Bird of Chaos: Book One of the Harpy's Curse

by Susie Mander

  “Then we will call her Callirhoe,” I said and Cook was right. Every theros the bird came back to burrow in my garden. It was so reliable that Harryet, Hero and I stopped grieving its departure at the end of autumn but instead anticipated its return in spring.

  Harryet, of course, was the only one to appreciate the bird’s significance. Cook, being the heathen that he was, had never read the Holy Texts and knew very little about the prophecy, while Hero was equally ignorant. Being a boy, no one had bothered to teach him the Holy Scriptures. But my best friend was resolute. “Callirhoe is proof,” she said while we lay on our backs in my garden. “I’ve seen your toes. You already have the mark. Just you wait and see. Your gift will come and when it does…”

  “When it does, what?” Hero said, sitting up.

  My friend shrugged. “When it does Verne will get us out of this mess.” She gestured to include everything in sight: the willow tree, the ivy smothering the garden wall, the sun and the sky above. “She’ll do whatever it takes to save us from the Tempest.”

  If optimism was Harryet’s strength then worry was mine. Callirhoe’s arrival forced me to face the memory of my visit to the high priestess. “Her gift will rival even yours,” Maud had said. Then my mother had made me lie to my father and pretend I would never be a Talent at all.

  Why?

  At six my faith in my mother had been strong. I did not think to question her. My mother was simply trying to protect me so Maud could not use me the way she had used Aunt Evada.

  At twelve I wasn’t so sure. What if the opposite was true? What if Maud had only good intentions and my mother was trying to hold me back? Her behaviour in recent years certainly suggested it was possible. My mother felt threatened by me. Her jealousy was obvious to even the dimmest dimwit. Maud had said the bird would come and it had. And Harryet was right: I had the mark.

  Still, bird or no bird, mark or no mark, the fact remained: I had no gift.

  I needed to speak to someone who knew my mother as well as I did. I needed to speak to my father.

  I was still only twelve and the threat of Icelos damning my friends was enough to keep me up all night, tossing and turning with indecision. The next day and the one after that I could not make up my mind. I chewed my nails. I paced up and down my solar. I hardly ate.

  “Your mother cannot call on Icelos,” Harryet reassured me. “The only way she can kill someone is if she wields the blade herself. No matter how hard we pray, the goddess of death listens to no one. She takes only those she needs.”

  Eventually I decided Harryet was right. There was nothing for it. The only way to exonerate myself was to come clean.

  I found my father sitting in front of the fire in his study. Only his head was visible in a mound of satryx furs. Around him was the evidence of his sedentary, domesticated life: landscapes he had painted of the old goat farm, the tortoise-shell lyra which he would play on his knee, and rolls of manuscripts he wrote to fill the long hours of boredom. He reminded me of a beautiful caged bird. Someone needed to clean out the cage though. The room smelt like guano.

  I pulled the door shut against the howling wind and stood in the flickering light. “Dad?” I said, tentatively entering the over-heated room. I stood with my hand on the dusty mantelpiece and my back to the flames. I breathed through my mouth. Water dripped from my nose.

  “Angelfish,” he said, his eyes barely opening. We had hardly spoken since my mother had put an end to our play, at least not with any depth. It was like talking to a complete stranger. I had that horrible sinking feeling you get when you walk out onto a thin branch and hear the slightest of cracks. I could feel the branch giving beneath me. Soon I would fall.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  He opened his eyes and looked at me properly for the first time. “Of course. What is it?”

  Despite my fear, I told him about what my mother had done. “When I was little I went to the high priestess to be tested, you remember? Afterwards, Mother told you I wouldn’t be a Talent. Only, she lied. The high priestess said I would have a mighty gift to rival any other. She said I would be a ruler of balance and I would unify our people and bring about peace, or something like that.”

  My father emerged from the furs and leant forwards. “Your mother…?”

  “Lied,” I whispered. I had opened a floodgate. “She said if I told you and Nanny Blan you would be cursed and I…I didn’t want Icelos to come so I said nothing. Nanny Blan left and I thought it was a sign of my mother’s power, as if maybe she could speak directly with death, you know? But then the bird turned up just like Maud said. In the storm. I already have the mark. But now…will you die because I have told you?”

  Jammeson was quiet for a long time. He ran his thin hand over his chin. “I am not going to die because of what you’ve said. Not unless you tell your mother.”

  “She said she wanted to protect me from the high priestess. What did the high priestess do that was so bad?”

  He sighed heavily. “Nothing. As far as anyone knows Evada was the one mentioned in the Holy Texts. She had the mark and she had a mighty gift. She saw visions of death before it struck though there was little she could do to stop it. When she learnt that your grandmother was plotting to kill her she took refuge in the temple. But she could not stop Queen Ligeia. Nor could Maud. Her fate was sealed and she was poisoned. If anything, Maud tried to protect her.”

  “And what about the bird?”

  “It is said that when Evada was born she was visited by some sort of seagull or petrel. There was speculation that the bird would return but no one saw it. Then she was murdered.”

  For a long while neither of us spoke. We were both caught up in the whirlwind of our thoughts. Finally I whispered, “So what do I do?”

  “What can you do?”

  “I still don’t have my gift despite the high priestess’s assurance that it would come. Don’t you think it’s…possible…that…that Mother is responsible?”

  He looked at me with sad eyes and shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  “But—”

  He pushed himself out of his chair. “I am indebted to your mother. She didn’t sacrifice me but she could change her mind at any moment.”

  “So you won’t help me?”

  He was evasive. “Verne, you must not assume the worst in people. That’s what your grandmother Ligeia did and look what happened to her. You are only twelve. Plenty of people don’t get their gift until much later.” I raised my eyebrows in doubt. “Perhaps your mother simply lied because she wanted to save us from disappointment if Maud was wrong. If your gift is supposed to come, it will come. In the meantime, I counsel patience.”

  I thought for a moment, chewing the inside of my cheek. It was clear there was no point in fighting. My father was spineless. “You are probably right. I am still young.”

  He smiled unconvincingly and led me towards the door. “I have known your mother long enough to appreciate that while she might not be the warmest person in the world, she does everything for a reason. Have faith that she has your best interests in mind.”

  Whether my father believed it or whether he was simply trying to protect himself I will never know. What I did know was that I was utterly disappointed.

  As I turned to leave I thought of something else. “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “I won’t tell her about this conversation if you promise not to tell her about the bird.”

  “It will be our little secret,” he said and winked. It was a pathetic gesture; and when I saw it the last of my respect for him evaporated.

  Chapter five

  If it hadn’t been for Harryet and Drayk I might have gone utterly mad with despair. But there was no time for that. Harryet—wise Harryet—kept me busy with mundane and yet utterly enthralling things like sewing socks for the poor and, when winter melted, fishing for eels in the lake. She would not let my hands be still. “Busy hands make still thoughts,” she said and for the most part she wa
s right.

  Drayk drove me harder than he had ever done before. Though he did not know of my predicament—I did not trust him quite as much as my lady-in-waiting, not then, at least—he knew of the shadow that had become my companion. He saw that I no longer laughed and clapped whenever I beat him but simply shrugged and said, “Again?” He realised I could not meet his eye for fear of crying. I believed it was his intention to drive the shadow away with hard physical labour and unyielding discipline. We trained for hours that spring. Calluses formed on my hands. I was thinner and more muscular than I have ever been since.

  Between the age of twelve and thirteen my body underwent none of the changes you would expect. I remained flat-chested, boyish. Every morning I checked my bedding for spots of blood and every morning I was disappointed. Resentment, that poison, seeped into my ears until it was coursing through my veins and could not be ignored. Each time Callirhoe squawked, flapped and fluttered into my garden I was further convinced of my mother’s guilt.

  Nevertheless, my defiance was piecemeal. I had to test my resolve the way one might test hot bath water, stepping in slowly, easing the body down and finally submerging the head. First I snuck down to the mess hall to listen to the returned soldiers speak of battles on a distant Caspian shore, of their favourite inns in the mountains between Gregaria and Whyte, of the exotic men of the Spice Isles. Their stories and paeans were filled with a riot of colour—red ochre, blue lapis lazuli—and boisterous sounds like dancing snakes and pipe music. The picture they created promised adventure and open space, distance from my mother and, above all else, freedom.

  Then I started sneaking around rooftops and bossing people around.

  I developed a nasty habit of assuming the worst in people. I assumed the adults at court—my father in particular—were blind to the suffering of others. Later, I realised this was not the case. They were not blind to suffering they were embarrassed by it. They convinced themselves it was wrong to draw attention to any disparity between people so rather than acknowledge the beggar on the corner huddled in his blankets or the mad woman talking to herself, rather than entertain the possibility that a mother could abuse her daughter, they feigned apathy and in doing so were collectively guilty.

  This was true of my early relationship with Harryet.

  Harryet was always in motion: sewing, weaving and collecting things—raffia hats in particular—and I assumed her movement filled the gap left by her dead parents and protected her mind from doubt and anxiety. I was convinced she suffered. Yet for many years I did not ask if my assumptions were true. I had parents, she did not; I convinced myself it was wrong to highlight the differences between us, to draw attention to my wealth and her poverty.

  As I got older I knew I did not want to be like the rest of them. I did not want to be craven like my father. I could not judge my friend’s experience based on my own. Perhaps Harryet found it painful whenever I spoke of my parents. Perhaps not. Perhaps she collected hats to protect herself from the memory of her loss. Perhaps she simply liked hats.

  Knowledge trumps ignorance, I realised. Bravery and a few moments of discomfort now for happiness later are preferable to immediate happiness and long-term suffering. I did care about my friend and I had to ask.

  I was thirteen before I worked up the courage.

  We were in the games room where a fire smouldered in a black iron grate. The walls were lined with abandoned gifts given to me by my father before my mother forbade him from bestowing any favour upon me: a shiny copper cart on a string, a wooden sword, a doll with real argutan hair and numerous clay figurines with painted faces. Though we had outgrown the toys, we came here because the room was cosy; no one would disturb us.

  “Harry?” I said, picking nervously at the hem of my dress. I was sitting cross-legged. She lay on her back with her arms beneath her head.

  “Yes?”

  “What happened to your parents?”

  Harryet sat up and looked at me. Not with reproach but with curiosity as if she didn’t understand why I was asking after all this time. There was also relief in her expression, like she was thankful to finally share her story. “They died,” she said with the finality of someone who has come to terms with her loss. I felt foolish for not asking sooner.

  “I know but how?”

  She settled back on the carpet and spoke while staring at the ceiling. “I was about seven when my mother Mary got sick. We didn’t lived in the wealthiest part of Tibuta but it certainly wasn’t the poorest—that came later. It must have been Lete or Bidwell Heights. Wherever it was, our house was big enough that my older brother, Sander, and I had a room to ourselves. And the walls were whitewashed, I remember that much.

  “I don’t remember how she got sick or why—no doubt the gods had a plan for her—all I remember is my mother coughing. You could hear it in every part of the house. She lay in bed all day, always coughing. Cough, cough, cough.” As she said this, Harryet coughed into her fist. “I prayed to Icelos to make her stop. I sometimes feel guilty about it now. It was selfish, really. I was more concerned about how annoying it was than what it meant. But I was young. I didn’t know what was happening.” She paused, remembering a child’s ignorance. “It was actually my second mother Anya who died first.” She glanced at me and I nodded in understanding. A second mother, or an aunt, is the name given to the woman in a single-sex relationship who did not give birth to a child but acts as its guardian. “She died quite suddenly. The vital spirit in her heart gave out while she was working in the bakery. Just like that.”

  “Your poor mother,” I whispered.

  Harryet nodded. “My mother got sicker and sicker knowing that when she died there would be no one to take care of us.

  “Of course she did her best to make arrangements but our family was like most in Tibuta; we owned nothing and were plagued by debt. Our neighbours faced the same troubles. They didn’t want extra mouths to feed. When she finally passed, we discovered my mother had sold all her possessions, even her body. Sander and I stood mutely in the doorway as the undertaker came and took her away to sell her to sorcerers. Then we were alone.”

  “I am so sorry,” I say because what else can one say?

  “Neither of our mothers had bothered to tell us our history so we didn’t even know who we were. We were returning home from the town square one afternoon when we discovered strangers in our house. The landlord had kicked us out without even warning us. She didn’t care that we had paid up front. We were orphans. Worse, we were illegitimates.

  “For a time we rented a room in a basement in Minesend from a sympathetic old woman. I remember the stench of her fish stew, the dust that clung to everything. We watched the feet of passers-by through a barred window near the ceiling, trying to guess their occupation by their shoes—or lack of shoes—”

  “Did you miss your mothers?” I cut in.

  Harryet rolled over so she was facing me. “Of course we did. But we were young and we had to survive. And it was a long time ago. Grief is…it’s like a wound. At first you think you’ll never recover. It cuts so deep your mind goes blank and you are aware of only the pain. You become bitter and angry. You blame yourself. You blame the gods, may they forgive us. But in time the pain recedes. You may not want it to—you may try to hold onto it because you fear losing the pain is like losing the person you mourn—but it happens whether you like it to or not. It has to happen. Otherwise you stop living.”

  I remembered the way I felt when Nanny Blan left. “Then…?”

  “I approached Cook and he gave me a job. I was nine. Sander worked in the mines. For a time we shared a single cot in the basement with a pale in the corner for our waist, a table to one side that served as kitchen and counter, and a metal drum that served as stove. We had enough to get by. I’d even say we were happy. Then one day Sander simply didn’t turn up. I went to the mines and asked his overseer if she knew what had happened but the woman kept kicking me aside and saying, ‘get lost kid.’ Finally, when she
realised I wasn’t going anywhere, she told me my brother was crushed by a falling slab of marble.”

  “And I bet she was ashamed because she had no intention of helping you,” I said.

  “Something like that.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I cried a lot, obviously. And for a time I was convinced the gods had turned against me. Everyone I loved had died. I didn’t want to be alone in the basement. I was scared of my thoughts in the dark. So I asked Cook to take me in. The only thing he said was, ‘This aint a charity.’ But he let me move into the servant quarters anyway. And then I ran into you. After that, things improved a lot,” she said, smiling.

  I counted the years in my head. For three years I had been ignorant of the depth of her suffering. I hadn’t even know she’d had a brother. “I am so sorry, Harryet.”

  “It’s not your fault. Anyway, I love living with you and Cook.”

  I gnawed my next statement like gristle. “Yes but I feel bad because I have parents and you don’t. And your brother died. I shouldn’t complain so much.”

  She actually laughed. “Don’t be silly. I would complain too if my mothers had lived long enough to be as annoying yours.”

  In Tibuta, women like Harryet outrank men in almost all situations except when royalty is concerned. Men like Odell and Hero enjoy a position like mistresses on the mainland: they are neither entirely part of the household nor completely excluded from it but sit in a unique position somewhere in the middle. If they curry favour with a female member of court then they can be truly dangerous. As was the case with Odell. That same year, he had managed to insinuate himself into the lives of so many woman at court that he had become arrogant and belligerent. He was almost untouchable as a result. Almost untouchable.