Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

  Naeo glanced at the books. “I … Yes, I …”

  “You must take a look at them, once we have dispensed with the formalities,” he said, turning to Ash. “Hello,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Hi, I’m Ash. Ash Dagglegar.”

  Mr Zhi shook his hand warmly and peered into his face. “Pleased to meet you, Ash,” he said. “So, you are rather a fan of our science?” He frowned. “And of the Three Ways?”

  Ash rummaged in his hair. “Well, I wouldn’t say—”

  “There is much to admire,” said Mr Zhi graciously, “in all of the Four Ways.”

  “Right! There’s plenty to admire in Essenfayle,” Ash said, defensively. Then he added: “I just happen to think the others have a little more … punch.”

  Mr Zhi arched an eyebrow. “Punch?”

  Ash nodded. “Punch,” he said, a little less confidently. He glanced at Naeo for support and immediately wished he hadn’t. She just crossed her arms and threw her eyes in the air.

  Mr Zhi turned and beamed at Tasker, holding out both his hands, which the younger man took up. “Jeremy! Good to see you.”

  Tasker smiled and bowed. “And you, Mr Zhi. I hope I—”

  “You’ve done very well,” said the old man. Then he frowned. “Only … what on earth have you done to your hair?”

  Tasker glanced at the visitors and flushed, raising his hand to his sculpted locks. “It’s the fashion,” he said. “Just to fit in.”

  Mr Zhi was unimpressed. “How extraordinary!” he exclaimed and quickly turned away. “Now, my good friends, please come and take a seat over here.”

  He led the thoroughly unnerved gathering to the other end of the room. There they found a cluster of worn but homely old armchairs and a large sofa, surrounding a low table brimming with sandwiches, cakes, fruit and a perfectly arranged tray of tea for four.

  “I prepared a few morsels in case you were hungry,” he said, motioning them into the seats. “But I am afraid we must talk as we eat. If our visitors come in this direction, which I fear is inevitable, they will be here before long.”

  “You know about them?” asked Ash.

  Mr Zhi shrugged. “Just what Jeremy told us over the phone and what I have already seen on news reports.”

  Ash and Naeo exchanged a baffled look.

  Mr Zhi smiled. “Forgive me, you will not be familiar with such things! Suffice it to say that one of the gifts of science is that she allows us to whisper further and faster than the wind!”

  He took his seat and began pouring the tea. “Now, to business. I think it would make sense if I first tell you what I do know, so that you can then tell me the rest.” He finished pouring the tea, set the teapot down on the table with a clink of china, and looked at Naeo. “I know that Naeo is the most important person, bar one, that I will ever meet.” He reached over and took her hand. “And I know that she is Sylas’s Glimmer.”

  Tasker set his cup down on its saucer with a clatter.

  Naeo’s eyes never left Mr Zhi.

  “That’s … right,” she said.

  Tasker threw himself back in his chair. “I asked you if you knew anything about Sylas! You didn’t tell me that you were … well …”

  “A princess?” murmured Ash, arching his eyebrow. Tasker blinked at him irritably and turned away.

  “Is Sylas well?” asked Mr Zhi, ignoring them.

  Naeo thought for a moment. “Yes, I think he is,” she said. “We’ve been apart for a while, but yes, I think he’s OK.” She reached for the Merisi Band, rolling it gently around her wrist. “He feels … more distant than he has since …”

  Mr Zhi smiled. “Since you raised the Passing Bell,” he said.

  Naeo nodded and smiled. She was surprised again, but less so. Somehow it seemed right that Mr Zhi should know so much of her. She found it rather comforting.

  “Only to be expected,” continued Mr Zhi. He settled back in his chair with his cup of tea. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to hear everything that has happened since Sylas made his passing. I don’t need to hear the detail, but please don’t miss anything of importance.”

  Naeo blew out her cheeks. How was she supposed to tell him everything that had happened to Sylas? She barely knew the details herself. She glanced at Ash.

  “Mr Zhi,” said Ash, leaning forward, “perhaps it would be easier if you let me tell you what has happened. You see, Sylas only found Naeo a few days ago.”

  “As you wish,” said Mr Zhi.

  Ash swallowed down the remains of a piece of shortbread, gathered his thoughts and began.

  As Sylas’s story unfolded, Mr Zhi crossed his legs, drawing his feet up on to the chair and closing his eyes as if to improve his concentration. He did not move a muscle except to give a slight smile at certain points in the story, such as Ash’s first encounter with Sylas at the Mutable Inn – when he had conjured the plume like a master of Essenfayle – or Sylas’s brave speech to the Say-So, when he had told them not to fear what they do not understand.

  “Do not fear what you do not understand,” murmured Mr Zhi. “There’s much to be said for that!” He smiled and waved for Ash to continue.

  When Ash told of Sylas’s stand on the river the old man gave a knowing nod, and again when he described the chasm he created on the Barrens, as though these displays of power only confirmed what the old man had known all along.

  Tasker, meanwhile, had stopped eating, laid down his cup and sat hunched forward, engrossed in the tale.

  So involved were they in Ash’s account that they did not notice Naeo rise from her seat and walk back across the room to the towering shelves of books. She knew Mr Zhi did not need her – after all, holding court was Ash’s special talent – and her instinct to leave had been overpowering. Ash was drawing near to the part of the story where she made her appearance and that made her feel strangely uncomfortable, as though what he would reveal was too close, too intimate. Of course, she knew that it was more about Sylas than about her, but it was all so intensely … personal. Her connection with Sylas was fogged and fraught – full of questions that still needed answers.

  So instead, she lost herself in Mr Zhi’s books.

  She tilted her head to one side and ran her eyes along the first shelf, trying to read the titles, but they were written in a language she could not decipher: an angular and yet intricate alphabet, made up of many strokes of the pen. She soon gave up on that shelf, turning to those above and below, but with some disappointment she saw that they too comprised more books written in that curious script. She moved on to the next bookcase and found the titles instantly discernible, if impossible to understand. She mouthed them as she read them:

  Tao Te Ching

  The Tao

  She blew out her cheeks. The lettering was familiar, but the words they formed were weird. She read some more from the shelf below:

  Origins of Taoism

  Finding the Way

  Yin, Yang and the Two Worlds.

  “The Two Worlds,” she repeated under her breath. Intrigued, she took the book off the shelf and looked at the cover, which bore a strange symbol:

  It was simple and yet complex, stark and yet beautiful. She stared at it for some moments, marvelling at its apparent symmetry, its capturing of absolute opposites. Finally she opened the book and began leafing through it, flicking through many densely worded pages in peculiarly orderly writing, which looked as though it had been written by a machine rather than a person. She tried to read a few passages, but was soon befuddled and bored by the dry, academic style, and she turned back to the cover. That symbol reminded her of something, but she could not think what.

  Only then did she realise that Ash had stopped talking.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” came a kindly voice at her ear. Mr Zhi was peering over her shoulder. He sighed. “They call it the Yin Yang symbol.”

  Naeo glanced over to see that the others were watching.

  “Er … yes, it is,” she said, a little e
mbarrassed to have been caught snooping. “What does it … what does it mean?”

  “Well you might ask,” said Mr Zhi with a grin, “because it has much to do with everything!” He gestured at the shelves she had been looking at. “Much of the philosophies of the East follow the beliefs of the Merisi, and none more so than Taoism, which created this symbol. It is Taoism that has the Merisi heart.”

  “Taoism …” murmured Naeo. It meant nothing to her. “Why?”

  “Because Merisu, our great father, made his home in the East. He had much to do with the nurturing of their beliefs, and particularly those of Taoism: two opposing forces, all in harmony and balance, just like our two worlds!” He tapped the cover, pointing to the segments of black and white. “Just like you and Sylas.” His finger moved to the two dots, one black and one white.

  “So –” Naeo frowned – “this Yin Yang thing is about the two worlds? About me and Sylas?”

  Mr Zhi smiled. “Almost certainly,” he said. “Our divided worlds and souls are the source of so many beliefs.”

  “So … people here know about the two worlds? I thought the Merisi kept it a secret?”

  He laughed. “Thankfully, knowing and believing are different things! We have done a fairly good job of preventing the knowing, but less well at preventing the believing. When you are keeping the greatest of secrets, there will always be stumbles along the way, stumbles that leave room for fables and legends and myths and folktales. They are part of the struggle to understand.”

  Ash peered with interest at the book. “So let me get this straight … some of your myths and legends are about our world, and people don’t even know it?”

  Mr Zhi smiled. “Many of yours are too, but I am no expert on those. I am, however, rather an expert on our own superstitions.” He cast his hand across to the next bookcase, which was heaving with a collection of new and old volumes, all stuffed irregularly on the shelves as though they were read often. “This is my own little library on the topic!”

  Naeo walked across and read some of the titles.

  Another Look at Déjà Vu

  The Truth About Ghosts, Wraiths and Spectres

  Where there are Werewolves

  Tales of the Bermuda Triangle

  Secrets of Stone Circles

  Doppelgangers: Our Mirrored Self

  Alchemy: the Science of Magic.

  Most meant nothing to Naeo, but she nodded politely. “So these superstitions … you think they’re better than knowing the truth?”

  “A very good question, Naeo,” said Mr Zhi. “No, I don’t think so at all. Superstitions divide people: only truth unites them. People can hold all sorts of strange ideas about the very same thing, but only one of them is the truth – that’s why, in the end, the search for truth is the only way. But the truth of our divided worlds … well, that is a strange and unpalatable truth indeed, one for which our world has not been ready.”

  Ash took down one of the books. “I’ve never understood what you’re so afraid of,” he murmured, leafing through the volume. “We know about the two worlds and it never did us any harm.”

  Mr Zhi seemed surprised. “That’s because you are the Suhl, the people of Essenfayle!” he exclaimed. “You understand the power that exists between all natural things! Essenfayle allowed you to discover the links between our worlds, but it also gave you the wisdom not to meddle with them. Until now, at least.” He looked at Naeo. “Now it seems that everything will change.”

  “But if that’s true,” said Ash, “if everything is about to change … what about your world? Is it ready?”

  Mr Zhi’s face darkened. “I think it has to be.”

  Naeo did not notice: she was still working through the bookcase of superstitions, engrossed in the volumes, mouthing their many strange titles under her breath. It was something her father had taught her: “Say them to yourself,” he had once said. “If you listen closely enough, you may hear the meaning. It’s trying to get out.” Like so much of what he had told her, she had never forgotten.

  “What are those ones?” she asked, pointing to a high shelf which strained under the weight of a few mighty volumes. “More fables?”

  Mr Zhi looked up at them and thought for a moment. “Those are different from the others. They are books of religion. They have still been written to explain what we don’t understand, but they are not simple superstitions. Those ones have a greater power.”

  “What kind of power?” asked Ash with sudden interest, trying to read the titles.

  “The power of true belief,” said the old man. “Of absolute faith.”

  Naeo frowned. “What makes them so special?”

  “Ah well, quite,” said Mr Zhi. “And there are many answers to that question – one man will tell you one thing and his brother will tell you another. But the Merisi think that it is because we need to believe.”

  “Need to believe?”

  Mr Zhi nodded. “Because we doubt ourselves.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Ash, surprised.

  The old man did not answer. His eyes were fixed on Naeo.

  Naeo felt a shiver trace her spine. She knew why. “Because we’re not whole,” she said.

  Mr Zhi smiled. “And so we come to the truth. The truth of our doubting and our broken souls.”

  Naeo frowned. “But … but I still doubt myself … like anyone else. And now I know Sylas – I know he’s there.”

  “But do you?” probed Mr Zhi, his smile broadening. “Do you really know he’s there? Perhaps there is more to knowing Sylas than you have yet dis—”

  He stopped and tensed. In the next instant they heard the bell in the shop below, followed by rapid footsteps between the stacks of Things, and a thundering rush up the staircase.

  They all turned to face the door.

  A tall, thin figure strode through the door. Despite his height, the man’s movements were silent and smooth and, combined with his apparel of black jacket over a black shirt with black trousers and black shoes below, he gave a very convincing impression of a shadow. A long, evening shadow. Two large, piercing eyes blinked at them from a pale, open face.

  Mr Zhi gave a slight bow. “Naeo, Ash, this is Franz Veeglum.”

  The stranger gave a small bow and Naeo and Ash nodded in response.

  “Zer is little time, Mr Zhi,” said Veeglum in a thin, dry voice. “Ze noos reports are coming in sick and fast. Zey are everywhere, and at least some of zem are coming zis way.”

  “It was to be expected,” said Mr Zhi calmly. “Did you speak to our friends?”

  Veeglum inclined his head. “Zey are expecting us.”

  “Good,” said Mr Zhi, turning to Tasker. “Jeremy, we will take your car. Please go and bring it around to the back of the terrace so we will not be seen.” He turned back to Veeglum. “Franz, you come after us, in the other car. In the meantime, please wait with our guests – I have a few Things to collect from the shop before we go.”

  He started to walk off towards the staircase.

  “But … where are we going?” asked Ash, bewildered.

  Mr Zhi turned and laughed drily. “Young man, I’m sorry! There is so much going on that I’ve quite forgotten my manners! We need to go where we should be safe for a while – a place where we can lay some plans. It’s one of the Merisi sanctuaries. I think Sylas may have mentioned it to you: Winterfern Hospital.”

  Ash shook his head.

  “The hospital has one particularly special resident,” said Mr Zhi as he reached for the door handle. “Sylas’s mother.”

  “Such a battle is not won by heroic deeds nor the cunning of command. It is lost in the blood of men, measured out in legions.”

  IT WAS THE RHYTHM that kept the man moving: the regular draw of a shoulder and push of a foot, the slide of a hip and the scrape of fingernails. He measured the distance in grunts and pants and moans of pain. As long as he kept the rhythm, he felt safe from all that sought to pull him back: the Black in his veins, the chill in hi
s limbs and, worse than either of these, the constant threat of despair. And despair was what he feared the most. He knew that if it nested in his heart, all would be done.

  Draw, push, slide, scrape.

  Draw, push, slide, scrape.

  Every ten pushes of a foot, every twenty painful draws of his shoulder brought a break in the endless dark of the passageway. To his left was an opening, lit dimly by a shaft of light descending from the ceiling. He knew what that shaft of light would show him if he looked. He would see the interior of a birthing chamber: the thick flood of black ooze sliding down its walls; the bubble and gloop of a viscous floor; the drip, drip, drip from above. And at the centre, rising from the floor or hanging from the ceiling, there would be the pulsating form, still wrapped in its mucous shell: the thing being born. He would see one of many shapes, some familiar and some unknown. He knew the stoop and snout of the Ghor and he recognised the broad, muscular mass of the Ghorhund. But the majority of the chambers housed new and sinister forms: the lithe figure of something slender and cat-like; the strange, angular wings of something that hung from the ceiling and chattered in its fitful sleep; the spiked spine of something scaled and reptilian; and in many, the vast bulk of something that barely fitted into its chamber, something that bulged and strained with sinew and muscle.

  He had seen so many of these shapes that he had lost count, and soon he had simply stopped looking. To look was to despair.

  He had seen the birthing chambers before, he had even watched them at work, but he had never seen anything like this, numbers like this. These were no usual spawn – a new regiment of guards or skirmishing force of common Ghorhund – these would not replace anything that came before. This was a new army – an army of unthinkable scale and power. It would dwarf anything the Priest of Souls had produced before, even for the Reckoning. It was an army born for war.

  And yet where was the foe? Thoth had defeated and destroyed all in his path. The Suhl were as good as extinct. What war was left to fight?