by Damien Love
He’d made it halfway. The black trees waited ahead. The fliers were arcing high behind with a hungry hum. Seized by a thought that had been chewing at him since the train, he lurched up, digging in his rucksack. Pulling out the boxes, he threw them aside and turned, brandishing the tin toy robot at the sky.
He stood wielding it as though it were an ancient and mighty torch in his fist. He held the heart of everything, all the strangeness, violence, and mystery. The fortune-telling machine Marvastro had prophesized power. Well, here it was. Alex stood tall, channeling all his thought, all his will into the weird old toy, silently commanding the fliers to explode, to fall burning from the air.
Exactly nothing happened.
He was surprised to find he had time to feel stupid. Then the flying things came whining fast. Diving down, he felt one slice his ear. Lifting his head, he left a red stain on the snow. Staggering up, he ran, a robot in each hand now.
Torn breath rattled his chest. His exhausted legs slid and stumbled. He looked back. Something slashed his face, knocking him down again.
Breath slammed out of him. The flying thing bore in, drilling savagely at his neck. Gasping, Alex rolled away, flinging himself over in the snow. He got to his feet. It hovered in front of him. Too late, he remembered the other. A shish whipped the back of his head, sending him to his knees.
Almost at the trees.
He went into a swaying run as the fliers regrouped. Their buzzing scream reached a frenzied pitch as Alex launched himself desperately forward, falling into the trees at last, hurling himself deeper into a wiry tangle of undergrowth, branches scratching at his eyes.
With difficulty, he turned and looked back. One of the fliers hovered jerkily out there, just beyond the trees. The other had come into the woods, droning among the thin trunks, holding its vicious little arms ready, the hook, the blade.
The machine was moving slowly, searching for him. As quietly as he could, Alex stowed the old toy robot back in his rucksack. As he shifted to rebalance, his hand closed around something solid on the ground: a broken branch, half-buried in frozen snow. He shoved the struggling dish-headed robot into his pocket and zipped it shut. Tugging at the branch, he began working it loose.
The flier was almost upon him. Alex shot up, swinging the branch like a baseball bat. The machine ducked, but not fast enough. He sent it smashing against a tree. It hit hard and fell to the forest floor. Before it could take off again, Alex had both hands around it.
The flier slashed frantically at him. He tried to dash it against the tree, against the ground, but the pull of the propeller on its head was too strong. It was all he could do to keep hold.
The other flier, on guard outside the trees, was buzzing furiously, jerking angrily up and down. The landscape beyond it was empty, as white and peaceful as a dull Christmas card. Far off along the hazy road, Alex could see a large truck, moving slowly toward him, orange lights flashing front and rear.
He slowly forced the flier down, holding it against the ground, leaning his weight on it, hoping this would at least stop it from cutting his hands so much. His arms were numb from cold and effort. He clung on desperately.
The truck was getting near. He could hear its steady rumble over the fliers’ livid buzzing. Alex gazed out at it with distant longing. It offered confirmation that a normal world still existed, even if he was no longer part of it. A fine spray came off the back of the vehicle. A calm part of his mind observed: they’re out plowing the roads, putting down salt to melt the snow.
The flier strained mightily in his stinging hands. The robot in his pocket tickled his stomach miserably.
They’re putting salt down.
Alex burst from the trees, taking the waiting flier by surprise. He tore across the snow toward the truck, almost level with him now, dimly aware of the machine behind climbing high again. The one in his grip was making a bloody, sticky mess of his hands, but he held tight.
Hitting the road, he almost fell as he bent to scoop up some of the grit the truck was trailing. He rubbed the stuff hard into the nasty little machine in his hand. Instantly, it stopped struggling. Gathering up more, he dropped a handful into his pocket, grabbed the robot in there, and rubbed it around in it.
He took off after the slow-rolling truck, bringing the robot out of his pocket and ramming it together with the flier. They wriggled lazily but made no effort to get free. Drawing level with the plow, he threw them hard, watched them curve over the side, plopping down into its vast load of salt.
Alex stumbled to a halt, stood doubled over, retching after breath, watching the truck rumble off into the forest. Then he fell as the other flier smashed into his head.
Rolling onto his back on the road, half-dazed, he saw the thing rise high above him, then turn, jackknifing into a plummeting kamikaze dive, flashing down in a screaming streak.
“Not yet,” he said.
He forced himself to lie still, watching it come.
“Not yet.”
It was close enough now he could see its arms were raised, held before it like a superhero in an old comic book, blade and hook coming straight for his eyes.
“Right.”
With the little machine less than three feet above, Alex violently scooped up two handfuls of salt-laced snow, heaving them into the air. The two piles exploded in a messy cloud around the robot.
A shower of gritty frost rained down on his face. Something heavier fell onto his chest. Rubbing his eyes, Alex lifted his head to see the little flier sitting stunned and dejected on top of him.
Getting to his feet, he carried it to the trees, threw it as far in as he could. His hands were a mass of bloody scratches. He bent and packed snow around them, holding them under until he couldn’t stand it.
He upended his rucksack, emptying everything to the ground, searching for any more surprises. Nothing. He recovered the discarded boxes and packed the old robot away. Sitting on a fallen tree, waiting for his heart to stop racing, he munched the chocolate bar, suddenly ravenous. He watched the day around him. The changing French light. Then he stood, brushed the worst of the mess from his clothes, and headed on along the road.
XIII.
DUNROAMIN’
ENTERING BARBIZON HEIGHTENED Alex’s sense of having wandered far from reality. A small, curious collection of stone buildings, the place seemed to have been dropped at the edge of the forest from another age, a Hansel and Gretel landscape, gingerbread houses iced with snow.
There were few people around. The town gave an impression of being shut for winter. He slunk warily along narrow streets, asked fruitlessly at a café, a bakery, and an art gallery with nothing on display. No one knew of a house called Dunroamin’.
The cold had seeped into his bones, numbing panic, grief, and fear to a dim hum. He had moved beyond exhaustion, walked mechanically, as though someone had stuck a key in him and wound him up.
Finally, a dignified old woman walking a fuzzy white dog nodded, pointed, and gave vague instructions in English. The dog yapped incessantly at Alex’s ankles. The woman stared at his stained clothes, scratched hands. With a brisk good-bye, she strode on, little dog snarling and straining at its leash.
A road lined with hedges led out of the village. The low slanting sun sent Alex’s shadow stretching bleakly before him on the snow. Every so often, he passed an iron gate. He counted four, stopped at the fifth, out along an isolated stretch. A plaque was screwed to the gatepost.
DUNROAMIN’
A chain with a well-worn wooden handle hung alongside. Reaching out, Alex hesitated, drew back. He looked farther along the road. It curved out of sight. Stepping back from the gate, he let his shadow lead him on around the corner.
There were no more houses, nothing but a tree-lined road with empty fields on either side sloping up to crests where the great black-green forest began again. He walked until he had counted twelve tre
es on his left, then stopped, stepping off the road.
Glancing cautiously around, he knelt at the tree and dug in the snow with his stinging hands. Propping his rucksack against the trunk, he took the robot out of its boxes. Rummaging deeper, he found a crumpled plastic bag, wrapped the toy inside, tying it tight. Setting it in the hole, he filled it in, patting the snow carefully smooth. Finally, he gathered more snow, scattered it loosely on top. Standing, he put the empty boxes back in his rucksack and considered his work. No obvious disturbance.
Twelve trees. Just to be sure, he walked around the trunk to the side farthest from the road, took out his house keys, and scratched a small A into the bark. He paused, looking at the keys with a sudden pang. He wondered when he would see his own front door again.
He started back, then stopped, suddenly painfully uncertain about leaving the robot, but equally uneasy about taking it into that house without knowing what waited. The whole landscape seemed pregnant with threat. The fliers had come from somewhere.
He considered his trail of footprints in the snow, a lonely, single, perfect set—leading straight to where he’d buried the toy. He couldn’t see much he could do about it. A thought occurred. Stepping back into the road, he headed for the next tree, walked down and around that, then back into the road and on, doing the same thing for the next five trees.
“Okay,” he told himself aloud. “Come on.”
On his way back, he dutifully circled around the eleven other trees he had passed, glad no one was around to see him.
At Dunroamin’, he yanked the bell chain. Nothing seemed to happen. The gate squealed as he pushed it open. A thin path twisted through dense, high bushes, bringing him out at a large house. It was a long stone building with lead glass windows, one story for the most part, save for a squat, three-floor tower above the front door, a Swiss-style construction of white plaster and dark wooden beams.
His feet crunched on the doorstep. Looking down, his skin prickled as he realized he stood on the remains of a thick line of salt. The urge to run overtook him. But even as he turned to go, he knew he couldn’t. He could barely move his legs. And run where? His entire plan took him as far as this door. Beyond this, he had nothing. This was it. Taking a breath, he tried rehearsing what he would say.
His grandfather. Stabbed. Fell. And.
Another chain hung by the door. He pulled it, and chimes sounded deep inside the house. Nothing else. He reached for it again.
“Stand out where I can see you.”
The voice came from above. Alex stood back, squinting up. A window in the tower was slightly open. The black barrel of a shotgun pointed down at him.
“Mr. Morecambe?” Alex called.
Silence. The gun wagged.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Alex . . . I was coming to see you with my grandfather, about the robot, but . . .” His voice caught. “He’s dead.” He swallowed hard, looked at the ground, blinking tightly.
When he looked back up, the gun was gone.
“Mr. Morecambe?”
He heard a rattle of bolts at the door and the scrape of keys in several locks. Finally, it opened.
A tubby man in his late fifties with a florid, flushed face and slicked-back black hair shot with white stood before him, wearing black dress trousers, a white shirt, and a green bowtie that looked to be cutting into his neck. He stared at Alex, hand opening and closing on the shotgun.
“Mr. Morecambe?”
“Call me Harry. Please.” He had a faint accent Alex couldn’t place. “Come in.”
Morecambe stepped out and looked around as Alex entered, then, with much scraping and rattling, quickly locked and barred the door again.
They stood in a pale lemon hallway, regarding each other awkwardly. A staircase curved up into the small tower. On a cabinet, two antique mechanical musketeers held their swords poised either side of a vase holding a spray of winter flowers.
“Your grandfather’s—?” Morecambe began, then stopped. He patted Alex’s shoulder. “You look half-frozen. As if you had been in a war. Let’s get you something hot to drink.”
Frowning grimly, Morecambe led him into a large, dim kitchen. Pulling a chair out from a bare wooden table, he gestured for Alex to sit by the fire crackling beside a black iron stove. Alex did, thankfully, feeling weariness wash over him completely.
Morecambe leaned his shotgun in the corner, between the door to the back garden and another closed door. He opened a cupboard, closed it, opened another.
“Here we are. You look famished. I’ll make you something.” He busied himself at the counter, his back to Alex. “Tell me what’s happened.”
Morecambe listened without interrupting. Alex told him everything—everything except the part about the boys on the train, the way he had made the boy choke, the odd sensation he had felt with the robot. Something stopped him there, some vaguely shameful, secret feeling. By the time he had finished, gulping down the last of his coffee and thin cheese sandwich, the afternoon was growing dark outside. He flexed his fingers and winced, studying the slashes on his hands, waiting for whatever would come now.
“My God,” Morecambe finally muttered. He sat bowed, rubbing his forehead, eyes shielded by his hand.
“I don’t know what to do,” Alex prodded, after they had sat in silence several moments. The meager meal seemed only to increase his exhaustion. He slumped forward, staring at the table. “I just know Grandad wanted me to get to you.” The wind picked up, moaning mournfully in the eaves of the house.
“You saw him . . . die?” Morecambe said.
Alex opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He nodded weakly, turning his palms up in helpless confirmation.
“He said you could check if the robot was definitely what he thought it was,” he finally managed. “I don’t know what he planned after that. What I should do now. There’s so much I don’t understand. These people, those things. The Tall Man, I call him. The girl. Do you know who they are?”
Morecambe regarded Alex in the faint light. Firelight danced in his eyes.
“He hasn’t told you anything, has he?” he said after a long pause. “No, well, he can be like that. Your grandfather. A most infuriating man.”
Alex glared up at him, instantly liking him less. Tears nipped briefly at his eyes, putting a swaying gray screen between them.
“Part of his charm, you might say,” Morecambe hurried on placatingly, looking away. “Now, what can I tell you? This Tall Man of yours. Well. He and your grandfather go back a long way, you know. The girl, too. You didn’t know? A long way. Longer than you might imagine. Right back to the beginning. And now, here we are, close to the end.”
Morecambe rose, gathering up cups and plates, and carried them to the sink, filling it with frothing water.
“Yes, there is much you should know,” he said over his shoulder. “About your grandfather and his history. After all, it’s your history, too. You can’t know your future if you don’t know your past. And you have to look to your future now. Your grandfather would have wanted that for you. But first—you have it?”
“Huh?” Lost trying to follow the man’s conversation, Alex blinked dumbly up at him.
“You have the Loewy robot?” Morecambe clarified.
“Yes. Well, no.”
Morecambe turned sharply. “No?”
“Not actually with me. I’ve hidden it, not far away. After those things attacked me, I thought maybe they might be near. They might have worked out I was heading here.”
“Yes, I see. Admirable. Good thinking. We should retrieve the toy now and think about getting out of here, just in case. Then we can decide on our next step. So. Shall we fetch it?”
Alex rubbed regretfully at his hands and hauled himself up, using the table for support. His legs felt feeble and his mind crawled with questions. But Morecambe seemed excited, impat
ient, and Alex had a sudden anxiety himself about getting the robot back safely in his possession.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Let’s go.”
It had started snowing again, thick new flakes falling on a thin crust of frost that had formed since the earlier fall. The ground crumped under their feet as they walked in silence. In the fading light, the road looked lonelier, more sinister, the trees sharp and black. Morecambe carried his shotgun in one hand. Alex noted that his footprints from earlier were already covered.
Around the corner, he counted eleven trees, then stopped in shock. At the base of the next tree, the snow was very disturbed, piled up around a small deep hole.
He flung himself down, digging. Nothing. He scrambled around the trunk. There was the A.
He heard a crow bark, sounding almost as if it were laughing. Morecambe looked on aghast. There was no need to say it. Alex said it anyway:
“It’s gone.”
XIV.
SOMETHING IN THE DARK
HURRYING BACK IN the last failing light, Alex could hear Morecambe cursing and fretting under his breath. He struggled to keep up with the man, who seemed unconcerned about leaving him behind.
A new sensation gnawed Alex’s stomach. The early evening was bitterly cold, but he was sweating, a sick, sticky, hot-cold sweat. The thought of having lost the robot, never seeing it again, never touching it again, played over and over in his mind, a loop he couldn’t break out of. A feeling of fevered pain. A new kind of fear. Snow nipped his eyes. The gathering darkness pressed in.
At the gate, Morecambe slowed, approaching the looming house cautiously, increasingly nervous. He turned from side to side, gun flicking desperately this way and that. Once inside, he scrambled at the locks and slumped against the door. Then he straightened in alarm. Without turning on the lights, he strode urgently past Alex, toward the kitchen.