‘Thanks,’ Effie said. ‘But I’ve already had breakfast, so don’t worry.’
He looked up. ‘An islander. Well. Not many from your side been in lately. Greetings and blessings. I suppose I can make you a hot chocolate, if you like.’
‘Greetings and blessings returned,’ said Effie, remembering the right way to address people in the Otherworld. ‘It’s all right, thanks, I’m going straight through.’
‘To the mainland?’
‘That’s right.’
‘At this time?’ the barman said. ‘Good heavens. Are you very suicidal or just a little bit?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You do know what’s out there at this time of night?’
‘Er, the market?’
‘Not for another couple of hours. Only monsters out there now.’
‘Monsters?’
‘You have been to the mainland before, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Effie. ‘But not at night. Maybe I’ll wait.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want that hot chocolate?’
Effie hesitated. She looked around her. Over to her right was a comfortable-looking booth upholstered with red velvet, with a candle-lamp only half burned out. Effie could see a book on the table. It was a large green hardback that reminded her slightly of a special book she had once owned. She wondered what it was.
‘OK,’ Effie said to the barman. ‘I’d love a hot chocolate. Thanks.’
‘Marshmallows?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Rum?’
‘No, thanks.’
The barman expertly frothed some very white-looking milk. Then he whisked up a spoonful of cocoa from a large red tin and two spoonfuls of honey from a clear jar. When the drink was made, he arranged a small pile of yellow cakes on a pink plate and dusted them lightly with silvery white icing sugar. He put the mug and plate on the counter but didn’t wait to be paid. No one paid for anything in the Otherworld. Well, not directly. Effie thanked the barman and went over to the booth.
She sat down and put her school bag on the seat next to her. What was this book? She picked it up. The Repertory of Kharakter, Art & Shade, it said on the front, in a faded gold copperplate. The volume had clearly been well-loved by someone. The pages were soft and worn and the gold ribbon used to keep one’s place had frayed away almost to nothing. Had someone left it behind by accident? There was no name in the front. Effie flicked through a few pages. ‘When the soul departs from heaven (if we may be permitted to use such outmoded terms) it has bestowed upon it two gifts,’ read one line. ‘The hedgewitch healer is that stalwart of village life to whom we go for love potions, nasturtium seeds and blankets that help infants to sleep,’ read another.
Effie flicked further through the book. There were a few interesting-looking illustrations and charts, including a circular diagram of ‘The Shades’, with the words Philosopher, Aesthete, Artisan, Protector, Galloglass and Shaper written around its edge.
Then there was another, larger circular diagram of possible kharakters, including ones familiar to Effie like mage, witch, scholar, warrior and healer. Hero was right at the top, between trickster and mage. Wizard was in a little circle of its own, right in the middle. There were also plenty of kharakters Effie had never heard of, among them interpreter, explorer and bard. She thought Maximilian would quite like to see something like this, although Effie herself felt oddly drawn to it.
‘Ah, there’s my book,’ came a familiar voice from behind her. ‘I thought I must have left it here.’
‘Festus?’ said Effie. She didn’t know many people who came here, but Festus Grimm had helped her once before. When she turned, she found it was indeed him, standing tall in a red-lined cloak and turquoise feathered-hat.
‘Greetings and blessings, young traveller,’ said Festus.
‘Greetings and blessings returned,’ said Effie.
‘And where are you off to at this time of night?’
‘I’m waiting for the market to open.’
‘Likewise. It never gets any easier to judge the time difference, in case you were wondering. Mind if I join you? I could do with another coffee.’
5
Raven usually had breakfast by herself because her mother liked sleeping in. Their latest house guest, Skylurian Midzhar – who appeared to have more or less moved in – also liked her sleep. But this morning everyone was up. Laurel Wilde was cooking bacon and eggs in her dressing gown, while Skylurian crossed off items on a large stack of papers.
‘Only three hundred copies to go,’ she said, nodding. ‘Good.’
Laurel Wilde frowned. ‘Seems like a lot.’
‘From ten million, darling? Hardly.’
‘And you’re’ – Laurel gulped – ‘actually pulping them?’
Skylurian smiled. ‘But of course. My colleague owns a facility that takes care of such things, out in the Borders. The books are being sent there as they are discovered. We are documenting it all for Albion Freake so that he can be quite sure of owning the only copy of The Chosen Ones in the world. We’re going to have the last ten copies ready for his inspection on Friday. Then we’ll burn them during the ceremony.’
‘What about my computer file?’
‘Your what-what?’ said Skylurian.
‘My file of the book. I wrote it before the worldquake.’
Since the worldquake most novelists had gone back to typewriters because they were not so affected by greyouts.
‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. Well remembered, darling. We’d better burn that in the garden later. Maybe put it on a diskette, or whatever new-fangled technology one has nowadays.’
Skylurian and Raven’s eyes met for a moment. Each knew what the other was thinking. Raven was wondering why Skylurian would want to burn all these books when everyone knew that true witches only ever burned something if they wanted its contents to come true. And Skylurian was thinking that the sooner some dreadful accident befell this nosy child, the better. When she smiled, it was certainly not with her eyes, and barely with her mouth.
‘Or maybe we’ll just pour a fizzy drink on it,’ she said.
But Raven had something much more important on her mind. After breakfast, she put on her school uniform and read through her spell. It was important to get these things completely right. In fact, this was more of a prayer than a spell, although the two things are very similar. Raven knew – without needing to attend Dr Green’s classes – that while it was always possible to bend the universe to your will, it was rarely advisable to do so. Do not dabble, Raven often told herself. Good does not come to dabblers. Someone had said that once, but Raven couldn’t think who. Perhaps her English teacher, Mrs Beathag Hide.
But Effie was in trouble. This message had been carried through the dawn chorus and into the cold pink morning. Euphemia Truelove, said one of the rumours going around, was going to die on Friday.
‘Come on,’ said the young man, as he hurried Maximilian towards the helicopter that had landed among a group of alpacas in one of the school fields.
The alpacas – sort of like large sheep with long necks – were always annoyed, but this latest intrusion was beyond the pale. The large whirring machine was bad enough, but who or what was this bizarre alien creature? Maximilian was wondering roughly the same thing. The young man was wearing a silk-lined leopard-skin tunic over a pair of yellow tights and an orange silk shirt. On his head was an orange hat with a massive tassel hanging from it. He wore soft flat boots in a kind of cream leather. Maximilian had never seen anyone like him before.
The other thing bothering the alpacas was the Otherworldly boy-child currently running as fast as he could through their field, brandishing a dangerous-looking dagger and muttering something about being free at last. But he was soon gone, and they quickly forgot him.
‘I am Lorenz,’ said the young man in the leopard-skin tunic to Maximilian, ducking under the helicopter blades. ‘I have come to take you to Meister Lupoldus. I trust you a
re already acquainted with your uncle? Please.’ Lorenz held open the door of the helicopter, and Maximilian climbed in.
Maximilian was rather looking forward to riding in a helicopter, but the next thing he knew he was waking up to the swish-slosh sound of oars moving through water. Lorenz seemed to be giving directions to an oarsman. He was speaking a foreign language which Maximilian thought he did not understand. But then his brain seemed to retune and he found he knew what the men were saying. Not that anything they said helped him to understand how a large shiny helicopter had turned into a small wooden rowing boat. Perhaps he’d dropped off again. Perhaps a whole day had passed, or even two. Maximilian felt very hungry and thirsty. And his uncle? Would this be on his mother’s side? No. She only had one sister. Maximilian had never met his father. Could he have sent for him now, via this uncle?
A sort of thrill went through Maximilian that was deeper than anything he’d ever felt. He wasn’t at all sleepy now. The small boat was on a river – or maybe it was a canal – going through some kind of city. It seemed to be early in the evening; the sun had set and soft lights flickered in small windows. Maximilian could see stone archways, ornate domes and thin Gothic spires. The smaller streets seemed to be cobbled, but the larger squares and avenues were paved with marble. The boat turned off the main canal into a smaller waterway, under a stone bridge.
‘Almost there,’ said Lorenz, in the strange language.
Maximilian didn’t know quite what to say back.
‘Are we going to my uncle’s house?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Lorenz. ‘You must call him Meister and do whatever he asks of you. He’s looking for a new Apprentice. That’s why you have been brought here. I leave the day after tomorrow.’
Maximilian wanted to ask about his father, and whether he was in any way involved with this plan. But just then Lorenz leapt off the boat and helped the oarsman to secure it to the bank. Then he offered Maximilian a hand.
‘The Meister is a difficult man,’ said Lorenz. ‘But not impossible.’
‘What does he do?’
Lorenz laughed. Perhaps Maximilian had not put this so well in this new language.
‘Do? Ha! What doesn’t he do? Now, hush and follow me. If we’re lucky, he will already have left for the opera and you won’t meet him until morning. Ah, at last. Here is Franz. He will help with your luggage.’
Maximilian hadn’t thought he had any luggage, but the oarsman and Franz between them lifted out of the boat a green trunk with gold trim. Was this Maximilian’s? Where on earth had it come from? Had his uncle sent it for him? But why send luggage to be brought back to the place it had come from? Perhaps his mother had packed it for him. Yes, that would make sense. She was always doing things like that.
Franz was very thin and dressed all in black. Maximilian thought he must be some kind of servant. He was much stronger than he looked. On his own, he hefted the trunk onto his back and walked with it through a set of wrought-iron gates into a garden courtyard. The garden smelled strongly of jasmine and other evening flowers that Maximilian could not name. Moths flapped sleepily around candle-lamps in the warm evening air. Where on earth was he?
Maximilian followed Franz and Lorenz up a winding stone path through the garden until they came to a door. Inside was a floor of black-and-white stone tiles and a steep staircase. The walls were painted a deep blood-red and more candle-lamps threw dancing shadows onto them. Franz walked past the stairs to a very old-looking wrought-iron lift. He placed Maximilian’s trunk in the lift and began winding a large metal lever. It looked like hard work.
‘Will the boy be taking supper here?’ Franz asked Lorenz.
Then the entrance hall was suddenly enveloped in a heady scent of patchouli, vanilla and musk. A man had entered, rather in the way a leading actor might stride onto the stage. He swirled his black cape about him. This, Maximilian supposed, must be Meister Lupoldus. His uncle.
‘NO,’ bellowed Meister Lupoldus. ‘He will dine with ME.’
On hearing his master’s voice, Lorenz’s posture changed. He seemed to shrink a foot and began to visibly quiver.
‘Yes, Meister,’ he said, bowing.
‘But not in those ridiculous garments! Dress the boy and then BRING him to me.’
Maximilian was hurried up the stairs and along a corridor which stretched far ahead. Franz brought the trunk in and then left. Lorenz opened it and started flinging clothes around the room. A servant then picked them up and placed them neatly on the four-poster bed. Maximilian had never seen clothes like this before. There were silk tunics in odd colours, like dusky pink and pond green, a selection of curious hats, a pair of boots not unlike the ones Lorenz was wearing, two pairs of thin, pointed soft leather slippers and – disturbingly – several pairs of what looked like tights.
Soon Lorenz had assembled an outfit he thought would please the Meister. Maximilian was then washed by another servant – which took rather a long time – and given a set of complicated undergarments. After this came the dreaded tights. Then a kind of corset, which Lorenz tied tight at the back. Then a sky-blue silk shirt with billowing sleeves, followed by a darker blue tunic with a thin gold belt. Lorenz chose a pair of turquoise slippers and a yellow felt hat.
Maximilian felt quite stupid. But, if he was completely honest (and no one was here to see him, after all), the feel of the silk was pleasant. Maximilian had read somewhere that robes of silk were the best thing in which to do magic, because one’s aura is free. Or something like that. Not that these were robes, exactly. But anyway, his outfit was not in the least out of place here, wherever here was. Even Franz’s simple all-black outfit involved a tunic and a pair of tights.
Someone knocked on the door, and Lorenz left the room. Maximilian looked out of the window and saw, beyond the courtyard garden and the canal bridge, a large palace with green domes and stained-glass windows. Lights flickered inside, and Maximilian saw the outlines of men and women holding champagne glasses. When Lorenz came back, he handed Maximilian a small but heavy package. Maximilian unwrapped the rose-coloured tissue paper and found a gold athame with a gold chain attached to its handle. Lorenz fastened this to Maximilian’s belt.
‘Is my uncle a mage?’ Maximilian asked Lorenz.
Lorenz laughed. ‘You don’t know? He’s not just any mage, he’s a great one. Perhaps the greatest. You will learn much from him. Now, we must go.’
Dear Luminiferous Ether,
I hope you are very well and have enjoyed the passing of Martinmas. I am writing to you on behalf of a dear friend, whose life I believe to be in great danger. But I shouldn’t put that, in case it makes it happen. I am writing to you because I am choosing to bring safety and courage to my friend Euphemia Truelove. I believe you will help me by granting my wish that Euphemia be kept safe and well for the foreseeable future.
Yours, as ever, in the spirit of Love and of Life,
Raven Wilde (Miss)
The Luminiferous Ether always enjoyed the letters it received from Raven Wilde. As ever it was touched to have been chosen as the Otherworld recipient of her witch’s prayer.
But this new request was going to be very difficult to grant. The Luminiferous Ether looked at all the spells flowing through it and – yes – oh dear – there it was. The future event that would bring death upon one of Raven Wilde’s friends before the week was out. It had been willed by one much more powerful than Raven. What could be done about it? Not much. Not much at all. And of course there was the other thing. The prophecy. And the small matter of the universe being saved. The Luminiferous Ether tried to shuffle things around a little and . . . Well, that was interesting. So it all would rest on one particular decision. That was better than nothing. And the decision was due to be made any time now.
6
‘Creative writing,’ said Mrs Beathag Hide.
She said the words in exactly the way one might say ‘seeping wound’ or ‘headless mouse’, or perhaps whisper news of a terrible accident. Almo
st as if she couldn’t believe she had uttered something so distasteful, she repeated the words one more time.
‘CREATIVE WRITING.’
No one in the class, the top set for English in the first form of the Tusitala School for the Gifted, Troubled and Strange, said anything. What could they say? Everyone knew that creative writing was a great treat. But the way Mrs Beathag Hide had said it made it sound like a terrible punishment. So they waited, silently, to see what would happen next.
There were two empty seats in the room. Effie and Maximilian were both absent. Wolf, Raven and Lexy had already all looked at one another and shrugged. None of them knew where their friends had gone. Raven hoped Effie was all right. She gulped again when she thought of what she’d heard through the Cosmic Web. Of course, the only good thing about knowing that someone is going to die on Friday is that you know they are pretty much invincible until then. Unless you have tried to change it, of course. Could Raven’s spell have gone so wrong that it had actually hastened things? She shuddered. This was the problem, of course, with dabbling.
‘I have been informed,’ said Mrs Beathag Hide, ‘that this class wishes to begin creative writing.’
The class froze. Of course. After the annual inspection a couple of weeks earlier they’d had to talk to a man in a beige suit about what they liked and didn’t like in Mrs Beathag Hide’s classes. Obviously they’d all said everything was fine, that they had no complaints and Mrs Beathag Hide was very kind to them. They weren’t stupid. But the man had pressed them each to name something that they would like to do more of. And then he had fed back the results to Mrs Beathag Hide.
To Mrs Beathag Hide’s immense disappointment, no one had said they wanted to spend more time rendering Greek tragedy in papier-mâché. No one mentioned wanting to read more Shakespeare or Chaucer. One person – not naming any names, of course – asked if the class could read Ulysses, which was an extremely difficult book by James Joyce. Every single other child in the class, when asked what they would like to do more of, chose creative writing.
The Chosen Ones Page 4