The Bell Between Worlds. Ian Johnstone

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СКАЧАТЬ which was sometimes complex in its own right, but – even more wonderfully – also related to the runes around it. Within a word, each separate character was interlaced with two others, sharing its space with the curves or inflections of the symbols on either side, so that a rune rarely looked the same twice. The collection of characters formed a tangle of dashes, strokes, arcs and dots that ought, by any logic, to look crowded or haphazard, but instead fitted together with astonishing grace. Sylas’s art teacher had once talked about the great calligraphers of the Far East who could create writing of sublime beauty and meaning, but he had never dreamed of anything as beautiful as this.

      But it still didn’t mean anything.

      He yawned as he stared at yet another page, now difficult to see in the fading light. He widened his eyes to fight back the tiredness and glanced out of the window. The sun had nearly set behind some clouds, plunging the churchyard into near-darkness, and rain was once again clattering against the windowpane.

      He was about to turn back to the Samarok when he thought he saw a movement in the churchyard. He paused, wiped his bleary eyes, then swept his hand across the glass to remove the condensation. The streaks of water distorted the light, stretching the lines of the darkening church. The few passing cars cast beams of yellow and red light on to the ruined walls and the overhanging branches of trees. Sylas looked for some moments, but there was nothing: just rain and trees swaying in the wind.

      “Deluded,” he muttered under his breath.

      Then he saw another movement.

      He leaned forward and wiped the window dry with the sleeve of his sweater, his eyes trained on one particular arched window in the old church.

      There, beneath a large overhang of ivy, something was creeping through the undergrowth.

      Sylas shrank back into the shadows.

      A gargantuan black hound emerged from under the ivy, walking under the archway towards the end of the church.

      It was truly massive, the points of its shoulders standing proud of the rest of its dark figure, rolling as it moved lithely through the undergrowth. The head was hidden in the shadows, hanging low beneath the matted mane of its neck. The sloping back gave way to powerful haunches that stood lower than the shoulders, giving it an ugly, predatory profile.

      Sylas was transfixed. He wanted to retreat into his room, but something made him stay.

      The beast stopped.

      For a moment it was entirely motionless, but slowly its shoulders braced and its thick neck rose. Its huge head emerged from the darkness until Sylas could see its crumpled brow and long canine snout that seemed scarred and disfigured. Beneath, its gaping jaws lolled open, revealing a cruel mass of ragged teeth.

      Without warning, the beast’s powerful neck swung sharply and it looked directly up at his window.

      Its small eyes seemed to catch the twilight and they burned in the shadows. The nose twitched, sniffing the polluted air. Sylas pushed himself as far back on the window seat as he could, hoping that the shadows would hide him, but their eyes seemed to meet. The rest of the world faded and he was filled with a new, creeping terror.

      “This is a life-giving journey. It is a bitter-sweet elixir that restores my spirit, strengthens my heart and, most of all, opens my eyes.”

      SYLAS GRIPPED THE EDGE of the seat, willing himself to climb down into his room, but his limbs were frozen. The pale yellow eyes of the hound penetrated deep inside him, calmly peeling away the layers until they saw weakness and loneliness, until they glared coldly at a boy’s thoughts of his mother.

      “Sylas!”

      It was Tobias Tate’s grating voice, coming through the trapdoor.

      “Sylas! Come down!”

      Sylas glanced at his watch. Five past seven – he was late.

      He glanced back out of the window in time to see the beast drop its head and resume its stooped prowl along the ruined remains of the aisle, passing quickly out of sight.

      “Come here AT ONCE!”

      Sylas peered down into the churchyard until he was sure that the hound was gone, then sighed, heaved himself off his seat and walked over to his trapdoor.

      He found his uncle standing in the corridor, hands on his hips, peering at him as if he was an account that would not balance.

      “Well?” he squawked, his voice echoing down the passageway. “Where’ve you been?”

      “Sorry I’m late,” said Sylas dismissively – he was in no mood for another lecture from his uncle. “I saw something really strange from my window... something in the churchy—”

      “Daydreaming, I knew it!” growled his uncle. ”Well, I have no interest in your nonsense. And there’s no time for dinner now – you can daydream about that!”

      “Fine!” sighed Sylas, pushing past his uncle into the flat.

      Tobias Tate watched him go and frowned, seemingly a little disappointed to have had the wind taken from his sails.

      Dinnertime was spent sifting, trawling and rummaging through endless mountains of paper. What made this task especially infuriating was that everything was already in the right place, filed properly into the many piles about the office. But, as an accountant of great care and attention, Tobias Tate had to be convinced of this. Sylas would make helpful observations and suggestions while being chastised, corrected and mocked; a torture that only came to an end when his uncle had dissected and exploded every sensible suggestion put to him, and Sylas had been duly reminded of his dull wits, poor instincts and low birth.

      On this particular evening Sylas found this task more frustrating than ever, not only because of his anger about their earlier clash, but also because his thoughts kept turning to the hound in the churchyard and the strange Shop of Things. His mind was filled with images of the dark hound and, more excitingly, the endless warren of parcels and packages, the amazing flight of birds beneath the mobile and the peculiar runes of the Samarok. But he knew it would be some time before he would get back to its pages: the filing would take as long as it would take. Tobias Tate’s old grandfather clock tick-tocked its way through the endless minutes and chimed the passing of interminable hours.

      Finally, as the clock struck nine, his uncle sat down in the chair in his favourite corner, ate a quick dinner (which he reserved entirely for himself), put his hands behind his head and fell asleep. He drew breath in long, deep snores of rasping snorts that built to a crescendo of clucks and splutters and then began again at the bottom of the scale.

      Sylas could not believe his luck – this was his chance to escape. But he must not be hasty – his uncle’s finely tuned ears might hear him leave. He replaced the pile he was sifting through and edged closer to the desk, then picked up some papers by the window and rustled them loudly. His uncle snorted and spluttered, but his eyes stayed closed and the metronomic drone of his snoring resumed. Sylas smiled quietly and replaced the papers, taking care to leave them exactly as he found them – his uncle had not asked him to check this pile.

      As СКАЧАТЬ