Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope

by Anne Plichota

  They had only gone down a few more steps when the two friends heard the sound of footsteps coming closer to the stairwell. An angry growl immediately told them that the game was up. They froze, unable to go downstairs or run away. A shadow appeared on the floor and came closer until it loomed over the bottom steps. Suddenly the shadow became a person of flesh and blood. Oksa gave a shrill scream of terror and Gus’s head swam as the horrible feeling he was about to die washed over him. There was a fifty-fifty chance of it being Dragomira at the foot of the stairs.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

  Luck was on their side. It was Baba Pollock standing there in front of them with a frown on her face and her hands on her hips. Gus preferred not to think what would have happened if it had been McGraw.

  “Baba! I nearly fired a Granok at you! I think we’ve just had the fright of our lives,” exclaimed Oksa, throwing her arms around her gran’s neck.

  “What are you doing here?” repeated Dragomira irritably, disentangling herself from Oksa’s embrace.

  “I hope you won’t be angry with him… your Lunatrix told me that McGraw had called you and that you’d gone to his house. You should have seen him, he was in a right state! So was I. Then Gus and I decided to come and help you, but it looks like we got here too late. You don’t need anyone, you’re too strong, Baba!”

  “Who knows you’re here?”

  “Er… no one,” muttered Oksa, looking at her feet.

  “No one?” said Dragomira in amazement.

  She paused for a second then continued, gazing sternly at the two friends:

  “What you did was very reckless. You could have been injured! Ah well, this is all very unexpected, but I have to admit it couldn’t be better.”

  With this, the old lady’s expression changed completely and an unexpected look of satisfaction came over her face. She went up to Oksa and rested an authoritative hand on her shoulder. Then, turning to Gus:

  “Thanks for coming with my granddaughter,” she said curtly, in a voice that didn’t sound like her at all. “You can go home now, your parents will be worried. I’ve got some things to sort out with Oksa.”

  Dragomira pushed Gus with the flat of her hand, firmly motioning him to leave the cellar and the house. With growing astonishment, Gus’s eyes briefly met Oksa’s. Dragomira had never sent him packing like this! She must be feeling a little out of sorts after what must have been a rather violent encounter, if the state of the cellar was anything to go by. She again insisted on Gus leaving the house and the boy didn’t have any choice. He climbed the stairs backwards, his eyes fixed on Oksa and a strange leaden feeling in his heart.

  “Fine… See you later, Oksa! I’ll call you.”

  But when he reached the hall, he headed towards the front door, opened it and slammed it shut immediately from the inside as loudly as possible. Then, quiet as a mouse, he retraced his steps to the cellar door, which was still wide open, and crept back down the staircase.

  “Where’s McGraw, Baba?” asked Oksa, once she’d heard the front door slam. “I hope you smashed his face in!”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” replied Dragomira, sniggering. “Look! He’s over there, cowering on the ground like a dog!”

  She pointed at a small, very dark room adjoining the main cellar. At the very back of this cluttered storeroom, in almost complete darkness, Oksa could make out a figure lying on the floor, writhing with pain. A guttural groan reached her ears, making her shiver.

  “I haven’t yet got around to smashing his face in, as you put it,” explained Dragomira. “But since you seem to want me to, my dear Oksa, I’ll be happy to grant your wish.”

  “It was just a figure of speech…” remarked Oksa, aghast at being taken at her word and terrified by the thought of watching something like that done, even to vile McGraw.

  “Afterwards, since you’ve come to me,” continued Dragomira, ignoring Oksa’s remark, “we can finally get out of here. Everything will be much simpler now.”

  Oksa stared at Dragomira in astonishment. Her gran must have been hit by a Muddler Granok because she seemed to have lost the plot. It was certainly time they got out of here so Dragomira could take one of those excellent tisanes which only she knew the secret of making, and which would unscramble her brain cells. Oksa screwed up her eyes and tried to peer through the darkness, drawn by the sound of McGraw’s groans. She was fascinated and troubled by the violent contortions of her sworn enemy’s body. The deathly silence was broken by strange, incomprehensible sounds, which seemed to seethe with fury. Dragomira came over and pushed her back towards the stairs.

  “Wait for me there! I won’t be long.”

  The old lady stood in the doorway of the small room and said contemptuously to McGraw:

  “Look! As you can see, Oksa’s here with me. That’s fate for you, we’ve come full circle, haven’t we? She’ll be able to take me back to Edefia and no one can put a spanner in the works for me now. I’ve waited for this moment for more than fifty years… What? What did you say? You too? That’s as may be, but your plans are nowhere near as big as mine. But before I leave here for good with my granddaughter, I’m going to give you a small sample of hell!”

  Dragomira held out her arms and opened her hand, spreading out her fingers. From where she was standing, Oksa saw thin strands of light sizzle from her fingertips and fleetingly made out McGraw’s body, which was then hurled against the ceiling. She grimaced at the terrible thud made by the body as it crashed back down onto the ground, followed immediately by a hoarse moan. With a fixed smile on her lips, Dragomira turned round to look at her, and then renewed her vicious attack. The scream McGraw gave was even more agonizing than the last. Icy sweat trickled down Oksa’s spine, and she thought she heard a weak murmur, a barely audible voice breathing “Dushka”. As if things weren’t complicated enough, now her mind was playing tricks! She shook her head and backed away towards the staircase, as Dragomira triumphantly exclaimed to McGraw:

  “Ha! Not so proud now, are you?”

  Oksa looked at her in complete astonishment: how could her gran, who wouldn’t hurt a fly and who advocated respect for all forms of life, take such pleasure in hurting someone? This was a side of her she didn’t know—and didn’t particularly like. This unpleasant feeling was soon heightened by the Curbita-Flatulo writhing frantically on her wrist, which didn’t help matters at all. A wave of panic washed over the girl, as if the process had been reversed: the Curbita-Flatulo was doing its utmost to unnerve her completely! And there hadn’t been any cause for concern yet… naturally, she hadn’t forgotten she was inside McGraw’s house. But Dragomira had the upper hand. And convincingly at that. So long as she was with her, she was in no danger, even if this was a side of Baba Pollock she had never seen. So why was the Curbita-Flatulo so agitated? And now the Tumble-Bawler was getting in on the act too! Emerging from Oksa’s small bag, it fluttered up to its young mistress’s ear and whispered a few words.

  “What did you say?” she murmured, looking at it incredulously. “I don’t understand.”

  “The grandmothers aren’t all they seem to be,” repeated the little creature.

  “This is no time to be making psychological observations, Tumble,” retorted Oksa in a low voice. “Things are already complicated enough as it is.”

  “Oksa! Pssst… Oksa…”

  Oksa whirled round: Gus was here! He was standing at the bottom of the staircase, gazing at her. He was pale and breathless and he looked terrified, although determined to stay near his friend.

  “Gus! Am I happy to see you!” said Oksa, glancing anxiously towards her gran, who was still busy in the doorway of the other room.

  “Something doesn’t feel right about this,” whispered Gus.

  “You’re not kidding! We have to look into this,” said Oksa, facing dangerous facts. “We don’t have a choice. Is that okay?” she added, her eyes searching Gus’s terrified gaze.

  “I’m scared to death, if you mus
t know,” replied Gus. “But you’re right. We have to go and see who’s in that room. Let’s get a move on!”

  With Gus a few steps behind her, Oksa stealthily walked over to Dragomira. When they were right by the doorway of the dark room, she took hold of her Granok-Shooter and said to herself:

  By the power of the Granoks

  Think outside the box

  Polypharus, hear what I say

  And may your tentacles light my way.

  A tiny orangey octopus immediately shot out of the Granok-Shooter and rose into the air, filling the cellar with such a bright light that it blinded Dragomira and Gus, who were taken by surprise. Oksa, her hand shading her eyes, stepped forward and glanced quickly into the room, confirming her awful forebodings.

  “BABA!” she exclaimed, panic-stricken.

  Oksa had every reason to panic. There, at the back of the room, slumped in a corner, was Dragomira—another Dragomira—her body contorted and her face covered in blood.

  78

  CELLAR RESCUE

  THE DRAGOMIRA AT THE BACK OF THE SMALL ROOM WAS in a dreadful state. Seeing Oksa, she slumped even lower against the wall and tears ran down her cheeks, leaving tracks through the caked dust and blood flowing from her head. She looked up at Oksa and gazed into her eyes. Oksa shuddered, shocked at the pain and sadness she read in that beseeching look.

  “Well, well, dear Orthon is resorting to trickery! Very clever, Orthon! My congratulations!”

  Oksa stiffened with fright: the first Dragomira had just put her arm firmly around her shoulders and pulled her close. Helplessly, the girl looked up at the old lady who was hugging her imperiously against her—perhaps to protect her?—and then at the second old lady, who seemed to be struggling not to pass out.

  “What does this mean?” muttered Oksa.

  “My dear girl,” replied the first Dragomira, “Orthon has simply used his shape-shifting skills to try and pass himself off as me!”

  “Shape-shifting? So it works then!” exclaimed Oksa.

  “Of course it works. It’s incredible, isn’t it? Although dear Orthon hasn’t been able to resist adding a few melodramatic touches of his own to make you feel sorry for him… Honestly, Orthon, is all that blood really necessary?” she added, looking at the second Dragomira in disgust.

  Then, meeting Oksa’s eyes, she said fiercely:

  “Don’t upset yourself, my dear. Shape-shifting is designed to fool the entire world. Don’t let yourself be taken in by those tearful eyes. That man has got no more than he deserved. Edefia is ours and ours alone… I won’t let anyone stand in my way! Just tell yourself that it was him or me. He wouldn’t hesitate to finish me off if I were in his shoes. Isn’t that right, Orthon?”

  “Oksa, Dushka, for pity’s sake, don’t listen to him,” begged the second Dragomira weakly. “Look at me and you’ll know it’s me!”

  “Shut up!” shouted the first Dragomira. “You can’t fool us. I’m the one and only Dragomira Pollock, the real Dragomira.”

  “What proof do you have that you’re telling the truth?” came a shaky voice behind her.

  The first Dragomira whirled round, dragging Oksa with her. She peered into the shadows until her eyes had located the person who’d just spoken, standing stiff as a poker in the opposite corner, but trembling with fear.

  “Oh, Gus!” she said in irritation, going over to the boy. “Not only have you disobeyed me, but what’s more you’ve picked the wrong side—two mistakes that can still be rectified by joining us while there’s still time. Come over here with your friend.”

  “Oksa! WATCH OUT!” yelled Gus, diving under a worm-eaten workbench.

  The second Dragomira had just staggered to the doorway of the small room, blood trickling from the wound in her head. This was a problem, a big problem. Dragging Oksa with her, the first old lady advanced further into the cellar firing bolts of electricity which knocked over everything that stood between her and the second Dragomira. The wooden wine racks laden with bottles leapt into the air, spraying wine over the walls and broken glass over the floor. The light bulb hanging on a flex from the ceiling began swinging frantically, casting agitated shadows. Feeling terrified, Oksa tried to free herself from the “real” Dragomira’s grip, but the old lady held her even more tightly. She had to find a way of discovering the truth. She had two Dragomiras in front of her and she knew rationally, and from her own experience, that there was only one Dragomira. But which of them was the right one? Her mind was racing, and her confused thoughts were making it impossible to think straight. She desperately needed to a clear mind at the moment. Since she couldn’t rely on logic, she felt instinctively that she needed to act. In a fraction of a second, she executed one of her favourite manoeuvres: a fast vertical take-off. Wrenching herself free, she shot towards the ceiling and performed a backflip to land on a table at the back of the cellar.

  “Baba! Show yourself, please! Help me!” she shouted imploringly.

  “Oksa, it’s me, I’m your gran Dragomira! Trust me,” said the first Dragomira, walking slowly towards her with a beseeching look.

  “Don’t believe that imposter, Dushka, I’m your Baba, your Baba who loves you and who’ll always love you,” retorted the second trembling Dragomira, her back bowed.

  The two Dragomiras aimed their Granok-Shooters at each other and Gus was making signs at her that she couldn’t understand. What a nightmare… Oksa rummaged in her bag, without taking her eyes off the two women. They were totally identical from head to toe. This shape-shifting thing was unbelievable! Same face, same hair plaited in a crown, same clothes—it was impossible to tell them apart. Except that one was much more badly beaten and bloody than the other. And that was hardly surprising given the number of violent spells which had been used on her. In fact, it was a miracle she was still standing. Oksa opened her Caskinette and grabbed an Excelsior, which she swallowed immediately in the hope it might help her mind get a better grasp on things. Instinct alone would never be enough to tell the truth from the lies. Her heart told her to believe the second Dragomira, but that was more through a process of deduction than because she had irrefutable proof. Since she’d arrived in the cellar, the first Dragomira had seemed odd to her. What she said and did were in stark contrast to what she knew of her beloved gran. But this was no ordinary situation and it could have had an effect on the soundest of natures. The second Dragomira’s pitiful appearance, her ravaged face and body spasming with pain, also influenced the way she felt: she might be a fan of kung fu, but she was still a soft-hearted girl. If the first Dragomira was the real one, Oksa abhorred her gran’s vicious attack on a man lying on the ground, wracked with pain. Even if McGraw was the sworn enemy of her family, the Runaways and Edefia, there had to be another way of neutralizing him. The fight had been unfair. And unequal! She would never again view her Baba in the same way… but now was certainly not the time to be thinking like this. Her priority was to find out which of the two women was her gran and to get out of this mess. Alive, if possible.

  “What’s your husband’s name, Baba?” said Oksa curtly to the second Dragomira, who was leaning against a pillar.

  “Vladimir Pollock, Dushka, but I think Orthon knows that. Don’t rely on my answer…”

  “Fine, then, you!” continued Oksa, pointing at the first Dragomira. “Where did Jeanne Bellanger’s parents die?”

  “In Czechoslovakia, Dushka, during the events of August 1968 in Prague. They were killed by Soviet soldiers. And I don’t think Orthon knows that.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Oksa,” cried the second Dragomira in a rasping voice. “Orthon could easily know that. He’s kept watch on us for years—remember the list!”

  “Shut up!” retorted the first Dragomira, brandishing her Granok-Shooter. “All your family has ever done is bring chaos and separate me from my parents. But, today, you will pay for everything your family has done.”

  “STOP IT!” yelled Oksa, her heart filled with doubt.

  She shot a t
earful look at Gus, who’d been trying to get her to understand something for quite a while. He was showing her the middle finger of his right hand and discreetly, but eloquently, clasping it with his left hand… and suddenly Oksa realized. The ring! Her eyes flitted from one hand to the other: the ring she’d noticed McGraw wearing on the first day of school, the magnificent twisted silver ring with its shimmering slate-grey stone, was on the first Dragomira’s finger. Her head swam with panic. How could she know for sure? How could she be certain that McGraw hadn’t done a swap and put his ring on the real Dragomira’s finger to plant a seed of doubt? The two women were still standing face to face, their eyes riveted on each other. Tense with agitation, Oksa looked at Gus helplessly. The boy was now blowing into his hand, his fingers curled into a tube. What on earth did that mean? Oksa looked more closely and realized: the Granok-Shooter! What had Abakum said about Granok-Shooters? She had to remember… they were all personal and different, no one could use a Granok-Shooter which didn’t belong to them, because they only recognized their owner. Different! Yes! That was the solution. Oksa looked at the precious tubes held by the two Dragomiras. The first had a Granok-Shooter made of dark horn striped with fine silvery lines. The one held by the second Dragomira was a lighter, pinkish white colour, inlaid with tiny gold fragments and precious stones. Oksa concentrated with all her might. “Ninja-Oksa, try to remember Baba’s Granok-Shooter… it’s not that complicated!” Had she ever seen Dragomira’s Granok-Shooter before? Aargghh. Oksa searched angrily through a jumble of memories. Suddenly one image stood out among the many rattling around in her head and she was back in Leomido’s kitchen a few months ago. Dragomira had taken out her Granok-Shooter to demonstrate the Reticulata. An almost white Granok-Shooter, which sparkled with a thousand tiny little flashes! Yes, but she had the same problem as she’d had with the identity ring: maybe McGraw had been so attentive to detail that he’d switched their Granok-Shooters? There was no end to this question. And no answer. Before Oksa could wonder about it any more, a stooped, emaciated creature surged from the depths of the cellar and leapt on the second Dragomira’s back.