Tallow Read online

  Night after night, Pillar would rub remnants of the day's fat into his knotted fingers in an effort to ease his pain. Tonight, they needed no such treatment. Straight and fine, his fingers rested on the table, a pointed reminder of what Tallow and his candles had done.

  Quinn felt fury and foreboding rise in equal measures. The wretched child was not normal. No, he was clever and canny and, above all, dangerous. He had to be controlled! And Pillar should be doing it. The boy was his responsibility. He'd brought the brat into their home, he'd claimed him. If only he'd be firmer, harder, then none of this would be happening.

  Trying not to slur her words, she slowly leant across the table towards her son. The spluttering light cast shadows across her face, elongating her nose and defining her cheekbones. 'You're a fool if you think you can get away with this, Pillar. Don't forget, there's a reason his kind were wiped out.' She spat on her fingers and reached over to the candle that spluttered in the middle of the table. She squeezed the end of the wick, dousing the flame. 'Snuffed out, they were. And that's what will happen to him, to you and to me if they ever find out.'

  'They won't find out,' he said quickly. 'There's no real proof anyway. Just suspicions. And they'll never amount to anything, not if we continue to be careful.' Pillar's voice was weary. They'd been over it a thousand times.

  Quinn threw back her head and laughed hysterically. Pillar winced. 'If we're careful!' screeched Quinn. 'We're so bloody careful, I've forgotten how to live! I barely leave this house any more except to go to the shops. It's been so long since anyone came here – and because I stopped issuing invitations, I stopped receiving them. Because of your bloody, precious apprentice, I have no friends, no acquaintances, no lovers, no-one in my life.'

  Pillar paused. 'You have me, Mamma.'

  Quinn stifled the bitter words that threatened to spill from her lips. He was serious. Sitting there, a hulking great shadow against the glowing embers of the fire, her son really meant what he said. She clumsily reached for his hand and gripped his mended fingers tightly. The weight that had sat beneath her breast for years momentarily lightened. She remembered how he'd done everything in his power to brighten her loneliness in those first few years. He'd worked so hard, tried to bring a smile to her face, despite his own sadness and grief.

  Then she recalled that cold, grey morning, over fourteen years ago, when Pillar had returned from Jinoa with a baby. Ignoring her entreaties, threats and tears, he'd stood up to his mother and told her that they were keeping the child, even though, back then, they guessed what he was and how perilous sheltering – let alone raising – one of his kind would be. But that day her son had shown a strength of character she hadn't known he possessed, and while she had been furious with him, she'd also been proud.

  'Yes, I do,' she said tightly. 'I do.' She patted Pillar's hand gently. 'And while you may not believe me, I thank God every day that I have you.'

  Univited, an image of huge silver eyes filled her mind, smothering all other memories. 'I have you and ... him.' Her eyes grew hard as flint. 'You have me and I have you; and I have him. Don't you ever forget it, Pillar. I have him right here,' she snatched her hand from his and jabbed her palm, her fingers curled into a cage. 'Right here. Right ... here. Right ...' Her voice slurred and drawled to a stop. Her eyelids became heavy. 'I'm so bloody careful. But he's not careful. He doesn't give a damn. That's why he's ruining the tallow. That's why every time he opens those bloody eyes of his, something happens inside of me. He twists me around; he scrapes away at me bit by bit. At who I am ... and I don't like it.' She punctuated each word with a thump on her chest, at a point over her heart.

  Pillar's eyes flew to the window. It wouldn't do for the neighbours to hear. If one word slipped out, one whisper of what they suspected Tallow might be ... Once freed, rumours, like a pestilent disease, had a nasty way of spreading. He jumped to his feet and shut the window. 'If someone should hear you –'

  Quinn's head wobbled an affirmative. 'You're right. We'll all be locked away in the Doge's dungeon. Tortured. Murdered. Killed. But would it matter? We're already trapped, imprisoned.' Her words came in long, drawn-out gasps. 'We're ensnared in a prison of our own making ... and for what?'

  Pillar went and stood behind his mother's chair. Hesitating briefly, he rested his hands on her shoulders. Quinn gave a small moan. With growing confidence he began to knead them, working on the knots of flesh, the tightness of her neck. All the while, he whispered words of comfort, trying to calm her.

  'And for what?' she repeated. She leant back into his hands and her eyes slowly closed. He continued his ministrations, feeling the tension drain from her body and a relaxed heaviness take its place. He worked in blessed silence.

  'You're right, Santo,' mumbled Quinn.

  Pillar's hands dropped and he backed away. It had been a long time since she'd called him by his father's name. The vino had contracted time and opened a splintered passage that melded past and present. 'He can't help it,' she murmured, 'and neither could you. That's why you did it, wasn't it? You were tricked. Thought you were taking a risk to help us, but it was a stupid risk, it was all a trick. He lured you away. Seduced you.'

  Her eyes flew back open she sat upright, blinking to refocus the here and now, folding her arms around her body. She sensed Pillar behind her. 'If he can't control himself anymore, then what hope do we have?' She tipped her head back until Pillar's face swam into view. He was astonished to see tears trickling down her withered cheeks. 'Answer that, you fool. What hope do we have?'

  CHAPTER THREE

  Revelations

  I FELT HIM COMING.

  I waited. In my small attic-room at the top of the house – the one place I could almost call my own. Here I had a mattress to sleep on, a light when I needed it, the opportunity for fresh air and even some company.

  My few possessions were stored in an old wooden chest with the smell of the sea and a broken-lock lid. In there I kept a tiny sliver of myrtle wax. Green in colour and oozing a curious but pleasing smell, it was given to me by Pillar, years ago, as a reward for completing my first broach. I remember how proud I'd been when Quinn carefully placed my candles on the shop shelves and how thrilled I'd felt when, within hours, they'd all sold. Even Quinn had been happy with me that day.

  Beside the wax, I had a small tinder box and a few rush lights that Pillar gave me so I wouldn't spend my nights in the dark. Not that I minded, not when I could so easily climb up to the roof garden and gaze at the stars. I also had a piece of parchment that I found in the canal the day I went with Pillar to the Chandlers Quartiere to pick up an order of beef tallow.

  In an act of sheer rashness, Pillar had ordered the gondolier to row into the Dorsoduro Sestiere, to the outskirts of the Tanners Quartiere. It was the first time I'd ever been on the Circolo Canal. I couldn't believe all the traffic on the water. All the noise. Keeping my hat pulled down even lower than usual, I remember my eyes darting here and there as I'd tried to soak up all the colour and sounds. People were strolling along, talking, singing and shouting. Others peered out of windows, chatting with neighbours, hailing someone in a nearby calle. Some stood on the fondamenta, so close to the water they appeared about to step on to it, waving to vendors to row their gondolas laden with flowers and fruit and other produce closer. Children skipped across bridges, dogs barked at fluttering ribbons and flags; gondolas floated out of water gates into the main traffic. They were the most exciting scenes I'd ever witnessed.

  It was only after we'd turned around and were heading back towards our own quiet backwater that I found my treasure. It was floating on the murky surface, not far from the Butchers Quartiere, when I plucked it out. Covered in strange marks, it had a picture in the middle. I tucked it under my cap and later, when I'd retreated to my attic, I flattened and dried it. I often looked at it. It was very pretty, even though it had been damaged by the water. Sandy in colour, it had crimson whorls in the margins and tiny remnants of gold scattered across the centre. Parts
of it were blue and others jade. As I couldn't read then, it was years later that I discovered it was a poster and the marks were writing. I took other pleasures from its secrets, determined that one day I would uncover them.

  The parchment was my most precious item. Not even Pillar knew I had it. I kept it under the loose bit of wood at the base of the chest over which sat my spare apron and my other shirt and a pair of leggings.

  Next to the chest was my bed – an old mattress left in a nearby calle. Pillar had retrieved it and stuffed it with a bit more straw and even a little down he'd found on a roadside on one of those rare trips to Jinoa. I had a couple of old blankets as well, but even with them over me, I was often cold.

  The attic was damp and draughty, but I was used to it. In the corner opposite my bed were a few boxes and barrels. Once they had stored flour, grain and salt. Now they were empty, except for the skinny rats that I knew sometimes hid in there. I didn't mind them so much. They weren't afraid to look at me.

  Once, when I heard them scurrying around inside, I had lit my rush light. It took them a while to come out again and, when they saw me, they darted away. But they returned. They always did – two of them. Perched on the edge of the barrel, they stared at me with their little red eyes. I slept well when the rats visited me.

  Tonight, I knew, I would not sleep well. After Quinn had lost her temper over the ruined candles, I came to the attic. I knew to stay here until my wounds from the beating healed – until Quinn decided I could join her and Pillar again. I wondered how long it would be this time.

  Quinn hadn't always been like this. When I was younger, she would often talk to me. Mostly it was because she was lonely, but I would listen. She told me things about her husband, Santo. Her voice would grow shrill, tight. But under her sharp words, I could hear the confusion that kept him in her thoughts and fanned her passion. I often wondered about that, how a woman could both love and loathe the same person simultaneously. Everything Quinn did now, in the present, was based on what Santo had said and done in the past.

  I found myself reflecting upon the power of men who, even in their absence, could wield such control. While I did not really understand how it could happen, not when Quinn appeared so strong, I was curious to discover if it was something I would ever experience. I fervently hoped not. I feared what it signified – what it could do. I felt sorry for Quinn. Not at first; that came later, when she started hitting me.

  Then, just over a year ago, everything changed. It wasn't only that Quinn's occasional slaps and pinches became frequent beatings or that Pillar's anxiety grew and he retreated within himself. It was something inside me.

  I know Quinn thought I could control it; that whatever was happening lay within my power. It didn't. Whenever I closed myself off from my surroundings and started to search within for something to sustain me – anything to block out the pain of failure, or even remember a small triumph – whatever I was touching began to alter. I could feel it, taste it sometimes, too. Elements of the wax or wick, or even the broach, mingled with parts of me. It was as if bits and pieces of them started to bleed into me, became part of who I am. It's only when it became too much, when I couldn't take any more inside myself, I pushed it out, released it – anything to escape its suffocating hold. I couldn't control it. I really couldn't.

  I had already been in the attic for a few hours – I'd got up off my bed because the feel of the straw against my cuts and scratches had become intolerable. I lay instead on the cold wooden floor. It soothed my aches, helped me to control the sharp pain that ran from the back of my eye through to the base of my neck. But Pillar's despair still lingered in the wood from the last time he came to the attic. I deliberately cleared my mind. It hurt to think.

  And that was how, hours later, I knew Pillar was coming. I'd heard muffled voices. Some words were very clear, others not. Then there was a long period of silence before Pillar made his way up the stairs. He tried so hard not to be heard, not to be caught by Quinn.

  Pillar's movements were slow and steady as he cautiously distributed his weight on the stairs. I listened for any other sounds, but there were only distant, guttural snores. Quinn would not know about this visit but, like all the others he paid me after his mother lost her temper, she would probably guess. And say nothing. It was her way of condoning what he did without appearing to approve.

  When the door opened, I tried to lift my head, but the blood on my cheek had dried and I was momentarily stuck. I sat up carefully, but I reopened the wound and blood flowed again. I cried out. Pillar was by my side in seconds.

  In the dark, I could smell the lavender he'd placed in the bowl and the hot water infused with turmeric root in the mug he'd brought. Pillar thought this was something else he had managed to slip by his mother – the herbs. But I knew better.

  'Tallow –' he began and then paused. I knew he was wrestling with his conscience.

  'It's all right, Pillar.' I hated that he always wanted to apologise. He who suffered in ways I would never understand. He pushed the mug into my hands and I drank carefully. My lips had been split and I'd bitten my tongue so many times it was swollen and awkward in my mouth.

  I heard him lift the lid on the chest and then the sound of flint striking tinder, and watched as the flame on the wooden spill I used touched the tip of an old wick. The rush light smoked as he placed it in the small grease-smeared holder above my bed. It was one he'd made. Pillar never wasted my rush lights on the family. The light it cast was modest, but adequate.

  Pillar's pale, watery eyes met mine for a second, and in that fleeting look, I saw years of regret – regret that he had found me, regret that he had insisted on indenturing me and regret that he couldn't stop what was happening.

  'Tallow ...' he tried again, the cloth to clean my wounds scrunched in his large hands.

  'It's all right, Pillar,' I reached out to hold him; then I remembered that was forbidden to me and let my hand drop. I must not touch, I must not look.

  'No, damn it. It's not,' he said. It was then, with his eyes on my torn cheek and swollen lips, the cloth dabbing ever so gently, that he began to cry.

  It was always like this when Quinn hit me.

  He took a deep breath. 'I am weak. No, Tallow.' He held up his hand as if to ward off my protests, the stained fabric hanging from his fingers, a defeated flag. 'Don't try to tell me otherwise. I know what I am. I am weak to let her treat you like she does. I am weak not to have the courage to sell your fine candles –'

  'Fine?' I couldn't help it. The word tripped out of my mouth. How could he call my recent creations fine? He always melted them and then destroyed the wax. Not one of my efforts remained.

  It was then Pillar looked at me. He smiled, the flickering light reflected in his eyes. 'Yes, Tallow. Your candles are among the finest I have ever seen. Over the years, you have become very good at what we do – better than I could ever hope to be. But your work of late ...' He paused and looked over his shoulder, as if afraid Quinn might suddenly appear. He lowered his voice. 'Your work should be celebrated, not hidden or destroyed. It's the work of a master.

  'Everything you've produced this season has been perfectly shaped, perfectly coloured, and today you mastered the most difficult wax of all. Your work is –' He fumbled for the right word. 'Exquisite.' He smiled again and, I couldn't help it, I smiled in return. In my heart, I'd known my candles were good.

  The smile left my face as swiftly as it had appeared. 'But they are no use to you. You cannot sell them.'

  'No, that is true. If we did, we'd all be in great danger.'

  'Why, Pillar?' My chest felt hollow. 'You tell me my candles are fine and that they should be celebrated, but all you do is melt them and now you tell me they're dangerous. Why?'

  Pillar gestured for me to drink. I did as I was told and waited. He started daubing my face again. I knew that whatever was wrong with me and my candles was connected, I just didn't quite understand how. As Pillar knelt before me, conflicted and sad, I kn
ew I had to have it explained, have my doubts and concerns either assuaged or confirmed. I swallowed hard. This could not continue.