by Paul Heron
‘It’s just a dream, then,’ he assured himself.
The lady’s words became clear to him. ‘I can’t enter your world again, I wish I could. The gods of this world need your help. George and Scarlett, along with many others are there to support you as much as you need it. But you’re the one.’
She looked like a medieval witch. Her black and white dressed trailed to the ground. Her wild brown hair was almost the length of the garment.
‘My world? She’s a ghost!’
The man seemed to be consoled by her words.
‘But who are they? Why would she say she’d be watching over the man? They seem to be around the same age, probably mid-twenties.’ He felt like he was doing commentary for the show.
The man dropped his face into his hands and cried. He pulled a tissue from his jacket pocket to dry his eyes and blow his nose.
She straightened his lapels and gave him a hug. ‘Have a little faith.’
Michael continued to spy from the distance as their conversation grew more and more weird.
‘Don’t be afraid, Michael.’ Came a voice from behind him. The voice sounded as if it was whispering in his ear, but when he turned around the lady in the black rags was fifty yards from him, sitting on the back of a black unicorn. She looked at him, smiling. Her beauty was striking. She had an Irish accent. Why was the animal black? Unicorn myths usually described them as being white, a symbol of innocence and purity. Only to be tamed by a virgin. Then he snapped out of it. Unicorns, whatever!
He strained his eyes to see if the unicorn’s horn was part of a costume, like the lady’s Renaissance style dress. Maybe she dressed her horse up for a Renaissance fair? He couldn’t see a strap around the horse’s neck though, which meant it wasn’t a horse at all. He was seeing a unicorn, a real unicorn, if there was any such thing. From behind, he felt himself being pulled to the ground. He felt paralysed. Limp. He couldn’t move a limb. A tall black figure came into view. He couldn’t see a face. And he or she, whoever was underneath the garment just stood over Michael, looking down at him, motionless. He could hear them breathe heavily, but under the hood of the robe was just a dark shadow. Michael felt the ground shake, the blue sky behind the hooded figure disappeared and was replaced by a complete cover of grey. Rain started to pelt down on his face, into his eyes. He closed them. Feeling something touch his face, he opened his eyes and the hooded figure was right up to his face. Only inches away from his nose. A deathly groan came from under the hood. Michael lay there, looking into the blackness of under the hood. Feeling as if he was about to be sucked into it. He closed his eyes again. The rain got heavier and the groan got louder, his ears were aching. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He passed out.
MICHAEL’S EYES SHOT open and he woke up gasping for air, as if he’d been submerged under water. He was back in the airport.
What the hell was that?
He rubbed his stiff neck, thankful that he’d only dreamt it, though a little embarrassed to have dreamt about unicorns and shapeshifting women.
He sniggered at what his friends would think. But what was that black figure? It sent a chill down his spine. He knew it was only a dream, but it felt so real.
Chapter Two
MICHAEL GLANCED AROUND the busy departure lounge, hoping he hadn’t screamed or spoke out loud.
A family of three – a lady and two lads about Michael’s age – sitting on the opposite row of seats, stared at him with expressions that led him to believe he had done something weird.
He turned and saw his dad looking at him, a grin on his face. ‘Nice dream?’
Michael pulled a bottle of water from his backpack and drank it in one gulp, soothing his bone-dry throat. ‘It was really weird. I think I’m reading too many stories about Irish mythology.’
Mr O’Hagan continued to play on his phone. ‘You said something about black unicorns. I thought they were white?’
‘Very funny!’
Michael spotted his phone that had fallen to the ground, he snatched it up. Unlocking it, he found a photo on the screen: a pic of the man and woman in the middle of their debate. He swiped across to find another photo, this time of the lady on the back of the unicorn. Then a third and final pic: the dark figure, walking away from the photo shot. He was legitimately freaked out. Noticing a black feather resting on the left leg of his dark blue jeans, joined by a lock of black hair, he almost had a breakdown. Feeling his chest tighten, he looked around to see if anyone nearby was wearing a feathered scarf or something. Nothing. Nobody.
He grabbed the feather and lock of hair, stuffing them in his pocket along with his phone, hoping that his dad didn’t see it.
He tried to act nonchalant, like nothing weird was going on, either to convince his dad or to convince himself. He stretched, placing his arms on the back of the seat and bent his right leg over his left knee as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Out of the corner of his eye, he realised that his grey Sketchers were covered in dirt. He lowered his foot to the ground and swept the dirt from his jeans. His mind reeled, trying to remember if it had been raining that morning. Maybe it had rained last night, and he splashed in a puddle while they raced to the car? They had been in a hurry to get to the airport, so it was possible he might not have noticed muddy shoes. It’s possible, it is possible. But all he could think of was the farm, and the piercing eyes of that crow. Maybe it was just a combination of stress and lack of sleep. Maybe his mind was just playing tricks on him.
He felt uneasy about the whole thing. His life. He wanted to go back home again.
But he couldn’t just drop out. He was the talk of his family and friends. Even his local community was talking about him; about how he got invited to such a prestigious university. An intelligent young lad with grades beyond the norm. If he backed out, he’d be disappointing everyone.
He glanced at his father and resolved to make him proud.
Then the announcement came.
‘Flight P35 from George Best Belfast City Airport to Luton Airport is now ready to board. Please make your way to gate 5 through door A.’
There it was. Time to go. Time to begin his new life.
It was seven-forty and the sun was just rising. There was no rain or wind so at least the flight would be okay.
‘That’s us!’ he muttered, forcing himself off the seat.
With legs as heavy as lead, he swung his backpack over his shoulder and took the first few steps towards the departure gate that would lead him to his new life.
‘Text me as soon as you arrive!’ his dad said.
Michael struggled to keep a brave face. ‘Of course! See you soon! And don’t watch so much news, dad. The world isn’t going to war.’
It was rare for a non-passenger to get through security to the departure lounge, but the airport security made an exception since Michael was a local inspiration. He returned and kissed his dad on the cheek, and gave him a hug, struggling to remain calm. He didn’t want to be like that man in his dreams - blubbering like a baby. Taking one last look around the departures lounge – anxious expressions were everywhere. People in a rush to get somewhere. He noticed the sign of Northern Irish footballer George Best’s signature which stood beside a selection of Irish merchandise. Desperate to cling on to any inspiration, anything that would give him confidence, he said: ‘right, George, I’ll see you later, too.’
He headed towards door A just as a second call for the flight was made.
The queue for flight P35 was short and they were directed out to the plane almost instantly. No waiting around. Onboard the Bombardier Q400, Michael’s stomach was churning. Those pics on his phone stuck at the front of his mind. Afraid to open the folder and delete them, he tried to imagine they weren’t even there. The cabin crew led passengers through the usual safety demonstration. Michael watched them intently. He didn’t know why, he’d been on aircrafts all his life and never once gave the demonstrations a second thought. Now he was watching them as if his l
ife depended on it.
The mist on the window along with the hot air being pumped into the cabin reinforced the reminder of the changing seasons. ‘New academic year,’ he mumbled as he glared through the window, watching the staff prepare the runway for takeoff.
Once the pilot was given the all clear, they were swiftly off. The aircraft swiftly built up speed, everything outside began to pass faster until the white lines on the runway became one endless strip. Thankful it wasn’t a busy flight and he had the three seats to himself, he grabbed the arms of his chair, put his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, hoping that dream was a one off.
Chapter Three
AFTER A FLIGHT OF LESS than one hour, Michael touched down on English soil to embark on his new journey. De-activating flight mode, he checked his Facebook news feed. His best mate David had sent him a message wishing him all the best and telling him to bring him back something. He also reminded him to play the Irish card when it came to the women. ‘I miss you already, man.’ He grinned as he approached airport security.
As he got closer to the checkpoint, he felt his legs tremble. Two middle-aged men stood at the checkpoint, arms folded, looking defensive and bored. One of them was bald, stood around six foot three inches and had shoulders as broad as a door. He had those cauliflower ears, which were usually a feature of fighters or rugby players. The other was taller and slim, with shiny black hair, and thin-rimmed glasses. They were both dressed in civilian clothing. If it weren’t for their badges, you wouldn’t have known they were officers.
‘Passport please.’ The slim officer spoke with a broad London accent.
Michael rummaged through his carry-on luggage, earphones dangling from his hand. He was sure there must have been sweat marks under his arms. He handed the officer his passport, his invitation letter from Little Camberly University was inside the wallet. In return, he got a strong whiff of cigarette smoke and coffee.
‘Little Camberly? Wow, that’s a good University. You’re a lucky lad.’
‘Maybe Little Camberly will be lucky to have him,’ came a swift response from a soft-spoken female with an English accent. She stood directly behind Michael in what seemed like an endless queue, trailing all the way outside to the runway. She was elegantly dressed in a purple suit. She had soft brown eyes with scarlet coloured hair and matching lipstick. She gave Michael a warm smile, showing her bright white teeth.
‘Thanks,’ Michael said.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ the officer said. He smiled at Michael, and handed his documents back.
He walked towards the exit. ‘Okay England – let’s see what you’ve got.’
As he exited the terminal, his phone vibrated in his pocket. ‘Dad, my feet have just touched the ground!’
But it wasn’t Mr O’Hagan. It was a message from the school.
Welcome to Little Camberly. There’s a meeting this afternoon at 3p.m. in the Sir Herbert Noring Library. It’s for all international students who have arrived this morning. Please check in with reception on arrival. Thank you, and see you all soon. George.
SEATED ON THE BACK of the bus, Michael watched as other passengers left the terminal and joined queues at different bus stops waiting to take the next step on their journey. He spotted the lady that stood behind him at the checkpoint. She was on the phone, leaning against the wall just outside the terminal doors. She looked much more serious than she had when she gave Michael the compliment. The two officers from the checkpoint exited the terminal. She moved in their direction, keeping her distance from them. Michael wondered what she was up to. He strained his eyes as he watched her look over her shoulder, then pull a shiny dagger out of her handbag. She sped up, and shouted something at them. They both stopped and turned. Before Michael knew what happened, she swung the dagger, cutting through them both as if they were warm butter. The two officers exploded into red sparks, dissolving in mid air. Michael’s jaw dropped. She casually dropped the dagger back into her bag and made her way to the side of the road where a black car pulled up alongside her. She got in and the car sped off. He jumped up on his seat, and followed the car until it pulled out of the carpark and disappeared into the morning traffic.
After an unpleasant bus journey (he had fallen asleep on the bus to Little Camberly, woke up in London at the end of the line, and had to catch a bus all the way back), Michael arrived five minutes late, feeling less than enthusiastic. He trudged across the building’s car park towards the entrance. He pulled open the dated mahogany door, it’s glass panel rattled as if it was about to fall off. The foyer had that old wooden smell, like you’d get in a church that had stood the test of time. Along the walls, painted in burgundy, were brass candle holders separated about three feet from one another. A carpet, what used to be white, led all the way up to the reception desk. He approached the receptionist, smiling, forcefully. He cleared his throat to get her attention.
‘Afternoon!’ The old lady groaned, paying more attention to her computer screen. She wore brown glasses and had a massive mole on the centre of her forehead. Her two hands were wrapped around a white coffee mug that read “Daisy”.
‘Could you please tell me where the meeting room is? I’m supposed to be meeting someone there at 3.’ Michael said, looking around the ancient foyer. Everything about it was ancient. Even Daisy – if that’s what her name was – had seen better days.
‘Ah! hello, Michael! welcome to Little Camberly!’ she said, sounding more alive. Her eyes wide and enthusiastic.
It was strange that she knew Michael’s name, perhaps she’d been expecting someone with his accent. She leaned over the reception desk and pointed down the corridor to his right.
‘Thanks.’ He turned and looked around. His stomach churning. He saw a wooden door at the end of the dimly lit corridor that extended off and away from the foyer. It shared the same burgundy colour scheme.
As he approached the door, he noticed that the walls were not lined with brass candle holders, but with paintings. Portraits. ‘Must be portraits of famous people who have studied at the school. Not that famous, I don’t recognize any of them.’
Right outside the meeting room, there was a blank space on the wall. Michael assumed someone else’s portrait would be up next.
‘That space is reserved for you and your friends,’ the receptionist shouted from behind her computer monitor, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Michael laughed. ‘What a weird place.’
He gripped the door handle but hesitated. The brass became warm in his grip. He eventually plucked up the courage.
When he opened the door, an Eastern Asian accent got louder. The whole room turned to face Michael.
‘Sorry for being late. The bus...’
The tension in the room was palpable.
As he made his way towards an empty seat, each footstep made the floorboards creak, sending echoes through the atmospheric room.
‘We’re grateful you could make it, Michael.’ The Eastern Asian man stood at the front of the room looking as if put on pause, waiting for Michael to settle himself down.
Michael took a seat at the end of the table closest to the door, smiling back at the man. Is he a teacher?
At the table sat a mixed group, possibly around Michael’s age. They all smiled as each made eye contact with him. But none of them spoke.
Immediately to his right sat a stocky boy with brown eyes, cocoa coloured skin, and messy black hair. He threw Michael a conspiratorial look, and said ‘this guy’s putting me to sleep. Go and give him a shake, liven him up a bit.’ He had a middle eastern accent.
Michael sniggered. He used his sleeve to dry his face and hands. ‘I’m Michael,’ he said, reaching his hand over.
‘Mohammad.’
‘Salaam,’ Michael replied.
‘You speak Arabic? Cool,’ Mohammad replied.
‘Yes, Michael is quite gifted, aren't you?’ the man at the front said.
‘Am I?’ he said. ‘Well, I rece
ived an invitation to attend this university without even applying. I guess that’s something.’ There was a silence, as if they wanted more. ‘All I did was write a story. Just a story as part of an assessment that my teachers kind of liked. That got me my invitation. For nothing really.’
‘Same for me!’ A girl said. She had long raven hair that hung down over her round face. She wore a Brazilian football jersey and a matching baseball cap.
‘You’ve all received invitations.’ The Asian man said. He walked around the table in one full circle, his arms folded as if he was inspecting them. Michael could smell cheap aftershave that almost made him choke as the man walked past. He walked back to the front of the room. He was around five foot seven inches tall and very thin. He wore a three piece brown tweed suit that had a shiny silver pocket watch dangling from the waistcoat. His grey hair and wrinkled skin said he was at least middle aged.
Michael noticed the white board that ran along the wall they faced. In green Celtic lettering it wrote.
Today is the day your new life begins. You’re re-born.
The letters began to shimmer, then disappeared.
Chapter Four
‘YOU HAVE ALL BEEN INVITED to Little Camberly because you have a unique set of gifts; gifts beyond the norm. People might even think of you as freaks due to the level of ability you all possess. But, what each and every one of you already know, is that your abilities have only ever manifested themselves when you were alone. That’s because the world must not know about you. You’re all very talented individuals, and in your seventeen, almost eighteen years of life so far, you’ve all gotten used to them. Thinking of it, in itself, as the norm.’ The Eastern Asian man cleared his throat. ‘Michael, how are you feeling?’
‘Nerves are pretty much shattered today,’ Michael said. They all laughed, thinking he was joking. But he was deadly serious.