The Magic Lands

by Mark Hockley

  ANGEL TOWER

  As Jack found his own mind at last and returned to reality he held out his hands to Mo in a mute gesture of helplessness, only to have the badger back away from him, his eyes full of disgust.

  "What is it?" cried Jack, failing to understand why his friend should react this way. He took a pace forward then stopped, aware of the crushed petals and broken stems of flowers that lay upon the ground. "I don't...," he began, appealing once more to Mo but he cut short his sentence, as for the first time he really looked at the hands that he held still outstretched. They were covered in blood.

  He glanced down quickly at his clothing and saw with disbelief that they too were drenched with the red taint of blood. It felt warm against him, clinging to his skin.

  "Help me," he begged, pulling wildly at his shirt, but the badger moved further away from him. "I don't understand," the boy called, unable to move, horror paralysing him. Then the sky turned black and Jack could see nothing but the all-consuming darkness. "What's happening?" he whispered as violent images savaged his mind. Slaughter, torture, torment. Visions of death passed through his head at incredible speed as scene after scene of mindless carnage was played out in vivid detail, his senses gorged by the sight of suffering. "Please…please let this be a dream," he shouted, reeling from the misery and anguish inflicted upon him. "Let me wake up!"

  And then he did.

  Mo sat resting quietly at his side and the day was still bright. Yet even though Jack knew it had only been a dream, a heavy shadow lay over his mind, malignant with blood-lust and madness.

  "I don't think I can take much more," he said aloud, without being aware that he spoke.

  The badger turned his head ever so slightly and looked up at the boy's distraught features. "Ghosts?"

  Jack did not answer at once, just stared out across the tree-lined fields surrounding them, his eyes glazed, mind numb. "I can't forget," he finally said.

  "The past is haunted by many spectres," his friend told him, "and they are always hungry. They return again and again to devour your heart and consume your soul, if they are able. And it is sometimes very difficult to refuse them their feast."

  Jack nodded. "I feel as though I'm being eaten alive."

  "You can fight back," Mo urged, "but you must be strong. They will use you own guilt against you. They will use your compassion and your conscience to undermine you. And directing them as they burrow ever deeper into your mind, to diminish your spirit, is their father, the Beast."

  "I know," breathed Jack. "But I can't find a way to stop them. The voices in my head only tell me what I know is true. I am a murderer. I have killed. How can I deny that I'm guilty?"

  "Who can truly judge, Jack. Not I. And what is death? Just another word to explain away something that is beyond mortal understanding. Death is the unknown. To destroy life is wrong, yes, but evil is not alive, it never has been. Evil exists only as in a dream, our dream. And these lands where the White Wolf holds sway are full of dreams." The badger moved a little closer, his dark eyes fixed upon Jacks. "There is an ancient proverb, ‘to truly repent is the ultimate triumph’. Remember that and do not despair, for in your heart still dwells the love that you have always kept there safe, and it can never be taken away from you. Love can only be given. When you are tested, remember that you are worthy of forgiveness. All are worthy of this, from the highest to the lowest, man…and beast."

  As Jack listened, he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him. He understood that the Wolf was a powerful enemy, but he also saw, perhaps really saw for the first time, that there was a way to defeat it.

  "Have faith," someone said. And to his surprise, he realised that the voice that had spoken was his own.

  Someone was leaning over him and to Tom's bleary eyes it appeared to be a huge monster with razor-sharp teeth. He tried to scream, but all that escaped his lips was an almost inaudible whimper. Nonetheless the vision of the monster receded and for a few moments he wasn't sure if he was really awake or merely sleeping, lost in the realm of nightmare.

  Pain throbbed somewhere deep within him, but he couldn't quite identify from where it came.

  Am I dead? No, I must be alive because I can still feel my body, I can hear my heart beating. He squeezed his fingers against the palm of his hand to confirm this and felt a defiant pulse as the blood coursed in his veins.

  His eyes were closed now and he was reluctant to open them, afraid of what he might see; instead he listened for a sound, any sound, that might give him a clue as to where he was, but there was only silence, heavy and unnatural.

  Gradually, a noise began to filter through to him and he wondered if it had been there all the time, but however hard he concentrated on it and tried to decipher what it might be, it remained garbled and indistinct. He made an attempt to speak, but his mouth refused to form even the smallest of words, so he was forced to open his eyes only to find himself staring into a light so bright it made him wince and quickly shut them again.

  Tom felt groggy and couldn't shake it off, almost as though he had been drugged.

  "Young man," said a voice close to his ear making Tom mentally start, although his body seemed numb and unresponsive.

  Opening his eyes again, slowly this time, wary, he was met by something darker, standing between him and the light, many different colours merging with each other in a blur. But after blinking a few times, this uncertain image began to solidify, to take on the shape of what Tom hoped was a man standing just a short distance from him.

  "Elrin?" he managed to rasp with enormous effort.

  "Don't try to talk too much," replied the voice, one that he did not recognise. "You need rest. There will be time enough for explanations later."

  "Who...who are you?" Tom questioned, finding it very difficult to transfer his thoughts into speech.

  "A friend," the voice told him. "You really must rest now if you want to get back on your feet. I’ve given you something to help you sleep. Rest now, and when you awaken we can talk."

  Hearing these words, Tom found he could no longer keep his eyes open. "Where is Elrin?" he asked softly, but he was already drifting away, back into sleep.

  "Our safety is still uncertain here," announced Mo, preparing to set off once more, his large head turning slowly as he scanned the trees. "The hunt may not yet be over."

  "But what about Tom?" protested Jack, his cheeks flushed. "He'll never find us if we go too far. How will he know which way to go?"

  The badger sniffed the air and appeared increasingly agitated. "He will know," he said shortly and with that Mo began to walk again, leaving Jack momentarily to stand alone. After a moment's hesitation he followed, but it felt very wrong to go on without at least searching for Tom first.

  "This doesn't seem right to me," he voiced aloud, catching up with the animal. "We should be looking for Tom, not leaving him behind to fend for himself."

  "Trust me, Jack," Mo said, his pace quickening even as he spoke, his long snout close to the ground. "Tom is in safe hands. When the time is right, we shall meet up again."

  Jack wanted to question him further on this but before he could speak, Mo came to an abrupt standstill. Tilting his head carefully to one side, he sniffed the air once more, a quick, fussy motion. "Something draws near," he stated with cold certainty and motioning with his head, he led Jack hurriedly into a thicket that stood nearby. Once settled there, the badger and the boy waited for whatever it was that Mo had sensed approaching, and as he crouched low at the animal's side, holding his breath in anticipation, Jack wondered who it was they were hiding from. He did not have long to wait before he found out.

  A group of hunters, their horses snorting and sweating, enormous hounds bounding along beside them, cantered up toward the pathway where just moments before he and Mo had been standing. At the head of the riders, a large man mounted on a white mare threw up his gloved hand, a command for the party to halt, and this they did at once, steering their horses close so as to hear wha
t their leader would say. There were perhaps a dozen riders

  in all, male and female both, arrayed in the scarlet of the hunt. From his hiding place, so close and yet unobserved, Jack was able to examine each face in turn. He noted the awful, blank expressions they wore, as if they had no thoughts, no emotions of their own, almost as though they were not even truly aware of what they were doing or where they were. They only appeared to come to life when the man upon the white horse spoke, and then it was as if they were merely vessels, given the spark of consciousness by some unseen intelligence, using them as puppets.

  The lead huntsman by contrast appeared to be in complete control of his faculties and there was a strange glint in his eyes that Jack found more than a little disturbing. The man turned on his horse and barked instructions. "They cannot be far from here. Very soon we shall have our kill."

  There was a rousing cheer at this, but Jack saw that it was an almost involuntary action, their emotions a facade, concealing a stunned, trance-like state that held each of them prisoner within a body now nothing more than a shell. He wanted to mention it to Mo but knew that he must remain silent.

  "The Master has promised that there shall be blood spilt this day," their leader cried out. "And you will know its sweetness, my friends."

  This too received an unanimous cheer and Jack looked on in terror, his fear of being discovered by this pack of blood-thirsty maniacs causing him to sweat badly, his heart pounding in his chest.

  As he watched, Jack saw with unease that the man on the white mare was smiling and as he continued to look at the rider's ruddy features, he was sure, although he knew it could

  not be, that the man turned toward him, staring directly into his eyes, as if he knew full well that they were hidden there in the undergrowth. Jack gulped and his scalp tingled with heat and then still smiling, the man winked at him. Even as the boy blinked, disbelieving, the lead huntsman pulled his horse about and raising his hand high above his head, shouted another order. "Onward," he commanded, controlling his skittish mount. "There is nothing for us here. But soon, my friends, very soon, you shall know the joy of death. For the hunt never ends without a kill."

  The dogs began to bay, as if they could smell the blood of their prey upon their lips; the horses stamped the earth, hooves raking the soil.

  Why haven't the dogs sniffed out our scent? Jack pondered, suddenly struck by the thought as he watched the snarling hounds. They can't be much good if they can't even smell us when we're so close.

  With his steed rearing up on its hind legs, the lead huntsman signalled for the party to continue on. There was a brief flurry of activity, eager horses brought under control, boisterous dogs whipped and beaten down with vicious blows from riding crops, and within a few seconds they had thundered away.

  Jack was relieved to see them go, for he didn't think he could have remained so quiet for very much longer. But even as he crawled out of the thicket beside the badger and brushed himself off, somewhere in his mind, whispering to him in a low, morose voice, something told him that it was only a matter of time before the Wolf found him again.

  The Beast was only waiting until the time and place suited its purpose. And when that

  unknown destination was reached, when the time was right at last, Jack knew that the

  Wolf would come to fetch him.

  Tom was awake. If he was dreaming it felt very real to him. But he couldn't really be sure of anything anymore. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his head.

  He saw that he was in a small room with plain white walls and slowly, as his mind began to function, he realised that he was laying on some kind of bed, a blanket covering him.

  Where am I? It was an obvious question.

  He made an attempt to move his legs with a view to getting up, but found that he had a great deal of difficulty in performing even that simple task. One of his legs, he couldn't tell which, felt strange as if it were asleep and after taking a few deep breaths and trying to move each in turn, he understood that it was his left leg, and more, that something was very wrong with it.

  Quite suddenly, a door that Tom had failed to notice opened and a tall, bearded man entered the room. When he saw that Tom was awake he smiled and gave him a thumbs up sign. "You look a good deal better, young man!" he exclaimed in a deep, resonant voice. "How do you feel?"

  "Where am I? What's going on?" Tom asked quickly, eyeing the man with suspicion.

  "Questions, questions," returned the bearded man good-naturedly. "I have a few of those myself."

  "Where is the man I was with?" Tom demanded. "His name is Elrin Jinn," he added. "What's happened to him?"

  "Ah," voiced the man, as if Tom's outburst had explained something. "Perhaps you should take a look at this." He took a piece of paper from inside his jacket and handed it toward the boy. Instinctively, Tom touched the place beneath his shirt where he kept the map and was relieved to find it still there. "You were left outside my door," the man continued, "with this note attached."

  Tom took the paper and read it silently.

  To whom it may concern,

  Please tend to the boy until he recovers. Once he is able, send him on his way. I trust the payment will be satisfactory.

  E. Jinn.

  "Your friend, I presume," the bearded man said, rubbing his chin.

  Tom nodded absently, refolding the letter. "But why should you help me?" He stared at the man, demanding an answer.

  "Two reasons," came the prompt reply. "Firstly, because I’m a doctor, and therefore it is my sworn oath to tend to the sick. And secondly, because of this." Deftly, the bearded man dipped his fingers into a pocket and retrieved a small green pouch that was displayed to Tom, dangling from the drawstrings. The man then opened it and poured the contents

  into his outstretched hand.

  "Diamonds!" Tom exclaimed as a dozen blue-white gems sparkled and glittered against the man's palm.

  "Payment in full," he affirmed with a satisfied chuckle and slowly tipped the precious stones back into their bag. "Now, we should introduce ourselves." He stepped over to the bedside. "My name is Dr. Redhand, but my friends just call me Red."

  Tom didn't know what to make of all this, but decided it was best to play it safe. "Er, I'm Vincent," he said, plucking the first name he could think of out of his head and hoping his face didn't flush with the lie.

  The man nodded slowly and seemed to accept what he had been told. "Well Vincent, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance and also to tell you that you are well on your way toward making a full recovery. It was touch and go for a while, but you're a fighter and between us we exorcised that poison from your system in the end."

  "Poison?" Tom queried.

  "Yes indeed," the doctor told him, "nasty stuff too. Nothing that I've ever seen before. Most peculiar."

  "It was the Wolf," Tom said very quietly. "It was in another form, but it was the Wolf."

  "Wolf!?" Dr. Redhand repeated, a quizzical expression passing across his face.

  "The White Wolf," Tom spat the words angrily, envisioning the monstrous worm, slime dribbling over his flesh, crushing him, suffocating him. Had the Beast truly meant to kill him? What was the Wolf really up to? Tom knew that deceit was at the heart of it all, but

  as yet he had not learnt to interpret the ways of his enemy.

  "There are no wolves around these parts," Dr. Redhand informed him, giving the boy a long, hard look, as if he feared his injuries ran deeper than supposed, and the man's

  obvious ignorance left Tom at a loss as to how he should continue the conversation.

  "Where is this place?" he questioned finally, thinking that this would be safe ground.

  "You are in the land of Seraphim, Vincent, and no beasts dwell here."

  Tom studied the man closely, somewhat confused. Nothing, he knew, was as it seemed in this other world and he was reluctant to trust anyone but himself, but for the moment, while he could
not even walk, he was at this man's mercy. He had to accept that, even if he didn't like it. "Can I get up?" he ventured hopefully, but Dr. Redhand merely shook his head, though he did offer an encouraging smile.

  "Maybe tomorrow," he suggested. "Your leg is still stiff and we mustn’t rush these things. Rest today and tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll give you a guided tour of our city."

  Tom didn't want to remain bed-bound but after another furtive attempt at moving his leg, he knew it would be futile to persist. He would just have to watch and wait, as Mo had so often counselled.

  "Be patient, young man," the doctor told him and began to laugh, stroking his beard as he did so. "That's a good one!" he observed, speaking to himself. "Be patient!"

  Tom grimaced at him, not sharing the man's sense of humour.

  "Have a good rest and I'll see you in the morning, Vincent," said Dr. Redhand making for the door. "And be patient!" he said once more as he left the room, chuckling heartily. The

  sound of his mirth faded with every step he took along the corridor and the last thing Tom heard was a faint voice, saying. "That really is a good one!"

  The leader of the hunt pulled up his horse violently, the hounds circling him.

  There had to be blood before the hunt could end, but because of the Master's wishes it could not be that of their quarry. No, they must be left to go on their way, to remain a part of the game. Now a different treat had been devised, another prey provided.

  "Gather around!" he called to his riders and they massed about him, eager to hear what he would say. "Gather one and all, my children of the hunt. I have a great surprise for you." The dogs began to howl, sensing that the time of the kill was close at hand. The Huntsmen, steadying their restless mounts, moved around him as he spoke, a mass of red and white, anticipation rippling through them, for even though their minds were dead they craved satisfaction, an appetite for killing instilled in their empty hearts.

  Regarding them with a detached air, the lead huntsman abruptly roared with malicious laughter. What could be more entertaining than the hunters becoming the hunted? The Master knew the true delights of irony.

  The massive dogs snapped impatiently, drooling and foaming as their vicious jaws worked, cold, pale eyes waiting for the signal to attack.

  The white mare reared high on its hind legs and the huntsman cried out with passion, his eyes finding the prowling hounds. "Take them, my pretty ones. The kill is yours!"

  With unbelievable speed, becoming blurs of muscle and snapping teeth, the dogs flung themselves at the riders, knocking them savagely from their horses, catching them unaware. Thrown to the ground by this sudden onslaught, the men and women began to scream, in terror and disbelief, their pitiful cries filling the air, but then the hounds were upon them, tearing at throats, ripping at flesh, frenzied in their attack and the cries told of nothing but pain.

  As the dogs went about their ferocious work, the leader of the hunt sang to them.

  "Children of the hunt,

  kiss the face of death,

  taste the dying breath,

  oh, children of the hunt.

  Hear the sounds of woe,

  feel the blood run cold,

  children of the hunt

  spirit wraiths of old"

  Blood spattered the tunics the riders wore, a scarlet display of slaughter; the horses panicked, trampling them underfoot, adding to the carnage in their efforts to avoid the snarling hounds. The huntsman sang and the screaming went on.

  The horses bolted, desperate to flee from the massacre. Amidst writhing bodies who now longed to find death's embrace, the dogs went about their bloody business, rending and tearing, fangs stained red. They were the children of the hunt and they could never be denied. The hunt, the kill, was all there was for them.

  After a time in which the sobs and wails of the dying had seemed like a symphony of the damned, an unearthly quiet prevailed, a stillborn emptiness that enshrouded everything. Only the lapping of tongues and gnawing of teeth could be heard.

  The forest had become a tomb.

  What could he do about his dreams? Tom knew that he was dreaming and yet it seemed so real to him.

  He reached out and touched the glass pane of the window he was peering through and outside blue lamps lit up as if on cue, illuminating empty streets.

  Should I go out? The urge to tread those silent streets was very strong, the soft light inviting.

  He was in a small room, containing only a bed and a wooden table and chair. There was nothing to be gained by remaining there, that seemed quite plain, so Tom walked over to the doorway and turned a silver handle.

  At least my leg is better now.

  Looking out into the blue haze, he took note of the cyclopean buildings which lined the streets, all constructed from grey stone that glowed eerily. He had a choice of three paths and for a few indecisive moments Tom merely stood there, alone, thinking that it might be better to stay inside after all. But then impulse gripped him and he set off to the right, passing beneath a gigantic archway and on into a expansive square lit by lofty spotlights, that bathed the area with a golden glow. More of the huge, grey structures surrounded him and somewhere above a black sky mantled the city.

  At the centre of the square, a fountain gurgled clear water through the mouth of a beautifully sculpted winged figure and Tom stood before it for some time admiring the workmanship. The statues’ features seemed so alive that he was certain it would speak to him, but only water came from its chiselled lips.

  He continued to stare at the sculpture, marvelling at the way its wings seemed to be actually composed of real feathers, lost in contemplation of the artistry and skill that had shaped it and given it this form. Tom was convinced that there was nothing like this work in his own world, that he was gazing upon something truly extraordinary, and so entranced was he that he almost failed to notice the sound of footsteps ringing out against the stone streets and coming closer, approaching the square. He looked all about him, peering into the sapphire light beyond the archway, trying to assess where whoever it was would come into view. Almost at once the footsteps faltered, as if the person was unsure of the way and Tom in a careless moment made to call out, so that they might find him more easily.

  Don't be stupid. It could be an enemy.

  Tom rubbed at his temples, uneasiness worming its way into his mind. The footsteps had become louder now, more assured and he knew that he would have to be quick if he was going to conceal himself. Half-heartedly, he hunched down low beside the fountain wall on the side he judged would be hidden and there he waited, his breathing shallow, tension building inside him, not being able to see anything making it all the worse.

  He didn't feel afraid, after all it was just a dream, but as the footsteps came on, now very near, he did begin to feel a little foolish and he badly wanted to stand up and see who was there. He was about to do just that and was pushing himself boldly to his feet, when the footsteps abruptly stopped.

  What now? He was caught in an awkward stance and having second thoughts, slowly, and with far more care than before, he raised his head, striving to peek over the edge of the fountain and gain a glimpse of the person he knew must now be standing within the square, but when he looked it was quite deserted.

  Tom's unease increased and he had the uncomfortable sensation that someone was behind him.

  "Hello Tom," said a familiar voice and he span around to look into the blue eyes of a young girl.

  "Lisa!" he blurted, both relieved and embarrassed.

  "I didn't scare you, did I?" she asked, smiling very slightly.

  "Of course no
t," Tom blustered, "I knew you were there all the time." As soon as he said this he felt very stupid. He looked at her for a long moment, painfully aware of her beauty. She wore a light cotton dress of pale yellow that came down to just below her knees and for a brief second, Tom let his gaze linger there and found that it gave him a strange feeling of excitement that he barely understood, setting his pulse racing and causing his face to flush. Finding the girl's eyes Tom saw that she was smiling openly at him and his face bloomed scarlet.

  "Come on," she said, giggling, "I've got something to show you." Taking his hand, she led him off away from the fountain, on into the blue lit lanes of the vast, deserted city. Tom followed her wherever she took him, clinging to her as if he thought to let go would be to lose her again, and before very long they came upon a wide, cobbled street, a street so clean he could easily believe that it was regularly scrubbed and polished.

  "Is this a dream?" he wondered aloud, the question echoing familiarly in his mind.

  Lisa eyed him with affected derision. "Haven't you learnt yet, Tom. There is no such thing as dreams. The truth has many dimensions." She began to laugh gaily and skipped ahead of him, obviously taken by some secret amusement.

  "You don't have to make fun of me," snapped Tom and Lisa stopped and turned back, her expression very serious, gazing deep into his eyes.

  "I promise I would never do that."

  They continued to walk in silence now, Tom brooding over her laughter, convinced it had been aimed at him and no less happy about it for all her promises.

  How do I know who to trust? How can I know?

  "That's the place," Lisa said suddenly, halting and pointing upward, her face bathed in a soft blue glow.

  Tom peered up at a white building that had miraculously loomed before them out of a mass of grey, shining brighter than any other and although it was not great in width, it seemed to rise distant into the darkness above, piercing the night sky.

  "A tower," Tom said obviously.

  "Angel Tower," Lisa corrected him.

  "What's it for?" he queried, turning from the tall building to look at her.

  The girl seemed to think this over for a time before she answered. "For climbing," she said at length.