Talina in the Tower

by Michelle Lovric

  Professor Marìn pulled a purple vial from his trousers and tucked it into Talina’s pinafore pocket, alongside her Thaumaturgic Handkerchief. ‘It’s my Liquid Lullaby Infusion to induce Drowsiness and Stimulate Truth-Telling. I brought some with me, in case we needed to subdue Grignan. And I’ve added some Intensified Essence of Cruelly Killed Meat, which I hate to handle, but it will make it quite irresistible to any Ravageur. And here’s another little bottle of Dandelion & Daisy for the mange. Wouldn’t hurt to see if we can at least cure that. The poor creatures—’

  But his voice was lost in a sound of beating wings and the urgent twittering of a thousand terrified sparrows.

  Restaurant swept into the tower. With his beak, he grabbed the paperweight, while his talons closed around Talina’s shoulders.

  ‘That wasn’t the kind of bait we meant!’ screamed Ambrogio. ‘Give her back!’

  Talina felt herself lifted into the air, and dragged out of the window.

  One minute later, there was nothing but lagoon beneath her feet, a dizzying distance below. She could no longer feel the warmth of Ambrogio’s eyes on her. She felt strangely cold without it. She was buffeted by the wind that blurred the sea into innumerable tiny wrinkles below. The silhouette of Venice’s remaining bell-towers dwindled in the distance.

  Ever since she’d first heard Restaurant’s name, Talina had somehow known, deep inside, that she would end up at his Stake House. She had no doubt of the bird’s plans for her.

  It was not a priority in Restaurant’s bird brain to deliver her safely into Grignan’s presence. His mission was the paperweight, not a living girl. No, Restaurant would drop her from a height, so she would die on one of the bloodstained palings outside the Stake House. Then he would dine on her at his leisure, while the flies joined the feast, saving his favourite parts till last.

  ‘Perhaps Grignan has ordered my execution?’ she wondered miserably. ‘He said he would.’

  Should she keep clinging to Restaurant’s claws, helping him carry her to a drawn-out, grisly end? Or should she wriggle loose and plummet into the sea? She imagined herself down where the eels nestled and the plate-sized crabs scuttled. Then she realized, ‘No, the impact will rip me in half as I hit the water.’

  Death would at least be quick and clean that way.

  Talina did not know how many hours they’d been flying, but finally they were circling over the Ravageurs’ island. Restaurant cawed with delight as he caught sight of his Stake House.

  But what Restaurant did not realize was the effect on Talina of spending all those hours in his close company. She was nothing if not fearfully angry. This great stinking bird had stolen the evidence, kidnapped her, planned to kill her cruelly, devour her slowly. What was worse, the vulture was crawling with fleas, many of whom had been delighted at the prospect of fresh meat – just as much as their current host – though they were happy to feed on it while it was still alive. They had swarmed down Restaurant’s feathery thighs and onto Talina’s head, neck and shoulders, which they proceeded to bite with great appetite. Enclosed in the bird’s talons, she was not even able to scratch.

  Somewhere over the island of Sant’Erasmo, Talina had started to sprout lopsided grey feathers from her shoulders. Her neck lengthened. Her bones felt lighter, as if hollowed out. And her feet had been transformed into two perfectly formed clusters of three claws. By the time they flew over the island of San Francesco del Deserto, she had a respectable pair of wings. She flapped them, feeling their power. She looked up anxiously, but Restaurant flew on, oblivious, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Only her hands and her face remained human as, many hours later, they approached the Ravageurs’ island, surrounded by its grey doughnut of fog.

  Now Talina saw the Stake House. The red-tipped poles pointed to the sky like sharpened pencils. Looking down on them, Talina felt shooting pains around her heart, as if rehearsing her own impalement. Restaurant made one swift pass over his territory, evidently to select his stake before moving in for the kill.

  As they crested out to sea again, preparing for the final swoop, the bird quivered with pleasure. The quivering motion dislodged the smooth rock crystal paperweight in his beak. Glittering like a falling star, it dropped through the rays of the setting sun straight into the dark-blue sea.

  ‘Lost for ever!’ Talina taunted Restaurant. ‘The one article that Grignan might have used to prove his case – even if he was going to lie about its age. You’re going to be in dreadful trouble, bird-face! I wouldn’t want to be in your beak for anything.’

  And with that she shook her shoulders free from the claw that had opened with shock and flew with the wings her anger had grown, right down to the island and straight into the Ravageur palace. She hoped her wings would last long enough to get her to the kitchen, so that she could add the Liquid Lullaby to the Ravageurs’ next meal, which would surely take place quite soon, given that they must eat constantly or die.

  Unfortunately, her pleasure at parting company from Restaurant meant that she started shedding feathers almost immediately. Her wings were already quite threadbare by the time she entered the portals of the palace. She tried to glide down the stairs but careered out of control, colliding with the door of the Great Hall, and landing in an undignified and painful crumple at the edge of the altar, where Grignan sat brooding over a skull of Devilsdrench.

  Grignan rose and stood over her, his hot breath on her face.

  ‘My changeable friend!’ he sneered. ‘I see Restaurant ruffled your feathers! Now where’s my evidence?’

  ‘It wasn’t yours. And it wasn’t evidence of your case,’ she said, struggling to her feet. ‘It was just another lie. And now it’s at the bottom of the sea.’

  She kicked aside the pile of feathers that had fallen from her, and crossed her arms resolutely over the bib of her pinafore, where she was relieved to feel that the bottles of Liquid Lullaby and Dandelion & Daisy were still intact, wrapped in the Thaumaturgic Handkerchief.

  She didn’t see Grignan’s paw coming, but she felt it send her spinning across the room.

  When she awoke, the first thing she saw was Grignan’s pale eye. He was crouching next to her, pinioning her in a corner of the Great Hall.

  ‘Pleasant sleep? Your last. Restaurant says that you deliberately destroyed my evidence. Can you imagine how I plan to punish you?’

  ‘Restaurant lied. He dropped it by accident. He’s too cowardly to tell you the truth.’

  Grignan blew sage-leaf cigar smoke straight into her eyes so that they stung and watered.

  The Vizier entered the Great Hall, looking nervous. ‘I hate to interrupt, Master, but this interrogation is taking some time, and our fellows are a little restless this evening. You know what happens if they do not eat! Yet they await your presence before they partake of Third Supper, naturally. And, sir, you are looking a little peckish yourself.’

  A smell of meat wafted into the room, rich and perfumed with spices.

  The first sheep were already waiting in the corridor when Talina, Grignan and the Vizier arrived at the Sala del Sangue.

  ‘Sit there,’ Grignan kicked Talina towards a chair, ‘where I can keep an eye on you.’

  Talina’s Thaumaturgic Handkerchief twitched inside her pinafore and the bottle of Liquid Lullaby clinked gently against the Dandelion & Daisy.

  ‘This isn’t going to work,’ she despaired. ‘I’ll never be able to sneak around the table and doctor the food. The Lullaby must be poured on the food before the sheep bring it in …’

  The handkerchief, wrapped around the bottles, flew out of her bib pocket like an arrow, up to the rough beams of the Sala del Sangue. It swooped through the darker areas, avoiding the glowing chandeliers.

  ‘Yes!’ thought Talina. ‘Now go to the sheep corridor!’

  The handkerchief bent itself in half, as if to say, ‘Of course, my pleasure!’

  ‘What was that?’ called Frimousse. ‘Did you see something white up in ze beams?’

  ‘You’r
e so ’ungry you’re seeing things,’ laughed Rouquin.

  Out in the corridor, sconces burned with tallow candles, providing enough light to cast shadows. Talina watched the silhouette of the handkerchief twist the lids off the Liquid Lullaby, the Essence and the Dandelion & Daisy. She saw the drops falling onto the heaped platters on the sheep’s backs as they waited for their orders.

  ‘Service!’ thundered Grignan.

  Worried as ever, the sheep trotted into the dining room with trays on their backs. They looked particularly squeamish, understandably, about the Carré d’Agneau persillé, lamb ribs with garlic and parsley breadcrumbs, the Soupe à la Reine, with mutton and rosemary, in miniature buckets hooked over their ears.

  The Ravageurs moaned with almost painful delight at the aroma of the food.

  Talina guessed, ‘It must be the Intensified Essence of Cruelly Killed Meat. That must be more luscious than anything they’ve ever smelt.’

  ‘Wait for it!’ roared Grignan. ‘Medicine first!’

  ‘Medicine!’ thought Talina. ‘If only they knew.’

  But the black spoons were licked dry in a moment. Then the Ravageurs dragged the lamb ribs onto the tablecloths, tipping the Soupe à la Reine in splashes over the hunks of meat.

  ‘Did I say “feed” yet?’ growled Grignan.

  The Ravageurs paused fearfully above the food, drooling into it.

  Just as Talina was thinking, ‘I cannot bear the suspense!’ the Ravageur saliva started to fall in long columns into the Soupe à la Reine, which began to hiss and foam.

  ‘Oi! Why should our drool make it bubble like zat?’ asked Frimousse.

  ‘What will it do to our insides?’ demanded Croquemort.

  ‘Stop! Don’t touch it,’ hissed Magisterulus. ‘Look at that slick on the Soupe à la Reine! It’s a dirty little human trick! The kitchen slaves are trying to poison us.’

  ‘It’s the girl!’ shouted Grignan. He seized Talina by the scruff of the neck and forced her face into a bucket of soup. She clamped her lips shut but her nose filled up with the rich liquid, stinking of the Intensified Essence of Cruelly Killed Meat. She thought she would drown in it.

  She felt the tips of his teeth through her dress as Grignan wrenched her out of the soup. ‘That’s the death warrant of every Venetian, floating in the food, right there, girl. If you’ve contrived something here, you’ll own their deaths – they will all be on your head!’

  ‘How could I have done anything?’ spluttered Talina, Soupe à la Reine streaming from her nose. ‘You’ve had me in your clutches ever since I arrived.’

  ‘That’s true. I own you. I own your life and death, now.’

  ‘How wise, how true,’ fawned the Vizier.

  ‘Just another lie,’ said Talina, without hesitation, for what had she to lose now? ‘My parents own me. Because they love me.’

  The strange thing was that she wasn’t angry at all. In talking about her parents, Talina felt sweet and reasonable. Perhaps it was the likelihood of imminent death, but she also felt a strange sense of peace and rightness. There was no hair sprouting on her hands, no pressure on the neckline of her dress, even when Grignan drawled, ‘Don’t see them owning you now. Your mother? Do you see any mothers around here? Your father? Pffft. A here-and-gone man! No one’s stopping me from doing this!’ Grignan shook her until her teeth rattled. One of his fangs tore through her dress and embedded itself in her skin. A line of blood fell down her pinafore.

  ‘There are all kinds of owning,’ she managed with dignity, despite the pain. ‘Just like there’s more than one way of being a slave. You have custody of my body at this moment, it’s true, but I still own my spirit.’

  ‘That can be quenched,’ raved the Ravageur Lord. ‘Or eaten.’

  ‘But even you cannot eat that part of me that was here, that defied you until the last minute,’ Talina responded coolly. ‘Just as you can’t own or eat the world’s loving memory of a city like Venice, even if she were burned to the ground. And you can’t kill the fact that I am born and shall die a Venetian.’

  A door slammed shut somewhere in the palace. A new and powerful waft of meaty steam rose from the food on the U-shaped table. Grignan’s eyes suddenly glazed with greed. His grip slackened. Then he looked up and howled with anger at what he saw.

  For some of the Ravageurs had been unable to resist the rich scent. Despite Magisterulus’ warning, they had quietly tasted the food. Once they had ingested a morsel, they were powerless to stop eating. Their snouts burrowed deep into the meat.

  Grignan’s own jaws dropped onto a rib of lamb as if drawn there by a magnet. He shouldered two smaller Ravageurs out of their places. Suddenly he too was eating as if his life depended on it. There followed a savage spectacle of huge excesses of greed, and terrific lapses of manners, and rivalry over lamb ribs, that Talina – now wiping the soup out of her eyes, having been careful to swallow not a drop – would remember for the rest of her life with both triumph and repugnance. All through the night and into the early hours, the Ravageurs guzzled and snorted and chomped and burped. The sheep kept coming from the kitchen, their saddles laden with food onto which the Thaumaturgic Handkerchief had sprinkled the professor’s concoctions.

  ‘But why aren’t they going to sleep?’ wondered Talina. ‘The handkerchief must have been too sparing with the Liquid Lullaby. Professor Marìn judged it for wolf or hyena portions, of course. The Ravageurs are so big they probably need a double dose.’

  Grignan ate with more desperation and less refinement than anyone – tunnelling his way through hills of food, as if searching for something, the one savour or texture that would satisfy him.

  After many hours of ceaseless feeding, the Ravageurs began to giggle and hiccough. They grew very sentimental, putting their paws around one another’s shoulders between mouthfuls, and remembering old feasts, old friends and creatures bullied and creatures eaten with sauce. Grignan, his eyes distant, kept eating.

  Finally, as dawn began to send rays of light down the stairwell, Talina had the courage to ask, ‘By the way, Masters, how do you put out the blue fire in Venice? The city is ruined but it might be useful to save a few pastry shops and butchers for your pleasure.’

  ‘Indeed! We should have thought of zat!’ Croquemort clapped a paw over his mouth.

  ‘Ravageur dribble’s ze best way,’ sniggered Rouquin. He lurched to his feet and spat at the blue fire around the portrait of old Uberto Flangini. The part where his saliva landed immediately sizzled, smoked and died down.

  Talina thought, ‘No wonder they are careful to spit only on the face!’

  Frimousse slurred, ‘Did you like ze mean leettle faces in ze blue flames, girl thing? Grignan made zem specially to frighten ze poor silly humans!’

  Rouquin laughed, ‘But we’re ’ardly going to slobber on our own plans, are we?’

  He glanced up nervously at Grignan. Seeing him oblivious, making short work of a kidney en-croûte, Rouquin refilled his own mouth with lark cutlets in cream sauce, crunching loudly on the bones.

  ‘Ravageur dribble!’ thought Talina. ‘The female Ravageurs would help save Venice – they promised they would. But how do I get them there? It’s impossible!’

  She persisted, ‘Rouquin, is Ravageur dribble the only thing that puts it out?’

  ‘Well,’ hiccoughed the Ravageur, ‘zey do say zat Runic Rain can stop it.’

  ‘Runic Rain?’ asked Talina. ‘Is that something that happens in Venice?’

  ‘Not wizzout someone knows ’ow to make it,’ laughed Rouquin, spitting out the lark bones.

  ‘By the way,’ ventured Talina, ‘does anyone here know where Maggot Island is?’

  ‘The poor orphaned girlie wants to know how to find the Isola di Butoléta …’ slurred Magisterulus. ‘Aaah. How sweet! How these humans dote on their mothers and fathers! Shame, isn’t it?’

  That was the last thing he said, before his head fell on the stained leather tablecloth. One by one, the Ravageurs dropped where they s
at, some resting their heads on ribs of lamb, others sliding to the floor and snuffling in puddles of spilt gravy. Grignan fell like a tree struck by lightning, crashing to the floor so he landed on top of his unconscious Vizier.

  ‘No!’ wailed Talina. ‘I didn’t find where the island is.’

  Her shoulders tight with grief and frustration, she made her way to the kitchen.

  ‘Talina!’ smiled Sargano Alicamoussa. ‘You came back! But why are you crying?’

  He wiped her eyes gently with his apron while Talina urged him, ‘Gather everyone together, and come with me.’

  ‘But the Ravageurs … ?’

  ‘Will be asleep for some time. I gave them some … medicine.’

  Sargano Alicamoussa whistled, ‘You poisoned them?’

  ‘No, not exactly. Anyway, they’re already ill with Furious Rabies and mange.’

  ‘Have you come to take us back to Venice?’ asked the adults and children crowded around Talina.

  ‘I don’t at this moment know exactly how, but I hope so. You must prepare yourselves, though. I have to tell you that the Ravageurs have set fire to the city. When I last saw Venice, she was burning, in strange blue flames with faces full of hate – flames that water cannot put out.’

  ‘Oh!’ the Venetians clutched their hearts and hugged one another, tears pooling in the corners of their eyes.

  ‘Come!’ said Talina. ‘At least we can try to escape.’

  She led the humans and the cats out of the kitchen and past the Stake House. At the first sight of it, they fell silent, but they squealed as their heels sank into the sand made spongy by blood that dripped from the stakes. A cloud of flies swarmed around them so thickly that they could hear the insects’ wings clicking together. They were still trembling when they reached the jetty on the island’s shoreline, where the waves nosed gently at the sand.

  The Venetians, too long deprived of the sight of water, stood silent with radiant joy for a moment. Then, blinking and grinning at the unaccustomed light, some waded right in. Others danced and sang. Children did somersaults, and two tall women rushed to free the cats in the gibbet-cages. There were tender reunions between cats and their human owners; and between cats and their own feline relatives.