They tried to stop it happening. For the first two years of Violet’s life, Mr and Mrs Hollow made sure we were never in the same room together. Before I was let upstairs to clean the house, she’d be locked in her room. Before she was brought down to the kitchen, I’d be locked in mine. I’d hear her crying and giggling, blowing raspberries upstairs, but I never saw her. After a while, I heard her little baby footsteps. I’d hold my ear to the basement door and listen to the tales Mrs Hollow would tell her over breakfast. Scary stories of bad things lurking under houses and demons posing as amber-eyed girls. But the Hollows didn’t know who they were dealing with. Even as a toddler, Violet was enthralled. I began to hear her shuffling around outside the door. One day I looked through the keyhole and saw her eyeball staring right back. Mrs Hollow dragged her away and told her she could burst into flames just by looking at me, which only made the little pyro want to see me even more. She sneaked outside a few hours later and made her way round to the basement window. I’ll never forget that moment. Me, standing at the base of Dad’s bed, looking up. Violet fogging up the glass with her breath, smiling down.
The rest, as they say, is history.
‘So,’ Violet says now, ‘what was she like?’
‘What was who like?’
‘Winifred Robin.’ Violet tuts at me. ‘Come on, you could act a little more excited. She’s only the most amazing adventurer Bluehaven’s ever seen. She’s been into the Manor more times than anyone. I’ve read all her books. Kids at school say she went batty after the Manor shut up shop, like most of the old folks round here, I s’pose. She lives under the museum. Never talks to anyone. She’s pretty much a hermit, but, like, a cool one. And you actually got to meet her.’
‘Lucky me.’ Violet cuts through the last few strands of rope and it unravels to the cage floor. I rub the red-raw marks around my wrists and take the knife. ‘Thanks.’
I saw away at the rope around my feet.
‘Why didn’t you just untie that with your hands?’ Violet asks.
‘I tried, but the woman ties knots like a pirate. As for what she was like?’ Actually, I have no idea how to describe Winifred. On one hand, yeah, she smacked me in the head with a shotgun and stuffed me in a cage. On the other, she saved my life. Even offered me a refreshing, poison-free beverage. I cut through the rope and kick it away, stand and stretch. ‘She was the one who slipped the photo through my window this morning, not Atlas. She wrote the message. She’s messing with me, but’ – I hand Violet my baby photo – ‘look.’
Violet gasps. ‘Is that you? Aw, you’re so little!’
‘All those books. It’s the Great Library, right? Under the museum?’
‘Yep,’ Violet says. ‘And we thought you’d never been inside it, huh?’ She shakes her head in wonder, flips the photo. ‘Everything happens for a reason? Weird. What does the drawing mean?’
‘I dunno.’ I check the padlock and chain wrapped around the little cage door. Useless. Pace around the cage and give each wooden bar a shake instead, rub the shotgun lump on my forehead. ‘She said Atlas is gonna do something. She said something bad’s gonna happen, but it’s necessary, and I’m the only person who can help everyone. Maybe at dusk.’
‘You’re the only person who can help everyone? We’re in big trouble, then.’
‘Look, this knife isn’t gonna do jack on these bars. We’ll have to break through them. Have a look around for a hammer or something.’
‘Sure thing.’ Violet hands back the photo and hurries over to the pile of junk, has a dig around. She holds up a rusty screwdriver. ‘How about this?’
‘Bigger.’
‘That?’ She points to an enormous anchor.
‘Smaller.’
‘This?’ She twirls a crowbar through the air.
‘Perfect.’
She runs back to the cage, grinning. ‘So what do we do once you’re free?’
‘Sneak out of here’ – I stuff the photo in my pocket, wedge the crowbar between two bars and pull – ‘head back to the house, make sure my dad’s okay, track down Winifred again – and get – some – answers.’ One of the bars cracks. I smile and re-position the crowbar. ‘Atlas is gonna go mental when he finds an empty cage. Did Eric Junior mention what he was gonna –’
A hot breath of wind blows through the gaps in the boatshed walls, carrying with it the sound of the drums again. The drums and a distant chuckle. We freeze.
A voice. The slow clippity-clop of a horse. Footsteps getting louder.
‘Go,’ I whisper, tossing the crowbar from the cage. ‘Out the window.’
‘No way, Jane. If they’re taking you somewhere, I’m going too.’
‘Look, I appreciate that but we don’t have time to – what are you doing?’ She’s crawling under the wagon, that’s what. ‘No, Violet. Get out of here.’
But it’s too late. The horse’s clippities have stopped clopping. The door rattles.
‘Run first chance you get, kid,’ I mutter. ‘If they catch you –’
‘I’ll kick ’em in the nuts,’ Violet whispers. ‘Suckers won’t even see it coming.’
The doors burst open. Golden light fills the shed with a swirl of dust. Four silhouettes stand in the doorway. Atlas, Peg, Eric Junior and a horse.
My worst-case scenario is about to begin.
THE MANUVIAN KNIFE
Dapper three-piece suit. Slicked-back hair. Chiselled jaw. Mayor Atlas is a pompous, barrel-chested statue come to life. Grade-A jerk and then some. ‘Who were you talking to, Doe?’
‘Nobody.’
‘We ’eard voices,’ Peg says, hobbling around, checking behind the piles of junk. He’s changed his clothes since our dip in the ocean. So has Eric Junior. ‘Don’t deny it.’
‘No. I mean, yeah. I was talking to myself. I do it a lot. On account of the whole no-friends thing and all.’ Violet giggles under the wagon. I stomp my foot to cover the noise. ‘Sorry. Nervous tic.’ I stomp again for good measure. Eric Junior frowns at me, hanging back with the horse. I want to punch him. ‘By the way, I wasn’t trying to drown you, Junior.’
‘Tha’s a lie,’ Peg says. ‘I saw it all.’ He glances under the wagon. Thankfully, Violet’s off the ground, stretched out between the axles, face-up. I can just make her out between the planks beneath me. They’d have to crawl right under to see her. ‘Nobody ’ere.’
Atlas stands right in front of me, hands in his pockets. ‘You were bound and gagged when I left, Doe. Robin helped you out, did she? Made things more comfortable for you?’
‘Maybe.’
Peg reaches into the cage, gives the flask a pig-like sniff. ‘What’d you talk about?’
‘The weather.’ I can’t help covering for Winifred. My baby photo sealed the deal. An unspoken pact, for now. ‘Oh, and swimming lessons. Probably a good idea, really.’
Peg punches the cage. ‘Cut the cheek, you little freak! What’d she say?’
‘Save your breath, Gareth,’ Atlas says, and all I can think is, Gareth? Peg’s real name is Gareth? ‘She isn’t going to tell us what Robin said and she doesn’t need to. After tonight, I am going to be heralded as a hero, and that old meddler will have no choice but to retreat to her precious little museum forever.’ He gives Eric Junior a curt nod. ‘It is time.’
Eric Junior leads the horse into the shed and tethers it to the wagon. Violet shifts a little underneath. Peg gathers the severed rope and knife from the cage floor.
‘Want me to tie ’er up again?’
‘Leave her. The crowd will find it more dramatic if there’s a hint of danger involved.’
My face falls at the c-word. ‘What are you gonna do?’
The mayor’s lips flicker with a smile. ‘Tell me, Doe, have you ever heard of Manuvia? No? Pity. Beautiful place. Turquoise sky. Endless jungle, all of it teeming with life. I journeyed there on my first adventure through the Manor.’
‘Eric Atlas and the Red Temple Siege,’ Eric Junior says, buckling the last strap on the horse’s ha
rness. ‘It’s an awesome story.’
‘The best,’ Peg says, which surprises me. He doesn’t exactly seem like the reading type.
‘If you weren’t forbidden to lay your eyes upon the Bluehaven Chronicles, I would highly recommend it,’ Atlas continues. ‘Not that I like to brag. Anyway, I passed through the Manor with ease. A couple of booby traps – nothing too serious. But trouble was brewing in Manuvia. Upon my arrival, I discovered that an evil tribe of cannibals known as the Gothgans had stolen something from the Great Kingdom of Manu. A relic. It’s just a knife, really, but to the tribes of Manuvia it was considered a mysterious and most powerful weapon. According to legend, the knife had the power to harness the energy of those it slayed or injured, and transfer that energy to whoever wielded it. So, my calling was simple: retrieve the knife, save the world.
‘The journey to the Gothgan caves was long and fraught with danger – I won’t burden you with the details, for they were many and quite extraordinary. I got the knife. Naturally, the Gothgans were not pleased. Even after I’d made my triumphant return to Manu they laid siege to the Red Temple, the resting place of the knife, for ninety days and nights. I battled and bled alongside the Manuvians for three whole months and the Gothgans were defeated. The Great Kingdom of Manu, nay, Manuvia itself, was saved.’
I don’t like where this is going.
‘After we had claimed victory, Kucho, the tribal elder, called everybody to the base of the temple stairs.’ Atlas starts pacing. ‘You see, the Manuvians believe – and I say believe because, although I have never returned, I am sure they are still alive and prospering – that everything has a spirit. Air, stone, water, flame and bone. Everything. They also believe these spirits can be tainted. Broken. The spirit of the Red Temple, having weathered such a lengthy and vicious battle, was in the greatest danger of all. It had to be saved. Revived. Sated.’
I glance down between the planks, see Violet’s wide tiger eyes staring up at me.
‘They’d captured thirty-seven Gothgans in the battle,’ Eric Junior says. ‘Out of those thirty-seven, nine were women, six were elders, and … four were children, right, Dad?’
‘Correct, Junior. They were taken to the stairs, their lives spilled upon the stone one by one, fed to the temple not in the name of battle, but in the name of ceremony. Of sacrifice. It had been done many times before. That was how the temple had received its name.’
‘Red Temple,’ Peg says. ‘Coz of all the blood, see?’
‘Thanks,’ I tell him. ‘I got it.’
‘And they cut them with this.’ Atlas pulls a knife from his vest. A sharp, curved blade with an ivory handle carved into the shape of a hundred writhing, intertwined bodies. He steps up to the cage, twirls it through his fingers. ‘The Manuvian knife itself.’
I swallow hard. ‘They … gave it to you?’
‘After a fashion. I deserved it after everything I’d done for them. A mighty gift for a mighty warrior. Lifted it just before I made the journey home. It holds absolutely no magical or mythical properties, of that I’m certain, but it is remarkably sharp.’ The mayor traces the blade across his neck. ‘One cut per sacrifice. That was all it took. People have done it for thousands of years in the Otherworlds. Cleansing rituals on temple stairs. Offerings to gods and monsters.’ He shrugs his blocky shoulders. ‘I don’t see why we should be any different.’
‘Don’t see no reason at all,’ Peg sneers.
‘You have terrorised this island for the last time, Jane Doe,’ Atlas says, and smiles. ‘We are taking you to the festival. We are going to sacrifice you to the Manor at dusk.’
THE MANOR LAMENT
There was a time when I was obsessed with the Otherworlds. I used to sneak into the storeroom of the Golden Horn and hide behind the barrels of ale, listening keenly as the old folks at the bar told their tales. Back in the basement, I’d re-enact them for Dad, dwelling on the fine details of these different places, these worlds without curses and curfews. Better worlds where smiling wasn’t a punishable offence, and maybe – just maybe – Dad could walk and talk and play. Maybe even a world where Mum was waiting for us both with open arms, ready to take us home – to our real home.
It was a prospect too exciting to ignore.
I even used to love the Manor Lament. Locked in the basement, I’d listen through the open window, trying to guess which stories were being celebrated, savouring the scent of barbecued sausages and sugar-roasted nuts. Come nightfall, I’d cheer on the unseen fireworks, every crack and bang. Marvelling at each flash of light that burst over the neighbouring stone wall like a shattered rainbow. I pictured stars exploding over the island and wondered if you could catch the pieces as they fell. But all of that was way back when. Before I understood what the meaning of the word outcast truly was. Before I realised the festival was damning me and Dad.
The Manor Lament quickly slipped into the long list of things I couldn’t care less about. The sounds, the smells, the stories, the very idea of the Otherworlds themselves. That mythical home-sweet-home. I bottled up the desire to embark on a quest to find my mum, buried it deep. I knew I had to make a choice. Spend my life wishing for something that would never be or focus on what I had. What was there, right in front of me. What was real. Caring for Dad. Protecting him.
Now I’m about to become the festival’s star attraction.
And Dad’s gonna be all alone.
My prison-on-wheels rattles and clanks up the road to Outset Square, drawn by the horse. I can only just hear Violet’s voice over the racket, which is good, seeing as she chose the worst hiding place in the history of stupid hiding places. She asks how I’m holding up.
‘Peachy,’ I mutter through frozen lips.
‘Hang in there, kid,’ she says. ‘At least you finally get to see the festival, right?’
Nobody notices us when we emerge from the alley. Atlas, Peg and Eric Junior stop the horse beside a cluster of barrels and wait, soaking up the scene. The ecstatic crowd. The busy food stalls. The flags, banners and confetti tinted pink in the light of the setting sun. The jugglers and fire-breathers. Barnaby Twigg striding around the well, twirling a sword.
I spot Mr Hollow in the crowd, desperately trying to avoid touching anyone, a handkerchief clasped to his mouth. Mrs Hollow’s laughing and clapping beside him. The effigies of me and Dad haven’t been lit yet, but they’ve been used as target practice for eggs and arrows. A group at the base of the Sacred Stairs chant and shake their hands in some sort of ritualistic dance. Kids watch, enthralled, as red-faced old-timers act out their Otherworldly adventures on every stage, complete with homemade props. Battles with beasts. Epic wars. Narrow escapes from ancient, booby-trapped temples. The whole square is a heaving mass of people, colour and noise.
The Manor looms above it all, silhouetted against the golden sunset sky, its features lost in shadow. I can’t help but feel it’s staring down at me, a hungry toad watching a fly.
I can’t hold its gaze for long.
That’s when I realise Mr Hollow’s looking right at me. He flaps his handkerchief at me. Grabs Mrs Hollow’s arm. She sees me too, and turns a dirty shade of green.
They scream together, long and loud. An ear-piercing, blood-curdling shriek.
One by one, the performers stop performing, the jugglers stop juggling, the fire-breathers let their flames die to curling wisps of smoke. Barnaby keeps on marching and singing until a rogue sausage flies from the crowd and hits him in the chest. Then he too stops and stares along with the rest of the crowd.
A grim, heavy silence settles on the square.
‘What’s happening?’ Violet whispers. ‘Why’s it so quiet?’
I feel naked, exposed, like a hooked worm dangling over a school of fish.
‘Um … hi,’ I say to everyone.
Mr Hollow clutches his chest. Someone lets out a stifled cry. Old Mrs Jones faints into the arms of some idiot dressed in a bedsheet toga, but Atlas doesn’t miss a beat.
‘Fear not, go
od citizens of Bluehaven. The Cursed One is our prisoner at last!’
A collective gasp ripples through the square. I signal Violet to run with a jerk of my head. She stares defiantly back. The crowd doesn’t know what to do, what to feel. Relief? Happiness? Terror? They aren’t sure whether to celebrate and cheer or dash home and hide. But Atlas stirs them up, milks them for all they’re worth. He assures them of their safety, my treachery, his undying love for them all, and sure enough the good sheep of Bluehaven start a goddamn slow clap. A slow clap that quickly turns into outright applause. The idiot in the toga drops Mrs Jones and kisses some guy standing next to him. The Hollows even hug for three whole seconds.
‘The Cursed One attacked a group of perfectly innocent fisherfolk five hours ago in White Rock Cove!’ Atlas cries. ‘Ran at them with a machete! Threatened to kidnap their firstborn children! When they tried to flee, she herded them onto a jetty and tried to drown them all. Tried to sink the whole island with another quake!’ Cries of outrage from the crowd now. ‘But my son leapt onto a nearby boat, trapped the beast in a fishing net, and brought her ashore to face her crimes!’
Eric Junior flashes a cheesy smile and punches the sky. Everyone hoorahs and huzzahs and sends gleeful praises to the Makers. It’s amazing, to be honest.
Insane, but amazing.
Atlas raises his hands, silencing the rabble. ‘The sentencing, Gareth, if you please.’
Peg unfurls a scroll from his vest and clears his throat. ‘By the powers newly entrusted to ’im as Mayor of Blue’aven, the Honerababble Eric Nathaniel Atlas, son of ’ighly esteemeded adventurer Nathaniel Constantine Atlas, does ’ereby sentence Jane Doe, daughter of what’s-’is-face Doe, to – ’ang on, can’t read me own writin’. What’s that last word there?’
Jane Doe and the Cradle of All Worlds Page 4
