Rownie and his brother trudged through the rising water. They moved slowly. Rownie didn’t think they could make it all the way back to Southside before the tunnel flooded entirely. He didn’t know what to do. He felt useless and helpless and small. He felt like he needed to be something other than himself, so he took out the fox mask and put it on.
In the fading, failing light, Rownie saw the tunnel around them through fox eyes.
He saw a door in the tunnel wall. He remembered what Essa had told him about the Clock Tower stairs: that the staircase went all the way through the central pylon, down and farther down.
“I know my way,” he said to Rowan, “and I can guess at yours.” He still couldn’t remember the rest of that speech, but he knew as much as he needed to. He pushed through the tunnel, moving as a fox might move, and pulling his brother behind him.
They reached the door. It was locked. This didn’t matter much, because the lock was also rusted through and broken. Wood and metal complained when Rownie pushed, but the door still opened. In the dark behind it Rownie found an iron staircase. He found the handrail and shook it hard. Nothing broke or came loose. It didn’t seem to be too badly rusted.
Rownie and Rowan climbed the iron staircase, up and farther up.
They passed rooms that used to be barracks, now empty. Small amounts of cloudy sunlight crept in through narrow windows. The light seemed bright and blinding after the gloom of the tunnel.
Rownie was angry now. The momentum of anger pushed him forward. His skin was angry and his bones were angry and his heart was angry at the vertical scar on Rowan’s chest, where Rowan’s heart used to be.
They climbed up through the center of the Fiddleway, up into the Clock Tower. Rownie led his brother out among the masks and the tree-size gears and pendulums, out beneath the clock faces of stained glass.
He pulled the fox mask from his face and shouted for help.
Scene IX
SEMELE CAME OUT FROM behind the bookshelves. Essa jumped down from somewhere overhead. Patch limped from the pantry, with Nonny helping him. Thomas approached with his cane’s tip clacking against the tower floor.
“You found your brother!” the old goblin said. He whipped his cane through the air. It made a celebratory swishing sound. “Magnificent! However did you manage it? Never mind, never mind, tell us the tale over some refreshment. Welcome back to us, young Rowan. Your timing is absolutely flawless.”
Rownie said nothing. Rowan said nothing. Semele was the first to notice the two different sorts of nothing that they said.
“Hush,” she said to Thomas. “Hush.”
She lifted a torn corner of Rowan’s shirt, and then set it back in place to cover the scar.
“He doesn’t know who I am,” Rownie told her. He felt his anger drain away. He didn’t want it to go. He fought to keep it. Anger kept him moving. It kept him warm. But now words fell out of his mouth like cold pebbles. “He just stands there with his ribs all empty and he doesn’t know me.”
Semele took his hand and shook her head. “He does remember you,” she said. “To be heartless is to be without his will, but not without himself. He is still there. He still knows all that he knew.” Her voice grew softer and more careful. “But intention and volition have been taken. He has no momentum beyond what others give him.”
“Can we find his heart?” Rownie asked. “Can we put it back?”
Semele did not say no. She did not need to. She did not say anything else.
Rownie shook his head. This was not true. He would not let it be true.
“He looks very calm,” said Essa, clearly trying to help and not knowing how. “Heartlessness doesn’t look too unpleasant.”
“He’s a puppet,” said Thomas, disgusted and sad. “May the Mayor eat rancid liver paste, and suffer crippling pains. The floods are coming, and the city has no one to speak for it.”
“The floods are coming right now, actually,” said Essa. “I would have said so earlier, and I was on my way down here to say so, but then it seemed rude to interrupt because Rownie’s brother got his heart taken away, and I am so very sorry about that. But now I need to tell you that the floods are here already. You can see the water rising from the upstream clock face.”
“You can also hear it,” said Semele. “Listen.”
A sound like endless and ongoing thunder filled the space around them. It grew louder. It came from the waters beneath the bridge, and it came from the oldest mask. Floating hair of braided riverweed moved in a mane around that mask.
Thomas whacked the floor twice with his cane. “Places, everyone!” he roared. “Essa, back up the winding stair with you. Ring the tower bells, if those old things are still capable of ringing. Anyone who hears that sound, and remembers what the sound is for, will head for the hills. Nonny, help me throw a few sandbags behind the tower doors. Locks and chains won’t keep the River out if it rises this far. Patch, come and help us if your injury will allow it—or else keep us company if it will not. Rownie . . .” Thomas paused, and then shook his head. “Rownie, look after your brother.”
“What if the whole bridge comes crashing down?” Essa asked.
“This bridge has stood for a very long time,” said Thomas.
“Because people keep rebuilding it!” Essa countered. “Not because it never falls down! It does fall down sometimes!”
Thomas hit the floor again with the tip of his cane, as if to demonstrate that it was solid. “Places, everyone!” he roared again. Then he whispered to Semele. “A chant or a charm to help hold these stones together might not be amiss.”
“I suppose that would be useful, yes,” said Semele.
“You inspire great confidence,” said Thomas. “I’ll compose my last words while we stack sandbags.”
Everyone moved, except for Rownie and his heartless brother. Rowan seemed perfectly content to stand in place, whether or not the bridge came crashing down beneath them.
“Are you listening?” Rownie asked him. “Can you hear what we’re saying? Do you know what’s going on?” He poked Rowan’s arm and got no reaction. He kicked his brother in the shin, and got no reaction from that either—and then he really wished that he hadn’t kicked him. He felt his own heart slam against his rib cage, as though it wanted to get as far away from this place as it possibly could.
The stones and metal workings of the Clock Tower groaned. Rownie thought he also heard music in the sound, but he couldn’t be sure. Then the flood noise grew louder. It roared and echoed in the unseen throat of the River mask.
The roar shifted something inside Rownie’s chest. An idea came to him.
“Come on,” he said. “You might not have any will or momentum, but I think I can find you some.” He took his brother’s hand and led him to the very first mask, the mask that was also the River, the mask no performer ever wore. The open mouth of the mask thundered. Rownie was very much afraid of sinking down and drowning in its bottomless eyes.
He took it from the wall. It was made of stone and very heavy. He stumbled under the weight of it.
“Rownie?” Thomas called from the other side of the tower. “Whatever you are doing, I doubt very much that it is a good idea!”
“Probably not,” Rownie answered, but he did not return the mask to its place. He looked up at his brother. “I’m going to put this on you. I really hope you don’t mind. But if anyone can keep from drowning under this, it’s you.” He climbed onto a crate and slipped the mask over Rowan’s face.
The River mask merged with Rowan’s skin. The inked and painted lines of it flowed across his face. He threw back his head, opened his mouth, and gave one wordless shout with an immense and canyon-carving voice. The sound was a bridge of water between the mountains and the sea.
Rownie jumped down from the crate and shouted against the swirling, rushing onslaught of noise. “Rowan!”
Rowan looked at him. His hair moved around his head like riverweed swept by strong currents. His eyes had become vast and f
ull.
“Hi,” Rownie said to his brother, who was also the River. “Please don’t flood.”
“This is not a very good idea!” Thomas called as he hurried across the tower floor. “Where is the city mask? Nonny, fetch the city mask! Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up. The source of all our craft seems to be underway, and no one has rehearsed for it!”
Goblins gathered. Nonny offered the mask of Zombay. Rownie took it, but he did not put it on, and he did not look away from the bottomless eyes of his brother.
“Do you remember your first line?” Thomas prompted him.
Rownie nodded. “Oldest road. Older brother. Hear me. Please don’t flood.”
“Close enough,” said Thomas. “But you should actually wear that mask if you mean to speak for the city.”
“No,” said Rownie, holding up the mask of Zombay but leaving his own face uncovered. “He has to see that it’s me. He has to know that it’s me.”
The floods pounded against the pylons of the bridge beneath them. Stone creaked against stone. The workings of the clock strained against each other with metallic noises of alarm. Thomas made exasperated noises of his own. “The next line is ‘I speak for the city, and all of the city, the north and the south and the bridge in between.’”
“Please don’t flood,” said Rownie. “For me, and for everyone else, everyone in Zombay.”
The River, who was also Rowan, reached down and poked Rownie’s nose.
“Nice mask there,” he said, with the full roar of the River in the distance of his voice.
Rownie gave him a pirate scowl. “Yours is better,” he said.
“Thanks,” said Rowan. The lines of the River mask flowed on his face. “Thanks for getting me moving.”
Rownie hugged his brother, and his brother hugged him back. “You’re welcome. Please don’t flood.”
“Heard you the first time,” said Rowan. “I’ll have to leave to manage it, though.” He spoke softly, but his voice still thundered.
Rownie wanted to argue. He didn’t. He nodded instead. “Will you ever come back?”
Rowan smiled. “You’ll know how to find me.”
The brothers stood apart. Rowan set both of his hands against the upstream wall. Water flowed from his fingertips and worked its way between the stones, weakening the mortar. Rowan pushed. Several stones tumbled out and down.
Through the open space, Rownie saw the flood. It filled most of the ravine already. Waves tore boulders and trees from the shore on either side.
“Bye,” said Rowan, his eyes vast, his hair flowing as though air were water.
“Bye,” said Rownie.
His brother jumped over the edge. He cut through the air like a fisherbird, and dove down into the surface of himself.
The troupe gathered beside Rownie. They all watched as the floodwaters calmed, slowed, diminished, and passed beneath their feet and the Fiddleway Bridge.
Scene X
ROWNIE LEFT THE CLOCK TOWER at evening, a greenish gray pebble in his only pocket. He passed several Fiddleway musicians, more than he had ever seen or heard on the bridge at once, but he was too much inside his own head to really hear the music they played.
He wanted to be alone at his pebble-throwing place, but Vass was waiting for him. She sat on the low stone wall, playing a string game with her fingers. She didn’t look up. Rownie climbed the wall and sat beside her.
“Did the Mayor give you your own house?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” said Vass. “A dusty and ghoul-haunted place right here on the Fiddleway, and it’s all my very own.”
“He promised you a house in Northside,” Rownie said.
“He did,” Vass agreed, “but he’s less happy with me now than he was—even though I got him safely through the tunnel. But I don’t really mind. I’m not so fond of Northside, and it isn’t a bad thing to live in sanctuary. Can’t arrest anyone on the bridge.”
She got one finger stuck in her string game, and tried to untangle it. She cursed. The web of string turned to ash and blew away. She cursed again, fished more string from a pouch at her belt, and started over. “Speaking of sanctuary, I wouldn’t leave the Fiddleway for a while. The Lord Mayor is unhappy with you. I’ve seen several posters with your face and name.”
“I don’t have a name,” said Rownie. “I only have my brother’s name, made small.” He said it without any bitterness, but Vass flinched at her own words turned back on her.
“I think it’s your name, now,” she said.
“Maybe.” Rownie looked out at the River, which still flowed higher than its usual custom. “Maybe it is my name.” He made it more true by saying it aloud.
Vass got her fingers stuck in the string again. She bit back a curse, and slowly untangled her fingers. She seemed to be struggling with words as much as she struggled with the string.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I’m sorry I brought the Mayor and his Captain down on you. I’m sorry about Rowan. I didn’t know what they had done to him. I really didn’t know. I thought handing you over to the Mayor wouldn’t be nearly as bad as what Graba would’ve probably done to you. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
Rownie looked at her, surprised. “Thanks,” he said.
Vass looked at him, and then looked away. “It seems like Graba might actually leave you alone. Southside didn’t flood. She’ll be happy about that, as happy as she ever gets, and she knows you had some part in it. So she’ll probably let you be.”
“Good,” said Rownie. “I’m glad I don’t have to worry so much about pigeons.”
The two of them watched the River flow beneath the Fiddleway. Then Vass gave up on her string game, and climbed down from the wall. “I’ll be here if you need anything cursed or charmed,” she said.
“Good-bye, Vass,” Rownie said. “Good luck with the cursing and charming.” He almost said Break your face instead of Good luck, but he thought she might take it wrong.
Once alone, his fingers found the pebble in his coat pocket. He set it on the wall and spun it a few times, like a top. Then he threw the pebble, just to say hello. Rownie watched his brother reach up to catch it.
He climbed down from the low wall and returned to the Clock Tower, through the stable doors that Semele had invited him to see. He returned to learn mask craft and swordplay and all the rest of his new profession. He returned to eat supper.
The tower smelled like cooking. It smelled buttery and good. It reminded him that he was hungry, that hunger followed him always and buzzed behind everything he did. It reminded him that he didn’t have to fend for himself here. He took off his brother’s old coat as he climbed the stairs and found a costume rack to hang it on. It felt strange to be without it.
Someone—probably Nonny—had put a wood stove outside the pantry and propped up a long metal pipe for a chimney. Cooking smoke climbed the pipe and rose through the tower’s workings.
Thomas stood by the stove in an apron. He spooned several dollops of dough onto a flat metal skillet. Semele sat nearby with a book in her hands and her feet on a stool, toes pointed at the stove to soak up its warmth. Nonny, Patch, and Essa all sprawled on the floor, playing cards. Thomas looked up at the boy, grunted, and scooped a finished flatbread onto a plate.
“Don’t burn your fingers,” the old goblin said.
Rownie took the plate and sat down with the rest of his troupe. His fingers twitched and his mouth watered, but he waited for his supper to cool.
~~~ ~~~
Acknowledgments
AN ENSEMBLE CAST AND CREW created this book, and I am profoundly grateful for the professional, aesthetic, and emotional support I’ve received along the way.
Thanks to Karen Wojtyla and Emily Fabre for extraordinary and exacting editorial guidance. Thanks to Beth Fleischer, Joe Monti, and Barry Goldblatt for their wise and skillful agenting. Thanks to Holly Black, Kelly Link, and Catherynne M. Valente for nurturing the earliest scribblings set in Zombay. Thanks to Barth Anderson, Haddayr Copley-Woods, Da
vid Schwartz, and Stacy Thieszen for encouragement and uncompromising critique. Thanks to professors Phyllis Gorfain, Paul Moser, Roger Copeland, Michael Faletra, Andrew Barnaby, and Richard Parent for their knowledge and willingness to share it. Thanks to the Minnesota State Arts Board, the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, and Rain Taxi for all that they do to support local arts and letters.
Thanks to the master mask makers Bidou Yamaguchi and Jeff Semmerling; both shared essential information about their art, and both have masks named after them inside this book. Thanks to the many astonishing artists who created new masks inspired by my masquerade. Please wander over to goblinsecrets.com to wonder at their work, and to wear it yourself.
Thanks to mis sobrinos Isaac, Navarro, Kyla, and Suzannah for reminding me of so many things I’d forgotten about childhood. Thanks to Melon Wedick, Jon Stockdale, Ivan and Rachel Bialostosky, Nathan Clough, Ahna Brulag, Felicia Batzloff, Will Adams, Matthew Aronoff, Bradford Darling, and to Bethany, Kel, Kay, and Guillermo Alexander. All of them wandered around Zombay and told me things about the place that I didn’t know before.
Many thousands of thanks to Alice Dodge for nurturing this book at every stage—and also for marrying me.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 076fd56c-31d7-4a9f-889e-a5cd44e771f3
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 27.11.2013
Created using: calibre 1.12.0, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
William Alexander
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