4)
...but darkness. Where the hell was he this time? How long had he been unconscious and what happened to the boar?
He listened intently to gauge whether he was safe. After a couple of minutes of hearing only his own breathing and heartbeat he felt content that he was alone. He could now turn his attention to his wounds.Strangely there was no pain from them and the darkness prevented him from seeing anything so he felt around his body instead. After carefully examining himself, and pushing down his sense of panic, he realised that there were no wounds at all and although his clothes seemed tattered there were no bloodied lacerations or bruises; nothing to account for the horrifying battle. He rubbed his wrists, and somehow this gave him some comfort.
He couldn’t understand what was happening to him. He was alone in the dark without any idea of where he was or how he got there. He knew that he could not succumb to the welling desperation; he had to figure out where he was.
He stood up and banged his head on something cold, damp and incredibly solid. He swore loudly at his stupidity, and heard it echo. He tried standing again, slowly this time, stretching his hands out. It was rock, biting cold and wet, which meant that he was must be inside a cave of some kind. He felt around further and realised that there was enough room for him to manoeuvre; he could actually get into a crouching position before hitting his head again.
As he became accustomed to the dark his other senses sharpened. He could smell the acrid dank air and heard echoes of water drip-dropped on to the floor. He crawled slowly along the ground, all the while hoping he was heading to freedom. He tried not to think about being trapped, suppressed all thoughts about being buried alive to the back of his mind. He shuddered as his clothes clung to him like a second, ill-fitting skin. The further he crawled the lighter it became.
He didn’t notice the breeze at first, it was so faint. Then he felt it on his cheek; a barely perceptible murmur from a long lost lover. He was overjoyed for it meant he was heading in the right direction: A draught meant a way out.
The cool breeze continued to caress his skin as he crawled forward at a faster pace now and there, little more than a glimmer at first, he could see a definite light; a lone star in this the darkest of nights, which grew in intensity the closer he got. The cave widened and soon he could, at last, stand.
As it broadened further he saw that there were large flaming torches lining the walls either side at intervals. There were empty wooden trunks and cases strewn about; some broken and smashed. One particular casket caught his eye and Alex knelt down to open it. Inside were more pages, similar to the ones he found in the wood. Some of the paragraphs had been scribbled out with something resembling a felt tipped pen and were now unreadable, and the few that were left made little sense to him. One in particular resonated though and Alex read it through again:
“I saw a glimpse of the future; a man standing over the pages of a book. The book is bleeding – rivulets of blood flowing between the words and sentences, drowning the story in crimson. The man is weeping and all behind him the fairy-tale landscape is dying, Bellkipeg is dying, fading into a breathless void as he forgets it and closes the book.”
It was then that Alex heard raised voices, coming from further in front of him. He couldn’t hear any specific words at first, but they were male –one young and the other older, more direct.
The cave sloped up to a rocky outcrop, and the voices carried from beyond the rise. Stuffing the pages in his pocket with the others, Alex moved closer very carefully. He didn’t know whether these were robbers who wouldn’t take kindly to him nosing about, or possible friends who could help provide a solution to his predicament. Either way he didn’t want to frighten them off. He reached the top of the outcrop and peered over the edge.
The older man's clothes were streaked and torn. He was tall, standing proud despite his appearance; his hair was as lank and unkempt as his face was dirty and pocked. His skin was a mahogany hue and he wore a scar on his left cheek. But what really struck Alex was the boy.
5)
Physically the boy was a typical teenager. His glasses ill-fitting and wonky, his khaki pullover and faded blue jeans uninspiring and his hair was one style removed from short back and sides. He was as short as he was rotund and it looked as if mother had dressed him before sending him out without a lunch box. But there was something else about him that stunned Alex.
He recognised this boy instinctively; it was like an ache in his gut: he knew him! But the more he tried to pin it down, to logic his way around it; the more elusive the boy’s identity became. Like in the field, every effort he made to remember was met by a wall of frustration and hopelessness. What was going on?
The man was remonstrating and raising his voice to the boy and it looked to Alex as if he had caught the boy trying to steal something from one of the wooden chests. The boy didn’t seem surprised by the man and even snapped back at him. They were still too far away for Alex to really understand what they were saying. The boy was now shouting back, almost panic stricken; the older man more placatory in reaction, but still urgent; his hand outstretched as if pleading, trying to talk the boy down from something -as if he was about to step off the edge of a great chasm. Alex crawled closer until he could finally hear what they were both saying.
“Give the egg to me now, Tom.” The older man pleaded, “You don’t know what energies you’re dealing with!” His voice was stern but filled with concern. The boy wavered, in his hands he clutched a large black egg that pulsated with an unearthly malevolence.
The boy started to hand the egg over to the man, his arm shaking with the effort when all of a sudden his whole demeanour changed. The boys youthful posture and being became twisted and warped.
“FOOL! You still have no conception of what you're dealing with. The boy is mine, old man!” The contempt and sheer hatred that came from the boys’ voice shook Alex to the core. He couldn’t have been older than thirteen but the voice spouted forth such venom and hate. The old man felt it too and stepped back.
“You do not belong here! Be gone from the boy!” The old man shouted.
“You are in no position to demand anything, cretinous deceiver!” The boy was clearly just a puppet, his once innocent face perverted into a rictus of hate. “You had your chance to destroy me years ago and failed: now it is my time!”
The boy suddenly lifted the egg high over his head. The old man leapt at him, knocking him to the ground. The egg flew out of the boy’s hands and both could only watch as it shattered on the floor. Darkness erupted forth, flooding the chamber as a harrowing laugh echoed, enveloping everything. Alex never felt the wave strike him so nothing marked the boundary to unconsciousness this time.
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