by S McPherson
‘Of course, we did, but I had to do something; I had to at least try to save her.’
Mrs Thor scoffs, ‘And you did. You saved the outsider and killed seventeen of your own.’
Milo sighs. Like he hasn’t heard that enough already. ‘I truly am sorry about them,’ he says evenly, his lips twisting as he considers his next words, ‘but I couldn’t just leave Dezaray out there, unprotected.’
‘And you were protection?’
‘I was all she had.’
Mrs Thor shakes her head, gaping as though looking at a stranger. ‘I know you’re young, Milo, but I never thought of you as stupid.’ Looking defeated, she morphs from the room. It was the soft and sombre way she had said it that cut him the deepest.
Emotionally beaten, Milo slumps against the door behind him, dragging his hands through his bedraggled locks. Stupid. Hmm. Had he been stupid to try and save a life? Or was it just stupid to save a Corporeal?
Frustrated, he storms into his room, dragging a wooden box from under his bed. He flicks open the bronze latch and begins rifling through the papers, holding notes he had previously made about the gethadrox.
He studies his doodles and sketches, all looking almost identical. There is something he is missing; he knows it. Something that will take him from being the enemy to the hero. He taps a writing twig repeatedly against the page until it snaps, and growls lowly. He is going to fix this, somehow.
I’m relieved when Milo finally returns to the treehouse, but the grave look on his face tells me it didn’t go well. I didn’t expect his mother to welcome him with open arms but was sure, after a bit of yelling, she would forgive him. By the looks of things, she didn’t.
I pull myself up, having been sprawled out on the couch, and hurriedly wipe the tears that were collecting on my cheek.
‘Tea?’ I offer lamely.
He shakes his head and collapses onto the couch beside me. I open my mouth to speak but close it almost instantly; nothing I say can fix this.
‘She thinks I’m an idiot,’ he murmurs at last. ‘Maybe I am.’
‘You are.’
He looks at me, affronted: eyes wide and brows pulled together. ‘Well, don’t hold back.’
‘Milo, you disobeyed the Court. You left their protection during Feasting Season of all times, then you charged into a base full of Exlathars on your own.’
He half chuckles.
‘You are an idiot. Just like Tranzuta was mad,’ I say, ‘and yet, here they are, desperately trying to remake his invention.’
Milo nods, then slowly leaning his head back on the sofa, closes his eyes. I want to reach out and touch him but something tells me not to; I don’t know what that something is.
‘Or you can accept it,’ I offer, half joking, ‘live the life of a normal eighteen year old and leave all this war stuff to them,’ but he doesn’t laugh; he doesn’t even smile.
Instead, he looks over his nose at me, not bothering to lift his head. ‘Is that what you will do?’
‘What?’
‘Live a normal life?’
‘What? Now they’ve said I’ll never see you or this place again?’ My lips bunch and I swallow. I wait for him to wrap his arms around me and say my life won’t be without him, but he just grimaces.
‘I reckon it will be pretty normal without all this,’ and he gestures around, expansively.
‘Perhaps,’ I lie, mimicking his indifference but knowing full well I will never be without all this—not really. I’ve experienced too much: the breeze that smells like honeysuckle, the grass as soft as silk, the laughs as real as the floor at my feet—it will always be a part of me.
Now I rest my own head back against the sofa, feeling drained. Milo opens the bamboo roof by its drawstring and I watch wisps of clouds glide across the sky. The moon isn’t full tonight; it’s curved in a sort of smile.
What are you smirking at? I bitterly wonder.
Then something warm covers my hand: Milo’s. I don’t react. He wedges his fingers between mine and squeezes. What on Earth does that mean? Your life will be normal without me, but until then, let’s hold hands? I wrestle with a scream as I consider pushing him out of the treehouse—I’m already banished, what more can they do to me? Inhaling sharply, I blink back a sting of tears and continue gazing up at the dimming sky, waiting for the stars to appear.
‘Banished,’ I breathe, feeling no real connection with the word. ‘Has anyone else ever been banished?’
Milo considers. ‘No. You’re the first.’
I snort. ‘Perhaps they’ll write songs about me.’
‘Maybe they’ll beatbox,’ Milo grins. ‘The only one to face the wrath of the Rijjleton guards upon entry.’ He squeezes my hand again but once again I ignore it, my gaze remaining focussed on the sky.
‘They do have an advantage,’ I agree, ‘able to appear as if from nowhere.’
I wait for him to respond but Milo remains quiet. I glance over to see him frowning and I can practically see the cogs turning in his head.
‘What?’ I ask.
His hand slips from mine and then he is on his feet, pacing back and forth, starting and stopping as if in time to a song only he can hear.
‘Where do they come from?’
Now it’s my turn to frown.
‘Rijjletons aren’t a Coldivian empire, mate, or creatures like the Trelion. They exist nowhere on the map and yet here they are.’ He is talking fast, one thought practically tripping over another as it rushes to get out.
‘So, where do they go when they aren’t here?’ Milo has that crazed look, like a child on Christmas morning: the look I love and the same one I saw on Tranzuta’s face, aboard the C.P. One.
‘Another realm?’ I offer, afraid to get my hopes up but struggling to keep them down. Could the answer have been in front of us all along?
‘Let’s go find out,’ and Milo is already heading over to the ladder and climbing down.
‘What are you doing?’ I shout, scurrying after him then peering at the top of his head as he descends.
‘I don’t actually know,’ he calls back, leaping the last few rungs of the ladder.
Shaking my head, I follow him.
Milo is alert, responding to every sound, glancing in all directions. I try to follow his lead, squinting into the pale glow of the moon, turning to every rustle, but unlike Milo I don’t know what I’m looking for.
‘What are we doing exactly?’ I ask.
‘There is only one thing I know that attracts Rijjleton Guards,’ Milo speaks distractedly, his eyes still probing, his hands moving the odd branch from our path, though Deadwood has always been fairly sparse, ‘and that’s breaking the rules: showing up late for school, being out after curfew.’ His eyes glint with defiance.
‘So, we’re about to break the rules?’
‘We already have.’
Just then, two guards appear, weapons aimed at our throats. They’re not the spears they had the last time but two thick sticks that look as though they’re made from white stone, piercing gilded leaves shooting from their ends. I swallow a yelp as I stare down the point of the weapon and into the tiny eyes of the guard.
Though Rijjleton Guards generally look the same, aside from varying hair colours, there is something very familiar about these two.
‘Hello, Boonov, Choaks,’ Milo says with familiar candour and I realise these are the guards that monitor the school.
‘Look what we have here,’ snarls Boonov or Choaks—I don’t remember them that well, ‘the traitor and the tramp.’
I stiffen, feeling Milo do the same. Is that what they’re calling us? I suddenly feel hot, digging my nails into my palms to keep from retaliating. I want to yell that I never asked anyone to save me, but I’m not that stupid. I’m the last Elentrice’s counterpart, and thanks to me the Exlathars almost had us both. Of course the Court had to come for me; of course they had to die for me.
I drop my hands to my sides, my shoulders feeling heavy.
‘Don’t loo
k so surprised now,’ the Guard continues. ‘You don’t really expect the Coltis to be singing your praises.’
‘All those people,’ the other guard, who I decide is Boonov, sighs, ‘gone!’
‘Too soon,’ Choaks agrees.
They carry on reminiscing, seeming to momentarily forget about Milo and me.
‘And what a beautiful ceremony,’ Boonov gushes.
‘Ceremony?’ Milo asks.
‘For the deceased,’ and Boonov scowls at Milo, as though he shouldn’t have said anything. ‘You didn’t get the invite?’
‘No.’ Disappointment is thick in Milo’s tone though he tries to hide it.
Boonov scoffs then, apparently remembering that Milo and I are breaking curfew, he waggles his weapon, slightly grazing my chin with one of its ornate leaves. ‘And what are you two up to now?’
‘We wanted to talk to you,’ I announce.
The guards scowl, looking unconvinced.
‘About your home.’
Boonov tilts his head. ‘And why would you want to do that?’ There’s a sneer on his lips, his tone reminiscent of a mother cooing her baby.
‘Because it might help us get to Vedark.’
From the corner of my eye I see Milo staring at me; probably wondering what on Earth I meant by “Us”.
Choaks lowers his weapon. ‘We already told the Court about our home. It didn’t help them much.’
‘Try me,’ Milo challenges.
‘There you go again: thinking you’re above the Court. We—’
I grip Boonovs weapon, below its leafy top, and push it down, away from my throat. My tone is even as I stare solemnly into his raisin eyes and say, ‘Just tell us.’
Slightly taken aback, Boonov eyes me. I imagine he hears the snap of my breaking heart, sees the ache of desperation in my eyes. And finally, he clears his throat. ‘When we are not here, we are in a place we call Rijora.’
‘Another realm?’ I ask.
Boonov shrugs, ‘All we know is that it’s not here. It is completely underwater.’
‘And how do you get there?’
‘Similar to teleporting I presume,’ Choaks grumbles.
‘Can you go anywhere?’ Milo asks.
‘Just to where we see clearest, which has always been here.’
‘Where you see?’ and my brow creases.
‘A Rijjleton’s sight is different to others,’ Boonov explains. ‘I see you here, but if I shift my gaze slightly to the left, I see Rijora, and when I look to the right, I see another place I can’t identify, but it’s blurry.’ Boonov turns his head as though to demonstrate.
‘So your sight is divided,’ I suggest, looking at Milo, wondering if there is anything he can take from this.
‘Now, we’ve done our bit. You best get back indoors,’ Choaks orders, signalling the end of our conversation.
Milo salutes in response and I do the same.
‘Goodnight, Traitor,’ and they both bow cordially but their words say otherwise. ‘Tramp,’ they then say, turning to me. I return their nod and then they are gone.
I exhale, my whole body sagging.
‘You’re a natural,’ Milo enthuses, taking my hand.
‘A natural tramp?’
‘I was going to say “Warrior” but “Tramp” works too.’
I playfully bump into him; my whole side tingling at the touch. Then I realise, with a jolt, that he is looking at me and my stomach does a somersault. Biting my bottom lip, I will myself not to pounce on him. Steady girl. It seems my brain has called it quits between us but my body is still on his payroll.
Kiss me, I silently plead, convinced my eyes must resemble those of a hopeful puppy. Just one more time, Milo, kiss me. My breath hitches as he runs his fingers through my hair, his eyes never leaving mine. I tilt my head as he leans in but then his brow creases and his hand moves to the graze on my chin.
‘You’re bleeding,’ he murmurs.
‘It’s nothing,’ I say, willing him to go back to how we were.
‘We’ll sort it out,’ and he slides his fingers down my wrist until they meet mine.
‘No,’ I whine, ‘not extroosal.’
He laughs and then we are gone.
Blue rains around us as we manifest in the treehouse.
‘Extroosal your chin,’ he instructs. ‘I’ll be right back,’ and then he vanishes with a clash.
Shattered, I plonk myself down on the floor, leaning against the old flannel sofa with no intention of putting extroosal on anything. I sit shivering, too many thoughts running through my mind to make sense of any. One thing, though: it’s too cold!
Blowing on my hands, I amble over to the fire pit. ‘Iginassa,’ I intone, relieved when the logs ignite and flames start to rise. I watch them sway and shudder in blazes of ochre and smoke, reminding me of Lexovia’s brilliant eyes. I wonder how she’s getting on. I hope she’s having a better time of it than I am.
‘Got it!’
I yelp as Milo bursts into the room, his haze of blue falling around him. His hair is tousled and he cradles a small wooden chest under his arm.
‘What’s that?’ I ask, indicating the box with a flick of my head.
He comes up beside me in long, swift strides, as though skating.
‘I copied a few notes from Tranzuta’s journal.’ He pops the latch on the chest as he sits beside me, his feet almost hanging in the fire. ‘Maybe you can help an idiot figure some things out.’
I grin, climb onto my knees and peer into the box. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
The sketches I pull out show the gethamot at various sizes, the insides bare except for one compartment for the mechanics. Milo has made notes similar to Tranzuta’s: ‘Large body’ inside a circle, and ‘Water’ and ‘9 realms’ are amongst the phrases scribbled down. He pulls a pot of snickleberry juice from the chest and twists it open. It smells delicious and I can’t help but stick my finger in it.
Milo looks at me as if I’m crazy.
‘What?’ I ask innocently as I shove my finger into my mouth.
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘Thanks.’
He grins and dips his own finger into the gooey ink. ‘You’re welcome.’
I am about to don my most flirtatious grin, and bat my eyelashes, but squeal instead when he trails snickleberry down the centre of my face.
‘Are you kidding?’ I howl and instantly plunge my whole hand into the jar, going to smother the sauce across his forehead. Anticipating this, Milo grips my wrists, most of the juice splattering onto his feet, but I do manage to get a little on his nose and cheeks. We lunge at the jar at the same time, ducking and dodging each other as we toss the sticky liquid and smear it anywhere we can. Milo holds one of my wrists—the one unmarked by the Exlathars—and pushes me, making it difficult to reach the ink or run away.
‘You’re cheating!’ I cry as I use my free hand to push his head away, hoping to make him so uncomfortable he has to let me go, but instead he just wriggles his head from under me and blows a raspberry on my neck.
‘How is this cheating?’ he laughs, flings me over his shoulder and dunks my nose in the snickleberry. How much is in this thing?
‘You’re using big-boy strength!’ I exclaim, resorting to my one weapon which never fails: teeth. I plunge them into him, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to cause pain.
He yelps and I squirm free but he traps me in a headlock.
‘Now who’s cheating?’ he goads.
‘Still you!’ my cries come muffled from under his arm and I stick my tongue out, leaving a layer of spit along his bicep.
He jumps, wiping away the saliva from him and onto me, still holding me steady around the waist. I try to wriggle free, arms and legs flailing like some kind of puppet on speed.
By this point Milo is laughing so hard he makes no sound as his whole body shudders, and I grin, spluttering before I break into my own fit of hysteria.
‘Truce?’ I say at last, using my arm to wipe dregs
of snickleberry from my face.
‘For now,’ he smirks.
‘Right.’ I snatch his notebook off the ground. It is another beautifully crafted book, its soft smooth cover held together by twine, the pages thin and almost yellow.
I peer at the words on the paper again, reading them over and over until the phrases ‘Large body’ and ‘Water’ seem to merge together: a large body of water.
‘Milo?’ I say, thoughtfully.
He looks over my shoulder. ‘Yes?’
‘I don’t think it was a coincidence that Tranzuta was on the ship that night.’ I think back to what Tranzuta had said about water rushing, seeping through the cracks, bringing down houses. How he said that water was magic. ‘I think he needed to be out there, on the ocean, surrounded by—’
‘Water.’
I look at him, his eyes alight.
Then he is on his feet. ‘Stand back.’
And I do, watching as his eyes shine a radiant blue, the rays from them appearing in a pale shimmer. I still can’t get over how much more powerful he seems.
‘Lisowet neor,’ he intones, moving his hands in front of him, rolling them over each other and pulling them apart. I watch, mesmerised, as droplets of water appear on his fingertips as he moves.
‘Lisowet neor,’ he repeats, and the droplets grow and stretch towards each other as his hands continue to direct them. At last, they connect, forming a large orb of water suspended in mid-air. It is an odd creation that ripples at the sides, sagging here and there. And it’s brilliant.
‘Hand me the gethamot,’ Milo says, keeping his hands up against the airborne pool. I kneel down, rifling through the chest in search of the gethamot he made. At last I find it beneath odd little trinkets I couldn’t begin to identify and slip it into his hand.
His eyes shine brighter and I take a step back, watching as he steadily snakes his hand into the bubble, tapping his thumb against the top of the gethamot. Slowly, the misty arrow starts to form, twisting and changing direction. I step closer. The arrow is so much darker now, like thick black smoke, and it is larger, longer, nearly the length of my arm. I gape from it to Milo.
‘Now, that’s an arrow,’ he breathes.
‘The sort of arrow the gethadrox has.’
