by James Erith
Cain eyed him curiously. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘What I mean,’ Kemp said, ‘is that it doesn’t make any sense.’
‘It makes perfect sense,’ Cain said. ‘Nothing could be clearer.’
Kemp scrunched his face up. ‘You’re saying that Archie, Isabella and Daisy have been chosen to survive some massive challenges and if they don’t, several billions of humans and everything else on the planet will get trashed.’
Cain sounded undeterred. ‘Some trees will probably survive and much of the sea-life made it through last time. But yes, everything else will be destroyed.’
Kemp helped himself to a large slice of chocolate cake. ‘It’s not very fair, is it?’ he said. ‘I mean, what kind of universe comes up with stupid stuff like that? For school kids?’ A drizzle of chocolate slipped out from between his large, plump lips. ‘Anyway, you don’t reckon they’ll do it, do you?’
‘That, my boy, is why I wanted to save you. The challenges were designed for strong, wise men, versed in nature and in magic and in war. You’re right, they were never designed for children.’
‘But, you didn’t want me, you wanted Archie,’ Kemp said, his voice hardening.
‘Of course. But Archie’s folly is your comeuppance,’ Cain replied, his deep voice smooth and syrupy.
‘Archie is an Heir of Eden who has been given a strong ancient gift – why shouldn’t I have desired a union with him?’
Kemp felt slighted, but it was true. ‘What are these gift things that make them so important, then?’
‘Physical attributes mainly,’ Cain said, ‘extended uses of the senses; heightened vision, hearing, smell and increased strength – that sort of thing. Nothing too dramatic.’
‘Wow. Cool,’ Kemp said thickly. ‘And this Garden of Eden – what’s that all about? Why does it have to be opened? Why doesn’t everything stay the same?’
‘You really are full of questions. Perhaps it is all this food.’ Cain smiled. ‘The answer, my boy, is many-fold. You see, the Garden of Eden is where new species were created and developed. If a species proved successful it was placed upon a planet to develop and evolve and primarily have some sort of useful function.’
Cain paused, wondered how much he should tell. ‘For a long while, the Garden was closed. You see, there was a ... how should I put it ... a disagreement about how it functioned, about the legitimacy of what was being created.’
‘Sounds like a right load of tosh.’
‘Indeed,’ Cain said, ‘whatever tosh means. But it was certainly complicated.’
Kemp bit into an apple. ‘But if the Garden of Eden is miraculously opened, won’t everyone survive?’
Cain chuckled throatily. ‘The chances of Eden opening is so utterly remote that it is almost not worth considering, but I have in place my own safety net of sorts, just in case.
‘You see, after the flooding, comes pestilence, which is out there causing bedlam. All the clues are written down at the beginning of those old historical books you Earth humans seem to get so much pleasure from. Anyway, I thought I might speed the process up.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Kemp said, ‘you’ve given the disease to the de Lowes?’
Cain suddenly realised the boy was smarter than he looked. ‘Not a bad idea, but unfortunately, the Heirs are protected. Now, here’s a clue. Those ugly dreamspinners came to me with the news that there are no more dream powders remaining from their main stores. So, in return for a bit of help from them, I have allowed them to create some dream powders here, subject to a few modifications. Do you understand?’
Kemp rubbed his greasy chin thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘Very well. Try again.’
‘OK,’ Kemp grinned and rubbed his chin. ‘How about you’ve given the disease to all the world leaders through your dreamspinner mates, and as they get ill, each country blames it on the other and then they blow the shit out of each other.’
‘Bravo. Another fine suggestion, but no, I’ll tell you. All I’ve done, my friend, is slip a little of the disease into my brand new store of dream powders.’
Kemp smiled. ‘And these dreamspinners dish out dreams every night – around the world?’
‘Precisely.’
Kemp wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘You’re spreading this disease as people sleep. That, my ghostly buddy, is blooming genius.’
Cain was delighted. ‘You see, I’m not just a pretty face.’
Kemp banged the table as he laughed. ‘They won’t know what’s hit them. And so fast and un-warned and utterly brilliant – they’ll never work it out because no one really knows how dreams work, right?’
‘Absolutely. My thoughts too,’ Cain said. ‘Superb little plan, isn’t it?’
However, a thought struck Kemp and his face darkened. ‘You promised to bring my mother here, didn’t you? That was our deal.’
‘And I will,’ the ghost said, purring. ‘I’m glad you mentioned this because I wanted to talk to you about your mother. It’s important that our relationship is based on the truth. Don’t you think?’
‘Truth?’ Kemp said nervously, ‘What is it – is she dead? She is, isn’t she?’
Cain remained silent.
‘Or ... she’s in a mad-house or something?’ Kemp’s voice creaked.
Closer than you think, Cain thought. ‘Do you know how your parents died?’
Kemp nodded. ‘Car crash, in the hills.’
‘Correct. Before I returned you to Earth, I met up with your father’s ghost.’
Kemp looked astonished. ‘You can do that?’
‘Why, of course. After all, I too am a kind of spirit, though I have considerably more substance than the truly dead. Spirits are easy to find if you know how, but frightfully airy and irritable. Your father told me about your mother, about the accident when you were just a babe. He told me many things.’ His voice dropped. ‘But the most fascinating thing is that your mother never died. She was found. She survived.’
Kemp’s brain slowed to a halt as he computed Cain’s story. The apple in his hand dropped to the floor and bounced several times.
Cain continued. ‘She lives, truly. Your mother is as alive as the next person.’
Kemp swallowed. ‘You’re having me on,’ he said very quietly.
The ghost made a sound as if it were sucking in a mouthful of air. ‘No, boy.’ The ghost removed the hat and placed it on the table.
Kemp shook his head. ‘I thought you’d bring her to me as, you know, as a ghost, a spirit or something.’
‘My thoughts, exactly. I too am most surprised by this turn of events—’
Kemp eyed the top of the coat curiously. ‘You sure this isn’t a joke, right?’
‘I swear, on my death, that I am telling you the truth. However, the news isn’t as good as you might wish. You must be prepared that, if I bring her to you, she will reject you. There is a strong chance that she will not want to know you.’
Kemp looked confused. ‘That’s not true, Cain. Of course she would. I’m her son.’
‘I understand how you feel,’ Cain said, sighing. ‘However, she remembers nothing of you. She suffered damage to the brain—’
‘Brain damage?’ Kemp looked wounded. ‘But mothers always, always know their children,’ Kemp said defensively, ‘no matter what. She’d know me, I’m sure of it. What’s her name?’
Cain’s overcoat stood up so that he was standing in front of the boy. ‘I didn’t think you’d believe me, but I do not lie. And the terrible part of this is that there is a strong likelihood that you too will reject the woman.’
‘As if I would do such a thing,’ Kemp stormed. ‘Never! Who is she?’
‘Very well,’ Cain said. ‘But don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.’
Kemp levelled with the ghost. ‘Tell me who she is.’
‘Your mother,’ Cain said slowly, ‘is the exact same woman who looks after the de Lowe children—’
Kemp’s eyes hardened as he w
orked out exactly who the ghost was talking about. Then he burst out laughing. ‘You’re having me on, aren’t you? Mrs. Pye ... Mrs. bleeding Pye? Is that the best you can do? Mrs. Pye, that big, ugly, old hag.’ Kemp slapped his thighs and bent over double, great guffaws spilling out of him. After a while, he straightened and then sat down. Only now, his eyes watered.
The overcoat sat down beside him. ‘I told you this wouldn’t be easy. Often, young man, things are best left exactly as they are.’
Kemp’s mood changed fast. In no time his face raged with anger. ‘Listen here, Cain,’ he roared, ‘I’m telling you, Mrs. Pye is NOT and cannot be my mother. Do you understand?’ Kemp stood up, tears flowing. ‘She can’t be. It’s impossible.’
Cain hovered next to him and whispered in his ear, ‘Thing is, boy, it is the truth. She really is.’
EIGHTY-SEVEN
HAVILARIAN TOADSTOOL POWDER
Isabella let herself in, stripped off her waterproofs and entered the kitchen. She added a couple of logs to the belly of the stove, grabbed a clean tea towel and dried herself off.
She popped the kettle on the range and, while she waited for it to boil, she shook as she remembered the sensation that had entered her mind and filled her with dread. Those eyes, she thought, and that noise, which had washed through her head like a mass of incomprehensible, jumbled words and sentences.
She poured the boiling water. A cup of tea for herself and an apple tea for Old Man Wood, in case he was feeling better.
On the table were two candles and she searched around for a match. She looked in all the obvious places but either they’d run out or they’d been taken next door. She felt heat building in the tips of her fingers and, thinking of a flame, she clicked the end of her thumb and forefinger. To her amazement, a tiny spark flew out. She laughed, nervously, and inspected the end of her thumb and her digit. Static?
She tried again and this time another spark fizzed out, fading in the air. But it doesn’t make sense. Something had to make it spark. She clicked her fingers again and this time a tiny flame shot out of the end of her thumb. Isabella didn’t know whether to jump for joy or scream in terror.
But the strange thing was that it didn’t hurt and, if anything, felt entirely natural. She sat down and studied her fingers in more detail, a surge of euphoria rushing through her. She placed a flame below her fingers, but they didn’t discolour or burn or singe. It was as if her hands had become impervious to heat and pain.
Isabella lit the candles and picked up the teas.
She knocked on his door and entered, placing the candles on the tables. Then, she went back for the tea, which she set beside the still outline of the old man lying in his bed.
‘We heard noises at the ruin!’ she said softly as she busied herself about the room. ‘I left Daisy and Archie out there,’ she said, leaning briefly over him, his face obscured by the dim light and the folds of a blanket. ‘I’m afraid there’s bad news with the cattle: three cows missing and one sheep. Too dark to tell which ones though.’
She lit another candle on his table then returned and jumped up onto the bed, which wobbled and creaked a little. Then she lay back on the soft downy pillows at the side of the old man.
Old Man Wood lay perfectly still and she very carefully reached over read his pulse. She squinted. Faint, but definitely something. She propped herself up and turned her gaze towards the wooden panels at the foot of the bed.
‘You’d have seen us, if you’d watched the panels,’ she said.
No response at all.
Isabella sighed, ‘There’s some tea for you – apple tea, to make you strong,’ she said, remembering his tea-mantra.
As she sipped hers, she turned her attention to the images on the wooden panels.
There was Archie, crouching down as if waiting for something. In Daisy’s panel she could make out a running human figure, similar to her sister, but with glowing eyes, like car headlamps.
Why was Daisy’s panel doing strange things?
A strange slurping sound emanated from Old Man Wood. ‘I think her panel’s gone a bit funny, Old Man Wood,’ she said, nudging his arm. ‘There’s tea on your bedside table,’ she repeated, ‘if you’d like it.’
Suddenly Archie attacked the figure with the bright eyes and threw it violently to the ground.
Isabella sat bolt upright. ‘Archie’s beating it up! He’s pinning it down!’ she cried, leaning towards the panels. ‘Go Archie! No one messes with Superman-boy!’
She chuckled at the thought, and stared at Daisy’s panel. ‘Oh! Hang on!’
Archie’s beating Daisy up? she thought. Are they messing about? ‘Hey, Old Man Wood, did you see what led up to this?’
For a moment she wondered if she should dash up there and sort them out but, as she viewed, they seemed to slump down behind a rock, chatting.
She checked her watch. Typically, delicious smells would drift out of the kitchen at this time, at which point Old Man Wood would nearly always comment on what it might be and rub his tummy in anticipation. But there were no fabulous smells and still he didn’t stir a muscle. ‘I wonder where Mrs. Pye is?’ she said. ‘I’m starving.’
Isabella leant over to his side of the bed and called out, sweetly, ‘Old Man Wood?’
No reaction.
‘Can I get you anything?’
His face, in the dim candlelight, looked milky-white and a terrible fear swept through her that he might have passed away while she was talking to him.
She slid off, grabbed a candle and walked around the large bed to the other side and set it down on the bedside table. Old Man Wood’s face was mostly hidden by the folds of a thick pillow and his body was covered by a duvet. She perched on the edge of the bed and gently levered the pillow out of the way.
Isabella’s heart began to race. Something about him didn’t look right.
‘Come on, Old Man Wood, wakey-wakey,’ she teased. Nothing, again. A terrible panic began building in her mind. ‘Please. Wake up. Please.’
She moved in to inspect his face, lifting the candle up to offer more light.
She cupped a hand over her mouth as her stomach lurched. ‘OH-MY-GOD!’ she said standing up quickly but with the presence of mind to put the candle down first.
Old Man Wood lay motionless, his eyes shut, his skin as white as snow. Dotted over his face in tiny clusters were tiny white toadstools which she traced all the way down his neck.
She folded back the duvet and unbuttoned the top three of his shirt buttons. As she folded back the lapels, she stepped back from the bed stunned.
Before she could help herself, she retched.
WHAT ARE THEY?
In the candlelight tiny, pulsing, toadstools poked out of his chest like minute pins holding weenie umbrellas.
Instinctively, Isabella reached for his wrist and held it, counting. A murmur, the faintest, faintest dimmest of beats, that’s all.
Get an ambulance. No, it won’t get here – the air ambulance – they’re rescuing people from the flooding. What about phoning the hospital, they’d know what to do?
She clenched her fist. With no power, they had nothing. No phone, no communication.
In any case, she thought, the hospital probably didn’t even exist anymore.
COME ON. Think! THINK!
She slapped her forehead as if might trigger an idea; there must be some way of making him better! Resplendix Mix! Old Man Wood’s potion he’d used on them. But where was it?
She tore round the room searching for the strange bottle without a lid.
She rummaged through his coat and trouser pockets, through his chest of drawers and then ran downstairs and scoured the sitting room.
She returned up the stairs, entered Old Man Wood’s room and leaned against the wall. Reality was hitting her hard. We’re lost if he doesn’t survive, she thought.
Then, without knowing why, she moved towards him and placed a hand on his brow. Pinpricks of heat, like mini, red-hot needles emanated from
the toadstools. She kept her hand there, her palms crossed on his forehead.
Now the temperature built. Her hands were tingling, sucking out heat. The longer she did it the more disgusted and furious she became until a rage began to bubble up inside. And the angrier she became, the hotter the heat pouring into her hands. Soon the heat was almost too much to bear.
She removed her hands and quickly turned down the duvet covering his body. Suddenly a large, vile green toadstool the size of a hammer sprouted out of his belly and sliced through his shirt. Isabella squealed.
She rocked backwards, holding her mouth. ‘NO!’ she cried. ‘NO!’
Now that his shirt had slipped off his chest, she could see hundreds of multi-coloured fungi littering his body, like bits of confetti, eating him.
Old Man Wood’s last words, she realised, weren’t about the poison in the water – they were concerning the poison he’d taken.
Isabella backed away towards the door. Someone, give me the strength to do something. Anything.
She stared and the longer she did the more frustrated and cross she became. Fury filled her growing like a furnace.
Another large, green and red toadstool sliced out of his chest, the noise like tearing metal foil.
Without warning, her whole body burned as though on fire. The surge consumed her, the heat inside her body roaring until her blood boiled and her temples throbbed as if her arteries might burst.
Her eyes blazed as if they were made of lava. She clenched her teeth, but the intensity deepened, hotter, faster – until her entire body was set to explode like a rocket.
She extended her hands and pointed them at the two main, menacing toadstools, thriving, it seemed, with each flashing pulse, growing taller and fatter.
A strand of hair blew over her face as a wind picked up around her. From her hands an orangey-pink mist radiated in the most amazing way, wrapping Old Man Wood in a wispy pink cocoon. In moments it looked as though he was surrounded by fire.
Isabella let out a long piercing cry of anger and pain.
A second later, the body of Old Man Wood rose above the bed, the pink glow encircling and rotating like candy floss around him.