The Cradle of All Worlds. Jeremy Lachlan
to legend, the knife had the power to harness the energy of those it slayed or injured, and transfer that energy to whoever wielded it. So, my calling was simple: retrieve the knife, save the world.
‘The journey to the Gothgan caves was long and fraught with danger – I won’t burden you with the details, for they were many and quite extraordinary. I got the knife. Naturally, the Gothgans were not pleased. Even after I’d made my triumphant return to Manu they laid siege to the Red Temple, the resting place of the knife, for ninety days and nights. I battled and bled alongside the Manuvians for three whole months and the Gothgans were defeated. The Great Kingdom of Manu, nay, Manuvia itself, was saved.’
I don’t like where this is going.
‘After we had claimed victory, Kucho, the tribal elder, called everybody to the base of the temple stairs.’ Atlas starts pacing. ‘You see, the Manuvians believe – and I say believe because, although I have never returned, I am sure they are still alive and prospering – that everything has a spirit. Air, stone, water, flame and bone. Everything. They also believe these spirits can be tainted. Broken. The spirit of the Red Temple, having weathered such a lengthy and vicious battle, was in the greatest danger of all. It had to be saved. Revived. Sated.’
I glance down between the planks, see Violet’s wide tiger eyes staring up at me.
‘They’d captured thirty-seven Gothgans in the battle,’ Eric Junior says. ‘Out of those thirty-seven, nine were women, six were elders, and . . . four were children, right, Dad?’
‘Correct, Junior. They were taken to the stairs, their lives spilled upon the stone one by one, fed to the temple not in the name of battle, but in the name of ceremony. Of sacrifice. It had been done many times before. That was how the temple had received its name.’
‘Red Temple,’ Peg says. ‘Coz of all the blood, see?’
‘Thanks,’ I tell him. ‘I got it.’
‘And they cut them with this.’ Atlas pulls a knife from his vest. A sharp, curved blade with an ivory handle carved into the shape of a hundred writhing, intertwined bodies. He steps up to the cage, twirls it through his fingers. ‘The Manuvian knife itself.’
I swallow hard. ‘They . . . gave it to you?’
‘After a fashion. I deserved it after everything I’d done for them. A mighty gift for a mighty warrior. Lifted it just before I made the journey home. It holds absolutely no magical or mythical properties, of that I’m certain, but it is remarkably sharp.’ The mayor traces the blade across his neck. ‘One cut per sacrifice. That was all it took. People have done it for thousands of years in the Otherworlds. Cleansing rituals on temple stairs. Offerings to gods and monsters.’ He shrugs his blocky shoulders. ‘I don’t see why we should be any different.’
‘Don’t see no reason at all,’ Peg sneers.
‘You have terrorised this island for the last time, Jane Doe,’ Atlas says, and smiles. ‘We are taking you to the festival. We are going to sacrifice you to the Manor at dusk.’
There was a time when I was obsessed with the Otherworlds. I used to sneak into the storeroom of the Golden Horn and hide behind the barrels of ale, listening keenly as the old folks at the bar told their tales. Back in the basement, I’d re-enact them for Dad, dwelling on the fine details of these different places, these worlds without curses and curfews. Better worlds where smiling wasn’t a punishable offence, and maybe – just maybe – Dad could walk and talk and play. Maybe even a world where Mum was waiting for us both with open arms, ready to take us home – to our real home.
It was a prospect too exciting to ignore.
I even used to love the Manor Lament. Locked in the basement, I’d listen through the open window, trying to guess which stories were being celebrated, savouring the scent of barbecued sausages and sugar-roasted nuts. Come nightfall, I’d cheer on the unseen fireworks, every crack and bang. Marvelling at each flash of light that burst over the neighbouring stone wall like a shattered rainbow. I pictured stars exploding over the island and wondered if you could catch the pieces as they fell. But all of that was way back when. Before I understood what the meaning of the word outcast truly was. Before I realised the festival was damning me and Dad.
The Manor Lament quickly slipped into the long list of things I couldn’t care less about. The sounds, the smells, the stories, the very idea of the Otherworlds themselves. That mythical home-sweet-home. I bottled up the desire to embark on a quest to find my mum, buried it deep. I knew I had to make a choice. Spend my life wishing for something that would never be or focus on what I had. What was there, right in front of me. What was real.
Caring for Dad. Protecting him.
Now I’m about to become the festival’s star attraction.
And Dad’s gonna be all alone.
My prison-on-wheels rattles and clanks up the road to Outset Square, drawn by the horse. I can only just hear Violet’s voice over the racket, which is good, seeing as she chose the worst hiding place in the history of stupid hiding places. She asks how I’m holding up.
‘Peachy,’ I mutter through frozen lips.
‘Hang in there, kid,’ she says. ‘At least you finally get to see the festival, right?’
Nobody notices us when we emerge from the alley. Atlas, Peg and Eric Junior stop the horse beside a cluster of barrels and wait, soaking up the scene. The ecstatic crowd. The busy food stalls. The flags, banners and confetti tinted pink in the light of the setting sun. The jugglers and fire-breathers. Barnaby Twigg striding around the well, twirling a sword.
I spot Mr Hollow in the crowd, desperately trying to avoid touching anyone, a handkerchief clasped to his mouth. Mrs Hollow’s laughing and clapping beside him. The effigies of me and Dad haven’t been lit yet, but they’ve been used as target practice for eggs and arrows. A group at the base of the Sacred Stairs chant and shake their hands in some sort of ritualistic dance. Kids watch, enthralled, as red-faced old-timers act out their Otherworldly adventures on every stage, complete with homemade props. Battles with beasts. Epic wars. Narrow escapes from ancient, booby-trapped temples. The whole square is a heaving mass of people, colour and noise.
The Manor looms above it all, silhouetted against the golden, sunset sky, its features lost in shadow. I can’t help but feel it’s staring down at me, a hungry toad watching a fly.
I can’t hold its gaze for long.
That’s when I realise Mr Hollow’s looking right at me. He flaps his handkerchief at me. Grabs Mrs Hollow’s arm. She sees me too, and turns a dirty shade of green.
They scream together, long and loud. An ear-piercing, blood-curdling shriek.
One by one, the performers stop performing, the jugglers stop juggling, the fire-breathers let their flames die to curling wisps of smoke. Barnaby keeps on marching and singing until a rogue sausage flies from the crowd and hits him in the chest. Then he too stops and stares along with the rest of the crowd.
And a grim, heavy silence settles on the square.
‘What’s happening?’ Violet whispers. ‘Why’s it so quiet?’
I feel naked, exposed, like a hooked worm dangling over a school of fish.
‘Um . . . hi,’ I say to everyone.
Mr Hollow clutches his chest. Someone lets out a stifled cry. Old Mrs Jones faints into the arms of some idiot dressed in a bed-sheet toga, but Atlas doesn’t miss a beat.
‘Fear not, good citizens of Bluehaven. The Cursed One is our prisoner at last!’
A collective gasp ripples through the square. I signal Violet to run with a jerk of my head. She stares defiantly back. The crowd doesn’t know what to do, what to feel. Relief ? Happiness?