Feathertide Page 23

  Leo left the room and I dressed as quickly as my bruises would allow. Being with Elver blurred everything else away. How could she just vanish so easily? The story was true: mermaids were cursed creatures; they lured you in and left you to drown. Walking into the kitchen I was relieved to find that Zephyros was still alive. Sybel was on her hands and knees, trying to spoon an oily mixture into his mouth. His eyes were no longer open at all, and she had to prize his jaw open with her fingers to get the medicine down his throat; he had no strength left to do it himself. I felt an overwhelming surge of grief as she tickled him tenderly on his belly and he wheezed, trying to show his appreciation. I could hear the rattle of his lungs from across the room, but already he wore his blanket like a shroud.

  ‘Leo told me your father has arrived,’ she said.

  I nodded, unhooking my coat from behind the door.

  ‘How is he?’ I asked, returning my gaze to Zephyros.

  She smiled sadly. ‘While there is a beating heart, there is still hope.’

  I rushed forwards, flinging my arms around her; she was too wide for my hands to meet, but I felt her immediate warmth as I sunk against her. ‘What’s that for?’ she asked, surprised by my unexpected affection.

  I shrugged. ‘I wanted to make you feel better.’

  Leo was waiting for me on the steps, half hidden in the swirling mist. Up close, I could see its intricate pattern. Glittering its silver dance. As we walked, it felt damp on our skin like a sprinkle of tiny kisses.

  ‘They’re in the square behind the Church of One Hundred Souls,’ he replied. ‘Selling jars of mist to heal the broken-hearted.’

  Of course, I thought to myself with a smile; the church Lemàn had spoken of, and I knew exactly where to find it.

  It was the birds I noticed first. Hundreds of them. Scattered across the ground like giant breadcrumbs, sitting high on the roof tops, nestled in alcoves and on window ledges. It was just as Lemàn had described it to me. There was a warm humming sound of contentment, which vibrated across the square. For a brief moment I thought they must have been trapped by a giant net hanging from the buildings, but when I looked up, the square was open to the sky and the birds were free to come and go as they pleased. A solitary feather floated through the air from a pigeon grooming itself from above. It wasn’t just pigeons, which strutted and preened; it seemed as though all the birds of the city had gathered in this one place and I knew exactly why. He was here.

  Carefully, we waded through them to cross to the other side. The birds shuffled around slowly, unwilling to move out of the way and we struggled not to tread on them. One misplaced step would leave a crush of broken bones and flattened feathers.

  ‘There!’ exclaimed Leo, pointing up ahead.

  We were standing in front of three wooden stalls hammered together with nails. The tables were lined with jars, row after row of them, stacked one on top of another, snuggled together side by side, various sizes and shapes, but all with the same magical mist frothing and swirling and twinkling inside. A small queue had formed and people were making their purchases, quickly and silently, furtively dropping their chosen jars into coat pockets or open bags or even under their hats before turning away, hoping they hadn’t been spotted. Heartbreak sometimes required discretion. What mesmerised me more, though, were the two men at the stall. Both were tall and thin and fidgety, and all of them were covered, unashamedly, in a display of large feathers. There was no mistaking them and, unlike mine, they were long and thick and proud. Whereas I grew tufts on my shoulder blades, and nothing more, they had two magnificent gleaming wings, that lay folded over their backs like a warm cape. Looking closer, I was disappointed to see that none of these men had the pale-blue eyes of my father.

  ‘I don’t think he’s here,’ I said, scanning the square in disappointment. ‘Are you sure you saw him?’

  Leo tentatively approached the stall, and tried to make himself understood. The strange clipped words flew off his tongue, and the men stepped back, suddenly startled, not sure what to make of this stranger communicating in their obscure and secretive language. His babbles went unanswered; perhaps they were not understood. They turned to one another and I could hear the crk crk of their deeply animated conversation. I recognised the tone of curiosity.

  Then something caught my eye. A man was filling a bowl with water from an old tap in the wall. He wasn’t far away and I could see his outline from where I stood and the brightness of his feathers rage against the dull fabric of his clothes – ragged and ill-fitting, patched in places to hold them together. He sprang up and limbered awkwardly towards us. He moved as though his legs were not his own, all stiff with high exaggerated steps, as though he wasn’t used to using them. I could see he was as thin as a reed with knots at his knees and elbows, which if untied would send him collapsing in a heap to the ground.

  As he approached, I noticed his eyes; so blue, and so bright they shone like the surface of Neptune. They reminded me of the birds’ eggs I saw as a child; delicate, fragile and so easily crushed. Then I remembered Lemàn’s tattoo, the bird on her wrist, the same unforgettable blue; an exact match.

  I knew with absolute certainty that standing right in front of me, conjured out of the wondrous mist, was my father. I had imagined him for so long, that, now he was here, I didn’t know what to do. A moment passed, then another and another, and all we could do was watch each other, not yet ready for anything else. I reached out for Leo to keep me steady.

  ‘It’s him,’ I whispered, placing my trembling hand on his.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered back. ‘It is.’

  I could feel the unstoppable swell of tears, and everything I had been waiting for and wishing for was finally about to unfold. Time stopped then. I was too overwhelmed to breathe another word, and I felt myself lean against Leo’s shoulder to stop myself from dropping to the ground. My whole body fluttered, inside and out, and I felt Leo’s strong hand clasp around mine to still my shivers.

  Through the blur of my tears, I watched as my father pursed his lips in thought, trying to make sense of the two strangers standing in front of him. We had never met before, yet I could tell I was somehow familiar to him. I had his eyes and his wild flaming hair. Our mouths were different; whereas his was small and thin, I had the wide, tilting lips of Lemàn. Instinctively, I lowered my collar and felt the jostle of my wakening feathers spring free. In sudden understanding, his mouth opened in shock and the bowl clattered to the ground, where the water spilled across our feet in a silent blessing. Neither of us moved for what felt like hours, and the water trickled away in tiny unbroken rivers. In that one instant, he knew what I knew, and we saw ourselves reflected back at each other.

  CHAPTER 34

  Not once did he avert his gaze from my face, as though he couldn’t believe what was standing right in front of him; one blink to chase it all away. There was no kissing, no holding hands, no wild embrace. We were connected without touch. He stared at me in disbelief and I stared back. Then he reached out his long sinewy hand and gently touched the gash on my face.

  ‘Shall we go somewhere to talk?’ suggested Leo. ‘The lilac gardens perhaps?’

  I nodded, suddenly unable to find the words in any language. Leo stepped forward and began to translate. All the time my nervous excitement bloomed faster than a drop of ink onto blotting paper. As we walked, the sunlight lit his feathers and they shone and flamed against the warmth like gleaming treasure. We reached a quiet stretch of lawn by the fountain, where we finally sat down.

  ‘My name is Maréa,’ I said, starting with the easiest thing I could think of. I patted my chest and repeated my name. Then I pointed at him, ‘Eddero,’ I said.

  He blinked, and I wasn’t sure if he understood what I was telling him.

  I tried to speak Orniglossa. ‘Why did you leave?’ I must have muddled the sounds because he still gave no sign of understanding. I turned to Leo for help, but he nudged me and nodded towards my father.

  His eyes had be
gun to glisten with sadness. He looked down at his hands, in sorrow or regret or shame for all the missed years. Then he did something astonishing and completely unexpected – he spoke.

  ‘I knew,’ he said quietly. His words cracked open like fragile shells, and his voice sounded like it hadn’t been used in years. Shocked, I looked at Leo, who sat in open-mouthed amazement.

  ‘What did you know?’ he asked, his voice soft and coaxing.

  ‘You. I knew you were out there somewhere,’ he replied, looking directly at me.

  ‘But that’s impossible – how could you have known?’ My words burst from my lips. ‘My mother left the city before she even knew herself.’

  ‘I sensed it all this time. Each day I could hear the movement of your feathers. Once they grew silent and I feared you were lost for ever, but then the sound returned, stronger and clearer, and I never gave up hope again.’

  He was getting used to his voice now, and each word sounded like the patter of a raindrop on a thick shiny leaf. He looked guilty as he spoke, but I reached out my hand and rested it on his knee, so thin and bony that I was afraid it might snap. For some reason it made me feel sad. His feathers lay one on top of the other, folded away neatly like the washing.

  ‘I had to leave with the island,’ he explained. ‘I looked for her, but I couldn’t find her. I tried so very hard, but it was too late—’ His shoulders slumped and his whole body seemed to sink into some untold weariness, a heavy grief he had carried for so long.

  Would things have been so different if he had found her? Would the slow swell of her stomach have been enough to clip his wings? I couldn’t possibly know the answers, but I imagined them, allowing myself a glimpse of a different life. They were opposites in every way; one so large and safe, the other small and light; one with a voice so strong and clear it could blow away the clouds, the other so high and shrill it could pierce the sun in an explosion of warmth; one still and solid, the other ever-shifting and floating, near and far, earth and air. But both of them were mine.

  That afternoon in the gardens, by a laughing fountain, two strangers slowly became father and daughter. A lifetime of separation couldn’t be resolved in the passing of just a few hours, but everything has to have a beginning and this was ours. It was the beginning of us. The first stitch to close a wound. Never again seamless, but at least the repair had begun. He told me his story, only occasionally stumbling over his words, and then I learned the answers to the questions I had been holding onto for such a very long time.

  When he had left Lemàn, he had planned to return to the hotel the following night, not realising she had left that morning. Finding her room empty, he tried to ask the proprietor where she was, but he hadn’t learned to speak and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make himself understood. The mist swirled and had begun to thin, ready to whisk the island away. He had no choice then but to leave with the decision to learn her language and the language of those who could help him find us both.

  ‘Staying was impossible.’ He shook his head hopelessly, regretting what had happened all those years ago. He explained how the Ornis Tribe needed the mist to give them strength. Without it, life would be limited and staying away from the island would be a death sentence. He had almost been too late.

  The arrival of rain forced us to seek shelter under the nearby trees. Standing next to the lilac bushes filled with the rustle of tiny starlings, I watched my father. He remained standing in the grass with his wings spread wide, and his mouth open to the rain. He trilled happily, letting it bounce off his feathers for the whole world to see. You live as a bird, you become one, I realised. Enthralled, I wanted to be a part of it. Ducking my head beneath the canopy of leaves, I ran to his side and tilted my head to the sky. Somewhere a fire was burning and I could taste the smoke and ash in the air. Sensing I was there next to him, he lifted his wings and wrapped them around me in a warm embrace. A dark comfort. We laughed then, and returned to the trees where he shook the rain from his wings. I noticed how hunched his shoulders appeared, their blades knotted together making him look awkward and uncomfortable perched on the high stone wall.

  He continued his story, and, with Leo’s help, the mysteries between us slowly unravelled. I sat listening and stroking my feathery hair, thinking of our similarities. Our thin bones, almost weightless, our hair aflame, our ability to hear things from so very far away, to sense the arrival of something long before it appeared, and most of all, our eyes. Bright and alert, blue and sparkling like sunlight dancing on water. It was clear he loved Lemàn as much as she loved him, but they belonged in two different worlds, two different elements, and Lemàn was not the woman he remembered her to be.

  It seemed he had remained faithful like the sun – warm and strong and burning with hope – whereas Lemàn had not. She had bedded hundreds of men, and no matter the reason, she had not remained true. Sometimes, her heart was as luminous and full as a harvest moon, but then it was sliced with the whirring blade of time into a translucent, mercurial crescent; a sliver of a thing. It knew nothing of love then.

  ‘Where is she?’ He finally sought the answer he had wanted from the very beginning.

  I hesitated, not sure how much to tell him. ‘She lives a long way from here. Her room is at the top of a crumbling house, hidden in the clouds so close to the sky.’ I watched his face, but he was gazing into the distance as though he was trying to imagine it all. Leo nodded at me to continue. ‘She told me about you. She still has your feather pressed between the pages of a book – I saw it before I left. She tried to find you too.’ I reached out and placed my hand gently on his arm.

  ‘Did she?’ He seemed surprised, and blinked sadly at finally hearing the truth so many years too late. ‘I suppose we both got lost along the way.’

  After that we sat in silence, wondering about what could have been.

  His question broke the silence. ‘Is she happy?’

  I nodded and smiled at her memory. The way she laughed and the way she hummed as she fixed pins in her hair; the way she danced and twirled around my room, her smell like summer-soaked lemons about to burst from the branch; the way she wrapped her arms around me telling me stories; the way she made me feel beautiful before I discovered the ugliness of the world outside, and the way she protected me from it for as long as she could, but then loved me enough to let me go. And it was true, she was happy – most of the time – but there were always moments when the memories gathered and fell fast, dampening her pillow even in her sleep.

  I imagined a love like his didn’t see size or shape, blind to change in all its forms, but Lemàn hadn’t taken well to growing older. Her body sagged from overuse and her hair had been stripped of its colour like a winter sky. Wrinkles burrowed deep into her skin, like hibernating creatures and her eye lids drooped heavily, hooded as though she had seen enough of the world. Lemàn was worn out, but if Sybel was right, and she always was, then Lemàn had found love again. I didn’t mention any of this to my father. Some things are best left unspoken.

  After that, we left talk of Lemàn behind, and instead our conversation turned to us. Until a few hours ago, he had no idea I even existed, but then the recognition was instant and mutual. He still stumbled over his words as though he had just woken from a deep sleep, and when he got lost or wasn’t sure of something he would slip back into his own language for safety. His intonation rose and fell quickly like steep mountain slopes, with its plosives and fricatives and its absence of any discernible vowel sounds. Sometimes, I caught the meaning, but he was much too fast and I got left behind.

  ‘I would like to see you again tomorrow,’ he said, with the curious tilt of his head that he did a lot.

  ‘I would like that too,’ I replied. As he came closer and rubbed his cheek against mine, I could smell long buried roots finally unearthed. Then with a noisy clacking of his shoulder blades he disappeared down the street.

  I smiled, stowing deep the memory of the day. Walking back through the park with Leo, ou
r hands brushed together and then I felt the warmth of his fingers as he clasped mine; I was too distracted to pull away. When we parted at the boat stop, he kissed me gently on the lips, and I was too exhilarated to understand its meaning and the promise it held; my mind was elsewhere. Thoughts turned to my father and I wondered where he was at this hour.

  Strangely, the house was still awake when I arrived, and I could hear voices, low and hushed, stirring from the kitchen. I hurried to the door and inside I saw Sybel slumped at the table. I couldn’t see her eyes or the expression they held, for she had her head bent as though in sombre prayer. Something was wrong. Instead of being clasped together, her hands were clenched in two fists of angry despair.

  Movement coaxed my eye across the room, and there, kneeling by Zephyros’s box, was Doctor Marino. It took me a moment to work out what was happening, and then with dark realisation, I suddenly understood the horrible anguish in the room.

  ‘No!’ I cried in alarm, not knowing whether to rush first to Sybel or to Zephyros; instead, I did neither. I was rooted. Sybel didn’t lift her head; she didn’t move at all. Soundless, I couldn’t tell if she was crying. It was as though she had nothing left to give, not even her tears. A fallen husk. When I sank to the bench, she didn’t shuffle along to make room, but I squashed against her and wrapped my arm across her back. She was still soft and warm and breathing like bread just taken from the oven – not like a husk at all. I joined her in silent tears; each one a pilgrim of grief. Doctor Marino stood up to leave; there was nothing more to be done.

  ‘It’s time for me to go,’ he said gently, lifting his bag from the chair.

  Sybel closed her eyes, and held her chin tucked against her neck. Doctor Marino advanced towards the door, but as he past he paused for a moment and lay a hand gently on her back, just above mine. His touch, or perhaps the unexpectedness of it, made her lip quiver and her huge shoulders shuddered like a heavy rambling carriage along a rutted road. Although she didn’t raise her head, she nodded, almost imperceptibly, and her gratitude was clearly understood. Words would come later, but for now it was all she had. Finally, she found the strength to lift her head, and her frightened eyes stared back at me, as though lost in the gloom of a deep, dark well.