Black Rose

(This is a change of tone.

Now that we're opening up the background a little bit, it's a chance to tell a slightly different type of story from the ones we have been telling.

So, here, and in some following chapters, what may have seemed like a relatively minor character reviews her own family history, which will hopefully provide some context for her actions in the present. The hinge between this stuff and the present-day stuff will soon become apparent, because it's central to the whole story.

It's also a chance to get away from the rather grim and violent post-war 'present', and to deal with some of my favourite subjects: the making of art, and the education of people, and the comedy of being young and inexperienced when nothing immediately terrible is riding on the choices that you make.

Contains some mild non-sexual nudity and very mild violence (someone gets pushed in some mud.)

This is not separate from the main saga. In fact, it's all too involved with it. But I'm well aware that this saga doesn't exactly have a lot offunin it, and that's partly why this stuff belongs.)

***

Chapter 12

A Woman called Sorrow

Terrasse-des-Loups

Manaque District

The Coney sat on the chair and stared at the figure in the casket. Allie came in and leaned on the doorway.

'Come on,' she said. 'You've done more than your duty.'

'Yeah,' said the Coney, but she didn't move. Allie came over to her and put her long pale arms around the Coney's neck.

'She was a great old bird,' she said.

'She was a fucking pain,' the Coney said. 'But, yeah.'

Allie came around from behind and squatted on the floor in front of her, looking up at her. She looked as tired as the Coney felt. It had been a long night, but they'd done the vigil.

'I'll miss you,' Allie said, resting her chin on the Coney's knees.

'I'll miss you,' the Coney said. 'It's only for a bit, though.'

'Yeah,' Allie said. 'Hoping.'

'You'll do what ya have to do.'

'I know.'

'If you get a better deal than me,' the Coney said, 'I won't think ill of ya.'

'But will I think ill of myself,' Allie said. 'That's the question.'

They both knew what could happen.

Allie was now potentially in the business of getting a fine man to pamper her. And with her gleaming golden hair and fair skin and strong teeth, and her air of having been recently cleansed by a fairy waterfall, there was a very strong chance she'd get one.

But it didn't have to happen. It was all about trust.

'You don't half look good in black, child,' the Coney said.

'I'm older than you,' Allie said, smiling.

'Will you wear it to my funeral?'

'Will I fuck,' Allie said. 'You'll outlive me. Come and get breakfast.'

The Coney nodded. Allie stood up. The Coney walked over to her grandmother and muttered a prayer to more than one god. Then she leaned over, kissed Granny on the forehead, and remained there for a moment. Then she stood up, turned her back on Granny, smiled at Allie and wiped her eyes.

'Alright,' she said.

They walked into the other room. The crew sat up as the Coney entered.

'Right,' she said, smiling. 'Let's not be soft.'

'She was great,' Tommo said, standing up.

'Well,' said the Coney, 'she was big.'

They laughed. He came over to her and put his arms around her and they kissed, and Allie put her arms round them both and kissed each of them, and then they all joined in, and they all stood there, having a big old tearful happy snog for a moment, while they thought about the old woman, and the times they'd had.

Then the Coney lifted her head from the tangle of them all.

'The meetin will come to order,' she said, and everyone reluctantly let go.

'Well, chaps,' the Coney said, 'it's been lovely. But we have to say bye, for now. There's business to attend to.'

'You're sure, now,' Mic said.

'I'm sure. If I'm on me own...'

She didn't need to finish. None of them needed to be persuaded that the Coney could move faster on her own.

'And it's just time to expand,' she said. 'Move on, move up. Also, is it just me, but since the war ended, are the punters gettin meaner?'

She smiled at them, giving a puzzled face. They smiled back.

'I swear,' she said, 'when they were all on leave from fightin, it felt like they were grateful to be with ya, but now they've no-one to kill, I feel like I'm their punchbag. Or is it just me?'

'It's cause you always take the mean ones,' Sam said.

'Well, it's only fair,' the Coney said. 'You're all more expensive than I am.'

She grinned. Derdriu linked her arm with the Coney's, and kissed her on the cheek. The Coney kissed her back.

'Anyway,' the Coney said, 'it's time to stop, while I still have an arsehole that can close by itself,' and they laughed.

She let the silence fall.

'I will miss you all, very, very much,' she said quietly. 'But it's only for a while.'

'You gonna go and see Vere,' said Raquel in a soft voice.

'He and I will be having a little chat, yeah,' the Coney said, smiling.

'Give him our regards,' Tommo said.

'I will most certainly let him know what we think of him,' she said.

There were a few smiles, but none of them happy ones.

'Come when we said you're to come,' she said. 'No sooner. I need to set things up. Yous all know what to do, in the meantime. And, as I was sayin to Allie, just now... if yous get a better deal, no fear no favour. Take it. Do what ya have to do, as long as yous let me know, one way or another, what you're doin. Just so we stay in touch. And even if yous do get a better deal, if youseverneed me, look me up. I'll always look out for yous.'

She looked at them all.

'We are the few left,' she said. 'All I ask, is that yous keep things goin. Yous all know how it works. And when the time comes, come and find me. I'll see yous all right, or die tryin.'

'Just one thing, Kel,' said Mic. He looked down at her. He towered over her.

'Name it, young fella,' she said, reaching up and putting a hand on his shoulder.

'Don't wind up as a headless corpse in a pickle barrel in a flood ditch,' he said, his big dark eyes brimming.

'That's never been an ambition of mine,' she said.

He looked down at her.

She thought:No, but it's certainly one of the possible endings.

She smiled at him wryly.

'Come on, yous gorgeous bastards,' she said. 'Let's get some breakfast.'

***

Road from Terrasse-des-Loups to Memika

Some hours later

The Coney sat with her back to the side of the wagon, and took from her bag the sheaf of papers tied with string.

All right. I've a week of travel in front of me. And I've put this off too long.

Talk to me.

She untied the papers, got comfortable, sipped a little water and started to read.

*

THE CHARIOT

by

Cormac Tecknor

With interjections by Shvaun Deeny

Being a personal account of

The last days of the Chariot

From our joining it in 482

To its predicted dissolution in 496

From the second time I went to the Chariot, I knew I wanted to join it.

My dad was the town herbalist, and my mum was his assistant. They'd moved to our town town from Terrasse-des-Loups when I was little, because my parents liked the country better than the city, and thought we'd be safer there.

This was before the war. I don't mean the long war, the one that had been going on since as long as men had been aware of the Dominies' lordship over them. That had been going on since before my grandparents had been born.

I mean the last phase of the war. The part where our neighbours in Hargest finally decided whose side they were on, and stepped in with all their skill at fighting. It turned the tide of the war in the favour of the world of men in general, rather than the Dominies. But, as we used to say, it didn't work out too well for us.

But I get ahead of myself. I must get on with the story.

My parents wanted me to follow in dad's footsteps as the next town herbalist. As soon as my dad thought that I had an ounce of sense, he would keep me on at home for extra lessons in arithmetic and herbalism, until I was screaming with boredom. It worked, in that I could do quite complicated maths in my head when I was small, and I knew one weed from another.

But do you really think I wanted to sit in my dad's study all day and learn about how one herb combined with another to do something else? About infusions and distillations and suspensions? About square roots and angles and decimals?

When there was the Chariot to think about?

No. I wanted to think about the Chariot.

How could you not?

First there was the build-up. From as early as a month before, scouts from the Chariot were passing through, kids not much older than me, all fit and elegant-looking in their loose black clothes with their tattoos round their eyes and their sky-tans, nailing up proclamations that the Chariot was coming to our area.

They put them all over the village, but since they knew perfectly well that most people couldn't read, they also appeared on their cart in the marketplace, and threw off their loose black travelling gear and, dressed only in tight clothes and jewellery, boys and girls alike, they did littletamashasin the marketplace, with tumbling and clowning and wire-walking and fire-breathing, at the end of which they would have gathered a massive crowd, and then, with that characteristic sly twinkle, they'd sing the Chariot song in perfect multi-voice counterpoint, singing that we'd better get ready because the Chariot was coming, and we wouldn't want to be unprepared, because we knew that that could be bad, right? It was scary and enticing and cheeky and threatening, and the Chariot Scouts were enchantingly beautiful and lithe, and you wanted them to like you.

Hells, I wanted to be one of them. And I wasn't the only one.

And then, a few days after thetamashas, the real performers would start to appear; good-looking, tattooed men and women, dressed in loose black clothes, buying food in the shops, making themselves the talk of the town, charming everyone, cracking jokes in the tavern, and constantly reminding everyone that the Chariot was coming and that they really owed it to themselves, to their village, to the kingdom, to the gods themselves, to show up, because not to do so would be an act of impiety, and anyway, who wouldn't want to go to the Chariot? What with the animals and the dancing and the singing and fire and the juggling and the clowns and who knew what else?

This last one was delivered with a certain wink that I could never quite get the meaning of, but it made the men laugh and the women giggle and blush, and that was yet another cool thing about the Chariot: what was the secret of their hold over people? Over me, in particular? But also everybody else?

I didn't know. I didn't care. I just wanted to go.

***

And then it was there.

An evening fell, and as the shadows grew long, an immensely long caravan lumbered into view just outside the village, and came to a halt. It took over an hour just for them all to arrive and park.

The next morning, the tent was half up.

The Chariot tent crew were among the scariest of them all. They were all leathery and scarred and had even more tattoos than the performers and they swore a lot and smoked but they worked like demons, everyone had to admit, and by the afternoon of the second day the tent was up and they were proud to announce the return of the Chariot.

We all went, of course. My father didn't approve of the Chariot. He said that he thought it was a lot of ridiculous folderol about religion, and it had nothing to do with understanding how the world worked. And so no, we wouldn't be going. But my mum told me not to worry, and of course we went, my father slapping down a few bronze coins and being given a ticket by a girl in a shimmering satin wispy garment, who was standing at one of the doors of the huge tent, smiling at everyone and taking money and giving tickets, just like all the other several dozen boys and girls wearing very little clothing standing by all the other doors and taking everyone else's money and giving them tickets that some of them couldn't even read.

My parents could read. My mum had even taught me to read. They both needed to read, in order to understand about herbs. She'd also taught me to read so that I could, she said, 'understand the world'.

But I didn't speciallywantto understand the world. I just wanted tojoinit.

I was eighteen years old, and I wanted nothing more than a life in the Chariot.

As we took our seats, my father was grumbling away that the reason the Chariot was so cheap was that it could afford to be. Everybody went to it, so it didn't have to worry about low audiences. You couldn't not go to it. It would be like... like not wearing clothes, or something. (Although, of course, the Chariot people themselves were notorious for wearing as little as they could get away with.)

I had actually been to the Chariot before, once, when I was little. I remembered a blur of action and animals and people jumping everywhere, and the smell of the animals' shit and the performers' makeup and sweat, and I'd cried and my mum had had to take me home. But that had been a long time ago.

This time, it was going to be very different. Because I was prepared.

The orchestra was playing and everyone was eating and drinking and talking and laughing and having an amazing time. And then, after a long time, the music stopped and there was a sudden fanfare, and the torches that had lit our way into the tent were suddenly doused. All the light was focused on the central ring.

The ring was empty. Just a big circle of dirt. Then, after a long, long moment, a hole appeared in the dirt and a black figure crawled out of it. The black figure got up, brushed the dirt off his clothes casually, then recovered the hole, and then with a flourish he threw off his outer clothes.

It was a youth, wearing the usual Chariot uniform of next to nothing. For a moment I thought he wasn't wearing anything at all, before I saw the bronze loincloth that was almost the same colour as his skin. He radiated youth and beauty and his smile gleamed.

He moved his arms in a funny way and a huge fireball seemed to leap out of his hands and move upwards. Everyone gasped as it boiled upwards, threatening to set the tent on fire, but as soon as it had appeared it just evaporated into scented smoke and we all gasped and clapped. Even my father looked mildly impressed.

The youth was gone, but the orchestra leapt into action and from then it was a cascade of act after act: clowns who doused each other in endless gallons of multi-coloured sludge to the point where it hurt to laugh; stunning girls balancing on dancing elephants; acrobats twirling effortlessly on the high wire; stunt riders galloping horses through hoops of flame; a magician who cut a girl into eight different boxes and then magically restored her; a girl who blindfolded herself and then threw knives with pinpoint accuracy into a target no bigger than a medal from 60 feet away.

And all the while, they sang songs that turned the whole thing into the story of it all, the story that the Chariot lived to tell, and one thing turned into another thing, so the stories and the dancing were as one.

One of the clowns, a small young woman with a huge frizz of black hair and big dark eyes, got more and more pissed off with being endlessly doused with sludge and water.

And, while the singer sang of how those who seek enlightenment must first cleanse themselves of the dirt of earthly existence and accept the help of the divine family, the clown-girl wriggled free of the grasping hands of her fellow clowns who just wanted to pull her back into the sludge again, wiped the veil of goo from her eyes and dived into a box which was immediately surrounded by dancing young men, from which she emerged only moments later as a sleek, beautiful dancer herself, immaculately clean, wearing only wisps of satin and a few scraps of golden leather, her scalp gleaming, her rich dark skin glistening with golden dust, and she was hoisted on their shoulders and carried around the ring upon which she sprang off them to praise the gods with her twisting and leaping body while the young men bowed down to her. It was silly and funny and moving and heroic, all at the same time.

I sat, entranced, and as I watched it, a single thought filled my mind:

I've got to know how this is done.

I looked around me. Everybody else seemed to be enjoying it, laughing and cheering and cringing in fear and weeping with relief, all of them transported out of themselves, but none of them were looking at it the same way as I was. I was the only one who was entirely watching it and loving it andalsostanding back in my head and trying to figure it out.

Well, maybe not the only one. Several yards away, I saw a family I knew a bit. They ran the bakery.

The baker, Tom Deeny, was a friend of my father's.

There was a reason why my father liked him.

Besides baking bread, he actuallylikedbaking bread, and was interested in it; and since my father liked people who liked their work, he loved inviting the baker and his family to dinner.

And Tom Deeny would show up with a loaf of his latest bread, which I have to admit was the bread of the gods, somehow denseandlight, crispandrefreshing, tasting of fields and sun and earth and water. It was the best bread I ever had, and that I ever hope to have.

And my father and Tom would sit up late drinking wine, and eating his bread, even after dinner, and they would talk for hours about how bread worked, and how you got the new dough going with the old dough, and the properties of different kinds of flour, and sitting times, and proving times, and kneading and folding and shaping and slashing. My father loved talking to Tom about it, because he knew a bit more than Tom did about the why, and Tom knew more than my father did about the how, and they would always have room for another cup of wine and another hour's chat, while the rest of us went mad with boredom.

I didn't especially get on with the brothers, and the eldest girls were married, but their youngest daughter was my age: Shvaun.

She was small and skinny, and sleek and handsome in an animal sort of way, and she was quick and agile and nothing got past her. She noticed everything. I found her difficult to talk to, probably because she noticed everything and nothing got past her.

Tom Deeny and his family were watching the Chariot with big smiles on their faces, but not Shvaun, who was sitting and watching with fierce concentration.

Then, she glanced at me, and our gazes met. We stared at each other for a minute. I had never much liked her, but after staring at me for a moment, she gave me this little smile, like:Yeah, you want to do this too, don't you?

Then she looked at the ring, where a juggler was juggling seven swords while a girl sang a song about the seven cycles of existence and how all were necessary for people to achieve harmony.

Shvaun looked back at me, and she smiled a crooked smile and raised her eyebrows at me.

I smiled back, then she went back to watching it again.

When it was over, hours later, a lot of the youngest audience members were actually asleep, and the audience was wrung out and almost tearfully grateful, cheering and applauding over and over again. I looked at Shvaun. She was on her feet, whooping and clapping and giving the Chariot a thumbs up.

I left the tent with my parents. My mum had her arm around me and my dad was sighing and rubbing his back and commenting that the Chariot seemed to go on a lot longer than it used to.