Hopskotch and the Golden Cicada

by Martin Vine

  “Hobbleskotch!” they would tease him in the schoolyard, but it troubled him little. Playground taunts meant little to a Syltling who could still play a mean game of flyball and run a competitive cross-country. In truth, Hopskotch had never considered himself handicapped, though he did move with an unusual rolling gait.

  Dobbin was shorter than Hopskotch and considerably wider round the middle. Being of Geldonian heritage, his ears were smaller, while his mane was of a darker shade to Hopskotch’s, and noticeably more bristly all over. This gave him a scruffy appearance, particularly when he got flustered, which was often, as it turned out. He boasted neither interest, nor talent, in anything to do with competitive sports, but was extremely fond of board games.

  Dobbin also shared Hopskotch’s love of maps and adventuring, as long as it never took him too far from his mother’s kitchen. The other loves of his life were gadgets and tinkering, his mother’s cooking and Bindy Sandstep – a homely-looking girl upon whom he’d developed an undying crush.

  Daylight was still a good half-hour away. There was little to see up ahead except the shadow-filled entrance to the fire trail.

  “So which way?” Dobbin asked, still puffing. “Cross-country, Hoopey’s or ’cross the river?”

  “River Way,” Hopskotch replied without pause. “And no arguments!”

  Dobbin made a face, as if forcing unspoken words back down his throat.

  “Trust me, there’s no quicker way to Curmudgeon’s Gulch, and it means we don’t need to go anywhere near school grounds.”

  A dark memory lunged at Hopskotch’s conscious, disappearing before it could properly form. He shivered at the feeling.

  “Actually, I wouldn’t mind getting a walking stick, myself,” Hopskotch said, cheering himself with the notion. “Maybe the Whirlpool will give me one?”

  “Well, you won’t find one like mine, Hipslouch!” Dobbin beamed, brandishing his fancy staff.

  “Just something straight and strong will do, Dobbelsnork!”

  The nickname game was one of enduring silliness between Hopskotch and Dobbin. The first to make the other laugh was the winner, though there was never any prize. It was just a bit of harmless fun to relieve the boredom – the boys showing their defiance to a grey life in a grey world. Hopskotch’s father claimed it signified the closest of bonds when such nonsense became commonplace between friends. Hopskotch’s mother insisted it was just an excuse for bad language.

  Hopskotch himself knew there was a little truth to both sides, but he was not one to dissect things overly. Shouting silly names at each other was just plain fun, and he knew Dobbin felt the same. He could tell by the look on his best friend’s face.

  Dobbin’s cheek muscles began to dance. He turned deliberately away, raising a hand to conceal his mouth.

  “Ah-haa! Victory so early?” Hopskotch teased.

  “Not so fast. That was a smirk, not a laugh,” Dobbin protested. “There’s a difference, you know.”

  Hopskotch took another shot, hoping it would be a knockout. Thrusting his face right up into Dobbin’s, he angled his head to stare right up his friend’s twitching nose. “Looks like you’ve a bee tap-dancing in yer nostril, Dudmint! Sure you don’t wanna set him free?”

  It was a spirited try but the moment had passed. Dobbin held his jaw so stubbornly locked that he wouldn’t have let slip a giggle had Hopskotch pinned him to the ground and tickled his armpits. Hopskotch would have to do better than Dobbelsnork and Dudmint to win this day.

  Of course, it was early – not yet even morning, really.

  With Dobbin’s mouth sealed, an unfamiliar silence settled around the pair. Only the faint gurgle of Swallowbrook’s current carving a shallow channel out of the Cutting behind them reminded Hopskotch he hadn’t lost his hearing altogether. He could still feel the moisture between his toes from where he’d misjudged one of the stepping-stones.

  Straightening his luggage, Hopskotch took one last look back at the tumbledown skyline of Low Cutting’s south bank. It was easy to pinpoint his house, even blacked out and from such a distance. He imagined the curtains were still shut, for even a late summer morning could chill the bedrooms. There were no signs of light or life from inside.

  “Funny being up when your parents are still asleep,” Dobbin observed, following his friend’s gaze back across the gully. “I used to love that when I was young, but nowadays I’d just as sooner sleep in.”

  “Come on,” said Hopskotch, changing the subject. “We’ve a long walk.”

  Showing the village his back, Hopskotch turned to face the meadow trail and, with only the slightest hesitation, plunged into the shadows beneath Mr Mulquinney’s peach trees.

  As Low Cutting disappeared behind them – lost behind the tall summer wheat grass bordering the trail – Dobbin seemed to have finally sorted his equipment. Arranging his packs and pouches and multi-pocketed travel vest about his body, the Syltling could now move his arms freely when he walked. Relieved of the distraction, the Syltlings turned their thoughts to the most important thing in the world.

  “I don’t care what Gavel told ya at the sports carnival, there’s no such thing as a White Ghost.”

  “So you’re saying he just made it up to impress me.”

  Dobbin sighed like a smithy’s bellows. “No, I’m saying his brother did, in order to impress anyone within earshot. Gav’s only crime is being as gullible as you.”

  Hopskotch let the insult slide, but not the matter at hand. “But I’ve met Mattlin, he seems a right decent fella, I mea—”

  “Cor blimey, your memory’s shorter than yer gammy leg. You said the same thing about Sammel, remember? That was right before he pummelled us both for playing with his cards.”

  Hopskotch suppressed a shudder. He could still feel the sting from the fading bruise on his left arm.

  “That’s just what older brothers do,” continued Dob. “When they’re not pounding us with their fists, or wrestling us to the floor till we cry for mercy, they’re filling our heads with great whopping lies in order to big-note themselves. Think yerself lucky you don’t have any.”

  “Never really thought of myself as lucky,” Hopskotch whispered to himself, brushing aside a clump of wheat grass that overhung the right-side verge. Stepping past it, he added, “Just like to see one of those rare cicadas you hear about sometimes.”

  Dobbin drew a deep breath. “Like White Ghosts, right? Look, there’s always someone’s older brother who knows someone whose best friend saw one once. And there’s always someone like you and Gav who’ll swallow it hook, line and sinker. Might as well keep our eyes open for the elusive Blue Mist, the Purple Prince, the Jade Corsair, the Scarlet Cardinal.”

  “What about the Red-eyed Onyx? That one’s real. Pa Rand reckons—”

  “Ooh yes, the Red-eyed Onyx,” groaned Dobbin, cutting Hopskotch off. “I recall what your grandfather told us: a nocturnal cicada – red eyes, black carapace; can reflect normal light as colours. Does that sound like something that might actually be out there?”

  Hopskotch sighed. “Maybe not this side of the meadow. Pa Rand says they’re from the high country beyond the lake. No chance we’ll see one ploughing Finches Forest.”

  “Bah!” spat Dobbin. “All ballyhoo and nonsense. Just put it from yer head, right. There’s no chance any of those cicadas exist. There are common cicadas: they’re brown, small and make a god-awful racket once they get going. No doubt there are a few different ones.”

  “Like the Spotted Knight,” said Hopskotch perking up.

  “Yeah, just like the Spotted Knight. ’Cept Sloki caught one last season, so we won’t be seeing any of those. See, they’re on a seven-year cycle.”

  “But what of the Golde—”

  “Don’t say it!” shrieked Dobbin.

  Hopskotch turned his shoulder, shooting Dobbin a baffled look.

  “It’s bad luck to say it out loud before the hunt.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me, right. You
’ll jinx us both. We’re on the thirteen-year cycle, following in the footsteps of Lisalle hisself.”

  Hopskotch turned back to the trail, shaking his head. “Well, I wonder if Lisalle’s teammate was such a pain in the rump when they first set out.”

  “Lisalle didn’t have no partner. Returned with the Gol—,” Dobbin swallowed once, clearing his throat. “Returned his cicada to Market Square for all to see on—his—own! That’s what made him a legend. He hunted alone, too. Just like you’ll be doing if you don’t shut it about all those magical, mystical, impossible cicadas out there.”

  Resisting the urge to bite back, Hopskotch took a series of slow, deep breaths and returned his focus to the path ahead. A halo of morning light opened up the middle, bordered by tall grass stems silhouetted in fading black.

  Lost deep in thought, and with the rhythmic tap-tap of his friend’s walking staff echoing behind him, Hopskotch finally stepped out from the darkness of the fire trail and onto Hoopey’s Way. The first light of day had broken across the meadowlands.

  Shallowfrond’s Gift

  It took less than a half-hour to get from Mr Mulquinney’s property to the Shallowfrond River. Frog’s Leap Crossing was built at the narrows where the water ran fast and deep. The rushes that hugged the west bank all the way up to Birchbarrow Park here gave way to a narrow beach of brown pebbles dotted with larger stones of smooth grey. Four wooden bridges linked shore to shore via three large river rocks, each breaking the surface at convenient intervals. It was a popular spot for daredevil swimmers looking for an exciting ride downstream in the swift current. The wild terrain was just perfect for keeping grown-ups at bay.

  Dobbin pulled up before the first bridge and took a cautious glance at the dark water. “All right, pack check! If I lose anything in there, you’re going in after it.” He busied himself tightening all the straps, latches and buckles about his oversized luggage, urging his friend to check those that eluded the reach of his busy hands.

  Hopskotch travelled much lighter than his friend and teammate. The taller Syltling sported a pair of knee-length striders and a thin cotton shirt – sleeves rolled right past his elbows – over which was an olive vest with one small pocket on the front left and another, secret one on the inside right. On his back was an old rucksack filled with essential supplies, and attached to it via a tied loop was a cicada net with a birch handle. His pride and joy was slung over his left shoulder – the Wayfarer Sling-pouch.

  A must-have accessory for any serious cicada hunter, Hopskotch’s model had been designed specifically for the hunt. The all-leather kit boasted an adjustable strap, attached to which were three pouches of ascending size, arranged shoulder to hip. The middle pouch had a woven leather-mesh grille to allow air in and was designed specifically for holding live cicadas. Between the two lowermost pouches was a loop holding a water skin, while by the shoulder was a special sheath for his pocket knife.

  Hopskotch had saved for two years just to buy the Wayfarer, and even then could only afford the base model. More expensive versions (like Dobbin’s) had as many as five pouches, and a few gimmicky extras. But Hopskotch was extremely happy with his purchase; it had served him well in last year’s hunt.

  Even if he’d never got to use the middle pouch.

  Crossing the Shallowfrond at Frog’s Leap felt like the morning had reversed itself, and dawn was turning back into night. The two Syltlings passed quietly into the shadow world of the east bank wilderness, following the River Way trail north through damp gullies, across narrow ledges, and over and around the blunt rocks that split the relentless groundcover here and there.

  Halfway to the Whirlpool, it was Dobbin who broke the silence. “I know what you’re thinking!”

  Hopskotch had no time to gather his thoughts before they scattered like naughty schoolchildren. It would be interesting to hear what Dobbin knew he was thinking, for he had momentarily forgotten.

  “What exactly would that be?” he sighed, stepping over a root tangle.

  “We are not going to Saddleslip Gorge!”

  Hopskotch had seen this coming, which was a very different thing to being prepared for it.

  “I just think we should con—”

  “Out of the question!” Dobbin snapped. “It’s on the wrong side of the lake! What you gonna do – sprout fins and swim across?”

  Hopskotch ground his back teeth. This was a side to Dobbin he could never warm to – a boar-headed stubbornness that could turn his best friend into a tyrant.

  “Besides which,” Dobbin continued, “Mr Calpepper will be handing out maps. Rules is rules: they’re not gonna let us all just up and run screaming through Bridgetown, now are they?”

  “I suppose not,” Hopskotch sulked, swatting a low-hanging vine from his path. “It’s just we’ve never caught a single cicada in Finches Forest, Birchbarrow Park or River Way.” Hopskotch ignored the long sigh from over his shoulder. “I mean, you can hear them, sure enough, so I know they’re out there, but I just—”

  “You just what?”

  “I just don’t think we’ve a chance if we do the same thing we do every year.”

  He turned to face Dobbin, wide eyes pleading the case. “I mean, if we follow the same tracks, climb the same trees; if we just follow everyone else, we’ll be stragglers, same as every other time. I just—” Hopskotch exhaled loudly and slumped his shoulders, “don’t want to be a straggler any more.”

  Dobbin began rubbing his forehead vigorously. “I know what you’re saying, Captain Adventurer, but do you know what you’re saying?” The Syltling shifted weight to his walking stick, quickly realising it was sinking into the wet clay on the path verge. He pulled it out, accompanied by a comical sucking sound.

  Brushing the remnants off the trunk of a nearby she-oak, Dobbin continued. “I mean, technically we have four days, but how long will it take to get to Saddleslip? And how far up the gorge do we go? Dangerous country, those parts, you know! A bit like this,” Dobbin turned halfway about and waved his walking stick through the air, “only much, much worse!”

  “How do you know?” Hopskotch countered (he was certain Dobbin had never been to Saddleslip Gorge in his life).

  “I just do, so let’s leave it, okay. You spend way too much time listening to your grandpa. And Bartrem. His head’s stuffed with mushrooms – those weird ones you’re not s’posed to touch! Besides which, there has to be a command structure.”

  Hopskotch rolled his eyes. He’d heard this speech before – only last night, in fact – and it was obvious who Dobbin had placed on top of theirs.

  “Without a proper command structure, no team can function.”

  “Fair enough,” Hopskotch said, refocusing on the trail ahead. From the outset, he’d resigned himself to taking orders. The last thing he wanted was a fight on the most important day of the year.

  Of course, the idea of hunting beyond Witherness was not so easily dismissed. He put it to the back of his mind and let it stew, trying to figure out some other good reasons why they should detour to the lake.

  It was shaping up to be a very busy morning inside Hopskotch’s head.

  A stone’s throw from Curmudgeon’s Gulch, the boys detoured from the trail at a low, flat area where the ridge had partly collapsed and the path ventured closer to the river. At its lowest point, the ground cover gave way to a sandy bank framed by salt-and-pepper pebbles separating river from forest.

  Less than twenty yards downstream was a shallow pool, cradled by a rocky outcrop that reached out to the opposite bank like a long, crooked arm. It was known to the boys as the Whirlpool, for it diverted the river’s central flow, sending it in reverse against the shoreline and then out again in slow, lazy circles. The arm itself sat low in the water – barely breaking the surface in places – but its height was improved with layers of bark, branches and other flotsam drifted down from upstream. No one really knew for sure whether it was made by Sylt hand or by nature.

  Hopskotch had certainly never given
it much thought. Untangling himself from sling-pouch and rucksack, the Syltling dropped his gear by the pebble line, stretched his shoulders and headed straight for it. Sideways and crouched over, he climbed out along the top of the crooked arm.

  Halfway to the end, Hopskotch found what he was looking for. From a pile of bobbing driftwood, he retrieved one branch. It was perfect for a walking staff – smoothed surface of mottled dark and light brown with a twist near one end that moulded nicely to palm.

  “Check it out, Dustbin!” he yelled.

  The nickname was wasted. Lost to the world, Dobbin stood in the Whirlpool’s shallows, his full attention given to scanning the bottom for treasure.

  Clawing his way back across the arm, Hopskotch tried again to capture his friend’s attention. “Anything interestink?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  Hopskotch wanted to see for himself. Careful not to lose his newfound staff, he climbed to the very edge of the driftwood stack. Crouching low for balance, he stretched his neck and peered into the dark water.

  The Whirlpool held a special place in Hopskotch’s heart, and he was not the only one. For reasons unknown, the shallow waters acted as a magnet (“vortex”, according to Dobbin) for all manner of oddities, source unknown. Mostly, it was broken bottles of water-smoothed glass and pottery fragments, but occasionally items more exotic would collect within its grasp. Highly prized by the schoolboys of Broken Meadow were the miniature sculptures, most of which were carved from white ripplestone: a rare marble from the highlands beyond Lake Whispermere. Hopskotch had a few taking pride of place on a shelf in his bedroom, his favourite being a soaring eagle with a wingspan almost the length of his outstretched palm. According to Grandpa Rand, it was sculpted in the likeness of Soletta, one of the five angels left to watch over Dellreigh by the absent god Aethelron.