The White Fox

by James Bartholomeusz

  About half an hour later, the scenery changed. They had exited the motorway onto a rough dirt track that led off between two grassy slopes. Wooden fences with barbed wire suggested sheep or cows, though after a few minutes they passed under the cover of trees. These were not the apple trees of the Birchwood orchard but tall, widely spread oaks. The track continued to the left, showered with autumnal leaves. Straight ahead, a smaller track led up a hill.

  The car slowed. They had reached an ornately decorated gateway, the stained and crumbling cherub statues on either column oddly silhouetted in the light of lamps on each side. Jack looked out his window. The manor above them was a block of darkness against the night sky. A few disparate trees were scattered about the hillside like lost children. They began to climb the rough path to the house.

  They reached a courtyard-type area, and the car crunched to a halt in the gravel. Malik turned off the engine, and Gaby got out. Jack got out too, and as he stood up he winced. It felt like needles had been applied to his ankles by a vengeful spinster. Apparently that bolt of energy had done something.

  Closer up, it could be seen that the manor was of reddish brick. Tall windows were set at regular intervals on four levels, and Jack spotted three separate chimneys pointing squarely out of the top. The main entrance was flanked by wild, untended wisteria, which almost blocked the front door. There was only a single light, coming from somewhere over a wall to the left of the entrance.

  Gaby led the way, and Jack followed. They reached a wooden door that filled the gap between the manor and high brick wall. Gaby pushed it, and it creaked open. The two of them entered. Malik made a brief sweep of the area and followed.

  Inside was an enclosed garden. Red, blue, and yellow flowers had probably once formed a heraldic crest shape on the beds, but now the colors had all merged into one another, ruining the pattern. The noise of a fountain, half-blocked, spluttered somewhere behind the shapeless bushes, and a couple of trees crept over the wall and out to freedom in the corners.

  The three of them took the path hugging the manor. The light up ahead came from an old-fashioned metal lantern overhanging another door, this one going into the building. Gaby reached it and stopped. The others piled up behind her. She glanced at Jack, then pressed her hand against the door. A small symbol, composed of faint turquoise light, traced itself above her palm. She removed her hand and, with her finger, drew a second symbol, this one in blue. The two hung on the wood for a moment, then moved over one another and sunk into the door. It creaked open.

  Gaby stepped in and stood aside. Within was very gloomy. Jack glanced apprehensively into the darkness and joined Gaby. Malik entered last and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Outside, the wind blew through the oaks, scattering their leaves. The gates rattled, and the chains holding them shut creaked. A sign was framed on the redbrick wall next to it. Though faded with age and with much of it peeled off completely, two words were still distinguishable.

  Chapter IX

  accepting the truth

  As Jack’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he began to see his surroundings. They were in a wide corridor. A moth-bitten old red carpet stretched down the hall, past some ancient-looking wooden stairs carved with eagles on the banisters. The wallpaper was faded regal blue with chipped gold fleur-de-lis in lines and columns. Ashes and soot had been discharged all around a derelict fireplace, blackening the worn speckled marble. The ceiling and ornamental chandelier were knotted with cobwebs. Used candles and fallen pieces of wood and leaves were scattered across the floor. The only light emanated from an open door farther down.

  Malik led the way down the hall. Jack caught his reflection in a stained mirror over the mantelpiece. He looked a state; his face was shot red with the cold, and his hair and clothes were clotted with mud and leaves.

  They reached the door, and Malik motioned for them to stop. He slid inside, and indistinct voices could be heard from within. He poked his head around the door and beckoned them in. The other two entered.

  This room was in a little better condition than the hallway. It was quite a large drawing room, with cabinets and bookcases set against the walls, all also knotted with cobwebs. The only light issued from a crackling fire, throwing flickering shadows onto the walls. Two armchairs and a sofa were clustered around a rug in front of the fire. Only three other people appeared to be there—one in an armchair, one slouched on the sofa, and one at a desk on the other side of the fire. The one at the desk was on a laptop. The two next to the fire both seemed to be waiting for something.

  Jack heard a scream, and something hurtled at him from his left, almost knocking him off his feet. It took him a moment to realize the bundle of hair, mud, and limbs was Lucy. She was hugging on to him like a small child, her body jerking with badly contained sobs.

  Jack was taken aback. He awkwardly curled his arms around her, letting her cry into his neck. He found himself whispering things that didn’t seem to register in his brain first—the kind of things, he thought, people must say to comfort others without thinking. He knew, in reality, he couldn’t guarantee that it would all be alright, that he couldn’t possibly say for certain that it would all be okay, but he supposed that was what she needed to hear. He held her close and hugged her. Now, at the most uncertain moment, he recognized why Lucy was his friend. Underneath the stereotypical teenage persona she inhabited every day of her life, she was just a scared little girl, just as insecure as he was.

  Gaby nor Malik nor anyone else in the room rushed them. They stood respectfully by the side, remaining silent, as Jack comforted Lucy.

  After several minutes, Lucy took a deep breath and straightened up. Her face was stained red under the dirt, and her eyes were bloated with glassy tears. She wiped them away and attempted a smile. She hadn’t let go of Jack’s hand. Her palm was squeezed in his, a reassuring lifeline.

  “You finally made it,” said the person on the sofa, acting as if nothing had just happened. He looked slightly older than Gaby and was well built, with a strong jawline and short brown hair. “What took you so long?”

  “We got the motorway route,” Malik replied. “Where are Linda and Thiago?”

  “Still not back,” the second person responded. He was sitting in an armchair across from them, wearing an old-fashioned smoking jacket and holding a pipe. African by his looks but Deep South American by his accent, his face was wrinkled but his eyes were bright and alert. “You must be Jack. My name is Charles King.” He offered his hand to Jack, and Jack took it firmly, shaking it twice. “I would get up, but as you can see that’s not really an option.”

  Jack looked at Charles again and realized that only one leg reached the carpeted floor.

  “Alex should have waited for backup to come and rescue you, but we’re obviously lucky he didn’t. A few more minutes and well …” Charles smiled at them. “This is Vincent.”

  The first man nodded. “Call me Vince.”

  Jack and Lucy smiled back as best they could. In that moment, Jack realized how ridiculous they must look—two mud-drenched, blotchy teenagers in full school uniform, standing in the middle of a derelict mansion. He could barely suppress a hysterical laugh.

  Lucy gulped loudly and began to speak, her voice a breathy gibber. “What’s going on here? Please, can you tell us now? I’ve got parents at home. They’ll be wondering where I am. They’ll be okay, won’t they? Please …” She faltered, and, as if in compensation, squeezed Jack’s hand even more tightly.

  “Those are all good questions,” Charles replied, “and you deserve answers. We represent an organization called the Apollonians, and, as you may have gathered, we act in opposition to the Cult of Dionysus. And with good reason. You cannot imagine what would have happened if we had not intervened on that hilltop.”

  Gaby looked pointedly in an I-told-you-so sort of way at Malik.

  He ignored her.

  “Done,” interrupted the man at the desk. “How does this sound?” He pressed a last key and be
nt closer to read.

  Last night in Birchford a freak lightning

  storm caused mass power cuts across

  the entire town. Scientists have

  attributed these events to an unusual

  movement of atmospheric pressure

  brought on by the heat of this year’s

  autumn, coupled with rising carbon

  dioxide levels in the atmosphere. The

  actual lightning strikes centered on and

  around the Sirona Beacon, reputedly a

  sacred worshipping place for Celtic druids

  in pre-Roman Britain. Meteorologists

  and geographers have performed initial

  examinations of the hilltop, and it will be

  closed to the public until further notice.

  “That should do fine,” Charles said. “Send it to the press.”

  “What? You’re not going to tell people what actually happened?” Lucy exclaimed. “They tried to kill us! People need to be warned!”

  Gaby, Malik, Vince, and Charles exchanged dark looks.

  “How many people do you think will believe what actually happened?” Malik responded. “Would you believe it yourself if you hadn’t been there?”

  Lucy looked down.

  “The number one rule of PR: blame it on falling house prices, youth criminalization, or global warming,” the one at the desk remarked as he pressed a key. “Have you never read the Daily Mail?”

  The drawing room fell into silence: the only noise was the whistling wind from outside. Jack watched the flames dancing in the grate. He had so many questions, and he knew Lucy did as well, but he could not think where to begin. What had happened in the last hours of his life had distorted every certainty he had held about the world. He was still half-expecting to wake up at any moment. The demon, Alex returning after so long, a satanic ritual on an ancient holy site, a battle—it was the stuff of a clichéd comic book. The fact that he had lived to see it was something; the fact that he had lived through it to realize how inconceivable it had been was even more of an improbable occurrence.

  At that moment, he couldn’t see how anything could go back to normal ever again. This new world—for that was the only way he could think of it—was terrifying. Part of him wondered how he had allowed himself to be brought here, in the company of people who toted guns and could apparently fire energy from their bare hands. But, he felt—and he knew Lucy thought the same—that these people did not seem bad. And in any event, he had enough of his beliefs to challenge already without questioning their apparent protectors.

  So he asked the only question he and Lucy could stomach the answer to at that point. “What now?”

  Gaby and Malik looked towards Charles.

  Charles took his time blowing out his pipe smoke, appraising them with raven’s eyes. “You’re not safe here,” he said finally. “Not just in this house, not in this country, not in this world. You need to get out, whilst you still can. You’ve entered a whole new stage of your lives. There is no way of going back. I’m sorry. You need to go—now.”

  “Go where?” Lucy cried. “My parents have no idea where I am! How do we know they weren’t caught up in all that stuff on the hilltop?”

  “We’ll send people to check on your parents and fill them in, but by the time we get there, you’ll need to have already left.”

  “You don’t know my parents.” Lucy sniffed, with just a hint of pride. “My dad works in accountancy. He’s never going to believe this.”

  “We’ve convinced people like him before. We’ll show him Sirona Beacon ourselves if we need to. They’ll have to believe us—you’ll be gone. But don’t worry. We’ll keep an eye on them.”

  “No, I need to go back! I need to warn them!”

  Charles let out a long sigh. “Right now, you’re more of a danger to them the closer you are. Both of you. You’ve seen too much. So have we, but to the Cult we’re established enemies. You have no idea how much damage you could do with the knowledge you now hold. The Cult won’t go after your family if they know you’ve gone, but if you go back, they might be tempted to. I’m sorry. I know it’s painful, but you’re going to have to let go.”

  Lucy sighed and let the point rest. Jack put his arm around her in a comforting gesture. He couldn’t relate, obviously, but he knew how close Lucy was to her family. The closest thing he had was the feeling of losing Alex, which, now, he was feeling all over again.

  “We’ll explain everything to you in due course. But you’ll agree to leave with us tonight, then?” Charles prompted.

  “I guess we have no choice.” Jack glanced at Lucy, who managed a stiff nod. The glassiness had returned to her eyes, and he redoubled his protective arm. “One thing before we go, though. Alex … he was with you, wasn’t he?”

  Gaby looked from Malik to Vince to Charles to the man at the desk. After a moment, Charles nodded at her.

  “Yeah, he was,” Gaby said finally, breathing out slowly. “He was one of us. An Apollonian. That’s yet another thing you deserve an explanation for. He should be here, telling you what happened, but …” She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

  Jack nodded. If these people were telling the truth and Alex had been with them, he knew he and Lucy could trust them. What he was nowhere nearer to understanding was why Alex had disappeared, where he had gone, and why he had returned tonight. He wanted some justification, some easy-fix explanation for Alex’s disappearance—something that would solve all the problems that had been rotating at the back of his mind for the last eighteen months and had intensified tonight. But, he believed, they would come to understand everything soon enough.

  The two of them now had to do something they’d never before done in their carefully managed lives—take a leap of blind faith and hope they ended up on solid ground.

  Chapter X

  the space machine

  “If those people can fly in smoke,” Lucy gasped, as they pelted down the stairs, “where on Earth is safe?”

  Jack, Lucy, Gaby, Vince, and Malik had taken a side door of the hallway that must have once been servants’ quarters. Diving down a tightly entwined spiral staircase, they passed a derelict laundry room, a dormitory, and a cavernous kitchen. Vince was leading the way with a relic of a gas lamp, its bobbing orb of light chasing away shadows on the flaked plaster walls.

  “Right,” Vince began, his voice emanating from somewhere below them, “your crash course starts here. Lesson number one: this one isn’t the only world. There are many out there, many different races, many different people. This planet is tiny on the grand scale of things.”

  “So are you three from another world, then?” Jack exclaimed, slipping slightly on a piece of loose plaster.

  Malik laid a steadying hand on his shoulder.

  “No,” Gaby answered from behind him, laughing slightly, “no, we’re definitely earthlings. Human ones, anyway. The Apollonians work in many different worlds, but we try to use people on their own planets. Where you’re going, though, you’ll need some … reeducating.”

  “Which brings us to lesson number two,” continued Vince. “Humans aren’t the only sentient life. There’re lots of different races in other worlds you won’t have come across before, so prepare for some surprises. Elves, dwarves, fairies, goblins …”

  “Sounds like a fairy tale,” Lucy remarked, half to herself.

  “Where did you think our stories came from?” Gaby replied. “All stories have a shred of truth. Sleeping Beauty, Isis and Osiris, most Norse mythology … they’re all accounts of when humans have come into contact with different races. Exaggerated and embellished obviously, but the point’s the same. It’s not a coincidence that people all over the planet recognize dragons. The ancient Scandinavians and Aboriginals had the same understanding of flying reptiles.”

  “Yeah,” Vince added, “embellished or just plain racist. It takes a particular kind of ethnocentrism to confuse elves with fairies …”

  The three of the
m all snorted with laughter. Jack and Lucy exchanged bewildered glances.

  “So,” Jack said, struggling to digest this next big step onwards into regions as yet unknown, “other creatures—elves, dragons, goblins—are real, and our myths and legends are actually real-life stories about them visiting Earth?”

  “Pretty much,” Vince replied. “And finally, lesson number three. We’ve found two ways to travel between worlds without having to make a real-time journey through space. The first one is through the Darkness, the way the Cult travel.”

  “It’s much quicker, but it’s not a good idea,” Gaby put in. “It never ends well.”

  “The other way,” Vince elaborated, “is by a machine.” The light had stopped bobbing, and as they rounded a corner, they saw him standing in front of an ancient-looking wooden door. He shoved a rusty old key into the lock, yanked it sideways, and shunted the door inwards. It creaked open, and they moved into the space beyond.

  There was the sound of a light switch flicking, and strobes spluttered into life above their heads, throwing the chamber into harsh, industrial light.

  Jack blinked and looked around. They were standing in what he could only describe as catacombs—Gothic buttresses of grey stone formed a vaulting bubble around them, framing arch-shaped walls of stone in an octagon. Opposite them, one of the arch shapes was empty, leading to another chamber and so on in a long hallway stretching for a few hundred meters in an underground tunnel. This structure, Jack thought, must run under the entire mansion and grounds, some kind of medieval prison or tomb.

  It was what was in the center of this chamber, however, that caught his attention. There, set on a makeshift wooden pedestal and illuminated by the anachronistic electric lighting, was the most bizarre object Jack had ever seen. Having studied Venice in geography, he thought it looked a bit like a gondola. This gondola, though, was not something you’d expect to find in Renaissance Italy. It was bright turquoise and had a curved underside, like a small aircraft. The helm was carved in the shape of some ornamental bird and the tail end as a kind of jet. Protruding from each side was a pair of flat, eight-foot-long glassy panels, not unlike a dragonfly’s wings. He edged closer to see what it was made of. It seemed like wood but had the smoothness of blown glass. On closer inspection, the surface was not a solid coat at all but made up of thousands of tiny interlocking symbols.