World's end taom-1

by Mark Chadbourn

  Overhead, there came the abrupt sound of clattering across the roof tiles and then a shower of soot billowed out from the whooshing fire. They all leapt back at once, their chairs flying. When the soot had cleared, a small figure lay huddled on the hearth. Marsh blasted both barrels of the shotgun; it sounded like a thunderclap in the room and they jumped out of their skins.

  "You stupid bastard!" Veitch cursed.

  But the thing had already moved like lightning into the shadowed corners before the buckshot hit. Burbling, throaty laughter floated back to them.

  Church had caught the merest glimpse of the creature, but it was enough. Though as small as a child, it had the proportions of a man, with an oversized head like a baby. Black, shiny scales covered the skin and its eyes were large, red and serpent-slitted. A pointed tail snaked out behind it, seemingly with a life of its own. In mediaval times a witness would certainly have branded it a devil, and Church wondered if he should see it that way too.

  "Daniel Marsh, you are so harsh, all the things you said, soon you will end up dead." The hideous, old man's voice ended in chittering laughter.

  Tom stepped forward. "Show yourself," he said authoritatively, unruffled by the creature's appearance.

  "Oh Daniel, you have some friends!" it replied in a sneering singsong. There was a moment when it seemed to be considering its response, and then it sashayed into the centre of the room in an odd, jerky motion which Church would have put down to poor stop-go animation if he had seen it in a film. "What, no holy water? No crucifixes, no in spirito sancto or crossing hand movements and mumbled prayers? You have changed!" He held out his arms like some penitent Jewish tailor.

  Marsh chewed on the back of his hand, moaning pathetically while Veitch stared unsurely. But Tom confronted the creature head-on. "You are a foul thing, tormenting this poor man. And so much to do on your return. Why waste time here?"

  "Why, good sport, coz!" The devil did a little flip back into the shadows as Veitch advanced on it menacingly. A second later it was back, like a tame monkey sensing food.

  "Let's kill it!" Veitch snapped.

  "If only you could, little brothers, but you have not grown up that much in time passing!" It moved suddenly, so fast it was almost a blur, bouncing on the sofa across the room towards Marsh before disappearing back into the shadows. The farmer howled in pain. Four streaks of red appeared on his cheek. "First blood to me, I think!" the devil said triumphantly; the voice came from nowhere in particular.

  "Why are you here?" Tom continued calmly. He seemed familiar with the creature.

  "Here to fill a void," it replied. Somehow it was back on the hearth.

  "I don't deserve it! I weren't doing anything!" Marsh howled pitifully.

  "Nothing apart from living!" the devil cautioned.

  "My wife left me a year ago, the farm's going bust, I feel sick all the time! I've suffered enough! There's no reason for this! It's not fair!"

  "But that is the reason, Daniel. I am here because you have suffered. I am making you suffer more because I can, for no other reason than that. And if you seek meaning in life, perhaps you will see it there."

  "Do not listen to him," Tom said. "Lies spring easily to him and his kind. His only desire is to torment."

  "You wound me!" The devil clutched his heart theatrically. "But because I can lie does not mean that I always lie. In a field of ordure a single pearl of truth shines brighter."

  Veitch pulled out his gun and rattled off a couple of shots. "Don't!" Church yelled too late as the bullets zinged off the stone hearth. One shattered what appeared to be an antique plate on the wall while the other burst through the window. But Veitch's attack seemed to have got closer than Marsh's shotgun blast. The devil backed up against the wall, flaring its nostrils and baring its teeth at him. Veitch moved faster than Church could ever have imagined. He launched himself forward, swinging his foot and catching the creature full in the stomach. It squealed like a pig, arcing up, head over heels, to crash against the far wall.

  It bounced back like a rubber ball, ricocheting off the floor towards Veitch, a flailing mass of claws and scales. Effortlessly it clamped itself on his head and neck, then threw back its head, opening its jaw so unnaturally wide its head seemed almost to disappear. Veitch had a view of row upon row of razor sharp teeth about to tear his face from his skull.

  Tom moved quickly. Snatching up the coal pincers from next to the fire, he gripped the devil firmly about the neck and hauled it off Veitch; it yelled as if it had been branded.

  "You and your brethren still do not like cold iron, I see," he said snidely.

  The thing wriggled like a snake in his grasp, but Tom heaved it forward and plunged it into the depths of the fire. It howled wildly until it managed to free itself from the pincers. Then it scurried off to the shadows to compose itself. "Not fair," it hissed like a spoiled child. "You know us too well."

  "Quick," Tom said, but it was too late. It rolled itself into a ball, then fired itself out of the shadows fully into Marsh's face. The farmer went over backwards, his nose exploding in a shower of blood. As he lay on his back screaming, the devil sat on his chest, ripping and tearing at Marsh's face. It managed to get in only a couple of swipes before Church took a swing at its head with the poker. The blow sent the devil rolling across the floor. Veitch fired another shot, this time blowing the leg off an armchair. And then it was away, tearing out the stuffing of the sofa, streaking up the wall, ripping up the paper as it passed, shattering a mirror with a cry of "Seven years' bad luck!" before settling on a sideboard where it proceeded to fire crockery at them.

  Veitch and Marsh fired off random shots, while Tom and Church dived for cover. Clouds of plaster dust erupted from the walls; the light fitting came down with a crash; the sideboard burst open, showering glassware across the floor.

  While they stopped to reload, Tom scurried forward and whispered, "We will never kill it like that. Trickery is the only way."

  "Let me address you as an equal," he said loudly to the devil. "What should I call you?"

  "You may call me `master,"' the creature said slyly. "If you wish to uncover my true naming word, you will have to do better than that. But I know your name, do I not, Long Tom? Your silver tongue seems to have forsaken its poetry for threats. And how is your Royal gift? More curse than gift, I would think." Tom ignored him, pulling Church close to whisper in his ear. Then he turned back to the devil and said, "Would you like me to see your future, little one?"

  The creature squirmed. "Thank you for your kind offer, Long Tom, but I prefer to live in the here and now."

  "Come, now!" Tom said with a broad grin.

  The creature was so concerned at Tom's words that he failed to see Church circling round to his blind spot. Church felt a cold sweat break out on his back. The devil had shown he was terrifyingly fast and vicious; one wrong move and he could lose an arm, or worse. Tom was doing his best to distract the creature, but the things he was saying hinted at a hidden side of him which made Church feel uncomfortable.

  "Perhaps I should compose an epic poem to your grandeur, little brother," Tom continued.

  "Indeed, that would be a deep honour from a bard so renowned." The devil was not so arrogant now and he was watching Tom suspiciously, as if they were long-standing enemies who knew each other's strengths and weaknesses.

  "But then what would I call it?" Tom said. "Ode to a Nocturnal Visitor is so vague. Ode to-?" He held out his hands, suggesting the devil should give him his name.

  For a second it almost worked, but then the devil caught himself and simply smiled. "I am sure a rhymer of your great skill could imagine a fitting title. I-"

  Church moved quickly, pulling out the Wayfinder from his jacket and holding it in front of him like a weapon, as Tom had instructed. The blue flame flared and licked towards the devil, who caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye and squealed. At the same time, Tom clamped the coal pincers on the devil once more. He howled as he futilely attempted
to wriggle free.

  "Now," Tom said, suddenly threatening, "we shall have some plain speaking."

  The flame sizzled like an acetylene torch as Church held the Wayfinder close. The devil tried to tug its head away, its eyes wide with fear, but it had nowhere to turn. "Keep it away from me!" it hissed.

  "The flame will consume you if we allow it-you know that," Tom said bluntly.

  "What do you require, masters?" the devil replied obsequiously.

  "Just burn him!" Veitch snapped.

  "No!" the devil cried. "Anything!"

  "This, then." Tom's eyes blazed. "You will leave Daniel Marsh alone for the rest of his days. And," he added, "you will do nothing to bring about that end earlier than fate decrees. Do you so swear?"

  "On the warp and weft!" the devil screamed frantically. "Now let me go!"

  Tom nodded to Church, who retreated a few feet with the Wayfinder; the flame flickered back to normal and the devil bounded free to the hearth. When it turned, its face was filled with malice and it spat like a cornered cat. It turned to Church first: "You will never find out why she died." Then Veitch: "There is no redemption for murder." And finally to Tom: "You carry your suffering with you."

  Then it pointed a finger at the three of them. "Thrice damned," it said coldly before bounding back up the chimney.

  Marsh stared for a moment in shock, before falling to his knees in front of the fire, tears flooding down his cheeks. He looked at them incredulously, then said simply, "Thank you."

  Church turned to Tom. "Is that it? Will it be back?"

  "Not here. But we will have to be on our guard from now on. Word will spread quickly through the brethren, and they hate more then anything else to be humbled by mortals."

  Veitch collapsed on to the sofa. "Blimey. What's going on?" He looked at Tom. "What's this brethren, then? They're not Fomorii."

  "There are many things that come with the night." Tom poked the fire, sending sparks shooting up the chimney. "Every creature of myth and folklore has its roots in Otherworld. And they're all coming back."

  Veitch looked puzzled. "So it's like if London Zoo opened up all its cages at once."

  Tom nodded. "One way of looking at it."

  Church rested wearily on the mantelpiece. The room looked like it had been attacked by a wrecking crew. "That thing thought you were someone important."

  Tom stared into the depths of the fire, saying nothing.

  Marsh jumped up, trembling with relief. "That were fine-you bloody well did it! You saved me!" He shook all their hands forcefully, unable to contain himself. "I'll tell you what, the only thing I've ever loved in my life was the land. Then when farming went through all those rough years, I felt like I'd got nothing. But when something like this happens, it makes you think, don't it? About what's important an' all."

  Veitch watched the farmer like he'd gone insane. "I reckon you need a bloody good sleep, mate."

  "Oh, ah, I'll tell everyone about what you bloody did," Marsh said adamantly.

  Church turned to Tom. "And that little devil's going to be spreading the word too. Looks like we're going to get us a reputation."

  Chapter Thirteen

  the hidden path

  They ate at first light while Marsh slumbered heavily in what must have been his first good rest for weeks. After Veitch had collected eggs from some chickens roosting just off the yard, Tom plucked some new nettle shoots out of an overgrown patch that had obviously once been the garden and scrambled them all up. He claimed it had been a popular Anglo-Saxon dish, and although Veitch ate suspiciously, it tasted remarkably good. They left Marsh enjoying his sleep and were out of the house by 7 a.m.

  Church suggested their first aim should be to find some transportation. With technology unreliable, Tom didn't want to risk trains, and buying another car was out of the question.

  "Looks like we'll have to rely on the comfort of strangers," Church said. "Hope you're all good at thumbing."

  Their first ride took them into Tavistock where they convinced a farmer collecting supplies to let them travel on the back of his truck. He was just trundling west past Liskeard when Church noticed the direction of the lamp flame had turned to the north-west. Angry with himself for not paying more attention, he forced the others to jump off the truck as it slowed at a crossroads. By the time it was out of sight they were already regretting their decision. Ahead of them lay the bleak expanse of Bodmin Moor, rising up in sludgey browns and grey-greens beneath a lowering sky.

  "How bad can it be?" Veitch said. "It's half the size of Dartmoor and we're already bang in the middle of it."

  "Bad enough if the weather changes," Church said, checking the slate clouds that were backed up over the moor. "And the weather out here can change in a minute."

  "Oh, you're a bleedin' wilderness expert are you now?" Veitch said. "The sooner we start, the sooner we finish."

  Church grinned at Veitch's bluntness-he had already warmed to their new companion. They chatted aimably for a while, but their conversation faded the further they got out into the moor. The higher the land, the stronger the wind, and although they were in the first burgeoning days of spring, it had a bite to it that reminded him of winter. At least there was a single-track road they could follow which made the going much easier than stumbling across the uneven turf and gorse. Half an hour after leaving the main road they might have been in a different world; there was no sound of civilisation, just the howl of the wind, no stink of car fumes, just the damp, cloying smells of nature.

  "How are you doing, city boy?" Church said with a grin.

  "Sorry, mate," Veitch deadpanned, "I'm too soft. I should live in a rough place like you to harden myself up."

  "What you need is a few archaeological digs on the North Yorkshire moors. That'd put hairs on your chest."

  They continued a little way and then a thought came to Church that he had wanted to mention the previous night. "You handled that gun pretty well at the farm."

  "I told you I was a bit of a villain. I'm not proud of it." There was a long pause before he added, "There's lots I'm not proud of."

  "Last night, that devil-"

  "I knew you'd ask sooner or later. He called me a murderer."

  "Are you?"

  Veitch looked away. "Bang to rights."

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "I haven't so far, not to anyone outside the family." He thought for a moment, then said, "Fuck it, you might as well know what you're getting in with. You know that building society raid where my brothers got arrested? Well I was in on it too. We knew it was a bleedin' mistake before we set out, but once you start thinking about something like that, it's like it's got a weight of its own-it just carries you along. There were lots of times we could have pulled out, but we'd go to bed and when we got up in the morning it was still on. We were desperate, you know. We'd been listening to all those politicians who told us we could have anything, only we didn't have anything. We had nothing. And just like we thought, it started going wrong from the moment we went in there. But we could have got out, you know, if I hadn't screwed up. We'd all got masks on. Brendan was up there at the counter, Mitch was covering him with his shotgun. I'd got a gun too and then it was like I heard this voice in my head, or just behind me or some shit. It said, `He's going to get you' or something like that.

  "Anyway, I turned round and I caught this bloke moving out of the corner of my eye. And I just let him have it. Don't ask me why. I've thought about it a million times and I can't explain it. It wasn't like me at all. But there it was. Blam. Blood, guts and some poor bastard dead. I ran like hell-Brendan and Mitch took the rap. My own brothers banged up because of me! I wanted to give myself up, but they wouldn't let me. Said it'd make it even worse for them if they knew I was inside too." The weight of emotion in his voice made Church regret bringing the subject up. "They didn't blame me for a minute and that just killed me! I wished they'd made me suffer for being such a fuck-up, like they should've done. So they go ins
ide, and I'm just eaten up by what I did to that poor bloke and my own family. And I wasn't even allowed to pay my dues for it."

  Church clapped a supportive hand on his shoulder. "It sounds like you're paying for it now."

  "But it's not enough, is it?"

  "I reckon what lies ahead for us, Ryan, will give you plenty of opportunity for payback."

  "I've never done the right thing in my life, ever, even when I tried to. But I'm going to make up for that somehow."

  Church decided to turn the conversation to Tom so Veitch could have a break. He was amazed at how quickly the man had recovered; even the scars on his temple had healed. "What about you, Tom? Are you going to break the habit of a lifetime and tell us what that devil's message meant to you?"

  There was a long silence, and when Church glanced up he saw the strangest thing: Tom was trying to speak, but it was as if he couldn't control his jaw. No words would come out, and in the end he turned away in frustration.

  "Are you okay?" Church asked, concerned. But Tom dismissed him with a wave of his hand, his eyes focused on the road ahead.

  In the cold dark before dawn, Shavi slipped away from the camp and lost himself among the trees. He could sense the sun coming in a way that still surprised him, although he had discovered his odd sensitivity a few months earlier. It was just one of several subtle changes which, inexplicably, had been thrust upon him overnight at the same time that the change came upon the world, a transformation that was so distinct at first he thought he was suffering some sudden, debilitating brain ailment. There were the psychic flashes which he initially thought were hallucinations, but which he came to recognise as precognitive, or visions of distant events. The odd sensations he received when he handled objects were as if he could feel what had happened to them in the past. And he seemed to understand what animals were thinking, although he didn't know if it was an increased awareness of their rituals and routines, or if he were actually picking up what was passing through their heads. It was all still quite unfocused, but all his abilities were growing much sharper, as if his mind were learning to use them now he had them at his disposal. He accepted it without question as a gift from some higher authority, and he was determined to use it as best he could.