by Tim Flanagan
‘We're going round in circles!’ shouted Max, realising they had passed that particular giant bramble before. He dashed forward looking for the next branch that he knew he had cut, desperately checking, but knowing, that they had not progressed any further inside the forest.
‘We aren’t getting anywhere! How are we supposed to get out if we can’t move forward?’
‘That must be what Francis meant when he said that sometimes people never make it from their path,’ explained Joe nervously.
‘So we are trapped inside the forest!’ Max was frustrated.
‘No. I think I understand what we have to do. It’s a test. The path represents our lives and the choices we have made. If we can learn from our decisions, we can move forward.’
‘But what has being trapped in a forest of brambles got anything to do with you blaming your dad for losing your mum?’ Max ran forward once again, checking the next tree for a missing wedge of bark he knew he had put there only moments before. Frustrated when he found nothing he rushed towards the next branch. Before he reached it his body suddenly vanished, dropping like a heavy weight into the mist that covered the path.
‘Max!’ shouted Joe, seeing his friend disappear. He rushed over to the spot in the path where Max had just been standing. He pulled the bow from over his shoulder and prodded it towards the ground. But he couldn’t see where the ground was, the white mist that swirled around his feet was too dense, preventing him from seeing anything. He prodded some more, trying to locate Max with the bow and find where he had fallen. But it seemed that Max had been swallowed by the mist into the ground. Joe moved the end of the bow further forward and suddenly felt an edge to the path and a gap beyond. Max had not tripped, the path had abruptly ended and Max had fallen down. Joe knew he had no other choice but to follow.
He stepped forward slowly until he could feel the edge of the path with his toes. Then he crouched down until he was sitting on the edge and his feet were hanging below him before taking a deep breath and launching himself off the path. Immediately he dropped down, he could feel a loose surface beneath him allowing him to slide down on his back. The white mist enveloped him, preventing him from seeing where he was going, except for the occasional blackened branch that whipped past him, catching against his body. Suddenly the surface changed direction, like a water shoot swinging from side to side, and he found himself dodging twisted trunks of brambles until he landed heavily within a small clearing with a flint path cutting directly through.
Joe immediately looked up.
He was not alone in the clearing. A hooded figure was sitting on a giant bramble that had been chopped down and carved out as a seat. Max was laid out on a bed of dried moss and ivy, looking pale with a deep gash across his forehead that was having trouble clotting as the blood flowed freely from the wound. Max still held Ethera in his hands, the metal blade rested along the length of his body, just like the statue they had seen in Sir Hadwyn’s tomb beneath Edinburgh Castle.
‘Your friend hit his head badly on his way here,’ muttered the hooded figure. The voice sounded like an old woman’s, frail and awkward.
‘Is there nothing in this forest that can help him?’ Joe asked desperately as he scrambled to his feet and stumbled over towards Max.
‘Everything you see in this forest is dead or diseased. The light does not penetrate here and the soil only holds bad memories, fertilised by hatred and negativity. There are no plants that can help him. Only one thing can save your friend now.’
‘It’s me isn’t it? This is my test?’
The figure bowed her head slightly. ‘Like everything in life, you have a choice.’ She lifted an arm. A bony hand, the skin tightly stretched across the knuckles, slowly emerged from the large folds of her cloak, and plucked a small bottle shape from the carved seat. Immediately it turned into glass and the red contents swilled freely around inside. She laid it gently beside Max’s head then removed another bottle from the wood, but this time with blue liquid inside and placed it at the other side of his head.
‘If you take a drink from the blue bottle, your friend’s wound will heal and he will live and you can continue trying to search for the exit.’
Joe had already begun reaching for the blue bottle, but then he paused. ‘What about the red bottle?’
‘That will also save your friend's life, but at the cost of your own. The red liquid will also cause the brambles to shrink back and reveal the exit, so that he can continue to the castle on the hill.’
Joe hesitated. He thought of the world outside the gates of Avalon and the Moon Stealers attacking the human race. He thought about Edgar leading them to Avalon with the purpose of joining the swords together and cleansing the planet in white light. But the boys were lost amongst the bramble forest. They had searched but the path was unclear and they seemed to be forever chasing themselves and getting nowhere. For the sake of the human race, they needed to get out of the forest as quickly as possible. He looked at the sword resting on top of Max. The power flows from the person holding the weapon, just like the Silver Bough worked for Joe. In the absence of Edgar, Max should be the one to join the swords together. Joe moved his hand away from the blue bottle and took hold of the red one.
‘Good luck Max,’ Joe whispered. He pulled the cork from the top of the bottle, lifted it to his lips and emptied the contents into his mouth. He suddenly felt a burning sensation in his throat that made his eyes water. He crumpled to the ground, clutching at his neck. Through his blurred vision he saw the mesh of brambles recede back, allowing more light to penetrate the clearing. As he closed his eyes and lay his head to rest against the sharp flint path, he noticed that at the edge of the clearing the path joined up with a lush green field and at the top of the field was a low castle.
Everything went black.
The only thing Joe was still aware of was the thumping of his heart that began beating slower and slower.
‘Come on, we can’t rest any longer.’
Joe’s eyes sprang open. He was looking up into the blue sky. His hands were resting on the soft bouncy grass of the path they had been on before they entered the bramble forest. Max was stood at the side with his hand stretched out, offering to help his friend up.
‘The castle isn’t far now,’ Max continued.
‘How’s your head?’ Joe asked as he took Max’s hand and pulled himself up.
‘Fine.’ Max looked confused. Joe could see that there was no longer any cut on Max’s forehead.
‘Don’t you remember falling off the path in the forest?’
‘What are you talking about? How can I fall off a path? We’ve only been walking through the meadow.’
Joe looked behind them; all he could see was a lush field of wild flowers and grass with a path running through the centre. They had rested at the bottom of the hill, ready to climb the next one up to the castle. But, where once there had been a dark forest of twisted brambles and thorns, there was now a shallow stream with ducks playing in the water and birds bathing.
Joe smiled to himself.
He had made the right choice. Instead of thinking about his own life he had thought about the lives of others and in doing so, he had proved himself worthy to enter Avalon.
They began to climb the hillside towards a low round castle, home to Nimue, Priestess of Avalon.
31. The Uprising
Inside the basement at Osborne House, Steven stood up from the guard's table and began to stroll amongst the survivors. He watched as each survivor carefully slid the key to their unlocked chains into the hand of their neighbour, shielding them from the sight of the guards whilst they bent down and unclipped their own restraints. When that survivor was done, the key was slid to a frail looking woman with nervous shaky hands. As she leant down to unclip her chains she dropped the key onto the floor. It bounced off the stone surface, turned in the air then struck the ground again. Steven watched the key somersaulting in the air almost as if it were in slow motion. The resulting metallic cl
atter bounced loudly off the walls.
Everyone turned towards the woman.
She looked up, sweat forming across her brow. The guards had also turned towards the table, curious as to the source of the noise.
Steven thought quickly, the plan relied on the survivors being unchained and able bodied, otherwise it would be harder to overpower the guards. He needed to diffuse the situation and draw the guard's attention away from the sound. 'Tidy those bowls up,' he shouted at the survivor sitting next to the woman. 'And you,' he pointed rudely at the shaking lady, 'pick that spoon back up.'
The woman ducked down beneath the table and pretended to search for a spoon, but instead she palmed the key and quickly unclipped the clasp around her ankle. The guards seemed to accept Steven's explanation for the sound and continued laughing and joking amongst themselves, paying no further attention to the fragile woman.
Steven patrolled around the survivors until he had seen them all unclipped their restraints, then returned to the guard's table. Within a couple of minutes two of the survivors began shouting at each other, one complained that the other had stolen the last sip of water from the jug. They stood up and pushed each other in the chest, knocking some of the chairs over whilst some of the other survivors edged away from the fight. In the dim light no one saw them reach over and collect the equipment they had brought back from the garden.
All of the guard's attention was focussed on the two men fighting amongst the clutter of chairs. Two of the guards stood up, walked over and began trying to separate the two men, but they quickly became engulfed in a circle of survivors, loudly encouraging the two men to fight.
When they didn’t resurface and the chanting continued, another two guards stood from the table and began shouting to the survivors to stop. They too quickly disappeared amongst a sea of bodies.
The other survivors that had moved away from the crowd then struck. Left at the table with Tracker and the other three were eight more guards. From amongst the shadows a spade swung through the air, the flat plate of metal hitting one of the larger guards across the side of the face and knocking him to the floor. Instantly three of the other guards noticed, grabbed their guns and aimed them towards the shadows. Steven and Georgia were closest. They too pulled out their guns and aimed them at the guards.
'What are you doing?' spat one of the guards. 'They just hit Johnson in the face. Take your gun away.'
'No,' said Steven.
'Don't move.' Another survivor stood behind one of the guards, a three pronged fork pressed into his back.
'What are you doing?' shouted another guard.
'We're taking control of the rest of our lives,' said a voice from behind them. The fight had stopped and the survivors began crowding around the guard's table. Behind them, the guards who had gone to stop the fight were now lying on the floor with their hands and feet chained together and cloths tied around their faces blocking their mouths.
One of the other guards stood up and pointed his gun at the survivor who had just spoken.
'Take one more step and I will shoot you,' he said coldly. 'Look at you! You're nothing more than a mob of peasants waving your pitchforks in the air. Your gardening tools are no match for real weapons. And I'm only too happy to put a bullet through your head, it's one less mouth to feed.'
Tracker stood up from the table and moved beside the other guard who confidently assumed he had the support of a colleague. Instead he felt the force of the butt of Tracker's gun driving up under his chin, shattering some teeth and immediately knocking him unconscious.
Tracker addressed the guards around the table. 'Gentlemen, we are taking control of this community.'
Some of the other survivors moved forward and began stripping the guards of their weapons before pushing them into the corner with the others to be chained and gagged.
'Where are the other guards and survivors held?' Tracker asked Russell, the survivor posing as the fourth fake guard.
'There are various sections of the community held at different places around the island. There are two groups that permanently remain at the ports, Yarmouth and East Cowes and are responsible for bringing goods and people over from the mainland. Any other groups, like ours, stay in Osborne House but work in the surrounding areas. A hospital was set up inside this building. Another group was taken to investigate Barton Manor, a place just through the trees, to see if a community of farmers could be set up from there.'
'Have you seen any children?' asked Georgia.
'The children are kept separate from the adults, even from their own parents, not that many have them of course. They are kept in the Durbar Wing of the main house, sewing and mending clothes, as well as washing the plates and bowls.'
'And the management? Where does the American sleep?'
Russell looked up towards the ceiling. 'They stay two floors above us in what used to be the Queen's rooms. A lorry delivered some more supplies the other day, I was ordered to carry some of the boxes up to the American's room. Quite different to down here. Thick carpet and mahogany furniture as well as gold framed paintings and books piled high. They say he tried to sleep in Queen Victoria's bed, but it was too small, he's a tall man.'
'How many guards does he have around him?'
'Very few. There are three leaders that have rooms upstairs too. Everything is coordinated through them and they report to the American, but most business is done in the Council Room in the main wing of the house, that's where they will be taking their dinner.'
'I heard music coming from behind one of the doors off the long corridor we came down, is that where he is?'
Russell nodded. 'That's it. All very civilised in there.'
'Take half of the survivors to the Durbar Wing and make sure the children are safe, but stay with them. The rest of us need to face the American.'
The weapons and gardening equipment were divided out between the two groups then they silently crept up the steep staircase away from the basement and gathered in a large entrance hall that had a grand sweeping staircase winding around the room towards the floors above.
'Good luck,' whispered Russell to Tracker, taking about twenty survivors in the opposite direction along a narrow corridor that had portraits of Indians dressed in colourful clothing, watching their progress.
Tracker turned towards the corridor they had come along earlier and began walking along it, closely followed by Steven and Georgia. They paused at the corner where it swung right. If there was still a guard at the entrance he would have full view of the entire length of the corridor. Armed survivors running around without chains would be sure to create alarm.
Tracker peered round the wall. Sure enough, at the far end of the corridor was the guard who had let them in earlier.
'Wait here,' said Tracker. Before anyone could say anything, he had strolled round the corner, whistling casually to himself. As he walked down the corridor the guard looked up from the book he was reading. Recognising Tracker from earlier he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary and went back to his book.
'Evening,' said Tracker as he walked closer. 'What are you reading?'
The guard looked up. His gun was resting on top of a small table next to his chair, within easy reach.
'Moby Dick,' he replied. 'Nothing modern to read in this house. Always told myself I should read the classics but never got round to it. Now's as good a time as any, I suppose.'
'Here,' said Tracker, pulling a small chocolate bar from his jacket pocket and throwing it over to the guard.
'Where did you get this?' replied the guard, catching the bar with both hands. As soon as he reached for the chocolate Tracker took his gun from the table.
'Listen to me carefully,' instructed Tracker, pointing the gun at the guard. 'Pick up your book and walk down the corridor with me. You seem like a nice guy and I really don’t want to shoot you, so keep your mouth closed. Do you understand?'
The guard nodded. His eyes flicked back to the chocolate bar.
'
Keep it,' said Tracker, realising that the chocolate was just as important to the guard as his own life.
Tracker escorted the guard back down the corridor then some of the survivors took him to the basement. Meanwhile Tracker moved over towards the door where he had heard music coming from earlier. The dark wood door had glass panels in the top half that allowed him a view of the corridor beyond. In the limited light the corridor looked dark and grey. On the left, half way along the corridor was a pair of double doors that were partly open, allowing a narrow crack of orange light to spread across the tiled floor. Occasionally the shaft of light was broken as the shadow of someone moving inside the room crossed in front of the light source.
'That’s the Council Room,' whispered one of the survivors at Tracker's elbow. 'The American will be in there.'
Tracker lifted his finger to his lips signalling for everyone to be quiet, then he pushed against the door.
It swung into the corridor.
Tracker held himself against the wall on the left side of the corridor, hidden within the shadows. He could hear the static crackle of the record player and a recognisable Glen Miller tune coming from the room. One by one the survivors came through the door and into the corridor. Tracker could feel his heart thumping inside his chest. The last time they had met Coldred, they had been left at the mercy of the creatures. He didn’t want the same thing to happen again.
Some of the other survivors hid amongst the pillars that supported the staircase on the right side of the corridor. Tracker turned to watch as the last person in the group came through the door and dashed over to join the others.
