The Bell Between Worlds (19 page)

“Your uncle?” prompted Filimaya gently. “Your father’s brother?”

Sylas nodded. “I didn’t know him well at all – my dad died when I was a baby and we weren’t close to his family, but my uncle’s the only one still alive now. It was him who told me that–” the words caught– “told me that she had died.”

Filimaya reached forward and took him by both hands.

“Oh, Sylas, I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK,” said Sylas, drawing away a little. “It turns out it was all a lie anyway. That’s what I found out just before all this happened. That my uncle’s been lying to me. That she’s still alive.”

Filimaya sat up straight. “He
lied
to you about something like that?” she said incredulously. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I found the letters from the hospital. That’s why what Espen said was so strange. All this has happened at the same time – almost like everything is tied to this—”

Suddenly the door flew open and Simia entered, announced by a fanfare of clattering crockery. Sylas wiped his sleeve over his face.

Simia did not see his tears because her tiny figure was almost completely lost behind a tray of formidable proportions, upon which was a spread of enticing refreshments: a large jug of water topped with some kind of flower petals; a silver teapot that left a trail of steam as she walked; a loaf of brown bread, carefully sliced; a large block of yellow cheese; and best of all a rich, dark fruit cake that Sylas could smell halfway across the room. All this had been so well prepared that, despite the severe expression on Simia’s face as she turned to position the tray between them, it was clear that she had taken great care over the task.

“Thank you, Simia,” said Filimaya, smiling at Sylas apologetically. “You’re very kind.”

Simia’s face remained set and unsmiling as she quickly poured three glasses of water and three cups of tea. As soon as she had finished, she slid Sylas’s feet off the sofa and sat down next to him.

“So,” she said, her face suddenly breaking into an excited grin, “where have we got to?”

Filimaya and Sylas looked at one another and laughed.

“You’re in time to hear about the bell,” said Filimaya, leaning forward to take up her tea. “That’s right, isn’t it, Sylas?”

Sylas smiled and nodded. He did not mind Simia’s intrusion; in fact, he was glad of the change of subject. What more was there to say? Besides, the sight and smell of good food had reminded him that he was starving. He helped himself to a piece of bread, some cheese and a large slice of cake, then sat back and continued his story. Between mouthfuls he described the bell in the forest, how it had passed above his head and the next thing he remembered was waking up in its shadow.

When he had finished, Filimaya leaned back in her chair, absorbed in her own thoughts while he turned eagerly to another piece of cake and bit off large mouthfuls of moist, sweet fruit, still warm from the oven. Simia looked excitedly from Filimaya to Sylas and then back at Filimaya.

She could contain herself no longer. “Isn’t it just so thoroughly... gorgeously...
weird
?”

Filimaya looked at her distractedly and then turned back to Sylas.

“And Mr Zhi didn’t explain
anything
about the bell?”

“No, nothing at all,” replied Sylas with his mouth full of succulent cherries, “but then I only met him once. The first thing I knew was the—”

“He didn’t give you a message?” interrupted Filimaya.

He shook his head.

“Well, this is all very peculiar. Very strange indeed…” she said, again consumed by her own thoughts.

“Didn’t I say!” cried Simia, rolling her eyes. She clapped Sylas on the back and, not knowing what else to do with her excitement, devoured an entire piece of cake in a single mouthful.

Filimaya was silent for some time, staring over Sylas’s head into the dim corner of the room. Then she shook her head and turned to Simia.

“And you were chased by the
Ghor
?” she asked.

“Yep,” she replied rather proudly. “Three Ghor and two Ghorhund. And then Scarpia turned up – at the Lord’s Chamber. They tore the town apart trying to find us, but we were too quick.” She grinned at Sylas, but he could not bring himself to smile – he was remembering the poor wagoner.

“
Scarpia
…” repeated Filimaya, looking perplexed.

Simia seemed about to launch into a more detailed account of their death-defying flight across the town, but all of a sudden Filimaya sprang to her feet and walked to the door.

“Sylas, you must forgive me,” she said, turning in the doorway. “I was enjoying our conversation and I know I said I would explain some of what has happened to you, but I find that I cannot. I can tell you only two things for certain: that something very unusual and unexpected is happening, which you already know; and that I believe your arrival to be of the utmost importance. More important than any of us can know.”

Sylas choked down a piece of cheese and looked from Simia to Filimaya.

“So… what now?” he asked.

“Yes, indeed. Well, this is too momentous to keep to ourselves,” she said. “I must call a Say-So...”

“A Say-So?”

“A gathering of the Suhl. They may be able to help us, but even if not, they should hear your story. It may affect us all.”

With that, she gave them an apologetic smile and then disappeared from the room, drawing the heavy door closed behind her.

“And remember, you mustn’t be seen.” The whisper carried traces of a deep, hoarse voice.

“Tell me once and I’ll remember; tell me thrice and I may just forget on purpose…”

The words were formed with great effort, as though gurgled rather than spoken, shaped by a tongue not designed for speech. The speaker exhaled loudly through a glistening snout.

“Then you’ll not live long, friend,” was the quick reply.

The hunched figure shrugged its sloping shoulders beneath its cloak, but did not risk another quip. With a last look both ways, it stood from its crouch and ran quickly from the hiding place. Its movement was fluid and swift, but it stooped low to the ground, as though its limbs were jointed strangely amid the folds of its cloak, drawing it along on all fours. When the creature met the mill wall, it paused again, flicking its head from side to side, and then it began to climb. It did not look for purchase on the smooth surface of the wall, but crawled lizard-like, without grips or footholds.

Moments later it was peering into the garden of the mill and then, seeming certain that the coast was clear, it slid on to the top of the wall. Drawing itself up, it looked quickly left and right, then pulled the cloak from its shoulders. The body beneath was thin and pale grey, glistening with moisture. It was almost human, but not quite: the shoulders were too narrow, the chest too flat, and the hands and feet far too large. A fibrous ridge ran along its spine, parted at the back of its neck, ran up behind its gills and met again across its brow, giving it a perpetual malevolent frown.

The creature set out along the wall, heading for the mill house. In two lurching paces it was there and – with another darting look to its side – was climbing again, heaving its weight up the almost vertical wall at an impossible speed.

Its companion watched quietly from the shadows, glancing occasionally along the banks to check that no one was approaching. Then, seemingly satisfied that all had gone according to plan, the figure turned and retreated further into the bushes, emerging moments later with a canoe and sliding it over the muddy bank towards the water’s edge.

“They mean so well and yet, alas, a meeting of men
so rarely involves a meeting of minds…”

The sun dappled the forest floor: here, lighting the browns, reds and yellows of a confusion of leaves; there, falling upon a mossy stone, making it glow greenly. Her figure moved in silence between the arching trees, her white gown a stark contrast to their wintry limbs. The only sound was of leaves rustling on a light wind.

She faced away from him and made no gesture, nor any attempt to turn, but he knew that she wanted him to follow. And that was what he yearned to do, for to stand with her in the light would be to banish all of his cares into the shadows and instead to be at home, to be safe, to be loved. He sensed that all this lay but a few steps ahead – just there, where she now walked slowly across a sunlit clearing, her path strewn with gossamer, sparkling with pearls of dew. But as hard as he tried his feet would not carry him through the forest. With every step, she moved further and further away from him and, as she did so, the shafts of winter sunshine drifted with her, drawing long shadows across his path.

“Mum! Wait!” he cried desperately, but his voice was just a whisper, like the leaves in the breeze.

He cried out again, but still he could not find his voice. She walked on across the clearing, moving slowly towards the thickening woods. Before she reached the first of the trees, she stopped and, turning her head slightly, she spoke. Sylas could not make out her voice as it was only a whisper, but somehow her words formed in his mind, so clear and true that it was as though her lips were at his ear.

“Know me, and you will find me,” she said.

S
YLAS WOKE GASPING FOR
air as though he had been suffocating. His muscles were tense and sore and he could feel a trickle of sweat running down his neck. There was no voice, no forest, no sunshine, indeed there was no light except for a meagre strip of flickering orange leading from the door, which stood slightly ajar. He pushed himself up on the sofa and sat for a moment, waiting for his head to clear.

He thought he heard the sound of leaves in the wind again, drifting from the door, but the more he listened, the more he became sure that the sound was not leaves at all: they were whispers, murmurs and stifled voices. He lowered his feet to the floor and felt the rough floorboards on his toes: his mud-caked shoes and socks had been removed and laid to one side. He stood and stretched, finding his limbs surprisingly refreshed, walked over to the door and pulled it open.

A bright orange light poured into the room; the whispers became a hubbub of chattering voices and the air was filled with a medley of smoky scents that made his head swim – honey, blackberries, plums, fresh grass and sprouts.

“You’re awake! Just in time!”

It was Simia’s voice.

She was sitting on the floor of the gallery, with her legs hanging down below the banister. She had retrieved her coat and was once again lost inside its folds of crude cloth. She grinned over her shoulder and patted the carpet next to her.

“Come and sit here,” she said. “Best seat in the house!”

Still yawning, he stepped forward and peered over the railing. To his astonishment the hall was transformed from the vast, bright, airy space that he had seen earlier in the day. Now the mirrors no longer reflected bright beams from one to the other, but instead were empty and dark. Their light was replaced by flickering lamps hung from countless brackets on the wall, so numerous that the walls and ceiling looked almost like a starlit sky.

The hall was alive with a bustle of people: young and old, women and men, many bearing the traits of some far-flung or foreign place, with dark skin or broad features, high brows or wide eyes, long, slender necks or stout, rounded shoulders. Most were sitting on the circular benches talking agitatedly to their neighbours, but some were still gathered in groups around the outside, in front of the Aquium. All were wearing the same burgundy robes that he had seen on Filimaya, though none seemed to Sylas quite as impressive as hers.

The guests showed signs of great excitement, forming tight huddles where they sat or stood, jabbing at the air and waving their hands about as they made some unheard point or answered some unheard question. Many puffed feverishly at pipes of different shapes and sizes, issuing clouds of flavoured smoke into the towering space above. There was a great confusion of voices, some loud and agitated, others whispering and secretive, many using strange languages and accents, a large number of them elderly, with greying hair.

And below, just visible between Sylas’s feet, a younger congregation of guests gathered round a figure whom he could not at first see, but as the group parted, he saw, to his surprise, that it was none other than Ash, smiling enigmatically as he showed his audience a glass in the palm of his hand, which appeared to be full of pebbles. His incongruous green robe was a confused rumple of creases and his hair looked if anything more untidy than it had been in the inn: now an extraordinary explosion of blond curls.

“Why’s Ash here?” whispered Sylas. “I thought he was a Muddlemorph.”

Simia followed his eyes and shrugged. “He is and he isn’t,” she replied, poking her head between the bars to get a better look. “We’re good at pretending to be whatever we need to be – you know, blending in. Ash is
really
good at it, though. In fact, sometimes I think he likes being a Muddlemorph more than he likes being one of us.”

At that moment there was a gasp of wonderment from the little gathering as Ash raised the glass into the air. Sylas saw to his amazement that the pebbles had turned into crystal-clear water. The young man lowered the glass, drank down the contents and smacked his lips. “And that,” he cried, “is the perfect cure for gallstones!”

There was a loud chorus of laughter from those around him and they began to applaud, but they were quickly silenced by an older man who turned and snapped at Ash. Sylas noticed that most of the older people standing nearby were also looking at him disapprovingly.

“What did he do wrong?” asked Sylas.

Simia sighed maternally. “He used Kimiyya.”

“One of the Three Ways?”

“Yes, and it’s also a big no-no here. The Suhl are only meant to use Essenfayle.”

“What’s that?”

“There you go again with all your questions,” she sighed, nudging him in the ribs. “Essenfayle is
our
way. The
Fourth
Way.”

Just then he saw a slight movement in the shadows further around the gallery. It took his eyes a moment to adjust but, as they did, he saw a large figure standing next to the banister and then the glint of large eyes staring directly at him. A flicker of torchlight illuminated a long face and glinted brightly off a bald head. It was Bowe.