by Wayne Hill
As the peal of thunder, Talon’s voice, fades, he says more softly, “I knocked you out with a log. That is all, little one.”
“That’s all?” Tommy says with disdain. He pulls his survival jacket off to see the full extent of his injuries.
“Saturn’s moons ... What the fuck is all this?”
“You did it to yourself. When you destroyed many trees with that ...that ...whatever that thing is you have attached to your arm! You’re too stupid for such a powerful right arm. You’re just a dumb Guardian with a magic arm,” Talon says with an odd smirk.
Tommy puts his head in his hands and quietens a scream. Keeping his hands over his face, to hide tears of rage, he tries to wish this sorry predicament away. He hopes this is merely a dream. A nightmare. An illusion. Perhaps, some deep-fake reality of an NTB room he has fallen into, accidentally. Caught in the Hell Lights. It was a well-known military phenomenon. Soldiers that could speak afterwards, who had not turn into gibbering wrecks, describe unreal and horrific journeys. Even the toughest of soldiers transform into cowering husks after falling foul of the things that lurk in the Marianas trench of their own psyche.
This must be NTB-generated Hell Lights, thinks Tommy. This is his psychically generated scenario: to eke out the rest of his painful days in a cave with a demon. A demon which may or may not eat him. Maybe the demon represents his inner evil. Or his lust. Or something equally Freudian. No, this cannot be reality. It must be NTB.
When he removes his damaged hands from his scarred face, and wipes his tears away, there is a bowl of hot liquid in front of him.
“Drink it; it will strengthen you. Make sure you finish it, though.”
“Thank you,” Tommy says, not sure he means it. He examines the liquid, sniffs it a little, but makes no move to drink it. Talon is now crouching across from Tommy, staring into the fire and drinking deeply from a similar wooden bowl. Tommy copies him and feels the liquid burning down his throat and heating his core. It is the first time in so many days that he has felt any comfort. They finish their drink at the same time.
“Good?” inquires Talon, raising horned eyebrows and collecting the bowl. Tommy nods.
“Thank you,” Tommy repeats, as his pain subsides enough for him to lie back. Talon shrugs.
“It’s Daria who deserves your thanks. My daughter pulled out many splinters from you and stitched your wounds. I’m not very proficient with a needle, you see.” Talon flicks his lethal blades out in a fan shape before raising his little finger out towards Tommy.
“She pulled out one as large as this.”
Tommy stares at the large, pointed digit, shudders, snuggles deeper into bed, pulling the rabbit pelt coverlet further over himself for warmth.
Tommy tries moving onto his side to get more comfortable, but the smallest of movements cause him excruciating pain.
He studies the walls of the cave for a little while, anything to distract from this harsh reality. He could see Talon pulling back what appeared to be a cavern wall, revealing a shelf for bowls. Clearly some sort of camouflage tech. This camouflage material appears to cover the cavern wall to wall. Tommy remembers the echoes of Talon’s voice when Talon yelled at him. This cave must just be one room in an entire system of linked caves. Tommy wants to turn his hypothesis — that of an interlocking cave system — into a reality by getting up and physically exploring. But he just hurts too badly. Maybe the adventuring can wait.
The fire is now in full blaze. Tommy wants to feel warm, but he is clammy and cold. He feels cold sweat running down his head, funnelling down his stitched flesh. The sting of his sweat in newly stitched wounds causes him to feel sick. Talon adds a dried log to the fire, and it seems to crackle with anticipation, reaching up yellow, dancing arms which twine around the wood, climbing higher. Talon grabs another log from behind another camouflaged curtain that is on the ground near Tommy. He places this second log into the flames, an amber embrace spitting forth a myriad of sacred tonal changes. Tommy stares through the flames towards the hidden cave entrance as light from outside suddenly floods the cave. The extra light is soon gone, as the camouflage veil falls back into place, and a small shape darts towards Talon, leaping into his dangerous arms. A toddler nuzzles into Talon’s muscular, rune-etched chest.
“My Angel, where have you been?” Talon whispers to this surprisingly normal looking infant, as she squirms to get even closer to her doting father.
“I’ve just been fishing with Thankwell,” says Daria with a contented sigh.
“What did you catch?”
“Lots of things.”
“What did Thankwell catch?”
“The same. Where is Astilla, papa? He’s not gone, has he? You’ve not eaten him, have you, Papa?”
Talon shoots a look over to Tommy. “No, I’ve not eaten him. Not yet, anyway.” Talon then winks over towards Tommy as he holds his normal looking infant.
Taking a deep breath of the fresh sea air, which had drifted in with Daria, Tommy asks the obvious question.
“This... is your kin?” Tommy struggles to sit up but the pain stops him.
“Astilla, you’re still here! ...And you’re awake!” Daria springs out of her father’s arms and is next to Tommy in a heartbeat. Talon chuckles as Tommy tries to block the frantic hands of the toddler stroking his head like some sort of new pet.
“She’s the one who treated my injuries? She must be — what? — five?”
“No, she’s not, you silly goose ... She’s three!” corrects the beaming Daria. “I like to fix people; I always treat Papa’s boo boos. I’ll be a doctor one day.”
Tommy’s confusion at this precocious child could not be any greater. He stares from Talon’s frightening smile to his daughter’s beaming smile. Talon pulls Daria away from the injured Tommy as he can see that her constant pawing is causing him some discomfort. Finding it hilarious, he picks her up into his arms and kisses the top of her head as she tries to free herself. She wriggles — her legs kicking fast, faster — and then, suddenly, her legs blur with ferocious speed, buzzing like a fly’s wings.
“Aww, Astilla!” Daria laughs as her father blows raspberries on her neck. “Help, help!” she says, giggling.
“Go on now. Leave poor Tommy alone and go and see what Thankwell is doing.”
“No...No, Papa, Thankwell’s sleeping.”
“Oh, the big lazy lump,” Talon says, as the neck raspberries continue.
“Ha, ha, get off! Can I show Astilla what I pulled out of him, Papa?”
“I’m sure poor Tommy doesn’t wish to be reminded...”
“No...It’s okay,” Tommy says, shifting with a pained groan into a sitting position. “I want to see them. I need to see them.”
Daria, clearly seeing his discomfort, springs from her father’s arms and darts out of Tommy’s sight. Tommy and Talon exchange glances. Returning in an instant, Daria smiles as she drags the covers off her bed to add more support behind Tommy’s sore back. She loves having a real patient.
“Thank you, Daria,” Tommy says through gritted teeth. The pain of movement is almost unbearable.
Daria smiles, strokes his head and she looks over towards her father. Tilting her angelic little head, fluttering her long eyelashes, she stares a silent question. Talon stares back at her, quizzically at first, then, finally understanding, he raises his hands in assent.
“Okay, okay, okay! You always get your own way, you spoilt little child! Well on with it, then! Your endless pestering is unsettling the poor boy. Hurry it up! And then let Tommy rest!”
“Ok, Papa.”
Despite Talon’s mock anger and fearsome appearance, at that moment all Tommy sees is a father who is frustrated, yet amused, at being unable to deny the wishes of his beloved child.
Daria scurries away past Tommy, her tiny little surgeon hands rubbing together. She goes towards the back of the cave, where Tommy sees another small bed, presumably where his extra blanket originated. She picks up what looks like an upside-down old me
tal helmet of some long-lost tribe and returns with such speed it shocks Tommy almost as much as the grinning horror that is Talon.
“Ooh, no, silly me! ... I dropped one.”
She blurs a trail to the other bed and back again. It takes seconds. Tommy manages a smile through the pain this time.
“You’re a fast one, aren’t you, Daria?”
“Look at all these, Astilla.” Daria holds out the ancient metal headwear.
“What the ...” Tommy says, under his breath “So... many ... too ...too much.”
The Helmet is packed full of blood-soaked shards of wood that range in length from one inch to seven. Sickness and aching surges through Tommy’s body now. This toddler in front of him had pulled this shrapnel from his flesh. This child had operated on his body — in this very cave.
“Did I do good, Astilla?” Daria asks, smiling and nodding.
Tommy takes deep, gulping breaths. He tries to regain composure as the blood drains from his face. His ashen face tingles. Daria places the helmet of horror onto the floor next to Tommy and paws at Tommy’s stitch-crossed face. She strokes her hand over his ruffled hair several times, like he is her human pet. She tilts her head from side to side, like a confused dog.
“Aww — you, aww,” she says lovingly, before pulling out, from where she was hiding it behind her back, a huge wooden stake to show him.
“This is the really big, bad boo boo maker! Grrrrr!”
“This can’t be real. This is NTB. This can’t be real.” Tommy throws up and then passes out. As he passes out, he hears the rumbling laughter of Talon and the worried, birdlike voice of Daria repeatedly chirping, “Poor Astilla. Aww. Poor, poor, Astilla.”
5
A terrible fever consumes Tommy. Daria cradles his head, during the worst times, singing soft lullabies in a foreign tongue, unidentifiable and ancient.
Tommy stares upwards at the knot-work rope ceiling. Pain, heat, confusion — and then the ropes come for him. They climb down the cavern walls and wrap around his neck, slither into his nasal cavities — choking him from the inside — filling his lungs and blocking his throat. In the flickering, dim light of the fire, the ropes swirl and dance. And sometimes, just sometimes, the shadow of a horn-faced demon is seen.
Tommy’s nightmares continue...
Inside a concrete coffin, the devil is scratching a lullaby on the slab covering the tomb while his parents cry and hold one another at the graveside. They watch him being lowered into the earth. His magical arm blasts through the concrete, and he takes deep breaths of air. Free! His arm then turns into a mechanical boa constrictor that coils around his body while Tommy looks to his parents for help, choking for words as well wishers throw flowers on his head. The fever brings another nightmare, even more haunting than being buried alive.
Underground, running at high-speed down an earthy tunnel, the damp clay earth filling his lungs, his heart pounding. He looks at his arms, his hands; his fingers are blades — he is Talon. There are echoes of screaming. Dark laughter rings in his ears. It seems to come from far inside the earth, deep down, as if the earth is alive with noise. As if the noise is the sound of the Earth’s beating heart. His senses are heightened, his vision is altered. The twisting tunnel of dirt, the spiral roots and the boulders are all illuminated by some supernatural inner ability to see at night. There are no torches on the walls, no light this far down under the ground, and yet he can see the very finest details. The tunnel opens out into a massive cavern. The chill of the air in the vast palatial chamber is refreshing after the long journey down the narrow, claustrophobic tunnel. Stalactites hang from the roof like dark chandeliers. Stalagmites reaching up to meet some of them, forming fragile pillars.
The underground kingdom — for that is what it is — greets him with such grand sights. It is littered with carved busts of strange creatures from an unidentifiable race, old swords, guns, piles of jewels, crowns and shields, interspersed with demonic masks made of metal, clay and wood. These all lead to the centre of the underground cathedral where a huge circular stone stage is situated. Six cloaked figures sit in silence around a stone slab table, their faces hidden beneath shadowy cowls.
The table is full of what looks like half-eaten chickens. All that is recognisable are skeletal rib cages. The most beautiful dark silk covers the table, and, upon the cloth, are grand, etched carafes of red liquid. The others hail Tommy — Talon! — with tankards raised. He acknowledges them and accepts his place with a smile and a bow.
A wave of nausea washes through Tommy as the smells from the table reaches him. It is horrendous: rotten and metallic; sweet, yet mouldy.
These chicken carcasses are raw, thinks Tommy, before he realises what is being served. Not chicken, but human remains. Plates of butchered children, of half-eaten babies. Dread strikes Tommy and he tries to yell out, but he is frozen in terror. He tries to stop Talon — himself — but he has no control of his dream. He is merely a voyeur, a passenger. He sees through Talon’s eyes as he opens a large package on the table in front of him. From inside the wrapping, Daria looks at him through pleading, terrified eyes. Tommy thinks she is about to let out a scream. Talon grabs her by the throat, with one hand, whilst the sweeping finger-blades of his other hand decapitate her. Her head rolls on to the table and her neck stump pulses arterial spray. The hosts at the table laugh and cheer, but Tommy only sees Daria’s innocent face. Pale, streaked with blood, and locked in an eternal look of betrayal. A trusting daughter callously murdered by her monstrous father.
Unaware of his macabre dreams, Daria feeds Tommy fish broth and freshly cooked black squirrel with honey. Although he never awakens, Tommy manages to keep the food down. After a couple of long nights, filled with feverish nightmares, Daria notices Tommy’s energy start to return.
Tommy screams himself awake, clutching at his blanket, hellish visions ingrained on his retina like blood on silk. He hears the faint and distant laughter of a woman somewhere. The sound seems to come from behind him, from deep inside the ancient tunnels.
As he more fully awakens, sea air sifts through the shrouded cave entrance along with the sounds of the waves. The waves sound far calmer and more serene than those that greeted his arrival. Ever present seagulls, no doubt circling high above the cliffs, call out and their strangled voices intrigue Tommy’s sluggish mind. These enticing sounds prompt his hurt body to investigate. He manages a fumbling crawl to the fabric camouflage door at the end of the cave — his first excursion from his rabbit-skin haven.
He pushes the entrance curtain aside and, as his light-deprived eyes adjust to naked sunlight, he is rewarded with a stunningly picturesque view.
NTB illusions could not create something so perfect, Tommy thinks.
Three-hundred feet up, the cave mouth overlooks the most perfect sunset he has ever seen. A noise to Tommy’s left disturbs him. A friendly face appears. A dark-skinned woman smiles at him before whizzing down a zip-line and into a sea vessel — a grand sailboat of magnificent colours.
Vessels pepper the sea. All the boats — from large to small — are formed with the most exquisite artistry. Some are fierce-looking metal warships; some are wooden pirate galleons. There are long boats, catamarans, humble fishing boats and barges. There seem to be, arrayed before him, all the varieties of seafaring vehicles mankind could ever imagine. Nearest the cliffs he could even see dinghies, with children practising at the helm, bobbing around on the now still and calm sea. Looking to his right, he observes more people ‘zipping’ down lines to greet the diverse naval fleet.
There’s a beautiful simplicity to the way these people live, thinks Tommy. The scene touches his heart, and he marvels at the fishing community life.
“Quite a sight, wouldn’t you say?” says a familiar voice from above him.
A startled Tommy drops on all fours, painfully, and shuffles to the left of the entrance managing to twist and look up the cliff face. There he sees Talon, also on all fours, climbing headfirst towards him down the r
ough rock face.
To Tommy’s amazement, the strange looking Talon is using his abnormal bone structure to cling to the rock face. Talon is carrying, secured to his back, a large bundle of wood and, dangling from a leather strap, tapping on his knotted forearms, are several plump birds and a couple of giant black squirrels.
Shuffling backwards out of the doorway, Tommy leaves the heavy camouflage material to one side, arranging a clear entrance for his surprising host.
Talon swings through the opening and lands silently and gracefully, despite his burdens. First, he discards the wood bundle and then, unclipping them from his huntsman belt, drops the dead animals on the cave floor. He walks across the cave, plops down cross-legged on his favourite seat — a low-set, comfortable-looking thing, covered in multicoloured furs — and smiles that haunting, plate-bone grin at Tommy. Still smiling, Talon pulls out several wooden bowls from beneath his seat. Talon adores his seat — and he tells this to Tommy on many occasions. Situated next to the cave wall, across from where the fire is located, it is in a prime position — the perfect spot for the cave’s patriarch. He is obsessively protective of this seat for no real reason that Tommy can see, other than that it is his chair, and he likes it. Tommy finds this amusing — a demon, who lives in a cave, having an unrequited love affair with an armchair.
“You look better today; less shadow around your eyes,” says Talon, as he unhooks a multi-coloured flask from his huntsman belt.
“Yeah.... I think I’m getting stronger,” Tommy replies, cautiously studying Talon’s decorated flesh and swordlike elbow spurs. This cave, the monstrosity before him, the lightning-quick (in more ways than one) child — they still seem unreal to Tommy. He still feels like none of this is really happening, everything here is surreal.
Talon throws the empty flask to Tommy.
“Here, fill it from there,” Talon says, gesturing to a hidden alcove, two feet to the right of Tommy.
Feeling along the wall, Tommy’s hand slips through camouflage rock material and into a stone alcove filled with ice-cold water. Shocked, he recoils and yelps. Noticing Talon’s amused face, Tommy scowls and tries again, filling the flask.