A Tapestry of Time

Book 55: Gateway Essentials

by Richard Cowper

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

The first coming was the Man: The second was Fire to burn Him; The third was water to drown the Fire; The fourth is the Bird of Dawning. Twenty years have passed since the martyrdom of the Boy-piper at York, twenty years in which his legacy, the movement of Kinship, has challenged the tyranny of the Church Militant in Britain's seven island kingdoms. Now his namesake, Tom, bearing the Boy's own pipes and perhaps himself imbued with the spirit of the White Bird, is wandering Europe in company with the girl, Witchet. But disaster overtakes them and Tom, in a furry of vengeance, breaks his vow of Kinship. A terrible path lies before him, one that transcends his own world. As he travels it, Tom must come to understand the true nature of the wild White Bird, of The Bride of Time and her Child, and of the Song the Star Born sang.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 183

Sample

THE LOCAL WIND which the Romans had once called ‘magistralis’—the masterful one—and which the tribes who then lived in those regions had abbreviated to ‘mistral’ was blowing relentlessly from the north-west under a noonday sky of the palest steel blue. Ranked along the terraced slopes of the seaward-facing hills the tormented olive trees hissed and groaned, while away to the south the bruise-black surface of the sea was scored again and again as though by invisible claws.

Between two of the olive trees a rope had been stretched taut. Fixed to it in such a way that it served both as a wind-break and an awning was a sheet of multi-coloured canvas, its lower edge anchored to the ground by the half dozen large stones which had been placed on the leeward side. Such was the force of the buffeting wind that every now and again these anchor weights rocked restlessly beneath the bellying sail.

In the shade afforded by the awning a young man was stretched out full length upon the ground. His arms were bent and his head was resting upon a pillow contrived from his laced fingers. He was watching with absorbed interest the shadow of a small lizard which had scuttled up the outside of the wind-shield and then had paused like a marauding dragon upon the painted battlements of an upside-down castle. From there it darted off sideways on to a stylized cloud and, this proving unsatisfactory, finally settled for two inverted peaks of a distant mountain range.

The wind-shield had been improvised out of a painted backcloth extracted from the property cart of the Theatre Foscari (Proprietor Maestro Andrea Xavier Foscari) which in this month of June A.D. 3039 was engaged in its annual summer tour through the towns and villages of the Alpes Maritimes of Southern France. The company consisted of Andrea, his wife Angelina, their two sons Roberto and Francesco and their daughter Maria. The young lizard-watcher had been invited to join them when, some three weeks earlier, Signor Foscari had chanced to hear him and his sister performing in the marketplace at Rocquevaire. Their act was simple enough—the young man played upon a twin-barrelled set of pipes while his sister sang—but such was the enchantment of the piping and so sweet was the girl’s voice that even the notoriously tight-fisted Rocquevarians had been moved to dip into their pockets when she passed among them to take up the collection.

Foscari had contrived to strike up a conversation with the two of them and over a glass of wine learned that they hailed from the First Kingdom in the Land of Mists. Having passed the winter in Spain they were now making their way across France into Italy. It subsequently emerged that the young man’s name was Tom and the girl’s was Marie though her brother never addressed her as anything other than ‘Witch’—a word he translated for Foscari’s benefit as ensorceleuse.

Andrea complimented the piper upon his mastery of the French tongue and thus discovered that the young man had spent eight years at Corlay in the Isle of Brittany. ‘Corlay!’ cried the Maestro. Then you must surely be acquainted with Kinsman Marwys?’

Tom laughed. ‘Indeed I am. I studied under him for many years.’

‘Oh, a remarkable man is Kinsman Marwys,’ Andrea enthused. ‘And a great traveller.’

‘We call him “The Wanderer”,’ said Tom. ‘In the last six months we must have spoken to at least a dozen people who know him. How did you come to meet him?’

‘It was four or five years ago when we were touring the towns around Torino. For a week they hold an Easter fete in Piossasco. Marwys played two evenings for the dancing when the regular piper hurt his hand. A most remarkable musician is Kinsman Marwys and a fine wood-carver too. It is a privilege to know such a man.’

‘You are Kin, Mr Foscari?’

Andrea smiled broadly and tilted his hand from side to side. ‘Fa lo stesso—it’s all the same,’ he said. ‘You know how it is.’ His warm brown eyes dwelt thoughtfully upon the girl. ‘You stay in Rocquevaire tonight, Alouette?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Do we, Tom?’

There is a room going begging in the Hotel Post,’ said Andrea. The food there is excellent. Tell them Signor Foscari has sent you. And come and see the show this evening. You will meet Angelina and our children. So. It is arranged. And we will all dine together after the performance.’ He swigged off his wine, rose to his feet, grasped them both warmly by the hand, smiled down upon them, and with a flamboyant salute strode away across the market place bawling at the top of his lungs: Tonight at eight o’clock the World Renowned Teatro Foscari will be performing here in your piazza! No one can afford to miss the theatrical experience of a life-time!’

Witch (her full nickname was ‘Witchet’) was not in fact Tom’s sister though they allowed people to think so because of the modicum of protection it afforded her. They had shared childhood together until Tom had left their village home on the Island of Quantock in the First Kingdom and had gone off to be trained for the priesthood at Corlay. When at the age of nineteen he had decided to renounce his calling he had invited Witchet to accompany him and the two of them had set off to see the world, supporting themselves along the way by the supreme skill of his piping and her singing.

At the port of New Barnstaple they had boarded a ship bound for Bilbao on the northern coast of Spain and from there had made their way southwards to Granada where they had found shelter for the winter in the household of a prosperous landowner who had recently been converted to Kinship. Senor Fernandez had seen in Tom a potential tutor in English and music for his three beautiful daughters. Unfortunately, before the second month was out, he had also perceived in the person of young Witchet a golden peach formed exactly to his taste and much too close and too tempting to be resisted. Senora Fernandez, perpetually alert to such dangers, had hardened her heart to the tearful pleadings of Dolores, Lucia and Margharita and had sent the luckless young couple off into the cold rains of February with a gold crown apiece by way of token compensation.

Spring had found them in Perello on the eastern shore of the Gulf of Ebro, both now speaking fluent if ungrammatical Spanish, their scant worldly possessions increased by the sum of one guitar which Witchet was struggling to master, and their repertoire by many new songs, several of them composed by Tom. It was at Perello that they had settled upon a vague plan of travelling across the south of France into Italy then heading up through Switzerland and eventually striking Alençon in the Isle of Normandy when Tom’s closest friend, David Ronceval, was studying medicine at the Kinsmen’s Hospital. With this object in mind they had crossed the border into France in April and had descended upon the great trading port of Toulouse. Having sought out a vessel bound for the Seven Kingdoms they entrusted to its captain a long and affectionate letter home describing their adventures and concluding with a promise to be back in Tallon in time for the New Year festivities.

In Castres they purchased an elderly donkey with an obstinate temperament and a woebegone expression and they towed him along behind them through the mountains (he lay down in the road if ever they attempted to ride him). In a village near Lodéve the small daughter of the local schoolmaster took a great fancy to their donkey and he to her. Realizing he had at last reached the land of his heart’s desire he refused to budge another step and they finally parted with him to the schoolmaster in exchange for a melon, a cheese, and two litres of harsh red wine.

From Lodéve they hiked down to the Gulf of Languedoc and were ferried in a fishing boat over the graves of long-drowned Nimes and Arles to the Island of St Rémy at the mouth of the Durance. Three weeks later they found themselves at Rocquevaire, both by now as brown as desert sand and with Witchet’s fair hair bleached almost to silver by long days of wind and sun. And thus it came about that shortly before eight o’clock in the evening they clambered up on to the rim of the waterless bowl of the marble memorial fountain in the town square and gazed out over the heads of the crowd who had gathered to watch the entertainment.

The Foscaris’ stage was the porticoed dais in front of the mairie which had been converted into a makeshift theatre by the simple expedient of draping a pair of blue curtains from a pole and erecting two ornate folding screens on either side to serve as wings. A wide banner suspended from the balcony above did dual service as proscenium and advertisement, announcing in letters of gold to those few who were still ignorant that this was indeed the universally renowned TEATRO FOSCARI.

As the last chime of the church clock faded on the warm still air there came the brisk roll of a drum backstage, then a stirring trumpet call. This was followed by a few seconds of pregnant pause before the curtains were suddenly thrust aside and Signor Foscari, resplendent in a superb costume of red velvet and lace and brandishing a silver-headed cane stepped forward, swept off his plumed hat and bowed in acknowledgment of the generous applause. Having replaced his hat he spread his arms as if he would embrace the whole square and proceeded to promise them all a feast of unparalleled delights the like of which they had been denied since his last visit to their own town twelve long months ago. Tonight there will be … (the cane swept up: the drum rolled) Magic! (the cane swept down: again the drum rolled)Drama! (up with the cane once more) Acrobatics! (down for the second time) Jonglerie! AND … (the cane was hovering on high: the drum having a fit of hysterics: Foscari’s eyes seeking inspiration in heaven. The fingers of his left hand gathered at his pursed lips, leapt upwards, exploded like a bursting rose) Beauty beyond compare! Damsels to feast your eyes upon and feed your wildest dreams! (a storm of applause: cheers: whistles) All this, I, Andrea Foscari, have here in store for you in the one … the only … the inimitable … Teatro Foscari!!’

Despite the impressive introduction the entertainment was neither better nor worse than a dozen similar spectacles which Tom and Witchet had observed in the previous six months. The one remarkable exception was a second sight act performed by the Maestro himself and a young girl whom they guessed must be his daughter. It formed the climax to the first half of the show and would no doubt have proved little more than a baffling diversion had not Tom happened to become involved in it himself.

Foscari introduced the girl to the audience as ‘Maria the Miracle Child’ who, when placed in a state of profound and mysterious trance by virtue of his own potent magical influence, would pass among them and by simply being permitted to handle personal articles possessed by members of the audience would tell the owners things about that object and about themselves which it was impossible for her to know. There followed a minute of elaborate hocus-pocus accompanied by the inevitable drum roll from backstage and then Foscari announced that Maria had now entered the realm of omniscience and was ready to perform.

Taking her by the hand he led her down the steps into the crowd After some moments of banter a woman in the audience was persuaded to part with a silver bangle which Foscari proceeded to describe, holding it up for all to see before passing it over to the girl.

By craning his neck Tom was able to catch a glimpse of the child with her eyes shut tight and the bracelet pressed to her forehead. She held it thus for some ten or fifteen seconds and then began to speak in a sing-song Italian which Foscari translated. She saw the sea, he announced. She saw a ship with three tall masts. A great storm. Waves breaking over rocks. (Someone in the crowd cried out and there was a patter of clapping.) A fisherman. A net. People dancing. A wedding. That was all.

‘It is magic! Wonderful!’ cried the woman whose property it was. ‘My boy, Henri, fished it up out of the deep sea at la Ciotat two years ago. Who would have believed it?’ The crowd applauded and cries of: ‘Here! Try this! I have something!’ were heard from all sides.

Foscari and the girl moved through the throng selecting objects at random—a comb, a clasp knife, a pair of spectacles—and for each the child described the scenes which the articles evoked in her mind. Without exception each owner confirmed the uncanny accuracy of her insights. Finally they approached the fountain where Tom and Witchet were perched. Foscari, recognizing them but not betraying the fact that they were already acquainted called out to Tom: ‘Come, sir, surely you must have some article to test Maria’s remarkable powers?’

For a flickering instant Tom was aware that this had all happened before, that it was a part of some already woven pattern. He reached inside his jacket, drew out his pipes and held them out.

Foscari took them from him and held them aloft for all to see ‘Les flageolets jumeaux,’ he announced. ‘Merci, monsieur,’ and he presented them to Maria.

It seemed to Tom as if it were all taking place in some slow and inevitable dream. He watched as Maria raised the pipes and pressed them to the pale olive skin of her forehead. She held them there for no more than a moment then gave a violent shiver and thrust them back at him. Gazing up at him wide-eyed she whispered the single word: ‘Morte’, then turned upon her heel and darted back through the crowd to vanish into the shelter of the wings.

Foscari, momentarily at a loss, shrugged apologetically, spread his hands, and then, ever the showman, cried: The strain has told upon her. It sometimes happens so. She is but the helpless slave of her mysterious gift! Bravo, Maria!’ and led the willing applause while his wife and his sons emerged from behind the stage rattling wooden bowls of small coins and passed among the audience.

By half past nine the show was over and the crowd had begun to disperse. Fifteen minutes later the stage had been dismantled and loaded into a covered wagon. With Witchet at his side Tom approached Signor Foscari and congratulated him.

‘Ah, but they are such skinflints, these ones,’ grumbled Andrea. ’ At Draguinan we will hire the arena for three nights and charge for entrance. It is the only way. No matter. We will soon rinse away the taste of their stinginess. Roberto! Francesco! Come and meet the two young inglesi I spoke of.’

There were handshakes all round and Tom said: ‘And where is Maria?’

‘Her mother has taken her off to bed,’ Andrea informed him. ’She has a—how do you say? emicrania? headsickness? Not serious. She will be better in the morning.’

‘I thought she was brilliant,’ said Tom. ‘Really extraordinary.’

‘Oh, she can do better, than that,’ said Andrea. ‘But yes, she is something special, hey?’

‘It’s real then? Not just a clever trick?’

Andrea winked at him. The first one we must nudge a little—to get things moving. The rest she does all on her own.’ He brushed his hand first to the left and then to the right across his luxuriant grizzled moustache. ‘Morte,’ he murmured, eyeing Tom curiously. ’You know what that means?’ He whipped his thumb across his throat in a slicing gesture. ‘Was she right?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Tom. ‘Perhaps. I would have to ask her what she saw.’

‘Oh, she will not remember. The curtain has come down.’

‘You mean she really does go into a trance?’

‘Sì. Like so!’ Andrea snapped his fingers and laughed. ‘We make a fine show of it, naturally. But come. After all that shouting I have a throat on me like a lime kiln. Avanti!’

A table and chairs had been set out in the vine-trellised inner courtyard of the Hotel Post and an oil-lamp was shedding a soft glow beneath the deepening purple of the night sky. While Francesco, the elder of Foscari’s two sons, went off to fetch his mother, Andrea sat himself down at the head of the table and gestured to Tom and Witchet to take places on either side of him. Roberto chose the seat on Witchet’s right and smiled at her shyly. The patron appeared with two bottles of wine which he uncorked and set down before Signor Foscari. ‘How was the house?’ he asked. ‘Any good?’

‘Good for Rocquevaire,’ said Andrea. That is to say lousy. Draguinan will be better. Grasse better still.’

The patron laughed and poured out red wine into three tumblers. They have spent all their money on the lottery. The new tickets went on sale this morning. How many are we tonight?’

‘Six. Maria is indisposed.’ Andrea raised his glass, drank off the wine and held the glass out to be refilled. ‘What have you got for us, my friend?’

‘A fine cassoulet. Do you wish your soup now, or will you wait for the others?’

‘Go ahead. Bring it. They’ll be here presently and I’m famished ’

The patron padded off in the direction of the kitchen. In the town a carillon began sprinkling out the chimes of the tenth hour like drops of holy water. A foolhardy moth blundered against the lamp glass and spiralled downwards into the shadows. Andrea sighed hugely and stretched his arms. ‘Witchet?’ he said. ‘What sort of a name is that?’

‘A sobriquet,’ said Tom. ‘In English it means “little Witch”.

‘Alouette suits her better, for she sings like a bird sings.’

‘Did you get that, Witch? “Alouette’s” French for skylark.’

Witchet nodded, and at that moment Madame Foscari and Francesco entered the courtyard followed closely by the patron who was carrying a large tureen and a stack of pewter soup plates. More handshaking followed and Tom enquired how Maria was.

‘She is asleep, thank God,’ said Angelina. ‘She had like a sword—here.’ She drew a line with her fingertip down the centre of her forehead. ‘One feels so helpless.’

‘Does she get it often?’ asked Witchet.

‘Not often so bad, but quite often, yes.’

‘I used to get them too,’ said Witchet. ‘I have some medicine a Kinsman made for me. It is very good. It is made from—what’s the word for herbs, Tom?’

‘Sì—sì, erba,’ said Angelina. ‘You are Kinsfolk, are you?’

Witchet nodded.

‘Ah, those pipes!’ exclaimed Andrea, turning to Tom. ‘But of course! I am stupid. You are serpenti, hey?’ He thrust his tongue out between his teeth and touched it with his fingertip. ‘Like Marwys?’

The patron’s wife appeared with a basket of bread which she handed around. Madame Foscari ladled out soup and passed the plate down the table to her husband. ‘Guests first,’ he said, handing it on to Witchet. ‘Roberto. The wine.’

. . .