by Adam Slater
‘Follow us . . .’
‘Come on . . .’
‘Come with us . . .’
The words are no louder than a whisper. The lights . . . they’re speaking to him. Somehow, their voices are like the sweetest music he’s ever heard.
They want him to go after them . . . he must go with them . . .
The boy staggers to his feet. The lights dart away from him, and then pause.
He steps towards them.
*
The Wisp tumbles over itself in glee. The weak human is slipping into its thrall.
From the top of the viaduct, the still night is pierced with the distant wail of a train’s horn. Behind a barbed-wire fence, a series of caged iron ladders lead up to the tracks. Yes – the perfect place. This is where they will go.
The Wisp fights to control its bubbling anticipation. Its three red lights dance eagerly through the links of the fence and hover for a moment, weaving between one ladder’s iron rungs. The metal would be a threat to some from the Netherworld, but it feels no ill effect.
The human trudges, entranced, towards the fence. The Wisp has him now.
He will follow.
*
The boy begins to climb the fence without thinking. When he reaches the length of barbed wire, he sinks his palms into the sharp prongs of metal, and does not flinch as they tear open the flesh of his hands and rip his jeans. None of that matters. The glowing red stars light the handholds for him. It’s so easy.
‘Come up . . .’
‘Yes . . .’
‘Up here . . .’
The boy’s hands slip a little on the rungs of the ladder as thick blood seeps from his wounds, but he holds his grip. The climb is over before he even realises it. He clambers over the guardrail, and he’s at the top of the huge viaduct, high as he’s ever been, with all the twinkling city’s lamps spread out in the darkness below him. The red lights dance along the tracks, lighting the steel with their glow. He feels no fear, only exhilaration.
‘Follow . . .’
‘Follow . . .’
‘Follow us . . .’
The dancing lights lead him along the humming rails.
*
The Wisp has forgotten the true purpose of its journey along the river. For the moment, its whole being knows nothing more than the compulsion to lure this boy. The sheer delight of its imminent success sends the Wisps’ lights into a tumbling, whirling frenzy.
The train tracks begin to rattle and vibrate loudly.
Ahead of the stumbling boy, the sound of the approaching train is building to a roar. The three lights dance in the space between the speeding metal missile and the helpless human. The moment is close, so very close. The boy has no hope . . .
*
The boy steps forward lightly, one foot and then the other, balancing along a trembling metal rail. Carefree. Nothing can stop him. The lights are so beautiful. They dart and loop like fireflies before his eyes . . .
But then, behind them, suddenly making their lovely gleam seem dull, a new light builds. White and blinding in its brightness.
As it thunders nearer, the red lights shoot upwards into the dark sky like exploding fireworks. The boy is confused for a moment. Where are they going? He wants them to stay; he wants them to come back . . .
In the blink of an eye, the three lights disappear altogether.
The boy stops for a moment. He frowns and looks around, confused. Where is he? The wind buffets him this way and that – he’s high up somewhere. How did he get there? And that noise, that terrible noise is getting louder and louder. He can hardly see. He throws a hand up to shield his face, but the wall of white is blinding him, and he can’t understand what’s happening.
A train’s horn blasts.
A shot of dread pierces through to the boy’s core. But it’s too late. The world is filled with light and noise – the blaring horn, the scream of steel, the screeching brakes.
The boy squeezes his eyes shut.
A moment later, there is silence.
*
Above the tons of thundering metal that have now ground to a halt, above the pulped wreck of the human body beneath it, the Will o’ the Wisp’s lights dance contentedly. Its compulsion is satisfied once more. For now, at least . . .
Then its attention is caught – arrested – by a shadowy figure standing on the riverbank below.
Its Master is here.
Another human – but not a weakling to be toyed with like the pathetic creature the Wisp has just led to his doom. No, this human is a man of strength, a magician who wields the dark power of the Netherworld and bends it to his command: he is the Wisp’s summoner.
Its three red lights spiral down to this dark figure who stands on the bank of the frozen river, watching. As the Wisp approaches, with a sudden, swift movement, the man sweeps off his coat and turns it inside out. It is a centuries-old mortal protection against the Wisp’s power – at least for those who know of it. The red lights falter in their approach. The ward may be simple, but it is effective.
The man holds up a forbidding hand. His breath plumes in the air around his head as he speaks. His voice is firm and unafraid.
‘I will not follow.’
Now other figures step from out of the black shadows beneath the towering viaduct. The first is a woman with a burnished tumble of red hair like a vixen’s tail. She is joined by three others: two men and another woman. All of them are magic-users, all have power at their command. Together they form the sorcerer’s coven. The red-haired woman and her companions move to stand behind the sorcerer, their backs deliberately turned away from the glimmering red lure of the Will o’ the Wisp.
Its lights cease their swarming dance. They pause before the magician and then merge. As one, the lights become a floating, disembodied head – a head with three twisted, leering inhuman faces. Each has beady black eyes and protruding fangs, a creased forehead and long, pointed ears. The triple-faced head still glows with an ominous red light.
The magician speaks to the three demonic faces.
‘I have summoned you for a task, Will O’ the Wisp.’
The head nods slowly in response.
‘And what –?’
‘– What is it –?’
‘– You wish us to do?’
‘The last chime child must be defeated. There must be no more interference with the Shadowing, or with my plans.’ The sorcerer smiles faintly. ‘My task is one you should enjoy. You are to lure the child to our coven.’
The mortal magician is right – the merest mention of the word ‘lure’ sets the red glow pulsing about the Wisp’s three ugly faces. Three matching, hideous grins of anticipation stretch three demonic sets of lips.
‘Seek out the chime child,’ the magician continues, ‘but do not yet attempt to lead him . . . astray. You will not succeed in that without our assistance – the boy’s powers are too strong, and he will resist. Seek him out for us, and we will use you as a vessel by which to work our magic, to weaken and confuse him. And then –’
‘Then then THEN?’ the triple faces cry in frenzy.
The magician chuckles. ‘Then you may make your game of him.’
‘Very well,’ say the heads obediently.
‘We will do as you ask –’
‘– We will seek out the chime child.’
The magician nods with satisfaction. Behind him, the members of his coven still stand with their backs resolutely turned. So they do not see the demon’s triple-faced floating head dissolve again into the three red lights like dancing stars, brightly burning on their way as they sail out into the night.
-ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share