Professor Marìn put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Emilie, what do you know about those creatures who come in the night? Ravageurs, they’re called. You’ve seen them?’
‘I can ’ear them,’ said Mademoiselle Chouette, ‘but not see. Ravageurs? Un nom français? Non! Des navets! Turnips!’
The professor mused, ‘Talina tells us it is the usual story – that children and animals can see them, and adults cannot. But we grown-ups can hear them sometimes. I haven’t yet seen one – despite a spell to make myself childlike in perception.’
‘I can help with that!’ Ambrogio seized a pencil and did a swift drawing in a white space between the jam stains on the tablecloth. He made much of the jagged teeth protruding from the muzzle, the pale eyes, the matted mane and the sloping back. He added a gondola, altered the Ravageur to a sitting position and showed a team of rats poling the boat through the water as if it was a slave galley.
‘Good lord! I am not entirely sorry not to have seen one in person,’ said Professor Marìn. ‘All the worst elements of a werewolf, a hyena and a Tasmanian devil, if I’m not mistaken. But don’t worry. There are no scratches on my door – they’re not coming for any of us this time.’
Trembling, Mademoiselle Chouette edged closer to him. Only the sharpest eye would have seen their little fingers linked for a moment. Then the French mistress picked up the tea cosy and her needle again.
Talina said, ‘Doctor Raruso said that the Ravageurs have a good reason for what they’re doing. They were here first. They claim that Venice is their ancestral land. Now they’re stuck on some forsaken fogbound island in the lagoon.’
‘That’s why they keep howling “Give eet back”,’ explained Ambrogio. ‘They mean “Give Venice back”.’
Talina said, ‘But Dr Raruso said they originally came from Siberia, so who knows why they have the French accent and the arrogance?’ She added, ‘Oh, sorry, Mademoiselle!’
‘Mais c’est exactement le problème! No one understands!’ Mademoiselle Chouette burst into tears of frustration. ‘Those Ravageurs ’ave no French accent at all. It is a butchery of un bon accent français! It is a disgrace. It breaks mon coeur!’
The professor shyly offered her his pocket handkerchief. But he looked as if what he really wanted to do was dab the tears from those big blue eyes himself.
Ambrogio asked, ‘So why should wolfy, hyena-like, devilish pretending-to-be French things think that they own Venice?’
Professor Marìn looked thoughtful. ‘I was about to tell you about this when our guests arrived – about what I found in my attic last night. There’s a gap in the chronicles of Venice – just before the founding of the city, traditionally in AD 421. My historian friend Giuseppe Tassini often talks of it. The trouble is, from those times, there are no documents. There was not even any paper. Just the odd bit of goat parchment. Very few people could read or write. Giuseppe has always supposed we’d never know the exact truth.’
‘Are you saying that this story could be true, Professor?’ asked Talina.
‘That the Ravageurs really could have a right to Venice?’
‘Just because it is strange and awful and there is no written proof – at the moment – does not mean it cannot be true,’ the professor said gravely.
‘My father,’ said Talina, ‘always says that all the truly important historical documents about Venice aren’t even filed yet at the Archives. And if they were …’
‘That’s preposterous!’ Ambrogio paced around the kitchen like a barrister in a courtroom. ‘Those vile creatures could never have ruled Venice! They’re no better than bullies and cowards, trying to trick Venice into giving herself up! It is outrageous.’
‘Now, now, Ambrogio. We do not know the truth of the situation. It needs investigating. Perhaps we can come to some understanding with the Ravageurs before they take’ – he glanced compassionately at Talina – ‘any more Venetians.’
‘But what can we do, a couple of children and some cats … and one man who is more studious than ferocious?’ Drusilla’s anxious face took in the professor’s lanky frame.
‘And a teacher of French,’ cried Mademoiselle Chouette, snipping a final thread with her teeth, ‘with her country’s honour to defend!’
She handed Talina a handsome bonnet that now bore only the faintest resemblance to a tea cosy.
‘Well,’ the professor scratched his head, ‘it seems to me that the Ravageurs must have baddened magic on their side. Which means that we shall need to call on the forces of good magic, like the mermaids.’
‘Mermaids!’ exclaimed Talina and Ambrogio in a single voice.
‘You mean you’ve never seen one? You’re young enough. But of course they are presently abroad fighting the ghosts of an old Turkish fleet sunk at the Battle of Famagosta. The ghosts of the ancient galleons arose from the seabed in a storm and immediately set course for Venice, resuming their mission to destroy her. The mermaids have their hands full.’
‘Fighting mermaids! What’s all this about good and baddened magic?’ asked Ambrogio.
‘All magic is born good. But like everything else, it can become corrupted. It seems to me likely that the Ravageurs were once just ordinary wolves who have somehow been transformed over the centuries by magic – and more recently by baddened magic. Yet even baddened magic has its reasons—’
‘For taking my parents?’ Talina asked. ‘After all, my father is the Venetian expert when it comes to Malignant Spells and Abominable Rites. So the Ravageurs probably wanted to know what he knows. So … I’ll go and find them and demand an explanation. And get my parents back.’
Professor Marìn said, ‘Admirable courage, Talina, but from what I have heard, these Ravageurs are too rude and arrogant to let anyone finish a sentence.’
‘I always finish my sentences,’ said Talina proudly. ‘The point is that it has to be a child who does this. If adults can’t even see the Ravageurs, how can they possibly negotiate with them?’
‘That cat,’ Brolo said, ‘I mean girl, is quite something, I declare. I always thought human girls were namby-pamby little articles. But this one is the bee’s knees and the spider’s ankles, as my old pa used to say.’
‘And the cat’s whiskers,’ smiled Ambrogio, staring at Talina.
Brolo winked at Drusilla, murmuring, ‘Too-too darling, or what?’
‘Talina, you truly are a terror,’ said the professor. ‘I never met anyone – or anything – as fearless as you. But just how do you propose to get to the Ravageurs – on their secret island enfolded in fog – and make them do exactly what you want? And I repeat, you’ll need to stay sweet, serene and reasonable – or you might start changing again.’
‘Into a cat?’
‘Into whoever or whatever is provoking you. You and magic have a very strong relationship, Talina. You seem to intensify whatever magic comes your way. If you lose control of your emotions, goodness knows what might happen. So you of all people must be careful.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Talina, barely listening. ‘What if … what if … I could find out which child the Ravageurs are going to kidnap next? Then I could take his or her place!’
‘By finding the fresh scratches they make on the door! Smart!’ said Ambrogio. ‘We’ll just give them two children for the price of one.’
Talina’s lips set in a line. If Ambrogio had been less absorbed in admiring her brave plan, he would have worried about that line.
Brolo said, ‘I’ll alert the cats – I know decent chaps in every parish. We’ll find that door for you, Signorino Ambrogio and Signorina Talina.’
‘Mais mes enfants,’ protested Mademoiselle Chouette, ‘You’ve ’ad as much experience of Ravageurs as a rabbit ’as of mathematics – you can’t just go and get yourselves taken by those bêtes monstrueuses!’
‘And even if … well, I don’t think we need to … sacrifice two of you,’ intervened the professor. ‘Think of your parents, Ambrogio. I am their best customer, and their best-selling author. Eve
n so, they would never forgive me.’
‘And,’ announced Talina conclusively, ‘the song didn’t mention you, Ambrogio. It just talked about the not-quite-cat, Talina. Me. Stop staring at me like that.’
Ambrogio reddened as if she’d slapped both sides of his face. He protested, ‘The rat didn’t get to finish his song. Maybe he was about to say something about a boy, who could draw and argue well—’
‘But the rat died,’ said Talina baldly.
‘Because of what the Ravageurs did to him,’ mewed Drusilla.
The silence that followed was broken by a violent battering at the door.
‘Let me in, Ridolfo!’ shouted Giuseppe Tassini. ‘There’s something you have to see.’
Professor Marìn’s crooked kitchen, seconds later
CHOKING FOR BREATH, the historian waved a rag of crudely printed cloth in their faces. Ambrogio took it gently from Tassini’s shaking hand and read:
FOR ARROGANCE AND POMPOSITY,
the bell-towers of Luprio have been put on trial.
The case: how dare they poke
their arrogant spires at Heaven?
How dare they fill the air
with the hateful clanging of their bells?
Bell-towers? No! They are lying signposts,
falsely claiming their so-called Venice is a great city.
LOOK AT THEIR BOASTFULNESS!
Santa Maria Formosa in Castello – 40 metres high
Santi Apostoli in Cannaregio – 54 metres
San Barnaba in Dorsoduro – 33 metres
San Giacomo dell’Orio in Santa Croce – 32 metres
To all these —
immediate sentence of death by decapitation.
OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!
They shall be topped and tailed,
brought low and humbled.
SIGNED Grignan, Lord of Luprio
‘And do you know the worst thing? The Venetians have gone to the churches to pray for their towers,’ Tassini cried.
‘But that’s the most dangereux place for them to be!’ whispered Mademoiselle Chouette. ‘We must divide and run to warn them. I’ll take Santi Apostoli. Professor, you do San Giacomo; Giuseppe – Santa Maria Formosa. Mes enfants – San Barnaba for you. Dépêchez-vous!’
‘We’re too late!’ cried Talina.
The spire and belfry of the bell-tower – by a canal, just to the west of the church of San Barnaba – were beginning to spin. The bells jangled in alarm. The tower groaned dustily. A small palace in front of it simply crumbled. In the misty background, the spire of San Samuele shuddered in sympathy on the other side of the Grand Canal.
‘That spire’s coming off,’ said Ambrogio. ‘Any moment. If it doesn’t fall in the canal, it will crash through the church roof on top of the people.’
‘That’s probably just what the Ravageurs intend.’
Talina and Ambrogio ran into the church, crying, ‘You must get out! Quick! The bell-tower’s coming down!’
Most of the parishioners rushed out into the little square in front of the church, from where they could see the swirling head of the tower.
But a few stayed inside, grumbling, ‘It’s cold out there! Anyway, it’s that mad girl Talina. She is always raising alarms. She’ll do anything to attract attention.’
‘Yes, last I heard, she’d staged a disappearance.’
‘No, no!’ protested Talina and Ambrogio in unison. ‘Come out! This is a real threat.’
But then the shriek of twisting masonry silenced everyone. Talina and Ambrogio joined the last few parishioners running out of the church.
All eyes were drawn to the bell-tower. The ground beneath it turned swampy, then soupy. The marble and brick simply melted away. The bell-tower began to slither into the mud.
‘This is baddened magic that Professor Marìn told us about,’ cried Talina, but her voice was drowned by the frantic clash of bells, the grinding of stone and inhuman screams in the air. Attracted by the commotion, a flock of birds ringed the descending tower in ever lower circles.
‘The seagulls are laughing!’ cried Talina.
‘At least they’re enjoying it,’ said Ambrogio bitterly. ‘And those birds are not seagulls. Look at those bald heads! They’re vultures!’
At the word ‘vulture’, a shudder spread through Talina’s body, as if the big grey birds were hovering at her back, brushing her with their wings.
‘Vultures in Venice? Never heard—’
The cone of the spire and the belfry suddenly skittered around like a wind-up toy. And then a deep black fissure appeared below the belfry as though an invisible giant had hacked the tower with an unimaginably vast and ferocious axe.
The parishioners of San Barnaba groaned, as if they had received the body blow themselves.
The reverberations churned the canal into a whirlpool, ejecting a gondola into the middle of the crowd. The sharp silver prow embedded itself in the soft zinc of a newsstand’s wall. Meanwhile a wave rolled over a nearby fruit boat. A few moments later, a salad of tomatoes, lemons and apples was bobbing in the water, along with two angry and shaken fruit-sellers. One spat a small potato out of his mouth; the other pulled a dripping leek from his pocket.
Another invisible blow, and the upper part of the tower leant over, like a vast bird’s beak pointing towards the canal. Finally, the belfry separated from the stump of the tower and crashed spire-first into the canal, disappearing except for the upside-down hollow of the belfry. A row of bells poked up out of the water with the clappers lolling like tongues in dead men’s mouths.
With its top struck off, the blunted body of the tower began to sink. It was swiftly consumed by the mud as if it were a filament of spaghetti sucked up by a greedy mouth.
Then there was silence, followed by the weeping and terrified cries of the crowd.
‘That’s it,’ said Talina, quietly. ‘I’ve had enough. The creatures who are mutilating Venice are also holding my parents.’
Ambrogio nodded silently.
Talina looked around her at the darkening sky, feeling the stars impatiently waiting to come out.
‘I’m going to find those Ravageurs,’ she said. ‘And I’m going to do it tonight.’
Cannaregio, the night of May 4th and 5th, 1867,
Saint Pellegrino’s Day
TALINA SQUIRTED A little oilcan of Professor Marìn’s ‘Lockspittle’ into the keyhole, which yielded instantly. She let herself in, closing the door behind her.
The first thing she heard was a long, fruity snore.
‘Good,’ she muttered. ‘Louder, please, if possible.’
The snorer obliged with a window-shaking masterpiece, composed of a deep snarl, a trilling whistle and a throaty roar.
One of Brolo’s cousins had delivered the information that the home of the Ravageurs’ next intended victim was in Cannaregio, a humble two-storey house near the abattoirs and the Botanical Gardens. A single rushlight burnt in its hall. Talina picked it up, took off her shoes and padded silently up the stairs and down a narrow corridor until she found the room she wanted. She crept to the bed of the sleeping child, a boy about eight years old. Gazing down at his peaceful face, she thought, ‘I don’t have to do this. I could just leave him here.’
The boy stirred and opened his eyes. At the sight of the strange girl with the rushlight in her hand, he sat bolt upright, pointing an accusing finger.
‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘A thief? I shall just about fix your giblets if you’ve come for my toy train, you brute!’
‘I,’ intoned Talina, standing up to her full height, only slightly taller than the sitting boy. ‘I am the Terror of the Neighbourhood. You’d better do what I say.’
‘Well I ain’t very terrified of a flea like you. A girl flea. Anyway, my pa’s gonna come and git you any second,’ threatened the boy. ‘And he’s gonna dose you good with Manitoba Gargling Oil, and then … he’ll march you off to the police—’
He was interrupted by another terrifically loud snor
e.
‘Your pa, I presume? The one who is “gonna come and git” me?’ Talina mimicked the boy’s accent. Then she remembered there was no time for teasing.
‘Get under the bed,’ she hissed. ‘The Ravageurs are coming for you tonight.’
‘The what? I ain’t never heard of no such thing as a Ravidger.’
‘So you never heard any howling in the night? Or heard of anyone in Venice being taken away and never seen again?’
‘Yes, but—’ His shoulders had begun to shake.
‘Well, let me tell you. Those poor people have been taken away – by creatures called Ravageurs, who are like wolves, only much bigger, much nastier and much more hungry. They have teeth as long as lizards and claws like sabres, and … they mark the house of their next victim with five scratches on the door. Short ones for a child; long ones for an adult.’
The boy’s lip was trembling now.
‘Do you know what’s on your front door right this minute?’
The bedcovers were still warm from the boy’s body when Talina slipped inside, setting the rushlight on the table beside her. He sobbed quietly to himself underneath the bed, ‘Why me? Why me? Why me?’
‘You’d better be quiet, milksop,’ Talina had to instruct only once. ‘If they hear you snivelling, they’ll take you too.’
When they came, it was two of them.
Talina heard the front door hinges give under a quick, skilful wrench. The snores of the boy’s father never faltered.
Heavy paws with long nails clopped swiftly up the stairs.
The bedroom door creaked wide open. Talina saw, for the first time, the silhouette of a Ravageur head, black against the dimly lit wall of the room. Its lips were drawn back. A thick brush of erect fur ran along its sloping spine, making it look much more like a hyena than a wolf. It carried an embroidered canvas swag tied across its torso with leather strips.
The moon, coming out from behind a cloud, suddenly brought the thick muzzle to life and colour. An intensely red tongue drew itself over jagged yellowy fangs, each of which was longer than a lizard – some as long as Talina’s fingers. An eye glinted the palest green. A ruby dangled from a tattered ear.
Talina in the Tower Page 8
