Fireworks and Darkness Read online

  Red, blue and green flares reflected in the puddles and a haze of smoke from the gunpowder drifted across the ground at their feet. Casimir and Simeon worked in and out along the lines of fireworks with practised rhythm, not bothering to look up, relying on the overhead sound and flash of the fireworks to tell them how the display was going. About a quarter of the mortars and rockets were refusing to ignite, resulting in a patchy show, and Casimir could sense Simeon’s annoyance in the set of his shoulders and the intent way he applied himself to lighting the fuses. Once or twice he caught him glancing vexedly towards the house. Princess Christina had approved their warrant for her sister, Queen Elsabetta’s wedding. To put on a thin display tonight was a poor advertisement for the marvels they had planned for two weeks’ time.

  Casimir launched his last mortar. He turned to the adjacent row of silver fountains and as he straightened, glanced casually out across the lake. For a split second he paused, his attention caught. Something was moving in the shadows underneath the half-built firework machine, something human, that should not have been there.

  Suddenly, without warning, Casimir’s body lurched out of control. One foot shot out and kicked over the firepot, coals flew out across the ground and skittered under his boots and the silver fountain he had been about to touch off toppled over with a crash on the ground. Casimir doubled over, then jackknifed backwards, spun around and started twitching from head to foot. Ignited by the upset firepot, fireworks started going off in crazy sequence around him. Some shot into the air, while others exploded on the ground or sizzed like lethal projectiles under his feet. Then the fountains ignited of their own accord, gushing silver fire like water from a hose, the salute exploded deafeningly in the mortar, and the catherine wheels came to life and whizzed around like demented miniature windmills, shooting sparks of red hot, blinding ash into the night.

  Simeon yelled, but between his blocked ears and the noise of the exploding fireworks Casimir could not hear what he was saying. As suddenly as it had begun the strange palsy gripping him stopped, only to be replaced by a dragging sensation so strong it yanked him off his feet and dropped him into the mud. Against his will, Casimir spun around on his backside, flew up onto his feet again and started running away from the display in the direction of the firework machine.

  ‘Help!’ Casimir tried to shout but the word stuck in his throat. He hurtled across the gravel path and through the rushes on the edge of the lake, felt mud squelch under his boots and heard a waterhen flap out of the frozen reeds as he crashed up the opposite bank. A root tripped him and he fell, but the pull from the firework machine flipped him head over heels and back on his feet again. As he neared the scaffolding, a single rocket burst over his head. In its orange flare, in the shadow of the machine, Casimir again saw the dark-haired man.

  His head was bowed in concentration and his bare feet were dug deep into the autumn leaf mould as if he were a tree drawing strength from the earth. Casimir ran right past him, so close he could feel the bristle of power which surrounded him. The firework machine loomed in front of him, but Casimir did not slow down. Instead he crashed straight into the scaffolding, scrambled onto it and started to climb. His arms and legs moved like machine pistons, splinters rammed into his fingers and palms and he felt a hot trickle of blood down one of his arms, but the force that propelled him was relentless and he did not, could not slow down.

  Panic gripped him as he neared the top, but then, with only a few feet to go, Casimir stopped. All at once, every muscle in his body locked in place. Unblinking, unmoving, he hung there like one of Simeon’s famous flying horses on a wire. The machine swayed precariously and a crossbeam snapped under his weight, but he could not have moved a fingertip to save himself.

  Through the struts and angles of the scaffold he could see fireworks still exploding on the ground beside the lake, the dark-haired man standing waiting, watchful, and in control. As the last rocket exploded unnoticed somewhere above Casimir’s head a second, smaller figure in an oilskin top coat and peaked hat joined him below. Casimir’s father looked briefly upwards. He mouthed some words of encouragement which Casimir could not hear owing to the plugs in his ears, and then lifted his hand in an old, half-forgotten but still instinctive gesture.

  An expression of intense concentration passed across Simeon’s face. Very slowly a silver rope, like the children’s fireworks that started out as a pellet and unfolded into a long ashen snake, emerged from the ground at the foot of the machine. The rope twined its way upwards through the struts and beams, moving surely towards Casimir like a vine climbing a trellis. It reached his feet and snaked tightly around his ankles. Then, gathering speed, it slid up around his legs to his waist. Finally it passed twice around his body and lashed itself to the scaffolding, securing Casimir in place.

  Again Simeon looked up, as if checking his handiwork, and then he and the dark-haired man passed together into the shadow of the machine. Long minutes passed. At last Casimir saw them reappear, the stranger leading the way. Simeon was talking urgently as if trying to persuade him of something, but the other man was refusing to listen. Simeon grabbed his arm and he threw it off. The stranger turned, took a pace into the open and lifted his hand in a contemptuous, upflung gesture.

  A flaming ball, brighter than any firework hurtled upwards and hit Casimir square in the face.

  Casimir’s head jerked backwards and he heard his neck snap. Everything went black and red and silver, the magic rope sizzled and dissolved, and he felt a disembodied wrench as his hands came away from the scaffolding. Then he toppled backwards from the machine. His body arced out into space, turning slowly over and over as if he were spiralling down through water. He felt his blood still in his veins, saw a grey mist descending, then heard, as if in the far distance, a shrill scream, suddenly cut off. There was an appalling thud as he hit the ground, then his body bounced and lay still.

  I can’t believe it, thought Casimir incredulously. I’ve been killed. Just like that. I’m dead and Simeon’s let it happen. His father ran past, his oilskins whipping around his legs and Casimir felt a surge of anger that he should be wasting time chasing the dark-haired man when he was lying dead and broken on the ground. A cold sensation started slowly creeping down Casimir’s spine. He wondered if this was what it felt like before everything went black for the final time, and then suddenly he realised the coldness was not death but damp, and that he was lying in a puddle. Casimir shifted his head gingerly and the loosened plug of wax fell out of his ear. He moved his foot and was startled to find it under his control.

  Casimir slowly sat up. His hands bled and smarted when he flexed them and he felt giddy and disoriented, but amazingly, he was alive. Somehow, he had fallen fifty feet from the top of the firework machine and survived. Not by accident, though. Something or someone had absorbed the impact of his fall.

  Lanterns swam in the smoke over the path and there was noise and shouting. Simeon came running back out of the trees.

  ‘Don’t say anything.’ As he flicked past Casimir felt a crackle of electricity. There was something else too, a pungent smell which he recognised but could not immediately identify. His eyes lit on two objects lying in the mud beside him and he stared at them stupidly. Simeon’s top boots. It was at that moment, with a lurch of fear, that Casimir remembered. The smell, the acrid unmistakable scent he had recognised from his earliest childhood was magic, lingering like gunpowder in Simeon’s clothes.

  ‘What’s happened? Is he all right?’ Ruth ran down the path towards them, her skirts bundled up around her knees.

  ‘He’s all right,’ said Simeon. ‘A rocket caught in the scaffolding. Casimir was trying to free it, but it exploded. Don’t worry. He’s not hurt. He landed in the soft mud at the edge of the lake.’

  ‘What? How can—?’

  ‘He’s all right,’ Simeon almost snarled, and she recoiled, wrinkling her nose at the stink of magic which clung to him. Casimir saw that Simeon was trembling. He looked faint and sick
and there was a burn on his cheek where he had been caught by an exploding firework. Ruth was obviously not convinced by his explanation, but other people were arriving with a makeshift stretcher and she could not pursue the argument any further.

  Casimir was bundled up in a blanket and a flask of brandy was thrust into his hand. He swigged it gratefully and then his legs gave way from delayed shock. Helping arms supported him and he was put on the stretcher and carried back to the house. At the foot of the garden steps he happened to glance back and see his father’s face. It was white and utterly despairing. And at that moment, Casimir not only knew the dark-haired magician would be back, he realised Simeon was afraid.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Casimir woke next morning with a sore chest, stiff hands and a headache so severe it scarcely seemed worth his while getting up. Every muscle in his body felt as if it had been through a mangle. He opened his eyes, saw stars that had nothing to do with fireworks, and immediately groaned and pulled the covers back up over his head.

  It could have been worse, of course. He could be, should be, dead.

  After a while he heard the cathedral clock strike eight in the distance and realised he would have to get up. In half an hour it would be time to open the shop. Casimir hauled himself out of bed and dressed awkwardly. On his washstand was a folded piece of paper. It was inscribed in Simeon’s handwriting ~for your head~ and contained a white, bitter powder which he tipped onto his tongue and swallowed. Like all Simeon’s remedies it was effective. After five minutes, during which Casimir conducted his ritual morning search for facial hairs and found a record seventeen, he felt well enough to start the day.

  Downstairs he found breakfast waiting for him: black coffee, fresh bread and porridge, slightly burnt after Simeon’s fashion but still appetising with plenty of milk and honey. Casimir kept an ear open for his father while he ate, but there were no sounds of activity in either the workroom or the shop and he guessed Simeon had probably gone out. Casimir was not entirely sorry. He wanted to get the events of the previous night straight in his own head before he spoke to him. To do that, he needed to have time to himself.

  Overnight, Casimir’s memory of the attack had blurred. Only the shock of his fall and Simeon’s unexpected response to it remained clear in his head, obsessing his thoughts with an awful inevitability. His return to Fish Lane had been scarcely less disconcerting. Casimir had endured an inhalation that made his eyes water, an infusion of herbs so acrid it made him vomit, and a violent purge that left him sick and shaking. He had gone out into the yard behind the shop and stripped naked while Simeon drenched him with icy water. Then, as if all this had not been enough to bear, he had been forced to stand there while Simeon paced around him, firing off a string of strange, seemingly irrelevant questions.

  ‘What was your mother’s name?

  ‘Whose house did we just visit?

  ‘How long since we opened the shop?

  ‘Who is your master?

  ‘The name of the waterfall with butter-coloured water?’

  The interrogation went on and on, question after question, mindless and seemingly pointless, until Casimir was exhausted and almost dead from cold. At last Simeon seemed satisfied. He threw Casimir a blanket and let him inside again, took his pulse and made him stare into a candle flame while he scrutinised his pupils. Then he abruptly blew out the candle, gave Casimir a warm drink and a powder and told him to go to bed and get some sleep.

  And that was it. No explanations, no apologies, no excuses, and Casimir knew he was unlikely ever to get any, even if he summoned up the courage to ask for them. He and Simeon had spent the last nine years almost constantly on the move, sharing all the vicissitudes and adventures circumstance had thrown them. Yet Simeon’s past, and particularly anything that had happened before he joined the artillery at the age of eighteen remained, as it had always done, a forbidden subject. Even now Casimir did not know the names of his grandparents. He did not know where Simeon had been born, he did not know where, or even if he had gone to school. The one fact he did have—that his father had trained as a magician—he had found out by accident in the upheaval surrounding his mother’s departure. The question of how the dark-haired man fitted into the piecemeal picture which was all Casimir had of his father’s early life was one he was not entirely sure he wanted answered.

  Casimir pushed aside his breakfast. The savour had gone from it and anyway, it was time to open the shop. There was no sign of Simeon, but since he was apt to come and go, the fact did not greatly concern him. Casimir wrapped a scarf around his neck and took his coat off the hook on the back of the door. Like the powder cellar and workroom the firework shop was unlit and unheated because of the risk to the gunpowder, but unlike Simeon, who walked around in his shirtsleeves regardless of the weather, Casimir loathed the cold. Working in the shop for any length of time was a penance, but so ingrained was his habit of caution that he felt almost guilty whenever he was warm there.

  Casimir unlocked the till and the door and leaned past the firework boy to turn the sign in the window to OPEN. The bell on the shop door rang and with a flurry of closing umbrellas his first customers pushed in out of the rain.

  Around lunchtime, Simeon came back. Casimir did not see him arrive. When the familiar footsteps sounded on the flagstones he was down in the powder cellar fetching rockets for a customer and by the time he came back up they had already turned into the workroom. A moment later a tap-tapping started up there. It was the sound of Simeon’s driving hammer forcing gunpowder into newly made firework cases.

  All afternoon the workroom door stayed closed, the sound of the hammer beating a relentless counterrhythm to the rain outside. In his spare moments Casimir wondered where Simeon had been. Most likely, it was back to the park to salvage their gear, but there were other, more sinister possibilities he did not care to dwell on. At one point Casimir thought he saw two men in the black and red flashed uniforms of the Queen’s Guard, standing in the laneway outside the shop. The prospect of this sinister fraternity expressing interest in their activities made Casimir almost dissolve in terror, but either he was mistaken, or the men had other business, for they soon went away and he did not see them again.

  Outside the rain poured down, sending people hurrying in for shelter. The firework shop had gained a following among Starberg’s well-to-do, and, with only a few days until Christmas, there was a steady turnover of cheap squibs and crackers. Casimir helped court ladies assemble huge orders for Christmas parties, served parents in search of presents, and did his best to keep youths his own age from leaving with pockets full of fireworks they had not paid for. It was not until nearly closing time that business finally slackened off. Casimir parcelled the deliveries and replenished the hoppers. As he worked, he noticed a lone boy standing outside the shop, looking at the crocodile in the window display.

  He was soaking wet and must have been there for quite some time, but he made no attempt to come inside. From time to time he tapped on the glass to make the crocodile sway on its string, but otherwise he just stood, sheltering under the eaves, slouched up against their window frame with his hands in his pockets. Casimir willed him to go away. He knew Simeon was strict about allowing people to loiter and that he would be irritated if no attempt was made to move him on. But the boy did not move an inch. When, after five minutes, he was still standing there, Casimir went over and opened the door.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  The boy looked at him. He was shorter, and probably a little younger than Casimir, with dark brown hair, a thin face and high cheekbones. His red and blue striped shirt and trousers had been cut down from a suit of men’s clothing and his bare feet were so filthy they were almost black.

  He jerked his head towards the window. ‘The crocodile. Is it real?’

  ‘Yes. It is real, but I’m sorry, it’s not for sale. It belongs to my father.’

  ‘I see.’ At this point most people would have moved on, but the boy merely smiled at the croco
dile as if he and it were old friends. Rain beat in through the shop door, pattering in little puddles between the flagstones. Casimir started to feel awkward and annoyed. He wanted to tell the boy the shop was closing, but any authority or sense of superiority he had felt was fast evaporating and he did not know how to say it.

  ‘If you’re looking for something in particular, come inside,’ he said at last. ‘Otherwise, maybe you should move on.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I am looking for something,’ the boy replied. ‘Thanks. I’d like to come in very much.’

  He stepped over the threshold. Casimir shut the door and turned the sign in the window to CLOSED. The light had faded and the shop was almost dark. A chill struck up from the flagstones underfoot and there was a firework smell of gunpowder, paint and glue.

  The boy went to the very centre of the shop and stood, looking around him. His eyes took in the low ceiling, the bottle windows, the old apothecary’s cabinet in which they kept fuses and matches. He looked at the closed trapdoor in the floor until Casimir was sure that if he had asked him, he would have been able to tell him everything that was stored in the powder cellar underneath. Finally his eyes fastened on the workroom door. Simeon’s driving hammer was still tapping away inside. A strange expression came over the boy’s face and his hands folded over at his sides.

  ‘What can I help you with?’ said Casimir loudly. ‘The catherine wheels are a good buy. We reduced the price only this morning.’ This was untrue, but the boy’s staring was beginning to unnerve him. The sound of Casimir’s voice seemed to break his concentration. He stopped looking at the workroom door and turned back to the counter.

  ‘I’m not really looking for a catherine wheel. I’ll have one of those big rockets. The ones with the stripes and the red labels.’

  ‘They’re expensive.’ Casimir hesitated, but the expected query about the price was not forthcoming, so he fetched one down and wrapped it in waxed paper. ‘Anything else?’