The Forest of Lost Souls (6 page)

T
HE GRAVITY OF THE SITUATION MEANT THAT EVERY
single known Runaway was summoned to an urgent meeting. So the hard core—the Pollocks, Bellangers, Knuts and Abakum—contacted all the other Runaways who’d been identified throughout the world: Mercedica de La Fuente, the elegant Spanish woman, former Servant of the High Enclave and a close friend of Dragomira’s; Cockerell, a Brit living in Japan, former Treasurer of the Gracious’s family and now a banker; and Bodkin, a former industrialist, who’d retrained as a Master Goldsmith in South Africa. Three trustworthy people who’d been forced to become perfectly assimilated in the Outside world, and yet who were still desperate to return to Edefia one day. Another member of the group was Tugdual, the Knuts’ moody grandson, who’d just arrived, once more wreaking havoc with Oksa’s feelings.

“Hi there, Lil’ Gracious!” he said, after greeting each of the Runaways with his customary off-handedness.

He walked over to her and, for one terrifying second, she thought he was going to kiss her on the cheeks. Instead he gazed at her with his steely blue eyes and she felt herself blushing foolishly. Tugdual smiled, which made her kick herself, and finally looked away.

“Well, if it’s not one thing, it’s another,” he remarked.

“This really isn’t the time or the place for sarcasm!” replied his
grandfather,
Naftali, icily.

Tugdual looked at him with an expression of mingled disillusionment and rebelliousness.

“I’ve always said we had to expect the worst,” he retorted, casually flicking some dust off his black shirt. “But no one ever took me
seriously.
Or perhaps I should say: no one ever took
him
seriously… I mean Orthon-McGraw, of course.”

“May I remind you that Orthon is dead!” snapped Mercedica curtly, favouring the sombre young man with a glare.

Tugdual glowered back with the arrogance of someone who wouldn’t let himself be flustered by such a trivial point.

“Allow me to have my doubts,” he replied to the haughty Spanish woman. “Evil can survive and continue to cause mayhem beyond death. Evil never dies, as we’ve seen today, haven’t we?”

The question hung in the room, like a wisp of disquieting smoke floating just below the ceiling.

“That isn’t the problem,” said Mercedica, slicing through the heavy silence.

Abakum and Naftali shifted uneasily on their chairs, looking disapproving.

“That is
exactly
the problem, my dear Mercedica,” said the imposing Swede, contradicting her. “Everything that’s happening now is Orthon’s fault. I’m convinced that Reminiscens was Impictured by her twin brother.”

“How would that be possible?” asked Mercedica in amazement, pulling threads from her armrest with her red-lacquered nails. “The Soul-Searcher never makes a mistake!”

“Well, we have to believe that it can, my dear friend!” retorted Abakum. “But now, we must put ourselves in Orthon’s shoes. Because we can only fight our enemies if we understand them…”

“How can you talk about fighting enemies?” snarled Tugdual. “Frankly, I find it hard to see you in the role of brave little soldiers enlisted in the very Young Gracious’s army. None of you would even hurt a fly.”

Surprised by this remark, the Runaways looked uneasily between Abakum and Tugdual.

“Flies have never tried to kill the people I love!” retorted Abakum, staying remarkably calm. “But if they decided to do so, they’d pay dearly for it, mark my words, my young friend. And as for Orthon—”

The elderly Watcher broke off, raising one hand in front of him in a gesture of surrender. It was better for all concerned if this futile
conversation
was stopped before it got out of hand. Oksa was furious, though. Despite the unsettling effect Tugdual had on her whenever he was near, she thought he was going too far with his provocative comments. She knew that Abakum’s wise exterior concealed a formidable man, more formidable than the most battle-hardened soldier. After all, hadn’t he been the only one capable of firing a Crucimaphila Granok at Orthon-McGraw? No one else could have done it. Oksa knew it hadn’t been easy for him and that he’d be tormented by the memory until his dying day. But his tremendous loyalty made him the man he was: unquestionably the most powerful of all the Runaways. This loyalty to Dragomira, and to her entire family, was the source of his immense strength. A mental strength which enabled him to surmount any obstacle. But how could she say all that to Tugdual? Her irascible friend couldn’t have known it was Abakum who’d vaporized Orthon-McGraw in the cellar of his house. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been so flippant about the old man’s pacifist ideals.

“You forget that Abakum is the Fairyman,” she whispered to him, her cheeks scarlet with annoyance and embarrassment.

“Hey, talking of fairies,” continued Tugdual sarcastically, “it’s been quite a while since we had a visit from the Ageless Ones! We could do with a helping hand from them, couldn’t we?”

With a frown, Dragomira leant over to Naftali and Brune, who were glaring at their grandson.

“I thought he was getting better recently,” she murmured to her two friends, looking at Tugdual. “I thought he was less…”

“Less morbid? Less neurotic?” continued Tugdual, rolling his eyes. “I’m fine, thank you very much, so don’t worry your heads about me! Abakum, whom I respect more than you can possibly imagine, knows me better than anyone and I have absolutely no intention of insulting him. I just wanted to remind you what you yourselves said once about your lack of experience when it comes to dealing with danger. You saw yourselves as old folk, who weren’t up to the task. So take a good look at yourselves and be honest: are you really ready to face your enemies’ bloodthirsty attacks? You’ve always thought I was exaggerating when I described Orthon as Evil incarnate. But they weren’t just the misguided fears of a neurotic. Do you see that now? We have to expect the worst. Always expect the worst…”

Some of the Runaways nodded in approval. The young man certainly had a tendency to blow things out of proportion, but there was a lot of truth in what he said and they all believed him now: the writing was on the wall—things were clearly going to get worse before they got better.

T
HE
S
QUORACLE WAS STANDING ON AN OCCASIONAL
table, its tiny beak about an inch from the picture. The Imagicon, held taut by the wooden frame, was gleaming with dark shimmers in perpetual motion. Staring intently at this strange phenomenon, the Runaways waited impatiently for the miniature hen to make its diagnosis.

“The Squoracle possesses the veracity of the elements of the present,” whispered the Lunatrix in Oksa’s ear by way of an explanation. “It can go where the knowledge of others cannot venture. The truth is always complete in its comprehension of the world and it never encounters errors. We can develop a total confidence: the Squoracle will provide an explication of the problem that has affected the picture.”

“Shhh!” spat the Squoracle, glaring furiously at the Lunatrix. “How do you expect me to concentrate if you keep yelling behind me?”

Oksa looked at the Lunatrix, who turned purple with
embarrassment,
and winked at him, trying hard not to laugh. The Squoracle was no novice when it came to over-reacting; the tiny creature tended to fly off the handle with disconcerting ease, and none of the Runaways could help smiling.

“The only creature yelling right now is that hysterical excuse for a hen!” remarked a small, long-haired creature.

“Be quiet, Getorix,” scolded Oksa in amusement. “You’ll land yourself in trouble.”

After a few long minutes, the Squoracle finally turned round, fluffed up its feathers and shook itself.

“Your attention, please. Listen to me!” it told the Runaways, who were waiting eagerly to hear what the little hen had to say.

“About time…” grumbled the Getorix.

“We’re all ears, Squoracle,” confirmed Dragomira, settling back
comfortably
in her armchair. “Tell us what you know!”

“This is a complicated and unfortunate business,” began the Squoracle gravely. “At the present time, the Soul-Searcher is no longer in control of the picture: Evil has seized power and is endeavouring to trap the heart of a Gracious. Was it a case of mistaken identity when it lured Gus into the picture? Is the boy a victim of yet another catastrophic mistake? Or did Evil trap him deliberately? I cannot be more precise because my senses are fuddled by so much turmoil. The only thing I’m certain of is a sense of urgency: the boy and the old lady have a lethal weapon in their possession, yet they have no chance of survival without the help of their friends. Some of you will have to be Impictured to rescue them.”

The Squoracle shivered violently.

“What’s the matter?” asked the old lady.

“That place is hellish!” it whispered.

“What do you see?”

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. My vision is clouded by utter chaos and an unwholesome power.”

Dragomira smoothed the tiny hen’s feathers, her eyes brimming with tears as she realized the true scale of the disaster. The Squoracle’s
information
took the Runaways’ breath away like an icy wave crashing over them. They gazed at each other in consternation. None of them would have thought it would be so difficult to get back to Edefia. They’d been waiting for fifty-seven years, but they’d never faced so many dangers, particularly since they’d held all the keys: the Mark around Oksa’s belly
button, Dragomira’s medallion inherited from her mother Malorane, Edefia’s Landmark kept safe within the Lunatrix’s heart. Pavel, who’d been one of the hardest to persuade that returning to their lost land was the right thing to do, felt bewildered. His recent resolve to take part in this extraordinary adventure was ebbing away by the second. Why run all these risks? Was it really worth it? Life on the Outside wasn’t that bad…

“You spoke about the heart of a Gracious coveted by Evil,” Abakum said to the Squoracle. “Can you tell us more?”

The Runaways looked at the Fairyman apprehensively, aware that this was a crucial question.

“The heart of a Gracious means the Young Gracious herself,” declared the Squoracle.

“No worries!” cried Oksa, jumping up from her seat. “I’m ready!”

“Oksa, please!” said her father immediately, gazing at her anxiously. “There’s no question of you entering that picture.”

“But Dad…” continued the girl.

“Don’t ‘but Dad’ me,” retorted Pavel firmly. “You’re not going into that picture and that’s final.”

“But you’re forgetting that Gus is trapped inside!” she raged. “If we don’t go and find him, he has no chance of being rescued. How can you be so…
inhuman
?”

With these words, she spun round and ran out of the room with an angry yell of frustration. A deathly silence descended on the embarrassed Runaways. Some of them glanced furtively at Pavel, others didn’t try to hide the reproach in their eyes. Dragomira, taken aback by her son’s reaction, placed her hand on his forearm in the hope of making him see sense. But Pavel shrugged her off and looked down, his expression even more tortured than ever. He felt completely isolated and didn’t know what to do for the best. He was trying to see a way out of this dilemma, which held him in its grip like prey in a falcon’s talons. He could sense the anxiety of his friends, Pierre and Jeanne, whose only son was trapped in the painting. It was awful to think of him being lost, probably terrified,
and do nothing to rescue him. But if they went into the picture, there was a risk they’d never come out! He looked up, avoiding eye contact with Pierre and Jeanne, who were gazing at him with mingled horror and grief. His eyes strayed to the computer screen displaying the last photo Gus had taken before being Impictured: the portrait of Reminiscens, Zoe’s gran. Behind it, the window showed a patch of summer sky darkening with thick purple clouds. Pavel put his head in his hands and withdrew into his own shell.

Upstairs, Oksa was sitting on the floor, hunched against the wall. Her attempts to calm down had failed and she was seething with anger. The Curbita-Flatulo was frantically undulating on her wrist, but the Young Gracious was impervious to its efforts. She ran her hands through her chestnut hair and sighed. Outside there was a rumble of thunder which seemed to be approaching at high speed. Oksa jumped as a thunderclap sounded just above Bigtoe Square. The wind began blowing with
frightening
violence, making passers-by cry out in terror. Suddenly a blinding flash of lightning split the sky, striking Oksa’s window, which exploded into splinters of glass.

“Whoa…” she breathed, fascinated.

It wasn’t the first time she’d unleashed a storm, but this was something else! The furious wind was sweeping aside everything in its way:
rubbish
bins were blown over and rolled noisily along the pavement, tiles were hurled from the roofs and smashed on the ground, and television aerials were broken and flattened by the strong gusts. Standing in front of her shattered window, Oksa gazed in amazement at this cataclysmic scene. Suddenly the wind changed direction. Instead of whipping around Bigtoe Square, all its fury was centred on the girl, who was hit full-on by its blast. An indescribably icy sensation doused the raging fire inside her. The pitch-black clouds raced towards her, obscuring her sight. Inside
her body, wind and fire battled fiercely, making it impossible to catch her breath. A strangled cry struggled up from deep within. Feeling herself losing consciousness, she gripped the windowsill covered in broken glass with all her might, then fainted and fell to the floor with bloodied hands.

The first person she saw when she regained consciousness was Tugdual. The young man was watching her with an expression of mingled concern and admiration on his face.

“I reckon it might be better to avoid making you angry,” he said softly with a slight smile.

Oksa pulled a face. She felt stiff all over and as exhausted as if she’d been lifting weights for hours. She glanced out of the window. The sky was blue, the sun was shining and everything looked… normal.

“I thought it was the end of the world!” she remarked, sitting up.

“It wasn’t far off,” added Tugdual with an amused grimace. “The neighbourhood is all but destroyed.”

“Hey…” rebuked his grandfather Naftali.

The Runaways were standing around the sofa where she was lying, their anxiety visible in their tormented eyes. Pavel walked over and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, Dad!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry! It’s so stupid losing my temper like that. But… what’s wrong with my hands?”

She turned them over in front of her. They were covered in bandages.

“You cut yourself on the broken glass,” replied her father, quietly. “Don’t worry though, Dragomira has already done the necessary. In a few hours, your cuts will be nothing but a bad memory.”

“Thanks, Baba! Er… did you use the Spinollias?” asked the girl, shivering at the memory of those clever little seamstress spiders.

“It’s all done, Dushka!” replied Dragomira, with subdued enthusiasm.

“Was I unconscious for long then?”

“Exactly four hours and thirty minutes,” confirmed her father, looking at his watch. “We spent the time having a long chat. About you, Gus and the picture. And we’ve come to a very important decision.”

“A crucial decision…” added Tugdual, looking increasingly gloomy.

Pavel cleared his throat and wiped his forehead with his hand, as if trying to decide what to say—and how to say it.

“Like everyone here, I’m broken-hearted—” he began in a hollow voice.

“You don’t want to go after Gus, is that it?” broke in Oksa, tears in her eyes.

“What I want doesn’t matter, darling,” replied her father bitterly.

“We are going to look for Gus and Reminiscens,” announced Abakum. “We’re taking an enormous risk, but we don’t have a choice: we can’t leave one of our company imprisoned in the picture. Despite Tugdual’s fears,” he continued, glancing sternly at the young man, “we’re stronger than we look. We may have deep wrinkles and white hair, but we also have some real trumps up our sleeve. And I’m not just talking about you, sweetheart…”

“Are you implying that I’m going to be part of this adventure?”
whispered
Oksa, her large grey eyes wide with impatience.

“It’s a totally ir-res-pon-sible decision!” thundered Mercedica.

Her heavy bun quivered with exasperation. She glared at Dragomira, who tugged at her long plaits and gazed blankly into the distance. Oksa held her breath, more anxious than ever.

“We have to take you with us… unfortunately,” confirmed Pavel sadly.

“When you say ‘us’, do you mean everyone?” she asked, gazing at the Runaways standing in a circle around her.

“No, Oksa,” said her father. “It would be crazy for us all to go,
particularly
as your mother is too weak to cope with this kind of… escapade. Dragomira, Naftali and Brune will stay with her, as will Jeanne, Zoe and Mercedica. Since there can be strength in numbers, Cockerell and Bodkin will take it on themselves to search the world for Runaways
who might join forces with us. At their request and with our unanimous agreement…”