by Mark Hockley
A TEST OF CHARACTER
"What are you?" Jack questioned Mo abruptly, afraid to ask, but not able to hold back the doubts about his friend that grew within, his need for answers greater than his fear of what he might hear.
"I am whatever you think I am," the badger said evenly.
Jack shook his head a little angrily. "That's no answer."
"What answer do you wish?" queried Mo. "Does it matter so much what I look like? Would it make a difference to your opinion of my character? Tell me, Jack, what is it you need to know about me?"
Hesitating, Jack considered how best to continue. "Everything is a trick here," he said fiercely, "nothing stays true. Everyone lies! Even you've lied to me all along. You're not what I thought you were. How do I know that everything else you've told me isn't just more lies?"
Mo turned his head away. "So you still think me akin to the Beast?"
"No," Jack answered steadily, "but I just wish you would be more honest with me."
The badger glanced back at him and then drew closer. "Everything I do is what I believe is for the best. Perhaps sometimes, I am wrong. There are things that I know that guide my actions, but there are also things I cannot know. We should not demand to know all, for to learn before your time can place you into the hands of our enemies. They thrive on half-truths and misconception." Jack was at a loss. He didn't understand and that was all there was to it. Mo was just another mystery in a world of many. "You will have to be patient, " his friend added. "What answers there are, doubtless you will find them before the end."
Although it did not comfort him, Jack felt that this was right. One day he would come to know the truth that lay beneath the trickery and lies. But till then, he was just a boy who had somehow stumbled upon an alien world, a land without rules. Magic held dominion here. Magic and dreams.
Jack wondered what, when again he slept, he would find waiting for him in that other place that had taken on substance and now seemed to undermine his sense of reality. Maybe Tom would be there, dreaming too.
But when do mere dreams become nightmare? And what if, once there, there was no way to return?
The two walked on. Badger and boy.
"Here, try using this to support yourself," Dr. Redhand bade Tom, handing him a wooden crutch.
"So you think I'll be able to walk now?" Tom said, experimentally putting his injured leg over the side of the bed and fitting the crutch under his left arm.
"It will be sore and a little stiff for a few more days, but walking will aid your recovery." The doctor watched him closely as Tom prepared to stand. "You must tell me how you came to be infected with such a strange poison, Vincent. I’m fascinated by its unusual properties. It has kept me up to all hours studying it. You mentioned something about a wolf?"
Tom hesitated. He knew he could find himself in an awkward corner, if he wasn't careful. "I...I don't really remember," he stammered, pretending to have difficulty with the crutch so that he didn't have to look at the man. "Something attacked me."
Dr. Redhand gave him a bemused look, shaking his head slowly. "Assaulted in Seraphim? That really is most uncommon."
"It's all very hazy," Tom mumbled, feigning confusion.
"Well, whatever it was, it most certainly was not a creature native to these parts. There are very few animals, save us humans, who inhabit this area and all are quite harmless. And surely it wouldn't have been one of our citizens. No, I can’t believe that. Even so, we’ll have to pay a visit on the Magistrate and let him know what’s happened."
"Haven't you told anyone about me then?" Tom wanted to know.
"A few discreet friends, yes. But I thought it best to wait until you were on your feet again, literally!, before I exposed you to the curiosity of our good people." Tom didn't say anymore, feeling that he had got in deep enough already and was content to let the matter drop. "Come then, let's get you up," Dr. Redhand said briskly. "Put your trousers on first," he added, lending Tom assistance where needed before helping the boy to manoeuvre himself into a standing position.
Tom didn't experience any pain, but his leg felt very odd and he was grateful for the support of the crutch; without it he suspected he would simply fall flat on his face.
"It will take some time to get used to it," Dr. Redhand told him cheerfully, stepping away so that Tom was on his own. Tottering slightly, he made his way toward the door, the doctor walking alongside of him. "That's the way, you can do it!" the man encouraged, moving quickly ahead and opening the door to reveal another much larger room beyond.
"Is this your house?" Tom asked as he passed into what he took to be a study, large bookcases taking up most of the wall space, an immense desk littered with more books and papers standing before a tall window.
"Indeed!" the doctor said, smiling proudly, "this is my humble abode, and yours too until you’re well again."
The room, Tom noted, was rather untidy, mirroring the man's desk, papers strewn here and there, several empty bottles laying haphazardly about a big armchair set close to a hearth.
"Excuse the mess," Dr. Redhand muttered, a little shamefaced as he followed Tom's gaze. "I’ve been preoccupied with my studies."
"I've seen my bedroom in a worse state," Tom admitted with a small smile.
"Then we are comrades!" the man boomed, chuckling. "Now let me show you our fair city." With this, he went to what Tom guessed was the front door and opened it, and lurching after him to stand in the doorway Tom looked out onto a scene that seemed vaguely familiar to him. Great buildings of grey stone dominated a wide street and in the light of day, the stone pavement gleamed.
I've been here before. But though Tom felt this to be true, his memory refused to tell him when or how.
"Are you all right, Vincent?" Dr. Redhand enquired, sensing the boy's puzzlement.
"Yes, I'm fine," Tom said, but as he walked out into the street, several passers-by glancing at him before nodding a greeting to his companion, he wondered if he were dreaming again.
Of course, that's it. I've been here in a dream!
But the exact details of that dream evaded him. Perhaps in time he would remember.
Dr. Redhand led him off along a side street to the left of the house and he noticed many men, women and children along the way, most of whom gave him curious glances as they passed, although none seemed hostile. Everyone appeared to know the doctor and to hold him in high regard, and they offered warm welcomes when they met him.
"Before we make that visit to the magistrate," Dr. Redhand suggested amiably, "I would like you to meet some friends of mine. And whilst there, Vincent my friend, we may even partake of some refreshment."
Tom just went where he was told, saying little.
Presently, they came to a much wider thoroughfare that led into a large courtyard, where several tables and chairs with brightly coloured canopies were set out, the groups of men and women seated there conversing and drinking in equal measure.
A party of three elderly men spied their approach and called out a friendly greeting. "Red, you old reprobate!" cried one of them as they drew nearer.
"Drunk again, Pat?" responded Dr. Redhand, halting at the table.
"Our natural state!" affirmed one of the others, smiling.
"And who might this be?" said the third, taking several gulps from a silver tankard. "Your young house-guest, I suppose."
"Indeed, it is," the doctor confirmed. "Let me introduce you to my three good and true comrades, Vincent!" He gestured toward the nearest of the men, a wizened looking, white-haired individual, whom Tom thought seemed a little worse for wear. "This is Pat Straub, an old fool but a wonderful companion and an honest man!" Tom nodded politely at the old man, who gave him a wide grin in return. "And this," Dr. Redhand continued, placing a hand on the shoulder of a slightly younger man, whose dark hair and beard gave him a rather sinister look, "is Bill McGoohan, a fine story teller and an even better drinker!"
"Good day to you," voiced the man, winking at Tom.
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Feeling just a little bit uneasy, Tom acknowledged him in return.
"And finally, my old school chum and fellow part-time philosopher, Pete Blatty."
"Hello there, young man," said a thin-faced man with greying hair, the youngest of the three by Tom's estimation. "You say his name is Vincent, Red? Nice name, very distinguished!"
The others chuckled, each taking frequent mouthfuls of their beverages.
"Draw up a seat," Pat Straub bid them, "there's plenty to go around!"
For the next hour or so, Tom sat and listened to the banter between the four friends, and although they drank a great deal-Tom declining an offer of some kind of ale to much gentle derision-they never appeared to be less than lucid and articulate, their topics of conversation always interesting and intelligent. One such exchange concerned something they referred to as Angel Tower, and this immediately sparked some half-remembered memory in Tom's mind and made him sit up and take especial notice.
"Those were the days, Bill," Pete Blatty had said, "when we believed that you could have communion with the angels themselves."
"Yes," concurred the other man, "sometimes I wake up in the morning and feel determined to climb that damn tower, just to find out the truth once and for all, but then I find myself back here, drinking again! And my resolve is lost for another day."
"You'd never get inside anyway," Dr. Redhand interceded, "the magistrate has vowed to keep it locked up for good. People just don't believe in that kind of thing anymore."
"More's the pity," said Pat Straub and a silence had settled between them that lasted for several minutes, the recess used for contemplation and numerous refills of their tankards.
By the time Tom and the doctor left the three men, he had come to rather like them and when they all proposed that they met up again the following day, he was the first to voice his agreement.
"You liked my friends then, Vincent?" Dr. Redhand said as they walked beneath a stone archway and along a narrow side-street.
Tom smiled, feeling far more comfortable in both body and spirit. "Yes," he answered, "but why do you all have to drink so much?"
The man laughed at this. "Do you disapprove?" Tom looked at the doctor with a glum, unamused expression that said that indeed he did. "You obviously have a bad impression of drinking men," Dr. Redhand said, still smiling, "and I would concede that sometimes that is justified. But let me assure you, Vincent, in our particular case, it is only a pastime, nothing more. It merely serves as a focal point for our gatherings, so that we can debate, philosophise and of course, most importantly, swap a few jokes!"
They continued on along spotlessly clean walkways, grey walls hemming them in, until Dr. Redhand came to a halt in front of a large building, which although very similar to most of the others in the city, had an even more sombre, bleak look about it. "This is the Administration Centre," the doctor informed the boy, climbing some steps, Tom trailing behind a little. Two towering iron doors appeared extremely uninviting to him, the idea of a visit to the magistrate an unsettling prospect.
"Can you manage?" the man asked, and with a sullen nod Tom made his way up the stairs. "Well," Dr. Redhand said, pushing one of the huge doors inward, "time for you to meet our magistrate. I believe he has a number of questions he would like to ask you."
"Walk on my little one, walk on,
to where the world is changing,
and now feel the road a'turning
toward that for which you’re yearning,
walk on my little one, walk on."
Mo sang as they travelled west through a field of high, swaying grass, a wind about them.
"What's that you're singing?" Jack questioned, intrigued by the lilting tune, although the words conjured in him a vague disquiet and foreboding.
"Just an old melody," the badger told him, "a travelling song as we walk the forest paths."
They had been walking for quite some time since their sighting of the riders and with every step, Jack knew that they were leaving Tom further behind, and to him, it felt like a betrayal. For all they knew Tom could be trapped or hurt, maybe at that very moment depending on his friends to come and rescue him, sure in the knowledge that they would be doing all they could to find him. And yet he and Mo just went on their way, leaving Tom to save himself.
They entered a wood, the trees stretching before them, the sky bright, patches of blue glimpsed through the canopy above, and for several miles more they trudged on, endeavouring to reach the other side. Jack was becoming increasingly fed up with the monotony of their surroundings, the constant green of tree and grass. Just as he was considering this night fell about them, so abruptly it was as if a curtain had been drawn, shutting out the light.
Jack stopped, unwilling to take another step in the darkness, but then Mo was there looking up at him, encouragement in his large black eyes. "You should be used to such displays by now," the animal said.
"I hate this place," retorted Jack with feeling.
"Come Jack," Mo instructed him, "hold on fast to your beliefs. Do not let the Beast get the better of you."
Even while he was listening to his friend's voice, Jack was aware that he was gradually succumbing to a tremendous fatigue that pressed down upon him.
If only I could rest, just for a while.
The need to lay down, his body aching, became so great, it almost overwhelmed him but then Mo spoke again.
"Now is not the time for rest," growled the badger, as if he knew Jack's thoughts, "for sleep is the road of dreams and that is exactly the path the Beast would have you take."
"But," Jack began.
"Do not say anymore," commanded the animal with force. "You would only speak with the voice of the Beast, advocating its will. Walk on! We must not weaken, you or I!"
Jack remained silent after this as they went on and the darkness seemed to weigh heavy upon him, until it felt as though he carried its black mass upon his frail shoulders.
Once inside the Administration building, a youthful, fair-haired man came forward from behind a desk and asked them to follow him, obviously with full knowledge of the purpose of their visit. Tom's feelings of apprehension had been growing steadily since they had left Dr. Redhand's friends, his mind working in a frantic attempt to come up with some convincing answers to the inevitable interrogation he would surely face. As yet, he had failed to do so.
"I feel a bit giddy," he offered hoping to delay, or better still postpone the impending audience, coming to a halt in a wide hallway that he guessed led to the magistrate's chambers.
"Easy now," said the doctor, coming over to where Tom leaned against a wall. The man regarded him with a professional air and then took his pulse with practised efficiency. "Hmm," he murmured thoughtfully, "your pulse is running a little high." And then addressing their escort, he went on, "I think my young friend needs to sit down for a moment."
The fair-haired man did not reply but directed them through a door into a small room, where hard wooden chairs lined the walls. It reminded Tom of a doctor's waiting room.
"If you would be so kind as to wait here," instructed the man, "I will inform the magistrate that you have arrived." He excused himself with a curt nod and left the room through another door.
"Now take some deep breaths," advised the doctor as he squatted down in front of Tom, who was slumped upon one of the chairs. "I'm sure you’ll be fine in a minute or so."
Tom found little solace in the man's words. He actually felt sick by now, the worry of what would be asked of him causing his stomach to turn over. However hard he tried to contain his anxiety about meeting the ominous sounding magistrate, he could not shake the feeling that he was heading for some serious trouble. Already he was ruing the fact that he had lied about his name. Why hadn't he just stuck to the
truth?
At that moment, the fair-haired man re-entered the room and gestured toward Tom. "The magistrate would like to see the young gentleman alone, Dr. Redhand, if you do not mind. He has asked me to relay to you his most profound apologies and requests that you return in perhaps an hour or so."
Dr. Redhand looked a bit put out by this, but nodded politely and then turning to Tom said, "it looks as though you're going to have to fend for yourself, Vincent." Getting to his feet, he gave the boy another brief glance, although what it signified Tom could not say. Then he left the room through the door they had entered by. "I'll see myself out."
Now Tom was all alone, but for the fair-haired man.
"This way," he directed, indicating the other door.
Reluctantly, Tom followed him into a surprisingly expansive chamber, made to appear all the bigger by its conspicuous lack of furniture or any of the usual embellishments. In fact, there was only a single wooden desk in the room, with two chairs either side of it and a few paintings that hung incongruously from the otherwise bare walls. Also, adding to Tom's discomfort, there were no windows to be seen, the only illumination supplied by a large overhanging lamp, that gave off a sickly, yellow glow. Behind the desk, bathed in the glare of the lamp, there sat a gaunt-faced, elderly man in a black suit, who regarded him with a blank and stony gaze.
"Please be seated," urged the fair-haired man before quickly leaving the room.
Tom walked forward and tried very hard to return the old man's unnerving stare, but found that he could not. The room was utterly silent and he had become acutely aware of his own heartbeat, hammering away regularly against his chest. He reached the chair and sat down, still avoiding the man's eyes.
"What is your name?" the magistrate asked him.
Tom glanced at the man, startled by the sound. "My name is Vincent, sir," he said a little shakily.
The magistrate continued to look at him impassively and Tom squirmed in his chair, wishing he were anywhere else in the world right now than in this room.
"What…is your name?" the magistrate asked again, his voice even.
Confused, Tom gave the man a questioning look, but this was only met by cold eyes scrutinising him and making him feel more uncomfortable than ever.
"My name is Vincent," Tom repeated, this time more loudly in case the old man was a little hard of hearing.
For several long moments the magistrate appeared unlikely to speak again. All this while, Tom stole furtive glances at him to see if his unsettling expression would alter and change into one slightly more congenial, but it remained just the same as before.
"What...is...your...name?" the man said once more.
Tom was afraid now. He could not lie anymore. "My name is Tom Lewis," he blurted out, half embarrassed, half resentful.
"Good," the magistrate stated simply, and though Tom waited for what seemed a long time for the man to continue, there was only silence. Somehow, he found the courage to look at the old man's narrow features, for the first time since his admission, and he saw amusement glittering within dark eyes. "How's your leg, Tom?" he enquired suddenly, his voice amiable.
Tom was caught off guard and wasn’t sure how best to proceed. He knew full well that he was on very dangerous ground here, and that one misplaced step could prove fatal. "I'll be all right," he replied casually, affecting a small shrug.
"That is good," the magistrate nodded, "yes, that's fine. I hear our doctor has been taking good care of you."
Tom did not say anymore; he was too busy wondering what would happen if he made a run for it, but injured as he was, he didn't rate his chances very highly.
The magistrate leaned forward, resting bony hands on the desk. "Now what's all this about a wolf?" he asked with good-natured interest.
"I was attacked," Tom answered quietly.
"Yes, indeed you were. But by a wolf!? Come now, you should know better than that. There are no wolves in Seraphim."
"Maybe it was something else then," Tom volunteered, feigning indifference. With every second, every question, he felt his situation worsening. He was being deftly pushed into a corner and soon there would be nowhere left to go.
"But what could it have been?" the old man asked of him, pursuing the matter, "there are no beasts in this land. Surely the good doctor must have told you that?"
"Yes, he did," Tom admitted in as steady a voice as he could manage.
"You have to see it from my side of the fence, Tom. You arrive here out of the blue on some kind of quest, claiming to have been attacked by some mythical wolf. You lie about your name. I can only suspect the worst."
Tom stared into the black eyes of the old man. "I never said anything about a quest."
The magistrate paused for a few moments, giving Tom an intimidating glare. "Purely a figure of speech, I assure you," he said finally.
Very slowly, Tom raised his hand and pointed at the man. "You work for the Wolf, don't you?" he accused, mouth clenched with growing anger. "This is just another one of its stupid games!"
Smiling, the magistrate settled back into his chair and interlocked his fingers. "I really don't know what you're talking about, Tom. Perhaps the poison has affected your brain as well as your leg, hmm?"
"Why have you locked up Angel Tower?" Tom asked him without hesitation, watching for his reaction, but the magistrate merely raised an eyebrow and stared at the boy.
"You really are an interesting young fellow," he said dispassionately, folding his arms. "So you want to know about the tower? Well, I'll tell you. It's like this. The average citizen does not want to be bothered by mysteries or things they do not understand. And so it is the job, indeed, the duty, of those who govern, to protect the people from things that might upset them. A balance must be kept."
"What do you mean, a balance?" challenged Tom, disturbed by the man's statement.
"The truth is, Tom, that no-one really wants to know what’s up there high above the city. It’s better for everyone if you lock away the secret past and let the populace stay blissfully ignorant. Why frighten the sheep? If provoked, they might well do something foolish and we wouldn't want that, now would we?"
"People have to learn and choose for themselves," Tom said with conviction.
The magistrate shook his head. "It’s people like you that are the true danger, you know Tom. It’s radicals like yourself that would destroy the harmony and security that has been established over countless centuries of care and diligence. Don't you see how arrogant you are to presume that the average man, woman or child really wants to know about things that would inevitably bring about an end to their way of life? You have a great deal to learn, but do not fear. There are those who would teach you. But all in good time and…one way or another."
Tom glared at the white-haired man and felt a rage growing within him. "People are not pieces of meat," he shouted suddenly. "Everyone has the right to make up their own mind. Even if they get it wrong! Is that what the Wolf is really all about? Does he want us to all be the same, to stop thinking for ourselves?"
The magistrate shook his head again very slowly, a look of disdainful pity in his eyes that made Tom want to leap across the desk and punch him in the face.
"You just can’t see it, can you?" spat the old man, all at once animated, his stone-like countenance cracking. "The Master does not need Mankind. It is they who need him. The Beast is a part of everyone's dreams. There's a corner of darkness in every soul. Even yours, Tom…especially yours."
"But there's a difference between you and me," Tom said firmly. "You would rather lock away the truth, but I am willing to face it."
"Are you certain of that?" the magistrate questioned with contempt.
"Yes," stated Tom with a fierceness that seemed to take the old man by surprise, his body tensing, eyes narrowed; but after a moment he relaxed back in his seat once more, and regaining his composure he chuckled, giving Tom an unpleasant grin.
"In the end it all comes down to a test of character,"
he spoke harshly, "and do you know something, I think that you will fail."
Tom made no response to this. He knew that this exchange was only a prelude to some other, more significant trial, and he understood now that wherever he went, whatever he did, the Beast was always there at his side.
The enemy did not want him dead. He was certain of that now. No, it wanted something far, far worse. The White Wolf wanted him broken. Mind and soul.
That was the only way that it could ever really win.
"That will be all," the magistrate said with a dismissive wave of his hand, turning his attention to some papers on his desk.
A tremendous surge of relief washed over Tom and he realised just how tense he had become during his interrogation. He left the room quickly without another word, impatient to breath clean air again, and when finally he had regained the street and was leaning against a wall, almost too weak to stand, it felt as if he had come through a battle, badly scarred, yet nevertheless still in one piece.
The darkness seemed to suffocate him.
"We can't go on," lamented Jack, "I can hardly see where I'm going." Already, two or three times he had stumbled and almost fallen, losing his footing on the black, invisible terrain.
"We must go on," came the reply from somewhere ahead of him, but Jack was having great difficulty in seeing the badger, only the white part of the animal's face cutting through the deep gloom whenever he glanced back.
The further they went, the thicker the darkness became and soon they were completely enshrouded by a comfortless blanket of night.
" Mo!" Jack called, "where are you? I can't see you!"
But no answer came. His fears seemed to take form, dancing just out of reach in the night, taunting him with insidious chants of despair, and he became certain that they would lose each other in the blackness and then they would all be alone, he, Mo and Tom. "Where are you?" he cried out again, the sound of his own voice drifting alien and ghostly across the murky countryside.
Looking down, Jack could barely make out his own hands and he raised them up directly in front of his face, straining his eyes, but it was as though he was no longer physically there, only his mind and thoughts remaining to wander the night. Disembodied, he floated across a black landscape, aware dimly that he was losing touch with reality. "Mo!" he called one last time, desperately hoping to hear the badger's voice return his call. But there was nothing, no sound other than a gently sighing wind.
When will it end?
The terrible chain of events that had gathered him up in their relentless grasp replayed once more in his mind. Many times in the past he had endured the pain of loneliness,
but now he realised that he had never been truly alone until this moment.
In the frigid embrace of that black night, so unnatural and oppressive, Jack began very softly to cry.
