Tallow

by Karen Brooks

  I had to have answers, now, tonight. The silence and evasions – the beatings – had gone on long enough.

  'What am I, Pillar? You have to tell me.'

  Pillar shook his head. 'I don't know what you mean.'

  'Yes, you do,' I corrected him. I moved my head so he had to stop his attentions. 'It's why Quinn hits me ... and why you let her.' Pillar winced. I pressed my advantage. I had to, despite the hurt I knew it was causing him. 'I am not like you, am I? It's why my candles make you, Quinn and others feel and act the way you do, isn't it? It's why Quinn says I'm a threat.' I lowered my voice. 'What's wrong with me?' When he didn't immediately answer, I summoned my courage and asked the question I'd been longing to ask. The one that I'd buried deep within me and which now struggled to be released. 'What's an Estrattore?'

  The look on Pillar's face made me inhale sharply.

  'Where did you hear that word?' His eyes flickered towards the door. He rose to his feet, throwing the cloth that he'd been using to the floor. 'You are never to use it again, do you hear? Never!' He began to pace the room, rubbing his chin and muttering to himself.

  'Why not? Tell me why I can't,' I pleaded. 'What does it mean?'

  Pillar paused mid-stride and looked at me. I could feel his vexation and anxiety. What had I said? Why was he so ... so mad at me? No, not mad. It wasn't anger I sensed, but fear. I hardly dared breathe.

  He stared at me for a long time. I didn't move. I'd never known Pillar to act like this before. Tears of sheer frustration slowly trickled down my bruised cheeks. I had to know. Somehow, I had to understand what I was, what it was about me that made Quinn and Pillar so afraid.

  The first time I'd ever heard the word, something within me had responded. At first I'd believed it was because of its musical sound – Estrattore – but as I'd turned the word over and over in my heart and mind, I'd realised the name was important, not just as a relic from the past, but here, now ... to me.

  Silence filled the room. Pillar was not going to tell me; his refusal shouted out at me. His glance bounced from me to the door and back again, over and over, his train of thought as clear as if he'd spoken. A tiny knot of resolve formed in my heart.

  I would get my answer.

  I waited until he'd sat back down and picked up the cloth, ready to return to his ministrations. I leant towards him and, keeping my head down, whispered, 'If you won't tell me, I'll ask Quinn.'

  It was the cruellest thing I'd ever done. His initial fear transformed into a distress so strong it enveloped me. He raised the cloth between us, a tiny, dripping barrier, a shield against my threat. 'You won't. You mustn't.' Around the cloth, his knuckles turned white.

  'I will if I have to,' I insisted, glimpsing over his shoulder towards the door. Unbeknownst to her, Quinn had taught me well. I could be stubborn, too; pitiless even.

  We sat motionless. Pillar's breathing was heavy and fast. I could tell he was thinking about what to do, what to say. His shoulders slumped and the tension between us wavered. With slow deliberation he wrung out the cloth, placed it on the chest and let out a great sigh. Before I could move, he reached out and cupped my face in his hands. The rough texture of his palms and fingertips against my cheeks were coarse and unfamiliar. His skin had never met mine, not that I could recall in all these years. I could smell smoke, tobacco, a mixture of render, beeswax and the acrid smell of urine and sweat. He drew me closer to him until our faces were just inches apart. Unable to resist, I risked a glimpse. His eyes were shut.

  'You really want to know what an Estrattore is?' he whispered hoarsely.

  I nodded into his hands.

  'It's not who they are; it's what they do that sets them apart.' He began to pull me even closer.

  'Pillar? What are you –?' Before I could finish, he opened his eyes. He didn't flinch or turn away.

  'Look at me,' he commanded raggedly. For the first time in my memory, I really looked. I met his eyes hungrily.

  And like a flower to the sun, his soul opened to me. It was more than I could bear. I swayed and almost fell. But Pillar held my face tight in the palms of his hands.

  Wave after wave of raw sensations engulfed me. I couldn't breathe. I hurt all over. I was drowning.

  Like a dagger to my heart, the loss of his father, the melancholy vindictiveness of his mother, the hunger, the dread, the cold pierced me again and again. There was shame, followed by dejection as he became aware of his own inadequacy, as he struggled to learn the craft of his father from reticent, resentful strangers who had misguided and misinformed him. The pain of his early burns, the scorching of his initial pour and the joy of his first candle were as real to me as they had been to his younger self. Underneath all of this, buried deep in his conscience was his fledgling awareness that he would never amount to anything. It gathered momentum, rising like a huge black bird, its wings outstretched, its dark beak open ready to consume him.

  I tried to wrench out of his grasp, but he wouldn't let me go.

  I was swallowed by years of grinding work, of futile attempts to market his wares. Desperate trips to Jinoa. I was momentarily lost in the pain of his one and only love, ripped from him by another man. Then, beneath the endless layers of grief and self-doubt was something solid and new – a tiny bloom in a desert of pain.

  It was me.

  I couldn't bear it any more. I threw myself backwards on to my bed. Panting, I stared at him in horror, in shared sorrow. I was shaking uncontrollably. My chest ached with unshed tears.

  But it was his face that shocked me the most. It was as if all the years of self-doubt, misery and labour had been plucked out of Pillar, transferred to my soul, and then with remorseless exaggeration passed back to him and inscribed upon his face. Lined beyond belief, his cheeks had hollowed, his eyes sunken. The Pillar I knew was no longer there. I was looking at an ancient, broken man.

  I didn't know how or what I'd done, only that I'd remade him as he saw himself – in his own image.

  He stared at me and I knew that he saw himself through my eyes.

  'After that,' he panted, 'do you still have to ask?'

  I shook my head. My body weighed by the burden of new knowledge. 'I'm an Estrattore.' One who extracts.

  He didn't reply. He just buried his face in his hands and wept.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Errands go awry

  PILLAR SLOWLY UNTIED HIS APRON. The smell of render clung to his hands and clothes as he made his way to the small alcove where a jug of warm water and a crudely shaped soap awaited. He noticed that Tallow had placed a fresh towel there for him. He released a weary sigh and rolled up his sleeves to scrub his hands and arms.

  And, as it often did of late, his mind drifted towards his young apprentice. Pillar knew it was pointless worrying. For the moment, he couldn't change anything. It was only a week since Tallow had emerged from the attic. It had taken four days for the bruises to fade to a pale yellow, the cut on his cheek and the split lip to mend enough to pass for rough play.

  Pillar was grateful that no-one seemed to notice that Tallow never joined the gangs of youths who would occasionally spill onto the fondamenta, engrossed in their games – pretending to be soldiers, rolling hoops and chasing each other through the rami. Or, if they did, they never said so openly. Instead, they would mutter, laugh and empathise with Pillar about Tallow's diminutive size, his slender arms and legs, and the acute shyness that meant he always had a downturned face and buried chin. They would reassure him with tales of their own progeny's late development. Pillar always felt uneasy during these moments, and not just because Tallow never mixed with any of the quartiere's children. That was dangerous in ways that made comments about his size, scrapes and bruises insignificant. Worse still was the guilt that always attended these conversations, settling like a mantle upon his square shoulders.

  Thank God Tallow healed quickly; he always had. So Pillar's remorse could fade into the background until the next time.

  As usual, Quinn appeared to have fo
rgotten or put aside her anger towards the boy; even so, she was adamant that Tallow was not to go near the workshop, let alone any wax. So, while she tended to their meagre business in the shop, she found chores for him to do – things that wouldn't be affected by what she referred to as Tallow's curse. She had him fetching water or changing the sawdust that coated the shop floor – anything that involved tools or an intermediary and prevented Tallow from coming into direct contact with an object. For it wasn't just the candles Tallow made that carried within them something of the boy, but over the last few weeks, almost all the other things he touched as well.

  When Quinn couldn't think of anything else for him to do she let Tallow run some basic errands, such as fetching food and drink for the evening meal. Making sure he would never handle the produce, she gave him a large hemp bag and insisted that he make the shopkeepers place the items in there. Under strict instructions to talk to no-one and to keep his face hidden, Tallow would only be gone a half-hour or so at a time.

  Pillar didn't like it. But he justified his inaction by telling himself that it was not good business to leave the shop unattended as they had done in the past. And there was no doubt Tallow looked better for having been outdoors. His eyes were brighter and his skin not quite so sallow. It saddened Pillar to see how thin he was. But what did he expect? A growing body needed more than bread, cheese and the occasional pigeon or bowl of watery soup to survive.

  One part of Pillar knew it was doing the lad good to get out on his own; after all, it was unnatural for a boy that age to be deprived of company – any company. But another part of him was apprehensive. An overriding sense of unease clung to him that he couldn't shake. Scooping handfuls of water on to his face, he castigated himself for thinking that way instead of being grateful that Tallow was proving his use in other ways. Reaching for the towel, he dried himself, watching his mother busying herself at the table. Why, she was actually humming.

  'Where's Tallow now?' asked Pillar, hanging the towel on a hook and picking up the basin of water.

  His mother watched him cross the room. 'Running another errand for me.'

  Pillar opened the window and, with the ease of years of practice, heaved the dirty water into the canal. 'But Mamma, we agreed. Once a day at the most. It's quiet in the afternoons, but now –' He put down the basin and pushed the first-floor window so far open that the rusty hinges groaned in protest. He looked up and down the fondamenta. There was no-one about. But further up, towards the cross street, there were people milling and calling. Pillar gazed at the lilac sky, noting with concern the low band of thick grey clouds gathering on the horizon. A spidery vein of white shot out of the cloudbank and struck the mountain tops. He reached for his hat and cloak.

  'How long has he been gone?'

  'A while.'

  Pillar grimaced. 'Where did you send him?'

  Quinn looked at him. 'Why are you asking me all these questions? Someone needs to maintain the workshop and I need to look after the customers. We can't let him make any more candles, so I put him to use. He's got to earn his keep somehow.' She eyed Pillar caustically. 'We had all of four people through the door today. They're complaining that our standards have dropped – that if they don't improve soon, they'll start buying elsewhere.'

  'But what if someone sees him?' Pillar stopped, cursing himself for going so far.

  'What?' sneered Quinn. 'You want to go and do the shopping, do you? You're still not fit to be seen. Not after what he did to you.'

  Self-consciously, Pillar ran a hand over his face. While he didn't look as bad as he had the night Tallow touched him in the attic, the night he felt his soul flayed open for the world to see, he still bore the physical scars of the encounter: the additional lines, the pinched cheeks and eyes.

  Stubbornly, Pillar persisted. 'Where did you send him?' he repeated.

  'Oh, where do you think?' Quinn snapped.

  'I don't know, Mamma. Where?'

  'To Vincenzo di Torello's.'

  'You sent him to the taverna?' Pillar's heart seized.

  'That's right, for some more vino.'

  'Mamma! But there are so many people there. What if one of them notices?'

  'Relax, Pillar. If Tallow understands anything, it's that he can't stand around idly chatting or put himself in a position where he's remarked upon. You've been to the taverna with him before. He knows what to do, what to say. Anyway, he'll be back in a moment. Sit down and enjoy an ombretta with me. There's still some left.' She picked up the flagon and tipped the dregs into her mug.

  Pillar shook his head. Something was pricking at the edges of his conscience. 'I'm going to find him, bring him back,' he said between clenched teeth.

  Quinn put her hands on her hips and shook her head. 'You won't always be able to protect him, you know. He's almost an adult – he's going to have to learn to look after himself, no matter what he is.'

  Because of what he is, thought Pillar, refusing to meet her eyes. 'I'm going,' he repeated.

  'Don't forget my vino,' reminded his mother and began kneading some dough.

  Pillar went down the stairs and back through the shop. He tried not to see the gaps on the shelves where he'd removed Tallow's candles.

  Donning his cloak, Pillar stepped on to the fondamenta and closed the door. A sharp wind whipped his cloak and nearly blew his cap from his head. Glancing above the houses on the other side of the canal, Pillar observed the clouds were darker now and coming closer. A low rumble signalled a storm was not far behind.

  Holding his cap and clutching his cloak, he set off towards the taverna.

  He'd only gone a few steps when a small body came tearing around the corner and crashed into him.

  'Tallow!' cried Pillar, recognising the hat and coat. He pulled him away and held him by the shoulders. 'What is it? Why are you running?'

  'Pillar!' Tallow sounded relieved. 'There were soldiers.' He swallowed hard. 'They're after me. I've got to hide!'

  'Soldiers?' Cold crept over his body. 'What are you talking –?'

  'There's been a kidnapping – it's the Doge's grandson, the prince. But that's not all. There was a stranger at the taverna.' Beads of sweat trickled down Tallow's temple as he panted the rest of his tale. 'She kept staring at me and then she started asking questions about a missing girl. There was something about her, Pillar. I didn't stay. I ran. The soldiers ran after me. Perhaps they think I know something about the prince.'

  Pillar's throat grew tight and a chill ran down his spine. What if the soldiers followed Tallow? Worse, what if they found him, found out what he was? Discovered you've kept an Estrattore hidden for almost fifteen years. And what about this woman? Coincidence, or more? Whichever it was, he'd just have to make sure that Tallow wasn't found. He began to hurry Tallow back towards the workshop.

  'I'm so sorry, Pillar. I really am,' said Tallow, glancing over his shoulder, tripping over the cobblestones. 'You always tell me not to talk to anyone. And I didn't – honest! I just panicked. First the soldiers and then the woman ... I know I shouldn't have run, but I didn't know what else to do. Now they think I know something –' The words tumbled from Tallow's mouth.

  'It's all right, Tallow.' Pillar's heart was in his throat. 'Come, we've got to hide you.'

  Tallow rushed ahead, his hat askew, his coat falling from one shoulder. 'I led them all around the sestiere, Pillar. I knew not to come straight back here.'

  Pillar nodded but he was barely listening as he tried to keep up with the boy. What was his mother going to say? Soldiers on the doorstep, the chance of discovery; then arrest, torture and most certainly death.

  'Did you hear me, Pillar?' gasped Tallow. 'I said I made sure I didn't come straight home.'