SIGNS AND PORTENTS
IN THIS PLACE, he could see the past, the present... and the future.
Mostly the future. Incredible as it seemed – to him as much as anyone – visiting this land had granted him access to things that hadn’t happened yet; that might never happen if he was able to prevent them. It had helped him many times, warning him about his enemies, saving his life on numerous occasions. Never, though, had he found himself flying before. It wasn’t flying as he’d known it when he flew with Bill, though – into Nottingham to take the castle from the Sheriff, then taking control of the chopper himself to save Mary. Nor when he’d been delivered to the forest (again by Bill), half dead, after the assault on the Tsar’s army.
This time Robert was flying without the aid of any kind of mechanical device. The wind catching his trousers and top, tugging at his hood. He felt like Superman, arms out in front, zooming through a clear blue sky with cotton wool clouds. He squinted, seeing a couple of specks ahead of him: the only things marring his view. Specks that grew in size quite rapidly.
They came up on him fast and Robert saw now they were two gigantic birds – their wingspans huge. Like a cross between mighty eagles and vultures, they began to snap with their beaks, attempting to grab him. Robert twisted this way and that, and it was only now, as he dived forwards, that he realised he wasn’t really flying at all – he never had been.
He was falling.
Head down, he aimed for the closest bird and reached out. His hands found purchase, clutching at the strange feathers, and he was able to swing himself up and onto its back. The other bird was swooping in to attack, just as Robert was standing – bracing himself against the wind. He ducked, narrowly avoiding the sharp talons. Seconds later he was up again, his trusty bow in his hands. An arrow was nocked, the twine pulled back as far as it would go. He was trailing the second bird’s progress beneath the first, and he let go when he was sure of the shot. The arrow found a home in the bird’s left wing but it kept on coming, under and up again, swooping in as Robert readied himself for another pass.
This time as it tried to grab him, Robert’s aim was jostled by the bird underneath him turning, attempting to buck him off. He had to reach down and grab a handful of feathers again just to stop himself from falling.
By this time the second bird was circling below again, and as Robert rolled across the back of the first, he leaned over the side and fired. The bird was hit by its second arrow, between the shoulder and the neck. This appeared to do more damage, because the bird spun off to one side.
It was time to end this, to put them both down.
Robert stood once more, feeling like he was on some kind of bouncy castle – the kind he’d used to hire out for Stevie’s-
He shook his head: though he didn’t consciously try to keep thoughts about his late son out of his mind, it was so hard to think about him without remembering the...other stuff. The stuff that followed: the coughing up of blood, watching him slip away like Joanne and-
Robert gritted his teeth, aimed, and fired two more arrows directly into the chest of the creature about to attack one final time. It reared up with those deadly talons and then just fell away out of sight. The bird Robert was riding bucked again, and he had to let go of his weapon this time in order to hang on. The bow dropped away, just as the other bird had done moments before.
Could he ride this creature to the ground? Robert looked over the side and couldn’t even see the earth beneath him... His answer came anyway, when the bird flipped over, rolling deep to try and dislodge him. When that didn’t work, it started craning its neck around to peck at its unwelcome human passenger. Robert reached down and found the handle of his sword, which he drew, lashing out at the bird.
A couple of his blows found their mark, leaving long lacerations that wept blood. But when the bird jerked again, Robert knew he had to act. He stood and plunged the sword into its head, through its skull and out under its chin. Like the other one, it started to dive almost immediately, and Robert was at last thrown from his perch. The bird fell faster than him, leaving Robert to witness another preview of things to come: of what would happen to him as he plummeted through these clouds.
He still couldn’t see the ground, but as he passed through the last wisps of whiteness, he saw the vast expanse of a forest below – his forest: Sherwood. The rational part of his mind knew where he really was and what was happening to him, but as always this felt so real (and hadn’t he read somewhere once that if it happened to you here, you felt it in the real world?). He was falling, picking up speed as he went – and now he could see the damage those birds had done to his home below, bending and breaking branches as they plummeted through the trees.
Robert would make significantly less of an impact, but he’d be just as dead when he hit: splattered red over the rich greenery. Robert crossed his arms over his face – like that was going to be any protection – and braced for his crash.
But it never came. He’d closed his eyes, not wishing to witness his own end, and when he opened them again he was standing in the forest. It was as though he’d been safely deposited there, a huge hand reaching out from the clouds to place him safely on the ground like the gods of ancient Rome or Greece moving their subjects about. Or some other gods? Those who protected the forest’s favourite son? Who’d kept him from harm not only with these warnings, but by renewing his energy when it was lacking. No sooner had he thought this, than he felt energised again and began to run through what had become his natural habitat after he’d retreated there because of-
Robert pushed himself harder, in an effort to push aside those memories again. He was a different person now, in a different world, with different responsibilities. He had married again, adopted another son who looked just like Stevie would have done if he’d survived (though wasn’t him, Robert was at pains to keep reminding himself). That didn’t mean you forgot the past – this place wouldn’t let you, apart from anything else (and Robert more than anyone understood the importance of looking back to see the way forward).
But it did mean you learnt to make your peace with it.
He forged on, faster and faster: the forest feeling good beneath his feet. As he ran, though, he forced himself to take note of his surroundings; of what Sherwood was trying to tell him. It was then that he saw the cobwebs between branches; why hadn’t he noticed them before? They were larger than you’d find in the average home or shed, stretched between oaks and birches. Here and there he saw birds – much smaller than the ones who’d attacked him in the sky – trapped in the strands like flies in any ordinary web.
Robert felt compelled to keep going rather than explore what might have caused such a phenomenon. It wasn’t until he got deeper into the forest that he saw something that gave him pause. Cocoons; lots of them. Big and long, hanging from the trees. They looked like they were about to break open at any moment and butterflies would emerge. Except that the closer he got, the more he could see of them – and the less they looked like cocoons at all. These were people (men to be precise) covered in webbing, as if they’d met another superhero – Spider-man, rather than Superman this time – and come off worse.
Robert started towards them as he saw the victims struggling inside. He quickened his pace, rushing to help. But as he reached them something happened to those trapped inside. Each one in turn spontaneously combusted, bursting into flames that should have set the forest alight.
He couldn’t see where the fire had come from, but it no longer frightened him as much as it had done in the past; flashing back to when those men in yellow suits and gasmasks had torched his house with flame-throwers.
Something was moving through the forest, something big... Robert looked up to see it brushing the tops of trees, this thing: bending them over so that they whipped back once it had passed by. He also heard the dull roar of the creature that had probably set fire to the webbed men.
He continued through the forest, knowing he could do nothing for those who’d been roasted alive. As he did, his pace quickened again – running towards the enormous thing he’d only caught a glimpse of, flashes of red between the trees.
Then, to his right, something else – almost as big – was making its way through the foliage. Could these be the two birds he’d thought he’d killed, only wounded and rampaging through Sherwood? But why the webs, why the fire? He caught sight of a hairy leg, possibly the thing that had incapacitated those other men. The closer he looked, though, the less he saw: he wasn’t supposed to see any more yet. Didn’t need to know what the hell it meant, just like with the birds... (Was he going to be attacked by huge eagle-vulture things? It was never that simple – always a metaphor for something else.)
The huge things were turning and moving on, away from him. All his senses were screaming ‘let them go’, but Robert couldn’t. He chased after them, speeding up again – speeding up because, as he looked down, he found that he had not one pair of legs but two. Not feet, but hooves.
If he’d had hands, and he could reach up, he would have found antlers on his head, too. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened.
There were figures in the trees, men – living men this time. Soldiers, dressed in familiar grey garb. The Tsar’s troops, the ones he’d defeated at the battle just outside Doncaster, that Dale and the others had seen off at Nottingham Castle. This was slipping into the past again, because there were also the Servitors they’d faced the previous year, hiding behind and flitting between the trees in their red, hooded robes.
But was it the past, or still the future? Were both of these threats about to rise again? Robert just had time to note that the grey uniforms were not quite the same on these soldiers before the rumbling in the forest returned. He assumed it belonged to the monsters again – because that’s all it could be. But actually it was coming from man-made things, jeeps and tanks: more like the dangers he knew and had faced before. Where were his friends, he wondered, the people he loved and cared about? Why wasn’t the forest showing him them?
Show me more...please! How can I be expected to do anything about all this unless-
The light was growing dim inside Sherwood, night falling...or something else. Robert, the stag-thing he’d become, looked up and saw the shape of the shadow falling over his beloved forest – could even see the outline, and the struggling brightness on either side.
That wasn’t the only thing wrong, though. When Robert dragged his attention back down again, he saw another fire. Only this one had a spit over it; the kind you’d normally roast pigs on. This time, however, there was an all too familiar animal strapped to it. The antlers scraped the ground as the spit was turned by unseen hands, round and round, cooking over the fire.
As everything grew darker, Robert was suddenly aware that he had no form. That his perspective had shifted, and rather than watching the poor animal’s flesh burn, he was actually on that skewer himself: the heat tremendous.
The shadows coalesced, forming a shape: a man appearing ahead of him. Robert didn’t feel as though he should fear that shadow man, yet he sensed this figure would prove the most dangerous of all the enemies he’d face. Would do more damage than the rest put together, because he was following his own agenda.
The shadows were drawing in around him, and Robert realised that the edges were closing in. He was blacking out from the heat, could smell his own fat as it sizzled and popped.
When all he could see was darkness, the pain finally too much, he prayed that he would wake from this dream quickly.
Or he might never wake from it at all.
THE HEAT WAS intense, but then it was meant to be.
It had to be for this to work. The man sitting cross-legged, naked apart from a small handmade loincloth, breathed in the blistering air – mixed with spices he’d added to the fire beneath the stones. It wasn’t the only way for him to connect with those beyond this realm, with his guides and with his gods. He could have walked out into the wilderness, for example, fasted or starved himself to reach this state. But he knew the task ahead would require both strength and for him to begin as soon as he was able.
Inside the lodge, he’d waited until the walls began to disintegrate. Not literally, and not the walls that he’d built – but rather the walls of this reality, allowing him to talk to those he obeyed.
Those who had a special destiny in mind for him.
He saw a green land – and at first he thought it might be up in the mountains near where he’d been born and raised, the hunter’s skills coming as naturally to him as eating or sleeping. But this was far away, across the ocean. To reach it he would need to fly – like a huge black bird, stretching his wings, soaring high and fast. This was where he would begin his quest, that’s what he was being told: the voices of his ancestors singing to him. So it was where he began his vision quest as well, looping down into that forest to explore.
He made his way through, just as much a spirit here as those who called to him. But there were forces trying to prevent his progress: he felt that too. Other spirits that dwelt within this particular domain, that were the representatives of the local gods. Nevertheless, he saw it here: what he was looking for.
In the middle of a clearing was a huge totem pole, cut from wood not of this forest. It was made up of a number of animals: a bear, a snake curled round the width of the pole, a wolf, buffalo and a bird – its wings unfurled. The eyes of the creatures all glowed, but it was the stone at the top of the totem itself that caught his attention. That was his goal on this particular expedition, and as soon as he recognised this it began to move, loosening from its housing; moving forwards to float in front of the totem. The animals came to life then, the bird flapping its wings, the snake uncoiling, the wolf hopping down, the bear and buffalo beginning to walk.
He watched this all with fascination – knowing they were the ones who’d guided him on this quest, who’d kept him free from harm up to this point (especially when it came to the plague that had killed so many others of his brothers). The stone continued to hover in the air, and when it flashed so too did the each of the animals’ eyes. It was the true stone of power, and when brought together with the others on his quest...
The animals all went their separate ways and he knew he had yet to trace all of them (though since what was known as the Cull, he had been quite busy in that respect). But his next task would be the recovery of the greatest of all the stones of power assembled here: which was even now floating in the air, pointing to the direction where it lay. The means to recover it would bring him to this forest, but where it actually was – that was another matter. Back across the ocean again, over land that was still foreign to him, but he knew took him even further east. A collection of countries that in total didn’t even make up a fraction of the landmass his people had once claimed as their own.
He flew after the stone, which had settled in an icy, snowbound place. The dead stood frozen on the streets, decomposing slowly because the elements wouldn’t let them go quickly or kindly to their rest. This was where he would begin his quest. The seat of ‘power’ for a ruler, the second such of his kind.
Without warning, he was yanked back, as if he was on a giant piece of elastic – pulled back to that forest, to stand in that clearing again. Only now, instead of the totem, he saw a man. The man he would soon have to face if he was to possess the stone. The man who would be the means to this end, because someone else wanted to possess him.
He stared at this person, dressed in green combats and a hooded top – bow and arrow primed and pointing at him. The Hooded Man possessed great strength, anyone could see that, but the seeker of the stones could also tell that it wasn’t all his own. Like him, Hood had help... from the spirits of this place, almost as ancient as those from his own religion. In fact, couldn’t he actually feel some kind of kinship with this person – a hunter just like him, just as skilled in the bow (more skilled perhaps? there was only one way they’d find that out).
He wasn’t sure whether the Hooded Man could see him or not – it was a very rare thing for this to be a two-way vision – but he was taking no chances: he didn’t want to tip off his opponent in this particular game of chess.
“Fulfil your destiny, Shadow,” he heard as he was scrambling to leave the spirit world. “Do not fail us.”
He wasn’t about to – and just as the arrow the Hooded Man was pulling back was let loose, Shadow broke free of the vision, blinking to refamiliarise himself with his surroundings. He had no idea how much time had passed since he first entered, but felt parched and would need to re-hydrate himself right away, but his first step on this new mission had been taken. He felt a sharp stab of pain in his arm and looked down. Just below his shoulder was a wound. He might have scraped it on one of the rocks as he was attempting to exit the other reality, or maybe...
Shadow shook his head. It couldn’t be.
He’d dismissed the notion almost as soon as he was clear of the lodge. It wouldn’t be the last time he’d need to come here, for one thing he needed to learn more about his potential target – the person who stood between him and his prize – but he’d certainly be more cautious next time. Shadow would not underestimate his prey, for to do so would result not only in his end, but more importantly the end of his quest.
As he drank from the water bottles he’d left by the side of the lodge, Shadow thought about where he was heading next. His services were needed, but he’d better wrap up warm where he was going...
THE RUNES HAD told her much.
Alone in the great hall she now called her own, she’d cast the stones upon the table in front of her, watching intently as they fell, examining the markings on each in the flickering candlelight. She’d done a simple line spread, a Celtic Cross pattern and finally – the most revealing, as always – a lifetimes spread: showing her previous and future lives. What kept appearing over and over was the symbol of Raido, or communication.
There was a need for her to connect with someone, and soon.
Tell me somethin’ I don’t know, she thought to herself. She’d been trying to connect and communicate since she was a little girl. But the time was coming around, of that she was sure. Her previous life, if read symbolically, had encountered great tragedy – two great tragedies to be precise, here represented by the symbol Nauthiz – but for a reason. The obstacles she’d put in front of herself, as well as those the world had thrown at her; necessary pain to bring her to this point in her current life. Her future life, the runes told her, was starred by the symbol Gebo: a partnership!
She’d encountered many such promises of this in her life, and all of them had come to nothing. This time, everything pointed to it being ‘the one’. The thing that she’d been told about when she was in her teens.
Taking out the tarot cards now, she wanted to double check. Placing them in the spread she’d been taught all those years ago, she turned them over one by one to reveal the pattern of her future. Would it have changed since the last time she did this? She doubted it very much, the signs and portents then had been too strong. Turning over the ‘significator’ she saw the root of the thing she was seeking: a pair of naked figures, hand in hand with a crude representation of Cupid behind. The Lovers. It revealed what her heart desired more than anything, a unity she’d yet to feel with any of the other men she’d shared her life – and her bed – with. In spite of how very close she’d become eventually to all of them (they were all on...‘speaking’ terms still) there just hadn’t been the one that the cards back then had spoken of, had suggested to her.
The card on top of this was the opposition to her heart’s desire, the main thing blocking it. And with one turn she saw what might stand in her way. A picture of a woman closing a lion’s mouth – showing her power over nature. The card of Strength. She was calming the beast, just as she might calm the passions that were necessary for this plan to work. Letting out a snort, the woman turning the cards carried on with her reading.
She revealed the next one as the best that could be achieved if she just let things go ahead at their own pace: The Star, indicating that recent difficulties would soon be a thing of the past. Even if she did nothing, she would still get what she wanted.
The next turn showed her what was surrounding the matter in hand, what had already happened. Here she was greeted with a card that depicted a wheel covered in symbols, around which winged creatures floated. The Wheel of Fortune. The flux of human life and continual motion of the universe, symbolic of new beginnings. There had certainly been plenty of those since her rebirth (before and after the virus struck). She sensed another new birth on its way: the death of an old life and the beginning of a new one...but a shared existence. (She dismissed the other reading of this card which hinted that plans made could easily change at the last moment...)
The ensuing card showed her what had recently happened or was about to... A solitary man, head bowed and alone in his cave. The Hermit. He would soon call on her and represented another obstacle she had to get out of the way before being able to move ahead with her schemes. He would not – or she should say, his masters would not – be impressed with what she must do to draw him here. It mattered not.
Next was the future – something she was uniquely comfortable with. A place she’d been able to see, hoped to change, even before she’d learnt these ways. It showed a bloke suspended by ropes: The Hanged Man. She paused, frowning. This one was new, meaning a period of suspended action before things began to slot into place. She could wait, though; she’d waited this long, after all.
Turning over another card, she knew this one represented her. There were two stuck together, and she peeled them apart – one the High Priestess,the other Empress. Both made sense: she could be either...or both. Or one, then the other. That was more likely – yet wasn’t there a nagging doubt now as to which one she should be? Because the next card was meant to represent something that might have an impact on the situation... Quickly, she turned this over and found the card depicting a jester. If she took this to be the proper card, it meant someone might not be able to see the wood for the trees. Or a risk would have a probable good outcome. Should it have been that card, or the previous one? Damn it all, she should know these things – she could see into the future, after all!
It was The Fool (she chose not to think about who might actually be the foolish one), so she moved on to the next card drawn: her hopes and fears for that future... It made more sense now, because she’d drawn The Sun. This would indicate she was content with her lot; a hope, but also a fear in case things didn’t happen the way she wanted it to.
Finally, she got to the last card – the culmination of everything in front of her. She sensed even before she turned it over that it was The Emperor. The card she’d been seeing in her readings since she was a child. The card that represented the man she would marry (and remain married to...). Who she would join with on this plane, instead of having to content herself with talking to the ghosts of former husbands and lovers.
The Widow turned it over anyway, just to see the man’s face. Sat on the throne with a sword in his hand, the Emperor to her Empress. The man who would come to her. She knew also that the next card she would place down on top of that, looking into the future, was The World they would rule together. But she looked no further than that – prevented herself. (Because had she done so, she might have seen those other cards of the Major Arcana – as incredible as it was for her whole draw to be so significant – Death, followed by The Devil: which could, of course, be interpreted as simply a new beginning and having to make difficult decisions, not necessarily a bad thing in itself – and not, surely not, a clouding of judgement.)
Sweeping up the cards, The Widow drew them again by candlelight. She’d draw them until it was time to give the order for her men to attack one particular, special convoy, and she’d carry on drawing the cards until the large, olive-skinned man (her Hermit) came to speak to her at that castle.
But before she shuffled, she took one last look at The Emperor. The man she loved more than life itself and who would love her in turn.
A man who’d soon swap his hood for a crown.
Who would sit by her side and rule this entire planet one day...
HE’D THOUGHT ABOUT that day often (especially after what had happened to them in the wake of the virus and the Cull). He remembered feeling elation initially, because he’d been called out of class, told he’d been sent for and could leave early – in the middle of the afternoon – and that meant he’d avoid the pummelling that was coming from Bevin and Lloyd, two of the ugliest brutes ever to walk God’s earth. With less than a single brain cell between them, they more than made up for this in brawn. He’d once seen Bevin – all cropped hair and ink tattoos – break a first-former’s leg by knocking him to the floor and stamping on it. Lloyd had stood by and laughed, then kicked the screaming kid in the stomach for good measure. Both had lied when questioned about their whereabouts while the crime was being committed, backing each other up.
A beating like that was waiting for him, too. That was his future, he’d been promised. It wasn’t as if he’d actually done anything to them; you didn’t need to. Bevin and Lloyd had their own unique way of picking their victims. Totally random and known only to them. The fact that he was the fattest lad in the year meant he was an automatic target, mind. In fact, he was surprised he’d escaped being picked on by them up till now. All the other bullies in that year and above (or below) had given it a go. Today was simply his turn, after school, as they’d taken great pleasure in telling him at dinnertime, knocking the crisps he was holding out of his hands. “You look like you could manage without them, lardie,” Lloyd had sniggered.
Now both boys watched as he left the classroom, and he risked one glance back – knowing that this was only a postponement. Yet still he was filled with elation that his torture had been delayed. It was soon replaced with guilt when he found out exactly why he’d been summoned. “It’s...it’s your brother,” the deputy head, Miss Anwyl, told him. He’d gulped, knowing it wasn’t good news.
He’d had mixed feelings ever since his older sibling, Gareth, had been diagnosed. The poor sod had come down with a blood disorder way before it was ‘fashionable’ to do so when the A-B Virus hit. The disease of choice in his case was leukaemia.
He’d kind of looked up to Gareth, in a way you do to big brothers, but there was also a healthy dose of jealousy mixed in. Gareth did well at school, was good with his hands – he could fix anything, which was why he spent so much time with Dad in the garage and shed. Gareth was Dad’s favourite, there was no doubt about that: the golden boy.
And while sometimes he’d wished that he was an only child, he’d never have wished this on Gareth. Especially as it didn’t make any difference afterwards. Didn’t make his Dad love him any more, or want to spend time with him (apart from when he reluctantly took his second son to those rugby matches). There was certainly never any wish for his brother to contract a terminal illness, to put him out of the picture...permanently.
But, as he was given a lift to the hospital by the neighbours who’d fetched him from school at his parents’ request, then walked into the ward again – only the second time they’d let him visit since Gareth was hospitalised – he began to think that was a strong possibility. When he arrived at the room itself, his Mam and Dad were there, crying. His Nan – his only surviving grandparent – was sitting in the chair opposite and looked like someone had punctured her, letting all the air out. His family. The only people he’d ever relied on, and probably the only people he ever would: ‘united’ in misery and mourning. His brother was still, eyes closed, and he could see that there was no heart-rate on the monitor.
When he asked what had happened, his father shot him a vicious glare. “What do you think’s bloody well happened? He’s dead...My son is dead...”
Not being one to show his feelings, his Dad stormed out, leaving his Mam to come over and give him a big hug. “He doesn’t...doesn’t mean to snap...” she said in between the sniffles. “He’s just...just...” She began crying uncontrollably, and his Nan had to get up and take over, taking her daughter into her arms. His Mam said she didn’t want to be in that room right now, so the two women followed his father, leaving him inside – alone – with his deceased sibling.
Perhaps they thought he needed time to say goodbye; perhaps they weren’t thinking at all. But for a good five or ten minutes (which actually felt like five or ten years) he was left with the body. Except Gareth wasn’t as dead as they all thought he was.
“Hey little brother,” Gareth’s voice floated across the room. “How’re things?” His eyes were open and he was sitting up, elbow resting against the pillow.
“You...you can’t be...” He looked back at the door which his family had just walked through, about to call them back. Or call a nurse; a doctor: someone. They’d made a mistake, all of them. Gareth was still alive.
“Don’t bother,” said his older brother. “There isn’t time. I just needed to talk to you, that’s all. There are things we need to discuss.”
His mouth fell open, but in spite of himself he found his legs moving, carrying him closer to the bed. “What...?”
“Listen to me,” said Gareth. “You’ll be the only son left when I’ve gone. And when the time comes, you’ll have to be the man of the household.”
“Dad’s the man of the house,” he’d replied, a fact that had been drilled into him since childhood.
“He’ll need your help, little brother. They all will. Something bad’s coming, but...” Gareth smiled; it was a chilling sight. “But out of it will come something good. You’ll have to step up. Remember what Mam always said about you, that you’d be important one day. That you’d be someone...”
That was true, she was the only person who ever had. But still he shook his head. He’d never amount to anything, and it was even more ludicrous to suggest that his dad would come to rely on him. He’d never relied on anyone, ever.
“You listen to them, though,” Gareth continued. “Because they’ll know things that you won’t. There’ll come a time when you’ll need to listen to the warnings, do you understand?”
He shook his head; had no clue what Gareth was talking about. The fact that this was the most he’d said to him in ages was also throwing his concentration.
“You probably won’t remember much about this talk in the meantime, but you will then. When they begin to tell you...things.” Gareth grinned again. “About the threat you’ll face.”
Threat? Was he talking about Bevin and Lloyd? About the fact that he was going to get his head kicked in eventually, that they’d wait for him to return?
“An even greater threat than that, I’m afraid,” Gareth told him. “In the meantime you’ll just have to endure. But listen to what Dad says when he takes you to the matches. Listen and you’ll understand what you must become. See you around, little brother...”
He turned away then, determined to fetch someone now to see to Gareth. Maybe they could give him medication, help him hang on for a little while longer. By the time he looked back again, Gareth was gone: adopting the same position he’d been in moments ago. He looked strangely at peace this time, though, as if he’d got what he needed to off his chest.
No-one believed the fact that Gareth had woken again to speak to him – they just thought he’d made it up. His Mam cried and his Dad took the strap to him for upsetting her (and upsetting him, though he’d never admit it). But what with everything that was going on during the funeral week, they forgot about this pretty quickly. What’s more, Gareth was right: so did he.
When he returned to school eventually – he was allowed a bit of time off under such tragic circumstances – Bevin and Lloyd hadn’t forgotten their promise. Nor did they make allowances for the fact he’d just lost his brother. “So what?” Bevin spat in his face. “We still owe you a pastin’.”
He’d taken his lumps, and more besides, until the day when he wouldn’t take anymore. The day Gavin had talked about, after the virus, when his family had come to rely on him...
But that was another story.
He remembered that talk, though, finally – after the shit hit the fan. It triggered something in him, something connected with those rugby matches. Something that made him recall his Dad’s chants at them: “We are Dragons! We are Dragons!”
It would give him his name, and eventually his power. But he also remembered Gavin’s words about listening to his family because they’d know certain things when the time came.
About a threat that would challenge everything he’d built up since the virus and the Cull.
A threat the Dragon needed to stamp out before it cost him dearly...
HE HADN’T THOUGHT about that time in his life for years.
Lying by the side of the desert road after the strike, after seeing so many of his men blown to pieces. After being thrown clear of the Land Rover Defender by the explosion itself, his ears still ringing from the blast. Henry had returned to consciousness in waves, blinking and seeing only a blue sky; which swiftly turned black, as the trails of smoke rising from the vehicles – including a Ferret Armoured car and a FV107 Scimitar CVR – drifted across. He’d tried to move, conscious that he was still weighed down by his helmet and backpack. Then he’d felt the searing pain in his leg, waking him fully.
He hissed through his teeth, spitting out blood as he did so.
A mortar or rocket based-system (probably a Howitzer), combined with an RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade) attack proved that absolutely nowhere was safe over here at the moment. He’d figured that out as soon as he’d stepped off the transport. The campaign was a just one, though, with a clear motivation. The liberation of Kuwait was of paramount importance; the unjust invasion of that country by dictator Saddam Hussein was something the UK had firmly got behind (in fact they’d committed the largest contingent of any European nation, the second largest contributor to the coalition force fighting Iraq). Operation Granby, it had been named. A matter of principle, defending the weak against the strong. Hadn’t that been one of the reasons he’d originally signed up to the army in the first place? Prepared for just such an occurrence. In spite of what people thought in the outside world, this wasn’t just about oil. Innocent people were dying...
And so were his people: friends and comrades. He’d seen it close-up and personal, especially now... Henry looked across for signs of other survivors, but saw nothing. He shouted, but again he felt the stab of pain in his leg. He hadn’t looked down at it yet, hadn’t dared to... but now he did. It was twisted in an awkward way, the bone definitely broken, and shrapnel was sticking out of a wound at the thigh.
“Fuck...” Not only was he probably going to die himself from that, unless he was incredibly lucky, he couldn’t even get up to see if anyone else needed medical attention. But the more Henry looked across at that devastation, the more bodies he saw there covered in blood – inside the flaming vehicles of the small convoy – and the more he realised that if anyone was still that close to ground zero they’d be beyond medical help. The fact that nobody had answered his call spoke volumes. Christ, the waste of those lives... he could hardly take it in. Men whose families would never see them again. Henry felt tears welling in his eyes, but he didn’t have time to sit here and mourn for the lost. The smoke rising in the air was going to give away the hit, and more enemy fire would soon rain down to make sure they were out of commission for good.
Henry had to retreat, and fast. Removing his combat jacket and helmet to make himself lighter, he scrambled to get away, as much as it hurt him to do so. He crawled along on his belly, dragging his leg behind him. Sure enough another set of explosions came when he was only about twenty metres away; he ducked, lying still as the Earth beneath him shook. Sand rose all around and fell, both beside and on top of him. He knew that soon they’d come on foot to look around. He didn’t have much time left...
Using every ounce of strength he had left, he made it to a set of rocks within crawling distance of the ambush. There he waited, and it wasn’t long before enemy soldiers emerged to examine the wreckage. He heard that foreign tongue so familiar to him after two months posted here, and tried to shut out the faces of soldiers like Jimmy Handley, Max Clemens and Frank Oldham. Tried to block out the images of children’s faces on photos posted up on lockers back at camp, of wives and girlfriends. With every fibre of his being he wanted revenge on those bastards just out of sight. But you should always be careful what you wish for.
While some of them picked over the remains, others fanned out to search the desert for any potential troopers who’d made it out alive. For all they knew, there could be at least a dozen marching their way back to report all this, to call down an air strike on the region. It’s what Henry would do if he could walk. If he had access to a radio, he’d call them up anyway and just get them to do it right here and now. Bomb them all to crap and be done with it; wasn’t as if he had any family to speak of, his mother and father dead, and Catherine...
The voices were growing closer. Henry moved back around the rock, shifting position. He risked a look, seeing two Iraqi foot soldiers heading in his direction, before forking off – only one coming over to check where he was hiding. Henry swallowed dryly. He had only a knife to hand as a weapon, so he drew it, then waited for the man to round the corner. When he did, the look of shock and surprise on the soldier’s face was comical. He looked like he was about to raise his rifle and shoot, so Henry rammed the knife into his gut. There hadn’t been time to register his age as Henry did this, only time to react. But, as he fell, Henry saw that the soldier couldn’t have been more than fifteen, perhaps even younger. That gave him pause for thought – could it be that this lad was forced to join Saddam’s forces like so many others? The threat of death hanging over his own family? If Henry had been able-bodied, maybe he could have used his hand-to-hand skills (as he was well versed in many forms of martial arts) to take the kid down without having to kill him.
As it was...
Bullets raked the rocks where Henry was, and he grabbed the discarded rifle – returning fire between the cracks in the boulders. He was outgunned and outnumbered: there must have been about fifteen Iraqis out there. Henry fired again, certain that at any moment his ammo would run out.
Then there was silence. Henry looked out over the rock, his leg throbbing in agony. There was no sign of the enemy troops who’d been firing in his direction. It was as if they’d simply vanished. He had theories, of course: they’d fled because they thought that air strike was already on its way (the coalition did control the skies, after all), or perhaps they thought there was more than just one survivor out there. Or maybe there had been other forces on hand that day. Whatever the case, Henry didn’t question it back then... He was just grateful that they’d buggered off.
And his journey to find help could begin.
He tried again to walk, and failed; without a stick as a crutch it was absolutely hopeless on that injured leg. The shrapnel had also moved during the fight, loosening so much he had no option but to remove it. Sadly, that had been the only thing stopping him from bleeding out, and now he had another problem. Henry tried to stem the bleeding with a bandage, ripped material from his combats, but it was soaked in seconds.
Sighing, he began to crawl again. If he’d made it to the rocks, then he could make it to some kind of aid – or would die in the process.
The more he crawled in the heat, wearing just his vest and trousers, the more he began to think it would be the latter option. He was going to die out here, in the heat, blood pumping from his leg.
He began to feel woozy as he crested a hill, losing sight of the original skirmish. Henry rolled down the sand, tumbling over and over until he reached the bottom of the dune. It took great effort, but he looked up over the horizon – seeing nothing but ochre in the distance.
His mouth was dry, lips cracking as he attempted to crawl on. Henry clawed at the sand, pulling himself further and further along, a millimetre at a time. Until he had absolutely no more strength.
It was as he lay there that he became frightened. As the certainty that he was going to die really took hold. And it was then that he thought back to all those Sunday school lessons he’d been taught, his parents so staunchly religious it had made him hate every single syllable of the Bible.
He recalled the story about Jesus being tested in the desert and wondered if this was his test? And what he might get if he passed it. What he’d have to do in return for more life?
It was then, after years of turning his back on religion, that he finally prayed. Henry asked that God heard him, that he might spare him... and in return, he’d be a better man. He wouldn’t swear, he wouldn’t (kill young boys anymore; wouldn’t leave fallen comrades to their certain death)... wouldn’t do anything that the Lord didn’t want him to do.
Henry was very surprised to hear an answer.
To hear the words of God, so sharp the Almighty could have been standing next to him and speaking in his ear. He told Henry that yes, he would be saved. But in return one day he would be called upon. There would be a battle at some point, and Henry must stand as His representative on Earth against the forces of darkness. One of God’s warriors. Would he agree?
“Ye-yess...” mouthed Henry, spluttering grains of sand.
He was shown then a vision of what he would be up against. Marching over the sand, heading in his direction were men... At first, through his half-closed eyes, he thought they were Iraqis. But as they drew closer he saw they were all wearing strange kind of robes. They were all hooded, the cowls that same maroon colour, swinging some kind of swords as they came. Henry shivered, in spite of the heat.
He knew who these forces belonged to. If he was now believing in God again, then it stood to reason that he had to believe in the other side... His vision was fading, loss of blood and exhaustion finally catching up with him. If the army was real, then he could do nothing about it now – couldn’t move, let alone fight.
But as he slipped into unconsciousness again, he heard the voice in his ear tell him that he’d also be called on one day to do something that would go against everything he believed in. That he would know what this was when the time came... And that it might just save the world.
Then there was silence.
The next voice Henry heard was a female one: “Lieutenant Tate? Lieutenant Tate... Can you hear me? Are you still with us...” The woman laughed faintly when he opened his eyes. “Oh, thank God...You’ve lost a lot of blood, so just try to relax. Let the morphine do its job.”
He was in a field hospital back at the camp – eventually to be transferred out of the war zone altogether because of his injuries. He’d been spotted by the aircraft investigating the loss of contact with his convoy (the logical part of his mind said that maybe those Iraqi troops had caught wind of this and that’s why they’d scarpered). He’d been evac-ed to safety and was safe now... or as safe as it got around here.
When he returned home, they operated on his leg several times and although they did the best they could, they told him he’d always need a stick and would walk with a limp for the rest of his days. Determined, though, he’d pushed that leg to its limits: exercising, getting stuck back into his martial arts – and he actually found that the more adrenaline that pumped through him (say, in a fight situation) the less his leg hurt. The more he actually could use it.
He only remembered flashes of what had happened to him before they found him, but Henry Tate did remember making some kind of deal. It didn’t strictly involve him becoming a Reverend after he was honourably discharged from the army, but all those months recuperating had left him with lots of free time to read: to brush up on those Bible stories he’d once hated. And what fascinating reading they made... What a great deal of sense, especially in these troubling times. Not to mention those to come.
As he prayed now, Tate remembered seeing the hooded men from his...what, hallucination? This time for real, after Robert had come to New Hope asking for his help against them.
Reverend Tate knew the dangerous times that voice – the one he knew belonged to the Lord his God – had told him about were almost upon them.
He had been and would continue to be the warrior priest.
And he would wait, patiently, for the sign that told him it was time to save the world.
HE WAS RUNNING through the forest, but not on human legs.
And the further he ran, the stronger those legs became. He looked down and saw they were a browny colour with white specks. Rain still fell from the leaves and he skidded to a standstill, watching one droplet land in a puddle nearby. Trotting over, he waited for the ripples to subside, for the surface to reflect his features. He was a young fawn, slightly older than Bambi from the Disney movie (Jack would have been proud at that filmic reference). Not yet fully grown, but not really a baby either.
He could live with that – and so he ran again, enjoying the freedom this form gave him. That and the freedom of the forest. He passed through more unfamiliar territory yet to be shown to him in the real world, but which he recognised instinctively here. His trek brought him to the huge lake near Rufford; where, once again, he could trot to the edge and look at his reflection in the water.
This time, however, he noted the stumps on his head – the beginnings of what would soon be antlers. Then, in the water, as if to show him what he would look like eventually, he saw another reflection. That of a fully grown stag. It was upside down, though, and it was also quite a distance away – yet he could see it perfectly. Perhaps it had skated over the vast expanse of the lake, perhaps it was just a trick of this place: being able to see everything from every angle simultaneously. If so, then it was another skill he needed to master.
For now, he was content to look at the reflection – tracing it upwards to the thing itself. The stag standing on the other side of the lake: staring at him. It opened its mouth, crying out a warning. But it should have been the other way around, should have been him calling out to the older stag... because there was a figure stepping out of the trees behind it.
Initially it looked like the man – dressed all in red – was holding a blade in his hand. But the closer he looked (zooming in, if that was possible in this place) the more he saw that the curving thing was a replacement ‘hand’. And as the man approached, he held it out in front of him, readying to use it on the stag – who was so focussed on its younger counterpart it hadn’t noticed its attacker.
But the same could be said for his own perception, because it was only now that he noticed the great shadow falling across the lake. Someone was behind him as well – was this some kind of mirror, events of the future? Or were they being attacked at the same time, by two different people?
That wouldn’t be revealed today, because he snapped out of his dream at that point, waking in a cold sweat and seeing the skin of the lean-to above him. Mark shook his head, rubbing his eyes. He was still getting used to the intensity of these dreams, especially when they were in Sherwood.
As he emerged from the make-shift tent, he saw Robert doing the same on the other side of the clearing. It was dawn, and they would be eating breakfast soon: a meal the forest had provided, even though they’d hunted the small animals that would provide them with sustenance.
Neither of them spoke much over breakfast, but each could tell the other had spent time in that dreamscape – and were trying to work out the significance of the warnings.
Those signs and portents.
So it was with a mixture of relief and frustration that Mark helped Robert pack up their stuff, following him out, back up to the visitor’s centre in Sherwood where they’d tethered the horses. Relief that the dreams wouldn’t be so vivid that night, sleeping in his own bed back at the castle (even if they did now carry a part of Sherwood with them at all times).
But frustration because he hadn’t had a chance to see what happened next, to try and work out what it all meant. They’d be back here soon enough, though, and he’d see more of it then he was sure...
In the meantime, he’d ride with the Hooded man.
Content that in the fullness of time, all would be revealed to them...