The White City

9

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.

Crows, distracted, let their driving wave fall away for a moment. The boat, no longer moving forward, rocked with unfamiliar motion, and she put her hands on the rails to steady herself.

‘The island?’

‘Yes, the island.’

‘No. There is nothing there.’

‘Oh,’ she said. Of course he knew it was empty, despite never having set foot on it. ‘So why can I see smoke?’

Until she’d said it, she’d been convinced she was imagining it. It was no more than a smudge, a slight thickening of the already blue haze that distance lent the scene.

‘It is no concern of ours.’

‘It is if it’s the White City.’

She saw his expression flicker from serene to annoyed and back. Perhaps he’d been playing a triple bluff, and had known exactly where the White City was all along. He’d used his first lie to get them to the coast, his second to leave them and make a deal with the Wolfman, and now couldn’t reveal his third. He’d have to pretend that it might be, or give himself away.

‘It is not likely to be there, on that island.’

‘Why not?’ she asked innocently. ‘It’s as likely as anywhere else. If you point us that way, when we’re close enough I can fly over it and see.’

She could see with her own eyes, because trusting what Crows said about anything was pointless. He might be right, but trusting that could be the end of her.

He faltered for the briefest instant before regaining his smile. ‘You might be right. And while we are here, it cannot hurt for you to explore.’

There was a lever sticking out into the boat from the stern. She hadn’t paid it much attention before, but Crows pushed it horizontally away from him and the front of the boat started to turn. The island turned too, until it was more central.

‘It will not take us too far out of our way.’ He shrugged. ‘We will not even have to stop.’

He was right: she could take off from the boat, fly over the island, and land again, confident of finding him.

The coast slowly resolved out of the haze. Wide beaches, tall headlands, but not many trees◦– rolling green grass covered most of what she could see. It all looked like a picture postcard, with the rising mountain peak behind waving a flag of cloud into the blue sky. But as they closed, and Crows turned the rudder again to run them parallel to the coast, she could make out shapes planted on the beaches, where a boat might want to land.

‘What,’ she asked, ‘are those?’

Crows strained forward, shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘I cannot tell. But neither can I go closer. There is a reef between us and the shore, and the tide is beginning to run.’

Mary scanned the surface of the water, and there was a line of white waves standing off from the coast, but she didn’t know what that meant. If Crows had been this way before, he would know anyway, without interpreting the sea state.

She stood up, trying to keep her balance against the movement of the boat underneath her. She really couldn’t see, but she felt she ought. The motion of the sea made it harder than it should be, and there was nothing for it but to transform and take a better look.

‘You’re not going to go anywhere, are you?’

‘Even if I was, where could I hide from you? Your eyes are the keenest in all of Down, and your swift flight would overtake me in minutes.’

He was right, and she left it at that. He couldn’t escape her, and she couldn’t leave him. She crouched down, steadied herself for a moment, aware that launching herself up and over the sea without the expectation of belly-flopping into the churning sea was just ridiculous. And yet, when she straightened her legs and stretched her arms out wide, it was only her wingtips that caught the tops of the waves.

She flapped hard, gained height, and circled the boat. She could see it small against the sea, and Crows’ upturned face looking back at her. She noted the landmarks◦– the long finger of land stretching out, the tall cliffs with their bases white with foam, the long sandy beach, and the mountain rising tall towards the back of the island◦– and flew down.

So this wasn’t a good sign. Anywhere in the world, a cross with a bleached white skull hanging on top of the upright meant only one thing, and that was a heartfelt ‘fuck off now’. She turned and piloted a course parallel to the beach, where she found two more crosses with two more skulls. None of them looked particularly new, though that they were all still standing made her think someone was making sure the posts kept upright and the skulls were grinning.

She banked inland, passing over the grasslands, not seeing anyone, but that ragged pillar of dark smoke told her that people were living there. The ground rose and fell, with more rising than falling as she came closer to the mountain. The grasses waved at her, uncut, ungrazed, green with new growth and purple with flowers.

The smoke was three ridges away, then two, then it was the next. She rose higher and saw its source◦– a dirty black scar like a bomb crater◦– before she recognised anything else. There were little clusters of wooden buildings arranged in four lines like streets, radiating from a central stone pavement that pressed itself up against the steep side of the valley. Most were falling apart, like the ones she’d seen in the forest on the way to Bell’s castle. She knew, then, that they were Down-made, fading through lack of inhabitants.

Yet there were people in that little village. She could see two of them swinging a bundle on to the fitful fire, which was placed at the end of one of the rows of houses. As she flew through the smoke, she smelled burning wood and burning flesh.

Something she’d smelled before, in the dark tunnels under London. She focused on the fire, and saw that the pathetic smouldering rags contained a pale corpse.

She couldn’t make sense of it. If the fire was for burning the dead, and the fire was always burning◦– the only wood she’d seen was in the houses◦– then where did all the dead come from? The island seemed beautiful◦– idyllic even, like a holiday brochure, with its wide beaches and soft hills◦– but it had this stain at its heart.

As she dropped lower, she was spotted. One of the men, little more than rags himself, pointed up at her, and the pair of them watched open-mouthed as she passed overhead. They moved to keep her in sight, even as she spiralled downwards, looking for a place to land.

The obvious place was on the circular stone pavement, which she now realised had been built into the side of the hill. The escarpment was walled with more stone, and in that wall was a door, leading underground. She was intrigued and, with a final series of flaps, settled on top of the wall, on the grassy bank that extended upwards.

The two men appeared at a run between two of the dilapidated buildings, and she could see now just how gaunt and grizzled they were. Their clothes were grey and ragged, much like their sanity. They stopped on the opposite side of the pavement to her and the first man dipped down to pick up a loose stone the size of his fist.

‘Throw it, Nathaniel. Drive it away.’

The stone, when it came, landed well short. The man called Nathaniel simply didn’t have the strength, let alone the accuracy, to hit her. It clattered across the pavement, and Mary looked down at it as it spun and clacked against the base of the wall.

He seized another while his companion uncertainly raised his arms and tried to shoo her. ‘Go! Fly, beast, fly!’

She was, in bird form, more than twice their size, and it didn’t seem credible that they would try and take her on, but here they were, two men dressed like tramps, trying to scare her away when for all they knew she was planning to have them for lunch. The second stone struck the wall just below her clawed feet, and she decided she’d had enough rock-throwing and nowhere near enough explanation. She changed, and they stared at her for a moment.

Then they ran, back the way they’d come, as fast as they could, disappearing behind the line of houses.

She shrugged and walked along the top of the wall as it curved down to meet the ground, and jumped when the distance was narrow enough. She looked around: everything seemed on the verge of collapsing, like she’d walked on to the scene of some end-of-days catastrophe.

The door in the wall didn’t look like it could be locked. It was old and wooden and warped, but she could see nothing between the cracks in the boards. There was no handle or knob on her side, and even though there was a place where she could squeeze her fingers between the door and its frame, it wouldn’t flex, let alone open.

She frowned, then became aware of being watched.

The two men were back. Nathaniel, the stone-thrower, had armed himself with a club. His colleague was empty-handed but for some rope.

‘Why don’t you hold it right there,’ she said, ‘because I’m not into the whole hit on the head and tied up thing.’

The rope-carrier licked his thin lips and the pair of them edged forward a step, each one daring the other to go first.

‘I can either fly away or knock your sorry arses into next week. Your call.’

The stone, hidden in Nathaniel’s other hand, flew straight for her face, where it stopped an inch from her nose, turning slowly. She reached up, plucked it out of the air, and dropped it next to her.

‘You’re not getting this, are you?’

They looked ready to run again. The rope-carrier touched his free hand to his chest, four times in quick succession, making the pattern of a cross. ‘God protect us. A witch.’

Mary had been called a lot of things in the past, and given she could turn into a falcon and light fires with a snap of her fingers, she let this one slide.

‘We can talk, or we can call each other names. You’re not exactly Brad Pitt yourself.’ When they didn’t respond, and just quivered with fear and uncertainty, she decided that she’d nothing to lose going with a direct approach. ‘I’m looking for the White City. Do you know where that is?’

‘We know of no such place: ask your demon familiar instead. Now, back to Hell, witch, and take the plague with you.’ Nathaniel raised his club higher and gripped it harder.

‘Whoa. Hang on.’ She thought about burning bodies and run-down houses, the crosses and skulls. ‘Plague. You’re shitting me, right?’

‘Your tongue is as coarse as your manners, you heathen blackamoor. Perhaps I should send you to Hell myself.’ He took another step, and Mary took one back.

‘What’s the other side of that door?’ she asked, pointing behind her.

‘London, for all the good it does us,’ said the rope man. ‘We are marooned here, and still the pestilence follows us through.’

‘Do not furnish her with answers! She will use them for devilry.’

‘Aye, that she might, but the sin will be hers, not mine.’ The man dropped his rope, recognising the exercise as futile. ‘You have a name, witch?’

‘Mary,’ said Mary.

‘A Christian name?’ He wiped at his pale, sweaty face. ‘Beelzebub goes by many disguises.’

‘Whoever that is. You’re serious about this plague, though?’ There was something half-remembered tickling the back of her mind. ‘What year is it through there?’

‘The year of our Lord, sixteen sixty-five.’

‘Fuck. The Black Death.’

‘It is a judgement for our iniquities,’ said Nathaniel. ‘If we turn back to God, then we will be saved. As it is, we serve him here. When we are not consorting with witches, that is. We try to live lives of penitence and mercy, for as long as it pleases Him to spare us.’

She took another step back, and she felt cold, inside and out. ‘You have the plague.’

‘Aye,’ said the rope man. ‘Brother Nathaniel is miraculously recovered and seems to enjoy God’s ongoing protection. I confess that I do not. So we burn the bodies of those who come through that door to die on these lonely shores, just as I will be burned in turn. ’Tis a good cause, to keep these lands free from the disease, since we cannot do that for our own.’

‘They come through that door?’

‘A dozen a day, more this past fortnight.’ He turned away and coughed long and hard. When he turned back, his sleeve was speckled with fresh bright blood, and his breathing was laboured. ‘Witch though you surely are, you had better be gone on those wings of yours, or else stay with us for ever. These houses are nearly full, but there’ll be plenty of room soon enough.’

She knew almost nothing about the Black Death, except that it killed thousands, was spread by rats, and it ended when London caught fire.

‘You’ve gone nowhere else but this island?’

‘Some try,’ said Nathaniel. He lowered his club and tapped it in his empty hand. ‘I persuade them to stay if I must. Most can be reasoned with, being honest Englishmen and women, though truth be told, there is no escape.’

She could tell him about the boats, how they grew up out of the sand. There was a portal here, and the lines of power connecting it with other doors to London would cut the coast in several places. Perhaps even the beach where she first spotted the skulls and crosses.

‘I think you’re very brave,’ she said. ‘It gets better. It really does.’

‘Cold comfort from you,’ said Nathaniel. ‘John will take his place in the houses, and I will conscript some other damned soul to help me dispose of the dead. If that is better, then I do not know what is worse.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll go.’

‘Aye, go,’ he said. ‘Go before the door opens, and we have to be about our dread business.’

She definitely wasn’t going to tell them about the boats. They’d quarantined themselves for a good reason, and she wasn’t going to put temptation in their way. So she nodded and trotted back to the wall, climbing up on it and running along the top of it.

John called after her. ‘Before you go, tell us if you can: where is this place? Are we in some cloister of England, or are these the foothills of Heaven?’

‘Neither. It’s just… Down,’ she said, and she raised her hand in farewell.