Ian Johnstone - The Bell Between Worlds

How hard and cold that final day had been, when finally it came a year later: the day his uncle told him she had died. He had said it so abruptly, in a matter-of-fact bluster of words, though Sylas remembered the tears in his eyes, the way he had drawn him into his bony body, just for a second or two – just in the first brief agony of that truth. He remembered the phrases: so inadequate, so trite and trifling given the horror and pain they conveyed.

“Disease of the mind... deteriorated so quickly... nothing to be done...”

“Nothing to be done,” he murmured. It was the most devastating phrase, because he would have done anything to save his mum. He would have brought the world crashing down for just another day with her.

And yet he was not even allowed to go to her funeral.

“Too young,” he was told. “A brief, formal affair, given the lack of family… given the... circumstances.”

And so Sylas had chosen his own quiet, secluded spot in the churchyard opposite. It was not her actual grave, which he knew to be somewhere far away, but the place he went to remember her, to be with her, to give her some flowers. The window seat in his room that overlooked that graveyard had become his favourite place to sit, because that way he felt that in some small way he was closer to her.

He wiped his face, picked up his rucksack and walked over to the seat. He wanted to think about something else, but even then the window seat was where he needed to be. He pushed himself back into the corner, one shoulder up against the ancient glass, and pulled the Samarok from his bag. He rested it on his knee and for a moment gazed out at the once-great stone arches of the church, now glowing pink in the dying rays of the sun. There was something beautiful in this twilight display, but to Sylas the sight was gaudy and unnatural. He saw nothing of the midsummer sunset unfolding in the wide sky; heard nothing of the great chorus of birds in the churchyard as they celebrated the end of the day. Instead he stared at the ruins, reflecting on their loneliness and slow decay. He gazed at those great broken windows, now emptied of their colourful glass, framing instead a jungle of weeds and ivy that spilled out on to the graves.

He sucked in a breath and looked down at the Samarok. He had to turn his mind to something else.

He stared at the cover, his eyes drawn to the embroidery and inlaid stones glittering in the twilight of the fading day. He ran his finger along the length of the large S that adorned the cover, then opened the book to a random page and looked at the sea of beautifully crafted runes.

His thoughts turned to the piece of paper Mr Zhi had given him and he took the now damp, crumpled envelope from his pocket, examining the rain-blotched scrawl on the front. It read simply “Sylas” in a hand that he recognised: the strange oriental hand that had painted the sign of the Shop of Things. His excitement grew and he tore it open.

Inside was a single slightly yellowed piece of paper that had been folded in half. It was not a letter as he expected, but a single paragraph. The writing was so distinctive and flamboyant that at first Sylas thought it was yet another language or code, but, to his surprise, it was written in English. Although the rain appeared to have blotted some of the letters, it was perfectly readable. He read it aloud to himself.

“They came from the cool of the sand-scented temples: from the long dark of the coiling passages and the oily flicker of many-columned halls. They rose as leaders of men in that ancient land, men of words and vision whose mystery brought hope to the squalor-born.. But while the people lifted their eyes upon the gentle countenance of these blessed men, they saw not the cool and dark of their hearts, nor the oily flicker behind their eyes.”

He gave a low whistle. What did that mean?

He read it over again, taking his time to pronounce and understand each word, but when he reached the end of the passage, he was just as confused. The piece assumed that he would understand who “they” were and what the “ancient land” was, but no matter how much he racked his memory, he could think of nothing. Even if he could guess at the real meaning, he had no idea how it would help him to understand the runes. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair – this wasn’t going to be easy.

He picked up the Samarok and closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. Not wanting to be clouded by thoughts of his mother, he pictured Mr Zhi himself, standing behind his crooked old counter in the Shop of Things, winking and stroking his beard to a point.

He turned to the title page, blank except for three lines of runes a third of the way from the top. It was clearly an inscription or dedication of some sort, as it was too long to be the title. Sylas allowed his eyes to pass slowly along the lines, taking in the intricacies of the runes. Each had its own form, its own unique shape and line, which was sometimes complex in its own right, but – even more wonderfully – also related to the runes around it. Within a word, each separate character was interlaced with two others, sharing its space with the curves or inflections of the symbols on either side, so that a rune rarely looked the same twice. The collection of characters formed a tangle of dashes, strokes, arcs and dots that ought, by any logic, to look crowded or haphazard, but instead fitted together with astonishing grace. Sylas’s art teacher had once talked about the great calligraphers of the Far East who could create writing of sublime beauty and meaning, but he had never dreamed of anything as beautiful as this.

But it still didn’t mean anything.

He yawned as he stared at yet another page, now difficult to see in the fading light. He widened his eyes to fight back the tiredness and glanced out of the window. The sun had nearly set behind some clouds, plunging the churchyard into near-darkness, and rain was once again clattering against the windowpane.

He was about to turn back to the Samarok when he thought he saw a movement in the churchyard. He paused, wiped his bleary eyes, then swept his hand across the glass to remove the condensation. The streaks of water distorted the light, stretching the lines of the darkening church. The few passing cars cast beams of yellow and red light on to the ruined walls and the overhanging branches of trees. Sylas looked for some moments, but there was nothing: just rain and trees swaying in the wind.

“Deluded,” he muttered under his breath.

Then he saw another movement.

He leaned forward and wiped the window dry with the sleeve of his sweater, his eyes trained on one particular arched window in the old church.

There, beneath a large overhang of ivy, something was creeping through the undergrowth.

Sylas shrank back into the shadows.

A gargantuan black hound emerged from under the ivy, walking under the archway towards the end of the church.

It was truly massive, the points of its shoulders standing proud of the rest of its dark figure, rolling as it moved lithely through the undergrowth. The head was hidden in the shadows, hanging low beneath the matted mane of its neck. The sloping back gave way to powerful haunches that stood lower than the shoulders, giving it an ugly, predatory profile.

Sylas was transfixed. He wanted to retreat into his room, but something made him stay.

The beast stopped.

For a moment it was entirely motionless, but slowly its shoulders braced and its thick neck rose. Its huge head emerged from the darkness until Sylas could see its crumpled brow and long canine snout that seemed scarred and disfigured. Beneath, its gaping jaws lolled open, revealing a cruel mass of ragged teeth.

Without warning, the beast’s powerful neck swung sharply and it looked directly up at his window.