The Box of Demons

by Daniel Whelan

  Ben tried to speak, but Jenny clamped her hand over his mouth, squeezing his cheeks until his teeth hurt. The Box beat in time to his heart, pounding out battle music, calling him to action. He pawed wildly at her face with his free hand until he found her chin, and extended his arm as much as could, but Jenny had the advantage of her entire body weight and he wasn’t strong enough to shift her. She gargled a bit, but that was all.

  It became hard to breathe. He twisted his head to try to free his mouth, but Jenny held firm. The Box reacted with a loud thwacking sound, as if a wet fish had been thrown at a cello, and something changed in his head. He started to feel the power of the Box pulsating through him, just as he had on the Orme. In an instant his outstretched arm was consumed by green fire, which licked up to his hand and then spread on to Jenny’s face. It slowly spread across her chin, bleaching her face with light.

  ‘Ugh, what you doin’ to me, Wendy? How dare you touch me you little . . .’ gargled Jenny.

  Ben ignored her, choosing instead to concentrate on the green light, watching it spread all over her chin and cheeks. He felt himself drifting away, hearing only the Box; it sang, but not in any language Ben could name, if it was a language at all. It was more a feeling, an understanding between him and it.

  Jenny’s face began to change. ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘how . . . how are you doing that? How did you make your eyes change colour? Here, Sal, look at this . . .’

  She turned to look at the others, letting go of Ben’s face as she did. Ben took a deep breath, and let go of her chin. The light disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

  From the other end of the field, Ben heard shouting. Someone was calling for the girls to leave him alone. Jenny sprang back, and Ben scrambled to his feet. She stood heaving great heavy breaths, like a giant wounded boar.

  ‘W-w-w-what are you waiting for? Get him!’

  The other Furies looked at each other. Nikki giggled.

  ‘What?’ demanded Jenny.

  ‘’Ere, Jen,’ said Sally. ‘When did your spots clear up?’

  Jenny’s face was suddenly like rock. ‘What? What spots? What you tryin’ to say?’

  Nikki bit her fist. Sally looked at the floor. ‘I know we sort of pretend you don’t have them, but now you sort of really don’t.’

  ‘What you on about?’ Jenny patted her face. The skin was smooth. She looked confused. ‘Mirror,’ she thundered, her arm out.

  Sally fumbled in her bag for her compact. Jenny gawped at her reflection, and then at Ben. ‘How?’ she said. She dropped the mirror and ran back across the waste ground with such athleticism that all her months of PE sick notes were instantly proved to be forgeries. The other Furies looked confused for a moment before sprinting off after her.

  ‘That’s right,’ said a voice – it was Lucy, running towards him. ‘Get lost, you bullies! Losers!’ She was carrying two full bags of shopping that bashed her sides as she ran. ‘Phew. I didn’t expect that to work quite as well as it did. Are you OK?’

  Ben was staring down at his muddy hands. He didn’t quite understand what had happened. He wasn’t really aware of the girl at all.

  ‘You’re Ben, aren’t you?’

  ‘Um,’ said Ben.

  ‘Lucy. We met at Teg’s shop. Remember? Are you all right?’

  ‘Um.’

  ‘I hate bullies. Do you want me to walk you home?’

  Ben shook his head. He didn’t want to be walked home. He wanted to know what had just happened. He had healed Jenny’s acne.

  ‘OK,’ said Lucy. ‘Maybe you could walk me home, then.’ She clicked her fingers in front of his face. ‘Hello?’

  ‘I don’t know where you live.’

  ‘That’s all right. You can walk me to yours instead.’ She picked up one of her bags. ‘I’ve got animal biscuits in the other one of these. Grab it for me and I might share them.’

  Ben frowned. ‘Um,’ he said. Again.

  ‘Which way then?’

  Ben pointed in the direction of Fford Heulwen, and Lucy nodded. She started walking. ‘Come on. Animal biscuits.’

  He picked up the other bag, and trailed along after her. He had only walked a few steps when the Box protested, and he turned back. He hurriedly gathered it up and thrust it into his satchel before jogging to catch up.

  Chapter Twelve

  Love and Warmonger

  ‘Well, thanks for everything,’ said Ben when they arrived at his house. His head was still a little muddled, though the Box seemed to understand this and was trying to be reassuring. He wanted to be on his own, to figure out what had happened and to listen to the Box. ‘I’m home now, so . . .’

  ‘I can’t leave you now,’ said Lucy. ‘I promised you animal biscuits. Besides, you haven’t paid for your order.’

  ‘What order?’

  ‘Didn’t I say?’ She held out the other carrier bag. It was full of ageing stock from Out-the-Back. The sun-faded box of Villagers and Townsfolk stuck out the top. ‘That’s why I’m here. I was coming to deliver this. Teg said you ordered it.’

  ‘I wish he’d just leave me alone.’ Ben rummaged through the bag for a minute before trying to hand it back. ‘This is junk. I didn’t order this.’

  ‘He said you did.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Well, I can’t go back without the money, can I? He’ll go mental.’

  ‘How much is it?’

  ‘Fifty quid, he says. Special offer.’

  ‘He’d need to give me fifty quid to take it. I don’t need any hedgerows, thanks. And there’s even a viaduct in here. What am I supposed to do with that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Can’t your trolls live under it or something?’

  ‘It’s an accessory for a train set.’

  ‘Don’t they have trains in Battle Axe? They had trains in World War Two. For supplies and things.’

  ‘First, no, we don’t have trains. It’s a fantasy game. Second, it’s called Warmonger. How can you work at the Forge and not know that?’

  ‘I didn’t want to work there. I was supposed to be going to the Sun Centre, but that fell through. Then I was placed at this shoe shop in town, but the old bag who ran it wanted me to wear red, so I told her where to stick it. I don’t know anything about Warmonger, and Teg doesn’t want to show me.’ She shrugged. ‘All I do is write down numbers and make tea, anyway. My dad says it’s pretty much the perfect experience of the world of work.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Ben, and went to shut the door. Lucy stuck her foot inside.

  ‘Maybe you could show me? In exchange for saving you from – what did you call them? The gorgons?’

  ‘The Furies.’ Ben screwed up his face. ‘Are you going to go away if I say no?’

  Lucy smiled.

  ‘Fine,’ sighed Ben. He held open the door, and Lucy ducked inside.

  ‘Put the kettle on then,’ she said.

  After Lucy had drunk her tea, and shared out her biscuits, and asked him a billion questions about the Furies, and Druss, and his mother, which Ben was surprised to discover he didn’t mind answering at all, they had gone upstairs. Ben got everything ready (including the appropriate codex for civil war, since he only had skeletons to battle with) while Lucy squinted at various figures through the magnifying glass. If he’d have thought about it, he’d have realized that this was the first time he’d ever had a girl in his room. In fact, it was the first time he’d had a human he wasn’t related to in his room.

  She was currently enamoured with a Necromancer. ‘These are really good. Did you paint all these yourself?’

  ‘Yeah. They’re not as good as Tegwyn’s, though. His attention to detail is amazing.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ sniggered Lucy. ‘Wait, you don’t know? Teg doesn’t paint all his models himself. His mum lives in a home in Denbigh. Once a week he takes a big bag of orcs round, and there’s a little group of pensioners that does them for him. He only does the big showy things himself. Dragons, stuff like that.’ />
  ‘Wyverns,’ said Ben, quickly. He blushed, then mumbled, ‘Orcs have wyverns.’

  ‘You don’t need to be embarrassed. There’s no point pretending to be something you’re not because you think it will make other people more comfortable.’ She picked up his zombie dragon and pretended to fly it through the air, making growling noises. ‘Can I have this wyvern on my side?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ben. ‘But that’s a dragon.’

  They played for an hour, and despite the Box burbling along impatiently in the back of his head, Ben was enjoying himself. He wanted the game to go on, so he had been playing purposefully badly, but when they came to the end of a combat phase which obliterated the last of Ben’s troops Lucy put the dice down.

  ‘I’d better be going then. Thanks for the lesson. And the tea.’

  ‘That’s all right. It was nice, you know?’ He mumbled the end of the sentence into his chest, and felt his cheeks turn red.

  ‘We can hang out again if you like. You doing anything Monday?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Gran probably wants us to visit something educational at some point, but that’ll be later in the week.’

  ‘You know the Old School Youth Centre in Towyn?’

  A cautious new melody wheedled its way through the score. ‘Yes?’ he said tentatively.

  ‘You should come to druidic circle. It’s a lot of fun.’

  ‘You’re a druid?’ said Ben.

  ‘Yeah, didn’t you know? That’s how I ended up at Teg’s shop. The Grand Druid sorted it out. But it’s not weird or anything. Not culty weird, anyway. It’s mostly nice people getting together to drink tea and talk about the nature. And magic, but you already know all about that, don’t you?’

  Ben sighed and shook his head. ‘I can’t believe I fell for that.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Is that why you’re being nice to me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not stupid, OK?’ His shoulders tightened as the music grew prickly and paranoid. ‘Pretending to be interested in Warmonger. I know they sent you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’ve not been doing animal sacrifices or whatever it is they say I’ve been doing, OK? I just want to be left alone. Tell Tegwyn to stop ringing, tell him I’m never going back to his stupid shop, and tell him I don’t want him sending his minions to my house.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Lucy. Her voice was quiet, and she lowered her head. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I don’t know what I said, but I’m sorry.’ She picked up the bag of Villagers and Townsfolk, and left. Ben listened as she ran down the stairs. He waited for the front door to slam, then retrieved the Box from his satchel.

  It brightened at his touch, and the horrible throbbing went away. His fingers tingled as he touched it, and a smile formed on his lips. He didn’t need anyone else. Why would he? He had the Box. He eased the lid back, and as it yawned open, the melody exploded, and Ben felt full up. He put his hand inside the Box and rapped his knuckles on the base in time to the music.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Cult of the Four Winds

  That night, Ben was woken by a rustling sound, like a bird disturbed on the roost. It was followed by a horrible silence as the music of the Box stopped abruptly. In a panic, he pulled himself over to the edge of the bed to check on it. He felt like he was missing a part of him. As he fished under the bed to try and find it, an incomprehensible whispering started up in its place, and blazing angel light began to fill his room.

  ‘Ben-the-Just?’ said a deep, guttural voice. ‘Are you Ben-the-Just?’

  ‘No,’ said Ben.

  ‘Oh,’ said the voice. The new angel was a hulking brute, much bigger than The Seraph. Ben wondered if his little bedroom would be big enough to hold him. He was the same shape as a bear, with broad, rounded shoulders that hunched up over his big round head. He seemed to be thinking something over, and after a slight pause he shook his wings out as if to leave. His frame made them look small, like an ostrich’s.

  ‘I’m Ben, but no one calls me Ben-the-Just.’

  ‘Apologies. I was told you wished to be known as Just Ben. The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts told us not to call you Ben Robson.’

  ‘Ben on its own is fine.’

  The hulk-angel furrowed his brow. ‘Shame. Ben-the-Just is a fine name. The sort of name earned in battle, and I know you have seen battle.’ He rested his huge forearm on the large silver sword at his waist. The cross-guard was golden, and forged to resemble an angel’s wings. ‘I am The Triumph of the Skies, Lord of the Grand War, Champion of the Prime One, Second Oblate of the Cult of the Four Winds. But you can call me The Triumph. That’s what the Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts allowed, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Now is there something you want? Because I’d like the music of the Box back, please.’

  ‘Stupid primate,’ rasped a sibilant new voice. Another angel shone into view, brightening the room considerably. This one was thin and rangy, with a sharp face framed by a mess of dirty black curls. He was slighter than the others, and shorter too: next to The Triumph he looked almost human-sized. He had a long quiver slung over his shoulder. ‘We would leave you to your fate if the Creation was not at stake.’

  ‘This is The Archivist of the End Times, Keeper of the Celestial Trumpet, Holder of the Key of Seals, Third Oblate of the Cult of the Four Winds,’ said The Triumph. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s not used to dealing with people. Each member of the Cult of the Four Winds has a very special skill; his doesn’t lend itself to communicating with humans. Or with anyone else, if I’m honest.’

  ‘And I suppose I call you The Archivist?’

  The Archivist contemptuously broke eye contact to look at the ceiling. ‘I would prefer if you did not address me at all. I am celestial, eternal, one of the Prime One’s chosen. You are an evolved monkey.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Ben. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We need your help to rescue The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts,’ said The Triumph.

  ‘The Seraph is dead,’ said Ben. ‘The dog-demon killed him, on the Orme.’

  The Archivist laughed. ‘Only mortals die. There is no place for our kind in the Valley of Death.’

  ‘Yeah? Tell that to the dog-demon. He seemed pretty dead after I shot him with the Box.’

  ‘The Box erased that creature from Creation,’ said The Triumph. ‘But The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts still very much exists. He is trapped inside the Box, mistaken for the kind of infernal weapon it was designed to constrain.’

  Ben let out a little snort of disbelief. ‘The Box is empty. I can put my hand inside it.’

  ‘This is futile,’ said The Archivist. ‘As I said it would be.’

  The Triumph glared at him, and The Archivist shrank back a little. ‘When The Adversary’s Herald was erased, Ben, you became bound to the Box. It sealed the demons away, captured The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts, and has been working towards enslaving you ever since.’

  ‘But I’ve always been bound to the Box. Ever since I was small.’

  ‘Yes, but did it always give you the power to heal?’ hissed The Archivist. ‘Ever since the Orme the true power of the Box has been living inside you. How do you think you got home after the Orme? How did you recover from your injuries so quickly? How were you able to soothe the female’s inflamed sebaceous glands?’

  ‘Huh?’ said Ben.

  ‘He means Jenny’s acne,’ said The Triumph.

  The Archivist rolled his eyes.

  ‘How do you know about that?’ said Ben ‘I don’t even really know about that.’

  The Archivist tilted his head back with disdain. ‘I have dedicated my entire aeons-long existence to the study of the Box. Every distance it has travelled, every keeper it has known. I know every date, every number, every time it has been used. It has healed countless sick and caused plagues; it has encouraged greed, and brought blight; it has started wars, and ended them too. You have
held it for fourteen years ten months two weeks six days seventeen hours and forty-’ – he paused for a few seconds – ‘eight minutes, and you are an insignificant blip in its long and prestigious history. Your simian brain cannot comprehend its power.’

  ‘As I said,’ shrugged The Triumph, ‘his talent doesn’t really lend itself to social interactions. So what do you say? Can you help us?’

  Ben paused for a moment. ‘No.’

  ‘What?’ said The Archivist.

  ‘I said no. I don’t want the demons back, and I like being bound to the Box. And if it gives me the power to heal sick people, I’m going to make my mum better.’

  ‘That would not be wise,’ said The Triumph. ‘The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts has told us of your mother’s condition. She believes she has met angels. Her mind must be a very fragile thing.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The Box is very powerful. What if you make her worse?’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Ben. ‘The Box wouldn’t do that to me.’

  The score once more faded in, rising through the sound of the voice in the corner. Ben reached out to it. The whispering increased in intensity, and the music shrank back. Ben scowled.

  ‘Can’t you shut that noise up?’

  ‘That is The Castellan of the Veil,’ said The Archivist. ‘You will show her respect.’

  A new glow revealed the source of the sound: a third angel sat cross-legged on the tatty blue Garfield beanbag in the corner of the room. Her hood was draped over her head, and her arms were curled up inside her long sleeves. Her wings were raised so that the tips touched, and the light-picture her outline created made it look like she was sitting in a giant orange egg.

  The whole room was now bathed in angel-light, as if they had been transported to a planet with an orange sky. It would have been quite the sight had Ben not seen so many angels appearing and disappearing that he was starting to get quite jaded about the whole thing.