in them a pretty cream petticoat, three pearlescent buttons sewn down the front, its edges finished with lace; it was small enough to fit a doll. Tenderly, she laid the petticoat on the desk and began to smooth out the creases with her fingertips. I could hear the quiet hum of a lullaby. Mesmerised by the image, I hadn’t realised that I had been leaning too heavily against the door, slowly pushing it open inch by inch until it was too late, and I was quite visible in the widening gap. Gasping, I stepped back and the creak of a floorboard gave me away.

  The spell was broken and, without looking up, Sorren quickly thrust the petticoat into the top drawer of the desk like a guilty secret, and slammed it shut. The objects on the desk rattled. Then she snapped up her head and, with the clench of her jaw, all trace of softness vanished. She glared, and her solemn eyes, swollen with sorrow, hardened against me; she had the look of a condemned woman. In a sudden explosion of rage, she flew across the room, hurtling towards me. I cowered and held my arm high above my head to shield me against the blow I was certain to feel, but instead the door slammed shut in my face and everything fell silent. Filled with relief, I turne
d and ran towards the warm smell of baking bread in the kitchen and the safety of my room below. I knew then that there were some secrets much bigger than me being kept in this house.

  As I grew, so too did my feathers. They were now longer than the hair on my head, beautiful and silky and I loved them. Lemàn told me they were so special that no one outside the house was allowed to know I had them; otherwise they would want to steal me away. That made me flush with happiness, and back then I believed every word she said.

  The feathers grew thickest down my back and plumes exploded from the knots of my shoulder blades like pauldrons and fluttered their way to the base of my spine where they became thinner and shorter. Tufts sprouted from my shoulders and spread across the tops of my arms almost to my elbows. Everywhere else, my skin was covered in a soft tawny sheen, like golden thistledown, light enough to be blown away in the breeze. It was only noticeable in certain light and sometimes even I would forget it was there. The whores marvelled at my feathers, and every time they saw me their eyes would widen in astonishment as though they were seeing them for the very first time.

  My favourite whore was Marianne. She used to be a plumassier in La Ville Lumiere, preparing feathers for hats and bags and scarves. She would stroke and smooth my feathers, crumpled from restless sleep. I loved it when she lifted them in her accomplished hands and stretched them out, magically weaving and shaping them into something sleek and luminous. I would watch as she curled them under the steam of a boiling pot and cry in delight as they sprang joyfully from my fingers. She spoke in elongated vowels, telling me how my feathers would make women feel beautiful. How they would wear them in their hats or sew them into the front of their dresses in a cascade of colour. In those moments I felt truly special, and I dreamed that maybe one day I would be able to do what she did. Every so often, Lemàn would take a cloth soaked in vinegar and wipe it up and down the length of my quills. Yet another protective measure, this time against the cellar dust that dulled their shine.

  The whores took it in turns to feed me, bathe me, play with me and love me as though I were their own. They brought their fairy-tale pictures to life by giving me gifts: a pair of glass slippers from the ball, the pea that kept a princess awake, a golden lock of hair, a pumpkin seed which could grow into a carriage, gingerbread and lollipops taken from a witch’s house, a thorn from a rose which had the power to put me to sleep for one hundred years, and, painted in silver nail polish, a wand made from kindling for the fire. Twirling it, I went in search of mice that I could turn into horses to pull my carriage to the ball.

  Marianne made me a bird marionette from her leftover feathers. It was shaped out of wood with long knitted legs and a head that wobbled. I loved it instantly. Dangling on four strings from a wooden cross, I took it everywhere with me like a much beloved pet.

  Sorren gave me nothing but scornful glances from darkened doorways. Her lily scent clawed at the back of my throat and made my heart beat too fast. It meant she was somewhere close by, which made me want to hide. Upon finding me out of my room, she would never chastise me with her words, but her glare was that of a snow queen, and, by the time she had sent for Lemàn, I was already back in my room as though I had never been anywhere else.

  All of them took pleasure from dressing me in silks and fine lace, painting my nails and attaching sparkling sequins to my feathers. They clipped large jewels onto my ears, thickened my eyelashes with mascara and dabbed perfume on my neck. My pout made pink and shiny. They held up mirrors for my eyes to admire my own reflection. My feathers and I were celebrated until the moment a visitor knocked on the door or worse; Sorren’s footsteps came echoing down the corridor, each thud like a nail being hammered into my coffin. Then they frantically stripped me bare and scrubbed the make-up off my face until I was bright red and raw, before smuggling me away in the washing. I was a precious secret, after all, and one they had promised to keep since the day I’d been born.

  Most of the time I fell asleep curled in the soft, warm bundles, but sometimes I would be quietly sobbing when Lemàn finally came to dig me out again. Carrying me down to the cellar, I would ask why I was a secret and had to be hidden away, but every time her answer was the same: it is because you are too beautiful to be shared with the world. On those nights, she shushed me into bed and spent a little longer tucking me in, telling me stories, her mouth full of memories and tales, part-truth, part-fiction. They were supposed to offer comfort, but her words came from a thorny place, of brambles and stinging nettles. It was as though she had dipped the tip of her tongue in a salt pot and then licked the wounds of my innocence.

  She spoke of poisoned apples and talking mirrors; of wolves that gobbled grandmothers; of a woman with a head of hissing serpents; of giants and trolls and goblins hidden under bridges. Of rats so riddled with disease, they could destroy entire towns in less than a day. But the most terrifying tale of all was about a woman alone in a forest, who stole away children to stop herself feeling so lonely. Every year, children disappeared, snatched away without trace from their beds; shutters and bolts didn’t keep them safe. The men of the village would take it in turns to patrol the streets at night, and giant, salivating dogs were kept on long chains to howl at the sign of any intruders, but the only howl came at dawn when another mother discovered the empty bed of her child. Not knowing what else to do, the villagers hunted the forest with their knives and guns, their lanterns lighting the dark, but the deeper they went, the thicker the trees grew and tangles of thorns ripped at their skin, making the cold heart of the forest impenetrable. They would return defeated and weary, collapsing into the arms of their weeping wives, their clothes soaked in blood, their wounds never healing and their eyes haunted by the guilt of surrender. No one knew how the woman came to be there, or for how long. She was hidden, just like you, she would say, making me promise to stay out of the forest and other dark places.

  These stories stole away my sleep and I would tremble for hours in the dark burrow of my blankets. Lemàn would come and hush me into the warm folds of her skin until I fell asleep in tear-drenched dreams. One such night, I noticed the small tattoo of a bird, pulsing on her wrist. Curious, I asked her about it, and she just smiled sadly and turned her wrist over so I could no longer see it. Kissing me goodnight, she told me everything flies away eventually. She knew these stories weren’t enough, but at least in these moments it was just the two of us, and I loved to feel the warm weight of her arm against my own and the comfort of her fingertips lost deep in my feathers, as though she was searching for something. The bird on her wrist connected us in a way I didn’t yet understand. Somehow it gave her comfort too.

  When I asked her where my feathers had come from, she laughed and told me they were a gift, but from whom, she wouldn’t say. Whenever I asked her, she would become much too busy with something to give me an answer: a bubbling pot to stir, a sink to unclog, or an exaggerated yawn feigning sleepiness hours before the light had even begun to slip from the sky.

  CHAPTER 3

  On my seventh birthday, Lemàn came to my room holding a glass jar. It was so large that when she handed it to me, I had to take it from her with both hands. At first, I thought it was the jar I had found in her room, when, once again, boredom had drawn me out of my hiding place.

  It had lain deep in a drawer, hidden under a pile of clothes, but, as it had rolled towards me with a heavy clunk, I’d gasped out loud in astonishment. Inside the jar, a strange silvery mist had swirled, glittering like starlight. It may have had a label a long time ago, for there was a sticky residue left behind on the glass, but it had long since peeled away, and whatever was inside had remained a mystery. I’d tried to unscrew the lid, but it was stuck tight and the effort had left me breathless. Admitting defeat, I’d put the jar back where I’d found it and crept from the room.

  But this jar was different. It was clear, and at the bottom sat six pale shells, whorls of wonder. I stared at them through the glass.

  ‘Every year on your birthda
y, you will choose something else to go inside this jar,’ Lemàn said. ‘When the jar is full you will have a decision to make.’ She looked away quickly, pulling at an invisible thread of her dress, her eyes unable to meet my own. I saw something in them that I didn’t understand then. Now I know it was fear.

  ‘But where will I choose them from?’ I asked. There was nothing in this house I wanted to hold onto, but her.

  ‘Put these on,’ she said, handing me a pair of boots and a long black cloak. ‘I will show you.’ The boots were heavy and ugly and far too big, but I didn’t complain because moments later, unable to believe what was happening, I was leaving the whorehouse for the very first time.

  Lemàn smuggled me out of the back door, hidden under the folds of her shawls. Where they thinned, I glimpsed black, sombre trees; the char of winter and the fields piled high with snow. It was as though someone had sprinkled a giant spoonful of sugar over everything and left it there to melt – waiting for the summer to pour out its warm brew. The ground underneath our feet was a slippery crackle and I clung to Lemàn’s thick woollen stockings to keep myself from sliding to the ground. The squeak of her boots in the snow was loud in my ears.

  The hill sloped steeply and I was grateful when it finally levelled out and we had reached the bottom. It was here on the edge of the town, hidden behind a woodpile, that she unveiled me like a magic act. Hooded and cloaked, and only after any stray feathers were adjusted and meticulously tucked away, did we walk into the marketplace, not side by side, but never more than a few footfalls apart. Arm’s reach, she would hiss at me. It was a difficult task to keep me close, but not close enough to raise suspicion. If someone saw Lemàn with a child tugging on her arm, then questions would surely be asked. The whorehouse was no place for a child, beautiful or not. But if we were to stay too far apart then I could be lost or stolen. Hidden deep under my cloak I felt safe. The hood was tied so tightly underneath my chin that I could feel it cutting into my skin, but I could not let it slip from my head for fear of discovery.