PARALLEL
By Christopher Kneipp
Published by Christopher Kneipp
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Christopher Kneipp
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Dedication
For Julie Kneipp,
Without whom there would be no words,
no love and no light.
Prologue
By Christopher Kneipp
An office, or what had once been an office. Its wood panelled walls, soft lighting and fine furniture, testified to its opulence, but no glory remained. The room was shattered, destroyed by something sudden and violent that had swept in and left a blanket of silence over the rubble.
Unevenly distributed across the faded walls were darker rectangles. Once there had been framed boasts of high achievement and honour, but all were now gone. Someone's life had ended in that place and even if they had survived the disaster, their life was over.
The rest of the office had been visited by the same chaotic force, its mark left on everything.
A large filing cabinet lay across the door. Broken shards of glass were strewn everywhere, with paper and debris covering every square inch of the floor. The disorder and silence filled the room, creating a tangible tension, like the hours after an earthquake waiting for a tsunami.
There at his desk was the room's occupant, dishevelled and dull-eyed. Doctor Martin Francis Laynor, M.D.; obstetrician and murderer. He sat corpse-like in his chair, staring at a space neither in nor out of the room. Only a dim light of life remained in his eyes, like a cooling ember not quite dead.
The doctor's appearance was a desperate cry for help, with his face unshaven, his grey whiskers matched his wild grey hair. Sprayed across his shirt, face and hands was what looked like drying blood.
In his mind Laynor still argued with himself “Murderer / Healer /Murderer / Healer.”
The two concepts tumbled together struggling violently for his sanity.
“Healer/murderer/healer.”
Laynor's mind was a blur of nightmarish images with no order or resolution.
The hospital nursery with many cribs and the peace of the sleeping new-borns.
The images were all mixed up in his head, coming in powerful waves, bitter and sweet, one after another.
The delivery of a child. The nurses, the midwife and the hysterical mother. All of them came into his memory as the conflicting thoughts continued to wrestle.
“Murderer/healer/murderer/healer.”
He'd attempted to write the report several times, but how could he explain the mother's death? How would he explain the cold fire that only he saw, leaping from the child and destroying her? He could not believe the cold callousness of the child's eyes nor the growing fear within himself. It was like bile in his throat, a silent dread that had been rising ever since seeing that child.
Laynor wrote, “The child already appears to be able to focus on objects, and is highly responsive to external stimuli. Pupil response is unusually advanced. Something is...” he could not bring himself to write the words. Something deeply sinister, fearful and terrible, like malice personified.
Laynor remembered the eyes of the child. He could picture them, dark, almost black, and filled with a terrible knowing. The iris was indistinguishable from the pupil, and he relived the nightmare again of having looked into them. The child had been in his hands for only a moment, but that moment was burned into his mind's eye.
“It's stupidity to be frightened of a child. It's just a child,” he rebuked himself.
“An evil child,” came the mental reply.
“Get a hold of yourself, Laynor. It's just a child,” he said.
Yet even as Laynor was reproaching himself, a chilling thought was crawling into his mind. It forced its way into his personal hell, and would not leave. A resolve that was too grotesque to be given voice.
“If you don't do it now, you'll never have the chance again.”
Attempting to contain the quaver in his voice, Laynor had handed the child to the midwife and muttered the usual instructions, before departing the birthing suite, barely containing the urge to run.
Then the images of the birth lost their hold on him and the psychic storm returned once more, tearing at his fragile mind.
“Murderer/healer/murderer/healer.” The accusations were more powerful now, obscuring all other thoughts.
Pain and confusion filled the doctor's mind and something more; something disturbing. At first he thought it was just the madness, but slowly it had grown in strength and malice.
Laynor began smashing his office. He tore the useless pieces of paper from the wall and smashed their frames, pushing the filing cabinet across the door to prevent anyone from entering his world of pain and madness. The child would come for him now. Finally spent he had grabbed his finest scotch and collapsed in his chair.
Less than a day was all it had taken for the child to destroy his life. It would have been incomprehensible to him only a day before but now he sat and drank 12-year-old Malt Scotch from the bottle. He tried to drown the quarrelling thoughts that filled his mind, to drive the suspicion of what he might have done from his head. As he lifted his hand to take another swill from the bottle, the crimson-brown spray confirmed his madness.
“Murderer/healer/murderer/healer/murderer/healer/MURDERER!” the wicked thoughts screamed.
Dark images came at him like shadows cast over his mind and it was more than he could bear. The implication of what he had done returned. All the while he obsessed over the child.
“Only a child/Evil//Child/Evil child,” the accusation consumed him.
“The child/Evil//Child/Evil child.” Slowly the appalling resolve had taken hold of his mind.
The wicked voice had waited for the perfect moment and uttered a single command.
“Kill the evil child.”
“I can't.”
“Yes”
“No. Please, not that. I can't.”
“Can/will!”
The pain, the madness and the wicked voice were overpowering and all Laynor's defences crumbled.
The words had taken control holding Laynor like a puppet and there was nothing he could do.
Half-formed images flooded Laynor's damaged mind. The nursery with many cribs. The peace of the sleeping newborns. The scalpel in his hand. Then a scream, high pitched, like fingernails on a blackboard.
Laynor recalled feeling no emotion as he turned and lunged at the duty nurse. Blood sprayed from a red line across her throat, spraying him and the sleeping infants. Laynor's memory was filled with the sight of the nurse's blood. So much blood and he had felt nothing.
“Evil child, Find, Kill.” Once more, the wicked voice spoke and Laynor obeyed.
The cause of his pain was the child and only in its death was peace to be found. There was no logic in the knowledge, just an inarguable instinct that drove him on towards that act of evil.
There were so many clear plastic cribs and they all looked alike. He'd thought blandly how he needed his glasses as he moved from one to another seeking that tiny monster. So many cribs and so many children and all of them identical.
Finally, he saw the deception.
“Hiding/Same/all/all the same,” the thought's roiled. “Kill them ALL!”
He watched himself raise the blade again, the image clear and undeniable but then, darkness filled his mind, and the events that followed were lost. Try as he might, he could not recall what had next taken place.
Suddenly he had found himself back in his office, alone with the hole in his memory, and the unbearable madness. The mess, the fear, none of it caused him the anguish of the unanswered questions raised by the sprayed accusation of blood, turning red-brown.
Laynor considered his options and assumed the worst. The pain had passed now, leaving only numbness in the place where it had been. He was exhausted. What was needed was a sacrifice as atonement for his sins.
Taking a large swig from the bottle Laynor began rifling through his drawers. Pills and vials chosen and stacked in a growing pyramid on the desk or discarded onto the floor as he rummaged for his exit. Blades he laid out in a line on the desk, along with syringes and assorted potential tools of self-destruction.
He searched cupboards, cabinets and drawers, all the while stockpiling his armoury. As he reached the bottom draw he stopped, sighting the shiny edge of a well oiled cedar box; a memento of his time at the hospital. He pulled it out of the drawer and placed it on the edge of the desk. It was not very large, with a silver plate engraved on the lid. Lifting the lid revealed the contents which taunted him. The black starting pistol was awarded to the department that won the hospital charity games. Obstetrics had won it for the last three years running. A tear came into his eye.
In the soft light of his office the pistol looked real enough but fired only blanks. It's impotence teasing him like an empty promise and without thinking he pulled the trigger. The replica exploded into life and the gunshot reverberated through the confines of the office.
“Great, deaf and crazy,” he said and then laughed. Taking another swig from the bottle he considered the mountain of options spread out before him.
Outside his office he heard scurrying feet and muffled voices, the sounds of panic were growing. Someone knocked on his door and he screamed obscenities finishing with a stern, “I'm busy.”
He began sorting through his collection of drugs and tools, weighing up his options carefully, writing notes on a pad. For a while he wrote notes for his treatment until he heard another knock at the door.
“Doctor Laynor, this is the police. We've got a few people worried about you, do you want to open the door and tell us what's going on.” The voice seemed reasonable, almost pleasant.
“Go away,” Laynor shouted. He turned his back on the door and returned to the desk, his notes and the pistol.
Was it his thought or the child playing with him still, he had no way of knowing but either way he saw how the pistol could release him.
Opening the barrel he removed the spent cartridge and replaced it. He had two shots and if his plan was going to work he would have to be convincing. He smiled as he remembered his university days, doing amateur theatre. He could be quite convincing.
“I've got a gun, get away from the door or I'll shoot.” He felt a strange exultation as he said his line and punctuated it with another gunshot. His ears ringing, he laughed at the thought of the headlines; remembered as the Medical Maniac who killed a bunch of newborns.
Suddenly the door heaved under the weight of the police as they rammed it. The lock splintered its housing with a terrible crack and the two policemen burst through.
Laynor prepared himself, calmly raising the pistol and pointing it at the shattering door. “Wait for your cue,” he joked wryly.
The tactical response police slammed against the door one more time, pushing the filing cabinet away and exposing them both to the barrel of Laynor's harmless pistol. Laynor pulled his trigger again and the police revolvers echoed his shot.
Down in the nursery the babies lay without making a sound, all united by their bloody christening. All bound to the dark eyed child, Tyrren.
Chapter One: Fog and Shadows
The shadows danced across the ceiling like dark creatures, while Mark Tandell was a motionless wave in the covers of his bed, silent but for his gentle breath. Outside the winter wind blew hard and loud, its wailing cry rising and falling in pitch. Through it all he slept, unaware of the importance of that moment.
In appearance, he was unremarkable, just another teenager from suburban Sydney. Nearing his sixteenth birthday, his messy, shoulder-length hair was in need of a cut. Lately, his fringe had been flopping over his eyes. Only a barely perceptible flicker of his eyelids betrayed the fact that his mind was alert. Something new and extraordinary was happening to him.
For the first time in his life, Mark was dreaming.
“Rane Fax, the Worlds' Hope,
Answer the call.
Power thy child,
Power thy thrall.
Rane Fax, oh Worlds' Hope,
Answer the call.”
The soft melody drifted through Mark's mind, cool and vaporous.
The singer spoke, his voice that of a young boy.
“I will show you your enemy. He bends the will of those around him, and few may resist. Prepare child, for the days of your childhood are over.”
The darkness of the dream gave way to a blinding light and a deep sense of terror.
* * * * *
Mark sat bolt upright in his bed, mouth dry and ears ringing. For a moment he was caught in the halfway world between sleep and awake. He knew that he had been dreaming, but about what, he could not recall. Whatever it had been, it terrified him and his heart still pounded.
Soaked in icy sweat, he sat alert in the dark of his bedroom, shivering at the cold and trying to remember the dream. Only snatches remained, vague feelings of horror and images that were fading as he calmed himself. There had been something, like a song or a voice calling and he strained to listen. Only the wind and the gum tree branches scraping against the corrugated iron roof answered his pricked ears.
Finding the switch on his bedside lamp, he flicked it on, filling that corner of his room with bright light. He squinted in the brightness.
“Weird,” he whispered hoarsely.
He had never dreamed before, not that he could recall anyway, and the few images that remained in his head were fragmented.
Too disturbed to sleep any more, Mark slid out of bed and crossed the room, peering out the door. From his parents’ room down the hall, he could hear his father. Perhaps it was the way his mother would raise an eyebrow whenever his father denied he snored, but the sound always made Mark smile.
Shutting the bedroom door, he turned on the overhead light and sat down at his desk.
In front of him, leaning against the wall, was the canvas that he had been working on for Art; or more to the point, not working on. It was little more than a primed canvas, covered in nonsensical lines and graphite smudges, no closer to being finished than it had been at the start of the week. He had only taken the subject to avoid doing Ancient History.
He thought twenty to three in the morning was probably not a good time to be creative, but his nerves were still on edge. Trying to go back to sleep seemed pointless.
He positioned the canvas on the desk in front of him, opened the box of acrylics, laid out his brushes and waited for a flash of inspiration to come.
It didn't.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to grind the sand from them. Holding the canvas by its edges, he shifted in his seat and concentrated on the grubby pencil marks.
Still nothing happened.
He leant back and looked over his shoulder at the bedside clock. The digital display read two forty seven AM. Seven minutes he had sat there. He grumbled inwardly.
For a moment, the illuminated display of the clock seemed to mesmerise him and he felt a wave of nausea surge in his stomach. As the unpleasant sensation passed, his lamp went out startling him and he nearly toppled backwards. The clock's display changed to the next minute but instead of two forty eight, the clock read five fifty seven.
Spinning his chair around he reached for the clock to see what was wrong with it, but the sight of paint spattered on his hand caught his eye and he froze.
Paint was smeared across his fingers, swiped and flecked across his wrist, dabs of different colours and mostly dry.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he did not want to look at the canvas, afraid of what he would see. Confusion and fear filled him, freezing him like a statue for a time.
Though dawn was still a way off, the sky outside his window was beginning to lighten.
Slowly, his curiosity overcame his apprehension and he turned back to face the painting that had been created. It was flawless. He hoped that he had done it in his sleep, not wanting to consider the alternatives. It had to be more than somnambulism that had produced such a painting. It was a work of art and he knew he was no artist.
The subject of the painting had a dream-like quality that was difficult to define. A strange landscape filled the canvas, weaving together the familiar and the bizarre, as though he had taken a dream and placed it directly onto the canvas.
Plains of green grass flowed into the depths of the scene where they met a purple-blue mountain range on the distant horizon. He could see the texture of the grasses, intricate in their detail. In the foreground, a bare and dirty little hillock rose from the plains like a boil. A large granite block with roughly hewn sides and a smooth top crowned the knoll. Large enough for a man to lie on, it looked like an altar.
There were many figures surrounding the knoll, perhaps hundreds. Kneeling bodies, with their faces to the ground and their arms stretched out before them towards the stone, like worshippers. Only three figures in the painting did not prostrate themselves before the altar. A woman, a man and an infant child.
The woman was translucent, the detail of the mountains showing through her misty shape. Mark was certain he had seen her before but could not quite place where. She stood like a ghost with the crowd around her feet, looking to the altar with a deep sadness in her eyes. Something about her nearly moved him to tears, though he could not think why.
Then there was the man wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Whilst all the other figures were wearing robes, or similar period dress, he was incongruously dressed as though he had just walked off the streets of Sydney. In his hands, he held a long stick, which he brandished above the altar preparing to strike.
Mark's eyes then came to the centre of the painting and onto its subject. Lying on the granite altar was a child. Only a baby, it lifted its frightened little hands, as though they could protect it. A column of orange light that rose to the edge of the canvas surrounded the child and most of the altar block.
The picture was beautiful, though Mark couldn't escape the disturbing question of its creation.
A signature was scratched into the wet paint in the bottom right-hand corner.
Rane Fax.
The name resounded in Mark's ears as he whispered it, like an echo of something very important that he should have known. The whole scene seemed incredibly familiar and he felt that he should have known. Where had he seen the ghost or heard that name? Why did he feel he should know?
He continued to wrestle with the riddles the painting represented, until the alarm jolted him from his seat before he slammed it into silence. Six a.m. It reminded him that he was to meet up with his best friend Matthew at Warrimoo Oval around seven o'clock.
He went to the bathroom and scrubbed the paint off his hands. Returning to his room, he changed into his drab, grey uniform and prepared for school. Seeing the painting again, he tried to rationalise it but try as he might to remain calm, his anxiety grew.
* * * * *
Sitting under the change-rooms' awning at the edge of the oval, Mark stamped his feet on the concrete, trying to return circulation to his toes. His shoes were soaked through from the frosty grass and the cold made his toes ache. The winter sun was still to rise, but the lights of the shelter had already gone out. The grey, pre-dawn light fought through the thick fog, giving a strange half-light to the whole area.
Picking off some dried paint that he had missed in the shower, he glanced at his wristwatch. Ten minutes past seven; Matthew was late, as always. If Matt’s foster parents had caught him sneaking out that early in the morning, he'd have to talk his way out of it. Matt could talk his way out of anything. He had a knack for straddling the line between what he could do and what he should do and he’d get away with it.
It made Mark a little envious at times, wishing he had that kind of confidence.
Leaning forward, Mark looked left and right, but the thick fog obscured just about everything beyond the awning. Even the white picket fence that bordered the oval was just a vague shadow in the fog. As the memory of the dream and the painting began to trouble him again, he felt very alone.
At last he saw a figure moving through the haze towards him, seeming to materialise from the very vapour. Standing, Mark spoke in a loud and impatient tone, “About bloody time you got here!”
Instead of moving from the haze, the figure stopped, standing still for a moment just beyond the point of clear visibility, before vanishing back towards the street and into the fog.
At first Mark was simply annoyed, “Come on Matt. Quit stuffing around.” He shouldered his backpack and walked in the direction that the shadow had gone. Reaching the bus shelter on the street he found Matthew was not there and he slammed his pack down on the bench seat with a thud.
Even as he stood there fuming, there came a scratching noise from behind the shelter, like someone scraping their fingernails down the plywood backing.
“Stop it, Matt. I'm serious. This is no time to muck around.” Mark's voice was beginning to sound edgy, as the certainty that his friend was the prankster faded. He moved cautiously around the back of the shelter. The scratching continued, though there was no one to be seen.
His spine tingled and he shivered as fear and the chill morning air mingled. Backing away from the shelter, towards Matthew's street, he kept his eyes on the bus stop as the fog swallowed it. The sound was becoming louder, as the scratching of fingernails was replaced with frantic rasping that continued for another minute.
He was still debating whether to flee or wait for Matthew’s arrival when the sound ceased abruptly, replaced by a penetrating silence. No birds carolled, nor could he hear the distant drone of morning traffic. He was no longer breathing and his ears filled with the pounding of his heart.
Appearing in the fog, the shadow from the oval materialised from the dull outline of the bus shelter. A second shadow joined the first and spoke.
“Hey little boy, come out to play.”
Mark’s choices were simplified as panic took hold of him and, turning on his heels, he sprinted towards Matthew's house, leaving his bag behind. With adrenaline driving him forward, he fled into the mist and away from the menacing voice in the fog.
He ran with every grain of strength, certain that he could feel his tormentors only a few steps behind him. Disregarding the slickness of the ground, he raced across the wet grass, frantically glancing over his shoulder. He saw nothing except the fog that swirled behind him.
Turning back to where he was going, his foot slipped, his legs crumpled beneath him and he fell hard. There was a loud crack from his left ankle as he tumbled to the ground, face first and spread-eagled, sliding through the mud and soaked grass, powerless to stop himself.
He tried to regain his feet even as he was still skidding along, too terrified to stop for a moment, fearful that the spectres in the fog might catch him. Yet as he tried, his ankle screamed with searing pain, and he stumbled again to one knee. He still heard nothing above the sound of his own heart, but he was certain that at any moment the shadows would be upon him, and so he attempted to hobble away. It was at that moment that he felt a firm hand grasp his shoulder and lift him to his feet, making him let loose with a low, guttural yell.
“Geez Mark, it's only me,” the kind voice responded. “Chill out.”
Mark twisted around and slapped the hand away. As he caught his breath he blurted, “Matt! Where the hell have you been?”
“Hey, settle, okay mate? What's your problem?”
“Did you see them?” Mark's eyes were still wild with fear.
“See who?” Matthew asked, looking around into the fog. “Now you’re freakin' me out. What’s going on?”
“Come with me.” Mark went to take a step but pain tore through his ankle. He sucked in a gasp of air as he started to fall, Matthew catching him before he ended up back in the mud.
“You're a mess. What happened to you?”
Mark noticed for the first time that he was covered in mud.
“You'd better get changed, mate. They won’t let you in school looking like that.”
“Give us a hand Matt. We can talk on the way to my place. This is getting so weird.”
Matthew supported Mark as he hobbled beside him, recounting the events of the morning. He explained everything chronologically. Dreaming, the loss of time, the painting and the bus stop. As they reached the bus shelter, Mark clarified his dilemma.
“I can't help thinking that I should know what's going on. That name on the painting, Rane Fax, I know it from somewhere.”
He pondered the question as they stopped to retrieve his bag, but when he looked down at the concrete, he swore. The contents of his bag were emptied onto the wet ground and his bag had been defecated on.
“Why?” Mark asked, fighting tears welling in his eyes. He did not want to cry in front of Matthew.
He retched as he tried to clean his bag with an old English assignment, wiping it on the wet grass. In the end he gave up, removing anything of value to him and dumping the bag in the bin. Slumping onto the bus stop seat for a while, he took the weight off his injured ankle. He felt down around the injury and for a moment, the joint felt warm and tingly.
Matt packed Mark’s belongings into his own bag.
“Thanks,” Mark said as he stood up, testing his ankle gingerly.
“How is it?” Matthew asked.
“Better, I think?” Mark was surprised to find only a little discomfort at the site of his injury.
Looking over Matthew's shoulder to where the scratching had come from, he let an expletive escape.
Matthew followed Mark's frightened gaze and swore. “You're kidding me.”
Carved into the plywood backing were the words,
R.I.P.
RANE FAX.
“What the hell is this Mark?” Matthew said in a sceptical tone.
“I swear to God, Matt. I don't know what's going on.”
Chapter Two: Something Stirs
Across the road and up the hill from Mark's house was a path between the houses, with trees overhanging the paling fences on each side. It gave him and Matthew a clear view of the driveway and his mother's blue hatchback. His father had gone to work and his mother would be leaving to go to the gym soon.
By the time his mother drove away he was shivering uncontrollably, a mixture of cold and shock.
When the coast was clear, they crossed the road and he cleaned himself up a bit with the garden hose to remove the worst of the mud but the water was freezing. Leaving his muddy shoes and sock at the door he snuck back into the house. Grabbing a clean uniform from the washing basket he went to the bathroom and had a quick shower. Cleaned and dressed he went to his room where he found Matt admiring the painting on his desk.
“This is bloody amazing,” Matthew commented. “Don't suppose you could do me one next time you're asleep.”
“I still don't know how I did that one,” Mark conceded.
He transferred his books into a different backpack, and hid his wet uniform in a neighbours bin on the way back to the bus stop. He thought it easier to explain away a lost uniform than the torn and mud encrusted remains of what he had been wearing.
The two friends made the long journey to school in a one sided silence. Matthew plied Mark with questions which he answered with an occasional grunt. He was so immersed in his troubles, that he failed to notice his ankle no longer hurt.
Arriving at school they had to go to the office first to get a late slip.
“What are we gonna tell them?” Mark asked.
“Leave it to me.” Matthew smiled and gave him a wink as he opened the door.
At the desk they were confronted by the stern Margo Connelly.
“Reason for your lateness?” The middle aged woman asked.
“Mark fell over, Mrs Connelly, so I had to help him back to his place to get cleaned up.” Matthew smiled his sweetest smile. “You wouldn’t want me to have left him would you?”
Any doubts that she might have had seemed to evaporate.
“Okay then.” She said, writing out a note for each of the boys. “Now off to class.”
“How do you get away with it?” Mark asked as they left the administration block. “She would've given me the third degree.”
“Natural charm,” Matt grinned.
* * * * *
For the first few classes, Mark tried to disregard the thunderclouds filling his mind. As though in sympathy, a storm began building to the south, strengthening with every gust of wind.
It was useless, the fear and apprehension continued to grow and by the fourth period he was reduced to staring out the window at the trees. The massive eucalypts leaned and swayed, straining to be free of their roots. He knew how they felt. With each growing gust of the wind, his mood seemed to blacken.
Mark was in no frame of mind for school, Chemistry, and especially not one of Harris' boring monologues. He liked school, for the most part, though his quick wit and sharp tongue got the better of him from time to time. He was responsible for at least half of the teachers’ nicknames. He would tell Matthew and his friend would spread it around. Harris was Mouldy Locks because of his ratty hair.
Mark heard his name called, but it was a distant distraction. His mind was filled with the shadows of his growing fear. Then came a wasp-like sting to his arm that snatched his attention from the black thoughts and brought his focus onto the source of the pain. The teacher had thrown something at him.
“Nice of you to join us, Mr Tandell.” Harris let the words fall from his mouth like drool. A few of the students laughed nervously.
Mark looked up at the teacher with a deadly glare. There Harris stood, with a triumphant smirk on his face and spite in his eyes.
A new kind of rage was inside Mark and his usually even temperament began rapidly decaying. The fury and fire coursed through him like a drug and he could not control it.
“Would you care to answer the question?” Harris persisted.
Mark rose from his seat, slow and deliberate, as the force of his anger began to rise also. “Should I tell you the difference between exothermic and endothermic reactions or should I answer the question that's on everyone's lips? Just what does keep your ears from colliding?”
The frustration that had been building all through the day, finally found a target.
“What did you say, boy?” Harris' face was beginning to change colour as he met Mark's rage with his own.
“I'm sorry. Should I speak up?” It was as if Mark could not help himself, the words just bubbled out.
“Listen you, I am teaching this class and you are here to learn, otherwise you're just wasting both of our time, so pay attention.”
“It'd be easier to pay attention if you didn't put us to sleep,” Mark goaded.
The class broke into spontaneous laughter.
“Shut up you insolent boy,” Harris yelled, flustered by his loosening grip on the class.
Every eye in the room was fixed on Mark, waiting for a stinging comeback, but he was oblivious, his whole focus was on the subject of his wrath. He felt a force building inside him, making his temples throb. It was like the pressure of diving too deep into a swimming pool. His ears began ringing and clouds began to fill the edges of his vision. Harris seemed to be moving further away like he was drifting down a tunnel. Mark could feel himself starting to black out, his vision blurring as the fury consumed him. Then he heard a familiar voice speak gently but firmly into his mind.
“Outside, look out the window, now.”
On instinct Mark obeyed, turning his misty gaze out into the playground and a shock wave burst from his chest. It felt as though the world rushed through him. The door slammed shut with a loud bang and the windows exploded outwards, showering glass into the playground.
Chaos broke out in the classroom, screams and shouts and students scurrying away in a panic as Harris attempted to regain control. He failed.
Mark staggered, catching himself on the edge of his desk before lowering himself to one knee. Exhausted and shaking he began to taste the rusty flavour of blood flowing over his lips. Blood dripped from his nose, leaving red splashes on the floor.
The pressure that had filled his skull had blown away with the window and he knew that it was all part of whatever was happening to him. Staring up at the gap where the windowpane had been, he was sure of only one other thing. Somehow, that uncontrollable anger had shattered it.
* * * * *
Mark was exhausted. The swaying of the bus as it trundled along lulled him into a fitful doze. His sleep was filled with a voice calling the name Rane Fax.
“Wake up,” The voice said and Mark woke with a start.
“Oi, kid. Isn’t this your stop.” The bus driver called.
Mark hurried out of his seat and off the bus, stepping into the cool evening air.
It would still have been light if Mouldy Locks had not called him back after school insisting he had something to do with the window. In the end it took the Principal nearly an hour to decide it was nothing more than the door slamming in the wind that broke the window and let him go.
The amber glow of the bus shelter light seemed to highlight the carved words and he shivered, as much from the memory of that morning, as from the cold.
It was only a ten minute walk from the bus stop to Mark's home and though he assured himself that the streets were well lit, he set off at a brisk pace.
Walking along, he felt something strange mingled with the anxiety, a kind of creeping awareness. His senses tuned into everything around him and though the darkness remained the shadows seemed to vanish. The hairs on the back of his neck began prickling, as a mixture of caution and wonder filled him.
He could sense the cat on the fence, the possum with young on its back in the tree hollow. Houses, voices, and life all around him. Fruit bats were in the native figs, arguing over the best branches.
Somewhere a baby was crying. Smells of cooking and the clatter of crockery filled the night air. Voices and televisions and signs of life all around him.
There was also something else hidden in the shadows, out of sight but he could feel them. Someone was watching him.
He slung his backpack straps over both shoulders and picked up his pace. “You're getting paranoid.” Mark thought to himself, attempting to pacify his shredded nerves.
Then came a blue flash accompanied by a loud pop. The light above him faded to a soft blue green glow and he froze in the sudden darkness, listening to the sounds of the early evening.
Nothing seemed out of place. A distant sound of car engines, a flock of birds arguing in a nearby palm tree, and the wild rhythm of his racing heart as it hammered in his temples. The possum was still there but the cat had run off in a panic.
Mark increased his step as he approached the next street lamp. As he entered the bright circle of light there was a loud crack from above him, followed by the insidious, enveloping shadows.
His fear confirmed, he broke into a run. He disregarded the wet ground, racing beneath the next light which blew also, as did the next and the next. Each exploded with greater force than its predecessor until his flight was punctuated by loud detonations. Shattered glass showered down behind him along with sparks of blue and orange.
Racing into David Close, all of the lights exploded in unison, like beautiful and terrifying fireworks.
Terror became panic, and with all the strength that adrenalin would afford him, Mark bolted across the cul-de-sac to the path at the end. The path between the houses was a black foreboding tunnel, with tree branches reaching over the fences on each side. He plunged into the darkness, sprinting through the shadows and out into his own street. From behind him came the sound of running feet, but they stopped as he leaped onto his front lawn.
Without slowing, or looking back, he sprinted across his front yard and jumped the five feet from the retaining wall to the veranda and the relative safety of its light. From this vantage, he listened, scanning the street wildly for any sign of his assailant, but there was no one. The street had fallen silent.
As he struggled for burning gulps of air, he fell back against the wall and allowed his legs to buckle underneath him, sliding down the wall until he was slumped on the cool veranda tiles. He sat there and allowed the riot of emotions to overwhelm him, surrendering to the flood that swept through his mind.
The dream, the painting, the window and the recurring nightmare of an unseen enemy, it was all too much for him. His imagination was brimming with terrible possibilities. What other demons might lay in wait for him and what was still to come?
As if in answer to his unspoken questions, a voice came, not whispered in his ear but breathed directly into his mind, with low, deliberate malice. Mark felt like his blood turned to ice as the poisonous tone toyed with his battered emotions.
“Nearly time, little one. Nearly time to die.”
A loud crack from above punctuated the threat as the light globe exploded and the fitting came crashing to the ground next to him.
Mark screamed.
* * * * *
The sky had cleared and in the grey moonlight of his room, Mark lay on his bed, staring past the shadows as they danced across his ceiling. He watched without acknowledging them, his mind too darkened by thoughts of his unknown terror.
With a hidden enemy and an uncertain future, Mark’s greatest need was for answers, but none were forthcoming. The madness of his day played like a movie in his mind’s eye, beginning with the intangible dream, its recollection remaining just outside his grasp, right through to his parent’s concern when they had found him near hysteria after the veranda light had exploded.
Mark had lied to them. “I’m fine. The light just fell and scared me.” The excuse had sounded pathetic to him, but his parents had not pursued the matter any further, relying on him to tell them when he was ready. He was thankful not to have to explain it all just yet.
The dinner conversation had come around to his approaching birthday, and while Mark tried to sound interested his heart was not in it. They had left it for him to decide within the next week or two. His mother seemed a little disappointed at his lack of enthusiasm.
Lying on his bed now, he allowed the weight of the day to overcome him, wringing the last drop of energy from his body and making him feel so tired as his eyelids slowly drooped, his breath softened and he slipped into sleep, and on into a nightmare.
From somewhere, in the silence of his slumber, came a dream, as it had that morning, but somehow this was different. This dream felt dangerous.
The two visions were like different waters from the same cup. One fresh, the other brackish. One healing and the other, bitter and noxious.
Helplessly, Mark felt himself drawn into the nightmare, as his mind was flooded with the laughter that had taunted him from the morning fog. Once more, the voice that had harried him that evening spoke. It hissed, with the cruel tone that was now as familiar to him as his own voice.
“He’s coming for you.”
* * * * *
Chapter Three: Talking To Strangers.
Dreams, Mark had chased them through the night, hoping they would lead him to an answer. Instead, they teased him with empty promises.
Sleep came and went, but rest eluded him and as the hard black of night began to soften, he laid awake staring at the ceiling.
He remembered pieces of his dreams, nothing he could make sense of but enough to make him fearful.
He recalled words spilling from his mouth as though they were not his, asking questions of prophecy and enemies.
A young male voice had answered, “Prophecy is not an exact science. It is like staring into a pool of dark and dirty water, making it impossible to see below the surface. The murky water could be hiding monsters or invisible evils but all you see are the ripples? You must decide do you confront the evils that are waiting for you or not?”
“And what shall I find in the dark waters of my pool?” Mark’s wayward voice had asked.
“Teeth and talons, some that you imagine and some that are real. What you will find is everything that you are and everything that you are not. The one that is, and yet is not you. You and your enemy, bound together until the last, and only at the end may your destiny be changed, if you have the strength,” the young voice continued.
“I have courage,” he’d replied.
“That will have to do then, because your enemy is looking for you, even while you hide in sleep. He's digging pits and preparing snares, and soon he will be hunting you for the cursed prize.”
The rest of the dream was a mishmash of images, feelings and sounds, none of which seemed to make any sense. Were dreams always like this or was he losing his mind.
As the blue grey shadows of dawn began creeping into his room, the young voice from his dream returned. “Get up and find the girl. She will help you to understand. She can give you answers. Tell no one else.”
Mark bolted upright, threw off the covers and leapt out of his bed in a single movement. He was awake and he had heard it. In the half-light, he caught a glimpse of a figure, no more than a misty shadow in the corner of his room, but it faded away.
“Wait! Please, I don't know what you mean!” Mark's voice shook as he called out but there was only silence.
“Please,” he pleaded in a whisper.
His bedroom door opened and a worried voice asked, “Are you okay, honey?”
His mother stood in the soft light of the doorway looking concerned as she squinting sleepily at him.
“Yeah...” Mark struggled for a suitable explanation for his mutterings. “Just... just a nightmare,” he managed, stumbling over the words.
“That's not like you,” she said. “Are you sure you're alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“I'm going to make a cuppa, do you want one?” Her voice was so caring that Mark was tempted to tell her everything then and there but he didn’t, remembering the warning. Instead, he accepted her offer.
“Thanks, that'd be good. I'll be down in a couple of minutes.”
“Okay.”
Mark listened to her footsteps going downstairs to the kitchen before he slumped back onto the edge of his bed and switched on the lamp.
“The girl. You will know her when you see her, and she will aid you. Go and find her.” The voice, barely a whisper, spoke once more.
This time Mark did not shout, though still angry at the absurdity of it all.
“All right. I give in,” he whispered. “I'll go and find whoever she is, wherever she is and ask her, who knows what! Satisfied?”
There was no reply.
“This is insane.”
From downstairs in the kitchen came the sound of his mother boiling the kettle and making the tea. Slowly, he dressed for school.
Once ready, Mark joined his mother in the kitchen, dropping his backpack at his feet and sitting at the breakfast counter. Smiling she poured the tea.
Most mornings he would sit there eating and chatting with her about what was going on in his life. That morning however, he drank his tea without saying a word.
Placing two pieces of Vegemite toast in front of him, he began to eat.
She finally broke the silence, “Have you thought any more about what you want to do for your birthday?”
“Mum, give me a break,” he answered, in no mood to continue the previous night's conversation.
“Well, do you want a party?” she persisted.
He stuffed the toast into his mouth and swigged some tea.
“No. I don't fink fo,” he said through the mush in his mouth. Swallowing he added, “I'll see if Matt's got any ideas.”
“Well you think about it and tell me tonight. Sixteen is a special year for you,” she said. “But remember that it's your birthday, not Matthew's. Okay?”
“I know,” Mark snapped, stuffing more toast into his mouth in attempt to forestall answering any more questions.
There was an unspoken distrust of Matthew by Mark's parents and their reservations were not without foundation.
Mark knew his friends flaws well but at that moment he was the only one he would trust with the truth. At least he knew his friend would not think he was crazy.
Pushing the rest of the toast into his mouth and swigging some more tea, Mark pushed back his chair and grabbed his backpack.
“I'fe got to go,” he mumbled.
As he headed for the door, his mother objected, “But it's only just past seven!”
“Library.” Mark felt a pang of guilt, even as he spoke his feeble lie, disgusted by the unfamiliar deceit. While he hated lying to her, he was unsure of what was true and what was, perhaps, insanity.
“See you later,” he called back over his shoulder, shutting the front door behind him before stepping from his patio into the thick, white morning.
“Fog,” he muttered to himself. “Great!”
* * * * *
Mark approached the bus stop, seeing Matthew through the curtain of mist. Matt's manic grin brought a little relief to Mark's black mood.
“Hey Mark. Quick. Come 'ere,” Matthew beckoned broadly.
Mark did not adjust his pace, knowing the matter would not be as urgent as his friend's mad gesticulations implied.
“What is it?” Mark groaned as he reached his friend.
“Check this out,” Matthew tilted his head to indicate a person who was standing at the edge of the shelter.
On seeing that it was an attractive girl, he said, "Matt, do you ever think of anything else?”
There was something about the girl that struck him. A strange sense of familiarity and he recalled the whispered voice. “She will give you answers.”
A sudden burst of intuition came upon him, knowing things about her that he could not know.
He knew that her hair would be the colour of sandstone when the sun played over it. Her eyes, dark green and piercing, would defy anyone to stand up to her and that defiance was well founded. The deep purpose in those eyes exceeded her teenage years and her short stature belied the physical strength that she possessed. All these things Mark foreknew and the sense of déjà vu was staggering. He could not know this stranger, yet he did.
Mark fought to put a name to the stranger's face, but it eluded him.
Matthew, however, attached no significance to her arrival. Instead, he wolf whistled.
“Hey babe! Bit early for a fancy dress isn't it?” he mocked.
As the girl turned towards them, Mark was not surprised by the accuracy of his mental image.
This familiar stranger was wearing a suede vest, skirt and boots, all the colour of wheat. She wore a coarsely knitted, cream top underneath the vest. A band of plaited leather thongs, was wrapped around her forehead, and then criss-crossed down her long ponytail. On her left wrist she wore an engraved copper bangle and on her right upper arm, a thick band of silver that pressed into the muscles.
“Look Mark, it's Robin Hood's sister,” Matthew teased.
The girl glared at him.
Without warning her left hand shot up in a blur and stopped, with thumb and fingers poised around Matt's throat.
“A fool does not know when to speak and when to be silent,” she hissed. “Are you a fool?” The look in her eyes, like green ice, sent a shiver down the length of Mark's spine. He felt the danger of her threat.
Matthew tried to knock her hand aside, but before he could make contact the girl had grabbed his wrist and thrown him to the ground, holding him securely with his face in the dirt.
“And by your actions, you answer,” she remarked.
“Leave him alone,” Mark’s outburst brought her glacial eyes to bear upon him and he took a step backwards, unsure of what she would do.
The strange girl scrutinised Mark as if he were a threat at first but her expression softened after a moment and she released her grip on Matthew.
Though she no longer held him, Matt remained pinned to the ground, powerless to move. Matt continued swearing and cursing her, “Let go of me, you bi...aaah!”
Standing, the strange girl approached Mark, moving her face close to his. Her eyes suggested that she came from an Asian background but the description that popped into Mark's mind was elf. Irrational as the thought was, Mark could not shake the idea. He felt uneasy as she surveyed him, making him feel like a sparrow, stalked by a cat.
“Fear is in your eyes. I assure you that I am neither the one who shadows you, nor his messenger. I have come to guide and protect you,” she spoke with a measured, lyrical accent, as though English was not her first language. “For only a short time has this fear been upon you.”
She reached out with a gentle hand and touched Mark's face. “Speak truly. Do fearful dreams come whilst you sleep and remain when you awaken?”
Mark nodded, scarcely daring to breathe.
“I see your pain. You do not yet grasp the meaning of all that has come upon you, nor the things that are to befall you still.”
Each word she spoke remained suspended in the early morning mist.
“What's happening to me?” Mark forced the words from his lips.
“Be strong and take courage. This you must know; Greater terror is to come, yet you are not alone, nor are you powerless. The name you have been given is Rane Fax and its meaning is Worlds' Hope. Before your sun passes from the sky, be here once again. Come, whether you wish it or not. You must know the truth. Return and I will tell of what you must do." Abruptly, the girl turned and walked behind the shelter, adding, “What you must learn.”
Matthew was suddenly released from the invisible force that had held him. Stumbling back to his feet, he began spewing a stream of mindless expletives.
Mark stood in a state of silent shock for several seconds before shaking himself from his stupor. He dashed around the back of the shelter to intercept the girl but she was gone.
“She knows,” Mark spoke under his breath.
Matthew joined him behind the shelter and said, “Hey. Where'd she go? “
Gripping Matthew's arm, Mark said. “She knows what's going on. She's got to be the one I'm supposed to find.”
“The who? What are you on about?” Matt struggled.
"I've got to talk to her again," he said.
Matthew objected. “You're not serious. She nearly broke my arm.”
“I've got no choice,” Mark insisted, as the bus rounded the corner. "I've got to find out what's going on."
The bus shuddered to a halt at the stop and they got on. Matt continued his monologue of objections while they found a seat at the back. “Mark. Come on, she nearly broke my arm.”
“Yeah, well you deserved it, you idiot. You're just lucky she didn't kill you.”
“I can look after myself,” Matthew protested.
“Sure Matt. As soon as you stopped using your face for a shovel you would’ve got her.”
Matt let the retort go as Mark added, “Look. This is no ordinary girl.”
“You aren't kidding, she's first class psycho,” he said. “She's on something or she's a few sandwiches short of a picnic, mate.”
“No, Matt. She's the first sane thing that's happened to me since yesterday.”
And so, as they travelled to school, Mark attempted to explain his reasoning, filling in the blanks where he could.
Matthew pondered all that he had been told before announcing.
“I think you're out of your freakin' tree but I'm not going to let you deal with her alone so I'm coming too.”
"My hero," Mark quipped, “and who's going to protect you?”
Matthew was silent for a moment but then he laughed.
The overwhelming confusion passed and Mark joined his friend, laughing with relief.
They laughed for a while until Mark asked, “So what do I do now?”
Matthew paused before saying in a poor imitation of the girl's accent, “We wait 'til the 'sun passes from the sky.'”
* * * * *
Chapter Four: Crux.
The day was long and Mark spent it ignoring teachers and fending off questions from Matthew.
As the final bell rang the school erupted into chaos, the halls and stairwells echoing with the sound of running feet. Everyone seemed to be racing for a place on the buses and trains, to meet with friends, or just to escape the confinement of the school grounds.
Mark was the last to leave the classroom, slowed by a broken folder, which scattered three subjects worth of notes across the floor. By the time he had sorted the mess and made his way to the lockers up stairs the area was almost deserted. He opened his locker and threw his books into his bag haphazardly before slamming the steel door shut with a clang.
As he turned toward the stairs he saw a boy leaning with his back against the wall, staring at him and looking smug.
“I've got a message for ya' from your enemy.” The stranger began walking towards him, his whole demeanour a threat.
“I don't suppose he could just text me?” Mark's attempt at nonchalance brought a sardonic smirk to the boy's face.
“I don't think you understand. You're in way over your head.”
All at once Mark remembered the newcomer in all of his classes that day. The new kid had not been alone, either. He pictured the two strangers as they whispered to each other, watching him with malicious eyes.
Mark barely had time to wonder why he hadn't noticed the two of them before sensing the other boy behind him.
The voice from Mark's mind screamed, “Duck!” and he obeyed without thinking. A broom handle passed over him, barely missing his head, before splintering against the locker with a loud clang.
Mark had learned from prior experience that he could not fight. His only other clash had left him battered, bloodied and in no doubt as to his defensive inabilities. Yet he sprang backwards from his crouching position, knowing exactly where the other boy was, slamming him into the wall and driving the breath from him.
Mark spun around to face the first assailant who was now moving towards him from the far end of the corridor.
“You have no idea what you're up against!” the boy hissed. With a gesture, the jagged remains of the broom handle flew up into the air for him to catch easily.
Mark felt an intoxicating mixture of fear and rage as the overwhelming pressure he had felt the previous day began to take him over again. The lockers began to shake and rattle as he backed away, sizing the threat.
Again, the voice spoke, “Embrace the power and focus it. Hold on but do not release it yet.”
He passed the winded attacker who was struggling to his feet. Obeying the voice, Mark allowed the pressure to build and directed the storm of his wrath at the other boy. As it had before, his vision blurred at the edges as the throbbing in his temples became pounding hammer blows.
As the pain reached an unbearable level, the voice commanded him once more, “Now. Let it go.”
Time seemed to slow as every locker exploded outwards, ejecting their contents in a wave of chaotic destruction. Mark was aware of so many things in those few seconds. The pressure's release as books flew past his head, the sound of running feet coming up the stairs behind him and the boy's face twisting grotesquely. He watched as his opponent was thrown through the air like a scrap of paper in a whirlwind before being slammed against the nearest locker. The boy was pinned firmly against it by an invisible hand while his head was slammed back into the metal repeatedly.
“Mark. Are you okay?” came Matthew’s voice from the stairs below and as if that familiar voice broke some spell, Mark's battered attacker was released, slumping to the ground.
Mark could only watch, as the accomplice helped his fallen companion and the two of them limped away towards the other set of stairs.
Mark watched them escape as the world seemed to grow darker, like an eclipse was taking place. He staggered backwards towards the stairs.
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