by Tara Omar
“How do you know?”
“He is nicer to everyone than is humanly possible, which can only be a ploy. He’s slithering his way into our good graces with his kindness and his gifts, and once he’s cemented in, we will be ambushed. I am certain.”
Imaan dumped her empty plate and cup in a bin below the cubby; it disappeared into the cabinet. She folded away her table and turned to David.
“You needn’t concern yourself with your history now, David; you must focus on getting the shield. Hopefully then we will find some truth.”
“Will the shield protect the King from Gabe, if he is the Leviathan?” asked David.
“There are many reasons for wanting the shield. That is one,” said Imaan. “Firstly, though, it belongs to us, and more importantly, Avinoam’s law dictates the death of a king in war merits automatic surrender. We used to avoid that rule by having only tribal leaders and a priest, so one tribe would never subjugate the others. After the discovery of the Nephilim through the war, the tribes needed to unify, so I reluctantly appointed a king. At present, the mers need only to abandon their part in the treaty, and with the shield on their side, it will spell the end of the humans.”
“And for the mers?” asked David. “What will happen to them if we take it?”
“Nothing, I suspect. The humans lack the protein required to survive the depths of the Abyss, whereas the mers can come and go on both land and sea as they please. Their vision is also far superior to ours, so we could not invade Larimar with advantage, even if we wanted to. Humans having the shield should mean peace between us.”
David dropped his empty cup in a similar bin near him and folded away his table.
“You look tired,” said Imaan.
“Yes, I think that squelsh match nearly finished me,” said David.
“Get some rest then,” said Imaan. “Fae, kindly turn down the cabin.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Fae.
The lights in the pteroduck dimmed and the velvety armchairs reclined into beds. A small parcel the size of a serviette appeared from a drawer in the cubby; as David took it, it unfolded into a thick down blanket and two feathery pillows. Imaan took her own parcel from her cubby as a modesty screen emerged between the two reclining chairs, while two tiny glasses of lemon water and hot towels appeared in the drawers.
David sunk his head into the soft down, listening to the quiet harp music as the cabin dimmed to complete darkness. The music stretched through the silence slowly and deliberately, filled with the dreams and desires of sleep. But the slumbering notes did not linger; soon the gentle plucks of the harp were joined and overpowered by the deep, throaty sounds of another set of strings, a cello. David was playing the cello; he sat alone on a weathered bench in a room with dirty windows, surrounded by dust and glorious music. He danced the bow across his strings with powerful emotion, striking out the sounds of a familiar melody. As he played he could hear the accompanying orchestra in his head; soon the dusty room melted away into a tiled chamber. The tapestries on the wall of the chamber pulled the sound into themselves, leading him further in. As the final notes died away, David noticed the image of a beautiful mera embroidered on a tapestry; she stared into the distance. David followed her eyes to the end of the chamber, where an empty throne seemed to await him. He set down his bow and walked up to the throne, his eyes gliding over its detailed carvings with admiration. He noticed a carving under the seat, similar to the one on Raphael’s pool. Somehow he knew this carving must be hiding something; he reached down and turned the starfish and pressed the sand dollar. The panel came loose, revealing a hidden compartment where inside lay a crown. David leaned in for a better look; the smell of apples filled his nose. He heard hissing. A cobra raised its head from the drawer and fanned its hood. It lunged at him, hissing wildly as David fell back. He jolted awake.
“Good morning,” said Imaan from the seat next to him. Her table was folded across her lap, and she was reading the latest Rosy Herald; the last of a poppy seed bagel sat next to her teacup.
“Did you have a pleasant sleep?” she asked.
“Yes, very,” said David, looking around. The shelves in his cubby were laden with every imaginable breakfast item, from cereals and yoghurts to pastries and jams, egg sandwiches and pancakes. In the corner, he noticed the hissing sound of frying applewood bacon, which was crackling in a skillet in his cabinet. David sighed.
“You still look troubled,” said Imaan, eyeing him from behind her paper.
“Just thinking.”
He helped himself to a fried egg and a heap of hash browns, placing the tiny saucer full of food on his table so it could “breathe.” When it had grown to the size of a platter, David dug in as Imaan read her paper.
“Do not trouble yourself too much with the finer points of politics,” said Imaan, turning to the next page. “Acquiring the shield will cover your undisputed debt to Saladin and secure you a safe haven. It is to your benefit.”
“I have no intention of going back on my word,” said David, “though a better understanding of what I am doing and why I am here would be welcomed.”
“You are here because it is Avi’s will that you are here; that is enough,” said Imaan.
David scooped up a bite of salty hash browns.
“The friend to whom I am taking you now was also called by Avinoam in a time of great need. He will explain more about the shield and what exactly is required of you. A bit eccentric at points, but I think you will enjoy his company immensely,” said Imaan.
“Where exactly are we going?” asked David.
“You are going to King’s Beach,” said Imaan, “to the house of Norbert Bransby.”
A knocking sound echoed across the pteroduck. It grew louder and was coming from outside, as though someone was pelting the aircraft with something very hard. David looked up as the pteroduck swung to the right.
“What’s happening?” asked David.
Imaan rose from her seat and peered out the bulging window in front, but the pteroduck jerked and dropped several metres in the air, throwing her back into her seat. A yellow light started blinking on the dashboard as the pteroduck rocked violently from side to side. David felt a punch in his back through the chair that was timed with the light; a hornlike voice echoed through the cabin.
Warning. Warning. Autopilot disengaging in T minus two minutes due to gale force winds and heavy hail. Manual emergency landing advised. Repeat, manual emergency landing advised.
Imaan swore.
“Fae, I need the Phantom’s user manual, A-SAP,” said Imaan. She chucked her plates into the bin and grabbed the thick book that appeared in her cubby.
“What’s happening?” asked David, gripping the arms of his chair. The pteroduck continued to pitch and roll, somersaulting in the raging winds.
“Some days these skies are devilishly unpredictable,” said Imaan.
David looked to Fae’s usual place behind the screen in the cabinet, where a Gone Parachuting sign now hung. The tiny shelves in the cubby below were filled with emergency items; David could see sickness bags, books of sermons and prayer beads and a small bottle of liquor. He felt the panic surge through his body.
“Stay calm. Nothing is going to happen to you,” said Imaan, flipping wildly through the Phantom’s user manual. She punched the open book with her fist. “Where is the section on how to land?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Hush.”
“Are you serious?” asked David.
“Not helping,” said Imaan, scanning the pages.
“Oh, this is useless,” said Imaan. She threw the book into the bin and began running her hand over the controls on the dashboard, examining the different buttons. David squirmed in his chair.
“Oh we are going to die, we are going to die,” yelped David.
“Please, control yourself. You’r
e living on borrowed time already,” said Imaan, pressing a button and turning a dial. “Besides you are not going to die. It is not in Avi’s will.”
David laughed.
“Right. Because Avi has nothing better to do than hop around bending the laws of physics to save the likes of humans like us. Guess you’ll be commanding the water next.”
“No, just landing on it.”
“What?”
Imaan pressed several buttons, turned a knob and pulled a lever, forcing the rocking pteroduck to barrel headlong toward the choppy seas, thousands of metres below.
C H A P T E R 2 3
The whole of King’s Beach glowed with the soft, peach light of the early morning, set against a canvas of pink and purple cumulus clouds. A duck-like boat floated serenely next to a wooden dock at the beach’s centre; it looked out at the sunrise with bulging glass-clear eyes, seemingly unaware that only moments ago it had been perilously hurtling toward the sea. Not a second too soon, Imaan had found the proper button that had converted the pterodactyl-shaped aircraft into its boat-like counterpart, shifting its oversized head into the body of a duck as it crashed into the water. Almost immediately after, the clouds had broken, painting the sky with the sparkling glow of the morning.
David, however, did not so easily forget the landing. He clambered out the duck’s bill and down its neck, kissing the splintered wood of the dock as his wobbly knees gave way.
“You’re a bit of a dramatic one, aren’t you?” asked Imaan, setting a pair of rubber boots beside him. David, still crouched on the ground, glared at her from over the boots.
“Come, put these on and join me at the edge of the dock. You survived; that’s the end of it.”
Imaan dangled her feet over the foamy waves as she breathed in the warm, salty air. David sat down beside her, wearing the boots. He rested his head in his hands.
“It’s a beautiful sunrise, isn’t it?” said Imaan.
Imaan fixed her eyes on the glowing sky.
“David, if you owned a priceless painting, would you stare at it incessantly for the rest of your life?”
David glared at her.
“Well?” asked Imaan.
“No, I guess I would not,” said David.
“Hmm,” said Imaan, nodding. “Presumably you would have better things to do.”
“I would think so, yes.”
“Yet I imagine you would be very distressed if something happened to that painting and so would probably install humidity readers, sensors, perhaps hire a guard or two to make sure it was safe and well cared for?”
“Probably, if I valued it enough.”
Imaan nodded again.
“And what would the average material value of the painting be—of the dried oils, the soiled canvas, and so forth?”
“Nothing, I suppose,” said David, shrugging.
“So why go through the trouble of protecting it, if you have better things to do, and the material value is intrinsically worthless?”
David paused, thinking.
“I guess it would be because of the image,” he said.
“Because of the image,” said Imaan. “Interesting.”
Imaan stood up, catching her tousled hair in her hand as she walked back toward the pteroduck. David turned.
“And what about the guard?” asked David.
“Sorry?” asked Imaan.
“You gave the perspective of the owner with his painting only, but what about the guard?” asked David, standing up. “I suspect in the owner’s eyes the guard would be transient, expendable, perhaps valued only because of the success of his service. He would have far less reason to feel confident. What about him?”
Imaan smiled. She unhooked a pendant from around her neck and threw it to David.
“Show this to Norbert when you see him—only him. His house is the last one in the row,” said Imaan.
She climbed up the neck of the pteroduck, making her way to its open bill.
“Where are you going?” asked David.
“May the blessings of Avinoam be with you,” said Imaan.
David looked to the pendant in his hand, which was made up of two gold rings, one inside the other. The rings were connected together by three spokes, like a wheel. David looked up, but the pteroduck was already speeding through the water, its webbed feet running awkwardly as it lifted itself up. In another moment the pteroduck jumped and somersaulted, changing into its usual pterodactyl-like form as it soared into the sunrise.
C H A P T E R 2 4
David walked along the lazy sands of the seafront, scanning the string of brightly-coloured surf shacks that lined the perimeter of King’s Beach. Not a sound could be heard except the lulling whisper of a light ocean breeze and the rustling of waves and palm fronds. David yawned and stopped. A curious tickling feeling bristled on the back of his neck, while a smell of something sweet wafted toward him, like violets. He had the feeling someone was watching him.
“Hello?” asked David. He looked around but saw no one.
“Hello?” he called again. The smell faded and his muscles relaxed; whatever had been there seemed to have gone. David glanced around again, but all was clear.
“Okay, last house on the row. I wonder if this is it,” said David.
Unlike the painted, wooden matchboxes that preceded it, the house that David now saw was a sleek stucco cube with a dome of tinted glass for the roof and several enormous satellite dishes attached to the side. A man with spiky, silver hair and sunglasses was kneeling in front of the house’s tinted window, arranging a row of stones into the shape of a star. He pressed a stone into the warm sand.
“Mr Bransby?”
“Why?” asked the man, looking up.
“The Lady sent me to see you,” said David.
“Oh, he’s in the next house over,” said the man, nodding to a place beyond his marble fence. “Let me see if I can get him for you.”
“Oh, thanks,” said David.
David hadn’t even noticed the haphazard-looking shack nestled behind the row of other houses; it looked more like a colourful scrapyard than a house. A broken picket fence surrounded the misshapen structure, which was painted bright orange and turquoise and seemed to be leaning dangerously to the left. Containers stuffed with growing plants stood buried in the sand around the house. As David followed the man to the front door, he noticed plants growing out of bowls, shoes, pots and other assorted containers, with the focal piece appearing to be a rather forlorn-looking fig tree growing out of a toilet.
“I’ve been meaning to speak to Norbert anyway about his prodigal pea plants, which have wrongly made their way onto my fence,” said the man. He pointed to a lamp shade and a colander resting on top of the marble.
“Gill Ullrich’s the name. Pleased to meet you.”
“David Michelson. Likewise,” said David, shaking his hand.
“Have you met Norbert before?” asked Gill.
“I haven’t had the pleasure, no,” said David.
“Well, prepare yourself. He’s a little fireball of energy, that Norbert; you never know quite what to expect.”
Gill knocked heavily on the door.
“Norbert! Open up! I know you’re in there! You have a visitor, Norbert!”
The door groaned. David was surprised such a feeble structure could withstand the heavy assault from Gill’s hand, but it remained intact.
“Oi. He must be really concentrating on something,” said Gill.
He reached his hand through the window and unlatched the door from the inside. Then he slowly opened it.
“Norbert… AW NORBERT!” shrieked Gill, reeling back.
There in the middle of the room turned a scrawny, old man with a scraggly goatee. He was completely naked, except for a pair of goggles on his eyes, sandals on his feet and puffy oven mitts on hi
s hands. He was holding a pair of salad tongs.
“Gird your loins, man! You have company!” said Gill. He picked up a nearby pair of paisley swim shorts and threw them at Norbert, while David stared at the happy hula dancer that smiled from his welcome mat.
“And what right do you have, barging in here without welcome, you old Gill-pickle? I have the right to report you!” said Norbert, hopping about as he struggled to fit the swim shorts over his sunflower flip-flops. “A man can’t even catch a little breeze for his privates in the comfort of his own home these days, without someone causing a right near commotion.”
Norbert pulled off his mitts and goggles and flung them on a cluttered workbench.
As David looked around, the inside of the shack seemed even more eccentric than its exterior. Every last bit of the grey, unfinished walls were covered in shelves holding hundreds of glass bottles of various sizes, except in the corners. One corner housed an enormous Venus flytrap on a stool, and in the other sat a dusty computer with a wilted head of purple cabbage in between the screen and the keyboard. Norbert grabbed a green glass bottle off a nearby shelf and took a swig.
“So why did you go inviting this youngster into my area?” asked Norbert, pointing the bottle’s nose at Gill. “He could be a dangerous fugitive.”
“Now Norbert, it’s not often you get visitors, and it would do you good to be more sociable. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Isn’t it now?” asked Norbert.
Gill cleared his throat.
“As you know I’m having my own little soirée at the Gilly Pad this evening, and I have noticed that you have once again extended your ‘garden’ into my space. I thought we set a very clear borderline with our double fence. Now I see your vegetables are happily chilling on my frontier, and they’re dragging down my swag.”
“How dare you!” snapped Norbert, swinging his bottle around. “Did I complain when you put those monstrosities on your house, blocking the morning sunlight from my tamaties? My babies need their sun, man!”
