The Magic Lands

by Mark Hockley

  FORGET ME NOT

  Tom's thoughts ran like liquid, merging with each other, alive with clarity, possessing a substance that breathed and pulsed. Wondrous images governed him, magical truths springing from a well of new-found knowledge and fire burned within his eyes, embers of beauty.

  Is this heaven?

  Suddenly, reality, or at least that kind of reality which seemed to have material form, tore him away from the apparent reverie he had been experiencing and he found himself in a shadowy room, its walls indistinct. He could not see into the shadows that lay all about him, thick and impenetrable, but he felt that he was not alone there, that hidden eyes were regarding him. There was no sound, and his own thoughts seemed deadened by this silence.

  "Is someone there?" he asked into the darkness, but no answer came, only the echo of his own small voice. "I know someone's there," he called, fear strangely absent, the simple need to hear another voice transcending all else.

  A light came on, somewhere above him and the entire room was illuminated. In the bright glare he saw that he was in a white-walled chamber and utterly alone. There were no doors, no windows, the room giving him at once a feeling of isolation and sterility.

  Where am I? Heaven? Hell?

  He made to stand, pushing himself to his feet, and abruptly the scene shifted, the whiteness of the walls blurring and taking on the likeness of huge swans, their wings beating smoothly in flight above a stagnant lake of black water. There were perhaps a dozen of them and they only flew a short distance before settling upon the surface of the lake, their purity discordant with the foul waters.

  Tom flew also, his arms outstretched, and dived toward the glassy blackness below, racing to meet his own reflection. He searched the deep with sight impossibly keen, knowing that something rested there and he could just make out an ill-defined shape submerged at the very bottom, appearing to be constructed of varnished wood.

  He hit the water at speed, the impact startling the swans, scattering them into soon aborted flight and Tom plunged down into the deep realm, penetrating the darkness, seeking out the mystery that waited below. Kicking out with his legs, he circled above the wooden object, which he now saw was an oblong box, wondering what it could possibly be.

  On one side, there appeared to be some sort of plaque, fashioned from a dull silver metal, and propelling himself closer to it, drawn on by an odd fascination, Tom strained to read the corroded letters, his eyes growing wider as his lips formed the words.

  HERE LIES JACK BARTON

  DEAD AND FORGOTTEN

  BROTHER OF THE WORM

  Tom tried to think, to understand. What had happened?

  They had been on a train, he and Jack. And a woman dressed all in white had come to kill them. But he had thrown himself from the train and so denied her.

  But what about Jack? Where was he? In a coffin at the bottom of a black lake? Tom found that hard to accept.

  Looking down at the casket once more, he saw the lid begin to move, two scaly hands emerging from the darkness within.

  Jack can't be dead.

  Tom refused to believe that, but the hands continued to reach for him and now a distorted voice was calling to him, a parody of the one he knew so well.

  "There's room for two," it gurgled.

  "No!" Tom spluttered, pushing away and upward, the grasping hands touching his legs, raking his skin, almost taking hold and dragging him down.

  Above him, an immense light seemed to be suspended above the surface of the lake, a star of many colours and Tom swam toward it, knowing that death pursued him, eager to pull him back down into the murky depths below.

  He sensed that the star would give him sanctuary.

  The train was gone. Dredger sat slumped against the base of the fractured column, staring at his damaged hands. He studied the blood-caked fingers, bone glistening where his knuckles had been so viciously assaulted, but he felt no pain and even as he gazed down at them, a miraculous healing took place, his hands now bearing no sign that he had suffered any injury at all. He clenched his fists repeatedly, bewilderment in his dull eyes.

  "How can it be?" he muttered to himself, pleading for an answer, "that I have been fooled so easily? How is it that a mere woman can have bested me? It is not right. My destiny...," he gave a small, cynical laugh, "my destiny was with the White Dog. I was for him, he was for me…but when he stretches out his arms to test my mettle, I fall by the wayside.

  Of what use were all the trials I have endured, all of the battles I have fought? Of what use is my strength or the prowess of my blade?" He paused in his rambling and glanced about the deserted platform, searching for his sword, but it was a half-hearted effort and when he did not find it he began to nod, a grimace contorting his features as he gazed at the floor. "It is fitting," he decided, his words carrying the weight of conviction. "A warrior without a blade is unworthy of that name and I am unworthy. If the man is lost, should not the steel abandon him? Let it lie where it has fallen. But it was a good servant. Perhaps it will find a new master. Better that than to rot here with the old."

  Are you the not the Second Beast?

  An inner voice spoke to him, but Dredger preferred to ignore it. What power he believed he had possessed had been shown to be feeble indeed, if he could be cast aside so easily.

  He heard footsteps somewhere in the station and the warrior searched the shadows with eyes bleary and unfocused, certain that the Beast had sent its servant back to finish him off.

  Where is your power, Beast?

  These words were addressed at himself, a goad to spur him into action, but again, the warrior dismissed such thoughts as foolishness. His mind was clouded by emotions he barely understood, and he was powerless to control them.

  I have become what I most despise. Easy prey.

  The footsteps grew louder as a figure approached, but Dredger made no attempt to stand and he saw in the dim light that his executioner bore the final irony as they approached to

  end his life. For his sword had indeed been claimed by a new master, and now it would

  be turned against him, an indignity that he realised was well deserved.

  She led him by the hand. They made their way slowly along a passageway of grey rock, fluorescent lights embedded in the craggy ceiling illuminating the path.

  Jack's head was also full of lights that dazzled him with their vivid colours, inducing in him a kind of trance. He believed he was quite contented and yet underlying this was another contrary sentiment, one of trepidation, a feeling of uncertainty that clung to him and would not release him from its grasp.

  The woman in white did not speak to him as they went, and he himself had no need for words. With his hand in hers, he felt at once captivated and captured, and for all his nagging anxiety, he knew deep down that there was really no choice left for him. He had to go with her, come what may.

  Tom was inside the star. Or at least that is what his senses would have him believe.

  He lay face down upon a huge window, which curved up and around him.

  This is not a dream.

  Peering down through the glass he could see black space, and then, as if it had suddenly materialised out of nowhere, a blue planet appeared, beautiful against the darkness.

  Earth.

  He recognised it at once and as he watched with interest, the planet seemed to magnify, growing steadily larger and larger before his eyes. Tom tried to turn his head, to look toward the furthest edges, but his head was strangely heavy and he was unable to move.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his thoughts, and when he opened them again he could see land and sea, mountains and rivers, countless animals running and swimming; it was as though his eyes encompassed an entire landscape, as if he could see, with infinite detail, every living thing that moved upon the earth beneath him.

  Is this a dream?

  The lands
cape began to speed past him at a fantastic rate, everything blurring into one, becoming unintelligible. The rich colours of the earth merged and flashed past his staring eyes, his mind reeling beneath the onslaught, making it impossible for him to think.

  He was now moving rapidly above rolling hills and valleys, lakes of blue-white sparkling beneath the benevolent touch of a brilliant day.

  To his relief, Tom found that he could move his head from side to side and he stretched his neck with satisfaction, although his body remained immobile. He looked far to his right and then away to his left, taking in all that there was to see. There was no doubt now in his mind that this was not a dream.

  He was within a star. And the sky was full of silver clouds, flying in formation over a bright and fertile landscape.

  The blade hovered above him, obscured by the twilight that lay upon his eyes. Dredger waited for the blow to come, to snuff out the flame of his existence, failure biting deep into his heart. But still the blade did not fall, only wavered before him.

  "Come! Take me and have done with it," he commanded and braced himself for the bite of unforgiving steel against his flesh. A few more moments of utter silence passed and Dredger leaned forward and gave a growl of frustration. "Why do you hesitate?"

  "Take it," came a short reply, startling the warrior.

  "What is this...?" he began to protest, but then through the veil of shadow that clouded his vision, he very gradually began to discern certain details, the lines and curves becoming sharper and more distinct.

  The face of the man who offered him the sword was blurry and indistinct, but when he spoke, the voice was unmistakable.

  "Take your weapon, warrior," Mo bade him, extending the blade hilt first.

  "Why?" argued Dredger with no sense of relief, slumping back against the column. "What need have I for it now?"

  "It is a part of you," the other man said, but the warrior just looked away. "You can stand up at least," Mo ordered.

  With a sullen, almost shameful expression, Dredger hauled himself to his feet and the moment he was standing, Mo deftly placed the sword into its sheathe at the warrior's side, Dredger staring at it dumbly.

  "Now," said Mo with some urgency, "where are Tom and Jack?"

  The woman dressed in white hummed a dulcet melody as she led Jack toward an opening chiselled from the rock face that lay ahead. Beyond the entrance, blazing light awaited them, promising day and open skies, but Jack was hardly aware of it, for he was caught up in the sound of her voice, and he longed to know the words to her song, so that he might sing it too.

  The woman was happy, that much he understood, yet even though Jack wished with all his heart that he could share in her rapture, there was something within him that soured any notions of joy, a small, nagging whisper, insisting that things were not as they should be.

  As they stepped out of the tunnel and into daylight, Jack saw that a golden land unrolled into the distance, a pale blue desert beyond that, stretching away to the horizon.

  Trying to adjust his eyes to this sudden change, besieged by the dazzling radiance, it was difficult for Jack to make out anything at first, but at length he realised that they had emerged onto a great, sandy beach and that the desert of blue was in fact a vast sea.

  Tightening her grip on his hand, the woman turned and smiled down at him. "A fine day," she remarked cheerfully, "a golden day. And now I shall take you out under an old sun and you shall see how it shines upon the worthy." She glanced upward briefly, her free hand pointing at the sky, but when Jack looked too, all he could see was a shimmering canopy of glaring white, which appeared to move restlessly, alive and ravenous, prowling above them.

  They walked on, hand in hand. All was silent now, but for the sound of the distant waves.

  As a youngster, Jack had loved sunny days, when on waking he would throw back his sheets and rush to the window, shafts of light criss-crossing his room, there to see a gleaming sky of blue, populated perhaps by a few billowing clouds, mysteriously beautiful. He had often lain on his back upon the grass of a field or park, watching the sky and the way the clouds constantly moved, travelling lazily to some other distant place that they would never reach, searching perhaps until the end of time itself.

  Now though, there were no clouds and the sky above him was not one he had ever known. It was perverse and foreign and in his heart he despised it.

  "Where are you taking me?" he asked, finding the sound of his own voice shocking in the abnormal stillness.

  The woman too seemed mildly surprised for a moment by his question, but this was quickly replaced by a knowing smile. "Why, Jack my love, I'm going to show you heaven. I'm going to give you the key to the gates of paradise. And then you can choose your own way, sweet Jack, it's all up to you. But I know you'll choose wisely, I'm sure of it."

  Jack glanced down at his feet as they crunched into the brittle sand, disfiguring its perfect face. No-one had ever been there before. They were the first to come.

  The waves lapped placidly against the flaxen beach and he had to wonder if this could truly be a wicked place. But an intuition deep inside him said that torment and suffering was concealed beneath the surface, vile corruption pressing against the periphery of his awareness.

  As Jack began to comprehend this, and the true nature of the land became exposed to him, the hand that was clasped so securely in the woman's grip began to feel uncomfortable, a sticky wetness leaking against his palm and fingers, almost as if something was dissolving. Timidly, he looked down, a thickening shadow growing beside him, and he was fascinated to see that it was no longer a woman who held his hand. Now a grotesque beast was his consort, giant and sinewy, its long hind-legs alone dwarfing the boy.

  "Do you see me?" it asked without turning its head.

  But Jack made no attempt to answer. He saw now the pure white coat, the long snout and the claws which dug lightly into his hand.

  At last the Wolf had come for him, he realised. And it was time for him to face his final test.

  Tom was once again in Victorian London. He had no idea how he came to be there. Everything was jumbled in his mind, memories of flying and glittering stars at odds with other recollections, of he and Jack on a train and his desperate, suicidal jump for freedom. He should be dead. Maybe he was. He could not be certain of anything anymore.

  What did it all mean? It was a question he had asked many times, but he was no nearer an answer than before.

  Diffidently, his hand moved inside his shirt and pulled out the map, the hub of his dark adventure, and turning it over in his hands he came to the conclusion that if it had ever really been important, and he had his doubts, that time had long passed.

  Cloying fog, unpleasantly dense, drifted all round him and crushing the parchment into a crude ball, Tom threw it with force into the white mist.

  Now the game could be played out without childish deceptions. He would meet the Wolf on equal terms.

  With no idea of where he was going he began to walk, the fog clinging to him in thick tendrils, and almost at once, somewhere ahead, a strain of music floated out from the darkness, someone singing a lullaby.

  "Hey, my little one,

  come to me,

  hey, my darling,

  come and see,

  I live within your memories,

  forget me not,

  forget me not."

  Tom stopped, his head tilted slightly to one side and listened. It was a girl's voice.

  With growing certainty he moved forward, his pace quickening until he broke into a run. The mist parted before him, and there, beyond a stone archway, he saw her.

  She was seated on a little wooden stool in an open, cobbled courtyard, dressed in a long black skirt and plain white blouse, a grey shawl loose about her shoulders. Upon her feet were black shoes, with silver buckles that gleamed brightly and her golden hair was like a shimmering fire, a beacon that summoned him.

  Tom slowed as he approached her, and saw Lisa look up as if
alerted by the sound of his footfalls; she gazed intensely into his eyes, still humming the haunting melody of her song.

  "You came," she said as he drew to a halt, her expression difficult to read.

  "Is this real?" Tom asked, knowing it was a foolish question, reality having little meaning in any of this.

  Lisa smiled at him. "Real enough," she answered.

  "I've missed you," Tom began, unable to find the words to express how he felt, his mind ablaze, sudden emotions tearing at him.

  "Have you?" she questioned coyly, her eyes widening just a little and looking at her then, it was as if a chill moved through him, cruel fingers seizing his heart. It was more than just pain. It was part frustration and part desire, compounded by a sense of acute loss.

  "Who are you?" he said, surprising himself with his own question.

  "I am your heart's desire," she told him, her face solemn and very sad.

  "I won't go away again," Tom offered tentatively, feeling strangely elated and sick all in the same moment, and Lisa smiled again, a single tear rolling slowly down over her cheek.

  "You already have," she whispered.

  And then Tom woke up. He lay slumped on a hard, clammy surface and his head throbbed. Getting slowly to his feet, he saw the long line of a railway track curving away behind him. Directly in front of him, the tunnel abruptly ended in a solid wall of rock.

  Where did the train go?

  As he pondered this, he checked himself for any sign of injury and was amazed to discover that he was not hurt in any way, something he could only think of as a miracle. He had survived certain death without even a scratch.

  But what about his dreams? What did they mean? And what of Lisa? He had learnt so much but knew so little. What was real and what was fantasy?

  Tom looked to where the track ended, the line continuing right up to the base of the wall, and it was while he surveyed this peculiar sight that something happened to catch his eye, a faintly glinting object protruding from the brick, about three feet from the ground.

  Moving over to it, Tom saw that it was a door-knob, the only visible piece of an exit that was camouflaged to appear to be part of the wall itself. He turned the handle and a small door swung inward, barely large enough for him to squeeze through. Inside, a steep flight of steps awaited him, forged from ornately wrought black iron, spiralling upward.

  "They are dead," Dredger sighed dismally.

  Even at the time of his defeat by the Beast and his subsequent banishment to the void, suspended from life, the warrior had not experienced such a grievous sense of failure. He had forfeited the lives of both boys. He had been beaten and the blame rested with him.

  Mo regarded him not with sympathy, but with impatient anger. When he spoke his tone was harsh. "Look at you," he asserted brutally, "you have made one mistake and now you are willing to just lay down and die."

  Dredger gazed up at the other man, an injured expression flashing in his eyes. "You lack understanding. I am of the warrior breed. We cannot live without honour."

  Shockingly, Mo laughed viciously at this. "I thought that you knew your worth?" he challenged. "Is this all it takes to beat you? The Wolf was right after all? You are weak indeed."

  Stung by the man's words Dredger tensed, as if for violence, but then smiled grimly and nodded. "Perhaps," he allowed, easing himself back against the column. "I see what you are attempting, old one. You think to goad me. But what is the purpose? I have failed in the trust that was placed in me, that I placed in myself. The simple fact remains that I am responsible for the deaths of the children, and you know as well as I that the war is lost without them."

  "And what of the Second Beast's great power, what say you of that?" Mo demanded.

  A strange, faraway look came into the warrior's eyes and it seemed he would not respond, but after several long moments, he shook his head. "I am not worthy of such power."

  Mo's tone was softer when next he spoke. "That may well be so, but our understanding has its limitations, my friend. And if it is true that one of the boys is dead, though I pray it is not, I too shall carry the burden of guilt for that. But I know that at least one survives. It was promised long ago and not even the Beast garbed in all of its bright armour, can defend itself against destiny. No, the conclusion of this does not depend on mistakes made by you or I, for the war shall be won or lost on the battleground of souls, a private ordeal to be faced by each alone."

  Dredger grunted. "If what you say is so, then why should any of us continue? Why not sit back and wait for the end?"

  The other man merely gazed at him, his eyes mild. "Each has his own trial, but some overlap with others. We are in the grasp of an impartial destiny. You and I may well still have a part to play yet. Can you afford to risk everything for the sake of your doubts? We only have our faith to guide us now."

  The warrior stared up at Mo and hesitated before he spoke again. "Is faith enough?" he asked softly.

  "Faith is the greatest trial of all," his friend cautioned, "and we must hold onto it obstinately, even though the darkness will constantly strive to wrest it from our hands."