The Forest of Lost Souls (13 page)

S
ETTLED COMFORTABLY IN HER ARMCHAIR OPPOSITE THE
window, Dragomira was watching the square like a hawk, and it wasn’t long before her wait was rewarded: three figures crossed the street and headed for the house. Night had fallen some time ago and the pavement was illuminated by the weak light of the street lamps, which left the façade in darkness.

“You didn’t waste any time,” Baba Pollock said softly.

She stood up, opened the double-bass case and walked in, a strange smile on her lips.

“Hoist with their own petard…” she said, closing the case behind her.

The three figures slipped furtively between the bushes dotted around the lawn in front of the small flight of steps leading up to the front door and flattened themselves against the wall.

“Are you sure Dragomira isn’t in?” whispered one of the intruders, a tall, thin man.

“Absolutely sure!” replied a plumper figure. “She’s with Abakum, and Marie Pollock is spending the night at Jeanne Bellanger’s house with young Zoe. Don’t forget my information comes from a reliable source.”

“We couldn’t ask for a better informant!” added the third person who, from her voice and curvaceous silhouette, was clearly a woman. “No one else could have got closer to them.”

“If everything goes according to plan, Dragomira won’t know what’s hit her!” All three cackled with satisfaction.

“Come on, let’s not waste time mocking poor Dragomira and her naïve friends for their imminent misfortune,” continued the fat man. “It’s time to go. Don’t forget our future depends on this mission!”

The two men and the woman each drew from their pockets a small box from which they took a pearly white capsule, which they swallowed. A few seconds later they were climbing like spiders up the stone façade, hands and feet pressed firmly against the red bricks. When they arrived at the third floor, they stopped, and the thinner man crouched on the windowsill. Then, as if by magic, his body passed through the glass and disappeared inside the apartment.

Through a tiny chink, Dragomira exultantly watched the three figures break in. Her trap was working like a dream.

“Have you found anything?” asked one of the men.

“My mother told me the canvas would be rolled inside a wooden tube. As it’s around fifteen inches long and four inches in diameter, it won’t be easy to hide, so we should be able to find it…”

The three burglars snooped around the cluttered apartment, lifting cushions, opening drawers, feeling below and behind the furniture, until a particularly creaky floorboard attracted their attention.

“My friends, I think I’ve found it,” said the woman triumphantly.

“Under the floorboards?” exclaimed the tall, thin man incredulously. “That isn’t very original!”

“Yes, you’d have expected better from a woman like Dragomira. She must have had what they call a senior moment!” sniggered the sturdy man. “Come on, let’s pull up this board and see what she’s hiding.”

All three grappled with the floorboards and, a few seconds later, pulled out a long wooden tube.

“Bingo!” whispered the woman, checking the contents. “Either we’re very clever, or too much has been made of Dragomira’s reputation!”

“Whatever the case, it’s good news for us,” concluded the tall man. “Anyway, let’s not hang around.”

The three intruders headed for the window and left the same way they’d come in, hands and feet adhering to the brick façade. From her window, Dragomira watched them disappear into the square and gave a sigh of satisfaction, pretending to clap.

Two days later, the Tumble-Bawler tapped at the skylight in his mistress’s private workroom. The old lady pushed back her chair and got up to let the creature in.

“Back already, my dear Tumble?” she said, stroking it affectionately in welcome.

Although breathless, the Tumble-Bawler purred with obvious pleasure like a kitten.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” said Dragomira. “You must have so much to tell me!”

“I certainly do, my Old Gracious,” confirmed the small creature. “But I fear the news isn’t good.”

“I was afraid of that, Tumble-Bawler, I was afraid of that…” nodded Dragomira, with a grave expression.

“Here’s my report, my Old Gracious. The three intruders were two men and a woman. I was able to find out the men’s names: the taller one is Gregor and the stockier one, Oskar. We left London by car and drove 387 miles, north-north-west, to reach the Scottish coast bordering the Sea of the Hebrides. We then boarded a boat to sail to an island eleven miles from the shore, latitude fifty-seven degrees north, longitude seven degrees west. I must remind my Old Gracious that I was shut inside the tube stolen by the intruders and that, as a result, I could only hear
snatches of conversation between the three burglars. In addition, my Old Gracious knows I suffer from travel sickness. Such a long journey by car, followed by the boat trip over the Sea of the Hebrides with strong north-south currents, caused terrible bouts of sickness. I’m afraid I threw up in the tube, my Old Gracious.”

Dragomira didn’t seem unduly worried by this. She snorted with laughter and carried on stroking the Tumble-Bawler.

“So how did you manage to escape their notice?” she asked.

“When the pitching of the boat stopped at last,” continued the small creature, “the villainous trio walked to a stone building standing 2,438 feet from where the boat had been moored. The woman, who was
carrying
the tube in which I was hidden, went up three steps, then crossed an entrance hall that measured twenty feet and one inch long by twelve feet and six inches wide. We came to a room and I sensed a fire burning in a hearth that was six feet and ten inches high by seven feet and six inches wide. Another woman was waiting for them there with three men. I couldn’t hear clearly what they were saying, because I still felt sick. But they all seemed very pleased. They opened the tube and I was afraid my last hour had come, since everyone could immediately smell my vomit and they all complained about the stench. However, they were only really interested in the picture, which they extracted very carefully from the tube. They were so engrossed in what they were about to find that I was able to escape unseen from the tube that the woman had put on the table: I hid in a corner of the room, unable to see straight because of my awful travel sickness, and I must say I got out just in the nick of time because Oskar picked up the tube to see if he could work out how the picture could have become soiled. They immediately began looking around. ‘There has to be something here! Look everywhere!’ cried the woman. I stayed hidden behind a curtain where I could hear everything, even though I couldn’t see much, all the while looking for a way out of the house. Suddenly there was a loud scream and one of the women said: ‘What’s the matter, Mother?’ The other woman shouted: ‘She’s tricked
us! Dragomira has played us for fools! This isn’t the picture!’ Oskar, who was standing just sixteen inches from me, although he didn’t know that, roared: ‘What do you mean?’ The woman replied:

“‘Look, it’s a copy! It was obviously all too easy! That old shrew suspected something… She outwitted us… Aaargh!’ Angrily, she took hold of the wooden tube and threw it ten feet and six inches towards the northern corner of the room. Suddenly the curtain concealing me was thrown open and I found myself face to face with Gregor, the tall, thin man. I mustered all my courage and flew towards the door, which was more than seventeen feet and seven inches away. ‘Catch it! Don’t let it escape!’ yelled the other woman. They all came chasing after me. I flew away frantically, my wings aching badly, battling another terrible bout of sickness. I found myself in the entrance hall, where I detected a draught travelling thirty miles an hour, west-south-west, from another room. At the same time, my unwelcoming hosts fired Granoks at me and the woman who seemed to be their leader almost killed me with a Knock-Bong which sent me crashing against the south wall of the entrance hall. I think it was the fear of being caught and my loyalty to my Old Gracious that saved me. I swiftly flew into the room where the draught was coming from and found an air vent, around three inches in diameter, which was barely wide enough for me to crawl into. I had only just squeezed my whole body inside when I sensed an extremely violent blast of air travelling at a speed of at least 140 miles an hour: that hideous woman had just fired a Tornaphyllon Granok at me! Luckily I was already in the ventilation shaft, from which I emerged twelve seconds later. Then I took to my wings and flew back as fast as I could, my Old Gracious. I’m ashamed that I didn’t complete my mission. Will you forgive me for not providing exact details, my Old Gracious?”

“Of course, Tumble,” nodded Dragomira, a strange smile on her lips. “You’ve done excellently, absolutely excellently. Tell me, were you able to see who that woman was?”

“My Old Gracious, despite my nauseous condition, the identity of the Felon woman didn’t escape me,” confirmed the small creature.

“Will you tell me her name?”

The Tumble-Bawler looked around, gazed for a moment at all the creatures, which were hanging on its every word, and wobbled its plump body from side to side in embarrassment. It seemed to think carefully, narrowing its small bright eyes, and at last reached a decision. It flew over to Dragomira’s shoulder, where it landed gently and murmured a single name in her ear. Baba Pollock went white and, placing her hand over her heart, gave a hoarse groan.

T
HE VALIANT
T
UMBLE-
B
AWLER HAD BARELY DONE TELLING
Dragomira about its adventure in the Sea of the Hebrides when three people silently forced open the front door of the Pollocks' house. Dragomira wasn't surprised: she'd been expecting this visit, not least because, from her window, she'd seen people taking turns to watch Bigtoe Square since the middle of the afternoon. When it was dark, the spies had abandoned any attempt at discretion and three of them had taken up position near the front door to prevent anyone from going in or coming out. Since early evening, Dragomira had been alone in the house with Marie, who was asleep in her bedroom on the second floor below. It had been decided that Zoe would help Jeanne at the restaurant, so she was safe. Dragomira had turned out all the lights, so she could see the three figures on the pavement facing the house more clearly. Then she'd descended the narrow spiral staircase and carefully closed the
double-bass
case fixed to the wall. Lighting a black wax candle, Dragomira had then settled down in an armchair covered in old gold satin. With her legs crossed and her hands flat on the armrests, she'd waited, her resolve strengthened by her anger.

In no time at all, two women rushed into Baba Pollock's apartment, followed by a tall, thin man with a craggy face. All three blinked, surprised by the subdued lighting. The room was so cluttered with furniture, occasional tables, coffee tables, armchairs, pictures and knick-knacks
that they didn't know where to look first. The unsettling effect of the chaotic décor was only emphasized by the dim, flickering light of the candle. The man took out his Granok-Shooter.

“I'll shed some light on this mess,” he announced.

“Don't bother!” boomed Dragomira's voice, making them jump. The three visitors were bathed in the sudden light from the glowing tentacles of a Polypharus, while Dragomira remained in protective darkness.

“So it is you,” observed Dragomira in a flat voice to the woman standing in the middle of the trio. “My dear old friend… I didn't want to believe it. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, give you a chance to deny the incriminating facts. Why, Mercedica? Why?”

The tall, grim-looking woman with dark hair raised her chin even more haughtily and looked towards the back of the room, where Dragomira's voice was coming from.

“My dear Dragomira,” she remarked drily. “You talk about facts, but do you know what they really are? You're so naïve sometimes… you still think life is all sweetness and light, don't you?”

“It's a long time since I lost my illusions, Mercedica,” retorted Dragomira. “If you remember, I was thirteen when I watched Ocious murder my mother.”

“Speaking of Ocious,” said Mercedica spitefully, “allow me to introduce you to his grandson, Gregor—Orthon's eldest son!”

Dragomira's face crumpled in the darkness. Her hands tensed on her armrests and she shivered. In her mind's eye, she saw Orthon-McGraw again being vaporized in the cellar by the Crucimaphila and the memory reopened old physical and mental wounds. Gregor gazed at her with a cruel, chilly indifference, which didn't bode well for her. He looked very much like his father: the same frosty expression, the same tall, dark figure, the same impression of strength and power. The old lady flinched and tried to suppress a surge of resentment.

“Even if you haven't seen her for a long time,” continued the formidable Spanish woman, “you must have recognized my daughter, Catarina.”

Dragomira looked at the young woman standing next to Mercedica. She'd changed a great deal since they'd last met two or three years ago. Her hard, pitiless face was completely at odds with her feminine
appearance
—huge eyes fringed by thick lashes, luxuriant hair cascading over her shoulders and a natural elegance, clearly inherited from her mother.

“She's the image of you. In all respects, I should imagine,” remarked Dragomira sarcastically. “Well, I can't for one minute believe this is a social visit,” she added, speaking directly to her onetime friend, who was now her enemy.

“You can believe whatever you like,” retorted Mercedica with a shrill laugh. “But I'm politely asking you to give me the picture, Dragomira!”

With these words she walked towards the back of the room, where Dragomira stiffened in her armchair, still shrouded in shadow. Baba Pollock was seething with rage at her former friend—and at herself. How could she have been so blind to Mercedica's treachery? How long had she been fooling her? Whatever the answer, the Spanish woman had clearly played her cards very close to her chest: no one had noticed anything. Not even cynical Leomido or intuitive Abakum.

“Why are you doing this, Mercedica? Why?” groaned Dragomira, filled with bitter disappointment at this betrayal.

Mercedica sighed in exasperation, which Dragomira found even more hurtful. Narrowing her dark, heavily made-up eyes, she replied defiantly:

“I chose the other side, Dragomira. The winning side.”

“What do you mean?” asked Baba Pollock.

“I don't have the same ambitions as you and your friends, that's all!” said Mercedica scathingly.

“My friends were your friends not so long ago…”

“Can people be friends when they have so little in common?” retorted the Spanish woman. “My friends—my
true
friends, I should say—are the people with whom I share the same aims and the same world view. Which are nothing like those you and your cronies hold so dear. A case
in point is the answer you gave our darling Oksa when she asked why the Runaways didn't set off immediately for Edefia, do you remember? She didn't understand why you were waiting and your main argument was that you weren't physically ready to leave because of your age. I'm sure you had something else in mind, something much more fundamental: all of you have such wild hopes for the future, but deep down you know how pathetic they are. You know hope isn't enough. You know you'll be completely out of your depth when you find out what's waiting for you in Edefia. And you're right! Me, I prefer to stick with the strongest side. That way I'm bound to win!”

“WIN WHAT?” thundered Dragomira.

“Win what? You still have to ask? Power and wealth, my dear Dragomira! Power, Dragomira, power! Do you remember what we left behind in Edefia? Do you realize our innate potential? Haven't you given any thought to our vast superiority?”

“You're like them…” murmured Dragomira.

“Of course I am!” cried Mercedica. “And I'm proud of it. I'm proud to belong to such a strong group of people!”

“But why do you want more? Haven't you got enough?”

“Life on the Outside has taught me never to be satisfied with what I've got,” replied Mercedica curtly, sidling closer.

“While I feel exactly the opposite!” retorted Dragomira, standing up. “Don't come any closer, Mercedica!”

Despite this warning, the formidable Spanish woman kept advancing, her arm outstretched. Her fingertips crackled with thin, bluish sparks which she was about to hurl at the gold armchair. But Dragomira was faster and, to the great surprise of her three unwanted guests, she aimed an unexpectedly violent Knock-Bong at Mercedica, who was thrown against the wall at the far end of the room. The impact was so hard that the hairpins fastening her impeccable bun flew off in all directions. Long strands of black hair escaped, partially concealing Mercedica's face. Catarina rushed over to her unconscious mother,
while Gregor launched himself with the supple grace of a cat at the dark corner where Dragomira was standing. Baba Pollock had no time to react and was hit head-on by Orthon-McGraw's son. His speed and weight sent them both flying backwards. Immobilizing Dragomira with his thighs, Gregor leant over to grab her wrists and, bringing his face close to hers, hissed:

“Mercedica is right, you're completely out of your depth and you know it! Give us the picture, the real one this time. Spare yourself unnecessary pain and, just maybe, a pointless death…”

Dragomira couldn't help trembling with fear as much as disgust at this cruel man who looked so much like his father. In her mind's eye, she saw young Orthon again. The memory of the affectionate, vulnerable boy he'd once been flashed before her eyes fleetingly, like a mirage, then disappeared.

“You wouldn't dare…” she ventured.

Gregor gave a frightening snigger.

“Why not? You dared order your flunkey to kill my father, didn't you!” he said, his voice even harder.

“How…” said Dragomira, sounding choked. “How did you know…”

“How did I know it wasn't you who killed him?” murmured the Felon, completing her sentence. “Why don't you guess? It's more fun like that, isn't it? Don't forget we don't need you. It's the girl we need, not an old witch whose powers are a distant memory.”

Beside herself with rage, Dragomira made a superhuman effort to roll over despite Gregor's weight and strong grip. The surprised Felon suddenly found himself thrown against the work table, bringing a large number of glass jars and metal utensils crashing down on his head. Dragomira stood up quickly and, seizing her Granok-Shooter, fired a Granok at Gregor which caused him to whimper with fear: the Felon's hand had just been hit by a Putrefactio. He barely had time to realize what had happened before the flesh started to rot.

“Take that from the old witch!” snarled Dragomira triumphantly.

While Gregor was writhing on the ground in pain and Mercedica was gradually regaining consciousness, Catarina decided to attack, hitting Dragomira in the chest with a Tornaphyllon Granok. The tiny, powerful tornado imprisoned her and spun her around, causing her to collide with everything. The furniture, walls and even the smallest objects became weapons against her. Unable to halt the raging wind, she banged into the corner of tables, cut herself on shards of glass from the pictures she shattered as she whirled past and hurt herself trying to hold on to anything within reach. Mustering all her strength, she tried to counteract the violent wind by making her body spin in the opposite direction. “The human top,” she thought, remembering Oksa's favourite manoeuvre. The effects of the Tornaphyllon quickly diminished but, unfortunately, Mercedica had been the first to notice: she pounced on Dragomira and slammed her against the wall with such force that Baba Pollock felt as though her body had left a dent in the plaster. Every bone hurt and she groaned at the excruciating pain and her helplessness. Mercedica pinned Dragomira's hands against the wall and pushed against her even harder, as if she wanted to crush her. Poor Baba Pollock saw Catarina coming, her expression even chillier than ever, along with a scornful, evil-looking Gregor. The sight of the latter made her panic even more: the wound caused by the Putrefactio a few minutes ago was disappearing! All that remained was a faint scabbed scar on the smug Felon's arm, which he waved under Dragomira's nose.

“Surprise, surprise!” he hissed and, as his dark eyes bored into hers, he added:

“I must admit that Granok was very painful, but it was worth suffering for a few unpleasant seconds to see such a look of confusion and panic on your face. Aha! Dragomira Pollock… don't tell me you've forgotten who I am! The blood of my ancestor Temistocles flows in my veins and you must know what that means and what an incomparable advantage it gives me and my family over every last one of you. In any case, you know now…”

His eyes fixed on Dragomira, he cackled jubilantly. Suddenly a creaking sound was heard. They all turned to look: the double-bass case had just opened, allowing the Lunatrix's little round head to peer out.

Dragomira stiffened under Mercedica's pressure and couldn't help crying out:

“NO!”

“Oh yes, my dear Dragomira!” retorted Gregor.

Seeing his mistress being held against her will, the Lunatrix rushed out of his hiding place, brandishing his little fists.

“The Old Gracious allocated an order, you do not have the power to bypass it!” he yelled, his face ashen.

By way of a reply, Gregor stretched his hand out in front of him and aimed a merciless Knock-Bong at the Lunatrix. The small creature was thrown against an occasional table, his head smacking violently against its steel base.

He gave a muffled cry and collapsed unconscious on the ground.

“We must take him with us, Gregor,” said Mercedica. “He's the Guardian of the Definitive Landmark!” Dragomira struggled frantically, but to no avail—Mercedica's hold was too strong.

Gregor went over to the Lunatrix and was just bending down to pick up the little creature when the two tiny Ptitchkins flew out of the back of the apartment and swooped down on the Felon. Positioning
themselves
by each ear, they squeezed inside and began relentlessly pecking at his ear canals. Gregor put his hands over his ears, distracted by the terrible pain. Regaining consciousness, the Lunatrix leapt to his feet and, taking advantage of the prevailing confusion, fled the apartment.

“Aaargh!” cursed Mercedica. “That's too bad. We don't have time to go looking for him now, the Knuts will be here soon and I'd rather have finished before they get back… We might not have the Guardian of the Landmark, but we'll at least have this!” she said triumphantly, snatching Malorane's medallion from Dragomira's neck.

“It won't be of any use to you!” raged Baba Pollock, her face twisted
in pain. Mercedica's face contorted in a small, cruel laugh.

“Don't worry, dear Dragomira, I'll use it advisedly. And now, I'll tell you one last time: give us the picture!”

“NEVER!” screamed Dragomira.

“We'll find it with or without your help, believe you me!” threatened the Spanish woman.