by Robin Bootle
All Dad had wanted was for them to be together, to deal with their grief together, to show that they could still be a family. But Edward had thrown it back in his face.
On the third day they managed to take him on a hike. He thought it might be peaceful up there, that he might somehow be closer to Mum. It was late and cold by the time they were coming down the mountain. The stars were shining and it made him wish he believed. What if one of them was Mum? If his life were to end now, would he see her up there somewhere? Tragic a thought as it was, it filled him with an inner calm; maybe she wasn’t gone forever.
‘Can you see Orion?’ asked Dad. He’d been talking all the way, trying too hard to get them to join in. And now he was interrupting Edward’s thoughts.
No one, it seemed, would give Edward’s aching heart the space it required. He stopped, his teeth gritted and fists clenched. ‘I don’t care about Orion!’
‘Edward, please…’
‘Why won’t you leave me alone? I know what you’re trying to do! You think that by playing your stupid games, that by talking about all this pointless crap, that you can somehow make things better? Well, you can’t! It’s too late! Mum’s dead!’ He stomped off, hating the bitterness on his tongue but unable to hold back. He scowled over his shoulder, and said the words that had haunted him ever since.
‘I wish you’d died with her! I wish you both had!’
Even the next morning he’d wished he’d been brave enough to take it back. Dad had been in pieces, drowning in a swamp of low confidence and despair, and Edward’s words had been the final straw.
Three years later, his wish had come true.
* * *
Icy air rushed into his lungs. The stars blinked once more above him. He had to make it right. Perhaps he couldn’t save them but he couldn’t leave it like this. Dad needed to know how he felt, even if it was the last thing he ever did.
He sprang to his feet. The side of his arm was numb from the snow but his heart was racing, warming him up. The food, he thought. The food is bringing you back.
Without hesitation, he rammed his staff into the heart of the pile of logs. Fire burst forth. But this time he didn’t stop, even as one knee, then the other buckled and he sank back to the ground. Even as he fell onto his side and his head crunched into the crisp snow, he refused to let the tip of his staff leave the logs or the flames stop. The world caved in until all he could see were the garbled lights in the centre of his vision. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. His body began to spasm from his head to his toes and warm saliva dribbled down the side of his chin.
Finally, when he could go on no more, his flame petered out and the darkness took over.
22
The Garden
He woke a few hours later, shivering again. The logs were burnt down to a few weak coals and their heat had all but gone. He looked to the eastern sky. Still no sign of daybreak.
He could start another fire and sleep some more. But he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to now; he needed to see Dad. He had to tell him how much he loved him, and how sorry he was for everything he’d done. Besides, anyone following him into the mountains could have gained on him while he’d been out.
He sat up. The left side of his robe was soaked and the snow where he’d lain had melted through to the sun-starved grass. He gathered his things, this time lodging his telescope into his belt, and hiked north several hundred yards to the base of a rock face relatively free of snow. Then he set off up the valley, trying to leave as few tracks in the snow as possible.
He needed to prepare what he would say to Dad. He didn’t even know if he would find him, but if he did, he couldn’t let the chance go to waste. Who knew if they would ever see each other again?
But what to say? I’m sorry for wishing you dead. I’m sorry for not being there when you needed me most. I’m sorry, I’m sorry! ‘I’m sorry,’ he uttered aloud, as the voice in his head failed to contain itself.
Just ahead, the bases of the two mountains joined in a curved ridge. On either side the jagged rocks rose into the now brightening sky. Between them, stark against the orange-stained snow of the early morning, was a wall of black. But with no visible point where the Black met the mountains, he couldn’t tell how far away it was.
The birds began to sing in the trees. Here and there they emerged from their nests, tipping clumps of snow from the branches. With the heat of day on its way, he decided he could again try his new spell. He pulled his staff from his back. Just a tiny burst, he thought, enough to build his strength but not enough to make him pass out.
A jet of fire blasted into the air, no more than a foot long from beginning to end. The snow was deep here, wind-drifted, and when he fell, the side of his face sank into its icy powder. He rested for a moment, laughing with joy.
Ten paces later he tried again. He only fell as far as his knees, clenching his stomach as if it might help with the pain. The flame tore through the air, fading with every moment. About thirty yards later, the little that was left imploded on itself. He stood up, spat the phlegm from his mouth and carried on. Then again, and again.
He didn’t stop until he reached the ridge between the two mountains. Below, less than a mile away at the bottom of the valley, the two mountains met in another ridge. Behind, the Great Black loomed. But before the ridge lay something he hadn’t expected to see – the crumbling remnants of a stone building whose outer wall was half swallowed in snow.
Ivandell hadn’t mentioned anything about stone ruins. In fact, he thought, Ivandell had specifically mentioned that the one path into the mountains led only to the Great Black.
He pulled his telescope from his bag and scanned the valley all the way to the ruins. The building was one storey high and most of its roof had tumbled away, allowing him to see a series of corridors that ran to the rear of the building near the base of the ridge. Vines and shrubs covered much of the stone, but other than that there was no sign of life. Behind him, he could just make out the village far in the distance, a tiny black cluster of rubble. He tracked the lens up the valley, searching for any sign of Hound or of Dēofol’s men.
At once his heart thumped in his head and in his stomach. Alarmingly close through the lens, ten or so men on horseback were already approaching the area in which he’d passed out the night before.
He took off towards the ruins, his strides lengthened by the downhill slope. Here in the valley the snow was blown into deep drifts by the wind and he tripped, tumbling into the snow. Adrenalin pumping, he scampered back to his feet and carried on recklessly at the same pace. His speed reduced only when he reached the ruins’ entrance, an archway of stone bricks. Many of the bricks were heavily deteriorated and some were missing entirely, eroded and poked out of place by the thick tendrils of some kind of creeping vine.
Inside, a wall opposite the entrance forced him to choose left or right. Left. The creeper covered entire portions of the corridor walls, its dense branches reaching up into an ever-widening growth of thick triangular leaves. Where the floor was visible, moss-stained marble was slippery and cracked.
Comfortable with his surroundings, he quickened to a jog. The riders would be over the ridge before long and charging down the valley. If he hadn’t found the general by then… well, that wasn’t worth thinking about. He rounded the corner at the end of the corridor but tripped and fell onto the marble floor. He looked back, shocked. A stiff, hook-shaped branch was still wobbling under the impact.
He got up and carried on, taking better care. As he reached the end of the corridor he swore something was moving, rustling, around the next corner. He edged forward, angling his dagger to reflect an image of the neighbouring corridor. At once he backed into the wall for cover, his pulse rocketing.
The creepers were moving, their tips hovering like tentacles. He shook his head, unable to believe the impossible. Gradually, he ex
tended his arm, again using his dagger as a mirror. Now the creepers were still. But they hadn’t retreated to their natural positions. Instead, their tips were pointing in his direction.
Something rubbed against his calf. By the time he looked down, a tendril was already wrapped around his legs in a stranglehold. He lashed out with his dagger, wincing as he cut the surface of his skin in the process. The tendril recoiled like a snake stung by fire but as he watched, it began growing back at an alarming rate. It would be fully regrown within seconds.
He glanced down the corridor that led to the entrance, accepting that he would have to retreat. But the vines were hovering as if ready to block his path. He drew air deep into his lungs in an attempt to subdue his panic. The fresh oxygen rewarded him with a moment of clarity: this place had been designed by Dad and James. And as such, it was designed to be defeated. You’ve seen how those creepers react to your dagger, he thought, so what are you waiting for?
He rounded the corner and broke into a sprint. When the creepers reached out to trip him, he kicked or sliced them away. He dreaded to think what would happen if they got hold of him fully but like this they were easy prey. He found himself enjoying it; the severing of the tentacles from their roots was satisfying. It was the game just as Dad and James had intended it.
At the next corner he reached a dead end, forcing him to stop. Two tendrils grabbed hold of his feet, uprooting him. He lashed out with his dagger, forcing them to retreat, then hurried back the way he’d come. Half way down the corridor, five branches sprung out horizontally to meet the opposing wall, taut as steel cables.
‘What do you want from me?’ He ground to a halt, kicking and slicing at the roots near his feet. ‘Get away from me!’ Behind him, more tendrils blocked his path. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, breathless as he tried to get hold of himself. ‘It’s just the game.’ A scenario built to be beaten. You just need to solve it. Like a riddle.
He took in his surroundings. The floor beneath was free from undergrowth and the wall on the side nearest the entrance to the ruins was also clear. Only the wall on the far side was covered, thick and writhing like a mound of pythons. As they slithered around, gaps between them revealed sprinklings of snow on the far side.
There had to be a way through, he knew. But how? He couldn’t use his dagger; the creepers grew back too quickly. He thought back to all the games he’d played with James. Rarely was the solution to a problem anything but obvious once you knew how, and the games were constructed logically, so that any experience the player had on the way to a challenge was deliberately related to the challenge itself.
He ripped his staff from his back, ready to use the tool with which he had been most recently equipped by the game-makers. The creepers’ writhing seemed suddenly more erratic. A branch here and there swiped at him but he was too far off for them to reach. They were warning him to stay away but all it had done was given him the confidence he needed.
He roared, spraying fire from the tip of his staff. The creeper wheezed and rasped as it recoiled to the sides and to the ground. He swung his staff back and forth, and as the nausea rose up from his stomach he dived through, too fast for any snatching tentacles to grab hold. Behind him, the creepers remained parted. Fire, it seemed, prevented them from growing back. But now he’d left an easy path for the riders.
A little further ahead, the entrance to a dark tunnel lay carved into the rock face. A worn wooden sign to one side read, “The Warrior’s Hideout”.
After all the disappointment and disaster of the past week the relief that rushed through him was pure euphoria. No wonder Ivandell had never found this place, he thought. People and places can appear from nowhere.
He hurried into the tunnel. After twenty yards it came to an end. He burst through into the light and at once ground to a halt, stunned by what he saw.
A short bridge led over a narrow stream. Beyond, the short-cut grass of a large garden was clear of snow. The air was warm, as though the garden was guarded from the mountain elements. Several sheep grazed to one side. Walls of mountain rock rose up on either side, fifty yards apart. Dotted around were statues of soldiers, some on horseback, some merely a stone head on a pillar. Wild flowers flourished: purple, yellow and blue. Even butterflies danced in the mild air.
But it was what lay at the end of the garden that had him confused and excited all at the same time. Not one hundred yards off, the grass merged abruptly into the Great Black. And before it, a solitary figure on both knees faced the darkness, hands clasped in prayer and a sword strapped to his back.
* * *
‘Hello?’ Edward was still some distance off and approaching cautiously. ‘General Aidēs?’ The man raised his head and looked around as though unsure if he’d actually heard anything. ‘General Aidēs, is that you?’
The man laboured to his feet. His hair was long and grey and a scar ran from the corner of his lips to near the bottom of his right ear. On a chain around his neck hung a gold ring in which two small diamonds were set on either side of a large, oval sapphire. As a lump bulged in Edward’s throat, he knew he’d seen that ring before. On the fourth finger of his mother’s right hand. Her engagement ring, and surely the inspiration for the General’s Ward.
‘General Aidēs?’
The man’s eyes finally focused on Edward, his brow scrunched in confusion. ‘No one has called me that in a very, very long time.’
For a moment Edward stared back, the general’s words resounding in his head. They made no sense. He paced forward. ‘General, what about your men? Where are they?’
‘My men? Scattered about, I suppose. I never did quite understand what happened to them.’
‘Scattered about? Where have they gone?’
The general’s gaze drifted to the floor. Slowly, painfully, he shook his head.
Edward stared, jaw wide open, refusing to accept what the general was telling him. ‘No, that’s impossible! The game would never allow it!’ Then, as if giving the general an ultimatum, he demanded, ‘General, where are they?’
The general’s gaze lifted to meet Edward’s, then shifted part-way towards the darkness behind him.
Edward’s knees buckled. He should have known the moment he set foot in here that the army was gone. The empty finite space that surrounded him was all the evidence he needed. He buried his head in his hands and wailed. His fingers curled and his exposed nails scratched down his face, as though the physical pain might bring some release from the aching inside.
All those men dead, and for what?
‘It all happened so long ago,’ the general continued. ‘I can scarcely even remember what they look like. Or how many they were. I try not to think of it these days; it only sends my mind into a spiral of defeat and despair. Better, wouldn’t you agree, to tend to the garden? I find it keeps the mind at peace.’ His look turned sour as he noticed something near the rock wall. ‘Blasted things!’ Then he marched towards the rock as though Edward wasn’t even there.
Edward watched, horrified, as the general hacked into a growth of the same type of creepers he himself had just burned away. ‘I told you not to come back!’ The general’s sword crashed again and again into the creepers, sparking as it grated against the dark mountain rock behind.
Edward stomped towards him, any patience he once possessed devoured by anger. ‘General! Your people need you!’ As the blade crashed down again, he seized the general’s shoulder. The old man spun around, startled. ‘The people of the Lands of the Sun need you!’
‘It is a wonder to see a human face after so long, young man, but I am afraid I cannot help them and I cannot come with you. This is my home now.’
‘But you can come with me. The way back is open.’ Edward pointed towards the tunnel, but the general didn’t appear to be listening any more, instead swiping at the roots that had already grown back.
Edward co
uldn’t believe it; his last hope appeared to have gone mad. He had to look away. Away from the insanity. Away from that manifestation of his despair. But where would he go now? He couldn’t fight on alone. The villagers would never believe who he was, and what difference would it make, without the general, without Hasgard, Ivandell and Elizabeth? No, there was no point in returning down the mountain. There was no point in anything, not any more.
His feet drifted towards the Great Black. ‘Are you seeing this?’ he demanded. He scanned the darkness, wondering if somehow his father might respond. ‘What the hell am I supposed to do now? How am I meant to rescue James with a cave-dwelling hermit?’ Still no response, but he kept on, praying his father would hear his pain, would feel the guilt he deserved to feel. ‘Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? Alone for a year and now this relentless, cruel torture that you call a game? It’s all been for nothing, hasn’t it?’
Just in front of him, a handful of souls were drawn by his tirade. ‘What are you staring at?’ he shouted at them. ‘You don’t like to be reminded of what it’s like to be alive? Well, it’s not that great!’ He pulled out his dagger and his staff, staring at them a moment, the two tools that had served only to encourage him further into this gruesome world, two symbols of the false hope that had time and again brought him nothing but misery. His fingers uncurled, letting them drop to the ground. He pulled his robe over his head and cast it aside. And before he truly knew why, he was stumbling with his eyes closed towards the darkness.
‘Edward, wait, please.’
His eyes sprang open. Dad was right there, his elliptical light shining on the edge of the Great Black. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ Edward demanded. ‘You didn’t create a game, you created hell! These people are suffering, Dad. Their pain is real! And it’s all because of you!’
