Silversong (The Fable Series, Book 3)

Chapter 4

*****

I wander through a never-ending springtime forest. Enormous trees crowd around me in the cool air like an army of pale skeletal giants, bony branches reaching up towards the sky as if to pluck at the fading stars. The scene is bathed in morning twilight, moments before daybreak. An in-between time, a time of crossing - the new day about to rush in, paused on the precipice. I can feel the sun rising; I can hear it somehow, a warm golden sound swelling up from the East.

I push off from the ground and drift upwards into the nearest tree. I am the wind, joyously swept up into the branches - an explosion of silvery boughs dotted with bright green buds, strewn with clouds of sweetly scented blossom. Upon closer inspection, I realise that hundreds of tiny pairs of ballet slippers in shades of dusty pink and ivory hang from the branches like strange silky flowers, spinning on their ribbons in an aerial pirouette. I hear a peal of bells, or maybe laughter, far away - the girls who threw them up there in an act of celebration.

Breathing in the fresh sweet scent of the ballet blossoms, I feel something swell up inside of me.

It's an almost indescribable feeling, like experiencing a new emotion, or seeing a brand new colour outside of the visible spectrum of light... something I have no name for.

Awe, wonder, surprise, excitement, anticipation and hope rolled into one.

An energy bursting to get out, an unstoppable force, like an unreleased scream of joy which I've pushed down for far too long.

For a moment I see myself from the outside, an ephemeral ghost-like girl swathed in silky translucent clothes that swirl around me in the air - ashen grey tinged with the coral of dawn, insubstantial as smoke, floating on the wind.

I draw a sign in the cold air with my finger, calling my sisters, and then there are girls flying through the trees with me, too many to count, like a flock of birds. Their faces are featureless, a moving blur of ecstasy, streaking light and afterimage. They are young but old, the epitome of eternal, ancient youth, and their hair is as grey as a dove's wing.

We link hands in mid-air and spin round and round, wheeling through the timeless hours.

We are the essence of spring, a free and wild wind dancing over the blossoms, unbridled joy overflowing, faster and faster.

Primal and elemental, frenzied, drunk on the zest of life. Ancient but newborn, eternal and everlasting, like the morning, like the spring.

They start to sing - a high-pitched hum building to a crescendo, frantic music like water trickling over stones, cicadas chirping, the hysterical joyful cries of children. I know I should join the song. I want to sing. I need to. But I can't.

Poisoned by my silence, their voices twist into a scream, a sharp shriek that slices through the air, severing my connection to them. A gust of wind blows them away; they become a shower of plum-blossom petals scattered over the breeze.

I'm still floating high up amongst the tree branches, and I watch as the silvery-green buds burst open, leaves unfurling, until the forest is an endless sea of bright summer green. The air is warmer, the light turns golden.

I hear whispers of a familiar melody somewhere below me. A familiar voice.

I look down, and I see a flourishing garden. Gran's garden. And there in her favourite sunflower yellow overalls and straw gardening hat is my gran, bent over a flower bed, humming the tune of one of her favourite Irish folk songs. I can't see her face under the wide brim of the hat, but I know it's her. I try to call out to her, willing her to look up and see me, but no sound comes out.

I've lost my voice.

I will myself to drift down through the air towards her, down to earth, but can't. I'm stuck in the sky.

I watch her for what feels like forever, and around her the seasons change in quick succession, painting the garden shades of autumnal red and yellow, snow-speckled winter white, fresh pinks of spring, lush summer green in quick succession, over and over, the years unfolding around her. She never looks up, not even once - she is crouching forward on her knees, focused only on the task before her.

Gradually, I come to realise that she's tending to a rose bush. Pruning the leaves with secateurs, watering the soil, examining the thorny branches with the knowing eye of a master gardener.

I try one last time to call out to her, drowning in my own desperate silence.

Then, without turning around or looking up, she speaks. I don't know if she's speaking the words out loud or if her voice is in my head. I don't even know if she's speaking to me, or to the rose. Her voice rings through the air, echoing in my mind.

"It's all up to you now," she says. "I've given you as much nurturing as I can. So many years I've given... I gave my time. My love. My blood. All so you would someday bloom. After all this, will you choose to stay in the silent shadows without a song?"

Suddenly, she turns around, and drags herself to her feet with a muffled groan. She dusts off her knees, and looks straight up at me where I float in the sky.

She smiles, but it's a sad smile, distant and hollow.

"I heard you stopped singing," she says. "But really love, what's Spring without birdsong? You were made to sing, Ash. There's nothing sadder than a bird that no longer sings because she can't see through the bars of her invisible cage. This cage... it's of your own making, my sweet. It's time to sing. Break free. Fly. Blossom. Sing, break free, fly, blossom. Sing, break free, fly, blossom. Sing, break free, fly, blossom. Sing, break free, fly, blossom. ... "

As she continues to chant the same words over and over, I watch the rose bush behind her ripple with movement, bursting with a multitude of tiny red buds like drops of blood, swelling with sunlight, then erupting into a riotous crowd of roses, filling the air with sweet perfume.

The petals are rippling open, peeling away in fiery red sheets from a core of stardust, they are a song, someone is singing... it's me.

The flame of song licks through my veins, and something vibrates against my chest, gentle at first, then more insistent. I clutch it, clawing at my chest, and it burns my fingers.

I look down, and as I wake up I recognise the object in my hands.

My phone.

*****

Half asleep, I stare blinking groggily up at the lit up phone screen as the dream fades into nothingness. In my stupor I don't wonder about how the phone seemingly switched itself on, or how it even got into my hands, when it's been turned off and banished to the back of my closet for the past two months.

All I notice is the time - exactly midnight, seconds past 12am - and the message on the screen. It's from a private number, but I immediately know that it's from one of the Fable boys. I can just feel it, a certainty prickling on the edges of my consciousness. Something from earlier in the day, yesterday now, stirs in my memory.

The countdown clock that appeared on Fable's website. Everyone at school losing their minds over some big surprise they thought it was counting down to.

The message staring at me from my phone is just two words: "Watch. Now", followed by a url pointing to what I can only guess is a live streaming website.

My finger hovers over the screen. Lying in the dark in bed, I fight down the urge to fling my phone across the room into the darkness.

I gather all my courage, and I click the link.