Caught in the Ripples_An Epic Fantasy

by S McPherson

  Laughing, I lean forward and stop the video, but he says, ‘Don’t stop on my account,’ and comes to sit beside me on the grass, legs crossed.

  I regard him with a sceptic’s eye but he simply nods at me to go on. I wait for the other shoe to drop. He must be having a laugh! But Nathaniel just looks at me, pressing his hands together in front of him, as I had.

  Admitting defeat, I rewind the video and adopt my earlier position. Eyes closed. Deep breath.

  ‘I am confident,’ says the man’s smooth voice through the speaker.

  ‘I am confident,’ Nathaniel and I repeat.

  ‘I am strong.’

  ‘I am strong.’

  As beads of sweat dot my brow, I decide I rather like my Sundays; the one day when I focus on nothing but myself, or at least try to. I race now, along the narrow road adjacent to Feranvil farm. The view here is prettier than from the town centre and the ground is smoother. I pant in even, heavy breaths, embracing the feel of oxygen invigorating my lungs.

  Every time I run here, or anywhere for that matter, I am reminded of Milo, of the day we raced from Thornton High, pitting our speed against each other. My heart spasms. I barrel on, trying to shake the memory from my mind. All good things come to an end.

  At last I reach the barrier, having run from one side of Feranvil to the other. Like always, I admire the thick wall of earth now before me, crumbling with worms and bugs, each slithering or scuttling about their everyday lives, unaware of the world living around them. I reach out my hand and touch it, the force field simply shimmering around my fingers, as it always does, not letting me through. I watch the ripples dance from my palm; I imagine Coldivor on the other side.

  The whole experience of being back in Islon is bitter-sweet, but I try my best to hold on to the sweet. I remember the sights and sounds: pigeons cooing, children tantrum-ing beside cursing parents, the ever-present scent of rain and fields, and most importantly, I remember the sky; real, unlike the one in Feranvil. This blue is calmer, the sun melting away the wispy clouds.

  Though, no matter how hard I try to focus on the good, I can’t stop my mind from drifting to Drake, imprisoned in the cells of Feranvil Force Holdings. As if to taunt me, stacked televisions in a shops window flicker their screen at me, catching my eye. Each one holds my brothers face. ‘Murderer’ the headline reads, and I know the newscaster is reporting on the need to know Drake’s whereabouts.

  Crossing the road, as though this will help my wayward thoughts, I make my way down Teton Street and soon acknowledge the familiar scent of hay and horse manure. It’s peculiar how the unpleasant odour manages to generate butterflies in the pit of my stomach. The wind whispers through my hair and I inhale, a smile making its way across my lips. Finally, I arrive at the familiar office and sign myself in.

  ‘She has a class in one hour,’ the receptionist tells me.

  ‘Alright.’ I smile; anytime with Charlotte is fine by me, and I eagerly make my way to her stable.

  She whickers when she sees me.

  ‘Hello old girl,’ I coo softly stroking her nose.

  Effortlessly, I tack her up and lead her into the outdoor ménage before tightening her girth, running down the stirrups and mounting. It’s amazing how easily I have fallen back into the rhythm. I urge her forward into a walk, until she’s ready to trot.

  For a while I am thoroughly in the moment, aware of Charlotte’s palomino coat brushing against my thighs as we break into canter, the wisp of her silver mane across my hands as they loosely grip the reins. I hear every sound; birds chirruping high in the trees, a bee buzzing away in the grass, the occasional chatter of people as they walk by, a plane passing overhead.

  Then I hear the sound of laughing children and turn to see two girls, about eight years old, in pastel summer dresses with matching pigtails. They’re chasing each other around, occasionally stopping to admire the ponies in their pen. Their mother watches from a table on the patio of the adjacent polo club. She waves but then says something to an older lady sitting opposite her. I wonder if that is her own mother.

  Three generations. I admire them as I bring Charlotte back to a trot. Then a thought occurs: families don’t just stop, they go on and on for generations…

  Back in Feranvil, practically tripping over my feet, I march towards Carve and Wood. I am not sure if Mr Picklesby will be there. He usually closes up shop early on Sundays but it’s worth a shot. As I get closer, I’m relieved to see movement through the shop’s window. Eagerly, I knock on the door.

  ‘Dezaray,’ Mr Picklesby says with pleased surprise, ‘what brings you here?’

  ‘I was actually hoping to use the computer. Mine is all Corporeal and certain things have been blocked.’

  He nods knowingly. ‘Of course, you can, my girl,’ and he ushers me inside. I smile graciously and make my way to the backroom. Thank goodness for Mr Picklesby and his un-prying ways.

  I sit down in the wobbly seat at the back desk and switch on the PC. If possible I’m even more hopeful this time than when I first looked up Michelle Tranzuta. I begin to type her name in the search box and it pops up below. I recall there being two entries but I remember reading only the title of the second. This is the one I click on now. The browsers robotic eye seems to wink at me before the page on the screen folds over and behind it rests the article titled ‘Michelle Tranzuta, Deceased’.

  The first few sentences touch on who she was: a halfy—part Corporeal and part Teltreporthi—daughter of the great Michél Tranzuta. They discuss how Michelle spent most of her life in Islon, traveling between realms, but how she had lived a few years with her father in Taratesia. The article then moves on to her highly successful pet shop in Islon. I am tempted to go and take a look at the place, just from the rave reviews. Then, finally, as I am almost losing hope, something catches my eye. The very last sentence, in fact: ‘Though we are sad to say goodbye to such a wonderful woman and great inventor, we are thrilled that her lovely and equally talented daughter, Michaela Tranzuta, has taken over Celestial Pets’.

  I stare at the screen, reading the words over and over again to be sure I haven’t imagined them. I run cold with disbelief and then am flushed, buzzing with excitement. Michelle had a daughter. I rummage in the desk drawers, finally locating a pad of post-it notes at the back. I yank it out along with a blunt pencil, and pressing as hard as I can, scribble down the address of the notorious Celestial Pets.

  RID US OF EVIL

  I stumble along the cobbled streets of Feranvil town centre in my haste to get to the little shop Potulous before it closes. Nothing stays open late on a Sunday and I am in desperate need of some elamine. I cannot believe I let my supply get so low and without the little sprinkle of magic, I am basically trapped.

  It’s like a ghost town out here; just the whisper of souls to let me know I’m not entirely alone. I hear doors slam and TV shows blare through open windows. I inhale the scent of Sunday roast, the waft of smooth gravy drizzled over Yorkshire puddings, freshly cut roast beef on a bed of creamy mashed potatoes, but see no one. Even the stores with swinging signs saying they’re open seem to be shut.

  As I march on, I imagine the warm bath I just ran turning cold—not that I intended to get in it. It was a few months ago when I discovered I didn’t have to leap off Jude’s roof and into the moat to get back to Islon, that any relatively large amount of water would be enough to transport me out of Feranvil and into the little house in the field above us.

  I had been running myself a bath like the one I did today when I accidentally sprinkled in some elamine, mistaking it for bubble bath. I remember shrieking in horror as a swirling whirlpool took over my bathroom, crushing me against the door. The only way out was to dive into the vortex, so I did, surprised and relieved when I passed through and made out the shape of the cottage chimney below me before I tumbled down it. Since then I’ve enjoyed the occasional trip to Islon whenever the mood struck.

  I shove my hands in my pockets, checking for the third t
ime that my empty vial of elamine and my old, tattered wallet are still in place. It takes me a minute to realise someone is calling my name. I don’t have to turn to know it’s Jude.

  ‘Can’t talk,’ I call back, registering the sound of his racing footsteps coming up behind me.

  ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ he puffs, catching up.

  ‘Potulous.’

  ‘Potulous?’ and he screws up his face, ‘that tiny shop with potions and whatsits?’

  ‘Yes.’ I increase my pace.

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Elamine.’ I glance anxiously at my watch. Does it close at two or three o’clock today?

  ‘Elamine?’

  I really wish he would stop repeating what I say.

  ‘What’s your rush?’ he cries. ‘The portal doesn’t open tonight.’

  ‘I don’t want to get up there for the portal.’ I rush past Teshens Textiles: a quaint clothes store with gorgeous garments hanging in the window. I notice the blue and black bodice that always catches my eye and the shopkeeper waves. I’ve never gone in but she always beckons when she sees me eying the piece. I smile, briefly and keep moving.

  ‘So, what’s in Islon? And don’t say riding,’ and he stares pointedly at my freshly mudded riding boots.

  I stop walking, struggling to race ahead and talk at the same time.

  ‘Michaela Tranzuta, Michѐls granddaughter and only living relative, is in Islon,’ I pant.

  He gawks at me. ‘As in Michѐl Tranzuta?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nod, my eyes no doubt alight with anticipation. ‘I think she might know something the rest of us don’t, something that might help the empires.’

  ‘Touché, Ms Storm,’ Jude notes with a look of evident respect. ‘And, of course, I’m going with you.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t pass up the chance to meet a Tranzuta, now would I?’

  I smile. ‘No, you wouldn’t.’

  ‘But, Potulous is closed.’

  I look at my watch, miserably. So it closes at two on Sunday.

  ‘No,’ I groan.

  Jude dips his hand in his pocket, pulling out a small glass vial with a sparkling pink substance inside. ‘Never leave the house without it.’

  My eyes grow so wide I wonder if they could fall out of my head—elamine.

  ‘You’re brilliant.’ I beam before snatching it from him. ‘Come on, I’ve already run a bath.’

  ‘What?’ he splutters, running after me as I again pick up speed. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know we don’t have to dive into the moat to get out of here. I wonder if Mrs Edwards was ever going to tell him.

  That lady has a wicked sense of humour, and I grin.

  A little while later, I am holding my phone out in front of me as if that will improve its signal. I watch the map flashing with where I need to go and try to make sense of the squiggles on the screen that represent the roads.

  We are in an area of Islon I have never visited before: Swanson. The cracked pavement and potholed roads are wet from a night’s rain and the air is damp. Lining the street on one side is a row of grey brick buildings, the occasional sign jutting out over entrances to narrow staircases. On the other side is a children’s park, its merry-go-round, slides and a row of swings all deserted. I suspect everyone is indoors having their Sunday dinner. Mums, dads, siblings, all together around a dining table stacked with steaming dishes. I used to have that, though I only remember it vaguely, like a movie watched when half asleep.

  Then I’m reminded of last Christmas. This I remember like a vivid dream: Milo, Mrs Thor and the whole Thor clan gathered around enjoying ligat bacon, turkingston and other goodies, some similar and some completely unlike what I know. I remember each family member’s face, the way they accepted me, even loved me. Sure, I was impersonating Lexovia, but I feel like they would have treated me the same either way.

  Jude peers over my shoulder. ‘It doesn’t look far now.’

  I glance at him, unsure how he has come to that conclusion, but nod like I see it too.

  ‘Let’s cross.’

  I’m flummoxed when he crosses the road to the park but follow all the same. Then I see the blue dot on my screen, representing us, shift closer to the red arrow marking Celestial Pets. We walk past the swings, twisting and twitching ominously in the wind, and the merry-go-round, slowly circling with an eerily low creak. Why are parks so creepy without children in them? Then again, children can also be quite terrifying and I think back to a movie I once saw: a little girl with long black hair draped over her face and dripping wet. I shudder and turn my attention back to my phone.

  As we come to the end of the park fence and round a corner, I practically squeal. Celestial Pets is just across the road, blossoming pot plants lining the low redbrick wall, animated cats and dogs depicted on the sign above, appearing to pant and leap appropriately. The words ‘Celestial Pets’ flicker over the door, and as we get closer, I hear the recorded sounds of birds singing, dogs barking and cat’s meowing.

  My palms go clammy and my throat dries, as though wedged with cotton wool. What I am about to do could change the course of everything. We stop for a moment by a low iron gate, watching through the shops large window. There are only a handful of people inside the store, looking in cages with glass bars. I register the sound of water and looking to one side, notice a fountain in the centre of a small garden, presumed lights causing it to alternate colour. Scratching posts, birdfeeders, chew toys, and other pet favourites are dotted about the lawn and I wonder how often she lets the animals out.

  I turn when an image of a dog is projected into the fountain and a voice says his name is Wilfred, how long he’s been there and that he needs a new home. After his image fades, a video of three baby kittens playing with one another appears in its place, the same voice explaining their story.

  ‘I don’t see a projector or lights,’ I murmur.

  ‘Me neither.’ Jude replies. I remember the article describing Michelle as a great inventor and saying how her daughter was equally talented. I wonder if these sorts of “inventions” are what they are referring to.

  A woman inside passes the window, laughing and directing a customer to a cage on the ground. There is something about the way she carries herself that makes me sure she is the owner. I realise I’m right when she briefly looks out and I see that her eyes are a shocking purple, a stark contrast against her dark complexion. Only a Teltreporthi has eyes as bright as that.

  Absentmindedly, I move out of the way as a mother and her child come out, cradling a new puppy. They open the iron gate with a soft creak and I step through before it closes, but my eyes don’t stray from Michaela, as if I’m afraid she’ll disappear if I blink.

  ‘Shall we?’ Jude asks.

  I follow as we slowly make our way into the shop. Immediately, the sounds of birds, dogs and cats becomes all too real, and I jump at a rather large dog’s bark coming from a cage on the floor. It doesn’t seem angry, in fact, it appears wonderfully happy.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ a woman laughs, ‘his bark is worse than his bite.’ I turn to smile at her but stop when I see it is the woman I’m sure is Michaela. I’m surprised by how young she looks, not putting her past forty, though I know she must be. She has a few laugh-lines and perhaps some wrinkles born of frowns, but otherwise her dark skin remains unblemished. ‘Can I help you with anything?’ she offers.

  ‘Just browsing,’ I lie.

  ‘Alright, well, I’m here if you need me.’ She smiles brightly then returns to a previous customer.

  ‘Let’s wait until this place empties,’ I whisper.

  Jude nods. ‘How about this one, dear?’ he says unnecessarily loudly, bending to a Jack Russel’s cage and ruffling its ears.

  I roll my eyes and join him. It isn’t long before the last customer leaves and the three of us are finally alone.

  Taking a deep breath, I turn to face Michaela, now busying herself at the counter.
>
  ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘there is something you can help us with.’

  She beams at me with questioning eyes. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I believe you knew Michѐl Tranzuta.’

  Her features abruptly harden, her jaw sets and her eyes fill with a bitterness I cannot understand.

  ‘Who are you?’ she snaps, angrily. I’m shocked by how quickly this bubbly woman has turned.

  ‘I’m Dezaray,’ I hurry to explain, ‘and this is Jude. We are from here but many of our friends live in Coldivor.’

  Michaela chuckles sardonically. ‘Sure you are.’

  ‘No, really,’ I urge. I cannot for the life of me understand her sudden hostility.

  ‘They sent you, didn’t they?’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Look, I told them I wouldn’t say anything and I’ve kept my word,’ she hisses through clenched teeth. ‘Now get out.’

  Jude coughs, nervously. ‘I’m not sure who you think we are—’ but an almost tangible gust of rage soaring from Michaela’s gaze, stops him.

  ‘Get out.’ She spits, vehemently.

  I am about to protest when the door opens and two more customers walk in. Her switch back to her smiling self is uncanny, the heat of our confrontation now apparently forgotten as she ushers the couple in and shows them around. I glance at Jude who shrugs and nods towards the door, and we quietly leave the shop.

  ‘What the heck was that all about?’ Jude asks as we put the shop behind us.

  ‘No idea.’ I sigh. ‘I wonder who she thought we were?’

  Jude shakes his head.

  I feel weighed down, like the great burden I’d hoped would be lifted has now only been added to. We come to the playground and I slump down on one of the vacant swings. Looking over my shoulder, I can still see the flickering sign of the pet shop, the sign that had held so much hope not so long ago.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Jude asks, taking the swing beside me.

  I stare blankly at my feet as they graze the sand beneath the swing. What do I want to do? I’d hoped Michaela would be full of information on her grandfather and all his inventions. I was sure she would know how to make a gethadrox and be more than willing to show us. I had not for one minute imagined this.