The Bell Between Worlds (30 page)

“Is that what you think?”

Ash met his eyes. “No. It means everything.”

Sylas lay back and considered this for a moment. “How do you mean it’s gone on for generations?”

Ash looked at him questioningly.

“Well, you said it was all Thoth’s doing, so how could it have been happening for generations?”

Ash exchanged glances with Bayleon. “Thoth has been around longer than anyone can remember. He was alive before my father, and before my father’s father. He’s as inevitable as the rise of day.” He spat over the side of the boat. “And as the fall of night.”

They soon passed the final scattered dwellings on the outskirts of town and the river swept them out into the open countryside: tilled fields waiting for the first sowing of spring; wild pastures, home to teeming herds of sheep and cattle; hedgerows and coppices hanging over the waters; verdant woods full of ancient trees.

Sylas looked across at the tiny flotilla of boats clinging to the wave. It seemed even smaller than it had in town. So few, he thought, so very few. The plight of the Suhl seemed so hopeless – their lives so precarious. He thought of Thoth and the Undoing and everything they had lost, and he wondered how they carried on – how none of them seemed cowed or broken by what had happened at the bridge. There was no sign of relief or joy on those sallow faces, but neither was there any evidence of defeat. Instead they talked in soft tones among themselves or sat quietly, thoughtfully, their eyes fixed resolutely on the grey horizon.

Soon the occupants of one boat began to sing, quietly at first but then louder so that the others heard and joined in. Bayleon struck up in a deep baritone and Simia and Ash followed him. Sylas did not recognise it at first, but then came a verse that he knew. It was the song Filimaya had sung at the mill.

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 nations fall, when day is done,

When all is lost, when naught is won,

What nobler charge, what cause so great

As brother’s plight and kindred’s fate?

Sylas listened for a while and then joined them in their song, humming the haunting melody. And, as they all sang, that feeble company gathered its strength and became one: united and defiant. To his surprise, Sylas felt his eyes burning and he swallowed down a wave of emotion. How proud he was to be one of their number. One of these desperate, courageous few.

As the wave surged on, the mood in the surviving boats began to change. They knew that sanctuary was growing near and the singing gave way to a new, animated chatter. They spoke excitedly about the impending fork in the river, which would take them deep into the river’s sleepy meanders, through the hills, far into the sprawling labyrinth of tributaries and byways, oxbows and rivulets that would keep them safe from discovery. And, from there, they would soon find their brethren, hidden deep in the forested hills of the Valley of Outs.

This was the topic of conversation in most of the boats, but not all. The travellers in Sylas’s boat grew quiet in their anticipation. They knew that their fork in the river would take them somewhere else entirely, somewhere alien and dark, bleak and dangerous.

Sylas rested with his back against Simia’s, looking out at the other boats gliding down the river, at Filimaya talking and smiling with the others, her hand still outstretched over the wave. He lifted his eyes and saw the great forested hills looming ahead, some covered with the skeletal shapes of winter-barren trees, others bearing a dark green blanket of evergreens. He watched as the ground started to rise around them and the banks became steep and rocky, climbing slowly towards the grey sky. Once again he was in the hills, and they seemed to be welcoming him back. But how much more he knew now, as he came to them again. About this world, about himself, about his mother.

His eyes shifted to his backpack. He reached down and drew the Samarok from it, holding the ancient book for the first time since the Den of Scribes. His fingers traced the hard-cut gems, the leaves of parchment, the soft leather, and he found his mind drifting back to Mr Zhi, to the day that now seemed so long ago when he had been given the mysterious Third Thing. How confused he had been, how lost he had felt.

“
You have much to learn about the world you live in, but most of all about… who you are,
” Mr Zhi had said, “
and where you are from.
”

How true that had proved to be.

For some moments he flicked through the pages of the Samarok, scanning the strange runes and countless entries, and his thoughts turned to his encounter with Fathray.

“…
your journey to the Magruman and your journey to find your mother are one and the same
,” the gentle Scribe had said.

Sylas’s gaze rose from the Samarok to the river and the wave that drove them onwards towards the Barrens. His eyes travelled over the passing rocks, the towering forests that shrouded the hilltops; then still higher, up into the darkening sky, where a great grey blanket had dulled the encroaching sunset to a pallid glow. There, far above the green canopy, he saw the dark shapes of giant birds turning lightly on the breeze, tilting on invisible currents to form graceful, intersecting circles in the void. It was another familiar sight, like the birds he had watched from Gabblety Row, flying high over the distant hills, calling him on.

He was meant to be here. He knew that now. Just as Filimaya had said, this strange place
was
a mirror to his own world – not an alien world, but one that brought him closer to understanding his own. Already it had taught him about himself and about his past, about his mother and hers. And it held many more answers – he was sure of it. Perhaps, after all, this mysterious journey was his best chance of being with her again.

“
I’ll try to understand
,” he had told Mr Zhi.

“
That is all that I can ask. And that is all your mother would ask
,” was the reply.

He looked downriver, towards the deep ravines in the hills and the glowering sky above the Barrens, and for the first time he felt ready for what lay ahead.

“I’m coming for you, Mum,” he murmured. “I’m coming.”

“In these barren wastes
our darkest shame
O’erhangs where once the greenest bowers grew…”

A
T FIRST
S
YLAS WAS
only dimly aware of it, for it was not the presence of something, but rather an absence. He walked on, the river far behind him now, hardly knowing that anything was wrong, but feeling a growing tightness in his stomach. Sweat pricked the back of his neck, as if his body was trying to tell him that something was amiss. And then, as they walked across a small clearing in the densely thicketed forest floor, he realised what it was.

Silence.

The birds had stopped singing. The insects no longer chirruped in the undergrowth. The great canopy of trees was silent and still, for even the hilltop breeze had died.

It had not happened suddenly but gradually, so that he could not know how long it had been, but now it was absolute and suffocating. He felt oddly disoriented, as though this thick, heavy silence was like a descending blanket of darkness.

Suddenly he heard a sharp crack somewhere ahead. The snap of a twig. He peered through the bushes and caught a glimpse of red hair, stark and bright against the thick undergrowth.

Simia. Just Simia.

He breathed deeply and picked up his pace, keen to catch up with the others. His boots crushed the leaves and twigs, rustles echoing from the trunks of nearby trees. He flinched and glanced about him, feeling that surely something out there was watching him, mocking him. He kept moving, pushing aside branches and bushes, forcing his way through the undergrowth until he drew near to Simia.

To his surprise, she seemed entirely unperturbed as she marched steadily through the forest, her great coat pulled tightly round her against the cold, humming a tune while coiling a strand of her hair round a finger.

She turned and raised an eyebrow, looking amused. “Something wrong?”

Sylas frowned and spread his arms wide. “What do you mean, ‘
something wrong
’? Can’t you hear it?”

Simia paused, drew a long breath of dank forest air and listened to the silence.

“Nope,” she said, moving on.

“But why’s it gone so
quiet
?” demanded Sylas, falling in behind her.

“It’s just the way of this place,” she said, not turning, but the smile fading from her lips. “You’ll see.”

She picked her way onwards through the forest, her slight figure shifting nimbly this way and that despite the heavy folds of her coat, deftly dodging bushes, logs and low branches. Hardly reassured, Sylas glanced about him for his other two companions. He could just about make out the lithe shape of Ash somewhere far ahead, the faint, colourless light occasionally catching his great nest of wayward blond locks, but the bear-like form of Bayleon was nowhere to be seen, already lost among the silhouettes of mighty trunks and the dank overhang of leaves.

The quiet settled about Sylas once again, cold and heavy. He felt the chill biting at him through his tunic, pooling in his lungs. He tightened his belt and picked up his pace, glancing hopefully up at the canopy of leaves, yearning for a glimpse of brightness, a ray of sunshine. But there was nothing. The silence had brought with it a slow, gathering mist: a featureless fog that hung about the highest branches, robbing them of light, shape and colour. And that was when Sylas realised that it was not just the sounds of the forest that had deserted them, it was the colour too.

Gone were the livid greens and rich textures of the riverside trees where they had moored their boat; gone were the dappled pigments of moss and crisp dried leaves that had splashed the forest floor as they had made their way up that lush gorge; gone too were the greens, browns, oranges and yellows that had mottled their path. In their place, their poor cousin had taken hold, something less wholesome.

A creeping, doleful grey.

The shapes and features of the forest were still visible, but all had been infected by a contagion of grey, sucking from them all that made them distinct and beautiful. Leaves, branches, bushes, logs, even the very earth, were only distinguished by the drabbest shade of grey. Light and dark had themselves surrendered, giving way to the plague of drabness, becoming mere shades of that lifeless hue, so that there were no contrasts upon which to focus the eyes, no absolute forms, no respite.

“What
is
this place?” Sylas murmured to himself.

He reached out to a nearby bush and ran his fingers through the leaves, which left a cold slimy trail across his fingers. His instinct was to pull his hand away in disgust, but instead he pulled the slippery branch down towards him and peered at the leaves. In most respects they looked normal, with the delicate veins and elegant shapes entirely intact, but they were utterly devoid of colour. He reached up with his other hand, took hold of one of them between his thumb and forefinger and pulled. It separated like wet tissue paper and broke up on his fingertips, quickly becoming a grey sludge, like damp ash.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Simia change direction. She walked towards a dense mass of foliage that seemed, if it was possible, even greyer than its surroundings, and there he spotted the waiting forms of Bayleon and Ash. They were deep in conversation, apparently discussing the route ahead. He was reassured by their easy manner, and by Bayleon’s massive, imposing presence: his well-worn, weathered features gave him the look of one accustomed to such wild places.

Sylas wiped his hand on his coat and set out to join them.

“Unnerving, isn’t it?” said Bayleon with a gentle smile as he walked up.

Sylas nodded. “What
is
this place?”

Ash puffed out his cheeks. “Nowhere. Nothing,” he said. He nodded towards the tangled mass of colourless leaves. “It’s what’s through there that you ought to be worried about.”

Sylas shot Simia a questioning glance.

“What he means to say,” she said with a smile, “is that this is just the edge of it, the beginning.”

“The beginning of
what
...?” pressed Sylas.

“Of the Barrens, Sylas,” said Bayleon, placing an encouraging hand on his shoulder. “The Barrens of Salsimaine.”

Sylas looked about him, a little confused. Somehow this was not how he expected the Barrens to be. He opened his mouth to say so, but saw Bayleon had already turned away and with his great arm was pushing at the veil of foliage. It buckled and snapped with surprising ease, pallid grey light showing between the branches.

“Welcome to the Barrens, Sylas.”

Sylas found himself looking at a towering wall of featureless grey. But, as he looked more closely at the blank space, he squinted and blinked. He could see movement: great leaden clouds of grey drifting and billowing, granite shadows beneath and in their midst, tracing a path above, a trailing, ashen blanket. It was not a wall of grey at all, but a vista of staggering breadth and depth, stretching from his high viewpoint as far as the eye could see.