He did not know how long he spent walking around. He could not remember how far he had come, or how long it was since he had dropped through the hatch. It seemed like a long time. All he knew was that a moment ago he was groping along the corridor in the dark, just like the moment before that and the moment before that.
His arms and legs started to grow heavy, and he became tired of walking. His feet ached. The corridor was endless. He plodded on, feeling no variation in the wood as he stumbled along.
And then he saw it. It was a speck at first, the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. He willed himself onward, his limbs doing their best to move as quickly as he commanded them. As he approached the light, he started to feel a little warmer, a little more hopeful. He stopped and blinked at it a few times, but the light did not stop: it kept growing as it moved towards him. He realized that it was the green light, and even as he felt it shine on him, he was aware that it could take its love away as easily as it gave it out. The thought of being stuck in the Darkness and feeling that wretched terrified him.
The light was soon strong enough to illuminate the corridor. Ben’s eyes whizzed around the passage, taking in as much as he could. He saw that he had not long passed another trapdoor in the ceiling. His thoughts were like lightning: the closer the light got, the clearer he was able to think. It was no wonder that he had not found a way out of the Darkness if the exits were all up there.
He turned and ran for the gap in the ceiling. He leaped up to it, like a basketball player, and was amazed by his own athleticism. He took hold of the ledge, and pulled him himself up, popping his head into a murky grey room lit by a single candle flame.
‘That was quick,’ said the flame. ‘Did you find the winged wally?’
Ben dropped down. He could not believe that for all the time he had spent in the dark, he had travelled so short a distance. But he could not afford to dwell on it. The green ball was still shining its way towards him, but now it was much closer. Ben ran in the opposite direction, feeling its heat on his back as he went. The radiation was feeding him, making him run faster, his confidence growing as he tore down the corridor, not daring to look back. The hotter it got, the closer it was; the closer it got, the more he believed he could outrun it.
He saw the thick oaken door too late. As each long stride brought him closer, and his stopping distance got shorter, all he could do was bring his arms up in front of his face as he hurtled into it.
To his surprise, it swung open easily, and he fell through into a large octagonal chamber with a high domed ceiling. It was lit by hundreds of candles, sitting in iron chandeliers suspended from the roof. It looked and smelt like a cathedral. He pulled up abruptly, skidding along the thick burgundy carpet as he did.
And then the light hit him at full speed.
It was the best thing that had ever happened to him. It was the best thing that had ever happened. He felt life in every part of him, in every muscle. Body and mind erupted in happiness, and positivity, and health.
And when it was gone, when the full force of the light had torn through him and moved on, then came the crash. He felt utterly alone, and all he could do was lie on the floor and wait to grow old and die.
He heard his name being called, but he felt so pathetic that he was ashamed to answer. Nevertheless, the voice continued, insistent. He managed to summon the strength from somewhere to press his palms against his ears but it didn’t work very well. He wished he hadn’t bothered.
‘What?’ he yelled. ‘What do you want?’
‘Ben, you must rise. Time is short.’
He thought he recognized the voice, but still didn’t want to get up. He pressed his hands harder into his ears, and still he heard it: ‘Ben. Ben. Ben.’
At last, the speaker got the message, and stopped. Ben breathed out, and took his hands away. As soon as he did, the voice began to sing ‘Abide With Me’. Ben recognized it as another dusty old hymn from school, to be endured or ignored. It had never meant anything to him.
Until now.
The voice was so clear and beautiful that he felt full up with it. Energized, he pulled himself up off the floor, and scanned the room for the source of the voice.
‘Ben,’ it said. ‘I am in here.’ Like the dark corridor, the walls in the new room were covered in deep red wooden panels. The carpet was more like a rug, and was cut into a neat octagon in the centre of the room, an island surrounded by a moat of varnished floorboards. He could see a door in the far wall. It was small – Ben would need to duck to pass through it – with a wooden handle and a tiny letterbox window in the centre of it.
‘Ben, please. We are running out of time.’
He ran towards the door and peered in through the slit. The Seraph was standing in the middle of a small room, his clothes torn, his wings in tatters.
‘Open the door,’ said The Seraph. ‘Quickly. I am weak.’
Ben pushed hard, but it would not budge. He threw his full weight behind it, jumping at it, trying to break it down, without success.
‘How do I open it?’ he called out in frustration.
‘Pull?’ said The Seraph. Ben did so, and the door swung open easily. The floor inside was stone, but the walls and ceiling were all covered in the same wooden panelling as everywhere else.
The Seraph’s face was bisected by a huge scar which ran from the back of his head, down between his eyes, and through his nose. His robes were torn open at the chest, and he was covered in claw marks. Ben threw his arms around him. The angel winced, and recoiled from the embrace. As he pulled away, embarrassed, Ben saw that The Seraph was carrying a more serious injury: what had once been his hand was now more like a paw, the fingers dissolved almost to the knuckle.
‘What happened?’
‘It is the wood. I cannot touch the wood. It is like the Box itself,’ said The Seraph. ‘I tried to open the door, and this happened. How long have I been here, in Worldly time?’
‘About a month.’
‘So short a time? I was afraid we had missed our chance.’
‘Time is a bit funny in here, I think,’ said Ben. ‘I was wandering around for hours and I only moved a few steps.’
‘Then we have no time to lose. I will need you to lead the way.’
Ben gulped. ‘I don’t know if I can. It’s very dark in there.’
‘I will take care of that,’ said the angel, and his aura throbbed, like a light bulb warming up. ‘Lead on.’
Ben stooped out of the open doorway, making sure to hold the door for The Seraph, who roared in pain as he passed through; his wings could not help but brush the frame. Once he had crossed the stone threshold, he was faced with another challenge: a wide stretch of red wooden floor between him and the carpet. He extended his wings as best he could, and hopped into the air. It was like watching a duckling learning to fly; he lacked the strength to make anything other than an extended jump. He landed in a squat at the edge of the carpet, and had to take a moment before he could stand. Ben instinctively went to help, but was waved away with a flick of the angel’s withered hand.
‘We must continue,’ said The Seraph. ‘Show me the door.’
A splash of liquid hit Ben’s head. He looked up, and a few further drops hit his face. ‘I think it’s starting to rain,’ he said as he wiped the water away. He held it out for The Seraph to see.
‘Indeed,’ said The Seraph. ‘I assume that it was some kind of ritual that brought you here?’
‘The druids. They were saluting the tide.’
‘Very well. Things are about to get very wet.’ As if on cue, water began to run down from the centre of the ceiling, like a tap had been turned on. ‘Run to the door and hold it open. I will leap across as best I can.’
Ben nodded. There was a sudden roar, and murky green water began to cascade into the chamber, stinking of salt and sewage. In no time at all it was at knee height, and rising quickly. Ben waded through the water, and pulled the door open. The Seraph ran, and jump-flew into a roll as he dived over the wooden floor and into the Darkness. Ben dashed in after him, and slammed the door.
‘What now?’
‘We run,’ said The Seraph. ‘Where is the exit?’
‘There’s a hatch in the ceiling somewhere up ahead.’
‘I will look out for it.’ The Seraph started to run, his wings scraping against the wood panelling as he went: if it hurt, he did not show it. He did not stop. The only indication that it was affecting him at all were the floating embers of burned feathers that sprayed out behind him as he ran.
They heard a creaking sound from deep in the bowels of the blackness. It reverberated around the halls, chasing after them. The door to the octagonal chamber was getting ready to burst.
‘How much further?’ said The Seraph.
‘I don’t know,’ said Ben, ‘look for Kartofel’s light.’
‘I think I see it.’
Ben craned his head over the angel’s wings, looking for the small grey square in the ceiling. The Seraph suddenly stopped, and Ben crashed into his back. It was like running into a wall: The Seraph did not move, and Ben bounced backwards.
‘It is not the light we are looking for,’ said The Seraph. ‘It is the light of the Box, look!’
The speck had appeared on the horizon, and was shooting towards them at a tremendous pace, seemingly growing in size as it did.
‘We can still reach the hatch in time,’ said Ben. ‘Let’s go!’
The Seraph turned, and Ben saw genuine terror in his face. ‘That light is the Box in its purest form. It will erase me from the Creation.’
Behind them, the creaking sound became a belch as the door splintered and vomited out torrents of water. It rushed towards them, splashing up the sides of the corridor.
‘We need to go now,’ yelled Ben. ‘If we don’t the water will push . . .’
The Seraph snatched Ben up before he could finish his sentence. He ran a few paces before diving forward, unfurling his wings as best he could. He soared towards the light, yelling out in the celestial tongue. He banked to one side, so as to avoid brushing his wings.
‘There it is!’ said Ben, pointing up to the square in the ceiling. The Seraph thrust Ben forward with his good arm, and he clung to the ledge, his chin resting on his folded arms as he tried to pull himself up.
‘About time,’ said Kartofel. ‘Can we go home now?’
Ben felt the press of wings on his back. The Seraph was also dangling from the ledge. The water rushed past them, rocking them both. Ben kicked his legs, trying to find purchase to hoist himself up. His feet were starting to get warm as the green light approached: his body tingled.
‘Help me,’ said Ben.
‘What do you want me to do? I’m chained to the wall, remember?’ said Kartofel.
Ben gasped. ‘I can’t get up,’ he called to The Seraph, but there was no reply. The angel was being overwhelmed; Ben was his only shield from the light, and the water was pushing them closer all the time. If they were to hit it, it would not be long before Ben would feel hopeless, and in all likelihood drop off the ledge into the dark water to be swept away into the bowels of the Box forever.
But first he felt a rush of positivity. The light was making him more determined, and he reached out for anything he could use to pull himself up. He pawed blindly at the floor, the water beneath drenching him, threatening to pull him away at any moment.
His hand found bone. Orff had managed to slump himself along the floor so that he was lying flat, and had kicked his legs out towards the trapdoor. Ben grabbed Orff’s ankle with both hands and pulled himself up. The demon’s beak groaned open in mute agony, but he did not withdraw the leg, or kick: he kept it tense, allowing Ben to scramble up through the hole in the floor.
He should have been terrified, but he had no time for that. He took hold of The Seraph’s good arm and hauled him up through the gap. He heard the sound of bones cracking as the angel’s wings met the resistance of the stone floor.
‘We have to get out,’ gasped The Seraph.
‘The demons are chained,’ said Ben.
‘Why should that matter?’ said The Seraph. ‘Let us open the lid and make our escape.’
‘We can’t leave them here.’
‘You want to free them?’
‘I promised. We have to help them.’
‘Very well.’ The Seraph took hold of Kartofel’s bonds, and dashed them against the floor, exploding the stone into fine powder. A few swift movements later, and Orff and Djinn were also free.
‘Now for the lid,’ said The Seraph. Together they ran at the wood, shoulder charging it. It did not move.
‘It’s no good,’ said Kartofel, ‘I told you: no music, no exit.’
Water had started bubbling up through the hatch. It was being lit from below, so that it resembled a city fountain at night. The green orb rose whole through the gap, racing to beat the water into the room. Frantic, Ben slammed himself into the lid again and again. The light expanded, steadily growing to fill the little cell.
‘It’s pointless,’ said Kartofel.
Ben ignored him. He knew the water would soon be too high for him to keep his feet on the floor. He looked to The Seraph for help, but the angel was busy cowering from the light, laying his back flat against the wall, trying to make himself as thin as possible to avoid its reach.
‘It is The Castellan of the Veil,’ said The Seraph. ‘There will be no music as long as she is at work. I fear we are undone.’
The ball had grown large enough to absorb the demons, sending them into spasms of delight. Ben was desperate. He looked from them to The Seraph, and an idea popped into his head. He waded over to the light as fast as he could, and let it touch his skin. Love and hope seared through him. He felt invincible. He did not want to leave the orb, but he knew what he had to do. He broke free, and splashed back over to the lid. He no longer felt invincible, but with the warming light on his back and the strength of the orb still throbbing through his muscles he pressed hard.
The lid creaked, and opened just a crack. A loud grinding sound, an irregular metallic rhythm, started up in the air. A deep bass pulse shook the room.
‘It’s working,’ said The Seraph. ‘The Castellan of the Veil will not be able to hold on for much longer. Keep going.’
Ben pushed harder, and felt the lid give a little more. His arms were on fire with the strain. The strength the light gave him began to ebb away, but as it did the music of the Box fell into a more stable rhythm. No melody was discernible, only the heavy vibrations of the rumbling bass; it was more like a great machine whirring away than actual music.
He gave the lid one last push, roaring out a mighty cry of effort. He was drained. The power of the light deserted him, but the despair did not have chance to take hold. The lid gave way, and he fell forward, flushed through the opening by the raging water. The five of them found themselves tossed on the waves as the cell fell away. Round and round they spun, as if they were in a giant bath and the plug had just been pulled.
The next thing Ben knew, he was lying face down on the twilit beach, his lips touching gloopy wet sand. The tide was rapidly coming in, soaking his trousers and the hem of his anorak. As he staggered up, he noticed the Box was floating in the wash at his feet, nipping at his ankles as the incoming waves tossed it around. He picked it up.
‘Thank you, Ben-the-Just. Today you have earned that name.’ The Triumph stood at the head of the Cult of the Four Winds, his huge feet firmly planted on the surface of the water. The sea was much rougher, particularly at the feet of The Castellan of the Veil, who was whispering rapidly.
‘Even if you did take your time,’ said The Archivist.
‘Everything is still possible because of Ben,’ snapped The Seraph. ‘You will show him respect.’
The Archivist hissed in disgust.
On the horizon, Ben could see that dawn was breaking quickly. The sun was rising like a balloon before his eyes, floating towards mid-morning. Everything was changing. The sea became turbulent, and dark clouds filled the sky. He tried to focus on the angels before him, but he could not make them out properly. His vision became blurred as the blue-and-purple colours of dusk receded, and the hues of the everyday world bled into view.
‘What’s happening?’
‘The Veil is shifting. Your world is seeping back in,’ said The Triumph.
Ben’s eyes were fixed on the changing landscape: the water became dirtier, and more ferocious. It was raining heavily, and he could hear screams from somewhere.
‘You will see us one more time, Ben Robson,’ said The Seraph. ‘Once more, and all this will be over. Once I have recovered, we will return. You will not need to wait long. And one more thing . . .’
Ben could no longer see the angels at all. The World was crashing in on him: real Towyn was taking the place of its Veil counterpart. He heard one more word before it kicked in completely.
‘Run.’