The Bell Between Worlds. Ian Johnstone

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СКАЧАТЬ on each stage, whose authority was clear to see not only in the children’s obedience, but also in the size and style of their headdresses, which were extravagantly designed and ludicrously large.

      But what made the picture utterly bewildering was what these classes were doing.

      On the nearest of the three stages, for instance, the children stood with their arms at their sides while their teacher faced them and, in a rapid motion, pointed at various places beneath their feet. As she extended her finger, a trapdoor fell into the void beneath the stage exactly where she had pointed. Even before the teacher’s finger had reached its full extent, the children standing on the trapdoor shifted position, stepping one pace left or right, forward or back, almost as though they had known where the teacher was going to point next. As though they had read her mind. Such was the speed and fluency of the teacher’s movements and the students’ responses that the class appeared to be performing an elaborate, silent dance, weaving effortlessly between one another as the trapdoors fell away, leaving them with less and less safe ground upon which to stand.

      Despite the apparent danger, they remained entirely calm, never looking at one another, never colliding, never glancing down at their feet, but instead gliding around the stage, stepping closer and closer to one another until all of them had moved on to the last remaining island of solid flooring. Even when they were pressed in tightly against each other in this tiny space, they remained entirely focused, arms at their sides, eyes fixed on those of their teacher. Only when the teacher clapped her hands did they emerge from their apparent trance and, along with the watching crowd, erupt in a round of applause, congratulating one another on their apparent success.

      “You’re gawping,” hissed Simia in Sylas’s ear.

      Sylas blinked. “Well, of course I’m gawping! What are they doing?”

      “Learning Druindil,” said Simia, as if it was abundantly clear what they were doing. She pointed at each of the three stages in turn. “Druindil, Urgolvane, Kimiyya – one for each of the Three Ways. They’re from the local schools – this is where they come to show off what they’ve learned.” She pulled sharply on his sleeve. “Now come on.”

      She led him out across the square, past the second stage. Sylas followed but continued to gawp, for the scene on the next stage was no less strange. Here all of the students were seated at their desks, listening to their teacher as he strutted up and down at one end of the platform beneath a banner that read ‘The Memorial Academy of Urgolvane’. While at first the class appeared to be entirely normal (excepting of course their strange gowns and the comical headdress of their teacher), Sylas soon found himself staring at the chairs and desks, convinced that something was not quite right. Then he realised what had caught his eye: parts of the furniture were missing. Some of the chairs and tables were missing a leg, some two, and others were suspended in the air by a single leg in one corner. He squinted, thinking that perhaps his eyes were playing tricks, but they were not – the legs and supports had been deliberately sawn off.

      Yet the chairs and tables remained upright.

      The entire class was being supported by some invisible force.

      Some of the classroom furniture wavered a little, but none showed any signs of falling as Sylas knew they should. Indeed some of the children were so confident that they rocked backwards and forwards as though swinging on their chairs, supported by absolutely nothing.

      Sylas’s eyes followed those of the children to the teacher at the front of the class and again he blinked in disbelief. He had thought that the old man was walking to and fro on some kind of raised platform for he looked down upon his class from some height, but he saw now that there was no such platform. The teacher was suspended several feet in the air by the same unseen force. His clogged feet seemed to touch down upon something firm so that he was able to walk as normal, but as far as Sylas could tell, there was absolutely nothing there. At that very moment the teacher stopped in his tracks, turned to his class and bellowed a command in a language that meant nothing to Sylas. The students who were rocking on their chairs ceased at once and the entire class bowed their heads in concentration.

      Suddenly one of the students, along with her chair and her desk, rose into the air, reaching the same height as her tutor before starting to drift slowly round the stage. Soon all of the students were doing the same, sailing up into the air with their weird furniture, then drifting between and around one another until the entire class was in motion, forming a great swirl of students’ chairs, desks and gowns. The surrounding crowd burst into wild applause and a group of very proud parents began shouting the names of their loved ones as they drifted somewhere overhead.

      Sylas was about to leave Simia’s side to take a closer look when the sound of a commotion behind him made him turn. He saw a flurry of activity back across the square, near where they had entered. Then a new, awful sound pierced the air.

      Screams. Screams of unbridled terror.

      Suddenly everything was in motion. Simia took hold of the back of his sweater and heaved him with all her might in the opposite direction. At the same moment the crowds around them also broke into a run, scrambling desperately towards the exits on the other side of the square. The students suspended somewhere high above suddenly lost their concentration and fell out of the air, crashing down on to the stage amid a hail of splintering wood and shouts of pain and fear. Above this thunder of noise came a new sound, a sound that had become all too familiar: a haunting, canine howl. It rose from somewhere behind them, but then echoed from the walls of the surrounding buildings, resounding from every surface, filling the air.

      “They’re on to our scent!” yelled Simia at his side as they reached a full sprint.

      Sylas caught a glimpse of the terror in her eyes and felt a new surge of panic. They were moving as fast as they could between the mass of bodies and flailing limbs, turning this way and that to avoid capsized stalls and the clattering carts of fleeing traders. But they both knew that in these crowds they were moving too slowly. Far too slowly.

      Their eyes darted everywhere, looking for a way to escape, but all they could see was a mass of bodies, frightened eyes, broken stalls, careering wagons.

      Suddenly Sylas lunged to one side, grabbing Simia’s coat and pulling her along with him.

      “What are you doing?” she protested, trying to pull away.

      He headed directly for one of the rattling carts, which swayed under a heavy load of sacks filled with fruit. He pointed frantically.

      “Get in!” he hissed in Simia’s ear.

      He knew that in the cart the Ghor might not be able to follow their scent, especially if they surrounded themselves with the strong-smelling fruit. It seemed hopeless, but at least it was a chance. Simia seemed to understand. She quickened her pace, caught up with the cart, and then vaulted over the low wooden side and dropped to her knees between two sacks of apples. Sylas heard some yelling behind him, but dared not look round: he launched himself forward off his good leg, caught hold of the rear of the cart and hauled himself into position next to Simia.

      He was struck by the harsh, acidic scent of rotting apples and he saw that they were squatting in a mulch of crushed fruit that had fallen from the sacks. He pressed himself down as far as he could and they busied themselves pulling the sacks into a small circle around them – the perfect hiding place. Sylas looked up, wondering if the hunchbacked driver might have seen them, but he was too busy lashing his mules, trying to make his own escape.

      “Ghorhund!” hissed Simia suddenly, staring back across the square.

      Sylas’s blood ran cold. There, in СКАЧАТЬ