We nodded. I’d little idea what this Luther guy had done or when he’d done it. He seemed important to Signy though, and I didn’t like to ask. Mum and Dad have never been church-type people. But ever since I’d seen a god appear in my bedroom, I’d thought there might be something more to find out. Shame I couldn’t use my laptop to look up Luther.
Meal done with, with no washing up except the pot, which he wiped with an old cloth, we returned to the mules. Now Jurgan linked them all by rope, with his mule in the lead, and the pack mule last. I’d a sinking feeling we might be about to do something dangerous. Above the old ruined monastery, which had kindly donated some of its stones to Jurgan’s home far below, the rock face rose almost perpendicular, to the height of a sizeable office building. Ice glistened on it, and a few crisply frozen bushes clung to sharp clefts. The pathway allowed the mules just room to go up single file.
“Don’t try to steer them,” said Jurgan over his shoulder. “They do this route most weeks, up and down. No horse can manage. Not sure-footed enough. I can show you skeletons to prove the point, and not just of horses.”
I hoped he was lying, to amuse us. But I suspected my hope was in vain.
“Them soldiers will not be able to follow, even if they guess where you’ve gone. Not up this bit, any road. And the other way round? Take ‘em nigh on two full days. That’s why I does this route. That’s how I makes my money. Fish up. Furs down. Barrels up. Biscuits down. Beer at both ends.” He burped and laughed.
Gradually we climbed. I stared at Håkan’s scarf. I stared at the lichens on the rock face. I estimated the length of blue-green icicles (biggest, I reckoned was more than two metres). I studied the sky for signs of snow. I watched a bird sit and stare at us as the mules picked their way along a path no wider in places than a skateboard. Sideways obviously.
I absolutely didn’t look down. The path twisted in a hairy hairpin every now and again, climbing ever higher. I don’t know how long we rode. A damp foggy cloud settled round us. I could still make out the rock face to one side or the other. I didn’t have to worry about looking down. Rock on one side and cloud on the other. Water droplets settled on our sleeves. Must be above freezing then. Still we climbed. My estimate of an office block had been way out. We must be higher above the ruined monastery now than the London Eye.
“How did you do that?” asked Håkan all of a sudden.
“What?” I said, to the back of his hat.
“On the skis. Over the gully.”
“Oh that,” I said.
“Yes, that. That looked…” He ran out of words.
“Not so difficult, actually,” I lied. I’d crashed on my face and my nether regions many times when practising. But somehow, a back flip came easier to me than any other trick. I could do the same off the springboard at the Hammerford pool in the summer. Race down the board, bounce, and spin backwards, usually entering the water with a huge splash, but feet first. Scared my mum to bits but even Juliette was impressed. Actually doing stunts like that with skis proved easier, with a steep enough slope. Wouldn’t want to teach Håkan though, not with the long wooden skis and lashed-on boots.
He half-turned. “Took courage. You were about to fall and you did something grand. I like that. The tumblers who taught me tricks, they could do things like that, turning disaster into something glorious.”
Seems like I’d impressed him.
“Tak Håkan,” I said.
He shrugged, a friendly sort of shrug.
Lights appeared ahead. In the foggy gloom they spread out like glowing stains surrounded by faint rainbows. The mules developed a sense of urgency and even trotted for a few paces, before deciding that was too undignified. Moments later we reached a big building with a courtyard.
“The tavern,” said Jurgan. “You’re lucky to be in a good Catholic town. We’re all loyalists here,” he added quietly. “And you’re visiting a relative up north. Right?”
“Right,” said Signy, “the Lord’s blessed truth in fact.”
I wondered what she meant by that but didn’t have time to ponder as a door opened and we were met with food smells and a huge clatter of noise.
Daylight Robbery
Our few belongings were stowed in a chamber with straw mattresses, above the main room where we now sat. The warmth of a great fire glowed right through the house. Perhaps having the slow-death-by-mule-ride behind me, perhaps having stewed rabbit inside me, or perhaps drinking what looked like water, but burned all the way down into my stomach, I finally felt warm.
A boy with a pudding-basin haircut, the colour of pale daffodils, banged down beer in front of us.
“Will we pay here with one of your jewels?” asked Eira. “Ouch!” she added. “Don’t kick me Håkan.”
“You can get a bath here,” said Jurgan. “They’ll bring hot water to the room for a price.”
“Don’t think we can afford that,” said Signy, rather too loud. “We need to pay you though. We have some Krona.”
Jurgan leant across the table. “The herbs you gave me down there –” and this time he pointed to the floor – “they’re payment enough. That and the work you’re doing. Your family that is,” he added quietly.
The pot-boy, or whatever description fitted young master Pudding-Basin’s job title, talked with two men at the far side of the room. He leaned into their table. They looked across at where we sat. One had a thin face and darkish hair, the other, who could’ve been Pudding-Basin’s father, had long ash-blond hair that fell to his shoulders. Those shoulders looked like they obtained their size by lifting blocks of stone from the monastery far below.
More clear fiery water arrived and we all drank to Jurgan’s good health and fortune.
“Yes, if Mary Mother of God helps me,” he said, crossing himself.
We all nodded rather too vigorously. Eira had fallen asleep, her head in her mother’s lap. Back in our room, we all fell asleep almost at once, surrounded by noise from below, welcome warmth from the fire and our own particular aromas.
“We must go.”
“Right,” I said, struggling to awake. “Is it breakfast?”
Håkan jabbed me in the ribs.
“Now,” he hissed. I’d fallen back asleep.
Signy had her finger to her lips.
“I paid last night for the meal, the drinks and the room. All we own is here. But we’re not in a safe place in this papist stronghold. Did you see the Danish flag as we came in last night?”
I didn’t think I knew what the Danish flag looked like, so I just looked expectant. That usually worked. We quickly gathered our stuff and made our way downstairs. The room had a few people sprawled at tables and some curled up by the fire, suggesting that there were two classes of room in this hotel. The sound of snoring drowned out the soft padding of our footsteps. Håkan and I held all the skis, lashed together, and eased our way between the tables to the door. It wasn’t locked. We slipped out, letting a great blast of cold air into the room. No one stirred. We were out. We walked through the town until we reached the church. A candle burned inside, accompanied by men’s voices softly chanting.
“Matins,” said Signy, quietly. She turned right, up a lane flanked by two or three wooden houses.
In the distance a dog barked. Another answered. Then a cock crowed. Our feet crunched on the ice between the ruts of mud. No stars shone in the murky darkness above our heads. The street remained totally dark apart from a lamp flickering some way ahead. A pale glow off to the right suggested dawn might bother to share some more light soon. Our eyes adjusted and we eased our way out of the town.
“Is this the right way, Mother?” asked Håkan in a whisper.
“Yes. Jurgan told me which way to go.”
We walked on in silence, hedgerows on either side of us. The lane had been paved in rough ice rather than snow and we stepped carefully, to avoid twisting our ankles. I missed my mule. After about half an hour, with the landscape becoming clearer all the time, we reached some tre
es. The farmland now lay behind us. To our left, a hill rose steeply with a cluster of tall trees at the top. On our right someone had piled a high cairn of stones.
“The roadway will drop soon. We will go down into another valley. We can ski again. We’re getting close.”
“Mother,” said Eira.
“What?”
“Um, Mother, I need…”
“Be quick,” said Signy. “We’ll be getting our skis on.”
I helped lace up Håkan’s skis. The boots had to be firmly fixed so the skis didn’t shift around. I took my gloves off to do this and the cold nipped at my hands, dispelling all last night’s warmth in a few moments.
“Don’t bother,” said a deep voice.
In panic we looked around. Standing in the lea of the craggy hill a huge man held Eira by her hair. He walked her forward, pushing her with his knees in her back. She scowled with fury and fear. In his right hand he held a long hunting knife. He moved it in a circular motion.
“Drop your skirts,” said another voice, higher pitched.
Emerging from trees to our right came pudding-basin boy, his pale hair sticking out from a multi-coloured bobble hat.
“Now,” said a deeper voice from behind us.
Swinging around, I confronted the thin-faced man from last night. Like Pudding-Basin he carried a club.
“Your skirts,” said the big man, with the shoulders of an American football player, “quickly.”
“Don’t be vulgar,” said Signy.
“I ain’t kidding, you Lutheran cow,” said the man. “I’ll slit this heretic’s throat as quick as picking my nose.”
I didn’t appreciate his line in metaphors (or was it similes?) and one glance at Signy’s face showed she’d run out of strategies.
“Leave my daughter alone, you bully,” she said. “What’s it you want?”
“Yer jewels, missus,” said the blond giant.
“Thems as sewn in yer skirts and then some,” said the jerk behind us.
“I can give you money, but you must let us go.”
“Yer in no position to bargain,” said the giant. “Look, I’ll cut this filly’s throat, so yer see I’m in earnest, and then…” He had been holding the knife high above his head for effect. His eyes opened wide as the knife span out of his hand and bounced on the icy ground in front of him. He let go of Eira’s hair, and clutching his knife hand, he made a sound like a dog listening to Coldplay. An arrow had lodged in his palm, like one of those joke things you get at magic stores, only this one had real blood.
“Drop them,” said a voice. “Now, if you want the pleasure of another breath.”
We were surrounded by men, with dark skin, dark hair and some with tattoos on their faces. Their jackets all had embroidery. Three or four carried bows, fully drawn and notched with arrows. The rest had vicious-looking spears.
Eira ran to Signy. Pudding-Basin boy burst into tears. He and the thin-faced man dropped their clubs.
One of the weird strangers walked over to Signy. He put his hands to her face.
“Hello, my sister. What kept you so long?”
Night Journey
Alexandria – about 380 CE
Nysa kept to the shadows. A lick of candlelight played on a shutter high above her head; some flute music and the tinkle of small cymbals suggested entertainment at someone’s dinner. She could see no one ahead in the narrow street. But just as the shadows hid her they could hide a cut-purse or worse. She came to the broad road that ran to the Sun Gate. Now she would be visible to all, a small vulnerable figure swathed in a cloak slightly too large for her. She took a deep breath, and walked steadily across the large flat paving stones, remembering to avoid the cracks just as her sister had taught her. The soft clopping sound of a horse’s hooves on stone carried, as did the cries of a group of young men singing in the far distance.
As she made it into the comforting gloom of the buildings opposite she thought she heard a footfall. She stopped and tightened her grip on the dagger tucked in the folds of her cloak. A band of fear tightened around her chest. The dagger comforted her, but she had no idea how to use it apart from waving it around and screaming, and then running as fast as she could. Not a very sound strategy. The wide thoroughfare remained eerily quiet, although a deeper patch of darkness on the far side suggested she might be being watched. She sniffed, walked determinedly in the deep shade provided by the lee of the government buildings, and headed towards the east of the harbour as instructed.
As instructed.
She’d no idea if she’d been truly instructed or not. Ever since the floor in the Geometric Room of the Palace, as she called it, had melted presenting her with the image of a pulsing shape of crystaline light, nothing had been the same. For her at least. Anastasia and Devorah had also experienced something but all three of them were reluctant to talk about it, as though an experience like this could not really be shared. Anastasia had come closest when she’d said, “Were you frightened when they made us climb down that rope ladder?” Nysa’s look of total confusion had caused her friend to shrug and say, “Oh, it doesn’t matter.” Devorah had been worse if anything. On the way back in the palanquin, she’d blurted out, “No way, no way at all am I going to be a filthy slave.” When asked what she meant she’d bitten her lip quite hard and said she must’ve fallen asleep and dreamed. None of the girls had mentioned the dance in the shadow of the Time Knot since.
One evening at supper, Nysa’s mother had announced she’d heard from Maimonides’ wife that a large slave market would be held soon, with pliant slaves from the north. “You could have one if you want.”
“Good idea,” her sister said. “Buy a gelded young man to look after you and protect you from the religious roisterers.”
Everyone giggled when Nysa asked, “What does ‘gelded’ mean?”
Her father had agreed the business could do with a bright young man to help.
Nysa stood with her hands on her hips and said, “What right do we have to steal a young man’s life?”
They all laughed at that.
“Nysa, sweet gentle Nysa, their life is forfeit anyway. Usually they’ve been sold by their family or taken in war, fair and square. With our family they have a safe roof over their heads, food twice a day, freedom to follow the gods they choose and freedom for themselves when I die.”
“Don’t let’s talk of that,” said Nysa’s mother.
“It comes to us all, dear.” He crossed the room at that and ruffled Nysa’s hair, saying, “I’ll take you with me,” and left the room before Nysa could ask where and when. And why.
Later that evening, sitting in her room with her maid asleep on a low settle in the corner, Nysa had felt dizzy. The floor became fluid once more, as it had in the Geometric Room. She lay down before she fell down. The bed span slowly and nausea flooded her body. Struggling to get up to go to the latrine, Nysa found the room completely changed around her and all feeling of nausea or dizziness gone.
She stood up.
‘Ah,’ said a voice inside her and outside at the same time, ‘you are here.’
A girl sat on an ornate carved wooden chair with a table full of inlay on its surface. ‘I’ve waited for you for a long time. I think this is you, isn’t it?’
She held up a thick coin that glinted in the soft light of the circular room. Nysa should have been terrified but she felt entirely safe, as though meeting a friend long known, who’d been away and had come back. The girl spoke in a tongue Nysa couldn’t recognise. The words flowed musically and the girl’s arms moved as she spoke. Her pretty face became animated and her thick brown hair broke free just a bit from the golden bands that held it in place. As she spoke, the meaning bubbled up in bursts inside Nysa.
‘Yes, you’re right. We do know each other. Deeply. Like sisters, only better. Now we have met. Properly. The link is forged, so to say. The chain across time. The Bearers of the Key.’
She smiled at that and Nysa smiled back, even though the words r
emained pretty close to gobbledygook. Yet she felt a warmth around her heart and nothing but kindness coming from this sister who was more than a sister.
‘We don’t have long. The flow of the streams of time never ceases and your time and mine are – at the moment – crossing.’
The girl moved her arms in a way that might illustrate time’s crossing or might have been an odd way to scratch an itch.
‘On the night of your next full moon you must return to where you’ve just been, cross the water – the boatman will expect you – and find the library. The special library. A sister to you and me will be your guide. But not her alone. For another and his champion will also watch over you that night. Remember the feather is the key. There, I’ve said it. Just as you told me to.”
The girl’s face crinkled up with laughter.
‘I don’t understand,’ thought Nysa. The other girl began to fade.
“Where do I … why do I…?” Nysa asked, but the vision had gone.
“What, Nysa?”
Nysa opened her eyes to see her maid standing by the bed, a lamp flickering in her hand.
“You were having a dream, I think, child. Now settle down. My, you’re not even changed for bed. I’ve been remiss. I must’ve dropped off to sleep. Have you washed your face and hands and used the tooth stick?”
That had been four nights ago. Four nights before the full moon; the full moon which bathed the whole harbour in its pale glow and caused the Palace to appear to float above the seawater. Now here she was, about to trust a vision she no longer really believed and hoping the boatman would take her across. She’d a few coins in her purse, assuming the man would be there at this time in the evening. Getting out of the house had been the difficult bit. She’d had to wait until her maid slept. She’d dressed in the dark and slipped out as though visiting the latrine outside. It had a window, too small for most people to climb in but, once unlocked, just big enough for her to slip out.
As she came closer to the sea, a couple passed by in a chariot; Nysa pressed herself back into the harbour wall and they didn’t look her way. To her left, near the long causeway built to the orders of the Great Alexander, some soldiers stood in a group, their long cloaks flapping slightly in the sea breeze that tugged at her own clothes.
Time Knot Page 25
