Sing for the Coming of the Longest Night by Iona Datt Sharma

Author:Iona Datt Sharma
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Iona Datt Sharma
Published: 2018-11-29T00:00:00+00:00

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The journey across is quiet. The Mixed Pond remains open to winter swimmers, even when the trees are frosted and the eastern sky is struggling towards light. Some of them are gathered at the far edge, their bodies thin and pale. Strangely, they're not concerned at the alien presence of a wooden rowboat, tiny, with short, squat oars. Layla wonders if this reverent hush is a sign; if it means that they will make it to the other place.

Nat brought a thermos flask of coffee, which Layla finds endearing. He had it on him last night at Meraud's flat and they got it refilled at Starbucks at six o'clock this morning. Other than the coffee, they have only the snowglobe, the clothes they're standing up in, and the red fabric scrap at the prow, taken from a pile of magical supplies in Meraud's living room. Nothing electronic, so no phones. The red might be superstition, or it might be necessary. Layla isn't sure. She thinks Meraud might have told her that. He might also have told her how many people successfully cross over by doing this, but she can't remember. It might be four in ten, or four in a hundred. Thinking about Meraud now makes her nerves jangle: partly with fear for his life and partly in anticipation of loss.

They reach the halfway point, as far out in open water as they're going to get. Nat pauses rowing to give her a small, understanding smile. He's here with her on this seemingly mundane trip across a north London bathing pond, and he's here with her for whatever thing of moment lies beneath. It's comforting, a weight and tether. Layla takes a sip of Nat's coffee. At last, they come to the bank and tie the boat up.

"Is this it?" Nat asks, whispering by instinct, but Layla doesn't know. It's just a mossy bank alongside stagnant water. There are clumps of rushes, trees with soaked branches, thorns reaching from the undergrowth. It could be any winter morning, in any place.

Although – Layla leans out over the surface of the pond – the swimmers are gone. That doesn't mean anything in itself. They might have retired for fluffy towels and hot chocolate. Four in ten, or four in a hundred, whichever it is, means they might not even have reached the other place.

But still: it's so quiet.

"I guess so," she says.

"I don't even know what we're looking for," Nat says, kicking a pebble.

Layla is seized with unreasonable panic for a second – who knows what rules there might be here, about disturbing what you find – but she's also grateful for the small skitter of sound. She's grateful for Nat's presence.

"Are you sure he meant us to actually come here?" he asks.

"I don't know," Layla says.

Nat has the newspaper cutting out of his pocket. Brave family's stunning return from fairyland, the headline says, in the effusive tones of local news, but the article is mostly just quotes from the early-morning dog walkers who found them.

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