ONE: Such Fun In The Market
‘This is the tale of the famed, mysterious and immortal freedom fighter-ninja. She is known only by the name whispered on bated breath during games of Chinese Whispers with Auld Lang Syne played by a blind ocarina player underneath the table. The tale that curves, long and sinuous, in and out of time and history, wrapped around the ankles of the universe and tickling its toes so that the universe shakes and trembles in amusement.
This is the tail of the Raven. However, being a bird, she doesn’t have a very long tail. In fact…’ The Raven looked over her shoulder, squinting down her nose. ‘Being a hybrid, she doesn’t actually have any tail at all. So the analogy kind of falls down flat, doesn’t it?’
The cat licked a paw and rubbed behind its ears, then stuck out a hind leg as though it were giving the whole world the finger and began to wash the base of its tail.
‘Is it even an analogy, though?’ she mused. ‘Analogies are like metaphors, aren’t they? And it’s not really a metaphor, it’s a – what is it, cat?’ She paused, blinked. ‘It’s not very hygienic to lick oneself down there, you know. There’s a reason that soap was invented. Or was it invented? Maybe it was discovered. Siarl.’ She looked up at the footman holding her lead. ‘Was soap invented or discovered?’
‘Invented.’
She sighed. ‘It’s more exciting if things are discovered, don’t you think?’
‘Then you could say that the recipe for soap was discovered,’ Siarl suggested.
She brightened. ‘Yes, I could, couldn’t I?’
The cat finished its ablutions, jumped down from the wall and ran across the road. The Raven watched it go and sighed. Tugging a little on her lead, she looked back at the house. ‘When’s Mistress going to be ready?’
‘All in good time,’ Siarl said stoically.
The Raven bounced up and down on the spot, her long black poncho flying up around her spindly legs. ‘I wanna go now!’
‘Stand still.’ Siarl jerked her lead and pulled her to his side. ‘Heel.’
Sighing, she stood still, her feet turned out and her nose in the air. Her eyes were closed against the afternoon sunlight, and she could feel the heat pressing on her face like a heavy cloth. She opened her mouth a little and breathed out, thinking that, if it really were a cloth, she should be able to see it move. She saw the dust rise from the street, and wondered smugly if she had caused it. The tale of Raven Thunder Breath who could send strong men into orbit through the power of exhalation…
‘Exhalation,’ she murmured, feeling the sunlight spread over her forehead. ‘Exultation. Exhalation.’
Mistress came tripping out of the front door. ‘Come, Raven!’ she said brightly. She took the lead in one hand and, holding her head high, she went down the path and onto the street. Siarl followed a respectable four paces behind, sweating in his dark livery.
Mistress walked briskly along the Halbrund, the few decorative trees throwing mottled shadows onto her pale bonnet and white cotton dress. By the time they reached Cendrick Bridge, her pace had slowed to a docile walk, and when they reached the High Street, she stood still a moment in the cool shadow of St John the Eagle’s Church and fanned herself. ‘Oh, it’s hot!’ she exclaimed.
‘That happens to be the nature of summer days,’ the Raven said, pushing a lock of her lank dark hair out of her eyes. ‘Spare a thought for those in your retinue, Mistress. Your loyal footman, your devoted pet hybrid.’
Mistress smiled and patted the Raven’s head. ‘Good girl, Raven. Good hybrid. We'll be finished soon.’ She took a deep breath.
‘Should I buy you a drink of water, miss?’ Siarl asked.
‘No, no, it’s all right. Maybe later.’ Mistress straightened her bonnet and sallied forth into the High Street. The market had lost its earlier hum and bustle; it still buzzed, but quietly – the snores of a dozing bumblebee rather than the purr of a working one. Stalls stretched out like a fleet ready in a harbour; topped with dull canvas, manned by country couples armed with vegetables and chickens, young women with ribbons and dyed cloth, men with fish and fruit. Scattered in between the stalls were children with trays of bootlaces, a blind man with a box of mousetraps, an old woman with a basket of old apples, a pock-scarred beggar huddling in the gutter, holding out a hand, his mumbles for ‘a little something, a little money for poor old Lisha’ almost drowned by the shouts and patter of everyone else filling the High Street.
The Raven trotted at Mistress’ side, her ears filled with the sounds of the market, her head with her own thoughts. This is the tale of Raven-the-spriggan, the toast of the Hollow Hills and the boast of Manchester, who walked the tightropes and stalked the playwrights of the world, for all the world’s a stage, boys and girls, and we mewl and puke our way through the chrysalides and caterpillars until we emerge at Tiffany’s, sans everything but regrets.
‘Afternoon, Miss Lily,’ called the old apple woman, and the children rushed up to Mistress with their trays held out, chirping like an echo of sparrows, ‘Afternoon, Miss Lily!’
Mistress smiled and held a pale blue ribbon against her golden ringlets. ‘Good afternoon, children.’
The children nudged each other and giggled nervously.
And Raven-the-spriggan had a Mistress who was loved by everyone she met, because Mistress was the daughter of Roscoe Corbin, the editor of the Camulus Bill, and the daughter of the editor of the Camulus Bill was one of the most important women in the country. And Mistress loved everyone in return, because she was rich and beautiful and famous and she could afford to be. But most of all, she loved her pet hybrid, the hybrid she called the Raven and took everywhere with her. And one day, Mistress said to the Raven, ‘Raven, you may go free; you don’t have to be my pet any longer.’ And the Raven said, ‘But Mistress, where would I go?’ So the Raven stayed with Mistress, and Mistress made the Raven into the Queen’s Personal Ninja, and they all lived happily ever after. Apart from Sine, Mistress’ younger cousin, who was ugly and hated and not famous at all.
‘Two a penny, Miss Lily! Only a penny and they’re beautiful smooth ribbons, ain’t they?’
‘Very pretty.’ Mistress smiled and reached for her purse. She pulled out a penny and deposited it into the small, grimy hand eagerly thrust under her nose. ‘Blue, I think. And… red. Yes. Thank you very much, children. Good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon, Miss Lily!’
‘They’re so sweet, aren’t they?’ Mistress said to no one in particular, moving on.
‘Sweet as sugar, Mistress,’ the Raven said. ‘Sugar, sugar, sugar pie. Sugar baby love…’
‘Look, Raven.’ Mistress dangled the red ribbon like a bright shiny worm. ‘Ribbon!’
‘Ribbon,’ the Raven agreed, taking it. ‘Pretty ribbon. Thank you, Mistress.’
‘Good Raven,’ Mistress murmured. She stopped at a cloth stall and turned over a fold of pink muslin.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Lily,’ the stallholder said, pulling at his cap.
And Mistress was loved by everyone she met, because she was rich and beautiful and kind and good. But she loved the Raven best of all.
Mistress stroked the pale cloth thoughtfully. The Raven rested her hands on the edge of the stall and looked at the bolts of material laid out, thinking that they looked like slabs cut out of a rainbow. She laid her new ribbon against a folded square of black lace; the red shining like polished holly berries on the dark.
Mistress nodded and looked up. ‘How much is this–’
A cold breeze lifted the hair on the back of the Raven’s neck. She shuddered, heard Siarl’s grunt and Mistress’ shocked half-scream. Siarl sank to his knees, his hands vainly trying to hold his throat together, and the Raven stared at the blood streaming from between his fingers. Then she looked, wide-eyed, at the stallholder who was holding a bloody knife to Mistress’ throat.
‘Keep still,’ the man breathed. ‘Don’t scream. Don’t.’
‘I–I’ve got money,’ Mistress gasped. ‘Money… My father–’
‘I know who your father is and if you want to see him again you’ll do exactly as I tell you. Understand?’
Mistress’ eyes glistened, and she gave a tiny nod. The Raven could see that she was chewing on her lower lip, and said, ‘Don’t bite your mouth, Mistress. You’ll ruin your lips.’
Mistress sniffed, and gasped as the man moved the knife. Siarl’s blood smeared on her pale throat.
‘Be quiet,’ he murmured. ‘Be very quiet, and keep your servant quiet.’ He pushed Mistress forward, keeping the knife against her neck.
‘Servant’s dead,’ the Raven said, feeling vaguely sorry. The man dragged on her lead, pulled her to his side.
‘Do you want to be next?’
‘She–she didn’t mean it,’ Mistress whispered. ‘She’s not a servant, she’s a hybrid, she doesn’t understand, she’s–she’s not–’
‘A hybrid? But–never mind, just move.’ He gave Mistress a shove out of the shadow of the stall. She stumbled, threw a helpless glance around the still quietly humming marketplace, waiting for someone to notice that a rogue stallholder was kidnapping the daughter of the editor of the Camulus Bill.
Wasn’t that rather odd? the Raven thought, as they were herded out of the market place and into square before St John the Eagle’s. Men with knives were something to remark upon, weren’t they? She thought about asking Mistress before she remembered that the man with the knife didn’t want them to talk.
----
Comments on everything, but mostly about the characters and especially whether this makes you want to read any more. Anything you recognise isn't my own, btw.
Gender:
Points: 1979
Reviews: 1176