by Paul Kearney
I hear a small, repetitive banging from far upstairs, and almost I think I must be imagining it, because father appears not to notice. He sips his tea without much relish and scans yesterday’s paper, while I read about E. Nesbit’s sand-fairy, and wished I lived by the sea again where I could perhaps find one on some hot summer’s day and persuade it to grant me wishes.
The basement has windows below pavement level, and we both look up at the sound of running feet, and an explosion of shouting outside. I see shadows flicker past in the snow and the gaslight, and the shouting seems awfully fierce. Father raises his face from the paper. ‘What the Devil?’
We climb up the stairs and he opens the front door, holding me back with his free hand. As soon as the door is opened the wind seizes it, and wrenches it back, and in comes a freezing blast of snow and bitter air. Father swears in Greek and drops his blanket to grapple with the door, and I can hear the shouting outside, farther away now, and I peep out around the doorway, squinting into the snow.
Shapes and shadows, disappearing down the street towards the canal. The shouting fades away. Father pulls me back inside, glares out at the empty street, and growls, ‘Drunken louts,’ then slams the door shut again.
HE TUCKS ME up in bed later, which he has not done for a long time, and sits by my bedside fiddling with the candle for a while. I think perhaps he is going to read me a story, or better yet, tell me one – the way he used to tell me tales of Troy and the gods of Olympus, and make them come alive in the quiet room until I could almost picture the tall walls, the windy plain, and the hosts of warriors with their chariots and brazen shields and long spears.
But he sits there saying nothing, looking very gaunt in the candlelight. His eyes have sunk into his head, and for a horrible second it seems almost that he has been transformed into an old, old man. Priam, mourning his dead Hector. I have never seen him look so worn and worried.
He takes my hand. ‘Anna, do you remember your real name?’
I shake my head, and feel like my ears have pricked up like a cat’s.
‘I changed it when we came to England, the better to fit in. Nothing makes an Englishman’s lip curl faster than a foreign moniker, believe me.
‘Our right and true surname is Sphrantzes. You must remember that. We come from an old, proud family. Georgios Sphrantzes, my namesake, was the best friend of the last Emperor of Constantinople, Constantine himself. He was there at the fall of the city, and escaped afterwards, but lost everything in the sack. He ended his days a monk, and wrote the story of the great siege, and his sons who survived continued the fight in the Peloponnese until that, too, fell. Then they moved to our city, and there they lived and their line prospered and continued under the rule of the Turks. And that is us, our family, Anna.
He smiles, and is so far away as he does that I am almost afraid to touch him.
‘They were not all bad, the Ottomans. I used to go hunting with Rahmi Bey, the Governor, and he was a good and decent man. We all lived in harmony for years, Greeks and Turks and Jews and Copts and all manner of faiths and peoples. There was tolerance. There was peace. But the War changed things. All the old friendships were lost, and our world came down in blood and fire, and it is utterly destroyed now.’ He clasps his hands together as if praying. ‘I tell you this that you should not entirely forget who you are.’
He bends and picks up one of my shoes from the floor by the bed. Shreds of damp newspaper are sticking out of it. He stares at it.
‘England may be our home, but we will always have that difference about us, you and I.’
I am so surprised I cannot speak. But confused too. Father is always telling me that we are English now, and that our life is here. This does not sound like him. It sounds like an old, lost man looking back on a life that is over. I reach out and take his hand.
‘I know, Pa,’ I say. Perhaps I do. I do not mind being different so much, but I feel neither Greek nor English really. I am somewhere in between.
He smiles at me, and rises, before bending to kiss me on the forehead.
‘You were always a sharp one,’ he says. ‘What are you reading?’
‘Five Children and It.’
‘Again? I will leave the candle with you so you can read on for a while, but don’t forget to blow it out.’
He straightens, and listens to the storm that is blowing about the roof of the house. ‘I am going downstairs now. I have some papers to look through.’
‘Be careful on the stairs, Pa.’
‘I will. And I told you to call me Father, did I not?’
‘I like calling you Pa. But it isn’t genteel, is it?’
‘Not really. But we’ll keep it between us and God. Good night Anna.’
He leaves the room, shutting the door behind him, and I hear him clump down the creaking stairs in the dark while the wind howls about the walls.
IT IS THE middle of the night, the longest night, and I wake up in the dark with the wind still roaring and buffeting us like a drunken giant wanting in. There is that banging again, far above. I hug Pie close to me and listen to it, and will it to go away but it does not. And suddenly there is a different sound which brings me bolt upright in bed – the shriek of smashing glass.
I sit there in the dark, breathing hard, clutching Pie. I am sure I know what it is – the open skylight in the attic has broken again. It is that which has been banging all night in the wind.
I lie back down, and the banging still goes on, like a patient man with a hammer grimly striking the roof again and again. I wonder if Pa can hear it, but as it goes on and on, I am sure he is not in his bedroom, but has fallen asleep down in his study as he does so often these days.
At last I can bear it no longer. I fumble on the bedside table for the matches and strike one, then light up the candle.
‘Jack called me brave,’ I tell Pie. ‘And I would not be much of an explorer if I was too frightened to climb up into that stupid attic.’
Pie looks at me with her black glass eyes.
‘There’s nothing up there but the wind, Pie. I will pile up some boxes and close that skylight, and even though it’s broken, at least that dratted banging will stop.’
I sit there in the warm bed. I think of Pa’s story, and can’t help but be amazed by it. I am Anna Sphrantzes, and my family were friends with the last Emperor of Constantinople. It is so grand that it makes up my mind for me.
‘You can come with me, and I’ll show you how silly it is to be spooked by an open window, Pie.’
With that, I jump out of bed before I can think any more on it, and pull on my old woodsmoke-smelling coat. I fumble in the pocket for my knife, but it is not there any more. I search all the pockets, and scan the floor and the bedside table, and even the wardrobe, but it is nowhere to be seen.
‘Bah,’ I say. ‘Who needs one anyway?’
The slippers I own are down at heel and floppy, so I go barefoot, the candle-holder in one hand and Pie in the other. I can see my breath in the room, and my toes are very unhappy about the cold floor, but I am above such things. Before I leave my bedroom though, I dart back and put the box of matches in my pocket.
I creep out on the landing. The house is wholly dark, and the wind is so loud it hides the sound of my feet on the creaking stairs as I make my way up to the third floor. I am so glad that I have Pie with me, and I kiss her as we go up, shivering a little and wishing I had thought of putting on my shoes, but they are still wet from the snow, and besides, it does not seem right to be doing that in the middle of the night – and if I had a dressing gown I would be wearing that instead of my old coat.
‘It will soon be Christmas, Pie,’ I whisper to her. ‘Perhaps we will go to the Greek Church this year and hear them singing. And think of all the bells going on Christmas Day, how fine it will sound.’
The third floor is like another world, shrouded and mysterious and hidden. The white sheets that cover the furniture loom up one after another in the deserted rooms, and in the cand
lelight they look more than ever like creatures crouched and sleeping, and I pad forwards as quietly as I can, as though I am afraid of waking them, but at least the carpet is warmer on my bare feet.
I pull back a shutter and look out one of the tall windows. The street below is white as a tablecloth, and the snow is hurtling in clouds through the gaslight and the wind rattles the sash and when I set my hand against the glass I can feel the air push at it as though there is something invisible outside which wants in. For a moment, it feels as though I am the last person left awake and walking in the world, and it is all rather eerie.
I find myself wishing that adventures happened more in the bright light of summer, in a field, or by a bright river with the sun beaming down. But I suppose, as Jack says, they tend to be inconvenient things.
He called me brave, and so I cannot be afraid.
The cabinet is still pulled aside, and I can see the marks of my knife scored across the hidden door, as though something had been clawing at it. I set down the candle and grasp the latch and the brass is icy to the touch, and I can feel the air moving around the cracks in the door, as chill as winter in a graveyard. But I have been here before in the dark, and I know what to expect.
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ I mutter as I tug the door towards me. It grates and grinds as it did before and the candlelight flutters.
Now the wind seems louder, as though a layer of the house has been stripped away and I am climbing into the bones of it. I go up the narrow, steep stairs feeling the old wood under my toes, and I wince as a little splinter pricks my sole.
‘Nil desperandum,’ I say to Pie. ‘Don’t give up the ship.’
It is so loud as I push open the top door into the attic itself, and the air is freezing, and the storm seems almost to be in the room with me. It feels more like outside than inside, and I stand one foot upon the other as the candle flame flaps and gutters, and I have to put down Pie to shield it with my palm. The rafters creak and groan, and as I stand there I hear the click and grind of the slates moving above as the wind frets at them.
And the smell is stronger than before, despite the air moving in the attic. It reminds me of wet dog, but is more powerful. I look up with a start as the skylight bangs again, and the candlelight catches the glint of broken glass in it and on the floor below.
The attic is a place apart, barely part of the house at all. It is an afterthought, a forgotten space. But it is no longer dead and still and silent. Tonight it seems shuddering and alive and somehow fierce, and the shadows of the candlelight are mad and leaping as sea waves in a storm.
I look down at Pie, and have nothing to say. My breath seems awfully heavy in my throat. I walk forward, and realise suddenly how stupid I am being. What of it if the skylight bangs all night? What is that to me? But I am here now, and I will not turn back.
I walk slowly across the creaking floor and feel the grit and dust under my feet, and find a place to set down the candle where the air will not whip out the flame. Then I straighten to look around, to find something to stand upon.
And deep in the blackness of the corner, I see two lights blink, silver-green. Like those of a cat, but much bigger.
And there is a low growl in the dark, a sound which seems to reach deep into my bones and shake the marrow of them.
I stand there as though I have been turned to stone, and nothing will move or work. It feels like the whole world has squeezed down into this darkness, and I am caught in it like a wasp in jam. I hear a tiny whine, like that of a rusty hinge, and it is coming out of my mouth.
Oh Christos. I do believe in you, I do believe in you. I do, I do, I do.
The lights wink out, and the growl comes again, but now it is more of a grunt, and something big is moving in the shadow beyond the candlelight and I would give anything in life to be able to move myself, to turn and run back to the door, but I cannot turn around. I cannot even blink. And I think to myself; this is Midwinter. This is the longest night, and the greatest dark, and now I know why the Romani wanted me out of the wood, and I know what it was I saw in the trees. It is the same thing which is in the attic with me now.
10
INTO THE LIGHT it crawls, like the thing in the poem which is slouching towards Bethlehem. I can see it now, and it lifts up its massive head and looks straight at me, and the eyes are huge and round and they seem one moment green, and the next yellow, and there is the wet shine of teeth, such big teeth they are.
Finally I manage one step backwards, and then another, as stiff as though I had strings attached. There is a scream in me, shrieking out as loud as can be, but it is only in my head, and my throat has closed it down into that rusty whine.
And I hear it say, ‘Wait.’
I want my Pa here, and I want my Mama, and my lost brother Nikos with rifle and bayonet; but I am wholly alone, and Pie is lying on her back with her eyes closed, as if she does not want to see what comes next.
The thing raises one limb, and it has pale fingers – a hand – and it is palm up. And there is an arm, a perfectly normal arm, and then a shoulder, and the head dips and comes up again, and it is smaller, but still covered in black hair, and even as I watch and the candle fights the wind in the attic and the storm does all its screaming outside, I see that it is a face, a real, proper face that is turned towards me now, and the face is one I know.
It is that of Luca, the gypsy boy, and there is blood on it.
He has no clothes on, and his body is very white except where a line of black hair trails down his spine from the nape of his neck. He coughs, a human sound, and spits blood into the dust.
‘Don’t go,’ he whispers, and it sounds as though his mouth is full of glass.
My heart slows a little, and seems less likely to thump its way out of my throat. I look at the candle, then glance back at Pie, and finally make myself stare at him again as if my eyes need a second chance to take it all in.
He is shuddering, and I can see the muscles sliding under his white skin in cords and bunches. He levers himself up, and I want to look away, but can’t now, and he sits in the attic in front of me hugging his knees, still shivering, and I see that he is covered in scratches and bruises, and one eye is swollen, and there is blood leaking slowly out of his nose and it is drying black around his mouth.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask him.
‘Hiding.’
‘From whom?’
‘The Roadmen. Have you a blanket?’
‘No. How did you get in?’
‘The skylight... I’m freezing.’
‘I should call the police.’
‘Don’t – please don’t, girlie.’
‘You’re... you’re nothing more than a burglar.’
‘I’m more than that, and you knows it.’ He grinds his teeth to stop them chattering. ‘Don’t look at me. I got no clothes on.’
I can feel the heat rise in my face. ‘You’re in my house.’
‘Don’t mean you got to stare at me so. Tain’t decent. Is there nothing I can wear in these here boxes?’
‘Look for yourself. I’m not going near you.’
‘I won’t hurt you.’
‘You better not, or you’ll be in big trouble.’
‘I’m already in big trouble, girl.’
‘My name is Anna!’
‘So it is.’ He stands up, and totters like someone who is drunk or exhausted, and begins fumbling in the old boxes that litter the attic. I look away, but something about him catches my eye, and as he turns his back I see that he has a tail, an honest-to goodness hairless little tail some six inches long sticking out at the base of his backbone, nestled in black fur.
I take off my coat and throw it at him.
‘Those old clothes are covered in mould. Here. Take this and cover yourself up.’
‘Thankee.’ He wraps the coat about him and sinks to his knees once more. He touches his face as though it is someone else’s and stares at the blood on his fingers, wincing.
Now it is
I who am shivering. I sidle backwards and pick up Pie and hug her close, and am completely at a loss. But at least now it is a boy I am talking to, and not the horrible toothed thing with the burning eyes. It was here a moment ago; I saw it and I know it was real, and yet it cannot be.
‘What are you?’ I ask him in a low voice.
He looks at me with big, dark eyes, as human as my own. He seems a lot younger now than he did in the forest.
‘I’m Romani, or kin to ’em, like you knows.’ He looks away, wipes his nose with the sleeve of my coat. ‘All right. I’m a skinchanger.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s what you just saw. I changes my skin every now and again, ’specially on nights of moon. I becomes the beast you saw.’
‘Have you eaten someone?’ I ask him, awed despite myself.
‘I ain’t eaten no-one. And we don’t want to hurt no-one either, me and mine. But we got to fight back when others is a hunting of us. That’s just plain sense.’
‘You’re a wolf in... in boy’s clothing. That’s what you are.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Who’s hunting you?’
‘I told you: the Roadmen.’
‘Who are they?’
‘You’re a curious one, and no mistake.’
‘This is my home. I’ll ask all the questions I please.’
He licks his teeth. ‘Fair enough.’
