Gregory Grey and the Fugitive in Helika

by Stanzin

CHAPTER 6

  Garden Varieties II

  A garden sundial told Gregory that it was eleven in the morning.

  ‘We don’t have until sunset,’ Mango said. ‘The sun will go behind the cliffs a little earlier – around three, I think. This whole place will be in shadow, and the creeps will come out to play.’

  ‘Four hours, then,’ Gregory said.

  He and Mango went over the base of the circular Faculty Tower, which led into the field at the north, west and east exits. The eastern exit led into a wide and deep open amphitheater. The western exit led to a large training ground.

  It was the northern exit that drew Gregory’s attention. The broad path from the door led to a shrine of sorts, a cavernous and beautiful room made entirely out of flowering bamboo.

  ‘In Helika, they usually build this stuff up for the Observant gods,’ Mango told Gregory, ‘but we’ve done it for everyone who helped make the Caverns, or contributed somehow.’

  Stone sculptures on pedestals lined the pathway, five to a side. A large stone gargoyle protruded from the wall above the northern exit door

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Mango.

  ‘The general idea is simple: get those things out into the sun and don’t let them back in.’

  ‘You’d need bait to get them out,’ Mango said.

  ‘We have bait. You and me.’

  ‘Nope, just you.’

  ‘Just me, then. Now anything that dislikes the sun, generally dislikes fire.’ Gregory thought hard. ‘This north door will be perfect.’

  He explained his plan to Mango.

  They quickly gathered supplies from anywhere and everywhere: long coils of rope; an old and large sheet of canvas that was hung over the training grounds to provide shade; a ladder; Mango found jars of diluted animal fat, bottles of pure alcohol, rags, empty bottles and matches from the cupboards of the alchemy class they had vacated earlier; Gregory removed a large and thin steel plaque from one of the sculptures.

  They carried these, huffing and puffing, to the north door. The canvas was especially heavy, and it took both of them, pulling with all their might, to drag it.

  Mango was nervous about the last item that Gregory wanted: two-metre-square decorative fences from the shrine. They were made of thin but tough bamboo strips, bound with hemp fibre.

  ‘Relax, I wouldn’t take these if the shrine belonged to a god or something,’ Gregory assured Mango. ‘These guys are just people. They don't mind.’

  ‘Oh, you’d take it even from the gods. The difference is you’d say thank you,’ Mango muttered but otherwise didn’t object.

  They worked quickly, racing against the sun, keeping an eye on the door to make sure no spectre could surprise them with an early arrival.

  They used the ladder to climb. He tied the ends of two coils of rope to the gargoyle’s neck and descended. He and Mango then climbed the stone statues and looped the ropes around the neck of each, stringing them in two chains of four sculptures a side.

  The hardest part was throwing the canvas over the ropes: the cloth was extremely heavy and unwieldy. They tossed it over the section connecting the gargoyle to the right chain of statues first, dragging it up the ladder, over the rope and down the ladder, then back up the ladder to throw the canvas over the left side. The painful task of unfurling the canvas over the two thirds of the pathway was next; it took them an hour to cover sixteen yards.

  They piled six of the thin bamboo fences and tied them together so they wouldn’t slip or slide. They leaned the strengthened fence next to the door.

  Finally, they doused the entire setup in the animal fat and alcohol.

  Exhausted, sweating, dusty, and aching, they surveyed their booby-trap; two-thirds of the pathway was now under shade, and two parts under the bright sun.

  ‘If this works, you’re a genius,’ panted Mango.

  Gregory nodded, too winded to speak.

  ‘If it doesn’t though, I’ll kill you,’ she promised.

  Mango climbed onto the gargoyles neck and sat astride it.

  ‘They won’t be able to see you when they come out. I’ll signal you. You know what to do,’ Gregory said.

  Mango nodded. They were ready.

  Two hours till sundown.

  Gregory picked up the steel plaque and the silver candlestick. He strode up to the north door and stared the down the empty and silent hallway. He took a deep breath, and beat the plaque for all he was worth, making an intense clanging and clashing.

  ‘Come on then you stinking troglodytes, come on out here, I’m right where you want me, all hundred and twenty pounds of juicy human flesh, first come first serve, served fresh, have it nice and hot, food on the trot,’ roared Gregory.

  Above him, on her gargoyle seat, Mango burst out laughing.

  ‘That’s right, it’s a free meal, a special deal, for the screaming banshee and little pygmy, the ugly goblin and the vile gremlin, offer closes ere the sun sleeps, don't miss your chance to meet your meat!’

  Mango’s peals of laughter must have carried up; a head poked out of a window on the third level and looked down.

  ‘Mango, what in the world are you doing? Get down from there at once!’

  ‘In a bit Aunt Audrey,’ Mango shouted back. ‘The view’s better from up here.’

  ‘Don’t get cheeky with me, young lady. I’ll have you….’

  Gregory never heard her threat.

  One by one the spectres rushed into hallway from unseen corners, shrieking, screaming and yapping eerily. They looked around for the source of the noise and saw Gregory standing in the doorway. They surged towards him with some enthusiasm, pushing one another aside to get there first, running incredibly fast.

  ‘Mango, they’re here,’ he croaked, suddenly afraid again, backing away quickly from the doorway. He raced down the pathway.

  The spectres burst out of the door: they were fast; Gregory felt a hand grab his shoulder from behind, claw-like and strong: he stumbled, and for one terrifying second, thought he’d been a little too smart for his own good: but then his forward momentum carried him and his attacker into the sunlight.

  Whatever was on top of him screamed horribly and Gregory smelt burning, rotting flesh; the creature dissolved into dark mist.

  Gregory threw the spectre off and scrambled to his feet. Just as before, the sun struck down spectre after spectre, until only the more intelligent of the horde remained, screaming their displeasure at Gregory.

  Gregory counted; there were twelve left.

  ‘Eleven dead!’ he yelled up to Mango.

  That fit perfectly into his estimates. None of the spectres were near the door back into the building.

  ‘Mango, NOW,’ he shouted. He distracted the creatures with taunts and stone, something he was getting quite good at.

  Mango jumped off the gargoyle and rolled to a safe distance. None of the creatures noticed her. She picked up an innocuous rope and pulled; the strengthened bamboo fenced slid across the doorway, blocking it. The spectres were trapped, but they were too busy flinging stones back at Gregory to notice.

  She struck a match, and set the canvas on fire.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, young man? Stop that at once!’

  Gregory decided he didn't like Mango’s aunt very much. Several other heads popped out of the window to see what the ruckus was about.

  In an instant, the alcohol-and-fat-soaked canvas was ablaze. The flames roared into life, radiating sudden and intense heat. Gregory and Mango recoiled from the blast of hot air. The deathly creatures standing under the flaming canopy wailed, howled, screamed and shrieked, an unbelievable cacophony of agony. They rushed at the bamboo barricade, but that was aflame too, and they couldn’t get close.

  Exhilarated, Gregory ran to pick up the bottles of alcohol. He had stuffed rags down their mouths earlier. Mango set the ends of the rags alight, and Gregory flung them at the beleaguered horrors. The glass shattered at their feet and sprayed alcohol everywhere. The
burning rag set the fluid alight; the spectres were assailed by fire from both heaven and earth.

  Those of the spectres that tried to run out of the canopy were struck down by sunlight. In moments they writhed into nothingness, yet still more of their ilk followed, desperate to escape the flames.

  They died.

  The fire burned through the rope holding the canvas; the canopy collapsed, trapping the entire horde of undead under it. Finally, the intense heat blew the ashes of the canopy into the air: the last of the spectres died by flame and sun.

  The massacre was over in minutes.

  Gregory and Mango watched the flames for sometime, dark with ash, sweating and dirty, but with a roaring and soaring feeling in their hearts that almost made them giddy.

  ‘It worked,’ said Mango.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gregory.

  ‘You’re a genius. I’m not going to kill you.’

  ‘I know,’ Gregory said.

  ‘What in curses did you just do?’ shouted Aunt Audrey from above, sounding very like a flaming ghoul.

  ‘They just took care of our little undead problem,’ cried a jubilant voice. ‘Bravo, children, bravo.’

  It was hard to make out the new speaker after the blindness brought on by the fire. From the ground, he seemed to have a head of thick shock white hair that was very similar to Director Hughes’s.

  ‘They could have been killed!’

  ‘But they weren’t. They’re heroes,’ yelled back the white haired gentleman, then shouted down at the victorious duo – ‘Hear that? You’re heroes!’

  Gregory and Mango’s efforts paid off well; the grown-ups didn’t see any spectres while coming down. Parents rushed to reunite with their children; Mango’s aunt rushed to check on Jenny.

  The white haired gentleman’s name was Rathborne Briggs, and he was the Professor of Wizardry at Minerva’s Cavern. He was tall, broad shouldered, and spoke with a booming, affable voice.

  ‘Brilliant job, you two, absolutely devastating, what?’ he said, shaking Gregory and Mango’s hands enthusiastically when he met them.

  ‘What?’ said Gregory.

  ‘Nonsense, don’t be shy. It was pure genius, what you two did. I saw the whole thing. You had me right curious about what you were up to.’

  ‘Err, thanks.’

  ‘Now, I already know this lovely young lady’s name; delighted to meet you Miss Piper,’ Professor Rathborne said, tipping his head. ‘But, I’ve not been fortunate enough to make you acquaintance, young sir.’

  ‘Gregory Grey. Please to meet you.’

  ‘I can’t place your name. New in town?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Excellent.’ The old man’s face became sombre. ‘Three of our faculty departed for Gaia’s embrace today – a tragic loss. They were all gifted in their fields.’

  ‘Well, at least the Cavern wasn’t burnt down,’ Audrey Piper sniffed. She had come back with Jenny in her arms. ‘The flames might have gotten into the library.’

  Gregory was beginning to develop an intense dislike for Professor Piper. He bit back a cutting retort. Instead he said, ‘Wouldn’t the wards have protected them?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. How could wards possibly work without a magical field? If you hadn't noticed, magic isn't behaving itself today,’ Professor Piper said.

  ‘The medicines and the salves worked,’ argued Gregory.

  ‘Of course they did. Why wouldn't they?’

  Gregory could have throttled her.

  ‘Now, Audrey dear, be fair. These children haven’t started even the most basic classes yet. How could they guess what does and doesn’t work when magic is corrupted?’

  ‘I doubt anyone can claim to truly know the nature of magic after today’s events. There will be much panic over this, mark my words. I can hardly wait for the magic to come back,’ Audrey Piper said, and went off to look over the children.

  Mango, silent throughout this exchange, now yawned hugely.

  ‘Good gracious, you must be tired,’ exclaimed Professor Rathborne. ‘Do forgive me for keeping you. There are beds in the Sanatorium, yes? Have something from the larder and get some rest. You’ve earned it.’

  ‘Not just yet,’ Gregory said.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Mango and Rathborne asked together.

  ‘Some of those things are smart – they might not have come rushing out with the rest… they may still be in the shadows. And if they are… we can’t wait till dark to hunt them out – we have to do it now.’

  Mango groaned, but Rathborne nodded.

  ‘You’re right... but I think us teachers will take care of that,’ he said. ‘Why don’t the two of you go and get some sleep.’

  As Gregory and Mango headed for the Sanatorium, Gregory felt that something important had been said. Inside, another professor had already stretched himself out on the broadest bed he could find, somehow sprawling his small frame across all of it; he was incredibly weedy.

  Gregory pulled out a rolled mattress, cleared the babbling kids to a side, and fell asleep before he could grasp his stray thought.

  He woke once in the evening, when the Cavern was in shadow, and the sky pink. The beds had been taken up by the injured; he saw Mango’s aunt on one of them, her arm heavily bandaged. His silver torch-holder tucked into his belt, Gregory went out.

  Rathborne sat alone, outside the door, a ceremonial looking sword in his lap.

  ‘We found five more,’ the older man said. ‘We got rid of them, and Audrey got a nasty scratch on her arm, but nothing worse happened. Good call, boy.’

  ‘They were powerful, weren’t they?’ Gregory asked. ‘Stronger than the others you fought before?’

  ‘Why do you think so?’

  ‘Smarter usually means stronger.’

  ‘Yes… the one that scratched Audrey – it was almost cunning.’

  ‘Do you have any guesses why some of the creeps are stronger or smarter than others?’

  ‘Stronger spells means stronger… creeps, I think,’ Rathborne said.

  ‘Why is this happening?’

  ‘Scared, boy?’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be?’ Gregory spat bitterly. ‘I was gonna get an instrument, maybe start learning magic. And now, this happens.’

  ‘You think you’re scared?’ Rathborne scoffed. ‘I’ve tried, and succeeded somewhat, I think, to curb my reliance on magic. I do many things without it: cook, ride from one place to another, rearrange my furniture – small daily actions that most of us don’t even think about.’

  He held up his sword.

  ‘Yet, my work was bound up in it, as was my leisure. Without it, I have nothing. The parents of my students… they’re scared. I patrolled the corridors with them twice – I don’t think they’ve ever been in a fight without magic; I had to teach them how to swing a stick. They say they’ll look into the fighting arts once this whole mess is done with… and not one of them dared to say we might never have magic again… I don’t believe they’ve even dared to think it.

  ‘I can fight. If pushed for work, I could serve as a guard, or a peacekeeper, or a trainer. But what will they do? Where will the millions of once-mages go?’

  ‘Out of the city, like the rest of the world,’ Gregory said.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t they? There wouldn’t be all this stupid mage privilege.’

  ‘An angry liberal!’ Rathborne guffawed. ‘But you have faith! Do you believe that the – ah, privileged – will take easily to the demotion? If magic doesn’t return… well, your battle against the creeps won’t hold a candle against the bloodbath to come!’

  Gregory did not argue.

  ‘So why is this happening?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I have no guesses. Smarter men than me will meditate on that. Idiots will claim it’s the wrath of gods. No one will agree with another. If you have people you love, boy, stick to them. It’s easier to fight for your friends. Now, please, let me be.’

  Walking a
way, Gregory heard Rathborne blow his nose.

  The statues that had held Gregory and Mango’s flaming canvas were charred.

  Gregory felt a twinge of guilt; the sculptures had been quite beautiful. Rathborne’s disquieting words played in his head: is this what the once-magical world might look like, if no one could ever again cast a spell?

  The Faculty Tower soared high; its topmost floors still golden with the sun. It looked magical even now: how long would it last?

  Gregory knew what revolutions were like; he knew how much blood Osmundiaz Occilox had spilt in his quest to separate church from state. Yet even the First Reflective King, more than a thousand years ago, had been horrified by the book burnings his zealous new subjects had perpetrated. The young country had not been educated; they had no love of books, and the beauty of the knowledge within them. All they knew was this: the cruel Shamanate derived its power from books. The angry people of the then young Kingdom of Domremy had tried their best to eliminate every remnant of religious authority, and in their anger, had destroyed many precious writings that had nothing to do with religion, but were kept in the temple libraries.

  Gurukul Caverns had no religious leaning. Its library held texts and books, but only of magical learning.

  Books that Gregory had dreamed of possessing since the day he first saw a zeppelin.

  Books that had been, until now, beyond his reach, and the reach of everyone born too poor to learn magic.

  Gregory remembered his own fury at being told he would never learn magic; he remembered feeling small and humiliated at the Earl’s kindly condescension.

  He imagined the Faculty Tower’s windows burning with the light of books on fire; flaming manuscripts being tossed out, as a long underprivileged people razed every memory of their oppressors… annihilated every symbol of their oppression.

  He knew then, why Rathborne had wanted to cry alone, to weep in fear of the death of a culture… a science… a way of thought… a way of life…

  If magic did not return, there would be blood. The anger of the Mundanes would overwhelm those who had once been Mages.

  The Cavern and the books within its libraries, un-warded and unguarded without magic, would burn.

  Gregory suddenly shivered with excitement, remembering:

  ‘You should look up your parent’s old academic records at the Cavern library – I hear they have a written record of every kid who ever attended.’

  Zach had said that, this very morning: there could not be a more perfect moment to retrieve them; and Gregory would damn himself before he let his few links to his parents burn.

  There was no one watching him; pulling the silver torch-holder from his belt, Gregory strode into the north door.

  Where should he look for the library? He remembered the shining mural at the Cavern entrance; minutes later, he stood panting in front of it. The library was underground! – a massive subterranean extension of the Faculty tower, very close to the north door.

  Another short run later, he stood gazing down from the top of a gigantic rock chamber that circled a huge central pillar. There were at least five circular galleries carved into the chamber, and each of them stuffed with more books than Gregory had seen in his life. Light shone in through skylights, and some mysterious trick of architecture distributed that light evenly over the whole cavern.

  For a long minute, Gregory stood struck dumb by the vastness of the magical lore beneath his feat. He felt a great longing and greater sadness: all the promises of magic in his sight; he could scarcely believe that he might never fulfil them now. Shaking his head, he set off on his search.

  Directions carved into the library pathway’s floor let him to Academic Histories. The records were wonderfully organised by year and name: a mere ten minutes later, Gregory held his treasure: two thick folders that bore the names Veracity Lake and Vincent Grey.

  He wanted to tear into them immediately, but light was fading fast, and he didn’t want to be stuck in a forbidding Cavern in complete darkness. Tucking the folders into his shirt, he ran back up the galleries.

  A split second before he could exit the Library, indistinct voices scared him right back inside; he did not feel like explaining his evening adventure. A patrol of three passed by; to Gregory’s relief, they did not step into the Library. He peered out, and thought he recognised the weedy looking professor among them. He waited till their footsteps and voices were faint and then stepped out.

  The scream split the darkening corridors; Gregory jumped and yelled, but the scream had been human, not spectre – he was sure of it. He looked back the way the patrol had gone… a flash of light at the corridor’s turn cast unrecognisable shapes on the wall: a frantic figure sprinted back… Gregory crouched, and in the darkness, it sped right by him: there was another flash… the shadows moved strangely, and Gregory thought he saw three figures in them: he shoved his parent’s records in a space behind a mural of some kind, and torch-holder ready, ran to fight. There was another flash… only two shadows now… the smaller lunged away from the larger, and Gregory saw the weedy professor appear in front of him, trying to crawl away, pleading:

  ‘Noooo… please! I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I’ll tell them, I’ll confess, I swear! Don’t-’

  Another flash of light: the wall showed a huge shadow hulking over the fallen man, long fingers curled around his neck, choking his words… the shadow’s head turned, and Gregory knew it saw him, but surprise and speed carried him into the turning.

  Dark mist made solid… round eyes that shone with cold white light when they saw Gregory… thrice as tall as the boy whose torch-holder clanged to the ground in his fright… a sharp and claw like finger that pierced Gregory and flooded him with icy chill… and a keening sound that filled the darkness outside.

  Darkness bloomed behind Gregory’s eyes.