Ian Johnstone - The Bell Between Worlds

Relieved to be freed from the man’s penetrating gaze, Sylas turned to see Simia beckoning him to join her at the bar. To his surprise, she looked almost as cheerful and relaxed as she had before the chase: her cheeks had regained their ruddy colour and her eyes some of their lively sparkle. As he drew close, she leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

“We’re safe, for now at least. Thanks to the cart we’ve broken the trail,” she said with reassuring confidence, but without acknowledging that it had been Sylas’s idea. She nodded towards the door at the rear. “Bowe is a friend. He’s gone to check that the way is clear.”

“Strange... it was like he could see right through me,” said Sylas.

She laughed. “Oh, don’t mind that – he just has a way of seeing things. It’s what he does.”

“What he... does.”

“Yep,” she said matter-of-factly, pushing herself up on to the barstool to peer out of the window to the street. “Now we should have some time for a real drink, if you fancy?”

He looked at her, bewildered by her calm – only moments ago they had been fleeing for their lives. But he could not deny his thirst.

“Sure,” he said, heaving himself on to a neighbouring stool.

Simia reached over to an abandoned tankard on the bar and peered into it with interest, then held it out to him. Sylas looked at the dark green contents doubtfully, sloshing them around and sniffing at them, then raised the tankard to his lips. Carefully at first, then with increasing abandon, he drank down the contents. The flavour was decidedly odd but delicious: a mixture of lemons, rhubarb and woodsmoke. The combination was surprisingly sweet and refreshing. He finished it in large satisfying gulps, then set down the tankard with a loud belch. He was dimly aware of Simia watching him with keen interest and a suppressed smile.

“’Scuse me,” he said. “That’s great – what is it?”

He clamped his hand over his mouth.

With each word, clouds of pungent, sweet green smoke billowed between his lips. Simia shrieked with laughter and banged the counter with glee. He stared at her with a mixture of alarm and embarrassment, then parted two of his fingers and spoke quietly, trying in vain not to exhale as he did so.

“What is this stuff?” he mumbled, breathing out a succession of smoke signals depicted in glorious greens and yellows.

Simia was still heaving with laughter. “Oh, it’s… sorry... your face!” She let out another shriek of delight, then worked hard to gather herself. “It’s called Lemon Plume,” she said, drawing a long breath. “It’s a favourite with this lot – the Muddlemorphs.”

“Muddlemorphs?” repeated Sylas with interest, seeing to his relief that the smoke was growing thinner and less noticeable.

“Pretty much everyone here is a Muddlemorph,” she said. “They can change things – play around with stuff – change it from one thing into another. It’s a weird kind of Kimiyya – the Third Way. They come here to work on the farms: making the soil better, cleaning the water, that kind of thing. Problem is, they love their tricks so much that they spend all their time showing them off to each other in taverns like this.”

She jumped off her stool and pointed to the wooden seat. “Here, touch this.”

Sylas hesitated, wondering if he was to be the butt of another joke, but reluctantly reached forward and touched the seat. He pulled his hand away sharply, and looked up at Simia who was beaming with delight.

“Weird, isn’t it?” she said with a giggle.

He touched the seat again. To his amazement the wood bowed under his touch as though it was a cushion. He pressed his finger deep into it, and the grainy surface yielded; then he released it and it sprang back.

“Yes,” he said, his broad face breaking into a smile. “Very weird.”

He jumped off his own stool and found that it was the same. He walked over to a bench nearby and pressed on the wooden seat to find that the entire panel gave under the pressure of just one finger. “Magic...” he said quietly.

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