Darwen Arkwright and the School of Shadows

by A. J. Hartley

  He flung the closet door open and gazed into the reflective surface hanging behind it. Though the object appeared to be an oven door, it was actually a portal to Silbrica that Mr. Peregrine had sent him at Christmas. Now that the sun had just dipped below the horizon, activating the portal, Darwen could see into the metal chute that led down to the Great Apparatus.

  He could also see an odd purple face with bright pink eyes. They were wide and staring, and the face looked scared, desperate even, as its gaze flicked from Darwen back down the chute behind it. The figure it belonged to was no more than the size of monkey, utterly bald, and clad in what looked like a miniature uniform of brown leather.

  “Help me, Darwen Arkwright!” the little creature begged, its voice high and piercing. It looked crumpled with exhaustion and was holding its side as if wounded. “There are scrobblers in pursuit and they are equipped with terrible hunting creatures that already have my scent.”

  “There are scrobblers coming here?” Darwen demanded, careful not to touch the portal, since that would allow the creature to pass through.

  The creature tried a different approach. “I bring news from the dellfey called Moth,” it squeaked with another panicked look over its shoulder.

  “Moth!” gasped Darwen. “Here.”

  And he reached inside.

  The creature’s transformation was instantaneous. It sprang forward, all injury or tiredness forgotten, and seized Darwen’s fingers in a tiny but viselike grip. Then it turned slightly and called, “Forward!” over its shoulder. Darwen tried to pull away, but the creature’s strength was remarkable for its size, and Darwen was distracted by the way the chute behind the mirror had filled up with identical little uniformed creatures with pink eyes.

  They streamed up to the mirror and, as Darwen unwittingly held the portal open, hopped right into his bedroom and huddled around him, taking fast hold of his clothes. Their hands were no more than half the size of his, but they were strong, with long bony fingers ending in sharp little nails that dug in when he fought them.

  The last of them to come through was the one that had pretended to be hurt, and it did a happy sort of skip around the room before huddling in with the others and getting a good grip on his jeans.

  “Sorry!” chorused a dozen shrill voices.

  “You lied to me!” Darwen exclaimed. “You don’t know Moth!”

  “Sorry, Darwen Arkwright,” added the leader, climbing deftly onto the shoulders of his fellows so that he could reach up to Darwen’s face, “but this is Necessary.”

  So saying, the creature clamped a hand over Darwen’s mouth and held it in place. Darwen struggled again, but absurd though the little creatures were, they clearly meant business and were alarmingly strong. They had earnest, hopeful faces and wore worried smiles, even as they—seemingly reluctantly—gripped him mercilessly into stillness. Apart from their largely human faces and their minuscule pants, jerkins, and boots, they looked a little like cuter and more anxious versions of hairless cats, or skinny piglets walking on their hind legs.

  Darwen pitched suddenly, throwing all his weight to his left so that he fell heavily, but his captors adjusted with uncanny speed, and none of them were caught beneath him. They then swarmed, pinning him to the ground as the Lilliputians did to Gulliver, so that Darwen wound up worse off than he had been when he was standing. For their part, the little creatures seemed positively delighted by this development and they squeaked and chirped as if this was all a great deal of fun.

  “If you promise not to cry out,” said the leader, looming over him and speaking in a high, squeaky voice, “we will let you speak.”

  Darwen considered trying to bite him, but thought better of it, and lay still. The purplish creatures watched him with slightly comic attentiveness and then, as one, took their hands off him.

  Darwen considered yelling at them, but he did not want to disturb his aunt and, despite his outrage, felt that he had nothing to fear from these odd little visitors. “Thank you,” he managed to say.

  The one that had spoken licked its lips apprehensively, and then smiled so widely that its curious little face seemed to split in half.

  “Moth was right!” the creature announced. “You are Nice.”

  He—or she, it wasn’t clear to Darwen whether the speaker was male or female and they all looked pretty much the same—spoke with delight, clapping his minuscule hands together and beaming at him.

  Darwen didn’t feel remotely nice, but he focused on the purple creature and blurted, “So you do know Moth? Where is she?”

  “That I am familiar with the dellfey in question I can veritably attest,” said the other, nodding proudly. “That I know her current location is, alas, beyond the reach of my current intelligence.”

  Darwen blinked as he deciphered this. “What?” he said.

  “I know her,” said the purple pig thing, looking abashed. “I don’t know where she is.”

  “Why didn’t you just say that?” snapped Darwen.

  “I would hate to be discourteous,” said the speaker, giving a horrified look at his fellows—all nodding furiously—“particularly on this our first meeting.”

  “Whereas jumping on me and pinning me to the floor was really chuffin’ polite,” Darwen muttered.

  “That was Necessary,” said the lead piglet. “And now we will take you to the Guardians.”

  “You work for them,” said Darwen sourly. “I should have known.”

  “Precisely so, Darwen Arkwright,” said the piglet, as if Darwen had paid him a compliment. “We do, and when you are calm, we will escort you to your meeting with them.”

  He said it like this was something that had been scheduled weeks ago. Darwen bit his lip to keep from yelling or otherwise showing how far he was from calm. “Why are there so many of you?” he demanded, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

  “The Guardians feared you might show some reluctance toward accompanying us, so we were authorized to bring such numbers as might reduce difficulties.”

  “Meaning you’re going to drag me to them whether I want to go or not.”

  “While I would hesitate to use such terms to so esteemed a guest of the council, your grasp of the situation is precise in all significant details.”

  Darwen rolled his eyes.

  “Fine,” Darwen snarled. “Lead the way.”

  The little purple creatures beamed with obvious relief and formed a line, moving in step like little piggy soldiers, waiting for Darwen to reach through the oven door and hold the portal open. One by one they hopped through the glass of the oven door and shot down the chute with giggly cries of whee! which did nothing for the aura of military precision they had been trying to convey.

  “What are you?” Darwen asked after all but one of the creatures had gone through. “I mean, no offense or anything, and I know you work for the Guardians, but does your . . . er, species have a name?”

  One of the uniformed figures turned, smiling proudly, and said as if it was obvious, “We are snorkies.”

  Again, Darwen blinked, but this time he also had to suppress a smile. “And you come from?”

  “Silbrica,” said the snorkie.

  “Well, yes,” said Darwen. “But where exactly . . . ?”

  But the snorkie just grinned encouragingly and vaulted cheerily through the oven door and down the long slide, shrieking with glee as it went. Darwen sighed, wondering what Rich and Alex would make of the absurd manner of this kidnapping, and climbed in after it.

  The chute emptied them out into the hall containing the Great Apparatus with its circle of a hundred portals, but the snorkie commander—who Darwen now saw wore little brass pips on the shoulders of his tunic—led them around to an imposing stone staircase and up to the council chamber, which sat directly above it. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, Darwen found the little purple soldi
ers huddled around a dark-haired man who was stooping to hear the chirping report of their mission. As Darwen approached, he stood up and turned.

  It was Jorge.

  Darwen stared. There was no mistaking the tanned, handsome face, though he had discarded the shorts and safari shirt he had worn as their nature guide in Costa Rica for a cream-colored robe belted at the waist and overlaid with a burgundy sash that hung diagonally from one shoulder. He was smiling.

  “Welcome, Darwen,” he said, glancing at the snorkies, who were hopping from foot to foot in delight at having completed their assignment. “I’m sorry for the manner in which you were brought here.”

  He smiled self-sconsciously and, in spite of himself, Darwen smiled back, before reminding himself who Jorge was, and the way that the Guardians had been prepared to sacrifice land and even lives to satisfy Greyling back in Costa Rica. He turned deliberately away to consider the council chamber and noticed the transparent globe covering the energy pool. When he saw it last, it had been purple, black, and dying, but it was now a deep amber, flickering red and gold. Around the covered pool were twelve stone thrones, all occupied, save the one Jorge had vacated and one other right next to where Darwen was standing. What had been a circle, however, was now a V shape and Darwen was standing at the open end, facing the point where one throne was a little larger and a higher than the rest.

  In it sat an old man with long white hair, bright blue eyes, and a kindly smile. “Please,” he said, and his voice was clear and calm. “Have a seat.”

  Darwen glanced at the empty throne beside him and hesitated, remembering the last time he had been in this chamber, and the way Alex had seemed to fall into a deep sleep when she had sat in one of those stone chairs.

  The old man seemed to read his thoughts and chuckled softly. “It is quite safe,” he said, “thanks to you. See the energy pool? Full of life and power. You did that.”

  He smiled so genuinely that Darwen’s outrage faltered. But he didn’t sit down. “You abducted me,” he said. “Like Greyling abducted Mr. Peregrine.”

  He watched the old man’s face for a sign of anger, but his smile only broadened. “I would hardly compare the two,” said the old man, shooting an amused glance at the snorkies, who were now watching the conversation with comic anxiety. “Greyling’s operatives are rather more . . . er, forceful.”

  The snorkies nodded furiously and Darwen felt a little more of his anger drain.

  “So, Darwen,” said the old man, ignoring the fact that Darwen was still standing. “You don’t mind if I call you Darwen, do you? Mr. Arkwright seems so formal.”

  “Yes,” said Darwen, flustered. “I mean, no, I don’t mind.”

  “Excellent,” the man replied, with another twinkling smile. “And I am Lightborne. My first name is Reginald, but I don’t seem able to get anyone to call me that.”

  The people seated in the other thrones—all of whom wore robes that matched Jorge’s—smiled bashfully at one another.

  This, Darwen thought, is all very strange.

  “Jorge, you already know,” said the man called Lightborne, “and when we are done talking, you can congratulate him on his promotion to the council. There has been, as you can see, some restructuring in recent days: a measure taken to combat the threat Greyling poses to our two worlds.”

  “What do you want?” Darwen said. The words just sort of slipped out, and as soon as they had, he felt the urge to apologize for his rudeness.

  The man who called himself Lightborne seemed unabashed and merely smiled wider still. “A fair question,” he said, “and one I would expect given our recent dealings. There have, I am very sorry to admit, been some serious miscommunications between us, Darwen. Many things lost, as it were, in translation.”

  “You gave in to Greyling,” said Darwen, unable to stop himself. “You would have let him take land, take children, if my friends and I hadn’t stopped you.”

  The old man was still smiling, but it was a sadder, more apologetic smile, and he nodded slowly before answering. “You are quite right,” he said. “I referred to misunderstandings before, but I’m afraid it went rather further than that. We made, I am ashamed to say, some bad decisions, prompted by fear and desperation.” As he said this, he looked around the seated council, and they all looked suitably chastened. Some nodded, others hung their heads.

  “But these matters have been resolved,” Lightborne continued. “Albeit with some difficulty and with the aforementioned restructuring of the Guardian Council.”

  “Greyling said there was no council,” said Darwen, still defiant in spite of himself. “He said there was a new council with him at its head, that the old council was defeated, gone. . . .”

  “And yet,” said Lightborne, smiling again. “Here we are. Greyling, as we have all learned to our cost, tells lies, Darwen. That is his primary talent.” He nodded at the empty chair. “Are you sure you won’t have a seat? I don’t mind if you would rather stand, but I think you would be more comfortable sitting, and I would feel less like a school principal talking to a student who has been sent to his office.”

  He smiled his twinkling smile again, and Darwen was unsettled at how much the old man’s manner reminded him of Mr. Peregrine. He sat down. Immediately he felt a surge of relief that was almost physical, as if the weariness of the day was being drained away and new energy pumped into him. Jorge patted his shoulder reassuringly and returned to his seat.

  “There now,” said Lightborne. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Darwen did not know what to say. A part of him wanted to tell them all exactly where they could get off, but another part was desperate to have the council on his side again.

  Still, there were things he needed to know, things he needed to hear them admit.

  “When I first came to America,” he said at last, “you already knew who I was, didn’t you? Mr. Peregrine called me by name the first time I met him. You knew I might be a mirroculist.”

  Lightborne’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t expected this, and the question seemed to put him on his guard. “One of the tasks of the gatekeepers is to be alert for a new mirroculist,” he said, studying the backs of his hands, “or someone who might become one, particularly if something has happened to the current mirroculist.”

  “Like what?” asked Darwen.

  Lightborne shrugged, something of his smile returning. “Any number of things,” he said. “No one lives forever, Darwen, but usually the mirroculist simply grows out of his gift.”

  “Grows out of it?” Darwen echoed. “What do you mean?”

  “All good things come to an end, Darwen,” said Lightborne. “You know that. The mirroculist is on his way to becoming an adult. The gift comes during the transition but fades as that transition completes. You cannot become a mirroculist till you are eleven, but by the time you are sixteen, the gift will have passed to another. This should have been explained to you before. I apologize.”

  “I don’t understand,” gasped Darwen, hating the words even as he said them. “I could just lose it? I could just go back to being . . . what I was, without any warning? One day I’ll just be me again?”

  “As you say,” said Lightborne. “But you will have had adventures others could never even imagine, and you can do great good for your world and ours so long as you have the gift.”

  Darwen felt sick. No more portals, no more Moth, or Weazen, no more forests just beyond his closet, no more adventure, no more of that private, secret sense of home, no more being . . .

  Special.

  Anything.

  “Sixteen?” he said, and it was like saying the word began a stopwatch in his head, a rapid counting down to the day he would no longer be able to cross over through the mirrors.

  “By sixteen, yes,” said Lightborne. “But that’s still four years of wonders in store for you, Darwen, isn’t it?”

 
; Four years. Four minutes. Darwen’s head was spinning. He was glad he was sitting down. He just wished they all weren’t looking at him. Darwen stared at Lightborne, saying nothing, blinking as his vision began to swim. Lightborne lowered his eyes, gazing at the eddying currents of the energy pool, and most of the council members did the same. The polite, awkward silence extended to minutes.

  “So,” Darwen managed, clearing his throat when the word stuck, “what do you want from me?”

  “We want to make amends,” said Lightborne. “Heal our alliance so that we can work together against our common enemy.”

  “Greyling,” said Darwen.

  “Greyling,” repeated Lightborne. “We see now that what he attempted in Costa Rica was only the beginning. He is gathering forces, taking over areas of Silbrica and—we think—establishing operations bases in your world too. We do not completely understand how he is able to use some of the portals connecting our two worlds, but there is no doubt that he has found a way. And these are no minor incursions. He is preparing for large-scale invasion, and he will not stop until both worlds bow before him. War is coming, and we would like the mirroculist to help us stand against him.”

  “I’ll bet you would,” said Darwen.

  Lightborne shifted in his chair, but his benevolent smile did not stall.

  “You need me,” said Darwen. “For now. There are still things only I can do, and I’m guessing that I’m not the only one who isn’t too happy about your recent strategies and decisions.”

  Jorge shot Lightborne a look, and the whole council seemed tense and watchful, but Lightborne’s smile grew wider, and he nodded thoughtfully.

  “You are wiser than your years, Darwen Arkwright,” he said. “You are essentially correct. And I will extend your realization further: we are preparing for war, and we need allies. The Guardians are considerably stronger with the mirroculist standing beside them. You have friends in Silbrica who could be of great value to us in the weeks to come, and there are many others you do not yet know who must be persuaded to stand with us against Greyling. You will make a better envoy to them than anyone sitting on the council. So yes, we need you. Will you stand with us, flawed as our behavior has been, for the sake of Silbrica and the ruin Greyling will bring to it?”