sorry, it's been ages since i posted anything worthwhile on here... you know how it is, what with life and stuff getting in the way. i'm not quite sure about whether this chapter will be revised, i'm still playing with ideas at the moment - but as it stands now, it's finished. if you see any typos for gods sake tell me, i never remember to check for them... yeah that's it, i guess... enjoy...

Ethereal house

Theorny pushes open the door of the building and Syrus reads the sign: Ethereal House, all welcome at any time. And he does feel welcome.
‘This is where the Musilists live, Syrus. Come in and I’ll introduce you to everybody.’
Theorny goes through the door and into a dingy hallway with strip lights and old posters and things on the walls. Syrus shifts his harp on his back and Theorny opens another door into a huge room, and a glorious blast of music spills out and fills Syrus’s head, choirs and a piano and it is the loveliest tune he’s heard in a long time. He turns to Theorny, his face glowing with the sounds he’s heard.
‘Who’s that singing?’ he asks softly. Theorny listens.
‘Oh! That’s all of us at choir practice. We don’t sound bad, do we? It was terrible yesterday but I think we’ve got our act together since then.’
Syrus looks into the big room, and he can barely see the other side. There are about twenty bunk beds crammed in, all jumbled up and wonky and with bedding hanging off them, and banners and clothes and ingenious wires with coat hangers all strung between them like rigging; there are a few hammocks under the gallery that runs round the side, and in a clear space of floor – the only clear space – is a brazier and a motley pile of dishes. Syrus’s eyes pop; it is an amazing space, like nothing he’s ever seen before.
‘Welcome to community living,’ says Theorny and he’s grinning. He dumps his violin down on one of the bunk beds, over in a cluster under the gallery, and he leads Syrus across the haphazard floor through another door. Syrus is hardly noticing what is going on; his composition brain is in overdrive with the sights and sounds of this place. In the next room, a long bare rectangle, there are lots of people standing in a big ring around a woman with long purple-dyed hair and dark witchy eyes who plays the piano, and these people are the ones making that wonderful music, the choir, and she is the conductor. They stop when Theorny and Syrus come in, and the woman waves at Theorny.
‘Where the hell have you been, Theo? We needed you in the tenors,’ she says, but she is pleased. Theorny jerks his thumb at Syrus.
‘Never mind where I’ve been, look at who I’ve found. This is Syrus, Lumen the harpist’s son and he’s the most brilliant musician I’ve ever heard in my life, including all you lot.’
Syrus blushes as they all look at him.
I’m too young for these people, they’re all so grown up and good looking and they can sing so well. What can I give them besides music? They’ve got that already.
He clutches the strap of his harp bag as about ten people all come forward to greet him. A tawny-haired, bookish man with large teeth comes over and shakes his hand eagerly.
‘Cassel Balan, pleased to meet you, Syrus. Ah, another harpist! Good, we’ve only got one at the moment,’ he says busily, barely pausing for breath. Syrus smiles, although his head is reeling and the angel is singing at the top of its voice as he is introduced to a few more people, whose names he instantly forgets.
Give me a break, would you? I can’t concentrate with you doing that.
No. I brought you here, let me see as well.
Well stop singing, you’re driving me mad, Syrus tells it, being greeted by a chubby young man with a permanent ear-to-ear grin.
‘Hi there! Welcome to Ethereal House, I’m Arfe. It’s good to have you here,’ he says, shaking Syrus’s hand as well, which by now would like a rest.
‘Who’s that guy there?’ he asks Theorny. Theorny points out a lanky red-haired boy who waves at them with a long-fingered hand.
A pianist’s hand, says the angel and it smiles. Yes, Syrus can see that boy at a piano very easily now. It just seems to fit.
‘Him, Ithan Tekau. You’ll like him, he’s lovely. If a bit mad.’
‘And what about him?’
Syrus points now at a tall, well-built man who looks rather out of place amidst the scruffy arty types; he’s quite sleek and his clothes actually fit him. His nails are carefully manicured, very short, and he’s got the thin, mobile fingers of a harpist.
‘Oh, Negellan? He’s… er, well, he’s just Negellan. The other harpist round here.’

Syrus sits on the bed he’s been offered and he plays his harp idly, not really playing, just fiddling with it, brushing the backs of his fingers over it. The air stinks of incense, pungent but actually quite nice, and somewhere a guitar is being played. He’s never been this contented in his life; the failure of earlier seems like a distant vision.
‘Syrus?’
It is red-haired Ithan, the lanky pianist. Syrus smiles up at him.
‘Hi, Ithan.’
Ithan sits down on the bed next to him, reaching out and touching the frame of Syrus’s harp where it rests next to him on the bed.
‘That’s a nice harp. Why is it so small?’
‘Forest harps are always this size; there’s no transport besides walking so you have to be able to carry everything you own, in case there’s a bush-fire or something.’
‘You grow up in the forest? That’s pretty cool.’
‘No, my dad did. I was born there, but we moved when I was really little. I don’t remember it at all.’
Ithan sits silent and he begins to roll a cigarette. There is something about him that makes Syrus want to tell him things, like about his angel, and about the dreams he’s been having since his dad died: dreams that make no sense but he still wakes up crying from the want of them, of the beauty he sees and can’t touch.
‘Ithan,’ he begins, then comes over all shy. Ithan looks at him.
Tell him, Syrus. He might even understand. He’s not much older than you, you know.
Syrus nods, looking back at Ithan. He can only be about seventeen, with the beginnings of a beard on his chin, and his clever eyes, eyes that look like they understand things far beyond what Syrus has even heard of, the icy heights of maths and logic and reasoning. If you looked inside his head you know it would fizzle like chemistry
‘Yeah? What is it?’ Ithan asks, and there is a faint smile on his mouth. The cigarette smoulders forgotten in his hand.
‘Do you ever see angels?’ Ithan laughs, and shakes his head.
‘No. I’m not the one who does that. It’s a harpist who does that; we thought it was Negellan for a while, but…nah. Why, do you?’
Syrus nods.
‘There’s one in my head. It sort of talks to me and when my dad died, it said it’d do something to my playing, make it better. All it’s done is made me want to play more, like, I feel weird if I don’t for more than a few hours,’ he says in a rush. For a moment Ithan is blank-faced, then his eyes widen until Syrus thinks they will swallow him.
‘Oh my God,’ he says, ‘it's you. Cass!’ he calls, leaping up from the bed and racing over to where Cassel is sitting at the brazier with Arfe and the witchy lady whose name Syrus is not sure of. Syrus cannot catch what is said, but Ithan is agitated about something, waving his arms and gesticulating at high speed. Then they all come over, and Syrus feels afraid, gripping his harp tightly for comfort.
I’ve done the wrong thing. They’re going to throw me out.
‘Syrus? Is it true what you told Ithan?’ asks Cassel excitedly. His teeth gleam and Syrus stares wildly at him, looking more like a bird than a boy, all on edge, all edges.
‘Play for us,’ Theorny says gently. Syrus nods and uncurls. He knows Theorny won't hurt him. He arranges himself round the harp like he is going to suck it into himself, hunched over it like he always plays. And he plays, he’s not sure what, but he just opens his head and lets tune after tune fall out into the world, fresh from his inexhaustible composition drive. When he wakes from the enchanted sleep that playing puts him into, the others are staring at him, slack jawed. Cassel’s eyes are shining.
‘You are the one we’ve been searching for all this time,’ he says solemnly. Syrus blinks.
‘Am I? How come?’ He feels dozy and stupid.
You’ve started, Syrus, says his angel. It has the glowing light again and Syrus wonders if his face is the same.
Why is there so much beauty in my head?
‘Why were you looking for me?’
The witchy lady smiles at him. She has a nice smile.
‘Well, you see, Cassel is a writer, and a while ago he was doing some research in the old records of the cathedral – er, Cass, why don’t you explain?’
‘Yeah. Anyway, I found this really old book with pictures in it of angels and stuff, and there was a huge long poem all in Old Forest or something, and the translation talked about ‘the son of light’ and a harpist who will one day, I dunno, lead the Musilists to recognition even though he’s young, and all sorts of stuff, and as soon as I saw you, I knew you were the one it was talking about!’ Cassel barely pauses for breath, he’s so eager to get it all across. Syrus barely takes in a word. This is lunacy.
‘Me? I’m the one you want to lead you?’
Theorny shrugs.
‘It’s predetermined. We can’t argue with that. Not that we would anyway. Yes, Syrus, you’re the one we want to lead us back to recognition.’

Syrus is lying on his bed and he is asleep, his eyes tracking behind their pale eyelids, his hands twitching as he dreams of playing the harp. Theorny watches him from his top bunk opposite, his violin in its case jammed up against his legs.
Half-asleep as he looks at Syrus with an artist’s eye, he wonders who he is. He fits in here so well, and he looks so nice when he’s asleep and not frightened of anything. He’s like a little fairy creature, not human at all. He’s too weightless to be human; Theorny can imagine him in those paintings of the Forest at midnight, with tiny firefly lights and beautiful willowy elfin people with long hair and gentle faces. What the hell’s he doing in a big rough city like Northbridge? He’s going to get squashed if there’s no one looking after him. An angel in his head can’t protect him from people with nothing in their heads besides beer and violence; they’d beat the shit out of him, given half a chance.
And he’s the one we want, just when I thought we’d never find him. Incredible.
He’d never forget the first sight of him, huddled on the doorstep of the vestment shop in an unkempt bundle with his bright hair and his glowing eyes, making that sound. Almost supernatural. What happened to him when Lumen died? Did he live like a ghost, haunting the back streets of Second Ward and the Institute, did he hide from the world, did he have someone else to love him and take care of him? Syrus suddenly jerks in the bed, still asleep, says clearly,
‘I forgot to say goodbye,’ and Theorny jumps at the sound. Syrus has woken up now, and he sits wide-eyed. His hair is a riot and he rubs his face with his hands.
‘To who?’ asks Theorny. But Syrus is already getting up and scrabbling for his shoes under the bed. He pushes his harp safely under when he’s done, and Theorny realises.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I have to say goodbye to Yorel and Pasani. I was living with them after Dad died, but since I met you I’ve forgotten all about them. They’ll be really worried now,’ he says anxiously, biting his nails. ‘How d’you get to the cathedral from here?’
‘Just turn left out of this street and walk down North Arterial until you hit the Ward gate, it’s not so far. Hey,’ Theorny says gently, and Syrus looks at him with those clear grey eyes of his, the grey of the sky just before the sun comes up really early in the morning.
‘Come back, won’t you? Don’t leave.’
‘I won’t. I’d never leave my harp here if I wasn’t intending to be back.’
And with that Syrus is gone.

Pasani’s flat is not cheerful any more, even though the walls are still bright yellow, it still smells of spicy cooking and it’s still warm and cosy and muddled. They both sit there tense and tight-lipped. It was Yorel who found the note, when she got back from school, and she thought nothing of it until Pasani arrived home from work and Syrus was not back. He is still absent and Pasani is beginning to wonder whether he’s run away for good.
Would he do that to us?
‘I’m scared, Mum. What if he’s – ’
‘Don’t say it!’ snaps Pasani and Yorel freezes, biting her lip. ‘He’ll be coming back – ooh, and then I’ll give him what for, running off like this.’ Her face softens. ‘Well, no, I won’t. He’s got problems, that boy, it’s not fair to punish him for them, I suppose.’
She sighs and rolls another cigarette. She’s been smoking like a fiend all evening and the room stinks of tobacco. Yorel wishes she’d give up, but she won’t even though she knows it's bad for you. She tries to concentrate on her homework but she can’t, all she can see are horrible images of Syrus caught by some gang, arrested by Security and languishing in a cell, cold and hungry and sore, or even worse dead on some street corner, floating face down in the river all pale and straggly and waterlogged. She clenches her teeth and forces the images away. No, he’s alive, he’ll be back soon. He’s probably just lost track of time like he always does.
There is a knock on the door, a light nervy tap. Pasani shrugs and gets up, but her face has drained and she looks almost skull-like. She thinks it’s Security come to tell us they’ve arrested Sy. Pasani opens the door and Yorel hears her scream.
‘Mum! Who is it?’ she calls, getting up and running into the hall where Pasani is hugging Syrus and shouting at him at the same time.
‘Sy, you little fool, where have you been, we were so worried about you going off like that, oh, anything could have happened to you and we wouldn’t have known!’ she is wailing. Syrus extricates himself from her arms and he is different, Yorel sees, he’s bigger somehow. Brighter. He’s got a sort of glow around him that’s only there when he’s really focused on his harp and she has to shake him to get his attention, he can’t even hear when she shouts his name. He scares her a bit when he gets like that.
Where’s he been?
‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly, ‘I should’ve come back after my audition, but I met Theorny and he took me to the Musilists and I just forgot about everything. I’ve had the most amazing day.’
‘Well, come in and tell us about it then,’ Pasani says. She is not angry, she’s just relieved, all the colour has come back to her face. Yorel is relieved as well, impossibly so; she thought she’d never see him again. But from nowhere a funny little niggling thought pops into her head.
He’s not staying. He’s leaving us, going to places we can’t reach.
They sit down on the floor like usual with their legs crossed and Syrus is itching to tell them about his day, but at the same time he’s realised that he’s not going to be living in Block 3, Fairley Estate, Second Ward, any longer, and he’s not going to be with Yorel who he’s known since he was two years old.
That is part of growing up, Syrus. You have to say goodbye sometimes, says his angel and Syrus starts. The angel has been quiet for a long while and he’s practically forgotten about it. Yorel notices him jump and she asks him why. He shrugs. They don’t need to know about it – and besides, he’s never told them before, it’s never seemed like the right thing to do. Why do it now? They’ll think he’s mad, and they won’t let him go if they’re not sure he’s all there. Save the angel for the Musilists, they understand.
‘Tell us about it all then, Sy,’ says Pasani. She looks tired; it is nearly midnight.
‘Well, I went to the Institute for an audition to the school, cause, you know, Dad wanted me to. But they failed me.’
That still rankles a little, even though he knows he’s a Musilist to his core. Yorel laughs.
‘They failed you? Are they nuts?’
Syrus shrugs.
‘I guess they didn’t like the look of me, or maybe I played badly or something. It happens. Anyway, I got kind of depressed about that so I sat in Cathedral Square and busked to make myself feel better, even though I haven’t got a license yet. And this violinist called Theorny came up to me and we did a load of duets, it just kind of happened and it was really great. I earned a bit of money and I want you to have it for being nice to me – ’
Syrus fishes around in the pocket of his coat and pulls out the motley collection of coins, shoving them into Pasani’s astonished hands. She turns them over, frowning.
‘Are you sure you want to give me all this? There’s a fair bit here, you know.’
Syrus smiles and folds her fingers round them, his face glowing but strangely sad.
‘I’m not going to need it where I’m going, you see. Theorny asked me to come back to the Musilist building with him once we’d finished busking, cause he said I’d like it: so I went and it’s the most amazing place and I reckon I’ve found where I want to be, and it’s there, Pasani, it’s there with the Musilists. Not at the Institute.’
Yorel shakes her head. She’s right, he’s leaving them again and he’s not coming back this time.
‘Come and visit us sometimes, Sy,’ she says and there is something that passes between his eyes and hers that Pasani cannot fathom, something that only they understand because they’re so close, soon to be far away.
‘Just a second, Syrus, who says you’re going anywhere? I’ve never heard of these Musilists; how can you know if they’re alright?’
‘I just know,’ he says. ‘They’re the people I’m meant to spend the rest of my life with, and I can’t tell you any more, other than they’re the most beautiful, talented, amazing people anywhere and I’m proud to have even met them.’
The light of youth is in him. He can do no wrong and he has to get back home, back to that grubby building called Ethereal House with the people who think like him and love what he loves and see the world through his eyes. Pasani shakes her head as she sees that there’s no talking to him. He’s unreachable, this weird boy she’s been given the care of. Until such time as one or both parties see fit.
He meant me to do this, to let him go when he was ready. I just didn’t know it would be so soon.
‘Syrus,’ she says gravely and he looks at her. His eyes are enormous, compelling, intense, like he’s trying to learn her face by heart. Persuading her without words to let him go. She drags herself out of his gaze and begins:
‘Your father obviously meant for you to go your own way, and I’m not going to stop you. All I’m going to say is, be careful. Don’t rush into things before you’ve worked out exactly what they’re about, because they might not be what you think. That’s all.’
Syrus nearly falls off the chair in shock. He didn’t expect that. He’s actually going to live with them, the Musilists, and she doesn’t mind even though she’s never heard of them and for all she knows they could be a bunch of murderers.
‘You don’t mind?’ he squeaks. Pasani shrugs.
‘You’re only going to run away if I stop you from going, so I don’t see the point. I wish you luck, cause it’s definitely not what I’d do. You’re going to be absolutely penniless, Syrus - you do realise that, don’t you? All cold and hungry and poor. I wouldn't do it just for music, but there you go, we're different people, you and me.’
He is grinning from ear to ear, so much his cheekbones hurt. He can’t help it.
We’re going home, angel. We’re actually going to live there, you and me.
‘That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard. Thank you,’ he says, ‘thank you, Pasani.’
He’s so happy he could go through the roof like a firework and explode into fragments. He capers round the room with excitement until he’s dizzy, and then he collapses onto the sofa gasping for breath.
‘I don’t want to go,’ he says suddenly, morosely. ‘I mean, I can’t wait to go to Ethereal House but I don’t want to leave you. I’ve lived near you all my life, it’s going to be so weird not seeing you every day.’
Yorel looks at him; her eyes are watering but she’s not exactly crying, it’s more like how you feel just before you start crying properly.
This is the last time he’ll be here.
He’ll forget me, like he forgets everything when there’s music around.
‘I’m going to miss you, Sy,’ she says. Her voice is a bit wobbly and she swallows hard. He gets up and flings his arms round her, burying his face in her long black hair, remembering how she feels, how she smells: like tobacco and soap and spices and something else, a sweet tang that is unique to her. She is warm in his arms, and he lets her go and looks at her. Her eyes are red and she’s struggling to compose herself.
‘I’ll visit you whenever I can, I promise, Yorel, I won’t leave you. Come and see us sometimes, you’ll always be welcome.’
He wipes his face; he’s crying too, half out of distress and half out of happiness. And then it’s it: he’s going. He’s leaving Block 3 Fairley Estate. Leaving the only place he’s ever called home, going to somewhere infinitely more glorious, a place he feels completely attuned to and that’s what’s been missing all his life, that sense of perfectly fitting into where he lives, like there was a little Syrus-shaped patch in the air and he just stepped into it. He collects all the clothes he owns from the corner of the living room where he’s been sleeping: two shirts, a heap of underwear, a spare pair of trousers that are much too baggy, some very old boots and a long red scarf with holes in.
‘Keep everything else,’ he says, going over to Pasani and hugging her as well, sensing her reluctance to let him go, and he’s even more grateful to her that she has let go. ‘Thank you for everything.’
‘It’s the least we could do, Syrus. Good luck.’
She shows him out and he leaves the flat. They wave from the doorstep, but he senses that something has gone from them towards him. They’re distancing themselves, and they’ll forget him once he’s gone from sight.
Well, let them. Your place is with me now, says his angel. It looks tired, but flushed with happiness. Syrus smiles, but he’s a bit worried as well.
It’s not like I’ll never see them again, though, is it?
Well, it will never be the same. You left them. You’ve burnt your boats, I think.
How? Syrus is indignant at that, but the angel smiles mockingly.
You practically told them that they’re not good enough for you.
At your suggestion! Now piss off, you’re confusing me.
Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Oh go away, you’re giving me a headache. Come back later.
Syrus blanks out his mind and the angel disappears. He walks along the North Arterial road that leads up to the top gate of Northbridge, past mile on mile of warehouses and factories and workshops that all look the same by night. There are not many people about; it’s cold and miserable and Syrus pulls his coat tighter round him, hugging the ball of clothes in his thin arms.
This is the first night of your life, Syrus. Enjoy it.
I am enjoying it. I never realised how beautiful everything is, even up here. Look at that building there, all those windows reflecting in the street lamp. I’ve never seen things like this before.
Syrus looks around with new eyes at the street, its tall square factories with their still-smoking towers, the warehouses all lit up for the start of the night shift. And it’s all amazing him, the fact that he’s got his own life and he can walk around the city at night to his heart’s content, seeing all the grimy beauty that it hides in its brick walls and dirty windows. He turns into the alley where Ethereal House is and he knocks on the door of the community centre, then just pushes it open. All are welcome, anyway.

feedback is very welcome... even if you hated it. i wanna know why so i can improve things, cause i don't want my stuff to be globally reviled. jeez, i sound like one of thiose customer survey things don't i? 'any comments, please call... or write to.... your statutory rights are not affected..' blah blah blah/ or those well annoying stickers on the back of lorries that say 'well driven? call xzxzxzxzx' i mean, who's gonna other to write down a number while they're driving, just to talk to a complete stranger about some lorry that passed them on the road in one incredibly ordinary minute of their life. i just don't get it...

anyway, where was i? oh yeah, feedback. comments please....

wings of sound

chapter 2

Failing and passing

Syrus sits in a corner, in a little heap on the floor. It is three days after Lumen has gone and he is completely shell-shocked. It started after he’d cremated the body. Nothing could have possibly prepared him for how horrible it was, nothing in the entire world. The smell was the worst thing, it’s still hanging around now and he can’t get rid of it. It’s in his hair, in his clothes, on his skin, everywhere, the smell of his dad’s roasting flesh. He’ll never forget the terrible peace on that dead face as the smoke started to rise, thick and black, from the pyre he built in a patch of wasteland, as Forest funeral custom dictates: not where the passage of the soul can be interrupted by earthly beauty. Yorel and Pasani were with him, both crying. Syrus could not have cried any more even if he’d wanted to. He stood dry eyed and played the Leaving on Lumen’s harp, the best he’d ever played.
My harp now.
It is his only consolation and he plays it more and more; he finds he needs it near him just to feel human.
It’s starting, Syrus. You are becoming addicted to music, just as you should be, says his angel in his head, and it is smiling with its midnight eyes but not his mouth.
Addicted? That’s bad! That’s not healthy.
But it is beautiful. You are going to do great things.
You keep saying this, but you’re wrong. What can I do apart from play the harp? I bet there are millions of people out there better than me, much better.
I chose you. You will learn, in time.
Why can’t you ever explain yourself? You come out with all this random stuff and you never offer me any sort of reason, you just expect me to understand it all!
No I don’t, says the angel softly. You don’t have to understand anything. Just be yourself, Syrus, because you are the one I need.
Syrus shakes his head and the angel goes away. He remembers about the Musicians’ Institute suddenly, and feels terrible for forgetting.
My dad’s last wish! How the hell could I ignore it?
Furious with himself, he gets up instantly. He is stiff from inactivity, he has not been outside since the burning day and he doesn’t really want to face it now. All those people, all those lives.
Why couldn’t one of them die instead, someone I don’t love or even know?
Scribbling a note to Yorel for when she gets back from school: Gone to Musicians institute. Be back soon. Sy xx.
He shuts the door with the harp strapped to his back and goes down the stairs and out into the street. He sees the landlord of the block coming and walks the other way fast, down the road into the bright afternoon, not wanting to hear the words ‘I’m so sorry to hear about it’, ‘are you alright’ ‘that’s a pity’ and all the endless condolences. They have no idea what it’s like. It has been raining and there are puddles in the road, the gutter choked with fallen leaves. Down to Brewery Street, then along left for ever and ever, past the Haimisha factory, through the Ward gate and there right in front is the Musicians’ Institute. He has been here so many times that he barely even looks at the handsome brick building with its ornate arched façade. He goes in the door and sees Mr Hansel the clerk at the front desk.
‘Ah, hello, young Syrus. How are you? I say, we haven’t seen your dad in a while, you know – is he alright? Not ill or anything?’
Hansel is far too cheerful. Even his spectacles gleam with happiness.
‘He’s dead,’ Syrus snaps. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, if it’s all the same to you.’
Hansel shakes his head, but without any particular emotion.
‘I see. I shall remove his name from the Register. Are you here to tell everyone?’
‘No. I’m here for an audition for the school, since Dad can’t teach me any more. He wanted me to.’ Syrus’s voice goes a bit quavery but he bites his lip. Hansel nods.
‘Ah, right. You’ll want Mr Bird, then. Second floor, last on the right, I’m afraid there’s a bit of a queue, as usual. Good luck,’ he calls after Syrus who is already halfway up the stairs. Last on the right turns out to be a big waiting room full of kids, most about his age, some younger, some a little older. All have someone else with them. He goes over to the fat man in the corner who has a roll of paper and a pen, sitting in a very old armchair.
‘Name?’
‘Syrus Tor – er, Lumensson.’
Nearly forgot. You’re useless, Syrus. Never forget it again.
‘Lumensson? Lumen the harper?’ the man asks, scribbling. Syrus nods curtly.
‘What’s happened to him, then? You’ve got his harp, haven’t you.’
Syrus shrugs.
‘Are you going to give me a number or not? And before you ask, Lumen was my dad, and I said was because he died three days ago. Don’t talk about it.’
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t – ’
Syrus shakes his head.
‘Don’t be sorry, there’s no point. Can I have a ticket?’
The man holds out a slip of paper torn off the roll and Syrus takes it. It has his name on it and a printed number, 17. Seventeenth in the queue. Wonderful. He is panicky as he sits and waits in the big room. It is much too hot, and somewhere a tiny sister of one of the applicants is screaming and the mother does not have the sense to take her outside. He begins to shake as he unpacks the harp and checks the tuning against the old piano in the room. He’s auditioning for his future and he has a horrible feeling that he’s not going to get in, even though Lumen had always said he was better than most of the qualified harpists at the Institute without trying.
They won’t want me. I’m not educated enough. I’m practically self-taught.
Why, Dad, why are you making me go here? It’s completely not my place and you know that.
Just do it, Syrus. Give your old man a chance, says his angel.
Syrus nods and the minutes tick by, slower and slower. And finally a formidable woman with a bad dye job calls
‘Number Seventeen, please, Number Seventeen,’ and Syrus’s legs can barely support him. He’s never been this scared in his life. And there is no one to wish him good luck.
What about me?
Like I said, you don’t count, you aren’t real.
Don’t be so sure, Syrus.
Syrus pushes open the door with a trembling, skinny little hand. There is a long room inside with a chair and a music stand, and a big table with five people on the other side of it. All of them are old, and they are nearly all men. They are the notoriously conservative, uptight Admissions Board, and Syrus wants to run away and hide, do anything but be in this room with these people. A thin man in the middle – Mr Bird, presumably – tells Syrus to sit down, pointing at the chair. The chair is too high and too upright, but he perches on the edge of it and pulls the harp in towards him, his knees up round it. It is the only thing he can be sure won’t let him down.
‘Name?’
And the whole rigmarole begins again. Until Mr Bird asks what Syrus has prepared to play. Syrus looks blank. He has not prepared anything.
What the hell do I play?
Play them The Growing, Syrus. That’s what you do best, big hard pieces.
So he tells them, his voice shaking with nerves.
‘Go on then, in your own time, please.’
He begins, the first soft notes, and he forgets everything besides the sounds that roll off his fingers and he sings the old words that Lumen had taught him when he was little, the Old Forest words that the village bard would sing over children at their first birthday, and again at their rites of passage when they were thirteen. His voice has just finished wobbling and breaking, and it is now a clear tenor. He knows nothing of what the examiners are feverishly scribbling. Of course they’ll take him.

Bird is transfixed. How does this little shrimp of a boy have this much inside him? And he cannot tear his eyes away from Syrus, who is transported totally away from here. He is glowing faintly, his eyes are unfocused and his voice raises all the hairs on the five necks at the desk.
The boy’s dangerous, thinks Bird, we can’t have someone like him here. Distressingly exceptional. The examiner next to him nudges him and whispers
‘I don’t like this, it’s scaring me. He’s too strange.’
‘Definitely. We can’t have him here.’
‘What the hell is this piece anyway? No knowledge of composers, that’s clear.’
And that’s it. They’ve decided already, even before they go through the technical tests, the sight reading which he messes up because he can't actually read music that well, the aural which he is brilliant at. He is amazing, more instinct than learning – and this is Lumen’s son, plain-as-paper Lumen?
What has he done to deserve this as his child, this alien thing, thinks Bird, seeing the utter ecstasy on Syrus’s frail little face as his hands dance on the harp strings. In fairness, they should let him in, but who will tolerate him without being driven insane? What teacher would take him on?
‘Right, that’s the end of the test. Wait outside, please Syrus, and we will discuss. When we have reached our decision we will call you in.’
Syrus floats out on a little cloud, not really aware of the world. The angel is glowing inside his head, smiling and exulting silently.

‘Oh God, don’t let him in! He’s terrifying – ’
‘I know! Did you see his eyes? He looked like he was bewitched or something – ’
‘Totally the wrong image for the Institute, letting a freak like him in – ’
‘Are we decided then? Refusal,’ says Bird, cutting through the Board’s gabbling. He feels terrible, but he has been examining for years and years, and he knows well that there are people who will be ‘the right sort’ and people who won’t, and if a wrong type gets in they usually make all sorts of embarrassing trouble, like going mad or taking drugs or refusing to learn properly. It can’t be helped, Lumen’s boy is simply the wrong sort. He goes outside and there is Syrus, leaning against the wall with his harp.
‘Syrus,’ Bird says. The boy looks round; he is white-faced, terrified, not glowing now.
‘Come in, please.’
Syrus walks back into the room, only this time he is more afraid than ever. His high has gone and his angel is not there to help him. They are all behind the desk, all impassive, all perfectly composed. He is shaking like a leaf as he sits on the audition chair again.
‘I’m afraid we cannot have you here, Syrus,’ says Bird. Syrus doesn’t move or speak; it hasn’t even hit him yet. Then it comes crashing down like a bomb and his jaw drops.
They won’t have me.
I’ve failed.
He shakes his head.
‘What did I do wrong?’ he croaks. He has to ask, there’s nothing else to do.
‘Er…we just feel that the Institute is not the right place for you, Syrus,’ stutters Bird. Syrus gets to his feet jerkily. The one thing his dad asked him to do, he’s screwed it up. He was banking on this all his life, and pouf! up in smoke in ten minutes.
‘Is there someone here to collect you?’ asks another examiner, no doubt trying to be kind. Syrus wants to explode. These people have refused him the right to be a musician. His right to live.
‘No there bloody well isn’t,’ he spits at her, ‘cause my dad’s dead and you just stopped me from doing the one thing he wanted, getting in here! Why have you done this to me?’ he shouts, face hopeless with rage. His angel howls and that is the last straw, he cannot stay here with these evil people for another second. The room is too small for him and them and this huge fury inside him. He bursts out of the door with wings of anger shooting him down the corridor, storming down the stairs and out past an astonished Hansel at the desk reading the paper. He is panting and his heart is pounding like the timpani in the finale of Bazercak’s Fever Mass for full orchestra and SATB choir.
I’ve failed. I’ve got nothing left to give. Let me die.
You’ve got everything to give, Syrus. It’s their fault for refusing to have you, and they will bitterly regret that soon enough. You’ll see, crows his angel, and flickers out of his head. Syrus is near Cathedral Square by now, and he can see the cathedral itself with its soaring spire and buttresses, the space he always feels at home in. All the anger that has driven him here has evaporated, and he’s cold and faintly nauseous now.
What the hell do I do now? I’m a failure, angel. Help me.
Play your harp, Syrus. It will make you feel better. You never know, your luck might change, says the angel and it is sad now, its eyes bottomless. Syrus shakes his head, but he suddenly really does want his harp, he wants to play it and just forget everything. He gets it out of his bag and holds it tenderly, sitting down on the ground in the doorway of some clergy clothes shop, and starts playing, and the music that wells up out of him makes him cry; he should be in the Institute, not on some street corner like a tramp, busking without a license so he won’t get any money anyway. He does not notice through his blurry eyes that a slim young man with a violin-case slung over his shoulder is watching him with astonishment.

Theorny Askar has come straight from teaching his rather tiresome beginner’s violin class at the Cathedral school, his ears ringing with dodgy intonation and horrible bow strokes and over-the-bridge squeaks. He is also late getting back to Ethereal House, where he promised he’d find Cassel and tell him about the first edition of Calamar’s complete operatic works that he unearthed in the school’s library – all in all, not the greatest day of his life. But as he turns into Cathedral Square the most beautiful sound he has ever heard meets his ears. A harp, on its own, but what a solo! The tenderness, the wonderful centred notes, and why couldn’t he get such purity out of his violin?
Who the hell wrote that piece? It’s fantastic, he thinks as he scans the square for the player – and sees him on the steps of the vestment shop in a dirty huddle, an elfin boy about thirteen staring vacantly at the rose window of the cathedral with tear-tracks on his cheeks. He looks terribly far away and Theorny wonders where he is, and wishes he could be there too, that nirvana-like state of pure creative bliss; he’s never seen anyone quite so deep into it as this boy is. He watches him play, with his beautiful hands on the strings, too hooked on the music to stop. The boy lays down the harp and wipes his eyes with his sleeve, and then notices Theorny, his pale skin flushing a little. ‘Who wrote that piece?’ Theorny asks huskily. Syrus blinks, still half in his trance.
‘What piece?’ he mumbles.
Leave me alone, I’m busy. I’m somewhere else.
Who is this? asks the angel, and Syrus shrugs. Theorny points to the harp.
‘The one you were just playing on that.’
‘I don’t know,’ Syrus says quietly, ‘I just sat down and played, I dunno what came out.’
‘You… you didn’t hear yourself?’
Theorny is amazed. Unless he’s much mistaken, the boy is a proper visionary, not just one of those dissolute artists who pretends to have dreams but really they just take too many drugs and don’t sleep enough.
‘What’s your name, harper?’
‘Syrus Lumensson.’
The name is familiar… Lumen, definitely a Forest name –
‘Like Lumen the harper?’
Syrus nods. He never realised his dad knew this many people.
They’ll all go on and on every time I tell them he’s dead. I’m sick of it.
‘I’m his son, at least I was until he died.’
‘He died? Oh God, I didn’t know! Sorry,’ Theorny says frankly, an awkward smile on his face. Syrus shakes his head but can’t be bothered to answer. Nothing to say, anyway.
‘Play again, Syrus, you’re absolutely amazing. Tell you what, I’ll get this out and we’ll do a duet,’ Theorny says, tapping his violin case. Syrus nods, a faint smile on his face. He hasn’t smiled in days – well, he’s had precious little to smile about. Theorny gets out his violin and stands next to Syrus on the pavement, putting out a little card that has his license on it, and for the next half an hour they play folk songs and ballads and ditties and hymns and anything they can think of, and the sounds echo round the cathedral square like no other street music has sounded for a very long time. Soon they have quite a large crowd round them, and Theorny’s violin case has a thick shower of coins in the bottom of it. Theorny stops playing – he is very good, with people watching his clever left hand on the fingerboard – and puts the violin down, wiping his face and laughing. The crowd applaud wildly and Theorny takes a big sweeping bow, then hauls Syrus to his feet and makes him bow as well. Syrus can’t help but grin, and the crowd begins to break up once Theorny packs up his fiddle and collects the coins, leaving half. Syrus picks them up and puts them in his pocket.
‘That was great! Thanks, Syrus, it was an honour to play with you,’ he says once they are on their own. Syrus smiles back, then realises he still doesn’t even know the violinist’s name. He puts his harp in its bag and stands up, and he and Theorny look hard at each other. Syrus can feel the buzzing in his ear that means his angel is around somewhere.
Take me with you, the angel suddenly screams and Syrus blurts it out as well. He can’t stop himself, he needs to live with music. Theorny looks surprised and pleased.
‘Take you where? Back to the Musilists? I’d love to, Syrus, I think you’re the one we really need around the place.’
‘Y-you want me?’ stammers Syrus, actually realising what he said. Someone wants him. They won’t reject him, the Musilists, they will welcome him with open arms. He thinks guiltily of Yorel and Pasani, of how they’ve been so good to him. How he’ll leave them.
‘Of course we do. You’re the most brilliant musician I’ve ever heard. Come on, you’ll like it.’
An absolute, blissful smile slowly evolves on Syrus’s face like sunshine and Theorny stares, transfixed, at the beautiful thing he has found.
He doesn’t even know my name, he thinks. He holds out his hand and Syrus shakes it.
‘I’m Theorny, Syrus. I should’ve told you before. Do you know anything about the Musilists?’
‘Why do I need to? If they’re like you then it doesn’t matter, they’re who I want to spend my life with,’ Syrus says blankly. It hasn’t even occurred to him that this might be a set-up, a big lie designed to kidnap him or something, like you read in the papers. He is instinctive, impulsive, and his dad always warned him against using his feelings rather than his head to control his actions. ‘You’ve got a good brain, Sy, and you should rely on it more than you do to get around in life,’ Lumen used to say. Syrus doesn’t care. He was lost and he’s been found; his feelings are winning this time.
‘Teach me,’ he says softly. ‘Teach me how to be a musician.’
Theorny laughs and laughs.
‘Me teach you? I can’t! You know more than me without trying, Syrus. You are the teacher, and you’re coming with me. I know a lot of people who’d love to meet you.’
Theorny pulls Syrus to his feet and they walk across the square in the direction of First Ward. Syrus feels wasted now, next to Theorny so lithe and full of bouncy good humour; he feels sick and dirty and he doesn’t know why.
It’s something to do with the playing, Syrus. This is perfectly normal, and I’m afraid you’ll just have to get used to it. It’s part of your relationship with the music in you.
Syrus smiles at hearing the angel; it is happy, its black eyes glittering. It flaps its wings a couple of times then vanishes, and Theorny asks him what he’s smiling about.
‘I’m safe, Theorny. I got failed at the Musicians’ Institute when I went for an audition, and I thought that was it, that I’d never be able to do anything with myself. But then you came and found me.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, I’ve never really been to school, at least, not since I was about eight, and I had all my hopes set on getting into the Institute school and being taught properly. And besides, my dad – erm, wanted me to.’
The fact that it was his dad’s last words was still eating him up; he’d failed Lumen and he wasn’t at all sure whether this replacement was good enough.
I want to do it, though, I want to be with these people more than anything, and if the Institute won’t take me then there’s no other option.
‘Wow. I’ve had a pretty conventional upbringing compared to you, I was studying at the Institute, but it felt wrong.’ Theorny sighs, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t fit in at all, and I felt like I was being stifled by those conventions; but one day I met Cassel and he introduced me to the Musilists, and everything just clicked. My parents weren’t happy, but they said it’s better than me doing no music at all.’
They’re at the Ward gate now to First Ward, and the industrial district looms tall in front of them. Syrus does not come to this Ward much and he is struck by the smell, a horrible acrid mix of chemicals and smoke and sort of sooty, smoggy dust that catches in the back of your throat and tastes really nasty, like you breathed in poison. Theorny turns down a dark little side-street and stops outside a low grey building and the strangest feeling washes over Syrus, so strong that he has to stop and catch his breath.
You’re home, says the angel.
I’m home.

wings of sound

this is the start of a book which i've been writing on and off for about 3 years now. comments are always helpful. and when i write a new bit, i'll post it on here

a little deception.... this is actually the beginning, as anyone who reads it may guess about 2 milliseconds in

if this version ever changes i'll add that in as well
***
The end

In the city they call Northbridge, up near the edge of the northern forests, there are one million people packed into an area you could walk across in an hour. It is the biggest city in the known world, bigger than Legrad, bigger than everywhere in the south and east, and of course there is nothing but an endless sea out to the west so that doesn’t count. In a tiny room in Second Ward, a man is dying. He is sick, sick with the consumption that has been hanging around the poor quarters for years choosing its victims carefully, always leaving someone behind to grieve. The room is grey, the walls stained with smoke and age and damp. The man lies in a narrow bed and a boy sits on the floor next to him with his face in his hands. Not long left in the world for Lumen Torresson; wherever he is going, he’s nearly there. Thin, lined, drawn, practically dead already, he coughs and coughs, spraying blood on the sheets, gasping and wheezing. The boy is his son and he cannot look at his father reduced to this, strong harpist’s hands wasted like pale spiders, twitching on the cover. Lips cracked. Eyes yellow like onions, voice gone where once it sang loudest at church. The boy wipes his father’s face tenderly. He knows that it is one of the last things he’ll ever do for him. Of course he knows, he can’t help but know. He’s known ever since it started.
‘Syrus,’ Lumen gasps, ‘it’s time. Come here.’
Syrus, the boy, bends closer to the bed and he is red-eyed from crying. The smell of death hangs in the air over Lumen.
Please, Dad, don’t leave me.
I don’t want to be alone.
Syrus holds his dad’s cold hand in his own, not much warmer.
‘Promise me, Sy, promise me – ’ cough, cough, splutter, oh God he’s gone already, ‘Promise me that you’ll go to the Institute and study music, it’s what you’re born for… take the harp, it’s yours…’ cough, cough, rattling sigh. Syrus squeezes the limp hand. Faint as breath, faint as winter warmth on snow, the final words.
‘I… love you… goodbye’ and that’s it. The hand goes slack, the jaw hangs open and the eyes are glassy. Syrus is numb.
I’m too young for this.
It’s all he’s capable of thinking. He shuts his dad’s eyes and pulls the sheet up over his head, and as the well-known face disappears from sight, he can’t control himself any more. He sits on the floor and howls, praying and cursing and wishing it wasn’t today, wishing his father had never got ill, wishing anything but this was happening.
‘Get me out of here,’ he begs. He doesn’t know who he’s talking to. ‘I can’t take this.’
‘Yes you can,’ says a voice. There is no one there, but he definitely heard it. ‘I will help you take it, Syrus Lumensson.’
Then he realises: the voice is in his head. A man. He shuts his eyes, and there is the man himself – except he’s not a man at all, and not a woman either, but somewhere between the two, androgynous and very beautiful. It has wings, big grey ones like ghosts behind it, and a long mane of blue-black hair. Its eyes are wells of midnight.
Who are you?
I am your guide, Syrus, and only you can see me because you have a gift. You know that, don’t you? Your harp playing abilities. Far better than your father, since always. Play your harp to me.
My dad’s just died, leave me alone!
It will help you feel better.
Syrus opens his eyes, hoping for one mad moment that he has dreamed everything and his dad will come in any minute now and shake him awake. No, nothing has changed, there is his dead father on the bed with the sheet over his face and a cold smell in the tomb, the room, the gloom. Syrus reaches under the bed and gets out a big leather bag. It has an old folk harp inside it, about half the size of a full-length harp and dark with age, which Lumen has played all his life.
Had played. He’s not going to be doing it again.
This nearly makes him dissolve again, but the angel’s calm voice speaks in his head.
Cry if you like, Syrus. You produce your best sounds when you are emotional.
Syrus shakes his head. He will not cry any more. The harp lures him. He loves it, and he sits cross-legged and rests his thin fingers on it as he has done every day of his life. As Lumen had done every day of his life as well, both as a boy in Pernarogar, the forest city, and as a man here in Northbridge. He begins to play a soft, slow tune.
Syrus is a strange looking boy, not much like his father at all. He is little, just a waif, with wild ashy-blond curls of hair that hang round his face like clouds. His eyes are deep, dark grey and his skin is pale, sallow, smooth as paper. The only person he does look like is one of his great-great-great-uncles. Eliar. His dad once showed him a drawing of Eliar at fifteen, and he and Syrus are almost identical. Eliar was an absolutely phenomenal musician, another harper, they all were in Syrus’s family. But the problem was, Eliar was strange and he heard voices in his head, which finally drove him mad and he threw himself off the top of a cliff when he was twenty because he couldn’t take it any more. Couldn’t take what, Syrus always wonders.
Syrus plays with his eyes tight shut. The angel is watching, painted on his closed eyelids, and there is a light in its face that makes it lovely and alien. The music is glorious, haunting, hanging in the air like gossamer, so many layers of chords and tunes and cadences that you can almost see it. He reaches the end of the song without really knowing. Music is his bread and his meat and his drink, his air and blood, and he has a gift for it, strange and frightening and amazing like no one else has. Not many people know this about him and he wishes they did.
You are the one I have been looking for all my life, Syrus Lumensson, says the angel, and it is dead serious. Its eyes glow like dark pools with the moon on them.
Me? Why have you been looking for me?
You have the gift, boy. You are my voice when others can’t hear me, or won’t. And I will make your playing stranger. Madder. Better. Now you know you can never unknow.
The angel is not there any more, left his head and gone who knows where. Syrus can feel a roaring in his ears, his heart is racing and his nerves fizz with pure chemical ecstasy. He takes up the harp again and plays frantically, desperate to express some of the stuff inside him. The world wants it, welcomes it, hungers for it. His father’s dead body has a faint aura around it, but Syrus can see it like a blaze because his senses are overloaded and overdriven. There is so much music in his head that he is almost afraid it will explode, but finally he calms down and stops playing. He is shaking all over and his skin is hot and cold.
Am I mad?
Mad like Eliar?
The aura has faded from his father’s corpse and it lies there waxily, even deader than before. Syrus wants to cry again, the crazy rush has gone and he feels cold, tired, heavy. He wants to sleep and blot out the world.
No, Syrus, it’s the middle of the afternoon, you can’t sleep. You’re totally on your own now. Get the priest, get the doctor, get anyone so you don’t have to be alone.
You are never alone, Syrus. You have me.
He couldn’t see the angel but he recognised its voice.
Where are you?
I am inside you, Syrus. I am part of you, just as you are part of me. Go and follow your father’s dream, since he asked. Go to the Musicians’ Institute. I am leaving you now, but call and I will be there.
Syrus shrugs.
Help me, Dad, stop him talking to me –
He checks himself mid-thought.
Syrus, he’s dead, he can’t do anything.
Crying again, he puts the harp back in its bag and goes out of the tiny flat, taking the key in his pocket. He walks along the passage and downstairs two floors, along to a door with the name plate P Menno. He knocks, wiping his face on his sleeve. His eyes hurt. The door opens and there is Pasani, his best friend’s mother, ever-present cigarette smouldering between two fingers. She looks at him with dark eyes.
‘Sy, what’s wrong? Come in and tell me what’s the matter.’
That sets him off more, really howling this time.
‘He-he’s d-dead, m-my dad’s – he’s gone,’ he chokes. She hugs him, and he presses his face into her shoulder. She smells of cigarettes and tea and spices, like she always does, and he tries to control himself. She lets him go.
‘I’m sorry, Syrus. Poor Lumen. Did it happen just now?’
‘Y-yeah, ab-about five minutes ago,’ he replies shakily. He scrubs at his raw eyes with his frail hands. ‘I should go and get the vicar.’
He sounds hopeless, just like he feels. Nothing is right now he has no dad. No parents at all and no relatives either.
Oh my God. I’m an orphan.
His mother died giving birth to him, he never knew her, but his dad was everything to him. Pasani looks at him sadly; she didn’t know Lumen that well, but they got on alright.
‘Oh, Syrus, you don’t have to do that. No fourteen year old should have to do that. Go in, Yorel’s inside.’
He nods. Doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t trust himself not to cry some more. It’s like there’s a tap inside him and he can’t turn it off. Yorelei, his best friend, is sitting there at the little table and writing. She looks up and she knows what’s happened, of course she does, she knows Syrus like a brother. She gets up without a word and hugs him too, and it’s even worse when she does because she lost her dad too, but she was only five – and he ran off with another woman rather than died of consumption. He sits down on the chair and buries his face, covering his eyes with his long tangled hair. She touches his hand, her writing forgotten.
‘Sy, what are you going to do?’ she asks softly, pure dismay. He shakes his head.
‘I don’t know, I don’t know what I’ll do. He wants – wanted me to go to the musicians’ institute and train as a harpist,’ he mumbles, still buried in his hair. ‘I don’t want to go, it’ll remind me of him too much, but I can’t let him down.’
He comes out of his huddle and the world is so desolate he can barely look at it, even in the brightly-painted flat with its fire and cheerful fabrics everywhere. Pasani is in the doorway and he looks up at her with his swollen eyes.
‘I’m going to get the vicar. Will you two be okay here until I get back?’
Yorelei nods and she leaves. Syrus feels like he’s died as well. He can’t think properly, he’s in his own little world and no one else can reach him, however hard they try. Just him and his sorrow, so much bigger and more permanent than anything else.
Why did you have to die?
Why do I have to be alone?
What will happen to me now?
The questions won’t leave him alone, they buzz and flutter and whirl in his brain until he wants to whack his head on the wall so hard he blacks out, just for a bit of peace. Neither of them say anything. There’s nothing left to say, and in Syrus’s every thought there is a Lumen-shaped hole.
‘Why, Yorel, why did he have to leave me? I can’t – I can’t – it’s like he’s taken half of me with him, and I’ll never be complete again, I’ll never get used to it,’ he wails suddenly. She looks sadly at him with her mother’s eyes, black and liquid.
‘You will, Sy. I promise. I thought that as well, when my dad left, I thought I’d never be happy again now we were a broken home, you know, like you hear in the newspaper where all the problems start, ooh, they’re society’s biggest evil, and so on and so on. But you get to learn that, well, he’s not coming back so there’s no point missing him.’
She pauses, her face bitter.
‘At least your dad told you he loved you every once in a while.’
He loves me. Wherever he is, he still loves me.
Yes, Syrus, says the angel. And Yorel loves you, and I love you. You’re not alone.
A watery smile crosses Syrus’s face; tiny rays of sunlight breaks through his gloomy clouds of thoughts. He nods and Yorelei beams at him.
‘That’s better. Mum will be back soon.’

And, indeed, Pasani is back soon, with the fat little vicar of St Michal’s Church, Second Ward. Father Regan, his name is. He shakes his bald head at Syrus.
‘You poor boy. Tragic, to lose a father like that, and so young too – how old are you?’
Tactless, absolutely tactless. Syrus grits his teeth.
‘Fourteen,’ he mutters. Father Regan nods and his head shines.
Go away, I don’t want to see you. You’re too cheerful. My dad’s dead and all you can do is ask how old I am? You’ve known me since I was six months old, for God’s sake.
‘Fourteen? Terrible, terrible. Fear not, young Syrus, Selen is your father now.’
Syrus nods stiffly. Pasani looks daggers at Father Regan but he does not notice.
‘Well, where is the body?’
Syrus loses his rag. The body? Like a sack of potatoes! He can’t take much more of this.
‘He’s not ‘the body’! He’s my dad, even if he is dead, you stupid – ’
Yorelei shoots him a warning glare and he buries his face in his hands.
Help me, he pleads with the angel, stop me from hitting him, I’m so close to doing it.
‘Sorry. I’m sorry. He’s up here,’ he mumbles, leading the vicar up to his flat. Already the room looks like it’s not had anyone in there for years, even though all their stuff is there and Lumen is still lying under the sheet. All traces of the man have gone, vanished, he took them with him.
‘Ah, I see. Did he leave a will?’
Syrus shrugs. Father Regan goes over and pokes through the desk, then under the bed, and comes out with a crumpled bit of manuscript paper. He unrolls it.
‘Eh hem. The last will and testament of Lumen Torresson is as follows: Item; my savings, to be left to Syrus Lumensson – ’
Syrus inhales sharply.
Of course, I’m Lumensson now, not Torresson, according to Forest custom. He’s dead alright, if he’s called me Lumensson in his will.
‘Item: the furniture, all personal effects, to be left to Pasani Menno, to do with what she will; also to Pasani Menno I entrust the guardianship of Syrus Lumensson until such time as is deemed correct by both parties. Item: my harp, to be left to Syrus Lumensson without question. Item, my savings, to be left to Pasani Menno as token for caring for Syrus Lumensson until aforementioned time. Here ends the will of Lumen Torresson signed, blah blah, witness, date… hmm, it all seems in order.’
Syrus shakes his head. He didn’t even know his dad could write like that, all legal and long words and everything. Lumen always told people he was stupid, and he certainly didn’t believe in school – Syrus had done three years in a little petty-school round the corner, and as soon as he could read, write and count, Lumen told him there was no point being there any more. Don’t coop yourself up in a classroom, he said, discover the world in your own way.
‘So, you are to keep your father’s savings. Where are they?’
Syrus reaches up the fireless chimney and pulls out a dirty tin that once contained tobacco. Inside, four golds, eight silvers and seventeen bronzes.
That’s it? That’s all we had?
Regan makes no comment on the savings; he says instead,
‘It seems that you are to live with Mrs Menno and her daughter until either of you decides that you’re moving out, Syrus.’
Syrus nods.
What the hell am I meant to say to that? You read it to me, I heard, why are you even telling me that? I’m not stupid.
His head prickles with sour thoughts.
‘Now, the matter of burial is still outstanding. Your father was Selenite?’
Of course he wasn’t, you fat old fool. He only went to church for the hymns.
‘Er, yes, but he’d rather have a Forest funeral,’ Syrus says nervously. All Lumen ever said about death was ‘don’t let them bury me, don’t let the worms get me, Sy’ and now is the time to obey. Father Regan seems not to hear at all.
‘I can offer you two types of burial. The first is a standard wood coffin, plot in the Unreserved section of the churchyard, wooden grave marker, and all that including prayers offered will cost– ’
Syrus isn’t listening to what it costs, he is seething.
Why does no one ever listen to me?
I listen, says the angel.
Shut up, you don’t count.
Syrus blots it out and rounds on Regan, all the burning anger of a fourteen-year old who’s only just holding himself together.
‘I don’t care! I’m not paying for my dad to be stuck in the ground for the worms, he’s going the proper way and I’ll do it myself if I have to!’ he shouts. Regan looks taken aback, annoyed, cheated. He thrusts the will at Syrus
‘Alright. Alright. Excuse me,’ and he pushes past Syrus and bangs out of the flat, clumping down the stairs. Syrus watches him go, the will in his hand.
I have to burn you, Dad.
I’ll play the Leaving for you, play it like you taught me. I won’t let the worms get you.
He trails down the stairs to Pasani’s flat. The door is open and he goes in, moving like a sleepwalker. He has to burn his own father, actually set him on fire and stay there with him until there’s nothing left. He can’t believe it’s happening. It’s like a dream.
‘Syrus? Where’s Father Regan?’ calls Pasani.
‘Not here. I have to burn Dad’s body. He would’ve wanted it.’
Syrus’s voice is dangerously wobbly and he comes in slowly, shoulders hunched. He can already see the flames, Lumen roasting like a bit of meat. That’s all he is now, a bit of dead meat. He can’t feel pain any more. He flaps the will in his hand listlessly. Pasani and Yorelei are in the front room, Yorelei still doing her writing. He sits down.
‘I have to build a pyre and set fire to him,’ he says again, tonelessly, handing Pasani the will. It is the only thing he can think, those few words are all that matters. The poor ravaged face crowned with flaming hair, the skin blistering, turning black. And now he’s crying again; it is all he’s capable of today. There’s no happiness anymore, only cold.
‘I’ll help you, Syrus,’ says Yorel tenderly, going over to him and hugging him. ‘No one should have to do that on their own, especially not you.’