Ghost, Running

by Richard Jenkins

CHAPTER 5

  The shock of cold water pressed against his body and stung his blinking eyes. He could feel a hand gripping the back of his neck, another the base of his spine, holding him under, resisting his struggle. A desperate, uncontrollable gasp for air flooded water into his lungs. The hands hauled him up, out into mist soaked air. A sudden, forced, contraction against his stomach expelled water from his lungs. He coughed, nearly vomiting, but then breathed again - the sharp dawn air woke his lungs.

  At the water's edge, Ceiridwen - whose face reminded Ben very much of the woman he had thought a princess of the forest, although she looked several years older, in her early twenties perhaps, and her hair was black and cut short - laid him down. Dawn light struggled meekly through the rich forest canopy. Islands of mist hung suspended in the air, like ghost ships stuck in the doldrums. Ceiridwen knelt beside him and spoke,

  ‘You live. Life holds you once more,’ her soft, soothing voice rose barely above a whisper. She wore a white dress that Ben thought the same as the one worn by the woman in the lake. She smiled at him kindly, a smile that came easy, one to balance the sadness that was so clear in her eyes.

  ‘Today is a special day. The solstice, the wisest day of the year.’

  ‘How can I be alive?’ asked Ben, as he began to shiver.

  ‘Fortune has favoured you. Now come. You need warmth.’

  ‘How did I get here?’

  She reached to pick him up, to cradle him in her arms, but as soon as she touched him, he moved with a sudden rush and stood beyond her reach.

  ‘I can walk!' he snapped. 'You don’t have to carry me!’

  ‘Or touch you?’

  ‘Anything!’

  She stood, her delicate frame calm and poised, unaffected by the cold that bit through the air and their water soaked clothes.

  ‘Then walk. Lead. Find your way, she continued.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘To where I sleep, deep into the forest.’

  ‘But I need to go back. You’ve saved the wrong person. Everything, everything is at risk!’

  ‘You will have another chance to save us.’

  ‘What, me? No! My Dad!’

  ‘There is so little time we are given to breathe.’

  ‘I don’t understand any of this!’

  ‘Can you walk through the mist, Ben? Do you believe it can rise?’

  He struggled for an answer, nothing came, but her question had quickly left him, she was now the focus of his bewildered mind. She seemed so open so strangely loose, not buttoned-up or masked. Not one to watch herself, or to fear the thoughts of others. Her patience for him, as she waited for him to answer, warmed him, as usually no time for thought was offered him. Finally, in a voice that barely spoke, he answered her.

  'I don't know,' said Ben.

  ‘Shall I leave you here alone?’ she asked. He shook his head. ‘Then go ahead. I will follow.’

  ‘Can’t I follow you? You know the way!’

  ‘I do for now, but the forest grows so very fast.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, rushing away.'

  ‘I take no offense, not from a boy. Now come. The cold is not so forgiving.’

  She stepped towards him. Ben looked down at his bare feet, broken shards of forest pressed painfully into his soles.

  ‘I’m not wearing any shoes.’

  ‘Nor am I.’ She stopped and gracefully gestured with her hands towards her feet.

  ‘Aren’t you a witch? Can’t you fly?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Do I look like a witch?’

  ‘Not an ugly one!’

  ‘A beautiful one?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, anticipating her smile, but all it raised was sadness in her eyes.

  ‘Then how my skin lies. No cracks or weeping sores? No hardness? No angry, hateful scars?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘Then maybe I have hope.’

  ‘Hope..’

  A coughing fit smothered his words. Once again, his chest felt tight and the air he breathed thin and weak. She picked him up in a strong, protecting embrace.

  ‘Let me carry you, Ben. Please, let me carry you. I have medicine and warmth.’

  He did not resist. She moved through the forest with an instinctive ease, fast and smooth. Ben felt protected, even exhilarated by the speed and urgency with which she travelled. No one had carried him before. He watched in awe as the forest deferred her the right of way. No creature, monster or thing dared to play or tease.

  Soon they came to a small clearing, a space the forest had reserved for Ceiridwen. An open camp fire heated a cauldron of simmering broth. She placed him down, in the warmth of the flickering flames.

  ‘This is for you,’ she told him, as she filled a wooden bowl with the steaming broth. ‘Inhale the vapour then drink the broth when cool.’ She passed him the bowl. He took it and did what he was told to do.

  ‘Deep breaths, as deep as you can,’ she continued.

  'What's your name?'

  'Ceiridwen.'

  'You saved me once before.'

  'I see.'

  Her answer brought a look of confusion to Ben's face. Seeing this, she continued.

  'There are many worlds, a universe for every dream. The spell that infects us is the reality we breathe. Here the forest will speak to you as it does so freely to me.' She smiled at him warmly. 'I have clothes for you. You must change.’ She stood and walked away. Thoughts rushed into Ben's mind, too many, too fast, and left a pile-up of confusion.

  He sunk his nose in the bowl and inhaled sharply. The intense floral scent brought a tear to his eye, but instantly helped him breathe. The warmth of the fire quickly sunk beneath his skin.

  Was this Ceiridwen’s home he wondered? If so, where was her house? In fact, where was Ceiridwen. He looked again, but Ceiridwen had gone. Panic began to rise within him. The thickly woven forest encircled him. The fire and caldron told of a human’s touch, but everything else was wild, governed by the laws of monsters, creatures and things.

  A billow of trees hissed behind him. He stood, dropping the bowl. Sunlight pounced through branches and formed curtains of dazzling light that Ben knew could easily hide the worst of the forest. Squinting, he turned away and caught site of something that looked familiar: an oblong mound of bare earth that rose several inches from the ground. Surrounding it was a thick inner circle of blood red petals and an outer circle of identical black rectangular stones that rose from the ground to stand as tall as the mound. It struck him that this was a grave. It reminded him of Mark’s grave, the mound of earth being the same shape and size. No headstone or cross gave a name to the dead but this, he thought, this must be the grave of another poor boy.

  Suddenly, footsteps approached from behind. Ben turned to look. Ceiridwen stood before him, neatly folded clothes draped over her arm.

  ‘Where did you go?’ Ben demanded.

  ‘To fetch your clothes,’ she answered.

  ‘From where, another time?’ he replied sharply.

  She knelt down and looked him square in the face.

  ‘Do you think the forest can harm you now? Do you think it would dare?’

  ‘Yes. There are always things,’ he replied.

  ‘Look. Can you see?’ she pointed towards what looked like a dense, overgrown section of forest. ‘A shelter, grown, borrowed from the forest, still very much alive. From where I took these clothes.’

  Ben looked, but could see no shelter. He shook his head. Ceiridwen continued.

  ‘The brambles, vines and branches woven together to give structure, entwined with ivy and ferns to make solid the walls.’

  Suddenly Ben saw it, a dwelling made from the forest.

  ‘I see. I can see, your house!’

  ‘A dwelling. Not mine, a gift passed to me for me to pass on.’

  ‘Are you the queen of the forest?’

  ‘No. I am no queen, merely a woman. Now come, you must dress. They should fit you perfectly. Dry yourself
first.’

  She passed him the clothes: a pair of dark green trousers made from a strong felt-like material; a finely woven white, woolen shirt; brown woolen socks; a pair of black leather boots that although in good repair, looked previously used; and a woolen cloth to use as a towel.

  ‘Here, dressed here?’ Ben asked somewhat surprised.

  ‘By the fire where it is warm.’

  ‘In front of you? That’s not proper!’

  ‘Is it not? asked Ceiridwen through a short burst of laughter. ‘Then I will close my eyes.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that; you can turn away.’

  ‘Then that is what I shall do.’

  She turned away. Ben began to undress as quickly as he could.

  ‘But what about all the others who may watch?’ Ceiridwen asked.

  ‘What? Who?! Where?!’ replied Ben as he ripped his pajama top off from over his head then looked nervously around.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. The birds, the trees, the spiders. Any number of eyes could be watching. At least I hear no laughter.’

  ‘Laughter? Why would there be laughter?’ he asked as he threw himself into the shirt.

  ‘Admired, you must be admired. The sound of quiet admiration. Do you hear it?’

  ‘Admired?! I’d rather not be, not for undressing!’ he proclaimed as he pulled off his pajama bottoms and scrambled to put on the trousers.

  ‘What would you like to be admired for?’

  ‘Football!...And reading!’

  ‘Ah, better than war.’ she said quietly, more to herself than to Ben.

  ‘War?’ Ben asked, not quite hearing what she had said.

  She did not answer but turned to look at him. Patches of wet stained his shirt and trousers.

  ‘Ben, you didn’t dry yourself!’ she said sternly.

  ‘It’s summer. I’ll soon dry. I’ve dealt with lots of cold.’ he knelt down and began to put on the socks.

  ‘And has it done you well?’

  ‘Not really. They say it’s good for you, makes you a man.’

  ‘If only it was that easy.’

  ‘Is that a grave over there?’ he asked, as he slipped on a boot.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘My son.’

  ‘Oh.’ He stopped tying the boot lace, the laces held in his hands. ‘These clothes?’

  ‘Were once his.’

  She stepped towards him and knelt close beside him.

  ‘We have a journey to make. Today is the longest day, the wisest day of the year. I must travel to seek guidance, to ask permission.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To kill.’

  ‘Permission to kill?’

  ‘You came into my world. You must live by my side.’

  ‘To kill what?’

  ‘Who.’

  ‘A person? You? A woman, like you?’

  ‘My son was forced a Prince. He lived well without a crown but not without my love; a mother's love, is there any greater force?'

  She held Ben's stare. He felt she wanted an answer, but he thought it best to remain silent or otherwise lie. Finally, she continued:

  'Then one day the king returned and claimed my son as waste, as pollution. I was absent, powerless...I have mourned in hurtful peace, but now the wild spirits in me rise so high I see such depth below. I look down on myself. I see myself severed from the whole. I must and will seek guidance; I must ask for permission.’ She stood. ‘We have only this day.’

  He looked up at her. She looked vulnerable, sadness fell from her eyes. He looked back down at the boot and continued to tie the lace.

  As Ben sat by the fire drinking the broth and drying his clothes, Ceiridwen returned to the shelter. How real where her plans to kill, he wondered. How could she, a woman, seek battle and danger in this the age of the sword? Maybe, she would use magic and attack from a far, or have allies, warriors, man and beast.

  When Ceiridwen returned, she too wore trousers, a shirt and boots. Ben noted that she carried no sword, no weapon at all, which soothed his nerves and re-enforced his belief that today, at least, guidance and permission were all she sought.

  ‘We must go,’ she said.

  ‘What about the fire?’ he asked.

  ‘It knows what to do,’ she replied.

  As he stood, Ceiridwen whistled loudly, as if calling a dog. She then turned and smiled at Ben.

  ‘Am I here forever now? I mean, is this my life, here with you?’ he asked.

  She knelt beside him, gently took hold of his hand then spoke.

  ‘Today is the wisest day of the year, but today you must ask no questions...Be wise yourself, be mindful, your world continues as you left it.’

  ‘Look out! cried Ben. Behind her, a massive tree fell towards them. He tried to grab her, to pull her away, but she calmly resisted and instead took hold of him and held him firm.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he continued, as the magnificent tree, which had a forty metre bare trunk and an arrow shaped crown of a similar size, continued to drop down towards them.

  ‘This day won’t last for ever; we must go as quickly as we can!’ she told him.

  ‘What?’ he replied, confused.

  ‘The tree remains true.’

  As it neared the ground, the tree started to slow and fill the air with a loud creaking noise that told of a painful, strenuous effort. Thin outer branches that were covered in sharp needle leaves brushed over them scratching their skin.

  ‘Quickly, quickly!’ boomed a deep, strained voice that came from the tree.

  ‘Hurry!’ said Ceiridwen, as she pulled Ben away towards the top end of the crown, over and under a maze of branches. Ben looked down the length of the vast arcing trunk and could that the tree’s roots remained planted solidly in the ground.

  ‘I’m not as supple as I once was! I could snap at anytime!’ continued The Tree.

  ‘Nonsense!’ replied Ceiridwen, as she began to climb up the branches towards the trunk. ‘You are the finest specimen in the forest.’

  She beckoned Ben to follow her, which he did with the help of her hand.

  ‘Oh those sweet, delicate tones,' said The Tree, 'if only I was human, I’d still have wood for you. You could build from me whatever you wished.’

  Reaching the trunk, they sat close the very top of the tree where the trunk was thinnest, even so, Ben still could not sit with his legs straddled around it. Ceiridwen sat behind Ben, her hands wrapped tightly around his waist.

  ‘And if only I were a tree,’ replied Ceiridwen, ‘Oh, the bees we would share!’

  In an instant the tree sprung upright and straightened catapulting Ben and Ceiridwen high into the air. Ceiridwen managed to grab Ben's hand and together they flew at great speed over the dense, lush canopy below.

  ‘How do we land, safely?’ shouted Ben over the roaring wind.

  ‘Something, I hope, should catch us.’ she replied, somewhat too casually to reassure his concerns.

  Having travelled hundreds of metres they started to descend. The canopy got rapidly closer. Ben started to worry, but then a tongue, like a frog’s tongue only a thousand times bigger, unfurled towards them from below the canopy. Ben reasoned it had come to catch them, like a frog’s tongue catching a fly, but as soon as Ceiridwen saw it she released his hand and pushed him hard away.

  ‘Head north!’ she shouted.

  As he fell beyond her reach, his legs and hands kicked and pulled in a futile attempt to climb through the air. The tongue snared Ceiridwen with its sticky grip then retreated back beneath the canopy at lightening speed.

  Ben’s body fell still as he continued to stare at the memory of what he had just seen. Suddenly, he became aware of the treetops that were just metres from his feet. He fixed his eyes shut and started to scream, but the noise and pain he expected, from breaking branches and snapping bones, failed to arrive. He opened his eyes and saw that he was caught inside a wireframe sphere made from branches and leaves that gently s
lowed as it moved with him towards the ground. As it brought him safely to a stop it then suddenly bounced back up and brought him face-to-face with the trunk of a tree.

  ‘Urrrrrrhhhhhhh,’ groaned a deep, depressed sounding voice that rumbled out from inside the trunk. Ben peered out through gaps in the branches, confused by the noise.

  ‘What?' he asked.

  ‘Urrrrrrhhhhhhh,’ came the reply from The Unhappy Tree.

  ‘I need help. Ceiridwen needs help.’

  ‘I’m bored.’

  ‘Bored?’

  'Bored rigid.'

  'Why, it's not exactly normal round here.'

  'I'm five hundred years old and this is the only place I’ve ever been. This here, right here, is the only place I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Well, yes, but from different heights. You’ve gone up in the world!’

  ‘It’s all the same up here. Boring. Boring. Boring.’

  ‘Not in space, not beyond the sky. Not all the way up there,’ said Ben, somewhat too hopefully.

  ‘Beyond the sky? I'll never reach such dizzy heights. I’ll never reach anywhere, not of any interest, not of any difference.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’m sorry, but I need to find Ceiridwen!’

  ‘Your sorry? How sorry?’

  ‘A lot sorry.’

  ‘Enough to chop me down, to turn me into a boat, to sail me to lands far, far away?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t.'

  'Why? Tell me why.'

  'I don’t have the skills.’

  ‘Typical, I catch a creature with hands and it can’t even build a boat, a simple boat, a canoe or something like that, a log with a hole, not even a complete hole all the way through. What skills do you have?’

  ‘Football, and reading.’

  ‘Will you read me a story, one where a five hundred year old tree finally has a wild, crazy adventure?’

  ‘I haven’t got the time. I’m lost! I need to find Ceiridwen!’

  ‘I wish I was lost. That would be a story in itself being lost. Not knowing where I was. Not knowing where I've been. Not knowing in anyway where I was set to go. I know this, I'm here. This is where I've been, and this is where I'm going. Boring, isn't it? Tell me something interesting, anything, lie to me. Tell me something extraordinary, fantastic, fascinating. But nothing about trees; I know everything about trees. Familiarity does indeed breed contempt, and I am a tree. Isn't that sad?’

  ‘It’s not a lie; it’s true! All life, in fact basically everything, even wood, rock and mud, may soon be destroyed forever!’

  ‘Oh, typical. Could have guessed that. I'm not surprised. Before Wednesday? I bet the total destruction of everything is due before Wednesday. I'd bet my blossom.'

  ‘Maybe it is. But why? What's happening on Wednesday?’

  ‘Nothing, not of any interest. It’s just my favorite day Wednesday, the day I would say is the best. Not that anything special has ever happened on Wednesday; it's just the day I like a little bit more than all the rest. My worst day is Thursday. I hate Thursday. Typical, isn't it? My best day is Wednesday, but then the next day, Thursday, is my worst day of the week. Puts me in the dumps for the rest of the week does that. What’s your favorite day?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t got one. It changes.’

  ‘Changes. Typical. Lucky you. What I wouldn't do for a change. I crave it, change. You can hear it in my voice, a craving for change. It permeates my very being. Oh to have a different day, once a decade would be nice, quite, I imagine, liberating. A different day to do something different like to go dancing. I mean, people don’t live very long, do you, but at least you get the chance to dance. Not with any great style most of you, or with any great skill, but at least you can try. What I wouldn't give for the opportunity to make a fool of myself. But what can I do? Drop my leaves early? Fruit a little late in the season? I could, but why bother, and who would care if I did?’

  ‘You could grow into a very odd shape. I’ve seen some very peculiar looking trees which were all very interesting!’

  ‘I could!' said The Unhappy Tree suddenly enthused. 'I could grow into a star or a dodecahedron or something that has never been seen before. Then all manner of living things from lands far, far away would come and visit me. ‘Behold’ they would say, this is the most interesting tree in all of history. They would, wouldn’t they? They would come to see the magnificence of my unique and mesmerising shape. I could ask them questions, and they could tell me stories and very interesting facts about every land that ever was. They would cut me down and display me as the star attraction in the Museum of Very Interesting Things.’

  ‘Yes, but the world may be gone! Everything may be gone!’

  ‘Urrgghhhh. Typical. Just when my sap was beginning to rise. Back to reality then. Back to the dumps for me.’

  The sphere, and Ben, dropped towards the ground.

  ‘Wait! I need to find Ceiridwen!!’ Ben cried. But his pleas were ignored by the Unhappy Tree, who continued to launch Ben high into the air and back on his way.

  The forest whizzed by beneath him. It felt like he was flying until, that is, gravity took him in its pull and drew him back towards the canopy. As he neared the treetops, he once again began to scream, although this time he continued to look, albeit through squinted half-closed eyes.

  As he penetrated the canopy, he was once again caught in a sphere made of branches and leaves. After slowing to a stop, the sphere whipped back up and threw him like a stone from a slingshot high above the canopy. He sped through the air, ever closer to the edge of the forest and further away from Ceiridwen.

  Again, he started to descend, but before he could scream a giant tongue, the type of which had taken Ceiridwen, shot-up from the forest and plunked him from the air. He fell, pulled towards the treetops, his right leg stuck to the tongue, which was warm with a coating of thick adhesive goo.

  He crashed through the canopy. A sphere of branches caught him and slowed his fall. For a moment, he felt safe but then the tongue yanked him away. As he passed a thick, solid branch, he managed to grab it; his arms wrapped around it in a desperate embrace. It took all his strength to fight the pull of the tongue. A quick glance that followed the tongue down to the ground revealed a giant toad, one the size of a large car, straining hard to secure its dinner.

  ‘Help me! I’m with Ceiridwen!’ Ben pleaded to the tree whose branch he clung to.

  ‘Help you?’ said the tree, suppressing laughter. ‘Well, I would!’

  The Happy Tree began to make a sound that was somewhere between laughter and the beginnings of a difficult sneeze on stutter.

  ‘Wood! Geddit? I'm a tree!’ The Happy Tree continued before bursting into full blown laughter.

  ‘This is no time for jokes, especially unfunny jokes! cried Ben.

  ‘Oh come on, lighten up!' Another burst of deranged laughter. 'Lighten up, in your predicament that would, wood! Ha!, that would be an advantage, wouldn't it?' More laugher. 'Oh, tickle my fruit with a furry brush.' More laughter. 'I'm not even a fruit tree! I'm more nuts!' More laughter. 'Funny? That's funny!'

  ‘This is not a joke! This is a serious situation’ demanded Ben, clinging on for dear life.

  ‘When you’ve lived as long as I have, everything is a joke. Ha-ha!' replied The Happy Tree before suddenly becoming intensely gloomy, 'Either that or a trip into a bottomless pit of misery and despair. Oh the horror! Don’t let me return! Chop me down for fire wood before you ever let me return!'

  ‘I don’t need jokes, I need your help!’

  ‘What greater help can I give,' said The Happy Tree reverting back to its jolly self, 'than to fill a fellow lifer with the joy of sunny laugher? Ha-ha! I mean, you haven’t long to go; you might as well take the chop defiantly laughing in the face of your untimely demise.’

  ‘Ha ha ha ha ha!' replied Ben sarcastically. 'There, I laugh! Thanks! Now save me, please! I can’t hold on much longer!'

  ‘That toad, that plans to eat you, it won’t eat you
in a good way. That toad will eat you in a bad way, a very, very bad way. That toad will digest you slowly, oh so very slowly, one layer of skin at a time. Put simply, that toad will eat you while you are technically still alive. You will be aware of every screamingly painful moment. And when it does, begin to eat you, I promise, I won’t say, ‘I toad you so.’

  The Happy Tree erupted with laughter so much so that the branch Ben clung to began to shake, loosening his grip.

  ‘You are not funny!’ cried Ben.

  ‘Oh come on! You don’t even have to ‘be here’ for that one. It’s a classic. I’ll be ripping up saplings with that one for centuries.’

  ‘Food? Food? Did someone say food?' spoke a highly excited, high pitched voice. ‘Here’s food! I'm food! Eat me! Eat me! I’m delicious!’

  A Bug: a fat, three inch maggot with a large, round head; a gummy toothless mouth; and two expressive mammal-like eyes wriggled frantically along the branch towards Ben's face. As it neared, the foulest stink Ben had ever smelt raced up his nose.

  ‘Will you eat me? Please, eat me!’ The Bug pleaded.

  ‘Arrgghh! You stink!’ said Ben who was very nearly tempted to take a hand from the branch he clung to so he could pinch his nose shut.

  ‘Like a fine, expensive cheese?’ asked the Bug.

  ‘Like rotting rat!’

  ‘Mmmm, sophisticated! You, sir, have taste. Now put me out of my misery.’ he tried to jump into Ben's mouth. Ben snapped his mouth shut just in time.

  ‘I don’t want to eat you!’ Ben told him, without moving his lips or opening his mouth.

  ‘But I come with my own gravy. Behold!’

  From the bottom of the Bugs body, a thick brown liquid squirted out onto the branch below and made the stink even more foul.

  ‘Made from the fermented juice of everything I’ve eaten this entire month. Think of the flavour! Layer upon layer of taste sensation!’

  ‘Go on, eat him,' said The Happy Tree, 'Nothing else will. Not even disease.’ A burst of laughter. ‘Now, that’s funny because it’s not a joke, it is actually true. He’s that disgustingly gross. When these things die, they don’t even rot.’

  ‘It’s a painful truth!' added the Bug. 'I can’t give it away! The fools! Look at me, I’m gorgeous! And what you see is what you taste.'

  ‘If you eat him and don’t vomit violently, like everything else that has ever tried,’ added The Happy Tree, ‘I will name a twig after you. Yes, I will, I’ll call it ‘boy who ate the ugly bug who didn’t vomit, but who then did die due to the poison that was inside the ugly bug’s body that wouldn’t kill anything bigger than a boy but since the boy was the size of a boy, did kill him in a very gruesome manner.’

  ‘A twig forever yours, and me melting deliciously in your mouth. How can you ever resist?’ the Bug asked Ben.

  ‘Easy! There! Resisted!’ answered Ben.

  ‘Look at me, two non-jokes on the trot. Chop me down and turn me into snow shoes, I’m almost getting sensible.’ said the Happy Tree.

  ‘I've got a thousand grubs back in the nest. Each one in their own meaty jelly, and each one, truly delicious. Trust me, they come from quality stock, their mother was divine!' said Bug.

  ‘Go on, give him a nibble. You don’t have to eat the head. Even if you did, fresh air is tasteless. That was a joke. Back on form. Tree-mendous!’

  ‘I’m losing my grip, help me!’ Ben pleaded.

  ‘Oh the circle of life.' said the Bug. 'You eat me, the toad eats you. Everyone’s a winner cos everyone’s for dinner!’

  ‘Oh I like that, I like that!' said The Happy Tree. 'That could be your catch phrase. I’ve got mine, would yer? Hey?' More deranged laughter. 'Would yer? Hey? Would yer? Hey? Classic! I’m a tree, made of wood. Would you? Hey?’

  Ben could feel his grip slipping from the branch. Suddenly he reached out and snatched the Bug. His hold on the branch was broken. He fell, Bug in hand, pulled down towards the Toad’s wide open mouth, which fizzed with slobbering white flem.

  A second later, Ben and the Bug were gone, swallowed whole by the Toad, who with food filling his belly, burped contentedly. His eyes then closed lazily as if settling to take a post-dinner nap. But then, his eyes snapped back open as if startled with a fearful surprise. His mouth followed, gaping open to release a torrent of vomit, in which Ben and The Bug where flushed to their freedom.

  As Ben hit to the ground The Bug continued passed him.

  ‘Oh so near, but yet so far!’ the Bug cried. ‘Always the vomit, never the sh..’ He slammed into a tree trunk then fell silently to the ground.

  A mildly concussed Ben continued to lye on the ground, his aching body covered in thick, chunky toad vomit, the odor of which smelt almost pleasant when compared to the stench that had come from the Bug.

  He could hear a noise that fizzed and hummed, which seemed to rush towards him. He wiped his eyes clean then snapped them open. A dense swarm of insects, each one no bigger that a gnat, dived-bombed him from above.

  Before he could react, the swarm engulfed him and began to devour the vomit, as a shoal of piranha fish may savage a carcass. Within seconds, every last morsel of vomit was gone. The swarm took off. Ben sat up with a jolt and watched them go, but in an instant, they too were gone, taken. The Toad's tongue licked the swarm clean from the air and reclaimed the vomit for its own cavernous gut.

  Ben looked at The Toad; its emotionless stare glared back at him. Thoughts of escape raced through Ben's mind although none fired his body into action. Slowly, teasingly the Toad snaked its tongue towards him.

  ‘I’ve been ill, dead in fact. I’m full of bugs, germs, disease. I’m no good to eat. I’m hard to digest. That's what my Aunt says, a very acquired taste. I’m skin and bone. I wouldn't be worth the chew.' he said to the Toad.

  The tip of the Toad's tongue neared his right foot. He scurried backwards crab-like. The tongue followed, keeping up with ease. Ben knew that escape was impossible so came to a stop. The tongue, only inches from making contact, stopped and hung in the air. Was there hope? Had the Toad heeded Ben 's pleas?

  ‘You're right! You're right! Well considered!' Ben praised The Toad. 'There's better food than me!'

  'Ribit,' went The Toad.

  'Yes, ribit. In a good way.' Ben replied.

  Suddenly he felt his left foot grabbed. He looked, another giant tongue from another giant Toad had trapped his left foot in a sticky embrace.

  'In a good way! Please!' Ben pleaded, as the original tongue from the original Toad took hold of his right foot.

  He was trapped in a classic pincer movement. The two slack tongues became taunt and pulled his legs apart, far enough to hurt, like being forced to do the splits. He was hoisted up into the air where he hung upside down like a pair of trousers on a washing line.

  'What's this for?' he asked.

  Slowly, each Toad drew their tongue back into their mouth. Ben's legs inched further apart. He watched, helpless, fearful that this would lead to him being ripped in two. He thought of an Aunt devoured roast chicken, the caucus simmering in a pot to make soup then heard the snap and crack of the wishbone as he broke it in two.

  'What am I, the wish bone? Don't believe in that! Don't believe wishes come true! If so, I'm owed dozens! I'll take just one, now!' he screamed in pain. 'Killing for food is one thing, but for pleasure, to hurt! What are you, Nazis?! Nazi Toads! Is that your level?'

  The tongues suddenly slackened. Ben fell to the ground. He looked at each Toad, their tongues streamed out of their mouths and piled in loose coils on the ground.

  'Thank you.' he said. He then sat up and acknowledged the Toads with an appreciative look.

  'Ribit,' went the original Toad.

  'Ribit,' replied the other.

  'Ribit,' said Ben out of politeness.

  But then, the tongues began to reel back in, faster and faster. Ben looked at his legs and imagined his fate, ripped up the middle, spilt in two, an unfulfilled wish, then shared for dinner by two hungry
toads.

  'Help! Help! Help!' he cried, but no one or thing did. He tried to kick his feet free, but they remained stuck to the tongues. He had seconds to act. He lunged towards his right foot and grabbed the tongue that held it. He then hauled himself and the final few metres of slack toad tongue over to his left foot where he pushed the two tongues together. The bond was complete, two toads and him all stuck together in a gooey embrace. He was not sure why he did this, had no idea what it might achieve.

  The tongues became taunt, hoisting Ben up into the air, then ripped apart with an explosive force whipping him clean away. As he flew through the air, he could not help but scream or close his eyes as the ground rushed ever closer.

  He landed softly, as if into a tank of pillows. His body slowed but continued to sink down. He opened his eyes. A mass of dark green vegetation cocooned him, but quickly darkness turned everything black. A dense pool of moss had saved him, but now, like quicksand, pulled him towards a bottomless demise.

  He tried to secure a footing, to take hold of the moss, but none would take his weight. The air ran out, his final thin breath held for dear life. In the black, he frantically scrambled for anything solid. A tree root found his hand. With a desperate grip, he hauled himself up out into fresh, breathable space.

  With only his head above the surface, he paused to fill his lungs. Fear still pounded in his heart. As the forest view took hold of him, he felt startled to be alive, like a plant freshly sprouted from the soil; a tiny bit of the forest given life but only just. The chance to bloom, to grow magnificent like a tree that stretches into time, or a tiny, beautiful flower that barely breaks a day, or a fallen seed, taken as life for another.

  'Forest...kill me or save me, what do you do?' he wondered aloud, half wanting to cry, half wanting to smile.

  Once free of the moss, he looked to the sky. Through the canopy, the Sun sparkled. Its position and a guess at the time of day told him which direction was North. He ran as fast as he could, half away and half towards.

  Several minutes passed. He stopped and shouted for Ceiridwen, but no reply came back. He continued to run faster this time until he stopped and called again. Alone, he checked North was still his way. It was, so he continued to run as fast and as wild as he ever had.

  A savage roar, from a beast trapped insane, brought him to a crashing stop. He looked, knowing the beast to be close. Frozen, his breath held to silence it, desperate to hear the footsteps that might bring the attack. Another roar, too close to be. Where was the beast that screamed it? Invisible? A monster? The thinned out forest gave no place to hide. The roar, static, pulled him forward.

  A man-made pit, one deep enough to swallow light, scarred the ground. A leopard pounced as if flung from the darkness, tooth and claw desperate to strike. But the pit contained the beast, too deep to loose its toy. The beast tumbled down, to pounce again-and-again, to yield only to time. Ben ran away chased by a roar. Soon another sound sent a shiver pulsing through his veins; pain and distress yelped through the air. He found the source, a deer in the clutches of an iron trap; its hind legs bloody and torn by rusting teeth. He looked at the deer's proud antlers. How useless they now seemed, like a medieval shield and sword he thought, futile against bullets and blasts. He wanted to help but hesitated. A fear, a disgust repelled him.

  He fled. The forest fell silent, Ben fell still. Above him, trapped in a net tied to a tree, was a horse, a mare, as prime and as strong as he had ever seen, but now surrendered to exhaustion, with strength only for the most basic movement, to pant desperately for air. Her powerful, now useless legs dangled limply in space. Her twisted neck seemed willing to break. Her black, shipwrecked eyes shunned all light.

  Could he climb the tree and untie or cut free the net? He could, or at least he could try. But whose hunt was this, whose bounty? Whose land did he trespass upon? Whose cruelty had he disturbed?

  'Tree, help her, help her! I'm with Ceiridwen! Please, help! Put her down! Help her!' Ben pleaded, no answer or help came.

  He stood, his body numb, his mind racing. How he wanted to help, to see the mare free and wild again, but then another pained cry came wailing through the forest, and in an instant he was gone, chased away by his own fear. No thought to stop entered his mind. Distance and exhaustion were all he craved. But soon, too soon, he crashed to the ground, tripped by a foot that had laid-in-wait, hidden behind a tree.

  From the ground, Ben looked up. Several metres away a man skulked between trees, his body cloaked in a full-length fur coat that was a patchwork of different animal skins. Only his grubby, unwashed head was exposed; his hands were hidden inside the coat as if they too had something to hide. His piercing blue eyes leered at Ben, as did his toothless, mocking grin.

  'Oi! You!' he called to Ben aggressively. 'Wanna buy a wound?'

  'What?' asked Ben.

  'A wound! Any wound. All the wounds! Here, now. Here for you. You lucky boy, you lucky, lucky boy.'

  'I'm not alone,' Ben lied.

  'What fool would be out here! Here, alone, a boy? What fool of a boy would be?'

  A burst of laughter spluttered out of him, which he quickly contained. With a heavy limp, he rushed towards Ben.

  'Tell me, what monies do you have?' he asked.

  Ben, with a thought to stand and run, glanced behind. Another man, identical to the first, stood watching, half hidden behind a tree.

  Ben looked forward. The Woundsman lurched over him - his grubby, cracked skin blackened by smoke and baked thick by the Sun.

  'Nothing, none! I'm not from around here.' answered Ben.

  'Have to think of something else then. Have qualities, do yer? Good! Now what wound catches your fancy?'

  'I don't want a wound! Why would I want a wound?'

  'Head wounds, leg wounds, arm wounds, back wounds, feet wounds, stomach wounds, eye wounds, neck wounds, wounds inside, wounds unseen, mind wounds! One for the brain, sir. One for the brain! Have one! Yours! Ever-so nearly free!'

  'I don't want any you have to offer!'

  'Four for five! Nine for ten! I can snap, break, rupture, crush! And the scars, oh the scars, the best in the business! I'm renowned!'

  'No! Go away!' Ben cried.

  'Strange one, are yer?! Not right? Wrong 'un?!' accused the Woundsman hatefully.

  'For not wanting a wound? I'm perfectly right!' replied Ben.

  'Wrong! Show me a man who lives without a wound! A good, honest wound. A cut, a stab, a slice, a break! What kind of man lives without a wound?'

  From out of a coat pocket he pulled a metre long stick, which he thrust towards Ben.

  'A poke!' he continued.

  'Get away from me!!' demanded Ben, as he backed away to avoid the stick.

  'A wound, pinned to him! Life, pinned to him! A celebration of all his crimes.'

  'I don't need a wound!'

  'Why? Precious, are yer? Crowned above us? The snow no one walks on? The flower left undisturbed that no one ever picks? I should keep yer, for a sample, as somethin' fresh to show my handiwork on.'

  'You leave me alone!'

  'But not on the longest day. Nor charge you any monies today. My service, I here, commit for free! Twin, bring the tools; we have business!'

  He straightened and looked towards his twin, that other man half hidden behind a tree. But his twin had vanished.

  'Twin!! We have business!!' he shouted angrily.

  'A dangerous place is the forest.' Ceiridwen's voice spoke gently.

  Ben and The Woundsman looked. Ceiridwen stood before them. Ben kicked against the ground and scrambled to safety.

  'I hope he isn't lost,' continued Ceiridwen.

  'Oh the sorrow, the anger, if he were,' replied the Woundsman, politely.

  Ben noticed how the Woundsman recognised Ceiridwen, how his body seemed to cower cautiously before her.

  'You shouldn't worry; I shall see you together again,' Ceiridwen reassured him.

  'How wise. Ever the lady,' he replied.

&nbs
p; From above, his twin fell from the sky and crashed down upon him. Both were flattened, crumpled on the ground, silent and still.

  Ceiridwen turned to Ben and knelt beside him.

  'Ben, you found your way,' she said, pleased with him.

  'What happened to you? I thought the forest was scared of you!' he snapped back.

  'And I thought you were scared of the forest.'

  'I am!'

  She took hold of his hand. He noticed her face, had it aged? Several years, he thought, although it was still full of life and vigor.

  'But here, you have arrived, from a path you took alone.'

  'I'm always alone.'

  'Then you must have learnt, be your own king.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'Lead yourself,' she continued. 'Believe you can; believe in your right.'

  She stood, he followed, their hands still joined.

  'Are they...?' he asked, referring to the Woundsman and his twin.

  'They will return to sense, what little they had. Now come, we must walk.'

  'We need to go back!'

  'Why?'

  Ben hesitated but then replied.

  'To help.'

  'Who?'

  'I thought I saw something. We should go back and help.'

  'We? We have no time.'

  'But.'

  'The time has passed. We have other responsibilities. Now come; stay with me.'

  She turned and walked away. His hand fell free. Without hesitation, he followed her. She walked briskly; he had to work hard to keep up.

  'Will we come back this way?' he asked.

  'I have no plans beyond the horizon. Do you see it? A cliff that falls to a great valley.'

  Ben looked ahead. The forest thinned dramatically. Amputated trees, cut and broken to stumps, stood like bombed city ruins. Splintered, shrapnel-like, wood littered the ground. The lush, living greens of the forest bled into a lifeless sea of brown and ash grey. In the far distance, a vast plain spread out towards the horizon.

  'How can I see beyond the horizon?'

  'Imagine.' Her stare and attention remained fixed on the horizon, as if she could see what lay beyond it.

  'I don't like to, not always, it can be scary.'

  'Then wait til you see reality. I trust it will scare you more.'

  'Will it? Is it far?'

  'Yes.'

  'But what if it gets dark?'

  'It will. How can it not? You cannot avoid the night.'

  'You can, if you can move fast enough. You could follow the Sun. You could chase the day all the way around the Earth.'

  'And what life would that be? No night, how horrible. Are you sure that's right?'

  'Yes. I've read lots of science.'

  'Science?'

  'Yes. Do they have that here, science?'

  'I can only imagine they do?'

  'Where is here? What year is it?'

  'One before your world can ever know.'

  'Are you sure because my world knows most things?'

  'Does it know you, what happened to you?'

  'It wouldn't believe what happened to me.'

  'Do you believe what happened to you?'

  'Yes, I think so.'

  'You will probably return.'

  'Probably?'

  'You have the day and night to survive.'

  'There's doubt?'

  'What life would there be without doubt?'

  'You are just seeking guidance? You are just asking permission?'

  'For now, as I must.'

  Ben could see that this brought a sadness to her eyes.

  'Your son,' he continued, 'you should know this, that all time exists at all time, which means that somewhere in time, you are still together.'

  She smiled, pleased at the thought and at Ben's concern.

  'And you with yours.'

  'My mother?'

  'Yes.'

  'She's never been with me, not in any way proper!'

  'And that is a truth you know, which you witnessed without doubt?'

  'Yes! A million times the truth! I could read in a million books that it wasn't the truth and I still would believe it was. She abandoned me when my Dad died. Everyone says so.'

  'Madness and truth, who can ever really tell?'

  'Truth! I am definitely not mad!'

  'Pity,' she turned to look at him, sadness and longing held deep in her eyes, 'for this woman is. But to see fear in the eyes of someone you only love, to watch, helpless, that is to be driven truly insane....You should know what your mother lost.'

  'My Dad? He was just her husband. Not like me, I was his son. He was my Dad. We were properly joined, related by blood. I wasn't just someone, found, along the way. I should have been more to her than him.'

  'Love comes with a trapdoor to utter despair.'

  For a moment they looked at each other knowingly, sympathetically.

  'I'm glad she left,' said Ben. 'What blood can she share with me if she left me? Her blood in me must be really thin. And good, I say, good! Weak and thin so what chance is there we shall ever be the same?'

  'Is this of any matter now?'

  'No.'

  'But if it was, I dare you be brave enough to look back and think again.'

  Suddenly, she stopped walking. Ben followed. She looked towards the horizon as if seeing something there. 'We must hurry,' she took hold of his hand then continued, 'they are gathering.'

  From behind, he felt pushed. He turned and looked. The forest rustled and swayed with the force of a strong rising wind.

  'Be ready,' Ceiridwen warned.

  'For what?' he asked.

  'Run!' she replied.

  They ran, their hands still held, accelerating under their own steam until suddenly they took off, propelled forwards by a powerful stream of wind.

  Guided by the wind, they sailed the land, skipping over it, fast and free. The wrecked remains of the forest continued for a mile or more until the earth turned grey, smothered by a thick layer of ash from which not a single shoot of life emerged.

  Onwards they travelled, well beyond the forest and the ash. They passed a mighty river in which trees, stripped of all branches and bark, were dragged, bullied by the roaring current to hurry along. As the forest grew evermore distant, the wind grew increasingly weak until a final gust bid them farewell and left them to advance alone.

  The view ahead had barely changed. The plain still rolled endlessly towards and beyond the horizon. The ground, a thin brown earth freckled with patches of wispy vegetation, pounded hard against Ben's feet. They walked for miles. Ceiridwen's pace was unrelenting, her focus hypnotised, trance-like, towards the horizon. Hours stuttered by.

  Ben felt smothered, lost against the vast, gaping sky and the boundless, featureless plain. Silently he followed, increasingly burdened by thirst and hunger, but on he struggled, desperate to hold the pace, desperate to seem capable.

  Without request, Ceiridwen picked Ben up and pitched him on her back. He protested, but this was met with silence and quickly abated. He was grateful for the rest, but soon claimed he was strong enough to walk.

  'Of course,' Ceiridwen replied. 'well and strong. But see the end of the longest day, see how you may carry me.'

  The guts of a once mighty river snaked around them - a deep stony channel scraped into the land. Ben heard the river's ghost: cool, vital water, rushing through his mind, playful and free. He felt called, blindly.

  Dusk started to redden the clear blue sky. Ben walked again. In the distance, he could see the land rise up to form a steep incline. Was this the cliff with the valley beyond?

  The boom of deep, heavy drums rose to be heard. From beyond the incline, pillars of black and grey smoke dirtied the otherwise pristine evening sky.

  'What's that?' Ben asked.

  'We must hurry. We are close,' came Ceiridwen's reply.

  The drums pounded ever more chaotic. Animals groaned, bellowed and screamed. Men wailed and cheered. Horns scr
eeched. The noise came swarm-like over them. An unknown presence lay think and heavy, as the shadow of a bad dream clings to you throughout the day. What herd of man and beast had gathered beyond the cliff?

  They scaled the incline. The drumming stopped. Ceiridwen reached the precipice first and stood fearlessly at the edge, unafraid to be seen by whatever existed in the valley below. Ben followed cautiously, stopping well before the edge, but still the view beneath was his to behold.

  Men, fire and water in perfect formation. The natural, rugged valley walls fell to a floor where everything stood straight and true. Perfect lines formed perfect squares. An ordered grid of water canals fenced in many different sections: dense fields of wheat ripe for the harvest, vast beds of charcoal that seethed glowing red. Great, ancient, tree trunks rose from the ground to be used as giant, flaming torches. And men, eight blocks of men, many thousands in total, fixed together in ritual, sword and shield poised in their hands, surrounded a vast square field on which thousands of animals waited, each one cornered, fear and danger flooding their senses. Cattle, deer, goats and sheep stood free and untethered while beasts more savage: bears, big cats, boar and more were held by chain or cage. A moat, which bordered the field square and true, penned the field in.

  From the centre of the field a white, flat-topped stone pyramid, rose to tower into the sky. On top of the pyramid stood four men, all priests, one in each corner. Each was faceless, hidden beneath a black tunic and was turned to face the centre, where a great white stallion lay on its side, strapped cruelly and completely to a hard stone altar.

  Far to Ben's left, a waterfall, that somehow hung suspended in the air, as if it had sprung from the air itself, ran the entire width of the valley. The streaming white water that poured from it fell down to the earth and vanished within it. To those on the ground, this curtain blocked the setting Sun, which faced the pyramid head on.

  'What is this?' asked Ben, his usual vertigo blocked by awe.

  'They celebrate.'

  'What?'

  'Themselves. Their order. Their god over nature.'

  'It's a party?'

  'A slaughter!'

  'The horse?'

  'All that isn't man.'

  Through the waterfall came two parallel columns of men. Each column was five men broad and twenty metres apart; each row of five was yoked together and chained to the row behind. Bent over, the men struggled forwards as they were pulling a great, heavy weight. As each man passed through the water, the force of the water knocked him down but every man stood quickly up, desperate to continue their labour. Hundreds of men had soon emerged, and more continued to follow.

  The lead rows reached a canal. Two basic wooden bridges that skimmed the water's surface which allowed the men passage on towards the pyramid, which faced them head-on.

  'And this?' asked Ben, referring these labouring men.

  'The King,' Ceiridwen answered.

  Through the waterfall appeared the weight shackled to all the men - a massive rectangular block of stone which was smooth and white and the size of a large mansion. Slowly, but constantly, it moved, like a great ship floating into view through thick fog.

  A stallion, no less great, or white, than the one strapped to the altar, appeared through the water. Knelt on top of the stone, it's head was bowed submissively, its body fixed perfectly still. Behind it, a slab of pure gold stabbed through the water. The King emerged. The slab of gold was a shield of war, held in his left-hand and raised over his head to fend away the water. He stood, submissive to none. His skin was ghostly white and adorned with nothing but muscle, the type forged by the wild, through war and savage survival. His head was bald. His only clothing was a pair of white breeches. His right-hand gripped a long, broad sword, also made of solid gold. He faced the world as if the world was his to take, to stab, to steal, to break. Ben felt, he could more easily move the great stone block than push this man aside.

  The block of stone breached the canal, which was little more than half as wide as the stone was long and projected over the water. With an arrogant ease, the King mounted the Stallion, bareback. The Stallion rose to stand, it's head still bowed, it's body cowered. The King kicked with his heels, and the Stallion walked slowly towards the front of the stone.

  'The stone, it won't balance. The slaves...' cried Ben.

  'They are not slaves!' Ceiridwen replied, 'they are the willing!'

  The stone broke equilibrium, more of it projected over the canal than was held firm by land, so it tipped towards the water. As the top of the stone neared ground level, the Stallion stepped from stone onto the land, and continued its slow walk forwards. The stone plunged into the water where it began to sink rapidly. The men, hundreds and more, shackled to it streamed past The King and piled, dragged, into the foaming, swelling water. The King acknowledged none, his calm indifference immune to the chaos writhing in his wake.

  Ben, brave with distance, managed to keep his stare fixed on the slaughter.

  'But, why? Why?' he asked.

  'Because they are the ruled, willingly!' answered Ceiridwen.

  As the final rows of men were pulled into a tomb that would smother their screams for air, the King, with a kick of his heels, ordered the Stallion to power fast away.

  'What now?' asked Ben, who wanted to be somewhere far away. 'You ask permission, then we can go?'

  'I have already asked the question,' replied Ceiridwen.

  'You have?'

  She turned to look at him, a fierce resolve and a sense of absolute certainty ploughed through the hurt in her eyes.

  'And the answer I gave was yes!' she replied.

  For a moment, she held his stare but then turned away sharply and looked up towards the sky. What she whispered, Ben could not hear, but he hoped it a spell or a call to other, mightier, powers.

  Beyond her, the King's Stallion galloped furiously over a bed of red hot charcoal. A wave of flaming red sparks splashed up around them. Neither horse nor man flinched. With a contemptuous flick of the hands, The King discarded his sword and shield. They fell to the ground, left to cremate in the glowing coals. Together, as one, The King's men began to bang their swords against their shields, faster and faster, as the scent of blood increasingly thickened the air.

  Ceiridwen knelt to the ground, grabbed the earth as if a handle, then pulled from it another great stallion, one made from the earth itself. The stallion rose, birthed, fully formed into its prime. As it kicked his front legs free of the earth, soil fell from its sculpted, muscular body, and a primal cry, joyous to feel the weight of life, bellowed out from deep within.

  A narrow wooden bridge took the King and his Stallion across the moat. No speed was lost.

  Ceiridwen took hold the earth and from it pulled a sword. A soil coating quickly fell away to reveal a simple copper blade and handle. She turned to Simon and spoke,

  'Are you with me?'

  'Is anyone else?' he asked.

  'Just you and I!'

  'Are you going to use magic?'

  'There are times when my powers are great, and times when my powers are weak. Tonight, I am strong, as is the King and all those that myth allows him to order.'

  'Meaning?'

  'Tonight, I shall meet the King as a man! Tonight, I will defeat the man as a king!'

  'What's this got to do with me? Why am I here?'

  'I brought you into this world, but still, my life is mine to live! You may do as you will. Live more, or no more!'

  'Why are you aging?' Another decade hung on her face, although her body and sprit was as ever strong.

  'To arc fully as a women. What else would I choose!'

  She looked away, towards the pyramid. As The King and his Stallion reached it, the black mouth of a passage opened to take them in. The drum of sword on shield stopped. Time barely moved, but suddenly King and Stallion appeared on top of the pyramid, poised still and triumphant. The King held a large, gold, double-headed axe which he thrust above his head and held aloft.
A cheer rose from the men below which powered across the valley, up and over Ben. He felt warned, fearful. The waterfall, like a curtain, suddenly dropped, crumpled to the ground to replenish no more. A stone aqueduct appeared, now revealed beneath its peeled skin. And to those on the ground, the low evening Sun entered the stage - hypnotic, fiery, bristling red and glowing.

  The King's Stallion knelt, its head bowed to the will of its master. The King, thankless, dismounted then prowled towards the imprisoned Stallion that was lashed immobile to the altar.

  'Will he..?' asked Ben.

  'Every year the King breaks a new stallion; the old, he then kills.'

  The King raised the axe above his head, as if to prime the sacrificial blow. Ben snatched his stare away.

  'No. No blood will spill, not til the Sun touches the Earth,' said Ceiridwen.

  The Sun had yet to touch the horizon, but this was just minutes away.

  'It will start with the Stallion,' she continued, 'The others will follow. All will be slaughtered; all that isn't a man. Will you act? Will you help?' she asked with a gentle, passive tone.

  The King, with a slow, deliberate menace, brought the axe down towards the Stallion's throat then teased its skin with the razor sharp blade. His men, the thousands, all acting as one, turned to face the pyramid then knelt before their King, their heads bowed, their steel swords thrust into the air.

  'What can I do?' asked Ben.

  'Change.' She knelt to the ground, and from the earth pulled a plain, round copper shield. 'Follow me. Let me lead. Take this shield.'

  She held the shield, waiting for Ben to step forward and take it, but he hesitated, unsure of what to do.

  'To be afraid, to be forever young. How a mother could let them live,' she said, more to herself than to Ben. She threw the shield to the ground. It landed close to his feet.

  'A shield was once taken from you, Ben, a shield of immense power. You think it gone, lost forever more, but you are wrong. The shield exists, hidden from you. You can hold it once again, but only if you, this boy, harden. Only if you, Ben, now shield what you know to be right.'

  With a seamless, fluid action she mounted her Stallion, who complied as if he sensed her thoughts and movement. Ben watched, confused by what she had said but perfectly aware of the immediate threat. He took the shield from the ground. It felt strangely light. At the back were two metal enarmes, which fitted his forearm precisely. He looked up and met Ceiridwen's stare.

  'But what can I do?' he asked.

  'Never ask what you can do! Speak only to tell, to tell any who ask what you actually did!' she answered.

  She faced forward, ready to gallop away. Ben, rushed towards her, feeling both ordered and willing. She reached down and hauled him up. He sat, cowered behind her and the shield, holding them both as tightly as he could.

  'Now, let him know! I call my debt and with this sword I will take my due!' she called.

  Her Stallion rose up onto its hind legs and released a wild, excited call that woke all in the valley to their presence. A shocked, angry murmour seethed over them as thousands of stares held them firm. The King, now ever more lustful for blood, eyed them viciously. With an almighty effort, he threw the axe up into the air. It rose, spinning, directly above the altar, and vanished into the distant sky.

  'The axe will rise then fall with the Sun. The sacrifice will still be called!' Ceiridwen told Ben. 'Do you know this?' she asked.

  'Yes,' he answered.

  For a moment he wondered why she had told him but then, startled, he felt his body rush forward as if pushed over the edge of the cliff. Her Stallion had charged away, a fearless dash to take the steep valley wall.

  Gravity was defied. Earth guided earth. The Stallion kept its footing. As they reached the flat valley floor, Ben dared open his eyes. At a frenzied pace, they skimmed over charcoal and water canals. Ben looked for the King, but the King had gone. They passed between two blocks of men, who stood to leer, each one dressed to mimic The King. Their faces rushed by, each one gorging upon Ceiridwen's, assumed, defeat. Laughter was spat, insults thrown.

  The Stallion took them across the bridge to reach the field of slaughter. From the black passage, The King and his Stallion emerged, like shockwaves made flesh racing out to seek destruction. Ceiridwen readied her sword, The King, his axe. Animals hailed their champion. Sword clashed with axe. Ceiridwen was thrown. Ben was thrown. The King remained mounted until leaping from his horse. Ceiridwen stood; Ben laid firm. She looked at him and spoke.

  'The Sun, the sacrifice. What time is there to watch?'

  She paced away towards The King. Ben glanced towards the Sun, now about to touch the earth. So hopeless, he thought. But then, must he? He stood and ran towards the dead, black passage.

  The King and Ceiridwen approached each other. The King, even at a distance, was a presence that loomed over Ceiridwen like a bloated, bullying wave arcs over a raft, revelling in the moment and the hope it will crush.

  Ben reached the passage and, squashed behind his shield, took several tentative steps into the black, before stopping to look behind. The blood red Sun filled the opening, until Ceiridwen and The King flashed by - with an easy grace, she glided past a blow from his heaving axe blade. Ben looked back towards the black, and the dark callings of his imagination, those that play on lonely nights, where sleep may vanish a child forever. He crept forward, towards what? What, in the dark, crept towards him? The scent of a ruin, of something ancient, of something far beneath the human realm, choked the air. Startled, Ben looked behind. The opening was closed. All around him was black. A voice slithered through the darkness. Ben felt it touch him, stroke him round the throat.

  'Is here the king?' said a falsely weak and desperate voice.

  'Who's there?' cried Ben in a truly weak and desperate voice.

  'The King, does he come to me?' repeated voice. Ben considered lying but had only truth to give.

  'No.'

  'Do you come to free me?'

  'I could do. I could try,' answered Ben, barely telling the truth.

  'And all my disease?' said the voice with a joyful relish.

  'Your...'

  'How would you end me?' interrupted The Voice, sharply.

  'I just want to get to the top of the pyramid.' replied Ben, his voice barely breaking the air.

  'Over my dead body!' demanded The Voice.

  'Please, I just...'

  'Over my dead body. Step over my poor, dead body,' advised The Voice, with a sinister little laugh. Ben hesitated, remaining still, then asked,

  'And then what?'

  'One step forward, a big one mind. You wouldn't dare squish me! If so, oh how our screams would shatter your flesh!'

  Ben hesitated, but then lunged forward with the biggest step he could take, placing his foot down with the greatest of care.

  'Now, ssshhh, be still,' continued The Voice.

  Ben complied and stood perfectly still, even as the faintest of breaths began to pulse against his face.

  'I have no favorites...I give them all what they want,' said The Voice, sounding as close as could be.

  The breath became a continuous stream, and then, in an instant, a powerful gust. Ben was thrust upwards into the black. His eyes snapped shut but bounced back open as sound and light, and solid ground shook him from the vacuum. He had reached the pyramid's roof. The altar stood just metres away. The Stallion's body still brimmed with a desperate fight; it convulsed beneath the unyielding straps. Ben's limbs felt equally tied. Jeers, full of hateful passion, speared the air from the ground below. He looked for the axe; it fell from the sky, plummeting towards the throat of this its prey. He lumbered forward awkwardly. From the jeers the words, 'kill her' filtered out. Inspired, angered, he dived forward with the shield leading and pipped the axe to the Stallion's throat. The axe bounced from the shield without touching it, repelled by an invisible force. As it hit the ground, a stunned hush smothered all around. Ben looked, but his view below of Ceiri
dwen and The King was blocked. The four Priests stood together, witness to the death of the God-King they served. Her voice then rose, loud and clear and decisive.

  'I take the king's head, but his crown, with his body, I leave for the maggots!'

  The stunned silence returned briefly until flushed away by the wild screams of dutiful revenge. Every man, from the thousands below, called for the death of Ceiridwen. And every man raced to be the man whose sword took that revenge for legend.

  The Priests, in unison, turned to face Ben. Unnerved by their dark, menacing presence, he scurried to the other side of the alter, crouched down and hid. Below, and from all around, a great herd of men swarmed onto the field of slaughter. Ceiridwen, he thought, one King dead, but this army of men?

  He raised his head above the altar and stole a look at the Priests. In unison, each began to lower the hood that covered his face. Ben ducked back down and begged himself to think of a plan. The axe, on the ground only metres away, drew him forward. His hand, half-wrapped around the thick, heavy staff, looked and felt puny. He dropped the shield to enable a double-handed grip. Back at the altar, he slashed at the straps that held the Stallion.

  'Help me! Us! We must help Ceiridwen!' he pleaded to the Stallion.

  The Priests stood, their faces exposed. Ben froze, shocked at the sight he held in his stare. What, who are these men, these creatures, he thought?

  'They are the whipped, the punished, the despised,' The Voice whispered, delighted to tell him, somehow rising above the riot below, 'the broken, made ready to accept their power!'

  Ben turned to look, to find a physical source, but none was found.

  'The rotting flesh between life and death,' The Voice continued.

  Ben looked back towards the Priests, at deadened faces, blank reptilian eyes, at dried mummified skin, and twisted mouths torn open by an unfulfilled need to scream.

  'What made them whole will never seep back into nature. Their stinking meat will last forever,' The Voice continued.

  Ben continued to slash at the straps, harder, faster, more desperate.

  'What made them men that force to think, to love, to hate, to want, to dream, was vanished! Split so thin in so much space never to be whole again.'

  The Priests began to twist their bodies into each other, to merge into one.

  'At the base of all life, as the lowest of the low, they must give their power so completely to the King, and the King never dies, only does the man.'

  The Stallion broke free of the remaining straps. With an aggressive speed, he stood, reared-up and kicked his front legs high into the air. Briefly, he looked like a statue of a great, mythical horse that had burst into life from the dead of stone. But then, in an instant, his life was gone. His body was pulled apart. Every element of it separated. A pool of water, black carbon power and various lumps metals hovered in the air where once a life had rallied. The Priest, the four were now one, curled a pointing finger and commanded the elements to stream into its own body which grew, inflated by the extra mass.

  Ben dropped the axe, grabbed the shield and aimed it at the Priest. Peeking over it, he watched as the Priest turned away and raised a hand towards the sky. A second later, the bodies of the drowned men flocked high above. The Priest shook his raised hand and with it the great flock of men also shook. The limp doll-like bodies, like wheat being threshed, shook apart until only the constituent parts, water, carbon, metals and little else remained. These elements then piled down into the Priest and enlarged him with ever greater mass. Ben watched as a giant was born, as it raised a hand and pointed a finger directly at him.

  'Quick!' spoke The Voice, 'Back into my belly!'

  Ben looked, a trap door opened, through which he had risen. The Priest's giant, pointing finger was about to reach him, moving forward as he body mass swelled. He ran, jumped towards the door, back into the black. The trap door slammed shut. He fell down until stopped by a cushion of air.

  'Are you here for good?' asked The Voice, sounding as close as could be.

  'Here? No.'

  'Dead or alive you will return to me.'

  Ben felt the breath, gentle then strong. He flew, blown out of the pyramid onto the field of slaughter where, crushed together in battle, animal fought beast. Claw, horn and tooth raged against sword and shield. Even those animals with instinct to flight came together to butt and kick. And in the midst of it all, Ceiridwen, like paper on the wind, an impossible catch as she streamed her way through waves of men, her sword in hand, gliding through the flesh that came to do to her as she did to them.

  Ben, numbed, consumed by the sights and sounds of live, bloody battle, turned away towards the Priest. A flash of metal sparked in his eye. Instinct drew his shield. A sword blade bounced, deflected without touch. A blood-soaked warrior loomed set to rein another blow until felled by the hooves of Ceiridwen's Stallion.

  An earth tremor shook the ground. Ben's nerve soaked legs instantly buckled. A hand caught and held him firm, then raised him to his feet. He looked, Ceiridwen stood before him.

  'Stay with me!' she demanded.

  'Right by you!' he replied.

  Behind her, The Priest, who had stepped off the pyramid, leered down, ready to strike.

  'But trust me, whatever your powers, this is not the time to be modest!' Ben pleaded.

  'Then hear my boast!' she replied.

  She punched her sword above her head. Every tree trunk beacon exploded, shattered into a thousand pieces of deadly sharp, arrow-like shrapnel, and every piece of red-hot charcoal rose to hover above the ground. All men sensed the danger and paused to gather the threat. With a slash of her sword, the shrapnel was launched. A vast spray of arrows, each alive, able to hunt its prey, howled down as a deadly hail. Any that missed swept back up to strike again. Men, those that were able, turned and fled.

  Again, Ceiridwen slashed the air with her sword. The charcoal began to orbit around The Priest. In an instant it reached a dizzying speed, then collapsed towards the centre, on course to batter and crush. But The Priest raised a hand, and the charcoal stopped dead. He jerked his hand backwards and pulled from the charcoal the glowing red heat. Like a whip, held in his hand, this energy, this fire was his to control. With a single, circular stroke he smashed the cold, black charcoal into the finest dust.

  Ben wanted to scream, 'Now what?' but kept his worries silent. The Priest inhaled sharply and drew through his nose the mass of dust, which further increased his size.

  Ceiridwen thrust the blade of her sword into the ground, then looked at Ben and spoke.

  'Your shield, it may repel all that intends to do you harm.'

  'Oh,' Ben looked at the shield, 'can you make it bigger?' he asked, but she gave no reply. She pushed the sword further into the ground, her arm followed, and then, as if pulled from below, she too vanished, drawn down into the earth. Ben screamed after her, but to no avail.

  The Priest cracked the whip, side-ways on. It scoured the land incinerating any animal it touched. His body then gorged on their ashen remains. Another lash, this time down into the ground. Two waves of rock and rubble rose and sped off in opposite directions. Ben watched as one wave raced ever near, but panic numbed decision, inspired in him only stillness. Nudged hard from behind, he looked. Ceiriwen's Stallion showed no patience. Another butt and an angry, 'neigh' told Ben to come for a ride. About to heed the order, and mount the crouching stallion, Ben glanced back. Earth, rubble and boulders, led by a charge of fleeing animals, seemed impossibly close. He stepped in front of the stallion, his shield raised.

  'May? It may? What did she mean, it may?' Ben asked, suddenly remembering, but the wave had reached them. All that could have harmed them was repelled, deflected by the shield's invisible force. The wave washed over them. In front of him was strewn a pile boulders that had bounced off the shield.

  'It may. But the whip?' he asked Ceiridwen's Stallion as he realised the whip, an electric tsunami, was speeding towards him.

  The gro
und quaked violently. The Priest, looking to find the source, yanked the whip back. In the distance, a hill shook and rumbled into life breaking up and morphing into Ceiridwen - a giant, formed from the earth, rock and minerals that had given body to the hill. Sword in hand, she sprinted towards the Priest, who stood perfectly still, waiting. As she neared, the Priest raised his hand. From her stomach, a jet of matter: soil, rock and all that formed her body, burst out and surged towards the Priest. She slashed the jet with her sword. The flow was stopped, but much of her mass was lost, absorbed by The Priest, who now loomed above her.

  He cracked the whip, a single lash that sliced into her body. She recoiled, weakened, pace and strength fell away. Earth bled from the wound. But on she went, harder, then stronger, then faster. The Priest fell still and passive. Ceiridwen lunged forward and thrust her sword into his belly. He stood, unmoved, unflinching. She withdrew the sword, but the blade was gone, more fodder for this single, all-consuming mass. Ceiridwen looked surprised. For a moment, their stares locked together and held their bodies still until Ceiridwen raced to raise a hand, but then that scream, trapped long in the belly of The Priest, forged as punishment, to break body and mind, and fattened by the screams of all the dead souls he had consumed to add mass and power, raged beyond his twisted mouth. Caught in this torrent, like a savage wind, the scream began to erode her body.

  'What can we do?' Ben asked Ceiridwen's Stallion, as the scream churned sickness into fear. The Stallion's worried stare was his only reply.

  'The pyramid. Come on! We must go!' Ben Shouted. Ceiridwen's Stallion knelt; Ben straddled its back and grabbed its mane. The stallion then rose and carried Ben fast away. Ceiridwen remained caught; her body falling away like hourglass sand, stripped bare by force and time.

  Ben felt fused to the stallion's back as it galloped over the battlefield sown with a thousand kills. Reaching the pyramid, they entered the passage. All went black.

  'We need to get to the top!' cried Ben. Silence followed the echo. 'Help us! Please!' he begged.

  'And, you, have a plan?' asked The Voice, without any sense of urgency.

  'Yes!' replied Ben, urgent to the point of despair.

  'My, haven't you grown.'

  'Let us go, please!'

  'I can see her, gone.'

  'Gone?'

  'I'll hold her hand if you want me to. I'll drag her to where she wants to go.'

  'Drag her? Save her! Save her!'

  'My will is not to save!' anger flared in his voice.

  'Then let me!' Ben matched his tone.

  'Try!'

  'Then let me!' Ben demanded.

  The breath, the wind, blew against them. A moment later, Ben and Ceiridwen's Stallion stood on top of the pyramid. The scream continued to drench the air. Ceiridwen ebbed ever thinner. Ben looked at the gap between The Priest and the pyramid, which looked well beyond his ability to jump.

  'Set me down!' he told Ceiridwen's Stallion, who turned his head and looked at him, certainty fixed in his stare.

  'You can't jump that far! I'll try alone!' Ben told him.

  Ceiridwen's Stallion looked forward then burst into a gallop that drove them forward at a magnificent speed. Ben barely held on, but still willed him to go even faster. They reached the edge; the leap was made, beyond belief into hope and dreams. They arced through the air towards The Priest. Ben, his eyes wide open, could see they might just make it. Letting go of the mane, he turned his body, his back to The Priest, the shield held tightly against his chest, all his hope lay upon it.

  'Do it. Do it. If we get there, do it!' he pleaded.

  They fell into The Priest, vanished, as all before them had. The scream choked silent. Ceiridwen's body started to reform; the sheared mass came streaming back. A crazed bitter-sweet laugh, embraced with tears, dizzy with a sense of final relief, erupted from deep within The Priest until, a moment later, he and the laughter were gone. His body exploded, thinned into the air, into the vast expanse of nothing.

  Ben fell to the ground, as did Ceiridwen's Stallion, both whole and alive. His shield eased him to a safe, gentle landing. He looked towards where Ceiridwen had been, but nothing of the giant remained.

  'Here,' she spoke. Ben looked. Ceiridwen, made flesh again, stood before him, her face and body ahead of time, sunk further into the fragilities of age. She held no sword, no pose of triumph. Her stare seemed dulled, saddled with grave and serious news. Ben struggled for words; his instinct to celebrate was muted by her presence. Finally, an involuntary rush of excitement forced him to speak.

  'We won!'

  'Is it over?' Ceiridwen asked, flatly.

  Ben felt confused. Did she question him or herself, her own memory, as sometimes the elderly can do. Seeing this confusion, she continued.

  'We never end; we always begin.'

  She smiled warmly, which softened her stare. Ceiridwen's Stallion stepped up to her and knelt for her to mount.

  'We must go. Another day, the longest day, passes us by. I must ask for your help, again and finally, I must ask for your help.'

  She smiled, her pride in him straddled the distance between them and embraced him tightly. He felt connected, owned, in part, by another.

  'I'll help you. I'll always help you,' he pledged.

  'Then come. But return your shield. It cannot serve you now.'

  'My shield?' asked Ben, reluctant to let it go.

  'Not yours. Not the one you need.'

  Ceiridwen's Stallion carried them away. A crisp, full Moon gave them light, the animals that had survived, a serenade - a song that soon turned, a call back to the wild, to feast on the spoils of war.

  Ben sat behind Ceiridwen, his hands lightly gripped the sagging cloth folds in her, now, oversized jacket. He felt lost in the pace of the day and thought little of the battle, of what he had seen and done. The smooth, ghostly ride was more an effortless glide than a pounding gallop over solid ground. Time, it seemed, offered them no resistance. The open, moonlit plane, soon became the blackened forest. Ceiridwen's Stallion barely slowed, as spacious path evolved to channel them home.

  Through the trees, Ben could see the clearing embedded in an orb of hazy, orange light. They entered. The air was warm. The campfire flickered, its heat and light trapped inside this bubble. Ceiridwen's Stallion lowered to its belly. Ben jumped off. Ceiridwen remained seated.

  'Help me,' she asked, as she held out a hand for Ben to hold. He took it; it felt cold and fleshless, like twigs wrapped in a leathery leaf. Slowly, tenderly, she positioned herself to dismount. Her every move was followed by a pause - to think, to assess. The freedom and carelessness of youth had gone.

  'Let me,' Ben offered more help.

  'No,' she declined.

  As if trapped in an awkward silence, he continued to watch, bewildered and repelled by the corrosions of age.

  Finally, her weight pushed through his arm as she struggled to stand. Her legs buckled. Ben caught the slack and prevented a fall. Laughter spilled, the sort that covers embarrassment, and also tears. None of her laughter infected Ben, who had to ask,

  'How are you old this way, with all your power?'

  'For you, I am old! For you!' A rush of energy gave force to her words. 'To keep you! To keep you!'

  'For me?'

  'Did I waste my time?'

  He shook his head, a reflex more then an honest, thoughtful answer.

  'Will you stay old?' he asked.

  Her eyes told him that she would, until, of course, she could age no more.

  'Except, you may remember me young,' she answered, herself away with a memory of youth.

  She stepped forward. Ben, their hands still held, supported her. Close to the camp fire, a bed had appeared, which consisted of an oval wooden frame filled with fir leaves and soft, dry moss. She led Ben to the bed where he helped her lie down.

  'Do you need a blanket?' he asked.

  'No, but company.'

  Her eyes fell shut and her body still. Ben stared. He
knew the outcome, and that soon it would arrive. So much had seemed unreal, but this, as he looked at her, felt too real and far too close. The moment was wrapped tightly around him. He sat on the ground. The realities of battle rushed into his mind.

  'So much...you killed today,' he said, more about her than to her.

  'Blood is in me, open wounds. I make no apology,' came her whispered reply.

  'Should I...If I could, if I ever had to?'

  'Had to?...We want better for our children but they, too, are us.'

  'But what children will there be if everything is destroyed by The...?'

  'Other forces will rise, powerful, dormant forces but only if they see hope. Only if they see you, Ben, rise up and recognise what you are responsible for, what you are capable of. There must be a way to win. You must look for that way.'

  'But me, why? How? If it wasn't for my reading, and my football skills, I'd be completely average.’

  ‘No one special.'

  'Yes.'

  'And with you, and all people like you, true power lies. Good and evil grows or rots in all that is normal, like plants in the soil of humankind. You are not some chosen, special one. Some quirk has blessed you, given you an advantage. You ran to your father, blameless as a boy I know, but what could you, yourself, have done? You! What seed could, you, have planted?'

  'Brought my Dad back.'

  'To live uncertain in war? To die again?'

  'Then where is he now? Can you reach him?'

  'His world is the complete unknown. Silent and still to all those who like me who can hear and feel the ripples that radiate from all, so much, space.'

  'The complete unknown?' Ben asked enthusiastically. 'Then there may be away.'

  'Yes. You must return.'

  'I was a ghost, a coward! Am I now? Will I return a ghost?'

  'This day, soon to end, was free, lived beyond you. You will return as you were, at the place you were, with the choice you had to make.'

  'And then?'

  'You will concede to myth or to your own responsibility. But I beg, think beyond all myth. Know, you, can! You have friends.'

  'That lot? They're bigger jessies than me!'

  'Find them. Know them. Lead them. Convince them. Show them, that they, too, are capable.'

  'Me?'

  'You.'

  'But what can be done? Nothing can be done! Everyone says so!'

  'Cowards say so!...Do you?'

  Doubt silenced him and pushed him into a long fretful pause.

  'Ben!'

  She called, urgently, as a blind person may call for a reassuring presence.

  'Yes,' he replied. Her face softened, soothed by his voice. She spoke.

  'Here.' her voice, barely a whisper. He lent towards her, close enough to kiss. She looked as old as it was possible for a person to be.

  'Here,' his voice, no louder than hers. Her eyes remained closed. Through her nose, she inhaled a slow, deep breath, a final sense of life, then spoke her words, which were to be her last.

  'True courage may never be recognised. And the greatest fame, is love. Complete yourself. Find your shield, Ben. Give us time, all that is eternal, then nothing will break you.'

  She smiled briefly, contented, relieved. Ben wanted to reel off questions but hesitated until,

  'The heaviest book that ever was, does it, can it exist?'

  She spoke no reply. She did not need to. Ben felt the answer within. He stared at her face, it seemed to hollow, to drain free of character and thought, even as her lungs continued to turn the shallowest of breaths. He held her cold, lifeless hand; it gave comfort to him. He listened to her every breath; the slowing rhythm soothed his nerves and eased him towards the end. Soon, she fell silent and moved beyond him. A sadness from long ago, a great sense of loss that had been stored, stale, within him, suddenly became fresh. A storm of tears flared. So rarely did he cry, he had thought his weak, sickly body was a result of the effort it took to fight away the tears, that a boy had only so much strength, and that most of his was used to keep the hurt dead.

  The orb of light shattered into a thousand pieces, a thousand flickering flames, which floated out into the forest, like a thinning mist of light. Leaves, flowers, buds and cones came, thrown, into The Clearing - to fill it, to return it, to bury all it contained.

  A tree bowed towards Ben. He knew to climb on to a branch, to say goodbye to Ceiridwen. He fought the tears, managed to blow out the storm. As the tree straightened, he caught a flower, one that could bloom no more. The longest day had passed so quickly. 'Will they all?' he wondered, 'Will they all?' He kissed the flower then released it as his own, down to fill Ceiridwen's grave.

  Beneath him, The Clearing faded into black, as the flames parted ever thinner, and the forest, as it swayed and rustled, oozed a note of sadness to sound like a tired sea ebbing away from shore.

  He thought of the Heaviest Book. He now believed it real; a portal to the complete unknown, to his shield, his Dad, for what else, other than his Dad, could be the shield he had lost?