The Heart of Two Worlds

by Anne Plichota

  And, as if to remind them, violent gusts of wind shook the walls of the house. A draught swirled in the chimney and stirred up clouds of glowing embers in the fireplace while outside the torrential rain seemed to have turned to heavy hail. The whole house creaked, lashed by the full fury of the elements, and they could hear tiles smashing to the ground. Suddenly the island was rocked by a tremor which seemed to come from the bowels of the Earth. The floor and the walls gave a terrible groan, as objects and paintings fell down around the occupants of the living room. They clung to each other, wide-eyed with terror. The tremor stopped just as suddenly as it had started, leaving wide cracks in the walls. Everyone was afraid, and even Orthon looked shaken. He took a deep breath, his steely gaze fixed on his twin. Then Reminiscens gently raised her Granok-Shooter. Mortimer’s motionless body rose into the air, carried by the Arborescens. The old woman skilfully guided him to Barbara and placed her son in front of her. Orthon shot her one last unreadable look—it was impossible to tell whether the fire in his eyes was fuelled by resentment or gratitude. With Barbara at his side, the Felon picked up his son and headed for the hall.

  “Wait, Orthon!” suddenly rang out a voice. “We need some help too.”

  Orthon turned round, as did all the Felons and the Runaways: drenched from head to toe, with the little Lunatrix at her side, Jeanne Bellanger was standing in the doorway of the living room.

  “GUS!” exclaimed Oksa at the sight of her lifeless friend slumped in his mother’s arms.

  His black hair hung down, revealing the deathly pallor of his face. Abakum hurried over to help Jeanne. He pushed back one of Gus’s eyelids and his face darkened. He turned to Orthon, who was looking quizzically at his potent adversary.

  “The antidote,” said Abakum simply.

  That word and Gus’s face distorted by pain were enough. The Felon’s lips curved into a cruel and triumphant smile.

  “With pleasure,” he murmured sweetly.

  20

  THE ANTIDOTE

  ORTHON AND HIS CLOSE ENTOURAGE—LUKAS, AGAFON, Gregor, Mercedica and Barbara—strode out into the huge gloomy hall, followed by Abakum, Gus’s parents, Dragomira, Naftali, Pavel and Oksa. When Reminiscens slowly made a move to follow them, Orthon thundered:

  “She stays here! I don’t want her anywhere near me!”

  “You’d better wait for us here, Reminiscens,” said Dragomira softly. “Keep an eye on our friends, we’re counting on you.”

  Reminiscens nodded and the small group filed out after the Felons.

  Finding the hall too gloomy for her liking, Dragomira lost no time in using her Granok-Shooter to produce a Polypharus, whose glowing tentacles filled the lofty space with light.

  “An eleven-tentacled Polypharus!” remarked Orthon with a whistle of admiration. “I didn’t know you had one of those, dear sister.”

  “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” retorted Dragomira.

  With a nervous snigger Orthon walked over to the elaborate wrought-iron railings of the staircase. Pressing his palm against a motif depicting a solar eclipse, he turned his wrist and the small door in the stairwell, mentioned earlier by the Tumble-Bawler, swung open to reveal another staircase illuminated by oil lamps. Orthon walked in and they all followed him in silence. The door closed again slowly, leaving just enough time for Tugdual and Zoe to slip inside behind them.

  “What are you doing here?” whispered Oksa, when she noticed them. “This is really dangerous!”

  “Surely you didn’t think we’d let you come in here without us, did you, Lil’ Gracious?” replied Tugdual, holding the baby Lunatrix in his arms.

  Oksa raised her eyes heavenwards then looked away so that her two friends didn’t realize how glad she was that they were there.

  “Come on, let’s find out what’s hidden in the Felons’ lair,” murmured Tugdual, leading the way.

  After walking down several flights of stairs, the two clans came to a wide corridor, lined with about ten doors, which seemed to lead into the depths of the island. The lights on the sandstone walls flickered and it was so stuffy that they struggled to catch their breath. However, just after the visitors appeared, a huge wall-mounted fan started up at the end of the corridor, bringing in salty sea air which immediately made it easier to breathe.

  “In here!” ordered Orthon, pushing open one of the doors.

  Everyone flocked in behind him and the door closed with the clatter of invisible locks. Looking around, the Runaways discovered they were in what seemed to be a giant laboratory. In pride of place in the middle of the room was an enormous still like Dragomira’s and the walls were lined with shelves of bottles, test tubes, flasks and demijohns of all shapes and sizes. Crates overflowing with rocks and crystals were stacked in the gloom at the back of the room. Orthon set his son down on a camp bed and rummaged around in a large cupboard, throwing half its contents on the floor. He took out a small bottle filled with golden-brown liquid. Looking curious, Dragomira came closer.

  “It’s a brew of my own making,” said Orthon, answering her unspoken question. “Spring water from Yellowstone National Park in which I’ve soaked malachite to absorb pain, a sliver of Madagascan labradorite to combat tiredness and a fragment of Saragossan aragonite to mend broken bones. Plus another key ingredient, but you’ll forgive me if I keep the nature of that a secret…”

  Saying this, he leant down and poured a few drops into Mortimer’s half-open mouth. A few seconds later, Mortimer raised his head and looked around with wide eyes. When he saw Dragomira and Pavel, he recoiled and curled up in a ball on his bed. Barbara immediately put her arms around him reassuringly. He groaned in pain.

  “A few more drops,” said Orthon, holding out the little bottle.

  Mortimer drank obediently, his eyes fixed on Zoe, then stretched with the obvious satisfaction of someone who’s regained their former strength and vigour. He jumped up from the bed with feline grace, his face still badly bruised, surprising the Runaways with his speedy recovery.

  “Stones have fascinating powers, don’t they?” said Orthon.

  “As do plants,” replied Dragomira, irritated by his smug expression.

  “If that’s the case, dear sister, why don’t you cure that poor lad yourself?” he said sarcastically, looking at Gus.

  Although she was dumbfounded by his arrogance, Dragomira managed to restrain herself.

  “Gus’s condition is your fault,” she said, as neutrally as possible, “and we know you have an antidote. You heard the Ageless Fairy: we’re running out of time, so why on earth would I waste valuable hours concocting a remedy you already possess? And, just in case you’re tempted to resort to blackmail, remember that you’d permanently endanger the future of the two worlds and, by extension, your own.”

  “Oh Dragomira, my dear Dragomira,” sighed Orthon. “Impatience is making you foolish. How could you think I’d be so irresponsible?”

  “How indeed,” remarked Dragomira.

  She bent over Gus, who was lying on another camp bed. His parents and Abakum had sat down on stools nearby. Jeanne was holding his hand and gazing fixedly at him, while the baby Lunatrix had climbed onto the bed and had curled up next to him.

  “Would you care to tell us what’s happening to him?” asked Dragomira, swallowing her choking anger.

  “It’s very simple,” replied Orthon, sounding nauseatingly gleeful. “The poison from my pet Chiropterans is spreading through his veins. Their venom makes the body particularly receptive to all ultrasonic and infrasonic sounds produced by man, nature or machine. It’s pretty formidable, I have to admit—it inspired the CIA to perfect a new generation of lethal weapons. Your little protégé is in so much pain that he preferred to lose consciousness.”

  “Preferred?” shouted Pierre, glaring daggers at Orthon.

  “Give him the antidote!” ordered Dragomira. “Right now!”

  Orthon sniggered evilly.

  “Everything is so black and white with you, my
dear sister! Do you really think I’d have created such a simplistic process? Not a chance… your young protégé is sliding inexorably towards death.”

  “NO!” screamed Oksa.

  Jeanne buried her face in her hands and dissolved into tears, while Pierre crumpled in despair.

  “Yes!” continued Orthon, relishing the effect he was having on them. “Unless, of course, I deign to do something…”

  “You promised!” broke in Oksa furiously.

  “I did, which is why I’m letting you choose between two solutions.”

  “You’re so magnanimous,” hissed Pavel.

  “The first solution is for your protégé to continue to suffer throughout adolescence, alternating between periods of unconsciousness and unbearable pain. After reaching puberty, he’ll die.”

  “You call that a solution?” snapped Dragomira.

  “The second solution is for your protégé to be given a blood transfusion to allow his metabolism to assimilate the antidote. This antidote will allow him to avoid puberty, which is when the poison reaches its maximum effectiveness. That’s a much better outcome, isn’t it?”

  The Runaways were speechless. They weren’t sure how this second solution worked or what the possible implications were.

  “I sense you’re dubious,” continued Orthon, more confident than ever. “What I’m suggesting is nothing less than a simple choice between life and death!”

  “You’re crazy,” said Dragomira.

  “Knowing you, I suppose the generous blood donor would have to be a Werewall,” remarked Abakum hoarsely.

  Orthon turned to him with narrowed eyes.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your powers of deduction, I see,” he said, congratulating the old man mockingly.

  “So it was true…” murmured Abakum.

  “What was true, Abakum?” Oksa couldn’t help asking.

  21

  A SHAMEFUL PAY-OFF

  THE FAIRYMAN TORE HIS GAZE AWAY FROM ORTHON AND turned to Oksa and the Runaways.

  “There were rumours in Edefia that the Werewalls had perfected a terrible weapon to force leading scientists to join their Secret Society. It was much more sophisticated than hostage-taking and involved targeting their poor children, who were bitten by a Chiropteran. The venom spread through their bodies, but remained inactive until they hit adolescence. The pain then grew so bad that the inevitable outcome was death. However, the Werewalls had a secret antidote which temporarily speeded up the ageing process during puberty, ensuring that the infected child would miss their teenage years and thereby avoid all that pointless suffering. However, there was an extortionate price to pay: both the parents and their children had to become Werewalls which, as you all know, had serious consequences.”

  “Come now, there are many advantages to being a Werewall,” said Orthon quietly.

  “Indeed,” agreed Abakum bitterly, “but at what cost? Handing over other people’s love to the Diaphans. That hideous sacrifice was the worst scandal ever to hit Edefia.”

  The Fairyman turned back to his friends:

  “For years, the Werewalls coerced scientists into joining them by holding the power of life or death over their children.”

  “That’s repulsive,” muttered Dragomira.

  “Why does Gus have to be given a Werewall’s blood?” whispered Oksa.

  “Because the antidote only works on Werewalls, little fool!” mocked Orthon.

  “Why would you do that, Orthon? Why would you create something so vile?” asked Dragomira, her hand pressed to her heart.

  “Adolescence is hardly the most enjoyable time in a person’s life,” replied the Felon coldly. “It’s a period of humiliation and degradation.”

  “Not everyone feels that way!” retorted Abakum. “You might have been unhappy, but your own hang-ups can’t justify such barbaric behaviour. Anyway, you didn’t invent that nauseating process as you claim—your ancestor Temistocles did. All you’re doing is exploiting your ancestor’s invention with unnatural zeal.”

  The Felon’s face set in an expression of annoyance as Abakum’s barb hit home.

  “Whatever the case, I’m the only one who has the antidote to save your protégé!” he sneered nastily. “I’m the only chance you’ve got.”

  Pierre and Jeanne looked imploringly at Abakum and Dragomira, silently pleading with them not to provoke Orthon further. Gus’s life was in his hands and everyone sensed that things could very easily take a turn for the worse.

  “If you prefer, there is a third solution,” continued Orthon in a hard voice. “There are two draughts of the antidote: I have one here, in this room, and one is locked in a safe in the crystal cave where I used to live with my father in the Peak Ridge mountains. So if you can’t bear to accept my help, then bring the boy to Edefia and give him the second infusion there. You should be aware, though, that he’ll still have to have the transfusion of Werewall blood and he’ll have to survive the agony caused by my Chiropterans. After all, he’s just an Outsider, so he doesn’t have our strong constitution.”

  He sniggered mockingly.

  “Let’s stop wasting time!” broke in Pierre icily. “If I understand you correctly, a Werewall has to donate his blood to Gus so that he can absorb the antidote. That will stop the pain but, in exchange, Gus will age a couple of years.”

  “Two or three at the most,” agreed Orthon, with an airy wave of his bony hand.

  “But how can an Outsider become a Werewall?” asked Oksa incredulously.

  Orthon’s face lit up with a treacherous smile.

  “That’s my brilliant great-niece!” he exclaimed. “An Outsider, like an Insider, can only become a Werewall after drinking the Werewall Elixir.”

  “That vile concoction made from Diaphan snot?” Oksa couldn’t help exclaiming.

  Orthon looked at her in amazement, then nodded grimly.

  “I don’t know where you get your information, but you’re right. Blood won’t be enough for the boy. It will keep him in remission until the elixir consolidates his new ‘constitution’.”

  “You’re bluffing!” raged Naftali. “Blood is enough!”

  “What do you know about any of this?” asked Orthon, looking him up and down.

  “I never had to drink that diabolical elixir to become a Werewall,” said the towering Swede. “I inherited the gene from my mother’s blood when she was pregnant with me.”

  Orthon gave a sudden cackle of laughter, which echoed sinisterly around the locked room.

  “Poor Naftali,” he sighed. “Your mother was an excellent chemist, but so weak-minded… you’d certainly have been a Werewall by blood if she’d been one before she was pregnant! Didn’t she ever tell you that you were born long before she became a Werewall? Didn’t you know you were just a Firmhand when you were born? It was your mother who gave you the elixir that would turn you permanently into a Werewall. At my father’s kind suggestion, of course…”

  Naftali blanched and staggered with the shock. Abakum put an arm around his shoulder for moral support.

  “She found it so hard to come to terms with her weakness,” continued Orthon ironically. “And she had so many scruples, so much guilt! She didn’t give him any choice.”

  “You mean Ocious threatened my mother?” spluttered Naftali. “He forced her to join the Werewalls?”

  “Yes, and it’s thanks to him that you’re a man of rare strength! You should be grateful to him instead of looking so disgusted.”

  This was all too much for Naftali to take on board. The proud, sturdy Swede slumped, devastated.

  “None of that matters now,” Abakum murmured to his shocked friend.

  “Anyway, my dear Naftali, coming back to your earlier remark, blood is certainly vital, but your protégé needs more than that if he’s to become a Werewall. He’ll only be safe after he drinks the Werewall Elixir.”

  “So what are you waiting for?” shouted Oksa, losing her temper.

  Orthon raised his eyes heavenwards, be
fore fixing her with an exasperated yet gleeful stare.

  “Has anyone seen a Diaphan around here?” he asked the assembled Felons. “And does anyone by any chance have a fragment of Luminescent Stone from the Peak Ridge mountains which we could use to make the elixir?”

  The Felons shook their heads.

  “Our Young Gracious, who seems to know such a lot about the Werewall Elixir, will surely able to confirm it: no Luminescent Stone and no Diaphan, means no elixir. Isn’t that right, Young Gracious?”

  “Gus will only be out of danger once he’s drunk that vile potion,” said Oksa quietly, her heart pounding as she followed the argument to its logical conclusion. “Or rather once someone has sacrificed every last ounce of romantic love and fed it to a Diaphan…”

  Orthon’s eyes filled with ancient cruelty as they bored into her, then he gave a derisive hoot of laughter.

  22

  CONTROVERSIAL HELP

  THE RUNAWAYS TRIED TO THINK THINGS THROUGH AS dispassionately as possible. They looked anxiously at Gus, whose waxy complexion gave his face the appearance of a death mask as he lay on his camp bed. Ignored by the adults, Zoe wrung her hands in despair. Oksa was compulsively biting her nails, unable to stop her whole body from shaking.

  “We have to say yes,” she stammered.

  Gus’s parents exchanged a few words with Dragomira and Abakum, and their decision had a ring of finality about it.

  “We agree,” announced Abakum stiffly. “On one condition: that one of us—a Werewall Runaway—is the blood donor.”

  Orthon tilted his head to one side, looking surprised and amused.

  “Do you think you’re in a position to negotiate?” he growled. A heart-rending cry cut through the talk: Gus had just regained consciousness. He was writhing in pain on the narrow bed, his face contorted and his body bucking, as he was attacked by the venom. His parents were doing their best to stop him from getting up, but his strength seemed to have increased tenfold. He leapt to his feet and savagely scratched Jeanne’s hand. He was behaving so aggressively that they all stepped back, concerned that Gus’s condition was making him uncontrollable. Abakum was the only one who dared to approach him: unafraid of being scratched or bitten, he seized him securely by the waist and murmured a mysterious string of words in his ear, watched appreciatively by Orthon.