by Jon Jacks
How it works, I can’t obviously be certain; but I’ve already witnessed the angels using highly sophisticated equipment.
The dog’s becoming quite insistent, however, that I should attach it to my own wrist first.
So, just how much should I trust this dog to get something like this right?
Probably not at all, I suspect.
Suddenly, I’m grabbed fiercely by my wrist.
The angel has woken up; and, rising up in his bed, his face only an inch from mine, he’s now glaring at me with furiously bloodshot eyes.
‘Who are you?’ he demands in a dazed slur. ‘You’re not Bjorn!’
*
Chapter 21
Bjorn?
Bjorn was here?
Helping this angel?
‘I’m a friend of Bjorn,’ I say.
The angel looks at the blood transference wristband loosely hanging off his arm.
‘No, no!’ he snaps sternly. ‘You’re trying to kill me!’
‘No; I’m trying to help you!’ I lie.
I can’t be sure how much he heard of my lie; he’s slumped back into his bed, back into his daze.
But…if he knew Bjorn, shouldn’t I be helping him to live anyway?
Maybe, if I can save him, he can tell me why Bjorn decided to betray his people and help this angel instead.
Maybe the dog’s right once again after all; maybe I do need to give this angel some of my blood.
Taking up the wristband from where it’s fallen by the angel’s arm, I wrap it around my own wrist, almost magically snapping it into place.
How it works, I don’t know; but blood begins to rapidly swell into the small phial, like some burgeoning berry.
*
When the wristband is snapped around the angel’s wrist, the blood doesn't immediately begin to rapidly seep into his body, as I was expecting.
Rather, some incredibly small lamps of various colours begin to glow upon the side of the wristband. The blood saved in the phial goes down incredibly slowly.
How can such a minute amount of blood hope to save a man who must have lost a great deal after the wound to his chest?
With a shiver of horror, I realise that this angelic device might be rejecting my blood; after all, he isn’t human. Does the blood of different species mix? I wouldn’t have thought so.
Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all – and yet the hound seems remarkably satisfied, lying down upon the ground as if ready for a well-deserved rest.
I make up my own bed, using my own robe. Thankfully, it’s quite warm in here, with this side of the hill facing away from the wind; who knows, maybe even the great god himself is granting us warmth.
It’s only as I lie down that it dawns on me that the angel had spoken to me in my own language.
Did he learn it off Bjorn?
I can’t be bothered trying to work out how the angel came to speak my language, or how he might have come to meet up with Bjorn.
My feeling of sickness – briefly more or less alleviated or at least forgotten while I’d worked on saving the angel – has returned.
I need to sleep, in the hope it helps me fully recover – and as soon as possible, too.
*
Chapter 22
Hounds are barking.
The Master is singing, his song caressing, seductive, a tune to calm the dead.
The hunt rushes across the landscape, but here the lines of the great figures shimmer as if alive, not as if simply caught in the moonlight.
They rise up from their rest upon the hills, and go about their appointed tasks.
The giants. The hare. The bull. Yes, even the great dragon who, with a flap of his immense wings, takes to the air.
My own hound – yes, perhaps I can call him my hound now – is with me, impatient to be off, as if he has been waiting for me.
He draws close, rubbing his warm flank up close by my waist; he wants me to mount up on his back, much as I would hoist myself up onto a horse.
Wait; why isn’t he talking? When we last met in this world together, he could speak.
No; it was as I left this world. Perhaps that’s the only time when we can understand each other – and maybe then only in the very simplest of phrases.
Once I’m upon his back, he moves as swiftly across the rolling hills as those hellhounds had, only – thankfully – in what could well be the completely opposite direction. We’re heading for the wooded areas of the landscape, those hills covered with a dark weave of towering, closely interlocking trees.
Above us, the giant planet draws nearer, its vast presence now completely intimidating, as if it were a growing, gigantic hole in the sky, in the universe itself.
Inside the woods, the undergrowth is too thickly congealed for me to unfairly continue riding upon my hound. I slip down off his back, walking on behind him, following him along what could only be some rarely used track, for it is barely visible amongst a thicket otherwise left totally undisturbed.
From the thicket ahead of us there comes an abrupt, harsh barking; I come to an instant halt.
Is it one of the Hellhounds, one that's become separated from the rest of the pack?
Is it more than one? Have we ended up heading the wrong way after all?
My own hound remains unperturbed. He continues slinking through the tangled thicket.
Despite my growing unease, I stay close to him.
‘The dog guards the secret;’ isn't that what my hound had told me as we’d first parted?
The dog is barking louder than ever, a warning to stay away if I ever heard one; it’s also a sign that were drawing ever closer to wherever the dog’s hiding amongst this dense interweaving of branches.
Suddenly, the thicket just off to one side of where we’re heading is disturbed by a violent rustling, a flash of reddish flesh amongst the tangled green.
With a crunching of branches, a snapping of thinner stems, the creature leaps up out of the undergrowth.
Thankfully, it doesn’t head our way, however. Rather, it darts off to one side, making yet another remarkably high and graceful leap to take it deeper into the undergrowth.
It isn’t a dog.
It’s a roebuck.
*
‘The roebuck hides the secret.’
I charge through the undergrowth, regardless of the whipping, the stinging, of the innumerable branches.
(What effect does a spirit wood have upon your spirit?)
The dog’s strangely a little slower off the mark, following on behind me as he make his own high leaps through the thicket, barking as much now as the roebuck had in its efforts to scare me off.
The roebuck lithely, effortlessly rushes through the chaotic maze of entwining bushes. I might worry I’ve set myself an impossible task in trying to keep up with it, but it seems like it might be weakening a little, perhaps even suffering an injured leg. Rather than being swiftly left behind, I’m gradually encroaching upon it
The hound is still barking wildly, like he’s trying to make my task harder, scaring the poor, bewildered roebuck into keeping up its attempts to flee despite its obvious weariness. Fortunately, the thicket seems to be turning evermore impassable, which is slowing the injured roebuck all the more.
In what could possibly be the very middle of this denser section of the undergrowth, I’m so close to catching up with the roebuck that I risk reaching out to grab it – and then the creature appears to be granted an extra burst of energy, for it springs up and away from my uselessly flailing hands as if abruptly growing wings.
Within another elegant bound, the roebuck effortlessly increases the distance separating us. In a series of prancing leaps, it almost languidly bounces away from me, as if far from being a hindrance the thicket is suddenly acting as some form of springboard for every move it makes.
Not even the hound can be bothered trying to keep up with the roebuck anymore. He glowers up at me, his expression probably the nearest a dog can manage to giving so
meone a dissatisfied scowl.
He even shakes his head, as if amazed at my stupidity.
‘The lapwing veils the secret.’
Of course!
The roebuck has deliberately led me astray!
I glance back the way we came, realising that I’ve no idea how to make our way back towards where we’d first come across the roebuck. My hound might have a better idea, but he now looks a tad discouraged by my foolishness.
Looking to either side of me, I begin to get an idea why this might be so; the roebuck has led us almost to the edge of the forest once more.
In the moonlight, the hills lying beyond the wood’s borders are as silver as rolling mercury. And yet there are other, more unusual flashes of bright light – that of countless spearheads, glinting like so many maliciously glaring eyes.
Column after column is crossing the Ford of the River Perilous.
Maybe the roebuck hasn’t led me away from the secret after all.
Maybe this is the secret Bjorn meant the roebuck was hiding.
The Legions of the Dead are on the march; entering our world in overwhelming force.
*
Chapter 23
When I wake up, I don’t feel anywhere near as refreshed as I’d hoped I would.
I still feel delusional, weak.
I’ve no idea what I’m suffering from, but it’s left me totally vulnerable.
I glance over towards the sleeping angel, wondering if he’s now dead, thanks to my blood transfusion.
All I can make out at first is a mess of clothing, of a heavily creased robe.
And then I realise; that’s all it is – a muddle of clothes.
The angel has gone.
*
It’s quite a struggle to get to my feet; I just about fall back, I’m already so exhausted.
I look around for my sword, trying to remember where I’d left it.
It’s quite dark in here, apparently evening at least.
Even so, my sword isn’t where I’m certain I left it. From what I can tell, the hound isn’t here either.
The angel’s backpack is still here however, along with his hanging suit of armour.
My chainmail and armour is also all still here; I can’t recall taking it off, but I suppose I must have done.
There’s a scrambling at the entrance to the cave that uncharacteristically startles me. I breath a sigh of relief when I realise it’s my hound returning, who casually breaks into a lazy lope as soon as he’s clear of the narrow entrance.
The scuffling noises of someone or something else scrambling at the entrance doesn’t stop, however.
The light is partially blocked out, the cave briefly plunged into a semi darkness – someone’s squeezing through the squat fissure.
It’s only when he stands up and smiles that I recognise him.
It’s the angel, of course.
*
The angel is far taller than I’d imagined he would be when I’d seen him lying down.
He now also seems fully recovered.
I desperately look around for my sword once more.
Seeing my panic, the angel holds his empty palms up before him, the same way we do when we’re hoping to reassure someone that we mean them no harm.
He grins, too; a wary, gently surprised smile.
‘You’ve been out for a few days,’ he says, holding up a skinned rabbit, along with some weirdly transparent bag containing berries and mushrooms. ‘I went to get us some food.’
‘Out?’
I frown in puzzlement, even though I’m guessing he means I must have passed out.
Why didn’t he kill me, or simply leave me?
‘For a few days,’ the man explains, adding with a nod towards the strange remedies contained within his backpack, ‘I used a few medicines that should help you recover.’
‘I’ve caught a sickness? Off you?’
‘No, no; not off me, I’m sure of that,’ he grins. ‘I suppose congratulations are in order; if that, of course, is what you and your people say?’
‘Congratulations?
I’m more puzzled than ever.
‘Well – the pregnancy, of course!’
*
Chapter 24
Pregnant?
No!
It’s not possible.
It’s been months since Bjorn and I–
‘It can’t be,’ I mumble. ‘There must be some mistake…’
‘I…I’m not quite sure how difficult such things are for you; things like delivery and all that, I mean,’ the man says, calmly ignoring my protestations. ‘I would have called for help, but all my communication devices were damaged in the, er, battle.’
When he talks of calling for help, he strangely indicates his backpack once more, this time using a forlorn wave of a hand. Does he mean mirrors, or flags, when he talks of a communication device?
If so, its fortunate they have been damaged, otherwise I could have found myself a prisoner by now.
But then again, if I’ve been in a daze for a few days, then he would have had plenty of time to return to his own people and bring them out here to capture me later.
The man strides closer, such that I think he’s going for me after all; but he sidesteps, heading for the crumpled sheets of his own bed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, moving some of the rumpled clothing aside, ‘you’ll want to see her, of course!’
‘Her?’
I just seem to be endlessly repeating whatever the man’s just said.
‘The baby,’ he adds brightly, uncovering a sleeping child from amongst the warmly swaddling clothes.
Even as the man brings her to me – yes, I can see it is a daughter – I can also see the small, fluttering wings on the wrists, the ankles.
It’s an angel babe.
Bjorn’s child.
*
Chapter 25
When the still sleeping baby is placed in my arms, I’m hit with mixed feelings.
Hate – hate for her, for those who will hate her.
Fear – fear of the danger she brings, fear of what might happen to her.
Love – my love for her, the foolish love I had for Bjorn.
Joy – joy at the wonder of her birth – and yes, joy that she’s mine!
She can’t be held responsible for her tainted blood.
She smells fresh, new, despite having been swaddled in the man’s clothes, in Bjorn’s filthy robe.
‘You delivered her?’ I ask in wonder. Only women are allowed to and are capable of aiding the birth of a baby. ‘While I was in a daze?’
‘I had no choice; you were quite obviously so close – I had to help. In this respect at least,’ he adds with a wry grin, ‘your systems aren’t that much different from our own.’
‘When was she last fed?’ I abruptly, worriedly ask.
‘Oh, don't worry, I–’
‘Your remedies again?’
Noting the way his eyes were drifting back towards his backpack and the medicines it contains, I didn't really need him to explain any further.
‘Yes,’ he answers, ‘though now you’re awake, it would be best if you took up more natural feeding?’
He looks at me as if he’s not quite sure what ‘natural feeding’ entails.
Even so, he reaches out to tenderly take the baby’s delicately small fingers in his own weirdly formed hand.
‘We never realised your offspring were born with wings,’ he says curiously.
‘Our offspring…but we thought they were linked in some way to you!’
‘To us?’ He’s puzzled. ‘No,’ he says with a shake of his head, a bemused smile, our children aren’t born with wings.’
*
‘You’re not angels, are you?’
Even as I say it, it dawns on me that this realisation isn’t really something new to me. I’d considered it earlier, of course, only to dismiss it as nonsensical – what else could these people be but some invading force from the close
ly drawing planet? How else could we find ourselves giving birth to angelic babes?
‘Angels?’ The man chuckles, like it’s the craziest thing anybody’s ever asked him. ‘Bjorn thought I was an angel too,’ he adds thoughtfully. ‘Why do you think we’re angels?’
I ignore his question
‘You knew Bjorn; how?’ I ask.
The baby still lies peacefully asleep in my arms. Whens she wakes, will my breasts be ready for her? I’d displayed none of the usual signs and changes a woman goes through as she prepares to give birth.
‘Bjorn saved me; following my instructions on which medicines he needed to administer.’
Once again, he fleetingly glances over towards the phials scattered around his backpack.
‘That's how you've managed to survive so long; even when Bjorn left you?’
The man nods in agreement to my question.
‘His duty was to kill you; he betrayed my people,’ I sternly point out. ‘He was a coward who fled his duty!’
The man laughs warily, as if he’s unsure how to take my belligerent comment.
‘And yet you saved me too, right?’ he reminds me. ‘I can’t be sure what you mean by betrayal, of course, but Bjorn was no coward; I saw him dead upon the battlefield.’
I laugh bitterly.
‘How can someone who was dead save you?’ I scoff.
He shrugs his shoulders.
‘Naturally, that’s a question I asked him myself; but he assured me he would only know the answer himself after a few more visits to the otherworld.’
‘He was journeying to the otherworld?’
As he nods in agreement his time, he also curiously waves a hand in front of my forehead, his palm glowing in the faintly emanated light.
‘We knew you believed you could see your dead; that you could travel to the worlds of the dead – but we’d always assumed it was just a primitive belief. And yet whenever Bjorn said he’d returned from talks with his gods or whatever – he said it was his god who’d told him to spare me, to bring me here; and that I required “angelic blood” if I were to fully recover – he would have arrived at an answer to a problem that had been troubling him.’