Hawkswood (Short Story)

'The author brought it to me personally. Can you believe that? He must be eager to see this in print and who could blame him? This will put our rivals to shame. No more romance novels for us. We can live off this for years.' 

'What was his name?' 

'It was something with a hawk in it. Hawksmoor? Hawkweed? No. Hawkswood! That's it. Hawkswood.' 

Firbank froze as Wilkins continued to convince himself of the mysterious author's name. As soon as he heard mention of 'hawk,' Firbank felt as if a tight fist had snared his throat and began to crush his windpipe. He could barely force a breath let alone words as the magnitude of this revelation grew ever more significant.  

'What did he look like?' Firbank asked. He immediately covered his mouth with one hand, afraid to say any more, and almost cursed himself for the question.  

Wilkins scratched the stubble on his chin while his eyes glanced up at the ceiling as if the answers were written there. 'He was one of those types from Emeraldon, you know the ones with animal heads - the valkayans. Saying that, he could have been a Caul or a Sargonian. I always get them mixed up. Which are the bird-headed ones?' 

'They're the Sargonians,' Firbank said, in almost a distant whisper. His eyes had fallen from Wilkins' face; his lips formed inaudible words while his heart began to beat faster. 'Did this Sargonian have a head reminiscent of an owl?' 

'That's right,' Wilkins replied, nodding. 

'Listen to me, Wilkins, this is important. Did Hawkswood have a large scar running from his forehead and down one side of his face?' 

Wilkins lost his mirth and frowned as Firbank's once surreptitious insight continued to dissipate. 'He did. Firbank, how do you know all this?' 

'How long ago since you saw him?' Firbank asked, now resting both hands on his desk and leaning forward. 'Was it today? Please, Wilkins, I need to know now.' 

'It was only a short while ago,' Wilkins replied. 'Maybe half an hour. Why? What is this all about?' 

Firbank made no response. He raced around his desk, out of his office and into the metropolis of Ceraphoon.  

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As soon as Firbank was outside Essenias Publishing House he noticed them. Transparent along the sodden streets were footprints emitting a purple glow that remained undiminished beneath the heavy raindrops. Firbank approached the first prints cautiously and rested one hand on the surface of the path. He felt the moisture of rainwater on either side of his hand but where the imprint rested was warm and dry. Firbank raised his hand and watched purple fragments of glittering dust run down the lines of his palm before falling into the unrelenting puddles that surrounded his feet. 

'Magic,' Firbank said aloud, 'just as he told me.' 

Firbank continued along the streets with haste, the sparkling footprints leading him closer to Hawkswood. Beneath the mist and increasing rainfall Ceraphoon's streets were largely deserted. Those out in the rain were too absorbed in finding the sanctuary of the nearest shelter to be concerned by a man in a sodden suit racing through the streets with his eyes fixed mostly on the ground.  

An hour after leaving Essenias Publishing House, Firbank discerned a small figure in the distance with long black robes and small wings protruding from his back. His every step parted the water on the road to be replaced by a magical footprint that the rain retreated from rather than subdued.