The Box of Demons

by Daniel Whelan

  ‘Just “The Castellan of the Veil”? That’s it?’

  ‘You would not employ her full title, even if we told it to you. Time is short, and her title is long,’ said The Archivist.

  ‘Does she have to go on like that all the time?’

  ‘She is the only one of us who can manipulate the Veil,’ said The Triumph. ‘Thanks to her we are able to travel between the Worlds, and can enter your dreams like this.’

  ‘I’m not dreaming,’ said Ben. ‘I’m awake.’

  The Archivist let go a sarcastic snort. Ben tried to protest further, but found he could not speak. In the corner of the room, The Castellan of the Veil’s covered mouth was repeating the unintelligible phrases faster and faster. Ben felt lightheaded, and the last thing he saw as his eyelids drooped shut was The Triumph and The Archivist hovering over him, their mouths moving, no sound coming out.

  He experienced a sharp pain in his chest, and his eyes flicked open. The Archivist was brutally poking his ribs. The room was a little less orange now: The Castellan of the Veil could no longer be seen, but her voice continued in the dark corner.

  ‘What?’ said Ben. ‘For God’s sake.’

  The Archivist slapped his face. ‘Do not use that word, human boy, if you cannot use it properly. The Prime One is not to be called on in vain.’

  ‘I only nodded off.’

  ‘As we explained, you’re asleep already,’ said The Triumph. ‘It was too much for The Castellan of the Veil to show herself at the same time as keeping us here, so she’ll continue un-illuminated.’

  ‘I’m not dreaming,’ said Ben. ‘I’m awake. When you slapped me, it hurt.’

  ‘Good,’ sneered The Archivist.

  ‘Thanks to the hold the Box has on you, this is now the only way we can contact you, and it is taking an immense amount of power. If it is able to grip you any tighter, even this path will be closed to us. I beg you to reconsider, before it is too late.’

  ‘Can you make my mum better?’

  The two angels looked at each other for a moment. The Archivist’s lips formed themselves into a bitter smile. The Triumph shook his head.

  ‘I can,’ said Ben.

  The Archivist sprang forward, placing his hand flat on Ben’s chest, pushing him back into the mattress. ‘Not only is the fate of one of my kind at stake, but that of the whole Creation as well. We should let you rot, little ape,’ he screeched.

  Ben’s instinct was to wriggle, to try and free himself, but he found he could not. A stony cold feeling had spread through his body, and now every muscle was rigid, as if frozen solid. The Castellan of the Veil was whispering louder now, and Ben’s vision began to blur, switching between one version of his room with The Archivist standing over him, and one without.

  The Triumph grabbed The Archivist by the scruff of his neck and jerked him away from the bed like a naughty puppy. He roughly dumped him a few feet back, and gave him a cold stare. The Archivist hissed at him resentfully. ‘You dare to admonish me in front of the primate, brother?’

  ‘He was waking up. Let me handle this.’

  The coldness had abated the second The Archivist had been pulled away, as if a great stone slab had been lifted from Ben’s chest. He was still shivering from the attack, but tried to disguise it. ‘If you want the Box so badly, come and get it. I won’t try to stop you.’

  ‘You know we can’t,’ said The Triumph.

  ‘Then you’ll just have to leave me alone.’ He stubbornly closed his eyes, and tried to block out the constant whispering. He reached out to the music of the Box, and the score rose to greet him. Slowly it reasserted itself, and sleep crept back in. The Castellan of the Veil started speaking faster and faster, grabbing quick breaths in between long flurries of words. The very last thing he heard was The Triumph’s voice, so close to his ear that he felt its vibrations bounce around his skull.

  ‘When the time comes that you need us – and if you are lucky, it will – go to the Druids. They will not know what to do, but they will do it anyway. Trust in the Prime One, and He shall provide.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Revelation

  It had taken Ben a week of nagging to be allowed back to Drylands Hall, and so it was not until the Sunday before half-term that he was able to cycle down the coast to Abergele. It had not been easy to persuade his grandmother to let him go alone, and even once she’d given in she still insisted on calling ahead to ask Pat if she would keep an eye on him, and if there would be somewhere for him to put his bike, and if she would like a batch of muffins if she made some.

  When Ben finally saw how much food he had to take with him, he was glad that Djinn wouldn’t be around to get at it. Alongside the muffins his grandmother had baked cakes, prepared a flask of tea and made tons of sandwiches. The satchel was so full that the Box made a slightly muffled protest at being buried under the avalanche of food.

  The weather that morning was poor, and his grandmother tried to use it as a last-ditch excuse to give him a lift in the car, but he was adamant. He suspected that if she drove him, then she would find an excuse to stay. He would be going on his own, on his bike, and he didn’t care about the weather. Several layers of ‘waterproof’ clothing later, he was finally on his way.

  The upstairs corridor at Drylands Hall was dimly lit, and smelt of antiseptic and despair. Pat trundled along in front of Ben, wobbling with each step. She had been waiting for him when he arrived, a stiff hospital regulation towel in hand, and had proceeded to attack his barely wet hair before showing him to a windowless room full of bits of old junk so that he could stow his bicycle. He wondered why she didn’t just leave him alone, and took out his frustrations by flicking the V’s behind her back as they walked along.

  When they reached the door to his mum’s room, Pat clapped her hands together.

  ‘Here we are then, just in here,’ she said, and gave the door three sharp, brisk knocks, like a policeman on a dawn raid. ‘Are you decent, Marie Celeste? I’ve got a visitor for you.’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned the handle.

  Mary Rose was sat in an armchair facing the window, staring at the closed curtains. She was still wearing her nightie, and the unbelted white cotton dressing gown that was issued as standard to all the inmates of Drylands Hall.

  ‘Ooh, it’s dark in here, isn’t it?’ said Pat, shuffling over to the curtains and pulling them open. Mary Rose looked bewildered, and squinted as light fell into the room. She looked at Ben with glassy, unrecognizing eyes, and then turned back to the window.

  ‘Sit yourself down, there’s a good boy,’ said Pat, indicating the end of the bed. The mattress was lumpy and thin, and Ben could feel the springs pressing into his buttocks. ‘I don’t know if you’ll get much out of Marie Celeste today. She’s been very quiet lately. I can stay if you’d like?’

  ‘Thanks, we’ll be OK,’ said Ben dismissively.

  ‘Well, you know where I am.’ She hovered in the doorway. After a few moments of awkward silence, she cleared her throat.

  ‘Didn’t your granny say something about muffins?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Here.’ He pulled a blue freezer bag out of his satchel and held out his arm. He made no attempt to move, forcing Pat to waddle back into the room. It was like throwing a sedative-filled steak to a hungry guard dog. Once she had waddled off wheezing down the corridor, he was at last alone with his mum.

  He couldn’t think of anything to say.

  He realized that in all the years he had been visiting, it was his grandmother who had done the talking. His tie, an old one of his grandfather’s, was like a noose around his neck. He worked a finger into the knot to loosen it, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

  Awkwardly, he leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. He couldn’t think of anything else to do. Her eyes darted towards him, half wary, half hopeful, before they went back to the window.

  ‘Hello, Mum.’

  She turned her head slowly back towards him. A smile of recognition – or rememb
rance – passed over her face. She stared at him, beaming. Ben laughed nervously.

  ‘Let’s see what Gran’s packed for us, shall we?’

  He hoisted his satchel on to his lap and started to pull carrier bags out. As a parcel of pre-cut cake appeared Mary Rose clapped her hands together in excitement.

  ‘Benji!’ she said. ‘When did you get here?’

  ‘I came in with Pat, Mum.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Mary Rose, pulling a face, ‘she’s such a minion. Did she try and steal our biscuits?’

  ‘We haven’t got any biscuits, Mum. But Gran made us sandwiches.’

  ‘Oooooh. Let’s have breakfast in bed.’

  ‘It’s nearly lunchtime.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Mary Rose clambered on to the bed and sat cross-legged on top of the sheets. She patted the space in front of her, and Ben slipped his shoes off and got on the bed.

  ‘Good. No shoes in the temple. Very important. Can I have a sandwich?’

  Ben prepared a paper plate and put it down in front of her. She grabbed for it, held it at eye level, and rotated it, examining every angle. Sniffing like a pig hunting for truffles, she peeked inside before slamming it shut. She threw the plate down in front of her, crossed her arms, and stuck her tongue out in disgust.

  Ben laughed. It was like watching a five-year-old.

  ‘I hate cheese and pickle,’ she said, and Ben stopped laughing. All of a sudden, she was an adult again. ‘I always hated them. I used to complain all the time, but Mum always forgot. I used to just eat the bread and butter at school. You can have mine, if you like.’

  ‘No, thanks. I hate them too. I use the clingfilm to scrape the pickle off the cheese,’ he said, and started to demonstrate.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Mary Rose, ‘why don’t we just move straight on to the cake? I won’t tell if you don’t.’

  And so they sat, eating slices of sponge cake, talking about the weather, and schoolwork, and the best kind of biscuits to go with tea. It was everything that he wanted a visit to be. It was everything he wanted his life to be, his mum, his normal mum, living with them, their normal life. He imagined this was what it was like for the other people at school when they went home. The Box played a beautiful trill to accompany this thought, and he was reminded of what he was there to do.

  ‘Are you all right, Benji?’ said Mary Rose.

  Ben took a deep breath. ‘Yes, Mum,’ he said, and lightly placed his hand over hers. ‘This is nice, isn’t it, Mum? Us being like this?’

  ‘Yes. It is. It’s a shame the minions won’t let you stay longer.’

  ‘I know, Mum. But how would you like it if you came home to live with us?’

  Mary Rose bit her lower lip. ‘That would be nice too. But the minions won’t let me leave either. Bastards.’ She quickly clamped her hand over her mouth.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum. I know that word.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘well, don’t use it, will you?’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Ben. ‘Mum, I know how to get them to let you come home.’

  Mary Rose’s face became stern. ‘Lie about the angels, you mean? I’m not stupid, Benji. I know that’s what they want, but I won’t do it. I know I’m supposed to lie, but I can’t.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be a lie though.’

  ‘You sound like a minion.’ Her eyes darted around the room, avoiding his gaze.

  ‘It’s true, Mum. You’re very sick. You never met any angels.’

  ‘You weren’t there. No one else was there. How could you know?’ She seemed distressed, as if looking for an exit. She wrung her hands.

  ‘Because I’ve met them. Real angels, Mum. And they told me that they haven’t been to Earth for a very long time. You couldn’t have met them. You’re just sick.’

  Mary Rose looked unsure for a moment. Then her brows furrowed. ‘Don’t let anyone here catch you saying that. That’s the sort of the thing gets you locked away.’

  ‘It’s true, Mum. I met four angels, and now I can make you better. I can make it so you’re allowed to come home.’ He reached out and took both her hands. He squeezed them to reassure her, and to stop his from shaking. He tuned into the music of the Box and searched through the score until he found the strand he needed, and let it pulse through his veins. He looked his mother in the eye, and felt his hands ignite with the healing green flames.

  ‘Fire,’ whispered Mary Rose.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum. This is something the angels showed me.’ It hurt to lie to his mother, but the Box was quick to wipe away any doubt. It was a lie, yes, but the whitest one of all. ‘This is going to make you better.’

  ‘No.’ There were tears in her eyes. She tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip. ‘I’m confused. You’re confusing me,’ she said. ‘This is devilry. Stop.’ She started to shout, over and over: ‘Stop, stop, stop.’

  Ben let go. Mary Rose recoiled. The Box played a new strain, one Ben had never heard before. It was bitter, and it rang through every bit of him. He wanted to scream at her, but she looked so vulnerable that instead he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  ‘I can help you,’ he said.

  Mary Rose shook her head. ‘I don’t need help.’ The rhythm seemed to reassure her, so she kept doing it. ‘The angels wouldn’t like this. I don’t know what you’re mixed up in, Benji, but you have to stop. It’s witchcraft.’

  Ben opened his hands wide. The music was getting impatient, and his heartbeat was like a restless foot tapping along to it. He swallowed hard, and moved cautiously closer.

  ‘Touch me and I’ll scream,’ she said solemnly, her eyes defiant and purposeful. ‘Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Protect us from the snares and wickedness of the devil . . .’

  Ben’s head throbbed. The words were like midges nipping at him. He lunged forward, and his mother caught his wrists. She squeezed them so tightly that her nails dug into his tendons, all the while repeating her prayer.

  A new wave of music hit him, dangerous and vindictive.

  ‘It’s all your fault,’ he said. ‘Everything is all your fault. Why do you have to be like this? All I ever wanted was to be normal, but I ended up with you, and it’s not fair. It’s just not fair.’

  Mary Rose let go, and retreated up the bed to the headboard, tangled herself up in it as if squeezing through the bars could protect her. When Ben saw how scared she looked, his hands began to shake. Before he knew it, he was crying, and he felt like a small child again.

  Mary Rose slowly released her grip and crawled over to him.

  ‘Don’t cry. Please. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I wish I’d never been born,’ he spat between sobs.

  ‘Don’t say that, Benji. It’s not true.’

  ‘It is true. And don’t call me Benji. I’m not four years old any more.’ Tears dropped on to the paper plate beneath him, soaking the discarded sandwiches. Mary Rose enveloped him in an embrace. With her warmth around him, the sobbing juddered to a halt, and he sat there, whimpering while she whispered in his ear.

  ‘I’m sorry. I got scared. I get confused sometimes.’ Tentatively, she stroked his hair, twisting a lock of it around her finger. ‘Try again.’

  Ben looked up at her. She was shivering.

  ‘Really?’

  She nodded. He stretched out his hands and clamped them firmly on her head. The green light throbbed through him and into her. She gasped as the Box powered into her brain, reprogramming and reconfiguring. She jerked beneath his touch, as if he were an electric chair.

  ‘Oh, I remember,’ she cried. ‘Everything is so clear now. I have been confused for so long. It was the light, it hurt my head. It stopped me remembering. Oh. You have to be careful. They are false prophets, Benji. They see everything in shades of red. They don’t want to stop it. They want to let it out.’

  The words continued to stream out of her, making less and less sense as she went on. As the music of the Box became more vigorous, Mary Rose’s voice dampened, bare
ly audible. Ben felt the Box coursing through every part of him. It got so that he could not see the room, or his mother; not properly. There was a part of him that was there, and part of him that was elsewhere, somewhere inside the green fire. He started to feel detached from himself, and from the situation, but he didn’t mind. He felt like he was part of the Box’s plan, and he liked it.

  He felt a stinging pain across his face, once, twice, three times. The Box made a horrible screeching sound, and suddenly he was back in the hospital. His mother was in front of him, her hand raised ready to slap him again.

  ‘Wake up, Benji,’ she screamed.

  ‘I’m awake . . . Mum . . . I’m here.’

  Pat burst through the door in the company of two orderlies. ‘What is all this racket? Oh dear. Are we having one of those days, Marie Celeste?’

  ‘No no no no no no,’ said Mary Rose. ‘No. Wait. I have something I have to say. It’s about the angels. I remember now. Stay away from me. Stay away.’

  The orderlies crept forward. Mary Rose retreated to the headboard, her arms extended, palms out.

  ‘Get back. I’m warning you. This is important. You have to be careful, Ben. The angels. I remember.’

  The orderlies pounced. Mary Rose lashed out, nearly hitting the bigger of the two men. The other brought her down on to the mattress and held her firm as she wriggled beneath him. ‘The angels. There’s something I have to tell you.’

  Pat quickly put an arm around Ben to usher him out while the orderlies set to work. His mother managed a final yell of ‘. . . the angels, Benji, don’t . . .’ before her voice slurred into nothing and she was out cold.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’ said Pat.

  ‘I don’t . . . yes. Yes. I think so,’ said Ben.

  ‘You haven’t had much luck, have you? Let’s get your things and we’ll have a nice slice of cake while we wait for your granny. You’re not cycling anywhere this afternoon.’

  Ben’s grandparents were at Drylands Hall in less than ten minutes, which was still enough time for Pat to polish off two slices of the pre-cut cake. She needn’t have rushed: once Annette arrived she happily bequeathed all the uneaten food to the staff.