Hopskotch and the Golden Cicada Read online

  About the Author

  A fantasy-fiction tragic since childhood, Martin Vine began penning the Waking World trilogy as a personal challenge based on a long-held philosophy – that all people are inherently creative. This simple idea seeded an important question: like the cicada nymph buried dormant below ground, what if our creative potential awaits only the correct alignment of time and circumstance to emerge into light of day? Working around the concept of awakening, the author laid the foundation for the story as it evolved into Book I: Hopskotch and the Golden Cicada.

  Martin currently works as a Senior Graphic Designer for an in-house design studio providing marketing services for a global health care company and enjoys the quiet life with family – two-legs and four – in Sydney’s leafy northern suburbs.

  For more on the author and the Waking World trilogy, please visit: https://www.hopskotchandthegoldencicada.com/

  Hopskotch And

  The Golden Cicada

  Martin Vine

  Hopskotch And

  The Golden Cicada

  Olympia Publishers

  London

  www.olympiapublishers.com

  OLYMPIA E-BOOK

  Copyright © Martin Vine 2019

  The right of Martin Vine to be identified as author of

  this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions

  of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-78830-358-3

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents originate from the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Published in 2019

  Olympia Publishers

  60 Cannon Street

  London

  EC4N 6NP

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Brad Boxall, who did a complete edit of my first draft and provided invaluable feedback.

  Prologue

  “So we understand each other, this meeting never happened?”

  The eleven-year-old nodded in agreement. “Of course. I mean—um, what meeting?” It sounded awfully clever in his head, much less so spilling from his mouth.

  The grown-up’s face remained a mask. “And we don’t know each other. Even when we’re alone, you are to refer to me only as ‘L’.”

  Rising from his chair, the Sylt known as L leaned over the desk, resting his right knuckle on the dark wood. The candlelight from below made him appear taller and even more ghoulishly underweight than he was. His left shoulder began to twitch, shaking his arm all the way to the tips of his half-clenched hand.

  “And if we should happen upon each other in public,” L continued, “you are not to acknowledge me at all, understood?”

  “Yes, err—of course, I wouldn’t da—”

  “Not so much as a sideways glance!”

  Bartrem shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Swear to it,” he promised, biting his lip. His curiosity got the better of him. “So you’re—in a secret society, right?”

  The grown-up’s eyes narrowed. “Hmmm, something like that.”

  Bartrem went to ask the first of many questions going off in his head.

  L silenced him with a glare.

  Though it tortured him, Bartrem swallowed his words. Averting his gaze, he scanned the chamber, eyes finally coming to rest on the over-stacked bookshelf by the door.

  “You like books, don’t you?” asked L.

  “Some books. Mostly, the older ones, the rarer ones. The ones the others couldn’t be bothered with.”

  The grown-up paused briefly before speaking. “You’re different from them.”

  The two locked eyes and for a split-second it seemed as if they understood each other perfectly.

  “You’re all about the knowledge. That’s why you’re here. That’s why we chose you.”

  It should’ve made him feel important. Instead, a shiver rattled Bartrem’s spine.

  L placed his left hand upon the lone book sitting on his desk. Bartrem followed with his eyes. “So th-that’s it, then?” he stammered. “That’s the volume?”

  The grown-up nodded. Holding Bartrem’s gaze, he opened the leather cover.

  Bartrem closed his eyes and inhaled; nothing whetted his appetite for knowledge more than the smell of old parchment. He inched forward in his chair.

  “The Secrets of the Ancients,” purred L, “by Tulloch Greighspan – a complete volume.”

  Bartrem’s pulse quickened. This was so worth sneaking out for.

  “The most precious in our possession.” The grown-up lowered his voice, as if afraid someone might be eavesdropping.

  Bartrem’s eyes moved instinctively to the door, before returning to the book. “And you’ll let me read it? I mean, after the festival; after—you know?”

  “Supervised sessions only, and strictly timed. But yes, you’ll have access to the chapters—at least, most of them.”

  “There are some I can’t read?”

  A look of impatience crossed L’s face. Bartrem noticed the grown-up’s hand was still shaking.

  “All in good time.” The grown-up’s eyes wandered to the clock on the wall opposite. “And I fear we might be getting ahead of ourselves. Let us just say that when this is over, your knowledge of where we are and how we got here will far surpass that of your peers. And most of your teachers,” he added.

  L’s eyes became distant and unfocused. Bartrem could not imagine to what place his mind had drifted.

  “So you’ve read it?” he asked cautiously.

  L started at the question. A shallow anger line appeared over his brow. “That’s none of your concern. And for your own good, it’s best not to ask too many questions.”

  “Fair enough,” said Bartrem, backpedalling. He shifted again in his chair. The padding was as hard as the ones in the Principal’s office. “I just like to know as much as I can. Natural curiosity, it’s always getting me into trouble.”

  “Well, we need you to keep out of trouble. We need someone who can keep a low profile. Someone who doesn’t draw attention.”

  “That’s me, for certain. Secret society, right?” A lame grin split Bartrem’s face.

  Again, the grown-up looked unimpressed. Closing the book, L slouched back in the chair and began rubbing his right temple. “So do we need to go through it again?” he asked with a sigh.

  “Just quickly, what happens if they don’t show? I mean, how long am I supposed to wait?”

  “They’ll show. Don’t worry, we know they will.”

  “Okay, that’s good to know, good to know.” Bartrem spread his fingers along the edge of the desk. His eyes were burning holes in the leather jacket. “But if they don’t – for whatever reason – appear, do I still get the book—umm, I mean, the sessions?”

  The grown-up leaned further back in his chair till his eyes met the ceiling. He moved his right hand from his temple to the back of his head, before sending it across his chest to massage his left shoulder.

  Bartrem saw annoyance etc
hed into L’s face, as well as pain: real, physical pain. A vision appeared in his head: there sat himself, ten years forward in time. He would be on the business side of the desk with an apprentice of his own to mentor, a giant mind inside a skeletal body. The idea made him feel a little ill.

  As if reading his thoughts, L straightened in his chair and leaned forward. Placing both elbows upon the table, he interlocked his fingers and brought his chin to rest upon them. “If they do not appear,” he explained, “you’ll know about it well before light fades. Someone will be sent. Then I’ll make sure you still get a good read. I am a man of my word.”

  “Oh, good-o then. And while I’m waiting, I can work on those maps you wanted. I mean, just for practice. So I can get it right on the western shore.”

  The grown-up’s eyes widened in alarm.

  “Sorry,” whispered Bartrem. His eyes darted back to the door, then the window frame behind L. He lowered his voice to a whisper: “I’ve got all the gear packed and ready.”

  “That’s good. The maps will prove vital, should you be able to draw them accurately.”

  “Oh, I will. I mean, I can. The art teacher says I’ve a real talent for drawing—at least, he did the last time I turned up.” Before he could elaborate, Bartrem once again noticed the grown-up’s eyes drift to the clock over his shoulder. The signal was clear enough. He really only needed to know one more thing.

  “How do I get in contact with you? Afterwards, I mean?”

  “You won’t. We know where to find you.”

  Bartrem found something unnerving about the words, likewise L’s expression. His eyes drifted again, doing a slow loop of the chamber before coming back to rest on the book. Only the occasional fizz and spatter of the candle interrupted the silence.

  “So are we done here?” he asked. “It’s getting late and I had to, well, sneak out.”

  The grown-up gave him a quizzical look.

  Bartrem continued to wonder what he was still doing here. The drawn-out silences were beginning to rattle him. He began talking, much faster than was necessary.

  “I know where I need to be, and when, and for how long. My eyes and ears won’t miss a thing.”

  “Very good,” said L. “But—”

  He took a long pause. Bartrem held his breath.

  “There is one more thing.”

  Bartrem’s eyes grew wide as the adult retrieved a pocket knife from the top drawer.

  Leaning across, L carefully retracted the lesser blade. “Your hanky, please?”

  Bartrem swallowed. “Has to be mine?”

  L nodded.

  Retrieving a small square of cloth from his pocket, Bartrem placed it on the table in front of him.

  The grown-up placed the knife upon it.

  Bartrem swallowed once more. This had been explained to him earlier, but he’d secretly hoped L had been joking.

  “We need to seal the pact. Just a drop will do.”

  Bartrem took a moment to absorb the words. For the first time since entering the apartment, he felt a tinge of real fear. “Is this one of those secret-society rituals?” he asked, watching the candlelight dance across the polished blade.

  “You could say that.”

  Staring across at L, it occurred to Bartrem how fragile his mentor looked. He knew he was supposed to be dazzled by the mere presence of the man sitting opposite – any of his school friends would’ve cut their right arm off to be in his position – but there was much about the grown-up that didn’t fit with the legend. The cluttered chamber did lend the Councillor an air of mystery, but aside from that Bartrem felt neither in awe of, nor intimidated by, one of the most revered heroes of Bridgetown South Elementary. At this point, he felt more than a little tired: tired of memorising all the orders, none of which made any sense in his head.

  Gritting his teeth, he wriggled to the forward edge of his seat, took the pocket knife in his left hand and positioned his right palm-up over the handkerchief.

  L leaned over the desk and placed his corresponding palm alongside Bartrem’s. “To seal the pact.”

  Bartrem looked up expectantly. Now both hands were shaking and he could not steady them. “So will this make us—”

  L nodded. His eyes appeared distant, focusing on nothing in particular. “Blood brothers,” he said. “This will make us blood brothers.”

  Excerpt From The Secrets Of The Ancients

  by Tulloch Greighspan

  Genesis 1.1

  In the Beginning

  In a distant place in a distant past, seven gods ruled over a world that shone like a blue pearl in an emptiness of night. Laethanielle the Maiden was the eldest, then Dewthorn, Baradale, Alfenna, Belzeel, Stephayne and finally, Aethelron.

  As the youngest, Aethelron was ever sidelined by his brothers and sisters, for he was a flawed yet ambitious godling – immature, easily distracted and inclined to seldom finish what he began. Aethelron’s achievements rarely met the expectations he set for himself, and never those of his elders. But his heart was true and good and lit by a burning desire for the respect of his elder siblings.

  But it would not come to pass. To the senior gods Aethelron was – only and always – the God of Small Things. Such was his role and of no greater could he hope for.

  The more time passed, the more Aethelron’s envy grew and tormented him. His frustration evolved into a slow-building anger that finally ignited into confrontation. Following a fiery showdown with his sister Laethanielle, the God of Small Things fled to the distant reaches of space and time. No longer could he endure the suffocating controls of his brothers and sisters. No longer could he bear to be the last among seven.

  Countless centuries passed and Aethelron’s heart began to despair. Just as he resigned to return home to his kin in defeat, the godling’s attention was drawn to a winking star of sparkling gold. And as all immortals know, a star that winks is married to planets, and planets in orbit around a star have a chance, however small, of nurturing life. To a god without subjects, the possibility was difficult to ignore. It drew him like a bee to pollen.

  As Aethelron approached, his immortal eyes were drawn to one small green-blue planet close to the golden sun – second of the seven in its orbit. Breaching its cloud-dappled skies, Aethelron discovered a world fair beyond comparison. Pristine and perfect it was, and abundant with small creatures that frolicked throughout the grassy plains, towering forests, dune-covered red deserts and white-capped oceans.

  Because the planet was of lesser mass than the blue pearl his siblings ruled over, so was the pull of its gravity weaker, allowing the small creatures to leap great distances through the air in their play. The sight of such sport dazzled the lonely god with its innocent beauty.

  Nobody knows how long Aethelron stayed hidden, silently observing this new world, which he named Dellreigh – ‘Acorn’ in the language of the gods. From his heavenly realm, the God of Small Things could observe all species, but one intrigued him beyond all others.

  For among Dellreigh’s animals lived a race of man.

  As sociable as the humans Aethelron knew from his old world were they, but finer of bone structure and noticeably more agile, almost feline in their grace of movement. The Sylt – as they called themselves – boasted crude language skills, worked with basic tools and built shelters of baffling design and outrageous height.

  Following the toil and tussle of their daily lives, a great idea rooted itself in Aethelron’s mind and grew quickly into an obsession: from the heavens over Dellreigh, he could rule as the One God.

  The Storm Before the Calm

  Hopskotch was racing toward the school grounds. Something terrible was after him – something whose evil he could not comprehend. He had not seen it, could not hear it, but knew it was out there. Its malice and hatred was overpowering and it was hunting him. Hopskotch knew he had to find his friends. They would protect him. They would protect each other. It was the way it worked.

  If only he could reach them.

 
; The trail connecting Low Cutting to the school was treacherous going – narrower than he remembered and much darker, both sides overgrown with unfamiliar grey grass that towered over his head. He felt the razor edges clawing at his shoulders and forearms, as surely as their loose roots grasped his ankles. The damp clay slipped from under his every step. It felt like he was running on quicksand.

  Blind panic pushed him forward.

  Open country, at last. The rooves of Bridgetown South Elementary appeared in the distance as he finally stumbled out of the tall grass onto Hoopey’s Way.

  But it all felt so wrong – so quiet. The arterial road leading to the city was usually deafening with squealing students and creaking dray carts bringing produce from the southern fields into Bridgetown. Now all Hopskotch could hear was the pounding of his own heart.

  Driven by fear, he was quickly across the deserted highway and at the front fence of his school. There was no time to run for the gate. As he’d done many times before, Hopskotch went to jump right over the fence. Though it was only waist-high, the wooden palings were not so easily cleared this time. Even gravity had turned on him.

  Too close by far, a foul shriek shattered the morning quiet. The evil had his scent now and it was closing in.

  Finally struggling over the fence, the panic-stricken Syltling crashed through a row of small shrubs and onto the narrow lawn bordering the buildings of the infant grades. The grass was recently mown – moist, green and soft underfoot. But it was not the sweet summer scent he remembered. Something rotten choked the air, filling his nostrils with the smell of death.

  The evil has done this!

  The thought chilled his blood. But why? What is it? Why is it after me?