The Pilgrims: Book One (The Pendulum Trilogy)

by Elliott, Will

  ‘Careful …’ said the woman.

  ‘Just a box,’ he said. ‘Open it.’

  With a touch that seemed delicate she drew the curved blade across the top of the briefcase, then spilled out its contents through the gash in the leather. The other picked up the mobile phone and looked uncomprehendingly at it. He fiddled with it until it switched on, glowing, then dropped it with a yelp.

  The redhead’s laughter screeched without shame. ‘Don’t play with magic, you silly man,’ he said, and kicked the phone away.

  The shorter man picked up the gun, sniffed it, and tossed it aside. He was more interested in Eric’s newspaper and payslips. He gently put them in a little knapsack he held. ‘They’ll like that,’ he said.

  ‘Paper? Why’ll they like paper?’ said the redhead.

  ‘Not the paper, fool. Otherworld writing. They love new languages. What’s this?’ He picked up what must have been one of Case’s old bourbon bottles, and sniffed it. ‘Strong smell. Think it held drink.’ He closely examined the bourbon’s label, stroked it, then put the bottle in his bag too. ‘Let’s go back. The mage won’t be gone long.’

  ‘We’re not leaving yet,’ said the redhead. ‘Get more stuff. They’ll close this off soon,’ he gestured to the door.

  ‘Not safe—’

  ‘Too bad, you little sack of fright! This is a one-off. If they figure out how to shut it, this door will not open again. Plunder, bastard. Plunder.’ He ran towards the newsagency and the other two followed.

  ‘I’m not scared,’ the shorter man said. ‘Just smarter than you.’

  ‘Then there’s been some mistake. Because I am leading the raid!’ He cackled like someone possessed as they ran right past Eric. The woman’s steps were light and her gown rippled, the streetlight seeming to fall away from it like water. She threw back her hood and gaped with sheer amazement at the starry sky. The redhead turned on his heel at the street corner, surveying his surrounds. He saw Eric and jumped, startled, the cone of red hair swaying.

  Eric swallowed, his heart beating hard. He wondered what to say and could only come up with: ‘Hi.’

  The other two spotted him. The shorter man immediately had two long knives drawn, with a little smoke running off the blades as though they were very cold. With very fast hands the woman had an arrow nocked in her bow and pointed at the ground ahead of her. She licked her lips.

  The redhead held an arm up. ‘Uh-ah! No you don’t. You don’t just kill people because they’re from the other world. It’s not his fault. He’s going to help us. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Eric.

  ‘Is this a tavern?’

  ‘No, that’s a newsagency.’

  ‘Hmm!’ The redhead spun about, examined the closed glass door, dark within. ‘And what sort of thing is that? A store?’

  ‘Yes. Can I ask something? How is it you speak English?’

  ‘Speak what? Your tongue? We don’t!’

  ‘I … see.’

  ‘Now then. Is that wall made of glass?’

  Eric nodded.

  ‘Protected by a spell?’ said the redhead.

  ‘Far out, you’re for real.’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘No spell,’ said Eric. ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  The redhead skipped closer to him, lowering his voice to confidential pitch. ‘You’d tell me if it was, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Sure! We have no spells here.’

  ‘Oh? How odd. Your mages must be useless. And very bored. A final question. Are you the store master?’

  ‘No time for this crap,’ the shorter one snarled.

  ‘Shoosh, you!’ said the redhead. ‘So, are you?’

  ‘No,’ said Eric. ‘Help yourselves. And … welcome, I guess!’

  ‘Thanks!’ The redhead bowed low then ran straight for the large sliding glass doors, the cone of red hair flopping behind him. Shoulder first, he threw himself into it. A big part of it shattered with a cacophony of falling shards. The other two ran in after him, stepping carefully over the broken pieces.

  The noise of their rummaging through the dark newsagency seemed to carry a long way. They’d certainly have triggered a silent alarm, which Eric hoped couldn’t be interpreted as a spell. Before long all three emerged with their arms full of blocks of printing paper, newspapers, pens, pencils, rulers, magazines. The redhead’s forehead was cut, but he didn’t seem to care about the blood sheening down his face.

  ‘Was this junk worth the risks we took?’ said the woman.

  ‘Hush, you. I don’t need two critics,’ said the redhead. ‘No one knew what we’d find. Could’ve been anything. We got something to trade the groundies, at least. But they’re not getting this.’ He tried to examine a Penthouse, in the process dropping a load of plundered stuff which clattered to the bitumen. Eyes glued on the unfolding pin-up, he didn’t seem to notice. ‘Wow,’ he said.

  A train passed over the bridge. All three of them screamed in alarm and scattered away from the tunnel entrance, dropping most of their wares.

  ‘Wait, relax,’ said Eric. ‘It’s not going to hurt you.’

  ‘No spells, you fucking pirate!’ roared the redhead, drawing a sword from his belt and charging up the embankment towards the tracks. The shorter man gaped as though dumbstruck by the huge metal demon. The female had an arrow nocked and pointed at Eric’s heart, then evidently decided the train was the more immediate threat. Her shot sailed in a fast arc and skimmed off the metal panel with a flash of sparks. Then the train passed, receding towards the city.

  ‘Just a train,’ Eric said. ‘Harmless.’

  The shorter man nodded sagely as though he’d known that all along.

  ‘Oh. How embarrassing,’ said the redhead, sliding his sword back into its leather scabbard. While the other two picked up the goods littering the path, he pranced towards Eric. He crouched down low, peering at Eric’s feet with a critical eye, and said, ‘Mmm. I like your shoes. Now, bye bye.’

  ‘Wait! Don’t go yet,’ said Eric. ‘Spells! Can you guys really cast spells?’

  But back into the tunnel they went. The door’s outline was still faintly glowing. The shorter man kicked the wood twice. It bounced back open. They tossed their goods through, then leaped down one at a time, the woman last. The door swung gently shut behind them. The light outlining it faded to nothing. The tunnel was quiet again.

  Case staggered towards him from the other end of the tunnel. ‘They spoke to you,’ he said in disbelief.

  ‘Tell you all about it at my place.’ Eric laughed. ‘Did you see what they did to the newsagency? They stole stationery! Pens, paper, magazines!’

  A police siren sounded, not far away. A trail of stationery led from the broken window right to their feet. ‘Crap! Run.’

  So they ran.

  6

  In the morning, it was the strangest thing to see a day unfolding through his bedroom window, normal as always. He watched the world outside for a while to assure himself it was really still there. Case was already awake and helping himself to various delicacies from the pantry. There were biscuit packets and empty herring tins, licked clean, scattered over the coffee table. ‘Morning,’ he said, offering Eric a cracker.

  They went back to the bridge but found nothing more than footprints, which could have been anyone’s, by the door. They searched fruitlessly for the arrow the woman had fired at the train.

  Back at the flat, Case gave him a lesson in handling the gun. ‘If you have to shoot it, hold it tight. Works better if you don’t drop it in fright. Makes a hell of a racket, this thing, but shoots straight enough.’

  ‘What make is it?’

  ‘Glock. Nine shots left in that clip, ten in the other.’

  That night they went back to the bridge, pausing on the way to get Case some liquor. Then they set up the chess board. ‘I notice we’re not enlisting any help with all this,’ said Eric.

  ‘Why not?’

  Case took his first mouthful of bourbon. �
�Don’t know your reasons, but I kind of feel like it’s my secret. I wanna talk to em, ask em some questions.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like, what the hell d’you want?’

  ‘So, you’re our planet’s ambassador. Stuart Casey, of no fixed address.’

  ‘Sure am. You’re only here cos you’re paying for the drinks.’

  ‘Anything for my planet. Know any knock-knock jokes?’

  ‘Nope. Rack em up again, if you’re game.’

  So they waited and the night crept by. Soon it had crept by completely, and nothing at all had happened other than the sun rising on a cold winter morning.

  The next day, they came back; the next night, too. Not once did the door make a sound. There was no hint anything strange had ever happened. When a week had passed, Case and Eric both began to doubt their sanity, and the point of further vigil at the bridge. A few phone calls revealed, meanwhile, that Eric was no longer employed. One of his imitators had been given his own bi-weekly column, which they had named ‘Whacked Out’.

  Another week went by, and another. What had seemed the most unlikely thing of all soon occurred: life returned, more or less, to normal. Soon Eric found himself dressing up in a business shirt and tie, slacks and polished shoes, getting out of the flat early to go find a job. Case was asleep on the couch that cold Monday morning, snoring loud. It was getting a little weird hiding him in the bedroom when friends dropped around …

  Tap tap tap went his footsteps, his breath white puffs in the air. The bridge appeared around the bend. And there amongst the graffiti was the door, barely worth turning one’s head to look at. ‘You strange little decoration,’ he said.

  He’d meant to simply walk past like normal, but found he hadn’t. He picked up a rock and threw it; it ricocheted off the wooden panels. ‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘Hey you! Knock knock.’

  Nothing.

  ‘You don’t fool me, shithead.’ He beat on the panels, then took a stick and poked it in the keyhole, jammed it through till it broke against the brick behind. He kicked the door the way the invaders had.

  Nothing.

  ‘So, now what?’ Eric yelled into the keyhole. ‘Hey! There’s another world in there. I know it, all right? Why are you hiding?’

  He kicked the door as hard as he could, and sent himself sprawling backwards onto the concrete path. He charged it with his shoulder. He pulled on the copper notch with all his weight, yanked it until he was panting and sweating. The wood creaked, but that was all.

  A slow train rumbled overhead. Eric caught himself. His clothes were now dirty and ruffled. He was in no state for jobhunting. A customer exiting the newsagency stared at him, then hurried away, as though he were dangerous. ‘Great,’ he muttered, heading back home to change. ‘Just great.’

  Then a voice cried: ‘Help!’

  A woman’s voice. He stopped; had he really heard it? The train’s noise obscured it.

  ‘Help!’ From the door. It was real! He ran back, crouched before the red wooden panels and cupped his hands over the keyhole. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Help meeeeee …’

  ‘How?’ Eric yelled. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Help meeeee!’

  ‘How?’ Eric shouted through the keyhole. There was no answer. He beat the door with his fists, kicked the wall beside it. ‘Hello? Is that the woman with the bow and arrow? I want to help you, but how?’

  He dug his fingers in the copper groove above the keyhole and gave it a huge, desperate wrench, then fell on his backside, blinking stupidly at an ivory-white sky. Light poured through the open door into the train tunnel’s shadows. The air was full of an electric humming sound and that whistling wind …

  Shaking, he got to his knees and peered through. It was as though he crouched on the ledge of an open window, metres above a grassy floor. Stretching out ahead was a wide lane of lush green cut into a sheer valley of smooth white stone. At the end, in the distance, was that tower he’d glimpsed before. He could see only part of it; the rest was obscured by the rise of the ground. It was far away, but still loomed huge. The stuff of storybooks. They have magic in there! Magic, real magic …

  ‘Help me, please!’ Clearer now. Eric looked quickly around but didn’t see her, though he saw someone lying down there, motionless in the grass. He swallowed, thought of Case. He grabbed the broken stick and frantically gouged at the dirt nearby:

  Case I opened it went in

  He glanced through the door, one last moment’s doubt, but there was that ivory sky again, that beautiful ivory sky. Beautiful because it was different, it was there, it was real. The door swung, as though in a light breeze. Eric tried to think what else he should write, fearful it would slam shut for good.

  May not be back

  No time for more. Whoever had called for help had stopped calling. He took one deep breath, held his briefcase to his chest, and hesitated. This could be his last second on Earth, his last words spoken here. ‘I’m Batman!’ he cried. He rushed at the open door, then his feet caught and he tilted and flipped. He heard the sound of it slamming shut, right before the crunch of his own body hitting the ground on the other side, his back taking most of the impact, but his head getting a nice thump too. He saw stars and, for a moment, or an hour, or a day, knew nothing more.

  Hours later, Case nervously headed out. It was approaching 9pm. Eric’s note on the kitchen bench had said he’d be back no later than three in the afternoon.

  Case had looked around for the gun before he set out. It had to be in Eric’s new briefcase, stuffed into its holster, for they’d taken it to the door each time they kept watch there.

  There was the park with its rustling grass, the bridge with the secrets it suddenly refused to share, its tunnel like a gaping toothless mouth. Funny how this place had become familiar enough for him to miss it, if he were to leave for good. ‘Eric? You here?’

  Cursed dark! He should’ve brought a torch. And a drink, come to mention it. How in hell had he forgotten to bring a drink? He laughed at himself. Well, it was a short walk back.

  Nearly half an hour later he returned with the bottle of cheap scotch Eric had bought for him. The lid seal cracked, a nice sound, and he sniffed it, sipped it. Ahhh … His eyes roamed from the door to the path, where he hoped to see the young man strolling by after another late night. He thought of sharking Eric in chess that first night, and chuckled to himself. He set the bottle down gently after another sip, and shone the torch light on the ground beside the bike path.

  There were footprints near the door, in that reddish-looking dirt, but they could have been anyone’s. And — just a moment — writing, right there, writing! It was addressed to him! Parts of the message had been covered by wind-blown dust, which he carefully wiped away. Went in! his mind screamed. He went in! What? How?

  Case staggered back to the bottle, took a deep pull of the stuff to clear his head. You couldn’t just open the door! Could you? He bit a knuckle, tucked the bottle into the crook of his elbow, grabbed the torch. He already knew what he was going to do. Or try, anyway. What the hell, I’ve lived long enough, he thought.

  He dug his fingers into the door’s copper groove and pulled. He leaned with what force he could, one foot planted on the wall, groaning with effort, until it felt like his shoulder was about to pop out. His startled cry rang through the tunnel as light wormed up the edges of the door as though in answer to his efforts. There was not a soul in sight at either end of the path to witness it. His own words came back to him: Funny how this spot chases everyone away when it wants to act up …

  He gritted his teeth, breathed deep, and gave another big pull with shaking arms. The door opened and he fell on his backside, scrambled to his feet again, and looked inside. It was a fair way down, but the turf looked soft. Carefully holding the bottle, he shut his eyes and dropped. He landed with a grunt and not without pain, but at least, unlike Eric some hours before, his feet hit the ground first.

  7

  At first he knew o
nly the dim ache of his fall. Thin light of either an ending or beginning day lit the blackness of his closed eyes. The soft, thick, shin-high grass made a comfortable bed to lie on. It smelled fresh and pleasant, bringing him childhood memories of afternoons at the park, when bad things like death and suffering were worlds away.

  Everything came back slowly. His mind recounted the first wild dream, then the old drunk accosting him with cryptic words, then his feet catching as he went through the door.

  Hold on a second: as he went through the door?

  Of all the stupid, stupid, STUPID things I could’ve done …

  There was nothing but air above him, nothing to indicate the door he’d fallen through. That ivory sky was a touch brighter now, he fancied, which made it morning. No moon, sun or stars could be seen, only cloud like threads of cotton being slowly pulled along. To the left was a sheerly cut wall of stone, with thin grooves and bands of colour weaving through strata of clean white rock. It was very tall, stretching up out of sight until its whiteness was lost against the sky’s. A similar wall opposite was more or less parallel and together they fenced in a green valley that widened ahead over rising and falling ground. Behind him, the sheer walls curved around in a dead end. In the distance was the tower that had held his eye so commandingly, but which, right now, lacked the same power. For there were stranger things to see, much closer.

  Other shapes lay in the grass, some nearby, some further away, perhaps a dozen of them between the two valley walls. Like him, they were bodies, and they lay still … unlike him it seemed they didn’t have the option of moving again. Some were face-down, some sprawled on their backs or sides. Some were just dead; others were messily dead. The neat, groomed corpse at Uncle Craig’s funeral had not looked like this.

  Eric got up on his elbows. He fumbled for the briefcase and drew it closer, comforted by the feel of it pressed to his side, its familiar clean leathery smell. Further away, he glimpsed glistening red on a shape in a large billowy dress. He shut his eyes, shuddered, and angled himself away from it. The cries for help echoed in his ears. Had it been her crying out? And he’d been thinking Lancelot, maidens in distress, fairy tales as he leaped in. His guts swirled, mouth dry. Quietly as he could, he retched in the grass.