“Well,” Mr. Cleat began, sinking back into the bower seat. “It’s a bit complicated.” He looked down at his own hands, locking his fingers tightly together as he spoke. “I suppose you could say there are lots of theories around the idea of alternate realities—some people think there are universes wrapped up together like balls of string, and some scientists postulate that universes fit together something like a jigsaw puzzle, only in dimensions we can’t even conceive of. Many people feel the realities work like a spider’s web: a disturbance at one point leads to tremors being felt in many other places, just as a spider knows when a fly gets stuck in its trap.”
He paused, as if thinking. “But the theory we prefer in the Society is the one that imagines the layers of reality like a stack of paper, each sheet with a tiny cushion of air between the page above it and below it, so that the sheets are all close by one another, but none are actually touching. Does that make sense?” He glanced at her and she tried to cover her fear with her growing interest.
Mr. Cleat continued, seemingly oblivious. “And each sheet, potentially stretching to infinity in all directions, is a reality. A world, if you like. Just as this one is.” He released one hand and waved it around, taking in the house and garden. “Each sheet—or each reality—might be as different from one another as you and I are, or they might be almost exact copies of one another save for one tiny but crucial detail. Nobody really knows for certain.”
“But where did they all come from?” Tess asked. “The theories, I mean.”
“Idle curiosity mostly,” Mr. Cleat said with a half grin. “But interest in the concept of multiple realities began in earnest about thirty-three years ago, or thereabouts. Around 1908. I’m not old enough to remember the early days”—he cleared his throat—“but when I was about twelve, I took a more personal interest in it. My father—well, it was his interest really, and then it became mine.”
Tess frowned at him. “I don’t think I understand.”
Mr. Cleat began to explain, observing Tess closely as he spoke. “In 1908, in a distant part of the Rus Empire, a gigantic explosion occurred one quiet day completely out of the blue. It left no crater and thankfully claimed no lives because of the location’s remoteness. At first, nobody could explain it. Theories sprang up about what caused it almost straightaway, of course, each more outlandish than the last, but one—the one I believe to be true—was that the event was an echo of something that took place in another reality. Something so significant that it left ripples, or impressions, in the realities surrounding it.”
“Like a pencil nib leaving a mark on the page beneath it, if you lean too heavily,” Tess said before she could help herself. Mr. Cleat’s face brightened.
“Exactly so. Exactly so. I couldn’t have put it better myself,” he told her.
“And that was enough to make people think that there was more than one reality?” Tess sounded dubious.
“I think the idea had been floated before,” Mr. Cleat said. “But it became fashionable, I suppose, after that time.” He cleared his throat and looked at his hands again.
“So the different sheets of paper—the different realities,” Tess said, enthusiasm getting the better of her caution, “that’s the interdimensional bit.” She gave him a questioning look.
“Bingo,” replied Mr. Cleat, looking pleased. “That’s the interdimensional part—the different realities lying in layers, one on top of the other. We don’t know for certain how far they extend, how many there are or”—Mr. Cleat blinked and focused intently on Tess—“how to get from one to the other, or if that’s even something that can be done.”
Tess shrugged, looking away. “Seems like it’s impossible to know things like that,” she said.
“And that’s where the harmonics bit comes in,” Mr. Cleat said, his tone casual and bright again. “The Society I belong to believes that radiophone technology can be used to send messages between realities—that in essence we can ‘hear’ between worlds, if we listen carefully enough.” He paused, sitting back a little. “We came up with the name harmonics because we work with sound waves, and we’re experimenting all the time with frequencies, trying to find one that can cross the void between worlds. We’re certain it can be done.” He paused to clear his throat again. “Or we believe it can.”
Tess swallowed, her own throat suddenly sore, as though there were something in it that wanted to get out. “Do you mean there are people who don’t believe it?”
Mr. Cleat laughed but it was cold and humorless. “You could say so,” he said. “Most people think we’re crackpots, sitting around tables in silence, holding hands, listening. But we know we’re onto something.”
“I’m sure you are,” said Tess, hoping she sounded like she shared that opinion.
“At any rate,” Mr. Cleat said, color rising to his cheeks, “I really had better get going now. I’m off to a Society meeting, actually. We’re hoping to welcome our new members.” He got to his feet, settling his jacket as he found his feet. “I’ll be late home, so please let Old Nettleworth—whoops! I mean, Mrs. Thistleton, of course—know not to keep any dinner for me. I’ll eat at the club.” He gave Tess a conspiratorial wink.
“All—all right,” Tess responded, not sure what else to say.
“Do enjoy the book. I’d be very happy for you to keep it if you’d like to.” He gave her, and The Secret Garden, a strange sad smile. “My father gave it to me for my twelfth birthday. He died later that year, so it means rather a lot to me, you see,” he said, and then he was gone.
Tess watched him walk toward the house. As soon as he’d gone through the kitchen door and it had been closed behind him, she leaned her head against the bower and took several long shaky breaths. Violet clambered down to her comfort place, folding herself into the hollow of Tess’s throat, and Tess felt her pulse start to slow.
He knew. Or he suspected, at least. Tess still didn’t know what had led him to her, or how he’d known where to look for her, but she’d have to figure it out—and as quickly as she could. There was no way any of the discussion they’d just shared had been an innocent coincidence. Mr. Cleat had been sounding her out, trying to find a way in. Tess was almost glad she knew so little.
She kept her eyes on the house as she slipped her hand into her pocket. The object was there, along with Miss Ackerbee’s folded note, and her experiments notebook was stuck in too for good measure. She gripped the cool metal, and as soon as she was certain the coast was clear, she darted out of the bower seat and made a run for the gate.
She was already halfway across the field before she remembered she’d left Mr. Cleat’s book behind and she cursed herself. She hoped Mrs. Thistleton wouldn’t come looking for her in the garden, find the book in the bower seat and figure out that Tess was somewhere close by. She wouldn’t have put it past the woman to sit there, waiting, the book on her knee, for Tess to come back—and she could hardly explain what she was doing clambering back over the gate.
But since there was nothing she could do about it, Tess strode on, and soon she was through the trees and gone.
Tess was slightly out of breath by the time she reached the chapel door. She paused to collect herself and to look around but everything seemed the same as it had been the last time she’d seen it. The place was completely deserted, quiet but for some birdsong seeping through a broken window. Somehow the peace helped her to slow her thoughts. The conversation with Mr. Cleat was sharp-edged, urgent; her mind whirled around it, trying to take it in. I need to figure this thing out, and fast, she told herself. It’s time to try again.
She walked to the center of the chapel, her footsteps sounding loud in the silence, and looked up. What remained of the ceiling boards radiated from the point directly over her head to all eight walls of the small building; they dovetailed in the middle, fitting together perfectly. Once, the ceiling had been painted blue—some o
f it still remained—and in several other places dots or speckles of gold could be seen on the peeling boards. Strange, she thought. It’s domed on the outside, but flat in here. I wonder what’s up there. She pushed away her inner voice and tried to focus.
She looked down, focusing on the floor in front of her, and made her way to the furthest corner of the top pew. The wooden seat felt unpleasantly damp beneath her, and something nearby smelled terrible, but at least from here she had a clear view of the door and could take cover if someone happened to walk through it. She hoped that wouldn’t happen: part of the benefit of finding this place was knowing that she wouldn’t be disturbed.
Tess pulled her gaze away from the world outside the chapel and drew the object from her pocket. Placing it gently on the pew beside her, she fished out her notebook. She peered at the pencil drawings she’d made the day before, comparing them to the real thing. She’d managed to capture the lacy latticework of the metal, woven over and under like a braid, but it was the markings around the object’s circumference that interested her now. There were eight of them, set into the device like the hour markings of a clock. They were all the same teardrop shape, but made of different materials. What are you for? Tess asked, frowning at them.
She reached up into her hair and pulled her pencil free. Violet, as though curious, crawled slowly to the crown of her head and settled there, looking down on Tess’s work as she quickly sketched the colors and textures of each marker. Some seemed to be rock, others metal, and two were shards of gemstone that glittered in the light. Experimentally, she tried pressing on each in turn—and sighed. She’d been hoping something would happen but the object remained quiet.
She put the object down again, took off her glasses to clean them on her dress and put them back on. She peered at the object, her eyes narrowing. Instinctively she held it with the tarnished marker uppermost; she couldn’t have explained why.
And then she saw it.
An eight-pointed star, formed by the whirling whorls of metal. An eight-pointed star, right at the heart of the object in her hand. An eight-pointed star like the ceiling above her head.
Tess felt her pulse quicken. She flipped the object over to examine its underside, which gave her nothing new to go on; the pattern simply continued, as finely worked as the top. Then she turned it over again. Her eye was drawn once more to the center of the pattern, the point where it seemed to begin and end, and she ran the pad of her thumb across it. The metal shone beneath her touch as though many other fingers had stroked it in just the same way.
Tess lifted her thumb away from the metal and brought it back to the center of the pattern. It hovered in the air above the object for a second or two and then she placed it down.
Immediately there was a gentle whir from the object and Tess pulled her thumb away. She watched openmouthed as the pattern—or what she’d taken for a pattern—revealed itself to be a tightly woven mechanism made of strands of metal, some as fine as a single hair. They began to move and spin, unraveling with purpose, their speed increasing until finally the whirring ceased. The machinery came to rest and a perfectly circular void with a shimmering veil flowing through it like running water was revealed at its heart.
Once this was done, the object seemed to fall still, as though it had done everything it wanted to do. The sparkling void remained, shining brightly in the gloom. Tess held her breath. Violet shrank against her scalp, trembling with anticipation.
Tess blinked and shoved her glasses up her nose. Then, because she couldn’t think of anything better to do, she lifted the object to her left eye and looked through the void.
All she could see was—nothing. She could make out the patterned tiles on the chapel floor, and as she moved her head (keeping the object in front of her eye the whole time), she saw the pew beside her and a pile of hymnals, which—
Tess paused. A pile of hymnals? She dropped the object from her eye and stared at the pew beside her. There were no hymnals there. She tried to think logically. In a chapel as unused as this one, hymnbooks would rot and swell with damp, but the books she’d just seen through the star were straight-backed, neatly stacked, with gold lettering on their spines.
The window. Tess put the object back in front of her eye and turned to look at the nearest one. Instead of the broken, dirty thing she was expecting to see, she discovered a set of stained-glass panes half covered over with a shutter. Sunlight streamed through the uncovered half. It all looked odd, of course, through the flickering light of the void, but still. It was the same, but different.
She got to her feet, carefully keeping the void before her eye. She scanned the whole chapel, noting the lack of stray branches and leaves on the floor and the fact that the door was unbroken—though it was closed and bolted. On impulse, she glanced up at the ceiling; it was whole, with a steep, narrow wooden staircase leading from the back of the chapel up to a square trapdoor set into the ceiling boards. Tess couldn’t see beyond the point where the stairs vanished into the shadows. There was also a beautiful pattern painted on the ceiling, a large eight-pointed star at the center and a constellation of smaller stars around it. It was hard to tell through the device, but Tess took a guess that they were painted in gold.
She drew a deep, shaky breath, feeling suddenly afraid, and forced herself to look back at the pew she’d been sitting on.
Through the shimmering haze, she saw a boy. He was sitting almost exactly where Tess had been and he had a book across his knees. On his shoulder was a handsome mouse, whose dark eyes sparkled at Tess. The boy was looking right at her, wide-eyed, and Tess gaped at him for the space of three or four breaths. Then he threw her a quick grin and raised his hand in a wave. Tess shrieked and dropped the object on the floor.
She stood for two or three seconds, aghast, staring at it, before falling to her knees and fumbling to pick it up.
“Don’t be broken, don’t be broken, please don’t be broken,” she whispered. It had landed near a pool of rainwater, but a quick examination of its surface seemed to show no real damage. With trembling fingers, she raised it to her eye again.
The boy was still there.
He held up one finger and Tess held her breath. Then he flipped to the back of the book he’d had across his lap and wrote something on the blank endpapers with a stub of pencil. When he was finished, he displayed it for Tess to see.
IT’S ALL RIGHT, Tess read.
She stared at him, hardly daring to think. Through the void, the boy grinned. His mouse scampered from his shoulder to sit on top of his head, where he kept lookout, his nose twitching constantly. Tess felt Violet in just the same place. The boy turned back to the book and continued writing.
DID SOMEONE SEND YOU? said the new message, and Tess could see the yearning in the boy’s eyes. She felt guilty when she had to shake her head.
“No,” she mouthed. The boy’s face fell. “Sorry,” she said aloud, hoping the boy would be able to understand. He gave her a quick, sad smile, so she hoped he had.
“What’s your name?” he said, slowly enough for Tess to follow.
“Tess,” she replied, spelling it out when his confused frown told her that he hadn’t understood.
“Thomas,” he answered, placing his hand on his own chest.
He looks just like me, Tess thought, her heart thudding as she looked at the boy’s dark brown eyes, the black hair curling neatly around his ears, his olive skin and the thick-framed glasses he wore.
He bent over his book and began to write again, holding it up when he was done. YOU LOOK SO FAMILIAR! Tess read, and laughed.
Then she watched as he bent over the book again, trying to find space to write. Eventually he held up the message. Tess frowned at it and read it again, just in case, but there it was.
WHO’S WINNING THE WAR ON YOUR END?
“What?” she mouthed through the lens, meeting Thomas’s e
ye. “What war?”
Thomas looked incredulous for a second, then bent to write again. HITLER, AND ALL THAT? THE ALLIES VERSUS THE AXIS?
Tess gaped. Her expression was enough reply for Thomas.
NEVER MIND, he wrote. Then he began to write something else, but as Tess watched, the light in the void began to fade, and she pulled it away from her face. Confused, she watched as the circle started to close, the metal threads spinning themselves back into position, and just before the light went out, she caught a final glimpse of Thomas.
“Don’t go!” he seemed to shout, and then Tess lost sight of him.
Thomas blinked. On his shoulder his mouse dug his tiny claws in, making Thomas feel like he was being poked by needles, and he finally closed his mouth.
“Moose,” he whispered. “Did you see that?” The mouse offered no reply except to scamper to the top of the boy’s head. Gently but impatiently, Thomas lifted the mouse down and looked him in the eye. “Moose. Unless I’ve contracted some sort of food poisoning from that last batch of canned peaches and I’m already hallucinating, that was a person. A person talking to me from a circle in midair. Don’t you see?”
Thomas stared into Moose’s shining black eyes, like two tiny berries in his small furry face. “Mum and Dad were right! They must have been. No matter what Mackintosh or anyone else says about them being a pair of loonies, this has to prove that they were on the right path.” He paused, considering, and then gave a shrug. “I don’t know if that’s what they would’ve expected, but we’ve got to take what we can get.”
He stood up, popping Moose onto his shoulder. “Let’s go and record our findings, my friend,” he said. Thomas closed his book and tossed it on the pew before hurrying down the aisle. He clambered up the stairs to his father’s workroom. Storm lanterns were dotted about, throwing a gentle glow onto the dark wooden cupboards and desks. His father had built everything in here except for the telescope.
The Starspun Web Page 7
