Hopskotch and the Golden Cicada

by Martin Vine

  Revolving beneath the holy heart of Aethelron, the lands of Dellhimmel are divided into four seasons, all which exist simultaneously and are easily traversed, for time and distance do not rule there in ways known by mortal Sylt. From the love and wisdom of Aethelron’s heart were forged the Meadow of Eternal Spring, the Atoll of Eternal Summer, the Glen of Eternal Autumn, and the Peaks of Eternal Winter. And the high priests teach that in each of these realms can be found wonders beyond compare: of flower beds so vast, beaches so white, trees so tall, snow-capped mountains so awe-inspiring, and colours so vibrant that no Syltian tongue could possibly do them justice.

  In Dellhimmel dwell also the five angels of Aethelron, they who serve between the earth and heavens and travel freely in between. To each angel was given the responsibility to watch over the Whisper Mages attuned to their element. However, it was said to be forbidden for any of the angels – compassionate Bronuin, doting Helior, honourable Garthor, dutiful Daenethor and noble Soletta – to engage directly with the lives of mortal Sylt. Theirs was a more subtle guidance, for they had the power to whisper into the dreams of those blessed and guide their journeys with glimpses of the glory of Dellhimmel, and likewise visions of how far the Syltian had advanced: of what was, what is, and what could be.

  And so was it done that among the Whisper Mages, no doubts would be seeded to question the greatness of Aethelron and the holy gift he had bestowed upon them.

  Within this holy plane, surrounded and nourished by the love of his subjects, Aethelron grew ever stronger and more perfect, for this love was mutual and enriched the souls of both mortal and immortal alike.

  Slides and Sloop Levers

  The middle-aged Sylt was struggling. His heart was thumping through his chest, his legs were on the verge of cramping and his breath came in short, punchy bursts. Aethelron, I’m getting too old for this! he joked.

  Of course, he was only half joking. Had he known he’d find himself in pursuit of a pair of Syltlings less than a quarter his age, he might have reconsidered such a mad plan.

  As if that would have ever happened.

  For better or worse, he’d set himself upon this path; he would do his duty. Dodging responsibility was the old Bellows, a shadow from the past he was determined to step out from. To let his friend down now was unthinkable, even if they had disagreed on the details.

  And what a disagreement! Their debate had joined nightfall to dawn’s first light. In the week that followed, Bellows awoke every morning running the plan over and over in his head. It was only natural to worry. This one seemed so young, so innocent. This one seemed so unprepared. If not for his fondness for gin, Bellows might even have lost sleep over it.

  But the truth was evident: there was no other way; there was no alternative plan. When the old man was pulling the strings, Bellows knew in his heart there was no choice but to dance.

  “The boy will come through for us,” he’d insisted. “It won’t play out like last time. I won’t allow it. You won’t allow it. He will not let us down.”

  Decision made, and that was to be the end of it.

  But as resolute as he was, Bellows’ most trusted friend could not disguise his fears completely. There was no mistaking the crack in the old Sylt’s voice, the evasive eyes, the doubt. Stubborn, he was, but not blind. Goroman knew only too well the gamble he was taking.

  Reminded of the cost of failure, Bellows refocused on the mission quickly unravelling before his eyes. It was true he’d been caught off guard by the arrival of the cadet. He really should have seen that lizard-brain coming.

  If only I’d been quicker!

  But he hadn’t counted on the youngster’s feisty companion. Now that was a surprise twist! The damage done; the pair legging it; he had no choice but to hightail it after them. Only a twinge of guilt for the wounded dray pony troubled him.

  She’ll be fine once they re-harness her, he assured himself, pushing the thought from his mind. Still, he couldn’t suppress a smile at the daring of the short one. Best keep my eye on that sprout, he said to himself, replaying the scene. I think we just might get along.

  At a point where the laneways forked, Bellows took the left road, knowing full well his quarry had taken the right. The plan was to claim the high ground (a classic military manoeuvre) and intercept them before the cadets could close in. As it played out, the decision was a good one, his first for the day.

  Just as he was congratulating himself on it, the first of three sharp whistle blasts shattered the morning quiet. His heart sank. From a short distance downhill, the sound of rushing feet echoed.

  Cadets! he realised. How do they run so fast in those blasted smocks?

  The whistle blasts repeated, now much closer. Bellows knew his time was short. Spying a loaded wagon pulling up by a landing just ahead, he launched into action, re-energised as the seed of a plan took root in his mind.

  Damned if that just might work, he thought, smugly satisfied by his own cleverness. Not bad for a worthless hobo!

  Hopskotch and Dobbin were nearly at the top of the stair. Just two more flights and they would reach the upper landing. Their eyes were still teary and the swirling sweet smoke blurred their vision. Being unable to see what lay immediately above and below was having a most disorientating effect.

  Adding to the confusion, a great disturbance had erupted from street level overhead. With the increasingly loud whistle blasts ringing in his ears, Hopskotch had no time to ponder the mystery. Whoever was shouting up there, it certainly didn’t sound like cadets.

  They couldn’t have got here so quickly, he reassured himself, terrified he might be wrong. Judging by the amount of cussing, a group of fisherman were having one giant-sized argument with someone. Again, the accents sounded Withernessian. No Sylt could swear with such passion as the fiery highlanders.

  Whatever the source, Hopskotch prayed it could be turned in their favour. Using the chaos as cover, it was just possible they might yet slip the net: at least, that was the totality of his escape plan.

  But hope was rapidly dissolving. The pursuing cadets were closing fast.

  As Hopsotch wracked his brain for a plan B, a loud voice called out, “Watch yer heads, down there!”

  Hopskotch and Dobbin ducked just in time. Whistling mere inches over their heads, a large metal hook swung out from behind the curtain of hickory smoke. It thudded into the stone wall behind them, splattering thick black grime all over their packs.

  “Fast now, Scampees,” the voice instructed. “Grab the line. Ye’ll ney get ’nother chance.”

  Dobbin looked at Hopskotch anxiously. The man-sized hook swung from the base of a great rusty chain that was slowly scouring the grime and moss off the rock face behind them. It wasn’t the most tempting of invitations.

  But what alternative?

  Overhead, the whistle blasts were almost upon them. Directly below, the cadets from the alley had reached the first flight of stairs. Cut off from both directions, the boys were left with no choice. Wedging his walking stick between his back and rucksack to free his hands, Hopskotch clambered up the chain.

  A distressed-looking Dobbin followed. Making similar arrangements with his staff, he stepped into the cradle of the giant hook and wrapped both arms around the chain link, hanging on just below his teammate.

  The second Dobbin’s toes left the platform, a familiar grinding noise filled the air. Hopskotch’s whole world dropped swiftly away. He clenched his eyes and steeled his grip around the cold iron links as the chain carried them both skyward at stomach-churning speed.

  It felt like they were riding one end of an enormous see-saw, and a giant had just taken the seat opposite. Suspended in mid-air, Hopskotch and Dobbin – one above the other – held fast to the chain as the device thudded to a halt. He knew in his heart he shouldn’t, but Hopskotch couldn’t help himself. Squinting through the smoke, he looked down.

  The course of their vertical journey had left a tunnel through the grey, a smoke-framed window with a view
directly below. Hopskotch could see the fear in Dobbin’s eyes. Looking beyond his friend’s tilting rucksack, he spied movement between the slats of the stairway. Dark shapes were zigzagging upwards, fast approaching the steps they’d been standing on mere seconds ago.

  Black uniforms! he realised in horror. Hopskotch counted at least three cadets. Mittens, they’d have had us!

  “YeeeehhAAAAAAAAW!”

  Hopskotch had no time to ponder who was behind the sudden shriek, whether it was friend or foe. The sound of grinding gears returned to hammer his eardrums. Once again, his world was whisked away.

  This time the boys were taken sideways. Now it was the cadets who were forced to duck as Team SnapTalon, chain and all, swung spinning over the tops of their heads. Seconds before Hopskotch and Dobbin could be splattered against the rock face, the pair were wrenched suddenly upward.

  It was not nearly so much fun as they might have imagined. Altogether too swiftly, the chain carried them to street level above. Clearing the upper landing, the helpless Syltlings continued to be swung around some unseen axis. Two startled fishermen went backward at speed as the boys flew past, spinning inches above the cobblestones in a giant anti-clockwise arc. They were close enough to the ground that the loose strapping of Dobbin’s rucksack skittered along the hard-stone paving. The slapping sound made Hopskotch wince.

  Before he could even think about jumping to safety, the street was left behind, replaced by the emptiness of swirling grey hickory smoke. In a swallow’s blink, the boys had travelled a full one-hundred-and-eighty degrees – and a good five yards skyward – from their original position. Hopskotch knew if it didn’t stop soon he’d lose his breakfast. He spared another quick glance at Dobbin, clinging pitifully beneath him. There was a sharp pain in his leg to match the ache in his arms. Through teary eyes, he noticed Dobbin’s fingernails were biting into the flesh of his right calf.

  Aethelron, save us! Hopskotch prayed.

  With a sudden jolt, they stopped again. From directly opposite, Hopskotch heard a loud grunting sound, like someone straining against impossible odds. Through the smoke, the dizziness and watery eyes, he still could not make out who it was.

  Hopskotch turned his attention to Dobbin. Beneath his best friend’s body, the smoke thinned, revealing the smokehouse roof directly below. The bare rock face was now on the boys’ left, and likewise the uppermost landing of the stairway, which, to Hopskotch’s amazement, they were now elevated above. Stacked against the guardrail were large baskets of industrial hessian with thick rope handles. Each was filled with fresh trout. The smell of the catch wafted across and up to his nostrils.

  For a brief moment, it seemed time slowed. The yelling died down. The hook rotated clockwise a little, then corrected itself and halted. Hopskotch struggled to regain his breath. As the smoke continued to thin, the reality of their situation became clearer. The boys were hitched to a machine commonly known as a sloop lever.

  A simple device with a simple purpose, the sloop lever was employed to transfer goods from terrace to terrace throughout the steep streets of industrial Parchmond. Like a long, hollow bridge, the wooden arm stretched beneath a small platform, with tall levers in place to operate the boom. A series of horizontal gears allowed the arm to move full circle, while separate vertical gears – housed directly above – controlled the pivot, allowing a see-saw action, end to end. Running through the upper gear to either side of the sloop lever’s arm was a heavy chain with large, black-iron hooks on each end, designed for holding baskets, boxes and so forth.

  Though he’d only seen them in action a few times, Hopskotch remembered being in awe of the speed and skill of the operators who worked the sloop levers of Parchmond. But it never occurred to him he might one day be stuck to one as ballast.

  What a shameful end this would be, he blubbed to himself, still searching desperately for an opportunity to leap free.

  But there would be no chance to alight. With a sharp jerk of the sloop lever’s arm, the boys were taken further away from street level and out over the roof of the smokehouse. Beyond Dobbin’s shoulder, Hopskotch spied a steel chute emerging from an opening in the corrugated iron, which terminated alongside a narrow platform. Before he could investigate further, the chain spun him around the other way.

  Hopskotch craned his neck, following the arm of the sloop lever all the way back to the gear housing. Riding the wooden arm, he could just make out a Sylt-shaped silhouette. He imagined it must be the same Sylt who’d called out earlier.

  As his eyes tried to focus on the stranger, a quiet voice – barely audible – spoke inside Hopskotch’s head. “Hold tight! I’ll come for you!”

  It reminded him of the whispers back in Market Square, with one difference: this was one voice only. It vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving Hopskotch to wonder if he hadn’t just imagined it.

  A new sound rose to drown out all others.

  “What the fishmitts is that?” whimpered Dobbin, staring up at him through frightened eyes.

  Hopskotch turned back to the sloop lever, only to discover the dark shape occupying the operator platform had disappeared. Accompanied by the grind of metal on metal, their hook began to bob up and down, as if the brake mechanism holding the chain had been released. From the opposite end of the sloop lever, Hopskotch heard a sawing noise like knife through rope, accompanied by much grunting and cussing. The boys began to rotate in place, still helplessly suspended.

  Hopskotch didn’t want to know what was making the sound, but he knew it couldn’t be good. Stricken with fear and dizziness, the youngster clenched his eyes shut. It only made him more nauseous. Just as he braved opening them again, a tearing twang filled his ears. A thunderous crash followed.

  Two basket-loads of trout splattered across the stairway’s landing in an avalanche of slippery silver and brown. Screams of outrage erupted from below, followed by even more colourful cussing.

  The boys weren’t aware of it at all. As soon as the counterweight was released, Hopskotch and Dobbin dropped straight down at speed. The roof shot up to meet them.

  It was all too much for Dobbin, who surrendered his battle with gravity with a meek yelp. Losing his grip on the hook (and leaving a wicked scratch down Hopskotch’s right calf), he fell directly onto the metal chute, screeching pain and outrage.

  The drop was not a long one but Dobbin was now beyond Hopskotch’s reach. He could only look on in horror as his best friend, upside down and backward, slid headfirst into the roof of the smokehouse.

  Then it was his turn. The smoke was soup-thick now, billowing from the chimneys like the breath of some great tin dragon. It was enough to obscure his vision till the very last second.

  Materialising suddenly from the haze, a dark shadow swung at him from above. With no time to defend or dodge, Hopskotch was clouted hard in the left shoulder. The force of the impact loosed his grip, sending him spinning off the chain.

  Falling alongside his attacker, the flailing Syltling landed on the metal chute in a tangle of arms, legs and luggage. The wind escaped his lungs. He heard a loud cracking sound and prayed it wasn’t one of his bones. Hopskotch began sliding backward down the chute, fighting all the while to wriggle his way out from under the man who’d put him there.

  “Belzeel’s arse, that smarts!”

  The words appeared suddenly in his head. Once again, the youngster was not certain they were his own. Before he could turn to face the mysterious foe, Hopskotch’s world slid into darkness.

  Blackpaw’s Way

  The chute carried Hopskotch through a partitioned section of the smokehouse before offloading him onto a raised hessian net, the mystery Sylt literally right on his back (Dobbin had to quickly scamper over the edge to avoid being crushed).

  Quickly and quietly, they untangled themselves from one another and joined Dobbin on the factory floor. Aware of the peril lurking outside, Hopskotch remained silent but kept a nervous eye on the stranger.

  At least, he tried to.
In the shadow of the high walls, it was hard to see much of anything. Wide shafts of light streamed in from skylights, tinged blue-grey from the hickory smoke wafting out from a separate room to the rear. Dried out by the cloud, Hopskotch’s eyes were taking a long time to adjust to the darkness. He wondered how the workers could stand it.

  Thankfully, the shop floor was deserted, the smokehouse crew having abandoned their posts to investigate the commotion on the upper street level. Shushing the boys with a finger to his lip, the ragged-looking man ushered them out a side door away from the main entrance.

  He did not seem threatening; he was not behaving like an enemy, but Hopskotch was left in no doubt as to who was calling the shots. For the moment, so it seemed, Team SnapTalon had a new leader.

  The flight away from the smokehouse was even more of a blur to Hopskotch than their flight toward it. He was sore, dizzy, short of breath, half-blind, and felt very much like his stomach was waiting for him somewhere back on the sloop lever. The cracking noise he’d heard when landing on the metal chute turned out to be the handle of his cicada net, now hanging limp and beyond repair from the side of his rucksack. Miraculously, his new walking stick had survived undamaged.

  It did not take long for serious questions to surface in Hopskotch’s mind. Who is he? Why is he helping us?

  And under the circumstances, did it really matter?

  So long as the stranger led them away from the Roaches, Hopskotch was content to keep his questions behind sealed lips. Even Dobbin was taking his lead. Both boys knew that if not for his intervention, they’d be in cadet custody by now, the cicada hunt prematurely over for Team SnapTalon.