by James Erith
They’d had the best of it tucked away at Swinton Park trying to hold things together. But that would change and Dickinson knew it wouldn’t take long. And he had half a mind to see if he could engineer a way of staying.
He shone his torch into the white wall of cloud and the light bounced back. The bottom line, according to Stone, was that they were doomed unless these kids came up with the answer.
That’s how Stone operated, he supposed. As a predator sniffs out a weakness or a flaw, he’d chase and chase until he pulled his prey down, extracting whatever information he needed. And nearly always he was proven correct. He’d done it time after time, over and over again.
But, Dickinson thought, kids on the search for tablets – electronic or otherwise – to stop the world’s greatest catastrophe? It just didn’t stack up.
Unless you added in the Headmaster’s idea that the disease was being spread by dream-giving aliens, then they had nothing to work on. Nothing whatsoever aside from the suspicions of every nation that it was some kind of hideous biological weapon attack.
Maybe they should bomb the hell out of Upsall and be done with it, he thought.
They had barely started before Simonet, operating the tracking system, came bustling over. ‘Bad news, sir.’
Dickinson halted. ‘What now?’
‘The tracking device has frozen, sir. Satellite down. We can wait for them to come on-line again, but no guarantees.’
Dickinson kneaded his temple. ‘No. We need to keep moving. Let’s get up this hill and work it out from there.’ He turned to the four others. ‘Keep tight and don’t wander off. If you do, you’ll get lost. If by a miracle you manage to spot a significant feature, like a waterfall or cliff face, call a halt and we’ll see if we can locate it on the map.’ Dickinson stared at the Ordnance Survey map.
‘If we head directly up from our landing point, we should be there in twenty to thirty minutes. Any deviation by the smallest degree and it’ll take significantly longer.’
Dickinson’s radio buzzed into life.
‘Corporal,’ crackled Stone’s voice from the command centre. ‘You may have noticed a satellite failure.’
‘Affirmative, Commissioner. The imagery disappeared less than a minute ago.’
Dickinson could have sworn he heard the Commissioner sigh. ‘Good. Well, you should know where you are.’ The crackle of the radio cut out and then came on again. ‘I, er, have news just in.’
‘I take it this is not good news, Commissioner.’
The radio went silent for a while.
Dickinson didn’t like the sound of this one bit.
Stone’s voice was softer. ‘I mentioned before,’ he began, ‘that various nation states believe that this area of Yorkshire is the originator of this global catastrophe. Well, the United States tabled an emergency proposal to destroy the entire area.’ The radio went silent. ‘I’m talking pretty much the entire northern half of the country in what they are calling, a global action of absolute last resort.’
‘When?’ Dickinson said.
Stone’s voice betrayed his emotion. ‘They wanted to detonate at midnight tonight, leaving a chance for the top brass to get out. But we told them our situation and, to my surprise, we managed to get an extension. So, gentlemen, we have approximately three days to find out what the hell is going on. I need you in and out of there, like yesterday, fog or no fog. If the children aren’t there, let me know ... in fact I think I’m going to send the headmaster towards you as fast as possible to see if any of his findings from the church at Upsall match up. Might be worth having you lot about to help him up to the cottage. Then I need you back. There’s trouble kicking off everywhere. I think the news leaked.’
The soldiers stared at one another, stunned.
‘For Queen and country,’ Dickinson said quietly, ‘and for this entire planet. Lads, you’re now on the world’s most important mission: to find these kids. Fail, gents, and we’ve all had it.’ He patted a couple on their backs. ‘Time to get a move on.’
ONE HUNDRED ONE
A STRANGE NEW LANGUAGE
To the common eye the insignificant scratches or scuffs littering the walls were scribbles of one sort or another; love notes, bits of information, travel updates, even stories. Some had been added years and years ago and said things like: ‘PLAGUE, KEEP OUT!’
Other inscriptions had been painstakingly crafted. Many were recent, and where it was dry, like under the extensively wide eaves, considerable bird activity made for compulsive reading.
Archie felt faint, and starving. He climbed the stepladder and sat reading the graffiti, mesmerised and slightly forgetting that he was looking for clues as to how to find Blabisterberry Jelly. A small part of him wished that his eyes and brain would stop and, when that happened, his concentration withdrew so he saw nothing bar scuffs and scratches.
Old Man Wood had been searching the house around the front and came back to see how they were getting along. ‘Any luck, Archie?’
Archie buried his face in his hands. ‘I never knew other THINGS could write!’
The old man chuckled. ‘You lot don’t know much, I suppose,’ Old Man Wood said. ‘It’s a secret that’s been kept back from human types. You see, humans have one way of communicating, everything else another. That’s just the way of it.’ He clapped Archie on the back. ‘It happened a long time ago, part of the Great Deal. I’m sure you’ll learn about it one day.’
Archie’s eyes rested on a message on the dry windowsill which otherwise would have looked like a series of distorted birds’ messes. He concentrated hard and shortly a message came out. He read it out to Old Man Wood.
WANTED: SINGLE GEESE FOR LOVING HOLIDAY CRUISE TO SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE. SEE ORAVIO AT THE GRAVEL PITS – TWENTY FLAPS SOUTH-WEST WITH THE WIND. IF IT TAKES YOU MORE THAN THIRTY, I’M TOTALLY NOT INTERESTED.
Archie rubbed his foremost hair spike whose texture was comfortingly smooth. ‘That wouldn’t be the fat goose that waddles around out here looking a little bit pleased with himself?’ he asked.
Old Man Wood shrugged. ‘Suppose it could well be.’
‘That Goose calls himself Oravio?’ Archie said.
Old Man Wood nodded.
‘And he comes up here, to ... to find a date?’ Archie sounded put-out. ‘Like all the other animals in the area. Our house is like an enormous dating magazine. It’s animal “Tinder”,’ he laughed, ‘a giant community notice board.’
‘What did you expect?’ Old Man Wood said, putting a comforting arm around his shoulders, ‘that other living things don’t communicate?’
‘But what do you mean by communicate?’ Archie said. ‘Animals don’t talk like we do – all they do is sniff each other’s bums or twitter or quack or baa or moo. They aren’t smart, like us.’
Old Man Wood’s deep laughed boomed out. ‘Ooh, you’re right there, they’re not clever – like humans! Clever at putting themselves first at the expense of everyone else and all that, but it doesn’t mean other living things can’t and don’t talk.’
The old man scratched his chin as he gathered his thoughts. ‘You see, Archie, one of the flaws of the human race was to fail to recognise that living things do actually converse with one another. All these animals, these creatures and trees and insects and plants, they know. It’s just that, after a while, the humans couldn’t be bothered. Which is hardly surprising, I suppose, because the population of man grew and grew and there were other things to worry about, I’m sure. But it’s a shame, nonetheless. Some of those birds are mightily entertaining. Look at those pigeons ducking out the way of cars. To them, it’s a mighty fine entertainment—’
‘Except when they get hit.’ Archie added.
Isabella had wandered over and was listening intently to the old man. ‘Don’t tell me that trees actually talk?’ she scoffed. ‘Creatures, TREES actually chatting away to each other. You’ll be telling me they watch TV next. You are joking, right?’ Isabella said.
Old Man Wood rai
sed his wrinkly brow and shook his head.
‘See, Archie?’ she said. ‘He’s making it up.’
‘No I am not, Bells,’ Old Man Wood said. ‘Take your cat, Psycho-cat. Look at the way he moves, swishes his tail, paws his face, rubs against you and opens his eyes when he’s cross. He’s talking away to you – but you have no idea what he’s really saying. You call it “body language” and that’s what creatures do to give you clues. The next time you see Psycho-cat, just remember that.’ The old man raised his dark eyes to the sky as if remembering things from a long time ago. Then he exhaled slowly. ‘The great divide in communication is something that took me hundreds of years to get used to, especially with trees—’
‘With trees?’ Archie said.
‘Yes, Archie, like those Willows which I wanted to show you.’
‘But they don’t really talk, do they?’ Isabella said.
‘Of course they do,’ Old Man Wood replied, his tone a little more upset than usual. ‘Trees are the greatest living things on the planet. They are way older than humans and far cleverer. Their roots stretch deep into the earth, their branches high into the sky. They listen out for every season; they play with the winds, with the air and the birds. They clean the waters and filter the air and they sing songs when they swish and they sway and they are funny and sad and beautiful.’
The children listened silently as Old Man Wood continued. ‘Each living thing has energy and this is otherwise known as spirit. It’s strong in some and dim in others and it is this spirit, this energy, which binds us all together. It is the energy we get when we love and when we care and when we feel. It is this energy that allows us to be.’
The old man sighed as he remembered. ‘But the trees had a terrible time, especially after everything they had given up.’
‘You’re talking in riddles again, Old Man Wood,’ Isabella said. ‘What do you mean, “given up”?’
‘Now let me think,’ he said as he rubbed his chin. ‘In the Garden of Eden, most of the trees moved, some faster than others. But when they came to Earth they had to give up their mobility. There wasn’t really room for them all to be running around. So they found a suitable place and dug in their roots – like anchors I suppose – to support the planet, hold it together, help us breathe.’
Isabella shook her head. Her belief system was being mightily challenged. Unless she remained calm, she could see herself slipping into madness.
‘So you’re saying humans are rubbish?’ Archie quizzed.
Old Man Wood laughed his booming laugh. ‘No. Humans are wonderful. Smart, clever, resourceful. But they look after themselves first at the sake of every other thing, even though they tell themselves they don’t. They always have and that, my boy, is why they’ve been so successful. And it’s why you must succeed,’ he said turning to them.
Old Man Wood noticed their perplexed looks.
‘I’m afraid the water from the Bubbling Brook will shock you,’ he said sweetly. ‘But from now on, it is essential that you open your eyes, your ears – and your minds!’
ONE HUNDRED TWO
DAISY AND CAIN
Daisy closed her eyes and groaned as an immense feeling of power grew inside her.
She could trace where the sensations of the cold, an almost painful icy flow, ran through her sinews like thick oil. A powerful, strange, exotic feeling began to build as a wave slowly swept over her, through every little vein, down every artery, into her hands, teasing the nerves in her elbows, her breasts, her genitals and into her knees and then to the end of each toe. The sensation tingled parts of her she never knew even existed. She gasped and cried out.
She could hear a low, silky voice talking directly into her brain. ‘There is so much more,’ was all it said.
Daisy moaned, but something wasn’t right. She forced her eyes open and saw Kemp. ‘What ... what’s happening to me?’
Now the voice came back at her and the feelings intensified. ‘Come with me,’ it said, ‘willingly, like the boy and you will have everything. Say “Yes” and it will be done.’
Daisy almost gave in then and there as a slither of cold ran through her body and circled her midriff before plunging into her groin. A blinding flash blew through her brain and the feeling grew and grew before rocketing through her body.
She breathed deeply, trying to regain control. Too much. She opened her eyes. Kemp, again, a look of deep concern plastered on his face, pulling at her arm, pleading, yelling. Had he noticed?
Daisy gathered herself but her arm was stuck. Something in the coat held it.
She thrashed one way, then the next, but the more she did so, the more a curious sensation built in the fingers of the trapped arm. At first it felt like pricks from small, sharp pins but soon these joined together until collectively they hurt more and more as if thousands of pins were thrust in. Soon it burned. She gritted her teeth. Her hair was singeing.
‘Let go of me!’ she seethed.
She tugged, but it stuck, as if caught in a vice. ‘Let go of me, now!’ she cried.
‘Let her go!’ Kemp said, his voice firm. ‘She does not go willingly.’
The pain receded.
‘Let her go now, or I will never go with you again.’
Suddenly, Daisy lay on the floor, her arm red and tender halfway to her elbow. The delicate hairs on the backs of her fingers were singed.
Instantly, she knew that Kemp had suffered the same fate.
‘Please, go ... now,’ said a soft voice above her – Kemp’s voice. A voice so gentle, she’d never believed him possible of uttering it.
In a millisecond, Kemp had taken her place and his arms pushed into the sleeves of the grey coat. From out of the coat pocket he pulled out a curious-looking trilby hat. He boxed it out and, with a tiny smile on his face, slipped it over his head. As he did this, not once did he take his eyes off her. Not once did his expression alter.
Then, as if by magic, underneath the long coat, Kemp suddenly morphed into a human figure of ash. But the person the ashen features revealed was an older-looking human with sweptback hair and scabbed skin marks. Daisy scampered backwards as the figure loomed over her and then pounced towards her face, ash falling from it.
‘Come with me,’ it demanded. ‘Come. You know you want to.’ Ash fizzed out of its mouth showering her like a fountain. And then, with a windy chuckle, the grey-coated ash-man stood up and dived headfirst down the stairwell, vanishing in a tiny blue flash.
Daisy’s heartbeat raced and she looked down at nothing but a tiny pile of ash on the stone stairs below.
ONE HUNDRED THREE
DECIPHERING THE CODE
Daisy sat in stunned silence. Her red eyes shone brightly, like the depressed brake lights of a car. Her heart thumped. That, she thought, was weirder than when she’d landed in the Atrium or whatever place that was.
What sort of monster lived in that coat? She shook as she thought about it, her whole body resonating at the memory. Those feelings – so cold and painful and yet hot and exhilarating – at the same time. Like her dreams.
Was it a ghost? And how come Kemp was with it? In fact, was Kemp actually dead, or alive, or some kind of spirit? But she’d felt the flesh and blood of his arm pulling at her, trying to release her from the creature and thinking of that, she inspected her hand. She hadn’t been wrong about the pain that had burned her. The tiny hairs were singed, removed to baldness and she could smell the sharp, pungent tang of burned hair.
Kemp had warned her, so why didn’t she listen? Was she simply so bloody against him she wasn’t prepared to give him a chance? And then she thought of Kemp talking to Mrs. Pye. His tears and their soft, loving words. Inside, Daisy felt terrible and her heart wanted to reach out and tell him that he was OK, and that she understood.
‘Mrs. Pye,’ she said as she leapt up and ran along the corridor. She stood outside Mrs. Pye’s bedroom door and swallowed. What should she say? What words would be comforting enough for Mrs. Pye or ... simply, right?
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She knocked on the door and, with a deep breath, walked in. Mrs. Pye sat on the bed, her body swaying from side to side, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Daisy ran up and threw her arms around her. But although Mrs. Pye reacted by closing her eyes, she continued swaying, murmuring incoherently.
When Daisy pulled out of her embrace and took a step back, Mrs. Pye carried on doing the same thing, her eyes staring, lost across the room, her voice like a slow chant, her body rocking back and forth, to and fro.
Daisy waved her arms in front of her face.
Oh no, she thought. Mrs. Pye has slipped into a mental state of shock.
FOR A LITTLE WHILE, Daisy did everything she could think of to try and snap Mrs. Pye out of her state. She tried yelling ‘BOO’ suddenly and very loudly in her ear, she pinched her cheek and gave her a mild Chinese burn, but Mrs. Pye was immovable. Daisy then did a dance right in front of her, which in normal circumstances would have had Mrs. Pye chortling and telling her to “stop it, you daft brush”.
Finally, Archie appeared. ‘What are you doing?’ he said, as he popped his head around the door.
Daisy shrugged. ‘It’s Mrs. Pye. She’s away with the with the bleeding fairies. Watch this.’ Daisy then proceeded to swirl like a Spanish dancer right in front of Mrs. Pye before clapping her hands loudly right in front of her face.
‘I see what you mean,’ Archie said, a frown ridging his forehead. ‘Any idea what’s set her off? Something must have happened.’ He scratched a spike. ‘Maybe she saw that the authorities were looking for us on TV, that we’re wanted. Or maybe it’s because we’ve smashed up the house—’
‘And we do look a bit weird.’ Daisy said. Right now, she needed to get her head together about what had happened with Kemp, and how he’d discovered that Mrs. Pye was his mother, and how she’d been manhandled by a ghost let alone explain it all to Archie. She shook her head. ‘Nah. Found her like this.’