Hunters: A Trilogy (85 page)

Michael laughed and agreed. ‘Yeah, I can’t remember the last time I ate!’ he said, pulling his chair forward.

Jane said, ‘Tuck in, boys – don’t wait for me!’ She sat in her own chair and looked at Ken, who, in typical fashion, had taken charge and was making sandwiches for them all. ‘You’d make someone a wonderful wife, darling!’ she teased.

Ken looked at Michael, whispering: ‘She’d be lost without me being in charge, Mikey. You’ll get used to it, mate, Jane just
thinks
she’s the boss…’

They all laughed and started tucking into the food.

Michael had been right; he was starving and had soon polished off a whole heap of the sandwiches. When they were done, Jane put the kettle on again whilst Michael and Ken cleared away the dishes. As they sat, Ken reached down and lifted his case onto the table. Unzipping the bag, the big man extracted his computer and laid it on the wooden surface. It was the same size and shape as a laptop computer, but looked somehow different to Michael. Ken flicked the lid open, and then completely surprised the boy by speaking to his computer…

‘Screen display on, please!’ Ken said, turning to glance calmly across at the boy. ‘Don’t worry, Mike,’ he said. ‘You’ll get used to it, and there’s a whole lot more for you to get used to as well, but it’s all good stuff, all amazing!’ He winked, saying: ‘Just watch and learn, Mikey, watch and learn!’

Then, having finished with his tapping at the keypad, Ken looked up and said, ‘Okay, here we go then, everybody ready?’

The boy nodded in reply to that seemingly-unanswerable question.

The screen shimmered and Michael looked into his life, the one he never knew he’d had, and certainly one he would never even have imagined he was going to have. Most definitely he didn’t. He sat in silence and did as Ken had said – he watched in amazement, he watched in awe, he watched and learned.

He learned the things that Ken and Jane had travelled across time to come and teach him. He learned of all the things that a very old man, from a completely different place, had decided it was time for him to learn. When he appeared on the screen in front of them, George had only four words in introduction.

‘Hello Michael, my child…’ he said, with a huge smile on his face.

They remained at the screen for more than two hours and the story was a fascinating one, even to Ken and Jane, who had seen some of it before – many times. The screen took them back to the beginning. As Michael Wildeman watched, he saw the history of his family. He saw George’s great grandparents, George’s father, the old man’s brothers and his sisters, all of their descendants and many of their ancestors. He saw his own late father – Michael sat before the screen and watched the life Jack had lived, the Demons he had battled and the final, bitter ending, which came upon his father on some remote mountain ledge. He saw Jack’s fateful leap – that desperate plunge over the edge – saw the blackness erupt into the air above his father’s plummeting head.

As he watched its stinking putridity infest his mother’s body, her soul, Michael cried out: ‘Stop, stop it, please stop!’ Turning away from the screen, he rose hurriedly to his feet and stumbled into the garden, leaving the back door open as he lurched onto the lawn outside. He knelt on the soft greenness and stayed there with his head hung low.

Hot tears ran across his cheeks and dripped onto the grass below.

The picture of his parents, and in particular of his father, had shattered him. Michael felt like a two-year-old as he let the sobs have their way. A long, wet slither of snot kept trying to escape the confines of his nose, he sniffed it back – the sniff caught in his throat and the combination of it, the sniff, and another sob, choked him. He felt as though he was suffocating, fear rose in his throat. He began to think he would never get out of this nightmare, perhaps it was he who had died…died and gone to some form of halfway-house, a place where he was forever destined to watch the misery of the Demon’s actions.

‘Demon purgatory,’ the thought fixed in his mind as he tried to breathe. The choke threatened to overcome him and Michael knew then that it was possible to die from sorrow – sorrow and fear. They wracked his shuddering body, in that single moment he felt the hand of death upon his shoulder, he saw the black mist once more. He tried to scream but was unable to.

Instead, he knelt there and choked.

Strong arms, like bands of steel, wrapped themselves under his chest and jerked him to his feet. A rock-hard hand clapped him firmly between the shoulder blades, twice – hard! The snot, and the fear, flew from his mouth in a spew of wetness and second-hand breath.

Ken spoke into his ear, his voice a soothing tone that caressed Michael’s seething mind. ‘Breathe Mikey, breathe deeply. Nice and slow, okay, buddy, that’s it… good man! Don’t worry, I’m here, take it easy!’ He raised Michael fully to his feet and placed his left hand against the boy’s chest. ‘There you go, Mike,’ he said. ‘Breathe deeply, that’s it, nice and slow! Are you alright now?’

Michael did as he was asked and took a ragged breath, fresh air flooded his lungs and the redness in front of his eyes began to clear. He staggered slightly, Ken’s iron grasp steadying him. Michael allowed himself to lean against the older man. He coughed, drew another deep breath and said, ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that the pictures…my Dad, they said it was an accident…I didn’t know, I’m sorry, I…’ He grimaced and turned to stare up at the big man who supported him. Ken seemed even larger than normal; it was as though the panic-filled moment had made him grow somehow. Michael saw the light of concern in the man’s glittering eyes, they looked like emeralds.

Jane came outside and offered him a small, empty glass. Michael looked at the glass and then back to Jane, he was about to shake his head in confusion, when she showed him the flask that she held in her other hand.

‘I’m quite sure that you’re quite old enough for a little nip,’ she said. ‘Besides, this is rather a special occasion, a very sad occasion.’ She leaned over and filled his glass with a golden liquid.

He blinked as he saw the tiny engravings on the flask. They were the same as the ones he’d seen etched into the vase in the sitting room. He heard Ken’s voice: ‘In one, Mikey, knock it back in one, matey, it’s the only way!’

Ken squeezed his shoulders and Michael did as he was bid. The fiery liquid hit his throat with a burning rush that whooshed its way into his jelly-like stomach. Just as he felt as though the coughing would happen all over again, Michael felt the heat rising through him like a phoenix. The warmth flooded his chest and rose into his head. The world span, in a pleasant way, and then the feeling was gone.

It left behind calmness, a kind of peace, one that made him feel as though all of his tomorrows were to be made of joy. The dark thoughts scurried away and the realities of what he had witnessed, felt so deeply, somehow seemed more bearable. He knew he would be able to look them in the eye next time – stare them in the eye and it wouldn’t be him who blinked first.

‘Whooo, that’s some fine spice you have there, Ken,’ he said, ‘is there any chance of another…’

Jane cut him off mid-sentence. ‘And there was me thinking you were just a ‘poor boy’,’ she said. ‘No more just yet, Michael! Maybe later when the need arises, it’s not something we tend to drink too often, only when the going gets tough, eh Ken?’ Her voice sharpened. ‘Ken, what’s the matter, sweetheart? Ken, are you okay?’

Both she and Michael looked worriedly at the big man. He had gone deathly pale and was now doing his best to make sure Michael reciprocated the previous support he had given the young man. Michael felt a sudden increase in weight as Ken almost fell into him. He leaned into the tall man and just managed to stop the pair of them from toppling sideways. Ken lowered himself onto the grass, where he sat and looked up at them. They saw his eyes fill with wonder and with tears.

‘What is it, Kenny, what’s happened?’ Jane said, as sat next to him, to be quickly joined by Michael. ‘Ken, what’s the matter?’ She reached over to place a hand on his forehead.

Ken shook his head, and said, ‘I’m really sorry, it’s what you said just then, Mikey, about wanting a refill. ‘Fine spice’ you said! That was Mikey’s saying…the old Mikey…he used that exact expression when we were…when we were somewhere else, almost the exact same words! ‘Spice’ he used to call it that! How in the hell did you know that word, Mike, how?’

Michael said he had no idea and suggested they go back inside. Ken’s sudden collapse scared him. The guy had seemed invincible.

Ken agreed, but said there was one thing he wanted to do first. He stood and then took the empty glass from the boy’s hand. ‘Special occasions, huh?’ he said, with a grin. ‘Well, they don’t get any more
special
than this, do they?’ He held out the glass to his wife, saying: ‘Fill her up, hun, right to the top!’

Jane obliged, and they proceeded to pass the glass amongst the three of them until the flagon ran dry. It was probably a good job that it was only a small flask. Feeling miles better, the trio went back into the warmth of the house and sat back down in front of the silver story-teller.

‘Feeling better now?’ George asked.

Seeing their nods, he said, ‘Good, then let us continue.’

Ken pushed the buttons and George’s tale continued with Michael’s initiation, as it were. Michael watched all of the things his old relation proceeded to show him, watched and realised that he was of the same stock as the old man and the others, from the very same breed – the blood running through their veins was the same blood that pulsed so loudly within his own head. The very same blood he sat in sadness and witnessed as it flooded across the wooden floor of some old farmhouse, the stricken man, from whence the torrent poured, lay upon the crimson-stained wood in the arms of the very same man who now sat next to him.

He turned to Ken and saw the sadness in that lined and weather-beaten face.

The big man whispered: ‘Mikey!’

Just the one word was all he said, but it was enough, more than enough.

Michael Wildeman raised his hand.

‘Yes, my child, do you have a question?’ George said, as he peered down from the screen.

Michael replied: ‘Am I Mikey, the one on the wooden step, the one who was bleeding, that one?’ He pointed at the screen. ‘Is that what you’re telling me, that I’ve been reborn – am I that man, but alive again?’ He turned to his new friends with a strange light in his eyes. He saw they were holding their breaths.

George’s reply drew his gaze back to the screen. ‘In many ways you are, yes,’ he said. ‘But, in addition, you are part of me and also part of the others, there is a part from all of us within you. The majority of our younger male generation are named Michael. It is mostly a tradition but it also helps strengthen the link, the one by which we are eternally bound together.’ He paused in consideration, before continuing. ‘Many of the previous ones’, the Michaels, experience and knowledge will have been passed on to you; these things tend to find their way to the neediest, to those nearest the front line, so to speak. As one of us dies then so our lives are passed onto others, others who, like you, must live to continue the battle. In many ways we never die, think of it as a transferring immortality, if you like. With each transfer we become stronger, more refined, and more experienced…’ George paused to smile down at the young man.

Michael couldn’t help himself, the inevitable shake of his head had occurred before he even had time to think. It was an almost unbelievable tale, and would have been totally unbelievable were it not for the pictures flitting onto the silver screen before him, the pictures and, of course, the old man’s words.

George would often freeze the show to allow himself an interjection.

‘You see, Michael, this is not something we would normally do. We tend to let our people gradually find their own approach as their fate is already decided in many ways – the path towards the battle is a well-trodden one, a well-worn path that all of us will eventually find ourselves upon, sooner or later. Sometimes we will find ourselves treading it more than once!’ He gazed down at his descendant from the screen. ‘However, the time has come for us to finish this,’ he said. ‘With some luck and lots of bravery, this time should be the last. It is time for us to place all of our cards on the table, time for one last concerted effort!’

George would wait for a few seconds, giving his words the chance to sink in. Then, with a tap of his fingers, the show would continue. He showed them awful things, a long, accusatory list of wickedness that the Demon had managed to get its sticky fingers into. There were assassinations of prominent people, good people having their lives snuffed out, murdered before they had the chance to make a difference, brushed aside like flies who had dared to annoy the giants.

There were chains of awful events. Michael watched them all – the wars and the famines, horrendous acts of terrorism, invasions, murders and mayhem, centuries of dastardly deeds. All the time, the grinning wraith of the Demon, a black shapeless Dragon, fluttered and swirled in the background.

The suppression of technology and the massive overuse of fossil fuels, Hyenas and money, always the money, all were to his liking and he fiddled with them, each and every one. Little tweaks here, perhaps a slight push there. The Dragon loved the game almost as much as he loved the human obsession with money and power. For it was in money where the Dark One recognised the weakness of man, money and power were to be the key. An evil-filled solution the Demon used to open the door, an entranceway that led into the eternal playground of human weakness.

Once it had found the combination to this door, the Demon kicked it wide open and stood there, giggling with the blackness of its intent beaming outwards like a dark mist, an invisible shower of black particles, invisible maybe, but definitely there – free evil for everyone. All that was needed for the games to begin were three things, three dubious qualities: Greed, weakness and unstoppable self-interest.

Some people possessed a great deal more than the basic ingredients, this was a bonus, but those three would do for a starter, a starter for three, and were a fine way to begin the games. Most of the subjects, who occupied the many worlds that lay endlessly spread before the Beast’s dull yellow eyes, possessed such qualities. Some had ownership of vast quantities of the three ingredients, whilst others had but a few, tiny grains of the required elements. Little, un-noticed kernels of evil, tucked away in some forgotten box that lay hidden in the attic of their small lives.