The Gracekeepers

by Kirsty Logan

  “I’ll pay you. Take me as far as you can. I’ll find my way from there.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere near it. It’s a fair trip, and I don’t see you sailing that far. I only made it so fast because I hitched a ride on a military tanker for most of it.”

  “Then I’ll do the same.”

  He laughed. “You? They’d shoot you down before you even managed to climb on board. You need to have governmental business to get on a military vessel, little fish.”

  “I’ll manage. What do you care?”

  “Get your supply boat to take you. They come by a lot, don’t they? Someone’s got to bring you those birds. Ask him.”

  “I can’t. He won’t. I’m not supposed to leave.”

  “You’re not allowed to leave the graceyard? Well then, won’t they kill you if they catch you?”

  “No. I don’t know. I’m not supposed to go, but I don’t know—they never said what would happen. I don’t think a gracekeeper has ever left before. But I have to know if—”

  Callanish did not want to beg. But if she did beg, who would know? Who could ever know what happened to her out here, trussed to the equator, alone with her dying birds and the rotting bodies of strangers? She did not want to beg, but she could. She could do whatever it took to get back to her mother. She turned to face Flitch.

  “Please,” she said.

  —

  Even from a distance, Callanish could see that Odell’s grace-cages had not been polished in a long time. The bars were reddened with rust, dark as meat. Only two or three seemed to be occupied. Flitch’s boat weaved an unsteady path through the cages, bumping against the rusty bars.

  “He hasn’t been taking care of these,” murmured Callanish.

  “I can see that. Not like your shiny ones, eh? Bloody awkward trying to sail through here when I delivered his parcel.”

  “You didn’t tell me about the state of his cages before.”

  “Why should I tell you? You didn’t ask.”

  Callanish bit down on her frustration. “But I told you I was going to bring my graces here.”

  “Little fish, you didn’t ask.”

  She let Flitch have the last word on that. She didn’t think that he would change his mind and take her back to her graceyard, but they were still close enough for it to be a danger. She would mind her words until there was nothing around them but sea. Although Flitch was annoying, she didn’t think he’d drown her.

  It had not taken long for Callanish to pack her things. She didn’t have any things, really; she filled a box with the small amount of food she had left, then tucked her white dress in the extra space. It seemed silly to take it, as she wouldn’t be able to perform any Restings, but it was in good condition and she would have to look respectable if she wanted to be taken on as a passenger on a military tanker or revival boat. The sea-stiff dress she wore was fine enough for the eyes of Flitch and Odell, as long as she kept her gloves and slippers on; she would change into her decent things later.

  She spent a long time looking at the map on the wall. It would have to be left behind. She shut the door on Flitch and pulled off her gloves. She finger-walked along the lines separating countries, spreading her fingers wide to feel the pull of the webbing; pressed her eye to the places where the cities met the sea, so close that she couldn’t see the distinction. She knew that no two maps were exactly the same. Every map was the world seen through a different lens; every mapmaker proof that there was not just one way of looking at things.

  But there was no room for the map. It would be ruined. She might lose it forever. It would be a mistake to take it. It was idiotic to even think of taking it. But still she ached at leaving it behind. She put her gloves back on before opening the door.

  Most of the packing had involved transferring her few still-living graces to Flitch’s boat, ready to be given to Odell. And now that they had almost arrived at his dock, she was questioning that decision. She should have let the graces go, to fall into the sea or fly to another graceyard as they chose. She would no longer decide their fate for them. But the boat was bumping up against the dock, and Odell was opening his door, and it was too late.

  “Well, well, well,” he purred, leaning the length of his body against the doorjamb, pointing his foot daintily out on to the porch. “If it isn’t Miss Callanish. And she’s brought herself a playmate.”

  “Odell.” Callanish tried to continue but did not know what to say. Odell looked ridiculous. His white suit was crumpled, the fabric dulled to a dirty ivory. He was barefoot and had colored ribbons wrapped around his thumbs. He bowed unsteadily, waving his arm in an elaborate gesture that seemed to be welcoming them into his house.

  “Come in, come in, my finest friends. Any friend of Flitch’s is a friend of Callanish’s. Or Callanish is Flitch. And I am a friend.”

  Odell disappeared into his house. He was drunk. How could he be drunk? The supply boat would not have brought him alcohol, or the equipment to make his own. Callanish was suddenly aware of Flitch, pointedly not looking at Odell as he furled his sails and knotted his rope to the dock. It was not just supply boats that passed through the graceyards. If you had something to trade, you could get whatever you wanted.

  “Odell,” called Callanish from the dock, not wanting to see the state of his house. “I need you to take these graces. And if anyone comes by looking for me, I need you to do their Resting.”

  Odell shouted something back, his meaning lost on the journey between house and dock. Callanish began taking the grace-cages off the messenger’s boat and stacking them on the dock.

  There were as many ways to die at sea as there were feathers on a grace, from storms and whales and infighting to attacks by strangers on unlicensed boats. Before long, her Resting parties would lose another of their loved ones. They would return to Callanish’s graceyard, and she would not be in her house, so they would come here instead. And Odell, drunk and crumpled Odell, who she knew even from a distance would smell of hangovers and boredom, would tarnish whatever scraps of a reputation she had. But still, she was grateful to him. She did not have a choice. She kept stacking.

  Then: the thud-thud-thud of Odell’s steps as he stamped back out on to his porch.

  “Come in, I said!” His shout was so loud that his voice cracked. “In!” He spun on his doorstep and disappeared back inside.

  Callanish had finished stacking the cages, so she scattered another handful of seeds for the birds and followed Flitch into Odell’s house.

  It was not as bad as it could have been. There is not much to make a mess with in a gracekeeper’s house. There was his bed and his table and his cooking equipment, and it all seemed normal enough. There was a stack of empty bottles in one corner, and in another was a pile of grace-cages that reached almost to the ceiling. Some of the graces raised their heads as Callanish approached them, but most just lay on the floors of their cages.

  “Odell, have you been feeding these graces? Some of them are already dead.”

  “Not meant. To feed. The graces,” he pronounced.

  “That’s after you’ve used them for a Resting.”

  “No! Not meant to feed them. At all.”

  Callanish did not correct him, because she was not sure that she was correct. She’d been feeding her graces for so long that she could not remember the exact rules. Perhaps he was right, and these pointless deaths were as it should be.

  “I want you to feed mine, Odell. If anyone asks, say that I forced you to.”

  “Forced me?” Odell let out a mushy laugh. “How could you force me to do anything? You’re a little scrap of nothing and I didn’t miss you at all. I never thought about you, and I never watched the horizon for you, and I didn’t care a whit whether—whit whether…” He pursed his lips again around the words. “A little bit whether you visited me or not.”

  Callanish retreated to the doorway, anxious to leave.

  “That’s good, Odell. I won’t be bothering you again.”
/>
  “You won’t?” Odell swayed upright and swaggered over to Callanish. “You won’t. You will. Will you? You will.”

  Callanish shut the door. She did not want to be in this tiny space with two men whom she needed almost as much as she disliked. But she did not want Odell to veer out of the door and tumble into the sea.

  “That’s what I meant. I will come back, Odell, and very soon. Then I can visit you every evening, and we can listen to records, and drink together, and cool our feet in the sea. You can say things and I will respond.” She waited until she was sure that Odell was listening. “All I need is for you to look after things until then, okay?”

  “You’re going with him.” Odell glared at Flitch. “I bet you’ll love that, won’t you, Callanish? I bet that’s why you never came to see me. You had him instead. Well, what’s so special about him?”

  Callanish bit down a spasm of irritation. Of all the things she’d expected from Odell, jealousy was not on the list.

  “It’s not like that, Odell. He’s helping me to do something, and I am very grateful to him because I know that he is a good man and wants to help me. And soon I’ll come back and see you.”

  Lies upon lies upon lies. But Odell seemed content enough with them, and that was the best she could ask.

  She turned to leave and saw the bird skull hung on the back of the door. She didn’t want to touch it, but couldn’t help reaching out a hand. The bone was warm and smooth. The bird’s beak stuck out like the prow of the rowing boat, and above the thoughtful eye sockets was a dent, an impression, as if someone had pressed a thumb there.

  “Why do you have this?” Callanish said.

  Odell sighed loudly, as if he was trying to blow a fly off his lips. “Found it.”

  “Where?”

  “In the water.”

  Callanish failed to suppress a shudder. “You went in the water? It’s not safe down there, and—look, never mind. Odell, I’m going. We’re going.”

  She opened the door, ignoring the gentle thud as the bird skull fell back to rest against the metal. The temptation to leap into the boat and sail away from the dock without Flitch rose, rose, and disappeared. She stepped on to the deck and waited.

  The trip might be easier if she could hate Flitch, but that emotion was far too strong. All she could feel was a mix of irritation and regret. She regretted having to ask for his help. She regretted the way he swaggered across the dock, the way he rubbed his hand across his shaved head, the way he threw a glance back at Odell as if he’d won a fight. Most of all she regretted her own nature, and that she had not thought to invite him into her bed and steal his boat as he slept.

  But now was not the time for regret. If this was what it took to speak to her mother, then this was what she would do. And if she needed to do more, then she would do that too.

  Callanish had had everything, and then she had lost it. Now all she had was this caged bird fluttering inside her: the need for her mother’s forgiveness. Soon she would have her answer.

  13

  AINSEL

  Fourteen islands, fourteen nights, fourteen performances. It did not take long for the Circus Excalibur to slip back into the comfort of routine. Behindcurtains they were individuals, each full of doubts and concerns; on stage they were the circus, with glitter for blood and glass for eyes.

  Each night the curtain rose. Ainsel turned cartwheels on horseback, Avalon pranced gloriously around him, Jarrow boomed their introductions and exits. They were the picture of a perfect family, and the revivalist landlockers lapped it up. Every night the circus ate scrapings of baked cabbage and honey and raisins, black pudding and chicken hearts and pig snouts. There was never quite enough, but at least they were not sitting down to empty plates.

  With every passing night, Ainsel became more convinced that Jarrow really believed their performance. The old man had always had a knack for storytelling, and he made best use of this in telling tales to himself that conflicted utterly with the cold facts of his life. Otherwise, Ainsel knew, he’d never have made it through all these years on a leaky, rusting boat when his rightful place was on land. Unfortunately for Ainsel, he had not inherited his father’s skill for self-deception. He knew that the Excalibur was rotten to its core. He needed to get ashore before the whole thing crumbled. The only good thing in the Excalibur was Avalon. But she didn’t want him—she wanted a house. And there was only one way for Ainsel to get a house.

  At first he’d wanted to call off the wedding too. He’d just been waiting for the right moment. But then his father had taken them ashore and told them about the house, and Ainsel had seen the pieces of his life click perfectly into place.

  He had to make sure that North went ahead with the wedding. He waylaid her one evening as she carried three dinner bowls back to her coracle. “Good show tonight, North,” he said, though of course he had not seen her act; what with the horses and Avalon and his father, he had no time to watch a bear dance. “Your bear looks well. Perhaps you could come and see the horses some time. Give me some tips.”

  North smiled and nodded, so the words were worth it—but it had hurt him to speak them. His stallions were glossy-coated, bright-eyed, sure-footed: more elegant than that violent beast could ever be. But Ainsel had known North a long time. She scowled at praise for herself, yet glowed if you complimented the bear. If Ainsel didn’t know better, he’d say that North and the bear loved each other.

  A week passed, and North did not visit his coracle to see the horses, but there was time enough for that—because now, finally, they had reached the North-West archipelago. Soon they’d be through it and at the North-East archipelago—and that meant North-East 19, and his father’s home island meant the wedding, and the wedding meant the house, and the house meant Avalon. She’d refused him so many times, but that would change when he had the house. She would love him then. She would.

  That night—after the performance, after the dinner, after the drinking, after the slow slide of the circus into sleep—Ainsel tapped on the side of North’s coracle. It was tricky as he was wearing heavy diving boots and held a skin-diver lung under each arm. The thick glass was scratched, and he did not know how much would be visible through the domes underwater, but they would have to do. He’d stopped by the glamours’ boat before dinner, allowing them to coo over him as they tied his hair in an elaborate knot and dabbed lilac powder under his eyebrows. It wasn’t strictly necessary to look beautiful for North, but it couldn’t hurt.

  He’d resisted the urge to stop by the Excalibur before going to North’s coracle. His father would be there, and he wouldn’t be able to speak properly to Avalon, but it was enough just to look at her, to hear her voice, to see the growing press of his baby inside her. His need for her was a physical ache, heavy as stones in his belly. But it was fine. They would be together soon.

  He tapped on North’s coracle a little louder. When Red Gold had first decided on their engagement, Ainsel had not minded the thought of marrying North. He didn’t love her, but he liked her, and perhaps that could have been enough. But then Avalon had come to him, and he found what love really tasted like. Everything since then had been an act: shadows and lies, the worst sort of circus fakery. But if he wanted Avalon he needed that house, and so he needed the marriage—and for North to go back to the sea afterward.

  He knocked again on the coracle. Still no answer. Through the canvas, he heard the snuffles and snores of North’s bear. He unfastened one of the canvas-knots.

  “North!” he hissed through the gap. No reply. The bright eye of the moon peered over his shoulder, lighting a blurred circle in North’s coracle. Ainsel waited for his eyes to adjust. He leaned further in, tensing his back so that he wouldn’t lose his grip on the lungs.

  In the silvery moonlight he surveyed the innards of the coracle. There was Melia, her body curled tight as a knot, her turquoise hair ratty and faded. There was North’s bear, blacker than a storm cloud and just as unfriendly. There was North’s tin chest of clo
thing, and her dimmed lamp, and her rack of whale-tooth combs, and her neat shelves of thread and oilcloth and tar. But where was North? Ainsel leaned in further.

  “North!” he hissed again. The bear shifted, turned, and a finger of moonlight landed on something pale among his dark fur. For a heart-stopping moment Ainsel thought that the bear was dead—that he had been gutted, carved out, and that long white patch was the cage of his ribs. Then he saw how silly that was. The bear was just holding something. A stretched, pale object, one of North’s dresses perhaps, though why he would be holding a dress Ainsel could not…

  He frowned. He placed the lungs down on the canvas so that he could grip the edge of the coracle and lean further in. Yes, he had been right: that pale thing was North, cradled in the arms of the bear, sleeping as soundly as if the bear was a fur coat. And where were his chains? Why was he not strapped to the bunk?

  “North!” said Ainsel, his voice loud in surprise. Quickly, before she could react, he pulled the canvas shut and picked up the lungs. He waited.

  A whisper of feet, a crumple of canvas. Up she popped out of the coracle.

  “Ainsel? Is that you? What’s wrong?” Her voice was thick with sleep.

  “Hello, North.” He kept his words honey smooth to hide his shock. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m sorry to have woken you.”

  “It’s fine, I was just—I mean, I wasn’t—did you…” She didn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence. Ainsel blinked away the image of North curled in the bear’s arms, tucking it into his memory. He couldn’t worry about it now. Later, maybe, it would come in handy.

  “Yes, I saw,” he said. “Melia’s hair looks like old seaweed and you need to wash your combs.” North still seemed unsure, so Ainsel followed his words with his finest grin. It took a moment, but her face cracked into the beginnings of a smile.