by Karen Brooks
Deep in his heart, Pillar knew it was all because of the child – the dead Bond Rider, the creatures that watched but did not come forward. He'd escaped some terrible fate – or, he thought, glancing at the baby, been handed one.
He pondered the rider's words. Two simple words that in the seconds it took to utter them became an irrevocable command. Pillar had no choice; the child now belonged to him.
The silver eyes studied him. He steeled himself to look away. But he couldn't. As if the child was speaking and he was listening, Pillar was held in the thrall of silent conversation.
The cart rolled on. Around him, night metamorphosed into dawn, serenaded by the clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels.
When a golden thread appeared on the horizon and the minarets and domes of Serenissima spread out before him, the future suddenly became clear to Pillar. His frown dissolved. The child would not be a burden, no matter what the Bond Rider said. But he flinched at the thought of his mother's response. She didn't like change, particularly when she had no role in instigating it. Perhaps it would be better to stop the cart now and abandon the baby here at the foot of the mountains, away from the Limen – let someone else bear the responsibility. As his mind travelled that dark, uneasy path, the child simply stared up at him.
Pillar glanced at the little bundle. Before he could look away again, his concerns fled. Everything would be all right. He would protect and keep this child as if it were his own. A life to replace the one he still missed; the one that, from beyond time and space, continued to regulate his own. His mind was made up. The child was his, no matter what anyone else, even his mother, might try to tell him. She need never know what the Bond Rider said to him. It would be his secret. His pleasure.
The cart jolted and the child shut its eyes.
Unaware of the otherworldly presences that peered out at him from behind the skeletal trees, from above the postern gate as he returned the cart and horse, or from the banks of the canal as he hailed a traghetto, Pillar dreamed on – his past rewritten, his present assured and his future, for the first time in more than thirty years, full of promise.
CHAPTER ONE
Tallow
'THERE,' I SAID, BALANCING THE candle I'd snapped off the broach in the palm of my hand. 'What do you think?' I ran my other hand through my hair, pushing back my recalcitrant fringe. My fingers came away moist. It was hot in the workroom, but that wasn't the only reason I was sweating.
Even though I had been making candles ever since I could remember, I awaited Pillar's opinion nervously. It wasn't that Pillar was such a great candlemaker; in fact, he often lamented how pedestrian and ordinary his work was and that he only earned enough lire to survive. Pillar was right. His work was nothing special, not compared with the work of the master candlemakers who lived on the salizzada and controlled the Candlemakers Scuola, but what he thought mattered terribly to me. While he lacked the artistic flair of the masters, or their golden ducats to spend on exotic waxes and wicks, his candles were solid, the wicks dependable, and they burnt long and brightly.
'Well?' I pressed. He didn't usually take so long to offer his opinion. 'Can we afford to purchase more beeswax?'
For the first time, Pillar had allowed me to use some of his precious beeswax, not just to coat our tallow candles to give them the illusion of being more expensive but to make an entire broach. There were now a dozen beeswax candles suspended on the wooden frame above the trough. The wax alone had cost more than we made in a season.
It was a huge risk that Pillar had taken, entrusted to me alone. It was also an act of desperation, driven by what could only be described as invisible flaws in my tallow candles. We could no longer sell what I made and it was costing us business.
Finally, after examining the candle from all angles, he reached out and took it from me. His long fingers gently stroked the smooth white exterior before softly tugging the wick.
'You have managed to get the wax very white, Tallow, not bad.' He held the candle to his nose. 'And while the rich scent of the honey is still present, there are no impurities.'
I'd spent weeks preparing the wax: first boiling it and filtering it to get rid of any contaminants, and then drying it and shredding it into strips to lay out and be whitened by the sun. The whiter the candle, the better the quality and the higher the price we could ask.
'The lines are even and the candle tapers nicely,' said Pillar, interrupting my thoughts. 'You've rolled it quite well, too.'
Unlike the masters, who used marble rollers to achieve a symmetrical shape, we used ones carved from oak. It was hard work. My neck and shoulders ached with the memory.
'The wick is neatly plaited.' Pillar plucked at the cotton tip a few times. 'You have shown great patience for a boy your age, Tallow.' He took a deep breath. 'The work is passable.'
I couldn't help it. My chest began to swell, my eyes to glow.
'But,' continued Pillar, before I could become carried away with my success, 'the real test is in the lighting.'
'Do we have to –' I began. It seemed such a waste to risk even one. Then I saw the look in his eyes.
'We cannot ask others to buy what we would fear to use ourselves,' he said. He was right. We had to test it.
My heart sank. Lately, after years of relatively successful candlemaking, something was going wrong. Although my candles looked perfect, as soon as they were lit and the blue-purple smoke rose into the air, things would start to happen – intangible, eerie things. We first noticed it about six weeks ago, when Pillar and his mother, Quinnatta, began weeping uncontrollably after lighting one of my rush lights. Pillar later blamed the vino they'd consumed. But when they started behaving in other uncharacteristic ways – feeding the stray cats that lolled on the fondamenta, staying awake for nights on end – they began to regard me and my candles with suspicion. They thought I'd done something to them, tainted them in some way, and they were afraid. I would hear them whispering late into the night and catch my name among the fraught murmurs.
But I continued to make the candles and they continued to be affected. We didn't stop selling them, not then. After receiving odd and even accusatory comments from customers blaming us for their milk souring or their hens laying rotten eggs, Pillar and Quinn decided to withdraw the candles and study my methods in the hope we could work out what was going wrong.
We all knew what it was.
It was me.
Quinn certainly held me accountable. Pillar didn't openly admit it, not yet. He kept getting me to try different ways of making the candles. I shaped more moulds, even carved a new broach and plaited fresh wicks of hemp and cotton. But as soon as the candles were lit, the inexplicable mood swings and uncharacteristic behaviour would commence again.
Finally, Pillar suggested I try a completely different material. The tallow we were using was old, he said, it didn't have the right proportion of animal fats and was probably full of impurities. Without asking his mother, he went to the neighbouring Chandlers Quartiere and purchased some freshly imported Jinoan beeswax.
And now my candles were ready. They looked lovely and smelled sweet. But, as Pillar said, the real test lay in the lighting. Placing the candle in a holder, Pillar ceremoniously trimmed the wick. In the past, I'd loved that moment. Lately, seeing the way Pillar's fingers trembled, it filled me with dread. Placing his nose against the wax, he inhaled deeply. I knew he was stalling.
'You really have managed to safeguard the scent, Tallow.'
I was surprised. Pillar didn't offer praise very often and I'd been careful to preserve what was in the original wax itself – its very essence.
Pillar continued. 'I'm guessing that when we light it, the fragrance will be very pleasant.' He noted my look. 'Don't be so worried. There's a perfectly rational explanation for all this.'
'There'd better be,' said a gruff voice from the doorway. Quinn glared at us as we stood blinking, like the owls in the local basilica whose sleep has been interrupted by a shaft of morning light.
'Well, what are you waiting for? It's clear you've wasted our hard-earned coin on this ne'er-do-well again. It's too late to do anything about it now. Light the damn thing.'
Gripping her favourite mug, Quinn entered the workshop, ducking her head to avoid the crooked lintel, sidling past the benches and troughs, and bobbing under the broach with practised ease. She looked us up and down. When her eyes rested on me, the familiar smirk that twisted her mouth to the left appeared. She gave me a mock toast, and I quickly lowered my head as I'd been taught. Ever since I was four and old enough to understand, I hadn't been allowed to meet her eyes – or anyone's, for that matter. I lived in a world where I could not be caught looking.
Quinn came to a halt by my candle and bent to pass judgment. I waited nervously.
'Not bad, boy. Not bad. But as we all know,' she said, her eyes running over me again, 'looks can be deceiving. Come on,' she urged, 'let's see if he's managed to overcome his ... problem.'
Melted tallow snapped as Pillar lifted a rush light from the bench and used its flame to light my candle. I heard the slow sizzle of fire kissing wick and then caught the smell of burning fibre. Once I knew the flame had taken, I dared to raise my eyes. Candles tell no tales.
Or so I thought.
A sweet honey fragrance filled the workshop. I watched as first Pillar's, then his mother's, face altered. Their eyes widened and their eyebrows arched. Quinn's mouth straightened and then her lips parted. Pillar's broke into a huge smile that I just knew would reach his eyes. As the aroma enveloped us, I could feel the years of squinting over the render, of enduring the stench of beef and sheep fat, of suffering burning fingers and singing hair, slip away. That and more. The bitterness that etched sour lines around Quinn's mouth and cheeks faded, and a ruby glow crept up her cheeks, making her look younger and more at ease with what life had meted out.
Pillar's face also changed as grief and weariness sloughed away. I could see the grey hairs on his arms darken and watched as his arthritic fingers straightened and stretched towards the candle, towards something that life had cruelly snatched away from him before he could fully taste it.
I rejoiced at what I saw even while a small voice within me sounded a warning. But, blinded by my accomplishment, I didn't listen. Instead I inhaled, deeply, richly, and for a moment became one with the candle, with the wax. I saw a sun-dappled glade scattered with yellow-tipped flowers, each bent by the feather feet of the bees nestled in their hearts, harvesting their sweet crop. Warmth crept up my body and feelings of contentment washed over me.
Pillar felt the same. Joy was written all over the lines on his prematurely aged face; joy that reached far into his heart and touched his aching spirit. I risked another peek at Quinn but, just as I turned my head, a large, red hand swung at my cheek, and the resultant sharp sting ended my reverie.
'You stupid, careless bastard! You've done it again. He's done it again, Pillar. An entire batch of beeswax, ruined!' Quinn punctuated every word with another slap. 'You did this deliberately, didn't you? You ungrateful little sod. After all we've done for you, all we've risked, all we've sacrificed, this is the thanks we get?'
I tried to protect myself, but it was no good. She came at me, both hands flailing, striking blow after blow. I didn't cry out. It wouldn't have done any good; it never did.
Instead, I focused on inhaling the mellow perfume and hoped that she wouldn't scar me this time.
CHAPTER TWO
The conversation
in the kitchen
'YOU NEED TO CONTROL THAT boy. Do what I do, treat him with a firm hand.' Quinn smacked a fist into her palm for emphasis. Pillar winced. He knew his mother's idea of a firm hand all too well. So did Tallow. 'I'll have none of that nonsense in my house. You've got to let him know who's in charge. As long as he thinks he can get away with it, I tell you, he'll keep doing it!' Quinn drank deeply before wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. 'In fact, it'll only get worse – for all of us.'
Slamming the mug on the table, she glared at her son, daring him to contradict her. But Pillar kept his head bowed and pushed a chunk of bread around his plate. It was hard for him to eat anything knowing that, in the tiny room above, Tallow was going without.
In the corner the fire crackled. The pot of soup suspended above the coals steamed, and the curtain dividing Pillar's sleeping area from the kitchen billowed slightly. A temperate breeze stirred over the canal outside and slipped in through the open casement, bringing with it the stench of the neighbourhood. Pillar didn't notice that as much as he did the faint sounds of revelry as the quartiere's residents enjoyed an unusually balmy night. In a matter of weeks, it would all cease. The canals would freeze and the island streets nearer the mainland would be covered with snow and ice.
Pillar didn't respond as Quinn continued. 'I told you it was a mistake to let him touch any more candles! But no, you don't listen, do you? Instead you go and waste good coin on beeswax. That cost every last one of those hard-earned lire we made over summer.' Still Pillar didn't respond. 'What are you going to do with it now?'
Pillar raised his head. 'I thought I might melt it down and try to remould –'
'You!' Quinn scoffed. 'You can barely mould ordinary tallow, let alone beeswax! If you lay a finger on that stuff, you're even more stupid than I thought. He's infected it. It can never be used. I don't know why you let him near it – not after what he did to the tallow.' She leant over and dropped her voice. 'But you think you know better, don't you? Giving him chances, encouraging him and after what he did – what he still tries to do – to me, to us.'
Quinn reached for the large ceramic jug to pour herself another mug of vino. She went to top up Pillar's mug, but he covered it and shook his head.
'I've had enough.'
Quinn shrugged. 'Suit yourself.' She took a long draught from her mug. 'Winter's going to be knocking at our door any day and we need to find a way to pay the coal and timber merchants, never mind feeding ourselves. It's clear we can't let him make any more candles, so we're just going to have to find something else for him to do.'
Pillar knew not to say anything when his mother was like this. It only made things worse. He stood slowly and rubbed his eyes, wondering what he should do. For all her complaining and threats, there was an element of truth in his mother's words and that concerned him more deeply than he was prepared to admit. For a few blessed years there, everything had gone so well. Despite his appearance, Tallow hadn't shown any other signs that he was different and he'd taken to candlemaking like a bird to the air. It had come so naturally to him. And somehow Pillar knew that Tallow's skills would only improve with age.
Expectation can be a cruel thing.
'I know you think he can control it, Mamma, but he can't,' said Pillar finally. 'Any of it. Whatever else he might be, he's also an awkward lad going through a phase.'
Quinn snorted. 'A phase! Is that what you're calling it? Think he'll grow out of it, do you? Can't help it! My Pillar, always the optimist.' She shook her head and then frowned. 'No, you're probably right. He can't, can he? And that's the problem.'
Quinn squinted in an effort to focus. Pillar's features swam into view – his thick grey hair, his wide nose and stubbled chin. Weak fool! If only he would rage at her, call her names. But he never did. Just like his father, and look what had happened to him.
Her rheumy eyes took in their surroundings. The low beamed ceiling with the cobwebs thick in the corners, the smoking hearth with the old pot suspended over it and, beside the fire, against the grill they sometimes used when they had earned enough to buy a haunch of meat, rested a few rusting tools.
Quinn observed Pillar's mended shirt, stained vest and the faded blue eyes. He looked older than his forty years. For a moment, pity knocked at her heart. He didn't deserve this. Like her, he was a victim of someone else's caprices. And he did try; he always had. Whatever else he might be, he didn't give up. And he was loyal. He'd always been there for her even when, after too many vinos, she hadn't
really been there for him. She opened her mouth to say something to her son, to soften her words, when she saw his hands.
