The Other of One - Book One: The Lythiann Chronicles

by Brian G. Burke

  William looked up at Mr. Blackhead, who was now standing skinny and tall before him. It upset him immensely to think that someone so much older than he, and supposedly more mature, could take such an unfair stab at somebody’s family. Contrary to that, it was also making him very angry, although he managed to repress it.

  “Oh, yesss!” hissed Misery-Guts, displaying a grim smirk.

  He saw how his little mind games were having an effect on William, so he continued to twist the dagger.

  “I have seen her working in that establishment late at night, on my walks home. All the men in there, ogling at her! And she does nothing more but encourage their filthy thoughts! She is scum-ridden filth in my opinion! No more than yourself! Such a shame your father had to leave. Maybe he could have put some proper manners in you! On second thought, maybe he is better off six...feet...under! Who’d want an embarrassment of a son like you, anyway!”

  William could hear his teeth grinding through his ears and his fists trembled tightly, clasping with the desire for one swift thump straight into Blackhead’s stupid eye. Yet he still dared not look at him. For, despite his inner rage, he could also feel his lip quivering and his eyes glazing.

  “Well?!” barked Mr. Blackhead. “Do you not have something to say for yourself?”

  “The bell rang, sir. I thought class had ended—”

  “NO BACKCHAT!” screamed Mr. Blackhead, bending over to meet William eye to eye. “You know per-fect-ly well that home assignments are given out after the bell rings, so don’t give me that codswallop!”

  Then William implored, “I’m so sorry, sir. It won’t happen again. I promise!”

  “Oh, I know it won’t. Because if it does, I will be sure you get exactly what is coming to you! Do I make myself per-fect-ly clear?!”

  Reaching inside his breast pocket, Blackhead flicked out his long, orange pencil. It was all twisted and chewed. He then pressed it hard against the end of William’s nose.

  “Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!” the lad said apologetically.

  Holding his breath, he hoped that Blackhead would leave it at that and just get lost. After all, the last thing William wanted to do was get cross and say something foolish. That would’ve only meant punishment, leading to nothing other than his poor mother’s disappointment, which was not what he wanted at all. She had enough to deal with without being dragged in for a meeting with Blackhead over William’s ‘unacceptable behaviour.’

  Besides, he knew that the things Mr. Blackhead had said about her were false, because he had often gone to watch her working, as you know. The innkeeper, Don Molloy, didn’t mind him visiting, and while he was there, William noticed those cheeky male reactions which Misery-Guts was referring to. It was all completely harmless, of course. She was more put out by it than anything. But she gave back as good as she got and worked away regardless, without any real bother. Anyway, what does ol’ Misery-Guts really know about me or my family, for that matter? thought William. Even so, I think you can appreciate why he found Blackhead’s words very unfair.

  “Now go back to your classroom, and remain there until I say it is okay for you to leave!” ordered Misery-Guts.

  He turned, and the long tails of his old suit jacket flew behind him in the gust of the day’s old gloom; a day which managed to personify the very essence of Blackhead’s cold-blooded heart. William watched his insect-like legs carrying him, with long strides, back to the prefab. In the window, he noticed some faces quickly vanishing upon his return. The children, it seemed, were watching the lecture from inside (as even William himself had done, many times before). Usually they’d heckle and jeer, but not this time. This time they said nothing. It was almost as if they knew Misery-Guts had taken his words too far, and all they could do was watch poor William with sympathy.

  Everything as it was, he chose not to take Blackhead’s words to heart. It wasn’t the first time he gave out to him, and it sure wasn’t going to be the last. Therefore, he remained strong—a quality clearly inherited from his highly esteemed and tenacious mother—fixed the bag on his shoulders, picked up his cheer, and strolled confidently back to his classroom.

  * * *

  The day pressed on, and William waited in that cold, empty classroom for nearly an hour before Misery-Guts finally decided to show his face. By that stage, William had already melted back into his dreams of myths and music, so he was not altogether paying attention to Mr. Blackhead or his words.

  “Well now, leaving before home assignments, was it? Filthy little rat-boy!” He frowned with an ugly leer. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the evening if I had my way, but principal needs to close up for the night. Consider yourself lucky! But before you leave...boy...you must remember that Mr. Clack won’t be principal forever, and I am next in line! And when that happens, there’ll be a lot of changes around here! You no-good little brats won’t know what hit you! Now push off! Home with you!”

  Fair dues to William; he’d already predicted during his solitary hour that Misery-Guts would try and come up with something hurtful to say, so he’d prepared himself to keep his mouth shut and simply not listen. All he heard was that it was time to go home.

  Standing out from his seat, in a mannerly, yet meekly unruly fashion, he grabbed his bag and walked quietly towards the door beside Mr. Blackhead. Before he could reach it, he felt five scrawny fingers clasping round his arm.

  “I’m watching you, lad...and don’t you forget that!” growled Blackhead, looking down past his long nose at William.

  Now, what William meant to say next was, “Yes, Mr. Blackhead, sir!” like any sane student would do. But, don’t you know, he managed to make a proper muck of it!

  “Yes, Misery-Blackhe—” He faltered when shock paralyzed him.

  Blackhead’s eyes whipped open to a burning rage, and William couldn’t believe that he’d made such a stupid mistake.

  “I m-m-mean, Miser-M-Mr. Blackhead, s-s-sir!”

  Just at that crucial moment, the principal stepped in. He was a small, round man, well dressed in three-piece attire, bald, with glasses, and a moustache as thick as a broom. He must’ve been doing the rounds, locking up the classrooms for the weekend, much to young William’s relief.

  “Bylan!” he snapped, in his traditional squeaky tone. “Take your hands off the boy this instant! We do not tolerate corporal punishment here at St. Mathew’s! We never have, and we never will! You know this! Now, be on your way, lad!”

  Taking heed, William slipped from Blackhead’s grasp and ran so fast to the main door that he couldn’t even remember passing down the long, narrow corridor.

  “That still doesn’t give you reason to run in my halls, either, Mr. Muldoon!” the principal called out.

  Like before, William flung the doors open and sped across the yard. Before he knew it he was already past the town square, and well on his way over the big green hill. The evening was getting on; birds were flocking home for the coming of night, and William’s breath was in plain sight before his eyes. Still, he’d rather be out in the cold than in a classroom with just grumpy old Misery-Guts for company. I must say, he was quite relieved to get out of that situation, and he couldn’t get out of it fast enough, either...

  With a loud “Woohoo!” he ran full-steam down the hill, and jumped as high as he could to make the bottom. This led him into a harmless tumbling bump, but up he jumped, as nimble as ever, and off he went again towards Mr. O’Connell’s stone wall.

  It was a custom of William’s to try and clear this wall as often as he could. At the end of the week, he would add up his score and try to beat it again the following week. It was a test more than anything, to see what he was made of.

  With a lift in pace and his head crouched to a charge, William leapt fearlessly into the air and over the wall. It mightn’t surprise you to learn that he was very deft and unusually quick, and he cleared the jump without any trouble. He was very deft, indeed. You could not but agree, had you only seen the height of the wall compared to hi
s small stature. Over he went and down he landed, and there was the farmer himself, standing stoutly at the backdoor, with his chubby thumbs in his braces, puffing on his pipe.

  “How ya doin’ there, young William?” He laughed. “Off to read some more o’ your stories are ya?”

  “You got that right! How’s things, Mr. O’Connell?!” shouted William with a wave as he sped by. “It’s Friday after all! Oh, and I’ll see you tomorrow and give you a hand with them chickens, too! Three to the market and six to Ms. Ríordan’s coop, am I right?”

  “Right ya are, young Muldoon! See ya ‘round eleven-ish, say! Should be back from musterin’ by then. Enjoy your readin’ now!” said Mr. O’ Connell with a smile.

  The farmer guffawed and waved again till he became but a small, fat figure in the distance.

  William was near the Elder-grove wood by then, and just beyond it was the old moor, with his small, warm cottage thereafter. He was nearly home.

  Or so he thought.

  - Chapter Three -

  Cursed by his Past

  William had reached the edge of the Elder-grove wood and just in time too, for lumpy black clouds were starting to gather overhead, and spits of icy rain began falling in his direction. It started out mildly at first. William wasn’t even certain if it was raining or not. Soon enough it came clattering down, without any sure sign of letting up. The guts of those grim clouds were groaning ravenously, as swift flashes struck at them from behind. Into the woods William dashed, seeking shelter from the storm. How dim it was in the dreary light. Dim, and retaining the damp, familiar scent of forest vegetation.

  Once below the bare canopy of oaks, he remembered that he had one of those sewn-in ponchos buttoned into the rear of his backpack. It never appealed to him all that much to actually wear it. To be honest, he thought it looked slightly disconcerting and silly. But the storm was brewing up to be quite bad, and nobody was around to catch him wearing it, so he quickly began unpacking it from its compartment.

  “Lousy ol’ winter weather!” he grumbled. “Why can’t we ever get a bit o’ good sunshine ‘round this time?”

  Just then he heard something, a whinging, as though someone was sobbing nearby. For a second or two he went still, his eyes darting left to right, listening intently. Nothing could be heard outside the swaying of trees and the muffled thunder from afar.

  “Humph! Just my imagination.” He smiled, shaking his head, and proceeded to unpack his poncho.

  Imagination or not, he found himself rooting quicker this time around. Suddenly it happened again, only this time it was louder. It wailed and wailed, without question.

  “That’s it...I’m gone!” he shrieked. Leaving his poncho half dangling out, he started for home in record time.

  Not once did he dare glance back, for the bawling didn’t let up, and seemed now to be following close behind him. Outside, the clouds grew heavier and more ominous. Closing in angrier than William had ever seen before, they roiled themselves into a whirlpool of demonic shapes, and the trees broke into a much more violent sway.

  Young William couldn’t contain his panting or his whimpering; that crying was far too morbid and terrifying to ignore. In great bounds he bolted, over mossy tree stumps and felled trunks, when, just up ahead, he spotted the opening of the wood. Not far beyond was the old moor, and the cottage soon after. He wanted to sigh with relief and slow down, but he wasn’t out of the woods just yet, so to speak.

  Suddenly, the moaning stopped completely.

  It came to such a hasty finish that it was like someone had just silenced it with a thump.

  Not only that, but the wind had also died down, and the trees stopped rocking, too.

  It was truly bizarre; as though something had put a spell upon time itself.

  Deep quietness reigned, and William slowed into a jog, only to soon stop completely in wonder. Everything appeared outlandishly still, making him feel nauseously uneasy. Not all was stagnant, however, as the quiet flashes were still raiding the clouds. Yet they were sustaining longer than usual before eventually dwindling. Likewise, they fulgurated with a reddish colour one second, then a kind of greenish colour the next. It was truly unusual. William dared not dawdle, so he kept walking briskly.

  Trudging on, he curiously surveyed the trees while asking himself what was going on. By then he was nearly at the edge of the forest. He finally gathered the courage to stop and look behind him, to try and spot the cause of that dreadful weeping...but not a soul was around. Just a deep surrounding of forest trunks.

  With that, William turned back and started to move, when all of a sudden...it struck! The storm returned with a cracking boom, and a flash of green lightning buried itself into the ground just feet behind him. That hateful tempest crashed louder than ever. A gigantic ripple of wind rushed past his feet, sending leaves and pine needles spouting up with a raging torrent. Then he saw it, the poor fellow...he saw it...

  Before his very eyes was a gaunt, old woman. Draped in dark woollen rags, she screeched miserably as she tried to reach at poor William with her long, grubby fingers. Her eyes were as black as beetles, and such were the tears that dribbled down her sallow cheeks. Thin was her hair as it haloed her scalp by the failing light which, in turn, shadowed her disgustingly wicked face.

  “The curse has been placed!” she moaned, ghostly and old. “His spell has been set!”

  Scrambling with fright, William’s legs flailed into retreat. Little did he know, two branch-like claws were jutting up from the ground behind him, very close to where the bolt had struck. Suddenly, as if brewing with some temporary life which had been channelled through that very bolt, the branches clasped onto William’s ankles before he could make a break for it, and sent him tumbling onto his back, whereupon he grazed his forehead slightly upon a small rock. He was lucky that he didn’t crack his head off it altogether.

  Throwing up his arms, he shielded his face in terror as the witch hobbled closer, wailing relentlessly with her arms reaching out. She moved in an ugly, awkward manner, like her legs were beyond the point of fragility and about to completely collapse. Nearer she staggered, upon every bellow of ferocious thunder, while William was yelling as loud as he could, with his arms fretfully defending his horror-filled face.

  “The curse has been placed!” she bawled again and again, when the unthinkable happened.

  In his hysterics, William glanced down at the entanglement of branches to see two searing red eyes emerging from beneath the leaves, with roots curling over them like hair. Suddenly the claws yanked him, by the feet, under the muddy earth. And before he knew it he was zooming, legs first, down a dark, mucky under-slide.

  How wet, and slimy, and disgusting it was. William’s bellowing echoed back at him as he was whisked left, down, up and right through the tunnel. Funnily enough, after the initial shock of falling through the forest floor, it seemed that William—being as curiously adventurous as he was—unexpectedly enjoyed the spin. But the mystery of what actually lay ahead was still very disheartening.

  The slide wasn’t letting up, and he felt like he had been travelling very far on a downward slope, making him feel sick to the stomach. Eventually, in one tremendous dip, he slid down the sludgy slide towards a dimly lit opening. The tunnel then opened out and, through a second of silence, he fell with a loud puff ‘n’ snap into a large cushion of dry leaves and twigs. Problematic as this was in itself, he also managed to get a mouthful of leaves upon the crash landing, which he spat out immediately with disgust.

  Once he was done picking bits out of his teeth he stayed perfectly quiet, for fear of being pursued by the old woman. Quietness played in the air, then moments drifted by, and William was truly alone. Since there appeared to be no sign of a pursuit, he began to move again.

  “Great!” He coughed, all tangled up in bits of root and branch. “How am I supposed to get out o’ this one?!”

  Sitting on the edge of the compost mound, he had a quick glance around.

  First thin
g he noticed was that it was freezing down there, and there was also very little light to go by. But there was enough that, all along the walls beside him, he could see different types of markings. They were odd, swirling designs of a Celtic fashion. What they meant, he had no idea.

  Then, “Oh, I do say,” said a sudden voice from the shadows.

  With that, William flung his head back into the twigs and went as still as a rag doll.

  “I was expecting someone a little older than you!” said the voice. “Oh well, she knows what she’s talking about. I’m in no position to question her judgment!”

  “Wh-Who’s there?” William stuttered, realising he’d been spotted.

  Then, in peeping out, he noticed that some light had curiously arrived at the coming of that strange voice. Also, up ahead, he could see a tunnel of some sort. Not a particularly high tunnel, nor exceptionally wide. Actually, William didn’t expect that he would’ve been able to stand upright at all, if he tried. That is, if he were so inclined, and not trying to stay hidden from whatever it was that was speaking to him.

  “My name is Icrick,” the voice uttered again.

  This time a figure became exposed in the corner by the light of an oil lantern which he was holding. Even though the tunnel now shined, the figure somehow appeared to manifest from nothingness moments later. William peeped out from his leafy nest to see the strangest-looking chap, to say the very least. He was odd in shape, and not very human-like at all.