The Bell Between Worlds

by Ian Johnstone

  She jumped off her stool and pointed to the wooden seat. “Here, touch this.”

  Sylas hesitated, wondering if he was to be the butt of another joke, but reluctantly reached forward and touched the seat. He pulled his hand away sharply, and looked up at Simia who was beaming with delight.

  “Weird, isn’t it?” she said with a giggle.

  He touched the seat again. To his amazement the wood bowed under his touch as though it was a cushion. He pressed his finger deep into it, and the grainy surface yielded; then he released it and it sprang back.

  “Yes,” he said, his broad face breaking into a smile. “Very weird.”

  He jumped off his own stool and found that it was the same. He walked over to a bench nearby and pressed on the wooden seat to find that the entire panel gave under the pressure of just one finger. “Magic...” he said quietly.

  Simia walked over, her head cocked on one side. “But you have stuff like this in your world, don’t you?”

  He laughed. “You must be joking.”

  “But you do have magic,” she said with a frown. “They told us so in school. What do you call it – sci... scient?”

  Sylas frowned. “Science?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “Well, there’s not much magic in science,” he said with a grin, thinking of Mr Prendergast, his befuddled science teacher at school.

  She looked a little affronted. “Well, it always sounded magical to me,” she said defensively. “Buildings that touch the sky, light that turns on and off, things that fly…” She flicked her fiery hair back off her face. “What’s that if it’s not magic?”

  He looked at her for a moment and straightened his face. “You know, I hadn’t seen it that way before,” he said. “You’re right, it is magical.”

  Simia still seemed a little put out.

  Sylas had an idea. “If you like, sometime I’ll show you how to make one of those things that flies.”

  Her eyes widened with excitement. “Really?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Your very own bird of paper and string.”

  She drew a sharp breath. “You know how to do that?”

  “Your friend Bowe sees things... I make birds out of paper and string,” he said with a wink. “It’s what I do.”

  She clapped her hands in delight and looked about as if she wanted to tell someone straight away. Her eyes came to rest on the table from which there had been so much noise as they entered the inn and suddenly she seemed to be struck with a thought.

  “Wait here,” she said, jumping down from her stool.

  She walked off at a pace and disappeared into the crowd that had gathered round the table at the rear of the inn. Sylas could hear her voice among the gathering followed by a brief silence, then he saw her fighting her way back towards him, weaving between arms and legs. She bore a triumphant expression as she marched back to her stool accompanied by a rather strangelooking young man. He was young and lean and had a huge crop of curly blond hair as unkempt as a wild hedge, with golden tufts erupting in all directions and great twirls and whirlpools formed in its centre. His clothes were of the same fashion: a threadbare shirt with several buttons undone, one sleeve gathered about his elbow and the other loose about his wrist, and a collar that stood to attention on one side. But while his hair and clothes were comically haphazard, his pale, angular face was quick and intelligent and he had a bold, decisive manner. He walked with long, ranging steps and, even as he first glimpsed Sylas, he fixed his narrow eyes upon him as though examining his every feature. His gaze was not as penetrating as that of the barman, but travelled swiftly over Sylas’s face, his odd-looking, muddy clothes, his bloodied knee and the bag containing the Samarok, so that by the time he reached the bar he seemed to know Sylas’s story.

  “So are you going to introduce us?” he asked Simia in a sharp, youthful voice.

  Simia waved her hand towards the stranger. “Sylas, this is Ash, one of the finest Muddlemorphs I know.”

  Ash gave a solemn bow.

  “And Ash, this is Sylas, who has just had his first taste of Plume.”

  Ash raised his ‘head and cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed?” he exclaimed. “Your very first taste? Rather a late starter, aren’t you?”

  Sylas smiled and shrugged. “We don’t have Plume in... where I’m from.”

  “Is that so?” said Ash, looking intrigued. “A place without Muddlemorphing and without Plume? ‘Whereimfrom’ sounds very interesting.” He glanced at Simia and grinned. “This’ll be fun.”

  He leapt up on to a stool, drew some stray strands of hair off his face then, with a quick glance over his shoulder to check that no one was looking, reached over the bar and helped himself to a tankard of Plume from a nearby keg. The strange fluid drained into the metal cup with a hiss and a fizz and puffs of green smoke rose from the brim, disappearing quickly into the air.

  Sylas shot Simia a wary look. “What’s this all about?” he whispered.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, squeezing his arm. “We’re just going to show you a bit of our kind of magic.”

  Ash held the tankard aloft like a trophy and lowered it in front of Sylas’s face. “Let’s play a game, Sylas,” he said, handing him the cup. “Do you know how to blow shapes?”

  “No,” said Sylas, peering at the greenish surface of the Plume.

  Ash looked questioningly at Simia. “He doesn’t know much about much, does he?”

  “Tell me about it...” she muttered.

  Ash took a deep breath and thought for a moment, then seemed to have an idea.

  “Right,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s start simple. Take a swig of Plume.”

  Sylas looked doubtfully into the tankard then, with a wary glance at Simia, took a draught of the sweet, pungent fluid.

  “Good. Now I want you to blow out – not too hard! – gently, that’s right...”

  Sylas exhaled slowly and his eyes widened as he saw a trail of bright green smoke drifting into the air, gradually forming a small cloud that hung above the bar.

  “Yes, very good. Now this is the difficult bit. I want you to imagine the cloud turning in on itself, getting smaller and smaller. Imagine the particles of smoke getting closer together, meeting up with each other...”

  Sylas thought the whole thing rather strange, but there seemed no harm in trying, so he looked intently at the vivid green cloud – which even now was starting to disperse – and began to imagine its shape changing. He thought of the tiny particles of smoke and tried to hold them in his mind, then he thought of them pulling together, drawing inwards. He imagined the wispy, trailing edges of the cloud curling back until the puff of smoke became smaller, denser, less like a cloud than a floating ball of vivid green.

  “I thought you’d never done this before.”

  So intent was Sylas on the task in hand that he hardly heard Ash’s cry of surprise. His eyes were still fixed on the cloud, which was already shifting and changing, rolling and churning. It had begun to diminish, drawing into itself, curling back towards its centre. Before long, it was half its original size, its colour had become intense and it had formed a clearly discernible sphere of colour.

  “That’s it!” cried Ash, glancing at Simia and then back at Sylas and the ball of smoke. Then he whispered, “Now watch!”

  He raised one hand and cupped it beneath the peculiar cloud.

  Almost immediately Sylas saw the orb of smoke starting to change again – a slight deepening of colour, a coarsening of texture or perhaps an alteration in the light. But soon the metamorphosis was clear to see. The colour of the sphere began to drain out at the bottom, releasing a bright green powdery cascade like sand from an egg timer, which fell directly into Ash’s waiting hand. Sylas could hardly believe his eyes as he saw a pile of green building in the centre of the young Muddlemorph’s palm, no longer smoke but tiny particles of sparkling powder: granules of Plume. He looked up to see the final traces flowing out of the orb and beyond, Ash’s
face creased in an enigmatic smile.

  “That,” he said, “is Muddlemorphing.”

  Simia clapped enthusiastically and patted Ash on the back. Sylas leaned forward and stared in bafflement at the powder.

  Ash raised his hand. “Take a pinch.”

  Sylas hesitated, unsure what might happen next.

  “Go on – put it on your tongue.”

  He glanced doubtfully at Simia, but she nodded with enthusiasm, so he reached over, pinched some of the sugary substance between his fingers and dropped it on his tongue. The effect was instantaneous: a crackle and a fizz, a sharp tang on the taste buds, then a great torrent of flavour flowing down his throat and up his nose. It was exquisite but bewildering at the same time. Despite his best efforts, he found himself struggling to breathe, then he coughed and spluttered.

  “And so here it is again!” cried Ash, pointing with pride to the puff of green smoke that Sylas had exhaled. Sylas looked up with watering eyes and saw Ash beaming with delight as the cloud drifted up to the same spot as the original, directly in front of Ash.

  “Now quick, before it disappears!” cried the Muddlemorph. “You try to shape it this time – try something difficult... something like... like the tankard you drank it from!”

  Still trying to catch his breath, Sylas turned his attention to the thinning cloud. He pictured a cone in his mind and then imagined the smoke filling it, taking its shape. Nothing happened for a moment, but then the cloud swirled, shifted and took the shape in his mind. There, hovering just above the bar, was a perfect tankard made of bright green smoke, no longer drifting but holding steady in the air.

  Ash looked at Simia and Simia looked at Ash. They both seemed astonished.

  “How did you do that?” asked Simia in a whisper.

  No one was more surprised than Sylas. “I don’t know,” he said, clearing his throat. “I did what you told me.”

  Ash gazed from the cloud to Sylas and then back to the cloud in bewilderment, then seemed to find his presence of mind.

  “Yes, well... I didn’t know I was such a good teacher...” he said distractedly. “Anyway, back to the trick!”

  He snatched Sylas’s metal tankard from the bar and held it beneath the one made of smoke, then waved his other hand above it. Again the change was barely discernible at first: a slight shift and shimmer, a darkening in shade, but then there was a definite movement: the tankard of smoke tipped in the air. At the same moment Sylas saw to his astonishment that a green liquid was flowing from the lip, falling in a thin stream directly into the metal cup below. It drained away as quickly as it had formed and, as the last of the liquid fell, it simply disappeared.

  “And there you are,” said Ash, handing Sylas the cup. “Back to where you started.”

  Sylas peered over the brim and saw, to his surprise, that it was once again full almost to the top with churning, smoking Plume. He laughed and looked back at his companions.

  “Great!” he cried.

  Ash still seemed preoccupied by what he had seen. “You say you’d never made Plume shapes before?” he asked in a low voice.

  Sylas shook his head. Again Ash and Simia exchanged a look.

  “Do something for me,” said Ash, gesturing for him to drink a little more Plume. “Try a few more shapes. I just want to see you do it again.”

  Sylas shrugged and took another swig of Plume, enjoying the intense aromas and flavours as it slid down his throat, then exhaled slowly, creating a billowing cloud of green smoke in front of him, larger than any of the ones before.

  “Try something really difficult,” said Simia excitedly, “like a ship, or – or a face or something.”

  Sylas’s imagination was already at work, summoning the tall masts, bulging sails and webbed rigging of a galleon, its mighty prow rising and falling, heaving and yawing on conjured waves, and in the same moment the wisps of smoke gathered and joined to form those same shapes and motions: turning, twisting and drifting with Sylas’s mind as if he was commanding it.

  And then, as soon as the beautiful galleon had formed, his imaginings moved on again, leaving Simia staring in disbelief as sails, timbers and ropes dissolved into a cloud, which in turn started to take new shape: an oval – no, something human – a face, a female face with long flowing hair, traces of a brow, cheeks and an elegant neck formed of greenish trails of smoke. Then, impossibly, the face opened its mouth as if to speak...

  There was a loud bang as a huge hand slammed down on the bar.

  “Stop this!”

  Sylas blinked as if from a trance and looked up to see Bowe glowering at his companions.

  “You draw attention to yourselves like this? You must be mad!” growled the barman. “The Ghor are searching every building in the street! Now they’re sure to be told that you’ve been here.”

  Only then did Sylas look past the thinning cloud of smoke into the room and see a wide circle of faces, all of them staring at him in wonderment. Beyond were more pipe-puffing, Plume-swilling Muddlemorphs jostling for position, trying to catch a glimpse of Ash and his strange companions. Instinctively he reached down and checked that his sleeve was covering the bracelet.

  “The Ghor are after them?” hissed Ash.

  Bowe nodded.

  “Is that so?” murmured Ash, glaring at Simia. “You didn’t tell me that!”

  “You should know better anyway, Ash,” said Bowe darkly. “You shouldn’t be drawing attention with your childish tricks. And what are you doing playing around with Kimiyya anyway? You know that’s not our way.”

  Ash dropped his eyes and mumbled something under his breath.

  Bowe glared at him for a moment longer and then placed his massive hands behind Sylas and Simia, heaved them off their stools and ushered them towards the rear door, clearing a path in the crowd as he went.

  Ash watched them go, still perplexed. “I’m not entirely sure that it was me doing the tricks...”

  He raised a hand to bid them farewell.

  Sylas entered a dark, damp hallway that sloped downwards towards a flight of stone stairs lit by a single oil lamp. As soon as the door closed, Bowe seized his hand.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, in his deep, slightly ponderous voice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He pulled his face into an amiable smile and pumped Sylas’s hand up and down. By contrast to his rather cumbersome manner, his deep green eyes were lively and moved quickly over Sylas’s face, tracing every line and form. A slight frown seemed to pass over his face, as though something about what he had seen confused him, but it was gone in an instant.

  “And you,” said Sylas, nodding a little formally. “Thank you for helping us.”

  “You’re with friends now,” said Bowe, leaning in a little. “Though trust no one but Simia until she gets you safely to the river. No one – understand?”

  Sylas nodded, his gaze lingering for a moment on Bowe’s eyes, taking in their deep, watery green and the great sadness etched in the heavy brow above and dark rings beneath. As before, there was something deeply magnetic about his gaze, as though his dolorous eyes were looking beyond what most could see.

  Sylas suddenly became aware that he was staring. “What’s at the river?” he blurted.

  Bowe smiled, as if reading his mind. “Friends,” he said. “Friends and a place of safety. If anyone knows anything of this journey of yours, or what it has to do with your mother, then you will find them at the river.”

  Sylas’s eyes widened. “My mother? How did you—”

  “One thing at a time, my young friend. For now, just concentrate on getting to the river, for many perils lie between here and there.” Bowe smiled his wide, gentle smile, and patted Sylas on the shoulder.

  “Is the coast clear?” asked Simia, starting to descend the stone staircase.

  Bowe glanced at her. “Before your antics in the bar it was,” he grumbled. “Now I’ll have to double-check.”

  As they clambered down the stairs, Sylas stared at Bowe with new interest.
The strange tattoos on the dome of Bowe’s bald head looked oddly like concentric rings of eyes, each worked in perfect detail, some looking up, some down, some left and some right, some half concealed beneath an eyelid, others wide open and staring straight back at him. There was also a word tattooed in a different, lighter ink on the back of his skull... NAEO.

  Sylas stepped off the bottom stair and entered a room stacked high with beer kegs and racks of wine and lit by a row of lamps on the far wall. The hubbub of the inn had faded and now all that could be heard was the drip of water from the dark ceiling, which echoed across the chamber. Simia was already halfway down a long aisle between two racks of wine and Sylas caught up with her at the other end, where she had paused next to a small oak door.

  “I’ll go first,” said Bowe, striding up from behind.

  He turned a lock in the door and pulled it open. Beyond, there was a long stone ramp, leading upwards to a trapdoor. He climbed it in a few steps and knelt down on the damp flagstones. To Sylas’s surprise, instead of lifting the trapdoor and peering outside he simply lowered his head as if to listen and closed his eyes: silent and brooding.

  “He’s a Scryer,” whispered Simia, seeing Sylas’s confusion. “He doesn’t need eyes to know what’s going on. He senses the things that connect people – thoughts, feelings, stuff like that. If anything’s out there looking for us, he’ll know.”

  Sylas looked up and watched with renewed interest as Bowe squatted with his head bowed and his eyes firmly shut. “So can he… tell what I’m thinking?” he asked, running over his thoughts since they had entered the inn.

  “Not really. But he can tell what you’re thinking about people, and what they’re thinking about you. It’s strange. You never quite get used to it.” There was a short silence. “So think of my good points, all right?”