‘The World Turned Upside Down’

A warm breeze blew softly across Mel’s face, lifting the hair off his forehead and waking him ever so gently. It carried a familiar scent, comforting and evocative; the smell of home. He stirred. He did not want to open his eyes, not while he was enjoying the delicious floating feeling. The sunshine felt so good, but he knew he had slept too long. He lay there listening to the birds singing and the insects buzzing in the grass. But he must be getting home. His parents would be wondering where he had got to. He slowly opened his eyes. Such a blue, blue sky. The clouds could almost be angels smiling down on him.

Mel sat up and his head reeled – he had certainly slept too long. The world swayed as he got to his feet, and he needed to brace against a tree to steady himself. After a moment he felt better, but there was something nagging at the back of his mind. But that could wait until later. This must be what heaven’s like. The thought brought a smile to his lips. He looked round, oriented himself with the spire of the fane and set off for home. He passed through a glade dappled with sunlight and stopped to pick some bluebells for his mother. Such big and succulent flowers and every one of them perfect. She would be delighted and he could draw them later.

When he reached the fane he turned left and took the familiar path for home. But after he had gone a short way he found himself out in the fields again. And such fields! Acre upon acre of blue-flowered flax, lush and heavy, stretched away to the flat horizon. It would be a bumper crop this year and no mistake. He turned and retraced his steps and continued past the fane. How odd! The way home lay to the right. He had certainly befuddled his brain with too much sleep to have made a silly mistake like that. Why did I take the left-hand path?

He skirted Kop, passing the back of the houses. Someone was drawing water from a well and he waved, but his greeting was not returned. He passed another house and saw someone at an upstairs window. He looked harder but could not recognise them. He had not heard of strangers in the village. Could it be someone visiting from Bols? He would have to ask his mother when he got in.

He saw his cottage bathed in an ethereal light, with no harsh shadows anywhere. Two storeys tall, with carving around the gables, and a weaving shed at the bottom of the garden. When had Dad added that? He tried to remember but his head ached so. He approached down the well-tended road and swung open the gate. Mel entered through the front door and went down the corridor to the kitchen.

His mother looked up from preparing food in her well-cut tabby dress. ‘Hello, Mel. Are those bluebells for me? You are a thoughtful lad. Just leave them there. How was your day?’

‘Oh, fine, except that I ….’

‘Yes?’

‘I ….’ He shook his head to clear it but without success. ‘Oh, nothing. Where’s Dad?’

‘He’s still weaving in the shed but he’ll be here in a minute. It’s nearly supper time. You’ve time to go up to your room and change.’ She smiled at her son and pushed back a lock of hair behind her ear with a ringed hand.

Mel smiled back uncertainly, noting that his mother had taken to wearing make-up a little too heavily applied. He climbed the stairs, but when he came to the landing he could not remember which his room was. How could I forget something like that? He pushed open the first door he came to and saw his drawings pinned up around his bed. Of course – this is my room. He went in and looked round. It was all strangely unfamiliar. Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror. The mirror? Nothing looked out of the ordinary as he studied himself. His white hose and blue doublet looked dusty but apart from that … what? He went closer and, on a whim, breathed on the glass and idly drew a knot-like design with his finger in the misty condensation. Why does the mist remind me of something?

He looked at his reflection. What was that on his forehead? He touched a scab of dried blood and traced it up into the matted hair on his scalp. No wonder he was feeling groggy. He felt a wound there, still bleeding, and suddenly pain exploded through his skull. For an instant a great rush of thoughts dashed unbidden through his brain. He saw a studio full of boys dressed just like him and the floor covered with spots of paint. There was a boy smiling at him and a girl with auburn hair. Then it was gone.

‘Mel! Supper’s ready,’ his mother called up the stairs.

When he entered the dining room, his parents were already seated and he said hello to his father. Willem smiled back at his son and then stood and began to carve the roast chicken while his mother served the vegetables. He could not remember his mother cooking chicken before and he wondered what it tasted like. He was disappointed; it was completely tasteless. He could have been eating warm cardboard. After the meal was finished and his parents had drunk the last of their wine, his father leant back in his chair. Strange that they had not mentioned the wound on his scalp. Mel felt confused.

‘Mel, there’s something I need you to do urgently.’ His father’s voice was oddly distant.

‘Yes, Dad, of course.’

‘You must take this message to Dan Feen. He lives in the old house beyond the fane. Go straight there, as fast as you can. Will you do that for me, Mel?’ He handed his son a folded piece of parchment sealed with red wax and the Womper crest.

‘Old house? Dan Feen?’ His head hurt.

‘He’s new to the village, sweetheart, but he buys lots of your father’s cloth,’ said his mother. ‘He’s become our best customer. Hurry along now. That letter won’t deliver itself.’

Mel walked out of the house in the direction of the fane. As he approached, he heard another familiar voice.

‘Mel, my boy. Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ Fa Theum emerged from the doorway. It was almost as if he had been waiting for him.

‘Hello, Fa. I have to deliver this message for my dad. It’s very urgent.’

‘If you’ll slow down a bit, I’ll come with you.’

The pair walked on in silence for a way before Fa Theum spoke again. ‘So, Mel, what have you been doing lately?’

‘I’ve been … I’ve been … I can’t remember, Fa.’

‘Never mind. You’ve probably been up to no good. It’s best I don’t know.’

‘It’s just that I ….’ Mel touched the bump on his head again. More pain, accompanied by a confusing flood of images. Men in red robes and jars full of bright colours. And something else. There was ….

‘What, Mel?’

‘I don’t know. Nothing really. It’s just that I don’t recognise where we are.’

‘Don’t worry your head about that, my son. Dan Feen lives this way.’

‘How did you know I’m going to Dan Feen’s?’

Fa Theum did not answer.

Mel looked around and saw that the landscape had changed completely, as if in a dream. The expansive flatness of Feg had been replaced by steep-sided hills covered with bare trees. Had they really come so far, so soon? Down the valley echoed the haunting song of a whale, answered by others from farther away.

Ahead of them lay a bridge across a broad stream. As they were crossing, Mel looked to his right and saw a silvery pike perched on the branch of a riverbank tree. It was such a peculiar tree. As if it had been uprooted and stuck back into the ground upside down. It looked like the roots had become its branches. Roots? What is it about roots? Was it a dream he had? He watched as the fish dived from the branch into the swift-flowing stream, only to emerge a moment later clutching a struggling blackbird in its jaws and regain its perch. Why did it seem so odd?

‘Penny for them, Mel?’

‘What, Fa?’

‘Wool-gathering again?’

‘Doesn’t it seem strange to you that …?’

‘What, Mel?’

‘That fish back there ….’ He looked up at the wise old face of the priest. ‘Fa, is this heaven?’

The priest smiled down at Mel but said nothing.

The lane carried on until it joined a broad road. Mel and Fa Theum turned left and continued on their way. There was a noise to their left and a small flock of lobsters scuttled out from beneath a hedgerow.

At the sound of running feet behind, Mel turned. Coming down the highway towards them was a brightly coloured cart drawn by six dapple-grey men. The horse driving the vehicle raised its beribboned hat and shouted a friendly ‘Good day’ as he passed. Fa Theum waved and Mel, feeling as if he was doing something wrong, did the same.

‘Well, would you believe it? Here’s a fog bank. What is the world coming to? Such strange weather here lately. You know, Mel, I have a secret charm, taught to me by the Maven himself. It’s a charm for dispelling fog. Would you like to try it for me? Here, take this piece of paper. On it is a charm that you must draw in the air. That way the fog will vanish.’

Mel stared at the symbol. It looked like his doodle on the mirror. It made him think of so many strange things. Of houses that looked like people, of underground clocks, of volcanoes and faces that appeared out of walls. Things he would rather not think about. He handed the paper back. ‘Please, Fa, I don’t like this. I feel unwell.’

‘Go on, Mel. Do it for me.’

Mel put his hand to his bump again. It was coming; the thing he was supposed to remember.

‘Come on, Mel. Do as Fa Theum asks.’ It was his father’s voice.

Mel turned, and his parents were standing right behind him. ‘Dad, Mum, how did you get here?’

‘Mel, be a good boy,’ said his mother. ‘We followed you to make sure you delivered the letter. It’s very important. Draw the symbol and make the fog go away. Go on.’

Mel felt confused. His head hurt. He raised his hand again and touched the sore bump. Pain, bright lights and it all came flooding back like the sudden unblocking of a drain. The drain full of inspiration!

Mel had been clinging to the grille just out of reach of the face in the mine when the debris from the scrapheap had exploded into the drain in front of him. He barely had time to leap into the fist-shaped depression the face had smashed in the wall. He had curled up tight inside as the thundering wall of rubbish hurtled past, hurting his ears and making them pop. It seemed to go on for ages until the flow eased and then came to a stop. When he peered out of the hollow, a tardy item of inspirational junk – an enormous amoeba whose sticky mass had slowed its descent – had struck him from behind with a wet thwack. He was propelled out of the drain, over the outflow of debris and into the Mirrorscape beyond, smacking his head hard against the trunk of a tree.

‘Mel! Do as you’re told,’ his father barked.

‘No!’

‘Don’t speak to your father in that tone,’ said his mother sharply. Then in a pleading tone, ‘Please, sweetheart. Do it for me. There’s a good boy.’

‘No, I won’t. This is all wrong.’ He looked closer at his parents, so familiar and yet so strange. His senses came alive and he saw that his father’s face was the same but his clothes fitted too well. And his mother’s complexion was too florid. He studied her hair, searching for the strands of grey he had noticed as he fled Kop with Dirk Tot. There were none. And the jewellery. She never wore jewellery, for the simple reason she had none.

‘Come on, Mel,’ said Fa Theum. ‘Behave yourself and do as your parents command.’ There was subdued anger and threat in his voice.

‘You’re not real. None of you are real. This is all wrong. What’s going on?’ Mel looked around, increasingly desperate. He had been here before – or, at least, seen it somewhere. Then it came to him. It was the painting he had seen with Ludo and Wren in the House of Mysteries! ‘This is “The World Turned Upside Down”!’

‘Mel, my son, you’re talking nonsense,’ said Fa Theum. ‘You’re not well. Just make the sign and deliver the letter.’

Mel looked at the letter in his hand. The Wompers did not have a seal. None of his family could read or write. He broke the seal and tore open the letter. It was blank. He looked at his parents but their faces were expressionless.

‘Mel, that’s enough of your tomfoolery. You’re to go through the fog this instant,’ ordered Fa Theum. When Mel did not move he grabbed him by the wrists. ‘You’re going through there even if I have to drag you.’

Mel struggled in the old priest’s grasp, which was surprisingly strong. He got one hand free and grabbed the dangling diaglyph, yanking it downwards. The corner of it caught the priest’s habit and tore a broad, diagonal rip across his chest – his bare canvas chest. ‘None of this is real!’ Mel kicked the apparition in the shin and struggled free.

The phantom that was supposed to be his father made a grab for him, but Mel pushed him away. He felt sticky. He looked at his hands. They were smeared with wet, tabby-coloured paint and he could see raw canvas on his father’s chest. Mel began running back the way he had come.

‘Where do you think you’re going, Smell?’

Groot, Bunt and Jurgis were standing across the road, barring his escape. They were dressed in the scarlet robes of the Fifth Mystery and their freshly-shaved heads bore the distinctive tonsure.

Mel stopped. I understand now. I need to pass though the wall of mist to escape after all. That would take me back to the octagonal chamber in the House of Mysteries. Then, all I have to do is unlock the picture with the pyramid and the temporal maze – and I will be able to follow Wren, Ludo and Swivel. They could be waiting for me there now.

‘What did you think of my depiction of a Fegish village, Smell? I just painted the most sordid hole I could imagine. And how about your skegging parents? Pretty good, eh?’ asked Groot.

‘It was pathetic. Poor observation and sloppy technique. A classic Groot.’

‘It fooled you easily enough, Smell. Or else you wouldn’t be here. And where do you suppose I got my models from?’

Mel felt a sickening feeling in his stomach. Groot’s sloppy depiction of Kop would not have fooled him if he had not been so groggy. His dazed mind had done as much of the work as Groot. But the portraits of his parents and Fa Theum were too good. They could only have been painted from life. Suddenly he felt icy cold. The thought of his mother and father and Fa Theum at the mercy of Adolfus Spute and Mumchance seemed almost too horrible to contemplate. The blood drained from his face and he swallowed hard.

‘Look at his face, Bunt. He’s only just worked it out.’

‘Where are they?’ Mel’s voice trembled as he asked the question.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know. Let’s just say that my Uncle Adolfus is looking after them. Isn’t that kind of him? So what do you think of my technique now, Smell? It was easily good enough to fool you.’

It was true. There must be something else going on here, otherwise he would have seen through Groot’s shoddy work sooner. Then he remembered what Green had told him: ‘You can’t stay too long inside the pictures before it gets to you. It starts with the body but before long it gets to work on the mind.’ The image of Kop must have been formed as much in his own mind as by Groot’s brushwork.

‘So when did you join the Fifth Mystery?’

‘Oh, I’ve always been a member, Smell. It’s a family tradition. They like to keep an eye on everything, especially where colour’s concerned.’

‘What tradition? Treachery?’

‘I’ve had as much as I can take of you, you little scrot. And now I have more important things to do.’

‘Like what? More second-rate paintings?’ Mel glanced to one side as a flock of startled octopuses took to the air.

‘Like take over old Blenko’s studio. That and everything that goes with it.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Mel tracked the octopuses as they flew towards him, their soft bodies expanding and contracting as they pulsed through the air. He stooped and picked up a rock.

‘Throwing stones, Smell? That’s a child’s weapon. It’s no match for a knife. Especially not for six knives.’

‘I only count three of you, Groot.’

‘Count again. Look behind you.’

Mel shot a glance over his shoulder. The images of his father, mother and Fa Theum were also wielding knives and advancing towards him. Mel flung his rock at the lead octopus. It landed with a rubbery thud on its soft body. The octopus’s blue-green spots flashed a fiery red in warning as it dived, infuriated, towards its attacker. Mel turned and ran towards the wall of mist.

Several of the molluscs descended on Groot, Bunt and Jurgis like fleshy umbrellas. Jurgis screamed and hacked with his knife at a tentacle clinging to his face. It fell away, revealing a livid pattern of circles. Mel dived flat on the ground just as the lead octopus attacked. The flying creature swooped over his head and collided heavily with the image of Mel’s father. A dense cloud of ink filled the air like smoke, masking Mel as he ran headlong. He made the mirrormark in the air as he leapt at the shimmering mist. But something was different. The air seemed as thick as porridge and he seemed to move through it in slow motion. It felt as if invisible hands were tugging him back. He hung there for several moments. Then the resistance faded and he was through.

But the painting was no longer hanging on the wall in the octagonal room in the House of Mysteries. It had been moved. It was now propped on the window ledge high above Vlam, and it was facing outwards. Almost as soon as Mel emerged he realised he had made a terrible mistake. His back foot was on the window sill, but his front foot and all of his weight was resting on … nothing! Oh no! I’ve walked right into a trap! He pitched forward and began to fall down towards the city far below. He was back in the real world; back in Nem. There was no topsy-turvy mirror-logic to save him now. There was just thin air and gravity pulling him down to certain death.