The Forest of Lost Souls (5 page)

B
Y THE TIME DAWN BROKE OVER
B
IGTOE
S
QUARE, THE
Runaways had all faced the awful facts. No one could understand how such a thing could have happened, but they all knew in their heart of hearts that Gus had been Impictured. Jeanne and Pierre Bellanger were devastated and their friends were trying hard to comfort them, although it was Dragomira’s Lunatrix who did the best job of
reassuring
them.

“The Lunatrix possesses knowledge of the mystery of life and death,” he said, resting his plump hand on Jeanne’s shoulder. “He has mastery over the detection of who is living and who will never be living again. The present moment is accompanied by utter certainty: the friend of our Young Gracious is full of life and his presence honours the perilous picture in the company of the ill-fated Reminiscens. You must fill up your heart with this conviction.”

“I hope you’re right,” whispered Pierre, wringing his hands.

“My Lunatrix is always right, as you know,” said Dragomira, with a sad smile. “But I think we might be able to find out more from the Squoracle…” she added, rising to her feet.

Holding up her voluminous grey satin dress, she left the room to return shortly with the tiny hen, which was shivering with cold.

“My dear girls,” she said to Oksa and Zoe, as she stroked the Squoracle nestling against her, “this delicate little creature not only has the gift of
determining where icy draughts come from or of gauging how many degrees the temperature is about to drop. It has quite another talent: it is able to divine the truth. If anyone can tell us what has happened, this creature can!”

Everyone looked at the little hen, which gave a violent shiver and snuggled even closer to Baba Pollock’s mohair wrap-over top.

“Squoracle, Gus has been Impictured…” said the old lady.

“I know that!” snapped the creature irritably. “But can someone tell me why it’s so cold when it’s almost summer?”

“Do I need to remind you that we’re in London, which means we’re just above the 45th parallel, a long way from the tropics, and that the temperature is twenty-two degrees centigrade, after all,” sighed Leomido wearily.

“That’s as maybe!” retorted the Squoracle, flapping its small
reddish-brown
wings in resentment. “But I’d have expected slightly more
satisfactory
temperatures!”

Oksa pulled a wry face at Zoe: the Squoracle never missed an
opportunity
to complain about the English climate.

“Can you tell us what’s going on with the picture?” asked Dragomira loudly, cutting short this conversation about the weather. “Has an evil spell been cast on the Soul-Searcher?”

“Obviously!” replied the Squoracle briskly. “The Soul-Searcher made a tragic mistake when it claimed Reminiscens instead of her twin brother, the Felon Orthon. He’d committed numerous crimes so he should have been Impictured, not her… Ever since that mistake, the Soul-Searcher has been spiralling out of control. It’s gone insane, just like I will if someone doesn’t shut that window!” squawked the little hen shrilly. “My feathers are like icicles!”

Leomido sighed and stood up to shut the window, which was letting in a trickle of balmy air.

“The Soul-Searcher’s mistake wasn’t a true mistake,” continued the Squoracle. “Reminiscens and the Felon Orthon share the same DNA,
so there was some kind of mix-up—who knows if it was an accident or a deliberate act of sabotage?”

“What about Gus? What can you tell us about him?” asked Dragomira.

“The Soul-Searcher was completely thrown off balance by its mistake over the twins,” replied the Squoracle gravely. “The boy shouldn’t have been Impictured: two people cannot coexist in the same picture.”

The Squoracle shook its little head and pressed up against Dragomira, shivering as if frozen to the bone. The Runaways looked at each other in astonishment.

“The Young Gracious was the one who was summoned.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Dragomira, with her hand over her heart.

“But how could the Soul-Searcher have got it so wrong?” asked Oksa indignantly. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Gus and I aren’t exactly identical! You’d have to be totally barmy to mix the two of us up.”

“Squoracle, you mentioned that Reminiscens and Orthon share the same DNA,” continued Zoe, furiously pulling threads from the sleeve of her T-shirt. “That might explain why the Soul-Searcher made a mistake: they were identical, as far as it was concerned.”

The Squoracle nodded, trembling with cold.

“What if Gus had some of Oksa’s DNA on him? Would that be enough to confuse the Soul-Searcher?” continued Zoe.

“What do you mean?” asked the Squoracle sharply.

All the Runaways were listening intently and Zoe blushed at being the centre of attention.

“I think I can see where Zoe is going with this,” said Naftali, coming to her aid. “You think Gus might have had one of Oksa’s hairs on him, or…”

Everyone looked at Oksa, who frowned, lost in concentration. Suddenly, she smacked the palm of her hand against her forehead.

“OH NO!”

Everyone froze.

“Gus has my bag,” the Young Gracious informed them flatly.

“And… what’s in your bag?” said Pierre in a strangled voice.

“It couldn’t be any worse,” replied Oksa, finding it hard to catch her breath. “My Tumble-Bawler… my Caskinette… my Granok-Shooter…”

Dragomira looked at her in amazement. She was tempted to give vent to her sudden surge of anger, but didn’t want to aggravate the
situation
, especially as things had just gone from bad to worse. She clasped her hands and tried to calm herself down, but she wasn’t fooling the Runaways, who could see how upset she was. Oksa was beginning to realize the sheer magnitude of the disaster, which seemed to be all her fault. Her gran and Abakum had warned her: a Young Gracious should never hand over her tools to anyone, whatever the circumstances. Never. They could fall into the wrong hands and it wasn’t hard to guess what the outcome might be. But how could she have anticipated this?

Her nose began prickling and her eyes brimmed with tears. A sob filled her chest, making it hard to breathe and she inhaled deeply, hoping to relieve the pressure. When she met Dragomira’s gaze, which was blazing with anger—she would have staked her life on it—she felt even more choked.

“What have I done?” she whispered almost inaudibly.

“Do you understand now what we meant when we warned you? Even the smallest act of stupidity can cost us dearly,” thundered Dragomira, struggling to control her temper.

“We’re all in great danger,” continued Abakum, sounding overwhelmed. “Every second. We have to remember that.”

“Let’s not waste time crying over spilt milk,” said Naftali firmly. “We need to act, and quickly! We have to rescue the picture. If someone else gets their hands on it before us—”

Oksa looked up at the tall Swede. If someone else got their hands on the picture, they’d never see Gus again.

T
HAT EVENING
, O
KSA FELT AS THOUGH THE NIGHT
would never come. By the time the shadows had finally started to lengthen and the sky grow dark, the Young Gracious felt as though she was about to explode with impatience. She’d bitten off her last remaining nail and kept looking outside in exasperation.

“Is it time yet? Can we go?” she asked for the umpteenth time that evening.

Her father examined the sky again and looked gravely at Oksa. Then, to hide his emotion, he knelt down to lace his lightweight shoes. Pavel Pollock was a worrier. He’d always found it hard to accept his remarkable origins and, over the past few months, not a week had gone by without a reminder that he was the son of both Dragomira, the Old Gracious with amazing powers, and Vladimir, the Siberian shaman. But he was also Oksa’s father, and his daughter was the Runaways’ only means of returning to the Lost Land of Edefia. She was their Last Hope… After trying and failing to thwart the unalterable destiny of the Runaways—and, whether he liked it or not, he was one of them—he’d set himself one priority: to protect his wife and only daughter. Marie Pollock was still suffering the effects of the poisoned soap from their sworn enemy, Orthon-McGraw and, although it wasn’t Pavel’s fault that his wife’s
condition was deteriorating, it felt like a personal failure. The fact that he hadn’t been able to help anyone up till now was festering in his heart like an open sore that wouldn’t heal. Now it was time to prove to his family and friends that they could count on him as much as Abakum and Leomido.

“Get ready to leave, Oksa,” he said flatly. “Let’s go and get this picture.”

Although it was dark when they arrived at the imposing entrance to St Proximus College, a few streets away from Bigtoe Square, the street was brightly lit, which could jeopardize the Pollocks’ mission. Unlike Oksa, Pavel was well aware of the risks they were running by entering the college uninvited in the middle of the night. He had no intention of breaking in, though—as far as he was concerned, this was just a little “visit”, and the use of his special gifts should be enough. He pointed his index finger at the street lamps, which immediately winked out one after the other, plunging the street into protective darkness. Oksa gave a small cry of admiration.

“Brilliant!” she whispered. “I must learn how to do that.”

“Come on…” murmured her father, adjusting his black scarf over his face.

“You look like a real ninja, Dad!” remarked Oksa, looking at her father dressed all in black from head to toe.

“So do you, Oksa-san,” he replied in a whisper.

“I’m ready, Most Revered Master,” she said, pulling on her own fabric mask.

She just had time to notice the amused yet deeply sad expression in her father’s eyes, before he ran with feline grace towards the perimeter wall around the college. With his feet sticking to the stone, he scaled the wall with the agility of a spider. Watching her father in admiration, the Young Gracious rose in a perfect Vertiflight. Then, hand in hand, father and daughter descended on the other side.

St Proximus was dark and empty. There wasn’t a soul about. The only movement came from the centre of the courtyard, where the steady play of water from the stone fountain glittered in the darkness. The gargoyles overlooking the courtyard from the roof were silhouetted against a sky bathed in the orangey glow of the city lights. Looking up at them, Oksa shivered, momentarily imagining that those stone monsters were about to slip their shackles to swoop down and devour her.

“Come on, let’s not waste any time,” murmured Pavel, pulling her towards the cloister bordering the courtyard.

Silently, they entered one of the four ground-floor corridors. The moon cast a cold radiance over the statues standing along this passageway paved with large polished flagstones. To her surprise, Oksa didn’t feel any safer. She had the awful feeling she was being followed and looked back over her shoulder. Was it Abakum? Had the Fairyman turned into a shadow again so that he could go with them and protect them? No. There were no shadows. Just the impassive gaze of the statues lining the corridor. Oksa’s heart was pounding so hard that she was starting to feel sick. What was going on? Was she afraid? It had to be the first time, if she was. If Gus had been there, he’d have looked at her in astonishment and nudged her in the ribs, saying: “Hey, Ninja-Oksa! Do I have to remind you that I’m the coward, not you!” Gus… She missed him so much. What if the Runaways didn’t work out what to do? What if the evil spell cast on the Soul-Searcher was too strong to be broken? This horrible thought filled Oksa with dread. Her heart turned over at the idea that her loyal friend might be lost for ever in that fiendish picture. She stood there, breathless with panic, staring at one of the statues, which was eyeing her sternly. Picking up on its mistress’s anxiety, the Curbita-Flatulo began undulating on her wrist. Oksa gave a shiver as feelings of reassurance immediately washed over her.

“Hang in there, Gus,” she murmured resolutely. “Come on, Dad, it’s this way.”

They climbed the monumental staircase leading to the first floor and soon found themselves in the science room. The picture was a few yards away, gleaming with a strange shifting light. Surprised by the darkness in the room, Pavel bumped into a coat stand and sent it tumbling to the wooden floor with what sounded to the two intruders like a deafening crash.

“Idiot…” hissed Pavel, cursing his stupidity.

He took out his Granok-Shooter, muttered a few words and blew into it. A bright light appeared and floated in the middle of the room. Oksa dashed over to the picture.

“We’re going to get you out of there, Gus!” she whispered, only a couple of inches away from the canvas.

“Careful!” warned her father, pulling her back. “Remember what Dragomira said: don’t, under any circumstances, touch the Imagicon. Anyone who does so is in danger of being Impictured immediately.”

He drew a fabric bag from his pocket, unfolded it and spread it out on one of the desks. Then, with the utmost care, he took hold of the picture by its wooden frame.

“Open the bag, Oksa!”

The girl obeyed, holding her breath. Pavel slipped the picture inside, then pulled the strings tight to fasten the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“Excellent,” he said. “Let’s go.”

But as he put his hand on the door handle, a blinding light flooded the corridor. Oksa bit her lip to stop herself screaming. Someone had heard them. And, what was worse, they were coming upstairs! The caretaker? McGraw’s ghost? Petrified by such an awful thought, she wasted valuable time hesitating to follow her father, who was trying to pull her back into the science lab. The steps grew closer, sounding loud and threatening. Pavel dragged her inside the room and pushed her against the wall, thrusting a small capsule into her hand. Then he silently closed the door behind them.

Oksa thought she was going to pass out when the door handle was pressed down with a creak. The caretaker—since that was who it was—poked his head through the half-open door.

“Is anybody there?” he shouted, making the girl jump.

Oksa had hoped he wouldn’t investigate any further, but the caretaker was a meticulous man with exceptionally keen hearing. The noise he’d heard from the ground-floor storeroom, where he was putting equipment away, had left him in no doubt: someone was inside the college. He’d been taken on a few days earlier to keep watch on the college during the summer holidays and to do some routine maintenance. This was his first night and there was already a problem—just his luck! He switched on the light in the science room. Pavel had seen to it that none of the bulbs were working. Only the light from the corridor illuminated a small section of the room.

“Oh dear, I’ll have to change the light bulbs,” he muttered, taking out his electric torch. He took a look around inside. A large coat stand was lying on the ground.

“That’s strange…” said the caretaker, frowning.

He picked up the coat stand and began inspecting the room,
determined
to do his job properly. He looked everywhere, under the desks, in the cupboard, behind the door. Everywhere except the ceiling, where Oksa and Pavel were clinging like bats. The bemused caretaker finally walked out. A few minutes later, all the lights were switched off, plunging the corridors of St Proximus into darkness once more. Followed by her father, Oksa detached herself from the ceiling with a skilful somersault.

“This Ventosa Capacitor is amazing!” she whispered enthusiastically, her cheeks flushed.

“You can say that again,” replied Pavel tersely. “Let’s not hang around though. We won’t get a second chance.”

He opened one of the many leaded-glass windows and stepped over
the frame.

“Dad!” exclaimed Oksa, her hand over her mouth.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of going down this way! The caretaker will be keeping an eye on the main entrance, so we don’t have a choice.”

With that, he dropped into the darkness. Oksa rushed over to the window overlooking the street. Her father was on the ground, signalling to her. She climbed onto the windowsill, stretched her foot into the air, steadied herself, then floated down to the ground.