The Sword of Straw

by Amanda Hemingway

  Ellen arrived just after her. She’d been sent to the doctor’s the previous morning but by the time she got there all the pimples had burst and she was assured cheerfully that the problem would clear up in a few days. “Just the usual adolescent stuff. What have you been eating lately?” Ellen’s perfect skin now resembled a bomb site, ridged and pitted and scabbed. Caught off guard by a twinge of fellow feeling, Hazel found herself hoping the scars would go away.

  Then she noticed Ellen’s desk. It appeared to be quivering slightly as if in an earth tremor, and a faint humming noise was coming from it. Fleetingly, Hazel thought of the bags of dirty bandages and toilet paper left in her desk earlier that week. Judgment Day…But she didn’t feel good about it. Gingerly, Ellen lifted the lid.

  The desk was full of flies. There were so many they had almost forced it open—as Ellen raised the top they came out in a huge, black, buzzing explosion, zooming in on her face, her hair, her open mouth. Screaming was a mistake. They filled the room, mobbing the Sniggerers, landing on exposed skin and eyes in great dark clots. Only Hazel was left completely untouched, but no one registered that. The maggots must have crawled into the desk and pupated overnight, but surely not in such numbers—hundreds, maybe thousands of fat shiny flies, swarming over pupil and teacher, feeding off human sweat, tears, saliva…Dear God, Hazel thought. Make it stop. Please make it stop. But the flies still streamed out of Ellen’s desk like bats from the mouth of hell.

  It was much later in the day when they were all disposed of, after the advent of professional exterminators with insecticide sprays and fumigating equipment. Various traumatized students were sent home, but Ellen was still there. Hazel recalled belatedly hearing that she didn’t get on with her mother, who was struggling to maintain youth and prettiness and obviously jealous of filial competition. Hazel could imagine such a mother gloating over the ruin of her daughter’s looks, and the idea tweaked her conscience—or her heart. She felt she ought to say something, something kind and sympathetic, a sort of apology without actually acknowledging that it was her fault: that would be fatal. It was what Nathan would do—Nathan had always been her benchmark—only Nathan wouldn’t be in this mess. But she couldn’t find the right words, and anyway, it was impossible to talk in class. Too many people who might listen, and draw conclusions. Hazel had no intention of betraying herself again. She decided to catch Ellen afterward, when she was walking home. As long as the Sniggerers were out of the way…

  But the Sniggerers had found events too much for their allegiance. Ellen sat alone at the back of the school bus. When she got off in Eade, Hazel followed her, at a safe distance, trying to look nonchalant, just in case anyone was watching. She knew where Ellen lived and realized she wasn’t taking the most direct route, through the middle of the village; instead, she cut down a path toward the river. Hazel headed for the woods when she wanted solitude; she wondered if, for Ellen, the riverbank provided a similar retreat. She passed the pixie-hat roofs of Riverside House, unoccupied for nearly a year now, and wandered down the meadow path beside the water. It was hot under heavy white clouds, the sort of stifling, midge-haunted heat you get before a summer storm. Clumps of wildflowers grew along the meadow’s edge: bladder campion, and mallows, and various worts. She remembered Bartlemy saying long ago that worts were supposed to heal whatever was in their name—woundwort for wounds and so on—though she couldn’t help wondering what St.-John’s-wort might cure. Bad attacks of sainthood, perhaps? Ahead, she saw Ellen bend down to pick a flower—a white campion—and gaze at it, spinning it between her fingers. The gesture made Hazel like her, though she couldn’t have explained why. A few moments later her quarry halted by the stump of a willow tree, deposited her bag on the ground, and sat down beside it idly surveying the river.

  The Glyde was tidal, flowing into the sea at Grimstone harbor not far away, but this was a season of little movement in the water, and the stream drifted indolently, carrying a leaf or two toward the bank, swirling a broken twig in a sudden eddy. A dragonfly dipped and drank, making the most of its short life, iridescent even without the sun. Hazel watched it, her footsteps slowing, fishing for phrases she couldn’t find. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it—I didn’t know… A long ripple ran through the water, as if below, in the weeds, something stirred. Hazel thought: It must have been near here they found Great-Grandma.

  Cloud on the sunset

  wave on the tide;

  death from the deep sea

  swims up the Glyde…

  The apology was forgotten. She had dropped her rucksack and was running along the path, calling: “Ellen! Look out! Look out! ” In front of the willow, the water reared up in a wave, glass green, translucent, ten feet high—a wave with hands. It curled over the bank, over Ellen, clutching at her with boneless fingers, dragging her down into the river. She struggled, trying to get a grip on tree root and grass tuft, but its strength was the strength of the maelstrom, the pull of currents at the ocean’s heart. She had no more power to resist than a torn leaf. “Stop!” Hazel screamed. “Lilliat!” But there was no Lilliat anymore. Only Nenufar the naiad, goddess of the deep. Nenufar whose heart was colder than a fish and whose greed was stronger than the tide—Nenufar who lusted for the Grail and the power it would unlock—Nenufar who would kill without pause, without thought, because human life was less to her than the life of the smallest jelly swimming in the great sea. Hazel groped in her mind for the spellwords she had read in her great-grandmother’s book, Commands of dismissal and banishment, but memory failed her. She reached Ellen and managed to seize her arms—felt the straining of her own fragile muscles against the vast sucking force of the water. She, too, began to slide down the bank…

  And then the wave withdrew, sinking back into the river, and the clutching hands melted into a frill of foam that settled on the surface for an instant and vanished. All that remained was a ridge of bubbles riding a ripple that sped downstream and was lost in the heavy stillness of the summer afternoon. Hazel dragged Ellen back up the bank; she was wet through, mud-smeared, shivering from the shock.

  “What w-was it?” Ellen seemed to have forgotten that this was her enemy, the object of her contempt. “What happened?”

  “A freak wave?” Hazel suggested.

  “It felt like hands—hands p-pulling me into the water…”

  “The river current can be very strong,” Hazel offered. “Maybe it was a what-d’you-call-it—a bore.”

  “I wasn’t bored.” A little late, Hazel realized Ellen wasn’t making a pun. She had obviously never heard of such things.

  “You ought to get home,” Hazel said. “You could come to my place—it’s nearer. Get dry—have some tea or something.”

  Maybe they’d be friends now. She’d saved Ellen’s life. Of course it was Hazel who’d put her in danger in the first place—but Ellen didn’t know that.

  “No thanks.” Ellen sounded grudging. “Were you—were you—following me?”

  “No.”

  “I came here to be quiet, to b-be on my own. It’s been so awful…You were f-following me. You’re sick. What do you want—to collect some of my scabs?”

  Nothing had changed. She’d felt bad about Ellen, wanted to help, rescued her from the water spirit—but it made no difference.

  Only to me, said a voice in her head.

  “Look, I just wanted to say sorry. About everything that’s happened. That’s all.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Hazel looked at her for a second from behind her hair. A strange expression crossed the other girl’s face—a shadow of suspicion, a trace element of fear. She drew back a little.

  Hazel said: “I’ll walk home with you.”

  Ellen was shivering in spasms now, her teeth chattering. The clouds had thickened; thunder rolled far off. Lightning flickered, unobtrusive in the daylight. Rain began to fall in big heavy drops. Soon Hazel was almost as wet as her companion, but when they reached the house, Mrs. Carver didn’t ask her in. She
was an older version of Ellen, with very yellow hair and the pout set in faint lines around her mouth. She fussed over her daughter in a complaining way, as if Ellen had deliberately engendered her own misfortunes to cause trouble for her parent. Hazel was glad to get away despite the weather, hurrying home as fast as she could, to be genuinely fussed over by Lily Bagot in a way she would normally have evaded, given low-calorie hot chocolate because that was all they had, and sat by the fan heater in the living room watching Neighbours while she dried out.

  ON SATURDAY afternoon Eric Rhindon dropped into the bookshop to have tea with the Wards. “I’ve been thinking,” Nathan told him. “There must be some way to pick up the Traitor’s Sword. After all, you could ward off the gnomons with that herb that smells so bad—sylpherim—and white noise, and iron. There’s always a way to deal with things, otherwise what would be the point?”

  “Spirit in sword is very powerful,” Eric volunteered. “Much stronger than gnomon. I never hear of anything.”

  “If it was a story,” Nathan said, “there’d be Gauntlets of Protection—something like that.”

  “Life isn’t like stories,” Annie said. “It’s too untidy.”

  “The princess told me there’s a legend in her world about a mysterious stranger who lifts the sword and ends the curse on the kingdom. He’s a prince or a knight, or whatever. They always are.” He went on: “I’m a mysterious stranger, but I’d have to cheat for the rest.”

  For all her anxiety, Annie managed a faint smile. “True heroes always cheat,” she said. “It’s the difference between brains and brawn. Anyone can be a hero with pecs.”

  “This princess,” Eric asked, “she is pretty?”

  “Ish.” Nathan was carefully noncommittal. “She’s got lots of hair that always needs brushing—it reminds me of Hazel. And she can be quite spiky. But when she smiles…” He stopped, uncertain of the words for Nell’s smile.

  “She is pretty.” Eric nodded, satisfied.

  Annie hovered on the verge of saying You ought to bring her home sometime, and sighed. Other mothers had it easy, she decided. She glanced at her son’s dark alien face, and felt a sudden pang of fear, because he looked so much like a stranger…

  That night, Nathan dreamed. He had been sure he would, had felt it with a certainty that came from deep in his spirit, not confidence but knowledge. Perhaps the future, like the past, was something you could remember, if you were able to stretch your mind beyond the confines of the present. Time holds us, drives us, limits us, but there are moments when the spirit breaks free, and can touch infinity. Nathan felt he and the princess belonged together—their lives met and crossed—maybe forever, maybe just for a little while (he didn’t want to think about that), but the strength of their fate would bridge the gulf between worlds, and open the unopenable doors. He didn’t need to roam the inside of his head, groping for the portal—the patch of wrongness, like interference on a television set. He closed his eyes, and he was there.

  There, in this case, being the library. He was standing in the shadows with which the palace—and the library in particular—was abundantly provided. The princess was seated at the table on what seemed to be a pile of books, leaning forward, chin on palm, listening. Frimbolus Quayne sat opposite her, talking with great energy, his dandelion-seed hair quivering in the backdraft from his hand gestures. Daylight had wriggled in somehow, past a shredded banner of curtain, and showed the multiple expressions—sometimes several at once—that flickered over his face. “…know nothing about him,” he was saying. “I’ve seen him in my workroom—spying on me—hovering around like the phantoms you see with diseases of the liver, all pale and shimmery. I spoke to him, but he didn’t say a word. No manners at all! Just stood there gaping like a fish and then faded away.”

  “He’s been solid enough lately,” said the princess. “He helped me shell the peas.”

  “Very good, those peas. Even Gobbledygoose couldn’t spoil them…”

  “He says he can’t help disappearing sometimes. He gets pulled back into his own world.”

  “A likely story! Fifteen years ago—before you were born—I found a thief in the king’s bedroom, hiding in the wardrobe. Said he’d just popped through from another world. Bumskittles! I daresay if I was up to something nefarious, and got caught out, I’d claim I was from another world. As good a story as any—it’s common knowledge there are other worlds all over the place. The point is—the point is—you can’t get to them, or from them. Not through wardrobes or dreams or spell-windows—trust me. Other worlds are out of bounds: it’s an Ultimate Law. Of course, he might just think he’s from another world. Could be from somewhere else in this one—dreaming out of his body. Might be a scoundrel. Might just be batty.”

  At this juncture Nathan knew he ought to announce himself—he had left it rather late already—but the temptation to eavesdrop a little longer was irresistible. After all, he told himself, rather doubtfully, it could be Frimbolus who was summoning the Urdemons. He must have the necessary magical know-how. If he kept his presence a secret, the old man might yet give himself away.

  “He’s not batty,” Nell was saying firmly, “and he’s not a scoundrel. I thought he might be the mysterious stranger in the legend.”

  “Too much mystery,” said Quayne, “and could be very strange. Never trust a legend, anyway. Has it occurred to you that if he was really from another world he wouldn’t look like us? Do you think the human form is universal, let alone multiversal? You think nature can’t do better? If this ghostly slubberdegullion of yours was actually from an alternative cosmos, he’d probably have two heads—or no head at all—or merely be a lump of intelligent slime with half a dozen eyes on stalks like a snail. No reason for him to appear as an attractive young man unless he’s up to no good.”

  “I didn’t say he was attractive,” the princess demurred.

  Nathan, on the verge of stepping forward, lurked a moment longer.

  “Didn’t need to,” said Frimbolus. “It’s obvious. Didn’t see him too clearly when he came haunting around, but it’s written all over you.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Nell said with a sudden access of dignity. “I’m a princess. I don’t go about being attracted to any old young man who turns up, whatever world he’s come from.”

  “Good for you,” Nathan said, emerging from the shadows. “You can’t be too careful these days.”

  The princess started, trying to counteract the effect of her mounting blush with a glow of anger. Frimbolus raised his eyebrows so far up his forehead that they almost disappeared over the top of his skull; wrinkles moved to get out of their way.

  The old man recovered first. “Aha!” he said. “The world traveler! You may have insinuated yourself into Nell’s good graces, but you won’t find it so easy with me. I can see through you—”

  “I don’t think so.” Nathan looked down, and noted with relief that he was completely solid. He had also taken the precaution of going to bed in his clothes.

  “Trying to be clever, are we?” Frimbolus responded. “Think I’m going to fall for all this potherguffle about other worlds? If it’s the truth, why haven’t you got two heads? That’s what I want to know.”

  “I only need one?” Nathan suggested.

  “We have a saying here,” Frimbolus said, with the air of someone who thinks he has scored a point, “two heads are better than one.”

  “Not on the same person,” Nathan pointed out. “They would clutter up your shoulders. We have that saying in our world, too, which only goes to show how similar it is. After all, parallel universes are supposed to be—parallel.”

  “Frizzle my principles! I almost think he knows what he’s talking about. Exactly what form of magic do you use to get here?”

  “No magic,” Nathan said. “I just dream.”

  “He says it’s physics,” the princess interrupted. She didn’t like being left out of the conversation.

  Frimbolus waved physics away. “One of the
minor sciences. I knew a man once who was obsessed with falling objects. He wanted to know why things fall down instead of up. Call that intellectual research! One day, an apple hit him on the head.”

  “Did he discover gravity?” Nathan asked.

  “No, but I had to treat him for a mild concussion. After that, he gave up physics to develop a kettle that tells you when it’s boiling. He was a little eccentric.”

  “Without physics,” Nathan inquired, “how do you know about parallel universes?”

  “Logic,” declared Quayne, “supported by the evidence. In nature there is never only one of anything. Many leaves on the tree, many trees in the wood, many woods in the country, many countries on the earth. Therefore, it follows that there must be many worlds out there, too. My great-great-great-grandfather wrote a treatise on it; I have developed the concept even farther. We have infinity and eternity: that’s far too much space for only one universe. But each world—like ours—must have its own equilibrium. When universes overlap, their balance is disturbed, and that can only lead to trouble.”