The Obsidian Quest [Search for Earthlight Trilogy Book 1]

by Laraine Anne Barker

  Chapter 4

  At the Gabled House

  IN THE middle of the night, Peter jerked awake to a strange humming sound. He sat up and looked around. Dreyfus remained stretched out sound asleep—nose twitching, eyes flickering under their lids—making little yipping sounds that suggested he was happily chasing something through his dreams.

  Peter looked at his bedside clock. It was after one o'clock. What on earth was making that noise? And where was it coming from? He listened again. Surely it came from somewhere outside the bedroom door? He swung his legs out of bed, expecting a flurry of paws to descend on him. But Dreyfus continued twitching under the spell of his dream. Slowly Peter stood up, walked to the door and into the passageway. The humming became louder. He went into the laundry and looked through the window.

  The waxing moon was bright, but he could still see nothing. He had turned to go back to bed when something caught the corner of his eye: a flash of blue light.

  He went to the window and pressed his nose against the glass. For a second or two he saw nothing. Then the blue light flashed on and off. A few seconds later it came on again, but it had moved. In this way, flashing on and off, it darted backwards and forwards across his field of vision as though playing with him.

  It looked for all the world like a flying saucer. But it can't be. It's right in the garden and it's far too small.

  Carefully he turned the key in the laundry door, pulled the door open and stepped onto the terrace. He craned his head toward the bedroom, ears pricked. Yes, Dreyfus was still dreaming. Then he realized the humming had stopped. Softly he closed the door and turned to face the blue light. It now hovered at the bottom of the garden, dancing in and out of the trees.

  Moving like one in a trance—although he wasn't aware of it at the time—Peter went down the steps, across the drive and onto the lawn. The blue light continued its flirtatious flitting. It disappeared among the trees bordering the bush. Peter followed. Once he reached the rough path the light led him along as though guiding him. When he came to a junction onto one of the main tracks the light took the left-hand turn. He followed.

  He wasn't watching where he was going, and yet nothing tripped him up. It was as though the light made sure the way was clear. They reached a narrow track leading to the bottom of somebody's garden. The light bobbed along the path and Peter followed. He walked between two scraggy-looking trees. From there he looked up a steeply sloping lawn overgrown with weeds nearly as tall as himself. A track of flattened and broken weeds cut it in two.

  In the moonlight the tall gabled house was more sinister-looking than in daylight. Peter, however, hardly saw the house. His eyes followed the bobbing blue light and his feet obeyed its magnetic power. The long grass swished loudly under his feet in the still night air.

  A minute later he stood on a recently laid concrete drive. The house towered over him. The blue light hovered near a door in the basement. Peter stood like a zombie, his eyes glued to the light.

  The door slowly opened—and there stood the man who had said he was a retired scientist. The blue light went out as though the man had thrown a switch. The man stepped to one side. “Come in, greenhorn."

  Peter walked in. The door shut behind him and he heard a key turn in the lock.

  The basement covered more than half the floor area of the house. There were few windows and the concrete floor was bare. A dim naked light bulb hung from the floor joists of the room above. Peter's captor placed the key in his pocket and turned to Peter. He scrutinized Peter closely.

  "Yes, I'm sure you're The One. When I took you to my cave that day and something intervened before my master could assess you I was sure of it. Then you came down again with that beastly dog of yours—and Cerberus failed to kill the brute. Worse still, you got away again. It took all my master's power to lure you down here. Only The One could have given all that trouble. And he thinks we need that blasted dog too—though I can't for the life of me work out what part a dog might play."

  While the man was speaking, Peter just looked at him. There was no expression on his face; his eyes were empty. A brutal glint appeared in the man's eyes as they swept over Peter. He picked up some rope that lay on the concrete.

  "Sit in that chair.” Peter did as he was told. “Hands behind the chair.” Again Peter obeyed. His hands were tied behind the chair and his legs to the chair legs. The man thrust a gag into his mouth, tying a piece of rag around his jaw to keep the gag in, and stepped back to survey his handiwork. “Okay. You can wake up."

  Peter looked around in bewilderment, terror gripping him tighter than the ropes that bound him as he realized his predicament. Behind his red beard his captor's mouth split into a wide, wolf-like grin. He chuckled.

  "That's more like it. You've good reason to be afraid. My master's the most terrifying being you'll ever encounter. Monsters from outer space have nothing on him. I'm his chief administrator. That means I have power too: you've just experienced some of it. That uncle of yours will be the next. Mind you—” and he folded his arms conversationally “—he's pretty helpless without you. Bah!” He gave a grimace of contempt. “Why he's allowed so much to depend on a mere boy—a novice—is beyond my comprehension. For all his so-called wisdom he's nothing but a fool. As for coming to this remote corner of the globe to mislead us—does he think we were born yesterday?” He regarded Peter thoughtfully. “I wonder...” he murmured, as though to himself.

  Peter felt as though something touched his brain—something loathsome and slimy. Everything disappeared into a swirling blackness. Evil and despair engulfed him. Then:

  "Can you hear me?” an insidious voice said into his mind. “Nod if you can.” Peter found himself gasping for air—it was like being drowned in a foul black mire. “Nod!” the voice shouted, with such relentlessness that Peter nodded just to get rid of it. But the voice continued: “Okay. If you can hear me you can speak to me. Speak! Say something!"

  How can I? Peter thought bitterly. People can't read each other's thoughts.

  "Ordinary people can't. But I'm not ordinary,” said the voice in his mind.

  "What do you want?” Peter made the thought as belligerent as possible.

  "Don't take that tone with me! Who are you? What's your name?"

  "Peter."

  Next moment Peter gave a cry as the blackness seemed to squeeze his brain, sending pain shooting through his head.

  "Insolent puppy! Your full name!” the silent voice roared.

  "Simon Peter FitzArthur,” Peter gasped, and the pain disappeared.

  "When are you thirteen?” The relentless pressure was re-exerted as a reminder of what happened when the speaker didn't get answers.

  "In a few days—twenty-second of December."

  "That's better.” The man used his voice this time and released Peter from the worst of the thick whirling darkness. “Well you're definitely the One we're after,” Peter heard him continue as he fought against the urge to be sick into the gag. “Pitiful choice,” the man went on with a sneer as he watched Peter's struggles for self-control. “It's literally sending a boy to do a man's job."

  "I don't know what you mean,” Peter retorted wordlessly. “I'm just a boy, like any other boy."

  "So your master would have us believe. We now know better. Therefore, you're my prisoner until after your birthday. If we can keep you from your master until your birthday has been and gone we'll be safe. It's only a few days so I suggest you make the best of it. In other words, behave yourself and you won't get hurt. When it's all over, I'll release you and you won't remember a thing."

  Peter looked at him with contempt. “Don't look at me as though I've crawled from under a stone, either. The power I possess is far from contemptible and well beyond your imagining. The taste you've had of it is small beer, just as your master is small beer, compared to mine. Small beer compared even to me."

  "I don't know what you're talking about. Get out of my head. Let me go. I'm not who you think I am. I'm only an ordin
ary boy."

  "Not if you've told me the truth—that your name is Simon Peter FitzArthur and that you'll be thirteen on the twenty-second of this month. But I'll leave you now—I've no wish to associate with your sort, anyway. As far as I'm concerned, you're abhorrent. I'm going to bed.” He turned to the door, unlocked it with the key that he took from his pocket and opened it. “Good night, Simon Peter FitzArthur. Sleep well."

  The light snapped out, the door clicked to and Peter heard the key turn in the lock.

  He was alone in the dark.

  * * * *

  UNCLE PAUL stirred uneasily in his sleep. A blue light kept darting in and out of his dreams. Evil poured from it like a tangible force. It must be a will'o'the wisp, he told himself incoherently. Abruptly Peter's figure, clad in pajamas, moved through the murk toward him. He opened his mouth to ask the boy why he walked the moors at night in his nightshirt. Moors? What moors? his mind asked sharply. Peter moved past him without so much as a glance in his direction. He might as well have been a ghost.

  Uncle Paul whirled to follow. But the boy was no longer there. He caught a glimpse of the blue light and started toward it. He soon found himself running through what he figured must be the bush at the bottom of the garden. He stopped as the light flickering ahead disappeared to his left. He ran to where he thought it had gone and found himself standing between two straggly trees.

  He was looking at a tall, many-gabled Victorian house made taller by having been placed on a basement. In the moonlight he noted black curtainless windows that appeared to bear down on him like hungry searching eyes. The house spoke to him. For some reason it felt perfectly natural for a house to speak. “You're definitely the one we're after,” it said. “Pitiful choice.” The sarcasm bit out strongly.

  "You're not so hot yourself,” Uncle Paul muttered in his dream. “Who'd want to live in a house that greets you with such a glowering face?"

  "No need to look at me as though I've crawled from under a stone,” the house replied. “The power I possess is far from contemptible."

  "Don't be daft; houses don't possess power,” Uncle Paul muttered irritably.

  The house started to say something about small beer when another voice broke in sharply: “Wake up! Wake up! The boy's in danger!"

  Uncle Paul's dream shattered. He jerked upright. Aunt Angela stirred and muttered what sounded like “Wassamarra?” Uncle Paul, however, took no notice. He was listening intently for something else. And he heard it—a few strands of eerie, bell-like music.

  About to swing his legs out of bed, he turned to his wife and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  "Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I've had a nightmare and I'm thirsty. I'm going to get myself a drink of water."

  Aunt Angela gave a grunt and within moments was breathing with the evenness of a deep sleeper. Satisfied, Uncle Paul struggled into a pair of shoes and tiptoed downstairs. He went to the front door but found it still bolted. However, the door to the back terrace was unlocked. He went to Peter's room. The bed was empty. He looked at Dreyfus, happily dreaming, bent over the dog and gently touched his head.

  "Hmm. Not much I can do about it. I think you're meant to wake up at Peter's usual time, old boy, and find him missing. But at least you'll be all right."

  He left the room and let himself out of the house. Once down on the drive he broke into a long-legged stride.

  Within minutes he found himself standing between two straggly trees. He looked across the overgrown lawn—and there was the house, exactly as it had appeared in his nightmare. It glowered down at him as it had then.

  "At least you're not talking,” he muttered under his breath as his shoes swished over the flattened grass and weeds.

  * * * *

  PETER SAT frantically searching the darkness. After a short while, to his relief, the darkness lightened. But the windows were still out of his line of vision and were so grubby that little moonlight came through them.

  He soon exhausted himself with struggling: it merely made the bonds tighter. The rope, and the wood of the chair, dug into his flesh, while his uncomfortable position made his muscles ache.

  Despite the pain in his body, however, his mind kept wandering to his strange conversation with the man calling himself Le Grud. Le Grud had said that he, Peter, was “The One—” and the man had spoken the words with unmistakable capitals.

  This is only a nightmare. It can't be real—it's too much like a horror story. But his other dealings with Le Grud hadn't been dreams. Cerberus hadn't been a dream; therefore, everything else must also be real. What had he walked into? He moaned aloud into the gag. The moan grew louder as the hopelessness of his position reinforced itself into his brain.

  The moan stopped short on a strangled gasp as a noise came from outside. His eyes flew to the door in a mixture of hope and fear. His heart pounded. Rescue? No, it couldn't be. No one knew where he was. They were all asleep. His heart gave a lurch as he realized it could only be Le Grud. Le Grud must have changed his mind about him.

  Oh God! Is he going to make sure of things by getting rid of me?

  The door started opening. Peter stared stupidly. He's not using his key! He didn't even turn the handle. So it can't be him! It must be ... His mind conjured up the only image he associated with Le Grud's “master"—the horrible, evil-smelling spider. He didn't want to look, but found it impossible to tear his eyes away.

  When Peter saw the face that peered around the half-open door he all but fainted. "Uncle Paul!" he screamed silently.

  Uncle Paul put a finger—needlessly Peter thought—to his lips. Cautiously he closed the door.

  "Not so loud. They have ways of hearing.” Peter could have sworn he heard the words only in his mind.

  "But you can feel that they're listening,” he found himself thinking.

  "True.” Uncle Paul crossed the floor. In a matter of seconds he removed the gag. Peter spat out bits of lint as best he could. In the darkness Uncle Paul fumbled with his bonds. Peter was soon free. “Can you stand up?"

  Peter tried but had to bite back a cry of pain. Uncle Paul immediately set to work massaging life into the cramped muscles. It felt like magic to have the pain disappear.

  "Okay?” When Peter nodded, Uncle Paul helped him to his feet. “Not a sound now. He might have that dratted blue light keeping watch.” Peter blinked but said nothing; his mouth was still too dry. He had no memory of any blue light. And how could a light keep watch anyway?

  They crept to the door. Uncle Paul motioned Peter through first. “I think we'll go up the side of the house and onto the road. If he's got a lookout posted, it will probably be toward the bush. This door faces the bush and you'd probably have gone that way if you'd managed to escape."

  Peter followed his uncle up the drive. Keeping as close to the house as possible, they made their way to the road. The front drive, a right-of-way like their own, was fortunately well screened from the house. The house itself was also concealed from the road. Once on the street they took to their heels.

  It was with relief that they arrived at their own driveway. They stopped running before reaching the large parking space at the front of the house. They tiptoed to the back. There, Uncle Paul turned before mounting the terrace stairs. The moonlight caught his eyes, giving them a fierce glitter.

  "That man and his breed are extremely dangerous, Peter. It's time to do something about them. And we've no time to waste. We're not ready for them yet, but we start fighting back today—straight after breakfast.” As Peter opened his mouth to ask questions, Uncle Paul put his finger to his lips. “Sshh! Later. You'll know all in good time."

  With that Peter had to be content to follow his uncle to Peter's room where they found Dreyfus still sleeping.

  "He'll be all right,” Uncle Paul said as Peter dropped in alarm to his knees at the dog's side. “There's a sleeping spell on him. He won't wake until the normal time. Don't worry about him and get some sleep yourself."

  Peter climbed int
o bed, sure he would be awake for the rest of the night. Before leaving him, Uncle Paul placed a hand lightly on the boy's head. “Sleep now."

  That was the last thing Peter remembered.

  Chapter 5

  The Stone Circle

  "SEEING IT'S his birthday tomorrow and I'll be busy sitting for my portrait, I'm taking Peter riding today as a birthday gift,” Uncle Paul said at breakfast time. “An old friend has a small riding stable and I've arranged to hire a few horses."

  Aunt Angela looked surprised. But all she said was, “Oh, that's an unusual present."

  "Learning to ride will be good for him.” Uncle Paul turned to Peter. “You can't ride, can you?"

  "No.” Peter wasn't too sure he wanted to learn.

  "The horses from the school are very placid beasts.” Uncle Paul's eyes twinkled in reassurance. Peter received again that strange impression that his uncle could read his mind.

  After breakfast, Peter and his uncle drove away armed with enough food to last them the weekend—or so Uncle Paul said.

  The riding stable was several hours’ drive away. Uncle Paul chose two horses, much to Peter's surprise, and one pony. “Tom Masterton—you know, our next-door neighbor—is coming with us. He'll be along presently. In the meantime we can get on with your lesson. I don't want you to do much—at the moment anyway—except learn to sit on a horse correctly. The skill of horse-riding might prove useful. But then, we never know what skills are going to be needed."

  Peter opened his mouth to ask what his uncle meant but thought better of it. No doubt he would soon find out.

  Uncle Paul chatted away with apparent aimlessness to the owner of the horses as he helped saddle them. “Do you employ a shepherd, Bart?"

  "Just an odd-job man who does other work as well. I haven't many sheep. Trees are more my kind of farming. If you remember, I used to be a forester. At least three-quarters of my land is planted out in trees now. Most of it goes for building, but there's a decent amount of firewood. I've also got a good business going in Christmas trees. I could've sold this year's lot several times over so I intend to plant out more. The forest makes a pleasant place for the riders, too. It's well marked out in tracks and I've had some maps printed for those who are interested."