Hopskotch and the Golden Cicada Read online

  Hopskotch knew he had little time to reach the fifth-grade block, but his own limbs betrayed him. In spite of determined effort, his foreshortened leg struggled for grip on the soft grass. With every step, his right foot sank into earth as soft and slippery as the Shallowfrond’s muddy banks.

  Hopskotch stumbled into the assembly area, still manic with fear, but thankful for the hard asphalt beneath his feet. It was empty – no sign of life anywhere. Scanning the surrounding buildings, he sought a place to hide. Downhill was his classroom and underneath, the arts-and-craft studio. He sprinted toward them, but tripped on one of the wooden bench seats in the lunch area. A jarring thud coursed through his body as he came down hard on the asphalt.

  But there was no pain. Fear cancelled all other senses. Hopskotch lifted his head and squinted toward his classroom on the second floor.

  Movement in the windows! He was certain his friends were in there.

  In an instant he was inside the building, charging through the corridor connecting the classrooms. “Get out!” he shrieked, and the crack in his voice revealed the depth of his terror. “Everyone out, now!”

  The hall was impossibly long and totally empty. Tattered paper sheets covered with strange crayon drawings flapped noisily against the inside wall. But there was no wind to be felt. How could there be? All the windows were painted shut.

  Hopskotch burst into his classroom, still screaming. “It’s coming! It’s coming! We have to hide!”

  His warning went unheard. There was no one to hear it. He was the only student in the school grounds – alone and hunted by a nameless thing so evil he dared not imagine its face. Rushing outside and back uphill toward the main quad, he searched again for a place to hide.

  It was too late.

  The evil thing was so close now he could feel the weight of its hatred burning into the back of his neck. Some small thread of reason screamed inside his head not to look over his shoulder. He could not stop himself. In the shadow of the assembly hall, Hopskotch turned.

  His eyes were drawn to the row of high windows running the length of the building. The panes began to bulge outwards, and the look of it chilled his blood. Unblinking, Hopskotch took a step backward. At the precise moment his heel touched asphalt, an almighty ker-EAAACK! hammered his eardrums. The windows exploded one after the other, and he clenched his eyes tight, raising an arm against the deadly shower.

  When he could no longer hear the glass breaking, Hopskotch blinked his eyes open. He shook the smaller shards from his hair, scanning the bare skin of his arms. There was not a single cut to be seen, not a drop of blood.

  His relief was short-lived.

  Hopskotch took another backward step, staring up in horror. Remains of broken glass clung to the high window frames like giant, jagged teeth. A black fog rose from inside, oozing between the fangs. The evil thing spilled down the wall and over the ground toward him, shifting and twisting into shapes too horrible for his brain to process.

  Hopskotch closed his eyes and waited for the darkness to claim him.

  From the far distance, he heard a soft voice singing. The chaos around Hopskotch froze and the world folded into stillness. The song was barely a whisper to his ears, yet it hummed with a power that was unmistakably good. Whoever – whatever? – was behind the voice was the opposite of the bad thing. Hopskotch knew this to be true. As long as the melody continued, he was certain the monster could not touch him.

  Bravely, he pried his eyelids apart. The black thing was gone, as he knew it would be. Hopskotch found himself staring up at the roof of the canteen opposite the assembly hall. He became hypnotised by a single drop of water clinging to a crack on the underside of the gutter. A sense of calm settled upon him as he watched the droplet finally release itself and fall in slow motion.

  In a shallow puddle on the asphalt, it landed with a deep, booming ker-PLOOONK! The force of the impact sent a pulse wave rippling through the air toward him.

  The water erupted into flames.

  He was in Dobbin’s kitchen now – though he knew not how he’d got there – arguing with his best friend. The distant song could no longer be heard but the evil thing was still out there. It was still after him. Hopskotch felt a sinking feeling.

  “It’s still coming,” he pleaded. “Can’t you feel it? Grab everyone. We need to get out of here!”

  It took a lot of coaxing but eventually Dobbin gave in – they were best friends, after all.

  “All right, then,” Dobbin sighed, a look of sceptical disinterest across his face. “I’ll get the others and meet you at the Gulch. But let’s just wait for the next batch of ginger cakes to come out of the stove.”

  Madness! Can’t he feel it coming? Doesn’t he realise it’ll be here next?

  Hopskotch’s mind was a storm of fear and disbelief. He lunged at his friend, determined to drag him out by the collar if necessary. Dobbin slipped away easily.

  Alone once more. Hopskotch’s ears detected the faintest sound in the distance: the familiar singing, much further away now and more difficult to hear. The world stopped and his eyes fixed upon the black cast-iron tap. In slow motion, a droplet formed beneath the spout, poised over a cavernous sink half-full of greying dishwater. Holding his breath, Hopskotch watched the droplet fall and he was in orbit around it. It landed with a resounding ker-PLOOONK!

  The basin exploded with fire.

  They were together again, walking along an unfamiliar cliff-side trail overlooking the city. Dobbin was up front, leading a small band of his closest school friends – Cal, Gavel and Pommeroy. Bringing up the rear was Bartrem, who was deep in conversation with a small doll he carried – a perfect replica of a raven in flight. The others complained endlessly about being forced on such a journey.

  Pausing at the top of a high bluff, Hopskotch looked back to the world he had once known, spread out below like a burning blanket. All the colours had vanished. The smoky, black, evil thing had gone but another horror had risen in its place. From zigzag cracks in the earth, giant insects emerged – resembling cicadas in shape, but monstrous of size and horribly deformed.

  Hopskotch watched helpless as the horde attacked his beloved meadowlands, tearing down cottages and trees, gouging out roads and fields, draining the water from the rivers and streams. The giant cicadas were leaching the colours of Broken Meadow, turning the earth to ash-grey in their wake. All the while, their tails vibrated a shrieking, humming chorus that made the air ripple and distort through the valley.

  In the opposite direction, a wooden suspension bridge appeared, spanning a gorge so deep Hopskotch could not see its bottom. On the far side was a vision of sanctuary – grass-covered hillocks rolling to a distant horizon. Pockets of forest oak highlighted the gullies in curving brushstrokes of darker green. The nearest led his eye to the highest peak, upon which stood a lone willow tree, stark and beautiful against the blue sky.

  Hope returned to Hopskotch, but he had not forgotten the danger at his back. Shoving his companions forward across the bridge, he was still forced to scream. Even now, after what they’d just seen, they all went reluctantly.

  Am I the only one who knows fear? he wondered.

  Time jumped forward without him. Hopskotch found himself in the middle of the bridge, wondering how his friends had got so far ahead. As soon as they stepped onto the grass beyond, the thunder sounded. Grey-black storm clouds approached over the horizon, rolling deep shadows across the hills. His friends danced and laughed together, only turning back to tease him.

  “C’mon, slow-poke, we’ll not wait all day fer ya!”

  The first blast of wind struck his body, and the bridge swayed dangerously. Hopskotch checked his balance. He’d not noticed before, but it occurred to him how old were the wooden planks beneath his feet. They felt altogether too soft and spongy to support his weight.

  Steeling his grip on the rope rail, Hopskotch edged forward to catch up his companions. “Wait up!” he yelled, and they dismissed him with cruel laughter. T
he friends he’d just led to safety left him behind without a backward glance.

  They did not see the storm front sweeping in.

  Up ahead, the sky had faded to black. Bolts of jagged white split the darkness, accompanied by thunder so deafening it sounded like the earth itself was being ripped apart. Each time the lightning flared, the landscape lit up in split-second bursts. Shifting his weight carefully from side to side, Hopskotch crossed the remaining span of the bridge, alone and terrified, to the far bank. It was a great relief when he finally felt the grass beneath his feet.

  And all too brief.

  Pale figures emerged from the tree cover – man-like, yet tainted by unnatural proportions. Hopskotch shuddered at the look of them. They were a mockery of Sylt form.

  With each lightning flash, their movements became clearer. Hopskotch was close enough to see the light reflecting off their sharpened claws, the drool dripping off their grotesque, curving tusks. He could clearly see the nightmare pack surrounding his friends. With the full force of his lungs, Hopskotch screamed a warning.

  He was not heard. The louder he yelled, the louder crashed the thunder, drowning his voice. Again and again, he screamed against the darkness.

  This is all my fault, Hopskotch realised. I led them into this.

  A series of blinding lightning strikes erupted overhead. One jagged bolt split the hilltop willow right down the middle; flames erupted across its shattered corpse, rising branch by branch to consume the tree in blinding orange-yellows.

  One of the creatures leered in his direction and flashed a razor-toothed grin.

  As the stinging rain lashed his face, Hopskotch’s legs finally gave out. He collapsed onto his back and stared at the world upside down. Everything was different. He was alone again, but the rain still fell.

  That voice!

  He could hear the singing again and its magic surrounded and enwrapped his soul.

  That song!

  His pounding heart began to slow: a measure of calm returned. Hopskotch was surprised to see a thick forest of ancient oaks now hemming him in. Overhead, the clouds were drifting like a silver river through a heart-shaped hole in the canopy.

  Was this sanctuary?

  Despite his best efforts, Hopskotch could not find the source of the music.

  Unless it is the trees themselves?

  The high branches drooped inward toward him, weighted with the remnants of a dusk shower. Hopskotch’s eyes were drawn to a single leaf. In slow motion, he watched a raindrop slide down its central vein. Clinging to the rounded tip – it seemed an eternity passed – the droplet eventually released itself. The crystal sphere grew and grew as it spiralled toward his face.

  Panic took Hopskotch’s breath as he realised the danger. He was floating on his back in a giant pool of water. The droplet landed on his forehead and the impact exploded in his head with the force of a thunderclap.

  Hopskotch was lifted screaming and thrown into the middle of a fiery tornado.

  Dobbin leaned out of his sleeping pouch and shook his friend’s shoulder. “Hops, you okay?”

  They’d stayed awake talking most of the night, but the need for sleep had eventually taken them.

  Then this.

  Hopskotch blinked, stirring. “Wait, wh-what?” he stammered.

  But he would not be completely roused. “I’m okay,” he yawned, slowly settling. “Ah’m ’kay.”

  Dobbin was not convinced. Through blurry eyes, he stole a glance at the hourglass on the windowsill. A weak shaft of light angled in, highlighting the narrow sand-fall. The top cylinder was almost empty.

  Just a little more sleep.

  His eyelids began to droop; he knew he could not fight them. Dobbin rearranged his body, turning fully around so he was facing his friend curled up in the sleeping pouch beside him. Only the occasional whimper and twitch hinted at the torment Hopskotch had just slept through.

  Just before drifting off, Dobbin had one last thought, and it was of his friend: I’m glad he never remembers those dreams.

  In lands misled

  Where skies have fled

  And shadowed fog comes creeping

  A holy prize

  Though small in size

  Lies wrapped in darkness sleeping

  One final hope,

  The Guardian folk

  Unleash the noisy throng,

  And trees of old

  The host will hold

  To weep in golden song.

  Ancient prophecy

  Hipslouch and Dobbelsnork

  Feeling increasingly smug, Hopskotch plucked a stem of wheat grass from beneath the side fence of Mr Mulquinney’s cottage and began sucking on the sweet tip. Already his best friend had challenged him. Dobbin thought he knew a faster way from Swallowbrook Creek to the meadow, and he was prepared to put it to the test.

  So at the Brambles by the old watermill their paths had split, Dobbin taking the zigzagging Adlers Road up Swallowbrook’s north bank, while Hopskotch kept to the Riverstone Steps (a duck trail, according to Dobbin). There was never any question in Hopskotch’s mind as to which would get them to the fire trail quicker.

  Dobbin always thought he knew better.

  But this was Hopskotch’s patch; he’d grown up in the semi-rural hamlet of Low Cutting and travelled its paths to and from school every weekday. No one knew it like he did.

  And so he waited.

  It was dark in the shadow of the carpenter’s cottage. A dying porch lantern lit the front garden in pale yellow. Everything beyond the halo was hidden in black, including Hopskotch. He found the idea of being invisible quite agreeable.

  Wriggling his shoulders, the fidgety youngster sought out a sweet spot for his pack’s straps, already beginning to bite beneath the weight of his travel gear. His smugness was turning rapidly to impatience.

  Hopskotch thought to distract himself by trying to recall the last time he’d seen Mr Mulquinney. Not so long ago, that would’ve been every school day. The old chippie was always out on a ladder of an afternoon, working the eaves on the lane-side of his cottage.

  Sculpting! Hopskotch recalled, surprised that it had slipped from memory. Of course, Mr Mulquinney always took the time to “hooroo” Hopskotch when he passed, before doling out unsolicited advice in the way of old people.

  “School days – best days of yer life!” he’d say. “Best rest is a rest first earned!” Another favourite.

  Hopskotch only ever understood half of it. Mr Mulquinney was from Witherness, originally, and their thick highland accents made them almost impossible to understand.

  Still, the memory troubled Hopskotch. There was no good reason he could see for Mr Mulquinney to stay indoors. It hadn’t rained for an age and the summer had been as mild as ever.

  Craning his neck, the Syltling eyed the black beam running beneath the cottage eave. There was just enough light to expose the carvings, and the exact spot they prematurely ended – about halfway from the front of the house. Something about that bothered Hopskotch (he could not think why), and he quickly wrenched his gaze away.

  Wonder when he’ll finish it?

  Before Hopskotch could ponder the question, a familiar smell wafted past his nostrils. Cranberry and soft cheese – the breakfast sandwiches his mother had left out for them. He could hear a panting sound coming from just downhill of his position. A short, round silhouette appeared a short distance away.

  Finally! Hopskotch groaned to himself as he stepped out of the shadows.

  “All right, all right, Mr Cl-Clever,” gasped Dobbin, sidling up. Through the last mouthful of sandwich, he managed a few muffled words. “Juth don’t sthay it, okay?”

  Hopskotch raised a protective hand as flecks of crust flew from his friend’s mouth. He couldn’t resist giving Dobbin his comeuppance. “Told—you—so!”

  “Bah!” snorted Dobbin, swallowing the last chunk of bread. He clumsily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It woulda been seconds only – mere seconds. Tell me tr
uly, how long have been slinking back there in the shadows? Ten seconds? Five?”

  “Put those together and change ‘seconds’ to ‘minutes’.” Hopskotch tried to play it straight but his cheek muscles betrayed him. A broad smile split his face.

  Dobbin elbowed Hopskotch playfully in the ribs. “Sure thing. And I suppose you just sprouted wings and flapped your way up the Cutting to the lane. How’s about you just fly us straight to the Gulch and we’ll call it square?”

  “As long as we get there before Mr Calpepper does,” Hopskotch teased. Keen to get rolling, he turned toward the far corner of Mr Mulquinney’s fence-line, where a row of peach trees cast the lane bordering the yard into deepest black. The smell of overripe fruit was making his mouth water.

  “Damned if I can find it,” Dobbin blurted.

  Hopskotch froze before he could take a single step. “Find what?” he asked, cautiously.

  “Snagbelly’s rule of travel, number 2: no matter how carefully you pack, when setting out on an adventure you’ll always forget one thing!”

  An interesting point, thought Hopskotch. “Well, as long as you’ve got your walking stick—”

  Hopskotch let the sentence hang. He had grave doubts about Dobbin’s latest invention – a walking stick with a twist. No normal travel aide, this modified marvel featured a string looped to the base like a fishing rod. In theory, the reel at the bottom released a lever at the top that swung up on a hinge to unfold a circular net held apart by spokes like an umbrella. It was not the stupidest of Dobbin’s inventions, but nor was it far from it.

  “Well, I’ve no idea what you’ve left behind,” said Hopskotch, hoping to put an end to Dobbin’s nonsense. “But you’re forgetting Snagbelly’s rule of travel, number 2.1: whatever it is you’ve forgotten will only be remembered when you’re too far from home to go back for it.”

  The two adventurers would have made quite a sight, had anyone else been awake to witness it. Eleven-year-old Hopskotch Pestle was a Syltling of short(ish) stature, large(ish) ears, and an unusual display of hair inherited from his grandfather, highlighted by three front-facing crests that obeyed neither brush nor comb. Setting him apart from his peers was an incurable limp, an unfortunate side effect of having been born with his right leg somewhat shorter than his left.