THE POWER AND THE FURY

by James Erith

  The children had barely stepped out of the door when the familiar voice of Old Man Wood stopped them short.

  ‘Best of luck today, little ones,’ he called out. ‘There’s one heck of a big dark cloud over our heads. If lightning starts, remember to run for cover. You understand?’ He was quite sure they weren’t paying him the slightest bit of attention. ‘Do you recall that ditty we used to sing about different types of cloud? Now, how did it go? Ah yes:’

  High and light, no need for flight.

  Low and grey – stay away.

  Grey and round – rain around ...

  But black with a crack … is the devil’s smack.

  ‘So I’ll see you early afternoon. Best of luck, Daisy. Your school is relying on you, you heard what Solomon said.’

  The children waved.

  ‘His stupid poems,’ Daisy said quietly.

  ‘Oh, wait!’ Old Man Wood exclaimed, almost forgetting himself. ‘Did any of you leave a coat? Found it on the floor of the corridor.’ A large overcoat dangled over his arm. ‘Nice coat too, with an interesting pattern on the lining. Sure I’ve seen it somewhere before – reminds me of something.’ Old Man Wood scratched his head and then pinched his nose while he tried to remember.

  Archie missed a step and stumbled, just righting himself before his head hit the floor.

  Old Man Wood saw. ‘Is it yours, Archie? Looks a touch big for you, mind. But you might have mistakenly brought it home last evening.’

  Archie doubled back, his body trembling. Without looking at Old Man Wood he inspected the coat and ran his hand inside one of the pockets. His hair almost stood on end.

  ‘Back in a second,’ he yelled behind him as he flew up the stairs.

  Archie ran into the attic room and spied the glass of water on the side. It was tinged slightly blue – exactly as he’d left it. In one movement he grabbed it, and in the next and in one gulp, he drained it. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and ran down the staircase.

  ‘Everything alright, Archie?’ Old Man Wood asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Archie answered gulping as though a burp was about to burst out. ‘Forgot something, that’s all.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ Old Man Wood said. ‘Your coat?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, it belongs to a friend. Must have taken it by mistake.’

  ‘Big fella, is he?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Archie said as casually as he could.

  Old Man Wood handed him the coat. But as he did so the ruby-encrusted knife slipped out of the pocket and fell with a clatter onto the paving slabs.

  ‘A knife, Archie? You know you shouldn’t carry one of those around with you at school.’

  Archie’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Don’t worry. It’s only plastic – a stage knife, you know ... for acting,’ he smiled badly. ‘The bloke who owns the coat is the lead part, I think – in the school play; Macbeth or something.’ He bent down, narrowly beating Old Man Wood to it.

  ‘He certainly has an interesting taste in knives,’ Old Man Wood commented, raising his eyebrows at Archie. ‘Well on you go, young Arch, and remember to save those footballs.’

  Archie smiled and ran on, not a full sprint, but not a jog either, to catch up with the girls. As he ran, his heart was thumping like a huge bass drum and his head buzzed with a mixture of dread and excitement.

  Old Man Wood waved at the children until they had slipped away down the track out of eyesight and shook his head. Now wasn’t that funny, Archie behaving like that. That wasn’t a plastic knife, not a bit of it, not in a million years. He knew how to tell a cheap knife from a proper knife, because he knew all about knives. How, he didn’t remember, but he felt it in his bones.

  He’d certainly taught Archie about them, how to make one, the different shapes and handles and what they were used for and what certain carvings and notches meant. Not only that, but he’d shown him how to throw them as well, how to understand the balance and how the weight would determine the revolutions and power in the throw.

  He mulled this over, wondering what light might develop in his brain on the subject. No, nothing there again – just a deep penetrating feeling, like toothache. But the instant he saw the knife drop from the coat, he knew it was a beauty; a knife worthy of a powerful man with a large hand. And from the clinking noise it made on the floor, he would have bet a trinket or two it was made from silver and hard steel and, from the way the light reflected through the stone and diffused onto the Yorkstone slabs, he’d have taken another wager the knife’s stones were special – most likely rubies and pink diamonds. Plastic, never. He shook his head. There was no way in the world it was plastic.

  So what was Archie doing with it – and what was it about that funny old coat with the curious markings?

  Old Man Wood turned his head up to the sky and breathed in deeply. How dark was that cloud. Too dark by his reckoning, and growing. It now filled the sky from the moors to the dales like a great swollen bladder. It reminded him of Archie’s horrid, swollen, purple and black eye from the beginning of the year when a fishing hook caught him on the flesh just beneath his eyeball.

  He had a bad feeling about the cloud from deep in his gut, and this feeling hadn’t been helped by the images from the infernal nightmares he’d been having – every night – for the past week.

  He rubbed his chin. If he wasn’t mistaken, they were about his past, fragments from years ago. Stuff he could never remember, not at his age. Things like flooding and a desperate old woman, ghosts and odd spidery creatures that looked like jellyfish with blue flames in their bellies. And a cave? Now that one had seemed more familiar but … the problem was, there were just so many “buts”.

  Old Man Wood brushed a speck of dust off his coat. Nothing I can do about it now, he told himself, whatever it means.

  He shut the door and his mind wandered back to the knife and the coat, as if the subject wanted to spend a little more time in his head.

  What had surprised him was his reaction to the pattern on the lining of the coat. It had taken his breath away. Why? Was it the pattern? No, it couldn’t be. He’d seen thousands and thousands of patterns of snakes and trees or snakes slithering up poles and the like all the way through his long life.

  But why did this particular one send such a shiver up his spine? Why did it make him feel a little weak and thrilled at the same time? Was it was something to do with the fabric? Maybe that was it.

  He replayed his memory to the moment he saw the lining for the first time. There it was – that curious feeling again. It was as if the snake had actually moved, had slithered up into the tree right there on the fabric itself. He shook his head, stood up and paced uneasily around the room.

  And he’d noted the buttons too, with a matching crest of a snake winding through the branches of a tree. That exact pattern – where was it from? Maybe there was a copy of it somewhere in the house – perhaps on one of the many woodcarvings – in his room even?

  Suddenly an idea shot into his head and it filled his entire body with a bolt of electricity as though in some way it was inspired by a greater power. My goodness me, he thought, it can’t be.

  He made his way into the sitting room and sat down in his large, rather worn, armchair which faced the fire. He cupped his face in his large, leathery, old hands and stared at the embers.

  What if the fabric from that jacket wasn’t actually from Earth? He felt dizzy. Now this was bringing back the past. He’d never seen a fabric that had the ability to change shape before here on Earth, but if he remembered correctly this could be something from one of those other places. And if it bore the marks of the snake and the tree, then could it possibly be from the Garden of Eden?

  A surge of energy coursed through his body, making him feel strong for a second or two. He hadn’t felt this for years. Another thought hit him. Perhaps it wasn’t the Garden of Eden. What if it was the other place – the place he’d deliberately cast out of his mind?

  Old Man Wood stood up, narrowly avoiding cracking his
head on one of the lower supporting beams of the house.

  Time to research those old carvings, he thought. He’d start on the stairs and then try his bedroom. He didn’t know what he might find; he just had a sense about him that they might shed a clue on that strange garment’s true home.

  18

  Kemp Tries To Make Up

  Today was the last day before the long half term break. Not only was there the excitement of the big football match but the school had laid on exhibitions, a concert and a play so that almost half the children in the school were, in one way or another, involved in the celebrations. Aside from their earlier worries, the girls had a spring in their step as they headed down the steep track.

  At the top of the hill, the banks at either side of the track gradually increased in height. As the children descended, it was like a steep gully, as if the lane had been cut out of the hillside by a giant digger. Overhead, the tree branches provided a thick canopy of leaves, like a covered tunnel, all the way from the top to the bottom.

  On a clear day, sunlight flickered through, and when that happened, it was as if glitter was sprinkling down upon them. Today it was almost pitch black and the tree roots that supported the bank twisted through the rock and soil, reaching out at them like the arms and legs of decaying corpses.

  The children were used to it; after all, it was their everyday walk to school. So the idea of it being in any way scary was beyond them. But Sue called it “the big graveyard ditch” and she was petrified of it. She was right in one respect; it took the water off the hill and even in the driest summer a constant trickle dribbled down from the moors at the top to the river below.

  As the children walked down the hill, the girls asked Archie about the coat.

  He shrugged his shoulders and told them that it was Kemp’s dad’s old coat – he must have got it muddled up in the cloakroom. But although he slumped along quietly, his heart was thudding in his chest and his brain worked overtime as he tried to remember what had happened during the night.

  The girls didn’t bother to question him further. For someone as disorganised as Archie it was quite believable that he might have picked up the wrong coat. He was often turning up in strange woolly hats or with pens and pencils that he’d mistakenly pocketed.

  A third of the way down the tree-covered lane they stopped by a vast old oak with a huge bough that leaned over the road. Daisy climbed nimbly up the steep, high bank using the large roots as hand grips. At the top she uncoiled the rope that was tied around the middle of the huge branch and tossed down the slack.

  Although he didn’t feel quite in the mood, Archie went first. He ran up the hill and, as he took off, he climbed up the rope until his feet settled on the large knot at the bottom. Then he swung rapidly backwards and forwards, the wind rushing through his hair. It was exhilarating. As the rope slowed, he climbed down, running to a stop.

  Isabella went next. Her way was to sit on the knot and swing gently through the air. Finally it was Daisy’s turn. She climbed up the rope and asked Archie to pull her up the hill as far as he could. She soared through the air, her hair flying behind her, until she was almost horizontal with the bank and crashing into the canopy.

  She flew backwards, screaming in delight, and then she soared forward before bashing into the bank on the left and twisting to the one on the right. They laughed at her recklessness.

  Daisy desperately wanted another go, but Isabella put her foot down. ‘We’ll be late. But I promise we’ll have a go on the way back.’

  ‘Oh sure,’ Daisy said, sulking, as she tucked the rope through and around a protruding root. ‘I bet we’ll forget, or you’ll be too tired, or it’ll be too dark or some other rubbish excuse.’

  ‘Daisy,’ Isabella replied, ‘it isn’t possible for you to forget the rope swing.’

  They continued their journey down the track until at last the steep slope levelled out and the height of the bank dipped, like at the end of a slide. When they came to the rickety wooden bridge, they peered over the railings at the water beneath that had journeyed from the heart of the moors.

  Archie was determined to see a fish but was dragged away by Isabella who noted how, in the strange light, the school tower to the left looked quite enormous compared to the tiny wooden boathouse at the foot of the hills by the river. She wondered if the boat in there was still sound and made a mental note to see Mr Pike. It would make a great trip out before the weather turned.

  The children skipped across the lush velvety green football pitch with big, bold, alternating stripes and tattoo-like fresh white markings burnt into the turf. Down each side were posts with safety ropes attached to keep the spectators at bay. On each corner, slightly recessed, was the headmaster’s pride and joy, the moveable floodlight towers in a crisscross of metal thirty feet high. They were the first school in the North (as Mr Solomon often repeated) who played football when they liked and cricket when they liked. It had been a masterstroke – an expensive masterstroke – but it had raised the profile of the school in sporting terms from a veritable backwater to a championship contender.

  Daisy ran ahead, pretending to do skills and dummies, commentating about the goals she was going to score later on. Much to Archie’s amusement, she included the crowd noises, which were like the “huuuuhhh” you make when breathing on a window pane.

  At last they made it across the playing field and climbed the steep set of steps to the school buildings.

  As Archie followed Daisy into their brightly lit form room, the rows of incandescent lights glaring down upon them, Daisy immediately rushed over to join a group of girls at the front. Archie noticed Kemp sitting quietly at his desk, reading a book. Let sleeping dogs lie, he thought, especially unpredictable dogs. So, without any fuss, he made his way to his desk at the other side of the room.

  Archie draped the coat over the back of his chair, sat down and put his head in his hands. He desperately tried to remember what the ghost had said: a meeting, something about the strength of a lion and the courage of a horse and, after writing it down, he realised that it had to be the other way round. This and that he’d be saved. But saved from what?

  Hadn’t he agreed to do something as well; join him or enter into a partnership or something nuts like that? It didn’t make any sense but, and it was a huge BUT, he was in possession of the ghost’s coat and dagger here in this very room. So it couldn’t be that nuts. Archie rubbed the cut under his chin – another reminder.

  He pulled out a piece of paper and nibbled on the end of a pencil. “Possible options for the meeting place”, he wrote.

  He racked his brain trying to remember. Was it down by the boatyard or up by one of the big willow trees? He wrote them down but shook his head. No. Neither of those options rang true. He wondered if it was the alley above the football pitch and he wrote that down as well.

  He underlined it a couple of times and leaned back in his chair. Yes, that one rang a bell. But what on earth was he going to do about it. He sighed. Nothing, he supposed.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a friendly, but slightly painful, wallop on his shoulders. It was Gus Williams who had bounced into the room. ‘Morning Archie. You’re not by any chance writing a “to-do” list, are you?’ he said sarcastically, with a laugh that showed off his extensively large teeth.

  Archie smiled. ‘No, don’t be ridiculous.’

  Gus read the list. ‘Lost something?’

  ‘Nah. Just trying to remember a dream.’

  ‘Oh, well that’s OK,’ Williams said cheerily. ‘So long as it wasn’t a very big and complex dream?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact, yes it was.’ Archie looked up, smiling. ‘Now go away and leave me to think.’

  ‘News alert!’ Williams announced to the room, his grin almost completely covering his face. ‘Archie de Lowe is thinking! Give him plenty of room, oxygen at the ready.’ Gus leant down again. ‘Next you’ll be telling me Daisy’s caught the same bug,’ he whispered. ‘Good luck!’


  He smiled and sprang off like a big, energetic, happy puppy to his desk at the back of the room.

  Kemp had been listening to Archie’s conversation with Gus with great interest. He smiled. Archie was completely hopeless at organising himself; he would bet money Archie had forgotten something again. And by the looks of it, it was more important than usual.

  He stood up quietly and headed over to him. ‘Morning Archie, everything cool?’

  Archie groaned. First Gus, now Kemp. What did he want? ‘Not really, Kemp,’ he said coldly. ‘I had a very, very bad night.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Kemp replied as he perched on his desk.

  ‘Yes. If you must know, I had a couple of very odd experiences. Thing is I can’t remember either of them.’

  Kemp burst out laughing. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  Archie stared at Kemp’s face and noted what a big nose he had and his ridiculously square jaw. ‘I told you; I’m not talking to you after what you did yesterday.’

  Kemp sighed. ‘OK. You win. Look I had a think and last night I decided that I’m going to change. No more jokes on people. I promise—’

  ‘You said that before – and immediately let me down. In fact you lied to me. Christ, Kemp, I had to own up for your stupidity and you made me feel like an idiot. Luckily Isabella didn’t believe me.’

  Kemp sucked in his cheeks. ‘Look Archie, I’ve told Mason and Wilcox I don’t want to be part of the gang. When I’m with them, I act like a ... like a moron. I don’t know what comes over me and, bottom line is that I don’t want to hang with them anymore.’

  Kemp noted Archie’s look of disgust. ‘If you don’t believe me, go and ask them,’ he continued. ‘Go on, they’re over there in the corner, playing on their phones like two happy little bunnies. Seriously, I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. I really don’t.’ He dropped his voice and briefly stole a look over his shoulder. ‘I want to be your friend.’