Mirrorscape (21 page)

As the dust settled, the friends were able to get a clear view of Billet. He was much as they had first seen him in the picture, except that now he stood on two giant bare feet that seemed to be attached to his great head without the aid of very much in the way of legs in between. Strangely, he had no arms, and much of his exterior was battered and in need of redecoration.

‘That showed 'em! That showed 'em good,' roared
Billet. Then, noticing his smouldering thatch for the first time, ‘Cripes! Me hair!'

While the house was complaining loudly to anyone who would listen, Swivel led the two friends in through a postern door in Billet's heel and guided them up innumerable stairs.

‘It's much bigger in here than it looks from outside,' observed Wren.

‘That's because Billet is a figment. Each part can be any size his creator imagines,' explained Swivel.

As they ascended, they passed many doors that opened on to all kinds of rooms. One or two were secured with formidable locks. Near the bottom they passed a dark, smelly chamber that seemed to be full of fat pipes and drains.

‘Poo! What's in there?' asked Ludo.

Swivel explained. ‘Just as Billet has a more or less human countenance – '

‘Rather less than more, if you ask me,' interrupted Ludo.

‘… so his interior has many functions that also equate to the human body. Here, near the bottom – '

‘Thank you, Swivel. We get the picture,' said Wren.

As they mounted higher they passed a kitchen and several well-stocked storerooms.

‘Stomach?'

‘Just so, miss.'

‘And this must be the studio,' said Ludo as they climbed higher. They looked in on a lofty room lit by the two tall windows of Billet's eyes, with a splendid view of the Mirrorscape beyond. The contents were in total disarray.

At the very top, and out of breath, they came to a panelled, book-lined library. Many of the books lay scattered on the polished floor and a tall library ladder had toppled over. Amidst this mess, sitting in a comfortable leather armchair, was the master. His skull cap was askew and he was consulting a large book open on a low lectern before him.

The butler gave his habitual polite cough and the master looked up. His pale face was smudged and his beard was singed. ‘Ah, Swivel, there you are. Where've you been? I could have used your help a while ago. I was just consulting my atlas of the Mirrorscape, trying
to find exactly where we've got to. We've come far off the beaten track. There's a long way to go before we can get back out into the mansion.' He removed his reading spectacles and looked up. ‘And we have guests. Young Cleef, isn't it?'

‘Yes, master.'

‘And …?

‘Wren, master. I work in your kitchen.'

‘Upon my word. Now, what are you two doing here? And where's your friend Womper? But forgive me, I'm forgetting myself. You must be exhausted after the fracas. Swivel, tea for my guests.'

As they sat in the library sipping tea, Ludo and Wren recounted the arrest of Dirk Tot, the ransacking of the mansion and their journey through the Mirrorscape searching for the master. As they spoke, they watched Ambrosius Blenk's face darken. He twirled his long beard round and round in his fingers and fixed them with his piercing blue eyes.

‘The impudence of Brool! This explains why Spute and his men have been preventing me from returning. With me out of the way there's no one to stop the Fifth
Mystery from doing as it pleases.' Then his expression lightened. ‘That sounds like quite an adventure you've had. Dirk Tot and I suspected that young Womper might know a little. Now I see that he knows rather a lot.'

‘Excuse me, master, but Mel's sure that Dirk Tot is working for the Fifth Mystery.'

The master began to laugh but stopped himself. ‘Young lady, nothing could be further from the truth. Believe me.'

‘But he saw him meeting with some Mystery men – when he was coming to Vlam.'

Ambrosius Blenk smiled. ‘Did he now? Or did he just see my steward with some men in red? The kind of red you get mining cinnabar?'

Wren and Ludo looked at each other, the light of realisation in their eyes.

‘Now, does anyone else know about the Mirrorscape – besides the High-Bailiff and his men?'

‘There are the coloured men, the fugitives,' answered Wren. ‘They do.'

‘The coloured men, you say?' The master grunted.
‘So you've met them, have you? They've more reason than most to hate the Mysteries. Anyone else?'

‘I don't think so, master.'

Ludo looked down at his feet and shook his head.

‘Very well. That still doesn't tell us how the Fifth Mystery managed to get into the Mirrorscape in the first place.' He twiddled his beard and thought some more. The only sound was the rhythmic sighing of the ventilation that sent fresh air around the room from an ornate brass grille set low in the wall. Somewhere below, the sound of Swivel tidying up drifted towards them. Then the master clapped his hands and rubbed them together. ‘All right, there's much to be done. We must get back home as quickly as possible and see about freeing Dirk Tot. The confounded nerve of the Mystery to ransack my mansion like that!'

‘But what about Mel? We can't leave him here,' said Wren.

‘Quite right, young lady. We really ought to find young Womper and take him with us. I can't have my apprentices going astray now, can I? You
say you lost him in the Mine of Inspiration?'

Wren nodded. ‘We don't even know if he's ….' She couldn't complete the sentence.

‘If only I'd thought to bring my omniscope with me.'

‘It's here. We have it,' said Wren.

Ludo produced it from the satchel and handed it to the master.

‘My word. Thank you. How very prescient of you.' The master stroked the contraption fondly. ‘Let me explain a little about the omniscope. Do you know that each of these knobs and sliders along its length operates one of its many functions? This one, for instance, enlarges the subject and – '

‘Please, sir, we know all about the omniscope. It helped us get here. But I – '

‘I'll thank you not to interrupt me, young lady!'

Wren blushed.

‘Now ….' The master paused and stared hard at the youngsters. ‘Now, I'm sure you don't know
all
about the omniscope. You may have fathomed that this wondrous instrument can enlarge things, can illuminate things,
can see through things and can even indicate a desired direction, but there's one function that I'm sure you have
not
discovered. As well as perform all of these undoubtedly useful services, it can also peer some distance into the future. Make it appear a little closer, as it were.'

‘You mean we can use it to see if Mel's all right – or going to be all right?' Wren's face shone with renewed hope.

‘In a manner of speaking, yes. But first we need to know where to look. Come over here.' Wren and Ludo followed Ambrosius Blenk to a dormer window in the corner of the library. ‘Before anything else, this needs to be reset. There, that should do it.' Attaching the omniscope to a heavy brass tripod, the master bent and put his eye to it and turned what the friends now knew to be the direction-finding knob. ‘Are you sure you wish to see this? It may tell us something we don't want to know. Once something's been seen it can't be unseen.'

Wren and Ludo looked at each other. They looked back at the master and nodded.

‘Very well.' He put his eye to the omniscope again. Suddenly the colour drained from his face. ‘Oh dear. This is much worse than I feared; much, much worse.'

‘The World Turned Upside Down'

A warm breeze blew softly across Mel's face, lifting the hair off his forehead and waking him ever so gently. It carried a familiar scent, comforting and evocative; the smell of home. He stirred. He did not want to open his eyes, not while he was enjoying the delicious floating feeling. The sunshine felt so good, but he knew he had slept too long. He lay there listening to the birds singing and the insects buzzing in the grass. But he must be getting home. His parents would be wondering where he had got to. He slowly opened his eyes. Such a blue, blue sky. The clouds could almost be angels smiling down on him.

Mel sat up and his head reeled – he had certainly slept too long. The world swayed as he got to his feet, and he needed to brace against a tree to steady himself. After a moment he felt better, but there was something nagging at the back of his mind. But that could wait until later.
This must be what heaven's like
. The thought brought a smile to his lips. He looked round, oriented
himself with the spire of the fane and set off for home. He passed through a glade dappled with sunlight and stopped to pick some bluebells for his mother. Such big and succulent flowers and every one of them perfect. She would be delighted and he could draw them later.

When he reached the fane he turned left and took the familiar path for home. But after he had gone a short way he found himself out in the fields again. And such fields! Acre upon acre of blue-flowered flax, lush and heavy, stretched away to the flat horizon. It would be a bumper crop this year and no mistake. He turned and retraced his steps and continued past the fane.
How odd!
The way home lay to the right. He had certainly befuddled his brain with too much sleep to have made a silly mistake like that.
Why did I take the left-hand path?

He skirted Kop, passing the back of the houses. Someone was drawing water from a well and he waved, but his greeting was not returned. He passed another house and saw someone at an upstairs window. He looked harder but could not recognise them. He had not heard of strangers in the village. Could it be
someone visiting from Bols? He would have to ask his mother when he got in.

He saw his cottage bathed in an ethereal light, with no harsh shadows anywhere. Two storeys tall, with carving around the gables, and a weaving shed at the bottom of the garden.
When had Dad added that?
He tried to remember but his head ached so. He approached down the well-tended road and swung open the gate. Mel entered through the front door and went down the corridor to the kitchen.

His mother looked up from preparing food in her well-cut tabby dress. ‘Hello, Mel. Are those bluebells for me? You are a thoughtful lad. Just leave them there. How was your day?'

‘Oh, fine, except that I ….'

‘Yes?'

‘I ….' He shook his head to clear it but without success. ‘Oh, nothing. Where's Dad?'

‘He's still weaving in the shed but he'll be here in a minute. It's nearly supper time. You've time to go up to your room and change.' She smiled at her son and pushed back a lock of hair behind her ear with a ringed hand.

Mel smiled back uncertainly, noting that his mother had taken to wearing make-up a little too heavily applied. He climbed the stairs, but when he came to the landing he could not remember which his room was.
How could I forget something like that?
He pushed open the first door he came to and saw his drawings pinned up around his bed.
Of course – this is my room
. He went in and looked round. It was all strangely unfamiliar. Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror. The mirror? Nothing looked out of the ordinary as he studied himself. His white hose and blue doublet looked dusty but apart from that … what? He went closer and, on a whim, breathed on the glass and idly drew a knot-like design with his finger in the misty condensation.
Why does the mist remind me of something?

He looked at his reflection. What was that on his forehead? He touched a scab of dried blood and traced it up into the matted hair on his scalp. No wonder he was feeling groggy. He felt a wound there, still bleeding, and suddenly pain exploded through his skull. For an instant a great rush of thoughts dashed unbidden through his brain. He saw a studio full of boys dressed
just like him and the floor covered with spots of paint. There was a boy smiling at him and a girl with auburn hair. Then it was gone.

‘Mel! Supper's ready,' his mother called up the stairs.

When he entered the dining room, his parents were already seated and he said hello to his father. Willem smiled back at his son and then stood and began to carve the roast chicken while his mother served the vegetables. He could not remember his mother cooking chicken before and he wondered what it tasted like. He was disappointed; it was completely tasteless. He could have been eating warm cardboard. After the meal was finished and his parents had drunk the last of their wine, his father leant back in his chair. Strange that they had not mentioned the wound on his scalp. Mel felt confused.

‘Mel, there's something I need you to do urgently.' His father's voice was oddly distant.

‘Yes, Dad, of course.'

‘You must take this message to Dan Feen. He lives in the old house beyond the fane. Go straight there, as
fast as you can. Will you do that for me, Mel?' He handed his son a folded piece of parchment sealed with red wax and the Womper crest.

‘Old house? Dan Feen?' His head hurt.

‘He's new to the village, sweetheart, but he buys lots of your father's cloth,' said his mother. ‘He's become our best customer. Hurry along now. That letter won't deliver itself.'

Mel walked out of the house in the direction of the fane. As he approached, he heard another familiar voice.

‘Mel, my boy. Where are you off to in such a hurry?' Fa Theum emerged from the doorway. It was almost as if he had been waiting for him.

‘Hello, Fa. I have to deliver this message for my dad. It's very urgent.'

‘If you'll slow down a bit, I'll come with you.'

The pair walked on in silence for a way before Fa Theum spoke again. ‘So, Mel, what have you been doing lately?'

‘I've been … I've been … I can't remember, Fa.'

‘Never mind. You've probably been up to no good. It's best I don't know.'

‘It's just that I ….' Mel touched the bump on his head again. More pain, accompanied by a confusing flood of images. Men in red robes and jars full of bright colours. And something else. There was ….

‘What, Mel?'

‘I don't know. Nothing really. It's just that I don't recognise where we are.'

‘Don't worry your head about that, my son. Dan Feen lives this way.'

‘How did you know I'm going to Dan Feen's?'

Fa Theum did not answer.

Mel looked around and saw that the landscape had changed completely, as if in a dream. The expansive flatness of Feg had been replaced by steep-sided hills covered with bare trees. Had they really come so far, so soon? Down the valley echoed the haunting song of a whale, answered by others from farther away.

Ahead of them lay a bridge across a broad stream. As they were crossing, Mel looked to his right and saw a silvery pike perched on the branch of a riverbank tree. It was such a peculiar tree. As if it had been uprooted and stuck back into the ground upside down. It looked
like the roots had become its branches. Roots? What is it about roots? Was it a dream he had? He watched as the fish dived from the branch into the swift-flowing stream, only to emerge a moment later clutching a struggling blackbird in its jaws and regain its perch. Why did it seem so odd?

‘Penny for them, Mel?'

‘What, Fa?'

‘Wool-gathering again?'

‘Doesn't it seem strange to you that …?'

‘What, Mel?'

‘That fish back there ….' He looked up at the wise old face of the priest. ‘Fa, is this heaven?'

The priest smiled down at Mel but said nothing.

The lane carried on until it joined a broad road. Mel and Fa Theum turned left and continued on their way. There was a noise to their left and a small flock of lobsters scuttled out from beneath a hedgerow.

At the sound of running feet behind, Mel turned. Coming down the highway towards them was a brightly coloured cart drawn by six dapple-grey men. The horse driving the vehicle raised its beribboned hat and shouted
a friendly ‘Good day' as he passed. Fa Theum waved and Mel, feeling as if he was doing something wrong, did the same.

‘Well, would you believe it? Here's a fog bank. What is the world coming to? Such strange weather here lately. You know, Mel, I have a secret charm, taught to me by the Maven himself. It's a charm for dispelling fog. Would you like to try it for me? Here, take this piece of paper. On it is a charm that you must draw in the air. That way the fog will vanish.'

Mel stared at the symbol. It looked like his doodle on the mirror. It made him think of so many strange things. Of houses that looked like people, of underground clocks, of volcanoes and faces that appeared out of walls. Things he would rather not think about. He handed the paper back. ‘Please, Fa, I don't like this. I feel unwell.'

‘Go on, Mel. Do it for me.'

Mel put his hand to his bump again. It was coming; the thing he was supposed to remember.

‘Come on, Mel. Do as Fa Theum asks.' It was his father's voice.

Mel turned, and his parents were standing right behind him. ‘Dad, Mum, how did you get here?'

‘Mel, be a good boy,' said his mother. ‘We followed you to make sure you delivered the letter. It's very important. Draw the symbol and make the fog go away. Go on.'

Mel felt confused. His head hurt. He raised his hand again and touched the sore bump. Pain, bright lights and it all came flooding back like the sudden unblocking of a drain. The drain full of inspiration!

Mel had been clinging to the grille just out of reach of the face in the mine when the debris from the scrapheap had exploded into the drain in front of him. He barely had time to leap into the fist-shaped depression the face had smashed in the wall. He had curled up tight inside as the thundering wall of rubbish hurtled past, hurting his ears and making them pop. It seemed to go on for ages until the flow eased and then came to a stop. When he peered out of the hollow, a tardy item of inspirational junk – an enormous amoeba whose sticky mass had slowed its descent – had struck him from behind with a wet
thwack
. He was propelled out of the drain, over the
outflow of debris and into the Mirrorscape beyond, smacking his head hard against the trunk of a tree.

‘Mel! Do as you're told,' his father barked.

‘
No!
'

‘Don't speak to your father in that tone,' said his mother sharply. Then in a pleading tone, ‘Please, sweetheart. Do it for me. There's a good boy.'

‘No, I won't. This is all wrong.' He looked closer at his parents, so familiar and yet so strange. His senses came alive and he saw that his father's face was the same but his clothes fitted too well. And his mother's complexion was too florid. He studied her hair, searching for the strands of grey he had noticed as he fled Kop with Dirk Tot. There were none. And the jewellery. She never wore jewellery, for the simple reason she had none.

‘Come on, Mel,' said Fa Theum. ‘Behave yourself and do as your parents command.' There was subdued anger and threat in his voice.

‘You're not real. None of you are real. This is all wrong. What's going on?' Mel looked around, increasingly desperate. He had been here before – or, at
least, seen it somewhere. Then it came to him. It was the painting he had seen with Ludo and Wren in the House of Mysteries! ‘This is “The World Turned Upside Down”!'

‘Mel, my son, you're talking nonsense,' said Fa Theum. ‘You're not well. Just make the sign and deliver the letter.'

Mel looked at the letter in his hand. The Wompers did not have a seal. None of his family could read or write. He broke the seal and tore open the letter. It was blank. He looked at his parents but their faces were expressionless.

‘Mel, that's enough of your tomfoolery. You're to go through the fog this instant,' ordered Fa Theum. When Mel did not move he grabbed him by the wrists. ‘You're going through there even if I have to drag you.'

Mel struggled in the old priest's grasp, which was surprisingly strong. He got one hand free and grabbed the dangling diaglyph, yanking it downwards. The corner of it caught the priest's habit and tore a broad, diagonal rip across his chest – his bare canvas chest.
‘
None
of this is real!' Mel kicked the apparition in the shin and struggled free.

The phantom that was supposed to be his father made a grab for him, but Mel pushed him away. He felt sticky. He looked at his hands. They were smeared with wet, tabby-coloured paint and he could see raw canvas on his father's chest. Mel began running back the way he had come.