Twin Spirit

by Matthew Thompson

  “Why not,” rasped the third. His hair was braided.

  “I’m Mohawk,’ said the Mohican creature. “We mean you no harm,” he said, pointing the spear to the deck. “That’s Spike and Braid. There’re more of us here… in this perilous prison of ours,” he added, observing his surroundings.

  “What are your names?” asked Braid.

  Stanley blew out his cheeks with relief and beckoned the twins to come forward. “My name is Stanley Hopkins. Rose, here, is human, and Lily… well, you know. And up there is my parrot. Say hello, Brunel.”

  “Hello! Pheeeeew! Hello!”

  Mohawk nodded. “Nice to meet you all. Follow us.”

  Stanley held out his arm, preventing Rose from following. “How can we trust you?”

  Mohawk turned. “You can’t. But what choice do you have? Anyhow, I’ve seen your fuselage. And we have fuel,” he said, climbing down and out of sight.

  Stanley sighed. “Brunel! Come, we’re leaving.” The parrot came swooping down from safety, landing on his shoulder. “Some help you were…”

  “Amnesh scared! Pheeeew! Oh boy!”

  The twins, Stanley and Brunel abandoned Bella Air and caught up with the critters. Barely thirty yards from the vessel, Stanley glanced back. “What the… ?”

  They all turned to view the scene that had befuddled Stanley.

  “A cage, but how?” asked Rose, bemused as she observed steel bars, inches apart, encaging Bella Air.

  “Now that’s magic. Is this your work?” asked Lily.

  Mohawk shook his head. “We’ll explain everything. But no, that is most certainly not of our work.” He sighed, then turned and continued to walk deeper into the forest.

  * * *

  Stanley and the twins walked behind the creatures with wariness. They witnessed Mohawk follow a trail of white feathers, every fifty or so paces.

  Over a small peak, they arrived within a secluded setting where a variety of plantation featured. Mohawk and Braid waited as Spike lifted a circular lid from the ground made from leathery leaves. A withered rope ladder protruded from the edges of the hole. Stanley and the twins peered down into a dark pit where a dot of yellow light shone.

  “See you at the bottom,” said Mohawk.

  “Hold tight as you go down,” said Spike.

  “After you,” said Braid, gesturing his long, bony, black hand.

  One by one they placed their feet into footholds and climbed down. The air became dank, and the light, weak.

  Stanley counted to himself. “Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-centipede!” With one hand holding his weight, he scrambled for the next foothold, hugging the rope. Two deep breaths later he continued the descent, accompanied by joyous giggles from above.

  The bottom of the pit featured lanterns, revealing a cavern filled with timber slats. The creatures walked ahead through a dingy corridor of wood, rock and bare soil. They began to bicker about waking the rest of the gang. What became apparent was the authority of Mohawk; a strong voice amongst the group.

  “Like I said, the others will know soon enough,” said Mohawk, clutching the shoulders of Spike and Braid as they strolled towards an entrance.

  The wooden door featured a small rectangle, enough space for a pair of eyes to ogle those on the opposite side. Upon arriving, the rectangle slid open and two sharp, eagle-like eyes stared out.

  “Password,” said the door creature in a soft tone.

  “What?” said Mohawk.

  “You know, the password.”

  “Look, Curls, everything’s cool,” said Mohawk. He paused. “All right, now what was it? Ah yes… Elvis is in the building.”

  The door creature gave Stanley and the twins another fleeting look. “Well, I had to make sure. It’s not every day we have visitors.”

  “You’re right, Curls, as always,” said Mohawk, proceeding into a surprisingly large and inviting cavern. Sheets of cloth featuring sunny landscape paintings hung from wooden beams. Sculptures of people made of timber and stone were situated amongst lit candles. Not a grand palace by any means. Nonetheless, it looked homely.

  “Welcome to our abode,” said Mohawk. “It’s home… for now. Mind you, I’ve been saying that for the last two years.”

  “You’ve lived here for two years, amongst all the creepy crawlies?” asked Stanley as he investigated a colourful painted portrait of the creatures.

  Mohawk nodded. “All twelve of us have dwelled here.”

  “Erm… maybe not twelve,” said another creature – intelligent sounding and calm. “Probably eleven of us now,” he added. The spoken one appeared from a burrowed den five feet high in the wall. The creature swung his skinny, black, furry legs over the edge and sat, holding a hand-size paper aeroplane.

  “What are talking about, Quiff, why eleven?” asked Mohawk.

  “Biggs didn’t come back last night,” he said, running his thin fingers through his large, wave-like hair. “He left after dinner. I was told not to say anything. Methinks the growl got him.”

  “The what!” cried Stanley. “There’s a… growl out there?”

  “What’s a growl, Stanley?” asked Rose anxiously.

  “I have no idea, but it sounds hideous.”

  “You don’t want to know, trust me,” said Quiff, then threw the paper plane. It swooped up and glided down to Rose’s wellies. “Well, in any case, nice to finally see some new faces. It’s been a while, see.”

  Mohawk sighed. “What did I recently say to you all? We need everybody here. Out there we’re only pawns for his pecking. Biggs knows better than this. It’s not like him.”

  “I guess there’s a breaking point for us all. Biggs’s came yesterday,” said Spike, taking a seat on a wooden bench made from a tree trunk.

  “Who’s Biggs?” asked Stanley.

  “Tour manager. Well, he was,” said Mohawk. “Before Biggs, Archie went missing – our lighting engineer. He’s been gone weeks now. Shame… nobody lit the stage like Arch.”

  Stanley pulled a face of puzzlement, echoed by the twins.

  “I gather it’s you that woke us up. But with what?” asked Quiff.

  “My vessel, Bella Air,” said Stanley.

  “Any good, Mo?” said Quiff.

  “Not quite, he already knows. It’s securely behind bars.”

  Stanley moved behind decorated wooden pillars featuring photos of musicians playing their instruments. “May I ask a question,” he said, “that’s not to cause offence in any way – merely address your current situation?”

  “What the hell are we?” guessed Spike.

  Stanley nodded slowly.

  “I was coming round to that,” said Mohawk. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask earlier. We’re a band of bandits. There’re five of us in the band, though we also have another seven stationed here – six if Biggs doesn’t return. That’s Quiff up there.” The bandit in question raised a hand and stretched out his claws in a Mexican wave-like fashion. One of his fingers was noticeably longer than the rest. “He plays bass. Curly plays keys. Braid plays drums. Spike plays lead guitar, and I…” He delved into a top pocket with his slender fingers and withdrew a silver item. “I sing lead and play the occasional harmonica.” He played a selection of notes. “Together… we’re The Ayes,” he concluded, and took a bow while Spike played a flourish on his guitar.

  “The Ayes…” said Stanley. “Yes, you do look like the Madagascan aye-aye. The Judge made you this way, I take it. Why were you sent here to be punished?”

  Mohawk sighed deeply. “I’m no murderer, but I’ve broken a few laws in my time, as we all have,” he said, swiping his hand through the air to nodding heads. “We’re here for our ‘criminal indecencies on Earth’, as the Judge put it. To be punished for our petty crimes: stealing, trespassing, vandalism – you know, the kind you’d get a slapped wrist for back on Earth. Here, though, we’re at the mercy of Kiian.”

  Stanley tilted his head and looked at them all with inquisitiveness. “Your band on Earth was cal
led The Ayes, and now… ?”

  “That’s right,” said Mohawk.

  Stanley stroked his moustache. “Maybe Kiian does have a sense of humour.”

  “Gross…” said Lily.

  Rose winced, hoping her sister’s reaction wasn’t too offensive.

  “I couldn’t live looking like that,” Lily added.

  “You get used to it,” said Mohawk.

  Stanley began to walk with curiosity. “So, you – people,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “have lived here for the last two years, and you all play in a band?”

  “Correct,” said Mohawk, throwing a squidgy substance into his mouth and chewing it.

  Stanley clutched his chin and paced around. “How did you end up like this? I mean, there are protocols for these establishments.”

  Mohawk gulped his grub and spoke with a serious tone. “This sector ain’t right. We should have been granted permission to leave months ago.”

  “Why don’t you try to escape?” asked Stanley.

  A bellow of laughs surrounded the visitors. Mohawk spoke louder. “We tried… and then we tried many more times.”

  “What’s preventing you?” asked Lily.

  “Huh, not what – who,” said Spike, sitting up and stretching his hairy, bony arms.

  “Anthony Orwell,” said Mohawk. “He controls this sector; he calls it Orwellville.” He moved towards a torn hung blanket with a masked face painted upon it. “Or, as he likes to be known, simply Mr Orwell. He owns everything, including us, and now you.”

  Stanley stepped closer, analysing the shredded blanket. “Complete sector control is forbidden for Earth spirits. How is this possible? Surly the Govern know.”

  “We suspect, and they allow it,” said Mohawk. “We’ve tried everything to escape. We’re lucky if we return alive. The man’s psychotic.” He stepped towards the drum set. “Tell them your Orwell treat.”

  Braid held a drumstick in his right hand, spinning the other slowly in his left. He eyed Stanley lazily. “I must have trekked what, twenty, twenty-five miles northwest. I came to a clearing in the forest and couldn’t believe my eyes: I’d finally found others, just like us. Trouble is… it was Spike. I was right back here,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t recognise the place I call home. The man’s a flippin’ loon.”

  Mohawk waved his spindly index finger and spoke potently. “He changes the sector, you see. Everything and anything can move. Forest paths become streams. Hills become swamps. Find yourself a nice tree to sit on and contemplate, only for it to vanish like the lives we pretend to live.”

  “So are there others here?” asked Rose.

  “Who knows,” said Mohawk. “I’ve only ever seen one other chap. He sounded desperate – a voice of a lost soul. His name was… Kane, something Kane. Before I could make any headway, he was gone.”

  “The sentencing continues,” said Stanley, “and I’ve seen prisoner air vessels travel within this district. I’d be surprised if there aren’t new arrivals.”

  Mohawk shortly paused to compose himself. “Alone or not, we’re unable to leave. However, my dear voyagers, your vessel may change all that, as we have the fuel you need,” he said and grinned, placing his hands together as if praying, then slid his fingers together and briefly waved them like wings. “If you can remove those bars, what do you say we catch a ride out of here?”

  Stanley smiled back and nodded. “As soon as possible. We’re in search of someone,” he said, turning to face the twins. “Rose and Lily’s mother.”

  “She can separate us. Well, we think she can,” said Rose.

  “Awww… that’s sweet,” said Curly, welling up, wrapping her thick black hair around her finger.

  Mohawk stepped closer to the twins. “And I’m guessing that’s why the Govern were snapping at your heels. You’re not supposed to be here, are you?”

  Rose shook her head, while Lily looked around and focused her eyes on Braid’s drumsticks; she snatched them from his grasp. She then beat the drum, followed by strumming Spike’s stings and plucking Quiff’s bass, conducting her own jam session.

  The bandits stared, utterly bewitched.

  “That’s… quite a talent you have there, Lily,” said Mohawk amongst a barrel of banter from the bandits. “Truly, I’ve never seen the likes of you two.”

  Rose anticipated the aftermath. However, she didn’t flinch.

  “We can take him,” said Lily, confidently. “Where can we find this Mr Orwell?”

  Mohawk smiled. “Oh… you’ll get your chance, little spirit. He knows you’re here, and everyone gets invited to the mansion – at least once. But I warn you, he doesn’t play fair.”

  “I hope your magic can help,” said Spike. “He likes magic.”

  Stanley hummed a thought. “Ownership of sector control is extraordinary, not to mention unstable. Have you not tried talking to him, making a deal?”

  Mohawk turned and walked around, speaking woefully. “Like I said, we’ve tried everything. He simply doesn’t listen, or care. He just keeps playing silly games, conducting us like puppets. He calls us his pets – his Burrow Bandits.”

  Lily huffed and narrowed her eyes. “Then we don’t go. We break through the bars and –”

  “If you don’t go,” interrupted Spike in a tired voice, “there may not even be a vessel.”

  “Spike’s right,” said Mohawk. “Our best bet is for you to go and accept his invitation while we sit tight and prepare the fuel. So… are you in, or not?”

  “We’re in,” said Lily without hesitation.

  “We can do this, right?” uttered Rose.

  “Let’s do it,” said Stanley.

  Mohawk stood on his tree trunk stool and spoke with pride. “Then it’s settled. Let’s put on a show tonight. Let’s celebrate this moment in time.”

  * * *

  Stanley and the twins walked through a short tunnel and arrived in a cosy grotto where the bandits were gathered on stage. The platform was littered with instruments and wires. Others came to join the gathering, bringing food and drink; they too appeared just like The Ayes, only without distinguishing hairstyles. They introduced themselves to the newcomers and sat together while the band members prepared themselves.

  “This is our latest,” said Mohawk into a microphone. “This one is called… ‘Lunar of Loneliness’. A one, a two, a one, two, three…”

  Spike gently strummed his guitar in an eerie rhythm. The drums beat to a military march. The bass boomed into a brooding melody, while Mohawk swayed to the sounds with his eyes closed and held the microphone. He began to sing.

  Stanley tapped his feet, Brunel bopped his head and the twins stared in amazement. Mohawk had a voice of wisdom; he sung with his soul, and all listened to every lyric.

  The final chord was struck, and Mohawk took a bow to rapturous applause. “Thank you,” he said, brandishing his harmonica. “This one’s an oldie. I’m going to dedicate this to Rose, Lily and Stanley.

  “Pweeeeew! To Amnesh! To Amnesh!” screeched Brunel.

  “And of course… Brunel,” added Mohawk. It’s called ‘Prophets’, and goes like this…”

  The Ayes played for over an hour, though the time passed without a moment of clock checking. The burrow erupted with applause after each and every song and the band basked in their audience’s appreciation. Even the high decibels were tolerated by Stanley, though he seemed wary of Curly’s fluttering eyelashes.

  Rose was enthralled by the show and enjoyed sampling the cuisine, which tasted better than it looked.

  Lily remained quiet, watching and listening to songs written by dreamers who dared to dream of freedom. Her attention was momentarily diverted when she observed a large rat in the storage compartment above Stanley’s head, sniffing his scent. Lily couldn’t help herself and watched closely. She gasped. The rat moved left, right and left again. Lily wished the rat to leap, and it did so, causing Stanley to leap too.

  * * *

  A bandit waited wit
hin the treetops above the burrow. Like clockwork, the invitation fell through the muggy air and landed. He climbed down from the tree observatory to search the ground. And there, amongst the pininana and canna flora, lay a golden envelope. On the front it read: Mr S. Hopkins.

  * * *

  “It’s here,” cried a voice. “Mr Hopkins, it’s for you.” The bandit handed over a golden envelope as the burrow fell silent.

  “Thank you,” said Stanley. He opened it, cleared his throat and read aloud:

  Dear Stanley,

  It is my pleasure to welcome you, the twins and Brunel to Orwellville. I hope your stay is joyous and awe-inspiring.

  You are invited to join me at the mansion, whereby you will experience the treasures that await you. We will share pastimes and present times, and relish the future. Please attend at nine o’clock, sector time.

  Sincerely,

  Mr Orwell.

  “Well,” said Stanley, addressing the twins, “he certainly sounds like a jolly nice chap.”

  The bandits remained mute.

  “Nine o’clock,” he added, “I was hoping for daylight hours.”

  “Daylight? We haven’t seen daylight for months,” said Mohawk. “I doubt the arrival of guests will entice Orwell to raise the sun.”

  “That leaves us how long?” asked Stanley.

  “Less than half an hour,” said Mohawk. “Enough time for one last song.” The bandits returned to their instruments. “Farewell and happy returns to our dear new friends. It’s called ‘Freedom’. Goodnight.”

  The burrow became mesmerised by the delicate harmony and inspiring lyrics; a perfect finale before the twins’ next voyage, to once again enter the unknown.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Life, Death and Spirit of Anthony and Charles Orwell

  Anthony would never forget the first time he encountered yellow metal, on 8 June 1917.

  On a semi-deserted ranch, Anthony, aged eleven, was feeding the cattle their daily grub when his father, and sole guardian, strolled up from the deep valley – a distant figure shimmering in the blazing midday heat. During the last few strides, his expression hinted at the extraordinary.

  “Son, stop feeding and follow me,” he said, then headed towards a barn.

  Anthony placed down the bucket of feed and stepped into the shade of the building with curious thoughts.