Twin Spirit

by Matthew Thompson

  His father knelt down to his son’s level. He placed his grubby hand into his pocket, then brought out a clenched fist. “Son, I want you to know,” he said, placing his other hand on Anthony’s shoulder, “that what I hold here will change our lives forever, and for the better.”

  Anthony’s curiosity gave way to a rush of excitement. What could possibly be grasped within one man’s hand that could change lives?

  “Hold out your hand, son.”

  He did as he was told, and his father slowly unclenched his fist over Anthony’s palm. Surrounded by the dirt it came from, he observed a yellow stone.

  “Gold, son. Pure gold. Our gold,” he said, rolling another nugget in his own palm. “This is for your eyes only. With more of these, we will live like Tudor kings. Say nothing of this to anyone, you hear?”

  Dazzled by the glistening nugget, Anthony almost forgot to reply. He finally nodded, and was rocked by his father’s loving hand ruffling his sun-bleached hair.

  “As you were. I’ll be a while longer. Gonna dig me up some more of these yellow stones.”

  Anthony watched his father leave in search of their fortune, laid deep within the rock veins of California, United States of America.

  * * *

  The gold came out slowly, one hundred ounces per week. A year later, the mine gave more than two thousand ounces per month. One mine to begin with, then five, stretching from the foot of Battle Mountain to the peak of Devil’s Gate. All became the land of Orwell, renamed Orwell Valley.

  * * *

  After the discovery of gold, Anthony led a sheltered childhood. He knew much about the world and why he was privileged, whereas others weren’t. Educated at home by his ever-present father, Charles Orwell, Anthony experienced far more than his peers.

  Many would say Anthony grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth. This was true, although Anthony’s spoon was gold. He became known as the rich kid, the boy with yellow blood, the golden boy. He always thought his upbringing shouldn’t be the cause for name-calling. After all, the young Mr Orwell hadn’t asked for gold; he was given it, in abundance.

  Motherless due to disease, Anthony witnessed women come and go from the mansion. It appeared no woman was good enough for Anthony’s father. He spoke of living like a king, and said that some day he would find his queen.

  Amid the Great Depression of the 1920s, where money circulated like water in a frozen pipe, people desperately drifted in search of work, whereas the Orwells lived a comfortable life. Drinks were provided by the finest vineyards. A banquet of food graced their dining table, surrounded by obedient servants waiting on their masters. Anthony’s father loved the power. So much so, he reminded his son at every opportunity. “Too little gravy, you say? Then click your fingers and they will obey.”

  Barely in his teens, Anthony wrapped gold in paper: gifts for those he felt drawn to. Upon discovering what lay within, his father asked, “Why gold, son?”

  “Isn’t that what girls like?” said Anthony.

  “Son, at your age, girls don’t care for gold. That’s for our living, not for giving. How about flowers, or candy – all girls like candy, son.”

  * * *

  With an ever-growing empire, their gold mines spread throughout the west of America. The Orwells became recognised far and wide. For Anthony’s father, fame was a by-product of his work. However, he kept a secret, who arrived at the mansion: Anthony’s half-brother, Ethan.

  Aged nineteen, poor, malnourished and desperate for work, Ethan became the third member of the Orwell gold rush.

  Then, one still night, Ethan awoke in one of the twelve bedrooms. Alerted by a sound, he searched the mansion, only to become the target of thieves out for Orwells’ golden loot. While defending their property, Ethan was struck on the head by a crowbar and bashed into a coma.

  He lay in a pool of blood, while Anthony’s father sat by his side and gathered his thoughts.

  * * *

  Anthony would never forget the day America shook. He was in his late teens, out in a goldmine like old times.

  “Hand over the pick, son,” said Charles.

  “How much farther d’you reckon?” asked Anthony.

  Charles gripped the pickaxe with both hands and steadied himself for the first swing of the afternoon. “Soon, son. She’ll deliver.” He swung the axe into the rock and pulled it out, discovering a sparkling tip. After he examined the metal head in the sunlight, he let out a gasp of laughter.

  “Soon, huh?” said Anthony, admiring their newfound site.

  A moment of peace and blissful discovery was broken by handfuls of dirt falling from above. A deep rumble vibrated beneath their feet and evolved into a rampant shake. Before they had time to exit the mine, it was too late. Wooden beams above splinted and snapped, causing a ton of earth to plummet. They groaned and spluttered before only the patter of rock and settling dirt could be heard.

  Anthony opened his eyes to darkness. With a face of muck, he could hardly breathe, and his throat yearned for water.

  Scraping through the soil and yellow stones, Anthony called out to his father. If he had survived, thought Anthony, then there was a chance his father had too. When he saw the hand within the dirt he hoped for a glimmer of life. He held it tight, chanting for him to be alive, and scraping at the soil.

  Anthony witnessed his worst fear.

  Out of the mine, he sat at the entrance until sunset. There he contemplated life without his guardian, his only friend.

  * * *

  Aged twenty, Anthony took full control of his father’s empire. He soon became aware of the hostility surrounding him that he had been sheltered from: those who discussed illegal activities over a game of poker; the kind of characters many wished to have no business with; men in pinstriped suits, notorious for organised crime; the mobsters of Chicago.

  Anthony did the unthinkable. He joined the family.

  “Gentleman,” said Mr Capone. “I would like to introduce you to our new member: the son of the great Charles Orwell. Please welcome, Anthony ‘Golden Boy’ Orwell.”

  * * *

  On 14 February 1929, the day that became known for the Valentine’s Day Massacre, Anthony prayed.

  He arrived at his destination within a police marked vehicle. He was dressed as a police officer, along with his colleague and close friend Kane. Behind them were two other members dressed in regular clothing.

  The four ambushed a garage in which a deal was taking place, a deal that Anthony and Co. had set up. A blaze of gun fire ripped through the interior, taking down all six members of the rival gang. Posing as police officers catching the bad guys, Anthony and Kane then escorted their two colleagues in plain dress to their police vehicle. Sirens blazing, they drove away from the scene: another victory for the police in the eyes of the public.

  “Yeah!” shouted Kane, racing through red lights. “This is it, Golden Boy. Capone’s gonna move us up for this. Just you wait.”

  Anthony remained calm. He simply tossed his first golden nugget into the air and caught it, thinking of his father.

  Business was good, and control of Chicago’s organised crime lay in their bloody hands. Anthony withheld his elation, but that was his way. He knew all too well how highs can implode.

  * * *

  While the world was at war, Anthony remained in fruitful spirits. Their crimes continued, and Anthony was in his prime. He moved up the ranks, given privileges by Mr Capone himself, the kind only ever given to those most worthy.

  But it’s all too easy for a mobster to fall foul – misled and ultimately deceived by a man you would call a brother. And Anthony’s supposed friend Kane abandoned him to make his own escape on a bitterly cold night while on the job.

  The police sirens encompassed the warehouse; the raid was quick and brutal. Like Ethan, Anthony lay in pool of his own liquid. He beckoned Kane for help, and their eyes met for the last time. He then watched Kane disappear through the window, leaving him for the police. Accepting the inevitable, he
held out his golden nugget, observing it through his Earth eyes for the final time.

  * * *

  Charles relished the prospect of running his own sector on Kiian. So much so, he applied to be in charge of the day-to-day running of Sector SR-377: a sector to house those to be punished under the jurisdiction of the Judge. With ample leadership and prowess while building his golden empire, Charles had all the attributes of a man to control such a sector, and Judge Kiian knew this within a glance.

  The thought of punishing and torturing criminals would break down even the toughest of minds – eventually. Charles cringed at the prospect at first; but in time he became immune, as if those living within the sector weren’t human spirits – indeed, most didn’t look human, thanks to the Judge’s Soul Reflection program.

  Like a golden mine concealing its treasure, Charles took full control of the sector. In came those to be punished, and out went those fortunate enough to outlive their sentence. He relished every new day a criminal entered his domain; some would say too much.

  In almost eight years in power, little, if anything, broke the monotony of the endless grind of the regime, until the unexpected. Charles discovered that he wasn’t the only Orwell in SR-377.

  Only by name did Charles recognise his own flesh and blood. Anthony’s sight had been re-imagined; his eyes glowed golden and dazzled those who dared to stare.

  To breach the rules of the Govern is like signing a certificate to be devoured. Charles knew this as Anthony’s punishment was due. He hovered his shaking hand over the switch to cause his son pain ranging from a sharp shock to beyond many can tolerate. Part one of their weekly punishment would activate nerves and moisten palms. Part two, however, he couldn’t bear to contemplate.

  Charles took hold of a microphone to speak directly to his son in jail. “The Schedule of Justice… is cancelled,” he said. He then looked to his advisor, who stood with an expression of regret. “Reeves… bring me my son.”

  “Sir, may I suggest –”

  “Do it. At once.”

  “If you insist, sir.”

  The next man to appear in front of Charles was Anthony. He stared with bright, golden eyes. “Father… ”

  “Welcome, son. Welcome home.”

  * * *

  Twenty-two hours later.

  “This is our empire!” bellowed Anthony’s father towards the swarming Govern. “Make your time count, son!” he added, aware of his impending death. “Revel in your time!”

  “Revel in my… ?” Anthony was unable to divert his gaze from the devouring Govern. To witness his forever loved father die once – atrocious. To see him die a second was inconceivable.

  * * *

  Anthony naturally took the reins from his father, for the second time in his life. He thought it was his duty to take over, and hoped that the Govern wouldn’t intervene; difficult to prevent given that the Judge decided who was empowered and who devoured.

  The visit soon came.

  The Judge, appearing as Anthony’s father, took one glance at the eyes he had imposed and that was enough to know that Sector SR-377 was in faithful hands. Because of his father’s legacy, Anthony was to take full control of an institution. From that day renamed OI-377, Anthony ruled his own institution.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Invitation to Mr Orwell’s

  Stanley and the twins departed the burrow, mulling over their newfound friends. Rose looked towards the enigmatic hill far in the distance where a mansion awaited their presence.

  The three hiked along a winding path through the dense tropical forest of Orwellville. They trudged under lush green leaves, some as large as Stanley. Vibrant hues surrounded them – apricot, turquoise and cherry coloured flora, all in full bloom. Some plants featured teeth primed for snapping and devouring. Multi-coloured frogs hopped and croaked amongst their rainbow sanctuary, and sailed upon the largest lily pads ever conceived. Beyond them, cascading back-lit mini waterfalls produced a lavish stage for happy koi as they swam in idyllic heated ponds.

  The climb through the intricate plant life seemed to sap Stanley’s energy. However, Rose seemed to float without a huff, comfortably at ease with the rollercoaster terrain.

  “Stanley, do you want to stop?” asked Rose.

  “Why… you tired?” he asked, huffing and puffing.

  “No, not at all. In fact it’s easy. Ever since I came to Kiian, I’ve felt lighter.”

  “Indeed, the gravity is lighter than Earth's. Though soon enough, it becomes the norm; just you wait.”

  Lily watched dots of green light dance around in the night. “How much farther? And what are all these lights?”

  “Fireflies,” said Stanley. “And I have no idea how far. Rose?”

  “I’ve lost sight of the mansion; it’s hard to tell.”

  “When we do eventually arrive,” said Stanley, “let me do the talking. I know this Orwell type.”

  Lily rolled her eyes and didn’t backchat. Instead, she hummed a tune of The Ayes. Above them Brunel swooped through the treetops. Better that, she thought, than ride the Stanley Hopkins’ vomit tour.

  Rose then paused, observing a tree. Thick roots curved along the ground. She began climbing the trunk to gain a better view.

  “Careful, mind your step,” said Stanley, hands on hips.

  A faint sound of wind breezed through the humid air while Rose reached for a foothold. It sounded like the breeze spoke. She listened:

  “Cooomme… cloooossser.”

  The air settled. Rose questioned her hearing, though didn’t wish to raise alarm. “I can see the rooftop from here,” she said, stretching onto her tiptoes, holding the tree trunk with both hands. “Not much farther, I think.”

  “Good,” said Lily. “Waiting is for wimps, as is moaning,” she added, peering down at Stanley.

  Onward they travelled. They went up and down, snaking along paths which appeared to echo their surroundings. The plantation, along with the sounds of hidden creatures, was infused with an otherworldly atmosphere.

  Their attention was pricked by a deep voice booming around them. “Follow the pecking peacock.”

  And then, like magic, they witnessed a peacock peck the ground ahead. Its large tail was fanned and awash with lively colour. They followed, winding along the branching paths, and crossed a stream over stepping stones while the peacock pecked.

  Over a crest, they arrived at a stone bridge featuring vast arches that stood for what seemed like a mile down, deep into a valley; so deep, the stone faded to black.

  “Fifteen century, that bridge,” said Stanley, leaning against a tree, dabbing the perspiration from his face. “Now, let me go first. Make sure it’s safe and all.”

  Stanley walked on, and so Rose followed closely, moving like a robotic toy, refusing to look over the edge.

  As the opposite side neared, she saw a series of stone steps with bamboo at either side. Each stalk was the size of a tree trunk, and the steps curled upwards ever so steeply.

  Brunel flew above, appearing right at home in Orwellville. He glided through the treetops and entered the bamboo climb. The structure carved up through the mountainous terrain and disappeared into the drifting mist.

  The ascent was time-consuming. They passed small bamboo huts situated amongst tropical palm trees. Each hut appeared to be a watch tower, unmanned apart from small golden gnomes that looked over the valley.

  At the top, Rose examined the imposing mansion. The many roofs pointed like arrowheads. Beneath, set in white walls between black beams, three rows of tall rectangular windows featured a lattice design: diamond shapes.

  She watched the peacock peck the ground within an enclosed tropical courtyard, no bigger than a tennis court. A fountain stood in the middle, where a statue of a man held a pickaxe in one hand and a golden nugget in the other. Ten paces ahead, double doors were lit and inviting. She looked over her shoulder to see Stanley dragging his feet, while Brunel swooped beneath the over-hanging palm trees and landed on his
shoulder. Stanley then nodded, so Rose stepped to the door, taking hold of a golden fist, and knocked twice.

  A voice, deep as before, said, “Puppets, Aries, you are my candy fairies. Please enter. We look forward to your company.”

  Stanley made a face and gave his limbs a shake before entering, followed closely by Rose.

  * * *

  The interior of the main entrance was filled with flamed candles, paintings, stone pillars, dark-stained panelling and drapes of rich fabrics. The white ceiling was carved with flora detail, from which hung a sparkling chandelier. To the right, double doors concealed the luxuries beyond. To the left, an open-plan living room with the largest furniture Rose had ever seen. Ahead, a grand staircase featured a golden banister.

  “Mr Orwell…” said Stanley, “where should we go?”

  No response.

  “Maybe this is the game the bandits were talking about,” said Rose. “First we must seek?”

  They roamed, investigating the double doors which revealed yet another dazzling sight. The dining room featured a table the length of five elephants, head to tail. By the far wall, a grandfather clock tick-tocked, breaking the eerie ambiance.

  “He’s not here. Where shall we go now, Stanley?” asked Rose.

  “Keep searching, I guess. Maybe we’ll find the kitchen,” he said, picking at the leftovers in his teeth. “Those bandits have lost their taste buds.”

  He headed for the opposite dark-stained doors featuring shiny golden handles. Once through, they closed behind him with a sharp click.

  Rose quickened her pace in Stanley’s direction. She held the door handle and gave it a twist, then peeked through the crack before gently pushing wider. There was no sign of Stanley, or anybody. She stepped into a wooden-panelled corridor with mounted candles on either side. Only the occasional arch broke up the length that stretched beyond a two-minute trek. “Stanley… where are you?” she called.

  “He might have… run to the other door,” said Lily.