“When the sun sets, it merely sleeps, to rise another day; a path
that ends, ends not, but leads back from whence it came; and thus
at this our journey’s end is another, just beginning.”
T
HE DOOR CREAKED ON
its old, dry hinges, but opened easily. Sylas heard the half-hearted ring of the rusty shop bell above his head as he stepped into the gloom.
He was immediately aware of the strong odour of decaying wood and damp walls, which hung heavily in the air and caught the back of his throat. The front of the shop was relatively clear, containing a few empty cabinets whose doors hung off their hinges and vast grey spiders’ webs that hung wall to ceiling like drapes. But within, all he could see were stacks of crates and parcels that ascended from floor to ceiling like weird postal sculptures, arranged in long lines stretching the full length of the shop. He glanced at one stack and saw that each parcel and crate carried a shipping label stamped with the city of origin:
Beijing… Addis Ababa… Rio de Janeiro… Alexandria… Khartoum…
“Welcome.”
It was the same strange accent, the same deep, gentle voice, but this time it was not inside his head, it was in the room. Sylas became aware of a dull glow in the dark interior of the shop, at the end of one of the stacks.
“Thank you,” he blurted, his heart pounding.
“It is said that the greatest endeavours have modest beginnings,” said the voice, this time with some humour. “So I must ask you to use your imagination.”
Suddenly Sylas saw the sparse light in the shop shift slightly, and a shadow moved. His eyes darted from left to right trying to find the owner of the voice, but there were so many dark corners and strange objects that he was at a loss where to look. He was about to turn and retreat back to the door when the silhouette of a small stooped man appeared against the dusty light at the far end of one of the stacks.
As Sylas walked to the back of the shop, the figure paused and seemed to bow slightly before reaching for something from a shelf. A sudden flare of orange light made Sylas squint and look away, but when he turned back, he saw the room gradually coming to life. The dark figure was lighting a row of candles on what had once been the shop counter, but was now a broken expanse of rotten wood.
The man stepped forward and leaned on the counter, bringing his face into the halo of light.
It was a fascinating face, quite unlike any Sylas had seen before. The pale skin was wrinkled around the mouth, eyes and the wide brow, showing him to be a man of great expression and animation. His bright, oriental eyes were calming and gentle, like nothing could surprise them, as if they had seen much of most things. His white beard was flecked with bluish-grey hairs around the edges, which lent him a distinguished but outlandish appearance, an effect that was only heightened by the way in which it drew to a point below his chin. He wore a grey, foreign-looking velvet cap upon his head, like a crumpled pot that had slumped to one side, and a dishevelled grey suit made of some coarse material that showed the myriad creases of too much wear. Even his shirt, which had apparently once been white, was now turning grey in sympathy with everything else. His tie, which was a rich dark green, provided the only colour.
His most distinctive feature was his warm, welcoming smile, for his eyes twinkled and his features creased into a pleasing, amiable expression of kindness. Sylas found himself smiling back – a broad, bold smile that brightened his spirits and dispelled his nerves.
The old man lit the last of seven candles and sighed, making the flames dance slightly.
“I believe in a certain amount of gloom,” he said, and with a wink he blew out the match. “What your eyes cannot see your imagination must discover. And your imagination is very important, young man.”
Sylas looked at him quizzically. “Important?”
“Yes, for a great many things… and you will put it to very good use in my shop,” said the shopkeeper. “Now, let us dispense with the formalities. They call me Mr Zhi.”
He stepped around the counter and held out his hand. It was covered in a beautifully embroidered velvet glove of the same dark green as his tie. Sylas only had a moment to look at it, but he saw that the stitching on the back of the hand glittered slightly in the candlelight.
As they shook hands, the old man straightened and looked at him expectantly.
“And how should I address my very first customer?”
“Oh... Sylas. Sylas Tate, sir – Mr Zhi, I mean.”
He felt flustered, but almost at once he felt Mr Zhi’s eyes soothing and reassuring him, as though telling him in some silent language that all was as it should be.
“You are very welcome, Sylas Tate,” he said, pronouncing the name with care. He raised himself up. “Now, where shall we start?” He looked into the darkness and seemed to ponder for a moment, then he tapped the side of his nose and his eyes twinkled. “Follow me,” he said.
He grabbed a candle from the counter and set off with surprising speed between some of the stacks. Sylas had to run to catch up. They turned left, then right, then left again, passing opened parcels of what looked like peculiar musical instruments.
“What
are
all these things?” asked Sylas.
“Ah well, that is a very good question to which there can be no good answer,” said the old man, without turning. “But you have found the right word. I collect and sell
Things
.
Things
, by definition, are objects we find hard to explain. Were I to explain them, I think I might have to close up shop!”
At that moment they arrived at a wall of crates. Some had been taken down and opened and the floor was strewn with straw and shredded paper. Mr Zhi turned to Sylas and smiled.
“As you can see, I have many thousands of Things in my shop,” he said, his eyes now peering into one of the crates, “but I consider it my particular talent to know which Things will interest which people. That is why I have never taken to having my wonderful Things displayed on shelves and in cabinets. That would take away all of the mystery, which is the greater part of any good Thing, and a good deal of the discovery, which is much of what is left!”
The shopkeeper bent low over the crate and very gently lowered his gloved hand into the straw.
“This you will like,” he said.
He rummaged for a moment and then, with great care, he raised his hand. He was holding a fragile wheel, made of some kind of metal, from which hung a number of silvery strings. Sylas half expected to see a puppet dangling below but, as Mr Zhi lifted the wheel still further, he saw that each string was tied to a tiny silvery bar, from which were suspended three more strings: one at the centre and one at each end. Each of these additional strings was connected to a further bar and thereby to three more strings, and so on, and so on, until Sylas could see a vast and wonderful structure of silvery twine emerging from the crate. Just as he began to wonder how such a complicated thing could have remained untangled in the straw, Mr Zhi drew himself to his full height and raised the wheel above his head.
Sylas gasped in amazement.
There, on the end of each of the hundreds of strings, were tiny, delicate, beautiful birds, each with its wings outstretched in some attitude of flight. Their feathers shimmered like rainbows in the candlelight and, as each bird turned on its string, they seemed to throw out more light than they received, so that the surrounding walls of crates moved with colour.
“It’s wonderful, just wonderful,” said Sylas, letting his rucksack fall to the floor.
“It is, is it not?” said Mr Zhi, with evident pleasure. “Of course, such wonders are created in part by your very own imagination,” he said, moving the great flock of birds slightly closer to Sylas. “To some, this is a beautiful object that must have taken several years for many careful hands to create. To others, to those with true imagination, it is a marvellous flock of magical birds carried by a wind we cannot feel, calling a cry we cannot hear, united by a purpose we cannot know. To them, each bird is as alive as you or I, because in their imagination they see them soaring, climbing, swooping, turning…”
Sylas found himself staring ever more intently at the delicately balanced parts of the mobile, watching closely as they moved around each other on the gentle currents of air in the room. He saw how each bird was finished with astonishing detail, showing the individual feathers, the tail fan, the precise angle of the wing as it manoeuvred in flight. He marvelled as they glided past each other without ever colliding, as if aware of one other.
And then, perhaps in a trick of light, he thought he saw one of them twitch.
A wing lifted slightly and a long neck turned. Then a crooked wing seemed to straighten as one of the birds turned in a wide arc around another. He blinked in disbelief as he saw another bird beat its wings, change its path in the air and then resume its endless circling. He let his eyes drift from place to place within the multitude, watching as every one of them seemed to take on a life of its own.
At first they beat their wings at random, but soon every bird was flapping in time with the others. And then, without warning, they broke from the circle below Mr Zhi’s hand and moved in one great flock, banking left then right, their wings catching the light in unison, forming a breathtaking display of colour. The gossamer strings seemed to have disappeared altogether. Moments later the birds turned their heads upwards and rose as if carried by an updraught of air. Sylas gazed in astonishment as he watched them soar over the top of Mr Zhi’s hand in a beautiful arc of light and colour, before swooping downwards to the floor. At the very last moment they turned upwards and sped through the air towards him, their wings beating rapidly now, their feathers ruffling and shimmering. As they circled round his head, Sylas laughed out loud, wanting to reach out and touch them. His heart thumped – not from fear, but from a wild, intoxicating excitement.
“So now you see it!” came Mr Zhi’s voice from the dark.
Sylas caught his breath. “I see it!”
Then, abruptly, the flock of birds wheeled sharply above his head and streamed towards Mr Zhi’s gloved hand. As they reached the glove, they turned again, so tightly this time that the leading birds met those at the rear of the flock, forming a circle. As the last joined formation, Sylas could again see the occasional glint of the silvery strings in the darkness, and then he saw that the tiny bars were supporting their weight once more, as though they had never been gone. The birds circled more and more slowly until they were drifting gently on the air currents. Their wings moved no more.
Mr Zhi began lowering them back down into the straw. Sylas wanted to ask him to let them fly some more, but had the feeling that they had done all that was intended.
He cleared his dry throat. “What
was
that?” he asked.
Mr Zhi simply patted Sylas cheerfully on the shoulder, picked up the candle and started back along the passageway of parcels. Sylas paused for a moment, glancing down at the pile of straw, but then picked up his rucksack and scrambled after him.
“There’s much to see!” he heard Mr Zhi say up ahead. “Please keep up!”
He moved so swiftly that, as Sylas turned one corner, the shopkeeper had already turned the next and the only way to keep pace was by following the dying traces of candlelight that flickered against the walls of parcels ahead.
“But what
was
it?” asked Sylas breathlessly.
“Ah well, the most wondrous Things show themselves only to those who are supposed to see!” shouted Mr Zhi ahead of him, without turning. “So it was with you and the mobile. When you saw it, at first you saw just a beautiful object, a thing of gossamer strings and silver bars and bright-painted feathers. But then you brought it to life. It stirred without any draught to carry it, the wings moved without any plan or design. You made the birds
fly
,” said Mr Zhi, turning to Sylas excitedly, “fly like I’ve never seen before!”
Sylas looked puzzled. “But wasn’t that just in my imagination?” he asked. “You told me to use my imagination.”
“No, I saw everything you saw, but that is not to say that your imagination didn’t bring it to life. You made the birds fly as you dreamed they might, and in doing that – in putting your imagination to work – you showed that you are able to use it like few others. You are able to see the world as it is promised to us.”
Sylas laughed. “I’m pretty sure I see the world like everyone else.”
“Certainly you do, but the mobile is a sensitive Thing. It shows what you are
capable
of seeing, not what you already see.” The shopkeeper cocked his head on one side. “A little confusing, isn’t it? But don’t worry, I have more to show you!”
With that, he turned and set off into the gloom of the shop. Sylas screwed up his face. “
The world as it is promised to us?
” What could
that
mean? He knew he had a good imagination – his uncle was for ever telling him that he lived too much in his head
– but there was nothing unusual about
that
. He jogged after the strange shopkeeper, wondering what he was getting himself into.
As he went, he saw that the giant stacks of parcels were packed so tightly that the shop had become a maze of little corridors, which gave the impression of a room much larger than it actually was. Sylas was just starting to become a little worried that he might not be able to find his way out again when he sped round a corner and almost charged headlong into Mr Zhi.
The proprietor caught him by the shoulders. “I think this shall be our next stop, young man,” he said, with a wide smile.
He turned about and stepped on to a small upturned box. He reached up to the topmost shelf and took down a large flat parcel from the top of one of the piles.
“This Thing is at once very different from the mobile, and very similar,” he said, grunting as he lowered himself back down. “Like the mobile, it uses your imagination to show what is possible, not what you already know to be true.”