The Burning

by Will Peterson

  “I’m not as sensitive as you guys,” Laura said. “You’re special. That’s all I wanted to show.”

  “Show who?” Rachel spat. “Show your boss? Show the world? With you I’m just research, aren’t I? A lab rat. We’re all research, scientific proof. For what? So you can stick me in a cage and win a load of prizes?”

  Laura looked down at the leg of her jeans and picked at the frayed hole that was developing across the knee. She knew that what Rachel had said was true. She had lied; it had become a way of life, working for the Hope Project. She was effectively a spy, a double agent. And Rachel’s other comment had really hit home. Most of her own emotions had become so deeply suppressed that she really didn’t know what made people tick. She realized that she had no close, personal relationships. Rachel and Adam had been the closest she’d got to loving anyone for as long as she could remember and now she’d lost them.

  Lost two friends. Lost a mother’s child.

  She had let everybody down, including herself.

  Suddenly she was crying like an infant. Her lower lip trembled uncontrollably and tears poured down her freckled cheeks. Her chest heaved, trying to contain the tears held in by years of self-control.

  Rachel dug into her sleeve and handed Laura a tissue.

  Laura turned to face her. “Thank you, Rachel,” she said between sobs. “Whatever you may think of me, how ever much you hate me now, I promise you one thing…”

  Rachel waited for the crying to subside.

  “No more lies.”

  The Englishman sat in his room and listened to the Atlantic crashing angrily against the town’s ancient stone walls. The sea here was grey and unforgiving; far rougher than he remembered it.

  He had visited the town many years before as a younger man, he and a group of his rich, spoilt friends. Their skin was bronzed and their hair bleached after many months travelling through India, Turkey and North Africa. He had stayed here for several months. He had spent hours listening to loud music in rooms filled with like-minded layabouts; the atmosphere heady with smoke and the pungent stink of incense. He had sat up late into the night and talked about changing the world, with friends who would grow up to be bankers and businessmen.

  He had wasted far too much time.

  Those were the days before he had found the path he was truly meant to walk. Before he had learned that there were ways he could really change things; that there was more to life than enjoying himself.

  He smiled, listening to the roar of the sea outside.

  There was enjoyment in this, of course, despite the pain and the disfigurement. Enjoyment in tracking these children down. And he looked forward to the overpowering sense of accomplishment that he knew would be his when he had taken the Triskellion from them. When he had taken both of them…

  Even then, back in the days when his friends had been content to let their lives wash over them, he had been intrigued by the spirituality of this place. There was a dark and powerful history to which only he had connected. It was an ancient force that could not be denied, and lying in his darkened room, he felt it again now, filling him with strength as he waited for the children to arrive.

  He sensed that the Newman twins and the other boy – the one who was guiding them – felt that coming here and uncovering what had been hidden for so long was their destiny. But it was his destiny too.

  They shared it, as they shared other things.

  History, and blood.

  He reached for the jug of water by the side of his bed, poured out a glass and downed it to swallow his tablets.

  There was not long to wait now.

  They shared a destiny, but only one of them would be able to fulfil it.

  * * *

  Laura moved through the coach, past Morag and Duncan, who were curled up together, past the French twins and the two Spanish girls, and slid into the seat next to Gabriel.

  “How long until we’re there?” she asked.

  Gabriel was staring out of the window. The sun was starting to go down; the sky was reddening above the expanse of scrubland on either side of them and the line of snowcapped mountains in the far distance. “Half an hour maybe,” he said. “Can’t you smell the sea?”

  Laura took a deep breath. She could only smell the coach’s exhaust fumes. “Listen, what we were talking about last night…?”

  Gabriel turned to her. “You’ve got more questions?”

  “Just a few thousand.”

  Gabriel smiled. “I’ll do my best. One at a time, though.”

  “Where are you from? What’s it like? How do you … travel?”

  “That’s three in one!”

  “Sorry.”

  Gabriel thought for a moment. “Try to imagine a new colour,” he said. “I don’t mean a colour that’s a bit like blue, or almost red. A completely new colour.” He waited, saw the confusion on Laura’s face. “It’s impossible, isn’t it? Like trying to think of a sound you’ve never heard before, or a smell. That’s what it’s like for me trying to give you the answers you want; that’s what it would be like for you trying to understand them, even if I did.”

  Laura nodded. “I want to … learn.” She shook her head. “I’ve been studying all this stuff for years, but now, sitting here right next to you, I feel like I’m in kindergarten.”

  “I’m not that special,” Gabriel said.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “There’s a lot of us out there.” Gabriel turned back to the window, leant his head against the glass. “And there’s a lot of us still here. A lot of our … remains.”

  “The tombs?”

  “We’ve never exactly been welcomed.”

  “I want to try and change that,” Laura said.

  “I hope you can.” Gabriel smiled sadly. “I always thought it was an ironic name. The Hope Project…”

  “Some of them think the same way I do.”

  “Not enough,” Gabriel said. “They will try to stop us.”

  “You can beat them.” Laura put a hand on his arm, glanced across at Rachel. “I’ve seen what these kids can do.”

  Gabriel closed his eyes. Laura thought he had gone to sleep and was about to get up when he spoke again. “What we are, how we live … it isn’t complicated.”

  Laura laughed. “Thank God for that.”

  “You remember Honeyman, back in the village?” Laura nodded. “He understood. He saw it every day with his bees. For the hive to flourish, the bees must work for one another. As far as the rest of the world is concerned that sort of … harmony is almost invisible. Until there’s a bee buzzing around your head on a summer’s day.” Gabriel looked at her, making sure she was with him. “If we’re threatened, we can sting.”

  The coach rumbled on; Ali taking it slowly round the sharp bends as they began to descend towards the coast. Through the front window, Laura could see the grey expanse of the ocean ahead of them. The line where the waves broke, the ramparts and the red walls of the town nestling against the Atlantic.

  “This place we’re going…”

  “The Watchtower,” Gabriel said.

  Laura thought for a moment and then understood. It was the ancient Phoenician translation for the town of Mogador. “And then?”

  “Three or four hours on foot. Ali will take us. He’s the last one who knows the way.”

  Laura dug deep into her memory, mentally mapping the area until she got it. She almost cried out with excitement. These were caves she had studied back when she was a student. She had read the archaeological reports a dozen times. She could have kicked herself for not working it out before.

  “Thanks,” she said. “For helping me understand.”

  Gabriel looked at her. “Wait until it’s finished,” he said. “You may not feel the same way.”

  Van der Zee leapt up from behind his desk when Mr Cheung walked into his office.

  “Well?”

  Mr Cheung was sweating and white-faced as he dropped his metal suitcase on to the floor. The inst
ruments inside rattled and clattered.

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Either the boy cannot feel pain, or he simply does not know.”

  Van der Zee slammed his fist down on the desk. “You need to try something else.”

  “I’ve tried everything.”

  “There must be a way…”

  Cheung shook his head. “I don’t want to go back in there.”

  Van der Zee dropped back into the chair. “We’re in big trouble,” he said. “Unless we find out where they’re going, we’ll all be out of a job.”

  Cheung picked up his case. “That’s fine with me.” He walked to the door. “It’s wrong… We shouldn’t … I don’t think I want this job any more.”

  Van der Zee watched Cheung leave, then sat, almost gasping for breath as the consequences of his failure rang around his head. He knew that the people in New York, or those in New Mexico, would be calling soon enough, demanding answers. He couldn’t bring himself to think about what might happen when he failed to provide them.

  His head swam with crazy ideas. Should he simply lie? He could tell them that Adam had named a place, then blame him when they discovered later that they’d been sent on a wild-goose chase. He could try to pin the blame on Cheung, or tell them that Laura Sullivan had been feeding them false information all along.

  He could try to run…

  He jumped when the phone rang, his heart thumping against his ribs. He felt sick as he reached for the receiver.

  “It’s Laura Sullivan.” The line crackled. Her voice was low, barely above a whisper. “You need to shut up and listen.”

  “Go on…”

  “I know where we’re going. But there’s one condition.”

  Now Van der Zee’s heart was really pounding. “Just tell me where.”

  “We’re heading for the Cave of the Berbers. It’s ten miles north of Mogador.”

  Van der Zee scribbled down the details. “I’m grateful for this, Laura. Everyone will be grateful.”

  “I was right all along. It’s where everything began; where the line started.”

  “So what’s this condition?” Van der Zee was already staring at the map. It would not take long to mobilize the unit, to organize a transport helicopter. “What do you want?”

  “You need to bring the boy…”

  “Welcome to La Triskalla,” the Australian behind the bar said. “Take a seat and I’ll get someone to carry your bags up. Can I get you guys some drinks?”

  They ordered water, Cokes, juices. Rachel sat down in a big, battered chair covered in a blanket and looked around the Triskalla Cafe. Tucked away up a side street, just within the town walls of Mogador, it looked like a bohemian sort of a place. She couldn’t believe it when they’d arrived outside and seen the stylized image of the Triskellion hanging above the door. Inside, although incense was burning and a few logs crackled and spat in the grate, the air smelled damp and salty. Moroccan hangings fought for wall space with windsurf sails and fliers for kite-surfing lessons and camel treks.

  Rachel looked across at her mother, who smiled wanly, and raised her eyebrows. A gesture that said how much she would have liked this place in different times and how Adam would have loved it; how he would have been racing off to sign up for windsurfing.

  Rachel took her juice and got up to read some of the brochures that were tacked to the noticeboard. She looked at the photos of kids, not much older than herself, who had clearly been having a great time here in the summer.

  Not a care in the world.

  The Australian was standing at her shoulder. “Not the best time of year for windsurfing, mate,” he said. “You should come back in the summer. Is it a field trip you’re on? Isn’t that what the guy who booked you in said?”

  “Yeah, sort of,” Rachel said. Ali had already gone into town in search of supplies for the following day. “Bit of exploring, you know.”

  The Australian nodded, held out his hand. “I’m Guy. But everyone calls me Jubby.”

  Rachel smiled at the funny name and looked at the young man’s tanned, open face, the earrings, his matted, sun-bleached hair. He didn’t seem like the kind of person to be caught up in their complex situation. Or anything complex at all. She liked his look and his easy manner, and was flattered by his attention.

  “Where does the name come from?” Rachel asked.

  “Jubby? Dunno, since I was a kid…”

  “Oh, I meant the name of this place, sorry.”

  Jubby laughed. “No worries. Triskalla, you mean? It was the name of the place when we took it over. Apparently it’s a really ancient symbol. The Moroccans use it as a charm to ward off the evil eye.” Jubby widened his eyes at Rachel, making her smile. “But you get it a lot in Celtic designs, jewellery and stuff. You even see it in India. You been to India yet?”

  “No,” Rachel said. She was unsure whether she would ever see India, or anywhere else for that matter. Jubby pushed up the sleeve of his T-shirt.

  “It’s a great symbol, isn’t it? Makes a gorgeous tat.” He flexed his biceps and an ornate Triskellion in red and green ink twitched on his arm. He rolled back his other sleeve, exposing a circular design with what looked like two tadpoles contained within it. “I’ve got yin and yang too,” he said, prodding the tattoo.

  “So, Triskalla doesn’t mean anything … personal to you?”

  “Nah, it’s a good name for the cafe, that’s all. We’ve only been open eighteen months and just hoped that it might bring us luck.”

  Inez wafted by, holding an empty glass, and Jubby’s gaze followed her.

  “Seems to be working!” he said, winking at Rachel.

  Rachel felt a little deflated as she watched Jubby bound eagerly across to the bar to get Inez another drink.

  Later, Jubby and his girlfriend, Rosie, joined them to eat. Rosie looked as put out as Jean-Luc and Jean-Bernard when Jubby monopolized the Spanish girls over dinner, telling them stories of great waves and encounters with sharks while showing off his tattoos. As soon as they had finished eating, Rosie sloped off with Kate to make up a room for Duncan and Morag.

  Rachel sat on a floor cushion by the fire with Gabriel, the anticipation of the next day hanging heavy in the air.

  “Bit of a coincidence, the name,” she said.

  Gabriel held up his hands in innocence.

  Rachel found it hard to believe in coincidence any more, but maybe this place, like the village in England, had been named for a good reason. “Jubby seems to think it’s good luck,” Rachel said. She yawned, ready to sleep.

  Gabriel watched her get up from the cushion. “I don’t really believe in luck,” he said. “Sleep well.”

  Rachel had had some disturbing dreams and visions since she’d first arrived in her grandmother’s village.

  But this was the worst yet.

  There had been only the faintest slivers of early morning light coming through the window, but it was as though the man who had been sitting at the side of her bed had sucked all of it into himself. As though the darkness that seeped from him like sweat had overwhelmed everything around it.

  He had been sitting there and watching her. Just sitting…

  Rachel had been unable to scream or shout for help; unable to make a sound.

  Now she lay on her side and stared out of the window. She tried to shake it off, willing the nightmare to recede, listening to her heart race and waiting for her breathing to return to normal.

  She turned over and found herself staring at him.

  Her guts few into her mouth. She could not see his face, which was shadowed beneath the hood of his robe, but she knew that he was smiling.

  “What?” he said. “Did you think you were dreaming?”

  It was the man they had seen on the Underground in Paris; the man who had demanded the Triskellion. She had not seen him since, but, looking at him now, she sensed that he had been with them all along. There had been many moments when she had felt as though she was being
observed, and staring into the blackness, where a face should have been, she was in no doubt that he was the man – if he was a man – who had been watching them.

  “I’d ask if you slept well,” the man said, “but it’s obvious that you didn’t.”

  The voice was as cracked and low as Rachel remembered, and yet there was something else about the intonation that she recognized … but couldn’t quite place. She slid away from him and pulled herself upright in the bed. “Who are you?”

  “Well, this will all be over soon,” he said. He raised his twisted hands, blistered and claw-like, and gently drew back his hood. “So I don’t suppose there’s any harm…”

  Rachel strained to see in the half-light, then gasped. Her hand few to her mouth. She felt faint, but was unable to tear her eyes away from the man’s face.

  What was left of it.

  What had once been his nose had been burned away, leaving a large hole in the middle of his face, divided by a sliver of bone. Taut wings of skin, that had once been the lids, dragged at the corners of his eyes. His mouth was a thin purple gash that widened when he smiled to expose the row of large, yellow teeth. The ears were completely gone, save for two twists of scar tissue on either side of his head, while all that remained of his hair was one or two long strands that caught the early morning light as they lay plastered across his skull.

  As the man leant close to her, Rachel could see that the livid skin of his face still wept beneath a transparent plastic mask that added an artificial sheen to the raw and angry flesh. Knotted ropes of tendon appeared to be all that held the reptilian head up and, when he spoke, she could clearly see the cartilage of his windpipe move beneath a translucent membrane of freshly transplanted skin.

  “I am Hilary Wing,” he said.

  It was nearly a minute before Rachel could speak. “But … you died,” she said. “Back in Triskellion … there was a motorbike crash.”

  The purple gash of Wing’s mouth widened. “Well, I think part of me certainly died,” he said. “The strange thing is that, despite … everything, and trust me this is even more painful than it looks … I’ve never felt better in my life. Never felt stronger.”