by Terry Tyler
The crowd is silent as Wolf talks of the city's great loss, and how they will move forward, working in the name of the Light for the health, prosperity and happiness of all, but also, now, in the name of Ryder Swift.
He pauses to consult his notes, smiling inwardly as he sees where he has written etc etc, blah blah blah, then launches into the next part of his speech, in which he gives thanks to the Light for sending Ryder Swift to them. This said, he turns to the portrait of Ryder, with his hand on his heart.
"Ryder lives, within us all."
Without a word of encouragement, the people mimic his actions.
He is surprised that the shift has begun so soon. Give it a few years, and Ryder will become the focus of their faith. Without the man himself to talk to them of his personal relationship with the Light, the so-called 'creator' will stand back to let his earthly spokesman take centre stage. In death, Ryder will himself be deified.
Only yesterday, Violet Lincoln claimed that he appeared to her in a dream, in which he told her that he had found eternal peace in the Clearing, but was still with them all, watching over Blackthorn and keeping it safe.
Wolf predicts a trend: as the people believed in their moments of enlightenment conjured up only by their desire for such an experience, so they will think of Ryder in that twilight land between wakefulness and sleep, and tell themselves he has appeared to them in a vision.
Fisher's idea to charge a fee for a ten-minute visit to Ryder's log cabin was a beauty. As word of the Light spreads, people will come from far and wide to visit the place where Ryder once laid his saintly head, at which point the entrance fee will be raised.
Maybe a little visitors' centre could be constructed near the church; an old blanket could be placed in prime position, labelled as the one given to Ryder by Peter, that night by the fire.
All in good time.
Wolf looks out at his subjects' eager faces. Bunch of mindless sheep, the lot of them.
But he must continue to smile, because he has one more story to deliver.
"I have Ryder to thank for so much more than just my enlightenment," he begins, "because I wish to share with you some wonderful news. Until today, only a few of my closest associates knew that I was ill. Seriously ill." He pauses, allowing them to gasp, and look at each other with shocked expressions. "Doctor Khalid told me that, with the best will in the world, within a few years I would be so frail that I would need assistance for even the most basic human functions. Until the last, blessed night that I was privileged to spend with Ryder, I was afflicted with a terrible disease."
He invites Doctor Khalid to the lectern, to explain the prognosis he'd given.
Wolf thanks him, and steps forward once more.
"I would not allow Ryder to pray for my recovery, as my belief was that my illness was the will of the Light; if my time on this earth was to end, so be it. You may ask why the Light took Ryder, and I too have spent many hours pondering this. I have come to the conclusion that we cannot question him, because he is divine; he chose Ryder to spread his word, and now he has taken him back to the Clearing. We must accept this, and know that we are blessed indeed simply to have had him living among us."
The people murmur to each other, nodding, and clasping hands.
"On the night Ryder fell ill I was in particular pain, with chronic acid indigestion―which is why I did not eat Mr Hemsley's pie. I cannot help but wonder if the Light gave me this digestive upset so that I would not eat it. To save me. Because, before dinner, Ryder said that he could not bear to see me suffer for a moment longer, and asked if he might pray for me; he felt most strongly, he said, that he must do this. He took my hands, and prayed that the Light might cure me."
Wolf moves away from the lectern to stand at the front of the small stage. "The next day, though fear for Ryder, Lieutenant Parks and Angelo occupied my thoughts, I became aware that my body felt stronger. Only a week later, my illness had disappeared. Doctor Khalid has confirmed this."
A buzz of awed chatter fills the room, stopping only when, down at the front, Star stands, turning to face them all. Hand on heart, she says, "It's a miracle. A true miracle. We have lost Ryder, but the Light has given us back our governor."
Wolf smiles down at her. "Indeed it is a miracle. And today I have good news: I appoint Star as Blackthorn's official spiritual guide. I know that no one can fill Ryder's shoes, but he invited her to work alongside him, and I am satisfied that she is the best possible person to take on this duty. Trust her, as I do. As Ryder did."
Wolf thinks, thank the Light that's over, and laughs to himself.
He walks out, alone, to the spirit field, enjoying the fresh, early autumn morning, his destination the east side of the field, sectioned off from the rest, where the North family graves are situated. His father, his mother and his sister, long dead. Grandad Thorn, great-grandad Phoenix, and great-grandma January. One day he will be there too, but not yet. Not for many, many years.
The illness was his private brainwave, the truth known only to one other.
As his plan for an organised religion took root, he realised that Ryder would need to believe his rewards were in snatching distance. A matter of a year or so; certainly no more than eighteen months. Wolf had always planned to get rid of him once the new order was established, though even he did not foresee that in death he would take on a godlike status.
What amuses him most is that Hemsley did the deed for him; his most loyal and faithful servant served him well, right up until the end.
Wolf spent much time deciding on an illness before taking his imaginary symptoms to Doctor Khalid. The medical man was easily fooled; his expertise, such as it was, came only from old world medical text books and practical knowhow handed down from his father. Next the lieutenants were told, with each led to believe that he or she was amongst the chosen few.
The make-up Wolf borrowed from Violet Lincoln to make him look healthy when he had to face the world had another use: to emphasise his failing health. Perfecting the carefully shadowed eyes and pallid cheeks was an art that took many hours to master.
A miraculous cure had been the plan from the start. Only Parks knew that the illness was fiction, but good old Hemsley took care of him, too; a bonus indeed―but what was his damn motive? Perhaps he was in love with Jay Field; Munroe reported that he used to visit the boy's cell above and beyond the call of duty. Took him books. When one considered Hemsley's reluctance to avail himself of a Wife of the Light, an act of vengeance provoked by the loss of a gay crush seemed a reasonable answer.
Wolf would like to see him again, just to ask him; he does not like mysteries he cannot solve.
Meanwhile, there is one other who must be removed: Vic the logger, the man employed to act as the converted sceptic.
Parks wanted Darius Fletcher for this role, but Wolf said no.
"Fletcher may be misguided, but he is earnest in his desire to improve the lives of his peers. One does not choose a man of honour for such a task, but a self-serving rogue with no moral fibre."
Vic has been paid well for his silence, but the trouble with rogues of no moral fibre is that they cannot be trusted. No matter; Jet will tie up that particular loose end later today.
As for Jet himself, he has earned his comfortable life by serving the Norths quietly, in the shadows, since before Wolf was born. He was not told the truth about the Light simply because he did not need to know; he obeys instructions, without question. Of all Wolf's men, he is the only one who is irreplaceable.
Parks is a loss, but only a minor one; Lincoln is eager to step into his boots as the lieutenant with the ear of the governor.
Once Vic is gone, there will be nobody on the entire earth who knows the truth.
Its success aside, Wolf has enjoyed this project far more than he'd expected. Being able to manipulate the minds of thousands of people has proved to be the biggest kick of all.
It was not until he was betrayed by Micah, later to be known as Dead Boy, that he fully u
nderstood. Control was a bigger high than sex, money, love, alcohol, Joy―anything. That day, thirteen years ago, was the turning point. When he watched from the stands as the traveller Silas broke the boy's neck, he knew that having the power of life and death over another human being was the ultimate high.
It was never about sex.
Wolf had slept with women and he'd slept with men; he enjoyed attractive people, that was all, but he had never been highly-sexed; he thought he was, years ago, later discovering that what he thought was libido was nothing more than the inquisitive exuberance of youth.
Once he discovered the real high, he scarcely wanted sex at all. Didn't want to defile his body by putting parts of it into other people, or theirs into him. Didn't like the intimacy, for others to see him out of control―and once it was over, he would look at his partner in disgust, and wonder what all the fuss had been about.
Not like the other thing. That high remained for days. The look in their eyes when they finally submitted, when they begged for their lives. That was it. When the other person understood. He had no desire to kill; he suspected he might enjoy it, but was sure the satisfaction would be only transitory, and would dissipate as soon as breath left body. Aside from anything else, it was so damn messy.
That part, he left to Jet.
Some of them caved in immediately, but others, like Jay Field, were so rewarding. Jay was a worthy adversary who'd stood proud, fought back, declared that he wasn't going to beg, ever. That was the ultimate pleasure; breaking the brave.
In the end, though, they all cried and begged. Jay was no different.
He will remember Jay, because he was the last. Even with Jet to do the dirty work it was getting a little―well, yes, messy. Sordid. Now, he has a better game; subtle mind control is more fitting to his intelligence and station in life than getting down, dirty and physical.
The House of Angels, in particular, is an absolute hoot. The Joy Division. Thirty-odd women who queued up to become unpaid prostitutes, with the added bonus of correcting the birth imbalance for him.
Now, he can stand above Blackthorn and know he has a whole city in the palm of his hand. As word of the Light spreads, he will take in more travellers and refugees eager to lay down their lives in its honour and, in time, with the help of this army, he will take over other large settlements. He will take Lindisfarne, Thoresby with its coal, and later go south; the ravaged Central, the Five Villages of Norfolk, the communities of the South West. Later still, Scotland and Wales, too. All in the name of the Light.
And when he has taken over each place he will deliver his message to those who remain: you accept the Light, or you leave. Soon, there will be nowhere left for them to go.
He touches the trunk of his father's tree, breathes in the fine autumn air of Blackthorn, and thinks of the future. The Norths will not die out. He will choose some of the finer specimens from the House of Angels, and impregnate them. Then there is the traveller guard who has caught his eye: Astra. Strong, brave and beautiful; a child of theirs would be a superior being indeed. There will be several North babies. He will build them a house. All his wives, with his children. A whisper or two in Star's ear, and the people will decide that his homosexuality was only ever a rumour.
The lost boys will be forgotten.
Star is pleasing on the eye, too, and touched by just a little of Ryder's magic. Her husband is of no consequence; if the Light wants her to have a baby by the governor of Blackthorn, a baby by the governor of Blackthorn she will have.
Blackthorn belongs to the Norths. Doctor Khalid says Wolf is fighting fit. In a couple of years he will begin the expansion of his empire; by the time he is forty-five there will be several little wolves in the nursery―and never mind all this eldest son crap. Wolf will choose as his heir the one who deserves the honour, male or female.
During the Saxon age, kingship had to be earned. The leader of a tribe was the strongest, the most wise. Some say these are the new Dark Ages; time, then, for him to show the world who is fit to control this island.
He pats the trunk of the tree under which his great-grandfather lies.
Phoenix North.
He laughs, and speaks out loud. "What do you think of that, then, you mad old bastard?"
Chapter 42
Evie
Byron had only been gone a couple of minutes when Gus died.
I didn't have to call him back. He heard me scream.
We pulled the other bodies away from him, into the trees, and left them to rot where they lay.
Byron made tools out of their weapons and stuff we found in the house, and we dug a deep grave for our dear friend.
We hardly talked; it was hard going in the dark without proper spades, but Byron made a fire to keep us warm and give us light to work by. Tears fell down my cheeks all the time; even if I wasn't actually crying, they wouldn't stop.
We said our goodbyes, laid his few belongings around him (I kept his little notebook), then we covered his body with earth and went into the house to sleep. I liked that we were near him. I kept waking up, and I'd go outside and talk to him.
Poor Gus. Lovely Gus.
In the morning we planted cuttings from trees all around him, and Byron used the axe to cut off some fresh wood to make a post, with a marker on the top of it.
With his knife he scratched this:
Gus
An honourable man, and our dear friend
Died here, October 31st 2140
It took him ages, and he didn't speak all the time he was doing it. I didn't say owt, either, and after a while I went out and caught a rabbit for breakfast. I lit a fire and put it on to cook; it was ready just as Byron finished Gus's marker.
Then we got up, and carried on our journey.
I was very, very sad for a few days. It hurt worse than Jay or Morning, in some ways, because I kept thinking about Gus saying that this was the happiest time of his life. Something about the way he said it made me think that 'happy' was a new thing for him.
I'm glad we helped him find it.
I cried too much, and kept saying sorry to Byron, but he said it was good to let the tears fall, sometimes. I cried for Gus, and I cried for Jay, and I started saying dumb shit like perhaps we could go back and look for Astra or Chase on the lookouts, and ask them to get Mum and Dad to climb up just so I could see them.
"Come on, sweetheart," he said. "You know we can't. It's far too risky, and will be for a long time yet."
I knew that, of course I did. But I just felt so sad.
The feeling of loss is with me all the time, but you learn how to put it away in a corner of your mind, 'specially if you've got a load of other important stuff to think about, like staying alive. Byron says that Gus and Jay would want me to be happy, not crying all the time, and I know that's right, but I still feel guilty for having good days.
I smile, though, 'cause I'm free of Blackthorn, and I'm with Byron.
It didn't take long for us to give in to what we both knew was going to happen―we got together just after we left Ewerton, when the weather had been awesome for a couple of days. Gus called it an 'Indian summer'.
We were sleeping out of doors and Gus was keeping us both awake with his snoring; it was like trying to get to sleep with a cow mooing in your ear, and we'd giggle every time there was a loud burst. Byron took my hand, kissed it, and said, "There's a little stream down there. Fancy a moonlight bath?"
I knew what he meant but I really did want to get in that water 'cause I hadn't had a good wash for a few days so I would have honked when I got my kit off. It was proper chilly, but a lovely night, with a full moon and loads of stars. Totally silent; just navy blue darkness, and the sound of water rushing over the stones.
I didn't want Byron to think I was timid, so I stripped off straight away, tearing my clothes off and flinging them away all dramatic; he laughed and threw me his soap, and I rushed in first with my teeth chattering and had a damn good wash before he could get near me.
I could see him watching me from the bank and he wasn't laughing any more, just watching me, which was so-oo sexy, and then he ripped all his kit off too, and came in after me, yelping 'cause of how cold it was, which made us laugh again. But then he went all serious, took the soap off me and washed, staring at me all the time, while I tried not to stare at his dick which was standing right up to attention.
Then he picked me up and carried me to the bank, and you know what happened next. Twice, before we got too cold and had to get dressed. The only thing missing was being able to tell Laurel about it afterwards, but at the same time I didn't want to. 'Cause it wasn't just sexy, it was more than that.
I think I might be in love with him. He hasn't said he loves me, but he says some pretty slushy stuff (like, 'I got so lucky, finding you') so I think he nearly does.
When Gus was here we started to hold hands in front of him, so that he would know we were together without us having to tell him, and he used to beam at us. It was really sweet.
Poor Gus. Lovely Gus. I'm just glad I got to know that there was so much more to him than Lieutenant Hemsley.
We've asked people at settlements to direct us to the Five Villages that Gus talked about. If he thought that was the best place to go to, that's good enough for us.
"The first one you get to is Hamworth, down thataway," said an old geezer who gave us vegetables, potatoes and bread in exchange for three rabbits that Byron caught; he said he didn't very often eat meat, 'cause his eyesight wasn't what it was. Byron showed him how to make better snares, before we left.
We get to Hamworth on a dull afternoon ten days after we left Gus behind. It's proper cold now and harder going, because we have to stop when it's raining and build proper shelters to sleep in; we haven't found so many old buildings with roofs lately.
Gus said that when the bushes and trees are full of fruit and berries in the early autumn, like they have been this year, it means it's going to be a harsh winter.
