A Song of Smoke - Chapter 1

There was a name in the darkness.
There were words and whispers and underneath them a rhythm pounded, slow and steady.
It rose within him like smoke from a fire, wresting control of his tongue and forcing his whole body to shake. Froth began to collect in his throat.
It was a name both known and unknown, formed not in the mouth but at the low centre of the stomach.
It was of the future and the past, had formed the land and would pound it into new shape again, would return,
would return,
would return....

Oscar woke as the first pinprick light shone through the roof of the shelter, peppering his hands and face like welts. Lifting himself from the floor, he pulled on a coat and tucked his hands into a pair of woollen gloves. He pushed the door flap to one side and headed out. Already, bitter cold was marching through green fog. Night's fitful dreams crumbled in the face of day.

Outside, the air was thick with burning coal. A skytrain roared high overhead and the archway stones rattled in their sockets. All around him others were making their way out of their homes and into the corners of the city, their huddled lines a snaking shadow on the skyline.

When he had first been brought to the encampment, after years of wandering the streets and setting down each night in abandoned doorways, there had only been a small number of the lost scattered along the archway. Now, as restrictions grew tighter, their numbers swelled. Dotted among the lower levels of the city were the armies of the undesirable, kept hidden from plain view.

Past the bundled ropes and drapes marking the boundaries of the settlement was a sheltered alleyway that drew up steep, inclining steps and out into a market square. Here, the professor would be setting out his stall, lining his books into neat, collected piles. Perhaps there would be work for him again today, an errand to run or a name to pursue. He could only hope so. There was little food left and the rations passed around the camp barely lined his stomach. Hunger had pulled his skin tight about his face, highlighting the deep blue eyes and rounded cheekbones. For a boy of 15, he looked weary and drawn, as though the world had already shown him too much of itself.

He fixed his eyes on the distance and made his way along the shadowy passage, stumbling in the chill.
Two of the others, Hernandez and Crewe, called him over as he passed.
'Looking mean, Oscar' said Crewe, sucking on a chicken bone.
'Like a crow circling meat' said Hernandez.
Oscar smiled. 'Work,' he said, 'maybe'.

He moved through the camp, past circles of people huddled round pots of steaming broth, and headed alone up the steps, through to the market square. Stalls were laid out in lines, tracing the outer edge and criss-crossing the centre. There were tables decked with cheeses, furs and trinkets. Women with heavy ladles were stirring steaming vats of food and here and there musicians rasped at rusty old instruments. Somewhere above the din, a street hawker called out in an ululating foreign tongue.

A fountain rested in the centre of the square, a tribute to some ancient hero of the city, features worn down to an invisible blemish. At its feet lay the Professor’s stall, a foldaway table lined dressed with a simple cloth and overlaid with a collection of books and weather-beaten maps. He was sat on a wobbly seat, nose pressed deep into a volume of poetry. Occasionally, he raised a weary eyebrow at any browsers who might pass their eyes over his collection.
He was a soft and wiry man, dressed in a crumpled shirt and an old leather jerkin. Feathery tufts of hair rested on top of his ears. He might have looked a joke, yet something about his manner suggested hard experience. Sour times lay somewhere in his past.

Oscar bounded over.
‘Hullo young man.' said the Professor, slamming his book shut in a warm puff of dust.
'Hi.'
'I don't suppose you've eaten yet this morning?'
'No.'
He reached behind him and lifted a leather satchel onto his lap. From this, he drew some bread, a box of eggs, a block of cheese and a bundle of vegetables bound in cloth.
'I suggest you get started before the rest arrive' he said, pointing to the small stove behind him.

Oscar smiled and took the ingredients. He chopped the vegetables and lit the stove, running some oil around the bottom of a small pan. Then he mixed the eggs, cheese and some milk, and made himself an omelette.
'There's a little tea left too, if you want some' said the Professor, smiling.

Oscar poured himself a cup and took a seat on the rough stone by the professor's feet. Shovelling the food into his mouth, he felt the warmth spread out across his stomach.
He smiled and wolfed it down in several gulps.

Through the square came a dark-skinned man, younger than the professor but older than Oscar and his friends. He moved with slippery grace, gliding among the crowd without seeming to make contact.
'Armande!'
'Professor, have you heard?'
The professor grinned welcomingly.
'Above this din? Doubtful.'
Armande drew closer, stepping around the stall and coming up close to where Oscar was crouched, ears twitching.
'Tick-Tocks. They've been rounding up veterans all morning. Fabien and Larissa, both gone over breakfast. Others too.'
The smile vanished from the Professor's face.
'And do we know? -'
‘not a word. All I've heard is, everyone they've taken fought with us in the Fen campaign'
'Ah. Then we may perhaps be in a spot of trouble.'
'It would seem so.'
Armande stepped backward, and doing so stumbled over Oscar's empty plate.
''A spy? I told you! I told you! They have eyes and ears everywhere!'
'Ah, no,' said the Professor, smiling once again, 'this is Oscar. Oscar, this is Armande. He and I are old friends.'
'More than that. I owe you my life.' said Armande, composing himself, annoyed that his cool demeanour had been ruined.
The Professor winked at Oscar.
‘Well, what's a life worth these days?'
'Yours may not mean a lot to you, but mine -'
'Alright Armande. No need to be so serious. I think we understand, don't we Oscar?'
He smiled once more and took Armande firmly by the hand.
'Thank you for the warning. I will make sure word is spread.'
‘Think nothing of it’ said Armande, turning and disappearing into the crowd.

A moment passed in silence. The Professor sucked at his lips and nodded politely as a customer picked a book from the display and laid a scattering of coins in his hand.
'Now,' he said, turning to Oscar, 'I believe I may have something for you.'

-----

The skytrain skittered loosely along its track, heaving at every turn. Like much of the city, its machinery was old and gathering dust. In the past years only the grand, palatial structures of the central canopy had seen repairs. They towered, white and alabaster like ghostly remnants of another time.

From his point high above the city, Oscar could see the streets below unfold as though drawn afresh, criss-crossing patterns that moved up, around and through one another in an endless spider web motion. As they moved toward the centre, great splintered towers burst forth from the heaving fog, peppering the outline of the high cathedral domes. The air above was dotted with barrage balloons and high winds whistled outside the grubby carriage windows, rattling them in their tired frames.

Oscar pressed himself back into the seat and as his stop approached, waited nervously for the grating series of halts and jerks which would come. Clasped tightly in his hand was a note for the curator of the grand municipal library. He would let nothing part him from it.

Heading out from the station, the streets soon fell into the library's shadow. Ahead lay a huge, grey stone building whose steps led up to booming doors. It was an unshaken image of the city as it once had been: proud and wise, protective of its great history.

Oscar marched up the steps and pressed through a small gap between the two vast doors. He entered into a dimly lit hallway, where lights flickered in the walls and marble floors squealed with the sounds of persistent movement. All around, the brotherhood of librarians scuttled about their business, backs hunched, robes pulled tight about their faces.

Oscar stood agape only a few moments before he felt a hand on his shoulder and a high, irritable voice asked:
'yes?'
Turning, he faced a librarian, a drawn young man whose pale skin was interrupted by the whirring bronze eyepieces which helped his sight adjust to the permanent gloom. Their constant shifting and refocus sing gave the uncomfortable impression that he was looking beyond Oscar's face, beneath the skin and into his thoughts themselves.
'I...need to see the curator,' said Oscar.
'Do we?'
There was a pause.
'Yes. I have a message from a friend of his.'
'Indeed?'
The librarian, he could tell, was enjoying this brief moment of power, drawing it out for as long as he could.
Oscar flashed him the note, but refused to let it slip from his fingers.
'Perhaps…you should follow me.'
Together they headed down a creaking iron stairwell, at the bottom of which lay a dim causeway lined with socketed bulbs.
'Now, do keep close,' said the librarian, flashing cracked and yellow teeth.
'We wouldn't want you getting lost.'
He smiled and shuffled down the corridor, beckoning Oscar to follow behind.

After a few moments they passed out of the shadow and into a high-domed hallway. It was lined with tottering stacks of books and papers, draped here and there with tapestries and crackling lights. Up above, there were rope bridges and clanking gangways across which librarians moved, hunched and oblivious. From the centre of the hall rose a great, winding oak, its highest branches tracing the tiled frescoes that patterned the upper ceiling. Where the roots of the ancient tree folded beneath the floor, there were ripples in the ground, scattered with fallen leaves.

He stood a moment in silent awe, but the librarian tugged at his sleeve with sharp fingers.
'Your first, is it?'
'Yes' said Oscar.

In a minute they were off again, pressing across the floor. They moved up another staircase pinned against a far shelf, then over a gangway and through into another inlet carved into the Western wall. A passageway stretched deep into the stone and as they moved further down, the ceilings grew lower and lower until they could only shuffle on in staggered hunches. Finally, they came to a single, bolted door. The librarian reached into his cowl and plucked a bundle of keys from a pocket. He settled on a single one, outlined in rough silver, and began to turn it in the lock.

Halfway through he paused, twisting his face toward Oscar.
'He's a busy...a busy man. Not much time, not much time for you. Do not linger and do not touch anything. I will be waiting.'

The door opened with a dull click. Impatient, Oscar moved through.

He found himself in a wood panelled room. As outside, the ceiling hung low above his head, but toward the centre it blossomed outward, curving up toward a skylight that opened onto banks of cloud and fog.

There were stacks of books, heavy shelves and a desk littered with papers. In a far corner, a yellowing skeleton topped with a rakish hat and scarf quietly accumulated dust. A fireplace crackled hungrily and from a spinning box at its side, music played, soft and brassy. Above the low tones a voice could be heard, humming along and scattering words where remembered.

The door drew shut with a bang, and with it the singing stopped. From behind a shelf the voice came again.
'Strange, isn't it?'
Oscar had no idea how to respond. He moved silently forward into the room.
'I said it's strange, isn't it?'
Another pause.
'Here I am, the most important person in the whole building, and they never seem to let anyone in to see me.'

The curator emerged from behind the shelf. A small, round faced man with sharp eyes and a squat belly tucked behind a worn waistcoat. He moved in an off-centre lollop, a book in one hand and a tumbler of golden yellow liquid in another.
He looked Oscar up and down.
'And, when they do...well...'

He smiled and collapsed into a winged armchair. Around him, dust blossomed in the air.
'What...what are you reading?' asked Oscar, nervously.
'Oh, I can't say I read any more.'
He lifted the book high in his hands, running a finger along the spine.
'I don't see words on the page, no no. That's not my job.'
He sighed and gulped at the tumbler.
'I see rivers of thought, information, the skin it’s all fixed in, and I mark them accordingly. My job... is to split hairs...which seems fitting, now that I have none of my own left.'
He smirked, leaning forward so that his bald head caught the dim light. Then, breathing deeply he lay back into the chair, picking up the music again and snatching at the tune.
'The Librarian said you would be busy, that I wasn't to waste your time.'
The Curator only smiled contentedly, shutting his eyes. Minutes passed in a whisper.
'I am always working, even when my eyes are firmly closed.'
'Now!' he said, leaping from the chair, 'What, I wonder, are you after?'
Oscar held out his hand, the note flexing on the breeze.
The Curator took it from him and read it with a single pass of his eyes.
'I see' he said.
In a moment he was off, light on his feet and scurrying about behind another pile of scattered things.
'I see, I see, I see.'
Somewhere a stack tumbled. Something hard and metal clanged against cold stone. A yelp came from a corner of the room.
'Turn that over would you?'
A hand emerged from the mess and pointed toward the spinning box. Oscar realised that the music had stopped. He reached a hand under the box and tipped it over on its pedestal. Immediately, new sounds began to emerge, rich, warm and strange. He stood a moment in admiration.
'Now, this will be what he had in mind.'
Oscar turned and saw the curator, red-faced, clutching a volume in his hands. A small book in a brown, lightly furred cover.
'Yes, this is the one.'
He pressed it into his hands.
'A good man, your friend. Unfortunate. Some of us hide our pasts more cleanly than others.'
He let his eyes run around the room and then looked Oscar up and down.
'Still, I can see he picks his company well.'
His voice carried the edge of warm sarcasm.
'So, I needn't tell you how important it is that you look after this. Do not let anyone take it from you. Understood?'
Oscar nodded, tucking the book under his shirt.
'That's the spirit' said the Curator, heading back toward his heavy chair.
A moment later he was slumped once more amongst the cushions, eyes closed.
A succession of chirruping snores began to issue from his mouth.

Oscar made his way out, but the librarian was no longer hovering behind the door. The library seemed to have descended into a deeper silence. No footsteps could be heard to fall and no black cloaks turned wispily about the corridors. Oscar retraced his steps, past the great oak and up the iron staircase. Out in the lobby, silence clung to the walls like condensation. The librarians were huddled close to one side, muttering in circles. A procession of people wound its way slowly through the doors, passing between a band of tall, darkly dressed shapes that stooped low and addressed each as they passed. He knew he must find another way out.

Somewhere ahead, a quiet hallway led off from the lobby, perhaps, Oscar thought, toward the street. He moved as fast as he could, cringing each time the marble squeaked beneath his toes. Soon he was away and into the corridor. There was a patch of light at the end, emanating from a door topped with a clear glass panel. The exit. He moved, steadily. The handle was so close he could almost feel it cool against the palm of his outstretched hand, but as he drew nearer, shadows fell across the light.

The door was opened and before him stood the librarian with another man at his side; Tall and emaciated, dressed in a floppy black hat and trench coat. His face was a porcelain mask behind which eyes rolled, raw and yellow. His mouth was fixed into a cruel rictus grin. The librarian muttered something into the man's ear and he tilted his head at the floor. Oscar followed his eyes down toward the book, which had slipped from his shirt in the final moments and lay draped over his shoe.

'Perhaps,' the man whispered from between clenched teeth, 'you might let me see that?'

A black gloved hand stretched out toward him, grasping.