The Gracekeepers

by Kirsty Logan

  “It’s not right that we’re stuck out here, you know?” went on Odell. “I should be able to leave whenever I want.”

  The silence stretched. Callanish felt her throat close around all the words she did not want to say. “You make your own choices,” she said.

  “I know. But do we have to live with them for the rest of our lives?”

  “Just leave. Your island council won’t even know you’ve gone until the deliveryman comes by. They can’t hurt you if they can’t find you.”

  “And where am I supposed to go? I can’t ever go back to my island.”

  “There’s more to the world than islands.”

  “You mean boats?” asked Odell.

  Callanish shrugged. Islands or boats, it was all the same. She didn’t care. She wanted to drink, and slip into the water, and live in the sea forever.

  “Come on, I can’t live on a boat. I’m not a dampling. It was bad enough coming here on that big ship. First time my feet left land, you know? Now look at me. Toes wet and no islands for miles.” He made an ugh sound, a snort, and shifted his feet in the water. The fish scattered. “Going out in the rowing boat makes me sick, but at least it’s temporary. Life at sea—that’s no life at all.”

  He fiddled with his bowl, turning it between his palms, and his movements were jerky, as if he was annoyed, as if Callanish had not fulfilled some promise she didn’t recall making.

  This was not the first time that she had heard a confession. With some Restings, people did not play their proper roles. They thought that Callanish was something she was not. After the body had sunk, after the grace was settled, they’d turn to her. Hunched in the boat’s prow, or speaking in a monotone while staring at the horizon, they’d confess to her. They’d lied or hurt or killed, and they wanted her to make it all better. She couldn’t fix anything, but she could listen and stay quiet, and that had always been enough. Eventually tears were dried, spines were straightened, and Callanish would pull the boat back to the dock.

  “That’s the choice,” she said to Odell. “Here or there. Dampling or landlocker. Sea or land. Man or woman. But this is something different. Don’t you see? We made our homes on the sea and on the land. We can stay here in the graceyards and be nothing. I mean, be neither.”

  Odell was not listening. The bottle was empty now and he had started talking again, his words merging. It was as if Callanish had never spoken. She glanced up and the world spun, the grace-cages doubling. She blinked them straight again.

  “I don’t know if I can do it,” Odell said. “This type of life—it’s impossible. How can anyone? Why should anyone? It’s a punishment, but we haven’t done anything wrong. Not really. It can be forgiven.”

  If he thought that gracekeepers were holy, then she’d be holy for him. She’d hear his confession, and then he’d go back to his graceyard, and he’d never come back, and everything would be fine. He’d stay and do his job, or he’d buy his way on to a boat and do something else, and she’d never even know. But she would not give him a confession in return.

  “I don’t want to fall in the sea and drown,” he said. “They haven’t told us about that. If I die, will they leave me there, or will they dive down and get my body? Will you Rest me? If you die, am I supposed to Rest you?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose so.”

  “But I don’t want to die here. I want to go home and be burned on sacred copse wood. I want my ashes to be scattered at the World Tree. Is it wrong to want that, when I chose to leave? Can I have that? I want that. I don’t want to die but I want to die on my island. What do you want?”

  Callanish did not answer. She let the silence stretch, until Odell filled it by draining his bowl for the last time. She stood and walked over to his rowing boat. He followed unsteadily, leaving a line of wet footprints across the porch. She shouldn’t have drunk so much; the sea pulled at her, stronger than ever.

  “Can I come back?” Odell murmured. “It’s so quiet out here. Listening to records doesn’t—I mean, it’s not the same. Sometimes you need to say things and have someone respond.” His head was bowed. He seemed to be speaking to the flat water, the silvery fish, the uneven boards of the dock.

  “I know,” said Callanish, doing her best expression of sympathy. Noble, restrained. She was a good gracekeeper.

  Odell got into his boat and rowed off through the neat lines of grace-cages. Callanish watched until his shadow disappeared. She kept her back pressed to the wall of her house, away from the pull of the sea. Her breathing sounded as loud as waves. She went inside and lay down on her bed, face turned to the window, until light came back to the sky.

  3

  NORTH

  North and her bear poked their heads up out of their coracle to watch as they approached the first island. Though it was not a capital, it seemed wealthy. Guards were stationed to steer their convoy into harbor, and there were strings of spirit lamps between the tower blocks to light the way. Even the tower blocks themselves seemed healthy: instead of pitted metal sidings, the buildings had plants growing from them in neat rows. It looked as if the residents would be able to lean out of their windows and pick food for dinner. It was a shame that landlockers were so snobby about dampling food; they could probably hook fish and seaweed from their windows too. Then they could stay in their houses, and would never have to put their feet on that grubby land at all.

  At these signs of wealth and order, North flicked her eyes to the lead boat, where Red Gold stood at the wheel. In preparation for going ashore he’d put on his most expensive shirt—the one with rows and rows of paper ruffles across the breadth of his chest. It was ludicrous to use something as expensive as paper to make clothes, but the landlockers were always impressed by it. It made the Excalibur’s warped wooden hull and the rash of rust on the coracles seem glamorously faded, rather than decrepit. After all, if a man were too poor to look after his boats, he wouldn’t spend money on a paper shirt.

  North could only see the back of Red Gold’s head, but knew from the set of his shoulders that he was thinking dangerous thoughts. Sometimes traditional islands liked a traditional show. Sometimes they wanted more subversion than even this circus could provide. Often their preference only became clear when they got the opposite of what they wanted; many circus folk had spent nights on the prison boat for going too far, and many more were scarred from being pelted with shells and stones by bored crowds who felt they had not gone far enough. North had a jagged dash of scar tissue on her arm from the edge of a mussel shell, and there was a notch in her bear’s ear that would never close.

  Ainsel emerged, unhooking his coracle from the Excalibur and attaching it to the mess boat. The coracles formed an anchored circle, with the Excalibur floating separately, attached only by a rope. When it was time to perform, the crew would pull themselves ashore on a raft using that rope. It was awkward, but it was the only way. The landlockers didn’t want the damplings to be on land any more than they had to be—and North was quite happy with that.

  Red Gold bowed to a landlocker, and a contraption of hooks and chains eased the Excalibur up on to land. The ringmaster swaggered down to greet the port crew with barely a wobble in his legs. North frowned: maybe he really was a landlocker. It made sense to her that someone would give up a pile of bricks on a patch of dirty soil, even if it were only to live on a run-down circus boat. The Excalibur might be a little dented, but it was still a boat. It could get you from one end of the world to the other. Land was useless; it couldn’t take you anywhere at all. She knew there must be a reason that Red Gold had left his home island, but she was afraid to ask.

  As North watched, the crew piled on to the raft and pulled themselves to the Excalibur, ready to begin the work of turning the boat into a circus. They’d get no help from the people on the island; landlockers didn’t like to go closer to the water than the blackshore—the line of seaweed brought up by the high tide—and sometimes you’d think they believed the seaweed itself was cursed. North didn’t
know where the superstition had come from, but she was glad of it. It meant that if the damplings ever had to escape, there was the safety of distance. Weapons could be thrown across the blackshore, but landlockers would be reluctant to cross, and so they couldn’t follow the boats. North tried to relax. There was no reason yet to think that escape would be necessary this evening, but she knew from experience that a crowd could turn in an instant. Still, no point worrying: they were ashore now, so they had no choice but to perform. She turned away, back to her bear.

  Together they ate their meager dinner and began their preparations for that night’s show. The glamours from the beauty boat had made North a collection of colored powders and liquids, all of which were safe on her bear’s fur. Even if he ate them, he’d be fine—though North would rather not have to scrub green goop off his tongue. She knew from the dread weighing heavy in her stomach that Red Gold was going to ask her to do the funeral waltz. She twisted open the tub of black powder and got to work.

  —

  Behindcurtains smelled of seaweed and soil. North’s bear was in their coracle, resting before their act, but North could not stay still. Red Gold had listened to none of her worries about the funeral waltz; the crowd would bay for it, and that’s all that mattered. Instead of getting more and more frantic, she was calming herself by watching the show.

  The evening began with the maypole, feral and fleshly as ever. Then the horse show: Ainsel turning backflips and cartwheels on the narrow space of his horse’s trotting back; Avalon riding around him in circles, simpering side-saddle like a queen, draped in flowers, her belly round as a full moon. Her pregnancy fit the fertile springtime theme of the show, but the bump had to be visible from the highest seats, so most of it was still padding. Her horse was pure white, though North knew that its bridle had to be carefully positioned to hide the red birthmark on its cheek. In the circus, nothing was as simple as it seemed. Avalon used to leap through fire, but since the pregnancy she did nothing but posture, her horse merely a prop.

  Ainsel was painted in shades of gold and purple, and his horse’s bridle was studded with silver bells, each movement making its own music. Even North had to admit that he was beautiful when he performed.

  The circus acts continued. Bero the fire-breather toyed with hot coals, the glamours flirted in suspenders and waistcoats, the clowns stalked them laddishly while dressed in corsets, and the applause increased with each passing moment.

  Between acts, North peeped out from behind the curtain to get a look at the crowd. As ever on the islands, the men and women were separate, with all the children on the women’s side. She looked for the subtle signs that they’d identify with the Circus Excalibur’s genderplay: women with shorn hair, men sitting close enough to touch. Nothing. Still, the more conservative the island was, the more the landlockers might be desperate for subversion. The small, fenced-off section reserved for visiting damplings was full to overflowing; North could only hope that they weren’t from a revival boat.

  The last act before the interval was North’s favorite: Melia and Whitby. Tonight they were aerialists, their ropes strung up high between the Excalibur’s two masts. They began on the ground, their turquoise hair and silver bodysuits rendering them mirror images. In the center of the stage hung a pair of long ropes.

  As the music began, the acrobats wrapped a rope around their wrists and began to roll up it in a series of planches, their bodies rolling, their delicate legs pointed like compass needles. Higher and higher they climbed, tilting the crowd’s heads further and further.

  At the highest point of the big top, they spiraled off and landed neatly on a tiny platform strung with ropes. The spotlight was trained only on them, leaving the rest in darkness. For a moment they were lost in an explosion of white as they smacked chalk between their palms, letting the excess drift down into darkness. Wrapping his wrists and ankles in ropes, Whitby bent his body into a crescent moon. Melia dropped from the platform and hung from the curve of his body for two breaths before letting go, falling to the ground like a comet. At the last moment she hooked her arm into a loop of rope, muscles pulsing. The crowd let out a smudge of noise; a mix of screams, gasps, moans.

  She began to sway her body, building up momentum, letting her weight widen the circle, until she was swinging a circuit around the entire big top, far above the tilted heads of the crowd. Even from behindcurtains, North could see the incredible strain on Melia’s arms; she shifted position to get a better hold, and North let out an oh! as Melia seemed to lose her grip. She fell two body-lengths on the rope, unable to hold it, and there was no net, and there was no safety line, and there was not enough time for anyone to run out and catch her. North screwed her eyes shut.

  But there was no scream, no thud of a fallen body. North looked up to see Whitby, knees wrapped in the rope, arms spread, holding Melia’s wrists. Their smiles stretched wide.

  They were not siblings or spouses, as they pretended; they were two halves of the same whole. Not everyone found the key to their lock, the answer to their question. But they had. They took their bows high above the crowd, letting the applause float up like birds.

  North was still catching her breath, trying to calm herself, when Red Gold dropped the curtain for the interval. It was time for the bear-girl to die.

  —

  Hidden from the audience behind a curtain, North was centerstage, all in white. She was luminous, motionless, her spread arms bound to a huge whalebone cross that was wrapped in the blood-red ribbons of the maypole. Her bear was still behindcurtains, at the edge of her vision; he was wrapped in golden chains with his fur powdered black as night. At the other side of the stage crouched Bero, readying the needle of the wind-up gramophone. They each wore a tiny brass bell tied around one wrist. Even when performing, they could not forget what they really were.

  Usually Red Gold introduced each act in lascivious detail, his voice booming halfway across the island to entice latecomers. But not this act. Although she couldn’t see him from behind the curtain, North knew what he was doing: walking out onstage, standing serious-faced in front of the curtain. Now he was removing his hat. Now he was dropping his head in a play of grief. Now he was walking offstage, feet dragging. She threw her head back and closed her eyes.

  The curtain lifted in silence on North, white as ice, crucified, lost in the throes of ecstasy or agony. The audience did not make a sound. They didn’t seem to dare. The spotlight stayed on North for far longer than was comfortable; she could hear the audience shift in their seats, not sure what to think, not sure if this was all part of the act. North kept her face tilted upward and tried not to let her chest rise. She felt her tiptoed feet begin to slip on the support at the base of the cross, and tensed her thigh muscles as hard as she could. She would not fall. Whatever happened, she would not fall. There was nothing more important than putting on the perfect show.

  A moment more, then: a crackle from the gramophone, a shift in the spotlight. Violins juddered as her bear thudded four-pawed on to the stage. The crowd flinched back as one at the sight of the bear, then, after a heartbeat, leaned forward in a wave of curiosity. No one was looking at North now. At that cue, she extended the first two fingers of both hands, freeing the razor blades tucked against her palms.

  Her bear approached. His black fur merged with the black curtain so that all that was clear were the fine lines of his chains. He raised himself up on his back legs, the violins reached a shriek, and, unnoticed, North used the razor blades to slice through the ropes. The music stopped, the spotlight burned bright, and North tumbled off the cross and into her bear’s arms.

  She knew that all the audience could see was the hulking shadow of the bear—and herself, draped pale and silent in his grasp.

  The violins increased, denser, louder, swooping and diving as the bear staggered around the stage with North’s lifeless body in his arms. He lifted her, presenting her to the crowd in his grief. His heart beat thud-a-thud, thud-a-thud, in contrast to the uneven wa
ils of the violins. On the outside, grief was expressed in judders, faltering and unsure, but inside it felt as constant as breathing.

  As the violins reached a crescendo, the bear raised his snout and released a roar loud enough to shake the entire island. From the crowd came scattered screams, children’s sobs, a collective shift of feet as they got ready to run.

  The bear collapsed in the middle of the stage, cradling North as they landed, wrapping his paws around her. The spotlight shifted to center on them. So great was her bear, so thick his fur, that only the tiniest gleam of her skin was exposed to the air.

  The violins died.

  The crowd held their breath.

  And then North was resurrected.

  One arm swayed up, slender and pale as an anemone. It reached to cradle the bear’s shadowed face. He lumbered to his feet as if he’d been hit, backing away from North, into the shadows. She was left alone in the spotlight. Her body was curved into a comma, her white dress spread. In silence she twisted on the ground, arching her back and looking over her shoulder at the bear, as if taking strength from him. The violins slid back: a single note, wavering.

  Slowly, slowly, she got to her knees, as if in a trance. Slowly, slowly, she used her hidden razor blade to slit the front of her dress. The white fabric fell to the ground, and the crowd shifted in their seats: on the female side, the women tilted their heads away and the children peeped from between their fingers; on the male side, the men leaned forward with their elbows on their knees. North stood, and she was not a she.

  Her body fitted the silhouette of a boy’s. Her small breasts, her growing belly: all wrapped tight, all padded and bound in white. Her body gleamed like a marble statue. The styled tumble of her dark hair, now that the crowd looked more closely, seemed more like the mane of an unkempt boy. Blink and she’s a girl. Blink again and he’s a boy. Once more he turns to she, right in front of your eyes.