by S McPherson
‘Where are you going?’ he pants once he’s caught up.
‘Home?’ I reply lamely.
‘I’ll teleport us.’ He moves to make a grab for me.
I recoil. ‘I actually fancied the walk,’ I say, cautiously eyeing his outstretched hand as if it were laced with poison.
I know I’m being irrational, but in this short time I’ve known him, I feel like I know myself less—and I barely knew myself that much in the first place. Every minute in Coldivor has been ordinary and yet somehow extraordinary at the same time and I need to get a grip on reality. The reality I’ve always known, where magic and Milo don’t exist because pretty soon they won’t.
‘I’ll walk with you.’ Milo searches my face as if he can make out the cracks in my façade.
‘Sure.’ I nod, feigning nonchalance. A part of me is thrilled but another, terrified, kicking myself for not having run off when I had the chance.
We walk in silence for a while. Once again, the sound of his breath and our footsteps keep me company.
‘It was their twentieth anniversary,’ I hear myself say before I’m even aware I’ve spoken. ‘A milestone. I was twelve, almost thirteen. Drake was eighteen.’
Milo stares blankly at me for a moment, clearly not sure what I’m talking about. I suppose I should have eased into it but I’m not used to sharing my thoughts and feelings with others. I have no idea how preamble is supposed to go. Besides, with Milo it feels natural just to dive in, headfirst with eyes wide open.
Finally understanding, he asks, ‘What happened?’
I keep my stare locked straight ahead as I answer. ‘For months leading up to the day, I saved up all my earnings from working occasionally in Steak Home. I didn’t do much, mainly looked cute and welcomed the guests, but it was how my parents taught me the value of money,’ I explain matter-of-factly. ‘After a few months, I got in touch with my Aunt Edna and together we paid for them to have a romantic week away in Barbados, all expenses paid. Granted, my Aunt paid for most of it.’ I take a deep shuddery breath. I haven’t mentioned that day to anyone since it happened. Within a week of my parent’s death, I went from social butterfly to hermit. I abandoned all my friends no matter how hard they tried to intervene and within a few years, with no objection from Drake, I stopped going out altogether, including to school. It was only last year, at Nathaniel’s insistence, that I decided to take up a carpentry course – one hour three times a week.
Milo is silent beside me and I almost forget he’s here. Glancing over, I see he’s calmly staring back at me, waiting but not pressuring me to go on.
I sigh heavily. ‘They didn’t make it back.’ I clear my throat, attempting to dislodge the lump forming. ‘Their plane crashed.’
Milo wipes a tear from my cheek. I didn’t realise I was crying.
‘If I hadn’t booked that stupid holiday...’ but now I am aware of the tears.
We stop walking and the next thing I know Milos’s arms are around me; he’s stroking my hair and making ‘shushing’ noises. I bury my head in his chest as he presses me against it and inhale the warm scent of vanilla – the scent of him. I haven’t felt this safe since my Aunt Edna held me at the funeral. She lives in Paris – our only living relative. Given that Drake was eighteen and swore blind he could take care of us, my Aunt Edna returned to France without us. For a while she repeatedly came to visit but soon came less often. Drake was almost twenty-one and certainly had a handle on things. At the time, even I trusted him, but it turns out we had all been wrong.
After that day, walking home becomes routine. It gives Milo and I more time together which probably isn’t a good thing, but I treasure every second. Locking away the memories for when I’m back in Islon, trying to salvage my shattered life. So, every day, one of us waits for the other at the foot of the school steps. We wave when we see each other then begin our journey to Telathrodon. The other Teltreporthis mock us for taking the long way, but Milo shoves them playfully and says not everything’s easy. He’s got that right. Being so close to him and not being able to touch him is a feat I constantly struggle with. Now, as always, I walk beside him as we talk, feeling myself being pulled closer with every step. I bump into him and force myself to move away.
There’s a badgering taunt in the background of these walks, hounding me, telling me I’m in too deep, reminding me that this is only temporary. Any day now, the clock will strike midnight and I’ll return to a world of pumpkins and mice. But somehow, I block out the warnings, keep my gaze focussed on Milo and pretend it will last forever.
Today we walk slower and the conversation flows faster. I tell him about my days horse-riding; competing in tournaments and occasionally winning.
Milo shakes his head. ‘And you weren’t frightened at all?’
‘I started riding so young, I guess I was too naïve to be frightened.’ I laugh. ‘My instructor said “Get on this horse and leap over those obstacles” and I said “Alright”.’
Milo chuckles, ‘I’d love to ride a horse one day. Although I’m sure I’d probably wet myself.’
I laugh, again. It still sounds strange to my ear though it’s all I seem to do around Milo: laugh and tingle. ‘You should come see me in Islon,’ I announce. ‘We can definitely fit in a ride during your visit.’
‘That’s not a bad idea.’ Milo nods, idly sucking air through his teeth as his eyes grow distant. I feel it too. The mention of Islon, the reminder that I don’t belong here, has dampened the mood. I sigh.
‘And track?’ Milo now asks. ‘I believe you mentioned sprinting as one of your many talents.’
I shrug. ‘Again, when I was much younger. But I was fast,’ and I jut out my chin with pride. ‘One of the best in my year. And I still enjoy the occasional run by Beatrice brook.’
‘Then it seems we have something in common.’
‘You run?’ I fail to conceal the surprise in my voice, though I don’t know why I am. His strong, lean physique is ideal for running.
‘You see that dustbin in the distance?’ Milo has a certain twinkle in his eye and his lips curve slightly upwards at the edge. I follow his gaze. Ahead of us, along the familiar gravel and sand we have each day crunched across, where the sporadic pop of some kind of shrubbery displays colourful flowers too beautiful to exist on Earth, there’s a line of stone dustbins set at regular, widely-spaced intervals. I spy the one he refers to, possibly a hundred meters away.
‘Yes,’ I say, returning his twinkle and wry smile.
‘I’ll race you to it,’ and he raises his eyebrows challengingly, loosening his scarf and jacket. I eye him with a studious glare as I consider it. Then, feeling like a child again, I race off towards the bin.
‘That’s cheating,’ he bellows as he sprints after me.
I laugh and push myself on, loving the feel of the wind whipping past me, the pounding of the ground vibrating through my legs and the surge of adrenalin swelling through my body. I glance to my left; Milo is coming up fast. Really throwing my arms into it, I shoot ahead. The open mouth of the bin isn’t far now. I’m going to win. I look back and stick my tongue out at a losing Milo. In fairness, I probably wouldn’t be winning if I hadn’t taken off ahead of him, but, oh well.
I look back at my target and my eyes widen. Milo is standing at the bin, beaming and panting, lifting his t-shirt to wipe sweat from his face, a haze of blue swirling around him.
‘What the...’ I cry, coming to a gasping halt.
‘You cheat; I cheat.’ He roars with laughter and mimics my childish tongue-pull, adding a waggle of his fingers over his ears.
I glare at him, trying but failing to conceal my splutter of laughter. Cocky man!
Later that night, I’m surprised by a tapping on the cottage door. Placing the magazine I’d been reading – ‘Melaxous Mould’ – on the wooden coffee table in front of me, I head to the front door and cautiously creak it open.
My breathing slows and I’m suddenly hot – Milo.
‘Hi.’
>
‘Hi,’ I squeak.
‘Get your jacket,’ he says, blowing on his hands to keep them warm.
Slightly taken aback, I grab my coat and gloves from the hook beside the door and pull them on.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask as he steps towards me and wraps a firm arm around my waist; my toes curl. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to his touch.
‘You’ll see.’ He grins as he whisks us away in a whirl of blue.
A gust of icy wind smacks me in the face as my welcome. With barely enough time to realise we’ve arrived, I gasp as I discover we’re perched on a mountain peak. Eyes bulging, I gape at Milo before turning to stare at the terrifying drop over the edge.
‘What are we doing?’ I shriek, clinging to his jacket.
‘Relax,’ but I only gawk up at him. The area around our feet is just big enough for us and perhaps one other person to stand; it’s windy, cold and almost pitch-black aside from the starlight. Relax, he says. How, I wonder?
Milo’s gaze doesn’t waver from mine. I swallow, catching my breath and allow his earnest stare and the pressing grip of his fingers on my side to steady my nerves.
‘You alright?’ he asks when my clutch slightly loosens. I nod, still slightly terrified.
‘I want to show you something.’ Milo doesn’t let go of me as he rummages in his pocket and pulls out a vial of golden liquid.
‘What is it?’ I whisper, afraid to wake the stars.
‘Aulock serum.’ Milo pops the lid off with his teeth and spits it on the ground. ‘Give me your hand.’
I do and he spills the serum onto my palm. Then, taking my hand, he places it on my chest. A part of me wants to jump back, certain he can feel how fast my heart is beating, but all I do is watch him as he presses my palm firmer against me. The golden liquid seems to glow through my skin, then sink into my heart.
At last, Milo lets go and steps back slightly, peering above my head. Flashes of colour now shimmer around me, a black sheen laced with splashes of red, orange and a milky white.
‘What is it?’ I ask, captivated, shifting my eyes to see, afraid to move in case I disrupt it.
‘Your aura.’ As if painting a canvas, Milo dabs his finger into these colourful lights and pulls them out in front of me. ‘This one isn’t good,’ he says as a black strand bends around his wrist. ‘Black indicates issues involving death, an inability to show compassion or to forgive yourself.’
I don’t respond, merely listen, feeling the ache in my chest as he acutely describes my character.
‘This one, however,’ and Milo stretches out his hand, bringing the red to dance in front of me. It swivels around my face then lingers at eye level. ‘This one indicates survival. It displays raw passion, determination and frustration.’
Milo watches silently for a moment as the colours wheel about my head. ‘The cloudy one; that shows denial.’ He looks at me. ‘Are you denying yourself something, Dezaray?’
I feel as if my throat is closing, as though I’m suffocating. Once again, I fail to answer, this time frightened of what other secrets my aura is planning on telling him?
‘But the orange,’ he grins as he pulls that strand down for me to see, ‘intrigues me most of all. Look.’
I watch as the orange wriggles all the way up his arm, around his neck, then shimmies down his other side before climbing over to me. He gently traces my fingers with his and the orange glows brighter. He takes a step closer and the orange increases in length.
‘What’s happening?’ I somehow manage to ask.
‘The orange indicates creativity.’ He takes my other hand in his. ‘It also indicates sensuality and physical pleasure.’
The orange is emitting enough light now to shadow everything around us. I feel my face burn under his gaze but can’t seem to look away.
‘Close your eyes,’ he murmurs.
Shaking, I do, wondering if he’s going to kiss me, wondering if I want him to. But he releases my hands, and after a while, the light seems to fade. At last I take a peek and discover my aura has gone. Milo is watching me, the stars reflected in his eyes. I’m so full of questions but afraid to speak, yearning to remain suspended in this moment. All too soon, he blinks then carefully sits down, his legs dangling over the edge.
I gingerly perch beside him. ‘Where did you learn all that stuff?’ I finally ask.
‘It may shock you to know,’ he smirks, ‘but I am more than just a pretty face.’
So pleasantly stunned by his response, I crack up laughing. He watches for a moment then soon finds himself laughing with me, grabbing my arm to steady me from falling.
REVEALED
Lexovia grimaces as Mrs Edwards berates her from where she leans against the kitchen sink. Just as Lexovia had seen the woman do in her premonition.
‘This is exactly why youngsters like you shouldn’t go meddlin’ with the portal. It’s too risky and things like this happen.’ Mrs Edwards cries, thrusting an agitated hand at Lexovia, her foot tapping impatiently on the wooden floor. ‘You were a lucky so-and-so to run into my son you know. Others wouldn’t have given you the time of day.’
‘I know.’ Lexovia nods for perhaps the twenty-fifth time. She keeps her eyes focused on the kitchen tablecloth, watching the golden lines and swirls merge into one massive blur as her eyes glaze over. After regaling them with the details of what happened the night she and Dezaray were switched, Lexovia has since been listening to a lecture from Mrs Edwards on ‘the youths of today’.
‘Can we help her or not?’ Jude finally asks, exasperated.
Acknowledging that she may have rambled on for longer than necessary, Julie Edwards clears her throat and nods. ‘Yes. We can.’
‘Really?’ Lexovia’s eyebrows rise hopefully. ‘I need to fix my gethamot. It got caught between the worlds.’ She rummages in her rucksack and retrieves the remaining half of the device.
‘I know a few who might be able to help. I’ll invite them round for tea.’ Mrs Edwards nods decidedly and leaves the kitchen. Glancing at each other, Lexovia and Jude exchange amused stares.
‘Your mum; she’s a talker,’ Lexovia observes.
‘You don’t have to tell me, love.’
Laughing, Lexovia gazes up at the surprisingly high ceiling, at its wooden beams that run from one end to the other. The ceiling is so pointed the top is almost impossible to see. The kitchen isn’t excessively large but is big enough to fit a rectangular dining table for six, a double door fridge and freezer, an uncountable number of cupboards and two kitchen sinks. There is a good amount of surfaces too; however, most of them have been taken over by tea towels, cook books, jars of who-knows-what and pots of spices. One wall is stacked with shelves holding family photographs, magazines and candles and the other a magnificent painting of Islon – Cuckilbury Mountain to be precise. Running at the foot of the mountain is Beatrice brook. A black hole, green light shining from it, stands at the other side of the stream, representing the portal, and below all this is a clear depiction of Feranvil Farm.
‘So, are you a Coltis then?’ Lexovia asks, curiously.
‘Nope. Never passed the portal. Met a ton who have, though,’ Jude says from where he’s perched precariously on the edge of a counter.
‘How’s that?’
‘Through here,’ and Jude expands his arms to the side, almost knocking a yellow jar off the counter, ‘Feranvil Farm.’
‘Well, don’t hold out on me.’ Lexovia draws up her knees, pulling her feet onto the chair. ‘I want all the details.’
‘We are going to have to be a lot more comfortable than this.’ Jude jumps down from the counter. ‘Let’s go up on the roof.’
Together, they leave the kitchen, wander down a narrow corridor and traipse up a constricted and winding stairway. The air is thinner up here and Lexovia finds herself struggling to breathe. At last, they reach the top and pull open a slim and slightly splintered door, stepping out onto the roof. The cold breeze is soothing in contrast to the stifling
staircase, and it blows freely through their hair. There is a small pond in the centre, dimly lit, two large tins beside it and a small unlit lantern.
Jude leads the way to the edge of the roof and happily leans over; a view of the stream below and all of Feranvil Farm stretches out before them. They admire the gentle ripples made in the water, elegantly reflecting the moonlight, seeming to shudder as the wind passes over it.
‘So,’ Lexovia turns to him, ‘you were saying?’
Jude smiles. ‘So, back when passing of the portal was still permitted, an event known as the counterpart convention was held every fortnight, upon the opening of the portal.’ Jude rubs his hands together. ‘Hundreds, maybe thousands of Corporeal and Coltis would attend in the hopes of tracking down their counterpart to allow for longer ventures to the other side.’
‘They would trade places,’ Lexovia states knowingly.
‘Exactly. Some for the fortnight, others for months.’
‘Months?’
‘Oh yes. Corporeal were fascinated with Coltis powers and how to learn them.’
‘Corporeal can learn that stuff?’
‘Sure. Just like the Coltis can learn to use technology and such. Didn’t they teach you that in school?’
‘Possibly in Humanitorium.’ Lexovia grimaces. ‘I don’t pay attention much.’ A chilly wind passes, causing her to shiver. Jude offers her his jacket and she graciously accepts. ‘At least Dezaray may have a fighting chance if she can master some incantations.’
