Саймон Морден - The White City

He slid his hands under Luiza’s armpits and straightened his back. She was stiffening, and her head wasn’t sure whether to fall forward, or roll back. Her skin was cold and inelastic, but her hair still fluttered with the breeze. He could see where the blond strands faded into dark roots.

She wore no jewellery but a little gold stud in each earlobe. No rings, no necklace, nothing to pass to Elena with his condolences. He still didn’t know how he was going to offer those.

He dragged her to the top of the dune, down the other side, and stopped where the boat had been born. Here? Further along? Would burying her near where the boat had grown cause problems with the fruiting of another one?

What would Down think of the intrusion? Would it notice? Would it mind one way or the other? And if he was already having thoughts about Down being alive, and having a personality, why not go all the way and behave like it was true? Because it made as much sense as anything else◦– more sense than treating this world the same as he had his old one.

If he was sad, how could he communicate that to Down? By burying someone he had cared about on one of its lines of power.

He excavated the hollow made by the boat, enlarging it downwards and into the dune. The sand was slippery and soft, the grains trickling down to fill the hole almost as quickly as he dug. But slowly, the sides began to keep their shape, and it was more or less noon by the time he’d done what he thought others would consider enough.

He lifted Luiza into the hole, arranged her with her arms folded across her stomach, closed her eyes with tentative brushes of his fingers. She looked, if not at peace, at least at a slightly perturbed rest. Her hands partially covered the rent in her overalls and the ugly dark stain. Flowers and reeds from the waterlogged slack over the next dune would hide the rest.

He went to collect a posy, checking over his shoulder as he climbed, expecting to see Mary swoop in at every moment. She’d been gone now for hours: five, maybe six. He didn’t know if Crows could hide the boat like he could hide himself. Maybe he could, and that was what was delaying her. Instead of searching for the single boat in an open sea, she’d be searching for an ephemeral wake amongst the wind-blown waves.

How long could she stay aloft, looking? Even when they’d been searching for him before, she’d taken rests. At sea, there were no convenient perches, so where was she? Either she’d found him, or she hadn’t. Either way, she should be back with them by now.

He stood on top of the dune and looked for her. What if she’d lost her bearings, ended up on a different part of the coast and was struggling to find them? They’d relied on Crows and Mary for both fire and food. They’d burned driftwood and eaten fish while waiting for the boat to grow. He was already tired, hungry and thirsty, and tonight, he’d be cold.

What if she didn’t come back? She’d gone alone, impulsive and angry, to challenge Crows. He could have killed her. Incapacitated her enough to bring her down. She’d be left miles from dry land. She couldn’t swim well. She’d drown.

He swallowed hard. Such thoughts were unworthy of both him and her. She knew how much was at stake. She wouldn’t take stupid risks.

He started to pray for her return in order to stave off his growing despair.

She was taking the biggest risk of her life. She could forget about the petty thieving, the breaking and entering, the clambering over unsafe roofs, the uninhibited experimental drug taking, the excessive drinking and the dangerous sex. Convincing Crows that he’d persuaded her◦– slowly, reluctantly, and harbouring the gravest doubts◦– to join him rather than starting a fight that would risk the precious maps? That had been the easy part. He used all his sugared words. She didn’t trust him, told him so to his face, and they’d reached a stalemate, him down the back end of the boat, her at the front, with what felt like only a few feet of boards between them.

The thing was, Crows was easy to believe: he said everything right even while doing everything wrong. It wasn’t a surprise that he’d so infuriated someone that they’d tried to carve their name on his belly. He was a liar and a cheat of the worst kind, and that had been back in London. Down had made him truly, epically, devilish. She’d be surprised if he could lie straight in bed.

And, like the Devil, he was charming, self-assured, and so very believable.

Mary thought she might have left it too long. She had weakened, rallied, and softened again. Had she judged it right, folding at the very last moment, agreeing to his impassioned pleas about greatness and mastering Down? Did he now doubt her conversion, and was secretly planning to do away with her?

Was he planning to do that anyway?

No less than she was. But the maps were safe: she had her eye on them, even if she couldn’t claim ownership yet. And Dalip◦– he’d find a way, wouldn’t he? All roads led to the White City, wherever the fuck it was, and he’d only have to wait a few days for another boat to grow: he’d be able to sail it, with Elena and Mama, and catch up with them eventually. They’d overpower Crows, seize the maps, and everything would be right again. Apart from Luiza, of course. Nothing would bring her back.

Crows had cried real tears when she’d told him what the Wolfman had done. He said he couldn’t have foreseen it, that it was the Wolfman’s unreasoning hate, not his betrayal, that had led to Luiza’s murder. But just because he was sorry didn’t mean he lost any of the responsibility.

It was the maps. Everything came down to the maps. If they were at the bottom of the sea, everything would be so much simpler. Without them, though, what chance was there of ever reuniting Mama with her babies, or Dalip with his family? Elena could make her own choice, though Mary suspected she’d leave Down in a heartbeat. So rather than destroy them, she was kneeling at the prow, staring ahead, while her friends slipped slowly further astern.

She still didn’t know what she was going to do.

It was easier to look forward than back, in every sense. Behind her was her past, but also Crows, hands folded lightly in his lap. The boat was moving on its own, sliding on the downslope of the ever-present wave that followed them. She had to learn how to do that◦– Crows would need to rest, and she didn’t want to be reliant on him. If he wanted to becalm her, he could. She might be able to fly, but not with the maps. Well, maybe with the maps, if they weren’t in a heavy, awkward wooden crate, and she had hands rather than claws.

She thought back to the idea of a bag, a big duffel bag with a drawstring top. That would work.

If she had enough cloth, a length of thin rope, and something sharp, she could make one for herself. Then wait for Crows to be distracted long enough to decant all the maps, transform and fly off with them.

He, naturally, wasn’t going to let the maps out of his sight. He wasn’t stupid. There might be a chance later, though◦– much later, when he’d grown used to her presence and thought her no threat.

The boat moved on, its bow cutting through the water with rhythmic splashes as the oncoming waves slapped up against the boards. Apart from the island coming up on their left, the view was otherwise empty. What she thought had been the whole of the island was only a headland, hiding more behind it. The wedge-shaped mountain rose from one side◦– around it were lower, flatter lands which angled gently into the sea.

It was no good. At some point, she had to talk to Crows about something normal. It may as well be now.

‘You been there?’ For a sea serpent, the distance between the island and the mainland wasn’t far.