Tall Tales From Pitch End

by Nigel McDowell

  ‘Widows!’ she called, and Bruno thought her voice a match for any storm, any Talent. ‘We can’t be losing heart. What would be the use of fighting at all if it were easy won. That storm is the making of that Temperate and that book. We must cling close to my son’s plan, the best hope we have! It is time for us to be plain with one another. Let us have no more shame. Let that Temperate see what he has made!’

  A moment of doubt, a turning from left to right, and then the Widows began to tear – as one, veils were removed, faces revealed, eyes that squinted as though into the brightness of a Swelter Season dawn and not into shadow, into storm. Released, the veils whirled – where would they settle, what would they conceal? Bruno didn’t follow them, saw only the Widows, truly, for the first time: they were older than he’d imagined, perhaps older than he’d wanted to believe.

  ‘Can they fight?’ Bruno asked, words only for his mother.

  But she didn’t reply, just rallied the women further –

  ‘Remember what we’ve endured, fellow Widows! All the times we stood by and watched others taken, punished. Husbands lost and lies told. Children stolen. And us standing silent and shuffling by. Remember that when we step into the town square, remember Widow Beckett, and let pain be the feeling that fires yer Talent!’

  A gale attacked, flattening grass, chasing shadows, making them stagger but not fall.

  ‘Remember,’ said Sara Atlas. ‘And when we face him we will not turn. We will not shy or bow our heads. Instead we shall be looking him in the eye and we shall fight until we have no Talent left. Until death if we must, and a battle that no one in Pitch End will ever be Forgetting!’

  XXXII

  The Demise of the Rebels

  Temperate Thomas II was ready to speak. In his town square, aligned with the Clocktower where the eight Rebel pocket watches had been fixed by his hand, each in its particular stone niche, he looked out on his Pitch End – weathered people, weathered place – and was satisfied.

  ‘My fellow Pitch Enders – I extend so many, many thanks to you all for attending here today to celebrate our glorious three-hundredth year anniversary celebration! With no rightly-decent Pitch Enders there’d be no rightly-decent Pitch End – I give ye permission to award yerselves some applause!’

  Applause indeed went up. Applause that might’ve been louder maybe – hands held higher, faces happier – if all the townsfolk hadn’t been crammed into two large cages that had been taken from the Discussion Chamber and reassembled in the square. The division of Pitch End was simple – adults in one cage, their children in another.

  ‘And to our town itself,’ said Temperate Thomas, opening his arms, flexing his fingers, ‘let us offer thanks!’

  Pitch End had put on its best face – bunting was looped from lamp post to lamp post, fluttering red/black/red, the Pitch End flag above every shopfront, smaller versions on sticks in the hands of children, the breeze doing the waving for them. Largest of all was a banner in shades of soured butter, stretched across the town hall:

  HAPPY 300TH ANNIVERSARY –

  LONG LIVE THE ELDERS!

  The Temperate dropped his hands. Applause died.

  Beside the Clocktower were the usual personages, uncaged: the Marshall with pistol in hand, eyes ever restless, a half-circle of Enforcers arranged around – uncomfortable looking lot, rifles held like odd toys, like the officers had snatched their uniforms from ‘Da’s’ wardrobe, trousers swamping shoes, tunics wider than what was beneath. Between the Clocktower and town hall sat the other nine Elders, some already asleep, dreaming on one another’s shoulders … Then awoken abruptly – the movements of the storm were slow but its discourse loud, its shadow deepening, preventing anything less than total attention, bloodshot Elder eyes wondering at it.

  And in the townsfolk there might’ve ticked a worry, but they didn’t show it. They smiled, knowing well how to hide what they really felt.

  ‘Do not fear, Pitch Enders!’ the Temperate told them, knowing their true feelings better than they could, for it was he who had created and so dictated their way of feeling. ‘This storm is not something that should shake decent hearts – it is a gift! A gift from yer Temperate!’

  And like the man who had imagined it, the storm was deferred to; every eye in every socket of every Pitch Ender drifted first to the Clocktower, to its immobile hands, and then to the storm. Thunder like tumbling bones. The townsfolk shuddered, cages rattled. Some of the children in their own prison whimpered.

  ‘We are entering a rightly-momentous time!’ Temperate Thomas went on. ‘On this day we shall accomplish something that no Pitch Ender – not even Jack Pitch himself – could have foreseen. Today, my dear friends, we’ll be witnessing the end of two diseases that have blighted our town these many years. First, the demise of the Rebels!’

  Perfectly cued, the doors of the town hall opened. Two Enforcers emerged with a figure dragging between. Head low, toes nudging cobble, wearing a shift scarred with stitching and gaudy with blood, with a face trapped behind a brass mask – Nic.

  Familiar insults were thrown – ‘Rebel dirt!’ ‘Indecent boy!’ ‘Filth!’ – but not as many or by as many mouths as the Temperate had expected, hoped. Was the outrage of Pitch End dampened? Hadn’t he explained fully, clearly? How could they fear at such a time like this? Fools, he decided, and didn’t bother to think on it any further.

  Ropes were discovered and Nic was tied to the statue of Arthur Pitch (returned to an upright after being toppled by Pace) – his back to the chest of George Pitch’s seventh son. The Enforcers didn’t choose or care where they lashed rope – around the neck, over ankles, between his legs; knotting and tugging on the bonds until Nic had to react in a cry that was answered from the townsfolk in a hiss (‘Disgusting boy!’) and the storm cloud in a roar.

  ‘Ye notice how even the very elements protest to the existence of this boy!’ said Temperate Thomas, his Talent drawing the storm close. ‘Ye see how it cheers us on!’

  Some Pitch Enders nodded.

  The Temperate knew then he needed a lie, something potent enough to keep his audience on his side. He sought to forget about Bruno Atlas, the boy lost on their return from Mount Tome, as he announced: ‘This boy is the very last of the Rebels! He has been hiding, concealed, in the dark places of the Elm Tree Mountains, for ten turns. Would ye warrant such a thing, my fellow Pitch Enders? Thinking that he could hide from us behind that despicable mask, spying on our town from his lofty den, plotting and praying for our collective ruin! But now – I reveal yer true face.’

  With a wrench of Talent the mask was torn from Nic. It was almost a surprise to the Pitch Enders that beneath there was only a face. The face of a Rebel but also of a boy, so much a child.

  Each word the Temperate spoke to Nic he clipped as though speaking to a mind barely developed: ‘Ye understand that there is no bettering the Elder ways? Understand how worthless ye’ve made yerself, child? How none of yer wicked tricks have done any good. That Dr Bloom was a scoundrel who—’

  ‘Ye’re a liar!’ Nic cried suddenly, words sapping all energy, leaving only gasps. But he recovered quickly: ‘Ye’ve been lying to everyone, stealing the children of Pitch End so ye can—’

  Temperate Thomas struck him.

  ‘Silence this monster,’ he said.

  Enforcers swooped and pried Nic’s jaws open, cramming in a foul rag.

  The Temperate had a final whisper for Nic: ‘I don’t know what happened to yer friend Atlas, but rest assured I’ll seek him out, and he’ll be for the same fate as you.’

  Temperate Thomas held up one stiff hand. Talent swirled from it – swirled too in the bald eye of the storm. ‘And now the end,’ he said. The Temperate’s fingers itched, tightened, Talent beginning to choke Nic –

  And then other fingers, stone – the statue of Arthur Pitch had awoken and closed one hand around the Temperate’s wrist, the other arm reaching across Nic’s chest to protect him.

  The loudest cry yet from a caged P
itch Ender – ‘Mountains protect us!’

  And all – Enforcers, Elders, common townsfolk – looked to the dark entrance of Old Town. The Widows of Pitch End stood in their line, unveiled, hands loose at their sides, freed of binding. At their centre stood Bruno Atlas and his mother, Sara.

  ‘Ignatius Thomas,’ called Bruno Atlas’s mother, ‘ye better be letting that boy go!’

  One of her hands was working the air – her Talent had brought to life the statue of Arthur Pitch. She bid it tighten its grip around the Temperate’s wrist. Everyone in Pitch End heard the crackle of bone.

  But Temperate Thomas didn’t flinch. ‘Why not come and be rescuing him?’ he called back. ‘That’s what all this is in aid of, I’m thinking.’ And with his own Talent, Temperate Thomas severed the arm of Arthur Pitch and ripped himself free. ‘Or perhaps,’ he said, ‘ye’re too rightly-ashamed, too afeared to be stepping out from yer shadows?’

  The Marshall barked an order and Enforcers – startled, all elbows, stumbling – tried to form a line, master their weapons, aim.

  ‘Are ye sure of this plan, son?’ Bruno’s mother asked him.

  ‘I am,’ said Bruno, and he spoke to convince himself as much as his mother.

  ‘I don’t see The Book of Black & White,’ she said.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Bruno. ‘Those pocket watches do something to the Clocktower, that’s how Dr Bloom designed it. Something that’ll help him take the youth from the children. So if we can get them, destroy them, then we can stop this.’

  ‘Sounds easy enough,’ his mother replied. She glanced at him, smiling. ‘Get the pocket watches, we’ll do the rest.’

  ‘One more chance, Widow Atlas!’ said the Temperate. ‘Are five rightly-feeble Widows going to be taking on the might of Pitch End?’ His laughter was small, its echo large. ‘Tell us – what is yer answer?’

  Bruno’s mother looked to her Widows. As one they tightened fists, set their feet. And she replied in a scream – ‘To hell with the Elders! Long live the Widows!’

  XXXIII

  Battle of the Talents

  Bruno took a breath and forced all feeling towards his Talent, to make him unseeable to all eyes.

  In the next and same moment –

  His mother telling him: ‘I can’t see ye anymore –

  now go!’

  The Marshall telling his men: ‘Fire!’

  And Bruno ran as silence was shattered. He wanted to look back, see what was happening to the Widows, to his mother, but he saw only forwards, black smoke bursting from Enforcer rifle barrels, dark exhalations, Temperate Thomas with hands behind his back and the Marshall issuing orders with gaping mouth, face flushed.

  No one could hear Bruno – his anguished breathing, his bare feet on cobble – as he arrived at the Clocktower and reached up to snatch the rag from Nic’s mouth. The statue of Arthur Pitch was solid lifelessness once more, one-armed and still clutching Nic to his chest. Nic’s head had drooped, whole body slumped. Bruno couldn’t think how to free him. Then, unable to do anything, needing to know, Bruno turned to see…

  Bullets were being reduced to dust same as Dennis’s had been in the tunnel beneath Mount Tome, rifles crumpling like paper, Enforcers suddenly weaponless, scrambling back as the Widows advanced as one, fists outstretched, Bruno’s mother their lead, collected Talent a rippling carapace holding all assault out.

  But Temperate Thomas remained beside his Elders, and nothing in his standing spoke of fear or worry.

  Bruno looked again to Nic. All he could do was whisper: ‘Just be unseeable till I think what to do. Be unseeable to everyone, even me if it’s easier.’

  He saw Nic’s eyes judder beneath bruised lids, but he remained.

  ‘I can still see ye,’ said Bruno.

  ‘Coz I want ye to,’ Nic told him.

  ‘Shoot them ye bloody cowards!’ cried the Marshall.

  All Bruno’s attention went back to the battle –

  Enforcers were continuing to falter, falling back, ammunition shrinking, spaces between gunshots longer, more desperate, the drop in the tumult leaving the Marshall’s words heard –

  ‘Attack hand-to-hand if needs be!’

  Bruno saw an Enforcer yank a knife from his belt. He ran but had to pause, dodge and crouch, creep close to the Enforcer as the knife was raised (preparing to be thrown, he realised). He snatched it, then away, the knife vanishing as it touched Bruno’s fingers. The Enforcer registered shock, fear, and then retreated, screaming, ‘To blazes with this!’

  Bruno, back at the Clocktower, was distracted by the Marshall – the Head of the Enforcers was sprinting forwards, determined to gain ground, firing shot after shot, some passing further towards Bruno’s mother than any yet. But still she advanced with her guard of Widows, indefatigable, almost at the Temperate. But there was one obstacle. They stopped and faced one another, Widow Atlas and the Marshall.

  A flick of Sara Atlas’s hand. A flash, blue-white, that dazzled Bruno, and the Marshall’s pistol was destroyed with a palm-sized explosion that scorched his fingers, hurling him onto his back.

  Silence massed. A fine dust decorated the air. Pitch End cowered – townsfolk in their cages, Enforcers with their knives but their Marshall injured, Elders still in their seats but some toppled. Bruno began to hack at the ropes that held Nic to the statue. His hands did this, but his eyes watched his mother…

  Temperate Thomas stepped forward. He and Bruno’s mother were a pair of long strides apart.

  ‘Widow Atlas,’ said the Temperate, voice low, shaking his head, ‘what is going to be done with ye now? Ye know right-well that the Rebels aren’t going to be winning anything today.’

  ‘We seem to be doing well enough,’ cried Widow Yeats.

  ‘Too right!’ went Widow Bowen.

  ‘We are too,’ said Widow Friel.

  ‘Aye!’ agreed Widow Grafter.

  ‘Ye’re right, Ignatius,’ said Widow Atlas. ‘The Rebels can’t win. But I’m no Rebel.’

  Temperate Thomas smiled. ‘As the Head of the Elders of Pitch End,’ he said, ‘I charge you for the offence of refusing to wear a veil, for conspiring against the Elders (and therefore against Pitch End itself and all who live here), for violating all eleven of the Decent Ways, and for addressing me not as ye should – as yer Temperate. As such, I hereby condemn ye’ he paused ‘to death, and a rightly-swift Forgetting.’

  Nic fell free onto Bruno who collapsed under the sudden weight.

  A moment more, and then the strongest rush of Talent Bruno had ever experienced – it swept from both sides as his mother and Temperate Thomas threw all emotion at one another, the collision making both stagger back but then regain footing quickly as their Talent shattered windows, cracked cobbles.

  Bruno heard his mother’s cry – ‘The plan, Bruno!’ – her voice like someone submerged. He left Nic, stood and sprang forwards and snatched his pocket watch out of the Clocktower as Temperate Thomas sounded his own call –

  ‘Elders!’

  Shrugging off their appearance (their pretence, Bruno realised) of dotage and weakness, the other nine Elders were on their feet immediately. They extended their arms and added their Talent to the Temperate’s and Bruno saw his mother falter, almost fall and Bruno forgot himself, any plan, almost called to her –

  The other Widows rushed to Sara Atlas’s side. The Elders turned their Talent on the women.

  Bruno felt Nic’s hand at his ankle, a weak but determined force trying to pull him down, so he crouched, but with senses struggling to make sense of the battle: Talent formed hands of fire then fingers of ice, then white light, white noise, charging smoke and sea mist with figures forming like strangers seen through rain then unseen, the atmosphere of the square like quickening seasons, hectic with small storms, vying emotions, dying stars … And there was no telling who was closer to winning. Not until Bruno looked hard and deepest, and saw clearly – his mother was sinking, not under the press of the Temperate’s Talent but with a
hand clutched to her side. Blood. A gunshot, a wound spreading dark wings and he knew that only time – minutes maybe? – stood between the victory of the Elders and the failure of the Widows. Seeing his advantage, Temperate Thomas spared blows of Talent for the other Widows. They crumpled without a cry.

  Not minutes then – moments. And all Talent dissipated.

  Bruno’s hearing sang with it, senses still fumbling, pocket watch cold in his hand. He couldn’t know what to do.

  Temperate Thomas stood over his mother.

  ‘So where’s yer son?’ he asked her. ‘Where’s yer rightly-decent boy?’

  His mother said nothing.

  Temperate Thomas kneeled and whispered to her, ‘I understand so much now, Widow. I rightly understand my mistake in not ensuring you and yer boy burned in that house ten turns ago. Ye see, there’s nothing in this town – no secret, no whisper, no prayer uttered in the dark – that I’m not knowing of. I knew yer husband was a Rebel. And I knew it would’ve been the most horrific thing if a Rebel turned on his own wife and wee boy and burned them in their beds.’

  Bruno didn’t move but wanted to, felt Nic’s fingers on his ankle tighten, heard him say, ‘Wait.’

  ‘And that could’ve been yer ending,’ continued the Temperate. ‘Martyrs, the two of ye, and then Forgotten. That’s the fate I’d decided for ye, Widow Atlas. But now ye’ll have a different ending. One not so rightly-noble.’

  Temperate Thomas stood. Talent stiffened his fingers and like Pace, Bruno’s mother was being commanded to leave – flesh plucked from bone, dust and ash joining the breeze as Nic told Bruno, ‘Don’t show yerself, it’s what he wants.’ But Bruno had already the cry in his mouth – ‘Stop!’

  He abandoned his Talent. The Temperate did the same.

  Bruno’s mother had enough left of her to whisper, ‘Bruno. No.’

  ‘I’m not hiding,’ said Bruno. ‘Not being silent any more.’

  Bruno felt Nic, unseeable, snatch again at his ankles, but he stepped away.