The Alchemists Of Vra

Opening Chapter-5

His frown deepened. “Disappointment?”

After another sigh, she stared at the wall again. “Perhaps the world is not what I imagined it to be.”

“In what way?”

“I think I’d hoped things in it were going to be more interesting. I mean, what’s the point of writing about which coloured collars go with which pattern of fur if next month it’s going to be a completely different combination?”

“That’s the nature of fashion, Vaasi-Vee.”

“Yes, but it hints at a futility. No matter what I write, it will never remain. It will never endure. Each edition of Collars Monthly, With Particular Emphasis On Collars, renders our previous editions obsolete.”

There was a humph to this.

“Surely the world is bigger than this?” she said, looking at him. “Surely the world has some magic within it. Some danger and passion, perhaps?”

“Maybe you need to travel, Vaasi-Vee. Without work. Take a holiday somewhere.”

She shook her head. “I’ve done that. I have travelled—with the magazine and by tour—with animals about a bright as blown light bulbs. I’ve seen famous sights from tour buses and more infamous ones as well. Only in their anticipation did I find wonder. Their reality left me disappointed.”

“Are you disappointed with the world itself, Vaasi-Vee. or the animals in it?”

“Perhaps with both.”

He nodded slowly. “You seek romance, perhaps.”

“I think I seek a life more exciting than this.”

He took a deep breath, before saying, “Vaasi-Vee, when I look at the quality of your work when you feel like this, I can’t help but wonder what you’d be capable of were you feeling otherwise. I can understand your frustration, for you see farther than the near-sightedness of your colleagues.” He leant back in his chair. “I don’t want Collars Monthly, With Particular Emphasis On Collars to lose your talent, Vaasi-Vee, but at the same time, I realise that this sort of writing will never satisfy you.”

He was right, and she felt hope stir. “I wish to write a novel!” she said.

“Don’t we all.”

“You don’t understand. I wish to write about a life lived. I wish to write from experience. I wish to see what this world has in its deepest darkest rooms; its violence of spirit and its sordid games of greed. I want to see mischief and treachery, sorcery and betrayal. I want to flail through oceans that have drowned and deserts that have seared! I want to flee terrified from hideous foes, before turning to fight with a courage I never thought imaginable!”

She stopped, surprised at the outburst. She sat also, having stood to illustrate the point.

“Sorry,” she said, running a paw through tassels of fur. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Nevertheless, she was relieved that something had, as it implied she wasn’t dead. She said nothing more, waiting to be excused, ridiculed or fired.

After nodding thoughtfully, her editor reached for a telephone. “You are wasted here,” he said, dialling. “You have a passion that is no more than teased in this place.” When it was answered, he said, “Bring me the details of that thing in Plempt.”

Putting the receiver down, he looked at her again.

“I am no more than the editor-in-chief of Collars Monthly, With Particular Emphasis On Collars,” he said, “and have little influence in the world at large, unless it involves collars and the colours thereof.”

There was a knock at the door and an animal entered with some papers.

He took them and leafed through several. “Although our readers are obsessed with collars and their fashionable interactions with fur,” he said, “we do, as you know, also cater to those more broadminded subscribers who harbour interest beyond the horrors of accessory fur-clashing.”

She took an offered paper.

“We often get swamped with ideas,” he continued, “and although this one was rejected because it’s beyond the scope of our publication, I’m inclined to offer it to you in the hope it might help you find what you seek.”

“The Affable Nations’ Assembly?” she read. “You want me to do a feature on this?”

He shook his head. “If you read further, you’ll see it involves that popular cat named the D’dôdô-Sette, the one with all the poetry and travelling paraphernalia. You know, the annoying one with nice fur.” He waved a paw to convey arbitrary detail. “That popular one with all the money.”

She knew of him, certainly. The D’dôdô-Sette was well sought after in the world of fashion because he was handsome, charismatic and free. Their magazine had never done a feature on him because he refused to wear collars, citing that he was beautiful enough already.

“The D’dôdô-Sette is attending the Assembly?”

A nod.

Although the cat was famous and well-travelled, Vaasi-Vee had always been indifferent. She was not the sort to become hysterical in his presence as so many were. Nor would she rip souvenirs of fur from him at his recitals. Recently, when he’d braved a throng of adoring fans on his way to the stage, so much fur was removed, that by the time he’d arrived upon it, he appeared to be moulting. It didn’t bother him, however, as he used it as an excuse to recount the time he was forced to shave a wild bear with his teeth.

“It’s unlikely we’d use it for Collars Monthly, With Particular Emphasis On Collars,” her editor said. “But I can use it as an opportunity to get you into the Assembly, should you so wish.” He shrugged. “A league of Nations, a well-travelled adventurer and who knows, perhaps it might open some doors and a few windows. If it does, and you need to take some time off, then I can arrange that as well.”

She stared, amazed at his generosity.

“I am aware,” he said, “that as a consequence, you may find your talents lead you elsewhere. And as painful as that might be for our publication, I nevertheless hope you find your novel there.”

Astonished, she leapt across his desk and kissed his whiskers. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Flattered, he put a paw to his cheek and muttered something about clattering. With a smile, she hurried from his office and back to her desk, where she gathered things from it.

“Deary-me. Pushed things too far, did you?” the little dog asked.

She stopped gathering and glared. “The Earth is round,” she said, “and pushing things too far tends to have them coming up behind you.”

When she returned to scrabbling through drawers, the little dog frowned. “I didn’t take your pens, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Well, that’s a pity, because it seems you’ll be needing them more than me.”

The frown grew. “You seemed unusually glad for someone who’s just been fired. I’m surprised he didn’t insist you apologise.”

Vaasi-Vee looked at her again. “If you did not hide my pens,” she said, running a paw through tassels of fur, “then I am sorry for accusing you of doing so. It is, however, extremely annoying not to have any.”

With a flourish of coat and bag, and ignoring their communal stare, she strode toward a door, having just under an hour to catch a train to Plempt.

When passing their editor’s office, she turned to address them all.

“Look after him,” she said, pointing at it. “You’re fortunate to have such a decent animal looking after you. Now, get on with your clattering.”

With that, she left, leaving her colleagues more bewildered than ever.

5____________________

UPON a bed of bracken torn from hedges, Manky-Stew awoke. It was dark. Sleeping at night was dangerous. Exhaustion had left him slumbering until too late an hour. With breath held, he listened. Breeze stirred and crickets ebbed, but there was no low note of chant.

When he scrabbled from bracken, some branches snapped, and he held his breath again lest the world heard. There was no moon, but swathes of stars poured above, lining the moor’s shapes in silvered blue. He continued onwards, over rock and around escarpment. Although hungry, three nights without capture urged him onwards. With wits and fear, he might make a fourth.

Those seeking him had no such hindrance.

They had number, means, boiled eggs and clotheslines.

Climbing to the top of a ridge, he crouched.

His breath tore through damp breeze and old mud, and the darkness bore a weight he’d soon falter beneath. Night spilled away across half a globe, its darkness thick, vast and heavy, and rendered him less than the dirt beneath it. When he glanced behind, he could feel them gain.

They would catch him.

That much was certain, and he clutched the pouch hidden beneath fur.

In the distance, a point of amber glowed, its colour reminding him why he’d fled in the first place. Desperation and hunger urged him onwards, and he stumbled through gorse and puddle toward its light. Wood smoke lay low in the cold air around a slight rise of land, upon which sat a small dwelling. Smells of roasted meat hung on the air and left his guts twisting. He crept to a cobbled wall and fell against its damp stone. Again, he held breath, listening until rasps burst free. With careful reach, he peered over a window sill.

Inside, a large dog slept in a chair beside a crackling fireplace. Upon a table, remnants of a meal remained. The sight of it had concerns about pursuers fade, and with whimpers, he clambered over the sill and fell to the floor. A log slipped on the fire. Sparks crackled and shadows danced around the room. When the dog didn’t stir, Manky hurried to the remnants of meal and began shovelling it into his face. There was a mug also, the contents of which he downed without concern as to what they might be. The more he gorged, the better he felt, and determination returned.

Having cleared the plate, he realised washing up was the least he could do. While licking, however, he heard something.

A whispering.

Without retracting his tongue, he turned to the window. “Oh, no,” he said, backing away. “No. Please—”

Determination scarpered without bothering to put its coat on.

“No!”

A low note of hum.

A barely audible drone that hung with woodsmoke on still air.

When hearing paws scrabbling to surround the place, he twirled in panic, realising he’d been cornered.

Something passed across the window. He yelped and dropped the plate. It smashed and jolted the sleeping dog awake.

“What the fluff are you doing in my house?” he thundered, before throwing a blanket aside.

Doubly terrified, Manky burst into sobs.

The large dog indicated his ruined crockery. “Did you do that?” he growled.

Manky answered with wails of despair, before collapsing to the floor and pounding it with his paws.

The large dog stared, certain it was he who ought to be upset. “It’s only a plate,” he said. “I have more of them. In fact, that was my least favourite, which is saying something, considering they’re all the same.”

While Manky continued sobbing, the large dog frowned, wondering if the animal was particularly fond of plates. Picking up the blanket, he put it around Manky’s shoulders. “I’m certain it didn’t suffer,” he said. “Judging by the number of pieces, it would have been over very quickly.”

From behind great strings of snot, Manky looked up, wiping most of it on the blanket. “Please!” he hissed, lunging for the dog. “Help me! There are animals out there who wish to steal me! Help me escape! I beg you!”

The dog’s frown returned, this time deeper, his prior one having been rehearsal. “Animals?” he said. “Out there?” He glanced at the window. “I doubt it. This is a moor. I’m surprised enough at your presence.”

Manky’s grip lessened as hope faltered. “I know it’s unbelievable,” he whispered, “but that is the problem: those who are after me cannot be seen.”

“Cannot be what?”