The Bell Between Worlds

by Ian Johnstone

  With nowhere else to go, the great wave had launched itself upwards, rising to the height of many men before thundering back down towards the massed Ghor. It struck with seismic force, shattering stone and crushing all that lay in its path, knocking Scarpia from her chariot as it careered back towards the shore. Hundreds of black bodies were hurled into the air amid lashing foam and many more were swept into the raging waters below. Screeching howls pierced the roar and then were swallowed by the river, drawn down into its cold, suffocating depths. The surface frothed with flailing limbs and jaws as the Ghor struggled to stay afloat, some striking out towards the shore, others looking for something else to cling to.

  Sylas saw three boats a little further from the bridge: two overturned and broken, a third taking on water, its occupants trying desperately to paddle clear of the writhing Ghor. A number of the Suhl were struggling in the tempest, surrounded by floating papers and parcels, straining to reach the upturned vessels. Salvo clung to a broken piece of timber and Galfinch was being pulled by someone towards a shattered hull, gathering his precious papers as he went. The rescuer’s bald, tattooed head was clearly visible as he moved powerfully through the water. It was Bowe.

  Around them the wave was rising again, fed by the deluge of water. It had lost its power, but it was sufficient to push those boats that were still afloat clear of the bridge. Sylas watched in horror as the desperate swimmers rose on the wave and rolled over the crest.

  “Bowe!” he shouted helplessly, glancing round at the other boats, willing one of them to turn round, but knowing that they were too far and it was hopeless.

  The Scryer had somehow managed to stand on an upturned hull, steadying himself as the waves cast him from side to side, and now he turned to the other survivors. His doleful face broke into a warm, comforting smile. This tiny gesture seemed so out of place, so extraordinary given all that was happening, that in itself it was an act of heroism. Still smiling, he began to speak, gently motioning for his friends to stay calm, to lock arms and draw closer, to make the three wrecks into one life-giving raft. They responded bravely, those who still had their strength helping those who did not, so that soon they formed an intimate gathering: a respite from the storm. And, as they met, they reached out for one another, drew close, held hands and whispered comforts. Then they waited for the inevitable.

  All around them the dark river churned with the writhing bodies of the Ghor. They no longer thrashed the surface, but moved silently, purposefully through the ragged waves and icy surf. Slowly, they converged upon the sinking boats.

  Sylas was about to call out again when Simia took hold of his arm and he turned to find her face drained of all colour.

  “Look!” she said, pointing to another part of the frothing river.

  His heart fell. It was Filimaya. She too had been thrown from her vessel and was being cast about in the great tumult of dark water, her long silver hair floating over its surface, her pale face momentarily hidden from view as she struggled through the surf. She was not as far as the others, and was only now rolling over the failing wave, but she was still some way from the nearest boat. She was swimming strongly, more strongly than Sylas would have thought possible for someone of her age – gaining on the boat, but slowly, too slowly, for as Sylas cast his eyes back to the upturned boats, he saw a new, deliberate movement among the struggling bodies of survivors and the Ghor.

  The surface of the river broke in long, advancing lines, as though something large and fast were passing just beneath, coursing through the waves torpedo-like, with absolute precision and purpose. And then the first of them broke the surface: an angular, reptilian brow carving with ease through the turbulence, the glassy black eyes blinking wide as it took in the ragged line of boats, the slitted nose scenting its prey. It regarded them for a moment and then, as it rolled its scaly back and disappeared, another rose, and another and another.

  “So many...” said Ash.

  Yet even as they came on, even as they closed in on poor Filimaya, the boats had almost slowed to a stop. The wave had died and now drifted out beneath the keels, leaving them stranded. This allowed Filimaya to gain more quickly on her boat, and its occupants were already leaning out, willing her on, offering their hands in readiness to heave her over the side. But if the boats did not start moving within the next few moments, they would all be overrun by the Slithen. A great chorus of cries had risen from the other boats, coaxing Filimaya on, trying to give her new strength, desperate for her to reach the boat. It seemed that no one else could summon the waters.

  And, at that moment, Sylas suddenly felt peculiarly calm, because he knew that his friends were lost.

  He looked from the great phalanx of advancing Slithen now churning the river white in their expectant frenzy, to Filimaya making her last desperate strokes towards the boat, and finally to his own companions: Bayleon, hunched over his oars, looking down as though he could not bear to watch; Ash yelling Filimaya’s name with a faltering voice; and finally Simia, lowering herself to the floor of the boat, her hands rising to her face, tears welling in her eyes.

  Perhaps it was that terrible image of Simia starting to lose hope that gave Sylas a new, inexplicable resolve; a quiet, calm determination. For, as he looked at these people who had been so good to him, who had brought devastation upon themselves to help him, he became sure that it all had to be for a reason. At that moment the chaotic sounds of the tumult fell away – the shouts and screams, the baying roar of the Ghor, the hissing surf of the boiling river – all of it faded, leaving his own thoughts.

  They came relentlessly, one after the other. He thought of Mr Zhi’s kindly face and of his fateful words; of the raging din of the Passing Bell and of his safe passage beneath it; of his hand passing over that shining face of the Aquium and the shoals dancing at his bidding; of his fingers stretched out over the stream, the silvery fish leaping as if to meet them. For a moment he dared to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, everything had led him to this moment; that he was meant to be there, witnessing the plight of his friends. And perhaps he had the power to help.

  “… You can see all that you are able to be,” Mr Zhi had said.

  Sylas grasped the side of the boat and pulled himself slowly to his feet, steadying himself as the vessel rocked and heaved on the churning waters. Bayleon leaned forward and tried to pull him back, but he stepped out of his reach, past Simia and Ash, into the stern.

  “What are you doing?” cried Simia, pulling at his coat before she was herself thrown back into the boat by the slap of a wave on the hull.

  Sylas was hardly aware of her. He was looking out over the river towards his friends swimming desperately for safety, towards the legions of Slithen gliding through the waters and the dark figures of the Ghor closing upon their prey. He was barely conscious of his hands rising in front of him, of his companions staring at him in confusion and amazement, of the triumphant surge of the Slithen as they leapt as one from the waves before diving deep, deep into the river for the final attack.

  He looked into the waters, losing himself in their depths. His imagination pierced fathoms-deep, seeing the great swirling currents surging and shifting, ebbing and flowing, seeing the great shoals of fish gliding, darting, weaving. He sensed them not only in his mind but in his body, feeling their cool in his veins, flowing through his limbs, their watery chill consuming first his chest, then his legs, arms and fingers. He was not frightened but calm; he felt no panic, but instead sensed himself becoming something more, something deep in his beginnings, in his very essence.

  And as his imagination became the river, the river became him. He opened his palms and somewhere deep in the belly of the river he felt the currents, the fish, the eels, the weeds gathering at his will, drawing themselves together, heaving themselves with common purpose up and up towards the straining limbs of the Slithen and the Ghor. He moved his hands wider and felt this calamitous torrent rising through the pit of his stomach, charging up through his gut and his chest,
launching up, and up.

  And so it was.

  As a great tumult of all the river’s life they came: swimming things and scuttling things, things from the mud and from the deep, things that grasped and clawed and snapped and sucked, things that coiled and tugged and blinded. And, as the Slithen and the Ghor eyed their quarry above, all this came from below.

  Weeds coiled about their limbs, eels slithered about their necks, a maze of silver scales confused their path, sending them far from the surface, down and down into the belly of the river. There they were grasped by the residents of the darkness and the deep and the mud: the crabs and lobsters and catfish and the tangled weeds. And, as these things swarmed in upon the Slithen, Sylas felt them pressing at his ribcage, grasping his lungs; he felt the tangle of limbs, the grey bodies lost in the maelstrom of biting and clawing and sucking; he felt them flailing in the blackness, straining towards the light and the air, letting out drowned squeals of panic.

  And then, just as this horror became too much, he felt his boat heave beneath his feet.

  He became aware once again of the surface of the river, and saw that it was rising in a new wave, surging on, sending the boats of the Suhl dancing and skipping on its glistening face. He heard the elated cries of his companions and Simia’s shriek of joy as Filimaya rose tall in the rear of her boat, her hands raised, commanding the waters once again.

  But she was no longer lost in her magic – she was not even looking at the river – she was looking at him.

  As their eyes met, he saw in her beautiful, pale face something between confusion and wonder. For some moments she simply gazed at him, as though seeing him for the first time.

  Then she broke into a gentle, knowing smile.

  23

  To the Hills

  “There is more to the hills than meets the eye, for they hide

  in their inner folds a sanctuary that defies discovery,

  a place of improbable magic, a place called the Valley of Outs.”

  FILIMAYA WAS ONCE AGAIN queen of the wave, standing tall and graceful in the rear of her boat while it leapt and pranced beneath her, her hand outstretched as her eyes scanned the river and shoreline ahead for any sign of the enemy. The great wall of water had subsided a little and it now rushed and tumbled at a less terrifying speed, conveying the seven remaining boats to safety.

  Still there was no sign of the Ghor on the banks or in the river and Sylas noticed people gradually relaxing a little, no longer straining their eyes to check for dark figures moving stealthily along the riverbanks or for eel-like shapes gliding below the surface of the river. Instead they looked ahead, beyond the outlying buildings of the town, beyond the jetties and mills and cattleposts to the forested hills that now grew before them, offering the barely believable promise of sanctuary.

  Sylas writhed from side to side trying to get comfortable in the back of the boat, fidgeting with the bags that he and Simia had propped behind them. In truth it was not the hard boards and the endless bucking of the vessel that made him restless, it was the adrenalin still coursing through his veins and the tension between him and his companions. No one had said a word since all that had happened at the bridge, and while Simia and Ash had caught Sylas’s eye more than once, they had quickly looked away.

  Sylas was full of doubts. Had he really made those things happen? Had he really just saved his friends? After all, no one had seen anything on the surface – the Slithen and the Ghor in the water had just seemed to disappear. But then why had Filimaya turned and looked at him like that?

  He tried to clear his mind, to think of something else, but instantly it filled with the terrible scenes he had just witnessed. What would become of the Suhl now? What would they suffer because of him? They had helped him, laid down their lives for him and in return he had led the Ghor to them, destroyed their beautiful hideaway, their wonderful gardens, their precious books.

  He lowered his head into his hands, staring fixedly at the bottom of the boat.

  “It’s not your fault, you know.”

  Sylas looked up at Ash.

  “No more than it’s our fault that we couldn’t help. This is just what it’s like. The Undoing.”

  Sylas was silent for some moments, but then he lifted his eyes.

  “What is the Undoing?”

  Ash looked up at the hills and narrowed his eyes. “Hatred. Loathing. All wrapped up in a name.”

  “That’s about right,” grunted Bayleon, lowering an oar to wipe his brow.

  “It’s Thoth’s attempt to annihilate us,” continued Ash. “Him and his servants, like Scarpia. To remove us from his world, to destroy us and everything about us: our writings, our homes, our magic, our history – everything.”

  Sylas frowned. “Why?”

  Ash shrugged. “It’s not as if he’s ever explained himself.”

  Bayleon laughed despite himself.

  “No one’s sure why,” said Ash more seriously. “Some say that he fears Essenfayle, but it’s time we accepted that the Three Ways are far more powerful than our—”

  “Essenfayle isn’t finished yet,” cautioned Bayleon sharply.

  “Well, much good it’s done us.” Ash looked over the side of the boat at the passing banks. “Anyway, some say it’s to do with Essenfayle, but most of us think it’s more to do with the Other. In any case, it is as it is. To be honest, most of the Suhl have stopped thinking about why it’s happening. It’s been going on for generations. They’ve come to see it as a fact, like the changing of the seasons. They think it has no end and no meaning, it’s just the way of the world.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  Ash met his eyes. “No. It means everything.”

  Sylas lay back and considered this for a moment. “How do you mean it’s gone on for generations?”

  Ash looked at him questioningly.

  “Well, you said it was all Thoth’s doing, so how could it have been happening for generations?”

  Ash exchanged glances with Bayleon. “Thoth has been around longer than anyone can remember. He was alive before my father, and before my father’s father. He’s as inevitable as the rise of day.” He spat over the side of the boat. “And as the fall of night.”

  They soon passed the final scattered dwellings on the outskirts of town and the river swept them out into the open countryside: tilled fields waiting for the first sowing of spring; wild pastures, home to teeming herds of sheep and cattle; hedgerows and coppices hanging over the waters; verdant woods full of ancient trees.

  Sylas looked across at the tiny flotilla of boats clinging to the wave. It seemed even smaller than it had in town. So few, he thought, so very few. The plight of the Suhl seemed so hopeless – their lives so precarious. He thought of Thoth and the Undoing and everything they had lost, and he wondered how they carried on – how none of them seemed cowed or broken by what had happened at the bridge. There was no sign of relief or joy on those sallow faces, but neither was there any evidence of defeat. Instead they talked in soft tones among themselves or sat quietly, thoughtfully, their eyes fixed resolutely on the grey horizon.

  Soon the occupants of one boat began to sing, quietly at first but then louder so that the others heard and joined in. Bayleon struck up in a deep baritone and Simia and Ash followed him. Sylas did not recognise it at first, but then came a verse that he knew. It was the song Filimaya had sung at the mill.

  And so we change as change we must,

  When standards rot and sabres rust,

  When the sun is set and night is come,

  When all is lost, when naught is won.

  When nations fall, when day is done,

  When all is lost, when naught is won,

  What nobler charge, what cause so great

  As brother’s plight and kindred’s fate?

  Sylas listened for a while and then joined them in their song, humming the haunting melody. And, as they all sang, that feeble company gathered its strength and became one: united and defiant. To
his surprise, Sylas felt his eyes burning and he swallowed down a wave of emotion. How proud he was to be one of their number. One of these desperate, courageous few.

  As the wave surged on, the mood in the surviving boats began to change. They knew that sanctuary was growing near and the singing gave way to a new, animated chatter. They spoke excitedly about the impending fork in the river, which would take them deep into the river’s sleepy meanders, through the hills, far into the sprawling labyrinth of tributaries and byways, oxbows and rivulets that would keep them safe from discovery. And, from there, they would soon find their brethren, hidden deep in the forested hills of the Valley of Outs.

  This was the topic of conversation in most of the boats, but not all. The travellers in Sylas’s boat grew quiet in their anticipation. They knew that their fork in the river would take them somewhere else entirely, somewhere alien and dark, bleak and dangerous.

  Sylas rested with his back against Simia’s, looking out at the other boats gliding down the river, at Filimaya talking and smiling with the others, her hand still outstretched over the wave. He lifted his eyes and saw the great forested hills looming ahead, some covered with the skeletal shapes of winter-barren trees, others bearing a dark green blanket of evergreens. He watched as the ground started to rise around them and the banks became steep and rocky, climbing slowly towards the grey sky. Once again he was in the hills, and they seemed to be welcoming him back. But how much more he knew now, as he came to them again. About this world, about himself, about his mother.

  His eyes shifted to his backpack. He reached down and drew the Samarok from it, holding the ancient book for the first time since the Den of Scribes. His fingers traced the hard-cut gems, the leaves of parchment, the soft leather, and he found his mind drifting back to Mr Zhi, to the day that now seemed so long ago when he had been given the mysterious Third Thing. How confused he had been, how lost he had felt.

  “ You have much to learn about the world you live in, but most of all about… who you are,” Mr Zhi had said, “and where you are from.”