Lightmaker Page 7

  ‘You owe me a thousand answers, so you do, and I’m sure you’re squatting on ten thousand stories, but I’d welcome the drop of water.’

  ‘I made you new supplies. Can you follow me?’

  Caliper’s ribs creaked as he stood. ‘Everything works, though I’ve fierce pain.’

  Christina’s watery image winked out, and all twelve feet of her body reappeared, standing now; her sandalled feet hovered four inches above the turf. She glided towards another stone, with a silver bag sitting at its base. Inside, his hands brushed candles of both types, rope, loaves, cheese and a small beer bottle. He uncorked it, but the acrid gunk inside left him gagging.

  ‘You’ll never make a brewer.’

  ‘There’s water too.’

  More rummaging in the bag brought him a glass water bottle and a set of tools looking as if she’d carved them from a hunk of iron.

  ‘I felt you wake the henge, Caliper, and I’ve not sensed that before. You’ve three days’ dawnward walk left, but you must stay hidden, and you must hurry.’

  ‘I’ve visited Torzene; it’s never three days off.’ Caliper stared up at her face; mist had never sculpted itself into such elegance: her billowing robe hinted at her figure. Even though she was made of mist, he couldn’t stop his staring – perhaps you only ever saw perfection when you fell in love. If he found her for real he’d never want the looking away.

  ‘What blinded me?’

  ‘The surveying program examines growth in trees and grass, but it’s not calibrated for new buildings.’

  ‘So Torzene’s being rebuilt.’

  ‘I sense people gathering three hours’ walk from you, but this Torzene must be the wrong place; you must avoid it. Walk three days dawnward, and bring others if you can.’

  ‘You want others?’ He tried reading Christina’s face but only saw a patient calm. Would they not share moments alone?

  ‘I’ll explain when we meet, but we must meet. This connection will fail in moments, so stay safe and bring friends.’

  Christina’s image froze and faded; a few folds of her robe hung like ribbons in the air before vanishing. What could others bring? Was she planning a contest, or did she need assistants? He scowled.

  Caliper stared dawnward to trace out a path; the wood he’d seen sat a touch north of dawnward, and the track beyond led to Torzene, so Christina must have misread the distance. Had another of her machines broken?

  His hand brushed a stone’s gnarled surface; he’d known ladders to creak and break underneath to pitch him sprawling over earth, but he’d never blamed the ladder, and he’d not blame whatever contraptions crouched inside these stones. Perhaps Christina hoped he’d find someone with hidden knowledge. They might have read one of those books with painted pictures, or skills might dance in their fingers, skill to work these stones well.

  The sun’s arch clung against the world walls like a barrel’s hoop; if he nudged north, he’d reach Torzene by early afternoon. The thicket of elm trees made a start, and Caliper’s feet padded over the emerald grass.

  Bark had sloughed from trunks to expose wan patches of pulp, and the leaves had crisped into an early autumn’s gold as Caliper strode forward. There’d be comfort with the right thoughts; he’d dream of Christina’s arms, and an embrace, and her words whispering in his ear and her fingers wrapping his. He pictured a silver thread winding between them, a thread growing shorter with every step so no one could say they weren’t connected.

  Doubt still nagged his heart and his pace slowed. Why did she want others – did she think him lacking?

  Chapter 7: you’ll take the darkest path

  Grey light elbowed Phos awake, and she rolled over. Twigs snapped, and mould stink left her retching. The branches above throttled daylight into drab slices, enough to let her glimpse her house; brown muck slathered her tunic, and leaves clung to her hair as she sat up. Her left foot stayed numb, and her fingers still reeked of the rotten stick she’d grasped.

  A few minutes before dawn. Had those invaders camped overnight in her kitchen? The house looked like an anvil resting on grass, but the shutters stayed dark. Hunger left her giddy, and she crept into the back garden and towards the shattered front door before listening. No sound. She stepped into the gloom, and her muddied boots skidded on the polished floor before tangling with a wrecked picture frame. Shafts of daylight trickled through the kitchen shutters, enough to show gold and crimson streaks of powder splashed over the tiles. The thugs had smashed the spice jars above the door and ripped the drawers from the dresser.

  Phos slunk upstairs. They’d slashed her hammock and bedclothes, and forced open her trunk to rip her dolls apart. She clamped her mouth shut and knelt to run her hands over the remains of her knitted figures. For each doll, she listed a classmate who might house her, but her hands froze: calling someone a friend never stopped them running to priests. Two or three days’ hiding in the forest might give her time to learn and ask the right questions. Had guards seized other parents, or had her school question summoned these invaders? Each question spawned a clutch of possible answers, but how could she winkle out any truth?

  She could push furniture back into place and sweep up the crockery shards, but the guards had stripped her house and scattered Dad’s books over his bedroom floor. She scooped the volumes back, but gaps remained on the shelves like broken teeth. A single sheet wafted out, a sketched circle wrapped by a maze, with Dad’s writing crawling around the image of Morzenthal, the museum city far to dawnward. Coins littered the floor.

  Mum’s fragrance lingered, and sitting beside Dad’s books bathed her in the musty richness of words, but those scents would fade. Phos rose and walked back to her bedroom to stuff the one surviving red-haired doll inside her backpack.

  Outside, and she walked with bowed head towards Dad’s blackwood shed and wrestled the door open. He’d bought stacks of crocks for repotting plants, but the men had shattered each pot; green streaks of plant life wound around clay shards. The air was heavy with peat, and she remembered Dad saying how shifting plants into bigger pots let them grow. Now she needed her own world, one large enough to let her mature – no schoolgirl could survive alone.

  Phos walked on but saw nothing. Trees passed by in a haze of moss-covered bark as she paced forward. Had other schoolchildren escaped the guards, and would they seek familiar places? Had they seen her parents?

  The elms’ sour taint shook her from her thoughts; she’d reached the school path. Too open. Phos backed into the forest on her left and picked her way through the tree trunks. She stopped every few moments to listen, but drizzle rattled the papery leaves. She’d sneak into school and hunt ledgers and diaries: some teacher might have recorded orders, and the priests should have finished their arresting by now.

  Phos crept past the crossroads, glancing around her each moment until she reached the school’s southern fence. One section had buckled, and she squeezed through the wooden slats. Inside, an empty cart waited beside the bakery, and the playing fields stood deserted. A pair of child’s trousers sat beside a slashed-open football. No boys racing around the fields and no chattering girls, just leaves scudding over damp grass.

  She sidled into the main hall, and her boots clomped over the wooden floor to echo over the walls. Someone had hauled trestle tables into a corner, and guards had kicked down a cupboard door.

  Embroidery samples littered the juniors’ floor, though cloaks still hung up at the back. Inky puddles pooled over the floorboards, and Phos imagined she heard pens drying out. Invaders had rifled the teacher’s desk and seized the registers, so she’d never squeeze any story from this wreckage.

  Phos stepped back outside, and a bony hand grabbed her shoulder. She froze. Had they seized the others this way? No words, just pressure gripping her shoulder. Phos turned to face the blacksmith’s son, Mitch, all messy hair and ripped shirt and muddy face. The stolen day had left him pale and panting; snot ran from his nose. He pulled his hand back and pressed it against the wall
.

  ‘When did you arrive, Mitch?’

  ‘H-half an hour ago. I came late and found the writing room. All the dictation books finish mid-sentence.’

  ‘Who told Grump to stop?’

  ‘They looted his desk,’ Mitch said.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Dad left before I woke. I stayed home, but he never came back. Since Mum died….’ His voice faded, and he stared downward.

  ‘So you were very late?’

  ‘I’ve no food. Can we try the storeroom?’

  Violence had smashed the storeroom’s lock, and Phos pulled the wooden door open. Raiders had trampled loaves and boulmer fruit into the soil, but enough remained on the racks. Mitch ripped a chunk from a loaf and crammed it into his mouth.

  Phos waited. ‘Did you see anything yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘I skipped school after lunch ’cause I wanted to avoid Gree’s gang, but this crowd marched past on the Ferstus road with a priest at the front and two guards behind – all shout and shove. No idea why you’d visit Ferstus.’

  ‘Ah, but the road doesn’t stop there.’

  ‘Can we work out what they want? Why not check the chapel? There’re books and a hundred scrolls inside – sneeze, and the priests write it down.’

  ‘It’s not prayer day till tomorrow; they’ll have locked it.’

  ‘Days don’t count no more, and nor do locks.’

  Today she’d agree with Mitch. He led her past the quiet stone of the kitchen block and its garden with its straggling elm saplings. He stooped to touch an upended wheelbarrow, where black soil spilled over grass. Stand anywhere in the school, and the chapel’s peak showed, but most children stayed clear: prayer days meant sermons in the clammy air and shuffling past that week’s book while mumbling answers to questions.

  The door sat recessed two inches into the pyramid’s stone walls; the grey iron swallowed daylight. No lock showed, but Mitch pulled out a leather bundle.

  ‘I always wanted to crack this – those spare locks Dad brought home were too easy.’ Mitch unrolled his leather and slid two prongs into a metal ridge.

  ‘That’s not where the key goes,’ Phos said.

  ‘That key’s for show, so keep quiet.’

  A door banged in the distance, and leaves skittered as Mitch bent over the door and muttered until a click snapped through the air.

  ‘Try the door now.’

  She glanced behind, but they were still alone. Phos pushed, and the huge slab swung open without creaking. Inside, daylight dribbled over scrolls stacked against a wall, and a glass bookcase trapped a set of leather books. The incense still stank. Copper rods and glass tubes sat in one corner, and the buttery stone walls tapered together to fit at the top. No villager had shaped these blocks, so did the church own secret gangs of brilliant stonemasons?

  She’d take days to read these scrolls, so she needed the right question. Guards had arrested Mum and Dad yesterday, so where would priests store fresh papers? She opened a few scrolls to check dates and blushed: they were in date order. The newest documents sat to her left, but her hand refused to move.

  Mitch reached past her and unrolled one scroll. ‘There’s the newest paper, but what are your parents called?’

  Phos recited names as if praying, and Mitch used one hand to steady the roll before running a finger down the list.

  ‘These are Leester names and jobs,’ he said. ‘My dad’s here but not Mum, so it’s new. Can’t see your parents, but this leads to a second scroll.’

  Phos closed her eyes as Mitch rustled out a new roll.

  ‘They wrote a special list yesterday, a short one.’ Mitch paused. ‘Your parents are here, and so are you. There’re priest letters above. Can we ask a priest to translate?’

  ‘Let me.’ She’d relished learning the scratchy priest alphabet, but she’d known enough to keep her success quiet; now Mitch needed to know. A few moments’ concentration revealed the words.

  Priority cases: relocate to Torzene immediately.

  ‘What’s Torzene, and when did you learn priest letters?’

  Her voice wavered as she told Mitch the story. Memories of Dad’s stories left her reeling – she’d give anything to hear another of his warnings. Was travelling to Torzene her only choice? Plans had smouldered in Rastersen’s eyes, and she’d seen his hands fondle his ropes. The priests’ keep rested on dozens of dark cells.

  No choice. She owed her parents everything. She’d try to enter Torzene unseen, try to avoid Rastersen’s hands. Mitch might help her skirt roads and find overgrown footpaths, but the priests were hunting, and they knew the paths as well as he did.

  ***

  Mist swirled around Caliper and hid the track sulking on his left. Every few minutes he’d spot streaks of beige gravel, and he’d trundle rightward over the sodden grass for the hiding.

  Mist was worse than bathing: damp overalls pinched his thighs, and a tear ran up his back. He’d fallen earlier, and half his face throbbed, but he’d not rest. Christina’s warnings of priests and dogs stuffed his mind, and he pushed his aching legs into hopping over a ditch. Did water hanker after ground to make wet clothes heavy? Caliper fired swear words into the fog, but cursing never helped a single man.

  He was sure Torzene was Christina’s home, but he had to sidestep the guards and keep the track just visible as he shortened the thread between them.

  Footsteps rattled from the road, and Caliper wheeled around and crouched as movement ghosted through fog: a crowd four abreast with a stout priest leading. Shouts rang out. The words stank of orders as the mist thinned, and Caliper scuttled back to hide. Ten yards of crouch and slide brought him to a single standing stone twice his size. His hands touched rock, and fleeting warmth stroked his palm as he scampered for its far side.

  Caliper peered out. The crowd still showed; two guards walked behind, and one shoved a teenage girl forward as the prisoners flinched. There stumbled Sirella the baker, a man who never missed church days; Leester’s cobbler lurched beside him with a bloodied scalp.

  ‘Pick up the pace: we’re running late.’

  These people would reach Torzene inside an hour, and other roving prisons would follow, so how could he slip inside? Caliper slumped against the stone. Everything directed him here – the priests and his vision and Christina’s words – but what use was direction when Torzene crawled with scowling guards?

  Fog swallowed the snake of prisoners as they marched ahead, and silence returned as water dripped off his hood. His fingers sponged into the standing stone, which pulsed out a faint heat, a scrap of warmth in the waterlogged day. If he closed his eyes here Christina might help him inside.

  This time his nausea only whispered as his sight switched, but the grass reappeared in his mind like a circle of vivid green surrounding a blinding white stone. He’d not send his vision roving again, but he could wait and stare at the glowing turf.

  Mist puckered as blades of grass spiralled into the air to form a net. A thick knot of fog swelled from the centre, and shades of grey unfolded themselves into a ghostly robed woman with shoulder-length hair. Long sleeves hung from her arms as her head tilted.

  ‘You have the wrong destination, Caliper. I see where you’re headed, but its inhabitants hunt you.’

  ‘Every where’s the wrong place for me, but I’m sure you’re at Torzene – it caps a hill.’

  ‘This world’s full of hills.’ Christina glanced leftward as if checking. She raised her hand, and her fingers disappeared.

  ‘You don’t measure our world so well – that’s for sure – so maybe you’re not elsewhere.’

  ‘I see distances well, Caliper; I’m not wrong. Patrols stalk you across this moor. Try to enter Torzene, and they’ll catch you. Even your current position is perilous. I can help.’

  ‘The mist hides me.’

  ‘Mist won’t last. Head south half a day before travelling dawnward, and two days’ walk will unite us, but I must distract the church to keep you
alive.’ Christina’s body shimmered. ‘Torzene looks like a child’s fort; I see rooms stacked on rooms without new foundations or regard for stresses, and warnings cover my displays.’

  What were displays? Caliper ran his hand through his hair.

  ‘Metal bolts hold timbers together, but if we remove them, the building will crumple under gravity. The patrolling guards will rush to help, and you can escape this area.’

  ‘What’s gravity? Ah, don’t mind with the explaining; staying safe sounds grand.’

  Her face stayed alien in its misty beauty, and her generous lips meant he’d never read her expression, but a smile dawdled on her face.

  ‘Caliper, my change needs your permission.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I never received the gift of free will, but your words let me act on my thoughts. Give me permission to invoke this change, and change will protect you.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘These alterations will take several minutes, but you’ll hear the collapse. Stay beside your stone until the path clears.’ Again her ghostly blue eyes fixed him. ‘Do you give me permission?’

  ‘I do.’

  Christina closed her eyes and bowed her head a fraction. Her image froze for three heartbeats before she flicked back into her standing pose, and her sleeves wafted in a breeze he couldn’t feel.

  ‘Torzene will fall, Caliper. Wait before walking, and find me in the city above the hill.’

  Her figure turned pure white for an instant before fading into a set of ripples chasing each other through the air, and Caliper breathed out. Enough with the stone-seeing. He opened his eyes.

  Drab grass and grey stone surrounded him, but a spectre of movement danced through the mist ahead, and Caliper rested against his stone. Was mist spinning? His path had been sure, but now he shivered. Did he hear dogs barking? Would he feel their teeth?

  Chapter 8: both silence and noise mean danger

  Rastersen’s horse had stormed over this path, but their journey was a slow plod: the earth caked her boots and her legs ached. The Ferstus road rambled past a birch forest, and the slits in the ghostly white bark looked like half-opened eyes, but the right side opened onto a set of pasture fields carpeting a shallow set of rolling hills; the southern world wall showed as a distant band of blue haze. Dandelions had broken through the gravel, and thistles sprouted from the verges.