3.
Night spread its wings quickly in the north. Spring may never show save for the budding of paludial wildflowers, and a slight incline of temperature; but there in the rocky shire the suns set in a flash. Zero watched them go, an anxious twist in his stomach, as he traversed the last knob back to Gatehill.
He was on his way to find the Yellow Finch, the mystic, as he believed his father had asked of him. 'Find the finch.' After repetition of this request to Uncle Pip, Zero proclaimed his intention. 'What will you tell him, even if he does let you talk to him?' Nitten, keenly aware of her brother's stubbornness, merely wished Zero would progress through this at a meticulous pace. Mystics, to her, were not to be trifled with, and were not to be ordered about. Zero's mumbled reply was his common 'I don't really know, Nittie.' A pause, then: 'But I'll worry about that, as you say, if he lets me talk to him at all. No, Uncle, you don't have to come: I'd much rather go alone.'
Alone he was. The sky cleared but for tangled lumps of brightening clouds, in all the blends of colours that made swift work of emotions, of homesickness. Since a boy, he'd wanted to leave Liddell, a dead-end place, full of vacant, expressionless dwellers, backs bent with annuals of ghastly burden. And there he was, a road on the other side of the Rip, an image of suns-set burning before him, and tears of worry and aggravation flowing as the sea.
The sight of Gatehill, alit by windows and a few intermittent streetlamps, sanitated and cleansed all in one moment.
The mystic lived in the back of the tea shop, and Uncle Pip's directions, spot on though they were, led Zero to frilled lace curtains behind leaded casement windows: a tea room that was clearly closed for the night. Zero was about to take to a narrow alley beside the tea shop, to try his luck aft, when a rambunctious piano tune filled the street.
Having heard so little piano music, and not expecting to find it in Gatehill, Zero allowed himself a moment to peek into the restaurant across the street. It may have once been a saloon, annuals ago, when Gatehill was a pioneer town run by shepherds and ranchers. Now it had a touch of class, gilt and velvet, round tables lit by candlelight, an elegant bar where the most elegant citizens of town were turned to the proceedings on a little outcropping to the right. A stage, some three feet lifted from the ground, whereupon rested the timeworn upright instrument. Its keys were blasted by the large, long-fingered hands of a most unusual character. In the drone of fast-paced ragtime, that sent toes tapping and faces smiling, Zero was able to sneak into the restaurant, despite his lower-class garb, the holes in his coat, and lean into the shadows. Nitten and Vier always said he had a way of disappearing when he didn't want to be found…
At the piano was a lad who couldn't surpass Zero in too many annuals. He had to be close to Nitten's age, a certain square set in his jaw expressing this. His features were plain: plain syrupy brown eyes, drab mouse-brown hair cut short at the neck and left long at the top; and one wasn't likely to think twice about him if he were not dressed so strange. His boots were tall, rider's boots, and laced all the way to his knees, to soft leggings hidden beneath the kilt of northern clans. The light was too dark to distinguish the colours of the kilt, or any pattern, but Zero realised he wouldn't have known one clan from another. Above the kilt was a gentleman's raiment: a fine silk waistcoat, nickel buttons, a clean, crisp white shirt whose sleeves were rolled and pushed to the elbows. The player's wrists were knobbly, thin, yet easily controlled, just as his fingers slid up and down the range of keys unctuously.
'I am not in the habit of singing,' the piano player told the crowd, 'or crooning, or playing the piano. But I thought I might entertain you tonight with a fine song. Because I was bored. And to thank all of you for showing me hospitality ever since I arrived. And that, I have to say, was something I did out of the blue. I've never been to Gatehill in my life. Rather glad I did!'
He spoke youthfully, cheerfully. Behind that rested conceit, contention, aggression. He dared people to contradict him. But, of course, such a thought failed to come to them.
The song began, and a show started. Whoever he was, he was a talented performer. His energy was never spent except to enliven the crowd. They whooped and hollered and lost all sense of decorum as he sang. Zero was allured, as they were, but he remained reflective, speculative. He couldn't easily forget that he'd come into town that night to find the Yellow Finch. Grateful when the song ended, to an uproar of applause, Zero remained sitting while the assembly stood. The player went to the edge of the stage to receive this praise gratefully.
And that's when Zero saw it.
One lone, lissom yellow feather. It drifted from the player to faint upon the stage.
-x-
The Finch.
He removed himself from the throng, from the stage, to a small table for two in the back corner of the restaurant. As Zero approached, he noted that the Finch must've been seated there before succumbing to the whim of performance, for at rest atop the surface was a glass mug with two sips left of grog, a deck of cards, a sheet of paper, a pen, and a greatcoat hanging on the opposite chair.
Just as Zero reached this intimate little arrangement, a server swept by and left two mugs of the same amber grog. The mystic murmured a thanks but didn't look up. Not even when Zero stalled at his side.
Zero looked at his feet. Two feathers already.
'Is there any use in asking you to sit?' the mystic asked. He was scribbling with the fountain pen, shorthand, Zero thought it must be. A weird series of squiggles that couldn't possibly be a real language. 'I've already bought you a drink.'
Then Zero was regarded. A look so potent that Zero's shoulders twitched, but he held fast to the gaze, regarding in return. The eyes he supposed plain were not so plain at all. They were flecked with green and gold. Almost wise. Almost kind. A reminder of a meadow in autumn, a bouquet of wild grasses about to wither in frost. They crinkled beneath downy, mud-hued lashes as he smiled.
'You do drink, don't you? Of course you do. Sit, sit! Move the coat if you have to. I do have a habit of just leaving it about willy-nilly. Give it here and I'll put it behind me.'
Zero did this, then wondered why he was obeying. Was this really the person his father had asked for, specifically, nearly by name? And he'd heard so much in Liddell, but never about any mystic named the Finch, who shed feathers, who was a few planets short of a galaxy… How often had he listened to talk of mystics? Very infrequently. Mystics were not priests, held very little power in the O.Z., could perform no temple ceremony, and were often considered performers rather than spiritual leaders. Zero turned a deaf ear to them.
Yet he sat and wrapped his fingers round the mug handle. 'Is this really for me?'
'Really.' He looked quizzical. 'Didn't I say it was?'
'You did, but I—'
'Oh, that's a relief. I have a bad memory. Forget things. Often. Things often forgot.' The new mug of grog was lifted, his expression inviting his new friend to do the same. 'Let's drink to Mr Ridgestone and his fine local brewery establishment, shall we?'
Seeing nothing wrong with this toast, Zero clanked his mug next to the Finch's. They both sipped at the same time, set the glasses down at the same time, and burst into smiles at the same time.
'Good, isn't it! Ha!'
'It is good. I've never had it before.'
'Of course not. You're a southern lad. No, don't laugh: I hardly have to be a mystic to hear that accent. Let's see, let's see…' He fell away in thought, smoothing back a mess of stringy, thick hair. 'River dialect. And you've already got a tan.'
Zero's self-conscious glare went to the back of his hands. Golden, mottled in sun freckles. Was this a mystic or just a very careful observer?
'I'll say you're from Hastings or—what's the name of that town? Rookwood? Am I close at all?'
'Rookwood is the next village north from mine,' Zero answered casually. 'I'm from Liddell.' So far, however, this was unimpressive. Meeting a mystic ought to change the way one saw the world.
'Well, you already know I'm from the north, Stirbane, near the foothills. My clothes give it away. Perhaps that's why I wear them. You have a name?'
'Zero.'
The mystic snickered. 'Is that really your name?'
'No,' he laughed at the thought, 'no, it's a nickname.'
'What is your real name?'
'Can't tell you.'
'Why not?'
'Because it's ancient and long and ridiculous. Zero, I can tell you, is the starting syllable and the ending syllable—respectively.'
'Oh, what a way to play with my mind. I've known you two seconds, excuse the overstating, and I'm already captivated. How'd you wind up with a name, secret as it is, like that?'
'Mam lost a bet.'
He howled in laughter, a pleasing thing that made one forget troubles, as much as grog did for others. 'I don't doubt she did! A very big one! Well, I can't call you Zero. And I can't call you Dertien. That would be your uncle, am I right? He's an amicable man, isn't he? I liked him very much. Only sorry I brought him such awful news.'
He faded away for a moment, and Zero had the sensation of whirlpools circling. But the mystic breathed in sharply to return to himself.
'Name's Ansley. Ans being the first syllable, ly being the last. Ansley of Stirbane, one of my favourite nicknames. Followed en route by the Finch. And, of course, my least favourite: the Yellow Finch. And what shall I call you? Oh, that doesn't matter. I'm forgetting myself. A right name will pick itself, and monikers are so often flashes of a moment, coming and going, and they form themselves. It will come when it wants to. And you will probably call me Ansley. No—at first it will be Finch, out of fear—or respect and fear, fear and respect,' a pause for a breath, 'but when the fear abates, well, that leaves respect. And since you know I don't like to be called Finch, you'll call me Ansley. Don't want to hurt my feelings, do you? And by then, when you start calling me Ansley, I'll call you something else. You will never be Zero, not while I know you. Am I talking too much? My brother says I need to put some feathers in my mouth once in a while. He's a wit, he is. He's a writer for the libertine papers in the north. Someone told him—oh, come to think on it, I suppose it was Kiernan—well, whoever it was stupidly told my brother that he wrote well, and that was all he needed. Got it into his head he could write. Poor sod. Anyway, um… I've gone and lost my bookmark. Where was I?'
Zero could hardly imagine. 'Uncle said you were a little unusual. I just didn't expect— He also said you were a hermit.'
'A hermit!' The loud laugh again. 'Well, yes, that's true: I am a hermit. If a hermit is a synonym for a social outcast, though not necessarily a recluse by any means. But I knew you were coming, didn't I? I had to come out and meet you. Did you really want us to meet in the back of a tea shop? That's not very adventurous at all, is it?'
'Isn't it?'
'You're a serious sort. Ah, right, worried, aren't you, about your mam and dad. Pretty bad when you left them, weren't they?'
Zero opened his mouth to drag out this topic. His gumption failed. Nevertheless, Finch went on, fearing nothing the way Zero feared the death of his family.
'I can answer one of your questions right now, should you like me to. Oh you've loads of questions. I can read them. Like signs of magic upon you. Symbols.'
Finch scanned Zero's face, in starts and stops, as one reads words on a page. It unnerved but thrilled. What if there were words upon him to be read, as a story, as a fable unfolding?
Finch set his elbows on the table and leaned into Zero. Then he realised the candle was burning the end of his pointed chin. It was out of the way, and Finch restored his close proximity to Zero.
'Question one: What was your father doing asking about me, and what was he doing asking you to find me?' He scratched a spot on his head. 'Perhaps that's two questions. Or one question split into two separate but equal portions? Well, either way, it's mince, and I've pie, and I know which is best. Answer? That should be more than obvious: I know your father.'
Zero could not have been more surprised. 'How do you know my father?'
'I know lots of people. I've been travelling about since I was, let's see, let's see… Since I was eight, so a good eight annuals have passed since. I've been nearly everywhere in the O.Z. From the flood plains in the east to the Shifting Glaciers in the north. Never been to the Otherside—though I'd love to go. That is how I met your father. Joff, right? Joff Dertien. A good man. Fisherman. Always smells of river trout. He caught me one day when I fell into that river of yours, nearly drowned. He saved me. I thanked him by promising to return the favour, should he ever have need of it. Now you've come, I'm guessing he has need of it. The plague, right?'
Sentences that Zero had constructed while listening to Finch speak soon unravelled. The thought of the plague, of hearing someone else say it aloud, confirmed rudimentary suspicions. They did have the plague, after all. Zero had been wishing, longing, even secretly, for it to be nothing worse than influenza. Now, however, the truth must be accepted.
'I don't know anything,' Zero began quietly, 'about your powers, and I'm not really sure I believe you. How do I know you've not just stuffed some dyed feathers up the sleeves of your shirt, or up the legs of your trousers, and that's how they're able to appear like that? For all I know, you could be a phoney. All the same, I did just travel all the way here from Liddell—you know how far that is, or claim you know—worried sick about my parents. Less worried now for Nitten and Vier, my sister and brother, since neither of them seem to have caught it. But still worried. If you're willing, I'd like to guide you back to Liddell, to my parents, to my father. He asked for you. If you can't make them better, tell me now. I would rather get all the way home, tell him I couldn't find you, then bring you back, raise their hopes, and then see them…'
'You needn't finish. Drink up,' urged Finch. He used a pointer finger to inch the grog towards Zero. A moment of quiet passed, a quaff, completed again at a congruous second, and a consideration remitted. 'I don't know if I can save them. I can't promise that. Wouldn't even promise it to your parents. But I can tell you—I have tried to help others ground themselves against the plague. The results are inconclusive. Forty-nine percent fell ill again. Another fifty-one percent lived. How much of a hand did the determination of the spirit have in that? How much did I really do? All the same, I accept your offer to guide me to Liddell.'
'You're coming?' Zero's face brightened for a flash, a spark of hope, and then faded. 'We can hardly afford to pay you—'
'Did I ever say I wanted remuneration for this?'
Because Finch asked it so seriously, and Zero remembered that the mystic claimed a faulty memory, Zero answered. 'You didn't. But I thought—'
'By the suns, you think an awful lot. Your brain is a windy day. I don't want to be paid, thank you. A journey to the south will be enough for me. I've not been for annuals. My own father passed away this season but one.'
'I'm sorry.' Zero said it and meant it.
'Your sentiment is appreciated. All it did was cark me up a bit, that's all. And I had to forego a run at being catechumen to the Mystic Man—the Mystic Man, mind you—and I think that broke Father up far more than his dying did. Mother, too. I still mean to fulfil my obligation to the Mystic Man. But darkness,' the often enthusiastic voice lost its zeal, becoming colourless and hollow, 'from whatever direction it comes, will spiral—and rapidly—and coil—and that's the end of my knowledge. Well,' he burst into a cheerful grin as though he'd predicted nothing dolorous at all, 'when do you want to leave? How's morning sound? First light? Second light? You choose. You know the road better. Tell you what.' He flicked a hand, and an automaton cyborg answered with a bill. 'I'll settle this while you finish your grog. Then we'll head to the tea shop, I'll grab my few pithy personal chattels, and we'll head back to your uncle's.'
'But shouldn't I pay for the grog myself?'
'Money, honestly. Your brain may be a windy day, and littering the gutters in that blustery world of your aggrieved conscience are bright, shiny platinums. This is my treat. And, yes, you have deserved it. Always will.'
The last two words were misunderstood, or far too obscure for clarification. Zero let them hang in the air. Finch fished around his trouser pockets for enough coinage to cover the bill. Zero finished what he dared of the grog, it being a little on the sweet side for his liking, and felt obliged to help Finch gather the mess of belongings. A deck of cards was put into the pocket of the long greatcoat. The notebook and pen left in an inside pocket. He found a scarf, knitted loosely in hues of cereals, of ripening wheat, and knotted it at his throat. He laughed and said he wasn't used to the damp; Stirbane was mountainous, semi-arid, a rugged terrain…
Zero, leaving the restaurant in the company of the recognisable mystic, shot a look back at the little table. A yellow feather that had not been there before now rested on the abandoned chair.
He shouldn't have looked back.
