The Bell Between Worlds

by Ian Johnstone

  Sylas listened to all this in some bewilderment. He had thought Espen to be someone of the Other, of his own world – one of the Merisi perhaps. Now that he knew that the stranger was as much a part of this peculiar place as the rest of his companions, he felt even more alone.

  “So why were you in Gabblety Row?” he asked.

  Espen was still preoccupied with Bayleon’s remark and took some time to respond.

  “When I escaped, I was unsure what to do next,” he said with a resigned sigh. “There was nowhere to run: all of our settlements were gone, most of our hideouts had been destroyed, there was no real resistance to speak of and I couldn’t be sure who, if anyone, had survived. We were starting again – starting with nothing. I couldn’t risk going into towns or happening across any patrols and it was pointless trying to cross borders, so for some days I just stayed here, on the Barrens, trying to regain some strength, to come up with some kind of plan–” he smiled sadly – “trying to imagine what Merimaat would have done. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed obvious that I had to make contact with the Merisi. I knew that they wouldn’t have been caught up in the Reckoning and I hoped that they might be able to help.”

  “But how did you get into the Other?” asked Ash, bringing his face closer to the fire. “Hadn’t all the circles been destroyed?”

  Espen shook his head. “Not Salsimaine, though they’d made every attempt.”

  “Circles?” said Sylas. “What are they?”

  “Stone circles,” said Espen.

  Sylas looked at him blankly.

  “Our ancestors used circles of stone for worshipping the sun by day and its opposite, the moon, by night. Then they found that somehow, because those rings harness both opposites, they have a special power to forge other connections – connections between opposite things. That’s how they finally opened a way into the Other.”

  “That kind of stone circle!” said Sylas, his eyes widening. “Like the ones we have in my world?”

  “Not like them – identical to them,” said Espen, smiling. “Doorways between the worlds. Salsimaine is one of the biggest.”

  Sylas sat back in wonderment. He had visited a huge stone circle with his mother. He remembered the gigantic square-cut stones arranged in perfect arcs for reasons no one really understood, by a people no one really knew. His mother had been fascinated by them.

  “On the fourth day,” continued Espen, clearly determined to finish his story, “I managed to make my way to Salsimaine. I found it deserted but for a few sentries who were easily overcome, and I used what little power I was able to muster to make the Passing – to enter the Other. Then I made contact with the Merisi in the usual way.”

  “What’s that?” asked Simia, her eyes bright with excitement. “What’s the ‘usual way’?”

  “If you don’t mind, Simia, I think we’d better leave such details for another time,” replied Espen dismissively.

  Simia’s face fell.

  “The Merisi were horrified to hear of the Reckoning. They called a vast gathering of their order, something that they have only done a few times in their long history. It was the grandest Say-So I have ever seen, attended by hundreds of Merisi, young and old, many from faraway lands, wearing strange clothing and speaking tongues I had never heard. All the Bringers of recent years were there: Mutumba and Xiang, Fitz and Veeglum.

  “Long discussions followed, some of which I was allowed to hear, some of which were held in secret. Finally they concluded that I should be given sanctuary as long as was needed, but that nothing further could be done without Mr Zhi himself.”

  Bayleon drew himself forward out of the shadows to hoist the pot of stew from the fire, a bitter smile across his face.

  “Go on, Espasian, tell them,” he said. “Tell them why you were sent to see Mr Zhi. Tell them what took you so far away from our troubles.”

  Espen regarded him wearily and dropped his head between his shoulders.

  “I am not ashamed of the truth, Bayleon.”

  “Clearly not!” retorted Bayleon defiantly. “Tell them!”

  Espen’s gaze hardened for a moment, obviously unaccustomed to such a tone.

  His response was firm: “I went because of the Glimmer Myth.”

  Ash stared at him in disbelief. His face creased into an uncertain smile and then he laughed hesitantly, as though waiting for the Magruman to say that he was jesting.

  “The Glimmer Myth?” he cried. “You’re joking! Surely you’re joking?”

  There was no humour in Espen’s face. The younger man saw his expression and his smile dropped.

  “You’re… you’re not joking. No, I can see that now.”

  “What’s the Glimmer Myth?” asked Simia, searching their faces.

  Espen regarded Simia distractedly for a few moments, then turned to Sylas. “I had hoped to explain this a little differently, but now it does seem best that we begin with the myth. Where’s the Samarok? We’re going to need it.”

  Sylas turned and rummaged in his bag. He felt its reassuring weight in his hand and pulled it out until it was illuminated by the fire. As he did so, Simia darted round the pit and took a seat next to him.

  He gave her a questioning look.

  “What?” she said defensively. “I missed this at the mill – that’s not going to happen again.”

  “Now,” Espen began, eyeing Simia with something between irritation and amusement, “how well can you read the runes?”

  Sylas shrugged. “OK, I think. Fathray explained them to me and Galfinch taught me to unravel them.”

  Ash and Bayleon exchanged an astonished glance.

  “Good. Then I need you to look at two things. The first is at the beginning of the book. Turn to the very first page – the first with writing on it.”

  Sylas lifted the front cover and saw that the opening page was blank. He turned it over. The second page contained just three lines of writing, about a third of the way from the top. He remembered looking at these before, when he was alone in his room. He lifted and turned the Samarok so that the page caught the glow from the flames and, as he did so, Simia suddenly lunged across him, throwing herself towards the fire.

  He snatched the Samarok out of the way. “What are you doing?” he cried.

  “Saving this!” she said indignantly, holding up a small piece of paper.

  It was Mr Zhi’s message – the note that he had given Sylas to help him decode the runes. Fathray had inserted it at this very page. This was the one he was supposed to read.

  He muttered his thanks to Simia and turned back to the page. He looked hard at the runes in the dancing light, clearing his mind until they started to shift and change. Then, slowly, he began to read:

  “Reach for the... silvered... glimmer on the lake Turn to the... sun-streaked shadow in your... wake Now, rise: fear not where none have gone...”

  He read it over again in silence, but even then it made little sense. He looked up at Espen who was smiling quietly.

  “That,” he said, “is the source of the Glimmer Myth.”

  Sylas looked back at the runes, reading them over and over as Espen continued.

  “That’s where it gets its name: from the ‘silvered glimmer’,” he said in a low voice. “The myth is ancient. Most believe that it is older than the Merisi or even the Suhl. This is the only surviving fragment of a poem about the myth, a poem written by none less than Merisu, the great father of the Merisi.”

  “So they say...” grumbled Bayleon.

  Espen ignored him. “As you hear, many of my brethren consider it to be preposterous or dangerous—”

  “Or both,” muttered Bayleon.

  “... so it is only spoken about quietly,” continued Espen, “in hushed tones, among friends.”

  “Good, creepy campfire talk,” interjected Ash, with a grin.

  “Quite,” said Espen. “But the Merisi have always seen it quite differently. As you have found, it is very prominent in the Samarok and many Bri
ngers considered it far from mythical. Some even say that the Merisi were founded in order to bring it to light.”

  Bayleon shook his head slowly as he stirred the pot of stew, a smile playing on his lips.

  “But what is it?” cried Simia impatiently, unable to contain herself any longer.

  “You’re right, Simia,” replied Espen, “we’re straying from the point.”

  Simia smiled proudly.

  “Sylas – read the first line again,” instructed Espen.

  Sylas read it out loud: “Reach for the silvered glimmer on the lake…”

  The Magruman nodded. “What do you think that refers to – the silvered glimmer?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said with a shrug. “A reflection?”

  “Precisely,” said Espen. “Now read the next line.”

  “Turn to the sun-streaked shadow in your wake…” Sylas thought for a moment. “It’s talking about your shadow – you know, your shadow in the sunlight.”

  “Exactly. The poem is telling us all to turn to our own reflection, to our own shadow.” He leaned forward so that his face was lit brightly by the flames. “To another part of ourselves.”

  Bayleon dropped the spoon and threw his arms in the air. “Oh, this really is too—”

  “The myth poses us a question,” continued Espen, speaking over him. “What if each of us has another side? What if there is a part of ourselves that we can turn to – a ‘Glimmer’ of our own being – one that we can reach out and touch?”

  Sylas and Simia looked at each other in puzzlement.

  “I don’t understand,” said Sylas.

  Espen held his gaze. “We all know that our two worlds are connected in some way.” His voice was still quiet but excited. “They have the same hills and mountains, the same rivers and seas, even the same sun and moon. The very seasons are the same, but in reverse – when it is winter here, it is summer in the Other – as though they are the reflection of one another. Just as you see your own image in a mirror or on the surface of a lake: the same, but reversed. Do you see?”

  Sylas nodded uncertainly, starting to wonder where this was leading.

  “Well, the poem is telling us something even stranger. It tells us that it is not only our two worlds that are twinned – not just the fabric, the things, the places. It tells us something far more profound, something that runs to the very heart of us.” He looked into every face in the circle. “It tells us that we are twinned too. Each of us. All of us.”

  Sylas’s eyes searched Espen’s face long after he had finished speaking. Was he serious? Each of us with a person just like ourselves, but different – changed in some strange, unnatural way. Surely it was impossible.

  Simia clamped a hand on either side of her head as though to contain the great torrent of thoughts. “But this is all so… so—”

  “Ludicrous? Insane?” interjected Bayleon with a bitter smile. “I quite agree. Espasian, you know as well as I that this goes against our whole philosophy! The entire basis of Essenfayle! We believe in connections and togetherness – the bonds that bind all things. How are we to believe that two parts of our own being could be divided and separate? There are good reasons why such ideas have been spoken about in hushed tones: they’re a child’s fantasy! Worse than that, they’re an affront to Essenfayle and all it stands for!”

  “And yet we accept that the world itself is divided,” Espen reasoned, his tone conciliatory. “And we accept the divisions between night and day, earth and the air, men and women. The myth simply completes the picture: it is the final piece in the puzzle.”

  “No, Espasian, it is fanciful! And dangerous! And wrong!” snapped Bayleon.

  He turned away and, as though to signal the end of the conversation, began ladling a portion of stew on to a plate.

  Espen looked at him steadily. “But Bayleon, some of the most important people in our two worlds have believed this fancy.”

  “People like you, you mean?” scoffed the Spoorrunner.

  “Yes, like me.” He paused while Bayleon scoffed again. “And like Merimaat.”

  The Spoorrunner froze with the ladle halfway to a plate.

  “People like Filimaya and Mr Zhi.”

  The camp was suddenly entirely still. Espen turned and looked earnestly at Sylas.

  “People like Sylas’s mother.”

  28

  Deceit

  “… and so these men, these Priests of Souls, drank deep of

  their ill-gotten power, clothed themselves in deceit, and set

  out into the world.”

  SYLAS FELT THE BREATH rush from his lungs. He stared at Espen. “Did you say my mother?”

  “I did,” said Espen.

  “You know her?” He pressed his palms into the dry, packed earth.

  “Yes, Sylas, I know her,” said Espen softly. “Though the Merisi know her far better than I.” He paused as if unsure whether or not to continue. “Your mother and Mr Zhi have known each other for years.”

  Sylas’s lungs burned and his heart pounded in his chest.

  Fathray had been right: she and the Merisi were connected. “Why?” he asked, looking up at Espen.

  “Your mother is special, Sylas. Almost as special as you.” Bayleon was no longer smiling. He had lowered the ladle into the stewpot and his eyes were fixed on Espen.

  “It was to do with her dreams,” said Espen.

  Simia frowned. “Her dreams?”

  Sylas was silent.

  “They helped to convince her – and Mr Zhi – that the Glimmer Myth is true.”

  Sylas dug his nails into the dust. He thought of her illness, her nights sobbing in his bed. He felt a shiver run down his spine. “Her dreams...” he whispered. Images of her long nights of suffering rushed through his mind, of her talking to herself, of her pleading and sobbing, of her quiet chatter when no one was there. And then, almost despite himself, he said: “She spoke... she talked as though someone was in the room... like... like it was a...” “A conversation,” said Espen.

  Sylas’s eyes flicked to the Magruman. Espen looked at him with uncharacteristic tenderness, and nodded.

  “I don’t think your mother was ill at all,” he said quietly. “I think she shares your gift. She shares your connection with this world. But hers is with her Glimmer.”

  Sylas covered his face with his hands, trying to take it in. “It seems that for whatever reason,” continued Espen, “your mother was aware of her own twin in this world. The Merisi weren’t sure how, but Mr Zhi, who spent a great deal of time with her over the years, said there was little doubt.”

  Sylas raised his head from his hands. “Her twin,” he said under his breath.

  There was another long, awkward silence. Simia placed a tentative hand on his knee.

  Ash gave a low whistle. “This is for real, isn’t it?” he said to nobody in particular.

  “It was Mr Zhi who had her taken to Winterfern?” asked Sylas, rubbing his temple. “To the hospital?”

  Espen nodded.

  “And he visited her?”

  “He did. Often. And even before that, at your home.” Tears suddenly welled in Sylas’s eyes and he looked away to the fire. Bayleon stirred, straightening his back.

  “Leave the boy alone,” he said firmly. “He’s heard enough for now.”

  “No!” snapped Sylas. “I want to know why they made me believe she was dead. How could they do that? How could she do that?”

  Espen’s eyes searched the boy’s face for a moment. “I know very little, Sylas, but of this I am certain: the Merisi believed that her gift came with great dangers, both to herself and to those she loved. They did it because they truly believed they had no other option.”

  “But how could they let me suffer like that?”

  “They did all they could to ease your—”

  Sylas felt a swelling rage in his chest. He scrambled to his feet and glared down at Espen.

  “Did all they could?” he cried, tears burning his eyes.
“What did they ever do for me, except send me to this godforsaken place?”

  Espen was silent for a moment. “They had you brought to Gabblety Row, Sylas. They gave your uncle rooms and made sure he had a business. They had Veeglum watch over you.” Sylas took a step backwards and stumbled slightly on the pile of earth. He turned from Espen to the faces around the fire.

  He tried to find words, but finally he whirled about, clambered unsteadily over the heap of soil and walked off into the night. Espen stood and took a step to follow, but stopped himself.

  “Don’t go far!”

  Simia leapt to her feet and pulled her coat about her shoulders. She jumped over the earthen barrier and darted off into the blackness.

  “He can’t go alone. I’ll stay with him!” she shouted over her shoulder.

  Sylas walked blindly, taking deep breaths of the chill night air. He had no idea where he was going or why. All he knew was that he needed to get away, to think. He stumbled until the dim glow of the fire had faded into nothingness and all that was left was silence and blackness.

  He stopped and turned slowly about, blinking at the emptiness, soaking up the smooth closeness of night on the Barrens. He lifted his hand before his face and saw nothing; he looked to the sky and saw the same oily void as everywhere else. In some part of him he knew that this should terrify him, that such darkness was his worst fear, but now, just as everything seemed meaningless, chaotic, undone, he surrendered to it. He sat down in the black dust, drew his knees up to his chest and rocked gently backwards and forwards.

  He thought of the last time he had seen his mother, her pretty face looking down at him in their kitchen, smiling at him, drinking in the sight of him. He remembered only a few fragments of conversations about school, his painting, the kites. Why hadn’t she said anything? How could she have kept all this a secret? He replayed her gestures, her expressions, her slow words, but he saw no trace of mystery, no hint of a world of magic and shadows and Glimmers. She had kept all that to herself. Alone.

  He felt tears burning in the corners of his eyes and brushed them away. “Why…?” he whispered to himself.