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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Tim Trewartha is a 29 year old writer who lives in East Brunswick, Victoria. He has completed two diplomas in Professional Writing and The Mirrors of Casalasandria is his second novel. At the moment Tim is working on the third Mr. Smith novel, as well as developing another novel for older children. He is also developing a Science Fiction television series that he hopes will be the best thing ever to appear on the small screen. Tim also plans to continue his studies next year. Chapter 1
The planet was alive, its breath as putrid as the smell of an overly
friendly wet dog. Mysterious sounds filled the unbearably rank air, sounds that
came from all directions. They suggested at the hidden dangers and the creatures
that were on the lookout for something to eat that was more tasty then marsh
weed. With each passing day the girl tried to ignore the noises but it was
becoming difficult. But she couldn’t stop now, not now, after all she had been
through. The
girl was scared. She didn’t know where she was or why she was here. She had
arrived, how many days, weeks ago? She couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that
she had been trudging through these horrific marshes on a quest. The girl fended
off mosquitoes that pierced her skin hoping to sup on her blood. Leeches
attached themselves to her legs, growing larger as they too feasted on her life
force. The girl was tired and hungry. She was also sick of eating marsh weed.
The weed was green and unpleasant to look at. It tasted even worse than it
looked. All she wanted was a good meal and a warm bed, far away from this place. But
she couldn’t leave; the voices wouldn’t let her. They were calling to her,
urging her on through the water, demanding she hurry. The girl was unsure of
what was said, there were too many voices, too many orders, and they sounded
desperate. Were they in trouble? What
kind of trouble? The girl asked but no answers came. The voices made her
head ache. She had never felt so sick in her life. She had to keep moving, she
had no choice. She no longer had control over her legs. She was moving by sheer
will power. The
girl struggled through the water, toxic mist rising slowly from it. She tried
not to breathe in the gas, who knows what poisons lurked within it? The air hung
low, thick and heavy. Her clothes, wet from perspiration, stuck uncomfortably to
her body. ‘How could anyone live
here?’ she thought. ‘Maybe they
hit some turbulence and their spaceship crashed. Maybe they think I have my own
craft. They’ll get a surprise when they see me. I won’t know what to do with
them. I’m as much a prisoner of the marsh as they are.’ At
night she made her way to shore, if there was any on offer. Her sleep would be
fitful, waking at the slightest noise. The night was not cold, impossibly it was
warmer than the day but still she shivered. ‘This
surely must be hell,’ she thought to herself. She spent the nights hoping
for daylight and that she would not be eaten by the marsh creatures. And
the voices kept calling her, they filled her mind, causing her immense pain,
pushing out her own thoughts, reducing her to tears. Sometimes she would scream
out in frustration. Despite the voices being crystal clear, there was still no
sight of her summoners as the days passed. Her screams echoed across the
marshlands. Sometimes they bought her comfort. Other times they didn’t. She
sometimes didn’t even recognize her own voice. Then
one day, something happened. The girl, her
eyes half closed, was wading through the water. She kept on trudging, hardly
aware of anything, but somehow realizing all around her was silent. It was then
that she realised the voices had gone. “Where are you?” She called out. No
answer came. A slight smile crept over the girl’s face. Was this it? Was her
long journey over? She looked around but saw nothing. Just marshland and more
marshland, stretching out towards the horizon. Then,
she felt something cold and slimy grab hold of her left ankle. Before she could
do anything, she felt herself being dragged underneath the lukewarm water.
Thrashing, she pulled herself to the surface, spurting out a mouthful of
stagnant water. Quickly she looked around, desperate to reach the embankment. As
she tried to swim away, a large tentacle rose from the water with a roar. It
wrapped itself around the girl in a deadly embrace. The girl desperately
searched for her pocketknife, or anything to fend off her attacker, but she
could find nothing. The girl struggled in vain, then, ever so slowly, the
tentacle pulled her under the water. She felt herself thrashing in the water,
feeling it as it entered her lungs and threatened to drown her. Finally, with
her last thought, she called out to the voices, a cry for help. But it went
unanswered. The voices had long gone, the marshland was still and the girl sunk
deeper, deeper into the black oblivion… And
then she emerged, sitting straight up, disorientated and unaware of where she
was. Breathing deeply she focused on the dark, and the thin stream of light that
shone through a flimsy material opening. The girl sighed. It was just a dream, a
horrible nonsensical dream. She wasn’t on an alien world, she was on Earth, in
a tent. But she was soaking wet as was the floor of the tent. Poking through the
tent flap was a hose, a steady trickle of water leaking from its nozzle. The
girl sighed. This little joke was becoming rather boring. She
got out of her sodden sleeping bag and crossed the floor, being careful that she
did not slip on the watery surface. She flung open the tent flap, and bright
light seeped through. Flinging the hose away she could vaguely make out a couple
of giggling figures running away from her. Hands on hips she watched as they
ran, then she turned back to her tent and got ready to once again clean away the
foul smell. Miranda
Puddle, aged fourteen and a half, surveyed her waterlogged micro-kingdom. Once
again her bag of clothes and books were thoroughly soaked. Sighing, she told
herself that she had come across worse adversity than this but somehow she just
couldn’t make herself believe it. She had only been away from home for three
days now and already life was more painful than it had been on Pleasant Street.
‘Yes,’ she thought, ‘Camp Have-a-Lark could very well be the worst place on Earth.’ Miranda
was at Camp Have-a-Lark with her year group from school. Every year St. Mary’s
Secondary College sent their students to this run-down, ramshackle campsite that
was situated on swampy ground next to a somewhat dreary beach. This was
Miranda’s third time here, and she had been desperate never to return. But,
school camp was compulsory and Miranda was told that if she didn’t go, she’d
be expelled. Miranda was fine with this proposition; her parents, however, were
not. They couldn’t wait to get rid of her. Mr. Puddle told her that camps were
character building and Mrs. Puddle said she had fond memories of visiting Camp
Have-a-Lark in the Nineteen Sixties. Camp
Have-a-Lark might very well have been an exciting place in the Nineteen Sixties,
but in the present day, it was a ruin. There was no running water for toilets or
showers, and the children had to bathe in the sea. The activities hall had three
board games and two incomplete jigsaw puzzles between one hundred children. The
activities hall also became extraordinarily hot during the day and as it was the
middle of summer, the hall became unbearable. During the middle of the day, the
children were forced to congregate in the hall to sew socks and wallets by hand,
which were then sent overseas and sold to unsuspecting American tourists as
traditional products. If
this wasn’t bad enough, the canoes, wind surfers and other sporting equipment
were so bad they were dangerous to use. Already two students had been injured
and sent to hospital. One boy had been shot in the backside by a rusty arrow at
the archery site and a girl had tried jumping on a diving board that hung over
an inlet in the sea. The board, which had not been replaced in thirty years,
broke and the girl fell breaking her left leg. It was understood that there
would be other accidents during the course of the week, however Miranda knew she
would not be involved. She stayed right away from all the camp’s activities.
She much preferred to go down to the beach and walk or sit and read. Miranda
placed her bags on a patch of dry grass, then proceeded to drain out her tent.
This procedure had become a morning ritual. It was one of Ignatius Karbunkle’s
favourite jokes. Miranda gritted her teeth when she thought of Ignatius. Never
had she met a more horrible boy. Ignatius and his friends took great pleasure in
bullying Miranda. From the very first day she arrived at St. Mary’s, Miranda
had been Ignatius’ favourite target. This trip had been especially painful.
Not only did Ignatius enjoy flooding Miranda’s tent while she slept, he took
pleasure in stealing her clothes from her tent and dumping them in the swamp, so
she would have to wear her pyjamas around until she succeeded in finding her
clothes. When the class went canoeing, Karbunkle took pleasure in giving Miranda
the canoe with the most holes in the bottom, and then when the canoes were
launched, he tried his best to knock Miranda into the sea. Ignatius Karbunkle
was a nasty piece of work. He was a villain and Miranda truly despised him. She
hoped one day she would be able to have her revenge on him, maybe when she
finally mastered the art of seeking an innate power that dwelt deep within her.
She hoped perhaps she could turn him into a toad, or perhaps a tree, or at the
very least make him grow a tail. Miranda
watched as the water trickled onto the ground. She looked around her at the tent
city, where her classmates and teachers slept, unaware and uncaring of
Miranda’s troubles. It was only six in the morning, they would not be awake
for another hour. Miranda knew no one cared about Karbunkle’s teasing. She had
learnt long ago that if she told on him, the teachers would just tell her to
grow up and then Ignatius would make doubly sure that Miranda’s life remained
miserable. Angrily
Miranda kicked at her bag. As she did, a small golden object fell from it. It
tinkled lightly as it fell to the ground. Frowning Miranda bent to pick it up.
It was a small golden bell. Strange cryptic scrawls were etched upon its golden
surface burning with the fuel of an alien fire. ‘How
did this get here?’ she thought in surprise. She knew what it was though.
It was a gift from her friend, Mr. Smith. He had given it to her the last time
they had met. What had he said? Only ring it in the direst of emergencies?
Miranda wondered if now was such a time. The
day was already warm and Miranda knew that by lunchtime it would be a scorcher.
She did not enjoy the prospect of making wallets in this heat. She grasped the
bell in her hand and walked down towards the beach. It
was a strange, dirty beach, not the sort you would normally go to for a family
holiday. But for some reason Miranda liked it. Nobody else came here, so Miranda
came as often as she could. The sand was almost black, and it was covered in
seaweed, smelly horrible weed that on really hot days floated towards the camp,
stinking up the air. It wasn’t too bad today though, so Miranda sat down on
the sand and watched the waves slowly ebb against the shore. She
looked at the bell. It had been over a year since she had last seen Mr. Smith.
She often wondered if she would ever see him again. Sadly she looked out to sea.
He was probably having a great time, somewhere in the universe, going on grand
adventures and getting into trouble. She laughed quietly to herself when she
thought of the little cat with his fluffy black tail, and his intense but
beautiful almond eyes, that seemed to see right through our universe in to other
galaxies. It
had been Mr. Smith who had told her about her gift, that she was able to see
things that others couldn’t, but Miranda was sure now that Mr. Smith had not
told her the full extent of her gift. Mr. Smith was good at keeping things
secret. ‘But then,’ thought
Miranda, ‘I guess it’s in a cat’s
nature to be secretive.’ Miranda
rubbed her head. She could feel a headache coming on. She always had one after
she had a bad dream, and she had been having nightmares on and off for almost a
year now. And her dreams were always the same. She could hear people, desperate
people, calling for her help, but she could never reach them. The dreams always
took place in horrible inhospitable places, on worlds where no one would dare
step foot. Miranda shuddered. As if the psychological abuse from Ignatius and
his friends wasn’t bad enough, her own brain was turning against her. She
didn’t understand the dreams; they made her tense and upset. She often wished
she were with Mr. Smith, so she could talk to him about them. She was sure he
would know what to do. He had said he would come back for her, but when? As
Miranda searched for the answer to her problem, she did not hear the sound of
bush rustling behind her. Peering over the scrub at her, were two pudgy, evil
faces. One was Ignatius Karbunkle. The other was his number one henchman, Paul
Grommet. They studied Miranda as she stared silently out to sea. Paul turned to
his friend. “What’s
she doing now?” he whispered, hoping Miranda wouldn’t hear him. Ignatius
sniggered. “She’s
not doing anything. She’s just sitting there, staring. What a freak. Who would
want to look at something as boring as salty water?” Ignatius
had no time for the environment. His favourite things, besides bullying were
eating sugary novelty breakfasts and collecting pogs. “Are
you going to do something, Fatty? Are you?” said Paul excitedly. “Yep,
I sure am. I’ll teach her for being interested in nature.” Suddenly
Ignatius grabbed Paul and flung him to the ground. Paul tried to cry out, but
with one hand Ignatius covered his friend’s mouth and with the other hand he
punched Paul in the stomach. “That’s
for calling me Fatty. No one calls me that. I’m not fat. I’m just big
boned.” Ignatius
got off his friend, who picked himself up from the ground, rubbing his stomach.
He looked like he was about to cry. “I’m
sorry, Ignatius,” Paul said, fear quivering in his voice. “I won’t say it
again.” “Good,”
said Ignatius. “Now you wait here. I’m going down to the beach. I think
it’s about time I taught that tall gawk a lesson she’ll never forget. You
thought flooding the tent was a good idea? That was nothing. Watch this.” Ignatius
rose from his hiding spot and walked down to the beach, trying not to make any
noise. Miranda
had no idea that Karbunkle was planning a surprise attack. She was too busy lost
in her thoughts. She looked at the skyline. It was a grey day; the clouds were
heavy, dark and ominous. Even though it was warm, Miranda shivered. Was there a
storm coming? As she
watched the clouds, Miranda noticed that one particular cloud seemed to be
growing larger. It was the darkest cloud on the horizon. Miranda watched
it, puzzled. ‘That’s weird,’ she thought. ‘I’ve never
seen a cloud that big before, or that black.’ She
watched the mysterious cloud grow. A chill ran through her body. ‘What is it?’ she thought, apprehensively. As it came closer, she
could see it clearly. It was the blackest object she had ever seen, and it
flapped in the wind, like a bird. But it wasn’t a bird, it was flat, like a
single sheet of paper and it was gaining ground fast. Then
she heard the voices, echoing throughout her mind. They were harsh metallic
whispers and they were calling her. The voices were alien. “Miranda Puddle, we have come for you.” Suddenly
Miranda became very scared. She wanted to run, but found that she couldn’t.
Some force was holding her to the beach. She struggled, but she could not remove
herself. And all the time the giant black wing came closer, whispering. “Miranda Puddle, we have come for you.” She
opened her mouth, ready to scream for help, but no sound came. Desperately
Miranda looked around the beach, hoping someone would see that she was in
trouble. But there was no one. She was alone and she was trapped. Finally
the black shape hovered over her. She looked up into its great black expanse. It
was like an onyx mirror, or a black polished stone like the ones used to build
war memorials. She could see her terrified reflection in the great black shape.
The black shape lowered itself until it was floating above her head. “At last,”
the voices said. “At last you are
ours.” Afraid
and helpless, Miranda tried one last time to break the shape’s hold on her.
But it was no use. Whatever this thing was, it was about to claim her as its
own. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone running towards her. It
was Ignatius Karbunkle! He was running as fast as his fat little legs could
carry him and he was coming straight at her. She almost laughed with relief; she
had never been glad to see him before. Miranda looked up at the object and then
at Ignatius. She tried waving her arms, hoping that Ignatius would see the black
mass and run back to the camp for help, but he just kept running towards her. He
hadn’t noticed the black shadow looming over Miranda. Finally he was almost on
top of her. He reached out to grab her, ready to tackle her to the ground, when
the black shadow swooped down upon the two children. Ignatius looked up and saw
for the first time the alien mass. “What
the…?” he shouted as he took in the creature floating above him. He looked
at Miranda, terrified. She looked back helplessly. Ignatius’ right hand was
holding on to Miranda’s shoulder. He tried to pull away but he couldn’t. He
was caught in the shadow’s force field. “Stop
this!” he cried. “What’s going on? What is that thing?” The
shadow came closer towards Miranda and Ignatius. Finally it morphed into a giant
hand and slowly it reached down and grabbed Ignatius. The boy screamed as the
fist closed tightly around him. Miranda could do nothing but watch on in
horrified silence. The shadow soon covered the bully like an oil slick, until
finally it was the shape of the boy. A mighty cry erupted from the black shape.
Miranda flinched; the noise hurt her head. Then, suddenly, she fell to the
ground. The force field was broken! Quickly Miranda picked herself up from the
ground, watching Ignatius as the blackness consumed him. She heard the voices
splutter and hiss inside her head, but then she heard a new voice, a very
familiar voice. It was Ignatius. “I’ll
get you for this, Puddle. If it’s the last thing I ever do.” Then,
the voice merged and joined the other voices, becoming one loud symphony of
madness. Miranda
ran and hid behind a tree. She watched as the shape of the mass began to change.
Soon it was no longer the size of a boy; it had reverted back to its flat,
two-dimensional appearance. Miranda gulped. ‘That
could have been me,’ she thought. ‘If
Ignatius hadn’t come along and confused it, I would have been eaten.’
Even though Ignatius was a nasty piece of work, she felt sorry for him.
But she didn’t have time to dwell on it, the shape was heading in her
direction! “You are ours, Miranda Puddle,”
cried the voices. “Resistance is
futile.” Miranda
steeled herself. She had to get out of here and fast. But how? That shadow was
fast, it would be useless running away. She would get tired and eventually it
would catch up with her. She was about to give up hope, when she felt around in
her pockets and pulled out something small and hard. She held it up to the
light. The bell! Grinning,
she held the bell up to her enemy. It stopped and watched her, hissing angrily. “Catch
me if you can!” she cried. With
super fast speed the shadow flew at Miranda, nearly catching her off guard. But
a second was all she needed. As the shadow loomed down upon her, the voices
triumphant, she rang the bell. Then
everything faded to black.
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