by Peter Oxley
Chapter 23
We knelt in a ditch on the outskirts of a large wood, staring intently at a tree.
“What exactly am I expecting it to do?” I asked after a few minutes.
“Shush,” said Byron. “Just look, and then tell me what you see.”
I looked. “I see… a tree.”
“I thought you were supposed to be a writer,” he said. “Look properly and describe what you see.”
I sighed and then focused my gaze on the stick of wood, digging down into my mental reservoirs to reawaken my artistic instincts, a part of me that had been woefully underused while I had been preoccupied with the tasks of being a warrior and protector. Not to mention a slavering, homicidal half-demon.
I regarded it curiously, conjuring up words to describe the view before me. It was dark, the air having that particular scent of late evening in the midst of autumn, a heady mix of freshly fallen leaves and the sharp tang of distant bonfires. The tree stood apart from a copse, as though it were an advance guard sent unwillingly forward to scout for threats. At first, the waning moonlight was not yet strong enough to pick out all of the details, reducing the tree to a stubborn silhouette standing on a dark muddy carpet.
As I stared, though, the light seemed to improve so that I could make out more details. It had shed most of its foliage, although a few leaves stubbornly clung on to the uppermost branches. The bark was gnarled and twisted, such that I fancied I could see 100 shapes and faces carved there…
I gasped. “I can see the leaves, each one of them, their colours, the creases and veins on them.” I turned to him. “Has the light lifted?”
“No, just your perceptions; you’re seeing like a demon now. Carry on.”
I looked back at the tree. “At first I thought it reached straight up to the sky, but now I can see each of the different ways it climbs upwards, every limb carving a different path, all of them doing their best to capture the sun. I can see it waving in the breeze. No, that’s not quite right: something is pulsing inside it. My God, I can see the tree breathing and sending life up and down its body, its limbs…” The sensation reminded me of another time, the thick of night in Windsor Park when, in anticipation of battle, the veil of darkness had lifted to show me a multitude of things that I should not have been able to pick out, as well as a fair few things I wished I could not see. The shock of remembering those sights snapped my attention back to something Byron had just said.
“I thought you were teaching me to control my demon side, not enhancing it?” I asked.
“First you need to accept what you are: you can’t control something if you keep fighting it. Now stop whining and keep looking.”
I tried my hardest to throw myself into the studies that Byron had set for me, although I found myself at times frustrated by the seeming irrelevance of them. Such as examining trees, when I could be learning more important things like how to control my appearance. However, I could not doubt that his methods were having results and I was learning a great deal about my new powers and abilities.
The first thing he was keen for me to master was my self-control, particularly how to manage the rage that often took over during battle. Byron was very open about the fact that this was partly through self-preservation, as he did not want me to rip his head off the first time we found ourselves under attack. This in turn seemed to involve me becoming more intimately engaged with the various powers that I had unwittingly inherited. And so I found myself sitting in fields staring at trees.
To minimise the risk of me being provoked into battle before I had had a chance to master my abilities, we had decided to head south, away from all of the problems that London presented. This also had the benefit of taking us towards France; both of us were in agreement that it would be wise for me to put some distance between myself and my friends until I had learnt to master the runic sword and its influence. I felt pangs of guilt at removing myself from the fight at the time when—if Maxwell’s theories were correct—the Fulcrum was fast approaching, an event that could herald all manner of chaos. This was outweighed, however, by the sure knowledge that my friends were better off being able to focus on the battle at hand rather than worrying about controlling me or trying to cure me.
Against Byron’s advice, I had sent a short note to Maxwell, sneaking it into a postbag at Basingstoke Station while the stationmaster was temporarily distracted. In the note I told him that I was safe and well and seeking help, and would return to them when I could. I also implored them not to try to find me. Although I was not so naïve as to assume that this would stop them, I had to at least try to deter them somehow.
Byron himself was an interesting creature, full of contradictions. For all of his otherworldly nature, in his manner and bearing he was more akin to a cockney barrow boy. When I pointed this out to him, I was met with a sniffy rejoinder: he considered himself to belong to a much loftier social circle than that, it seemed. Indeed, he was more conscious of class than even the most aspirational upper-middle class careerist.
“Maybe,” he mused, when I mentioned this a few days later, “but there is much to admire about your own social structures: the way that, although birth is a highly important factor, it is not the be-all-and-end-all and it is possible to haul oneself up to a higher social standing through luck or marriage or hard work.”
“Is that not possible among your own people?” I asked.
“Oh no. Not impossible, but very uncommon. We are born into specific castes, each with a particular role or talent, and remain that way until we die. I was a soldier. You, by the looks of you and the inscriptions that made you, are also a warrior.”
“What other castes are there?”
“My people, the Pooka, have Workers, Warriors, Sorcerers and the Ruling Council. The Almadites are slightly more varied: to our four you can add Warlocks, Mages and, of course, Slaves.”
I ran through the terms in my head. “What is the difference between Sorcerers and Warlocks? In my experience the two terms are interchangeable.”
“You may think so, but there is a very wide difference in practice, believe me. Sorcerers tend to direct their energies towards largely benign activities, like healing or teaching, creating transportation spells or other methods of helping their society to progress and work properly. The Warlocks, well…” He shuddered. “Let us hope that you never have to meet them. They are single-minded in their pursuit of power for the good of their race, if you can call it that. Through their pet Mages they can make you do anything just by looking at you.” He stared into the distance, his face pale.
“I encountered a Mage once,” I said. “It compelled me to fight N’yotsu, to kill him.”
“And yet you both survived? Such things usually involve a battle to the death.”
“Oh, I wanted to kill him, believe me. But he managed to free me from the creature’s influence.”
Byron stared at me. “Did N’yotsu manage to break its hold on him? I did not know such things were possible.”
“As far as I know, it only cast a spell over me. I assumed it could only influence one person at a time. At least, that was what N’yotsu implied.”
“No. N’yotsu would have known better than that. One Mage can control an entire army of people if it so wishes. If it only controlled one of you, then there must have been a reason.”
“It just wanted to distract us?”
“But why? Surely it would have suited the demons’ purposes better if one or both of you were dead.”
I frowned. The same thought had niggled at me at first, but events in the meantime had pushed those doubts to one side. They now came back in force: why indeed had the demons let us live? The machinations of those ghastly creatures was nothing new to me, but there was clearly a longer game at play here than I had anticipated. “Gaap,” I said slowly.
Byron’s head snapped round to look at me. “What did you say?”
“The Mage came to the assistance of Gaap, a demon who had been summoned by a young
man in Sheffield—”
He interrupted me. “Gaap is here? In this realm?”
“Yes. We have been trying to find and kill him, although he’s proven difficult to hunt down so far. N’yotsu seemed to think he was pretty dangerous.”
“To say the least.” Byron started fidgeting, his fingers drumming a rapid beat on his thigh. “If Gaap is here then we have a duty to do something about it.” He stood up. “Enough wasting time. We need to get to Portsmouth as soon as possible.”
“Why Portsmouth?” I asked. “We thought that Gaap was heading to London. In fact, my friends were working on pinpointing his location and may have done so already. If anywhere, shouldn’t we go back there?”
“If that is the case, then great. But I have friends in Portsmouth who will know where he is and how to stop him.” He started marching away and, after a moment, I shrugged and followed him.
As we travelled I started to learn from Byron how to disengage my consciousness from my body, drifting away from all of the mundane concerns that consumed my waking hours to a place that was free of tension, worry and frustration. I found this more refreshing than sleep itself and looked forward to our regular dose of meditation, a chance for me to forget all about my troubles and the constant creeping tension that came from knowing that I had turned away from a battle that was nowhere near won.
“It’s all about your mind,” Byron said one evening as we squared up to each other. “Demon brains and human brains are different, and you’re fortunate to have a bit of both. The trick is to make sure that you use the best of each. That’s what we need to focus on.” He was holding a long, thick plank of wood and as he finished speaking he swung it at me, catching me hard across my head.
I fell to the ground. “What was that for?” I asked, stunned.
“We’re training,” he reminded me. “And you’re supposed to be a fearsome fighting machine. Are you afraid of a bit of wood?”
“No.” I struggled to my feet. “But I’d welcome at least a bit of warning that you were going to do that.” I ducked out of the way of another swing of his plank, but was caught across the back of my head by the return. I staggered forwards.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said, feeling the red mist start to descend. “But I’m not sure how long I can fight this off if you keep doing that.”
“Why do you think you need to fight it?” he asked, catching me in the stomach and winding me. “What if you embraced it rather than resisting it all the time?”
I gasped for breath, expecting him to hold off on his attacks but I was sorely mistaken. While I trusted Byron’s logic, the very thought of letting go and embracing my demonic side filled me with terror. It was as though I were standing at the top of a sheer drop, staring down into a black abyss. The thought of throwing myself over was enticing but also terrifying in equal measure. What if I kept falling forever, my humanity lost for all time as I plummeted into a hellish reality where I could never again be the person I was, a stranger to everyone I had ever known and loved?
The risk was too great, even though a part of me knew that I should heed Byron’s advice. I teetered on the edge of the abyss but could not force myself to take another step.
The idiot hammered at my back and then my head, plunging me face-first into the dirt. The creature that rose from the floor was angry. I watched through the red mist as my body stalked towards the Pooka, catching the plank one-handed and throwing it aside. Byron turned to run but I leapt over him and landed in his path, snarling. The little creature would pay for this.
I came to my senses just before snapping his neck, blinking as I stared at him, unsure as to what had pulled me out of the fugue state but deeply ashamed of what I had nearly done. I released him and staggered away. “I’m sorry,” I muttered.
“No,” he said. “My fault. I thought you were more…”
The words hung between us. I had failed and would carry on failing until I was lost forever.
Chapter 24
The remainder of the journey to Portsmouth was largely without incident, with us encountering very few people on the route. We passed the time by talking, and Byron told me about how his people had struggled to find a home since theirs had been destroyed. The vast majority, it seemed, had settled on Earth, either mingling seamlessly with humans or giving birth to many myths around such creatures as leprechauns, pixies and goblins, to name but three.
“I have to ask,” I said, late one evening, “why have you chosen the name ‘Byron’? I’m guessing that it is not the name you were born with. Are you a lover of his prose?”
He laughed. “Well, yes, but not only that. You see, he and I were drinking partners for quite a while. I tell you, for a human that man could really consume a lot of intoxicating substances.”
“You knew Lord Byron?” I asked, unsure whether or not to believe him.
“Of course. It was a few years after I came through into this realm, and he took me under his wing, so to speak.”
“Was he not put off by the way you… you know…”
“Look? Oh no, not at all. You see, I am very adept at blending in in all sorts of situations. A master of disguise, Byron always used to call me. Just as you’ll learn how to control your appearance, so can I. At least after a fashion.”
“So you managed to make yourself appear human? Then why do you not do that now, so that you could blend in rather than having to sneak around at night?”
“Oh, I do sometimes. Where do you think I get food from? But it’s very tiring, so I can’t keep it up for too long. Luckily, Byron liked to frequent very dark places, where a demon can happily obscure himself. And in any case, he was usually at least three sheets to the wind, so whenever he saw me sprouting horns or the like, he just assumed it was the drugs or the brandy.”
“So tell me, what was he like?” I had been an avid reader of Byron’s works since I first stumbled upon them on a very high bookshelf in the school library. At first I enjoyed them for the scandal that always attached itself to his name, but after a while it was the sheer pleasure of the way he could wield a phrase.
“Everything he is reputed to be and more,” the Pooka said with a smile. “He was often out of control, almost as though he were daring humanity to stop him. That was one of the many things I loved about him. When he passed, I adopted his name in tribute. I like to think that he would have seen something deliciously subversive in there being a shape-shifting demon walking the lands wearing his name.
“Wait a moment,” I said. “Lord Byron died around 45 years ago. How old are you, exactly?”
“Difficult to say, especially if you were to try to measure my age by the passage of time in this realm; and the way we measure time in my realm would mean nothing to you. I came through to Earth when the French Revolution was in its infancy—those were interesting times to acclimatise myself to I can tell you, talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire!—and I was well into my adulthood by then. If your question is more along the lines of how long do I have left to live, well, by your realm’s terms if I were allowed to live to a ripe old age, I would outlive you by at least a few centuries. Although now you’re a demon maybe you will outlive me.”
I shuddered. While the idea of being almost immortal at first seemed attractive, the thought of seeing my friends and family wither and die while I stayed constant as a hideous—but forever young—demon did not appeal to me in the slightest.
We finally found ourselves in an abandoned storehouse on the outskirts of the port, breathing in the salty air and staring out at the grey-black horizon. It had been too long since I had last stood near the sea and I relished the thought of once again immersing myself in its wild freedom. However, the thought of Gaap still weighed heavily on our minds; any thoughts of flight were on hold until we knew that whatever threat he posed had been dealt with.
Byron headed into town to gather food and intelligence, asking me to remain in the safety of our hideaway while he did so, as I was still painfu
lly conspicuous with my horns, markings and distinctly inhuman features. He returned an hour or so later with a tall hat and high-collared greatcoat to replace my stained and battered clothing. Thus disguised and under cover of darkness, we headed into town to find a community of demons that Byron knew of old.
I was surprised to find a ghetto of demons living openly not far from Portsmouth’s main thoroughfares, teeming around a street that was not unlike those full of inebriated sailors just a stone’s throw away. Indeed, if one did not pay too much attention to the people walking to and fro, it could have been much like any other street. I looked around in wonder as we passed, at demons chatting as they walked, buying items from costermonger demons or singing raucous songs from the gutter using familiar tunes coupled with words that were both alien and beautiful at the same time.
I was not the only human (or part-human) in the street, for we passed the odd group of men and women transacting with demons, both races seeming to co-exist peacefully. A couple of sailors pushed past us, leering at a barely dressed female demon who beckoned to them in a way that could be seen in any busy town the length and breadth of the land.
Byron laughed as he saw my expression. “What, you didn’t think we had brothels too? Pooka prostitutes are some of the best you will ever experience: they can do things you never thought physically possible, and can last all night…”
“It’s not that,” I said. “I am just surprised to see humans, well… is it even anatomically possible for them to…?”
“We all have bits and pieces in similar places,” he said. “They just vary in size and shape and what we do with them. There have been stories of humans and demons copulating since time immemorial: you ever heard of the succubi and incubi?”
“Of course,” I said. “I just never expected to see them in such familiar surroundings.”
He grinned. “I would have thought you’d feel right at home here.” He pointed at a door, above which swung a sign showing two demons fighting with horns of ale in their hands. “Here we are, the Fighting Heads.”
