Frances Hardinge - Cuckoo Song

‘I’m not responsible for giving you what you wanted , just what you asked for .’ The man shrugged non-committally. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but it seemed to Triss that the fibres of his coat shrugged too, a ripple running down through it from his collar to the bottom hem. It struck her that the coat was the same colour as the peculiar carpet and wallpaper.

‘You can’t treat me like this!’ Pen clenched her nails into her palms, face like a crumpled dishcloth. ‘You have to get rid of that thing and put things right, or I’ll… I’ll tell!’

The Architect, who had been turning away with a smile on his face, stopped moving altogether. So did the dust motes waltzing in the flickering light. So did the pendulum of the clock. Even the figures on the silver screen behind Pen stopped mid-soiree, gripping their champagne glasses as they turned to stare at her, huddling together as if expecting a storm or explosion.

‘Tell?’ His voice was very, very soft. He turned to face Pen, and in doing so appeared to grow a few inches. His coat bristled and brindled, like the fur of an angry cat, and it seemed to Triss that a light shone in his pale eyes, as if they were reflecting a wild sky that nobody else could see. ‘ TELL? ’ He did not simply shout the word, he screamed it at the top of his lungs, with the terrible force of a thwarted infant. ‘But that would be breaking our bargain !’

Somehow it was not funny. The very childishness made it strange and terrifying. Seeing an adult give in to temper without shame was like seeing a chain falling from the collar of a large and dangerous dog.

Pen hunched into a ball in her chair, knees to her chest, both hands raised in defensive fists before her face.

‘I don’t care!’ she shrieked. ‘I’ll tell them what happened to Triss! I’ll tell them where you are! I’ll tell them about all your friends, and the bird-things, and the telephones!’

There was a long, long second during which a hundred winter winds drew in a silent breath and the Architect was not handsome at all. Then the dust motes eased back into their luminous meanderings, the pendulum resumed its broken swing and the film characters went back to gliding around and ignoring the parlour.

‘Ah, never a dull moment in your company, Miss Crescent.’ He lowered his shoulders and straightened his back, then smiled down under his blond lashes at his toffee-and-milk-coloured shoes. ‘Well, never let it be said that I left somebody unsatisfied with their bargain. I take such things seriously. Very seriously. Since you are so insistent, it seems I will have to talk to some people, change some arrangements. Will you excuse me?’

Pen nodded, slowly lowering her fists, watching the Architect all the time over her jutted chin. He moved towards a door near the far corner of the room, then hesitated, apparently in two minds about whether to say something.

‘My dear,’ he began at last, ‘I… must ask you not to touch anything while I am gone. The items in this room, simple as they are, are important to me.’

As the Architect disappeared through the other door, Triss saw the younger girl look at the room around her with a new and fierce curiosity.

Does he know who he just said that to?

Pen listened for a few seconds, then wriggled out of her chair and started walking around the room, scrutinising the wireless and ducking to all fours to look at the underside of the table. Thus it was only Triss who noticed when the figures on the flickering screen first abandoned their duties and edged forward to peer out at Pen.

There were six of them, three men and three women. The scene was a countryside picnic, so all the characters were dressed in outdoor clothes and overcoats. The background was silvery hills and rippling, blossom-filled trees.

One of the women raised a fist and knocked, as if she was banging against her side of an invisible barrier. She called something short, and a title card flashed up. It was of course back to front, but it stayed up long enough for Triss to squint and read it backwards.

HEY!!

Several more of the figures began to beat on their side of the screen, calling out with increased urgency, all eyes on Pen. The title cards followed, with ever larger lettering.

HEY! HEY, YOU! OVER HERE!

The title cards lingered for longer and longer, plunging the room into relative darkness each time, so that at last Pen looked up at the screen in annoyance, and did a double take.

YES, YOU! YOU’RE IN DANGER!

Pen leaned forward, mouth moving as she worked out what the words said, and then she straightened, eyebrows rising and mouth pursing into a small pout of doubt.

HE LIED TO YOU

HE HAS GONE TO GET THE GRIPPERS

‘Grippers? What are the Grippers?’ Pen asked aloud. The film figures gave furtive glances towards the door through which the Architect had left, and flapped their hands in ‘quiet, quiet’ motions. Pen took a step towards the door behind which Triss was hiding, but the silver coterie all jerked with alarm and flailed their arms in warning.

NO, NOT THAT WAY!

THEY’RE WAITING FOR YOU!

Pen halted, irresolute. Triss, who had tensed at the prospect of Pen rushing out of the door and straight into her, now glanced apprehensively down the corridor. No mysterious ‘Grippers’ could be seen advancing on her position, however.

Back in the film scene, one of the men ran back to his car, which was parked almost out of shot. He pulled open the door, then looked back at Pen expectantly. The other film-folk remained close to the screen, all beckoning furiously.

THIS WAY! QUICK! INTO THE CAR!

YOU CAN ESCAPE WITH US!

Pen hesitated, her face a battleground of different emotions. Then she tightened her jaw and scampered forward until she was a pace from the flickering image. She stretched out one uncertain hand and patted at the wall.

Instantly the figures made a lunge for her, colourless hands tightening on her arm, her shoulders, her clothes. Their faces slid into identical smiles of triumph. No title card flashed up this time, but it was not hard to make out the words they were mouthing.

GOT YOU

Pen screamed. Where the colourless flickering hands touched her, Triss could see Pen’s own skin and clothes start to mottle and spot, as if a gleaming, silver lichen were spreading across her. Pen was yanked off her feet and pulled through the frame into the country scene to lie on the grey grass. She made a desperate lunge back towards the parlour, but only managed to catch at the edge of the image ‘frame’ with one hand. The grinning picnickers hauled on her clothes and limbs, and Triss could see Pen’s grip on the edge of her world starting to weaken.

Pen was now almost entirely consumed by grey, except for that one tenacious hand, and even there the flesh was dulling and losing its colour. Her screams were silent, and her cheeks were shiny with tears.

It serves her right. It serves her right, the little horror. She brought it all on herself.

Oh… Pen, you little pig. I hate you. I hate you.

Triss broke cover and sprinted into the room. She lunged forward towards the screen just as Pen lost her grip, and managed to seize the younger girl’s wrist in both hands. Triss could feel a pins-and-needles sensation creeping over her fingers, and looking down found that speckles were spreading across them like drops of mercury. The gloating look of the picnickers changed to confusion and rage as Triss yanked at Pen’s arm with all the strength in her body and dragged her sister, still silvery and silent, halfway out of the flickering picture.

There were a few seconds of desperate tug of war. Glowing fingers prised at Triss’s grip on Pen’s arm, pulling one of her hands free. Desperate, Triss lashed out, and felt her fingers tear something. One of the men reeled away, clutching his face. The others stared at Triss with new fear, and she grabbed her moment. The heave took all her strength, and she felt her shoulders creak under the strain. A moment later Pen was lying on the parlour floor beside her, still colourless and voiceless, but alive.