Jane Doe and the Cradle of All Worlds

by Jeremy Lachlan

  Dad didn’t hesitate then, not for a second.

  ‘I let him in,’ he says. ‘I touched the rock and the gateway opened again. All this’ – he waves a hand at the carriage and the other prisoners – ‘is because of me.’

  He looks so helpless, so sorry, like he’s about to cry. A man with the weight of a thousand worlds on his shoulders. I grab his hand and squeeze it tight. Tell him it wasn’t his fault – isn’t his fault – that anybody would’ve done the same. Roth gave him no choice.

  Dad squeezes my hand back, a simple gesture he never used to be able to do.

  ‘It all happened so fast,’ he almost-whispers. ‘Roth marched his troops in. Hundreds of them. They constructed a thick, metal frame inside the gateway to keep it open. Turned corridors into roads. Drove in tanks and trucks. Disabled booby traps. Started building a fortress in the first large chamber they found, starting with a brand-new cell for us. Months passed before Roth came for us again. About six months, to be precise. He came when Elsa was in labour. When we were most vulnerable. He knew I would do anything to help her.’

  ‘He wanted you to show him the gateway back to Tallis,’ I say. Dad looks at me, puzzled and frownyeyed, so I let his hand go and add, ‘That’s why he takes prisoners, right? So they can lead him to more gateways. He ruined his own world so now he’s looking for another.’

  Dad shakes his head. ‘Jane, Roth doesn’t want to conquer one world. He wants to conquer all of them. And to do that he first needs to conquer the Manor itself.’ Dad taps the symbol drawn on the floor between us. ‘He’s looking for this, Jane. The Cradle of All Worlds. It’s the core of the Manor. The first chamber created by the Makers – a chamber with one purpose: to house and protect a source of immense and unmatched power.’ Dad pauses, takes a breath. I swear I can hear a drum roll somewhere. ‘The Cradle Sea.’

  The vibe in the carriage changes at once. The old man looks at us. Hickory closes his eyes as if he’s just swallowed something bad, like this is the one thing he didn’t want me to hear. Even the girl twitches, and I wonder if she’s really sleeping.

  ‘A sea,’ I say. ‘You mean, like, an ocean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry, I just have to … get my head around this.’ I hold out my hands, like I’m lifting a really big ball. ‘The Cradle of All Worlds is a really, really, ridiculously big chamber.’ Dad nods. ‘In the centre of the Manor.’ He nods again. ‘With an entire bloody sea inside it?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  The first thing I think is, That’s crazy. The second thing I think is, Crap, my nightmare, could it be? The third thing I think is, No way, move on, forget it, but then Dad says, ‘I heard you, Jane. Even in the Grip, I was listening. All those times you spoke about your nightmares. All those nights you cried out in your sleep. I know you had the drowning dream most of all.’

  ‘It isn’t a nightmare, though, is it?’ I say after a while, and suddenly it feels so obvious. How could I not see it before? ‘It’s a memory.’

  THE GATEKEEPER, THE BUILDER AND THE SCRIBE

  ‘How much do you know about the Makers, Jane?’ I make a noise, somewhere between a huh? and an oh, still trying to come to terms with the fact that the most terrifying place I can possibly imagine actually exists. It’s real, and if what Dad says is true then I’ve really been there, tossed around by those waves, nearly drowned in that water, which means the tentacles of crackling light are real, too. The yawning mouths and white-fire eyes. The Spectres, I suppose. Guardians of the Cradle.

  You ever see a big white light, Jane, you run, Hickory told me.

  Turns out I already have seen one. More than one. I’ve seen dozens of the damn things, writhing and crackling in the deep, reaching out to get me.

  They’re real.

  But what about my other nightmares? The ones I had back on Bluehaven. All those terrible things I’ve seen and heard in my sleep. The men, women and children in danger. Strangers being chased, crying out for help, dying. They can’t be memories, so what are they?

  ‘Jane? The Makers. How much do you know about them?’

  ‘Um.’ I shake my head. ‘The Makers. I know they were gods. There were three of them. Supposedly they built the Manor.’

  ‘Not supposedly. They did. In the beginning. And by beginning I mean Beginning. As in the very, very, very, very, very –’

  ‘Beginning with a capital B,’ the girl says. ‘We got it.’ Me, Dad and Hickory turn our heads. She opens her eyes and shrugs. ‘What? Keep going.’ She rests her head against the wall, closes her eyes again. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Right,’ Dad says, ‘well.’ He looks around the carriage. ‘How do I explain this? Yes. Okay. Think of a stack of paper, Jane. A stack bound in string. A thousand pages. And each page represents a different or alternate dimension with its own suns and moons and stars.’

  ‘And worlds.’

  ‘The Otherworlds, yes. A thousand dimensions existing separately, but layered on top of each other, all held together by the string. The stack is fixed. Secure. Stable. Pick it up, throw it around, leave it outside all day, the pages stay together. But if you cut the string –’

  ‘The wind can blow them apart.’

  ‘One gust. One breath.’

  I look up at the window across the carriage and the dots of candles whipping by outside, the stone walls a blur. ‘The Manor’s the string.’

  ‘Exactly. The Makers created the Manor to fill the gaps between the worlds. To bridge and bind them together. You see, in the Beginning the dimensions were spinning uncontrollably, the worlds within them violent, uninhabitable places unable to sustain even the smallest glimmer of life. They were realms of the gods. Lands of chaos.’ A smile flicks the corners of Dad’s lips. ‘And then Po came, a god who could see things the other gods could not. A network of portholes linking the dimensions together. A tangle of threads branching out like the strands of a spiderweb. Po travelled along these threads, visiting the different dimensions and their worlds. She met Aris, creator and shaper of stone. Nabu-kai, a wise and powerful god with the gift of foresight. He could see every future in every world. All three of them believed it was time for the reign of the gods to come to an end, to let life spread and prosper in every dimension, but it was Nabu-kai who knew how to do it. He had been waiting for Po and Aris. Had already seen the wonder they would create.

  ‘So Po took Aris and Nabu-kai along the threads, and in that place-between-places they forged the Manor together. Aris built every wall, every chamber, every trap. Po made every gateway and connected them to the Otherworlds. And Nabu-kai – Nabu-kai engraved the fate of all worlds into the walls of the Manor itself, and the destinies of those who would shape them. He saw all of our paths, Jane, and we walk them, whether we like it or not.’

  Nabu-kai. The one who left the symbol for Winifred. The one who gave her the vision.

  ‘He’s my least favourite one, then,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t hate the gods, kiddo. They’re pissed off enough as it is.’ Dad smiles. ‘So, the Manor was finished, the Otherworlds calmed. But the Makers still had to contend with the Gods of Chaos, many with powers stronger than their own. So instead of fighting them, they tricked them. Spread word of the wonder they’d created and lured the gods inside to see it. Po opened every gateway, Aris channelled the gods directly into the empty Cradle and, once inside, the combined energies of every god clashed, swirled and transformed irreversibly into a pool of energy and light. The Cradle Sea was born, a force strong enough to lay entire worlds to waste. The energy and essence of the old gods bound together, forever, as one.’

  ‘And what happened to the Makers?’

  ‘Well, they knew that in order for the age of life to truly begin, they too would have to join the fallen gods inside the Cradle. After sealing it from the inside, they poured their own spirits not into the Sea, but into the foundation stone lying at its centre.’

  ‘The first stone laid down by Aris,’ I say, picturing the steep-slope
d little island that started popping up in my nightmare ever since I stepped inside the Manor. ‘It’s big, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes. From there, the essence of the Makers has powered the core of the Manor and kept the Sea safe and secret ever since. Po, Aris and Nabu-kai. The Gatekeeper, the Builder and the Scribe.’ Dad taps the symbol on the floor. Traces over the almost-triangle again. ‘Three gods.’ He moves onto the circle now. ‘At the centre of their most sacred creation.’

  I frown at the almost-triangle. ‘Why’s that line there curved inward?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And the Spectres? Where’d they come from?’

  ‘I don’t know that either. Perhaps the Makers fashioned them from the Cradle Sea. Perhaps they were Gods of Chaos spared by the Makers. A lesser order of gods chosen to watch over and protect them. All I know is, the Spectres can’t use the gateways or exist in the Otherworlds without a host, as I said – I wouldn’t have been Gripped all those years if they could – and while they can pass through the walls of the Manor, I don’t think they can pass through the walls of the Cradle itself. It’s too powerful, even for them. Too protected. The two that chased us from the Cradle are trapped in here, like the rest of us.’

  I shift my weight on the butt-numbing floor, one cheek to the other. This is all so huge, so beyond me. I’m used to worrying about house chores, escape routes and rowdy fisherfolk, not the Beginning-with-a-capital-B-of-all-existence. My head hurts.

  ‘So what does all this have to do with the key?’

  ‘Ah, now we come to it. The legend of the Makers told on Tallis finishes there, with the creation of the Cradle Sea. I believe the version told on Bluehaven is the same. Winifred spent many nights reading to us in the museum, Jane. The story never went beyond that point. But remember, the Manor is revered in many worlds. Some legends travel far and change with every telling. On Roth’s world – on Arakaan – it is said that before the Makers sealed themselves inside the Cradle, Nabu-kai foresaw a great evil that would one day try to conquer their creation. And so the Makers forged a key. A key that, in the hands of someone pure of heart, would be able to unlock the Cradle and use its power to expel this evil from the Manor. At least, that is what Roth would have you believe.’ Dad glances at Hickory and the girl, both watching him intently now. ‘The truth is, there are three keys.’

  Hickory leans out from the carriage wall, as if something has pinched his back.

  ‘Phwee?’ he says through his gag. ‘Phwee?’

  ‘Two keys hidden inside the Manor to open the Cradle of All Worlds – yes, your key is one of them, Jane – and a third key to control it. This is what Roth ultimately wants. The third and most powerful key the Makers left inside the Cradle – on the foundation stone in the centre of the Sea. Control the third key and you control the Cradle. Control the Cradle and the power of the Makers is yours. The power to see all ends. To open any gateway. To channel the Sea anywhere you choose. Roth could hold every world to ransom. Destroy entire civilisations in the blink of an eye.’

  ‘And you knew all of this back then,’ the girl says. ‘When Roth came to you? When Elsa was in labour?’ The accusatory tone in her voice bugs the hell out of me.

  ‘No,’ Dad says. ‘But Roth wasted no time educating me. While Elsa cried out in pain, he pinned me to the wall, entered my mind and told me the story, showed me the symbol. He had spent months looking for the keys and the Cradle entrance to no avail. He could feel the Manor itself working against him. He believed that somebody with more noble and innocent intentions might have better luck. He had chosen his timing well. I swore on my life and Elsa’s I would help him find the Cradle. And he let me go. He let me help her.’

  I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear this. ‘So I was born here, then? In the Manor?’

  ‘Yes, Jane,’ Dad says, struggling to find the words, to get an answer out, ‘you were born in the Manor, but –’

  A jolt in the carriage throws us sideways. Brakes squeal. Sparks fly past the windows. Prisoners shout and hold each other. My insides squirm. There’s a clank, clank, clank, an exhausted bellow of steam, then we’re all jerked back into silence. A heavy quiet fills the carriage, broken only by the distant barking of Tin-skins and the gentle tinkling of our chains.

  ‘Why have we stopped?’ I ask.

  A woman from the other chain gang peeks out the window. Turns back, shakes her head, says something no-one seems to understand.

  ‘We’re not there yet,’ Dad says. ‘We can’t be.’

  Hickory’s the first to panic. It begins as a stillness, a refusal to shuffle with the rest of us to the window. He says something over and over, ‘Wruff – wruff,’ getting louder, getting quicker. He backs away, into the girl, past the girl, yanking us all towards the back of the carriage. He slips and pulls most of us down with him. Tries to free his hands.

  ‘Wruff! Ruff! Roff!’

  And then I feel it. A burn in the throat. An itch on the skin. A dizziness. I cough, and so does the girl. The old man clutches his chest and gasps for air. People rub their eyes, hold hands to their hearts and heads. I can hear prisoners crying in the other carriages. Banging their chains in protest. A carriage door screeching open and shut further up the train. The girl reaches over and pulls the rope from Hickory’s mouth, and that’s when the train starts its caterpillar crawl again.

  ‘It’s him,’ Hickory coughs. ‘Roth’s on the train.’

  THE MAN WITH THE PORCELAIN FACE

  Panic spreads fast. The other prisoners may not know who or what Roth is, but they know a bad feeling when it hits them. The screams further up the train sure don’t help either. Some people are too scared to move. Others scramble round the sliding side door, as if scratching at the steel’s gonna set them free. Never mind the nooses jangling round their necks or the chugging of the speeding train. They want off and they want off now. Dad tells them to stop, tries to calm them down. I kinda want to join them.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Dad tells me. ‘We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Oh, sure we will.’ The girl pulls a pin from her scarf, fiddles with the lock round the back of her neck. ‘We’re stuck on a speeding train with a poisonous, immortal maniac who’s been hunting you two for the last however-many years. What could possibly go wrong?’

  Her collar tumbles to the floor. We stare at her.

  ‘Now?’ Hickory gasps. ‘You only pick the lock now?’

  ‘Waiting for the right moment,’ the girl says. A swish of her cloak and she heads to the back of the carriage. ‘I’ll catch you folks later.’

  ‘Wait,’ I yell. ‘Are you kidding?’ Cough. ‘You can’t leave.’ Splutter. ‘Help us.’

  ‘I am helping you,’ the girl shouts, but then she kicks open a small panel set low into the back corner, flicks her pin at Hickory and slips out into the wind.

  ‘She left us,’ I say. ‘She actually left us.’

  A volley of rifle fire, further up the train. My imagination runs wild. Leatherheads mowing down prisoners. People clawing at the doors till their fingers bleed. A half-masked man striding through it all with blood sticking to his boots.

  Dad grabs Hickory’s collar, pulls him close. ‘Why is he here?’

  ‘Untie my hands and I’ll tell you.’

  Dad shoves him into the wall face-first and starts untying. ‘Talk.’

  ‘Not sure why,’ Hickory says. ‘Checking camps. Progress on the train line. Inspecting prisoners. Who knows? Maybe he felt a shiver down his spine when you two came back to the Manor.’

  As soon as the rope falls free, Hickory shoves Dad away and snatches the girl’s pin from the floor. He sets to work on his collar, tongue wriggling between his teeth.

  Dad grips my shoulders so hard it almost hurts.

  ‘Listen to me very carefully. Roth won’t have forgotten my face since our last encounter, but you were only a baby. He won’t recognise you. No matter what Roth does to me, do not under any circumstances intervene. He cannot know who you are.’
>
  ‘What? No, Dad –’

  ‘Don’t flinch. Don’t make a sound. Keep your head down and your eyes on your toes at all times. You don’t know me, I don’t know you. We’re strangers, Jane.’

  ‘I’m not gonna let him touch you. We can pick the locks and get out of here before –’

  Another round of rifle fire, louder than before. Closer.

  ‘No time,’ Dad says. ‘And we can’t go anywhere without the key.’

  ‘But the bounty hunter – he could’ve handed it over already.’

  ‘Nobody approaches Roth,’ Hickory says, still fiddling with the lock at his neck. ‘Big no-no. Bounty hunters’ll be spreading through the train right now. Waiting for him to come to them. Ours will be here any second now – hand you and the key over together. Means we’ll have a minute or two to take him out.’

  ‘What, so you can hand us over yourself?’

  ‘Plan’s changed.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re on our side now?’

  The front carriage door unlocks, squeals open. We’re all blasted by wind and noise. Our bounty hunter ducks inside, harried but resolute, long whip coiled in a white-knuckled fist. I shuffle back on my knees.

  Hickory’s behind me, blocking my path.

  ‘Until I get what I want,’ he whispers in my ear, ‘yes.’

  His collar un-clicks.

  The bounty hunter shuts the door, strides towards me. He doesn’t notice the girl’s collar lying on the floor. Doesn’t even glance at Hickory, which is his biggest mistake.

  Hickory strikes. Rips the collar from his neck and tackles the bounty hunter round the waist. The tackle doesn’t floor him – the punches and kicks don’t seem to bother him at all – but Hickory’s quick and crazy as a rabid dog. Every time he’s thrown back he charges in for more. The fight doesn’t last long. Hickory dodges a punch, leaps onto the bounty hunter’s back. The bounty hunter throws his weight backwards into the wall, and our only hope of retrieving the key crumples to the floor. Conscious, but only just.