Hopskotch and the Golden Cicada

by Martin Vine

  Elsewhere in her mind, an unfinished tune rose to carry away her thoughts. It was beautiful, masterful, and somewhere just beyond her reach.

  If only I could organise those notes and wrap it all up with a suitable ending, what a composition it would be!

  That she’d been wrestling with it for months without result frustrated her no end.

  So distracted was she by the elusive melody, Elois forgot what it was she was thinking about. Her eyes glazed over, focusing on nothing in particular, till a commotion from the float seized her attention.

  “EMILIENNE!” she wailed, as a very full paint tin clattered onto its side, sending a stream of runny white spilling toward the edge of the drip-sheets.

  Flapping her arms, Mrs Firthwhystle dashed forward. “You girls’ll be scrubbing right through to Elronsday if that touches cobblestone!”

  Fight and Flight

  Northwest of Market Square, the streets and laneways twisted between multi-storied terraces, a shadow-filled warren of bakers, butchers, delicatessens, tea houses and cramped lodgings. Row after row of vintage shops and houses were packed so tightly together, and leaned so treacherously inward, that from any top-floor window one could almost touch fingertips with neighbours in the buildings opposite.

  It all went by in a blur to Hopskotch and Dobbin. Inspired by Mrs Firthwhystle’s tip-off, the boys maintained a steady canter uphill, ducking under and dodging around the hardworking foodies transporting produce downhill for the festival. It was never going to be easy, but reaching Settlers Road as quickly as possible was their best chance of catching Grandpa Rand before he could get to the lake.

  In a busy lane just past an unfamiliar intersection, Dobbin pulled up, reining in Hopskotch behind him. His heart was beating furiously and small bursts of steam puffed rapidly out of his mouth on every breath.

  The cobblestone road twisting uphill was crowded with traffic and stank like offal. Climbing a nearby gutter, Dobbin craned his neck in search of an exit to Settlers, anxious now that they might have strayed off course.

  Swiftly and suddenly from behind, a hand reached out, clamping his pack straps in an iron grip.

  The giant spun Hopskotch and Dobbin roughly around and backed them into a nearby wall. His grip did not give an inch.

  “Well, well, well?” he said. “Are we lost, late, or just stupid?” Two beady eyes glared at the cowering boys, as if daring them to answer.

  Hopskotch took a deep gulp and stared up at one very large, very angry-looking cadet.

  “And here was me thinking there’d be nothing doing today,” the cadet continued, obviously enjoying himself immensely. “Wait till the lads see what bugs I’ve caught in my net!”

  A nightmare vision of being hauled into the Black Dungeon flashed through Hopskotch’s mind. He made a silent promise that whatever happened, he would not surrender the brooch he’d just found at the Whirlpool. There’d be one hell of a stink should the cadet try to confiscate their belongings.

  Not that it’d be much of a fight, worried Hopskotch. The brute was big, strong, arrogant, and those meaty claws were digging painful grooves into the soft flesh around his shoulder. It felt like being held in a vice.

  Realising there was little chance of escape – factoring in his handicapped leg and weighty luggage – Hopskotch eventually stopped wriggling and faced down his captor, quietly fuming. He had to hold his walking staff tight to his chest to stop his hands shaking.

  “Good choice, Limpy,” the cadet sneered. “Now settle down and let’s see what we have here.”

  He turned to Dobbin who was still wrestling against his grip. “That means you too, Egg!”

  Dobbin’s hands began shaking with rage. An expression of pure hatred beamed from his narrowed eyes.

  Hopskotch opened his mouth, desperate to head off the fireworks. “Umm, we’re just on our way through, actually,” he stuttered. “Anyway, we got sidetracked. Didn’t mean to, of course.” Thinking fast, Hopskotch prepared a story in his head that just might bail them out. It was not his finest moment.

  He began by innocently explaining about “the very important note” which had to be delivered to his grandfather. For reasons unclear, the old fellow was headed for the lake. Hopskotch went to elaborate, but got into a muddle when he realised it would be preferable if the cadet did not know their destination (not that he really knew, himself). The more he mumbled and bumbled his way through it, the less convincing his tale sounded.

  Realising it was not going to plan, the desperate Syltling dropped his mother’s name as the source of the note, a diversion which may have been more effective had it not been tacked on at the end, an obvious afterthought. Though she was more often a source of embarrassment to Hopskotch, it bought the youngster occasional privilege to mention his mother’s position within Mayor Orwig’s Council.

  Though unlikely a beat cadet would recognise the name, mentioning his mother had saved Hopskotch’s hide a few times before. It was no secret the Roaches took their orders from the powerful mayor, a chain of command which gave them privileges over and above the constabulary, who were generally older, unquestionably wiser, and had a reputation for civil courtesy toward lawful citizens, and fair conduct in dealing with disturbers of the peace.

  Unfortunately, this time Hopskotch found himself hopelessly out of his depth. Despite his best efforts to justify their presence inside city limits, the cadet clearly had Team SnapTalon lumped into the latter category.

  Dobbin was having no better time of it. Being hauled up by a stinking Roach on one of the most important days of the year didn’t fit with his plans at all. After the initial (and hopeless) struggle, he stifled his rage with some deep breathing exercises and channelled it into the most ferocious glare his watering eyes could manage.

  The first thing Dobbin noticed about the cadet was the unusual uniform. The black smock was knee-length and double-breasted, with all the buttons done up to hug the torso. Dobbin had never seen such fine tailoring.

  Must be an officer or commander of sorts, he speculated. Lucky sodding us!

  It raised a memory,– one he’d heard from the older boys about the formation of a secret division within the Cadet Corp. Such rumours he’d previously dismissed as playground talk from students trying to big-note themselves. Now he was forced to wonder.

  Despite being pinned most uncomfortably, Dobbin couldn’t drag his eyes away from the raven badge stitched to the cadet’s left breast. The outline of that black bird silhouetted inside a white circle filled him with dread, but the distraction was only temporary. Now that he’d had time to assess the situation, Dobbin’s initial anger was turning to something darker.

  He could feel the heat of rage building inside his body. Locking his jaw, clenching his hands, the youngster tried to put a lid on it.

  Hotheaded though he was, Dobbin was no fool, nor one to fight battles he couldn’t win. Even pinned to a wall, bruised and insulted by a sworn enemy, the furious Syltling held his tongue. If he could control his temper in the schoolyard, he could control his temper now.

  Keep it shut! Keep it shut! Keep it shut! he repeated inside his head, even as his best friend continued to gibber nonsense beside him. It was all he could do to stay in control. Right up to the point where the filthy Roach pushed him right over the edge.

  “Well, if it’s cicadas you want,” the black-clad Sylt explained, clearly unimpressed by Hopskotch’s story, “perhaps we can hold you both at the Square.” He looked them up and down with a smug grin. “You know, with the rest of the girls.”

  Hopskotch was the first to notice the familiar sound of grinding teeth. He knew what was coming and braced himself. Right on cue, the volcano erupted. In a rush of steam and fury, Dobbin Butterfeld unleashed a torrent of abuse that would’ve made a Withernessian wharfie blush.

  Every vile word was aimed at Hopskotch.

  “By Belzeel’s fiery ass,” he trumpeted, turning against the cadet’s clutches to face his teammate. “This is all your fogging f
ault!” He waved his staff in Hopskotch’s startled face, missing it by mere inches. “All of it – the toe-curling stitch in my guts; the skull-thumping ache in my brain; the gnats and burrs in my hair – all your—fogging—fault!”

  So it began and so it went on, a profanity-loaded account of their journey from the Gulch, mercilessly pointing out every misstep along the way (apparently, all Hopskotch’s fault).

  Dobbin was not pulling his punches. The more he raged, the more cutting and cruel his barbs became. Even the cadet was taken aback.

  Hopskotch was thoroughly gobsmacked. He couldn’t believe the stuff coming out of Dobbin’s mouth. He couldn’t believe he was being yelled at by his best friend. The insults that sounded at first so hurtful began to lose all sense and meaning as his teammate frothed himself further and further into a lather. There was so much screaming and swearing that Hopskotch began to worry that Dobbin had gone completely bonkers.

  Then he saw it: a sideways flash of the eyes. Hopskotch recognised Dobbin’s signal instantly, and something akin to relief washed over him. His best friend hadn’t turned on him: he was up to something.

  But what?

  Hopskotch was more baffled than ever. He barely noticed the cadet had loosened his grip.

  Dobbin repeated the signal. This time Hopskotch followed the nod toward a side-alley branching uphill from the one they were in. Approaching the junction, three baker’s apprentices were struggling with a stubborn dray pony. The skittish animal was harnessed to a two-wheeled cart teetering with basket-loads of pastries and steaming bread loaves.

  Obviously running late, the trio had taken the quickest route from Krampett’s Bakery direct to Market Square (when common sense would have had them stick to Settlers Road for another block), but they hadn’t factored in the traffic generated by the Cicada Festival. The hapless workers now found themselves caught in peak-hour traffic. The laneway was barely wide enough for the cart, and the pony looked none too happy about it. Unsettled and overloaded, the beast bucked and kicked against its harness.

  The cadet’s grip loosened further, his attention now diverted by the skittish dray pony lumbering toward them.

  Dobbin let his tirade peter out before springing into action. Without removing his eyes from Hopskotch, he raised his walking staff and, in a brutal reverse stroke, brought the metal-capped end down squarely on the cadet’s left foot.

  The brute doubled over with an agonised screech, releasing both boys simultaneously. The sound caused the pony to panic, pushing backward, eyes wide with fright.

  Dobbin shoved past the wounded cadet and grabbed his friend’s sling-pouch, pulling him away. “C’mon, Hoppie!” he shrieked.

  Dobbin chose the narrow alley and went round the front of the horse; Hopskotch chose the back. Mistake!

  Without warning, the animal lost its footing and skittered sideways. The cart’s right wheel buckled under the sudden pressure and the wooden frame angled toward his head. His nostrils filled with an overpowering farm smell as the beast’s hindquarters, dead level with his face, tilted toward him.

  Squeezed between stone and timber and lumbering horse flesh, Hopskotch flattened his body into a door alcove to avoid becoming sauce. A dreadful crash shook his eardrums as the wagon met the wall at an angle. The tray slid past, inches clear of his startled face.

  It was all the space he needed.

  Ducking his head low, Hopskotch held his breath against the horse stench and slipped into the A-shaped gap that had opened underneath the lopsided cart. Even as he cleared the wooden tray to safety, breads and pastries continued to spill onto the cobblestones, covering his escape. Dobbin was less than twenty yards ahead, waving him to get a move on.

  Hopskotch needed no encouragement.

  Imagining an entire army of cadets on their heels, the boys sprinted uphill through the dark laneways toward lower Parchmond. Hopskotch had assumed the lead but Dobbin was in charge, barking directions from behind. Hopskotch could hear his best friend tipping crates and baskets in his wake (one of the more useful tricks Dobbin had picked up from his brothers).

  Might slow ’em, Hopskotch hoped.

  A more cynical part of his mind interjected, “Or it might just mark our trail!”

  Adding to his worries, Hopskotch couldn’t shake the feeling someone else was chasing them. Sodding Roach! he thought to himself. I should’ve taken out the other foot!

  But it was more than an even contest and Hopskotch knew it. The Roach may have been wounded but where there was one, there were many, and a committed chase would see them run down eventually.

  Through the pain and panic, an old nursery rhyme popped into Hopskotch’s head. Just keep running, little Sylt, and it felt like a small part of his mind was deliberately taunting him. Just keep running, ’fore the Blighted taste your tail!

  Despite his mismatched legs and uneven gait, running had never been a problem for Hopskotch. But every boy had his limits. It felt like they’d been at it for hours when the exhausted duo finally pulled up in a narrow street surrounded by tall warehouses. It was a quiet place: quiet enough that for the first time since leaving Market Square, Hopskotch realised the whispers in his head had all but disappeared. Only his own thoughts remained to torment him.

  Neither Syltling could claim to be familiar with this part of the city, for Parchmond was filled with nothing more interesting than warehouses, breweries and distilleries, and food-processing factories. Though the boys had been detoured, their flight had taken them directly across Settlers Road and deep into the industrial heart of Bridgetown. Grandpa Rand would have certainly taken the main road, but for the boys, that was no longer an option. For there was one small problem which had only just occurred to Hopskotch: Settlers Road ran straight up Heartstretch Hill, directly past the building commonly known as the Black Dungeon: the headquarters of Bridgetown’s Street Cadets.

  Puffed out and panting, he led Dobbin into a maze of large crates stacked beside what smelled like a smallgoods smokehouse. Between the peaks of the tin roof, Hopskotch could just make out the Black Dungeon’s distinctive south tower.

  It was way too close for his liking.

  So they were a little out of their way, a lot further uphill, and much shorter of breath than when they’d first escaped the cadet. But Team SnapTalon was unquestionably closer to Lake Whispermere, and presumably, Grandpa Rand.

  There was a feeling of emptiness in the part of the city they presently found themselves, though neither boy knew with great certainty exactly where that was. Apart from a small group of workers taking a break by a narrow doorway at the front of the smokehouse, there were few other souls to be seen.

  Hopskotch turned his attention to the building. Narrow and tall, its far end butted against a sheer rock face, upon which was fixed a zigzag stairway. The top levels disappeared behind a cloud of grey billowing from the smokehouse roof vents.

  Though it was beyond his line of sight, Hopskotch could hear a wagon pulling in from the laneway on the upper terrace. The coarse accent of Withernession fisherman followed (he imagined they were bringing in a catch from Lake Whispermere). In a language all their own, the lakeshore Sylt called out to the workers below, who sprang promptly into action, barking incomprehensible orders to each other in turn. The sound of grinding metal filled the air.

  Hopskotch turned to his friend, panting. “Next time, before you do something l-like that, give me a hint or a w-wink or something!” He drew a deep breath and adjusted the straps biting into his shoulders.

  “Thought I did,” panted Dobbin.

  The smile was there but the eyes gave away his pain. Hopskotch turned sideways, squeezing his body through a narrow section between piled crates. Behind him, Dobbin barked at him to hurry up and get to the stairway. It was obvious to Hopskotch that his friend didn’t want him to know how much pain he was in.

  Only halfway up the stair and again Hopskotch found himself struggling for breath. The blue-grey smoke was making his eyes water; it was a hopeless ba
ttle trying to keep the stuff out of his lungs. From street level above, the grinding sound grew louder.

  The accompanying voices sounded like they were coming from the smokehouse roof, but Hopskotch was unable to see much of anything through the haze. Just as he imagined the smoke to be thinning, a whistle blast cut through the air, rattling his eardrums so hard he almost lost balance.

  “Fishmitts!” Hopskotch cursed, turning to Dobbin. “Roaches! I don’t believe it! Can you run?”

  He was now deeply concerned for his friend. They were going to have to leg it all over again and there had been barely enough time to recover from the first sprint. A part of his mind refused to accept the terrible reality unfolding around him. A larger part wanted answers.

  How the fishmitts did they find us?

  As suddenly as the question appeared in his head, another sound brought him to an abrupt halt. The screech of the cadet’s whistle was answered, no less than three separate blasts, all coming from beyond the top of the stairwell. In the opposite direction, beyond the crate stacks, the echo of footsteps on cobblestone grew in volume with the menace of an approaching storm.

  Partly blinded and coughing up hickory smoke, Hopskotch realised their situation was hopeless: cadets uphill of them; cadets downhill of them and all closing fast. There was no escape any which way they turned.

  Team SnapTalon was completely surrounded.

  Excerpt From The Secrets Of The Ancients

  by Tulloch Greighspan

  Realms 2.1

  Heaven and Earth

  Bestowing an immortal soul upon the Sylt of Dellreigh, the God of Small Things created also the heavens to accept they who had passed. All souls deemed worthy were lifted into the Realm Of Light, that which was known to Sylt as Dellhimmel: ‘heaven’ in the old tongue.

  In a parallel plane to Dellreigh, yet beyond her in ways no living Sylt could fully understand, Dellhimmel is said to be a world inverted, and the lands therein do veer toward the horizon in an upward curve, instead of away at the edges as it is in the mortal realm. And it was formed thus so that every inch may bask untouched by shadow beneath the glory of Aethelron, whose eternal light remains anchored at the core, as the heart is to the body. And this light is beyond the ken of mortal folk, for it is both intensely bright, yet does not blind, and fiery hot, yet does not burn.