The Lighter That Shone Like A Star (Story of The South)
Page 15
After the concert (which was absolutely manic, with fans pushing each other and security having to prevent the ones at the front from being crushed into the barriers) everyone headed back to the tour bus to travel to the next town.
Tiredness was setting in for the band, the crew, and of course Freddie, who had not slept properly for two days.
Light on the Landing shared their bus with a minimal selection of crew members, their stylist and friend, Kazia, and now Freddie. The bunk below Zaak’s became Freddie’s. It was cramped yet comfortable; nothing compared to the big double-bed to which his body was accustomed. He didn’t know how Haze and the others lived like this every day – constantly on the move and often confined to the deceptively small bus.
Zaak assured him that they did not sleep in the tour bus every night; only when they had to travel a long distance. The following evening they would arrive in a hotel and have until morning to stretch their legs and profit from the most luxurious of suites.
Haze and Jimmie showed Freddie to his bunk, Zaak and Naithain already sleeping soundly.
“Right, we’re going to Scribble tonight about you joining us,” Jimmie began. “The paps are bound to see the six of us out and about and circulate some silly rumours, so we should put them to rest now. Also, we’re worried that you’ll be recognised so we need to think of something.”
“What, like dye my hair and wear a mask?” Freddie joked.
“Well, actually, we think you should dye your hair and maybe wear glasses. I know it doesn’t sound much, but it’s not as if anyone’s expecting to see you with us,” Jimmie explained.
“Cool, I’ll dye my hair and get some specs. No problems. Anything else?”
“Your name,” Jimmie said.
“Right,” nodded Freddie. “Any suggestions?”
The three men thought in silence for a few moments before Haze suggested ‘Lynk’.
“Seriously, Tommy? Lynk?” Jimmie mocked.
Freddie was thrown by the use of Haze’s first name, but nodded in agreement. “Well, I can’t think of anything and that’s a good a name as any I guess,” he said, rubbing his watery eyes.
“Alright, Lynk it is. Welcome on board, Lynk, and welcome to the mad world of Light on the Landing!”
“Thank you, Jimaze,” replied Freddie, smirking as the boys opposite him rolled their eyes in feigned exasperation.
When everyone was in bed and the only sounds to be heard were loud breathing, gentle snoring, and rustling bed covers, Freddie turned on his ScribblePad. He had no notifications and none of his friends’ accounts had been updated since before the Pipton gig.
Each of the band members had scribbled (which, not too long ago, would have sparked hysteria from his girlfriend and sister).
Attached image.
(There was a photo of Jayke holding an empty bottle with water spilled down the front of his light denim jeans.)
Scrolling through replies, Freddie could see that many fans were wondering what Lynk’s Scribbler was. No doubt there would be tens of fake accounts popping up, claiming to be Jimmie’s cousin in a bid to gain hundreds of subscribers.
He liked the name Lynk but mostly he liked the idea of being someone else for a little while. Perhaps he would be able to forget Freddie, the boy whose life had turned upside-down in a matter of days.
Freddie’s last thought before slipping into a much-needed sleep was that even though everything had gone horribly wrong in the last week-or-so, he finally felt safe again, even if it could only be for a little while.
PART THREE
Prisoner 001
Anonymity. That was the reason Prisoner 001 was so successful. It was difficult to know whether a man or a boy stood in front of the sea of frightened people, handcuffed to two monstrous figures cloaked in dark grey.
Was he from Rysked, or did his family fear for his safety in a different land altogether? After all, his skin was less pale than the typical Rysked complexion. Maybe he had no family. Perhaps his family had already been killed. Or were they in one of the camps?
So many questions asked about Prisoner 001, but no answers given.
He made his first appearance in a small town, with a population of only a few thousand. Two bodyguards held Prisoner 001 down on his knees, a heavy hand pushing on each of his shoulders.
The town hall situated behind them was a poignant reminder – the mayor’s whereabouts had been a publicised mystery for over a week. At first, Prisoner 001’s entourage waited. For what, or whom, he was unsure.
A chilly breeze swept through the still evening. Goosebumps coated Prisoner 001’s naked torso, his trembles of fear accompanied by freezing shivers.
Following an order shouted from somewhere nearby, he slowly raised his head. Fumbling fingers untied his blindfold and he blinked rapidly, seeing for the first time that day.
Cameras were aimed at his face, red lights flashing next to the long lenses. A voice echoed through the stagnant night’s air, shrill and piercing. A voice he had heard before. A voice he had every reason to fear.
The bitter air that filled his lungs began to freeze within him, his violent shudders cracking the layer of ice that coated his vital organs. Slowly, people began to gather before them – a live audience.
“This is Prisoner Zero-Zero-One,” the bodiless voice boomed. “I asked Prisoner Zero-Zero-One to perform a simple task. He failed. His punishment will be severe.” The woman paused, allowing her words to sink in alongside the image of a boy or young man, weak and at the mercy of hooded men and women around him.
“I will ask Prisoner Zero-Zero-One again in the hopes that, this time, he obeys.”
The two men either side of Prisoner 001 softened their grip, allowing him to stand. “Prisoner Zero-Zero-One, I speak directly to you. Show me your magic.”
A simple request, it seemed. Anybody from Rysked possessed the power to perform many magic tricks. Perhaps most impressively, they could become invisible, inconceivable, untraceable. Their ability to protect themselves was envied by all the other lands.
But Prisoner 001 was not able to perform the magic that was expected of him. He would never be able. That was why he was chosen.
“Nothing?” shrieked the voice in a mocking tone. “Then you shall be punished.”
Prisoner 001 crashed to his knees once more, the sound of bone hitting concrete resonating through his ears. They did not cover his eyes again.
He saw a hooded woman disappear behind him. He heard the crack of a whip. He felt the blinding agony as the heavy leather lashed against his bare skin. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Blood seeped from the cuts forming in his back. He shrieked in pain, screaming, weeping.
Five. The pain was unbearable, the cameras still recording every moment.
Six. The crowd before him was growing larger and larger. More witnesses to his castigation.
Why are they all just standing there?
Seven. The whip was brought down again, a distorted wail bursting from Prisoner 001’s throat.
Eight. Everything hurt, everything ached, everything was pain.
Nine. His eyelids refused to open. Darkness swept over him.
Ten. The guards let go, allowing him to sink heavily to the floor.
Was he still alive? He didn’t know. He hoped not.
He woke up. How he had managed to sleep in a room so bright, he didn’t know. Until he remembered. His back suddenly erupted in
red hot pain. A groan escaped his chapped lips and he heard the scraping of a chair against floor.
“Shh, it’s okay I’m here,” the female voice said.
“Ru…”
“Don’t try to speak, just stay still. I’m here to help. My name’s Deb.”
“How long..?”
“You’ve been out for eleven hours. I’ve healed your back, but it’ll still be painful for a little while.”
Prisoner 001 felt a warm rush through his veins and fell back into his deep state of unconsciousness.
When he next awoke, Deb was rubbing lotion into his back. A cooling sensation swept over his torso, the pain evaporating into the air.
“A day and a half,” she answered his unspoken question. “Here,” she said holding a cup of tepid water to his lips. “Drink.”
He willingly obliged, his sandpaper throat craving hydration. Slowly, he pushed himself off of his front until he was sitting on the edge of the metal bed. His back no longer hurt.
“How have you done this?” he asked his healer.
“I was asked to perform magic and I did,” she replied.
“Thank you.”
“You thank me now. In time, I think you will stop. And I’m sorry in advance,” said Deb, lightly placing her hand over his.
“Sorry for what?” wondered Prisoner 001, confused at why his saviour would ever need to apologise.
And then it hit him. His public punishment was not a one-off. It would happen again and again until the message sunk in. And for now, it was enough to be healed. But when would he stop being grateful and become resentful instead? How long would it take for Prisoner 001 to wish he were dead?
Not long. That was the answer. Because he had only just woken from his comatose sleep, Deb had only just healed him, he had only just realised the graveness of his situation, when two guards barged into the white-wash healing room and dragged him away.
Prisoner 001 protested, kicking and screaming, but it was no use. He was weak, and would only grow weaker, while the strangers in the grey cloaks boasted immense strength.
Blindfolded, mouth taped shut, arms tied behind his back, ankles roped together. Shoved onto a hard surface. Slamming doors and the angry rev of an engine. Body colliding with the sides of the van. Ragged carpet burning his bare torso.
Round Two. Prisoner 001 was in the same position he had found himself forty-eight hours ago – staring down a camera lens, unable to perform magic, forced onto his knees, the whip crashing down against his unprotected skin.
Only this time, there was a bigger crowd. More people had come to witness his torture, yet still nobody stepped forward to help. His skin cracked with the third crack of the whip, blood pooling around his knees. He passed out on the seventh.
Deb was beside him when he woke up, her cool hand pressed lightly against his forehead.
“Six hours. You need more sleep,” she said. Prisoner 001 grabbed her wrist, but she had already administered the medicine that allowed him to drift into a dreamless slumber.
Round Three and Four and Five. Identical routine, over and over again. With each town came a vaster assembly of people. It took Prisoner 001 until Round Six to realise that they weren’t there by choice. They too were under orders that they could only obey.
Cameras broadcasted his punishment to television screens in people’s homes. That could be their son or their brother being whipped. And it might be, if they were unable to prove their magical abilities.
“Seven hours. Not enough,” Deb told him.
No,” he said, gripping her wrist. His grasp was tighter than usual. Surely a good sign. “Explain,” he demanded.
Deb sighed, torn between her patient’s needs. He could sleep later, she decided after much hesitation.
“You’re Prisoner Zero-Zero-One. The first but not the last, hence the two zeroes before the one. You’re an example of what they do not need, and what they will do to people like you… what they are already doing. Everyone is being tested for magical ability. If they do manage to produce their powers, then they are spared. If not, they are taken.”
“Taken where?” Prisoner 001 asked, fearing the answer.
“To camps. Camps that are being constructed as we speak. Abandoned warehouses, farms and factories. Anywhere with a large amount of land and a building or two. They’re treated worse than animals for slaughter, considered a lesser species. But they’re allowed to survive.”
“What about the people who are magic?”
“They… they must join the army,” Deb said, regretfully. “A war is coming, and she is recruiting. Rysked is the place to start, as it’s so cut off from the rest of The South that it will take a while for anyone to realise that something is wrong. And when they do, it will be too late. Her army is growing with every town we visit, and so are her camps. People have no choice but to join this side, even though it is the wrong one. It’s the only option.”
“Whose army, though? Who is ‘she’?” asked Prisoner 001.
“Eimaj,” Deb said. “She wants to rule The South. Town by town, land by land, she will tear The South apart and keep the remains for herself. And the problem is I have no idea who is going to fight her. Nobody does. As she wreaks havoc and devastation, there is no hope. Nobody can fight back. This is a war we have already lost,” said Deb.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Then who will save us?”
“Max.”
Deb shook her head and pressed a delicate kiss against her patient’s forehead. She reached over and induced Prisoner 001 into another deep sleep so he would be ready for Round Seven.
Russell
It had been a huge mistake to flee Pipton. Russell knew that as soon as they entered the forest and Sofia realised twenty minutes later when she tripped over some tree roots, badly grazing and bruising both her knees. They had not thought to bring any plasters or anti-septic cream. Russell tried to reason with his friend but it turned out that her stubbornness rivalled only her temper.
They reached Klop and Russell suggested they find somewhere to stay the night but Sofia protested, despite her throbbing knees, preferring to save the little money they had for food. So, on they walked. Through the small village and onto a main road, walking precariously on a narrow strand of green as cars whizzed past them, dangerously close. Sofia promised that she knew where she was going, but Russell was not at all convinced.
One hour and two near-misses later, Sofia finally admitted that they were lost. They stopped at a roundabout that neither of them recognised and began to bicker about the direction in which they would continue.
Hungry, tired, and regretful, Russell slumped onto the cool, moist grass. It was getting darker and darker, the round white moon luminous in the otherwise pitch black sky.
“Maybe we should stop till morning,” Sofia suggested, pulling up her long dress to just above the knee and wincing as the fabric peeled away from her broken skin. “Look, we’re surrounded by fields, we can find a spot that’s well hidden and work out the rest tomorrow morning.”
“Good idea I reckon,” agreed Russell.
The pair climbed over a low, wooden fence and ambled through field after field, walking further away from the road and hoping to stumble upon some kind of shelter. Just as they were losing faith, ready to give up and pitch their tent in any old spot, Sofia saw their beacon of hope.
As they reached the top of a hill there stood an old barn, surrounded by overgrown hedges and a few trees. It was in bad condition; the wood around the door hinges crumbled and there was a large hole in the ceiling. Russell swept aside some cobwebs with his arm as the pair tentatively entered the wooden den, relaxing slightly as it became clear that they were alone.
Sofia was left to assemble the tent in the darkness after Russell almost jabbed his own eye out with a tent pole. They crawled inside their canvas dome and slipped into their sleeping bags.
“Are you okay?” asked Sofia, her voice soft.
“Yeah, you?” Russell replie
d.
She sighed. “Yeah. I just miss them, y’know?”
“Yeah. I miss them too.”
“Are you worried about Matthew?”
Russell nodded, and then remembered that Sofia couldn’t see him. “Mmhmm. I can’t stop worrying. If he’s hurt or… if anything’s happened…” he breathed deeply.
“I know. I’m sure he’ll be fine, though. They all will be. Just fine.”
But Russell wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him or herself.
They didn’t speak again but just lay quietly, the barn creaking around them. Eventually, Sofia’s breathing grew heavy and steady. Russell tried to fall asleep but every time he shut his eyes, Matthew’s face flashed before him, anguished and troubled.
Considering a life without Matthew caused him physical pain, left him feeling winded and broken. It was driving him crazy, his mind convincing the rest of him that Matthew was in danger… or worse.
That’s the problem with those moments before sleep comes – it’s the only time of day when a person has time to truly reflect on their life and either slip into a pleasant dream, or stumble into their deepest, darkest nightmare.
***
Russell awoke at the break of dawn, the inside of the tent already reaching an unbearable temperature. He kicked off his sleeping bag and pulled his ScribblePad from his backpack. None of his friends had scribbled, which he had expected.
Matthew always said “no news is good news,” but Russell had gone past the point of wanting good news. He just wanted any news, any sign from one of his friends. He and Sofia were ignorant to everything, and that was the most frustrating thing of all. They had their ScribblePads, but they knew that any activity would make them traceable. Besides, their battery would not last for ever and it seemed unlikely that they would be able to charge them any time soon.