Impossible creatures, p.4
Impossible Creatures, page 4
‘What are you paid for then? And who paid you? Why are you doing this?’
The murderer’s eyes flicked over her, and she could feel his contempt. ‘Have you noticed the creatures dying? The earth drying? The glimourie failing? It’s a sign of his power.’ The murderer was breathing hard, moving closer. ‘He will give everything, he says, to the men who join him early: those who join him now, before his rise. I have lost enough times. I am choosing now to win.’
‘But none of that has anything to do with me!’
‘He told me to find you. He sent me a message: find the flying girl. Now come down.’
‘Who? Who is he?’
The murderer shook his head. For a moment, dread passed over his face. He set his hands on the wall, his fingers searching for handholds. Mal looked down at the river. It was fast – fast enough to toss her against the stones below. A lavellan looked up at her. Its small poison teeth were bared.
Her voice came out high, and desperate. ‘Wait! What have the dying creatures – and the glimourie – got to do with me?’
He looked at her, and his eyes were hungry. ‘They have everything to do with you.’ He hauled himself on top of the wall.
She held Gelifen tight to her chest. The man stepped closer. His knife was in his hand.
Mal jumped.
She dropped eight feet into the water. The surface closed over her. She saw, underwater, sudden darting flecks of phosphorescence. It was ice-cold and churning; she braced to be thrown against the rocks, or to feel the bite of the lavellan on her face. Gelifen was torn from her grasp. Then there was only water, roaring past her, and a great jag of terror. And then nothing.
THE STAMPEDE
The sun had come out and it was very fine, as Christopher half walked, half ran up the hill. Fine, at least, until the ground began to quake.
He was nearing the top of the slope with Goose at his heels when she stopped short and gave an anxious whine. He bent to stroke her. ‘What is it, girl? Are you hurt?’
Then he heard it: a rumbling, deep in the earth. He bent to touch the ground, and felt it shake under his palm. An earthquake? Goose’s hackles rose along her back and she began to bark in high, terrified yaps.
Then there was a wild whinnying cry, and a huge green horse covered in shining scales thundered straight towards him. Christopher yelled. He tried to pull at Goose, but she was rooted to the spot, flattened against the dirt, so he lifted her in his arms and ran. She was heavy, but terror gave him speed; he darted behind an oak tree and crouched, gasping for breath, over Goose.
The horse tore down the hill, its eyes wide and rolling. He could see the muscular gleam of its green-scaled flank as it came. As he watched, it spread vast scaled wings and took flight, flapping above the treeline.
And then came the stampede. First a cascade of shrew-like creatures with canine fangs, soaking wet, a dozen of them, and then a great horde of what looked like large green-horned squirrels, wailing and crying out – ‘Run! Run!’ – as they went. Goose struggled in his arms, but he held on to her.
It was impossible. Wild incredulity rose in him – had he been drugged? He pinched viciously at his skin to wake himself, but his nail drew blood and he felt the pain course down his arm. Fear roared through his body.
Before he could move, a high neighing rang out, and down the hill galloped a horse with a horn of pure-bright silver. It went charging past him; its tail, white as moonlight, was tangled with weeds.
‘A unicorn,’ he breathed to Goose.
As fast as they had come, the creatures had gone, vanished into the trees below. Christopher’s hands and feet were ice-cold despite the sun. He felt winded with shock.
His first instinct was to sprint home to his grandfather. But then from the top of the hill there came a noise: a high, peeping cry. It was a desperate, terrible noise: the noise of something struggling to live.
He hesitated only for a second; and then he sprinted, faster than he had ever run, up the forbidden hill.
He could not have said what he expected to find – but it was not what he saw. The hill flattened at its peak into a small lake. It was forty paces across, and a blue so dark it was almost black. In the centre of the lake, something was drowning. The water was churning and white, and something with wings and a tail was flailing. Shrill peeps of terror came from it.
Christopher didn’t stop to let himself think; if he stopped to think, the madness and impossibility of it would envelop him. He threw his coat and jumper on to the grass, and tore his shoes off and ran in.
The cold was like leaping into a brick wall: it kicked the breath from his lungs. The creature let out another desperate cry. Its short forelegs weren’t made for water, and though its wings flailed hard, it was going under.
The water was deep, and Christopher swam fast. The splash of the lake was in his eyes, and when he reached the place where he thought the creature had been, he couldn’t see it.
He spat out water tasting of mud and silt, and dived under again, deeper. And there it was: its eyes and beak closed, sinking fast. Christopher’s stomach lurched and he kicked downward – the pressure tightening on his ears, the cold burning on his skin – and seized it by the back leg.
He shot to the surface and gasped for breath – but the creature did not breathe. He waded out of the lake, grabbed his coat and wrapped the creature in it. Its eyes opened, and it vomited a quantity of half-digested whatever-it-ate on to his sleeve.
Christopher let out a burst of laughter that was also a choke. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Thanks for that.’ His teeth were chattering so badly he could barely speak. But his whole body was shining with relief, and with a dizzying, unbelieving awe. Because he knew now what he was holding in his arms.
The creature had the hind legs of a lion cub, and the wings and forelegs of an eagle, white-feathered and tufty. His face was that of a young bird, with large green eyes, but his ears were like a horse’s, brown and pointed and much too big for him.
‘You’re a griffin,’ Christopher said.
There was no question but that it was real, because it twisted in the coat and scraped panickily at him with two different kinds of claws. The lion’s hind claws were sharper, and dug further into his skin, and despite the pain Christopher’s heart gave a bound.
‘Hey, hey!’ There was blood coming from somewhere; warm, new blood. He caught with difficulty at the griffin’s forelegs. He lifted its tail and turned over its soft hind paws in his hands. There it was: a deep cut on its left back leg. He wrapped his sock around it. The creature writhed in protest, slippery as an otter, but did not bite.
He pulled his shoes back on to his soaking wet feet. His fingertips were blue with cold. Then he picked up the griffin again. ‘Let’s get you somewhere warm, quick,’ he said.
The griffin seemed soothed by the sound of his voice. It nestled its beak into the crook of his elbow. It smelt of wet fur and wet feathers, and under it the musky, soft, growing smell of young animal. It was, he thought, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.
‘I’ll protect you,’ he said. ‘Don’t panic. I won’t let anything happen to you.’ The creature bit him lightly on the thumb.
This was, some might say, a foolish and dangerous promise to make to any living thing, given the chaotic unpredictability of the world. But, equally, that’s the thing about griffins: they are persuasive.
THE GUARDIAN’S SECRET
Most men, if their grandson burst into a room dripping water and clutching a mythical creature to their chest, would begin by asking questions. But Frank Aureate was not most men.
His grandfather was dozing in an armchair by the fire when Christopher flung open the door. He sat up, took in the scene – Christopher, blue at the lips and a wild look in his eyes, and the bundle in his arms, and Goose at his heels – and rose to his feet.
‘I need a bandage,’ said Christopher. ‘For the griffin.’
‘You went to the lochan then,’ said Frank. ‘To the lake. When you were told expressly not to.’
‘I had to,’ said Christopher, and he held out the bundle in his arms. ‘He was drowning in it.’ As fast as he could, he told his grandfather what he had seen.
Frank stood in the centre of the room, breathing hard, his face full of unreadable calculations. Then he crossed to the kitchen. He came out with a glass of whisky and a roll of bandage. ‘Give me the griffin. Go and shower, as hot and fast as you can, and come back down.’
When Christopher returned, Frank was tying off the end of a bandage around the hind flank of the griffin. There was a cup of hot chocolate by the fire.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Sit. You can feed him.’ He looked very old, and his body creaked as he sat down. He gave Christopher the griffin, and a tin of sardines. ‘Aye. So. I see that an explanation has become necessary.’
‘But – there was a unicorn. Aren’t you going to—’
He was quelled with a look from Frank that almost frightened him. ‘Sit,’ said the old man. ‘Listen.’ It was a look that made clear, for a moment, the force his grandfather had once been; and still was, under the old paper skin and the crooked hands. ‘It won’t have gone far – there are fences. It’s more important that you hear what I need to say.’
Christopher sat. He opened the tin of sardines, and the griffin pecked at his hand in excitement.
Frank sighed. ‘I would’ve told you eventually, Christopher. But you’re too young. Your father and I agreed on that.’ He drank deeply from the whisky. ‘We were going to wait till you were at least eighteen; your father was arguing for twenty-one, or twenty-five. In truth, I think he’d rather you never knew.’
‘Tell me what? Never knew what?’
Frank took a key from his pocket and unlocked a tall wooden cupboard. From it he took another key. He took down from the wall the oil painting of the man in uniform.
‘It really is a gargantuanly hideous picture. I chose it to hide the safe on the reckoning that nobody could possibly want to steal it.’
Christopher gave the griffin a sardine; it swallowed it whole, trying to take his fingers with it. ‘Steady,’ whispered Christopher. ‘My fingers aren’t on the menu, thanks.’
Behind the painting there was a metal safe. Frank Aureate unlocked it, and drew out a much-folded document and a small book. He thumped them both on the table, and unfolded the paper. Christopher leaned forward. It was a map, painted in exquisitely small brushstrokes on thick vellum.
‘This is the Archipelago.’
Frank Aureate ran his fingers over the map, slowly, lovingly. ‘Let me remember the words my mother used.’ He drew breath. ‘There’s a secret place, Christopher, in our world – hidden from us, to keep it safe – where all the creatures of myth still live and thrive. The people who live there call it the Archipelago. It is thirty-four islands – some as large as Denmark, some as small as a town square. Across these islands, thousands of magical creatures roam, raise their young, grow old and die, and begin again. It’s the last surviving magic place.’
‘Magic? You can’t really—’ said Christopher, incredulity rising in his voice. Frank held up a hand.
‘Stop. The world has always had magic in it, Christopher. Aren’t you holding a griffin in your arms? The magic grew with the Earth’s first tree; from the tree it flowed into the soil, into the air and the water. In the Archipelago, they call it the glimourie.’
Christopher felt the weight of the griffin; its animal warmth. He gave it another sardine, and felt its small tongue flick against his fingers. ‘And that’s the magic? The glimourie?’
‘Glimourie, aye. Or glamarie, some of the islanders call it. Glawmery, glamry, glim, glimt. It’s all the same: it’s the name they give the first magic. Long ago, it was everywhere. For thousands of years, magical creatures lived freely over the whole Earth. But gradually, as we humans began to build our civilisations, we realised we could use the creatures; that we could farm and kill and trap them, for the ease they could give our lives. And they became rarer, and rarer. It’s not a story to make you admire humanity. But there was one place – a cluster of islands, in the North Atlantic Ocean – where that first tree grew. There the glimourie in the Earth and air was at its strongest. And one day, a few thousand years ago, those islands disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’
‘Aye. And everywhere else in the world the creatures died out, as we hunted them to extinction. As the next thousands of years passed, we forgot, slowly, that once the world had been lit by the shining of a unicorn, or the dragon’s fire – and we came to believe that the true accounts we had were myth. Just children’s stories. Nothing important. We’re a forgetful people, humanity.’
‘Where are the islands? The Arki— what did you call it?’ The griffin tried to bury his beak in the tin; Christopher fended him off, and gave him the remaining fish.
‘Ar-ki-pe-la-go. An old word, for a cluster of islands.’
‘Where did they go?’
Frank’s face shone: like the fire beside him, it glowed. ‘That’s the thing, boy. They’re exactly where they always were.’
Something was rising in Christopher’s body: a hot roar in his blood, from his face to the soles of his feet; a burning swell of excitement. And yet still – even with the griffin, who was scratching his feathered ear with his hind leg, heavy in his lap – it felt impossible. It felt too much. It was too much what he’d always longed to be true.
‘But if they’re there, why don’t we know about them? With radar, and surveillance drones, and all that?’
‘No boat can get close; the glimourie pushes them away, so gently that they never notice. In the same way planes can’t fly overhead, but they never know it. It’s unchartered and unchartable.’
The griffin seemed full now, and its eyes were fluttering with tiredness. He buried his beak under Christopher’s red jumper, up against his chest, and Christopher stroked his tufty wings, calming him. He leaned over him to look at the map. ‘Show me?’
Frank pointed. ‘This one – Lithia – that’s the largest, and has the densest population of humans. This one – Arkhe – is the furthest north: that’s where that first tree grew. Down here, to the south-east, are the wildest parts – where people live alongside dragons. About a dozen are inhabited by a mix of humans and creatures, the others by creatures alone.’
‘Unicorns?’
‘Unicorns, aye. There are huge herds – in the thousands – on the island of Ceretos, and on Atidina and Lithia.’
‘Centaurs?’
‘Yes, centaurs, on Antiok. And many, many more – all the less-known creatures that were in the stories of old – karkadanns and manticores, krakens and kappas and seabulls. It is a riotous, glorious place.’
Christopher’s heart was beating so hard that the griffin, disturbed by its racing thump, backed out of the jumper and cast him a look. ‘Is there any way to get there?’
‘Not unless you know how.’
Christopher rocked backwards, dizzy. He looked up at the mustachioed Belgian. ‘But – how do you know all this? And how do you have this map?’
The griffin clambered on to the cushion next to Christopher and closed his eyes. The old man’s eyes, though, were very keen.
‘Haven’t you guessed? Because I am a guardian of the way through.’
‘You?’
‘No need to look so jaw-dropped,’ Frank said drily. ‘I was a strong young man before I was a weak old one, you know.’ He smiled. ‘Aye, me. Though you can’t get there by boat, yet there are routes – at least one, and I believe there are more elsewhere in the world. The way opens once a year, for a single week, at the fourth full moon, when—’
‘The lake! Is it the lake?’
‘Exactly so. The lochan.’ He pronounced it lock-en. ‘At the bottom of the lochan – it’s deep, that lake, a hundred feet and more – grows an ancient tree. Three thousand years it’s been there, its branches spread underwater. It was grown from the seed of the apple of the Glimourie Tree. It is my job to protect it from theft, from ruin, from time. My Charlotte – your mother – would also have been a guardian. She –’ and there was only a single second before he said – ‘cannot, of course. So it will go to you.’
‘To me?’
‘To you. Did you ever wonder why animals flock to you?’
‘I thought maybe it was … I don’t know, something in my skin. My smell.’
‘That’s not so far off the truth. They feel that you are a place of safety. Living so close to the waybetween, some small part of the glimourie has got in the blood of this family. When I was a boy, I would wake to a flock of crows on my doorstep every morning. They would bring me gifts – pins and buttons.’
Christopher put his hand to his necklace, and his grandfather smiled a dry smile.
‘And your mother, Christopher – your lovely mother was suspended from school for keeping a nest of shrews in the pocket of her winter coat. There was an unreasonable fuss about fleas. It’s a pull: between the guardian and living creatures.’
‘But nobody told me!’ He felt his astonishment turning to anger. ‘Why didn’t anybody tell me? All this time?’
‘It was your father’s idea.’
‘But why should he get to decide?’ To his shame, furious tears were rising in his eyes; he forced himself to push them down again. ‘He doesn’t trust me with anything! He never will! You said yourself! He wanted never to tell me.’
‘Wheesht, Christopher. He’s your father.’ Frank handed him the book. ‘Here. Take this. This is the Guardian’s Bestiary. My great-great-grandfather began it; each generation adds to it. It’s an account of some of the wild creatures of the Archipelago. Read it.’
Christopher’s lungs and eyes were question marks. His heart beat like it was talking: as though it were saying, What? What, how, what? It was impossible that this was true.
‘But …’ There were a thousand things he wanted to ask; a cacophony, rising in his throat. Who else knew? How did it work? What did a guardian do? So he said the most practical. ‘It’s not a full moon. There was no moon last night. But the griffin came through.’
