The Man Who Vanishes

by J M Gonzalez Riley

  Kayn knew they couldn’t outrun them.

  They were half way up the hill when the first lightning strike lit up the skies above them and Kayn began to laugh out loud in anticipation, and louder still when he saw the hesitation his laughter brought to the men who chased them up the hill. They had seemed like demons, unstoppable, driven by hate. But now, suddenly, it was as if they had become fearful under the storm.

  They were almost at the glade. Here the ground was a little less steep and they were able to run upright. Tiffany ran with all her might, glancing at Kayn between breaths.

  The thunder ripped across the night above them and Kayn looked back again to see that the men had stopped their chase halfway up the hill. They looked nervous, unsure.

  Kayn reached the lip of the glade and hauled Tiffany onto the flat plateau, looking down at the men down below.

  He grinned at them manically, breaking into laughter when the thunder rolled above him.

  ‘I am the master of time!’ he shouted down at them, roaring with laughter when the men took a step back from him in fear, some slipping and falling down the hillside.

  The ground around them lit up with the next strike and Kayn felt the rush of energy inside him. Tiffany looked at him, scared, then back at the men below as they retreated back toward the hamlet.

  And then, as the whole hill lit up, the third bolt hit Kayn squarely in the chest.

  When they had long gone, Titch wandered outside the square, under the onslaught of the rain. He pulled himself along, drenched and cold, his heart beating sadly to the tune of a thousand memories. He wailed as he remembered Tiffany, growing up with him throughout the years, so beautiful, so pure. But most of all he remembered his undeclared love for her. And that secret weighed too heavily on him now, breaking his heart into countless pieces.

  He dragged himself across the doors that had been left open and unmanned, into the square, where he lay, racked by his tears, wailing at the fierce heavens above.

  Everywhere he looked, he could see Tiffany in all her splendour, uncomplaining, kind and beautiful. Without her, his world was an unwelcome hole where all he could do was wait in hardship and sorrow to perish in a vain waste of seasons.

  And then, out of the dark came the sire, his plump face red with fury as he walked toward him. Titch could see a man walking beside the sire, gaunt of features and clad in heavy black clothing. He sported a black hat, its brim drooping under the heavy rain, and a gown with a chain that crossed his chest from shoulder to shoulder. Other men walked behind them, but the rain hid these from view.

  Titch gasped, retreating as fast as he could, his eyes darting toward the huts, seeking a hiding place. But the procession was already upon him, blocking his escape.

  Titch looked up at the men, seeking forgiveness. The man in black looked down at him with dark, unforgiving eyes. The rest of the men came up from the rear and Titch saw that they carried with them a selection of cumbersome objects, including chains and hefty clubs studded with metal spikes. He knew at once that this was the Witchfinder General, and his heart was seized by fear.

  ‘This thing,’ spat the sire in his gravely voice, pointing down at Titch, ‘gave the witch shelter in his pig sty of a home.’

  Titch flinched when the man in black looked down at him, silently.

  ‘Where is the he now?’ the sire spat, aiming a hefty kick at his torso. Titch fell back on the ground, hardly hurt but fearful to show it.

  ‘Sire,’ he cried, ‘he left and headed for the hill of executions.’

  The sire looked down at him with disdain.

  ‘He has taken Tiffany,’ Titch said suddenly, grinning, bearing his teeth at him. ‘He has taken her away from you, forever!’ he shouted in triumph, beginning to laugh.

  The sire’s face contorted into an ugly mask of rage, and he began kicking Titch, his boot catching him in the face and knocking him back on the ground.

  Titch crumpled in agony, holding his face.

  ‘Run Tiffany, run!’ he cried amongst tears of hurt.

  The sire unhooked his belt, spitting down at him, muttering words that were lost in the howling wind. Titch held his face, blood gushing from his broken nose, then laughed up at the sire, pointing at him.

  The sire kicked the small man in the face again, feeling his jaw break under his heavy boot. As he lay on the ground, shrieking in a high pitch tone, the sire brought his leather belt down on him with all his might, over and over again, across his head and torso, until the small man lay in a heap, unmoving, with nothing but the smallest of whines emanating from him.

  The sire was heaving and panting under the torrential rain. When he looked up from the small man, the Witchfinder General motioned toward the hill.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, his voice deep. He stepped forward and at once his entourage set off after him, taking with them all their objects of torture.

  The sire remained behind, a few of his men staying by his side. He looked down at Titch in disgust where he lay on the ground and brought his knee down hard upon his face. Titch cried out feebly, his body racked by a wave of terrible pain, bits of broken teeth falling out of his mouth.

  The sire rose, exhausted, pointing his men forward. ‘To the hill,’ he said, breathlessly.

  When Titch regained consciousness, he was alone. He was in extreme agony, his jaw shattered, his mouth full of blood, unable to breathe through his nose. A deep puddle had formed around him, soaking deep into his clothes and skin, carrying his blood away.

  He cursed the sire silently and the world for the misfortunes it had dealt him, wishing he were dead and safe from this pain. He closed his eyes, unable to move, hot tears burning his cheeks as he lay whimpering.

  A shadow fell across him. Whatever dim light could be gleaned from the moonlight in this thick rain was blotted out by the terrible shadow, such was its bulk.

  Titch's eyes snapped open. Fürgos was grinning down at him from a great height, like a demon. The brute reached down and lifted him up with dismaying ease, high above his head. Titch’s scream was silent as he was held high above the brute, then he felt the sickening rush of air as the brute swung him back down again, slamming him hard on the ground and breaking his back. An incredible pain ripped though his body then, as if everything inside him had exploded. When Fürgos lifted him up again, the little man’s rib cage snapped loudly inside him. The scream that rose from his throat echoed throughout the square and beyond, filling the night with agony. As the monster brought him down again, Titch’s lungs punctured with broken bone.

  His arms hung uselessly at his sides, weighing heavily on him. He squirmed on the ground, trying desperately to breath the night air, his body on fire, his eyes blind with pain. And in his blindness, he felt Fürgos’ cold, huge hands gripping his windpipe, squeezing it until he couldn’t feel his arms at his sides any more. His windpipe began to cave in on itself as Fürgos squeezed harder, and Titch began shaking violently as he went into spasms, his eyes turning white and his heart stopping dead.

  25

  Middle Ages

  Kayn opened his eyes. He was back in the glade, amongst the gypsies. It was no longer night, nor was it raining. He looked up and saw beyond the canopy of trees that the day was grey, with great clouds passing overhead. When he looked back down, he saw that faces surrounded him, watching him in deep fascination.

  Something had gone wrong.

  As he tried to shift, he felt a pressure in his chest, and realised he could not move his arms. Looking down, he saw that he had been tied to a tree at the edge of the clearing with a thickly woven rope.

  ‘Why have you tied me down?’ he demanded, struggling vainly against the rope. The faces remained silent, merely watched him.

  Kayn ceased his struggling and looked all around him, desperately.

  ‘Tiffany!’ he called out. ‘Tiffany!’

  But only his voice answered, echoing back to him in the glade. He slumped, tears of frustration spilling from his eyes. ‘Tiffanyyyyyyyyyy
!’ he cried, then hung his head low, weeping quietly.

  He howled, crying openly at whatever fate had befallen her at his hand. He cried until he had no more tears left to cry, then hung his head again miserably, limp.

  Eventually, water was offered to him and he spat it back at the bearer, who merely walked away without complaint. Kayn struggled against the rope, cursing the gypsies, demanding to be released, his eyes raw, his voice thick with emotion. But the gypsies merely watched him in silence.

  On one occasion near noon, the old gypsy king made an appearance and Kayn pleaded with him to let him go. But the old king said nothing. He simply watched him, like the rest of his clan.

  They’re scared of me, Kayn suddenly realised. So they’re not holding me of their own will. They’re holding me for Serapia!

  And now it was Kayn’s turn to feel fear, and to wonder what was in store for him.

  Later that afternoon, when the last of the daylight remained, the gypsies retreated to the centre of the glade, where they fed and drank in a circle around their king. Kayn watched them sullenly, cold and hungry, his throat parched. The clouds above had turned black and threatening, gathering before the storm, and Kayn was dreading his encounter with the Incantatrix, fearing that the time was nigh.

  When the last of the light began to wane and the sky grew darker still, he was glad to see the water bearer return with a full bowl. This time he drank from it, draining it. The water bearer, a young gypsy girl, sat down before him and watched him. Kayn watched her and wondered what she was thinking.

  ‘Are they going to kill me?’ he asked gloomily.

  But the young gypsy girl did not answer. Instead, she stood up and stepped closer to him.

  At first, Kayn thought she was going to kiss him, as she put her slender arms around him. But then he realised with great surprise that she was untying him.

  He looked over her shoulder, toward the gypsies where they sat around their king. All had their backs to him.

  The young girl was struggling with the ropes and Kayn’s heart sank as he realised the thick knots were more than she could manage. He urged her not to give up, keeping his eyes on the rest of the gypsies in the glade. Thus far, nobody had so much as cast a glance his way, and he hoped that his luck would last. Then, suddenly, the girl gave a hard tug and the last of the knots came undone. Kayn was free.

  He grabbed the girl by the shoulders and held her for a moment, nodding once, thanking her silently for whatever reason she had to free him and risk being outcast from her clan, or worse. Then, without further ado, Kayn slipped out of the glade.

  He turned to look back just once, before disappearing into the foliage, and saw the girl walking back toward the gypsies, unhurriedly. The sight alarmed him, and he hastened into the thick shrubbery, finding the winding trail and running back toward the hamlet, keeping the river on his right side.

  In the dark, it was hard to see where he trod, but he recognised the bends in the river and dashed around them, confident of his step. The night had fallen quickly, hastened by the bloated sky, and Kayn felt a tingle all over him in the charged atmosphere. There was no rain yet, but that could not be far away in coming. The thought made him put on speed at the cost of care.

  He turned to look back occasionally, to check whether the gypsies had given chase to him, falling twice and grazing his knees, but there was nobody on his trail. Perhaps the gypsy girl had said nothing after all. But he had no doubt that Serapia would reach the glade soon, and he wondered with a twang of regret what demise would await the young girl that had helped him escape.

  But now his thoughts turned to Tiffany. He had to find her and take her away from her father. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.

  He weaved his way around the thick vegetation, and as he came near to the edge of the forest, the distant sound of a gathering reached his ears.

  When he cleared the tree line, a fine rain had begun to fall. Kayn looked down the hill. Upon the glade, torches burned and smoke rose, mixing with strange cries, distorted by the wind.

  Something was happening.

  Kayn began to descend the steep face of the hill, glad that the mud from last night’s rain had hardened enough to allow him reasonably safe tread. As he neared the midway plateau, he saw that something tall had been erected in the centre of the glade, around which the crowd had gathered.

  When he finally reached the plateau, he saw that the crowd were gathered around an unlit bonfire, upon the flat. A woman was being tied to the main post.

  He could see Tiffany’s father, close to the pile, and a tall gaunt man next to him: the Witchfinder General.

  They’re gathered here for an execution.

  Suddenly, it seemed that a hundred torches lit up the hill, banishing the night.

  A cry cut through the night.

  ‘Look!’ it was one of the sire’s men. He had spotted Kayn and was pointing at him across the glade.

  The gathering turned and gasped when they saw him. Suddenly, at the sire’s order, a stocky man dropped his torch and ran toward Kayn like an enraged bull. And upon reaching him, the man struck.

  Kayn ducked easily and brought up a fist to the man's pouch, winding him. As the man bent over, Kayn grabbed a small rock from the ground and struck the back of the man’s head, watching him jerk and then lay still.

  He watched him coldly, his mind hardened by his ordeals.

  The crowd, immobile up to now, burst forth as one, enraged, some pitching their torches at him. Kayn ducked the flames and headed for the outer edge of the glade. He had to reach the hamlet and find Tiffany.

  But then a scream rose in the night, behind him, and stopped him dead in his tracks. He turned to look at the woman tied to the stake, even as he was seized and brought down by the angry mob.

  It was none other than the Incantatrix Serapia.

  A second pile was swiftly built for Kayn whilst his captors held him at arm’s length, terrified of him and what he may do. When the pile was ready, he was hauled up and tied to the stake, alongside the Incantatrix. The witch’s hands had been tied to the stake behind her, as had her waist, her neck and her feet. Her yellow hair was wet from the fine rain, covering part of her face, but her stone-grey eyes gleamed dull with madness and hatred.

  The crowd below were transfixed by her, and Kayn could see every man staring hungrily up at her, relishing, despite themselves, the sight of her pert breasts in the cold wind.

  The Witchfinder General led the trial, commanding silence over the excited crowd whenever he spoke in his low, deep voice. Kayn ran his eyes anxiously all over the crowd, looking for Tiffany, but he could not see her anywhere.

  ‘We shall not restart the trial,’ said the Witchfinder General, looking up at the black sky. ‘Instead we shall continue where we left off.’

  The rain began to fall harder then, the black clouds above swirling angrily. The crowd was silent, some looking up at the bloated sky fearfully.

  The Witchfinder General looked up at Kayn, fixing him with a cold stare. Kayn looked down at him, snarling.

  ‘I find this man guilty of the murders you have suffered of late,’ he said, his voice booming across the glade. ‘And for his unholy liaison with the witch!’

  The crowd cheered as one.

  The air around them felt warm and charged, ready to explode. Kayn shouted something, but his words were lost in the rising din. He looked across at Serapia, who watched the crowd impassively from her stake.

  The Witchfinder General brought the crowd to silence with a slight wave of his hand. The sire appeared at his side, watching Kayn with hatred in his eyes.

  ‘Amongst his latest victims,’ the General continued, ‘is the sire’s own daughter, whose body we still have not found.’

  The crowd booed and hurled abuse in response.

  Kayn gagged.

  Serapia watched him.

  The sire pointed up at him, shaking with hatred.

  ‘I demand you tell me where her body lies, so that we ma
y bury her properly and let her rest.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her!’ Kayn cried back.

  The crowd fell silent.

  ‘I would never harm her!’ he cried miserably. ‘I loved her!’

  He began to sob.

  Serapia was smiling darkly at him.

  ‘Oh, but you did,’ the sire retorted. ‘Her only friend through the years, that poor unfortunate Titch, himself told me last night that you had taken her with you. Away from me! Forever!’

  The crowd stirred, breaking into excited chatter.

  ‘And then you came back to murder him!’ the sire roared.

  The crowed moaned, dismayed. Somebody shouted something. Others joined in the abuse.

  ‘Titch,’ Kayn croaked. ‘No!’

  The wind had picked up, driving the rain down harder.

  The Witchfinder General pushed past the sire, fighting to keep his hat on his head, taking back control of the trial.

  ‘You are guilty of all these crimes,’ he shouted. ‘But you may still be forgiven by God all mighty and powerful, for these sins are really the work of the witch,’ he said, pointing at the Incantatrix. ‘She is our old enemy, who has waited out the years and sent you, her messenger, to bring death and despair upon these people.‘

  The crowd gasped fearfully.

  Kayn glared at Serapia.

  ‘You should have taken me with you the first time,’ she hissed.

  He gaped at her.

  ‘You knew I was coming back!’

  Serapia snorted.

  ‘You lying, filthy witch!’ he screamed.

  The crowd cheered loudly.

  ‘Why did you lie to me?’ he raged.

  ‘You would not have taken me, otherwise.’

  ‘And you think I would have taken you with me the second time?’ he spat, struggling against the rope. ‘What, you? A slimy, worm-ridden old bitch like you?’

  Serapia went very quiet.

  So did the crowd.

  ‘Enough!’ cried the General, casting his eyes up at the sky again, a look of worry etched across his face. ‘It's high time you both paid for your crimes.’