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Mrs Carruthers and her friend stood up, collected their crossword books and headed for the exit. At the green door, Mr Seth bowed, cartoonishly, like a peasant chasing a piglet who'd stumbled into the path of a pair of princesses. The crones giggled. Their fossilised flirting with Mr Seth made me queasier than the Blackgum lecture.
I pointed up at the whiteboard. "What does the rest of it mean? Who are the Blessed: the Forgers and the Ferine? Hello, Mr Seth?"
The ladies exited regally, and Mr Seth held the door open, his tanned face creased with chivalrous pleasure. But as he closed the door behind him, the old man's face collapsed again and he was all business.
"We all start out as Forgers," he said. "Contrary to some myths, babies have very strong souls. That's why Blackgum are frightened of them. Either their souls or the stench of diapers. As we age, most of us lose our zest. Forgers are the people in this world who keep their passion. Who press buttons and pull the levers."
"Like politicians, you mean?"
"Far from it," snorted Mr Seth. "Forgers make a real difference. Researchers who discover vaccines for diseases, inventors who make our lives less painful, poets who reduce us to tears and bring us together, adventurers who set out for new lands and planets. Farmers who plough the earth to feed us. Creators and discoverers."
"And the Ferine?"
"Wild things: soaring eagles, ravenous lions, sleepless sharks and ancient crocodiles. Venomous snakes and laughing hyena chasing down wounded prey. Swarms of locusts and wasps; and armies of termites. Giant trees with roots that tear up the pavements and crush fallen cities. Many were here before us; and I'm sure they will survive the fall of man."
"And woman," I said, pleased to catch him out at his own game.
"Indeed, lad. Ferine are natural allies of neither the Blackgum nor the Forgers. They would conquer both if given half a chance.
I shuddered, remembering the bugs at Mark's party. And the Ferine were in the Blessed column: the good guys!
"What about the Imperilled?"
"Two kinds: the Ts&Cs and the Passengers."
"Ts&Cs?"
"The Tamed and Crops. Domesticated cats, dogs, sheep, cows, goats - the whole of Old McDonald's farm. And fields of wheat and rye, corn and rice ploughed and harvested in neat rows."
"And the Passengers?"
"Men and women who've lost their way. People who've given up trying to control their lives, who are happy to let the Forgers tell them what to do and how to think, or who spend their lives criticising Forgers, cutting them down jealously or drowning them in red tape. Slugs who trudge off to dead end jobs all day and gobble chips in front of the TV at night. Monks who retreat into silent monasteries while people around them starve. Analysts, consultants, commentators, and lawyers. Doctors prescribing useless pills and self-help gurus who add nothing but noise and jargon, playing on our fears and vanity. A hopeless bunch."
"What about my mother?" I asked. "She's sick. Are you saying she's Imperilled?"
"Yes, of course" said Mr Seth. "Don't you understand yet? This whole town. The reason I came back. Quakehaven is Imperilled. I can smell it. I think you can as well. There's an epicentre nearby - like someone's calling the Blackgum together. For a Big Hunt."
"The boss?"
"I've felt a few of these calls over the years. But this is not some Vampire Lord calling a convention to discuss the latest in fang dentures, or a Gorgan jamboree for the gals to swap viper-hair care tips. A battle's brewing. And, somewhere close, scheming and counting down the days hides the Zealtor."
"Zealtor?" I asked. "The king Blackgum?"
"In a sense," said Mr Seth. "Though he would refuse such a moniker."
"But you're here to fight him," I said. "Like a white wizard?"
Mr Seth pounded the Devout column of the whiteboard, knocking the markers onto the floor. "You're new to all this," he snarled. "But if you had any idea of what you'd just accused me of, you'd be worried for your life."
I scanned Mr Seth's face for a twinkle in even one of his eyes to suggest he was joking. The face that glared back at me was an iron mask wrought from menace. I knew then that Mr Seth was no crotchety old man with a heart of gold. He was dangerous.
Mr Seth's lips twitched, like a Doberman as it bared its teeth at a startled burglar. "What I've been talking about - The Blackgum, the Forgers, the Ferine, the T&Cs and the Passengers - is Nature at war with herself. Survival of the fittest. Messy, but natural."
He slapped the first row under the Devout column, smudging the ink. "The Witches play a different game. They mess around with forces they don't understand."
"What forces?" I asked, trying to imagine what could be worse than the soulless Blackgum.
"Old things. Things banished long ago. Things that must not be allowed back."
"Do these things have names?" I asked.
"Legion," said Mr Seth, laughing as if he'd made a joke.
"Huh?"
"Legion are their names. They have many names. Have you heard of Ammit, or Vanth?"
I shook my head.
"You are fortunate. How about Belial or Beelzebub?"
Beelzebub rang a bell. Some old comic of Dad's I'd read a long time ago. "Beelzebub," I repeated. "Isn't he Lord of the Flies?"
"Impressive," said Mr Seth. "Not many young men know that title, which is probably a mistranslation in Matthew 12:24-27."
"Isn't he a demon?" I asked.
"Demon can mean anything these days. Some of you twits even include the Blackgum. But if you mean d-a-e-m-o-n - meaning a divinity or supernatural being - you're getting closer."
"Then what are they?"
"Gods," said Mr Seth, sadly. "Fallen gods."
"What have Gods got to do with Witches?"
Mr Seth sighed. "You probably think Witches are withered old hags with hooked noses or young blondes waving magic wands and flying about on broomsticks?"
"Yes, actually," I admitted.
"I blame TV. Elizabeth Montgomery and Melissa Joan Hart are pretty, but about as frightening as doilies. If you'd taken the time to research the subject properly - I recommend the Malleus Maleficarum by Sprenger and Kramer, as a primer - you’d know that witches are blind disciples. Apostles. Priests. Doorways."
"Doorways?" I asked.
"Yes. Foolishly signposting the road back into this world, after we've spent so much time trying to hide our tracks. Luring Gods who would devour nations - Forgers and Passengers, the Ferine and Ts&Cs, everyone and everything - just as easily as you or I would slurp up a scoop of vanilla ice-cream."
"What if there was a witch in Quakehaven?" I asked.
"There isn't," said Mr Seth.
"But what if there were?"
"I'd kill her," said Mr Seth simply, with not a scintilla of hesitation or doubt.
Reeling and overloaded with information, I sat down at the desk, and carefully transcribed the table into my exercise book. When I finished, I looked up to see Mr Seth watching me patiently.
"Any questions?" he asked.
"What's that thing?" I asked pointing at the black box on the table. "Where do attack calculators fit in?"
"Everywhere," said Mr Seth. "Inanimate things - do you know what inanimate means?"
"Not alive," I nodded. Dad had taught me the word. "Like rocks, and rivers and toothbrushes and -”
"Calculators," interrupted Mr Seth. "Exactly. They don't have souls, like Forgers and Ferine and the rest. But everything in this world has a spirit, an essence, if you like. Sometimes good, sometimes bad."
"Which does that thing have?" I said gesturing at the calculator.
"Depends on its mood," smirked Mr Seth. The calculator appeared to pulse, almost like it was annoyed. "Sshh boy!" said Mr Seth, and the box settled. "This one is inhabited by a good spirit. Feisty, but good. We call good spirits Helpers, for obvious reasons."
I sat down and inspected the calculator's carved case, thinking. "So you're a good guy," I sai
d. "Helped by Helpers. The Zealtor's a bad guy, ruling the Blackgum. And Witches are just crazy."
Mr Seth closed his eyes. "Out of the crooked timber of humanity no straight thing was ever made," he intoned.
"What?" I asked, dumfounded by yet more riddles.
"Something a very smart Forger once said. Things never turn out as simple in the real world as in modern fairy stories. The older tales were closer to the mark. Good doesn't always win. The hero doesn't always save the world. You know this."
"Yes," I said, thinking of Dad, the ultimate good guy.
"I know this is already complicated, but you've got to realise that the Zealtor thinks he's the good guy, to use your vernacular, and that I'm the bad guy. He thinks that by sucking the souls out of every living thing, we'll all be content, safe in our houses. No conflict in our hearts or out on the streets."
"No more fighting, no danger," I said. "That sounds pretty good to me."
"Yes, tempting, I know. But no freedom either. We would all be slaves."
"So it's a choice between... Um." I hesitated, my brain beginning to fry. "Sorry, what is the fight for? Or about?"
Mr Seth exhaled and tapped his foot. "Let me put it this way. The Zealtor fights for control of everyone. I fight for freedom, even if the various ways people waste their freedom sicken me."
I closed my eyes. An image of winking wings fluttered across my eyelids, and I realised that the wings at the kitchen window were no costume or act of puppetry. My heart pounded. "Are you human?"
"Of course I am, stupid boy," said Mr Seth, offended. "And so is the Zealtor for that matter, if you define a human as a hominid of the homo sapiens species with at least one soul. The Zealtor has too many souls, you see: he harvests them. That's how he controls the Blackgum."
"But -" I said, more confused than ever.
"I'm just a man, though better trained than most. I'm a Scattersmith."
"Like a blacksmith?" There was a smithy at Midas Mountain that made iron horse shoes for tourists.
"Yes, a smith that scatters things, makes chaos and opportunity, core ingredients of freedom."
"And Dad?"
"He was a Scattersmith too. A great one, and my good friend."
"What about me?"
"You?" he said, staring up at the whiteboard, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. "Paddy, I appreciate what I've told you is a lot to take in - and we don't have much -"
"Time, yeah I know, you've told me a hundred times. Just tell me what you want. What you need me to do."
For the first time since I'd entered the study room, the old man turned his full attention to me. His black eyes glinted. Under the muted lights of the dank room, his shadow twisted, swathing me in darkness. Then the fire in his obsidian eyes died.
"I need you to help me find and fight the Zealtor," he whispered. "We need to save Quakehaven. And every soul in her."
7. NEW ATTRACTIONS
Lots to think about.
As I closed the front door behind me, familiar angry wings beat a furious tattoo against lacquered wood. "Sorry again, Katy," I said to the irked guard budgie. The green and yellow bird tilted her head and glared, then resumed her dinner of dried cuttlefish.
Sweating from the bike ride, despite the cold, I kicked off my shoes, pulled off my gloves and shrugged off my jacket. The hallway was redolent of caramel and mustard.
I traced the wonderful smell to the dining room. I stood in the doorway for a while and watched the happy scene. Mum and Aunt Bea sat next to each other on the near side of the oak dining table, like two school girls. Mum and Aunt Bea must have felt a draught, for they looked up together, smiled and beckoned me in.
I closed the door, shutting out the cold. I almost felt sorry for Katy. Against the far wall, a fire crackled in the hearth under a granite mantle. The lights had been dimmed, but I could see tendrils of smoke twisting up the chimney. A huge slab of roast beef sat on a silver tray in the middle of the table, surrounded by bowls filled with roast potatoes, carrots and peas. An apple crumble sat next to it, untouched. My mouth watered.
"Paddy/boy" sang Mum and Aunt Bea in unison, then giggled. In the dim room they looked younger.
"Sit down with us and have a drink," said Mum.
"Bridget!" exclaimed Aunt Bea, reaching forward to encircle the half empty bottle of red wine with her arms and chest. "He's far too young -"
"Of lemonade, Beatrice!" grinned Mum, shaking her head. The two women descended into a fresh fit of giggles. For once, they looked like sisters.
"What are we celebrating?" I asked. "Did we win the lottery?
"Almost as good," beamed Aunt Bea, relaxing her cordon around the wine bottle and pouring Mum another glass. "Dr Vassel was here earlier, and declared your Mum on the mend. Fit as a fiddle."
"More like a cello," said Mum patting her stomach. "Especially if I keep eating like this!"
"Great news!" I said, jumping out of my seat and running counter-clockwise around the oval table. I lent in to peck her cheek, and Mum bear-hugged me, squeezing the air out of my lungs with her surprising strength. She moved to slap my back and, as I braced for the impact, she spun me toward her gently with her left hand, then, with her right, deftly dropped something light, but cold, into my shirt pocket. I looked down to inspect it, but Mum grabbed my chin and held my gaze. I drew back and arched my eyebrow, but Mum shook her head very slightly, then turned back to her right, and scooped up a ladle of baby carrots.
"Doc Vassel also said that Mark was recovering well," said Mum, her voice light. "He'll be back at school tomorrow."
"Great!" I repeated, genuinely relieved. I walked back to my chair.
"And yet more good news," continued Aunt Bea. "About the Beltway."
"You stopped it?" I asked.
"No. The Government's too focused on progress to ever stop a project," said Aunt Bea, her thin lips pursed. "But almost as good. Council met with Mr Barker and the Government today. Mr Barker's promised to develop a new attraction in Quakehaven - with the Council chipping in some seed money to help, of course. In return, the Government's agreed to build an exit near the Lake. We'll put up so many signs advertising the new attraction that people will feel compelled to turn off and visit."
"You and Mr Barker agreed on something?" I said, amazed.
"A real turn up for the books, I know," laughed Aunt Bea. "For once, Barker's self interest just happens to coincide with the interests of Quakehaven. I doubt the truce will last - you should see his plans for Wane Park! But, when we team up, it'll take much more than a road to stop us from getting what we want!"
"Forgers," I muttered under my breath, remembering Mr Seth's name for movers and shakers. The perfect description of Aunt Bea and Mr Barker - that's probably why they fought so much.
I looked up. Mum was carving up the roast beef. Aunt Bea stared at me. "What did you say, boy?" she asked, and I realised I had muttered over my breath!
"I said 'gorgeous', Aunt Bea. A new attraction will be gorgeous for Quakehaven. What's it going to be, Aunt? The attraction, I mean?"
"My lips are sealed, boy," my Aunt said. "Council confidentiality. Not even Mr Fisk knows, though he's called me three times today to try to prise it from my zipped lips! It's going to be announced very soon, though. The good times will soon be back for our beautiful town!"
"Oh Little Town of Quakehaven," sang Mum in her husky alto. "How sweet thou are tonight!"
The sisters broke into an even sillier fit of giggles. They could be so immature. "I'll give you a clue, though, boy," warbled Aunt Bea, her voice the tuneless soprano of a terrified washerwoman plummeting downhill on a roller coaster. "It bites."
Later, I was putting my clothes into the clothes basket, after my bath, when the cold object Mum had stuffed into my pocket fell out. I bent down. It was a silver case about the size of a packet of cigarettes. Mum hated cigarettes, so I didn't have to open it to know it wasn't filled with cancer sticks, but I flicked open the lid anyway,
curious to know what was in it.
A deck of playing cards. I rolled my eyes, disappointed. I closed the lid, tossed the case back into my shirt pocket, and threw my shirt into my washing hamper. Mum probably thought smuggling a deck into the house was as close as we could safely go without breaching Aunt Bea's 'no games' rule. But playing snap with myself was way too weak to risk a fight with Aunt Bea - I'd rather do homework. Almost!