Children's Crusade

by Scott Andrews

  There was a need for her to connect with someone, and soon.

  Tell me somethin' I don't know, she thought to herself. She'd been trying to connect and communicate since she was a little girl. But the time was coming around, of that she was sure. Her previous life, if read symbolically, had encountered great tragedy - two great tragedies to be precise, here represented by the symbol Nauthiz - but for a reason. The obstacles she'd put in front of herself, as well as those the world had thrown at her; necessary pain to bring her to this point in her current life. Her future life, the runes told her, was starred by the symbol Gebo: a partnership!

  She'd encountered many such promises of this in her life, and all of them had come to nothing. This time, everything pointed to it being 'the one'. The thing that she'd been told about when she was in her teens.

  Taking out the tarot cards now, she wanted to double check. Placing them in the spread she'd been taught all those years ago, she turned them over one by one to reveal the pattern of her future. Would it have changed since the last time she did this? She doubted it very much, the signs and portents then had been too strong. Turning over the 'significator' she saw the root of the thing she was seeking: a pair of naked figures, hand in hand with a crude representation of Cupid behind. The Lovers. It revealed what her heart desired more than anything, a unity she'd yet to feel with any of the other men she'd shared her life - and her bed - with. In spite of how very close she'd become eventually to all of them (they were all on...'speaking' terms still) there just hadn't been the one that the cards back then had spoken of, had suggested to her.

  The card on top of this was the opposition to her heart's desire, the main thing blocking it. And with one turn she saw what might stand in her way. A picture of a woman closing a lion's mouth - showing her power over nature. The card of Strength. She was calming the beast, just as she might calm the passions that were necessary for this plan to work. Letting out a snort, the woman turning the cards carried on with her reading.

  She revealed the next one as the best that could be achieved if she just let things go ahead at their own pace: The Star, indicating that recent difficulties would soon be a thing of the past. Even if she did nothing, she would still get what she wanted.

  The next turn showed her what was surrounding the matter in hand, what had already happened. Here she was greeted with a card that depicted a wheel covered in symbols, around which winged creatures floated. The Wheel of Fortune. The flux of human life and continual motion of the universe, symbolic of new beginnings. There had certainly been plenty of those since her rebirth (before and after the virus struck). She sensed another new birth on its way: the death of an old life and the beginning of a new one...but a shared existence. (She dismissed the other reading of this card which hinted that plans made could easily change at the last moment...)

  The ensuing card showed her what had recently happened or was about to... A solitary man, head bowed and alone in his cave. The Hermit. He would soon call on her and represented another obstacle she had to get out of the way before being able to move ahead with her schemes. He would not - or she should say, his masters would not - be impressed with what she must do to draw him here. It mattered not.

  Next was the future - something she was uniquely comfortable with. A place she'd been able to see, hoped to change, even before she'd learnt these ways. It showed a bloke suspended by ropes: The Hanged Man. She paused, frowning. This one was new, meaning a period of suspended action before things began to slot into place. She could wait, though; she'd waited this long, after all.

  Turning over another card, she knew this one represented her. There were two stuck together, and she peeled them apart - one the High Priestess, the other Empress. Both made sense: she could be either...or both. Or one, then the other. That was more likely - yet wasn't there a nagging doubt now as to which one she should be? Because the next card was meant to represent something that might have an impact on the situation... Quickly, she turned this over and found the card depicting a jester. If she took this to be the proper card, it meant someone might not be able to see the wood for the trees. Or a risk would have a probable good outcome. Should it have been that card, or the previous one? Damn it all, she should know these things - she could see into the future, after all!

  It was The Fool (she chose not to think about who might actually be the foolish one), so she moved on to the next card drawn: her hopes and fears for that future... It made more sense now, because she'd drawn The Sun. This would indicate she was content with her lot; a hope, but also a fear in case things didn't happen the way she wanted it to.

  Finally, she got to the last card - the culmination of everything in front of her. She sensed even before she turned it over that it was The Emperor. The card she'd been seeing in her readings since she was a child. The card that represented the man she would marry (and remain married to...). Who she would join with on this plane, instead of having to content herself with talking to the ghosts of former husbands and lovers.

  The Widow turned it over anyway, just to see the man's face. Sat on the throne with a sword in his hand, the Emperor to her Empress. The man who would come to her. She knew also that the next card she would place down on top of that, looking into the future, was The World they would rule together. But she looked no further than that - prevented herself. (Because had she done so, she might have seen those other cards of the Major Arcana - as incredible as it was for her whole draw to be so significant - Death, followed by The Devil: which could, of course, be interpreted as simply a new beginning and having to make difficult decisions, not necessarily a bad thing in itself - and not, surely not, a clouding of judgement.)

  Sweeping up the cards, The Widow drew them again by candlelight. She'd draw them until it was time to give the order for her men to attack one particular, special convoy, and she'd carry on drawing the cards until the large, olive-skinned man (her Hermit) came to speak to her at that castle.

  But before she shuffled, she took one last look at The Emperor. The man she loved more than life itself and who would love her in turn.

  A man who'd soon swap his hood for a crown.

  Who would sit by her side and rule this entire planet one day...

  He'd thought about that day often (especially after what had happened to them in the wake of the virus and the Cull). He remembered feeling elation initially, because he'd been called out of class, told he'd been sent for and could leave early - in the middle of the afternoon - and that meant he'd avoid the pummelling that was coming from Bevin and Lloyd, two of the ugliest brutes ever to walk God's earth. With less than a single brain cell between them, they more than made up for this in brawn. He'd once seen Bevin - all cropped hair and ink tattoos - break a first-former's leg by knocking him to the floor and stamping on it. Lloyd had stood by and laughed, then kicked the screaming kid in the stomach for good measure. Both had lied when questioned about their whereabouts while the crime was being committed, backing each other up.

  A beating like that was waiting for him, too. That was his future, he'd been promised. It wasn't as if he'd actually done anything to them; you didn't need to. Bevin and Lloyd had their own unique way of picking their victims. Totally random and known only to them. The fact that he was the fattest lad in the year meant he was an automatic target, mind. In fact, he was surprised he'd escaped being picked on by them up till now. All the other bullies in that year and above (or below) had given it a go. Today was simply his turn, after school, as they'd taken great pleasure in telling him at dinnertime, knocking the crisps he was holding out of his hands. "You look like you could manage without them, lardie," Lloyd had sniggered.

  Now both boys watched as he left the classroom, and he risked one glance back - knowing that this was only a postponement. Yet still he was filled with elation that his torture had been delayed. It was soon replaced with guilt when he found out exactly why he'd been summoned. "It's...it's your brother," the deputy head, Miss Anwyl, told him. He'd gulped, knowing
it wasn't good news.

  He'd had mixed feelings ever since his older sibling, Gareth, had been diagnosed. The poor sod had come down with a blood disorder way before it was 'fashionable' to do so when the A-B Virus hit. The disease of choice in his case was leukaemia.

  He'd kind of looked up to Gareth, in a way you do to big brothers, but there was also a healthy dose of jealousy mixed in. Gareth did well at school, was good with his hands - he could fix anything, which was why he spent so much time with Dad in the garage and shed. Gareth was Dad's favourite, there was no doubt about that: the golden boy.

  And while sometimes he'd wished that he was an only child, he'd never have wished this on Gareth. Especially as it didn't make any difference afterwards. Didn't make his Dad love him any more, or want to spend time with him (apart from when he reluctantly took his second son to those rugby matches). There was certainly never any wish for his brother to contract a terminal illness, to put him out of the picture...permanently.

  But, as he was given a lift to the hospital by the neighbours who'd fetched him from school at his parents' request, then walked into the ward again - only the second time they'd let him visit since Gareth was hospitalised - he began to think that was a strong possibility. When he arrived at the room itself, his Mam and Dad were there, crying. His Nan - his only surviving grandparent - was sitting in the chair opposite and looked like someone had punctured her, letting all the air out. His family. The only people he'd ever relied on, and probably the only people he ever would: 'united' in misery and mourning. His brother was still, eyes closed, and he could see that there was no heart-rate on the monitor.

  When he asked what had happened, his father shot him a vicious glare. "What do you think's bloody well happened? He's dead...My son is dead..."

  Not being one to show his feelings, his Dad stormed out, leaving his Mam to come over and give him a big hug. "He doesn't...doesn't mean to snap..." she said in between the sniffles. "He's just...just..." She began crying uncontrollably, and his Nan had to get up and take over, taking her daughter into her arms. His Mam said she didn't want to be in that room right now, so the two women followed his father, leaving him inside - alone - with his deceased sibling.

  Perhaps they thought he needed time to say goodbye; perhaps they weren't thinking at all. But for a good five or ten minutes (which actually felt like five or ten years) he was left with the body. Except Gareth wasn't as dead as they all thought he was.

  "Hey little brother," Gareth's voice floated across the room. "How're things?" His eyes were open and he was sitting up, elbow resting against the pillow.

  "You...you can't be..." He looked back at the door which his family had just walked through, about to call them back. Or call a nurse; a doctor: someone. They'd made a mistake, all of them. Gareth was still alive.

  "Don't bother," said his older brother. "There isn't time. I just needed to talk to you, that's all. There are things we need to discuss."

  His mouth fell open, but in spite of himself he found his legs moving, carrying him closer to the bed. "What...?"

  "Listen to me," said Gareth. "You'll be the only son left when I've gone. And when the time comes, you'll have to be the man of the household."

  "Dad's the man of the house," he'd replied, a fact that had been drilled into him since childhood.

  "He'll need your help, little brother. They all will. Something bad's coming, but..." Gareth smiled; it was a chilling sight. "But out of it will come something good. You'll have to step up. Remember what Mam always said about you, that you'd be important one day. That you'd be someone..."

  That was true, she was the only person who ever had. But still he shook his head. He'd never amount to anything, and it was even more ludicrous to suggest that his dad would come to rely on him. He'd never relied on anyone, ever.

  "You listen to them, though," Gareth continued. "Because they'll know things that you won't. There'll come a time when you'll need to listen to the warnings, do you understand?"

  He shook his head; had no clue what Gareth was talking about. The fact that this was the most he'd said to him in ages was also throwing his concentration.

  "You probably won't remember much about this talk in the meantime, but you will then. When they begin to tell you...things." Gareth grinned again. "About the threat you'll face."

  Threat? Was he talking about Bevin and Lloyd? About the fact that he was going to get his head kicked in eventually, that they'd wait for him to return?

  "An even greater threat than that, I'm afraid," Gareth told him. "In the meantime you'll just have to endure. But listen to what Dad says when he takes you to the matches. Listen and you'll understand what you must become. See you around, little brother..."

  He turned away then, determined to fetch someone now to see to Gareth. Maybe they could give him medication, help him hang on for a little while longer. By the time he looked back again, Gareth was gone: adopting the same position he'd been in moments ago. He looked strangely at peace this time, though, as if he'd got what he needed to off his chest.

  No-one believed the fact that Gareth had woken again to speak to him - they just thought he'd made it up. His Mam cried and his Dad took the strap to him for upsetting her (and upsetting him, though he'd never admit it). But what with everything that was going on during the funeral week, they forgot about this pretty quickly. What's more, Gareth was right: so did he.

  When he returned to school eventually - he was allowed a bit of time off under such tragic circumstances - Bevin and Lloyd hadn't forgotten their promise. Nor did they make allowances for the fact he'd just lost his brother. "So what?" Bevin spat in his face. "We still owe you a pastin'."

  He'd taken his lumps, and more besides, until the day when he wouldn't take anymore. The day Gavin had talked about, after the virus, when his family had come to rely on him...

  But that was another story.

  He remembered that talk, though, finally - after the shit hit the fan. It triggered something in him, something connected with those rugby matches. Something that made him recall his Dad's chants at them: "We are Dragons! We are Dragons!"

  It would give him his name, and eventually his power. But he also remembered Gavin's words about listening to his family because they'd know certain things when the time came.

  About a threat that would challenge everything he'd built up since the virus and the Cull.

  A threat the Dragon needed to stamp out before it cost him dearly...

  He hadn't thought about that time in his life for years.

  Lying by the side of the desert road after the strike, after seeing so many of his men blown to pieces. After being thrown clear of the Land Rover Defender by the explosion itself, his ears still ringing from the blast. Henry had returned to consciousness in waves, blinking and seeing only a blue sky; which swiftly turned black, as the trails of smoke rising from the vehicles - including a Ferret Armoured car and a FV107 Scimitar CVR - drifted across. He'd tried to move, conscious that he was still weighed down by his helmet and backpack. Then he'd felt the searing pain in his leg, waking him fully.

  He hissed through his teeth, spitting out blood as he did so.

  A mortar or rocket based-system (probably a Howitzer), combined with an RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade) attack proved that absolutely nowhere was safe over here at the moment. He'd figured that out as soon as he'd stepped off the transport. The campaign was a just one, though, with a clear motivation. The liberation of Kuwait was of paramount importance; the unjust invasion of that country by dictator Saddam Hussein was something the UK had firmly got behind (in fact they'd committed the largest contingent of any European nation, the second largest contributor to the coalition force fighting Iraq). Operation Granby, it had been named. A matter of principle, defending the weak against the strong. Hadn't that been one of the reasons he'd originally signed up to the army in the first place? Prepared for just such an occurrence. In spite of what people thought in the outside world, this wasn't just about oil. Innocent
people were dying...

  And so were his people: friends and comrades. He'd seen it close-up and personal, especially now... Henry looked across for signs of other survivors, but saw nothing. He shouted, but again he felt the stab of pain in his leg. He hadn't looked down at it yet, hadn't dared to... but now he did. It was twisted in an awkward way, the bone definitely broken, and shrapnel was sticking out of a wound at the thigh.

  "Fuck..." Not only was he probably going to die himself from that, unless he was incredibly lucky, he couldn't even get up to see if anyone else needed medical attention. But the more Henry looked across at that devastation, the more bodies he saw there covered in blood - inside the flaming vehicles of the small convoy - and the more he realised that if anyone was still that close to ground zero they'd be beyond medical help. The fact that nobody had answered his call spoke volumes. Christ, the waste of those lives... he could hardly take it in. Men whose families would never see them again. Henry felt tears welling in his eyes, but he didn't have time to sit here and mourn for the lost. The smoke rising in the air was going to give away the hit, and more enemy fire would soon rain down to make sure they were out of commission for good.

  Henry had to retreat, and fast. Removing his combat jacket and helmet to make himself lighter, he scrambled to get away, as much as it hurt him to do so. He crawled along on his belly, dragging his leg behind him. Sure enough another set of explosions came when he was only about twenty metres away; he ducked, lying still as the Earth beneath him shook. Sand rose all around and fell, both beside and on top of him. He knew that soon they'd come on foot to look around. He didn't have much time left...

  Using every ounce of strength he had left, he made it to a set of rocks within crawling distance of the ambush. There he waited, and it wasn't long before enemy soldiers emerged to examine the wreckage. He heard that foreign tongue so familiar to him after two months posted here, and tried to shut out the faces of soldiers like Jimmy Handley, Max Clemens and Frank Oldham. Tried to block out the images of children's faces on photos posted up on lockers back at camp, of wives and girlfriends. With every fibre of his being he wanted revenge on those bastards just out of sight. But you should always be careful what you wish for.