by Martin Vine
He decided to share his thoughts (anything to break the uncomfortable silence). “I’m sure we’ll catch him at the market. He fancies the ladies, ya know, and I doubt he’d miss the chance to show off.”
It sounded convincing enough in his own head, but Hopskotch realised he’d have to do better to turn Dobbin’s mood. The indignant Syltling remained stubbornly silent, focusing his anger on continuously (and annoyingly) double-tapping his staff on the ground with every footstep.
Hopskotch didn’t let the cold shoulder dissuade him, for his theory was grounded in fact. On this same Thornsday every year, scores of grannies would gather, a dithering, quacking mass of lavender-scented old ducks lording it over the girls who would gather to decorate the cicada float.
“Can you just imagine the temptation,” Hopskotch continued, ignoring the fact Dobbin was still ignoring him, “kitted out in all that gear and an entire city square full of loopy widows to impress. I bet you wags-to-whiskers we find the old smoothy up to his eyeglass in it. Hopefully, they’ll hold him prisoner till we get there.”
And so it went on.
By the time the boys had cleared the scrub and hit the paved road leading uphill through Bridgetown’s Guildsheim district, Hopskotch had it all sorted and solved. Even Dobbin was beginning to perk up (which may have had more to do with the smell of hot bread drifting down from Krampett’s Bakery than any hope they’d actually retrieve the map any time soon).
And although neither was going to admit it to the other, both boys were curious to see the girls all together in one place. They were clearly out of bounds, but nothing was going to stop Team SnapTalon from entering the city.
The beating heart of Broken Meadow, Bridgetown perched high on its north shoulder where the rolling grasslands gave way to a wide granite seam affectionately named the Dragon’s Back. The shallow valley between the meadowlands and the towering rock face of Hycliffe was split by a boisterous torrent known as the Artery. On either side of its white waters – and in places, directly over it – the surviving ancestors of ancient Fellensia had emerged from their mountain refuge to build a city.
Stacked upon solid rock foundations (mostly tilting), the ever-changing Sylt-made buildings cascaded downhill in the most shambolic way imaginable, shadowing and intersecting with the many raised wooden sluices that carried the icy flows of Lake Whispermere to all corners. Exactly twenty-three bridges connected the residential south-bank districts with the industrial north, giving the town its name.
It was often said to be impossible to stand anywhere in the town centre and escape the spray of fine mists thrown up by the rapids, or the drips and splashes raining down from above. Moisture-loving shaggy moss and waist-high maidenhairs claimed every square inch untouched by Syltian hand.
From Cotteslope Dam to the gable-windowed terraces of prosperous Threetop, across the Artery to the maze-like alleys of industrial Parchmond, beneath the shadow of the Skillion, past Market Square and all the way down to Stonecutter Falls, Bridgetown was the most exciting place Hopskotch could imagine.
Especially when he wasn’t supposed to be in it.
The sights and sounds of Market Square were making his mouth water and his head spin. Hopskotch had never seen it so busy, and the sheer number of yapping, laughing, squealing Sylt – young and not so young – took his breath away. As if under a spell, the out-of-bounds boys stood immobile for a long while, staring vacantly into the crowd.
By no coincidence, Hopskotch’s eyes drifted to the old cherry trees rising from the eastern side of the Square, and beyond their canopies, the familiar wall of tilting brick-and-timber terraces marking the downstream border. Taking advantage of the festival long weekend, Publican Torkay Ironfeld had positioned four rustic wooden tables in parallel rows out front of the Tinker’s Tail. The long bench seats were slowly filling with groups of elderly Sylt who’d been filtering into the Square since first light. Hopskotch observed great plumes of steam rising from their earthenware drinking mugs. The pungent smell of mulled wine wafted across.
Quite unexpectedly, and for the first time since they’d left the Gulch, Dobbin opened his mouth. “There certainly are a lot of girls.”
“You’re not wrong,” Hopskotch replied, grateful for the sound of his friend’s voice. “But that should make it easier to find ’Pa Rand.”
Hopskotch did his best to sound sure of himself, but there were so many people he neither knew nor recognised, dents were beginning to appear in his confidence. It was immediately noticeable that the crowd was thickest (and rowdiest) in the shadow of the cherry trees, beneath which the girls were busy working on the showpiece cicada float. The papier-mâché monster had been completed just seven days prior – the major project for the summer term – and transferred in pieces from Bridgetown South Elementary School to Market Square to be assembled and decorated. As per festival tradition, while the boys hunted cicadas, the girls would gather to complete the draping and painting of the giant cicada in preparation for Elronsday night lantern parade.
Though it was still early morning, the girls were well into it. Beyond the inner ring, a group of elderly ladies – with schoolteachers alongside – played at supervising the organised chaos. Scattered about the drip-sheets were cardboard mats, balls of twine, vats of papier-mâché paste, paint tins and other crafty bits-and-pieces more exotic by half.
It was not an environment Hopskotch would have chosen to play hide-and-seek, but he was not about to let that weaken his resolve. Pouches and packs hugged tight to their bodies, Team SnapTalon weaved, jostled and bumped their way through the crowd, stretching their necks for any sign of the missing Grandpa Rand.
As if there weren’t enough obstacles, enterprising Sylt from the Chefs’ Guild had parked mobile food stalls in a curving barricade skirting the northern perimeter of the Square. The wooden carts – ‘fry-barrows’ to the boys – were a practical invention consisting of various gas-powered stoves and hotplates carried on two-wheels. No two were exactly the same, as each was customised to serve a specific dish.
Stretching away from the fry-barrows queued parents with children in tow, all impatiently waiting to get at the treats on offer. Sugar-coated nuts, spiced pasties, caramel popcorn and various other delicacies hot and cold flavoured the morning air with a mouth-watering medley of smells. It was both a barricade and distraction to Team SnapTalon.
“Hops!” squeaked Dobbin, suddenly drawing his attention from the barrows. “Over there!” The excited Syltling was pointing to the nearest cherry tree.
Hopskotch lifted himself up on the wheel spokes of the nearest barrow and scanned the crowd, but with so much movement, it was hard to focus on any one spot. To make matters worse, the cart Hopskotch perched upon was of the caramel popcorn variety. While the pop-pop-pop of corn kernels dancing across a hot skillet ringed in his ears, the smell had his jowls drooling like a tap.
Then it dawned on him – Dobbin had not found Grandpa Rand at all. His best friend’s focus had shifted to the girls (one in particular), whom he’d spotted in the shadow of a low branch by one of the cicada wings. Hopskotch set himself down again, fetching a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his mouth. He turned to Dobbin, raising an eyebrow. “What, you think we should ask them if they saw him?”
Dobbin’s eyes widened. “Well err, I suppose it might be umm, helpful,” he replied, tripping on his words. “I mean, we need to know if you – I mean, he – went past.”
Dobbin took a long pause.
Hopskotch feared he’d start up again with the teeth grinding.
“But he’s your grandfather. You oughta ask!”
It was exactly the response Hopskotch was baiting for. He knew Dobbin was too cowardly to talk directly to Bindy, and it gave him no small pleasure to make his friend squirm.
“Maybe it’s not a good idea,” Hopskotch suggested.
Before he could elaborate, a burly Withernessian brushed past, separating the pair. The worker carried a long pole over his shoulder, tied to wh
ich were masses of smoked trout hanging in bunches. The rich smell teased Hopskotch’s nostrils and set his jowls to drool all over again.
“‘Pa Rand was on his way to Whispermere.” Hopskotch stepped into the space vacated by the fishmonger and nodded in the direction of the lake. “That’s where the silver chives are. He told us, remember. We could just take Settlers Road up to the dam right now. We’d surely catch him up.”
“Dumb idea! He could’ve gone any which way. We really oughta ask someone.” Dobbin added, “My mother always says the reason boys are always getting into strife is ’cos they’re too boar-headed to ask for help.”
Hopskotch groaned. His best friend was always quoting his mother’s wisdom, as if it would make him seem clever. It never occurred to him the opposite was true.
“But I still think you should ask,” Dobbin persisted. “I mean, what am I s’posed to say? ‘Oh, hi girls. Say, Bindy, have you seen an old Sylt dressed like us but rather silly-looking, and with a frightening scar running down his face?’ Ridiculous!”
Hopskotch didn’t even attempt to hold back the grin. “I kinda see your point. All right then, let’s just see if any of the girls saw him.” Carefully straightening his gear, Hopskotch pointed his left shoulder toward the mass of Sylt in front of him and made a beeline for Bindy.
He couldn’t resist one final quip. “But I still think you should ask.”
It was only a few yards into the crowd that Hopskotch first heard the whispers.
“What was that?” he asked, stopping cold.
“What was what?” replied Dobbin.
“You said something!”
“Didn’t.”
“Did too.”
“Did not!” Dobbin shot Hopskotch a daft look. “You’re hearing things.”
Hopskotch frowned. He could’ve sworn Dobbin had just said something. Pricking his ears, he waited and listened. There it was again!
Hopskotch spun his head about, trying to locate the source. It sounded like it was coming from his left, a different voice than the one he’d thought belonged to Dobbin. Almost immediately he heard another, different again and from somewhere else entirely. It felt as if someone was calling out to him inside his head.
But who?
No answer was forthcoming, but the whispers continued to increase in both number and volume. Hopskotch tried to focus on the words he was hearing but found he could make neither sense nor sentences out of them. It was more like split-second sound bites from a hundred different voices.
Am I imagining it?
The closer he got to the cherry trees, the more intense and distracting they became. This was the largest, loudest gathering of Sylt he’d ever been among, but that didn’t bring him any closer to an explanation.
He thought about asking Dobbin again, before dismissing the idea. It was hard enough trying to explain the colours from his dreams to his cynical best friend.
What would he say about voices in my blooming head?
The answer was all too obvious. Hopskotch ran his fingers hard through his crests and forced himself to focus on what was in front of him. Clenching his eyes shut for an instant, he tightened his grip on his walking stick, kneading the hardwood between his fingers.
It was a temporary reprieve from the whispers, but still he felt an overwhelming urge to run away from the Square, and the sooner the better. Hopskotch reset his mind to the task at hand. Find my grandfather; find the map; find cicadas! he repeated over and over to himself.
Only a few short yards from the cherry tree, a piercing voice rattled the chant right out of his skull.
“Well, I’ll be!” screeched the stranger. “That crazy old devil. What a prize one he is!”
Hopskotch froze on the spot. Instinct urged him to turn tail and run. When his eyes finally found the Sylt behind the voice, he regretted not doing exactly that.
“Oh, err, morning, Mrs Firthwhystle,” replied Hopskotch, reluctantly steering himself in her direction. He wasn’t sure they had time to indulge the woman, but it was not in his nature to be rude to his elders.
Positioning himself behind Hopskotch’s shoulder, Dobbin smiled an insincere smile and flicked his head toward the girls. “Um, float’s really coming along!”
Mrs Firthwhystle was by far the oldest teacher at Bridgetown South Elementary, though she’d officially stopped teaching music many years ago. Age and fortune had not treated her well, and her mind was prone to slipping in and out of reality. When the school principal, Mr Whittlestone, retired her position, she accepted it with quiet dignity, then turned up to school the next day. This scenario repeated itself for weeks until the Principal finally gave up, finding it easier instead to dream up an imaginary position for Mrs Firthwhystle: events coordinator.
Hopskotch should have known she’d be at the Square, overseeing the decoration of the cicada float.
As he crossed into the shade line of the cherry trees, Hopskotch felt the temperature drop. A shiver went up his spine, but he wasn’t sure whether it was the sudden coolness or something to do with Mrs Firthwhystle’s steely gaze.
Ignoring Dobbin’s awkward pleasantries, Mrs Firthwhystle shuffled closer, eyeing the duo with a look of amazement. The stench of lavender wafting out from her cardigan nearly knocked Hopskotch backward.
“Now let me see,” she puzzled, cupping her chin between thumb and index finger. “Hopskotch and—”
“Dobbin!” Hopskotch blurted, hoping to deflect his friend’s reflexive hatred of anyone who dared forget his name.
“Why, Dobbin, of course!” she announced, ruffling the youngster’s hair. “If I didn’t see it with my own two eyes, I never would’ve believed him. I mean, really, you won’t find a single cicada in the city, but he was adamant, you know. Even winked at me, the cheeky old scamp, and promised to bring me some silver chives.”
Something clicked inside Hopskotch’s head. Damn it! He was just here!
“Grandpa Rand was here?” Dobbin squeaked, mirroring the thought. “When? Where? Which way’d he go?”
“Yes, yes,” added Hopskotch. “Did you see which way?”
Mrs Firthwhystle blinked, clearly overwhelmed by the barrage. “If you’d just calm down now, nice and slow, one at a time.” Her eyes darted side to side from Dobbin to Hopskotch, from Hopskotch to Dobbin, before finally returning to Hopskotch.
“Now, young Master Pestle,” she said, addressing Hopskotch by his surname. “Why don’t you tell me exac—KALINA! BINDY! EMILIENNE! WATCH THAT PAINT TIN, IT’S ABOUT TO TIP!”
Mrs Firthwhystle’s ear-splitting warning was not missed by the girls working in the background. Bindy promptly broke from the group to lift the offending tin off its stack, planting it safely on the drip-sheets by her feet. Hopskotch and Dobbin needed no further reminder why the students nicknamed her Mrs Burst Whistle!
Rubbing his ear, Hopskotch resolved to keep it simple. “Sorry, Mrs Firthwhystle,” he said, as sincerely and politely as his creeping impatience allowed. “But did you see my grandfather earlier?”
“Earlier? Earlier’s probably not the right word. You pair musta missed him by an orphan’s whisker.”
Before Hopskotch could respond, Mrs Firthwhystle continued, on a roll now and tolerating no interruptions.
“I’m a bit cross with that old trouble-maker, mind. He’d promised to bring me one of his recipes. Seems he couldn’t find it among all that gear he was lugging. Got in quite a huff about it too,” she rattled on, waving her arms about. “Rummaging away through all those pouches; I told him it was little wonder he couldn’t find anything in there. Too old to be playing adventurer, that one.”
Mrs Firthwhystle grinned broadly and, quite out of nowhere, began humming to herself.
Dobbin began stamping his left foot with impatience. “But did you see a rolled parchment with a white silk tie? It’s really, really important.”
The old teacher glared down her snout at the youngster. “Well, I couldn’t exactly see anything amongst all those carry-on
s. Seems to me a Sylt his age should learn to travel a bit lighter. Old fellow was loaded up like a Tardorian tanker!”
Mrs Firthwhystle smiled at them, eyes beaming.
The boys stared back, faces blank.
“My grandfather?” Hopskotch barked, trying to steer her back on track. “He was just here. He spoke to you. Do you remember which way he went?”
“Oh, yes—yes, I think so.” The elderly woman nodded in the direction of Bakers Gate at Market Square’s northwest corner. “He took off yonder. Not sure where he was going. Didn’t ask, either! Funny thing is, he really legged it when his friend over yonder called out to him.”
Hopskotch followed her index finger to a nearby fry-barrow, but didn’t recognise the man working the stove. He still wasn’t sure what it all meant.
Mrs Firthwhystle tapped Hopskotch’s shoulder. “No offence, Deary, but you’d best keep an eye on that one. Too cheeky for his own good, y’ask me!”
Keen to avoid chapter two of her ramblings, Hopskotch grabbed Dobbin by the pouch sling and hauled him roughly away. Shouting a quick, “Thank you”, followed by an even quicker farewell, Team SnapTalon legged it at double time for the Bakers Gate exit.
As the youngsters rushed past the fry-barrow, the rich smell of frying butter and duck egg teased their senses. The elderly cook gave Hopskotch a wink as he scooted past. It was impossible not to notice the many bunches of silver chives hanging from the eve of Georges Stoutflank’s fry-barrow.
Shaking her head, Elois Firthwhystle watched the boys’ bouncing rucksacks disappear into the crowd. A Tardorian tanker! she thought to herself, and a frown formed upon her face. The schoolteacher had thought it so witty and clever, but sadly lost on the young ones.
Must talk to Mr Luddle, she considered, making a mental note of it. They really should know more about the old provinces.