The Navigator. Eoin McNamee
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“What is this place?” Owen asked.
“The Starry, where we sleep until we are called.”
“Who are these people then?”
“Friends, most of them. When we get the call we are supposed to wake, but some do not wake and we do not know why.”
Owen saw that the black-haired boy and two other children – girls with brown hair – were lying in a circle round a woman with work-worn hands and a pleasant face that seemed to be smiling even as she slept. Cati put her hand on the woman’s shoulder and bent to kiss her. Owen wanted to ask who she was, but Cati seemed to be almost in a dream and he didn’t want to disturb her. He noticed that each pillow had a small blue cornflower placed on it.
“It is our sign of remembering,” Cati said. “A sign that we do not forget our friends.”
The sweet, musty smell in the air seemed to be getting heavier. If sleep had a smell, this is what it would smell like, Owen thought to himself. His eyelids felt as if there were weights attached to them. The empty beds began to look very inviting.
Suddenly, he felt Cati shaking his shoulders. “The Convoke,” she said urgently. “Come on. If you stay here, you’ll sleep.”
She led him towards a small doorway which opened on to another one of the winding staircases that were a feature of the Workhouse. The staircase was dark and apparently unused; cobwebs brushed their faces as they climbed, but there must have been a window to the outside world for Owen felt cold fresh air on his face, chasing away the sleep that had stolen over him in the Starry.
“What is the Starry for?” he said. “Why are they all sleeping? They look as if they’ve been asleep for years.”
“They have,” said Cati, sounding sad, “but that’s another thing that needs to be explained.” And she would say no more about it.
At the top of the staircase was another corridor, then another staircase, then they were under the Workhouse roof. Owen ducked his head to avoid the huge timber beams supporting the roof, half choking on the dust which rose in great clouds under his feet. Just as he was about to ask where they were, Cati turned and put her fingers to her lips. Following her, he got on to his hands and knees and crawled forward. He saw light coming through a gap in the stone wall in front of him. Cati disappeared into the light and he followed to find himself in a tiny wooden gallery suspended, it seemed, in mid air over great buttresses which went down and down until they reached the floor far below. Owen gasped and grabbed Cati’s arm. She made a face at him to be quiet and pointed. Far below them, the Convoke had started.
It was a while before Owen’s eyes adjusted to the light and he could make out the scene below. The first thing he noticed were the banners which hung from the ceiling, enormous cloth banners in faded colours which seemed hundreds of metres long. Then he saw that the banners framed a great hall of flagged floors and pillars and stone walls. Massive chains hanging from the roof held globes of blue light and in its glow he could see figures on the ground, some standing, others sitting on a raised dais, and many more standing in a circle around them. He could see that one of the standing figures was the Sub-Commandant and even from far above Owen could tell that the small man was pleading with the figures on the dais.
To the right of these figures was a fireplace where great logs burned, and in front of the fireplace a figure sprawled in a chair. It was too far away to see who it was and Owen was distracted just then as the Sub-Commandant began to speak. His voice was low and even, but there was an intensity to it and Owen guessed that there was some dispute going on.
“You are talking about history in this, Chancellor, but we aren’t certain about what took place,” he said. Owen could just see Chancellor shake his head as if in sorrow.
“I think that you are the only one who doubts what happened, Sub-Commandant,” Chancellor said. “We had the Mortmain and with it the security of the world, or at least as much as was in our power to guarantee. But the Mortmain is gone.” His voice was mellow, but full of authority, a leader gently rebuking a much-loved but erring lieutenant. Even from his perch in the rooftop, Owen could feel that the crowd in the hall was swayed by him.
“We cannot judge the future by the past,” the small man said. “There are many things that we don’t know.”
“I agree that there are many things we do not know,” Chancellor said, “but we have to work with what small knowledge we have. I feel that the boy should not be admitted to our counsel.”
The crowd began to murmur this time. Glancing sideways, Owen could see that Cati looked worried. Chancellor leaned back in his chair. He did not look triumphant, but weighed down by the gravity of the situation. Suddenly, Owen heard a woman’s voice – a ringing voice with a tone of harsh amusement to it.
“The boy should be allowed in,” the voice said.
“You have been listening to our arguments, Pieta?” Chancellor asked. The woman made a scornful sound.
“I have no need to listen to your talk, Chancellor,” she said. “I know what is right and so does the man who has watched for us these long years. The boy is allowed into the Convoke by right of who he is.” Owen realised that the voice was coming from the chair by the fire.
“Would we leave him outside, parentless and confused?” the Sub-Commandant said softly.
“Is that your final position, Pieta?” Chancellor asked. His voice was low and there was a hint of anger in it. There was no reply from the chair, but Owen heard a bottle clinking against a glass and there seemed to be a kind of finality to the sound.
Chancellor sighed. “You have the right to ask much for your defence of us…”
“Yes. I have the right, Chancellor.”
“I appreciate your reservations, Chancellor,” Contessa interjected gently, “but I think justice demands that the boy be brought before us.”
“You appeal to justice, Contessa, but are you certain that the boy does not appeal to another part of you?” This new speaker stood up. He was a long-haired man dressed in a uniform of sombre but rich red. As he spoke, he swept his hair back over his shoulder. A silence fell over the hall. Contessa did not reply, but Owen could feel a chill stealing over the hall.
“That settles it,” the woman they called Pieta said. “Bring the damn boy and bring him now. If our resident peacock starts scheming about the thing, we’ll never hear the end of it.” The man in the coloured uniform glared at Pieta and made to speak again, but Chancellor held up his hand.
“Sub-Commandant.” His tone was commanding.
“I sent Cati to get him,” the Sub-Commandant said. “In case he was required,” he added smoothly. Chancellor turned his gaze to the Sub-Commandant. Owen shivered. He could only imagine the scrutiny of those piercing eyes.
“While we are waiting,” Contessa said, “we should discuss those who will not wake. The numbers have risen. We’re desperately weak, Chancellor.” Owen realised that she must have interrupted in order to break Chancellor’s searching gaze at the Sub-Commandant. He felt Cati’s elbow dig him in the side.
“Come on,” she hissed. “Quick!”
Owen and Cati crawled back through the gap in the stone wall. They ran as fast as they could down the staircases, Owen’s clothes covered in cobwebs and hands and elbows grazed from the rough stone walls as he tried to keep his balance. They practically fell out of the stairway into a brightly lit hall, dishevelled and filthy. A young man in the same richly coloured uniform as the long-haired man grabbed Owen under the arm and lifted him to his feet. His face seemed friendly but serious.
“Hurry,” he hissed. “You do not keep the Convoke waiting.”
The wooden door in front of them swung open and Owen was propelled into the hall.
Owen