Mazeweaver, page 21
‘Everyone is less of an idiot than you. You can hardly even walk! Come on, we have to—’
But they wouldn’t be getting off the mountainside. There was no longer any pathway, just a scorched cavity left by the fireball. By the time the zig-zagging trail resumed, it was ten metres below them.
‘I can’t climb down with my knee,’ Kai said.
‘And I can’t leave you behind,’ she replied. Those were both simple matters of fact. They were stuck on the side of this cliff as the richest civilisation in the land imploded around them, threatening at every moment to drag them into oblivion with it.
Well, being melodramatic wasn’t going to help.
They pressed back against the cliff face, a slight overhang all that protected them from falling debris. Aliya let her head drop back onto the rock, her inner senses reaching out to the calm of the elements, a refuge from the chaos created by the limited beings who lived on the surface of the world. The stone was at peace; the air high above was undisturbed. There were air elementals up there, riding the wind, circling Quantum and Linden as they flew upwards. They generally weren’t very fond of humans, and even less fond of dragons. Drawing their attention might merely serve to add fuel to this fire.
‘Kai,’ she said without opening her eyes, ‘I’m about to do something very stupid and probably very dangerous. I’d appreciate it if you could do your best to keep me from getting burnt alive or pulverised for the next few minutes. Thanks.’
He replied, but she couldn’t make out the words: she was already sinking into a trance state, making herself receptive to the spirits and energies around her. She did what she had trained for the last year to do. Reaching out, knowing herself fully as part of the world, being the point of balance. From that place of intersection between humanity and nature, she could work in harmony with the elementals.
‘Spirits of the air, please listen to my plea.’ She whispered the words but filled them with the same energy as a snow leopard’s roar. The sound vibrated through the particles of the air, travelling up hundreds of metres into the sky.
‘What is this?’ she heard one of the elementals say. ‘Part of our essence, captured—’
‘Not captured,’ Aliya said. ‘A willing sacrifice. A gift because she solved a puzzle, and the answer was that the dragons are worth saving. Maybe it’s even a message to you, as well. A request for help.’
‘Meriel was a fool,’ one of the voices chimed. ‘We will not still the wind so that smoke can fill the skies. The dragons have earned this curse.’
‘Meriel believed there was a way to break it,’ Aliya pleaded.
A chorus of voices cut across her awareness like a whip. ‘We will not aid you.’ Sharp breezes swirled in a maelstrom, buffeting Linden. The mountain had been right about one thing: no one had any wisdom. From the dragons who failed to consider the consequences of their actions, to the elementals who wanted to eliminate the threat without looking for a way to make a future that could contain everyone.
This was a shaman’s lot: to be stuck in the middle, crushed between two immovable forces. How could she change anything? She couldn’t force the air elementals to help.
Or could she? Surely, she wasn’t strong enough. The one time she’d tried to order elementals around, it had been a disaster. But she was a different person now. She could compel them; she felt the potential inside her, a power born of fear and loss and loneliness. She could draw them all into a mental labyrinth the size of the sky.
Fingers digging into her arm hard enough to bruise restored some awareness of her body.
‘Tempting, isn’t it?’ Kai said close to her ear. ‘I should know.’
She ripped her arm out of his grip. ‘This is different. I wouldn’t be doing it for myself.’
Kai flinched. ‘You’re still being self-centred if you think you get to decide who lives and who dies. Just as selfish as me deciding that my freedom was more valuable than Meri’s.’ His eyes locked onto hers. ‘I know it’s hard for you to trust me, but believe me when I tell you it’s not worth it.’
Not worth saving Quantum’s family, proving to her dearest friend that she could be everything he needed her to be? Proving that she had the power to give life?
But that life could only come from death.
She had the power to decide who was more worthy to live. The power to take the essence of one intelligent, conscious being and give it to another. The power to deal out death.
No one had the right to claim that power. She could not – would not – make that choice.
She slid down the rock wall and curled up with her forehead pressed to the ground. Her own insecurities had taken her so close to a ledge she could have fallen from forever.
This curse was caused by violence committed against nature; more violence could never end it. It would perpetuate a cycle of destruction. Hatred had brought this about; it needed to be healed by love.
But Aliya had never felt more distant from love. Her insecurities had pushed everyone away. Her family, Juna, Vali, even Quantum – without them, how could she find enough love in herself to even begin to repair what had been torn apart by anger? Only Kai was still beside her, and soon she would have also rejected him one too many times. Having driven everyone away, who could she turn to now?
There was only one relationship she hadn’t destroyed. Because she’d hardly spoken to them for over a year; because it was dangerous to mess with the barriers between worlds. Because she knew they needed to learn to live their own life rather than inhabit hers. She’d avoided her apprentice for many reasons ... but they were the only one she could turn to now.
A deeper magic
So, that’s it. I’m back home by ten forty-five, the clothes stained with cobwebs and sewer water safely hidden in the washing machine. The problem is solved, or at least dormant. Everything can go back to normal.
‘Luca,’ Mum shouts from the living room, ‘Gloria’s on the phone.’
‘Who?’ I say, wandering in from the kitchen with a late-night snack of peanut butter toast sticking my mouth together.
‘Dean’s mum,’ Mum reminds me with her hand cupped over the phone receiver. How could I have forgotten that? Can nine years of friendship be erased so fast? It’s only been about a week since I’ve spoken to Dean, but it feels like forever. And it’s been a relief. I can’t be what he needs, so I can forget about him.
Aliya wouldn’t give up on someone this easily.
Aliya also wouldn’t try to help someone just to prove she could.
Another lose/lose situation. As if one a day wasn’t enough.
I take the phone. ‘Hi, Mrs Chapman,’ I say, ‘is everything alright?’
‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ she says, overly bright, ‘only he isn’t home yet. The school phoned this afternoon. He’s missed three days this week. I didn’t know. How did I not know that?’
‘He’s gotten a lot better at keeping secrets,’ I say. Dean was always so straightforward. I wonder when that changed, and how I failed to notice. Mrs Chapman lets out a muffled sob, and I realise how insensitive I’m being.
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell her, ‘I’ll text everyone and find out where he is.’
‘Thank you, Luke,’ she says. ‘You’ve always been such a good friend.’
That’s not true, is it? I don’t even have anyone I can text to ask: I don’t know any of his mates these days.
There is no magic solution to this. I want there to be, so that I can be the hero, someone special who can save Dean in a way that no one else can. But this doesn’t need magic: this is about just being there. And all my instincts are telling me that I need to be there tonight.
Dean doesn’t answer his phone, not the first time I call him or the eighth. How did people find each other before mobiles were invented? Put out an APB? Hire Sherlock Holmes? Or, to go back even further in time ... engage in a shamanic ritual?
They all sound pretty far out. But I know one of those options will actually work.
I go into the garden and plant my bare feet in the grass. Roots. I connect to all the things that ground me in who I am, family and friends, my public life and the strange secret life of a shaman. The network of connections stretches out, binds us all together. There’s a familiar shape to it, a map of all the relationships in my life ... Oh, come on. It’s a map of the London Underground. My subtle mind is once again pointing out just how freaking weird I am.
But Dean is on the map, a pulsing orange dot near Camden Town tube station.
I pull my trainers on and rush out the door. It’s a ten-minute walk, and I can feel that little glowing beacon leading me, simultaneously somewhere ahead of me and lodged under my breastbone.
It takes me to The World’s End pub. Not a surprise, since it’s attached to a nightclub that’s famous for not checking ID. The main bar has a sort of dark steampunk vibe and is overflowing with the eclectic mix of people you always find in Camden Town. I hope they don’t check IDs in the bar, either, because there’s no way I’ll pass for eighteen.
Dean and a half-dozen of his football mates obviously had no trouble getting served. They’re crowded around a table in the corner filled with empty pint glasses. Dean’s had more than beer, though: his eyes are overly bright and his knee won’t stop jiggling under the table.
‘Hey, it’s the gender-bender,’ one of the guys – Ray, I think – says.
‘Hi, Lucy,’ one of the others says. ‘That’s your name, right?’
‘Sure, whatever,’ I say. Other people’s judgements are the least of my concern, and there’s strength in that.
‘Are we going, or what?’ Dean asks them.
Sam checks his phone. ‘Yeah, it’s eleven – should be open now.’
‘You coming clubbing with us, Lucy?’ Ray says, expecting me to refuse.
‘Looks like it,’ I say. They all laugh – all except Dean, who glares – as if I’ve impressed them with my sheer social incompetence.
The guy who christened me Lucy slings his arm around my shoulders as we all leave the pub. His shaggy blond hair tickles my cheek and his beery breath makes my eyes water. ‘Hey, I’m Tony. You gonna help me get a girl, right? I’ve heard it’s great to have a gay guy as a wingman. Chicks trust gay guys.’
‘Luca’s not even gay,’ Dean grumbles as we turn into the entrance to The Underworld. Then he pays for my ticket, which is weird.
I’ve never been to a nightclub before – give me a break, I’m a nerd – but I’ve seen enough films to know what to expect. But the clubs that get into movies are way nicer than this. It’s just opened and the floor’s already sticky. Everyone here looks to be under eighteen – I guess if you have ID you’d go somewhere better than this.
The music is alright, but it’s so loud it’s distorting and sounds like a background track of bees. Tony, my new best friend, drags me around for a while: he shouts at girls, they scream ‘What?’ into his ear, I stand about like a hippo at a cocktail party.
I watch Dean pretending to have a good time. How could I not have seen how thin the façade is?
I lose Dean on the dance floor. Pulling up my mental tube map, imaginary lines overlay the sticky black floor like a circuit diagram. All these lives intertwined, the supercharged emotion of alcohol and abandon creating flares of energy to rival the flashing lights above. Picking Dean out of the flow, I head to the bathrooms.
The lighting is a bit better in here, but the smell is a lot worse. The urinals along one wall are all in use, and one of the two stalls is occupied. Dean must be in the locked stall. I slip into the other. Now what?
The lid of the toilet seat is missing, so I balance on the edge and stretch up to look over the top of the dividing wall. I hope it is Dean in the next cubicle or I’ll get the shit beaten out of me.
It is him. This is why my instincts were screaming at me to be here tonight.
I kick off the toilet and scrabble at the top of the wall. It’s made of that thin plastic stuff and wobbles alarmingly as I squirm my way over the top. Elegant, it is not. Dean looks up in a panic as I half fall, half slide down into his cubicle. He can’t get up, because his trousers are around his ankles. A razor blade is in his hand. A thin line of blood on his upper thigh. Now I’m close enough, I can see a whole crisscrossing pattern of hair-line scars.
Dean’s hand is shaking. Hopped up on speed. A razor blade inches away from his femoral artery. It would only take a little slip.
Now Dean is morphing from shocked to angry. And I realise that I’m inches away from that razor blade, too.
I really hadn’t thought this through.
There’s only one thing I can think of. I say, ‘Sleep.’
Sleep is only ever a heartbeat away. Waiting just below the surface. I pull him under.
We’re both in the forest of lampposts, where I thought only dreamwalkers could come. With the logic of dreams, Dean seems to think this is all perfectly normal. But it’s not. I’ve mixed his sleep up with mine.
Luca – help me!
Aliya’s voice. It’s in my head, of course, but so are we, so I hear it echoing eerily from all around like it’s bouncing off the mist. She sounds terrified. She must be in real trouble. It’s dangerous to go. But despite all that, my heart gives a leap of pure joy.
The other half
Luca – help me!
Aliya shouted inwards, a cry that reverberated through the layers of her mind, through the tear in reality that gave onto another world. A cry so fierce that it frayed the edges of that tear, reached through into the mind of her apprentice and echoed up through all the levels of their awareness, pulling them in. She needed them here, truly in her world, not just within her mind; needed them so desperately that it didn’t matter if the hole dividing their realities was torn open wide. She needed one person she could rely on.
Luca didn’t need to reply in words: she felt their response as a rush of warmth, a giant yes that encompassed the world and told her she had never been alone.
Cracks
Well, this is awkward.
I mean, technically, me and Dean are asleep in a toilet stall. I can’t just let him wake up: no trousers, razor blade, my unconscious body. So I’ll have to leave him running around in my subconscious for a while. I know he won’t wake up on his own: I’ve pulled him deeper than normal sleep. Which is ... Shit, which is wrong on all kinds of levels, but with great power comes a great heap of bad choices. Sue me.
There’s no time to lose – Aliya’s call is reverberating right through me, the urgency and desperation tugging me into another world.
I run. Through the lampposts and sideways through a rip like a broken mirror where the edges of reality don’t match up; and now I’m pelting through trees, stately silver-barked giants that rise into the branches of myriad thoughts. Running straight into the trunk of Aliya’s tree, wanting to be there for her so strongly that I take myself right through the swirl of her thoughts without losing myself to them. I’ve done this once before, but it’s hard: to know that Aliya’s whole waking world, that I’ve lived for so long through her eyes, is just another layer of dreaming for me; to manifest my own form within that dream, separate from Aliya even though I only have access to this world through her. I have to build myself a body out of pure controlled imagination and believe in that body enough for it to hold me. I’m a firework in reverse. I’m here: solid, real, imaginary.
I arrive in the middle of an apocalypse. But a big grin still stretches my face as soon as I see Aliya. I throw my arms around her.
She shoves me away. ‘Are you crazy?’
I thought she’d be a little more pleased to see me.
‘This isn’t a sightseeing tour, Luca! What did you bring him for?’
I spin around. ‘Shit! What the hell are you doing here?’
Dean ducks as a fireball whistles over his head. ‘Cool graphics, man,’ he says.
I turn back to Aliya in a panic. ‘I’ve got to take him back. This is so messed up. How is it even possible? Is it because I knocked him out?’ Aliya looks shocked, so I add, ‘Not like—’ I mime smacking him with a hammer ‘—I mean I put him to sleep. And now his sleep is caught up with mine ... Sorry, I need to take him home. Back in a minute.’
She grabs my arm. ‘Look around you, idiot. We don’t have a minute.’
Right. Apocalypse Now.
We’re in some proper fantasy landscape, with towering cliffs and marble buildings and real live awesome freaking dragons flying everywhere. (And fireballs. Stuff blowing up. All that.) I know I’ve been in Aliya’s world loads of times, but this really looks like another world, rather than just an olde-worlde version of mine. And being here in my own body, rather than looking out through Aliya’s eyes, makes it more viscerally terrifying.
‘Is this real?’ Dean asks.
‘“Real” is a tricky concept,’ I say. ‘Real enough that you can pinch yourself and you won’t wake up. Real enough that if you die, you won’t wake up at all.’
‘Right,’ Dean drawls, ‘don’t die, then?’
‘Good conclusion.’
We’re standing on a mountain ledge a couple of metres wide. There’s no way down. Aliya looks beaten all to shit, and Kai has an arm around her protectively. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Aliya gives me a brief run-down: death curse, angry dragons, civilization crumbles. It feels like she’s leaving a lot out: what explains all the pain and isolation behind her eyes? And why isn’t Quantum with her?
An exhausted-looking dragon the size of a Jack Russell flops onto a spike of rock just above our heads, and Quantum scrambles off his back.
‘Oh,’ he says, ‘you’re back.’
It’s so hard to get my head around Quantum not liking me. He barely knows me; but after all the months I spent being Aliya, he’s one of my closest friends.
‘Yeah, I’m back.’ Of course I am: I’d do anything for Aliya. She saved my sister’s life; she showed me what it means to live my own. I’d do anything she asks ... but she’s not asking. Like she expects me to decide.
