 
### Two Wolves, One Shadow

By

Chris Smith

Copyright Chris Warwick-Smith 2011

Smashwords Edition Chris Warwick-Smith 2011

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One: Dark and Dangerous Creatures

Chapter Two: Maggot

Chapter Three: Sweet Revenge

Chapter Four: Dark Clouds

Chapter Five: The Choice

Chapter Six: The Journey Begins

Chapter Seven: The Sound of Maggots

Chapter Eight: Scorpion Bees.

Chapter Nine: Running the Gauntlet of Hate.

Chapter Ten: Underneath the Skin

Chapter Eleven: The Maze of Thorns

Chapter Twelve: The House of Demons

Chapter Thirteen: Time to Die

Chapter Fourteen: The Feast

Chapter Fifteen: Never Better.

## Prologue

Two Wolves

Author Unknown

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son, the battle is between two 'wolves' inside us all.

One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self–pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.

The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: "Which wolf wins?"

The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

## Chapter One: Dark and Dangerous Creatures

They had left his bedroom door slightly ajar. They wanted to monitor him, make sure he fell asleep. Wide awake, James sat on the floor with his ear as close as possible to the gap, listening to his parents talking about him yet again, careful to avoid detection.

'What do you suggest?' James detected his father's tone becoming more agitated. Thankfully, his parents thought he was asleep.

James had learnt to recognise where his parents were in the house by the sound of the creaking floorboards, or their footsteps walking on the polished timber. He'd refined this skill to the point where he knew their location at any time without effort, even when working in his bedroom. At the slightest warning, he'd gather up his drawings, shove them under his bed and pretend to be asleep, safe from their over-concerned parenting.

With his mum and dad engaged in deep conversation in the kitchen, James knew he could listen without the fear of being caught, find out what they really thought, and devise a plan to placate them, if only for a short time until their next anxiety attack.

'He was different when Dad was alive.'

'You've got to be joking, Janice. Your father fuelled this stuff. Look at this one. You've got to be sick to create something like this. How the hell did it get this bad?'

'At least he talked to Dad.'

'Before all this started, he talked to us. What difference does talking make? He needs help, serious help.'

Four years earlier, when James was eight, he had overheard his parents having a similar conversation voicing their concerns for him, the first of many over the ensuing years. As a result of that initial discussion James' mum and dad had begun periodically rifling through his belongings at night, when they thought he was asleep. They would take from his room and schoolbag everything he wrote and read, as well as all his artwork. But most of the time James was only pretending to be asleep; he knew what they were doing. Once they'd gone, he'd slip out of bed and listen to their conversation. He'd listen to them describing as odd his apparent obsession with dark beings. He would listen as their words expressed more and more disturbing thoughts. He heard them inevitably reach their wretched conclusion: something was wrong with him.

'Oh John, this is just not appropriate for a boy of his age.' James' mum handed his dad a book. She'd opened it at a page showing a picture of a vampire sucking blood from the neck of its dying victim.

'How did he get this?'

'The school library.'

'If you think that's bad, you won't like this.' His dad held up a drawing of a werewolf, blood dripping from its mouth. 'Where does he dream up this stuff?' He paused before adding, 'Well—I think it's time we talk with his teacher.'

These were James' earliest memories of his parents' interventions into his so-called problems. He would listen in to their conversations without them knowing and had occasionally been shocked by what he'd heard, but not anymore. Hearing his parents trudge over the same ground time and time again, regurgitating the same explanations and solutions, was becoming rather tedious.

More alarming events developed when James, screaming hysterically, woke his parents in the middle of the night. He was then ten years old. They found him with his hands pressed against his bedroom window, sweat pouring from his face, fixated on something outside. Hours passed before his parents managed to calm him. Helpless they watched him trembling in a corner. He told them he'd heard a werewolf, and that it was after him. His dad tried his best to reassure him by explaining that next door's dog had been spooked and was going off at something. James hardly slept that night at all. The following evening he lay awake listening to his parents arguing.

'You talked with the headmaster; it's all part of growing up.'

'When are you going to wake up and start doing something?'

'Ok, what do you want to do, Janice? Ship him off to some sort of head shrink. Where do you think that's going to lead?'

'Actually, I think that's precisely what we should do.'

Before he left for school the next morning, James was aware that his mother had already made a doctor's appointment for him. Three weeks later she gathered up some of his drawings and paintings of dragons, witches and other dark and dangerous creatures, before bundling James into the car for another appointment, this time with a 'special doctor'.

'He'll ask you some questions about your paintings, but don't worry, just answer honestly whatever the doctor asks,' she said.

The doctor's appointment ran late, as most seem to do. The time passed without James noticing, for a very odd man had captured his attention. This man behaved perfectly normally: sitting, breathing heavily and waiting for his turn; he just looked rather strange, with the collar on his black coat turned up high, and his neck scrunched down, causing his face to disappear into the shadow of the upturned collar. Although James tried several times, he found it impossible to see through the shroud of darkness over the man's face. Except that, once in a while, James caught sight of the man's eyes. They were his grandfather's eyes: they sparkled like his, they looked at him in the same way Grandpa's eyes used to; they saw right into him, right down into his soul. But his grandfather had died a few months earlier.

'Come on in Mrs. Spicer.'

His mother ushered James into the doctor's room. Unable to tear his eyes away from the man, hoping to see those eyes once more, hoping to see Grandpa's eyes, James bumped the side of his head into the doorframe.

'Ouch.' He rubbed his head.

'Are you okay, dear?' His mum moved in front of him. She went to place her hand on his head, but James yanked it away.

'I'm okay, Mum. Please don't make a fuss.'

When his mother moved away the waiting room was empty. The old man seemed to have vanished into thin air. James searched the room without success. Strange...he would have seen the man walk past them to get to the surgery's exit. The doctor shut the door and placed a hand on James' shoulder.

'Now, tell me what's been going on'.

The doctor listened without interruption as James' mum took over and told her story. She blurted out everything, leaving James feeling angry, isolated, betrayed and completely defenceless.

'The boy's got a vivid imagination, nothing more from what I can see here.' The doctor indicated the pile of drawings and paintings that James' mother had placed on his desk. But, I must say, these are extraordinary.' The doctor spoke in a monotone voice. Without even a glance at James or his mother, he flicked through the pieces of art and continued. 'Nearly all boys go through this adolescence stuff, in one way or another. I see many kids with similar fascinations for these dark things. Like James, most of them have nightmares. There's probably no need to worry; he'll grow out of it sooner or later. Has he reached puberty yet?'

'What the f...?' the whisper of a voice on his shoulder interrupted James' thoughts. ' _Don't let him get away with that. Spit on him; go on, spit on him, spit on the bastard. Do it! Go on, do it!_ '

James turned his head. _Who's there_? He thought. _But who could be?_ The doctor had shut the door after they'd entered. James glanced at his shadow cast on the surgery's wall by the lamp on the doctors' desk. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a twinkle in its eye.

'Thank you doctor, thank you, really, you have been most helpful.' James' mum's face was now looking more relaxed as she stood to leave. Apparently oblivious to James' inner disturbance, she shook the doctor's hand before escorting James away. Passing through the waiting room James failed to notice the absence of the man in the coat. He managed with difficulty to control the rage in his heart, to hide the impact of the voice whispering in his ear...' _Weirdo, that's what you are, a weak pathetic weirdo_.'

Despite his parents having been reassured by the specialist, James' imagination continued to grow. After this first visit to the specialist, James' disturbed dreams were dismissed by his parents as adolescent nightmares. However, James' imagination took on new dimensions. He fancied that on nights with a full moon werewolves howled in the woods nearby, and he thought he saw the Shadows of other dark and dangerous creatures lurking in dusky corners. But no one believed him; no one believed that the creatures he saw and heard were real; not friends, or family, or that stupid specialist. Eventually, he stopped trying to convince them. It wasn't worth the bother when all they did was laugh, chastise or belittle him.

James had adopted his current avoidance strategy with his parents for that reason. After all, what they didn't know about, they couldn't interfere in. He also found it impossible to contemplate revealing the whole truth. With Grandpa gone, who in this world would believe his suspicions? The idea seemed, even to him, to be ridiculous...his shadow whispering in his ear? 'Preposterous!' Grandpa might have said.

The whispering had started soon after the first visit to the specialist. Much to people's surprise, James would spin on his heels for no apparent reason. All his attempts to catch the whispering antagonist failed. And worse than this, people looked at him as if he was mental. Not wanting to give further support to his "freak" label, James tried to isolate the source of the whispering by slowly moving away from people. However, the whispering continued even with no one near, leaving him uneasy. He suspected his shadow, unbelievable as it seemed, even to him. However, although he had plenty of opportunities, he couldn't catch it in the act.

The voice never missed its chance to plant dark thoughts. Relentless whispering carefully cultivated these thoughts until the ideas grew and took firm root in his mind. Night and day the voice occupied all his conscious hours, week after week. Occasionally, James thought that whatever it was had actually pushed him in the back, forcing him to act out the thoughts. Once these dark ideas had taken over his mind, James would find himself overcome by rage, or entangled in confusion, before reaching moments of pure desperation. Mostly, he managed to control himself, to hold back, but not always. Unfortunately, sometimes he acted on the voice's directives and did something foolish, something he later regretted, something he ended up hating himself for doing. Afterwards, without exception, he'd feel as if a piece of his soul had been stolen and lost forever.

Tonight though, James listened to his parents talking through the gap of the door without a murmur from the voice.

'Something really bad has happened, I just know it. He needs our help.' He heard his mother lament.

'Well there's nothing more we can do tonight. Let's talk again tomorrow. We'll work get through this, you'll see,' his dad replied.

'Okay,' James' mum reluctantly answered.

They checked in on him before going to bed. He fooled them into thinking he was asleep. Once they had shut the door to their bedroom, James waited thirty minutes before getting up. He picked up a picture of his grandfather from his bookshelf. Sitting down on his beanbag, he looked deep into the eyes of the old man in the picture. He sat for some time studying the familiar face he loved. After a while, he realised his bum had gone numb. He stood up, rubbed his leg, wobbled across the room to his bedroom window and looked up at the full moon. Searching for danger he scanned the nearby terrain and its dark shadows. Normally, he'd see the eyes of a witch flash menacingly in the dark, or a vampire's silhouette in the sky, or zombies walking their dogs, but so far, not tonight. A howling sound emanated from the woods. James twisted his head to the right. The bottom of his gut churned, his hopes for a peaceful night dispelled. Preparing himself for another long night without sleep, he looked at the picture of Grandpa. Tears welled in his eyes.

## Chapter Two: Maggot

When he was alive, Grandpa and James had spent a lot of time talking. James would share his experiences and all his difficulties at school. They'd sit together for hours while James expressed his suffering. His grandpa simply listened, except for the odd question, or grunt of acknowledgement, which reverberated from deep in the old man's throat with a sense of accord. James appreciated, in the changing expressions of his grandfather's face, that he was intellectually and emotionally absorbed in his troubles. He wanted to tell him everything, free of judgment, free of patronising comments. He felt that with his grandfather, he was free to tell it honestly, free to let go, and he did.

'Listen to me. You must stop torturing yourself. There's absolutely nothing to be gained by beating yourself up. You're great exactly as you are, exactly as you are... regardless of what they say.' His grandpa used this speech often in an attempt to bolster James' confidence. The way his voice comforted him with its warmth, its understanding, its compassion and strength, never lost its impact. The speech always helped, even if he found it hard to believe. Unlike with anyone else in James' life, Grandpa's talks had the same effect as a priest's absolution on him; afterwards, he walked lighter, free of his burdens, if only for a while.

But Grandpa's eyes captivated him the most; they twinkled like stars in the night sky, particularly when he spoke. James got lost staring into them, wondering what they must have seen, what they knew. He marvelled at the life and magic of the lights held in them. What a brilliant life Grandpa must have lived.

'James, they can only hurt you if you let them, so don't let them, don't listen to their silly name calling, and for goodness sake don't believe them. Maggot indeed - it's outrageous, quite outrageous.'

Maggot had become James' nickname at school, which everyone used. It was so commonly used, in fact, that he half suspected his teachers might secretly refer to him in that way to one another. He'd acquired the Maggot tag without really knowing why, which intensified the impact the name had on him. In the early days, he'd agonised over this question. Did he smell? Did he squirm like a maggot? He hated the name. Who'd want to be a maggot? It placed him as the lowest of the low. James could tell that Grandpa saw the pain the name caused.

After listening to James, Grandpa would sit back in his old armchair with a deep sigh. With his elbows resting on the chair's arms and his fingertips touching in front of his chest, he'd tell James one of his tales. He looked much like a principal might when contemplating how to admonish a rebellious student: his face was deadly serious, stern, waiting for the right moment, the moment of greatest impact. Invariably, a huge smile would crack the seriousness of his face to destroy the austere image and release the building tension.

'Shall I tell you about the time I stumbled into a nest of demons?' His eyes ignited with anticipation, 'But maybe you're bored with that one.'

'No Grandpa, go on—please.'

Even though James knew the story off by heart, his grandfather was frequently inclined to change bits of the narrative. He'd add something new or twist the adventure in a slight way. James held back from questioning the inevitable contradictions as they appeared. Regardless of this distracting tendency to embellish his tales, James regarded his grandfather as an awesome storyteller. Out of all of Grandpa's wild tales, James liked the demon story best. Able to recount the story scene by scene in great detail, he loved recreating the events in a cartoon story board.

In this tale, Grandpa came out of deep sleep with a strong sense of deadly danger upon him. He would describe to James the strange shadowy land in which he awoke: black mist swirled around his knees and darkness hung like a veil in the distance, hiding unimaginable monsters.

'I knew instantly I was being watched. My skin went cold, my heart raced, my mind froze. I was overwhelmed by the pure hatred hiding in the darkness, looking at me from every direction. Regardless of which way I looked for an escape, the presence of hatred blocked me. I thought death had come to drag me into hell.'

Grandpa went on to explain how out of the black veil of darkness a pack of evil demons emerged, surrounding him ten deep. He identified the seven demon leaders easily, which was the latest addition to the story. Each of the leaders held a spear, made from bolts of lightning, with electricity flashing at the tip. He went on to tell James, how he'd fought with the demons while the leaders watched the sport. Grandpa kicked, punched, and head butted until exhausted. The most vicious and spiteful looking of the demon leaders sensed his growing weakness and attempted to hit him with an electric shock from his spear of lightning. But Grandpa, summoning the last of his strength, avoided the attack. He smashed his way out through the pack, and attempted to flee. However, refusing to give him up, they chased after him. Running on little else other than adrenaline, Grandpa eventually reached a dead end. A cliff face rose up into the darkness. It presented no obvious way for him to escape. The pack of demons, still on his heels, caught up a moment later. The seven leaders raised their spears and moved in, in order to finish him off. Grandpa did the only thing he could: he climbed up the face of the rocky cliff and out of their reach. When he had climbed high enough, he looked back down the cliff, where he saw below the little demons fighting with each other below.

'Why didn't they climb after you?' James asked.

'A few did,' he replied, ', but they weren't good climbers you see, too small, kept falling off as quickly as they began.' He laughed. 'They looked so small from high on the mountain, like a pack of rats, quite insignificant from that position. Perhaps that's what you need to do James: lift yourself above their petty name-calling. Maybe you should think of, what's his name? —

'Pete!'

'Yes. Think of him as a demon, a nasty little thing, which can only get to you if you come down to his level.'

'What about the leaders, who are they?'

'Mmm—they're for another time I'm afraid; for now concentrate on climbing above them.

James found thinking of Peter Banks as a demon very difficult. Peter was a boy in James' class, but not just any boy; he was the top dog in their year. As James thought about the nature of demons, Peter seemed to have a lot of their attributes. He considered the most obvious differences being Peter's athletic height and build. But in the end, even though he knew little about them, James settled on labelling Peter as an ogre. He decided that the analogy was far more fitting, if Grandpa's solitary story about those powerful and intimidating creatures was to be believed. Peter was certainly powerful and intimidating; he had both of those attributes in abundance.

Peter and the Banks' family lived in a nearby street. His parents had become good friends with Mr and Mrs. Banks, and hard as it was to comprehend now, Peter and James had been good friends right from when they first started school at five. However, while James' became a bit of an oddity, Pete seemed to grow into the image of perfection. Everyone at school thought of as Pete as Mr. Perfect. To his credit, for a long time Pete attempted to include James within his circle. But James' weird looks and his obsessions with dark beings became an embarrassment. So by the time they'd reached their eighth birthdays Pete, aiming to create some distance between them, started name-calling. He followed this, over the next few months, with relatively harmless pushing, shoving and physical intimidation. Gradually, Pete and his mates fell into an ever-increasing pattern of abuse, which they inflicted upon James.

Clearly, Pete's mates, Jake the rake and Gus – short for Humongous – real name Hugh Mortimer, disliked James as much as Pete. In fact, Jake seemed to hate James most of all. His thin body resembled a snake, which taunted and spat insults at James at every opportunity.

Jake normally greeted James with: 'Hey Maggot seen any dragons today?' followed by, 'You're such a freak.' But Jake revelled in more than name-calling: he loved winding James up. One time, he stuck a sign on James' back, 'LARGE MAGGOT! BEWARE! DISEASE RIDDLED VERMIN!' No one told James and hours went by with everyone laughing before Mr. Preacher his Art teacher removed the sign from his jumper.

When break time came, the playing fields normally turned into vibrant arenas, filled with kids in little cliques, playing, laughing, joking and having fun together. James, for the most part, lingered around Pete's game in the hope they'd ask him to join in, hoping for their acceptance, hoping for a chance to be part of it all. However, every lunchtime, he would go through the same thing: he'd talk himself into believing that this time it would be different, but then...

'Oh no...not Maggot!'

'Get lost, freak.'

To which James reluctantly slunk away to deal with the heartache and subsequent feelings of dejection.

The escalation of James' problems with Pete and his mates coincided with his grandfather's death, which happened a few months before his tenth birthday and his first visit to the specialist doctor. Maybe they sensed his vulnerability. Jake became bolder, which climaxed when he dropped a spider down James' shirt. The spider bit him on his neck. Within the hour, the bite swelled into a large blister much to the classroom's amusement. James' mum raced to school and rushed him to the doctor. Another time, Gus, built like a barn but twice as strong, knocked him over with his huge shoulder as he walked past. Of course, Peter always hung about at the scene directing, laughing and goading on the perpetrators of these assaults.

Without Grandpa, art became James' only refuge. In class, he'd forget everything except his work. Living moment by moment, immersed totally in his subject, he was reclusive, manic and totally fantastic. His awesome creations put him on top. In Art, he took the position of top dog where everyone marvelled over his painting, even Pete and the gang.

He began to enjoy the power of this position and played with shocking his audience. He created sickening images, such as a fearsome giant crushing people skulls, eyes popping out of their sockets and brains spilling onto the floor; or a vile witch drinking blood and spewing vomit, with a knife in hand cutting open the guts of some animal for her cauldron. His freaky and disturbing pictures people, nevertheless, considered to be wonderfully creative, imaginative and surreal.

While the images were still fresh in people's minds, James noticed that many took a different view of him for a short time. They'd shoot cautious glances at him or shuffle out of his way. He revelled in his ability to unsettle them. Perhaps they believed he was actually capable of doing such things. However, they soon reverted to form and treated him as 'Maggot' again.

In this period immediately after his grandfather's death, James created his most gruesome pieces of work. The need to intervene and curtail some of his creations became obvious to his teachers. So after some counselling from Mr. Preacher, his Art teacher, James toned down the strength of his paintings. Even so, over the next couple of years he constructed a superb surreal portfolio. In fact, one particular piece of work, his most recent, had been an ongoing project for some weeks. At the time, he would have struggled to explain the driving force and motivation behind the initiation of the painting. With Grandpa gone, who would have believed him anyway? He hardly believed the situation himself. But there they were, little whispers as clear as day, telling him what to do, forcing him to keep at the creation and driving his appetite for revenge. Little by little, day after day, the whispers of James' shadow went to work planting vindictive seeds of retribution. The shadow sowed one thought after another until the ideas took firm root in his mind. Then James went to work with the voice directing his anger. Possessed with a rage bursting to get out, he released his fury in the form of a portrait of Pete and his cronies.

James painted them with rotten teeth and dark sunken eyes, and he turned them into zombies with rotting flesh. Overwhelmed with his feelings, he filled their mouths with maggots until they spilled out. Then he surrounded his victims with dragons and werewolves, the creatures that intrigued and frightened him most. He drew scorpions crawling across their faces, their tails injecting black venom into sallow skin. Finally, he inserted Grandpa's demons with their bolts of lightning. He imagined the boys as feeble, frightened laboratory rats, tortured and racked in pain. He made them look exactly the way they made him feel.

However, this painting had had consequences. Now on his own in the quiet of the house, James regretted listening to the sniping voice spurring him on to paint that damned portrait. It had initiated a sequence of events which landed him in trouble from every direction.

Exhausted from the day's events James pulled away from the bedroom window. Maybe he'd seen a werewolf, maybe not. He crept out of his bedroom and along the corridor to his parent's room. He opened their door and entered. He found the painting of Pete, Gus and Jake on the dresser. Quietly, he picked it up and left the room. James headed back down the corridor, selecting the precise spots on the floorboards he knew to be safe. Silently, he navigated his way to the bathroom. Unknown to James his shadow, wearing a cloak of darkness, followed him. Had he turned around, he would have seen the frightening enormity of its size, which grew up the wall onto the landing ceiling; he would have seen the evil smile on its face!

## Chapter Three: Sweet Revenge

Did the face in the bathroom mirror really belong to him? James looked at his face properly for the first time in a long time. He appeared quite old for his age, with dark sunken eyes and sallow skin; his face so drawn that his cheekbones protruded. Holding his lips taut, he unconsciously clenched his jaw on and off. He had a habit of doing this in times of stress. His cheek muscles rippled under its effect. Unaware of the tension building in him, anger consumed him. He wanted to smash the mirror, and his stupid face.

He'd propped the painting of Pete, Gus and Jake next to the sink on the vanity top. He glanced down at the portrait, letting his eyes linger on the maggots. After a second, he moved onto Pete's rotting, flesh eaten face. But he couldn't look at it beyond a fleeting glance. He felt destroyed and humiliated. James lifted his eyes back to his own face in the mirror and expelled a long sighing breath. Loathing what he saw, his jaw clenched on and off while his mind tumbled through an avalanche of incoherent thoughts. For the most part, his thinking switched uncontrollably between self-belittling attacks and pitiful feelings of humiliation. But now and then his thoughts turned to revenge. His eyes welled with tears, but he managed to hold them back. Through the distorting haze of tears, his eyes flicked over his drawn features once more. His eyes dropped, unable to hold his own stare. James needed an answer, he needed to find himself, and he needed to know why everything had gone so terribly wrong.

Attempting to bring his mind under control, James thought back to two days earlier, to the beginning of his Art class. That class had started a sequence of events, leading to his current state of desperation. But it shouldn't have started there, it shouldn't have started at all, James thought. He had considered himself King in the Art room: unassailable, safe and at home; but no longer. His security had been ripped away, he realised, perhaps for good.

He moved his inquest forward, remembering the moment his mild teacher Mr. Preacher had called him to the front of the class. As he got up from his desk, his stomach churned over and his heart thumped. As he moved towards the front of the room everything became hazy and his mind fogged up.

_What's wrong? Come on, come on, what is it, what have I done wrong?_ James had no idea what was going on. Why had Mr. Preacher singled him out? As he approached, Mr. Preacher began to speak in a loud voice. 'I have some terrific news everyone! It gives me great delight to announce...that James is going to have his own art show. Tomorrow we're going to put up a display of his work in the School Hall. Well done, James! I hope everyone here will support him.' Mr. Preacher turned his head in Pete's direction and held his stare forcefully without blinking. Pete fidgeted. Mr. Preached turned back to James and smiled.

James smiled briefly to at the sallow face in the mirror as he remembered the elation, which caused his heart to leap. Wow, his own show...it was more than he'd ever dreamed of.

'Go and get your portfolio, and I'll hang it in the Hall before assembly tomorrow.' Mr. Preacher smiled while they held eye contact. Without words, they shared a special moment: the teacher expressing his happiness, the student showing his gratitude. However, Mr. Preacher must have sensed a change in James. The teacher's face turned abruptly more serious, more concerned; he appeared a little unsure, even worried. 'It'll be okay, James, you'll see. You'll be fine.'

' _Don't be a moron_ ;' a little voice hissed in James' ear, ' _they're watching you act like his pet. Is that what you are, his little puppy, a silly, sappy, puppy?_ '

James looked up at Mr. Preacher, hesitated for a moment, and with a final push from his shadow, said, 'Whatever.'

Although shocked, Mr. Preacher let James' indifference go without rebuke. James sauntered over to his locker. He pulled out his portfolio. Without looking at Mr. Preacher, he walked back and threw the folder onto the large desk. Not caring about the pens he'd knocked off the desk, James turned his back to his teacher. He walked away without a word, strutting with an air of contempt that was obvious to everyone in the room. Deliberately going the long way back to his seat, he passed Pete laughing with his cronies.

'What an idiot, as if I care,' James said to the trio, and then added, 'are you playing footy at lunch? Can I play?'

'Yep sure' said Pete. Gus's faced took on a puzzled expression, but Pete pushed him to prevent him off from speaking. 'See you over on the pitch, okay? Wait for us and we'll bring your bag and lunch box with ours, okay?' he said smiling.

'Great. Thanks.'

'No problems. But make sure you're on time. We won't wait.'

Quite surprised by the response, James sat down. This was the first positive sign of acceptance he'd received from Pete in a long time. Mr. Preacher, his face icy, returned his pens to their place. James squirmed a bit on his chair. Had he gone too far? At least he'd won a morsel of Pete's respect, in front of everyone. For this he'd willingly pay the price of his teacher's displeasure.

Gus threw his pen onto his desk. Turning around, his massive frame loomed over Pete. In order to speak without being overheard he positioned his back to James. James saw Gus' fist clench, his head move animatedly. James didn't need to hear the words; he knew Gus was pissed off with Pete. On the other side of Pete, James observed Jake's face as he listened in. He looked angry too, but a familiar smirk spread across his face, and curiously Gus gave him the thumb up. James didn't see the menace in their eyes; he only saw one thing - the chance to join in.

When lunchtime came, James went immediately to the playing fields. He waited and waited on the pitch, but Pete didn't show. ' _I must have misheard. No, they said footy; this is where they play footy._ After fifteen minutes, he had talked himself into believing he'd misheard the instruction. He decided that the boys were probably waiting for him on the other side of the school, near the tennis courts. He knew they sometimes played there. Needless to say, when he reached the courts, they were not to be found. ' _Messed it up again, fool_ ' his shadow's voice sniped in his ear. ' _Go on, before it's too late, get moving, find them_.' Unsure of where to go to now, he ran towards the nearest building. He kept on running all lunch-break, in and out of the school and all around the grounds without success. His stomach protested with hunger. The bell rang out across the school, signalling the end of lunch. Dejected, James gave up. He raced to class in the hope he'd make in time. He did, with a couple of minutes to spare, his body hot and sweaty from the run. Outside the classroom he found the gang. He caught Gus stuffing something into his huge mouth, while Jake rifled through his bag.

'Hey, can you tell your mum to pack a decent lunch tomorrow,' Pete said.

'Yeah, get her to put in a Mars Bar or something half decent,' added Gus.

Jake threw the bag at James. 'It's just a load of crap in there,' he said.

James' books, pencils and everything else spilled across the corridor. Everyone laughed; everyone except James and the voice in James' head.

' _Idiot, fool, pick it up, pick it up quick, before anyone else sees_ ,' his shadow yelled. He managed to collect his belongings moments before the teacher arrived.

James sat quietly in class. The only thing preventing him from breaking down was the thought of his Art show the next morning. The whole classroom had seen Pete and his mates humiliate him. Let them laugh for now, tomorrow will be different, he decided. Tomorrow he'd be king. He'd demand their attention, frighten them, disturb them with his pictures, and for a while they'd all respect him.

That night James hardly slept, not because of the usual werewolves but because he was buzzing with anticipation. Imagining faces alight with admiration, he fantasized about the other students' reactions: "Wonderful!", "Amazing!", "It's bloody brilliant mate!"

Even without much sleep, he bounced out of bed in the morning. His enthusiasm confounded his parents, in good way. On the walk to school, everyone James met was greeted with a smile. With his confidence high he strutted out purposefully. He decided to arrive at school a little late, with only a few moments before the start of assembly. He planned to make a big entrance, no doubt to thunderous applause. He pictured himself acting casually and calmly, and acknowledging everyone's praise with a reserved acceptance. The fantasy owned him.

On approaching the school hall James saw Burley Blake. He considered Burley to be possibly the only kid weirder than him. Strangely, black hair covered most of the boy's body: his arms, legs and neck - just about all of him - was covered. He looked like a dirty rug.

'Hey, are you in trouble, or what? I'd be careful,' Burley called out, cutting across James' euphoric mood. James decided to ignore him. Arriving at the entrance to the hall, he noticed a few other kids shoot surprising expressions at him. Then the whispering, sniggering and laughing began. _What's wrong?_ Wondered James as he scrutinized their faces. His heart sank and his exuberance evaporated.

'Watch out, Pete's after your blood,' someone said.

'Gus will crush you like a bug,' he heard.

James endeavoured to hide his growing alarm. He was moderately successful, although his hands kept fidgeting with a button on his shirt. No one was aware that, over his shoulder, his shadow was firing a barrage of insults at him.

' _Told you, Stupid. Gone and made a fool of yourself, I bet. Get in there and find out what's wrong, you pathetic idiot_. '

As James walked into the school hall, the buzz from outside the building ceased. Everyone in the hall turned to glare at him. Confused in his panic, James scanned the walls. He didn't understand. All the pictures looked great. Why would Pete be angry? His eyes worked their way around the room. Trying not to pay attention to the solemn faces, his eyes reached the works on the far wall. Pete, Jake and Gus huddled together in front of one of his pictures. He couldn't quite see which one. Jake moved to one side, opening his view.

'Oh shit!' James exclaimed, unable to hold in his shock. His portrait of Pete and his companions hung proudly on the wall. Mr Preacher had displayed the maggot riddled, tortured and abused, zombie style caricatures, in prime position for the whole school to see.

'You're dead, arsehole,' Gus silently lipped the words across the room while cutting his throat with his fingers. Pete glared at James. His face burned red with anger, appearing more vicious than anyone James' had witnessed to date. Pete's eyes were hateful and despising. As for Jake, shuffling from foot to foot in an excited rocking motion, he appeared to be delighting in the situation.

' _Do something; they're all going to think you're a pathetic, weak, wimp_ ,' the voice urged in James' ear. But he was helpless. Everyone had seen the portraits. Spurred on by his shadow's relentless, goading whispers, James did the only thing he could think of. He went over to talk to the boys, hoping to pacify them. He decided to apologise, offer to do something, anything, they wanted to make it right. He had to try, even though he knew the gesture would probably be wasted.

'Hi,' James began, trying to sound conciliatory. 'Look, I didn't mean to – Aaahh -holy shit!' Gus had slammed his knee into James' thigh. James grasped hold of his throbbing leg. For a few moments, the limb became numb and immobile, sort of dead.

'See you after school, Maggot.' Pete spat out the words, but Jake went further and actually spat on his shoulder. Struggling to hide the pain, James limped away. He took his seat for assembly, desperately trying to work out what to do. But with his leg aching and throbbing, and people nudging him, and the nagging voice of his shadow constantly in his ear, he couldn't think clearly. Thankfully, the entrance of Mr. Preacher and the other teachers diverted the attention away from him briefly. Nevertheless, James knew what was coming. He wanted to run and hide. Mr. Preacher stood up and proceeded to ramble on about the artwork on display. Confronted with a giggling audience, the bemused Mr. Preacher carried on, valiantly promoting James' talent. With each word, James squirmed, unsure as to what hurt more, the attention or his leg.

The curtains on the stage distracted him from his discomfort. Maybe it was a trick of light, but James thought he saw a flash at the curtain's edge. Studying the drapes, James saw them twitch. He watched closely. A dark figure carefully peeped out from behind the curtains. With a jolt he recognised, from two years ago, the silhouette of the man from the doctor's waiting room. His face was still hidden in the coat, with the collar turned up and his neck scrunched down. But this time, James unmistakably saw the man's eyes, like stars in the night sky shining forth from the depths of darkness. Someone elbowed James in the ribs. He twisted his side in pain. When he looked back the man had gone.

After assembly, the day settled down. The hours dragged by endlessly and when home time finally arrived, James packed up his things in a flash. Desperate to avoid everyone he attempted to make his getaway across the playing fields. He was only halfway across when Jake ran up and cut off his escape. Avoiding eye contact, James attempted to walk around him. But Jake obstructed his move.

'Hey you, where do you think you're going?' He grasped hold of James' shirt collar. With his free hand, Jake stuck his fingers between his teeth. The sound of the loud shrill whistle hurt James' ears. Screwing his face up tightly, he shut his eyes. The noise stopped. James opened his eyes to see a mass of figures running towards them. Reacting to Jake's signal, kids were swarming out from their hiding places in the trees located at the near side of the field. The group descended on James in a fury and formed a circle, which gave him no way out. A moment passed when time stood still. Then the circled opened and Pete walked through the gap. The two boys stood face to face.

' _Hit him. Your only chance is to hit him first_ ,' the familiar voice jibed. James swung his arm in a large hook. Pete saw the attack and easily sidestepped out of the way. With James now off balance, Pete pushed him. Someone stuck out a leg. James tripped, landing face down in the mud.

'Hey Maggot, you forgot something,' said Pete. He nodded to Gus, who threw the complete portfolio from the art show onto the ground in front of him.

'Oh no, I stepped in some dog shit,' said Pete. He proceeded to clean his fouled shoes on James' work.

'Don't call his paintings shit!' a voice from the crowd shouted. 'They're not nearly good enough to be called shit.'

'Kill him Pete, go on, kick his head in,' someone else called out.

'Nah' Pete responded, contempt written across his face.

'Look at this crap,' said Gus. He picked up a few of the undamaged paintings. Holding them high he began ripping them into bits. 'Really, it is crap, mate. You're deranged boy, mental.' His face was filled with loathing. James tried to squirm away, wriggling on the ground like a maggot. But the crowd closed ranks, blocking him with their legs.

'No, not that one,' said Jake. 'That one's mine.'

James saw Jake grab the zombie portrait from a kid. With an almighty snort, he spat a huge lump of snot right onto it. He scrunched the picture into a ball and spat on it some more. Bending down, Jake pulled at James' shirt and shoved the paper ball down his jumper. The slimy snot smeared over his neck as Jake pushed the ball down his back. James knew better than to resist; he dared not move.

Jake's actions brought an end to his ordeal, for the most part. The crowd gradually dispersed. As they did so, he received the odd spit or occasional kick in farewell. He lay helpless in the dirt. He listened and waited for them to go. After the last person had departed, James grabbed the remnants of his paintings and threw them into his bag. He'd gotten of lightly he decided: no broken bones or blood. But in reality the pain inside him felt much worse than any broken bone. When he arrived home, he stopped outside the house. The most important thing, he decided, was to hide all signs of the fight from his parents. He emptied the contents of his school bag into the dustbin. Carefully, he concealed the torn pieces of his work beneath the other rubbish. He placed his hand on the door handle, paused and drew a deep breath. After a brief moment in which to find his balance, he entered his home.

Shaking his head, James pulled a face in the mirror. How could he have been so stupid and forgotten to remove it? He remembered the expression on his mum's face when he walked into the house. She had seen it the moment he stepped into the kitchen. His father had seen it too. He marched across the room. Holding James by the shoulder with one hand, he used the other to pull the snot-smeared portrait out of his jumper. The inquisition started immediately: 'What is this? Who are these people? Is that Pete? Did he attack you? Why would you paint something like this?' On and on and on they went, until eventually, fed up by his refusal to respond, they'd dismissed him and sent him to his room. He stayed there all evening, even eating dinner in his room. He listened to them going over and over the same things. But now they slept peacefully, while James was awake with no one to see his pain, except the hollow face in the mirror.

## Chapter Four: Dark Clouds

James looked at the clock. The sound of its tick boomed in the silence of the house. Nothing moved. His heart beating and the clock ticking created the rhythm playing in the back of his mind. He turned his attention once more to his reflection. With the time now at one thirty in the morning, the clock was telling him that more than two hours had slipped by without him noticing. _Two hours wasted in this stupid bathroom,_ James thought. _I've blown two hours of my life examining this boring face, the face of a feeble-bodied insignificant waste of space_. Out of control, his thoughts leapt back to their endless review of the day's events. The clock ticked over the seconds as James stared absently at his face.

With a deep sigh signalling a change, James shook his head and decided to stop his self-assassination. He accepted the futility of searching for an answer. Nothing more could be done tonight. Mulling things over anymore would be pointless. There were no answers; there was no easy way to regain respect. Exhausted and unable to think anymore, he rubbed his forehead. Attempting to shake off the heaviness, he shook his head again. When that didn't work, he closed and opened his eyes in rapid succession. With tomorrow's problems remaining unresolved, James decided he must get some rest, no matter how little. He switched off the bathroom light. In the split second during which the room fell into darkness, something brushed across the surface of his right eye and startled him. The eerie sensation was similar to walking through a spider's web, except that whatever it was had brushed only the surface of his eye, not his face. James switched the light back on. Failing to rub away the intrusion, he pulled his eyelid down. He then lifted the lid and examined under the flap of skin. When his search proved fruitless, he did the same with the bottom lid before rolling his eyeballs. He found nothing, and yet his eye felt wrong.

'Hell, where is the flipping thing? He assumed a speck of dust must have flown into his eye.

However, the bathroom appeared to be spotless. His mum cleaned the room meticulously most days. James considered his mum's obsession with hygiene to be _her_ oddity. The room stank of overused disinfectant, which filled the house for hours after one of her cleaning sprees.

Bemused, James wondered if he had been imagining things. Something had definitely brushed his eye...or had it? He rolled his eyes over a final time. Everything seemed normal, and yet, something still seemed different about his right eye. His uneasiness remained, compelling him to continue examining his eye. On finally realising the source of his discomfort, James' eyes sprang open, stretching wide in disbelief. It was impossible, inexplicable and terrible: the light behind _both_ of James' eyes had gone!

The truth was unavoidable. His eyes had turned into lifeless, empty shells. They still functioned as before; they could still see, but they were dull, empty and despondent. James moved his eyes from side to side in the faint hope that he had made a mistake. But he hadn't. All trace of the light and sparkle within them had gone. He wanted to cry, but no tears appeared; he wanted to shout, but he felt so feeble. The discovery had left him hollow, with nothing inside to let out.

Over his right shoulder in the mirror, something moved. A dark shadowy thing appeared to be behind him. James swung his head around: nothing there. He turned back. The dark outline next to his own seemed only to be in the mirror and not in the room. The shape had a certain familiarity, but James took a few moments to identify it. When the realisation struck, he let out a gasp.

The shape in the mirror was his shadow! Powerful like a giant, fierce as a dragon, the dark figure's aura resembled that of a blood-sucking vampire. The shadow held in its hand a brilliant diamond of light. It let out a laugh of pure evil. Disbelief washed across James' face. He knew without question that the Shadow had stolen the missing light from behind his eyes. Quite helpless, James watched the Shadow run deep into the depths of the mirror, receding out of sight.

'No, stop! Thief!' James screamed, unable to smother his desperation. The outburst reverberated in the silence of the house. He clasped his hand across his mouth. He felt sick to his stomach, partly because he was afraid he may have woken his parents, but mostly because deep inside, he knew the Shadow had stolen something precious, something impossible to replace. He pressed his hands against the mirror, resting his forehead on the glass. Suddenly a familiar voice, one he thought he would never hear again, spoke to him.

'Hello James.' The strange figure he'd seen in the doctor's waiting room and then again at assembly, appeared to his left in the mirror. The man's face was still hidden.

'Is that you Grandpa?' _But_ ... _it can't be_ , James thought. At night in his room, James sometimes pretended his grandfather was still alive, and the two of them would talk together for hours, just as they used to do. James had forgotten the mellow tones and the soothing effect of the old man's voice.

'Grandpa?'

'Ah, yes and no.'

'I don't understand.'

'If it helps for now, let's just work with yes.' Grandpa pulled down the collar of his coat. Sparkling eyes met those of his grandson. James wanted to hug him; he wanted to touch his face, to smell that familiar scent of pipe tobacco. But all he could do was place his hand on the reflection of the old man's face in the mirror. Quite strangely, despite the cold touch of the glass, James could feel the warmth of Grandpa's presence in the room, as if he were standing beside him.

'The Shadow, Grandpa, did you see him? He stole my eyes.'

Grandpa stared into James' eyes. 'Not your _eyes_ , James. He stole the light, the life shining in them. Oh yes, I saw him.'

James smiled. He hadn't forgotten a single wrinkle of Grandpas' old worn face, nor his eyes, both fascinating and bewildering. His grandfather's face was still as wise and serene as he remembered it.

'What's happened?' James asked.

'Didn't you see him with your light?'

'Yes.'

'Then you know.'

'But how?' James stammered.

'Examine your eyes again James, closely. Take your time.

James studied his pupils as a thousand questions buzzed in his mind. He wanted to talk, to tell him the events of the day. However, although he needed Grandpa's advice, this business with his eyes and the treacherous Shadow were far more important. James concentrated on doing what his grandfather had suggested. His eyes appeared to be the same as earlier. The light was gone from within them; they were devoid of any flicker of life, robbed of all feeling, just dead empty shells. James kept searching with no idea of what he would find, not sure that he wanted to discover anything more. There was a distinct probability that worse was yet to come, but Grandpas' instruction compelled him to continue.

'Can you see it yet my boy?' he asked.

'No. Yes. Yes, I can see it!' Like a broken pane of glass, the surface of his eyes appeared to have been shattered into a million fragments.

'Well, there you have it. Unbelievable, isn't it?' Grandpa exclaimed. 'That's how he does it: he brakes his way in, and then snatches the light from between those tiny gaps.'

'But, I don't understand. How can he do that?' Thousands of other questions swarmed through James' mind.

'No time for explanations, my dear boy. We have to go. He's on his way to find the king.'

'King? What king?'

'The King of Shadows. I'll explain later. For now you need to do exactly as I say.'

The idea of a King of Shadows sounded like utter nonsense to James. _But then again, here I am talking to my dead grandfather in a mirror_ , he reasoned. He would have laughed at the thought before today. In fact, if he were to tell anyone else about the events of the evening, they would lock him up in a crazy house for sure.

'Trust me James. Look into my eyes.' Grandpa's eyes swirled and danced like the stars of the Milky Way.

On the edge of James' vision, he saw a huge thundercloud drift into sight. The darkness of the cloud slowly engulfed everything in the mirror, gradually smothering James' reflection and the image of his grandfather.

'Keep looking at my eyes, James. Don't look at anything else. James, look into my eyes! You must do what I say, James! James!'

Provoked by the icy chill of fear, goose bumps surfaced across James' skin. But he was oblivious to the sensation. Nor could he hear the sound of his breathing growing heavier, or the creaking of the house as it cooled in the night. The darkness in the mirror blocked out everything and filled his eyes with black. He struggled to swallow. Unable to maintain his focus on Grandpa's eyes, James became weak and his legs began to buckle.

'Here,' he heard a faint whisper, 'follow me.' But he was unable to respond. He started to fall, but two dark hands reached out and grabbed him. The powerful arms pulled him into the mirror. Unable to resist, he fell into the blackness, plummeting down into the mirror's darkness. James wondered if death was calling him. He wondered if he was about to expel his last breath on this earth.

## Chapter Five: The Choice

James awoke with a sharp pain in his back. He realised the fall had left him sprawled on a bed of rocky rubble. A very large and jagged boulder pressed between his shoulder blades. The jagged edge hurt like hell. He rolled onto his side; relief came in an instant. With a grunt, he sat up. Lightly brushing the dust from his arms, he wiggled his legs a bit and carefully struggled to his feet. His mind, alert to every muscles spasm or dart of pain, searched for an indication of any injury. But everything felt all right. _Nothing's broken_ , he concluded. True, some areas were a bit sore, but generally he seemed to be okay. The fear of serious injury gone, James suddenly became aware of a vile smell. He doubled over, coughed and almost vomited. The stench of rotting meat filled the air. He started to retch, but managed to gulp the sickness down. The foul taste filled his mouth. He spat several times, but it made no difference; the taste of vomit still clung to the walls of his mouth.

After a short while his senses began to adjust. The smell lost some of its potency, the foul taste was mellower and the nausea seemed to have diminished significantly. At last, his stomach felt under control. Lifting his head from between his knees, James gradually uncurled himself and stood upright. For the first time, he was able to assess his situation and the environment. He appeared to be in some sort of dark dungeon. Several corpses lined the rocky walls. Each lifeless body was clamped in chains; it hung spread-eagled, stretched to its limits from being torn and ripped apart. James saw that the skin on each body had been cut back and peeled away to expose the twisted, withered muscle beneath. Straining to see in the poor light, he observed something moving in the flesh. He leaned forward. Wanting to reject the sight, James realised maggots were eating away at the rotting flesh of these tormented souls. It was obvious to James that the victims' persecutor took great delight in torture.

However, the strange beauty of their faces caught James' attention. On each corpse's face sat a brilliant shimmering mask made of reflective glass. Despite the suffering inflicted on these poor souls, the expressions on the masks radiated a quiet serenity. Although somewhat surreal, the effect somehow managed to reduce the impact of their physical grotesqueness. The masks glowed in the dimness, capturing the only light available: a tiny beam which entered the dungeon from above. Like the ghost of a snake, the light writhed its way down through the blackness. About two thirds of the way down, the beam split into many different strands of light. Each of the smaller strands continued to slither its way to a corpse and kiss one of the radiant masks.

James approached the nearest corpse and peered at the illuminated mask. The shimmering light beautified the expression etched there. It was beautifully crafted. He looked across the face, studying the features. It might have been the face of his brother, had he had one. He continued his examination, looking at every detail.

He nearly skipped past the eyes, with all the splendour of the mask, the dazzling features and the glorious light attracting him. But he paused long enough to take note and his curiosity was sparked. The victims' real eyes stared out, uncovered, from behind the mask's radiance. James became lost in thought; he stared endlessly into the lifeless, black, empty eyes. Many questions gathered in his mind: _Do your eyes look like that when you're dead? What were his last thoughts? Had he suffered a long time? Why was he here? What had he done to deserve this? Had his death been slow or quick?_

His eyes jumped. 'It blinked, it frigging blinked.' The corpse burst into life, fingers grasping to get him, arms thrashing on the wall to break free. James jumped back. He stumbled over a rock and fell. From the ground, he heard the tear of flesh accompanied by a piercing scream. By the time he had recovered and jumped back onto his feet, the corpse hung quietly once more, limp and lifeless on the wall. Keeping his distance James stared at the corpse's eyes. Dark and dead behind the radiant mask, the eyes appeared peaceful and serene.

'Are you okay?' asked Grandpa. He stepped forward out the darkness, which had collected in pockets throughout the dungeon.

'Where the hell did you come from?' James asked. He continued without waiting for a reply. 'Is it alive?'

'Certainly, if you can call that life.'

James wanted to ask questions. He wanted to know who they were and how they had ended up like this, but his intuition, his fear of the answer, held him back.

'We need to help them.'

'Don't be ridiculous. What on earth makes you think they want your help, boy.'

Startled by Grandpa's answer, James faced him properly. He wore the same dark cloak, which gave the old man the appearance of Dracula. For a split second, James felt afraid of him. The darkness about him was different to anything he remembered. However, when he rested on his eyes and the light dancing behind them, the fear was replaced by the serenity they radiated. _It really is him_ , James thought. His mind switched back to the darkness which had engulfed them in the mirror, Grandpa's warning about the King, and the dark hands which had dragged him unwillingly into the mirror.

James understood his grandfather wasn't alive, yet he looked alive. He appeared much as he had in the doctor's waiting room and at the school assembly. James moved his hand slowly towards the familiar face, hoping to feel the warmth of his flesh, the roughness of his skin. As if dipping into ink, the tips of his fingers disappeared into the old man's face. Unable to conceal his disappointment, his face dropped.

'Are you Grandpa's ghost?'

'I am his spirit, James, and he was sort of my window, like many others are. Do you understand?'

James frowned.

'You will when the time is right.'

James was confused by his words because he thought spirits were ghosts and Grandpa didn't look like a ghost. In his pictures, James drew his ghosts as wispy translucent images; they were faded, pale impressions of people. That's how he'd seen them depicted in books and films. But Grandpa could be mistaken for real. His spirit was more like a reflection – a living painting.

'Am I dead as well?' James' voice quivered a little. He touched his arm to check.

'No, you are very much alive, perhaps the most alive you've ever been.'

'Well, if I'm alive can we please get the hell out of here?' Great as it was to see his grandfather, he wanted out of this god-forsaken place as quickly as possible.

'There are only two ways to leave,' Grandpa said as he produced a mask from within his cloak. The mask resembled the ones worn by the corpses. 'This is for you. You can put it on any time you choose.'

James stepped back. 'You must think I'm mad, or stupid or something!'

'Not at all, dear boy. It's not as bad as it looks. See, wherever you are, this mask will find whatever little light there is in your life and suck it in. It has many powers. Most importantly, it has the power to lift your spirit back to the other side of the mirror. The one you fell through, James, up there.'

James twisted his neck up towards the small silvery window from which the light snaked down to kiss the silver-faced corpses. When he looked back down Grandpa presented the mask for him to take.

'Go on.' Grandpa held it with great reverence.

James noticed the likeness to his own face. Cautiously, he reached out his hand and took the mask. The moment the gift passed into his possession, its brilliance dazzled and captivated him with its magic. He ran his hands over the beautiful sculptured contours, examining every inch of the treasure. With delight tingling through his fingertips, the mask's attraction began to seize control of him; the force emanating from it made James believe that it would serve and protect him. Without further thought or concern, he raised it to his face.

'Hold on a minute, my boy, steady,' Grandpa interrupted. 'Once you make the choice, that's it, you may never get another chance to recover your stolen light.'

Grandpa's words were said without James taking proper note. The mask's magical power held him in its grip. He felt invincible. Grandpa pushed James lightly on the shoulder to jolt his attention back, and pointed down a dark deep tunnel leading from the dungeon.

'Or you can go with me, into the darkness. You'll find the King of Shadows down there. Your light is that way, James.'

James thought back to the Shadow disappearing into the depths of the mirror. He remembered the Shadow stealing his light while he watched helplessly. The lure of his light was a powerful force on him too. But the hidden secrets buried in the depths of this underworld scared him. Wearing the mask seemed easier and yet there was a nagging in his subconscious; somehow it didn't feel like the answer. Moreover, there was the matter of the thief, and the retribution due.

'Of course it's possible that by wearing this mask, in time you may end up like those poor fellows.' Grandpa waved his hand towards the dead corpses lining the walls. 'But at least you'll be home, safe. On the other hand, if you follow the path that leads to the King, you will no doubt face many terrifying dangers.' The calm soft tone of the old man disguised the pain in the choice he'd given James. Each seemed an equally unpalatable option to him.

'Well my boy, what's it to be? We haven't got all night you know.'

The tunnel loomed ahead. James had no idea what "terrifying dangers" he might face. However, having watched the Shadow scurry away into the mirror with his light, a powerful hate now filled him. After all, the traitor had smashed his eyes and stolen from him. James wanted to rip the light from the Shadow's hand. He wanted to take revenge, to watch the shadow beg for his mercy before he killed it.

'The King is really down there?'

'Yes.'

'And I'll find my shadow with him?'

'Yes.'

'Why? I still don't understand why the King wants my light?'

'Like all kings, he wants power – your power: the power of your heart, the power of your mind, and the power of your body! And if you let him, he'll take it.'

Beneath the surface, waiting to break free, James' anxiety grew. It grew into the same sense of doom as felt when he realised that he'd antagonised Pete, Gus, and Jake with his painting, the same fear as was present when he realised they were after him. He relived the same dread as experienced when the boys had swarmed from the trees to confront him. Once again "the hunted", he'd become the prey in this dark, dank, cesspit. If he took the tunnel, he knew events would force him to face this King. The decision weighed heavily upon him. Horror resided in his heart.

'The choice is yours. Are you ready to face what lies down there?' James had never seen Grandpa's eyes dancing as brightly as they were at this moment. 'Or, are you going to put that mask on and go back home?'

James knew what he had to do; he didn't like it, but he knew. Taking a deep breath, he decided to enter the blackness and attempt to win back his stolen light!

## Chapter Six: The Journey Begins

As James approached the tunnel he saw something moving at its entrance. With each step he felt increasingly uneasy, to the point where he began to doubt his decision to chase the Shadow into this underworld. He paused for a moment. He held up the mask. The image of the rotting withered corpses adorned with their beautiful faces crossed his mind. He pushed it away and carried on.

Halfway to the tunnel's threshold he realised that it was teaming with some sort of reptilian life. All the creatures seemed to be moving in a circle around the walls of the tunnel, giving it the illusion of a glistening black whirlpool, its movement sucking James into its depths. He heard in the background of his mind, almost unnoticeable, a hostile hiss. When he reached the tunnel's entrance the cyclical movement abruptly stopped and slowly its walls began to reveal the threshold's guardians. James froze halfway through his stride. In front of him were hundreds of black snakes, coiled, ready to strike. Slowly he brought his feet together. With a wall of fear blocking his path forward, James waited.

'Don't worry, they'll let you in' said Grandpa. He walked through the mass of serpents as if they didn't exist. 'However,' he added, turning back to James, 'once inside, they will attack if you attempt to escape and go back. The only way out, once you are in here, is via the mask, or by facing the King and winning back your light.'

This was the point of no return, thought James. He managed to force a swallow down in spite of the dryness in his throat, and it seemed as though every cell in his body was screaming at him to flee. His limbs felt like lead. James knew that once he took these next few steps his life would be different forever. One way or another, he would leave this place a different person. He mustered his resolve by whispering to himself, and then he took a step forward. The snakes hissed aggressively so he stepped back again.

'Are you going to be scared all your life,' asked Grandpa.

Shocked by the tone of the old man, James stared at his face. The snakes created a living frame around his silhouette. Grandpa smiled.

'Okay, just this once.' He waved his hand. The vicious creatures withered back against the tunnel walls, allowing James safe passage. Grandpa was still smiling when James reached him. He looked back at the snakes. They resumed their guarding of the tunnel. James had no doubt in his mind that they would strike, without mercy, if he turned back.

'Follow me,' Grandpa said.

'But I can't see.'

Almost all the light had vanished from inside the tunnel; even the mask had lost its sparkle. James couldn't see a thing apart from the stars in Grandpa's eyes. He trusted those eyes; he would follow them anywhere.

'Let's see now...here, this will help.' James saw a smirk on his grandfather's face as his eyes flashed. The old man's face was lit up for a few seconds before dual bolts of lightning flew out from his sockets. The electrical discharge hit the mask in James' hand. The explosion sent a shock right through to his bones and the mask flew out of his hand, spinning through the air with a blinding radiance.

'Christ Almighty!' James cried. 'That bloody hurt. Couldn't you have warned...?' The sight of the mask spinning in the air and changing its shape, interrupted James' protests about the pain. The mask collapsed into a small diamond of light. _The light's exactly like mine, like that stolen from my eyes_ , James thought. The little star flittered through the air towards him. For a brief moment James thought it was going to fly into his eyes. But it stopped a few feet short. The glow from the star acted as a beacon in the tunnel, allowing James to see a few feet ahead. He felt better, safer, and more in control.

'James, this light will guide you; follow it, wherever you are led. Regardless of the danger, follow without question.'

'But, you'll be with me, right?'

'We will meet again before you leave. But this is _your_ path James, the one you are meant to follow.'

'But Grandpa, the mask, what if I need it?'

'Reach out your hand.' He pointed to the dancing light. 'But be careful not to touch. Reach out slowly. That's good.'

Only inches from James' fingertips, the light transformed once again into the brilliant mask. Its warmth touched him through the cold. Pulled by an invisible power, his fingers kept moving forward.

'Take your hand away—now!'

James withdrew his hand. As he did, the mask snapped back to the twinkling light.

'I told you not to touch. Be careful James; make sure you are ready. Make sure you have decided, accepted the consequences. Once you make contact, the light is gone for good. The mask will attach to your face. The decision is final. There is no way to reverse your choice.'

The knowledge that the mask was at hand to save him made James feel safe. With the tortured faces imprinted on his mind, he decided he would only use the mask if he was in desperate need, when all hope had deserted him.

'Come, let's walk and talk a bit. I'll tell you what I can about the journey ahead.'

Feeling comfortable and safe, James walked beside his grandfather's spirit. They followed the light, without question or fear, into the darkness. It was like walking in a deep fog, the light managing to break into the blackness for a few meters ahead of them. The tunnel walls, rough and rocky, contrasted with the worn smooth cobbled stone path. James struggled to keep up with the old man; his feet kept slipping on the smooth stones. _Thousands of people must have walked this path and worn them smooth_ , he surmised. The idea of others travelling this same path added to his sense of security.

After a while they emerged from the blackness of the tunnel onto the top of an escarpment. James shielded his eyes while they adjusted to the burst of light. He squinted, looking down into the valley below. Gradually his eyes adjusted. Deep down, a blanket of mist hid what lay at the bottom. His eyes wandered across the valley, lingering on the odd rock poking its head out through the cloud. They were then drawn to a mountain in the distance, scanning the slopes until they reached what appeared to be a temple sitting proudly on the top. Formed into the shape of a perfect dome, the building stood out against the rugged landscape. Its surface appeared to have something painted on it in dark colours. Over the top of the temple the sky glowed with the radiance of a sunset. Magnificent rays of light from the sky directly above him ran in rivers to the temple. The little spark of light jumped in front of his eyes. It jittered in the air with an anxiousness that surprised James. It was as if the temple were calling it home.

'So, James, would you like to know what lies ahead?'

Torn between knowing or not, James paused. What Grandpa might say to him scared him. But he needed to know and understand the challenges ahead. Right then, he understood his mother. Is this what she'd experienced, waiting for the specialist's diagnosis? Did she want him to tell her that her son was mad? _Maybe that day in his waiting room hadn't been that easy for her_ , he thought.

'Yes, please tell me. Is that where he lives?'

'James, you will need to navigate your way through this dangerous underworld' Grandpa began. 'This is the realm of the King of Shadows, and that is his palace: his shrine, temple and home. As you steer your way through this place you will meet his servants, his terrible creatures. He owns them, controls them; in fact, he created them. So take care, my boy. But, enough of that, it's not all bad news you know.'

Grandpa slapped James on the back, but his hand passed straight through him without touching him.

'Oopsy daisy. I tend to forget once in a while you know. The thing is James, these nasty beings guard secrets. These secrets will help you, a sort of gift if you like. Anyway, you'll discover them along the way and when you've faced all there is to face, and entered his palace over there, the King will find you. Or perhaps I should say you'll find him.'

## Chapter Seven: The Sound of Maggots

From the top of the cliff a small pathway descended aggressively down the face of the escarpment. Grandpa strode purposefully down the track, leaving James struggling to keep up as he hugged the wall of the cliff, terrified by the drop. Regardless of how fast the old man went, the guiding light chose to stay with James. Patiently, it accompanied his methodical progress. With curiosity getting the better of him, James attempted to peek over the edge, down into the gorge. Maybe the mist had lifted? As he leant over, an icy blast of wind shot upwards. The gust threw him back against the rocky face and its shelter. After regaining his composure James walked on a bit further. Although he repeated his attempt another couple of times, the same blast of icy wind threw him back. He gave up, settling his priorities on a safe decent. Whatever lay at the bottom would be reached soon enough, he concluded.

While he was negotiating the decent, James determined that whoever had made the path had constructed it in the most arduous way, without regard for the safety of travellers. He tripped on rocks placed strategically in the trickiest, most awkward of locations. At other times he slipped on the deliberately polished smooth surface. He also lost his footing walking on a bed of rubble shaped like marbles. With the path as narrow as possible and the sheer drop sometimes only inches from his feet, James' nerves were constantly on edge. He had never felt so alive as he ventured down the track.

James concentrated hard while endeavouring to catch up with the old man. The temperature was falling dramatically. He began to shiver. The descent led him into the ice-cold blanket of foggy mist he had seen from the top. His vision gradually diminished as the fog closed in, adding to his discomfort. The constant fear of falling pervaded all of his movements. Neither he nor his grandfather spoke. James attempted to shut out everything and focus on each step, one by one. The treacherous conditions demanded all of his concentration. He struggled valiantly as the conditions continued to worsen.

James he could barely see his grandfather as the gap between them widened. Apparently oblivious to his predicament, Grandpa marched down the path without bothering to shoot even a single glance behind to check if he was still there. For all his grandpa knew, he could have fallen and be lying at the bottom of the ravine, dead. Unable to match his pace, James saw the old man disappear behind the white curtain of mist. Alone, isolated, vulnerable and without the comfort of the familiar figure, James responded and sped up. His anxiety to catch up grew with each step. James' feet shuffled, skipped and jumped as quickly as possible. His hands groped at the wall. His eyes searched in the hope of a glimpse of the dark cloak; he longed for the security it offered.

But he was unable to move fast enough because, afraid that he might trip, he kept flicking his eyes down onto the trail. His anxiety grew. But his fears didn't materialise despite the path narrowing to its thinnest before coming to an end. In front of him, a small, wooden bridge extended across a ravine. James stepped forwards, holding his arms out for balance. The bridge, about the width of a gymnastics beam, swayed in the air. _Don't look down_ , James repeated again and again as he made his way over the chasm. The bridge led to a tiny ledge stuck against the cliff's face. It was no wider than a hand's width. The ledge stretched deep into the mist. A little higher than his head, James noticed hand holes cut into the rock. He pressed his fingers deep into the holes. Slowly, he traversed along the ledge, his heels hanging over the edge.

Even though he was moving sedately, James failed to notice until it was too late that the hand holds were getting smaller. With them all but gone he struggled to find the next grip. He stopped dead still, his hands and cheek pressed flat against the rocky wall. Unable to look back, he watched the light hovering a few feet ahead, indifferent to his dilemma. He decided to attempt going back. His right hand scratched at the rock looking for the previous handhold. He couldn't find it. He searched his mind for another way out; however, he couldn't find that either. From somewhere below, deep in the abyss beneath the mist, he noticed for the first time a faint screeching. It sounded like some sort of creature. James thought the noise, although somewhat painful to listen to, hid a gentle melody. The distraction was brief. Numbness from the cold had spread up his legs and his toes felt frozen like little blocks of ice. He needed to move. He shuffled his foot one small step forward along the ledge and peered into the mist. An icy gust of wind caused it to swirl. The mist lifted enough to reveal the end of the ledge; James saw that it opened onto a wider path. He shuffled along the ledge, one tiny step at a time.

James collapsed onto the path with the last step to safety. His hands were raw from clinging to the rocky face, his ankles in agony from holding the weight of his body, and his toes numb from the harsh cold and the pressure that had been placed on them.

'Tell me what went wrong?'

His ragged nerves still on edge, James reacted impulsively to the shock of his grandpa's voice. He covered his face with his hands and curled into a ball, the way he always cowered when under attack. The reaction had become second nature to him. He'd protected himself in this way many times.

'You did well to get across, James. To be quite honest I didn't think you'd manage. I thought you'd opt for the mask.'

Absorbed by the challenge and threat of the ledge, James had forgotten that the mirror mask could save him; that the accompanying star-light would change at his touch into that mask. If he had remembered that the mask could lift him out of this place to his home he might have given up right there on the ledge.

'Now get up and tell me what went wrong back at school my boy; you know, with the picture?' He paused. 'And what happened at assembly the other day.' Grandpa expanded upon his initial question while ignoring the jittering mass on the floor, struggling to regain its composure.

Pinning his hair back from his forehead, James held the top of his head. He glared at the old man. Disbelief draped across his face. He thought back to the awful assembly where he'd seen the strange dark figure with the sparkling eyes.

'It _was_ you I saw at school.'

'Yes, now tell me what's been going on.'

James took a moment to dust the debris off his clothes and get to his feet. Grandpa waited while James regained his composure; then, apparently content that he'd waited long enough, he continued along the pathway. James took the cue and followed. They walked at a far more comfortable pace than earlier. James moved alongside the old man, the path now wide enough to accommodate them both.

'The trouble is they hate me, they all do, every one of them' James began. The outpouring that followed surprised James. His story burst forth unrestrained, purging the grief he'd held inside for so long. James told how the boys had humiliated him. How he'd do anything to win their praise, even to the point where he'd play the fool for their pleasure. But, no matter what he did to try to gain their acceptance, it made no difference; they still took the piss out of him; they still called him Maggot. He told Grandpa how, most of all, Perfect Pete upset him. The guy used to be his friend. He found it bewildering that Pete had changed so dramatically, to the point where he now despised him. James explained how he would act like his puppy, doing anything his master commanded. He told how Pete seemed to relish his power. How he'd call James over under some sort of pretence and James would oblige, paying the price of humiliation in return for the possibility that Pete might befriend him. If Pete asked him to jump, James would jump; if he asked him to beg, he'd beg. After Pete had had enough fun at James' expense, he would verbally or, sometimes, physically assault him. At this point, once he'd been completely humiliated, Pete would move onto a new target.

'But he always comes back to me. I'm his favourite,' James clarified. James told how he'd escape to his safe place and hide behind the school bins. 'It's so disgusting no one goes there.'

As they continued down the path, Grandpa listened as James went on to tell him how he'd tried to do the same to Burley Blake. It was good to have at least one kid weirder than him. James considered Burley to be his puppy. He had decided to show Perfect Pete that he could be just like him; show him how he could intimidate and humiliate someone too. But no matter what James did to Burley, and he did some bad things, the weirdo simply passed it off and let it go. To make matters worse, Pete reacted against him, using James' failure to humiliate Burley as a reason to ridicule him. To them, he was Maggot, the lowest of the low and no matter how hard James tried to be like Pete and his cronies, he was treated with contempt.

'I feel like my insides are being eaten, Grandpa, when they treat me like that; like I am rotting or dying inside. Whatever I do makes no difference. It doesn't change a single dammed thing. And there's this whining voice, constantly in my ear, going on and on, telling me to do this, and then do that. It keeps at me, demanding that I try harder, and try again, and keep on trying.'

'How does that voice make you feel, James?'

'I'm angry.... I'm bloody livid. Pete's a shithead, and Jesus, why can't it be different?' The blood rushed to his face, betraying the emotions he had previously managed to hide away, but which now surged forth, taking him by surprise. Even though he wanted to scream, James held back.

'It's not right, Grandpa. There was no reason for him to treat me like dirt after our falling out. I still don't know why he wouldn't make up with me. It's like an excuse to get rid of me. I did nothing wrong; I don't deserve his ridicule.' He paused, allowing the anger to give way to sadness, which rapidly began to engulf him.

'He should like me, shouldn't he? After everything I do for him, I don't understand why he doesn't. I do everything he asks. I must be missing something; I'm definitely missing something I can change. I can win him over. He used to be my friend.'

'And Burley?'

'Well, I'm not sure, but I guess if they can treat me like that and get away with it, I should be able to do the same to Burley. Why is there a different rule for them? If this is the way life works then I should be free to behave the same way. Life's meant to be fair. ' They climbed over a few rocks that blocked the path.

'Have you worked out what's going on yet?'

'What do you mean?'

'The whispering voice you hear is your shadow. It's your shadow's voice driving you mad. He provokes you to jump through hoops; sets up and creates those conflicts and challenges. He pushes you and gives rise to all those emotions. Your shadow is the one who demands you win Pete's friendship, at any cost. It is he who tells you that you should be able to make Pete like you. And your shadow tells you how things _should be_ , regardless of reality. He piles on the pressure, makes you attempt to bend over backwards, all in the name of being liked. He tries to make you be something you're clearly not, but something you think you should be. Think about it James: how ridiculous is it to think that you can make anyone do anything, let alone like you. Can you control his mind? Do you have some sort of mental super human power over people?'

The old man paused, allowing his words to take weight with the boy. Up until the moment he saw the dark figure in the mirror, James had been unaware of the Shadow's existence. But to think that the dark being talked! He found this incredible. Furthermore, he struggled to come to terms with the way, as Grandpa explained it, that the Shadow operated. It seemed to take every opportunity to seed, tend and cultivate his troubled thoughts. And these ideas shaped his actions. Surely " _his_ Shadow' should be working with him, not against him. The sadness from earlier weighed on him a little heavier; he'd discovered he had another enemy. But despite the sadness, James seethed with anger. The thought that the Shadow had control of his emotions, that it had driven him to the point of desperation and despair, infuriated him. James strengthened his resolve to rid himself of the darkness, even if it meant killing the Shadow and his king. _I'll see it in hell before I let it keep the light from my eyes_ , he thought.

'So when Pete's friendship didn't come?'

'When he rejected me, I wanted to hurt him deeply. That's why I painted the maggots swarming in his mouth. I wanted them to eat away at his insides, in the same way he chews me up and spits me out.'

As he finished his sentence, James' foot caught on a rock, and he tripped. Absorbed in telling his story, he'd forgotten about the dangers of the path. He tried to grasp the edge of the escarpment as he fell, but he wasn't agile enough. He fell into the mist, disappearing into the abyss. The slope of the cliff moving outwards towards its base broke his fall. Head over heels, he toppled down the easing gradient of the slope. The rocky rubble on the ground tore at his clothes and flesh. Rapidly, the slope flattened. He came to rest lying face down. Almost instantly, he sensed danger nearby. He sprang to his feet, poised and alert. The muffled screaming of the creature he'd heard earlier was louder, coming from everywhere, but James appeared to be alone. He stepped forward. The ground cracked beneath his feet before the thin shell of its surfaced collapsed beneath him.

'Grandpa' James screamed as he dropped into a hole.

The short fall winded him. He landed in what appeared to be a dark warren. The ground shook from the noise of screaming creatures, which exploded from every direction. He gulped down some air and stood up. Swinging his body in a circle, he realised that he'd fallen into the creatures' nest. James covered his ears with his hands as protection from the intense noise. But no matter how hard he pressed it made little difference: the noise cut through and hurt his eardrums.

Erupting out of the walls were thousands of foul maggot-like creatures - large, slimy, smelly, vile things - screaming with hunger. Stuck in the mud-walls, the bodies of the maggots wriggled to get free. Every few seconds a maggot about the size of a tennis ball flopped out of the wall onto the ground. Once on the floor the maggots squirmed in James' direction. If their path became blocked they would climb over the top of each other in their desperation to reach him.

James' mind couldn't think with all that racket going on. The power of their pleading, bleating, hungry cries and the pain of his aching ears besieged his brain until it hurt. In the vicinity of his ankle a creature had attached itself to his leg – right through his jeans! One of the maggots was sucking on his calf through the material! It was drinking from his body, quenching its thirst. The creature's powerful suction drew out James' energy from every corner of his being. Without making any cut or tear in his clothing, it was simply drawing out his vitality, effortlessly. James sensed its insatiable desire to suck all the power and life-force out of his soul. He would die if he didn't escape.

' _Why don't you take the easy way out as usual? Go on, get out. You shouldn't be here. You don't belong here. Use the mask and get yourself out!_ ' The voice of James' shadow was unmistakable now that he knew what it was. He turned, expecting to see the dark figure. Even through the racket, the whispering voice cut through, compelling James to act. But his anger surfaced again to override the compulsion to take action on the Shadow's dictate; he shouldn't have to put up with this crap. He would silence it forever, given the chance.

'Show yourself!' James shouted, not thinking through what he'd actually do if the Shadow fulfilled his request. _How do you kill a shadow, free yourself of its hold, and silence its demands?_ James had not yet consciously acknowledged these questions but they lurked in his subconscious, waiting for answers. Blinded by his hatred, James, right at this moment was consumed with a desire to kill the Shadow.

' _Why put yourself through this?_ ' the voice mocked before turning more aggressive: ' _Get the hell out of here; use the dammed mask_!'

James' knees wobbled. He was exhausted; another maggot had attached itself and was sapping what energy he had left. James kicked his leg automatically. The creature held on, sucking with an equally unquenchable thirst. James struggled to get it off in vain.

' _What are you doing fool, get out. Use the mask_.'

'I saw you, thief. You stole the light from my eyes, Give it back or I'll...'

'– _You'll do what? Put the mask on now! Do as I say._ '

'My light doesn't belong to you!' James shouted. 'If you don't give it back I'll kill you!'

The maggots' screaming intensified. They became more desperate in their effort to break free from the walls. The argument between James and the Shadow was exciting them into a frenzy.

' _You've got to do it. Do it now before it's too late. I'm trying to help you, idiot_.' Drowned amid the clamouring creatures' screeches, the Shadow's request went unheard. Hundreds of maggots had by this time freed themselves from the wall and were squirming their way towards James. Obsessed with discovering the Shadow's whereabouts, James kept searching, ignoring the impending danger. The creatures reached him quicker than he had expected. Several maggots, climbing over each other, latched onto him. Ankle-deep in the vermin, the sheer strength of their suction dragged him down until he fell to his knees. James could feel the last of his life-force being extracted. He collapsed, and within moments the mass of maggots had buried him alive in their feeding frenzy. Then, like an annoying fly, the Shadow's voice could be heard again.

' _You must listen. Put on the mask! It's your only hope. Will you listen to me, you idiot!_ '

'No, I won't give up.' James managed a faint cry of defiance. He closed his eyes; he hadn't got long to go before he was done for. The mask, his only hope, stayed in his thoughts. He'd reached this point of desperation so soon. A small gap between the writhing bodies momentarily appeared. In those few seconds James caught a glimpse of his grandfather's guiding light peaking through the mass of bodies. The guide was waiting for him a few metres away. Despite the uproar surrounding him, Grandpa's words echoed in James' mind:

'This light will guide you, James; follow it wherever it goes.'

'Follow it – yes, follow the light!'

With a superhuman effort, spurred on by the sudden realisation that there was still hope, James slid forward on his belly. The maggots persisted: as he moved they clung to his arms, legs and back, almost everywhere except his face. But even with them pulling at him he was able to push through the swarm, to pull himself closer to the light. He became totally focused on his lifeline. Soon the little star was hovering gently in front of him, its glow comforting him. But the light made no effort to help James escape from his current predicament, to find him safety and sanctuary.

Exhausted by his efforts, James rested his cheek on the ground and closed his eyes. _What is the light waiting for?_ he thought. He was confused and angry: he'd been led to nothing; the journey had been a futile exercise. The maggots had succeeded. He opened his eyes, surprised to see the star at ground level, glowing inside the broken, discarded shell of a maggot pupa

' _Put the damned mask on!_ ' The Shadow's voice was relentless.

James succumbed. He reached out a trembling hand. The light was transformed. The brilliant mirrored face shone once again, illuminating the pupa's shell which now sat on top of the mask, like an ancient warrior's helmet. The cone shaped head piece fitted perfectly, while pieces of shell dangled down each side of the face, as though protecting the missing ears. The mask and helmet combined to create an amazing illusion - the complete head of a warrior, lying dismembered on the floor. Without further invitation, James grabbed the helmet and placed it on his head.

'Good lad, you've done well.' Grandpa's voice was crystal clear above the now dwindling, almost musical sound of the maggots. That which had previously appeared chaotic now looked tranquil and peaceful.

'It's quite enchanting.'

James didn't reply, somewhat because he was shocked at the sound of his Grandpa's voice, but more so because he was awestruck by the change in the maggot's sound. He instinctively knew that, like his search for the Shadow, it would be futile to try to find his Grandpa. He assumed the old man's voice was speaking to him through the helmet. James felt his energy begin to flow back. As he recovered and rejuvenated, the maggots lost their strength. They became weaker and weaker until they fell away, becoming impotent bags of flesh.

'Life sucking vermin,' Grandpa's voice stated. 'They'll devour you if you let them but, as you can see, if you can detach yourself from their whining, and protect yourself from their screams, and listen, really listen, you'll find their song. And, well, their bleating loses its hold. Some might say they even sound rather beautiful. Do you think so?'

'Yes, I suppose'

'Do you understand yet?'

'Understand what?'

'For goodness sake James, these are the King's creatures. Through the whispering of the Shadow, pushing you here and there, making you jump to his commands, he puts you in conflict with yourself; he drains the very spirit of life out of you into these parasites. Find tranquillity James. When you are in turmoil, try to get free of the mayhem and find peace. Only then will you be able see things for what they are. And let me tell you: the best thing is that there is always a hidden melody, concealed behind the bleating demands. Remember this James for the time will soon come when you will need to practise it.'

'I don't understand...' But silence met James. Grandpa's voice was gone; he was alone. The Shadow was also quiet. Despite his solitude, the guiding light with its comforting glow provided him with some reassurance.

Unexpectedly, the sound of the maggots stopped and a scream arose from inside an unhatched pupa. Unlike the cry and wailing of the maggots, it sounded like something vicious was fighting inside the shell. Violently, the skin of the pupa began to rip apart and slowly, a folded wing emerged. With a sudden bursting forth, a huge bee-like creature was born.

## Chapter Eight: Scorpion Bees.

With his energy restored, but looking rather dishevelled from his encounter with the maggots, James stood up cautiously. The insect was awesome. It stretched its magnificent wings to their full extent, happy to be free from its cramped home. The body of the creature was silky smooth, its wings similar to those of a bat, and it had the long tail of a scorpion, which writhed like a snake being tortured.

The creature was instantly recognisable to James, having created it in his now notorious painting of Pete and his cronies. Somehow it had come to life here in the shadow underworld. James remembered back to when he had created the portrait; how he'd designed several scorpion bees with venomous stingers, armed them with a black poison which he injected into the rotting faces of his three victims. He had designed these pests to hurt their victims, and to keep hurting them, without pause or mercy. Creating them had given him great pleasure, imagining the suffering they would inflict.

His momentary fixation on the bee gave way to an instinct to flee before the insect became aware of him. However, before his thoughts could be translated into action, the sound of other shells erupting behind him demanded his attention. Two more scorpion bees had hatched. The squirming maggots he'd previously waded through were all transforming, leaving him surrounded by a mass of pupae, ripening, ready to give birth. Thankfully, the hatched creatures had not detected him yet. But James knew they would if he didn't get away soon.

'Follow the light!' The command echoed in his head.

James picked out a way to the other side of the cave where the guiding light waited. Maggots and pupae blocked large areas of the tunnel; however, the route seemed reasonably clear except for a few troublesome areas. In these unavoidable spots unhatched pupae lay maturing. James moved through the tunnel as quietly as possible. Desperate to remain undetected he made his way over towards the waiting light, moving as fast as he dared. He stepped lightly over the top of the pupae where possible; alternatively, he'd carefully roll them aside with his foot. The short journey felt long even though, in reality, it took him only a few moments to cross the tunnel. When he was almost there he heard a pupa's shell crack at his feet. The pupa exploded as its occupant burst out of the shell. The creature's venomous tail flicked against James' leg. Panic stricken, he pulled it away, letting out an involuntary cry which he quickly stifled. He rubbed the area, relieved the stinger had not penetrated his flesh. The creature's head remained trapped inside the shell. James moved on and reached his destination without further incident.

The guiding light flew upwards a couple of metres and out of the hole James had fallen through. James scrambled up, grabbed the edge of the hole and then lifted himself through. With his legs flaying under him he kicked a hatching scorpion half out of its shell into a cluster of pupae. The noise of the angry insects resounded from below. Thinking of the scorpion bees bursting out beneath him, no doubt preparing to attack, James moved quickly up and away from the hole.

As soon as he had pulled free from the nest, the guiding light took off ahead of him at a phenomenal pace. The star zig—zagged across the surface of the warren. Somehow it found the invisible safe spots where the ground could support his weight. Despite the odd crack underfoot, James raced after his guide without hesitation. Occasionally he glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see insects in pursuit, but all was clear. They hurried out of the mist which for so long had restricted James' vision. He could see once more the rivers of light rays in the sky, flowing ahead of them towards the king's palace. In the distance, a forest with huge imposing trees and massive branches loomed ahead. They raced towards it. As they got closer, James could see the large deep shadows cast by the foliage. For the first time he began to doubt his guide. Anything could be lurking in the forest. And as he got nearer to the trees, with the thick undergrowth of the forest becoming visible, a strange feeling began to grow inside him. Unable to determine the reason for his uneasiness, James threw caution to the wind and charged into the undergrowth, following the light as it manoeuvred its way quickly through the forest. Running between the trees, James became disorientated and confused. He was now dependent on the light for direction; without its help he would never find his way out.

Thankfully, the guiding light eventually slowed down to a more sedate pace. A stitch was making itself felt in James' side. Attempting to reduce his heart rate after the marathon run, he drew deep breaths. He took the air in through his nose and expelled it out through his mouth with a sigh. He assumed that the light had decided they were out of danger for the time being. However, they continued through the forest at a fast walking pace. Relaxing a little as his heart rate settled, James began looking around at the surrounding vegetation. Mostly he saw what you would expect to see in a forest, except that it was devoid of colour. The trees and bushes appeared to be infected with a disease; the foliage was dying in sickening shades of black and grey. The umbrella of branches shut out the rivers of light rays in the sky heading for the palace. Darkness crowded in on him and his guiding light.

Once or twice, in the dark undergrowth, James thought he saw something glint in the bushes. But he was unable to stop because then he would lose sight of the guiding light. The further on he went, the more often he saw it. Each time, the uneasy feeling from earlier grew until he finally realised the reason for his discomfort: with complete certainty, he knew something or someone was stalking him.

For the rest of the long hike, James kept alert for further signs of the prowler as he trudged behind the light. The speed at which the light moved meant his efforts were half hearted. His fear of losing sight of his guide far outweighed the fear of his stalker. Moreover, its presence wasn't threatening; in fact, James sensed no impending danger whatsoever. He assumed that the prowler would have attacked by now if it was going to.

James followed the light through some dense bush. He burst through the thickets into a small opening. The guardian light stopped. It had brought him to a strange barren garden. He recognised it as a garden because of the beautifully prepared plant beds. James bent down and plunged his hand into the fertile soil. Letting the moist compost run through his fingers, he began wondering what sort of plants grew here and who had prepared the beds for sowing. The garden struck James as peculiar because absolutely nothing was growing in it. Absent of all signs of life: birds, insects, bushes, flowers or plants of any kind, the place was silent. Even the rustling of leaves from the trees, which provided a canopy over the garden, was nonexistent. James saw an old wooden bench made from twisted tree roots. A stone cobbled path writhed like a snake between the plant beds to a circular stone platform where the bench sat, right in the middle of the garden. James walked over to the bench and sat down. With no idea what to expect, he waited. His heavy breathing returned to normal. In contrast to the deadly stillness, he moved his body, adjusting to the contours of the bench. In tune with the absence of thoughts in James' mind, the sound of silence stretched on forever, waiting in anticipation.

_Where is it?_ Sensing the eyes of the prowler on him, he scanned the terrain surrounding the garden. He saw no signs of an intruder. The bushes behind him rustled and James spun around. Thinking he'd caught a glimpse of a dark figure scurrying away into the undergrowth, he raced to the edge of the trees. The darkness of the woods seemed much more intimidating and dangerous than before. _Was something hiding in there?_ He wasn't sure. He stood, waiting for any sign of movement, but all was still. Deciding he'd been mistaken, he returned to the bench and the garden with its veil of silence. As James approached the seat he could see the guiding light resting motionless on one of the bench arms. But it was not resting directly on the bench, he soon realised; it was perched on something so striking that he wondered why he hadn't noticed it before.

_What is that?_ Reading his mind, the light flittered out of the way. Underneath, James saw a silky smooth object, about the size of a golf ball and shaped like a seed. He was intrigued; all thoughts of the intruder vanished. He sat down and picked up the object to inspect it. _Maybe I'm supposed to plant this_ , he thought. _But, perhaps it isn't a seed at all_. The object danced with colours which drifted across its surface like clouds in the sky. James couldn't resist jiggling it between his fingers. He rolled it over and over in his palm, and for a brief moment his mind became as empty as the beautiful flowerbeds in the garden; as open as an abyss.

Then James remembered Grandpa warning him about the dark and dangerous things occupying this land. He became conscious of his surroundings again. And yet nothing in this garden threatened him. He absentmindedly jiggled the object through his fingers as his mind wandered...

_How can they treat me like, I'm a worthless...maggot? It just isn't right: it's not fair_. James once again explored his feelings about the persecution being inflicted upon him. _I have rights. I have rights. Can anyone hear me? I have rights! But why do I constantly jump to their tune, to my shadow's tune. Thanks Grandpa. At least I know it's my shadow now. I hate how his whispers push and shove me. I hate that he rides me with his demands to do this, act like that; it drives me mad. But thinking about it is useless; no matter how much I think it should be different, it isn't. And that relentless bleating of its voice and its demands to fix things is draining me. But I shouldn't have to fix anything. Am I not entitled to a little respect, to be treated fairly? he reasoned. Where's the justice; we are all entitled to justice, to be given basic respect — aren't we_?

'Who's going to respect a weak fool like you?' Jake the Rake's hissing voice rang out in the helmet. James knew Jake wasn't there. How could he be? And then he heard his own voice answering back.

'You'd better not talk to me like that.'

'Or what, Mr. Pathetic.'

'I'll drop you in it with Mr. Preacher.' James cringed in embarrassment at the sound of his voice running for the rescue of Mr. Preacher. _Why on earth would he think that that fool of a teacher could help? But then again, isn't that what teachers are meant to do?_

'See if I care, wimp. Everyone will know you're a yellow-bellied snitch, a spineless jellyfish.'

James couldn't quite come to terms with the sound of his voice arguing with Jake. He wondered if he'd lost his marbles. He wanted to join in as the exchange developed. That stupid saying, 'Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me,' came to mind. Jakes name calling hurt like hell; he'd developed a great skill with words. James' eyes reddened in outrage as he listened to more spite pour forth from Jake's mouth. _Where the hell does he get the right to talk to me as if I'm a piece of dirt?_ He thought. At that moment, he wanted to rip Jake's vile tongue from his filthy mouth.

'You are the vermin,' James' voice spoke out in his defence. 'You're like a snake, or a filthy little rat.'

'Oooh, who's the one calling names now? Coming down to my level are we? Perhaps I'll be the one telling on you. Then everyone will know what a nasty piece of work you really are.'

The thought of Jake calling him on their similarities stung him. James wanted revenge. He wanted Jake to cry out in pain, for everyone to witness his pathetic plea for mercy. Wishing he could conjure up his scorpion bees, he imagined them on their way to attack his enemy; they would strike Jake at any moment. He imagined their hum growing into an excited buzz. Then suddenly it occurred to James that he really could hear the bees; the sound was not a figment of his imagination but was real, and to make matters worse, not far away.

The hum of the bees yanked his attention back to the garden, which had transformed. Black weeds were now spilling out from the flowerbeds, covering everything. They were growing as thick and dense as thickets. Their vines had wrapped themselves around the bench to bind him to its frame. In the air, a sickly smell touched his nostrils. It emanated from a solitary red flower sitting upon his shoulder. It was a beacon for the bees. .

Desperately, James wriggled to get free. But no matter how much he squirmed, the vines held him tightly in their clutches. To make matters worse, his frantic movements were causing thick pollen to fly into the air from the flower. The nectar descended like snow, covering him in a fine layer of dust.

'Arrhhh' James screamed in frustration.

The scorpion bees were close now. A tidal wave of panic surged inside him at the thought of what might happen next. His heart sank. He could hear that the bees were just moments away.

Filling the garden with noise, the scorpion bees burst through the trees in one huge rush. The once peaceful refuge was now chaotic and frightening. In an effort to remain undetected, James stopped struggling to break free from the vines and instead tried to keep perfectly still. But his efforts were in vain. Attracted by the scent, the swarm gravitated to him as though he were a magnet. They descended on him in a fury. James' only option was to prevent them from settling on him, so he jerked his body violently whenever one landed. This tactic had some success even though his movements were restricted. But then the pain hit. Having managed to land on his arm, one of the scorpion bees was drilling its stinger deep into his flesh. Deeper and deeper the stinger plunged. James watched helplessly as the creature injected its black poison into his vein. He could see the venom travelling up inside his arm, turning the muscle black. Overcome with fear, James tried again to break free from his bindings, but his efforts were futile.

' _Don't think you can come into my world and get away with it, fool_ ,' the voice of James' shadow was accusing. ' _Pay the price, feel the pain_.'

'I'm sorry,' James blurted out, inexplicability. The poison stung as it made its slow progress up his arm. 'Why this? It isn't fair', he cried.

' _Shut up, blubbering is only going to make it worse_.'

Then a second jab hit him in the left thigh. The voice of the Shadow screaming, combined with the searing pain in his leg, was overwhelming. ' _You idiot; you pathetic lump of nothing, don't you know they can sense you, read your thoughts? You feeble clown, just how stupid can you be?_ '

James believed the Shadow. _Who else but someone as stupid, weak, and insipid as me would get caught like this_? He thought. _Where is my damn guiding light anyway_? He couldn't see his guide anywhere.

'Bloody thing,' he shouted.

Severe pain hit him again as another scorpion bee injected its poison into the back of his neck. The black venom burned its way down his spine leaving him almost paralysed. His arm had already turned black, the venom having progressed up to his neck. Under his shirt, James felt the sickness spreading into his chest. His veins pulsated, ready to burst. His spine felt like it was on fire and he could only sit helplessly as the poison closed in on his heart. James knew that if it reached there all hope of rescue would be extinguished. The blackness would have him, forever.

_Pain, not more pain_. James grasped the seed so tightly that the object cut into his hand. The sharpness nagged its way into his mind, breaking through his focus on the burning sensation in his back. Concentrating hard, James opened his hand; he had to mentally prize each finger open, one at a time. The seed lay in his palm, pitch black like the poison surrounding his heart. He prayed for help. To his surprise, it arrived in the shape of a series of thoughts.

Why is this thing black? Isn't it a gift, like the helmet? It feels more like a burden. This isn't right. How can it be black when it was so colourful before, just as bright as I was feeling.

Now it's heavy and dark, and I'm trapped here... What am I supposed to do?

James glimpsed something stir inside the object. _What's that? I saw it sparkle. Holy shit, it's my guiding light!_ Once more James remembered Grandpa's instructions to 'follow the light, wherever it goes.' _But how the hell can I go in there?_ ' Suddenly, as though a light bulb had been turned on, he saw the answer. _Use my mind: my thoughts can change it._

The guiding light grew bigger with each word and soon it had resumed its original size. James was encouraged by this outcome and wondered if, perhaps, his negative thoughts had caused the object to turn black. If so, he reasoned, positive thoughts might well change it back.

Concentrating his thoughts on the things he loved most, like painting, James attempted to change his attitude. The seed responded, the darkness giving way to speckles of white and other colours. He thought of the other great things about himself too: he acknowledged his resilience through all the difficulties at school; his courage in facing the terrible things inflicted upon him; and his willingness to make things better. _Actually, I've always tried my best_ , he concluded. _In fact, I've always done my best._

The seed continued to change before his eyes until the blackness was all but gone. The black venom too, was dissipating from his veins. One or two tears ran down his face. Acknowledging these things made him feel uncomfortable, but better and stronger at the same time. As he experienced the power of his thoughts, James saw with clarity that he couldn't change past events. He couldn't control what happened. However, he could change how he related to his experiences and, more importantly, how he felt about himself.

The guiding light shone brightly before bursting free from the seed with a flash of light. His eyes took a second to recover from the sudden glare. When they did, James saw a very different garden. The weeds now lay withered. Huge sunflowers had sprouted up to replace them. James looked with wonder across the amazing sea of yellow. Happily at their work, the scorpion bees hopped from flower to flower collecting nectar. James loved the taste of honey. He could see the hive amid the branches of a nearby tree. _How had he missed it?_ A cheeky idea jumped into his head, causing a smile to spread across his face.

Taste the honey. Go on, you deserve it.

With the pain gone from his back he was easily able to break the weakened weeds that minutes ago had clamped him with a vice like grip to the bench. James walked over to the hive and manoeuvred his hand into the cavity, pulling out a handful of deep rich honey. The taste made his body tingle with pleasure. Could anything taste better, he wondered? But the honey gave him more than pleasure; inside, he experienced a comforting warmth. This comfort empowered him, giving him a sense of his real strength, a feeling that he could master the worst this land had to offer.

But more than this, he began considering the events in the garden and how this wonderful honey had come to exist. As the seed changed so did the garden, but he'd changed the seed with his mind. _This seed flourishes on thoughts_ , James deduced. He considered his experiences further and decided that the object was indeed a seed, perhaps the seed that gives birth to ideas. With the sweet taste of honey lingering on his lips, he thought about how the weeds had taken root in the garden and then held him down, making him vulnerable to attack; how the plants had grown without him realising, because he had been deep in thought; how the vines had bound him to the bench while he wrestled with Jake's sniping voice. They had, he now comprehended, taken control during his blackest thoughts, while he was considering how to hurt Jake. Furthermore, he had somehow called the Scorpion Bees. At last, James understood the significance of the seed. _My thoughts are seeds, which germinate and come into flower if I tend and, nourish them. But I control my thinking. I create my own thoughts: I can call the bees or taste the honey_.

The guiding light, understanding James' reasoning, headed off in a new direction. James followed it out of the garden and back into the forest.

***

The dark figure waited for them to leave before walking to the bench. James' beautiful garden hummed with the activity of the scorpion bees making honey. Faster than lightning, the dark figure plucked a bee from a nearby sunflower. Squeezing the creature between his fingers, the figure delighted in its pain. The creature squirmed as the pressure built. The scorpion bee's gut popped slightly, spilling out some of its intestines. The dark figure laughed, shelled the creature like a prawn, and dropped it into its mouth still alive. With a wicked smile, his eyes flashed. The dark figure clapped his hands. Instantly, everything began to die: bees, flowers, they all withered back until the garden was once again empty and barren, exactly as James had discovered it. The dark figure sprinted away into the darkness.

## Chapter Nine: Running the Gauntlet of Hate.

The pecking order at James' school is quite unsophisticated in its structure. The super cool 'in' kids are on top of the heap and treated like gods. In James' year Pete is the recognised King of this group, with his appointed generals being Gus and Jake. Next in the command chain are their lieutenants who are seven in number and ranked among these so-called 'in' kids. This group of sidekicks jostle among themselves for next-in-line status to the generals. Their behaviour is predictable as they act like replicas of their leaders. For example, when Pete bought new runners they all followed suit, buying the same brand. When Gus began wearing his shirt out, all the lieutenants followed.

The lieutenants' role is simply to execute the commands of their superiors (Pete, Gus and Jake) upon request. Being careful not to overstep their position the lieutenants occasionally promote their own plans and schemes to their bosses. Invariably, these ideas focus upon exploiting or demeaning the lower ranks, through which they hope to gain credit and elevate themselves above their peers. It's a risky business because if a plan is approved and successful implemented, the reward is a step closer to the top; but if it is rejected or fails they are relegated to the end of the line. Pete, Gus and Jake play their lieutenants constantly, promoting or demoting them at will. But the lieutenants are powerful enough in their own right, since they are able to muster the might of 'the pack'.

The pack is split into two groups–the wannabes and the geeks. All the remaining kids outside of the pack and the leaders are labelled Weirdos. James is relegated to this group. The wannabes are perhaps the most spiteful of the lot. Desperate to make the big time, they are almost painful to watch in their feverish endeavours to move a rung up the hierarchy. In the absence of being smart, or more probably because smart is just not cool, they reject learning and hide any hint of academic aptitude. In fact, they convey quite the opposite impression when, in attempting to be humorous, they answer the teachers' questions with witless, dumb, insolent remarks. These wannabes will do almost anything to be acknowledged by the leaders - crazy stupid insane things - such as...when James witnessed one of this gang rolling on the ground in thick mud like a hog.

This episode happened on the day the longest drought that anyone in the area could remember, broke. Lightning and thunder filled the sky. At the end of school everyone just stood looking up at the sky while the rain washed their faces. James enjoyed the sensation and the relief from the heat. That was when a boy call Ben came running across the grass. He threw his bag under a tree. Pete was waiting with Jake for Gus on the path when Ben raced across the field in front of them and launched into a belly slide in the mud. A crowd formed quickly with Pete Gus and Jake at the centre, laughing and jeering the boy on as he rolled and slid in the mud. They egged him on and on, and Ben obliged until he was covered in mud. People talked and laughed about his antics the next day which gave Ben some status. But it was short lived, for within the week he was just another wannabe lost in the pack again.

Unfortunately for James, the wannabes seem to take it in turns to pick on the weirdoes. For the most part all they do is little annoying stuff like stealing bags, writing names on blackboards, and other frustrating but harmless acts. However, sometimes they progress to more affronting behaviours such as hitting the weirdoes with bogies: flicking or wiping the contents of their noses onto one of their victims. At other times they 'play' games that are violent and vicious, such as knuckle-rapping the weirdos with rulers. James is a constant target for the wannabes and a victim of all of this sort of conduct.

Next in the pack's pecking order are the geeks or smart kids who are, in reality, no more than one rung away from being labelled a weirdo. But it is because they are smart that they will never be condemned to the weirdoes' loony basket. Geeks they may be but weirdoes, never. Deep down, all the others (the pack, lieutenants and generals) know the geeks have something potent that they lack, or worse, pretend they lack – their intelligence. This means geeks have latent power even though they don't know it. They have the potential to show up the rest of the pack, embarrass them by highlighting their stupidity. This is why, for the most part, if the geeks keep their heads low they are pretty much left alone.

The final group is quite exclusive — the weirdoes. In some ways they are not really a group because, unlike all the other factions, they don't hang around together. They can usually be seen moping around on their own, looking morose and licking their wounded pride while keeping a furtive eye out for the next potential threat. Burley Blake and James are the only so-called Weirdoes in their particular year. However, there are half a dozen or so at the school. But being in his first year of senior school means that everyone knows James is the scum of the school. Along with Burley he is the lowest of the low.

***

James had been exploring these thoughts — his understandings - about the pack since leaving the scorpion bees behind in the garden. In particular, he'd been thinking about how the pack had turned on him the instant Pete had reacted aggressively to the notorious portrait. Feeding off their leader's hatred, the pack had mustered together as one force to confront him on the playing field. Anticipating that blood would be spilled, even the geeks were bold enough to join in. The events of the day had then snowballed out of James' control.

Thinking about these past events, although regretful, did not result in James becoming angry. On the contrary, he kept his mood in check by frequently referring to the seed as an indicator of his frame of mind. So far the seed had maintained its original state: it was still dancing with a multitude of colours, without a hint of black. James' whole intent in exploring his situation was to understand how the social system worked. With the cause of his problems clearly identified he would be able to confront the issues and find resolution.

The trouble was that everybody was trying to improve his or her position, to climb another rung in order to be closer to the top, James decided. Even Pete was caught up in the fever of the game, but in his case he aspired to be like the boys in the higher years. If he were to get out of line they would undoubtedly slap him down too. James contemplated how the lucky few at the top desperately attempted to preserve their position by keeping those beneath them down. Those in the pack, for the most part, strived to raise their standing, believing success would bring power, contentment, prestige and ultimately happiness. One more rung and life would become easier. James knew too well the hidden price of such endeavours. A price they all appeared either not to acknowledge or to ignore, as James had done. The price was that of self-respect.

It was apparent to James that a pattern was at play. The importance of how others viewed you became elevated above how you regarded yourself and if that meant demeaning someone else to improve your outlook, then so be it. The whole school played along, shamefully selling out their dignity while striving to move one-step closer to the top. What else could James do but join in? That was the game and no matter how often he failed at it, he felt compelled to at least attempt to play. For how else could he climb out of his cesspit of a life? But the shame of his spineless actions, the burden of his failures, and the embarrassment of his humiliations lived with him for days after. He wondered if it was the same for everyone.

All through this reasoning the seed remained normal, reflecting James' undisturbed mood. However, his environment had changed. He'd followed the guiding light through the forest and they had now emerged from the woodlands into some open fields covered in a dark mist, ankle deep. The foot of the mountain could be seen in the distance; at last his destination was in sight, although the journey across to the base appeared lengthy and James knew that there would be an arduous climb at the end of it which he would have to conquer. But out in the open for now James' spirits lifted. He no longer needed the guiding light to navigate his way, so he was able to continue exploring his thoughts on 'the pack'. The dark loathsome fog at his ankles grew and thickened until he was wading through it knee deep. It was tough going, and even after trudging through the fog for hours the mountain didn't seem any closer. But the seed remained clear and his mind, still protected by the helmet, continued reasoning with great clarity. James wasn't particularly worried about his situation and allowed his thoughts to flow, hoping for comprehension.

Someone walking towards him through the fog interrupted his reverie. James squinted at the outlined figure of a man, an old man perhaps? No, he was too well built. The shape provoked a memory. He studied the figure's movement; that strut was familiar. The fog swirled around the figure's legs. James saw that it was dressed in armour like an ancient warlord, a sort of samurai warrior. The figure held his face down, shielding it from James' view.

'Who are you? What do you want?' James asked as the warrior stopped before him, almost within reach.

'Seize him!'

Out of the fog sprang a small army of warriors; they had secretly crept beneath the blanket of fog to surround him. Several ropes made of the smoky fog lassoed James' arms securely to his body. Two more warriors stepped forward alongside their leader. James' face fell, his mind thrown off balance, his heart lurching wildly as he tried to comprehend the implications of the three rotting, flesh-eaten faces of the warriors standing before him.

The contemptuous, spiteful and hate-filled faces of Pete, Jake and Gus confronted him, their images every bit as ugly and decayed as he had painted them. Even so, he couldn't help but admire their magnificent battle-scarred armour. Behind them their seven lieutenants, all familiar faces, huddled. Their armour was less splendid and quite varied in quality and state of repair. Surrounding James more than ten deep was the rest of the pack, all clothed in simple chain mail vests, baying for his blood. Sick with anticipation, James felt the familiar chill of fear swirling like the fog.

Pete shouted a command. With a thud something hit James at the back of his knees. He collapsed, kneeling before Pete like a prisoner of war.

'Bow your head!' Gus's hand slapped him across the back of his head. The helmet fell, smashing on the ground and breaking into a thousand pieces.

'No, not that!'

'Be quiet, scum.' Jake kicked him in the back and James toppled over. Restrained by his lassoed arms he was unable to break his fall and fell heavily onto his side. His hand was crushed beneath his hip causing the seed to spill from his grasp. Jake pulled him up with the rope, bent down and picked up the brilliant seed from the ground.

'What's this? Are you a girl? Like jewellery do you? It's crap mate, really.'

James recognised the words used on the playing field to demean his paintings before they were destroyed. With all his might Jake threw the seed away, deep into the fog.

'No!' James shouted.

Jake slapped him across his head. 'Be quiet', he commanded. The pack cheered in approval, even the geeks. 'Pray for your pathetic life,' Jake hissed. Snorting, he spat a huge black mass of snot into James' face. The phlegm slithered down his neck, leaving behind a burning trail of acid eating at his flesh. Restrained by the ropes James was unable to react. He wanted to retaliate, to hit him and hurt him. Instead he did what he always did. He took the contemptuous spite thrown at him without protest, trying to shrug it off as if it didn't matter. But it did.

Pete stepped to the front. 'I'll tell you what, Maggot, all you have to do is follow me. If you can show me you are worthy, I'll let you join us.'

A smile slithered across Jake's face.

'On your belly,' shouted Gus. He encouraged James to the floor with a sharp kick. This time the ropes evaporated as he fell, allowing him to brace against the impact in time. Submerged under the fog James didn't see the trap being laid until it was too late. The warriors organised themselves into two lines facing each other. When they were ready, the fog lifted between their ranks to reveal to James the channel of warriors. In the distance, James saw a simple piece of armour lying on the ground. On his hands and knees he attempted to back out, but Gus' huge legs blocked his retreat.

Pete entered the gauntlet and stepped in front of him. James was still on all fours, like an animal, and his nose was nearly touching the back of Pete's thighs. The pack waited. James waited. The fog settled, almost motionless. James put himself on alert to sprint on his hands and knees. He waited for the starting gun, whatever it might be; he'd be ready. One of the warriors in the gauntlet shuffled his feet. James sensed their growing impatience. Reacting to a loud thunderclap reverberating out of Pete's behind, James lurched forward, thrusting his nose into Pete's arse. The pack exploded with laughter. The stench swirled like the fog around James' nose.

'Oops, too many beans I'm afraid, Gus,' said Pete jovially. With tears of mirth rolling down their faces the leaders struggled to keep their composure.

'Begin crawling.' Pete only just managed to force out the order between fits of laughter. 'That (he pointed to the armour lying on the ground) is yours if you can reach it. Follow me.'

Still giggling, Pete meandered ahead as James crawled behind him on hands and knees. He kept a safe distance from Pete's backside but the original smell was still with him. He expected the warriors to kick as he progressed through the gauntlet, but they didn't. Instead, they spat at him. The spit rained down from both sides. James made painstaking progressed behind Pete. The phlegm first burnt the exposed areas of his skin and then, once his clothes had become saturated, the skin underneath became hot too. But the thought of owning the armour, of belonging, kept him going. These desires overrode all reasoning, overrode the humiliation of being farted on by Pete and overrode the burning pain from the spit. The rocks on the ground hurt his hand and knees but he stubbornly refused to stop. Eventually James reached the prize. With great pride he rose to his feet and without delay pulled what appeared to be a rather magnificent chest plate over his head.

'Hey, Pete!' James felt bigger than ever.

'Not so fast,' Pete smiled. 'You've only just started. There's more to get.' Up ahead between the ranks laid another piece of armour. The gauntlet reformed with the lines of warriors ready to resume their onslaught.

'I'll let you walk this time,' Pete said. 'You've earned it.' Once on his feet James saw that they were now in a hole in the fog which was enclosing them, blocking his view so that he had no idea where he was. But it didn't matter because he had his first piece of armour; he was on his way to joining their ranks.

_See, he's letting me walk; I'm winning them over_ , James thought. He resumed his journey through the gauntlet of hate, his flesh rotting away as the acid did its work. The chest plate, although magnificent, provided little protection as the pack targeted his vulnerable spots: face, neck, arms and hands. Skilful in their aiming, the warriors even managed to direct spit so that it slithered under the chest plate. Pete moved at a tedious pace, allowing plenty of time for everyone in the pack to have a go at him.

At last James reached his destination. A plain metal-plated glove waited for him. Pete picked the glove up and threw it at him nonchalantly. James slid the glove over his hand, his face wincing as the metal tore at the acid-eaten flesh on his fingers. He held his hand aloft. Flexing his fingers, he admired the gauntlet.

' _I'll smash his face in with this_.' The image of the Shadow filled his mind's eye.

'Like it?' asked Peter.

'You bet'.

'The other one's up there.' Pete smiled. 'Are you sure you want it?'

'Of course I do.' If one glove gave him this sense of power, what would two do?

Again the walk took forever, but James focused on the waiting trophy. This time he barely noticed the spit, let alone the time. When he took possession of the second gauntlet he felt like he'd made it, believing he looked every bit as strong as some of the others in the pack.

'So that's it, then. ' James stated while enjoying the feeling of power and admiring his hands dressed in the gloves. 'I'm part of the gang now, hey?'

'No, no, my boy.' Pete sounded a bit like Grandpa for a moment. 'You've got to prove yourself worthy yet, by wining one of these.' He pointed at a fantastic glass medal on his chest, adorned with the crest of two dragons, one white, one black.

'The only thing is you'll have to take it from me,' he paused and then laughed, 'or one of them.' Each of the pack wore a similar medal although the material and quality varied substantially. 'Bring me a medal. That's the final hurdle.'

The challenge didn't shock him. Having run the gauntlet this far, he recognized what he'd sort of known since first seeing the warriors: if he wanted to belong in their tribe he'd have to fight his way in, win his credentials by force. He'd have to take someone's place by relegating them to his. James committed himself to the task and started walking the gauntlet looking for Burley. Burley was his best hope, the easy target, but deep down James knew he wouldn't be there; Burley was a weirdo too. Spit met him whenever he peered into someone's face. None of the other options looked soft.

James attempted a quick grab from one of the weaker geeks. What he wasn't expecting though was the protection the boy received from his clique. They rallied instantly to support their mate, attempting to block James, pushing him and aggressively spitting in his face. Undaunted, James fought hard and succeeded in grabbing the medal from the boy's chest. He wrestled furiously to retain possession as the geek's mates tried to get it back. Determined not to surrender, James held on. Having got this far, he wasn't about to give up. He pulled away sharply and to his great delight managed to break free. Desperate to claim his place James raced to Pete with the Prize.

'Look, I've got it, I've done it.'

Pete smiled but the smile did not reach his eyes. James' heart lifted. He'd succeeded; he'd won through. Against all the odds he'd conquered the gauntlet, taken everything thrown at him, submitted to their humiliation and still won. He held the medal aloft. The decoration was no more glamorous than a dented piece of tin; nevertheless, he held the painted crest of two dragons, one white, one black. It was the symbol they all wore.

From behind him a massive hand lent across and grasped his wrist. Gus's grip held his hand like a vice. Powerless to pull it away James clenched the tin object into his fist. With his other hand Gus ripped the medal from James' fingers then let go of him. James held his hurt arm close to his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Gus' massive frame turn and toss the medal back to the geek.

'No, you can't do that. It's not fair.'

'Once you've got it James, you've got to keep it, fool.' Pete stated.

Distraught, James paced in a circle. It wasn't right; he'd won it fair and square. That medal belonged to him. All he needed was the medal and then everything would be different, better. However, the prospect of attaining his goal now appeared further away than ever. It was ludicrous to think they would ever let him be a part of their tribe, he lamented, because even if he did manage to fight his way in, it was clear that he'd never be secure. James looked at one of his flesh-eaten arms. The phlegm was doing its work, slowly turning him into a rotting flesh-eaten zombie like 'them', just as he'd painted their faces in hatred. Then, for the first time since emerging from the forest, he remembered the guiding light. He had been so confident of his path that he'd forgotten his guide. He looked for a hint of its glow but too many bodies blocked his view. His heart filled with a deep longing to be near its warming radiance, to break free from being spat on, to get out of this dammed gauntlet that trapped him.

'Come on, have another go,' Pete whispered in his ear. 'You almost did it.' The helmet and seed were gone, destroyed and lost, but the light would be somewhere nearby, witnessing the hatred being spat on him in the gauntlet. James was sure the guide wouldn't abandon him.

'Don't be pathetic and give in like a girl. You'll do it next time, keep going.'

'No, I'm not going to,' James replied.

'You waste of space,' Jake spat out the words, 'Ungrateful scum, look what Pete is offering you.'

'Hit him Jake.'

Jake snorted up the foulest black snot he could muster. James ducked, refusing to accept the degradation. The phlegm flew harmlessly past. As Jake started to snort up another, Pete raised his hand, intervening.

'Listen Maggot, if you get it again I promise Gus won't interfere. I'll let you in,' Pete said. 'I promise, okay?'

For a split second James believed him. He was almost seduced into walking the gauntlet again, ready to find the weakest geek and have a go. However, his attitude had changed. He'd received enough spitefulness for a lifetime from these thugs so he stood firm, without acknowledging or crediting Pete with a response.

'Take his armour!' Pete commanded 'Didn't think you'd get to keep it, did you?' he smiled. 'And just so we are absolutely clear, we'll be with you every step of the way.'

The pack attacked. They ripped his hard won armour from him unceremoniously.

'You're a Frigging disgrace.'

Feeling vulnerable, James started to push his way through the pack. He had no idea where he was heading but, motivated by the need to break free, he figured any direction would do. However, every time he managed to make some progress the pack would surround him again, forcing him to confront them. Jake and Gus led from the front as they made numerous attempts to push him down, intent on getting him to crawl like a slug. James refused to submit anymore, refused to cave in, and kept going.

The pack spat out their attacks thick and fast. James' only choice was to try to ignore the burning acid of their contempt. He kept pushing on, feeling somewhat better because he was now facing their hatred on his terms. He noted the predictability of the warriors' attacks. The signs indicating an impending assault started with a long nasal snort. This allowed the warrior to muster the foulest contents available into their mouths. Next, the neck recoiled backwards before catapulting forward to shoot the foul projectile at the intended target. This predictable loading and firing meant James was able to start taking evasive action. He avoided some but not all of the attacks. The few that got through he simply ignored; the burning sensation caused by the spit now seemed a little less painful. James assumed he had become conditioned to the sensation. But his situation was also improved by the fact that his assailants' ammunition had began to dry up, rendering them unable to maintain the ferocity of their assault. James kept pushing forward; as he did, he became aware that there were times when he could have easily have stolen a medal. Pete knew it too.

'Go on, do it, you can take it now.' Pete kept reiterating his promise. But James knew that if he allowed himself to be seduced he would forever have to defend his position. And then they'd ask him to perform, to acquire a better medal. There would be no end; he'd have to keep jumping to their tune. He made up his mind to refuse to play the game anymore.

The impotent warriors could no longer muster their projectiles. James could see that they were exhausted. The fog receded slowly and along with its retreat the warriors withdrew one by one. Finally, James faced Pete alone. A small blanket of fog swirled at his adversary's ankles. Pete stared him in the eye. James thought he saw a fleeting hint of respect flicker across his face; however, it was gone in a flash. Pete's face resumed the normal expression of abhorrence reserved specially for him. He gave James the finger. Without a word, he turned and followed his retreating army into the distance. James watched until they were gone. Confident of victory assured he turned, ready to continue his journey, hopeful of finding the guiding light waiting for him. With the fog gone the reality of his progress became clear; he was struck by the wonderful realisation that his journey was nearly over. A short distance ahead James saw the sheer face of the mountain. He struggled to believe he'd navigated his way to his destination. He couldn't see the top but he knew that high above, the king's temple awaited his arrival. The mountain's massive size was daunting, but the astonishing fact that he'd somehow made it here without the light gave James the confidence he needed. He scanned the area looking for the guide's glow or, failing that, a way up to the top. Ascent appeared impossible, however. The rocky face was almost vertical and there were no obvious handholds or route to the top. _There has to be a way though_ , James thought. _Someone built that thing up there_.

While he was considering his options, the best of which was probably to circumnavigate the mountain until he discovered a viable climb, James began to feel uneasy. Once again he could sense the eyes of a spy watching his movements. He didn't understand how though because there was nowhere for the intruder to hide, just the rocky mountain and the open landscape into which the warriors had retreated. James dismissed the feeling, believing it to be a figment of his imagination. Having put the idea to the back of his mind he returned to the problem at hand: how to scale the impossible mountain?

Before leaving to explore his options around the mountain James allowed his eyes to flicker one last time across the surface of the rock. A glint embedded in the rock caught his attention at the last moment. With great delight he recognised the sparkle of the guiding light, perched in a hole in the rock face. He walked closer. The hole was just above his waist. He bent down, noticing that around the hole someone had carved a magnificent eye into the rock. Wondering why he hadn't seen it sooner he shuffled closer, now within reach. The light receded into the hole, vanishing into the midst of the mountain's face. James leaned forward peering into the hole through the pupil of the eye. For a split second he thought he saw a dark eye looking back at him. He blinked and it was gone. James surveyed the eye, placing his hand over the eyeball. It felt loose in his grasp; he turned it clockwise. The ground shuddered and dust fell from the face of the wall. Slowly a door swung open. James didn't hesitate: he walked through the opening, to be greeted by the guiding light waiting for him on the other side.

## Chapter Ten: Underneath the Skin

Hidden against one of the black panels the dark figure crouched down low. He waited with anticipation for the boy to entire the trap he'd prepared. He'd do his job, no more or less. Having been vigilant in his endeavours to remain concealed, he'd witnessed every step to date of the boy's remarkable progress. Perhaps he'd become complacent, or maybe the boy's intuitive sense had developed, because he'd almost been caught out. He wasn't ready to be discovered yet; that wasn't the plan.

The dark figure waved his hand across his chest. The door responded to the command and slammed shut behind James who jumped at the noise. The dark figure was so amused by this reaction that he had to smother an inclination to laugh. _What did he think was going to happen? Did he think this place was an amusement park? Now what? Come on, get that brainless look of your face dunce, work it out — you're in a cell_ , the dark figure thought. Large plates, which fitted together in a giant jigsaw construction, created the mosaic-styled walls of the prison. The tiles on the left side of the cell were all shiny white, while the right ones were a deep matt black. The dark figure hid against the backdrop of the black panel. He'd camouflaged his escape route to perfection, almost undetectable to the eye, but not quite. _What's the fool doing now?_ James ran his hands over the door. _Jesus, he's looking for a doorknob. Dickhead, does he think he can go back?_ The dark figure watched James scratch at the doorframe trying to prise it open, his efforts wasted. The door fitted perfectly into the stonewall frame. He'd made it foolproof, escape proof. _Once something is done it can't be undone. Didn't the boy understand that yet? Every step in the shadow world once taken is irreversible. The moment someone passes through the guardian snakes' entrance he cannot go back. The boy had been given his options_.

James picked up a stick. He pushed it into the doorframe in a vain attempt to force it open. The door didn't budge. Searching the area he found a large rock and threw it at the door. The dark figure couldn't contain a snigger. The boy reacted; his piercing blue, lifeless eyes looked straight at him. _Had James seen him? Yes? No? Wait — keep still and see what he does._ The boy relaxed. The dark figure followed suit a moment or two later. _That was a narrow escape. He needed to be more careful_.

***

Up until this point James' quick progress had surprised the dark figure, he'd expected James to take much longer to get this far. The grit and determination the boy had shown in confronting the dangers of the shadow underworld impressed him. After the boy's ordeal with the scorpion bees, the dark figure had doubted that James would still have the guts to face Pete head on and break away from the trap that the pack of spiteful warriors had him caught in. The light had helped him work out how to find quiet amid the clamouring maggots by shutting out their bleating with the helmet. It had also shown him the link between his thoughts and the colour of the seed, ultimately helping him to connect with the idea of the power of his thoughts and their potential to attract. Each revelation had made the boy more resilient, enabling him to find the strength to face the next challenge. And when he had found the courage to run the gauntlet, James had also discovered how to be calm without the help of the helmet, and how to control his thoughts without the aid of the seed. By putting these newly found skills into practice, James had been able to confront Pete without fear. And it was all his own doing. The boy was getting stronger, although his outward appearance suggested otherwise: dishevelled, bruised and battered, the journey was taking its toll on James.

James paced around the cell, inspecting the prison in an attempt to find its weakness. The dark figure wondered if James had noticed the increase in temperature. Beads of perspiration trickled down the boy's face but he appeared oblivious and continued his search for an escape. The dark figure saw the boy stumble over a single tile lying on the floor. That was unfortunate; he'd been expecting the boy to take much longer before he saw the light in the eye carved into the mountain rock. But James had discovered the cell's entrance and walked into the belly of the mountain before he'd had chance to complete his current task. That last tile, once placed, would have made the secret exit undetectable. The boy bent down and touched it, letting his figures run over its surface. The dark figure wondered if James realised the tile was actually a giant reptile's scale. He didn't seem concerned, so clearly not. _He's looking at the guiding light; it won't help you this time, unless I let it. He must be noticing the heat by now._ James was sweating profusely. _Doesn't he realise he's going to melt if he just stands there_?

***

Waiting for the right moment, James swirled to his right. His hand whipped through the air behind his twisting body. Uncoiling with the agility of a discus thrower, he released the fine particles of dust from the floor of the cell, surreptitiously collected when he'd deliberately fallen over the panel. He had known from the moment he'd entered the cell that something or someone was lurking in the safety of the darkness, watching him. James had had the intention of exposing the prowler right from the start.

The attack startled the dark figure. Though harmless, the dust surprised him and caught him off guard. He recoiled, throwing himself against the black panels, then held perfectly still, hoping to remain invisible against the darkness of the scales.

'I know you're there.' James, unable to make out what he had seen, tried to sound confident. 'Show yourself. Who are you? What are you?'

The dark figure felt something strange. His eyes moved down his arm to his hand. He saw the tips of his fingers exposed in front of a white scale.

Majestically, the dark figure sprang forth from his camouflage to reveal his identity. James' shadow couldn't risk being caught, being trapped by the boy; he'd have to go to plan "B". With the ruthless agility of a black leopard he descended on his victim in a fury, snaring the dormant light in his clutches.

'You!'

James reacted instinctively; he picked up a stone and hurled it at his treacherous shadow. The missile passed straight through, ricocheting off the wall of the cell.

The shadow stopped. With a self-assured air, he turned to the boy.

'James, be a good boy dear, and play nicely'. The Shadow mimicked James' mum's voice to perfection, accentuating the nauseatingly condescending tone she lavished on him. His mum took great pride in being nice. He knew that she placed great value on niceness. James also knew that she needed her son to be seen as nice too; she wanted him to be a "nice boy" regardless of how weird he appeared. James was sick of niceness. Being "nice" meant sucking up all the crap others dealt out. Boy, did Perfect Pete and his cronies know that. There was no way in the world his mum was going to storm into the school to sort them out on his behalf.

During his inspection of the cell James had somehow missed the exit hidden between two overlapping scales; perhaps he'd been distracted by the stalker. But now the Shadow slipped out between them to reveal the secret. Brushing his sweaty hair from his face, James followed the thief without hesitation. The space between the two overlapping scales was made for a shadow, allowing James barely enough room to squeeze between. But despite being somewhat crushed, he managed to edge his way through.

Eventually James was able to stick his head out into the open. He withdrew sharply, his mind grappling with the enormity of what had confronted him. Outside the cell two of the most fascinating creatures imaginable towered inside a massive cavern. James had painted them many, many times. He took another peek, which turned into a lingering stare. They _were_ real. Two dragons, one black and one white, greeted him with a roar which reverberated off the rocky walls.

'Holy shit!'

Resembling two gigantic gothic sculptures the magnificent beasts reared their heads, spread their wings and stomped their feet. Standing between them, dwarfed by their enormity, James' wicked shadow laughed, mocking him. The Shadow thrust out his hand, pointing the guiding light towards James. He squinted against its brightness after the dimness of the cave. Half of James' body was protruding out from behind the panels. The white beast gave an almighty roar and bellowed a massive gust of flames at him. Unable to see properly through the glare of the light, James was warned of the attack just moments before it hit him. He ducked to safety behind the panel, but he could still feel the intense heat generated by the flames. He retreated into the relative safety of the cell. Falling to the floor he gasped for cooler air, his lungs burnt from the searing heat.

' _Stop being a wimp, boy._ ' James' shadow poked his head back into the cell. James turned his head to the sound of his dad's voice. The shadow had copied his father's authoritative tone perfectly. ' _No one likes a cry baby. Get up and fight_.' The shadow disappeared back out the cell's exit.

James remembered that his dad's answer to every problem was to attack: to kick first and to keep on kicking. There's a solution, thought James. He needed to learn how to attack—nicely! Then he'd be able to keep both his parents happy. _Brilliant! Be nice, but don't take any shit_. He considered Pete, the smiling assassin, to have perfected this skill to an art form.

With the Shadow gone, James made his way out between the panes. He peeked outside the cell. The light hit him again. He heard a roar and, knowing what it meant, rushed back to the inner sanctuary. But the heat continued to build in the cell until it was at an intolerable level.

***

Whenever James overheard his parents talking he was always left confused. Although they talked about same issues their opinions were always contradictory. In sport, for example, his dad considered that playing was pointless unless you were playing to win. Winning meant everything to him. He would sledge people relentlessly, or do almost anything to establish a competitive advantage. His mum, on the other hand, would get cross if James spoke a bad word to anyone. She had told him many times about the importance of fair play. Their views on politeness diverged greatly although they'd never admit it.

'Don't interrupt James; it's rude to talk over people,' his mother had chastised him many times. So often, in fact, that James had given up trying to join in conversations at all in her presence. His dad, on the other hand, would get pissed with him for being quiet, 'Speak up boy and stop sulking over there. We've brought you up better than to act like a wet mop. You're spoiling the day for everyone.'

James also hated giving them his school reports. Their reactions were totally predicable.

'James, you're not trying hard enough, you need to apply yourself,' his mum would say. He once heard her tell another mother that he lacked concentration, 'just like his grandpa, a dreamer'. However, his father thought that the one thing he was great at, painting, was frivolous and pointless. 'Stop wasting your time with that arty rubbish. Do something useful with your time,' he'd say.

No one else in James' family painted - or danced, or sang. But James could concentrate when he painted. He applied himself at art and loved to escape into his creations, regardless of whether his parents valued his artistic flair or not.

The people and situations in James' life often seemed to conspire to block him, to lock him in a double bind as he called it; he became trapped between opposing values that left him feeling frustrated and unable to move. He felt damned one way or the other. He was told, for example, not to fight, but also to stand up for himself; to eat everything on his plate, but not to make a pig of himself. But for James the hardest bind of all was: 'James, please try and fit in with the others.' He'd often been told: 'You need to be a little flexible, try to accommodate them.' But at other times his parents might say: 'Don't be afraid to be who you are. Be yourself and they will like you.' _What a load of crap - be me and fit in, how the fuck does that work?_

***

Inside the cell the heat was steadily increasing but James could not escape his prison for fear of the two dragons that had already attacked twice thanks to the Shadow illuminating him in floodlight whenever he showed his face. James' fury built as he tried to find a solution, an escape, a way to recapture the guiding light. But he saw no obvious way out of his dilemma. The creatures spouted their rage at the mere sight of him. Moreover, his so-called guardian or guide was being used against him. To cap the situation off, for the second time the Shadow had stolen, right in front of his eyes, something belonging to him. Infuriated by the thought of the thief, James' frustration escalated. But despite his anger he continued to wrestle with the problem at hand. At least the scales of this prison offered some protection.

' _Oh my god, the cell is built from their scales_. The sudden realisation hit him like a ton of bricks. _The walls of this prison are made from dragon scales!_ He inspected a solitary white scale on the floor, picked it up and stood it on one end. On the reverse side a little flap in the skin gave him enough room to slip in his fingers. The shield covered James from top to toe. If the walls of the cell protected him from the dragons' flames, then surely this scale would do the same out there, he deduced.

Deciding to test the theory, James manoeuvred the scale through the exit. Outside, the floodlight once again greeted his appearance. A blast from one of the dragons hit the shield with such force that James fell over. Thrown down with each effort to get up, James struggled against the might of the beasts' fire. Exhausted by the assaults, he lay on the ground. The shield protected him like the shell of a tortoise. From underneath the skin, James could hear the Shadow, mocking him.

' _James, this isn't good enough, you can do better than this_ '. And then his dad's voice cut in. ' _Never let anyone treat you like that. Stand up for yourself boy!_ ' James responded and did stand up. The force of the dragons' gusts blew him over.

The shell did its work as he hid safely beneath, protected from the fire and heat. However, the ferocity of the dragons proved too strong to stand up against. Their alternating onslaughts kept him pinned him down. With no other options available to him, James couldn't do any better; he couldn't be any stronger in standing up to them. His choices appeared to be limited to two: return to the cell and remain imprisoned by these creatures; or under the protection of the dragon's scale claw his way forward on his belly, taking each inch of progress as a blessing, and see what happened.

Refusing to submit to the power of the beasts, James started crawling towards the Shadow, holding the dragon scale on his back. He progressed bit by bit over the ground. He focused on each next inch, all the while keeping one eye fixed on the dark figure clutching his guiding light. The dragons' attacks had pushed him to the middle ground, the point directly between the opposing forces. Here the blast from the beasts hit him with an even impact, neither one having more or less effect on his progress. It occurred to James as he progressed through the assault that it didn't matter what his mum or dad, or anyone else, thought was right or wrong. What really mattered was what he thought, what he believed and could live with.

The shadow waited until the boy had almost reached his feet before he turned and ran. Now James was on the spot where the Shadow had been, right between the two dragons. He felt a blast from one of the dragons bounce off his shield. A moment later the opposing beast let out an horrific cry and the two animals began fighting each other. No longer caught in the beam of the guiding light, and with the dragons busy attacking each other, James was free. He picked up the shield, slung it over his back for protection, and chased after the Shadow.

Racing across the rubble-covered ground James left the beasts far behind. Occasionally, he needed to scamper on his hands and knees as the ceiling of rock closed in. He raced until his legs burned with pain, running along warren after warren of passages and through many dungeons, trying to keep the glow from the light in sight. The shield hampered his progress, but he held onto it. Eventually James burst out into a massive cavern. He stood on a shingle beach, which lay before a large lake that disappeared deep into the belly of darkness within the mountain.

He estimated that the Shadow was about two or three minutes ahead of him. He could see him on the lake, kneeling on what appeared to be a black scale. The shadow paddled across the water. With a sense of anger coupled with disbelief, James realised his enemy had a plan and was playing him. Despite the sense of being led into more danger, he needed to go after his foe and chase it down.

James followed suit, using his own white scale like a surfboard. The craft wobbled as he paddled. Unable to match his foe he allowed himself to drop back a little, thereby preserving his remaining strength. James looked back across the lake. He saw the odd flash of light in the tunnels behind. War may have been raging back there but here on the lake everything was calm. It reminded James of the feeling he got when painting.

***

The dark figure also kept checking behind while paddling. He had set a pace which would enable James to keep him in sight, or at least the light, which he had placed at the back of the board as a beacon for the boy. The light shone out brightly in the stillness; the boy couldn't possibly lose sight of it. He knew the boy would follow his lead across the water until they reached the caverns. The light would illuminate the one he needed the boy to enter, the one that looked as though it had a jaw of fangs. The boy would follow him, he wouldn't be able to help himself because, once close enough, the current would take over and drag him in.

Once inside the cavern the shadow brought his craft to rest at the only place able to accommodate a landing. He stepped onto the bank. The beast was exactly where he had left it tethered. He strolled up to the animal, squatting down to look deep into its sad, pathetic eyes. The beast began to tremble. Cowering like a beaten pup the animal tried to skulk away from the dark figure but the leash was too short. He'd seen to that. He picked up the blood stained spike hat was lying on the ground and looked momentarily at the tip before thrusting it into the animal's fur. The creature howled. The shadow twisted the implement, pushing it into the animal's neck a little further.

Magnified by the cavern's acoustics the creature's howl rocked the cavern. Slowly, the shadow pulled the spike out. The animal reacted by snarling and snapping, straining against the leash in its attempts to attack its torturer. Had it stuck out its tongue it could have licked him, but the restraint held him short of anything else. With saliva still dripping from its mouth the beast eventually calmed down. Then, trembling with fear, it cowered away from its assailant, anxious not to feel the spike pierce its flesh again. The dark figure studied the fresh blood on the spike. Smiling, he stuck out his own tongue. Licking the spike slowly, he savoured the taste of the beast's blood.

## Chapter Eleven: The Maze of Thorns

The howl of an animal resounded across the water, shattering the calm of the lake. James stopped paddling, allowing the board to drift on the gentle current. Lifting his head, he listened. The familiarity of the sound was disturbing and he prayed for the long dreadful cry to stop. _Where had he heard that same cry of anguish before?_ But before he was able to work out the what, where and when, a second howl rang out. This time the wail was unmistakable; James realised that the sound of terror and despair he was hearing at that moment was the same sound keeping him awake at night — the cry of a bloodthirsty werewolf.

***

Of all the dark creatures in James' imagination, the werewolf terrified him most of all. The thought of the beast savaging him alive, tearing through his flesh and ripping him apart limb by limb, paralysed him with fear. He imagined the pain and suffering such a creature would inflict. Every full moon he would stay awake all night on the lookout for this predator, scanning the surrounding neighbourhood through his bedroom window. Sometimes he thought the werewolf was in the nearby woods. He pictured the beast lurking in the shadows of the trees, hiding, seeking out its next kill. But mostly he imagined the animal somewhere in the street, trying to find its way into a house, to discover a victim sleeping and vulnerable. The howls were often so close to his house that James was certain the werewolf would break through the window into his room at any moment. On those nights he'd taken to cowering under the covers, pushing his head underneath the pillows to the point where he struggled to breath. No one knew he lay awake in bed some nights, petrified, praying for the morning light. Yes, his mum and dad always checked in on him but James could hear them approaching his room. At the first sound of creaking floorboards he'd close his eyes and pretend to be asleep so that he didn't have to deal with their dubious looks or listen to their sighs of disbelief at his explanations.

The werewolves only came out on nights with a full moon, but they were not the only things that kept James awake at night. He'd frequently be unable to fall asleep as he replayed the day's problems over and over again, no matter how trivial. Reliving each 'disaster', he would review all the possible options he might have chosen and their potential outcomes. Gradually, he'd rework the day until he'd crafted a better result. One he liked. Sometimes James would also invent the future as well. He'd play out his next responses to foreseeable dilemmas, working through the evolution of each incident. The possibilities were endless as to what he might do or say. Methodically, he would examine how Pete and the pack would react, what they'd say in response, what they'd do, and how he would counteract. Playing everything back and forth like ping pong ball, without rest, he'd keep going until he'd created a new ending, one that exalted him.

On other nights James would lie in bed dwelling on his suffering, mulling over the hostilities he endured and resenting his situation in life. He resented his parents for wanting him to be different; Mr. Preacher for his oozing sympathy and lack of intervention; and the pack for being like sheep. He was resentful that no one cared how scared and lonely he felt. They were the nights he found particularly torturous because every second seemed to intensify his feelings of despair. In the depths of this despair James hated his life, and the powerlessness of his ability to change the situation.

In bed, he would sometimes plot his revenge. The vindictive things his mind created to inflict on Perfect Pete, his cronies, and the pack delighted him. There was his painting, of course, and sometimes he'd write a story, a sort of fantasy play where he would have the opportunity to torture them. Quite often this involved attacking them with a bloodthirsty werewolf under his control. They would plead for him to make the beast stop and beg for his forgiveness. It was pure bliss, this revenge, and to him nothing tasted better.

Impotent to enact his plots of retribution on Pete and the gang in real life, he did the next best thing: he inflicted his schemes on Burley Blake. James desperately didn't want to turn into him; Burley was the epitome of everything he despised. But in his subconscious James knew that the things he hated about Burley he, deep down, believed to be true for him. Picking on the weaker kid allowed him to forget for a while about his own reality, allowed him to escape his own weaknesses, his own pitiful station in life. But the escapism soon ended and afterwards the feelings of remorse and guilt for his actions kicked in. Guilt kept him awake at night too. It was as if he had this monster inside him, which he pretended didn't exist. But from time to time it broke free and caused mayhem, making him face its undeniable existence, and the regret caused by its actions.

One confrontation with Burley in particular haunted him. He'd lost many a night's sleep as a result of it. On that particular day James had been walking home after a P.E. lesson. He could see Burly walking father up, on the other side of the street. James was not in a good mood. For some stupid reason, they'd been doing contemporary dance in P.E. instead of the usual sport. James had danced with the grace of an awkward Muppet, much to everyone's amusement.

'Look at that spastic.' Jake had imitated James as he spoke and everyone in the hall laughed.

Burley had managed to escape notice for some reason unknown to James. No one bothered him that day, leaving James to weather the brunt of their remarks. James hated the thought of being labelled as 'the weirdest' in the school. He'd certainly been their main target that day. Maybe the title was his? Perhaps Burley now outranked him?

'He looks like a demented puppet' someone else had jeered as he danced.

That's what gave James the idea. He wanted to see Burley dance like a fool, on the street.

'Hey!' he shouted across. Burley looked back and gave him a smile. This infuriated James.

'Let's see YOU dance, then.' The weirdo obviously didn't realise who he was messing with. James picked up a stone and threw the missile at his ankles. As well as having artistic talent, he was also an excellent marksman. Burley attempted to skip out of the stone's way, but it ricocheted off the pavement and hit him on the ankle. Burley howled the howl of a dog being tortured. He rolled on the ground clutching his foot. A smile flickered on James' lips at the sight but remorse followed quickly. He hadn't really meant to hit the kid at all.

'Are you okay?'

Burley didn't respond. He didn't so much as glance at James. The boy simply collected himself off the ground and continued on his way home, limping as he went.

'Are you okay?' James shouted a little louder. No answer came. Incensed by Burley's indifference, James picked up a handful of stones and threw them in rapid succession. Burley hopped and skipped as the flurry of pebbles hit the pavement around his feet. This time a big remorseless smile covered James' face. _I wished they could see this_ , he thought. He got his wish a moment later as Pete, Gus and Jake appeared from around the corner.

'Hey, check this out.'

James proceeded to make Burley jump and hop. He caused the weirdo to skip about like an idiot beneath the onslaught of stones which were hitting their mark with perfect aim.

'What a moron, hey.' James' eyes widened in expectation of their approval.

'Don't talk about people that way. Didn't your mother teach you it's not nice?' A smile slinked across Pete's face. 'But that's not a bad idea, I suppose.'

James returned the smile, believing for a brief moment that he'd won their respect. He squatted down, picked up some more stones and raised his arm, ready to throw them at his target. James paused; Burley wasn't even looking at him. The fool continued nonchalantly on his way home. James drew back his arm a little further. Although it was a long throw, his confidence was high. His arm travelled forward in a powerful fluid motion. But he jerked violently to the side as he felt the fierce pain of something slamming into his right foot. The missile flew across the street, hitting a brick wall some metres from Burley. James howled like Burley had moments earlier. Pete twisted his heel into James' foot. He lifted his heel and stamped down hard a second time. James cried out again and jumped aside, hopping onto the other foot.

'Hey that's a good move Maggot. Do it again,' Gus said. He proceeded to stamp on James' other foot. The three of them formed a triangle, with James in the middle, and began kicking at his ankles and stomping on his feet.

'Dance, Maggot.'

'Can maggots dance, Pete?'

'Why didn't you do this in P.E.? You'd have got top marks – for the demented!' added Jake.

By the time they'd finished their amusement, Burley was long gone. James rubbed his hands over his bruised and battered feet and ankles. Whimpering in pain, he hobbled home.

That night James hardly slept as he attempted to re–work the confrontation. Thinking about how he could have orchestrated a better ending, he played the event over and over. When a solution failed to materialise, his mind kicked into overdrive mulling over the options. But the exercise proved futile. In the end he just kept asking himself: _Why had he done it?_ The kid had done nothing to him. Finally, he gave in to the feelings of self pity and lay sobbing, feeling very alone. James despised this monster which, whenever it managed to break out, somehow ended up hurting him the most. The remorse he felt and the self-reproaching he did that night destroyed any remaining esteem. That particular evening seemed to last for an eternity and James had relived it many nights since.

***

The animal's anguished cry continued repeatedly until he reached the cave. Quite abruptly, the sound triggered his recollection of Burley yelping in pain and that memory sparked recollections of his own suffering as well. At the mouth of the cave the noise stopped. James was filled with dread, convinced that his worst fears were coming true. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled as he contemplated the real possibility that somewhere inside the cavern a werewolf awaited his arrival.

His fear unable to be contained, James splashed madly at the water in an attempt to paddle away from the entrance to the cavern. His efforts failed against the strength of the current which was sweeping him along. The makeshift craft sped through the mouth of the cave and down into its gullet. Fangs towered above his head as the cave swallowed him whole, just as the dread of his fate was swallowing his soul. Inside the cavern, stalactites hung precariously from the roof. As his vessel moved quickly forward one fell, missing his body by mere centimetres. But James kept as quiet as possible. Using his feet hanging over the end of the scale as a rudder, he steered his craft to shore, bringing it to rest on a bank next to the discarded scale which had been the Shadow's boat. He climbed out. The first thing he noticed was a wall of black bushes, about ten metres in height, thirty or so metres away. In the middle of the wall was a break, like the entrance to a stockade. The gap provided the only passage into the belly of what lay beyond. James caught a glimpse of the Shadow surreptitiously observing him from the entrance. He was still grasping the light. The dark figure, having realised that James had seen him, slipped into the sanctuary, leaving the boy alone with his fear.

On the dusty ground James saw the footprints of an animal. He squatted and placed his hand over one of the paws. The print was larger than his expanded hand. Much of the dirt in the area appeared scuffed and scrambled as if a struggled had taken place at this spot. James noticed a small pool of blood at the edge of the disturbance. Not far away more spots of blood lay alongside the animal's prints. The blood trail led away from the area. James followed the animal's steps, all the while knowing exactly where they were heading: to the stockade's entrance. He stopped at the gateway and drew a shallow breath which juddered in his throat. He looked back at his raft and considered if he should hop back on and paddle like crazy away from there. But to where? Having come this far there was no choice. _Had there ever been any real choice in this place_ , he wondered.

As soon as James crossed the entrance he saw the purpose of the manicured hedge, realising that he had just walked into a maze. It was probably designed to confuse unwelcome guests. The maze's walls, thick and high, crowded in on him. Adding to his discomfort, the ceiling of the cavern was resting on top of the maze, creating the effect of an animal's dark warren. James squashed his growing claustrophobia. He searched the ground; the animal's trail continued for a few feet and then vanished. With no sign of the Shadow or the guiding light he could only guess if he should turn left or right. Both directions offered an equally possible prospect of reaching the middle. From the recesses of his memory James recalled that he'd studied the patterns, myths and ancient art of mazes in one of Mr. Preacher's lessons. Most of the time, James considered Mr. Preacher's theoretical lessons quite useless; he wanted to paint, not listen to the man drone on about nothing. But he did remember this lesson and the prescriptive for successfully navigating a maze...'If you walk through the maze keeping your left hand touching the left wall, by following its course you will always find your way around all the dead ends and arrive at the centre sooner or later,' Mr. Preacher had said. So, with no other ideas about how to approach it, that's exactly what James did. With his left hand lightly brushing the tops of the leaves, he turned left and walked.

Mazes, to James' knowledge, always had a centre which housed some sort of surprise, good or bad. He hypothesised what might be at this one's centre. _Minos' Minotaur prison? Trap or treasure?_ It occurred to him that the Shadow might also be after the centre's contents. But that didn't fit. The traitor's main focus seemed to be stealing from him — firstly, the light from behind his eyes and more recently, his guiding light. _He must be up to something else_ , thought James.

Stimulated by the thought of the Shadow's purpose, James' mind's eye flashed back to the cell and the exact moment the Shadow stole the guiding light. He remembered how it had hidden against the dark of the black dragon's scales, springing forth to snare the light. However, James had only ever seen one light. Where was the other one now, the light from his eyes that he'd seen stolen in the mirror? He definitely would have seen the starlight had it also been with the Shadow. Maybe he'd already given it to the King. If that were true, James theorised, the King would most probably have commanded his dark servant to halt James' progress, to trap him in the darkness and thwart his plans. Yes, James concluded, the Shadow's plan must have been to steal the guiding light and lead him here. Abandoned in the maze, he'd be easy prey for the werewolf.

James continued to follow Mr. Preacher's advice. His left hand brushed lightly over the leaves of the bushes as he continued to walk deeper into the maze's belly. Suddenly, a sharp pain caused him to yank his hand away from the hedge's wall. Scarlet red blood streamed out of a cut in the palm of his hand, as clean as a surgeon's incision. The cut didn't appear to be too deep. James slowed the bleeding by pressing the wound firmly against his thigh. In doing so, he noticed that his shirt was torn at the bottom. With his other hand he managed, with a little difficulty, to tear off the loose piece of cloth from his shirt. Wrapping the makeshift bandage tightly around the wound, he tied it off with his teeth then, holding his wounded hand in the cup of his other hand, he turned his attention to examining the hedge for the cause of his injury.

The inspection didn't take long. Lying just beneath the leaves, thorns as long as daggers were hiding inside the hedge. The odd tip poked through here and there and James managed to find the one with a tiny trace of blood on it. A cool breeze on his arm told him the thorns had also torn his clothes. The spikes must have brushed against him as he walked through the narrow channels of the maze. His shirtsleeves and jeans had offered some protection but areas of his flesh had been exposed. With a more cautious approach, James continued to steer his way through the maze, this time using only an imaginary hand on the bush to guide his way.

The maze was huge but James had no idea how far he'd travelled. Distracted by the tenderness of his hand he'd also managed to forget about the werewolf at large. This relief was short-lived, however, with a cluster of howls resounding not far from him rekindling his fear. The beast sounded as though it had suffered an injury, or worse, was being baited for the fun of its torment. James had seen dog fighting once in a TV documentary. What the owners did to their dogs totally repulsed him, the way they cruelly inflamed their animals into frenzy through pain. This sound was exactly the same. One moment the werewolf cried in anguish, then with a flick of a switch it let out the insatiable howl of a brutal wild animal, snarling for blood. The blood curdling cries sent an icy chill of dread through James' entire nervous system. He shuddered. Without doubt he was in grave danger and needed to find safety fast. He hoped that the maze's centre would offer him some refuge, since there was no alternative.

Without further delay James' legs took flight, driven by one deep-seated need - self-preservation! He raced through the maze as fast as he dared, trying to avoid the protruding thorns. Keeping the directions of his teacher in his head, James made his way in and out of the remaining dead ends and found the maze's centre sooner than he thought. He scanned the circle in front of him. In its middle sat a plain stone table. James moved towards it and saw a long thorn, its tip painted in blood, lying on top of the table. More of the dark sticky liquid ran in small rivers or was splattered across the surface of the table. Stone sculptures of werewolves, dragons, vampires and other creatures of the night adorned the edges of the maze's heart. On closer inspection, the ornamental creatures were committing terrible acts of violence on the stone caricatures of the mirrored corpses James had first seen on entering the shadow underworld. The combined effect of the arena, the sacrificial table and its sculptures was resemblant of an altar to the devil.

The werewolf howled again, much louder than before. With an icy chill in his heart, James could feel the hot breath of the beast on his neck. He turned. The animal's snout was inches from his face. James stepped backwards, very slowly. The werewolf attempted to follow but couldn't; James' shadow was holding the animal back with a shimmering leash of light. The creature's eyes had a familiar look, a look that reminded James of Burley.

'Is that you Burley?' The hairy face of the werewolf and the striking resemblance of its eyes to those of Burley, confused James for a moment.

The brute, thirsty for his blood, sprang forward snarling. James' shadow struggled to keep the animal in check. He pulled back hard on the leash. The beast wailed and turned its head in protest. In the shadow's free hand he held a thorn, similar to the one lying on the table. The dark figure jabbed the thorn into the beast's flesh. The werewolf yelped, a cry of pure agony, and then thrashed forward towards James, intent on murder. James fell backwards attempting to keep out of its reach, only to feel the sting of a thorn in his back. He moved to his left, putting his hand behind his back and searching for the spot where the spike had entered his flesh. The warmth of sticky blood ran onto his fingers. He could see that blood was also dripping from several wounds in the werewolf. The shadow knew how to bait the animal well. James' eyes flickered from one to the other, keeping watch on beast and master. The creature looked quite pathetic in its resting state; however, under the skilled provocation of its master, it became the most fearsome thing James had ever encountered.

Baiting the animal remorselessly, James' shadow poked, prodded and then restrained the animal, compounding its aggression. The dark figure controlled the animal, letting out just enough leash to reach James if he didn't take evasive action. James managed to elude its lunges. However, he was pained by more cuts from the hidden thorns in the maze. Without intending to do so, James manoeuvred himself closer to the table where the blood tipped thorn lay dormant on its surface. He picked it up, instantly feeling a surge of confidence flow into his arm. At last he had a real weapon, and with it the chance to defend himself. The werewolf continued to snap and snarl under the insistence of his master who was provoking and then restraining his servant in synchronised movements.

Reacting instinctively to the animal's next attack, James thrust the point of the thorn into the beast's flesh. The anguish in the scream which followed should have shocked James, but it didn't; something else rocked him far more than the cry of pain. James' eyes connected with those of the animal. They looked pleadingly at each other, both wanting the other to stop. In that moment James didn't see a werewolf, he saw Burley's bright eyes peering back at him. The shock caused James to jerk and the tip of the thorn broke off. James threw the broken weapon on the floor. The animal lowered its head to lick its wound, then lifting its sorrowful eyes its gaze seeming to bathe him in understanding and forgiveness.

The moment broke as yet another yelp sprang violently from the twisted jaws of the werewolf; James' shadow had stabbed his weapon into the beast flesh once, then twice. Responding to the provocation, the werewolf once again let loose its rage at James. Driven backwards by the snarling beast James fell over his feet and felt the sting of yet another thorn in his back. Angry himself now, James retrieved the thorn and, holding his arm outstretched prodded the weapon forward in attack. Its tip quivered in front of the animals face. Again the animal's blue eyes connected with his. James' fear dissolved and instead he began to fill with a growing sense of sympathy for the beast. He shook his head in an attempt to force out the compassion. The animal was wild and, given the chance, would devour him with sorrow.

'Go on, kill it, stab it in the heart. Kill or be killed!' screamed the shadow.

_If the animal has to die, then so be it_ , James thought. In any case, he'd be doing the beast a favour by putting an end to its suffering. The dark figure pulled hard on the leash. Choking under the restraint, the animal strained forward, its head held back. The beast's chest was laid open for James to administer the fatal hit. James' shadow had set the kill up for him perfectly. _Now is the time to put this to an end to this_ , he thought. But those eyes, so sad, so desperate. _Why does it have to be like this?_ A little of his resolve melted.

' _You weak fool. Don't you understand yet...it's kill or be killed? If you let him, he'll feast on your flesh, devour your soul. I'm giving you one last chance to kill it first. Look, it's wounded. Even you can't mess this up. Use the thorn. Kill it...kill it...kill it_ '

With the words echoing, he felt compelled to act. James thrust the thorn at the animal in a token gesture of an attack. The point penetrated deep into the werewolf's thigh. The beast hardly flinched. Its sheer strength and resilience were just amazing. Refusing to back away, the animal jerked aggressively at the rope, hoping to escape. James' shadow laughed and waved his blood coated thorn to attract James' attention.

'Not like that. Like this...'

James' shadow plunged the spike half way into the animal's flesh. The werewolf cried, turned its head pleadingly towards his master and then jumped forward in another violent attack. James slipped behind the altar for protection. The dark figure let the leash out a little more. A few more prods encouraged the beast up onto the sacrificial table.

' _I told you, kill or be killed, isn't that the way my boy? Kill or be killed_.' For a moment, James thought Grandpa was talking to him. The voice sounded like him, but it came from the Shadow.

'Kill it.' He stabbed the animal again, causing the werewolf's blood to splatter onto the table's surface.

Watching the animal suffer was dreadful and, combined with the urging from the Shadow to execute it, made James' head reel in confusion. To make matters worse, he was concerned that the beast might break free or be let loose. James reasoned that it was far better to put an end to the beast's misery now than let this carry on a moment longer. The werewolf sensed the change in James' attitude. It snarled and howled its blood-curdling cry. James' shadow pulled the leash taught, presenting the beast's throat for him. The execution was easy. James walked forward, forcing his feelings of fear of the beast and fear of what he was about to do, down into his gut. Once again he noticed the remarkable resemblance of the creature to Burley Blake, But James refused to think of the other boy. He thrust his dagger straight into the beast's throat as the shadow yanked sharply on the leash.

'Didn't really think I'd let you do it...did you?' The shadow seemed very pleased with himself. Smiling with apparent deep satisfaction he added, 'Kill this poor defenceless creature, you monster.'

James' head dropped. The shadow was right, but James didn't understand how he'd become such a monster. _Aren't I the victim?_ He asked himself. Deep down he knew, though, that the way he'd treated Burley and the werewolf was no better than the way the spineless pack had treated him. He _must_ be a monster, even if his actions were under the provocation of the Shadow.

The dark figure baited the beast again until it was primed, ready to resume the attacks. In a moment of madness James rushed forward and slashed at the leash with his thorn. The contact broke the leash and the light recoiled before snapping back into the Shadow's grasp. The werewolf was free.

'You are a silly, silly boy James,' said the dark figure. With the guiding light firmly in his grip and without another word, the Shadow slipped out into the haven of the maze.

The werewolf leapt down from the table. James waved the thorn in front of him and prepared himself for the inevitable attack. Inside, he felt his blood pumping with the dread of being ripped limb from limb by the werewolf as it descended upon him. The stupidity of his action was overwhelming in its consequence. The thorn trembled in his hands as the fear took hold. The animal stepped a little closer, its hackles raised, saliva dripping from its mouth and steam billowing from its snout. It snarled, turning James' limbs to jelly. But, inexplicably, instead of attacking, the animal took a tentative step away. James studied the creature for a moment before realising, _It's as afraid of me as I am of it_.

James unexpectedly felt a deep sorrow for the torment that he and the Shadow had subjected this animal to. He lowered his dagger. He opened his hand. The thorn fell to the floor. Heralded with each thunderous beat of his heart, time stopped in anticipation of his fate. Confused by James' actions, the beast limped forward, snarled and then retreated backwards. The beast's eyes, compelling in their attraction, spoke to him, pleading for his help. James understood the beast's pain. The animal's front leg flinched and it lowered its head, drawing attention to the wound James had inflicted. Impaled in its thigh was the broken tip of the thorn, protruding from the flesh. The animal licked its wound.

Holding himself together, James moved forward, carefully placing each step as though walking on squeaky floorboards, desperately trying not to startle the beast. The werewolf snarled as he drew closer. Sensing danger, James stopped. He held his hands out wide so the beast could see them and understand that he meant him no harm.

'Ssshh, it's okay,' James whispered. He took another step closer, all the while soothing the beast with his voice and looking deep into those mesmerising eyes. 'Sssh, it's okay, everything is going to be okay.'

The werewolf's aggression subsided. James paused. The beast was within reach. He was now totally committed; there was no possibility of recovery should the animal attack. But it didn't. The werewolf made no movement at all. With his eyes locked onto Burley's gaze framed in the furry face of the werewolf, James carefully moved his hands towards the broken thorn. The beast growled. James stopped for a moment and then very slowly continued. He took hold of the thorn. The werewolf winced. James braced himself in expectation of retaliation but it didn't come. He pulled on the thorn smoothly, staring unblinking into the beast's eyes as he did so. The fearsome face turned into a blur as he concentrated on the eyes. The beast's deep pained-filled eyes were captivating as James watched them change with the removal of the thorn. The pain was replaced by relief and gratitude, but James could also see loneliness and helplessness reflected in its eyes, and it made him wonder. James threw the bloody tip behind him into the bush.

Burley Blake and the werewolf had merged more than ever into one. The beast, if you could call it that now, jumped about like a playful puppy. The contrast was hard to comprehend. Moment ago the beast's aggression had filled James' soul with fear. Now the animal howled with joy, prancing about as he tugged at the sleeve of James' shirt. He wants me to follow him, James realised.

Checking behind regularly to make sure he hadn't lost the boy, the beast led and James followed. They weaved purposely through the maze. _He's helping me, showing me the way out_ , James twigged. He was buoyed by the thought that he'd learnt something new. Up until this point, he hadn't believed it possible to feel compassion or kindness to such a monstrous creature but right now it was as if they were old friends...best friends.

Eventually they emerged out of the maze, the monster and James, friends and allies. The beast led him to a stone staircase that ran up a cliff of rocks. They clambered through tunnels and made their way up through what James assumed were the empty dungeons belonging to the palace above. He wondered what or who had resided in their many compartments. With his legs aching from the steep assent, they emerged out of a pothole on to the top of the mountain.

There in front of James was the magnificent glass building shaped like the dome of St Paul's cathedral, rising from the ground in its splendour. Ill-fitting panels of glass splinters, joined together haphazardly, made up the creation of this huge construction. There were gaps everywhere between the panes, and the shape of the splinters reminded James of the slivers of glass and cracks he'd seen in his eyes. He remembered the shock of discovering that this was how the Shadow had stolen his light, from between the cracks.

Stained in various depths of black, each sliver played a part in creating one huge picture draped over the entire dome. It was like looking at parts of a black and white photo taken of his infamous painting. James could make out large parts of Pete's rotting face. He saw most of the creatures he had created: the scorpion bees, demons, dragons and werewolves, and the maggots spilling from Pete's mouth. In the middle of the maggot swarm was a door. He knew this door would be the final one he would walk through; he knew the end of the road laid beyond it. One way or another, it was all going to end inside this palace.

## Chapter Twelve: The House of Demons

Refusing to accept James' encouragement to follow him nearer the magnificent palace, the werewolf stayed close to the entrance to the dungeons. The animal shuffled backwards and forwards anxiously between the hole in the ground and James. At one stage the beast's foot slipped on the edge of the hole and it fell halfway in. Scrambling with its front claws, it just managed to save itself from falling into the pit below. Afterwards, it chose to remain in one place.

Clearly disturbed by what lay waiting inside the magnificent temple, the creature's fear seemed to jump through the atmosphere into James. The boy's feet twisted and scuffed in the dirt as he expelled his nervous energy. There was no other way open for him. The light was gone, along with its ability to rescue him from the underworld. Having accepted that his destiny was to enter this bastion of the King, James' resolve stayed intact despite his concerns. The werewolf glanced at him one last time; its eyes spoke a thousand words of sorrow, regret and gratitude, and for a brief moment James felt love for the creature. Climbing into the hole and returning to the dungeons below, the beast parted company with James, leaving him to face whatever madness lay ahead.

With the final steps of his journey before him, James decided to take a few minutes to compose himself. Whatever this building held inside, be it King or terror, it awaited him. His chest rose as he drew a deep breath. He held it in for a moment before forcing the breath out. His throat quivered. Once more, he filled his lungs to bursting and sighed aloud as he expelled the air. He remembered Grandpa's instructions back at the beginning of his adventures in this shadow underworld: " _when you've faced all there is to face and entered his palace over there, you'll find the king, or rather he'll find you_ ," the old man had said. James assumed this encounter with the King would provide the chance to recover his light, and return home. His eyes swam against the tide of light rays in the sky above as he looked back to the escarpment where his journey had started. He saw the spot where he'd stood with Grandpa as he spoke those words. Every bone in his body ached with weariness. He wanted to go home.

With one last deep breath James summoned his remaining strength and was then ready to venture forward into the king's domain. He pulled open the massive door and stepped inside. Strangely, the light poured into the dome through the black stained glass, blinding him. He wasn't expecting that and he had to squint and blink rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the change. When he was able to look around, the holy, mystical aura of a cathedral greeted him, the effect of the different shades of light radiating through the stained glass. It was clear to James that the architect had designed the building to gather all the light from the outside world and suck it into this place. James lifted his head to survey the roof, where he could see his painting of Pete and the gang portrayed in glass on the ceiling, flickering as the light rays passed through with a vibrancy that made it look alive.

James walked towards the centre of the hall where an immense statue of Pete rose up, almost touching the ceiling. The monument was made of layer upon layer of polished glass that had been cut, heated and moulded into shape. The figure was surrounded by scaffolding, apparently still under construction; nevertheless, the light captured within the dome was flowing from every direction into this effigy of Pete. As a result, a glowing radiance shone around the figure.

James' sense of smell was suddenly offended by the odour of something burning. He sniffed and surveyed the area, locating a furnace nearby with a piece of glass moulding heating in its fire. The smell was emanating from the melting glass. From the furnace a network of ropes and pulleys worked their way up to the monument. Pieces of glass, still glowing hot, swayed in the air as they hung suspended on the ropes. For a fleeting moment, James sensed eyes watching him again, but this time it was as though a thousand eyes were resting on him. The feeling vanished as quickly as it had come.

James' eyes were drawn back to the statue where he noticed that it was adorned with wonderful glass replicas of all the treasures he'd encountered on his journey: the helmet from the maggot's cavern; his medal made from the colourful dancing seed; the warrior's armour and the shield of a dragon scale. At the statue's feet sat the werewolf with the eyes of Burley Blake. In one outstretched hand, the effigy held a crucifix, in the other a large book, and over the helmet a regal crown rested on his forehead. Behind the feet of King Pete's monument sat the King's throne. This immense tribute to Pete dwarfed James, reducing him to an insignificant pest against Pete's awesome power. But his eyes continued to linger here and there, skipping over all the ornaments and objects. One item in particular kept drawing his attention: hanging from the statue's belt was the exquisitely crafted sword of a knight. James knew instinctively that it awaited his discovery, that this sword belonged to him. It was the only thing he needed, a sword to kill his shadow.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught something moving high above him. James craned his neck upwards to catch sight of his enemy scaling up the sculpture. With the skill of an accomplished mountaineer, his shadow climbed onto the statue's shoulders. Then he traversed up its face and onto the bridge of Pete's nose. Helpless to stop him, James watched his shadow deposit each of the diamonds of light, his own and the guiding light, into separate eyes. He then pushed a sliver of glass across each eye. Locked safely away, the lights highlighted the face of Perfect Pete. For the first time James noticed the statue's expression, arrogant and smug. However, the statue's all-knowing eyes, now dancing and alive, reminded him of those of his grandfather.

***

The dark figure sat on the monument's shoulder, unperturbed that the boy had seen him. With no way down but past the boy, he had no other option but to stay up here. Besides, the others would be back soon with their leaders. He hadn't expected the boy to break the leash and confront his biggest fear so quickly. He'd been quite amazed at how James' compassion for the beast had evolved. Most would find the evil and then kill it. But you can't really kill the beast, or hide it, or pretend it doesn't exist; no shadow would ever allow that to happen. Was it instinct or had the boy actually worked it out — that to free himself he would have to free the beast, embrace it and even love it. He laughed and shook his head in admiration.

James picked up a shard of glass on the ground. The swine was mocking him, laughing at him. He hurled the missile at his target, leveraging all of his power. The sliver glistened in the light rays as it spun through the air.

The dark figure managed to evade the attack. However, he almost fell while trying to avoid the glass missile. He scurried out of the way, hiding behind Pete's head. He hadn't been expecting the boy's attack. Down below on the ground, abandoned glass shards littered the construction site. His labourers, following his command, had gone to fetch their masters. A second projectile whizzed by his head, almost decapitating him. The boy was a great shot and stronger than ever, he noted. Did he know that this was one of the few things that could kill a shadow - a blade of light wielded with deadly intent? He wasn't laughing anymore. Things were deadly serious; he might have to fight him right now. Where are they? He needed his subjects and rescuers to arrive.

The distance was too far; James needed to get closer. Arming himself with a few missiles, which he tucked into his belt, James placed his right foot onto the monument. When his hands found a suitable hold he lifted himself up. He strained upwards, looking for his adversary. It was impossible for his shadow to avoid facing him any longer. He lifted his left leg, finding the next foothold. James heard a loud crack a split second before an electric shock hit him so hard it shook every bone in his body. He fell from the statue onto the ground, twitching in a fit of pain. The agony ceased as abruptly as it had started, as though a switch had been turned off. James lay face down, motionless on the deck, eyes shut and half dead.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, James was occasionally aware of gruff voices talking about him. He was too drowsy to make out what they were saying, but he was conscious of bodies moving around him. Only just perceiving reality, he felt something rough and sharp clamped to his legs and wrists before someone placed a heavy weight around his neck. Signalling his return to the living, he coughed, breaking out of his semi-conscious state. His captors pulled James brutally to his feet by a chain attached to a collar around his neck. The restraint griped his throat like a vice, to the point where he struggled to swallow.

Disorientated and in severe discomfort, James took a moment to comprehend his situation. The monument standing in front of him had burst into life with a swarm of dark bodies working on it. Pieces of glowing glass wobbled in the air as they were transported on the pulley system. Several dark figures laboured at the furnace while many more were scattered across the construction site, industriously working away at various tasks to complete the monument. If Grandpa hadn't described the figures to him many times in his stories, James might have mistaken them for shadows. As it was, even though he still felt groggy, he easily recognized the demons for what they were.

***

'James, demons are not as frightening to look at as many people would have you believe. In fact, they really are almost likeable looking creatures. Really, I've seen worse things kept as pets,' the old man began. He sat back in his favourite armchair. James saw him glance towards the kitchen to see if mum was listening, before he continued. 'It's what they do that makes them demons. They don't have fangs...or horns...or beady eyes of burning red as many would tell you. They sort of resemble dwarfs more than the angels of hell, but don't be deceived; heed my words, angels of hell they are. The ones I saw,' he lowered his voice to an almost inaudible level, 'were sort of similar to very old shrivelled up people, about the size of toddlers, grey and without colour. Mind you, they did have pointy ears and the nose of a witch, that is true. However, if you are unlucky enough to encounter one, you will most likely feel pity or consider them harmless. But, as I said, don't let that fool you James, for each has his own particularly nasty taste for causing suffering.' Grandpa then went on to elaborate further, particularly about their leaders. 'There are seven super demons; they are the worst. They carry spears, which contain the power of a lightning bolt. Keep them as far away as possible; they are mean — vicious — deadly things.'

'Grandpa, that's crazy. They sound like the seven dwarfs from Snow White.'

'I suppose they do.' The old man rose from his chair. He got down on his knees and started walking on them while singing, 'Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go, breaking bones, and tormenting souls, hi ho, hi ho, hi ho, hi ho.'

'Stop it Grandpa. Have you gone crazy? Mum will go mental if she sees.'

His grandfather died a few days later; he had suffered a heart attack.

***

Grandpa's description of the demons had been quite accurate. However, the master demon holding the chain attached to his collar seemed far more intimidating than he had described. His heavy frame, together with his aggressive demeanour, gave James the impression that he was a force not to be reckoned with; much like facing a pit bull terrier, James knew not to mess with him. In its hand, the master demon held a spear. Grandpa's description of the spear and how it could be used, had been precise; James shivered with the memory of the electricity pulsating through his body, before the sensation had stopped abruptly. The demon pulled on the chain and pointed the spear at James' face. The spear crackled as lightning danced on its tip.

Reacting to the jerk on his collar, James' responded by pulling back using his body weight. He grabbed the chain as he did, attempting to rip it from the demon's grip. The solid frame hardly budged against his effort. So instead, James moved forward thinking about attack. However, the demon pushed the point of the spear directly at his chest. James grabbed the chain with both hands, swinging it in an attempt to throw his captor off balance. The big hand of the demon held on with ease, anger growing on its face.

'Want to feel some of this do ya? Come on then, come on.'

James heard a familiar voice shout from behind, 'I've seen enough of this, show him who he's dealing with Mal, zap him.'

'Think you're tough now, do you? Come on, have a go.'

'Stop pissing about, Mal.'

'Ok, ya bastard.'

James heard a loud crack, which was followed a split second later by a hit from the lightening spear as electricity exploded from its tip. He fell to the ground, rolling in pain.

'Feel that, Maggot,' he hissed. 'Want me to stop? All you have to do to do is ask.'

'Stop, stop, I give in,' James cried.

'You didn't ask the right way, fool.'

'Stop, please, I beg you, please stop.'

' _Nicey, nicey_ — nice doesn't work with me idiot.'

'Stop, you son of a bitch.'

'You've got to give it to him. He's right, your mum is a bitch. Give it up Mal...enough already, stop.'

One second of truly irrepressible pain feels like an hour of torment, and five of those tormented hours passed before Mal replied, 'No, I don't think so, not just yet, Hogster. Learn this well Maggot, I love this stuff, so keep playing up, and I'm going to have a lot of fun with you.' Ten seconds - or in James' agonised mind, ten hours later — Mal stopped.

Pain lingered long after the shock had abated, leaving him retching while trying to recover. Refusing to be overwhelmed by the nausea, James tried to concentrate on the demons surrounding him. He could see that many more feet had gathered around him and he could hear them talking — perhaps these were the seven leaders Grandpa had talked about.

'You might have killed him.'

'I know what I'm doing. Would you like me to demonstrate, Slug?' James heard the crackle of a spear picking up some power.

'Cut it out Mal.'

'Hey Slug, start him on polishing the feet. We don't have a lot of time and this place has to be ready for him.'

'Do I have to, Ritz,' Slug replied. 'Can't we just leave the statue as it is? What if he tries to escape?'

'Yes...the statue has to be flawless — absolutely perfect. It's not just him, you know, they're all going to be here,' said Ritz.

'I'll come with you, Slug, to make sure you don't screw up. If he so much as blinks without permission, I'll—'

'—you'll control yourself Mal. It isn't time yet.'

'Come on.' Reluctantly Slug tugged at James' chain to encourage him to his feet. All the demons dispersed, except for his two escorts. James got to his feet. A demon attached chains connecting his wrist and ankle cuffs. With his limbs' movements severely restricted, James followed without resistance, shuffling behind Slug like a broken slave. Mal followed behind. James could hear his spear humming menacingly. He expected another hit from the malicious demon, but thankfully it didn't come.

'Start polishing!' commanded Slug.

'With what?' James asked.

'You're supposed to be imaginative, aren't you? Work it out.'

'Use your hands, idiot' said Mal. The demon delivered a quick burst of lightning, perhaps for the purpose of discouraging any sign of protest before it began, but more likely for the sheer joy of inflicting pain.

With no further incentive needed, James began to polish the glass feet of the monument with his bare hands. Rubbing the surface dust away as best he could he carefully worked over each part of the huge toes, one by one. Under the control of his two guards, James worked for hours without a break. Closely observing him for all this time, no doubt alert for any excuse to shock him, the demon Mal stood at his prisoner's side, refusing to relax his attention. He didn't appear to care about the quality of work, but was intent only on James maintaining a fierce pace. Slug's attention, on the other hand, was continually distracted by things happening elsewhere.

Having completed one foot, James moved onto the second. The feet and their toenails had been perfectly sculpted and, once polished, the glass glistened with the sparkle of cut crystal. Was Pete really this magnificent? James wondered. How he would love to be in Pete's position, dressed in this splendid apparel, unassailable and adored.

***

A long time ago, James had come to the realisation that he would never be able to measure up to Pete. The boy was great at so many things that it was impossible to compete with him, so why bother. Instead, James took to daydreaming about exchanging places with Pete. In doing so, he was able to imagine himself in Pete's shoes, and fantasize about what it would be like to have his outstanding qualities and abilities. In his daydreams, James would immerse himself completely in the role of Pete, to the point of overindulgence. The daydreaming would later morph into other fantasies. Living vicariously, James would project himself into the life of a rock musician, or maybe a world-class football star, or such.

But, sooner or later, James' inescapable shortcomings would confront him. Occasionally, this would lead to him making a half-hearted effort at self–improvement in an attempt to actualise his fantasy. On one of these occasions, seeing as he could throw stones so well, he decided to take up cricket. Having the correct gear effectively boosted his confidence; looking the part was vital. Expensive as that was for his parents, he was able to persuade them by relentless pestering. Hoping to encourage him to get out and make some friends, his mum and dad caved in to his demands. They spent a small fortune, but it was just too hard to keep his darn arm straight. He couldn't muster the required accuracy and power. As for batting, well, he wasn't much good at that either, lasting on average three balls before the bowler smashed the middle stump out of the ground. James lost heart quickly. No matter how good he looked in his kit, the reality was inescapable: he was useless at the game. Self-flagellation followed and then the daydreaming resumed until something new took his fancy.

The daydreaming always ended too quickly, leaving James with the harsh reality of his life. Comfort would often follow in the form of chocolate, which temporarily helped soothe the feelings of dejection he was suffering, but ultimately made things worse. With a face full of zits, he was subjected to relentless ridicule and name-calling.

***

The blemished face of pock-riddled demon approached them.

'All right, Ritz, what do you want?'

'Haven't you finished yet?' Ritz enquired. 'Oh come on Slug, pick up your game. Look, he's missed the bleeding toe nails. You need to get him to clean beneath the toe nails...understand.'

'Here...you lot,' shouted Mal. Several demons with faces as mean as Mal's scrambled down from higher up the monument.

'He needs a bit of motivation guys.'

Their eyes couldn't hide the truth of their joy. With relish, they began pushing and shoving James. If he missed a spot, or if he went too slowly, he'd receive an elbow in the ribs or a jab somewhere else. There was one particularly mean little demon that held back while the others had their fun, then without warning he would aim a kick at his balls for no reason. It landed just hard enough to make James cry out, but not hard enough to immobilise him.

'That'll do. It's perfect. Even Ritz can't fault that'.

'Yeah, it's nearly as beautiful as me,' said Ritz. 'The monument, not you boy.'

James' hands were bloody and raw, his back sore and his mouth parched. He noticed an old well nearby.

'Can I have a drink please?' he enquired.

'I think you mean, can I have a drink, please Boss.' Mal hit him with a short bolt of lightning.

'Can I have a drink please...Boss?'

'Sure,' said Ritz. 'We've got to keep the golden goose alive.'

James staggered over to the well and was about to send the bucket down when Mal stopped him.

'Not that one, this one.'

Mal handed James an old rusty bucket riddled with holes. There was no point in arguing, the malicious demon was itching for another reason to attack. James accepted the bucket and lowered it into the well. The rope dropped and dropped to the point where James considered that it might have reached the lake he'd crossed earlier. When the rope slackened, James turned the handle and reeled the bucket up as fast as possible. But by the time he'd pulled the bucket over the top, the water had run out. He managed to rescue a couple of drips. Thirsty for refreshment, he pushed his head into the bucket and licked out what moisture he could find at the bottom.

Hogster approached Mal, 'Des needs him now,' he said, pointing across to one of the other demons standing by a pile of broken glass. Des was another new name, James noted. So far, the names of the super demons that he knew were Mal, Hogster, Slug, Ritz, and Des.

'What do you two want with him?' said Ritz.

'Des has seen this brilliant shard of glass we can use on the crown, and as he says, he simply must have it or he'll just die.' They all laughed.

'Ok, but keep him working. If he so much as squeaks without permission hit him, and hit him hard,' commanded Mal.

Led by Hogster, James tottered over to a mountain of glass with his head lowered. When he got there, Des pointed deep into the glass rubble.

'You see that piece, the really dark piece? I want it.'

'Oh yes,' said Hogster, 'that will make a brilliant dragon for the crest of the crown.'

'Now be careful,' Des added. 'Don't damage any of the other pieces.'

'Do you want this bit?'

'What, that scrappy piece? It's useless, mate. Knock yourself out Hogster; you can have all of those.'

Happily, the demon scampered over to the pile and grabbed the piece Des had indicated. 'Oh my, how wonderful, I'll stash them with the others.' He picked up a few pieces and scuttled off towards the back of the palace.

'The glass...now!' Des' spear crackled but in comparison to Mal's it sounded like a toy.

Picking through the pile demanded all of James' concentration. Pieces of glass lay precariously piled one on top of another. One bad choice and he would disturb the pile, causing a landslide of glass to collapse, most probably on him. He could sense the danger in his movements, just as he was aware that Mal was watching in the background, maintaining a persistent interest in him. Clearly, the demon was looking for an excuse to have another go. Should Des fail to administer the appropriate discipline, Mal would unquestionably relish the opportunity to do so on his behalf.

As he worked his way slowly towards the brilliant shard of glass that was the object of his endeavours, James was struck by the richness of its hue. James loved to paint in shades of black. He knew that some people thought of black as a dull lifeless colour but, just like the black wells of his grandfather's eyes and the light within them, this piece of glass was special. James sensed its magical attraction was powerful.

***

You are treated differently when you have special things...the best things. As James was only too aware, people thought that wearing a great watch, the latest sneakers or designer clothes, made them somehow better than him. Inside, people change as well because these prestigious objects exert a magical power, freeing people from their previous personae and allowing them to behave differently. James remembered his first trip in his dad's new car, a BMW. Driving down the road had been cool at first; the day was pleasant, his father happily distracted with his new toy and Pete far from his thoughts. Then a car pushed in front of them at the traffic lights and his dad went mental.

'What the hell does he think he's doing?' He beeped his horn. The other driver ignored him. He held his hand hard on the horn. When the driver of the other car responded by putting up a finger, his father reacted completely out of character. James had never seen him like it before.

'Wanker'

His dad held his arm out the window, made a circle with his thumb and finger, and waggled his wrist rapidly.

'Wanker.'

The driver got out his car, walked up to their car and hit his dad. The strike wasn't a thump, just a firm slap with the open hand.

'Call me that again and I'll break your legs.'

***

James pulled the beautiful black splinter of glass from the pile. From beneath it a second shard slid forward, released by the weight transfer. The piece sliced into his leg, leaving a small but deep cut. James held onto the black piece, although he wanted to drop it. With the menacing buzz of electricity not far away, Mal was still watching his every movement. James looked at the piece, thinking back to the car incident and what had happened the next day: how he'd been badly cut at school.

***

They had pulled up in the new car at the drop off zone. James felt good, arriving in style. Most of the other kids' parents drove relics. James strutted through the school entrance. He may be nothing, but his dad drove a BMW, which was more than they had. At the time, he was aware of all the attention but he didn't care. He rather liked it on these terms.

'Was that your dad I saw getting his arse kicked?' Pete met him at the gates.

'What do you mean?'

'In his new Beemer — arse kicked...Beemer, what's hard to understand.'

'Arse licking bummer, more likely,' Jake suggested.

'Is that right? Is your dad an arse-licking-bummer, James. Is that how he got the car... by licking the bosses arse? Are you queer like him, James?'

***

'Take them that piece over there.' Des interrupted his recollections. 'Hurry, hurry, hurry. Look at all this great stuff Pigme.'

'That's not enough, nowhere near enough.' Pigme stood beside the furnace. His was the sixth name out of the seven master demons, James noted. 'Look I've got to make all of that as well.'

On the floor, resting on slats, lay the beginnings of a badge the size of a dustbin lid. The image on the left side, beautifully sculpted into the glass, was that of a white dragon. _So, this is the crest_ , thought James.

'Use this for the black one,' said Des. 'Go on, Maggot, give it to him.' He nudged James, indicating that he wanted him to present the shard of glass.

'Oh yes, that will do nicely, but I need more for the ring of thorns. Then we need to make the sculptures shoulders bigger and stronger. I just need more, understand?'

_How much more fantastic could this darn thing be?_ wondered James.

***

Pete was like that too, he was never satisfied with what he had acquired. Something new was always around the corner and then he would have to own that too. Enough was never enough. You see, these badges - artefacts - make you feel good for a short time but then something better, newer, bigger, glitzier inevitably comes along and makes the old one seem, well, rather crappy really. This causes a dilemma because the list keeps renewing itself and in the blink of an eye, contentment vanishes. James wondered if he had ever been content, but then in comparison to Pete, everything he had was rather crap.

***

James did his best to avoid any further cuts. He shifted through the glass rubble under the directive of the demons. The glass pieces slipped and slid precariously on top of each other and no matter how carefully he moved it was inevitable that he would collect a few cuts in the process. Most of these nicks were on his leg as shards slipped past him. The resulting wounds turned large parts of his jeans dark red.

Much of the glass he collected appeared useless, too small or scratched, but Hogster insisted on James grabbing everything he was directed to.

'No, no, no, no, yes, that one. Okay. No, no, yes.'

'Look mate, this one's all scratched, what's the point of that?' Des said.

'It's not that bad.' Hogster defended the work he'd gotten James to do.

'It's useless.'

'I'm keeping it anyway, you'll see.'

Hogster's pile of useless rubble, acquired through James' hard work, had grown significantly. James thought the demon's madness might have method after all. It may well happen that the good glass ran out. If that occurred, the others would be in need of his stash, and he would have the power.

From where he had been lurking in the background, the final master demon slinked up to James unnoticed.

'Don't you wish you looked as good as that?' He indicated the monument.

'Yes, of course, who wouldn't?' James replied.

'Well, if you steal the black dragon for me, I'll help you.'

Pigme had already finished the black dragon, which was now perched on a makeshift table, ready to be attached to the crest. James was awestruck by the beauty of Pigme's detailed work; it looked like it should have taken weeks, not hours, to create. James empathised with the seventh master demon's desire. He too had felt the lure of desirable things, felt the extreme power of envy. When someone has what you desperately want, the emotional turmoil provokes the capacity for anything.

'What if I get caught'?

'What if you don't?'

' _How_ will you help me?' James asked.

'I'll give you a chance to get out of here, my friend. I'll give you my sword so that you can fight your way out.'

Somehow, the demon didn't feel like his friend, and the sword, where was it? Although the temptation was great, James sensed a trap. He politely refused the demon's offer. The demon didn't see it that way though. Angered by James refusal to help him, he hit him with a bolt of lightning, then again, and again.

'Good lad, Itch. What did he do?' asked Mal.

'Said he'd steal the dragon for me if I helped him,' said Itch.

'Oh yeah,' said Ritz. All the master demons had congregated around the commotion. 'Sounds a bit suss, if you ask me.'

'Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Beautiful?'

'Cut it out,' intervened Hogster. 'Don't you think you should stop, Itch?'

'Look he's useless now, we'll have to finish the monument ourselves, idiot' said Slug.

James lay dead still on the ground trying to appear on the edge of death, which wasn't too far from the truth. Mal attached the chain to his collar. Four demons helped him drag James across to the monument, near the throne, stopping between its feet. His restraints were pegged to the ground as James continued to play dead. At least he could rest and recover now, despite the buzz of electricity still reverberating through his bones.

James struggled to stay in touch with the events unfolding around him. It was impossible to be cognisant of the demons' activities without giving his condition away. After a while he gave in to his need for sleep, allowing himself to drift away. He slept heavily and for what felt like a long time until his subconscious sensed movement and stirred him to wakefulness.

James stood up, shaking off the remaining drowsiness. The chain attached to his neck pulled taught as he strained against its anchor in the floor. Not really expecting it to give, he went through the motion of testing the strength of its hold. Having satisfied his presumption, James surveyed the temple. It had been transformed during his sleep. Directly in front of him a sort of boxing ring had been erected. Around the boxing ring, stands or terraces covered the three sides of the square facing the monument, which was now complete. The image of Pete was now encased by rings of thorns overlaid at angles on one another to create a sort of birdcage around the monument. At the foot of the statue, James saw a familiar figure sitting regally on the king's throne. The sight of his shadow confused him. Why was he sitting there as if he was the King — surely, Pete was the king? If not, what the hell was this monument for?

Noise burst into the temple, shouting, aggressive noise. Hundreds of demons poured onto the terraces, screaming abuse at him, gesturing with their hands their hatred of him. Behind the demons, shadows followed. How many there were was impossible to say, but they outnumbered the demons at least two to one. Had they stood next to his own shadow sitting on the throne it would have been impossible to tell them apart.

Packed in tightly on the terraces, the hoard continued to assault him with their profanities. The intensity of the abuse escalated before the noise suddenly ceased. At the furthest end of the ring, James noticed a shadow climbing through the ropes. James studied the dark figure. At first, its appearance was much the same as the other shadows, including his own, but then a change took place. The figure began to wither, turning into a new creature with a thin, snake-like body. By the time it had finished its transformation, the creature was looking familiar. Up in the ring, Jake's shadow beckoned James to join it.

The audience, responding to Jake's gesture as though released from their silence, went wild as Jake pranced around the stage like a champion fighter. Mal moved forward and with a hit from his spear broke the anchor that held James. The demon then led him by the chain to the ring, supported by the hissing encouragement of his spear, lightning flashing at its tip. Flicking its fingers, Jake's dark shadow excitedly awaited his entrance.

James climbed into the ring. The other six master demons sat down at the ringside in prime position. Itch held in his hands the sword he'd offered James. The demon threw it into the ring. It landed, point down, halfway between Jake's shadow and James. The blade, long and true, radiated brighter than lightning. They both moved at the same moment but James was just a little quicker. Plucking the sword from the mat he swung it through the air, feeling the power, much as King Arthur must have when he first plucked Excalibur from the stone. Jake's shadow sucked in its gut as the sword flashed by without connecting, and then nervously backed away. James sensed the dark figure's fear. But before he could decide what he was actually going to do, a second sword of black glass, razor sharp, was thrown at the feet of his opponent. From the rafters a chant broke out, 'Fight, Fight, Fight, Fight.' And James saw that familiar wicked smile of Jake's slither across the shadow's face.

## Chapter Thirteen: Time to Die

The sword was buzzing in his hands. The wooden handle somehow managed to insulate him from the intense heat emanating from the blade. At the other side of the ring Jake's shadow swung an exact replica of the statue's sword through the air. Compared to the magnificent glass sword in the hands of his opponent, James' weapon looked insignificant.

Wielding the blade with the skill of a martial arts expert, the shadow's blade slashed through the air as though in a well-rehearsed drill. Throughout the performance, it watched James closely. Then, from the depths of the shadow's being a cry erupted, climaxing as it snapped into its final fighting stance. With both hands holding the handle, it positioned the sword so that it stood poised above its head, ready to strike the first blow. The auditorium fell quiet; no one made a sound as even time held its breath.

James could see his shadow watched coldly from his throne. Intense hatred bubbled inside James. He was more confused than ever as to whom the King actually was. The shadow sat on the throne as though he was king, but this monument paid homage to Pete. His shadow stood up, thrusting his hands up high, to which the crowd responded with a roaring cheer.

'It is time...' James' shadow cried. The crowd went wild in response, but Jake's shadow held its position and maintained its intense focus. The tip of the black blade quivered, ready to strike. 'It is time to end this, and find out who will win.' The terraces cheered. 'Let it begin.'

The pretend monarch, for James was not yet ready to acknowledge him as the king, sat down. At the other end of the ring, Jakes' shadow remained primed, which surprised James as he expected the shadow to spring into action and attack. Perhaps the shadow hoped he would strike first, or maybe he was just being cautious. Unsure as to its motives, James held back from making the first move.

In the end, no one could be quite sure who actually did hit out first. They both made their move at what appeared to be the same moment. James wanted to finish it with one hit and so did Jake. Their synchronized swords clashed, causing a brilliant flash of lightning from James' blade. The blackness of Jake's weapon absorbed the spark in an instant. The power of the impact threw them both backwards a step. James winched momentarily as bones juddered from the shock.

'Are you ready, Maggot,' hissed Jake the Rake's voice. 'I'm going to split you in two so that your yellow guts spill out for all to see.'

Infuriated by his jibe, James took the initiative. He hit out again and their blades clashed. But this time he was ready for the backfire, and he managed to keep his balance. James followed up with three rapid strikes, which Jake blocked. With each clash of the blades, sparks flew from his sword only to be absorbed into the black weapon.

The shadow made a lunge for his heart. James collected and pushed the blade away by arching his own blade in a downward semi circle. Jake's blade whipped through the air as he deflected it, nicking James' leg along the way. Jake's shadow smiled, delighted that it had he'd won the honour of drawing the first blood. The shadow saw his chance to press home this advantage and rapidly hit out, first to James' right and then to his left side. The blade sliced through the air in its well-practiced martial art sequence. The speed of the attack drove James backwards onto the ropes as all hell broke loose from the black sword. The only thing James could do was block the assault and hold out as long as possible. He prayed that the storm would subside and after a few minutes was relieved to sense the attack slowing down at last, pleased that he had sustained only one more nick to his shoulder.

_Hit him now, James_ Impatience urged him to retaliate, but another more powerful inner voice overrode his first instinct, instructing him to hold back a little longer. His blade reached the position of the next block early; James could sense the Shadows next move without needing to think. Jake's shadow seemed to have run out of ideas of how to break through James' defences. All the shadow was doing was repeating the same sequence of moves James had witnessed him rehearsing earlier. The pace of the black blade was progressively slowing, and he could see the shadow's frustration building.

The time arrived for him to retaliate. Jake's shadow had weakened. So, with the next block, James countered attacked. He swung his sword at his enemy's head. Jake managed to check the blade in time but before he was able to make his reply, James attempted a swift cut to his shoulders, using both his hands to maximise the impact. Jake stepped backwards. James drove at him furiously, wielding the blade with force and switching his direction of attack randomly. With an excellent aim and strong arm, James moved his weapon purposefully to its target. James' blade, at last, made its way past the shadow's defences. The weapon sliced the shadow across the chest. At first, James thought the shadow was bleeding lightly, but then he realised that the blade had cut right through him.

Weakened by the cut, the distressed shadow struggled against James' continuing onslaught. James hit him, blow after blow, with such force that the shadow began to crumple. He landed a second strike above the knee. The leg was left dangling by only a thread of darkness but incredibly, the shadow managed to keep itself upright. It knew it was beaten, though. James walked up to it with his sword ready to strike the killer blow. Jake's shadow lowered its weapon, signifying his surrender. The fight was over.

Remembering the werewolf's torture, James hesitated. After all, the shadow was beaten; there was no need to kill him. James looked across at his shadow on the throne, wondering what was going to happen next. The shadow had the look of a Roman Emperor and James half expected him to raise or turn down his thumb. But he did nothing; he continued to watch without movement. Jake's treacherous shadow saw James' moment of weakness. He had the opening, the boy was vulnerable; he could move in for the kill. The dark shadow thrust his sword deep into the boy's thigh. Responding instinctively, James slammed his sword down onto the shadow's shoulder, cutting him cleanly in two. Blood poured from his leg, but Jake's shadow was dead.

The body lay motionless. James looked at it, unable to comprehend what he had done. The dark figure began to change, turning slightly transparent. Something, no, someone's image was on the other side. He placed his foot under the lower half of the corpse and rolled the shadow over. The image was like a photograph: shoes, legs, belt and shirt all clear as day as if scanned on. James flipped over the top half. Jake's snake-like face met him, motionless, dead and defeated.

The exhilaration James felt was enormous; he had at last destroyed one of his enemies. That vile mouth would never tell him how useless and pathetic he was; its words would never be able to hurt James again. James was free from Jake's vicious tongue forever. The dead shadow became more translucent, turning into wispy vapour before forming a whirlwind that blew fiercely for a moment before dispersing into the atmosphere.

'Yes!' James cried in joy. The terraces became silent again. The King stood up, and James enjoyed the moment, revelling in the respect his victory had won. James thrust his sword into the air expecting their acclaim or at the very least a cheer, but it didn't come. _How dare they snub me_ , he thought. James wanted to kill them, all of them. Up on the terrace, one of the Shadows began to stamp. Others joined in, and then more and more picked up the tempo. The sound grew into a crescendo of stamping that reverberated throughout the dome. The monument trembled and the ground moved beneath James' feet. The King nodded at Mal, who signalled to the other master demons. They jumped into the ring with their spears pointing at James. Hr waited for the crackle of lightning and the searing pain to come, but it didn't; they made no attempt to attack.

The King held up his hand and the crowd went silent. 'Send in,' he smiled, 'the next challenger.' A shadow pushed past the demons at the ringside and jumped into the ring. The dark figure started to grow in size. He was huge like an ogre. Gradually, it dawned on James, as the shadow underwent its transformation, that he was in the presence of Gus's shadow. The intimidating frame bent down, and James now understood what the demons were doing. They were shepherding him, preventing him from picking up the dark glass sword. Their job done the demons clambered out of the ring back into their places and the crowd erupted. The fact that blood was still dripping from the wound in his leg and his body was in tatters from his ordeals was of no consequence to James. He had murder in his heart and the knowledge that he could kill them.

The big figure moved much slower than Jake's shadow, but his power was far greater. When he hit, James' arms crumpled under the impact of the sword. Injuries were impairing James' movement but at this slower speed, he was able to match the pace of his adversary. The nature of battle was different to the conflict with Jake. This time the fight flowed with mighty blows being unleashed as each combatant tried to smash through the other's defences. They took it in turns, returning blow for blow, each using both hands on the sword to generate crushing strikes. One direct hit and it would be over.

Far fresher than his opponent, Gus's shadow took the advantage, pressing James back with his huge strikes. James managed to keep trading blow for blow. However, his arms grew heavy and he was driven back until the ropes pressed against his back. He desperately tried to hang on but in the face of the shadow's relentless force James' strength faded.

'Maggot, just give in,' said Gus' shadow. James believed Gus had the power of a giant and the ability to crush a skull with his bare hands. His colossal shadow, given the chance, would overwhelm him with this power. The shadow sensed James' strength deteriorating. With the grace of an athletic hammer thrower, the dark figure wound up for a massive strike. James was exhausted and unable to take the opportunity the long build up presented. When the massive hit landed, James just managed to block it, but its force knocked him senseless. Fumbling hopelessly, he tried to regain his composure and control of his lightning sword. Gus' shadow used this time to build the power for another massive strike. Swirling the sword in a circle, he unleashed it in one mighty blow. Again, James survived its impact; however, his injured leg gave way. Gus' foot rose to his chest and kicked him backwards. The sword slipped from his grasp as James fell back onto his seat.

_Why didn't he finish him off?_ The shadow's blade hovered in the air, poised to strike. But the hit didn't come. James was defenceless, his sword laying on the ground a few yards away; cowering behind his arms he waited for the killer blow. Still it didn't come. This was the second time that he'd been spared, James realised. Jake's shadow could have hit him with a killer blow, but it didn't, and now Gus' shadow stood still, sword in hand, looking at the King and apparently waiting for the declaration of James' fate.

'Maybe now he's ready,' said the King.

_Not just yet_ , James thought, for Gus' pause had given him the chance he needed. James fell onto his sword, grabbing it by the blade. Although the edge scorched his fingers, somehow he held on. Then like a leopard, he pounced on the shadow. James moved the blade swiftly through the air and plunged it into the shadow's heart. He kept pushing until the massive frame reeled backwards, the blade impaled in its chest. The wooden handle hovered before James. He took hold thrusting the sword even deeper, right up to the hilt. He pulled it out in one fluid motion then thrust it in again.

The giant shadow collapsed onto his knees. Surprise flickered in its eyes before it fell down dead. James surveyed the slain shadow sprawled on the mat in front of him. As with Jake's shadow, it became translucent, revealing the faint image of Gus before it turned into a swirl of grey smoke and vanished into the atmosphere.

The shock of his victory stunned James. Another foe dispatched into the dark. He felt powerful and in control, and yet the victory was somehow hollow. He'd hit the shadow while it was off guard, when it wasn't expecting it. And at the cost of his hands being scorched and cut from the blade by which he'd taken victory. And the anger: all the Shadows were gesturing their hatred of him; the demons hurling abuse and profanities. _Would he have to fight all of them?_ James wondered. Was the only way to free himself from this place to kill all the darkness? _Impossible! In this condition he was bound to lose eventually_.

The King rose from his throne. To James' disappointment, he appeared calm and collected, with a regal air. He'd killed two of his subjects. But as he watched, something in his demeanour changed. Shocked at what he was seeing, James' shadow suddenly started to grow and change its shape. The dark figure was still maintaining the poise of a king, but his body was becoming more muscular, more athletic. James recognised the emerging figure but didn't want to believe his own shadow's metamorphosis into the shadow of Pete.

'You...you son of a bitch, I'll kill you!' screamed James. The shadow looked on passively. James felt a rush of hatred towards it, realising that his freedom lay in destroying the king. 'God damn you, fight me.'

Forgetting the pain of his burnt and cut hands, James raised his sword ready to attack. Mal rushed forward, but the regal shadow of Pete stopped him by raising his hand. Slowly, the King walked over and climbed into the ring. He opened his palm. Responding to the subtle command, the fallen glass sword flew through the air into his hand.

'If I must', he said.

With a rush of adrenaline racing through his veins, James realised that his chance had come. He had only one thought in his head as he rushed forward to attack: kill the King of shadows. The shadow seemed slow to react. James thought he'd caught him off guard; however, at the last second the dark King simply side stepped. Unbalanced by the shadow's tactic, James lurched past harmlessly. Feeling his incompetence exposed, James' fury grew. He swirled around, sending the blade hurtling in a wide arch at the shadow's ribs. Moving with the grace of a dancer, the King withdrew, allowing James' blade to slice harmlessly through the air in front of him. Unable to control the follow through, James laid himself wide open to a counter attack. The shadow unleashed four blows in quick succession; James only just managed to block his blade, and the speed of it sent him reeling progressively backwards. The dark King was smiling and seemed completely confident of his mastery of the dual. James felt like a novice, completely out of his depth compared to the skill of the king. The dark figure struck again with unbelievable speed and accuracy. James held on, desperate to survive. Occasionally, the flurry abated. This presented James with the opportunity to retaliate, which he did, as aggressively as he could. Nevertheless, he knew the King was in control, playing with him. The dark shadow of Pete grew visibly stronger as James grew weaker.

It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had first learned of The King of Shadows, but it was actually only earlier today in his bathroom. And now he was at his mercy. In the back of his mind, James heard those words from his grandfather echo once again...

' _The King wants power, your power, the power of your heart, the power of your mind, and the power of your body_.' He has it, James realised, for his heart was full of hate, his mind consumed by the fight, and his body was weakening as the shadow grew strong.

In that moment of realisation, the shadow unleashed his full fury. James was unable to hold him off any longer. The king's last stroke moved downwards from high above his shoulder. Time paradoxically seemed to slow as James, unable to move quickly enough, gave himself over to the dark king. The glistening blade was heading murderously towards his unprotected neck when, abruptly, it came to rest against his throat. James felt the surface of his skin break and a small trickle of blood ran down his neck.

'Go on then, kill me; finish it.' James knew that if he attempted to launch a surprise counter attack the shadow would slice his throat without hesitation. One twitch out of place and it was all over. His only hope was the king's mercy. 'Please...don't do it.'

'Kill you my dear boy, why ever would I want to do that? I'm trying to save your life'

'Grandpa?' It couldn't be.

## Chapter Fourteen: The Feast

'Who the hell are you?' James cried. It couldn't be Grandpa, it just couldn't; first his shadow, then Pete's, and now Grandpa... _who in hell is the king?_ Despite his mind being overwhelmed by a mix of emotions and a myriad of questions waiting to be answered, the blade at his throat kept James thinking with clarity.

Why didn't he kill me? He could have but he didn't. These Shadows are his, hundreds of the bloody things, and the demons are under his control, and there must be a reason why he hasn't he killed me. _What did he say... trying to save my life, from what?_ It can't be Grandpa. I must have misheard.

'Take it!' the King commanded and Mal took James' sword out of his hand. 'Are you now ready James?' There was no doubt it was Grandpa's voice, but James suspected it to be nothing more than trickery, in the same way that his shadow had imitated his parents' voices back in the dragons' cell. No doubt, Pete's image would be on the other side; after all, this thing was Pete's shadow, wasn't it? _But it had grown out of his own shadow, right in front of his eyes_.

'Who are you?' he repeated.

James scrutinized Pete's shadow, mesmerised by the transformation taking place before his eyes. The dark figure grew smaller, diminishing until it had become James' own shadow once again. James hoped to catch a glimpse of what was on the reverse side of the shadow. He had discovered the images of Jake and Gus after he'd killed the other two shadows, but who was this, this Shadow King - Grandpa, Pete or him? It couldn't possibly be him, surely not.

'You still don't know who I am, do you dear boy?'

The dark figure obligingly turned around. James' heart pounded as he waited for the outcome. He prayed that Pete's image would meet his eyes; that made the most sense, and it was the answer he wanted. Slowly the figure turned, bit-by-bit, to reveal an old man's face. James' heart plummeted; he felt empty, deep down in the pit of his stomach. His world was shattered by this revelation. He had followed the old man, held onto him as his saviour in this underworld, but it had been nothing more than a trap. Grandpa's words had influenced all his decisions, so it appeared that he'd been a gullible fool to have listened. Grandpa, still shrouded in his dark cloak, looked at him, his mischievous eyes sparkling with delight.

' _You_ are the king?' James stammered, for he was still unsure.

'You've come a long way James and it's nearly time to bring things to a close. But first you need to refresh a little, I think.'

'I don't understand. You were Pete's shadow...my shadow.'

'I can turn back into the others James, if you want, if it is easier for you. I can turn all of these creatures into any shadow I want, into anything that casts its shadow on your heart. You think you killed Jake's shadow, don't you? Well, maybe you have, time will tell.'

'I trusted you. Why didn't you tell me? Why did you steal my light?'

James heard the words Grandpa had spoken playing over once again in his mind: " _The King wants power, your power, the power of your heart, the power of your mind, and the power of your body_." With the flick of a switch, someone he loved dearly had become his enemy, and it was difficult to comprehend. James wanted to throw the idea out, to dismiss it as ridiculous, but here Grandpa was before him with everything in the dark underworld under his command. And horrible as it was to acknowledge, James knew now that the old man had manipulated him into taking this journey. Now, at the end of it, beaten and exhausted, he was at his grandfather's mercy. For the first time in his life James was angry at Grandpa; he had trusted him, only to find that the old man had betrayed his loyalty, his devotion and his love. He looked at the old man's face but there was no hint of satisfaction in his features.

'Why?'

'Fetch him some water.'

Mal responded to the command.

'Bring him some food.' The other master demons scurried away. 'Let's talk while we refresh ourselves. James, I will answer most of your questions, then I will ask you to do one final task, which will lead you home.'

Home! James was ready to go home, ready for the comfort of his bed. He wanted to see his mum's face again, to see his dad smile and hear his laugh. He was even prepared to face school and the pack, for whatever discomfort awaited him there was nothing compared to the suffering in here.

Mal rushed up, carrying water from the well in a simple cup. James looked at his own zombie-like face reflected in the water; it was almost unrecognisable. He took stock of the rest of his body: the skin on his hands was almost in shreds thanks to the maze of thorns and his duals with the shadows; his shirt was in tatters; and his jeans, also ripped and torn, were saturated with blood.

'Sit, please.'

James chose to sit on the floor next to the throne.

'Ok, we've got a bit more work to do yet.' Grandpa laughed and placed himself on the throne. The other demons rushed up to them both, placing vessels resembling small witches caldrons at their feet, each filled to the brim with fruit.

'Drink first, then eat.'

James did as he was told, placing the chalice to his lips and drinking deeply.

'Slow down. There's plenty more, enough for eternity, in fact. You paddled across the lake so you've seen how big our water supply is, and let me tell you...it goes down forever.'

As the water flowed down James' dry, coarse throat, he could feel the effect it was having on his body; it was though his cells were expanding to bursting point as they drank in the nectar. Then, from the inside out, his body began rejuvenating itself and before his very eyes, the wounds on his hands began to heal. James watched as the skin on his fingers knitted itself together. He then pulled back the tear in his jeans and saw the wound in his thigh forming a protective scab.

'This well is unique. Nowhere else will you find waters that have the power to heal and nourish you. But the scars will remain James, to remind you of this Journey and all you have been through down here. I understand this has been hard, but now we must talk earnestly. What is it you would like to know?'

James loved the way Grandpa used old words: _earnestly_ , he really did need him to be most earnest with him.

'Why did you put me through all this?'

'Take a piece of fruit.'

The apple tasted wonderful. It was an explosion of flavour on his tongue, after which he felt much better.

'Firstly, James, I did not force you to do anything. You chose this path and the choice was made very clear to you.' He said this firmly, and James knew it was true. 'Once that decision was made it became your destiny to discover the treasures in this land, or remain stuck, trapped in the darkness of your mind.'

'But I don't have any treasures; I lost everything that I found.'

'James, you only lost the objects. Objects have no powers other than those you give them. The treasure is what you have learned along the way. You now know, for example, how to find peace and clarity of mind when there is turmoil all around you. You have been made aware that the mind has the power to attract good and evil. You have developed the ability to summon courage in adversity, and to use the shield of discernment against the opposing forces in your life that frustrates and blocks your progress. And you have felt the compassion that comes with empathy. And now your are discovering the purpose of your shadow and the wisdom that lies on the other side of the darkness it casts upon your heart. He paused as James took in his words. 'These treasures are yours for ever; you can forget them, ignore them, or even choose not to use what you have learned, but you can never lose them. Go on, eat more.'

The fruit tasted great. James devoured it all. Chewing gave him time to think about what Grandpa had said. It was true; he had learnt many things on his journey. James remembered the noise of the clamouring maggots, and that he was able to think again once they were quiet. He remembered how his thoughts had brought the black garden into being and attracted the scorpion bees, and then created the sunflowers and withered the weeds that were holding him back. He recalled how he had run the gauntlet of the pack, standing tall and strong, and then given up the hard earned amour he'd won, courageously rejecting the warriors of the mist. Later, trapped in the cell by the opposing white and dark dragons, he had discovered the shield, under which he found his own mind against the contradictory forces in his life. Then, facing his worst fear, the werewolf, he had freed the beast, understanding that the cause of its suffering was the same as his own; feeling overwhelming compassion and empathy for the creature, he was unable to harm it further. Finally, here in the palace of the King of Shadows, James was facing the dark beings, demons and shadows that had been his constant companions, and discovering their true nature and meaning.

'Why did you steal, I mean, why did my shadow steal my light?'

'James, you do know that your shadow is on the other side of me, like the tail on the reverse head of a coin?'

'Yes.'

'Good, I thought we were going to have to go back to the beginning', he laughed.

'But... it... you changed into Pete's shadow.'

'That's right. Well, you do live under Pete's shadow don't you?'

James had never thought about his life in that way.

'As for your light, well, it was stolen for safe keeping, James. It was in your best interest.' Grandpa saw that more explanation was needed. 'Look, you were in danger, so we were keeping it for you until you were ready. It's our job.' He paused and then tried to help by adding, 'All these different shadows and demons were created by _you_ , James, from your blackest thoughts. Their purpose was to make you realise that a particular aspect of your life was at conflict with who your really are, and to help you sort things out. In the absence of your attention to the problem they would get, shall we say, annoyed and try to make you listen.'

What do you mean danger?'

'Well you'd sold yourself out, sold yourself into slavery. '

'To the devil?'

'Good lord no, well, perhaps. You were worshipping this monument to the devil, you could say.'

'Pete is the devil?'

'This image of Pete is the devil, and you sold yourself into the slavery of its image. Shadowed by its magnificence, and in your quest to be just like it, you lost sight of who you really are and what you really want from your life. How could you possibly measure up against this thing?' James gazed up at the awesome creation. 'If you hadn't fallen into this shadow underworld,' Grandpa continued. 'or should I say, if I hadn't pulled you in here, you would have forged a mask for the world and withered behind its veneer. You see, portraying a false image makes you feel safe and is the closest you can get to being like them. But if you start to believe that the mask is real, that the facade is who you really are, it will torture you because, sooner or later, you will discover that your life is a poor imitation of the grand thing that you aspire to. When that happens the only solution is to forge a newer and better version of yourself, which unfortunately never matches up, and so on and on it goes. Nothing ever feels good or nourishes you, and the real you, the special, unique person that you were meant to be, dies. Not in body, but in spirit, and then life loses its meaning.'

'Who were the corpses?' James remembered the poor tortured corpses wearing the masks forged from mirrors, their faces twisted in pain. He had been lucky, for he had nearly chosen the path of the mask, back in the grotto with the maggots.

'They are you, James. They are your past, and your future if things do not change. That is why we smashed through your eyes and stole the light, in the hope that you would notice it had been stolen. And you did.' He sounded pleased. 'The slivers of glass from your eyes we brought here to create this monument. It was my job, your shadow's job, to lead you here. The ordeals have been preparing you, helping you learn the truth. We have all worked with the sole aim of bringing you here to face this fantastic creation of King Pete for yourself, to face the fantasy. The gifts, the insights, are for you to take home. It sounds crazy that by confronting the darkness you are closer to finding the real you; but if you don't take any action, if you don't kill the darkness, you kill me and you lose any opportunity of finding yourself, of retrieving your lights.'

'I want my light back.'

'Well then, all you need to do is climb that monument. When you get to the top open the eyes and make a choice. Make sure you choose wisely though because as you know, one of the choices is the mirrored mask.'

'How will I know?'

'Only the King knows and you'll find him when you get up there.'

'But aren't you the king?'

'Oh no, dear boy. I am the higher voice of your shadow, your higher true spirit. I am that same spirit that is in everyone. As for the King as I said before, he will find you. Once you get to the top wait, look at everything around you, and he will come to you and show you the way home. Now, there's no more time to waste, you don't want to be here forever do you? Begin if you're ready.'

With the prospect of being able to return home on his mind, and his body rejuvenated by the feast, James set off with renewed hope in his heart. He climbed through the rings of thorns protecting the statue. He scaled the monument's leg, using the tiny ridges on the layers of glass for grip. James found the climb relatively easy. His thoughts returned to the king: _Where is he, up here? Is there a secret chamber where he's waiting?_ James also considered the possibility that the King might be on the ground; maybe he'd been sent up here for a better view, so that he could discover the king's location below. Then a thought occurred to him. Grandpa had said that they had stolen his lights. They had smashed his eyes and stolen the lights, plural not singular. James had thought that he was chasing the one light, but they must have stolen more than one; he had no idea how many, except that they must have taken all of them because his eyes had appeared empty in the mirror. Before long he had reached the face of the monument and climbed across and up onto the bridge of its nose, just as he had seen his shadow do. There were only two lights, each dancing inside an eye-socket cage. He pulled open both windows.

'Make your choice, James.'

Shadows and demons were now down off the terraces, surrounding Grandpa in his dark cloak. All these dark beings of his imagination gazed up at him. Had they all stolen a light? Were they all servants of the king? James couldn't see the King anywhere, down there or up here. When would he come?

Grandpa smiled, and shouted, 'If you thought I was the King James, then who are you?'

James looked up at the stained glass windows with his painting draped across its surface. He thought about his journey and remembered the maggots, the scorpion bees and, more vaguely, the fighting dragons. Now as he sat on this magnificent monument to Pete he could see that it was everything that he himself had imagined him to be. The truth suddenly dawned on him. His feelings and ideas had given rise to _everything_ in this world: the creatures, the dome palace, this monument, the maggots, bees, warriors, werewolves and dragons – all _his_ creation!, _He_ had created everything. It was all on his painting hanging over the dome. These were all his shadows.

'I'm the king, Grandpa!' James shouted. 'I'm the king. I created all of this.'

Grandpa smiled. 'Indeed you are James. So...which light do you choose?'

James pondered the question for a moment. _Grandpa had said lights, they had stolen my lights_ , but he had no idea how many. 'I choose them all!' he cried. 'I want them all back, please.'

The ground trembled and the monument to Perfect Pete began to crumble. The effigy broke down from the bottom up, slowly lowering James to the ground. He jumped down to the floor as the head turned to dust. The two starlets of light danced free within his reach.

'There are a lot more than those two James.' Grandpa paused. 'He wants his lights.' At the old man's request, the shadows, demons and other dark beings melted into a thousand darts of light. Then, along with the two lights from the monument, they swarmed over to Grandpa where they clothed him in a shimmering royal cloak. James saw on his Grandpa's head the crown of a king, with the emblem of two dragons upon it, the creatures he loved to paint most.

'See you soon, James.'

Grandpa smiled, and on a gust of wind the starlets and Grandpa flew through the air like a swarm of fireflies straight into his eyes.

The light blinded James for a second, but once his eyes had adjusted, he found himself looking once again at his face in the bathroom mirror. It was still night. The silence of the house was absolute. His parents were obviously still asleep. He glanced at the clock. He had been here for almost an hour. James looked at himself then, leaning closer into the mirror, studied his eyes carefully. They were perfect, without a crack or blemish in them. But more importantly, James' could see that his eyes were alive; just like his grandfather's, there were a million stars dancing in them.

## Chapter Fifteen: Never Better.

That night James had the best sleep that he could ever remember. He knew he had slept well because this was the first time in a long while that he hadn't been woken by some howling sounds outside the house, or been shaken awake by a nightmare. He felt completely refreshed and energetic. He jumped out of bed, dressed quickly and got all his stuff ready for school without fuss. With the enthusiasm of his first day at school, James reached the table for breakfast before his dad. His mum's face said it all.

'I can't remember the last time I saw you so eager to get to school. Is something happening today?'

'No, just the normal stuff.'

James thought back over the events of the previous night as he scoffed down a large breakfast of cereal. He wondered if it had really happened. It was possible, he realised, that his journey into the shadow underworld was nothing but a dream. If so, it had been an incredible dream. _Maybe I really do have a problem with my imagination_ , James thought. Maybe everyone is right to call me a weirdo.

After breakfast, James went to the bathroom to do his teeth. While he was brushing, he studied the mirror in the hope of seeing Grandpa or his shadow, or any other indication that the experience had been real. He searched for the darkness that indicated the entrance into the shadow world, but it proved a fruitless exercise. He found no signs of the underworld in the mirror, and on examining his eyes, could see no hint of any fractures or cracks in them at all. They looked to be normal, except for the lights dancing in them. Twisting his head from side to side and at different angles, he decided that it was just the reflection of the bathroom lights playing tricks on him. Eventually, James decided that everything he'd experienced in the shadow underworld must have been a dream; it was the most plausible explanation. After all, to believe that he had actually fallen into a mirror was absurd, he reasoned. Besides, his eyes were perfect and his hands unblemished, there was no scab on his leg, nor scars to be seen anywhere. In fact, he looked and felt great.

Collecting his bag from the hall, James got ready to leave for school with a newfound attitude. The morning so far had been different to any other. His mum and dad hadn't bothered him with their usual relentless enquiries after his wellbeing. It was great not to have to deal with their sympathetic smiles. James felt calm as well, and there was no sign of any whispering in his ear. That was the best bit because he could think clearly. It was the same calm he had felt when wearing the helmet in his dream. _Today is going to be different_ , he thought. Today is going to be great, he decided.

'Bye Mum.' James kissed his mother on the cheek. She looked astonished. James grinned, just catching her reply as he headed out the door.

'Bye love, see you tonight.'

James couldn't help but smile as he trod the uneventful walk to school. His cheerful face attracted surprised glances from some of the other children, but James didn't notice. He felt happy, and Pete and his cronies were far from his mind. Instead, he kept thinking about the dream. He felt strong, calm, in control of his mind, courageous, kind and free, all the things he'd experienced the previous night. And, best of all, he had a sense of optimism about his ability to work out his problems. He felt that his life was destined to improve. James decided that today was the start of something new; it was time for change. He remembered an old saying that Grandpa had often repeated: when you're at the bottom, the only way is up. That dream last night had been good for him; it had given him the energy and strength he needed to begin anew. James felt happy and nothing could disturb his newfound peace and strength. At least, that's what he thought.
Chapter Sixteen: Now or Never

The school bell signalled the start of class. Coincidently, it was also the beginning of the fall from his illusions of a different life. The first thing to jolt him back into the reality of his existence was Jake spitting in his hair as they walked into the Art room.

'Hey Maggot, wash your hair mate, it's disgusting.'

'Look, it's his slime.' One of the pack joined in.

Then as James walked to his desk, Gus thumped his shoulder on his as they passed. James' bag fell to the ground, its contents spilling out. He picked up the textbooks. His arm hurt like hell. Then, before he had managed to collect all his belongings, Pete walked over and wiped his shoes on his art scrapbook.

'Left some shit on them from yesterday. Don't mind, do you?' He smiled.

Just managing to hold back the tears, James picked up the rest of his stuff and sat down at his desk, holding his head in his hands. Thousands of emotions fought to break out, but he held them in; he tried to stay calm. Where was the peace he had felt moments ago? Why weren't things different? Then the voice that he had foolishly assumed was gone forever, whispered in his ear.

'It was just a dream, you idiot.'

Mr. Preacher walked into the room. Pete and his gang sat down, with all the guise of innocence, and took out their workbooks.

'Good morning children. Let's get started on the work we began last class.' From the moment Mr. Preacher stepped into the classroom, James was aware that he was searching his face; clearly, he knew something was up. Feeling the weight of his unwanted attention, James hid his face, lowering it over his desk.

'Don't let them see you cry,' the voice whispered. 'They'll know you're weak. It was just a dream you know, a stupid dream. Listen to me, try to win their respect. If they see you're hurt, they will sense a victory and get at you more. Don't be such a suck.'

James held his emotions in check, afraid that they would break free. He didn't want to listen to the voice but the pestering kept on. 'There's no such thing as shadows, it's just you and them. Stand up for yourself. Hit Burley, that will work.'

Burley sat at a desk near James. He had been flicking sideways glances at him and had seen James' humiliation. Their eyes connected. Burley lifted his head and they held each other's gaze. James recognised the look of understanding on Burley's face. He'd seen the same look in the eyes of the werewolf.

'Go on, spit at him. Make _him_ the slime ball.' James dropped his eyes, breaking the connection. 'Spit on him.'

Mr. Preacher was writing something on the blackboard. He could do it now and get away with it. James was as sure of this opportunity as he was when the chance to thrust the thorn into the beast's chest had presented itself in his dream. He responded to the suggestion, snorting back some snot and prepared to project the contents of his mouth. Now wallowing in self-pity, he could not believe how the morning had turned out to be so terrible; how he could feel so bad after feeling so great. He swallowed the spit. _Why? Grandpa where are you?_ James thought.

'Right here dear boy, right here.'

James twisted his head over his shoulder, but Grandpa wasn't there. Almost ready to dismiss the idea, James started to think about the possibility of the events last night being real. Perhaps everything he'd experienced last night actually did happen. James reasoned through his thinking: if it _was_ true, then it had been his shadow whispering in his ear a moment ago, and if his shadow was here with him, so was Grandpa. Like two sides of a coin, Grandpa had said, so he had to be here too. James peered over his shoulder. This time his grandfather's sparkling eyes looked back at him. His heart leapt for joy.

'I don't understand. What's happening?'

'He's talking to himself,' Jake shouted so all the class could hear. The room burst into laughter.

'Be quiet...be quiet.' It took a moment or two but Mr. Preacher gained control. 'I'll have no more of that Jake, thank you.'

Grandpa picked up the conversation. 'Just talk in your head James, I'll hear you, okay?'

'Ok, but what is going on?' James replied, hearing his own voice in his head.

'What always happens, James. These thugs are bullying you as they usually do.' Hearing Grandpa label them as bullies was, for James, like being slapped across the face with the truth. He had never considered them to be bullies. To him, they were the leaders, the people everyone wanted to be.

'The journey you went through doesn't resolve what happens up here. You can't change anyone or anything. What you can do is choose how you relate to people and react to the situations they put you in.'

James' mind was calm again, but he knew he would soon have to make a choice: to accept things as they were, or start to change.

'Look at Pete, James. What do you see?'

Pete bent his head over his work. On his face, a sinister smile was flickering. He certainly wasn't as magnificent as the monument James had created in the underworld. That piece of work was far superior. Pete appeared to James much as he always did, conceited and arrogant. But now James could also see that, behind him, something dark was cuddling up to Pete. _What was it?_ James gasped. Pete also had a shadow whispering in his ear. He watched the dark figure at its work, unable to make out the words it spoke. He noticed Pete's face moving with small twitches as he wrestled with his shadow's words. James knew what that felt like. The eyes of Pete's shadow reminded him of Mal's: vicious, mean and cruel.

'Good, you see it.' Grandpa said. 'Check out the others as well.'

Next to Gus, a monstrous shadow loomed over him. Gus scribbled furiously at his work with a blunt pencil; he was really crap at art. James wondered what his shadow was saying to him. Jake's shadow was like a snake slithering from side to side, whispering first in one ear, then the other. James could see Jake silently moving his lips in a conversation with it. The shadow was clearly disturbing his mind.

'Didn't I kill them, Grandpa?'

'No James, they are their shadows, not yours. You killed, or rather, had the perception of killing your _fear_ of the boys, which appeared in the shadow underworld as their shadows. However, you can't kill fear, it just comes at you again in another form. In fact, to kill off fear is really dangerous, because it leaves you completely vulnerable. What you experienced in the Kingdom of Shadows was how to progress through your anxieties and fears. Take a look at Burley.

To James' astonishment, he could see next to Burley a pair of sparkling eyes like Grandpas, twinkling. Dressed in a cloak of darkness, with a bright face shining out from its depths, Burley's shadow was similar to his own. Burley saw James looking and smiled at him. They held each other's gaze. James knew without a doubt that Burley could see Grandpa at his side. James returned his smile, pleased that someone else knew.

'There are more, look around,' said Grandpa.

Most of the pack had shadows. He could see shadows resembling all kinds of different dark creatures of the imagination: witches, werewolves, ogres and vampires. Occasionally, he caught one of the shadows turning around to reveal other sparkling eyes that twinkled briefly before the flip-side of the shadow returned. James looked at Mr. Preacher. Right next to him was an old man, his face conveying a wisdom born of years of experience and knowledge. The eyes were electric blue with millions of stars racing through them. Then James heard the figure speak.

'The boy will come to you when he is ready, Henry. All you can do for now is wait and keep a close eye on him, see that he comes to no harm.' The old man was talking about him, James was sure of it.

The rest of class was uneventful, Grandpa and his shadow having withdrawn as James came to terms with the implications of what he had just discovered. He hadn't been very productive with his class work, not being able to gather his thoughts or focus on his work, as he spent his time studying the shadows.

At recess, James walked alone to the playing fields. As he crossed the playground he witnessed one boy's shadow grow from being a small pixie-like thing into a powerful ogre. He had never seen anything like it before. The boy was arguing with his friends about who was going to play 'in goal'. They wanted him to, but he had a different idea. As he became angry, his shadow grew more fearsome, feeding off his energy. Then the situation exploded: the boy threw the ball at his friends and stormed away. His shadow smiled and melted back into the small pixie, scampering behind the boy, happy with the outcome of his work.

'Come and play footy with us.' Pete interrupted James' thoughts.

He smiled. Pete had never proactively asked him to join in a footy game in recent memory. He almost said yes without thinking, but he glimpsed the evil eyes of Pete's shadow peeping over the top of his shoulder. They were definitely just like the eyes of Mal's shadow. Gus and Jake waited a few yards away with a small gang. The shadow whispered something in Pete's ear.

'It'll be okay, come on,' said Pete. The dark creature's eyes sparkled with mischievousness. 'Look, let's forget everything that's happened and start again, okay. We use to be friends, didn't we?'

'This is your chance. Don't mess it up, fool,' James' shadow encouraged. His shadow was right: it was his chance, but not in the way he was suggesting. James remembered the shadow underworld and the strength he had found in the gauntlet; he remembered the courage he had found to turn and walk away; he remembered how Pete's offer to let him become one of them was nothing but a trap, and how each of the treasures in the gauntlet were illusions - powerless artefacts. James decided that again it was time to stop playing their game.

'No, I don't think so. Thank you anyway Pete.' He walked away, trying his best not to antagonise him, but the insults flew as he made his way over to the only friendly face he could see, Burley.

'Hi Burley, how are you?'

'Oh, o–ok I s–suppose.' Burley backed away from James. James sensed the boy's dark shadow growing.

'I'm sorry I've been such an idiot.' James said.

Burley smiled and James realised the darkness beside him had gone. They chatted for a few minutes. A lot of the conversation was just finding out about each other. After a while he realised that a few from the pack were approaching. At first, James suspected they were there under Pete's instruction, but to his surprise a couple of them joined in the conversation. The gathering dispersed quickly though, when Pete and his generals made their way over, confrontation written on their faces. Only Burley stayed beside James to face them.

'Make him dance, Maggot,' said Pete, holding out some stones.

'Go on,' said Jake. 'It's you or him. Ha! He hasn't got it in him, the spineless vermin.'

James could see the next round of insults coming, just like the well-rehearsed movements of the martial arts shadow he had killed. The snake-like shadow whispered in Jake's ear. Jake's eyes narrowed.

'You–

'Is that all you can do, Jake, call people names?' asked James. 'Just leave us alone. Understand this: I'm not going to do it.'

Gus' huge frame stepped forward. James stepped back, the sheer power of his physique casting darkness on his heart. He nearly buckled. He nearly ran. He nearly raised his arms to cower behind. However, he didn't do any of these things. Deciding not to be intimidated, refusing to be a victim of his fear, James stepped forward, accepting the possibilities and consequences of his actions. Taking his lead, Burley followed. Side by side, James and Burley faced up to Gus. The massive boy shuffled on the spot, unsure what to do.

Jake darted to his side, snorted the lodgings of his nose into his mouth and spat at James with all his force. Predicting the attack James turned out of the way of the snot ball.

Pete cut in. 'Leave him Boys, he's mine.' Pete smiled at James. 'It's time for _you_ to dance, Maggot.' In his hand, Pete held a small cluster of stones. He threw one at James' feet, hitting his ankle. When this didn't provoke a reaction, he threw another. This time the missile landed on the top of James' foot. It hurt like hell even through the leather of his shoe. But unlike last the time he'd been force to dance in this way, James wasn't going to oblige them. He held onto his emotions, determined not to submit or cry out. Everyone in the whole school was now gathering to watch the conflict. James could see that the pack, silently observing the events, had sensed the game's changing dynamics. Pete had realised it too; fear of losing face was written all over him. More stones hit James' ankles while Pete stared at him, trying to break his will, looking for a sign of weakness. Inside James was now calm, his mind was clear and his resolve strong.

James bent down and picked up a stone. Pete's face flashed with a moment of panic. He knew how good James was at throwing. His shadow appeared on his shoulder. It whispered something in his ear and Pete responded to the instructions, smothering any sign of the fear his face had betrayed a moment ago.

'It's too late.'

'What are you talking about, you pathetic idiot. '

'We all saw it Pete. It's too late to cover it up.'

'Saw what.'

'Your fear.' James dropped his stones. He turned to leave, but was blocked by the frame of Mr. Preacher bustling across the playground.

'What's going on?' he asked. No one answered. 'James, Burley.'

'It's nothing,' Pete laughed, 'Just a disagreement we've sorted out, hey Maggot.'

'My name is James, not Maggot.'

'Ok, James, what is going on? Tell me now,' commanded the teacher.

At that moment, James felt as if he were caught between the two dragons in the underworld: to snitch or not to snitch. With the pressure of his predicament building, James' face flushed and sweat beads formed on his face. Mr. Preacher waited for his response. On the one hand, James knew he needed to hold Pete to account for his bullying, and he wanted it to stop. However, on the other hand, if he snitched, then he would be labelled a yellow snitch. He realised the act of snitching would fuel more bullying. But to not tell would leave Pete free to continue. The decision had him trapped. Unable to find an immediate answer to the problem, James stayed quiet.

'Both of you, go and stand outside my room.' James had never heard Mr. Preacher command a situation in this way. His mild manner had been replaced with a forceful presence.

Outside Mr. Preacher's room, Pete and James waited for the teacher to arrive. Pete rested his back against the wall, his head slumped down and arms folded, with his shadow clinging to his side and whispering in his ear. They had walked to the room in silence. James' shadow was up to his usual tricks, telling him to try and placate Pete with apologies; that if he did this Pete would probably make his life a misery for a while, make him pay for stepping out of line, but after a while things would return to normal. James knew the real challenge his shadow's request presented him: was he prepared to pay the price for following this new direction, or would he fall back into the usually pattern? James let his dark side babble on without paying it further attention; he knew now that its advice only purpose was to lead him to his higher voice. There was no other choice but to be true to himself, regardless of the consequence.

'If you snitch, you're dead. I'll rip your head off.' Pete's shadow loomed over him, growing more grotesque by the second. James wondered how he'd ever come to admire him. Footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Mr. Preacher was marching down the corridor, his arms swinging with military purpose. Pete stood to attention, fear etched on his face. James wondered if Pete could see Mr. Preacher's shadow, an evil shadow that cast a gloominess on the teacher's face, the likes of which James had never seen before.

'In here you!'

Pete followed the teacher into the room, throwing James a threatening glare as he left. The teacher slammed the door. James heard Mr. Preacher's enraged, accusatory voice, but he was unable to make out the details. However, the tone did not sound good for Pete.

'So my boy, what are you going to do?' asked Grandpa. James turned his attention away from the door to the dazzling eyes beside him.

'I don't know.'

'Sure you do, you're just afraid to say it.'

'Does everyone's shadow work like mine?'

'More or less, but not everyone gets to understand why or how. And even fewer get to see me, or their version of me.'

'Oh, I see.'

'That doesn't mean they don't have the potential to, it just means that they aren't ready, or they find another way. Anyhow, their shadow keeps on chipping away in the hope they may discover him, and then the process of freeing themselves begins. Pretty much like it happened for you.'

The door opened. With his head hanging, Pete scuttled down the corridor, his shadow bickering in his ear. At that moment James felt sorry for him; after all, he knew and understood what it felt like to be a victim of your own shadow's attacks.

'You can't save him James. The only thing you can do is save yourself. You know what to do, so have courage and do it.'

'Come on in,' Mr. Preacher invited, the darkness cast by his shadow gone. The room was cold, but the teacher's friendly smile warmed James. 'So, James, is there anything you'd like to tell me?' James' heart leapt, it was now or never.

Telling Mr. Preacher his story was the hardest thing James had ever done. He realised that with each word he was probably condemning himself to the pack as a snitch, and he expected the consequences of his action to be horrendous. For it was not only Pete who would be after retribution; James was well aware that he was giving everyone more reason to hate him. But at least he wouldn't hate himself or have to deal with his bullying shadow. Grandpa would support him in that he was sure.

Mr. Preacher listened to the story without interruption. James saw the grave expression on his face. Throughout the telling, James' heart was pounding as he relayed the humiliation he'd been subjected to. He also confessed to the disgraceful acts he'd committed against Burley. Refusing to let his shadow impose and turn him from his path, James gave Mr. Preacher as much detail as he could remember. He spoke quickly, with barely a pause, knowing that if he stopped, his fear of the consequences would bubble to the service and his shadow would seize the opportunity to confuse him with doubts. When he had finished recounting everything, James breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He waited for his teacher's reaction.

'I found one of your paintings that they destroyed yesterday,' said Mr. Preacher. 'It must have blown across the fields. I picked it up in the playground. Thugs!'

James expected to see the wise man on the reverse side of Mr. Preacher's shadow instructing him, but instead he saw the teacher's evil shadow whispering in his ear. The dark figure vanished suddenly, as if Mr. Preacher had turned him off.

'Do your parents know?'

'No.'

'You realise, of course, that people are going to call you names, a wimp or worse.'

James nodded. There was a pause.

'You do know that we can't keep this between you and me.'

'Yes, I understand.'

'Good lad. You are extremely courageous. I'm very sorry that you've had to put up with all of this. You understand that things are not going to get easier straight away?'

James nodded again.

'Good, well, the first thing I need you to do is to tell your parents. Once you've done that we can work out what to do next. Until then it's just between us, okay?'

'Yes, sure.'

James spent the rest of the day trying to avoid Pete, Gus and Jake by staying close to a teacher. When asked by one of the pack to spill what happened in Mr. Preacher's room, James just replied, 'nothing' and walked away. Both Grandpa and his shadow left him alone as well, so James was free to think about how he should go about telling his parents. His mother, in particular, worried him. Over the last few years, they had never talked about real stuff. He had kept her at a safe distance.

When school finished, James escaped the pack by choosing a new route home. It was a long walk but because he was absorbed in his thoughts, it seemed to be over in the blink of an eye. When James came through the front door, his mum greeted him with a smile. His well conditioned response, built up over the last few years, kicked in and he rolled his eyes and then busied himself unpacking his bag, as his way of rejecting her warmth. When he lifted his head back up, he saw his mother's dark shadow appear on her shoulder.

'Don't let him get away with this, he never tells you what's going on. He never talks with you. Have it out with him and get this rubbish sorted.'

The sight of her shadow threw James off balance. He wasn't sure what to do next. He could see his mum preparing to launch into an inquisition, and he felt his defences beginning to rise. However, something changed in her, which stopped him in his tracks. His mum's shadow flipped over before his eyes and to James' great surprise his grandmother was now standing at his mother's shoulder. Her eyes twinkled like Grandpa's.

'It'll be okay, Janice,' Grandma said. 'Just keep yourself open and be there when he needs you.'

Mum looked up at me and smiled.

'Would you like a snack James?'

'Mum, there's something I need to talk to you and dad about.' James' voice, charged with emotion, wobbled as he spoke. 'I'm being bullied at school.'

Grandma's twinkling eyes smiled at him with delight. His mum moved towards him and hugged him. James knew tomorrow would be just as horrible. He knew the bullying would start all over again. Concern stilled weighed on him, and he had no idea if his actions would change things for better or worse. But at least it was a start, and for the first time since he could remember, he felt hopeful. Sure, dark creatures would still grow in his mind, fear and doubt would try to take over, and his shadow would continue to plague him. However, James now knew that he was his shadow's king, the King of all his shadows. So he had the power to take control. And on the other side of the dark figure, of course, was his grandfather, with his sparkling eyes and his wise words. James smiled. He loved his grandpa.

The End
