The Shadow Arts

by Damien Love

  Alex hunched forward, hugging his knees. Even in the weird circumstances he’d grown used to, it seemed unthinkable. Suddenly, he felt trapped, as if the world and everything in it had conspired to force him into this spot. He was ready to rebel against all of it.

  And he realized: there was his solution. Simply refuse. He felt certain that if he just said no right now, his grandfather would accept it. He sensed that the old man hated asking him to try this as much as Alex was loath to think about it.

  So that was the answer. Say no, ditch the toy robot, give it to his grandad to get rid of, let the old man get on with his senseless escapades. Alex could leave all the insanity behind. Get back home. Back to life. He looked at his grandad, looking back at him, and made his decision. He would refuse.

  “All right. I’ll try.”

  Even as he said it, Alex wondered why he was agreeing. Perhaps because of the look in his grandfather’s eyes. Perhaps because he felt certain nothing would happen. Or perhaps because he suddenly thought of Harry as the cheeky little boy in the old photograph, surviving alone through a world at war, smiling. He would try.

  “Good man,” his grandfather said quietly. He gave Alex’s arm a squeeze. “Who knows, we might be lucky because of where we are, and when. Powerful place. Things are thin, and getting thinner as Walpurgis approaches. If it doesn’t work, well. We’ll just go back to improvising.”

  “Should we . . .” Alex nodded toward the mound of earth. “Uncover him?”

  “I don’t think so. I should think that if you can get him all the way back from . . . If you can get him back, the details will take care of themselves. There’s not much over him, anyway. Now, take this. It was Harry’s. Something close to him. Might help you focus.”

  He held out an old wristwatch on a worn leather strap. Taking it, Alex found himself staring at the second hand, still moving after its owner had stopped. He pulled the watch on.

  “You just do whatever it is you have to do. I’ll give you space,” his grandfather said, rising. “In fact, I think I’ll go prowl around, just in case. I won’t be far.” The old man smiled, nodded, then headed into the trees, leaving Alex alone among the shadows swaying gently with the breeze.

  XVI.

  SOMEWHERE IN THE LIGHT

  Alex took out the toy robot. He knew the clumsy face so intimately he could draw it blindfolded. He closed his eyes, holding the image in his mind, lining it up as the first door he had to pass through in the experimental process he’d worked out. First the toy. Then the tablet. Then the light.

  He sat like that for what felt like a long time, trying to move his mind. Eventually, he opened his eyes. To judge by Harry’s old watch, nearly an hour had passed. It was useless.

  He shifted where he sat, trying to get comfortable, and tried to think what he would be doing at this moment if he were at home and not sitting deep in the woods in Germany, trying to raise the dead for his two-hundred-year-old grandfather. Double math. He still couldn’t decide which was worse.

  He lay back and pulled out his phone. Nothing new. He tapped a message to David—Hey, I’m away just now with my grandad. Short notice trip. Back in a couple of days. I hope—just to send some contact back to normality. It would be nice to keep in touch. The message wouldn’t go. “No signal,” Alex said, and laughed bleakly.

  Raindrops spattered the screen as he scrolled through the pictures of the stolen paintings. He stopped at the one called The Great Last Judgment, struck by the blues and reds of the garments some of the figures wore, very vivid in his gloomy surroundings.

  “The dead have risen . . .”

  He stared at the last message from Kenzie.

  You need to go to the right I think.

  He shook himself. He was putting off what he had to do, just like he always did with his math homework. The Prince of Procrastination, his mum called him. He pulled out his notebook and puzzled over the lines he’d scribbled to himself, searching for a clue. He hesitated, uncertain. The idea that was forming didn’t make sense. He decided not to think about that—what did make sense anymore?—and just follow the feeling that it somehow seemed to fit.

  He resolved to make one last try at contacting the power, give it everything. But this time, he would line up a new set of mental doors to guide him: the old toy, then the tablet, and then . . . Okay—something to do with Kenzie Mitchell. Then the light.

  He cleared his mind, put those thoughts in order, and focused.

  The forest was hushed around him, and before long he was sunk inside his mental journey. He passed the old tin toy and opened the door that led on to the old clay tablet. Now he held the tablet in his mind. For a moment, he glimpsed himself from above, a boy sitting in the woods in flickering light. The mountain quietly urged him on. He opened the door and pushed his thoughts through.

  And now there was Kenzie.

  Alex concentrated hard on the other boy. It was easy to bring him into focus. The face had given him nightmares during the long years Kenzie had bullied him. Kenzie was trying to talk, but he didn’t seem to know how.

  Alex directed his entire concentration at Kenzie. He told him to be quiet. He could see the door that led to the light behind Kenzie now. Kenzie was blocking the way. He couldn’t get around him. There was only one thing to do. Alex gathered his mind and used it to shove Kenzie. Kenzie made a protesting gesture, but he fell easily backward, fell against the door, opening it, fell through the door, fell into the light.

  And now the light came surging at Alex. Or he was moving toward it, moving away from the lonely mountain. All he could hear was the relentless ticking of Harry’s old watch on his wrist. Minutes ticked by without him. Alex had the impression of riding on the watch’s second hand, sweeping around a massive golden dial made of light, pushing time away. And somewhere in the light was Harry Morecambe.

  Harry, he thought, and attempted to recall him in as much detail as he could—light in his eyes, lines on his face. Harry Morecambe. Old Harry. Child Harry, hiding in your bomb craters. Where are you hiding now?

  As that question formed, Alex felt it move out from him, into the light.

  He kept focusing on his vision. Two new doors had appeared.

  You need to go to the right.

  Right-hand door. It was locked. But Alex knew that the key to open it was shaped like the sound of the words in the name Harry Morecambe, and as he formed the words, the key was in his hand and the lock was turning and the door was opening and—

  A sharp sound shocked him back into the forest clearing with a rush that left him dazed. The light through the branches had grown dim, tinged with red. The light flickered. There was a faint hissing on the air, dying away. But it hadn’t been that which had alarmed him. Alex looked in panic to the pile where Harry lay. Nothing had changed. The noise had come from across the clearing.

  His grandfather stood alert in the shadows there, cane in hand, head cocked, listening to the woods.

  “Grandad.” Alex rubbed his aching neck. “How long have I been sitting here?”

  “Going on seven hours,” the old man said, then gave a blunt silencing motion. After a second, Alex heard a crack from the forest interior. A heavy foot stepping on old wood.

  “How did you do?” Alex’s grandfather whispered. “Feel anything?”

  “Yes. I’m sure I did. But nothing happened.” He gave a defeated shrug. “I tried. I don’t know how.”

  “Stay. Try again. Keep trying. There’s still time.” The old man sounded as though he was trying to convince himself. He spoke quickly, leaping from one thought to the next. “If it’s them, if they’ve tracked us down . . . I’ll lead them away. I’ll buy as much time as I can, then circle back and come get you.”

  “But—”

  “Alex. Please. Keep trying. Just a few minutes more.” With that, he was gone.

  Alex stared after him, then be
nt over the old toy and strained to find focus again, but another noise off in the trees wrenched away his concentration. A sound like a cane striking metal. A violent crash came from another direction, farther away. Alex stood, brushing dirt from his clothes. He looked at the mound on the ground.

  “Sorry, Harry.”

  There was nothing he could do for Harry. But he could help his grandfather. The rain came on harder. Alex put the toy away, turned his back on the grave, and started running up the hill in the direction the old man had taken.

  XVII.

  ESCAPE FROM WITCHES’ MOUNTAIN

  Alex crept through a labyrinth of trees in the failing light. The branches above made black scratches against a deepening midnight-blue sky. It was difficult to see very far. He listened hard, but all he could hear was his own too-loud footsteps and rain on leaves.

  As he came within sight of the rock face they had climbed down, his grandfather suddenly appeared, off to his left, running out from the trees. Alex started toward him, but something about the old man’s hunted look told him to take cover. He crouched among scraggy growth at the foot of a tree.

  His grandfather reached the cliff, stopped, and whipped around, peering back into the shadows. Alex followed his glance. Nothing.

  The white rope hung beside the old man. He dropped his bag, hooked his cane’s handle over his coat collar, and began climbing as the bushes behind him burst apart. A life-sizer came stalking from the darkness.

  Alex felt himself freeze. It was like watching something walking out from his nightmares. The huge metal man closed in on his grandfather and took a savage swipe, gouging a lump from the rock face just as the old man hoisted his heels beyond its reach. The machine grabbed the rope and gave a wrenching tug. Alex’s grandfather was shaken but clung on, hauling himself up, more than halfway to the top now.

  “Go on, you’re going to make it,” Alex whispered.

  The cord tightened as the robot pulled harder. To Alex’s dismay, the old man paused in his ascent, bracing his feet against the cliff. Hanging there one-handed, he extended his other arm and began swiping furiously at the rope above with his cane.

  By the time Alex spotted the hovering flier chopping at the cord, the little machine had sliced almost all the way through. The life-sizer gave another savage yank. The rope snapped.

  As he started to fall, Alex’s grandfather pushed hard with his feet against the cliff and twisted in the air, turning his helpless plummet into a precision dive, aimed directly at the life-sizer. He cannoned into its chest. If his plan had been to topple it over, it almost worked. But the machine was too massive. It rocked back, dealing out a vicious punch that caught the old man on the side of his head. With piercing clarity, Alex saw things scattering from his grandfather’s coat pockets as he bounced on the ground. The old man landed hard, facedown on top of his Gladstone.

  “Get up, Grandad,” Alex whispered. He looked rapidly around, trying to form a plan. There was nothing. He thought about trying to connect with the tablet, but if it hadn’t worked during all those hours with Harry, it wasn’t going to happen in the next few seconds. Maybe he could run out, distract the robot, lead it away. But his legs refused to move.

  “Get-up-get-up-get-up.”

  The life-sizer strode over to the motionless figure, paused, then bent low, raising a huge fist. As the blow came smashing down, Alex’s grandfather rolled, spinning fast onto his back, flinging up an arm as he turned. Something flashed from his hand and smashed open on the machine’s face. A salt shaker: the image of the old man casually pocketing it in the café back home popped into Alex’s head.

  The robot lurched back in a frenzy as a pained scream sounded from above. A portly shadow stood at the top of the rock face. After a second, Alex made out a face he had last seen in Prague: Baron Willy von Sudenfeld, the sly, maniacal antique toy collector who had become one of the tall man’s followers.

  Von Sudenfeld stood gasping, bent, clutching his head, stung by the touch of the salt on the machine he controlled in a way Alex had seen before. No longer under his direction, the life-sizer staggered backward, then stood planted, arms blurring as it chopped blindly, savagely, at the air around it. Alex’s grandfather stood shakily, looking stunned. He leaned against the cliff face for support.

  Forcing his legs to cooperate, Alex stood to run to him, then froze again.

  Movement to his right. Close. He pressed against the tree as another life-sizer came smashing through the undergrowth, heading for the old man. Von Sudenfeld had straightened and stood staring down, concentrating furiously.

  Alex’s grandfather spotted the new machine. The old man stood muzzily shaking his head, trying to focus. The robot moved cautiously, circling to head him off whenever he tried to move. It was gradually closing in, cutting down any options for escape—and steadily forcing him backward, toward the thrashing arms of the salt-crazed machine behind.

  Above, von Sudenfeld stepped closer to the edge, directing the action. He yelped in delight. “See what I can do now?” He sounded both amazed and triumphant. “See?”

  The tubby man was fully caught up in it, Alex realized, too focused on his machine to notice anything else. Alex studied the rock face. “Move,” he ordered himself.

  He circled right, fast, keeping under cover of the trees until he was pressed against the cliff base, out of sight of the man above. His grandfather’s bag lay on its side a little ahead. One of the heavy spring-heels had fallen out. Scattered on the ground, Alex saw the things that had spilled from the old man’s pockets. His old black wallet, a few cards that had come loose. Half-consciously, he scooped the wallet up, tucking cards back inside. One caught his eye: a small, plain white rectangle bearing a single word.

  DEATH

  Frowning, he turned another.

  DEATH

  Half a dozen, all the same.

  The clatter of the old man’s cane snapped him back to attention. His grandfather ducked woozily away from the life-sizer’s blows, dazed, yet somehow fighting on instinct. Still, he was being gradually forced back toward the other machine lashing lethally behind him.

  Alex stowed the wallet away and searched the sheer rock face for a step, a handhold. He looked up, considering the task. It was impossible. He started climbing anyway.

  Rain showered down. The granite was slippery. His arms and legs tightened and burned. Twice in quick succession, he missed his grip and knew he was going to fall. Each time, he saved himself with an instinctive grab and kick, forced himself on.

  The cliff was pockmarked with places to grip. As he neared the top, Alex told himself it was easy after all. He had almost managed to stop picturing the fall beneath, the ragged rocks. Looking up, he could see von Sudenfeld now, a few feet to his left, rocking with excitement at the cliff edge as he steered his machine in on Alex’s grandfather, some twenty-five feet below.

  Alex worked along until he was directly beneath him. There, he paused, arms trembling, forehead pressed to the rock. He watched a single raindrop run down there as he thought over what he planned to do, testing actions in his head, feeling the motion. Then he stopped thinking, hauled up fast, grabbed von Sudenfeld’s ankle, and pulled down hard, putting all his weight into it.

  Von Sudenfeld had time to say “Huh?” before he fell.

  The life-sizer spun from Alex’s grandfather and stumbled to try to catch the falling man. It didn’t succeed, but it managed to break his fall. As von Sudenfeld crashed onto it, his wig flew from his head. Man and machine collapsed in a heap together, then lay still.

  Alex hung by one arm, gazing down at what he had done, then turned to the rock and pulled himself over the top. He crawled forward and slumped facedown, gulping damp air, wondering if the pain in his arms would stop.

  “Alex?”

  At his grandfather’s voice, he stood shakily and stepped to the edge. He could see the old man peeri
ng up, bag in one hand, stick in the other. Just behind him, the other life-sizer still lashed around on the spot, furiously fighting nothing.

  “Are you okay?” Alex called.

  “Ha, just what I was going to ask you! Stand back, I’m going to try this.” The old man raised one foot and indicated with his cane. He wore the spring-heels. Alex stepped back, there came the familiar creak, then his grandfather was there, tripping a step on landing, stumbling forward. Alex caught his arms, supporting him until he steadied.

  “That really was a sterling effort, Alex.” A dark brown bruise was growing on the old man’s face. He looked as drained as Alex felt.

  “Is he . . . ?” Alex gestured below. “Von Sudenfeld. Is he . . . ?”

  “Eh? Oh, no. Unconscious. He should be okay, I think. Well, as close to okay as that man ever comes.”

  “I . . .” Alex pulled out his grandfather’s wallet and the cards. “I found these. You dropped them.”

  “Marvelous, thank—” The old man broke off and tapped one of the cards against his nose, then flipped it around so it faced Alex.

  DEATH

  “You read that, then? Recognize it?”

  Alex nodded and pulled out his wallet, taking from inside the fortune cards he’d been given by the Marvastro machine at Harry’s office. He held one up.

  POWER

  Unmistakably from the same set.

  “Well, don’t read too much into it, Alex.” His grandfather tucked the cards into a pocket. “It’s the oldest trick in the book. Fortune tellers, prophets, politicians, poets, charlatans of all stripes do it: offer some vague statement that seems to mean something, then let you fill in the blanks yourself, until you think they’ve said something profound.