by James Erith
‘We’ve places to go, my little friend, and there’s not a moment to lose.’ Cain said out loud. He couldn’t tell if the boy inside him could hear, though the odd cries he heard told him that the boy wasn’t entirely deaf.
‘Do my bidding, little friend of Archie de Lowe,’ he said, ‘and everything will work out just fine. We may even get to like one another. But until then, I am going to make you do as I wish.’
But as hard as Cain pushed and cajoled, the boy inside him soon slowed to a standstill.
Where was this child’s energy? Wasn’t that the point? Or was the boy being deliberately difficult?
A few minutes of rest should do the trick, and then he’d be off. What was it called, sleep?
Perhaps he also needed food and water. He’d try Schmerger and see what the elf might come up with. Anything to get the damn boy moving properly.
‘In due course, there will be sustenance and rest for you,’ he spoke out. ‘But for now, boy, I need your energy. Resist, and I will hurt you.’
If the boy was going to be a nuisance, then he could play at that game too.
Sixty-Three
‘The Joan of’ Moves
Gus tried to row with the flow of the water but the current was too strong and, besides, he had no idea where he was going. When he stole a look from under the canopy, he was met by a wall of water sluicing from the sky.
He pulled in the oars, inspected the canopy, and drove a couple of nails into the areas where he sniffed a weakness.
Then he returned to the bench to help Sue bail out water. With the amount coming in, it needed both of them to work flat out. Sue felt like she’d scooped out enough water to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool three times over. Her arms ached so much she thought they might simply drop off.
As ‘The Joan of’ pitched through the waters, and as the storm smashed down upon their tiny vessel, Sue thought of Isabella, Archie and Daisy.
They wouldn’t stand a chance out there in this weather, and every time she imagined them trying to soldier on or getting swept away, her spirits sank. Her previous thoughts of rescuing them could never happen.
Every so often, ‘The Joan of’ would bash into something hard and solid, like a wall or a car, and they would be thrown forward. It was at these moments that both of them knew the strength of the boat would be tested.
All it took was a crack or a small hole, and that would be the end of it.
At other times, “The Joan of” ground against something, or span around as it diverted off an object, the water pitching the boat one way and then the other.
Several times, Gus levered the boat away with an oar, lurching back into the swell.
Sue kept her head down, sobbing as he went outside. On returning, Gus would hold her, and stare reassuringly into eyes which betrayed nothing less than abject terror.
His eyes, she noticed, were wide. Not so much in fear, she thought, but with excitement. To her, Gus was having the time of his life.
She heard him singing a hearty sea shanty as he tossed the water out with his bucket, his singing grew louder and louder with each movement until it was in direct competition with the rain.
Sue didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or hit him.
For a while, at least, the singing stopped her wallowing about the disaster and about her friends.
After what felt like hours, Gus pointed upwards. ‘I think we’ve moved away from the main rain belt.’ She nodded in agreement. ‘Problem is—how far do you reckon we’ve gone?’
‘No idea,’ she said. And it was impossible to tell.
Sixty-Four
Old Man Wood To The Rescue
Seeing Isabella’s monitor struck by lightning followed by Daisy’s monitor crackle spurred the old man into immediate action. What should he take with him?
He turned on the torch and shot off towards the shed. His heart and mind racing, he grabbed a section of rope, a small axe and his hard helmet with a built-in torch on the front. He dashed into his cold room where he stored his huge variety of apples. He selected eight rather small ones from the special box he kept near the door.
In the cloakroom, he found his long, waterproof coat and his walking boots, which he slipped on as fast as he could.
He returned to the bedroom and stared at the screens.
Archie was cradling Daisy, he could see that. Tears streamed down the boy’s face.
‘Oh, you poor things,’ Old Man Wood cried. ‘Keep her warm. Speak to her, little Archie. Don’t let her drift away.’
At least they had found somewhere to disembark. It was by a huge pile of rocks, which didn’t feel in any way familiar.
Now, where was Isabella?
He furrowed his brow. Blimey, she’s in a funny place. Bang next to a rock face and surrounded by a heap of boulders. She’s shivering. No wonder. How did she get there? He zoomed out and pressed the cloud button, which cleared away the rain.
‘Apples alive!’ he exclaimed, bashing his head with his hands. ‘They’re on opposite sides of the same pile of rocks, and they don’t even know it!’
He zoomed out further on Isabella’s monitor. ‘I know where it is!’ he exclaimed, his eyes almost bulging out of his head in excitement. He checked his watch. It was ten minutes before four o’clock or thereabouts. Just over an hour before nightfall. He’d have to hurry.
He darted out of his room, bursting with an energy and purpose he hadn’t felt in years, when an idea shot into his head. He turned on his helmet light, and skipped down the cellar stairs.
Now, which door was it? He headed along a musty brick corridor that smelled of old wet rags. He stopped outside a low, thick wooden door laced with metal studs right at the end. Cut into it were the markings "II". Roman numerals for cellar number two.
Now, he thought, how did the door open? There wasn’t a key, he was sure of that. It was something smarter; keys could be lost or discovered by nosey children or unwanted guests.
He strained his brain trying to work out what it might be. ‘Oh, come on!’ he cried out. ‘Why does my brain always go blank at times like this?’
He thumped his fist on the wall. One of the bricks shifted. His eyes darted up and he groped about, pushing the bricks to see if anything would happen.
Nothing.
He screwed his eyes up. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been down here. From the corner of his eye he spotted a piece of stone protruding from the wall. Maybe that was it. He pushed it.
Again, nothing.
He left his hand there as his head tilted forward, and he tapped the wall with his forehead in frustration. The stone moved! He doffed it further and heard a neat ‘click’.
‘Ah-ha!’
He twisted the metal ring on the door and the latch clicked open. He was in.
Inside, a smell of moss and dust and linseed oil surprised his senses and, as he brushed past the cobwebs that drooped from the ceiling, he shone his helmet torch to see what he could find.
He smiled. Neatly stacked on slate shelves running around the walls were hundreds of small bottles obscured by layers of dust.
Starting at one end, he picked each bottle up and blew the dust off to reveal the writing which was neatly etched into the glass. Names like Spindle Old Man Wood, Ogre Blood, Wood Ox, Willow Potion, and Oak Spit. He hurried on, hoping like mad that when he saw it, he’d know.
A flood of memories rushed in, almost overwhelming him.
These were his bottles. HIS potions! From a time... well, from a lost time, a time he’d forgotten.
He continued along the row, reading out the names as he went until he spied three bottles with the words ‘Resplendix Mix’ in bold writing scratched on each.
He pulled one off the shelf and brushed it down. In the torchlight, the colour was like liquid gold, and, as it moved, little diamonds of light danced within it.
Resplendix Mix. This brilliant stuff would help them, he was sure of it.
He shoved a bottle into his pock
et and tore out of the room.
Closing the back door, he was instantly set upon by the water, the weight on his hard hat pushing his head into his body.
What was the best way to the bottom of the cliff?
The lane was acting like a drain, so the road was impassable.
Maybe he could lower a rope from the ruin and let himself down? He fingered the coils strapped around his torso. But he knew the rope wasn’t long enough, and what if he was swept off the top?
No, he would have to go across country, through the woods and then somehow up, along and onto the ledge.
He’d need a lot of luck and most of all, he needed to hurry.
Sixty-Five
Cain’s Hunger
What a wonder, Cain thought, rubbing his new eyes. Sleep. How invigorating - if only for a few moments! But I have a strange feeling of emptiness inside me.
‘Food!’ he yelled out. ‘Schmerger, I think I require food. Where is my food?’
Lying down, Cain saw the black pointy beard of his servant stopping at a respectable distance. The little creature bowed. ‘Your Lordship?’ the bent figure of Schmerger said. ‘With respect, Sire, you haven’t eaten for a thousand years. Are you yourself today?’
Cain rose and marched up to the servant. ‘I require food, immediately. A feast.’
The servant recoiled. ‘You have become... ASH, Sire.’
‘Marvellous, isn’t it. I have a human child within me and it requires feeding. Understand?’
‘But there is no kitchen,’ he replied.
‘NO KITCHEN! What kind of palace is this?’
Schmerger shook his head. ‘May I be bold, Sire, and say that ever since I was assigned to your Lordship, there has never been a kitchen. Your Lordship banned them.’
Cain thrust out his arm, picked the man up by the throat and threw him at a table which splintered over the floor. ‘Is that so?’
The servant rubbed his neck.
Cain walked over and pulled the little man up. ‘How and where do you eat, Schmerger? Show me.’
The servant bowed and led the ghost down the wide main staircase, down a corridor and through several doors, before entering a small room.
Cain followed, delighted that for once he could actually see the outline of rooms and his grand bed. Even his dim profile in the mirror was now visible. It was a shame he couldn’t see with any detail, but it was a great deal better than nothing at all.
Schmerger picked up a wicker basket. ‘From Mrs Schmerger, Sire.’
‘Tell me,’ Cain quizzed, ‘what is in it?’
‘It was lunch, Sire,’ he said. ‘Little remains.’
‘Give it to me!’ Cain said, thrusting his hand into the basket. He pulled out something black and stodgy and, without hesitation, stuffed it in his mouth. For the first time in ages he chewed. Aside from a tingle, it tasted like soot. But he hoped the boy inside found it favourable.
Schmerger backed out of the room, trembling, leaving the food for Cain.
Cain pulled out another piece and popped it in. This time, it crunched and splintered. Cain spat it out. ‘Schmerger,’ he yelled, ‘what is it?’
‘It is the leg of a bird,’ the servant said from outside the door. ‘One does not ordinarily eat the bones.’
Cain crashed a fist down on the table. ‘I need more food. What is there to drink?’
‘Nothing but water, Sire,’ Schmerger said, bowing. ‘Your Majesty has never had a requirement for any.’
‘Well, I do now. Bring me some this instant. We have a great thirst and there may be little time.’ Cain marched out of the room a trail of dust behind him.
Cain knelt down and brushed a glass-like puddle, seeing a face smile up at him. ‘Let me reacquaint myself with my poor frozen people.’ He stood up. ‘In time, let us banquet. Let there be a glorious feast with wine and song.’
Cain marched through the doors and found himself at the foot of the grand staircase, his mood bordering on euphoric. He wanted to know the situation with the heirs.
‘Dreamspinner, dreamspinner, dreamspinner,’ he called out.
Moments later Asgard appeared, his maghole tingling with electrical current. ‘You called?’
Cain smiled. ‘Now, my dear ugly dreamspinner, why don’t we pay another short visit to find out how the Heirs of Eden are dying? Earlier I sensed Archie was close. Perhaps this time I can persuade the boy to join willingly with me, before his poor soul is cast into the wild expanses of space.’
Asgard’s maghole opened wide and Cain, seeing it’s outline for the first time so clearly, forced the boy within him to bend down. And in one motion, they dived through.
Instantly, they arrived by the big log that straddled the track. He surveyed the scene and was frankly amazed that the Heirs of Eden were still hanging on to life.
They looked pathetic, their struggle nearly over. Surely their bodies could not take much more of a pounding. And where was the old man? Ha! He didn’t even know what was going on. Sad. Truly.
If he could just get Archie, an Heir, to join him, then in one easy step this theatre, this charade that held on to the idea that these puny Heirs of Eden might survive, would cease, and everything would be resolved as he had originally imagined.
Sixty-Six
Solomon In The Tower
Fifty-seven! Solomon scrolled down the page of names. He rather hoped that perhaps one hundred people had fled by car, and others had gone when the lightning started.
Still, that left an awful lot unaccounted for. He hadn’t factored in the opposition players, parents, and supporters.
Half the football team were missing; no Sue Lowden, no Williams, Kemp or Allen. The list went on… five of his teachers out there, somewhere, too.
He only had to look at himself to shake with shame.
He’d found the doorway to the tower as much by luck as by design, and was dragged in by Mrs. Rose who’d reached out into the curtain of water and swept him in. Exhausted, he sat on the step catching his breath and waiting anxiously to see if anyone was close by.
Only one other person came in after him. It was a small girl who had felt her way around the exterior walls, inch by inch. Solomon cried as he helped her up the stairs.
It had made him hope there were more, but no matter how long he stayed, no one else came by. Looking into the sheet of water flashing from the sky, it was no surprise.
In no time, the water level forced him to move up the stairs, as a pool of water quickly formed beneath the first landing. He insisted the door should be left open, just in case.
The children spread themselves out over the two floors of the library in the tower, cowering together. As the storm smashed overhead, the children sobbed, despite teachers doing their best to keep spirits up. Even the teachers, Solomon noticed, had anxious eyes as they flicked nervous glances towards one another.
The chef, along with his assistant, fed the group bread buns from a huge sack they’d pulled across the yard moments before it all happened.
Only when the water reached three quarters of the way up the front door did they shut the door. A realisation that the level might get higher and higher dawned on Solomon and this time he wasn’t taking any chances.
Solomon excused himself and headed up to the old library right at the top of the tower, accessible only by ladder. Up there, he removed his jacket and trousers and sank into an old chair.
Placing his hands over his eyes, he sobbed openly.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. When his father died many years ago, he’d shed a small tear, alone.
Now, tears flowed.
When his grief had subsided, he tried to reflect. Of course, with the benefit of hindsight, he realised that he had been nothing short of a fool. No more, and no less. A stubborn fool at that. He hadn’t listened.
His brightest pupil had demanded his attention, and he’d refused her.
Worse still, he’d lied to her!
Lied! Dammit!
Solomon felt his stomach knot. He’d lied to a student who had gone out of her way to prove that something major and remarkable was about to happen.
And he’d pushed her warnings straight back in her face.
He banged his fist down on a dusty table. Wasn’t that what headmasters were supposed to be good at, listening, giving people the benefit of the doubt. Encouraging students in their academic and recreational activities?
All he’d been interested in, he realised now, was his banquet, the glory of his school and his moment in the limelight. And now…
Three times Isabella had tried to tell him. Three times he’d denied her.
All along, it was as if she knew, and Sue knew. He recalled her crazy screaming. Was that part of these strange happenings? Perhaps even Archie knew, the way he let the penalty slide past his foot into the goal.
Solomon stood up and moved over to the window. On a good day, the view expanded way across the Vale of York in one direction, marked by a green patchwork quilt of fields and woods. In the other direction, the tree line of the Hambleton Hills wiggled around the North York Moors, intersected by cliff faces and shadows.
This was the exact spot, twenty-five years ago—almost to the day—where he’d fallen in love with the glorious scenery, the light, and the big skies. He remembered how he’d accept the job at Upsall school on the spot.
Now, he stared at death, destruction, and chaos.
He knew that, if and when this rain ceased, the scenery would be a different hue, the land would have a new orientation. A vale filled entirely with water.
‘Isabella,’ he said. ‘Will you ever forgive me for ignoring you? For being such a toady old idiot.’
He sighed and brushed another tear from his eye, knowing that it would be a miracle if the de Lowe trio ever made it home.
