The Bell Between Worlds (3 page)

Sylas watched with excitement as Mr Zhi carefully tore open one end of the parcel, then pulled out a large flat object, and cast the wrapping on the floor.

“The mobile told us that you can see what 
the world 
may become,” said the old shopkeeper. “With this Thing – this set of mirrors – we will show something else: that you can see all that 
you 
are able to be.”

At first the object looked like a leather-bound book, but as Mr Zhi laid it carefully on the box, Sylas saw that it was not made of leather but of two pieces of wood, joined along one edge by tarnished but ornate brass hinges. The top piece was black and the piece beneath white. As he leaned forward to look more closely, Mr Zhi took gentle hold of the black panel and lifted. The hinges creaked slightly and the black panel swung open.

What was revealed seemed unremarkable. Both panels comprised a simple mirror framed by an ornately carved border. The old man lifted them up and adjusted them carefully in front of Sylas until he was looking at himself in both mirrors, each showing his reflection from a slightly different angle, the white one from the left and the black one from the right. The effect was interesting at first, but no more so than looking at a reflection in a bedroom dresser.

As he glanced between the mirrors, Mr Zhi peered at him, taking in Sylas’s wide brow and small stubby nose; his high arching eyebrows and dark brown eyes that seemed a little sad and old for his age; his thick, dark, wavy hair, cut crudely so that it fell in a tousled mass about his face. The proprietor smiled quietly to himself and shook his head, as if finding something difficult to believe.

“I just see myself,” said Sylas with a shrug.

Mr Zhi chuckled. “I’m afraid this will not be easy. You would not need money in my shop, but my Things still come at a price: the struggle to understand.” He moved the mirrors a little closer to Sylas. “The trick with these mirrors is not to look—”

Suddenly there was a noise at the back of the shop: the clunk of a door closing, the snap of a latch. Mr Zhi frowned and quickly closed the mirrors, pushing them into the nearest pile of Things.

“Please wait here,” he said, then set out quickly towards the back of the shop.

There was something about the way he had hidden the mirrors that alarmed Sylas. It was clear at once that whoever had entered by the back door was not expected. Instinctively he took a few paces after Mr Zhi, but when he saw a large shadow move across the candlelight on the ceiling, he stopped.

Mr Zhi turned. “Stand very still,” he said. “I’ll be straight back.”

A shiver went through Sylas. All of a sudden, Mr Zhi sounded worried. Very worried.

“Here miracles rise from the earth and awe is in the air; here
wonder flows over and, like a mountain spring, never runs dry…”

S
YLAS STOOD STILL
,
AS
he had been told, and listened.

At first he heard nothing but Mr Zhi’s footsteps, but then came the sound of voices. Low voices, speaking quickly in urgent tones. He could not hear what was being said, but one of the speakers was Mr Zhi. The other voice was deep and masculine, speaking in murmurings that resonated through the shop but were impossible to make out. There was a quick exchange between the two men, and then suddenly the strange voice boomed loud and clear.

“No! It must be now! Today!”

Then, for a long time, the voices were a mumble.

Finally, after Sylas felt like he had been standing there for hours, Mr Zhi came back into the room.

“My apologies!” he said as he strode back towards Sylas. His face bore the same calm, amiable expression as before, but Sylas noticed that he was walking even more quickly. “That was my new assistant – I had quite forgotten that we had arranged to meet, so much was I enjoying your visit!”

“That’s fine,” said Sylas. “Is everything... all right?”

“Oh, quite all right, though I am sorry to say that we will not have as much time as I had hoped.” The shopkeeper blew out his cheeks and fingered his little beard, eyeing the pile of Things where he had deposited the mirrors. “In fact... yes... yes, sadly I think we must leave the mirrors for another time...”

He turned on his heel and marched back towards the rear of the shop. “Come on, young man! The second Thing must wait, but the third Thing is by far the most exciting of all!” Sylas shook his head in bewilderment and set out after him – this shop was getting stranger and stranger.

When they reached the back of the shop, there was no sign of the assistant, though Sylas noticed that the back door was slightly ajar. Meanwhile the shopkeeper had dropped to his knees behind the counter. All that could be seen of him was the very top of his odd little hat, which bobbed and danced as he scrabbled around on the low shelves.

“This third Thing is marvellous in its own right,” mumbled Mr Zhi as he threw unwanted Things over his shoulder, “but it will also help you to understand...” He grunted as he paused to look at something. “...To understand the others. This is it!” He murmured with satisfaction and stood up, dusting the creased lapels of his jacket. He gave Sylas an excited wink and then lifted something above the broken surface of the counter. It was another parcel, but different from all the others. It was an oblong about the size of a novel, covered with some kind of leather, which was folded over neatly on all sides and fastened with twine, tied in a bow at the top. The old man had placed his gloved hand on top of it, as though part of him didn’t want his most special of Things to be seen. He turned it over and ran a finger over the wrinkled leather.

The candles crackled and spat, the dancing flames making the shadows shift. Mr Zhi held the parcel for another moment with both hands, running his thumbs over the leather wrapping. Then he squeezed it fondly as if bidding it farewell and pushed it across the counter.

“Take a look at this.”

Sylas’s eyes ran over the neat folds of worn leather and the carefully tied twine that bound it. As he took hold of it, he felt the same stirrings of excitement that he had experienced when he had first entered the shop. It was surprisingly warm to the touch, the leather soft and yielding against his skin.

With a glance at Mr Zhi, he took hold of one end of the twine and pulled. The knot untied itself instantly and both the twine and the soft leather wrapping fell away as though they were made of silk.

Sylas’s eyes widened. “Wow...” he whispered.

Between his palms lay the most exquisite book he had ever seen. The cover was made of mottled brown leather that had seen better days, its once smooth finish now dented and grazed by its many years of use. But into this drab leather had been laid the most beautiful decorations of gold, silver and dark red stones.

Sylas turned it so that it caught the candlelight and saw that they formed a pattern: a row of gems, seven on each edge, placed on the outside of a stitched, golden zigzag that ran along the four sides, the thread sewn so tightly that the stitches could hardly be seen. Within this border a superbly adorned symbol had been laid into the leather: a large snaking S made of gold at the top and silver at the bottom. The back cover was beautiful too, with the same zigzagging border around its four edges, this time in silver. He looked back at Mr Zhi and saw that the old man was also transfixed by the book. It took a moment for their eyes to meet. “It’s beautiful,” said Sylas in a whisper. “Is it old?”

“Very old.”

“And what does the S mean?”

“Most people who know about this book call it the Samarok, and it is thought that the S comes from that name. Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Yes – yes, of course.”

Sylas allowed the book to fall open. The pages turned in a flurry of paper until they settled on what must have been the weakest part of the binding, towards the end of the book. The first thing to strike him was the wonderful woody, rich aroma of old books – much more intense than he had smelt before – like dry oak leaves on a forest floor. Then he saw the words, written in black lettering that marched a little irregularly across the page, the lines undulating slightly as they went. It was not a printed book, but one written by hand.

He looked up at Mr Zhi, who was placing some spectacles on his nose.

“Someone wrote this by hand?”

“Not one person, Sylas, many,” replied the shopkeeper, clearly enjoying Sylas’s amazement. He leaned over and peered through his spectacles at the open book. “Have a look.”

Sylas turned the page with great care and saw that the next was written in strange looping tails and graceful lines. The page opposite was written in another crowded, huddling scrawl. He flicked through towards the front of the book and, sure enough, almost every page was written in a new hand, with smudges here and crossings-out there, giving the appearance of some sort of collected journal. But when he reached a point around halfway through, the style changed and it was written in one measured, unremarkable hand in almost perfectly straight lines. There were still errors, and parts of pages were faded and illegible, but it looked far more like a normal book.

“There are two parts to the book,” explained Mr Zhi. “The first part is a copy of an ancient text that has now been lost. These few pages are all that remain of many volumes, which were written to provide answers to some of the questions we have spoken about.

The second part is a collection of writings by many people, each of whom followed a path not unlike the one that lies ahead of you.” Sylas frowned and looked up. “What
path
?”

Mr Zhi simply smiled. “We’ll come to that. Read me a line or two,” he said.

Sylas shrugged, pressed down two pages and ran his eyes along the first line. The shapes of the letters and even the words seemed familiar, but they made no sense. He started at the beginning again, but for some reason the letters did not form words. “Strange…” he mumbled.

He turned to a page at the back of the book, which was written in an old-fashioned, slanting hand. Again, he stared at the first line, trying to make sense of it. He shook his head, turned the page and began running his finger over the first sentence of another entry, but after a few moments he stopped and let out a sigh. “I don’t get it,” he said. “The words look familiar, but they don’t make sense. Is it another language?”

“Not a language,” replied Mr Zhi, smiling once again. “A cipher. A code.”

Sylas’s eyes leapt back to the page. “A
code
?”

“Yes. Time is short, but let us just try one final thing before you go. Close the book.”

Sylas pressed the ancient covers shut.

“Now, clear your mind, and remove all thoughts of what you have just seen in the book. When I say so, I want you to open the book again, but this time don’t expect to be able to read what you find. In fact, I want you to think of something else entirely – anything, as long as it is not to do with books or writing of any kind.”

Sylas knew that he would find that very easy. He closed his eyes and the image of his mother’s face instantly filled his mind. “When you have that thought in your head, you may open the book,” said Mr Zhi in a whisper.

Sylas clung to the image of his mother, then quickly opened his eyes and picked up the book. He turned to a page somewhere in the second part and cast his eyes over the strange, carefully drafted script.

It looked as it had before, written in a strange hand in a dark ink, but as his eyes focused on the first word, he saw to his amazement that it was not made up of letters as he had previously thought, but strange symbols. They were not familiar – they were not even similar to those in the alphabet, but were much more complex, forming patterns that rose and fell from each line.

Sylas looked up at Mr Zhi in astonishment.

“But... the words didn’t look like this a minute ago.” “What did they look like?” asked Mr Zhi, clearly enjoying himself.

“I’m not sure…” said Sylas. “Like normal words, I suppose.” “That’s right, because that is what you
thought
you would see.

The brilliance of this cipher is that it tricks your eye into seeing whatever you expect. You thought you would see words written in English, so that is what you saw. But they were meaningless. In truth you were looking at one of the world’s most ancient codes: a cipher known as
Ravel Runes
.”

Sylas repeated the words under his breath.

“The problem for anyone trying to read Ravel Runes is that they must first learn to see the symbols as they really are, before they can even begin to work out what they might stand for.” Sylas looked back at the book and, sure enough, the writing once again looked encouragingly familiar and easy to read. But it made no sense. He blinked hard.

“That’s
weird
,” he said, shaking his head and laughing. “Just weird!”

“Weird is one way of putting it,” said Mr Zhi with a smile, “and wonderful is another. Ravel Runes are difficult enough to read, but just
imagine
how hard they are to write. Think of the
time
it takes.” He leaned over the counter and for a while they both stared in silence at the writing, admiring the hand that wrote it.

“Time!” cried Sylas suddenly. He scrambled for his wristwatch. “The time! I’ll miss the post! My uncle will kill me!” To miss the post was unthinkable. His uncle had two major topics of conversation: the importance of timeliness and the
supreme
importance of his correspondence. He would see a failure to catch the post as a conspiracy to overturn all that was good in the world: a capital offence punishable by interminable lectures on both topics for at least a week.

Sylas snatched up his rucksack and in a blind panic started off down one of the dark corridors of Things. As he left the sphere of candlelight, he found himself peering into the darkness of several passages, none of which looked familiar.

He heard a kindly chuckle behind him.

“Calm yourself, Sylas,” said Mr Zhi, walking up. “I’ll show you out, but first, take this.”

He pushed the Samarok into Sylas’s hands.

Sylas looked at him in surprise. “You mean… to keep?” “To keep. You have much more use for it than I.” “But I… I can’t!” cried Sylas as he followed Mr Zhi towards the front of the shop.

“But it’s already yours, Sylas, I’ve given it to you.” Sylas hesitated for a moment, but then shook his head. “Thank you,” he said, “really, but I don’t know what I’d do with it! I don’t understand the code.”

“You will,” replied Mr Zhi.

As they emerged from the warren of parcels and stepped into the light, the shopkeeper turned and smiled.

“I have a motto, young man, one that has served me very well: ‘Do not fear what you do not understand.’ You have much to learn about the world you live in, but most of all about yourself – about who you are and where you are from. The Samarok will help you on that journey.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that –
what
journey?”

asked Sylas, more confused than ever.

Mr Zhi took hold of the door handle and let the great din of the passing road into the shop.

“The Samarok is yours, and its journey of discovery will be yours too. Only you will know when that journey has begun, and where it is taking you. All I can offer you is this.” He pulled a sma ll white envelope from his pocket and held it out to Sylas. “What is it?”

“It will help you to decipher the runes,” said Mr Zhi. He held out his gloved hand and grasped Sylas’s in a handshake. “Now, you must go.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say nothing,” said the shopkeeper.

Sylas paused for a moment and looked into Mr Zhi’s kindly eyes. He felt he had made a friend and he wanted to say that he would be back, but somehow he knew that Mr Zhi had shown him the Things that he wanted to show, and that was the end of it. He walked through the doorway and peered into the street beyond. It looked even colder and gloomier than it had before. The sky was bleak and threatening and the blanket of cloud seemed to brush the top of Gabblety Row. Rain lashed the passing cars, which threw it angrily back into the air to form a silver-grey mist above the road. The noise was a shock after the quiet seclusion of the Shop of Things: the hiss of tyres on the wet road, the growl of ill-tempered engines and the splatter of rain on the pavement.

Sylas could hardly bring himself to step outside.

“Go now.” Mr Zhi’s voice was gentle but firm.

Sylas pushed the book inside his jacket and stepped into the street, gasping slightly as the first cold raindrops splattered on his face. He turned to look one more time at the old man in the halfdarkness of the doorway. The shopkeeper was leaning against the door frame in a way that only emphasised the untidiness of his dishevelled grey suit.

“Thank you, Mr Zhi,” said Sylas. And then with sudden determination he added, “I’ll try to understand. I will.” Mr Zhi smiled broadly and gave a low bow. “That is all that I can ask. And that is all your mother would ask.”