by Tim Flanagan
Its body fell lifelessly to the floor.
The Grey Man waited once more, listening to the night air. There were distant sounds and screams from the creatures, but none that seemed to be close by. He wiped his sword on several napkins that were piled at the side of the bar counter, pulled the hatch up and stepped back down into the cellar.
They remained there for the following few hours, waiting in the darkness without making a sound.
By the time the sun had risen in the sky, they had already had breakfast and packed several bags ready for their journey. Once they were sure the sky was free of creatures, they loaded the bags into the back of their vehicles. The Grey Man stuffed food into a separate compartment on the back of a motorbike together with some kitchen knives. The large donestre sword was too big to carry, but he managed to wedge it between some metal struts within the rear frame of the bike. It looked a bit awkward, but at least it would be easily accessible should he need it. Edgar packed food into the back of a small Ford they had found, together with some baseball bats that Joe and Max had discovered. The third vehicle was an old style Mini; the red, white and blue of the British Union flag had been proudly painted across the roof by its previous owner. Scarlet, who had experience of driving her dad’s tractor on his farm, had agreed to drive Flora to Burnham Beeches, together with Peter.
‘Good luck,’ Edgar said to The Grey Man, holding his hand out for him to shake. They all stood in the road outside the restaurant ready to leave.
‘I will see you in Avalon some day,’ The Grey Man said, taking Edgar’s hand.
‘Will I see you again?’ Scarlet asked Edgar. A warm tear of salty water was already filling the corner of her eye. The other three children stood behind her watching, already knowing the answer.
Edgar finally shook his head.
‘Probably not,’ he replied as he knelt down to her. ‘I have been here too long as it is. No one should live forever. I have wandered this country and seen many changes. Seen so many people die, most of them unnecessarily. This world is no longer the one I was born into. Humans seem intent on killing each other, just because of different views or beliefs. It has taken near extinction to bring them together again. Amongst this chaos we still have hope. You are the future. Bring the world together again, accept differences and embrace the magic of life.’
Scarlet wrapped her arms around Edgar and squeezed him tight.
When Scarlet finally let Edgar go, Flora stepped forward and kissed him gently on the cheek.
‘How will you know if I find Avalon and the swords?’ he asked.
‘I will know,’ she simply replied.
Waving them all goodbye, The Grey Man roared off on his motorbike, the throaty engine audible for some distance even after they had lost sight of the bike.
Lady Flora got into the Mini with Scarlet and Peter. Scarlet took one last look at Edgar and the boys, turned the engine on and began to drive away, lurching forward as Scarlet struggled to take control.
Edgar stood in the middle of the road and watched the Mini disappear round a corner, catching Scarlet’s eyes as she glanced in her mirror.
Joe and Max waited patiently without saying a word. They didn’t know what lay in front of them.
‘Are you ready?’ Edgar asked as he turned to the boys.
13. The Forest of Dean
The Grey Man weaved his motorbike between the abandoned cars that littered the road. It was easier to negotiate the roads than in a car, and as such, it only took a couple of hours to reach the Forest of Dean on the border between England and Wales. He left the main road before he reached Gloucester and entered the forest from the north.
Occasionally, through the ever increasing density of trees, he caught a glimpse of the river Wye that followed the road that took him deeper into the forest. The hedgerows and trees began to overhang the road so much that he was riding amongst the shadows, only aware of daylight, by the narrow strip of blue above his head. But when that disappeared too it was like he was riding through a narrow tunnel of greenery. On those occasions he remained especially alert in fear of attacking creatures. Eventually, the trees thinned again and he entered a small village that he recognised.
It had been many years since he had been in the area, but it seemed like nothing had changed during that time. There was a heavy earthy scent hanging in the air. A smell that reminded him of the night he had been dragged into the portal to the Underworld. In his mind he could still hear the scream of his wife as they desperately tried to cling to the nearest stray branch or claw the ground against an invisible force that constantly pulled at them with such strength that it felt they were going to split in two. But, most clearly of all, The Grey Man heard one word.
'Steffen!'
His wife had shouted his son’s name over and over again, as she desperately realised their son was going to be left alone and vulnerable without them. The Grey Man glanced into the forest. Between the thick tree trunks, he thought he saw a glimmer of silver, but when he blinked it had gone.
The river was clear to see on the right side of the road, whilst on the left, grey stone houses had begun to spring up. The Grey Man pushed on, trying to keep his focus on the road and not in the past. Leaving the village behind, the trees enveloped the road once again. Occasionally he caught sight of a movement dancing within the shaded darkness of the forest. But so far, the creatures hadn’t troubled him.
On the edge of the forest, he slowed the bike down and coasted along the road. He entered a quaint village with stone walls holding back typical English country gardens.
The road was silent, except for the growling vibration coming from the engine of the motorbike. The Grey Man stopped beside a picket fence, turned the engine off and stepped from the bike. He drew the donestre sword from its strapping beside the engine and held it loosely in his hand and waited.
He looked at the cottage. It had once been home to his wife’s sister and he hoped she had not moved since the last time he had been there. This was his only possible link to trace his son.
The building was made of large weathered grey stone blocks with crevices filled with soft spongy moss. There was an ivy creeping its long tendrils around the entrance porch, whilst in the garden, rows of foxgloves, lavender and roses released their scent into the air. The thatched roof didn’t look so perfect. There were stray clumps of straw that had been pulled out of position where something heavy had been gripping or moving across it. He had a pretty good idea what may have caused it, and for that reason he grasped his sword with both hands ready to use if necessary.
The wooden gate swung into the garden accompanied by a high pitched squeak. He cautiously took a step along the path towards the front door which looked to be slightly open. Keeping his sword high, he nudged the door with the toe of his shoe so that he could see inside the cottage. With the sun behind him it cast an elongated shadow down the length of the hall.
‘Melodie?’ he shouted into the house.
There was no reply.
The Grey Man took a step inside.
With only the limited light coming through the windows, everywhere appeared dark and grey. The first door he came to went into the living room. The furnishings were simple and dated, consisting of a two seater settee which looked like it had hardly been used compared to the sunken cushions of a single armchair that was pushed into a corner facing the television. To the side of the armchair was a small table supporting a stack of folded newspapers which were weighed down by two remote controls. A tall free-standing lamp towered above the armchair. Along one wall was an old stone mantelpiece and above that was a silver ornate framed mirror hanging by a triangular piece of wire from a nail in the wall. The Grey Man looked along the top of the mantelpiece and pulled out a white card that was wedged between a vase and clock. It was an anniversary invitation addressed to his wife’s sister, Melodie Knight. He smiled to himself. At least he knew she still lived in the cottage. Respectfully he placed the invitation back on the mantelpiece a
nd his eyes glanced over a curled picture of a young boy smartly dressed in school uniform.
The Grey Man instantly recognised the eyes of his wife in the boy.
‘Steffen,’ he muttered to himself.
Tears gathered in the corner of his eyes as he picked the picture up and smiled. His son was older in the picture than the night he had been abandoned by his parents. The Grey Man had hoped that Melodie would have taken Steffen in and raised him, but he had never known for sure. He turned the photograph over. On the back was the date of his son's first day at school, together with the English translation of his welsh name, Steven.
He slipped the photograph into his pocket and continued to search the rest of the house. It was a small cottage, the downstairs only consisting of the living room, kitchen, dining room, and pantry. Fruit in a bowl on top of the dining table had gone soft and mouldy. It was covered by a moving mass of flies that erupted into the air as The Grey Man walked past.
There was no sign anyone was still there, or had been for several days.
He began to walk up the stairs. Each wooden step creaked as he loaded his weight onto it. At the top the narrow landing was lit by a small window at one end and had three doors leading from it. The first opened into a single room. The interior decoration looked very different to the rest of the house. The floral patterns had been replaced by bold colours mixed with posters and film trading cards. There was a row of books propped up along the window ledge. The Grey Man read the titles printed down their spines. Many were about space, UFO’s and myths. If Steffan had lived there, he assumed he was currently standing in his bedroom.
He moved into another room which was larger with a double bed in the centre that appeared as well worn as the armchair in the living room. He opened the wardrobe door. Inside were hangers with colourful floral dresses and an overwhelming smell of mothballs. At the bottom were neat rows of unused court-shoes; whilst above the hangers was a shelf that supported rolled up bed linen and a shoebox held together by several elastic bands. The Grey Man reached up and slid it from the shelf, disturbing the dust that had settled on the top. He carried it over to the bed, sat down and lifted the lid off.
Inside the box was a jumble of photographs, some old and worn, others newer and shinier. At one end was a bundle of letters neatly stacked and tied together. The Grey Man took out the photographs and began looking through them. He saw pictures of long dead relatives from his wife’s family and placed them on the bed. He then picked out an old photograph of himself with his wife on their wedding day.
At that moment The Grey Man’s life stopped.
Since leaving this world his life as Rhys Avall had been left on hold, paused and waiting for his return. He realised that, although he was looking for his son, he was also looking for himself once again as well. He looked at the man in the photograph. The man he had once been was proud and handsome, standing next to his wife, staring lovingly into her eyes. He desperately wished she was still alive. He closed his eyes and kissed the picture of his wife, holding it against his lips as if she was actually there. When he opened them again he put the picture aside and continued to sort through the rest of the photographs. He found many of Steffen at different ages, so began positioning them on top of the bed in age order so he could see his son growing up in front of him. The boy had changed from a fair haired child to a dark haired man, but whatever the age, he still had a look of his mother in him.
At the bottom of the box were several newspaper cuttings. The first was dated two days after the night when Rhys and his wife had unwillingly vanished through the portal. It described the mysterious disappearance and even had several quotes from locals who reported seeing strange lights in the forest, whilst others linked the disappearance to wild animal attacks. Other clippings mentioned the subsequent investigation, but every one became smaller and smaller as less newspaper space was allocated to it.
He turned to the letters. Many were from Melodie’s late husband when he had been working abroad, but there were two others, written in a less decorative handwriting. He read through the first which told the tale of a young man, nervous and frightened as he took his first steps of independence at university. The second, dated several years later, was written with more confidence. In it the boy truly was becoming a man and making his way to London.
At the bottom of the page was his son’s address.
14. A Close Encounter
It was a pleasant afternoon on the Isle of Wight. The bungalow was decorated in an old fashioned style with net curtains at the window, lace doilies laid out on the dining table and pottery figurines inside a display cabinet. Georgia was seated on a wooden chair pulled up to the dining table with a shotgun lying across the table top. She looked out of the front window and watched the sea peacefully roll up and down the beach whilst in the distance was the outline of the northern edge of the island. She was so relaxed that she quite forgot where they were. Taking a clean roll of bandage from her bag she began to remove the old one around the top of her arm. The wound was healing nicely, shrinking all the time, but she knew the muscle damage would never repair itself and she would always have a noticeable dent in the arm. Despite wearing layers of waterproof clothing during the crossing, the dressing had still managed to get damp. As she carefully began winding the clean bandage around her arm, she didn’t notice the approaching sound of rubber tyres coasting slowly across the concrete road that separated the lines of bungalows. It wasn’t until she saw the sun glint off the front of the car that she remembered what danger they could be facing. With a quick glance she saw two occupants in the front of the car peering through open car windows towards each bungalow as they rolled along the road.
Georgia quickly grabbed her gun and pushed back on her chair so that she could dive to the ground and hide from view. In doing so, the chair rocked backwards and fell to the ground.
Georgia froze.
In a world were so few humans and animals showed themselves, there was very little sound. The noise the chair made sounded louder that day than any other sound she had heard before.
The car stopped.
Georgia crawled under the table and pressed her back against the outside wall. She heard a car door slam shut.
There was some muttering between the two men as they approached the bungalow.
‘This is a waste of time,’ said one voice. ‘We checked this part of the island yesterday.’
‘Instructions are instructions,’ replied the other. ‘The message from Fort Albert watch-point said they spotted a rowing boat landing on the beach,’
‘No-one in their right mind would cross the Solent in a rowing boat.’
From beneath the table Georgia could see a square of light where the sun shone through the window and projected onto the opposite wall. The square of light began to change as the silhouettes of the men became clearer as they got closer to the window. Georgia had left Steven and Tracker resting in one of the bedrooms at the back of the bungalow. If they had heard the chair fall they may come into the room to investigate and walk straight into full view of the men.
‘Are you sure you heard something?’ said the first voice.
‘I’m positive. Look,’ replied the other. ‘That chair’s on the floor.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Looks like a bandage.’
‘It could have been there ages.’
‘No, it’s new. Blood goes black as it dries. The blood on that bandage is still red and it looks wet. Even if it’s not the rowers, there could still be survivors living here. Let’s take a look inside.’
Fear raced through Georgia. The door wasn’t locked when they arrived and they hadn’t thought to lock it behind them. Unless she did something quickly, the men would be inside bungalow, and the thought of being captured again by Coldred and his guards terrified her.
The silhouettes disappeared and the perfect square of light returned. Georgia crawled out from beneath the table and cautiously peered through the window. She
could see the two men walking around a hedge that bordered the path to the front door. Georgia moved quickly out of the dining room and into a short hallway. To her right was the front door. The shadows of the men became darker as they blocked out more daylight the nearer they got to the door. Georgia knelt on the floor, out of sight of the glass in the door frame, carefully reached up and pulled the latch down on the yale lock so the men couldn’t get it. The lock clicked loudly as it moved into place.
‘Did you hear that?’ said one of the men as he pulled the door handle down and rattled the door its the frame. ‘The doors just been locked. There’s definitely someone in there.’
Georgia moved back into the dining room out of sight of the two men then went through a second door into the kitchen. There was a back entrance to the property that left through the kitchen, but she couldn’t leave without Steven and Tracker. Just in case the men came round the back to get in, she made sure that door was locked too. Hiding behind the kitchen door, Georgia tied the loose ends of the bandage around her arm, checked her gun then waited and listened.
A hand gently clasped around her mouth preventing her from making a noise. Startled, Georgia stood absolutely rigid. There had only been two men in the car, she was sure of it. Maybe another had been scouting around and had already entered their bungalow. She turned slightly, saw Steven’s face and relaxed. He removed his hand from her mouth and put a finger to his lips, instructing her to keep quiet.
