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.