The Wave
Bruno felt but didn’t see – a single, gentle finger touched his cheek.
‘Bruno,’ he heard his mother say.
He leaned close, brought her closer. And as on a morning ten turns before, when time had been taken by the Elders, he felt her press something into his hand: metallic, warmed by her touch, thin and no wider than a whistle.
‘It’s something all Widows have,’ she told him. ‘Called an Esteem. We were allowed to be keeping one thing with us, always. Just one. Something rightly-special.’
Bruno didn’t speak. He realised he was waiting, though not wanting to. Knowing, and waiting for so long that light began to peel away dust, to part it.
He saw Nic, and then Louise – their eyes were open, faces bland masks of blood and filth. They moved. The final Cinder-Folk family too – they’d all survived.
‘Ye see,’ said Bruno’s mother, and he looked to her again. ‘Ye’ll be okay. Not as alone as ye thought.’ Her finger twitched against his cheek, began to sink. Bruno said nothing. He watched her watching him. He watched her go.
‘Look for me in the dark,’ said his mother. ‘In the night-time, in the whispers. In the Shadows. I’ll be there, so long as ye remember.’
Bruno shut his eyes. He could take no more seeing. He felt the burden of last breath leave her, and waited for her to take another. Waited, and waited still. There were perhaps moments, minutes, before Louise’s voice, hoarse – ‘Bruno. He’s escaping.’
Bruno looked up. As though commanded by his Talent, the rough, weightless curtain of dust rose completely to let him see: Widows were finding energy to rise, Pitch Enders still cowering in their cage, but beyond was a lone figure in plum robes, staggering towards the Sea of Apparitions. And further out, something darker: the edge of the world curling in on itself, sharp as singed paper.
‘A wave,’ said Bruno. ‘He’s going to destroy Pitch End.’
Bruno settled his mother’s head on the ground, and then somehow stood, her Esteem in his fist. Conn came close, saying nothing, waiting for direction. Bruno looked to the Pitch Enders so collapsed, helpless.
‘Get everyone out of Pitch End,’ Bruno told Conn. ‘No one is gonna survive if they stay.’
‘Where to?’ asked Conn, sounding as frightened as any in the cage.
‘Out,’ said Bruno, eyes on the harbour. He swallowed, and then added: ‘Up into the Elm Tree Mountains. It’s the only chance we have now.’
Without hesitation Conn, his father and the twins rushed to the cage holding the townsfolk, and with their Talent in small flames broke open the locks. The Pitch Enders remained, even as Widows joined and reached for them, encouraging. Bruno wondered if old, entrenched fears could be conquered. Could they accept help, could they help themselves?
Nic and Louise came close, supporting each other, stepping over the carcass of the Tiger-Sentry.
‘I know what ye’re thinking,’ said Nic. ‘Bruno, don’t go after him.’
‘Aye,’ said Louise. ‘Let him run. He can’t be hurting us now. Ye don’t need to be afeared of him.’
Bruno swallowed, said, ‘I’m not. That’s why I have to go after him.’
And he ran – down South Street, bare feet slamming and everything leaping, emotion a maelstrom, so strong he felt he could’ve levelled Pitch End with Talent. He didn’t stop until his soles touched shingle, the shore.
Temperate Thomas faced the sea, one shoulder sagging. He had removed the blade Bruno had thrown at him with his Talent, dropped it by his feet. He was lingering as though awaiting collection soon, or obliteration. So much unknowable time passed, and then the Temperate turned – his face could muster no expression. His age in turns was an irrelevance – he was simply old.
He didn’t look at Bruno as he said in quiet tones, ‘I’m wondering if I stood here, would ye let me die? I’m wondering if you would stand here too. If ye’d let that wave destroy ye, just so ye could make sure I’d be destroyed.’
Bruno didn’t speak, didn’t need to.
‘Ye would end yerself?’ said the Temperate, looking at him then. ‘For what?’
‘For them,’ said Bruno. ‘For my mother. For the Cinder-Folk, for Louise and David. For Nic.’
‘And the other Pitch Enders? Ye’d die for those that bullied and condemned? Not one amongst them who was for standing up and saving ye in the town hall?’
Bruno said without hesitation: ‘I would. I will.’ He looked out, saw darkness rearing, and trembled. ‘Ye can stop it,’ said Bruno. ‘It’s yer Talent that made that wave.’
‘Oh no,’ said the Temperate. ‘That wave is as much yers as it is mine, Bruno. Ye read The Book of Black & White. Ye know what can be done with wishes and hopes and Talent. Truth-told: ye’d like to see this town wiped away as much as I.’
Bruno opened his mouth to disagree, but couldn’t.
‘It won’t be stopped,’ said Temperate Thomas. ‘Because neither of us truly wants to stop it. We are Pitch Enders, we don’t have the emotion needed.’
‘What emotion?’ asked Bruno.
‘The want to save others. The desire to save those that would watch us perish.’
The Temperate took a small step back, towards the water.
‘I brought down the Clocktower because I wanted to save others,’ said Bruno.
‘That was easy,’ said the Temperate. ‘That was considering people ye actually think something of, not strangers ye despise.’
From shingle to water then – the Temperate stepped but didn’t sink. In support, transformed by his Talent, the surface of the water froze around his feet. He continued his slow retreat, and like an invitation he left ice, faint as worn lace, for Bruno to follow on. Bruno went. His feet were stung cold but he didn’t care. He kept his eyes on Temperate Thomas.
‘I’ve seen more things pass from this place than ye can imagine,’ said the Temperate, still moving, Bruno still following. ‘All things arriving and leaving. All those little worries and woes like little storms, those things ye seem to think so much of – they’re all dust as soon as tomorrow, Bruno. Nothing, not important. Written-down words, Tall Tales, dead fathers and mothers – they all go with the tide. And after that, forever Forgotten. There’s nothing that keeps on going, Bruno. Nothing lasts.’
‘Liar,’ said Bruno. He slipped, then regained himself – he’d moved beyond the harbour, alone with the Temperate on their small platform of ice only feet wide. He glanced behind – a rapid thaw, no retreat. In his hand he still clutched his mother’s Esteem.
‘A lie is not a lie if someone believes it,’ Temperate Thomas said. ‘Words are more powerful than any Talent, Bruno. A man who can master words is a man who decides what truth is. Let me tell ye what ye should be saying: Forgive me, Temperate. Forgive me, for I should never have left my mother on her own, never have believed such silly stories. I, in fact, should never have been born. My father never even wanted me.’
‘Liar!’ cried Bruno, again.
Temperate Thomas said nothing more, and Bruno knew what was next –
A swipe from the Temperate’s hand tried to topple him but Bruno threw himself forwards. They locked hands, struggling against one another, feet shifting on a shrinking circle of ice.
‘Dust,’ said the Temperate between clenched teeth. ‘All Forgotten. Just like yer father, just like yer mother.’ Both their eyes went to the Widow’s Esteem. And Bruno began to sink – Temperate Thomas’s strength was too great. But he decided that he wouldn’t go without words. Like Pace – not silent, not obedient, but fighting.
‘Some things last,’ said Bruno. ‘I remember being five and seeing two boys killed when ye ordered it. I remember my mother covering my eyes to protect me from seeing. I remember my father telling me a Tall Tale that took me into the town hall, led me to winding keys, a key that brought that Tiger-Sentry back that ye thought would never return. I know that my father rode it into battle – I’ve been told these things, they didn’t die. And I’ll remember my
mother and father. And as long as I’m cared about, others will remember me too.’
Ice so brief at their feet was all the space they had to stand. Any slip and either could fall. All was black to Bruno as he sank – the backdrop of the coming wave, eyes of the Temperate, ice beneath them. Bruno looked down – darkness threaded the water.
‘Shadows,’ he said, and Temperate Thomas looked too.
Not vague as in the town square, not unknowable, but faces flowed beneath their feet. Almost human – not just faces but soft shoulders, arms long, dripping like slim stalactites, they rose in host around Bruno and the Temperate, rippling, enclosing. Bruno heard whispered threats, promises, accusations, but not for him – these words widened the eyes of the Head Elder as old enemies returned to torment him. Faces. Bruno recognised Gumbly, Pace, the two boys shot on the beach ten turns earlier, the face of the man who had called Bruno and his mother to safety from their burning house. All recalled, all enduring. And then his mother –
‘No more, Ignatius Thomas. As ye sentenced me, so be sentenced yerself – death, and rightly-swift Forgetting.’
Hands, almost human, on all sides grabbed Temperate Thomas, held him, stifled his screams as they wrenched him free of Bruno and brought him down, pulling him under the surface as they returned to the water, a mass of eyes, fingers, whispers, and then gone. Bruno watched their darkness like a fading wish. He had one breath, and then he fell.
The water was shallow but the current was against him, the Sea of Apparitions being pulled out to feed the wave. He didn’t pause to look, only began a fight for the shore, but surely too far?
Then a grumble-stutter, a cry from above – ‘Atlas!’
He looked, saw David, then turned back to see the wave scrub out the sky, fathomless, rushing towards him –
The Clegg swooped out over the harbour, one wing tucked tight to its side, banking hard as it fell into a dive, outstripping the wave, David dropping a rope that skimmed the skin of the Sea of Apparitions and there was one chance, Bruno knew, or nothing. He shut his eyes, trusting himself to know when, to see without seeing –
‘Now, Bruno!’
Bruno felt rope in his hands and clutched it –
He was lifted clear –
He opened his eyes and stared into the dark maw of the wave –
The Clegg’s engine groaned and it struggled to surge higher as sea soared over the harbour, water clutching Bruno’s legs, climbing quickly to chest, neck, over –
And then he was free of it, was flying up and over Pitch End. Bruno looked down to watch the town taken, wave invading every street, darkway and doorway, pouring into the chasm where the Clocktower had stood. Then he looked away, too pained with the worry: had they escaped, Nic, Louise, Conn and the Cinder-Folk family? And the Widows, the children, the other Pitch Enders?
David flew them higher, to the wall and further.
Bruno began a climb of the rope, hand over hand, and when he reached the top David offered his own hand, heaving Bruno up onto the glider.
‘Before ye bring it up,’ said David, straightaway, ‘I had to lead that Temperate to the chapel. Had to make him think I’d given up. Otherwise he’d have been for burning all Pitch End, killing everyone he could. And even then he’d still have been finding the chapel anyway. It was the best decision, in the circumstances.’
David didn’t look at him.
Bruno said, ‘Of course. Sure I knew all that.’
David looked at him.
‘Alright, Atlas,’ he said, with the barest smile. ‘No one likes a know-it-all.’
David looked down, Bruno too – small scraps were heaped like unwanted wares on the mountainside. No home, no role, no cage to be assigned to, no place. And Bruno realised: no role for him, no place; no card under the door to tell LIGHTHOUSE-KEEPER, no shadow to say WORK or SHUT-EYE. No time.
‘Take us down,’ Bruno told David.
The wings of the Clegg tilted back and in moments the world came close – this tree, that face, clear and then clearer – and Bruno leapt before he should have done but landed without a stumble.
He looked for certain faces. Then came first sight, first people as though formed by his need to see them – Nic and Louise. They saw and ran for him, Conn close behind with his father and boys, faces black, eyes red-rimmed but relieved. All were smiling.
Louise leapt on him and he almost recoiled, so unused to a thing like affection; all he could do was struggle to stay upright. Nic gave him a thump on the back and said, ‘There’s no telling ye, is there? Ye just had to play the hero.’
‘Bloody right he did!’ said Louise, as David arrived and eased her away, letting Bruno breathe.
For many moments Bruno saw only who he wanted, but then a din rose that took his attention – the other Pitch Enders, children and adults who’d managed to escape. Whether farmer or fisherman, Enforcer or shopkeeper, man or Widow, all moving towards him, crawling. They wanted answers, guidance, as though he might tell them what to do, what to say. What to think and be like. Tell them how they could exist, like an Elder would’ve done. Bruno found himself seeking one – alone, far but not so far he couldn’t be noticed, the Elder Horrfrost had found himself the only rock to sit on. He had his back to the mountain, face to the drowned Pitch End. Bruno heard his sombre mutterings on the air and knew that soon the Pitch Enders would turn to the Elder, would follow an instinct so many turns old to listen and be grateful for easy orders. They were in a place other than Pitch End, so Bruno wondered: were they Pitch Enders still? And if not then who were they? If they asked, the Elder would tell them, and Bruno knew that he needed his own words, needed to speak or he’d lose the townsfolk forever.
He looked to Louise, David – they were waiting too. Looked to Nic who nodded, knowingly, to Bruno’s hand.
His mother’s Esteem had remained, and before anything else he opened it, unscrewing the top, fingers reaching in. Inside was coiled paper, corners bitten down by flame. Saved from a fire. It was a pictograph of Bruno and his mother and father on Diamond Beach. He looked, and didn’t just see it but recalled it – a memory in shades of ash, but it struck Bruno as more alive than anything around him, containing more light. He examined his own face in the picture, his parents’. All eyes were narrowed to the sun. Bruno expected to see some doubt, some foreshadow of what was to come. But there was nothing to darken it. He was grateful.
‘Bruno, look!’
Louise, pointing back towards Pitch End.
A sheet of troubled sea was tucked close to the mountainside, had stopped there but covered the town completely. Only one clue was offered to what was hidden below, and this was what Louise pointed to, what the townsfolk all looked to. Bright as blood, boughs like ancient kindling, leaves unfurling flames, flourishing behind George Pitch’s nightmares, testament to his hope – the Faerie Fort, free of the town hall, was rising. Not just surviving but, Bruno thought, beginning to thrive.
Bruno cleared his throat and the waiting of the assembled deepened, pressing against him. He swayed where he stood. He realised that he would have to trust – start, and maybe more would follow without too much thinking. He kept his eyes on Pitch End, and imagined.
Bruno Atlas opened his mouth and began to speak.
About the Author
Nigel grew up in County Fermanagh, rural Northern Ireland, and as a child spent most of his time battling boredom, looking for adventure – crawling through ditches, climbing trees, devising games to play with his brother and sister, and reading. His favourite book as a child was The Witches by Roald Dahl.
After graduating with a degree in English (and having no clue what to do with it!), he decided to go off on another adventure, spending almost two years living and working in Australia and New Zealand. With him he took a small notebook containing notes about a boy called ‘Bruno Atlas’, and a seaside town called ‘Pitch End’. When he returned to Ireland after his travels, one notebook had multiplied into many, and eventually his notes for Tall Tale
s from Pitch End filled a large cardboard box…
Nigel now lives in London. He has written articles on film and literature for a number of websites. He is always on the hunt for books about folklore and fairytale. He wishes he had more time to climb trees. Tall Tales from Pitch End is Nigel’s debut novel.
Follow Nigel on Twitter: @NMcDowellAuthor
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Hot Key Books
Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT
Text copyright © Nigel McDowell 2013
Cover illustration copyright © Manuel Sŭmberac
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-4714-0041-4
1
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