The Cradle of All Worlds

VOICES IN THE DARK

My sleep’s usually riddled with nightmares. Flashes of babies crying, strangers running from monsters, never-ending stone corridors and a blinding white light. Most of the time it’s just me, drowning in a faraway sea. No wonder Violet thinks I’m scared of the dark. I always wake up screaming, twisted in my sweaty sheets. This, though – actually being knocked unconscious – ain’t too shabby at all, like being wrapped in a thick, warm blanket. A floating cocoon where no bad dream can touch you. A safe place, deeper than normal sleep.

Only problem is you have to wake up.

‘I was surprised to get your message.’ A deep voice tugs at my ears. ‘Capturing her after all these years. Throwing her inside this thing. Quite the change of character, Robin.’

‘Perhaps.’ An old and scratchy voice. Her voice. ‘But I have my reasons.’

‘So you keep saying. You have not, however, told me what those reasons are. Nothing is ever this simple with you. You haven’t set foot on a boat in years. How did you know she was going to end up in the water? You cannot tell me it was mere coincidence.’

‘Of course it was no coincidence. There is no such thing.’

‘Then how –’

‘You have waited fourteen years for this moment, Eric. I am surprised you are asking any questions at all. I have handed over the girl. She is no longer under my protection.’

A moment of silence.

‘You know what this means, Robin. What you’re giving me permission to do. You may have struck a deal with my predecessor, but I won’t stand for it. Breaking curfew, wandering the streets, knocking on my door, bold as brass. Attacking an innocent group of people – attacking my own son. And another quake – today of all days – hours before the Lament? They’re getting worse. We all know it. We cannot live like this. We won’t.’

‘Like I said, I can protect her no more.’

‘And what of the other?’

‘His time will come soon enough. Leave him be. Now, if you please, Ms Doe is about to wake up. I would like a quick word with her alone.’

‘You think you can tell me –’

‘I know I can tell you, Eric. Out. Don’t even think about listening at the door. After I am through with Jane you may do what you wish, but until then I want absolute privacy.’

I don’t like the sound of this, but she’s right about one thing. My cocoon’s unravelling, slowly spinning me through the dark. A door slams shut. My eyes blink open. Shapes blur, senses sharpen. It’s time to face the waking world again, whether I like it or not.

THE CAGE AND THE CURATOR

The worst thing about being known as the Cursed One is that when you’re just minding your own business, following instructions from a secret message, you can somehow end up being chased, drowned, trapped in a fishing net and smacked in the head with a shotgun. My head hurts, my mouth tastes like a rotten sock full of seaweed, and I’m pretty sure there’s a dead fish trapped in my undies. I feel for the little guy, but at least its troubles are over.

Mine, it seems, have only just begun.

‘Welcome back to the world of the living, Jane.’

I’m sprawled on the floor of a cage. A cage lashed to the back of a wagon parked in a poky old boat shed. My cloak’s long gone, my tunic’s still damp, my wrists and feet are tied, and there’s a rag stuffed in my mouth. A little rowboat’s leaning against the wall to my right, surrounded by a clutter of crates and anchors. To my left –

Oh no.

Winifred Robin’s staring down at me.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I am not going to hurt you. I trust you already know my name.’ I nod, just the once, my eyes fixed on hers. She doesn’t shy away, doesn’t blink. ‘Good. I am the curator of the Museum of Otherworldly Antiquities. Sorry about the cage and bindings, but I had no choice. I will remove your gag but you must understand, crying out for help would be rather pointless.’ I flinch as she reaches through the bars. ‘Easy now. Easy.’

I lean towards her, transfixed by the jagged scars crisscrossing her face, neck and hands. Are they claw marks? Battle wounds? Really, really bad paper cuts?

‘Lovely,’ the woman mutters, throwing the spit-drenched gag to the floor. ‘There was another quake while you were in the water. Just a tremble, really, but I am afraid your little escapade has set everybody on edge. They feared you might summon another upon waking.’

I try to spit the dirty taste from my mouth. It doesn’t work. ‘Listen, lady –’

‘Winifred.’

‘Right. Winifred, whatever. Look, you’ve got the wrong idea here. It wasn’t my fault the jetty broke. If those idiots hadn’t chased me out there in the first place –’

‘I do not care about the jetty.’

‘Then tell everyone I was only following the mayor’s orders. Where’s my cloak? Check the pockets. There’s a photo inside with a message on the back, and –’

‘I know of the message.’ Winifred plucks a silver hip-flask from her cloak, throws it through the bars onto my lap. ‘Drink. It is tea infused with a sprig of feverfew. A herb to soothe your head.’

‘Sure it is.’ I nudge the flask aside. ‘Thanks.’

‘For goodness’ sake, girl, I am not trying to poison you. If I wanted you dead I would have let you drown. I understand it may be difficult for you to believe, but I am on your side.’

‘My side? I’m sorry, but did I wake up on a different island or did you accidentally whack yourself in the head as well? You do know who I am, right?’

‘Of course.’

‘But you don’t hate me.’

‘No.’

‘You’re not scared of me? Not even a little bit?’

Winifred sighs, cocks an eyebrow.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘If you’re my pal, why throw me in a cage?’

‘That is . . . complicated.’ Winifred wanders over to one of the grimy windows set into the boat shed’s double doors. ‘What would you say if I told you every man, woman and child on Bluehaven was in grave danger and you were the only person who could help them?’

‘I’d say you’ve clearly been sampling too many of your special herbs.’ I pick up the flask with my bound hands, give it a cautious sniff. ‘Why?’

Winifred turns around. ‘Because every man, woman and child on Bluehaven is in grave danger and you are the only person who can help them.’

Silence fills the shed, but not for long. A bubble of laughter swells in my gut and bursts from my mouth. I can’t help it. It’s a real shame, too. Unable to stand the taste in my mouth any longer, I’d just decided it was safe to take a swig of tea. It was hot and sweet and it really did make my head feel better. Now it’s gone up my nose and down my chin.

Winifred isn’t impressed. ‘This is no laughing matter, Jane.’

‘But – but this is a joke, right? Some sort of prank for the festival.’

‘Unfortunately for us all, it is not.’ Winifred circles my cage like a shark. ‘The tension that has existed between you and the rest of the townsfolk is about to reach boiling point. Mayor Obi and I came to an agreement long ago – gods bless his soul – but Eric Atlas is not as understanding, or as forgiving. I was talking to him before you woke up. He is furious about what transpired earlier. Convinced you tried to drown his son.’

‘That’s a load of rubbish! I told you, check my cloak. Atlas told me to meet him –’

‘No,’ Winifred says, ‘he didn’t.’

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It was her. It had to be her. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me, the sparkle in her goddamn eyes. ‘It was you. You gave me the photo. Why?’

‘Because sometimes fate needs a little nudge in the right direction.’

‘What fate? What the hell are you talking about?’

Winifred stops pacing, grips the cage bars. ‘Everything is about to change, Jane. Something terrible is about to happen to this island – terrible yet absolutely necessary. Atlas will come for you soon. Do not fight him. Play along. You must trust me.’

‘Trust you? Lady, I don’t even know you.’

‘But I know you, Jane Doe.’ Winifred swivels her wrist and plucks another photograph from her sleeve. ‘Better than you can possibly imagine.’ She places the photo on the cage floor, strides over to the big wooden doors.

‘Hey,’ I shout, ‘you can’t leave me here. If you’re on my side, help me.’

‘I am helping you,’ Winifred says. ‘I wish I could tell you everything now, but dusk is steadily approaching. Answers will come.’ She nods at the photo. ‘Trust me.’

I lose it when she leaves. Kick at the cage, try to untie my feet with my hands and my wrists with my teeth, but the knots are all too tight. I even hurl myself into the wooden bars and try to tip the wagon over. The damn thing doesn’t budge. With nothing left to do, I swear under my breath and shuffle over to the photo.

I freeze.

‘No way . . .’

It’s similar to Dad’s photo: crinkled, soft at the edges, could’ve lived in Winifred’s pocket for years. But this one is of me – baby me, I’m sure of it. Even though the photo’s sepia-toned, my amber eyes shine a little too brightly. I’m sitting in some sort of library, smiling up at the camera, wearing one of the books as a hat.

I flip the photo and frown. There’s some kind of symbol drawn on the back. An almost-triangle, like a shark fin or a thorn, surrounded by a circle.

And beneath the symbol, another message.

Everything happens for a reason.

WORST-CASE SCENARIOS

My tunic gets clammy in the stifling heat. The sun creeps towards the horizon, beaming dusty shafts of light through the gaps in the boat shed walls. A mishmash of tribal drums drifts down from Outset Square, mingled with the faraway sounds of laughter.

The Manor Lament has begun. Hours must’ve passed since Winifred left.

Worst-case scenarios claw at my mind. The mayor and his goon squad crashing through the doors, pitchforks raised and ready to skewer. Mr and Mrs Hollow wandering in with a tub of popcorn, ready to enjoy the show. Peg throwing me back into the water. The fact that none of them have happened yet can only mean Atlas is planning something bad. Really bad. The man knows my weak spot, after all. He knows what would hurt me most.

He could go after Dad.

I haven’t left him alone this long in years. Atlas could burst into the basement, drag him from his bed and throw him out onto the street, and I wouldn’t be there to stop him. Peg could throw him into the water. Dad would sink faster than I did. Wouldn’t stand a chance.

The thought alone makes my hands tremble.

I just want to get back to the basement and make sure he’s okay. Rustle up some grub, settle him in for the night, maybe even tell him a story or sing him a song. Dad loves my songs. I can tell. I’m not one to blow my own horn, but I’m pretty sure I’m a great singer.

I should sing a bit now to pass the time, but I’m not in the mood. Instead, I fumble through my undies and throw the fish corpse across the room. No easy task with two bound hands. I tap my feet. I sweat. I try the ropes again, and sweat some more. Stare at the photo till my eyes ache and blur, then try to find a hidden clue in Winifred’s message, a secret meaning behind the symbol. Strange, but I can’t help feeling I’ve seen it somewhere before.

Also, I kinda need to pee. I’m seriously considering taking a squat in the corner when there’s a flurry of tapping somewhere behind me. I drop the photo. Violet’s waving down at me through a window high on the back wall, face painted in stripes of black, orange and white. She’s supposed to be a tiger, but she couldn’t look less fearsome if she tried. She’s wielding a toffee-apple half the size of her head. I’ve never been happier to see her in my life.

‘Go round the front,’ I shout. ‘I don’t think the door’s locked, so you don’t need to break the –’ Violet shatters the pane of glass with her toffee-apple. ‘Never mind.’

‘Jane whatever-your-middle-name-is Doe.’ Violet ditches her treat and clambers in, dropping down onto a stack of crates. ‘I leave you for one second and – whoa. That sucker on your forehead’s the size of a chestnut! Does it hurt? It looks gross. Like, really, really –’

‘I’m hideous. I get it. How did you know I was here, Violet?’

‘Eric Junior. Heard him bragging to Meredith Platt at the festival. She was getting her face painted same time as me. Got a butterfly on her cheek. Can you believe that?’

‘Focus, Violet. What did he say, exactly?’

‘Eric Junior? He said you tried to drown all the fisherfolk and Winifred Robin caught you. And he said it’s a secret. I don’t think many people know yet. Cool cage, by the way.’

‘Yeah, I love it. Almost want to stay here forever.’

‘Yeah.’ She cocks her head. ‘Wait, really?’

‘No! Of course not. Thanks for coming, kid. Look through that junk down there for something to cut this damn rope. We’ve gotta get out of here, pronto.’

Violet leaps down from the crates and searches through the junk scattered around the shed. ‘By the way, I waited, like, half an hour for you. Even after the little quake happened. Then I went home, just like you said, and I waited and waited –’

‘Did you check on my dad? Is he okay?’

‘He’s fine. I told you he’d be fine. I sat with him for a while, but then I got really, really bored, and thought maybe Atlas might’ve taken you to check out the festival, so I headed back to Outset and – well, then I got distracted.’ She rummages through a tackle box. ‘You should’ve told me you were gonna wreck half the cove.’

‘It was an accident, Violet. And it wasn’t half the cove, it was one jetty.’

‘Still. Would’ve been cool to see.’ She pulls a small fishing knife from the tackle box and skips towards the cage. ‘I could’ve helped you teach ’em a lesson.’

Bless her little boots. She hacks away at the rope around my hands, chewing on her tongue. She always chews on her tongue when she concentrates. Her parents hate it. Actually, they seem to hate everything about her. Maybe they love her deep down, but they never show it. Truth is, they’ve resented her ever since she became friends with the girl in the basement.

They tried to stop it happening. For the first two years of Violet’s life, Mr and Mrs Hollow made sure we were never in the same room together. Before I was let upstairs to clean the house, she’d be locked in her room. Before she was brought down to the kitchen, I’d be locked in mine. I’d hear her crying and giggling, blowing raspberries upstairs, but I never saw her. After a while, I heard her little baby footsteps. I’d hold my ear to the basement door and listen to the tales Mrs Hollow would tell her over breakfast. Scary stories of bad things lurking under houses and demons posing as amber-eyed girls. But the Hollows didn’t know who they were dealing with. Even as a toddler, Violet was enthralled. I began to hear her shuffling around outside the door. One day I looked through the keyhole and saw her eyeball staring right back. Mrs Hollow dragged her away and told her she could burst into flames just by looking at me, which only made the little pyro want to see me even more. She sneaked outside a few hours later and made her way round to the basement window. I’ll never forget that moment. Me, standing at the base of Dad’s bed, looking up. Violet fogging up the glass with her breath, smiling down.

The rest, as they say, is history.

‘So,’ Violet says now, ‘what was she like?’

‘What was who like?’

‘Winifred Robin.’ Violet tuts at me. ‘Come on, you could act a little more excited. She’s only the most amazing adventurer Bluehaven’s ever seen. She’s been into the Manor more times than anyone. I’ve read all her books. Kids at school say she went batty after the Manor shut up shop, like most of the old folks round here, I s’pose. She lives under the museum. Never talks to anyone. She’s pretty much a hermit, but, like, a cool one. And you actually got to meet her.’

‘Lucky me.’ Violet cuts through the last few strands of rope and it unravels to the cage floor. I rub the red-raw marks around my wrists and take the knife. ‘Thanks.’

I saw away at the rope around my feet.

‘Why didn’t you just untie that with your hands?’ Violet asks.

‘I tried, but the woman ties knots like a pirate. As for what she was like?’ Actually, I have no idea how to describe Winifred. On one hand, yeah, she smacked me in the head with a shotgun and stuffed me in a cage. On the other, she saved my life. Even offered me a refreshing, poison-free beverage. I cut through the rope and kick it away, stand and stretch. ‘She was the one who slipped the photo through my window this morning, not Atlas. She wrote the message. She’s messing with me, but,’ I hand Violet my baby photo, ‘look.’

Violet gasps. ‘Is that you? Aw, you’re so little!’

‘All those books. It’s the Great Library, right? Under the museum?’

‘Yep,’ Violet says. ‘And we thought you’d never been inside it, huh?’ She shakes her head in wonder, flips the photo. ‘Everything happens for a reason? Weird. What does the drawing mean?’

‘I dunno.’ I check the padlock and chain wrapped around the little cage door. Useless. Pace around the cage and give each wooden bar a shake instead, rub the shotgun lump on my forehead. ‘She said Atlas is gonna do something. She said something bad’s gonna happen, but it’s necessary, and I’m the only person who can help everyone. Maybe at dusk.’

‘You’re the only person who can help everyone? We’re in big trouble then.’

‘Look, this knife isn’t gonna do jack on these bars. We’ll have to break through them. Have a look around for a hammer or something.’

‘Sure thing.’ Violet hands back the photo and hurries over to the pile of junk, has a dig around. She holds up a rusty screwdriver. ‘How about this?’

‘Bigger.’

‘That?’ She points to an enormous anchor.

‘Smaller.’

‘This?’ She twirls a crowbar through the air.

‘Perfect.’

She runs back to the cage, grinning. ‘So what do we do once you’re free?’

‘Sneak out of here,’ I stuff the photo in my pocket, wedge the crowbar between two bars and pull, ‘head back to the house, make sure my dad’s okay, track down Winifred again – and get – some – answers.’ One of the bars cracks. I smile and re-position the crowbar. ‘Atlas is gonna go mental when he finds an empty cage. Did Eric Junior mention what he –’

A hot breath of wind blows through the gaps in the boat shed walls, carrying with it the sound of the drums again. The drums and a distant chuckle. We freeze.

A voice. The slow clippity-clop of a horse. Footsteps getting louder.

‘Go,’ I whisper, tossing the crowbar from the cage. ‘Out the window.’

‘No way, Jane. If they’re taking you somewhere, I’m going too.’

‘Look, I appreciate that but we don’t have time to – what are you doing? ’ She’s crawling under the wagon, that’s what. ‘No, Violet. Get out of here.’

But it’s too late. The horse’s clippities have stopped clopping. The door rattles.

‘Run first chance you get, kid,’ I mutter. ‘If they catch you –’

‘I’ll kick ’em in the nuts,’ Violet whispers. ‘Suckers won’t even see it coming.’

The doors burst open. Golden light fills the shed with a swirl of dust. Four silhouettes stand in the doorway. Atlas, Peg, Eric Junior and a horse.

My worst-case scenario is about to begin.

THE MANUVIAN KNIFE

Dapper three-piece suit. Slicked-back hair. Chiselled jaw. Mayor Atlas is a pompous, barrel-chested statue come to life. Grade-A jerk and then some. ‘Who were you talking to, Doe?’

‘Nobody.’

‘We ’eard voices.’ Peg says, hobbling around, checking behind the piles of junk. He’s changed his clothes since our dip in the ocean. So has Eric Junior. ‘Don’t deny it.’

‘No. I mean, yeah. I was talking to myself. I do it a lot. On account of the whole no-friends-thing and all.’ Violet giggles under the wagon. I stomp my foot to cover the noise. ‘Sorry. Nervous tic.’ I stomp again for good measure. Eric Junior frowns at me, hanging back with the horse. I want to punch him. ‘By the way, I wasn’t trying to drown you, Junior.’

‘Tha’s a lie,’ Peg says. ‘I saw it all.’ He glances under the wagon. Thankfully, Violet’s off the ground, stretched out between the axles, face-up. I can just make her out between the planks beneath me. They’d have to crawl right under to see her. ‘Nobody ’ere.’

Atlas stands right in front of me, hands in his pockets. ‘You were bound and gagged when I left, Doe. Robin helped you out, did she? Made things more comfortable for you?’

‘Maybe.’

Peg reaches into the cage, gives the flask a pig-like sniff. ‘What’d you talk about?’

‘The weather.’ I can’t help covering for Winifred. My baby photo sealed the deal. An unspoken pact, for now. ‘Oh, and swimming lessons. Probably a good idea, really.’

Peg punches the cage. ‘Cut the cheek, you little freak! What’d she say?’

‘Save your breath, Gareth,’ Atlas says, and all I can think is, Gareth? Peg’s real name is Gareth? ‘She isn’t going to tell us what Robin said and she doesn’t need to. After tonight, I am going to be heralded as a hero, and that old meddler will have no choice but to retreat to her precious little museum forever.’ He gives Eric Junior a curt nod. ‘It is time.’

Eric Junior leads the horse into the shed and tethers it to the wagon. Violet shifts a little underneath. Peg gathers the severed rope and knife from the cage floor.

‘Want me to tie ’er up again?’

‘Leave her. The crowd will find it more dramatic if there’s a hint of danger involved.’

My face falls at the c-word. ‘What are you gonna do?’

The mayor’s lips flicker with a smile. ‘Tell me, Doe, have you ever heard of Manuvia? No? Pity. Beautiful place. Turquoise sky. Endless jungle, all of it teeming with life. I journeyed there on my first adventure through the Manor.’

‘Eric Atlas and the Red Temple Siege,’ Eric Junior says, buckling the last strap on the horse’s harness. ‘It’s an awesome story.’

‘The best,’ Peg says, which surprises me. He doesn’t exactly seem like the reading type.

‘If you weren’t forbidden to lay your eyes upon the Bluehaven Chronicles, I would highly recommend it,’ Atlas continues. ‘Not that I like to brag. Anyway, I passed through the Manor with ease. A couple of booby traps – nothing too serious. But trouble was brewing in Manuvia. Upon my arrival, I discovered that an evil tribe of cannibals known as the Gothgans had stolen something from the Great Kingdom of Manu. A relic. It’s just a knife, really but to the tribes of Manuvia it was considered a mysterious and most powerful weapon. According to legend, the knife had the power to harness the energy of those it slayed or injured, and transfer that energy to whoever wielded it. So, my calling was simple: retrieve the knife, save the world.

‘The journey to the Gothgan caves was long and fraught with danger – I won’t burden you with the details, for they were many and quite extraordinary. I got the knife. Naturally, the Gothgans were not pleased. Even after I’d made my triumphant return to Manu they laid siege to the Red Temple, the resting place of the knife, for ninety days and nights. I battled and bled alongside the Manuvians for three whole months and the Gothgans were defeated. The Great Kingdom of Manu, nay, Manuvia itself, was saved.’

I don’t like where this is going.

‘After we had claimed victory, Kucho, the tribal elder, called everybody to the base of the temple stairs.’ Atlas starts pacing. ‘You see, the Manuvians believe – and I say believe because, although I have never returned, I am sure they are still alive and prospering – that everything has a spirit. Air, stone, water, flame and bone. Everything. They also believe these spirits can be tainted. Broken. The spirit of the Red Temple, having weathered such a lengthy and vicious battle, was in the greatest danger of all. It had to be saved. Revived. Sated.’

I glance down between the planks, see Violet’s wide tiger eyes staring up at me.

‘They’d captured thirty-seven Gothgans in the battle,’ Eric Junior says. ‘Out of those thirty-seven, nine were women, six were elders, and . . . four were children, right, Dad?’

‘Correct, Junior. They were taken to the stairs, their lives spilled upon the stone one by one, fed to the temple not in the name of battle, but in the name of ceremony. Of sacrifice. It had been done many times before. That was how the temple had received its name.’

‘Red Temple,’ Peg says. ‘Coz of all the blood, see?’

‘Thanks,’ I tell him. ‘I got it.’

‘And they cut them with this.’ Atlas pulls a knife from his vest. A sharp, curved blade with an ivory handle carved into the shape of a hundred writhing, intertwined bodies. He steps up to the cage, twirls it through his fingers. ‘The Manuvian knife itself.’

I swallow hard. ‘They . . . gave it to you?’

‘After a fashion. I deserved it after everything I’d done for them. A mighty gift for a mighty warrior. Lifted it just before I made the journey home. It holds absolutely no magical or mythical properties, of that I’m certain, but it is remarkably sharp.’ The mayor traces the blade across his neck. ‘One cut per sacrifice. That was all it took. People have done it for thousands of years in the Otherworlds. Cleansing rituals on temple stairs. Offerings to gods and monsters.’ He shrugs his blocky shoulders. ‘I don’t see why we should be any different.’

‘Don’t see no reason at all,’ Peg sneers.

‘You have terrorised this island for the last time, Jane Doe,’ Atlas says, and smiles. ‘We are taking you to the festival. We are going to sacrifice you to the Manor at dusk.’