The Gracekeepers (13 page)

Finally her charges slept, and North stepped across the coracles to the mess boat. Red Gold and Avalon held court at the head of the table with Ainsel looking on sulkily, the clowns seemed to take up more space than their lanky bodies suggested, the glamours whispered and crowed among themselves—and so North sat at the far end of the table, hoping that Bero would not be too busy with his bartending duties to talk to her. Most of the seal-fat lamps hung at the top end of the table, and she felt soothed by the shadows.

She'd just slid on to the bench when Bero, ever the eagle-eyed, thumped down beside her.

“Evening, bartender,” North said solemnly. She picked up the end of Bero's long braid and held it above her top lip like a mustache. “I am honored to frequent this gentleman's establishment.”

“Evening, young sir,” Bero replied. “And may I say what fine facial decoration you have there. Why, it must soak up your alcohol like nobody's business. How does it ever reach your mouth?”

“I'll thank you not to think of my mouth, you impudent seahorse. Now apologize and kiss my salt-hardened feet.”

“I shan't, you old dogfish. And now we've got that out of the way, tell me—”

At this, Bero leaned in to North, so close that his beard tickled her cheek. He wiped a smear of chalk from her shoulder where she had missed it during her wash.

“Tell me,” he said, “how are you?”

North let go of Bero's hair and reached for her tin cup, unscrewing it and then screwing it back to the table. “I'm—it's—Melia won't talk about Whitby. She eats and sleeps, and she'll nod if I ask her a question, but she's like a doll. If I threw her into the sea I bet she wouldn't even swim. And when she does speak—Bero, it's nonsense. She says she hears bells. Under the water.”

“Like that old superstition?”

“Right. I can't even remember what it is, really. That the bells are a curse? That they herald storms? But we'd know if another storm was due. Red Gold would know, at least. And sometimes I…” She tailed off, her indecision lost in the chatter of the mess boat.

“Go on.”

“I worry about my bear, you know? Who will look after him?”

“Don't lose today in worries about tomorrow. No one knows what's coming with the dawn.”

“But I do know what's coming, Bero. Red Gold is going to make Ainsel and me live in a house on land. He's going to make me be a landlocker.”

“
Make
you? It sounds more like a gift to me. Life is short—look
at where we've just been. That graceyard. It won't be the last time we're there, North. We have to grasp what little joy we can before it's our turn. There's no shame in living.”

“And you think I'll find joy in pretending to be a clam with Ainsel?”

“North. Listen. Are you hungry?”

She laughed. “Of course. I'm always hungry. Aren't you?”

“Yes. I'm hungry, and you're hungry, and everyone on the
Excalibur
is hungry, and every damned dampling between here and the equator is hungry. You know who's not hungry, North? The landlockers. They might be beasts and bury children alive and—”

“What?”

“You didn't hear? The landlockers at the last island were gossiping. Some baby born with webbed fingers and great gaping gills on its throat. They buried it alive at their World Tree—said it was some wicked spell cast by damplings, the curse of the sea. The curse of
us
, North. It's only a matter of time before they tire of damplings and try to bury the whole cursed lot of us. Get yourself a foot on land before that happens.”

“I don't want to be one of them, Bero. There are more important things than full bellies.”

“Are there? I'm not so sure.” Bero tensed his left shoulder, moving the empty sleeve pinned up on his shirt. “We fell into a hard life here. Imagine what we could do if we weren't hungry all the time.”

North should agree. She should take a drink and smile as wide as a crescent moon and say that she would be a landlocker and she would live with Ainsel and everything would be a joy forever and ever. But she could not lie to Bero. He seemed to know it too; he turned his broad body sideways on the bench, creating a Bero-shaped wall of privacy. Or at least, as much privacy as could
be expected on a tiny boat crewed by people who had known one another for most of their lives.

“North, I didn't ask you about Melia, or about your bear. I asked about you. We're a crew here, and none of us has to be alone.”

North saw herself split into two. One North defied the ringmaster: said she wouldn't marry his self-absorbed son, and instead she'd carry on as she always had, caring for her bear and also, later, her mysterious baby that was clearly not born of anyone on the
Excalibur
, and she'd somehow ensure her bear didn't eat her child out of jealousy as soon as her back was turned, and somehow Red Gold wouldn't force her off the boat for rejecting his firstborn son, and somehow the gracekeeper would come to the
Excalibur
and they would be a family together, and—the vision crumpled.

The other North married Ainsel, and never let anyone see the baby so they'd believe it was her new husband's, and ate her fill at the dinner table every night, and lived forever unsteadily on land, sharing the tiny space with her ragtag family and a bear living—where, in the back garden?—and never saw Callanish ever again.

Neither North would stay, not even in her imagination. Being alone was not the problem. Perhaps being alone would be better.

“Bero, will you promise me something?”

He rested his right arm on the table, scarred palm up, ready for North to put her hands in his. “I will,” he said.

In the shadows she could see the dark dots of stubble on his cheeks and the lines etched between his eyebrows. Perhaps not everyone in the circus slept as soundly as North's bear.

“North child! What are you doing down there?” Red Gold's
voice cut across their whispers. North jumped as if she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't. “I didn't even see you there. Hiding away from me, eh? You must have crept in here like a little minnow.”

“Of course not, Jarrow. I'm just talking with Bero. We're discussing those changes to his act.”

But the ringmaster was already scoffing, chewing on North's response and spitting it out. “Bring yourself up here, my north child.” At this he lifted Avalon, ignoring her disgusted expression, and deposited her further down the bench. “Look, I made a space for you. Up here is where you belong, not down there with the riffraff!”

North flickered Bero a pained smile. She tugged on his braid as a farewell and made her way up the mess boat to the head of the table. The glamours hunched their shoulders as she passed, their backs forming walls. Tomorrow she'd go to their coracle and explain to them that she didn't think anyone was riffraff, least of all her crewmates. But no, there was no point. The glamours had taken that old preacher's words to heart; they believed that glamour was grammar, that words were magic spells. Nothing was spoken in truth, only as a means to deceive.

She addressed Red Gold. “Do you want me to—”

He swept a dramatic hand at the space beside him. “Yes, I most certainly do. Sit sit sit, my future daughter.”

She slid on to the bench between Ainsel and Red Gold. For a moment it seemed as if the ringmaster was going to wrap his arm around her, or pull her on to his lap, or pepper her face with kisses as he did to Avalon. North would not flinch. Even if he smeared blood and glitter all across her face and into her mouth, she would not flinch. Red Gold deserved better than that.

“Hello, Ainsel,” she said, because he was gazing down at the pitted metal table, toying with his cup and ignoring everyone. She felt a burn of annoyance. What a self-centered little prince he was.

“Hello, North,” he replied. He looked up at her, and she regretted her annoyance. Ainsel was a brat, but she had never seen that expression on his face before. He must be thinking about Whitby. Or maybe his horses were sickening. Or—North felt a churn of relief at the thought—perhaps he was worrying about how to get out of this marriage as much as she was. He'd promised that he'd speak to his father. The time was getting close now, and in North's opinion he'd better hurry up—but she knew that Red Gold was not an easy man to disobey. She'd rather Ainsel waited for the right moment than rush and get it wrong.

“Now then, my favorite lovers,” boomed Red Gold. He swooped his arms wide as if to embrace North and Ainsel, one on each side, then seemed to think better of it. Instead he took their hands in his, squeezing them hard. His skin felt as hot as a seal-fat lamp. He linked North's hand with Ainsel's, pressing them together until her bones ached.

“Soon we'll be at North-East 19. I know you've been counting down the days until we make it there, because your wedding, my loves, will be the most glorious day of all our lives. Isn't that right, crew?”

He raised his cup in a toast, gleaming his grin round the mess boat until everyone else followed. North tried not to shrink down under the table.

“I have the islanders ready to set everything up by their World Tree—and I don't need to tell you what an honor that is. We have ribbons of all colors, and I know you're thinking that
they can't possibly be as bright and beautiful as the ones made by our glamours. But they will be almost perfect, I can tell you that. There will be songs, and offerings of paper, and the finest leaf-crowns. It will be glorious.”

“It will be glorious,” echoed Ainsel.

“
You
will be glorious, my son. And now I may as well make it official.” Red Gold raised his voice to fill the mess boat. “Crew, you have long suspected that I wish to buy a house on land. And if I understand the way gossip spreads on this ship, you'll all have known my intent for that house since minutes after I decided it myself. But I will say it, so you know it's true. My firstborn son, my glorious Ainsel, will be leaving us to live as a landlocker with his beautiful new wife.”

The sound of claps skittered through the coracle, but the crew did not number enough for true applause. North looked up to lock eyes with Bero, but was distracted when she saw that the clowns were staring at Avalon. She did not know what they saw; she did not dare look at Avalon herself.

“It is no easy decision to select a wife for my son,” continued Red Gold. “But I have chosen well. I know that North will make us all proud. The landlocker life is very different to the
Excalibur
, and North will have to build strong foundations if she is to—”

But then he stopped, because Avalon was standing, her spine straight, her arms spread, her hands palm up.

North cringed at the thought of what was about to happen. Would it be a repeat of Avalon's power struggle from the deck of the
Excalibur
? A comparison between Avalon's white, cold hands and North's red, chapped ones; a reminder of North's inferiority, her place in the hierarchy of the crew. And then, once again, Avalon would press her brazen bump against North's own secret one;
she would call North “child” over and over until everyone had guessed, until everyone knew that she was not a child any longer.

Avalon leaned toward her. North's heart stuttered. She took North's hand from Ainsel's and pulled North toward her, forcing her body to stretch. She had to tense every muscle in her back to stop her bump from pressing against the metal table.

“Oh, little urchin,” Avalon crooned, her voice echoing in the silence of the mess boat. “It warms my heart to see how much you love our sweet Ainsel. You do truly love him, don't you?”

Eleven pairs of eyes stared at North; eleven pairs of ears waited for her to speak. She stretched out the best smile she could. She didn't trust her throat with words.

“I am glad, north child. For you know, only true love—real, honest, lifelong love—is worthy of such a noble home. The sort of love that my husband and I have for each other.” Avalon did not look at Red Gold. She kept her eyes on North, her smile tight as if she was swallowing something bitter. “That is the only sort of love that can restore the Stirling name to the island.”

North managed to nod. Avalon was holding her hands so tightly that they were turning white.

“You love him,” soothed Avalon. “You love him, don't you? Enough to build a home with him, and live with him forever. You love him enough to have his children some day. Tell us, North.”

North tried to pull her hands away, but Avalon would not let go.

“Tell us all how much you love Ainsel. Tell us that you will carry his children. Tell us now, North.”

A wave licked the boat, rolling it in the swell. From outside came the scrape of metal on metal and the distant ringing of a bell. North felt her heart beating hard in her throat.

“Avalon,” said Red Gold in the voice he used to soothe the horses.

The spell broke. Everyone turned their gaze away from Avalon, bowing their heads to the pitted metal table. North waited until her hands had stopped shaking, then slipped them from Avalon's loosening grasp and dropped back into her seat.

 

T
he days passed and routine swept Callanish in its wake. Resting parties arrived, so she prepared the bodies they brought and performed their Restings. Her house grew dirty, so she cleaned it. The graces died, so she tipped their bodies into the water. The supply boat came with new graces, so she refilled the empty cages.

She found herself amazed at the quantity of actions required simply to ensure that she woke up every morning. How had she ever found time for idle thoughts among all these necessary actions? Even this thought took up too much time, for now she had to scrub the grace-cages again. She stepped on to her rowing boat, and polished the cages until night crept in and it was too dark to see.

One day, weeks later, sails blinked on the horizon. Callanish could not see whether it was the messenger boat or the battered,
bright-sailed
Excalibur
, but whichever it was, she knew that it was the boat she had been waiting for. She went into her house and sat at the table with her spine straight against the chair back and her gloved hands cupping her knees. Eventually she heard the steady plash of waves against a hull and the bump of a boat against the dock.

This, then, was her fate. One home, one world, awaited her—either on land, or at sea.

She considered barring the door in an effort to delay the moment, but knew it would not make any difference. These things had already happened, and her ignorance could not undo them. She went out on to the porch and looked at the answer to her question.

A little boat with its sails furled and its rope fastened to the dock. A man in blue, head shaved, hands empty.

He climbed out of the boat and stepped toward Callanish.

“Hello, little fish,” he said.

She looked again at his hands. Still empty. She turned away from him and went back into her house. There were a dozen graces in cages, stacked in the corner of the room, and she paused to drop a handful of seeds in each cage.

“Aren't you going to say hello?” asked the messenger from the doorway. “I thought you'd be pleased to see me.”

“You didn't bring a response.”

He shrugged. “There wasn't one. Look, why don't you make us a pot of coffee and I'll tell you the whole story.”

“Is there a story to tell?”

“Not really. But I'd like some coffee.”

Callanish got up, drained water from the filter, ground a few precious beans, and put the coffee on to boil. When she turned around, she saw that the messenger had sat down in her chair.
There were no other chairs, so she stayed standing. The messenger leaned back and thunked his feet up on to the table. The new graces ruffled their feathers and turned circles in their cages, unsure how to react to this stranger in their midst.

The messenger. Had she ever asked his name? Of all the things that mattered, this was not one.

“Why didn't you tell me your name?” he asked, as if reading her thoughts.

“It doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me. My name is Flitch. And your name is Callanish, isn't it? Callanish Sand.”

“How did you know that? You must have spoken to her. To my mother.”

“Oh, a mother, is it? Well, aren't you the lucky one? I wouldn't mind a mother myself.”

“You've seen her.”

“Got yourself a father too, little fish? Got a lovely little family on that lovely little island?”

“My father is dead. He died when I was young.”

The messenger snorted. “So did mine. So did everyone's.”

“Please, tell me what my mother said. I have to know.”

“Bring me some coffee and I'll tell you.”

Callanish pressed her palms against the sharp edge of the kitchen counter until the urge to throw the coffee in Flitch's face had passed. She waited for the pot to boil, poured the coffee into her bone cup, and put it on the table in front of him. He took his time in blowing the steam before taking a sip. He let out a lip-smack sigh.

Callanish thought about the coffee-pot: it was metal, and still hot from the flame; she could smack him around the head with
it and it would give him a satisfying shock. It might even leave a scar. She would count down from ten, and if he had not spoken by zero then she would give in to the urge. Five, four, three—

“I didn't see your mother,” he said.

“You're lying. You know my name.”

“I know a lot of things, little fish. And I'm telling the truth. I got to North-West 22, and I found the address you'd written on the parcel. I knocked on the door, and I waited.” He sipped his coffee again, eyeing Callanish over the rim of the cup. In the corner the graces pweeted; having received an unexpected treat of seeds, they would soon become bold and ask for more.

Callanish kept her face blank. Flitch could play all he liked, but she would not react. Her teeth were gritted so tightly that her jaw ached.

“So I waited, and she didn't answer—but then the neighbor came out, and she took the parcel. Said she'd give it to Mrs. Sand. I asked—any response? No, she said, Veryan has nothing to say. So I left. And here I am.”

“That's it? You went all the way there and you didn't even see her?”

“Sure. What's she to me? I delivered the parcel, like you asked.”

“You didn't. You didn't deliver it. Give me back my payment. Go back there. Go back right now and bang on the door and tell me whether she's really there. Tell me whether she wants to respond. That's what I wanted. That's what I paid you for.”

“I bloody well did deliver it. That's how I know your name, little fish.
Is it from her daughter?
the neighbor says.
Is it from Callanish?
So I said, I don't know, because you never told me your name and you never told me if this Veryan Sand was your mother. You're a grown-up, why should I think you still had a mother? So
I couldn't say yes or no to the neighbor. And she takes the parcel and says she'll pass it on, and she goes back into her house and shuts the door. That's it. That's how it happened.”

“That's not what you said before.”

Flitch shrugged and sipped his coffee. “Close enough.”

“Did the neighbor really ask that?”

“Of course she did. How else would I know your name?”

“You could have asked around. The names of gracekeepers aren't secret. You could have gone by the next graceyard—Odell could have told you.”

He rubbed at the shaved skin of his head. “I could have asked him. But that's assuming I cared to.”

Callanish went and stood by the window so that she would not have to look at Flitch's face.

“So you didn't see her,” she said.

“I told you, no. Why should I fuss about seeing her? Your mother is nothing to do with me.”

“Then you have to go back.”

“Oh no, little fish. That wasn't the deal. You didn't say anything about seeing her. You just wanted me to deliver it, that's what I thought. I'm allowed to leave parcels with a neighbor, unless it's a verbal or unless you pay extra—that's the rule. You check if you don't believe me. I didn't do anything wrong.”

Callanish pressed her hands against the windowpane, feeling the cool glass through the silk of her gloves.

“Take me with you,” she said.

“Take you where?”

“Back to that archipelago. Back to my mother.”

“Not going back to the north-east, not for a while yet. I have messages for the southeast now. I only came back this way to deliver something to your man there.” He nodded toward Odell's
graceyard. “Otherwise I wouldn't have bothered. You never said anything about me coming back after I delivered the parcel, but I thought I'd come by anyway. Trying to do a good thing, you know?”

“I'll pay you. Take me as far as you can. I'll find my way from there.”

He shrugged. “I'm not going anywhere near it. It's a fair trip, and I don't see you sailing that far. I only made it so fast because I hitched a ride on a military tanker for most of it.”

“Then I'll do the same.”

He laughed. “You? They'd shoot you down before you even managed to climb on board. You need to have governmental business to get on a military vessel, little fish.”

“I'll manage. What do you care?”

“Get your supply boat to take you. They come by a lot, don't they? Someone's got to bring you those birds. Ask him.”

“I can't. He won't. I'm not supposed to leave.”

“You're not allowed to leave the graceyard? Well then, won't they kill you if they catch you?”

“No. I don't know. I'm not supposed to go, but I don't know—they never said what would happen. I don't think a gracekeeper has ever left before. But I have to know if—”

Callanish did not want to beg. But if she did beg, who would know? Who could ever know what happened to her out here, trussed to the equator, alone with her dying birds and the rotting bodies of strangers? She did not want to beg, but she could. She could do whatever it took to get back to her mother. She turned to face Flitch.

“Please,” she said.

E
ven from a distance, Callanish could see that Odell's grace-cages had not been polished in a long time. The bars were reddened with rust, dark as meat. Only two or three seemed to be occupied. Flitch's boat weaved an unsteady path through the cages, bumping against the rusty bars.

“He hasn't been taking care of these,” murmured Callanish.

“I can see that. Not like your shiny ones, eh? Bloody awkward trying to sail through here when I delivered his parcel.”

“You didn't tell me about the state of his cages before.”

“Why should I tell you? You didn't ask.”

Callanish bit down on her frustration. “But I told you I was going to bring my graces here.”

“Little fish, you didn't ask.”

She let Flitch have the last word on that. She didn't think that he would change his mind and take her back to her graceyard, but they were still close enough for it to be a danger. She would mind her words until there was nothing around them but sea. Although Flitch was annoying, she didn't think he'd drown her.

It had not taken long for Callanish to pack her things. She didn't have any things, really; she filled a box with the small amount of food she had left, then tucked her white dress in the extra space. It seemed silly to take it, as she wouldn't be able to perform any Restings, but it was in good condition and she would have to look respectable if she wanted to be taken on as a passenger on a military tanker or revival boat. The sea-stiff dress she wore was fine enough for the eyes of Flitch and Odell, as long as she kept her gloves and slippers on; she would change into her decent things later.

She spent a long time looking at the map on the wall. It would have to be left behind. She shut the door on Flitch and pulled off her gloves. She finger-walked along the lines separating
countries, spreading her fingers wide to feel the pull of the webbing; pressed her eye to the places where the cities met the sea, so close that she couldn't see the distinction. She knew that no two maps were exactly the same. Every map was the world seen through a different lens; every mapmaker proof that there was not just one way of looking at things.

But there was no room for the map. It would be ruined. She might lose it forever. It would be a mistake to take it. It was idiotic to even think of taking it. But still she ached at leaving it behind. She put her gloves back on before opening the door.

Most of the packing had involved transferring her few still-living graces to Flitch's boat, ready to be given to Odell. And now that they had almost arrived at his dock, she was questioning that decision. She should have let the graces go, to fall into the sea or fly to another graceyard as they chose. She would no longer decide their fate for them. But the boat was bumping up against the dock, and Odell was opening his door, and it was too late.

“Well, well, well,” he purred, leaning the length of his body against the doorjamb, pointing his foot daintily out on to the porch. “If it isn't Miss Callanish. And she's brought herself a playmate.”

“Odell.” Callanish tried to continue but did not know what to say. Odell looked ridiculous. His white suit was crumpled, the fabric dulled to a dirty ivory. He was barefoot and had colored ribbons wrapped around his thumbs. He bowed unsteadily, waving his arm in an elaborate gesture that seemed to be welcoming them into his house.

“Come in, come in, my finest friends. Any friend of Flitch's is a friend of Callanish's. Or Callanish is Flitch. And I am a friend.”

Odell disappeared into his house. He was drunk. How could he be drunk? The supply boat would not have brought him
alcohol, or the equipment to make his own. Callanish was suddenly aware of Flitch, pointedly not looking at Odell as he furled his sails and knotted his rope to the dock. It was not just supply boats that passed through the graceyards. If you had something to trade, you could get whatever you wanted.

“Odell,” called Callanish from the dock, not wanting to see the state of his house. “I need you to take these graces. And if anyone comes by looking for me, I need you to do their Resting.”

Odell shouted something back, his meaning lost on the journey between house and dock. Callanish began taking the grace-cages off the messenger's boat and stacking them on the dock.

There were as many ways to die at sea as there were feathers on a grace, from storms and whales and infighting to attacks by strangers on unlicensed boats. Before long, her Resting parties would lose another of their loved ones. They would return to Callanish's graceyard, and she would not be in her house, so they would come here instead. And Odell, drunk and crumpled Odell, who she knew even from a distance would smell of hangovers and boredom, would tarnish whatever scraps of a reputation she had. But still, she was grateful to him. She did not have a choice. She kept stacking.