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“Leave her out of this!”
Tobias Tate stood up to his full height and an amused sneer passed across his face. He crossed his arms and scowled down at the boy for some moments before he spoke.
“I always knew you were an insolent, wilful child, for all your ‘yes sirs’ and ‘no sirs’ and ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’. You need to be taken in hand before you turn out like her. Yes, that’s right – firmly in hand!”
Sylas set his jaw. “I WANT to turn out like her!”
“Oh, really? You want to be mad?”
Sylas reeled back against the wall, his eyes burning with tears. He wanted to say something – scream something – but words escaped him.
“Thought not!” shouted his uncle, marching to his chair. “Back to your room. You will not leave that room until seven o’clock, when you will come down, prepare dinner and help me with my files. Now, give me the letters and go.” He fixed Sylas with a glare. “Go!”
Sylas felt a surge of rage. He rummaged in his bag, found the letters and threw them on the floor, then let himself out of the office. He slammed the door of the kitchen beyond, stormed out into the corridor and clattered up the dark staircase to his room.
As the trapdoor fell closed, he dropped his rucksack and turned to the faded photograph of his mother, reaching out and touching the glass. Tears streamed down his face, but he did not sob or wipe them away. They were the silent tears of one who had shed them before, and who knew they did no good.
His uncle’s cruel face surged into his mind and his snarling voice echoed in his ears:
“…as bad as your mother… deluded… mad…”
He flinched at the dark, cruel significance of these words.
It had been five long, lonely years since he had last seen his mother. Or at least since he saw her as he liked to think of her: her tender face, slightly old for her years; her long dark hair drawn back in a ponytail, which he used to play with as she worked in their small front room, her delicate hands tapping on her computer or scribbling formulae in her many laboratory notebooks. He could hardly remember her soft, soothing voice, which had always been the last sound he heard at night and the first he heard in the morning.
That part of his life was now only a distant memory.
Everything had changed the day he had watched them take her away. He had looked on helplessly as she scratched and clawed at them as though battling for her life – and although he would never have believed it, that was exactly what she was doing. He remembered the man with the large thick glasses and the too-cheerful smile.
The one with the needle.
He could still see the stout, sallow-skinned woman whose beady eyes took in the whole room, peering into their life until nothing was private any more. But he remembered no sounds. He knew that his throat was sore afterwards, he assumed from screaming, and he remembered his mother’s face contorting as though she was crying out – but his memories of that day were like an old silent movie: white faces speaking but making no sound, their movements jerky and unnatural, everything depicted in shades of silver and grey. And he struggled to see past that movie into the rich colour of the life he had had before, when it was just the two of them. Somehow that day had made that vivid life seem unreal, like a precious dream that dissolves in the hard, cold light of day.
How hard and cold that final day had been, when finally it came a year later: the day his uncle told him she had died. He had said it so abruptly, in a matter-of-fact bluster of words, though Sylas remembered the tears in his eyes, the way he had drawn him into his bony body, just for a second or two – just in the first brief agony of that truth. He remembered the phrases: so inadequate, so trite and trifling given the horror and pain they conveyed.
“Disease of the mind... deteriorated so quickly... nothing to be done...”
“Nothing to be done,” he murmured. It was the most devastating phrase, because he would have done anything to save his mum. He would have brought the world crashing down for just another day with her.
And yet he was not even allowed to go to her funeral.
“Too young,” he was told. “A brief, formal affair, given the lack of family… given the... circumstances.”
And so Sylas had chosen his own quiet, secluded spot in the churchyard opposite. It was not her actual grave, which he knew to be somewhere far away, but the place he went to remember her, to be with her, to give her some flowers. The window seat in his room that overlooked that graveyard had become his favourite place to sit, because that way he felt that in some small way he was closer to her.
He wiped his face, picked up his rucksack and walked over to the seat. He wanted to think about something else, but even then the window seat was where he needed to be. He pushed himself back into the corner, one shoulder up against the ancient glass, and pulled the Samarok from his bag. He rested it on his knee and for a moment gazed out at the once-great stone arches of the church, now glowing pink in the dying rays of the sun. There was something beautiful in this twilight display, but to Sylas the sight was gaudy and unnatural. He saw nothing of the midsummer sunset unfolding in the wide sky; heard nothing of the great chorus of birds in the churchyard as they celebrated the end of the day. Instead he stared at the ruins, reflecting on their loneliness and slow decay. He gazed at those great broken windows, now emptied of their colourful glass, framing instead a jungle of weeds and ivy that spilled out on to the graves.
He sucked in a breath and looked down at the Samarok. He had to turn his mind to something else.
He stared at the cover, his eyes drawn to the embroidery and inlaid stones glittering in the twilight of the fading day. He ran his finger along the length of the large S that adorned the cover, then opened the book to a random page and looked at the sea of beautifully crafted runes.
His thoughts turned to the piece of paper Mr Zhi had given him and he took the now damp, crumpled envelope from his pocket, examining the rain-blotched scrawl on the front. It read simply “Sylas” in a hand that he recognised: the strange oriental hand that had painted the sign of the Shop of Things. His excitement grew and he tore it open.
Inside was a single slightly yellowed piece of paper that had been folded in half. It was not a letter as he expected, but a single paragraph. The writing was so distinctive and flamboyant that at first Sylas thought it was yet another language or code, but, to his surprise, it was written in English. Although the rain appeared to have blotted some of the letters, it was perfectly readable. He read it aloud to himself.
“They came from the cool of the sand-scented temples: from the long dark of the coiling passages and the oily flicker of many-columned halls. They rose as leaders of men in that ancient land, men of words and vision whose mystery brought hope to the squalor-born.. But while the people lifted their eyes upon the gentle countenance of these blessed men, they saw not the cool and dark of their hearts, nor the oily flicker behind their eyes.”
He gave a low whistle. What did that mean?
He read it over again, taking his time to pronounce and understand each word, but when he reached the end of the passage, he was just as confused. The piece assumed that he would understand who “they” were and what the “ancient land” was, but no matter how much he racked his memory, he could think of nothing. Even if he could guess at the real meaning, he had no idea how it would help him to understand the runes. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair – this wasn’t going to be easy.
He picked up the Samarok and closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. Not wanting to be clouded by thoughts of his mother, he pictured Mr Zhi himself, standing behind his crooked old counter in the Shop of Things, winking and stroking his beard to a point.
He turned to the title page, blank except for three lines of runes a third of the way from the top. It was clearly an inscription or dedication of some sort, as it was too long to be the title. Sylas allowed his eyes to pass slowly along the lines, taking in the intricacies of the runes. Each had its own form, its own unique shape and line, which was sometimes complex in its own right, but – even more wonderfully – also related to the runes around it. Within a word, each separate character was interlaced with two others, sharing its space with the curves or inflections of the symbols on either side, so that a rune rarely looked the same twice. The collection of characters formed a tangle of dashes, strokes, arcs and dots that ought, by any logic, to look crowded or haphazard, but instead fitted together with astonishing grace. Sylas’s art teacher had once talked about the great calligraphers of the Far East who could create writing of sublime beauty and meaning, but he had never dreamed of anything as beautiful as this.
But it still didn’t mean anything.
He yawned as he stared at yet another page, now difficult to see in the fading light. He widened his eyes to fight back the tiredness and glanced out of the window. The sun had nearly set behind some clouds, plunging the churchyard into near-darkness, and rain was once again clattering against the windowpane.
He was about to turn back to the Samarok when he thought he saw a movement in the churchyard. He paused, wiped his bleary eyes, then swept his hand across the glass to remove the condensation. The streaks of water distorted the light, stretching the lines of the darkening church. The few passing cars cast beams of yellow and red light on to the ruined walls and the overhanging branches of trees. Sylas looked for some moments, but there was nothing: just rain and trees swaying in the wind.
“Deluded,” he muttered under his breath.
Then he saw another movement.
He leaned forward and wiped the window dry with the sleeve of his sweater, his eyes trained on one particular arched window in the old church.
There, beneath a large overhang of ivy, something was creeping through the undergrowth.
Sylas shrank back into the shadows.
A gargantuan black hound emerged from under the ivy, walking under the archway towards the end of the church.
It was truly massive, the points of its shoulders standing proud of the rest of its dark figure, rolling as it moved lithely through the undergrowth. The head was hidden in the shadows, hanging low beneath the matted mane of its neck. The sloping back gave way to powerful haunches that stood lower than the shoulders, giving it an ugly, predatory profile.
Sylas was transfixed. He wanted to retreat into his room, but something made him stay.
The beast stopped.
For a moment it was entirely motionless, but slowly its shoulders braced and its thick neck rose. Its huge head emerged from the darkness until Sylas could see its crumpled brow and long canine snout that seemed scarred and disfigured. Beneath, its gaping jaws lolled open, revealing a cruel mass of ragged teeth.
Without warning, the beast’s powerful neck swung sharply and it looked directly up at his window.
Its small eyes seemed to catch the twilight and they burned in the shadows. The nose twitched, sniffing the polluted air. Sylas pushed himself as far back on the window seat as he could, hoping that the shadows would hide him, but their eyes seemed to meet. The rest of the world faded and he was filled with a new, creeping terror.
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“This is a life-giving journey. It is a bitter-sweet elixir that restores my spirit, strengthens my heart and, most of all, opens my eyes.”
SYLAS GRIPPED THE EDGE of the seat, willing himself to climb down into his room, but his limbs were frozen. The pale yellow eyes of the hound penetrated deep inside him, calmly peeling away the layers until they saw weakness and loneliness, until they glared coldly at a boy’s thoughts of his mother.
“Sylas!”
It was Tobias Tate’s grating voice, coming through the trapdoor.
“Sylas! Come down!”
Sylas glanced at his watch. Five past seven – he was late.
He glanced back out of the window in time to see the beast drop its head and resume its stooped prowl along the ruined remains of the aisle, passing quickly out of sight.
“Come here AT ONCE!”
Sylas peered down into the churchyard until he was sure that the hound was gone, then sighed, heaved himself off his seat and walked over to his trapdoor.
He found his uncle standing in the corridor, hands on his hips, peering at him as if he was an account that would not balance.
“Well?” he squawked, his voice echoing down the passageway. “Where’ve you been?”
“Sorry I’m late,” said Sylas dismissively – he was in no mood for another lecture from his uncle. “I saw something really strange from my window... something in the churchy—”
“Daydreaming, I knew it!” growled his uncle. ”Well, I have no interest in your nonsense. And there’s no time for dinner now – you can daydream about that!”
“Fine!” sighed Sylas, pushing past his uncle into the flat.
Tobias Tate watched him go and frowned, seemingly a little disappointed to have had the wind taken from his sails.
Dinnertime was spent sifting, trawling and rummaging through endless mountains of paper. What made this task especially infuriating was that everything was already in the right place, filed properly into the many piles about the office. But, as an accountant of great care and attention, Tobias Tate had to be convinced of this. Sylas would make helpful observations and suggestions while being chastised, corrected and mocked; a torture that only came to an end when his uncle had dissected and exploded every sensible suggestion put to him, and Sylas had been duly reminded of his dull wits, poor instincts and low birth.
On this particular evening Sylas found this task more frustrating than ever, not only because of his anger about their earlier clash, but also because his thoughts kept turning to the hound in the churchyard and the strange Shop of Things. His mind was filled with images of the dark hound and, more excitingly, the endless warren of parcels and packages, the amazing flight of birds beneath the mobile and the peculiar runes of the Samarok. But he knew it would be some time before he would get back to its pages: the filing would take as long as it would take. Tobias Tate’s old grandfather clock tick-tocked its way through the endless minutes and chimed the passing of interminable hours.
Finally, as the clock struck nine, his uncle sat down in the chair in his favourite corner, ate a quick dinner (which he reserved entirely for himself), put his hands behind his head and fell asleep. He drew breath in long, deep snores of rasping snorts that built to a crescendo of clucks and splutters and then began again at the bottom of the scale.
Sylas could not believe his luck – this was his chance to escape. But he must not be hasty – his uncle’s finely tuned ears might hear him leave. He replaced the pile he was sifting through and edged closer to the desk, then picked up some papers by the window and rustled them loudly. His uncle snorted and spluttered, but his eyes stayed closed and the metronomic drone of his snoring resumed. Sylas smiled quietly and replaced the papers, taking care to leave them exactly as he found them – his uncle had not asked him to check this pile.
As he drew his fingers away, he froze.
He blinked, certain that his eyes were playing tricks on him.
In the header of the topmost letter was a logo: a stark, black-and-white fern leaf coiled into an almost perfect circle, with the words Winterfern Hospital for the Mentally Ill emblazoned below in silver lettering. Sylas had seen that logo before, on the white coats of the doctor and nurse who had taken his mother away. But it was the date on the letter that had made his blood run cold.
Two weeks ago.
His stomach turned. He picked up the letter, seeing as he did so that there was another beneath it dated three months before. A cold sweat formed on his brow. Now he could see the letterhead of another jutting out further down the pile, bearing a date of a year before. He turned his eyes back to the one in his hand – the one from just two weeks ago – and began to read, his heart racing. The room receded – all he could see was the stark black type.
Ms A. Tate: Clinical Report
Dear Mr Tate,
Amelie has shown some continued improvement under the revised regime of sedatives and occupational therapy and is responding particularly well to her new surroundings in the garden room. She has developed a keen interest in botany and spends extended periods reading and walking in the hospital grounds. Nevertheless she continues to experience severe psychotic episodes throughout the night and some hours of the day.
We recommend a continuation of the current course of treatment. As we have indicated previously, while her guardian’s visits are extremely helpful, we feel that family visits would also be beneficial.
Yours sincerely,
Dr Adrian Kopenhauer
Supervising Psychiatrist
Sylas’s hands began to shake. He took up the next letter and the next. Each was another Clinical Report, each dated three months before the last. He turned slowly to the sleeping form of his uncle and stared at him, his chest heaving, tears in his eyes.
Tobias Tate continued to snore, oblivious.
Sylas shook his head in disbelief. How could this be? His mother, still alive? And his uncle knew all along?
He grabbed the pile of papers, whirled about and rushed from the room.
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“… we wake to sounds that assail the senses and crowd the mind, like dreaming that will not end.”
SYLAS SAT LISTLESSLY ON his mattress, papers strewn about him, tears pouring down his face. His wonderful room, his sanctuary from the world, was suddenly cool and dark, hollow and soulless, for surely it was part of this great lie, the sham that lay in scattered pieces around him, typed in hard black letters for anyone to see. It too had hidden the truth from him, for had he not lived in it every day of the past four years? Had he not grieved in it? Had he not looked down from its window into the churchyard and thought of his mother? Given her up? Let her go?
His eyes shifted back to the mattress, to the scores of Clinical Reports, Review Meeting Reports, Annual Statements, and then finally to the document in his trembling fingers, the Order of Committal, the document that gave the doctors the right to take his mother away against her will, the document that had started it all.
At the bottom were two signatures. One of these he knew all too well.
It was his uncle’s.
Sylas felt nauseous. He forced himself to look away, but everything he saw around him seemed to be part of the lie: the familiar walls of his room, his meagre furniture, the crooked beams of the old building, even the picture of his mother. Even that. It was no longer what it had been to him – a piece of her, a way to feel close to her. Instead it was just a snapshot, because it was not how she was today, not how she looked in her ‘garden room’, or walking around the hospital grounds, or how she would look at him if he was with her now.
He sat like that for some time, he had no idea how long. Eventually he stirred, his eyes slowly finding focus. They drifted around the room until they fell on something that could be no part of the lie, had no place in the conspiracy. He saw his flock of colourful, bird-like kites hanging on the wall: meaningless but also innocent – things that he himself had created.
When he had first moved to Gabblety Row, he had yearned to be far away, far from his uncle and the news he had brought. From his windows he had watched the distant birds flying above the hills at the edge of town and they had become his dearest dream, his favourite escape. Inspired by their beauty and freedom, he had become a creator of his own birds: an ever-growing squadron of kites, all painted in the brightest colours arranged in odd but beautiful designs.
And they were more than just works of art. When he finished one of his kites, he would clamber out of the window on to the roof, where he could sit with one leg on either side of the ridge and launch his kite into the air. It would soar over the town as he yearned to do, escaping normal life, dazzling the residents of the housing estate over the road and brightening the day of those caught in the endless traffic jams below. He dreamed that one day he might create one so beautiful that it might even tempt its sisters to journey from the hills and across the grey town to fly over Gabblety Row. But so far the only visitor he ever received on that breezy rooftop was Herr Veeglum the undertaker, who would often lean out of his garret window at the other end of the row and raise his sallow face to watch.
Sylas had no real urge to move, to do anything, but the sight of his kites made him think of something. He ran his sleeve over his face, pushed himself up from his mattress and went over to his only piece of furniture – a three-legged dresser with many ill-fitting doors and drawers. He pulled the top drawer off its runners and carried the whole thing back to his mattress, laying it down on top of the papers.
Inside were the most important things in the world.
This is where he kept the gifts his mother had given him when he was young, before she went away. Most of it looked like bric-a-brac: a jumble of worn and threadbare toys, an old glove, birthday cards, half a plastic tiara (“broken, but magical,” she had told him with a girlish smile), faded photographs, the key to their old cottage. And nestled among all these things were his most beloved possessions of all. First, a large pigment-stained wooden box, containing two rows of small glass jars set snugly into a felt base, each with a little cork stopper. Inside every jar was a dazzling paint: red, the colour of molten rock; orange, like tongues of fire; silver, like fish scales in water; green, like the forested hills, and many, many more. Each was labelled in silver ink by his mother’s own measured hand: Orivan Red, Grysgar Orange, Girigander Silver, Mislehay Green; names that meant nothing and yet everything, for their mystery fed his imagination.
It was with these strange colours that Sylas painted all of his kites, and somehow, through these outlandish pigments, he shared his creations with her. His painting was never planned, the design coming to him only as he placed each colour on the canvas; but then, as the wondrous design started to take shape, it would create an elaborate maze of colour: swirls, curves, angles, shapes and symbols. With the paints, he would transform his kites into living things, with glistening eyes, gorgeous crests, plumed feathers and powerful arching beaks: all picked out in a unique display of tiny dots and lines.
For a moment he looked up at the flock of multicoloured kites and felt warmed and consoled. These, at least, remained constant and true: their colours as bright – their designs as beautiful – as ever before.
He laid the box of pigments on top of the papers and took his other prized possession from the old drawer. A large hardback book, on whose cloth cover was a simple, gold-foiled title:
