by S McPherson
The noise reveals itself as Milo, carrying more manuscripts for us to search through. I read the title of the one on top as he sits beside me; Gems through the ages. I grin but can’t shirk the sense of foreboding. Can we really do this? Can we find the Provolian Pair and, more importantly, is it wise? Even if it helps us win one war, it could quickly lead to another. Milo nudges me, noticing I’ve stopped searching and am blankly staring off into space. I force a smile and return to taking note of every alleged place the Pair was last seen. Wise or not, the Provolian Pair are more than powerful magic, they’re the only hope I have of remaining here and to leave Coldivor without hope, is not an option.
An explosion of rock careens through the windows before anyone can react. Shards of glass are sent flying into the classroom as a rain of stone descends. We all duck but it’s too late for Patrice, a curly haired blonde dwarf with a kind face. A rock has struck her in the temple. She lies unconscious on the ground, blood trickling from the gash it’s made.
‘Step aside!’ Mr Brambles voice booms over us as we rush to help. Everyone moves out of his way.
‘There’s something written, Sir,’ calls a boy whose name I haven’t learnt, ‘on the rock.’
Mr Bramble instantly scoops up the missile and reads.
‘What does it say?’ asks another unknown male.
Worry furrows Mr Bramble’s brow. ‘Corporeal, Corporeal,’ he reads slowly, ‘come out, come out, wherever you are.’
Everyone’s brow crumples as they gape around the room; every piece of rock has the same message scrawled into it. Gasping, I lock eyes with Milo, then my sight passes over Howard and finally settles on Yvane. Her dark eyes say plainly and simply, ‘I told you so’.
Patrice Middleorf is promptly taken to the nurse’s office where she receives four stitches and a vial of fribbily potion which I’m told can assist with the symptoms of brain damage – just a precaution.
For the rest of the day that is the leading topic, the issue that balances on the tip of every tongue: poor Patrice, and who is this Corporeal. By the end of the day, I’m exhausted and flop into Lexovia’s bed with unbridled delight.
When a knock sounds on the bedroom window, I audibly whimper. Before I have chance to climb out of bed, though, Milo appears beside me, blue dust settling around him. I gawp, my mouth opening and closing soundlessly and before I can speak, Milo kneels beside the bed, cups my face in his hands and draws me to him. Our lips lock and for an instant I forget everything: Patrice, the Vildacruz and foremost my exhaustion. I lean into him, stroking a finger up and down the length of his arm. His muscles hard as flesh-covered steel.
Too soon, he moves back, ever-so-slightly. The proximity of his lips to mine, a tease. ‘Looks like you needed that,’ he murmurs into my mouth.
‘Just what the doctor ordered.’ I reply. Actually, my doctor would have demanded a whole lot more!
‘Can I take you somewhere?’ he asks, still not moving his face from mine.
‘You can take me anywhere,’ I confess.
He chuckles, and in a wave of blue, we vanish. We turn up somewhere high, but not as high as Aulock Peak and not on a mountain. This time we’re on top of a building, one that seems familiar. As I squint through the dark, I begin to recognise where I am. A flag with the school’s crest billows in the wind, and it clicks. We’re on the roof of the lighthouse building, the one I have seen from beside Trilyot Lake.
‘What are we doing here?’ I ask.
Milo takes my hand and leads me to a locked panel on the roofs floor. ‘This is the head dimensionals building,’ he explains. Kneeling down, he pulls out a key, unlocks the panel and draws out a black metal box covered in knobs and switches. ‘It’s mainly for the advanced portology students, but as I intend to be a portologist one day, they let me come and use the facilities sometimes.’ I watch as his fingers expertly flick and twist at the device. He then pulls out two metal rods – antennae it seems – and slots them into an opening at the back of the box.
‘This is what I’ve been working on.’ He beckons me to sit beside him which I do.
‘What is it?’
He slides back a thin sheet of metal, revealing a pattern of holes in the box’s side. They sort of look like a speaker.
‘A device to hear other worlds.’ Milo’s eyes gleam as he speaks. Dimensions truly fascinate him.
‘What?’ I gasp. Milo flicks another switch and the whole box comes alight, a mix of reds, greens and oranges. He twiddles another knob and there’s a faint hissing sound. He twists it further and a screech follows. I wince but Milo grins.
‘At first, I thought this was nothing,’ he says, ‘but then I realised it was a conversation.’
I pull my brows together, failing to understand how he arrived at that conclusion.
‘Listen,’ he urges.
Sure enough, as I pay closer attention, I make out two distinct sounds; voices; both shrill, both shrieking but at different octaves. Sometimes there is an inflection which could indicate a question and sometimes the sound shudders and jumps as if those speaking are laughing.
‘Where are they?’ I ask.
Milo shrugs, ‘I haven’t been able to track them yet but I’m working on it.’ He fiddles with another knob, this time rotating a small gearstick and the sounds fade. Taking their place is certainly someone speaking, though again not in a language we understand. It consists of gobbles and gurgles. They come out in a monotone, like the creature is perhaps doing the ten o’clock news.
‘This is amazing,’ I observe.
Milo smiles. ‘It gets better.’ He shifts the gearstick another time and now there is a known sound, a rhythm I recognise followed by the sound of a familiar male voice.
‘I know this song,’ I cry, amazed. ‘This is Islon radio!’
Milo laughs. I tap my thigh to the beat, humming along. Milo bops his head beside me. I wonder if we were ever doing this before, him up here and me in my room in Islon, singing along to the same song.
‘Shall we?’ Milo extends his hand to me and taking it, he guides me to my feet, swaying rhythmically with me in his arms. He starts to sing, a low rumble in my ear, and my body turns to jelly. My stomach burns. I’m achingly aware of every part of him that’s touching every part of me. My neck warms and cools with the whisper of his breath and I close my eyes.
TINKERS
At last it is the fourth of January and Lexovia practically skips out of bed. All businesses that were closed for the holidays are finally reopened, including the Tinkers Shop where Fawn says her gethamot can be fixed. Though she has enjoyed every minute on Feranvil Farm, Lexovia is equally looking forward to returning home, even to facing the Vildacruz and eventually reclaiming Taratesia.
‘Not long now, Coldivor.’ She smiles at her reflection in the guest toilet mirror before bouncing out into the corridor.
‘You’re happy this morning,’ Nathaniel points out as she almost knocks him flying. Lexovia beams. It is lovely having Nathaniel here. After a wonderful New Year’s and a much-needed day of recovery, Mrs Edwards had suggested he stay and help out around the bar for a while. At first Nathaniel had politely refused, but when it came time to leave, he promptly had a change of heart and decided to stay a few more days. Business was quiet around winter, what with gardens being buried under layers of snow, and he couldn’t deny how fascinating it was to be a part of a hidden wonder: a land existing inside his own that very few know of.
‘We’re going to Tinkers Shop today,’ Lexovia states. ‘The man there can fix the denomatrix.’
‘Ah, that thing for the thingamabob,’ and Nathaniel nods.
‘Exactly,’ Lexovia grins.
Tinkers Shop is dark, poky and everything appears to be lined with dust. Shelves of ancient books, pages hanging out of them, lean to one side as if they are about to keel over. Trinkets, knick-knacks and random artefacts hang from the ceiling, cover what’s to be seen of the carpeted floor, and are strewn across the odd table top. Rotting boxes with
mouse holes chewed into them and stacks of browning paper conceal any other remaining surface. Moss covered windows peep over the tops of cases, allowing only a slither of sunlight through.
‘Are you sure this was only closed over the holiday?’ Lexovia asks Fawn as she brushes off a faded book. ‘Looks like no one’s been here for years.’
Fawn chuckles. ‘Bel has always enjoyed a rustic appearance.’
‘Bel?’
As if on cue, a phlegmy cough behind the counter startles them all.
‘Belendraw Tink,’ says the croaky voice of a man now standing before them. He is extremely thin with a head that seems too large for his body. His pointed nose droops so low it almost scrapes his bottom lip and his chin is excessively long.
‘Oh, hello,’ Lexovia stammers, taken aback by the man’s appearance.
‘What can I do you for?’ croaks Belendraw, smoothing down his few strands of hair.
Fawn steps forward, serious business afoot, and says, ‘Hello, Belendraw old chap.’ He smiles. Belendraw observes him through squinted eyes. ‘Right, well,’ clearing his throat, Fawn continues, rummaging in his pocket and pulling out the gethamot, ‘we need a new denomatrix for this here device.’
‘Well I never.’ Belendraw’s lanky fingers stretch out for the gethamot and swipe it from Fawn’s grasp. ‘This is an old one.’
‘Aye, that’s correct,’ and Fawn nods.
Lexovia and Nathaniel exchange dubious looks.
‘And you thought I was peculiar,’ Jude whispers.
A book flies from a shelf and whacks Jude across the head.
‘I heard that, boy,’ Belendraw hollers before returning his attention to the gethamot.
Lexovia and Nathaniel can’t help but chuckle at Jude’s outraged expression as he glowers at the book, flipping idly on the ground.
‘Be nice,’ Fawn hisses.
‘Do you want to hear a story?’ Belendraw asks keenly.
‘Well, really...’
Before Fawn can finish his sentence, Belendraw has hopped onto the counter, cross-legged and ready to begin.
‘I’ll tell you a story,’ he states. ‘Gather round.’
They look to one another, each wondering where exactly they are expected to gather. Lexovia decides to sit on a stack of papers behind her. Jude perches on a rare vacant edge of a table. Nathaniel takes solace on the floor, praying he doesn’t catch anything and Fawn helps himself to the chair behind the counter.
‘I’m going to tell you the story of this here gethamot.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Lexovia asks.
‘Everything I have in this store has a tale.’ Belendraw flexes his fingers animatedly. ‘A tale I can tell.’
Somewhat intrigued, Lexovia folds her arms, signalling him to go on.
‘It was late one night,’ Belendraw begins, rolling the gethamot between his fingers, ‘counterparts together, running through the forest. Taratesia I believe.’
‘Counterparts together?’ Lexovia cannot help herself. ‘Counterparts cannot coexist.’
‘Hush!’ Belendraw snaps. ‘I tell you what I see. I do not offer explanation.’
Lexovia shakes her head and allows the man to continue.
‘They are frightened. They are being chased.’ Belendraw sounds surprised and rubs the gethamot more ferociously. ‘Someone wants what they have.’
‘The gethamot no doubt,’ Lexovia mumbles.
‘Nay, a gem, a glowing sea-green stone hanging around each of their necks. This is what the others seek,’ Belendraw confirms with a brisk nod. ‘The counterparts are running fast but the crowd is faster, almost upon them. One lassie falls now, the one holding this gethamot. She instructs the other to run. The crowd around falls upon her. Her scream echoes through the woods. The gethamot falls from her hands, slipping into the mud, sinking further and further down until it remembers no more.’
A silence now lingers.
‘You speak of the Provolian Pair,’ Fawn whispers.
‘The what?’ Jude asks curiously.
‘The Provolian Pair: a set of matching necklaces,’ Lexovia explains. ‘There’s a legend that, if worn by counterparts, those counterparts can exist within the same realm.’
‘Wouldn’t that be grand?’ cackles Belendraw, ‘but alas this story is from eons ago. Assuming those necklaces are real, they’re long gone by now.’
AND SO IT ENDS
The next few days seem to pass in a blur, everything happening so fast yet in slow motion. I cannot quite process what is happening around me never mind the fact that it’s all about me.
I don’t know how to react; I feel as though every move I make is a giveaway, like a bell chiming and clanging out the word ‘Corporeal’. It doesn’t help, either, that Yvane has taken to supervising each of these moves. I know she is simply trying to keep on top of things but it’s doing nothing for my paranoia.
‘This is bad,’ and she stares blandly at her reflection in the mirror as I wash my hands in the school restroom. ‘This is bad’ is fast becoming my catchphrase for Yvane as it’s all I’ve heard from her these past three days. Yes, it’s bad. Thank you, Yvane, for stating the obvious. I splash some cold water on my face, half-hoping to revive myself. It does no such thing. My fairy tale dimension is quickly becoming the horror story Imogen had warned me about. ‘Ninety minutes’ she’d said. Don’t stay more than ninety minutes, and here I am verging on a month.
Sighing, I dab my face dry, and together, Yvane and I leave the restroom, where Milo leans against a wall. Relief washes over me. It’s the end of another day. Yvane is now off duty and obediently places me in Milo’s care. I smile. No matter how bad things get, the warmth of Milo’s arms around me somehow manages to make me feel at ease. I try to disguise my longing for him as he pulls me close, the students eyeing us as they saunter past.
‘Hi,’ he grins.
‘Hi,’ I breathe, and then we’re gone.
We arrive in the tree house: our new safe haven now that the Rijjleton guards have started doing periodic sweeps of the sleeping areas. I am so thankful for the escape. The missing Corporeal is still the talk of the town and I honestly feel I might burst into flames if one more person mentions it with those puzzled and somewhat accusatory eyes.
Now, safe in the tree, snuggled together on the armchair – still baffled that the tree house has an armchair; a mud-brown three piece suite in fact – Milo trails his fingers through my hair and plants a kiss me on the forehead. There is a fire pit to our right, a metal grill placed over it on which Milo has set a pot of water to boil. He’s planning on making us soup. While we wait, I turn his hand over and begin studying his palm, running my fingers along the lines.
‘They say each palm of your hand has a story to tell,’ I say.
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes.’ I nod, caressing his life line. ‘The right is supposedly all you have accumulated in life and the left what is apparently in your future.’
‘Ah, right, no Premoniters in your world,’ Milo chuckles.
‘Fine, I won’t tell you,’ I say airily and playfully toss his hand aside.
He laughs and cuddles me. ‘No, no. I want to know. I’m actually quite interested.’
I glower at him, but needing very little persuasion, I scoop up his hand once more. I’m quite curious to see what I remember from all those years ago, when I idly Googled palmistry. I’m also slightly curious to see what his hand says about his future…our future.
‘Well,’ I begin, ‘this one is the heart line. Depending on where it starts says how you are in relationships.’ As I launch into more detail about each line – deep, frayed or otherwise – I forget the rest of the world. The vibration from Milos’s chest, as he mm-hmm’s in acknowledgement or murmurs a few phrases here and there, are all I’m aware of.
When I’m finished, Milo nods. ‘That’s quite impressive.’
I beam proudly.
‘What other magic do you know?’ he grins, clearly humouring me and I only love h
im more for it. I’m well aware that a full-blown premonition is much more impressive than spewing out assumptions based on the lines on someone’s hand.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard of star signs?’ I venture.
‘Star signs?’ he cries, throwing his head back in laughter. I love the way his Adam’s apple bounces up and down and the way he watches me through the slits of his eyelids as he laughs. I love the way his hair falls behind his ears then tumbles back into his eyes on his return. I quite frankly love everything about this man, down to the lines on the palm of his hand. ‘No, sweetheart,’ he states, sending a spasm of delight up my spine, ‘I can’t say I’ve ever heard of star signs.’
Finally, it’s Friday and the weekend is upon us. I manage to make it through another day of paranoid glances at windows and conversations starting ‘What will the Vildacruz do next?’. I nod when one is expected to nod, gasp when one is expected to gasp and shake my head when one is expected to shake their head.
Now, away from it all, I feel slightly normal, sitting in ‘Fishy Chippy’ with Yvane, Howard and Milo. The scent of batter and vinegar surrounds me in a cocoon and I let myself enjoy the simple pleasures of fish flaking into my mouth. We discuss the week past and the week ahead. The thought of returning to Thornton High on Monday, strumming my fingers and feigning curiosity with the rest of them, makes my skin crawl.
‘The rock incident will be forgotten soon enough. Easily distracted this lot,’ Yvane assures me. ‘Something else will happen and the whole school will be aflutter with the breaking news.’
Before I can respond, there’s a loud bang and the Earth shakes. I hold on to the table as a ringing grows louder in my ears. What was that?