Hopskotch and the Golden Cicada

by Martin Vine

  “Quickly now,” Flek called out from the adjacent tree. Ushering Dobbin and Hopskotch back toward the trunk, she reappeared through the hole in the canopy (now significantly wider, courtesy of Dobbin’s bad landing). Arms waving wildly, she urged Bartrem to jump. “They can climb, you know.”

  Bartrem needed no further incentive. Powered by his trunk-like legs, the large Syltling sailed out and over the void. With a loud grunt, he collapsed forward into Flek’s arms. The entire branch dipped and swayed beneath him.

  But Flek did not lose her balance, nor let Bartrem slip. Steadying him on the new branch, she pushed him past her to the others. Turning back to face them, she whispered, “We’re being followed.”

  Flek was wearing her serious face again (Bartrem wondered if she had another). “We have to move faster. Much faster.”

  Before she could elaborate, the trunk of the new tree made a familiar sound. The branch began to creak and vibrate. The youngsters lunged for the nearest support. A split second later they were whisked away all over again.

  Aided by the unfurling spiral figs, and with nothing but air beneath their feet, the group began to improve their speed and timing, moving steadily uphill through the forest canopy along the southern ridge of Saddleslip Gorge. The fact that they’d survived the first leap had emboldened the boys.

  Hopskotch felt more agile for having ditched his rucksack. Free of its weight, he found it much easier to follow Nissa’s bounding form along the curving branches. Where they grew thick enough, Hopskotch began using his arms to swing from one to another like a flyball champion. Sharp twigs scraped at his face like barbed wire. Large clusters of rubbery leaves slapped his thighs, threatening to send him into the depths of the gorge. But none of it slowed the youngster down.

  Keeping balance was easy, but dark thoughts soon returned to haunt Hopskotch. From the corner of his eye, menacing shadows flickered across the tree canopy above and all around. Hopskotch’s imagination turned them into hooked talons, razor beaks and black wings.

  He’d not forgotten the raven. It only inspired him to greater speed.

  It was Dobbin who first noticed the lights. As the fog shifted through the gorge, a flicker of brightness – like lanterns on a string – caught his attention. The orange glow was like nothing he’d seen before. He speculated it was coming from the northwest, a little further uphill and directly over Saddleslip Gorge.

  Dobbin dared not slow down for a proper look, nor remove his eyes from the branches beneath him, but it was hard to resist such a display. Every time the lights winked through the canopy, he found himself irresistibly drawn to the colours.

  A thought popped into his head, and it was something he’d not previously considered: is this what Hopskotch sees in his dreams?

  There was no time to ask. His best friend was far out in front; it took all Dobbin’s energy just to keep Hopskotch in sight. Hoping Bartrem would take the hint, he snapped his fingers and pointed toward the distant lights. For his efforts, Dobbin heard only a gruesome wheezing, a curious accompaniment to the clinking globe-lamp rhythm coming from his rucksack.

  A low-hanging branch appeared suddenly before his face. A sharp twig grazed his cheek, missing his eye by a whisker.

  It had to be over soon. Inside his chest, Dobbin’s lungs were heaving. The weight of his packs was as unbearable as the stitch in his side. His legs began to buckle under the strain of it all. Every part of his body ached. He could still feel the exact point on his small toe where the fire ant had stung him.

  Dobbin pushed through the agony and exhaustion.

  Just a little way longer. His curiosity to find out where exactly they were going, and what exactly they might find there, drove him forward.

  But it has to be over soon.

  Eventually, the last of the spiral figs rattled itself to a halt. The living forest was quiet once again.

  But the calm was short-lived. Echoing through the gorge, a familiar chorus began to build. The sound brought a smile to Hopskotch’s lips. The cicadas were awakening for an encore performance.

  As the group travelled further up the gorge, he began to notice the landscape changing around them. Even under the cover of night, Hopskotch observed that the trees were growing smaller and fewer in number. Within the canopy of a spiral fig that seemed almost stunted compared to the monsters they’d just travelled through, Flek brought the party to a halt. The boys followed her and the tireless Nissa along the length of a long curving branch. Hopskotch noticed the older girl tilting her ear skyward.

  Eventually, he heard it too, barely audible above the background hum of cicadas. Someone was signalling from the forest uphill.

  Flek dropped off the edge of the branch. One minute she was there, the next, completely out of sight. Only a soft cooing from below – unmistakably her – reassured Hopskotch she’d not fallen away into the gorge.

  Who the fishmitts is out there? he wondered, hoping in his heart it might be Grandpa Rand.

  Nissa remained in the tree, keeping silent, keeping still. Aching and exhausted, Hopskotch was content to follow her example.

  Over his own pounding heartbeat, he could just make out a rustling sound from the base of the trunk. It was immediately followed by the tap of stone on rock. Hopskotch dared a look down and was relieved to see solid ground beneath his feet once again. Just a few feet below was a platform of large grey boulders split with zigzagging black seams. At that moment, his ears captured something more intriguing. Hopskotch was certain he could hear whispering.

  Nissa raised her head and nodded as if someone had just spoken to her. Much to Hopskotch’s surprise, the small girl shouldered past him to whisper something in Dobbin’s ear.

  So you can talk!

  It raised many questions, but one nagged him above all others: why Dobbin?

  Dobbin looked as confused as his teammate. “She says we have to go down now.”

  “Well then, that’s just cracker, that is,” Bartrem panted. The largest of the three boys was bracing himself on an overhead branch, holding his chest with a pained expression. He looked at Dobbin through heavy eyelids and gestured to the rocks below. “Ladies first!”

  Excerpt From The Secrets Of The Ancients

  by Tulloch Greighspan

  Sedition 7.6

  Dewbreck Stormsonne

  How many years the grey hag spent underground studying the geolyte seam is unknown, but that she was transformed by the experience is beyond doubt. And in the years that followed, with the strength of her new disciples – stripped from the ranks of the Druhirrim – did she grow ever more powerful.

  And never was she more so than when she invited Dewbreck Stormsonne into her fold.

  For even as she restored his wounded and exhausted body, did she with equal skill and commitment corrupt his soul. And to those who were known to him previously, and that may once have called him friend, the man that walked out of that hidden cave deep in the heart of Calverslope would have been unrecognisable to he who left the Fellensian capital on royal command.

  It was near to the conclusion of the First Blighted War that the old hag led Dewbreck, now robed in grey, into the gates of the Braythornian capital of Skeyne. And under the guidance of his new mistress did the former scholar of Sanufell gather his own circle, and therefrom structure an inner hierarchy of the most gifted mages. And this cabal came to be known as the Seven, and they did robe themselves in grey and follow the word of Dewbreck without question.

  And over and above all things did the Seven prioritise the study of the Blighted.

  In those days, within the gates of a quarantined area inside the deepest cellblock of Skeyne’s Imperial Gaol, were what once might have been regarded as prisoners-of-war. For in these windowless pits were locked a small number of captured Blighted warriors. And there, untroubled by local authorities, did Dewbreck and his acolytes begin their experiments.

  And it did not take long for rumours of their dark deeds to circulate throughout Skeyne, for in the deep
of night, terrible sounds did escape the mud-brick walls of the gaol and echo to all corners of the city. Thereby did the rumours grow and evolve, and become increasingly more imaginative, and for the first time did those among the pious Braythornians first dare whisper that the old hag was not of mortal blood at all, but none other than the fallen goddess Belzeel, banished to the earthly plane in Syltian form.

  And when this rumour did reach the ears of the Druhirrim in Sanufell, it was taken with great seriousness by the mages of the Greater Imperial Senate, and quickly passed to the ear of King Feldspur’s most trusted adviser, Albreck Stormsonne. With little time for preparation did the Sol Mage set down plans to travel south, so that he with his own eyes might separate fact from fiction.

  Wilden

  When Hopskotch first laid eyes upon the stranger, instinct drove him back a step. Part of him wanted to flee, to melt into the foliage unseen. But much to his surprise, the wild-looking man who’d just emerged from the darkness up-trail was no stranger to the girls. They ran to him like pups to master, clinging to his waist for a good long while.

  Even through the darkness, Hopskotch began to observe a likeness between adult and child: small details from his face and features; the texture and colour of his hair; even the odd clothing he wore reflected Flek and Nissa, but more so Flek.

  Could this be their father? he wondered.

  Always the straggler, Bartrem finally got his rump out of the tree, sliding backward and stomach-down along a conveniently positioned buttress root. He limped forward to stand alongside Dobbin, eyes glued to his wounded foot. The handkerchief was still in place (a testament to Flek’s bandaging skill), but it was now black with filth and soaked through with damp.

  When he finally looked up, the wounded youngster appeared more surprised than anyone to see the newcomer.

  The grown-up Sylt finally untangled himself from the girls. Stepping away, he approached the boys and proceeded to look them up and down, one at a time, as if searching for something.

  The boys stared right back. Dobbin appeared especially taken with the stranger’s corkscrew staff. Hopskotch couldn’t take his eyes off the jewellery decorating his ears and braided hair: silver studs and rings, beads, gemstones and even duck feathers. Hopskotch was forced to fight his instincts, which were currently urging another backward step.

  Before he could do so, the stranger stepped forward and put a reassuring hand on Hopskotch’s shoulder. “Your grandpa’s fine,” he said.

  The voice was smooth and refined, a jarring contrast to the man’s wild appearance. Choked up and still short of breath (and more than a little frightened), Hopskotch nodded his thanks. He couldn’t yet find his voice, but it didn’t stop the obvious question from surfacing in his head.

  So where is he?

  “But we’ll need to keep going,” the grown-up continued. “Just a little way further.”

  Hopskotch nodded again. Dobbin squinted into the distance. Bartrem groaned.

  “Friends call me Dapple, and I’m getting you safely out of here.” Without elaborating or waiting to trade further introductions, he returned to Flek and Nissa. “C’mon, little cygnets,” he said, ruffling the hair on Nissa’s head as he cantered past. “Let’s get ’em to the bridge.”

  A bridge! thought Dobbin, shuffling along between Hopskotch and Bartrem. I knew it!

  At the front of the line, the man who’d just introduced himself as Dapple was setting a steady pace, leading the group uphill along a steep and unforgiving trail. Dobbin still didn’t know whether he could trust the odd-looking grown-up, but it certainly felt nice to be out of the trees and treading solid ground again.

  But the way forward was still no cakewalk. Worn out by the flight through the treetops and weighed down by luggage he stubbornly refused to abandon, Dobbin was beginning to struggle. In between and either side of the oversized stone steps sprouted fig roots and sharp rocks hidden in shadow. A pungent odour began to crinkle his nostrils. For reasons Dobbin couldn’t understand, it brought to mind Bellows.

  He did his best to ignore the smell, focusing instead on keeping up with the others, while simultaneously keeping a watchful eye on Bartrem behind him (whenever the terrain allowed). Dobbin knew it would take an age just to pick all the burrs out of his clothing when this was over and done with. Worse still, his body had become a burning patchwork of cuts and bruises. Barely a square inch of skin was free of soreness.

  For the first time ever, Dobbin Butterfeld began to fantasise about taking a bath.

  Bartrem was faring little better. Whatever herbs Flek had used seemed to be working a little too well. The pad of his left foot was now numb all the way back to the heel, which, combined with the slippery hanky, was upsetting his balance terribly.

  Despite his preoccupation with staying upright and at pace with the group, Bartrem did not miss the rotten looks coming from Dobbin. The third time their eyes met, he decided to drop back out of sight, preferring to take his chances with the rampaging ant swarm than court Dobbin’s ongoing ridicule.

  With the clanking terracotta globe lamps to guide him, it proved no great challenge. Out of sight, out of mind, Bartrem concluded. He was content enough to be alone at the tail; that afforded him more time to stew his thoughts.

  It was the Sylt known as L who first bubbled to the surface.

  And for good reason. Circumstances had directed Bartrem’s mind elsewhere, like simple matters of not falling into a bottomless gorge or being torn apart by a vicious raven. But something about the newcomer Dapple reminded him why he was out here in the first place. Something big was happening around him and he needed to keep his eyes open, his senses focused.

  The newcomer had him intrigued. Piercings? Feathers? Amber eyes?

  Like Hopskotch and Dobbin, Bartrem had never seen such a display, at least, outside the pages of the histories. And the jewellery, clothing, and distinctive bone structure all pushed him toward the same conclusion: Dapple was of the Wilden.

  But impossible, surely?

  Bartrem found himself conflicted, confused and unconvinced. Wilden had not been heard of since the last days of empire. From the south they’d originated, a solitary folk of ancient Florenmeer, the long-abandoned salt marshes beyond the ancestral Corsair stronghold of Adensee. In the years following the end of the First Blighted War, they were widely persecuted, for many believed their kind had aided the enemy. When Tarador had fallen to the Blighted, fear and hate were quick to take root. The Wilden were soon to feel the wrath of the superstitious.

  But were they really innocent?

  Bartrem had often wondered. When the Second Blighted War erupted along the southern borders of the Delgardian Empire, the enemy had evolved. No longer were they a zombie-like horde attacking in mindless thousands. This time they’d fought in organised ranks, using sophisticated tactics and even weapons. The rules had changed and the empire was caught unprepared. Province by province, it began to crumble.

  The rest of the story could be found in any old history book, but there was much that never made it into the popular volumes. Bartrem had only recently learned a surprising fact about the Wilden, courtesy of a sample chapter from one of L’s personal volumes. The calligraphy was almost unreadable, some words so archaic it was like another language entirely, but Bartrem had persevered.

  From its pages, he’d learned that their secret had been revealed almost a generation earlier, at the height of the First Blighted War. For the Wilden had been blessed with a unique power: the ability to control and manipulate birds of the marshlands and seacoasts. It was rumoured that the most powerful among them could extend their abilities to other beasts, possibly even walking, breathing Sylt.

  According to common records, Wilden had distinctive features: amber-flecked eyes, narrow faces, sharp noses, and long ears that tapered to a point. They were the bird whisperers of legend, said to favour strange garments decorated with feathers.

  At a point where the path straightened and the undergrowth thinned ei
ther side, Bartrem stole another glimpse of Dapple, who was by now almost fifty yards uphill. A curious orange glow to the north silhouetted his fast-moving outline. As distant as the adult was, Bartrem could clearly see his polished walking staff reflecting the warm light.

  Where’s it coming from? he wondered.

  Bartrem shrugged off the mystery and reset his brain to grappling with the secrets of the ancient Florens. It took only a moment for the pieces to fall into place inside his head: Wilden had the ability to control birds. Birds like whippoorwills and swans.

  Birds like ravens.

  Dobbin had not forgotten he was still on the menu. Somewhere downhill of their position was the second ant swarm: somewhere uphill was the first. Then there was the raven, circling unseen and without doubt waiting for another chance to attack. He weighed briefly which he’d rather face, deciding eventually in favour of the bird. Dobbin dared another look skyward and was disturbed to see increasingly large patches of night cloud through the thinning canopy.

  It made him feel even more exposed than ever.

  Old Duck-feather better know where he’s going.

  Despite his inherent distrust of strangers, Dobbin felt much safer with a proper (non-senile) grown-up in charge of the group, however odd his appearance. It freed his Syltling mind to ponder what might be waiting for them on the far side of the bridge. Dobbin secretly hoped it might be one of the traveller’s cabins he’d read about, all dark-wood finishing with a fireplace and hammocks with eiderdown quilts. Most of all, he hoped the cupboards were stuffed with food.

  “Yeah, that’s likely,” a voice in his head sneered.

  Dobbin dismissed his subconscious, returning focus to the orange lights winking at him through the foliage uphill. He was certain now that they were somehow linked to the bridge: flaming torches lighting the way across, more than likely.