by V M Jones
Jamie had opted for Blunderbuss. ‘It may sound comical,’ he’d told us when we’d laughed, ‘but it’s not. A Blunderbuss was an old-fashioned gun, and a lot more lethal than it sounds — just like I’ll be once I’m all trained up. So there!’
But — as usual — I couldn’t come up with a single idea. The others drifted away, Blue-bum lolloping behind them; I leaned against a tree and took out my larigot to help me think. I’d played it in the stillness of the previous evening; more and more I was finding refuge and strength in its music. It seemed to bridge the gap between past and future, in my imagination at least: to draw my father, my mother and my lost brother closer, into a magical circle of silver …
A shadow fell over me and I broke off, startled. It was the Masked Man. As always, his face was obscured by his leather hood, but I could feel the intensity of his gaze behind the narrow slits. ‘Whistler,’ he said. His voice was muffled and indistinct, but the single word was unmistakable.
I nearly dropped my larigot. ‘What? Who …’
‘Sometimes we choose our own name, and sometimes it is chosen for us. And sometimes the name chooses itself … Whistler.’ He watched me a moment more, then turned and walked away.
I stared after him, then down at my larigot. It felt cool, smooth, familiar between my fingers … part of me, like it always had.
Yes, that was it. Whistler.
Sometimes the name chooses itself. But it hadn’t. He had chosen it for me … whoever he was.
The brotherhood of the arena
I lost track of time in the days that followed.
Between travelling, eating and sleeping, we did almost nothing but train. Our only free time was in the evenings, when Borg joined the circle of men passing a wineskin round their campfire and the Masked Man disappeared who knew where. The rest of us relaxed by the fire: I’d play my larigot, or Gen would make up a story; we’d talk, sing songs or play blow-sticks.
Lyulf had whittled us each our own pipe from a bamboo-like plant with a hollow centre; Blade would rig the target — rather gruesomely a human body, arms raised and legs spread, the heart and other vital organs marked in red and scoring highest — on a convenient tree, and it would be game on. We’d take turns to aim and fire with lethal-looking feathered darts that smacked into the target with a grisly thwack. At first Blade and Lyulf beat us easily, but we soon became more expert, till even Jamie — who was worst — was clamouring to play as soon as the dinner things were cleared away.
As for Blue-bum … at first he watched, looking lonely and left out. And then one night Lyulf handed him his own little mini-pipe. ‘The fellowship of the arena includes us all,’ he said solemnly, a twinkle in his eye, ‘even you, Blue-bum.’ Who’d have guessed what a tiger would be unleashed? Blue-bum spent every spare moment practising, and was soon better than us all. He showed a fierce and not always sporting spirit, once snapping his blow-stick in half and going off to sulk at the top of a tree when Blade beat him by a whisker — a reminder that the old Weevil was still in there somewhere, I told myself with a smile.
During the day we lived and breathed training. At first Lyulf kept us together to learn the basics: cuts, thrusts, attack and counterattack, grappling, disarming, and, ‘most important of all’, as Jamie said — avoidance.
‘I’m hopeless!’ Jamie wailed miserably on the third day, after he’d tripped over his own sword and fallen flat on his face at Lyulf’s feet.
‘Not so,’ replied Lyulf, while the rest of us looked hurriedly away to hide our smiles. ‘In a circus troupe there are many different roles. It is time you all began to specialise.’
From then on, training switched to one-on-one. For Kenta and Gen, out came tall tridents that reminded me with a shudder of the Mauler, and nets weighted at the edges with iron balls. ‘You girls are swift and agile,’ Lyulf told them. ‘We will work on developing those abilities, together with your stamina.’
To Rich’s initial disgust, most of his training took place with no weapon. ‘You will never make a swordsman, Tornado,’ Lyulf told him bluntly; ‘you do not have the subtlety. Your strength lies in your physical power. I will teach you a few simple strategies for disarming your opponent; once the weapons are out of the way you will come into your own.’ Despite himself, Richard soon began to relish the hand-to-hand combat techniques Lyulf schooled him in: the throws, rolls, kicks, punches, locks, and close-quarter knife-work.
‘And for you, Blunderbuss,’ said Lyulf gravely, ‘something rather different is called for — and for that, Blade must be your teacher.’ Off they went together day after day to practice whatever it was in private. They’d return hours later, Jamie grubby, dishevelled and looking very pleased with himself; Blade uncharacteristically mysterious, a brighter-than-usual sparkle in her eyes. It was clear the two of them had some kind of secret, and Gen for one didn’t seem to like it, though she didn’t say so.
It was only me who didn’t seem to have any special role. I longed to ask what my strength was, what my speciality was going to be … but I couldn’t find the courage. It wasn’t that I was worried Lyulf would growl at me: we’d all come to know him well enough to trust him completely, despite — or maybe because of — his characteristic grimness. I was afraid he’d have to admit I didn’t have one — that in each of the others he could see talent of some kind, while with me he was floundering in the dark.
For days I plugged on with the wooden sword I’d started with, but it felt as clumsy and unresponsive as a log of wood in my hand; Lyulf, watching me, scowled and shook his head.
He put the sword aside and switched me to a wider-bladed broadsword, with one of the padded leather ‘Frisbees’ — a miniature shield or ‘buckler’ — strapped to my left forearm; but still he didn’t seem satisfied. The buckler was exchanged for a long-bladed wooden dagger, the heavy sword for a lighter version with a longer blade. I sparred two-handed with Blade, getting the feel of the new weapons while Lyulf stood and watched, arms folded, face like thunder. ‘What’s the matter with me?’ I muttered miserably to Blade during a brief break. ‘What am I doing wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ she replied with a grin. ‘Don’t let it bother you. It’s Lyulf. He’s never happy till he’s found the perfect combination of man — or woman — and weapon. Bear with him and be patient.’
For the next few nights Lyulf didn’t join us round the campfire. His absence left an emptiness: though he never said much, his presence was a force that generated heat and energy, like the fire itself … unlike the Masked Man, who prowled in and out of the circle almost unnoticed, now here, now gone, always so silent I wondered if I’d imagined those few muffled words.
Then after breakfast one day Lyulf arrived for my training session carrying a long object wrapped in his cloak, in his eyes a mysterious gleam. ‘Well, Whistler, let us see how you fare with this,’ he said, allowing the cloak to fall away. I stared, speechless. Resting on his palms was a perfect replica of my father’s sword made of wood. Length and breadth of blade, balance and proportion were identical; even the hilt had been faithfully copied, right down to the leather binding round the grip. But how? When?
Casting my mind back, I realised when it must have been. Blade had asked to see my sword soon after we joined the troupe; I’d unsheathed it and passed it over, and she’d admired it for a minute or so before returning it. I hadn’t even realised Lyulf was there. In those few moments he must have memorised every detail, even down to the tracery of leaves on the flat of the blade. For the first time I had an inkling of the extent of Lyulf’s mastery. A weapon of any kind, once glimpsed, memorised instantly in minute detail … and now reproduced — for me.
Blood rushed to my face; I didn’t know what to say. I glanced up, hoping he wouldn’t notice my tears. Our eyes met in an instant of connection so powerful it jolted through me like an electric shock. I blinked, confused and shaken … and the moment was past.
‘No need,’ Lyulf was saying gruffly, as if in answer to a ‘thank you’ I didn’t even know I’d
spoken.
From the first moment it was as if the wooden sword was alive in my hand. Now at last I saw a smile in Lyulf’s eyes as he lowered the point of his own practice sword and stepped back, wiping his face on his sleeve. Blade, ‘happening’ to pass at that moment, threw me an impudent grin and a wink. I couldn’t help grinning back, light-headed with relief and a savage kind of joy. I hadn’t realised till then how important it seemed to be for me to be good at this … and to see the approval in Lyulf’s eyes.
That afternoon he called the Masked Man over. ‘It is time you sparred with a partner other than myself and Blade,’ he told me. I put my new sword on guard with a sinking heart. I’d seen how good the hooded stranger was … but I’d rather have died than let Lyulf know how I felt.
The two blades touched, lightly as feathers … and I felt the weirdest sensation. It was as if the wooden blade of my sword was a live conduit, an antenna telegraphing information to my brain. I felt a frown gather behind the leather mask, and my own brain answered with a grin of triumph: so — he’d felt it too. And he didn’t like it.
Slowly, we began to circle. The blades touched, parted, touched again — and each time they touched, the connection was there. Like a cat’s whisker in the dark, semaphoring the other blade’s intention the instant it was formulated. Now the Masked Man’s sword wasn’t a blur; I could follow its movements, almost as if they were in slow motion, tracking them, anticipating them, countering them with my own instinctive parries and thrusts.
Strangest of all, for the first time the wooden sword gave me a sense of knowing my adversary — not who he was, but what he was — his inner core, as Blade would say. With Lyulf, it was crackling energy, fierce as a wolf, bright as a flame. But with the Masked Man the touching blades transmitted a darker force, muted and strangely compelling … and with it came an unsettling sense of recognition, almost as if, were the mask removed, the face beneath might be as familiar as my own.
A grey horizon
That night, for the first time, Lyulf said we should take turns at keeping watch while the others slept. ‘We are deep in the wildlands,’ he told us, ‘and still two days’ journey from the first town. We would be foolish to rely on the safety of numbers alone, with so many wounded,’
Blade agreed. ‘If you leave your caravan at night, do not venture far from the fire — and if you hear anything unusual, wake one of us at once.’
The two of them carried on shovelling down their bowls of gruel as if they’d been discussing the weather forecast, but Jamie turned greenish-grey and pushed his bowl away unfinished. ‘What sort of anything?’ he croaked.
‘Yeah,’ said Rich cheerfully, ‘what exactly are these famous dangers of the wildlands? I thought Borg said the circus arts would protect us!’
Blade and Lyulf exchanged a glance. ‘Tell them,’ said Lyulf. ‘It is better that they know.’
‘We are near the border of Limbo.’ My heart gave a little skip, but Blade set down her spoon and looked round at us gravely. ‘And beyond …’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘lie the Realms of the Undead.’
‘The Realms of the Undead …’ I echoed, remembering the words that had come from the fire. ‘So they do exist.’ I didn’t want to ask, but I knew I must. ‘Do you know anything more about them?’
‘Only what I have heard — and even that I do not fully believe, for none who have been there return. Limbo lies at the edge of the world; the shadowlands we speak of, further still. Men say they are bordered by a vast forest, and that through the forest run two paths. One path leads to the Realms of the Undead; the other, to your journey’s end — wherever that may be. Legend has it that the paths are guarded by two birds which speak with the voices of men.’
‘And they tell you which path is which, I’ll bet …’ said Jamie.
‘Yes — and no. One bird tells nothing but truth; the other, nothing but lies.’
‘So it’s all a bit of a lottery,’ chipped in Rich cheerfully. ‘Sounds like a load of rubbish.’
I said nothing. I was remembering … the birds of the air will point the way … truth and lies will lead you there … My heart felt like a stone rolling slowly downhill. We were close to Limbo — very close. In Limbo, we would find Zenith. Together we would take whatever final steps we needed … to wherever they led us.
‘Aye, Tornado, possibly none of it is true,’ Blade continued sombrely. ‘But this I do know. Many of those who roam the wildlands are taken — I know not for what purpose. And though the circus arts protect us, they also put us most at risk. But be of good cheer: we have journeyed this route many times and come to no harm.’
‘These Undead …’ quavered Gen. ‘Who are they?’
‘They are creatures of darkness, the evil and the damned, those who lie restless in unnamed graves.’ Blade’s voice was low. ‘Their bodies retain a semblance of human form; it is their souls that putrefy. They go by different names in different lands, but many know them as the Faceless.’
‘Lock and bolt your door,’ said Lyulf grimly. ‘We will sleep with weapons by our sides tonight. Blade, you and I will take the darkest watches. And remember — if you hear anything, wake us instantly.’
I don’t know what it was that woke me.
After my watch I’d roused Blade and fallen instantly into a bottomless sleep that should have lasted till morning; now suddenly I was wide awake, skin prickling, ears straining for the faintest sound. In the bunk below me I could hear Jamie’s gentle snoring; across the narrow caravan one of the girls whimpered and was still again.
It was Blade waking Lyulf for his watch, I told myself; the sooner I went back to sleep, the sooner morning would come. Gradually my heartbeat slowed; I squirmed deeper into my sleeping bag and turned to face the door, closing my eyes and breathing deeply. My thoughts blurred gradually into dreams … and then the sound came again, jerking me awake. There was something outside the caravan.
I wriggled out of my sleeping bag and lowered myself soundlessly to the floor, padded bare-chested to the window and drew back the flimsy curtain. Night hung outside like black velvet … and through the stillness came the softest murmur of a voice.
I decided to fetch Lyulf; felt for my sword in the darkness, slid it from its sheath and held it ready by my side, my other hand steady but cold as ice as I unlocked the door and drew the bolt. I slipped through the door and drew it closed. Feeling the way with my bare feet over the rough ground, I edged round the side of the caravan towards the glow of the fire — and froze.
Two figures were silhouetted against the soft wash of firelight. Lyulf and Blade. It was their voices I’d heard. They were speaking in whispers, but with an intensity that carried their words further than they intended — across to me, standing stock-still in the shadow of the caravan.
‘What are you running from? Just tell me that — trust me that far, at least, for friendship’s sake!’
Lyulf’s growl: ‘I trust nothing and no one.’
‘Can you truly say you care nothing for me? Look me in the eyes and tell me.’
‘Lower your voice — you will wake the others.’
Blade dropped her voice, and I caught only snatches of her next words: ‘… when last we spoke of this … held to the hope … followed you here, and now —’
‘Yes — and you should not have done! The evil I battle is mine alone to face or flee, my curse mine alone to carry!’
Blade reached out to him, arms slender and fragile in the firelight. Her next words were a whisper too soft to hear. I watched helplessly, paralysed by the knowledge that I’d stumbled on something so private, yet terrified to move a muscle in case I gave my presence away.
A mumble from Lyulf — a word or two, broken, indistinct — then Blade’s voice, pleading and desperate: ‘… whatever the enchantment …’
‘No!’ The single word cut through the night like a sword, so full of anguish that for a second I thought Lyulf really had been wounded, somehow, by some hidden enemy lurking in th
e darkness. He spun and staggered away from the fire towards the dark circle of caravans, moving at a stumbling run as if he’d been cut to the bone.
My heart was in my throat. I was a second away from stepping from my hiding place to help him … and then I saw his face. He passed less than an arm’s-length away and never saw me; slipped into his caravan and snicked the door shut. I waited for a sound, for a light to flicker on, for something … but there was only silence.
By the fire Blade stood like a statue, arms by her sides, head bowed.
I crept back into my caravan, slid into bed and lay, my mind spinning, waiting for dawn.
Morning came, and with it the first hint of autumn. Till now the days had been long and golden, what clouds there were gathering swiftly into sudden thunderstorms that left the world scoured to a shimmering brightness. But today we shivered awake and huddled in our cloaks by the fire, the wood sullen and slow to burn in the damp air.
Blade was at pains to seem her usual self, chatting away in a bright, false voice, though never to Lyulf. He was quieter than ever, keeping his eyes low and his mouth shut. With the Masked Man as silent as always and Borg and the others speaking in grunts if at all, breakfast was a dreary affair. I was glad when my porridge was finished and I had an excuse to wander down to the river and rinse my bowl.
My mind was full of what I’d heard the night before. I couldn’t make sense of any of it — not just the words themselves, but the rip-tide of emotion that surged beneath them. Should I tell the others? No — every instinct told me what I’d stumbled on was private, not mine to tell. But could it be important in some way — have some bearing on our quest? I couldn’t see how.
I stood gazing out over the water to the riverbank beyond, shaking the last drops from my bowl and drawing the cool, damp air deep into my lungs … and that’s when I saw it. Way distant, almost invisible against the dull sky: the faintest twist, like a ghost of tattered lace faded faint as a dream.