by Paul Meloy
The Loom broke free from the ground. The line of light grew into a white dais and then it was gone, and the Loom was gone, and all that remained was a silent geyser of metallic particles in its wake. Doctor Mocking shielded his eyes and watched the Loom blast like a shuttle through the firmament. He saw Chloe, arms raised, head back, hair flying, as she urged it on, and he grabbed Robin’s arm and yelled, “Go!”
Robin scooped his machine from between his feet and ran with Doctor Mocking across the boulevard. Chloe turned, bathed in sheets of pulsing light, flecked with sparkling embers from the ascending Gantry. They gathered her in their arms and plunged into the Gantry.
JOHN STAINWRIGHT FOLLOWED the man across the meadow. He kept low, his head level with the tops of the tall grass. The sound of the Autoscopes was growing as they came through the village, their black, crumbling vehicles and walking machines drawing nearer. Something tore through the air above the meadow, and John ducked down as it flew overhead. He got a glimpse of something ridged and jointed, with tatty wings soaring towards the forest. It made a loud clanking noise, the sound of foundry hammers striking iron rods. John raised his head and watched as it disappeared above the trees and then circled back, low across the meadow, and sailed away over the village, skimming the pitched and leaning rooftops.
Back bent, John continued forward, following Chapel at a distance of about two hundred meters. Chapel was nearing the edge of the forest, hunched over, carrying the jar. John waited until Chapel disappeared into the tree line, and then he stood up and ran.
BIX WAITED. THE child was sitting on his rugs, silent and seeming to be in a trance. His eyes were open but unfocused. His hands were clasped in his lap. His breathing was very slow.
Bix padded to the entrance to the cave and looked out across the treetops. He couldn’t leave the child in case he decided to get up and wander about. He could fall so easily to his death. Bix could hear the man now, stumbling through the forest, and the wheedling imprecations from the thing he carried. Bix curled his lips and bared his teeth at the sound. Bix wanted to fight it, tear into it with mouth and claws and rip its blackness to shreds. It was calling its army, its corruption now fully integrated into the soul of the man who carried it. The man was carrying the beacon directly to the child. Bix scraped his claws against the rock, the desire to leap down the ladder almost overwhelming.
And then he sensed something else, a new sound, feet racing through the soft earth, a body crashing through branches. And a new smell, carried on the breeze. A familiar smell, good and comforting to his tensile nerves.
“John,” he said.
The child spoke, “Go to John,” he said. His face was very pale. Bix went to him. The boy’s gray eyes were wide, his delicate red lips turned down. He looked sad, close to tears, but he reached out and stroked Bix’s neck. “I won’t fall.”
Bix lowered his head, turned, and went to the ladder. He looked back once, and the child waved, his face white and tiny in the gloom at the back of the cave.
Bix bounded down the ladder and headed into the forest.
JOHN STAINWRIGHT RAN into a small clearing. Chapel had reached the middle of the shaded patch of rocky earth and turned with a clumsy half step as John emerged. He clutched the jar to his chest, and his eyes were black and fuming with insane hatred. John stopped a few meters from Chapel, alarmed by the change in the man. There would be no reasoning with this thing. He stepped towards Chapel and began to circle him, attempting to get ahead of him and block his passage into the trees where he would be much harder to stop.
Chapel opened his mouth, and that was a black hole, too, full of dark, timeless matter. As John watched, an eye rose, enucleated and pale, in the back of Chapel’s throat.
John looked away, sickened, and saw Bix come running into the clearing from the direction of the cliffs. The dog skidded to a halt and snarled, tense and ready. John held out a hand, palm outwards.
“Wait, Bix,” he said, but Chapel moved, twisting away from John and launched himself at the opening to the path from which Bix had just emerged. He tried to kick out at the dog, but Bix dodged Chapel’s shoe and leaped at the man, teeth bared. Bix hit Chapel in the chest and sent him stumbling backwards. He tripped and fell, the jar spilling from his arms. Chapel screamed.
The jar hit the ground and broke, shattering against the rocky ground. Shards of thick, curved glass lay in the dirt, and the charred remains of the head broke apart, no more than cinders in the air.
Bix stood over Chapel, and John came across the clearing to stand at his side.
Chapel rolled over and raised himself to his knees. He opened his mouth and leaned over the remains of the jar. John reached into his pocket and withdrew the bradawl he still carried, the one he had used to kill the driver of the float in the grounds of the asylum. He stepped towards Chapel.
Something moved amongst the shards of glass. The ashes were stirring, lifting towards Chapel’s face.
Before John could finish Chapel, the contents of the jar swarmed off the floor like flies. John staggered as the particles battered his face and he clamped his eyes and mouth shut. Bix barked and leaped out of the way of the swirling specks.
Chapel reached out and took hold of a long, curved shard of glass. He sprang to his feet, thick blood squeezing from his fist as the edges of the glass cut his flesh, and drove it into John’s throat.
Chapel stepped away, blood dripping from his fingers. He opened his mouth as the swarming particles gathered at his face and he let them in. They pressed against his eyes and found a way in there, too, through the black membranes.
John fell to his knees, eyes wide, a hand clasped to his throat. Blood surged between his fingers. Bix howled.
Chapel no longer existed. What stood there now was a monster, the devil-in-dreams made flesh. It rippled with eyes, every inch of exposed flesh bugging with them. They peered from beneath the lank strands of hair on his skull, bulged from his nostrils, his cheeks, the flesh of his exposed throat. Chapel’s body was now pure host and what it contained could sense the child.
Bix stood with John. He trembled with sorrow and fury.
John reached out a hand and moved his lips but made no sound. His pallor was ashen, his lips blue. Tears ran down his cheeks.
“Not here, John, please,” Bix said. It was all he could think of now. He had to get John out of the Quay. No thoughts for the child now, no concern for the fate of the others. Just his John now. “Don’t die here.”
John Stainwright lifted his head. His pale eyes narrowed. He took his hand from his throat and the wound opened fully and blood jetted onto the forest floor. He pushed himself to his knees and with his remaining strength lunged towards the devil-in-dreams.
The Chapel-thing caught him and fell backwards. Bix leaped onto it and sank his teeth into the cold flesh of its wrist. He felt eyes burst like blisters in his mouth but clamped down as hard as he could.
John held the monster as tightly as his fading strength would allow and closed his eyes. They rolled in the dirt, and the devil-in-dreams shrieked.
“Take us home,” John said to his dog.
Bix closed his eyes and they connected, for one last time, and a Gantry opened and they went home.
ANDY TOOK TREVENA’S sleeve and drew him close. His eyes were wide and full of candour.
“Even when I was trapped I could sense him, the other Chapel,” Andy said. “My mother knew. She always hated him. He wasn’t projecting me, it was the other way round. That thing would come and visit me in the darkness, the thing full of eyes, and try to corrupt me, but it couldn’t be in two places. I weakened it and it chose to influence the other, the man I was growing into. Sometimes I could see through his eyes, and hear the things around him, but mostly I was trapped in living darkness. I fought it, though, Phil. I really fought it.”
“I know,” said Trevena. “Bismuth wouldn’t give up on you. He knew you were there and he never gave in.”
“Yes, I could sense him, too. He was s
o close, so many times, but the devil-in-dreams would always know. It would pull itself away from Chapel and come rushing back, snatch me away. That’s when Chapel would feel most desolate and unreal. Because he is.”
Trevena continued to listen. Andy was becoming agitated, his cheeks flushed. The memory of his ordeal was raw and horrifying, and Trevena wanted to let the boy talk.
“I sent him to you, Phil.”
Trevena was so intent on listening he missed what the boy had said. “What?”
“I had an opportunity to send him to you. Bismuth got so close, but that thing under the train did enough to distract him. He would have found me sooner but the devil-in-dreams was there. Bismuth saw it, inside the fridge, as it was taking me away. So I made Chapel try to kill himself while he was empty.”
Trevena thought back to the first assessment.
“It was lucky he was found. He tried to hang himself. The police found him.”
Andy was shaking his head.
“He phoned them. From a callbox at the park. The woods aren’t deep. He could be seen from the street.”
“But how could you know about me? How could you know he’d even be seen by me?”
“That’s the point. That’s what I need to tell you. You’re my Paladin, Phil. We’ve always been destined to meet. If I hadn’t been trapped in that fridge we might even have grown up together. Nothing could keep us apart.”
Trevena stood up straight. White specks danced behind his eyes and he took a deep breath. He shut his eyes tightly to dispel the sensation of tiny bulbs flickering on and off inside his head. He had always wondered why he had been so integral to the story of these beings, and why the Autoscopes had gone after him with quite such vehemence. He had figured himself a small player, obviously, his involvement conditional on luck and proximity. He had been involved simply because, well, he’d been involved.
But here was the boy telling him he had a destiny, a preordained purpose that had been distorted, thwarted, but could somehow never be denied. He recalled Colin recounting something similar, how he had waited for John Stainwright to find him and Bix, the trust involved. The faith!
It would explain their affinity. The unexpected and robust affection he felt for the boy. He opened his mouth to say something, unsure as he did so what it would be, wanting to acknowledge Andy’s honesty and courage, but he didn’t get a chance, because Andy had turned away and was staring across the rails, his expression blank and his eyes as black as pits of tar.
Trevena grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him so that they were face-to-face. Andy was slack and did not resist.
“Andy!” Trevena said, and lightly shook the boy. “Andy!”
Andy blinked and his eyes were clear and blue again. His face was white, though, and his lips trembled.
“It’s okay,” Trevena said.
“No,” Andy said and tears came then, “No it’s not. I’ve killed John!” And he collapsed into Trevena’s arms, howling with grief and horror.
INITIALLY INCONSOLABLE, EVENTUALLY they were able to calm and reassure him, and he settled although he remained drained. He had felt it, he said, the moment Chapel was taken entirely by the devil-in-dreams. He was gone now, no longer a part of Andy, no longer a part of anything. But Andy had felt the moment Chapel had stabbed John, had seen the man fall, had heard Bix howl, and heard John speak.
“They’ve gone home,” Andy said. “What does that mean?”
Colin came forward. His face was drawn and white.
“I know where he’ll go,” he said, his old voice wavering, catching in his throat. “Please take me.”
Index put a hand on Colin’s shoulder.
“We don’t have very long,” he said. “We’re scattered again but we have to use that to our advantage and take this to the devil-in-dreams on all fronts. Bismuth, take Colin with Andy and Phil and go to John. Save him if you can, but stop the devil-in-dreams. The rest of us will go to Chloe’s Quay. Lesley, are you good with that?”
Lesley was standing with Steve and Claire. She was holding Anna’s hand. Of them all, Index knew she would be the most torn. But without Bismuth, he needed her in the battle, and thinking clearly.
Lesley was biting her lip. Anna squeezed her hand, looked into her sister’s face with nothing in her expression but love and encouragement. Whatever Lesley decided, Anna would understand.
Lesley nodded, her eyes bright with a mounting, but controlled, fury.
Bismuth took a lever from his belt. He walked to the edge of the platform and stepped onto the tracks. He found a patch of earth between the rails and used the edge of his boot to clear the pebbles and cinders from around it. He looked up, the lever poised just above the ground.
Daniel took Elizabeth’s hands and looked into her sweet, patient face.
“I’ll be fine here with Steve and Claire,” she said. “You go and do what you have to do.” She kissed his bearded cheek, then his lips, and they held each other.
Trevena and Andy helped Colin onto the rails. He felt frail and delicate and Trevena worried for him as he stood beside the old man, who had his head bowed and his hands clasped at his breast. He watched as a tear fell from Colin’s averted cheek, caught the light and landed on the frayed plastic strap of his flip-flop.
Bismuth looked to each of them for assent. Colin sniffed, stood straight and held his chin up. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“I’m ready, big lad,” he said, and Bismuth slid the end of the lever into the dirt and compressed the handle. A Gantry opened, the cool air in the train shed coming ajar in a brilliant white line, and then it broadened and they were able to step through.
CHLOE, ROBIN AND Doctor Mocking fell through the piling light, passing from the Compartment into the silent, racing corridor of the Gantry. Its mysterious gravity righted them at once and they were able to land on their feet without the sensation of any loss of balance. They were near the openings, despite the speed with which the Gantry cut through Dark Time, as it bent the space and fabric of the Firmament.
Chloe pointed to the opening behind Doctor Mocking.
“The Waking World,” she said.
Doctor Mocking nodded and looked over her shoulder. The opening that led to her Quay was widening.
“Be quick,” he said.
They stood for a moment, suspended between worlds and bathed in the flash and sparkle of the interior of the Gantry. And then they moved, Chloe and Robin towards the widening aperture, Doctor Mocking towards the narrowing doorway that would lead him back to the World, and the chance to be reborn. He stopped at the opening and looked back. Chloe and Robin were gone, and he wished them well. He turned and drew a long breath. He wondered if it would be worth the sacrifice. He wondered if he would see his girls again. With Robin, they might have a chance now.
Doctor Mocking stepped from the Gantry into gray daylight.
ALEX AND ELIOT had Railgrinder running hot and filling the roof of the train shed with a dense atmosphere of steam. Index, Daniel, Lesley and Anna got into the cab with them. It was tight, and hot, but they found space enough and waited for Alex to disengage the brake.
They pulled away watched by Elizabeth, Claire and Steve. Steve had his arm around his wife’s waist. Claire was holding her still-flat belly, an unconscious, protective gesture. Elizabeth didn’t wave.
Railgrinder gathered speed through the cutting and into the rolling fields of Quay-Fomalhaut. This was Alex’s Quay, and Railgrinder was his Instrument. He stood at the controls and felt the firebox heat and smelt the coal dust, and exulted in it. He had been a boy the first time he had driven his engine, and learnt its purpose, and now he was nearly a man, hard and severe as the metal that carried him. He opened the throttle and peered through the porthole at a point in the distance.
As though somebody stood a mile distant shining a torch, the Gantry appeared. A circle of light that widened to a ring as the distance decreased. It grew, rippling, until it made an arch over the tracks, a blazing p
enumbra with a golden heart.
Alex fully opened the throttle and Railgrinder raced towards the Gantry. It shot over a set of points and its grinding wheels engaged with a jolt and scream.
They flew into the Gantry, a blistering iron comet.
TREVENA STEPPED OUT onto the tarmac of the car park outside the reception centre at the Reservoir End Caravan Site. He was disoriented for a moment at the sight of the gift shop and the bright, tacky souvenirs, and Colin’s old Cortina parked in its slot in front of the building. It was all so unobtrusively mundane he felt a wave of nostalgia cramp his chest.
“Are you okay, Phil?” Andy asked.
Trevena nodded. “I just felt John for a moment. I felt how he feels about this place. What it means to him. He told me about his trips here as a child when it was a dogs’ home, about meeting Colin and Bix. It’s like nothing ever changed for him.”
Colin was already heading away from the car park, towards the boulevard that led to the clubhouse. They followed, catching him up, and ran past the bright ranks of mobile homes that stood set back from the verges on their modest plots of land.
They heard a dog bark. It was not loud, nor was it happy. It was the enquiring, perplexed chuffing sound of a dog asking those around him, or the elements, or God, should no one be about to offer comfort, why is this happening. I don’t understand.
“Bix!” said Colin, and doubled his speed, almost tripping as he stubbed the toe of his flip-flop and it folded beneath his foot. Trevena reached out and grabbed his arm. Colin caught his balance and hobbled on.