The Bell Between Worlds

by Ian Johnstone

  Fathray nodded excitedly. “We all recognised his name when you said it at the Say-So!”

  “Herr Veeglum? The undertaker? A Bringer?”

  “Very much so!”

  Sylas shook his head, struggling to believe it, but all the while his eyes were on the page. Something was nagging at him. He frowned at the signature. The barely legible jagged lines, the flamboyant V, the long, looped tail on the end of ‘Veeglum’: it looked familiar... He had no idea why, but he was sure he had seen it before.

  And then something rushed into his mind. He reached into his bag and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. The Order of Committal – the one that had sent his mother to hospital. His eyes travelled straight to the bottom of the sheet, to the signatures. The first was his uncle’s, the second...

  He held the paper up against the Samarok.

  The two scribbled signatures were the same. Franz Jacob Veeglum.

  Herr Veeglum, Bringer of the Merisi.

  “Why?” murmured Sylas, feeling sick. “If the Merisi are on our side, why would they have my mother taken away to a mental hospital?”

  Fathray was still distracted by Mr Zhi’s piece of paper, but he drew his eyes away from it and spread his palms. “Perhaps they knew that your mother needed their help. Do you know this Winterfern Hospital? Perhaps it is a place known to the Merisi.”

  Sylas shook his head. “Even if they have taken her somewhere good for her, why didn’t they tell me? Why did they let me think she was dead?”

  “I really don’t know, Sylas.” Fathray placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “There are some things that books will not tell us. But now we know that your mother shares your connection to the Merisi and so to this world. And if that is the case, your journey to the Magruman and your journey to find your mother are one and the same.”

  Suddenly there was a commotion at the end of the hall. A large figure scrambled down the steps at a frantic run and Sylas immediately recognised Bowe’s powerful build and glistening bald head, which dripped with perspiration as he reached the bottom of the staircase.

  “They’re coming!” he cried. “We have to go! Now! ”

  There were cries of despair from around the chamber. Fathray’s face fell.

  “Gather what you can!” he cried with a note of panic.

  Instantly everyone was in motion, running for different parts of the room as they sought to gather up whatever documents and books they thought to be most important.

  “Take what you can carry, but save yourselves! Use the tunnel!”

  Fathray directed things from where he stood. He watched as his dear library was ransacked for what little it might yield in a few seconds: beloved volumes were pulled down from shelves, hurled hastily into sacks and swept from tabletops.

  The first of the Scribes staggered with a mountain of paper to one of the shelves and pulled on a single volume, which released a concealed door in the wall at the end of the room. He disappeared into the darkness beyond, dropping parchments as he went. The sight of them being trodden into the dirt seemed too much for Fathray to bear and he turned away. For a moment he cast his eyes down, crestfallen, but then his gaze travelled once again to Mr Zhi’s piece of paper. He took a long, deep breath as his eyes moved swiftly over the scrawl.

  Suddenly he stopped. He stared at it with widening eyes, as though struggling to believe what he was seeing. Then he lifted his gaze from the paper and looked directly at Sylas.

  His face was filled with wonder.

  “What is it...?” asked Sylas.

  Fathray turned away and grasped the Samarok. He leafed through to a particular page, then slid the piece of paper inside and closed it.

  “Master Tate, you must take this,” he said, his voice breaking. “Show the note and the page I’ve marked to the Magruman – it may explain…” he hesitated, struggling to find the words, “…it may explain everything!”

  He passed Sylas the book and looked at him earnestly. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Sylas Tate.” He looked as though he wished to say more, but instead he pointed at the tunnel. “Into the tunnel! Scurry as fast as you can, like a good tunnel rat! They’ll meet you at the other end. Run now, my boy! Save yourself!”

  The old Scribe watched Sylas darting into the tunnel, then adjusted his glasses and allowed his gaze to drift slowly round his ransacked library, travelling over the remaining volumes and documents, the scattered papers and scrolls, rising slowly to the very top shelf. There, his eyes came to rest on the very same volumes that had drawn Sylas’s interest when he had entered the den. Perched high above the hall, they had been overlooked by the other Scribes as they rushed to the tunnel, and their beautiful silver inscriptions still shone in a shaft of light:

  The Glimmer Myth

  Fathray turned and reached for a ladder.

  “Who would have thought?” he muttered, the trace of a smile on his lips.

  21

  Burned, Scourged, Forgotten

  “Homes burned, gardens, scourged languages forgotten;

  and with them dies a blessed magic.”

  THE TUNNEL WAS CLOAKED in a thick blackness that seemed to press in on all sides: the walls scuffed his shoulders as the passage twisted and turned, rose and fell without warning. But where others would have stumbled, Sylas sped on, well prepared by his years in the deranged corridors of Gabblety Row. He heard the yelps and curses of the Scribes, but he could not see them, not even when he almost collided with the man in front.

  Suddenly he heard a shriek ahead of him followed by the sound of books and papers crashing to the floor. Before he had time to stop, the ground fell away beneath his feet and he felt himself sliding down a slope. He tried to slow himself by clawing at the passage wall, but it was no use – he was already moving too fast. He began to fear that he had fallen into some kind of trap, but then he saw a glimmer of light. Moments later his feet hit level ground and he was pitched forward through a curtain of twigs and leaves. He landed heavily in mud and scattered parchments. “Up! Off! Get off them!” came a bleating voice at his side.

  “You’ll ruin them!”

  It was Galfinch, scrambling on his hands and knees as he tried to gather up the scattered documents.

  They were in a small clearing just a few paces from the water’s edge. To their right, Sylas could see a swarm of people frantically loading a long line of rowing boats with documents, clothing and strange artefacts, all of them looking fearfully back towards the mill house and across to the other side of the river.

  Galfinch pushed him to one side. “Every one of them is important now!” he blustered in a voice that seemed far too loud. “Quite priceless!”

  All at once the bush behind him parted silently and a large powerful man raced into the clearing, kicking away parchments in his haste. He reached down to Galfinch and clamped his hand tightly over his mouth, then pulled him upright.

  Galfinch looked at Sylas with terrified eyes and dropped his bundle of documents.

  “Silence!” the man hissed in his ear. “Your squealing will kill us all!”

  Sylas recognised the bear-like man as Bayleon: the huge bearded man who had spoken so strongly at the Say-So.

  Galfinch nodded his head imploringly until Bayleon released him. He slipped down on to his knees and, stifling a sob, began gathering up his papers again.

  “Leave them, you fool!” hissed Bayleon.

  He took Galfinch by the arm, lifted him to his feet and started walking him towards the boats amid a torrent of sobs. As he passed Sylas, he lowered his eyes.

  “Follow me,” he said with a wink.

  Something about that bold, conspiratorial wink made Sylas feel safer – that maybe things were not quite so desperate after all. He picked up the Samarok, wiped it on his tunic and set out after the two men, snatching up what parchments he could on the way.

  The scene around them was one of feverish activity: some rushed backwards and forwards with the last bundles of belongings, others threw ropes
across the piles of cargo and lashed them down, while the rest clambered fearfully into the boats and helped others into their seats. All of this took place without the utterance of a single word, as if it had been planned and rehearsed many times.

  As he watched, all Sylas could think was that somehow this was his fault, that if he had not come, none of this would be happening. He felt ill as his eyes moved across the frantic scene, finally coming to rest on a small gathering of five or six people on the bank, with Filimaya at its centre. He recognised the small lithe figure of Ash and beside him Grayvel’s anxious, bespectacled face; and as the crowd parted he saw Simia. She was speaking with her usual animation, her brow creased in a pleading expression, her hands clasped in front of her. Filimaya gave a final shake of her head and said something to the rest of the group. They all gave a slight bow, turned and hurriedly walked their separate ways towards the boats. Simia was motionless for a moment, but then flounced after Grayvel, muttering something under her breath.

  Just before she reached the boats, she spotted Sylas. She said something to Grayvel, who tried to object, but she ignored him and ran over.

  “They still won’t let me come with you,” she said as she ran up, her face flushed with emotion.

  “Aren’t we all going now?”

  Simia shook her head. “Not to the same place.”

  Grayvel came up behind and put his arm round her shoulder. “Come on, everyone’s waiting.” He turned to Sylas. “It’s been a privilege, young man. Good luck.”

  “Thank you,” said Sylas. “And you.”

  The elderly man gave a brief nod and hurried Simia away. As they climbed into their boat, she looked over at him and mouthed a few words before being lost in the crowd: “I’ll find a way!”

  At that moment Bayleon strode up, having placed Galfinch securely in a boat where he was rummaging desperately through books and papers.

  “I told you to follow me,” he said gruffly. “Filimaya wants to see you.”

  They walked up to Filimaya as she was issuing final instructions to Bowe. Sylas was struck at once by her strange calmness – it was as though none of this surprised her, as though she had always known that this would happen. She made a few final points and then wished Bowe the best of luck. The Scryer made as though to leave, but then he hesitated and turned back to her.

  “Why not go with Sylas? He needs you and… and it seems right that you and Paiscion…”

  She reached over and placed a gentle hand on his arm. “I’m not the only one parted from the one I love,” she said with a smile. “I know where I’m needed. I shall go with you and the others to the Valley of Outs. Go, my friend, and take good care of Fathray.”

  Bowe took her hand, clasped it tightly, then looked at Sylas. For a moment he fixed him with his large green eyes, then he turned and ran to the boats.

  Filimaya looked down at Sylas. She frowned at his muddied clothes. “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “No – no, I’m fine,” said Sylas. “What’s happening?”

  “They’ve found us,” said Filimaya with a sigh. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

  “It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

  Filimaya leaned over and fixed Sylas with her beautiful wise eyes. “Sylas, this struggle began long before you came to us,” she said. “They were always going to find us one day. We’re glad that you came, no matter what happens.”

  She smiled and wiped a little of the mud from his cheek, then took him by the shoulder and turned him to face the boats. She pointed to a small one in the centre that contained fewer belongings than the others. Ash was preparing it to leave.

  “That will be yours,” she said. “Bayleon and Ash will keep you safe and guide you to the Magruman.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Don’t worry about the rest of us, Sylas, we’ll be safe. Your path is far more—”

  She was interrupted by a terrifying sound.

  It was a swelling, mournful howl that began somewhere behind the mill, then swept along the garden wall and rose afresh on the other side of the river. It was not one, but hundreds of voices, each rising in pitch until Sylas had to put his hands over his ears. He looked at Filimaya, but she had turned away and was signalling to someone. In the next instant he felt himself caught up in Bayleon’s powerful arms and hurled forward as they sprinted down the bank. He was dropped unceremoniously on to some canvas bags in the bottom of the boat and moments later the boat lurched forward.

  The howls broke into a confusion of baying cries. They seemed louder and nearer than before, but when Sylas peered over the side of the boat, there were no Ghor in sight. Filimaya had taken her seat in one of the boats and they now all surged forward into the main current of the river. But as they gathered in the centre of the waters, he saw that one had stayed behind – the one moored nearest to the tunnel. He knew both the occupants: Galfinch, standing in the stern, and Bowe, sitting at the oars. Galfinch suddenly pointed frantically towards the tunnel and Bowe raised himself to his full height, craning his neck back towards the Den of Scribes.

  Then it began.

  Fathray fell headlong through the mass of foliage in front of the tunnel, gathered himself and started limping towards the boat, clasping three large ancient books under his arms. Then something strange happened. The entire garden seemed to writhe and change. Sylas looked up to the treeline to see hundreds of pale, lizard-like creatures swarming over the garden wall, slithering between the trees and sliding down the waterways. It was scores of Slithen, half running, half snaking their way through the garden, moving towards the water with frightening speed.

  “Run!” cried Sylas as he watched Fathray limp towards the boat. “They’re coming!”

  But Fathray was still only halfway there. He was moving too slowly, struggling with his burden of books.

  Suddenly he stopped, looked up towards the wall, and one by one, let the books fall to the ground. He turned and waved frantically at the boat, shouting at Bowe to leave. Still the Scryer waited, pushing at the oars to stay close to the bank, hollering desperately at the old Scribe to leave his documents and run.

  Then Fathray did the strangest thing. He sat down in the mud.

  Galfinch gesticulated furiously, calling hopelessly to his friend. In the same moment Bowe looked from Fathray to the trees. He paused, perhaps for a moment considering a mad dash across the mud, but then he reversed the stroke of his oars.

  Their boat moved away just as the Slithen emerged from the foliage and squirmed down to the water’s edge. They were almost entirely naked, wearing only a loincloth around their middle, their bodies glistening as though wet. Their limbs were long and thin and they moved on all fours, more like reptiles than men, their long torsos bent low, their jutting, angular faces just clear of the ground. Most slithered straight into the water, extending their long legs behind them to squirm free of the mud and propel them out into the river, heading directly for Bowe’s boat, but those nearest to Fathray turned. Slowly, they gathered about him.

  “No!” cried Sylas, leaning over the side of the boat, his voice straining. He turned to Bayleon who was still heaving at the oars. “Go back for him! We can’t just leave him!”

  Bayleon lowered his eyes and said nothing. Sylas felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Ash.

  “This is what he’d want,” he said, his voice full of emotion.

  Sylas shook his head.

  He looked back at the old man’s distant figure. His face could no longer be seen, but he sat with his cloak gathered about him and his arms clasping his muddied books to his chest. There was something about his posture – the way he held his head – that was unafraid. Defiant.

  Then, as two of the Slithen advanced towards him, the old Scribe turned to the fleeing boats and raised his hand.

  Those who were watching quickly rose to their feet and raised their hands in response. Sylas and Ash too struggled to stand in their swaying boat and raised their hands as high as t
hey could, straining to be seen. There they remained for some moments, hands held aloft.

  “What will happen to him?” asked Sylas, not wanting to know the answer.

  “That’ll be up to Scarpia,” said Ash grimly.

  Fathray had disappeared amid the bodies of the Slithen and Sylas was about to avert his eyes when something caught his eye.

  At first it looked like a trick of the light, but then it became more distinct: it was a wisp of smoke rising from the rear of the garden. It curled through the treetops and climbed high into the air, making a dark smudge on the horizon. The smudge quickly grew into a grey streak, then a vast black cloud. Soon he could see several black columns rising from the garden, feeding the ever more ominous pall above. Then a bright flicker of flames glimmered between the leaves.

  “The den’s on fire!” growled Bayleon solemnly as he pulled on the oars.

  Sylas stared in horror at the leaping orange flames that now rose high above the canopy of the trees. It was a terrible sight: the beautiful Water Gardens belching thick black smoke through their leaves and, even worse, the library burning. He knew at once that he was seeing the smoke of thousands of volumes disappearing into the air. All those wonderful books, Fathray’s books, all that history, all those years of painstaking work – lost forever.

  “But why?” he cried, leaning out over the stern of the boat. “Why would they do that?”

  Ash placed a hand on his arm. “It wasn’t the Ghor, Sylas. It was Fathray.”

  Sylas whirled about. “Fathray? But he loves those books! He told me!”

  “He had to do it, to save them from the Ghor,” said Ash, squinting into the distance. “It’s the originals that he’s burning; we’ve brought most of the rest with us.”

  He pointed to one of the nearest boats. Sylas saw Simia sitting among piles of volumes and parchments, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

  “Why?” asked Sylas more calmly. “What would they do with them?”