Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope

by Anne Plichota

  And she at last made her way into the courtyard, where all her friends were waiting for her. Their commentary was in full flow.

  “When the skeleton squatted down and began to dance, I thought I was going to wet myself,” exclaimed Zelda.

  “I was pinching myself and trying to think about sad things to stop myself laughing. But even thinking about the mark I’m going to get for maths didn’t stop me getting the giggles,” added another student.

  “Was it one of you?” asked Merlin Poicassé.

  The students shook their heads. Oksa was a little more evasive and just lowered her eyes innocently.

  “I’d really like to know who it was,” said Merlin, his eyes resting on Oksa. “Just so I could ask them how they did it. It must have been a really ingenious device, I couldn’t see any trace of a thread. Perhaps they controlled it remotely with magnets, a radio signal or electromagnetics? Anyway, no one saw a thing, it was just like magic.”

  Oksa pretended to ignore Merlin’s remarks, which were so near the mark. It wasn’t the first time he’d dropped hints like that. Every time, her heart raced and she broke out in a cold sweat. What if he’d guessed everything?

  “Magic or no magic, whoever did it deserves a medal,” added Zelda.

  “All the same, McGraw really excelled himself!” exclaimed Gus, changing the subject. “Two written tests on the first day back at school, how crap is that?”

  “You can say that again. He’s a real head case,” added Zelda. “And he’s really starting to bug me with all his comments about dropping pencils. I may be a little clumsy, but that’s no reason to make such a song and dance about it. He stressed me out so much that my whole pencil case almost landed on the floor. Can you imagine? Sheer purgatory—I’d rather not think about it.”

  “What about me? It’s just as bad for me,” moaned Gus. “He’s still coming out with his pathetic accusations. I don’t copy! I’ve never copied! I’m fed up with it.”

  Oksa draped her arms affectionately around Gus’s and Zelda’s shoulders, McGraw’s two favourite targets.

  “I don’t know what stopped me giving him another black eye,” continued Gus.

  “I don’t know how he broke his arm, but it serves him right!” remarked Merlin. “Pity it didn’t make him any nicer. And did you hear? Someone must have overdone the baked beans at breakfast, what a laugh!” continued Merlin, chortling.

  “It was hilarious,” added Zelda. “McGraw’s face!”

  “It’s just as well he hasn’t found out who it was, take my word for it,” said Oksa, feeling her wrist. “C’mon, let’s go and get something to eat.”

  The small group headed merrily towards the cafeteria.

  “It was your Curbita-Flatulo, wasn’t it?” murmured Gus in Oksa’s ear, drawing her slightly away from the group.

  “Yes, the ‘Flatulo’, you said it!” she replied, with a peal of laughter.

  “It wasn’t just McGraw who really excelled himself today—I think you beat him hands down. Your dancing skeleton was amazing! I loved it.”

  “I’m sorry you had to pay the price,” said Oksa, looking down in shame. “If I’d known he would take it out on you, I would never have done it, honestly.”

  “Don’t worry. He’s so mean that I’m sure he’d have made me change seats anyway. It had nothing to do with the skeleton… or you,” he added, with a reassuring smile.

  Oksa felt gloomy all afternoon. Unlike Gus, she wasn’t convinced that McGraw would have decided to make her friend change seats if she hadn’t given into the temptation to provoke him. And when she thought about Gus’s kind words, and the generous way he had of raising her spirits and making her feel less guilty, she was dismayed at her own behaviour. Had her actions been those of a true friend? Seeing McGraw’s lack of interest in her, she should have suspected that he’d find another target and turn on Gus as soon as the opportunity arose. He hadn’t only separated them—he’d publicly insinuated things that were untrue and slanderous, and Oksa knew how hurtful those kinds of hints could be. If only she’d thought before she’d acted; she still had a great deal to learn. And not just about Granokology.

  51

  AN UNFRIENDLY ENCOUNTER

  THAT MONDAY, AT THE END OF THE AFTERNOON, OKSA had a chance to show her friend that he could count on her. As they were putting their sports kits in their lockers, Hilda Richard—alias Cave-Girl—came up behind them and gave Gus a violent punch in the small of the back, bellowing:

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, nasty little copycat!”

  Gus whirled round immediately. Swallowing his rage, he chose to reply with mockery, eyeing her dumpy figure up and down:

  “Oh look! It’s the very kind, very thoughtful Hilda Richard. How delightful to see you, dear Hilda, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “You’d better not copy from me, or I’ll smash your face in,” she continued, provocatively.

  “I’m not likely to copy from you,” retorted Gus, scarlet, “unless I want to get below-average marks all the time…”

  “Shut your mouth!” answered Hilda. “Why don’t you run along with your little Russian doll, that show-off who thinks she’s so clever?”

  “Clear off, Cave-Girl!” broke in Oksa, her eyes blazing.

  “Why don’t you try and climb a rung or two up the evolutionary ladder, you don’t want to spend your entire life in the Precambrian,” added Gus.

  “Precambrian yourself, you dirty Chink!” she shouted, before turning on her heels.

  “Right, that does it,” murmured Oksa, beside herself with anger, “she’s going to get what’s coming to her.”

  And she put her hand in the inside pocket of her school blazer to take out her Granok-Shooter.

  “Cover me, Gus!”

  “You’ve got to be kidding! You brought your Granok-Shooter to school? Are you mad? You can’t use it here, like that,” muttered Gus, trembling. “What if someone sees you?”

  But it would have taken much more than that to stop Oksa, who was hell-bent on revenge. She smiled with a vengeful gleam in her eyes and, before bringing the slender tube to her lips, said the accompanying words to herself:

  Dermenburn, Dermenburn

  When this sap is received

  You’ll scratch till you bleed.

  Then she blew in the direction of the spiteful student who was walking away from them down the corridor. Immediately Cave-Girl began to writhe about and scream:

  “Something’s making me itch. Help me, I’m itching!”

  All the students nearby gathered round her, laughing instead of sympathizing, as they would have done if it had been anyone else.

  “I’ve got an itch. A terrible itch!” yelled Cave-Girl, her face and arms—along with the entire surface of her body in all probability—covered with bright red blotches.

  “It’s her nastiness rising to the surface,” said one voice.

  As for Oksa and Gus, they kept their distance, while laughing heartily and making the most of the sight.

  “An irritating Granok?” asked Gus quietly.

  “Dermenburn,” confirmed Oksa, putting her Granok-Shooter away.

  She raised her hand and her friend gave her a high-five with a knowing—and grateful—look.

  The rest of the week was less eventful. Oksa, who had learnt her lesson after the embarrassing episode of the famished Curbita-Flatulo, had decided not to risk being caught off guard in future and had put all the tools needed by a Young Gracious in a small embroidered bag which she now wore slung across her shoulder. She’d also included the brand-new mobile that her parents had just given her as part of the Runaways’ new security measures. On top of that, every morning Pierre Bellanger accompanied the two children to school. In the evening, Pavel or Marie would be waiting at the exit for them to come out.

  “Is Orthon-McGraw over there? I’d like to see what that traitor looks like,” asked Pavel one evening.

  “Oh Dad, he disappears the minute lessons are over. He doe
sn’t seem to get on terribly well with his colleagues, he rarely eats with them at lunchtime, and he’s never in the staffroom. Given how friendly he is, I’d say they’re well out of it!” she added with a laugh. “But you’ll soon have the chance to meet him.”

  “Will I?”

  “Yes. Don’t you remember? The parent-teacher meeting is soon. Next Friday, to be exact. Are you going?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world! I hope Pierre and Jeanne will come too,” added Pavel, looking at Gus.

  “I think they’re just as keen as you.”

  “Well, we’ll go mob-handed and get a closer look at this former CIA or KGB spy masquerading as a teacher,” added Pavel, with a merry glance at his daughter.

  “Oh, don’t fret, Dad. Everybody makes mistakes,” replied Oksa, shrugging and suppressing a smile at the memory of what had, in the end, been a rather comical misjudgement on his part.

  The parent-teacher meeting a few days later was attended by something which was more like a commando unit than a small group. Once in the school’s beautiful cobbled courtyard, the order to spread out was given. And while the Pollocks climbed the impressive stone staircase to the first floor, a shadow which had appeared out of nowhere crept furtively behind, following hard on their heels…

  Oksa’s parents had no concerns about their daughter’s academic progress, nor did any of the teachers. Miss Heartbreak congratulated Oksa on her keen interest in history and geography and her excellent marks. And she wasn’t the only one: every single teacher was full of praise for her, which was no surprise to Oksa’s parents, but they were still highly delighted by it. They had two teachers left to see: Mr Lemon and that Despicable Man, as Oksa’s father now called him.

  “You will be careful not to call him ‘Dr Despicable’ won’t you, Dad?” Oksa had warned.

  The two teachers were sharing the same room, Mr Lemon near the board and McGraw, dressed up to the nines, right at the back, where he had now relegated Gus for every lesson. The English teacher was just as laudatory as his colleagues and praised Oksa’s standard—three cheers for Poluslingua!—as well as her admirable accent, which he thought might reveal a slight Welsh brogue. It was now McGraw’s turn.

  “The best for last,” muttered Pavel through gritted teeth.

  Suddenly feeling weak and light-headed, Marie took his arm to steady herself. Looking tense, Pavel nervously clasped his wife’s hand and they both resolutely walked to the back of the room, followed by the mysterious shadow which slipped over to a cupboard and stood there motionless. McGraw looked up and curtly invited the couple to sit down.

  “You are?” he asked.

  “Marie and Pavel Pollock, Oksa’s parents. Good evening Mr Orthon,” replied Pavel, coldly but firmly.

  Dr McGraw crossed his hands in front of him.

  “I see—”

  “Is Oksa’s work satisfactory in the subjects that concern you, Mr Orthon?” said Pavel, cutting him off frostily.

  Marie glanced anxiously at her husband and saw the blood vessels throbbing at his temples. Although she felt weak, she could see the rage taking hold of every fibre of Pavel’s being. His eyes must have betrayed how he was feeling, because McGraw’s face became more strained.

  “Her work is exemplary. I simply object to—”

  “Yes?” broke in Pavel mockingly. “What do you ‘simply’ object to?”

  Sitting there perfectly still, his hands flat on his knees, Pavel turned his gaze to the bottle of water on the desk. With his eyes, he unscrewed the lid and sent it spinning towards the ceiling. Then the bottle rose and floated behind McGraw. Amazed, Marie looked again at her husband, simultaneously alarmed and delighted at what was bound to happen. Obeying Pavel’s silent orders, the bottle tipped its contents down the teacher’s back, soaking his dark suit. McGraw glowered, then gave the ghost of an unpleasant smile.

  “So childish,” he murmured.

  Staring at Pavel, he raised his fist in front of him and suddenly opened it, releasing a nasty-looking insect which flew straight for the Pollocks. A Death’s Head Chiropteran! A few inches from Pavel’s face, the insect stopped and opened its monstrous jaws, revealing two rows of tiny, razor-sharp teeth. Marie put her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream of fear which was bound to draw attention to their strange threesome. A revolting stench of rotting meat escaped from the Chiropteran’s maw and Pavel instinctively swatted at it, as he would have done at a wasp flying around him. But the Chiropteran immediately vanished, as if it had been nothing more than a hallucination or a nightmarish mirage. Getting the better of his agitation, Pavel snarled:

  “So what do you object to about Oksa?”

  “Her handwriting is a mess,” replied McGraw defiantly.

  The knuckles of his tightly clasped hands whitened under the pressure.

  “You’re the first person to mention this… mess,” stressed Marie ironically.

  “Mr Orthon,” continued Pavel in a low voice, leaning closer to his enemy, “let’s be very clear. As you’ve realized, we know who you are, just as you know who we are. You should also be aware that we hold several trump cards, starting with our numbers…”

  “Mr Pollock,” snapped Orthon-McGraw, just as quietly, “I can match your trump cards, believe me. You should also be aware that I’m not in the habit of giving up at the first hurdle.”

  “We are much more than a hurdle, Mr Orthon. And I very much doubt that you’ll achieve your end, this time.”

  “Doubt on, Mr Pollock, doubt on…”

  With that, Marie and Pavel Pollock stood up abruptly, favoured Dr Despicable with one last icy look and walked out of the room, followed by the enigmatic shadow.

  “Well, it seems obvious that we must be even more vigilant than before. Orthon really has some nerve!”

  As arranged, the Pollocks and the Bellangers had met up after the meeting to share their impressions while they were still fresh in their minds. Abakum was also there.

  “I think we must be careful not to underestimate him; his confidence is not a bluff. We must never lose sight of the fact that he’s a very powerful man,” stressed Dragomira. “He was already very proficient in Edefia. We witnessed that, didn’t we, Abakum?”

  “Yes, you’re right. And I think he’s spent all these years honing his powers, unlike many of us. Also, there’s no proof that he’s working alone. What was he like with you?” the elderly man asked the Bellangers.

  “Unruffled, cynical and very self-assured,” replied Gus’s father. “We told him to leave the youngsters alone and he just replied: ‘Or else what? Will you set the police on me?’ He’s aware that we have to be as discreet and circumspect as he is about our origins and powers. We didn’t talk for long because we didn’t actually have much to say to each other. We were just squaring off like fighting cocks.”

  “Our minds are made up then. We’ll continue to keep constant watch over the youngsters. Also, I think it might be a good idea to take Oksa back with me for the weekend, what do you think?” asked Abakum.

  Everyone nodded gravely. Except for Pavel, who still looked very drawn. He put his hand on his wife’s arm, glanced at her in anguish and said in a broken voice:

  “Don’t we have any say in this? We are her parents…”

  Dragomira looked at her son and daughter-in-law sadly, then gave a long sigh.

  “We’re out of options, Pavel. We can’t turn the clock back.”

  “Who’s talking about turning the clock back?” snapped Pavel. “We need to stop everything!”

  “Say we did stop everything, here and now,” replied Pierre Bellanger. “How would we go about persuading Orthon-McGraw? As Tugdual said, the countdown has begun. Our future has been set in motion, Pavel. And we have no choice but to follow our destiny.”

  “That suits you down to the ground, doesn’t it?” replied Pavel bitterly, giving in.

  “Oksa? Do you want to come out of your hiding place? And you, Gus,” continued Abakum without turning round.

>   A little sheepishly, the two friends, who’d hidden behind a sofa to eavesdrop on the discussion, stood up. Their hands behind their backs as a sign of obedience, they walked over to the little group.

  “It’s time to give you some weapons, my dear girl.”

  52

  THE FAIRYMAN

  THE LAST TIME OKSA HAD GONE TO ABAKUM’S, SHE wouldn’t have suspected that her gran’s godfather—her Watcher, as Dragomira called him—was so full of surprises. Quite apart from his mind-blowing transformation into a hare, which she’d witnessed with her own eyes, Oksa had discovered that this discreet, mysterious man was the very embodiment of trustworthiness. Malorane had counted on his loyalty and she’d been right to do so. Keeping his word despite all opposition, he’d dedicated his life to protecting Dragomira—even after she’d become a woman quite able to defend herself. Had he ever been married? In love? Oksa didn’t know, but she promised herself to ask him one day. As he drove his motorbike and sidecar along the narrow road leading to his farm, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Every move he made was unhurried, calm and above all reassuring, just like his everyday behaviour.

  As far back as Oksa could remember, he’d been regarded as one of the family. It was Baba Pollock who’d given the impression of being the pillar of strength in the herbalist’s shop that she and Abakum had run for thirty years. Her eccentricity and charisma had made her the focus of attention and, as a result, she’d received all the credit for their hard work—particularly over the past few years, when the small company’s reputation had spread abroad. Despite his remarkable savoir-faire, Abakum had done everything in his power to restrain Dragomira’s enthusiasm for the press, making no secret of his dislike for any kind of marketing. Oksa had in fact overheard some fairly animated discussions on this subject and she’d thought at the time that the old man had been overreacting. She’d wondered why he had to be so cautious. Now she understood better: any article on Dragomira and her talents as a herbalist could fall into the wrong hands. Like those of Orthon-McGraw, for example. She recalled the last article published in an American specialist journal, just a few months before they left for London. The journalist had heaped praise upon Dragomira, describing her as a “genius of alternative medicine” and “a sorceress with plants”. The sorceress in question had refused to be photographed, but her name had appeared clearly in print. Now she knew more about Abakum, Oksa understood what a vital role this wise, secretive man performed. He might remain resolutely in the background but he was, above all, a shrewd protector.