The Forest of Lost Souls (12 page)

R
EMINISCENS STOPPED SPEAKING
. S
HE STOOD THERE
motionless, her hands crossed in front of her. The shocked Runaways gazed at her, deeply moved by her story. The Lunatrixa
sniffled
, breaking the heavy silence.

“My dear Reminiscens…” murmured Leomido, his face white. “I couldn’t have acted any differently.”

“Don’t blame yourself.”

“My hands were tied!” raged Leomido, clenching his fists.

“Let’s not rake over the past,” advised Reminiscens. “What’s done is done. We have to learn to live with our unhappiness as best we can.”

“I didn’t know any of that. How terrible,” muttered Oksa
miserably
. Reminiscens looked at her helplessly, then stood up, her head held high.

“Anyway, we should probably get going, shouldn’t we?”

“There’s an amazing view from up there—I’ll bet you’ve never seen anything like it!” said Gus.

The Incompetent gazed at him vacantly as he took its hand, and they set off towards the rounded hilltop.

“Hey!” said the Incompetent, suddenly straightening up. “That means young Zoe is Reminiscens and Leomido’s granddaughter!”

“Um… yes,” confirmed Oksa. “And, to be honest, Incompetent, we’ve only known for the past four months!”

“Four months?” continued the creature in amazement. “Oh! So that’s why I didn’t know…”

“What a dope!” snorted Gus.

Oksa quickened her pace, and when she arrived at the top of the hill she realized what Gus had meant about the view: an endless desert of dark velvety hills stretched as far as the eye could see. What was incredible about this landscape, though, wasn’t its immensity, but the fact that the hills were moving with a loud murmur. They were hypnotically
undulating
at regular intervals, like waves in a sea of vegetation, and their silky covering of heather shimmered with each ebb and flow.

“Wow,” exclaimed Oksa in amazement, “it looks just like the sea! It makes you want to dive right in—”

“Don’t!” urged Gus, holding her back by the arm as she started to head for the strange expanse. “I’m not sure what would happen, but I don’t think you’d better try.”

“He’s right,” agreed Tugdual, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. “I have a nasty feeling that if you jumped in, you’d be swallowed like a fly by a carnivorous plant!”

Oksa shivered and stepped back in alarm. Gus glared at Tugdual, who gave him a deceptively innocent smile.

“Look, Oksa!” said Gus, pointing up. “Look at the sky!”

Oksa looked up and stared open-mouthed: the sky, which was as mauve as the patches she’d glimpsed in the Forest of No Return, was studded with planets spinning very fast around an enormous disc, which was radiating thousands of purple rays and seemed to serve as a sun.

“Where on earth are we?” murmured Oksa, fascinated.

“Would you like some precise details?” offered the Tumble-Bawler.

“I’ll take anything you have!” replied Oksa, looking sceptical.

“We’re still in Great Britain, in the west centre of London, of that I’m sure,” continued the Tumble-Bawler. “But our location has changed: we’re now in Bigtoe Square, top floor, in what is generally called the private workroom of the Old Gracious, south wall, three feet, eleven inches from
the ground, ten feet, eight inches from the west corner, eleven feet, two inches from the east corner. I might also add that we’re on a table and that three pairs of eyes are looking at us.”

The Runaways followed the Tumble-Bawler’s gaze, which was fixed on the mauve sky.

“How can it know that?” murmured Gus, narrowing his eyes.

“I don’t know it, Young Master,” replied the small conical creature, wobbling on the heather. “I can see it!”

“It’s right!” shrieked Oksa suddenly. “Look! You can see shadows in the sky!”

They all looked up again, redoubling their attention. Shadows were moving across the strange sky, like shifting clouds scudding along or coming together, creating a growing sensation that there was someone there.

“The shadows aren’t in the sky, Young Mistress,” explained the Tumble-Bawler. “They’re behind the sky. Look! One of them is examining us!”

Just above the small group, a dark, partial circle darkened the sky. Suddenly they could make out the outline of a face and they all recognized Dragomira.

“Baba!” Oksa began yelling. “BABA! WE’RE HERE!”

But Baba Pollock didn’t notice anything as she examined the interior of the picture, and the Runaways’ desperate cries and waves didn’t reach Dragomira’s eyes or ears. The old lady’s face eventually disappeared from the mauve sky, leaving the occupants of the picture feeling disheartened.

“We’re now rolled up in a tube three inches in diameter and tied by a leather cord seventeen inches long,” announced the Tumble-Bawler, breaking the deathly silence. “The Old Gracious has put the picture in a wooden case, made of beech wood, I think. We’re now concealed in a secret hiding place in the private workroom, behind the portrait of the Old Gracious’s son.”

“The Granok recess!” exclaimed Oksa. “That’s good, we’re safe. Hey, look over there! That could be the butterfly from the forest!”

Examining the sky, the Runaways spotted the magnificent black butterfly, which was growing larger with every second as it neared the hill.

“It’s the Wayfinder of the Envoy of the Soul-Searcher!” explained Gus.

“Have you seen it before?” asked Oksa in surprise. “Do you know the Envoy?”

Gus explained to the Runaways how he’d met the crow and then relayed the valuable—and somewhat alarming—instructions the latter had given him.

“Well, at least we know we’re not alone,” remarked Oksa, after telling Gus what she knew about the mysterious process of Impicturement.

The butterfly had joined the group and was listening attentively to the two friends’ conversation, nodding its head from time to time. All at once it began hovering in front of Oksa.

“You must flee, Young Gracious!” it boomed in a guttural voice. “Flee, Runaways!” it repeated. “Flee before the Void gets you. You must save the Young Gracious!”

“Look over there!” said Pavel suddenly, in a hollow voice. “What is that?”

“It’s the Void!” replied the butterfly. “Hurry, it’s coming!”

In the distance, an enormous dark mass was drawing closer with a terrifying roar, consuming everything in its path—sky, planets and rippling hills.

“Run!” shouted the butterfly, hastily fluttering towards the foot of the hill.

Realizing the danger they were in, the Runaways began racing down the hill in a panic. The butterfly flew in front of them, guiding them towards a cave at the foot of another hill, thirty or so yards away.

“Make for the cave!” boomed the Wayfinder’s voice. “The Void won’t enter the cave!”

“The Incompetent!” shrieked Oksa suddenly, glancing behind. “We forgot the Incompetent!”

Pavel stopped dead and, without a moment’s hesitation, began running back up the hill he’d just come down.

“Dad!” screamed Oksa. “No! Don’t go back!”

But Pavel had already gone. Abakum seized Oksa’s hand and dragged her towards the cave as Pavel reached the top of the hill. The bone-idle Incompetent, true to form, hadn’t budged an inch. Pavel snatched up the creature but, before retracing his steps, he couldn’t help glancing at the landscape and blanched immediately at the alarming sight: the gently undulating Maritime Hills were now tossing wildly as if whipped up by a terrible storm. Waves of soil and vegetation were thrown against the sky, which turned frighteningly dark as the Void gained ground. It was as if the landscape wanted to muster all possible resistance against this unstoppable force. It was a futile battle though: the Void was inescapable, devouring every living thing with a monstrous roar.

“DAD! QUICK!”

Oksa’s urgent tone distracted Pavel from this apocalyptic sight. Roused from his daze, he whirled round and raced down the hill, leaping over the heather, terror lending him strength. The Runaways were now all safe in the cave and were waiting for him at the entrance, distraught with anxiety.

“Dad! Hurry!” screamed Oksa, wringing her hands.

The Void was gaining on Pavel and the Incompetent. Oksa’s father dashed forward in a final spurt of energy, his back burning so badly that it felt like it was about to burst into flame. Oksa kept her eyes on her father in an agony of fear, when suddenly she thought she was seeing things: long dragon wings had just sprouted from his back. It only took four beats of the outspread, blazing wings for Pavel to reach the cave, watched incredulously by his daughter, then his wings resumed their tattooed outline and he skidded uncontrollably inside. A few seconds later, the mouth of the cave was shrouded in darkness. The roar stopped and an icy breath of air invaded the refuge of the Runaways.

W
ITH A DEEP SIGH,
D
RAGOMIRA CAREFULLY PLACED
a wooden tube inside the small secret alcove in the wall and closed it. Two weeks before, Pavel and Oksa had allowed themselves to be Impictured with their loyal friends to help Gus. A risky undertaking whose outcome no one could predict.

“It’s been so long,” sighed Baba Pollock again. “I miss them so much…”

The Lunatrix came over and stood in front of his mistress, shifting from one foot to the other.

“The Old Gracious must preserve faith in her heart,” he said in his shrill little voice. “The Young Gracious will experience extreme adventures, but the company of the Runaways will procure her
protection
and aid. And the father of the Young Gracious—alias the son of the Old Gracious—will be the one to beget the most unexpected and influential strength.”

“Dear Pavel,” whispered Dragomira, looking at her Lunatrix sceptically. “He was so reluctant to go along with our decision!”

“Reluctance does not prevent belief from being securely fastened,” said the Lunatrix. Dragomira looked at him attentively and, with a sad smile, nodded.

“I like your comments, my dear Lunatrix. They’re always enigmatic but, when you work out what they mean, you realize they’re always accurate.”

“The Lunatrixes possess the awareness of the truth residing in all Gracious hearts, so the Old Gracious can rest all her confidence on her obedient Lunatrixes.”

“I shall do exactly that,” Dragomira assured him.

“Nonetheless, the Old Gracious must have the information that Felony is on the prowl. Danger is not only situated within the interior of the picture, but also on the exterior. Friends are deceiving the Old Gracious and wish to take possession of the picture in order to lay hands on the Young Gracious when she emerges.”

“Friends?” asked Dragomira in amazement, the blood draining from her face. “What friends?”

“The Old Gracious has the knowledge that her Lunatrix does not know. The Lunatrix does not know, he senses. The picture will sustain the violent covetousness of the Felons, it is imperative to protect it.”

Dragomira directed a worried glance at the hidden alcove in the wall.

“No one will find this hiding place—no one!” she declared, trembling.

“The Felons possess cunning,” replied the Lunatrix. “Cunning and cruelty which make them mightier than the Runaways and the Old Gracious.”

Dragomira sank into a purple velvet armchair and began thinking hard, her head tilted to one side and her eyes half-closed. She groaned, upset by the Lunatrix’s revelations. The creatures and plants in her private workroom stopped what they were doing and held their breath to avoid breaking the old lady’s train of thought. Only the Ptitchkins—her tiny golden birds—flew over and perched on her shoulder, where they stayed without moving a feather. An hour later, Dragomira roused herself from her reverie and leapt up. The Goranov, which had been watching her all that time, jumped with a loud rustle of its leaves.

“I’d imagine we’re in great danger if the Old Gracious is in this state,” remarked the stressed plant. “We’re all going to die!”

“Stop frightening everyone, you freak!” mocked a dishevelled creature.

“Be quiet, Getorix!” retorted the Goranov. “I’m the one in the front line!”

“In the front line for what?” sniggered the hairy creature. “In the front line for complaining, that’s for sure!”

“You seem to forget that I’m a valuable plant!” said the Goranov, its leaves quivering with annoyance. “Without me, there’d be no Granok-Shooters, no Caskinettes, no Crucimaphila and no Werewall Elixir!”

Dragomira gave a start.

“What did you just say?” she asked eagerly, leaning towards the Goranov.

“Without me, there’d be no Granok-Shooters, no Caskinettes, no Crucimaphila and no Werewall Elixir!” repeated the Goranov, shaking its leaves harder and harder. “The production of that vile potion is what led to the largest sacrifice of Goranovs of all time, and don’t you forget it! The Werewalls were nowhere near as careful as the Granokologists, who’ve always milked us gently and considerately. No!” screamed the Goranov, angrily flapping its foliage. “Instead of milking us, those Werewall monsters made incisions in our stems—deep incisions from which some of us never recovered! I don’t want to go through that again. Ever!”

And the poor plant fainted, as all its leaves went limp and collapsed along its main stem. Dragomira went to find a small spray bottle which she used on each of the Goranov’s leaves.

“Is that a new remedy, Old Gracious?” asked the Getorix, casually lifting a leaf which immediately sagged again.

“Yes,” confirmed Dragomira. “Haltocollapsus, very effective in dealing with our dear Goranov’s fainting fits.”

“You look worried, Old Gracious,” continued the Getorix, sticking its nose in the small bottle.

Dragomira nodded.

“I am, Getorix, I am. The Goranov isn’t known for its moderation, but its extreme behaviour always has some basis in reality. And what it just
said makes a great deal of sense: it’s a key ingredient in all our secret
formulas
. And those made by our enemies, which is why we have a problem. What it said about the Werewall Elixir is also something I hadn’t taken into consideration. The Goranov is the most powerful particle catalyst in existence. Do you understand what that means?”

“Absolutely, Old Gracious,” replied the Getorix, the hair on its small head standing on end.

“In this house, we have four indescribably important treasures: the picture, the Lunatrix, who is the Guardian of the Definitive Landmark, Malorane’s medallion and the Goranov. They possess great power, but they also make us extremely vulnerable…”

Saying this, she hurried towards the narrow staircase leading down to her apartment. She walked through the double-bass case, placed her hand against its plywood back and the case closed on the spiral staircase, hiding the entrance to her private workroom. With an impatient gesture, she swept all the clutter off the huge table at the back of the apartment and set to work.