Tom Tailor and the Sorcerer’s Doom

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
(Home)

“Tom Tailor and the Sorcerer’s Doom was written in 2008. After ‘Tom Tailor and the Scroll of Gramarye’ caused some interest with Julia Churchill at Conville and Walsh before being ultimately rejected, I decided a few years later to totally rewrite the story. I reused some characters and ‘scenery’ but otherwise, ‘Sorcerer’s Doom’ is a completely different novel.”

            ‘Lights out!’ declared a harsh voice, which had an aftertaste like lemon juice.  ‘Silence!’

The voice echoing around the high ceiling of the boys’ dormitory belonged to Principle Mordant and, as usual, it had the immediate affect of making the voices of others die in their throat.  Principle Mordant was one of two principles at St Clandestine, the other being her sister who shared the job and was at this very moment striking fear into the heart of those in the girls’ dormitory.

As Mordant walked purposefully past the foot of each boy’s bed, humming to herself, she whacked the frame almost absent-mindedly with a thick scroll of paper upon which was clearly listed the numerous orphanage rules.

The fear in the room was almost tangible.

After having eyeballed every frozen body and conducted a mental attendance count, Principle Mordant smirked in a way that said her work here was done and strode back out of the room.  A few moments later a switch was thrown that instantly turned off most of the lights in the building, plunging it into darkness.

As the sound of footsteps faded away, Tom Tailor shuddered beneath his bedclothes.  He had spent all of his life being passed from one orphanage to another, each one becoming decidedly more pitiless than the previous, culminating in his arrival three years ago at St Clandestine.  He had since just about given up all hope.

And yet, with hope seemingly so far out of reach as to be gone, a small spark of it still burned somewhere deep within, a spark that now saw him hidden under his moth-eaten sheets, fully clothed in dark attire suitable for sneaking around unseen after dark.

After waiting a further couple of minutes just to make sure, Tom slipped out of bed as quietly as he could and stole toward the door to the corridor.  In one hand was a small torch – a lucky find – and in his other was a large paperclip that he aimed to use as a makeshift lock-pick.  Dangling around his neck, their laces tied together, were his shoes, which he’d taken off so as not to make too much noise. 

When just half way across the floor a voice snapped out from a bed in a dark corner, shattering the silence.

            ‘Tailor!  Oi, Tailor!  Are you bleedin’ mad? Where ‘r you going, you little twerp?’

Tom froze on the spot, half expecting to hear running footsteps thunder down the corridor and see the door burst open before him.  However, after a few moments that seemed like a few lifetimes, all remained quiet.  Not wanting to risk engaging in any unnecessary conversation, especially with people that would normally prefer to pan his head flat than chat, Tom continued toward the door.  Grasping the round brass handle, he turned it slowly.  It screeched into the night like a wild banshee but then clicked as the door popped open.  Principle Mordant had forgotten to lock it – luck really did seem to be on his side.

After sticking his head out gingerly and making sure the coast was clear, Tom slipped into the corridor, closing the door carefully as he went.  Ahead of him was a long, dark passage, on either side of which were tall arched windows set into shallow bays.  Between each of these bays were hung large portrait paintings of what Tom had always assumed were the previous heads of the orphanage and as he crept from one bay to another, savage flashes of lightning would leap through windows and reveal his wayward behaviour to devious sets of eyes that were a feature of every canvas.

When Tom had worked his way to the end of the corridor, he turned right and crept down an adjoining passage halfway down which was a large, ominous door.  Painted bright red, it had gold letters on its surface spelling out the word “Principles”.

This was it.  This was the riskiest part of his plan.  If his luck ran out here, he was in a whole world of pain.

            ‘Don’t panic,’ he whispered to himself, ‘just keep calm and everything will work out.’

He placed his ear against the door and listened carefully for signs of life inside.

All was quiet.

Ducking down, he peered through the keyhole but only darkness could be seen beyond.

Okay, he thought, coast clear.  I just need to pick the lock and find the set of gate keys.

With sweaty and shaking hands, he bent open the paperclip and slipped it into the lock.  As he twisted and poked the clip around in the mechanism, he kept his ears on full alert for the sounds of approaching footsteps.  However the almost constant claps of thunder, which were shaking the very foundations of the building, were making it impossible to hear anything else, causing his heart to hammer against his ribcage in fear of being caught.

Suddenly, during a break in the thunder, he heard the distinctive clop clop clop of footfalls walking purposely toward where he sat, performing an undeniable act of illegal entry.  If he thought his heart was hammering before, it would surely burst out of his chest and jiggle its way down the corridor now.  Not knowing if he should run, hide, surrender in a gibbering wreck or continue his lock picking with greater haste, Tom decided upon the latter and redoubled his efforts.  Just as the footsteps reached the junction of his corridor, the paperclip caught and the lock turned.  In a heartbeat, Tom was through the door and, using the noise of a particularly loud thunderclap as cover, slammed it shut behind him.

Having fallen back against the inside of the door, chest heaving, he had the sudden and distressing realisation that the owner of those oncoming feet could be heading to this very room!  Sprinting across the garishly patterned carpet, Tom dived beneath the only thing that would give him any cover: a desk.  As he sat bent almost double beneath its surface, he listened initially in dread and then in relief as the footsteps reached and then passed the door to the office.

His resolve having returned, Tom jumped out from under the desk, sweeping the room with his torch.

            ‘They’ve got to be here somewhere,’ he muttered as the narrow torch beam interrogated the room.

A little distance away from the desk that Tom had just extricated himself from was another, almost identical one whilst against two walls were tall, dark shelves holding numerous books that looked like they had been written centuries ago.  Titles jumped out at him as the pool of light from his torch moved across their well-used spines: “Will Breaking in Thirty Days”, “‘D’ is for Discipline” and “Accidents Will Happen (If You Want Them To…)”.  Once again a shudder ran the length of his spine and he moved on.

After scanning the unnaturally tidy surfaces of the two desks, Tom started to look through the draws.  It would not be difficult, mostly it was paperwork and what he was looking for was a large ring of keys, at least one of which would need to be particularly long to turn the lock on the main gate.  A lock that he had spent many a day staring at during short ‘exercise’ breaks, hoping that it would simply click open just by him pleading to it.  But it never did.

Having decided that there was not enough time to perpetrate his search with just one hand, Tom jammed the butt of the torch into his mouth and continued his rifling with two.

As he reached into the last draw, all hopes of finding the keys fading, his probing fingers fell across a hard, cold ring of iron.  Tom knew instantly that he had found his treasure!  Then, as he pulled the keys out of their hiding place, a body-shaking clap of thunder sent his nervous system into spasms, his jaw contracted, the torch, being the path of least resistance, thrust itself out of his mouth and span across the room like a hyperactive lighthouse, strobing the walls as it went.

The torch having come to an abrupt halt near to the door (a small section of it could be seen in the now even dimmer pool of torchlight), Tom cursed to himself and crept carefully through the darkness over to where it lay.  Bending down he made to pick it up but became utterly bemused when the torch refused to be lifted.

            ‘Now what’s going on?’ he whispered to himself as he struggled with the plastic object, ‘It’s almost like someone-’

            ‘-Has their foot on it?’ finished a voice.

Tom’s blood turned to liquid nitrogen in his veins.  All his muscles seemed to grind to an abrupt halt.  Outside there was a brilliant flash of lightning which as if commanded charged in through the window and lit the smug features of Principle Mordant as she loomed triumphantly over Tom’s crouching figure.

            ‘So what have you got to say for yourself,’ demanded Mordant as she theatrically flicked the light switch, filling the room with a yellow light that although dim still managed to almost blind Tom.  Finally regaining control of his body, he jumped to his feet.

            ‘I…er…’

            ‘Oh, really?’

            ‘Well…ah…’

            ‘I see.’

            ‘It’s…just…’

            ‘No, really – keep going.  You have my most rapt attention.’  She smiled whilst performing a rapid sardonic nod, indicating that he should continue, causing her bun of greying hair to jiggle on her head and the chains of her half-moon glasses to flail around her sharp cheekbones.

            ‘The thing is…I was just looking for the toilet and-’

            ‘Stop!’ she cried, casting aside her calm demeanour.  ‘How long have you been with us, Tailor?’

            ‘About-’

            ‘Three years!’ Mordant put in.  ‘What are these?’ she said, pointing to her face.’

Tom was at a loss to follow her train of thought.

            ‘Err, wrinkles?’ he ventured.  Principle Mordant’s complexion took on a decidedly puce tinge.

            ‘No, you utterly stupid little creature, they are reading glasses and it strikes me that it is you, Tailor, and not I that requires the use of them most of all right now,’ and in a single, precision movement, she whipped them from around her head and thrust them onto his nose, pushing them on so hard that they stayed rigidly in place.  Before Tom had time to regain his dislodged footing, Principle Mordant had unfurled the thick scroll of orphanage rules and was waving it just inches from his face.

            ‘There!  See!  Rule number two!  Right at the top!  “The granting of toilet breaks is strictly at the discretion of the St Clandestine principles and, under no circumstances, are any discussions regarding such privileges to be entered into during bedtime hours.”’

Tom’s eyes were still trying to make sense of the world through Mordant’s blurry and vomit-inducing glasses before she rolled the scroll in a blistering action and yanked her glasses from his head, replacing them on her own.

            ‘But I really needed the toile-’

            ‘RULE NUMBER TWO!’ she shouted and jabbed him in the stomach with the end of the scroll.

            ‘I was only out of bed because-’

            ‘RULE NUMBER EIGHT!’ she bellowed and jabbed him once again.  Tom let out an ‘oof’ and then realised that Principle Mordant had not actually found him in the toilets but rather in her own office.

            ‘As for being in your office-’

            ‘RULE NUMBER FOURTY TWO!’ she screeched, jabbing him once for every word in her sentence.

Principle Mordant then straightened, folded her arms across her tweed jacket and allowed a wicked smile to spread out across her face.

            ‘Shall I hazard a guess at what I think is going on her, Tailor?  Shall I?’

Tom simply shrugged and nodded an almost imperceptible nod.

            ‘I think, Tailor, that despite all the long and selfless hours of tender loving care that the St Clandestine Orphanage for Lost Souls has bestowed upon you these long years, that you, nevertheless, chose this very night to sneak out of bed, to break into the office and to steal the keys for the main gate, whereupon you would resolve to make yourself absent without leave.  Correct?’

Tom realised that to argue would be an act not only of supreme stupidity but also supreme futility.

            ‘Yes,’ he muttered in reply.

            ‘And yet,’ continued Principle Mordant as if Tom’s reply in the affirmative was inevitable, ‘you still fail to see exactly what is actually going on here; in reality as it were.  Isn’t that right, Tailor?’

Tom started to get that somewhat confused feeling that one gets when they unwittingly fall asleep during a movie only to wakeup halfway through, not knowing quite what on earth anyone is going on about or where the bloke with the hairdo came from.

            ‘I’m sorry, what?’

            ‘Let me ask you a simple question, Tailor: do you believe in magic?’

That one at least was easy.

            ‘No.’

            ‘Me either,’ said Principle Mordant, but she now lowered her smirking face so close to Tom’s that he was forced to stifle a cough at the smell of her forty-percent proof breath.  ‘So, if I were to suggest that it were not a bunch of gate keys that you have clutched behind your back but, say, a bunch of bananas, you would be surprised?’

Tom almost laughed in spite of himself.

            ‘I don’t think so,’ he said and he swung his arm in to view, ‘they are definitely-’ but he didn’t finish his sentence for the shock of seeing a bunch of bright yellow bananas had struck him dumb.  Principle Mordant looked ultra smug.

            ‘And,’ she continued, ‘if I were to say that you were not actually standing before me wearing dark, outdoor clothing but rather just a pair of, quite frankly, dire looking paisley Y-fronts, what would you say about that, humm?’

Tom gulped, he really did not want to look down but grievous curiosity was already lowering his chin.

            ‘No!’ he cried as he saw that it was true.  ‘How are you doing this?’

Mordant laughed a cruel little laugh.

            ‘Powerful, isn’t it?  The power of suggestion, that is.  You see, Tailor, what you are clearly and, until recently, blissfully unaware of is that you are not standing alert in my office, but are actually having another of your famous sleepwalking episodes – in the girls toilets…’

Tom didn’t have time to let out a groan before the loudest clap of thunder yet crashed onto him like a bucket of cold water in the face.  When he regained his senses, the scenery had completely changed.  He was no longer facing a set of old bookshelves but a row of old toilet cubicles.  His feet felt suddenly cold and his teeth were chattering.  Tom looked down.

            ‘Oh no,’ he cried, ‘I really am standing in the girls toilets in my Y-fronts!  Still, could be worse, I could be standing-’

            ‘-Just in front of Principle Mordant?’ came an ecstatic voice from behind.  ‘It’s the Tower for you, Tailor!’

Shivering, Tom pulled his battered St Clandestine blazer tighter across his chest.  He was sitting on the floor of the bell tower, his back against the cold, hard stone of its walls, knees pulled tightly up under his chin.  The double-arched and glassless windows that adorned each side of the tower were allowing him no respite from the howling wind, which span a tumultuous vortex around the confined space, picking up debris and tossing at Tom as he cowered in a corner.

A cranking noise from above announced the imminent striking out of another hour on the large, iron bell that hung ominously above Tom’s head.  Tom clasped his hands to his ears as the clock stuck out five peals.

            Five o’clock, thought Tom, the sound of the bells leaving his ears ringing long after the clapper had finished its work.  How much longer?

It had been around eight and a half hours since he had been frogmarched up the twisting staircase to the bell tower before being thrust though the trapdoor and locked in for the night.  All the time he had been there, not even the briefest of sleeps had overcome him thanks mainly to the bitter cold and the relentless storm that was raging all around.  He was becoming delirious with exhaustion.

As he sat in the corner trying to make himself as small as possible, he thought that he heard over the howling wind a bang as of a large door or gate, quickly followed by a cry.  Climbing stiffly to his feet, he peered through an arch to the grounds below.  The wind throttled his hair and pounded his face, making him squint against its ferocity.  With little of the steely grey morning light managing to slip past the storm clouds, Tom could make out next to nothing from below.  He could see the exercise yard, the inner section of the perimeter wall and the main gates but nothing seemed to be moving.

This weather was like nothing he had ever experienced.  Storms normally appear, terrorise and then move on but this one had raged almost directly overhead for hours.  As he looked beyond the walls to the wind-ravaged scrubland stretching away to the horizon, he stared in awe as bolt after bolt of searing lightning made contact with the same patch of ground some way off.

As he watched the pounding and scarring of the landscape, he could not help but feel that he was that section of ground, being battered, pummelled and beaten down.

His life had felt like the slow death of hope; as soon as he had been old enough to understand that he had no family to belong to, he had prayed that the very next visitors to the orphanage would be his parents.  That, sobbing with shame at their mistake, they would scoop him up into their arms and take him home to his brothers and sisters where his real life would begin.  Singsongs around the Christmas tree, walks in the forests, fireworks on bonfire night, hugs.  Especially hugs.

But they never came.  And with each move from one orphanage to ever more removed and woebegone versions, that hope diminished further.  Until he found himself, at roughly thirteen years of age (he had no idea of his actual birthday) standing at the top of a storm-assailed tower, the foreboding protuberance of morally stagnant institution.

An overpowering blend of emotions charged up from his chest and blinded the remains of his exhausted senses.  A tidal wave of self pity remonstrated violently with an almost stabilising feeling of anger, resulting in a reaction that a calm Tom would never have seen coming.  Gripping the arch with both hands, he pulled himself up, framing himself for the world to see.

            ‘Come on then!’ he bellowed to the storm, ‘come and get me!  Finish me off!  I’ve had enough!  I’m not afraid of you!’

He was so angry that he wanted to throw something, anything, at the storm as if it were a physical enemy.  His fingers gripped tightly on the jambs of the window.  He willed the stone to come away as his fingers turned white with effort.

In that instant, the lightning ceased pounding the same area of land and made its way systematically toward the orphanage, striking anything in its path.  Ancient trees, bent over like arthritic backs from the tormenting wind, were ignited, turning them into giant flaming torches.  And still the lightning made for the orphanage, getting closer every second.

As it approached, Tom looked on with an odd gleam in his eye.  In just a few moments it had reached the main gates, striking one and sending a deep, smoking split down its length.  The noise of it was incomparable and it goaded Tom’s anger.  In his right hand, he suddenly felt the stone of the window jamb give way to his demands.  It had felt like it had abruptly turned to sand but when Tom looked down, he saw that he had a large slab of stone in his fist.  Pulling his arm back, he threw the object with all his might into the air.  He traced its path but never saw it land as another bolt of lightning hit the ground just short of the tower, blinding him momentarily and leaving a small crater where it had struck.

Then there was a pause.  The lightning stopped coming; it was as if the storm had taken an intake of breath.

            ‘Well come on then!’ demanded Tom, he was leaning out of the window now, holding on with just one hand.  ‘If you don’t want the job, the ground can do it!’

He let his body swing a little.  His foot lost some of its grip and he swung dangerously forward and as he struggled to regain his stability, the clouds above released its final blow.

The bolt hit him directly in the chest.  Tom felt all his muscles contract and a blistering pain shoot through his entire upper body.  He was tossed backward as if he had been hit by a freight train, crashing against the hard rock of the far inner wall, although his body registered nothing of the impact.

Then there was nothing.

A total blackness wiped out the initial blinding white of the impact and all sound withdrew, leaving him adrift in nothingness.

Chapter Two

            ‘Does it hurt, Tailor?’ laughed Bottomley, a rather large boy whose eyes were too close together for everybody else’s comfort.  His mouth was overly crammed with teeth, giving the impression to anyone he smiled at that he was sneering – which in all probability he was as Bottomley rarely smiled unless it was a precursor to an act of cruelty – usually against some physically lesser being. 

            ‘Well?’

Tom smacked Bottomley’s hand away; it was pinching his chest through the hole in his shirt where the bolt of lightning had made contact.  It had been a miracle; there was no major damage: no burning, no scarring, just a hole in his shirt and a sore patch of skin that, as he sat in the dinner hall, Bottomley was succeeding to make worse.

            ‘Get lost,’ muttered Tom.

            A number of voices jeered.

            ‘Oooh, touchy aren’t we, Tailor?  ‘Eard you got struck by lightning last night, what happened – too thick to know how to die?’

Laughter rippled through the hall.  Tom had no idea how the news had got out, these things just had a habit of doing so.  Not that it mattered; he couldn’t care less about what anyone thought of him in this place.  Little Ed ‘Meeky’ Harrison was the only one he talked to, and even that was quite rare.

            ‘So what were you doin’ up the Tower in the firs’ place, eh?’ continued Bottomley, he was like a dog with a bone once he got his teeth in.  ‘I ‘eard you went walkies again last night, took a stroll through the girls bogs – in your pants!’

At this, the whole hall of boys fell about in hysterics.  Tom could feel his face getting red.  Taking a last look at the cold slop on his plate, he stood up and stepped over the bench.  For a moment he glared at Bottomley as if he were about to make a scene in the dinner hall but, thinking better of it, walked toward the exit.

            ‘Going somewhere, Tailor?’ said Bottomley with a lopsided grin.  ‘Goin’ back up the Tower to ‘ave another go?’

Tom paused, turned and glanced around the hall of faces, all laughing and pointing at him in glee.  As the shadow of the perimeter wall lay dark against the windows, the Tower clock struck a deep and shuddering note, like a death knell.  Maybe Bottomley was right – maybe he should go back up the Tower?

It could have been the complete lack of sleep.  It could have been that, after all these years of hoping, he had finally realised that those doors were never going to open to let in his parents through.  There was about as much chance of escaping this truth as there was escaping St Clandestine.

Tom turned and looked through the small inner window of the staff quarters where the principles were having their own meal in private.  Leaving the dinner hall before the official end of lunch was strictly forbidden.  Inside, the Mordant’s smirked back at him over the top of their raised teacups as if they knew exactly what was going on and had no intention of stepping in the way of it.  Tom shook his head and charged out of the hall, almost knocking Mrs Hyrde, the janitor, clean off of her feet as he passed through the door.

It was not the Tower that Tom made for but a last minute a change of heart took him back to the quiet of the dormitories.  As he lay on the unforgiving surface of his bed, he reached across and picked up the only personal possession that he owned: a photograph frame.  As he stared at the enclosed picture he failed to hear footsteps enter the room through the open door.

            ‘Touching,’ announced a menacing voice as the frame was snatched out of his hand.

            ‘Give it back, Bottomley!’ demanded Tom, sitting upright on the bed.

            ‘Or what?’ the boy threatened, leering.

Bottomley turned his gaze to the photograph and frowned; it showed a well dressed couple in their early thirties laughing together as they posed in the snow whilst a young girl and boy threw snowballs at each other at their feet.

            ‘What a touchin’ scene,’ said Bottomley derisively.  ‘Who’re this lot?  They can’t be your family; they’re too fancy for a start.’

            ‘Just give it back!’ said Tom and he grabbed at the frame.  Bottomley snatched it away and pushed Tom back on to the bed, the impact with his tender chest making Tom wince.

            ‘Don’t tell me: this is your mum ‘n dad and any minute now they’re commin’ over to pick yer up?  Yeh, mine too…’ Bottomley shook his head and let out a short, cynical laugh before sitting down heavily on the next bed.  Tom looked at the bare mattress and the slightly open and empty draws next to it.

            ‘Where’s Ed’s stuff?’ said Tom with surprise at the stripped bed.

            ‘What?  Meeky?  Gone.  Looks like his mum and dad have “realised their mistake” and come for him’.

Bottomley’s voice became high pitched and mocking for the last part, mimicking someone using an orphanage cliché.  Tom’s insides squirmed at the words; Bottomley’s tone confirmed to him that what he had been clinging to all his life had not been a real hope but the oldest line in the orphan’s lamentable handbook.

            ‘He’s left his glasses case,’ said Tom pointing to the top of the bedside cabinet, still shocked at the prompt departure of Meeky.

            ‘Yeh, well, ‘ee always was a dumb ass!’

Tom felt his anger rise again and jumped off his bed.  Lurching toward Bottomley, he grabbed for the frame and tried to wrestle it from the other boys grip.  In the struggle that ensued, the picture slipped from both their hands and flew through the air, contacting with the hard floor, smashing the glass and sending the frame and the picture in different directions.  As Tom stood there in shock, Bottomley ran over, laughing as he went.

            ‘Woops!  That’s done it!’

His feet crunching on the broken glass, he bent down and picked up the picture.  There was a pause whilst Bottomley, frowning, unfolded an extra part to the picture that was hidden when in the frame.  After a few moments of contemplation, he started to laugh uncontrollably.

            ‘Y…ya’ must be jokin’ me!’ he cried, clutching his stomach, bent almost double with mirth.  He then cleared his throat dramatically as if reading an important note:

            ‘“Jacket: thirty five pounds; cardigan: sixteen pounds; gloves-”’ He could not finish the last line from the catalogue’s winter collection as his laughter had left him almost breathless.

Tom’s head became dizzy with anguish; even the sound of Bottomley’s laughter seemed to fade away as he looked down at the shattered pieces of glass and the broken frame that had, until now, been the host of his most audacious lie – that of having a real family of his own.

Then the anger returned.  His hands pulled into fists and he lurched at Bottomley, who was taken by surprise.  They struggled, each trying to subdue the other as they careered around the room, displacing beds and cabinets.  The noise of their fight was beginning to extend outside of the room and into the corridors beyond.  Any minute, Tom was expecting to feel the hard grip of a principle before once again being thrown into the Tower.

Having pushed Bottomley to the floor and pinned him down by sitting on his chest, Tom pulled back a fist.  But just before he could release it, Bottomley turned his head and tried to bite Tom’s leg.  Instead of punching, Tom shot out a hand and grabbed Bottomley’s forehead, wrenching it to one side.

Then they stared at each other.  It must have been the lost, distant look in Bottomley’s eyes because Tom had the sudden feeling that the boy he was staring at was not so strong and unaffected by his surroundings as he made out, but rather was lonely and afraid of a bleak future.  It was like Tom had somehow heard a soundless cry for help.

Tom let go; Bottomley now wore an odd expression, as if Tom had just said something deeply incisive to him.

            ‘Wh…what?’ Bottomley stuttered, a deep frown creasing his brow.  ‘What!’

            ‘You’re not so different from me,’ said Tom.  ‘Deep down, I mean.  You’re just as scared of being alone, having no family.’

For a moment, Bottomley just stared at Tom, looking haunted but he quickly regained his composure.

            ‘We’re nothing alike!’ he spat and grabbed at Tom, who raised his fist once more.  Just as he made to throw a punch, Tom’s arm was restrained from behind.  His head snapped back, fearing the worse.

            ‘Don’t do it, Tom,’ said a soft voice, ‘he’s not worth the trouble you’ll find yourself in.’

Tom was shocked to see not one of the Mordant’s but the caretaker, Mrs Hyrde looking down at him with a troubled expression.

            ‘Come on,’ she said, pulling him off Bottomley, ‘let’s go somewhere quiet.’

Tom followed Mrs Hyrde as she shuffled out of the boy’s dormitory and made off down the corridor, the legs of her slightly baggy overalls flapping a beat in her haste.  She was moving quickly and Tom found himself having to trot just to keep up.

            ‘Lunch will not be over for a good fifteen minutes or so yet,’ she said over her shoulder, trusting that Tom was still behind her.  ‘As long as you’re back after that we should be okay.’

Having sped down a few of the lesser used corridors, Tom was surprised to see the caretaker suddenly turn left down a short flight of narrow stairs that seemed to be cut out of the wall.  Stooping to avoid hitting his head, he carefully descended the worn stone steps and passed through the wooden door at the bottom.

The room he passed into was dim, even by St Clandestine’s standards, with the only natural light coming from a very small window set high into the wall which must have been ground level on the outside.

            ‘Sit yourself down; that’s a good boy,’ said Mrs Hyrde almost absently, gesturing at a worn but comfortable looking armchair that sat before a glowing grate.  Tom did so, watching as the aging caretaker set about lighting a couple of old oil lamps.

            ‘This is my room – it wasn’t deemed of importance that electricity be provided down here,’ she said, noting Tom’s obvious puzzlement at the lack of facilities.

As Mrs Hyrde rummaged around in a dark recess next to the fire, Tom looked around for a bed but could not find one in the small, cluttered room – she must sleep in the chair, he thought.  Once again he felt bitterness toward the Mordant’s for expecting someone of Mrs Hyrde’s age to sleep in a chair.  At least with the thick walls and the fire it was a warm place to be.  And, in an odd way, it was quite homely being amongst all the knickknacks of upkeep and repair.

As Mrs Hyrde tipped a scoop of coal onto the embers in the grate, causing sparks to jostle their way into the chimney above, Tom rose from the chair and walked over to a small table under the dim glow of the window.  There was a calendar above it and today’s date was circled in red pen.  The table itself was a work desk and upon it was a sign that had the name of the orphanage written across it in grand, golden lettering.  Around the edges of the sign was an exquisitely drawn but half finished motif of trees, flowers and images of children playing.

            ‘This is incredible,’ said Tom, tracing his fingers over the surface.  ‘Did you do it?’

Mrs Hyrde nodded, an appreciative smile playing on her lips.

            ‘It’s for the main gate.’

            ‘When will it go up?’ he asked.  The caretaker laughed cynically.

            ‘Go up?  Don’t be silly, do you honestly think that the principles would want something like this up on their orphanage?’

            ‘Like this?’ enquired Tom.

            Mrs Hyrde shrugged.

            ‘Pleasant,’ she said, dryly.

            ‘It would be a waste, anyway,’ said Tom.

            ‘How so?’ said Mrs Hyrde as she placed an old kettle onto a rack sitting just above the coals.

            ‘Well, no one ever gets out through the gates to see it-’ Tom paused as his insides seemed to ache for a moment, ‘- and no one ever comes in from the outside…’

The caretaker gave him a sidelong glance as she readied some cups and placed some tea leaves into a pot.  Tom stared, unseeing, at the kettle.

            ‘It’ll never boil if you do that.’

            ‘Humm?’ said Tom.

            ‘Never mind,’ she said with a gentle smile.

Walking back to the fire he stopped to study one of the bricks that made up the chimneybreast, it had an odd engraving etched deeply into its surface, it looked like it had been done some considerable time ago.

            ‘What does this mean?’ he asked, touching what looked like some type of hieroglyphic with his index finger.  Mrs Hyrde narrowed her eyes, Tom was not sure if she was looking at him or trying to focus on the square brick that he was pointing at.

            ‘I don’t know…it was said that some of the stonework used in this orphanage was salvaged from derelict structures found in the area.  Must be something to do with its original application.  It just goes to show that things just can’t survive forever out here.  Even bricks and mortar.  Eventually everything comes crashing down.’

Tom jumped as the kettle suddenly began to boil, whistling with a flourish it jostled around as the water attempted to burst out.  Using a thick cloth to retrieve it from the rack, Mrs Hyrde poured them both a steaming cup of tea, handing one to Tom.

            ‘Thanks,’ he said, nursing the cup.

            ‘So, are you going to tell me what it was all about?’ asked the caretaker as she sank appreciatively into the armchair that Tom had left vacant it for her.

Tom sighed.

            ‘It was his fault,’ he began, the smug image of Bottomley stirring the anger in him once more.  ‘He-’

            ‘No,’ interrupted Mrs Hyrde gently, ‘I mean last night – up the Tower.’

Tom stared at the careworn face of the caretaker, the orange glow of the fire catching in her lined features and making her look even older than she was.

            ‘I…I don’t know what you mean,’ said Tom, frowning.

            ‘I’m referring to your…acrobatics.’

Tom swallowed deeply, feeling suddenly cold despite the warmth in the room.

            ‘How…?’

            ‘I was out last night, in the yard.  I was retrieving something that had been carelessly cast aside when I looked up to see the time and happened to notice you hanging from the window.  It was just before the lightning struck, throwing you back inside.’

Tom was shocked at the news and shuddered as he relived the experience.

            ‘I didn’t know anyone was out last night.’

            ‘It’s just as well someone was,’ said Mrs Hyrde, her face suddenly serious.

Tom stared up at her.

            ‘Somebody must have helped me back to my room, was it you?’

            ‘It was I that raised the alarm; I knew that I couldn’t manage to get you down from the Tower on my own so I had to enlist the help of the Principles.  It wasn’t easy – let’s just say that it was a good job that you were out cold…’

Tom was only half aware that he was now rubbing the back of his head.

            ‘Principle Mordant took great pleasure in explaining exactly how it was that you managed to get yourself locked up there in the first place,’ said Mrs Hyrde, not looking at Tom but taking a deep sip of her tea.  Tom rolled his eyes; he was sure he saw the faintest of smiles pass over the caretaker’s lips.  Feeling his face flush he was grateful for the masking glow of the fire.

            ‘I was dreaming.  I thought I was escaping, stealing the gate keys and getting out.’

Mrs Hyrde rested her cup on the arm of the chair and turned a little so as to face Tom more directly.

            ‘And how would that have helped, Tom?  If you had made it out, what then?  It may have escaped your notice, but this place is in the middle of nowhere.  Like I said, nothing – not even bricks and mortar – lasts long out here.  The winds are savage, the scrubland disorientating, and the water scarce.  You would have been feeding the crows within hours.’

Tom’s head dropped.

            ‘I know.  I suppose that I was desperate.  I couldn’t imagine spending one more minute trapped behind that wall.’

            ‘“Desperate” can get you killed, young Thomas.’

Mrs Hyrde looked long at Tom and sighed.

            ‘Your time will come.  You have just got to be prepared, that’s all.’

            ‘When will my time come?  Prepared how?’ said Tom, anxiety creeping into his voice.

            ‘Soon, Tom.  Preparation includes trusting yourself, trusting your instincts.’

            ‘Trust is impossible in this place,’ said Tom bitterly.

            ‘But you trust me, don’t you?’

Tom thought about it; although he had not spoken regularly to Mrs Hyrde, she always seemed to be there to lend a helping hand, to offer a subtle word of advice when needed, always in the background so that her intervention was never really noticed – until today.

            ‘Yes.  I suppose I do,’ said Tom and he suddenly felt uplifted by the revelation.

            ‘Good,’ said the caretaker, ‘that’s good, Tom.’

Somewhere not too far off, a rumble of thunder passed into the room.  Mrs Hyrde groaned at the thought of yet another storm.

            ‘They seem to be more and more often,’ said Tom, looking warily up to the window, the light of which was dimming rapidly.

            ‘Yes, and more violent,’ noted Mrs Hyrde, distracted.  ‘Still, better get you back up to the dormitories before you are missed, my lad.’

Tom took a last swig from his tea and climbed to his feet.

            ‘Thanks for that,’ he said awkwardly, meaning more than just the drink.  The old lady just nodded and smiled.  Darting through the door, he started to climb the steps, hoping that he would not be seen on his way out.  However, as his eyes reached the level of the topmost step, a pair of shiny black shoes was waiting for him, one tapping up and down rhythmically.

            ‘So there you are, Master Tailor,’ said the curt voice of principle Mordant.  ‘It looks like I’ve got no choice but to give you some very interesting news.  Follow me!’ she demanded as she strode off in the direction of the office.

Chapter Three

Tom sat uncomfortably in the uncomfortable wooden chair set dramatically before the twin desks in the principles office.  As he perched there, trying not to catch the narrowed eyes of Principle Mordant, his fingers toyed with the arms of the seat.  He could feel grooves scratched so deeply into the wood that Tom felt sure that he would come across a broken fingernail or two.

            ‘Problem, Tailor dear?’ asked Principle Mordant with a smirk as she looked over the top of her gold framed half-moon specs at Tom.  In one bejewelled hand she was holding a bone china saucer whilst the other had a careful grip on a delicate looking cup.

Tom wondered how there seemed to be so much money in being an orphanage principle; he was willing to bet that it was carefully strained Earl Grey tea in that cup, not your common or garden teabag variety.

            ‘No.  No problem,’ he mumbled.

            ‘Excellent.  Your wait will soon be at an end, it’s just that one never makes such announcements without the presence of my…equal.’  Principle Mordant produced a brief and rather fraudulent smile.  Tom groaned inwardly, he knew exactly what was meant by “my equal”.

Just a few moments later, the sound of footfalls reached the door, which then swung inward with a little more force that was strictly necessary.  Tom closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

            ‘Ah, there you are, Mildred,’ said Principle Mordant, tersely as her sister sat heavily at the desk next to hers.

Mildred, or Madam Mordant, as she was referred to in an attempt to avoid confusion, was not only a joint principle of St Clandestine but was also a spitting image of her sister, Morag.  They were so alike in appearance and attitude that it was the nearest thing you could get to being in two places at any one time.  There was only one difference between the two, a difference that for some reason had found its way onto the orphanage rules as never to be mentioned by anyone…

            ‘Biscuit, Mildred?’ said Principle Mordant with a smirk, proffering a sumptuous looking garibaldi toward her sister.  Mildredsent back a dangerous glare as she unconsciously pulled her suit jacket over her tummy and turned her stare toward Tom instead.

            ‘Is this the boy, dear?’ she said to her sister, all trace of animosity gone in an instant.

            ‘Yes, dear,’ replied Principle Mordant.

            ‘Lovely.’

            ‘Super.’

The principles simultaneously lifted their teacups, leaving their little fingers sticking out at a jaunty angle, and took a long sup.

            ‘Humm, lovely tea, Morag,’ said Madam Mordant with a sickly sweet smile.

            ‘Devine,’ replied her sister.

            ‘So, down to business.  Have you retrieved his file yet, Morag?’

            ‘Not yet, dear.’

            ‘I’ll get it, dear.’

Madam Mordant rose from her chair and moved to a set of shelves that contained numerous box files.  Reaching to the blue files, she wafted her finger passed the labels on each one as she searched for Tom’s file.

            ‘Such bad business, all this rule breaking, Thomas,’ she said as she continued her search.  Tom became suddenly suspicious at the use of his first name.  ‘Still, you’ve had your little punishment and all’s well that end’s well; isn’t that right?’

Tom’s grip on the arms of the chair increased.

            Yeh, he thought, if you think that almost dying of hyperthermia and being struck by lightning is ‘ending well’!  “Little punishment” my a-

            ‘“S”…“T”…Ah!’ declared Madam Mordant as her success at finding Tom’s file interrupted his dark thoughts, ‘here it is!’  Pulling the box file down from the shelf, she returned to her chair with it.  ‘Let’s see,’ she said, popping the clasp and opening the flap.

For a moment or two, Madam Mordant flicked through the few pieces of paperwork in the box relating to Tom and his passage from one orphanage to another.

            ‘Good.  Very good.  An excellent candidate…’ she muttered to herself before dropping the loose sheets back into the box and smiling over at her sister.

            ‘All in order, dear?’ asked Principle Mordant.

            ‘Oh yes.  Perfectly fine,’ she said with a sly smile.

            ‘Birth certificate?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘That’ll make things easier,’ said Principle Mordant, a strange glint in her eye.

            ‘Excuse me,’ said Tom, who was growing concerned but was unsure why, ‘what exactly is going on?’

            ‘Well, Master Tailor, it looks like we have found you a foster family,’ said principle Mordant.

Tom’s jaw dropped.  He had no idea what he felt about this although anything that took him out of this place had to be a good thing.  Didn’t it?

            ‘Don’t I even get to meet them first?’ said Tom, who thought the whole affair a little sudden.

            ‘Meet them?  Why ever would you want to do that, Tailor?’ said Madam Mordant.  ‘Do you think that you have a choice?’

Tom shrugged.  Whoever it was would have to go a long, long way to be worse than the Mordant’s.

            ‘Quite a little earner, I don’t mind saying,’ said Principle Mordant, who was rubbing her hands together at the thought.  ‘You see, Tailor, we are paid quite handsomely if we are able to pack you brats off to families and the longer you’ve been here, the more we get paid.’

            ‘And,’ picked up Madam Mordant, ‘what with you having been here for over three years now, Tailor, that’s not a bad return on investment.’

Tom’s eyes began to flick from one Mordant to the other with suspicion.

            ‘So, Mildred: names,’ said Principle Mordant, picking up an official looking form and a pen, which she tapped absently on her lips as she thought.

            ‘Oh, yes.  This is always the best bit,’ said Madam Mordant, ‘well, almost…’

            ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Principle Mordant, ‘how about Mr and Mrs Falsity?’

            ‘Excellent, dear!’

            ‘Thank you, dear!’

            ‘Now wait a minute,’ said Tom, moving to the edge of his seat, ‘did you just make those names up?’

            ‘Skip the paperwork for now, dear?’ said Madam Mordant.

            ‘I think so, dear,’ replied her sister.  ‘Come now, Tailor.  It’s time to meet your new family.’

Before Tom could even put in a strongly worded complaint, he was ushered out of the office and down the corridor to the main entrance.  Outside the storm was gaining momentum, the wind assaulting the windows.

            ‘Where are we going?’ demanded Tom as he was now almost frogmarched toward the exit.

            ‘Your new family is waiting outside for you, Tailor,’ said Principle Mordant without even looking down at him.

As they burst through the main doors and into the yard, they were all buffeted by the wind as it threw itself over the perimeter wall and onto the concrete.  From a pocket, Principle Mordant pulled out a large key.  Picking up pace, she headed directly for the main gate.

            ‘Why would they be out here?’ shouted Tom over the screaming of the storm.

            ‘Stupid boy!’ shrieked Madam Mordant with a look of pure pleasure.

Tom tried to push his feet into the ground to stop himself going any further but the Mordant’s lifted him under each arm and marched on.

Arriving at the gate, Principle Mordant thrust the key into the lock, and turned it forcibly.  Even over the noise of the storm, Tom could hear the little used mechanism groan and clank as it released itself.  With their free arm, the principles each pulled open a gate, swinging them wide open.

Tom took a sudden intake of breath as the barrenness of the land lay before him, stretched out in semidarkness as it was throttled, whipped and scorched by the worst storm yet.  As he stood there, a barrage of dirt hit his face, stinging his cheeks and blinding his eyes.

            ‘After you, dear,’ said Principle Mordant to her sister.

            ‘No, I insist – after you!’

With that, as Tom stood blinded and disorientated in the gateway, Principle Mordant thrust him forward into the emptiness beyond with all her might.

Tom cried out as he stumbled forward and fell to the ground, clutching his eyes.

            ‘No!’

But all he heard in reply was cruel laughter before even that was cut short by the clanging shut of two heavy doors and the ravenous howling of the wind.

It took a few minutes before Tom managed to clear the dirt from his eyes and regain his rather blurry sight.

            How could this happen? he asked himself, realising that he had finally got what he wanted – he was out.  But this was not the way it was supposed to work.  He was not in the least bit ready.

            ‘Your time will come.  You have just got to be prepared, that’s all.’

The caretaker’s words came back to Tom as he stood before the closed gates, being buffeted by the wind.

            ‘But I’m not prepared!’ he shouted out, the wind taking his words and steeling them away.

There was a flash of lightning followed immediately by a crack of thunder.  He staggered forward as the wind punched him from behind; there was a crunch from under his foot and Tom knelt to see what it was.  From the ground he lifted the broken remains of a pair of spectacles.

            ‘Meeky’s glasses…’

Tom began to panic, running to the towering gates he pounded on them with his fists.

            ‘Let me in!  Open these gates now!’

There was a sliding noise as a small hatch opened up at head height.  Principle Mordant’s eyes could be seen looking sternly back at him.  Tom strained to hear as she began talking to her sister, her eyes never leaving Tom.

            ‘Oh, the sport, Mildred – this one’s hanging around!’

Mordant’s eyes took on a gleeful expression.

            ‘Loose the dogs!’

As if they had heard and fully understood their master’s call, the dogs started barking and straining on their chains somewhere beyond the gates.  Tom felt a shock of adrenaline pulse through his body, sending weakness into his legs.  Any minute now these gates were going to open, but not to let him in but to release these crazed animals to chase him down.

Turning, he ran full pelt down the slope, his legs skipping and bouncing on the uneven surface and almost running away from him as he careered from the orphanage.  All the time the lightning was exploding all around like a thousand camera bulbs.

When on flat ground Tom willed his legs to pump on and on.  His thighs burnt as the muscles ached for a rest, but there could be no stopping.  Any minute now he would hear the sound of scampering feet overtaking him and the barking of slavering jaws ready to sink into his flesh.

As he ran, the wind did its best to torment him and put him off his stride.  Then a particularly vicious blast blew his lifted leg into the other, causing him to trip and roll along the hard, dusty ground.

If it were possible his panic appeared to multiply. Turning immediately, he looked to the orphanage, its ominous outline highlighted by the storm.  In the distance, he saw two large black shapes sprinting down the slope as if they were gliding.  Tom struggled to his feet, the occasional savage crack of a bark coming to him over the wind.  Turning away, he ran on.

He had no idea of where he was heading.  There was nothing out here.  No hiding places, no roads where he may flag down help.  Nothing.  Passing close to the remains of a broken tree, Tom scooped up a section of branch the size of a baseball bat to use in his defence and ran on.

As he continued, he saw patches of dark black ground pass under his feet.  One after another they came and went and Tom noticed that he was following the line that the lightning had taken that night as it made for him in the Tower.  Looking ahead, Tom saw a large, round area where the lightning was once again pounding at the ground.  He suddenly realised that it was this spot that he was now making for.  He had no idea why, it was surely much more dangerous than stopping and facing the dogs, but something inside was willing him on.

Then he heard a sound from behind that made his blood run cold: the thumping of paws and the growling of hungry jaws.  Tom flicked the quickest of glances over his shoulder and saw two black masses just yards away.  Without breaking his stride, he tore off his blazer and threw it behind him.  He dared not look to see if it had any effect but pounded on.  Behind, the dogs attacked the garment as if it were a hunk of meat, ripping it to shreds in seconds before resuming the chase.

Within moments they had made up the ground.  Tom looked back, shouted in terror and jumped forward as one of the dogs leapt at him.  Snapping at his ankle, the animal’s sharp teeth bit down on the leg of his trousers, pulling a section free as it shook its powerful head from side to side.  Tom threw the branch and as he shuffled backward on his hands and backside, the two dogs tore the wood to bits between them before preparing for their final jump.

But as they made to leap, they stopped, rigid like statues, staring at the ground.  Without realising it Tom had crawled into the round blackness of the scorched earth and for some reason, the dogs refused to enter.  With their ears and tails dropping, they glanced at each other before turning and running.

Tom stared in amazement, watching the dogs retreat.  His blood was pumping fast in his veins.  When the shaking had stopped in his legs, Tom rose gingerly to his feet, the wind continuing to throw itself at him and the thunder and lightning still striking.  But then Tom noticed something: the lightning was no longer striking this section of ground, or any for that matter.

However, no sooner had Tom noticed the lack of lightning than he felt a tingling feeling reverberate through his body, like a huge build up of static electricity.  Looking up he watched as a phenomena developed that he had seen once before when in the Tower: the clouds above seemed to be sucking inwards, the thunder stopped and it was like the storm had taken a tremendous, shuddering intake of breath.

Tom closed his eyes.  The chances of surviving one lightning strike were slim but two?  Surely impossible.

The lightning bolt that struck Tom was unlike any other that had hit the earth that night – or any that had hit Earth at any time for that matter.  As the dark clouds above released their power, multiple strands of brilliant light interwove with each other, creating a helix of intense power that charged downward and enveloped Tom where he stood.

Tom was lifted from the ground; not savagely but slowly.  Time seemed to stop.  He could have been engulfed in this painless light for hours, days even.  The boundaries of his physical form seemed to blur – it was almost like he was the light. 

But the feeling of detachment started to falter; he felt his physical awareness return to him and that was not all: there was something else – someone else.

For an instant he felt extreme power run through him, over him and around him.  Power that he could not even start to comprehend.  The other presence was struggling with something, concentrating what Tom somehow realised was immense power to overcome.

Tom felt his mind passing the confines of his own body and connecting with the newcomer.  A single thought came to him and he knew it was not his own:

Escape!

Then the light burnt out with a blinding explosion and Tom fell to the hard ground, winding himself in the process.  Having sat up clutching his chest, Tom’s eyes widened in shock for just a few yards away, dressed in long, tatty grey robes with straggly grey hair to match, lay a man.  A man who had simply appeared from the lightning as if by a miracle.  As if by magic…

Despite his shock, Tom ran to the man and stood over him, staring down.  Beneath his grey robes, the man’s chest heaved rapidly and his breath came in ragged gasps.  Tom was reminded of someone that had struggled to water’s surface after a long and nearly fatal submersion.

            ‘Are…are you okay?’ shouted Tom over the noise of the wind, concern etching lines into his brow.

After a few moments, the man’s breathing became less laboured and he lifted a hand to hold his head, exposing a symbol shaped like a horseshoe seemingly tattooed on his upper arm.  Then without allowing himself any more time for recovery, he hastened awkwardly to his feet.

As the man stood, Tom saw that despite the stoop old age had forced upon him that the stranger was actually tall and imposing; his eyes were hooded but keen, quickly scanning every part of their surroundings.  Tom watched warily as those eyes passed across him, lingering only momentarily as if appraising before deciding he was no threat.  The man then barged passed hurriedly, almost angrily, making noises of frantic effort.

            ‘Hey…wait!’ said Tom, following behind but as he drew close, the man turned sharply and pushed him back with a force that Tom would not have thought him capable of delivering.

            ‘Stop!’ shouted the newcomer.

Tom stared up at him from where he had fallen; the man’s eyes were wild.

            ‘Stay away from me!’ the man barked, waving a hand at him warningly.

Tom shook himself mentally, trying to get a grip on reality.  This man must surely just be on his way to the orphanage, he must have just been disorientated by the storm.  Surely?

But then something happened that put an end to Tom’s suggestions that this whole business had some normal, mundane explanation.  The man, having turned his back on Tom and walked a few paces further forward, lowered his head and held out his hands, palms open and face down toward the ground.  Despite the wind trying to drown out all sound not its own, Tom could hear the man muttering, or maybe chanting.

To Tom’s amazement, two columns of what appeared to be dust and dirt rose slowly from the ground beneath each hand, completely unaffected by the gales.  Twisting around and around they made their way upwards, just like snakes climbing a pole until they enveloped each palm.

Then the ground began to shake.  From all around, Tom could sense movement.  Suddenly there was a crash as a large bolder burst through a nearby thicket and rolled purposefully into the charred area of ground that Tom and the stranger were standing.  As if it knew exactly where it was going, the bolder stopped suddenly and abnormally, taking a position on the far side perimeter.  Tom stared at it in disbelief before noticing that the bolder was in fact a large square building block.  And more than that: it had a symbol cut into it just like the one in the caretaker’s room.

Tom had no time to consider the implications of this before block after block of old, heavy stone came tumbling into the area; each one managing to avoid both him and the stranger, who throughout all of this continued to chant at the ground.  Some of the blocks were trailing undergrowth whilst others were almost black with dirt where they had burst upward from deep within the ground, answering this most unorthodox of calls without hesitation.

As Tom stood, rooted to the spot, he watched dumfounded as one by one, the blocks, jumping up on top of each other in an orderly fashion, created what appeared to be the exterior walls of a round building, following the outline of the charred ground.  But that was not all: in the centre of this new structure was a grand, freestanding archway.  But an archway to what?

Suddenly the man groaned and collapsed.  The columns of swirling dust fell back to earth and the sound of rolling stone ceased.  Tom looked around; the building was not complete, it was a ruin.  There was no roof and large areas of the wall missing; it was like some long deserted abbey or church.

Tom’s head snapped round as he heard the sound of the man scrabbling to his feet and running toward him.  He began to back away.

            ‘It’s time!’ said the man, more to himself than anyone else.

Above, the clouds began to spin violently as if water circling a plughole.  Fingers of lightning crawled across the bottom of the clouds from all directions like spiders, making for the centre.

Then it hit.

A vast beam of light left the centre of the cloud and made contact with the top of the arch.  As it did so, every symbol on every block in the ruin of a building shone bright silver.  Tom gasped.  As he stared at the archway and the numerous shining hieroglyphs that ran up and over its perimeter, a haze began to form within.  The view of the broken wall beyond began to falter; it was like seeing the world through a heat haze.  Eventually everything within became completely unclear as a veil of disruption filled the void.

Air began to rush toward the arch, taking anything loose with it.  Particles of dirt and ash were sucked in and did not reappear from the other side.

Tom shouted as he and the stranger were dragged slowly forward.  His heart lurched.  He had no idea what this thing was that he was heading toward.  His instincts told him that it was safe; it was almost as if he could feel the arch radiating peace and calm, happiness even.  It was also clear that there was nothing but death ahead of him in the scrubland but still he could not escape the rising sense of panic, or the menace of the man that was being dragged with him.

            ‘Help!’ he cried, but suddenly the man ran forward.  Propelled by the wind he moved swiftly before being swallowed by the shimmering light within the archway.

Tom struggled against the pull but it was useless. As he reached the light he took a deep breath before the plunge and then, in a silence born of alarm, was gone from the world.

(Home)