Hopskotch and the Golden Cicada

by Martin Vine

  The forest was dense enough to keep the lakeshore fog at bay, but the air was still thick with moisture. Illuminated within shafts of light breaking the high canopy, a fine mist hovered, perfectly still. Hopskotch made fun of sweeping his walking staff through the vapour to watch it swirl and twist around the wood. Clambering up the decaying steps right behind him, Dobbin tried it also, and the simple game began to lift both Syltlings’ spirits.

  A sharp, sudden cry of waterfowl echoed from the nearby lake. Dobbin prodded Hopskotch from behind with his walking staff, and flashed a cheeky grin. Without saying a word, he snapped his hand into a duckbill shape, then motioned over his shoulder to where Bartrem was stumbling after them a little way downhill. It was their secret signal for ‘duck brain’.

  As if on cue, Bartrem slipped again with a loud curse. Dobbin groaned, but turned to lend a helping hand. It was the third time the largest of the three boys had fallen since setting out. Hopskotch even caught Grandpa Rand turning to roll his eyes.

  By the time the party approached the uppermost terrace, the boys found themselves deeply affected by the strange woods, each in a unique way.

  For Hopskotch, it had much to do with the unusual plant life, an interest passed down from father to son. Though Maycombe Pestle was a humble apothecary in the unremarkable village of Low Cutting, his herb lore was renowned throughout Broken Meadow. As his wife liked to boast to anyone within earshot, folk routinely travelled from Leveetown, Bridgetown, and even as far as Witherness for his medicines, potions and poultices.

  Hopskotch never had any reason to doubt it. On many occasions, his father would take time to share his knowledge, particularly in regard to the herbs and tubers one could use straight out of the ground. Only now did Hopskotch come to regret not paying closer attention. The sight of so many different types of plants would have left his old man positively foaming at the chops.

  Beyond the lip of the top terrace, the path veered sharply right, following the edge of the stone retaining wall. On the level below, Hopskotch observed what appeared to be an organised – though untended – garden divided by moss-covered stones.

  Herb garden! he realised, recognising the distinct foliage of wormwood, figwort and sarsaparilla (nestled among others less familiar). Hopskotch recalled his father had once travelled all the way to Witherness to secure a supply of figwort, highly regarded in Bridgetown for its ability to treat colds. He entertained the thought of climbing down to collect some, dismissing the idea when, drawing close to the terrace edge, the loose stones began to wobble beneath his feet.

  On the uphill side beyond a collapsed section of the retaining wall, Hopskotch spied even more plant species arranged as if by design. Groves of fat succulents sat alongside bromeliads cradling small ponds of water in their rubbery leaves. A little higher still were summer bulbs with pale bellflowers that hung on drooping stalks, brake ferns, maidenhairs, and a variety of wild mosses from pale green to blackish-blue. And invading every space, uphill and down, thrived climbing ivy with star-shaped leaves and furry brown trailers.

  Towering over it all, massive fig trees dominated the valley. Hopskotch found his eyes constantly drawn to the buttress roots that anchored them to the slope. Following the line of the trunks upwards, he began to notice a curious pattern: all the branches twisted clockwise around the middle.

  The explanation appeared almost instantly in his head: spiral figs!

  His father had once spoken of the unique highland trees, but he struggled to grasp the memory. Gaining a foothold on a nearby exposed root, the young Sylt hauled himself up a steep section of the trail where the path had crumbled into a jagged rockfall. Upon reaching the top, Hopskotch took a moment to lean on his staff and catch his breath.

  From such a height, the view opened up considerably. Alongside the spiral figs were trees less familiar: paperbarks with wiry olive leaves and cone-shaped blooms of creamy white; triangular conifers with bulky root systems that launched their trunks arrow-straight toward the sky; umbrella-shaped shrubs whose boughs bent under the weight of pale pastel flowers damp with morning dew (those reminded Hopskotch of scrunched-up crepe paper). There were trees with smooth bark, rough bark and those whose trunks were brushed with vertical slashes in assorted shades of warm brown. All that he could identify Hopskotch named out loud to Dobbin behind him, not once dissuaded by his friend’s complete disinterest.

  On first impressions, it appeared as a world rich with life, but the improved elevation painted a contrasting picture. In his sweep of the valley below, Hopskotch began to notice barren patches. The ivy was thriving over every surface, but at the expense of much of the other vegetation. Scores of fully-grown trees had been overwhelmed by the invasive climber, reduced to hollowed-out, dried-out husks, while others had fallen over completely, dislodging large chunks of earth with their upended roots. Hopskotch imagined some kind of blight must be loose in the forest.

  It left him with something to ponder, even as he turned to follow Grandpa Rand’s footsteps. The pavers underfoot became gradually less frequent, and those few remaining all appeared to be in advanced stages of decay. To Hopskotch’s left, the uphill slope was covered in firethorn bushes, while on the other side, the youngster was forced to keep a nervous eye on the drop-off, a near vertical red-clay cliff that he imagined must be not an inch less than twenty feet, top to bottom.

  Taking a pause, Hopskotch’s eyes came to rest on a fallen tree uphill of the thicket to his left. The trunk was split into two pieces, as if a giant had snapped it in a fury. Sheltered under one half, Hopskotch spied a grove of dahlias highlighted within a narrow shaft of morning light.

  He recognised the species right away, for his mother grew them in their front garden (the pink-blushed flowers always reminded him of the business end of a mop). In the first week of autumnfells every year, his mother would divide the bulbs to share with friends and neighbours. Just last season, Hopskotch had taken a hessian sackful to Mrs Crumple’s house in the village. During the summer, whenever demand took him to his father’s apothecary shop, Hopskotch would always check to see how his mother’s blooms were doing.

  Of course, Mrs Crumple, being a bit wool-headed, tended to forget they were there at all. Untended and unwatered, the old widow’s dahlias never matched the size and colour of his mother’s, but Hopskotch’s memory had them in better health than the wilted flowers he was currently looking at.

  Not enough light, he reasoned.

  Checking after Dobbin, he noticed his friend had just breached the final terrace, and was now nervously following the path along the top of the stonework behind him. Perhaps fifteen yards further downhill, Bartrem was making progress in spite of himself. Hopskotch couldn’t figure out who among his companions wore the most wretched scowl.

  Dobbin was not much interested in plants. While Hopskotch scampered ahead, pointing out species after species of bulbs, climbers, shrubs and trees, he saw only rot and decay. Priding himself on his observational skills, Dobbin noticed the unnatural number of bare branches and rotting trunks long before his teammate. Nor was it lost on him how the blight seemed to grow worse the higher they climbed. His strong impression was that the shadow of death hung over this valley.

  And then there were the bats. Out of sight now, but Dobbin knew they were still up there somewhere. How he hated them: their jarring chatter, veiny wings and worst of all, the unholy odour.

  His older brothers used to tell tales of hunting the flying rats when they were younger. Every summer holiday, Garret and Markham would take a week at their cousins’ peach orchid in Dewcress Shire on the eastern slopes of the Fellriven Valley. At dusk, when the bats would descend to gorge themselves on the stone fruit, the boys would climb up onto the old homestead roof and wait. Once the trees were full, they’d open fire with a barrage of river stones fired from homemade slingshots.

  Dobbin had always been envious. It had all sounded like such a wonderful adventure.

  And yet one he’d never get to experience for
himself. Uncle Severne and Aunty Deloise had lost the Dewcress plots to the border fogs even before his own parents’ dairy was swallowed. Dobbin had been but an infant at the time.

  So much land lost, he recalled grimly, and it seemed to Dobbin that the shadows of the forest were nudging his brain to thoughts of little cheer. But how exciting it would have been – even for one night only – picking off the wretched critters with the best company in the world.

  “Hey, Dob!” Hopskotch cried out, jolting him from his thoughts. “Check it out!”

  Dobbin glanced ahead to find Hopskotch pointing at a grape vine intertwining with a ragged patch of firethorn. Turning halfway around, his best friend carefully plucked a stem from a nearby shoot and offered it to him. The bunch was undersized, partly withered, and the individual fruit stained with brown flecks.

  “Don’t eat them!” Dobbin yelped.

  Hopskotch stared at him, stunned.

  Clearing his throat, Dobbin lowered his voice. “Just don’t eat anything in this place. Something’s not right about it.” He made it loud enough for Bartrem to hear, also.

  Hopskotch shrugged, then dropped the fruit over the edge of the terrace.

  Dobbin watched him intently as he turned back to the trail, hobbling after Grandpa Rand as if nothing had happened.

  He trusts me completely, Dobbin realised in that moment. And possibly too much sometimes.

  The thought was both baffling and reassuring.

  By the time Bartrem had clawed his way to the top terrace, Dobbin’s mood was as dark as the sodden leaf litter sticking to the pads of his feet. It felt like his whole body was damp, the humid air seeping right through his summer clothing to the skin. He knew the forest was to blame, its canopy casting great shadows across his body, and likewise his spirits.

  Brushing the grape vine aside, Dobbin’s left foot slipped out from under him, and he tilted sideways into the semi-rotten fruit. With a disgusted grimace, he wiped the pulp off his forearm and pouches with his walking staff, before flicking it to the ground. The sweet smell, combined with a rot aftertaste, made the bile rise up the back of his throat.

  Nor did the sheer slope on his right flank improve Dobbin’s constitution. His memory rewound to the Bridgetown granary of the day before, spying through the skylight to a storehouse below, and in that same moment wondering why the holding bays were not piled high with the spring harvest.

  An embarrassing growl erupted from his stomach, reminding Dobbin of how hungry he was. His mind drifted further back in time, to the bustle of Market Square: the fry-barns, cafés and taverns: so much food!

  The memory of those aromas was enough to make his mouth water.

  Famine in the Shanties; feast in the city.

  The more he rolled the contradiction around his head, the more it began to ache. Dobbin’s body was likewise struggling. Short of breath and energy, he began to overheat. The straps of his rucksack and sling-pouch were biting into his neck and shoulders. A persistent fear kept drawing his eyes to the upper canopy, ever wary of bats and ravens and other flapping, flying things.

  Drawing a deep breath, Dobbin resolved to get a grip. He began sifting through all the thoughts erupting one after the other inside his skull, then settled on one and one alone:

  I really need to get out of this place.

  Bartrem knew his decision to disengage from Grandpa Rand had been a wise one. It paid to pick one’s battles, so he’d always believed, to stick to those one had an outside chance of winning. The old Sylt could keep his secret if it pleased him. All the answers Bartrem sought would come in time. He knew how to pry information out of folks, especially impressionable fellows like Hopskotch.

  But that was an assignment for another day. Right now, it was a far better thing to bend his mind toward getting out of the valley in one living, breathing, all-limbs-accounted-for piece.

  The further uphill he climbed, the more obvious it became to Bartrem that his mooring line would run out long before he reached the top of the valley.

  If he could reach the top at all.

  He looked down forlornly at the few remaining loops of string bound to the reel.

  Some mission! he cursed, as his right foot slipped out from beneath another clump of leaf litter.

  Bartrem quickly corrected himself, this time. On three previous occasions he’d met the ground, and now it felt as if his entire body was covered with the slime and filth of the forest.

  He was determined not to fall over again, but it was all so tiring.

  Bartrem had slept badly. Though he couldn’t recall the details, the nightmares had been terrible. And the getting up part, way too early for his liking. Didn’t anyone else appreciate they were actually in the middle of a holiday? Did they even understand the meaning of the word? If his companions wanted to find him in a better mood, they’d best lead him back to civilisation quick smart.

  Pausing for a breather, Bartrem took a moment to see how far he’d climbed. Surrounding him on every side buzzed swarms of tiny insects that crawled, hopped, and flew. His ears began to twitch. If one of them landed on him, he knew he would really lose it.

  God-awful place!

  In his entire life, Bartrem had never seen such ugly-looking trees and plants. He was no expert in botany, but it was impossible not to notice the unnatural variety of species around him in varying stages of life and death. Curiously, he saw no value in any of them. The idea of collecting a rare leaf or fungus, bark or seedpod, escaped him completely.

  It took Bartrem an uncanny long while to notice how far ahead the others had gotten.

  Garthor’s talons! Keep up, you slow-poke! he berated himself. How hard can it be?

  Bartrem craned his neck and measured his companions up: leading the party was an old man who couldn’t be a whisker shy of seventy; next in line, a boy with a crippled leg; behind him, one with a width to rival his height. And all weighed down with full luggage.

  So why in Aethelron’s name can’t I match them!

  Bartrem looked again to the wooden reel in his hand, now holding its last loop. Blasted thing’s sending me off balance! he reasoned, knowing full well it wasn’t entirely true. But without it, will anyone ever find this place again? Will we ever be able to retrace our steps?

  It was all moot, and Bartrem knew it. He simply didn’t have enough string to unwind all the way back to Witherness or Saddleslip Gorge. Moreover, he had no idea how far from either they actually were.

  Of course, he’ll be disappointed.

  Since waking, Bartrem had been daydreaming about sharing the secrets of this unusual place, as well as those of his companions. He knew L would be interested to hear about everything that had passed: the boat, the raven, the swan.

  The stepping-stones!

  After all, his instructions had included, “Report on everything you see and do”.

  Considering the reward, it seemed a simple task, but since hooking up with Team SnapTalon, the journey had detoured into a kind of weird even Bartrem could not have imagined. He was looking forward to reporting it all to his benefactor, to the very last detail.

  Even if he couldn’t find his way back to this strange valley.

  Just means I’ll have to take more care with the maps, he reassured himself, snapping the final thread of string. With some reluctance, Bartrem tossed the frayed line to the ground, slipping the reel back into his shoulder pack.

  And fell flat on his face.

  The fig root had sprung out of nowhere. At least, that’s what Bartrem told himself as he hauled his body up off the forest floor. Dusting off his arms and wiping the dirt from his brow, his only comfort lay in the fact the others were too far ahead to have noticed.

  He knew Dobbin didn’t like him much: there was nothing subtle about his companion’s frosty attitude. Bartrem, however, was not one to hold onto grudges. In truth, he was fond of both Hopskotch and Dobbin, but the former more so than the latter. Hopskotch knew how to listen without interrupting, an attribute greatly app
ealing to a personality like Bartrem’s.

  And we have sooo much to talk about.

  The idea turned his thoughts toward the book. All his life the thought of growing old trapped in the grey backwater of Broken Meadow had terrified Bartrem. Now it was his prime motivator. The book was the key, the reason he knew he could succeed where so many before him had failed.

  And it would not be long now.

  Every footstep takes me closer.

  The fantasy evolved and expanded inside his head. Beyond the fog-bound borders of his world, a new one was being forged. Somewhere out there, the spires of Sanufell were being raised anew. Perhaps not in the same place, perhaps not even by those of noble Fellensian blood, but in the provinces beyond the Fellriven Valley, who knew what wonders awaited?

  Every single foots—

  A splash of cold water snapped him from his thoughts. Bartrem looked up with a scowl, and discovered Dobbin lying in wait. The mischievous Syltling had released the morning dew from an overhanging branch, holding it aside just long enough to send a drenching spray downhill.

  Brushing the damp from his shoulder bag, he prepared a volley of swear words for his companion.

  An inner voice stopped him dead. “You lied to them!”

  For Bartrem, it was not unusual to engage his own mind in conversation (sometimes it was the best company he could find), but he could not recall it ever sounding so venomous.

  It was for him, not myself, Bartrem countered, shifting the blame to the Sylt who’d sent him to the lake in the first place. And what possible harm could there be in it, really?

  Even as Bartrem framed the question, it occurred to him the answer might not to his liking.