McVale held out her hand to check, also. As if on cue, a raindrop landed in her palm. It was not clear, but dirty. She lifted her hand and showed it to Yas to take a closer look.
“Change,” she said simply.
“Ink?” asked Yas, who could see other spots landing on McVale’s hand.
“Yes, like strings of words,” McVale continued, looking around her for more signs. “Do you know the saying ‘a picture paints a thousand words’?”
“Yes?” Yas asked, intrigued.
“Well you see,” replied McVale. “The ink is the building material for the imagination.”
“Ahh,” said Yas, things clicking into place. “So, ink is the magic creating the realms? Fuelled by writers and readers?”
“Very good,” replied McVale. “You’re a quick learner. Yes, ink plays an important part in the formation of the realms. Each raindrop has the potential for part of a word, or part of the construct within the realm. So quite literally, the ink ultimately paints what is around us.”
Yas stretched out her hand further. She waited until an ink drop landed in her palm and then looked at it closely. It was dark blue for a moment and then the drop seemed to clear, leaving a trace of a string inside that moved, like a worm or larvae inside an egg. It itched her skin.
McVale pointed to her hand. “The origin of the phrase is believed to be oriental. Probably early Guardians who understood the nature of the realms. We now know that it is possible to influence creation and destruction of realms. For the most part Guardians simply try to preserve and promote the natural flow of readers’ intentions.”
Yas’s hand had now received several raindrops. It was possible to make out different shades of ink, a little like an oily surface, but more defined, with strands of colour rather than smears.
“Rain is simply change, continued McVale.” She looked up and down the street. “Look up there,” she said, pointing to the sky behind them. It looked incredibly dark, with streaks of black reaching down from the rain clouds to the rooftops. “We’re in for quite the storm.” McVale motioned to a shop front for which the door was inset under a porch. “Let’s take cover.”
They moved under the porch and looked up the street. The dark cloud moved closer, the rain becoming more persistent. Yas could make out bricks and structures of houses simply coming away from their fixings. Strains and groans of metal and pipework accompanied the pulling apart of bricks. Pieces came apart in a strange slow-motion dance, giving Yas and McVale glimpses through into the interior. They saw lamps and chairs and bookcases on the walls and then the scene reforming. Some walls moved entirely. Others reformed to be mostly the same, but the style of the window changed, or the shop front underneath was different. Décor, signs and numbers changed. It was as if people dressed in black were moving across the stage in a line, matching the leading edge of the rain, and preparing it for the next scene of a play. It was quite magical to watch, and a little unnerving.
“Should we move?” Yas asked as she saw the moving brickwork coming ever closer to them.
“I think we should be safe here,” replied McVale. “It has a tendency to preserve a space around living matter.”
The rain started to hammer down around them now. It seemed to literally wash away all traces of life in front of them, intent on forming whatever the next scene was. It all seemed quite beautiful really. Everything seemed to have a careful orchestration. Above them, there were strains and the sound of bricks scraping across each other as the shopfront changed to become a pawnbroker, with metal bars on the window.
The street that they had come along changed for somewhere less upmarket and more busy. There was more dirt and grime on the ground. It was still of the same period, although Yas could not tell if the year it portrayed was the same.
The shop porch they had taken cover underneath transformed above them, allowing the rain to pass through for a few seconds. Yas found herself looking up and then ducking and shielding her eyes. The front wall of the building they were next to split apart in the same dance as they had witnessed further up the street. It reformed itself, set back further. The sky above was very dark, with flashes of lightning and growls of thunder. The porch reformed above them, and Yas shrieked out and grabbed onto McVale as the ground underneath sank downwards, to form steps to a basement.
“Is there always this much change?” asked Yas, in alarm.
“Its unusual, yes, but it happens,” replied McVale, honestly. “It takes a lot of readers and writers to unintentionally collaborate to create this much change. The other alternative is that this is being intentionally controlled.”
Yas remembered the point McVale made earlier and returned to this. “Controlled? As in Controllers?”
“Yes,” replied McVale matter-of-factly. “Although that’s usually only possible to determine by patterns. Either across realms or over a period of time,” she continued thoughtfully.
Yas looked around as the transformation continued farther up the street. From their vantage point, Yas could make out a collection of ten or so portable market stalls forming in the road. Each looked much like a cart that could be hitched to a horse, except that these were smaller and being pulled by people that she guessed were traders.
“Why would change be controlled?” asked Yas, trying to rationalise.
“For a number of reasons,” replied McVale, enjoying her role as mentor. “Gain of some form, typically.”
She held out her hand, and Yas watched as the ink that had rested upon her started to move up her arm. Like water running down a windowpane, but in reverse, it ran upwards accelerating towards her hand. Then out of her hand appeared a handle, and onto that grafted an umbrella stalk and material.
“What was that?” asked Yas, her eyes wide.
“Like painters using brushes to create a picture, so too, its possible for us to use the words to create objects within realms.”
“Is it magic?”
“If you like,” replied McVale. “Word magic, yes. Try it,” she suggested. “The trick is to let the realm help you create something. Set an intention. That way, you can be sure of the consequences of your actions.”
“What do you mean?” questioned Yas.
“Here as in the outer world, each action you take has consequences. As Guardians, we try to preserve what seems to be a natural flow. So, sensing what that may be within a realm is important.” She paused. “Let whatever pops into your head be the thing that you focus on.”
Yas held out her hand. She imagined being dry. An image formed in her mind’s eye of being underneath an umbrella. It was a challenge, feeling as wet as she did and took a few moments for that image to settle in. There was a cold tingling sensation on her hand. She saw the raindrops moving to her hand, then was surprised when something started to form itself. She was startled and the process stopped.
“Don’t be alarmed,” encouraged McVale. “Its working.”
Yas took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment to focus on the image. In her mind’s eye was an umbrella, except now, more details came to mind. It had a clear plastic top and arched over more than McVale’s. She felt the sensation of movement again, then of water pouring up her hand. She opened her eyes. There in her hand was the umbrella. She could also see water droplets running over fabric towards it. They were unbinding from the dampness of her clothing and rushing, drop by drop to her hand. She also realised that she was becoming dry, after having been wet through.
The persistent hammering of the rain quickly caused the top of her umbrella to become a muddy darkness as different coloured ink drops streamed down the sides. She watched as they dripped and landed on the road. She imagined them moving out of the way. As she did so, the water divided, creating a dry path, leading to the other side of the road.
On the opposite side of the road, was a small welcoming shop with a warm soft light inside its small bay windows. The sign outside indicated it was a shop of antiquities, and its front door was open.
&n
bsp; A lightning flash occurred in the street in front of them and Yas jumped. She blinked a few times to release the after-image blindness and was surprised to see a lady in front of her who was dirty, gap-toothed and soaked.
“Lucky lavender?” the lady asked. Before Yas could react, McVale grabbed her by the arm and shepherded her along the dry path.
“Let’s take cover in the shop,” she suggested.
Once inside the doorway, they both closed their umbrellas.
“Let the image go now,” suggested McVale.
Yas did so. She was warm and dry and no longer needed the umbrella. She thanked it, which seemed the appropriate thing to do, and the umbrella simply dissolved and fell onto the floor, back to the ink that it had been. It then spread outwards of its own accord, like a film of oil on water, and moved into the walls and décor of the shop.
Having come inside, the shop itself was dimmer than it seemed from the outside. It also smelt old and dusty. It was a mixture of an antiques and charity store, selling other’s hand-me-downs and old pieces that had been restored. Cabinets, tables, candlesticks, china plates, cups, glasses and many more items filled the shop. A man, presumably the owner, stood near the front window, looking worried.
Outside the shop, the calls of sellers promoting their produce started to make themselves heard. The scene was not a market as such, but more a group of sellers soliciting for business. Yas didn’t think that strategy would be very successful and wondered what story or piece of history they were enacting. As the stall owners came nearer, Yas and McVale could start to make out what they were calling.
“Sunday trading!” sounded the calls. “Trade when we want to!” came another.
“They’re protesting?” enquired Yas. That made more sense, as there didn’t seem to be very much at all on the stalls.
“I vaguely remember protests and riots about Sunday trading,” McVale replied to Yas quietly. “It was against the law in early Victorian times.”
They heard a whistle blow, and then spotted a young boy running along the street and away from the traders. Laughing, he looked back over his shoulder and then ducked around the corner of the street and out of sight. In chase, behind, and stopping as he drew level with the shop, was a police officer. He bent double from the effort of running, then he straightened up and blew on his whistle.
“Trouble-makers,” offered the shop keeper grumpily, looking up the street. “Wolves,” he added.
“Wolves?” asked McVale. She was wracking her brains to remember Victorian history.
“Taller than a man,” he indicated the height with his hand. “Nasty pieces of work.”
McVale and Yas looked at each other, alarmed. Yas could see from McVale’s expression that this was not something she had expected.
Yas leaned around the corner of the doorway and looked outside. There was a disturbance further down. The market owners had become more of an angry mob, increasing in numbers and moving up the street towards them. There were shouts, things being thrown and people rushing off left and right, looting. ‘Pheeps’ of police whistles could be heard approaching from the distance. Some ethereal readers moved away rapidly and flew past their position, disappearing at the end of the street. Others hovered though, enthralled by the scene. Their images flickered, as if experiencing some interruption.
“Should we go?” Yas asked, starting to feel afraid. The energy was unnerving.
“Do you feel the change?” asked McVale.
“Yes,” Yas said, realising that the fear was getting the better of her. The energy brought back memories of bad feeling within her house whenever there were arguments between her parents and her adopted brother.
“That’s unusual,” said McVale. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
“Oh,” replied Yas. She was hoping McVale would allay her fears. She hadn’t.
The mob was close to the shop now. They were uprooting what was left of the market stalls and using them as weapons against bystanders caught in the wrong place. Others threw balls of flame onto anything stationary, through building windows and at people attempting to confront them. Policemen rushed to enforce the law and protect the innocent. A small-scale riot was breaking out a few property fronts away from their position.
“We should be safe in here,” McVale said, closing the door. They watched the scene unfold. A large creature suddenly appeared across the road, and uprooted the lamppost they had been standing by, then swung that around viciously, hitting other people. Other large hounds appeared and picked up opposition forces easily and disappeared off up the street. The ethereal readers that were flickering moved along with the crowd, seemingly unable to leave.
Suddenly a burning object flew towards the window. They instinctively ducked and shielded themselves with their arms. A burning cloth wrapped around a brick smashed through the window and landed under one of the wooden cabinets. The shop keeper rushed towards it to try to move it but he wasn’t quick enough. The varnished wood exploded into flame and the fire caught at an alarming rate.
“Fire!” he shouted loudly, presumably to the rest of his family. He headed for the back of the shop, and the living areas.
“Can we get hurt in realms?” shouted Yas, feeling trapped.
“Yes,” McVale replied, as she used ink to fashion a cloth, that she then held to her mouth to help prevent smoke inhalation.
“And those injuries are then real in the outer world?” Yas asked, as she followed McVale’s example and also created a cloth to hold over her nose and mouth. She couldn’t believe this was happening.
“Yes, but wounds from the realms can be healed using magic,” replied McVale, watching the melee outside. Another werewolf strode along the street, growling and looking at them through the window.
Yas froze. As the shopkeeper had said, the creature was tall, probably eight feet in height. It bent forwards and inspected the inside of the shop. They could hear it breathing through the hole in the window.
McVale and Yas stayed quiet and still. They hoped it was a good strategy. Slightly out of the way of the burning light inside the shop, they figured that they would be less visible. It seemed to work. The creature looked away, distracted by some other noise or smell, and then moved off up the street. Yas hadn’t realised that she’d been holding her breath. Yas watched it go and then looked past the wolf to the scene beyond. The angry mob had moved past the shop front now leaving behind carnage. Broken wood, lampposts and other debris littered the street. Shop fronts opposite them burned. The rain had also abated, which was a shame, as there was now nothing to help extinguish the flames.
“Just a little longer,” muffled McVale, coughing slightly. They watched the back of the mob move a little further up the street. With the burning cabinet now starting to create a lot of smoke and threaten other items in the shop, they didn’t attract any further attention. The fire and smoke served in their favour, keeping them partly hidden.
“Okay,” said McVale finally, opening the door to let in fresher air. She removed the mask from her face and Yas did the same. The shopkeeper and his family appeared at the back of the store and made their way to the door also. They bustled McVale and Yas outside onto the street and then stood there looking back inside.
“Water,” said the shopkeeper glumly, looking around.
Yas thought about this for a moment, and then felt the sensation of movement in her hands. Similar to earlier, something started to form and quickly became heavy. She was holding two buckets of water. Buckets also appeared for the shopkeeper and each of his family.
The shopkeeper did not act surprised. He just simply said, “thank you,” picked up the buckets and headed inside.
He made his way through the now smoky room and started to dowse the flames growing from the cabinet. Fortunately, the fire was complacent, and started to settle.
McVale nodded to Yas to assist. She joined the family, fighting the fire then stepped outside again to refill the buckets. Aft
er a few trips, the fire was out, the cabinet hissing and steaming. As she poured a fourth bucket of water over it, she saw the ink working to repair the damaged furniture. It was reforming, as if the fire had never been.
Stepping outside again, the shopkeeper nodded in thanks. Yas realised that their help was no longer needed. Without consciously signalling to do so, Yas’s bucket dissolved back into ink and splashed down onto the ground.
“Come on,” urged McVale. “Let’s see where they’re going.” She started walking off in the direction of the mob further up the street.
“Why? Is that wise?” asked Yas warily, catching-up to McVale.
McVale either ignored her or didn’t hear Yas. She was deep in thought, marching with a purpose. “I wonder...” she mused.
“Wonder what?” asked Yas, but again McVale gave her no further information.
They walked together in silence for a short time, across city blocks heading towards what Yas assumed was some form of center. She was expecting the streets to converge and open into a square at some point, that would be the focal point for the mob. The more they walked though, the less likely that seemed to be.
“This seems wrong,” McVale said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” McVale explained. “The Sunday Trading riots occurred in 1855. If I remember rightly, they took place in Hyde Park.”
“Okay?” replied Yas, not really understanding the significance. “Isn’t that back that way?” she pointed over her shoulder, motioning down the street.
“Exactly,” replied McVale. “So why are they still continuing this way?”
“Maybe it’s after the main event or something?”
“But its gathering in size,” noted McVale, pointing ahead of them. “Look!”
Yas looked and could indeed see that the crowd was increasing in size. Both actors and ethereal readers swelled their numbers.
“I think whatever their focus is, is elsewhere,” offered McVale.
They quickened their pace so that they could get a better look.
“What do you think it is?” asked Yas.
The Word Guardians: and the Battle for the Peacekeepers Page 7
