The Return of the Arinn

by Frank P. Ryan

 

  ‘I’m confused. I – I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what I am doing, anymore. I can’t even see you.’

  Jeremiah appeared before her, but his appearance was hardly reassuring. The very fact he could do so at will was deeply disconcerting . . . frightening.

  He spoke in that same quiet voice: ‘Take time to consider your thoughts, your opinions. I shall not intrude nor interfere, but leave you free to consider.’

  ‘How can I know that you’re telling me the truth?’

  ‘Would you believe me if I were to tell you that there is no absolute truth? It is merely a perspective that an individual mind might adopt.’

  ‘Stop being clever with words.’

  His position had changed, though she had not witnessed his movement. He was now standing before her, his hands cupping her face so she could not avoid his all black eyes. ‘Would you prefer that I adopt the physical shape of your father?’

  ‘No – absolutely not!’

  ‘I would have you see me as a comforter, a mentor.’

  ‘I don’t want you masquerading as my father.’

  Those glistening eyes beheld her for a moment or two in silence. ‘What can I do to reassure you?’

  ‘You could guarantee me that you will never make me do something I wouldn’t want to do.’

  ‘I give you that reassurance, readily.’

  Oh, how could she believe him? It was so confusing, so vexing, she felt tears of frustration come to her eyes.

  ‘It’s natural that you should feel unsettled, anxious. Why don’t we walk in the streets of this city that you so revere?’

  ‘Is that possible? The city is destroyed?’

  ‘It is surely possible, though you may encounter surprises.’

  Penny saw her surroundings dissolve, even as the light changed. She found herself shivering with cold. As she thought this, a silken grey cloak lined with fur as fine as sable appeared around her shoulders. A hood enveloped her head. There was no point in thinking about how such things happened. Instead she looked around, wondering whether the ambient gloom was dusk or daybreak. She was gazing around her at an ocean of destruction.

  ‘It’s so dreadful – so utterly ruined.’

  ‘War is war. Such things happen.’

  ‘Why are you showing me this?’

  ‘Not all is ruined.’

  In the pallid light, which was so dense Penny thought she could be underwater, she made out tall shadowy outlines that soared like reefs amid the maelstrom. She found herself confronted by one such reef. It took her a moment or two to recognise an altogether familiar gothic masterpiece, floating on the maelstrom of ruin.

  ‘It’s Westminster – the Houses of Parliament.’

  She stared up at the monumental construction, perfectly intact under a tide of rising curves of leviathan size and complexity.

  ‘Why are you showing me this terrible scene?’

  ‘To confirm that I kept my promises.’

  As she looked about herself once again, her eyes widened. She could not look away, even though it broke her heart. Understanding came – and with it, a horror that crushed her spirit.

  ‘You followed my art – the City Above. You preserved all I drew and destroyed everything I left out? It was you who guided the Razzamatazzers?’

  ‘I trusted your vision of the City Above. All that you treasured was protected. What meant nothing to you was sacrificed.’

  Penny could not fashion a reply. Her head was spinning. Her throat had tightened up as if clasped by a vicious claw. ‘It was so cruel. What you did . . .’ Oh, dear god – it was cruel beyond belief . . . beyond reason or understanding.

  ‘Nature does not recognise cruelty any more than it does morality.’

  Penny’s already dizzy senses were overwhelmed by the desolation, and with the guilt of knowing her art had been so horribly abused, so manipulated.

  ‘Look again.’

  Rising out of the maelstrom was an expanding field of stars, filling the desolate spaces with light.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I am inviting you to imagine the reconstruction that might come to be through your vision. Such will be part of your reward for serving me. But such a wonder will demand that you learn to become one with the Akkharu.’

  Penny couldn’t take in what he was saying. She had no desire to help him with his cruelty and manipulations.

  ‘In time you will come to understand. Not only have I preserved such masterpieces as were beloved of you, I have also saved and protected the life of your urchin friend when my servant, Grimstone, had a very different intent.’

  Penny was close to fainting with despair, but she grasped the fact that he was referring to Gully. She recalled Gully’s face, recalled him calling to her as she stood behind that dreadful man with the Sword held aloft.

  ‘Run, Gully! Run from the City Below.’

  It was the first time that Jeremiah had mentioned Grimstone, the vile man who had wielded the sword of power on the stage in that violent theatre. All that she was coming to know of his world was utterly horrible. She hated it. And she hated Jeremiah, even as he confronted her. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘whatever more you want of me. You only have to ask and it will be given to you.’

  ‘What if I asked you to reverse it all? To bring back the city, with all of its faults. Would you do that?’

  ‘That I cannot do.’

  ‘Please do it! Undo everything you have done.’

  ‘It cannot be undone.’

  ‘Well then, free me. Let me go. Let me leave this place.’

  ‘You are free to leave, but would you wander among the chaos that reigns beyond my protection?’

  ‘Yes, yes – yes!’

  She shuddered from the contact as his arm encircled her shoulders. How could his face look so caring, so comfortingly human, after what he had done? How could he even pretend kindness without knowing what kindness was? Could a being like Jeremiah know regret?

  She took a deep breath to steady her mind, her spirit, before she asked the question. ‘I want you to explain the Black Rose.’

  ‘You would explore my world?’

  She hesitated, feeling the fear rise again. He hadn’t answered her question. But still she answered: ‘Yes.’

  The small, shadowy figure released her from his embrace, then turned away from her, as if gazing out at some personal vision. ‘I really would have you do more than explore. I would grant you the freedom to recreate the city. Look upon what you see as a board wiped clean, creating unlimited new possibilities.’

  Was he tricking her? How could she trust someone or something immeasurably cleverer, more devious than herself? Penny knew that he could effortlessly overcome her will if he chose to do so.

  But then why was he bothering to bargain with her at all?

  ‘Would you become one with the Akkharu?’

  She sighed. ‘Yes.’

  Then she was standing next to him, dressed in gold damask, her feet shod in a glittery, silvery softness, her hair braided into ash-blonde plaits that were drawn back up into a starry corona over the dome of her head.

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘With a thought.’

  ‘Why? What new game are you playing?’

  ‘I promise you immortality, but to reach the pinnacle we must start at ground level. I would have you create a new city out of the old: a city that will be our temporary dwelling place on this world. Thus will you develop confidence in your creativity. One city to begin with—’

  ‘You’re asking me to . . . to redesign London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She shook her head. ‘But . . . oh, for goodness’ sake – how?’

 
‘You will create it in your mind. Let it grow as an oak tree grows from the tiny acorn. Allow your mind, your creativity, to break free. Imbue every inch, every twist and turn, with your idea of perfection. Through the language of the makers, you will make it real.’

  ‘But I don’t want to destroy what’s left.’

  ‘The monumental constructs will remain. You will weave the wonder of the new city around them.’

  She hesitated, overwhelmed with the creative challenge. ‘But it will be an empty city. There will be no people to live in it?’

  ‘We shall inhabit it.’

  Penny thought about that – how astonishing the challenge was and the possibility it offered. ‘But I have never designed a single piece of architecture before.’

  ‘I think you have designed much more than that.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In your dreams.’

  She paused again. ‘I don’t think I could create a new city on my own.’

  ‘Then take an assistant.’

  A young woman with blue-black hair down to her waist appeared beside Penny. Her face was curiously blank, her dark eyes empty of intelligence. As Penny looked at her, the woman’s mass of dark hair began to move and weave wave-like patterns, whirling quickly, like the frenzied movement of water below a waterfall.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She is unfinished. Yours to fashion according to your will.’

  Penny was astonished: an unfinished human being!

  Even as she struggled to grasp what was happening, a whirring blur of winged creatures poured, like rising steam, out of a crevice in the floor.

  ‘There need be no limit. Anything your heart desires, anything your senses crave for delight or entertainment, will be yours. All you need do is to ask.’

  Penny looked around, unable to believe what was happening to her. A half made girl! Creatures brought into being merely for her entertainment! She was appalled at the idea. ‘No, I don’t want this. Take her away. Take them all away. The whole monstrosity . . .’

  In the blink of an eye, girl and winged beings were gone. Jeremiah faced her, his all black eyes gazing into hers, a secret smile back at the corners of his lips.

  ‘I need nothing like that. I will do my best to repair the ruined city on my own.’

  ‘You will not repair the city. You will build it anew.’

  ‘Yes – I will rebuild it! But how do I know what to put into it?’

  ‘You will know. You will discover the weave for yourself. It exists already in your dreams.’

  ‘But how do you know what’s in my dreams?’

  ‘I know all there is to know about you, Penny Postlethwaite.’

  She was panicking now, taking deep breaths, bewildered, frightened again . . . Was it all a trick to . . . to take control of her? To rob her of her will?

  ‘You’ll allow me to draw it, to design it . . . just as it comes into my mind?’

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘You won’t be looking over my shoulder. You won’t want to examine every thought before the makers build it?’

  ‘Do you imagine I don’t have other concerns to deal with? I assure you that I shall not view your masterpiece until it is complete.’

  The shockwave of realisation shuddered through her. What she had allowed to be buried in her hopes and fears. ‘You are going to be busy waging war with Earth?’

  ‘I am already at war with this world.’

  ‘They will fight you with their armies. They will attack you with weapons – terrible weapons. They will attack London, the Black Rose.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘But you don’t care?’

  ‘I have destroyed worlds more threatening than this, empires where even the babes were born magicians. This is a dull planet where machines rule. It will amuse me to turn their mechanical weapons against them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With art and ingenuity.’

  ‘I won’t do it. I won’t recreate London while you attack Earth.’

  He smiled that strange, secretive smile of his. ‘There is a conversation I would have you witness.’

  ‘Why is this street urchin here? Why do you reveal the mysteries to one who is undeserving?’

  She recognised the second voice – an angry and hateful voice – as Grimstone’s. She recalled him lifting the great sword before the chanting, screaming crowds. His was a name and a face she recognised from a thousand posters. He was the evangelical preacher whose symbol was the same as the gigantic triple infinity that towered above the Black Rose.

  She heard Jeremiah’s reprimand: ‘Do not challenge me with your petty judgements. You will not harm the urchin or the girl. They serve my purpose, as you do.’

  Penny stared at the small, dapper figure with the unlined brow and all black, all-seeing eyes, who had cowed Grimstone with words alone.

  ‘Gully?’ she asked.

  ‘He is safe. My servant would have had you both destroyed.’

  Then she asked him again, she demanded it of him outright: ‘What is it? What is the Black Rose?’

  ‘This is a world that venerates machines.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You failed to learn the lesson of the Idolators.’

  He was talking about those mad women – the devotees who had been set on their own destruction.

  Her voice was husky, frightened. ‘Then it was all some kind of brutal lesson . . . a lesson for what you are now planning for Earth?’

  ‘The Black Rose is a deus ex machina.’

  Penny felt an icy wave of terror grip her heart.

  ‘A machine to destroy a world that idolises machines.’

  An Unlikely Captor

  Gully was trapped in a nightmare – he was buried in a crypt that was rocking from side to side like a small boat in a gale-wracked sea. He was deafened by a thunderous clanking noise. There was a sudden lurch and he tumbled over and over several times to come to a jarring halt, his body rebounding from an iron wall.

  There was a memory, a very confused memory, of hobbling down a snow-covered lane, of turning around . . . then . . . terror. Massive, overwhelming terror . . .

  ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!’

  Every bone in his body was hurting. He was close to vomiting due to the giddy side-to-side movement. This ain’t real! It can’t be. It just can’t!

  There was a ghostly light filtering into the crypt from myriad tiny holes and crevices.

  He called out, in a shaky voice: ‘Wot the bleedin’ ’eck’s goin’ on?’

  He heard a buzzing sound, getting louder, then receding again. He remembered now – that horrible fall off the bike. Gawd ’elp us! I must be dead. I must ’ave killed meself. His head, which he was automatically rubbing with his uninjured left hand, felt like a whole team of roughnecks had been using it as a football.

  He tested it out. He waited for a gap between the lurching movements so he could reach up, gingerly, with his left hand to touch the bone above his right eye.

  ‘Ow – Jeeze!’

  He counted to twenty for the throbbing pain to settle.

  Stop, look, listen!

  ‘Forget about it. It don’t make a ha’porth of difference.’ The stomach-churning lurching continued, and he hadn’t a clue where he was or what was happening to him.

  ‘Ow – me bleedin’ elbow!’ He hardly dared to move his left hand around to feel his right elbow. But did . . .

  ‘Ow – ow – ow!’

  It was real. The world had finally gone bonkers. Why’d he think he’d be better off riding a woman’s red bicycle? Wot the ’eck’s happening to me? He was in a crypt, but it wasn’t like any crypt he could possibly imagine, because it was moving.

  A crazy feeling crept into his head. If it was real . . . He leaned back as far as h
e dared to so he could check out the wall against which he had bumped his head. He felt something smooth and hard, something curving round like the inside of an enormous ball. He shifted on his arse, sliding across the metal floor. Oh, shit!! There was something loose on the floor beside him. Something familiar. Something that had the shape of handlebars.

  ‘No!’

  His head banged against the wall again, knocking him dizzy. How could a crypt be lurching from side to side like that? And how, for that matter, could a crypt be lurching from side to side, and all the while contain not only himself in it, but the Raleigh bike?

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You are in my somewhat clumsy custody.’

  The reply sounded so deep and slow the words rattled his eardrums like thunder. Yet it was also so perfect, so like . . . like a public schoolboy voice, that Gully hesitated.

  ‘Wot custody?’

  There was a rumble of laughter so deep he felt it through the floor. ‘Correction! I should have said a place of safety. Or, rather, correcting my correction, I should say it is not quite a place, it is, rather, me – by which I imply a being of safety.’

  Gully attempted to blink away the hard crust on his eye, only the right eye had forgotten how to blink properly. It felt swollen and out of sorts. He grabbed hold of a projecting piece of ironwork so he didn’t tumble again when his body to rocked from side to side.

  ‘Wot did you say?’

  ‘I informed you, albeit clumsily, that you are within me.’

  ‘Shiiit!’

  ‘Must you converse in profanities?’

  ‘Wot in gawd’s name are you?’

  ‘Is this an oblique request for my name?’

  ‘Strewth!’ Gully panted again. He patted his pockets, one after another, even the one that had been torn empty in his fall.

  ‘Bad Day,’ the creature said.

  ‘Wot?’ Another pitch had Gully on his knees, trying to stop his retching grow into actual puking. This was the maddest nightmare he ever had.

  ‘My name is Bad Day.’

  ‘Wot kind of a name is that?’

  ‘It’s what so many of my charges have exclaimed when first we met. “I must be having a bad day”.’