by Paul A. Rice
Hot tears ran across his cheeks and dripped onto the grass below.
The picture of his parents, and in particular of his father, had shattered him. Michael felt like a two-year-old as he let the sobs have their way. A long, wet slither of snot kept trying to escape the confines of his nose, he sniffed it back – the sniff caught in his throat and the combination of it, the sniff, and another sob, choked him. He felt as though he was suffocating, fear rose in his throat. He began to think he would never get out of this nightmare, perhaps it was he who had died…died and gone to some form of halfway-house, a place where he was forever destined to watch the misery of the Demon’s actions.
‘Demon purgatory,’ the thought fixed in his mind as he tried to breathe. The choke threatened to overcome him and Michael knew then that it was possible to die from sorrow – sorrow and fear. They wracked his shuddering body, in that single moment he felt the hand of death upon his shoulder, he saw the black mist once more. He tried to scream but was unable to.
Instead, he knelt there and choked.
Strong arms, like bands of steel, wrapped themselves under his chest and jerked him to his feet. A rock-hard hand clapped him firmly between the shoulder blades, twice – hard! The snot, and the fear, flew from his mouth in a spew of wetness and second-hand breath.
Ken spoke into his ear, his voice a soothing tone that caressed Michael’s seething mind. ‘Breathe Mikey, breathe deeply. Nice and slow, okay, buddy, that’s it… good man! Don’t worry, I’m here, take it easy!’ He raised Michael fully to his feet and placed his left hand against the boy’s chest. ‘There you go, Mike,’ he said. ‘Breathe deeply, that’s it, nice and slow! Are you alright now?’
Michael did as he was asked and took a ragged breath, fresh air flooded his lungs and the redness in front of his eyes began to clear. He staggered slightly, Ken’s iron grasp steadying him. Michael allowed himself to lean against the older man. He coughed, drew another deep breath and said, ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that the pictures…my Dad, they said it was an accident…I didn’t know, I’m sorry, I…’ He grimaced and turned to stare up at the big man who supported him. Ken seemed even larger than normal; it was as though the panic-filled moment had made him grow somehow. Michael saw the light of concern in the man’s glittering eyes, they looked like emeralds.
Jane came outside and offered him a small, empty glass. Michael looked at the glass and then back to Jane, he was about to shake his head in confusion, when she showed him the flask that she held in her other hand.
‘I’m quite sure that you’re quite old enough for a little nip,’ she said. ‘Besides, this is rather a special occasion, a very sad occasion.’ She leaned over and filled his glass with a golden liquid.
He blinked as he saw the tiny engravings on the flask. They were the same as the ones he’d seen etched into the vase in the sitting room. He heard Ken’s voice: ‘In one, Mikey, knock it back in one, matey, it’s the only way!’
Ken squeezed his shoulders and Michael did as he was bid. The fiery liquid hit his throat with a burning rush that whooshed its way into his jelly-like stomach. Just as he felt as though the coughing would happen all over again, Michael felt the heat rising through him like a phoenix. The warmth flooded his chest and rose into his head. The world span, in a pleasant way, and then the feeling was gone.
It left behind calmness, a kind of peace, one that made him feel as though all of his tomorrows were to be made of joy. The dark thoughts scurried away and the realities of what he had witnessed, felt so deeply, somehow seemed more bearable. He knew he would be able to look them in the eye next time – stare them in the eye and it wouldn’t be him who blinked first.
‘Whooo, that’s some fine spice you have there, Ken,’ he said, ‘is there any chance of another…’
Jane cut him off mid-sentence. ‘And there was me thinking you were just a ‘poor boy’,’ she said. ‘No more just yet, Michael! Maybe later when the need arises, it’s not something we tend to drink too often, only when the going gets tough, eh Ken?’ Her voice sharpened. ‘Ken, what’s the matter, sweetheart? Ken, are you okay?’
Both she and Michael looked worriedly at the big man. He had gone deathly pale and was now doing his best to make sure Michael reciprocated the previous support he had given the young man. Michael felt a sudden increase in weight as Ken almost fell into him. He leaned into the tall man and just managed to stop the pair of them from toppling sideways. Ken lowered himself onto the grass, where he sat and looked up at them. They saw his eyes fill with wonder and with tears.
‘What is it, Kenny, what’s happened?’ Jane said, as sat next to him, to be quickly joined by Michael. ‘Ken, what’s the matter?’ She reached over to place a hand on his forehead.
Ken shook his head, and said, ‘I’m really sorry, it’s what you said just then, Mikey, about wanting a refill. ‘Fine spice’ you said! That was Mikey’s saying…the old Mikey…he used that exact expression when we were…when we were somewhere else, almost the exact same words! ‘Spice’ he used to call it that! How in the hell did you know that word, Mike, how?’
Michael said he had no idea and suggested they go back inside. Ken’s sudden collapse scared him. The guy had seemed invincible.
Ken agreed, but said there was one thing he wanted to do first. He stood and then took the empty glass from the boy’s hand. ‘Special occasions, huh?’ he said, with a grin. ‘Well, they don’t get any more special than this, do they?’ He held out the glass to his wife, saying: ‘Fill her up, hun, right to the top!’
Jane obliged, and they proceeded to pass the glass amongst the three of them until the flagon ran dry. It was probably a good job that it was only a small flask. Feeling miles better, the trio went back into the warmth of the house and sat back down in front of the silver story-teller.
‘Feeling better now?’ George asked.
Seeing their nods, he said, ‘Good, then let us continue.’
Ken pushed the buttons and George’s tale continued with Michael’s initiation, as it were. Michael watched all of the things his old relation proceeded to show him, watched and realised that he was of the same stock as the old man and the others, from the very same breed – the blood running through their veins was the same blood that pulsed so loudly within his own head. The very same blood he sat in sadness and witnessed as it flooded across the wooden floor of some old farmhouse, the stricken man, from whence the torrent poured, lay upon the crimson-stained wood in the arms of the very same man who now sat next to him.
He turned to Ken and saw the sadness in that lined and weather-beaten face.
The big man whispered: ‘Mikey!’
Just the one word was all he said, but it was enough, more than enough.
Michael Wildeman raised his hand.
‘Yes, my child, do you have a question?’ George said, as he peered down from the screen.
Michael replied: ‘Am I Mikey, the one on the wooden step, the one who was bleeding, that one?’ He pointed at the screen. ‘Is that what you’re telling me, that I’ve been reborn – am I that man, but alive again?’ He turned to his new friends with a strange light in his eyes. He saw they were holding their breaths.
George’s reply drew his gaze back to the screen. ‘In many ways you are, yes,’ he said. ‘But, in addition, you are part of me and also part of the others, there is a part from all of us within you. The majority of our younger male generation are named Michael. It is mostly a tradition but it also helps strengthen the link, the one by which we are eternally bound together.’ He paused in consideration, before continuing. ‘Many of the previous ones’, the Michaels, experience and knowledge will have been passed on to you; these things tend to find their way to the neediest, to those nearest the front line, so to speak. As one of us dies then so our lives are passed onto others, others who, like you, must live to continue the battle. In many ways we never die, think of it as a transferring immortality, if you like. With each transfer we become stronger, more refined, and more exper
ienced…’ George paused to smile down at the young man.
Michael couldn’t help himself, the inevitable shake of his head had occurred before he even had time to think. It was an almost unbelievable tale, and would have been totally unbelievable were it not for the pictures flitting onto the silver screen before him, the pictures and, of course, the old man’s words.
George would often freeze the show to allow himself an interjection.
‘You see, Michael, this is not something we would normally do. We tend to let our people gradually find their own approach as their fate is already decided in many ways – the path towards the battle is a well-trodden one, a well-worn path that all of us will eventually find ourselves upon, sooner or later. Sometimes we will find ourselves treading it more than once!’ He gazed down at his descendant from the screen. ‘However, the time has come for us to finish this,’ he said. ‘With some luck and lots of bravery, this time should be the last. It is time for us to place all of our cards on the table, time for one last concerted effort!’
George would wait for a few seconds, giving his words the chance to sink in. Then, with a tap of his fingers, the show would continue. He showed them awful things, a long, accusatory list of wickedness that the Demon had managed to get its sticky fingers into. There were assassinations of prominent people, good people having their lives snuffed out, murdered before they had the chance to make a difference, brushed aside like flies who had dared to annoy the giants.
There were chains of awful events. Michael watched them all – the wars and the famines, horrendous acts of terrorism, invasions, murders and mayhem, centuries of dastardly deeds. All the time, the grinning wraith of the Demon, a black shapeless Dragon, fluttered and swirled in the background.
The suppression of technology and the massive overuse of fossil fuels, Hyenas and money, always the money, all were to his liking and he fiddled with them, each and every one. Little tweaks here, perhaps a slight push there. The Dragon loved the game almost as much as he loved the human obsession with money and power. For it was in money where the Dark One recognised the weakness of man, money and power were to be the key. An evil-filled solution the Demon used to open the door, an entranceway that led into the eternal playground of human weakness.
Once it had found the combination to this door, the Demon kicked it wide open and stood there, giggling with the blackness of its intent beaming outwards like a dark mist, an invisible shower of black particles, invisible maybe, but definitely there – free evil for everyone. All that was needed for the games to begin were three things, three dubious qualities: Greed, weakness and unstoppable self-interest.
Some people possessed a great deal more than the basic ingredients, this was a bonus, but those three would do for a starter, a starter for three, and were a fine way to begin the games. Most of the subjects, who occupied the many worlds that lay endlessly spread before the Beast’s dull yellow eyes, possessed such qualities. Some had ownership of vast quantities of the three ingredients, whilst others had but a few, tiny grains of the required elements. Little, un-noticed kernels of evil, tucked away in some forgotten box that lay hidden in the attic of their small lives.
The only thing needed was for someone, or something, to do a little clear-out of that dusty attic, dig out the weakness and maybe do a little gardening with it. Using a sprinkle of some black ‘water’ here, a soft caress of thorny fingers there, those hidden seeds had the chance to bloom, to become a black garden, a well-tended allotment of evil. Yes, once it had turned the key to that particular door, then there was to be no stopping the games that the Ogre liked to play.
George explained it all to them in detail, and as the show started coming to an end, he looked at Michael, and said, ‘You will be the one who helps us – you will be the one who makes the difference!’
Michael was shown it all, as he sat in his dead mother’s kitchen, and slowly the boy began to understand. The shadowy figure, which had been hiding behind that shower curtain in his mind, was revealed. The realities of his own self, and of who he was, leapt upon the boy. ‘It was me behind the curtain all along, I’m the shadowy one, I’m the figure that I couldn’t quite see, it’s me and I see it now – I see myself!’ His mind flashed within the brilliance of George’s illumination.
‘I’m the one!’
He was right, in many respects he was the one, but he was one of several. They were all in this together, and of that George made sure there was to be no misunderstanding whatsoever. Together they would go and give it their best shot.
At the end, when it was done, no more pictures and only some parting words from his teacher, George. The old man who was his…the boy thought about that one for a moment…‘Yeah, who exactly is he? My great, great, great…no way! I’ll have to pass on that one!’ Michael smiled to himself, looked up and saw that Jane was staring at him.
She had an expression of understanding sympathy in her eyes. Michael watched as the woman’s dark hair swished across her forehead. Her husband reached over and brushed it away from her eyes. She turned to Ken and gave him a philosophical shrug.
It was a gesture that said: ‘Well…this is just crazy, but what can you do?’
In the end, George had said his goodbyes. He wished them well and then spoke his final words. ‘Michael, I know this is strange, but trust me when I say that it will become more understandable to you. After a good night’s sleep you will find that things make more sense, and in the morning it will all be clearer to you. It is the same for everyone on their first time,’ he said, looking pointedly at Jane and Ken. George finished with: ‘I have only skimmed over the basics with you, Michael, merely to set the scene. Tori will elaborate later, when you have rested.’ The boy nodded in agreement, he felt shattered.
George pointed at Ken and Jane, saying: ‘Stick with these two – the ones who have come to help you. They are good teachers and also masterful human beings, amongst the rarest and bravest I have ever had the privilege of meeting!’ He smiled at the embarrassment his words had fetched to their faces. ‘They, along with the others, will take care of you,’ he said. ‘Stick with them and you will be fine, you will never be alone again, of that I promise you.’
He looked down at his papers, or whatever it was that lay below him. Glancing up one last time he said, ‘So, there we are, all done for the time being, but only just the beginning. I will see you all in a while. Do take care, and travel safely. Oh, and don’t forget the suits…’ With a wave of his hand, the old man departed into the milky swirl of the disappearing screen.
Ken pushed some buttons on the machine and the lights upon the silver case dimmed and slowly extinguished. He slid the computer back into its bag and asked if Michael had any questions.
The boy had only the one. ‘What happens next?’ he whispered. The thought of going and fighting the terrible entity, whose actions he’d spent the best part of a morning watching, scared him a little, but the sensation of fear was a lot less than the one of excitement he also felt well up inside his chest.
Jane replied: ‘Well, let’s see…we have some stuff to do here in the present, Ken will sort all that out, and then we have to pack before we go on a little trip. It’s not a long journey, but it’s probably a long way!’
Michael looked at her, not understanding.
Jane smiled. ‘Remember what George said, Mikey. Time is a relative thing,’ she said. ‘We are going a long way, to a place that is far, far away from here, but in real terms it may only be as close as next door. Think of it as standing and looking into a piece of two-way glass, to you it looks like a mirror, just your own reflection staring back at you, but to someone peering through from the other side, well…things may appear to be completely different!’ She shrugged and said, ‘I don’t really know the science behind all of it, and to be honest that little speech is just the one I use on myself when all of this gets to be a bit too much, you know, when I feel like I’m going stark raving mad!’
Ken burst out laughing behind
her, saying: ‘She uses it a lot, Mikey, almost every five minutes, mate!’ He twirled a pointed finger at his temple in a display of the madness with which he was accusing his wife of being afflicted.
Jane raised her eyebrows, and then turned and looked at Michael, who had also started laughing. ‘Oh, that’s just bloody great!’ she said. ‘Another damned, humorous man in my life, ganging up on me – that’s just what I need!’ She hid her smile behind a raised hand and glared at Ken. The action was a very human one, full of caring, laughter and love.
That one, simple gesture scattered all of the boy’s fears, they raced away from him and burst like bubbles on a thistle. They were gone, and with their departure, Michael took another step on the road to his destiny. It was to be a long and somewhat rocky road, but at least he had begun the journey. As George had said only moments before, Michael would not be alone during his journey, and he would never be alone again, not ever.
And so, the final battle had begun. The first tentative steps were taken by George and his warriors, and it would not be too long before those toddling steps became a run. The Demon Hunters were quick learners and they had gathered the final of their number, the boy was a very powerful talisman for them to have received. Without him, it is doubtful whether they would have been able to take any steps forward at all.
***
The Dark One knew this, and as he felt the shift of their growing numbers, the increase in their power, the yellow-eyed one shivered. Don’t be mistaken, though, his shiver was not one of fear nor one of dread. No, his frisson, the shuddering quake pulsing up and down the blackness of his form, was one of gleeful anticipation. ‘What better than to have all of my little enemies in one place, what could possibly be better? Oh, how lovely!’ he chuckled, the rusty sound echoing within the dark walls of his hidden cave.
If anyone should have been there to hear such a sound, then their days would have ended in fire. Instantaneous self-combustion would have been the result of any such careless eavesdropping. No, luckily enough it was only the Demon and his laughter that occupied this hiding place. High up in the mountains, he sat and giggled as he patiently lined up his toys. He was so high that he may well have been halfway to the moon. Everything was coming along just fine – his host was clever, the cleverest of them all. The most powerful host the Dark One had ever occupied, and one who had already caused so much damage to that fuking prick, George! The Demon had no idea that ‘George’ was even the old man’s name, and neither did he care, it was his host who did the talking – he felt that hated name spit from its warm lips. The equally-warm body of the recipient gladly welcomed the slippery blackness of the Demon’s invasive presence, and he writhed in comfort within the welcoming mind of it. They suited each other, like blood and guts, fire and brimstone, murder and mayhem.