by S McPherson
Imogen raises an intrigued eyebrow but I don’t elaborate. Lately, talking about Coldivor only upsets me, filling me with an urge I can’t fulfil, not without putting Coltis lives in danger and that is just not an option.
‘And that boy,’ she ventures, ‘you became close?’
I perk up. ‘I’ve actually just spoken to him.’
She gawks in surprise. ‘I would have thought mindle was blocked, what with everything.’
‘It is but we don’t need it,’ I say proudly. ‘Milo developed a device so we can communicate without mindle.’
‘That’s…’ but she then seems lost for words, chewing thoughtfully on one of the rings.
‘I know.’
‘And did our inventor have anything interesting to say?’
I lean in, my elbow pressing into the wet ring left by my frosted glass. ‘Actually, he mentioned the gethadrox.’
‘The gethadrox?’ She shifts uncomfortably in her chair as though perched on rocks.
‘Yes. It’s a device that—’
‘I know,’ she says, not meeting my eye.
‘Are you alright?’
‘What did he say about, about the gethadrox?’
‘Apparently, the Court are trying to rebuild it,’ I say slowly. She seems very fidgety all of a sudden and to be avoiding my eye. ‘Imogen, are you alright?’
She hesitates for a moment, which I find odd. She’s always struck me as someone quite forthcoming, never one to beat about the bush.
‘I think I have something to show you,’ she says, pushing a stray strand of ash coloured hair behind her ear, ‘back at the shop.’
‘Tinker’s shop?’
She nods.
‘Uh-oh,’ I tease, ‘it is as awful as they said!’
She smiles, but it somehow seems forced. ‘I told you: it’s worse.’ She chuckles but I can tell she’s distracted as she slides out of the booth and heads towards the door.
‘So what is it?’ I ask, tossing enough money on the table to cover our bill and racing after her.
‘I think it’s better if I show you,’ and she steps out into the cold night, heading in the direction of the store. Baffled, I follow. The street is much quieter now and murky haloes surround the few lamps dotted along the winding road.
‘Did you enjoy your food?’ Imogen asks.
‘What little I had of it, sure.’ I shrug.
‘Oh, how lovely.’
I appreciate her attempt at small talk but she’s clearly not paying much attention, and I am far too curious to see what she has to show me to continue the pretence. In silence, we cut across a field, past pigs in their pen and behind a quaint Bed and Breakfast run by an elderly couple, I still haven’t had the pleasure of meeting. I assume they are called the Mavericks as the Bed and Breakfast has a sign smacking against the veranda that reads: At Home with Mavericks.
Imogen walks quickly and I stumble to keep up and take in my surroundings at the same time. I haven’t come to this part of Feranvil before, having no need to leave the paved road for fields. I wasn’t aware until now how much was here: quite a few B&B’s and inns dotted around, the occasional offbeat hole in the wall, customers stagger out, reeking of hot booze. I give them a wide birth, their glazed eyes and tilted lips reminding me too much of Drake.
At last we come to the old rundown shop that is Tinkers and Imogen lets us in. She pulls on a string and a lone bulb emits a golden glow. My eyes take a minute to adjust to the sparse lighting streaked with dust. It is cramped inside and I look around for the infamous Belendraw Tink but he doesn’t seem to be here.
‘Oh, I’m sure he’s here,’ Imogen says, apparently reading my expression. ‘Tink has a knack of just appearing.’
‘Oh.’ I look around once more, a little unnerved. The shelves now seem to loom and creak as they tower above me, weighted down by ancient books and moth-eaten files. If Imogen did any organising today, it is hard to see where. I force myself to focus when she wanders over to a pile of books stacked on the floor against a manky, flaking, beige wall I am sure was once white.
She rifles through the titles until eventually finding what she is looking for, picking one of the books up and smacking away the dust. She hands it to me, still covered in grime but I am too intrigued to care. Unclasping the frail book’s buckle, I at first struggle to make sense of what I’m reading. There are symbols and scribbled notes, a few nonsensical numbers and more illegible words and arrows. I continue to flick through the pages as Imogen studies me. Clearly, there is something important about this; something she expects me to realise.
Sighing, I flip back to the start of the book and skim over the tattered first page, one I initially skipped. Then I gasp, my hands shaking as I study words that appear to have been scrawled in what smells faintly like snickleberry root.
‘Michél Tranzuta’ I read, my voice barely louder than a whisper, ‘Operation:’… but I fight to read the following words. Then I recognise ‘gethamot 2’, but crossed out, followed by ‘gethamot 5.0’, also crossed out, and more ideas jotted further down. Finally, at the bottom of the page, the last title is ‘gethadrox’. The word sticks in my throat: ‘Operation: gethadrox’.
GOOSHACK & GUMPTION
I lean back against a sturdy sycamore tree, my bent knees bringing my notebook and Tranzuta’s journal closer. The differences between them are obvious. My notebook is a recent buy, lacking any character or history, a few sheets of lined paper inside a cardboard cover. Tranzuta’s, though, is tattered, its leather-bound cover barely hanging on. I undo its clasp and gently open it. The thin pages are unlined, discoloured with age. The words, which I am sure are written with different flavoured snickleberry, rise off the page like braille.
Popping the lid off my pen with my teeth, I write ‘Making Sense of Tranzuta’ on the first page of my pad. I am sort of excited, feeling closer to Coldivor already. Carefully, I thumb through the pages of his book, trying to understand it. The odd word catches my eye: ‘gethamot’, ‘gethadrox’, ‘the realms of the world’, but nothing resonates with any meaning.
In my own book I scribble down assumptions. He has done an accurate sketch of the gethamot, then, with an arrow, has joined it to a similar diagram only bigger, and so on and so on. This has been done repeatedly over a few pages, each numbered from one to nine, each depicting a slightly bigger gethamot. There are also question marks that seem to imply where he thinks each version of the gethamot will lead. Number one has the phrase ‘Corporeal Land’ written beside it, number two has ‘Coldivor’ and number three ‘Crystosalys’. I don’t know what this is, but when I see the word ‘Vedark’ written against number six, I assume it and all the others to be realms I don’t know.
I peer closer, intrigued. I flick slightly faster through the fraying pages. By the looks of things Tranzuta believed there were nine realms which he has titled The Nynthst. I look up, my mind swimming. Nine realms! What other wonders are out there? What other creatures exist? Carefully, I write the number ‘9’ on my paper and circle it, outlining the circle with a series of question marks.
I shake my head. What am I doing? Not long ago my only objective was to survive. One day at a time. Now I stare down at my nail bitten fingers, clasped around a pen scribbling down notes to save empires. My mind reels with logic I never thought I’d think.
Allowing my hand to wander, I soon find myself doodling the tattoo I saw on the wrists of the Wood Security. Though, I only saw half of it, I try to make sense of that too. It was a jagged, horizontal line with three shorter, serrated lines coming from the top, pointing in three different directions. The one in the middle pointed straight up and the two at the sides pointed off diagonally. I stare at the rough lines; what could they mean? And what is it about them that seems so familiar, like I have seen the markings somewhere else?
‘Hello there.’
I jerk at the sound of Jude’s voice. ‘You scared me,’ I breathe.
He chuckles and comes to sit beside me. ‘What have you
got there?’
I stealthily shuffle Tranzuta’s notebook beneath my own. ‘Just trying to understand the symbol I saw on those men.
‘The ones from the woods?’ Jude’s curiosity is clearly peaked and he leans eagerly over me to see what I’ve drawn. I’m relieved; he is thoroughly engrossed in the tattoo and hasn’t noticed the much older and more awe-inspiring book beneath it. It’s not that I don’t trust Jude, but I want a little more time to figure out the journal on my own.
‘Sort of looks like the top branches of a tree,’ he observes.
I look down at the sketch. ‘Sort of.’
‘Did you see any of them the other night?’
‘I’m not sure.’ I frown. ‘Someone was definitely in the woods and I’m certain I saw the light of a torch but it doesn’t necessarily mean it was one of them.’
Jude hmm’s in response, still eyeing my rough sketch. Nervous he will eventually notice Tranzutas journal, I turn to face him, dropping the books to the ground. ‘So are you ready?’
Jude grins. ‘I was born ready.’
I roll my eyes and throw my cardigan over the notebooks as we get to our feet. Then, inhaling deeply, I welcome the familiar charge of power surging through me. I’m amazed how easy I find it to unlock more than ten per cent of my mind now. Just a few months ago I was reduced to throwing myself around and hopping about like a chicken.
‘Tixtremidral,’ we intone together and immediately we are airborne, hovering above the ground and soaring higher.
I remember syndigo every time I do this; the first time I’d felt in control of something. That was the day I realised I had the strength to do things I never thought I could, that I was more than what my brother thought of me. More than what I thought of myself.
Feeling myself beginning to descend, I quickly grab one of the tree’s solid branches, pulling myself up and climbing a little higher. I gape down at the familiar view of Feranvil, still as breath-taking as ever.
‘I thought we would crank it up a notch today,’ Jude announces, clambering onto a branch beside me. ‘I’ve been reading about gooshack: the ability to temporarily fake reality.’
I screw up my face, confused.
‘Reality is a state of mind, so what reality don’t you mind?’ and he arches his brow. It’s amazing how quickly he goes from someone so ordinary to that mysterious, peculiar lad I once knew.
I eye him fondly. ‘In normal English, please.’
‘Who decides what is normal and what is not?’ he goads.
‘You’ve been Up-Top today, haven’t you?’ He is always more unusual when he goes up to Islon for a while.
Laughing, he nods. ‘Went into Sanifud. Not all of us can be college dropouts.’
‘It seemed like the safer option:’ I retort playfully, ‘death by demon or hide underground.’
‘Under gravel and rock you’ll find me—’
‘Safe beneath the earth I’m hiding.’
We fall into a short silence. I imagine Sanifud College, my incomplete rocking chair probably still stacked in a corner with all the other failed creations. How different my life would be right now if Lexovia never left Coldivor. Then I shudder; I probably wouldn’t be living at all.
The temperature dips, becoming extremely cold, and a snowflake falls onto my leg. I look up, my mouth dropping open as I grip the branch to steady myself, only it is no longer a branch. I am now sitting on snow-covered ground. Jumping to my feet, I go to step forward.
‘Careful,’ I hear Jude say but can’t see him, ‘the branch ends there. The rest is just an illusion.’ Slowly, I turn to his voice, seeming to come from behind me. And I see him, flying in the air. His eyes are a stunning grey, as if filled with glowing rainclouds, and his ears are distinctly pointed at the top; the mark of an Elentri.
I gape at him, wrapping my arms around myself in an attempt to keep warm.
‘Gooshack,’ he grins, and at last I understand—the ability to temporarily fake reality. He floats down in front of me. ‘Brilliant isn’t it?’
‘Amazing,’ and I shake my head in wonder as he takes off again. Only because he has told me do I know I am not in a barren land surrounded by snow, identical snowflakes falling from a dull sky. And Jude is not really an Elentrice swooping around me. ‘So, where are we, really?’ I ask.
‘My imagination.’ He grins and once again joins me. I’m afraid to move, unsure of where reality ends and his invention begins. Then, slowly, the temperature starts to rise and the snowflakes cease to fall. The sky brightens, the feel of the branch returns beneath my feet and finally I am again a part of reality, in the tree on the hill overlooking Feranvil Farm and the town centre.
‘Woah,’ I gasp, gingerly sitting down.
Jude sighs wistfully. ‘A great power, but it isn’t encouraged in Coldivor. Apparently, those who lost loved ones used it to escape reality, to bring the deceased back to life in a way and eventually lost their minds. Others used it in dangerous places, leading to fatal accidents.’
‘Like taking a step off a branch because you think it’s solid ground?’
‘Like that,’ he simpers. ‘I would have caught you though.’
‘Sure you would.’ I scoff. ‘So were you really flying?’
He shakes his head. ‘Gooshack is tricky. It blurs the lines. To me I was an Elentrice and I was flying, and because I made you see what I saw, to you I was flying. In reality, though, I was probably just jumping from branch to branch like a maniac.’
‘So, really, I probably would have ended up having to catch you.’ I grin.
He snorts. ‘Probably.’
Lexovia’s feet crunch over gravel as she steps under an archway and into the Courts entrance hall, surprised at how bright the room is in the daytime. The stone table in the centre of the room is bathed in sunlight streaking down from a low skylight and many of the court members are already sitting on sacks of sand around it. Lexovia recalls how the last time she was here they had all simply stood. Clearly, they are expecting today’s meeting to be much longer.
Nervously, she tucks a slightly longer strand of hair behind the point of her ear and goes to join the others. Though they always welcome her warmly as their honorary Court member, Lexovia cannot help but feel out of place. She is only here because of the empire she is from, not because she chooses to be and not because they have voted her in, like the others. She is, quite simply, the last Elentrice, the only one of her kind, and whether they like it or not, if they want Coldivor to survive, they have to work together.
Vladimir notices her and waves, patting the sack beside him. She smiles, relieved. Vladimir’s kindness never seems forced and his actions and words always appear genuine. Of all the court members, she feels most comfortable around him.
‘Hello, Lexovia.’
‘Hello,’ she replies, politely taking the seat beside him.
‘You look nervous,’ he says for her ears only. Lexovia notes that his beard is returning and his eyes are narrow from lack of sleep, his emerald cloak rumpled beneath him, the hem thick with mud from the night before.
‘You look homeless,’ she snaps and he laughs.
‘Sometimes I feel it.’ There is a brief pause before he again asks, ‘Are you nervous?’
‘No,’ but she replies too quickly, and he eyes her knowingly. ‘Yes,’ she admits, begrudgingly. ‘I feel like an imposter; I have no idea what I’m doing here or how I could possibly help.’
Vladimir snorts in amusement. ‘We are all imposters, pretending we have all the answers when we are no different from the rest of you.’
Lexovia is surprised. It is unheard of for a Court member to show humility.
‘Don’t look at me like that. You possess more power than all of us, Lexovia. If any of us should be nervous, it should be us.’
She smirks, liking the sound of that. Then a knock sounds, and with a wave of his hand, Vladimir causes the great oak doors to crumble away and everyone rises. They welcome in the excessively tall Mathew, the dw
arf George and a few other portologists from various empires, some carrying satchels and rolls of parchment under their arms.
They march in in practiced step as the hefty doors shimmer back into place behind them.
‘Thank you for coming,’ and Vladimir advances to meet them.
Mathew nods. ‘Thank you for inviting us.’ He signals a slight boy beside him, who rushes forward and pulls a pouch from his satchel, emptying its contents onto the table: gethamots, one whole and one split open to display its inner mechanism. There is not much inside, empty but for a small golden knob protected by a glass case on one side. Another portologist lays out a large diagram of the gethamot and a few sheets of notes.
‘This,’ Mathew points to the golden knob, ‘is the enchanted instrument that is activated when we tap the top screen of the gethamot. As a result, the water is converted to mist and the arrow forms. Here,’ he indicates the empty space around it, ‘is where the water goes. But every time we try it, it leads us to Islon. It is believed Tranzuta found a way to alter it, but as you see, we do not have much to build on.’
The Court and Lexovia eye the emptiness of the gethamot. Such a simple device should be powerful enough to travel realms?
Vladimir frowns. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘Do not think us impudent, Vladimir; I don’t believe there is a soul among us who wouldn’t love to see the Exlathars returned to Vedark, but we just cannot see how to make that happen.’
Vladimir clicks his tongue as he nods but says nothing.
‘What are our other options?’ Baxter asks.
‘I daresay we will leave that decision to you,’ Mathew says, smiling apologetically.
‘Perhaps we could lure them back to the Elentri burial ground,’ Amethyst suggests, ‘try to vanquish them again.’
‘They would not be foolish enough to follow,’ another member with shocking pink hair says.
‘Why not?’ Amethyst argues. ‘We still have Lexovia, and as long as we do, we are still a threat to them.’