Chapter 1 - Santa Lucia Part 3

The Third of November Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.

'You are demons!' shouted Cabriatti, running for the door.

'Pretty much,' replied Lucia.

In her panther shape Lucia's sister Lisa was much faster than the unfit inventor. Cabriatti clattered into chairs and benches, unable to see where he was going. I don't know any Italian swear words but he probably said a couple as his head crashed to the ground. Lisa's eyesight wasn't troubled by the darkness and she found her target with a minimum of fuss. Cabriatti was still rolling on the floor, cursing, when the great cat pinned him down and roared menacingly in his face.

'Don't eat him yet, sister. He hasn't told us what we need to know.'

Lucia joined the panther as it lay down on Cabriatti's chest. 'The Chianti Lodestone, brother alchemist where is it?' she asked.

With little to see in the gloom, Cabriatti had his eyes closed as he gathered what composure he could. He whispered a brief prayer and then answered. 'At the rear of the workshop, next to the great hourglass, there is a locked casket. The Lodestone is within.'

Lucia had been scratching her sister's ear, expecting the need for a little feline persuasion to get Cabriatti to answer. Lisa gave a yowl as Lucia roughly pulled her hand away in surprise.

'So swift an answer? Surely this has to be a trick?'

'No trick,' replied Cabriatti. 'There is a cabinet directly above the casket. The key to the lock is concealed there. I forget exactly where – inside a jug or a jar or somesuch. It shouldn't take long to find.'

The would-be saint clicked her fingers and her hand burst into flames of an unnatural deep red. I say 'unnatural' – the fact that her hand didn't get burned was a dead give away that sorcery was involved. She used the flame as a torch, the light from it glinting in the big cat's eyes as she looked for the casket. She found first the giant hourglass and then there, next to it as Cabriatti had said, a small wooden casket with a simple lock on its front. It didn't look very substantial – it wouldn't be much effort simply to prise it open. But Lucia was nothing if not a practical demon and there was no point in wasting time or spells if an obvious solution was at hand. She found the key inside a jar of dried beetles and promptly used it to open the casket.

The Lodestone was a small wooden cubic frame the size of – well, the way Cabriatti described it, a bit bigger than a Rubik's Cube, with a lump of metal the shape of a double headed arrow in its middle attached to each of the cube's eight corners by a piece of ordinary twine. The double-arrow hung freely so's it could turn toward whatever it was supposed to point to, I guess.

'Not much to look at, is it?' chimed in Cabriatti, breaking through the silence that had greeted the anti-climax of the Lodestone's discovery. He was right. The wooden frame was all chipped and battered, the twine frayed and the metal of the arrow rusted. I'm well up on artefacts and stuff from all sorts of video and role playing games and I know that often magical bits and bobs will appear unassuming in order to disguise the magnitude of their power, but this was just tatty. It could have been knocked up on the craft table at primary school.

With the cube in one hand, Lucia brought the flames of her other hand in close to get a better look.

'There it is,' she announced. 'The mark of the flower and sword, signature of the alchemist who created it. This is the Chianti Lodestone.'

'As promised. Now you might as well get kitty here to see me off and be on your way. 'There's nothing else doing.' Cabriatti looked as if he was going to try and stroke Lisa but a well-timed screech from her told him what she thought of that idea.

'Oh you'll end up as cat food yet,' promised Lucia. 'After you tell me how to get this thing to work.'

'What do you mean “get this thing to work”?' said Cabriatti, clearly knowing exactly what Lucia meant.

'I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Lisa,' said Lucia. 'I suppose it wouldn't matter too much if you helped yourself to one of his fingers as an antipasto.'

'You're making a mistake!' squawked Cabriatti, suddenly not sounding quite so casual.

'I don't think so,' replied Lucia. 'Lisa's hungry and you're not being helpful -'

'I mean about the Lodestone! I meant it when I said it doesn't work! It's never worked. It's only value is historical. It's a museum piece, it belongs to a time when there were genuine alchemists.'

'Genuine?' Doubt had crept into Lucia's voice.

'Look around this room. This isn't an alchemist's den, it's a workshop. I'm an inventor. In my younger days I may have had pretensions of being an alchemist. So did many of my contemporaries. We'd challenge each other to invent something to rival the transmutations the mystics of old claimed to have mastered. But our wonders were purely mechanical. We'd build machines, fantastic machines capable of things no-one thought possible: flight, personal transparency and de- and re-solidification of matter. We were the alchemists of the modern age and each year an award was made to the most brilliant among us in recognition of their achievements. With that award came a trophy – an precious object from the time of the true alchemists.'

Lucia signalled for Lisa to let her captive up then sneered at Cabriatti. 'Are you telling me that this -' she proffered the cube, '- is nothing more than an ornament, a prize for boys playing at being giants?'

'The winner was called “The Custodian of the Lodestone”,' continued Cabriatti, standing and dusting himself down. 'There were 33 recipients of the award, I was the last. Even in this time of enlightenment the practice of science or alchemy is not always understood. We scattered across the world and rarely hear of each other's lives. It's hard enough trying to make a life and a living for ourselves.'

'True enough “brother alchemist”.' Lucia held her burning hand in front of Cabriatti's face and blew it out, the phantom flames dancing uncomfortably close his nose before dissipating without heat. 'I'd hate to think what my people in the village would say if they knew the true nature of your infernal work.'

Now it was Cabriatti's turn to feel unsure. 'My inventions may seem complicated to the simpler among them, but they'll find nothing unGodly here. I have nothing to fear – from them at least.'

Lucia smiled, her white teeth cutting through the darkness. 'Even if a saint – the mother of their village nonetheless – told them otherwise? One word from me and even the most open minded among them will demand to burn you as a heretic.'

'Oh don't sulk. Just because there's nothing for you here now.' Cabriatti paused. 'What did you need the Lodestone for anyway?'

It was as if Lucia had been waiting for somebody to ask.

'My sister and I are not without ambition. Our own particular corner of Hell gets more crowded as each day goes by. Various powers vying for territory and influence, it's very difficult for an honest demon to make their mark.'

'Then why not make a proper go of it as saints,' suggested Cabriatti. 'Think of all the good you did yesterday. You talked of popularity. Not my bag, but you seem to enjoy it. You could have power and influence here on Earth – by helping people.'

Have you ever heard a cat laugh? It's a really disturbing sound, even for a demon apparently because Lucia told her sister to shut up.

'Oh, that was a means to an end to get to you and your useless Lodestone. All tricks and flummery, the effects will wear off before the next dawn.'

'Then you are demons. That's unspeakably cruel.'

'That's an amusement. We want something more. We want to see the Tabula Rasa Scrolls. We want to make over the whole world from...' she stroked her sister's fur, 'scratch.'

'Ah, now they are real,' admitted Cabriatti. 'Nobody knows where in the Three Worlds they are, but they're most definitely real. I suppose if the Chianti Lodestone had been real that would have been just the thing to help you find them. A chance to wipe the slate of creation clean and start all over again? You're not only cruel, you're insane.'

'We are patient. If you cannot give us the means to find the scrolls then someone else will. This has been hundreds of years in the planning, if it takes another hundred more it will be time well spent. All of reality will be ours to shape.'

Lisa gave an impatient growl.

'I agree, sister,' said Lucia. 'You have waited long enough. Enjoy your feast.' The massive black beast crouched, readying itself for the killer pounce.

'Three... two... one...' Cabriatti quietly counted down what Lucia thought were the last seconds of his life. Instead there was a pulse of light, like an old-fashioned flash gun going off. The sisters, both human and cat, howled with surprise. The cube of the Lodestone fell the the floor. It was this bizarre cat's cradle that had been the source of the flash, the metal at its heart still glowing slightly like the filament in a light bulb.

Lucia had been temporarily blinded. When her sight returned she was greeted by an unsettling sight. Her sister, the cat Lisa, seemed to be shrinking.

'What have you done?' demanded Lucia.

'I've lied,' said Cabriatti. 'You know, for demons you're very trusting.' He gestured toward the cube. 'That is the genuine Chianti Lodestone. A product of ancient alchemy and still possessing the power of transmutation today.'

By now Lisa had transformed from a hulking beast of the jungle into a small domestic cat. Still sleek and black, but nothing quite as intimidating as her earlier form.

'Throwing transformation spells about near an alchemist's toy? Not a good idea,' said Cabriatti. 'It couldn't help but absorb some of the magic you used. But without someone controlling it, it had to release that power before too long. Your sister's already feeling the effects of that. It won't be long before you do too.'

'Nonsense!' declared Lucia. 'It'll take more than some tarted up gunpowder to affect miaow.'

'Use the Tabula Rasa scrolls?' Cabriatti tutted. 'I'm sorry ladies, even if your plan had next to no chance of working it's not worth taking the chance. You had to be stopped.'

Now, Lucia too was shrinking. And fur, black and glistening in the odd moonbeam that penetrated the workshop, started to crawl over her skin. The process was quicker than it had been with her sister, and in no time at all she had her own full set of whiskers, a tail and claws. But for a few seconds she still had something human left – her voice. There was only a second before it gave out for her to utter one final word: 'hide.'

Cabriatti didn't seem quite so intimidated when confronted with two, small black cats. He picked up a nearby broom and waved it threateningly at them.

'You're still demons, still immortal and probably indestructible. There's no easy way of getting rid of you so this should at least keep you out of harm's way. Now, scat cats!' To a chorus of yowls and screeches, Cabriatti took his broom to the cats and chased them both out of his workshop. They screamed and hissed their way into the night.

The next few days in Santa Lucia in Chianti would be hellish as the effects of the false saint's miracles wore off. Cabriatti made the decision then that he would confine himself to his tower and avoid any contact with the consequences of the demons' meddling. He was content in the knowledge that he had done enough to foil their wicked plans – let somebody else do the tidying up afterwards. All that was left for Cabriatti to do now was to secure the Lodestone once again.

Yes, the Lodestone.

Cabriatti scratched his head. Exactly where had he put it?


More soonliest.

Chapter 1 - Santa Lucia Part 2

The Second of November Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.

Cabriatti said something then that has stuck in my head these last few weeks:

'How easy it is to be accustomed to miracles.'

I haven't figured out exactly why, but it seems to me that almost everything adults say to you is a lie. I'm not saying that's a bad thing, just that it's true. I don't mean when your mum says 'I love you' to you or your dad tells you he thinks your poem about canal algae is 'unique'. That's just reiterating stuff that everybody knows already. I mean all the day to day stuff – you have to get dressed, you have to do your French homework, this is how the world works, you don't want to do that, you ought to do this. It's not really true, not in the way that everything's true until the age of – well, looking at my sister, I guess until the age of fifteen. That really is the best episode of The Space Carpenters ever, boys and girls shouldn't really ever, ever mix, and football is either really brilliant or stupid depending on how good you are at it. But I think, at some point love and money get in the way and people start lying and because everybody is lying to everybody else no-one seems to mind and as a result anyone who isn't an adult gets confused. Maybe I'll think differently when I'm older.

That's why when an adult tells the truth it always stands out. I think even my sister noticed – at any rate she took her eyes off whatever nonsense Gary Barlow was spouting for a split second and glanced at Cabriatti. Adults always look sad when they say something other than a lie, but Cabriatti looked heartbroken. At the time I didn't really get why he was so upset. What could be wrong with a world filled with miracles. But it is true. When the wonderful becomes commonplace everything does become that bit smaller. There isn't any room for anything else.

That was part of the appeal of the festival. While the performers and artists went about creating a real version of the unreal and the unseen there was always a demand for those who promised that the unreal genuinely existed without spoiling it by proving it. It wasn't that different from today. There were all sorts of fortune tellers, mediums and mind readers who would wander between the revellers (they weren't respectable enough to be allowed stalls of their own) charging the smallest of fees to produce little miracles of their own. There was always the slightest hint of something crooked about it, but it entertained and as long as no-one was hurt everybody worried about more important things instead.

Until something impossibly important came along and twisted the shape of the world. This was why the festival had become confined to one little spot. Not just one but a whole line of miracles that had been unfolding throughout the morning. Angelica was only the latest, staring overjoyed, disbelieving, at her healed arm, crying at the realisation that her life had been restored. Even in the short time Cabriatti was there he saw a bent old man who'd been coughing fit to burst sent on his way singing and laughing, almost dancing and a 23 year old mum of two from Sunderland giving a tuneless, if heartfelt, rendition of I Will Always Love You in memory of her late Grandmother.

No, hang on, that was the X Factor again. I was listening to Cabriatti's story, I just got a bit distracted by the telly. I'd switch it off but there was no way I was going to risk the potential side effects it could have on my sister. I have no idea what the appeal of music is but I know it hath charms to soothe the savage psychopathic sister and I wasn't going to risk angering her.

Every now and then the two women who had been dancing and doing all this healing would take a break from their combo of lousy moves and laying on of hands and take some water and rest. A quick question or two to some of the other onlookers had revealed that they had been doing this all morning.

'Who are they?' Cabriatti would ask.

'Why it is Santa Lucia herself,' they would usually say. 'She has come home to save us all!'

Now that was all a bit odd because the real Santa Lucia that the village had been named after had lived and died in the 11^th Century. Said the man from the 16^th Century. But that wasn't the point. No what really mattered was that as far as it was known the original Santa Lucia – or at least the one from 1072 – had been made a saint because she was kind to animals and children, sometimes at the same time and there was no record that she had ever been able heal people let alone help them to grow back any missing bits. There was nothing about her being a dancer or having sidekicks but then I guess a lot can change in the space of 500 years.

Cabriatti wasn't convinced but in the eyes of the rest of the village she was the genuine article, a real, live blessed saint returned from heaven to spread miracles and throw amateurish shapes on the dance floor. As night fell and the day's festivities ended she was swept away as the guest of a wealthy merchant's family whose daughter she had cured, a cheering throng following her and her retinue from the square. By now word of what had happened here would have reached Florence and Siena. There would soon be many more visitors to the village. The festival was effectively ended. It would be a completely different show tomorrow.

The inventor retired to the abandoned watch tower he called home. There was only three habitable rooms within it and the largest of those was taken up with his workshop. The manservant of his late brother would occasionally come by to make sure Cabriatti had remembered to eat and maybe to do the odd spot of housekeeping. Lately, Cabriatti had been consumed with a number of projects – he'd been looking forward to the festival as a welcome change. He'd been sleeping in his workshop and it was there that he made his bed that night.

When he woke the first thing he saw was the full moon through the skylight. The next was the silhouette of a figure as they moved forward and stood in front of it. It was still the middle of the night.

'I'm sorry to wake you,' said the figure, 'but my sister and I have to be gone from here before daybreak.'

As Cabriatti's eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw that he had two intruders. Two women.

'A visit from the Santa Lucia. I am blessed. I didn't know you had a sister. There's no mention of her in any of the histories I've read.'

My elder sister had a summer job in a call centre once. They said to her smile when you're on the phone, the customers will be able to tell from your voice even though they can't see you. The alleged saint was smiling at Cabriatti.

'My little sister is a recent addition to the family. She's a great help to me. The duties of a saint can be very demanding.'

'I saw your performance today,' said Cabriatti. 'It was nothing short of spectacular.'

'Thank you. It's always important to make a good first impression,' replied Lucia.

'Not the dancing. That was rubbish. The other stuff. Growing people new limbs and what-have-you.'

The sister growled at this (a bit like my sister, that) then spoke for the first time. 'It's a new routine. We haven't had time to rehearse it properly yet.'

'Ignore him, Lisa,' advised Lucia. 'Our work is for the people, not the critics. It's difficult for some people to understand the concept of being popular.' Lucia wasn't smiling now. 'People who shut themselves away from the world, who deny themselves the pleasures of the common touch.' She blew the dust off the top of a complicated piece of equipment.

'I'm sorry ladies, I don't think you have anything you can offer me. It can't be too long until dawn. Didn't you say you had to be off before then?'

'We'll be out of your hair soon enough, brother alchemist,' said Lucia.

'Excuse me?'

'As soon as you give us the Lodestone. My sister and I have a long journey to make. We're going to need something to point us in the right direction.'

'I have no idea what you're talking about,' lied Cabriatti. Badly.

'Francesco Cabriatti: Inventor, craftsman, alchemist. Thirty-third custodian of the Chianti Lodestone.'

'Oh, that. It doesn't work.'

'What?' exclaimed Lisa.

'Don't listen to him, sister. The Lodestone is one of the most powerful divination tools within the Three Worlds. It's here somewhere. Being its custodian is not a task to take lightly.'

'Well, good luck in finding it in all this mess. I can't remember where I put it. I haven't seen it in ages.'

Lucia actually hissed. 'Then allow my sister to jog your memory. She can be very persuasive.'

Lisa growled again. Only this time it was an inhuman, bestial sound. In the night shadows it was difficult to see, but where Lisa was once stood there was another shape altogether. She had transformed into an enormous black cat and was even now bearing down on the terrified inventor.

'This isn't really helping,' he almost squeaked.

More soonliest.

Chapter 1 - Santa Lucia Part 1

The First of November Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday

My Idiot Sister is the Chosen One

Chapter 1   Santa Lucia

'Are you even listening?'

When I was first thinking of titles for this book I almost decided to call it that. 'Are you even listening?' was almost a catchphrase for the whole of the adventure I am about to tell you about. Mostly it was me that said it, but I've started with somebody else saying it. Usually it's me saying it to my sister and I get really annoyed because she is quite clearly not listening even when it's something really important (and I mean important – not just 'don't forget your homework important' but 'the whole of the Earth could well end up being consumed in an inferno of hellfire' important). But on this occasion because it was someone else getting fed up with her I do admit I thought it was a little bit funny.

A bit.

Luckily I was listening and I'll tell you what he said. Who am I? I'll tell you in the next chapter, which is sort of the proper beginning. And I'll tell you about my sister too and why there was a man who looked a lot like the jack of clubs in a packet of playing cards standing in our front room going on with himself. That's where the story starts for us. But the full story starts hundreds of years ago and that's what the jack of clubs was telling us about, because he was there. I know, that's a bit weird, isn't it? And I mean 'a bit' weird too, because the other stuff that followed it was even weirder. But we're not there yet. No, let me tell you what this strangely dressed man in our living room told me, only I'll leave out the boring bits and just stick to the fairly exciting stuff.

It turns out this bloke was from somewhere near Florence in the 16^th century. He was an inventor and a poet by the name of Francesco Cabriatti and he managed to make a time machine out of paintings of dandelion clocks. I think that's what he said, he rushed over that bit, saying it wasn't too important. No, the reason he had used his time machine was the crucial thing. He was running away from someone. Trying to find us. To give us a warning and set us a task that might very well save the world – or destroy it. It all began with Santa Lucia...

In Cabriatti's village, Santa Lucia in Chianti, at the beginning of summer, there is a festival where all the people of the town come together to celebrate the best of the town's artistic achievement. There is music and dance and theatre but disappointingly no ultimate challenge boxing or cage fighting. It didn't really sound like much of a reason for celebrating at all but Cabriatti seemed mad keen for it. He used to have a stall each year where he'd showcase his inventions. Not the serious stuff that he hoped to make some money from – the multiple loading catapult (he showed me a drawing of that one, it looked quite good) or the solar scribe that could burn a man's handwriting into wood. Cabriatti would simply display toys or amusements, mechanical puppets that could dance or wooden animals that somehow made the noises of the real versions. To most of Santa Lucia Cabriatti was nothing more than an eccentric craftsman who would create these curiosities to bring smiles to the faces of the local children. The few coins he earned selling his toys would go toward his bigger projects and displaying this public, harmless version of his work would allay any suspicions his neighbours might have that he could be working or anything dangerous or inappropriate. When he was talking about it it reminded me of the sort of stuff you see companies doing when you see them trying to reassure you that because they have an exclusive collectible stuffed toy range you don't have to worry about the fact that they also make exclusive collectible guns and weapons.

Did I mention that my sister collects teddy bears? I mean honestly, she's sixteen now and her bed is covered in them. She's even got my bear from when I was a baby. Trevor, his name was. I'd thrown him out when I was four because even at that age I knew that you didn't need to have a cuddly toy any more. She rescued him from the bin, despite our mum saying he was far too dirty now. She insisted mum wash him and even now, nearly ten years later, he sits in pride of place at the foot of her bed. I don't want this to become a list but that's another thing about her that annoys me. He's not even her bear.

Every year Cabriatti was a hit with the kids. Except for this year. Well, not this year, 2011, but his 'this year' which was 1554. There was all the dancing and commedia dell arte stuff going on in the square (which we have been doing about in school recently and I told Cabriatti about this. I said to him that commedia dell arte was a forerunner of modern pantomime, but he didn't know what I was talking about. He got cross when I started to explain it to him and shouted that it wasn't relevant. Quick as you like I shouted back at him 'Oh, yes it is', and on my life, I swear, without even hesitating he replied 'Oh, no it isn't!' That was funny), but no-one was visiting the little alleys where the various craftsmen had set up their stalls. After an uneventful morning, Cabriatti and a few others made their way toward the sound of the merriment wanting to know the reason why it had kept its distance from them. Apparently, the surprising thing was that it wasn't just the craftsmen who were being ignored. As Capriatti got near the centre of town he saw a group of dancers that had decided to call it a day, sitting on the floor in sulky disappointment because no-one had come to see them. There was a juggler and a fire-eater having an argument, each one convinced that it was something the other had done that had driven the crowds away. Even all the minstrels (he didn't use the word 'minstrels', he just said 'musicians', but that's what they were called back then, isn't it? Maybe he didn't know if we still said 'minstrels' and that's why he didn't say it) were drifting away from their own 'patches' (but he did say 'patches'. Weird.) toward the main square to see what had captured everybody's attention.

This was the point at which Capriatti got annoyed with my sister and asked if she was listening. The way he saw it, he was getting to the best bit and thought she should be paying more attention. The way she saw it the X Factor results show was on the telly and there was this tall playing-card looky-likey standing in front of the screen. I sympathised with him but I told him he was wasting his time trying to get through to her. His best bet was to leave her be and just tell me the rest of the story. He wasn't entirely happy about that, but I told him I'd pass on the bits she might need to know when they came up. I was listening.

He looked like he was sulking, but I could tell he must've thought the next bit of his story was really good because he soon perked up and got on with it. Apparently, everybody in the square was watching two women dancing. Even though there were lots of other dancers and groups dotted all over Santa Lucia, nearly everybody seemed to have crowded into this one place to catch a glimpse of this particular pair. The way he was telling it, he didn't think that they were that good dancers and he couldn't understand why everyone was so fascinated. Until he realised that it wasn't the dancing that was getting everybody's attention.

There was a queue of people, all looking as if they were waiting to meet the dancers when they finished, lining up along one edge of the square. It took a second glance for Capriatti to realise that each one of them was suffering from some sort of injury or illness. There were old men with walking sticks, old women coughing and spluttering. There was a mother holding a baby, but she was doing all the crying while her child wasn't making any noise at all. At the front of the queue stood a beautiful young woman that Capriatti recognised. Her name was Angelica (or something like that – although he was speaking English – don't ask me how – whenever he said someone's name he seemed to get, well, a bit more Italian. I'm not sure what he said exactly, but he didn't react when I said Angelica back to him. So I can't have been too far off) and she'd been an artist. Only she'd had an accident where she had fallen off her horse and had her arm trampled. The bones in the arm never healed correctly and her wounds became infected. To the horror of everybody who knew her and her paintings the doctor ordered that her arm should be amputated. He carried out the crude operation himself, leaving Angelica unable to use a brush well enough to paint in the manner she was used to. Some cruel people had said that this had happened because it was wrong that a woman should ever think she could paint. Which just goes to show that people have always had idiotic ideas – it isn't new. When I call my sister an idiot it has nothing to do with her being a girl. It's just that she is an idiot. My other sister's brilliant (and so am I, if I'm honest) so being male or female doesn't have anything to do with anything.

Anyway, there she is, this one-armed painter at the front of the queue and everyone in the crowd is watching her. There's what Capriatti assumed was a monk managing the queue and he beckons for Angelica to come forward. She takes a couple of steps and separates from the rest of the queue. Before you know it the two dancers are circling her and waving their arms and making all sorts of gestures. Again, Capriatti says that their dancing was actually rubbish and he could probably do better himself. But the crowd, at least the crowd that have spent most of the morning already taking in the dancers' performance, are rigid with excitement. They know something incredible is going to happen. Someone screams and the dancers grab hold of Angelica. For a second she struggles, and then she goes limp, pretty much fainting away. One of the dancers supports her weight while the other grabs hold of the stump of her missing arm. She begins to shake it, moving in the clumsy way she had been dancing a few moments ago. The first thing Cabriatti noticed was the gasps of those parts of the crowd that were closer to this bizarre scene.

The next thing he saw was the artist's arm slowly, surely, begin to grow back.

More soonliest.