by Martin Vine
Hopskotch had never forgotten the day he’d found it.
This day, however, the boys appeared to be out of luck. There were no animals – mythical or otherwise – nor trees, flowers, model houses, carriages or boats. There weren’t even any pieces of smooth glass to be found in the swirling waters, but Hopskotch took it as no bad sign.
Less than three steps shy of the trail, the Syltling was suddenly overcome by the queerest feeling he’d forgotten something. He turned to scan the riverbank. Rucksack was strapped to his back; sling-pouch was secured over his shoulder; his new walking stick was clenched in his fist.
Something’s back there.
He didn’t know from where the thought had sprung, and was not even certain it was his own.
“Hang about a sec’,” he called to Dobbin, who had carried on ahead, unawares. The idea of backtracking had always appalled Hopskotch, but this time he overcame his quirky aversion. Pack and pouches bouncing wildly, Hopskotch jogged down to the Whirlpool one more time.
He couldn’t believe they’d both missed the brooch. And yet, clear as day, there it was, resting in the pebbled sand beneath the shadows of the driftwood. Hopskotch wriggled the sling-pouch up around his hip and waded in. He tucked his new walking stick into the crook of his left arm and stooped to retrieve the item with his right. The water was bitingly cold, but it was not the chill that held his breath.
Hopskotch withdrew his arm and shook the water off. The polished-wood brooch was of a similar grain to his staff, yet much darker, and composed of a series of wooden rings, set one inside the other. The crystal centrepiece was a smoky grey, with five straight sides set in a disc of wood matching the outer rings.
To Hopskotch’s disappointment, the crystal was cracked. He took a fingernail and traced the one of the fissures that divided it five ways. Regardless of the flaw, the stone was held firm, with none of the shards giving any wriggle. He wondered what miracle had kept it so perfectly preserved beneath the cool waters of the Shallowfrond.
“Oi! Watchoodoin’, Hipsoak?” shouted Dobbin from the edge of the forest. “Practising to be a trout?”
The spell broken, Hopskotch hastily dried the brooch on his sleeve, stuffed it into the inside pocket of his vest and hurried back up the riverbank.
“No rush, old boy,” Dobbin joked. “When you’re ready.”
Hopskotch couldn’t hide the grin. Folding the walking stick across his chest, he withdrew the brooch. “Check it out!” he beamed.
“Hmmm,” said Dobbin, giving the piece a once-over, “it’s broken.”
“Well, it may be or it may not be. But I’ll bet Grandpa Rand’ll be interested to see this. He might even know how to fix it.”
Dobbin snorted and gave his friend a good-natured shove toward the River Way trail.
Hopskotch knew Dobbin was downplaying his interest. He was not surprised at all when his best friend abruptly changed the subject.
“You know, it’s not really a pool at all,” explained Dobbin, deadly serious. “The Whirlpool, I mean. Technically, it’s called a waddy.”
The unexpected outburst sent Hopskotch into fits of laughter. With shaky hands, he slipped the brooch back into his inside pocket for fear of dropping it into the undergrowth.
“I’m not making it up!” insisted Dobbin. “It’s the correct scientific term.”
“I think you’ve got that wrong, young fellow,” Hopskotch replied, launching into one of his trademark impersonations: Mr Holstrum, the Deputy Principal. “The very correct, accurate, scientifical definition of such a natural happening phenonem—err, phemon—phenomena is a Biddy!”
“Waddy, you ignorottamus!”
It surprised Hopskotch not a bit that Dobbin had swallowed the bait. “Biddy!” he cackled.
“Waddy!”
“Biddy!”
“Waddy!”
“Biddy!”
“Waddy!”
And in the way of friends, the argument carried on for some time, till Hopskotch grew bored of it (Dobbin could have gone on all day, he suspected) and drifted back to one of his favourite fantasies – returning to Bridgetown with a captive Golden Duke cicada. With the imaginary cheers of school friends and townsfolk ringing in his head, and aided by his new walking staff, Hopskotch felt his steps growing ever lighter.
Though it hadn’t rained for some time, the air was thick with moisture and tiny spheres of morning dew clung to the smaller leaves framing the trail. By the time the boys approached the familiar dappled arch marking the end of the River Way, both were soaked to their waistlines and carried thick wads of sticky clay plastered to their feet and ankles.
But the dampness couldn’t hold back Hopskotch’s excitement. The event he and Dobbin been looking forward to all year – talking about, arguing about, dreaming about – was finally upon them. Through a grove of wild strawberry just ahead, lay their destination: Curmudgeon’s Gulch: the official starting point of Broken Meadow’s Annual Cicada Hunt.
Excerpt From The Secrets Of The Ancients
by Tulloch Greighspan
Genesis 1.4
The Rising
Aethelron became quickly enamoured with the new world and the race of men who dwelled therein, and did become a true god to them. Under the God of Small Things, the Sylt folk grew in intelligence and ingenuity. And as each generation passed they grew likewise in stature, till they towered above the pack wolf and long-tooth cat, and there were some even who grew taller than the legendary thunderbird, beak-to-tail. Their posture grew gradually more upright, their clawed hands evolved to become more dexterous and their pointed ears shrank and grew flatter against their skulls. They took to wearing fine clothes, learning proper speech and writing: they learned to tame the beasts of the field and harvest the seeds of many and varied plants for agriculture. The sons and daughters of Aethelron were prey no more to the predators of their ancestors, and learned to fear them not.
Evolving from a hunter-gatherer to an agrarian society, the lifespan of the Sylt grew by many years. Between the tilled fields, centres of trade sprung up. Small towns gave birth to cottage industries – smithing and carpentry, teaching and medicine, art and architecture.
The humble folk worshipped their beloved god with great enthusiasm, building small churches and great cathedrals in which to celebrate his gospels throughout the lands of Dellreigh. But Aethelron had neither the power, nor the desire, to remove from his subjects free will. As great civilisations rose and fell, the Syltian races were left to learn from the mistakes of their own hand. They endured times of disorder and despair – war, disease, famine, and disasters both natural and Sylt-made.
Life was ever a struggle, but amidst the chaos came great advancement. Even in times of darkness, an irrepressible spirit was ingrained in the hearts of Sylt – the very same which had so entranced Aethelron when first he laid eyes upon Dellreigh. It was a sign that his folk were special.
But there were still a great many things the God of Small Things had to learn.
As the Syltian mind became sharper and more creative, Aethelron did notice that not all his people were equal. Handed down from the paternal side, certain bloodlines had abilities – a mysterious energy force linked to their animal-like ancestors.
Through careful observance, Aethelron grew to understand that these few could commune with things that grew. From the miniature mosses, algaes and lichens to the great redwood and spruce trees, these had the ability to manipulate and distort greenery to their will in ways even he did not fully comprehend. Aethelron found this mysterious art appealing, and took such folk to serve as his high priests.
But there was a reverse side to this magic – one that did put the God of Small Things ill at ease. For those gifted with the opposing power could commune with, and exert control over, the animals of Dellreigh. Aethelron did worry that such an art may prove contrary to his great plan.
And so he prepared a gift of his own to counter the beast magic.
Curmudgeon’s Gulch
Dominating the Gulch were the Sentinels: three ancient dreigh willows standing guard against the surrounding wilderness like a trio of hunchbacked giants. In the warm summer months, after school and on weekends, groups of Syltlings would gather beneath the tree affectionately known as Toedip, for more than half its root mass was submerged beneath the Waddle. On the grassy riverbank they’d take turns – branch in hand – to launch themselves far out across the water and back to shore in great circles.
But nobody would be swinging today. The business of the cicada hunt was far too serious for life’s simple pleasures.
Muted morning light was beginning to filter through the clouds, illuminating the clearing and the children already gathered within Giant’s Prayer Circle, an ancient, crumbling stone ruin half buried beneath the river soils of the Gulch. Passing through the broken pillars, a knee-high layer of mist had formed, blanketing the grass, and rolling over and around the chattering youngsters before curling upwards in silver-white threads.
Hopskotch’s heart was beating fast with excitement. A small smile twisted his mouth at one side, yet he held it in check. Striding with purpose into the chaotic assembly, Hopskotch led Dobbin to a vacant patch of grass within the Circle. The pair slipped free of their pouches and rucksacks, plonked themselves down among their competitors, and waited.
It seemed to take forever.
As the teams continued to arrive, a slow-building energy began to ripple through the assembly, one group feeding off the next so it seemed the air positively crackled with excitement. Hopskotch was quietly convinced the buzz of the crowd was making his hair stand on end.
In contrast, Dobbin appeared completely unfazed by the bustle surrounding him, so engrossed was he in inspecting Hopskotch’s new brooch. Twisting and turning it each way over, he proposed a few theories as to its origin and purpose, before dismissing each in turn. Finally, he settled upon the idea that it was, quite possibly, just a brooch. With a mischievous smirk, Dobbin even offered to add a safety pin on the back should Hopskotch wish to wear it to the Autumnfells school dance.
Hopskotch would not take the bait.
With a dramatic sigh, Dobbin handed the brooch back and propped himself up on one knee to scope the crowd for his other school friends, Pommeroy, Cal and Gavel. It took him only a minute to locate them.
“Back in a jif!” squeaked Dobbin, using his walking staff to help himself up. “Don’t let anyone touch my stuff, right!”
“Righto!” Hopskotch replied. As if anyone would want to.
He expected Dobbin would detour to the Sword of Sanctuary gang before the ceremony, if for nothing more than to show off his new custom-made cicada net/walking staff. And in truth, Hopskotch was grateful for the break. As much as he loved his best friend, Dobbin in large doses could be nothing short of intolerable.
To pass the time, Hopskotch began poking about with his own walking stick in the grass by his feet (the brooch, he’d swiftly returned to his pocket, paranoid someone else might see it). It only took a little digging for the end of his smooth-wood staff to find hard stone, one part of the ancient pavers within the inner ring of Giant’s Prayer Circle. Hopskotch shifted his weight, suddenly aware of how hard the earth felt beneath his rump. When that small movement brought no relief, the fidgety youngster lifted himself up on his knees. The improved height gave him a chance to have a proper look around.
The first thing that occurred to Hopskotch was that the Circle was not filled to the edge. Conspicuously absent were the high school teams, normally present in numbers and none too shy about throwing their weight around.
So where are they?
The mystery brought to mind something his father had told him not long ago: “We all change, Skotchie. We all grow up, and then the things that matter shift. What seems like the whole world to you one year can become just a warm memory the next.”
The message was clear, and Hopskotch was clearly appalled by it. Losing interest in the cicada hunt was unthinkable.
Of course, he never stopped to wonder if the older boys who hadn’t turned up this time might once have thought the same.
By the time the remaining teams straggled in, the misty carpet had thinned, chased away by the slow-building heat of day and the wriggling, fidgeting groups of schoolboys spread out before the podium. Positioning themselves in a misshapen wedge, the cicada hunters were locked in a constant wrestle with their opposition to improve their position. Like a map of the school pecking order, the bigger boys crowded the narrow end closest to the podium while the smaller, younger ones were pushed to the back (whether they liked it or not). For Hopskotch and Dobbin, that meant somewhere in the middle, but closer to the back than the front.
Each team had a unique name that had to be registered before the hunt. After a long argument, Hopskotch and Dobbin (but mostly, Dobbin) had settled upon Team SnapTalon, for it was one of the few agreeable to both, and sounded vaguely like something that might actually succeed in catching a cicada. The ‘Talon’ part was courtesy of Dobbin, for it was the name given to the military units in his favourite game, Sword of Sanctuary.
Well beyond the comprehension of normal Sylt, Sword of Sanctuary was a tactical board game of baffling complexity. The field of play was a large map – complete with towns, plains, forests, mountains, rivers and oceans – divided in a hexagonal grid that defined movement. Each player, or ‘Corsair’, took command of their own ‘Talon’. The playable characters included knights, infantry, magic users, healers and so on. As field commanders, the players took turns moving their Talons strategically across the map with the intent of defeating their rivals. When the pieces drew close enough to attack, combat was determined by rolling multi-sided wooden dice against the strength of each character, the details of which were recorded on illustrated stat cards. The game was nothing short of an obsession for Dobbin, who could scarcely understand Hopskotch’s indifference to it.
And so, Dobbin’s social life comprised two separate circles, occasionally intersecting. Hopskotch was happy enough to be the best friend, but oft times it seemed they had little in common. And there were others when Hopskotch found Dobbin’s antics downright cringe-worthy.
He did not have to wait long to be reminded.
“Hail ye, Squire of Alderhilt!” shrilled the familiar voice from down back. Even above the chatter of the surrounding boys, Dobbin could not be drowned out. Hopskotch winced, as if physically slapped.
“Prepared for the cut and thrust, are ye?”
Aethelron, no! Hopskotch groaned to himself. Make him shut it!
He had no such luck. As their dorky greeting ritual echoed across the park, Hopskotch searched desperately for a place to settle his eyes (the surrounding teams were already sniggering).
“Well met, son of Sanufell,” echoed the enthusiastic reply. “What weaponry field you this morn?”
Pommers. Unmistakable! Hopskotch recognised the high-pitched voice immediately. The son of Bridgetown’s finest weapon smith, it occurred to Hopskotch that Pommeroy Drakefayle would be acting leader of Team Corsair (a ‘command structure’ that actually made sense).
It took only a moment for Hopskotch to lay eyes upon the lad. As a group, they were all seated, but Pommeroy was up on his knees, bony arms waving wildly about as he explained something to Dobbin, who leaned in close, enthralled by every word. Reflecting their status in the pecking order, Pommers and his lowly Team Corsair had taken position toward the back, beyond the halfway point where Team SnapTalon had set down.
&n
bsp; Though there was many a Syltling in between, Hopskotch turned away before any could make eye contact. On one point, he would not budge: this day was going to be about finding their own path. Comfortably alone with the packs, Hopskotch rolled his walking stick between the palms of his hands and did his best to block out the noise coming from Dobbin and company.
It did him little good. The Sword of Sanctuary gang were a high-pitched riot of sound, yapping, giggling, telling lame jokes and showing off the mad new tools they’d made for the hunt. And Dobbin seemed to be taking immense satisfaction demonstrating the many ‘useful’ functions of his custom-made walking staff.
It only made Hopskotch squirm the more. With the excitement of the hunt giving way to hair-raising embarrassment, the lone youngster sank his head deep between his shoulder blades. He began pondering the possibility of turning invisible, when a new voice thundered from down the back.
“Blubberers of Caramel! Sonssss of flatulence!”
The sneering tone was soaked with sarcasm, dripped malice and was delivered with a venom all too familiar to Hopskotch. Craning his neck for a better view, his suspicions were confirmed.
With a dryness rising in his throat, Hopskotch abandoned his gear and launched himself through the crowd toward the disturbance, staff in hand. There was an awful stink brewing toward the back and Dobbin was in the thick of it.
Hopskotch’s fear was well founded. In the middle of a wide circle of gawking boys stood Slade, an ape-sized sixth-grade bully who missed no opportunity to make their lives miserable. Surrounding him at closer range was Dobbin and the three-Syltling Team Corsair. Slade was larger than the lot of them and looked doubly so, spinning a vicious-looking leather whip around his head as the boys ducked and dodged, trying to avoid having their noses and ears stung.