Agent of Equilibrium

by N. J. Mercer

  “Is this something to do with what you were telling me in your apartment?” asked Baccharus.

  “Yeah, it’s like … someone’s trying to send a message … a message straight into my mind.”

  “What message? What did you see?” asked Sascha.

  “How far have we got now?”

  Sascha glanced at the navigation system. “Nearly there,” he replied, “about fifteen minutes to go.”

  “Okay, not enough time to tell you guys about the dream. I don’t want to skim over details; there could be something useful in there. I’ll tell you later. Right now, we should be thinking about what we’re going to do when we get to Hilvern.”

  They agreed to discuss dreams later. Sascha had one last question. “You’ve had the dream before, haven’t you, Johnny?”

  Johnny nodded slowly. “Yes, but not so intensely.”

  A sign indicating Hilvern was seven miles away changed the subject of conversation. Johnny made a call to Boyd’s earpiece and let him know their location. Boyd had travelled ahead on the nimbler motorbike and was already in Page’s Park. He said he would stroll around to get a feel for the village and take the chance to have a few smokes before Sascha turned up.

  It wasn’t long after the phone call that the motorhome also entered Hilvern. Johnny noticed, with some consternation, that aberrant, psychic energy was particularly prominent in the village. He could feel very little of the natural collective aura from its inhabitants, which was unusual because every place of habitation, from a house to an entire city, possessed this quality in abundance. Johnny thought about what Sascha had discovered regarding Hilvern on the Internet. It had started life as a small market village, a centre of trade for local farm produce and livestock. Even though these activities around which it was built had long ago faded away, the place remained the nearest thing to a commercial hub for the surrounding farms, and a home for many of the people who worked on them.

  The satellite navigation system led the motorhome to Page’s Park, a grass-covered field bordered by mature trees and paths leading to the surrounding streets. At its centre was a tall lamppost beside a dilapidated bandstand. It was getting dark and the lamp was lit. Sascha drove slowly alongside the green expanse while his friends gazed out of the windows; Boyd waited further ahead. Johnny felt a sense of sadness brought on by knowledge of the events that had taken place here.

  “Well this is it, boys, Page’s Park,” Sascha said. “You guys don’t seem too happy,” he added after seeing the looks on Baccharus and Johnny’s faces. There was something obviously worrying the two psychics.

  “There’s residual energy all over the park,” Baccharus muttered.

  Sascha reached over and flicked some switches on the devices he had positioned on the dashboard; a small screen with an oscillating green line that formed a delta wave was activated.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked.

  “Disorder,” Baccharus replied.

  “Yeah,” agreed Johnny, “there is a layer of chaotic energy clinging to the park along with the psychic signature of a traumatic event.”

  “Louise?” asked Sascha.

  “More than likely,” replied Johnny.

  “Well at least we know it’s the right place then,” said Sascha.

  Johnny closed his eyes, focused, and tried to form a picture of what happened here. Traces of Mr Kreb’s aura and the Firehound drifted into his mind; the time it related to was so long ago that he could not obtain a clear image. The atmosphere inside the motorhome was grave, a direct reflection of the negative energy emanating from Page’s Park.

  They eventually came to a halt beside Boyd’s motorbike. He had dismounted and was standing facing the park with his holy book open in front of him, reciting under his breath.

  “What on earth is he doing? This is no time to read,” said Baccharus as he watched curiously.

  A minute later, Boyd had closed his book, and Johnny could sense the atmosphere about the park become lighter and less oppressive.

  “What were you doing there?” asked Baccharus as soon as Boyd stepped through the door of the motorhome.

  “Clearing the stench of Disorder,” offered Boyd as an explanation. “I am instructed by the high priests to recite this particular verse wherever there has been aberrant psychic activity; it dispels the influence of Disorder when it is recited.”

  Sascha confirmed that his electronic meters indicated reduced Presarium activity following Boyd’s reading. Johnny could see the value of a psychic police force like Boyd’s Order; without such collectives the whole world could easily be awash with residual energy and rogue psychic activity.

  Being so close to the enemy, Johnny felt an increased sense of unease and he could see that his companions felt the same; there was nothing psychic about it.

  “So this is where Louise was attacked,” said Baccharus to nobody in particular as he hovered by the window and looked out across Page’s Park.

  “This is the place,” confirmed Sascha, taking up a position beside the familiar.

  “So what now?” Baccharus asked aloud.

  Johnny glanced at the clock on the dash. It was around nine thirty p.m. and the village was dead; everything was shut and there was nobody about on the streets. This was where they would have to find their next lead. They had slept very little the previous night and it had been a long journey; now was the time to rest. Refreshments were distributed from the stores as options were considered.

  “I suggest we move outside Hilvern, find a place to stop and make an early start tomorrow,” said Johnny. He did not feel the village was a safe place to call it a night. He sensed they were being watched, maybe by locals, maybe by Disciples; he didn’t like it. Each of his companions was visibly relieved at the suggestion; they too felt uncomfortable here and any opportunity to sleep was most welcome. Boyd returned to his motorbike and they all promptly left Hilvern. As they drove, Johnny mentioned how strange it was that there had been neither a moving car nor a person on the village streets even though it was not particularly late. “Maybe there’s very little to be awake for,” Sascha had suggested. “Or maybe everyone’s just too afraid to come out at night,” Baccharus had added mischievously.

  They drove for about ten miles along the main carriageway; Johnny counted only a single lorry followed by two cars going in the opposite direction on this short journey. Sascha spotted a lay-by which appeared discreet enough for another overnight stay, and they parked up. Boyd entered the larger vehicle to join his companions. With the entire team together, the motorhome became a bustle of activity as an evening meal was prepared. Sascha connected to the Internet once again and scoured it for information on Hilvern Village, its surrounding region, and any significant events. Outside, the night was still. Having left Hilvern, Johnny felt more relaxed; he didn’t expect this state of affairs to last for very long.

  With the meal over, coffee was served; Boyd and Baccharus lit cigarillos. Despite craving the comfort of his bunk, Johnny instead insisted that Sascha take the opportunity to present his research findings, and the others were soon giving their undivided attention to the fascinating information he had discovered.

  **

  The Hilvern Valley region of Scotland had been considered since time immemorial to be a centre of witchcraft and arcane lore. At its very heart, both geographically and spiritually, once stood the mysterious Dunain Castle.

  Historical archives of the region were littered with strange reports of people with superhuman powers. For example: individuals who were capable of flight, others who could appear in two places at once, or those who dispensed powerful curses that afflicted people, livestock and even crops with disease.

  The sparsely populated region always had a steady trickle of people migrating from it who took with them frightening stories that bolstered the valley’s reputed association with witchcraft and the paranormal. The witches of Hilvern were said to forge allegiances with demons more ancient than Earth itself: beings who gifte
d them with favours and control over natural laws, allowing them to perform seemingly miraculous acts.

  A popular legend that became ingrained in the folklore of the region was of dark-robed men from Dunain Castle entering poorly secured houses and cottages to remove the inhabitants, especially young children. Strangers who visited Hilvern inevitably felt an atmosphere of unease about the valley, and it was uncertain whether this was due simply to its reputation or a primeval sixth sense warning them of hidden, supernatural danger.

  During the years when the Church promoted the persecution of witches, and in the earliest days of the witch-hunt, Hilvern’s reputation naturally attracted zealots and opportunists by the legion; it wasn’t long before the God-fearing avoided Hilvern altogether. The earliest witch-hunters who had enthusiastically sought to cleanse Hilvern of its magic were finding themselves afflicted with madness, blindness or worse. These invaders realised that there was every chance they had stumbled upon true witchcraft and demon magic, a power they could not fight, and so were quick to avoid Hilvern, especially Dunain Castle, to whose estate much of the land in the valley belonged. They promptly returned to victimising and exploiting vulnerable peasants again.

  It was common knowledge that Dunain Castle had been home to a long line of lords, each as mysterious and elusive as the previous one. Some were recognised as sinister, cruel men while others revelled in reputations as carefree playboys or even learned professors. The lords never took any measures to curb the disreputable activity on their estate, which always prompted speculation that they were themselves somehow associated with the wicked goings on. Over time, the castle fell into ruin and its precise location was forgotten; there was much conjecture suggesting that a grand house had been built on its site by the twelfth lord.

  Interest in the region and its notorious reputation had long since diminished. The present lord, by all accounts, had proven to be more secretive than all his predecessors. He continued to maintain close links with those in positions of authority and the establishment. There had generally been very little in the way of dealings with the current lord and the public, except in affairs that directly concerned his land.

  **

  Why here? Johnny thought to himself. It was as if Disorder had always managed to exert its influence in Hilvern and establish some sort of base in this isolated, rural region.

  “I’m not finished yet. Listen to this!” Sascha continued, “It’s a report I found in a local newspaper website: the Hilvern Village Herald. Let me read it out to you.”

  “Louise Croft, who had been living in Hilvern for eight years, was tragically killed in Page’s Park last Wednesday. She was mauled to death by a large dog of unknown breed. Mr David Matthews, a local resident, confirmed that he witnessed a man dressed in black walking with the animal in the park before the incident. Another witness, who wished to remain anonymous, reported seeing the dog, which was without a lead, dart away from its owner before the attack. The owner, it seemed, did not attempt to restrain the animal. Dog and owner were seen leaving the park by another local resident, Arthur Moore. Mr Moore, who was unaware at the time of what had happened, described a tall and very old man dressed in black walking past him followed a few seconds later by the large dog. He did not have much in the way of a description because the man’s face was mostly covered by a wide-brimmed hat.

  “Police have been trying to follow up leads on the man and dog but have thus far been unsuccessful. Hilvern is a small village, and it can be said with some certainty that neither the dog nor its keeper match the description of any resident.

  “Louise Croft, daughter of the late life-long Hilvern resident Joseph McFadden, was a well-known local character. She was a member of staff at the Stone’s Throw Pub and worked with Mrs McGuiness at McGuiness’s general store just outside the village. She leaves behind a thirteen-year-old daughter who is being cared for, with a view to adoption, by a family friend. He has asked to remain anonymous to afford the child some privacy through these difficult times. Police have a dedicated phone number for any information regarding this incident.”

  Sascha looked up from his computer screen. Johnny and the rest of the team quietly absorbed the information from the article.

  “So what do you make of it all, Sascha?” prompted Johnny, always interested in his friend’s take on any matter.

  Sascha was happy to share his thoughts. “Well, it certainly sounds like Mr Kreb and the Firehound killed Louise, which is no revelation, it’s what we suspected already. What is important though are the new clues. Do you remember Dave telling us Louise worked in a bar and a general store? Well, we have names now: the Stone’s Throw Pub and Mrs McGuiness’s general store. We’ll go to these places and ask questions to find out where Rachel and the big house she now lives in are. I’m assuming the store will be open before the pub tomorrow morning so I propose we go there as soon as we can. If we don’t learn anything useful then we try the pub. The landlord might know a thing or two, and if he can’t help, well – then at least we’re in the right place for a few drinks.”

  When Sascha had finished, Johnny looked at the rest of his companions; there was no objection to the plan.

  “Sounds good,” Boyd said, “I bet the police and social workers have all the information we need on file. You know, stuff like where Rachel went and all that.”

  “You’re right,” Sascha replied, “obviously they won’t share it with a group of misfits such as ourselves, and I suppose to even have a sniff of those files would mean going through impossible layers of bureaucracy first.”

  “Grand, well then in that case we stick to finding Mrs McGuiness’s store or the pub,” said Boyd. “Good work, Sascha.”

  Everybody cleared up and prepared for sleep; for the psychics there remained an important final act to perform. Johnny and Baccharus exited the motorhome and used the vehicle’s integrated ladder to climb onto its broad, rectangular roof, not for the intended purpose of loading luggage; instead, they sat facing each other, cross-legged and with eyes closed, concentrating deeply. Above them was a clear, beautiful night sky, an astronomer’s dream.

  Johnny had been instructed by the Council of Seven to provide an update at least twenty-four hours before the projected deadline, and now was as good an opportunity as any to transfer this information.

  As they sat cross-legged on the roof in meditation, the air around them filled with static that made each hair stand on end; occasionally, a spark of electricity would leapfrog from Johnny to Baccharus. Johnny entered the mind of his familiar with his own and transferred every thought and memory regarding the mission so far to the faithful cherub. He included every one of the dream sequences he had experienced and his reflections on what they could mean. Once the transfer was complete, the static charge disappeared and they opened their eyes simultaneously. Baccharus was instantly knowledgeable about his keeper’s thoughts regarding the case, and the biggest revelation to him was the significance Johnny placed on the strange dreams he was having. There was no need to discuss anything further; Baccharus now knew Johnny’s mind like his own, and it included the knowledge that Johnny wished to continue keeping the details of the dreams a secret from the rest of his companions.

  Even at the speed of light, it would take millions of years for messages sent by conventional physical methods to reach the centre of the universe. For those who understood the structure of reality there was a way around this rather major inconvenience: travel between dimensions. To fulfil his role as a familiar, Baccharus was designed to do this intuitively; it was integral to his purpose as the vector of information between Johnny and the Council. Baccharus had tried to explain this process to Johnny on a number of occasions – it only seemed to confuse his keeper further. As a human, Johnny was not really designed for this form of travel, and in the end they both agreed that the only way of understanding how to do it was if you had actually done it yourself. So until such a day, Johnny accepted that the mysterious process of inter-dimensional travel wou
ld remain a mystery.

  “Have a good trip, pal! Pass on my love!” said Johnny.

  Baccharus, waving goodbye, warped and twisted as if he were a reflection in a hall of mirrors. The air filled with static, Baccharus dematerialised, and blue sparks leapt from where his previously solid form had been to the roof of the motorhome where they travelled in a circuit around the vehicle’s exterior and faded away.

  The warping familiar disappeared from view entirely in a few seconds leaving Johnny alone on the roof. The solitary man stood up again, stretched and took in a lungful of the clear crisp Highland air. The night was still once more, and the stars were visible despite the light cloud that had started to collect; he wondered at their beauty and meditated on the infinite worlds and possibilities that lay in them. It occurred to him that at that precise moment he could be viewing light from the distant galaxy where the Council of Seven resided – it made him feel connected to a far greater reality than the one he experienced on Earth. Quietly, Johnny re-entered the motorhome; his friends had already retired to various bunks to get some much-needed rest.

  Chapter 13

  Not far from the motorhome and its slumbering occupants, a rental car hired under a false identity drove through the city. Martin was at the wheel. He was tired and haggard but determined to carry out his plan. It was this resolve that kept his mind focused and alert; tonight he felt prepared to face anything.

  Martin knew that he had only narrowly escaped capture, or worse, the previous night; if he had not been waiting in his flat for Boyd at that late hour then he would not have seen the black van and car arriving from his balcony doors – they would have caught him as he lay in bed. He had always known that it was only a matter of time before the Disciples came for him, and when the two vehicles arrived, he had responded instantly by escaping into the heart of the city.