by Martin Vine
“Insist on going if you must,” Ganaweigh had warned, “but tell no one of what we have spoken, especially not him!”
Tannen replayed the Master’s words in his head, trying to make sense of them. It was flattering to think the blood of a legend flowed through his veins (and equally disturbing to acknowledge with it, that of history’s foulest villain).
But the reality was sobering.
Could a curse have real power?
The evidence suggested it could. Two generations ago, his grandfather had failed, almost died. Thirteen years ago, Tannen himself had failed, with terrible consequences for Broken Meadow.
Will this time be any different?
It was enough to seed doubt in his mind as to whether the sacrifices he’d made – his health; his friends; his family – were really worth it. Despite the loneliness in his life, Tannen had always drawn strength from the belief that his failure was beyond his control; that the subsequent decisions he’d made were the right ones; that he would make the same again if given his time over.
All that was unravelling now and it troubled him greatly. Tannen let his eyes drift back to the cylinder, letting the play of torch light reflecting off the waxed surface draw him out of, and away from, the waking world
A soft voice startled him back to it.
“They come,” said the stranger, materialising between the mooring posts of the rope bridge.
Tannen’s head jolted upright. The visitor was not unexpected, but the suddenness of his arrival was unsettling. It was if the man had emerged right out of the mist itself; not a single ripple or sway betrayed his journey across the bridge.
Gathering himself, Tannen rose to his feet. Too clumsily, he angled his body, concealing the cylinder within a hidden pocket inside his robes, before turning to face the newcomer. It had been a long time since he’d come face-to-face with a Wilden Sylt.
Like many of his kin, the Wilden’s features were as unique as his markings. His nose was narrow and pointed above a full beard, long and braided to match his hair, coloured in creamy white streaked with dark brown. His ears – though mostly hidden – appeared small and flat, both tapering sharply toward the tips.
But nothing about the Sylt was more distinctive than his attire. The Wilden’s short-sleeve cloak was covered with feathers of off-white and shades of brown from light caramel to dark chestnut. Slung across his left shoulder was a small hessian pack, and he carried with him a twisted staff of polished holly.
As the Wilden drew closer, Tannen was shocked to see numerous rings and studs piercing his ears, many of which held clusters of what looked like duck feathers dangling from silver clamps. It gave the impression of a creature who had sprouted right out of the earth, then lost a fight with a gaggle of geese.
“So they’re safe?” Tannen said, finally. “They’re ashore, I mean?” He fidgeted with his Padow cloak, subconsciously working the fabric to conceal his face.
“Aye,” the Wilden Sylt replied. He stared into the darkness beneath Tannen’s hood. “There was some trouble, just past Witherness. Thus, the delay.”
“What sort of trouble? Is anyone hurt?”
“No, they’re safe. All of them, just like I said.”
Tannen knew the Wilden was withholding information, and likewise that he was unlikely to receive it. They were not a folk known for conversation.
“But they’re further away than we’d planned,” the stranger continued. “Than he planned. He asked me to take the gift.”
Tannen flinched, but held his tongue.
“Also, they are four in number.”
“It matters not,” Tannen replied, “as long as he leads them.” The depth of his disappointment came through in his tone. The desire to be alone again with his thoughts was suffocating.
As if sensing his discomfort, the stranger pursed his lips, then turned his head to stare back across the torch-lit bridge. Finally returning to face Tannen, the Wilden silently held out a slender hand, palm upwards.
Tannen shut down the doubts piling up inside his head and reluctantly removed the waxed cylinder from inside his robes. Though his instincts shrieked in protest, he passed it over.
The Wilden accepted the package in a manner alarmingly casual to Tannen, throwing the sling over his shoulder as if it held nothing more important than a packed lunch.
“Then we are done,” said the Wilden, nodding respectfully. Showing Tannen his back, he strode toward the bridge, before whispering a farewell. “Wilden and Druhirrim, we honour the ancient pact.”
The words jolted Tannen back to reality. A pang of guilt worried him: guilt over his doubts, his selfishness. Few men knew the gravity of what they faced. Few men knew the consequences of failure.
Fewer still knew the secrets he did.
And yet, it suddenly occurred to him he did not know everything.
“Wait!” Tannen called out. “I would have your name?”
The Wilden stopped walking, but said nothing.
The silence was agonising. Tannen realised (for no reason he could think of) that he was holding breath. Just as he went to exhale, the stranger tilted his head slightly to the left, yet remained with his back to him.
“You can tell your Master, Dapple sends his regards.”
Dapple! Tannen sighed to himself. He repeated the name in his head, even as the Wilden’s silhouette melted into the fog. Another who speaks in riddles, just what I need today.
The Druhirrim acolyte carefully lowered himself to the ground. Settling the folds of his Padow cloak about his increasingly uncomfortable body, he stared blankly out at the gorge. The sky overhead was fading to cool grey; the light from the torches lining the bridge was just beginning to surrender to the dawn.
It didn’t matter to Tannen that the rendezvous would not play out as planned. He would not return to his order till he knew everyone was safe. He had waited thirteen years for this day. He could wait a little longer.
The Cicada Hunt: Day II
Phaynesday morning snuck up on the boys like a grey tide and they were all too asleep to notice. Hopskotch was welcomed into it by a beaming Grandpa Rand who, in his wisdom, decided the best way to wake his grandson was to wave a handful of sweet-smelling herbs under his nose.
The drowsy Syltling rolled over in a desperate attempt to be left alone. Grandpa Rand was having none of it. Getting himself right up in Hopskotch’s face, the old Sylt proceeded to recount – in a volume altogether too loud for such an hour – his break-of-dawn adventure uphill to the northern ridge. As he prattled on, Hopskotch learned that not only had his grandfather discovered a way out of the valley, he’d also happened upon a grove of silver chives, the secret ingredient of his gourmet speciality – five-cheese fondue. It was about the last thing Hopskotch wanted to hear about.
The youngster’s clothing was damp and his body ached all over. It took a moment for his mind to catch up to the reality of his situation: exactly where he was and exactly how he’d gotten there. To Hopskotch’s great relief, Grandpa Rand eventually tired of talking to him, returning his attention to the campfire, mumbling something unkind about ‘dozy layabouts’ under his breath. Alongside Hopskotch, Dobbin was just beginning to stir, while on the opposite side of the ashes, Bartrem was snoring like a wild boar.
Hopskotch thought about rising for a good long while, before deciding in favour of remaining horizontal. At least, till the fog in his head cleared.
Rolling onto his back, he stared through blinking eyes into the forest canopy. Though his vision was still adjusting, he was immediately struck by the height of the surrounding trees. From what seemed like fifty yards or more skyward, the broken canopy showered the valley floor in narrow shafts of morning light. Closer to the ground, the trees’ lower branches were choked with crisscrossing spider webs, all sparkling with tiny spheres of morning dew.
It didn’t take his eleven-year-old eyes to spot their hosts, scores of menacing looking spiders with long skinny legs and fat black abdomens highlighted b
y a cream-coloured zigzag. Overcoming the shudders, Hopskotch made a game of trying to figure out how big they must be, based on their visible size versus how far away they were, and soon reached the conclusion that the smallest would be almost as big as his outstretched hand. The idea of it put an abrupt end to his drowsiness, and he scrambled upright too quickly, causing his head to spin.
In the distance, a bellbird shrilled, and it was immediately echoed by another. His senses tuned in, and then he could just make out the morning song of magpie and chattering mynah, and a score or so others he did not recognise.
It was a sobering reminder of how remote and isolated this strange forest was, but there was an upside: Team SnapTalon was deep in cicada country.
Breakfast was a slow affair. Because of the lack of eating utensils, the boys were forced once more to play pass the ladle. Bartrem ate little, so preoccupied was he in prying more answers out of Grandpa Rand. Beyond the crackle and spit of the fire, the sound of bubbling porridge, and the melodic call of the distant bellbirds (and friends more exotic), the valley was eerily quiet.
It really seemed to bother Bartrem.
“So did they sing?” he asked Grandpa Rand, between mouthfuls of porridge. “Did anyone hear the Dawnsong?” He glanced across at Hopskotch, then to Dobbin, his eyes finally returning to Grandpa Rand. “I mean, I know I dreamed – I always do – but I don’t feel different in any way. Does anyone else?”
Dobbin scowled and returned his attention to his breakfast.
Hopskotch scratched his head. It was a fair question. As Grandpa Rand had explained out on the lake, the golden cicadas were supposed to sing at dawn. They were in the gorge country: this was where the brooch’s vision had led them.
So why had no one heard them?
Some instinct urged Hopskotch to retrieve the magic lens from his pocket. He was certain it would react to the presence of Golden Dukes (in his mind, that was exactly what it had been made for). Holding it hard up against his right eye, he craned his neck. Following a quick scan of the tree canopy, however, Hopskotch observed nothing out of the ordinary through the crystal centrepiece (though he was relieved to see the fruit bats had moved on).
With a deep sigh, he returned the brooch to his pocket and tried to remember whether he’d dreamed at all.
Again, Hopskotch found himself unable to mine even the roughest nugget of memory. His last was from the night before, staring into the dying embers: the warmth on his cheeks; the heroic deeds of the Dragonriders replaying in his head.
And finally, the weathered face of Graw.
It occurred to him Grandpa Rand was right about the tea helping one sleep. Hopskotch watched his grandfather closely as he wrapped another portion of damper dough in foil and buried it in the hot coals at the outer edge of the campfire. It made him wonder what other mystery items his grandfather had tucked away in his bulging rucksack.
Of course, Grandpa Rand was giving away no secrets. Eyes distant and lips sealed, he looked as if he had no intention of answering any questions, especially Bartrem’s.
Returning to his enamel mug, he took another spoonful of porridge before staring into the fire with a blank expression. “Elevation’s the key,” he announced suddenly, and to no one in particular. “We need to go higher!”
Hopskotch wasn’t sure whether that was an explanation of why they hadn’t heard the Dawnsong, or just a statement of fact.
Bartrem was likewise confounded, and doubly frustrated. Relentlessly, he continued his interrogation, Hopskotch and Dobbin squirming alongside him.
What should have been a pleasant campfire breakfast – the perfect start to day two of the cicada hunt – quickly descended into a tense standoff between Bartrem and Grandpa Rand. The old Sylt rigidly refused to answer any questions regarding the incident with the stepping-stones, nor would he be drawn into an argument on any related subjects.
Just when Hopskotch thought his grandfather’s head would explode, Bartrem launched himself to his feet and stormed off in the direction of the nearby brook, snatching his gear up as he went. He did not appear a happy Syltling.
Leaving their friend to cool his heels for a spell, Hopskotch and Dobbin gathered and secured their own packs before going after Bartrem. They found him washing his face and hands in the running water, his light pack resting alongside a strange-looking wooden tool on the moss-covered bank.
For a long while Bartrem ignored them, making like he was too preoccupied with his scrubbing. Finally, he turned to Dobbin, shaking the water from his hands in a way that ensured everyone got a taste of the cool spray.
“When we are out of this place,” Bartrem snarled, glancing sideways to ensure Grandpa Rand was beyond hearing distance, “I’m going to write down everything we did, everything I saw. Everything! And you two are going down as witnesses. Trust me; no one will be able to go on that this stuff just oozes out of my head.”
Bartrem slung his bag over his left shoulder and picked up what Hopskotch took to be some kind of reel device, attached to which was a length of string that had been tied to a nearby tree. Grasping the handle, Bartrem tapped the wooden end lightly against his temple. “Am I the only one taking notes? Am I the only one here trying to put the pieces together?”
Hopskotch prepared himself for a fresh tirade. Dobbin stifled a yawn.
“You might be able to explain the raven and the swan, Logic Boy,” he said to Dobbin, “but those lake stones just floating up out of nowhere?” Raising his arms, Bartrem waved the reel in Dobbin’s face. “What was that? Happenstance!”
“Bah, happenstance!” spat Dobbin. “Is that even a word?”
Without waiting for an answer, Dobbin showed Bartrem his back and strode with purpose back toward the campfire, a clear signal he’d had enough of the conversation.
In his absence, Bartrem rounded on Hopskotch. “And I’ll be wanting an interview with your grandfather, Hops. All properly written down, and in duplicate! You’re with me on this, right? I mean, you saw what happened yesterday?”
Bartrem’s eyes were wildly enlarged. Hopskotch recognised a hint of real madness behind them.
“And you know what else?” Bartrem continued, his voice rising in pitch and volume. “While you two were eating your gruel, I went back to the beach just now.”
Hopskotch wrinkled his nose, expecting some dire news about the glide-boat floating away, or sinking into the grey mud. He glanced across to Dobbin who was halfway back to Grandpa Rand, and moving noticeably slower. Hopskotch knew his best friend would be listening in.
“Get this! Those stones from yesterday – the ones we walked on to get to shore – all gone! Not a trace of them!”
A tingling sensation raced up Hopskotch’s spine.
Bartrem took a deep breath. Eyes fixed on Grandpa Rand, he blurted, “That was Whisper magic, and no denying it!”
Hopskotch felt like he’d been dunked in cold water. He knew full well what Bartrem was implying: that Grandpa Rand was behind what had happened by the lakeshore yesterday afternoon.
Whisper magic!
The sound of those words together set his thoughts in conflict. His imagination found the idea seductive; his common sense warned him off. For as long as he could remember, his mother had hammered it into him that the old magics were dangerous nonsense, legends and half-truths romanticised for children’s tales and fantasy games like the ones Dobbin liked to play. How often he’d wished she might be wrong. But he was just a boy, lacking the strength and the will to question his mother.
“I—I don’t know about Wh-Whisper magic,” Hopskotch stuttered, finally. “And I’m really not s’posed to talk of such things.”
Silently cursing his own cowardice, Hopskotch turned his shoulder and hastily retreated toward the campfire. He could almost feel Bartrem’s eyes burrowing into the back of his skull.
Let him believe what he wants, Hopskotch said to himself.
But the words rang hollow and unconvincing in his head. Deeper down, a seed of doubt had
been planted. Dobbin’s accusations of the day before echoed in his mind. He did sense something special was going on around him, though he’d never dream of verbalising such thoughts. And there was something about his family that was not openly talked about. Growing up, Hopskotch had overheard many a heated argument between his mother and Grandpa Rand. Some had hinted at dark family secrets, though he’d never fully unravelled the mystery.
And from what he could gather, his mother intended it to stay that way.
And then there were times the youngster suspected his grandfather was not at all the man he presented as, that he lived his life in character, the bumbling, forgetful, sometimes irritating old fool. Could it all be an act? Could the grandfather Hopskotch loved really be a made-up character, masking himself like the children on Walpurgs night?
Hopskotch could not believe it, and yet, now his deepest suspicions were growing harder to dismiss. Though he wasn’t ready to admit it to himself, a small part of Hopskotch knew that Bartrem’s accusation had some basis in truth.
A smaller part still, wished it so.
Shadowlands
Picking up the remains of an ancient stone staircase, a chirpy Grandpa Rand led the three boys up the ‘oozing guts of the valley’, his exact words. The youngsters followed with noticeably less enthusiasm, fighting their way through the razor-edged black grass that overgrew its edges and sprouted from the cracks of the eroded stonework in all places in between. Everywhere Hopskotch turned, giant probing roots jutted out of the hillside like the claws of some half-buried demon. Underfoot, clumps of slippery moss threatened to pull his legs out from under him with every other step. It was a time for great concentration.
Even before they were halfway to the upper ridge, Hopskotch could feel every bruise and bump from the day before. Muscles he never knew he had – from his forearms up to his shoulders and all the way down to his calves – ached terribly. It had been a long time since he’d paddled a boat, and would be a long time again before he felt up to repeating the exercise. At this point, Hopskotch doubted he would be able to lift either arm above shoulder height, and silently prayed the need to do so would not arise.