“Have you spoken all your words?” Tarhlo asked. His tone was deathly calm.
“No, I have not,” Dohl answered. “When I decided to take matters in hand, and used shatls to crash the luras’ machines, to jump from buildings and to take lura lives, you condemned my efforts, though they have proved successful.”
“Your tactics were indiscriminate,” Tarhlo observed, “and have not brought us closer to our goal.”
“They were better than waiting!” Dohl exclaimed. Containing himself, he continued more calmly, “You would have my trust if your thoughts were true. You have spoken of a woplh and hamax. You say they appeared sixteen winters ago but vanished the very day they emerged. How many bolkhs can confirm your claim? How many saw this pair for themselves? And now you say Cletho has found them? Today marks the onset of our rebirth and we can achieve this by trusting in you? I say no! I say your reign has failed! I say the bolkhs should adopt my plan and we should use these shatls to destroy the luras! Crash their machines! Wreak death on their cities! Never mind the dream of incarnation! Let us forsake this fantasy once and for all! Let us soak our spears with lura blood and avenge our losses!”
“Now have you finished?” Tarhlo asked quietly.
“I have finished,” Dohl answered, folding the girl’s arms and staring at Tarhlo.
“Then I have two lessons for you, Dohl,” Tarhlo announced in a mild tone. “First, I have never deceived the tribes. I have never spoken falsely. I have done what any leader must do when he rules a broken people. I have been what you are too small to be. I have always been hopeful.”
“That’s one lesson,” Dohl sneered. “What is the second?”
“Bolkhs are not luras. We do not believe that we are equal. I am a Khalkon. You are a Threedh. Threedhs must yield to Khalkons, as nature has ordained. But you don’t yield. And so a lesson must follow.”
Tarhlo was so fast that Simon almost missed him. He grabbed the girl’s neck and started to squeeze. Dohl struggled hard to escape but the odds were against him. His shatl was weaker than Tarhlo’s corpse and he was no match at all for the Khalkon. The girl was gurgling and her face was blue. Her limbs were shaking and her eyes were popping. Not that Tarhlo intended her harm. It was Dohl and Dohl alone he was after. By stopping up the air supply, Tarhlo was rendering the shatl unfit for habitation. Sure enough, when the girl was near dying, Dohl jumped ship. Simon didn’t see him leave, but somehow Tarhlo sensed the difference.
He released the girl. Free of any bolkh, she was preparing to scream. Before she could, Tarhlo left his shatl — the young man’s body collapsed to the floor — and his kaba took possession of the girl.
“That’s better,” Tarhlo observed in her reedy voice, “A live shatl is more welcoming than one that’s dead.”
The girl shrugged her shoulders as Tarhlo made himself at home. She also lifted the corpse at her feet and threw it effortlessly across the room. It landed with a clatter against a distant band saw.
“Dohl!” Tarhlo cried, looking up at the ceiling. “You have no further role in our meetings. I hereby expel you from the tribe that raised you and refuse you entry to any of our councils. If any bolkh dares shelters you, converses with you, or aids your projects, he shall suffer expulsion as well. In the eyes of our people, you are dust, nothing more.”
That said, Tarhlo looked away from the ceiling and stared at the shatls gathered about. Without a word, he studied each face, refusing to avert his gaze until each bolkh had signalled his submission. When all had offered their allegiance in this fashion, he finally spoke.
“Mourn not Dohl and his show of temper,” he announced, his tone mild and controlled again. “A bolkh who doubts his leader is unworthy of his tribesmen, especially when a joyful day advances. Remember that a woplh signals an early spring, but a hamax marks a thousand years of summer. A new sun rises and incarnation is near!”
“Your words are comforting,” Rahl replied, once the shouts of approval had died. “And Dohl was served justice when he rejected your wisdom. But can you tell us more about the woplh and hamax? Who are they and where can we find them?”
“Loyal Rahl!” Tarhlo laughed. “As always your questions lead us back to the trail. The woplh is at large and schemes for incarnation. His days are heavy with loneliness, I trust.”
“And the other?” Rahl asked, with ill-concealed excitement.
“The hamax sits in a building by the sea. Her companions are luras who are weak with illness, while she glows with strength and health within. A true hamax, she will be the seed of our delivery. Think of it. Incarnation! Soon we will know true incarnation.”
“Incarnation!” Rahl repeated.
“Incarnation!” the old lady spoke.
“Incarnation!” the others chanted, with incalculable yearning. “Incarnation!” they cried over and over.
Not that Simon stayed to listen. Already he had left the beam, was flying past the dangling meat and fleeing through the office space, past the drywall, past the blocks, past the siding to the night beyond.
The hamax that these freaks were after?
The target was Clara.
Chapter Ten
There was no one stirring. The streets were empty, the houses were dark, and, apart from the odd cricket chirping, the region was quiet. As quiet as a tomb. Simon wasn’t surprised. It was 3:00 a.m. and the world was sleeping.
He was standing on the Carpenters’ porch. After escaping from Koblansky’s, he’d grabbed a pigeon and flown home. Just outside their house his luck had been amazing. He’d spied Henry in his shelter, sleeping off another binge. Simon had feared a bolkh had moved in, but on drawing close to the bum had found his “hollows” vacant. With a laugh Simon hijacked him, as easily as he might have tied his shoes.
Simon’s mind was filled with questions. Who were Tarhlo and the bolkhs? What did hamax mean and woplh and incarnation? And, again, how was he linked to these freaks? The fastest way to solve this puzzle was to neutralize Cletho, regain his body, and prevent Clara from being snatched. That was why he was back at the house.
Three earthenware pots stood next to the door. He lifted the middle one and smiled in satisfaction: beneath it was a key to the door. Months earlier (it seemed more like years) he’d told his mom this hiding spot was obvious, the first place burglars would look for a key. He’d urged her not to place it there, saying he’d wait on the porch if he were ever locked out. It was lucky she’d ignored his advice.
He inserted the key and turned it slowly. A chuckle escaped him. He was part of the family and entitled to enter, but here he was, acting the thief. Still. All of this would change once he’d dealt with Cletho.
With the lock taken care of, Simon eased the door open and crept inside, being careful to avoid the third board to the right: it creaked when the slightest force was applied. Simon stood in the hallway and breathed the house in. Yes. He could smell his dad’s aftershave, his mother’s shampoo, the leftover tang of garlic from supper — Emma loved to cook with garlic — and the stench of hamster, from Magnus no doubt. An old-fashioned clock was keeping time in the background and the fridge was humming. He smiled appreciatively. He was home.
But he had a score to settle. Removing Henry’s shoes, he shuffled forward in his stocking feet. His socks were full of holes and didn’t smell so terrific.
He reached the stairs. By keeping to the sides and avoiding certain steps, he reached the second floor with barely a sound. At one point his foot struck a plastic sphere — it was an exercise ball belonging to Magnus — but he grabbed it quickly and stopped it from rolling all over.
Pausing on the second floor, he counted to fifty, in case someone was listening closely. Not someone — Cletho. For his plan to work, Simon had to catch Cletho sleeping, on the assumption his kaba would have drifted from his shatl. If so, Simon could win his body back, although he would have to be much faster than Cletho. If he were off by a fraction, his plan would fail.
He could hear someone snoring. The nois
e was coming from his parents’ room, to his right, past the second-storey washroom. Ian’s room was just to the left and, down a narrow alcove, was where he had slept. A night light cast an eerie light in the alcove. The door to his room was closed but that came as no surprise to Simon. If Cletho had, in fact, drifted free of his shatl, he couldn’t afford to keep the door open.
“Let’s do it,” he told himself.
“I’ve always liked pancakes,” Henry whispered from within. His alcoholic haze was wearing off.
Smiling at the drunk’s remarks, Simon tiptoed to the door. He didn’t have to worry about the floor making noises because it was covered in a length of thick green broadloom. He did almost knock into a ceiling fixture: Henry was tall and the alcove was low. He just managed to duck in time, and three seconds later his hand closed upon the doorknob.
The door was locked.
Simon had been expecting this. Inhaling deeply, he opted for Plan B. The door was fitted with an old-fashioned lock, with a keyhole that would admit a fly-sized object. By compressing his kaba, Simon could squeeze through easily. Leaving Henry’s shatl behind, he floated to the keyhole and folded his kaba three times over.
Darn, darn, darn.
The hole was stuffed with wax. Cletho wasn’t leaving things to chance.
Simon regained Henry before the drunk hit the floor. He stared long and hard at the lock. What was he supposed to do now?
“What’s going on?” a familiar voice spoke.
Simon reacted with blinding speed. Spinning around, he lifted Ian and covered his mouth. Always feisty, Ian put up a struggle. He kicked and strained and tried to scream — to no avail. Desperate to keep Cletho from waking, Simon backed off from the door, retreated down the landing, and entered Ian’s room. His brother was still twisting about.
“Ian,” he whispered, pressing his lips to his ear, “I know this sounds crazy but it’s me, Simon. My soul or spirit is stuck in Henry, while a stranger’s soul has hijacked my body. Are you listening?”
Ian had stopped twisting and was lying limp in Henry’s arms. He nodded to show he was paying attention.
“What’s all that ruckus?” Henry spoke from within. He was two-thirds back to normal.
“Okay, good,” Simon went on, ignoring Henry. “I can prove what I’m saying but I need your help. The stranger has blocked my keyhole with wax. Can you get me something sharp and thin, a penknife or a pencil maybe?”
“Is it day already?” Henry asked. “Is the liquor store open?”
“Quiet!” Simon shouted, then added to Ian, “I’m going to take my hand away but you can’t make a sound because you’ll awaken the stranger. If he’s awake, I can’t kick him out. Okay?”
Again Ian nodded.
Slowly Simon slackened his hold. He took his hand from Ian’s mouth and set him on the floor. He patted his shoulder, to show he meant no harm.
Ian turned and looked at him. There was barely any light in the room and Simon couldn’t read his expression. Maybe he believed him, maybe he didn’t. Simon was ready to pounce if he screamed. But no. Ian went to his desk, rummaged in a drawer, and returned with a pen that he’d received on his birthday. It was an expensive model, made of sixteen-carat gold. Unscrewing it, he removed the refill inside and pressed it into Simon’s hand. It was exactly what he needed to clear out the wax.
“It must be mornin.’ I’m feelin’ peckish,” Henry spoke. “Besides a swallow of Jack, I could do with some pancakes.”
“Give me three more minutes, Henry, and I’ll be gone,” Simon said.
“I ain’t givin’ you nothin’!” Henry suddenly raged. “You ain’t got the right to be inside of me. Unless you got a bottle of Jack that is …”
Ignoring Henry, Simon put his hand on Ian and escorted him out onto the landing. The pair approached his room with caution and, outside the door, he dropped to his knees. With Ian practically breathing in his ear, he fitted the refill into the keyhole and, as quietly as possible, started digging away. The wax-like substance broke apart in clumps. He removed three pieces and showed them to Ian.
But Ian wasn’t there.
With a feeling of dread, Simon glanced around. At the far end of the landing, his parents’ door stood open. Clearly Ian was cluing them in. In a minute all hell was going to break loose and Cletho would be wakened and take charge of his shatl. He had to get this hole unstuck!
“You hear me ghost?” Henry was yelling. “You either give me Jack or get the hell out!” The bum’s kaba reared itself and gave Simon’s a blow.
He dug at the wax. Another piece broke loose, and another, and another. Was the passage clear? No. He couldn’t poke the pen through. From behind he heard his parents’ bed creaking and … someone was coming.
“I’m tired of being pushed around!” Henry screamed. “Just ’cause I like to drink now and then don’t give you the right to take my insides over! I order you to leave! You hear! You bring me Jack or …” He hit Simon’s kaba again, causing him to slip half outside Henry’s body — he felt as if he were hanging from a plane in mid-air. From far away, he felt the refill slip from Henry’s fingers.
Footsteps were approaching, and he could hear people whispering.
Only with a burst of force was Simon able to return to Henry. He groped for the refill, as he addressed the bum, “Why do you think I’m trying to open this door? There’s Jack on the other side, not to mention John. Give me a minute and I’ll fetch you both.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Henry grumbled. “You have two minutes. And then you’re out!”
As he heard someone move in from behind, Simon picked the refill up. He shoved it in the keyhole as hard as he could. An instant later, he felt it give way. At the same time a hand descended on his shoulder.
“What’s going on…?” his dad started to say, even as Simon abandoned Henry. No sooner was his kaba free than he folded it over several times, until it was small enough to navigate the keyhole. Manoeuvring past the remnants of wax, he emerged in a space that was achingly familiar. His desk, bed, and shelves were just as he’d left them, as were the posters hanging on the walls and the airplane models suspended from the ceiling. Over in one corner lay the cage from the pet shop.
On his bed was something even more familiar. His shatl. It was lying on its side, one arm trailing to the floor. It didn’t seem to be moving at all, as if trapped in something even deeper than sleep. Was Cletho stowed inside it or not?
A knock rang out.
“Simon?” his dad called, “Is everything okay?”
Simon shot toward his shatl. If Cletho was inside already, Simon’s kaba would bounce off; if he wasn’t, there was a chance.
The next few seconds were very peculiar. His shatl did absorb him part way, a sign that Cletho had, in fact, drifted loose. But even as half his kaba slid in, an electrical bolt sliced right through him, as if he’d crammed his fingers in a socket. His entire kaba started to shimmer and he felt his essence grow thinner and thinner. And a force was dragging at him, like a magnet or …
Cletho. His kaba was fighting to win back the shatl. A second bolt ran through Simon, then a third, a fourth. His hold on his shatl was growing weaker.
“Simon?” he heard his father call, “Are you okay? Would you answer, please?” The doorknob rattled violently.
His dad’s voice brought a realization home. This was his shatl. His. No one had the right to take it away. How dare Cletho run at him like this! A rage suddenly filled him and, on instinct, he folded his kaba over again. He felt Cletho pulsing nearby, his hold on the shatl just as loose as Simon’s. He leapt at him in his compact state and delivered an electrical blow of his own, one much stronger than any he’d been given.
Cletho’s grip slackened. He was one-tenth in and nine-tenths out. Simon hit him again. The bolkh lost his hold and flew across the room. With a pulse of triumph, Simon took his place of old — it was like slipping on a pair of old sneakers after walking miles in a pair of tight shoes.
; “If you don’t open this door, I’m breaking it down!” his father yelled.
His shatl enfolded him and he could move his limbs, as if he’d been connected to this space all along.
There was a thud and the door shuddered in its frame. His father was intent on forcing it open.
“Hang on a sec!” Simon yelled. “I’m putting on some clothes.”
He glanced around the room. Cletho was still present. There was no way he could leave that space because the window was closed and the keyhole was tiny — too small for the likes of Cletho to use. With no spare vadh about, he would wither in minutes.
“Simon! Open up already!”
“Sorry! I’m almost there!”
There was a shuffling in the corner, from the pet shop’s cage. Surprised, Simon looked it over. Oh. He should have known. Ian’s hamster was resting inside, only its kaba had lost the use of its vadh: desperate to survive, Cletho had taken it over.
“Simon! We’re worried! Open up this instant!”
“Not bad for a novice,” a voice broke in. “You’ve learned some tricks since I’ve seen you last. ’N you sure pack a wallop. It’s lucky I kept dis hamster in de room, just in case I needed a vadh real quick.”
“You’ve been in touch with Tarhlo?” Simon asked, fitting the cage’s lid in place.
“How didja know? Dat ain’t none of your business!”
“I attended the meeting at Koblansky’s this evening. Why have you sent them looking for Clara? What’s a hamax? A woplh? And what does incarnation mean?”
“Look, bud. Ask no questions ’n I’ll tell no lies.”
“Listen…!”
“Simon! That’s it! I’m calling the police!” his father yelled.
“You’d be wise to open. Dose luras mean business when dey get steamed up.”
“Those luras are my family,” Simon said.
“Whatever you say,” Cletho smirked.
While he was dying to question Cletho further, Simon realized he couldn’t keep his family waiting. Spying the key to the door on his dresser, he turned it in the lock. Instantly the door flew open. His father was standing directly outside in a ragged T-shirt and jockey shorts. His hair was dishevelled and he wasn’t wearing his glasses — his puffy eyes made him look a bit like Magnus. Simon’s mom was standing beside him, in a nightie that he’d given her on Mother’s Day. Her cheeks were covered in facial cream. Ian was present and, at his feet, Henry — the bum was muttering how he was owed some Jack. Behind them stood Emma, her fists were bunched and she was ready for trouble.
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