Hopskotch and the Golden Cicada

by Martin Vine

  “Give it back!” shrieked Dobbin. Guarding with his staff, the defiant youngster stared Slade down. “That’s Pommeroy’s. He’s worked on it all year. Give it back or else!”

  “Or else what, Rolly?” Slade sneered. “You losers couldn’t catch a silkworm with all this stupid gear.”

  Steeling himself, Hopskotch pushed through the gaggle of onlookers to stand shoulder to shoulder with Dobbin. Puffing his chest out, he tried to appear as tall and menacing as possible. “He said, give—it—back!”

  Slade turned to face Hopskotch with a look of scorn and fury, beady black eyes glaring daggers from his monstrous, fat head.

  Hopskotch’s brave front faltered. The undersized Syltling felt smaller still, and suddenly quite queasy. His mismatched legs weakened. The dryness in his throat travelled up to his mouth, and he seemed to be losing control of his lower jaw, which began quivering with a life of its own. It was awfully hard to look brave when every instinct in his body screamed, “run!”.

  But a small part of him knew that was out of the question. Hanging on to that, Hopskotch wrested back control of his body and shouted at the bully in the deepest voice he could manage. “I’m serious, give it back. We’re all really sick of your crap, ya know.”

  Fishmitts! Did I just say that? Hopskotch hadn’t really meant to; it had just slipped out in the heat of the moment.

  Slade’s eyes widened in disbelief, clearly appalled to be called out by a crippled Syltling half his size. He stopped spinning the whip but did not release the handle, allowing it to drop limp to his side as his knuckles clenched in and out in anger.

  Hopskotch dared a sideways glance at Dobbin, who was refusing to take a backward step. Team SnapTalon was likewise standing its ground. Hopskotch’s bravely stupid outburst had injected some fire into the belly of Pommeroy’s Team Corsair.

  Now it was Slade who faltered. As the reality of being surrounded by five angry boys – all armed with thick wooden sticks – sank in, it appeared now some of his bravado was slipping. Just as Hopskotch was beginning to believe Slade might actually back down, a wicked grin split the bully’s face.

  “You dinguses might wanna turn around.”

  At Slade’s warning, Hopskotch felt his throat close and his breath slip away. The jeering crowd had fallen silent. Hopskotch could hear only the pounding of his heart, thu-thumping away in his chest like a smithy’s forge. The queasy numbness in his head and shoulders spread to the tips of his fingers. It was harder to keep the grip on the smooth wood of his walking staff. He could feel the presence of someone standing behind him – someone very large, someone very close.

  In time with Dobbin, he turned.

  Hopskotch’s held his breath. Dobbin squeaked pathetically. Towering over the pair stood the biggest, toughest, most terrifying student in all of Bridgetown South Elementary.

  It was widely agreed that Slade, for all his nastiness, couldn’t buy half the trouble he caused without the presence of his hulking sidekick Ninness Arbor. As tall as Team Corsair’s gangly Gavel, Ninness was twice as wide around, yet due to his sporting prowess, carried no fat at all. Playground talk had it that one might as well punch a brick wall as attempt to throw one at Ninness: not that any boy had ever found the will or courage to test the theory.

  “Roaches are coming,” said the broad-shouldered Sylt, barely a whisper. Ninness directed the words toward Slade, completely ignoring the two fifth-graders quivering before him.

  Hopskotch was greatly relieved to find himself no longer the centre of attention, but the mystery remained.

  Did he just say Roaches were coming?

  Mayor Orwig’s Bridgetown Street Cadets – ‘Roaches’ in the language of the playground – were the arch-enemies of all elementary school students, both boys and girls (but especially, boys). Recruited from the final two years of the elite private high school – Braedle’s Hope College, Threetop District – they had evolved from dutiful prefects into a police squad of deputised bullies charged with keeping in line the youth of Broken Meadow.

  They were not well liked for it.

  Yet welcome or not, the cadets were on their way (for all his faults, Ninness was not one to make stuff up). The news spread rapidly through Giant’s Prayer Circle, creating a stir of mixed emotion, not to mention a hotpot of increasingly creative theories as to the wheres, whys and what-fors.

  For Hopskotch and Dobbin, however, there was no room for any feeling beyond empty relief.

  But Slade still hadn’t got out of their faces.

  Taking advantage of the confusion, Pommers snuck up behind the bully. “I’ll take that!” he squeaked, snatching the whip right out of Slade’s paw. The slippery, lightning-fast Pommers backpedalled to avoid retaliation.

  None was forthcoming. Without turning to acknowledge Pommeroy, Slade shoved Hopskotch from his path, purposely stepped on Dobbin’s toe and joined Ninness at the edge of the circle.

  “You dinguses will never catch a cicada,” he spat. “Not today, tomorrow, Dellsday or Elronsday. All your baby toys ain’t worth spit!” Slade punctuated his parting words by actually firing a wad of saliva at the grass. With an arrogant strut, he disappeared into the crowd in the direction of the podium, parting smaller boys before him as if surrounded by a mini tornado.

  Only when he was out of sight did Hopskotch remind himself of the importance of breathing. His heart slowed to a less frantic rhythm and a measure of feeling returned to his tingling body. Alongside him, Dobbin tried to rub the pain out of his throbbing toe.

  “Thanks, guys,” Pommers piped up, his eyes wide with excitement. “I thought for a minute Ninness was gonna smash your skulls like eggshells.”

  Hopskotch could’ve done without the detail, but standing up to a common enemy had filled him with a rare sense of fellowship with the Team Corsair gang. Closing ranks, the five boys began cursing Slade in earnest, reassuring themselves that he was really gonna get it next time (glancing all the while to check he was out of earshot).

  “Oh, you didn’t get to see my whip,” Pommers said. As if appalled by the oversight, the youngster thrust it into Hopskotch’s paw.

  Not certain exactly what use a whip would be in hunting cicadas, Hopskotch still had to admire the quality. It was obvious Pommers had inherited his father’s talent for crafting weapons. The whip was flawlessly woven and perfectly weighted. He wondered for a moment what kind of sound it would make sound slamming into the side of Slade’s skull, then quickly retracted the thought (Hopskotch was not by nature cruel or vengeful, but Slade just had a way of pushing his buttons). Rolling the handle over inside his palm, he felt an urge to test its crack, but the crowd had closed in tightly around them.

  Reluctantly, he handed the whip back to Pommers as the rest of the gang continued congratulating themselves on standing up to Slade’s bullying, for once.

  Hopskotch could see things going on far longer than was necessary. “C’mon, Dob,” he said, probing for a weak spot. “Better get back to our gear before Slade decides to help himself to your ginger cakes.”

  A Special Guest

  Mayor Orwig’s Cadets eventually did arrive – six po-faced, black-clad teenagers taking up positions either side of the podium. The raised platform had been set up in front of the Prayer Stone, a foot-high slab of weathered granite marking the true-north compass point of the Circle. Its origins were as much a mystery as the standing stones surrounding it, but legend had it the twin depressions on its surface were made by an ancient giant kneeling in prayer – thus giving the ruin its name: Giant’s Prayer Circle.

  Ignoring the guard detail, Mr Calpepper skirted the assembly and took to the podium unaccompanied, planting his bare feet upon the wooden boards. “My dear fellows, p-p-please sit yourselves!” he stuttered, signalling the boys down with a wave of his hand. The Master of Ceremonies looked very dapper in his ceremonial outfit: silk waistcoat stretched over a light cotton shirt that struggled to reach the waist of his leggings. Over his left shoulder was a white silk sas
h with tassels, giving him an air of authority at odds with his underwhelming stage presence.

  “C’mon now, that’s good fellows,” he continued, finding his teacher’s voice. “We all want to get on with it but I’m afraid we have some—um, err, well—we have some news this year.”

  On cue, two cadets appeared from the side, carrying a large wooden case. All eyes followed the pair as they carried it onto the podium and set it down at Mr Calpepper’s shoulder. The schoolteacher swept his arm back in a grand gesture. “Now you’ll all have to sit down or these aren’t going anywhere.”

  One of the cadets opened the lid and propped up the inner drawer to reveal rows of rushweed parchment, each bound with a string tie. Hopskotch stretched his neck, propping himself up at the elbows. Every Syltling in front did likewise, struggling to get a better view of Calpepper’s must-have hunting maps.

  Eventually, the boys settled down, reluctantly returning their rumps to the grass. Despite the anticipation of getting to the maps, many present were more than a little unsettled at what this ‘news’ might be.

  “Whenever somebody says there’s news,” observed Dobbin, “it never turns out to be good.”

  Hopskotch had to agree. He couldn’t remember any other hunt beginning like this (it was his fourth). And certainly not with Roaches holding fort.

  Hopskotch barely had time to stew the thought before Mr Calpepper revealed the news: there was no cicada to kick-start the commencement ceremony. No one had been able to catch one.

  Traditionally, the task fell to the winners of the last hunt: Slokam Snagtoe and his three-Syltling Team Dragonfly. Slokam was a popular sixth-grader, exceptionally gifted at sport, so it came as no surprise that his team had captured the most cicadas the previous summer. Team Dragonfly had returned four altogether, one of which – a rare Spotted Knight – was the clincher that had delivered them victory. But despite the cicada-shaped victory badge stitched to his vest, Sloki (as he was commonly known) had no reason to feel cocky this morning. As the stunned silence following Mr Calpepper’s announcement gave way to a rising chorus of grumbles, Sloki wore the face of a Syltling who’d rather be some place else entirely.

  In Team Dragonfly’s defence, the Master of Ceremonies launched into a series of explanations as to why no cicadas were found, babbling unconvincing excuses about weather patterns, humidity and low fog. Sloki, meanwhile, stood sheepishly at the base of the podium, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot, eyes cast downward.

  Hopskotch felt for the lad, but couldn’t hide his own disappointment. As the news sank in, he began subconsciously stroking the front of his own vest, a bare patch on the upper left breast where he intended to stitch his own victory badge.

  One day.

  To Mr Calpepper, the reaction was not unexpected. After seventeen years as Master of Ceremonies, he knew something about the boys and their passion for the hunt. It was by no coincidence he’d prepared something to soften the blow, something certain to put an end to the grumblings. And it had taken no small effort on his part, involving uncomfortable compromises he’d pushed to back of mind.

  But now all that unpleasantness was going to pay off. From the direction of Fisherman Bridge, escorted by two more cadets, a curious looking figure shuffled around the outer ring of the Prayer Circle, eventually joining Mr Calpepper upon the stage.

  Welcoming the newcomer, the schoolteacher turned smartly back to face the assembled boys and rediscovered his classroom voice. “Fellows of the hunt, I believe you are all familiar with Lisalle Tulson!”

  The greatest cicada hunter in the history of Broken Meadow had graduated high school many years past to become a civil servant. Rising through the ranks of Bridgetown council, Lisalle came to work directly for Mayor Orwig as his personal secretary. But for all his experience chairing meetings and addressing committees, he appeared distinctly uncomfortable with so many eyes upon him.

  It was an equally discomforting experience for Hopskotch, who gaped open-mouthed at the strange apparition claiming to be his hero. Tall though he was, Lisalle Tulson did not appear anything like the legend. Facing the assembly stood a stoop-shouldered Sylt wearing a buttoned-up waistcoat over a pale shirt. Both garments were preposterously large for him, hanging off his bony frame like washing on a line. Lisalle’s thinning hair was peppered with streaks of premature grey and across the bridge of his nose sat glasses altogether too old-fashioned for a Sylt his age (he could only be in his mid-twenties, so Hopskotch calculated). The lenses were so thick it was almost impossible to draw focus on his eyes.

  Of course, it was hard to look Lisalle in the eye at all, so distracting was the nervous jerking of his forearms. To Hopskotch, it looked as if someone was wired directly into his funny bone, and was having a riot of a time tormenting the poor fellow. His scrawny biceps looked barely capable of lifting a cicada, let alone pulling one off a branch.

  But nothing of his appearance changed the fact Lisalle held the undivided attention of every schoolboy present.

  Following the dramatic introduction, Lisalle raised his right arm in greeting, then dropped it awkwardly, as if changing his mind halfway. Lisalle did not speak. He did not have to. Standing next to the playground legend, Mr Calpepper had achieved the kind of crowd control that had eluded him his entire career as a teacher. The Master of Ceremonies decided it was the perfect time to deliver his knockout punch.

  “It is a rare occasion indeed,” he began enthusiastically, “to have the company of such a celebrated fellow: the Sylt who thirteen years ago returned to Broken Meadow the rarest of creatures.” Mr Calpepper took a long, deep breath. “But our special guest is only half the surprise I have for you this morning.”

  Barely a whisper escaped the crowd as all eyes switched from Lisalle back to Mr Calpepper.

  “For we have not been idle!” With one finger hooked into the hip pocket of his waistcoat, he scanned the crowd intensely side to side. “In keeping with tradition I have prepared maps of the hunting limits and all walking tracks, roads, rivers, creeks, forests and farms within.”

  Mr Calpepper moved sideways, gesturing again to the wooden case. “The mayor has asked that you confine your travels within the borders marked on the map. That excludes anywhere inside Bridgetown city limits.” He glanced across at the cadets surrounding the assembly and wrinkled his nose.

  “In return for this, Mayor Orwig kindly agreed to lend me the services of the honourable Mr Tulson to prepare for you a surprise the likes of which has no precedent. Each map in this case has a golden X marked by Lisalle himself.”

  A deathly silence settled over the assembly. All ears pricked toward the podium.

  “Though I know not which, just one X on just one map marks the only known nesting ground of—” he paused for dramatic effect, mischievously soaking up the tension as the boys leant forward in unison, “the Golden Dukes!”

  As if by the parting of a stage curtain, the crowd around Hopskotch erupted into a chorus of cheers, whispers, and all manner of yammering in between. Despite years of pressure and never-ending pleas from schoolboys the shire over, Lisalle had never betrayed the location where he’d found his Golden Duke thirteen years ago. No one could even recall from which direction he’d arrived that day, only that he’d been in ragged shape. Now it looked like one of Broken Meadow’s greatest secrets would be revealed: at least, to one lucky team. It felt to Hopskotch like something out of a dream.

  Mr Calpepper’s mischievous grin turned quickly into a frown as the crowd got rowdier and louder. With the help of the Mayor’s Cadets (who were only too happy to pull the youngsters back into line), eventually an illusion of calm was restored.

  “No point pushing and shoving to the front,” shouted the flustered teacher. “Each team gets to pick one map only.”

  His application of reason was having little effect.

  “After Lisalle marked the maps, each was put randomly into the case. Now aside from the position of the golden mark, they are—all—identical.�
�� He spaced the words for emphasis, but still struggled to be heard above the crowd. “Even I don’t know which map is the real one. All teams have an equal chance!”

  An equal chance! An even chance!

  Losing himself in the possibilities, Hopskotch spared a sideways glance at Dobbin, whose attention was exclusively focused on the open case. He could feel his own skin tingling with the anticipation of getting his hands on one of Lisalle’s maps.

  And it was almost time to collect.

  A Special Pest

  Once order was restored, Mr Calpepper organised the boys – one from each team – into a queue to the left of the podium where the willow branches brushed the grass, framing the background in leaf curtain. Not unexpectedly, the hunters did not organise themselves well, so it was left to the cadets to stamp their authority. All six Black-smocks converged to bully the selected team members into a single queue, snapping and barking at them about the edges.

  It was their enthusiasm for it that set the Master of Ceremonies’ back teeth to grind. And to no lesser extent, what they were doing there in the first place. Calpepper dared a sideways glance at Lisalle Tulson – still fidgeting uncomfortably over his right shoulder – and wondered what the boys saw in the jittery, underfed Sylt.

  If only they knew what I had to go through to get him here.

  It had taken years of badgering, and then some, for Tulson to agree to reveal the secret location of the Golden Dukes, a decision that had at first delighted Calpepper. Then came the preconditions, one piled upon the other like so much paperwork. Though he’d done a magnificent job hiding it, the geography teacher was still furious with Lisalle for the last: a cadet escort.

  Where did he think he was going? To war?

  Of course, Calpepper had been warned (and none too subtly) that unless he agreed to all of Tulson’s demands, there would be no no golden marks on the maps, and almost certainly no golden cicadas come Elronsday.