by Alec Dunn
Death. The dead husk of an entire world.
The library with Gregor was filled with the old familiar smell.
Tristan had awkwardly tried to describe his dream to the old man and found that Gregor had become increasingly excited. “You saw the creature? In your dreams, my boy? Excellent. Excellent. What potential you have and to realise it so soon, eh. How surprising.” His purple black tongue flicked out through his wide smile and rolled over his lips. “Who would have guessed?” The old man in his shuffling slippers gave a dry laugh. “Europe, was it? The Vatican? Well, well, it was always a possibility that those dogmatic simpletons had stumbled across something.
Now, tell me again about this amulet. What did it look like? Be exact now.” Gregor leant forward on his walking stick. His eyes, yellowed and dulled with age, seemed to sparkle.
“Uh, yeah. It was an, er, amulet and… uh, metal, and the metal was kind of shiny, but a bit dull, so not really that shiny. So…”
“The shape, boy, what was the shape?” Gregor demanded.
“Shape.” Tristan was searching his memory, “Yeah, it definitely had a shape. It was… like an amulet type of size. It didn’t seem really big, if I remember rightly, and it wasn’t, like, small, no smaller than an amulet usually is. Not the size of a hand or a baby’s fist. More like an acorn size, or a thumbnail, maybe. It’s difficult to remember from a dream, but about that kind of size.”
Gregor’s smile had disappeared and he snapped, “Not the size, you cretinous dolt, the shape, boy, the shape. What was the shape?”
“Oh, yeah. Right. The shape.” Tristan thought for a while, “It was…” he tried to remember his dream, “metal.”
“Not the substance. The shape!”
“Right. It was kind of, er, sort of,” the details seemed hazy now, “acorn sized.”
“The SHAPE!”
“Ok, ok. There’s no need to shout.” Tristan tried to catch the wisps of his vanished dream. “It was round.”
“Round? Yes.” Gregor fed on his every word. They were like crumbs to a starving man.
“But kind of pointy at the same time?” It was meant to be a statement, but sounded like a question.
“Round? A sphere? Like a world?”
“I don’t know. Just round. That’s all I remember. Round.” Tristan paused a moment to try to describe it accurately. “And pointy.”
The noise Gregor made was a little like a camel in the pains of childbirth. “Nnnnnnnnnnn.” He gathered himself. “No, this will not suffice. No, you must do better, my simplistic visionary. Give me details. What did it look like? What was the shape? Did it look like the amulet of Claustri? Was it the amulet?” Gregor turned away in disgust from Tristan’s slack, uncomprehending face and shuffled heavily to the encircled desk of the library. His walking stick stabbed into the floor with each step. He snatched angrily at the locket around his neck to grab the key to the desk and rifled through the drawer, throwing less significant books to one side, till he reached his prize.
When he returned to Tristan, Gregor was holding the ancient leather bound book that Tristan had seen only twice before – once when Joshua had died and once when they had summoned the demon. Tristan tried not to show any reaction, but Gregor was so excited that he wouldn’t have noticed. “This, boy, this. Was it this?” The old man was splaying the book in front of him, searching through the pages.
The book was large, about the size of the Argos catalogue at his aunt’s house, but the paper of each page was thick and yellow. It didn’t look like any paper Tristan had seen before. The noise of the turning pages was dry but somehow sounded like a licking or sucking noise as each heavy page rolled over. Each page was unique, showing strange pictures and unreadable writing that looked like a cross between hieroglyphs and Chinese pictograms.
Was it handwritten?
Gregor found the page he was scrabbling for and pointed, breathless to a drawing, “That. Is it that?” and, with mouth open, he waited. His eyes bored into Tristan.
Tristan was curious about the book, very curious. His eyes scanned the page before he let himself focus on what Gregor wanted him to look at. It was filled with writings and drawings, but all over the page, as though it had been added to and added to. There were no margins and the writing was sometimes at unnatural angles. He tried to read some, but couldn’t. It was illegible. What language was it?
He let his eyes rest on the yellowed parchment beneath Gregor’s imperious, age spotted finger and saw the image of an amulet drawn neatly in black ink. He recognised it immediately. The spherical centre around which five jutting points protruded was oddly familiar. It was the same amulet from his dream – tell Gregor? Yes, and then, in Tristan’s curious mind flashed the seeds of an idea, tell him about the book. He didn’t have time to think it through, but knew he needed to carry on his reading lessons.
“Yeah, that’s it. And that book was in my dream too.”
Gregor was in raptures. His eyes were wide. He had only listened to the first half of what Tristan had said and was almost shaking with excitement. The ancient book he held slipped in his grasp before he quickly recovered himself and cradled it to him as if comforting a crying baby. It was as though he was sorry for having had to disturb it and reveal it. As it had slipped Tristan noticed that the dark, scarred leather binding of the cover was separate to the book. How interesting, he thought and something clicked together in his brain.
Gregor could not contain himself. He held his book close to him and looked like he might start waltzing around the library. “He found it! Earnest found it! What! And we have found Earnest! He has brought it straight to me, you could almost say! Ha!” Gregor looked at Tristan. His eyes were wide and he was smiling. His fat purple, black tongue lolled over his bottom lip and Tristan felt disgusted. He looked at the old man and felt that the smile and glowing face were malevolent. He tried not to shudder.
“Tristan, my boy, my remarkable, clever boy, do you think you might find Earnest’s whereabouts now? You have the sight, child, and we have set your torch to full beam, eh! I do believe you will find him in no time. Two shakes of a lamb’s tail so to speak.” Gregor looked expectantly at Tristan as if he would give him the answer now, before adding, “The creature is evil, you know. We must stop him from polluting this earth any further.”
Tristan realised what he was going to do and did it anyway. The seeds had germinated and he wanted to know more. More than Gregor was going to tell him. “I said, the book, it was in my dream.”
“What? My book?” Now Gregor was listening.
“It looked the same, the pages and that anyway. I think the creature was reading it. I think.” He tried to look as though he was trying to remember.
“Earnest with the amulet? Reading my book? No. This must not be.”
“I think there was a broken drawer. A broken lock, maybe?” Tristan wasn’t sure how far he could push this. Gregor was old, but certainly not stupid and he was dangerous. His eyes glanced at where the young boy had choked to death, clawing at his own neck for air. Yes, Gregor was very dangerous.
“The creature will come here?” Gregor looked around the library. “When?” he demanded.
“I’m not sure, but, listen, there’s loads of places to hide stuff in schools, places that no-one would ever guess, like…” Tristan looked around. It had to be somewhere that was safe, “in full view. You know like in detective stories they put something right out in the open and then people just, like, overlook it ‘cos they’re expecting to have to look in all these secret places.” Gregor was staring coldly at him and Tristan knew he had to come up with something better, and quickly. “No. Probably not. But…” he was running out of ideas. Where to hide a book in a library? He looked up as he was straining to think and saw the great white ceiling tiles above him. He acted quickly. “But somewhere that only you know. Somewhere really safe.” He bounded onto a table and grabbed a chair. He set the chair carefully onto the table and then stood on it. He reached up and co
uld just lift up the ceiling tile. “It’s a bit dusty, Gregor, but no-one’ll think to look up here. If you get a bag round it, it’ll be safe.”
Gregor shuffled to his desk uncertainly and Tristan waited. His face was a mask of helpful innocence. Would Gregor believe him? Would he bring the book back? Tristan waited, balanced precariously on top of the chair. He was in a dangerous position. One move, one small push in the wrong direction and it would all come tumbling down.
All he could do was to wait.
Time dragged as Gregor stood by his desk with head bowed in contemplation. Would he? And then Tristan saw Gregor reach into a low drawer and bring out a dark purple, velvet back. He placed the book with great care and reverence into the folds of the bag and brought it back to Tristan. Gregor grasped it tightly for a moment before holding it out for Tristan to take and Gregor said, “Be careful with it, Tristan. It is precious to me.”
They had just finished moving the desk that Tristan had balanced upon to another location in the library so that there was a vast distance from the floor to the ceiling beneath the book’s hiding place when Stephanie came in through the doors.
“Tristan! There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
She was pure joyous sunshine and he was suddenly happy and smiling, “You can’t have looked that hard. I’ve been here for most of dinner.”
“Yeah, well, I’m out of school for the afternoon on this trip for Geography while you and the rest of the losers are doing double maths.” Her beautiful smile captured his vision.
“How nice for you. And where are you going? I heard it was the sewage works.”
Her golden hair shimmered as she shook her head in denial, “It’s the water treatment plant, and it’s still better than double maths.”
“Probably. Are we still on for tomorrow night?”
Her smile seemed to get even brighter, “Yeah, but,” she paused dramatically, “I don’t want to risk getting stood up again, being left to stand alone, waiting, all on my own because nobody cares. So give me your mobile number.”
“I didn’t. It was my aunt…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, sick aunt, poor Cinder-Tristan cleaning up the vomit and then getting beaten up on the shopping trip. Nice excuse. You get a second chance, but if you’re going to be one second late you better phone me or I will give you such a beating that those guys who thought they had beat you up will be embarrassed that a little girlie has done a better job.” Her eyes flashed playfully. “Now, phone, hand it over.”
Tristan was consumed by the giving and receiving of ring-tones, the casual touching of hands and the warmth he felt through his body, so when he looked up and saw Stephanie’s flawless face it was an unpleasant surprise to see Gregor standing so close behind her.
His aged face, lined and mottled and thin purplish lips were distracted in gazing at Stephanie. The unclean, musty smell of the library filled Tristan’s nose. Gregor looked like a spectre of death at her shoulder. It was unnerving. When Tristan noticed that Gregor’s hand had reached up to stroke Stephanie’s golden hair it was offensive, sickening. His liver spotted, infirm fingers were trespassing on her perfection. Gregor looked deliberately into Tristan’s eyes, leant his face too close to Stephanie’s and breathed in deeply, inhaling her scent. Tristan felt revolted, violated. Gregor held eye contact with him, watching the effect of his intrusion and spoke slowly, “She is precious to you, Tristan? We must keep things safe that are precious to us, yes?”
Tristan nodded dumbly.
Gregor turned and was gone, shuffling away across the library and Stephanie shook her head in confusion. She seemed slightly lost, like someone just woken up. She didn’t seem to have noticed what had happened at all. She looked like she was trying to work out a complex equation in maths, but all she said was, “What’s that smell? Tristan, have you farted?”
Eighteen: A Certain Shaft of Light
“Do you think you might find Earnest’s whereabouts?” Gregor had said, earlier that day.
Once again, Tristan dreamt. His head rocked from side to side and muddy visions washed around his skull.
He is thin.
He sees rich brown skin on his young arms.
He has hardly any clothes to wear.
It doesn’t matter because it is hot. It is always hot here.
The hunger is driving him. He climbs higher on the mountain of refuse and human waste that is his home. He needs to find something special, something good, because his family are hungry.
He turns and looks back towards their tent. It is no longer visible beyond the mounds of rubbish. He climbs higher, looking for something that one of the other scavenging families that live there have missed, something of value.
The language he thinks in is not his own, but he understands the thoughts. They are desperate. He thinks of his mother lying ill in the tent and his baby sister in her arms.
The stagnant effluent filled water flows by their tent. They drink it.
Tristan smells and tastes the decaying mounds he is climbing over. The stench is unbearable. It is like holding a flame to the nerve ends of his nose.
It barely registers to the self in his dream. This is everyday.
He knows he is in India, on the outskirts of a large city.
The bright sunlight glints and reflects from the multi-faceted mountain. Broken glass shines like jewels. Metal shards twinkle like silver.
He watches his smooth brown hands waving over the dangerous jagged pieces, glinting with the decaying remains of everything society throws away. His smooth brown hands and naked feet find a path through the mountain of bacteria and infection. He is looking carefully. He needs to find something. He has to find something for his mother and his sister.
As he climbs higher on the fetid refuse site it is not the shining lights that catch his attention. It is the darkness. Away to the left there is a small patch of blackness. There is no reflection at all. Was it a hole?
He is curious and makes his way closer.
It is not a hole. What is it?
He is close now and laughs out loud. It is a hat. It is a strange, tall hat. It looks like it is in good condition. He leans forwards and touches the black hat. It is smooth and furry. It feels nice.
He picks it up.
He stops in horror. He feels shock and stares at the face underneath the hat. It is so pale. It looks broken in some way. It is a ruin of a face.
Tristan’s hand lashed out in his sleep, pushing away the familiar spoiled face of the creature.
His heart is beating fast. He must go and tell his father he has found a dead body. But he will take the hat with him. It could be valuable.
He turns to pick his way down. The pale hand moves so fast he doesn’t see it until it has grabbed hold of his arm. His mouth opens in surprise. He would have called out.
But the pale hand pulls him down into the fetid mound of rubbish. He is dragged down under the mountain of decay. He is pulled headfirst down into the rubbish. His feet, for a moment, wriggle and he feels the warm sun on the soles of his feet and then no more.
Tristan’s cry was muffled by his pillow. It felt like he was suffocating and his arms and legs kicked wildly for a moment before his dream images returned.
The creature, Earnest, he was looking for a way out. But the door was shut, sealed. There was no escape here.
The creature has fled across many countries, searching for a way out. He is tired. It has been running, looking for a way out. It is afraid, afraid of what it found in Budapest, afraid of what is coming. But all the doors are closed. All the doors are guarded.
He is tired and hungry.
There was no passage here, at the old door. It was sealed. The door was closed by the building of a great vault, a stone seal – the Taj Mahal – to close the way. Earnest had broken inside, but it was guarded. There were too many locks and traps. The door was capped.
There are others who know where he is now, guildsmen.
He is being hunte
d.
And all the doors are guarded. All the doors are closed.
Tristan rolled over and his dream vision switched.
Earnest in the thin light of a gaol. Solid, cold stones. A weak, narrow shaft of yellow stained sunlight spears through the barred window.
Earnest, before he was reborn. His wife is in his arms. She is dying. Angela is dying and he tries to be strong and not show that she is dying. He pretends that she is just going to sleep and he caresses her head and strokes her face. He sings to her as they used to when they were first married. She pretends that she is just going to sleep. She pretends they are back in their home when everything was new. Earnest is wearing his best suit, the one he was married in. She thinks of their wedding day. It is the same suit he wore to the trial. They are cold and ill and starving and poor and she knows she is going to die.
The spot of stained sunlight creeps up the wall, away from her. The light is leaving.
His heart is filled with anger and hatred. His head hangs down. Angela is dead in his arms and he wants revenge. He has been deceived. He has been betrayed. Angela, forgive me.
The light is blocked by a shadow. A silhouette is at the bars, whispering. The part that was Tristan strained to hear the voice, if only he could hear the voice.
That was over two hundred years ago.
The anniversary of her death was tonight.
And soon after there was his rebirth, there was revenge.
And the gaol is not far away.
The knowledge is certain: it is visiting the gaol tonight.
A farewell to the world where it said its last farewell to its wife.
Tonight.
Tristan’s eyes opened in the sure and certain knowledge that the creature’s resurrection site, its birthplace, the site of its greatest sorrow, was where it would be tonight. He smiled to himself and sprang out of bed. It was time to go running and it looked like he had a busy day ahead of him.