Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope (35 page)

“S
HALL WE MOVE ON TO PRACTICALITIES
?”
ASKED
A
BAKUM
after about ten minutes. “I’ve prepared a room specially for you: a forest room. Do you want see it?”

“You bet!”

They climbed the metal staircase which led upstairs and Abakum opened a sliding door.

“Wow!” exclaimed Oksa. “This is amazing, I feel as if I’m climbing in the trees.”

This was because two of the room’s four walls were picture windows overlooking a copse of trees so close that it was like walking into a forest. Virginia creepers climbing up the outside wall and hanging down over the glass added even more to the natural beauty of this extraordinary view.

“You’re right, this is definitely a forest room,” remarked Oksa.

“Don’t forget,” recalled Abakum, “in Edefia, the Sylvabuls traditionally lived in the trees in the region of Green-Mantle. Or rather, they had huge houses built in the trees. I wish you’d seen Leafhold, our capital, my dear. I’m sure you’d have loved it. It was suspended in trees whose branches were so wide that they provided a vast surface area to build on, like Colossos and Feetinskies—banyan-like trees with aerial roots. It was a city of more than 500 houses linked by monkey bridges and giant zip-lines. Those who weren’t so athletic could travel between the trees on solar-powered cable cars.”

“All mod-cons, then!” remarked Oksa.

“Of course,” replied Abakum with a smile. “We’d left the dark ages behind us a long time ago!”

“I didn’t mean that,” said the girl a little defensively. “I know your civilization was really high-tech.”

“Exactly right. Although I’d say green technology was more our thing—we’ve always known how to safeguard the best of our environment and show infinite respect for nature as we’ve developed. The natural world is our ally. It’s a pity that the Outsiders haven’t done the same, a great pity.”

“What about the houses in Green-Mantle? You said they were similar to yours?”

“Yes, that’s right. The houses were made of wood, glass and metal, and each one gave the impression of being moulded to fit the branches of the particular tree it was built in. Over the past few years, I’ve noticed that the Outsiders have been adopting construction and planning principles similar to those that have been observed by the Sylvabuls in Edefia for over a thousand years. At last people seem to be understanding the advantages of ergonomics and eco-design. Better late than never, don’t you think?”

Oksa nodded thoughtfully.

“Well, my dear, I’ll leave you to unpack… come and find me when you’ve finished,” suggested Abakum.

A few minutes later, Oksa went back downstairs. Proud of the latest skill she’d learnt, she made an impressive entrance into the large downstairs room, her feet stuck fast to the wall and her body horizontal. Lying in a hammock stretched between two columns, Abakum was surrounded by creatures, some of which Oksa had never seen before.

“Welcome, Young Gracious!” they chorused.

Oksa laughed and, after performing a perfect backflip, thanked the creatures for their welcome.

“I see Dragomira hasn’t been wasting any time,” noted Abakum with a grin. “Well done, Oksa. Magnificent entrance and what a landing! There’s a definite kung-fu influence there, which has a certain style… why don’t you come and sit down, so that I can introduce you.”

Oksa sank into a soft armchair shaped like a pear and put her elbows on her knees.

“You won’t see any Lunatrixes at my house. As you know, they’re exclusively for the Gracious’s family,” explained Abakum. “But I have thirty or so small companions, some of which you may be familiar with: Poliglossiper, Getorix, Incompetent, Tumble-Bawler, Squoracle…”

“Have you any Goranovs?” asked Oksa, casting an eye over the creatures which were staring at her. “They’re hilarious!”

“Yes, one, from which I’ve managed to grow a few young plants. As you might imagine, cultivating them is extremely complicated. They’re still nurslings and, even though I hardly ever get the chance to make Granok-Shooters or identity rings, they come in very useful—for example, when a new Young Gracious is revealed.”

Oksa smiled and looked at the old man with deep affection. She felt very close to him. Even closer than before.

“Yes. Thanks for my Granok-Shooter.”

“Do you use it much?” asked Abakum innocently.

“Er… a little,” she muttered.

“Never in public, I hope?” he added, staring at the girl.

His tone was meant to be serious, but his eyes betrayed his amusement at torturing her.

“Never!” exclaimed Oksa, feigning a shocked expression.

“Just as well,” replied Abakum, teasingly. “We all know how sensible you are…”

“It’s
formidable
! It’s
wunderbar
!” said a spindly creature, letting Oksa off the hook.

“Oh! You’re so funny!” she exclaimed.

“Do you mean I’m
absurde? Grottesca? Löjlig?
Boohooboohoo…”

Suddenly the Poliglossiper began weeping copiously. Its lanky body, full of holes like a piece of Swiss cheese, began inflating to huge proportions then subsiding to its original size. Oksa opened her eyes wide in amazement.

“Don’t worry, Oksa,” said Abakum reassuringly. “As you can see, Poliglossipers tend to use a mixture of languages but their main trait is a keen sense of tragedy. Like several of the creatures who shared our exile, they’re much more sensitive than they were in Edefia. This may be because of the climate on the Outside or our long stay in Russia. No one really knows… so you’ll often witness tragic scenes on a grand scale.”

“…or comic ones,” suggested a Getorix. “Because we, at least, haven’t lost our sense of humour, unlike some I could mention!”

It started dancing round the blubbering Poliglossiper, which suddenly divided itself into several strips and began chasing the mocking Getorix, lashing its back.

“A whipping—that’s what you deserve,
très mauvaise
thing!” shouted the Poliglossiper, spluttering and spitting.

The Getorix took refuge behind Oksa and the Poliglossiper stopped dead.

“Just what I said, no sense of humour!” yelled the Getorix, mockingly.

Oksa couldn’t help gathering the little creature in her arms and the grateful Getorix laid its head on her accommodating shoulder.

“You’re tickling me,” said Oksa, wriggling.

“That’s because of its
démoniaque
hair,” said the Poliglossiper, which had resumed its initial shape. “
Achtung
, beware, Young Gracious, of the filth from that
capella
!”

“Comic scenes?” broke in the Incompetent, after a time lag of several seconds. “Because you think a Young Gracious with long hair is funny?”

“We don’t like filth and we don’t like the cold,” chorused the Squoracles, taking a more personal approach.

“You know, Abakum,” said Oksa laughing, as she put the Getorix
back on the floor, “your creatures are as incredible as Dragomira’s and Leomido’s. But I’ve never seen a Poliglossiper before, it’s astonishing!”

“It’s an extremely interesting creature which is in service to Sylvabuls like me. You’ve had a glimpse of what it can do but, believe it or not, it can change into absolutely any utilitarian object, a ladder, a chair, a piece of rope, anything. Its body is made from a solid yet malleable material, similar to modelling clay or rubber. Handy, isn’t it?”

“You’re not kidding! What about the Getorix? What are its qualities? Apart from clowning around and annoying the others, I mean.”

“You see that generous mane of hair it’s so proud of? Well, we use that with other ingredients to make Excelsior Capacitors, which speed up thought processes. As for the Incompetent, its crest is used to make an anti-stress salve.”

“Oh yes, I saw that at Leomido’s. Dragomira had brought some with her to massage the leaves of his Goranov when it was over-anxious—which seems on average to be about fifty-two times a day, doesn’t it?”

“Very observant,” said Abakum with a laugh. “But Incompetent crest is also used to make the Memory-Mash Granok, whose effects I’ll leave you to imagine, as well as the granules you feed your Curbita-Flatulo every morning. How is it, by the way?”

In answer, Oksa smiled and raised her sleeve to show him her living bracelet, which was in fine shape and purring quietly. Abakum went over to her and gently stroked its sleepy little head, causing it to purr even louder.

“It’s doing great,” replied Oksa. “It played a nasty trick on me one day at school. But it was entirely my fault: I’d forgotten to give the poor thing its granule—what a noise it made, I can tell you!” she explained, laughing. “It was certainly an explosive experience. Since then, I keep the tools of a perfect future Gracious on me: my Granok-Shooter, my anti-farting box, my Ventosa Capacitors,” she added, patting the small canvas bag she wore slung over her shoulder. “I always have it with me now, even when we have games. I’m petrified someone might find it.”

“You have every reason to be cautious, particularly with Orthon in the vicinity,” remarked Abakum gravely. “But I’m going to give you something that will help put your mind at rest. Come over here, please, Tumble-Bawler.”

A creature less than three inches tall fluttered over to him. Its slightly conical mauve body was rounded at the base, which gave it the appearance of a tumbler toy—no doubt where its name came from. Rising out of the astonishing head which surmounted its strange body were two big eyes. These seemed to swivel a full 360 degrees, giving it a perpetually alarmed expression. Two long arms hung at its sides, counterbalancing the large body.

“Master? A mission?”

“Yes, an important mission,” replied Abakum. “You will now offer your services to this young person here. Oksa, may I present your own personal Tumble-Bawler.”

Intrigued and amused, Oksa looked at the creature which had landed on her lap and was gazing intently at her. The Tumble-Bawler greeted her, rocking back and forth, then steadied itself with what it used for hands. Abakum continued his introduction:

“Tumble-Bawlers are faithful, powerful alarms which can adapt to all kinds of situations and all kinds of needs. You can give them a mission to detect anything and order exactly the type of alarm you want. I advise you to ask the Tumble-Bawler to watch your bag. If someone wants to look inside, through curiosity or malicious intent, the Tumble-Bawler can warn you or activate an alarm, which will make any approach impossible. For example, you can choose a shrill, ear-splitting bell or a sharp scratch on unduly bold hands, it’s up to you.”

“Come here, little Tumble-Bawler,” called Oksa, “come here…”

The little mauve creature fluttered onto Oksa’s outstretched palm and began rocking again.

“Young Mistress, I await your instructions!”

Abakum winked at Oksa encouragingly.

“Listen carefully then,” she continued, putting the Tumble-Bawler in her bag. “You’ll guard my bag and scream very, very loudly if anyone other than me and Abakum tries to open it. We’re going to give it a try, okay? I’ll pretend to be someone nosy…”

Immediately Abakum put his hands over his ears. Oksa opened the fastening of the small bag and an alarm as loud as the siren of a fire engine blared out. Oksa dropped the bag and put her hands over her ears, like Abakum—the old man had obviously learnt from experience. A few seconds later, the dreadful alarm stopped and the Tumble-Bawler emerged with an enquiring look on its face.

“Young Mistress, was the alarm suitable?”

Oksa, a finger in each ear, her eardrums ringing, tried to laugh off this violent assault on her hearing.

“Perhaps something a little quieter? I don’t want to alert the whole school!”

“Oh, Tumble-Bawlers aren’t exactly overburdened with subtlety,” grunted the Poliglossiper, which had rolled into a ball in a corner of the room. “
Villano
!”

“Okay, okay, message received loud and clear, young Mistress,” promised the Tumble-Bawler, crawling back into the bag.

“That’s a good job done,” said Abakum. “Now, would you care to move on to something a little more serious? Follow me.”

A
BAKUM TOOK
O
KSA UPSTAIRS, FOLLOWED OBEDIENTLY
by all the creatures. At the end of the corridor, a steel security door opened onto the gangway which led to the mysterious silo. As with the outer gate, the door opened as soon as Abakum introduced the green scarab beetle into the lock. They walked along the gangway and came out into the silo, which had been converted into a giant hothouse. A translucent domed ceiling bathed the entire space in a milky light, and some tiny golden birds welcomed the master of the house and his guests by singing loudly.

“Hello, Ptitchkins,” said Abakum, greeting them.

“Hey! Baba has some bird-shaped earrings exactly like these,” blurted Oksa, blinking as she tried to focus on them.

“I wonder if they’re not actually
real
birds,” replied Abakum with a mischievous grin.

“Oh, Abakum, stop pulling my leg!”

“Look a little more closely next time your gran wears them,” he advised.

“You two are unbelievable,” said Oksa. “Arrrgh, what’s that?” she yelled, suddenly grabbing Abakum’s arm.

An enormous swarm of insects had taken to the air and were abruptly changing direction like starlings as they flew. Oksa went white, her heart pounding with terror. The swarm reminded her of something that she’d rather have forgotten for ever—and certainly had no desire to relive.
The image of the Death’s Head Chiropterans was still very traumatic. Abakum immediately realized she was panicking.

“They’re not what you think they are,” he said, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly. “Watch carefully.”

The swarm was magnificent. Except that Oksa hated insects—particularly when they travelled en masse and seemed to be taking a malicious pleasure in heading straight for her, only swerving right or left at the last moment, making her shudder each time they flew past. Realizing the effect their comings and goings were having on his young guest, Abakum whistled noisily between his fingers and the swarm immediately flattened itself against the wall of the silo to form a shifting picture, which spelt out the words:

“Oh, Abakum! What does that mean?”

“It means that my Invisibuls are welcoming you, can’t you read?” replied the Enchanter, smiling widely.

“Your
what
?”

“My Invisibuls. They aren’t insects, despite what you may have thought at first, but tiny creatures similar to flying tadpoles. In fact, they’re perfect little winged chameleons which can assume any colour they want. Watch.”

There was no longer any trace of the presence of the swarm on the wall. But in the next second, a new picture had formed—this time Oksa’s face surrounded by exploding fireworks. She burst out laughing:

“They’re incredible! I love them.”

“But, you know, their primary function isn’t artistic,” explained Abakum. “The Graciouses mainly use them as an invisibility cloak—they cover themselves with them and can go anywhere incognito owing to their imitative abilities.”

“Can I try?” asked Oksa enthusiastically.

“In due course, yes, you can,” replied Abakum.

“It’s a real tropical forest in here,” continued Oksa, looking around.

The silo contained scores of plants, each more luxuriant than the next. After the first rather suffocating and unpleasant impression, visitors became acclimatized to the mugginess and were enchanted by this remarkable place. A staircase ran around the walls of the silo and made it possible to descend to floor level, where most of the plants were kept. Oksa had always suspected that Abakum was hiding all kinds of mysteries here; but the sight of the plants nattering to each other like old ladies in a tearoom was enough to leave even the most experienced Young Gracious open-mouthed with astonishment. Some of these incredible plants were placed on the floor or on long wooden tables; others were hanging from the staircase banister. Oksa recognized some Goranovs, a few of which occupied a huge console table. They were bound to be the nurslings. When she went over to them, the biggest Goranov—the mother, without a doubt—shuddered in distress.

“Who goes there? It’s a strange girl! A strange girl bringing all manner of disease! Bacteria! Viruses! What are the Tumble-Bawlers playing at? A stranger has got in! Watch out! WATCH OUT!”

Abakum came over and stroked its leaves, murmuring a few words that Oksa could barely hear. The silo was in a state of excitement and all that could be heard was the growing noise of rustling leaves and whispering. The murmur grew louder and louder. The plants leant towards each other as if to pass on a message until one of them, the largest plant, which was sitting prominently in an enormous pot in the middle of the silo, yelled hoarsely:

“It’s the Young Gracious! IT’S THE LAST HOPE!”

Immediately the rustling stopped then picked up again furiously a few seconds later. The plants were clapping their leaves, banging them together like cymbals.

“They’re applauding you,” Abakum whispered in Oksa’s ear.

Not in the habit of being applauded by plants, Oksa blushed and waved to them in acknowledgement.

“That large plant is astonishing. What is it?”

Before replying, Abakum whistled again through his fingers to ensure silence and the plants immediately went back to chatting more quietly.

“Oh, I see you’ve spotted my Centaury. It certainly doesn’t pass unnoticed. And it isn’t even fully grown. In a few months, it will be fifteen feet high.”

“It seems to be laying down the law for the others, doesn’t it? It’s like a plant-sheriff,” remarked Oksa, watching the Centaury with curiosity.

“You’re not entirely wrong. A Centaury helps to regulate the atmosphere in a glass-roofed environment by absorbing or releasing water vapour or carbon dioxide, depending on requirements. But that isn’t its only function. You may have noticed that our creatures are very resilient. Well the same holds true for the plants, except that they’re immobile and confined to this space. They possess certain gifts, although unfortunately not the ability to move. As a result, disputes are a little harder to control. The Centaury acts as a mediator if things get out of hand and can calm everyone down. Did you see how it dealt with the situation a minute ago?”

“You can see straight away that it’s a tough customer. What about this fragile-looking one?” asked Oksa, going over to a plant with delicate mauve flowers blooming at the end of long, slender stems.

“That’s a Nobilis. The pistil of its blossoms produces a sort of golden dust used to make a Granok causing blindness.”

The Nobilis bowed one of its long stems to stroke Oksa’s hand gently with the tip of its petals. Surprised, Oksa jumped and took a step back. Then, seeing Abakum’s unruffled smile, she allowed the plant to continue. The Nobilis wiggled, chuckling with pleasure. Further away, another bushy, garrulous plant tried to attract her attention by waving its leaves in all directions. Inquisitively, Oksa walked over and the plant, crying shrilly with enthusiasm, immediately clutched her wrist to stop her moving off.

“This is the Pulsatilla, Oksa,” said Abakum by way of introduction. “As you can see, it’s pretty vivacious! I discovered its use following the
Chaos in Edefia, after examining those terrifying Granoks used by the Felons as weapons.”

“The Black Globuses?” asked Oksa.

“Yes, particularly the Colocynthis, which turns limbs to glass, as you saw with Leomido’s poor Gargantuhen. I can make an antidote neutralizing the effects of the Colocynthis with the Pulsatilla. That’s what Dragomira gave the Gargantuhen to heal its leg.”

The Pulsatilla was still holding Oksa by the wrist and didn’t seem inclined to let her go.

“It’s also a very affectionate plant. But you probably don’t need me to tell you that… Pulsatilla, would you please give me back Oksa? I’d like to show her something.”

“Come on, lettuce, let go of the Young Gracious!” broke in the Getorix, pulling on the stem clutching Oksa’s wrist with all its might.

“I’m not a lettuce, Hairball!” cried the Pulsatilla indignantly. “I’m a very useful, very noble plant, that’s what the Master said. And I need affection to blossom! Does anyone know what that means? What is affection?”

Abakum leant over to hear what Oksa was whispering to him.

“Of course you can!” he said approvingly.

Oksa bent towards the Pulsatilla and placed a light kiss on its largest leaf. The plant immediately let go of her wrist with a sigh of satisfaction, which sent its neighbours into raptures. Abakum made the most of this display of emotion to take Oksa to the small mezzanine halfway up the silo. This platform held a workshop equipped with a worktop laden with instruments and huge cupboards with drawers, like the one Dragomira had in her living room. Abakum ushered Oksa to a chaise longue and took a seat beside her in a sort of rocking chair.

“That’s incredible!” exclaimed Oksa, her large grey eyes open wide. “A plant which feels and expresses emotions—that’s mental! Is everything like that in Edefia?”

“Yes,” replied Abakum. “We are so attentive to the natural world, so respectful of life in all its forms, that we’ve become mutually
receptive. Gradually, over the centuries, the differences disappeared and we’ve reached a state of perfect understanding. In Edefia, the plants communicate with human beings quite simply because human beings listen to them. Few Outsiders can open their minds and senses enough to commune with the natural world. Vladimir, Dragomira’s husband, belonged to the category of people who could, along with his grandfather, Metchkov, the Siberian shaman who took us in when we arrived. You know, Oksa, respect and the ability to listen are—or used to be—fundamental to the way Edefia operates. Society was also based on need, not on people’s desires or greed, as is too often the case on the Outside. For example, in Edefia the sole purpose of work was to meet our requirements, without any concern for accumulation, profit or superiority. There was no social hierarchy: a baker was the same as an architect, a sewer worker was no different from a dignitary in the High Enclave. Every person did what he knew how to do for the common good. This is how we lived, with a well-balanced system that was beneficial to us all, until Malorane showed us that society could be structured differently. Malorane committed a serious error of judgement when she showed us the Outside. Everything was going so well before… It’s such a pity and such a waste. Who knows what state Edefia is in today.”

“What did you do before you had to leave?” asked Oksa, fascinated by Abakum’s story. “You were a herbalist, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was the Granokological Master of Edefia and the official herbalist-apothecary to the Gracious’s family. When I was very young I already had very obvious gifts; I had always been passionately interested in plants. I could spend hours on my stomach observing them in the forest grass, in hothouses or in the fields. When I was around seven, I began creating original mixtures and producing simple remedies. It was at that age that I even invented my first Granok—out of unrequited love, believe it or not!”

“Tell me, Abakum,” begged Oksa.

“At that time I was in love with a young girl who only had eyes for another boy, whom I hated, of course. Then, to get my revenge, I created the Laughing-Rill. Nothing like that to get rid of rivals, I thought!”

“You were the one who invented the Laughing-Rill? At the age of seven? But how did you do it?”

“Observation, Oksa, observation. That is often the most effective way of understanding and learning things. I’d noticed that the sheep were particularly cheerful after grazing on a certain plant in the fields. They gambolled about in all directions as if they were having a fit of the giggles and then, how should I put it, they seemed to lose control of their bladders. That gave me the idea for an experiment, and there you have it! Simple.”

“Simple? Easier said than done,” remarked Oksa, sitting up straight on her chaise longue. “In any case, I really like the sound of that invention. What about the girl? Did she fall in love with you after that?”

Abakum gave a small laugh.

“Not at all. She flew to the assistance of my damp rival and completely ignored me. Oh, don’t worry, I recovered. In any case, my disappointment at least made it possible to confirm one thing: Granokology was in my blood.”

“What did your parents think about that?” asked Oksa.

“They were a little surprised at first; they thought I was going to follow in their footsteps and take up design. But my passion for plants was so strong that they let me do what I wanted. When I was eight, I began my apprenticeship with Mirandole, the best master of Granokology in Edefia at the time, an old man who was over 150 years old. He was a follower of Hildegard von Bingen, whose name was given to the Healery of Edefia—that’s the equivalent of a hospital, as you will have guessed. Hildegard was a remarkable Outsider. Gracious Annamira discovered her existence in the twelfth century during her Dreamflights. Hildegard von Bingen was a mystic poetess, but she was also known for her extraordinary talents as a physician because she knew the secrets of plants. Annamira
carried out a great number of Dreamflights in Europe at that time and her observations inspired a large number of Granokologists, including good old Mirandole, who taught me so much. And eight years later I entered the service of Gracious Malorane.”

“You were very precocious, weren’t you!” exclaimed Oksa.

“You don’t do so badly yourself,” said Abakum pointedly.

He stood up and went over to one of the cupboards containing a large number of tiny drawers. He opened about ten of them and took out what looked like pills, then arranged them inside a tube which had been cut in half lengthways. There were all different shapes and colours—round, flat, elongated.

“Come over here, we’re going to move on to some practical exercises. Would you take out your Granok-Shooter, please?”