Arcene: The Island (6 page)

The air was warm, the way ahead hard to see as smoke hid the trees. It meant the fire was close now, and Arcene had no idea when the forest would end

It better be soon. If not, or if we get cut off by something, then we'll be the ones cooked tonight, rather than doing the cooking.

Arcene ignored the pain in her backside that had returned with the sudden exertion and increased her speed, pigtails bouncing wildly as she pumped hard with her arms and tried not to run smack bang into a tree as her vision blurred and her lungs filled with smoke.

A Nice Fire

Picus sighed and brushed at his collar as dust landed. He looked up and scowled as he watched untold motes fall like dead stars from high in the rafters, lost in the gloom. Often, he wondered what went on up there, a world he had no knowledge of and resisted the urge to explore.

He could easily take over the body of one of the creatures that scurried about in the half light, it would be as simple as clicking his fingers. Maybe he could be a spider, a mouse, or perhaps a bat or something larger? A pigeon? He resisted the temptation, the same way he had done for... How long was it now? It didn't matter, why waste time thinking about such things?

No, he would leave the creatures to their lives, undisturbed. He just wished they'd stop knocking bits of his home onto his head. Picus blinked rapidly as grit caught in the corner of an eye, and he rubbed it to dislodge the irritation.

Was it dust, or was it ancient droppings from one of the things that made its home above? Or was it his own skin, or a tiny piece of mud that had dried and been swept up there from a gust of wind through one of the many windows, only to rest there for centuries and just now find its way back down below?

How interesting. Why had he never contemplated the dust before?

"Because I have better things to do with my time, that's why," said Picus to absolutely nobody. He patted at his collar again, noting with distaste it was now smudged and he would have to get changed. "Tomorrow. It's already late, time for relaxing."

The gravelly voice of Picus echoed around the Great Hall, the stone walls bouncing his words back at him, but colder, harder, deeper, like they wanted nothing to do with him or the words he spoke within the space they entombed.

A huge log shifted on the fire, sending sparks flying out onto the floor. Ash settled into the pile, a pile that extended from the grate, spilled over the hearth and out onto ancient flagstones black with soot, age and dirt. He'd have to clean it out one day, but who had the time for such trivialities?

Picus stared at the mound, traced his route from fire to chair to fire again, from the stack of logs to the side and across the room to the distant door where gray footsteps faded like his thoughts about the dust.

He shifted in the chair, another thing he really should think about fixing or replacing — the arms were so worn he was down to the stuffing, the deep red velvet now almost as black as the spiders with the wear of hands over the centuries.

"Who has the time?" Picus let the right side of his face get warmed by the fire as he rested his arms on the chair and stared at the door, almost lost to darkness.

The split trunk erupted with heat as it settled into its new position now that the smaller pieces below had burned down. The flames licked up the chimney, the place finally warming up, or at least an area around the fireplace that was larger than him — no mean feat, considering his size. Still, it could be twenty feet high and burning a whole tree and it would still fail to heat the whole room. That was the price you paid, he supposed, for making the Great Hall your evening room, rather than something a little smaller.

He liked to look at the door though, it allowed him to relax, and you never knew who would come knocking. Surprise was nice, even welcome, but it was also important to get a first impression, and to know who it was that had come calling. It might happen one day — if nothing else, Picus was an optimist.

"Now, where was I?" Picus gathered his thoughts. He'd allowed them to drift again, and that wouldn't do at all. He had to stop letting it happen, but it wasn't easy. The evenings were always the hardest — as darkness descended, his work of the day finished, it was easy to let his guard down and he wondered if maybe his age was creeping up on him unawares. No, it couldn't be that, he was still in great shape, for a man that had been fully grown and approaching forty when The Lethargy happened anyway.

So, what was it? Over three hundred and fifty years he'd been alive, was that right? Something like that, although it wasn't worth keeping track of any longer. He had no idea of the year as such things were unimportant — old rules, ones the masses used to abide by when they meant something. Well, they hadn't meant anything for a long time and even when they did he'd paid little attention.

He was his own man, and he answered to nobody, hadn't for three centuries. He was the one that made the rules, nobody inflicted anything on him, least of all telling him he should care what the date was, or the day.

The days, gosh, when was the last time he even gave such a thing consideration? Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, weekends and all of that, he hadn't even thought of such arbitrary names in a long time. What was the point? What did it matter? He wondered if others did, the few that remained? Would they mark them off in a calendar? Haha, no, of course not, there were no calendars.

Would they make one? Tick off days and years, keep track of dates and have special occasions, celebrate birthdays even though nearly everyone born would die of The Lethargy, only a lucky few somehow staying Whole, untainted, fewer still being Awoken like him, able to step outside of what he once thought of as reality, live lives without end and watch it all crumble around them?

Maybe they did. Maybe they clung to such old concepts, but not him, oh no, he had more important things to do. He had his island.

"Busy day tomorrow, so much to do, mustn't get sidetracked." Picus glanced at the double wooden door across the Great Hall, finding comfort in the solidity as he always did, then turned his face to the fire, evening out the heat, and went through what he had to do the following day.

He smiled. It would be a lot of fun, for him, anyway.

Strange Hole

If she stopped she'd die. Arcene had enough experience with the devastating consequences of fire to admit that of all the things she had encountered in the world it was one of the few that made her scared. More than that. Petrified.

Being burned alive was the worst way to enter The Void — who wanted to be roasted to a crisp before you returned to where you came from, where everything came from?

Over the years she had got into a few sticky situations involving fire, mostly because of her own doing, even losing her hair once, but she had also used it to exact revenge on those that had done things against her will when a mere child, and she regretted none of it — vengeance was not something she took lightly, but she would always have it.

Now Arcene was always careful when making her fires for cooking, sure to douse them properly when finished, respectful of the elemental powers contained within each piece of wood, just waiting to change form and offer heat yet also danger.

As she ran she focused only on her feet, squinting as her eyes streamed smoky tears, the ground hazy and almost imperceptible. Leel was up ahead, her bright silhouette visible in The Noise, but there was no way of seeing her with her own clouded vision.

Just keep running, the forest has to end soon. Don't stop, run. Run faster.

Something weird was going on in her chest. Her lungs were wheezing, bellowing like in a blacksmith's forge, fanning her already elevated adrenaline levels to keep herself moving.

What could she do? What would allow her to beat the fire that was now closing in on three sides, racing to encircle her and put an end to her brief life? Nothing, just run, get to the end and get free. But which way? And how far was it?

If it hadn't been so dark when they crashed into the forest she could have taken up residence in a bird, if any were flying, and seen... Of course! The fire would have disturbed the creatures as they settled for the night.

Never missing a stride, Arcene reached up above the trees into the smoke-filled sky, moving away until the air was clear and pure, and through The Noise she hunted for a suitable temporary companion. There, a simple sparrow, flapping manically and squawking at the fire below that ravaged its home. Arcene carefully entered the creature's mind, asking politely if she might stay just for a moment, at the same time calming the tiny mind so it wouldn't feel afraid.

An agreement was made, a mutual pact, not with words or even thoughts, but something deeper, stranger, communication on the most basic of levels. Arcene thanked it, and with the least amount of coaxing needed she turned the bird's head first left then right, scouting out the vicinity and finding which way to go to beat the fire and get free.

The little body had an innate sense of direction — connected to the magnetism of the planet it always knew where it was and how to get where it wanted to go — and as Arcene said farewell and gave her thanks, leaving the creature a little calmer, thus better able to cope with the disruption below, she carried a glimmer of that leftover ability back into her own body and mind.

She couldn't speak for the smoke, couldn't call to Leel, so touched her mind as gently as a feather and told her to turn slightly to her right and continue running. They would be free soon enough.

Arcene followed, knowing they were mere minutes away from open land that led to scrub, then sand and dunes, then the sea. They were at the coast, and out in the water was the last glimpse of the setting sun, bright orange and talking of fire and death, setting behind the strange silhouettes she had seen from the balloon. It was an island. How interesting.

No time for that now, get free first.

Arcene crashed through lush undergrowth as the fire licked on all sides and the smoke grew heavier. She followed Leel, but then she was gone, disappeared. Arcene was close on her heels and before she knew what to do or what her options were she was grabbed by the ankles, slammed flat into the soft earth and dragged underground by strong hands with nails that dug deep into her skin.

She didn't even have time to scream, couldn't if she wanted to — her lungs were too full of smoke and her throat was hoarse.

Darkness dominated as the fire roared past above. It was cool in the earth.

Arcene coughed; she was pulled deeper.

Leel whined far below.

A Pleasant Stroll

Picus always found this time of year the most pleasing. Past the height of summer yet not quite autumn, a hint of the cooler weather to come, fresh breezes laden with salt and mysterious smells from far off places. With the transition of the seasons, new birds came to his home, brightly colored creatures attracted by the microclimate of the island, making it their temporary residence.

This was a stop on their way south to warmer countries, but for a few months every year they stayed, clearing out the bugs from the extensive grounds, stripping the trees and the plants bare of pesky creatures that harmed the gardens and filling the air with their excited chatter as they called to each other and made their plans for migration.

It was when the place truly came alive. Picus too. The salty tang, the music of the birds, the plants in full bloom. Right now, this very moment, it was as close to perfection as Picus had ever known.

It meant work, and a lot of it.

Luckily for him he had the little helpers. Picus was far from alone on the island, and he knew he would have gone mad long ago if he were. When The Lethargy first came to his attention he had dismissed it as just another one of those ridiculous stories on the TV, a parable hinting at the waning morality of society, their greed and empty ambition.

But as he watched the news, and the stories continued, and he felt the change in his daily life, he understood it was more than just catchy headlines and meaty propaganda by the latest government trying to support their tax cuts, the reduction in benefits for the poor, or the cessation of new home building and the declining wages and the increased food prices. No, this was real, this was happening. People were genuinely giving up.

It was more than despair because of the lack of jobs, and the commute that took longer and longer as people couldn't afford to live in the cities where they worked. People really had been taken over by the mysterious illness that slowly took hold and never let them go.

After a few months of it first being mentioned on the news Picus took it seriously and eagerly awaited any mention of it, but as more data was gathered by the multinational conglomerations that clawed desperately to stop their bottom line sliding day after day as fewer people turned up for work, or those that did sat for hours in a stupor while The Lethargy took hold, mention of the mysterious condition actually lessened.

The Internet was the same: where it was once the focus of discussion, people hardly spoke of it, or anything else.

Unlike many of his generation, Picus had embraced technology wholeheartedly and, along with much of the population, cursed when his connection became patchy. At first, the Web had been abuzz, little else was discussed on social media platforms, but then it faded.

People were drifting away, unable to feed themselves, tend to their most basic needs, and if they had no family or willing friends then they would be dead in a matter of days. Some succumbed suddenly, but far worse were those that zoned in and out of the illness, coming to and fully aware of what was happening, unable to do anything to stop it.

The suicide rate skyrocketed once there was no more denying The Lethargy's existence. Commerce ceased, banks shut down, money was worthless and technology was pointless. TV channels were replaced with static as there was nobody left to run such complex operations, and tiny pockets of the Web were all that remained as servers became corrupted.