Owen felt himself coming out of sleep as though he was swimming to the surface of a warm sea. He opened his eyes. It was dark, but it was a strangely familiar dark. Then he realised – he was in his Den. It all came flooding back to him – the Workhouse, Cati. Perhaps he had been asleep and dreamed the whole thing! He felt along the back wall for the store of candles he kept there and lit one. He pulled the sleeping bag around him and sat very still. That was it, he decided. It had all been a very real dream. He felt cold and he moved to pull his sleeve down over his forearm. As he did so, the seam disintegrated and the sleeve came away in his hand. He looked down on the floor and saw his trainers, both soles half torn away. It hadn’t been a dream! He remembered sitting on the chest in his bedroom that morning and longing for something strange and exotic. Well, what had happened was certainly strange, but he wasn’t so sure if he wanted it as much.
He tried to arrange what he knew in his head. The Sub-Commandant. Cati and Contessa. The Workhouse and the Nab. But it was no good. He couldn’t make any sense of it. Owen jumped to his feet, and as he did so, he felt his clothes falling away. He looked down. His trousers were hanging in rags; his jacket and T-shirt seemed to have disintegrated.
Owen looked round the walls of the Den. The posters he had hung on the wall had faded, the images indistinct and the paper yellowed. The metal objects did not seem to have suffered as badly, although he noticed that the plastic on the cassette player had faded and warped. Only the brass boat propeller he had found in Johnston’s yard seemed to be the same as ever. He tugged at the rotting fabric of his T-shirt in disgust. He couldn’t go out without clothes. Then he noticed a neat pile of clothes in the doorway. Owen unfolded it. It seemed to be a uniform of the same faded fabric as the Sub-Commandant had been wearing. There was a pair of boots made of some material which seemed like leather but was not, and which fastened to the knee with brass clips. He imagined what would happen if any of the town children saw him in those clothes – how they would laugh – but a sudden draught on his bare skin made him shiver. He realised that he had no choice but to put on the clothes.
Five minutes later, Owen looked at himself in the mirror. He seemed to look much older. The uniform was a good fit, although it was frayed here and there. He thought he looked like a soldier, somebody who had been in a long war far from home. He heard a noise behind him and he turned. Cati was standing in the doorway.
“It suits you,” she said.
“This is my place. You have no right to come in here without asking,” said Owen, suddenly defensive.
“I was only trying to help. You needed clothes.”
“I don’t need anything of yours!” he said angrily. “I just want to be left alone.”
“Next time I will leave you alone,” she snapped back. There were red spots high on her cheeks. “Next time I will leave you alone and you can go around in your bare skin.”
They glared at each other for a minute. Then Owen saw a muscle twitch in Cati’s face. He felt his own face begin to crease. A few seconds later they were helpless with laughter.
Owen laughed until his sides ached. He and Cati collapsed on the old bus seat, wiping their eyes. They sat for a moment in companionable silence, then Cati leapt to her feet without a word and went back outside. When she came back, she was carrying a basket. Delicious smells rose from it and Owen realised that he was ravenous.
“Contessa sent it,” Cati said. She opened the basket and set out the contents neatly on the top of the dressing table. There was fresh, warm bread and sealed bowls of hot stew. There were roast potatoes, cheese sauce and all sorts of pickles which Owen didn’t think that he would like and then discovered he did. They ate without talking, finishing up with two bowls of a delicious substance which was something like custard and something like cream. Owen lay back on the bus seat feeling that suddenly life did not look so bleak after all. But Cati leapt to her feet again.
“Come on,” she said briskly. “We have to go to the Convoke.”
“I’m too full for a Convoke now, whatever it is.”
“I think you’d better come,” Cati said, suddenly serious.
“You need to know about your mother, apart from anything else.”
His mother! Owen sprang to his feet and hurried after her. Outside, it was a cold, crisp night and he could see his breath hanging in the air. He hurried after Cati through the shadows of the trees.
“We’ve got time,” she said. “There are two parts to this Convoke… and you’re not allowed into the first part.”
“Why not?”
She hesitated then spoke softly as if she was afraid that she might be overheard. “Well… it’s actually about you.”
“About me?”
“Yes. It’s about whether you should be allowed to attend or not. And other things.”
“Why wouldn’t I be allowed to attend?”
“You’ll find out.”
Owen was puzzled. What was so special about him that they would waste time talking about whether or not he could attend the Convoke?
“Do you really want to hear the first bit?” Cati asked. “Really?”
“I suppose,” he said. “if it’s about me, maybe I’d better.”
“There’s a secret way into the chamber,” she said. “I found it ages ago. Come on.”
Cati turned on to a path which seemed to lead under the hill. Owen had noticed a gully there before, but it had been choked with trees and undergrowth. Now it had been cleared and the path was smooth underfoot. The path sloped downwards and high walls reared on either side, their ancient stones covered in moss and ferns and lichen.
“Where are we going?” Owen said, realising he was whispering.
“You’ll see.”
Cati moved swiftly on. It became darker and darker, but she did not falter and Owen began to wonder if she could see in the dark.
After what felt like a long time, Cati stopped so suddenly that Owen ran into her. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he saw that they were standing in front of a vast door made of brass and wood, so old and gnarled that it looked like stone. Again, it was decorated with spidery shapes that looked like a child’s drawings of boats and planes. As Owen examined it, he realised that the drawings glowed faintly with a blue light he had seen everywhere that day.
Cati took a key from her pocket, a tiny key for a door so vast, but as she held it up he could see that it was ornately worked with complicated-looking teeth. She fitted it into a tiny aperture and turned it, once, twice, three times. There was a sound like heavy, oiled bolts being drawn and then the huge door swung silently open. Cati stepped inside and Owen followed. As they did so, the door closed soundlessly behind them. They were now standing in a narrow passage lit by faint blue light coming from the opening at one end. There was an odd smell, musty and old, but sweet as well.
Cati slowly stepped through the opening. Owen hesitated, then with a backwards glance at the closed door, stepped forward also.
He found himself in a vast chamber, stretching off as far as the eye could see. The ceiling, high above them, was speckled with points of blue light so that it seemed that they stood under a clear night sky. But that was not all. The chamber was filled with innumerable flat couches, each with a single sheet and a pillow. Most of the beds were empty, but as Owen’s eyes got used to the dim light, he saw that some of them were still occupied. He looked for Cati, but realised that while he had been standing lost in awe she had moved quietly off. He watched as she moved slowly among the occupied beds which were scattered among the empty ones. The sleepers seemed to be of all ages, young and old, fair and dark. She stopped by one bed as Owen went towards