The Gracekeepers (8 page)

She half scrambled, half dragged over the two coracles and on to the sodden deck of the
Excalibur
. Red Gold pushed her toward the cabin. Through the burn of saltwater in her eyes she saw that he was climbing across the coracles to save Whitby. Despite his tight and mismatched oilskins, his cracked and bloody cheeks, Red Gold at that moment was the most glorious thing that Melia had ever seen. She held tight to the mast, watching him.

Red Gold ducked his head into the coracle, emerging with the end of the rope in his hand. He steadied himself on the half-tied
canvas and hauled on the rope. Then he hesitated. Melia squinted through the salt-spray. It seemed that he had seen what was on the end of the rope, and dropped it back into the sinking coracle. But that could not be.

Now the clowns and the glamours were emerging from their boats, ropes around their waists, faces sheened with rain. Together with Red Gold they grasped the chain attaching her coracle to the glamours' boat. Now they were unhooking the glamours' boat and hooking it into North's. Now they were standing on North's coracle, ready to unhook Melia's entirely. No. No. Why did Red Gold not pull Whitby out? She remembered the thud as she'd fallen, the judder through the coracle. The crack of bone she'd thought had been her own.

“No!” she shouted, though she knew Red Gold could not hear her. She launched herself off the
Excalibur
and on to Ainsel's coracle, not caring about its unsteady lollop, about the rain throbbing at her shoulders, about the thunder vibrating her insides. She grabbed Red Gold's arm.

“No!” she shouted into his ear. He did not reply, did not shake his head, but his intentions were clear. If they did not let the coracle go, it would drag them all down. But why would Melia care? If Whitby was in the sea, then they might as well all be in the sea.

She reached into the coracle. The water level was high, almost to the top. The end of the rope floated. She grabbed it, closed her eyes against the salt-spray, and pulled. She could lose the coracle, but she couldn't lose Whitby. Hand over hand, eyes shut tight, she pulled. She reached the end of the rope, the start of something heavy. She kept her eyes closed.

She felt Red Gold unfasten the chain and let the coracle sink. Still she held the rope.

 

T
he storm seemed to last for days, though Callanish did not know how many. She slept heavily, the days and nights blurred into an argument of rain and wind. She wondered whether she was supposed to feel scared; if someone else had been with her, and they had been scared, she would have understood why. The wind screamed through the shutters and saltwater seeped in around the edges of the door. She couldn't see outside, but it seemed that her house was still in the same place. If it had come loose from its moorings and been tossed into the sea, she'd only know when she opened the door. It was soothing to think about things happening without her having to make them happen. She imagined opening the door to snow-tipped mountains, jewel-colored lakes, rainforests dripping with heat and noisy with life. Daydreams became dreams. Her bed felt like the only steady point in the storm.

One morning, she opened the door to her mother. Veryan
looked awkward, apologetic, and very pregnant. The sun was low, shining through the doorway and into Callanish's eyes, so that every time she tried to focus on her mother, she could not. Veryan wavered and pulsed, like the distant sea on a hot day. Standing there on the porch in the middle of the graceyard, she asked for help. Callanish was going to help her mother. She would get it right this time. She would be brave and wise and her hands would be steady no matter what. But she did not know how. She could not afford to make a mistake again. She closed the door, to buy some time to think, and when she opened it again her mother was gone.

This dream, unfamiliar as it was, ended up the same as all her other dreams: the ache in her hands and feet, the lullaby calling her, the soothing embrace of the sea. Even in the dream, Callanish kept enough of her conscious self to be glad that the door was closed and windows blocked. This dream would be different: she couldn't wander out of bed. She couldn't walk out on to the porch. She couldn't wake to the chill of water closing around her ankles.

C
allanish came awake to silence, her dreams clinging. She got out of bed, unbolted the door, stepped out on to the porch. The sky and the sea were as flat and blue as china plates, so perfect that she couldn't see where they met. All of the grace-cages were empty. It was so quiet that she could hear herself breathing, a tick each time she blinked. The storm was over.

She went back inside and began sorting through her food, separating out the things ruined by seawater. Most of it was fine; only some bread was spoiled, and that was stale anyway. She had
a few eggs, some dried meat, dehydrated peas, a bag of lentils and beans, a pot of jam. Enough food for a week; or two, if she rationed it. The storm might keep people away for a while, but there would be plenty of new dead to mourn—not that she could be of help yet, as she had no newborn graces. She couldn't perform any Restings until the supply boat came by. Gracekeepers weren't allowed to breed the graces themselves; it was a delicate process, as each bird's stated lifespan had to be accurate. It would be no good to tell a Resting party that they should grieve for two weeks, only for them to check back a fortnight later with their white mourning clothes packed away, and find the grace still alive.

She unfastened both the windows, then pulled the sheets off her bed and hung them on the rafters to air. The house was bright and dry and silent. It was as if the storm had never happened.

A fish was splashing outside her window. Callanish leaned out to see it. The sea stretched to the horizon, flat as polished metal. She leaned out of the other window and she could not see a fish, but still she heard it splash. The sound grew louder, and she realized it was the waves against a hull.

Out on the porch, she squinted her eyes, but she couldn't see a boat. She even tipped the rowing boat back on to the sea and floated out so she could check that nothing was coming toward the back of the house. No shadow, no smudge: nothing but blue in every direction. Still, the unsteady splash. She went back to the porch and waited. It was eerie to be able to hear something approach, but not yet see it. Everything acted differently in the doldrums: sound, taste, temperature. She didn't think she would ever really get used to it.

Finally, after what seemed like half a day, a shadow slid into view. Callanish ran inside and put on her gloves and slippers. She began to put on her white dress, then ran out on to the porch
again when she realized she didn't need to. Or did she? She wasn't sure. She ran back inside and pulled on the dress. She wasn't performing a Resting, but she was still a gracekeeper. She should be properly dressed to play her role. She braided her hair loose and low to hide her scars.

The approaching boat was large and made of wind-scoured wood, its two masts carrying just one small sail. The boat was not moving properly through the water. As it turned to pass between the poles at the edge of the graceyard, Callanish saw that it was not only one boat: it trailed five coracles behind it, each of a different size, brightly painted and patched with rectangles of rusting metal. Usually larger boats anchored at the graceyard's edge and took a rowing boat to the house; this one sailed its sluggish way straight through, forcing empty grace-cages to either side of the hull with a series of thuds and scrapes.

She raised her hand to hail the figure at the wheel. He took slightly too long to respond, and in those moments the ground seemed to drop from under Callanish's feet. They were pirates, they were thieves, they were going to kill her and throw her body in the sea.

Then the figure hailed, and she remembered to breathe, and she saw several things at once: the captain had bright red cheeks, as if they'd been rouged; beside him stood a beautiful pregnant woman with long black hair and a pale blue dress; the canvas top of one of the coracles was peeled back; and poking up from it was what appeared to be a bear.

Callanish had seen a bear before. The memory was scratched and worn: a striped silk ceiling, a family dancing to a gramophone—and then the sound of screams, skin sheened red. That was her first and last bear, though she'd always loved them because of an illustration in a fairytale book her mother used to
read to her. The picture wasn't clear, as the pages were made of silk and they had become damp and stretched. It was strange to see, right there in front of her, something that she didn't think existed any more. For a moment, she felt reality unfocus, as if she was seeing the land from the map hung on her wall.

Then the boat bumped up against the dock, and Callanish snapped back to reality.

“Welcome,” she said. “I am Callanish Sand. I am the gracekeeper here. Please come ashore.”

The huge man with the red face bowed low, which was awkward as he was partway through dropping the anchor. He managed to drop anchor, finish his bow, and step on to the dock all in one movement.

“Thank you kindly, Ms. Sand. I am Jarrow Stirling, the captain of the
Excalibur
.” He moved his arm as if to give the boat a pat, then seemed to think better of it. Callanish found that sensible; a good knock and the whole thing would probably fall apart. Instead he lifted his hand palm-up to help the pregnant woman step off the boat. She stumbled as her foot touched the dock. She was clearly a dampling—they could never quite get the hang of steady ground—but the captain seemed oddly at ease on the metal slats.

“I present my wife, Avalon,” said Jarrow, “and my son, Ainsel, who is—ah, he's below deck, in the coracle with the horses. They did not like the storm.”

“Neither did any of us,” said the pregnant woman, presenting her hand to Callanish. “Avalon Stirling. Charmed.”

She wasn't sure what she was meant to do with the hand, so she bowed her head and tried to look distant.

“I present also my crew.” Jarrow swept his arms wide with obvious pride, as if the tatty boats were made of fresh flowers.
At the summons, the rest of the crew emerged from their boats, climbing on to the deck and then wobbling down on to the dock. The space was not large, and the damplings were unsteady on the planks; Callanish was sure that one of them would end up falling into the water. She hoped they were good swimmers. She felt a jolt of panic thinking of her tiny house crammed with bears and horses, and was relieved when she saw that the animals were staying in the coracles.

“Behold, the brave and wondrous performers of the Circus Excalibur, marvels of acrobatics and the taming of the most dangerous beasts.”

Behind Jarrow, the circus crew began to assemble on the dock. First came an elegant man around Callanish's age, with feathers in his long hair and colored streaks across his cheeks. Although he bowed to her, he seemed distracted.

“My son, Ainsel, lord of the horses. Even the most jaded of audiences are struck dumb by the poise and bravery of his horseback skills.”

Next came three uniformly beautiful men, with hair dyed various shades of pink—though how they had made such vivid colors, Callanish couldn't imagine. It was years since she'd seen anything so bright.

“And here are Teal, Cyan and Mauve, our glamours. They can seduce a crowd of hundreds with their dances around the maypole.”

The three beauties were languid, unimpressed, knowing. They would be terrible gracekeepers.

“They also show their skill as artists of our attire and decoration, which I'm sure you will agree is like nothing you've ever seen. And—ah, steady now, watch your step on to the dock—I present our clowns, Cash, Dosh and Dough, who promise to
shock and offend you. Not that you, ah…” The captain coughed, seeming to remember the purpose of a gracekeeper. “Not that you might wish to be offended. In which case they shall not. Keep moving, crew!”

Jostling up against the pink-haired men came three gangling, shifting women. They had their sleeves rolled up, displaying tattooed designs on their forearms: one gray-shaded bones, as if her insides were outside; one a constellation of pale stars on a blue background; one a mass of color that looked like layers of birds' wings in flight. The starred one caught Callanish staring, and bared her teeth. A moment later she seemed to think better of it, and glanced away awkwardly. Something in that movement struck Callanish as strange, and then she realized that the tattooed women were the tallest she'd ever seen—and then, with a shock, she realized that they weren't women at all. She looked more closely at the pink-haired men, and felt suddenly foolish for not seeing that they were women. Or was it the other way around? She dared another glance, but still couldn't be sure.

As the crew shuffled along to make room for the others, she heard the faint
tink
of bells from their clothing. She wanted to tell them that they didn't need to wear them here—that her visitors were almost all damplings, and she didn't care anyway—but she did not want to embarrass them.

Next came a short, broad man with long-healed burns covering his right arm, a thick beard, and a braid of dark hair down his back. He nodded to her as he stepped on to the dock. Callanish couldn't understand why he was holding his left hand behind his back—but then she looked closer and realized that his left arm was missing, the empty sleeve pinned neatly to his shoulder.

“Bero, king of fire. It bested him once, as you can see, but now he is its master. Though his fire-show may make you gasp,
I assure you he is in complete control. Now!” Jarrow clapped his hands and turned to see who was next on to the dock, but faltered in his speech. “This is Melia, our acrobat.”

The woman—if she was a woman; Callanish could not be sure—waiting to climb off the boat had curly blue hair and huge muscles layered along her upper arms and shoulders, tapering to slender hips and legs, then impossibly small feet. Callanish wondered how she managed not to tip over. A younger woman with long dark hair, scattered with braids as bright as gold, came up behind the acrobat.

“And finally, our very own north child, performer of death-defying…”

The acrobat went to step off the boat, and stumbled. Her tiny feet didn't seem to be the problem, though; her entire body shook, and Callanish was sure she could hear her teeth knocking together. The dark-haired woman—Callanish thought that the man had said her name was North, but it was hard to keep so many new names in her head—had to help the acrobat on to the dock. Although North was not beautiful, there was a set to her jaw and a purpose to her movements that Callanish found striking. She wondered what this woman did in the circus; she did not seem fragile enough to fly through the air, nor sturdy enough to lift heavy things. She did not soothe the eye like the pink-haired women, or confront the gaze like the tattooed men. Perhaps she could have made a gracekeeper.

The acrobat's stumble seemed to have thrown Jarrow off his stride, but he tried to continue. “All thirteen of these fine performers will…” He cleared his throat and continued in a quieter voice. “All twelve of…”

He trailed off. For a moment Callanish was confused, and then she remembered who she was, why people visited her. Her
gaze strayed to the deck of the boat, searching for the familiar shape. There: a bundle wrapped in striped silks.

Jarrow turned his back to the crew and addressed Callanish in an undertone. “Please forgive my boisterousness, Ms. Sand. It is merely a habit, born from years of addressing restless crowds. I meant no disrespect.”

“Mr. Stirling. Please do not worry. I understand. But I must tell you, I fear I cannot help with what you need.”

“We require only one thing of you, and then we will be on our way. We can pay.”

Callanish glanced along the line of people. The
Excalibur
's crew filled the entire dock, spilling over on to the porch so that she had to stand right in the doorway of her house. After the solitude of the storm, it felt strange to be in the presence of so many people. But it did not matter how many of them there were, or how much they mourned. She had no graces, and so there could be no Resting. She was about to turn to them, to explain, to apologize, when from the line of boats came a low rumble. Her mind cycled through memories of the sound: wind in the chimney, rough sea battering the underside of a dock.