The Bell Between Worlds

by Ian Johnstone

  But there was no shuddering jolt or crash of splintering wood.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw that they were already through. Above him was the baffling latticework of the wheel and the great axle spinning at its centre; to one side the blades still plunged past making the boat leap and twist on the surface, and on the other the solid, mossy stones of the mill house towered above him.

  He looked around for Simia.

  “Up here!”

  She grinned from the dark opening above, already tying the mooring rope to a ring. She held out her hand and helped him to clamber up on to the slippery doorstep.

  He found himself in a cool, dark passageway that disappeared into shadows a few paces ahead.

  “Welcome to Meander Mill,” she said.

  “Thanks, can we use the front door next time?” he grumbled.

  She laughed. “It has to be like that to keep it a secret. Of course, the others slow the wheel down a lot more... but where’s the fun in that?”

  He saw the white flash of her smile in the gloom. She leaned to one side and grasped a large iron lever in the wall, then pulled it down. There was a loud clang of metal against metal somewhere above his head, followed by a sound like sliding chains or gears falling into place. Then the floor began to move.

  The glassy black eyes squinted as though they would peer through the very stones of the mill. For some time they were motionless, fixed to the place where the children had disappeared, now shrouded in curtains of water. But, as a beam of sunlight moved across the waterwheel, changing the drab scene into a dazzling display of glistening wood and shimmering water, so the eyes moved. They took in the perfectly crafted stone walls of the building, lingered on the odd-looking red-tiled roof that seemed to glint and scatter the light as though it was inset with metal or glass, and then they fell slowly past the top of the wheel, back down to the flurry of water and foam.

  “Come, we can’t do any more,” came a gruff voice from somewhere behind.

  The creature blinked away some spray, which fell like a tear on to pallid skin, then dripped on to the snout below. There was a brief nod and the oily eyes flicked towards the opposite shore.

  The canoe surged away, the bow gliding effortlessly through the waves.

  13

  Sanctuary

  “… all thoughts must turn from great to simple things: instead of

  glory, survival; instead of all that was promised, sanctuary.”

  THE SHAFT WAS UTTERLY black – a thick, disorienting blackness that closed in on them as they left the passageway far below. Deprived of sight, Sylas’s other senses sharpened: the clanking of chains in some unseen part of the mill seemed unbearably loud, the smell of damp and oil in the air became overpowering and he felt as though the lurching motion of the platform would throw him off balance. But he was curiously calm as they climbed through the darkness, almost glad that his tired eyes would see no more wonders, at least for now.

  As the clanking of the chains faded, a new and unexpected sound echoed down the dark shaft.

  It was a solitary singing voice.

  The tune was carefree and playful like a nursery rhyme, but the voice was old and dry. The more he listened, the more he began to hear distinct sounds and words. To his surprise, they were not joyful and childish as was the tune, but full of sorrow:

  “And so we change as change we must,

  When standards rot and sabres rust,

  When the sun is set and night is come,

  When all is lost, when naught is won.”

  When the voice reached the end of this verse, it started again at the beginning, repeating the words exactly as before, but this time they seemed more poignant and simpler. The melody became more haunting, as if in sympathy with the words. As the platform rose through the darkness, it grew louder and the effect became more powerful, as though new sorrows were added to the heartache. Simia started to hum the simple tune, and the melody was soon echoing about them and resonating in the depths of the shaft below.

  Sylas began to see a vision forming in his mind. To begin with it was a blur of meaningless shapes formed in shades of grey and brown, but in moments the bleak image became clear – it was a rotting purple flag bearing a single silver feather, fluttering limply over a misty battlefield. The image did not stay solid in his mind and soon the grey mist engulfed the standard, at the same time rolling back to reveal a long line of dishevelled, bloodied men staggering, limping and crawling towards a dark horizon. Near at hand and against the backdrop of a mighty sea, he saw women crying in despair, crying for their fallen fathers, brothers and sons.

  As these imaginings became too real to bear – as he began to feel his spirits fall into a deep melancholy – there was a loud rattle above his head and the singing stopped.

  An instant later he was bathed in sunshine.

  Shielding his eyes, Sylas looked up and saw two doors sliding back to reveal a large perfectly circular opening that glowed with golden light. As his eyes adjusted, he found that they were ascending between the great doors and leaving the darkness behind.

  The platform came to an abrupt stop, making him totter forward. He felt Simia’s steadying hand on his arm.

  “This,” she whispered in his ear, “is where we hide.”

  He rubbed his eyes and looked about him.

  They were standing in the centre of a great round chamber that towered above them, soaring to an astonishing height. The platform upon which he and Simia had been standing formed a kind of stage, surrounded in all directions by row upon circular row of wooden seats, each higher than the last. It was like a theatre with the stage at the centre. All of the fittings – the chairs, the stage, the steps that ran up to the highest benches at the back – were constructed from a great confusion of driftwood: cracked planks, broken rudders, mildewed deck timbers, nameplates and gangplanks. The entire hall was heaving with detritus from the river. The air itself carried a pungent but pleasant scent of its waters, so that all in all it was as though they had once flowed through this ancient room and, over the years, deposited the river’s bounty of wrecks and maritime waste.

  And amid these choice prizes there was one feature that truly stood out: each and every seat sported a quaint canopy of wood, tall enough so that someone could sit within it, but not so high that it would obscure the view from the row behind and, as Sylas looked more closely, he saw that these odd alcoves were in fact the upturned prows of small boats, pointing directly up towards the ceiling. The effect was to create – from a graveyard of simple wreckage – a theatre fit for kings.

  But his eyes did not linger on the strange woodwork, or the high stone walls hung about with fishing nets, or the many ceilings far above; instead they dwelt upon the vast space in its middle, for it was criss-crossed by countless shafts of light. The beams bounced off large porthole-like mirrors mounted on the stone walls, each placed with precision to catch the light and pass it on to the next. The result was a latticework of sunlight that only became more and more beautiful and intricate as he raised his eyes. The chamber seemed to narrow above his head where it met a circular balcony supported on columns constructed from sawn-off masts: the first of a series of such structures built one above the other. All of them left a round space at the centre through which the beams could pass. Finally, at the very top of the mill house, there was a ring of blinding light, which seemed to be the source of all the light in the room. Sure enough it dimmed slightly as the sun passed behind a cloud and at the same moment all of the beams in the great round hall faded. A moment later it brightened again and the hall was once more bathed in wondrous golden sunshine.

  “We take it for granted, but light can be so beautiful, don’t you think?”

  It was the singing voice.

  Sylas first saw her at the top of the steps behind the rear circle of seats, standing with her back to him and looking into a dark, glassy panel that circled the hall. She was slight of stature, standing little above Sylas’s own height, but she
carried herself with an unmistakable authority: straight-backed in her long burgundy robe. It was decked with glittering insignia and the braiding shimmered around her cuffs, tracing a radiant line down one arm. But it was her bright silvery hair that was her most distinctive feature, for it fell in a long ponytail all the way down to her waist, and in it was a braid of the same colour as the gown.

  “It’s very beautiful,” said Sylas. His voice echoed loudly around the hall, making him flinch.

  The woman turned away from the panel and smiled. Her face was lined with age, but her pearly skin glowed in the golden light and her dark eyes sparkled.

  “Yes, indeed,” she said with a slight nod of the head. “We may have to hide, but it will not be under a rock! Isn’t that right, Simia?”

  Simia laughed lightly and nodded.

  “You are from the bell?”

  “Yes,” replied the girl, rocking on her ankle.

  “And it was the Passing Bell? You’re sure?”

  “Yes. It was just like you said it would be.”

  The woman turned her eyes back to Sylas and looked him up and down with interest.

  “And were you followed?”

  “Chased, but not followed,” said Simia. “We came through the inn – Bowe helped us.”

  The woman nodded, seeming satisfied. Her eyes moved back to Sylas and the hall fell silent.

  He shifted nervously, glancing about the room. He looked at the dark, glassy panel into which the woman had been staring and for a moment he thought that it altered a little as he watched, as though something was moving inside.

  Simia started fidgeting next to him as if she too found the silence more than she could bear and suddenly she spoke in a flurry of words.

  “He says he isn’t a Bringer, but he’s wearing a bracelet that looks just like a Bringer’s and he seems to know absolutely nothing about anyth—”

  The woman raised her hand and frowned.

  “Simia! I’m sure our guest will speak for himself.”

  Simia made a point of pursing her lips as though gluing them together.

  The woman turned back to Sylas and smiled warmly. “My name is Filimaya.”

  He smiled nervously. “I’m Sylas – Sylas Tate.”

  “Welcome, Sylas. I trust you’re well after your journey?” “I’m fine, just tired.”

  “But of course you are,” said the woman. “And that’s to say nothing of your knee.” She moved swiftly down the steps and motioned them towards the bench nearest to the platform. “Come and sit down at once!”

  Sylas frowned. “How did you know about my knee?” he asked, sitting on the nearest of the seats.

  Filimaya smiled enigmatically and sat down on the platform to face him.

  For the first time he saw her face in detail. She had elegant, kindly features, with the fine bones and pretty, tapering eyes of a woman who, although handsome to this day, had once been a great beauty. Despite her amiable features and the kindness in her eyes, he also saw an unmistakable sadness: a sadness that blended so well with her smile that it seemed almost an illusion.

  She raised her eyebrows. “So it seems that you’re not familiar with our ways.” She looked down and took hold of his ankle, then tugged at his trouser leg. Sylas drew a sharp breath as she pulled the material away from the dried blood around his wound and peered at a cut that ran all the way down the side of his knee. “That is rather strange for a Bringer.”

  “But I’m not a Bringer. I don’t even know what a Bringer is. I keep telling Simia that all this is an accident – alI I really want to do is to find my mother!”

  Filimaya looked at him quizzically. “Your mother?”

  “Yes. That’s what I’d be doing if I wasn’t here,” he said, sounding more frustrated than he intended. “I should be trying to find her.”

  “Well, we must speak about her. But all in good time.”

  She pushed his muddy trouser leg further up to the knee exposing a large graze. He reached down instinctively to stop the pain, but she caught him by the arm.

  “You are not a Bringer,” she said, glancing at his wrist, “and yet you are wearing the Merisi Band.”

  Her fine fingers ran over the smooth metal surface, first on the silver half, and then on the gold.

  “But I don’t even know what that is – it was given to me.”

  Filimaya looked astonished.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” exclaimed Simia eagerly, taking the opportunity to join the conversation. “But that isn’t the best bit – tell her what’s in the…”

  “Simsi, I shan’t tell you again,” said Filimaya sternly. “I want to hear what Sylas has to tell me.”

  Simia flinched and snapped her mouth shut, looking a little wounded.

  “Who gave it to you, Sylas?” asked Filimaya.

  “A man called Espen – the man who helped me to reach the bell. I was being chased by a dog or – or something like a dog.”

  “A Ghorhund?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “And it came to find you?”

  He shrugged. “I think so – it was just waiting for me when the bell started to ring.”

  She put her hand over his knee. He expected her hand to hurt, but it felt soft and soothing. “You heard the bell ringing?” she asked, pulling something from a pocket in her robe.

  “Yes – from my room.”

  “And you were the only one? The only person to hear it?” She raised a small bottle and began pouring a green fluid between her fingers.

  “Yes,” he replied. The ointment felt pleasantly cool as it trickled over his wound. “But other people seemed to know about it – like Espen, and Herr Veeglum, and I think that Mr Zhi must have known…”

  He stopped mid-sentence. Filimaya was looking at him in utter consternation.

  “I told you it was all very strange,” said Simia, clearly enjoying her reaction.

  “You know him, Sylas?” asked Filimaya. “Mr Zhi?”

  Sylas looked up from his knee and lifted his chin. “Yes, I do,” he said.

  A smile curled the corners of her mouth. “Then we have a great deal to talk about,” she said, “but not here – we must go upstairs.”

  She pulled her long train of silver hair over her shoulder and then rose briskly to her feet and held out a hand to him. He took it, but continued to stare in bewilderment at his knee.

  It was healed.

  There was no blood, no wound, no graze – not even any of the green fluid that she had poured between her fingers.

  Filimaya simply smiled and drew him forward.

  They walked briskly up the aisle towards the outside of the hall and then turned sharply behind the great sweeping row of upturned boats, following a curving walkway covered with a thick green carpet. It seemed to run round the entire circumference of the hall, bordered on one side by the jutting prows of launches and rowing boats and on the other by the dark, glassy panel that rose from the floor to a point high above Sylas’s head. He found himself leaning as far as he could from this strange surface, for on more than one occasion shadows seemed to gather, change and move somewhere within. When he turned his head towards it, he could see nothing but a greenish blackness and his own dishevelled image staring back.

  However, soon he saw an area where the zigzagging beams of light fell directly on to the glassy panel, illuminating the murky greenness. As they approached the patch of light, there was a sudden rush of movement. He blinked and peered hard into the gloom, but it had disappeared. Seconds later he saw it again – by Filimaya’s shoulder – a rapid swirl of silvers, oranges and reds, and then again in another halo of light at her waist.

  The colours had shape and form. It was a shoal of fish, gliding silently behind a panel of glass.

  He turned to Simia with wide eyes. She grinned back.

  “Filimaya,” she said, tugging the old woman’s sleeve. “Can we show Sylas the Aquium before we go up?”

  Filimaya slowed her step and smiled. “You’re
quite right, Simia, we’re forgetting our manners.” She turned to Sylas. “You really haven’t seen Meander Mill until you’ve seen the Aquium.”

  She raised one hand to the centre of the great hall and, very slowly, dropped her arm. As it fell, so the great lattice of light above them moved and stretched as each and every beam shifted in unison – not greatly, but subtly so that Sylas wondered if he was seeing things. As he lowered his eyes back down to the panel, he saw that all of the beams were now moving towards it, bathing it in pools of light. Soon a great arc of light was moving over the glass, making it glow a deep, rich green.

  Simia squeezed his arm. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she whispered.

  He was looking at something of astonishing beauty. Behind the panel, which he could see now was made entirely of glass, was an expanse of green water that in places churned and shimmered with the silvery shapes of hundreds of fish. They moved in huge shoals: gliding, turning, spiralling and darting into and out of the green wall of water. Some were long and sleek, others round and broad, some had orange fins, some red, and others still were silver all over, but all moved together in a breathtaking dance of light and colour. He watched as one large shoal swam swiftly from one side of the hall to the other, rising and dipping to avoid others as they went. The fish moved so effortlessly and yet so perfectly in unison that they reminded him of the flock of tiny birds that he had seen in the Shop of Things.

  “It’s amazing,” he said quietly.

  “Look behind you,” said Simia.

  Sylas turned slowly and looked. He retreated into one of the upright boats.

  Simia giggled with delight. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  He nodded slowly without taking his eyes from the panel. He was looking at an entire wall of fish, their glittering flanks teeming against the glass from the floor to the very top. The sight was wondrous: a vast, glorious work of art depicted in life itself, its colours, shades and forms shifting and changing constantly. Each and every fish was in motion, moving between, beneath and above those around it as if searching for the perfect position in the teeming shoal. Although their efforts at first seemed random and disorganised, Sylas soon saw that they had a purpose: they were trying to stay close to Filimaya. At her shoulder a great vortex of fish turned in endless circles as they seemed to take their turn to be the closest to her. She appeared entirely unaware of this commotion, looking instead at Sylas, enjoying his delight.