“I can’t believe how light she is,” Bill said, “it feels as if a gust of wind could blow her away.”
Brianna scowled. “It’ll weigh a hell of a lot more once we’re on board.”
“Indeed,” said Flaxbottom, “and then there’s any essential belongings and, of course, fuel.”
“Chicken feed?” asked Bill, feeling he was beginning to become attuned to the way the Wing Commander thought.
Flaxbottom nodded. “Yes, a particularly potent mixture of my own devising, enhanced by my own special herbal recipe. We’ll need a fair amount, though, for so many squadron members and such a long distance. Even then, I fear we’ll need to set down several times on our journey to allow them to forage and rest.”
“Ow!” shouted Bill in pain and alarm, before clasping his leg and collapsing to the ground. Another arrow flew over him and hit Amelia.
Brianna drew her sword and charged in the direction the arrow had come from.
“Squadron, see him off!” called Flaxbottom, and Brianna was soon overtaken by a host of chickens with vicious intent.
The poultry flowed over and through the low fence surrounding the farmyard and connected with something man-shaped in the long grass. There was a brief scream and then silence. By the time Bill arrived, Brianna was kneeling next to the body of a man. His clothes had been pecked through to the skin and bone beneath and he was leaking blood.
Brianna looked up at Bill, her face white. “They killed him in seconds, on a word from her.”
“Just as well she’s on our side, then,” said Bill. From his point of view, Flaxbottom had saved him from at least one extra arrow which might, after all, have resulted in his death. “Now, come on. Let’s get out of here before another lone, or not so lone, assassin turns up.”
When Bill had limped back to the plane, the chickens were lined up, as before, acting as if nothing untoward had happened. Flaxbottom, on the other hand, looked a little furtive.
“I don’t have a dog, you see, they don’t mix well with free-roaming poultry, so I trained the chickens to deal with any danger on the farm. I imagined they’d be seeing off wolves, bears and the like but, it seems, they’re just as effective against people. I may have to review my training techniques slightly. But you needn’t worry, they only obey me!”
Brianna’s glared in silence.
“Now, let’s have a look at your leg,” Flaxbottom said, striding over to Bill and rolling up his trousers.
“Oy!” Bill protested as her cold hands connected with his skin.
Flaxbottom shook her head.
“Nonsense, I’ve seen it all before!” she said, then continued after a momentary pause. “Well, actually I haven’t, but I’ve imagined it!”
Silence fell. Except for the sounds of expectant chickens, some of them nervous.
“It’s just a nick,” mumbled Flaxbottom, “but it’ll slow you down. We’ll have to dress it before we go anywhere.”
Half an hour later, they were back at the flying machine. Bill was hobbling on a makeshift walking stick as the pain had become much worse once Flaxbottom had cleaned the wound and rubbed a particularly noxious powdered herb into it. Hopefully the agony would be worth it in the long run, it was a long way back from Upper Bottom to Upton Moredit.
And, with that thought, Bill’s mood darkened, and he would have given anything to be back in the woods, tending the coppices with his father. Old Blackjack had been right, he belonged in a place where the only dangers were cutting off his hand accidentally or blowing himself up. A kindergarten compared with the road stretching between where he was and the end of his journey. He’d been attacked with a knife; half-throttled and now shot with an arrow. So much for adventures. And as for finding out about his mother, Vokes hadn’t mentioned that at all. Bill didn’t know if he was even heading in the right direction. The head of Blackjack Strike floated in Bill’s mind. It was shaking, ever so gently, from side to side.
“Squadron, to flight readiness,” barked Flaxbottom, pulling Bill from his thoughts.
There was a moment or two of blurred poultry before, as Bill’s vision settled down again, he could see that each of the cylinders attached to the feet of the aircraft was now packed with chickens, wings extended. The rubber wheels of the plane caused the birds’ feet to be slightly off the ground and so they sat there, contentedly swinging their legs as they awaited their passengers.
“Climb on board,” said Flaxbottom as she hoisted herself into the cockpit. “When you climb up, stick to the wooden struts - avoid the silk or we’ll lose our aerodynamics. I’m afraid there’s only one extra seat so you’ll need to squeeze in. Perhaps one of you could sit on the other’s lap?”
Bill looked hopefully at Brianna who shook her head.
“I’ll sit on the seat,” she said, “you can crouch on the floor.”
Disappointed, Bill carefully pulled himself up on an exposed strut. It was so light, he half expected it to snap under him, but it took his weight and he carefully, though clumsily, swung his leg over and crawled into the fuselage.
Brianna, sighing, followed him rather more gracefully, confining herself to one side of the seat so there was room for Bill to rest his head on the other.
“Thank you,” he said, blinking up at her and trying to make his injured leg comfortable.
“Chicks away!” came the cry from the cockpit. “Squadron, prepare for take-off!” There was the sound of the ruffling of many feathers from beneath them. “Squadron, taxi!”
With a sudden lurch, the Amelia began rolling forward. Bill had managed to hoist himself up on his elbows so he could watch out of the side of the plane as the farmyard gave way to a grass field which became a green blur as they picked up speed.
“Lift!” shouted Flaxbottom over the rush of wind and the plane jumped into the air. It landed again with a bump and Bill heard the Wing Commander rather desperately calling for more power before the plane lifted again and barely cleared the fence before climbing more steeply.
“Tally ho!” came the excited cry from the cockpit. Flaxbottom’s goggled face appeared above Bill. “Isn’t this simply spiffing old bean? What, what?”
Bill nodded numbly and tried to look out, then instantly regretted it as, for the first time, he saw the land from the air.
Brianna, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the view. “Ah, I can see the Bishop & Actress down there. It’s exactly the same shape as a…”
Her voice was lost in the wind as Bill was distracted by his ever-growing nausea.
“He’s coming!” said the Faerie King. “Look, Bently.”
The butler leaned forward to look out of the window. He blinked in the sudden light, The Brightworld was certainly living up to its name today. Personally, he preferred the warm, comfortable, darkness of the real world he inhabited here on the other side. Once his eyes had adjusted, he was able to see a young man on horseback, riding over the downs and very obviously heading towards the stone circle.
“I see him, master. Shall I fetch the lady?”
The man thought for a moment before nodding.
“Yes, Bently. It would be fitting for her to be here, and she may have some rather delicious explaining to do when our rescuer meets her. Hurry, though,” he said, not turning around as he heard his butler shuffling away.
“And make sure she’s presentable, however.”
Chapter 11
Chortley was fed up. He felt as if he’d been riding around this hilly landscape for hours, exploring dells, dales and dingles (whatever they were) that all looked pretty similar to him. He was beginning to wonder if Corporal Stickler had given him a bum steer, but it seemed hardly credible. The old boy had certainly not liked him, but he had possessed that mixture of fear and duty that made it likely he was telling the truth. If not, then a bum steer would be the least of his problems.
Reaching the bottom of yet another hollow, he began the slow climb up. It had been a fine autumn day, yet the crests of some of the hills held onto
a covering of mist. Out of the fog above him loomed a pair of standing stones. He looked up at them and concluded that these were, indeed the Teeth, exactly as Stickler had described. So, this was where his mother had last been seen. When he reached the top, Chortley dismounted and ran his hands down the surface of one of the stones, enjoying the chilling sensation that seemed to leach into his very fingers. The stones were about twice the height of a man, and they opened onto a ring of smaller upright rocks that surrounded a huge monolith with a wide hole in its centre.
It was mid-morning as Chortley entered the ring of stones and stood in front of the doughnut-shaped rock. It seemed to his instinct that it was perfectly circular, even though he could see, with his waking eyes, that it wasn’t. It gave all the impression of being a roughly hewn rock that had been rolled here by some ancient people with knowledge the world had lost long ago. It was also alive. Through the hole, which was wide enough for a stooping man to cross, he could see the stones behind it and the countryside beyond, but there was something not quite right about the view. He imagined that if he gazed at the hole without directly looking at it, he might see something different. He turned away from it, then spun back and got the distinct impression that the image had momentarily shimmered as if it had been removed and then pasted back into place.
Stepping up to the doughnut-shaped stone, Chortley held out his hand and pushed it into the hole. As it passed through, he could feel a chill, dank, air and was just starting to pull it back when the iron grip of another, invisible hand, fastened around his. He cursed in shock and tried to yank his hand back, but he could feel his fingers numbing, it was as if his hand was encased in a block of ice.
Chortley looked up in a panic to see the view through the hole waver and disappear. Where his hand had seemed to reach into the countryside it was now held by a figure with a smiling face, surrounded by darkness. His skin and hair were of pure white, though his clothes were black, and his eyes a deep blood red. He seemed to glow in the darkness, but there was no warmth here - his smile was cold and full of malice.
“Who the hell are you?” Chortley managed.
The smile grew wider, and the man spoke.
“My name is Lord Humunculus, and I am a prince of the Darkworld, and, in a sense, your father.”
“You’re not my father!” shouted Chortley, fastening onto at least one solid, concrete fact. “Now, let me go!”
The man did not release his grip.
“I meant metaphorically, of course, I caused the events that led to your birth, but your father is…”
The figure turned to his left, bent down a little and whispered to someone. “... of course, Walter Fitzmichael, such an odd name. Yes, Fitzmichael is your father but your mother, now that was my doing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Do you know my mother?”
The man smiled again. “Oh yes, indeed. She is here, in fact. Would you like to see her?”
A surge of adrenaline cut through Chortley’s gut. “She’s there? Where? Show her to me!”
There was another nod to the side, and a woman appeared next to him. She was as pale as the man next to her, but her eyes were blue, like Chortley’s. Her white hair looked as though it had been shorn by a blind maniac and, as soon as she saw him, she began crying. Chortley knew it was his mother, even though he had no memory of her. He felt tears moisten his eyes, but he wasn’t sure if the emotion he felt was anger or something else.
“All you need to do if you wish to meet her is to pull on my hand. Bring me through this window and she’ll come through also. Come now, pull!”
Chortley did it. He was a boiling morass of emotions and wild, uncoordinated, thoughts and so he pulled on the hand and the man leapt forward. His hand appeared in the daylight, but something was resisting and the more of the man that emerged, the harder it became until Chortley, with a grunt, pulled away from the grip and went flying backwards, colliding with one of the standing stones and ending in a heap.
The man had also disappeared, and there was the sound of much commotion on the other side. But then, through the hole, came his mother, suddenly appearing in the sunlight and flinching from its brightness. Swiftly, she came over to him and kissed him on the forehead.
“I cannot stay, my boy. Find your brother - the son of Blackjack Strike the charcoal burner of Upton Moredit. Find him and bring him here, together you can do it. Come back, or I will be trapped forever. He is cruel, my son, do not leave me with him, I beg.”
She kissed him again, stood up and, just as the man appeared, snarling, in the window, she leapt back through the hole and disappeared.
Chortley watched her go, then sat, his back against the cold surface of the stone while his brain tried to catch up with his emotions. Ten minutes ago, he was a bastard son whose only other relative was a half-sister he loathed. Now, not only did he have a mother, but also a brother, or half-brother. And it sounded as though he was a peasant. Charming.
He got up and examined the doughnut stone. He didn’t put his hand into it this time, but he ran his fingers over the inner surface and circled it several times. In every way, it seemed to be nothing more than a perfectly ordinary object, if a circular rock with a hole cut out of it sitting in the midst of a stone circle on the crest of an isolated hill in the misty down-lands could ever be considered ordinary. And yet he knew that somewhere, on another side that wasn’t forwards, backwards, up or down but was, perhaps, more inside, was a dark room, or a whole other world, that contained his mother.
That world also contained the being Humunculus. He’d seemed so pleasant, to begin with, like a well brought-up noble from one of the more refined houses of Varma. But Chortley had seen his face just as his mother had disappeared. Perhaps, in his rage, some sort of disguise had slipped, and his true nature had been revealed.
Chortley was self-aware enough to recognise that he, himself, was not the best of men and had proven himself capable of cruelties that most people would quail from. But he’d knew when the man in the Darkworld had let his guard slip that he was looking at a face of true evil.
After some time contemplating, Chortley fished inside his pack, made himself a late breakfast and thought about what he should do next. He could go back to his old life at his father’s court, of course. Until recently, he’d considered that to be his lot, his primary ambition being to make enough wealth and power for himself so that he could set himself up independently somewhere, outside his sister’s reach when she inherited the county. Alternatively, if he could make peace with his sister, perhaps he might become her advisor.
Neither of these futures appealed. In truth, they’d only ever been a case of making the best of it - Chortley had never given any thought to what he’d like to do with his life, his only concern had been his survival. And now, he had been asked, begged, by a mother he had only just met, a mother who had abandoned him as a baby, to find a half-brother he hadn’t known even existed and bring him here to pull into the world a crazy evil bastard, so that his absent mother might herself escape from a world she’d shown herself able to exit just minutes before. Put like that, it seemed insane to take on the challenge. Chortley smiled and left the stone circle without a backwards glance.
Bently cowered in one of the deepest dungeons as the Faerie King’s enraged voice echoed from wet, slimy, walls. Next to him sat the woman, her face wet with tears and desperate hope. Bently was devoted to his master but he recognised when the anger needed to be allowed to blow over, and he also knew that the woman would have been the focus for that rage. He had ushered her away as soon as she returned through the window, not because he had a heart (or, at least, not entirely for that reason) but because he knew it was only too likely that his master would kill her in his frustration and then, when his anger passed, would regret it. And so, Bently had spirited her away so that he could reveal her in triumph when the moment came. Now, however, was decidedly not that moment.
“Oh, be quiet,” snapped Bently. The snivelling reduced a
little, but he could tell she was still crying.
The old butler turned away from the sounds of his master roaming the upper palace and looked at her. Yes, she was a beauty alright - that had made her the ideal choice for her mission. That and the fact that having blood that was half of this world and half of the other meant she could move, more or less at will, through the portal. At least, in principle, she could. In practice, the window to the Brightworld was kept guarded and locked, except when his master would stand and watch.
“Tell me,” Bently whispered, “why didn’t it work? Your mission was to bring into the Brightworld a young man with the strength to destroy the barrier between worlds and allow our master to bring his magnificence to the whole of creation. You may not care much for the other inhabitants of this world, the world you were born into, but we are starving, and the Brightworld is so rich in nourishment it could feed our multitudes forever.”
The woman’s eyes blazed. “Our people wouldn’t be starving if it wasn’t for your precious master, you fool. He has spent and wasted and yearned the world’s riches away when his only concern should have been our people and how to grow enough to feed them.”
“Oh, you are so very wise!” spat Bently. “But in any case, we are where we are. Our Lord must find a way into the Brightworld, so he can provide for our people and his plan was flawless. He was quite specific about who the father should be - he needs an ally to guide him as he learns about the Brightworlders and so a Fitzmichael was chosen. You produced a Fitzmichael and yet, somehow, he doesn’t have the strength to pull the master through. I wonder why?”
The woman sat, her head bowed. “I don’t know.”
“You’re lying and, believe me, I know a lie when I hear one. What did you say to the boy when you jumped through the portal? Very foolish, that was. The master was already going to be in a foul mood once he’d recovered, but you sent him apoplectic. I do believe he thought, for a moment, you might not come back at all.”
Myths and Magic Page 8
