Frances Hardinge - Cuckoo Song

Both Violet and Trista jumped when a wild surge of winged shapes burst from beneath the bridge on which they stood, and flocked out towards the city, wheeling downward with cries like steel shavings.

‘Gulls,’ gasped Violet in a half-laugh. Trista said nothing, her tongue held by the magic promise. She saw white wings as Violet did, but she also saw wings of pale leather, glassy insect wings, wings made of paper and matted hair. Some of the things had riders. Some had two heads. None of them looked up or saw her. She was able to watch as the strange flock sped down to join the strange flicker in the streets.

The flicker itself was moving over a distant hill now, threatening to disappear behind the crest.

‘We’re going to lose sight of them!’ exclaimed Trista.

‘No, we’re not,’ said Violet. ‘Get back in the sidecar. They’re not the only ones who can move fast.’

Trista gritted her teeth as the motorcycle weaved sharply through the streets, bracing her limbs inside the sidecar. Violet was leaning forward over her machine like a cat preparing to pounce. Trista could feel in her joints every bounce of the tyres, each road crack.

Gas lamps whooshed past on either side like will-o’-the-wisps on a mission. Bridges swooped overhead, shadowing the sky for a second, then were gone. The motorcycle’s headlights flashed in the sullen windows of closed shops. Buildings scrolled past at speed, like the visions of a zoetrope.

Trista tipped her head back as far as she dared and watched the sky, looking for a flicker of movement, or a darker patch against the void of the heavens. The air caught in her throat. There was a smell that made her hungry again, and filled her with an odd, shadowy elation. It was a crisp, treacherous twilight scent that reminded her of the Underbelly, the Architect and the fight with the bird-thing. The Besiders were close by, and it set her blood alight.

The alleys twisting up the hill were cluttered with rubbish pails, zigzags of washing and bicycles against the walls. The motorcycle swerved between them all, triumphantly erupted with a roar into a square at the top of the hill and descended into the winding lanes beyond.

As they roared over a narrow bridge, Trista glanced down at the street below it, which was bathed in dull yellow gaslight. Cruising past beneath her was a large, black Daimler. The light seemed to slide uneasily over it like water over wax. Its engine made no sound. As she watched, it turned a corner and vanished from sight.

‘There!’ Trista’s desperate squawk was inaudible, but also unnecessary. Violet had seen the car. At the far end of the bridge, Violet took a right to follow.

There was a rustling sound at the back of Trista’s mind, and for a little while she thought it might be coming from her own head. But this time it was not the laughter of her inner leaves. There were wings beating overhead and whispers on the breeze. Looking upward, she saw rapid shapes skim past at eaves’ height. Some spread dark wings. Some had insectile legs akimbo, like water boatmen. Some clawed their way through the air, as if it was solid as earth.

Some skimmed away on spread wings and were lost from sight almost immediately. Others alighted briefly on this roof or that, then sprang away again with the lightness and power of a flea.

Violet took a left, a right, a left through the shadowed streets. Scattered pubs cast haloes of light from their bright windows.

Just as they were nearing a crossroads, there came the sudden ting-ting-ting of a bell. The sound was familiar, but so spectral in the circumstances that Trista could not place it. Violet braked sharply.

The road ahead was briefly illuminated by headlights, and then a bulky oblong burst into view from left to right across their path. It was a familiar double-decker outline, its inner recesses brilliant with electric light. Only then did Trista recognize the noise as that of a tram bell.

The tram flashed past, followed by two large trailer cars, both double-decker like the tram, but with their upper seating open to the sky. Instead of the usual red, the tram and trailer cars were jet black.

As each passed, Trista caught a glimpse into its brightly lit lower saloon, a gleaming yellow tableau that passed in an instant.

In the tram itself, a collection of long-nosed men in grey coats and dark glasses stared out through the windows with binoculars.

In the saloon of the first trailer car stood a coterie of women with red, red mouths, and fox furs round their necks that might almost have been alive and sleeping.

In the saloon of the second trailer car sat the Architect in his smart sportswear with a green cravat, and beside him the hunched, miserable shape of Triss, in a white hat and coat.

There was no way to shout over the sound of the motorcycle engine. Instead Trista pointed madly after the disappearing tram. Violet forced the engine into a roar once more, surged forward and then swung right to follow. Trista felt the tyres bounce over the tram rails.

At the far end of the road Violet once again had to screech to a halt, this time bringing the motorcycle around into a sideways skid. The gleaming tracks had come to an abrupt end, as had the road. Beyond a wooden barrier lay a dark pit, piles of sand, spades and the gaping mouth of a concrete mixer.

Violet stared all around, her expression hidden by her goggles, then cut the engine. Her breath was ragged and unguarded.

‘It’s the tram route they are still building.’ Her voice had a hard force to it, and Trista knew that she was battling with bewilderment and frustration.

The tram had simply run off the end of the unfinished rails and vanished.

‘No!’ Trista heard her own voice sounding raspy and hollow. They had been so close. She had seen the Architect and Triss. They had been within fifteen yards of each other, divided only by metal, glass and momentum.

Trista scrambled out of the sidecar, legs shaking. She ran down the darkened road, ducked past the barrier and scrambled over a sand heap, which gave softly under her tread. Then she was sprinting down the dark road beyond.

‘Trista!’ called Violet, then swore. Now two sets of footsteps were echoing down the road, but Trista did not stop until she was brought up short by a row of houses with innocently dark alleys to left and right. From straight ahead, the wind again carried her the whisper of wings, and a faint echoing noise like the sound of hoofs.

She stared up at the house before her. The roof looked low – she could catch at it, she was sure she could. She kicked off her shoes, bent her knees and sprang. The motion felt as easy and natural as breath, or batting away a fly. As she rose, she instinctively raised her hands and caught at the edge of the guttering. Then she kicked out against the wall, yanked herself upward using her arms… and landed silently on the very edge of the roof.

Her bare feet made no sound. Her long toes somehow found a grip on the cold sloping slates. A few springing steps took her to the roof’s raised spine, where she crouched so that nothing would see her outline against the sky. Trista could still hear Violet somewhere below calling out her name, but the voice seemed small and inconsequential now.

This was yet another Ellchester, a town of silvery-grey inclines, sudden precipices and a chimney forest spewing scented plumes of smoke. She had no time to boggle at its beauty, however.

A hundred yards away, she could make out a convoy of shapes surging over the roofs. Three black carriages, each drawn by two night-black horses, were riding up and down the slopes of roofs as easily as if they were on the flat. The wheels did not disturb the tiles, nor did the horses’ hoofs slither. Above and around them surged and flew and leaped a host of smaller forms that seemed to change shape as they passed in and out of the stray shafts of light.