Hopskotch and the Golden Cicada

by Martin Vine

  Order out of chaos, he thought to himself, staring blindly toward the shore. Therok shut his eyes and sensed what he could not see. Slowing his breathing, the grey-robed Sylt slid his wet hand inside his robes and felt for the cool quartz about his neck. Its power flowed into his mind and sharpened his thoughts to a razor’s edge.

  “Back to the hunt,” he whispered.

  It was too easy. In the hinterlands south of Saddleslip Gorge, nature had done much of the work. The border fogs had damp-rotted hundreds of trees, felling them for the colonies of termites to move in and feast on the softened wood. Following the timber-eaters swarmed carnivorous fire ants, hunting them, gorging on them.

  And multiplying into unnaturally large colonies.

  Nature can be so primitive, so vulnerable. So weak.

  The notion cheered him somewhat.

  While his power was more than equal to the task, Therok could not avoid conflict with the hive mind. It repulsed and confused him in equal measure. Again, he felt the foulness seeping from his brain into his body. Likewise could he feel their strength, their drive, their mindless dedication to the colony. For all the things that made them strong, he despised them.

  Opening his eyes, the grey-robe stared into the fog-shrouded hills looming before him. Once I am done, he smiled to himself, I think I shall drive the lot of you to a watery death.

  He swirled a fingertip through the surface of the lake and reset his will to pushing the second swarm. The old one was still busy with the first. Already, he could sense his power waning. There were no more secrets to learn from that Whisper Mage.

  The important thing was the children were alone now: alone and isolated.

  Run, little Syltling, run. Where and when will you reveal yourself?

  As if responding to his thoughts, a raven’s cry echoed from the distant west. One of Therok’s underlings almost dropped his paddle in alarm. He sensed their fear and allowed its essence to flow through him. The grey-robe smiled and closed his eyes again.

  It was easier to see that way.

  Every instinct in his body urged him to scream, to yell, to shriek madly into the dark woods.

  Dobbin resisted. The attacking ant promptly flattened, he dealt with the agony by silently hopping on the spot clutching his wounded foot. Dobbin ground his teeth, muffling his torment, keeping it inside. The burn of its venom was excruciating, and it wasn’t going away.

  Up and down, up and down he went, his mind ablaze with pain, fear and paranoia. To leave just one foot grounded too long would surely invite another sting. Dobbin knew one thing about ants: where there was one, there were many.

  All around him, the others seemed more interested in keeping him quiet than sympathising with his torment. Poor little Nissa was still down on her haunches, rocking back and forth with her ears covered. Flek was trading worried glances between her sister and Dobbin. It was if she expected something else to go wrong.

  Something did.

  A great cawing sound echoed from beyond the tree canopy. Dobbin stopped hopping and turned to Hopskotch, steadying himself on a nearby branch.

  “Fishmitts!” he shrieked. “It’s back!”

  It was the first time he’d spoken since being stung. The adrenalin was waning and Dobbin was left to the mercy of the ant’s poison. It was a great reminder not to let down his guard again.

  Flek ordered everyone to crouch low with a wave of her hand. Raising herself to full height, she sniffed the air, then darted straight up a branch that looked altogether too thin to support her weight.

  But the wood did not give. As Dobbin looked on in horror, the girl stuck her head straight through the leafy canopy and wiggled her torso so it was almost completely out the other side.

  “Okay, that’s it,” he said to Hopskotch, still rubbing at his foot. “Now I know she’s nuts!”

  “Dob, she’s trying to get us out of here,” Hopskotch protested. “Don’t forget she saved us back there.”

  Dobbin refused to acknowledge it. Ignoring his teammate, he continued to peer up and into the underside of the canopy, trying to pinpoint exactly where Flek had disappeared. He didn’t like the way Hopskotch had so enthusiastically leapt to her defence.

  But he still couldn’t see her, and it rattled the Syltling more than he cared to admit. Dobbin’s hair went up. Fear and worry was pushing his heartbeat back to a frantic rhythm.

  Suddenly, the leaves parted. Without touching a single branch, the girl dropped onto the main bough right before Dobbin’s startled eyes.

  “This way!” she whispered.

  To Hopskotch, the tree-bound escape was like something from a dream: exciting, dangerous, and so downright strange it was hard for him to believe it was really happening. Racing through the branches, Flek brought them to a halt at every third or fourth tree, at which point she would repeat the exercise of breaching the upper canopy for a quick scan.

  Pausing in the limbs of one particularly old and gnarly spiral fig, Hopskotch noticed Flek seemed to be staying aloft longer than usual. It was almost dark by now and the boys were left to cool their heels in the cradle of the great trunk. Though it may have been his imagination, Hopskotch swore he could hear a faint tapping sound echoing in the distance.

  She did say two swarms, he recalled. It was not an easy thing to forget.

  A fresh sound cut the evening quiet from the opposite direction. Hopskotch heard it as a soft cooing, strong but quiet.

  Flek and Nissa froze. It repeated. Flek cupped her hands about her face and made an identical noise. It was like nothing Hopskotch had ever heard coming from the mouth of a Sylt. He was certain he couldn’t replicate it if he tried.

  Whatever had just happened (and Hopskotch really had no idea what that was), it really seemed to re-energise the girls. With uncanny speed, they took off again, leaping from bough to bough, from tree to tree, like the spirit of some wild animal had taken over their bodies. Bumbling along behind, the three boys wheezed and panted, struggling to keep up. Hopskotch began flirting with the idea of ditching his rucksack.

  Within minutes, they were brought to a halt again, this time on the outer edge of a monstrously large tree. The rubbery leaves formed a great curving ceiling of dappled black beneath the fading sky.

  Staring past Flek’s shoulder, Hopskotch realised why they’d stopped so suddenly. The tree they were in was the last.

  Flek turned back to the boys. “Any of you have a problem with heights, don’t look down.”

  Dobbin paled, for the first time obeying the girl’s instructions without question.

  But Hopskotch couldn’t resist a peek. He stretched his neck cautiously over the edge of the bough. “Blessed Aethelron!” he squeaked.

  A wave of dizziness washed over him. Fighting the wobbles, he crouched low and set his legs wide apart, clinging to the branch like a babe to its mother.

  “You crazy?” barked Dobbin. “She said not to do that!”

  Hopskotch turned his head as far as his failing courage allowed. Dobbin was fast to his tail, down on all fours, digging his fingers into the branch for support. Bartrem was one boy back, doing likewise.

  “It’s okay,” Hopskotch replied, finding his voice. “Really.”

  As terrified as he was, Hopskotch couldn’t resist another peek over the edge. It was hard to believe he wasn’t dreaming.

  The first thing he saw below was nothing: a great swirling grey nothing that swam beneath them like a bottomless river. A sudden wind gust parted a circle in the fog, revealing a rocky slope that disappeared steeply into black. Gripping the great jutting rocks, and in many places, splitting them apart, were the probing roots of the very tree they sheltered in. If one were to fall now, Hopskotch wondered if the remains would ever be found.

  “I think we just found Saddleslip Gorge,” Bartrem whispered.

  While the three boys huddled like spooked hens, Flek went back up into the canopy, breaching the finer branches that stretched far out over the gorge. Seconds later she returned, si
destepping her younger sister with no greater caution than had she been crossing Fisherman Bridge at Whiskey’s Waddle.

  “Okay, change of plan,” she announced. “We’ll follow the southern ridge uphill. If you’ve any sense between yer ears, lighten up. Those packs will only slow you down, or worse.”

  Hopskotch squirmed, more aware than ever of the weight of his rucksack and sling-pouch. He didn’t care to consider what ‘or worse’ meant.

  “So there is a plan?” asked Dobbin sarcastically.

  Flek shot him an annoyed look (not by any means the first). “There is now, Dobbert. C’mon, follow.”

  Though it had grown too dark to properly see his teammate’s face, Hopskotch could almost feel the scowl. If there was one thing sure to light Dobbin’s fuse, it was people forgetting his name, or worse still, getting it wrong.

  Hopskotch couldn’t escape the feeling Flek had done it on purpose.

  Of course, it all became a secondary concern when the boys realised exactly what her ‘plan’ was.

  “Are you mad?” Dobbin protested, eyes bulging. “We’ll never make that jump!”

  Showing Dobbin her back, Flek began snapping branches off the far end of the bough. “You will if you don’t wanna end up ant-meal.”

  Hopskotch shared his teammate’s concerns. The hole Flek was making faced downhill, not up, revealing nothing but the fog-riddled emptiness of the gorge (facing east, by his reckoning). He had no idea how far it was to the opposite side of the gorge, but the idea of jumping so great a gap was ludicrous.

  Did they have any reason to trust her? Did they have any choice, not to?

  She’s got us this far, Hopskotch reminded himself.

  Holding breath, the Syltling removed first his sling-pouch, then the moth-eaten rucksack from his aching shoulders. He wriggled his hand around inside. There was only the hanky left; all food had been emptied – on Flek’s orders – back at the ridge. Focusing on his balance, Hopskotch stuffed the embroidered rag into his vest pocket to better anchor the precious brooch.

  But what to do with the cicada net Bellows had given him? Old though it was, Hopskotch knew it just wasn’t right to discard a gift so recently given.

  Instead, he secured the handle to the sling-pouch and slipped it back over his shoulder. When he was finally happy the net wouldn’t twist and stab him in the back, Hopskotch wrapped his walking stick in the empty rucksack and took one last look at both.

  Just as he went to let go of the package, the forest began to groan. Hopskotch startled at the noise, releasing his grip around the smooth wood. The staff snapped loudly against the bough, missing his left foot by a fraction of an inch, before following his rucksack down into the swirling fog. An ear-splitting creaking sound hammered his eardrums, followed by the swooshing of many leaves. It was as if an army of furious giants had been loosed, shaking and strangling the trees.

  Hopskotch was convinced something very large was about to swallow them.

  Flek appeared unfazed by the loud phenomena erupting around them. “Ready?” she cried, raising her voice above the noise.

  The tree that held them began to creak and shudder. Three pairs of eyes turned to the trunk, wide with alarm. Bartrem began edging back to the tree’s cradle.

  “Not that way,” Flek screamed.

  Turning, she pointed through the hole in the canopy, the one facing straight out into the gorge. “Get ready. On my command, we go!”

  The creaking grew louder, much louder. It shook the tree’s limbs all the way to the tips of the outer leaves. Despite Flek’s order, the boys would not budge.

  Something extraordinary happened: the whole branch began to move! Like a slow-motion catapult, it began rotating around the trunk. Bartrem began cursing like a Withernessian wharfie. Hopskotch felt Dobbin’s fingernails digging into his shoulder. In a few short, terrifying seconds, the bough carried the five Syltlings far out over the gorge then back toward the forest on the uphill side of its trunk.

  “Spiral figs!” Hopskotch whispered in awe.

  Finally, he recalled exactly what his father had told him:, the secret of the legendary trees from the gorge country. At first light, their branches began to rotate clockwise around the trunk, slow enough to be unnoticeable to the naked eye. After dusk, as the last rays of daylight vanished, some mysterious trigger would snap them back to their original position. The movement of an entire day recoiled in seconds, creating a forest-wide chorus of creaking, groaning, swooshing branches. Hopskotch had always assumed such stories make-believe.

  Not any more.

  The bough had finished its journey, but continued to shake and shudder beneath his heels. Hopskotch dared a quick glance around to check they hadn’t lost anyone, and was relieved to fill his head count. Now the breach in the canopy was facing the opposite direction. Another spiral fig loomed large and imposing, right in front of them. Beneath its branches, the southern ridge of Saddleslip Gorge dropped sharply away into a river of grey.

  This is madness!

  Flek was on the balls of her feet, bobbing up and down. She stared through the breach at the far tree. “All right now, follow!” she screeched without turning. “Out here, they just might lose our scent.”

  From a standing start, Flek launched herself across the void to the next tree, disappearing into its canopy with a loud crash.

  Hopskotch darted forward to stand behind Nissa’s shoulder, staring through wide eyes out across the chasm. Holding his breath, he searched for any sign of Flek through the darkness. Finally, he heard a noise from the tree opposite. Flek’s face emerged through the gap, and just as quickly disappeared inside. Hopskotch finally exhaled.

  “What is it?” Dobbin barked from behind. “What’s she doing?”

  Hopskotch was wondering the same thing. He hushed his friend with a wave of his hand and tried to refocus on the far tree. Branches began bending all around the last spot he’d seen Flek. The hole in the canopy grew wider.

  Without warning, Nissa sprang away from him, almost causing Hopskotch to lose his balance. The petite Syltling flew across the gap and into the arms of her waiting sister with gravity-defying ease.

  Hopskotch took a deep gulp. That meant it was his turn.

  “Quickly!” Flek yelled. “It’s not as far as you think. Just look at me, not down!”

  Hopskotch gritted his teeth and readjusted his sling-pouch. His throat had gone dry. “Dob, you have to let go of my shoulder.”

  “Right, sorry. Yes,” Dobbin whined, slowly releasing his grip.

  Hopskotch turned to see his friend’s eyes bulging in fear. It did not add to his confidence. All about him, the forest continued to echo with the noise of the unwinding spiral figs. He shut it all out, along with every other thought popping off inside his head.

  Except one. “You can do it!”

  Taking a deep breath, Hopskotch launched himself forward. It took only two short steps and a ferocious push with his good leg to become airborne.

  The far branch rose all too quickly to meet him. His foreshortened leg buckled under the impact. Before he could go all the way down, Flek was there. Two waiting arms wrapped him up and, with surprising strength, steadied his legs.

  Blessed Aethelron! Blessed Aethelron! Blessed Aethelron!

  Tingling all over, Hopskotch repeated his silent prayer to the Absent God. He could feel Flek’s hot breath in his face and the soft textures of her patchwork jacket beneath his hands. For the first time, he saw a genuine smile upon her face.

  It fled as quickly as it had appeared. Raising her line of sight, Flek stared nervously over his shoulder.

  Now for Dobbin.

  Preparing himself for the jump reminded Dobbin of his brothers, how they’d always challenge him to do crazy, stupid, life-threatening things. It had been compulsory sport for the Butterfeld boys to test their younger brother’s courage, mostly so they could tease him when it came up short. He knew he was little more than a joke to them. Dobbin was always the first out from diving dare
s off the rocks at Frog’s Leap Crossing; always the first pinned in wrestling games; the first to submit to the dreaded Butterfeld headlock. It had taught him what it was like to lose. It had taught him what it was like to be small and weak.

  He would never be okay with it.

  Plumbing his memory, Dobbin replayed the most embarrassing episodes from his past. The relentless humiliation of day-to-day life as the youngest of four brothers began to bubble and boil inside. Dobbin felt like a kettle on a burning stove. He held onto the steam and turned it into anger. It fuelled his legs. It fuelled his spirit. His hair was standing right up on end along the length of his arms.

  With a wild shriek of defiance, Dobbin Butterfeld leapt across the gap.

  For the second time in as many hours, he crashed face-first into his best friend. The hard jolt brought him back to reality.

  It had become a foggy one. The first sensation was the clanging echo of terracotta globe lamps ringing in his skull. Somehow, he found the sense to reopen his eyes (though he had no memory of actually closing them). The dappled outline of leaves overhead began sliding away at a strange angle. Dobbin shook his head and tried harder to focus. The leaves weren’t the ones tilting.

  I am!

  Stubborn to a fault, Dobbin had dismissed Flek’s advice to trim his luggage. Now that decision had come back to bite him. The weight in his rucksack tilted him further out toward the edge of the branch. More clanking noises sounded from his back. Instinctively, Dobbin went down on one knee. The other leg slipped out over the side. His foot jerked, kicking air.

  Just as he opened his mouth to scream, Dobbin felt the straps of his rucksack bite into his armpits. Something knocked the top of his head. Someone’s foot came down hard on one of his toes.

  But Hopskotch’s grip was strong.

  Using his own mass as counterweight, Hopskotch leaned backward and dragged Dobbin out of danger. He did not release his grip till they were both safely balanced in the very middle of the bough. Not a word passed between the two boys.

  Above the groaning and creaking of the spiral figs recoiling, Bartrem was certain he could hear them. He froze and pricked his ears, filtering out the background noise to zero in on the ant swarm. It was coming from somewhere downhill, somewhere too close by far.