Hopskotch and the Golden Cicada

by Martin Vine

  Negotiate, compromise, trade.

  He repeated the mantra inside his head without believing it in his heart. Absent guidance, his hand drifted to the inside pocket of his vest, fingertips brushing the silver inlay wings until the dark thoughts scattered. The wind-up toy he’d carried with him for the commencement ceremony was Calpepper’s greatest treasure. He’d found it many years ago as a child himself, hidden in the shadows of the Whirlpool. To his knowledge, no one had ever found anything like it before or since, and not one artisan, tinker or toymaker in Broken Meadow could claim the ability to reproduce such craftsmanship.

  Scaled to the exact proportions of a Golden Duke, the replica was assembled from various metals, with wings of light glass inlaid with silver thread to mimic the real thing. Locked into the lower tail was a small key that wound a spring running to the wings. It had taken the studious schoolteacher the better part of two years just to repair the flight mechanism, but he’d finally completed it, and with only weeks to spare.

  Soon, my beauty, he whispered to himself.

  Hopskotch had been looking forward to this moment for so long it felt like he was an intruder in someone else’s dream, watching through vacant eyes at events he had little or no control over. By mutual agreement, Dobbin had lined up for Team SnapTalon’s map, a decision directly related to Hopskotch’s notorious run of bad luck (a running joke between the pair). Which left Hopskotch by the gear, wriggling his lower half into this position and that, trying to find one that didn’t cramp his calves and seize his hips and knees up.

  Of course, the whole process was playing out painfully slowly. Far too many boys were taking far too long choosing their own map from the box. Not one among them could know which held the true mark, and Lisalle certainly wasn’t giving anything away. Standing awkwardly off to one side, the Councillor continued to fidget and twitch, flashing insincere smiles to the team members as they left the podium, map in hand.

  When it was finally Dobbin’s turn, the Syltling returned to his place with a broad grin plastered across his face, waving the rolled parchment in his right fist. Gathering in tight, Team SnapTalon went immediately into discussing ideas, tactics and strategies, all the while glancing around to ensure no one was listening in.

  But their eyes always returned to the map.

  It may not have been Mr Calpepper’s intent, but the news that one map contained Lisalle’s secret had started an outbreak of paranoia among the boys. Every team was locked in private huddles, whispering frantically to each other and waving their arms about so much that Giant’s Prayer Circle appeared as if filled with a collection of Syltling-sized windmills.

  Hopskotch and Dobbin were so engrossed in their own scheming, they failed to notice a commotion toward the back.

  “Oh dear me, was that yours?” the unidentified male voice blurted. “I do apologise. Oops! I hope that wasn’t your foot. My eyes just aren’t what they once were, you know.”

  Whoever it was, appeared to be making their way through the crowd directly for their position. And he was making a real hullabaloo about it. “Come on, you lot, step aside, coming through, coming through. I’m on important historical business, you know; big day today, very big—”

  SNAP!

  The sound of wood breaking finally turned Hopskotch’s head.

  “Oh my, I hope that wasn’t expensive.”

  Hopskotch thought the voice familiar, but with the ceremony about to climax all boys were on their feet, blocking his line of sight to the rear. When the crowd finally parted, he could scarcely believe his eyes. His mouth hung open, tongue frozen by surprise and embarrassment.

  It took Dobbin to break the silence: “Grandpa Rand! What the weevil are you doing here?”

  Hopskotch’s maternal grandfather was an eccentric Sylt of unknown age, forgetful mind, and an annoying habit of telling (and retelling) tall tales. In fact, he was a bottomless cauldron of misinformation, impractical ideas, impossible histories and unproven theories. All of Hopskotch’s friends called him Grandpa Rand.

  Grandpa Rand was a hard Sylt to miss. His hair was an uncombed mess of silver-white with a distinctive right-to-left sweep that hinted at his grandson’s three-crested mop. Short-sighted in his left eye, the old-timer wore a modified reading glass that attached to his head via an elastic strap. A polished steel rim with a small hinge framed the round lens. With a rusty snap, it could be flicked up for viewing things nearby and down for those further away.

  The most noticeable thing about Grandpa Rand, however, was that the hair on the left side of his face grew significantly shorter than that on the right, a shortcoming which served to highlight the jagged scar running down his left cheek from temple to the corner of his mouth. The lightning bolt that had almost killed him as a young man – more than fifty years before Hopskotch was even born – also singed his left ear, leaving it shrunken and crinkled at the edges.

  It was indeed an unfortunate reflection greeting Grandpa Rand in the mirror every morning, though it never seemed to bother him. When asked how old he was, the good-humoured Sylt would always reply, “Not nearly as old as I feel!” and leave it at that. Highly regarded in Low Cutting (though not by all), Grandpa Rand was a true gentleman who, despite his wild appearance, had the most disarming smile in Broken Meadow.

  He was wearing it now.

  With his eyeglass locked lens-down, the old-timer scanned the assembly of boys with an approving grin, as if inhaling the scene.

  Grandpa Rand showed no sign of answering Dobbin’s question, so Hopskotch chimed in with one of his own. “What’s with all the gear? You going somewhere?”

  Grandpa Rand snapped the lens up and looked down his nose at his grandson. “What, this?” he replied, swivelling his hips side to side to reveal an assortment of badly-arranged luggage: overstuffed sling-pouch, water skin, shoulder belt, and a bulging rucksack strapped slightly skewiff around his multi-pocketed fishing jacket.

  “Don’t panic, Syltkin, not here to party in yer pockets, heh, heh. Just came down to see what all the fuss was about and then—” he paused, patting the sharpened sickle tucked into his belt, “I have some adventuring of my own to do.”

  Taking a deep breath, Grandpa Rand flicked his lens back down and returned his attention to the surroundings. He turned slowly, wrinkling his nose in disgust every time his eyes found one of the cadets. “I’ve always wanted to see the commencement ceremony, you know,” he continued (and very much like he was talking to himself), “and here I am, finally.”

  Grandpa Rand crouched till he was face-to-face with Hopskotch and Dobbin. With a wave of his arms, he invited them in close – eyes darting left and right – and whispered, “Ol’ Stoutflank reckons he can trump my five-cheese fondue this year, but I’ve got a surprise in store!”

  “Oh,” Hopskotch murmured, not even bothering to feign interest. The embarrassment of having his grandfather gatecrash the ceremony was beginning to rub. Hopskotch was petrified of missing something important from the podium, and now his attention was divided. At any moment, Mr Calpepper would give the word, the maps could be opened and the hunt would begin in earnest. Neither Hopskotch, nor Dobbin, intended to miss a single second of that.

  Completely unfazed by the boys’ disinterest, Grandpa Rand rambled on. “Just have to swing by Market Square, then it’s off to Lady Whispermere for me.” He tapped his nose three times and whispered, “Silver chives!” as if it were a thing of utmost importance. “Let’s see ol’ Chook-foot sell his omelettes when I’ve gathered summer’s last silver chives!”

  The elderly Sylt snorted loudly. A smug grin split his face in two and his eyebrows began to dance up and down with a life of their own, causing his eyeglass to wobble alarmingly.

  Finally pulling himself together, Grandpa Rand unexpectedly rewound his thoughts to the beginning of the day. “You two sure know how to take a roundabout path,” he babbled, still oblivious to the fact no one was listening to him. “I almost caught you by Hoopey’s Way, but then you went a
nd disappeared across ol’ Shallowfrond. Why you’d take that trail is beyond my ken, but if you think this old man’d venture yonder, well, you’d really bette—”

  ZZZwiiiiiiiiinnnng!

  The sudden screeching sound caused Grandpa Rand to lose his words mid-sentence. He was not the only one. As if by a flick of a switch, every mouth stopped flapping; all eyes swerved skyward to follow Calpepper’s toy, following its flightpath like a troupe of marionettes on a string. As it reached canopy height, the shrieking noise lessened and it began to lose speed. Just as it looked as if it might drop straight to the ground (a thought that excited the youngsters directly underneath no end), the mech-cicada fired up again, swooping low enough to skim the tops of the Syltling’s heads as it zigzagged away from Giant’s Prayer Circle and out over Whiskey’s Waddle.

  All turned to follow its path, including Grandpa Rand, who spun so swiftly around that he knocked Dobbin onto his rump.

  “Oh dear me, so awfully, dreadfully sorry,” he apologised. “Here, let me get that for you.”

  Grandpa Rand’s words fell on deaf ears. Sprawled upon the grass, Dobbin realised in horror that he’d dropped the map.

  At that exact moment, the flight of the mech-cicada ended in a shallow dive into Whiskey’s Waddle. It hit the water with a loud splash, snapping the hunters out of their trance as the realisation struck home. The hunt was on!

  Surging chaotically outward, each team sought a private space to check their maps.

  Grandpa Rand fell. It took only a small bump to catch him off balance, but the accidental shove from behind did the trick with masterful efficiency. The old Sylt landed hard on his left hip, arms flailing. His sling-pouch flew open, spilling its contents upon the grass.

  “Fiddlestomp!” he groaned, rubbing his hip. “Blast and balderdash, that smarted!”

  With a little help from his grandson, Grandpa Rand rolled himself over onto all fours, whereupon he set about gathering his scattered belongings.

  Hopskotch was near jumping out of his skin as he watched his grandfather struggle to replace each item in its nominated place. Dobbin had meanwhile sprung to his feet, and was bouncing side to side, equally anxious.

  In no great hurry, Grandpa Rand finally popped his head up. “Oh, I think this one’s yours,” he said, pressing a tightly rolled parchment into Hopskotch’s palm. Pouches refilled, the dishevelled old-timer eventually dragged himself upright, dusted himself off and looked around angrily for the fiend who’d pushed him, but the fellow was long gone.

  “Well, that was bracing,” he announced, perking up somewhat, “in a bruising, undignified sort of way. But it’s no place for a man of my vintage.”

  Hopskotch and Dobbin were facing Grandpa Rand, both slowly backing off, desperate to part ways and join the hunt. Now they had the map, Team SnapTalon could finally get down to the business of the day, and the pair were near exploding with impatience.

  Grandpa Rand curled his lip, as if about to reprimand them both, then appeared to change his mind. His frown morphed into a sly grin. Bouncing his packs into place, he took one final look at each of the dreigh willows towering silently over the chaos, before taking off at pace toward Fisherman Bridge.

  Quite out of character, he did not even bother with goodbyes.

  Hopskotch barely noticed. Although the focus of his attention was the map in his hand, it was impossible to miss the number of teams lingering within the Circle, the suspicious sideways glances from all corners. In every past hunt Hopskotch could remember, all teams would bolt for the scrub at first opportunity, clawing their way into Finches Forest and beyond.

  This year, however, everyone was staying put. One burning question anchored every team alongside their rivals: who had the map?

  Geared up and ready to move, Hopskotch and Dobbin began inching their way toward the water’s edge like a pair of tied-together turtles. They did not stop till more than fifteen clear yards stood between them and the nearest team. The rustle of unfolding parchment filled the air, accompanied by bursts of short, sharp whispering.

  Dobbin was physically bouncing up and down with excitement. “What the fishmitts you waiting for?” he squeaked. “Open it, Hops! Open it!”

  Hopskotch looked to Dobbin, eyes wide with anticipation. He licked the dryness from his lips. This is the most important moment in my life, he told himself without a hint of exaggeration.

  But as his shaking fingers closed in on the string tie, the youngster was struck by a feeling of impending doom. His arms went all tingly from shoulder to fingertip. Something did not look right: something he could not pinpoint about the shape, length and colour of the scroll.

  Hopskotch yanked at the string clumsily as a horrifying thought surfaced in his head. Dobbin crowded his right shoulder so close he could feel hot breath against his cheek.

  He finally unrolled the parchment and scanned its contents. Pure horror gripped Hopskotch’s body. He could not believe his eyes. There was no golden mark: there was no map. Hand-written in faded ink was Grandpa Rand’s recipe for five-cheese fondue.

  Excerpt From The Secrets Of The Ancients

  by Tulloch Greighspan

  Genesis 1.6

  Gift of Angels

  The God of Small Things knew that above all other creatures, the Syltian were most enamoured of the beasts of the air, and so did he look to the feathered ones for inspiration, knowing such forms would serve best as a link between the mortal world and the heavenly realm. With the breath in his lungs, the wisdom in his mind and the strength of his spirit, Aethelron brought to life his angels.

  And it is said that from the native elements of Dellreigh did he create them: Bronuin the Swan from water; Helior the Phoenix from fire; Garthor the Falcon from air; Daenethor the Peacock from earth. And above all others he appointed Soletta the Eagle as Angel Primus. Of her element, no records survive, for it was that which came to be known as the lost element. Of them all, this was most sacred to Aethelron, for its source was both an inseparable part of Dellreigh, yet outside her: a union of all other elements, yet more powerful than their sum.

  The angels served Aethelron with unswerving loyalty, spreading his word and law throughout the mortal realm. In each was the personification of their lord’s five virtues: charity (Bronuin), love (Helior), honour (Garthor), and duty (Daenethor). The fifth and most holy virtue was personified in the great eagle Soletta. Unlike the nature of her element, this virtue was never lost. This virtue was creativity, whose partner is aspiration. It lay at the very core of Aethelron’s plan for Dellreigh.

  Among their great works, the angels introduced another kind of magic to the world of Sylt, one Aethelron could understand and control. Out of caution, the God of Small Things selected only family lines with desirable attributes: those who followed his five virtues most religiously; who were courageous and strong, yet also humble and gracious.

  Using the power residing in his angels, Aethelron gifted those bloodlines with a magic that manifested according to the sacred elements, yet whose source was altogether different. The ability to control the four common elements would reveal itself in the pre-teen years of those so blessed. And this blessing came to be known as Whisper magic, and that which fuelled its power, fuelled also Aethelron’s.

  It was not long before the greatest of Sylt took their rightful place to rule over and unite the scattered tribes of Dellreigh.

  Out of Bounds

  What ought to have been a simple catch-up exercise for the two boys, turned swiftly into a nightmare. In going after Grandpa Rand, Hopskotch and Dobbin failed to foresee the intervention of two cadets, who had blockaded Fisherman Bridge to all cicada hunters. Turned away before they’d even set foot on its boards, Team SnapTalon were forced to find an alternate route to Bridgetown. Their only hope of retrieving the map – mistakenly pocketed by Hopskotch’s grandfather – was to detour through the bush trail skirting the headwaters of the Shallowfrond River. It was not a happy journey.

  Upstream from Curmudgeon’s G
ulch, the white water that carved the Bridgetown Valley turned sharply south at Stonecutter Falls. Although not a true waterfall like the ones Hopskotch had heard about up in Saddleslip Gorge, the network of narrow channels splitting the grey-stone boulders always put on a spirited show. Beneath the shadow of giant tree ferns, the fine spray nurtured a wilderness of sword fern, black moss, morning glory and other weeds that overran the pitiful remains of a very old, very neglected Sylt trail.

  It was through this damp forest Hopskotch and Dobbin struggled, mutually miserable. The good-natured jibes and giddy excitement that had so lightened the pre-dawn trek from Low Cutting were replaced by an uneasy silence. Between Team SnapTalon, a wall had been raised.

  Hopskotch knew better than to break it down prematurely.

  A few months back, while playing with Dobbin in the rushes behind the school, he’d lost a ball in the deep water. It was Dobbin’s pride, a perfectly crafted flyball that had taken him nearly three months to build. Hopskotch had not forgotten the slip of fingers that sailed it high over his playmate’s head and out beyond the rushes. Both boys could only look on in horror as the Shallowfrond carried it slowly away.

  Of course, Hopskotch had done his best to retrieve it, and had even spent the afternoon combing the riverbank downstream, without result. It was never seen again, and Dobbin’s anger was all-consuming. For an entire week he’d refused to engage in conversation.

  Perhaps it was the gurgling song of Stonecutter Falls that brought the incident to mind. Hopskotch certainly recognised the scowl on Dobbin’s face. It was a timely reminder that no one could sulk with as much passion and commitment as his best friend.

  Eventually, the way became more navigable. Hopskotch took the lead, discovering the remains of an old wagon trail leading uphill toward Bridgetown, where the undergrowth thinned and the earth became more solid underfoot. It was still slow going – a couple of rustic log bridges were particularly unnerving – but that just gave Hopskotch more time to strategise.