by J. F. Penn
"Hi, Mum. What's up?"
"Oh, sweetie. Something dreadful has happened. Your grandfather –" Her voice broke with a little sob.
Sienna frowned. Her mum's dad was already dead, mourned as a beloved granddad who had always shown her interesting things in the hedgerows and fields near their country house. Her father's dad was a distant memory, a man she hadn't seen or heard from since the year she started high school. He had been around after her father had disappeared, lost on a geographic survey to Antarctica, but then he'd faded into the background.
"What do you mean? What's happened?"
Her mum blew her nose. "Your grandfather's body was found this morning in Bath, just down the road from his map shop. They're saying it's some kind of ritual murder. A friend of his, Bridget, called me and told me the news. She wants to talk to you."
Shock slammed through Sienna at the words. Her grandfather murdered? It seemed impossible.
"Bridget said he left something for you, something your dad wanted you to have."
Sienna's breath caught in her throat. Ten years and the pain of losing her father still hurt, but curiosity rose at her mother's words. "Do you have her number?"
"She said you should go to Bath, to Grandad's old map shop and she would meet you there." A pause, then her mum's voice changed. "I don't think you should go, sweetie. You're working now, and you're busy. You don't want to go to that musty old map shop. It was always a complete mess when I went there with your dad back in the day. I'm sure this Bridget can send whatever it is."
Sienna half listened as she remembered being in the antique map shop as a child. The wonders of the world rendered in so many different ways. The smell of thick paper and ink, the weight and size of the maps on the wall, intricate tiny streets and imagined animals in the corners, cartouches of long-dead kings, calligraphy of names that no longer existed. Sienna remembered running her hands over the maps, feeling a vibration of energy, like they wanted her to step inside somehow. Then the concern on her dad's face, a sadness, like he wanted her to see only printed paper, not the worlds beyond the maps. After he disappeared, Mum had never taken her back there.
"I want to go," Sienna said, cutting off her mother's words.
"But what about your work?"
Sienna looked up at the dome of the Radcliffe Camera and the spires of All Souls College behind it. A gaggle of students burst from Brasenose College, chatting as they walked off to lectures.
"It's not really working out. So I'll go this afternoon. It's only a few hours on the bus to Bath."
"But I can't get down there, sweetie. You shouldn't go alone."
"I'm just going to the shop, Mum. I'm not going to visit the morgue or anything."
Her mum sighed. "Alright, but call me later. Your Grandfather was a meddler in life. I would expect him to be just as bad now he's gone."
As the bus drove through the outskirts of Bath a few hours later, Sienna gazed out the window at the fine Georgian terraces made from the distinctive honey-colored limestone that made the city famous for its architecture. Bath was smaller than Oxford, but there was a similar sense of historic weight about it. A World Heritage Site dominated by the ancient Roman Baths and a medieval Abbey, Bath had become a fashionable Georgian spa town, made famous in the books of Jane Austen.
Sienna remembered her dad talking about the background of the Farren family, how they had lived in Somerset for generations. He had only left the area because her mum had been set on London, the hub of politics surrounding their foreign aid work. But now Sienna was returning, without Dad, and with Granddad gone. The only Farren left in their line.
The bus stopped downtown, and Sienna walked up through the shops, navigating past the grand Abbey and up the hill towards The Circus. She passed a group of American tourists on the edge of Queen Square, their guide explaining loudly:
"This square marks the bottom of a key with The Circus at the top of the hill as the round end. Seen from above, it forms a Masonic shape built into the architecture of the city along with symbols of Druidic times."
His voice faded into the hubbub of the traffic as Sienna continued walking uphill towards the circle of trees visible on the rise at the end of the terrace.
As she reached the top, she paused to catch her breath, looking at the Georgian townhouses that curved around in a perfect circle. Three tiers of windows, each flanked by classical columns, rose up towards the blue sky. Stone acorn finials topped the buildings, and between each tier, a carved frieze of nautical elements, serpents and masonic symbols wove its way around. In the center of the circle, five huge plane trees stood tall on green grass, their leaves rustling in the breeze. It would have been a peaceful scene, a glimpse into a regal past, but today, bright yellow Crime Scene tape wound around the trees. Police officers stood on the perimeter, faces impassive, even as tourists took photos of the curious spectacle.
Sienna's heart thumped as she crossed the road and stood on the edge of the tape, as close as she dared go. Scene of Crime Officers still worked on the grass, but she could see between them to the trunk of the largest tree. Even from this distance, she could see it was stained with blood.
What had happened here last night? Her grandfather ran an antique map shop, so why would anyone want to hurt him? Perhaps his friend Bridget would be able to help.
Sienna turned and walked down Brock Street turning off before the Royal Crescent into Elizabeth Buildings. It was a short pedestrianized street, an eclectic mix of little shops and cafés punctuated by colorful flowers and wooden benches. She passed a curiosity shop with a maritime trunk in the window, alongside a carved wooden cross from one of the derelict churches in the nearby countryside. There was a shop selling crystals and fossils, next to a painting and craft store with glass jewelry in the window; an art gallery; a secondhand bookshop and there, in the middle, her grandfather's map shop.
While the other stores bustled with tourists, the map shop remained locked, its window in shadow. Sienna walked up and looked in at the window display. An old county map of Somerset stood in central position, its hills marked with green contoured shading. Next to it, her grandfather's book on the history of cartography, propped open by a tiny engraved globe in a wooden box. It was dark inside, but she could just make out his desk at the back, surrounded by racks of maps in plastic wrapping and the huge globe that had fascinated her as a child.
"You must be Sienna."
The voice made her jump and Sienna turned to see a woman with close-cropped dark hair standing behind. Her eyes were a piercing blue, and although the lines around them suggested the woman was over forty, she possessed an almost elfin look of mischief that made her appear younger. She wore a long dress of patchwork linen in shades of green, like the fields of the West Country in summer, interspersed with the bright yellow of rapeseed.
"I'm Bridget Ronan, a friend of your grandfather's. I recognize you from his photos. Michael had that same bright titian hair, although it looks better on you." Bridget's voice had a soft Irish lilt, and Sienna found herself immediately warming to the woman.
"Thanks for meeting me."
Bridget's welcoming smile faded. "I'm sorry for your loss, and for mine. Michael was a good friend and already sorely missed." She pulled a key from her bag. "Now, come inside." Bridget unlocked the door and pushed the door open.
Sienna walked, and as she breathed in the scent of the maps, she felt like she had come home. They called to her from the display racks, and she wanted to run her fingers over the lines, tracing the borders of the world. She walked to her grandfather's desk and turned the seventeenth-century globe a little, looking for the Barbary Coast, the area of North Africa that seemed so foreign to her when she was little. She found it and touched the picture of the apes sprawled over modern Algeria, a smile playing about her lips as she remembered the stories her grandfather told of times past.
She looked up at Bridget, who stood by the door watching her. "What happened to him?"
Bridget took
a deep breath. "There's a lot we still don't know." She pulled an envelope from her bag. "But Michael gave me this to keep in case anything ever happened to him. He was nearly eighty, so he expected his time to come, although not as suddenly as this." Her eyes filled with tears as she handed Sienna the envelope. "I need to go deal with a couple of things in town, so I'll leave this with you, give you some time alone here, and I'll come back in an hour or so. Okay?"
Sienna nodded, and Bridget turned away, leaving the scent of flowers in her wake. Sienna looked down at the envelope, her name written on the front in her grandfather's spidery hand.
2
The doorbell tinkled as Bridget walked out and for a moment, Sienna just breathed in the air of the map shop. She sensed her grandfather's eye for detail in the angled lines of the wall displays, antique maps worth thousands of pounds hanging next to modern portrayals of emotional landscapes. After all, a map of the human heart is worth far more than the map of a city, she remembered him saying.
She looked down at his desk. An antique parchment map of Bath sat where he must have left it. It looked like something had spilled on the lines of The Circus, as if a red haze settled upon it. Why had he gone down there in the middle of the night?
Sienna sighed. She should have come to see him over the last years. After all, it wasn't so far to Bath, and even though her mother had kept them apart, there was no need to remain distant after going up to Oxford. He must have been lonely here, his only son dead, his only granddaughter estranged. A pang of guilt flushed through her. She should have been here for him, and now he was gone.
She opened the envelope to find one piece of cream paper inside, dated a year previously.
Dear Sienna,
As I write this, you are just finishing your degree at Oxford. I'm so proud of you, and I know your father would have been too. Geography was always his passion, as it has been mine, and I hope it can continue to be yours.
I'm sorry that we weren't able to be friends, but time and circumstance have stood between us. If you're reading this, I'm gone, and although I had hoped to spare you this, our family has always answered the call, and now it's your turn. Bridget will be able to explain more.
For now, the map shop is yours. I've arranged all the legal details, and it is in your name, along with the bank accounts and the flat above.
There will be those who try to part you from the shop, but the maps here are yours too. I hope you will remember how you felt their reality in your childhood. It's time to let that feeling emerge again, Sienna, because there is more at stake than you know.
* * *
For Galileo, and with much love,
Granddad Michael
Sienna frowned, her mind whirling with so many questions. She sat down heavily, looking up at the maps around her with new eyes. This was all hers.
She couldn't help the smile that spread across her face, even though loss resonated deep within her. It felt like coming home at last.
If she was honest, the memories of being here had driven her into studying Geography, the obsession with maps something her mother hadn't been able to remove despite emotional blackmail over the years. Your father was lost over his obsession with maps. I won't have you go the same way.
Her phone rang.
"Hi, Mum."
"Are you there, sweetie? Is it awful?"
"I'm here. It's fine. I met Granddad's friend, Bridget, and she gave me a letter."
A moment of silence and Sienna could sense her mother's dread. "What did it say?"
She took a deep breath. "He left me the map shop. The flat, the bank accounts. Even though I hadn't seen him for years. It's so strange."
"Well, that's wonderful news because you can sell it and use the money to pay off your loans and get a new start in London." Sienna tuned out as her mother rattled on about how much she could get for a place in central Bath and how lucky she was, and it was good because her father didn't leave anything and on and on.
Sienna looked around at the maps and felt them calling to her again. She stood and went to one of the racks, leafing through them as she made agreeable noises. On some of the maps, her fingers trembled against a kind of magnetic field from the paper even through the plastic sleeves that covered them. It was strange, and yet, it also felt natural. Some of the maps didn't have this effect. Maybe there was something in the paper? Perhaps Bridget would be able to help, as her grandfather had suggested.
"So, do you want me to contact the estate agents?" Her mother's voice broke through. "There's one just around the corner from you. I could get it sorted tomorrow."
"No, I need to wait a little, Mum. Let me sort this out myself."
"Well, don't wait too long. That street must look beautiful with the summer flowers out. It's a very good time to sell."
The doorbell tinkled again. Sienna turned to see a tall man enter, his frame erect, his back straight in an almost military fashion. He was distinguished, salt and pepper hair swept back from an angular face, with a patrician nose and thin lips. A vertical scar ran down from his right eye to his short beard, the skin pale and puckered around the old wound. He wore a tailored three-piece suit in English tweed and looked as if he'd just stepped out of one of the paintings from the Holburne Museum.
"I've got to go, Mum. I'll call you later." Sienna hung up and turned to the man. "Morning, can I help you?"
The man looked at her, eyes narrowing for a moment, then he smiled in recognition. "I was looking for Michael." His accent was impeccable Queen's English. "But you must be his granddaughter. I've seen pictures of you. Sienna, is it?" He reached out a hand. "I'm Sir Douglas Mercator."
Sienna stepped forward and shook his hand, meeting his grey eyes, the color of a wolf pelt. His grip was firm, his hand cool and although he was charming, there was something about him that made her take a step back. She felt rather than heard a rustle in the maps around her. "My grandfather isn't here. He … He died yesterday."
Saying the words aloud made Sienna flinch as if it made real something that had only been an idea before.
Sir Douglas' gaze didn't drop; his expression didn't falter. "Oh, I'm so sorry for your loss. You must have a lot to sort out here." He stepped forward and ran his hand over one of the maps displayed on the countertop. It was covered in glass, but Sienna thought she could smell burning, as if his touch singed the edges.
He turned back, pulled a business card from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. "I'm a dealer in antique maps, like your grandfather was." The card was embossed in gold, the word Mercator entwined with a projection of the globe.
"Oh, of course." Sienna shook her head in apology. "Sorry, I didn't recognize your name at first. Are you related to the Flemish cartographer?"
Sir Douglas nodded. "Yes, I'm a direct descendant. Our family have been in the map trade since his day." He looked around the shop, his eyes alight with interest. "I knew your father as well. He was my contemporary when we studied Geography at Oxford. I believe it is your alma mater, too?"
Sienna nodded, a little in awe of the man. After all, he was cartographic royalty.
"With Michael gone, and your father too, perhaps the shop is yours now?" His voice changed, and Sienna sensed a covetousness behind his charm. "I've been trying to buy this shop from Michael for years. He was too old to run it well of late, and I have clients who would be interested in some of the maps. I can offer you a very good deal, Sienna. You'd have more money than you need and I'd handle everything for you. This is my world, after all." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure you have a lot to think about, so keep my card and call me if you'd like to sell. Or even to offload some of this stock." He waved a hand around at the maps.
"Thank you. I'll definitely think about it."
Sir Douglas gave her a long look, then nodded and swept out of the shop. Sienna sensed the space exhale as if it had been holding itself in check while he was present. She went over to the map he had touched, and sure enough, around the edges, faint
charring had appeared, dark patches of soot as if it had been burned. She shook her head. What was going on here?
Sienna went to the door and locked it, turning the sign to Closed. She didn't need any more unexpected visitors, and she wanted to look at the flat upstairs. Behind the desk at the back of the shop, a narrow wooden staircase wound up to the first floor. The stairs creaked as she walked up, the language of an old building, and she thought about her grandfather walking up here, footsteps heavy after a day's work.
At the top, a faded red wooden door etched with a curious five-pointed compass blocked the way. Sienna tried several of the keys until one fitted the lock and she walked in.
She had expected a musty old place, somewhere you'd expect an eighty-year-old to live, but her breath caught as she emerged into a wide open-plan living space. The walls had been opened up into archways, with picture windows looking out over the street on one side and a little courtyard at the back. A stylish kitchen and tasteful furniture made it into a modern flat, the type of place she'd only seen in magazines. Nothing like the chaos of her mother's house, packed to the gunnels with chests and boxes and bags. This was a haven and Sienna exhaled, relaxing into it.
One long wall of shelves was piled high with books, and she stepped closer to see what they were. The Atlas of Improbable Places, books of photos from abandoned cities, and a shelf of journals. They were all black, leather-bound hardbacks in the same A5 size, each with an elastic band to hold loose papers inside. They were dated on the spine, one per year going back to the 1950s.
Sienna's heart pounded as she considered them. They were her grandfather's private words, but he was gone, and after all, he'd left them here out in the open. She pulled one from the shelf and leafed through the pages. His handwriting was almost illegible, but it wasn't the words that caught her eye, it was the hand-drawn maps and sketches inside. The pencil lines were exact and confident, line drawings of temples next to a rough street map. She recognized the name of the place, but it didn't make sense. Babylon, a ruined city lost in time, but here, her grandfather had drawn it as if it were still alive, as if he had explored its streets.
