The Bell Between Worlds (16 page)

Simia turned. “It’s OK, just follow me!” she shouted, barely audible even though she was only inches away.

He watched doubtfully as she walked to the edge of the platform, let her foot drift out over the side and then dropped down directly into the path of the gigantic wheel. He was about to exclaim when she seemed to find her footing and was soon descending steadily out of view. He stepped to the very edge of the platform and peered over. There, leading directly down to the foaming water, was another small stone staircase that could not be seen from the bank. A metal ring was set into the last step, to which was tied a rowing boat that danced and bucked on the waves. Simia jumped into it, regained her balance and busied herself fixing a pair of oars in the rowlocks.

Sylas cast his eyes warily up at the passing blades, then lowered himself carefully down the steps, taking care not to slip on the wet, mossy surface. When he reached the bottom, he stepped into the boat and quickly nestled down among some empty sacks, glad to take the weight off his legs. The blades of the wheel passed terrifyingly close to their heads and the timbers of the boat trembled as they were pounded by the waves, but Simia seemed entirely unconcerned as she prepared the boat. After a few moments she leaned fearlessly over the side, untied the rope from the metal ring and pushed off.

The boat was whisked downstream in an instant, but she pulled on one of the oars and turned it out into the river, away from the main current. She then began heaving them through the water, drawing the vessel back towards the water mill. The sight of her rowing was both marvellous and comical to behold, for the oars were far too long for her tiny frame. At the top of each stroke she had to stand to her full height, leaning backwards to draw the oars through the water, and then she would sit down with a thump on the seat, gritting her teeth and yanking them out of the water to begin the cycle again. All this she did with an expression of fierce determination, which brought a quiet smile to Sylas’s lips.

She propelled them in this fashion until they were alongside the wheel, just an oar’s length from where its huge blades plunged into the water. They were pounding the surface of the river so violently that he began to get alarmed, but Simia remained reassuringly calm. She seemed to be waiting for something. He followed her eyes back to the wheel’s slicing blades and thought that he saw them slow a little. Moments passed and he became certain: the wheel was gradually coming to a halt. He could now see between the sweep of each beam that formed the spokes of the wheel and although they still dropped sheets of water he could make out the mossy stone of the mill house. The more he looked, the more he realised that there was something strange about it. There was a small rectangular opening at its centre – a door that led into the depths of the mill, flickering dimly with torchlight.

“Is that the way in?”

“Yep,” said Simia, her eyes still fixed on the wheel.

Sylas looked at the thundering waters. “So how do we get to it?”

She flicked her red hair back. “Like this!”

She stood up and yanked on one of the oars, spinning the boat in the water, then with two swift heaves, she propelled them directly between two of the passing beams. He threw himself down into the bottom of the boat and was drenched by a deluge of water. The boat rose and fell alarmingly on the waves and he felt the firm clunk of the bow striking something.

But there was no shuddering jolt or crash of splintering wood.

When he opened his eyes, he saw that they were already through. Above him was the baffling latticework of the wheel and the great axle spinning at its centre; to one side the blades still plunged past making the boat leap and twist on the surface, and on the other the solid, mossy stones of the mill house towered above him.

He looked around for Simia.

“Up here!”

She grinned from the dark opening above, already tying the mooring rope to a ring. She held out her hand and helped him to clamber up on to the slippery doorstep.

He found himself in a cool, dark passageway that disappeared into shadows a few paces ahead.

“Welcome to Meander Mill,” she said.

“Thanks, can we use the front door next time?” he grumbled.

She laughed. “It has to be like that to keep it a secret. Of course, the others slow the wheel down a lot more... but where’s the fun in that?”

He saw the white flash of her smile in the gloom. She leaned to one side and grasped a large iron lever in the wall, then pulled it down. There was a loud clang of metal against metal somewhere above his head, followed by a sound like sliding chains or gears falling into place. Then the floor began to move.

The glassy black eyes squinted as though they would peer through the very stones of the mill. For some time they were motionless, fixed to the place where the children had disappeared, now shrouded in curtains of water. But, as a beam of sunlight moved across the waterwheel, changing the drab scene into a dazzling display of glistening wood and shimmering water, so the eyes moved. They took in the perfectly crafted stone walls of the building, lingered on the odd-looking red-tiled roof that seemed to glint and scatter the light as though it was inset with metal or glass, and then they fell slowly past the top of the wheel, back down to the flurry of water and foam.

“Come, we can’t do any more,” came a gruff voice from somewhere behind.

The creature blinked away some spray, which fell like a tear on to pallid skin, then dripped on to the snout below. There was a brief nod and the oily eyes flicked towards the opposite shore.

The canoe surged away, the bow gliding effortlessly through the waves.

“… all thoughts must turn from great to simple things: instead of
glory, survival; instead of all that was promised, sanctuary.”

T
HE SHAFT WAS UTTERLY
black – a thick, disorienting blackness that closed in on them as they left the passageway far below. Deprived of sight, Sylas’s other senses sharpened: the clanking of chains in some unseen part of the mill seemed unbearably loud, the smell of damp and oil in the air became overpowering and he felt as though the lurching motion of the platform would throw him off balance. But he was curiously calm as they climbed through the darkness, almost glad that his tired eyes would see no more wonders, at least for now.

As the clanking of the chains faded, a new and unexpected sound echoed down the dark shaft.

It was a solitary singing voice.

The tune was carefree and playful like a nursery rhyme, but the voice was old and dry. The more he listened, the more he began to hear distinct sounds and words. To his surprise, they were not joyful and childish as was the tune, but full of sorrow:

“
And so we change as change we must,
When standards rot and sabres rust,
When the sun is set and night is come,
When all is lost, when naught is won.
”

When the voice reached the end of this verse, it started again at the beginning, repeating the words exactly as before, but this time they seemed more poignant and simpler. The melody became more haunting, as if in sympathy with the words. As the platform rose through the darkness, it grew louder and the effect became more powerful, as though new sorrows were added to the heartache. Simia started to hum the simple tune, and the melody was soon echoing about them and resonating in the depths of the shaft below.

Sylas began to see a vision forming in his mind. To begin with it was a blur of meaningless shapes formed in shades of grey and brown, but in moments the bleak image became clear – it was a rotting purple flag bearing a single silver feather, fluttering limply over a misty battlefield. The image did not stay solid in his mind and soon the grey mist engulfed the standard, at the same time rolling back to reveal a long line of dishevelled, bloodied men staggering, limping and crawling towards a dark horizon. Near at hand and against the backdrop of a mighty sea, he saw women crying in despair, crying for their fallen fathers, brothers and sons.

As these imaginings became too real to bear – as he began to feel his spirits fall into a deep melancholy – there was a loud rattle above his head and the singing stopped.

An instant later he was bathed in sunshine.

Shielding his eyes, Sylas looked up and saw two doors sliding back to reveal a large perfectly circular opening that glowed with golden light. As his eyes adjusted, he found that they were ascending between the great doors and leaving the darkness behind.

The platform came to an abrupt stop, making him totter forward. He felt Simia’s steadying hand on his arm.

“This,” she whispered in his ear, “is where we hide.”

He rubbed his eyes and looked about him.

They were standing in the centre of a great round chamber that towered above them, soaring to an astonishing height. The platform upon which he and Simia had been standing formed a kind of stage, surrounded in all directions by row upon circular row of wooden seats, each higher than the last. It was like a theatre with the stage at the centre. All of the fittings – the chairs, the stage, the steps that ran up to the highest benches at the back – were constructed from a great confusion of driftwood: cracked planks, broken rudders, mildewed deck timbers, nameplates and gangplanks. The entire hall was heaving with detritus from the river. The air itself carried a pungent but pleasant scent of its waters, so that all in all it was as though they had once flowed through this ancient room and, over the years, deposited the river’s bounty of wrecks and maritime waste.

And amid these choice prizes there was one feature that truly stood out: each and every seat sported a quaint canopy of wood, tall enough so that someone could sit within it, but not so high that it would obscure the view from the row behind and, as Sylas looked more closely, he saw that these odd alcoves were in fact the upturned prows of small boats, pointing directly up towards the ceiling. The effect was to create – from a graveyard of simple wreckage – a theatre fit for kings.

But his eyes did not linger on the strange woodwork, or the high stone walls hung about with fishing nets, or the many ceilings far above; instead they dwelt upon the vast space in its middle, for it was criss-crossed by countless shafts of light. The beams bounced off large porthole-like mirrors mounted on the stone walls, each placed with precision to catch the light and pass it on to the next. The result was a latticework of sunlight that only became more and more beautiful and intricate as he raised his eyes. The chamber seemed to narrow above his head where it met a circular balcony supported on columns constructed from sawn-off masts: the first of a series of such structures built one above the other. All of them left a round space at the centre through which the beams could pass. Finally, at the very top of the mill house, there was a ring of blinding light, which seemed to be the source of all the light in the room. Sure enough it dimmed slightly as the sun passed behind a cloud and at the same moment all of the beams in the great round hall faded. A moment later it brightened again and the hall was once more bathed in wondrous golden sunshine.

“We take it for granted, but light can be so beautiful, don’t you think?”

It was the singing voice.

Sylas first saw her at the top of the steps behind the rear circle of seats, standing with her back to him and looking into a dark, glassy panel that circled the hall. She was slight of stature, standing little above Sylas’s own height, but she carried herself with an unmistakable authority: straight-backed in her long burgundy robe. It was decked with glittering insignia and the braiding shimmered around her cuffs, tracing a radiant line down one arm. But it was her bright silvery hair that was her most distinctive feature, for it fell in a long ponytail all the way down to her waist, and in it was a braid of the same colour as the gown.

“It’s very beautiful,” said Sylas. His voice echoed loudly around the hall, making him flinch.

The woman turned away from the panel and smiled. Her face was lined with age, but her pearly skin glowed in the golden light and her dark eyes sparkled.

“Yes, indeed,” she said with a slight nod of the head. “We may have to hide, but it will not be under a rock! Isn’t that right, Simia?”

Simia laughed lightly and nodded.

“You are from the bell?”

“Yes,” replied the girl, rocking on her ankle.

“And it was the Passing Bell? You’re sure?”

“Yes. It was just like you said it would be.”

The woman turned her eyes back to Sylas and looked him up and down with interest.

“And were you followed?”

“Chased, but not followed,” said Simia. “We came through the inn – Bowe helped us.”

The woman nodded, seeming satisfied. Her eyes moved back to Sylas and the hall fell silent.

He shifted nervously, glancing about the room. He looked at the dark, glassy panel into which the woman had been staring and for a moment he thought that it altered a little as he watched, as though something was moving inside.

Simia started fidgeting next to him as if she too found the silence more than she could bear and suddenly she spoke in a flurry of words.

“He says he isn’t a Bringer, but he’s wearing a bracelet that looks just like a Bringer’s and he seems to know absolutely nothing about anyth—”

The woman raised her hand and frowned.

“Simia! I’m sure our guest will speak for himself.”

Simia made a point of pursing her lips as though gluing them together.

The woman turned back to Sylas and smiled warmly. “My name is Filimaya.”

He smiled nervously. “I’m Sylas – Sylas Tate.”

“Welcome, Sylas. I trust you’re well after your journey?” “I’m fine, just tired.”

“But of course you are,” said the woman. “And that’s to say nothing of your knee.” She moved swiftly down the steps and motioned them towards the bench nearest to the platform. “Come and sit down at once!”

Sylas frowned. “How did you know about my knee?” he asked, sitting on the nearest of the seats.

Filimaya smiled enigmatically and sat down on the platform to face him.