Hopskotch and the Golden Cicada

by Martin Vine

  As he went to leave, Hopskotch noticed something amiss. “Grandpa!” he called out.

  Grandpa Rand turned.

  Hopskotch put a hand to his temple and made a small flicking motion with his fingers.

  “Oh right,” said Grandpa Rand, snapping the lens of his eyepiece down over his left eye. With his other, he winked at Hopskotch. “Much better, thank you.”

  Hopskotch grinned in reply. “So you won’t be long?” he asked for the second time. “Just a quick scout, right?”

  “As quick as these will carry me.” Grandpa Rand kicked out his legs, one at a time in an exaggerated jig. Then, with a martial about-face, he showed the youngsters his back and strode with purpose into the forest.

  Hopskotch motioned a half-wave, but Grandpa Rand did not look back.

  The boys were alone now. Their attention returned to the world of cicadas.

  No one felt like talking much. The boys retreated into their own headspace, as if bewitched by the high-pitched chirruping echoing off the surrounding hills. Hopskotch had never heard anything quite like it. It seeped into his eardrums and infected his body from tip to tail. He felt like a Syltling who’d been zippered upside down in a sleeping bag, then suddenly released to breathe fresh, plentiful air.

  It no longer seemed important that they wouldn’t make it home by nightfall. It no longer mattered that they were many miles from Market Square. Hopskotch was resolute: this hunt was going to end differently for Team SnapTalon.

  Even if they couldn’t get back to Bridgetown before the weekend.

  That the clock was ticking barely registered in his mind. He knew some teams would have already delivered their catches (a lucky few always cleaned up on the first day of the hunt). Though many dreamed of returning with stuffed pouches to Market Square before the weekend, Hopskotch did not count himself among them.

  Even before they’d set out, Team SnapTalon had agreed to a four-day hunt, both boys prepared to take full advantage of the Elronsday deadline. And if that meant missing some of the celebrations, then so be it.

  Following his thoughts, Hopskotch’s eyes came to rest on the sling-pouch by his feet. The longer he looked into the mesh screen, the more the crosshatched lines blurred and shimmered into and against one another. The fuzziness set his mind adrift.

  An image formed in his head: the elaborate holding boxes awaiting them in Market Square, all arranged in neat stacks according to Mr Calpepper’s instructions. One was reserved for Team SnapTalon. Hopskotch pictured the mottled grey wood, the elaborate patterns, all sculpted to illustrate the leaves and branches of the dreigh willows. Many a time he’d admired those magical-looking boxes, but this was the first time he believed they actually deserved one.

  Unlike his best friend, Dobbin was giving serious thought to how they might get back across the lake (once their pouches were full of prize-winning golden cicadas, naturally). He stared out at the water, only slightly troubled by the fact he couldn’t see the far shore.

  Basalt Thundergull would get himself out of here!

  The thought was pure whimsy, but even a practical fellow like Dobbin needed occasionally to take detours into the world of the imagination (even if it were someone else’s). And like any other schoolboy, he had no shortage of heroes.

  From across the lake the breeze picked up, buffeting his cheeks and cooling his skin. Carried on the air was the scent of wet rocks and fishponds. It woke a dormant daydream within Dobbin’s mind: building a frigate like the Peregrine, the tall ship his favourite paperback hero captained across the Fathomsong Sea.

  Wind power is what we need, Dobbin reasoned, the persistent ache in his shoulders reminding him why the ancient mariners preferred sail over paddle. He drew a picture in his head of wily Basalt, the swashbuckling Corsair from the Thundergull adventure books.

  If Basalt were here, he’d not sit idle. Dobbin took it for an indisputable fact. He’d be hard at work; probably build a hull from a fallen tree, then bind it with sticky tree sap. The sail would be woven by overlapping fern fronds bound with ivy twine. Such a vessel could cross the lake to Witherness, no problem!

  The daydreaming youngster looked to the nearby forest for ship-building materials, before dismissing the idea.

  But if Basalt were here—

  The more he thought about it, the more disappointed Dobbin became with himself. He looked around for a task less intimidating. His eyes found Bartrem’s back. Someone had to keep tabs on Team SnapTalon’s newest member and Dobbin knew he was the man for the job.

  With Grandpa Rand departed (and the promise of more pumpkin seed damper thereby removed), Bartrem had separated himself from the others to the lake side of the ledge. Atop one of the larger rocks sat the lone Syltling, a fast-growing pile of rolled parchment stacked to his left, pinned beneath a round stone he’d utilised as a paperweight.

  Dobbin watched him for a time, wondering what the mittens he was up to.

  Between long, drawn-out gazes across the water, Bartrem would retrieve a blank sheet from his shoulder pack, scrawl furiously upon it, stare at it for a while (from all angles), then add it to the pile beside him, before starting all over again with a new one.

  Must have forgot the eraser, Dobbin thought with a smirk. The mystery of what Bartrem was doing presently – of what he was doing with them at all – no longer bothered Dobbin so much (which in itself, bothered him). Whatever Bartrem was up to, he was sure they’d all hear about it eventually.

  It was no secret the pompous fellow just loved talking about himself.

  With lunch settling nicely in his belly, Dobbin felt his eyelids growing heavy.

  “It’s the air up here,” Hopskotch interrupted, yawning loudly as if to illustrate the point.

  Somewhat embarrassed, Dobbin blinked away the water forming in his eyes, but he could not stifle a yawn of his own in response.

  “Cleaner and thinner, makes you wanna sleep,” Hopskotch explained. “Pa Rand says the Witherness folk have afternoon naps, even when it’s not the weekend.”

  Dobbin secretly pinched the skin of his wrist, forcing himself properly awake. “Well, we’re too young for nana naps, and I don’t think the cicadas will wait.”

  “No, guess they won’t. But we have to. Can’t go anywhere till Grandpa Rand gets back; may as well sleep if you need it.”

  “Don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.” Dobbin stared again toward the water, toward Bridgetown.

  “Homesick already?”

  Dobbin harrumphed his disgust. “Don’t be daft. I wouldn’t be anywhere else right now!”

  Hopskotch looked surprised at the words. Dobbin wished he could reel them back in. Not so long ago, he’d stayed out after school for a game of Sword of Sanctuary at Pommeroy’s house. Slipping into ‘game time’, Dobbin and company had quickly lost track of the hour until Pommers’ fed-up mother finally shooed them all off home (interrupting a crucial die roll in the process!). Night had long since fallen by the time Dobbin finally staggered through the front door of his house. His mother had been furious. The punishment: grounded for four weeks with no paperbacks, no tinkering in his father’s workshop, and worst of all, no Sword of Sanctuary. She’d even confiscated his character cards and dice, all over a couple of lost hours.

  Dobbin couldn’t imagine what punishment his old lady would dream up once the dust settled on this one. Fiddling with his staff, he lowered his head. “It’s just that she’ll be worried, you know.” Dobbin kept his voice low, talking into the grass. “And for you, as well. Just in case you’ve forgotten what we’re in for.”

  Of course, Hopskotch hadn’t. The youngster was well aware that this extended excursion would come with consequences. Of course, he could claim grandparental supervision, which would surely lessen the fallout. His best friend had no such excuse, no such backup. Dobbin would have to face the wrath of Petrice Butterfeld alone.

  If they couldn’t get a message back to Bridgetown – and it appeared at this point unlikely – their mothers wou
ld go without sleep for the second night in a row. Netting the rarest cicada in the history of Broken Meadow wouldn’t save either boy when they finally walked through their respective front doors.

  But there was nothing to be done about it now. Stewing over their fate was not going to change it, and the sooner Dobbin realised that, the more tolerable this trip would become for everyone else.

  “No point worrying over what you can’t control,” Hopskotch said sympathetically. “We’re all in the same boat, err, so to speak.” He winced at his choice of words, the memory of yesterday’s nightmare ride across the lake still fresh in his mind.

  “And at least we’ll get to see Witherness again. Hey, maybe we’ll even get a chance to look at the boatshed! I mean, I’m sure Grandpa Rand will—”

  Dobbin’s dark-brown eyes were wide and vacant, staring into the distance.

  Hopskotch spun around, half-expecting to see some kind of monster – Shriven or Blighted – emerge from the forest behind him. But there was nothing.

  Turning back, Hopskotch waved a hand in front of his friend’s face. “Err—Dob, you okay?”

  Dobbin blinked once, lowering his gaze. After what seemed like an age, he raised his head to lock eyes with Hopskotch.

  “The school excursion,” he whispered. “You were right. It was Witherness. We did bunk in the boatshed. We did see the carvings, and a whole lot more.”

  Hopskotch wondered where this had come from, so out of the blue. “Umm—okay, then. I was right. So what?”

  Moving in slow motion, Dobbin fished a small receipt from the inside pocket of his vest and passed it to Hopskotch. It was a small rectangle of faded grey cardboard, crinkle-cut at each end.

  Hopskotch angled it to catch the cloud light and squinted at the writing, but he still struggled to make out the elegant letters. Refocusing, he managed to decipher the logo at the top: “Branderbild’s Museum of Anti—” The rest was torn off but enough of the underline remained to be legible: “Age of the Corsair.”

  Hopskotch scratched his head. Age of the Corsair? It sounded like some kind of exhibition, though he had no memory of having seen it himself. Neither had he any idea what the docket was supposed to mean, nor why Dobbin thought it so important. For a moment, he flirted with the idea of using his brooch to see if it would work some magic on the strange text.

  “Don’t worry,” Dobbin said, responding to the confused look on Hopskotch’s face. “You never went to the museum. They gave us a choice, remember: museum or hedge maze.”

  Hopskotch blinked. A distant memory surfaced: chasing Gavel through the narrow, twisting paths between walls of impenetrable box hedge. In an ill-planned attempt to cheat his way out by burrowing through, Gavel had become stuck. Hopskotch had been forced to pull him free, kicking and screeching, by the feet. The vision replayed in Hopskotch’s head, curling the corner of his mouth into a grin.

  Dobbin prodded him back to the moment with a chubby forefinger. “Turn it over.”

  Hopskotch obliged. He looked at the type marked on the flipside, a stamp representing the date of issue.

  “No way!” Hopskotch gasped. He immediately knew why Dobbin had gone so quiet back by the boatshed.

  When he found the docket!

  Dobbin snatched the receipt back and buried it quickly in the pocket inside his vest. He glanced across to where Bartrem sat, still busy building his mystery parchment pile.

  Eventually satisfied their new teammate was not eavesdropping, Dobbin turned back to Hopskotch, his face rigid. “The excursion we barely remember, Hops; the one we thought must have been last year, or the one before that. It was Springhoch, barely four months ago.”

  Rescue by Girl

  Hopskotch’s head was spinning. What Dobbin had just told him didn’t add up. How could a school trip barely four months past end up so misplaced in their heads? Desperate for an explanation, he peppered his best friend with question after question, all leading nowhere. Between the two of them, they couldn’t put the pieces of the puzzle together.

  Hopskotch began to think strange forces must be at work. Dobbin grasped for more logical explanations, but all his suggestions made no more sense than his teammate’s.

  Eventually, both Syltling grew tired of it. The search for answers was leading them nowhere, gaining them nothing. The combination of exhausted limbs, full bellies and unanswered questions left Hopskotch feeling drowsy. Grandpa Rand had given strict instructions to remain on the ridge, and he could summon little will to disobey, particularly if it meant stumbling through the dark forest on their own.

  And so, the pair left Bartrem to his pile of crumpled parchment and laid themselves out upon the soft grass, making the best of punching their rucksacks into pillows. Hopskotch arranged himself alongside Dobbin, head to toe. He closed his eyes and tried to still his thoughts.

  Over the background hum of cicadas, Hopskotch could hear his best friend fidgeting alongside him, constantly readjusting his position in small, insignificant ways. Bartrem, he could neither see nor hear, yet his presence was strongly felt. Curiously, Hopskotch realised he could pinpoint exactly where the larger boy was without even opening his eyes.

  He makes no noise, and yet I hear him.

  It was beginning to feel as if the whole world were spinning the wrong way.

  Time slowed: minutes passed as hours. Hopskotch was some place between the walls of sleep and the waking world. His mind had become dizzy with so many colliding thoughts and theories. The darkness wrapped itself around him and he waited – wished! – for it to take him away.

  But troubling thoughts anchored him to the ridge.

  It was hard enough for Hopskotch to live in a reality where all the colours were wrong: moreover, to be the only one who seemed to notice. But now even the memories that bound him to Broken Meadow were fading. Would he be forced to grow up surrounded by a grey fog that smothered everything good and pure and precious to him?

  Another question popped off inside his head: What if we begin to forget other things? The idea was unsettling. He scrunched his eyes shut and again tried to still his thoughts. It proved impossible.

  What if we forget the way home? What if I forget who my parents are?

  More unwanted questions spilled from the back of his mind like honey from a cracked pot. Slowly, forcefully, he pulled himself together.

  “Calm down and think it through, you ninny!”

  The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like his maths teacher, Mr Pewter.

  “Let’s start over. Now what did you get for Yule?”

  That should’ve been an obvious one. Not even the cicada hunt was as important to an eleven-year-old boy as the Winterfrüh holiday, barely six months past. And yet—

  Nothing!

  “What about your last birthday?”

  He rolled over to face Dobbin and, greeted by his teammate’s portly rump, turned back the other way.

  Last birthday? Again, the answer escaped him. There was no avoiding it: the part of his brain responsible for memory had been put out to pasture.

  Eleventh birthday. Springfrüh the 10th! Finally, he remembered the date, but nothing of the day itself. Hopskotch continued to wrestle with his fading mind till it grew as weary as his muscles. The darkness grasped for him once more. This time, the exhausted Syltling surrendered to it, slipping snores-and-all into a deep, dark sleep.

  Hopskotch began to dream.

  He was soaring over the highlands on the back of a golden eagle, legs wrapped about the bird’s muscular neck. His hands melted into the velvet-soft feathers about its throat to grip the hard quills beneath. He had no fear of falling.

  A great distance below, the hills and valleys spread out in miniature. There were no clouds to block the view that stretched from horizon to horizon, all clear of border fogs. The colours were crisp, vibrant, and very real. He could hear a soft voice singing a song without words, adding a glorious soundtrack to the scene. It felt like he was watching the birth of a new world, a new Broken
Meadow.

  Banking away from the high gorges, they overflew Lake Whispermere, its rich, blue-black waters shimmering reflections of blinding white light. Beyond the high levee protecting the Fellriven Valley lay the orderly fields of upper Broken Meadow. Hopskotch felt certain they were headed for Low Cutting. He could already make out a familiar cluster of multi-storied, thatched-roof cottages.

  As they closed in on the village, the eagle dipped its left wing and turned its beak north. A strong wind swept across Hopskotch’s face and the force of it pushed the three crests of hair on his head flat to his skull.

  Home would have to wait.

  The air was ice-cold now but the chill could not touch him. From high overhead, a curious heat pressed into his back, warming him all over. Its light was so powerful – so dazzling – that it illuminated the entire world below. Hopskotch was curious to see exactly where the heat was coming from, but could not bring himself to look. Caution whispered in his ear that to turn his eyes toward it would invite blindness.

  Instead, he leaned sideways and dared another glance at the earth below.

  They had travelled far, a great distance in mere seconds. From such lofty heights, Hopskotch could see all of Broken Meadow, south to the unbending channel of the Cutting and beyond to the forgotten hills of Dewcress Shire. To his right, the Shallowfrond sparkled a twisting silver path through the valley north to Whiskey’s Waddle. The heavily forested east bank was highlighted in deep green, a glorious contrast to the patchwork limes and golds of the meadowlands’ tilled fields.

  As the eagle continued its wide circle, Bridgetown appeared to the north, its rumble-tumble skyline framed dark against the bold grey-white ridges of Hycliffe.

  Hopskotch wondered if he might have missed the Cicada Festival, if the parade was already under way. It would be easy to see what was going on from way up here. He stared at the distant city with great yearning.

  As if responding to his thoughts, the eagle levelled its flight and set a course directly for Bridgetown. Approaching the city, Hopskotch became aware of something extraordinary. From the outlying settlements, all the way up and into the city, the light in the sky was setting off a wave of energy. Hopskotch could only sense – not see – the force move across the land. It was as if an uncountable number of tiny candles had suddenly ignited, their flames stoked into a power both marvellous and frightening.