Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope (36 page)

F
OR ALMOST TWO HOURS,
O
KSA DILIGENTLY RECITED
the magic words, functions and names of the Granoks. They were both concentrating so hard that they didn’t even see the Centaury standing up on its roots to watch them and then give a detailed account to all the other plants in the silo.

“Well!” exclaimed Abakum. “You’re a really good pupil and a fast learner; I give you twenty out of twenty.”

“This was so much fun!” replied Oksa, stretching her arms above her. “I think Granokology has become my favourite subject. Thanks Abakum.”

She threw her arms around the old man’s neck and he hugged her warmly, touched by his young student’s spontaneity and affection.

“Er, Abakum… I was wondering…”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“You were talking earlier about the mutual respect between plants and the Insiders, and I was wondering how you went about using their leaves, roots or sap. Doesn’t that hurt them? Isn’t that against your beliefs?”

Abakum fixed his grey eyes on Oksa’s and replied:

“Very well observed, my dear—it’s a good question. For my part, I’ve always taken care to ensure that the plants and creatures living under my roof are treated with as much esteem and kindness as they
were in Edefia. And I know that Dragomira and Leomido take just as much care as I do. As for using their leaves, I simply cut them off and I think that if it’s done gently, the plants don’t suffer any more than when you go to the hairdresser to have your hair cut. As for the roots, I proceed in the same way and then it’s as if I were cutting their nails. It’s the same thing for the Incompetent’s crest. Although it does grow rather slowly…”

“Like its brain!” remarked Oksa with a peal of laughter.

“Yes, like its brain,” laughed Abakum in turn. “Its crest is like our nails: it must be trimmed regularly. It’s more complicated when it comes to the sap of the plants, particularly that of the Goranovs, which is extremely precious. For decades, Insiders have made tiny incisions on their stem to gather the sap and you can imagine how painful that could be for the Goranovs. This may be why they’re genetically so stressed. One day, a shrewd botanist found another way, and since then we have milked them.”

“What?” blurted Oksa, flabbergasted. “You milk the Goranovs? That is what you said, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s right. The technique is fairly complicated, because with the Goranovs nothing is ever simple. But that is effectively the principle.”

“Goranov-milking—that’s super-cool!”

After this discussion, Abakum stood up and closed all the small drawers from which he’d taken the Granoks. He opened another cupboard and took out a round tin.

“Didn’t you say earlier that you had some Capacitors with you?” he asked. Oksa nodded and, with the agreement of the Tumble-Bawler, which was ready to sound the alarm, she took out an old metal cigarillo tin she’d used to store Dragomira’s Capacitors.

“Here, take this Caskinette,” said Abakum, holding out a small round box. “I made it specially for you with the same materials as your Granok-Shooter—and after milking the Goranovs long and hard,” he said with a wink. “You can use it to store your Capacitors, starting with the Ventosas that Dragomira gave you.”

The Caskinette was a very attractive object made of meerschaum and measuring about three inches in diameter. Oksa took it from Abakum with a grateful look and ran her fingertips over its smooth, matt surface. Then she pressed a tiny rose-gold fastener in the shape of an interwoven O and P and the box opened, revealing about ten mini-compartments. Abakum again searched through the drawers of another cupboard and brought over enough capsules in different sizes and colours to fill the little box. The following hour was devoted to an in-depth lesson on Capacitors during which Oksa carefully assimilated all this new information.

“What’s in that cupboard over there?” she asked, pointing to a much smaller cupboard than the others, hung on the wall almost six feet off the floor.

“You don’t miss much,” remarked Abakum, his eyes twinkling. “That little cupboard contains ingredients for some very special preparations.”

“Really? What kind of special preparations?”

Abakum suddenly looked cagey—which, of course, didn’t escape Oksa’s notice and heightened her curiosity.

“Tell me, Abakum, please!” she pleaded, putting her hands together. “Please tell me!”

“With you, it’s all or nothing,” he sighed, stroking his beard. “I should know that by now,” he added, smiling. “That said, I understand your curiosity. In that little cupboard—which is reinforced, I’d like to stress—are plants and grasses which mustn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

“You mean they’re dangerous? Poisonous?”

“No, not exactly. In their natural state, almost all of them are harmless. But depending on the blends or doses, they can be lethal. This applies to many things found in nature: remedies and deadly poisons are often made from the same plant. My little cupboard holds henbane and monkshood, whose properties range from causing a curative drowsiness to paralysis, for what I’d call my more aggressive preparations. Of course, I also have belladonna and mandrake, which I use for different Capacitors, sleepy nightshade (whose use isn’t hard to guess), stramonium and purple
foxglove, two plants which can be highly toxic, and a few others, which I hope you’ll allow me not to name, my dear.”

“Wow,” said Oksa, looking impressed and thoughtful. “Tell me, Abakum: have you ever made poisons?”

“Oh, Oksa, Oksa,” replied Abakum, tapping the edge of the worktop. “Will you allow me to plead professional confidentiality and not reply to your question?”

“That’s a pity,” sighed Oksa. “But I’m sure you have. In any case, I know you can make Black Globuses.”

Abakum’s only answer was to give an almost imperceptible nod with a faint smile, which Oksa interpreted quite rightly as the end of the “toxic plants and poisons” chapter.

“Hey Abakum,” she cried, totally changing the subject, “look! I haven’t shown you yet. I can do something really cool. And without a Capacitor, what’s more.”

Oksa climbed onto the railing of the mezzanine and sat down on the outer edge, more than twelve feet above the floor. The mother Goranov gave a cry:

“Watch out! The Young Gracious is going to squash me. I’m going to die!”

Oksa stood up on the narrow edge, blinked and stuck her right foot out over the empty space, her arms by her sides. Then she put her left foot forward and began slowly descending, regulating her speed so as not to frighten the Goranov, which had already curled its leaves against its stem. Leaning his elbows on the railing, Abakum clapped wildly, accompanied by the Getorix and the Poliglossiper, which had changed itself into castanets. Carried away by this applause, Oksa took off towards the top of the silo, only this time much faster. She was travelling so fast that she reached the glass dome in a flash—which was not something that Oksa had factored into her calculations. Her head smacked against the transparent ceiling. Totally stunned, with blurred sight and ringing ears, she felt as though she were plunging into a huge black hole.

W
HEN
O
KSA CAME ROUND, SHE WAS LYING ON THE BED
in the forest room. Abakum was sitting in a canvas chair opposite one of the two picture windows, an Incompetent on his lap. As soon as he realized Oksa was awake he set down the creature, which began placidly watching the trees, and came over to sit beside her.

“How do you feel, my dear?”

“Ashamed,” replied Oksa, staring at the ceiling.

“Don’t be. We all learn from our mistakes. You were just carried away by enthusiasm, which is hardly unusual when you’re thirteen; you simply need to get into the habit of thinking about the potential risks of your impulsive behaviour. That’s not something you can do overnight, I’ll tell you that right now. The lesson you should learn from today’s mishap is that it’s better to check whether there’s a ceiling before you Vertifly.”

“You’re not kidding,” grumbled Oksa, blushing. “Was it you who came to… get me?”

“No, Oksa, it was the Croakettes. They flew to your aid and brought you back down to the ground. I can’t Vertifly.”

“What? Can’t you? But you can do so many things!”

Oksa propped herself up on one elbow, astonished by this news.

“No. I’m a Sylvabul and Sylvabuls don’t Vertifly, they keep their feet firmly on the ground, literally and figuratively. But don’t worry, they can do other things. Like this, for example…”

Abakum held his arm out over Oksa. With a degree of scepticism, she thought to herself that there wasn’t anything particularly amazing about that. But she soon changed her mind when his arm lengthened impressively, first by a couple of inches, then kept growing until it had reached the door handle on the other side of the room. Wide-eyed, Oksa whistled in admiration.

“Well? What do you think about that?” asked Abakum, retracting his arm to a more normal length.

“What do I think? I saw you do that before, when Baba showed me your escape from the Glass Column on the Camereye. You stepped over the balcony and your arms lengthened until you reached the ground. That was cool, but it’s even better in real life. I’m blown away, that’s what I think.”

And she fell back heavily on the pillow, impressed and exhausted.

Oksa was lying on her bed, looking out at the trees swaying gently in the breeze. She rubbed her eyes, took a deep breath and let her arms fall back to her sides in a state of complete relaxation. While thinking back over everything that had happened during this extraordinary day, she thought she heard someone tapping at the door of her room.

“Yes?” she murmured, sitting up.

The door slid open and, to her surprise, she saw Tugdual Knut.

“Hiya, can I come in?”

“Of course!” replied Oksa in some amazement.

Tugdual turned round the chair in which Abakum had been sitting and sat down opposite her. He seemed much more relaxed than when Oksa had seen him last. He’d cut his hair and was wearing no eye
make-up, which made his face look brighter and rendered him virtually unrecognizable. He was still dressed in black, apart from his jeans, but he no longer wore his many necklaces and crosses. His make-over had left him with just two piercings—one on the arch of his eyebrow and one on his left nostril. Oksa stared at him, captivated by his chilly good looks and intrigued by the air of deep sadness which he made no effort to hide. A few weeks earlier, he’d told her that he wished people would see beyond his appearance. And, at that precise moment, she understood exactly what he’d been getting at. But, to her own surprise, the idea that she was seeing him as he really was, stripped bare of all pretence or façade, was deeply unsettling. Was she more perceptive than before? Less blinded by her own concerns? Or was Tugdual just showing his true colours?

“I didn’t know you were here,” she said, blushing.

“Convalescence,” he replied tersely.

“Well, you look well.”

To her surprise, she was glad to be chatting to this strange, disconcerting boy again. Very, very glad.

“Do you feel… better?” she ventured, trying to hide her excitement.

“Better? Yes, you could say that,” replied Tugdual, stretching his arms out in front of him. “What about you? How are you?”

“Me? I just knocked myself out like an idiot against the ceiling of Abakum’s silo. I took off at top speed, then bang! Otherwise, my life has been totally crazy over the past few weeks. I feel like I’m in a film or something.”

“You’re not kidding,” agreed the boy. “You have to be made of pretty strong stuff not to go stir crazy. I wasn’t strong enough. But I’ve got nothing on you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the
Last Hope
! You’re the strongest one of us all, you’re the one who’s going to save us.”

“I don’t think so…” stammered Oksa.

“Course you will, it’s obvious!” retorted Tugdual, gazing at her intently. “Think about it. The Runaways have been like cats on a hot tin roof since they’ve known you have the Mark. They can’t do enough for you.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying—I’m not going to save anyone!”

“Yes, you are, Young Gracious, I had good grounds for saying what I said to you last time, believe me. I’ve thought it over: although you don’t seem to realize it, you’re the one who’ll save us because you’re the last key. The one that was missing. And the last key holds supreme power. Orthon-McGraw has realized that. He’s all set to plunge Edefia into complete chaos and I’m sure there are quite a few people in this world who’d rally to his cause. To say nothing of the army he mentioned… I know what I’m talking about, believe me. Look after yourself, lil’ Gracious. I wouldn’t want any harm to come to you.”

Oksa shivered. Tugdual was talking so calmly and there was no trace of the underlying exultation she’d sensed during their previous conversations. She could even see concern in his eyes.

“Do you… do you feel all right, Tugdual?”

“Are you referring to my acute paranoid psychosis and my chronic morbidity?” he replied mockingly. “Well, believe it or not, I’m feeling a lot better. I made life rather difficult for Abakum, but he’s the only one who really understood me. He’s a star, you know.”

When Abakum summoned Oksa and Tugdual downstairs for dinner, the huge ground-floor room was in an unusual state of uproar: the Getorix was playing table football with the Poliglossiper. A small band of supporters comprising the Incompetent, the six Croakettes, the two Squoracles and the Tumble-Bawler had gathered around them in excitement. Abakum, meanwhile, was quietly busying himself in the kitchen, clearly accustomed to the noisy outbursts of his creatures. Various utensils, such as an egg whisk, wooden spoons and butter knives, floated around him, shooting
straight into his hand when he needed them. But unfortunately not everyone was as laid-back as he was: sitting on the worktop near the master of the house, the mother Goranov was listening with growing alarm.

“No one will ever convince me they don’t want me dead! What is the reason for all this noise? A riot? A revolution? A bloodbath?”

“Not at all, Goranov, not at all,” replied Abakum calmly, as the stone of the avocado he was preparing flew over his head and landed in the rubbish bin.

Oksa and Tugdual exchanged amused looks: a Fairyman in the kitchen was definitely a sight worth seeing.

“Take that, you peanut-faced Poliglossiper!” yelled the Getorix suddenly.

As dishevelled as always, the hairy little monster was excitedly twisting the handles of the football game. Oksa and Tugdual went over to them, intrigued. The game was in full swing.

“Do you want to hear what this peanut has got to say to you,
sale
hooligan?” replied the outraged Poliglossiper, hopping around frantically.

“Peanuts are grown in a hot country, aren’t they?” commented the Squoracles, wrapped in tiny multi-coloured mohair scarves.

“Oh, what pretty scarves you’re wearing!” remarked Oksa.

“They’re not scarves, they’re beak muffs. The Master knitted them for us as part of the ‘winter cold’ project,” explained one of the Squoracles. “To tide us over until we migrate to a hot country for ever.”

This short chat about the weather was interrupted by the hysterical shouts of the Getorix, who had just scored. The Croakettes beat their wings in exultation and the Tumble-Bawler, like all football supporters, screamed loudly.

“Well?” asked the Getorix. “Who’s the best, Poliglossiper, let’s guess, you pest!”

“Oh!
Ta gueule
, you crap poet!”

“The Getorix has taken it into its head to start rhyming,” explained Abakum, from the kitchen. “But be lenient, it’s only a beginner.”

“Oh, I understand now,” said Oksa laughing.

Inspired by this answer, the Incompetent came over to her, looking even more confused than usual.

“Oh, you understand something about all this, do you? I don’t.”

“Hey, Incompetent,” cackled the Getorix. “The day you understand something, it will snow in August!”

“Oh no! Oh, please no!” said the Squoracles, their teeth chattering at the mere mention of snow.

But the Incompetent, in fine form, ignored the remarks of the other creatures and continued to think things through very slowly.

“I don’t understand anything about this game. What do you call it? The peanut game?”

“No, it’s table football,” explained Oksa, politely suppressing her laughter. “It’s very simple: there are two teams, blue and red. The aim is to kick the ball into your opponent’s goal. The winner is the person who scores the most points.”

The Incompetent paused for a moment, during which it seemed to be deep in thought.

“That seems very complicated… and why do you need to wear a beak muff knitted by the Master when you play? Can I have one?”

“Haha, you’d need something more like a feather muff for a featherbrain!” sniggered the Getorix. “Haha, a featherbrain muff for the Incompetent!”

Oksa turned to look at Tugdual for some kind of help in stifling her mounting giggles. But he merely winked at her with a smile. Further away, the Goranov was complaining about these violent exchanges and the strain this commotion was putting on its fragile nerves. As for the Getorix and the Poliglossiper, they were both frantically cheating to win the game.

“I’ll scalp you, if you do that
encore une fois
,” screamed the Poliglossiper. “
C’est illégal
to pick up the ball and put it
directement
in the goal!”

“Here’s what I’ll do with your wet threats, you pest. I’ll clean up my mess!” replied the Getorix, screaming with laughter. “Haha, I’ll clean up my mess with your threats, you pain in the neck!”

“Hey, I’ve never noticed how much hair that creature has, it’s astonishing,” remarked the Incompetent, so guilelessly that Oksa couldn’t help exploding with laughter. “This game is very funny, isn’t it?” it added, seeing the tears rolling down Oksa’s cheeks.

“This is hilarious!” remarked Tugdual, holding his stomach. “They’re all totally bonkers.”

“Come on, creatures,” broke in Abakum trying to sound serious. “We’re about to eat. No more table football tonight.”

The creatures obediently went upstairs, squabbling all the way, except for the Incompetent, which gazed at Oksa with large, bulging eyes full of uncertainty.

“I’ve seen you before somewhere,” it muttered.

“Me too, Incompetent, me too,” replied Oksa between peals of laughter.

Without taking its eyes off Oksa, it sat down near the hearth to explore the complexities of its hazy thoughts. Nearby, the Young Gracious relaxed and enjoyed the evening. But her good mood wasn’t just down to the excellent meal, she realized. Something had happened to her. Something totally unexpected. She tried to catch Tugdual’s eye to confirm what she, at least, no longer doubted. The young man seemed to be concentrating on his plate, his lips curved in a half-smile. He stayed like this for seconds on end, torturing Oksa. Suddenly he raised his head and looked deep into her eyes. Oksa trembled, blushed and felt her stomach lurch, but she managed to maintain eye contact, even though his look was more intense than any she’d ever experienced before. She felt as though her heart had been pierced right through.