He skidded to a halt on the pavement, gasping for breath, then turned to close the door.
It was already shut.
A tall, dark figure stood to one side, stooped over the lock. He heard the bolt click into place and then the figure slowly rose and turned. He found himself looking into the sallow face of Herr Veeglum.
“In a hurry, are vee?” asked the undertaker, leaning forward to peer into Sylas’s face. His voice was as grey as his features: monotone and dry.
Sylas had never actually heard Herr Veeglum speak before. He was about to attempt a reply when the dog struck the door. The thick oak panels shuddered, but didn’t move.
“Built for ze job,” said Herr Veeglum, glancing over his shoulder as though he needed reassurance of that fact. “But it vill not hold for long.”
Sylas stared at him, utterly confused. “But how did you...?”
Herr Veeglum raised a gloved hand and put a finger to his lips.
“Zer is more here zan meets ze eye, young man. But zer is no time to explain. You must go.”
He spoke firmly, but his manner was altogether warmer and his eyes livelier than Sylas would have expected. He so much wanted to know why Veeglum was there, but the undertaker was already leading him round the corner of the row.
As they came to the front of Buntague’s Bakery, the old man stopped and pointed across the street.
“Run as fast as you can,” he said. Then he put his mouth to Sylas’s ear and hissed: “Ze bell is calling you, Sylas!”
With that, he gave the boy a firm shove between the shoulder blades and Sylas found himself in the road. He heard the wail of a car horn and he turned his head to see three cars bearing down on him. He threw himself forward, darting left and then right to avoid them as they slammed on their brakes, sending up plumes of spray from their tyres. His heart was in his mouth, but somehow he danced between them and got safely to the other side.
As he stepped on to the pavement, he chanced a look back across the road. Herr Veeglum was still standing there, his hands at his sides, his face peculiarly calm, bearing an expression not dissimilar to Mr Zhi’s at the moment he had said goodbye. The undertaker raised one hand in a brief wave, then motioned furiously for him to go.
Sylas glanced quickly in the direction of the Shop of Things. Somehow he knew that Mr Zhi would be able to explain everything, but he could see no light through the window and there was no sign of the old shopkeeper. He summoned all his courage and turned his back on Gabblety Row.
Veeglum watched as Sylas sped off down the pavement towards the supermarket and then disappeared down a dark alley at its side. He shook his head wistfully, turned and walked round the corner of the row. When he reached the door, he stood some distance away and watched it shudder and vibrate as the beast charged at it from behind. The timbers held, yet around the frame tiny clouds of dust were curling into the night air and small pieces of mortar were falling to the floor. Then the great wooden beam above the frame shifted and an entire brick fell out of the wall.
He unfastened the buttons of his greatcoat and pulled it from his shoulders, revealing an immaculate black suit, a crisp white shirt and a pressed black tie. He laid the coat neatly on the pavement, folding the arms tidily over the top.
At that moment another smaller figure appeared from the lane behind Gabblety Row. This man also wore a suit, but of an ill-kempt, crumpled sort, and his appearance was all the more curious on account of his odd little pot-like hat and one ornately decorated glove.
Veeglum didn’t acknowledge him as he approached, but pulled on a plain green glove of his own.
Then they turned to face the door.
Sylas ran down the alleyway into the housing estate, the noise from the road quickly giving way to the near silence of the sleeping town. He emerged into a cul-de-sac and swung right, following his normal route to the shops. For once he was glad of the many errands he had run for his uncle, for he knew these roads well. He took a twisting, turning path down little-known lanes, across private gardens, allotments and tiny streets: he would be almost impossible to follow. He headed for the Hailing Bridge, which crossed the river in the centre of town. It lay directly in his path to the bell.
The bell struck again and he saw the rain around him change direction sharply, then slowly swing around as the sad, long note drew it towards the hills. He glanced in disbelief at the darkened windows of the estate, the curtains firmly closed and the occupants oblivious to the drama that was unfolding around them. Every unexpected splatter of rain in a puddle, every random crunch of a stone underfoot made his heart race even faster, but he fixed his eyes ahead and ran for his life.
He negotiated a warren of darkened pathways and finally he saw the bridge ahead. It was a simple structure of steel girders fixed at crude right angles to one another, most of which were emblazoned with graffiti colours. The centre of the bridge was unlit, but the two lamps at either end shone brightly above the oily black river.
Sylas’s heart sank.
There, barely visible in the very middle of the bridge, was a man leaning on one of the railings, looking in the opposite direction.
What was he doing there at this time of night?
Sylas stopped – this felt wrong. He thought of turning and running back through the estate to the other bridge, but retracing his steps would be dangerous. He considered waiting to see if the man moved away, but by then the dog might be upon him.
There was no option: he must cross the Hailing Bridge, and do it now.
He gathered his courage and slowly climbed the steps to the span of the bridge.
As he reached the top, the man became more visible. He wore a loose, torn black coat and seemed unusually tall and muscular.
Sylas was uneasy, but he kept on walking. The chime of the bell was waning now and he could hear the sound of rushing water beneath him, the black surface sending up distorted reflections of the distant streetlamps on the other side of town. As he passed out of the light, he walked close to one of the railings and tilted his head to see the man’s face, but it was covered by a large hood.
He controlled his nerves and strode on. Soon he was walking past the stranger. One, two steps beyond. He braced himself to run.
“Hello, Sylas.”
He froze, heart racing.
“A curious place to meet – don’t you think?” It was a deep, accented voice.
Sylas eyed the far end of the bridge – he would have no chance of reaching it if the man gave chase.
“I— I don’t know you... do I?”
“The middle of a river, I mean,” said the man. “It’s neither here nor there.”
Sylas turned and saw that he hadn’t moved, but was still staring out over the river.
The stranger sucked in a deep breath. “What did the Greeks say about rivers? A border between worlds, was it? Or was it something about fate… I can’t remember. Your world, not mine.” Sylas started to back away. “I don’t… I don’t know,” he stammered, “but I have to…”
“And where do you think you’re off to?” said the stranger sharply, stirring for the first time and standing to his full, towering height. He peered down from the shadows of his hood. “I’m afraid you won’t get very far without my help.”
“But who are you?” asked Sylas, still poised to run.
The man seemed to consider this for a moment.
“Call me Espen,” he said. He lifted his hands to his hood and pulled it back.
Sylas took a step back. The stranger’s youthful features were terribly disfigured. His burnished mahogany skin was riven by a cruel tear that ran from just below his hairline, over the bridge of his nose and cheek to his neck, where it disappeared under the folds of his coat. The wound was still red and inflamed and he winced slightly as he attempted a smile.
“Take this as the mark of a friend,” he said, waving his hand towards his face. “I’ve already met the abomination that chases you.”
Sylas was suddenly struck by th
e stranger’s voice. He had heard it before. It was the voice from the back of the Shop of Things. Mr Zhi’s assistant!
His panic began to subside. “Are you... do you know Mr Zhi?” The stranger smiled briefly. “Yes.”
Sylas felt a wave of relief. He glanced in the direction of the estate. “So you know what that thing is? The thing that’s chasing me?”
“Answers breed questions, Sylas,” said Espen, “and we’re already out of time. I don’t wish to meet that thing twice in one day. We must go.”
“Where?”
The man was looking back towards Gabblety Row. “You know where,” he replied in a vacant voice, still looking away. “To the bell.”
“Can you hear—”
Suddenly a mournful howl rose from somewhere on the housing estate, in precisely the direction Espen had been looking. The soulless baying hung in the air, echoing from walls, trees and rooftops. The lights of the estate began to flare into life.
“It’s already close,” said Espen. “How fast can you run?”
“Pretty fast,” said Sylas. He knew he was quick – it was the one compliment his uncle ever paid him. “Follow me.”
He turned and sprinted to the end of the bridge, leaping down the steps in threes, disappearing in a trice.
A smile passed over Espen’s face as he set out in pursuit.
As they ran across the town square, the walls and windows about them echoed their steps and Sylas glanced nervously in all directions. But as quickly as they had entered the square they left it behind, charging into another darkened lane. They ran along overgrown alleys and behind shops, down lanes, over walls and into parks. They charged through a skate park, under a railway bridge and across a builders’ yard, never once pausing for breath. The bell chimed several more times as they ran, battering Sylas’s ears, urging them on, challenging them to run faster.
Finally they found themselves in a small street bordered on both sides by the low, huddling houses of factory workers. Sweating and panting, they came to the end, where a great chimney stack loomed above them.
Espen slowed to a walk and called ahead: “Stop! Let’s rest for a moment.”
Sylas slapped his feet down on the tarmac and leaned his weight on his knees while he caught his breath.
“See!” he panted with a grin. “Pretty fast!”
Espen raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” said Sylas, “but thank you.”
“Maybe someday you’ll return the favour,” said Espen with a brief smile, but then the levity left his face. “Your shoulders bear us all, Sylas.” The stranger spoke under his breath, almost as though he didn’t want to be heard.
Sylas frowned quizzically and there was an awkward silence.
Espen shook his head as if annoyed with himself. “Give me the book,” he said, holding out his hand.
Sylas instinctively took a step backwards, surprised to hear the stranger speak of it.
“The Samarok?”
Espen nodded and turned his palm up expectantly.
“What do you want it for?”
“Give it to me, Sylas,” demanded the man impatiently. “I’ll give it back, but I must show you something.”
Sylas eyed him carefully. He didn’t want to show the Samarok to anybody, let alone to someone he had just met. But then again Mr Zhi had obviously trusted him. He fought with himself for a moment longer, then set his rucksack on the ground and took out the beautiful book. He turned it over in his hands for a moment, feeling the touch of the sharp stones and cold metal against his skin, then handed it over.
Espen took it and looked thoughtfully at it for a moment, then glanced about him as if looking for something. He walked swiftly to the edge of the pavement, lifted the Samarok high into the air and, summoning all his strength, brought it crashing down against the kerb.
8
Passing
“As we leave the light, we enter darkness; as we pass from warmth,
the cold creeps about us; as we depart from one, we enter the Other.”
SYLAS CRIED OUT AS the book collided awkwardly with the concrete. There was a sharp crack and a piece broke away from it, spun in the air and clattered across the hard surface, ringing metallically as it came to rest on the wet pavement.
“What are you doing?” yelled Sylas, rushing after the two pieces.
Espen said nothing, but watched quietly as Sylas picked up the book and tucked it under his arm, then went in search of the other piece. He found it lying in the gutter, a torrent of rainwater washing over it. It was the beautiful S symbol from the cover, now bent utterly out of shape.
Sylas wheeled round in a rage.
“Look what you’ve done!” he bellowed, holding up the twisted piece of metal. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears and felt his cheeks burning red.
The stranger was unmoved. He looked down at Sylas and held out his hand.
“Give it to me,” he said calmly.
“You must be joking,” said Sylas and made to put it in his pocket.
“Give it to me now!” boomed Espen, his deep, gritty voice echoing up the street.
Sylas took a step back. Part of him wanted to take the book and run, to take his chances on his own. But he still saw no reason why Espen should wish him harm. He looked at the piece of metal in his hands. It was useless anyway – what more could he do? The stranger waited expectantly with his hand outstretched. Finally, with an attempt at a look of defiance, Sylas reached out and handed him the broken symbol.
Espen took it with one hand, and with the other he seized Sylas’s wrist. Sylas shouted in protest and tried to pull free, but the grip was vice-like. He saw that the stranger was manipulating the piece of metal in his free hand. It pivoted round the point at the centre of the S, where the gold of the top curve met the silver of the bottom. He realised that there was a hinge in the join, allowing the two parts to swivel around one another.
The symbol wasn’t broken: it had just rotated out of shape.
Espen twisted his hand a little further and it once again formed a perfect S.
Sylas ceased his struggle. “Why does it—”
“So that it can do this,” said Espen.
The symbol rotated at its centre until it formed a broken circle, with the silver and gold forming its two halves. Then, before Sylas could pull away, the stranger slid it over the boy’s narrow wrist and adjusted it slightly so that it formed a complete ring. There was a barely audible click.
Sylas snatched back his arm and looked closely at his wrist, which now bore a perfect bracelet. There were no faults or cracks – the gold met the silver in an invisible join.
“How did you do that?” he asked.
Espen shrugged and smiled.
Sylas turned his eyes back to the bracelet and ran his fingers over the metal, marvelling at its smoothness. He gripped the new join and tried to prise it apart, but the metal held firm. He tried the pivot, but that too was solid. Finally he attempted to pull the band off his wrist, but as he slid it towards his hand, it seemed to tighten and fit snugly against his skin.
“It won’t come off,” he said, looking up.
“I should hope not,” said Espen, still smiling. “You don’t want to lose it, Sylas. It’s there to protect you.”
Sylas looked from the stranger’s earnest face to the bracelet, which had now closed tighter than ever.
“Protect me from what? From the animal?”
“In a way, it protects you from yourself.”
Sylas looked up in surprise, but the stranger had already turned and set off in the direction of the vast chimney stack.
“Come!” shouted Espen.
Sylas took the book from under his arm, glancing at the cover, now marked by a highly decorated S-shaped groove where the symbol had been. He crammed the book into his rucksack and ran on.
The bell chimed again. Once more he was hit in the chest by a shockwave of sound and he saw the rain dance in the air. Bu
t there was something unexpected about this toll of the bell. Even though they were nearer its source, it seemed quieter than before, less forceful. It still had great power, but Sylas was sure that it had weakened: he did not have to hold his hands to his ears as he had when he first heard it; it was not impossible to think as it was before. It dawned on him that none of the chimes had been as powerful as the one that had woken him in his room. The bell was dying away. “I think it’s stopping!”
The stranger turned and nodded, as if this was to be expected. Then his dark eyes looked back down the street and widened.
Sylas felt the skin prickle on his back and neck. Without slowing his run, he turned his head.
He saw it straight away, emerging from some shadows into the lamplight. The beast was at full sprint, bounding high into the air with each stride, its jaws hanging open to reveal its white teeth glistening cruelly in the yellow light. As it caught sight of its quarry, it raised its head a little and howled into the night air. It was muffled by the sound of the bell, but its misty breath rose from its jaws and its tongue rasped visibly against its teeth.
Sylas turned and collided with Espen’s broad chest. A powerful arm curled about his waist and hoisted him into the air, over the chicken-wire fence that bordered the factory complex. Just as he seemed to be clear, he caught his knee on the metal bar that formed the top of the gate and he cried out in pain.
Espen didn’t pause. “Brace yourself!” he growled.
Sylas gasped a lungful of air and flailed around him, hoping to grab hold of something, but he felt himself pitched into nothingness. A moment later he landed and fell backwards. He was winded and in shock from the pain in his knee, but he forced himself up on his elbows. Espen took a step back on the other side of the gate and with a quick glance behind him he launched himself into the air, vaulting over the top of the gate. His leather boots crashed into the gravel next to Sylas.
He crouched down to look at Sylas’s knee, which was already bleeding through his jeans.
The Bell Between Worlds Page 6
