North and south, he traveled on through the many nights, and the landscapes that lay around him in the darkness were stitched in flame. Dawn brought rooftops, chimneys, on every horizon. Swallowed in giant buildings, spat out with the litter and the pigeons onto surging streets, he gawped and wandered. He was cursed, bumped into. Leering offers were made in return for money he no longer had. The sky was solidly gray here, and the airs that rushed up to greet him from the chasms of streets were disgustingly scented. This was a place without seasons, or with seasons that were entirely its own. Nathan had grown accustomed to the tides or delays of departures at stations, but here he was lost.
He wandered the darkening city, taking odd turns as he sought some direction that was neither north nor south, east nor west. Far behind him, the girders of some vast structure were being erected, their black lines gridding the sky, but there were fewer people here, and those who were became furtive in their glances, or ran away at the sight of him with screams and clatters of clogs. Not a place to be, he thought, for anyone who doesn’t have business here. But, more and more, he felt that he did. He almost ran, and the bricks rushed by him, whispering with the echo of his dried-out lungs. Whispered, as well, with the glow of all the spells and talismans that were scrawled across them. Some, he was almost sure, belonged to his own guild. Others, he thought, had the taint of the sea about them. And here were the symbols of men who tended the tallest roofs, and of other guilds of those who worked in high places, and breathed the changing airs as they looked down on a different world.
Wheezing, exhausted, light-headed, he stumbled on. There were gates and walkways. The hidden thrumming of vast machineries ground up through the earth. Dawn, though, brought a different kind of landscape. He was tired beyond exhaustion, and it amazed him that his feet dragged on, that his heart still stuttered, that his lungs raked in some sustenance, but the city had cast itself far behind him—so far that the shifting horizons had smeared it entirely out of memory and existence. Here, puddled and rutted lanes unwound and divided to the lean of empty signposts, bounded by endless hedgerows: fences, gates, railings, snags of string and wire and thorn. And the wind blew everywhere, and from all directions—and the world fluttered with the litter of what seemed like the aftermath of some archetypal storm. Hats and scarves, stray shoes, newspapers, the pages of books, umbrellas, whole lines of washing, the weathered flags of guilds, even the torn sails of ships, fluttered everywhere, or were snatched to tumble in the sky like wild kites.
Nathan’s fingers bunched once more around the knot of Fiona’s Smith’s hair. Here, if anywhere, was the secret of how she might be released. He understood now what all his wanderings had been about, which was to get here, wherever here was, and find the spell, the secret, that might unlock that last knot. But he was tired. He was tired beyond believing. Walking, he decided as he leaned against another blank signpost, was an activity he might still just about be able to manage, but he wasn’t so sure about breathing, nor sustaining the increasingly weary thud of his heart. But still he pushed on, and the winds, as they came from every and no direction, pushed with him, tearing at his clothing, afflicting him with hot and cold tremors, spiraling around him in moans and whoops. Then he heard another sound—it was a kind of screaming. Although he now had no idea what it was, it drew him on.
Another fence, its slats torn, flapping and rotting, and another gate, which turned itself closed and then open in the wind, although that wasn’t where the screaming came from. Nathan had to smile. It was simply an old weathercock, fixed to a fencepost, and turning madly, happily, this way and that in the wind. So familiar, although he’d never stood this close. The one odd thing about it, he realized, as it screamed and turned on its ancient bearings, was that the four angles of the compass that usually projected beneath such devices were entirely absent, even as rusty stubs. Then the gate reopened, and the weathercock screamed and shifted in directions that lay beyond any compass, and the wind also turned, pushing him along the path that lay beyond.
There was a house, although its windows flapped and its slates and chimneys were in disorder, and there was also a garden of sorts. That blurry sense that he’d felt all morning was even stronger here. There were trees that in one moment seemed to be in blossom, but the next were green, then brown, then gold, then torn to the black bones of their branches in sudden flurries of storm. Roses untwined their red lips and then withered. This was a place of many seasons, Nathan reflected as he gasped his way on, although it belonged more to winter than it did to summer, and more to autumn than to spring.
As much as anything, the hunched figure that lay ahead seemed to be shaped out of the ever-changing territories of the air. Not just windy days, or the sudden bluster of summer thunderstorms, but also the hot stillness of afternoons that seemed to be without prospect of any wind at all, at least until you saw something separate itself from the gray shimmer of the world below. The wind-seller had his sack laid open beside him. He was gathering the tumbled sticks of a nearby willow that shivered and danced its wild arms. Somewhere inside Nathan’s head, that weathercock was still screaming, and with it came a sobbing agony in his lungs. He knew he didn’t have the strength left to tell the wind-seller what he wanted, and it was a release and a relief to him when the man simply held out his pale fingers, which looked like stripped willow themselves, and took from him that glorious red tress. As Nathan Westover stumbled and fell into the puddled mud, he saw the wind-seller’s hands working not to release Fiona Smith’s last breath, but looping her hair again to draw another, final, knot.
Afterword
I’ve long been a great fan of Thomas Hardy’s work. The workings of fate. The sense of place. The great breadth of seemingly all human life written upon such a small, local canvas. And above all, Hardy’s women. Wilful, often put-upon and misunderstood, but always powerful and memorable creatures.
Another thread which is bound in with this story was my desire to write an “aether story” to go with my two “aether novels”, The Light Ages and The House of Storms. Mainly, I think, and as if often the way with me, just to prove that I could. Both novels have the premise of an industrial revolution based on magic. Which rendered them “steampunk” in some people’s eyes, although, to be honest, I don’t think the term had been invented when I first started working on this concept, and had become old hat by the time I’d finished. I’m not a quick writer, but I do generally get there in the end.
Anyway, the idea of fate and a ambitious man somewhat in the mode of Jude in Jude the Obscure, and a Bathsheba-like heroine he tries to impress finally collided with a memory of a visit to an old wooden windmill, and looking up at this thing like a great big ship, and thinking “I’d like to write about one of those.” Which, eventually, all of about twenty years later, I finally did.
PAPA
My grandchildren have brought time back to me. Even when they have gone, my house will never be the same. Of course, I didn’t hear them when they arrived—on this as on many other mornings, I hadn’t bothered to turn on my eardrums—but a tingling jab from the console beside my bed finally caught my attention. What had I been doing? Lying in the shadowed heat, watching the sea breeze lift the dappled blinds? Not even that. I had been somewhere distant. A traveller in white empty space.
The blinds flicker. My bedhelper emerges from its wallspace, extending mantis arms for me to grab. One heave, and I’m sitting up. Another, and I’m standing. The salt air pushes hot, cool. I pause to blink. Slow, quick, with both eyes. A moment’s concentration. Despite everything Doc Fanian’s told me, it’s never become like riding a bicycle, but then who am I, now, to ride a bike? And my eardrums are and the sound of everything leaps into me. I hear the waves, the sea, the lizards stirring on the rocks, distant birdsong, the faint whispering trees. I hear the slow drip of the showerhead on the bathroom tiles, and the putter of a rainbow-winged flyer somewhere up in the hot blue sky. I hear the papery breath and heartbeat of an old man aroused from his mid-mor
ning slumbers. And I hear voices—young voices—outside my front door.
“He can’t be in.”
“Well he can’t be out...”
“Let’s—”
“—No, you.”
“I’ll—”
“—listen. I think...”
“It’s him.”
Looking down at myself, I see that, yes, I am clothed, after a fashion: shorts and a tee shirt—crumpled, but at least not the ones I slept in last night. So I did get dressed today, eat breakfast, clean up afterwards, shave...
“Are you in there, Papa?”
My granddaughter Agatha’s voice.
“Wait a moment,” I croak, sleep-stiff, not really believing. Heading for the hall.
The front door presents an obstacle. There’s the voice recognition system my son Bill’s had fitted for me. Not that anyone mugs or burgles anyone else any longer, but Bill’s a worrier—he’s past eighty now, and of that age.
“Are you alright in there?”
Saul’s voice this time.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
The simple routine of the voicecode momentarily befuddles me. The tiny screen says User Not Recognised. I try again, and then again, but my voice is as dry as my limbs were until the lubricants get working. My grandchildren can hear me outside, and I know they’ll think Papa’s talking to himself.
At last. My front door swings open.
Saul and Agatha. Both incredibly real in the morning brightness with the cypressed road shimmering behind them. I want them to stand there for a few moments so I can catch my breath—and for the corneas I had fitted last winter to darken—but I’m hugged and I’m kissed and they’re past me and into the house before any of my senses can adjust. I turn back into the hall. Their luggage lies in a heap. Salt-rimed, sandy, the colours bleached, bulging with washing and the excitements of far-off places. Venice. Paris. New York. The Sea Of Tranquillity. Even then, I have to touch to be sure.
“Hey Papa, where’s the food.”
Agatha crouches down on the tiles in my old-fashioned kitchen, gazing into the open fridge. And Saul’s tipping back a self-cooling carafe he’s found above the sink, his brown throat working. They’re both in cut-off shorts, ragged tops. Stuff they’ve obviously had on for days. And here’s me worrying about what I’m wearing—but the same rules don’t apply. Agatha stands up, fills her mouth with a cube of ammoniac brie from the depths of the fridge. Saul wipes his lips on the back on his hand, smiles. As though he senses that the hug on the doorstep might have passed me by, he comes over to me. He gives me another. Held tight, towered over, I feel the rub of his stubbled jaw against my bald head as he murmurs Papa, it’s good to be here. And Agatha joins in, kisses me with cheese crumbs on her lips, bringing the sense of the all miles she’s travelled to get here, the salt dust of a million far-off places. I’m tempted to pull away when I feel the soft pressure of her breasts against my arm. But this moment is too sweet, too innocent. I wish it could go on for ever.
Finally, we step back and regard each other.
“You should have let me know you were coming,” I say, wondering why I have to spoil this moment by complaining. “I’d have stocked up.”
“We tried, Papa,” Agatha says.
Saul nods. “A few days ago at the shuttleport in Athens, Papa. And then I don’t know how many times on the ferry through the islands. But all we got was the engaged flag.”
“I’ve been meaning,” I say, “to get the console fixed.”
Saul smiles, not believing for one moment. He asks, “Would you like me to take a look?”
I shrug. Then I nod Yes, because the console really does need re-programming. And Saul and Agatha were probably genuinely worried when they couldn’t get through, even though nothing serious could happen without one of my implant alarms going off.
“But you don’t mind us coming do you, Papa? I mean, if we’re getting in the way or anything. Just say and we’ll go.” Agatha’s teasing, of course, just to see the look on Papa’s face.
“No, no.” I lift my hands in surrender, feeling the joints starting to ease. “It’s wonderful to have you here. Stay with us as long as you want. Do whatever you like. That’s what grandparents are for.”
They nod sagely, as though Papa’s spoken a great truth. But sharp-eyed glances are exchanged across the ancient kitchen table, and I catch the echo of my words before they fade. And I realise what Papa’s gone and said. We. Us.
Why did I use the plural? Why? When Hannah’s been dead for more than seventy years.
An hour later, after the hormones and lubricants have stabilised, I’m heading down to the port in my rattletrap open-top Ford. Off shopping to feed those hungry mouths even though I want to hold onto every moment of Saul and Agatha’s company.
White houses, cool streets framing slabs of sea and sky. I drive down here to the port once or twice a week to get what little stuff I need these days, but today I’m seeing things I’ve never noticed before. Canaries and flowers on the window ledges. A stall filled with candied fruit and marzipan mice, wafting a sugared breeze. I park the Ford in the square, slap on my autolegs and head off just as the noonday bells begin to chime.
By the time I reach Antonio’s, my usual baker, the display on the fat-wheeled trolley I picked up in the concourse by the fountains is already reading Full Load. I really should have selected the larger model, but you have to put in extra money or something. Antonio grins. He’s a big man, fronting slopes of golden crust, cherry-nippled lines of iced bun. Sweaty and floured, he loves his job the way everyone seems to these days.
I’m pointing everywhere. Two, no, three loaves. And up there; never mind, I’ll have some anyway. And those long twirly things—are they sweet?—I’ve always wondered...
“You’ve got visitors?” He packs the crisp warm loaves into crisp brown bags.
“My grandchildren.” I smile, broody as a hen. “They came out of nowhere this morning.”
“That’s great,” he beams. He’d slap my shoulder if he could reach that far across the marble counter. “How old?”
I shrug. What is it now? Bill’s eighty-something. So—nearly thirty. But that can’t be right...
“Anyway,” he hands me the bags, too polite to ask if I can manage. “Now’s a good time.” My autolegs hiss as I back out towards the door. The loaded trolley follows.
But he’s right. Now is a good time. The very best.
I drop the bags of bread on my way back to the square. The trolley’s too full to help even if I knew how to ask it, and I can’t bend down without climbing out of the autolegs, but grey-haired woman gathers them up from the pavement and helps me back to the car.
“You drive?” she asks as I clank across the square towards my Ford and the trolley rumbles behind in attendance. It’s a museum piece. She chuckles again. Her face is hidden under the shadow-weave of a straw sunhat.
Then she says; “Grandchildren—how lovely,” as nectarines and oranges tumble into the back seat. I can’t remember telling her about Saul and Agatha as we walked—in my absorbtion, I can’t even remember speaking—but perhaps it’s the only possible explanation for someone of my age doing this amount of shopping. When I look up to thank her, she’s already heading off under the date palms. The sway of a floral print dress. Crinkled elbows and heels, sandals flapping, soft wisps of grey hair, the rings on her slightly lumpen fingers catching in sunlight. I’m staring, thinking. Thinking. Thinking, if only.
Back at the house, hours after the quick trip I’d intended, the front door is open, unlocked. The thing usually bleeps like mad when I leave it even fractionally ajar, but my grandchildren have obviously managed to disable it. I step out of my autolegs in the hall. I stand there in my own hall, feeling the tingling in my synthetic hip, waiting for my corneas to adjust to the change in light.
“I’m back!”
There’s silence—or as close to silence as these eardrums will allow. Beating waves. Beating heart. And breathing. Soft
, slow breathing. I follow the sound.
Inside my bathroom, it looks as if Saul and Agatha have been washing a large and very uncooperative dog. Sodden towels are everywhere, and the floor is a soapy lake, but then they’re of a generation that’s used to machines clearing up after them. Beyond, in the shadowed double room they’ve taken for their own, my grandchildren lie curled. Agatha’s in my old off-white dressing gown—which, now I’ve seen her in it, I’ll never want to wash or replace. Her hair spills across the pillow, her thumb rests close to her mouth. And Saul’s stretched on the mattress facing the other way, naked, his bum pressed against hers. Long flanks of honey-brown. He’s smooth and still, lovely as a statue.
There’s a tomb-memorial I saw once—in a old cathedral, in old England—of two sleeping children, carved in white marble. I must have been there with Hannah, for I remember the ease of her presence beside me, or at least the absence of the ache that has hardly ever left me since. And I remember staring at those sweet white faces and thinking how impossible that kind of serenity was, even in the wildest depths of childhood. But it happens all the time. Everything’s an everyday miracle.
I back away. Close the door, making a clumsy noise that I hope doesn’t wake them. I unload the shopping in the kitchen by hand, watching the contents of my bags diminish as if by magic as I place them on the shelves. So much becoming so little. But never mind; there’s enough for a late lunch, maybe dinner. And my grandchildren are sleeping and the house swirls with their dreams. It’s time, anyway, to ring Bill.
My son’s in his office. Bill always looks different on the console, and as usual I wonder if this is a face he puts on especially for me. In theory, Bill’s like Antonio—working simply because he loves his job—but I find that hard to believe. Everything about Bill speaks of duty rather than pleasure. I see the evening towers of a great city through a window beyond his shoulder. The lights of homeward-bound flyers drifting like sparks in a bonfire-pink sky. But which city? Bill’s always moving, chasing business. My console finds him anyway, but it isn’t programmed to tell you where unless you specifically ask. And I don’t know how.
Everywhere: Volume I of the Collected Short Stories and Novellas of Ian R. MacLeod Page 28
