Mirrorscape (28 page)

A distant roar echoed from the darkness at the end of the gallery.

‘… and things can come and go.'

‘
Look!
' Bathor was staring back at the painting of the snowscape. It was the only picture in the gallery with its seal still intact. Bathed in the light shed by the angels, they could clearly see the painted images of the High-Bailiff, Groot and Skim near the foreground as they ran towards them. Further behind them, in the middle ground, was Mumchance and behind him waddled the gross figure of Lord Brool, now back in his red robes. ‘Why don't we wait for them here? Then,
when they come through, we can get up to some … you know.'

‘There's no time for that now,' said Mel. ‘Come on.' No sooner had the words left his lips when the animal roar came again, closer this time. The trio ran, splashing, following the direction of the water as it flowed down the gallery.

By the time they had reached the darkness at the end, they heard Mumchance's whistle behind them and then Adolfus Spute's enraged voice. ‘After them! Don't let Smell get away. After all he's done to me, I've plans for
him
.' Their pursuers were through.

As they ran on, the stream became stronger as tributaries joined it from other dark corridors that they passed. Ahead, they could hear a continuous thundering sound growing louder with every step. The passage they sped along ended abruptly and they skidded to a halt.

They had arrived at a cavernous stairwell, the top and bottom of which were lost in darkness. By the angel-light, they could see many staircases, some clinging to the side of the space, and others vaulting the void to landings on the far side. The steps were carpeted
in running water that cascaded in foaming cataracts, each adding to the others until they met in a deafening cacophony of roaring, white water far below.

Farris and Bathor flew up into the great void, the spray forming luminous rainbows around their glowing forms. But rather than define the space, the light of the angels only emphasised its vastness. By their glow, Mel could dimly make out the intricate carving of the crumbling masonry. Stone faces and mythical beasts looked down on them disapprovingly. A great many old paintings lined the stairs. The angels glided back down to rejoin Mel.

‘Which way?' Mel looked back along the corridor and saw bobbing lights. His pursuers had made flaming torches. ‘
Up!
' he shouted. The angels smiled, grabbed his arms and took off. They had not risen far before a great black shape swooped down at them from the darkness. Its horrific roar could be heard even over the thundering water. Mel was able to make out huge wings, a gaping maw and massive eyes with a glowing blue light at their nexus. The angels flew to a landing on the far side of the stairwell and set Mel down. He had to
grab a carved banister to help him stay upright in the swift-flowing current.

Just then, the High-Bailiff and the others emerged from the corridor into the far side of the stairwell and their torches fizzled out in the spray. The shining angels marked Mel out for them clearly, and they began battling up the stairway that connected them to the landing where Mel stood. They linked arms and formed a chain as they hauled themselves against the rushing water. The dark shape of the winged creature circled menacingly overhead.

Mel looked round for an escape route. There was no corridor leading off the landing and only one exit suggested itself. The large painting hanging behind him was cracked and its surface was beaded with spray. Mel made the mirrormark but nothing happened. He tried again but without result. All the while, his pursuers were drawing nearer. Why was the mirrormark not working? Again, Green's words came back to him: ‘Not every artist can make the mirrormark. Lesser artists can mark the canvas but it won't open a door into the Mirrorscape, and not every painting bears the mirrormark.'

Mel heard Mumchance's whistle over the crashing water. Then, from the depths of despair, rose the shining bubble of an idea. Mel unwound the remains of Groot's robe from his neck and frantically searched the pockets. His hand closed on something powdery. The last iconium in the world. He dipped his finger in, and with it drew the mirrormark on to the surface of the inert canvas. ‘The Mirrorscape recognises its own.'

There was a great whoosh and a loud roar as the black creature swooped.

‘
Farris! Bathor!
' But the angels had gone, plucked from the landing by the beast. Mel watched, horror-struck, as all three spiralled into the air, the angels struggling against the black beast. For a fleeting moment, he caught a glimpse of the angels' faces. They were laughing and had a devilish glint in their eyes. Then down, down, down in a mortal spiral until they disappeared into the thundering foam below. Mel stood for a moment in the sudden darkness feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his life.

A piercing blast on the whistle told him how close his pursuers were and jerked him back to the moment.

Mel turned and traced the mirrormark in front of the canvas. As he completed the gesture, he felt a tug on the robe he still held.

‘
Smell!
'

Then he was through. But his enemies were also drawn through by the power of the mirrormark.

Mel was the first to recover. They were in a dismal landscape shrouded in mist, a grey world with indistinct shapes. It reminded him too much of his own ill-conceived world. The shapes of his enemies stirred nearby as they scrambled to their feet on loose shale. Wrapping his scarf back around his neck, Mel began running up a steep hill. A shape at the summit, dark grey against a paler background, resolved into a ruined semaphore tower. Its skeletal arms hung uselessly, creaking in the breeze, and a rusty weathervane on top made a lonely squeal as it turned slowly. A large bird perched on the tower cawed a melancholy cry. Behind him, he could hear tumbling rocks as the clumsy posse climbed after him.

Mel reached the tower. As he ran his hands over the rough, clammy stones, two thoughts occurred to him
simultaneously. One, that sooner or later his enemies would gather there at the only landmark in the desolate wasteland. Two, how was he to find the wall of mist again in a land of mists? He had to find it soon before the iconium faded. He heard sounds; a muffled shout, an answering whistle and a foul curse as the High-Bailiff stumbled. Then there was the sound of a hiccough off to his right.
Time to move
. He descended the hill on the far side and lay flat on the ground. As he looked back up the hillside, dark shapes assembled at the ruined tower.

‘Smell, I know you're out there. I know you can hear me. Show yourself,' called the High-Bailiff. ‘There're five of us and we've got all the time in the world.'

Oh no, we haven't
, thought Mel.

Adolfus Spute seemed to be looking in his direction and Mel carefully edged to one side. But not carefully enough. Loose stones beneath him rattled away down the hillside. Adolfus Spute gestured with his arms and three other shapes, two tall and one short, spread out and slipped away.

Mel scuttled, crab-like, to the side, always keeping the outline of the tower as a fixed point. At the sound of falling stones, he froze. A tall figure was coming towards him. He grabbed a stone and threw it over the shape's head. It landed with a clatter behind the shape.

‘Smell? I can hear you. I know where you are.' Groot's shadow stalked off in the direction of Mel's missile. A little later there came the sound of a scuffle. ‘Got you, you little scrot!' There was a whistle blast. ‘Sorry, Mumchance. He must have gone the other way.'

The same ruse worked a second time as another tall, hiccoughing figure was sent chasing shadows. Mel continued to circle the indistinct form of the tower, hoping that he would find something – anything – that would indicate where the wall of mist was. Then he heard it; the faint roaring sound of cascading water. As he edged in its direction, it became louder. When it was at its loudest, he began to back down the hillside. Soon he felt resistance behind him. He turned. ‘The wall of mist!'

‘We thought we'd find you here, Smell.' Adolfus
Spute and his nephew emerged from the greyness to Mel's left.

Groot shouted, ‘Over here. We've got him!'

Mel turned, the wall at his back. He could feel the resistance of the mirrormark that sealed them in press against him like invisible hands. He could hear Mumchance's triumphant whistle blasts and the wheezing complaints of Lord Brool as Skim helped him over the rocky ground towards where Mel stood cornered. He stooped and picked up a stone. The High-Bailiff shook his head as if disappointed with this last, pathetic show of resistance. Mel threw the stone high over the heads of the High-Bailiff and Groot.

‘Missed, Smell.'

‘I don't think so.' There was a clang as the stone hit the weathervane, followed by an angry cawing and flapping of wings from the direction of the tower. In the dank air it sounded like the beat of angels' wings. As the two men turned, so did Mel – but in the other direction. He made the reverse mirrormark in the air.

But nothing happened. He had left it too late. The iconium had faded. He pushed against the force
field and it gave slightly. He pushed harder, almost willing himself through. It was like walking into a wall of treacle.

‘Oh no, you don't,' cried Adolfus Spute. ‘
Got you!
'

Mel felt his scarf seized and strong arms hauling him back. He strained against it with all his might. Then it suddenly slipped from his neck and the additional momentum propelled him through the wall.

He fell to his knees in swiftly flowing water. It was dark. As dark as night.

Almost.

He held his hand in front of his face and could see its outline. Lying on the crumbling balustrade before him, he found the source of the soft light. A single glowing feather: an angel's feather beaded with spray. He picked it up, turned and held it to the canvas, wiping away the moisture with his other hand. By its light he could see several murky figures in front of the ruined semaphore tower. They were looking back out of the painting, their hands gesturing wildly in the air as they struggled to trace the mirrormark. The mirrormark that was no longer there.

Mel watched the frozen image for a while. Then he turned from the canvas and, by the light of the glowing feather, began the long climb up the staircase towards the world above.