POWER AND FURY

by James Erith

Mrs Pye turned puce and looked as though she might burst into tears.

  ‘That’s enough of that, Isabella,’ Old Man Wood said, firmly. For a moment there was quiet. He furrowed his brow, as though deep in thought. ‘What’s funny,’ he began, ‘is that I’ve been having real clear dreams about lots of rain, flooding and storms. Thing is, I’m so old it could mean anything.’

  Isabella gasped. ‘You... you’ve had dreams too?’

  The children stopped eating and stared up at him.

  ‘Oh, yes. More than ever. Shocking stuff too. I should check those apples—’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with them, I’m telling you,’ Mrs Pye fired back from the end of the table.

  ‘Well then,’ Old Man Wood said, ‘I do believe there’s going to be a storm and three-quarters.’ He reached across, grabbed an apple, rubbed it on his patched-up jumper, and chomped. ‘Now, you’re old enough to know,’ he continued, between mouthfuls, ‘that once upon a time there was a story about a great storm and a flood that covered the world.’

  Isabella groaned. ‘You’re not referencing the original flood story?’ she said, her tone loaded with sarcasm.

  Old Man Wood seemed surprised. ‘Ooh. Yup. I think that’s the one. You know about it, do you? With a man they called … now, what was his name?’

  ‘Noah?’ Isabella said.

  ‘Ha!’ Old Man Wood clapped his big hands. ‘There. That goes ding-dong. Been muddling that one for a while. So, you do know about it. How marvel-tastic.’

  The conversation was interrupted by a rapping sound at the front door.

  The family stared at one another.

  ‘Who on Earth?’ Old Man Wood said.

  Before anyone else could move, Daisy tore off to see who it was. Shortly, she returned.

  ‘It’s Solomon,’ she gushed.

  For a minute they looked at each other, not sure what to do.

  ‘Well, don’t you think you should let him in?’ Old Man Wood said.

  The children headed towards the door.

  ‘Mr Solomon, Sir.’

  ‘Hello, Archie, Daisy, Isabella. Please accept my apologies for the late hour, but I thought I may as well potter up. May I come in?’

  They led him to the sitting room, where Old Man Wood was adding logs to the orange embers.

  ‘Mr Woodwood, how nice to see you,’ the headmaster said, as he eyed up the old man. Old Man Wood was just as tall and wrinkly as he remembered, and had the strangest little tufts of hair protruding from an otherwise bald and patchy scalp. In fact, the old man looked the same as he had when he met him twenty-five years ago.

  He remembered thinking then what peculiar clothes old Woodwood wore. His trousers and shirt were made of fragments of cloth that made him look like a moving patchwork quilt. It reminded him of Archie and his curiously modified school uniform.

  Their clothes must have been stitched together by the lady who was loitering in the doorway. He strode over and shook her hand. ‘Isn’t that road terribly narrow and steep?’ he said as a way of breaking the ice. ‘It must be devilishly tricky to navigate when the weather turns. Do those parcel couriers ever manage to find you?’

  Mrs Pye froze, and turned as pink as a doll.

  Old Man Wood rescued her by moving in and extending his hand. ‘Now then, is everything in order? Perhaps I could offer you a glass of something: apple juice, cauliflower tea, my own marrow rum?’

  ‘How very kind,’ Mr Solomon said, ‘apple juice will suffice. I shan’t stay long.’ The headmaster rubbed his hands; for a man his age, Old Man Wood’s handshake crushed like iron. ‘May we have a word in private?’

  Isabella, Daisy, and Archie streamed out of the room while Old Man Wood poured the drinks.

  ‘Mr Woodwood, I’ll get straight to the point. Can you give the children the kind of assistance they need if—and I do hate to say this—if anything goes wrong?’

  ‘Depends what kind of... wrong, Headmaster?’

  ‘Well, say if Archie was to break his arm again. How would you get him to the hospital? And what if there’s a house fire?’

  Old Man Wood burst out laughing, his vibrant, joyful tones bouncing back off the walls. ‘They are quite capable of looking after themselves, with or without me.’

  His comments had the effect of making Solomon feel rather idiotic. ‘With respect, Mr Woodwood,’ he shot back. ‘Even though Isabella has conducted herself outstandingly well in her academic studies, can we be sure she won’t disgrace the school by violently interfering with the officials during our remaining football matches? And, while Daisy shows exceptional sporting ability, she is on course to fail her exams.”

  Old Man Wood didn’t know what to say, so he simply smiled back.

  ‘And then there’s Archie,’ Solomon continued. ‘Lovely fellow that he may be, he has no redeeming features, aside from his wildlife obsession and his siblings to retain his place at school.’

  Solomon wondered if the old man had listened to a single word.

  ‘Mr Woodwood, I will be frank with you. I have no argument with your family in any way.’ He removed his spectacles, rubbing them on a cloth before setting them back on his nose. ‘But I must tell you that I am to retire at the end of the term, and I’ve heard through the grapevine that my successor—a modern, disciplinarian sort—is looking to shake up the school. ‘I very much fear that the children’s bursaries will almost certainly come to an end.’

  Old Man Wood scratched an imaginary beard. ‘I’ll make sure the children’s parents understand the situation entirely.’

  ‘Good, thank you,’ Mr Solomon replied. He cleared his throat. ‘Are you fit and well enough to continue in the role as the children’s caretaker? I worked out you must be nearing the heady heights of ninety years—’

  ‘Oh, Headmaster,’ Old Man Wood said, ‘my body and mind are ticking along quite nicely, thank you.’

  ‘I ask for the children’s sake—’

  ‘Mr Solomon,’ Old Man Wood chuckled. ‘When you are as old as I am, you will find that love and well-being are the things that matter. While it is hard to hold on to the memories from one’s youth, we are lucky to be in possession of decent health, and blessed that Mrs Pye feeds and nurses us.’ He flicked him a smile. ‘But, you’re right to be checking up. We don’t have so many visitors up here in the hills. Have you made plans for your retirement?’

  Solomon leaned back in the armchair.

  ‘Yes,’ he sighed, pleased to switch subject. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m hoping to go to the Middle East to see some of the ancient tombs and archaeology for myself. It’s a small passion of mine, if you will.’ He exhaled loudly at the thought of the unknown life to come after he left his beloved school.

  When the men stood up, scuffling noises scratched towards the kitchen. Old Man Wood and Solomon exchanged a smile.

  ‘Children!’ Solomon boomed. ‘I have something to say to you, so you may as well come back here.’

  The children emerged, sheepishly.

  ‘I’ve decided the time has come to hang up my leather binder and my red marker-pen.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Isabella said.

  ‘Yes, my dear, I am. It is time for some fresh blood at Upsall School. Please promise to keep this information to yourselves until I have made the announcement official, after half term.’

  He looked each of the children in the eye. ‘I would be hugely disappointed if any of you were to exit the school before me, so I suggest you work together to improve those areas that need addressing. For example, Archie and Daisy, a mastery of the periodic table and basic algebra.’ He gave them a knowing look over his half-moon glasses. ‘I have a suspicion that these may feature heavily in your exams.

  ‘The other thing is that I would like you to win the football trophy tomorrow. I don’t mean to put any additional pressure on you both, but it would be wonderful to finish my tenure here knowing that we had reached the pinnacle of both sporting and academic endeavours. So, Archie, please hold your conce
ntration for the entire game.’

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ Daisy said. ‘I promise.’

  He smiled and headed out of the oak door.

  Isabella seized her chance. ‘But what about the storm, sir?’

  He turned. ‘Isabella, this is Yorkshire, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘But I’ve studied the charts and...’

  The door closed in her face, as Solomon’s footsteps tip-tapped across the flagstones.

  Old Man Wood pushed the thick bolt into the wall. ‘What a fine man,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about what he said. You’re doing well at school, you’re fit and well, and you’ve got friends—what more could you want, eh? Now, off to bed, right now.’

  A rumble of thunder boomed high up in the night sky. Old Man Wood sniffed the air.

  ‘Something tells me tomorrow is going to be a big, big day.’

  Seventeen

  The Dreamspinners

  The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed twice, its ring echoing around the old farmhouse. Two in the morning of the next day and the children’s sleep was long and deep: the night-hour of dreaming.

  Four dreamspinners arrived in a flash.

  Using their long, wiry legs, each dreamspinner flew across the air until they stood above the children.

  ‘You are here to witness the final part of the Tripodean Dream, for there must be no doubting it,’ Genesis said, through her vibrations. ‘Their sleep pattern is flowing. It is time. Come.’

  Genesis walked deftly through the air towards Isabella. Bending impossibly forward, as if made from soft rubber, she pushed her head and one arm into her own churning, electrically-active void.

  Moments later she held out microscopic-sized granules of powder at the end of a long pincer.

  Fragments that hold so much power, she thought, realising that power was the wrong word. They were far more than that, these were the opportunity of life itself.

  Genesis positioned herself so that her two long legs anchored above Isabella’s sleeping head, steadying her for the dream Genesis was about to deliver. She bent down, almost doubled-over, and soon her fingers moved freely by Isabella’s lips, ready.

  With her ovoid, jet-black eyes, Genesis studied the girl.

  Instinctively, she tuned in to the rhythm of Isabella’s breathing.

  IN … OUT.

  IN … OUT.

  ‘Heirs of Eden,’ she thought, ‘interpret this dream as best you can.’

  Beneath her, Isabella inhaled. As she did so, Genesis’s two fingers spun at an incredible speed, releasing a fine dust which was drawn deep into Isabella’s lungs.

  Without taking her eyes off the girl, Genesis plucked more dust from within her maghole and, at the optimum moment, lowered her fingers towards the child’s mouth and repeated the process.

  After every breath, Genesis stopped and gauged the girl’s reaction, making tiny adjustments to the rate of powder in proportion to the volume of air drawn in.

  So far, so good, Genesis thought. Already she tosses and turns. Soon she will begin her lucid and vivid journey. Nothing will wake her.

  Genesis glided through the air, across the dark room, and settled above Daisy. She repeated the procedure, scrutinising every movement, looking for signals, and making sure her dream was perfect.

  Only the boy, now.

  She noted the strong, intense reactions of the male sibling. But his haunting, wailing cries were reminiscent of someone else. Someone with whom she hardly dared to compare: Cain.

  Genesis studied the reaction of the children, noting that the noises they made were not just the anguished cries of their previous dreams. These were sounds that exuded certainty and confidence; Daisy laughing, Archie smiling, Isabella’s face beaming with happiness.

  Maybe the final part of the Tripodean Dream was a reassurance that it would be worth the trouble ahead.

  She dipped a hand into her maghole. After all, there is always balance, she thought. Where there is fear, there is hope. And where there is life, there is death.

  Genesis, tired and aching, addressed the others.

  ‘Last of all, I will give them the Gifts of the Garden of Eden. And then their journey will commence.’

  Genesis’s silvery-grey, ghost-like body now sat directly above Isabella’s sleeping face, her maghole emitting blue shards of light over the girl’s peaceful, pale face.

  Quietly, Genesis began.

  ‘For the eldest, yellow dust—for hands and feet. Hands that guide, heal and lead. Swift feet for running.’

  She transformed the end of one of her fingers into a needle so long that it was like a sliver of pure ice that melted into nothing. She injected a tiny yellow speck into the soft flesh between thumb and finger on each of Isabella’s hands. Moving down Isabella’s body, she repeated the action on her ankles, the needle entering the tender skin by her Achilles tendons.

  As she withdrew the needle for the final time, Genesis noted a fizz of electric blue energy flowing through and over the girl’s sleeping body.

  The gifts are undamaged by time, she thought.

  Without hesitating, Genesis walked across the night air to Daisy, moving directly over her face. As she extended her legs Genesis signed again, the vibrations clear to the onlookers.

  ‘Blue dust, for eyes to see when blackness falls, and ears to hear the smallest of sounds. With eyes so sharp and ears so keen, she will understand what others do not hear or see.’

  A minuscule blue crystal fragment sat at the tip of the needle. With astonishing precision Genesis injected the tiny particles through the delicate tissues of Daisy’s closed eyelids and into her retinas. Carefully, she slid a needle down each of Daisy’s ear canals, and injected the crystals directly into her eardrums. As she withdrew the needle, Genesis saw the same electrical effervescence momentarily splaying over Daisy’s outer body.

  So skilful was her technique that, apart from the gentle rise and fall of their chests, Isabella and Daisy did not flicker, nor spill one single drop of blood.

  Now it was the boy’s turn. Genesis sensed the other dreamspinners vibrating nervously nearby. She stretched out an arm and drew it slowly back in, twisting her slender hand from side to side.

  ‘Dreamspinners,’ she announced. ‘His first gift is to the heart. When the needle leaves his body it will trigger a reaction that will herald the start of their quest to open the Garden of Eden, and to save the Earth from damnation.’

  ‘From this moment forth,’ she continued, her vibrations like a whisper, ‘clouds will build. There is no turning back.’

  Genesis stood above Archie’s chest, legs astride his face.

  A roll of thunder drummed high above them as she steadied herself.

  ‘Yellow gifts for hands and feet,’ she said. ‘Blue to hear and see, but red is the one for heart and mind—for power—and understanding what may be.’

  With aching limbs, Genesis galvanised herself.

  ‘Red Dust, a gift of power, when strength is needed.’ And on the word "power" Genesis thrust her arm high into the air.

  She paused and steadied herself, marking the exact spot on Archie’s chest where she would thrust the needle.

  Moments later, the needle swept down and pierced the boy’s heart.

  His body fizzed as his chest cavity rose. Genesis held it as long as she dared, making sure every last speck of dust was instilled into the boy.

  As she withdrew, a terrific thunderbolt spat out, rattling every window of the farmhouse.

  Even Genesis trembled. Nature had awakened.

  A sign from one of the other dreamspinners confirmed her suspicions that Archie’s sleep waves were already changing. A strange feeling filled her. A sense of exposure, a sense she had known only once before.

  My invisibility!

  She concentrated hard on the boy.

  Finish this.

  She dipped a leg into her maghole and withdrew her final gift. ‘Red Dust,’ she vibrated quickly. ‘One for strength—
another for courage.’

  A minuscule red fragment flashed into the tender flesh beneath Archie’s chin. But before she could fulfil the task, she heard a gasp and felt a movement.

  She withdrew the needle as a pain seared into her, her face burning.

  Genesis looked up.

  In front of her, with a face contorted by fear, Archie’s eyes were open. Staring right back at her.

  Candlelight filtered in to the corridor, and a soft light spread under the door into the attic room. Mrs Pye rushed in, out of breath, her hair hanging down to her waist and her sharp eyes accentuated by the glow of the candle.

  ‘Goodness me! Oh, my dear boy,’ she said, rushing over to him. ‘I never heard such a terrible scream in all me life. I thought you’d died.’

  Nursing him, she dabbed the sweat from his brow.

  ‘I... I had the strangest dream, Mrs P. I swear, I was about to be stabbed by... by a—’

  ‘Is that right?’ Mrs Pye cooed. ‘Stabbed? Goodness graciousness me.’

  ‘It had an electric hole in its middle—’

  ‘Well, well, I’m sure it did. Now, I think you’re old enough not to be getting all a-tizz with that kind of bunkum,’ she continued, helping him back to bed.

  ‘Come, now. Lie back and get yourself off to sleep.’

  ‘Please, don’t go.’

  ‘I’m staying right here till you’re back in the land of nod,’ Mrs Pye said sweetly. ‘Now, don’t you worry about a thing.’

  Mrs Pye sat on the edge of his bed for some time. When he yawned, she stroked his hair and laid him down under the duvet, his head nestling into the comfort of a pillow.

  A gentle, faraway tune came to her. A song that had been sung to her by Old Man Wood, who had once sat by her bedside himself. She hummed it quietly, the music soft and soothing.

  Before long, Archie’s breathing slowed, and he slipped into a deep slumber.

  Mrs Pye kissed the young boy on the forehead.

  What was it, she thought, about this scruffy young lad? Sensitive, but coated with a layer of steel, just like Old Man Wood.

  Watching from the ceiling, her invisible status functioning once more, Genesis was relieved that the final dream had run smoothly, even if the boy might have missed out on the final part of his Gift of Eden.