Hunters: A Trilogy

by Paul A. Rice

  Yes, Michael Tolder, or ‘Young Mikey’ as he was endearingly referred to by all those who knew him, would have almost certainly been successful at anything he decided to do with his life. All-in-all he was an outstanding specimen, and was much loved by all those who knew him.

  It was on the day of the young man’s fifteenth birthday party when Ken realised how old he, himself, had become. Jane caught him sitting on the veranda in Mike’s old rocking chair – it still creaked in exactly the same way it had always done, right from the very first moment they’d arrived on the farm. Ken was sitting with his elbows locked into his knees, hands together with his first two fingers protruding like a pistol and propping up his chin as he sat there, staring into the distance.

  She sat next to him, sliding quietly onto the bench he had made to accommodate their growing family. Looking across at her husband, she said, ‘Penny for them, my love,’ and then smiled at the little start he gave as her soft voice disturbed his daydreaming.

  Ken looked up and turned to her with his eyes focusing back into the present. ‘Huh? Oh, well…I was just thinking about things, worrying about how time passes, you know?’ he said, sitting back, stretching his arms out and clasping his hands behind his head. The rocking chair creaked as if in sympathy with his mellow thoughts. Turning those thoughts into words, Ken said, ‘Do you realise how old we are? If we were back in the Lodge, back there in that other place, well, I’d be damn-near sixty two, I mean, bloody hell…sixty two!’ He laughed and looked down at his large hands, which he’d unfolded and rested in his lap. ‘Sixty-two, that’s just crazy!’ He laughed again and turned to her. ‘You don’t seem to be a day older than when I first met you, Jane. Not one single day older!’ he said, and winked cheekily.

  Jane smiled and reached over for him. He stretched out with his left hand, subconsciously offering it to her in the way he’d been doing since she had first fallen in love with him. She took it and rubbed the back of his wrist with her thumb. ‘Yes, well…let me tell you something,’ she said, ‘it’s exactly the same for me, you look like you’re in your thirties…’ Ken snorted sarcastically. Jane smacked his hand lightly. ‘Ken! Seriously,’ she said. ‘No-one thinks about age more than a woman, and I’ll tell you one thing for sure – we aren’t ageing like normal people should be. Maybe in our minds we are, but physically we most certainly aren’t! It must be this place, this dimension, parallel, or whatever it is that goes on around here! Sometimes it scares me.’ She gripped his hand tightly, before reluctantly releasing it as her husband rose to his feet.

  Ken walked to the front of the veranda and leaned on the railing. The thick piece of wood had weathered well since he had replaced it after the fight. The oak had taken on a darker hue these days, one that nearly matched all the other wood on the veranda. Nearly but not quite, it never would quite match and Ken was happy with that, it kept the memories alive for him, gave him something tangible to hold onto, just a little anchor back to reality.

  In truth, Ken thought about Mike every day, every-single-day.

  The whole thing was still fresh in his mind, and many times he half-expected to see his friend walking onto the driveway just as he had used to, maybe arriving with a liquid flash and stepping out of some magically-produced red sports car, or something similar. He didn’t pine for Mike in the classic manner, the feeling he suffered was more of a deep emptiness, a hole in his being that would never be filled. It was sorrow in many ways, but Ken didn’t really know that, he wasn’t a sorrowful type of man.

  He bunched his shoulders and then straightened before turning around to face Jane. Leaning back against the banister, he scratched his nose and said, ‘Ah, don’t worry about it; I’m just having one of those moments, Mike and things. It’s all okay, everything’s fine, it’s just that sometimes I…well, you know what I mean? Sometimes I remember stuff.’ He walked over and sat next to her on the bench. ‘You’re right about the age thing, though,’ he said, ‘I don’t even need my specs any more, that’s weird, huh?’

  Jane looked up at him and nodded. They sat there holding hands, watching the sun going down and listening to the noises of the party drifting over from the extension that lay alongside the house. It sounded like Red’s son and his guests were having a whale of a time.

  Red himself had become quite famous in his own right and people came from miles around to attend his art school. He had so many clients that Jane had to lend a hand, not just in the painting and sketching lessons, but also in the organising of his time. He would have quite happily worked seven days a week if it hadn’t been for her and Tori. The way in which the two women organised everyone’s lives, segregating business from pleasure, kept everything on track, fetching a much-needed order to their busy lives.

  They made sure they had their own time, and Sundays were strictly reserved for family, the women insisting absolutely that everyone take the time to come home and relax – including the ever-busy Red. He had lost all of those horrible traits from the distant past, his body still bore the scars in reminder of his close encounter with the Dark One, but his mind was clear, as were his actions. He had become a very giving person, caring and gentle, and he loved Tori and his son as much as they loved him – Red was a good man.

  Tori was doing quite well of her own accord, the shop she’d opened next door to Maggie’s store had a constant stream of customers who came in to view, and also to buy, the multitude of wonderful paintings and sketches that lined the walls and easels of the art salon. She, Tori, was as beautiful as ever, probably more so, the passing of time maturing her like a fine wine. Her grace and fiery wit were legendary within the small town. Tori, rather like Jane, would tell you things exactly as they were.

  She often referred to Michael, her dead brother, during their everyday life. In many ways her casual talk of him helped them deal with his loss, to listen to her chirping away about some funny tale or another, one would imagine that Michael had merely gone on a vacation, just a little trip, perhaps. The reality of the memories, the ones of the tall man lying on the wooden floor drenched in blood, seemed to have passed her by. It was though she failed to recognise his permanent absence – his death.

  Tori often spoke of George, too. At times her tales would confuse them. Sometimes she called him Grandfather, other times she called him Great Grandfather, and then, most times, she would simply call him ‘George’. They learned to understand that whatever she called him, it was always he, George, to whom she was referring.

  Tori and Red had been married for a little while longer, some seven months, than their son had been alive. The three of them lived together in the old farmhouse, whilst Ken and Jane had moved into the snazzy extension, and any guests who arrived stayed in the motorhome. The old RV had become as much a part of their lives as everything else.

  Maggie was their most regular guest, and of course she wasn’t really a guest, as such, but much more like a mother-figure to them all. She became their keeper, the custodian of their secrets. Those secrets, the ones they shared, those unspeakable things, made them even closer as a group.

  The two big men, Red and young Michael, were still not fully aware of the complete truth of their situation. However, it would be a knowledge that was to be not long in hiding from them. The day when they would have to be told the whole story was fast approaching. Nothing hides forever, and the truth, as they say, will always out. In this particular case it was going to be absolutely imperative that the truth was revealed, a lot was going to rest upon it being out. More importantly, their very existence was going to depend on the truth being understood.

  None of the occupants of our tale had experienced a dream for a long time, and by dream we’re talking about a ‘George Dream’ here, not the everyday unwinding of the mind. No, everyone has those types of dreams; they’re merely the brain’s way of unloading, carefully de-fragging itself. To the dreamer it may seem as though they’ve been dreaming for the whole night long, the fact is that most dreams don’t last longer than a f
ew seconds. It’s just the relativity of time and size, merely a perception of how long, or how big, things are.

  George once told them that everything was relative: size, space, and most of all, time. Dreams are a perfect example of his theory and are probably why George and his kind choose to give people dreams in the first place. So much can be achieved in a relatively small slice of time, so many things.

  That particular night, the one after the party had ended, the adults – Jane still thought of Tori and the others as ‘kids’ – had cleared all of the celebratory mess away. She, along with Maggie and Ken, had retired onto the veranda to sit and relax in the warm, autumnal evening air. As they sat watching the sun going down and enjoying the pleasure of their own company, Maggie leaned forward and placed her glass onto the table, then stood up and walked over to the flowers as they lay in coloured magnificence, the rainbow of their blooms standing out radiantly against the white walls of the house. She bent and plucked two of the flowers, one yellow and one red, before returning to the seated couple on the bench. Maggie presented them with one flower each. Yellow for Jane and the bright red one for Ken.

  ‘Beautiful, aren’t they, my dears?’ she said. ‘Truly beautiful, these flowers are in many ways a symbol of what all your efforts have achieved here, the turning of something grey and dead into a thing of such beauty, a thing of love. Yes, you have achieved so much here!’ She smiled down at them.

  Ken looked down at the flower in his hand, raised his gaze to Jane and then looked back at Maggie. Something was coming; he felt a gathering of energy, a change in the atmosphere, like a storm building beyond the hills. Behind her faded eyes and smiling face he knew there was something afoot, she had news and he knew it. Unable to control himself any longer, he asked, ‘What is it, Maggie, what’s the news…there is something, isn’t there? I can see it in your eyes.’ He stared at her, waiting for the release of that strange feeling in his mind, waiting for the storm to break.

  She looked down at them. ‘Yes, there is news, although I think the word ‘question’ would be a more accurate description,’ she said. ‘George has a question, a request.’ Maggie returned to the table and took her place back on the wooden seat, it was her normal position and she looked as though she had always been there, always would be there. Sitting and watching the world through old eyes. Sitting and caring.

  She turned those eyes toward them, saying: ‘My father will come to you tonight. There are things you must see, sights that only those who have observed the other things, the past, can understand. A little message on the Communicator will, I am afraid, not be sufficient this time!’ Looking at them seriously, Maggie said, ‘Do not be afraid, for there are no horrors, only the Demon, and you have seen him before. It will be more a case of showing you what we must do next, who is involved and what it is that we hope to achieve. The Dark One is on his knees, and if we act now, then we may finish this particular Demon, finish him for once and for all!’ Her eyes flashed with passion as she rose to her feet, bade them goodnight and then turned away.

  They watched as she walked toward the barn where her bed in the RV awaited. Ken and Jane sat on the bench in silence for a while, Maggie’s words seeping into their minds. ‘Finish him for once and for all!’

  It was an idea Ken quite fancied, he looked at Jane. ‘Well, so much for getting old in this place, it looks like we’re gonna be going on another trip, are we ready for this? Maybe we should just tell the old guy to bugger off!’ he said, chuckling softly as he smiled at his wife.

  Jane shook her head with a grin, and replied: ‘Do you really think that we have any choice? After what we’ve seen, the things we’ve done, what with Mikey and…’ She shook her head again. ‘No, if you were to ask me, there isn’t going to be any choice, besides which, I can see you packing your bloody kit already, that little glint is back in your eyes again, Ken!’ She leant over and hugged him tightly to her, feeling his laughter through her arms.

  ***

  Later that night their dream came to them. After they had gone to bed, snuggled up warm and cosy, whispered meaningless things to each other and fallen asleep, wrapped together, shielding themselves against the inevitable, George came to them and they went and sat upon his red couch. He had fetched some of his liquor with him; the fiery potion helped them understand as the old man asked them his question – the favour Jane had rightly identified as being one they couldn’t really say ‘No’ to.

  He had talked and they had listened, George had showed them and they had watched. The old man had taught and they had learned. By the time he was finished they knew everything. Well, almost everything.

  In the end, when George had finished, when there were no other words to be said and no more questions to be answered, Ken and Jane nodded their heads and rose to their feet. They had embraced George as usual, and then said their goodbyes. A deal had been struck and the plans were laid.

  It was to be all or nothing.

  George’s parting words stayed with them as they slipped back down into their current reality. ‘We must keep fighting,’ he’d said. ‘Any success, however small, will always be better than defeat. This will either be our most supreme victory, or our greatest defeat, and there can be no defeat!’

  They were to be given one more chance – a final fling – one last dance with the Demon. Normally no-one gets to dance twice with the Dark One, not ever. Especially not if they happen to have trodden on his toes previously, perhaps even tried to blow his festering head off. Maybe they even partially succeeded, left some of him lying in the grass with the face of his host smashed and blown to hell. And, by pure chance, if they did somehow manage an encore, well, then he’s likely to be a bit more cautious the second time around, isn’t he? He’s probably a little bit more prepared. In fact, he may even be thoroughly pissed off at them and their entire, damned tribe of Demon Hunters.

  Most probably he will be.

  So, beware.

  2

  Michael meets the Demon

  Maggie once said something along the lines of: ‘When Michael awakens, he will be in a place where he imagines he has always been…’

  It was something like that she said, wasn’t it?

  She was a smart old bird, was Maggie.

  The line jerked, Michael snapped the rod upwards, the whine of the reel reminding him that he had forgotten to set the drag properly after the last catch. The fish powered away, he nearly grabbed the nylon line and was only stopped by the painful memory of seared fingers from the last time he’d made that particular mistake. He reached for the drag control and wound it tight until the scream of the reel became a clicking jerk.

  ‘Now we can fight properly, Mister Fish, and may the best man win!’ he whispered. The boy rose to his feet, and like his father had taught him, raised the tip of his rod.

  ‘Let the rod do the work, Mike, that’s why it’s there, my boy!’ Michael smiled at the memories as he watched the tip of the rod bend and jerk. The fish was a big one for sure and he felt its power through the straining pole as he strove to keep a racing heart within the confines of his chest. The memories of his father’s voice reminded him of how best to fight such a beast. ‘Stay calm, give a little bit and then take some more back, keep its head up, keep it turned away from the reeds, give some and take more back. Gently does it, Mike, gently!’

  Michael did exactly as he had been taught, and for ten minutes, with the line singing under tension, he engaged in battle with the powerful fish. Finally it turned toward him, the fight was gone and only its weight now kept Michael’s prize from the shore of the lake. He coaxed it towards him until it was in reach of his landing net, then, with the skill of a seasoned professional he reached forward and scooped the exhausted tench into the black net. The fish gave one last flurry and then lay still as it awaited the fate its young captor would dispense.

  One-handed, Michael placed the rod back onto its rest, reaching forward to hoist the wet net and heavy fish onto the bank, staggering as he did
so. The creature stared at him through one eye as it gasped for breath, rubbery lips opening and closing in desperation. The boy hated this bit and hurriedly wet his hands before removing the barbless hook from the gaping mouth.

  It was always the same at this stage, the thrill of the hunt and the exhilaration of the catch, a much-hoped-for moment of triumph, strangely dimmed by the sight of such a fine creature being thrust into the cruel environment of a world beyond its natural habitat. In truth, it always gave him a twinge of guilt.

  Michael lifted the net and carried his prey back to the water’s edge, walking into the water he lowered the net back into the coldness and rolled it over, the action releasing the fish from the confines of its finely-meshed prison. It stayed still for a few seconds, before recovering and turning its head from side to side a few times. Then, with a powerful thrust of a thick, deep-green tail, it was gone.

  Michael looked around – not a soul was there to witness the biggest tench he’d ever caught. He smiled wryly and said to himself: ‘I hope you were watching, Dad! That one was a whopper; it must have been at least five pounds!’

  He rinsed his hands in the lake and sat back on the bank, still shaking from the excitement. He knew the fish would be fine and wished someone was here to have seen it. He smiled again, it wasn’t too bad, he had the memories of the moment and they would be with him always, he would remember them like he remembered all the good things in his young life, good things like his father.

  At fifteen years of age the boy was tall. Very tall, and very dark-haired, with broad shoulders, narrow hips and a pair of fearsome blue eyes. His father had been gone, dead, three years now; the older man’s passing had forced the young Michael into adulthood at an accelerated pace, its coming showed in the way he carried himself, the way in which he walked, and in also in the way his hands moved. He was a man in all but age – older women noticed it the most. He guessed that he would understand what the fuss was all about when he grew older. That’s if he managed to grow any older. The one thing that his father’s death had taught young Michael was the fact that nothing lasted forever.