###
The last weeks of Winter were dominated by death and departure. We said prayers to the lost and the forgotten - Mark, Mr Tangen, Mick, Justine, Mr Lyons, Mr Walker, Mr Dixon, Tim, Uncle Gerry and, with mixed emotions, Mr Fisk and Aunt Bea. Mrs Dixon gratefully accepted the trip I'd won for winning the bridge competition and used it to return to her work in Guam.
Without saying good-bye, Joke disappeared with nothing but my suit, my paltry paper-route money, my Helper and his tatty blue certificate of scholarship to Pinkerton. As the closest Joke had to a guardian, Mum had immediately put in a call to Pinkerton's headmaster. The principal had confirmed Joke had made it to the school safely, aced his interview and been accepted as a boarder. I missed my best friend and Platto. But I was glad they had each other.
Spring arrived. People rebuilt their houses and shops. Some rebuilt their lives. Mrs Kroker and Doc Vassel eloped in Las Vegas. They sent us a postcard.
The town consensus was another earthquake had hit. Despite the absence of evidence, people believed what they wanted to believe and focused their efforts on recovery. Mr Barker started work on Midas Mountain and DinoQuake in memory of Mark, complete with both the Minmi-bridge and Mark's gleaming Pterosaur cable car.
One hot day, Mum and I were sitting under the shade of the Pomegranate tree. Mum studied Sub Rosa's floorplans. I watched a carpenter narrow the eaves of the house to allow more light to fall on the garden. The tree's twin saplings basked merrily in the sunshine. Absently, I fingered the locket chain I'd tied around my wrist, being careful not to dislodge the ash-pebble. With Mum's help, I'd set Mr Seth's pebble in place of the swan pendant to remember him by.
We were about a fortnight away from moving back into the house. The roof had been retiled, and the rooms professionally cleaned and repainted from top to bottom. We'd decided not to rebuild the conservatory - too many bad memories - and the foundations had been dug up for the construction of my new games room. Mum stubbornly called it a study! I was about to get up to look at the progress of the new room when suddenly I remembered something. "Mum," I said. "That night, you know?"
"Yes," Mum replied, lowering the floorplans onto her crossed legs and looking me straight in the eye. We always referred to the Zealtor battle as 'that night'.
"Aunt Bea said something to you, that night," I said. "About me."
Mum sighed, and buried her nose in the plans.
"Aunt Bea said something about telling me the truth. That I deserve it. That I'm ready."
Mum sat up straight, exhaled and threw the plans onto the ground. "Then I guess you are," said Mum. "I'm not sure if I'm ready. But it's time you knew."
"What?" I asked.
"About your father," Mum said, closing her eyes and setting her jaw.
"What about him?" I whispered, suddenly excited but more than a little frightened.
"He's not dead. Not as you think of it, anyway," she said. "But he may as well be. He's trapped."
"In prison?" I asked. Mum shook her head. "We have to save him," I said, suddenly furious. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? We've just been mucking around watching TV, reading books and watching the paint dry on this old house. We could have been out rescuing him."
Mum pursed her lips. "This is why I didn't want to tell you. The truth is, you're not ready to help him yet."
"I was ready enough to save you!" I said, hotly.
"That was Quakehaven and a single Zealtor - one, as it turns out, we were lucky enough to be related to. We need to recover, to recharge our batteries from that night. You need more training. A lot more: it's going to take more than a Witch and a first year Scattersmith Novice to pull this off. Shadow-calling will only get you so far, especially without your Helper. We need considerably more firepower."
"Who's going to teach me the Smith stuff? Witches hate Scattersmiths. The Schism and all that."
Mum nodded. "We do. And for good reason. But I'm willing to make an exception to save your father."
"OK, then," I said, kicking my feet up and down impatiently on the grass. “Do you know any Smith Masters nearby?"
"Um, you could say that,” said Mum. “I've been meaning to talk to you about that too."
"Huh?" I wasn't sure how many more revelations I could take!
"Well, um. How do I say this without upsetting you? Ah -"
A gruff, male voice cleared its throat in the back of my head, like a blast of static. "I think what she's trying to say," intoned the familiar, rude voice, "is that you have an ancient Scattersmith lodging in here. And he's not going anywhere for the foreseeable future, so you'd best get used to it!"
I grabbed my skull between my hands and shook it like my rocket moneybox.
"Mr Seth?!" I yelped, looking at Mum with wide-eyed horror. "In my head?"
"Yes," said Mum and Mr Seth simultaneously.
"How?" I asked, incredulous, then glanced at the chain wrapped around my wrist, and the ash-pebble affixed to it. I tore the chain off and hurled it behind two roots of the Pomegranate tree.
"Not as slow as usual," marvelled Mr Seth, sarcastically. "Though I didn't enjoy being thought of as some sort of trinket or memento. The curse was broken when you snapped the necklace. But it retained some of its juice; helped you absorb me through your skin. It’s nice to share head-space with someone with a heart-beat, by the way. You do think silly thoughts most of the time, though. Like this games room. What's the point? Wouldn't you prefer to convert it into a bachelor pad so you can sneak girls in without the Witch watching!?"
Mr Seth planted an image of what he meant in my head. My face glowed with embarrassment. "Aargh! He's actually in my head!" I shrieked at Mum, clutching my head like a bowling ball.
"It's only temporary," said Mum, sympathetically leaning over to ruffle my hair. "The Smith needs a body to survive, and you need a master to train you up. I didn't think you'd object, in the circumstances. It will help accelerate your progress. So we can go and get your Dad."
I dropped my hands to my side. "I'd do anything for that," I said.
"I know, which is why I helped Mr Seth survive my sister's flames."
"Just like she lent you a secret hand with the Tim-Beast, Manticores and the Giant," sniffed the Smith. "She amplified your natural talents, at some considerable cost to her health, I should add. But you're a natural."
"Thanks," I said, as usual unsure whether Mr Seth was paying me a compliment or insulting me.
"We left you to rest as long as we could," said Mum. "Though I wish we could push this day back further, we don't have a lot of time left."
"Understood," I said, all business. "Where's Dad being held? Where are we going?"
Mum looked down at her crossed-knees. "Have you heard of the Hollow Place?"
I shook my head.
"It's an Otherworld. Different from... Well. Worse than. I mean... Not to alarm you, but...."
"What your mother is trying to say," said the Smith. "Rather incoherently for an English teacher, I must say. Must run in the family. Explains a lot, actually."
"Yes?" I said impatiently to both the Witch and the Smith.
"Don't interrupt me, lad," snapped Mr Seth. "I don't care if it is your head."
"Just tell me!" I demanded.
"It's like an underworld," said Mum, flapping her hands around like weary sea-gulls. A different place to here. Not a nice ambience. A bit, well -."
"Witches!" snort-thought Mr Seth. "Lad: listen up. What your mother's trying to spit out - what she is attempting to say - is that we are all going to Hell!"
ABOUT DAVID JAMES KANE
David was born in an old gold mining town in Victoria, Australia. He grew up listening to ghost stories around school campfires, and started to write his own in second grade to scare his sisters. Senseless!
Years later, on the other side of the world, David took a job at an investment bank. There, he learned a lot about monsters – and not the pretty-pouting-perfumed vamps and well-groomed werewolves you read
about or see on screens.
So let me tell you the truth about real monsters…
www.davidjameskane.com
https://twitter.com/Scattersmith
Sydney, January 2013
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