by Paul A. Rice
They were the perfect partners.
***
Michael Wildeman spent a further two days in the company of his new friends. Actually, he had begun to think of them as more than merely friends, they were partners and teachers, family. Either way, he found them to be good company. The couple seemed so close, not only in body but also in mind. They were good fun, too, always ‘taking the mickey’ out of each other and having a good laugh. Underneath their carefree veneer, the boy also saw a towering strength – their partnership looked to be unassailable. Their love of each other and the candid way in which they discussed things, the insane things that had been dumped into Michael’s lap, reassured the young man. He trusted them and found that his eagerness for the trip, a strange departure for a place as yet to be revealed, was becoming stronger by the day.
As was usual with his kind, Michael’s feet began to itch.
George had been right, the boy’s mind was clearer, he felt a new knowledge growing within, and its light seemed to illuminate his innermost feelings. The clarity of these feelings cleansed the dark thoughts, fear and dreams from his mind. There were dreams, but none of them were of the Darkness, which seemed to have been banished altogether. The only dream he had was one of his mother – he saw her walking through the night, walking alone.
Ahead of her there lay a silver door, in his dreams, Michael saw a faint glow peeping around the edges, it opened and he saw his mother run. She ran toward the light-filled doorway; he saw a figure standing in the glow. As his mother approached the light, Michael saw it fade and someone began to come forward. With a brilliant glow surrounding his figure, Jack Wildeman stepped into view.
The last thing the boy saw was Mary reach out to take the lovingly-extended hand of his father. They embraced, took one look backwards and then walked into the light together. Jack had his arm firmly around Mary’s waist. Yes, Michael definitely felt much better, altogether happier, he knew that he was ready, it was time to go.
Ken had organised the dealings with the house, an agent had been hired and would maintain the property for a small, monthly fee. Ken had also made sure of the paperwork and that all the legalities involving Mary’s Will were signed, sealed and delivered. To anyone who asked, the answer would have been one that told of how Michael was to accompany Ken and Jane on an extended holiday. He would return when he had come to terms with the demise of his mother.
Michael would be back when he was ready.
No-one did ask.
Ken had noticed the date and apparently it was the year 2011 – but 2011 where? Obviously they were in England; somewhere down in Wiltshire by the looks of things, but when he had gone onto the internet, which George had specifically asked him not to do, and searched for the Lodge, Ken was unable to find a single trace of their old residence. The only thing the satellite image showed him was a vast expanse of open heathland, some rolling heather, and the hills – but no Lodge. He looked for his bank accounts and other things, their apartment in London, friends, electoral roles, anything.
Nothing came back in affirmation of his or Jane’s existence.
It was as though they had never been born.
‘It’s no bloody wonder the old man didn’t want me to look – we’ve disappeared! Maybe we never even existed in this dimension anyway!’ The thought bothered him. Thankfully, Ken had no time to dwell on the feeling, because they had to go, and go soon. He closed all the windows on the desktop and clicked ‘Shut down’. Michael’s PC whirred loudly as it began closing down the hard drive. He rose to his feet and didn’t look back at the machine. Ken now knew why George had asked him not to look. With that thought in his mind, he went back to closing the house down instead.
At least he knew how that worked.
Jane helped Michael to pack, it was the last day and she had told him that they were due to depart in the afternoon. ‘Take whatever you need, there’s plenty of room,’ she said. ‘You just wait until you see the farm, its great! You are just going to die when you see it!’
She winked at him and Michael laughed at her deliberately poor choice of words. He picked up the picture of his girlfriend and placed it onto the clothes, which he had started to pile-up in readiness to be packed.
Jane glanced at the photograph, saying: ‘She’s a beautiful young lady, Mike! Is she someone special?’ She winked at him again with her face full of girlish mischievousness.
Michael blushed deeply, Jane had the uncanny knack of making him feel as though she was his best mate as well as acting like a trouble-causing, but very caring, older sister. He looked down at the picture and said, ‘Uhuh, yeah, she’s the best, she’s so cool!’ Then, with typical teenage male bravado, he added: ‘Yeah, I have a few others on the go, too!’ He looked up and saw Jane giving him a disapproving look.
She frowned at him and said, ‘Hmm, it seems like there’s quite a lot of certain Mister Wyppen in you after all, and not all of it good, either!’ When she saw the worried expression upon the young man’s face, Jane laughed and tousled his hair, saying: ‘Only kidding, the other one was a bugger with the women, too. A right little Romeo was our Mikey!’ She laughed and wiped a tear away from the side of her nose.
Michael hugged her, his reflex action causing them both to laugh once more.
Jane sighed. ‘Oh dear, what an awful mess,’ she whispered, ‘never mind, eh, Mike, come on let’s get packed, shall we?’
He agreed and they set to the job in hand, laughing amongst themselves as she held up a pair of his Superman boxer-shorts, or something else equally as embarrassing. In a short while they completed the task and two bulging suitcases now sat neatly by the bedroom door. Jane drew the curtains, pulled the covers up on the bed and then reached into her handbag.
Delving into the bag, she produced a folded, cloth object, shaking it vigorously until it became a strange one-piece suit. It looked to be made of silver paper and seemed to ripple. Michael blinked in surprise; Jane looked him in the eye as she handed over the strange garment. It felt very thin, almost like paper. Michael guessed it was probably a lot stronger as there seemed to be an almost steel-like elasticity to the material. When he pulled on the cloth it seemed to pull back, shrank slightly. The warmth of his hands made the material more malleable and it moulded itself into the shape of his fingers.
The images from George’s film show returned to him. ‘Is that a Shrink Down suit?’ Michael’s question hung in the air as he tugged the material between his fingers. ‘Should I put it on now – over or under?’
Jane told him that ‘under’ was the best, and then went outside onto the landing, closing the door behind as she went. Michael stripped down to his underwear and slipped into the garment. It clung to his body, melting into his shape. In a few moments it was as though he wore a second skin. He pulled the zipper upwards, the soft material hissed as he slid it toward his neck and the suit became even more tightly fitting. After he had put his clothes back on, he leaned over and knocked on the door from the inside.
‘You can come in now, Jane, I’ve finished,’ he said.
Jane returned to his bedroom and gave him a quick look up and down. She said, ‘Fits pretty neatly, doesn’t it? Shall we go then, Mikey?’ She swept her arm toward the door. ‘After you, my Prince…’ she said. Michael grinned and they made their way downstairs to see what Ken was doing.
In addition to having put the kettle on, he’d also sorted out the controls for the heating, fitted new locks to all the windows and checked out all the important things it takes to keep an unoccupied house from falling into disrepair. ‘We don’t want any dramas whilst we’re away,’ he said. ‘I haven’t a clue when you’ll be back, or even if you will be back…’ He looked at Michael seriously.
The boy nodded. ‘Yeah, thanks Ken,’ he said. ‘I know, and it’s okay. There’s nothing here for me anyway, not now that Mum’s gone.’ He took the mug of tea that Jane offered him. ‘Thanks,’ he said, before taking a seat at the table.
Ken passed him a sm
all, blue tablet.
‘Take this,’ he said, ‘it’ll help stop the travel sickness.’
Michael did as he was told and dispensed the tablet with a gulp of hot tea.
During the next fifteen minutes, they sat and checked over all the things they had done, and also those they still had to do. The second list was small and in almost no time at all it looked as though they were, indeed, ready to depart. Within the hour the three of them were making their way around to the front of the house with the suitcases in tow. Jane led the way toward the black BMW as it sat twinkling in the pale afternoon sun.
The boy’s eyes widened. ‘Cool car, Ken! Look at the size of it!’ he exclaimed. Michael stopped at the tailgate and, once it had risen, helped Ken put the cases into the cavernous boot space. He peered into the interior of the vehicle over the top of the rear seats. ‘Oh yes, this is one mean machine!’ he whispered, in delight.
Ken turned to him, and smiling, said, ‘Jump in behind me, Mikey, wait until you see what else it can do. It’s not just a pretty toy, it’s a beast!’ The two of them laughed and then joined Jane in the car, Ken slid into the passenger side and Michael clambered into the rear compartment.
Jane said, ‘Watch your fingers, Mike,’ and then called for the seatbelts.
Michael sat in silence as the Spear began its magic ritual, he looked up at the blue numbers counting down on the glowing windscreen and felt a strange sliding sensation ooze into his head as the approaching zeros headed nearer.
Then, in that breath-taking way, the Spear took the young man into the swirling green light – into a place where only the brave can go. Michael jumped, ripped, into his destiny. But, unlike his father’s fatal leap, the boy’s own leap was one of discovery. A gigantic step into the unknown, one of rebirth, and one he took in the company of some new friends – his guardians.
5
A Full House
Dangerous Flush – Two Michaels, one Tori, and a Red.
The flat report of a shotgun blast echoed across the lake, the sound sending the flock of waterfowl scattering in panic across the mirrored surface of the misty water, scrabbling for traction with their webbed feet below the surface, wings beating at the damp air above, desperately trying to gather some lift. The calmness of the early morning was shattered by the blast and splashing melee.
A voice rang out, no need to be quiet anymore, the stalk was over.
‘On the left, there’s two over there, Mikey, low – get ‘em!’
A second shotgun barked, two shots so close together that it was difficult to tell them apart. Smoke spiralled from the twirling empty cartridges, they barely reached the ground before the gun had been reloaded and then spoke again.
The firer paused before shouting his reply. ‘High right, up abo…’
His words were drowned out as the first gun once more spat lead and cordite. The flock of birds were now well underway and the last shot was either incredibly lucky, or had been fired by someone very skilled in the art of shooting.
The graceful flight of the final bird ended in the usual way. When the lead hits home it almost appears as though the bird surrenders, sighs perhaps, and then loses all cohesion as it takes that final, ungainly plunge to the ground. One would imagine the words of its action, the almost apathetic way in which all such stricken birds die, would sound something along the lines of: ‘Oh, bugger…’
An unimagined voice spoke. ‘What a great shot, man that was unbelievable!’ The slightly younger of the two young men laughed and waved from the other side of the lake, splashing through the shallows to collect the four birds he himself had downed.
The hunters skirted the water’s edge, picking up their fallen prey as they went, before eventually meeting each other at the head of the lake where the stream made its vital contribution to all things therein. Michael Wildeman leapt across the stream, heels splashing in the mud and grass as he only just managed to clear the river. Michael Tolder, his somewhat-older relation, reached out and grabbed him by the upper arm. As was usual, the great strength in ‘Red Junior’ simply plucked the younger man across the stream he was about to fall back into – the weight of the four birds and a shotgun helping him to overbalance backwards.
‘Thanks a lot, Junior!’ Michael said. ‘That would’ve been funny, wouldn’t it?’ He laughed as his bronze-headed compatriot pretended to let him slip from the iron grasp, and then pulled him forward once more.
Junior grinned and said, ‘Gotcha…you owe me one, Mikey!’
He yanked Michael onto firmer ground, whereupon the two young men laid their prey on the grassy bank. Six of the ruby-and-brown coloured birds lay in a row, speckles of fresh blood shimmering like tiny gems on their waterproof feathers.
Junior looked up from the birds and said, ‘Well, that’s the bird-meat for the party taken care of – let’s hope that Ken has enough pork to go with that half-a-cow he fetched home yesterday!’ He looked at Michael, saying: ‘Is your gun clear?’ Michael opened the breech of the twelve-gauge to allow the taller boy to check; Junior nodded and did the same with his own gun.
Michael looked into the weapon. ‘Clear!’ he said, in confirmation of the weapon’s safety. The boys slung the weapons over their shoulders with the breeches left open, automatically carrying out the drills that Ken had religiously taught them.
His words still rang clear in their minds, and they always would do when it came to the art of using guns. ‘Safety first, boys, these things have only been designed for one thing, and one thing only – to kill!’ Ken was an absolute stickler when it came to guns and the boys had pumped out more than a few push-ups and run up and down the apple tree mound repeatedly, guns held above their heads, after having fallen foul of his unbreakable rules on such things.
They gathered up the dead birds and headed for the house. Calm had once more descended over the lake, there was still a faint whiff of gunpowder in the damp air, but, as the sun started to flood across the hills behind, to the east, the tranquillity of the place began to assert its reign once more. Several of the previously-targeted birds had already returned on their reconnaissance flights over the lake – the irresistible urge to land upon and feed in the calm waters, obviously overcoming any fear.
Michael looked up at them, saying: ‘You’d think they’d learn, wouldn’t you? It’s a good job we don’t just shoot just for fun!’
Junior agreed. ‘Yeah, they’re lucky my Pop’s like he is, huh? He said, looking at Michael. ‘He’s right though, we don’t need any more anyway.’ He held up the three birds he was carrying. ‘They are beautiful, though, aren’t they?’ he said. ‘It’s a shame really…mind you, it is gonna be a helluva party!’
Carrying on with their idle banter, the two young men made their way back to the farmhouse. As they approached, they saw the tendril of grey smoke rising from the chimney; it gave the old house a welcoming, homely appearance.
The new addition to their family, Jack’s son, had been on the farm for nearly four months now. His transition into that place, the time where he now lived, had been almost seamless and in many ways it was as though he belonged there, he seemed to fit perfectly, like that one, missing piece from an unfinished jigsaw puzzle.
When he’d first arrived, young Michael did suffer some sickness, both physically and mentally. His stomach had churned for a few days and the strange realities of what he had been told, seen with his own two eyes, made him feel light-headed. He felt himself stagger, inside his own mind he felt as though he had fallen, tripped perhaps, and then been hauled to his feet and dusted down by Ken and the others. He was homesick, in a way, and when he thought of his mother the pangs of sorrow still gnawed at his guts. But it was strangely distant and felt as though it was an event that had happened to someone else, as though he were in the cinema, only watching a very different silver screen this time, sitting in the front row with a big box of salted-popcorn and a giant Coke in his lap.
Inside he wondered if man-dog still had his VIP ticket and was hea
ding for the seat next to him. ‘We can watch the show together, Mikey, huh, Mikey, huh?’ He was almost able to feel it nudge him with a bony elbow. Michael would simply push the thought from his head. The feelings weren’t something he dwelt upon as life was too busy, so many different things going on, people to meet, chores to do, and then there was the training, of course.
It hadn’t started straight away; Ken had told them it would be something that would need to be done soon. ‘Not yet, though, let’s take one step at a time, eh?’ he’d said. ‘But, when we do start, well…then you guys are probably gonna hate me, just a little bit!’ He had winked at them and Michael saw the glint in Ken’s eyes again, the emeralds.
No, in the meantime, Michael was given time to settle in and meet the gang, get his head around what was going on and understand who they all were – who he himself was. The immediate problem they faced was a simple one. Two ‘Michaels’ was a minor complication, and one which Red’s son cured in his normal, fuss-free manner.
‘Well, at school all my friends know who my Poppa is, everybody knows who ‘Red’ is around here. Most of ‘em have taken to calling me ‘Red Junior’, anyways!’ he said, with a grin. ‘Mister Walton calls me ‘Junior’ all the time and it’s kinda stuck, you know?’