by Eoin Colfer
Garrick smiled a duplicitous smile that Cryer took for fondness but which was actually self-congratulatory, for soon Garrick would have his empire and Godfrey Cryer, through his own sacrifice, would make it come to pass.
‘Good Master Constable,’ he said, ‘pass the word to the watch and then return directly to me and stay by my side this night until we may rid the world of witches forever.’
And off Cryer trotted, all eagerness and joy. Delighted he was to be chosen as the Witchfinder’s right hand.
I sacrifice my most loyal servant, thought Garrick as he watched him go, and wondered whether there was ever a time when this would have plucked at the strings of his conscience.
Perhaps there had been such a time, he concluded. Once, long ago from his perspective. When he had been a boy.
Ah, but then I was merely a child.
Garrick remembered a lesson from 1 Corinthians that ran: When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
Albert Garrick turned to Chevie and spoke softly to her so that none of the watchmen might overhear.
‘I have put away childish things,’ he said, then glanced upward at the descending rift. ‘And very soon now, Miss Savano, I shall put away all children. Including your good self and the brat Riley.’
If Chevie heard, she made no sign.
Outside the wall, Pointer watched the men leave their posts in a mad rush for the other side of the town.
‘That was too easy,’ he said, grinning. ‘Garrick is a soft touch. He wouldn’t last five minutes in New York.’
There was a slight rustle in the undergrowth beside him and an arm extended, seemingly from the earth, and patted his head. ‘Good job, partner,’ said a small shrub.
But of course the shrub had not spoken. The voice belonged to Fairbrother Isles, who’d been lying there for the entire jibing match, concealed underneath his camo-sheet.
Pointer ducked away from the petting hand. ‘Quit it, Fender. Yeah, but it was a good job. Too good. I was looking forward to a real slanging session like we used to have on the basketball courts. Remember?’
‘Yeah, sure I remember. Isles and Pointer: the best two-on-two team in the Bureau. We retired champs, partner.’
‘Isles and Pointer?’ said the dog. ‘It was Pointer and Isles, the way I remember it.’
Riley poked his head out from under his own sheet. ‘Agents. Please.’
‘Sorry,’ said Pointer. ‘Dog genes. OK, let’s move it out.’
Pointer led the way, sniffing the ground like a minesweeper, guiding Isles and Riley towards the wall, which now had only one guard left to watch over that approach, thanks to Riley’s double bluff.
Garrick will sniff out a distraction, he had told the federal agents earlier. But not a second one, as that don’t work in the theatre, because it sets the eyes looking where you didn’t want them to look in the first place.
And it had worked. The moment Garrick sniffed trickery, he was off to the far wall as though his boots were on fire, but it would not take him long to suspect a ruse and so they must breach the compound while they had the chance.
When they were ten feet from the wall, Pointer ran ahead and set his forepaws scrabbling at the stone, howling and barking at the guard above, and while the man was fumbling with the load for his musket Isles and Riley rolled the last stretch to the base of the wall itself. It would have been relatively easy to scale, but difficult to conceal their silhouettes from anyone in the town casting even a casual glance in their direction, so instead Isles elected to take them through his bolthole.
I had Pointer dig this for me one time when the town was evacuated during a plague scare, he had explained back in the field office. He wasn’t too happy about using what could be classed as canine talents, but I convinced him that in this situation having paws and claws were boons to the mission. Then he got all snippy cos he thought I said ‘bones’. It’s exhausting. You have no idea, kid.
Nevertheless, the secret tunnel had eventually been excavated and here they were, with the blue night deepening all around and a bloody gash in the sky overhead, squatting in a blind spot at the foot of Mandrake’s wall, making ready to enter the town, where a small militia and a powerful magician waited for them.
And their only weapons?
A mysterious chest.
One flash-bang from Riley’s cape, which might or might not work after the swamp ducking.
One standard-issue 1980s Fed revolver, Isles’s beloved whittling knife and a bulletproof vest apiece.
‘Remember, kid,’ Isles whispered now, ‘these are innocent civilians. So no killing.’
‘Except Garrick,’ insisted Riley.
‘Yeah, well, obviously Garrick. And if you wound that guy Cryer I won’t lose any sleep over it.’
‘So Garrick and Cryer.’
‘Anyone else, leg shots only.’
Isles reached his fingers into a crack in the wall and lifted out an entire block of stone as though it were made of paper, which it wasn’t. The false stone was actually moulded from first-aid-kit plaster of Paris, which had been carefully painted to match the wall.
‘I would say that leg shots do count as wounds, Agent,’ Riley said.
‘Theoretically yes, but chances are you won’t hit anything anyway, so don’t worry about it.’
Agent Isles went first into the black hole, nudging the small chest in front of him. He was a big man and it was a small hole, but he wiggled his way through and popped a second plug on the far side. When through, he clicked his fingers once as a signal for Riley to follow. Riley did so with all speed, using the method they had discussed. Feet first he went, taking hold of the false block and manoeuvring it roughly across the hole, shutting out the stars on himself. Groundwater soaked his clothes, and he could hear the click and snick of beetles and insects as he wiggled through. A great fear overtook him at the persistent idea that this wall would collapse in on him, although Isles had assured him this would not happen as he had travelled this way a hundred times without misadventure.
But this ain’t no normal day, thought Riley. Everything that never happened before is happening this night.
Then Isles had him by the ankles and was dragging him through the oppressive darkness.
‘You OK, kid?’ whispered the federal agent.
‘No need to worry on my account,’ replied Riley, though the shake in his voice belied the words. ‘I am ready and able to do my part.’
‘You sure?’ asked Isles. ‘Your face is about as pale as a full moon.’
Riley sat up, brushing the remains of a squashed beetle from the flap of his cloak. ‘There is no alternative, Agent. Chevie hangs upon a stake ready for the cruellest of executions. So let us away and no more talk about it.’
Isles punched his shoulder gently. ‘All right, kid. You got your bearings?’
Riley looked around. They were behind the jail shack, exactly as Agent Isles had shown him on the scale model. To be more precise, they were behind the pigpen’s water trough, which was fed by the occasional bucket when times were dry. If the bumping, snorting pigs noticed their presence, then they paid them no mind, accustomed no doubt to Isles popping in at irregular intervals. The odour was not as rank as one unfamiliar with porkers might assume, which was not to say that it was pleasant. Much worse was the noise: a constant honking and screeching that would drive a person clear out of his gourd should he be forced to endure it for long periods at short range. Smell or no, Riley would be glad to be out of this cacophony and on to the next stage of the mission.
‘And you know what to do?’ Isles continued.
Riley nodded. ‘I got it in my noggin, Agent. Bluff and bluster is all we need.’
‘Yeah, and a smile from Lady Luck.’ Isles sighed. ‘You know, kid, this isn’t how I saw my life going. I thought maybe a pretty girl. A couple of kids. Promotion. All that stuff. But here I am in a pigsty about to take on some ki
nd of quantum magician.’
‘The Forever Man,’ said Riley. ‘Or so he calls himself.’
‘The Forever Man. That’s quite a title.’ Isles shook his head. ‘There ain’t no way we’re coming out of this unscathed. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I do right enough,’ said Riley. ‘But Chevie is waiting. And we two have a history of rescuing one another.’
‘You, kid, would make a good junior agent,’ said Isles.
‘And you, Agent Isles,’ said Riley, ‘would make for a terrible magician’s assistant, as it would be the devil of a job fitting a lummox like you in a box for to be sawn in half.’
It was perhaps unwise for the pair to be chatting, however low their voices, for the men of Mandrake’s militia were on high alert, with ears pricked for anything out of the ordinary, so far as anything could be considered ordinary on this day of days when hell itself would be forever banished, or so they thought. Either Riley or Isles may have spoken loudly enough to be heard over the pigs’ raucous bashings and snufflings, for a voice suddenly came from the left of the piggery. A smug nasal voice that said the following: ‘How now and by Jupiter. Egad and zounds. See what wallows with the pigs, Ben. Aren’t we the fine fellows altogether to be bringing home the bacon?’
Isles and Riley had been spotted by two fellows of the militia sent to patrol the shadowy spots. The one who had spoken was small of stature and big of mouth, clothed in a Roundhead three-barred helmet and breastplate, while his partner was a rotund gent in faded Royalist finery, which proved that a man could not be fussy with regards to his uniform in these hard times. Both men held muskets that were primed and pointed directly at Isles and Riley. At such close range it was unlikely that either would miss their target.
The small man spoke again. ‘Raise yourselves up now, my fine fellows. And let us all march peaceably to the square. And best beware, devils. Good Master Ben here can shoot the bobtail off a rabbit at a hundred paces, so he won’t have no trouble with your carcass, Isles. And this here musket saw me through the war without a single misfire nor wide shot. So go easy and it will go easy, as it were.’
Isles whispered to Riley, ‘Listen to this guy. He talks too much.’
Which was a touch ironic, since talking too much was what had landed them in dire straits in the first place.
Riley’s only reply was a curt nod. And the nod communicated to Isles that his young companion was ready to do what needed to be done.
The man Ben spoke next, and it was immediately apparent that he was the more taciturn of the pair.
‘Stand or I fire,’ he said.
The interlopers stood, mud and dung dripping from their clothing.
‘Raise your mitts in the aspect of surrender,’ ordered the Roundhead.
‘I like Ben,’ said Fairbrother Isles.
‘Very well,’ said Riley. ‘Then perhaps you should introduce yourself.’
Isles clenched his fists. ‘Yeah, perhaps I should.’
‘Silence!’ ordered Roundhead. ‘I do not like your tone. It is not appropriately fearful for such a situation.’
‘Aye,’ said Ben. ‘Usually we gets tears and begging and suchlike.’
Isles spoke seriously to Riley. ‘Remember what I said. No killing innocent civilians, even if these two are technically not innocent and in the militia to boot, so not civilians either.’
‘I understand, Agent,’ said Riley. ‘But I trust they can be knocked from consciousness.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Isles. ‘Absolutely.’
With that Riley’s hand flickered downward and there was a bright flash and a puff of smoke. When it cleared the two prisoners were prisoners no more; they had disappeared.
‘Ye gods,’ said Roundhead, blinking the glare from his eyes.
Ben said nothing as he was already unconscious.
Olaf the Boar
For all intents and purposes the town of Mandrake’s Groan in the county of Huntingdonshire was now the centre of the universe. If the inter-dimension’s various creatures were to be deposited on earth, it would only be a matter of time before the world’s energy was depleted and the quantum foam would attach itself to stardust and be carried to other planets, and the entire galaxy would soon be just as barren as twentieth-century scientists believed it to be.
This catastrophic collision of dimensions had occurred on one previous occasion, when the sophisticated minds of Atlantis had succeeded in opening a pinhole to the inter-dimension. However, the hole proved more than large enough to admit a flood of omnivorous worms that succeeded in devouring every living thing on the island before turning their attention to the island itself, gnawing it to the very stump of its volcanic toadstool and destroying its civilization in all but the mustiest books of legend.
Garrick knew that the results of his meddling with the rift would be disastrous for humanity, and for the wormhole too, but then its power would be greatly diluted and it would no longer have a claim on his body or soul.
King Albert, he thought. Or Emperor Albert.
In a way he would transcend all titles, for there would be none to be his equal besides God himself.
And why, Alby, why do you do this? Why not simply take your revenge on the boy and his FBI friend?
Because the wormhole would have him eventually, unless he could eviscerate it first. Now was the time when it was weak and vulnerable, its belly sagging like the gut of a rotten fish. Then, when it took the girl, the silver in her gullet would rupture it entirely.
And never again shall it have dominion over Albert Garrick. In fact, Albert Garrick shall have dominion over the world.
The wormhole was the only thing in existence that Albert Garrick feared; the rest was mere pettiness. There were small victories and irritations, but always with the wormhole tugging at his person, waiting for the chance to snatch him. And, though Garrick was strong, he thought that were he to enter that quantum ocean once again it would penetrate his very soul.
And change me accordingly.
Garrick had the awareness to know that the creature that resided in his soul as a result of his life’s work was truly an abomination. On that last tumble with Riley and Miss Chevron in the wormhole he had been given a glimpse of his own twisted soul: a cold-blooded leprous creature, which slithered in the dirt where it belonged. All scales and hissing, it was. All milky eyes and boils. It made him shudder to think of him, Albert Garrick, becoming that thing.
‘Never shall it take Albert Garrick,’ he said now. ‘This I vow.’
Garrick felt a sudden tugging at his innards and a faraway roar in his ears, which reminded him of conch shells at the seaside, and he felt himself levitate from the flagstone on which he sat. He knew that soon the rift would have grown so large and its force would be so strong that he would be sucked up entirely, weighed down by silver though he was.
Now is your time, Alby, he realized. The moment has come.
He stood to face the people of Mandrake.
This is the greatest role you shall ever play, Albert Garrick, he thought. Saviour of the world.
Chevie drooped weakly from the stake, supported only by her bonds. She had always been a fighter, but now it seemed that all her gumption had been drained out of her by the notion of the terrible Devil’s Brew, which she would shortly be force-fed. Chevie knew that she was going to die that night. She knew it because she could see no way out – after all, Garrick was invulnerable as far as she could tell – but also she knew it because her life was flashing before her eyes. And that was the sign, wasn’t it? Just before you die all the major events in your life clamour to make themselves seen. And so, in her state of mental and physical exhaustion, dehydration and extreme hunger, Chevie’s life played out in her mind’s eye like the trailer for a movie that could have been really good but blew it with a sad ending.
Chevie was surprised to find that she could remember her mother’s beautiful brown face in perfect detail.
‘Mom,’ she whispered, and the word was like d
ust in her dry mouth. ‘Mom.’
Her mother had been killed by a black bear in La Verne. Big joke, right? A Native American killed at a campsite by a bear. And then her father was lost to her in a motorcycle accident.
Losing one parent is unfortunate, but losing two is just careless.
A tough guy in her first foster home had thrown that in her face at dinner and she in return had thrown her dinner in his face, which was poetic justice at least, but still got Chevie moved along to the next home.
After that first move came a series of foster homes where she had never seemed to fit in or make a meaningful connection. Sure, there had been a couple of friends along the way, but Chevie saw now, in a flash of self-awareness that would have made her school counsellor proud, that she was afraid to make good friends because she couldn’t stand to lose someone else. Chevie hadn’t felt truly at home until the FBI had recruited her for their juvenile consultant programme and she had got to work out her aggression on firing ranges and assault courses. She had reckoned that it was OK to bond with other consultants on a professional level. She had even dated one guy a couple of times. There wasn’t much of a spark, but at least Chevie felt she was inching towards a time when she would be able to hold down a real relationship.
Then came the WARP programme, and Riley. In spite of all the other seismic events that had shaken her life to the core since then, it was Riley who shone the brightest in her mind, because the wormhole had connected them somehow. They both knew that a shared happiness could be theirs.
And now Garrick was about to snatch that away from them, and probably devastate the planet in the process.
Chevie’s daydream was interrupted by the clink of her silver chains as the wormhole drew closer and tried to literally draw her into the sky.
The time has come, she realized, feeling the links cut into her shoulders. Garrick’s moment is here and my time is up.
And she wished two contradictory wishes simultaneously. The first was: