Dancing Stones

2: The Shuffle of Feathers

2

The Shuffle of Feathers

Teya saw the coarse carpet fall towards her. Then there was nothing. Then there was a thought.

A trick, said the thought. It had all been a trick. Her mother, the police, everyone had all been in on it. Her dad was here, in South America, waiting for her.

The ceiling looked so far away. All around her were feet – different shoes, high-heels, sneakers, pumps, flats. A pair of leather men’s shoes, lace-ups with patterns of holes punched all over the toes.

‘Are you sick, Querida?’ said the shoes.

It must have only been seconds she lay there, out of it. When the world came back, she realised she was on the floor, looking up into the anxious face of a man who looked remarkably like her father. He had the same warm almond eyes and cocoa coloured skin, the same high cheekbones – but his face was rounder, younger.

‘Oh s**t. Oops. Sorry…sorry, my bad. I thought you were…’

‘Are you unwell?’ Uncle Isandro asked. When she sat up, Teya was dizzy, so she dropped her head between her knees. She wanted to be swallowed up by the floor. How could she have done something so embarrassing?

‘Did you hurt yourself?’ Vaguely Teya was aware of a commotion building up around her. People had gathered, and an excited discussion was taking place in Spanish.

‘No autographs, no autographs, please. Ha ha.’ She looked up into a circle of worried faces. ‘It was a long flight, that’s all. Really, I’m fine.’

‘Poor little girl. She needs to eat. See how thin.’ A heavy-lidded lady with a thick accent was peering at her as though she was some kind of circus freak.

Isandro gently helped her to her feet, then looked into her face, searching for signs of faintness.

‘Did you eat? Are you hungry? Some water perhaps?’

‘No no, really. I’m just tired I think. Sorry.’

‘Well, let’s get you to the apartment. You must lie down.’ Isandro smiled. ‘I am your uncle. I am Isandro. My English is not so perfect, so you must help me, yes?’

‘Sure.’ Teya wanted to die of shame and disappointment.

‘Teyacapan, you are even more beautiful than the photograph. Look at this face!’ As he hugged her to him, she stiffened at the contact.

‘Everyone calls me Teya.’

‘Then you are Teya to me.’

He picked up her bags and shooed away the gathering crowd. Hoisting her backpack on his broad shoulder, with a protective arm around her, he led her out of the airport.

In the taxi, Isandro chattered like he’d had too much pseudoephedrine, and Teya wondered how she could have ever mistaken him for her father. He pointed out landmarks and important buildings, and told her they’d be staying in an area called San Telmo, which was one of the oldest neighbourhoods in Buenos Aires, and a famous artists’ area.

‘This place it is celebrated for the Tango dance. You know this?’ he asked. Thank god he didn’t seem to require many answers. Teya was wrecked. ‘The tango is very romantic and beautiful. Very passionate. We will see. You will love very much to see it.’

She tried to look impressed.

The taxi was winding in and out of narrow, cobbled streets. On each side were grand old mansions carbuncled with stonework and wrought iron balconies. Some were falling apart with decay, their broken windows gaping mournfully, crumbling facades grey under centuries of dirt. Many others retained their aristocratic demeanour, some beautifully converted into quaint restaurants, Tango bars, art galleries and apartments. They passed old, whitewashed churches, splendid with domes and spires and saints.

It was on one of these narrow streets that the taxi finally began to slow. It came to a stop for a moment and pulled to the side. Teya wasn’t sure why until she saw a motorbike approaching from the opposite direction. The street was too tight for both vehicles to pass, and the rider was teetering strangely. Something was odd about him, and as he drew nearer, Teya was shocked to see a small baby strapped to his chest. But as he passed and she got a closer look, she saw it was not a baby at all, but a large stone. No, not a stone, a piece of broken statue, partially swaddled in fabric.

In a moment he was alongside them, and in that split second, the rider’s head turned toward her. The dark visor of his helmet covered his face – there was no way she could see his eyes – but somehow, she had the sense he was staring right at her.

She swivelled her body to look behind at his retreating back, and saw a ripple of long black hair spilling over the collar of his jacket.

Weird.

The taxi cruised a bit further, and then pulled up again in front of a converted mansion. Stepping out of the taxi, Teya looked around. Despite the sunshine, she felt the chill air penetrate her warm down coat, and she huddled closer to herself for warmth.

The carved wooden doors before them were huge, stained a deep reddish brown from a hundred years of use. When the doors swung open they revealed a tiled hallway that led to a small garden courtyard that was filled with delicate trees and flowers. From here they walked up a marble staircase, their footsteps echoing in the cool silence.

Who was this uncle of hers? He was obviously loaded to stay in a place like this. Teya thought of her home with its mismatched furniture, piles of unfolded laundry and unwashed dishes. She felt a stab of homesickness. She knew nothing about Uncle Isandro, what he did for a living, or anything else about him. She’d never bothered to ask.

‘This is your room,’ he said, leading her into a warm, cosy, whitewashed room with a little balcony looking out over the street.

She dumped her bags in the corner, and smiled at her uncle, who was watching her with a worried expression.

‘It’s really cool,’ she said.

‘Yes? You like it?’

‘Yep. I’m stoked.’

‘I was not sure. It is an old place, very ancient. The young people they like the new places, the modern things. But I think perhaps you are not like other young people?’

‘I’m not really like anyone.’

‘No. You are yourself. A treasure.’

She hid her confusion inside her backpack.

‘Please, you are welcome,’ he said. ‘You will want to shower and rest. Make yourself at home. I have some business meeting soon, so forgive me to leave you for now?’

‘It’s fine.’

‘There is coffee, and food in the kitchen. A lovely cafe is down the street if you want. But be sure to take the apartment key. There it is, on the table. I will be back in the afternoon, and later shall we have dinner?’

‘Sounds good.’

She was grateful when Isandro left, happy to be alone. She stretched out on her bed, feeling a sense of peace in the still, sunny apartment. The sudden, total silence was almost shocking. Her ears were still ringing from the whooshing sounds of the aeroplane, and her long legs, cramped for so many hours in her economy seat melted into the softness of the oversized bed.

She fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She woke. The sound of a broken moan tore through her. Who was it? What was in the room? The shape hunched backwards, fled to the corner, then shuffled its bones into nothing.

The room was silent. No one was there.

There was a muffled scurrying on the ledge outside.

She went to open the balcony doors and saw the ledge covered in pigeons, their low crooning conversation breaking into a mechanical whir of protest as they fled.

Pigeons. Just pigeons.

The sunshine fell on her face. It was warmer, and she looked up the street to get her bearings. Should she go out? She was ravenous.

After opening a few cupboard doors, she finally found the bathroom, a marble and chrome affair with huge antique mirrors. After showering and washing her hair, she felt much more awake.

Pulling on fresh clothes and layering up with jumpers, Teya counted out a few Pesos. She felt nervous about leaving the safety of the apartment. But really, if she didn’t go far, nothing could go wrong.

At the last second, she grabbed her phone, but seeing it was out of battery she plugged it into the charger and left it in her room.

Taking a deep breath, and making sure the apartment key was jangling in her pocket, she stepped out into the cobbled street.

She decided to turn right.

After walking for a few minutes, she came upon the small cafe that her uncle had mentioned. She stumbled over her words as she ordered a coffee, and not knowing the Spanish word for milk, settled for a scalding, bitter black brew that made her eyes water and her pulse race.

‘Hablar Espanol?’ the waiter asked, all caramel skin and roguish green eyes. Too gorgeous. Graphic-novel gorgeous. Teya felt herself blush.

‘Um… sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.’

‘Ah, Ingles?’

‘Yes - I mean, Australian.’

His grin was crooked. ‘Your name is?’

‘Teya.’

‘Wow. Mucho gusto Teya. It is nice to meet you. I am Pedro. You are beautiful girl.’

Seriously? Why would he mock her? Asshole. Teya quickly payed her bill, then tripped over a chair as she stumbled out.

‘Hasta Luego, beautiful girl,’ he said as she fled.

Her cheeks were flaming as she stomped up the street. She was still starving, and was beginning to get a queasy feeling from the strong coffee and lack of food. How would she eat in this place if she couldn’t even order a sandwich without dying of embarrassment?

Stupid stupid stupid. Teya was no longer paying attention to the streets she was passing or where she was going. She felt the familiar stirrings of alienation and frustration.

A rush of longing for her mother came over her, and beneath that another longing, one she tried to squash.

She wanted her dad.

Olin had been the only one who’d truly understood her. He’d been everything to her, had called her beautiful, a princess. And somehow from his lips she’d believed it. Or at least it didn’t seem to matter that anyone else thought her ugly and weird. They had shared a private world, filled with music and laughter.

Her name, Teyacapan, meant first-born in Quechua, and Olin had often called her that – my first born, my only born. He would tell her that when he first laid eyes on her as a baby he knew he would never have another child, because he knew he could never make another so perfect. You are a child in the shape of my heart, he had said. You are my little bird. My Inca princess.

How could he be gone? How? How can someone be there, thinking and talking and alive, and then, without warning, be gone? She didn’t want it. It had to be wrong. Someone had made a mistake. There had to be some way to change it, to spin time backwards to undo the stupid, hateful mistake, to make it not true. Because she didn’t want it.

And for a split second she felt immense relief. She didn’t want it and so surely, surely it had never happened. But only for a split second. The tsunami of horror that followed nearly knocked her off her feet.

The tightly bound emotions, which for ten months had been squeezed into a tiny, poisonous ball at the pit of her stomach, grew to tower above her, then crashed over her, engulfing her in fresh pain.

No. No. No.

Not fair. Not fair. Not fair.

She hated her mother. If only she’d stayed at home, these feelings could have remained deeply buried forever. She wanted to feel nothing. She would rather be a zombie, be dead inside than face the inconceivable truth.

She stumbled onwards, no longer caring where she went. The buildings slid by, a solid grey smear through her rage. People looked at her strangely as she rushed on, trampling the feelings that were rearing up.

How long had she been walking? Perhaps it had been later than she thought when she left the apartment. The jet lag must have been affecting her sense of time, because before she knew it the light was fading. A chill wind was biting through the narrow streets, and when Teya finally pulled up, she was shivering.

She felt dizzy, sick. She staggered and nearly fell, catching herself against the side of a building. When she looked up, she realized it was an old abandoned theatre. The windows were broken, like smashed in teeth. High up on the roof, and all over the window ledges, roosted hundreds of sinister black birds. Their hungry eyes seemed to be watching her in the gathering darkness.

She was in a small empty square. But where? How stupid to have wandered so far.

Panic thumped in her chest. It was getting colder. Isandro would be back by now, wondering where she was. She realised she didn’t even know the name of the street the apartment was on, and all the streets looked the same.

She reached for her mobile. Oh no! She’d left it in the apartment.

There was a movement – a scuffle in the shadowy doorway of the theatre. She froze, her nerves sharp as quills. Her ears were full of feathers, the dry shuffle of parchment as the birds startled and resettled. And a smell, strange and animal, dank and musky as long dead bones. And smoke. The stench of burning hair.

She leapt in fright, her legs finding new strength. She pelted down a side street, and heard the sound of footsteps pounding through the darkness. A sinewy black shape seemed to flash by, then fall back as another took its place, trailing feathers and a spark of blue. And then she heard a low laugh that turned her blood to ice.

On she ran, her breath tearing her throat. She prayed she was heading towards a more populated area, if not the apartment. But to her dismay, she seemed to be running further into the more desolate part of the city. The cobblestones on the streets were broken and filthy, jutting out to trip her. The houses flashing by her were older and more decrepit, some of them vandalised. Everything was blackened by pollution, and her eyes began to burn, her head hurting from the toxic filth chugging out of a thousand cars.

Her foot caught on a loose stone, and she found herself flying towards the dirty pavement. She lay there stunned, winded by her fall.

She couldn’t move – had given up – no longer cared. Nothing mattered. She simply closed her eyes and stopped, resting her cheek on the cold, filthy gutter. She lost track of how long she lay there, numb and empty.

‘Senorita? Senorita?’

Arms were lifting her to her feet. She barely noticed. She paid no attention as a hand took hers, and led her up the dark street.

So this was it. This was how it would all end. kidn*pped and murdered in a foreign city. She wondered why she didn’t care.

She was guided deftly left then right, moving towards an unknown destination. She found herself slumped against her captor. When she stumbled, a strong arm tightened around her waist.

Some twenty minutes later, she recognised a street. Then another. There was the cafe on her left; there were the familiar stone buildings, now lit warmly from within. Lively music was tumbling out of the restaurants, and the sound of laughter rose and fell from inside.

Relief brought her back to her senses and she turned to her kidnapper to see who or what he was.

He was more than a head taller than her, and looked about seventeen, although it was hard to tell. His hair was dead straight and glossy black and fell past his shoulders, which were strong and broad on top of his slim frame. His skin was a dark olive and perfectly smooth.

He was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen.

‘Senorita,’ he said again, and turned and pointed down the street towards the apartment. She only realised he was still holding her hand when he let it go, and she wanted to snatch it back and hold onto it forever.

But with a slight bow of his head, he was gone. She watched his retreating back, for the first time noticing the motorcycle helment that bumped against his thigh. Within seconds he had entered a side street and had disappeared into the night.