Mirrorscape

by Mike Wilks

  ‘Go on, Mel. Do it for me.’

  Mel put his hand to his bump again. It was coming; the thing he was supposed to remember.

  ‘Come on, Mel. Do as Fa Theum asks.’ It was his father’s voice.

  Mel turned, and his parents were standing right behind him. ‘Dad, Mum, how did you get here?’

  ‘Mel, be a good boy,’ said his mother. ‘We followed you to make sure you delivered the letter. It’s very important. Draw the symbol and make the fog go away. Go on.’

  Mel felt confused. His head hurt. He raised his hand again and touched the sore bump. Pain, bright lights and it all came flooding back like the sudden unblocking of a drain. The drain full of inspiration!

  Mel had been clinging to the grille just out of reach of the face in the mine when the debris from the scrapheap had exploded into the drain in front of him. He barely had time to leap into the fist-shaped depression the face had smashed in the wall. He had curled up tight inside as the thundering wall of rubbish hurtled past, hurting his ears and making them pop. It seemed to go on for ages until the flow eased and then came to a stop. When he peered out of the hollow, a tardy item of inspirational junk – an enormous amoeba whose sticky mass had slowed its descent – had struck him from behind with a wet thwack. He was propelled out of the drain, over the outflow of debris and into the Mirrorscape beyond, smacking his head hard against the trunk of a tree.

  ‘Mel! Do as you’re told,’ his father barked.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Don’t speak to your father in that tone,’ said his mother sharply. Then in a pleading tone, ‘Please, sweetheart. Do it for me. There’s a good boy.’

  ‘No, I won’t. This is all wrong.’ He looked closer at his parents, so familiar and yet so strange. His senses came alive and he saw that his father’s face was the same but his clothes fitted too well. And his mother’s complexion was too florid. He studied her hair, searching for the strands of grey he had noticed as he fled Kop with Dirk Tot. There were none. And the jewellery. She never wore jewellery, for the simple reason she had none.

  ‘Come on, Mel,’ said Fa Theum. ‘Behave yourself and do as your parents command.’ There was subdued anger and threat in his voice.

  ‘You’re not real. None of you are real. This is all wrong. What’s going on?’ Mel looked around, increasingly desperate. He had been here before – or, at least, seen it somewhere. Then it came to him. It was the painting he had seen with Ludo and Wren in the House of Mysteries! ‘This is “The World Turned Upside Down”!’

  ‘Mel, my son, you’re talking nonsense,’ said Fa Theum. ‘You’re not well. Just make the sign and deliver the letter.’

  Mel looked at the letter in his hand. The Wompers did not have a seal. None of his family could read or write. He broke the seal and tore open the letter. It was blank. He looked at his parents but their faces were expressionless.

  ‘Mel, that’s enough of your tomfoolery. You’re to go through the fog this instant,’ ordered Fa Theum. When Mel did not move he grabbed him by the wrists. ‘You’re going through there even if I have to drag you.’

  Mel struggled in the old priest’s grasp, which was surprisingly strong. He got one hand free and grabbed the dangling diaglyph, yanking it downwards. The corner of it caught the priest’s habit and tore a broad, diagonal rip across his chest – his bare canvas chest. ‘None of this is real!’ Mel kicked the apparition in the shin and struggled free.

  The phantom that was supposed to be his father made a grab for him, but Mel pushed him away. He felt sticky. He looked at his hands. They were smeared with wet, tabby-coloured paint and he could see raw canvas on his father’s chest. Mel began running back the way he had come.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going, Smell?’

  Groot, Bunt and Jurgis were standing across the road, barring his escape. They were dressed in the scarlet robes of the Fifth Mystery and their freshly-shaved heads bore the distinctive tonsure.

  Mel stopped. I understand now. I need to pass though the wall of mist to escape after all. That would take me back to the octagonal chamber in the House of Mysteries. Then, all I have to do is unlock the picture with the pyramid and the temporal maze – and I will be able to follow Wren, Ludo and Swivel. They could be waiting for me there now.

  ‘What did you think of my depiction of a Fegish village, Smell? I just painted the most sordid hole I could imagine. And how about your skegging parents? Pretty good, eh?’ asked Groot.

  ‘It was pathetic. Poor observation and sloppy technique. A classic Groot.’

  ‘It fooled you easily enough, Smell. Or else you wouldn’t be here. And where do you suppose I got my models from?’

  Mel felt a sickening feeling in his stomach. Groot’s sloppy depiction of Kop would not have fooled him if he had not been so groggy. His dazed mind had done as much of the work as Groot. But the portraits of his parents and Fa Theum were too good. They could only have been painted from life. Suddenly he felt icy cold. The thought of his mother and father and Fa Theum at the mercy of Adolfus Spute and Mumchance seemed almost too horrible to contemplate. The blood drained from his face and he swallowed hard.

  ‘Look at his face, Bunt. He’s only just worked it out.’

  ‘Where are they?’ Mel’s voice trembled as he asked the question.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know. Let’s just say that my Uncle Adolfus is looking after them. Isn’t that kind of him? So what do you think of my technique now, Smell? It was easily good enough to fool you.’

  It was true. There must be something else going on here, otherwise he would have seen through Groot’s shoddy work sooner. Then he remembered what Green had told him: ‘You can’t stay too long inside the pictures before it gets to you. It starts with the body but before long it gets to work on the mind.’ The image of Kop must have been formed as much in his own mind as by Groot’s brushwork.

  ‘So when did you join the Fifth Mystery?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve always been a member, Smell. It’s a family tradition. They like to keep an eye on everything, especially where colour’s concerned.’

  ‘What tradition? Treachery?’

  ‘I’ve had as much as I can take of you, you little scrot. And now I have more important things to do.’

  ‘Like what? More second-rate paintings?’ Mel glanced to one side as a flock of startled octopuses took to the air.

  ‘Like take over old Blenko’s studio. That and everything that goes with it.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Mel tracked the octopuses as they flew towards him, their soft bodies expanding and contracting as they pulsed through the air. He stooped and picked up a rock.

  ‘Throwing stones, Smell? That’s a child’s weapon. It’s no match for a knife. Especially not for six knives.’

  ‘I only count three of you, Groot.’

  ‘Count again. Look behind you.’

  Mel shot a glance over his shoulder. The images of his father, mother and Fa Theum were also wielding knives and advancing towards him. Mel flung his rock at the lead octopus. It landed with a rubbery thud on its soft body. The octopus’s blue-green spots flashed a fiery red in warning as it dived, infuriated, towards its attacker. Mel turned and ran towards the wall of mist.

  Several of the molluscs descended on Groot, Bunt and Jurgis like fleshy umbrellas. Jurgis screamed and hacked with his knife at a tentacle clinging to his face. It fell away, revealing a livid pattern of circles. Mel dived flat on the ground just as the lead octopus attacked. The flying creature swooped over his head and collided heavily with the image of Mel’s father. A dense cloud of ink filled the air like smoke, masking Mel as he ran headlong. He made the mirrormark in the air as he leapt at the shimmering mist. But something was different. The air seemed as thick as porridge and he seemed to move through it in slow motion. It felt as if invisible hands were tugging him back. He hung there for several moments. Then the resistance faded and he was through.

  But the painting was no longer hanging on the wall in the octagona
l room in the House of Mysteries. It had been moved. It was now propped on the window ledge high above Vlam, and it was facing outwards. Almost as soon as Mel emerged he realised he had made a terrible mistake. His back foot was on the window sill, but his front foot and all of his weight was resting on … nothing! Oh no! I’ve walked right into a trap! He pitched forward and began to fall down towards the city far below. He was back in the real world; back in Nem. There was no topsy-turvy mirror-logic to save him now. There was just thin air and gravity pulling him down to certain death.

  ‘The Garden at the End of Days’

  Wren approached the omniscope, afraid of what she would see. Her hand trembled as she put her eye to the instrument. It only took a moment for her to take in the vertiginous scene. She drew in her breath sharply and took a step backwards. She looked at the master and Ludo. A great, desperate sob escaped her throat.

  ‘That’s quite enough of that, young lady. Tears never solved anything.’

  The master’s words checked her and she fell silent.

  Ludo came forward and looked through the omniscope. He put his fist to his mouth and uttered a stifled cry. ‘This wasn’t meant to happen.’ He sat down hard on the floor, his head in his hands. ‘What’ve I done?’

  Wren looked confused. ‘What’re you talking about?’

  ‘No one’s done anything,’ said the master. ‘What you saw hasn’t happened. But it will if we don’t do something to prevent it. The important thing is, I recognise where Womper is.’

  ‘You mean that we can still save Mel?’ Wren sniffed loudly.

  ‘We can certainly try. You must have noticed something about the way time flows in the Mirrorscape.’

  ‘It’s frozen,’ said Wren.

  ‘That’s not entirely true but time does flow at a different rate relative to Nem – in most places, that is. We can make use of that.’

  The master crossed to a bunch of flexible speaking-tubes in a labelled rack on the wall. He selected one, unplugged the stopper and spoke into it. ‘Billet, we must be off. Take us in the direction of “The World Turned Upside Down”.’ He put it to his ear to hear the reply. ‘What? I don’t care how sore your feet are. You can rest them later.’ He listened again as Billet responded. The master sighed. ‘Billet, I’m not about to argue with you. Will you do as you’re told?’ The speaking-tube went back to his ear. ‘And the same to you!’ He slammed it back on its rack. ‘What nerve! Why does he have to argue about everything? The next time I’ll create a more compliant residence.’

  Wren smiled. ‘Still, he is rather good when it comes to the rough stuff.’

  ‘I don’t know where he gets it from. It certainly doesn’t come from me. Now, you two are going to need all your wits for what I have in mind,’ the master said as Billet set off.

  ‘What do you want us to do?’ said Ludo.

  The master ran his hand along the shelves and pulled out a large catalogue of paintings bound in deep red leather. ‘Now come here and look at this.’

  The master explained his plan and then insisted they rehearse it. But however many times they repeated it Ambrosius Blenk was never satisfied.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘it’s not going to work. You’re just never going to be able to move fast enough. There’s simply not enough time.’ He chewed his fingernail in frustration.

  ‘But there must be some way we can get it to work,’ said Ludo.

  ‘The regulator!’ exclaimed Wren. She retrieved the hairy object from the satchel.

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘I kind of found it.’

  ‘Did you now? You weren’t thinking of taking this back as a souvenir?’ The master shook his grey head. ‘What belongs in the Mirrorscape must remain in the Mirrorscape. You can’t imagine the trouble you could cause if anything ever got out.’

  Ludo and Wren exchanged a glance. They knew only too well.

  The master looked at the regulator again. ‘Swivel! Ah, there you are. I’ll need you to help us with this.’

  The rehearsal recommenced, now with three participants, and it soon became apparent that it might work.

  ‘Now, have you got this straight?’ asked the master.

  ‘We’re to wait by the wall of mist until you give the signal,’ said Wren.

  ‘Once we cross back into Nem coordination will be lost,’ said Ludo, ‘so we must wait for you to tell us the plan’s working before we go into the picture.’

  ‘Good,’ said the master. ‘If we get the timing right – precisely right – we might just get Womper out of this fix.’

  ‘We are approaching “The World Turned Upside Down”,’ said Swivel. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go downstairs and prepare.’

  Presently, the house stopped moving and one of the speaking-tubes whistled for the master’s attention.

  ‘Very well, Swivel. You know what’s to be done. Good luck.’ The master replaced the tube and selected another. He unplugged it and spoke into it. ‘Billet, you’re to take us to “The Garden at the End of Days” – as quickly as you can. Lucas Flink will not mind in the least if we briefly trespass in his garden for a worthy cause.’

  Wren and Ludo could hear the curses issuing from the tube. They learnt several new words in the space of a few seconds.

  ‘Just do it!’ Red in the face, Ambrosius Blenk hung up the speaking-tube and took several deep breaths to calm himself.

  The butler slipped through the small door in Billet’s heel and closed it behind him. He climbed high into the roots of one of the strange, upside-down trees next to a bridge over a stream. A shoal of fish chirped above him and a fane stood balanced on its steeple in the distance. Swivel settled himself and watched as Billet disappeared in a new direction before he turned his attention back to the Mirrorscape below him and waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Little by little, his watchful face began to slip down back into his head. Then, with a soft click it disappeared altogether, to be replaced by one with closed eyes and an open, gently snoring mouth.

  Wren and Ludo stood in the library window watching the Mirrorscape fly by through the leaded panes as Billet strode towards their destination.

  ‘Ludo, what did you mean back there when you said “What’ve I done”?’

  Ludo turned away from the window and stared at his feet. ‘Oh, it’s just that I feel responsible … for … for Mel falling out of the excavator like that. If I’d been quicker, I could have grabbed him.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s all?’ Wren touched his arm. ‘Why won’t you look at me?’

  ‘Wren, please don’t ….’

  ‘Come on, you two,’ said the master. ‘This is not the time for idle gossip. We’re almost there.’

  Swivel’s watchful face sprang back into place with a sharp jolt. Approaching over the bridge was Mel with an elderly priest. When they had passed Swivel’s tree, he climbed down and followed them. At one point he disturbed a small group of lobsters that had been feeding, and he froze as they scuttled away under a hedgerow and across the dusty road in front of Mel and the old man. To his relief he saw that their attention had been distracted by a cart driven by a horse in charge of a team of dapple-grey men. When Swivel felt it was safe, he continued to follow them. Presently, they came to the wall of mist that the master had explained to him led to a chamber high in the House of Mysteries. A couple of tabby-clad peasants came up unseen behind Mel and the Fa. Then some kind of argument broke out between them and Mel. Mel turned and ran back in the direction they had come from. This was not part of the plan! He was supposed to go through the wall of mist. This would ruin everything!

  Swivel set off in pursuit, shielded by a hedgerow, through which he caught a fleeting glimpse of three members of the Fifth Mystery. What was he to do? He had to get Mel running back towards the wall of mist. Distracted, he disturbed a nest of grass-green octopuses. The frightened molluscs instantly shed their camouflage, ejected a cloud of ink and rose angril
y into the air. He waited for a moment and then parted the hedge, just in time to see Mel throw a rock at the lead octopus. Good thinking, young sir. In the ensuing confusion, Mel turned on his heels and began to sprint towards the wall of mist.

  Now was the time. Swivel withdrew the regulator from his doublet and planted it in the ground, willing it to take root. Then, with relief, he saw slender tendrils emerge from the side and burrow down into the soil. When he felt the rapidly growing roots were established, he took hold of the regulating lever and tugged it towards the minus end of the scale.

  For a moment, the fishes ceased singing in the trees and the scudding clouds halted in their tracks. The next time Swivel looked, Mel had vanished.

  Ambrosius Blenk stared hard at the ornate clock on the library wall. ‘Come on, come on. Can’t you say anything except tick and tock?’ He listened for a moment. ‘Obviously not. Come on, Swivel. Do your stuff. Plant the regulator and slow down time.’ He peered out of the window at Wren and Ludo far below, waiting impatiently in front of the wall of mist in ‘The Garden at the End of Days’. He looked at the clock again. ‘It’s not going to work. I’ve miscalculated. By now, Womper will be decorating the rooftops of Vlam. Shut up, you old pessimist. Of course it’s going to work!’ He looked again at the clock. The pendulum was definitely slowing down. Slower and slower … and then it stopped! He leant out of the window, his megaphone already at his lips. ‘Now!’

  ‘Come on, Ludo! Just like we rehearsed,’ said Wren.

  Ludo made the mirrormark but in his haste fumbled it. ‘Scrot, it’s not working!’

  ‘Here, let me try.’ Wren concentrated, then traced the mirrormark in the air – and they were through.

  ‘There’s “The Garden at the End of Days”. Help me unhook it from the wall,’ said Wren.

  ‘Ooofff! No one said how heavy it’d be.’

  They staggered backwards, almost overbalancing, as the canvas came free.