Hopskotch and the Golden Cicada

by Martin Vine

Dobbin paused, drawing a much-needed breath. Hopskotch didn’t dare interrupt.

  “Of course, some said that all the folk of Florenmeer – the Spackles, I mean – originally came across the Fathomsong Sea before the Delgards ever sat the throne. I reckon that could be true enough, but they must’ve lost contact with the eastern isles at some point way back. Guess that’s why Targonne put so much effort into finding them again. I mean you’d think a sea-faring folk like that could easily —”

  It was at about this point (or possibly the sentence before) that Hopskotch tuned out of Dobbin’s impromptu history lesson. Eyes glued to the ground, and guided only by the sound of his friend’s droning voice, it eventually clicked inside his head that Ravens Sweep was properly behind them. They’d made it safely through Bridgetown, navigated the warrens of Parchmond, crossed the shale country and ascended the valley all the way to the edge of Lake Whispermere. Beyond the next rise, he would be able to see her deep, dark waters. Hopskotch was delighted to feel the cool highland air rippling across his skin.

  Already the landscape had begun to change around them. On either side of the trail, the remaining granite boulders were being splintered into smaller pieces by the wandering roots of stunted fir trees, their exposed surfaces swallowed by patches of feather moss and brake fern. Everything smelled overpowering and exotic, the air rich with the scent of rotting pine needles.

  It never occurred to the Syltling that they were not alone.

  At a point where the path skirted a shoulder-high embankment that sloped uphill to a rocky ledge, a voice – loud and sharp – called out from above.

  “AHOY THERE!”

  Dobbin flinched. Hopskotch jumped like he’d just stepped on hot coals.

  “’HOY THERE! AHOOOY Therrre!”

  Grandpa Rand! Could it be?

  As much as he wished it were true, Hopskotch could not have been more mistaken. From the upper ridge lurched a Sylt who looked old enough to be Grandpa Rand’s grandfather. His bony arms were waving frantically in the air, his legs wobbled uncertainly beneath him, and he had the most off-putting twitch in his neck (it looked to Hopskotch like he was trying to evict a blowfly from his left ear).

  The strange old man wore a tattered grey cardigan over a pair of ankle-length leggings of speckled brown, the old-fashioned style common to Witherness. His hair was ice-white and thinning in patches, framing a face etched with deep lines separating pale, sagging skin. Beneath the bushy eyebrows (also white) stared two deep-set eyes of palest blue. Hopskotch was not convinced the ancient Sylt could actually see out of them.

  Torn between fleeing for his life and rushing to assist the unsteady fellow before he toppled right over the edge of the escarpment, Hopskotch instead did nothing at all. The stunned youngster remained rooted to the spot, gaping like a stuffed sewer toad.

  Dobbin took a backward step.

  Panting deeply, the stranger climbed down over the rocks and approached the boys. Ignoring Dobbin, he addressed the startled Hopskotch as if he were an old friend.

  “There ye’ are, little one,” he sputtered, all gums and spittle. “I knew you’d come back. I knew you’d be here and I knew when, too.” He waved a hand in the direction of Ravens Sweep. “They all thought I was mad, thought I’d dreamed it all. Tried to make me forget, they did. Tried to make everyone forget.”

  The accent was hard for Hopskotch to place, delivered as it was in a voice that cracked and rattled like a rusty gear with missing teeth. The man’s pale blue eyes seemed to be looking everywhere at once.

  Eventually they returned to Hopskotch. The old fellow tapped his skull as his head jerked sideways again. “Put lead weights in our heads,” he nodded. “Bad ones, they are.”

  Hopskotch edged nearer to Dobbin, close enough to properly hear what the strange old Sylt was saying (but not so close that he couldn’t leg it should the urge take him).

  “You remember me, don’tcha?” he asked with pleading eyes. “I was the one that saved you that day. Carried you back.”

  Dobbin turned to his teammate with a puzzled look. The old man paused for a minute, and Hopskotch imagined he was waiting for him to say something.

  Have I met this old-timer?

  Dobbin was still giving him a funny look. He answered his friend’s questioning gaze with a half-shrug to signal he had no idea who this Sylt was or what the fishmitts he was going on about.

  Unperturbed, the stranger took a step forward. “Ya dinna remember me, little ’un?”

  Dobbin inched carefully out of the way, lest he fall into the old man’s drool zone.

  “I was here for you last time – ol’ Graw – thirteen years past. They tried to make me forget, but I’d never forget you. Not with yer wee crests, never forget.”

  A shiver rippled across the surface of Hopskotch’s skin. Subconsciously, he ran his fingers through the turned-up hair on his head. What in Aethelron’s name was this old fogie on about?

  He mined his memory for an answer, but dug out only more questions. How could he know me? Do I have a twin somewhere, running about Bridgetown, or maybe Witherness? But no. He said thirteen years ago; I wasn’t even born!

  Hopskotch went to correct him – to explain he had the wrong Sylt – but couldn’t get his mouth open before being cut off.

  “I’ll not move from here,” the stranger announced, defiantly.

  Hopskotch and Dobbin shared a nervous glance.

  “I was too late last time – saw the whole thing – but couldn’t stop him—” His voice trailed off. “Couldn’t stop—him.” On the last word, the old Sylt glared at Dobbin. The anger in his face was unmistakable.

  Just as suddenly, the shadow lines of his face brightened, and a sense of calm seemed to settle over the stranger’s frail-looking body. Staring blankly into the distance, he scratched his temple as if grasping for the memory. The sharp, jerking twitch in his neck appeared to be ebbing.

  Returning to Hopskotch, he said, “No one will stop you this time. My heartfelt promise.”

  Hopskotch was left with the distinct impression Graw really meant it. He noticed small tears forming at the corner of those very old, very pale eyes.

  “Graw’s word! I’ve got yer back!” the Sylt declared, balling his right hand into a fist and thumping it hard against his chest. He immediately began scanning the surrounding forest as if seeking out imaginary enemies hiding among the trees.

  “Okay then,” Dobbin piped up. “Glad we cleared that up then. Very good – nice offer – and thanks so much.” Grabbing Hopskotch by the wrist, he moved to flank the Sylt known as Graw. Dobbin’s head bobbed up and down in a manner most patronising. He was wearing the fakest smile Hopskotch had ever seen.

  “We’ll be sure to take you up on that,” Dobbin said to Graw, slinking past. “You’re a thoroughly decent chap, and no argument!”

  The old Sylt made no move to stop either of them, but he kept a suspicious eye on Dobbin.

  Safely on the other side, Dobbin finally released Hopskotch and proceeded to leg it double time up-trail, sparing Graw not so much as a backward glance.

  Hopskotch followed his teammate with less haste. Walking half-turned, he nodded a silent farewell to the eccentric old man.

  Graw surprised Hopskotch by replying with a respectful bow, before slowly shuffling away in the opposite direction from which he’d first appeared.

  Hopskotch kept an eye on him for a long while, eventually losing him behind a mountainous thicket of blackberry shrub. Up ahead, he got the distinct impression his teammate was brooding over something. Hopskotch had no idea what had Dobbin’s goat, but decided it better to keep a safe distance for the moment. It was a ripe opportunity to grapple with the questions spilling into his own head, none of which made a whole lot of sense to him.

  Wherever did he come from?

  Hopskotch tried to source the accent, but Graw’s voice was so gravelly it was impossible to tell from exactly where in Broken Meadow he might originate. Backwoods Whispermere? Withernessian?
he speculated. Maybe a Provi right out of the Shanties?

  And did it really matter?

  Somehow this Sylt knew him, knew he’d be on the Ravens Sweep trail to the lake on this very day.With all mental gears grinding, Hopskotch couldn’t even begin to process how that was possible.

  Lake Whispermere appeared beyond the final rise, winking deep blue-blacks through the drooping pine branches, but the sight of her smooth waters failed to still Hopskotch’s thoughts. It took him a while to notice how far ahead Dobbin had wandered.

  Jogging to close the distance, Hopskotch called out, “Hold up, Dob, we need to talk.”

  Dobbin planted his feet till his teammate caught up, before whirling in a fury. “No, we, do, NOT!”

  Hopskotch pulled up so fast, he skidded on pine needles.

  Dobbin’s hair was standing on end. His eyeballs were bulging. Clenching his staff in a vice-like grip, he pointed the hard steel cap right at Hopskotch’s forehead. “Whatever it is rattling round that brain of yours, I don’t wanna hear it. That’s enough for me; I’ve just had enough. If I don’t see another grown-up till Elronsday, it’ll be too soon.”

  Hopskotch was instantly reminded of Dobbin’s earlier performance with the cadet. With one exception: this was no act. Dobbin was seriously, furiously, menacingly angry with him. He felt suddenly very small.

  “I know what you’re gonna say,” Dobbin challenged. “And you know what?”

  Hopskotch took a step back and almost tripped on a protruding tree root. “But—”

  “Uh uh!” Dobbin silenced his teammate with an open palm. “No buts; no what-ifs; no how-abouts! You think it all means something, don’t you?”

  “Well, I, err—”

  “Of course you do.” Dobbin stabbed an accusing finger at Hopskotch’s chest. “Grandpa Rand; Blackpaw; Mrs-fogging-Firthwhystle; even that mad old dingbat back there.” He counted them all off his fingers. “You really think it’s all some great big, wonderful show, and it’s all revolving around you, don’tcha?”

  “I never—”

  “I’m not finished. Now I know you see stuff the rest of us don’t, very clever! I know about the colours and the headaches. I know you have nightmares, and to be honest, that’s as much as I want to know about those. But it’s just dreams, that’s all. Doesn’t have to mean a thing. I had a dream I could fly once. Ran down a hill really fast, flapped my arms a bit and up I went. Doesn’t mean it’s actually gonna happen, does it?”

  Nostrils flaring, Dobbin took a quick breath.

  “But you believe you really are special, and that everyone around you exists just to prove it.”

  Hopskotch flinched like he’d been physically shoved.

  “You don’t think you’re ‘Average’ at all. That’s why it rubs so much when someone else thinks you are. What do you think of that?”

  “I don’t—wait. What nightma—?”

  Dobbin cut him off again. “Not important! See, I know what’s going on in your head.” He began waving his arms about in wide circles. “You honestly think something grand’s going on around you; you think everyone we’ve bumped into today is part of it, that they’re all special in some secret and mysterious way. That’s your problem, you know! That’s why we are all the way up here on our own when everyone else is back in Finches Forest. Having fun! Hunting cicadas! For real!”

  Hopskotch continued to squirm, but kept his mouth shut, strangely curious to find out what else his best friend might unload.

  “See, you’re always looking for good in others,” Dobbin carried on, “Doesn’t sound bad, but you know what: not everyone’s special! Not everyone’s got some deep, dark secret that makes them do the things they do, or act the way they act.” He paused just long enough to take more air. “Sometimes, folks are exactly as they appear. That old one was just a barking-mad kook. Not heir to the throne of Sanufell; not a captain of the lost Corsair tribe; not even Blackpaw’s great great grandfather, just some crotchety old man who’d do much better to stay on his porch with a pipe in his mouth and a rug across his lap!”

  Dobbin stopped unexpectedly, as if he’d run out of rant.

  Hopskotch wondered if that was going to be it. He noticed a nervous twitch pulling the muscle beneath his friend’s left eye. Hopskotch felt a sudden urge to burst out laughing. The most inappropriate, hard-to-resist tickle was working its way up his throat to his mouth. He twisted his lip in a desperate attempt to push it back down.

  “And you know what else?” Dobbin continued.

  Hopskotch redoubled his efforts to smother the giggles.

  “Some people are just nasty. Not because something bad happened to them once, not because they had a tough upbringing, just because they are! The Shire’s filled with ’em: Slade, Fargus—and yes, even your mate Ninness!”

  “Well, he’s hardly a mate.”

  Dobbin shook his head. Raising his right arm, he rubbed at his temple like he was trying to work his way back to the place he’d started. He wiped the spittle from his lips and took a series of slow, spaced-out breaths. The twitch beneath his eye appeared to have run its course.

  “So, I don’t wanna hear anything more about strange grown-ups and who exactly they might be, and what exactly it all means. And I don’t wanna see any more old men or for goodness sake, I swear all my hair will fly off!”

  Hopskotch craned his neck suddenly. “What was that?”

  “I said—eh, what?” Dobbin stuttered. Turning sharply, he followed Hopskotch’s eyes to the lake.

  “Skimming stones,” Hopskotch said, silencing his friend with a raised forefinger. He pointed through the trees to a rocky outcrop beyond a steep bank that led to the beach. “Someone’s down there, by the water.”

  Dobbin blinked in confusion; his eyes bulged like saucers. A look of recognition replaced the anger lines on his face.

  “Come on, Cranky Pants,” Hopskotch chirped, pushing past his teammate. “If you’re done hollerin’, you might wanna start flapping those wings of yours. There’s one more crotchety old man we might need today!”

  Reunion

  “Tish and pish! Tosh and slosh!”

  With a flick of the wrist, Grandpa Rand sent another pebble skimming across the lake’s glassy surface.

  “That treacherous sliver-mink!”

  One more went flying.

  “That weasel-faced pile of oxen offal!”

  Then another, splish-splish-splishing over the water. Just as he drew breath for a fresh tirade, a pint-sized blur of arms and legs crashed into his side, clamping his waist in a tight embrace.

  “Pa Rand!” Hopskotch squealed.

  Grandpa Rand swivelled, taking the youngster around with him on the hip. “What, what! Well, I’ll be struck by a thunderbolt!” A broad grin appeared across his face as he tussled his grandson’s hair. “Again, I mean, heh heh. What the crow’s craw are you doing here?”

  Before Hopskotch could respond to the first question, Grandpa Rand asked another. “Say, is your friend okay?”

  To all appearances, Dobbin wasn’t. Halfway down the steep bank bordering the beach, he began tilting dangerously to the left. In an attempt to steady himself, the overloaded Syltling shifted his bodyweight to the right, failing to allow for the pouch sling Bellows had given him (filled with terracotta globe lamps of significant weight). Dobbin overcorrected; gravity did the rest, taking the hapless youngster right off his feet before sliding him sideways and backward a good seven yards to the hard-pebble beach.

  “Yoiks! Not again,” whispered Hopskotch under his breath.

  Dobbin looked as if he’d borne bruises from every single bump on the way down, but it did not delay him long.

  “The map, the map!” he shrieked, pulling himself groggily upright and lurching toward the shoreline. “Has he got the map?”

  Dobbin’s packs had twisted around his plump middle, his hair was a rumpled mess and he was panting like a landed whiskerfish.

  “Oh, hello, Dobbin.” Grandpa Rand punctuated th
e greeting with a mock salute. “Heh, heh, might’ve known you pair were inseparable!”

  Almost immediately, the old-timer snapped his hand back to scratch the end of his nose. He appeared momentarily lost in thought. Hopskotch imagined if he listened hard enough, he just might hear rusty gears turning inside Pa Rand’s brain.

  “Hangaboutasec!” Grandpa Rand barked, bundling his words together. “Which way d’yacome?”

  Hopskotch froze in indecision. He wasn’t sure exactly how much he should reveal about the events of the morning, and was even less enthusiastic about trying to explain Graw or Bellows.

  “Err, just this side of, um, Cotteslope,” he mumbled eventually (and not entirely untruthfully). “Then we just kept on in the direction of the mill. We heard you from all the way up there.” He turned to point beyond the crest of the embankment. “Umm, you were always good at skimming stones.”

  “Sooooo,” Grandpa Rand replied, tapping his chin as he stared through narrowed eyes at his grandson. A look of deadly seriousness darkened his scarred face. “Did you see any silver chives?”

  “Look, we can’t stay here, Grandpa Rand,” Dobbin interrupted. “There’s been a mix-up, you see.” Still taking deep, gulping breaths, he turned Hopskotch face-about and retrieved the fondue recipe from his teammate’s sling-pouch. “You see this?” he said, waving the rolled parchment in the old man’s face. “This is yours!”

  “Hold that thought!” With no indication he’d heard a word Dobbin had said, and ignoring the parchment altogether, Grandpa Rand proceeded to scan the top of the bluff bordering the beach from left to right. “Look at that!” he added, before suddenly sprinting away from the foreshore.

  The old man pulled up at the base of the embankment and began gesturing wildly to the boys, who remained dumbstruck and confused by the waterline. “C’mon, quickly, over here!” he barked.

  Somewhat reluctantly, Hopskotch and Dobbin followed Grandpa Rand to a spot where the pebble beach met the grass-covered bank (the same Dobbin had just used as a slippery slide). Alongside some oversized pebbles by the incline, Hopskotch noticed his grandfather’s packs, which had the appearance of being thrown recklessly to the ground.