57
PIERCED THROUGH THE HEART
WHEN OKSA CAME ROUND, SHE WAS LYING ON THE BED in the forest room. Abakum was sitting in a canvas chair opposite one of the two picture windows, an Incompetent on his lap. As soon as he realized Oksa was awake he set down the creature, which began placidly watching the trees, and came over to sit beside her.
“How do you feel, my dear?”
“Ashamed,” replied Oksa, staring at the ceiling.
“Don’t be. We all learn from our mistakes. You were just carried away by enthusiasm, which is hardly unusual when you’re thirteen; you simply need to get into the habit of thinking about the potential risks of your impulsive behaviour. That’s not something you can do overnight, I’ll tell you that right now. The lesson you should learn from today’s mishap is that it’s better to check whether there’s a ceiling before you Vertifly.”
“You’re not kidding,” grumbled Oksa, blushing. “Was it you who came to… get me?”
“No, Oksa, it was the Croakettes. They flew to your aid and brought you back down to the ground. I can’t Vertifly.”
“What? Can’t you? But you can do so many things!”
Oksa propped herself up on one elbow, astonished by this news.
“No. I’m a Sylvabul and Sylvabuls don’t Vertifly, they keep their feet firmly on the ground, literally and figuratively. But don’t worry, they can do other things. Like this, for example…”
Abakum held his arm out over Oksa. With a degree of scepticism, she thought to herself that there wasn’t anything particularly amazing about that. But she soon changed her mind when his arm lengthened impressively, first by a couple of inches, then kept growing until it had reached the door handle on the other side of the room. Wide-eyed, Oksa whistled in admiration.
“Well? What do you think about that?” asked Abakum, retracting his arm to a more normal length.
“What do I think? I saw you do that before, when Baba showed me your escape from the Glass Column on the Camereye. You stepped over the balcony and your arms lengthened until you reached the ground. That was cool, but it’s even better in real life. I’m blown away, that’s what I think.”
And she fell back heavily on the pillow, impressed and exhausted.
Oksa was lying on her bed, looking out at the trees swaying gently in the breeze. She rubbed her eyes, took a deep breath and let her arms fall back to her sides in a state of complete relaxation. While thinking back over everything that had happened during this extraordinary day, she thought she heard someone tapping at the door of her room.
“Yes?” she murmured, sitting up.
The door slid open and, to her surprise, she saw Tugdual Knut.
“Hiya, can I come in?”
“Of course!” replied Oksa in some amazement.
Tugdual turned round the chair in which Abakum had been sitting and sat down opposite her. He seemed much more relaxed than when Oksa had seen him last. He’d cut his hair and was wearing no eye make-up, which made his face look brighter and rendered him virtually unrecognizable. He was still dressed in black, apart from his jeans, but he no longer wore his many necklaces and crosses. His make-over had left him with just two piercings—one on the arch of his eyebrow and one on his left nostril. Oksa stared at him, captivated by his chilly good looks and intrigued by the air of deep sadness which he made no effort to hide. A few weeks earlier, he’d told her that he wished people would see beyond his appearance. And, at that precise moment, she understood exactly what he’d been getting at. But, to her own surprise, the idea that she was seeing him as he really was, stripped bare of all pretence or façade, was deeply unsettling. Was she more perceptive than before? Less blinded by her own concerns? Or was Tugdual just showing his true colours?
“I didn’t know you were here,” she said, blushing.
“Convalescence,” he replied tersely.
“Well, you look well.”
To her surprise, she was glad to be chatting to this strange, disconcerting boy again. Very, very glad.
“Do you feel… better?” she ventured, trying to hide her excitement.
“Better? Yes, you could say that,” replied Tugdual, stretching his arms out in front of him. “What about you? How are you?”
“Me? I just knocked myself out like an idiot against the ceiling of Abakum’s silo. I took off at top speed, then bang! Otherwise, my life has been totally crazy over the past few weeks. I feel like I’m in a film or something.”
“You’re not kidding,” agreed the boy. “You have to be made of pretty strong stuff not to go stir crazy. I wasn’t strong enough. But I’ve got nothing on you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the Last Hope! You’re the strongest one of us all, you’re the one who’s going to save us.”
“I don’t think so…” stammered Oksa.
“Course you will, it’s obvious!” retorted Tugdual, gazing at her intently. “Think about it. The Runaways have been like cats on a hot tin roof since they’ve known you have the Mark. They can’t do enough for you.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying—I’m not going to save anyone!”
“Yes, you are, Young Gracious, I had good grounds for saying what I said to you last time, believe me. I’ve thought it over: although you don’t seem to realize it, you’re the one who’ll save us because you’re the last key. The one that was missing. And the last key holds supreme power. Orthon-McGraw has realized that. He’s all set to plunge Edefia into complete chaos and I’m sure there are quite a few people in this world who’d rally to his cause. To say nothing of the army he mentioned… I know what I’m talking about, believe me. Look after yourself, lil’ Gracious. I wouldn’t want any harm to come to you.”
Oksa shivered. Tugdual was talking so calmly and there was no trace of the underlying exultation she’d sensed during their previous conversations. She could even see concern in his eyes.
“Do you… do you feel all right, Tugdual?”
“Are you referring to my acute paranoid psychosis and my chronic morbidity?” he replied mockingly. “Well, believe it or not, I’m feeling a lot better. I made life rather difficult for Abakum, but he’s the only one who really understood me. He’s a star, you know.”
When Abakum summoned Oksa and Tugdual downstairs for dinner, the huge ground-floor room was in an unusual state of uproar: the Getorix was playing table football with the Poliglossiper. A small band of supporters comprising the Incompetent, the six Croakettes, the two Squoracles and the Tumble-Bawler had gathered around them in excitement. Abakum, meanwhile, was quietly busying himself in the kitchen, clearly accustomed to the noisy outbursts of his creatures. Various utensils, such as an egg whisk, wooden spoons and butter knives, floated around him, shooting straight into his hand when he needed them. But unfortunately not everyone was as laid-back as he was: sitting on the worktop near the master of the house, the mother Goranov was listening with growing alarm.
“No one will ever convince me they don’t want me dead! What is the reason for all this noise? A riot? A revolution? A bloodbath?”
“Not at all, Goranov, not at all,” replied Abakum calmly, as the stone of the avocado he was preparing flew over his head and landed in the rubbish bin.
Oksa and Tugdual exchanged amused looks: a Fairyman in the kitchen was definitely a sight worth seeing.
“Take that, you peanut-faced Poliglossiper!” yelled the Getorix suddenly.
As dishevelled as always, the hairy little monster was excitedly twisting the handles of the football game. Oksa and Tugdual went over to them, intrigued. The game was in full swing.
“Do you want to hear what this peanut has got to say to you, sale hooligan?” replied the outraged Poliglossiper, hopping around frantically.
“Peanuts are grown in a hot country, aren’t they?” commented the Squoracles, wrapped in tiny multi-coloured mohair scarves.
“Oh, what pretty scarves you’re wearing!” remarked Oksa.
�
�They’re not scarves, they’re beak muffs. The Master knitted them for us as part of the ‘winter cold’ project,” explained one of the Squoracles. “To tide us over until we migrate to a hot country for ever.”
This short chat about the weather was interrupted by the hysterical shouts of the Getorix, who had just scored. The Croakettes beat their wings in exultation and the Tumble-Bawler, like all football supporters, screamed loudly.
“Well?” asked the Getorix. “Who’s the best, Poliglossiper, let’s guess, you pest!”
“Oh! Ta gueule, you crap poet!”
“The Getorix has taken it into its head to start rhyming,” explained Abakum, from the kitchen. “But be lenient, it’s only a beginner.”
“Oh, I understand now,” said Oksa laughing.
Inspired by this answer, the Incompetent came over to her, looking even more confused than usual.
“Oh, you understand something about all this, do you? I don’t.”
“Hey, Incompetent,” cackled the Getorix. “The day you understand something, it will snow in August!”
“Oh no! Oh, please no!” said the Squoracles, their teeth chattering at the mere mention of snow.
But the Incompetent, in fine form, ignored the remarks of the other creatures and continued to think things through very slowly.
“I don’t understand anything about this game. What do you call it? The peanut game?”
“No, it’s table football,” explained Oksa, politely suppressing her laughter. “It’s very simple: there are two teams, blue and red. The aim is to kick the ball into your opponent’s goal. The winner is the person who scores the most points.”
The Incompetent paused for a moment, during which it seemed to be deep in thought.
“That seems very complicated… and why do you need to wear a beak muff knitted by the Master when you play? Can I have one?”
“Haha, you’d need something more like a feather muff for a featherbrain!” sniggered the Getorix. “Haha, a featherbrain muff for the Incompetent!”
Oksa turned to look at Tugdual for some kind of help in stifling her mounting giggles. But he merely winked at her with a smile. Further away, the Goranov was complaining about these violent exchanges and the strain this commotion was putting on its fragile nerves. As for the Getorix and the Poliglossiper, they were both frantically cheating to win the game.
“I’ll scalp you, if you do that encore une fois,” screamed the Poliglossiper. “C’est illégal to pick up the ball and put it directement in the goal!”
“Here’s what I’ll do with your wet threats, you pest. I’ll clean up my mess!” replied the Getorix, screaming with laughter. “Haha, I’ll clean up my mess with your threats, you pain in the neck!”
“Hey, I’ve never noticed how much hair that creature has, it’s astonishing,” remarked the Incompetent, so guilelessly that Oksa couldn’t help exploding with laughter. “This game is very funny, isn’t it?” it added, seeing the tears rolling down Oksa’s cheeks.
“This is hilarious!” remarked Tugdual, holding his stomach. “They’re all totally bonkers.”
“Come on, creatures,” broke in Abakum trying to sound serious. “We’re about to eat. No more table football tonight.”
The creatures obediently went upstairs, squabbling all the way, except for the Incompetent, which gazed at Oksa with large, bulging eyes full of uncertainty.
“I’ve seen you before somewhere,” it muttered.
“Me too, Incompetent, me too,” replied Oksa between peals of laughter.
Without taking its eyes off Oksa, it sat down near the hearth to explore the complexities of its hazy thoughts. Nearby, the Young Gracious relaxed and enjoyed the evening. But her good mood wasn’t just down to the excellent meal, she realized. Something had happened to her. Something totally unexpected. She tried to catch Tugdual’s eye to confirm what she, at least, no longer doubted. The young man seemed to be concentrating on his plate, his lips curved in a half-smile. He stayed like this for seconds on end, torturing Oksa. Suddenly he raised his head and looked deep into her eyes. Oksa trembled, blushed and felt her stomach lurch, but she managed to maintain eye contact, even though his look was more intense than any she’d ever experienced before. She felt as though her heart had been pierced right through.
58
EMERGENCY!
WHEN THEY ARRIVED IN BIGTOE SQUARE ON SUNDAY evening, Abakum and Oksa immediately saw an ambulance’s flashing light intermittently illuminating the façade of the Pollocks’ house. In a panic, Oksa leapt out of the sidecar and rushed into the living room. Not a soul. The kitchen was empty too. Then she spotted some ambulance men on the upstairs landing, carrying her mother on a stretcher.
“MUM!”
Marie’s long hair hung down untidily, revealing her drawn, white face. She was lying there motionless with her arms at her sides. Only her eyes wandered vaguely. The ambulance men stopped for a moment and Oksa dashed over to her mother.
“What’s happening? Dad? Where are you?” she yelled in alarm.
Pavel Pollock appeared suddenly at the door of the bedroom, an anguished expression on his face and a travel bag still open in his hand.
“Oksa, sweetheart! There’s something seriously wrong with your Mum. She has to go straight to the hospital.”
“You don’t look in a fit state to drive, Pavel, I’ll take you,” suggested Abakum, looking at Oksa’s father in concern. “You can explain what happened on the way. Where’s Dragomira?”
“I’m coming!”
Baba Pollock came out of the bedroom too and rushed over to hug Oksa. She looked worried and her hands were shaking so uncontrollably that she was finding it hard to do anything efficiently, which was highly unusual for her. She walked over to Abakum and whispered something in his ear which made the blood drain from the old man’s face in an alarming manner.
All four of them climbed into the Pollocks’ car. Abakum quickly moved off and followed the ambulance through the traffic, which immediately gave way on hearing the siren. Sitting stiffly in the front seat, Pavel finally explained in a dull voice what had happened.
“She didn’t say anything to you but she’s not been feeling herself for a few days now. It started with painful joints as if she were suffering from rheumatism. I even teased her about her age, as usual,” he admitted with a choked sob. “And then on Friday, she began feeling terribly giddy. We thought it was due to the parent-teacher meeting and particularly because of the interview with Orthon-McGraw. She was a bit tense, I could sense how apprehensive she was all day… I was fairly anxious myself and I didn’t look for any other explanation. On Saturday, her dizziness worsened and her eyes began to hurt. She couldn’t tolerate the light any more and she could barely see anything, even in the half-light. We thought it was a really bad migraine. Dragomira prepared a powerful decoction to try and relieve the pain, but it was no good. Marie was too dizzy to stand up. She dozed off and slept until mid afternoon. Dragomira and I took turns to watch over her; we were both very worried. When she woke up, she was paralysed—she couldn’t move the left side of her body! All she could say was that she was hurting all over. I called an ambulance and you got here just after.”
Pavel put his face in his hands, looking worn-out with worry. Oksa, sitting just behind him, threw her arms around his neck to comfort him. But tears were rolling down her face, and she felt totally helpless in the face of this tragedy.
“Here’s the hospital,” said Abakum, breaking the silence. “They’ll look after her here and this will all just be a bad memory in no time, you’ll see.”
There was a hint of pessimism in his voice, though, which he couldn’t voice openly. Gripping the steering wheel with his hands, he met Dragomira’s anxious eyes in the rear-view mirror, which only served to confirm his worst fears.
The next morning Oksa had to go back to school with a heavy heart and her mind light years away from her everyday student concerns. This wasn’t a normal Monday. She was relieved to learn tha
t McGraw had called in sick. She was in no mood to put up with him, or his sarcasm. Merlin and Zelda, whom Gus had told about Marie Pollock’s illness, rallied around their friend as warmly as they could, but Oksa seemed miles away, cut off from everyone. Words rolled off her like water off a duck’s back. Nothing and no one could give her any comfort. During Dr Bento’s lesson she couldn’t help thinking dark thoughts, which plunged her into suffocating despair. She’d thought about death before, of course. She’d known people who had died in her family but, when she thought carefully, it had never been anyone she was close to. She’d never lost anyone she loved. Never. Death had always been an abstract idea, a pain which she imagined was deep and lasting. A feeling of terrible emptiness. But today, things were very different. And very real. It was not so much pain she felt, as a silent, uncontrollable terror which was invading every inch of her heart. At break she ran to take refuge in the Statues’ Den, where she cried heavy, racking sobs. When she emerged, her eyes red and swimming with tears, her friends were waiting for her, looking concerned and helpless. Just before lunch Mr Bontempi came to the prep room to find her and took her to his office.
“Oksa, I’m aware that your mother has been taken into hospital. I know how hard this is for you, because I had to cope with the same thing when I was your age. I think it would be better for her, and for you, if you spent a few days with her. You won’t find it hard to catch up on the lessons you’ll miss. You have friends you can count on, which is one of the benefits of being so popular, isn’t it?” he added with a smile that was meant to be comforting. “Your gran is coming to get you. Oh, there she is now!”
Seeing Dragomira come in, Oksa jumped up, toppling her chair over, and rushed over to her.
“Baba! Have you seen Mum? How is she?”
“She’s had a lot of tests,” replied Dragomira, after greeting Mr Bontempi. “We know a little more today. She is suffering from some sort of hemiplegia, which has paralysed the left side of her body. But there’s another neurological problem which the doctors are looking into. It’s a bit too soon yet for them to know exactly what’s going on. But your Mum is feeling better, Oksa, she’s in much less pain and she’d like to see you.”
Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope Page 34
