by Patricia Bow
It was all amazingly chirpy. All too clearly, her mother was having a great time building a water-treatment plant in the mountains of Peru and not feeling a bit guilty about dumping her daughter in dull little Dunstone for six whole months. They’d flown back for her thirteenth birthday in April, but had only stayed two days.
Amelia hit reply. She typed: “Since you ask, Silken has dropped me. We wrote a lot at first but after a couple of months she stopped. Too busy, I guess. Short attention span, maybe.”
Then she gnawed on her lip, deleted all that, and typed: “Hurry home, I really miss you guys. Love, Amelia.” She hit send, logged off, and closed the laptop.
When she finished eating she went and lay on her back on the parapet — it was plenty wide enough — and stared up into the sky. Mara. She’d learned a lot from her. Like how to fake brave and happy when you weren’t really. That had helped a lot, these last six months, especially after Silken stopped writing.
Some best friend! Not like Mara. Mara was forever. Even if she was all grown up now and not so much fun.
The sun set, the sky turned gold and green at the horizon and blue, blue, blue at the zenith. Amelia gazed until she felt as if she was falling up. Up and up into that rich and piercing blue. Until the blue was all through her, and she was part of the sky, like a transparent fish in the sea.
When the sky grew black she sat up, crossed her legs, and looked out over the gorge and the south half of Dunstone. In all that darkness splotched with golden light, where was Pier?
She heard Simon coming while he was still on the stairs. The wooden steps creaked, then the door hinges squealed, and then gravel crunched under his feet. He stopped behind her right shoulder.
“Celeste says it’s late. Time for bed.”
“I’ll be right down.” She waited for him to go away.
“You’re on the parapet again. You shouldn’t be there.”
“I won’t fall off.”
“Just remember you’re not like Mara. You can’t fly. Okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Simon edged closer to the parapet and bent to peer. “Is that stained-glass window gone?”
“See for yourself.”
He squinted. “Can’t see.”
“It’s still there. I’ve been watching them work on it. They’ll have it out sometime tomorrow, I bet.”
“And then nothing will be left but an empty space. I wonder if the gate to Mythrin will still be there. How is Pier going to get back?”
“Maybe she won’t. Maybe that’s a good thing.”
“What? But —”
She spun around, cross-legged. “Careful!” Simon anxiously grabbed her shoulder.
Amelia swatted his hand away. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?”
“Figured wha—”
“This Prism thing she’s looking for. She’s going to use it to kill all the dragons!”
He stared, then laughed. “Don’t be silly! Pier doesn’t want to —”
“Oh, yeah? Mara says she does. And I — I felt something in Pier’s mind.”
“Felt? In her mind?”
She spun back again. “Something … terrible,” she said to the scattered lights below. “I’m pretty sure it’s this Prism.”
“But Pier doesn’t know what it does.” Simon put on his most patient voice, the one that drove her crazy. “She just hopes it’ll help them find the right door. So they can get to a place of their own.”
“I think she’s lying. What did she tell you about this thing?”
“Um … let me think.”
She looked back over her shoulder. Simon was scowling horribly and rubbing his head above his ears with both hands, as if it hurt. “They told me the story, how Wayland Smith —remember him? — how he made the Prism, how Wyrm stole it and hid it. Seems he hid it here, on this Earth. A zillion years ago. At first I thought it was just a story.”
“Okay, but what was this Prism thing for?”
“How did it go?” He dropped his hands and looked at her. “This will be a sword in the heart for my brother … and an opener of doors he, um, can never close, and, uh … a riddle he will never be able to answer.”
“A sword in the heart.”
“It probably doesn’t mean a real sword.”
“Whatever it is, Mara says it’s too dangerous. We can’t let Pier have it.”
Silence behind her. She spun around again. Simon was shaking his head slowly.
“What?”
“So, you’ll just let the dragons kill them?”
“Of course not! Mara wouldn’t —”
“You sure?”
She hated it when he cut her off. She opened her mouth to snap, then closed it again.
“You’re not sure,” he said. “Not absolutely. Not one hundred percent.”
Amelia got up off the parapet and headed for the stairwell, grabbing her laptop from the table in passing, since it was obvious he wasn’t going to leave her in peace.
“Think of that baby!” he called after her. She pretended she couldn’t hear him.
Pier woke. It was night, but pinkish light hazed the sky. Wayland’s Prism shone brighter in her mind. It pulled. She looked at the sky and thought: North. That’s where it is. Tomorrow I go north. She curled up again and drifted back towards sleep.
Blue light glowed through her eyelids. She got up on one elbow and peered out of her hidey-hole. Across the ravine stood that building, the one where the gate was. The light was coming from there.
The arch of the window glowed with sapphire light. Then it faded, leaving a blacker-than-black hole in the night. Somebody had gone through the gate. But who? That girl Amelia, back to her dragon friends? Good! Glad to see the back of her!
Or no, wait. Maybe somebody came through the gate. Not one of the Casseri, because she was their only seeker. Nobody else knew how. So that meant …
Pier curled up smaller in the niche and wove another layer in her baffle spell. She sank back into sleep. When the window flared again two minutes later, she thought she was dreaming.
CHAPTER 9
HIDING
“Hit the road, Hammer! Move it! Move it!”
“But …,” Simon mumbled. “I’m so … It’s too ….” He slitted his eyes against bright sunlight. A dark shape stood over him.
“Up and at ’em, Hammer!” It was a good imitation of Mr. Upton, their gym teacher, only the voice was two octaves too high.
“What are you doing in here? What time is it?” Simon rolled over to see his clock radio. Seven fifty-five. His body was begging him for another couple of hours’ sleep.
“Celeste let me in. She says you’re not grounded anymore.” Ike sat down at Simon’s desk and picked up a Rubik’s Cube. “And it’s late. Games begin in just over an hour. We’ll need time to sign in and get the program.” He started twisting the layers of coloured squares.
“You will. Not me. I have to find Pier. Unless the police have already.”
“Celeste says no, they haven’t. And I’ve figured out why.” Ike kept on twisting.
“Okay, why?” Simon closed his eyes again.
“Because if she’s so stuck on finding this Prism thing, she wouldn’t wait around in Dunstone, would she? She’d be miles away by now. Seeking.”
“Unless it’s around here somewhere.”
“But what are the odds?”
“Who knows?” Simon lurched out of bed. “Don’t get that all mixed up again!”
He thumped along the hall to the bathroom. On the way he spotted Amelia in the kitchen and stopped short in astonishment. Ammy was never up before nine unless it was a school day. And until she’d been up and about for an hour, she usually looked and moved like a zombie. Yet here she was — in a new red T-shirt with glittery things on it and crisp white shorts — sitting at the kitchen table slathering butter on toast. She looked up and sent him a grin and a wave.
Ten minutes later they left the apartment together. Amelia strolled, hands in pockets.
Ike bounced along, talking non-stop about parallel universes, and how Pier and the Casseri were proof of that, “only it’s really more of a ‘Y’ shape, right? ’Cause obviously Pier’s Earth and our Earth started out as the same place. I mean, we both have the Adam and Eve story, and Wayland Smith, too. And later they split.”
“Right,” Simon said. “Probably when —”
“When Wyrm hid Wayland’s Prism, right? That’s why our Earth has this Prism — and who knows, maybe that’s why our dragons left, but on Pier’s Earth they stayed.”
“That would make sense.” Simon crunched a slice of toast and peanut butter as he glanced down alleyways and inside coffee shop windows for any sign of Pier. “It’s not proof, though.”
“You two,” Amelia said, “are such geeks.”
They headed west towards the high school track field, because that was where the Weird Games were to take place, and Ike wanted to go that way. Simon couldn’t think of a reason why not. Ike was probably right: Pier could be anywhere. He’d just have to keep his eyes and ears open.
At the corner of Dunning and King, they stopped for a red light. “Look!” Ike pointed south. A flat-bed truck carrying a big bulldozer was crossing the bridge towards the library. “Few more hours and down it goes.”
“And the window will be gone,” Amelia said. “And the gate.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Simon said. “Maybe the gate’ll be there and we won’t see it. It may not matter if there’s glass or a window frame there. Maybe they were just there for, you know, markers.”
“But even if it’s still there, how would you reach it? An invisible gate way up in the air — what, twelve feet? Fourteen feet?”
“Really tall step ladder.” Ike danced from foot to foot, waiting for the light to go green, then jogged across the road. “But, you know what? Think about it! That makes two gates, right? Two in Dunstone, really close together: the one in the cave and the one in the library. Both right on the gorge. That can’t be just chance. D’you know what it means?”
“Of course I do,” Simon said. “It probably means Earth is a world like Mythrin —”
“A hub world! Right! A kind of Union Station, with gates to all kinds of worlds all over. That means —”
“— there are more doors,” Amelia cut in. Her eyes flicked back and forth across the street. “In fact, Mara said it. ‘There are other doors,’ she said.”
“I wonder,” Ike said excitedly, “where all those other windows in that building on Mythrin lead to? More Earths? Each one different? I wonder if all our stories about monsters and elves and trolls and stuff are all true on other worlds? I wonder —”
“Shut up!” Amelia suddenly veered across King Street.
And there she was. Pier. Sitting at one of the little round iron tables outside Stendhal’s Café, which Simon had never been in because Celeste said they charged an arm and a leg for tiny cups of bitter coffee with fancy names.
Pier was drinking milk from a glass mug and holding a buttered blueberry muffin in the other hand. She didn’t look like the usual Stendhal’s customer. Her baggy clothes were dirtier and more ragged than ever. She looked as if she’d been lying on the ground all night. Only her face and hands were clean.
She was frowning. Her gaze was glued to a bank of televisions in the window of the electronics shop next door. The TVs were on and all showed fiery scenes of war from the Middle East.
“Where’ve you been?” Simon demanded. “Are you all right?”
Pier looked up and around at the row of faces. “I am well and not hungry. The woman inside is kind.” She waved the muffin at the big window behind her. “I looked at her food and she offered. I said I have no silver, but she gave me food, even so.”
Simon looked through the window. The blond woman behind the counter was talking on the phone, but her eyes were fixed on Pier. He remembered now that she’d been in the crowd outside the library yesterday.
“So, what now?” Ike bounced on his toes. “Where is it? Where will you look?”
“I ….” Pier glanced at Amelia, then looked away. “I know what to do.”
Simon heard Ammy take a breath. “We can help,” he cut in.
“I need no help. I can do this myself.” She met his eyes. “But, my thanks. You are good.” Still no smile. He wondered if she knew how.
The woman inside Stendhal’s hung up the phone and smiled at them through the window. A nervous feeling ran up Simon’s spine. “I think we, um, better go.”
“You may go.” Pier sipped milk and glanced at Amelia again. “I will stay.”
“But,” Simon began, and then a black-and-white metal shape rolled around the corner of Dunning Street. It turned this way.
“Human shield!” Ike hissed. He hauled at Pier’s arm. She pulled back.
Simon leaned over and spoke into her ear. “Police. They’ll lock you away and then you’ll never find it.”
She went quiet and let them crowd around her, Ammy too. With Pier out of sight in the middle, they shuffled down the street like an eight-legged porcupine. Simon glanced back. The police cruiser stood at the curb in front of Stendhal’s and the woman was talking into the car window and pointing along the street. At them.
Next moment, Pier stopped dead and Simon walked into her. Right in front of them, a noisy knot of four or five people had piled out of a shop doorway. They filled the sidewalk. Ammy made a “huh?” sound and stopped dead, too.
Simon had a confused impression of black leather, chains, heavy boots, nose rings, and weirdly coloured spiky hair. He thought he recognized a couple of them — high school kids, only a couple of years older than him — but never got a closer look because Amelia hissed, “In here!” and pulled Pier by the hand into the open doorway. Ike darted in after them.
Simon was the last in. Amelia was staring back past him, so he turned and looked, too. The punks had clustered in front of the doorway. One of them grinned at Simon and the sunlight glittered on the edges of his pointy teeth. Filed teeth, yuck! Simon thought. The kid’s mohawk crested the centre of his shaved head like a blue-green brush.
“Door out the back,” the punk growled. He turned away. A shiny black metal snout nosed up to the curb.
Simon backed off, turned, and ran. He nearly crashed into a lamplit table in the middle of the tunnel-like shop, where a man and a woman sat across from each other. The man appeared to be burning the woman on the arm with a soldering iron. Simon gasped. Next moment he realized: it wasn’t a soldering iron, it was a tattooing needle. And the man, a hulking mass of muscle in a silver-grey satin shirt, wearing sunglasses despite the dimness, was inking a snake or alligator or some such thing around the woman’s arm.
“This is the tattoo parlour!” Celeste had warned Simon to stay away from this place. He’d always been too nervous to go inside and find out why.
“Tattoos and pizza,” the man rumbled, without looking up. “No tattoos for minors.”
The shop was long and narrow and so dark, outside the pool of lamplight at the table, that Simon could hardly see anything. It smelled of strange chemicals and stale cheese and garlic. While a small part of his mind wondered why it was called a “parlour,” and then went on to wonder about funeral parlours, he fumbled towards the back. He found Pier, Ike, and Amelia hesitating between two doors, one of which probably led to a kitchen.
“Back door,” he said. “Police are out front.”
In half a minute they were out the back door, across a concrete slab with a wooden picnic table, through some scrubby Manitoba maples, and over a plank fence into the lane that ran behind all the shops on this block.
At the southwest end, the lane came out on Mill Street between two big lilac bushes. Across the road was a strip of grass, then a low stone wall, and beyond that only the endless throat-singing of the Dunn River deep in its gorge. Simon poked his head out past the lilac branches and then threw himself backwards, arms out to push everybody back. The police cruiser rolled past the mouth of the
lane.
Backing up a few metres, they found an old garage. They slipped in and closed the door, then crouched on the gritty concrete floor. Pier’s face and hair shone white in the spider-webbed gloom. Ike’s teeth gleamed. “This is so cool! It’s like Bonnie and Clyde on the lam, only there are four of us.”
“It’s stupid.” Amelia was standing to keep her white shorts clean. She looked around and wrinkled her nose. The garage smelled of engine oil and mildew. Nothing to see but ancient paint cans and antifreeze jugs and a couple of battered wooden ladders, all crusted with dirt.
Simon clenched his trembling hands. “It’s terrible. We’ll probably get arrested.”
“Arrested?” Pier echoed.
“That means they could lock us up in jail,” Ike put in cheerfully. “You know. Dungeons! Chains!”
“Then you should all of you leave me.”
“No.” Simon gave her a stern look. “But we’ve got to do this in a smart way. We can’t stay here, and we can’t keep running around.”
“She needs a disguise.” Ike leaped to his feet. “That’s it! Simon, you and Pier wait here. Don’t go away!” He shot out the door. A moment later he poked his head back in. “Ammy? Need you.”
She looked at him as if he was crazy, then shrugged and followed him out.
Pier hugged her knees. After a moment she said, “What are these police, and why would they want to hurt me? They are not dragons, I can tell that. They have the look of warriors, yet there are no dragons here for them to fight. Are they madmen, then?”
“No! And they don’t want to hurt you. They just want to put you with a family.”
“But my family is not here. And they are all dead.” Her voice flattened.
“Oh. I — I’m sorry. Did — who — how ….”