Connie was silent. What could she say? Here was another set of people who thought she was reckless. Join the club, she thought sourly.
“Are you there, Connie?” barked her father as the line crackled and hissed at him.
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“What’ve you got to say for yourself?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“What do you want me to say?”
This question seemed to floor her father.
“That…that you’re sorry for getting Simon mixed up with your bunch.”
“Okay. I’m sorry for getting Simon mixed up in the Society.” That was partly true.
“And that you promise to try and keep him safe. Not let him do anything dangerous.”
Connie was silent again. That was, of course, what she had already been trying to do.
“Connie?”
“I’ll try.”
“I don’t want any more early morning phone calls telling me one of my children has ended up in the hospital with injuries from wild animals.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, trying hard to keep her bitterness to herself. It hadn’t been her fault she’d ended up in Chartmouth’s ER. Her father hadn’t shouted at Simon for leading her into the jaws of the chimera—not that he’d been told about that.
When she put down the phone, she found Evelyn watching her closely from the kitchen table, where she was tucking into her fifth bacon sandwich of the day. Evelyn had developed a craving for bacon smothered in ketchup.
“Can he join?”
“Dad seems to think it’s too late to stop him.”
“Are you okay?”
“Kind of.”
“That means no. Do you want to talk about it?”
Connie took a deep breath but at that moment, Mack stamped into the kitchen through the back door, holding up a pair of mud-splattered sneakers.
“I thought we agreed,” he said tersely to Evelyn, “that you’re not to risk running on the moor with the banshees.”
“We might’ve said something along those lines,” Evelyn replied awkwardly.
“Then what are these?”
“Obviously, they are my running shoes.”
“And why are they covered in mud?”
“Because I haven’t cleaned them?”
“Evie!”
“Okay. Okay. Because I went running while you were in London. I changed my mind about the banshees.”
Mack swelled with rage like a bullfrog preparing to croak. “But you know they’re not good for the baby—not in the early months. All that spinning and wailing—think what you’re doing to our child.”
“She’s fine,” said Evelyn patting her stomach. “Isn’t she, Connie?”
“Er…”
“Leave Connie out of this,” intervened Mack. “This is between you and me, Evelyn Lionheart.”
Connie realized this was really not a good moment to be in the kitchen. She got up to go.
“Connie, we haven’t had our chat, yet,” said Evelyn, stalling for time as a full-blown fight loomed on the horizon.
“It can wait,” said Connie, slipping her hand free of her aunt and moving to the door.
The following day, when Connie got out of bed and opened the curtains, it took her a moment or two to realize what she was seeing. The sky, which had been barren and dry for months, was clouding over from the west. Fat drops of rain were pattering onto the dusty road. The drought had broken.
When she entered the kitchen, she found Evelyn and Mack having a cozy breakfast together, harmony restored. Tactfully, she decided to leave them in peace and take hers back upstairs. Besides, she had some reading she wanted to get through before Gard arrived for her next training session. She sat cross-legged on her bed, balancing a cup of tea in one hand and The Early History of the Society in the other. The book had been recommended to her by Mr. Dove, who’d been overjoyed at her interest in the subject. On any other occasion, she would have been fascinated to read about the establishment and spread of the Society in its early years, but ever since she’d taken it out, she’d been making her way slowly through the section on the later medieval period, trying to understand what it was the Trustees knew and she did not. So far, though she had learned a lot, Connie had not discovered anything she might not have guessed herself. The Trustees were right that here was a very different account from that given by Edward Alleyne. The book contained a long and detailed chapter on the first major calamity to face the Society: the rat-borne Black Death, or bubonic plague, as the modern writer explained. This writer, however, did not regard Guy de Chauliac as a hero; indeed, the universals appeared to be the villains of the piece, after Kullervo.
The Company of Universals, he wrote, acting against the wishes of the rest of the European members of the Society, dispatched their champion to challenge Kullervo to single-handed combat. This rash decision was opposed primarily because the other members thought that the reduction of the Company of Universals to only ten (already half of them had succumbed to the Black Death) meant that de Chauliac’s life was too valuable to be risked in this way. They sensibly urged that other options be tried first. The membership also feared that if de Chauliac’s will broke, he could become a tool of Kullervo, making the existing disaster seem only a rehearsal for something far more serious.
Connie had now reached the part where Guy set out alone to confront Kullervo.
There were no witnesses to what happened so we have only the vaguest idea of what took place. We know this much: de Chauliac sailed into the Arctic Circle, to the edge of the glacier where Kullervo had entered our world at the mark.
Connie pictured the man in her imagination, as he strode across the glittering white icefield, feeling for him in his loneliness and fear. Whatever the majority thought, she considered him a brave man to choose to face Kullervo.
The foolhardy challenger is thought to have survived the first hour of combat, matching the universal’s weapons to each metamorphosis of Kullervo’s, till finally—inevitably—his defenses were broken. But, clearly, Kullervo did not break his will for he did not join with him and no new disaster struck. As punishment, Kullervo took Guy and spent months exhausting him in the bonded encounter till the pain destroyed him.
Connie put the book down. Her memory had flitted back to the brief time she had spent in the air with Kullervo as he’d shifted from shape to shape, spinning her, dancing with her. That had been a bonded encounter, but its memory was almost sweet. She had for one brief moment glimpsed something in Kullervo, a joy at the myriad forms of creation, that she could relate to and respect. Was this the torture Guy had experienced? How could it be? But then, if her time with Kullervo had proved anything to her, it was that everything he did had its dark side. It was not so difficult to imagine him turning this game into a torment as he forced his companion to inhabit each form with him. Connie remembered the pain of encountering the fractured mind of the chimera. This beast contained only three natures in contention with one another. Imagine what it would be like to encounter form after form, creature after creature, each more complex, more terrible than the last? It would drive you into madness even if it didn’t kill you.
Connie returned to the book.
It has to be allowed that after the universal’s failed attempt to defeat the shape-shifter once and for all, the intensity of the Black Death declined. Kullervo was successfully distracted from pushing his plan to its conclusion. Humanity survived. But so did the plague. It would return on many occasions, though never so virulent as this outbreak, as if Kullervo was taking a playful swipe at humans, reminding us that he is waiting only for the right occasion to finish us off.
Laying the book down on the bedside table, Connie stared out at the rain streaming down the window. Kullervo would find the occasion one day. The Society should not be complacent and believe because it had always managed to forestall disaster in the past that
it could do so in the future.
Kullervo was gaining in power. Almost all the weather giants had gone over to his side now. By its greed and carelessness, humanity was driving more and more creatures into his camp. The Society was losing touch with many of them, falling from its place of respect among the mythical creatures. Connie understood this even if the Trustees did not. She had heard the echoes of doubt and dissatisfaction in the minds of the creatures she had encountered. She’d heard them in her own mind for that matter. At night, they came back to haunt her when Kullervo tempted her with her uncertainties. If someone did not do something soon, it would be too late for the Society.
But do what? Connie was still no closer to understanding what it was she had to do to defeat Kullervo. She knew she could fight him for a time, like Guy had. Once or twice she had managed to undermine him, but that had been mainly luck that she had caught him unprepared. He would be ready for her if she issued a formal challenge. She doubted she’d last even an hour under those circumstances. Guy had been a mature, fully trained universal; she barely knew anything. As Col had bluntly told her, to face him like this would be suicidal.
So, was there a way to stop Kullervo or not?
9
Testing Times
Mrs. Clamworthy dropped Col and Simon at the Mastersons’ on Saturday afternoon. The wind-shield wipers of her old Fiesta could hardly keep up with the downpour.
“Good luck!” she called after her grandson as he slammed the door shut. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”
Simon squelched after Col through the thick mud of the farmyard, which was already churned up by the passage of pupils, their mentors, and the examiners. He looked up at the sky, rain dripping off the end of his nose.
“They can’t expect you to fly in this, surely?” he asked.
Col gave a hollow laugh. “You don’t know the Society very well if you think a bit of rain will put them off. They’d probably arrange a weather giant if nature did not oblige—to make the test more ‘realistic,’ as my mentor puts it.”
“Oh,” said Simon. Most at home in front of his PlayStation, Simon was finding it hard to adjust to the outdoor life. “Okay, I s’pose I’d better wish you luck. See you later.” He splashed away into the barn to be introduced to his mentor for the Nemean lions.
Col could hear the yawning roar of Simon’s companion echoing in the rafters, which meant that the Society had finally succeeded in smuggling a lion into the country after some weeks of trying. He looked forward to hearing Simon’s reaction later. He doubted if Simon would be worried about the wet weather once he’d met his companion for the first time.
“There you are, my boy!” Captain Graves strode across the yard and slapped Col on the back. “Pleased to see you are on time for once. I suggest you go and warm up with Skylark. The examiners are just finishing lunch. I’ll bring them out when they’re ready.” The captain shook water droplets off his handlebar mustache, not much bothered by the rain that was streaming down his neck.
“Okay,” said Col. “Er…who are they this year?”
“Clare Ridley—you remember, the winner of the dressage competition?—and Sergeant Middleton, the champion in the steeplechase.”
Col remembered them very well. In the Society Games earlier that summer, where he and Skylark had again won the junior competition, these two riders had impressed him with their skill. Looking at them with their mounts, he knew that, though he and Skylark were good, they weren’t that good.
“Why’ve they both come?” Col asked, thinking it a strange coincidence that the Society’s two best riders had come to Hescombe just to examine a Grade Four flying test.
Captain Graves smiled proudly. “They’ve not said, of course, but my guess is they’re talent-scouting for the Inter-Society World Championships next summer. You may be a bit on the young side, but you’ve shown talent—yes, indeed, you’ve shown talent—and I would bet that there’s a third place in the British squad waiting for a young rider with promise.”
Col swallowed. This was an honor he’d not even dreamed of: to be invited to be part of the British squad at fourteen! Wow.
“But before you get carried away, young man,” said Captain Graves with an indulgent smile as he saw the look of wonder on his pupil’s face, “there’s the little matter of impressing them in today’s test. Hadn’t you better go and get ready?”
“Yes, sir!” said Col, sprinting off to the stables.
Skylark, you’ll never guess! burst out Col as soon as he found his companion.
The white-winged stallion ignored this and arched his neck proudly. How do I look? he asked Col, showing off his groomed mane.
You look great, said Col quickly, knowing how vain Skylark was on such occasions. At least, this time he hadn’t asked Col to braid his tail with ribbons as he had at the competition. Col kept to himself the thought that all this gleaming mane would soon be wet and windswept in the rain outside.
So, what won’t I guess? asked Skylark as Col vaulted onto his back.
Only that we’ve got Middleton and Ridley testing us. Captain Graves thinks they are talent-scouting for the British team!
Skylark gave a shiver of delight. Well, we’ll show them that they’ve come to the right place! We’ll have to be in top form today, Col: focused and ruthless.
Col felt his companion delve into his mind to explore their connection, deepening it so that their instincts were in harmony.
What’s this? Skylark had stumbled across the anxiety and irritation Col was currently feeling for Connie, plus something else that he could not put a name to, yet.
Col hunched forward against the rain and urged Skylark into a warm-up trot. It’s Connie. She thinks she’s found a way to take on Kullervo and win.
And can she? The pegasus picked up his pace to leap a fence. They did not land but circled up into the air together.
Don’t be ridiculous. No one has ever defeated him.
Have you no faith in the universal?
Of course, I do.
I think you are fooling yourself, Companion. You can’t think straight when it comes to Connie; you never could.
Col groaned. Skylark, this isn’t a good time to discuss this.
The pegasus snorted. When would it be a good time?
A whistle blew from below. Skylark and Col spiraled down to land perfectly at Captain Graves’s side. Firewings, Skylark’s mentor, gave an approving snort at his pupil’s elegant descent. Also with Captain Graves were two people dressed in the British squad’s navy flying jacket with a gold pegasus on the back. Clare Ridley, an athletic woman with shoulder-length brown hair, gave Col a friendly nod. Her formidable-looking teammate, Sergeant Middleton, was inspecting Skylark closely, water dripping from his close-cropped head, his jaw jutting forward. Col knew already that the sergeant would stand no nonsense.
“Glad to see you’ve got high presentation standards,” Sergeant Middleton said to the pegasus, patting him on the shoulder before making a note in a leather-bound notebook.
Col looked down at his mud-splattered boots and then across at Sergeant Middleton’s shining toecaps. He surreptitiously brushed at the dirt until he caught Mrs. Ridley’s eye. She was laughing at him, so he stopped and grinned back. She was right: it was too late to do anything about that now.
“Right,” barked Sergeant Middleton, “on my signal, take off and go through the first three basic maneuvers. At some point during this, I will make the signal for the emergency landing and I would like you both to descend as quickly and safely to the ground as possible, keeping yourselves under control at all times.” He blew his whistle.
Col did not even have to urge Skylark forward: his mount was already galloping into the rain for takeoff. Gaining height, Skylark began to go through the prescribed moves—both of them sharing a secret yawn at the pedestrian nature of what they were doing. Left turn. Right turn. Forward dive and recover. Just as they reached the top of their recovery, the whistle blew again.
The mangy mule! Skylark snorted, plunging down in a beautifully judged emergency dive. He waited till we were at the most difficult point!
Of course, said Col, far from annoyed that they had a chance to display their abilities in something more exciting than boring turns. They landed with a neat thud next to Sergeant Middleton, who was looking smug as he enjoyed the trick he’d just played on them. Mrs. Ridley came over to him to talk. Col and Skylark waited while the two champions whispered together.
“I think we’ve seen enough of the Grade Four moves to know what mark to award,” Sergeant Middleton said to Captain Graves. Col’s mentor looked surprised: there were still many more moves that the examiners were supposed to test. “We thought we’d give the candidates a chance to show us their full repertoire. I don’t think we’ll waste any more time on Grade Four. What do you say, Clamworthy?”
Col hesitated. Was this a trap? Were they testing him to see if he was going to break the rules by doing moves he was not qualified for?
“What repertoire?” he asked innocently.
Mrs. Ridley smiled. “Oh, you can’t fool us into thinking that you and Skylark learned to fly as you do by never going beyond Grade Four, Col.”
Careful, said Skylark to Col in the privacy of their bond.
“Er…well…” said Col, wishing Captain Graves would help him out of this spot.
“We think you’re both quite ready to do what you do best: fly. No limitations. You have our permission to do whatever you feel you’ve mastered, just don’t attempt anything you can’t do safely. We want to see what you’re made of.”
Captain Graves was struggling with his desire to allow Col and Skylark to show off before the British squad and his equally strong wish to stick to the rules. “Anything, Clare?” he asked.
“Yes, anything, Michael. Oh, don’t worry. It’s all official. We got permission from Kira and Windfoal before we came out here. They told us Col and Skylark had used some impressive unconventional moves in operational circumstances. We want to see them for ourselves.”
“I suppose that’s all right then,” said Captain Graves as if he doubted what he was saying.