Old World (The Green and Pleasant Land)

by Kennedy, Oliver

  Brute smiled as he did his work. Eventually the grey eyed vermin from upstairs took a wicked blade to the body, carving off a slice and depositing it on a ceremonial looking gold plate. They passed it around, the vultures, each taking a bite and passing it on until eventually it got back to Brute who walked with a casual air down from the stage to stand before me. “Eat” his said with venom.

  The ghost inhabiting my body struggled from side to side but it was to no avail. Oily arms seized the body of Robert Locklear and held it still. “Eat” said Brute again, slowly emphasising the word as he pushed a mouthful of the cooked flesh between the lipless mouth, between the teeth until it touched against the frayed end of the tongue. I choked as it got to my throat, I choked and gagged and vomited the meat into Brutes face, he laughed and wiped the gore from his features before lifting another slab of flesh out of the bowl. “Moooore” he said pushing it towards me.

  I was never made to take a second taste. Even through the last lingering moments of my death madness I was aware enough to see as Brutes head exploded, sending an ocean of brain, bone and dark thoughts washing over me and his fellow inmates. The rest of the madmen scattered and I was mesmerized by the site of Brutes body as it slowly toppled to the side. Then the hall was silent again bar the odd crackle from the fires which burned here and there set in the walls around the hall. Even the harlequin was stopped in his tracks, his green eyes searching the shadows for something.

  Then came the voice, a voice filled with such benevolent power that even the sound of it banished some of the darkness, each syllable threatened to pull me back to the land of the living despite my souls desire to be free of the hall.

  “Sat astride this pale horse, I could see naught but fear and desolation in the land, and not one mortal man could look me in the eyes, not one of them could tell me of a reason for what was done”.

  From the balcony which ran around the hall a figure leapt to land upon the centre stage, it was a giant raven to my maddened mind, the wings of vengeance descended and now it was evil that fought for its survival. A silver barrel emerged from beneath the cloaked darkness of one of its wings, it boomed and the harlequin was thrown from the stage by the force of it, I saw him land only a few feet from me, his hand clutched his shoulder from which blood pumped freely.

  The inmates rushed the stage. A second weapon came forth from under the ravens other wing, in unison they boomed and I watched the inmates turned to red dust in front of my eyes. The silver cannons erupted with endless caged fury, arms, legs and heads flew about the hall as vengeful bullets seared flesh and tore bone, there was no mercy looming down the barrel of the gun, its aim was a death sentence. With the first dozen of them down the zeal of the inmates began to falter and a number of them started to run.

  It did not matter, whether they attacked or whether they ran the raven danced through the air and dealt death from every direction. Two of the inmates ran past me, such was their desire to be free that they trampled over the squirming form of the harlequin. Then I saw something which I thought had left the world, I saw fight in the hearts of the Locklears. From nowhere Sue sprang up, she tripped one of the inmates with the chain which held her before leaping on his back and proceed to choke him with a rage that only a mother in vengeance can bring to bear, the inmate screamed as she dashed his head against the stone floor whilst choking the breath from him.

  Then suddenly Mac was there, armed with the club which I'd seen him wielding in the pit, the second inmate went down from a single blow, then Mac was on him delivering a series of the punches and kicks. The greatest surprise was the sight of Zak on his feat, entrails still in hand he stamped and stamped the head of the inmate.

  Something happened. I heard my heart start to beat again. I could feel the sadness and I knew that my soul was reinserting itself back into my body, along with that physical connection there came washing back all the pain, pain which poured from every pore. But there it was, deep within me the flame had started to burn again.

  I staggered and fell from the bench, I dragged myself across the ground, the few feet between myself and the harlequin felt like forever, but then I was there, my prize was beneath me. The wound to his shoulder was horrific, much of the architecture of that part of his body was missing, but he was still conscious, though barely. I had no fingers to form fists, I had no strength left in me with which to beat the life from my enemy. But I had one weapon left.

  The harlequin screamed as my teeth sank through the mask of skin which he wore. It came off along with his nose which I spat to the side. I leaned in close to his ear, the words I uttered were a miracle given the damage to my tongue, they were a halting and warped whisper, but he knew the words. “You should have taken my teeth” I said into his ear as I bit into it and tore it from his foul head. I got one more bite out of the bastard, a large chunk of cheek which created such a deep hollow in the side of his face that I could see the inside of his bloody mouth through it.

  Then I felt kicks and punches, more of the retreating inmates, these ones with enough loyalty to stop their leader from being massacred by my angry mouth. One of them pulled the harlequin to his feet and they staggered off together. The other had it in his mind to finished me off, but from the stage a cannon thundered and another dark soul left the hall. I looked to where the harlequin fled, the gun boomed again and the inmate who assisted him went down, the harlequin turned and look at me, there was a look of homicidal rage on his face, the kind of anger you would reserve for a lifelong enemy, it was an anger which surprised me, for I knew him not before this day. He turned away and disappeared through a doorway at the side of the hall.

  To the sound of the cannon and the dying screams of the inmates of Ravensburg Secure Hospital I started to to claw my way across the cold stone floor.

  Every moment had been agony. Each step had been a mountain, but no precipice had the ability to break my will or keep me from my vengeance. Only when I reached the stop of the stairwell did my faith in retribution falter. The stairway led to another door and beyond that was the world, the great outdoors looked back at me. The trail of blood from the harlequin had been a steady flow coming up the stairs.

  But now it was lost, it died off in the long grass and the trees and the rain of another storm which had chosen to follow its fellow and erupt over Ravensburg. I propped myself up against the doorway and looked out at the trees and the shadows sheltering beneath their canopy, I looked for one that was darker than the rest, but he was gone. I wept for all that was lost, I wept until I heard a noise on the stairs behind me.

  I looked up and he was there, the raven. The face of a man was revealed beneath the folds of his cloak, my addled mind had seen a carrion descend in the hall, but this was surely a human, taller and broader than any I'd known, but human nonetheless. The silver guns with which he'd despatched the mad men had been sheathed and he squatted down next to me, looking out into the storm through eyes that contained not a hint of colour in their inky black orbs. His skin was markedly pale in contrast, ageless skin that seemed to glow in the same way that the skin of the harlequin had done. For a long time he regarded the woodland before finally meeting my gaze.

  “I am sorry for what has befallen you Robert Locklear, it was a fate of which you were undeserving”. I looked out into the storm, I could not find the will to speak again but he read my thoughts within the silence. “We will find him my friend, so do I speak the words, so shall it be”. This time I made to speak, another malformed whisper which wriggled its way from my desolate mouth. He nodded grimly and gave me his answer, “My name is Lucello, and I have come further than you can imagine”.

  Afterword

  Thank you for taking the time to read my story. This is the first part of a series. If you want to find out what happens to the Locklears, or discover the identity of Lucello and the Mad Harlequin, then pick up part two 'Amidst the Falling Dust' available Christmas 2013.

  Please take the time to leave a review for this book, your fee
dback is appreciated.

  Chapter one from 'Amidst the falling dust' can be found at the end of this book, following three short stories from the Green and Pleasant Land.

  For more information on me and my work please visit my website

  www.silverwinter.com

  Take care and remember, start every day with a dream.

  Oliver

  The Wheels on the Bus

  A Tuesday morning. Unlike any other. It was a hot night and a cold dawn, which means fog. Thick blankets of suffocating fog that writhed and clung to the forest of concrete and metal. Here and there a stubborn street light shines through the whiteout, refusing to admit defeat to the sun. On a day like this neither of them are winners, the fog is so thick that day and night have merged to create some grand elemental monster, which blinds us to everything outside our own slowly beating hearts.

  I make this journey every day, and every day I take this bus. I go nowhere but there and back again, I help make circles, I help the tires turn. I'm old now I think, much older than I was and much older than I feel or seem to be. Does that makes sense? I hope so, it would be nice if, on a day like this, at least my thoughts made sense. Because what is beyond them, that which is outside the mind and the beating heart, is today truly senseless in every sense of the word.

  The current driver is called Jeff. I don't get on with Jeff, but when you have been riding this bus around as long as I have you realise that drivers come and go, there will be more Jeffs no doubt, but there will also be plenty more Terrys. Terry was my friend, we used to share Worthers originals and talk about the football, he was my friend, but he's gone now, gone for good.

  I don't watch the news much anymore. All just filled with people killing each other, just got to let them get on with it really. But, well, the news isn't the news anymore. And there is no ignoring it when they are killing each other just outside your window.

  So, let me tell you what I see, let me tell you how I feel and maybe you can shiver with me, because I am cold now, colder than a winter frost.

  We are creeping along in the fog through town. Jeff has the lights on full beam but even so visibility is poor. He picked me up at the usual shelter just outside town by the lake. I am surprised to see a few other people on the bus. These are nervous times and I guess that people are just trying to carry on as normal, but honestly, who sends their kids to school when there is talk of war and rumour of sickness and worse raging through this nation of ours? They just sit there the kiddies, the fog has silenced the world, who are they to fill it with noise again, but if they won't then no one will.

  The sirens have stopped, don't know if that's a good thing or not to be honest. One minute it seemed that all hell was breaking loose, but it seems that even the devil himself cannot compete with such fog.

  There's a young lad with a skateboard whose got music piped into his ears, he's got his feet up on the seats, Terry wouldn't have had that, Jeff didn't care before the fog, and he sure don't now. The lady in the nurses uniform half way down turns and looks at me every now and then, she smiles a nervous smile, I dip my cap and do my best with regards to smiling.

  As we pull into the town proper I can make out looming shadows, buildings, angry giants glaring down at the noisy bus. No lights though, just a deeper, darker gloom. Then I see the people, or what look like people. Walking funny, not running, not talking, just shuffling along, minding their own business.

  Someone taps at the window, no, someone claws at the window. Halloween is a long way off. They have grey hands, they must be cold I reckon, I reckon the fog has done them in. No point tapping at me, I'm not the driver.

  Jeff slows us right down and then stops. I don't know why, there isn't a stop here, when you have been riding the bus as long as I have then you get a feel for that sort of thing. I think I might say something, might call down the bus, but me and Jeff don't get on. He called me a smelly old man once, it hurt, I hid the hurt of course, with a laugh, just like me old gaffer taught me to.

  I think he's broken down you know. He's turnin that key and I can hear the engine screech but she can't roar no more. Bloody Jeff, useless, hopefully there will be a new Terry soon.

  Then Jeff leans out from his drivers box and looks back at us. He looks terrified, I tell you, I ain't never seen a bloke look so scared.

  More people out there now. Turned grey by the fog the whole lot of them it seems. All tapping, no not tapping, clawing at the windows. Somethings wrong, somethings been wrong for weeks, I've just ignored it, like me old gaffer taught me. But now there's more wrong than right. Why won't they stop tapping, and clawing, and growling like hungry dogs, angry dogs.

  Bloody hell. Jeff has switched the lights off. It's a dark day, shadows pouring in here. I can see them on Jeffs face, on the nurses face and the faces of the little kiddies in their neatly pressed uniforms. I can see shadows on the the face of the kid with the skateboard. Looks like his music has stopped, he looks just as scared as everyone else.

  The bus starts to move. Not from the engine, nah, the engine's dead I think, killed by the fog, killed by bloody Jeff. No, the bus is rocking gently from side to side, pushed and pulled by hundreds of hands. I can see them out there in the fog, grey and cold.

  There is a familiar hiss as the doors open, looks like Jeff is doing a runner, hows that for loyalty. Doesn't get anywhere though. They push him back on, the grey hands, who I note, as they shuffle onto the bus, also have grey faces, and red, red eyes.

  Jeff screams, so do the kiddies. I start to lose sight of Jeff, I can see his blood though, flowing down around the feet of the shufflers walking up the bus. His screams are weaker, poor Jeff. Everyone else is shouting away. Skateboard, he's whacking at the window with his board, I don't know why, there's a lot more of them out there than there are in here.

  Then he goes down, skateboard and all. The grey hands pull him from his seat, he screams a young man's scream, he dies the death of someone who has some inkling of all that he is now denied. The nurse she goes to try and help him, she lashed out with her bag, the grey skins, they do not seem to care. The bus is only little, just a little run-around. But it seems bigger now, like a long hall, filled from top to bottom with grey, dead things. Poor nurse, she slows them down a bit, long enough for the ones at the front to start to eat her. Poor love, I can see her chest rise and fall with those last few pained breaths, even while they peel bits of her face off with cold, hungry teeth.

  More of them come, they climb over the seats in a haphazard fashion. They shuffle and shamble past the feeders. The kiddies, they have climbed up onto the back ledge behind me. Maybe they want me to protect them. I don't know why, I'm just an old man whose pissed himself with fear. At least I know I am afraid now, I've been so uncertain for so long. I don't think the terror is going to comfort me much though.

  The first of them reach me. I slap its hand away, how dare it, how dare any of them. My cap gets knocked off, most rude. Ten sets of teeth descend. Screams and growls, screams and growls, this is the end of us for sure. I can feel them eating me. The doctor told me I had a weak heart, lying bastard, not weak enough to give out though is it. Strong enough to pump the blood out of my body as ten sets of teeth set about destroying this stringy old man.

  Well we're done then. I can see the fog still, and the dark, and the tall shadows of the empty buildings. Not long left. Long enough to see the kiddies go, torn apart by grey hands and red mouths, nice neat uniforms all ruined in a shower of piss and blood. Their screams go quiet then.

  Takes me a while to realise I can still hear a sound, still hear a scream. It's mine, a weak and feeble thing, stays with me until the end, follows me into the long dark.

  Keeping Up Appearances

  I like to dust. It is a conflict. I dust, I send the dead skin sailing off, it looks for somewhere to land, but I deny it safe passage. I dust and then I dust some more. Then I polish. Then I hoover. Then I scrub, and wipe, and cleanse.

  We are unlikely to meet you and I, a
nd if we do no words will pass between us. I am too old to be leered at and I am too afraid to want to get to know you. They say an Englishman's home is his castle. Well I am an Englishwoman and I can assure you that my husbands castle is a facade, beneath which is the monument to fastidiousness that is my palace. A place for everything and everything in its place.

  This is a nice part of town. This is a place of nods and hellos, of umbrellas hanging on arms, of responsible dog owners. This is an area in which houses have names, far grander than their inhabitants.

  Harold is out. Harold does as he is told, he has gone to pick up Molly from the bus station. Her parents are worried because of all the goings on, they do not have our resolve, we did not breed it into them, we are not concerned, our lips have never been stiffer. We will weather this as we have weathered all other storms, with tea and discipline.

  I dust, I dust with my old feather duster. The radio blasts out classical music, I pretend I know who the composer is, I name them as a familiar name, I may be right, I may be wrong, but I will act the former and would lie to the dead before admitting the latter. It took me a while to find this station, all my favourites have been seized by maddening fools. Worriers, the pedlars of misery and gloom. They are of our daughters generation, they are not weather beaten, but rather are beaten by the weather. Molly will be here soon, perhaps we will teach her better.

  I hum to myself as I send the dust scattering to the four corners of the palace. I adjust pictures, I ensure that chairs are sitting in their three decade old carpet grooves. I clean the glass to such invisible perfection that we shall likely have flocks of birds apparently offing themselves by flying into them.