Silvertongue

by Charlie Fletcher

  Her mother couldn’t hear her. Edie couldn’t leave her there alone, and she couldn’t help her. So she did the one thing she could, which was just to be there next to her and witness what she was witnessing. It didn’t make any sense that she could have explained to anyone. But it did make the other kind of sense, the kind that you just feel in a place beyond words.

  She put her hand on the brick, below her mother’s.

  The past sliced at her like the strobing lights had done on the dance floor. And what they showed wasn’t violent or full of action. It was just desperate and still. It was another girl, twisted on her back, jammed between the toilet bowl and the wall. Her eyes were wide, the pupils narrowed down to pinpricks, her face completely drained of color.

  Her chest rose and fell with irregular movements in time with occasional rattling gasps from deep within her throat.

  The breaths came slower and more intermittently, each gap between them getting longer and longer, and the rattling in breaths, when they came, more strangled and desperate.

  She was dying.

  The slow inevitability of it made it all the more horrible and sad.

  When the legs started to spasm, Edie tore her hand off the wall.

  Her mother slumped back against the sinks, sobbing silently.

  “I don’t know how to stop it,” she said, and for a soaring moment Edie thought that she was speaking to her. Then she turned and realized she was talking to another young woman, who was standing in the doorway.

  “Stop what?” said the woman. “Sue? You having one of your turns . . . ?”

  Edie could see her mother struggling. She’d struggled with the same thing herself, so she knew exactly what was happening and the precise nature of the conversation going on inside her mother’s head. If you told people what you could see, and they couldn’t, you were telling them you were a loony. On the other hand, glinting was too heavy a burden to carry on your own. So in the end you found other ways to take the pressure off. Edie had tried running away and getting angry a lot more often than normal girls of her age.

  “I need a drink,” said her mother, heading for the door.

  “But you don’t . . . I mean you never drink,” said her friend. “I mean, I thought . . . because of your . . . you know . . .”

  Edie’s mum stopped in the doorway and looked back for a second. She shrugged.

  “Yeah,” she said, voice flat and lifeless. “My mother. Maybe she had the right idea after all.”

  Edie walked after her. She sort of knew what was going to happen, but she needed to see it anyway. They exited the narrow corridor and walked back out to the dance floor. Edie stayed close, just aware that the Gunner was hurrying along behind her.

  She arrived at the bar a pace behind her mother. She saw her order the drinks, four fingers held up in front of the bartender’s face. She saw her taste the first drink and grimace, before downing it in two swigs. Edie stayed watching until her mother started on the third glass with a look of murderous determination on her face, and then she turned and allowed the Gunner to lead her away.

  As they approached the mirrored wall they’d come out of, Edie swung around and took a last look at her mother, now a tiny figure glimpsed through a bouncing sea of dancers. She still stood at the bar, doggedly making herself finish the last glass. You could see in her face that it wasn’t a taste she liked.

  And then she turned and held up two more fingers to the bartender.

  “Oh, Mum,” said Edie, her heart breaking again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Voices in the Dark

  Shack and the Queen of America followed the dragons’ trail with ease because the taints hadn’t worried about being backtracked as they had crept up on George and Dictionary and the Clocker. The Antarctic explorer jogged along beside the buffalo and the warrior Queen in urgent but companionable silence as the trail unribboned ahead of them.

  Only twice did they have to cast about at the end of a lost trace, and that was only because the dragons had leaped over an obstacle. Both times they found where the dragons had landed very quickly, and kept on a course that led them remorselessly east.

  After ten minutes of silence, the Queen stopped abruptly.

  “Trail go bad,” she grunted, reining in the buffalo and pointing ahead.

  Shack, who had been following the dragon’s footsteps and the wavy lines between them that he was sure were the marks of their dragging tails, looked up.

  The street ahead was abruptly curtailed by the ice murk, which sheared it off as neatly as a guillotine. He stared at the perfectly flat cliff face and the slow gray cloud moving within.

  “Bad indeed,” he agreed. He reached out a hand to the mirror-flat surface and looked up at the sheer face of the murk, and then down at the two sets of dragon prints leading straight into it.

  “Colder,” he said, pulling on his great furry mittens.

  The Queen dismounted and put her ear to the wall of fog. She stood still as a tree and listened, holding her hand palm out to keep him silent.

  “Voices. Many voices. Women, maybe girls, crying,” she said after a minute.

  “Nonsense,” he said, freeing an ear from the cowl of his woolly balaclava and pressing it to the wall alongside her.

  “Not nonsense,” she said calmly.

  He listened. He heard it. And like all good leaders, he didn’t pretend he hadn’t.

  “Right,” he admitted. “My mistake. My apologies. Not nonsense. You’re a better man than I . . .”

  “Yes. But am not man,” said the Queen, remounting the buffalo.

  “You stay here,” he said decisively. “It’s going to be a freezing gray-out in there. Too cold for man or beast.”

  “Am not man. Am not beast.” The Queen of America shrugged, kneed the buffalo forward, and jammed her hand into the murk up to her elbow. “Is not crack-stone cold. We go together.”

  “Then take some of my clothes.”

  “No,” she said, leaning off the side of the buffalo and following the tracks into the murk.

  Shack jogged to catch up with her, and just caught hold of the buffalo’s tail as the white beast was swallowed by the murk ahead of him.

  “You’re definitely a better man than I am, Gunga Din.” He shivered as he disappeared in after them.

  And if there had been anyone left in the light and snow outside to hear it, they might have heard a woman’s gravelly voice say:

  “Am not Gunga Din either.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Southwark

  Take the way of the dragon, and by the Knight of Wood who lies all alone, you may find kin you can call your own. Find your kin, and within the hour the dead stone’s tongue will be in your power.

  The Sphinx’s rhyming answer kept playing through George’s head as he rode along the Embankment next to the Queen. His hands gripped the front of the chariot tightly so as not to be thrown out as they bucked and swerved through the thick snow. He tried not to look at his hands now, tried to ignore the fact that one was normal and the other was almost one hundred percent stone, nearly as white as the streetscape in front of them.

  “You think the stuff about the dead stone’s tongue speaking to me means I’m going to glint like Edie or something?” he asked the Queen as they approached the roundabout at the end of Blackfriars Bridge. “Whoa . . .”

  What he was reacting to was the unexpected sight of the ice murk, a slow rolling slab of darkness that towered across the roundabout at an angle. The thrill of terror he felt was the same as that felt by sailors who look up to find themselves suddenly much too close to the cliffs in a strong wind on a lee shore. The pub on the corner was invisible behind the threatening bluff of icy cloud, as was everything east into the City.

  “Edie might be in there,” he shouted, pointing in the direction of the pub. “She could have gone to see the Friar.”

  “Too bad if she is,” shouted the Queen, skidding the chariot into a sliding turn on to the bridge. “Mi
nd you, the Gunner was headed this way. Maybe he found her.”

  George looked back at the sheer face of the murk, at least three hundred feet high. If Edie was in there, she was lost. If the Gunner was with her, that was better, but then that just meant they were both lost. As if his arm was reacting to his thoughts, he felt another sharp pain and looked down despite himself. The only pink thing in his hand was the index finger, and that only upward of the first knuckle.

  Not wanting to look too closely, because he had the nasty feeling if he did he might actually see the gritty stone moving, he looked sideways at the river. Time might have stopped, but the great gunmetal twists and ripples in the river’s surface were still moving, as the unstoppable current cut its way seaward.

  He shivered. And then he REALLY shivered.

  “Edie,” he said, the word coming out of his mouth on a reflex.

  He grabbed the Queen’s hand.

  “Stop!” he yelled. She leaned back on the reins. The horses snorted in protest as their heads came up, and the chariot slowed as he jumped clear.

  “What, boy?” shouted the Queen, watching him run back along the double track made by the chariot’s wheels.

  “I don’t know. I felt something. Like in the hotel when we were walking through people who weren’t there. . . .” he called back.

  “Ghosts?” said the Queen, jumping down after him.

  “Yeah,” he said, casting around to the left and right, as if trying to catch hold of something invisible. “No. I don’t know. Like that. It was somewhere around here. . . .”

  He couldn’t find it.

  “Why did you shout ‘Edie’?” the Queen asked.

  “Did I?” he said, surprised. “I must have . . . I don’t remember . . .”

  He ran across to an alcove in the side of the bridge, jutting out over the buttresses like a section of turret. It was empty, but as he entered the enclosed space and stepped up onto the snow-covered half-circle of bench, he shivered again.

  “That’s it!” he gasped as he put his hand on the scarred stone lintel and looked over the edge.

  “That’s what?” said the Queen.

  George was smiling as he turned and pointed behind him. “The mirror sleeps on a bed where I felt it before. God I’m stupid. It’s there!”

  “What’s where?” said the Queen, looking over. “The river?”

  “The river bed. The mirror sleeps on the riverbed . . . neither here nor there. Not beneath the ground nor under the air, it cannot be seen because it’s under water, but I felt it there, I did.”

  He laughed in elation.

  “The first time Edie and I were in the water, I did, I felt something dark, out there in the center of the river. It was pulling at me like a sort of magnet or an undertow.” He hit his head in frustration. “I’m so stupid. Of course. We both are!”

  “Thank you,” the Queen said, frostily.

  “Well of course we are!” he said. “The Walker used the mirrors on the ice at the Frost Fair, just over there. We left the ice when he disappeared . . .”

  “So the mirrors just stayed on the ice . . .” said the Queen, catching up.

  “And then when the ice melted they must have fallen to the riverbed.”

  George grabbed the Queen’s hand and held it out over the edge of the bridge. “Close your eyes,” he said, shutting his. “Can you feel it?”

  He felt the same dark pull from the center of the river, the one he had thought was a tide, but that he now knew was the pull of the darkness in the black mirrors.

  “All I can feel is a stone hand gripping my wrist too hard,” said the Queen dryly.

  He immediately released her wrist and grimaced at his hand.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m just happy we found it. Honestly. If we hadn’t ridden through that ghost, if we hadn’t stopped . . .” He shook his head. “Can’t believe how lucky we are,” he said wonderingly.

  “Yes,” said the Queen. “Except I don’t believe in luck. It was meant . . . and before you get too excited, how are we going to find it down there, under the water?”

  “Ah,” he said. “Yes . . .”

  There was a silence as they both looked down at the dark rope-twisted currents swirling below them. His shoulder twinged and he winced despite himself.

  “Right,” he said. “I can’t waste time on this. Go and get those sailors the Gunner talked to—Jack Tar and the Bosun. This is a problem for people like them. I need to find this Knight of the Wood before I turn to stone or something.”

  “Does it hurt a lot?” said the Queen.

  “It hurts enough,” he replied shortly.

  “You take my chariot,” she ordered. “It will get you there faster.”

  She whistled, and the horses pricked their ears and trotted over. She whispered in their ears, pointed at George, and without waiting to take no for an answer, she lifted up the hem of her dress and ran back, spear held low in her right hand, fast and reckless as a young girl.

  “Go, boy!” she shouted over her shoulder without turning. “And may you stay safe and alive until we meet again.”

  It was probably a good thing that George couldn’t see the grim look on her face as her legs pelted through the snow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Message in a Bottle

  Edie and the Gunner stumbled out of the mirrors into the night, just a pace behind the Raven.

  “Blimey,” said the Gunner. “Haven’t come far, have we?”

  They were standing in the middle of Blackfriars Bridge. Edie looked around just as a lorry ground past, almost hitting her. The Gunner jerked her back out of the way. She shivered, suddenly feeling cold.

  “George!” she said involuntarily.

  “What?” said the Gunner.

  The shiver passed. She felt normal again.

  “What?” she said, a little uncertainly, looking at him.

  “You said ‘George.’”

  “Did I?” she said, looking at a young woman walking along the other side of the bridge. It was her mother, no doubt about it, a few years older than the girl at the club. As Edie stepped across the street, the Gunner followed.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “My mum,” said Edie, speeding up as her mother turned into an alcove in the bridge. There was someone waiting for her, a youngish man more or less her age, but a lot drunker. He was draped over the edge of the turret with a bluey-green bottle resting on the scarred stone.

  Edie’s mother leaned companionably against the wall next to him and lit a cigarette. Edie heard the tail end of what he was saying as she entered the alcove behind her mother.

  “. . . said I come from a long line of dead men,” he said, smiling at her mother. Even though he was at least half in the bottle, Edie could see he was a nice enough bloke. “A long line. Got their names up in that church over there.” He jerked his thumb toward the South Bank.

  “Why are you drinking?” said her mother, taking the bottle and sniffing it. She wrinkled her nose and gave it back.

  “Why aren’t you?” He grinned and offered her the bottle again.

  “I’m not . . . I’m just having a bit of time not drinking. Why are you?”

  “Why do you ask?” he said, swaying a little.

  “Because you don’t normally, and you’re not very good at it.” Her mother laughed and held out a hand to steady him.

  Her touch seemed to take the smile and lightness out of the man. He sat down on the bench and looked at his feet. Then, as if they disappointed him, he scowled and looked at Edie’s mother. He didn’t look drunk anymore. Just very sad. He took a deep breath.

  “She’s pregnant, and it freaked her out. Freaked her out so much she went off and had an affair with someone else. Said it won’t happen again, but . . .”

  He shrugged and shook his head, unable to find the words.

  “Ditch her,” said Edie’s mum brightly. A little too brightly.

  He grinned without a shred of humor, and took a
nother swig.

  “Can’t. It’s worse than that. I feel terrible. I’m going to do something terrible.”

  “How terrible?” she said. Edie could see the effort it took to keep her smile in place as she waited for the reply. There was a long pause as the man looked up at the night sky overhead.

  “I’m going to forgive her.” Something in the way his voice dropped made the declaration sound like an apology.

  “What?” she said, her smile dropping away.

  “Yeah,” he said, offering her the bottle and the last half inch of its contents. She shook her head. Now she looked sad too. He swigged it back and grimaced as it went down. He placed it carefully on the scarred stone lintel of the bridge. “She’s having a kid. My kid. And she’s, you know . . . I don’t think she’ll be much of a mum. Kid’ll need someone who . . .”

  “Right.”

  “Timing’s really . . .” He couldn’t find the word.

  “Isn’t it?” she said.

  They both looked at the black water flowing under the bridge.

  She started to say something. Then stopped herself. He didn’t seem to notice. After a bit he shivered, rubbed his face, and turned to her.

  “What did you want to say?”

  She squared her shoulders. “Not important.”

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She shook her head. He watched her as her eyes remained fixed on the great volume of water streaming up to and under the bridge.

  “Say something, Sue,” he said. “Swear at me, tell me I’m a complete . . .”

  “Why?” she said. “You’re not. You’re a good guy. You’re being a good guy.”

  “So why does it feel so bad?”

  She snorted back a short laugh. Edie saw her forcing the brightness back into her smile with so much effort that it hurt to see it. Her mother stood up on the bench and looked down at the river.

  “I like it here. River’s always been where I come when I want to escape. All that water. Pulls you, doesn’t it? Moving past. Washing everything away. Washing it out to sea. Can’t stop it. Just finds its own way. Be nice just to drop in, float out to the sea, never come back. . . .”