Trust Me Too

by Paul Collins

  Raph approached cautiously.

  ‘Nuthin’ ta be a fearin’ from me,’ said the man. ‘I is Raphaello the Sighted.’

  Raph looked into the old man’s eyes and saw nothing but a dull grey. ‘But ... but you’re blind.’

  ‘I sees the truth o’ the world around us,’ said the old man. ‘For that I does not need eyes. But you, my lad, you has the Sight and the eyes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ whispered Raph.

  ‘I does mean many a thing.’ The old man nodded knowingly. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Raphael,’ answered the boy. ‘But people call me

  Raph.’

  ‘Does they?’ The man chuckled. ‘Of course they does. You has the Sight. You has the Name. Linked, they is.’

  The bell rang again in the distance and Raph made to go. ‘I’ve got to get away.’

  ‘Wait!’ hissed the old man. ‘Away you has got to get. But to get away you must be caught.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘But not yet.’ Raphaello shook his head. ‘Others you must first meets. Sisters who can explain things. Paradise and Inferno and Inquisition.’

  Now Raph could hear approaching voices. He made to leave, but the old man grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip that seemed impossible for his age and frail appearance.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Through there.’

  He shoved Raph behind him, into the space between the two buildings.

  ‘There’s not enough room,’ complained Raph, trying to get back out.

  A shout made him look out over the old man’s shoulder. A squad of soldiers was heading his way.

  ‘Hurry!’ The old man’s voice had an edge of des peration. ‘You is this city’s last hope.’

  Raph breathed in and squeezed himself further along the narrow space. With a bit of effort, he found he could move forward.

  ‘You has to embrace the visions,’ the old man shouted after him. ‘They will show you the Oracle. You must -’

  The man’s voice cut off with a strangled cry. Raph glanced back to see a soldier, his large frame and broad shoulders preventing him from following. He had his spear aimed at Raph.

  Panicking, Raph scrabbled on. But the passage was narrowing further and he found himself wedged between the buildings. Looking around, he saw the soldier draw back his arm, ready to launch the spear. Raph closed his eyes tight and prayed to the Designers.

  And then he fell backwards, the wall behind him giving way with the grinding sound of stone on stone. He hit the ground hard. Opening his eyes, he saw the wall slide back into place. Then all was dark.

  Slowly, a soft glow took the edge off the darkness.

  ‘Follow me!’

  Raph jumped to his feet and came face to face with a girl holding a lantern. Long blonde hair, strag gly and matted, framed a round face, the lantern’s soft glow giving her an angelic appearance. Her eyes were large and dark and a little bit watery. She wore dirty grey robes that may have once been white. She turned and took off down a dark passageway.

  Raph followed as she led him through the dark ness - along twisting and turning tunnels, down steps and through the sewers, until they finally came to a doorway. She stared at him with her disconcerting, watery gaze, indicated that he should enter, then turned and left.

  Raph looked at the doorway but could see nothing but darkness. He took a deep breath and stepped in.

  The darkness parted like a curtain. Raph blinked in surprise, barely noticing the greyness in his peripheral vision. He was in a room full of candles - free-standing candelabra and tiered arrangements, wax dripping from shelves set into the stone walls, spilling down onto an elaborate parquet floor.

  A figure in dark brown robes sat on a high-backed stone chair in the centre of the room. The chair was intricately carved with criss-crossed lines, each inlaid with a fine thread of copper. The metal reflected the flickering candlelight, making it appear as if the light travelled along the copper.

  A large cowl concealed the face of the seated figure.

  ‘H . . . hello.’ Raph’s voice sounded small and timid.

  The figure shimmered slightly. Then it moved, lifting gloved hands as it pushed the cowl back just enough to reveal a face.

  It was an ancient face, so deeply lined that Raph couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. Dark eyes, sunk deep into the flesh, looked odd without eye brows or lashes.

  ‘Welcome, Raphael.’ The voice was soft and feminine and surprisingly youthful, coming as it was from a wizened, toothless mouth. ‘I am the Dama Sebastiana Annunciata.’

  Raph inhaled sharply.

  ‘Yes,’ the woman continued. ‘You believed me to be but a story, a legend - the fanciful musings of weak minds. Not so. I am as real as anything in this world.’ The corners of her mouth pulled up slightly in an approximation of a smile.

  Raph dropped to his knees and lowered his eyes.

  ‘No. Do not kneel to me. Do not avert your eyes. Always look. Always observe.’ She drew a rattling breath. ‘See the candles.’

  Raph lifted his gaze to the candles.

  ‘Do more than look. You must see!’

  Raph picked out one candle and stared at it intently. He gasped as he realised that the light dancing around the wick was not a flame. It was a sizzling greyness, like that which taunted him from his peripheral vision. He felt as if he were being drawn into that grey light, falling through a boundless nothing filled with apparitions of things he could not comprehend.

  ‘You have Sight,’ said the Dama. ‘You are the one to return things to the way they should be.’

  A muffied shouting drifted in through the doorway. Raph stood up and looked back over his shoulder, but all he saw was darkness.

  ‘Once upon a time ...’ began the Dama, ‘there was no Inferno. People came to the Designers Cathedral to request Paradise. I would introduce them to the Oracle, palm to palm. If they were deemed worthy, they would be granted entry.’ She sighed, long and heavily.

  ‘But then the Inquisition came. The triumvirate lords and their militia took the cathedral. The sister hood saved me and hid me down in the bowels of the city. And so I have waited for one who can see the truth and who will be unafraid to embrace it.’

  More shouting. Closer now.

  ‘See the Inferno for what it is. Find the Oracle. Redeem our city. Return its access to Paradise.’

  The militia burst through the darkness of the doorway - four men with sheathed swords.

  ‘You have much potential. Trust in yourself’ The Dama stared intently at Raph. ‘Fear not for me. I am not important.’

  ‘Indeed, you are not.’ Another man had entered the room. Tall and imposing, with black hair and cold eyes, he wore the insignia of a captain. ‘Take the boy.’

  One of the soldiers grabbed Raph’s arm and twisted it behind his back. The boy gritted his teeth to stop himself from crying out.

  The captain pulled back the Dama’s cowl. Her head was bald, and from the back protruded a mass of silver threads, sparking with light.

  ‘Black magik,’ spat the captain, drawing his sword. The soldier gave Raph’s arm a painful twist and shoved him through the doorway.

  Out in the passageway, Raph saw the girl who had brought him here. Eyes wide and watery, hand clutching a gold coin, she watched him being dragged away.

  Raph was hauled through the underground passageways, out into the streets and straight to Designers Cathedral. It was an imposing building, constructed with large stone blocks formed into arches, spires and towers, around an enormous cen tral dome.

  Raph gasped in awe as he was shoved through the door. He had never been inside before. The domed ceiling rose high above him. Light flooded through dozens of intricate stained-glass windows, overlaying coloured patterns on the faces of the people ga
th ered there. The far end was dominated by a large marble statue of a woman in robes, one hand held forward, palm out as if warning those approaching to halt, the other raised skywards as if in praise of the Designers.

  Raph stared at the statue, as it appeared to shimmer around the edges. Waves of sparkling greyness washed over the cool marble-cream surface.

  ‘Get moving,’ snapped the captain, pushing him forward through the crowd of richly dressed people - the wealthy and the powerful, gathered in subservience to the Inquisition.

  At the head of the cathedral, three men sat in ornately carved stone chairs, like kings on thrones - the Lords of the Inquisition. They were dressed in the finest of clothing, rich reds and purples the dominant colours. Each wore a sapphire pendant and the man in the centre held a jewelled staff with the bluest of blue sapphires mounted on top.

  A woman in plain dirty-grey robes stood on a small circular podium.

  ‘It is time for judgement,’ said the lord with the staff, getting to his feet. ‘Paradise or Inferno?’

  He raised his staff and brought it down heavily onto the flagstone floor, three times. The sound echoed through the cathedral.

  And then there was silence as everyone waited.

  Raph watched expectantly, unsure of exactly what he was waiting for.

  A scream broke the silence. It was the woman on the podium. Flames appeared around the edge of the raised circle. The woman tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. The circle’s diameter was barely an arm’s length.

  The air was filled with the grinding sound of stone on stone. Raph was reminded of the sound he had heard when the secret door leading to the under ground passages had first opened.

  Suddenly the woman was gone, massive flames leaping into the air where she had been. The great staff hit against the flagstones three more times, and the flames receded.

  ‘Designers Inferno!’ the lord’s voice boomed through the cathedral.

  As he sat down, the captain shoved Raph forward. Raph stumbled out before the three men.

  ‘What have we here?’ said the lord with the staff. The captain dropped to one knee. ‘It is Raphael, the orphan, Lord Dante.’

  Lord Dante inclined his head towards the man at his right. ‘Lord Brimstone.’

  Lord Brimstone stood. ‘This boy claims to have Sight, a legendary gift from the Designers. But we know the truth to be black magik.’

  ‘I haven’t claimed anything,’ Raph protested.

  The third lord rose to his feet. ‘The boy was overheard boasting about his Sight at the public infirmary. There is a witness?’

  The Physician General stepped forward. ‘Yes, Lord Blaze. He made these claims to me.’

  Lord Dante stood. ‘The claims are a blasphemy. Only the Lords of the Inquisition have the blessings of the Designers.’

  ‘What about the Designers Oracle?’ Raph shouted in a moment of defiance. ‘What about the Dama?’

  ‘The Dama no longer exists,’ said Lord Brimstone.

  ‘And there is no Oracle,’ added Lord Blaze. Raph’s eyes darted to the statue, a greyness swirling through the marble like gathering storm clouds, the outstretched hand shimmering.

  ‘It is time for judgement,’ said Lord Dante. The captain drew his sword.

  ‘No need,’ said Raph. ‘I welcome the judgement of the Designers.’ He walked past the lords, trying his best to look confident, and approached the podium. He noticed the recesses, spaced at regular intervals around the edge of the dais. Carefully, he stepped up and immediately felt the heat through his worn shoes. He looked down at his feet and at the circle of stone beneath them. A concealed hatch, he was sure of it.

  Lord Dante raised his staff.

  ‘Wait,’ called Raph. He licked his lips nervously.

  ‘This is just a trapdoor with a fire below, controlled by the three of you. I would prefer to seek the judge ment of the Designers through their Oracle.’

  As Lord Dante brought his staff down onto the flagstone floor, three times in quick succession, Raph jumped.

  Flames appeared around the dais, and Raph watched the stone circle drop down into the podium and slide back, allowing more flames to shoot up into the air. The gathered crowd gave a collective gasp.

  Raph ran to the statue and stopped beneath its hand, hoping desperately that he was right. Standing on tiptoes he reached up and placed his open palm against that of the statue’s.

  His stomach lurched as his surroundings disappeared.

  Swirling, sizzling greyness surrounded him in a disorienting static fog. Raph closed his eyes tightly, took a deep breath and opened them again. It was still there.

  ‘Bit like an analogue TV channel that’s lost its signal, isn’t it?’ The voice came from nowhere and everywhere.

  ‘What?’ Raph looked around, trying to find the source of the voice.

  ‘Yeah, well, you wouldn’t know what a TV is, let alone an analogue one.’

  Raph still couldn’t see anyone.

  ‘You looking for me?’ A figure materialised in front of Raph. The tall young man wore colourful baggy shorts and a shirt, with a cap firmly planted backwards on his explosion of dark curly hair.

  Raph gaped at him. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Dude!’ said the man, spreading his arms. ‘I’m like ... the Oracle. But you can call me Orry.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Raph.

  ‘Well, Raph-dude, not that this is gonna make much sense to you, seeing as you come from an environment that’s not at all techno-savvy, but

  Orry took a breath. ‘Here goes. You are in the Interface between environments, within the great and glorious Game, which the Designers have created and peopled. You got here by making contact with the Oracle Statue, which is kinda my window into your world. Your environment has a glitch - well, three glitches to be exact - and things have sorta gotten out of hand. It used to be that people came to me for access to Designers Paradise, and assuming they had done enough good deeds, or had enough cashola, I’d facilitate their visit to whatever their vision of paradise happened to be. But then along came the three glitches and they hijacked the environment. I call them Larry, Moe and Curly, but they like to refer to themselves as Lords Blaze, Brimstone and Dante.’ He shook himself theatrically. ‘Sends a shiver up your spine, don’t it? Their collective noun of choice is Inquisition. An Inquisition of Glitches! Kinda has a ring to it, don’t you think?’

  Raph didn’t respond. His mind was whirling, his stomach was churning and he understood very little.

  ‘Not very talkative are you?’ Orry frowned. ‘Stuck here all on my lonesome for ... for a long time - and I get a real conversationalist as my potential saviour. You know, I’m teetering on the edge here. I’ve been talking to myself for way too long . . . I’m fairly certain I’m developing OCD and then there’s the whole multiple personality thing. I used to look like the statue - you know, robes and female bits - but I’ve been mixing things up a bit just to stop myself from self-destructing.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Is any of this getting through to you, dude?’

  Raph stared at the Oracle, bemused expression firmly in place. ‘Um . . .’

  ‘Okay.’ Orry sighed. ‘Let me try and give you the basics in terms you might understand. I’m the Oracle - your link to the will of the Designers. The three lords are . . . well, let’s call them evil spirits. Okay? With me, so far? Good! They’ve dug a pit, loaded it up with combustible materials, and are regularly dropping innocent players ... ah, people, into it. I can’t stop them ‘cause I have no physical presence in your world. So, what I need you to do is to get them to touch the statue. Then I can deal with them.’

  ‘Umm ...’ Raph was still staring blankly at Orry.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, that’s up to you,’ said Orry. ‘But I’m sure you’ll
put your finger on it. Or mine.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Orry, rolling his eyes. ‘Time for you to get back out there and right the wrongs, fight the good fight, play the game, defeat the glitches and ensure that happiness prevails. Ciao, Raph-dude.’

  Raph was standing back in the cathedral, arm outstretched to the statue, his palm touching the marble hand. The crowd made urgent but hushed sounds.

  ‘Black magik!’ Lord Dante’s vmce boomed through the cathedral. ‘Execute him!’

  The captain stepped forward, sword drawn and at the ready. Raph rushed back to the podium, mak ing sure the belching flames separated him from the captain. They circled, eyeing each other through the fire.

  ‘Men!’ Four militia soldiers stepped forward at the captain’s call. ‘Get him into the open, but don’t kill him. He’s mine.’

  As the soldiers approached, Raph made a dash back to the statue, the captain on his tail. He ducked behind it as the captain swung his sword. The sharp metal connected with the stone. A small chip broke away with the impact and fell to the floor. But the sword held fast as if glued to the marble. The captain heaved with all his might, but it would not budge. Reaching out a hand to steady himself, the man touched the statue ... and was gone.

  The sword clattered to the floor.

  The hushed voices of the people gathered there rose in volume and pitch, a note of panic working its way through the crowd. But still they stayed in place, more fearful of the Inquisition than potential black magik.

  Raph stepped out from behind the statue and knelt to pick up the sword, his confidence growing by the second.

  ‘Execute him!’ the three Lords of the Inquisition shouted in unison.

  One of the soldiers tentatively approached. Raph pointed the sword at him. ‘If I’m using black magik and I just made your captain disappear ... what do you think I’ll do to you?’

  The soldier backed off.

  Raph was now definitely feeling more sure of himself. He turned to the Lords. ‘The Oracle would like to speak to the three of you.’