Feathertide Read online

  ‘Before I came to the City of Murmurs, my grandmother had taught me her secrets. I thought it was her magic that turned a slow dull worm into a bright, fluttering creature. I believed that she had the power to turn the leaves from green to gold and that her heart was a magnet for the rain. Of course, as I left my childhood behind, I learned the truth, but there was still one thing that nature couldn’t explain: the ancient Art of Meta. I used to watch, mesmerised, as she mixed earth, air, fire and water in little pewter pots, burning them over fires, deep in the heart of the great forest until we could both see shapes emerge in the smoke. It is there that I learned how to transform one element into another, creating new possibilities.’

  ‘So, she chose to walk because of him?’ I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice.

  ‘I’m not sure that was her reason, but perhaps it played its part. It is best if we leave the story there and she tells you the rest.’

  Knowing she had stayed in this house made me restless. Everything I touched – a glass, a door handle, a pillow, a spoon – all made me wonder if she had touched it too. Her fingerprints next to mine – connected – one on top of the other.

  ‘You know a mermaid is a slippery creature and her heart is like a slick stone. She takes what she wants and washes the rest away. Please be careful.’ Her voice rose then in anguish, and she quickly stood to clear away the teacups. Her story had been told and she was tired, but I still had one more question left to ask.

  ‘Can you change me?’

  ‘Change you?’ she blurted, alarmed at the suggestion. ‘You don’t need changing – you are perfectly well.’

  She was right; I didn’t have a tail of infected scales, but I had something just as painful. ‘I want you to take my feathers away.’ I plucked at the back of my neck. ‘I cut them off once, a long time ago, but they just grew back,’ I added, angrily.

  Sybel gave a heavy sigh, and considered me for a long time as though she was trying to find the best words to avoid the disappointment that would follow.

  ‘I will not take them away,’ she said resolutely.

  I pouted my lips in annoyance and I was that child again, being dragged away from the circus tent.

  ‘You need to offer something bigger than your difference. Then your feathers won’t matter because people will notice you for something else.’

  I grumbled, unconvinced.

  ‘It happened to me. That’s why I have that beautiful dress hanging in the wardrobe, still unworn. If people saw me as I truly am, then they would know I could never wear a dress like that.’

  I slumped back against the wall and felt the horrid things crumple against the stone. I crossed my arms and hunched my shoulders in a childish sulky bundle.

  ‘When I first arrived in this city, I was ridiculed in whispered tongues, people snorted at my hideousness, my scars of disease, my wild hair and my swollen limbs, until they realised that I spoke with words of truth and sometimes comfort.’

  By now the candle had burned itself to little more than a stump and had almost exhausted itself completely. Sybel stood poised with the snuffer in her hand. In front of its tiny light, she shone like a guardian angel and I half hoped that she was going to reconsider and give me her blessing.

  She spoke softly. ‘A change must come first from love, not hate. Besides, you haven’t yet discovered who you are, and your feathers are an essential part of that.’ She stroked my arm, as though somehow that would make me forgive her rejection.

  Afterwards, in my room, my thoughts returned to Elver and to Doctor Marino. I remembered how Lemàn spoke of jealousy every time she watched the birds in the sky, blaming them for taking my father away. It filled all of her stories; queens who despised their beautiful stepdaughters so much that they wished them dead. And the woman alone in the forest, jealous of the friendship she never had. As a child, I thought she was evil, but now I understood her. Jealousy can make a good person do wicked things.

  Love and desire. Which is more powerful? Which is more destructive? Love is time-worn desire. A pebble shaped and polished, forever changed by a river’s flow. Desire is the storm and the wreckage it leaves behind. Love is the life raft, the rope, the drop of an anchor. It is the thing that secures us all. That night fierce dreams roared in my mind, chasing me all the way into morning.

  CHAPTER 30

  Sybel had promised me that the wait for my father was nearly over and a union would soon come from the mist. Still, I was restless. From my daily lookout at the top of the bell tower, the air seemed to have taken on a different taste and texture, sugar sweet and so full of shimmery wisps that I would carry them home in my hair. Up here in the sky, all thoughts were of my father, and how I would feel upon seeing him for the first time.

  I remembered Lemàn then; her emotions were always large and looming, and never far away. I could tell when she was thinking of my father, which was often. She had carried the sadness of his loss with her for so long and, although I bandaged the wound, his memory still seeped out. I wished I could share my excitement about meeting him with her, but she was too far away from here. This meeting, I would have to make alone.

  I wondered whether you could desire two people at once. When I’d asked Professor Elms, he’d told me the story of a Pacific Island tribe whose members were all born with two hearts, one beating on the left of their chest, the other on the right. If one heart got broken, it wouldn’t matter, as they could manage perfectly well with the one that remained. I remember asking him what happened if the other one got broken too, and he’d simply replied that people shouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He’d told me that all hearts in humans, mammals and birds have different chambers, two at the top and two resting underneath, and that one of these chambers in Lemàn’s heart was just for me, protected by a cage of ribs. He told me that the heart was enclosed in a protective sac and the wall of the heart had three layers. I told him it sounded like a fortress and he laughed, and said it was exactly that. It’s not meant to be easy to get into someone’s heart he had said, and sometimes we open up one of those chambers and let someone in and then it’s too late. Some people lock the chamber and the key is lost, sometimes for years, sometimes for ever. The drawbridge is lifted over a moat of tears, never to be lowered again. Talk of loss always drew our eyes to his top pocket and thoughts of the memory contained within. I knew what he meant and I knew Lemàn had a locked chamber for which she too would never find the key. From this conversation, I remembered one more thing: fish were different. Their heart didn’t have four chambers; it only had two.

  Does that mean they love less?

  Does it mean they love at all?

  The following days dragged like sopping rags. Bloated heavy and sodden and soaked with misery. I wanted to bundle them up and throw them all away.

  Every time I walked past the Boat of Floating Freaks and Oddities, I did so more with excitement than trepidation, and I laughed, thinking of Lemàn’s panic-stricken face seeing me so close to what she had mistaken for our enemy. Always I hesitated then; it seemed eerily forgotten and I wondered about the Sky-Worshipper sleeping within. Both Leo and I had been carefully watching for any sign of life, but there was never any flicker of movement. I thought about climbing on board and one time I even got halfway to the top of the plank, before turning around and rushing back to the street, making the wood judder beneath my feet. My fear of getting lost in the dark disorientating depths was too great, and I feared I might never find my way back out again.

  Hours passed as I carefully worded and reworded all the questions that I wanted to ask my father when he finally arrived. As soon as I’d written one down, I’d reject it with a quick dissatisfied scribble. Soon there were dozens of scrunched up balls of paper chrysanthemums strewn across the floor like a high wind had swept in and de-headed the flower beds. Do you remember Lemàn? Did you love her? Did you know she was pregnant? Do you know who I am? Question after question after question. And then the most difficult question of all an
d the one I most feared: Do you want to know? From present to past and back again. I knew it was impossible to translate them word for word, but at least I didn’t need to preoccupy myself with any syntax, for Orniglossa was not assembled into a fixed pattern; just like its speakers, it flew free, its meaning unbound by any definite structure. Elver had shown me how to capture the semantics in my tone and pitch and babble of loss and longing and everything in between. It would have to be enough, and so, finally satisfied, I folded the paper and put it in my pocket, hoping my curiosity wouldn’t scare him away. I left the house and caught the boat to the university island where I would always find Leo waiting.

  Chugging across the water, I could see the mist was tantalisingly close. From the edge of the city, a few people were clambering into a small boat with the rattle and roll of empty jars at their feet. Each one eager to mend what was broken. It wouldn’t be long, I thought excitedly, noticing that nearly all the jars on the Bridge of Longing were now full.

  The sun speckled the water and I decided to enjoy its warmth a little longer by walking through the gardens to reach Leo’s study. He didn’t notice my arrival and I stood and watched him awhile from the open doorway. I found myself remembering the almost kiss. I liked him. I liked his quiet sensitivity and the way his hair fell over his glasses. Sometimes, when he brushed it away, he’d forget about them and they’d topple unexpectedly from his face, and that would make me laugh out loud. He was intelligent and sensitive and he understood me perhaps even better than I understood myself, but something was missing. In the end my mind always closed the door and went in search of another one; one that wasn’t quite so easy to open.

  He had removed one of the mounted birds from its glass dome and was cleaning its feathers with a damp paintbrush. He lifted them one at a time, stroking the soft bristles down the length of each one. Then he smoothed each one back again, with a tenderness that made me ache. It was painstaking work and I could see how much it mattered to him. I felt an itch somewhere on my back in amongst all of my feathers, but I couldn’t quite reach it or maybe it was an ache for him to touch me with the same warm affection. What a waste! That bird felt nothing. I stepped into the room and a creak gave me away.

  ‘The mist is getting closer,’ I said.

  He lifted his head and smiled. ‘Yes, I saw it this morning. I think it will reach us by the end of the week and the island too.’

  ‘I have thought of some questions I’d like to ask, but I’m not sure if I’ve translated them correctly and I wondered if you could have a look.’ I pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket.

  ‘This is impressive,’ he said slowly, raising his eyebrows. ‘You are quite the expert. I haven’t got very far with it at all, I’m afraid.’ He handed me back the paper, and I tucked it proudly back inside my pocket, without mentioning who the real expert was.

  I stayed a while longer and we chatted about his research. He made me laugh with stories of his grandfather and he drew me nearer with his tales of distant jungles and mountains. He knew more about birds than Professor Elms, and whatever question I had he had an answer for it. He led me over to a glass cabinet where three baby owls peered back at me with their glassy stare, captured in time. He explained how their feathers were soft but barbed to muffle all sound. He swung open the door and encouraged me to reach inside and touch one. It felt tiny and fragile as though the touch of my finger would be enough to crush it to pieces. As we went from cabinet to cabinet, I listened to Leo explain the different types of birds. The birds whose feathers were 104 degrees warmer than air to keep them insulated and how the nightjar could trap insects with the small, bristly feathers it grew round its mouth. There were birds who lived in the heart of the desert, whose wings soaked up water so their chicks could sip from them. Feathers could also sense the changes in the air, the impending rain or the threat of a storm, he said. Birds I had never seen before sat watchful with their emerald heads and sapphire tails like waterfalls. There were bundles of Marabou feathers and duck down, and ostrich and Macaw feathers blooming out of various earthenware pots dotted about the room. Above me a flock of white doves hung, motionless, from the ceiling. I noticed Leo try to stifle a yawn and I knew he still had work to do, and I didn’t want to keep him from it any longer.

  ‘It’s late,’ I said, finally. ‘I should be going.’

  He nodded his agreement. ‘I like our chats,’ he said, walking me to the door, where I breathed in his alpine smell, like a warm forest alive with discovery. His eyes met mine and lingered for just a little too long. I realised that for a moment I had wanted him to kiss me and I wanted to kiss him back, but it was just another almost-kiss and that’s all there ever seemed to be between us. Being with Leo felt comfortable and steady, but I wanted the danger of the collapse and fall. Evening was unfolding like a newly discovered love letter, and, as I walked across the gardens, I felt the familiar ruffle of my feathers in the air, and even though I now knew what it meant, I still wouldn’t listen.

  CHAPTER 31

  Despite the lateness of the hour, my mind was too enlivened to contemplate sleep. Back in the city, the thrum of wings was still in my ears, loud enough to keep me awake. Standing outside Elver’s window, I could see the shutters had been pushed halfway open to a pause, and a little light shone out from within. Forgetting about everything else, I bolted up the stairs – my head suddenly clear and focused – I knocked loudly on the door. Pressing my ear against the wood, I tried to hear movement from within; the shuffle of feet or the stir of a teapot. I knocked again and was just about to leave, when I heard the turn of a key and the door swung open.

  ‘Where have you been?’ My words sounded harsher than I had meant them to.

  She answered my question with a kiss, long and deep and wanting, and my mind was at once quiet, as she pulled me into the room. There was no almost kiss here.

  This time when I woke, I was relieved to find her still there, her eyes closed and her breathing soft like shallow breaking waves. Now it was my turn to watch her. Her hair spread over the pillow like spilled marmalade. Content, I drifted back to sleep and when I woke again, she was standing in the kitchen.

  ‘I’m glad you’re still here,’ I said sleepily. ‘Last time I woke up, you had disappeared.’

  There was a question in there, but it remained unanswered. She looked at me so intently I felt like something rare and valuable and worth studying.

  ‘Will you disappear again?’ I asked, crossing to sit down at the table.

  ‘I thought you understood that I have to disappear sometimes, and one day I won’t be able to come back.’ She made it sound as though it was my fault.

  ‘Disappear where?’ I tried not to sound accusatory and softened my tone, trying to coax more from her.

  She laughed, and it sounded like a gurgle of water. ‘Home, of course!’

  ‘Sybel told me about the night she found you,’ I said, inviting her to tell me the story.

  She poured some tea into two chipped cups, but still no words left her lips.

  ‘Do you remember?’ I added cautiously.

  ‘Yes – I remember,’ she replied, handing one of the cups to me.

  ‘Then tell me.’ I kept my voice low and gentle, as though I was trying to tempt a wild woodland creature to feed from my hand. ‘I’d like to hear the story.’

  Slowly she slid into a chair and, for a minute or so of silence, her eyes flickered between me and the cup. Restless in decision, she stood back up and crossed the room, where she leaned against the window, gazing down at the water below. When she spoke, her eyes were elsewhere, and nothing in the room seemed to matter.

  ‘It wasn’t long ago when it happened.’ She paused and for a moment I thought she had changed her mind about telling me, but then it fell out in a wave of emotion. ‘That night I had been swimming close to the city. I liked to do that. I liked the way the lights twinkled in the dark. The sea can be so deep and black, a place where nothing shines. I would watch and wonder
and wait to see how long each one would last. Sometimes, I’d trace my fingertips through the air joining them up to make different shapes.’ She laughed at the memory and then her face darkened. ‘But that night I was too careless.’

  ‘The night of the storm?’

  She nodded. ‘I knew it was coming. I should have swum far out to sea where the depths are quiet and still, but I didn’t listen. I thought I had time.’ She paused. ‘What did Sybel tell you?’

  As she spoke, I had the cup raised to my lips, blowing away the heat of the tea which I was yet to taste. I rested it back on its saucer. ‘She told me about the storm, and about rescuing you from the canal. About how she took you home and nursed your broken—’ I hesitated. The word was too wondrous to utter.

  ‘My broken tail?’

  I nodded, and finally took a sip of my tea, wanting her to continue. It was her story to tell.

  ‘I don’t remember much about my recovery, but I remember that the pain was eased only by Sybel’s ointments and herbs. I was so cold, and it even hurt to breathe.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then?’ She threw my question back at me.

  I wanted to hear the next part, the part about Doctor Marino and what he meant to her – what he still meant, but of course I couldn’t find the words to formulate such difficult questions. ‘Well, what I mean is that you’re still here and you don’t have a tail, unless you’re hiding it well.’

  ‘I am not the one hiding anything, and you know that very well after the last time we met.’

  She reached across the table and steadied my hand. ‘You should cast off that old shabby coat; you are much too beautiful to hide.’

  I felt suddenly shy and busied myself swirling the dregs of tea left behind in my cup.

  ‘With Sybel’s help, we changed everything.’