The Beast Awakens

by Joseph Delaney

  Perhaps he’s more ‘valuable’ than I am, Crafty thought crossly. Then he remembered that he’d already been selected by Ginger Bob, so she’d had no choice – which cheered him up a little.

  He had plenty of time to mull over what had happened and what had been said. Although gate grubs had always been treated as the lowest of the low, the Chief Mancer’s words had just contradicted that. The reckless waste of gate-grub lives, to which Viper had made a significant contribution, had resulted in a crisis. Gate grubs were in short supply – could that be used to better their circumstances? Crafty wondered. Surely people like the Chief Mancer must start to appreciate them more now?

  But Crafty was a bit uneasy about the mancer’s judgement. Crafty himself was now supposedly a valuable resource, but his life had just been put at serious risk. Sometimes really bright people don’t have much common sense, he thought. Their heads are too far up in the clouds to see what’s staring right at them at ground level.

  Once it had killed and eaten most of Humperton, the aberration appeared to have gone back through the gate rather than continuing its grisly work in the rest of the castle. This suggested to Crafty that it had been able to exercise some control over the gate – and had been clever enough to remain safe. If that was the case, it could return and attack again.

  Didn’t the Chief Mancer see that danger? Surely they should put guards in every office, ready for such an eventuality? But Crafty knew he’d just be shouted down if he tried to warn his superior.

  He just had to hope that he was wrong.

  About an hour later Lucky came through the far door. He was smiling.

  ‘You were right about Lick, Crafty! She’s not the same girl she seemed earlier. And you’re wrong about her thinking herself better than other people. She treats me well – she’s really polite and doesn’t talk down to me; she makes me feel like I’m a valued partner who’s really contributing something.’

  Crafty compared this to his recent experience with Ginger Bob, where he’d simply been used to test a theory.

  ‘Where did you go?’ he asked, trying not to feel a stab of jealousy.

  ‘Oh, it was just more routine sampling along the canal bank. We got lots of stuff – some insects, a fish and a stray kitten. Lick was really pleased.’

  Crafty opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. He had no doubt that it was the kitten he’d saved from Humperton. The trouble he’d got into had all been for nothing – though he couldn’t blame Lick or Lucky. Getting samples was part of the job and they might be helpful in their fight against the Shole. But he still felt sad about the kitten.

  Just after lunch the far door opened and Lick beckoned him over.

  ‘We need to talk, Crafty.’ There wasn’t even a flicker of a smile on her face.

  He wondered if he’d done something wrong, or whether she was still just annoyed with him.

  Crafty followed her down to her office, took a seat and faced her across the desk. She wasted no time in coming to the point.

  ‘I really do want us to work together, Crafty. We make a good team. But you must listen to what I tell you. I promise we will go looking for your father, but only when we’ve got a reasonable chance of success. We need to stay safe. I’m developing something that I hope might give us a fighting chance.’

  Crafty understood what she was saying, but every day they delayed made it less and less likely he’d find his father alive. ‘How long do you think it’ll be before it’s ready?’

  Lick sighed. ‘By the end of the month maybe, if things continue to go well. These things take time.’

  ‘A month is too long!’ Crafty could feel himself getting angry again, and soon realized that she was too.

  ‘Look, we’re going round in circles here!’ she said, raising her voice slightly. ‘I don’t want to quarrel with you, but it seems we just can’t see eye to eye at the moment. I suggest that, until we are ready to look for your father, you work with Mr Wainwright, and I work with Lucky.’

  ‘That suits me,’ Crafty replied through gritted teeth. ‘But you might have a problem talking to Bertha if I’m not there.’

  Lick frowned. ‘Then we’ll make an exception for visits to Bertha; for everything else I’ll work with Lucky.’

  So that was that, and Crafty returned to the Waiting Room feeling furious, as well as hurt. After all, he’d saved her life. Couldn’t she help him now in return? His father had already been missing for a month. Couldn’t she see that with every day they delayed, his life was at greater and greater risk?

  Crafty had to try to save his father now.

  And already a desperate plan was starting to form inside his head.

  Two days passed before Crafty was able to put his plan into action.

  He had considered getting Lucky involved, but finally decided to act alone. It would be very dangerous and it wasn’t fair to put him at risk too. Crafty didn’t even tell him what he intended to do, knowing that Lucky would insist on helping.

  Those two days were spent collecting samples by the canal. He worked with Ginger Bob, and Lucky worked with Lick.

  Crafty hadn’t seen Lucky looking so cheerful since Donna’s death, and he struggled to control his jealousy. His friend seemed totally at ease with Lick. Crafty hadn’t spoken to girls very often – he’d had no sisters and had attended a boys’ school. There was only Bertha, who was certainly no ordinary girl, and Donna, whom he hadn’t known long. Even their names seemed to belong together – Lick and Lucky! Crafty fought to control his feelings, but it was far from easy.

  Then, on the third day, Lick entered the Waiting Room and called his name.

  He buttoned up his coat, checked that the dagger was in his right-hand pocket and followed her down the stairs, his stomach full of butterflies. This was it. The chance he’d been waiting for.

  Lick wasted no time in pleasantries. ‘I’ve put together some questions to ask Bertha. Do you think you can find her now that we no longer have her finger?’ she asked. ‘And, by the way, giving that finger back to Bertha didn’t go down well with staff in the Relic Room,’ she told Crafty, shaking her head. ‘I had to fill in half a dozen forms to explain it.’

  He nodded; even though tapping into his emotional connection hadn’t worked with his father, he’d found Sandy, and now he was confident that he could find Bertha.

  He sat in the chair, stared at the silver gate and concentrated. Almost immediately the clouds cleared; the bog was directly ahead of them, steaming and bubbling.

  There was no immediate sign of Bertha, but they knew that this wasn’t unusual.

  ‘I’ll go first and see if she’s around,’ Crafty told Lick.

  She nodded and he stepped through the gate.

  It was noon, the safest time in the Shole. The visibility was good, it was relatively mild, and there was no sign of danger. Crafty imagined what a cold, terrible place this must be in winter, with just a few hours of light. At least in the cellar he’d never had to endure that.

  In the distance Crafty could see the three houses, his old home in the middle. He wondered if he should call out to Bertha, but the very next moment there was a disturbance in the mud and her crowned head rose up. Seconds later she was standing facing him.

  ‘Hello again, Bertha. The gate mancer you met before wants to ask you some more questions,’ he said. ‘Are you happy for her to do that?’

  ‘She may ask and I will answer, if possible.’

  ‘You mean you might not know the answers?’

  ‘That in part. But there may be questions I do not wish to answer.’

  Crafty wondered at that. Bertha had already admitted that she fed on anything that bled and was prepared to kill it with her own hands, which he assumed meant she ate it raw; and that she might be prepared to kill and eat a human being. What could be worse than that? What sort of information might she feel it necessary to withhold?

  Putting this thought out of his mind, he waved towards the gate, and Lick came through and wal
ked towards them. Giving her a reassuring smile, which she returned, Crafty went and took up his position halfway between Lick and the gate, ready to intervene and warn her if anything nasty tried to go through it.

  After a nod towards Bertha, Lick asked her first question. Crafty was still within earshot and heard it clearly.

  ‘Is there a beast or some kind of entity that rules the Shole?’ Then, barely pausing for breath, she quickly asked two more questions. ‘Has something created it, or is the Shole itself perhaps aware and sentient – is it some kind of bestial living being?’

  They were three good questions, and Crafty would have been interested in hearing Bertha’s replies – but he was already too far away to catch them: he was striding quickly round the edge of the bog, heading towards the three houses.

  He saw Bertha glance at him, but Lick still didn’t realize that he’d left his position in front of the gate. It was time to tell her.

  ‘Hey, Lick!’

  She turned towards him, the astonishment on her face quickly changing to an expression of alarm.

  ‘The gate’s unguarded! Get back inside!’ Crafty shouted.

  Then he started to run. He knew that there was only a slim chance that she would chase after him. After Humperton’s death she wouldn’t leave the gate unguarded in case something dangerous got into the castle.

  Crafty sprinted as fast as he could. Lick might not follow him on foot, but she could follow him with the gate to intercept him … if the beasts from the Shole didn’t beat her to it. It was not long after noon and most of them should be sleeping, he reckoned. But his target was the very place where some might now be doing just that – even though it had been one of the safest refuges in the Shole.

  But it was no longer safe now. He was heading for the cellar.

  Crafty was approaching the houses from the rear when he noticed that the hawthorn hedges along the back gardens had gone, swallowed up by the advancing bog; it now extended almost to the three back doors.

  As he ran along the edge, kicking up mud, the blue circle of the gate suddenly flickered into life ten yards to his right. Crafty glanced at it and saw Lick’s anxious face.

  Sound didn’t carry well into the Shole, but she was shouting at the top of her voice.

  ‘No! No! Don’t be a fool!’ she yelled. ‘Come back!’

  He ignored her and kept running, and saw the gate flickering out; seconds later it reappeared to his left, much closer, almost within touching distance.

  ‘Please, Crafty, don’t do it. You’ll get yourself killed!’ Lick cried.

  ‘Wait for me! I’ll be back in a few minutes!’ Crafty shouted back. At least, he hoped he would.

  So far, his plan was working. Lucky had once told him that gates couldn’t go into buildings because there was too much of a risk of colliding with something. Lick would have to wait for him outside.

  He arrived panting at the back door of what had once been his home. He gripped the handle of the door, took a deep breath and eased it open. Stepping inside, he closed it carefully behind him, trying to make as little noise as possible. He kept perfectly still with his back against it, holding his breath while his eyes flicked across the gloomy kitchen, searching for danger. He listened too. The house was absolutely silent.

  So far, so good. He started to breathe again, and then crept over to the sink and reached up to open a cupboard – the one high on the wall to the right of the draining board. It was full of useful items: balls of string, nails, a hammer and a pair of pliers. He felt around, and for a moment his heart sank. He couldn’t find what he was looking for.

  They’d always kept them here. Where could they be? There should have been a dozen at least. Had somebody taken them? he wondered. Maybe, before his father went missing, he’d been back to visit Crafty’s brothers’ graves and used them?

  Crafty felt a moment of despair. What a fool he’d been. He should have brought one with him. Then his hand closed on what he was looking for: a candle.

  He positioned it on the draining board and then reached into the left-hand pocket of his coat for the small box of lucifers he used to light the candle in his room at the castle. They’d kept boxes of matches in the cupboard, but by now they’d be damp and useless.

  He struck a match and it flared with light. Crafty managed to light the candle at the second attempt, even though his hand was shaking with nerves. He returned the box to his pocket and then added a small hammer he’d found in the cupboard. It could be useful as an additional weapon.

  Now he just had to go down into the cellar.

  Crafty opened the door and began to descend the short flight of wooden stairs, aware that he would be heard below. There was no way to avoid it: however slowly and carefully he moved, there would be creaks. If there was anything down there, it would know that he was on his way.

  Crafty was carrying the candle in his left hand, keeping his right free to grab the dagger if it proved necessary. He reached the second door, which led directly into the cellar, holding the candle out before him and peering down. The flame sent grotesque shadows flickering up and down the walls.

  This had been his home for almost a year, though now it was clearly no longer his. Crafty could see nothing that might immediately threaten him, but he knew that something was here. Or had been here. The silver staircase told him that.

  It had been built by his father as a defence against the Shole, constructed from silver alloy so that no aberration could use it. But now the staircase had been wrapped in something so that none of the metal was visible. He thought at first that it had been covered in a dense layer of branches and twigs.

  No – it hadn’t been covered. Something had grown over it. It was some kind of vine that had sprouted out of the earthen floor just at the foot of the staircase.

  Had some kind of malign magic been used? Crafty wondered. This was clearly no ordinary vine. It had only been a few weeks since he was last here, but it had grown quickly and densely to shield every inch of the staircase, thus rendering the silver useless as a defence. Yet the steps were still clearly defined and it would be easy to walk down them. Something had wanted to use this staircase.

  Crafty didn’t move for a long time. He kept perfectly still and listened. Could he hear something breathing? No, it was probably just his imagination.

  He slowly began to descend the steps – until at last he was standing on the cellar floor. Now he had to find what he’d come for and get out as quickly as possible.

  A different kind of dread began to prickle at the back of his neck. Crafty had been relying on the fact that Lick would wait for him.

  But what if she didn’t?

  At first glance the rest of the cellar looked exactly as he’d left it.

  The three tall metal candlesticks stood where they always had, the candles long since extinguished. There were the two beds, the leather couch, his father’s black leather armchair with his stick still resting against it, the triangular table with one chair, the bookcase and, of course, the tall cupboard leaning against the wall. It would have almost seemed cosily familiar, if he hadn’t been so terrified.

  Suddenly Crafty’s eyes were drawn to the cupboard again. Before he left the cellar, the doors had been open: he’d kept them like that to save himself checking whether any new food had been delivered. Now they were closed.

  A sudden cold breeze came from nowhere, threatening him with darkness. The candle flickered and almost went out, making his heart lurch into a faster rhythm.

  Then he heard a faint sound, a whispering. It was coming from his brothers’ graves.

  Crafty went over and knelt down between the two flat oblong gravestones. He pressed his ear to the ground.

  ‘Crafty! Crafty! Crafty!’ they whispered in unison – but the rest was too faint to hear.

  ‘Hello, Brock and Ben. Try to speak more loudly. I can’t hear. What are you trying to tell me?’ he asked, keeping his voice low.

  The whispering became louder, and a spike of f
ear went up his spine as he finally realized what they were saying.

  ‘There’s something hiding in the cupboard …’

  Crafty came slowly to his feet and stared at it.

  There were two possibilities. The first was that something was hiding in the cupboard because it was afraid of him. The second was that it was hiding in the cupboard because it wanted to leap out and kill him.

  The second seemed much more likely. Crafty was trembling, and every bit of common sense was screaming at him to run for the steps.

  But he’d come down to the cellar to find something, and he wasn’t leaving without it.

  Then his brothers started to whisper again. He knelt down once more and put his ear to the earth.

  ‘Don’t open the cupboard door! Get out while you can!’ his brothers hissed, and then they began to cry.

  Their muffled sobs brought a lump to Crafty’s throat. It always wrenched at his heart when they cried. Were they crying because of the danger he was in or because they were afraid? Or maybe because being dead was so terrible and they were overwhelmed by their condition?

  ‘Don’t cry,’ he whispered towards their graves. ‘I won’t open the cupboard. I’ll be gone in a few moments.’

  But first he had to get what he’d come for.

  It was under his father’s black leather chair. Crafty knelt down again and rummaged around beneath it, trying not to think what might be lurking there. He found what he was looking for, quickly slipping it into his left-hand coat pocket.

  He turned, but had only taken two steps when a voice halted him in his tracks.

  The voice came from the cupboard.

  ‘Is that you, Crafty? Is that you?’

  A whirl of emotions almost brought Crafty to his knees. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, to be happy or afraid. The voice had changed since he’d last heard it – it was huskier and slightly deeper in tone. But there was no doubt: it was his mother’s voice. Or could it be something just pretending to be his mother? he wondered.