North and the Only One, page 1
For James and Lorraine, my North
Contents
Luminelle
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
The IRON Wilderness
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
The Forest
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Beyond the Boundaries
Chapter Twenty-Three
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Rose was twelve years old, or so she was told. She had woken up fourteen days ago from a seemingly endless slumber, and could not remember a moment – not a whisper – of the time before. On that first day, she had not even known her own name.
Awakening day, as Rose had decided to call it, had felt like stepping through a fog-filled doorway. She knew there was a full picture behind her, yet the door had shut completely in her wake and there was absolutely no going back. The key was lost to the other side. So there she’d lain, impossibly, on a beautiful patchwork-quilted bed, blinking at the dappled sun mottling through lace curtains, surrounded by almond-blossom wallpaper. A white ceramic jug was placed on the dresser, clothes folded with pencil-sharp precision on the chair, stone figurines of cats sat on the windowsill and a wheat-brown teddy bear with an enigmatic grin lay beside her, all in a bedroom that was most certainly hers. Wasn’t it?
At first, she was convinced she was in a dream, and she remained like a slab of stone, letting her eyes do the initial exploring. The words for what she was seeing felt familiar, drizzling through her mind like honey from a spoon, yet also awry, as if she was existing in a china bowl that had once been perfect, but which had been dropped and broken into several pieces, then mended so the fractures were undetectable. Almost.
Because why couldn’t she remember anything?
Her bones were stiff, as though she’d been in a slumber for a hundred years, like that story – what was it? The tale of the girl who had pricked her finger on a spinning something or other, in a wonderful palace, where she’d fallen asleep for a hundred years. Sleeping Wonder? Sleeping Beaut—
She caught sight of herself in the long mirror beside the dresser as she pushed away the covers and stood. Short stature, red hair, plump cheeks, eyes green, a scowl of confusion. She wasn’t Sleeping Beauty.
She wore some sort of nightdress, white and long like a ghost or spectre – perhaps that’s what she was?
A pair of fur-lined slippers waited in line beside her feet. She slipped them on. It seemed like the order of things. She grasped the arm of the teddy, something in her mind remembering she was too old for it, but nonetheless it was her only companion to cling to at this moment.
Next, the door.
Thinking back, fourteen days later, Rose wondered why she hadn’t looked straight out of the window to take in the city, her apparent place of residence. Might the memories have slotted into place more quickly if she had? Maybe. But, at the time, all she could think about was the immediate cocoon in which she found herself, and this word she couldn’t shift, sticking to her thoughts like a spider’s web. Home.
The brass handle of the room in which she’d awoken was cold in her hand, the inky darkness pooling beneath the door frame enticing, yet daunting. Every action her body took felt as though she’d done it a thousand times before, but why did it all feel so new? She pushed the door open.
Beyond, lights flickered on in shaded lamps on the hallway walls. The passage was warm, with comforting wooden floorboards, and candy-striped wallpaper to one side. Her fingers brushed a white spindled banister as she walked towards the staircase leading down to somewhere else unknown. A gentle waft of a pleasant, smoky scent came from below – a hearth or cooking stove? There was a sound too, a nightingale, perfection. No. That wasn’t true. Someone was singing. A person.
Slow as the moon in the night, she moved step by step, down towards the song. It wasn’t a particular song with words, it was a la-la of notes, each led by the previous, meandering nowhere, yet making perfect sense. The light in the hall below grew brighter. Not the electric glow from above but the keen, vivid, everywhere light of the sun, bouncing off geometric floor tiles in a room ahead, creating a sharp rectangle of light to step into, like the beams that called to her between the forest canopy. She paused, the outline of the door frame like tree trunks around her, struck by the sudden vision. Could it be a memory? Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone, and her feet were on the kitchen tiles.
Ahead were mint-green cabinets and a many-paned window with checked curtains, the sill a starburst of plants, some with names that came to her: tomatoes, peas, beans, blueberries, others as unknown as her own name. It struck her that she should have one, after all, and that it was the first and most impossible piece of the puzzle in which she’d awoken. Without a name was she even here?
An oak table laid with a single bowl was to her side, one spoon, one knife, one side plate, two chairs. Had she sat here before?
Two chairs.
Her eyes drifted like dust motes to a shadow stretching across the floor to her right, its owner obscured by the kitchen door, its nightingale song curling through the air and wrapping around her limbs, pulling her forward with its spell. How could a voice be so lovely, so utterly perfect?
One more silent step and the source was before her.
Standing at another window, facing away from her, was a woman. She held a watering can in one hand and the other porcelain-perfect arm reached to pluck a withering leaf from a tall stem. She wore a moss-green top, sea-blue trousers and red shoes. Her hair was deep brown, a yellow ribbon securing a softly curled ponytail.
The world seemed to stop as Rose froze and the woman paused, her song ceasing mid-note. The woman had sensed her there. Her shoulders began turning, her perfect red-lipped smile dropping into something that Rose was trying desperately to read: shock, bewilderment, astonishment, alarm? The metal watering can slipped from the woman’s fingers and clattered on the tiles.
Before Rose could find rational sense, an irrational impulse prickled every fine hair on her body and sent her stomach jolting to her throat. She turned on her fluffy-slippered heels, losing one in her haste, and bolted.
A large front door at the end of the hallway called, but something told her not to go that way. She was lost, but this strange home in which she’d woken must be hers for why else would she be here? A cupboard door beneath the stairs caught her eye, and, because there was little time to think, she thought she’d better find herself some. Perhaps it was in there. She whipped the cupboard door open and dived inside, scraping her arm on the catch before pulling the door shut.
Bathed in darkness, she clutched the teddy to the battering drumbeat of her chest. With dark and dust and the bump of boxes and cloth around her, she shut her eyes, because surely when she woke from this dream all would be aligned again and her memories would sit neatly in place. Everything would make sense.
Moments passed, her only company her breath. Perhaps she could stay here forever?
The pattering of small feet skittered along the hallway outside, then the sliver of light at the bottom of the door became interrupted by fleeting shadows and the sound of snuffles and sniffs. A high, happy yip made her jump. Scratching sounded on the door. It’s me, it’s me, let me in!
Suddenly it was impossible to be afraid. Rose bent to peer through the gap and a wet black button nose sniffed happily at her, a nose she knew. It disappeared and the soft scratching on the door resumed. Come out, come out!
She slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open. A small, fluffy bundle of cotton beige bounded inside, planting paws in her lap, a little pink tongue snuffling her hands, then her face. She didn’t know how, but she was certain she remembered this puppy. She tickle-scratched behind his ears and the puppy closed his eyes happily.
“Hello, boy,” she whispered, and realized they were her first words since she’d woken.
The puppy was clearly feeling playful. He stole the teddy from her lap and scurried back to the hall, turning to glance encouragingly at her. “I see that Teddy is yours,” she said, yearning for the puppy’s familiar soft fur between her fingers again. He took a few steps away, then glanced back, but still Rose was unsure. As familiar as the dog felt, where on earth was she, and who was the woman in the kitchen?
Earth. Another word she simply knew was part of her, yet made little sense.
The puppy dropped Teddy and returned to sit before her in the cupboard. Then he padded away again and sat waiting with a longing whimper. Finally, Rose followed the puppy out from the understairs cupboard and into the hallway.
“Please, don’t be afraid,” came a voice from the kitchen. Rose looked up to see the woman peering round the door. She smiled and beckoned to her. The puppy pattered to sit at the woman’s feet, his tail wagging encouragingly.
Rose took a tentative step into the kitchen.
The woman then sat down at the table and gestured for Rose to join her.
The woman tilted her head, her eyes both sad and happy all at once. “I’m your mother.”
CHAPTER TWO
After the cupboard-under-the-stairs incident, when she’d first joined her mother at the kitchen table, Rose suddenly realized her stomach felt hollow. Just how long had she been asleep for? She became convinced she had bumped her head in an accident and that’s why she’d forgotten everything.
“You’re my mother?” she’d repeated that day, frowning.
The woman nodded and smiled so kindly that Rose had wanted to fall into it and never leave its safety.
“I’m Mother. And you are Rose.”
“Rose.” She nodded. It seemed to fit well enough. But why couldn’t she remember her own mother and her own name? Why couldn’t she remember anyone else, come to think of it? She must have friends in the city, relatives? A father?
Rose sat in the other seat beside the laid-out cutlery, the side plate now piled high with toppling bread, and fruit filling the bowl. The puppy darted around her ankles, holding her one lost slipper in its mouth. He dropped it by her bare foot, then picked up the teddy and deposited it in her lap. Rose gripped its arm and squeezed.
“I … I’m sorry, but I can’t remember the puppy’s name,” she ventured.
“This is North.”
“Did I bang my head?” Rose reached a hand to her curls. Come to think of it, her skull did feel a little tingly. Her fingertips felt a small scar.
“My goodness, look at your arm!” Mother said suddenly, a hand slapping over her mouth in horror.
Rose looked down, expecting to see a giant spider, a sudden highly infectious rash or perhaps a gaping wound. Instead, there was a small scrape that had barely broken the skin, and the tiniest trickle of scarlet blood. “Oh, I caught it on the door catch, when I … you know.” Rose couldn’t help but feel suddenly foolish at how she’d reacted to finding Mother, who she had also reminded her had the real name of Hestia, in the kitchen.
Mother was already a whir of her perfect porcelain-skinned limbs, opening cupboards and laying out cotton wool, a bowl of water and a bandage on the table. She dabbed the blood with the end of a sterile hankie as though it was molten gold, and Rose was sure her eyes seemed to pool with tears for her.
“Really, it doesn’t hurt at all.” Rose smiled widely to prove that she was totally fine. If she’d had some sort of accident, her mother would logically be feeling overprotective of her, so she let Mother lovingly clean and dress her not-very-injured arm. “So I’m Rose.”
Her mother paused and their eyes met, Mother’s rich as soil and sparkly as stars. Beautiful, kind eyes.
“Yes, Rose. Because when you were born the first rose of the year opened.” Mother glanced to the far windowsill where various flowers bloomed on the plants she had been tending earlier.
“You’re good at growing things,” Rose stated. It was really a question, but it seemed like the sort of thing someone should know about their mother.
Mother took Rose’s hands in her own. “The best.” Her gaze lingered. She looked so overwhelmingly happy to see Rose and be with her that Rose couldn’t help but feel the same, despite everything that had led her to this point being a fog of nothingness.
“All in good time,” Mother said, reading her expression. “We’re going to have so much fun now you’re awake.” Mother clapped her hands together. “Growing, baking, games, exercise, reading, languages, problem-solving, training North!”
“I didn’t realize I was so busy.” It all sounded like fun, especially the part with North, who was now lying across her feet, looking up at her with heart-meltingly cute eyes.
Rose glanced at a clock hanging on the wall. It was shaped as the moon, but completely dark aside from an illuminated “1” in the centre, with one slow-moving hand, one fast and one that whizzed so quickly she could barely see it.
“I almost forgot!” said Mother. “Happy New Moon Day!”
Although Rose couldn’t remember what that meant, she smiled and said it back.
Mother put a small box on the table. “Open it!”
Inside was a silver bracelet with a moon charm.
“It’s lovely.” Rose didn’t have any memory of receiving gifts, but it felt warm and special, as if it had been chosen just for her.
And that was how the days began again.
*
Every morning, a lunar minute before the twelfth lunar hour, Mother would call Rose to join her in the kitchen at the back of their perfectly comfortable home to eat lunch, with sage napkins, silver pots and crust-free sandwiches on triple-layer stands, always cut in the most perfect of triangles. Time and routine were important to Mother, and Rose thought it would also be the best way to unlock her memories. If she could sink into the normality of life at home, then all the missing information would return.
Lunch was always perfectly laid out, delicious and just right, so that Rose left feeling satisfied, but not overly full. The kitchen moon clock had revealed a small crescent of light on one side of the rim the day after she’d awoken, and each day it had grown a little. Time by moon was one of the many everyday mysteries to which Rose didn’t have an answer, so she questioned Mother about it.
“What’s after waxing crescent lunar day six?”
“We’re in the first quarter now, then second leading to the full moon.”
Rose liked time. It gave her something set to hang on to. The moon was solid yet changing every day, just like her, growing from a slither of light into something more whole. Every day she was finding out more about what she was good at, what she enjoyed, becoming more her.
On the first day, Rose had asked Mother why she couldn’t remember anything, what manner of accident had happened to her to cause such a loss, and her scar, but Mother told her they had to take it slowly, and all in good lunar time, that the foundation of old memory was found in new.
That didn’t make much sense to Rose, but then that was her normal at the moment. Things didn’t make sense. But, whatever had happened to her, it was clear that Mother wanted to keep her safe. It must have been a shock to both of them, and it would all take time, frustrating as that was.
Rose learned that their house was in a city called Luminelle. It was a name she couldn’t recall, a beautiful word yet at odds with the reality of the place, because outside was dangerous.
Even though she wasn’t allowed to draw back the curtains, Rose could see well enough through the holes of the lacy nets. Their street was perfectly straight, with modest-sized block houses, the windows bearded with dripping ivy, sometimes making it hard to see if the walls were made of brick, metal, wood or something else. The guttering was clear, the pavements polished and the windows shone as if dirt didn’t exist in the city, a marvel to Rose, seeing as she was constantly getting muck under her fingernails, puppy prints on her T-shirt and tangles in her hair.
In the distance, the city of Luminelle grew upwards in neat vertical stacks which made Rose feel giddy even from this distance. Windmill-like turbines spun on rooftops, and gardens sprouted at various levels on the sides and tops. An intricate system of tracks criss-crossed in sky-lanes, hundreds of metal pods zooming past on them. It looked terrifying, and Rose had no desire to head out there yet, so her mother’s danger warnings were met without question.
Instead, Rose threw herself into the daily routine. She was allowed out in the garden with North, but only early in the morning and at sunset and only if she wore Mother’s large-brimmed hat: the sun was a very powerful thing.
“It’s good for generating a portion of the city’s power, but not so good for your skin.”
They would also go to the garden greenhouse every evening at the nineteenth lunar hour to pick the food for tomorrow.
Rose didn’t mind only going out in the garden at either end of the day, because the daytime was filled with learning, games and laughter: puzzles at nine, writing at nine thirty, reading at ten, music at ten thirty, training with North at eleven, music at eleven thirty, memory challenges at one, language at two.
Language lessons made the least sense to Rose. The words in her head made little connection to the lines on paper Mother showed her. She was sure she could read words but somehow what was in front of her on the paper wasn’t connecting. They were just lines and circles of confusion.
