The Box of Demons

by Daniel Whelan

  Ben was drained. He said little in the car, answering in monosyllables if he answered at all. His insides felt shaky. He hadn’t been able to cure his Mum. If anything, he’d made her worse. At home, his grandmother put her palm across his brow, declared that he had a fever, and sent him to bed early.

  When he got upstairs, the first thing he did was fish out the Grand Druid’s card. Lucy had said something about half-term, and sure enough there was a meeting the next day.

  The druids will not know what to do, but they will do it anyway.

  Tomorrow, he would put them to the test.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Salutation of the Tide

  Unsurprisingly, the weather the next day was horrible. If the North Wales climate could be relied on for anything it was ruining half-term holidays. In fact, if there were anything for which North Wales could be relied on, it was ruining half-term holidays. There are only so many visits to the RSPB Visitor Centre in Betws-y-Coed a boy can take.

  Dark clouds hung heavy in the sky, black and full, billowing like they had risen out of some previously undiscovered Welsh volcano. As Ben cycled along the coast road, the wind blasting him with fine sea mist, the Box made no effort to hide its glee at the awful conditions. It mocked him, as if it were saying, ‘Druids? What do you think those amateurs are going to be able to do? I can control the weather.’

  He was surprised at how many people were in the Old School Youth Centre, and how varied they were in age and appearance. Both Tegwyn and the Grand Druid were cut from a similar kind of cloth, and it was a cloth with a nice pattern on it that spelled ‘Lonely Single Men’. Ben had expected a very small group of what, if you were being nice, you would call ‘enthusiasts’, but counted over thirty people milling around, sipping hot drinks from styrofoam cups and nibbling Rich Tea Fingers, clearly the Druid biscuit of choice.

  He scanned the room for Tegwyn and the Grand Druid, or even Lucy, but could not see them anywhere. He poured himself an orange squash from the refreshments table and took a biscuit. At the far end of the room was a small wooden stage, not unlike the one they had at school. In front of it there was a circle of plastic chairs, which the druids were beginning to gravitate towards. Ben hung back, staying near the refreshments and the drying warmth of the antique iron radiators.

  The little clock that hung above the stage struck eight, and a hush descended on the circle.

  The Grand Druid stepped out from the wings to a smattering of applause. He was followed by Tegwyn, who held a rickety old cassette player in one hand and a bundle of silver spray-painted twigs in the other. A piece of vaguely Celtic-sounding music blared out of the stereo. Both were dressed in long white robes, and wore curious little crowns with diamond-like gems embedded in the front. Tegwyn looked ridiculous, like an extra milling about in the background of an old sci-fi show. The Grand Druid, however, wore it particularly well. Gone was the well-meaning nerd that Ben had encountered at the Broken Forge; here was a man who was, without question, the Grand Druid. Even if he was badly shaven.

  He carried a large wooden staff covered with evergreens. Pieces of fern and mistletoe enveloped his fist, making it seem as if the sceptre was growing out of him. He raised the staff off the ground, then rapped it on the floor three times. The two men walked down the steps from the stage in perfect unison, the Grand Druid striking each step with his staff. They sat down simultaneously, to the beat of the music. Tegwyn pressed stop just after the song ended, and a brief snatch of the Star Trek theme played just before the tape cut out.

  ‘Righty-o,’ said the Grand Druid, ‘the play scheme are in soon to start setting up, so let’s get cracking, shall we? Had to twist a few arms to be let in this early so we can’t hang about.’ He surveyed the room as he spoke, making eye contact with individual parishioners. ‘So, is everyone ready? Obviously the weather is a bit . . .’

  He leaned over to Tegwyn and whispered something, pointing at Ben as he did.

  ‘Benjamino! It’s a big surprise to see you here. You’re very welcome, but we have to insist you sit in the circle. Helps the flow of energy in the room. It’s all very technical. But if you want to stay, you’ll have to join us.’

  Ben nodded, and made his way to one of the two spare seats. The circle settled, and the Grand Druid cleared his throat. His casual tone disappeared, replaced by an over-earnest recitation of something he had clearly said hundreds of times before: ‘Forces of nature, flow through us. Let us celebrate the nearness of the Moon . . .’

  Everyone closed their eyes. Ben wondered if this was what The Triumph meant, and, determined to assist in whatever it was the druids were going to do, tried to close his eyes. He found he could not keep them shut for long. The Box kept squirming away inside his head, making it hard for him to hear, forcing his eyes open.

  ‘Lovely,’ said the Grand Druid, suddenly switching back to his conversational tone. ‘Right then, let’s make our way down to the seafront for the Salutation of the Tide.’ The druids started to get up from their seats. The Box played a sniggering arpeggio of detuned notes, and Ben cursed under his breath.

  ‘You’re so strange,’ said a voice. Ben looked up, and saw Lucy standing over him.

  ‘I meant that as a compliment,’ she said. ‘Strange is interesting. I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  Ben blushed. ‘I didn’t see you come in.’

  ‘That’s because you had your eyes closed. Most of the time, anyway. I overslept and my Dad took the car so I had to walk.’

  ‘It’s good you came, Benjamino,’ said the Grand Druid, as he and Tegwyn approached. ‘You don’t want to be messing around with that dark druidism stuff, it’s bad for your aura. What made you change your mind?’

  Ben thought this was probably the only time he could get away with saying ‘an angel told me to do it in a dream’, but chose not to.

  ‘I just did,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I guess reasons aren’t important. Will you be joining us for the Salutation of the Tide?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Oh, just a little ceremony to welcome the sea back. We’ll take a quick stroll over to the beach and say hello. It’s good for the soul, the feet making contact with the water.’ He pointed down, and Ben saw he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

  ‘Are you going like that?’ asked Ben.

  ‘I have to, it’s part of it.’

  ‘What if it rains?’

  ‘Nnnn. We’ll get wet,’ sneered Tegwyn.

  ‘There’s no need to fear nature, Benjamino,’ said the Grand Druid. ‘Water is our friend.’

  Yeah, thought Ben, but you’re talking to someone who can’t swim. ‘Can I still wear my coat?’ he said.

  ‘Whatever you like, Benjamino.’

  ‘I have to get my bike. I cycled here.’

  ‘Of course you did,’ said Tegwyn, as if that was the most obvious and inconvenient thing he could have possibly done.

  The walk to the seafront was more like a procession, the Grand Druid at its head. Ben felt a bit of a wally pushing his bike in the middle of it. Clearly the druids couldn’t do anything to help: the Box was as strong as ever, mocking him as he trudged around in the rain, getting funny looks from the few foolhardy dog-walkers still out in the swiftly declining weather. He gradually allowed the rest of the group to pass him by until he was at the back of the line.

  ‘So you’re into dark druidism, are you?’ said Lucy. She had dropped back too, and was now walking alongside him.

  Ben scowled, and Lucy gave him a friendly shove. ‘Don’t be like that. I was only teasing. Why do they think you’re in danger of being lost to black magic then?’

  Ben sighed. ‘I once bought a book about the Great Orme that the Grand Druid wrote. There was all this stuff in the paper about animal sacrifice up there and so now they think I’ve been trying to summon my rabbit that died.’

  Lucy laughed. ‘No wonder you nearly took my head off. I swear I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have brought it up if I had.’<
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  ‘I’m sorry too. I wasn’t myself.’ The Box played a crunching, disapproving chord. ‘I shouldn’t have shouted at you.’

  ‘Too right. But I reckon I can let it go, just this once. If you explain how those Warmonger mutiny trials work again.’ She linked her arm through his. ‘Tegwyn and Terry take this very seriously. Most of us aren’t like that. This one bloke, Frank, just comes for the free Rich Tea Fingers. I hate Rich Tea Fingers. Anyway, point is, we accept everybody as they are. Even Teg, and he’s an arse. That’s what our thing is about. We’re sort of separatist druids.’

  She smiled as if she had made a joke, and Ben chuckled along nervously, having no idea what separatist druids were. ‘Our focus is on the power of the moon,’ she said. ‘Did you know the moon is what makes the tide go in and out?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ben lied.

  ‘OK, so if it has that effect on the ocean, and humans are ninety per cent water, and there are seven billion people on the planet, then it stands to reason that the moon affects everything we do, doesn’t it?’

  It didn’t sound very scientific, but as Ben was slightly in danger of falling a little bit in love with Lucy, she could have argued in favour of rebuilding the Channel Tunnel out of toilet paper and he’d have agreed that it stood to reason.

  By the time they drew to a halt at the seafront the tide was so high that it was spilling on to the esplanade, as if they were standing on the rim of a giant glass of water. It was so windy that it was impossible not to be sprayed by it, but the druids seemed pleased: they let off shrill cries of delight as they were soaked by both sea and sky.

  Ben looked out over the water, feeling wet and stupid. The Box was doing musical somersaults in his head, which, coupled with the choppy movement of the tide, succeeded in making him feel slightly sick.

  ‘Are you OK?’ said Lucy.

  ‘Um . . . yeah,’ said Ben, his hand over his mouth, ‘I just don’t like the sea very much. I live in the wrong town.’

  ‘Don’t we all? I’ll hold your hand. That’ll make it better, won’t it?’ She did, and it did. The Box grumbled a little, and Ben still felt queasy, but it wasn’t half as bad as before. ‘It can be quite exhilarating if you let it. Are you ready to salute the tide?’

  The real answer was ‘no’, but Ben nodded.

  ‘Now,’ said Lucy, ‘you have to scream.’

  All around them delighted druids called out to the raging elements. Beside him, Lucy was shouting out gloriously long vowel sounds and laughing. She shook his hand.

  ‘Have a go,’ she said. ‘It’s fun.’

  Ben took a deep breath and let the sound out. The Box groaned, which made him yell all the louder. He felt completely in the moment, completely alive. He released all of his fear, anger, and frustration into the wind, cast it off out to sea.

  Around them, the water level began to rise, and a little ebbing and flowing puddle surrounded their feet. Ben felt dizzy, but he did not stop calling. His eyes began to go funny, and a purple-blue colour bled into his peripheral vision. He shook his head to try to clear it, but it continued to spread. He looked to Lucy for help, but she was yelling intently at the sea. He tried to speak, but found he could not: he could only make the same inarticulate noise that all of the group were making. Panicking, he pulled at Lucy’s arm. All around him, the volume was decreasing: the sound of the druids’ voices, the music of the Box, even his own cries were becoming more and more distant. He blinked, in a vain attempt to arrest the spread of purple-blue.

  His eyes were only shut for a split second, yet when he opened them everything had changed. It was twilight. The sky was a stunning colour; shades of purple, black and blue. The sea was calm, as still as he had ever seen it, and cleaner than it had been for many, many years. Towyn’s murky green waters, home to so much tourist detritus, had been somehow filtered. The moon hung high in the sky, shining big and bright. He was alone, and it was quiet.

  Three orange outlines appeared on the surface of the water. The Castellan of the Veil stood perfectly still, her head bowed, flanked on either side by The Triumph and The Archivist. Their footprints made tiny ripples in the sea as they walked towards him; little waves lapped at his feet.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Ben-the-Just,’ said The Triumph. ‘Do you have the Box?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ben, taking his bag off his back. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Towyn,’ said The Triumph.

  ‘It’s a bit too nice to be Towyn.’

  ‘We only have until those idiot druids stop their wailing,’ snapped The Archivist. ‘It would be better if you kept your facile observations to yourself.’

  ‘Quiet,’ said The Triumph. ‘We are still in Towyn but we are inside the Veil now. This is the only way to enter the Box safely. Are you ready?’

  Ben gulped. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good,’ said The Triumph. ‘Put the Box on the floor and open the lid.’

  Ben did as he was told. As the lid fell back a beam of bright green light shot out of it, high into the air, like a skyscraper.

  ‘Step towards the light,’ said The Triumph.

  ‘If I do this, will everything be OK?’

  ‘It will release the hold the Box has on you, and it will restore The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts. Step towards the light.’

  Ben shielded his eyes and walked towards the beam. As he drew closer, his molecules started to shift, like grains of sand moving on the whims of the tide. He was being dismantled, bit by bit, and as he slipped into the Box, he had one last thought.

  ‘Wait. How do we get back out?’ he said, but it was too late. He had been sucked into the Box.

  It was dark, and it was cold. He was in a cell. He did a little exploratory crawling, patting the floor around him with his hands. It was hard stone, a little slimy. The walls were much the same.

  There was the faintest trace of light. A puny yellow flame, little more than a birthday candle, flickered somewhere in the darkness. Ben crept towards it, his eyes getting used to the gloom all the time. And then the flame spoke.

  ‘I told you no good would come of all this sending-us-to-Hell business, but no one listens to me, do they?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Inside the Box

  Kartofel’s flame-head had burned down to barely a flicker, and the light he gave out, once capable of lighting up Ben’s entire bedroom, barely illuminated the gloomy cell at all.

  ‘You look terrible,’ said Ben.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kartofel. ‘I’ve been chained to a wall for the last few months so I haven’t been able to keep up with my beauty regime.’ He tried to lift himself up, but his little talon-legs buckled under the weight of the heavy stone chain that was bolting him to the wall.

  ‘You’ve been here three weeks tops,’ said Ben.

  ‘Time’s different in the Box. Why do you think we want to be out all the time?’

  ‘Where are the others?’

  Kartofel chuckled. ‘Now that is the only good part of this whole situation.’

  A sobbing sound came from a nearby wall, two pathetic gasps.

  ‘On the left there is what’s left of Fatso. Cries himself to sleep sometimes, but mostly doesn’t say a thing. Too much effort. It’s brilliant.’

  ‘I can’t see him.’

  ‘There’s not much to see any more.’

  ‘Ben?’ said Djinn. His voice was reedy and thin, and took him some effort to produce. Ben crouched down next to Kartofel, and taking hold of his collar, pushed up through his legs, like he’d seen weightlifters do.

  ‘Oi! Put me down, you cheeky—’ said Kartofel, his legs wriggling in mid-air. The chain was short, and Ben was only able to shift the demon slightly, but it was enough for a little of his light to be cast on Djinn.

  The difference in Djinn’s appearance was drastic; he was almost completely clear, and he had lost a lot of his bulk; he looked like he had melted, his rolls of gas-fat replaced by sagging flaps of gasskin. He squinted at the light, his eyes
more used to darkness. ‘H-h-have you got any food? Jus’ need a whiff of something to keep me going.’ He let out another pair of sobs.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Ben, ‘but once we’re out of here, we’ll go to the market. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Y-y-yes,’ said Djinn, with a feeble half-smile.

  ‘Good. Where’s Orff?’

  ‘The other wall.’ Djinn tried to raise his arm to point across the room. He grimaced as he did, then dropped it in exhausted defeat before it was barely off the floor.

  Ben shifted Kartofel over, and found Orff crumpled in the opposite corner. He had always been thin, but now his translucent skin was stretched tight over his brittle skeleton.

  ‘Orff?’

  At the sound of Ben’s voice, the demon looked up. His deep black eyes were dull and unreflective. He did not react to the light, and his head tilted as if he was trying to discover where the voice was coming from.

  ‘He’s blind,’ said Ben. ‘Can you hear me?’

  Orff moved his beak open and shut, but no sound came out bar the clicking together of his mandibles.

  ‘He’s mute as well,’ said Kartofel, ‘so it’s not without its benefits, this whole stuck-in-a-dungeon thing.’

  ‘I’ve got to get you out of here,’ said Ben. ‘Have you seen The Seraph?’

  ‘No. Should I have done?’

  ‘He got trapped here after the demon attacked us on the Orme. I’m here to get everyone out.’

  Kartofel scowled. ‘Well, I reckon its fairly obvious he’s not here, what with him not crying in the corner after me rearranging his face, but if you’re here to get us out, you can start with this chain.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I dunno. Have a look.’

  The three stone links grew out of the back of the collar and into the wall. There were no lines where sections met, no cement marks. The only way it could have been possible was if the collar, the wall, and the chain had once been part of the same block, and had been carved specifically for the purpose. Ben lifted one of the links as high as he could, and let it go. It made a noise that echoed round the cell, but remained undamaged.