As the youngest, Aethelron was ever sidelined by his brothers and sisters, for he was a flawed, yet ambitious godling – immature, easily distracted and inclined to seldom finish what he began. Aethelron’s achievements rarely met the expectations he set for himself, and never those of his elders. But his heart was true and good and it burned with a blinding light, a desire for the respect of his elder siblings that never dimmed.

But it would not come to pass. To the senior gods, Aethelron was, only and always, the God of Small Things. Such was his role and of no greater could he hope for.

The more time passed, the more Aethelron’s envy of his siblings grew and tormented him. His frustration evolved into a slow-building anger that finally ignited into confrontation. Following a fiery showdown with his sister, the maternal Laethanielle, the God of Small Things stormed off in a rage. Without looking back, he fled to the distant reaches of space and time. No longer could he endure the suffocating controls of his brothers and sisters. No longer could he bear to be the last among seven.

Countless centuries passed and Aethelron’s heart began to despair. Just as he resigned to return home to his kin in defeat, the godling’s attention was drawn to a winking star of sparkling gold. And as all immortals know, a star that winks is married to planets, and planets in orbit around a star have a chance, however small, of nurturing life. To a god without subjects, the possibility was difficult to ignore. It drew him like a bee to pollen.

As Aethelron approached, his immortal eyes were drawn to one small green-blue planet close to the golden sun – second of the seven in its orbit. Breaching its cloud-dappled skies, Aethelron discovered a world fair beyond comparison. Pristine and perfect it was, and abundant with small creatures that frolicked throughout the grassy plains, towering forests, dune-covered red deserts and white-capped oceans.

Because the planet was of lesser mass than the blue pearl his siblings ruled over, so was the pull of its gravity weaker, allowing the small creatures to leap great distances through the air in their play. The sight of such sport dazzled the lonely god with its innocent beauty.

Nobody knows how long Aethelron stayed hidden, silently watching this new world, which he named Dellreigh – ‘Acorn’ in the language of the gods. From his heavenly realm, the God of Small Things could observe all the species living beneath him, but one intrigued him beyond all others. For among Dellreigh’s animal inhabitants lived a race of man.

As sociable as the humans Aethelron knew from his old world were they, but finer of bone structure and noticeably more agile, almost feline-like in their grace of movement. The Sylt – as they called themselves – boasted crude language skills, worked with basic tools and built shelters of baffling design and outrageous height.

Following the toil and tussle of their daily lives, a great idea rooted itself in Aethelron’s mind and grew quickly into an obsession: from the heavens over Dellreigh, he could rule as the One God.

Finally struggling over the fence – too slow! – the panic-stricken youngster crashed through a row of small shrubs and onto the narrow lawn bordering the buildings of the infant grades. The grass was recently mown – moist, green and soft underfoot. But it was not the sweet scent it ought to have been. Something rotten choked the air, filling his nostrils with the smell of death. The evil had done this! The thought was unnerving. But why? What is it? Why is it after me?

Movement in the windows! He was certain his friends were in there.

He shook the smaller shards from his hair and wondered why there were no cuts – no blood! His relief was short-lived. The beast was upon him.

From somewhere in the distance he heard a gentle voice singing. The chaos around him froze and the world folded into stillness. The song was barely a whisper to his ears, yet it hummed with a power that was unmistakably good. Whoever – whatever? – was behind that voice was the opposite of the bad thing. Somehow, Hopskotch knew this to be true. As long as the melody continued, he was certain the monster could not touch him.

In a shallow puddle on the asphalt, it landed with a deep, booming ker-PLOOONK! The force of the impact sent a pulse wave rippling through the air toward him. The water erupted into flames.

“Nooooooo!” Hopskotch howled in disbelief. Madness! Can’t he feel it coming? Doesn’t he realise it’ll be here next? His mind was a storm of fear and disbelief. He lunged at his friend, determined to drag him out by the collar if necessary. But Dobbin slipped away easily.

Hope returned to Hopskotch, but he had not forgotten the danger at his back. Shoving his companions forward across the bridge, he was still forced to scream. Even now, after what they’d just seen, they all went reluctantly. Am I the only one who knows fear?

He was not heard. The louder he yelled, the louder crashed the thunder, drowning his voice. Again and again he screamed against the darkness. This is all my fault, Hopskotch realised, sick with guilt. I led them into this.

He was alone once more but the rain still fell. That voice! He could hear the singing again and it surrounded him. That song! His pounding heart slowed and Hopskotch was surprised to see a thick forest now hemming him in. High overhead, the clouds were drifting like a silver river through a heart-shaped hole in the tree canopy. Was this sanctuary? Despite his best efforts, he could not find the source of the music. Is it the trees themselves?

Overhead, the canopy of a mighty oak sat heavy with water. His eyes were drawn to a single leaf. In slow motion he watched a raindrop slide slowly down its central vein. Clinging to the rounded tip – it seemed an eternity passed – the droplet eventually released itself.

Dobbin leaned out of his sleeping pouch and gently shook his friend’s shoulder. “Hoppy, you okay?” he whispered.

They’d stayed awake talking most of the night, but the need for sleep had eventually taken them. Then this.

Hopskotch blinked, then took a series of deep, fast breaths. “What, wha, whoa!,” he spluttered.

But he would not be completely roused. “I’m okay,” he rasped finally, settling down. “I’m okay.”

Then he closed his eyes, surrendering once more to sleep.

Dobbin was not convinced. Soon it’ll be time to get up, the half-awake youngster considered, glancing through sleepy eyes at the hourglass on the windowsill. A weak shaft of grey light angled in, highlighting the narrow sand-fall. The top cylinder was almost empty. Just a little more sleep.

His eyelids drooped and he knew he could not fight them. Dobbin rearranged his body, turning fully around so he was properly facing his friend, curled up in the sleeping-pouch beside him. Only the occasional whimper and twitch hinted at the torment Hopskotch had just slept through.

Just before drifting off, Dobbin had one last thought, and it was of his friend.

So at the Brambles by the old watermill their paths had split, Dobbin taking Adlers Road which zigzagged up Swallowbrook’s north bank, while Hopskotch kept to the Riverstone Steps (a duck trail, according to Dobbin). There was never any question in Hopskotch’s mind as to which would get them to the fire trail quicker. Dobbin always thought he knew better.

But this was Hopskotch’s patch; he’d grown up in the semi-rural hamlet of Low Cutting and travelled its paths to and from school every weekday. No one knew it like he did.

And so he waited.

It was especially dark in the shadow of the old carpenter’s cottage, the last before the north-bank township gave way to the meadowlands. A dying porch lantern lit the front garden in pale yellow. Everything beyond the halo was hidden in black, including Hopskotch. He found the idea of being invisible quite agreeable.

Wriggling his shoulders, the fidgety youngster sought out a sweet spot for his pack’s straps, already beginning to bite beneath the weight of his gear. His smugness was turning rapidly to impatience.

Hopskotch thought to distract himself by trying to recall the last time he’d seen Mr Mulquinney. Not so long ago, that would’ve been every school day. The old chippie was always out on a ladder of an afternoon, working the eaves on the lane-side of his cottage.

Sculpting! Hopskotch recalled, surprised that it had slipped from his memory. That was what Mr Mulquinney was always doing up on his ladder. Of course, he always took the time to “hooroo” Hopskotch when he passed, before doling out unsolicited advice in that curious way of old people.

“School days – best days of yer life!” he’d say. “Best rest is a rest first earned!” – another favourite.

Hopskotch only ever understood half of it. Mr Mulquinney was from Witherness, originally, and their thick highland accents made them almost impossible to understand.

Still, the memory troubled Hopskotch and he couldn’t get past it. There was no good reason he could see for Mr Mulquinney to stay indoors. It hadn’t rained for an age and the summer had been as mild as ever.

Craning his neck, the youngster eyed the great black beam running beneath the cottage eave. There was just enough light to expose the carvings, and likewise to highlight the exact spot where they prematurely ended – about halfway along from the front of the house. Something about that bothered Hopskotch (he could not think why), and he quickly wrenched his gaze away. Wonder when he’ll finish it?

Before Hopskotch could ponder further, a familiar smell wafted into his nostrils – cranberry and soft cheese, the same stuff his mother had spread on the breakfast sandwiches left out for them. He could hear the sound of panting coming from just downhill of his position. A short, round silhouette appeared a short distance away. Finally! Hopskotch groaned to himself as he stepped out of the shadows.

“Alright, alright, Mr Cl-Clever,” Dobbin gasped, sidling up alongside Hopskotch. Through the last mouthful of sandwich, he managed a few muffled words. “Juth don’t sthay it, okay…”

Hopskotch raised a protective hand as flecks of crust flew from his friend’s mouth. He couldn’t resist giving Dobbin his comeuppance. “Told…you…so!”

“Bah!” snorted Dobbin, swallowing the last chunk of bread. He clumsily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It woulda been seconds only – mere seconds. Tell me truly, how long have been slinking back there in the shadows? Ten seconds? Five?”

“Put those together and change ‘seconds’ to ‘minutes’.” Hopskotch tried to keep a straight face but his cheek muscles betrayed him. A broad smile erupted over his face.

Dobbin elbowed Hopskotch playfully in the ribs. “Sure thing. And I suppose you just sprouted wings and flapped your way up the Cutting to the lane. Hows about you just fly us straight to the Gulch and we’ll call it square?”

“As long as we get there before Mr Calpepper does,” Hopskotch teased. Keen to get moving, he turned toward the the far corner of Mr Mulquinney’s fence-line, where a row of peach trees cast the lane bordering the yard into deepest black. The smell of overripe fruit was making his mouth water.

“Damned if I can find it,” Dobbin blurted.

Hopskotch froze before he could take a single step. “Find what?” he asked, cautiously. Hopskotch didn’t like the sound of Dobbin’s words. No way am I going back to the house now. I don’t care what he’s left behind.

“Snagbelly’s rule of travel, number 2,” Dobbin explained. “No matter how carefully you pack, when setting out on an adventure you’ll always forget one thing!”

An interesting point, thought Hopskotch. “Well, as long as you’ve got your walking stick…”

Hopskotch let the sentence hang. He had grave doubts about Dobbin’s latest invention – a walking stick with a twist. No normal travel aide, this modified marvel featured a string looped to the base like a fishing rod. In theory, the reel at the bottom released a lever at the top that swung up on a hinge to unfold a circular net, held apart by spokes like an umbrella. Gadget-mad Dobbin was mightily proud of his multipurpose device and had spent much of the previous evening raving about it.

“Gives ya an extra three foot of reach and a solid trap for pinning them in place,” he’d boasted (more than once). “I almost feel sorry for ’em, ya know.”

Hopskotch was not so sure. It was certainly not the stupidest of Dobbin’s inventions, but not far from it.

“Well, I’ve no idea what you’ve left behind,” said Hopskotch, hoping to put an end to Dobbin’s nonsense. “But you’re forgetting Snagbelly’s rule of travel, number 2.1: Whatever it is you’ve forgotten will only be remembered when you’re too far from home to go back for it.”

The two adventurers would have made quite a sight, had anyone else been awake to witness it. Eleven-year-old Hopskotch Pestle was a slender boy of short(ish) stature, large(ish) ears, and an unusual display of hair – inherited from his grandfather – that swept forward in three distinct crests. His mane was a uniform mousey-brown of short length that obeyed neither brush nor comb, nor specialist styling gels (much to his mother’s eternal dismay). Setting him apart from his peers was an incurable limp – an unfortunate side effect of having been born with his right leg somewhat shorter than his left. “Hobbleskotch!” they would tease him in the schoolyard, but it troubled him little. Playground taunts meant little to a Syltling who could still play a mean game of flyball and run a competitive cross-country. In truth, Hopskotch had never considered himself handicapped, though he did move with an unusual rolling gait.

Dobbin was slightly shorter than Hopskotch and considerably wider round the middle than the average Sylt boy. Being of Geldonian heritage, his ears were smaller, while his mane was of a darker shade to Hopskotch’s, and noticeably more bristly all over. This gave him a scruffy appearance, particularly when he got flustered, which was often as it turned out. He boasted neither interest, nor talent, in anything to do with competitive sports, but was extremely fond of gadgets.

Dobbin also shared Hopskotch’s love of maps and adventuring, as long as it never took him too far from his mother’s kitchen. The other loves of his life were his mother, his mother’s cooking and Bindy Sandstep, a homely looking girl upon whom he’d developed an undying crush. Dobbin was also an enthusiast of Sword of Sanctuary, a complicated board game popular with the school’s intellectual set.

Daylight was still a good half hour away. There was little to see up ahead except the shadow-filled entrance to the fire trail. “So which way?” Dobbin asked, still puffing. “Cross-country, Hoopey’s or ’cross the river?”

“River Way,” Hopskotch replied without pause. “And no arguments!”

Dobbin frowned, twisting his face as if forcing unspoken words back down his throat.

Hopskotch put on his serious voice. “Trust me, there’s no quicker way to Curmudgeon’s Gulch, and guess what – it means we don’t need to go anywhere near school!”

Then his thoughts took an unexpected detour. Small worry lines formed over Hopskotch’s brow. A dark memory lunged at his conscious, then disappeared before it could properly form. He shivered at the sensation.

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind getting a walking stick myself,” Hopskotch said, cheering himself with the sudden notion. “Maybe the Whirlpool will give me one?”

“Well, you won’t find one like mine, Hipslouch!” Dobbin beamed, brandishing his fancy staff.

“Just something straight and strong will do, Dobbelsnork!”

The nickname game was one of enduring silliness between Hopskotch and Dobbin. The first to make the other laugh was the winner, though there was never any prize. It was just a bit of harmless fun to relieve the boredom – the boys showing their defiance to a grey life in a grey world. Hopskotch’s father claimed it signified the closest of bonds when such nonsense became commonplace between friends. Hopskotch’s mother said it was just an excuse for bad language.

Hopskotch knew there was a little truth to both sides, but he was not one to dissect things overly. Shouting silly names at each other was just plain fun, and he knew Dobbin felt the same. He could tell by the look on his best friend’s face.

And as it happened, Dobbelsnork had proven more effective than Hopkotch had hoped. Dobbin’s nose quivered. He turned deliberately away, raising a hand to conceal his mouth.

“Ah-haa! Victory so early?” Hopskotch teased.

“No, that was a smirk, not a laugh,” Dobbin protested. “There’s a difference, you know.”

Hopskotch took another shot, hoping it would be a knockout. Thrusting his face right up into Dobbin’s, he angled his head to stare right up his friend’s twitching nose. “Looks like you’ve a bee tap-dancing in your nostril, Dudmint! Sure you don’t wanna set him free?”

It was a spirited try but the moment had passed. Dobbin held his jaw so stubbornly locked that he wouldn’t have let slip a giggle had Hopskotch pinned him to the ground and tickled him. Hopskotch would have to do better than Dobbelsnork and Dudmint to win this day.

Of course, it was early – not yet even morning, really.

With Dobbin keeping his mouth firmly shut, an unfamiliar silence settled around the pair. Only the faint gurgling of Swallowbrook’s current, carving a shallow channel along the bottom of the Cutting behind them, reminded Hopskotch he hadn’t lost his hearing altogether. His bare feet were still damp from where he’d misjudged one of the stepping-stones.

Straightening his luggage, Hopskotch took one last look back at the tumbledown skyline of Low Cutting’s south-bank village. It was easy to pinpoint his house, even blacked out and from such a distance. He was certain the curtains would still be shut, for even a late summer morning could chill the bedrooms. There were no signs of light or life from inside.

“Funny being up when your parents are still asleep,” Dobbin observed, following his friend’s gaze back across the gully. “I used to love that when I was young, but nowadays I’d just as sooner sleep in.”

“Come on,” said Hopskotch, quickly changing the subject. “We’ve got a long walk.”

Showing his back to the village, Hopskotch turned to face the meadow trail and, with only the slightest hesitation, plunged into the dark shadows beneath Mr Mulquinney’s peach trees.

As Low Cutting disappeared behind them – lost behind the tall summer wheat grass bordering the trail – Dobbin seemed to have finally sorted his equipment. Arranging his packs and pouches and multi-pocketed travel vest about his body, he could now move his arms when he walked. Relieved of the distraction, the Syltlings turned their thoughts to the most important thing in the world – cicadas.

The boys had spent much of the night not in their sleeping pouches, but holed up with Hopskotch’s grandfather – a mischievous old-timer who lived in a rundown cabin separate from his parent’s house. In his trademark rambling manner, Grandpa Rand had done his best to prepare them for the upcoming hunt, and had gone into great detail regarding the ins and outs of cicadas – the many different species, lifecycles, reproduction and biology. It was way more information than the pair could ever possibly absorb (Dobbin referred to the experience as ‘mental indigestion’).

As they’d learned, common cicadas rose every summer from their earthen beds. The different species ranged in size from the miniature Brown Bakers, all the way up to the great Leviathans – massive insects almost too big to fit inside the palm of a grown-up. Regardless of the different sizes, all common cicadas were the same greyish-brown in colour – perfect camouflage for eluding predators in the woodlands of Broken Meadow. Then there were the Spotted Knights, similar in size to the smaller commons, yet sleeker, faster, and much harder to catch. These had lighter markings on their head and carapace, and rose only once every seven years. A few had been captured last year so it would be a long wait for a repeat appearance.

Of course, it was neither Brown Bakers, nor Spotted Knights that Hopskotch and Dobbin had in their sights. For this year marked a very special anniversary, the cusp of the thirteen-year cycle of the most prized cicada of them all – the Golden Duke.

There were always whispers circulating about coloured cicadas. The high-school boys often told stories of exotic insects that haunted unreachable cliff faces and tree canopies beyond the grasp of the elementary-school teams. And there was always someone who knew someone whose brother’s best friend had caught one years’ ago. From Purple Princes, Jade Corsairs, Stormy Blues, and even the elusive Red-Striped Cardinal – they were the stuff of legend in the playground. But most lived only in the imagination; a symbol of hope and colour in a world that had lost both. The Golden Duke was different. It was real.

Thirteen years ago to the day, the greatest cicada hunter of all time, Lisalle Tulson, returned from the forest alone and exhausted, but carrying the greatest of trophies – a live Golden Duke cicada.

The festivities that followed sent a wave of excitement through the long-suffering Sylt folk of Broken Meadow. But what Hopskotch did not know was that not all who gathered at Market Square that day shared the joy. For many there was a deep sadness, even amidst the celebration, that compared to the captured cicada, the colours around them were so lifeless. When the excitement died down, the Golden Duke served only to remind the townsfolk of how much they’d lost. There was no mistaking it was a grand day in the history of Broken Meadow, but its legacy was all too short-lived. Before the first autumn leaves had fallen, the golden cicada was little more than a warm, fuzzy memory; the subject of much reminiscing, but one that brought no lasting happiness to their lives.

Yet it was not without benefit. Despite the proceeding years failing to offer any cicada more exotic than Brown Bakers, Lisalle’s success did breathe new life into the festival. And the school boys of Broken Meadow remained ever hopeful they’d not seen the last Golden Duke. Not easily could they dismiss the idea that one day Lisalle’s triumph could be theirs.

Thirteen years on, with the much-anticipated anniversary finally arrived, one rumour about the Golden Duke was growing in popularity – at least, in underground playground whispers. Whether intentionally or not, Grandpa Rand had planted the seed of it in his grandson’s mind during the night. It was definitely not the first time Hopskotch had heard Saddleslip Gorge mentioned as the true nesting place of the last brood of golden cicadas. His eccentric friend Bartrem was adamant it was true (though Dobbin scoffed at the notion).

Hopskotch had not bothered to weigh the pros and cons of the theory before his brain had become glued to it. Already, he’d begun calculating how long it would take to paddle a skiff across Lake Whispermere to the Gorge; how they might come by a glide-boat; whether they could get back before nightfall or settle for an overnight camp-out on the western shore.

Lost deep in thought, and with the rhythmic tap-tap of his friend’s walking staff echoing behind him, Hopskotch finally stepped out from the darkness of the fire trail and onto Hoopey’s Way. The first light of day had broken across the meadowlands.

“Did you hear that?” Dobbin whispered sharply.

“Hear what?” Hopskotch replied, pretending he was paying attention in the first place. “Um…what kind of ‘that’ are we talking about?”

Dobbin scurried across the gravel road after Hopskotch, all the while glancing over his shoulder. “I think someone’s on the trail behind us. I thought I heard muttering.”

Hopskotch raised an eyebrow. It was not unusual for Dobbin to hear things. His friend seemed particularly sensitive to snapping twigs, whistling winds and all things that go bump in the night – and always with a sinister edge!

“Well it’s too late for muttering monsters,” Hopskotch joked. “They always go to sleep before first light.” He raised his right arm to the clouds, now visibly lighter overhead.

Dobbin turned back, eyeing the trail suspiciously, but the tall grasses grew thick on either side and its twisting course offered no clear view beyond the last bend. “Very funny!” he snorted. “But I still can’t remember what I’ve forgotten and it’s driving me nuts! Anyway, let’s stop off at the Whirlpool; you’ll pick up a nice walking stick there for certain.”

Dobbin tapped his on the ground as if to emphasise the importance of such an accessory. “Keep walking point and I’ll…keep an eye out for ‘muttering monsters’!”

Muttering monsters, indeed, thought Dobbin with a lopsided grin. He picked another burr out from behind his left ear – the third since they’d set out – and began thinking about the path ahead. Next time we stay at my house.

“Alright, pack check!” Dobbin exclaimed, halting before the first bridge and peering cautiously into the dark water. “If I lose anything in there, you’re going in after it.” He busied himself tightening all the straps, latches and buckles about his over-sized luggage, urging his friend to check those that eluded the reach of his busy hands.

“Ouch! Quit it, Hatscratch!” Dobbin protested as his friend yanked the strap of his food pouch far tighter than was required. “That’s ginger cakes you’re squishing!”

“Interrresting…” replied Hopskotch. He wondered how much inside Dobbin’s pack was actual necessities and how much, sweets smuggled out of his mother’s kitchen. “Mmm…no, this one just won’t shut properly. Too many ginger cakes! I think we need to lighten the load by one!”

Before Dobbin could protest, Hopskotch retrieved one neatly wrapped, partly squashed slice of cake. With a mischievous smirk, he ripped it in two and offered the significantly smaller half to Dobbin. “C’mon, we’ll share it.”

“Oh, thank you ever so much,” Dobbin scowled. “I do so like your idea of ‘sharing’.”

Then he snatched the undersized portion and stuffed it into his mouth, regardless. “Alright, do the straps properly this time and no funny business. Them’s gotta last all day, you know. Possibly even longer!”

Hopskotch never ceased to wonder how his portly friend could so effortlessly eat, talk and breathe, all at the same time. Indulging Dobbin’s whim, he spun in mock-military fashion. As his packs and straps were rearranged roughly about his back and shoulders, Hopskotch could hear Dobbin loudly harrumphing (well, it sounded like a harrumph, but with a mouthful of ginger cake muffling the “umph”).

The taller Syltling travelled much lighter than his friend. As it was late summer, Hopskotch sported a pair of knee-length striders and a thin cotton shirt – sleeves rolled right past his elbows – over which was an olive vest with one small pocket on the front left and another secret one on the inside right. Hopskotch carried on his back an old rucksack filled with essential supplies. Sitting snug in a tied loop at the side was a simple cicada net with a thin birch handle. His pride and joy was slung over his left shoulder: the Wayfarer Sling-pouch.

A must-have accessory for any serious cicada hunter, his model had been designed specifically for the hunt. The all-leather kit boasted an adjustable strap, attached to which were three pouches of ascending size arranged from shoulder to hip. The middle pouch had a woven-leather mesh grill to allow air in and was designed specifically for holding live cicadas. Between the two lower-most pouches was a loop holding a water skin (included in the cost price), while by the shoulder was a special sheath for his pocketknife.

Hopskotch had saved for two years just to buy the Wayfarer, and even then could only afford the base model. More expensive versions (like Dobbin’s) had as many as five pouches, and a few gimmicky extras. But Hopskotch was extremely happy with his purchase; it had served him well in last year’s hunt. Even if he never got to use the middle pouch.

The dawn light had grown strong enough to pierce the tree canopy, throwing dappled shadows across the Shallowfrond River and the two Syltlings passing underneath. It was a peaceful quiet, broken only by the gentle hum of the deep-water current and the occasional creaking of the old timber planking underfoot. By the time they reached the end of the bridge, the shadows had closed in again, making the boys feel like the morning had reversed itself, and that the dawn was turning back into night.

Of course, it was always dark in those parts, as dark as it was damp. Due to the rich soils washed down by the river – so Hopskotch’s father had once explained – the Shallowfrond’s eastern bank was a lush wilderness of oversized evergreens soaring heavenward from a carpet of almost impenetrable sword fern and climbing ivy. The River Way trail wound its way north, hugging the waterline where it dipped into damp gullies, climbed across fiendishly narrow ledges, and detoured through the forest like a long, skinny, wriggly earthworm. Trekking the eastern bank of the Shallowfrond was like walking through another world. Hopskotch absolutely loved the place.

Part of that he could attribute to being removed from the permanent cloud layer that had blanketed Broken Meadow for as long as anyone could remember. In Hopskotch’s mind, nothing was more depressing than his native skies, a grey ceiling reflecting the faded colours of the world below. And the worst of it was, it didn’t even seem to rain anymore, so what use were they? One day, so Hopskotch was convinced, he would walk out from the east-bank wilderness into a meadowland of luscious green basking beneath a blue sky without end. This desire he’d nurtured for as long as the dreams had come. One day the clouds will part. As he walked, Hopskotch drifted within the fantasy, playing the familiar scene over and over in his head. One day they will all be able to see the shire as I do.

Halfway to the Whirlpool, it was Dobbin who broke the silence. “I know what you’re thinking!”

Hopskotch had no time to gather his thoughts before they scattered like naughty school children. His curiosity piqued. It would be interesting to hear what Dobbin knew he was thinking, for he had momentarily forgotten.

Without slowing his pace or turning his head, Hopskotch asked, “What you babbling about, Dob?”

“We are NOT going to Saddleslip Gorge!”

Hopskotch knew this was coming; he just wasn’t prepared for it so soon. Arguing with Dobbin was not something he was especially good at, but as an only child, Hopskotch could be stubborn when certain he was in the right. This was not such an occasion.

“I just think we should consider—”

“Out of the question!” Dobbin cut him off. “It’s all the way on the other side of the lake! What you gonna do: sprout fins and swim across?”

Hopskotch ground his back teeth. This was a side to Dobbin he could never quite warm to – a boar-headed stubbornness that could turn his best friend into a tyrant.

“Besides which,” Dobbin continued, “Mr Calpepper will be handing out maps. Rules is rules: they’re not gonna let us all just up and run screaming through Bridgetown, now are they?”

“I suppose not,” Hopskotch sulked, swatting away a low-hanging vine in his path. “It’s just we’ve never caught a single cicada in Finches Forest, Birchbarrow Park or Curmudgeon’s Gulch.” Hopskotch did not miss the loud sigh from behind. Ignoring it, he persevered. “I mean, you can hear them, sure enough, so I know they’re out there, but I just…”

“You just what?”

“I just don’t think we’ve a chance if we do the same thing we do every year.”

He stopped cold and turned to face Dobbin, wide brown eyes pleading the case. “I mean, if we follow the same tracks, climb the same trees; if we just follow everyone else, we’ll be stragglers, same as every other time. I just…” Hopskotch exhaled loudly and slumped his shoulders, “…don’t want to be a straggler anymore.”

Dobbin began rubbing his forehead vigorously. “I know what you’re saying, Captain Adventurer, but do you know what you’re saying?” The paunchy Syltling shifted his weight to his walking stick, then realised it was sinking into the wet clay at the side of the path. He pulled it out again and it made a comical sucking sound.

Brushing the remnants off on a nearby tree trunk, he continued. “I mean, technically we have four days, but how long will it take to get to Saddleslip? And how far up the gorge do we go? Dangerous country those parts, you know! A bit like this…” Dobbin turned halfway about and waved his walking stick through the air, “…only much, much worse!”

“How do you know?” Hopskotch countered. He was certain Dobbin had never been to Saddleslip Gorge in his life.

“I just do, so let’s leave it, okay. You spend way too much time listening to that fruit-brained Bartrem. His head’s stuffed with mushrooms – those weird ones you’re not s’posed to touch! Besides which, there has to be a command structure.”

Hopskotch rolled his eyes. He’d heard this speech before – only last night, in fact – and it was obvious who Dobbin had placed on top of theirs.

“Without a proper command structure, no team can function.”

“Fair enough,” Hopskotch said, refocusing on the trail ahead. From the outset, he’d resigned himself to taking orders from his bossy best friend. The last thing he wanted was a fight on the most important day of the year; that could ruin everything!

But the idea of hunting beyond Witherness was not so easily dismissed. He put it to the back of his mind and let it stew, trying to figure out some other good reasons why they should detour to the lake. It was going to be a very busy morning inside Hopskotch’s brain.

Only a stone’s throw from Curmudgeon’s Gulch, the boys detoured from the trail at a low, flat area where the cliffs had partly collapsed and the path ventured closer to the river. Here, the groundcover gave way to a sandy bank, a swatch of stark white separating the dark forest from the darker river. At the downstream end of the beach was a sheltered pool, its shallow waters cradled by a rocky peninsular that reached toward the opposite bank like a long, crooked arm. It was known to the boys as the Whirlpool, for it diverted the river’s central flow, sending it in reverse against the shoreline and then out again in slow, lazy circles.

The protective peninsular sat low in the water, barely breaking the surface in places, but its height was improved with twisted layers of bark, twigs and other flotsam that had drifted down from upstream. No one really knew for sure whether it was made by man or by nature.

Hopskotch untangled himself from his sling-pouch and rucksack, dropping them on the hard sand near the waterline by the Whirlpool. Free from the weight, he climbed quickly out along the top of the rock-and-driftwood peninsular.

Halfway to the end, Hopskotch found what he was looking for. From a tangled pile of bobbing driftwood he retrieved one branch. It was perfect for a walking staff – smooth and light brown with mottled darker shades along its length and a slight twist near one end that moulded to his palm nicely. Compared to most other boys his age, Hopskotch was pretty good with plants and trees , being familiar with most local species, but this wood was unknown to him.

“Check this out, Dustbin!”

Hopskotch’s nickname attempt was wasted. Lost to the world, Dobbin stood in the Whirlpool’s shallows, his full attention given to scanning the bottom for treasure.

Clawing his way back across the peninsular, Hopskotch tried again to capture his friend’s attention. “Anything interestink?”

“Doesn’t look like it. You may as well come back. She’s got nothin’ f’rus this morning.”

Hopskotch wanted to see for himself. Careful not to lose his newfound staff, he climbed to the very edge of the slippery driftwood stack. Crouching low for balance, he stretched his neck and peered into the dark water.

The mystery-shrouded Whirlpool was of unrivalled interest to the boys of Broken Meadow. For reasons unknown, the shallow waters acted as a magnet (“vortex”, according to Dobbin) for all manner of oddities from places unknown. Mostly, it was broken bottles of water-smoothed glass and pottery fragments, but occasionally items more exotic would collect there, trapped by the grasping arm of the peninsular and washed against the shoreline by the redirected current.

Highly prized by the schoolboys of Broken Meadow were the miniature sculptures. Such rarities were carved from white ripplestone – a marble from the highlands west of Lake Whispermere. Hopskotch had a few that he kept on a special shelf in his bedroom, his favourite being a soaring eagle with a wingspan almost the length of his outstretched palm. According to Grandpa Rand, it was sculpted in the likeness of Soletta, one of the five angels left to watch over Dellreigh by the absent god Aethelron. The proportions were perfect.

Of course, no one in Broken Meadow had ever seen a real live eagle, but the legends surrounding these amazing creatures was not the reason Hopskotch so treasured this sculpture. What made this bird special was that it bore a rider. Perched high between each wing, raising one arm in triumph, sat the unmistakable likeness of a Sylt man.

It was little wonder the boys always stopped at the Whirlpool.

This morning, however, Hopskotch and Dobbin were out of luck. There were no small animals – mythical or otherwise – nor trees, flowers, model houses, carriages or boats. There weren’t even any pieces of smooth glass to be found in the quiet swirling waters, but they took it as no bad sign.

Trudging back to the soft sand approaching the trail, Hopskotch was suddenly overcome by the queerest feeling, as if he’d forgotten something very important. He looked back at the river but the bank was clear. His rucksack was strapped to his back; his sling-pouch was secured across his shoulder; his new walking stick was clenched in his fist, and yet he could not escape the notion he’d left something behind.

Confused, Hopskotch followed his footprints back to the waterline with his eyes. “Hang-about a sec’,” he called to Dobbin who had waddled on ahead unawares. With pack and pouches bouncing and slipping about his body, Hopskotch jogged down to the Whirlpool one more time.

He couldn’t believe they’d both missed the brooch, and yet, clear as day, there it was, resting in the light sand beneath the shadows of the bobbing driftwood. Wading into the shallow water, Hopskotch wiggled the sling-pouch around his hip so it wouldn’t get wet, tucked his new walking stick into the crook of his left arm, then stooped to retrieve the item with his right. The water was cold, as he’d remembered, but it was not the chill that held his breath. The Whirlpool did have something special for him this morning.

Hopskotch pulled his arm out and shook the water off. Completely smitten with the strange treasure in his palm, he didn’t even think to wade back to shore.

The polished-wood brooch was of a similar grain to his staff, yet much darker, and composed of a series of smooth, flat wooden rings. It reminded Hopskotch of his mother’s egg rings, if four of descending size were stacked neatly one inside the other. The large crystal centrepiece was a smoky-grey colour, with five straight sides set in a circular disc of wood matching the outer rings. The stone had been shaped to sit flush inside the mount, its edges trimmed with a dull-grey metal that felt soft to touch.

To Hopskotch’s disappointment, the crystal was cracked. With his fingernail he silently traced the length of one of the fissures that divided it five ways. Regardless of the flaw, the crystal appeared to be held firm, with none of the shards giving any wriggle. Running the pad of his forefinger lightly over the wood (it felt curiously warm) Hopskotch stared entranced at the brooch. He wondered what miracle had kept it so perfectly preserved beneath the cool waters of the Shallowfrond.

“Oi! Watchoodoin’, Hipsoak?” shouted Dobbin from the edge of the forest. “Practising to be a trout?”

Startled by the interruption, Hopskotch quickly dried the brooch on his shirt sleeve, stuffed it into the inside pocket of his vest and hurried back up the riverbank.

“No rush, old boy,” Dobbin joked. “When you’re ready.”

Hopskotch couldn’t hide the grin as he approached his best friend. Folding the walking stick across his chest he withdrew the brooch. “Check it out!” he boasted, flashing his newfound treasure.

“Hmmm…” said Dobbin, giving the piece a quick once over, “…it’s broken.”

“Well it may be or it may not be,” replied Hopskotch. “But I’ll bet Grandpa Rand’ll be interested to see this. He might even know how to fix it.”

Dobbin snorted and gave his friend a good-natured shove back toward the River Way trail.

Hopskotch knew Dobbin was downplaying his interest. He was not surprised at all when his best friend abruptly changed the subject.

“You know, it’s not really a pool at all,” explained Dobbin, deadly serious. “The Whirlpool, I mean – technically, it’s called a waddy.”

The strange outburst sent Hopskotch into fits of laughter. With shaky hands, he slipped the brooch back into his inside pocket, for fear of dropping it into the undergrowth.

“I’m not making it up!” insisted Dobbin. “It’s the correct scientific term.”

Hopskotch pulled himself together just enough to have a little fun with his best friend. “You know, I think you’ve got that wrong, young fellow,” he announced loudly. Without missing a step, he launched into one of his trademark impersonations: Mr Holstrum, the Deputy Principal: “The very correct, accurate, scientifical definition of such a natural happening phenonem…er, phemon…phenomena (bingo, he got it!), is…a BIDDY!”

“Actually, it’s a WADDY, you ignorottamus!”

Dobbin had swallowed the bait like a hungry whiskerfish. Too easy! thought Hopskotch.

“Biddy!”

“Waddy!”

“Biddy!”

“Waddy!”

“Biddy!”

“Waddy!”

And in the way of friends, the argument carried on for some time, till Hopskotch grew bored of it (Dobbin could have gone on all day, he suspected) and drifted back to one of his favourite fantasies – returning to Bridgetown with a Golden Duke cicada. With the imaginary cheers of school friends and townsfolk ringing in his head, and aided by his new walking staff, Hopskotch slogged his way forward, fighting the unhelpful forest with every uneven step.

Though it hadn’t rained for some time, the air was thick with moisture and tiny spheres of morning dew clung heavy to the smaller leaves. By the time the boys approached the familiar pattern of dappled light marking the end of the River Way trail, both were soaked to their waistlines and carried thick wads of sticky clay plastered to their bare feet (and Dobbin had a sneaking suspicion there was a nasty little spider skittering around his rucksack).

But the dampness couldn’t hold back their excitement. The event they’d been looking forward to all year – talking about, arguing about, daydreaming about – was finally upon them. Through a tangled grove of wild strawberry just ahead, lay their destination: Curmudgeon’s Gulch – the official starting point of Broken Meadow’s Annual Cicada Hunt.

Evolving from a hunter-gatherer to an agrarian society, the lifespan of the Sylt grew by many years. Between the tilled fields, centres of trade sprung up. Small towns gave birth to cottage industries – smithing and carpentry, teaching and medicine, art and architecture.

The humble folk learned to worship their beloved god, building tall churches and spreading his word throughout the lands and across the oceans of Dellreigh. But Aethelron had neither the power, nor the desire, to remove from his subjects free will. As great civilisations rose and fell, the Syltian races were left to learn from the mistakes of their own hand. They endured times of disorder and despair – war, disease, famine, and disasters both natural and man-made.

Life was ever a struggle, but amidst the chaos came great advancement. Even in times of darkness, an irrepressible spirit was ingrained in the hearts of Sylt – the very same which had so entranced Aethelron when first he laid eyes upon Dellreigh. It was a sign that his folk were special. But there were still a great many things the God of Small Things had to learn.

As the Syltian mind became sharper and more creative, Aethelron did notice that not all his people were equal. Handed down from the paternal side, certain bloodlines had abilities – a mysterious energy force linked to their animal-like ancestors.

Through careful observation, Aethelron grew to understand that these few could commune with things that grew. From the miniature mosses, algaes and lichens to the great redwood and spruce trees, they had the ability to manipulate and distort greenery to their will. Aethelron found this art appealing, and took such folk to serve as his high priests.

But there was a reverse side to this magic, one that did make the God of Small Things uneasy. For those gifted with the opposing power could commune with, and exert control over, the animals of Dellreigh. Aethelron did worry that such an art may prove contrary to his great plan.

And so he prepared a gift of his own to counter the beast magic.