Josh and the Magic Vial (24 page)

“Are you afraid?” Mrs. Dempster asked.

“Scared to death,” he confessed.

He reached across the blanket and took her hand. She squeezed back. “What are we going to do?” Mrs. Dempster quavered. “I feel so helpless, Frank. He's our son, but we can't seem to reach him. What's happening?”

“He has us honey. No matter what, he'll always have us by his side. We'll support him through anything and in the end that love will see him through.” Mr. Dempster wanted to believe that, had to believe it. But it felt to him like he was whispering the truth into a long, dark tunnel. Josh was not well and nothing they had done seemed to make him better. Just how sick their son would get, the Dempsters couldn't guess. They'd taken him to see the doctor, now they were thinking of going to a psychologist. But so far there was no explaining Josh's strange behaviour.

42

C
hattering sounds — like a flight of starlings a long way off but getting closer. Definitely getting closer . . . Josh sat up. Except for the glowing numerals of his digital clock and a feeble light that seeped in from the street lamp outside, the room was dark. He could just make out the grey forms of his dresser, his desk and the door. It was three o'clock. He was alone and feverish. No sign of Puddifant or his parents.

When he woke the sounds vanished. But they had been real. He knew that. They would return too. Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, he padded to the balcony door and stepped outside. Not a soul moved along Tenth Avenue. Off to the west, just over the roofline, the crescent moon sank toward the jagged horizon. The city slept.

Yawning, Josh stumbled back to his bed where he lay sweating and awake. For a minute or two, things seemed normal. It was a false normality, however. Endorathlil's spell had taken hold. Vortigen's scouts had found him.

“These beings reach us through the medium of dreams and visions,” Puddifant had explained during their sessions in the tree fort. “You will most likely encounter them first in your sleep. Once they begin to swarm, it won't be long before the dream becomes real. Vortigen will soon follow.”

Josh closed his eyes. He couldn't sleep but at least he could rest . . .

There! Again! Louder this time and more distinct. Peeping, cawing, chattering, trilling. The flock approached. “Here!” a voice squawked. “No, this way,” urged another. Something rattled the balcony door. Something else tapped at the window.

Josh opened his eyes but did not sit up. He was afraid to move. If he hadn't been prepared for this moment by Puddifant, he would have screamed. But Puddifant had warned him. “Showing fear will only excite them,” he'd said. “They feed upon fear the same way sharks are attracted to blood.”

Dozens of them pressed against the windows now. The door rattled, the knob turned, and suddenly the mob of shadows streamed into his room flapping and screeching manically.

“Lay still,” Puddifant had advised. “Do not incite them.”

Josh did his best to follow this advice but it took every ounce of will to keep from leaping out of bed and yelling, “Get out!” He wanted to shriek; instead he watched without raising his head from his pillow, his eyes swiveling around in their sockets.

“He sleeps,” one of the shadows rasped.

“Aye,” another mocked. “And I sleep with my eyes wide open too, fool. He's watching.”

“Then why does he not greet us as we are accustomed? Why does he lie so still?”

“Because he's different from the others. Vortigen said so.”

“What shall we do?”

Something landed on the foot of Josh's bed. It scrambled onto the hump of his legs then made its way up to his stomach and onto his chest where it settled on its haunches just below his chin. “We are emissaries from Syde,” the thing gargled. “We are here to snatch your soul.”

Josh's whole being convulsed. Despite his vow to remain calm he lashed out, clobbering the leering reptile with a savage right. With a squawk and clatter the creature tumbled to the floor where it lay stunned. A derisive hoot went up from its companions. “Ha-ha Druithlede. Now that was a fine proclamation if ever I saw one.”

“Shut up!” the injured minion scowled sitting up.

“No! You shut up, you pompous lump!”

Shouts multiplied from all quarters as the gathered horde split into camps. Soon enough, words gave way to threats, and threats to blows as the opposing factions joined battle, punching, biting, kicking, and scratching at each other with unrestrained hatred. The minions had all but forgotten Josh in their heated battle.

Mr. Dempster listened intently. He thought he'd heard sounds upstairs, but now all was silent. The house slumbered. “Stop being foolish!” he scolded. Still, he couldn't help thinking about Josh and his mysterious conversations or the birdman. Could there be something real behind these fantasies?
Preposterous!
Ghosts and goblins were simply not acceptable explanations for whatever Josh was going through.

Padding into the kitchen, Mr. Dempster opened the fridge and, after a moment's contemplation, poured himself a glass of juice.
No point in going back to bed,
he thought. He'd only roll about and wake Mrs. Dempster. She needed sleep. The strain was beginning to show in her grey pallor and the dark circles under her eyes. What could parents do in a circumstance like this? he wondered. About the only thing you could do was worry . . . and understand. He shuffled out of the kitchen into the living room, where he flopped into his favourite armchair. Perhaps he would fall asleep sitting there. He needed sleep too.

Sounds punctuated the gathered silence: the seconds ticking by on the mantle clock, the hum of the fridge, a car whooshing by on Tenth Avenue, a breeze rustling the curtains in Josh's room . . .

Frank's eyes popped open, and he shot forward in his chair.
Curtains?
How could he have heard the sound of curtains rustling in Josh's room. Josh didn't have any curtains — he had blinds. Besides, you couldn't hear curtains rustling from downstairs even if there had been any to hear! What was that sound, then — a sound like fabric shushing in a breeze? Or . . .

Come on, now! We can't all be crazy at the same time!

He immediately blushed for having allowed such a thought. He tried to ignore the sound, but it rasped in his thoughts and the longer he listened the more convinced he became that it could only be made by wings. There was something flying around in Josh's room. Not a lone creature, it seemed to him, but a flock. Mr. Dempster launched himself out of his chair. His gut told him something was terribly wrong. Still, he warded off panic until, as he climbed the stairs, he heard other sounds. Piping noises — a bird, perhaps? Bats? His heart thumping, he inched closer to Josh's door.

Maybe he left his computer on. Maybe he had forgotten it on with some kind of game still open. Or perhaps the sounds were coming from one of the animation sites Josh liked to visit. Frank put his ear to the door. His eyes widened at what he heard: growling, jabbering, the swish of wings, clunks, bangs . . . and in the midst of it all, Josh moaning. Alarmed, Frank twisted the knob and barged into the room.

Nothing!

The sounds evaporated. He peered into the gloom, able to make out familiar shapes: lights blinking on the computer, the bed, Josh. Mr. Dempster concentrated. Everything seemed normal, but . . . Off kilter, as if he were in one of those tilted rooms at the fun fair. His spine tingled and his hair stood on end. “What is it?” he breathed. “What's wrong?” Then it struck him. Too fast! Josh's breathing was way too fast and uneven. His son panted, sucking in the air with quick, shallow gasps.

“Josh?” Frank whispered.

Josh murmured, then slashed at the air with his right arm, as if he were batting something off his chest. “Get out!” he yelled.

Startled, Frank leapt back from the bed. Then a strange thing happened. For a second he thought he saw shapes writhing in the darkness all around him. The phantom creatures had joined some kind of battle. They clawed and kicked at one another, and again he heard the faint rustling of wings and the gabble of ghostly voices. Through it all Josh mumbled fiercely and punched at things in the air.

“Josh!” Mr. Dempster shouted, switching on the light, then hurrying back to his son's bedside.

“Get them out of here!” his son yelled. “Get them out!”

“What, son!” Mr. Dempster cried. “What is it?”

“The minions,” Josh moaned, retreating into the corner where his bed met the wall. “Get them off me!”

“Son!” Mr. Dempster shouted. “There's nothing here. Just you and me. Wake up!”

Josh
was
awake, though. That's what terrified Mr. Dempster. His son was trapped in waking nightmare. What could a father do about that? How could you fight what you could not see?

Suddenly Mrs. Dempster flew into the room. “What's going on!” she cried, hurrying to her son. Josh didn't seem to recognize her. He struggled when she tried to hold him, cringing farther into the corner. “Hush!” she crooned. “We're here my love. We're with you.”

Mr. Dempster heard sadness and resignation in her voice. He couldn't help hearing it, even though he tried to shut it out, for it resonated with his own inner despair. He squeezed his wife's shoulder. “I'm going to get dressed,” he said. “We need to get him to the hospital.”

“Hospital?” She looked confused for a second, then she nodded gravely. “I'm afraid, Frank,” she whispered.

“I know,” he answered. “Me too. We have to get him in right away.”

She knew that of course, but Alison Dempster's body wouldn't consent. She said nothing, but stared back at her husband blankly. Finally she put her face in her hands and wept. “Oh my God!” she sobbed. “This can't be happening, Frank. Tell me it isn't happening.”

43

T
he minions buzzed thick as bees around Josh. He was vaguely aware of being guided downstairs and into the car. The swarm followed, pulling at his T-shirt and hair. The car door shut them out and Josh was grateful for a moment's respite. Exhausted, he rested his head on his mother's shoulder in the back seat.

He tried speaking to his parents, but it was like talking from the bottom of a swimming pool. His words simply could not make it into their world. This frustrated him. He tried harder, talked louder, but all his mother and father heard were squawks and grunts — farmyard sounds that frightened them coming from their child.

Hadn't they seen the minions? Heard them? For a couple of seconds when his father had entered Josh's room there had been a look of awareness. His father had believed. But Mr. Dempster had denied the evidence of his sixth sense and switched on the light, blinding himself to Josh's reality. Only a highly developed occultist could see minions in the blare of daylight, Puddifant had said.

Where was Puddifant anyway? Josh knew the inspector had not abandoned him. He felt Puddifant's presence. But he could not see or hear him.

Streetlights slid in and out of view. Josh, his head lolling over the back seat, watched them through the rear window as Mr. Dempster sped to the hospital. Then he found himself indoors under fluorescent lights. A doctor peered into his eyes using some kind of scope, then he was escorted into a curtained enclosure and left alone for a few minutes while the doctor and his parents talked in whispers.

They had escaped the minions during their ride to Children's Hospital, but Josh knew the reprieve would be short-lived. “ Minions are like mosquitoes in a swamp,” Puddifant had said once. “You can evade them for short periods by moving about but as soon as you stop to catch your breath, they're on you again.”

“Puddifant?” Josh moaned.

The inspector appeared instantly, sitting on the rail of the bed. “I'm here my friend,” he said.

“How am I doing?”

“Bravely, lad,” the inspector smiled. “You have proved your mettle and must continue to fight against Vortigen no matter how desperate the situation appears. Resist my boy. Resist with all your heart,” he said emphatically and then he began to fade.

“Where are you going?” Josh cried.

“I am with you. I shall always be with you,” Puddifant promised. But as he spoke he vanished, a pulse of his light merging with the garish florescence of the hospital emergency room.

Josh settled back into the pillows. That instant, he heard a gabbling from down the hall and the unmistakable sound of wings flapping. The minions flocked into the room. The air was filled with squawking and jabbering as they perched on the curtain tops and lined the rails to his bed.

“He gave us the slip for a few minutes, but there's no escape,” one of them cackled.

“Vortigen will soon be on the wing. Then the chase will be over once and for all.”

“Aye, and we shall be able to go home to Syde.”

“Is he the one?”

“He looks too scrawny to me, but only Vortigen can tell, eh?”

44

H
e comes!” a minion cried.

The pack had followed when an orderly wheeled Josh up to the ward. They roosted wherever they could find room, waiting for their master. It seemed a long wait and Josh lost track of time, drifting in and out of sleep. He was aware of the minions and of Mrs. Dempster, huddled in a chair beside his bed . . . and suddenly of a distant pulsing sound coming from outside.

Roused by their lookout's warning, the minions shook their feathers noisily and hopped about on their perches. Others picked up the shout and turned it into a chant. “He comes! He comes! He comes!” Then suddenly the flock took wing, whirling round and round the room, a cyclone of misshapen spirits.

Josh looked outside, straining to see what the minions were so excited about. It was near dawn, that interlude when the the stars seem most remote. He could see nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, the harder he looked, the more aware he became of a strange sensation, which he would later describe as “looking through worlds.” Bit by bit a new reality replaced what he'd always known. The hospital room and the scene beyond looked the same but everything was changed. The very structure of his bones had been altered. He shivered, elated and terrified at the same time. His bed, the instruments blinking in the grey light, the seemingly solid walls, the night sky . . . all of it had been dissolved and rearranged.