Jane Doe and the Cradle of All Worlds Read online

  ‘Huh, guess not,’ Eric Junior says. ‘Actually, how stupid of me. I just remembered he’s at the Town Hall, working on his speech. It’s a good ’un this year.’ The little prick slaps me on the shoulder and stands aside, ready to enjoy the show. ‘Pity you’re not invited.’

  A seagull squawks. A cat meows. A lonely buoy-bell clangs in the distance.

  ‘W-well,’ I say in the general direction of the fisherfolk, ‘I’m running late, so I’ll leave you all to –’

  ‘GET HER!’

  They charge. Naturally, I run for my goddamn life. Duck and dodge. Jump over a barrel, slide under one of the gutting tables, and leap to my feet again. For a second I figure I’m gonna make it, too – there’s a break in the crowd, an alleyway beyond – but then some jerk swings an anchor at me – an actual bloody anchor – and I have to change course. I’m surrounded in no time. Everything’s a blur. Everyone’s shouting and screaming, closing in, so I head for the only clear space I can see. Before I know it, I’m running along a rickety old jetty stretching out into the sea. The fisherfolk weren’t just closing in. They were herding me.

  I’m trapped. Over water. Maybe not so street smart, after all.

  A cheer from the fisherfolk now. Even Eric Junior joins in, whooping and howling.

  I feel sick. I can hear the water lapping far beneath my feet. See my shadow drowning between the rotting planks of wood. A few sailboats are anchored nearby, but for a girl who can’t swim they may as well be floating on the horizon. I turn around, slowly. The fisherfolk are already stalking down the jetty towards me, led by Eric Junior and a gap-toothed giant with a wooden leg. Peg, they call him. Yeah, they’re really great with nicknames round here.

  ‘We told you not to show yer face here again, little Doe,’ he growls.

  The jetty groans under our combined weight. It sways a little.

  ‘We really need to get off this thing,’ I say. ‘Please, I – I’ll go home. Right now.’

  ‘You don’t have a home,’ Eric Junior says. ‘You’re a parasite, Doe. A leech sucking this island dry. You and your demented dad.’

  I barely get the chance to think Nobody calls my dad demented, you overgrown turd before he breaks away from the others and sprints right at me. The jetty cracks and buckles.

  ‘Wait,’ I shout, ‘nobody move,’ but it’s too late.

  The jetty lurches to one side. The fisherfolk topple like dominoes. Eric Junior slams into me and we fall and fall and hit the water hard, shoot right under. My cloak’s too heavy, dragging me down already, as if the pockets are filled with stones. I cling to Eric Junior. He kicks, thrashes, tries to break free, but I can’t let go. I plead with him, scream bubble-shaped cries for help, my lungs heaving and burning. It’s like I’m trapped in one of my nightmares.

  And then he’s gone.

  Eric Junior disappears and an eerie quiet settles around me. I can hear my own heart beating, every spasm in my throat, but all I can think about is Dad, lying in the basement at the mercy of the praying mantis and the weasel. Alone. Hungry. Waiting. Worrying.

  The invisible thread between us tugs and wrenches.

  But now there’s a different feeling. Some tentacled thing wrapping around me, squeezing, stealing me away. No, not away. Up. I’m rising, faster and faster, caught in a fishing net. I burst from the water in a flash of brilliant sunlight and glorious air fills my lungs. I’m not just breathing it, either, I’m flying through it. The net swings around, dumps me on the deck of a sailboat and I collapse in a tangled, panting mess. Even manage a smile, till I realise someone’s watching me. An old woman in a red cloak, standing by the rope pulleys.

  Winifred bloody Robin, up close and personal. Her skin’s wrinkled and scarred. Face like a goddamn chopping board. Hands like talons. As she strides across the deck towards me she pulls a shotgun from her cloak. Clearly my situation hasn’t improved.

  ‘I am sorry, Jane,’ she says. ‘You are going to wake up with quite a headache.’

  And she knocks me out cold with the butt of her gun.

  VOICES IN THE DARK

  My sleep’s usually riddled with nightmares. Flashes of babies crying, strangers running from monsters, never-ending stone corridors and a blinding white light. Most of the time it’s just me, drowning in a faraway sea. No wonder Violet thinks I’m scared of the dark. I always wake up screaming, twisted in my sweaty sheets. This, though – actually being knocked unconscious – ain’t too shabby at all, like being wrapped in a thick, warm blanket. A floating cocoon where no bad dream can touch you. A safe place, deeper than normal sleep.

  Only problem is you have to wake up.

  ‘I was surprised to get your message.’ A deep voice tugs at my ears. ‘Capturing her after all these years. Throwing her inside this thing. Quite the change of character, Robin.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ An old and scratchy voice. Her voice. ‘But I have my reasons.’

  ‘So you keep saying. You have not, however, told me what those reasons are. Nothing is ever this simple with you. You haven’t set foot on a boat in years. How did you know she was going to end up in the water? You cannot tell me it was mere coincidence.’

  ‘Of course it was no coincidence. There is no such thing.’

  ‘Then how –’

  ‘You have waited fourteen years for this moment, Eric. I am surprised you are asking any questions at all. I have handed over the girl. She is no longer under my protection.’

  A moment of silence.

  ‘You know what this means, Robin. What you’re giving me permission to do. You may have struck a deal with my predecessor, but I won’t stand for it. Breaking curfew, wandering the streets, knocking on my door, bold as brass. Attacking an innocent group of people – attacking my own son. And another quake – today of all days – hours before the Lament? They’re getting worse. We all know it. We cannot live like this. We won’t.’

  ‘Like I said, I can protect her no more.’

  ‘And what of the other?’

  ‘His time will come soon enough. Leave him be. Now, if you please, Ms Doe is about to wake up. I would like a quick word with her alone.’

  ‘You think you can tell me –’

  ‘I know I can tell you, Eric. Out. Don’t even think about listening at the door. After I am through with Jane you may do what you wish, but until then I want absolute privacy.’

  I don’t like the sound of this, but she’s right about one thing. My cocoon’s unravelling, slowly spinning me through the dark. A door slams shut. My eyes blink open. Shapes blur, senses sharpen. It’s time to face the waking world again, whether I like it or not.

  THE CAGE AND THE CURATOR

  The worst thing about being known as the Cursed One is that when you’re just minding your own business, following instructions from a secret message, you can somehow end up being chased, drowned, trapped in a fishing net and smacked in the head with a shotgun. My head hurts, my mouth tastes like a rotten sock full of seaweed and I’m pretty sure there’s a dead fish trapped in my undies. I feel for the little guy, but at least its troubles are over.

  Mine, it seems, have only just begun.

  ‘Welcome back to the world of the living, Jane.’

  I’m sprawled on the floor of a cage. A cage lashed to the back of a wagon parked in a poky old boatshed. My cloak’s long gone, my tunic’s still damp, my wrists and feet are tied and there’s a rag stuffed in my mouth. A little rowboat’s leaning against the wall to my right, surrounded by a clutter of crates and anchors. To my left –

  Oh crap.

  Winifred Robin’s staring down at me.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I am not going to hurt you. I trust you already know my name.’ I nod, just the once, my eyes fixed on hers. She doesn’t shy away, doesn’t blink. ‘Good. I am the curator of the Museum of Otherworldly Antiquities. Sorry about the cage and bindings, but I had no choice. I will remove your gag but you must understand, crying out for help would be rather pointless.’ I flinch as she reaches
through the bars. ‘Easy now. Easy.’

  I lean towards her, transfixed by the jagged scars crisscrossing her face, neck and hands. Are they claw marks? Battle wounds? Really, really bad paper cuts?

  ‘Lovely,’ the woman mutters, throwing the spit-drenched gag to the floor. ‘There was another quake while you were in the water. Just a tremble, really, but I am afraid your little escapade has set everybody on edge. They feared you might summon another upon waking.’

  I try to spit the dirty taste from my mouth. It doesn’t work. ‘Listen, lady –’

  ‘Winifred.’

  ‘Right. Winifred, whatever. Look, you’ve got the wrong idea here. It wasn’t my fault the jetty broke. If those idiots hadn’t chased me out there in the first place –’

  ‘I do not care about the jetty.’

  ‘Then tell everyone I was only following the mayor’s orders. Where’s my cloak? Check the pockets. There’s a photo inside with a message on the back, and –’

  ‘I know of the message.’ Winifred plucks a silver hipflask from her cloak, throws it through the bars onto my lap. ‘Drink. It is tea infused with a sprig of feverfew. A herb to soothe your head.’

  ‘Sure it is.’ I nudge the flask aside. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, girl, I am not trying to poison you. If I wanted you dead I would have let you drown. I understand it may be difficult for you to believe, but I am on your side.’

  ‘My side? I’m sorry, but did I wake up on a different island or did you accidentally whack yourself in the head as well? You do know who I am, right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But you don’t hate me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re not scared of me? Not even a little bit?’

  Winifred sighs, cocks an eyebrow.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘If you’re my pal, why throw me in a cage?’

  ‘That is … complicated.’ Winifred wanders over to one of the grimy windows set into the boatshed’s double doors. ‘What would you say if I told you every man, woman and child on Bluehaven was in grave danger and you were the only person who could help them?’

  ‘I’d say you’ve clearly been sampling too many of your special herbs.’ I pick up the flask with my bound hands, give it a cautious sniff. ‘Why?’

  Winifred turns around. ‘Because every man, woman and child on Bluehaven is in grave danger and you are the only person who can help them.’

  Silence fills the shed, but not for long. A bubble of laughter swells in my gut and bursts from my mouth. I can’t help it. It’s a real shame, too. Unable to stand the taste in my mouth any longer, I’d just decided it was safe to take a swig of tea. It was hot and sweet and it really did make my head feel better. Now it’s gone up my nose and down my chin.

  Winifred isn’t impressed. ‘This is no laughing matter, Jane.’

  ‘But – but this is a joke, right? Some sort of prank for the festival.’

  ‘Unfortunately for us all, it is not.’ Winifred circles my cage like a shark. ‘The tension that has existed between you and the rest of the townsfolk is about to reach boiling point. Mayor Obi and I came to an agreement long ago – gods bless his soul – but Eric Atlas is not as understanding, or as forgiving. I was talking to him before you woke up. He is furious about what transpired earlier. Convinced you tried to drown his son.’

  ‘That’s a load of bollocks! I told you, check my cloak. Atlas told me to meet him –’

  ‘No,’ Winifred says, ‘he didn’t.’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It was her. It had to be her. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me, the sparkle in her goddamn eyes. ‘It was you. You gave me the photo. Why?’

  ‘Because sometimes fate needs a little nudge in the right direction.’

  ‘What fate? What the hell are you talking about?’

  Winifred stops pacing, grips the cage bars. ‘Everything is about to change, Jane. Something terrible is about to happen to this island – terrible yet absolutely necessary. Atlas will come for you soon. Do not fight him. Play along. You must trust me.’

  ‘Trust you? Lady, I don’t even know you.’

  ‘But I know you, Jane Doe.’ Winifred swivels her wrist and plucks another photograph from her sleeve. ‘Better than you can possibly imagine.’ She places the photo on the cage floor, strides over to the big wooden doors.

  ‘Hey,’ I shout, ‘you can’t leave me here. If you’re on my side, help me.’

  ‘I am helping you,’ Winifred says. ‘I wish I could tell you everything now, but dusk is steadily approaching. Answers will come.’ She nods at the photo. ‘Trust me.’

  I lose it when she leaves. Kick at the cage, try to untie my feet with my hands and my wrists with my teeth, but the knots are all too tight. I even hurl myself into the wooden bars and try to tip the wagon over. The damn thing doesn’t budge. With nothing left to do, I swear under my breath and shuffle over to the photo.

  I freeze.

  ‘No way …’

  It’s similar to Dad’s photo: crinkled, soft at the edges, could’ve lived in Winifred’s pocket for years. But this one is of me – baby me, I’m sure of it. Even though the photo’s sepia-toned, my amber eyes shine a little too brightly. I’m sitting in some sort of library, smiling up at the camera, wearing one of the books as a hat.

  I flip the photo and frown. There’s some kind of symbol drawn on the back. An almost-triangle, like a shark fin or a thorn, surrounded by a circle.

  And, beneath the symbol, another message.

  Everything happens for a reason.

  WORST-CASE SCENARIOS

  My tunic gets clammy in the stifling heat. The sun creeps towards the horizon, beaming dusty shafts of light through the gaps in the boatshed walls. A mishmash of tribal drums drifts down from Outset Square, mingled with the faraway sounds of laughter.

  The Manor Lament has begun. Hours must’ve passed since Winifred left.

  Worst-case scenarios claw at my mind. The mayor and his goon squad crashing through the doors, pitchforks raised and ready to skewer. Mr and Mrs Hollow wandering in with a tub of popcorn, ready to enjoy the show. Peg throwing me back into the water. The fact that none of them have happened yet can only mean Atlas is planning something bad. Really bad. The man knows my weak spot, after all. He knows what would hurt me most.

  He could go after Dad.

  I haven’t left him alone this long in years. Atlas could burst into the basement, drag him from his bed and throw him out onto the street, and I wouldn’t be there to stop him. Peg could throw him into the water. Dad would sink faster than I did. Wouldn’t stand a chance.

  The thought alone makes my hands tremble.

  I just want to get back to the basement and make sure he’s okay. Rustle up some grub, settle him in for the night, maybe even tell him a story or sing him a song. Dad loves my songs. I can tell. I’m not one to blow my own horn, but I’m pretty sure I’m a great singer.

  I should sing a bit now to pass the time, but I’m not in the mood. Instead, I fumble through my undies and throw the fish corpse across the room. No easy task with two bound hands. I tap my feet. I sweat. I try the ropes again, and sweat some more. Stare at the photo till my eyes ache and blur, then try to find a hidden clue in Winifred’s message, a secret meaning behind the symbol. Strange, but I can’t help feeling I’ve seen it somewhere before.

  Also, I kinda need to pee. I’m seriously considering taking a squat in the corner when there’s a flurry of tapping somewhere behind me. I drop the photo. Violet’s waving down at me through a window high on the back wall, face painted in stripes of black, orange and white. She’s supposed to be a tiger, but she couldn’t look less fearsome if she tried. She’s wielding a toffee-apple half the size of her head. I’ve never been happier to see her in my life.

  ‘Go round the front,’ I shout. ‘I don’t think the door’s locked, so you don’t need to break the –’ Violet shatters the pane of glass with her toffee-apple. ‘Never mind.’

/>   ‘Jane whatever-your-middle-name-is Doe.’ Violet ditches her treat and clambers in, dropping down onto a stack of crates. ‘I leave you for one second and – whoa. That sucker on your forehead’s the size of a chestnut! Does it hurt? It looks gross. Like, really, really –’

  ‘I’m hideous. I get it. How did you know I was here, Violet?’

  ‘Eric Junior. Heard him bragging to Meredith Platt at the festival. She was getting her face painted same time as me. Got a butterfly on her cheek. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Focus, Violet. What did he say, exactly?’

  ‘Eric Junior? He said you tried to drown all the fisherfolk and Winifred Robin caught you. And he said it’s a secret. I don’t think many people know yet. Cool cage, by the way.’

  ‘Yeah, I love it. Almost want to stay here forever.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She cocks her head. ‘Wait, really?’

  ‘Of course bloody not. Thanks for coming, kid. Look through that junk down there for something to cut this damn rope. We’ve gotta get out of here, pronto.’

  Violet leaps down from the crates and searches through the junk scattered around the shed. ‘By the way, I waited, like, half an hour for you. Even after the little quake happened. Then I went home, just like you said, and I waited and waited –’

  ‘Did you check on my dad? Is he okay?’

  ‘He’s fine. I told you he’d be fine. I sat with him for a while, but then I got really, really bored, and thought maybe Atlas might’ve taken you to check out the festival, so I headed back to Outset and – well, then I got distracted.’ She rummages through a tackle box. ‘You should’ve told me you were gonna wreck half the cove.’

  ‘It was an accident, Violet. And it wasn’t half the cove, it was one jetty.’

  ‘Still. Would’ve been cool to see.’ She pulls a small fishing knife from the tackle box and skips towards the cage. ‘I could’ve helped you teach ’em a lesson.’

  Bless her little boots. She hacks away at the rope around my hands, chewing on her tongue. She always chews on her tongue when she concentrates. Her parents hate it. Actually, they seem to hate everything about her. Maybe they love her deep down, but they never show it. Truth is, they’ve resented her ever since she became friends with the girl in the basement.