Wixon's Day Read online

  WIXON’S DAY

  An Estalia Novel

  Phil Williams

  PART I

  1

  Marquos on the stern. He holds a copper flute and plays a haunting tune that softly slips through the fog. The water barely makes a sound, the gentle creaks of the boat nothing more than an occasional whisper amidst his lightly drawn-out notes. The tune he plays is not his own; it is an old folk melody that was once sung by rebels fighting in a war his countrymen were never involved in. He has not learnt the words, but the message lives in its lingering rhythm. Something was lost so this tune could be written. Some awful truth revealed. There is some tear-filled message in the notes, but it is a beautiful misery. Marquos plays the tune often and is known by it in many of his regular ports of call. The light on the bow bobs as a barely distinguishable dull yellow glow in this fog, but his flute announces his presence. He trusts in others’ hearing him to avoid collision, and does not panic when a dark shape suddenly bursts from the mist directly upon him. The pilot of the neighbouring boat is equally calm, his voice booming, “It’s been three long seasons since I heard that bitter warble.”

  Marquos continues playing as the boats touch and rock together.

  “And so he’s heading north now. As everyone else is heading south. What are you about, Marquos?”

  The neighbouring boat’s aft deck is revealed from the fog with the large shape of Agnom Heast at its tiller, a portly man with a beard that wildly swarms his chin. As he catches sight of Marquos, Heast plants a booted foot against Marquos’ boat and steadies the two together. Marquos lowers his flute and gives his fellow a slight smile.

  “We’re four kilometres or so from town,” Heast goes on. “It’s too far for us to turn back, but if you’ve got a few minutes to spare I’ll happily pull to the shore and offer you a warm drink. There’s few who would be foolhardy enough to set themselves adrift in these conditions, we should be taking any excuse for a break.”

  Marquos rises to his feet and replies “It must have been something especially threatening that drove you to braving this fog, Agnom. Is the town safe to pass through?”

  “Pass through?” Heast gives a hearty laugh. “I should have known better than to think that dear Marquos was coming home! You really are heading north?”

  “I am. And you are heading south.”

  “Yes,” Heast gives a cursory nod to the direction he has come from. “I am not giving flight. The town is perfectly safe. We have been meaning to head south for over a week now, but Kail refuses to lift this shroud. I wouldn’t normally dare, but the chances of finding another man drifting in the fog seemed remote. There you go, though. It’ll be just my luck that tomorrow will be clear as day, but if that’s how it is then that’s how it is. What do you say to that drink now, old friend?”

  Marquos stands looking into the fog before them. Kail’s Shroud, the boatmen call it, when the mist engulfs the waterways. The waterways are safer than the open waters of sea, and skirt the brutal torrents that the rivers sometimes stir, but still their goddess Kail can be a harsh mistress, whose tricks are often more subtle than simple storms. Most regard Kail’s Shroud as a curse, but Marquos respects it as a chance to go unnoticed, a chance to glide the waters without interruption, and an always-desirable venture into the unknown.

  Four kilometres to town, though. He had hoped he was closer. In these conditions, it will take another hour to find a mooring, at the very least. With that amount of time still ahead, Marquos sees no harm in taking a break.

  Agnom Heast’s vessel, The Farrendale, is a traditional family boat, larger and more homely than Marquos’, The Hypnagogia. The walls, where visible, are brazen wood, and the chintz of collected fabrics and clutter cramp the rooms in the manner of settled life. There are three rooms to The Farrendale, and all are full of the life that loved inanimate objects give. Marquos must tread carefully to avoid furniture and toys as he approaches a sofa and takes a seat. He is handed a steaming cup of stimule as the children trot away, their hellos said. Heast’s wife is a bold lady, with the same red-faced good spirits as her husband. She sits across from Marquos, a smile ever-present on her face.

  “It’s been too long, Marquos,” she tells him. “You come and go like the tide, but you’re not so reliable. You’ve missed a lot in this town.”

  “Aye,” Heast says. “The weddings of all your friends, the starts of their families, the blossoming of careers, I am sure.”

  “I have missed a lot, it’s true,” Marquos replies. “But staying here would not have saved that. So many I have known have migrated south already.”

  “Ah, you will not be judged by us!” Heast raises his mug. “We live the same waterways as you. You cannot keep a boatman in one place, it’s not natural. Where are you headed now, if not home?”

  “I have no home but the Hypnagogia, you know that. I am heading north, though, as you say. There are things up there I long to see.”

  “To Thesteran and Nexter? You haven’t seen those cities enough?”

  “Not them,” Marquos shakes his head, “Far north, to the Deadland. I’ve heard many things about them I seek to see for myself.”

  “Dangerous things,” Heast shuffles uneasily. “What are you looking for there, you are no bandit.”

  “And you have no need for banditry,” his wife adds. “There’s not a trade you could not do, young man.”

  “There’s not a trade I want to do,” Marquos says. “I seek to find new places, experience new feelings, and ask for nothing more.”

  “New feelings?” the wife says. “You don’t know the feelings of raising a family. The feeling of your firstborn squeezing your finger. The feeling of taking someone’s hand in marriage. There are things you won’t feel until you stop searching, Marquos. The very act of searching prevents them.”

  Marquos smiles at her. “There are also feelings that I will never get the chance to experience if I accept those things now. You could not take your family to the North.”

  “Heavens no,” Heast says. “I would not dare go there alone, even.”

  “I would not allow it!” his wife adds.

  “Doesn’t it bother you that there are things you will never see?” Marquos asks.

  “There are always things you will never see,” Heast replies. “You have to ask yourself which ones are worth sacrificing. If you go there seeking tales to tell, excitement and adventure, I guarantee you will find it, but what good are those tales if you are dead? You would be missed, too, Marquos.”

  “Thank you, Agnom,” Marquos gives a wry smile, “But I could come back with tales to retire on. It is not just that that sends me this way, though. You don’t need to know the details, but I’m heading at least as far as the Meth Fields just to deliver someone home.”

  “Zounds, do you have a passenger uninvited to our boat?” Heast exclaims. “What hosts are we!”

  “Relax, she is asleep. I would not have wanted to disturb her. She is young, separated from her family. I am returning her to them.”

  “You are returning a young girl to the Meth Fields?” Heast’s wife asks. “Better to leave her with us, we’ll take her south to a better home, I am sure.”

  “Better her family decides that. I have been this girl’s keeper for two moons, now; if we arrive at her home and I see it as unfit, then I will deal with her myself. She does have a home there, though; it should be where she belongs.”

  “How did you come upon this girl?”

  “It’s not important,” Marquos smiles. It is a grim smile that tells them the tale is not fit for their ears; not when their own children are nearby. “I would rather hear how you are faring.”

  Marquos stays with Heast for two drinks before departing and is told tales of a town that never changes. Trad
esmen ply the same trades, relationships form and fall or flourish the same as they always do. The outside world has little impact on this town. Sunlight continues to fade, though, and Kail’s Shroud is more common now than ever. Stories constantly drift upriver, telling of better possibilities in the south. Maybe there is not as much work, maybe it is harder to get by as comfortably, but it is where everyone is headed because it is where the population is gathering, around the Metropolis. There is more sunshine there than in the rest of the country, so they say. Marquos keeps quiet, knowing what it is really like there, and his grim looks do not go unnoticed. The couple knows better than to pry, though.

  When Marquos makes his warm farewells, Heast walks him back out onto the bow, putting an arm around his shoulders.

  “Be careful up there, young man. Always remember that the population of the North are all, each and every one of them, there for reasons that civilised society would tend to shy from. I won’t try and stop you, but I will tell you I don’t like it. Take care.”

  Marquos gives his thanks and climbs back into the Hypnagogia. He slips into his own tight living quarters and takes a seat opposite the small couch that has been Red’s bed for the past few weeks. She sleeps as soundly there as she always does, curled tightly and snoring lightly. Her short blonde hair barely covers her face, and her blanket has slipped halfway to the floor. Marquos lifts it back over her. She does not stir.

  Civilised society, he muses on these words. What makes those of the Metropolis any more civilised than those of the North? He looks down at his own clothes; the long weathered coat, the high boots and his tattered waistcoat are all examples of southern civilisation. They like to dress well in the Metropolis, and the few adornments he has taken from them he has kept for many seasons now. They probably don’t dress like this in the North.

  2

  “Come on!” Marquos smiles, tapping his knee as he rests by the tiller. Red bounces up to him and jumps onto his lap, making him grunt with loud jest. “Ah, you almost broke my leg!”

  “I’m not heavy!” Red cries back, thumping him on the shoulder. Just hearing her innocent voice is enough to make Marquos happy. He puts an arm around her, warmly, trying not to think of what she has endured to be here.

  “You’re weighing my whole boat down.”

  “Am I really?”

  “In a good way.” Marquos points ahead of them, to the approaching town. “Look. This is where I lived when I was your age.”

  “Is it very different?”

  “To where you grew up?”

  “No, since you were little.”

  “No. This place never changes. This is the mill; you see that large wheel, that’s for turning the grindstone. Do you know what that is?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s for making food from the wheat they grow in the fields.”

  “I know that, I told you!”

  “Of course,” Marquos rests his head against hers. “I used to play there when I was little. It’s not used much now, though. Not for wheat, anyway.”

  “What’s that tower? Is that the church?”

  “No. No that’s the town-hall. It’s a bell-tower, to warn the town of trouble. It was used for fires and attacks from bandits.”

  “Is this a dangerous town?”

  “No. I think I’ve heard that bell ring three times in my life.”

  “Do you ever have lots of people, staying there together, in one big party? You could have games to reach the bell, that’s what I would do.”

  Marquos smiles, “People are too busy to be so playful.”

  “We were busy in the mines, but we still had games. Sometimes it was noisy, having so many people together, but it was fun too. Isn’t your town fun?”

  “In different ways, maybe. Look, look there. That’s where Cotter Warr used to live. Do you know who that is?”

  “Of course.”

  “He was a great writer. He wrote some of the best plays our country has seen, whilst sat looking over this river. He died before I was born.”

  “I said I knew that, too!”

  “Of course you did,” Marquos can’t help but smile. He continues to point out the landmarks of his childhood home as they drift slowly down the river. They have been blessed with a magical morning for it, as the fog remains in only the smallest of patches. The sky is a dull blue grey, hidden amongst the clouds, as clear as it gets.

  They come upon the old boathouse, a large structure of timber and iron that has decayed into part of the scenery. It is wrapped in weed and moss, but still performs the same function it always did. Little more than a giant umbrella for vessels, with small jetties for moorings, it is the occupants that really give it character. A selection of family boats, just like Heast’s, line the jetties with similar shapes. Floating boxes of homes, all uniquely decorated but the same in essence. The Hypnagogia stands out amongst them as a true travelling boat, one that has seen the life of the world instead of just the life of its occupants.

  Marquos jumps onto a jetty and ties his boat, then steps back and appreciates its uniqueness. The Hypnagogia is a beast of practicality and little more. The decorations it displays, flourishes of surplus metal or wood padding and countless scratches, are scars of adventure. It is a hybrid, its wooden exterior frequently interrupted and fused with metal. The large steam-engine juts out of the starboard side, towards the aft, with a series of pipes and cylinders, and to the fore, on the other side, is a small turret of steel for a secure lookout, accessible from the cabin. There is little that is inviting about this fusion of tradition and technology, and its smaller size tells that it was always meant for one man’s movements, rather than building a life. It is designed to move at speed, whilst the homes around it are plots of comfort.

  Red appears at the stern exit, a doorway that rises out of the cabin onto the small deck where the tiller rests. She is wrapped in an engulfing fur coat that Marquos gave her. Only her little face is visible amongst the furs, and even that is hiding as she awaits approval.

  “Come along, we’ve a little walk ahead of us,” Marquos calls to her. She jumps from the boat with great care, and he catches her. As they head down the jetty, Red takes hold of his hand and walks close to him.

  Marquos continues to point out small details of his old town as the pair walk through it. There is the path where he raced bicycles. There is the barn where his friend Jimmy had his first kiss. There is the tree that they used to swing from. There is the old haunted house. This town has survived the darkening days better than most. The trees are still alive, some with full bodies of leaves, and the buildings are kept presentable. Something about the tidiness of the cobbled streets makes the whole place seem lighter than is natural. Even the haunted house, which Marquos remembers as hollow and dreary, has been painted and inhabited. The buildings are trim and uniform, the planks of their walls lining up neater than any structure in the Metropolis. It makes a difference from the usual ramshackle operations that flank the waterways; these homes have been crafted carefully, not merely been thrown together from scrap.

  It is only a short walk to his family’s home, but it is a warm one for Marquos, stirring many memories. The family home is the greatest image, though, looming above its neighbours with its one winding turret and those great double oak doors. An old liquid-powered car sits in front of the house; one of those early models with its engine exposed, proudly on display. Its tall, flat windscreen is darkened from smoke.

  “Is that your steam-car?” Red asks.

  “No. It’s not a steam-car, honey, it’s a liquid one. You don’t see them around very often. Do you know how we get liquid fuel?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay,” Marquos smiles, “I’ve never owned a land-vehicle. You can’t go many places with them very easily. It’s my dad’s.”

  “Does he travel like you?”

  “No. Not at all. I’ll let him tell you, shall I?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be,” Mar
quos holds her closer. “You’ll never meet a family nicer than this.”

  They approach the large doors and Marquos avoids ringing the chimes in favour of beating a hand into the wood, for a loud flat thump that echoes through the road. He hits it three times before the doors finally creak open, and there stands his mother, throwing her arms up in elation to see him.

  The interior of Marquos’ childhood home has barely changed over the seasons. Marquos gives Red a brief tour of the place, an elaborate wooden building that’s fared better than most in the area. Whilst others have tumbled and been repaired with sheet metal or mismatched panelling, this house has survived and been supplemented with fabric trimmings and new licks of paint. The little tour helps Marquos appreciate the longevity of this building and the support it has given to his large family. He can’t help but smile as he tells Red that this is exactly where he comes from, and he hopes she has somewhere equally important to her. They finally come to pause for drinks with his parents at the large dining table. It was once home to feasts for the whole family but now sits cluttered with paper and unfinished mechanical projects belonging to his father. Mother regards Marquos and the little girl with great fondness, stroking her son’s hair as she watches Red nibbling a large cookie.

  “Is that nice?” she asks. “Not too sweet?”

  Red looks up over the cookie and shakes her head quickly, answering in a little voice, “It’s very nice thank you.”

  “I always knew he’d turn up with some illegitimate kid,” Father announces from across the table. He is distanced from the others by his projects, tinkering with one even as he speaks. “Or maybe she’s legitimate. Maybe he has a whole family we don’t know about. Imagine if I had another daughter that no one let me know of. Imagine that I’m a grandfather and I never knew.”

  “Oh hush, Perry,” Mother chuckles. “What are you doing with this angelic little creature, though, Marq?”