At Water's Edge_An Epic Fantasy

by S McPherson

  ‘I have?’ Groggily, I clamber out of bed and towards the door as the officer unlocks it.

  ‘Remember what I told you: Feranvil Farm,’ Imogen whispers.

  I nod. ‘I’ll find a way to get you out,’ I murmur. She raises a sceptical brow, clearly unconvinced.

  I’m blinking incessantly as I step into the florescent lights of the reception area, shocked to see Drake standing there with a policeman.

  ‘You came for me?’ I gasp in disbelief.

  ‘Why would I do anything else?’ Drake unexpectedly wraps an arm around my shoulders, his expression loving as we stroll from the building.

  ‘I thought you would rather have left me in here.’

  ‘We’ll talk at home,’ he murmurs, squeezing me just a little too tightly as he waves to a passing cop.

  We arrive at the car in silence, my stomach tangled in knots. I’m sure, once we’re inside, Drake will let me have it, a threatening lecture and a sound blow to the gut, but he simply plunges the key into the ignition and drives away.

  We round a corner onto a narrow road, out of sight of the police station, and the whole world for that matter. I hold my breath. Drake delights in any excuse to clobber me and this one is outstanding. We pull in behind a parked car and I flinch as he leans across me and yanks open the glove compartment. My eyes glaze over, cold sweat teeters on my brow. He pulls something out; a cable. My heart flips.

  He’s going to strangle me.

  Without words, he sits upright once again, inserting one end of the wire into his phone and the other into the stereo before continuing to drive.

  We aren’t far from the house now and I can hardly breathe. I’m almost desperate for him to yell something hateful and ram the car into the side of a building or off a bridge. I have no idea how much more anticipation I can take.

  THE RESCUE

  Coldivor is bitter cold this morning, the ground treacherous with sludge after the nights rain. The day though, is bright, no clouds in the purple-shaded sky nor layers of ice on the dusty ground. Lexovia blows into her hands and stamps her feet as she and Milo trundle through the winding paths of the school, until at last reaching their classroom and pushing open the door.

  ‘You’re late,’ Mr Bramble scolds as Lexovia and Milo stroll in, though he’s not even a little surprised. It wouldn’t be an ordinary day in Melaxous if those two actually showed up on time.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir.’ Lexovia curtsies sarcastically and saunters to her desk in the back of the room.

  ‘Sorry.’ Milo nods and follows after her.

  ‘Good morning, Milo.’ Patrice Middleorf, a blonde, curly haired dwarf bats her eyelashes as he walks past her desk.

  ‘Hello, Patrice.’ Milo nods back.

  Lexovia shakes her head. It always amuses her how girls fawn over Milo and his endearing blue eyes.

  ‘Hello, Patrice,’ she calls, loud enough for Patrice to flush and turn away.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Mr Bramble returns to addressing the entire class, ‘today we are conducting an independent experiment which will make up twenty per cent of your final grade.’ A chorus of groans sound throughout the classroom.

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ Yvane Mace grumbles from beside Milo, raking her fingers through her black curls; the one lock of red coiling around her finger.

  ‘Take out your manuscripts and turn to page three-seven-five please,’ Mr Bramble continues.

  ‘Now I remember why we rarely attend Potions,’ Lexovia murmurs as she takes her ‘Potions in Motion’ textbook from under her desk.

  ‘What are you complaining about?’ Yvane cries. ‘You’re a natural at these things.’

  ‘No speaking,’ Mr Bramble warns.

  ‘There is nothing natural about deciding someone’s future and capabilities in life...’

  ‘Based on the result of a thirty-minute test,’ Milo finishes for her.

  Lexovia frowns. ‘Did you just mindle me?’

  ‘No.’ Milo chuckles, ‘I just knew what you were going to say. You’re that predictable.’

  ‘What’s mindle again?’ Yvane queries, idly flipping through her textbook.

  ‘Mind reading.’

  ‘No speaking!’ Mr Bramble snaps. He’s extremely tall; a Travisor, and easily glares over the heads of the other students, at the three of them in the back row.

  ‘Sorry,’ they each mumble and try to appear so.

  ‘Now, using the guidelines in the book, I would like each of you to develop a Revergra from the following ingredients.’ Mr Bramble waves his fingers and a collection of vials, gurgling pots, burners, odd-looking tinkering appliances with abnormal lumps, curves or flicks here and there, pipettes, funnels and so on, appear on each desk. ‘For those of you who do not recall, a Revergra is the contraption Dreldaras use to capture dreams. You may feel it is somewhat advanced for you but you should have no trouble if you have been revising the pages, which I trust you have.’

  ‘Clearly he trusts too soon.’ Milo furrows his brow as he tries to make sense of what he is reading and the materials set in front of him.

  ‘Here he stands; the definition of gullible.’

  ‘SILENCE!’

  ‘Time’s up,’ Mr Bramble announces exactly thirty minutes later. The classroom is in a state. Objects resembling butterfly nets, flutes, twirling rope, green gloop and even animal parts – who knows what book they were reading – are strewn about and draped from the now broken ceiling fans.

  Each student is a lot more frazzled than they were at the start of the lesson. Some hair stands on end whilst others have theirs falling out. Some are missing eyebrows or random pieces of clothing and some have entire outfits sizzling away. Several have even lost certain body parts whilst naturally others have gained the odd limb or two.

  Lexovia and Belair Tinsk, as expected, are the only two who have managed to concoct the perfect Revergra. Lexovia glances across at Milo who is missing a finger and whose shirt is now on back to front.

  ‘I think I failed,’ he notes, mockingly mourning the loss of his index finger. ‘I’ll never practice magic again.’

  Lexovia giggles.

  ‘That is terrible, Ms Bole.’ Mr Bramble tut-tuts as he wanders around the room, judging the results of their experiments. ‘Were you trying to do this with your feet, Mr Hardy?’ he asks Neil Hardy who now has two heads and is looking doubly traumatized.

  ‘Does he honestly think he’s funny?’ Lexovia scoffs.

  ‘I imagine he does, mate.’ Milo nods.

  ‘Oh my! Do you even know how to spell your own name, Ms Char?’ Wandering on, Mr Bramble beams at Belair’s result. Standing on her desk is a winding glass jar, wide at the mouth and narrowing to a point at the base with a series of vibrant colours dancing inside it, occasionally leaping out and curling around, as if trying to grab something.

  ‘Now, this is pleasing,’ Mr Bramble announces. ‘This is what a Revergra is supposed to look like, and as you see, none of your inventions even...’ Mr Bramble freezes, midsentence, the rest of the class following suit. Lexovia smiles at her sparking index finger. She is sure to get detention for this but, what else is new? She walks past Mr Bramble, half tempted to stand on her tiptoes and blacken his teeth with the writing stick he so loves pointing at people.

  An amber spark shoots from her fingertip once more and she places it on Milo. Immediately, he is unfrozen.

  He smirks knowingly.

  ‘I’ve had about all I can take of this.’ Lexovia grabs her rucksack and leaves the class. Milo close behind.

  Lexovia blinks, then blinks again.

  Where am I? she wonders, studying her surroundings.

  The last thing she remembers is leaving Mr Brambles class with Milo, but now she is in a lounge, a lounge of a house she has never visited before. A grandfather clock beside the fireplace chimes six.

  A timepiece? With genuine numbers? She creases her forehead. Lexovia knows what a clock is. She studied all about them in Humanitorium but has never
known anyone to have one in their home. Everyone in Coldivor has an innate clock; able to time something to the exact millisecond if they like. She peers closer.

  The sound of glass smashing startles her and Lexovia follows the noise towards the kitchen. The smashing glass is followed by the sound of a chair or stool grating along the floor, then what resembles footsteps – heavy ones – perhaps two sets in fact, chasing one another.

  Lexovia is about to edge her way in when the sound of an anguished cry stops her, her hand hovering over the doorknob. There’s another muffled cry and sucking in a breath, Lexovia pushes her way in. Her hands abruptly fly over her mouth, her knees feel weak, her throat tight.

  Lexovia sees herself; bleeding, panicked, and running, longer haired and seemingly powerless but definitely her. A man, slightly older, chases her around the kitchen, grabbing anything he can and hurling it at her. In the brief moments, he catches up, his arms and legs flail as he desperately tries to cause as much physical pain as possible but the girl is wiry, wrestling out of his hold and scrambling out of reach.

  ‘You could have just left me in prison, Drake!’ Lexovia hears her other-self snap.

  What’s going on? Lexovia steps further into the room, her body cold, heart stammering. Is this some new type of premonition where I’m able to see myself? And who is Drake? How did I get here?

  ‘You don’t deserve to get off that easy,’ bellows Drake, grabbing a can of something called Heineken from the breakfast bar and taking a swig. Lexovia watches as the girl clutches the stitch in her side, panting and edging towards the back door. ‘Oh no, you don’t.’

  As if the drink granted him newfound strength, Drake bounds after her. He pulls on her hair causing her neck to crick, and with fervour, bashes her head into the glass door. The first time nothing happens. The girl is a little dazed but on the whole okay. The second time, though, blood trickles from her nose, a gash forms on her head and the sliding door cracks. Lexovia is horror-struck, no longer convinced this is a premonition.

  Letting go of her hair, Drake watches as the girl – Lexovia no longer wishes to believe is her – slides down the window, leaving a smear of blood. He turns and hitches up one of the sturdy bar stools, bringing it above his head. Spying his reflection in the window, the girl rolls, screaming just as he brings it smashing down beside her.

  Unable to control herself, Lexovia screams too. Drake jumps, as if a boiling poker has been stuffed up his backside, and stares in her direction.

  He can hear me?

  ‘Leave her alone,’ Lexovia barks. Drake’s eyes widen; he stares questioningly. Shaking slightly, he kicks aside the stool.

  He can hear me.

  He slowly walks over to where Lexovia stands, his breath rancid and his eyes bloodshot and somewhat crossed, no doubt due to the large amount of alcohol he seems almost to have bathed in. He waves his hands but they simply pass through her; Lexovia lets out a sigh of relief. Glancing over his shoulder, she notices her lookalike stretching up towards the lock of the door but the pain cripples her. Lexovia sighs. She wishes she could do more for the girl but she seems to be little more than an apparition.

  ‘Nice trick,’ Drake booms, turning back towards the girl. ‘You a practicing ventriloquist or somethin’?’

  He staggers back over to her after taking another hearty swig of his drink.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ His smile is sinister as he drags her partially up by the scruff of her neck. She grunts and tugs but his hold is firm. Mucus, blood and tears stain her face and sweat creeps into her eyes. ‘I am going to put you out of your misery.’ Drake reveals a knife, a large black handled butcher’s knife, and holds it to her throat.

  ‘Diliatrarm,’ Lexovia screams doubting it will lead to anything. But the knife spirals from the man’s grasp and into the farthest wall. Lexovia gapes down at her hands, her fingers flickering amber.

  ‘What the...’

  ‘Oruvee.’ Flinging her arm, Lexovia causes the back door to slide open. ‘Exlarvus.’ Tossing her entire body weight into the hurling of her arms, Lexovia sends the drunkard spinning across the breakfast bar, knocking his drink to the ground – he won’t be happy about that. Drake tumbles over one of the stools before ultimately smashing into the fridge and falling unconscious. Lexovia’s panting. She is definitely not here just to watch.

  Lexovia gasps as she tumbles into darkness, wrenched away and hauled backwards, out of the unfamiliar house. She tries to see the girl; to make sure that she escaped, but the sounds of the scene are fading and the smell of antiseptic stings her nostrils.

  ‘Ms Trice?’

  Lexovia jumps at the sound of the nurse’s voice and her eyes flicker open. Looking around, she realises she is now in the doctor’s ward of her school. Milo, Yvane and Howard – her muscular blonde friend – all sit by her bed.

  ‘What...what happened?’ she stammers.

  ‘You fainted, dear,’ the nurse tells her.

  ‘Passed out in the corridor,’ Howard explains. ‘No one could wake you.’

  ‘You alright?’ Milo asks.

  Lexovia nods, her brow crumpled. ‘I think I just saved a life.’

  After quick observation and a series of tests in the doctor’s office, Lexovia is finally released and the four of them make their way to the field for Syndigo practice, Howard and Milo going merely to ogle the ladies.

  ‘What do you mean it was you but not you?’ Howard asks, confused.

  ‘It was me but not me,’ Lexovia repeats. ‘For one thing, I was able to see myself; an ordinary premonition is usually from my point of view. You know, you’re a Premoniter.’ She addresses Yvane who nods in agreement. ‘And the hair: it was brown, half way down her back. Not to mention they could hear me.’

  ‘They could hear you?’ Milo asks, intrigued. ‘Could they see you?’

  Lexovia shakes her head. ‘But my powers affected them.’

  ‘It sounds like an O.B.E.,’ Milo murmurs. Noticing their blank expressions, he elaborates: ‘Out of body experience. We covered them in Dimensionals.’ The three of them continue to look vacant since none of them have Dimensionals on their curriculum.

  ‘O.B.E.’s can only occur between a Coltis and their Corporeal counterpart when one truly requires the other,’ Milo explains.

  ‘You mean, whilst you lot have been working on a gethamot to take us to the Corporeal dimension, I was actually there?’ Lexovia remembers the clock, the telephone and other Corporeal appliances in the kitchen.

  ‘A part of you was, yes.’ Milo nods. ‘And it sounds like you saved your counterpart.’

  RUN

  I run. Don’t ask me how, but looking only ahead, I keep running. The pain is excruciating and often slows me down but the adrenaline and burning desire to be as far away as possible by the time he wakes up keep me running. I go over the events in my mind. One minute my pitiful life is about to flash before my eyes and the next my brother – by blood and by no other sense of the word – is about five feet in the air, skidding across the kitchen like one of those spinning table top toys. And the door I’m certain is locked suddenly slides open – by itself. Whatever did happen I’m grateful, I only wish the miracle had continued long enough to heal my injuries.

  Somehow, with the door open and Drake unconscious, I crawled into the garden, scraping myself on thorns and getting tangled in vines. I had no idea where I was headed, just knew it had to be far away.

  Hearing Drake stir, I’d needed no further encouragement. Yanking myself up with the aid of a garden gnome, I pelted for our garden gate and haven’t stopped running. Until now. I’m right by Beatrice brook; underneath a broken street lamp. Maybe it’s the beauty of the water, or my despair that the portal isn’t here, but I break down. Tears gush from me like a flushing toilet and I quite appropriately feel like the waste you put in one.

  Sprawled on my back, not fully able to breathe, I allow ants and other insects to crawl over me. A frog hops onto my forehead and regurgitates. I close my eyes and soak in
its heat. And then, drip by drip, rain slowly starts to fall, washing away the only warmth I have felt in a long time. The fact that the loss of frog vomit upsets me saddens me even more. I’ve reached a new low and I can’t get any lower unless I dig my own grave.

  ‘Cheers.’ I salute the passing bum who has kindly tossed me a bottle of whiskey. I’m not sure how long I’ve been lying here but the rain has come and gone in small and large bursts until eventually stopping altogether, and the moon has risen higher in the sky. By my guess, it’s been a few hours and I’m pretty certain I was unconscious for most of them.

  ‘Look like you need it kid,’ he grumbles as he pushes his trolley out of sight. It’s not easy to will my hand to open the bottle but the promise I make that I’ll feel a lot better once I do – at least the pain will stop if I pass out – seems to help.

  At last, I unscrew the lid and, though spill a good amount down my front, I manage to get a large mouthful down my throat. The potent taste, mixed with the sensation of gulping liquid fire and of course the lying on my back to swallow, causes me to choke uncontrollably. Once my face is as red as it can be, though, and the tears have stopped streaming down my cheeks, I force myself to continue.

  Bottoms up...

  JOURNEY TO THE OTHER SIDE

  Coldivor is silent save for the sounds of four pairs of boots tramping across dry sand and brittle twigs. The air is colder than it was in the day and Lexovia tugs on her gloves.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Yvane asks, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders, glancing warily around as they skulk across the empty land; the heavy moon and glowing golden stars lighting their way. ‘Going to the land of the Corporeal?’

  Lexovia grimaces, feeling both Milo’s and Howard’s gazes shift to her. She isn’t sure about this. She isn’t sure of anything but the memory of that girl, her counterpart, struggling to get away from a man called Drake.