“Whatever you’re looking for,” Bakari hissed to Ronan, “could you please find it now.”
But he needn’t have whispered, for just at that moment the other shrugged forward, pulling them along. “There he is!”
When Ella could finally see his target, she still couldn’t understand what was going on. The man they were making for was a dead rock in the flow of people. They never looked at the disreputable figure standing in their midst. By some magic they avoided him by feet, twisted out of his path by eddies of disgust. He carried a bucket full of rolled fabric of unknown use and he was preceded by the stench of flesh which hadn’t seen water in years. The thing that marked him from the usual tatters of humanity which lived in the sprawl was the eruption on his head. It had a certain dire fascination that kept Ella from pulling her eyes away. The massive swelling on his forehead pulsed with its own life, as if there were something hidden beneath. Weirdly, she thought of a unicorn’s horn.
Ronan was breaking the rules of all large cities by making straight for this man. Ella tugged on his hand, but this was no mistake. It was too late, he’d invaded the man’s personal space and that monstrous head was swinging upwards. It could have been a very long time since anyone had purposely spoken to him.
Up this close, the growth on his head almost dwarfed the rest of his face.
“Someone should get this guy to a hospital,” Bakari whispered to Ella.
A pair of leaf green eyes locked on them from beyond that protuberance. “Doctor once said he’d make me normal,” his voice was surprisingly soft and musical, “but I wouldn’t let him touch me. I don’t want normal.” Fierce pride suddenly burned in those eyes.
“Who does, Wiggly Joe?” Ronan actually touched the man. “We don’t want anything from you, but to walk the Ways.”
Surely it was her imagination, surely the swelling on the tramp’s head hadn't just moved. Ella felt her skin try to crawl off her body.
“Ronan,” Bakari sounded more than doubtful, “this guy’s fried. He doesn’t know anything.”
“You’re wrong,” Ronan’s hand tightened on the tramp’s arm. “What we seek is like no train station, it moves, flexes with the earth’s power—but such power has guardians, those that feel its pulse.”
Ella tried not to snort.
The tramp’s eyes flickered, revealing for a moment something aside from madness. His thick hand dipped into his pocket and removing a crusty looking handkerchief he mopped what little forehead he had. “Moves, yes... it moves.”
Ronan leaned forward, surely close enough for the stench to knock him between the eyes. For that action alone Ella was convinced he’d slipped into the cracks between madness and reality. The sheer craziness of the situation had become clear. She jerked her arm free and while the men huddled around the tramp, she slipped back into the crowd.
Magic. Yeah, right. Bakari so wanted there to be more to the world that he was willing to listen to Ronan. If he could think about it for one moment, he’d realize how stupid that was. This world was all they had, and there was nothing resembling magic in it.
While they played their little games with the poor old tramp, she’d go back to the truth. The crowds that swept her away from them had no such beautiful illusions. Though that was sad, at least it was the truth.
Ella thumbed the controls of the cloak and felt the current wrap around her, cutting her off from the mindless throng. If Doyle was right, it was probably better that she escape herself: Bakari and Ronan would be safer. Her past life had taught her an unnatural nimbleness despite her back. It seemed her body hadn’t forgotten, for she stepped lightly away from those that threatened to run her over. She dodged women with prams, an old man with packages and a young woman leading at least six dogs. Though the sensors bent light around her and rendered her invisible, the dogs still raised their heads and sniffed, not fooled by human trickeries.
She was going to go straight back to Penherem, pack up her bags and Qoth, and try and find somewhere else where madness didn’t rule.
But somehow it wasn’t done with her, for something else was hiding in the crowd. As she began to determinedly push her way back to the VFT, she saw what ultimately changed her mind. At first it looked like another tramp, a bundle of clothes held together by string and dumped in the threshold of a boarded up doorway. But it was watching her. Its disguised head tracked her movements. Ella stopped, tried to convince herself she was wrong, but then it shifted, angled toward her.
Her heart was pounding and her hands were suddenly sticky on the controls. In that moment she had her convictions overturned. Not even if she squinted her eyes and lied to herself, could she ever imagine that flat plate of bone which was its face had ever been anything human. Thousands of bejeweled eyes were massed together like a fly’s, and they were unmistakably fixed upon her. Now she knew what Dorothy must have felt, desperately clicking her jeweled slippers together, hoping for home.
It was instinct that saved her, for no matter what madness she had stepped into, there was no mistaking the fact that this alien thing was not friendly. Even as they eyed each other a nightmarish length of white mantis like claw stealthily emerged from the blankets. Calmly Ella spun on her heel and trotted back to where Ronan and Bakari were still talking to the tramp. She flicked off the shiver cloak.
Ronan gave her a look that said he’d noticed her absence.
“Well,” she managed not to look over her shoulder. “Are we moving or not?”
Perhaps the tramp had been waiting for this, for he gave a long, loud sniff and fled down the concealed alleyway. London had always had a lot of these secret paths, closed in worlds of their own, and Ella had hidden in her fair share of them in the past.
Ronan and Bakari pushed her ahead, either protecting her, or urging her forward like a lamb, hard to tell which. The world contracted to the looming men behind her, the close wet walls of the alley, and the stench of the tramp scuttling in front of her. She’d expected danger when Doyle had contacted her, but not so much strangeness. The city had become an alien place all of a sudden, wreathed in purple mist which blocked out all the usual sights and sounds. Even this alley could have been from two centuries before. And here was I thinking I knew London, she thought in a cloud of icy detachment.
The tramp had just turned toward some crumbly basement steps, when Ronan made a sound awfully close to a growl. Ella didn’t have time to wonder what was happening, for Bakari was suddenly shoving her hastily after Wiggly Joe, and Ronan had dropped completely away. The air was full of odd noises, like the sound of many long fingernails raking over brick. An awful image of mummified ghosts with foot-long nails flashed across her brain.
The tramp was concerned as the three of them huddled in the dripping courtyard, and Ella could feel claustrophobia setting in.
“Old lady live here,” Joe was muttering as he fished in his tattered pocket. “Lived here all the time, never went out—died mad, but not mad like Joe, mad from the stream.”
Ella swallowed, half an ear listening to the dreadful silence of the alleyway. “How long ago?”
Those leaf green eyes stared into the middle distance. “Three hundred years before that Roman woman killed her children here. Madness… is always near.”
Closer than she’d thought, obviously, but still Ella knew better than to go back. Ronan had not reappeared and the stillness was unnerving her. When the tramp finally pulled out a key and miraculously managed to get the door opened, she almost shoved him out of the way to get inside. Whatever ancient ghosts waited there were better than the ones out here.
She and Bakari huddled in the dim, brown recesses of the room while Joe waited mildly by the open door.
“Where’s Ronan?” Ella whispered.
“He’ll come.” Why didn’t Bakari sound very sure?
She looked about. Someone might have once loved this house, but not in her lifetime. They stood in what must have been a small parlor. The roof was brown and sagging, and the sound of gentl
y running water added to the feeling of melancholy. Ella almost gagged on the overpowering stench of mold and disuse. Usually such vacant places had squatters in them, but even the homeless must have been unable to stand the dank atmosphere and feeling of impending collapse.
Blackness engulfed the door and Ella’s breath raced across her teeth, until the shape resolved itself into Ronan. He stepped smoothly through the doorway and pushed the door rapidly shut behind him. Wiggly Joe was nodding to himself, his head bouncing up and down to some rhythm that was only in his skull. The water began to run faster around them while the silence outside pressed against the door.
“Ronan,” Ella found to her horror her voice was shaking, “What is going on?”
He smiled a somewhat shaky smile. “Let us just say there is a something out there that is not very friendly. We have a few moments.” She knew he wasn’t joking.
“Well, can we get a move on then,” Bakari yelped, “cos that door isn’t going to hold back a toddler with a cold.”
“Normally I’d disagree,” Ronan said, “as there is more than soggy wood protecting this place, but this creature is not likely to be dissuaded. What do you say Joe, shall we find the stream?”
The tramp didn’t answer, instead he turned and shoved open the only sagging interior wall and led them deeper into the dripping house. Ella could help but wonder how much further into this madness she would have to go, but the outside felt more dangerous and deeper in seemed the only alternative.
Bakari surged forward, his eyes suddenly gleaming with eagerness. “Do you taste it, Mouse?”
She made a face. “You mean the damp or the mold?”
Her friend did not acknowledge her sarcasm.
Ella shook her head as they moved deeper; this could only end badly. “Where are we going, Ronan?”
He pressed against her back and his voice came smoothly to her ear. “There are many rivers beneath the sprawl, hidden by centuries of human habitation. They are the sources of power, some for good, some not. Only the guardians know one from another—with luck we have chosen the right guardian and the right place.”
Ella curled her lip, as a thick drop from the ceiling above sneaked past her jacket and down her collar. “And this is how you intend to get me out of London?”
“With luck, we may ride the pulse of power to Penherem.”
She could not help the giggle that arose. “Sounds very… primitive.”
Ronan’s breath brushed her neck. “It is.”
A funny shiver ran up her back and forced her to silence. Joe had reached some significant spot, though what made it so, only he could tell. Only when she got near, could Ella tell that it was a trapdoor leading further below. Bakari reached down and pried the slime covered thing free. It gaped like an entrance into Hell itself. The stench of wet and disease made Ella gag.
Wiggly Joe dropped in like a bundle of dirty laundry and Bakari quickly followed. Ronan paused at the top step and looked back at her.
“I am not going down there.”
He smiled that lopsided smile once more and held out his hand to her. The choice was obvious; she’d be left up here, or she could go down into that murky hole. She wouldn’t be left alone.
Ella sighed. “You’re all as mad as hell.”
“True,” Ronan nodded, “But I’m pretty with it.”
After that comment Ella simply had to go down if just to hide her blush. She was damned if she was going to agree with him. Pushing past him bravely, she scrambled into the blackness below.
The smell was even worse down here; it hit her over the head like a hammer blow. Taking a moment to recover, Ella looked around. A dark cavern embraced them, thick with the ooze of ages. Its roof was low but broad, and there, nearly lapping at Ella’s toes, was a gushing powerful river. It was not the Thames, she knew that immediately, but she could not give it a name.
Ronan came up behind and answered her unasked question. “It is the Fleet—long hidden under the city, but still a bearer of power.”
Wiggly Joe was smiling like his jaw would break. “The pulse is here if you can use it.”
And then the sound came from up above, a hissing rustle that drew Ella’s breath from her body. An image flashed in her brain: a bone pale face and faceted eyes like a spider’s, reflecting only pain and misery. And she knew, she really knew, that there was more to come, more creatures built from anger and hatred.
“Quick,” she found herself saying, “Ronan. I’ll live with this madness, just get us home.”
“Yeah,” Bakari crowded a little closer, “I think that door didn’t hold for even a moment.”
Ronan’s breathing was heavy and those wonderful brown eyes seemed to burn in his head. Wiggly Joe was looking thoughtfully up to where they had come from, the only one not affected, his fingertips dancing on each other.
“Alright then,” Ronan’s hand moved and Ella suddenly found herself looking down at what he had given her, a long silver knife.
She didn’t need to ask, the long flat of the blade was very familiar to her, and the curved serpentine writing cut there had a meaning that glittered on the end of her memory. The words that buzzed in her brain spun like liquid honey inside her, though what they were Ella could not have said.
“Mouse!” Bakari surged forward as she raised the hand wielding the knife and slashed her other, held high above the simmering Fleet.
The pain was intense—like the silver had cut through her brain as well as her flesh. The blood was so unexpected. God, why had she done that? What was the matter with her?
Ronan was holding the wide eyed Bakari back, but his own expression was remarkably serene, even though she was now bleeding hard. Wiggly Joe was bouncing up and down on his toes, clapping his hands together like an over-sugared child.
Ella gasped, swaying, sure that she was going to pass out, but equally sure she could do nothing but stand there bleeding. The Fleet was moving strangely. Gold light seemed to be burning her eyes. Bakari yelled, and there was a terrible sound like her ear drums bursting.
She was falling and twisting. It was madness, yet it seemed a familiar madness.
11
Precipice
Makara looked very small from the top of the hill. Aroha hitched her pack higher on her back and tried to find the will to turn away. Nana had not waved her off as she usually did—even for her trips to Sally’s house. She’d packed her bag with enough supplies to last for days, though Wellington was not even one day's walk away. “You never know what you’ll find the city like.”
Aroha felt a hard ball tighten in her throat.
“We better get going.” Daniel’s voice was kindly, though tense.
The tramp was easy really, for though the road might still be dangerous, it was the best way to get through the tangle of windswept hill and the broken ranks of gorse bushes with their unfriendly spines. The Folk were silent, perhaps feeling Aroha’s back turned to them and knowing they had driven her on.
Daniel tramped at the front, rifle ready, his shoulders somehow showing more tension than when they were hunting the bot. Aroha felt really sorry for him, she at least could feel the call of the Folk, but he was completely blind to that world. But someone had thought that she needed him and as Nana said, don’t fight the universe.
While Aroha was turning these thoughts over in her head, Daniel was circling behind her through the bush. She barely noticed, keeping her mind open, trying to sense any whiff of the Folk.
That was, until the soldier erupted out of the ferns, with a red haired bundle tucked under one arm. Sally was kicking and hissing like a feral cat, but Daniel held on regardless: perhaps he had younger sisters.
He plunked Aroha’s friend down in front of her with a shake of his head. “This was supposed to be a two person outing.”
“I don’t like being left behind,” Sally huffed and glared at Aroha, “So it’s not my fault if I had to catch up.”
Aroha was glad her friend wanted to be in on everything
, but she also knew that this wasn’t the time. Daniel at least could look after himself, but Sally was not only blind, she’d be defenseless.
“I’m not going back,” Sally said when Aroha opened her mouth to say something, “Not unless you want to carry me back home.”
Daniel shot her a glance. They couldn’t do that either. Sally grinned, her gaze flickering triumphantly between them. “Got ya!”
Aroha flushed, partly because she didn’t like losing and partly because she only had one choice if she was to avoid that happening. Once this was done, there would be no going back, her friendship with Sally would be irretrievably altered. However there was not much choice: Wellington was just too dangerous for her.
“So you did,” she said and gave her friend a hug. She smelt of concealed candies and childish sweat, a good honest smell that had nothing of the Folk about it. That made Aroha’s mind up. She kissed her friend gently on the side of the head and whispered a benediction into her ear.
With the way of all earth magics, it was not a command, but a wish that Sally be safe. She would wait here until safely the next morning and then go home, but Aroha had no real control over how the wild replied to her.
She stepped back and watched nervously. Sally’s eyes fluttered, her face relaxing into a sleeper’s calmness. When she fell, soft undergrowth caught her, lowering her gently to the ground. She curled there in a circle of warmth, like she was once more back in her mother’s womb.
Daniel started forward, because this was the first real magic he had seen, but Aroha stopped him. “It’s all right, wait a second.”
Around Sally the earth was moving, heaving with its own primitive energy. A heartbeat later, tall furry fronds erupted from the ground. The tender shoots were curled at the tip, the symbol of eternity, but they just as quickly unfurled to become huge tree ferns, with graceful arching fronds, green on one side, silvered on the back. Daniel gasped as the ferns fluttered, bending their arms down to wrap Sally in an embrace. Each portion of the fern cradled her like a protective mother.
Digital Magic (The Chronicles of Art Book 2) Page 16