The last thing Sam heard was a loud quack — as an unseen force launched him into the wintery air.
Twenty feet above the ground he jolted to a stop, suspended like a puppet on invisible strings. He twisted about, narrowly avoiding the unlit lamppost beside him as the town’s frigid, mountain-top winds gusted by. Finally turning himself upside down, Sam’s gaze landed on the ducks gathered on the cobbles below.
Though white as the snowy street around them, there was nothing innocent about these feathered hoodlums. Ten pairs of soulless black eyes were locked on Sam, using their telekinetic powers to hold him aloft. The ducks shuffled closer together and Sam gritted his teeth, knowing what would come next. They exploded into a flurry of quacks and Sam was thrown side to side. As he whizzed to and fro he caught glimpses of his ridiculous reflection in the windows of the houses opposite. Each swing swished thick brown hair across his resigned features. Still a puny thirteen-year-old. Still Sam ‘silly ideas’ Mundle.
No! Sam panicked to himself, slamming his eyes shut, trying to get a hold of his rampant imagination — Don’t think about the silly ideas! Just let the ducks have their fun and they’ll tire themselves out.
But he’d been working on this silly idea ever since the ducks first targeted him last week, and here was the perfect time to try it. This was the day his other silly ideas would be forgiven. After today, the ducks wouldn’t bother him ever again. This was definitely going to work and he definitely wasn’t going to burn anything to the ground.
He patted himself down, making sure he’d properly prepared. Big coat with the stretchy arms: CHECK. Longest scarf in the house: CHECK. Fishsticks in his pocket: CHECK.
The ducks had snatched him right outside Ms. Lint’s house and he was floating in line with her bedroom window. Beyond the glass, the blind old seamstress tottered about in her dressing gown, dusting her shelves.
Sam righted himself, then yanked the fishsticks from his pocket, scattering them over the ducks. His tormentors quacked delightedly as they filled their bills with fish-flakes. As expected, their mental hold wasn’t broken and Sam still drifted above. He slung off his long-armed coat and one of his running shoes, tying them both to either end of his dad’s massive scarf. The plan was to toss his shoe-scarf-coat rope at the window and get Ms. Lint’s attention. Then she’d pull him indoors and he’d be beyond the ducks’ control. Easy!
Sam swung his shoe-scarf-coat rope overhead, and threw the shoe-end across the gap. Before it was even half way there, Ms. Lint, in a world of her own, came right up to the window, opened it —
— And Sam’s shoe smashed into her face.
He looked on in horror as the old woman toppled over with a pained yelp. Sam tore his gaze back to the ducks, who glared up at him, as if judging him for daring to try and ruin their fun.
He groaned. “This might’ve been a bad idea.”
As one, the ducks gave a deafening quack and Sam rocketed forwards. He crashed into the wall beside Ms. Lint’s window, then dropped into one of her snowy bushes below. The failed shoe-scarf-coat rope wilted limply across the garden between Sam and the ducks. The little white monsters quacked smugly to one another, before finally waddling away.
“Mundle!” Ms. Lint shouted from above.
Sam didn’t respond.
“Hmph. Probably knocked out.”
Another window opened on the next house. “Margaret? What’s happened?”
“Tabitha it was the Mundle boy, I heard his voice!” Ms. Lint shouted back. “The nasty brat threw a shoe at me! Ten-to-one I bet he was doing one of those silly ideas again!”
“Well at least he didn’t burn anything this time!”
Both windows closed and Sam stayed in the bush. He wasn’t knocked out and the only thing burning was his face. He groaned to himself, burying his fists in his eyes. So much for silly idea #395.
When the slimy surface-layer of embarrassment ebbed thickly away and he was sure the coast was clear, Sam got to his feet, drawing up the hood of his worn zip-up jacket and patting loose snow from his faded trousers. His running shoes — the only kind Sam bothered with based on all the trouble that followed him — boasted ample soles, but the left one had a small hole in the heel, letting a little snow inside to melt unpleasantly against his sock.
He retrieved and untied his shoe-scarf-coat rope, swearing at the useless heap of clothes as he did, then hopped away, fighting to put his other shoe back on without stepping in the snow. He bundled himself up, trying to ignore the wintry winds, his body throbbing all over thanks to the battering he’d gotten from the ducks. But it was a dull ache compared to the dread swirling in his stomach. Before long, everyone in Besfen would know about his latest silly idea.
Turning onto the next street, Sam decided this definitely wasn’t as bad as the time he’d accidentally knocked over a lantern and burnt down three empty houses, whilst trying to get his bicycle back from Harry Feltzer. Crunching through the fresh snow, Sam was thankful for the early hour. Mornings meant fewer people about, asking what silly idea he was working on this time.
Sam passed by the Threefold Temple, its arched roof and bell tower momentarily blocking out the sun. The stylised image of three intersecting diamonds adorned the worn doors. Sam paused at the steps where his parents had found him thirteen years ago, barely a day old, like a gift from the three gods of the Tersiark. But then he heard movement within the temple and hurried on before the Trisworn could come along, beckoning him inside to pray.
The only other person he caught sight of was Miss Indra, the local magician, her green robes catching his eye from the opposite end of the street. She turned her nose up as she passed him. A line of boxes carrying her enchanted wares bobbed through the air behind her.
The town square was four rows of shops formed around the central frozen-over pond. Knowing all too well that the ducks would soon be back to crack open the icy waters, Sam hurried past the locksmith’s and barbershop, heading for the relative safety of his parents’ bakery.
The bell over the shop door jangled as he entered, still hugging himself despite the rush of warmth and the sweet scents of the many roughly-made and all-slightly-squashed treats and pastries. The Mundles offered everything from cream trays and chocolate slabs to pastry fingers and butter-bread sleeves. There was a special offer on caramel cups – five rauds and brizzen for a bag of ten.
Sam’s parents were both thick-bodied, hard-faced people, who some townsfolk whispered, looked more like hired killers than bakers. Few could ever match their build or their bulk — no one had muscular arms like his father, or a squarer jaw than his mother.
“What kept you?” Mr. Mundle grunted from the cash register, where he absently pushed some beads along his abacus.
Sam picked up a broom and swept aimlessly. “Ducks.”
Mrs. Mundle stuck her head out from the chef’s hatch. “And?”
“I tried to… you know…” Sam felt a tinge of redness return to his cheeks. He couldn’t even bear to say the words ‘silly idea’.
His parents looked between one another before Mr. Mundle came over and patted Sam on the back, nearly knocking the breath out of him. The hulking man attempted a smile, but got caught somewhere between an evil sneer and a beastly snarl. Appearing to realise this, he gave up and simply ruffled his son’s hair.
Half of Besfen’s residents soon turned up to receive their favourite, sugary, crumbly treats. Sam busied himself sweeping the floor, tensing every time the doorbell jangled. He kept expecting someone to comment on what had happened with the ducks. But as each customer came and went, no one said anything.
Then in strolled Harry Feltzer, armed with his smarmiest grin — and Sam knew he was in for it. Harry always looked like he was holding back a nasty giggle. Everything anyone said was a joke and anything Harry said was profoundly hilarious. Sam desperately wanted to shove his broom right in Harry’s freckled face. But Harry was at least a foot taller and would definitely beat him in a fight.
A short, pink-haired girl — Penny Klouser — trailed after Harry, laughing uproariously at some joke Harry had just made. Penny went to salivate over the treats at the bakery counter, whilst Harry sidled up to Sam.
“Alright, Mundle?” Harry said, smirking more than ever.
“OK. You?” Sam muttered cautiously.
“So,” Harry looked over his shoulder, making sure to catch Penny’s eye, “been up to much this morning?”
Sam felt his face redden. “No.”
“Yeah?” Harry’s smirk grew. “‘Cos I heard you threw a boot at poor Ms. Lint.”
“I… It wasn’t like that!”
“Why would you do that?” Harry teased. “You do know Ms. Lint’s about ninety and blind? Are you that much of a wimp that you only feel good by attacking old women? Or are you so stupid that you think that’s OK?”
Stupid.
The word forced Sam forwards, body rigid, hand clenching his broom.
Harry didn’t flinch. “Oooh what’re you gonna do? Is that your silly idea face? Penny, come look! Sam’s going to do a silly idea!”
Mr. Mundle looked across from the counter and Sam shared a split-second gaze with his father, silently pleading with him not to interfere.
Penny plodded over clutching a bag bursting with caramel cups. “Saaaaam,” she sang, “is it true you beat up poor old Ms. Lint? I’m going to tell everyone that you like to beat up old people.”
He was an inch from screaming at them to get out. But he didn’t. His silly ideas had already caused his parents enough trouble. Just as he had so many times before, Sam eased himself and painted the widest, dopiest grin he could muster on his face. “Oh you know me, stupid Sam,” he said dumbly, patting himself on the head, his cheeks blazing the whole time. “Guess I got all mixed up?”
“You are stupid,” Harry said, savouring the words, that nasty laugh twitching at his cheek. He lingered a few seconds longer — likely hoping Sam would cry — then he scoffed and marched out, with Penny at his side.
Sam stood there, staring at the wall. He gulped several times, willing his face to cool down. Everyone knew Sam wasn’t stupid. But it was easier if he played along. His silly ideas weren’t the work of a menace — but a stupid boy who didn’t know better.
“Son —” Mr. Mundle started.
“Don’t,” Sam snapped back, throwing down his broom.
He charged past the counter, through the kitchen door, past the ovens, past Mrs. Mundle, past a crate of eggs, and into the storeroom, where he flopped onto a pile of flour sacks. With a few thudding footsteps, Mrs. Mundle stood over him.
“When I’m old enough, I’m gonna go live in the woods and never speak to anyone ever,” Sam said miserably, pressing his face against the sack’s coarse surface.
Mrs. Mundle smacked a rolling pin against her palm. “I heard ‘em. I’ll get your dad to ban both their families.”
“No,” Sam groaned, “that won’t fix anything. Besides,” he sat up and forced a smile, “Penny Klouser must be at least half our profits.”
“Aye, greedy cow,” Mrs. Mundle said wisely.
That gave Sam a genuine laugh.
“You gonna be alright?” Mrs. Mundle asked.
“Yeah, I reckon so, just give me a minute.”
Mrs. Mundle nodded and lumbered off.
Sam lay back against the flour sacks. All this from a silly idea. And there it was in his stomach, the deepshame. The feeling would stick with him for at least a week, never shifting.
Except it was shifting. Not his stomach, Sam realised, but a curious tingle in his throat. He tried to cough, but couldn’t draw breath.
Alive with panic he lurched forwards, choking on thin air. He fell to his knees, clawing at his neck, trying to call for help but unable to gasp out the words. Rolling onto his back he pounded on his chest, willing the blockage to clear. It was as if a bubble had formed in his throat. His head throbbed, his eyes watered, his every muscle tensed — and Sam coughed up an orb of crackling blue light.
It burst from his mouth as revitalising air raced into his lungs. Gasping for breath, Sam looked up as the light hanging above him twisted in on itself. For a fleeting second it formed the outline of a blue mountain, surrounded by navy trees, before it flickered away.
When he was sure he wasn’t going to pass out, Sam ran to the kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Mundle were sharing a cup of coffee. They turned their heavy-set faces to Sam.
“Thought I heard you fall over back there,” Mr. Mundle said. “You alright?”
“I — I don’t know what happened!” Sam said frantically. “I couldn’t breathe, like there was something in my throat, but then it was gone and I was OK, but I coughed up a blue light!”
“A blue… light?” Mr. Mundle said.
“What does it mean?” Sam panicked. “Is it magic? Am I sick? Am I going to die?”
His parents shared an unreadable glance, then Mrs. Mundle nodded. “I’ve heard of this,” she said. “It’s nothing. Mr. Owlson from the tailors once coughed up blue lights when you were a baby; you probably don’t remember. He’s still fine, so don’t panic over it. Get yourself home and get rested.”
Sam had seen the aged Mr. Owlson speed-walking around town. If he’d lived through coughing blue lights, surely Sam would be fine? “You’re sure you can get by without me?” he said.
“Well enough. Kendra’s in now.” Mr. Mundle nodded to the front of the bakery, where the scraggly form of Kendra Jilt dashed in and out of view with armfuls of pies.
Mrs. Mundle took a swig of her drink. “Go on, get gone.”
With a nervous parting wave, Sam left the shop through the back door and made his way home. He took the widest route possible, both to avoid any insults from Besfen’s residents and hopefully dodge the ducks as well. Past the schoolhouse, he came to Besfen’s farmlands and a fifteen-minute walk through the hardy, winter-proofed wheat-fields brought him home.
The Mundles’ house sat at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by nothing but mud and fields — far enough from the rest of town that Sam’s silly ideas wouldn’t cause trouble. A fitting punishment after the ‘accidentally burning three houses to the ground’ incident. A straw and sack-cloth scarecrow watched over the house from the opposite field, a goofy grin painted on its burlap face. Sam stepped up to the front door and tapped his key against the lock, resting his palm against the handle. Today had been terrible. He deserved a little fun. So he turned around and wandered back into the farmlands, heading between the wheat crops. Another short walk and he came to a high wooden wall, which marked the edge of the field and the end of Besfen itself.
Everyone said that beyond the thirty-foot-tall oaken Edgewall was a perilous drop off of the mountain. Past that— Paralex, the rest of the world. The wooden barrier encircled Sam’s entire life, with the town, farmlands, and local woods enclosed within. Supposedly, the Edgewall kept the ‘horrors’ of Paralex away. But Sam knew that here, at this specific spot, one plank amongst thousands was loose. He should have told one of the town guards. He should have done that a year ago.
Every school-day started with a list of the ‘horrors’ Paralex offered — poisonous fire-blasted lands so terrifying that simply looking at them would turn you mad. But by moving this one plank a little to the left, Sam could see it for himself. His fingers drummed the edge of the wood, glancing across the loose plank. He looked over his shoulder, then nudged the plank aside, the world of Paralex peering through the gap at him. His heart pounded. He pushed the plank that little bit further, widening the gap. Sam leaned forwards, wondering if he really was mad, as he put his head between the planks.
What lay beyond was a sheer rocky ledge, leading a long way down into a smoky black pit, like a great moat around the mountain, far below. Past this stood a foreboding forest, and after that, lush grasslands, spreading out as far as the eye could see. Sam knew this was only one tiny corner of Paralex, but seeing this view, he felt as if he were overlooking the whole world.
It was a view he’d come to know well over the past year, a temptation that kept drawing him back. This tiny quiet space was his alone. For just a moment, he could be part of something that wasn’t Besfen, part of a world where people would want to talk to him, where ‘Sam Mundle’ wasn’t a bad word, where silly ideas actually worked, and where there were absolutely no ducks.
Sam took a deep breath, taking in the air of the world beyond Besfen, basking in the light of Paralex — when something spoke. It was a voice cloaked in echoes and warped by reverberation. Every inch of Sam’s ear shrivelled at the unnatural, soul-draining, bone-scrapingly off-pitch words.
He screamed and pulled himself backwards, yanking his face out of the gap. His trembling hands slammed the plank back into place and he ran for his life, feeling like his chest was about to explode. This was his punishment for not telling anyone about the loose plank. But now he definitely couldn’t tell anyone. The something was surely there because of the gap in their defences.
Sam whipped around, ready to face whatever monster had spoken, but there was nothing there, only wheat. Whatever it was had stayed beyond the Edgewall… for now.
Through it all, the thing that chilled him the most was what the something had said. Words that filled his whole mind, splaying themselves across his every thought. They made no sense to him, yet Sam couldn’t stop the words ringing in his ears and they left him with one burning question:
What in the world had the voice meant by, ‘Hello, Spirit Rider.’ ?