The Return of the Arinn

by Frank P. Ryan

  ‘People – you mean girls – women?’

  ‘You know, as I do, Mo, that women undergo emotional change, the turmoil of their lunar cycles.’

  She looked at him incredulously.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mo, if I have offended you. You know that I am no deep thinker. I’m a shaman, a healer of physical and spiritual malaise.’

  ‘I remember your teacher, Kemtuk Lapeep. I remember his humility and his courage.’

  Turkeya dropped his head. He was frightened by the changes in her. She sensed it, the panic growing in him. The downy hair all over his arms was erect.

  Mo sighed. ‘I want to conduct an experiment with you. It’s important to me. Will you help me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I know you’ve been running short of essential herbs – components of the cures you want to offer these people.’

  ‘Not cures, merely treatments.’

  ‘It makes no difference to the experiment.’

  ‘What experiment?’

  ‘Could you tell me when you need help, if you have run out of an ingredient?’

  He read something in her face. ‘Mo!’

  Turkeya’s supplies of herbs had been drastically depleted on this long journey over the mountains and through the wastelands. He had hardly any herbs at all left to treat the growing queue of people.

  ‘I know this embarrasses you. You think it might even be madness. But why not try it. Humour me.’

  An old man went down on his knees before Turkeya, begging for a treatment for the pain he had been suffering in his jaw. Turkeya inspected the foul-smelling abscess that had invaded the bone. There was nothing in his herbal remedies that would cure such a thing. He lacked even the juice of the poppy to alleviate the poor old man’s agony.

  He turned to Mo. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do?’

  Mo put her left hand on the man’s jaw. With her right hand, she gripped the two talismans on the thong about her neck: the bog oak figurine given to her by Padraig and the Torus given to her by the True Believers.

  ‘Heal him,’ she intoned.

  The man’s face changed: the creases of agony were ironed from his flesh. His eyes widened and he stared up at Mo from his kneeling posture. When Turkeya inspected his mouth, the abscess in the bone had dried and contracted to a scar.

  He looked at her aghast: ‘How?’

  ‘I – I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s not possible. It’s . . . Well, if I didn’t know you, Mo, I might consider it some deceit. Some sleight of hand.’

  ‘I am not deceiving you, Turkeya.’

  Turkeya hesitated. He took her by the shoulders. He could feel her body trembling. He stood back a pace, the better to size her up. ‘Explain it again, Mo. Tell me how you are changing.’

  ‘I am becoming . . .’ she hesitated to allow herself time to think about it, ‘I am becoming a new person.’

  ‘You know, as I do, how ridiculous that sounds.’

  ‘I don’t think I am altogether human anymore.’

  He stared at her.

  ‘I wasn’t conceived in a normal way. I . . . Oh, Turkeya, I was born of a virgin birth.’

  ‘You know this is impossible, Mo.’

  ‘Is it? Magtokk took me back to Australia, to show me my birth mother. She was only a teenage girl. She had not known a man.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Mo. How is this possible?’

  Mo explained what had been happening to her. She told him what she had seen in the Valley of the Towers of Skulls.

  Turkeya held her still and looked at her for many moments. ‘These things, they are beyond the understanding of a mere shaman, Mo.’

  ‘They are beyond my understanding too.’

  Mo reached out to hug him. He retracted, very slightly, but she could not miss his reaction.

  ‘You are afraid of me, too?’

  ‘No, Mo!’ He shook his head, then he took her in the wide embrace of his arms. ‘Not me, too. Forgive a foolish shaman. I don’t understand these things. How can a human being be . . . be reborn?’

  ‘Is not a caterpillar reborn as a butterfly?’

  ‘But these are insects, not humans.’

  Mo’s eyes confronted Turkeya’s. ‘Will you stand by me?’

  ‘I – I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Will you be my friend, through all that is to come?’

  ‘You have ever been my friend. Why would I now deny you?’

  ‘It might be dangerous.’

  He laughed. ‘That is the least of my concerns. When has this journey been anything other than that? You make it seem that I am important. In the scale of things, Mo, I am of the least importance. I could die here, at this very moment, and none would remember me.’

  ‘I would.’ Her eyes beheld his. ‘Will you always believe in me?’

  He hugged her again. ‘I will.’

  ‘Thank you, Turkeya.’

  *

  Moonrise watched the young huloima, the one called Mo, and she saw how much she loved the shaman. Why was the cruel man, Kawkaw, so interested in her? She didn’t want to do it. She didn’t want to spy on Mo. She didn’t ever want to say nothing about Mo to Kawkaw, especially not the strange things that Hsst had been reading on her lips, but still they had to eat.

  ‘We needs soup,’ she said to Hsst, with tears in her eyes.

  He nodded. His dirty finger reached up and brushed away the tears that were running down her cheeks.

  In Plain Sight

  Mark lifted a finger to his lips to caution his three companions – danger up ahead! They had parked the Mamma Pig in a wood of deciduous forest, which was, for the most part, hoary old oak trees, their lichen-covered trunks black with age and what was left of their autumn leaves in every shade of yellow and gold. Leaving Tajh and Bull to look after the Pig, the rest of the crew, including Brett, made their way southwards along the forest edge to find a way of approaching London, which was now about fifty miles to the southeast. There was a twenty-yard-wide river up ahead and the air was dense with mist. Visibility was down to thirty yards. They came out of the forest adjacent to a loop in the river, where the headland jutted out of the near bank. Wintry shadow clouded the sky and frost silvered the headland, where a jumble of fallen trees provoked a hiss of eddies in the passing stream.

  What do you think? Cal mouthed at Mark.

  Mark glanced at Nan, who was sniffing at the air. Brett sniffed too and then he nodded towards the opposite bank, where tendrils of smoke were curling upwards a short distance away.

  Nan mouthed: A habitation on fire?

  Cal snorted: A habitation?

  Just then Cal got a vibration alert on his radio. He pressed it to his ear, his eyes widening, then passed it to Mark. ‘It’s Tajh,’ he whispered.

  ‘Tajh?’

  Mark heard Tajh’s voice, crackly in his left ear: ‘Padraig is coming round.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s looking good. He’s sitting up. A bit hazy, confused about where he is and who we are, but he’s talking.’

  ‘His brain is okay?’

  ‘Far as I can judge.’

  ‘That’s fantastic, Tajh.’ Mark switched off the radio-com, passing a thumbs-up over at Nan. He just whispered: ‘Padraig!’

  Cal grunted. ‘Forget the old guy for the moment.’

  How could Mark forget Padraig? He wanted to get back to check for himself right now. There was so much they had to talk about. But Cal had other things on his mind and signalled for them to slink back into the shade of the trees. Under cover now, they spoke quietly. ‘Focus on the situation here. Consider our options.’

  ‘Might be just a campfire?’

  Nan shook her head. ‘I can hear screams – violence.’

  Cal was right. They had to
stop thinking about Padraig for the time being. Mark nodded, agreeing with Nan. ‘It isn’t a campfire. There’s a town over there.’

  Brett pursed his lips. ‘Sheeit!’

  Cal frowned. ‘Razzers?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do you say, Nan?’

  ‘Perhaps, but there’s something else there.’

  Mark nodded. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’

  She nodded. ‘Definitely a non-human presence. I’m not sure what it is. Maybe a Scalpie?’

  Brett looked bemused. ‘A Scalpie?’

  ‘We’ve encountered one before. We had to kill one back in London.’

  ‘Way you talk, it’s a significant threat?’

  ‘Definitely: a religious fanatic – and very dangerous. The last one we met was carrying a preceptor’s dagger.’

  ‘What’s a preceptor’s dagger?’

  ‘A dagger made out of the same matte black metal as the Sword of Feimhin.’

  Brett looked from Mark to Cal. ‘Hey, fellas? We go in – or we go around? What’s it to be?’

  ‘That,’ muttered Cal, ‘is the question.’

  *

  As darkness had fallen the night before, Mark had looked at his reflection in a shaving mirror. His hair had been standing to attention and he’d had a bedraggled beard growing. He’d hacked at it with scissors and then shaved away the stubble, and finally a lean fresh-scrubbed face had looked back at him from the glass. But it had been the face of a stranger – looking ten years older than Mark imagined himself to be. Once upon a time, before the madness of Tír had entered his life, he had needed spectacles. But in this reincarnation, complete with the black triangle in his brow, he no longer needed them. Slicked down, his fair hair was shoulder length, but he hadn’t attempted to cut it. His blue eyes looked like the eyes of a man who had already seen too much of life ever to accept things at face value again. The triangle in his brow had been quiescent, a flinty black. It had moulded itself so closely to his skull that, had it not been for the crystal gloss, it could have been a birthmark. But he knew that when called for, sparks of life would appear within it, pulsing with his heartbeat. And now, on the wintry bank of an unknown river, Mark felt those sparks awaken. That was what had signalled danger up ahead. Not the danger of a normal skirmish, but a deeper, more threatening danger, the sort of danger he and his three friends had encountered, and feared, just about every day of their lives since first arriving on Tír.

  A few nights ago, as they had made their final arrangements for the return trip to London, Mark and Tajh had walked together towards the Mamma Pig, which had been illuminated by the sparks of some last-minute welding. Mark had liked the Scot since their first meeting and he still liked her company. He’d moved round to study the huge blade that was fixed to the front of the Pig. Earlier, he had seen Cal running a big grindstone up and down the bevelled surface and so he’d squatted down to feel the sharpness of it. It was a magnificent vee-shaped cutting tool as sharp as a blade. They’d been joined at the Pig by Cal and Brett. It had been a relief for Mark to find Cal’s ire directed at the American rather than himself.

  ‘You know that we don’t fancy the return trip, but you don’t give a shit, do you? All you care about is doing a bit of nosing around.’

  ‘You’re right about that, buddy.’ Brett had lit a cigar and offered Cal one from the pack, but he’d refused.

  ‘You know this is a suicide mission. We’ve only just managed to get out of there. What is it? If at first you don’t succeed in getting yourself killed, try and try again?’

  Brett had straightened his back to his full six foot three, looked down at Cal, and laughed.

  ‘Heading back to London, it isn’t a joke,’ Cal had said.

  Mark and Tajh had gone and stood by Cal. Brett was something of a puzzle to the crew and they’d wanted to know who, or what, Brett really was, and what he was up to. Mark said: ‘Cal’s right. It’s stupid to expect us to take you down there. At the very least we deserve a better explanation than you’ve given us.’

  ‘Guys – I’m bound by secrecy.’

  Some wooden crates were loaded into the Pig under Brett’s direction. Two of them looked large enough to contain weapons, but others were too small and they were being handled so carefully they probably contained delicate electronics, or even some sensitive explosives.

  Cal became madder by the second. ‘What’s really going on here? Don’t give me no bullshit about security.’

  ‘In good time I’ll level with you, but here and now all you need to know is that I’m here to help you win your war.’

  ‘We’re not idiots. We don’t want some machine gun groupie getting us into some suicide bullshit.’

  Brett lifted his hands, palms outstretched. ‘Wouldn’t think of it. There’s no deception. You’ll see soon enough why the security is there.’

  While Cal stormed off to have it out with General Chatwyn, Mark had taken advantage of finding himself alone with Brett. ‘Why can’t you explain to us here and now?’

  ‘The boxes contain my own weaponry, and some special electronics.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you say that to Cal?’

  ‘Because he’s a hothead. And he’s beginning to bug me.’

  ‘You can trust Cal.’

  ‘Oh, I know he’s a ballsy guy, the sort you can trust in the field. I heard nothing but praise for Cal from the General himself.’ Brett had taken a contented puff on his cigar, watching the men load more crates into the belly of the Pig. By the time Cal had returned, Bull, who was still bandaged, was moving the crew’s own machine guns and vast quantities of ammunition into the Mamma Pig. From time to time, Cal’s eyes met Mark’s questioningly, as if to ask if Mark had managed to squeeze more information from the American.

  Mark had shrugged.

  Cal said: ‘I’ve spoken to the CO. We’re not going to wait for dawn. We’re going to take advantage of the dark and set out as soon as the stuff is stowed. We aim to get somewhere near 50 miles outside of London by first light and hope the camouflage will keep us out of trouble with the Paramilitaries. But just let them try to stop us and we’ll show them the meaning of road rage.’ With a humourless smile Cal had turned on his heel and headed back to gather the rest of the crew.

  Mark had turned to Brett. ‘You see – it’s a mistake to get on the wrong side of Mr Angry.’

  ‘Buddy, I reckon it’d be a bigger mistake to get on the wrong side of you.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Brett’s face crinkled into a toothy grin. ‘I’m what you might call a spiritual guy myself.’

  ‘The only spirits I’ve seen you communicate with have come from a bottle of Bourbon.’

  Brett let out a single ha. ‘You got that right.’

  ‘Now that we’re setting out, we need to trust one another. Why don’t you tell us what’s really going on?’

  ‘Logistics is the name of the game.’

  ‘Logistics?’

  ‘That’s right.’ In that moment, Brett’s face had adopted a harder look. He’d puffed on his cigar, his craggy features thrown into a rubicund glow as he took a deep drag. ‘Let me tell you, Mark, this ain’t the first hostile situation I’ve been called to fight in. Wars are won and lost on the logistics.’

  *

  During their journey southwards they had encountered people fleeing north, even in the dark. But the crew knew that the notion of safety in the north was a delusion. The big industrial northern cities were following the same dystopic pattern as London: Razzers were invading the streets, which gave Seebox’s people the excuse to use emergency powers. And where Seebox’s forces moved in, they were inevitably aided and abetted by the irregulars, the brutal Paramilitaries and the Skulls. At the same time, things were still in a state of flux and confusion. They were relying on the fact that the camouflaged exterior might make it easier for
the Mamma Pig to return to the hot zone around London. Hidden, as it were, in plain sight.

  And now, here by the riverside, Brett and Sharkey were dispatched to fetch the Mamma Pig, while Mark, Cal and Nan made their way across a muddy field, then climbed over a barred gate to emerge onto the road leading into another small town in flames. They inched closer, keeping to the brush-lined verges, to get a closer look at the inevitable roadblock. Adrenaline coursed through Mark’s body. His skin felt as if it were burning in spite of the cold.

  The roadblock comprised at least one armoured PC, but with such a dense river mist, and the obscuring snow, which was still falling, it was almost impossible to make out any more detail. The roadblock was on the far side of a two-lane road that crossed the river over a triple-arched stone bridge. Cal used binoculars to try to see past the roadblock, but he wasn’t very successful. There was no sign to announce the town’s name. The snow thickened as they waited for the Pig to arrive, exhaling steamy breath into the freezing air.

  Cal glanced back over his shoulder, waving the approaching Pig to halt under a tunnel of trees. The bulky vehicle would have been hidden from the roadblock by a bend in the approach road, but it was unlikely to stay hidden for long. Cal had another look at what he could see of the town. ‘I can’t make out much at all. No sign of life.’

  Where is everybody? Mark wondered.

  They backtracked a hundred yards to rejoin the stationary Pig. Bull helped Brett to haul a few of the mysterious crates out of the belly of the vehicle, laying them out by the side of the road. Mark and Nan took advantage of the few minutes’ break to look in on Padraig, finding him sitting back against the forward bulkhead with a mug of hot tea cradled in his hands.

  ‘How are you?’

  Those glowing blue eyes stared back at them, looking somewhat dazed. Padraig’s lips moved, as if he had questions in mind of his own, but Cal grabbed Mark’s shoulder and hauled him away.

  ‘You’ll get plenty of time to talk later. We need to keep tabs on Brett.’