POWER AND FURY Read online

  If the children failed, would the blame be levelled at her?

  Only time would tell.

  Genesis drew her legs together and took comfort in the warm glow of electrical current that sprayed over her abdomen and nursed her burns where the boy’s eyes had seared into her.

  She wondered about the Tripodean Dream. Maybe Asgard was right; maybe the whole thing was foolish. And although she dared not admit it openly, she knew perfectly well this undertaking had never been designed for the children of man.

  Perhaps she was the fool. At least she was wise enough to know that nature’s wishes cannot be resisted.

  And what of the old man—there to guide and help? But he had forgotten everything. Time had taken its toll, but was he now—in a curious twist of fate—a liability?

  She dipped her claws into her maghole. She would make sure he was given a dream every night that would somehow, somehow—however hard, however shocking, however desperate—stir him into action. Something had to click, it just had to.

  Eighteen

  Sue Makes A Decision

  Sleep, on this quiet, sultry night, hadn’t come easily to Sue. She’d tossed and turned, but something was niggling her, preventing her from nodding off fully.

  Now, as she lay in bed, she flicked through the family photo albums.

  She was particularly drawn to the pictures of herself as a baby, the ones in which she lay in her cot alongside Isabella. Friends from the very beginning. Friends now, and friends until they passed away.

  There were only four pictures before she graduated to a toddler. One of the pictures was cut in half, the others were of Sue staring upwards on her tummy, always next to Isabella. A warmth spread through her.

  She wondered why she’d been visited by the dreams. Why had she been lumbered with nightmares concerning the de Lowes?

  Someone had once quipped that she and Isabella might be twins, but it couldn’t be possible, not here. There would have been an outcry. People would have noticed.

  Why would either the de Lowe parents or her own mother give away a child? Besides, if that outside possibility was true, then one of their parents would have told them by now, surely?

  She examined one picture which seemed a little more grainy than the others. She noticed, in the corner, a large, old hand. She squinted as she tried to make out the background.

  She pulled out her phone and applied the magnifying glass.

  The picture rushed out of focus before regaining its sharpness. The camera phone blinked and, moments later, a ‘bing’ on her laptop told her the image had saved itself on her computer.

  A couple of clicks later, and Sue was staring at an enlarged digital version of the grainy picture.

  Opening her image-editing programme, she added the picture and started playing around with the options.

  Zooming in on the background, she noticed a strange brown vertical wiggle in the corner, as if it might be a wooden beam of some kind. She sharpened the image and played with the contrast.

  Quizzically, she slanted her head first one way, then the other.

  An upright post, on a bed?

  She thought about it and realised it could be a four-poster bed.

  As far as she’d ever known, they’d never had one of these. Their house was modern and full of contemporary furniture. Sue knew it was the only thing her father had left her mother when she was small.

  She looked again. That hand in the corner. So old and leathery, the nails thick and hard.

  An uncle or her grandfather, perhaps. But her grandpa lived in Australia. She first met him when she was four years old. Her first real memory. And her uncle had brown, slender hands. Fit for an accountant.

  Could it be …

  She frowned.

  Zooming back out, she looked at the overall image again.

  She and Isabella were staring up at the lens, looking remarkably similar, although her mother insisted she was the baby on the right.

  But now, zooming in on the picture, she queried this information.

  She examined it close up. Wasn’t that the same flop, the same little tuft of hair that fell forward on Isabella’s brow, on the child on the right?

  She realised whose hands they were: Old Man Wood’s. The bed had to be the old four-poster with carvings that she had seen in his room.

  She noticed her pulse racing.

  Twins? It was impossible.

  A plan quickly formed in her head. During half-term, she’d ask for her birth certificate. If that wasn’t forthcoming, she’d head to the Town Hall and ask to see the registrar for Births and Deaths. That would, at least, confirm where she was from. She would then start asking questions, targeting those who might have seen them all those years ago: Hospital workers, perhaps, or the local postman.

  With this knowledge, she’d be able to knock her doubts on the head.

  She’d need a diversion, so that Isabella and her mother wouldn’t ask questions. She’d also need a companion.

  Instantly, she thought of Gus. He’d been so kind to her earlier. He’d understand the situation and, moreover, he could be trusted. She was certain of it.

  In return for finding him a partner for his ‘doo’, she’d ask him to join her on her investigations. He loved doing strange things like this, even if he was a bit of a dork.

  And, if she couldn’t find a girl to go with him to his party, she’d go herself — at least with Gus it was bound to be a laugh.

  She climbed out of bed and made her way to the window. Opening the curtains, she pushed the windows open and looked out over the rooftops of Upsall.

  Glancing up, the cloud loomed larger than ever. Its blackness filled her soul with dread.

  In bed, she opened her notebook. She read over exactly what she’d written down moments after she’d woken up, stains of her sweat still marking the pages.

  All she had to do was tell Isabella. At least, that would unburden her from the feeling that a heavy chain hung around her neck.

  She lay back and closed the book. Yes. She’d tell Isabella before the game.

  After that, in secrecy, she’d get to the root of the twin thing once and for all.

  She returned her diary to the desk and made her way over to the window, peering out over the eerie night sky with pinpricks of light from the streetlights in the distance.

  As she looked, she heard a piercing cry from somewhere outside, the haunting notes of a scream caught on the wind. It chilled her to her core.

  Quickly, she shut the window and raced back to bed.

  She lay panting.

  If that wasn’t a cry of intense pain, then it was the cry of someone wrestling with agony.

  Noting the direction, she wondered if it hadn’t come all the way from Eden Cottage.

  Nineteen

  Cain’s Luck

  Asgard shifted. ‘Time is moving, Cain,’ he said. ‘On Earth, the storm spills its anger when the Earth’s sun moves to the highest point in the sky. It is time to go to the boy. It is known that one of his Gifts of the Garden of Eden failed.’ Asgard hesitated. ‘His "courage" may not be with him.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent!’

  ‘Soon, the boy sleeps. He has seen the Prophecy in his dreams. One part of it he does not understand at all. Death confuses him for he is young. That part relates to your mother, the one female Founder of the Garden of Eden. To him, she is known as the Ancient Woman. He dreams of her murder but it frightens him.’

  ‘Her death and her end,’ Cain replied. ‘The power of life. I will use her murder to manipulate him.’

  ‘Indeed. Come with me.’

  Cain guffawed. ‘There is hardly a stone unturned in your scheme. But hear me out one more time. How will the boy trust a spirit?’

  ‘It may not be enough to remain invisible,’ Asgard said. ‘Can you bear garments?’

  The ghost scratched a non-existent chin. ‘There is a long, light overcoat with which I use to visit my primitive subjects. I have the strength to wear it f
or a short time.’

  ‘Then gather it,’ Asgard said. ‘Hurry. Bring anything else that you require.’

  Cain drifted away, his invisible presence marked only by the swaying movement of dust and papers wafting off the floor.

  Shortly, he returned wearing a rimmed hat, a scarf, and a long overcoat.

  Asgard stretched out a spindly opaque leg. ‘Hold me. You will feel the sensation of energy. It is my maghole pulling you in.’

  ‘Yes. The force is strong.’

  ‘Good. Now crouch down, and dive like a bird as you have done before. Do this quickly.’

  A tingling, gassy fizz vibrated through his ghostly frame.

  ‘When you are ready, Cain, go!’

  Cain thrust forward, a mild burning sensation shuttling through him. A millisecond later, he found himself lying on a worn carpet in a dark, creaking house.

  He scoured the room, vibrations from objects and walls filling his mind with a picture, a sense of the world around him.

  ‘You have little time,’ Asgard said. ‘Do the rest alone. Return to the fireplace at the bottom of the house. When you are done, hide in the chimney. I will be back before the sun rises, before the old man stirs.’

  Cain floated towards the stairs.

  ‘Remember,’ Asgard called after him, ‘make an ally of the child.’

  ‘If he fears the murder of the Ancient Woman,’ Cain replied, ‘I will play on it.’

  ‘Good. Arrange a place and time to meet him before the storm breaks, when he sees the power and the fury that is to come. Go now, in haste, Cain. Do your bidding.’

  Twenty

  Archie Meets Cain

  Archie woke, his brief sleep disturbed.

  He exhaled loudly, opened his eyes, and looked out into the blackness of the room.

  Was there someone at the foot of his bed?

  ‘Daisy? What d’you want?’

  A windy chuckle came back at him. It wasn’t either of his sisters.

  Archie shuffled into a sitting position, stretched his arms out, and searched the room. Before long, he was able to make out a figure. A human figure, wearing a long coat and a wide-brimmed, cowboy-like hat.

  Archie slipped back under his duvet. ‘Who is it?’ he called out in a weak voice.

  ‘Aha! Hello!’ the voice said, huskily.

  Shivers raced up Archie’s back. ‘What can I... er... help you with, Mister?’ Archie eventually stammered.

  ‘You are the boy, aren’t you?’

  This wasn’t the kind of question a burglar would ask.

  Archie couldn’t think what to say, so he remained silent as his eyes adjusted to the light.

  ‘Ah! Forgive me for another little intrusion,’ a deep, crisp voice said, ‘but I have something to share with you.’

  The cloaked man approached. As he neared, he raised his head.

  Archie’s eyes bulged. Beneath the hat, he saw straight through to the curtain.

  ‘Now, boy, I need to speak with you about a rather urgent matter. The thing is, this time I need a favour.’

  ‘No!’ Archie reeled. ‘Not you, again?’ he blurted.

  ‘I tell you what,’ the ghost said, moving closer, ‘perhaps you need a reminder?’ In a flash, Cain whipped out a knife.

  Archie froze as the knife floated through the air towards him. Moments later, he felt a nick just under the left side of his jaw. A drop of blood ran down his chin. Archie sidled down his bed.

  The ghost moved closer, inspecting the damage. ‘Goodness, now it matches the other side,’ Cain said, coldly. ‘You do believe I exist, don’t you?’

  Archie’s bones rattled. He nodded.

  ‘Good,’ the ghost said. ‘Let’s be quite clear about that straight away.’ Moving a little further from the bed, he said, ‘you might be aware that you are on the threshold of something rather extraordinary. There are mortal challenges you must face. I am sure you know of them...’

  ‘The dreams?’ he stuttered.

  ‘Precisely,’ said the ghost, chuckling. ‘The dreams.’

  Archie shivered. ‘I don’t understand.’

  The ghost sucked in a mouthful of air. ‘You’ve heard about the Garden of Eden?’

  Archie’s brain fizzed. Why was this ghost so interested in a place that only figured as whispers in his mind?

  Archie kept as still and as quiet as he could, hoping like mad that the ghost would say his piece, not mutilate him any further, and go away.

  The ghost stared at Archie for a few moments. ‘Well, the Garden of Eden is where life began, where all things were created. But more recently it’s been, how should I say, put on... standby. The thing is,’ the ghost continued, ‘there’s a slim chance it may operate again, which would mean terrible things must happen to my mother.’ The ghost paused as though taking stock. ‘Everything clear so far?’

  Archie had no idea what the ghost was talking about, but nodded anyway.

  ‘Good. Now this event is known as the Prophecy of the Garden of Eden, and it involves you, my boy,’ the ghost said, leaning in. ‘I would like to help you in your quest and, in return, you can give me a hand. How do you say it, a tit-for-tat arrangement?’

  Archie tried to remember to breathe. His eyes strained in their sockets, forgetting to blink. He sensed that the ghost was smiling thinly at him.

  ‘In due course, I need you to take good care of the Ancient Woman, see that no harm comes to her.’ His voice trailed off as he searched Archie’s face. ‘You do know about the Ancient Woman?’

  Archie stayed silent.

  ‘Well, you see,’ the ghost continued, ‘she’s my mother and a sad old woman who’s been hanging on to a mere thread of life for an awfully long time. But she’ll never see any of it again because, like me, she’s blind. Eyes gauged out.’ The ghost paused solemnly as if remembering her. ‘One day, maybe, I’ll tell you more about her, but, to cut a long story short, boy, she took the noble but worthless step of sacrificing herself to keep a spark alive.’

  ‘A spark?’ Archie said, barely able to squeeze the words out. ‘Of what?’

  ‘A spark of life, I suppose.’

  Archie thought he’d better play along. ‘If you save your mother, will it mean you stop being a ghost?’

  The ghost was thankful Archie couldn’t see his face. ‘Of course not,’ he sobbed trying to bury the amusement in his hurt voice. ‘My body is gone, but my spirit is forever.’

  ‘But will I stop having dreams about... about death.’

  ‘If you help me, then I solemnly promise that from this moment forth, this is exactly what will happen. No more violent, murderous dreams, young man.’

  Archie exhaled. ‘What... what do I have to do?’

  ‘In due course, you must protect her, that is all,’ the ghost whispered. ‘There are some people that would want her dead. These people may think they are right, but rest assured they are mistaken. Dreams often show what you fear; they indicate the opposite action to what you must do in reality. In this case, you must protect her from harm—do you understand? I’m really asking so little.’

  Archie smiled. Looking after the Ancient Woman seemed entirely reasonable especially as she didn’t exactly exist.

  He nodded, hesitatingly.

  ‘Splendid,’ said the ghost, whose invisible gaze seemed to rest on Archie for rather too long.

  Twenty-One

  Solomon’s Dancing

  Dancing! That’s what he’d forgotten, the blasted Scottish reels! What had made him agree to that?

  Goodness me, he thought. All that twirling, stamping and clapping. The sets and the do-si-do-ing. He’d be expected to lead from the front!

  Solomon shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Drat. He hadn’t done any reeling for years. It wouldn’t do to make a tit of himself in front of his esteemed guests.

  He climbed out of bed and studied his watch. Very early, even by his standards.

  Drawing the curtains, he levered the windows open. Fresh air shot in and he breathed
deeply, the oxygen waking him, and a soft wind brushing through the room. He frowned at the big cloud above, hoping that it might have blown away overnight.

  He hummed a tune while moving downstairs to his office. He flicked through his old vinyl records until he came to the ‘Scottish Reeling Classics’. Blowing the dust off, he pulled out the black disk and placed it over the gramophone deck.

  He’d start with the “Dashing White Sergeant”.

  The sound crackled as the reeds of the bagpipes filled with air.

  Solomon, clad only in boxer shorts and string vest, made himself a bit of space by moving a couple of chairs and exercise books off the floor. Placing a hand behind his back, he began hopping up and down.

  Imagining a circle of his guests, he ‘set’ to an imaginary lady, clapped and turned. Yes, that was it. Set, clap to your partner, turn, figure of eight, and bow.

  Onto the next.

  The music of the Highland Band filled the room. Solomon skipped through the song, growing in confidence as the memories came flooding back.

  Hop, clap, and turn. Bow and twist.

  After the third tune, he collapsed into his armchair, and sipped a glass of water.

  He wondered about his guest list. Pity, he thought, that the de Lowe parents couldn’t make it. He shook his head. One minute they were here, the next they’d gone. No wonder the faces of the children had dropped when he’d passed on the news. Such was the archaeologists’ life, he supposed.

  In the public eye of archaeology, they were very much seen as stars in their field, even if they didn’t show it. They would have fitted in happily with the guest list of prominent men and women of the area.

  His train of thought moved on to the children. He had to admit the set-up up there on the moors was more than decent. The old man had looked well, Mrs Pye obviously cared for the children splendidly, and the house was in good order. Solomon wondered if he shouldn’t have talked to Isabella further. Oh, well, the deed was done.