Emmi Itäranta - The City of Woven Streets

‘Some manners, if I may make such a bold request, young lady,’ one of the women says and squints her eyes.

The other one, whose face is more wrinkled, sniffles and takes a more comfortable position on the seat.

‘Don’t mind her,’ she says.

‘The Council had better replace my loom,’ the other one adds. ‘Quality wood from the continent. Swollen as a drowned man’s tongue.’

‘Don’t mind her,’ the wrinklier one repeats.

I jump to the edge of the canal, where the water splashes in all directions and then settles at the level of my ankles. I glance at the Tower. Sounds, talk and words carry from the square that I cannot make out. Further ahead, Valeria has stopped to wait. When she catches my gaze, she begins to wade towards the square.

I catch up with her and seize her hand. There are too many people here, and I do not want to lose her. The voices from the square are clearer now and louder, their words assuming recognizable forms. We thread our way through the crowd and pass through the arched stone gate. The sharp point of the Tower pricks the clouds. On the other side of the square, beyond the waves of people, the skeleton of the Museum of Pure Sleep has been worn even barer.

In front of it, a group of Dreamers stands in the auditorium, which rises from the water like the back of a large animal. I see Askari, Irena and Janos. I recognize Ila. I do not see Alva or Tirra. There are also others whose names I do not know, maybe fifty of them. They look barely a handful compared with the crowd, a scant scattering of sunlight on a mass of dark waves. One of them raises a large seashell horn to his lips and blows in it. The sound echoes in stones and fades into the sky, where evening closes around the last flame of the day. I see Janos has turned in a different direction than the rest of them. I follow his frozen stare and understand: the House of Webs blazes on the hill as a roaring, dancing forest of flames around which a scorching halo glows.

I must make it to him.

A dense row of City Guards has gathered at the foot of the auditorium, a dangerous range of rocks I have no way of crossing. They stand still with their gazes turned to the Tower, waiting for an order that has not yet been issued. Or perhaps the first blow that will give them a reason to attack. The points of their spears gleam in the light of the torches lining the auditorium. There is another ring of guards at the root of the Tower, two rings, a circle of spikes and metal and restless fires. There is an empty space made by fear around them. Apart from it, the square is filled by a sea of people, spilling, stirring, tearing apart and stitching itself together again.

I dive into it.

Valeria follows. Her hand squeezes mine. I see Dreamers pick up something in their hands that looks like sizeable rolls of fabric. They hold them by each end and raise them high. The fabrics fall open, and I recognize the large pictures painted on them.

The inkmaster leaves the island again, falls ill, does not return for the Ink-marking. He begins to dream again and study the composition of the tattoo ink. The Council approaches him, until its shadow covers him entirely, and drops the gondola in which he travels. The fabrics are unrolled one by one. The story has grown more complete: masked men attack the inkmaster’s daughter, cut off her tongue and she flees into the House of Webs. There she begins to weave a tapestry, which tells the story of how the tattoos are stealing people’s dreams on the island. The Council takes her away, and a weaver from the House of Webs goes after her, but ends up in the House of the Tainted, where the prisoners are forced to collect blood coral from the sea. Sediment leaks into the sea from the Ink Quarters and makes people sick. The island looks ever smaller in the sea. A great wave approaches on the horizon.

Valeria makes a sound next to me. When I turn to look, tears are streaming down her face. One of the Dreamers raises the speaking trumpet made from a seashell to his mouth and speaks to the crowd, speaks of lies, speaks of the truth. Speaks of rescue. The seashell amplifies the volume of his voice. The words carry far beyond the limits of the square, the words scatter into the wind.

‘Janos!’ I cry, but I’m too far away. My voice does not reach him. Inside me strands chafe against each other, grow taut and loose again, cut marks in me. I cannot let them go, because they hold everything together.

Janos, I think.

He turns his head, studies the crowd with his gaze. Seeks.

The Dreamer continues to talk. The people listen. I see paper leaflets being passed from hand to hand, and I recognize the images of the codex in them, too. The square is a dream-square, the strands of the Web of Worlds still within my reach. I want Janos to see me. I want him to know what needs to be known, to heed the warning.

Janos, I think,

and then a bright and scorching pain flashes through me,

listen, I am still alive,

bare as the fire burning my skin,

I have something to tell you,

glowing as the stone walls being tormented at the heart of the blaze,

flee, flee now, because time is running out,

the thought surges into me like heat from beyond a breaking door,

demand that they show themselves,

and Janos’s face snaps towards me. I see shock on it as he recognizes me from afar. The pain withers. I am on the square again and not amidst the raging flames. Only a narrow stripe of the day gone by is fading in the sky, and I know somewhere the ships are waiting, ready to leave, although I cannot see them.

‘You know the truth about the island now,’ Askari says. ‘Staying here offers no future for you.’

‘Dreamer lies!’ someone shouts in the crowd. He receives an approving murmur in response. ‘They must be eviscerated from the island for good.’

Valeria wipes her eyes. I grasp her arm. In the auditorium Janos stares at me. Then he turns, strides to Askari and says something to him. Askari listens and glances at the crowd. Janos is still talking to him. I see Askari nod. He turns towards the square again.

‘If this is all a lie,’ he says into the speaking trumpet, ‘if the Council wants the best for you, why are they not here? Why do they not show themselves and offer help when the island needs it most?’

The words float in the square. The crowd has quieted for a moment that lingers, until a low murmur begins to grow again at the bottom of a wavering silence. It grows and folds into a stir that turns the people towards the Tower. I turn to look.

The doors of the lower balcony of the Tower have opened. The tall fires of the torches burn on both sides of them and behind falls a curtain of darkness. From there, the black maw of the Tower, a law-reader steps into sight in his loose coat decorated with the sun emblem. He walks to the rail at the edge of the balcony and raises the speaking trumpet to his mouth. The reflections of the torches revolve on its mother-of-pearl surface.

‘In the name of the Council,’ he says.

‘In the name of the Council,’ the crowd says, but the response is more fragile than usual. I see several people around me whose lips do not move at all.

The law-reader clears his throat. He is too far away for me to discern the expression on his face clearly. Behind the Tower the sky is night-blue, and in the knots of the Web of Worlds the stars have begun to surface. The pressure in my innards is insufferable. My body is focused around it, ready to collapse.

‘In its great wisdom the Council has asked you to wait,’ the law-reader says from the balcony, his words amplified by the speaking trumpet. The people of the city are listening. ‘They are right now discussing in the Tower how to best help the island, and they order you to come back tomorrow at noon.’