by Chris Ward
Miranda, though, wasn’t looking at him. ‘Did you hear that?’ she said, peering down into the junk under her feet.
‘What?’
‘That sound.’
‘It wasn’t from you? I thought that gasp was from you.’
‘What do you think I am, a wuss?’
‘No, but—’
‘There’s someone down there. Trapped, maybe. Quick, we have to get them out. If they’re not expected, they might be in danger.’
Benjamin had never really understood how some pupils were expected and some were not. Apparently, Grand Lord Bastien, by way of being not fully human, had one part of his soul still trapped in the Earthly world, and therefore received vivid dreams that told him of the date and arrival of new pupils. Benjamin himself had woken up on a beach not dissimilar to this, and he would have been eaten alive by a turtle-car had Miranda not been waiting for him. For the unannounced—the numbers of which for obvious reasons were unknown—waking up in Endinfinium could be treacherous.
He climbed over the rocks to the other side of the junk pile, while Miranda climbed down. The strange gasp came again. This time, there was no doubt someone was trapped underneath.
‘Hello?’ Miranda asked, peering into the shadows. ‘Is there someone in there?’
‘Can’t … move,’ a voice called back. It sounded like a boy around Benjamin’s age, his tone still light and feminine with a hint of a deeper tone soon to come.
‘Can you move your feet?’ Benjamin asked. ‘Try to tap your toes on something.’
To Benjamin’s right, a soft rhythm tapped out against an old flatscreen TV, and when he pulled away a soggy cardboard box that had been covering it, he revealed a foot sticking out.
‘I see you!’ he cried. ‘Hold still, we’ll pull you out.’
It didn’t take them long to locate the boy’s other foot, and after checking that he wasn’t caught on anything, on the count of three, they dragged him out onto the sand.
He was about their age, skin slightly silvery as if still wet, hair slicked back against his scalp. He wore a plain linen shirt and linen trousers, and his shoes were simple beige gym shoes. Either his parents didn’t like colour very much, or he came from a poor family.
Then he lifted his head to shake water out of his hair, and Benjamin’s mouth opened in surprise.
Beside him, Miranda gave a soft gasp, one hand lifting to cover her face.
3
River Source
The boy’s hair was a perfect aquamarine blue, a colour so deep and absolute that his hair looked more like water than the sea did, which only accentuated the smooth, perfect features of his face. Benjamin thought he looked like a futuristic teenage pop star, and at first, as he watched Miranda stare at the boy with utter astonishment, he wondered if she felt the same.
‘Blue,’ she whispered, reaching up to touch her own trailing crimson hair, and Benjamin understood.
The boy climbed stiffly to his feet, then picked a piece of seaweed off of his clothes. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how long I was stuck under there. I saw those creatures moving and I was too scared to move.’
Miranda grinned. ‘They’re harmless,’ she said.
‘Not when they’re about to eat you,’ Benjamin added, winning him a scowl from Miranda. ‘I’m Benjamin Forrest,’ he said, sticking out a hand. ‘And this is Miranda Butterworth. Welcome to Endinfinium, I guess.’
‘Thanks.’ The boy shook Benjamin’s hand then turned to Miranda. ‘Red—’
‘Red-37,’ she finished. ‘Batch 17, Maturity year 2893. You?’
‘Blue-9. Batch 16, Maturity year 2891.’
Benjamin looked from one to the other. Not only did they seem to know each other, but the newcomer was also cute, and two years older than Miranda. Wilhelm would be gutted when he found out.
‘Red-37,’ the boy said. ‘You were famous for disappearing, you know.’
Miranda shrugged. ‘Not really my fault. And I go by Miranda these days.’
‘How pretty.’
Miranda’s cheeks flamed a crimson colour to match her hair. Benjamin, standing between them, felt awkward enough that he almost wished one of the turtle-cars would pop up out of the sand and chomp down on his ankles, just so he had an excuse to get out of their line of sight.
‘And you?’
‘I’ve never really thought about it, but I guess … Cuttlefur.’
‘Cuttlefur?’ Benjamin snorted. ‘You can pick something else, you know. How about Bob?’
‘Cuttlefur is the name of my favorite flower,’ the boy said, giving Benjamin a sour look. Miranda had tilted her head to one side and now gave a long sigh that made Benjamin feel nauseated.
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ he said. ‘What kind of flower?’
‘Benjamin’s not from the same time as us,’ Miranda said. ‘Times don’t work here like they do elsewhere.’
Cuttlefur lifted a manicured eyebrow. ‘Oh, really? When are you from?’
‘2015.’
‘Wow. You’re practically a caveman, aren’t you? I guess it hadn’t been developed then. It’s a beautiful, dark blue flower that only comes out in moonlight.’
‘Sounds lovely.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’ Miranda was swooning so badly she was practically falling over. Finally, a grinding of metal not far behind them indicated they’d attracted the attention of a turtle-car, which was slowly clacking in their direction.
‘Let’s get Cuttlefur back to the school,’ Benjamin said.
They made their way back up the steep cliff path, stopping every so often for Cuttlefur to catch up. The boy’s legs were stiff, as though he had been unmoving for a long time, and Benjamin felt an uncharacteristic desire to berate him, except he remembered that feeling well. Obviously, since Miranda had come from hundreds of years in the future, the laws of time in Endinfinium didn’t quite add up with those in the world they had come from, so an indefinite amount of time might have passed between being whisked away from their regular life by a force Benjamin still didn’t quite understand, and ending up here in Endinfinium.
‘Wow, it’s quaint,’ Cuttlefur said, when he got his breath back at the top of the cliff. ‘What there is of it.’
‘You get used to it,’ Benjamin said.
‘I think it’s pretty,’ Miranda said. ‘At least all this rubbish got used for something useful.’
Endinfinium, as far as they could tell, was made entirely of ancient rubbish that had corroded over time back into soil and rock, or had decided to reanimate into some form of life. The hills and cliffs looked like the hills and cliffs of any other country, while the forests, too, looked just like forests. Living in them, however, were all manner of unusual creatures, while the great river that flowed down from the north, cutting them off from the vast Haunted Forest to the west and the High Mountains—home of the Dark Man—beyond, was filled at times to bulging with rubbish, much of which had reanimated into bizarre sea creatures by the time it reached the ocean.
Benjamin would never forget almost being eaten by a monstrous cruise-shark, a reanimated ocean liner that prowled the outer edges of the known sea.
‘Does the sea really just fall over the edge?’ Cuttlefur asked as they headed north along the clifftop. ‘I mean, where does it go?’
‘We’re not allowed to go and look,’ Benjamin said. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
Cuttlefur grinned. ‘But you want to, don’t you?’
Benjamin shrugged. ‘I used to. I’m not sure anymore if I do or not.’
As Cuttlefur turned to Miranda and their conversation drifted to a life they once both shared, Benjamin stared westwards, watching the great river as it meandered through the hills from north to south, before abruptly cutting east and widening into the sea. At this time of the year, the waters were low, the surface grey and smooth, the thrown-away treasures it carried hidden below the surface. The ferry, the only way across, had been rebuilt and improved, and was now staffed by a group
of cleaners, mindless workers who staffed the school kitchens as well as did odd jobs like cleaning and gardening. All trips across to the Haunted Forest, however, were by express permission of a teacher. Rumours were abound that despite the Dark Man’s apparent banishment, ghouls had still been spotted flitting between the trees.
Benjamin’s foot caught on a protruding gorse root, and he stumbled, breaking out of his reverie. Miranda and Cuttlefur were some twenty paces out in front, their brightly coloured heads leaning close, talking in excited tones. Benjamin felt a sudden pang of loneliness; after all, he was still relatively new here, too, and whenever he spent too much time alone he got thinking about the past and his old life back in Basingstoke in England before he had one day woken up on a strange beach with a creature that looked like a cross between a turtle and a car trying to eat him.
He peered out at the river again, wondering for the thousandth time not where it was going, but where it came from.
One day, he promised himself, he would find out.
4
Rescued Friend
‘This way,’ Professor Eaves said, leading the small group down the hill path to the trickling stream in the valley below.
Wilhelm looked up at a cluster of dark clouds that had begun to obscure the yellow sun. This low down, the light of the red sun passed over their heads, creating a line of shadow farther up the hillside. Out of the sun it was pretty chilly, and he wished he’d brought an outer jacket like some of the other nine kids in the Rambling Club. Still, it was nearly eleven, and the schedule said they would return to the school at half past in order to get back in time for lunch.
Beside him walked a sullen Snout, the tall boy with the slightly bent-up nose whose real name was Simon even though the teachers sometimes forgot, looking decidedly miserable. Snout, whose unusual skill of calling ghouls up out of the ground—plans to integrate the term ‘Ghoul Caller’ into the school’s records were still ongoing; they had only stalled because so far Snout was the only one anyone knew of with such a specific skill—meant he had to be careful about concentrating too hard on anything negative. Ghouls, semi-magical, half-human, half-rubbish creatures that could assume shapes worse than any nightmare, were the Dark Man’s unofficial fingers. Snout, by his very skill, required another boy to watch him at all times, even though Wilhelm had found him to be perfectly friendly now that his nasty ringleader, Godfrey, was no longer around.
‘Over here, we have a Petroneous Libicus,’ Old Dusty Eaves was saying, pointing to a tall purple flower that resembled a foxglove poking out from between two grey rocks. ‘It only flowers once every two years, its bloom lasting just a week, so you’re really lucky to see it today.’
Murmurs of agreement rose up that didn’t sound all that lucky. Other kids were probably also thinking about lunch. Dusty Eaves squatted down and began to make a cutting from one of the flowers. Wilhelm glared at the bulge just below his shoulders most people thought was a slight hunchback, but what Wilhelm, Benjamin, and Miranda knew were hidden wings. It didn’t matter that Grand Lord Bastien claimed Dusty Eaves was on their side; Wilhelm was convinced the old, moth-eared professor was a denizen of the Dark Man, and wherever possible, refused to let him out of sight.
Rambling Club was pleasant enough, but the twice-weekly evening Taxidermy Club was a real chore, particularly when the only other pupil, a fourth-year called Colin Gibbs, hardly ever showed up.
‘All right,’ Dusty said, as if reading minds, ‘let’s start heading back. Good job, everybody.’
Wilhelm didn’t really understand who had done a good job, since no one had actually done anything other than follow Professor Eaves along a series of dirt trails for the last three hours. But teachers here in Endinfinium, just like in his old school back in England, existed on a different level of what was considered interesting. Teachers were teachers, Wilhelm remembered.
Some of the kids up front were whispering about a game of football out on the front courtyard after lunch, but Wilhelm—who was about as good at sports as he was at taxidermy—edged toward the back to keep an eye on Old Dusty. He wasn’t sure what he expected the professor to do, but ever since the Dark Man’s attempted destruction of the school, life had been unnaturally quiet. Something bad had to happen soon, and something a lot worse than earning a thousand cleans for being caught spying through Dusty’s apartment window at midnight.
‘Well, look at that.’
Dusty had stopped to peer into the path-side shrubs, and Wilhelm turned back to look just as the old professor lifted something grey and plastic out of the bushes. Wings the size of the professor’s palms and made of white plastic flapped frenetically.
‘What is it?’
‘A Scatlock. The little blighter was caught on a branch.’
Wilhelm gave a nonchalant shrug. He was going to be late to lunch for this? Scatlocks, the hideous bat-like creatures made from reanimated plastic bags, that knocked pupils off of the cliffs to their deaths…? Nope. As far as Wilhelm was concerned, they should all be incinerated.
‘Can you still fly, little friend?’
Professor Eaves tossed the Scatlock up into the air, and for a moment, it was caught on the wind, its wings fluttering wildly, then it spun earthward, with only a sudden updraft stopping it from crashing into the path.
Instead, it bobbed back up on the wind and slammed straight into Wilhelm’s midriff.
He was too surprised to cry out. The Scatlock lay flat across his jacket as thin as the plastic the creature was made of. As the wind gusted, the Scatlock made a couple of brief attempts to lift its wings, then gave up and just held on tight.
‘Oh-ho. Looks like he likes you, boy.’
Wilhelm looked up at Professor Eaves, then back down at the Scatlock. He had never seen one up close and still before: they were usually fluttering so fast, it was impossible to make out their features. Now that he looked at it closely, though, he saw that its reanimation had given it a clear form: two wide wings, a body along where the bag’s seam had been, and a head made out of the bags handles twisted together.
Two little beady eyes, their ovals made from the faded blue of a long-forgotten supermarket logo, looked up and blinked.
The wind rustled across its wings in a sound reminiscent of a purr.
Professor Eaves stumbled over as Wilhelm carefully detached the Scatlock from his waist and held it up in his hands.
‘See there, boy.’ The professor pointed. ‘Got a tear in his wing. He’s done for. Toss him back in that stream, and he might tumble in with something else and reanimate in time.’
Taxidermy Club had some benefits. Their work had been exclusively on reanimated objects, and while it had been rather bizarre to fix up cups and plates twisted and reshaped until they had legs and feet, he had learned from Professor Eaves that, rather like recycling itself, most objects would only reanimate a certain amount of times before they were forever labeled as inanimate rubbish only good for the incinerator that pumped heated water throughout the school on cold nights. Objects made from natural materials such as wood and stone could reanimate dozens of times, but those of synthetic materials would reanimate a number of times seemingly in correlation with their complexity. Something like a computer could be cleaned weekly for years on end, but a simple creature like a Scatlock, reanimated from a single plastic bag, had only one chance at its new life.
Dusty had wandered on up the path, while Wilhelm still stood holding the injured Scatlock. He had never owned a pet before. He remembered always wanting a cat or a rabbit: something he could cuddle. A bat-like creature made out of a plastic bag wasn’t quite what he’d dreamed of, but from the way it rustled in a comforted manner, he got the impression that it was quite willing to be a pet in return for a little servicing.
‘Hmm … what to call you?’ Wilhelm frowned, trying to come up with a suitable name. He thought back to books he had read in the orphanage, but couldn’t think of any, until he remembered the rabbit his primary school class had kept as a pe
t during term time.
‘Rick,’ he said, giving the little curl of plastic a pat on the head. ‘Your name is Rick. Is that okay with you?’
The Scatlock rustled, seeming satisfied.
Instead of following the others straight to the dining hall, Wilhelm headed up to the school’s fifth floor, then out onto the treacherous cliff path that arced around to the pupils’ dorms—a rickety, wooden building perched on top of a narrow headland. Along this section of cliff, the flocks of Scatlocks were notoriously dangerous, swooping down at passing pupils as though they had a bone to pick from some past life. In addition to the obvious risk of plummeting to one’s demise, Scatlocks inadvertently caught in one’s clothing could cause trouble in the dorms either by lodging in one of the fans or squeezing through a window gap and making it large enough for others to get in. For that reason, inside the doors of the school and the dormitory stood a cupboard from which a single-zipping Scatlock-cape should be taken, zipped up over one’s body, then used to get across the path before shaking loose onto the porch any caught Scatlocks.
As Wilhelm donned his cape, Rick made an excited rustling noise. He figured few Scatlocks had ever been inside a Scatlock-cape before, and that for something which—outwardly at least—had the mental agility of a mosquito, must have been quite the thrill.
He hurried across to the doors, then got out of his cape. The dorms were empty, of course, with everyone, including the Housemaster, over in the dining hall. Wilhelm left Rick sitting on a table in the common room while he ran into the office beside the little dorm kitchen. There, amongst the piles of junk, he hunted out an old cardboard box and a roll of tape.
Upstairs in the room he shared with Benjamin, he fixed up Rick’s torn wing with a piece of tape, then used a couple of small towels from his drawer to make the Scatlock a nest inside the box. The creature’s wing would take a few days to knit back together, after which the Scatlock would want to be released, he assumed. But for now, it seemed fine to sit among the blankets, its plastic body rustling lightly with contentment.
