Lightmaker Read online

  Phos inched upward as breath seeped back into her chest, and she raised her arm. His second stroke splashed more fire across her fingers. The third left her teetering and sweating. Her classroom turned grey, but she locked her knees and waited. Grump’s mouth hovered beside Phos’s ear as his whisper wormed through her.

  ‘The world never changes. It has always worked this way and will continue in this fashion forever. Will you question me again?’

  Madness dressed as punishment. She imagined snatching his cane and screaming back a volley of words before running into the forest. No. He’d cuff her to the ground or cane her face. Phos blinked, and her head nodded before she clamped her hand under her arm and shuffled back to her bench. She’d found Grump’s delicate spot. Questions about their world scared teachers, and priests terrified teachers enough to turn detentions into canings, but could this knowledge be used?

  Gree and his burly friends stared open-mouthed. She’d not planned to impress troublemakers, but she nodded back. Grump’s cane scraped the blackboard as words leaked again from his mouth. Fatigued syllables described villages and woods snuggling the tunnel’s floor. He stepped back, and his cane scratched his drawing.

  The other children stayed silent.

  ‘Without beginning and without end, these limits define us, and we embrace our bonds as our walls embrace us. We must revere hunger because hunger reveals our limits, and our limits create our souls.’

  Phos shivered.

  Everyone faced forward for the words of dismissal, but the priests stood to bracket Grump and murmur into his ear. Grump stared at Phos, and his lips whispered her name, Dad’s name, Mum’s name, all captured with a priest’s twitching pencil, and their teacher forced a smile onto his face before following the invaders outside. Once the door slammed, the boys stood and bustled towards their woodwork lesson. Most glanced her way as they passed, and Gree winked and gazed at her. Most boys marked the girls out of ten, even those who couldn’t count, and she was used to coming near the bottom, so his thick-lipped smirking made another puzzle.

  ‘You want anything, Phos? Leaves for the pain?’

  She shook her head. Even if Grump had flounced off, she’d never give a teacher an easy win, and her lips stayed shut as she sat with the other girls for embroidery. Three angry streaks striped her hand, and she fumbled the needle. Their teacher fussed until she saw the welts. Her neighbour had talent; her threads pierced linen to weave a crimson rose over black cloth.

  Ask a question and earn a caning. She might ask other teachers, but what if the priests scared them too? A single tear rolled over one cheek, but she wiped it clear.

  Could you learn by asking questions of nature? Plants told stories by budding and flowering, and she’d asked how plants knew when to grow their leaves, what instructions lurked inside seeds and stems. Dad hadn’t known, and he’d shouted when she’d torn a rose apart; the shreds in her hand had taught her nothing. But throw seeds onto bare earth and they’d bring life, so she’d keep watching.

  Outside and home time, the sun’s arch had crept eveward, and the other girls jostled past her to rush home before the evening winds. A strangled chittering screeched from above, but the scratching branches were empty. Phos stumbled back through the growing shadows to the school courtyard while nursing her palm. She’d struggle to hide the welts from Mum, and she’d never conceal the passion she’d hatched in the priests.

  Feet pattered behind, and she turned as the blacksmith’s son, Mitch, gangled towards her – all limb and scuttle. He’d ripped his shirt last week, and no one had sewn the tear; ribs showed on his flanks, and his wispy hair had matted into fawn-coloured clumps.

  ‘You all right? No question deserves a caning.’

  ‘Depends on the question,’ Phos said.

  ‘You sounded angry, and I’ve never seen anyone angry with Grump before. Were you testing him?’

  Phos glanced back towards the school. ‘I’ll test everything. Now I know priests frighten teachers, and teachers want to hide the past.’

  ‘You’re making your own lessons.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s the way, seeing as school teaches nothing.’

  ‘Watch out for those priests: they’re swarming the villages.’ Mitch darted forward, and his feet skimmed over the mud.

  The chapel’s stone pyramid squatted at the courtyard’s far edge. In this twilight, the door made a grey gash, but a reluctant dribble of lantern light sneaked out, along with adult voices. If priests caught her loitering, they’d grab her, but she dawdled past.

  Each village held the same pyramid, and each bustled with priests who swaddled themselves in black robes. Each village had its own garb: scratchy leather jerkins for Belhander, linen tunics for Leester, swirling blue robes for Pulgro’s riverside fishers, stooping in their stilt houses, but however far you travelled, the priests all sweated inside those satiny uniforms. Who told priests how to dress?

  Phos listened but heard only a whispered voice smothered with hissing tones. She crept back to the crossroads and along the school path. Dad had told her not to walk back alone, but she’d learn more by breaking rules.

  Ideas came: she’d retrace those day-long treks she’d taken through the forest around her village to seek new sorts of flowers and berries, or look for another pair of those trees that grew into each other; anything to make sense. One villager might hoard an ancient book with clues about a hidden cave, or she might hear whispers of hidden towns around the ring where priests never stepped. She’d press Dad for a Morzenthal visit. Seeing the past or reading forbidden books might uncover hints of some forgotten escape route – help her become more than a wife. Everyone flinched when priests walked past, so if priests were scared of Morzenthal, she should carry her questions there. What caused those tangled thickets of wild bracken she’d seen by her house? Why did nameless plants appear beside this road? Why had so many animals turned savage? Had her world grown from a single seed?

  Her own questions left her mind spinning, and Phos paused as pools of shadow spread across her path. Her questions would fill books, but she’d never find enough answers. Lies often sounded like truth, so how could she sift true from false?

  Her lookout tree rotted further up the path. From its top she’d imagined herself hovering over Leester’s forest, but she’d never poke her head above the ceiling of leaves again. She’d never heard of anyone escaping marriage; even Dad, with his patient answers, couldn’t see any way out. Black thoughts circled her mind, as painful as the throbbing welts scarring her hand – did priests wait at home?

  Chapter 2: cider without a glass

  Caliper’s room swayed and the floor creaked as his windmill waited for the evening winds, but he’d stay to relish these last few quiet moments. Enough buttery daylight trickled through his two windows to let him plonk bread and cheese on his table; he had space for his cider flagon and that tinker’s jar. The cogwheels twitched behind him, and sawdust still spiced the air from those new gear teeth. Scratches covered his hands, but he’d eat now and share with the fly buzzing above his head. His table wobbled and creaked as his backside spread over the tiny wicker chair.

  Cider foamed and amber bubbles frothed against the tinker’s blackened jar. All twist and sag it was, but the beaker still held drink. The tinker from Belhander village had tossed the thing, but Caliper wasted nothing. Pour cider, beer, water, tea, even piss in there, and the liquid fitted no matter its class – almost like the jar gave orders.

  The cider had strength, and for all its kinks, the beaker held a decent swallow. After two gulps he saw himself as the cider. He’d fill a huge glass, sure, but half-pints always left him chuckling. The priests rabbited on about nature designing everything, and if they were right, nature must have designed his belly: a place to rest his jar.

  Caliper knew he could swear for two minutes without repeating; curse words coiled inside him night and day, but he only ever spat them out when alone. Sure, he’d imagine himself spitting fire over the priests,
but their long words and black robes made him bottle his fury inside his guts. He’d bend around their orders and do their bidding without argue. Like his cider. Afterwards he’d grind his teeth and hate the weakness sloshing inside him, but he’d do nothing but drink his booze and flick cider drops off his beard.

  There stood his trouble; strength only came when he sat alone. No one would sit beside him tonight; no one ever did, but with luck he’d not be alone.

  Two futures beckoned. Both were threats, but they were threats of different flavours. One route meant some class of safety: grind the grain brought by Leester’s villagers and deliver their flour. Money would trickle in, and he’d receive blessings and invites to festivals, and he’d keep his belly stuffed. That path was certain; a thousand millers had trodden it before, but his mind never stopped reckoning the second path.

  If he mulled over that route, he’d see a narrow trail winding through a wolf-haunted forest crammed with thorns and sudden snarling jaws. Even if he survived the windmill’s fall, there’d be screaming fury in the faces of the chasing priests and guards, and people talked of starving brigands prowling the forest between Leester’s farms and the southern world wall. Caliper had tens of reasons to stay a miller and only one to take the second road – Christina’s road.

  Sunset tinted the wooden beams and bricks, but memories of Christina’s face roamed across his mind. Full lips, a bold sweep of nose and those rounded eyes he always lost himself in: her face gave him courage to walk with danger. He’d borrow her strength and become cider without a glass, and stop obeying those sneering priests.

  Too many friends had fallen silent. Carpenters and stonemasons vanished for weeks and returned with downcast faces; fear sealed their lips and stories went unspoken. His stonemason friend Turllog kept snarling back at the black robes, spurning their orders with fresh swear words, but the priests kept dropping words in his ear, sentences wrapped around unspoken threats. Turllog’s wife had found his body behind their cottage in Ferstus. The priests had never tried hauling Caliper away. Perhaps their plans didn’t need millers, but rebellion had begun to smoulder in his chest that day, and if he let Christina’s words enter his heart the flames would burst into life.

  Shadows stroked his windows, and for one heartbeat the eveward treetops bit notches from the distant bow of light, but the sun’s arch dipped below the horizon, and darkness flooded his room. Above him the rafters and stolen lanterns faded into the roof’s black pitch, and Caliper fumbled under his table to pull out a candle. It popped and fizzed. Had he grabbed a special? No, he held a normal candle, just a rotten one, like most things these days. If any guards caught him, they’d knock his teeth out, but he’d not drink in darkness.

  He’d sweated deep into the nights to carve out Christina’s changes, sweated whenever his body had obeyed him. Sometimes fear had frozen his hands, and on those nights he’d crawled under his bedding sacks to hate the coward inside. He’d learned how cider might coax him back into chiselling those curved gear teeth she’d drawn, and he’d strung up those flowing windmill sails with their curves and slats shaped like a bird’s wing, but fear still shook his hands. When the cider wasn’t enough, he’d tell himself he could rip out the new gears and hide the sails and keep clear from the second path, and that had kept his hands turning, carving Christina’s designs into sweeping arcs of wood and canvas. Yesterday he’d hoisted the new sails into place.

  Now the night for choosing was here, and Christina’s sails fluttered while waiting for the evening winds. She’d said they’d bite the wind better than the old. His body wanted the safety of staying a miller, but his mind wanted more, wanted to plunge into Christina’s journey. Didn’t a man need danger to live? Grey hairs threaded through his beard, so how long could he keep slinging flour bags into carts?

  Caliper drained his jar and shook out the last few drops before slamming it onto the table. His cooking pots glinted in the yellow flicker, but they could stay dangling from the wall hooks: if he found the strength tonight he’d not need them again.

  He stood and tugged the wires chaining the lanterns, all linked to the brass box she’d had him steal from a church. Each visit had seen Christina guiding him through her changes. He’d not understood them all, but he’d followed her, and now he’d wait for the winds.

  Yesterday he’d nudged his reforged windmill into running at quarter pace, and his home’s sullen chatter had become a slick pulse, a hushed murmur of oiled speed that boiled dust from the ceiling. His lanterns had glimmered for a minute before fading, and Christina had said running the windmill at full speed would spew light across the countryside, enough for her to see with whatever class of eyes she had. Those new gears would also rip his home apart, which meant he’d have beaten his body, and the coward’s choice wouldn’t be a choice any more: he’d have burned the safety out of his life. Hanging up his patched overalls and apron might celebrate the change, but he’d no other clothes.

  The outside light faded as the vault shaded to grey, and his windmill twitched under the evening winds like an old man grumbling before work. Rats had been trouble, but he’d not seen one for months.

  The bricks behind the cogwheels twisted and warped, and the mortar wove itself into a net of curves. Cider or Christina? His dawnward walls shuddered and stretched like molten glass – she always made his world dance. Fog billowed before him before writhing into Christina’s face. The cogwheels behind her stayed visible as the watery smoke curdled to form her shoulders. Her lower body would fill his downstairs space, and plumes of mist settled around her head. Shoulder-length hair twitched in a breeze he couldn’t feel.

  Breath surged through his mouth. ‘It’s yourself.’

  Christina’s voice slid into his head; her lips parted, but they never fitted her words.

  ‘Is your signal ready, Caliper?’

  ‘You still need my light?’

  Ripples quivered over her face like a reflection thrown on water. ‘I tried everything, but I cannot see your location: my eyes differ from yours, and much here has broken.’

  How long would her image stay this time? Her light bathed his room and glinted from his copper pots. Anyone outside would see him stand, but he’d not care. ‘You’ve not told me how wind becomes light.’

  ‘I’ll explain later.’

  ‘These winds are your man, and they’re coming, and your lanterns are ready.’

  ‘Once they glow, I’ll place you on my map, but right now I cannot tell your location.’

  ‘I do this, and the church will chase me without stopping for breath.’

  Christina blinked, and her face faded for a heartbeat before returning. ‘You can stop; slow your windmill and remain as you are.’

  ‘And we’ll never meet.’

  ‘You’ve decided?’ Her eyes wavered, and her face tilted sideways a fraction. Did light dazzle him, or were tears streaming across her cheeks?

  ‘Decided long ago, so I did. You’ll see where I live, and you’ll guide me. I’ve no return once your winds wake the windmill.’ Christina never appeared for long, but would the cider glowing in his stomach help him destroy the windmill?

  Again ripples swelled over her image, but she raised her hand, and her misty fingers hovered a half-inch above his cheek. ‘Ensure you’re outside and head dawnward. I am sorry about your windmill, but I need an immense amount of light. I can’t stay; it remains your decision, but we must meet.’

  ‘You should stay, Christina, and feel our wind here.’

  ‘Too much fails, and….’ Scratches hid her face for a heartbeat before her features reappeared. ‘…I know you’ve strength for this. I must….’ Her image faded, and his space snapped back into its old shape, bricks swaddled in mortar, battered pots hanging on hooks. Sweat trickled over his brow, and he slumped back onto his wicker chair to guzzle the bread and cheese he’d slapped on his table, mouldier than usual, but if he wolfed it fast enough, there’d be no noticing. Some joker had given him a comb once, and it had made a de
cent toothpick, but he’d snapped it last year.

  She wasn’t a dream; that was sure. Dreams changed each night, and the same smile always danced over Christina’s misty eyes. Christina was real, though maybe there’d be different flavours of real – flavours no priest ever mentioned. His journey might teach him.

  He’d have a few more heartbeats of flickering candlelight before the winds. Timbers quivered and temptation nagged: if he threw enough cloth into the gears, he’d stay with his flour sacks and keep mumbling through church services and be a miller with warm bedding and the full belly. Christina’s face haunted him. If he failed to take her path, colour would drain from his world.

  He lit two more candles, and fresh winds brushed his cheek. The gears behind clattered into life, and his sails strained into motion. His floor bucked as the cogwheels jammed and the sails groaned. Splintering sounds came, and Caliper choked back his swearing as he knelt to peer at the gears. A tooth had sprung from its socket to clog the wheel, and Caliper fished a mallet from his apron.

  If he knocked the tooth back into place, he’d start Christina’s journey; if he stayed his hand, he’d stay a miller. A final battle, and now his hand wouldn’t move, but he gulped air and closed his eyes as the floor throbbed. Memories of Christina’s floating hair came as if she’d stroked his mind, memories of Turllog’s beer-soaked stories, and Caliper grinned before smacking the tooth into its socket.

  Life rocked the floor as gears snapped, and Caliper jumped back. Sails snared wind, and ruddy shadows flickered over his walls and ceiling. The lanterns drank wind and spat it back out as light, which grew brighter each moment. No return – his mind had won, and he’d carve the sky with radiance.

  The windmill screamed as its beams splintered and the lanterns flared violet-white. Each new gust spattered shadows everywhere, and streams of dust poured from the roof as cracks ripped through his floor. Had he stayed too long? He hurtled down the stairs. This illegal light meant rebirth, and he snatched up his backpack before striding out to gulp air, tart and fresh after the dust. Sails swooped six feet above as violet light spilled over the hillock ahead. The surrounding trees became shimmering fingers of light, and the crashing sounds made him wince, but he climbed.