The Forever Man

by Eoin Colfer

  The dog skittered off in a circle for another attack, but he never had to make it because a ring of burly men emerged from the wooded marsh with pikes and muskets.

  ‘Be still, witch,’ cried one. ‘And bear the manacles.’

  No thanks, pal, thought Chevie, and kicked the guy in the knee, which is not an obvious choice or an easy target, but if the kick is dead on then the pain caused is immense.

  The man went down howling with agony and clutching his popped joint.

  Chevie managed to deck another swarthy gent with a punch in the neck, which again would not be considered classy fighting, but there was nothing noble about the odds here, so Chevie didn’t feel too bad about it.

  What she did feel bad about was the sack, which was pulled down over her head by a third man and swiftly tied off at the ankles. And it doesn’t matter how good a martial artist a person is, there is no kung-fu’ing your way out of a sturdy sack.

  Dammit, she thought, toppling over. Now Garrick has us both.

  Chevie realized that she should have listened to Isles and made like a statue.

  The Isles in question was roused from slumber by a furious crackling in the antechamber, which he recognized as Professor Smart’s signature I’m excited noise. And Professor Smart being excited was rarely a good thing, as in: Look, everyone. I’ve found the way home. Usually the prof was excited in an anxious way, as in: Look, everyone. Doom and catastrophe are about to descend on us all.

  Isles rolled out of bed and padded into the main area. The ghost of Professor Smart was literally fizzing in front of his monitor.

  ‘Hey, Prof,’ whispered Isles. ‘What’s up?’

  Smart did not take his eyes off the screen. ‘Doom and catastrophe are about to descend on us all,’ he said, as predicted.

  ‘I thought so. And what is it this time?’

  ‘The rift,’ said Smart. ‘It’s wide open. Visible to all. I have destroyed the earth.’

  Isles decided to take this seriously. ‘Destroyed the earth? Seriously? I always thought that was, you know, Scottish hyperbole.’

  Smart glowered, which he could do most effectively by speeding up his particles. ‘There is a gate between two dimensions that were never meant to be joined. The other dimension, or more accurately –’

  Isles was getting a little impatient. ‘Inter-dimension. I know, Prof. Get on with it.’

  ‘The inter-dimension is stuffed to the gills with giant beasties and dark energy. All of which are about to be poured on to this marshland.’

  ‘That does not sound like hyperbole,’ admitted Isles. ‘Sounds like you were underplaying it, actually. Can’t you do anything?’

  ‘I can detonate the electromagnetic pulse and that might send the rift energy into recoil, but not for long. Perhaps twelve hours. No longer.’

  Isles hurried round to look at the monitor, which was almost covered in swirling red tendrils. ‘ OK, good. Great. Let’s do that. How many of these EMPs do you have?’

  ‘One,’ said Smart miserably. ‘And we built it years ago. It might not even work. I’ve been using the field to protect the office, so I don’t get dematerialized altogether.’

  ‘But what about you?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, probably. Anyway, we have no alternative.’

  Isles did not like this plan, but there were no alternatives.

  ‘ OK, prof. Do it.’

  The professor sent his fingers into the computer itself, rearranging power flows and powering up the EMP built into the coils that wrapped the office.

  As Smart worked, Isles muttered to himself. ‘ EMPs, dark matter. It’s like some Saturday-morning cartoon. Like Scooby-Doo.’ This reminded him of something. ‘Where is Pointer anyway? He’s been gone all day. I swear if he’s off chasing rats again I will kick his tail.’ This reminded him of something else. ‘Hey, prof. Where’s the girl?’

  The professor was halfway into the monitor now, but he popped his head out to say, ‘She went out. Through the floorboards, I think.’

  Isles knelt. The see-saw floorboard was still see-sawed, and there was light coming from below.

  He peeped down to see two hounds that were not Pointer clawing at the oak’s trunk and a group of Puritan militiamen with lanterns clustered round the base of their treehouse.

  ‘Egad!’ said one. ‘’Tis the traitor, Isles.’ Musket barrels swivelled Isles’s way.

  ‘This be the witch’s lair,’ said another voice from below. ‘Grenadier!’

  Grenadier! thought Isles. Oh, crud!

  Then instinct took over from thought as a dozen musket balls peppered the planking around the gap, two making it through and one grazing his shoulder.

  Isles rolled away from the hole and almost immediately wished he had closed the gap first as an apple-sized metal sphere spun neatly through it and plonked on to the wood.

  That grenadier has got a hell of an arm, thought Isles, scrambling away.

  This thought was confirmed when two more grenades joined the first, rolling to form a deadly hissing cluster.

  ‘We gotta go, Professor. Time’s up.’

  ‘One more second,’ said Charles Smart. ‘One more second.’

  Five seconds later the entire field office went up in a roiling mushroom of flame and black smoke, which set the dogs running scared and the militiamen chortling, clapping and stamping their feet.

  ‘Good throwing, sir,’ said the captain to the pock-faced, lanky youth who had tossed the bombs. ‘Good throwing indeed. The Witchfinder will shake our hands for good fellows after this day’s work. The witch is ours and her familiars have gone to meet their maker. Or rather, their master.’

  Inside the sack, Chevie bucked and elbowed, but she was as trapped as a salmon in a net and her struggles made the militiamen’s chortles all the more hearty and their self-congratulation all the more sickening.

  From his vantage point high above the fens, Albert Garrick saw the red rose of explosion bloom in the forest and heard the strange clang that accompanied it and almost immediately the rift released its grasp on him. Albert Garrick did not know how or why but he was glad nonetheless. He would dance with the devil himself if it meant escaping the wormhole.

  Praise be, he thought, then plummeted the five full seconds to earth.

  Garrick landed with a thump that shattered his collarbone and dislocated two of his vertebrae. While he lay on his twisted back feeling the pain lance through his body as the bones mended, he watched the rift recoil above him as though wounded.

  Wounded but far from vanquished.

  ‘How does one kill a werewolf?’ he asked the stars, still mulling over his question of earlier that day. And when the stars did not answer he said, ‘Put a silver bullet through its heart.’

  Garrick smiled at the rift.

  ‘Oh, my ancient enemy, I think you have shown me your heart,’ he said.

  Drop Chute

  Riley ran like Lucifer himself was on his heels, which in a very real way he was – for when the mysterious explosion lit up the night sky Riley felt his own pace suddenly increase as the explosion’s shock knocked out whatever beam of attraction the wormhole had thrown around him.

  And, if I am freed, then so is Garrick.

  But he could not stop to look, for there was no time to spare as, in Riley’s experience, wherever there was riotous mayhem it was either Garrick or Chevie at the nub of it. Since Garrick was to the rear, hopefully incapacitated, then it must be Chevron who was close to this latest havoc.

  Not too close, Chevie. Not too close.

  For it would be heartbreaking to be almost in sight of the girl and then to lose her.

  Riley had a sudden horrifying thought that almost halted his gallop.

  Could I bear to see Chevie’s dead form? Could I stand to feel her grow cold in my arms?

  Riley increased his pace and weaved through the trees, feeling dread like an icy fist gripping his heart.

  I will not allow that to happen.

  So he ran on, prayi
ng to the Lord above that his feet, made careless by desperate haste, would not snag on a root. His bones would not heal like Garrick’s. If he stumbled into a rut or a sinkhole while running at this peg, his ankle would snap like kindling and he would be forced to lie in the mud till Garrick toddled over to do the job he’d been hankering after.

  Lady Luck smiled on Riley for once and allowed him to dodge disaster as he ran, virtually blind, over the treacherous ground and dodged between trunks that loomed from the mist like the masts of long-abandoned ghost ships. In Riley’s mind the trees creaked and groaned as he flitted past.

  Riley’s luck ran out when he earned a ducking for himself in a shallow pool and he crawled out, covered with death stink and pond scum. The chill set his teeth chattering and weighed down his clothes, which was his primary concern.

  Oftentimes I’ve smelled worse and shivered more and that will pass, he thought. But tardiness could cost me everything.

  On he ran towards the flaming tree till it towered above him and its flames set steam rising from his clothes. The branches burned like a penny sparkler, and the trunk was blackened but as yet uncombusted.

  Riley did not have to search far for the perpetrators of the fire. The militiamen were so jolly and boisterous that they might have been toasting muffins on the heat and setting up a sing-song. And, at their feet, a wriggling sack with Chevie’s boots sticking out of the opening.

  Chevie in a sack. And not for the first time.

  Riley was consumed by a heady mixture of emotion. There was fear in the mix, and rage too, which might have been manageable was the brew not topped off with love.

  He made a sound that was somewhere between a death rattle and a growl, which fortunately was swallowed up by the fire’s racket, and made ready to charge these scoundrels who would so ungallantly truss a young lady.

  Riley had taken barely a step when two bear-like arms emerged from the shadows and wrapped him in an expert restraining hug. Perhaps if Riley had had the luxury of time he would have figured a way out of this grip, but even as he considered his options a voice whispered in his ear.

  ‘Not now, kid. These guys have little training, but there are too many. We regroup and plan.’

  Riley was lifted bodily and shifted backwards to the shadows of a nearby tree.

  ‘You OK, kid?’ said the deep voice. ‘If I let you go, you ain’t gonna blow our cover?’

  Riley shook his head. He knew that term. Chevie had often talked about her cover.

  When the hand left his face, Riley whispered, ‘Fairbrother Isles. Is that you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the voice behind him. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Blow our cover. That’s federal talk and you are Fairbrother Isles. FBI. Obvious, ain’t it?’

  ‘Finally,’ said Isles. ‘Someone gets it. I knew it was a good code.’

  The militia waited by the fire, reckoning it was an excellent beacon, until the Witchfinder limped through the mist. His almost perpetual scowl of office was wiped away by the sight of Chevie in her sack.

  ‘See her wriggle,’ said the captain. ‘Quite the catch, Master Witchfinder.’

  Garrick was delighted. ‘Quite the catch indeed. Good, Captain. Your men have earned a place in heaven this night.’

  The captain brought forward the young grenadier. ‘This boy here, Master Garrick. A wonder, he is. Tossed his grenades up there while we were standing below. That takes nerve and skill.’

  Garrick patted the young man’s shoulder. ‘It does indeed. I thank you, grenadier. You have served your country well. I will see you are rewarded.’

  The militia’s glow was not all due to the fire. This level of praise from Master Garrick was unprecedented. And the smiling? Garrick often smiled, it was true, though his expressions were tinged for the most part with wicked delight or irony. But here, egad, the man was grinning from ear to ear.

  The grenadier was eager for further praise. ‘Her confederates’ bodies have not been recovered. Perhaps I could wait till the fire dies down and investigate the charred remains?’

  ‘No,’ said Garrick. ‘The witch is the thing. We must return to Mandrake and fortify her position. There is silver to be collected.’

  ‘Silver?’ said the captain.

  ‘Aye,’ said Albert Garrick. ‘The Lord’s metal. Poison to witches and all demons. I need every goblet and coin in the town.’

  The captain had quite the cache of silver goblets himself, which he enjoyed gazing into by firelight, so he could not help but ask, ‘For what purpose, master?’

  Garrick’s smile shrank a little at the very idea that someone would dare to question him, but his humour was buoyant and so he answered.

  ‘The gates of hell are open above our little town, Master Captain. I have fought them alone in the swamp with some success. But tomorrow they shall open wide like the jaws of a great beast and, when they do, I would send this witch home to her kin and after her a silver cannonball.’ Garrick paused to savour the notion. ‘We shall not simply vanquish hell. We shall destroy it.’

  It was a stirring declaration and the captain thought it best not to ask more questions.

  ‘Now we go!’ said Garrick. ‘Mandrake will be our stronghold.’ He peered into the shadows. ‘For the witch’s familiar is hereabouts and he will undoubtedly attempt to liberate his mistress.’

  The captain addressed the assembled men. ‘Men of the militia. We march for Mandrake. Home by dawn, I say.’

  The men formed into rough ranks and moved off, away from the fire’s flickering light, and were soon lost in shadow and mist.

  All Riley could do was to watch them go, hands tightly clenched by his sides. For all his running and jumping, he had achieved nothing and the frustration brought bitter tears to his eyes.

  The fens. Huntingdonshire. 1647

  For the first few years in the field office, Fairbrother Isles had had a niggling worry that they had no fallback position should it be needed. Most embassies had some kind of extraction protocol in the event of a siege, but all the Mandrake field office had was a tree trunk, which would be pretty easy to set fire to, should some hostile happen upon it. A jug of oil and some flint, and that would be it. So about five years ago in a fit of enthusiasm, which coincided exactly with the last time he had quit drinking, Isles had used his woodwork skills to put a bug-out plan in place. This plan consisted of hollowing out a drop chute through the tree trunk, which without power tools took him six months, and connecting the chute to a hole in the ground twelve feet away. The hole in the ground was initially supposed to be twenty feet away, but Agent Isles fell off the wagon. It wasn’t exactly the White House’s legendary escape tunnel, but it did get Fairbrother Isles out of the field office alive.

  The sun rose to find Isles and Riley shook up and soot blackened, and sharing a log outside Fallback Position 1, or, as Agent Isles had coded it after his favourite book: the Hobbit Hole.

  He had almost finished his debrief when Pointer trotted into the clearing, a handgun dangling from his jaws. The dog dropped the weapon at Isles’s feet and said, ‘I guess the Hobbit Hole wasn’t such a stupid idea after all, partner.’

  Isles was delighted to see his partner and they high-fived, palm to paw.

  ‘Hey, buddy. You’re still breathing. Where the heck were you? I’ve been beside myself.’

  ‘Take it easy, Mom,’ said Pointer. ‘I tangled with Rosa and had to go lie down. I fetched her gun, though. Five shots left.’

  ‘They’re the only ones we have,’ said Isles ruefully. ‘The rest went up in the fireworks. Along with the guns and most of my blades. All we have is a few vests, the walkies with one charge in them and the professor, who’s gotta stay in bed from now on.’

  Riley felt that he should have reacted strongly to a talking dog, but he could not. All he could do was grunt once and even chuckle a little, as if to say: A talking dog. But of course.

  In medical terms Riley was on the verge of what would become known, after the First World War,
as shell shock. After many more wars it would become known as post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. Already his eyes were developing the thousand-yard stare.

  Pointer had seen army buddies in the same state and knew the signs. He slapped Riley in the face with a forepaw.

  ‘You’re Riley, right? Snap out of it, kid. Your beloved is alive, OK? And she’s got her marbles back, so don’t you go losing yours.’

  Only one word penetrated Riley’s funk. Beloved.

  ‘Beloved? Why would you say that?’

  Pointer snorted. ‘I can smell it off you, and her. You two guys got it bad, which is not good for the operation.’

  ‘Did Chevron say something?’

  It was Isles’s turn to snort. ‘She didn’t have to. It was all Riley this and Riley that. Not to mention the fact that she exposed our entire operation to go rescue you.’

  The fog in Riley’s head receded. ‘She did? My dear Chevron put herself at risk for me? I cannot bear that.’

  Pointer rolled his eyes. ‘Oh man. We got a romantic on our hands. He’s gonna be writing love songs next. Tell me he ain’t got an acoustic guitar.’

  A walkie-talkie on Isles’s belt squawked and he unclipped it. ‘Yeah, Prof. Pointer is back. Battered and bruised but still his charming self.’

  Smart’s voice was urgent at the other end. ‘Good. Good. We must begin our preparations. My battery will only last so long. And I think I know what Albert Garrick intends to do. The misguided fool will be the death of all humanity.’

  Riley straightened up. He knew from Isles’s briefing that the voice belonged to Professor Charles Smart, although he might have recognized it anyway from their previous meeting, when Garrick had murdered him. But what really caught his attention was the phrase ‘of all humanity’.

  Chevie was part of humanity.

  ‘Very well, gentlemen,’ Riley said briskly. ‘What must we do?’

  Burn the Witch

  Mandrake. Huntingdonshire. 1647

  Chevie was tied with stout chains to an actual stake with a pyre built up round its base, thinking: