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Ghost, Running

Richard Jenkins

Published by Weston Books
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Copyright © 2015 Richard Jenkins. All rights reserved.

The right of Richard Jenkins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher or author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author's or publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN: 978-0-9570560-1-5

# CHAPTER 1

Just beneath the surface of an ordinary lake, a monster was lost to a dreamless sleep. Every night just before dawn, the monster would dive off the Moon and land without splash or witness aroused to fall peacefully and completely asleep. With the first touch of dusk, the monster would wake, stretch its body and sharpen its teeth then rocket back up to the Moon. For the Moon was where other more hateful monsters came, those from far away that coveted the Earth as a home. All had a plan to invade, to steal this earthly realm, to pack it tight with a new breed of beast one formed in the cold black of space, a horrible, crazy mutated thing that could only be nice to its own.

The Moon, to them, was a stepping stone, 'one giant leap for monsterkind,' they would howl, 'one final step for man!' They lurked in the shadows on the edge of the dark side and spied on the people below. 'Earthlings,' they laughed, 'how ripe they are to serve and submit as slaves to a higher, monster, kind!'

But the monster from the lake was fearsome and savage and scared these creatures away. Thankfully, it had signed a pact: to defend and protect the Earth, to ward off all invading monsters who desired the Earth for a home - and its people as dogs and feast day food. However, the only boy on the Earth who understood this was a sad, lonely boy called Ben.

Ben knew he had broken the law. He had violated The Treaty Of Earth Monsters, People and Chimps. His crime, to break 'clause 153z', which states: 'No boy shall ever disturb an Earth protecting monster that has fallen peacefully and rightfully asleep. If they do, whether knowingly or not, the monster may recall its true, savage nature and in an instant become the type of monster seen in the darkest nightmares of boys, girls, women and men and may, without hesitation or fear of punishment, consume the guilty boy as meat; or worse, may pickle the guilty boy to keep him alive as a snack for another, far away, day; or double worse, may slowly starve the guilty boy to skin and bone then use what is left to carve and fashion something that is utterly useless, something that means nothing to and is liked by no one: monster, man or even chimp. In fact, something so shockingly ugly and pointless, the first person to see it would feel compelled to smash it into a million pieces, to turn it into nothing more than dust then vanish it as waste into the air forever.'

Now this was the fate that awaited Ben, but fortunately Ben was quick to fear so when a strange noise made him jump as he stood by the lake throwing in stones with an angry, hurtful force resenting how quickly the water healed to become calm and still again, his instincts drove him fast away. And when, and only when, he had fled far beyond the noise and was hidden amongst a cluster of trees did he dare look back towards the lake. It appeared to him so real and true it would forever haunt his dreams; the monster from the lake sniffed the air with a ravenous need to find the scent of its prey - one small boy called Ben.

Fear filled Ben's limbs; he became as stiff as the tree trunks that hid him. This monster, this strange rocket shaped thing, part machine, part serpent, was seeking the joy of justice. Its long, thin metallic body was twisting to find then pounce upon the boy who had disturbed its well-earned sleep. Its mouth, a mass of irregular teeth like torn and ripped metal – deadly to rock let alone the flesh and bone of a boy aged just ten years old - snapped open and released a deranged scream of rage that sounded like a thousand jet planes tearing through the sky. Flames poured from its tail, and it hovered above the lake and land.

Ben closed his eyes and tried to imagine nothing, to hide behind a shield of inner darkness. Can you imagine nothing, nothing but darkness and silence? Ben could; it took no effort for him to burrow beyond the light, to find a place where at least he could imagine nothing came to do him harm.

When he finally opened his eyes, the darkness has spread outside, the night had come to Bromlow Wood, peace and quiet too. He looked towards the lake moonlight skimmed its surface. Nothing there disturbed the night; the monster had returned to the Moon.

The peace was superficial, it could never calm his fears. He knew, too well, that other monsters filled the wood. And yes, at night, these monsters were banned from hurting any boy - that they could do in the day when the boy could better see to run away - but they still had the right to tease and scare and play tricks. They would make distance suddenly expand so that no point in the distance ever seemed near or reachable. Propelled by terror, their victims would run as fast as they could only to inch pathetically forward. For fun, these monsters would trap a boy in a moment of time and make him feel so small and alone that the boy would feel as good as vanished.

Before such a monster could strike, Ben bolted. He ran as fast as his weak, undernourished body could take him, and as far as he could manage before he had to stop and violently cough. He coughed so hard he could hardly breathe, but this caused him no fear. He was used to his cough, as he was the wheezing and the tightness that would strangle his chest. In many ways he was fond of his cough; it made people weary, kept them away. His cough was a friend, some sort of weapon, a voice to shout, to warn and scare.

The lake was where the monster slept. If left undisturbed, it would cause you no harm, but to wake it unduly was to unleash a beast. Ben knew this, but the boys at his school all refused to believe, so when they played by the lake, when they dared each other to run across a path of stepping stones, Ben never joined in. The danger for him was far too real, the teeth that could slice through rock too vivid a memory. The other boys all laughed at him and called him a coward, a gutless wonder. He tried to explain; their words became harder, as did a fist and even a kick. Ben, however, never joined in.

If only football had been their challenge. He so desperately wanted to play, to join one of the games that formed, as naturally as any ocean wave, from running boys freed from school. He, however, was never asked. The collective swell of enthusiasm and excitement was not a current he was allowed to join. Even when the numbers were odd, or thin-on-the-ground, he was left out at sea to watch and wonder why.

If only they would give him a chance. He told himself he could cope with the coughing and the wheezing, for the first half at least. He would even play in goal, which was not his position of choice, but if asked, he would gladly take his turn. He would serve his apprenticeship between the goalposts before earning the right to attack and score. He did, after all, have pedigree: his Dad had been a professional football player and had captained the local team. Football, Ben believed, was in his blood. How could it not be? His blood was his Dad's blood; it ran through his veins to inspire his dreams. Every drop was something shared, a touch beyond the grave. His Dad, before conscription, had volunteered to join the Army. At the time, the Second World War had just began; his Dad, would never see it end.

Ben felt he had a duty, a need to make a connection. His Dad was a hero who had fought with a fearless spirit and who had died saving the life of another man - another act of bravery, another shiny medal. One more for Ben to pin to the breast of an empty football shirt or folded army jacket - if such items ever became his to hold.

Ben had told the other boys of the danger lurking just beneath the surface of the lake on which they played. So what now could he do? What choice did he have? He had told the boys of the danger; he had warned them, and vividly. So that afternoon, fresh from school, with nowhere to go but slowly home - the longest route he knew, walked as fast as he could through the sharp, shivering air - what could he do? He was the hidden witness. The boys he knew from school. He watched them play a dare, to cross the stepping stones. What could he do as they raced away one after the other, their scuffed and frayed, oversized shoes barely able to grip the frosted stones, and the first touch of dusk an hour away? What could he do when the first boy slipped and for a brief, hopeful moment teetered on the brink of regaining his balance? What could he do when the second boy failed to stop and so shunted the first boy forward knocking them both off balance? What could he do as they plunged into and beneath the water, the shock and the threat from the all-consuming cold failing to silence their screams? He knew the monster would wake, roused and savage. What could he do but run away, scared and frightened, repulsed and confused by the panic? And so he did, he ran away as far as his cough and crushing lungs would allow, and when he could run no more, he staggered across deserted country lanes desperate to reach his hiding place, the one place on Earth he could tentatively call a home.

This one place, a single room, was where Ben loved to be; a house, not his own, had captured him. One Sunday afternoon, while playing alone, he had raced the wind and won. No people witnessed his victory. The hilly land bore no crop. The scattered trees had cast their leaves and were readying to sleep. He stood alone; the prize was his. A once fine manor house - neglected by man but desired by nature, which was rapidly swallowing it whole - stood just beyond the finishing line.

The owner of the house was a man known to all in Ben's village as The Objector – and a weaselly coward of the very worst kind. He had refused to fight in the War; he had refused to defend the freedom and the honour of his country. When served his conscription papers, he vanished. He ran away from his duty as only a coward would do.

When Ben saw the house he made a pact: if he dared to enter the grounds, to run to and touch the front door, and if he showed bravery in achieving these goals, then a connection with his Dad would be made. Somewhere, somehow, his Dad would know of his deed, and for a brief but real moment they would be as one. But what bravery does it take to breach the garden of a house that stands empty and forgotten? None, it may be thought; however, Ben knew no space remained empty for long: when people leave, monsters, creatures and things invade the space with a ruthless ease. Whether ancient ruins or unused rooms, deserted towns or gardens left to waste, monsters will come to creep around and lurk inside. The emptiness gives them power. The memories left by people that echo and loop ghost-like are mocked and chased away. If any human dares to return, all is done to repel them viciously.

Ben knew that to be successful he would have to run, twist and dodge - no different to the gauntlet he was sometimes forced to run when coming home from school. Hands would grab, push and slap but through skill, instinct and lavish bursts of speed he would slip free of the attack to reach the house and victory.

The first line of defense was a large stone wall that continued to stand proudly against the ruin of nature. It stood twice as tall as Ben and sealed the house in from the outside world. However, a rotting wooden door, which had long ceased to guard against even the weakest of creatures, promised quick and easy entry.

With one hand poised to open the door, Ben closed his eyes, held his breath and even pinched his nose. Ready to take the plunge, he pushed the door open, dashed forward three steps then stopped and opened his eyes. He wondered aloud, 'What else is here trespassing with me?' The garden he stood in was wild and dense. Trees, bushes and vines ruled this land, many were winter bare and woven together net-like. Ben pictured them as devices designed to catch a boy then feed him slowly into the earth. The stripped branches that instantly surrounded him were like deformed, boney fingers – hands covering eyes, fingers spread to allow the thinnest of views – through which a vision of the large, once stately house slowly crept. Its grey brick walls and slated roof merged with the colourless day. Its eight large windows stood out like black sunken holes and possessed a strange, beguiling force: Ben felt pulled towards them; however, these punctures allowed nothing of the inside to escape beyond the glass.

Ben stood perfectly still; desperate for silence, he barely shed a breath. He strained to listen, to catch all sound. Even the wind, it seemed, feared to enter. All was silent and still. The smell of decaying leaves, a thick mush beneath his feet, scarred the damp, cold air.

Was this a trap? Was he meant to sink, deep alone? He suddenly looked up; a grey, birdless sky leered down from above. Had all life ceased to be? All that moved was his frosted breath, which fled quickly up and out of reach. All that was green looked black. The ivy leaves were bruised and tarnished, robbed of their luster. Did normal rules apply? Monsters, what rules could they break while at the house of The Objector – a man who himself had broken the rules?

Nature must know; nature must watch. It follows the seasons and settles at night. Ben knew this, and he knew that nature now watched him. He heard its call, sensed the wilds become alert and fix their focus on him. He was the berry, ripe and exposed, ready to be plucked away.

He thought of his Dad, how fearless he was, but his Dad fought only men not monsters, creatures and things. He thought of his Dad and took one slow step forward. All around him remained stalker still, but then a sharp breath of air filled his lungs and provoked his cough to spit and rage. Chaos and noise began to spiral around him \- bushes shivered, trees shook, the wind had heard the call. Ben felt as all saw him a feeble boy too weak to stand, to take the cold, damp air. Now the monsters were ready, primed and willing to strike.

He could run, he thought, go, flee, but the thought of his Dad gave weight to his thin, trembling limbs. He stood, readying himself to fight. Forward, charge, he silently called. The remnants of a footpath his only guide. Hands grabbed, pushed and slapped. Branches tried to snare him. Nettles shrieked as they stung him. Brambles laughed as they clawed his trousers, knowing the rips would enrage his Aunt. He pushed-on-through with his eyes half closed until tripped and driven into the ground. His hands plunged into the leafy ooze. What thing hidden beneath these leaves will now grab and pull him down? What creature will strike from the air? He cowered, briefly, then scrambled to his feet rushing forward, hard and fast, twisting his body to dodge the airborne attack. Soon the front door stood before him, solid and blank. A friend or foe? All he had to do was touch it, but fear drove him on, he lunged for the handle, grabbing it and mauling it with both his hands. The door gave way; he slipped inside and slammed the door shut. As it rattled the frame he wondered, had he escaped or had he imprisoned himself?

Silence. The dark grey of forgotten space, the ugly taste of stagnant air. Ben turned from the door. He feared himself alone; he feared himself surrounded. A single, brief sound - a lazy, teasing thud - startled him. He snapped his head around desperate to find the source, but darkness blocked his sight. The space felt massive, too big, too consuming; he felt unknown and empty. This was a room made of cracks and underbellies in which the rotten end of life festered.

Another sound, a single drop of water, echoed off the walls and through him. It pinned him still.

Can shadows move, can they dance with light? If not, then what was that that shuffled and fidgeted all around him? What fix did they crave?

Can space be sucked ever small until solidly shut? If not, why did the darkness move ever near? To trap him forever? To imprison him in a dark, shrinking cell?

His breathing became tight. Are they pulling the air from the space around him? The sound of doors creaking open. What moved, positioned itself ready to strike? Ahead of him, a staircase led to black. Behind him, the door beckoned the wind inside. He ran, just went, as fast as he could go, up the stairs, his hands and feet propelled him forward, the darkness shouldered aside. Something, he knew, then touched him, something he knew, chased to grab his ankle. He saw it in his mind, a hand that was grey and bloodied, human once, now starved and beaten into another form. The stairs became a galleried landing. A murky, dirty light teased him with vision. Doors, all closed, confused his decision until one with a sign, 'Keep Out' pulled him forward. He ran to it, crashed through it into a room that offered only darkness.

The door, which he had pushed, swung to close shut. His fate was sealed; trapped in black, he was theirs to snatch. Bang, went the door, a sound that felt so final. His eyes snapped shut. A burst of light shocked them open and flushed the darkness out.

Startled he span round to face the room that had trapped him. His pounding heart felt sickly in his throat; fear continued to swirl inside him. A soft, warm glow enveloped him and slowed him. Two elegant chandeliers, which appeared like halos floating just below the ceiling, lit the room with an easygoing orange light.

Immediately, Ben thought the air was easier to breathe. It was cleaner, had less dust, and was marked with the scent of polish and wood - much like the air at his school only somehow friendlier. Recessed dark oak shelves lined every wall, and books filled every shelf. The amount of books overwhelmed him. So many books, he thought, too many to count, too many to read, their spines lined up in rows like the medal ribbons he believed would adorn his Dad's Army Jacket.

Could all these books be different? Why would any person, or indeed the world, need this many books? Ben struggled to understand. Was this all the information known to people? Were all the stories that had ever written stored in this room? Was this everything? Was this every scrap of knowledge, the history of everything that had ever been done plus a little extra just to be smug?

A clock - one bigger than Ben, bigger than any he had ever seen, industrial in size and design, with muscular iron hands and an exposed working mechanism - clung to the only section of wall that was not lined with a bookshelf.

Ben wondered who or what used this room. Someone, or thing, with a massive head for a massive brain but with eyes that were strangely small: the head of a giant, with the eyes of a mouse on the body of a normal man.

And who had saved him, who had given him this shelter? His fear was thawing; he was alone and starting to feel safe. The room felt used and protected, a place someone loved to be. Had he found a space, a single room, that the monsters feared to enter?

In the centre of the room stood a plain wooden table and a well-used leather armchair. The chandeliers seemed several classes above, like a bejeweled king and queen looking down on their humble, lowly subjects.

Ben continued to stand, still and silent. The only sound was the ticking of the clock - a silky, continuous rhythm that seemed to race ahead of normal time. Finally, he crept forwards towards the table. The plush, soft carpet beneath his feet held his silence intact. When he reached the table, he found the answer to the question why, why he now felt safe and protected from all that festered in the world outside.

A newspaper, The Shropshire Star, was laid flat on the table. The front page headline screamed, 'Britain At War With Germany'. He knew the date for this; the moment history had turned. It was the 3rd September 1939, the day after his Dad had volunteered to join the Army. He knew this as fact as his Aunt had once let it slip - a one-off crack in her iron facade that quickly rusted over never to appear again.

He snatched the newspaper from the table; a chill raced down his spine. Had they fooled him, tricked him into feeling safe? He hated the War; the War to him was all that pain could be. He refused to celebrate the Allied Victory, to even play soldiers with the other boys. He was laughed at and labeled a coward, and soon became the boy that was never picked to play football, or any other game or sport. But still, not once did he yield, not once did he conform and play their games of war. The war could never mean play to him: it was far too real, too sad, too dour, too damaging.

His panic, however, froze then melted fast away. The newspaper fell open to a random page from which a miracle leapt out: his Dad held, to him alive, in a photograph. Just twice had he seen an image of his Dad, just twice in ten years of life, but now, without doubt and without reading a word, he knew he looked at a man, his Dad.

"Blues Captain Enlists," and, "Captain of the blues defiant," he read the headlines then, a miracle to him, touched upon words his Dad had once spoken, "We must not appease Hitler or the Nazis. We must fight!"

This summed up his Dad, the captain of the Blues, a man who had joined the British Army before the rush of war had forced it upon him, and many millions more. He knew the war was coming; he knew he had to fight, to help defeat fascism.

'I made it, Dad. I got here!' Ben told him, proud of himself for the very first time. Ben knew he was going to cry, Dad would see it, but he did not care. He never cried when bullied or smacked or when hungry or even when feeling completely alone, so tears, he thought, were owed to him. Tears of happiness are always welcome. Now he felt victory as the connection between father and son was finally made.

He wanted to take the photo home but couldn't take the risk. If his Aunt found it, she would take it and lock it way, for she was the wicked gatekeeper, the guard that imprisoned all that was rightfully his: photos, medals, trophies, uniform, kit and more, all the belongings his Dad had left behind. Ben, she claimed, had no right to her brother's possessions.

'What memories are they to you?!' she would scream.

'You're not right to have them! He never knew you, not properly! In fact not at all! So they say blood is thicker than water, well let me tell you this, blood is thinned by distance and time.

Yes, that's right, distance and time, which means the blood in you, the bond between you and him, is stranger thin! You may as well call daddy to some bloody foreigner, to some Eskimo chap from the bloody north pole!'

He would keep the photo in the library. With his Dad there to protect him, he would always be safe to enter. The library was now his shelter, a sanctuary from all the bad outside; a bunker beyond the time and space that existed outside. He thought of each book as a sentry standing guard. It made him feel safe, secure, insulated.

He took the page from the newspaper and folded it until all that showed was his Dad. In honour of the library, in tribute to what it had given him, he then scoured the shelves for a book, one, he thought, his Dad would like to read. What book to choose, he thought? So many, all desperate to be read: fiction, history, science and more, and all completely new to him. 'So Dad,' he said, 'I'm just going to have to guess.' He selected a random book then pulled it from the shelf. 'Treasure Island, Dad!' He said, full of wonder as his eyes glanced upon the cover. 'Wow! Look at the cover, a skull and cross bones. Pirates! Look at the guns. Look at the sword. I'd prefer to be shot. They wouldn't get us, though, would they, Dad. They wouldn't take our treasure. We'd fight 'em off. Well, you would. Me, I'd do something, though. I'd surprise them. I'd take them by surprise, somehow.'

He opened the book delicately as if it really was a precious map made fragile with age that could lead the way to treasure. The opening words hooked him and fixed him instantly into the story.

He stood and read the book aloud. Time became invisible and rushed silently by. When he finally glanced at the clock, he was shocked to see how close to night it was. Afraid of the dark, and of his Aunt's easily provoked temper, he rushed to get ready to leave.

'I'll be back, tomorrow, Dad. I've got to go. You finish the story, I'll read it tomorrow. I've got to go but I'll be back tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow. I promise. See you, Dad. See you tomorrow, Dad.'

He closed the book, his Dad nestled inside, then placed it back on the shelf, remembering exactly where, in this city of books, he had put it.

As he ran to the door, he thought of the waiting monsters, creatures and things. He knew they would be seething with anger, enraged at losing the chase. At the door, he paused; fear moved inside, but no, he thought, he must go, he must leave, he must prove to his Dad he will always return. He pulled the door open and rushed outside, back into the chill of dark, forgotten space. This bold, fearless action would take them all by surprise. Like a cannonball blasted into the air, he shot across the landing, down the stairs, out through the front door and into the garden. The wind, caught off-guard, raced to counter his charge but could only throw a feeble gust, which Ben shouldered away effortlessly.

Once free of the garden, he stopped to catch his breath. Through a fit of coughing, he gasped for air, which the wind tried to snatch away. He knew he had to hurry; he knew his Aunt would be waiting.

# CHAPTER 2

Ben lived with his Aunt. His Dad was dead and his Mum, a mystery. He knew little about her. She had abandoned him. His Dad, her husband, had been killed. When this news reached her, she packed a single suitcase, walked out of their home and vanished.

At first, his Grandmother took care of Ben, but when age and illness took her away, he, along with his Grandmother's house, became his Aunt's inheritance.

No mentioned of his Mum ever came Ben's way; no record of her existence was ever displayed. Ben gave her no time and rarely a thought. If cracks appeared in his inner world that allowed his Mum to creep inside he hated himself, he always wanted her gone. To him, she had vanished and so must remain just that, gone forever, erased from history and time itself.

Darkness chased him back to the house other people called his home. He could have taken a shortcut through Bromlow Wood, but fear of the Wood and all the creatures that hid inside drove him to take the long way round.

On reaching the house, he stopped outside and coughed as hard as he could. His Aunt always demanded silence. Her face would scowl and tighten with every cough she heard. To her the sound was physical, it scratched her skin and scraped her bones.

Finally, with his cough purged, he crept through the door and entered the cottage. His Aunt, who sat at the kitchen table, fixed a hateful stare on him.

'Where have you been?' She demanded, but as Ben was about to stutter a reply, she cut back in, 'No, don't! Don't bother! I don't want to know. There is your bread, take it, eat it and keep yourself quiet! Don't you dare make another sound!'

She turned her thin, sour face away and continued to eat her dinner. Twice a week, on Sundays and Wednesdays, all Ben was allowed to eat was a thin slice of bread wiped with a smear of beef dripping or butter. His Aunt, however, cooked herself the best food of the week. This, she claimed, was her right: to live, twice a week, as well as she could have lived if the burden of Ben was not a weight locked around her neck. Sometimes, at night, after drinking a liquid from a bottle she kept hidden, which Ben knew was alcoholic even though she pretended it was tea and drank it from a delicate, flowery cup, she would look at Ben and say,

'What am I now, a beast of burden! And who can love such a thing as that?'

Ben knew better than to offer a reply; his only option was to remain perfectly still and bow his stare to the floor. Stillness was her weapon; she imposed it on Ben as she imposed it on herself.

He observed her body; it was stiff and deliberate. Although her frame was slight, he believed his Aunt to be monstrously strong. He could see a great tension, a powerful force, that she somehow managed to hold contained within. He pictured the wind, the sea, the wild chaos of nature trapped within her, controlled, imprisoned, by this woman, the master. He imagined her, cane in hand, beating a stormy ocean into obedient stillness while the wind watched, trembling. With such forces trapped inside her, she often looked ready to burst. He thought, hoped, that one day she would leap out of her armchair and run fast away without ever being able to stop - her perfect posture left sitting stiffly in the chair as if a snake skin, shed and discarded. The tension within her, a spring wound infinity tight, would propel her ever on. He began to think there may be a button somewhere on her person that if pressed would release this force and her. He quickly concluded her nose was the button so he would sit staring at it desperately wanting to give it a smack.

Ben and his Aunt rarely spoke, not properly, they never showed concern or interest in each other. Ben was a ghostly presence, as silent and as invisible as he could possibly be. He knew he was her unwanted duty, that her reputation in the village, or rather her fear of losing it, was all that kept him just about fed and nearly warm.

Every Sunday she would cook herself a glorious roast dinner, with a sponge pudding and custard to follow. Leftovers always remained, which she displayed smugly and guarded fiercely. Sometimes, if the roasting pan had been left out and unwashed, he would scrape clean the fat and dripping and salvage the shards of crispy meat and roast potato that had stuck to the bottom of the pan.

After dinner, she would sit by the fire in a comfortable armchair. If the night was cold, Ben was allowed to sit behind her on a wooden dining chair, just close enough to steal some warmth from the fire. The only sounds that dared defy the silence were the crackling of the fire and the slow, monotonous tapping of knitting needles, which was a sound that numbed Ben into a sort of madness. It seemed stuck in the present, never destined to move on. Even the room's only clock, a travel clock - the sadness of which was not lost on Ben, although he had promised, if ever he was able, to take the clock on a trip to faraway lands - had lost its tick to the doom of silence.

Ben would sit and let his mind play with the magically bright and colourful flames - the sole providers of animation - they seemed so gentle, so calm and graceful, but Ben knew they were quick to rage. He willed them to grow, to stand tall and powerful, to grab his Aunt, to dance her around the room in a furious blaze and then, when she had fallen exhausted, to ram her up the chimney and use her as a brush, to push her repeatedly through soot and dirt, to choke her as he felt choked or to leave her stuck in the flue so that she became smoked like a kipper. He could then sell her to monsters as a tasty treat. At a penny a pound he would become rich and renowned, a purveyor of the finest quality smoked Aunt.

He longed to be as fire is then nobody would touch him again. He could be gentle and warm or, if provoked and fueled, rage and destroy.

Hidden away on a desk in the living room was a 365 day calendar - with a small, tearable page for every day of the year. Every night, just before his Aunt retired to bed, she would rip the current day's page from the calendar and throw it into the fire where the dying embers would puff it out of existence via flames and smoke. Ben believed this brought a curse to the house, to him and, more tolerably, to his Aunt. He thought it was bad luck to reveal a new day before the current one had ended, even worse to destroy the current day before a new one had begun. In the summer, when a page had been thrown on to a cold or unlit fire, he would sneak downstairs, recover the page and, quite literally, save the day. This, he hoped, would make time his ally in the war against his Aunt. He would imagine thousands of pages flying off the calendar and streaming into the fire. Days, months and years would rapidly pass, and his Aunt would age accordingly right before his eyes. The flames, which he believed were already his ally, would fend off disease, illness and even death and so enable his Aunt to become so incredibly old and shriveled that she would turn into a substance not dissimilar to that of bark. Ugly things that creep and crawl and slime their way around would then infest her and use her for a home and or food.

If the evening cold was tolerable, Ben would go to his bedroom, climb into bed and simply dream or, now that he had found his Dad in the library, read a book until blinded by night. When his Aunt discovered him reading a book he had brought from the library, her reaction startled him. Instead of snatching the book and confiscating it, which is what Ben imagined might happen, she laughed. A strange, joyous shriek erupted from within her as a surge of relief enveloped her.

'Books!' she proclaimed. 'Do you think my brother read fiction? Do you think he had the time or the need? Never did he! Never! Because he was a real man! Too strong, in body and mind, to cower behind the pages of such a book! Pity him! Look at you. You, his waste! Pity him! Look at you, thin of life. What chance you? Tell me that! What chance have you to become anything of him?'

Liberated from a nagging doubt, a victorious wail burst from her. Ben watched and listened impassively. On this occasion, her laughter and words failed to harm him. He knew his Dad was a man of adventure, and such men always have a need to discover and read books - fact and fiction. A need exists inside of them to be taken away to other worlds and times. They need mountains to scale and deserts to cross, those that are real and those that appear in their dreams and on the page. Men of adventure need to feel wonder and awe. An opened book is an opened eye, which is why magnificence and miracles find them first. As they live, they write their own adventure. Anyway, as she laughed and spoke her hateful words, his Dad was at home in the library lost in a world of myth and monster, reading the night away.

One Sunday night became another; life continued the same. Ben would return from the library into silence, hunger and chill. The books he brought home to read sustained him. But then, that day, after running from the lake, from the monster and the boys who dared to cross the stepping stones, he returned to the house and entered a gale of fury and noise.

'Coward! Pity your my brother's name! How he would hate you now!' His Aunt screamed.

A house was nearby, Mr Willis was home, he could have helped just like Captain Briggs, who by chance had stumbled across the scene. If only he had heard Ben call for help, he could have raced to the lake, gotten there sooner and done more to save the drowning boys.

'I was frightened.' Ben said, his empty stomach tightening with a sick, anxious feeling.

'Too scared to speak, to shout? To think, like a normal boy!! Do you know the shame you have brought on this house? The shame you have brought yourself, on me and on my brother!

'There's a monster in the lake. You can't disturb it.'

She slapped his face, her rage uncontrolled.

'A monster! And now a ghost! Let us hope he haunts you! A boy, dead, on your puny hands!'

He ran away, turned and fled upstairs. A desperate hope drove him to find somewhere alone. He reached his bedroom door. Footsteps pounded up the stairs. He tried the door; his Aunt had locked it. He froze, panicked, and felt so very small. The footsteps stopped. His Aunt's voice grabbed him and pulled tight around the throat.

'Before you do as your nature intends, before you run away and hide like the coward you are, I want to show you something. Now follow me!' She said, her anger controlled, contained, but still seething within. Footsteps descended the stairs, pulling Ben in their wake.

Downstairs, in the sitting room, His Aunt stood by the fire. Ben entered the room, she lunged towards him and grabbed the book he had brought from the library.

'These are no good for you.' she said. 'This world is real, hard and real! You should face it like I have to face it! What right have you got to escape, to go lost in your own little world. Hardship is what you require, a heavy dose of the real world so understand this, from this day on, these books are gone!'

She tossed the book into the fire.

'No!' He cried.

'Then save them!' She replied.

She stepped aside as if giving him permission to plunge his hands into the scolding flames and save the book and the others he could now see, from burning in the flames. He hesitated; she laughed a contemptuous, spiteful laugh.

'No, not you! Never you! And I know they're not yours, but let me tell you this, I do not care. Let the owner demand them back, let you fail that request, let you pay for them! Pity my brother, how he would hate you now!'

She walked towards the door and without turning to look at him spoke.

'The key to your bedroom is on the mantelpiece. Use it. get yourself away from me! And never bring another book into my house again!'

Ben was left alone, staring at the fire. He could see the flames were wrong; he could see them twist in agony as they devoured the books. He could hear their screams, crazed at having no choice.

How could he now face his Dad? How could he return to the library empty handed? He knew the library was one, like a brain he thought, and part of that brain was burning in the fire; memories were being lost. The library would hate him now. His Dad too. And the boys, what could he think of the boys? He had warned them not to disturb the monster. He knew there was a real danger but to run away, to once again live while followed by death.

He entered his room and again locked the door. Under the blankets, in darkness, he neither felt safe nor scared, just barely there, his mind and body both blank and numb. Here he remained until deep into the night, when suddenly he realised what he needed to do.

He sat up and threw the blanket away. Moonlight rushed to stoke a frightful memory. He looked to the window; a full Moon hung in the sky. Whatever is bad is made worse at night when the Moon hangs full in a cloudless sky. This, Ben knew. He had seen himself, a person turned mad and crazed with rage while dazzled by the power of the Moon. But still, he knew he had to go, alone, into the darkest depths of night.

He put on his shoes, left then right, as he always did. Then placed Stanley, his threadbare teddy, to sit at the window, as he always did before leaving the house.

'Shout if you see anything coming,' he whispered into Stanley's ear.

He then made his bed. If he got this wrong, he would not return. A messed-up bed is always a sign of a wrong waiting to happen.

Fully dressed, he crept towards the bedroom door. He knew his Aunt would be sound asleep, anchored to the bed by a belly full of Sunday dinner and the drink she called her medicinal tea. Still, he moved with caution as every house has hidden gaps and mysteries. As a dog has fleas, human spaces also hide creatures that live on and feed off supposedly larger, stronger and more capable beasts.

He inched silently through the house; he knew the sore points where a touch would elicit a crack or a creak. The stairs bent his way; the kitchen hid its delicious, hurtful odors of a Sunday dinner denied; the back door made only a whisper, 'good luck,' it said.

Outside, he paused, only the garden stood between him and the rest of the world - a world at night and cursed by the light of the Moon. As he wrapped his scarf around his mouth and nose, to protect from the cold and to muffle his cough, he walked to the coal shed and opened the door. On the coals inside, sat his football, which for several years had been his most treasured possession.

The football was resting, for the final, the tenth re-match, was only a day away. Ben picked it up as if cradling a dying pet, but he knew he had to do it, he knew what he had to do.

'The final's off. Its been called a draw,' he whispered to the football.

'There's a bigger game now. You've been promoted. You're not with me anymore. I'm out, relegated. You'll be better off. It's a bigger game now.'

The football was a real, true friend to Ben. His Aunt would not allow it in the house, if she had, it would have slept in his bed. A kindly man, called Dr Green, had bought it for him as a present. The reason for this, Ben never knew. He did, however, considered it the best medicine ever prescribed, and the only medicine that helped soothe the terror born in him that night had he first met Dr Green.

He went as quickly as he could over fields, roads and lanes. His scared eyes, as wide as the Moon was full. The lake was no more than a mile away, but the stillness of night seemed to reach into time and act as a brake. His progress felt labored, strangely slow. He knew the route well but felt lost and forgotten. Nothing chased him or hid to jump out, no monster or even the wind. Was he too much of a coward to be a prize? Too thin and hungry, for even a snack? Too hated and reviled to scare or tease? All were true, he thought. Even monsters, creatures and things have turned their backs on him tonight.

With the lake in sight, Ben stopped, scared to get too close. On the surface, the Moon touched the Earth and was born a twin again. Would the boy, Mark, feel the light or would his sunken world always be as night? So many questions packed Ben's mind. No answers came to stop them. He imagined Mark deep beneath the water. What was he now, a ghost, a memory made flesh? The monster and Mark, and who knows what. What brew was the lake? What else had fallen, trapped? No place for a boy, he thought. At least his Dad had become a man.

Books had told Ben things he did not understand: that everything happens for a reason, that all is destined to be, but also, God is dead, that chaos propels and twists every single beat of time. Too many voices, too much noise. Life was confusing, a strange, unknowable mess. The only thing Ben knew as fact was that every boy in every world should have their own football. He placed his own down on the ground, stepped back ten paces, then stood preparing to kick.

Twenty metres stood between him and the lake. Did he have what it took to score? If ever he needed to be like his Dad, to prove the son was as the father, this was the moment to shine. Here, amongst a hostile crowd he stood alone, the only player from the visiting team. But he was the boy that played away every day, who had no team, no home.

The football held his stare. No dreams, no fear, he knew only the now. A final cough cleared his lungs. A single step took him beyond return. A sprint to the ball, a kick released, foot and ball connected. The kick felt clean and sounded true. The ball charged high as if sucked up into the night. Ben watched, with only hope to hold him. Finally, a goal was scored, but no victory won. The ball splashed down, caught on the surface of the lake, held between two worlds. Nature remained silent and still, and Ben remained alone.

With the cold beginning to hurt him, he hurried away, his breath wheezing, his lungs struggling. He could have returned to his bed but instead he chose to climb to the top of Callow Hill. Dawn, he thought, was soon to break, and to see this happen could only bring good. He knew the brief moments between night and day would bestow peace and calm all those who had opened their eyes to see it.

Callow Hill was no ordinary hill, but a dormant warrior too: a million spirits, slain in battles to protect these lands, now joined and united as one. When needed, they would rise again, a single being, to fight for the defense The Earth. Ben could not remember how he knew this, it just sat there in his mind - a warrior man, a vast mass of earth and rock, only called into battle when men and boys had failed.

Ben reached the summit and sat on the cold, damp grass. He felt the highest in all the world, the closest to the Moon, the next to be dazzled by its power. The lake, a chameleon and glossed by the Moon, seemed only a surface. He wanted to grow, to rise a giant. He would plunge an arm into the lake and turn it inside out. In fact, turn everything inside out, life and death inside out.

An owl broke the silence; a single tweet warmed the air. Ben looked hopefully, but he knew the owl was never there. His stare fell still. In the distance, he knew of a building that stood hidden. It jumped from the night to be seen clear in his mind.

On a night like this, cursed by the light of a full Moon, a woman had come to his Aunt's cottage like a spirit possessed, her thoughts demanding of her the theft of a boy. She crept, invisible, into Ben's room. Four years had passed to thin it dream-like in his mind, but he still remembered how she plucked him from his bed, how he felt trapped, lost in an unbreakable shell, desperate to struggle, to kick and fight and call for help while all the time being mute and rigid with fear.

'Hush,' she whispered to him. 'I come to do right. I come for right.'

The look in her eyes, as if this act would save her from all the troubles of life. What pact had she made, and with who, Ben thought.

She placed a chain and pendant round his neck; the pendant was one half of a whole: a gold snake, its body entwined, its mouth swallowing its tail. He was given the top half - the bejeweled head, red ruby eyes glaring, mouth wide open engaged in the act of devouring itself. The lower half, the woman wore. Ben glanced it round her neck, the chain tight against her throat as if choking.

'If I fail,' she whispered, clasping the chain to his neck, 'still know me. Please, forever need me. You can us together, complete us; the true power of eternity!'

In his memories, she took him cradled in her arms. They floated silently through the house then out into the garden where a gang of men jumped into the fray and fought to set him free him. Amongst them stood Dr Green, a peacemaker, who Ben remembered calling for restraint.

The woman attacked like the wildest of animals, feral and without fear for herself. Her only weakness was Ben, when he fell from her arms she paused; she needed to know he had come to no harm. He had not, but the men took the advantage and hit her to the ground.

His Aunt rushed him into the cottage, her hands pressed against his ears to deafen him. He managed to steal a final look at the woman. She, too, was being dragged away, her teeth tearing the hand that gagged screams.

His Aunt led him straight to his bedroom and told him to sleep, to forget everything that had happened, to call it a nasty dream. For once, he thought she was right, but before he crawled back into bed to cower and hide, he ripped the chain and pendant from around his neck and threw them out of the window. The next morning a panic set in, the pendant and its curse were still far too close. He went looking, he wanted to take them far away, but he never did; they remained fastened to him, a weight around his neck.

Ben never saw the woman again and was never allowed to mention her or what had happened that night. Dr Green came to visit twice each made awkward by Ben's Aunt whose hostility towards him was obvious to any and all.

Ben thought the woman had been bundled away into the building that stood hidden beyond the trees. He had heard people call it a hospital but he knew the truth, its purpose: a prison for the maddest of things; for angels fallen and wronged; for the monsters who had violated the Pact of Earth Monsters, People and Chimps.

Ben continued to stare through the darkness to see the building crisp in his mind. He felt no fear, or anger, just sadness and as always, alone.

A brilliant, uncluttered dawn began to break. A mist rose from the lake as if a tear from a glistening blue eye. He knew his football had been taken, now to be loved by another boy.

At his bedroom window spying his Aunt walk away. She held a wicker basket, he a tatty carousel spinning top toy. With his Aunt still visible, he dropped the toy and stamped on it repeatedly breaking it beyond repair. He took the mangled pieces to the dustbin and buried them among the waste. He knew the curse would intensify although he hoped it would ease once the binmen had taken the rubbish away.

# CHAPTER 3

School meant nothing to Ben. Once there, he did what he had to do, nothing more, never less. He could read and write, finish his sums and remember the dates of important events. The highlight of the day was always the free bottle of milk that all the children received. This he cherished. His main concern, however, was to withdraw from view, to cause no trouble, to be free of all attention. Not that this was always easy in a village school with a single class of just nineteen pupils.

The only teacher, Mr Arthur Nobbins, was an odious man, small and fat, and constantly sweating. The reason for this, Ben imagined, was two-fold: one, he had hand-me-down skin that was worn and holey, just like the hand-me-down coat Ben's Aunt made him wear. And two, he ate a lot of horse muck. For what else steams hot without fire or electricity? Imagine a bucket of horse muck brewing in his gut, heating him from within, how the heat would make him sweat. Mr Nobbins had gone beyond normal food and now feasted upon the stewing mounds of horse muck found in numerous fields all around Ben's village.

The smallest task would render Mr Nobbins breathless, even writing on the blackboard or walking to his chair. In the village, he was known as The German Sausage. He had entered the War a slender, fit man. Within a week of landing in France, he was captured by the Germans and so spent the next five years as a prisoner of war. Once the War had ended, he returned to the village as a man packed in mounds of fat and with the unexplained ability to speak fluent German. And worse, it was known that he never once tried to escape his prison. It was a captive soldier's duty to try and escape, to continue the war by engaging the enemy in any way they could. Many of his fellow prisoners took this risk, some to freedom, others to prison or death; however, The German Sausage never attempted to fulfill his duty as a Soldier of the Realm.

Of course, no one aired these rumors openly, not in front of Mr Nobbins himself. His father was a local landowner, and his brother was the parish priest, so a veneer of social respect was always afforded to him, as a slug affords the ground with slime.

His favourite subject was silence. Information or education rarely fell from his lips. Work, he thought, was the master of boys, the only way for boys, of the lowly type he taught, to become useful to the world.

'You should all be sent to work!' He would often proclaim. Long periods of silence would be broken by long, angry outbursts, like verbal big bangs erupting from nothing, and would be delivered speech-like, as if he addressed the nation standing before him, without the aid of a microphone,

'When this country was great, you boy, you, you would be set to work on the farm or in the factory! Rightly positioned one below the beast that pulled the plough or cart! Perish the thought you would be here idling in the luxury of a classroom! As millions sacrificed themselves on the battlefield, millions should now be obliged to sacrifice themselves at work! But instead, the fight is for rights! Not the good of the country but for the rights of the common man! A new debauchery infects this land! The freedom we, men like me, soldiers, won for each and every one of you, has been purged from the righteous ones! Educating you, a boy like you! It makes as much sense as teaching a dog to make a sandwich! And even if you could, and I probably could, do we think that dog would eat that sandwich correctly? No!! He would not! He would gobble the sandwich like the savage dog he is!'

And girls, well, they need not be bothered by education or even work, not proper, salaried work. The home was their master, their only way to usefulness.

On the first day back after Mark had drowned, Mr Nobbins started as he always did and took the class register. When he reached Mark's name in the alphabetical list, he looked loudly at Ben for all the class to see and paused in silence, his stare glaring contemptuously at Ben, as if this coward before him was utterly disgusting to the hero he so obviously thought he was. He continued the register but failed to call Ben's name. When finished, he glanced briefly at Ben then looked away and spoke,

'Your cough, your sickness, it's a nuisance, leave us.'

Ben had yet to cough that morning, but whenever he did, Mr Nobbins sent him to sit in another room, alone, so not to disturb the silence.

At playtime, Ben felt he was a prisoner surrounded by enemy guards who, although they kept their distance, were ready to attack if ordered or provoked. He knew he was hated and understood why. The parents had issued a parental command, 'Stay away from that boy or else!' It was an order they obeyed with cruel delight. His one consolation was the solitude it brought, as this would help him complete his mission.

He was responsible for the destruction of some books that belonged to the Library, and now he had to replace them. He had to make the Library whole again, and his Dad must see him do right. In a small room at school, used as an office by Mr Nobbins, stood a bookshelf full of books. What these books were, Ben did not know, but still, they were books, ones that Ben had decided to take.

On Tuesday, a single, planned cough got him sent out of the classroom back to the room he called The Cave for it was cold and dank with bare stone walls. Mr Nobbins called it the store room, but all it stored was a single desk and chair and a large well-used broom. Ben knew what the room was really for; it was a vanishing space to sweep away boys, or worse, a room to let them rot away. Fortunately, he also knew, that if he sat in just the right place, dead centre between the door and the small round window, the broom would fail to sense him, and his body would defy all in the air that sought to rot his flesh away.

He sat at the desk trying to complete the task that Mr Nobbins had set him as quickly as he could, to write a thousand lines, "A cowardly boy is a useless boy, and a useless boy is a worthless boy." His plan to steal the books was simple; with Mr Nobbins in the classroom he would sneak into his office; take the books; hide them outside in a bush; return to The Cave and then, after school had finished, collect the books and take them away to the Library. However, when he asked himself what could go wrong, he returned a hundred answers.

With five hundred lines completed, he stood and crept to the door. Once there, he opened it slowly and inched his head into the corridor outside, straight into the path of a Mr Nobbins rant, which came galloping out from the classroom next door. This, Ben knew, was the time to strike, with Mr Nobbins's rage newly unleashed it would at least five minutes before it had built to its usual crescendo; however, he closed the door and sat back down.

'Count to five, then stand and go,' he whispered to himself. 'But five is odd, not even or lucky, not like ten.'

So he counted to five and then to ten, then stood and moved towards the door with a slow, resisting movement as if the air had become thick and sticky like treacle. His pace was that of a nervous snail blinded beneath a dense flock of hungry birds, but still, his heart began to pound, beating faster and faster, enough for a body that was sprinting to win a race.

Finally, he reached the door. He peeped outside, Mr Nobbins's office was just seven feet away, the door left ajar to tempt him in. Ben stood perfectly still resisting even the slightest twitch; however, his heart continued to pound drum-like as if to call every tribe that remained on Earth to come and witness his crime. How could he move spy-like surrounded by this noise? He could not, he thought, so he ducked back behind the door, returned to the chair where he sat trying to silence his heart. He held his breath until bursting for air, then held it again for longer, but still his heart bashed out sound, machine gun fast, for all to hear. What could he do, but postpone his mission. Today, he thought, was a reccy, an exercise to gather information, a training day, which he had passed. Tomorrow, that was the day he would complete the mission for real.

Wednesday came, and all was perfect. Ben sat in The Cave while Mr Nobbins addressed the nation with a passionate plea to recognise his brilliance. Ben made his move; he tried to stand but failed. Somehow his body was stuck to the chair. He struggled and strained to free himself, but quickly realised some otherly force had stolen his strength.

What error had he made? Had he sat too close to the window? Was the broom about to sweep him away into the thinnest of dust? Was nature set to go fast forward and rot him away in an instant? He sat, scared at his fate; however, it soon became clear that the monsters, creatures and things, none of whom wanted him to succeed with his mission, had tricked him with a game and a spell. They had stuck him to the chair and made his limbs uselessly weak. Only when Mr Nobbins returned to The Cave to tell Ben to go home did the spell cease to be.

On Thursday, he put the mission on hold but only to try and fool the creatures, monsters and things into thinking he had scrapped the mission for good. On Friday, he could catch them off-guard and once again strike without thought or fear, too quickly for their games or spells to ruin his plan.

On Friday, Ben was spared The Cave. It was the day of Mark's funeral, and unbeknown to Ben, all the school were set to attend. 'As a mark of respect,' Mr Nobbins said.'Hence why you will have to remain here,' he boomed at Ben. He left no lines for Ben to write, just the command to sit alone and reflect on the death, 'Of a boy, denied. He, who should have been saved.'

Ben was left to sit completely alone – not even bothered by monsters, creatures or things, as a funeral to them was a must see show, and even a chance to recruit. He sat at the very back of the class, next to the black pot-bellied stove in an attempt to absorb the fading heat it begrudgingly gave away. For thirty minutes, he sat trying to reflect as he had been instructed to do, but all this brought him was fear and distress, so he remembered his Dad and the mission he had promised to do.

Time, he thought, now is the time to act. He stood and ran, fled the classroom as if running from a bomb. Reaching Mr Nobbins's office, he barged the door open and fell inside. A bookshelf stood before him, rows of books all standing half dead, made ill with dust. He grabbed five books randomly, one from each shelf, gathered them into his arms then turned and left.

The school had one door, one hatch to escape from. Reaching it, he grabbed the handle, twisted, pulled and pushed. The door rattled in its frame but, locked, remained shut. He thought of Mr Nobbins, a seeping fat ball of steam, marching the children back to school, the scent of Ben's crime becoming stronger as he drew ever near.

He rushed back into the classroom. With his hands full of books, he had no option, he kicked a chair and passed it skillfully to a window, setting up an easy goal. Without having to adjust his pace, he leapt onto the chair where the window above conceded a view outside. Shocked at what he saw, he almost lost his balance and nearly fell off the chair. Snow poured from the sky to cover the ground and fill his heart with distress as he knew what snow truly was. Every flake was a fairy slain without mercy by creatures, monsters and things. Another cull, he thought, but why? What war was being fought? And now, amongst this blitz, was it safe for him to proceed? He hesitated; the chill of death infecting his limbs, but he knew he had no choice. He jumped from the chair, put the books down, then took off his coat and jumper. After putting his coat back on, he wrapped the books in the jumper using the sleeves to tie the bundle up.

Back on the chair, he opened the window and tossed the books outside. Then, holding on to the window frame, he pulled himself up and fed his thin, ragged body out into the elements. About to let go and fall the five feet to the ground, he hesitated and kept his grip.

'How will I get back in?' He asked himself, panic rising, but before an answer came to mind, his grip was snatched away. He plunged to the earth, his body breaking the layer of pristine snow that laid lifeless on the ground.

Without pause to suffer any pain, he scrambled to his feet, grabbed the books and ran away. He knew he had to hide them. All the world's fear was his, and he wanted to throw it back. To be caught outside was risk enough, but to be caught with a bounty of stolen school books was to risk a punishment beyond the realms of a boy's imagination although Ben suspected it would involve spiders and rats and pits or caves.

He sprinted to the bush - an evergreen hedge. Evergreens, he knew, were the kindest of all the plants and trees. Evergreens know the hardships of life, of trying to survive through the most testing of times. They do not shutdown or hibernate, they struggle awake and give colour to the world when life is thin and bleak. The hedge would be on Ben's side. It would keep the books hidden and safe especially from a man gorged on greed and plenty and known as The German Sausage.

After tucking the books into the bush and making sure they were concealed, he turned to face the school.

'Footprints!' he called out.

The snow laid bare his escape and pointed to the fruits of his crime. What to do, he asked himself. Keep the books hidden, was his reply. The snow was easing off; the footprints would remain. He could take the cane for being found outside, but for the theft of school books?

He knew what he had to do. Off he went, running, planting his footprints all over the school grounds in a maddening, infinite and unknowable pattern. He continued for fifteen minutes getting colder, wetter and weaker until his cough bellowed hatefully out. Against the grey of the school building and the snow covered grounds, he should have stuck out as colour and life, but his grey clothes and cold pale skin, cast him like a discarded stone.

He looked up at the opened window; his only way back inside was to run, jump and hold on tight. He imagined his Dad standing on the touchline - his number one fan come to watch - unmoved by the jeers and boos which echoed around the stadium in an attempt to put Ben off as he stood to face the ball and a penalty kick that would win the cup and legend. A final cough and glance towards his Dad, whose knowing stare and raised clenched fist silenced any doubt he had. He could do it, he thought, make the run and jump. Off he went, as fast as his water-logged feet could go. His timing was good, he leapt up and scored the goal. Driven by fear, his clumsy, numb hands just about managed to grip the window frame as he hauled himself up and back into the classroom.

With his coat and trousers left by the stove to dry, he stood on the chair to watch for Mr Nobbins's return. Snow had again started to fall, and the sound of church bells saddened the air. He watched his footprints as they quickly vanished to erase all trace of his efforts. Where do things go he wondered; footprints, boys or dads? Can anything really vanish, completely and forever? Do we fall through time with everything else, even our thoughts and dreams? How can time be emptied, what is it that throws out all that is dead and spent?

Mr Nobbins returned to the school alone. Ben, who had spied him coming, sat quietly at his desk when he heard the main door open then slam shut. Mr Nobbins entered the classroom as if disorientated and in shock, like a man just pulled from a freezing sea. He snorted at the air in short sharp breathes. Sweat oozed from his reddened face like fat squeezed from a cooked sausage. A dizzy stumble took him towards his desk. His limp body fell, squashed, into his chair, the sides of which acted like scaffolding and stopped his bulging waist flopping to the floor. Oblivious to Ben, his stare twisted into space. Ben feared his teacher was about to vomit, but surely, he thought, such a man would never waste food? But what if he did? What if he had lost control? The vastness of the vomit, Ben wondered, would surely be a great danger to a boy like him who had not yet learned to swim. And worse, he thought, a sight even more terrifying than that of a teacher's vomit, that of a man forced through his own greed to eat his own vomit, to waste not a morsel of anything that could be considered to whatever degree, food. Ben quickly gave a cough to remind of his presence.

Mr Nobbins looked up immediately and with a furious burst of force screamed,

'Get out! Go on! Away from us!!' Ben stood. 'Wait!' Mr Nobbins continued, himself standing. 'Why should we not continue with what is right? Why should you subvert our ceremony, our tradition?'

At the end of every school day, Mr Nobbins stood before the class and sung the National Anthem in its entirety. His singing voice was poor, but his passion and commitment were total. He punched out every word as if he alone stood between the Queen and a vast army come to do her harm and his words were indeed weapons to knock out every man. His eyes would mist over, his skin burn red under swells of sweat.

He waddled up to Ben.

'Look at me boy! Look at me! Don't you dare look away!'

Ben did not dare. Mr Nobbins loomed over him. Their stares became locked. Mr Nobbins began to sing with a passion that was a sort of fury.

'God save our gracious Queen!

Long live our noble Queen!

God save the Queen!'

Ben stood perfectly still, terrified. He thought Mr Nobbins's head was about to explode, or worse, his stomach.

'Send her victorious,

Happy and glorious,

Long to reign over us,

God save the Queen.'

Mr Nobbins began to conduct himself, his hands as fists, slashing at the air. The fury of his passion building ever more intense, saliva foaming at the edges of his mouth.

'O Lord our God arise,

Scatter her enemies

And make them fall;

Confound their politics,

Frustrate their knavish tricks,

On Thee our hopes we fix,

God save us all!'

On he went, expelling all verses from his seething, raging soul. Finally, it came to an end. He stood exhausted, panting, a strange snorting sound pulsing through his nose, his stare still locked onto Ben's.

'You, boy,' his voice depleted, a breathless whisper, 'you will amount to nothing!...Pray you another war! Pray you an unmarked grave, some vestige of honour...Pray there be another war for you, boy...however weak your fight!'

Outside, it was not yet dark, so Ben had to wait, hidden and thick with cold, until he felt it was safe to retrieve the books he had rescued. As if to calm Ben's fears, the low winter Sun came slinking through the thinning clouds. Nature's beauty is an homage to the Sun. Ben knew this. The Sun, to him, was a power, an energy. He would squint at it, dangerously so, enough for his eyes to retain its light. The flat ugly grey of a cloud filled day penned Ben in. To gaze at a cloudless sky was to free his stare and mind, to let it reach out into endless possibility. Clouds were fences, obstacles, to barge through, over and beyond.

Back at the cottage, he hid the books in the coal shed, as his Aunt never looked inside; it was his job to shovel the coal and bring it to the fire. On Saturday, he would smuggle the books away, and complete his mission, he would take them to the library and heal the wounds he had caused.

Saturday morning came late, when Ben woke it was light. He rushed to the window and looked outside; snow had flooded the land. It was the brightest day he had ever seen, as above the sparkling white Earth the Sun dazzled in a faultless blue sky.

With a panicked rush, he quickly dressed. He hoped to leave the house before his Aunt woke to control the day. Missing breakfast, he escaped just in time and managed to grab the books and leave unseen.

His route to the library was just about passable; his frozen feet had to sink in and out of snow that sometimes went up to his knees. Nothing else seemed to move, no wind blew, no birds slid across the icy sky. Nature was out, he thought, or too cold or too wise, to move. He soldiered on; his eyes stung by the light, his skin by the cold, the books kept safe in a rucksack strapped to his back. He had to get to the library; he had to make things right.

Inside The Objector's house, he barely had the strength to run up the stairs and avoid the monsters, creatures and things. Fortunately, for him, his flesh was nearly wood - the cold, you see, has the power to turn the flesh of a boy into wood or even stone, and only the most rubbish monsters, creatures or things eat those. Ben, knew this so felt safe going slow, but still, to be sure, waved the rucksack around his head, as he knew books and knowledge brought fear to all the things that hide in the shadows.

As soon as he entered the library, he paid his dues and quenched the space that scarred the shelves. He then knelt before what he hoped was a working electric heater - a large, brown bakelite box on castors with a series of vents cut into the top and front and with a plugged electric cable extending from the back. Ben pushed the plug into a wall socket then turned the heater's dial from zero to eight.

He sat in the chair, huddled beneath a blanket he had found, folded neatly, under the desk. Warmth began to rise and slowly ease towards him.

Warmth, he thought, was one of the greatest gifts, up there with food and football. If warmth came to him now, if it chased away the cold settled deep beneath his skin, it would be proof that the library wanted him. He would know, for real, that the library and all she housed welcomed him and was glad to have him to stay.

Soon, as warmth soaked into his body, he was smiling, even giggling, in short, timid burst. It was a rare moment of delight, to feel warm and wanted. From under the blanket, he pulled out the book which had kept his Dad hidden, opened it to the last page read, then spoke out loud.

'Where were we, Dad?...Page one hundred and eighty five.'

He said nothing of the last few days, made no excuses or attempted to explain; he just continued to read the story until he had finished the very last page.

The journey back to the cottage was as equally hard and cold as the one going. Hunger drove him on. Even the thought of his meager tea was enough to quicken his step. On the kitchen table, he found his tea going cold: one broken fried egg on two slices of barely toasted bread, and a mug of tepid milk. He asked his Aunt if he could have his missed breakfast; she snapped back,'No!' and that was the end of that.

As he ate, he watched her. She sat with her body turned away from him, a lit cigarette held in her hand; it would rarely touch her lips. She smoked to pause, to sit still, her stare fixed into bitterness. Ben believed her goal was to become as nothing, to empty all inside, to become immune to the world outside. Sometimes she demanded silence; the slightest noise would fire her anger. But at other times, like here at the table, even his hard, aggressive coughing failed to penetrate the still, black nothingness of her stone-cold soul.

She sat just a metre away from him, so close, but still as distant as the faintest star. His wet clothes and day long absence failed to rouse in her the slightest curiosity. She was the guard that did not care. On one hand Ben was free to runaway, to plan and plot escape, on the other, she held him trapped, imprsioned.

The only toy she had ever given him, not one she had bought, it was an unwanted cast-off passed down a reluctant chain until it reached the bottom with Ben, was a carousel spinning top. When spun, a horse - a strong, magnificent grey - appeared to gallop round and round. Ben hated it. He came to believe it held a curse upon him, one that his Aunt enforced. He was the horse and the horse he, free to run at speed but to no where, round and round. As she gave it to him she said:

'I've something for you. No. It's mine. But you can look after it,' she then cackled. 'Now go to your bedroom and play with it. Go! Get on! Oh, and don't you dare break it!'

Before he found the will to destroy it, he hid it in the dead-zone, a spot under his bed, hoping the monsters, creatures and things that lurked there would steal it or break it or turn it into rust.

As he finished his dinner, he began to wheeze, to struggle for adequate breath. Even this failed to break her shell. She believed his condition was all in his mind - psychosomatic, as the local doctor had told her, who also believed Ben's wheezing was a suppressed cry for his absconded mother. Ben knew this to be rubbish, a lie! A cry for his Dad, yes, but his mother, no. The cure, apparently, was to engage him in sympathetic conversation. Needless to say, Ben's condition never went away.

He went straight to bed, keen to get warm and journey to the following day. Slowly, his wheezing receded.

On Sunday morning, he woke to find that the snow had eased back, but still covered the ground.

Before he left for the Library, he continued his fight against the mould that was trying to invade his bedroom. With winter, a few speckles of black had appeared between the ceiling and a wall. The few became a flock. A dense black centre formed, fed and made larger by waves of new speckles that seemed constantly to appear. Using soap and water, Ben scrubbed against the invading hordes, but only to leave a ghostly stain that never failed to replenish alive again.

The walk to the library felt easy, he skipped along, happy and keen to reach his destination. But as he entered the garden, his mood turned sour. Human footprints circled the house, leading to and from the front door. Questions rattled his mind. Was The Objector back? If not, then who? Had another trespasser usurped his space? Was the Library safe? Was his Dad? He turned and ran. Once through the gate and clear of the garden he stopped and turned to look behind. Retreat he thought, wait for another day. He could not risk his den, his sanctuary. Give them, who, whatever, a day to go.

Monday came, a day for school. He had no choice but to truant. If caught, he would be beaten with the cane, but, he thought, what pain was that? Not the type to ruin years.

He made his way to The Objector's house. Once through the garden gate, confusion and fear drew him still: the footprints had vanished. The footprints he had laid down remained, but those that circled the house had gone. It must be a trick, he thought, a game to trap him.

He sprinted to the door. He feared the worst: monsters, creatures and things all ready to strike, but he had to get to the library, the only place he could be safe. He pushed the door open and jumped inside. Without hesitation, he continued up the stairs, along the corridor and into the Library, where he turned and shouldered the door shut, as if trying to stop a rampaging herd of deviants from entering his domain.

'Ah, Ben!' Exclaimed an excited voice.

Startled, Ben turned to look behind. A self-propelled wheelchair that carried a shrunken, elderly man who fizzed with excited energy, raced head-on towards him.

Ben wanted to run. Shock held him firm. The man drew closer. Ben stared at him, bewildered: at his sheepskin flying jacket; at the goggles that covered his eyes; at his wild, grey, wind ravaged hair; at his raised left arm that seemed set to embrace Ben warmly; at his legs, both of which were stumps cut off well before the knee and covered by a pair a khaki coloured shorts knotted at each leg-end. Did his wheelchair fly? Was he fresh from the sky?

'Shocked? You should be! Startled!' Said the man, who Ben, rightly, thought was The Objector.

The wheelchair came to a sudden stop, tipped onto its rear wheels then spun one hundred and eighty degrees so that The Objector had turned his back on Ben.

'But fear nothing of me! This one, this one here!' he said, as he pointed to the top of his head, 'I'll look away. I will not meet your gaze!'

He snapped his head round to glance at Ben, pulled the goggles from his eyes, then spoke in a whisper as if to reveal a confidence. 'It works for horses. Yes. Not madness, method!'

He looked forward, and proclaimed, 'Your chance to run, sir! Go! Flee! And if you do, I promise, I will not give chase! Unless, of course, you require the practice. Then I will chase you like a madman chases a frog, desperately and completely!'

Options ran through Ben's mind, but, overwhelmed, none gave him the will to flee.

The wheelchair began to waltz gracefully around the room. Ben noticed that The Objector seemed to control the wheelchair - the type of which Ben had never seen, made of metal tubes its sleek design seemed as modern as the latest jet fighter plane - using a small joystick fixed to the right armrest.

'But hear me' said the man, his left arm now raised as if holding an invisible dance partner, 'I too come to graze! Indeed, feast!'

Ben watched him as he continued his dance. The wheelchair moved in a circular, seemingly, random manner, but Ben could see, that with every pass, it came ever closer towards him. Not once did the man make eye contact with Ben. Whenever a turn caused his stare to pass over him, he averted his gaze with a bow or a twist of the head.

'Our grass, these books, these magnificent books. This food beyond the belly! You and I, oh how they ever satisfy! You and I, you, who are free to scarper like a thieving oaf, or a mare slapped on the ass with a cold, soggy hand. We share this great plain, with resources so plentiful we need never compete! Naaayyyy!' he said, as if impersonating a horse. 'Ha!' he exclaimed, amused. 'We have seen it all before, together, everything, all before, round and round and round and round. It is a fact, you have nothing to fear from me!'

Now only metres away from Ben, a burst of acceleration brought him close enough to touch. In his mind, Ben felt himself jump with shock, although his body remained still. The Objector came to a stop, fixed his stare and a smile on Ben then offered his right hand up for a shake.

'I, I must say, am Oswald.' He waited for Ben to shake his hand, but Ben remained frozen.

'Come on, boy' said Oswald, 'Manners ebb and flow, but here in the fifties, as English men, as good, honest folk, if you and I can't commence our meeting with a good old fashioned shake of the hand then who in time, or indeed on Earth, can?...I'll start speaking French, and you know the way they greet each other, shocking!'

'No!' The word erupted, aggressively and uncontrollably from Ben's mouth.

'Ha! Words. I say. He speaks, this boy, called Ben.'

'I'm not Ben!' he lied, without conviction.

'You cheeky little liar! Proof, sir, is mine!' Replied Oswald as his hands pushed against the armrests of the wheelchair to lift his body up so that he could swing his legs out towards Ben as if, playfully, trying to kick him.

Ben scrambled for a thought to further the lie.

'I'm, Phillip, Jones!' he claimed.

'Phillip Jones, he of the village?' Oswald asked excitedly.

'Yes.'

Oswald, clapped his hands together, and so fell back into the chair with a bump.

'Great news! Great news!' he proclaimed, 'Phillip Jones of the village, he who owes me a fat wad of cash!'

'Money?'

'Or pigs! I can spend both where I holiday.' He said proudly.

'I haven't got any money.' Replied Ben.

'Then pigs!'

'Nor pigs. Who spends pigs?'

'You must have money, you're a thief, renowned! A great thief, the best! You've robbed half the world, Phillip Jones, and to the other half, you offer usury.'

'I, I...' stuttered Ben into silence.

'Bought a bank, and had to burn all its money just to make room for your own filthy cash! I, sir, know all about you. Indeed, with these very eyes, these very eyes, I have seen Mr Phillip Jones steal individual nose hairs from individual lions.'

'You have not! There's a lie! What would he, I, do that for?'

'Oh please, know your legends! Sprinkled into live chicken soup, lion nose hair will cure all the ills of man, and make them regular, which is, of course, is half the battle.'

'I don't believe you.'

'I believe you, Phillip Jones, that you are Phillip Jones.'

'I am!'

'Then money, pigs, or lion nose hair, now!'

'You've got the wrong Phillip Jones. I've never stolen anything, not money!'

'Then I'll take you and claim my reward.'

'What?'

'For you! Dead or alive. Whole, or half! It's a funny world, isn't it?'

'Why?'

'When your head alone is worth more than the live whole!'

'There's no such reward!'

'You're wanted in half the lands in half the worlds! A bounty so large I could use it to de-leg every human man, and then, finally, prove I am, genuinely, taller than average!'

'I'm not that Phillip!'

'No? Don't look like him either! You look like Ben to me, just like his Dad!'

'I know who you are! You're The Objector.' Said Ben, as he ducked past Oswald and scurried several paces away.

'Objection! Slophead! Sloppy minded buffoon! Is that you, boy? Is that who you are?' replied Oswald as he whipped his wheelchair round to face Ben.

'My Dad fought in the War!' Ben shouted.

'A hero, was he?'

'Yes!' answered Ben, who, with distance, felt just a tiny bit safer.

'And I, what was I?'

'A coward!'

'Who you now cower from, so what does that tell the world about you?'

'I'm a boy, you're a man, however old and incomplete!'

'A weedy looking boy. Do they feed you on cobwebs? I should take you to Sparta they'd toughen you up!'

'I'm not a weed! I'll be like my Dad I will, so you better watch out!'

'Or what? Oh no! Oh no! Perish the thought!' he mocked in a voice that was weak and winy, as his hand fanned his face to stop him fainting, 'One day, when your big and strong, you'll hunt me down and give me a bloody good hiding?'

'I might!' snapped Ben, angered at being teased.

'You'll have to find me first, and how could you do that? I could be anywhere, anywhere!'

'You couldn't be anywhere.'

'Test me!'

'How?'

'Test me'

'You couldn't be on the Moon, or at the bottom of the sea.'

'No? Then when you finally do get around to being big and strong and fearsome, you come and find me. I'll be on the Moon, tanning myself. Me, and yes, a lady!'

'You're talking nonsense!'

'Do you think so, Ben?'

'How do you know who I am?'

'I knew your Father.'

'My Dad?'

'Yes. The very same.'

'He wouldn't know you!'

'Because I'm a coward?'

'Yes! He kept better company.'

'Lies! Damn lies!' In an instant, the playful and joyful animation that filled his face and body fell away to reveal a more somber, severe man.

'I put this to you, Ben, Son of a Dad, Hero of war, I didn't refuse to fight, I refused to kill! Yes, I've shot a few squirrels, and once, a buffalo. And I did run over a moose, who, the turd, was playing chicken. But people, never! Even, the worst. I refused to kill but not to fight. I volunteered to work as a miner, to dig for coal, which is a job no less dangerous than being a soldier. Read the statistics, do the math! There's a book,' without looking, he pointed to a book on one of the shelves, 'there. Read it, it's fascinating. And then, ask yourself,' the wheelchair began to creep towards Ben, 'could you do it? Could you live in the belly of the Earth, not the womb of Mother Earth, dear boy, but the belly of the beast? And deeper, deeper into the bowels! Or would the thought of being crushed, or poisoned, or trapped in black unable to see or move, unable to raise a hand to wipe from your eye the dust that is slowly, and painfully, blinding you, would the thought of that break you, Ben? Could you do it? Would you have the strength to work a pick or shovel for a twelve hour shift?'

Ben could not answer. He wanted to say yes, the strength was his, but he did not want to lie.

'No!' continued Oswald, as he came to a stop. 'But you will, Ben, you will. Anyway, call me a coward if you must, but first, have the sense to learn the facts. I lived and fought The War. I witnessed death and sacrifice, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with men who were just as brave, and as dedicated to defeating the Nazis as any soldier ever was.'

He looked at Ben with absolute certainty. Ben knew he had spoken the truth. He began to feel a cautious trust; he felt a connection, one born from the sense of loss he saw reflected in Oswald's eyes. It was a loss, he knew, his own eyes mirrored. He tried to think of something to say that was agreeable, that was right, but he could only ask,

'Is that how you lost your legs, working in the mine?

'No! These babies? These I lost playing cards.' Replied Oswald, who once again fizzed excited animation.

'Playing cards?' asked Ben, with an obvious hint of disbelief.

'Yes. Snap! But anyway, yesterday! The past, as they say, gone forever! So deal me the present! Meet me there, Ben, commune with me in the here and now!'

He zipped around the Library, to cast an admiring gaze over all the books it contained.

'This is your den. You have made yourself at home. Exactly what you should have done regardless of any crimes committed.'

'What crimes?' Ben asked, sheepishly.

'Hunger is your plea. Well, sir, innocent! Famished, aren't you? Have you visited the pantry downstairs?'

'Yes! No! Yes! I'm hungry, and no I haven't visited the pantry downstairs,' Ben answered, sounding both desperate and hopeful.

'Then you must!' Oswald zoomed towards Ben. 'My housekeeper stuffs it right proper every single day with the tastiest treats.'

He came to a stop just a metre from Ben, who now felt comfortable enough to stand his ground. Oswald glanced quickly round then leaned forward towards Ben as if he was about to reveal some sensitive information.

'You wouldn't think it, this house appears empty, but let me tell you this, there are plenty to feed.'

'I know.' Ben replied, his voice as soft as Oswald's.

'You do? Good. Be advised, riots have been stopped on a whisper, on the mere promise of a jam based tart!'

'There are monsters that can eat jam tarts endlessly, without ever getting full, some even have jam for blood. You could farm them if you were so inclined. Think about it, a single animal for both meat and jam. You'd make a fortune!'

'Jam for blood. Oh my, the joy; think of the black pudding!'

'It's not in any treaty I know of though. So if you did, you'd probably be breaking the law.'

'Good! What life a cow? We should welcome the future on that one when all meat is grown in cupboards and jars. You don't even have to go shopping! Anyway, all who dwell within these walls munch freely on the food I provide. You too, Ben. You must too! Start there, the desk.'

Ben looked. A silver tray presented a feast of cupcakes, tarts and sandwiches. The sprawling emptiness of his stomach echoed to the pains of hunger, but not used to such generosity, and having called Oswald a coward, a sense of guilt restrained him.

'Shouldn't you be angry at me?' he asked.

' Aaarrrggghhh!!!' Oswald screamed a burst of anger then instantly became calm and smiley again. 'There, anger, done.'

'I entered your house without permission.'

'You were hungry! And I've long lost normality. I've been crushed by coal, most of which fell on my head. So, to the food, boy, the food!'

Ben ran towards the table and the glorious food, but at the table, hesitation returned. He paused, his hand hovering over the selection of mouth watering treats.

'What can I have?' He asked.

'Oh don't be a bore, everything! Eat till you're full then burp some room and eat some more. Stuff yourself! You need it. Look at you, you couldn't shovel balloons!'

'I'm not a weed!' Ben protested, his mouth full of sticky, rich, oozing chocolate cake.

'Good. Then there's hope for the world yet.' Oswald replied as he zipped up to the table.

'This is the best thing I've ever tasted. It tastes too good to be food. It can't be from England! Is it food, really food? Not the stuff that people make?'

'People? Well, I can't vouch for that.'

'I don't care. A hairy, sticking bog beast could have made this, touched it, licked it for a sly, cheeky taste! It wouldn't bother me. It's the best!'

'The best? Well, it's not a hotdog; let's get some perspective.'

'A hotdog? Is that the best food in the world ever?'

'I said I couldn't kill a man, but perish the thought, if one were to steal my hotdog, from hand or plate or mouth, oh the rage! What mind I would need to control it! One far beyond the Buddha, Ben, far beyond the Buddha!' proclaimed Oswald rather dramatically.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' Ben mumbled through a mouthful of cake.

'Hotdogs! Mmm, hotdogs.' Oswald turned, looked into space and called out, 'housekeeper! Hotdogs for breakfast! Whoppers! every single one!'

'I thought you didn't live here,' said Ben.

'I visit.'

'What do you need a housekeeper for?'

'To keep things tip-top. One must always keep on top of things.'

'She's not doing a very good job. Most of this house is in a right state and full of other things.'

'Monsters and creatures and things?'

'Yes. The very ones.'

'Good, they keep people out, the slopheads anyway. Everyone else is warmly welcomed.'

'I've never seen your housekeeper.'

'Who says she wants to be seen. Who says she's a she? Who says she's anything known to man? Who says I, too, can't stuff myself!'

He grabbed a cream slice and rammed it into his mouth.

'Why are you visiting now?' Ben asked.

'I've brought a new book.'

'Where?'

'There.' He pointed. Ben looked. The largest book Ben had ever seen stood leaning against a bookshelf. It must have been three foot tall and two foot wide. The plain, aged leather cover was without a title or any other lettering.

'Wow! It's huge!'

'Maps.'

'A book of maps?'

'Yes, and everyone useless.'

'Old maps?'

'Useless and old. I shall follow a few and see where I get.'

'But they're useless you said.'

'They are things of beauty! What fool wouldn't tinker down their way?'

'Is it the biggest book ever made?'

'No. Not even close. I know of the biggest, the greatest, the heaviest book that ever did exist. A vast, dense book of unimaginable power!'

Ben stopped eating, fascinated. 'What's it about?' he asked.

'Everything.'

'Everything?'

'A portal to the complete unknown.'

'Can I read it?'

'You must! You must! That which you can.'

'Where is it? Do you have a copy?'

'A copy? No. There is no copy. There is only the original!'

'Where?'

'Somewhere, anywhere. Anything could be anywhere.'

'Which means?'

'If you know where something is, it is probably where you think it is regardless of the space and time you find yourself in.'

'Which means?'

'Look for it! At least try, endeavor, to find it! Create your own, useless, map.'

'Who wrote it?'

'We all did. We can all claim a page or two. For the brave, for the free, maybe even a whole chapter. You will look for it, won't you? If ever the need arises.'

'Yes.' Ben said with limited conviction.

'Good!' said Oswald as he zipped backwards in his wheelchair.

'How does your wheelchair move?' asked Ben.

'Batteries and gravity.' replied Oswald as he returned to the desk.

'Batteries? I've never heard of those before.'

'Oh. And your level of experience, the horizons you've crossed? Been to London?'

'No.'

'New York?'

'No.'

'Tokyo?'

'No.'

'Wales?'

'No.'

'Thebes?'

'No!'

'Shangdu?'

'Yes, on the way to fairyland?'

'Have you been anywhere that wasn't the village?

'Into town.'

'All the way to town? Wow! And when you got there did you plant a flag to mark the discovery? You wouldn't want another explorer snatching the legend from you!'

'Sarcasm, I have been told, is the lowest form of wit.'

'Is that right? Well next time you are told sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,' with his hands on the armrests, he lifted himself up and flung his bum high into the air, 'swing your derriere into the air and let one go massively!' With his lips pursed, he blew a very loud raspberry then fell back into the chair and laughed, heartily. Ben looked on, slightly embarrassed, any laughter of his censored by a sense of shock.

'I will not thank you very much! Far too risky,' Ben told him.

'Blame it all on me.'

'That would make it worse.'

'Then revel in their ignorance! Defy them!'

'While a cane gets whacked across my derriere?'

'Then tell them I'm old and decrepit, that I gargle custard for pleasure.'

'You're not that old, are you? You look older than you are though, older than you act.'

'Thank you,' Oswald replied, complimented, 'but how old am I meant to be?'

'Forty, I think.'

'Forty, this craggy old face?'

'Yes, I know, it looks ancient. I know forty is rather old but goodness you look, well, like there's a drought going on in your face.'

'Time, let me tell you, has ripened this face to the peak of bloom. I've lived a lot of it, time, in my time. More than my fair share. Perhaps all time. No. Yes. How you ask. Simple! Because all time exists at all time!

'Does it?' asked Ben through a mouthful of cake.

'Yes! All time at all time!'

'Then why don't I feel I'm always eating cake?'

'Somewhere, at some time, you always are.'

'Wow. And still I'm a skinny sod.'

'It can catch up with you though, time. It has me. But I will give it the slip. Time is no match for me!'

Ben washed down a mouthful of cake with a swig of cola he took from a individual glass bottle. Then asked,

'Can I come back to the library?'

'You must! There are books to read!'

'I think they get sad if they're not read.'

'They do. Or cross. Have you ever bore witness to a book that's cross?'

'No.'

'Lucky you. They're vicious. They snap like a jaw possessed, propelling themselves through the air like clams swimming in the sea. But, pray goodness, they have no teeth, nor stomach so they can never bite you into pieces, chew you into mush then deposit you - if you dare imagine what I mean? Mind you, them worms will get us in the end, and what goes in must come out, hence, why I am cremated - or should I say to be, to be!'

'That must have been quite a weight of coal that fell on your head. Did it muddle your brain.'

'It did. But alas, I feel no pain!'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Books, the pen, it is mightier than sword!'

'Is it? What about guns?'

'Oh, boys and guns!' he said, with a sigh of despair. 'Tell me, what is the point of guns now there are bombs with the power to destroy everything: countries, civilizations, histories? Everything!'

The sparkle drained from his face; a fearful look of worry filled his eyes. Ben swallowed his mouthful of cake and refrained from taking another bite.

'Can you imagine, Ben, everything gone, only devastation left?!' continued Oswald.

'No,' Ben whispered.

'The very end of existence!'

'No.'

'That is your fight, Ben. That is your war.'

'But I can't fight boys that are smaller than me. I am actually a weed!'

'Time, Ben. It's your time now. You must read, you must learn. You must prepare for the fight, for life, dear boy, because, my god, is there going to be a war!'

'What war? Another one?' asked Ben, now feeling as fearful as Oswald looked.

'What are the shadows that scare us?...Us, they are us! We are that which lurks in the shadows. We are that which creeps towards us with a mind to do us harm. We are all that scares ourselves.'

Ben looked at him with a mixture of fear and bewilderment.

'Oh,' he said.

'Indeed. But you have the library. Use it! I must go!' Oswald declared with a slight panic as if late for an appointment elsewhere.

'Trains never wait for me. I'm always late, but they never learn. I shall buy a car, that will teach the buggers! Look at the time; look at the time!'

He reversed rapidly towards the door.

'Treat this place as your own!' he shouted at Ben. 'And don't ever forget the pantry!'

'Are you coming back?' Ben asked.

Oswald reached the door and stopped.

'Yes! Always back and forth, always back and forth.'

'When?'

'In time, in plenty of time. Now smile. Be happy! Read! Feed! I grant you permission. Read every book! Goodbye, Ben. Always good to, finally, meet you again.'

'What about the stairs? How will you get down?' Ben asked as he suddenly remembered the obstacle facing Oswald.

'Oh, what worry is that? I've got five skills, one of which, the best, is to crash with style and élan. I always keep my dignity, never lost it. Even when,' he blew another loud raspberry, 'in public trains, so don't worry for me, whatever the crash, bang, wallops you hear.'

And with that, he swung the door open and darted out. Ben watched as the door closed shut. Silence followed, no crash or screams.

Ben felt a little bewildered but also happy. The words spoken of war made no echo. He felt he had made a friend. A rush of joy brought a smile to his face. He was back with his Dad and back with the books. The library he could treat as his own. He sat and read and talked to his Dad and ate every last scrap of food. When he left to go home, for once he felt truly satisfied.

# CHAPTER 4

****

The next few days were a dream-like blur. He was left alone, and no one seemed annoyed by him. At Oswald's house, he braved the monsters, creatures and things, to find the pantry full of delicious treats, which appeared like magic every single day. But then, from nowhere, his body collapsed. He woke one morning barely able to move, as frightened and as ill he had ever felt. His whole body felt crushed. His cough stabbed his chest with a horrible pain. The air that he had to force into his lungs barely seemed to work. This, he imagined, was drowning. Had Mark cursed him from the grave? The blur was now a nightmare, one that swayed in and out of black. Vague images played in his mind: a doctor and other nameless people all standing over him, leering down from above. It made him think of church, of solemn faced people, their heads all bowed.

None of them noticed the mould. Ben feared it. It fed on him. Every time he opened his eyes it had gobbled more space, projecting towards its target, him. Ugly black, darker than night, never hidden, always seen by Ben.

Time seemed irrelevant, all he felt was worse. Then, one night, his Aunt entered his bedroom. Perfume filled the air. It smelt to him like colour, like sunlight giving life to the gloom. She stood by the door, he could not see, but she wore her smartest clothes.

'I'm going out,' she told him dispassionately. 'I've an appointment, planned weeks ago...You'll have to manage alone....I know you're unwell, but what I can do? What would my presence solve? Anyway, it's not like I'm leaving you out for the wolves, is it?...

He heard her walk towards him. He had not the will to open his eyes.

'You should have this. Let me say I'm returning it to you.'

He felt his hand touched, heard her walk away.

'I should be back by eleven,' she continued, now back at the door.' I'll leave the landing light on. You should sleep. Really, you should let yourself go to sleep. It would be the best thing for you to do now, to sleep'

He heard a car pull up outside. She vanished into footsteps; the bedroom door she left ajar so that cold, uninterested light, alone, could watch him sleep. The front door was opened then closed. He felt abandoned, as far away from the world as it was possible to be - beyond the stars, dimmer and colder. The Moon, seen through his window, was the only sign that he remained on Earth, alive.

All his many thoughts drew to a close. His mind fell silent, it harbored no fear nor curiosity. His eyes drifted shut, but then, when all seemed empty and still, they snapped back open with a terrified rush. A shadow given form rushed towards him, its blacked-out face lunging towards his own but slowed to a stop by a thin grey membrane - like balloon rubber stretched transparent, ready to burst. An inch from Ben's face, the black became flesh. Ben looked at himself - a face that screamed in terror. His body locked still; his eyes had no means to close. In a moment, the screaming face had vanished.

Ben sprung upright, alive with a sense of panic. His stare caught, he looked at his hand. The pendant and chain dangled from his wrist. His Aunt, she had cursed him. He slashed his wrist through the air to propel the curse to the floor. The crash of metal against wood startled him. His instinct screamed something was ready to pounce. Twisting to look behind, he saw it, himself, lying on the bed in a deep unmovable sleep. Before his thoughts could settle and an expression of his terror form, a noise forced him to turn and look towards a sight that would wrench the sanity from all but the strongest, or youngest, of minds – a wolf, called Wilf, illuminated with a slight, ghostly, glow appeared through the wall and raced through the air towards him.

'Hide me! Save me! Hide me!' cried Wilf at Ben who, numb with shock, had lost the ability to think, let alone speak.

'You haven't seen me! If you can, and of course you can't, mere boy, forget me!' continued Wilf, before he dived under the bed to hide.

All fell silent. Ben remained numb, but as the fog of fear and disbelief ebbed clear, he started to consider these extraordinary moments. In the background, the stark, lonely sound of a church bell chiming ten cut through the silence. He slapped his right hand against the left side of his chest. Usually, when frightened, his heart would race and pound rapidly, but now he felt and heard nothing. He looked at his hand pressed flat against his dressing gown, it seemed embedded, submerged an inch beneath the skin. He banged his hands onto the mattress.

'Hey! I'm hiding down here!' Wilf whispered loudly.

Ben could touch and feel the mattress, but his hands somehow went inside, like hands that had fallen into an inch snow, until stopped by something solid.

'I think I'm dead,' Ben whispered.

'Then your troubles have just begun!' Wilf replied, with a knowing, resentful tone.

Ben scrambled to the edge of the bed then jumped high into the air, but instead of falling solidly to the floor like any living boy would, he fell as a balloon would fall to the ground on a still, windless day.

'What's happening? I don't understand,' he said.

Wilf pounced, he flew through the bed, and in an instant, was nose-to-nose with Ben.

'Know one thing, you have my permission. Yes, you, a mere boy! You have my permission to pretend to be me, a fearsome, majestic wolf! I tell no lie - for what need do the great and powerful have to lie, especially to those so far below them? This is the truth, you will be crushed beyond all pain and space! But as a just reward you will have taken my, my place and earned my, my full respect! When they take you, you may scold them with the pride you so burn with! Now, confirm you comply!'

Ben knew the words he wanted to say, but fear had stolen his voice.

'Speak!' Wilf demanded.

'I'm scared!' Ben replied.

'As you should be!'

'Are you a ghost?'

'A wolf!' He reared-up and puffed out his rather puny chest, 'Proud and fearsome!' he proclaimed.

However, Ben noticed that Wilf looked more the scrappy, underfed and underloved mongrel dog than the prime, wild wolf of legend.

'See these,' Wilf continued. His mouth snapped open to display his, genuinely, savage looking teeth. 'Feared throughout time!' He lunged back down to Ben. 'Great in a smile but best when crunched into flesh and bone!'

'You can't eat me, I'm already dead.'

'You're dead?! Dead?' Terror filled Wilf's face. 'You're a ghost?'

All of a sudden he was gone, back under the bed to hide. Another voice, rapid and nervous, came rushing into the room.

'Oh no, oh no, oh no, no, no. Oh no, oh no, oh no, no, no.'

Ben looked, it was a monster, The Moof: a bumbling, podgy, round, blush red furry thing with two large flappy noses; two small mouths, which took it in turn to speak; and two bumps at the rear, which could only mean he was the owner of two bums. His arms, of which there were two, stuck out stiffly from his chest and seemed rather too short. He wobbled frantically to move slowly through the air.

'Who are you?' Ben asked.

Before answering, The Moof raised his puffy hands to cover his face, 'Don't look!' spoke one mouth, 'Don't look at me!' continued the other, which was the way he always talked. 'Anything but me. Don't look at me. Not me. Not here. Or there.'

'You can't do nothing to me, I'm already dead!' Ben warned him.

'Dead?' The Moof suddenly stopped and looked at Ben. His big, bulging eyes wobbled like two raspberry jellies. As he moved his head, they sloshed around to such a degree that Ben thought they might pop free of their sockets. The Moof continued to speak, his two mouths taking turns, as if in conversation with themselves.

'Dead, oh no. Not dead? You're dead? I'm dead. Used to be so simple, dead. Good old fashioned dead. Properly dead. Pleasantly dead. Now the best we. Me. You. And I can hope for is to die young, for a second time. Can I hide under your bed? Will you let me? I'm going to hide under your bed. I won't leave a mess. Not now, I'm dead. Some smells, but nothing solid. Or sticky. For you. Or me. To frown upon.'

'You're a ghost, why do you need to hide?' Ben asked.

'A ghost. I know. A ghost, look at me, a ghost. But look, listen, can I tell you this? I want you to know. Know it. I'm not a freak. There's no freak in this room. This is how my species is. We have two, yes two. Two where one would often do: mouth, nose, stomach, brain, and two of those. Yes those. Two of those. Those things behind. Bums. Can you tell me why? Tell me. Give me a reason. Solve the mystery! Two brains, for what? For answers? Rarely. For questions? Always! And bums? Too many. Too many. It's tiresome. Can I tell you an answer? A truth. A fact. Believe me. I do. I'm not this fat. I died twice. Apt really. Once from life. And twice cos I died looking like this. Fat. Bloated! You know the truth! The feast of Foog. The biggest that month. Two days later, I died. I'd put on weight. Who hadn't. Would you? I would. I did. Look at me. I died like this, about to diet. But death waits for no fat Moof planning a diet for a week the next Tuesday. A painless death, or so I thought. Do you know. I know. Lost all appetite. No need for food. But still, the wobble remains. I look for answers. None come. Can you tell me why?'

'I don't know anything. Not now. All that I thought I knew, has gone.'

'Well, it's a different day, death. That and losing everything you thought you knew. You'll never forget it. Can I hide under your bed?'

'There's a wolf already there.'

'Wilf! He's still ghost dead! Oh, the joy of it!'

Wilf stuck his head up through the bed and spoke to The Moof.

'Don't mention my name! You stupid moof! Get here! Quickly! Where's your guile? Learn from me! Take the opportunity to advance yourself! Even your fleas pity you!'

'I ate my fleas. Shouldn't have left home without a sandwich. Tasted awful. Filled an hole though,' The Moof replied as he dived through the bed to take up his hiding place next to Wilf, although as his two bums stuck out through the mattress his hiding place was exposed for all to see.

Ben looked on utterly bewildered, and yet there was more to come. Third through the wall was something just as strange as the two that had already arrived. With a presence felt, Ben turned to look behind, and saw something the like of which he had never seen before, a matt grey figure of a man, three foot tall and completely smooth. The head showed no facial features, no mouth, eyes, nose or ears, the limbs no joints, elbows, wrists, ankles or knees. It stood silent and still.

'What are you?' Asked Ben.

'I'm AID,' it answered in a soft, ever so polite voice. 'Which stands for Artificially Intelligent Dummy. That much I know. For everything else, I will have to consult my computer.'

'Your what?' asked a ever so confused Ben.

'My computer. Aren't computers great? Just like their human masters. Humans, aren't they great, too? Humans used to invent everything.'

'What's a computer?'

'My computer allows me to aid you. Can I aid you? Is there anything I can do for you. Maybe a question. Do you have a question my computer can answer with absolute certainty?'

'Am I dead?'

'Yes, very nearly. I repeat, you are very nearly dead. Does that answer satisfy you?'

'What do you mean, nearly? Can I still be alive?'

'My computer has noticed you still have weight. You are not yet fully a ghost. There is still some life left in you.'

'So I can still be alive? I can live?'

'No.'

'Why?'

'Because you are a coward!'

'I am not!'

'All ghosts are cowards! You can only become a ghost if you led a cowardly life.

'I'm not dead! I'm not!'

'You're not. Not yet. But soon, you will be. As dead as dead can be. Life has given up on you, it has bowed to death because death is inevitable. A stronger, braver boy would fight the cause, the illness for example, but a coward, like yourself, has no fight, and is sure to give up. Hence why life, quite rightly, has given up on you.'

'I don't believe you!'

'That is your right. You are entitled to believe whatever you want. You are, after all, superior to me in every way. I will always defer to a human, even a well trained monkey. Although, for the record, I will never defer to a dog, or any of their breed, for they are very lowly indeed.'

Wilf stuck his head through the bed and delivered an angry reply.

'Lies!! How can something that wasn't even born be superior to something that was?! Even worms are born! You furless son of a no-mother! In the dog world you are one below a lamp post!'

'Correct, oh, no, my mistake! My computer says correct. Wilf, you are correct! Cause no trouble. It is not my place to cause conflict. Are we hiding again?'

'Ask your computer!' Wilf said sarcastically.

'We are. Of course, we're cowards!' proclaimed AID before turning to Ben to ask,

'Since you have some weight, could I possibly hide inside your head?'

'No!' Replied Ben, firmly.

'I shall make myself small. I shall not be a nuisance.'

'You're not hiding inside my head!'

'Then somewhere else about your person?'

'No!'

'Then I shall take to the wardrobe.' He floated towards the wardrobe. 'Of course, I always follow the crowd, well herd, but as my computer tells me, us hiding is both mindless and futile. We simply cannot escape. An eternity of pain and torment really is the only possible outcome.'

Two sharp bursts of wind erupted from The Moof's behinds.

'It wasn't me.' The Moof lied.

'Oh my, ghost fart. That will linger for decades. It'll probably finish you off.' Said AID, as he glanced at Ben's body lying lifeless on the bed.

'Silence! Hide!' Demanded Wilf.

'What are you fools doing?!' Despaired a fourth voice.

Ben recoiled, shocked and even disgusted, for the accent of the voice was German. He looked towards the source. A man, Albert, stood by the wall. He was about thirty years old. An oversized, full length, grey trench coat cloaked his hunched body. Its raised collar helped conceal the lower part of his face.

'You. Who are you?' Albert asked Ben.

'You're a German, aren't you! Your accent, it's German!'

replied Ben with an accusing tone.

'Even in death, the English! Will you ever forget?' Asked Albert, softly.

'Never!' Ben snapped back.

'Yes, I am German, forever German! Though that, is not my crime.' As he said this he looked away from Ben, as if ashamed to look him directly in the eye. Ben could see he was a sad, tormented soul, and wondered if he had fought in the War. He looked young enough, and although his trench coat showed no military insignia, it was military in style and looked similar to those worn by German solders.

'My name is Albert, and you?' he asked, as he once again looked at Ben, with a soft, gentle stare. Ben hesitated, his instinct demanded hostility. 'Come. You think we fight each other now? Us, mere people? Tell me your name.'

'Ben.' he spoke, reluctantly.

'Hello, Ben.'

'Right, finally, finished!' Exclaimed Wilf, 'Introduction over! People and their lumpy words. You should learn to sniff arse like civilized beasts! Now, listen to me!' He insisted, with his stare fixed on Albert.

'Again?' asked, AID. 'Surely once a day is more than polite.'

Wilf ignored him and continued his rant.

'You are a man of no mental significance! To think that I could ever be foolish!'

'I was once called beyond foolish,' interposed The Moof. 'Confused me. Greatly. Beyond foolish? Does that mean clever?' he asked.

'No! It does not!' snapped Wilf.

'Good. Cos I couldn't live with the pressure,' replied The Moof.

'We're cowards, we're fools, bound together!' said Albert.

'I am not a fool!! A coward, yes!' said Wilf. 'Gutless to the very last! But let it be known, my cowardice is simply a consequence of my unique high intelligence! As one of the greats, as a beacon of hope to all wolfkind, it was vital for me to self-preserve!'

'Like a pickled onion?' The Moof asked.

'Again, again, again!' Shouted Wilf, now close to fury. 'Pickled onions don't self- preserve, they are preserved!'

'The futility of these arguments! Whenever we are still. Come, for sanity, let us go!' Albert demanded.

'Best thing the human's ever done the pickled onion.' Said The Moof. 'Better than fire and I love fire. It's how I died. My love of fire. I gassed myself. Methane. I got it from cows, they fart it. I inhaled it, greatly. Made me feel right giddy. In a bad way. Plan was simple. Set fire to the gas in both my stomachs. Burn off the calories. Properly. Didn't work though. Killed me. Put me to sleep, then killed me. Not a bad way to go. I was dreaming of pickled onions. And ice cream. Then me, I died. I should have listened to them cows, they were right. Thing is, who takes cows seriously? I also admire humans for their work with potatoes. Roast, Chipped, Crisped. Baked. Boiled.'

'My computer says, if the plan was to hide, we are failing,' said AID

'Hide? How many times, there is no point!' said Albert, his patience nearly lost.'There is never any point! They weren't there anyway.'

'I felt the chill and I smelt them,' said Wilf.

'How can you smell them?' Albert asked.

'With this!' Wilf answered as he pointed to his nose. 'Compare it to your puny snozzle! So proud of your thumbs, aren't you! Oh what a wonder the thumb of man is! Well no! Not compared to this true mark of greatness!'

'I'd prefer thumbs. I do a lot of itching. Got two bums. Makes sense then.' said Moof.

'You were mistaken.' Albert told Wilf.

'For what, a poodle?' The Moof joked.

'How dare you! I will call you a freak!' Wilf answered back. The Moof looked mortified.

'No! Not freak, unique!' he begged.

'Stop this, please. We have to go!' Albert demanded.

'Yes,' said AID 'My computer has told you three hundred and eighty one times hiding is pointless. How fortunate it is that my computer never tires of telling you the truth!'

'You should never hide!' Albert warned Ben with the utmost of seriousness. 'You must always run! You must always run away!'

From what, Ben wondered. What could they be talking about? He was about to ask, but then another ghost, a teenage girl, appeared through the wall.

'Ah, Victoria,' said AID. 'Meet Ben. He has weight. He has yet to properly die.'

She glanced at Ben. A shiver plucked his spine. He felt haunted, choked by the stench of the grave. Her sunken, colourless eyes, seemed almost to touch him, to pull from his heart the final, clinging, murmurs of hope. He wondered if ghosts could cry, for her eyes seemed desperate for tears, cracked and arid, like sun bleached earth, not alive, and neither, now, human. She wore a plain, black hooded habit that was fastened around her body. Her thin blonde hair was cut short in a crude, careless fashion. Her age, he thought meant nothing, she may have lived to be around fourteen years old, but time, another time, one beyond all he had ever known, had given her an endless space in which to flee, chased screaming from the grave.

As she looked away she pulled up a hood and withdrew into black.

'We must go,' reiterated Albert. 'We must try. Ben, you are free to join us, or you can wonder alone. It is your decision.'

'Go where? I can't leave. This is where I live,' he replied.

'No, You don't. I'm sorry, but not anymore. If you want to stay, then do, but for what? To watch your family mourn, to watch them fall apart?'

'They won't fall apart,' said Ben.

'You'll be taken if you stay!' said The Moof.

'Yes, as will we all! So, we go! Now! There maybe a place.' said Albert.

'A place?' asked Ben.

'But because he's got weight, he won't be able to move through solids, not like us, the properly dead,' said AID with a high, snobby air.

'He'll slow us down,' Wilf warned.

'He'll be two-dimensional. He won't have the ability to go up or down. I repeat, not like the properly dead,' said AID.

'He can follow. He can do his best,' said Albert.

'They'll get him first. He can be a decoy. He can save us!' exclaimed Wilf. 'Finally, a human with value!'

'Ignore them,' Albert said to Ben. 'But come quickly, you'll have to jump out of the window.'

'What? No!' said Ben, sacred at the thought.

'You cannot go through the wall, you'll have to jump.'

'I can't jump out of the window!'

'You're dead. What do you have to fear? Nothing, nothing that the living need fear! But what you must fear, what you will fear, I promise you, is hunting you this very second!'

'Now and throughout all time,' added AID.

'Yes, we are only here, but they are everywhere, behind us, ahead of us, everywhere. We must, must go!' continued Albert. 'We must, must keep moving! Go, jump, follow us!'

Albert walked towards a wall. Wilf, The Moof, AID and Victoria all followed. Albert stopped to Look back at Ben. The others continued on and disappeared through the wall.

'We cannot not wait for you,' Albert told Ben, but Ben just stood, utterly bewildered, unable to make a decision. A second later, Albert was gone.

Ben looked at his body lying lifeless on the bed. It was dead to the world and all it contained, and yet he felt so very much alive. He felt scared, excited and intrigued. What sadness could he feel when he knew there was no one left to feel sad for him, to mourn, to fall apart.

He began to walk towards the window. He felt much lighter, the wooden floor beneath his feet felt soft and springy. He bounced along with every step. It was as if there was less gravity to pull him down.

At the window, he grabbed the handle. It felt barely there, not cold and hard like metal usually did. With the window open, a sadness took him, as he felt no wind against his face, no wave of nighttime cold. Was this numbness now the norm? Had the full Moon, which once again governed the night, finally revealed its curse? Would he ever race the wind again or feel fuelled and tuned by the warmth of the sun? But then, in an instant, he felt the coldest he had ever felt, brutally cold, as if held below the coldest, darkest swells. He lunged for the light switch - a means to repel the cursed light of the Moon - but as the bulb began to glow, a presence felt forced him to look behind. From the centre of the room, a ring, a shockwave, of something black - expanded from nothing out towards the walls and Ben.

Before Ben could duck, it passed through him at head height and dealt him a terrible, hideous pain. It then went through the walls and vanished.

An urge to flee, to race away, consumed him. He knew with certainty that some horror was here upon him. But before he could climb up to reach the window, tiny black particles, as fine as coal dust, each one vibrating and humming as if fizzing with a charge of energy, flooded through the walls into the room. Swirling and swarming and merging into one they quickly took the form of a sleek and shrouded figure - a demonic presence, it possessed the room with a sense of menace. This was not just death; this was something worse, far beyond the grave. Its otherwise featureless head was dominated by what seemed to be two large eyes - oval and mirrored and dead they stared coldly down at Ben. The shadow given form had returned, but now nothing stood between it and Ben.

Ben thought of jumping out of the window, pictured it in his mind, but his body stood still.

The Shadow swept towards him. Its face morphed into that of Ben's, and once again Ben's own stolen image showed him the fear that he knew and felt inside.

Ben, like a leaf released into a violent wind, jumped up to the window and launched himself out. As he drifted, too slowly, down to the ground, he turned and looked up. The lighted window flashed black; the Shadow, the hunter, pursued him. Ben recoiled, his body turned and twisted in a desperate attempt to somehow get out of the way, and here it happened, here he moved, but not through space, not backwards or forwards or up or down, or left or right, but into and through a different dimension, into and through the dimension of time. Wherever he looked rotating bubbles of time were crammed into space - like spinning tops, the decorative pictures actual moments of time and each touchable, reachable, although something of a blur. Not that Ben understood any of this; it was another fright from which he recoiled.

He landed, lightly. A car had appeared outside the cottage, the engine was running and the headlights were on. The Shadow given form had gone, left behind in another time. The front door of the cottage opened and out walked his Aunt, dressed in her very best clothes. A frightened boy had only one instinct, to call out loudly for adult help.

'Aunt!' he shouted. Startled, she stopped and looked, but her stare went straight through him. He knew he was invisible, gone, a ghost now forever. She looked up at his bedroom window. He followed her stare. The window was closed, the room in darkness. Somehow, he knew he had travelled through time.

Panicked, his Aunt hurried towards the car. What was he to think? What could he think? Was he still alive, in his bedroom still alive. He scrambled to his feet and ran. His Aunt, hearing the footsteps, turned and looked.

'Who's there?!..What?..Who's there?!' her trembling voice demanded to know.

'Me!' Ben shouted back. 'And forever more haunting you!'

She screamed, utterly petrified. Ben continued to run, heading for the back door, which he knew would be unlocked.

Inside the bedroom, he turned on the light. By the bed, he stared at his living self, listened to the short, shallow bursts of breath. The eyelids opened slowly and revealed what little of life remained.

These two, the same, stared at themselves. The living Ben looked scared and weak, a sickly boy about to meet his natural end. Could Ben the ghost, the soul, jump back inside his body? Could he travel back in time and save himself? Or was this all his life was meant to be - a sickly, failing boy?

Unable to look, to know himself, any more, he reached for the light switch and plunged the room back into darkness.

'You'll be alright,' he said to the boy on the bed. 'At least, you'll be thinking.'

And with that came a violent blast of cold. Ben ran to the window, jumped up and out. As he fell to the ground, he twisted and turned, and once again moved back through time. Fear drove him on, a desperate need to get far, far away. He looked through centuries with a turn of the head. It all became a maddening blur that filled his senses to overload. Finally, his fear found its voice. He stopped, landed, submerged in the void of space. His scream, made silent, offered no relief. No Earth, or Sun, could be seen or felt. The nighttime sky surrounded him. Stars shone many times brighter than any he had seen from Earth. It should have been a glorious sight, but against the vastness how small he felt, how pointless and nothing, as if shrunk to the smallest dot, and the cold continued to clamp him. Were they here, hidden in the black? Was he lost forever, trapped, alone at the end of the world? Panicked, he twisted and turned, and fled back to a more familiar time. A moment later, and Earth once again held him, cocooned beneath the canopy of an ancient forest, he drifted down towards the ground.

He ran as fast as he could, and the faster he went, the closer to the ground he remained. Speed, it seemed, gave him weight, and what a speed he reached. As fast and as agile as the deadliest forest monster, one guided through the dense vegetation by the spirits of the forest and the trees themselves.

A mass of black particles raced towards him. Nothing solid blocked them; the straightest, shortest route was always theirs to take. They moved like a flock of birds, tuned together as one, possessed with winning this pursuit to the deadly end.

Ben accelerated hard. The particles, however, always loomed and inched teasingly towards their prey. They took a form: the shrouded, limbless figure with Ben's face twisting and screaming terror. They came so close, close enough to touch. Ben kicked against a tree trunk and changed direction with a fly-like certainly. The shadow sped onwards. Out-maneuvered, the particles thinned ready to whip back and strike at Ben again. The advantage, however, was won. Ben turned and twisted and jumped to another time.

White, raging water snatched him and threw him fast towards a giant, horizon-wide waterfall, the immense noise of which could have been used as a bomb. The water, pounding against him, felt dry and more like wind. He shot over the edge into the white of spray. Visibility fell to less than his reach. The Shadow appeared, as quick as thought, but somehow, Ben, moved fast enough to escape back into time.

He landed, fell to his knees onto damp, bare earth. Before him, an iron age village bustled with people. A group of men worked and smelted iron. Women weaved cloth. A group of boys played with sling-shots. Smoke leaked from the cone shaped roofs of roundhouses. Near-by, two tethered horses became restless, spooked by something unseen. Dogs began to bark, sheep to bleat. People began to look, to feel a trespassing presence. He felt the cold; it had never left him. In the sky, two Shadows with form speeded towards him; behind him, a third quickly loomed. He began to run; commotion erupted around him. Some villagers could see him, others could not. To his side, the scariest man he had ever seen – a warrior, as wild as the wolves he could tame with a look - sprinted towards him, a sword in hand poised ready to attack, his bare upper-body packed with muscle and adorned with scars and blue tattoos. Ben twisted to move through time, the Warrior's scream followed him closely until replaced with his own agonized wail.

Pitch black surrounded him. His left foot felt trapped and crushed. Pain flooded his fallen body, beneath which lay a hard, stone floor. He tried to twist away but remained clamped and hurting. With all his strength summoned, he pulled to free his foot, reluctantly it started to come.

The sound of clanging metal, a heavy key turning in a lock, made him stop and look. A door was pulled open. Orange fire-born light flickered in. Two medieval knights, one of them holding a flaming torch, manhandled a broken, barely living, rag-strewn man into what Ben could now see was a dungeon. He could also see his leg was embedded, ankle deep, into the dungeon wall. The Knights pushed the prisoner to the floor, his body fell limp. The Knights recoiled, their chainmail armor clattered as they drew their swords with an instinctive rush. Ben knew he had been seen.

'In the name of God!' cried one Knight.

'Begone, this demon!' proclaimed the other.

They lunged at him, trusting sword and flame towards him. Without thinking, Ben moved his hands to block each stab of their weapons. Did he need to? Could they hurt him? Fear drove him on, gave him the will to force his leg free and then, just as the cold returned, twist and turn away through time.

Running, so glad to be running, his body trapped only in space. The terrain was a mountainous, ice covered land. Above him, two sets of particles burst into the clear blue sky. Their first act was to lash out at each other - a pecking order scuffle, like two birds competing for scraps. Behind him, entered a third. He jumped into time and fled far away.

Through space he fell, towards a naked, bleeding Earth; one stripped to its barest heart, a ball of molten rock skinned with a cracked, blackened crust. He felt the heat radiating out, the first warmth to touch him since living dead. The Blitz he thought was barely a tale, a war of mere people, not like this, a war of worlds. Rocks - colossal splinters from smashed and broken planets - poured down from the Moonless sky and bombed the Earth with a nuclear frenzy. How dead the Earth looked, how attacked and under siege, but time shall give it life he thought, time can make her breathe.

Before he could land, and test the crust beneath his feet, he twisted and turned and sped away.

The ancient forest, blooming with life and mystery, sparkled beneath a summer haze. Ben landed, running, knowing the cold would soon return to bite.

In a pool of clear, crisp water, a flame-haired young woman bathed, clothed in a plain white dress. On seeing her, all Ben could do was stop and stare, dazzled by her beauty, this princess of the forest, whose crown was one made of white flowers woven into her hair. How calm she looked, how unafraid, alone in the forest. Her eyes closed to see a dream more clearly. She was a jewel set amongst a crown of flowers. She moved as if in a dance, a tribute to the forest, as her cupped hands ladled water over her head and body. She seemed unreal, a mirage.

The instant chill, the dark swooping cloud of particles raced towards him. He ran, bounced from tree to tree, like a pinball in an endless game, desperately seeking an exit. The particles took form - the sleek, predatory shadow.

Could he run forever? With no illness to slow him or breath to catch, was this now his eternity? They could hunt him through time and pursue him through space. What choice did he have, other than submission?

Two more waves of particles appeared and joined the chase, casting particles far and wide, snare-like, contracting around Ben to limit the space he could use, to make ever smaller the pitch of play. Beneath him, the Princess stood in the lake spinning round and round, getting faster and faster, as a whirlpool formed in her wake.

Ben had no choice; space offered no escape. He leapt through time but went back only months, back to the forest in the dead of winter. All life had been iced by frost, except for the princess who remained in the pond exactly as before, spinning round and round, trance-like, beneath him. Ben drifted down towards her. The briefest pause before the cold snapped back, too quickly for Ben to flee through space or time. He knew he was trapped. The shadow's face - his own screaming the terror he felt inside. But then, a torrent, a vortex of water rose up from the pond and enclosed him. The walls, pure white rapids, shielded him and somehow kept the shadow out.

The Princess looked up; a great strain showed in her face. Her arms were outstretched; her hands extended through the vortex walls as if she alone bore the water's weight.

'Quick! Your hand!' she said. 'You are marked! Destroy it! Go! Trust yourself, as we must now trust you!'

And with that, she summoned a strength beyond her body and launched the vortex ever higher. Ben was thrust up in its wake. He turned and twisted and moved blindly through time into the roar of a Spitfire plane ripping through the air.

A mass of black ripples burst into the sky above him. He looked at his hands; a single black particle hovered a just above the skin on his left hand palm. He tried to shake it off, but it remained in place. The ripples became shadows as they dive bombed towards him.

'Destroy it. Trust yourself.' He heard her words, and he took them with him as he sped back into time.

Again, he fell towards the bleeding, molten Earth, so far from life. He could feel the heat, but could it hurt him, that tread of life he still retained? Could he thrust his hand into the seething liquid rock, could he and the particle survive?

The thin, brittle crust took his weight. The heat smothered him. He ran to the nearest crack. Shadows raced down towards him. He plunged his hand into the molten rock. A scolding pain rose, sucked-up, through him, and pooled in his head, wanting to burst.

With the Shadows about to strike, he turned and twisted away moving only minutes back through time. Once landed, he jumped as high as he could. The future Earth had swelled in size, this rock of liquid fire was only the beginning. If he travelled back to the future at ground level, or not high enough, he would land trapped beneath all that had piled on top.

He jumped through time, a leap of faith. He landed, safely, on all fours, above a patch of freshly raked soil. The sound of someone whistling flitted through the air. He scoured his hand, the right one too. The particle was gone, destroyed.

He looked up, his Aunt's cottage filled the view. It appeared exactly the same; however, the garden looked cared for and maximised for the cultivation of vegetables. The whistling got louder, a lively tune he had never heard before. He stood and quickly scanned the sky. Had they followed? The whistling stopped. Ben looked back towards the cottage. In front of him, there standing just metres away, was his Dad. He looked young, barely twenty, and carried a pair of mud soaked football boots. Their stares became locked. His Dad looked fascinated and showed no sign of fear.

'What are you? What can you be? his Dad asked, before slowly stepping forward to get a closer look.

Ben could find no words.

'Little man like you, you'd do me no harm,' his Dad continued.

'Dad.' said Ben.

A pained, disturbed look flooded his Dad's face.

'No. No. Not so young, son?

'Dad.'

The cold, the instant chill. Ben turned to locate the attack but saw only black. With no time to twist away, he felt himself grabbed then violently thrown. Black remained the only view, but still, fear drove his eyes shut. He could feel his body accelerating, falling down, down, faster and faster. He forced his eyes open. Spiraling through the blackness towards a tiny point in the far distance were an seemingly infinite number of him: Bens of every previous age, from every moment of his time alive, from the fetus to the bed on which his dying body laid. Whether ghosts, impressions or real solid flesh, all hurtled towards the same tiny point, and all fed the space with horror.

He tried to turn to escape through time but was powerless to move. Ahead of him, his many selves were being stretched before vanishing into the black hole. And then: blind; unable to speak, think; grub-like; compressed by an unimaginable weight; crushed to the point of infinite pain.

He woke in his bed, sprung upright with a scream that told little of the horror he had felt. He glanced behind; the shell that was his body remained. He was still a ghost but felt desperate to breathe, as if just plucked from deep, drowning, water into thin, depleted air. He tried to compose himself, to think of something, anything, clearly, to anchor his self from the swell of panic and fear. A noise startled him and made him look; Wilf raced towards him.

'Hide me! Save me! Hide me!' Wilf screamed in panic, just as he had before. 'You haven't seen me! If you can, and of course you can't, mere boy, forget me!' he continued, as he dived under the bed to hide.

Ben's thoughts became clear. Time and place settled. The ghosts would come, as would the shadow. He raced to the edge of the bed; cast the pendant to the floor.

'I 've seen you before; you're Wilf!' he said, as he jumped to the floor. 'And behind you is The Moof, AID, Albert and Victoria!'

Wilf shot out from under the bed, ran to the far wall then turned to face Ben.

'How do you know that?' he asked.

'It's happened before, this time has happened before. I've been here before!'

'How?' asked Wilf, he body half turned towards the wall as if about to run away.

'I travelled through time. They chased me. I bet what's chasing you!'

'The...?, he said with a nervous, shivering stutter.

'The?'

'Sshhhh! Don't speak their name.'

'What is their name?'

'They have no name.'

'Then how can you not speak it?'

'Fear! We dare not speak their name.'

'The one you haven't given them?'

'Yes.'

'But you do speak their name, The...'

'Oh please! Who isn't a the? You're a the! Not the, the. Not like me. I am, the! The one and only, the!'

'Right, fine, but it came out of the air from nowhere and in this very room.'

'And you moved through time?'

'Yes! But they caught me.'

'Then released you!'

'Yes!'

'The first time they catch you, they always release you,' he said, his voice barely a whisper.

'Why?'

'So you know the pain. The horror! So you feel the fear for ever more,' he replied, almost tearful.

'What happens if they catch you a second time?'

'They never let you go!'

'I felt what they want.'

'Stillness.'

'Emptiness.'

'All space and matter gone.'

'A dead, empty peace.'

'For one of their kin! Only one will remain. The pack will turn cannibal. They will hunt and feast on themselves until one is crowned, everything.'

'Everything?'

'Oh, give them a name! Wilf tip, four: always know the name of your enemy then, when you're begging for mercy, you can use the name and you won't seem rude!'

'It's coming back! We must tell the others!'

'Coming back, and forwards, and sideways, and up and down! They come from everywhere! They are always coming from everywhere!'

'Then we must tell the others! We must leave!'

'The others? But what about me?' He rushed up close to Ben. 'I am the prize! The honor, the legend to stuff? But together, me and you could flee through time. Hold me! Hold me!' He tried to embrace Ben, but Ben twisted away.

'Oh no, oh no.' The Moof appeared through the wall. Ben stepped towards him and told him,

'You're The Moof. This, us meeting here, has happened before!

'Aaarrrggggg!' cried The Moof, as he covered his face with his hands.

Ben continued.

'AID, Albert and Victoria are following you. A The... will soon be here. You must go and tell the others! We must leave!'

'Go? Leave? Here? Me? Now? I only just got here. I's not a rudey. Especially not to meself. Are you trying to trip me up?' said The Moof.

'I'm trying to help you!'

'Then command him!' said Wilf to Ben. 'Two brains, both faulty. Two brains and yet still, he can only count to one!'

'To help me, don't look at me,' continued The Moof. 'Not so directly. Blink a lot. Or use one eye. Yes, I said, use one eye. We need to meet first. Feast a few times. Then get familiar.'

'We have met. This time has happened before. We spoke, you told me you died after swallowing gas.'

'I know. It was foolish. But it's not in The Moof's nature to dwell. Or learn from their mistakes.'

'Go and tell the others! I command you!' said Wilf to The Moof.

'Oh, right then. Order taken as charged.' said The Moof before looking at Ben and continuing. 'Always listen to an angry Wolf. Better they chitty chat words. Than eat you fresh and whole.'

'He can't eat you, you're dead!' said Ben.

'Oh, he's a right agitator this one,' said the Moof to Wilf. 'He'll be putting ideas in my head next. That'll hurt me. Right, a lot.'

'Humans are agitators, born agitators. They come from chimps, and we all know how mischievous the common chimp is.' said Wilf.

'Moofs come from rattlefillers. They's not known for nothing. Except for doing nothing. And they don't hurry to do that. Right lazy buggers. Were the first animals to go on holiday though. So I'd bake them a cake and a half. Half's for me but then I's done the work, ain't I?'

'The wolf comes from no other animal. The wolf is an original. The wolf was forged by Wolfo, the god of all gods! The wolf was a gift to all that lives, a beacon of hope and aspiration. The wolf is known for intelligence, wit, cunning, guile, style, a perky sense of humor,'

'Can't you two concentrate?' Ben interrupted. 'We're in danger! We must go and tell the others!'

'Alright. I's goin'. I is!' said the Moof. He then thrust a hand deep into the fur that covered his belly and pulled out another Moof, one that looked identical to the original, only a fifth of the size, and with a keener more energised manner.

'What's that?' Ben asked.

'It's me. You's a right thick 'un, you.' The Moof replied, amused. He then drop-kicked the Little Moof towards and beyond the wall. A fury cord, attached to the Little Moof's back, unraveled from inside the Moof's belly fur.

'Oh, that hurt me, that did. Not properly, I'm dead. That's a memory hurt, that is. Like smells. I's always got memory smells comin' to me. One of death's great pleasures. Not always savory. Oh no. Oh,' he said, squirming, 'there it hurts again.'

'If that's you, then haven't you actually got four noses, and four of other things?' asked Ben.

The Moof looked at him, distraught.

'Oh. Oh. No. Why'd you need to crush me so? Take the fur off a man. He's still a beast,' said The Moof.

'But four is better than two.' said Ben trying to make amends.

'Only for legs!' boasted Wilf. 'Not when it comes to noses and bums. One, is the optimum number when it comes to noses and bums! Fact! Even brains. Exhibit A, the wolf: one nose, one bum, one brain, one perfect specimen. Copied throughout nature and time!'

'I'm going to the window. We haven't got time for this. I need to get ready; I need to jump out. It's coming back!' said Ben as he rushed towards the window.

'But you can take us through time.' said Wilf

'He? This one 'ere? He can move through time?' asked The Moof.

'Can't all ghosts?' asked Ben as he opened the window.

'No! So what makes you so special?' said Wilf.

'Some can. None of us though. No. Not us though, no.' added The Moof.

'My legend moves through time for it is timeless! It is historical!' said Wilf.

The Little Moof flew back into the room and went straight into The Moof's belly fur.

'There. Warned! Well, that's tired me!' said the Moof.

AID, Albert and Victoria flew in through the wall.

'Him. That one there. Can travel through time. We've met him before,' said The Moof.

'You didn't take to him then; you won't take to him now,' added Wilf.

'I, too, travelled through time, just once. Taken by another ghost who also had the power' said AID. 'Hence my presence here, in the primitive past, with countryside animals,' he continued with a disapproving glance towards Wilf and The Moof.

'But how is it possible?' asked Ben.

'All time exists at all time. Just another dimension which some, you, can access.'

'What do you mean, countryside animal?' asked Wilf, offended.

'Nothing. No opinion. I speak only the words of my computer. I, this,' he pointed to his body, 'is merely packaging. That's all I am. Without my computer, I'm only good for the recycler.'

'I'm going!' said Ben. 'We haven't got time to bicker!'

He jumped through the window. As he drifted down, he turned to look at the window. The others, he hoped, would follow, which they did, they flew to the ground and waited for him to land.

'Come on. All hold hands,' said Albert as Ben took his place amongst them.

'Paws!' replied Wilf.

'Why? We's in a rush! I's ready to roll,' said the Moof.

'Paws! You two-bummed oaf!'

'Hold on to each other!' demanded Albert. 'You must take us through time, Ben.'

'Why? They can follow us. What difference will it make?' said Ben.

'We must cling to any advantage, however slight. It may give us seconds. At least, somewhere else to run.'

'Can we touch?'

'Not like we once could.'

Albert reached a hand towards Victoria, who reciprocated. Their hands blended into one, like two clouds drifting into each other. The Moof, AID and Wilf all followed and joined their hands, and paws, together. Albert offered his other hand to Ben. He took it but felt no touch as it merged with his own.

'Are you ready?' Albert asked Ben, who nodded his head in reply.

'My computer speaks, it says we mustn't go back too far. We must not confuse the search.' said AID.

'Yes, of course. Back only days, and to daylight,' said Albert.

'The search?' asked Ben.

'For The Place. The special place,' answered The Moof.

'A means to another realm, one of safety,' added Albert.

'A place of hope.'

'The great wolf den in the sky!' added Wilf.

'It could be anywhere! Anywhere!' said Albert impatiently.

'You, I. Me too. Free. And, I think, waited on,' said The Moof.

'By servile men wearing furry gloves!' added Wilf, triumphantly.

'From fear! Free from fear,' interrupted Albert, as he saw that Ben was about to question The Moof. 'What else can we ask for? Now go, please!'

Ben moved through time effortlessly pulling the others through with him. When he stopped, it was daytime, and the land was white with snow.

'Quickly, now. Keep low. Ben, follow us!' instructed Albert.

Albert, Wilf, The Moof, Victoria and AID all sped off at quite a speed in a loose arrow shaped formation scouring the land as they went. Ben rushed to join them and quickly caught up with Albert.

'What do we do now?' Ben asked him.

'We search,' Albert answered.

'Where?'

'Everywhere. What else is there to do? We have no other hope.'

They reached a small clump of trees, Albert flew up and over, Ben weaved his way through. Wilf was ahead of him. Ben watched him as he searched inbetween the trees like he was playing hide and seek, looking for the one who was hidden.

Several cottages came into view. Ben watched as the other ghosts flew into every one. He waited, alone, in the garden of Mrs Beese. From inside her cottage a woman screamed with fright.

AID appeared through a wall, as he flew away, Ben called out to him.

'You look inside houses?'

AID stopped, turned and looked at Ben.

'Yes.'

'Why?' asked Ben bewildered.

'We look everywhere? As my computer says, we have no idea what we are looking for, or where The Place may be, so why reject any possibility.'

'No idea at all?'

'None.'

'Then how can you hope to find it?'

'Because we have eternity to look for it.'

'You could be looking forever?'

'Theoretically, yes, but as my computer says, even when you factor in the possibility of us having eternity to find The Place, the chances of us actually succeeding are miniscule. The... also have the power of eternity, as they do the power to travel through time. The result of this, of course, means the chances of us avoiding the fate they wish to impose on us, one of endless pain and torment, are actually very, very, very small. Still, one has to have a point to the day.'

'Don't listen to it!' shouted Wilf as he rushed towards them. 'It was never alive! A mere machine. A faceless vomiter of useless facts! What instinct does it have? Not those born of wild creation! Not an instinct for survival, for hunches or ideas? Oh no! Not like a wolf or any truly living thing!'

'No, no. Not I. I am simply a messenger,' replied AID before he turned and flew away.

'This nose won't let us down!' Wilf said pointing to his own large snozzle. 'It's bigger than my brain and far more useful. The brain asks a question; the nose gives an answer. One whiff of instinct and everything is known. Now, onward! The Place exists and we will find it!' he sniffed the air, 'To The Place and safety!'

Wilf turned and raced away. Ben hesitated but soon, somewhat reluctantly, followed.

The group covered the land where Ben had once played. They passed the lake, but Ben gave no thought to the monster or to Mark or to the warrior asleep beneath the hill. He followed silently, behind and outside the pack.

At the top of the hill, the Hospital came into view. Ben stopped and watched as the other ghosts honed in on it, like hungry birds in a race to scavenge a meal.

'No!' he shouted at them. 'No! You mustn't!'

He ran as fast as he could, desperate to catch them up, but their speed and headstart enforced their lead. They passed through the hospital's boundary wall. Ben followed, leaping over it. As he knew he would not reach them, he turned and moved through time - a brief slip back into the past.

Back in the present, the others approached him.

'Where's he come from? That one there,' asked The Moof, as he and the others slowed to a stop.

'Through time.' answered Albert.

'You can't go in there!' Ben demanded. 'It's a hospital! There are people in there too ill to be scared!'

'I'm too scared to be ill! I know what happens!' said The Moof.

'Most of the patients won't see us,' Albert tried to reassure.

'But some will!' countered Ben.

'If I was ill and I saw a ghost I'd make sure I got better. It would scared me to life. And back again,' added The Moof.

'I don't think they're ill in that way. It's not their bodies that hurt,' said Ben.

'You do it. You go inside. Who can be scared of a puny boy, dead or alive?' said Wilf.

'No. I can't!' replied Ben.

'You can. With my genius and guile, I'll get you inside.'

'That's not the point! It's wrong!'

'We all need to go in. We must look properly. We must look everywhere.' said Albert.

'It's cruel! You're a cruel people!' Ben shouted at Albert.

'We have to!' Albert snapped back. 'It's for the good of everyone, not just us, or you! It's our only hope! We must look everywhere!'

Albert flew away straight through a wall and into the hospital.

'It's our only hope? Our only hope! Why remind me of that? It's our only hope! If only I was born a moose, I wouldn't have the brains to care!' screamed Wilf, before he rushed away to join Albert.

'It is our only hope. My computer has done the maths.' said AID, before he, too, flew off to join the search. Ben looked at The Moof.

'I's a herd animal; I follow the crowd,' said The Moof, as he sneaked away towards the hospital. 'I'll say this though, there's wisdom in crowds. All those brains. Takes the pressure off. You's hardly have to think at all.'

He accelerated quickly, went through the wall and vanished. Ben looked at Victoria, her face hidden beneath her hood.

'I'm not staying.' Ben told her. 'Not to hear them scream.'

He started to back away. Victoria seemed hesitant. She moved forward as if about to follow him but then pulled back. She glanced at the hospital then back towards Ben, who stood watching her, waiting for her to come.

'I'm going! I can't stay!' he said.

She gently bowed and shook her head. Ben turned and sped away, desperate to put distance between himself and the Hospital. As he neared the boundary wall, he turned and looked behind, Victoria had gone.

With a graceful ease, he jumped on to then over the wall. His slow decent to the ground fuelled his anxiety such was his need to run further away. Finally, his feet crunched into a pristine layer of snow. He glanced behind, but no ghost followed. He looked forward and instantly recoiled, startled with fright. From out of thin air, indeed from out of thin time, a man appeared just several metres away, who immediately began to limp towards Ben. Every step he took caused him strain. It was as if his bruised and dirt blackened body hauled an invisible leaden weight. Folds of sagging skin, that fat would have once made solid, hung off him head-to-toe like thick dripping flem and flapped as he shuffled along. A pair of threadbare sackcloth trousers, the only clothes which covered him, did nothing to hide this revolting, hideous mess. His head was bald and ridden with boils and yet still he beamed a toothless smile as if all happiness was his to share. He threw his hands aloft as if to offer Ben a long lost embrace.

'Who are you?' Ben asked, about to flee through time.

'I have no name. I want no name. I seek never to be known. Pass me no credit. Give me no fame.' The Man proclaimed with the zeal of a preacher rallying before a hostile crowd, and without hardly moving his mouth or face. It was as if his face was worn as a mask, although his eyes did sparkle with expression.

'A tear of recognition, a mere morsel. Silent recognition in the eyes of the people I save. Those that I liberate from fear, from the endless horror shackled to their souls! And not just Man, but all citizens of our ghostly world! The monsters, creatures and things. You know what I speak of, Ben, you, know what I speak of!'

Ben backed into the boundary wall; his body moved through it an inch before coming to a stop. The Man, seeing this, speeded up.

'Recognition, that I have saved yet another poor shivering soul!' he continued.

Ben felt smothered, unable to speak, as the man loomed and leered over him.

'Are you afraid of me, small, helpless boy?' The Man asked.

Ben lunged away from the wall then turned and twisted through time, several minutes into the past. Once still in the present, he paused to think: should he find the others or continue alone? But then,

'Boo!' said The Man with no name, as he appeared before Ben's eyes. 'Ha! Come, join us. A fellowship, the fellowship of Those Who Can!' he wailed through laughter.

'You can move through time?' asked Ben as he stepped hurriedly away.

'Of course. I am blessed. Your mind is clogged,' he dropped to his knees, his arms held aloft. 'I see it! Clogged with fear? Yes! I see it, fear! Use it! Plot! Conspire! But never, never must you fear sweet me!'

Ben stopped and stood. The distance between them was just enough to make him feel nearly safe.

'Who are you? Name or no name, you must be someone,' he asked.

'Me? Here? Now? In this world where smoke takes our form? I am the man who can. I am he man who knows. A simple man, honest in nature. A good man, who was once so very, very bad. The worst! Despicable! Afraid even to trust his own shadow, who believed it stalked him, dagger in hand! Alas, I heard it vomit, such was its disgust at my very being! See, see how I died.' He stood. 'Witness the fate I brought upon myself.'

His body spilt into eight separate pieces: his head, torso, lower and upper legs and lower and upper arms, then fell to the ground.

'Hung drawn and quartered then quartered again. Oh the privilege, the rarity! Each organ then cut from my body and burnt such was the witchery needed to guard against the horror of my return! Quite an effort. You must agree. And all for a mere bureaucrat. Yes, no Prince was I!'

His body parts jumped back together to form his body whole, and once again he stood in front of Ben.

'My only defense and I seek no excuse, but alas, I was born one below the cesspit end of life. In the filthy pigsty, yes, that was where my stock was bred! The son of peasants – both witless and deformed – some would say part toad, both in body and in mind. Lucky for them they past, dead, before I had the power.' He laughed, an unpleasant little laugh that seemed to burst involuntary from him, although he checked himself quickly and continued. 'So, I say, for me to climb from the swamp, my only choice was to serve. I had to have heart, one as hard and as bloody as the men whose company I sought. And each and every one of them a very, very bad man.'

'So? What do you want with me?' Asked Ben.

'With you? You, of my kin.' He began to walk towards Ben. 'Able to navigate time itself. Oh, if only such a privilege was mine when alive. Think, the women I could have saved, the men I could have retired before their time, peacefully and forever.' He smiled, pleased at the thought. 'But you, what do I want with you? With you, as with everyone, I have but one oath!' he stopped a step or two away from Ben then continued. 'To serve, to lead all those who wish to follow me to the safety of The Place.'

'You know of The Place, where it is?'

'The exact location. Where and when the flower does bloom.'

'You can take us?'

'All the way and beyond. But listen, how cruel my honesty must be. Your father,'

'What about him? Is he there?' interrupted Ben.

'No. The brave rest in peace and always will. Some, foolishly, believe The Place reunites us all, but alas, it does not and cannot.'

'I didn't believe it would.'

'You hoped for it! Pray, do not sour. All is not lost. I have so much to reveal!' He held a hand out towards Ben and took the final step towards him. 'Come, we must tell your friends, the news is good!'

Ben hesitated. He considered taking his hand but instead,

'I can find them myself,' he said.

'You will' Replied The Man, knowingly.

Ben turned and went back through time, to meet the others as they flew towards the hospital. When he stopped, they stood gathered round The Man, whose finger was raised and pointing directly at Ben.

'You see,' said The Man, somewhat smugly. 'The vision I possess!'

'He says he can take us to The Place,' Ben told the others.

'So he says,' replied Albert, far from convinced.

'Just moments away! A stroll through time and a leap through space,' said The Man.

'My computer says, approach with caution,' said Aid.

'I knows nothing of any significance. Ar. Right. True that. But would I go for a pie with him right there? No. I's wouldn't. Sweet or savory,' said The Moof.

'My nose has the whiff of something rotten!' added Wilf.

'And it's not me. This time.' asked The Moof.

The Man vanished then reappeared a second later. He looked at Ben with a wink and a smile.

'You see? Yes! We must go! You must take us!' said Albert to The Man.

'We must hurry! Wolf speed!' added Wilf

'Too rights!' spoke both The Moof's mouths.

'A cautious approach is still an approach and of course I must defer to man,' said AID

Ben looked on, alarmed at the collective change of mind. Even Victoria nodded her head enthusiastically. The Man moved towards them, arms outstretched.

'Hold each other. Then into and beyond our dreams,' he said.

They gathered around him and all touched hands. Ben stood back, hesitating. They all looked at him. Albert spoke,

'Ben, you must come too!'

'No!' said The Man. 'No one must! Each must decide willingly. He has the power of time; he can take as long as he wants to decide.'

'When all is danger, what risk is there to take?' pleaded Albert.

'The cold! Quickly! The cold!' cried The Man.

'I smell it!' added Wilf, panicking.

'Me and I, too! Right fur buster' said The Moof.

Ben, who felt no chill, conceded to the crowd. He rushed towards them and joined their huddle.

The Man took them through time. When they stopped, a vast horizon-wide salt pan surrounded them - a repetitive, featureless landscape of brilliant white salt, cracked and baked beneath a brutal Sun.

'You must follow me! No time to think! How cruel to lose now when so close to sanctuary!' said The Man.

The Man led them away at a frantic pace. Miles rolled quickly by.

The Man came to a sudden stop.

'It is here!' The Man called out. 'Hold me!'

They others rushed around him and quickly joined hands. Ben shuffled in, trapped in the current of the crowd.

'Close together, stand close together,' The man continued, 'So little space will greet us.'

The Man pulled them through time. When they stopped, darkness smothered the view. The only light was the faint luminous haze that incased each and every ghost. The only sound, the slow drip of water echoing against the damp, ragged rock.

'It's a cave. Is this a cave?' said Albert.

'Deep beneath a mountain of solid, protecting rock. Here, in her open empty veins.' replied The Man.

'Have we arrived? Shouldn't I be announced?' asked Wilf.

'Shouldn't there be cake?' asked The Moof.

'Shut up and follow! Let the human lead. Promises will be made good.' said AID.

'We must venture further, deeper down into the belly of the Earth,' said The Man, 'Alas, where else but the belly of our mother, sweet protecting Mother Earth. We must travel beyond all that you know for The Place must be hidden, this door to another realm.'

'Then take us,' urged Albert.

'What's that?!' asked Ben, having heard something that unsettled him. 'A scream. Someone screamed!'

'There are many here who scream for such is the pain they have to release,' replied The Man.

A chorus of screams and agonised shouts oozed from the rock into the squat, claustrophobic space that surrounded them.

'There, you must have heard it! You must!' demanded Ben to blank and denying stares.

'Screams? Constant echoes to me.' said The Man through a slight, sinister laugh. 'Tortured souls, unprepared for peace! How sweet can love taste to a man starved of it? Sour I should say; enough for him to gag and spit it out. I have seen it. Consider the time it takes for a broken man twisted with pain to grow straight and true once he has been freed from all that has damaged him. It takes a strength to free oneself! There are men, weak willed men, who desire only to be a victim! Is that us? Are we to be the lost, pitiful victims of our own imaginary fears?'

'No. Go, take us there!' said Albert. The others all agreed.

'Then come.'

'I'm not. I'm going back!' said Ben.

'Going?'

'Yes!'

'Navigate alone, with all this rock to trap you? Pray caution, young boy. Your tomb would be one of such excruciating pain,' advised The Man.

'Come back with me!' Ben pleaded to the others.

'Go, or follow!' demanded The Man.

'I stay!' said Albert.

'This nose knows trouble, and none is sniffed here!' said Wilf.

'I's not farted once. Job's a good 'un.' added The Moof.

'You are indeed human, but a mere whisp of a boy. I, let me say proudly, have been programmed to follow men,' explained AID before turning to Victoria to add, ' and the occasional woman.'

'Then go! All of you!' said Ben.

Before his echo fell silent, he was gone, alone in the bubble - the eye of the storm of time.

He looked for a way back to the salt pan. A vague sense of the distance through time The Man had taken him helped him locate the correct era from the seemingly infinite spinning pockets of time that dizzyingly and maddeningly surrounded him.

Which way to run he thought, when all direction looked the same? Which moment in the billions of years open to him should he glance fleetingly? Back to the cottage, back to his Dad whistling a tune to serenade the calm of a beautiful summers day. No thoughts of war, or life other than lived, his only task, to clean a pair of football boots.

To help find his way, Ben went back into time and travelled as far forwards as he could, which he discovered was no further forward then the time he had lived as boy and died as a ghost.

Soon he was back in familiar surroundings. Behind him stood the Stiperstones, a range of hills he would once stare at from his bedroom window and dream of crossing to find adventures in far away lands but which now called him back to his home.

He went as quickly and as urgently as was possible, back to the cottage. But not to be seen, not to sadden his Dad, only to watch him for real and outside his dreams. However, before he could fulfill this need, as he once again passed the hospital, The Man appeared before him.

'Stop! Stop!' The Man cried, 'Your friends are in grave danger!'

'My friends? I have only just met them!' said Ben as he slowed to stop.

'Straight to the truth this boy! See it, don't you?'

'What?'

'How they used you! You, as a decoy.'

'A decoy for what?'

'The... The power! What else is there for you to fear here? Just them.'

'They wanted my help; I gave it to them.'

'I call them the power because that it what they are - pure, merciless power, who covet us more than any other!'

'Us?'

'You, me! The brothers, those of the same kin, who are blessed with the advantage of time. We, Ben, we are the most desired, by far the most valuable!'

'We are, why?'

'We challenge them, nothing more. We provide them better sport. We can flee through time. It makes us faster, fitter. We are the best of our kind.'

'So The... would have chased me first?'

'Allowing your friends to escape. Oh, so feeble, of course! But what to expect of cowards?'

'Cold!' said Ben, as an instant, all-embracing chill smothered him.

'Come, quickly! There are secrets to tell.'

He held his hand out for Ben to take, who hesitated, unsure whether to oblige.

'You have the power to vanish from my company at any time. I am but you. What damage can I exact?'

Ben took The Man's hand, who pulled him from the present into their exclusive den.

'Secret!' The Man continued. 'We cannot be taken from here! The blur of time keeps us safe, fortified in our own bubble.'

'Completely safe?'

'For as long as we dare stay protected!'

'As long as we dare?'

'To dwell here for long, let alone for eternity, will drive even a dead man insane. Time can make demons grow in all of us.'

'How long is too long?'

'A man completely sane can survive for several minutes. But a man, or boy, teetering on the brink of any kind of madness may survive for only one. Poor thing. But alas, it is our advantage and here we have our corridors of power. Here we talk, plot and plan! It can be ours, Ben, it can all be ours!'

'What can?'

'We have hope; the others have none!'

'Why are they in danger?'

'I have put them there!'

'The Place?'

'There is no Place.'

'You lied? I knew it!'

'Hope and desperation how they bow to the creators of opportunity.'

'You tricked them!'

'The Place is nothing more than a cruel, squalid rumour. I cannot claim the credit for it, but I must confess, I did help and encourage it to grow.'

'Why?'

'To trap the weak! To accumulate stock and resources. Do you think The Power takes cash or gold?' he laughed, 'What do they want, Ben? What do they desire?'

'I don't know!'

'Everything! Not just our world, but all worlds, all space! Everything black and empty. The void of space for every dimension, for every single time. No matter - solids, gasses, liquids - nothing that you can see and nothing that you can't. All matter and all life crushed, screaming!'

'But why?'

'They have no reason. You cannot conspire as they conspire. They, anti-matter, anti-life! They have no will to build, to dream, to procreate. They desire only destruction. At the beginning of time, many came into to being, but then in an instant all but one vanished, destroyed, smashed to nothing by matter itself. The one that remained was trapped in a single, locked dimension, kept beyond what we know to be time.'

'And beyond all sense to me.'

'The Universe, all we live in, continues to expand and has done so ever since it came into being. I have learnt this. As it grew, the dimension that imprisoned The... contracted, got smaller and smaller until it got so close to nothing as to barely exist at all. But then, creation! From nothing came fire and rage. The... their shadow dimension erupted and forged the last remaining The... into something other and propelled it back into the time we know, into the world of the ghost where it replicated and divided into many and began to hunt us down. At first, it is said, all was instinctive, all action was carried out machine-like without thought or reason, but then, something changed, they began to enjoy the chase, the power they had and the fear they caused in us, their prey. They started to compete with each other. A selfishness was born, a viciousness! They became as cannibals, hunting their own!'

'Why?'

'For only one can remain, the best, the strongest! It is why we, us with the power to move though time, are so highly prized; we test them; we make them stronger.'

'Why ghosts? Why in this world?'

'We are merely the first stick thin wall that they must break and smash right through. Once we, the ghosts, are taken, The... will be free to enter the space of the living where the hunt for all matter will continue.'

'And then what?'

'They will hunt each other. The end. All matter will vanish, all time, too. All space will be flattened. One The..., one Power, will be left to lord it over infinite space and emptiness, and the only other dimension, will be that which crushes all life and other matter!'

'We may be cowards but what about those who still live. People from my time, stood brave against the worst. They will fight! They won't run away!'

'War against man is child's play. People are doomed! Who will be left to save us? When a ghost is captured a life is removed from time: one man gone, his children gone, their children gone and so on. True, others will be born and others who died will live again but not enough to stop life thinning so very much.'

'Others who died will live?'

'Your father.'

'My Dad?'

'If you were taken.'

'He would live! I wouldn't be born. He wouldn't have come to visit me and wouldn't have had the accident.'

'He would be left for the War and brave and honest men, in war, are always a breath from death.'

'No, he'd live.'

'It makes no difference.'

'What about the ghosts who aren't cowards?'

'There are none. I told you. All such men, women and beasts are gone.'

'So what can we do?'

'Join them!'

'The...?'

'Become them!'

'Be traitors!'

'Work for them, serve them. Give them all they want and in return request one small reward, to become as they are.'

'They're going to fight each other!'

'And I, as one of them, plan to be victorious. Although, that honour may well be yours.'

'Me?'

'Help me! Together we can thrive! Beneath that mountain I have trapped thousands of ghosts, convinced them all that they reside in The Place when in fact they are locked in a prison.'

'How can you trap a ghost when they can fly through walls?'

'Walls not mountains. Five yards maybe, but then whatever we are becomes trapped, frozen in the solid mass. Oh, the pain! Oh, the screams of agony! Another means to be crushed forever.'

'But The..,'

'The Power!'

'Can still get to them!'

'Alas, that may be so. But we have speed, time, decisiveness!'

'They don't need you! And they can still put you to the crush!'

'Opportunity, I give myself a chance! I have ingratiated myself with the hardest, coldest men! Conspired power from those men born bloody with it and lusting for more! At my birth, I sealed an oath to give The Power all they desire! And if The..., the power, desire competition let them dare compete against me! If they desire to see fear and horror rot our eyes, and they do, let them come to my stage, the cave. Let them thrill at the epic I have created. Let them feast on the mass horror and fear I gladly provide. Let them come! Let them watch! Let them pay for the pleasure!'

'Let you give them us, people!'

'Learn from me. Together, think of the ghosts we could ensnare. The weight of our bargaining power. See, how easy it is; see the weakness of all that lives.'

He pushed Ben back out into the present they had previously left. Albert and The Man stood huddled together locked in discussion with their backs turned to Ben.

'But be warned,' The Man told Albert, 'The Place is no easy, instant heaven. Of course, all guilt and remorse is hacked clean away, all shame is lost forever. But your art, the books inside you, those that you desire to write, these can only exist if you work and toil.'

'Don't listen to him!' Ben cried. 'It's a lie!' Albert and the Man turned to look at him. Albert looked shocked.

'It is! Lies! All horrible lies!' The Man confessed to Albert, 'But listen to me?' He snarled at Ben. 'Of course he will listen to me!'

'No!' Ben pleaded, but in an instant The Man and Albert had vanished.

'A place of endless feasting?' Spoke the voice of The Moof. Ben turned to find the source. Behind him, The Moof and The Man stood huddled together with their backs turned to face Ben.

'Feasts to celebrate feasts. Training feasts to prepare the belly for monumental feasts. A place where the professional feaster is worshiped as an athletic god.' replied The Man.

'Oh my furry bums. Finally. Somethin' worth sweatin' for! But I's dead.'

'In The Place, all is flesh.'

'Flesh? Mmmm. My favorite!'

Ben wanted to speak but struggled to find words he thought would convince.

'Simple pleasures for simple Moofs, all of whom will look as they do in their dreams.'

'No? Just like me. But less in the belly and bum?''

'Your dreams reflected into reality.'

'He's lying!' cried Ben, finally unable to keep silent.

The Moof and The Man turned to look at him.

'Lying?' asked The Moof.

'Me? This face? Could this face lie to you? Tell me, which of us do you trust?' The Man asked The Moof.

'You!' answered The Moof.

'We've met before,' The Man said to Ben, 'A fleeting moment of kindness, just enough to embed my trustworthy face in his mind. They don't remember all, but enough to help my lies.'

'What lies?' asked The Moof.

'I'm twenty one, and beautiful,' answered The Man.

'You's not. You's a right puddle of shock!'

They vanished. Ben instantly turned to look behind, where Wilf and The Man were huddled together.

'Alas, you must not tell the others! Not until we arrive, and are safe!' said The Man.

'Built by wolves; run by wolves!' said Wilf.

'Creative, intelligent wolves. Not quite up with you, but genius enough!'

'It's the natural order of things, the wolf on top. You can accept this, other humans can not!'

'Hence our silence, to protect them! They are the dogs now.'

Wilf vanished. The Man turned and looked at Ben with a smug, self-satisfied grin then continued to speak.

'There is no Place, Victoria. There is only, the end: peace, nothingness, your final resting place. That is the truth, Victoria. Hard, certain, final. Not one I can sell to the others, but you may agree, this peaceful final end is the kindest of options. Only follow my lead if you wish to be at no more, only and truly at peace.'

'You're a liar! Some sort of rotten are you!'

'Who better in this world for you to follow in oath?'

'I'll save them! I'll go back and tell them!'

'Oh your heart, your once bleeding heart, so soft and tender! Have them! Postpone their fate! You think me cruel, but I am the kindest soul here for you to meet! The only one who can offer you hope!'

'I don't want your hope!'

'Then run away! Your eternity is suffering! You weak, runt of a boy!' he spat the words with contempt.

'I will. I can. It's easy to suffer alone! But there are men who will fight!'

'As do I!'

The chill returned. The Man vanished into time. Ben continued to stand, to wait. There was hope, he believed, one true, final hope.

'You'll save us Dad, you'll save us all! Don't worry about me. It's one pain for another that's all. If I don't exist, how can I miss you like now I do?' he whispered, utterly scared, but utterly convinced. His eyes fell shut, as tight as they could go.

He did not run; he stood his ground. The... came and took him without a fight.

He felt himself thrown. He braced himself to take the pain, but before the all consuming crush, a human hand reached into the void, grabbed him and snatched him away.

# CHAPTER 5

The shock of cold water pressed against his body and stung his blinking eyes. He could feel a hand gripping the back of his neck, another the base of his spine, holding him under, resisting his struggle. A desperate, uncontrollable gasp for air flooded water into his lungs. The hands hauled him up, out into mist soaked air. A sudden, forced, contraction against his stomach expelled water from his lungs. He coughed, nearly vomiting, but then breathed again - the sharp dawn air woke his lungs.

At the water's edge, Ceiridwen \- whose face reminded Ben very much of the woman he had thought a princess of the forest, although she looked several years older, in her early twenties perhaps, and her hair was black and cut short - laid him down. Dawn light struggled meekly through the rich forest canopy. Islands of mist hung suspended in the air, like ghost ships stuck in the doldrums. Ceiridwen knelt beside him and spoke,

'You live. Life holds you once more,' her soft, soothing voice rose barely above a whisper. She wore a white dress that Ben thought the same as the one worn by the woman in the lake. She smiled at him kindly, a smile that came easy, one to balance the sadness that was so clear in her eyes.

'Today is a special day. The solstice, the wisest day of the year.'

'How can I be alive?' asked Ben, as he began to shiver.

'Fortune has favoured you. Now come. You need warmth.'

'How did I get here?'

She reached to pick him up, to cradle him in her arms, but as soon as she touched him, he moved with a sudden rush and stood beyond her reach.

'I can walk!' he snapped. 'You don't have to carry me!'

'Or touch you?'

'Anything!'

She stood, her delicate frame calm and poised, unaffected by the cold that bit through the air and their water soaked clothes.

'Then walk. Lead. Find your way, she continued.'

'To where?'

'To where I sleep, deep into the forest.'

'But I need to go back. You've saved the wrong person. Everything, everything is at risk!'

'You will have another chance to save us.'

'What, me? No! My Dad!'

'There is so little time we are given to breathe.'

'I don't understand any of this!'

'Can you walk through the mist, Ben? Do you believe it can rise?'

He struggled for an answer, nothing came, but her question had quickly left him, she was now the focus of his bewildered mind. She seemed so open so strangely loose, not buttoned-up or masked. Not one to watch herself, or to fear the thoughts of others. Her patience for him, as she waited for him to answer, warmed him, as usually no time for thought was offered him. Finally, in a voice that barely spoke, he answered her.

'I don't know,' said Ben.

'Shall I leave you here alone?' she asked. He shook his head. 'Then go ahead. I will follow.'

'Can't I follow you? You know the way!'

'I do for now, but the forest grows so very fast.'

'I didn't mean to be rude, rushing away.'

'I take no offense, not from a boy. Now come. The cold is not so forgiving.'

She stepped towards him. Ben looked down at his bare feet, broken shards of forest pressed painfully into his soles.

'I'm not wearing any shoes.'

'Nor am I.' She stopped and gracefully gestured with her hands towards her feet.

'Aren't you a witch? Can't you fly?' Ben asked.

'Do I look like a witch?'

'Not an ugly one!'

'A beautiful one?'

'Yes,' he answered, anticipating her smile, but all it raised was sadness in her eyes.

'Then how my skin lies. No cracks or weeping sores? No hardness? No angry, hateful scars?'

'Not that I can see.'

'Then maybe I have hope.'

'Hope..'

A coughing fit smothered his words. Once again, his chest felt tight and the air he breathed thin and weak. She picked him up in a strong, protecting embrace.

'Let me carry you, Ben. Please, let me carry you. I have medicine and warmth.'

He did not resist. She moved through the forest with an instinctive ease, fast and smooth. Ben felt protected, even exhilarated by the speed and urgency with which she travelled. No one had carried him before. He watched in awe as the forest deferred her the right of way. No creature, monster or thing dared to play or tease.

Soon they came to a small clearing, a space the forest had reserved for Ceiridwen. An open camp fire heated a cauldron of simmering broth. She placed him down, in the warmth of the flickering flames.

'This is for you,' she told him, as she filled a wooden bowl with the steaming broth. 'Inhale the vapour then drink the broth when cool.' She passed him the bowl. He took it and did what he was told to do.

'Deep breaths, as deep as you can,' she continued.

'What's your name?'

'Ceiridwen.'

'You saved me once before.'

'I see.'

Her answer brought a look of confusion to Ben's face. Seeing this, she continued.

'There are many worlds, a universe for every dream. The spell that infects us is the reality we breathe. Here the forest will speak to you as it does so freely to me.' She smiled at him warmly. 'I have clothes for you. You must change.' She stood and walked away. Thoughts rushed into Ben's mind, too many, too fast, and left a pile-up of confusion.

He sunk his nose in the bowl and inhaled sharply. The intense floral scent brought a tear to his eye, but instantly helped him breathe. The warmth of the fire quickly sunk beneath his skin.

Was this Ceiridwen's home he wondered? If so, where was her house? In fact, where was Ceiridwen. He looked again, but Ceiridwen had gone. Panic began to rise within him. The thickly woven forest encircled him. The fire and caldron told of a human's touch, but everything else was wild, governed by the laws of monsters, creatures and things.

A billow of trees hissed behind him. He stood, dropping the bowl. Sunlight pounced through branches and formed curtains of dazzling light that Ben knew could easily hide the worst of the forest. Squinting, he turned away and caught site of something that looked familiar: an oblong mound of bare earth that rose several inches from the ground. Surrounding it was a thick inner circle of blood red petals and an outer circle of identical black rectangular stones that rose from the ground to stand as tall as the mound. It struck him that this was a grave. It reminded him of Mark's grave, the mound of earth being the same shape and size. No headstone or cross gave a name to the dead but this, he thought, this must be the grave of another poor boy.

Suddenly, footsteps approached from behind. Ben turned to look. Ceiridwen stood before him, neatly folded clothes draped over her arm.

'Where did you go?' Ben demanded.

'To fetch your clothes,' she answered.

'From where, another time?' he replied sharply.

She knelt down and looked him square in the face.

'Do you think the forest can harm you now? Do you think it would dare?'

'Yes. There are always things,' he replied.

'Look. Can you see?' she pointed towards what looked like a dense, overgrown section of forest. 'A shelter, grown, borrowed from the forest, still very much alive. From where I took these clothes.'

Ben looked, but could see no shelter. He shook his head. Ceiridwen continued.

'The brambles, vines and branches woven together to give structure, entwined with ivy and ferns to make solid the walls.'

Suddenly Ben saw it, a dwelling made from the forest.

'I see. I can see, your house!'

'A dwelling. Not mine, a gift passed to me for me to pass on.'

'Are you the queen of the forest?'

'No. I am no queen, merely a woman. Now come, you must dress. They should fit you perfectly. Dry yourself first.'

She passed him the clothes: a pair of dark green trousers made from a strong felt-like material; a finely woven white, woolen shirt; brown woolen socks; a pair of black leather boots that although in good repair, looked previously used; and a woolen cloth to use as a towel.

'Here, dressed here?' Ben asked somewhat surprised.

'By the fire where it is warm.'

'In front of you? That's not proper!'

'Is it not? asked Ceiridwen through a short burst of laughter. 'Then I will close my eyes.'

'You don't have to do that; you can turn away.'

'Then that is what I shall do.'

She turned away. Ben began to undress as quickly as he could.

'But what about all the others who may watch?' Ceiridwen asked.

'What? Who?! Where?!' replied Ben as he ripped his pajama top off from over his head then looked nervously around.

'Oh, I don't know. The birds, the trees, the spiders. Any number of eyes could be watching. At least I hear no laughter.'

'Laughter? Why would there be laughter?' he asked as he threw himself into the shirt.

'Admired, you must be admired. The sound of quiet admiration. Do you hear it?'

'Admired?! I'd rather not be, not for undressing!' he proclaimed as he pulled off his pajama bottoms and scrambled to put on the trousers.

'What would you like to be admired for?'

'Football!...And reading!'

'Ah, better than war.' she said quietly, more to herself than to Ben.

'War?' Ben asked, not quite hearing what she had said.

She did not answer but turned to look at him. Patches of wet stained his shirt and trousers.

'Ben, you didn't dry yourself!' she said sternly.

'It's summer. I'll soon dry. I've dealt with lots of cold.' he knelt down and began to put on the socks.

'And has it done you well?'

'Not really. They say it's good for you, makes you a man.'

'If only it was that easy.'

'Is that a grave over there?' he asked, as he slipped on a boot.

'Yes.'

'Whose?'

'My son.'

'Oh.' He stopped tying the boot lace, the laces held in his hands. 'These clothes?'

'Were once his.'

She stepped towards him and knelt close beside him.

'We have a journey to make. Today is the longest day, the wisest day of the year. I must travel to seek guidance, to ask permission.'

'For what?'

'To kill.'

'Permission to kill?'

'You came into my world. You must live by my side.'

'To kill what?'

'Who.'

'A person? You? A woman, like you?'

'My son was forced a Prince. He lived well without a crown but not without my love; a mother's love, is there any greater force?'

She held Ben's stare. He felt she wanted an answer, but he thought it best to remain silent or otherwise lie. Finally, she continued:

'Then one day the king returned and claimed my son as waste, as pollution. I was absent, powerless...I have mourned in hurtful peace, but now the wild spirits in me rise so high I see such depth below. I look down on myself. I see myself severed from the whole. I must and will seek guidance; I must ask for permission.' She stood. 'We have only this day.'

He looked up at her. She looked vulnerable, sadness fell from her eyes. He looked back down at the boot and continued to tie the lace.

As Ben sat by the fire drinking the broth and drying his clothes, Ceiridwen returned to the shelter. How real where her plans to kill, he wondered. How could she, a woman, seek battle and danger in this the age of the sword? Maybe, she would use magic and attack from a far, or have allies, warriors, man and beast.

When Ceiridwen returned, she too wore trousers, a shirt and boots. Ben noted that she carried no sword, no weapon at all, which soothed his nerves and re-enforced his belief that today, at least, guidance and permission were all she sought.

'We must go,' she said.

'What about the fire?' he asked.

'It knows what to do,' she replied.

As he stood, Ceiridwen whistled loudly, as if calling a dog. She then turned and smiled at Ben.

'Am I here forever now? I mean, is this my life, here with you?' he asked.

She knelt beside him, gently took hold of his hand then spoke.

'Today is the wisest day of the year, but today you must ask no questions...Be wise yourself, be mindful, your world continues as you left it.'

'Look out! cried Ben. Behind her, a massive tree fell towards them. He tried to grab her, to pull her away, but she calmly resisted and instead took hold of him and held him firm.

'What are you doing?' he continued, as the magnificent tree, which had a forty metre bare trunk and an arrow shaped crown of a similar size, continued to drop down towards them.

'This day won't last for ever; we must go as quickly as we can!' she told him.

'What?' he replied, confused.

'The tree remains true.'

As it neared the ground, the tree started to slow and fill the air with a loud creaking noise that told of a painful, strenuous effort. Thin outer branches that were covered in sharp needle leaves brushed over them scratching their skin.

'Quickly, quickly!' boomed a deep, strained voice that came from the tree.

'Hurry!' said Ceiridwen, as she pulled Ben away towards the top end of the crown, over and under a maze of branches. Ben looked down the length of the vast arcing trunk and could that the tree's roots remained planted solidly in the ground.

'I'm not as supple as I once was! I could snap at anytime!' continued The Tree.

'Nonsense!' replied Ceiridwen, as she began to climb up the branches towards the trunk. 'You are the finest specimen in the forest.'

She beckoned Ben to follow her, which he did with the help of her hand.

'Oh those sweet, delicate tones,' said The Tree, 'if only I was human, I'd still have wood for you. You could build from me whatever you wished.'

Reaching the trunk, they sat close the very top of the tree where the trunk was thinnest, even so, Ben still could not sit with his legs straddled around it. Ceiridwen sat behind Ben, her hands wrapped tightly around his waist.

'And if only I were a tree,' replied Ceiridwen, 'Oh, the bees we would share!'

In an instant the tree sprung upright and straightened catapulting Ben and Ceiridwen high into the air. Ceiridwen managed to grab Ben's hand and together they flew at great speed over the dense, lush canopy below.

'How do we land, safely?' shouted Ben over the roaring wind.

'Something, I hope, should catch us.' she replied, somewhat too casually to reassure his concerns.

Having travelled hundreds of metres they started to descend. The canopy got rapidly closer. Ben started to worry, but then a tongue, like a frog's tongue only a thousand times bigger, unfurled towards them from below the canopy. Ben reasoned it had come to catch them, like a frog's tongue catching a fly, but as soon as Ceiridwen saw it she released his hand and pushed him hard away.

'Head north!' she shouted.

As he fell beyond her reach, his legs and hands kicked and pulled in a futile attempt to climb through the air. The tongue snared Ceiridwen with its sticky grip then retreated back beneath the canopy at lightening speed.

Ben's body fell still as he continued to stare at the memory of what he had just seen. Suddenly, he became aware of the treetops that were just metres from his feet. He fixed his eyes shut and started to scream, but the noise and pain he expected, from breaking branches and snapping bones, failed to arrive. He opened his eyes and saw that he was caught inside a wireframe sphere made from branches and leaves that gently slowed as it moved with him towards the ground. As it brought him safely to a stop it then suddenly bounced back up and brought him face-to-face with the trunk of a tree.

'Urrrrrrhhhhhhh,' groaned a deep, depressed sounding voice that rumbled out from inside the trunk. Ben peered out through gaps in the branches, confused by the noise.

'What?' he asked.

'Urrrrrrhhhhhhh,' came the reply from The Unhappy Tree.

'I need help. Ceiridwen needs help.'

'I'm bored.'

'Bored?'

'Bored rigid.'

'Why, it's not exactly normal round here.'

'I'm five hundred years old and this is the only place I've ever been. This here, right here, is the only place I've ever seen.'

'Well, yes, but from different heights. You've gone up in the world!'

'It's all the same up here. Boring. Boring. Boring.'

'Not in space, not beyond the sky. Not all the way up there,' said Ben, somewhat too hopefully.

'Beyond the sky? I'll never reach such dizzy heights. I'll never reach anywhere, not of any interest, not of any difference.'

'Oh, well, I'm sorry, but I need to find Ceiridwen!'

'Your sorry? How sorry?'

'A lot sorry.'

'Enough to chop me down, to turn me into a boat, to sail me to lands far, far away?'

'Yes, but I can't.'

'Why? Tell me why.'

'I don't have the skills.'

'Typical, I catch a creature with hands and it can't even build a boat, a simple boat, a canoe or something like that, a log with a hole, not even a complete hole all the way through. What skills do you have?'

'Football, and reading.'

'Will you read me a story, one where a five hundred year old tree finally has a wild, crazy adventure?'

'I haven't got the time. I'm lost! I need to find Ceiridwen!'

'I wish I was lost. That would be a story in itself being lost. Not knowing where I was. Not knowing where I've been. Not knowing in anyway where I was set to go. I know this, I'm here. This is where I've been, and this is where I'm going. Boring, isn't it? Tell me something interesting, anything, lie to me. Tell me something extraordinary, fantastic, fascinating. But nothing about trees; I know everything about trees. Familiarity does indeed breed contempt, and I am a tree. Isn't that sad?'

'It's not a lie; it's true! All life, in fact basically everything, even wood, rock and mud, may soon be destroyed forever!'

'Oh, typical. Could have guessed that. I'm not surprised. Before Wednesday? I bet the total destruction of everything is due before Wednesday. I'd bet my blossom.'

'Maybe it is. But why? What's happening on Wednesday?'

'Nothing, not of any interest. It's just my favorite day Wednesday, the day I would say is the best. Not that anything special has ever happened on Wednesday; it's just the day I like a little bit more than all the rest. My worst day is Thursday. I hate Thursday. Typical, isn't it? My best day is Wednesday, but then the next day, Thursday, is my worst day of the week. Puts me in the dumps for the rest of the week does that. What's your favorite day?'

'I don't know. I haven't got one. It changes.'

'Changes. Typical. Lucky you. What I wouldn't do for a change. I crave it, change. You can hear it in my voice, a craving for change. It permeates my very being. Oh to have a different day, once a decade would be nice, quite, I imagine, liberating. A different day to do something different like to go dancing. I mean, people don't live very long, do you, but at least you get the chance to dance. Not with any great style most of you, or with any great skill, but at least you can try. What I wouldn't give for the opportunity to make a fool of myself. But what can I do? Drop my leaves early? Fruit a little late in the season? I could, but why bother, and who would care if I did?'

'You could grow into a very odd shape. I've seen some very peculiar looking trees which were all very interesting!'

'I could!' said The Unhappy Tree suddenly enthused. 'I could grow into a star or a dodecahedron or something that has never been seen before. Then all manner of living things from lands far, far away would come and visit me. 'Behold' they would say, this is the most interesting tree in all of history. They would, wouldn't they? They would come to see the magnificence of my unique and mesmerising shape. I could ask them questions, and they could tell me stories and very interesting facts about every land that ever was. They would cut me down and display me as the star attraction in the Museum of Very Interesting Things.'

'Yes, but the world may be gone! Everything may be gone!'

'Urrgghhhh. Typical. Just when my sap was beginning to rise. Back to reality then. Back to the dumps for me.'

The sphere, and Ben, dropped towards the ground.

'Wait! I need to find Ceiridwen!!' Ben cried. But his pleas were ignored by the Unhappy Tree, who continued to launch Ben high into the air and back on his way.

The forest whizzed by beneath him. It felt like he was flying until, that is, gravity took him in its pull and drew him back towards the canopy. As he neared the treetops, he once again began to scream, although this time he continued to look, albeit through squinted half-closed eyes.

As he penetrated the canopy, he was once again caught in a sphere made of branches and leaves. After slowing to a stop, the sphere whipped back up and threw him like a stone from a slingshot high above the canopy. He sped through the air, ever closer to the edge of the forest and further away from Ceiridwen.

Again, he started to descend, but before he could scream a giant tongue, the type of which had taken Ceiridwen, shot-up from the forest and plunked him from the air. He fell, pulled towards the treetops, his right leg stuck to the tongue, which was warm with a coating of thick adhesive goo.

He crashed through the canopy. A sphere of branches caught him and slowed his fall. For a moment, he felt safe but then the tongue yanked him away. As he passed a thick, solid branch, he managed to grab it; his arms wrapped around it in a desperate embrace. It took all his strength to fight the pull of the tongue. A quick glance that followed the tongue down to the ground revealed a giant toad, one the size of a large car, straining hard to secure its dinner.

'Help me! I'm with Ceiridwen!' Ben pleaded to the tree whose branch he clung to.

'Help you?' said the tree, suppressing laughter. 'Well, I would!'

The Happy Tree began to make a sound that was somewhere between laughter and the beginnings of a difficult sneeze on stutter.

'Wood! Geddit? I'm a tree!' The Happy Tree continued before bursting into full blown laughter.

'This is no time for jokes, especially unfunny jokes! cried Ben.

'Oh come on, lighten up!' Another burst of deranged laughter. 'Lighten up, in your predicament that would, wood! Ha!, that would be an advantage, wouldn't it?' More laugher. 'Oh, tickle my fruit with a furry brush.' More laughter. 'I'm not even a fruit tree! I'm more nuts!' More laughter. 'Funny? That's funny!'

'This is not a joke! This is a serious situation' demanded Ben, clinging on for dear life.

'When you've lived as long as I have, everything is a joke. Ha-ha!' replied The Happy Tree before suddenly becoming intensely gloomy, 'Either that or a trip into a bottomless pit of misery and despair. Oh the horror! Don't let me return! Chop me down for fire wood before you ever let me return!'

'I don't need jokes, I need your help!'

'What greater help can I give,' said The Happy Tree reverting back to its jolly self, 'than to fill a fellow lifer with the joy of sunny laugher? Ha-ha! I mean, you haven't long to go; you might as well take the chop defiantly laughing in the face of your untimely demise.'

'Ha ha ha ha ha!' replied Ben sarcastically. 'There, I laugh! Thanks! Now save me, please! I can't hold on much longer!'

'That toad, that plans to eat you, it won't eat you in a good way. That toad will eat you in a bad way, a very, very bad way. That toad will digest you slowly, oh so very slowly, one layer of skin at a time. Put simply, that toad will eat you while you are technically still alive. You will be aware of every screamingly painful moment. And when it does, begin to eat you, I promise, I won't say, 'I toad you so.'

The Happy Tree erupted with laughter so much so that the branch Ben clung to began to shake, loosening his grip.

'You are not funny!' cried Ben.

'Oh come on! You don't even have to 'be here' for that one. It's a classic. I'll be ripping up saplings with that one for centuries.'

'Food? Food? Did someone say food?' spoke a highly excited, high pitched voice. 'Here's food! I'm food! Eat me! Eat me! I'm delicious!'

A Bug: a fat, three inch maggot with a large, round head; a gummy toothless mouth; and two expressive mammal-like eyes wriggled frantically along the branch towards Ben's face. As it neared, the foulest stink Ben had ever smelt raced up his nose.

'Will you eat me? Please, eat me!' The Bug pleaded.

'Arrgghh! You stink!' said Ben who was very nearly tempted to take a hand from the branch he clung to so he could pinch his nose shut.

'Like a fine, expensive cheese?' asked the Bug.

'Like rotting rat!'

'Mmmm, sophisticated! You, sir, have taste. Now put me out of my misery.' he tried to jump into Ben's mouth. Ben snapped his mouth shut just in time.

'I don't want to eat you!' Ben told him, without moving his lips or opening his mouth.

'But I come with my own gravy. Behold!'

From the bottom of the Bugs body, a thick brown liquid squirted out onto the branch below and made the stink even more foul.

'Made from the fermented juice of everything I've eaten this entire month. Think of the flavour! Layer upon layer of taste sensation!'

'Go on, eat him,' said The Happy Tree, 'Nothing else will. Not even disease.' A burst of laughter. 'Now, that's funny because it's not a joke, it is actually true. He's that disgustingly gross. When these things die, they don't even rot.'

'It's a painful truth!' added the Bug. 'I can't give it away! The fools! Look at me, I'm gorgeous! And what you see is what you taste.'

'If you eat him and don't vomit violently, like everything else that has ever tried,' added The Happy Tree, 'I will name a twig after you. Yes, I will, I'll call it 'boy who ate the ugly bug who didn't vomit, but who then did die due to the poison that was inside the ugly bug's body that wouldn't kill anything bigger than a boy but since the boy was the size of a boy, did kill him in a very gruesome manner.'

'A twig forever yours, and me melting deliciously in your mouth. How can you ever resist?' the Bug asked Ben.

'Easy! There! Resisted!' answered Ben.

'Look at me, two non-jokes on the trot. Chop me down and turn me into snow shoes, I'm almost getting sensible.' said the Happy Tree.

'I've got a thousand grubs back in the nest. Each one in their own meaty jelly, and each one, truly delicious. Trust me, they come from quality stock, their mother was divine!' said Bug.

'Go on, give him a nibble. You don't have to eat the head. Even if you did, fresh air is tasteless. That was a joke. Back on form. Tree-mendous!'

'I'm losing my grip, help me!' Ben pleaded.

'Oh the circle of life.' said the Bug. 'You eat me, the toad eats you. Everyone's a winner cos everyone's for dinner!'

'Oh I like that, I like that!' said The Happy Tree. 'That could be your catch phrase. I've got mine, would yer? Hey?' More deranged laughter. 'Would yer? Hey? Would yer? Hey? Classic! I'm a tree, made of wood. Would you? Hey?'

Ben could feel his grip slipping from the branch. Suddenly he reached out and snatched the Bug. His hold on the branch was broken. He fell, Bug in hand, pulled down towards the Toad's wide open mouth, which fizzed with slobbering white flem.

A second later, Ben and the Bug were gone, swallowed whole by the Toad, who with food filling his belly, burped contentedly. His eyes then closed lazily as if settling to take a post-dinner nap. But then, his eyes snapped back open as if startled with a fearful surprise. His mouth followed, gaping open to release a torrent of vomit, in which Ben and The Bug where flushed to their freedom.

As Ben hit to the ground The Bug continued passed him.

'Oh so near, but yet so far!' the Bug cried. 'Always the vomit, never the sh..' He slammed into a tree trunk then fell silently to the ground.

A mildly concussed Ben continued to lye on the ground, his aching body covered in thick, chunky toad vomit, the odor of which smelt almost pleasant when compared to the stench that had come from the Bug.

He could hear a noise that fizzed and hummed, which seemed to rush towards him. He wiped his eyes clean then snapped them open. A dense swarm of insects, each one no bigger that a gnat, dived-bombed him from above.

Before he could react, the swarm engulfed him and began to devour the vomit, as a shoal of piranha fish may savage a carcass. Within seconds, every last morsel of vomit was gone. The swarm took off. Ben sat up with a jolt and watched them go, but in an instant, they too were gone, taken. The Toad's tongue licked the swarm clean from the air and reclaimed the vomit for its own cavernous gut.

Ben looked at The Toad; its emotionless stare glared back at him. Thoughts of escape raced through Ben's mind although none fired his body into action. Slowly, teasingly the Toad snaked its tongue towards him.

'I've been ill, dead in fact. I'm full of bugs, germs, disease. I'm no good to eat. I'm hard to digest. That's what my Aunt says, a very acquired taste. I'm skin and bone. I wouldn't be worth the chew.' he said to the Toad.

The tip of the Toad's tongue neared his right foot. He scurried backwards crab-like. The tongue followed, keeping up with ease. Ben knew that escape was impossible so came to a stop. The tongue, only inches from making contact, stopped and hung in the air. Was there hope? Had the Toad heeded Ben 's pleas?

'You're right! You're right! Well considered!' Ben praised The Toad. 'There's better food than me!'

'Ribit,' went The Toad.

'Yes, ribit. In a good way.' Ben replied.

Suddenly he felt his left foot grabbed. He looked, another giant tongue from another giant Toad had trapped his left foot in a sticky embrace.

'In a good way! Please!' Ben pleaded, as the original tongue from the original Toad took hold of his right foot.

He was trapped in a classic pincer movement. The two slack tongues became taunt and pulled his legs apart, far enough to hurt, like being forced to do the splits. He was hoisted up into the air where he hung upside down like a pair of trousers on a washing line.

'What's this for?' he asked.

Slowly, each Toad drew their tongue back into their mouth. Ben's legs inched further apart. He watched, helpless, fearful that this would lead to him being ripped in two. He thought of an Aunt devoured roast chicken, the caucus simmering in a pot to make soup then heard the snap and crack of the wishbone as he broke it in two.

'What am I, the wish bone? Don't believe in that! Don't believe wishes come true! If so, I'm owed dozens! I'll take just one, now!' he screamed in pain. 'Killing for food is one thing, but for pleasure, to hurt! What are you, Nazis?! Nazi Toads! Is that your level?'

The tongues suddenly slackened. Ben fell to the ground. He looked at each Toad, their tongues streamed out of their mouths and piled in loose coils on the ground.

'Thank you.' he said. He then sat up and acknowledged the Toads with an appreciative look.

'Ribit,' went the original Toad.

'Ribit,' replied the other.

'Ribit,' said Ben out of politeness.

But then, the tongues began to reel back in, faster and faster. Ben looked at his legs and imagined his fate, ripped up the middle, spilt in two, an unfulfilled wish, then shared for dinner by two hungry toads.

'Help! Help! Help!' he cried, but no one or thing did. He tried to kick his feet free, but they remained stuck to the tongues. He had seconds to act. He lunged towards his right foot and grabbed the tongue that held it. He then hauled himself and the final few metres of slack toad tongue over to his left foot where he pushed the two tongues together. The bond was complete, two toads and him all stuck together in a gooey embrace. He was not sure why he did this, had no idea what it might achieve.

The tongues became taunt, hoisting Ben up into the air, then ripped apart with an explosive force whipping him clean away. As he flew through the air, he could not help but scream or close his eyes as the ground rushed ever closer.

He landed softly, as if into a tank of pillows. His body slowed but continued to sink down. He opened his eyes. A mass of dark green vegetation cocooned him, but quickly darkness turned everything black. A dense pool of moss had saved him, but now, like quicksand, pulled him towards a bottomless demise.

He tried to secure a footing, to take hold of the moss, but none would take his weight. The air ran out, his final thin breath held for dear life. In the black, he frantically scrambled for anything solid. A tree root found his hand. With a desperate grip, he hauled himself up out into fresh, breathable space.

With only his head above the surface, he paused to fill his lungs. Fear still pounded in his heart. As the forest view took hold of him, he felt startled to be alive, like a plant freshly sprouted from the soil; a tiny bit of the forest given life but only just. The chance to bloom, to grow magnificent like a tree that stretches into time, or a tiny, beautiful flower that barely breaks a day, or a fallen seed, taken as life for another.

'Forest...kill me or save me, what do you do?' he wondered aloud, half wanting to cry, half wanting to smile.

Once free of the moss, he looked to the sky. Through the canopy, the Sun sparkled. Its position and a guess at the time of day told him which direction was North. He ran as fast as he could, half away and half towards.

Several minutes passed. He stopped and shouted for Ceiridwen, but no reply came back. He continued to run faster this time until he stopped and called again. Alone, he checked North was still his way. It was, so he continued to run as fast and as wild as he ever had.

A savage roar, from a beast trapped insane, brought him to a crashing stop. He looked, knowing the beast to be close. Frozen, his breath held to silence it, desperate to hear the footsteps that might bring the attack. Another roar, too close to be. Where was the beast that screamed it? Invisible? A monster? The thinned out forest gave no place to hide. The roar, static, pulled him forward.

A man-made pit, one deep enough to swallow light, scarred the ground. A leopard pounced as if flung from the darkness, tooth and claw desperate to strike. But the pit contained the beast, too deep to loose its toy. The beast tumbled down, to pounce again-and-again, to yield only to time. Ben ran away chased by a roar. Soon another sound sent a shiver pulsing through his veins; pain and distress yelped through the air. He found the source, a deer in the clutches of an iron trap; its hind legs bloody and torn by rusting teeth. He looked at the deer's proud antlers. How useless they now seemed, like a medieval shield and sword he thought, futile against bullets and blasts. He wanted to help but hesitated. A fear, a disgust repelled him.

He fled. The forest fell silent, Ben fell still. Above him, trapped in a net tied to a tree, was a horse, a mare, as prime and as strong as he had ever seen, but now surrendered to exhaustion, with strength only for the most basic movement, to pant desperately for air. Her powerful, now useless legs dangled limply in space. Her twisted neck seemed willing to break. Her black, shipwrecked eyes shunned all light.

Could he climb the tree and untie or cut free the net? He could, or at least he could try. But whose hunt was this, whose bounty? Whose land did he trespass upon? Whose cruelty had he disturbed?

'Tree, help her, help her! I'm with Ceiridwen! Please, help! Put her down! Help her!' Ben pleaded, no answer or help came.

He stood, his body numb, his mind racing. How he wanted to help, to see the mare free and wild again, but then another pained cry came wailing through the forest, and in an instant he was gone, chased away by his own fear. No thought to stop entered his mind. Distance and exhaustion were all he craved. But soon, too soon, he crashed to the ground, tripped by a foot that had laid-in-wait, hidden behind a tree.

From the ground, Ben looked up. Several metres away a man skulked between trees, his body cloaked in a full-length fur coat that was a patchwork of different animal skins. Only his grubby, unwashed head was exposed; his hands were hidden inside the coat as if they too had something to hide. His piercing blue eyes leered at Ben, as did his toothless, mocking grin.

'Oi! You!' he called to Ben aggressively. 'Wanna buy a wound?'

'What?' asked Ben.

'A wound! Any wound. All the wounds! Here, now. Here for you. You lucky boy, you lucky, lucky boy.'

'I'm not alone,' Ben lied.

'What fool would be out here! Here, alone, a boy? What fool of a boy would be?'

A burst of laughter spluttered out of him, which he quickly contained. With a heavy limp, he rushed towards Ben.

'Tell me, what monies do you have?' he asked.

Ben, with a thought to stand and run, glanced behind. Another man, identical to the first, stood watching, half hidden behind a tree.

Ben looked forward. The Woundsman lurched over him - his grubby, cracked skin blackened by smoke and baked thick by the Sun.

'Nothing, none! I'm not from around here.' answered Ben.

'Have to think of something else then. Have qualities, do yer? Good! Now what wound catches your fancy?'

'I don't want a wound! Why would I want a wound?'

'Head wounds, leg wounds, arm wounds, back wounds, feet wounds, stomach wounds, eye wounds, neck wounds, wounds inside, wounds unseen, mind wounds! One for the brain, sir. One for the brain! Have one! Yours! Ever-so nearly free!'

'I don't want any you have to offer!'

'Four for five! Nine for ten! I can snap, break, rupture, crush! And the scars, oh the scars, the best in the business! I'm renowned!'

'No! Go away!' Ben cried.

'Strange one, are yer?! Not right? Wrong 'un?!' accused the Woundsman hatefully.

'For not wanting a wound? I'm perfectly right!' replied Ben.

'Wrong! Show me a man who lives without a wound! A good, honest wound. A cut, a stab, a slice, a break! What kind of man lives without a wound?'

From out of a coat pocket he pulled a metre long stick, which he thrust towards Ben.

'A poke!' he continued.

'Get away from me!!' demanded Ben, as he backed away to avoid the stick.

'A wound, pinned to him! Life, pinned to him! A celebration of all his crimes.'

'I don't need a wound!'

'Why? Precious, are yer? Crowned above us? The snow no one walks on? The flower left undisturbed that no one ever picks? I should keep yer, for a sample, as somethin' fresh to show my handiwork on.'

'You leave me alone!'

'But not on the longest day. Nor charge you any monies today. My service, I here, commit for free! Twin, bring the tools; we have business!'

He straightened and looked towards his twin, that other man half hidden behind a tree. But his twin had vanished.

'Twin!! We have business!!' he shouted angrily.

'A dangerous place is the forest.' Ceiridwen's voice spoke gently.

Ben and The Woundsman looked. Ceiridwen stood before them. Ben kicked against the ground and scrambled to safety.

'I hope he isn't lost,' continued Ceiridwen.

'Oh the sorrow, the anger, if he were,' replied the Woundsman, politely.

Ben noticed how the Woundsman recognised Ceiridwen, how his body seemed to cower cautiously before her.

'You shouldn't worry; I shall see you together again,' Ceiridwen reassured him.

'How wise. Ever the lady,' he replied.

From above, his twin fell from the sky and crashed down upon him. Both were flattened, crumpled on the ground, silent and still.

Ceiridwen turned to Ben and knelt beside him.

'Ben, you found your way,' she said, pleased with him.

'What happened to you? I thought the forest was scared of you!' he snapped back.

'And I thought you were scared of the forest.'

'I am!'

She took hold of his hand. He noticed her face, had it aged? Several years, he thought, although it was still full of life and vigor.

'But here, you have arrived, from a path you took alone.'

'I'm always alone.'

'Then you must have learnt, be your own king.'

'What does that mean?'

'Lead yourself,' she continued. 'Believe you can; believe in your right.'

She stood, he followed, their hands still joined.

'Are they...?' he asked, referring to the Woundsman and his twin.

'They will return to sense, what little they had. Now come, we must walk.'

'We need to go back!'

'Why?'

Ben hesitated but then replied.

'To help.'

'Who?'

'I thought I saw something. We should go back and help.'

'We? We have no time.'

'But.'

'The time has passed. We have other responsibilities. Now come; stay with me.'

She turned and walked away. His hand fell free. Without hesitation, he followed her. She walked briskly; he had to work hard to keep up.

'Will we come back this way?' he asked.

'I have no plans beyond the horizon. Do you see it? A cliff that falls to a great valley.'

Ben looked ahead. The forest thinned dramatically. Amputated trees, cut and broken to stumps, stood like bombed city ruins. Splintered, shrapnel-like, wood littered the ground. The lush, living greens of the forest bled into a lifeless sea of brown and ash grey. In the far distance, a vast plain spread out towards the horizon.

'How can I see beyond the horizon?'

'Imagine.' Her stare and attention remained fixed on the horizon, as if she could see what lay beyond it.

'I don't like to, not always, it can be scary.'

'Then wait til you see reality. I trust it will scare you more.'

'Will it? Is it far?'

'Yes.'

'But what if it gets dark?'

'It will. How can it not? You cannot avoid the night.'

'You can, if you can move fast enough. You could follow the Sun. You could chase the day all the way around the Earth.'

'And what life would that be? No night, how horrible. Are you sure that's right?'

'Yes. I've read lots of science.'

'Science?'

'Yes. Do they have that here, science?'

'I can only imagine they do?'

'Where is here? What year is it?'

'One before your world can ever know.'

'Are you sure because my world knows most things?'

'Does it know you, what happened to you?'

'It wouldn't believe what happened to me.'

'Do you believe what happened to you?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'You will probably return.'

'Probably?'

'You have the day and night to survive.'

'There's doubt?'

'What life would there be without doubt?'

'You are just seeking guidance? You are just asking permission?'

'For now, as I must.'

Ben could see that this brought a sadness to her eyes.

'Your son,' he continued, 'you should know this, that all time exists at all time, which means that somewhere in time, you are still together.'

She smiled, pleased at the thought and at Ben's concern.

'And you with yours.'

'My mother?'

'Yes.'

'She's never been with me, not in any way proper!'

'And that is a truth you know, which you witnessed without doubt?'

'Yes! A million times the truth! I could read in a million books that it wasn't the truth and I still would believe it was. She abandoned me when my Dad died. Everyone says so.'

'Madness and truth, who can ever really tell?'

'Truth! I am definitely not mad!'

'Pity,' she turned to look at him, sadness and longing held deep in her eyes, 'for this woman is. But to see fear in the eyes of someone you only love, to watch, helpless, that is to be driven truly insane....You should know what your mother lost.'

'My Dad? He was just her husband. Not like me, I was his son. He was my Dad. We were properly joined, related by blood. I wasn't just someone, found, along the way. I should have been more to her than him.'

'Love comes with a trapdoor to utter despair.'

For a moment they looked at each other knowingly, sympathetically.

'I'm glad she left,' said Ben. 'What blood can she share with me if she left me? Her blood in me must be really thin. And good, I say, good! Weak and thin so what chance is there we shall ever be the same?'

'Is this of any matter now?'

'No.'

'But if it was, I dare you be brave enough to look back and think again.'

Suddenly, she stopped walking. Ben followed. She looked towards the horizon as if seeing something there. 'We must hurry,' she took hold of his hand then continued, 'they are gathering.'

From behind, he felt pushed. He turned and looked. The forest rustled and swayed with the force of a strong rising wind.

'Be ready,' Ceiridwen warned.

'For what?' he asked.

'Run!' she replied.

They ran, their hands still held, accelerating under their own steam until suddenly they took off, propelled forwards by a powerful stream of wind.

Guided by the wind, they sailed the land, skipping over it, fast and free. The wrecked remains of the forest continued for a mile or more until the earth turned grey, smothered by a thick layer of ash from which not a single shoot of life emerged.

Onwards they travelled, well beyond the forest and the ash. They passed a mighty river in which trees, stripped of all branches and bark, were dragged, bullied by the roaring current to hurry along. As the forest grew evermore distant, the wind grew increasingly weak until a final gust bid them farewell and left them to advance alone.

The view ahead had barely changed. The plain still rolled endlessly towards and beyond the horizon. The ground, a thin brown earth freckled with patches of wispy vegetation, pounded hard against Ben's feet. They walked for miles. Ceiridwen's pace was unrelenting, her focus hypnotised, trance-like, towards the horizon. Hours stuttered by.

Ben felt smothered, lost against the vast, gaping sky and the boundless, featureless plain. Silently he followed, increasingly burdened by thirst and hunger, but on he struggled, desperate to hold the pace, desperate to seem capable.

Without request, Ceiridwen picked Ben up and pitched him on her back. He protested, but this was met with silence and quickly abated. He was grateful for the rest, but soon claimed he was strong enough to walk.

'Of course,' Ceiridwen replied. 'well and strong. But see the end of the longest day, see how you may carry me.'

The guts of a once mighty river snaked around them - a deep stony channel scraped into the land. Ben heard the river's ghost: cool, vital water, rushing through his mind, playful and free. He felt called, blindly.

Dusk started to redden the clear blue sky. Ben walked again. In the distance, he could see the land rise up to form a steep incline. Was this the cliff with the valley beyond?

The boom of deep, heavy drums rose to be heard. From beyond the incline, pillars of black and grey smoke dirtied the otherwise pristine evening sky.

'What's that?' Ben asked.

'We must hurry. We are close,' came Ceiridwen's reply.

The drums pounded ever more chaotic. Animals groaned, bellowed and screamed. Men wailed and cheered. Horns screeched. The noise came swarm-like over them. An unknown presence lay think and heavy, as the shadow of a bad dream clings to you throughout the day. What herd of man and beast had gathered beyond the cliff?

They scaled the incline. The drumming stopped. Ceiridwen reached the precipice first and stood fearlessly at the edge, unafraid to be seen by whatever existed in the valley below. Ben followed cautiously, stopping well before the edge, but still the view beneath was his to behold.

Men, fire and water in perfect formation. The natural, rugged valley walls fell to a floor where everything stood straight and true. Perfect lines formed perfect squares. An ordered grid of water canals fenced in many different sections: dense fields of wheat ripe for the harvest, vast beds of charcoal that seethed glowing red. Great, ancient, tree trunks rose from the ground to be used as giant, flaming torches. And men, eight blocks of men, many thousands in total, fixed together in ritual, sword and shield poised in their hands, surrounded a vast square field on which thousands of animals waited, each one cornered, fear and danger flooding their senses. Cattle, deer, goats and sheep stood free and untethered while beasts more savage: bears, big cats, boar and more were held by chain or cage. A moat, which bordered the field square and true, penned the field in.

From the centre of the field a white, flat-topped stone pyramid, rose to tower into the sky. On top of the pyramid stood four men, all priests, one in each corner. Each was faceless, hidden beneath a black tunic and was turned to face the centre, where a great white stallion lay on its side, strapped cruelly and completely to a hard stone altar.

Far to Ben's left, a waterfall, that somehow hung suspended in the air, as if it had sprung from the air itself, ran the entire width of the valley. The streaming white water that poured from it fell down to the earth and vanished within it. To those on the ground, this curtain blocked the setting Sun, which faced the pyramid head on.

'What is this?' asked Ben, his usual vertigo blocked by awe.

'They celebrate.'

'What?'

'Themselves. Their order. Their god over nature.'

'It's a party?'

'A slaughter!'

'The horse?'

'All that isn't man.'

Through the waterfall came two parallel columns of men. Each column was five men broad and twenty metres apart; each row of five was yoked together and chained to the row behind. Bent over, the men struggled forwards as they were pulling a great, heavy weight. As each man passed through the water, the force of the water knocked him down but every man stood quickly up, desperate to continue their labour. Hundreds of men had soon emerged, and more continued to follow.

The lead rows reached a canal. Two basic wooden bridges that skimmed the water's surface which allowed the men passage on towards the pyramid, which faced them head-on.

'And this?' asked Ben, referring these labouring men.

'The King,' Ceiridwen answered.

Through the waterfall appeared the weight shackled to all the men - a massive rectangular block of stone which was smooth and white and the size of a large mansion. Slowly, but constantly, it moved, like a great ship floating into view through thick fog.

A stallion, no less great, or white, than the one strapped to the altar, appeared through the water. Knelt on top of the stone, it's head was bowed submissively, its body fixed perfectly still. Behind it, a slab of pure gold stabbed through the water. The King emerged. The slab of gold was a shield of war, held in his left-hand and raised over his head to fend away the water. He stood, submissive to none. His skin was ghostly white and adorned with nothing but muscle, the type forged by the wild, through war and savage survival. His head was bald. His only clothing was a pair of white breeches. His right-hand gripped a long, broad sword, also made of solid gold. He faced the world as if the world was his to take, to stab, to steal, to break. Ben felt, he could more easily move the great stone block than push this man aside.

The block of stone breached the canal, which was little more than half as wide as the stone was long and projected over the water. With an arrogant ease, the King mounted the Stallion, bareback. The Stallion rose to stand, it's head still bowed, it's body cowered. The King kicked with his heels, and the Stallion walked slowly towards the front of the stone.

'The stone, it won't balance. The slaves...' cried Ben.

'They are not slaves!' Ceiridwen replied, 'they are the willing!'

The stone broke equilibrium, more of it projected over the canal than was held firm by land, so it tipped towards the water. As the top of the stone neared ground level, the Stallion stepped from stone onto the land, and continued its slow walk forwards. The stone plunged into the water where it began to sink rapidly. The men, hundreds and more, shackled to it streamed past The King and piled, dragged, into the foaming, swelling water. The King acknowledged none, his calm indifference immune to the chaos writhing in his wake.

Ben, brave with distance, managed to keep his stare fixed on the slaughter.

'But, why? Why?' he asked.

'Because they are the ruled, willingly!' answered Ceiridwen.

As the final rows of men were pulled into a tomb that would smother their screams for air, the King, with a kick of his heels, ordered the Stallion to power fast away.

'What now?' asked Ben, who wanted to be somewhere far away. 'You ask permission, then we can go?'

'I have already asked the question,' replied Ceiridwen.

'You have?'

She turned to look at him, a fierce resolve and a sense of absolute certainty ploughed through the hurt in her eyes.

'And the answer I gave was yes!' she replied.

For a moment, she held his stare but then turned away sharply and looked up towards the sky. What she whispered, Ben could not hear, but he hoped it a spell or a call to other, mightier, powers.

Beyond her, the King's Stallion galloped furiously over a bed of red hot charcoal. A wave of flaming red sparks splashed up around them. Neither horse nor man flinched. With a contemptuous flick of the hands, The King discarded his sword and shield. They fell to the ground, left to cremate in the glowing coals. Together, as one, The King's men began to bang their swords against their shields, faster and faster, as the scent of blood increasingly thickened the air.

Ceiridwen knelt to the ground, grabbed the earth as if a handle, then pulled from it another great stallion, one made from the earth itself. The stallion rose, birthed, fully formed into its prime. As it kicked his front legs free of the earth, soil fell from its sculpted, muscular body, and a primal cry, joyous to feel the weight of life, bellowed out from deep within.

A narrow wooden bridge took the King and his Stallion across the moat. No speed was lost.

Ceiridwen took hold the earth and from it pulled a sword. A soil coating quickly fell away to reveal a simple copper blade and handle. She turned to Simon and spoke,

'Are you with me?'

'Is anyone else?' he asked.

'Just you and I!'

'Are you going to use magic?'

'There are times when my powers are great, and times when my powers are weak. Tonight, I am strong, as is the King and all those that myth allows him to order.'

'Meaning?'

'Tonight, I shall meet the King as a man! Tonight, I will defeat the man as a king!'

'What's this got to do with me? Why am I here?'

'I brought you into this world, but still, my life is mine to live! You may do as you will. Live more, or no more!'

'Why are you aging?' Another decade hung on her face, although her body and sprit was as ever strong.

'To arc fully as a women. What else would I choose!'

She looked away, towards the pyramid. As The King and his Stallion reached it, the black mouth of a passage opened to take them in. The drum of sword on shield stopped. Time barely moved, but suddenly King and Stallion appeared on top of the pyramid, poised still and triumphant. The King held a large, gold, double-headed axe which he thrust above his head and held aloft. A cheer rose from the men below which powered across the valley, up and over Ben. He felt warned, fearful. The waterfall, like a curtain, suddenly dropped, crumpled to the ground to replenish no more. A stone aqueduct appeared, now revealed beneath its peeled skin. And to those on the ground, the low evening Sun entered the stage - hypnotic, fiery, bristling red and glowing.

The King's Stallion knelt, its head bowed to the will of its master. The King, thankless, dismounted then prowled towards the imprisoned Stallion that was lashed immobile to the altar.

'Will he..?' asked Ben.

'Every year the King breaks a new stallion; the old, he then kills.'

The King raised the axe above his head, as if to prime the sacrificial blow. Ben snatched his stare away.

'No. No blood will spill, not til the Sun touches the Earth,' said Ceiridwen.

The Sun had yet to touch the horizon, but this was just minutes away.

'It will start with the Stallion,' she continued, 'The others will follow. All will be slaughtered; all that isn't a man. Will you act? Will you help?' she asked with a gentle, passive tone.

The King, with a slow, deliberate menace, brought the axe down towards the Stallion's throat then teased its skin with the razor sharp blade. His men, the thousands, all acting as one, turned to face the pyramid then knelt before their King, their heads bowed, their steel swords thrust into the air.

'What can I do?' asked Ben.

'Change.' She knelt to the ground, and from the earth pulled a plain, round copper shield. 'Follow me. Let me lead. Take this shield.'

She held the shield, waiting for Ben to step forward and take it, but he hesitated, unsure of what to do.

'To be afraid, to be forever young. How a mother could let them live,' she said, more to herself than to Ben. She threw the shield to the ground. It landed close to his feet.

'A shield was once taken from you, Ben, a shield of immense power. You think it gone, lost forever more, but you are wrong. The shield exists, hidden from you. You can hold it once again, but only if you, this boy, harden. Only if you, Ben, now shield what you know to be right.'

With a seamless, fluid action she mounted her Stallion, who complied as if he sensed her thoughts and movement. Ben watched, confused by what she had said but perfectly aware of the immediate threat. He took the shield from the ground. It felt strangely light. At the back were two metal enarmes, which fitted his forearm precisely. He looked up and met Ceiridwen's stare.

'But what can I do?' he asked.

'Never ask what you can do! Speak only to tell, to tell any who ask what you actually did!' she answered.

She faced forward, ready to gallop away. Ben, rushed towards her, feeling both ordered and willing. She reached down and hauled him up. He sat, cowered behind her and the shield, holding them both as tightly as he could.

'Now, let him know! I call my debt and with this sword I will take my due!' she called.

Her Stallion rose up onto its hind legs and released a wild, excited call that woke all in the valley to their presence. A shocked, angry murmour seethed over them as thousands of stares held them firm. The King, now ever more lustful for blood, eyed them viciously. With an almighty effort, he threw the axe up into the air. It rose, spinning, directly above the altar, and vanished into the distant sky.

'The axe will rise then fall with the Sun. The sacrifice will still be called!' Ceiridwen told Ben. 'Do you know this?' she asked.

'Yes,' he answered.

For a moment he wondered why she had told him but then, startled, he felt his body rush forward as if pushed over the edge of the cliff. Her Stallion had charged away, a fearless dash to take the steep valley wall.

Gravity was defied. Earth guided earth. The Stallion kept its footing. As they reached the flat valley floor, Ben dared open his eyes. At a frenzied pace, they skimmed over charcoal and water canals. Ben looked for the King, but the King had gone. They passed between two blocks of men, who stood to leer, each one dressed to mimic The King. Their faces rushed by, each one gorging upon Ceiridwen's, assumed, defeat. Laughter was spat, insults thrown.

The Stallion took them across the bridge to reach the field of slaughter. From the black passage, The King and his Stallion emerged, like shockwaves made flesh racing out to seek destruction. Ceiridwen readied her sword, The King, his axe. Animals hailed their champion. Sword clashed with axe. Ceiridwen was thrown. Ben was thrown. The King remained mounted until leaping from his horse. Ceiridwen stood; Ben laid firm. She looked at him and spoke.

'The Sun, the sacrifice. What time is there to watch?'

She paced away towards The King. Ben glanced towards the Sun, now about to touch the earth. So hopeless, he thought. But then, must he? He stood and ran towards the dead, black passage.

The King and Ceiridwen approached each other. The King, even at a distance, was a presence that loomed over Ceiridwen like a bloated, bullying wave arcs over a raft, revelling in the moment and the hope it will crush.

Ben reached the passage and, squashed behind his shield, took several tentative steps into the black, before stopping to look behind. The blood red Sun filled the opening, until Ceiridwen and The King flashed by - with an easy grace, she glided past a blow from his heaving axe blade. Ben looked back towards the black, and the dark callings of his imagination, those that play on lonely nights, where sleep may vanish a child forever. He crept forward, towards what? What, in the dark, crept towards him? The scent of a ruin, of something ancient, of something far beneath the human realm, choked the air. Startled, Ben looked behind. The opening was closed. All around him was black. A voice slithered through the darkness. Ben felt it touch him, stroke him round the throat.

'Is here the king?' said a falsely weak and desperate voice.

'Who's there?' cried Ben in a truly weak and desperate voice.

'The King, does he come to me?' repeated voice. Ben considered lying but had only truth to give.

'No.'

'Do you come to free me?'

'I could do. I could try,' answered Ben, barely telling the truth.

'And all my disease?' said the voice with a joyful relish.

'Your...'

'How would you end me?' interrupted The Voice, sharply.

'I just want to get to the top of the pyramid.' replied Ben, his voice barely breaking the air.

'Over my dead body!' demanded The Voice.

'Please, I just...'

'Over my dead body. Step over my poor, dead body,' advised The Voice, with a sinister little laugh. Ben hesitated, remaining still, then asked,

'And then what?'

'One step forward, a big one mind. You wouldn't dare squish me! If so, oh how our screams would shatter your flesh!'

Ben hesitated, but then lunged forward with the biggest step he could take, placing his foot down with the greatest of care.

'Now, ssshhh, be still,' continued The Voice.

Ben complied and stood perfectly still, even as the faintest of breaths began to pulse against his face.

'I have no favorites...I give them all what they want,' said The Voice, sounding as close as could be.

The breath became a continuous stream, and then, in an instant, a powerful gust. Ben was thrust upwards into the black. His eyes snapped shut but bounced back open as sound and light, and solid ground shook him from the vacuum. He had reached the pyramid's roof. The altar stood just metres away. The Stallion's body still brimmed with a desperate fight; it convulsed beneath the unyielding straps. Ben's limbs felt equally tied. Jeers, full of hateful passion, speared the air from the ground below. He looked for the axe; it fell from the sky, plummeting towards the throat of this its prey. He lumbered forward awkwardly. From the jeers the words, 'kill her' filtered out. Inspired, angered, he dived forward with the shield leading and pipped the axe to the Stallion's throat. The axe bounced from the shield without touching it, repelled by an invisible force. As it hit the ground, a stunned hush smothered all around. Ben looked, but his view below of Ceiridwen and The King was blocked. The four Priests stood together, witness to the death of the God-King they served. Her voice then rose, loud and clear and decisive.

'I take the king's head, but his crown, with his body, I leave for the maggots!'

The stunned silence returned briefly until flushed away by the wild screams of dutiful revenge. Every man, from the thousands below, called for the death of Ceiridwen. And every man raced to be the man whose sword took that revenge for legend.

The Priests, in unison, turned to face Ben. Unnerved by their dark, menacing presence, he scurried to the other side of the alter, crouched down and hid. Below, and from all around, a great herd of men swarmed onto the field of slaughter. Ceiridwen, he thought, one King dead, but this army of men?

He raised his head above the altar and stole a look at the Priests. In unison, each began to lower the hood that covered his face. Ben ducked back down and begged himself to think of a plan. The axe, on the ground only metres away, drew him forward. His hand, half-wrapped around the thick, heavy staff, looked and felt puny. He dropped the shield to enable a double-handed grip. Back at the altar, he slashed at the straps that held the Stallion.

'Help me! Us! We must help Ceiridwen!' he pleaded to the Stallion.

The Priests stood, their faces exposed. Ben froze, shocked at the sight he held in his stare. What, who are these men, these creatures, he thought?

'They are the whipped, the punished, the despised,' The Voice whispered, delighted to tell him, somehow rising above the riot below, 'the broken, made ready to accept their power!'

Ben turned to look, to find a physical source, but none was found.

'The rotting flesh between life and death,' The Voice continued.

Ben looked back towards the Priests, at deadened faces, blank reptilian eyes, at dried mummified skin, and twisted mouths torn open by an unfulfilled need to scream.

'What made them whole will never seep back into nature. Their stinking meat will last forever,' The Voice continued.

Ben continued to slash at the straps, harder, faster, more desperate.

'What made them men that force to think, to love, to hate, to want, to dream, was vanished! Split so thin in so much space never to be whole again.'

The Priests began to twist their bodies into each other, to merge into one.

'At the base of all life, as the lowest of the low, they must give their power so completely to the King, and the King never dies, only does the man.'

The Stallion broke free of the remaining straps. With an aggressive speed, he stood, reared-up and kicked his front legs high into the air. Briefly, he looked like a statue of a great, mythical horse that had burst into life from the dead of stone. But then, in an instant, his life was gone. His body was pulled apart. Every element of it separated. A pool of water, black carbon power and various lumps metals hovered in the air where once a life had rallied. The Priest, the four were now one, curled a pointing finger and commanded the elements to stream into its own body which grew, inflated by the extra mass.

Ben dropped the axe, grabbed the shield and aimed it at the Priest. Peeking over it, he watched as the Priest turned away and raised a hand towards the sky. A second later, the bodies of the drowned men flocked high above. The Priest shook his raised hand and with it the great flock of men also shook. The limp doll-like bodies, like wheat being threshed, shook apart until only the constituent parts, water, carbon, metals and little else remained. These elements then piled down into the Priest and enlarged him with ever greater mass. Ben watched as a giant was born, as it raised a hand and pointed a finger directly at him.

'Quick!' spoke The Voice, 'Back into my belly!'

Ben looked, a trap door opened, through which he had risen. The Priest's giant, pointing finger was about to reach him, moving forward as he body mass swelled. He ran, jumped towards the door, back into the black. The trap door slammed shut. He fell down until stopped by a cushion of air.

'Are you here for good?' asked The Voice, sounding as close as could be.

'Here? No.'

'Dead or alive you will return to me.'

Ben felt the breath, gentle then strong. He flew, blown out of the pyramid onto the field of slaughter where, crushed together in battle, animal fought beast. Claw, horn and tooth raged against sword and shield. Even those animals with instinct to flight came together to butt and kick. And in the midst of it all, Ceiridwen, like paper on the wind, an impossible catch as she streamed her way through waves of men, her sword in hand, gliding through the flesh that came to do to her as she did to them.

Ben, numbed, consumed by the sights and sounds of live, bloody battle, turned away towards the Priest. A flash of metal sparked in his eye. Instinct drew his shield. A sword blade bounced, deflected without touch. A blood-soaked warrior loomed set to rein another blow until felled by the hooves of Ceiridwen's Stallion.

An earth tremor shook the ground. Ben's nerve soaked legs instantly buckled. A hand caught and held him firm, then raised him to his feet. He looked, Ceiridwen stood before him.

'Stay with me!' she demanded.

'Right by you!' he replied.

Behind her, The Priest, who had stepped off the pyramid, leered down, ready to strike.

'But trust me, whatever your powers, this is not the time to be modest!' Ben pleaded.

'Then hear my boast!' she replied.

She punched her sword above her head. Every tree trunk beacon exploded, shattered into a thousand pieces of deadly sharp, arrow-like shrapnel, and every piece of red-hot charcoal rose to hover above the ground. All men sensed the danger and paused to gather the threat. With a slash of her sword, the shrapnel was launched. A vast spray of arrows, each alive, able to hunt its prey, howled down as a deadly hail. Any that missed swept back up to strike again. Men, those that were able, turned and fled.

Again, Ceiridwen slashed the air with her sword. The charcoal began to orbit around The Priest. In an instant it reached a dizzying speed, then collapsed towards the centre, on course to batter and crush. But The Priest raised a hand, and the charcoal stopped dead. He jerked his hand backwards and pulled from the charcoal the glowing red heat. Like a whip, held in his hand, this energy, this fire was his to control. With a single, circular stroke he smashed the cold, black charcoal into the finest dust.

Ben wanted to scream, 'Now what?' but kept his worries silent. The Priest inhaled sharply and drew through his nose the mass of dust, which further increased his size.

Ceiridwen thrust the blade of her sword into the ground, then looked at Ben and spoke.

'Your shield, it may repel all that intends to do you harm.'

'Oh,' Ben looked at the shield, 'can you make it bigger?' he asked, but she gave no reply. She pushed the sword further into the ground, her arm followed, and then, as if pulled from below, she too vanished, drawn down into the earth. Ben screamed after her, but to no avail.

The Priest cracked the whip, side-ways on. It scoured the land incinerating any animal it touched. His body then gorged on their ashen remains. Another lash, this time down into the ground. Two waves of rock and rubble rose and sped off in opposite directions. Ben watched as one wave raced ever near, but panic numbed decision, inspired in him only stillness. Nudged hard from behind, he looked. Ceiriwen's Stallion showed no patience. Another butt and an angry, 'neigh' told Ben to come for a ride. About to heed the order, and mount the crouching stallion, Ben glanced back. Earth, rubble and boulders, led by a charge of fleeing animals, seemed impossibly close. He stepped in front of the stallion, his shield raised.

'May? It may? What did she mean, it may?' Ben asked, suddenly remembering, but the wave had reached them. All that could have harmed them was repelled, deflected by the shield's invisible force. The wave washed over them. In front of him was strewn a pile boulders that had bounced off the shield.

'It may. But the whip?' he asked Ceiridwen's Stallion as he realised the whip, an electric tsunami, was speeding towards him.

The ground quaked violently. The Priest, looking to find the source, yanked the whip back. In the distance, a hill shook and rumbled into life breaking up and morphing into Ceiridwen \- a giant, formed from the earth, rock and minerals that had given body to the hill. Sword in hand, she sprinted towards the Priest, who stood perfectly still, waiting. As she neared, the Priest raised his hand. From her stomach, a jet of matter: soil, rock and all that formed her body, burst out and surged towards the Priest. She slashed the jet with her sword. The flow was stopped, but much of her mass was lost, absorbed by The Priest, who now loomed above her.

He cracked the whip, a single lash that sliced into her body. She recoiled, weakened, pace and strength fell away. Earth bled from the wound. But on she went, harder, then stronger, then faster. The Priest fell still and passive. Ceiridwen lunged forward and thrust her sword into his belly. He stood, unmoved, unflinching. She withdrew the sword, but the blade was gone, more fodder for this single, all-consuming mass. Ceiridwen looked surprised. For a moment, their stares locked together and held their bodies still until Ceiridwen raced to raise a hand, but then that scream, trapped long in the belly of The Priest, forged as punishment, to break body and mind, and fattened by the screams of all the dead souls he had consumed to add mass and power, raged beyond his twisted mouth. Caught in this torrent, like a savage wind, the scream began to erode her body.

'What can we do?' Ben asked Ceiridwen's Stallion, as the scream churned sickness into fear. The Stallion's worried stare was his only reply.

'The pyramid. Come on! We must go!' Ben Shouted. Ceiridwen's Stallion knelt; Ben straddled its back and grabbed its mane. The stallion then rose and carried Ben fast away. Ceiridwen remained caught; her body falling away like hourglass sand, stripped bare by force and time.

Ben felt fused to the stallion's back as it galloped over the battlefield sown with a thousand kills. Reaching the pyramid, they entered the passage. All went black.

'We need to get to the top!' cried Ben. Silence followed the echo. 'Help us! Please!' he begged.

'And, you, have a plan?' asked The Voice, without any sense of urgency.

'Yes!' replied Ben, urgent to the point of despair.

'My, haven't you grown.'

'Let us go, please!'

'I can see her, gone.'

'Gone?'

'I'll hold her hand if you want me to. I'll drag her to where she wants to go.'

'Drag her? Save her! Save her!'

'My will is not to save!' anger flared in his voice.

'Then let me!' Ben matched his tone.

'Try!'

'Then let me!' Ben demanded.

The breath, the wind, blew against them. A moment later, Ben and Ceiridwen's Stallion stood on top of the pyramid. The scream continued to drench the air. Ceiridwen ebbed ever thinner. Ben looked at the gap between The Priest and the pyramid, which looked well beyond his ability to jump.

'Set me down!' he told Ceiridwen's Stallion, who turned his head and looked at him, certainty fixed in his stare.

'You can't jump that far! I'll try alone!' Ben told him.

Ceiridwen's Stallion looked forward then burst into a gallop that drove them forward at a magnificent speed. Ben barely held on, but still willed him to go even faster. They reached the edge; the leap was made, beyond belief into hope and dreams. They arced through the air towards The Priest. Ben, his eyes wide open, could see they might just make it. Letting go of the mane, he turned his body, his back to The Priest, the shield held tightly against his chest, all his hope lay upon it.

'Do it. Do it. If we get there, do it!' he pleaded.

They fell into The Priest, vanished, as all before them had. The scream choked silent. Ceiridwen's body started to reform; the sheared mass came streaming back. A crazed bitter-sweet laugh, embraced with tears, dizzy with a sense of final relief, erupted from deep within The Priest until, a moment later, he and the laughter were gone. His body exploded, thinned into the air, into the vast expanse of nothing.

Ben fell to the ground, as did Ceiridwen's Stallion, both whole and alive. His shield eased him to a safe, gentle landing. He looked towards where Ceiridwen had been, but nothing of the giant remained.

'Here,' she spoke. Ben looked. Ceiridwen, made flesh again, stood before him, her face and body ahead of time, sunk further into the fragilities of age. She held no sword, no pose of triumph. Her stare seemed dulled, saddled with grave and serious news. Ben struggled for words; his instinct to celebrate was muted by her presence. Finally, an involuntary rush of excitement forced him to speak.

'We won!'

'Is it over?' Ceiridwen asked, flatly.

Ben felt confused. Did she question him or herself, her own memory, as sometimes the elderly can do. Seeing this confusion, she continued.

'We never end; we always begin.'

She smiled warmly, which softened her stare. Ceiridwen's Stallion stepped up to her and knelt for her to mount.

'We must go. Another day, the longest day, passes us by. I must ask for your help, again and finally, I must ask for your help.'

She smiled, her pride in him straddled the distance between them and embraced him tightly. He felt connected, owned, in part, by another.

'I'll help you. I'll always help you,' he pledged.

'Then come. But return your shield. It cannot serve you now.'

'My shield?' asked Ben, reluctant to let it go.

'Not yours. Not the one you need.'

Ceiridwen's Stallion carried them away. A crisp, full Moon gave them light, the animals that had survived, a serenade - a song that soon turned, a call back to the wild, to feast on the spoils of war.

Ben sat behind Ceiridwen, his hands lightly gripped the sagging cloth folds in her, now, oversized jacket. He felt lost in the pace of the day and thought little of the battle, of what he had seen and done. The smooth, ghostly ride was more an effortless glide than a pounding gallop over solid ground. Time, it seemed, offered them no resistance. The open, moonlit plane, soon became the blackened forest. Ceiridwen's Stallion barely slowed, as spacious path evolved to channel them home.

Through the trees, Ben could see the clearing embedded in an orb of hazy, orange light. They entered. The air was warm. The campfire flickered, its heat and light trapped inside this bubble. Ceiridwen's Stallion lowered to its belly. Ben jumped off. Ceiridwen remained seated.

'Help me,' she asked, as she held out a hand for Ben to hold. He took it; it felt cold and fleshless, like twigs wrapped in a leathery leaf. Slowly, tenderly, she positioned herself to dismount. Her every move was followed by a pause - to think, to assess. The freedom and carelessness of youth had gone.

'Let me,' Ben offered more help.

'No,' she declined.

As if trapped in an awkward silence, he continued to watch, bewildered and repelled by the corrosions of age.

Finally, her weight pushed through his arm as she struggled to stand. Her legs buckled. Ben caught the slack and prevented a fall. Laughter spilled, the sort that covers embarrassment, and also tears. None of her laughter infected Ben, who had to ask,

'How are you old this way, with all your power?'

'For you, I am old! For you!' A rush of energy gave force to her words. 'To keep you! To keep you!'

'For me?'

'Did I waste my time?'

He shook his head, a reflex more then an honest, thoughtful answer.

'Will you stay old?' he asked.

Her eyes told him that she would, until, of course, she could age no more.

'Except, you may remember me young,' she answered, herself away with a memory of youth.

She stepped forward. Ben, their hands still held, supported her. Close to the camp fire, a bed had appeared, which consisted of an oval wooden frame filled with fir leaves and soft, dry moss. She led Ben to the bed where he helped her lie down.

'Do you need a blanket?' he asked.

'No, but company.'

Her eyes fell shut and her body still. Ben stared. He knew the outcome, and that soon it would arrive. So much had seemed unreal, but this, as he looked at her, felt too real and far too close. The moment was wrapped tightly around him. He sat on the ground. The realities of battle rushed into his mind.

'So much...you killed today,' he said, more about her than to her.

'Blood is in me, open wounds. I make no apology,' came her whispered reply.

'Should I...If I could, if I ever had to?'

'Had to?...We want better for our children but they, too, are us.'

'But what children will there be if everything is destroyed by The...?'

'Other forces will rise, powerful, dormant forces but only if they see hope. Only if they see you, Ben, rise up and recognise what you are responsible for, what you are capable of. There must be a way to win. You must look for that way.'

'But me, why? How? If it wasn't for my reading, and my football skills, I'd be completely average.'

'No one special.'

'Yes.'

'And with you, and all people like you, true power lies. Good and evil grows or rots in all that is normal, like plants in the soil of humankind. You are not some chosen, special one. Some quirk has blessed you, given you an advantage. You ran to your father, blameless as a boy I know, but what could you, yourself, have done? You! What seed could, you, have planted?'

'Brought my Dad back.'

'To live uncertain in war? To die again?'

'Then where is he now? Can you reach him?'

'His world is the complete unknown. Silent and still to all those who like me who can hear and feel the ripples that radiate from all, so much, space.'

'The complete unknown?' Ben asked enthusiastically. 'Then there may be away.'

'Yes. You must return.'

'I was a ghost, a coward! Am I now? Will I return a ghost?'

'This day, soon to end, was free, lived beyond you. You will return as you were, at the place you were, with the choice you had to make.'

'And then?'

'You will concede to myth or to your own responsibility. But I beg, think beyond all myth. Know, you, can! You have friends.'

'That lot? They're bigger jessies than me!'

'Find them. Know them. Lead them. Convince them. Show them, that they, too, are capable.'

'Me?'

'You.'

'But what can be done? Nothing can be done! Everyone says so!'

'Cowards say so!...Do you?'

Doubt silenced him and pushed him into a long fretful pause.

'Ben!'

She called, urgently, as a blind person may call for a reassuring presence.

'Yes,' he replied. Her face softened, soothed by his voice. She spoke.

'Here.' her voice, barely a whisper. He lent towards her, close enough to kiss. She looked as old as it was possible for a person to be.

'Here,' his voice, no louder than hers. Her eyes remained closed. Through her nose, she inhaled a slow, deep breath, a final sense of life, then spoke her words, which were to be her last.

'True courage may never be recognised. And the greatest fame, is love. Complete yourself. Find your shield, Ben. Give us time, all that is eternal, then nothing will break you.'

She smiled briefly, contented, relieved. Ben wanted to reel off questions but hesitated until,

'The heaviest book that ever was, does it, can it exist?'

She spoke no reply. She did not need to. Ben felt the answer within. He stared at her face, it seemed to hollow, to drain free of character and thought, even as her lungs continued to turn the shallowest of breaths. He held her cold, lifeless hand; it gave comfort to him. He listened to her every breath; the slowing rhythm soothed his nerves and eased him towards the end. Soon, she fell silent and moved beyond him. A sadness from long ago, a great sense of loss that had been stored, stale, within him, suddenly became fresh. A storm of tears flared. So rarely did he cry, he had thought his weak, sickly body was a result of the effort it took to fight away the tears, that a boy had only so much strength, and that most of his was used to keep the hurt dead.

The orb of light shattered into a thousand pieces, a thousand flickering flames, which floated out into the forest, like a thinning mist of light. Leaves, flowers, buds and cones came, thrown, into The Clearing - to fill it, to return it, to bury all it contained.

A tree bowed towards Ben. He knew to climb on to a branch, to say goodbye to Ceiridwen. He fought the tears, managed to blow out the storm. As the tree straightened, he caught a flower, one that could bloom no more. The longest day had passed so quickly. 'Will they all?' he wondered, 'Will they all?' He kissed the flower then released it as his own, down to fill Ceiridwen's grave.

Beneath him, The Clearing faded into black, as the flames parted ever thinner, and the forest, as it swayed and rustled, oozed a note of sadness to sound like a tired sea ebbing away from shore.

He thought of the Heaviest Book. He now believed it real; a portal to the complete unknown, to his shield, his Dad, for what else, other than his Dad, could be the shield he had lost?

# CHAPTER 6

Once more a ghost. His choice was easily made. The... was moments away, but Ben fled through time and ran through space. The cold, this time, was lost.

His plan was barely born, his trust in Ceiridwen, the only air it breathed. He would return to The Place and free the others. Together they would find the Heaviest Book.

With ease, Ben found his way back to the cave - a pocket of space deep beneath the earth so physically far from life, and yet the agonized screams of people seethed through the walls to surround and harry him.

He took the only route available to him, through a narrow passage cracked into the jagged rock. As he ventured forward, he went deeper into the sound of a hostile crowd. Voice fought voice; shriek pitched against shriek. Plans and pleas to escape, Ben thought, for surely, all must know The Place was a fraud. Finally, the passage twisted to reveal its end. A vast chamber, a hundred metres deep and many more wide, fell to a floor of molten rock. This vast space, however, was shrunk by what it contained, a seemingly endless fog of ghosts. Like a colony of birds squashed onto an island they squawked and snapped at each other with chaotic rage. They saturated the air, their flight, propelled by a manic need for motion so fast, so endless, they often merged to form a faceless blur. Others ghosts, many statue still, filled the cracks and ledges that lined the walls. Disunity ruled. Nearly all the ghosts were adult humans from not so distant times. Many were trapped in a monologue loop, shouting demented, incoherent streams of words. No one listened to anyone else. Others ghosts just sobbed profusely. Ben stood and watched unable to make any sense of what he witnessed. Suddenly, a group of ghosts, ten strong, lunged out of the blur towards him.

'Is there news?' One of the ten asked Ben, who hesitated, unsure of how much he should reveal.

'Of what?' he replied.

'The Place!' the ghost hissed angrily back.

'Escape!' demanded another.

Ben hesitated, nervous at how the ghosts would react if he told them the truth.

'Tell us!' they all demanded as one.

'I'm just like you,' Ben replied.

'A prisoner now!' another ghost interrupted.

'No!! Waiting!!' countered another.

'A prisoner now!!' cried half the ghosts in the group.

'No!! Waiting!!' the other half replied.

'A prisoner now!!'

'No!! Waiting!!'

All ten of the ghosts went for each other with flailing hands and feet; however, only managed to propel themselves through and beyond each other.

With little hope of success, Ben scoured the view for Albert and the others. He knew he could slip back through time to meet them as they entered the cavern, but he wanted to meet them in the present, for surely, by now, they would have realized this was not The Place and would be glad, and willing, to quickly leave.

About to end his search, he suddenly caught a glimpse of AID - from a recess in the wall, just several metres away, he popped out only to pop back in again. Ben made the jump, to a ledge that lipped the recess. AID was not alone; the small recess, which was three metres deep, also hid Albert, Victoria, The Moof and Wilf. They stood huddled together lodged as far back into the recess as it was possible to go, their backs against the wall as if under siege.

'I've come back for you!' Ben told them, 'I can get you out of here, but we must go quickly!'

They looked at him. None showed any great enthusiasm for his presence, which surprised him. Were they not desperate to escape?

'Go? Where? We're here, aren't we? We're already here,' replied Albert, flatly.

'Are we?' asked AID, with a hint of cynicism. 'Where we should be? Where we want to be?'

'This isn't The Place. That man lied!' said Ben. 'It's a trap!

'Ahh, but the wolf moves in mysterious ways!' said Wilf, his body quivering.

'You don't actually think this is The Place, do you?' Ben asked.

'We must wait!' said Albert.

'For hundreds of years, like others in here?' AID asked him.

'Yes! Or else what?' Albert replied.

'Oh. That's that then!' replied AID, as if the issue was finally settled.

'They test us!' said Wilf. 'We want only the best! The cream, the prime, the silkiest!'

'I'm in two minds,' said The Moof.

'Trust me. This isn't The Place! There is no Place!' said Ben.

'It is, it isn't! It is, it isn't! Toss a coin, take your pick!' said Albert.

'It isn't!' demanded Ben.

'And you I trust? I can't trust myself. So why even think? Why struggle to decide? Why not accept everything and anything!'

'Three minds now,' said The Moof. 'No, four! Pop me! Pop me now. Or I'll burst!'

'Fear plus time, oh how it can ruin an organic mind. Luckily, I have no such mind. I'm all computer.' said AID to Ben, with a smug satisfaction.

A female ghost shot out from the faceless fog of ghost and came towards them like a kamikaze plane fixed on a warship, her scream, like the screech of the plane's engines on maximum thrust. All but Albert ducked. He stood and watched. She passed through him then went into the wall behind. Trapped in the rock, now only her scream could escape.

'Another scream,' said Albert, more to himself than anyone else. 'These walls could break under the weight. And then, what would be revealed?'

'How long have you been here?' asked Ben, concerned for Albert's sanity.

'No time to lose my mind!' Albert snapped back at him. 'There is nothing else!'

'We can fight them!' proclaimed Ben.

'Fight them?' Albert laughed, contemptuously. 'How?'

'We need to find a book, the heaviest book that ever was.'

'Oh, tell me another dream. One more real. Give me a little chance to believe you! We find a book, and then what?'

'It will lead us to a shield, one of great power, and to other forces, who won't be afraid and will fight!'

Ben refrained from expressing his belief that the shield was his Dad. He knew they believed such non-cowards were gone forever. Why give Albert, and the others, any more reason to doubt him.

'And where is this treasure?' Albert asked.

'I don't know, but if we try, we have hope!'

'As you are merely a boy, I will not laugh in your face.'

'No? Then let me laugh in yours! At this madness!'

'Give me one word of hope.'

'Others will rise. But we must start it.'

'Others, always others. Always the horizon that cannot be reached.'

'It's true!'

'You can say nothing to me, nothing to stir or inspire me. But that is not your fault for here I am truly dead. Let me go to the faceless mass. To be, not me. To accept, this is all.'

Albert stepped forward, to the very edge of the ledge, then stopped and turned to look behind.

'Why fear now?' he asked.

'You can't! We must fight!' Ben cried.

But Albert ignored him. He jumped into the fog of ghosts and vanished amongst them.

'I should be first! I'm the lead coward!' screamed Wilf, as he leapt towards, and then beyond, the ledge. The Moof followed close behind.

Ben, stunned, turned to AID and Victoria.

'Just us then,' he said, without conviction.

'Oh, no. Me, follow a boy? When a man has already spoken,' said AID.

'Victoria!' Ben pleaded to her while trying to look her directly in the eye; however, her stare was fixed beyond him, and her mouth began to move, to form a stream of silent words.

'You will trust me, I promise. I will reach you!' he told her.

'Good luck with that, my computer said, somewhat, it has to be said, sarcastically,' said AID as he stepped towards the ledge.

'Wait!' Ben called to him. 'Go if you must but first, tell me, please, where and when did Albert die?'

'Hamburg. October 2nd 1933, on the morning of his birthday. Now, that really was a surprise!'

'Where exactly?'

'In reach of Catherine's spire, as Michel struck eleven.'

'What does that mean?'

'I don't know. But I quote him perfectly.'

Ben wanted to know more but, seeing AID was about to jump, quickly asked.

'And Victoria? Who is she? Where? When?'

He looked at her, in the hope his question would inspire some response, but it did nothing, she remained unreachable.

'Victoria Yates, born in Ford Heath, died there too in, 1692.'

'The village by mine?'

'Correct.'

'Thank you. Now you, too, can go!' Ben said with a contemptuous bite.

'Yes, I must.'

And he did, as did Victoria. They jumped in with the masses.

# CHAPTER 7

****

The Airfield stood abandoned, retired after the War. Located two miles south of his village, Ben reached it desperately fast. The speed at which he could travel crumpled space before him and brought questions to his mind. Could he cross the English Channel, find a route through France and Germany to Hamburg and beyond? Yes, he could, he could struggle through, but instinct gave an easier option, go to the Airfield and steal a ride.

Peacefully deserted, the Airfield was bedding into the undergrowth. The runway and several brick buildings remained, and all were fraying at nature's edge. The vast A-shaped runway was surrounded by a horizon of fertile hills and trees. The once military-neat grassed areas were now wild meadows standing easy in the wind. A perfect summers day made lavish the green.

Ben stood, a spectator, but wanted more, he wanted to play. For this was his stage, the light that vanished the dark, the English countryside, which, when living, had given him space to vanish. For as long as he dared be still, he stood and watched the stillness. Everything was in its own time. Nothing was harried by anything else. Birdsong trickled past, wilting on the wind. But no more than a minute passed before he lunged back into time.

Ben knew that Hamburg was a major German city, and like all such cities, was bombed heavily during the War. The Airfield was a wartime base for a squadron of Lancaster Bombers. Ben reasoned that Hamburg would at some time been the squadron's target. Pre-mission briefings would reveal the nightly targets. If Ben could discover the room where the briefings took place, with time on his side, he could find the right mission and join it.

The Airfield worked once more. The day was still blessed bright with summer. Dozens of Lancaster Bombers basked beneath a blazing Sun. Their earthy tones brushed them into nature's growth. Ben saw them as dragons, magnificent cold-blooded beasts, that had rallied to our side. Teams of uniformed men worked to prepare the planes for war. Nothing was hurried. Laughter joined the birdsong. Ben watched from a distance but still the bombs looked massive. One, twice as long as a man, and several times as thick, was winched, fed into the cavernous bomb bay of a Lancaster, and still its belly looked starved. Bomb trolleys, laden with bombs of several different sizes, waited to fill the space.

Other men lazed on the grass or lounged in parked vehicles watching the Lancasters being revived for another raid. And why not, Ben thought, why not watch and dream of the other end where the bombs would bounce back the misery the enemy had already sent.

Away from the maintenance crews towards the brick buildings and half-round corrugated iron huts, all seemed strangely quiet. The flight crews must be asleep, Ben thought, for he knew the RAF worked their bombs into Germany at night, whereas the Americans took the day.

From the fuel tanker, which had kept him hidden, he sped towards the buildings. The briefing room, he reasoned, would need to accommodate many men so must be fairly large. A wooden hut seemed size enough, but the curtained windows denied him a view inside. He then tried the door, which was locked.

He slipped through time, forward no more than an hour, time which passed clearly by, clear enough for him to see a rush of uniformed men arrived at the hut on cycles and in trucks. As the last man took the door, Ben returned to normal time, a ghostly presence, and entered the hut behind him. Once inside, he leapt an hour forward so that the hut stood empty again. This, he was sure, was the briefing room. Rows of tables and chairs faced forward, a classroom for men to learn more war. At the front, a large map of Europe was flanked by two equally large blackboards. Smaller maps and various charts decorated the walls.

The large map took his attention. He moved in close and found a route plotted in straight, angular lines that went from the Airfield to Berlin and back again. Next, he moved to and studied a large blackboard. The grid table painted on to its surface contained various coordinates that followed a sequence of times written in the 24-hour clock format. A heading read 'Target: Berlin - 18 July 1943'.

He slipped forward through time, almost exactly one day. His ability to travel specific amounts of time especially hours and days was becoming evermore accurate. He looked at the map and blackboard together they confirmed a different target, Kassel, another German city.

Another day, another target. Then ever onwards until map and blackboard revealed Hamburg, condemned, selected. The day was quickly found, 24 July 1943.

Through time and space he weaved. Where to hide, to stow away? The only sound place was the bomb bay, the only place he could be alone. If he went in with the crew, he risked being seen, and they had fear enough to hide. No need of a ghost to remind, what becomes of the living. Their mission must be their focus; their war, his dad's war, still valid, still right. They, together, comrades, at one in war and hate. A hate Ben felt alive and well and saw no reason to temper.

So in with the bombs, clamped between two. The bombs themselves clamped in place, jailed to release, to reek revenge. With a quick twist forward, he watched as the bomb bay doors closed. Darkness itself now clamped inside. Another twist forward, to hear four mighty engines rip into life. All space filled with noise. The Lancaster taxied, then stopped. The engines dimmed. Stillness let fear stir. The crew, silent with theirs, duty bound and ready with hate. Ben, dizzy with speed, his thoughts wild and free. Future battles swarmed his mind. Do men without fear lack imagination? Do they not see all that can fail? He snatched time; the engines roared again, pushed to full throttle. The Lancaster powered forward and defied the pull of the ground. Three hours of time to cross. Stares fixed on the darkness, waiting to beat whatever jumps out.

The tick of real-time: slow when you want it fast, fast when you want it slow. Only when lost in the present does time match your speed.

Ben's thoughts swirled and swelled like an angry sea; the constant threat of The... always ready to pounce; the fear of the future, all unknown; the fear of truth, of being exposed a simple fool who thought he could and dared to try.

The only calm was his Dad, the only anchor to catch, and together they crossed enemy lines. Ben's eyes and mind were closed to the War, but his heart was open to hate. And now, they, the people below, their hands soiled with the blood of his Dad, a man who stood against them, a man who knew they were wrong, who used the word evil, which is what Ben believed them to be, these people here, now, below.

'These bombs are for you, Dad. I'll see them right.' Ben said.

Machine gun fire loud enough, close enough, to cut through the engine drone. Was it ours, Ben thought, or theirs? Would one be without the other? Another burst, from behind. Then another, from above. Then nothing, deaf and blind behind the engine roar.

'To endure, is to be a woman.' And now to be a boy, thought Ben, as he remembered his Aunt, never with anything light to say.

Time continued, and in Ben's bubble nothing knowable changed.

Suddenly a blink of light passed into the bomb bay through a gap between the doors. Searchlights, Ben, knew - great beams of light that probed the sky to hunt for enemy planes, to prize them from the darkness, to fix them, speared, for the gunners kill.

Explosions, barely audible, but constant. Hollow sounding thuds then rattled against the airframe. Shrapnel, Ben thought, from exploding flak shells. We, the defenders, are being attacked!

The doors, which had clamped in dark, began to open wide. Colour flushed in. Briefly, it was beautiful. Red, white, orange, green and yellow in multiple hues flashed and glowed, mute beneath the engine roar. Ben felt freed. The black of night displaced. But then, all he could see was war. Flak shells, red-hot and glowing, endless and insatiable, poured from the ground into the sky. Legions of searchlights, their white cone-shaped beams stabbed into the air to devour the night. Vast flares, which gave way to the bombs, spewed bright green. And beneath it all, a city that bubbled, as it boiled with fire and explosion.

The silhouette of a Lancaster appeared below, like a shark cruising the shallows. Ben looked. A searchlight followed, chased by another. Streams of flak honed in. A blinding flash, then a shower of brilliantly coloured sparks rejoiced at the kill.

Ben wished the bombs to fall, and they did, as did he, taken down with one bomb held. Hard, hateful noise encased him. Intense white flashes glazed the sky. Strips of silver foil glittered all around - the devil's confetti or had the stars fallen, shaken to the ground? Twists and puffs of smoke loitered like evil spirits come to cheer. And beneath him, the cries of a city pleading for water near.

A fireball erupted, a Lancaster felled, but a swarm of hundreds continued the raid. Their bombs designed to burst all into flame whether built or born, grown or made.

Ben watched in awe as a firestorm skinned and burned the city alive. All air was fire. A monster lived with a hateful rage. Released to rule for a single night, savage and demented, it destroyed all it conquered, and it conquered all with ease. Its power horrified Ben. He snatched his hand away from the bomb. It plunged ahead. He watched as the bomb was delivered, made right. The monster swelled, cackled high, fuelled with another fix. Then, still ravenous, continued to gorge on the bones that remained, the rubble carcass of a city slain.

Ben took the chance to turn away, back through time to a peaceful night just hours before. He drifted down towards a deserted, blacked-out street. Tenements, homes, loomed over him. His feet reached the asphalt road. He looked up. The sky was cloudless; the stars dazzled alone. Silence. No people. Where were the people? Where they hidden, sheltered, safe? Should he now know? Should he not see?

As the air is a world, and the sea is a world, here the world was fire. The wind itself burned and was solid with speed and debris. Buildings crumbled. People fled. Great gusts of wind sucked up people from the ground, even those whose hands and feet were stuck in the boiling, melting asphalt. The scorching air was impossible to breathe; one breath would incinerate a person's lungs. Faces merged, set with looks of pain and horror. Breathless, no one could scream. But what need of air, when so many bodies were lumped ablaze? People, here were the people, all types of people, except for men of a fighting age.

A minute in time was all Ben could last. Shock kept him sane, kept his thoughts muddled. He went forward, hours to daylight, but none could shine through the pall of smoke that covered the city. And yet, all was still clear, the night's shadows remained, smoldering dead or broken. Questions sickened his mind. What shadows reside in man? How is this victory? He knew he had to move, to keep busy with his mission, that he had his own shadows to, rightly, fear. He went, jumped to stride a decade.

Quiet with the break of day, the city once again stood tall. Ben rushed away in search of 'Catherine's spire and the day's date. A maze of streets kept him lost. He thought them narrow, trench like, dug into the city as warrens and dens for the working people. At least the farm labourers who lived in his village had gardens and views to cast away dreams. Here the views went splat into walls or followed the smoke from chimneys up into a flat grey sky.

He passed no people, saw no ghosts but something, he felt, watched him. A silent menace that rustled the Nazi flags hanging proudly from windows. Flags that looked so stark, so clean and new, the red so vibrant when set against the decay of the buildings that gave the flags a footing.

Voices crept into the street, like the final bounce of an echo. Words and tone seemed harsh and accusing. Curtains and shutters gave eyes a chance to linger. A large mongrel dog, with a wild, maddened stare, sat in the middle of the road, panting. A cat stalked by. They shared a look, but neither made a move. Ship horns hummed in the distance as if to warn of a coming fog. Horse hooves clapped over cobbles with a regular, exacting beat.

Ben cut into an alley between two craggy brick buildings that bent towards each other to almost touch at the top. Once through, he turned left, stopped, paused for a second, then looked back into the ally. The ally was empty; the presence he felt was not seen.

He turned, to continue forward, but his motion ceased. An unmanned road block, hastily built from timber and barbed wire coils, stood before him. In the centre of the blockade, a sign, in German, was displayed prominently. As he cast his stare over the words, a woman's voice in a heavy German accent whispered,

'No Jews allowed!'

Shocked, he turned to look, to find the voice, but she who had spoken was gone.

He sped away, away from the voice and road block. Shops, taverns and cafes began to dominate at street level, with residential apartments rising four storeys above. On one shop front, something seemed wrong. Graffiti marked the windows: The Star of David along with the word 'JUDE' daubed in white paint. A board with writing on had been propped against the door. Ben stopped to look.

'Jew! Protect yourself don't buy from Jews!'

Again, the voice, The Presence, spoke in a quick, sudden tone. Ben looked around, but nothing claimed the voice. On he went. He turned a corner and came to a sudden stop. Male mannequins, stripped of clothes, were strewn dumped on the road, their limbs broken and smashed. An elderly man, floored by shock and blows that had bloodied and bruised his face, sat on the path outside a vandalised tailors shop. His body shivered, his eyes wept tears. The windows had been smashed, but remaining fragments of glass revealed the Star of David had once marked the shop. Inside, nothing of value remained. A cash register, scissors and folds of cloth lay wasted on the ground. Ben continued to stare. The man began to mutter a single word, 'Wer.' Ben looked around expecting the woman's voice to translate, but her silence remained. The man's voice grew louder,

'Wer! Wer! Wer wille hilft me?'

'Who will help me!' The Presence spoke then vanished.

The man shouted, his pleas more desperate. He fell forward onto his hands and knees then crawled into the middle of the road. Ben thought the man was about to collapse, but a rush of anger fueled his body, and he rose quickly to stand defiant. Ben stood, fixed, but wanted to move, to continue his search. The man raised his hands towards the sky, looked up at the many homes above, and then, with a passionate, fearless shout, demanded,

'Wer! Wer wille hilft me?'

Bang - single shot from a single gun. The man fell to the ground, dead. The mannequins took his fall. Ben looked up. Blank, emotionless faces: men, women, boys and girls, stared from windows. Finally, his stare found a girl, aged about ten, but only when she saw him looking at her did horror fill her face, and a scream erupt released

Ben took no pause he fled, ever more desperate to leave the city. Once free of the street and out of sight he leapt onto the wall of the nearest building and clawed his way up to the roof. A view of the city opened up, flecks of people gave it movement, and the warrens and hovels gave way to reveal the city as monument, built to last, to house the egos of the great and good. Here people fought for history, not the next available meal. Three spires rose above the skyline. Could one be St. Catherine's? The open space of a large public square drew Ben forward. He skipped over rooftops and jumped between buildings to reach this clean, well-tended space. A display box: a public notice board with a glass cover, caught his eye. He moved to it. Inside, several pages of a newspaper were on display. Every page showed hate for the Jews, twisted, ugly caricatures of Jewish men and women, all acting against the German people, but all smashed by the Nazi fist leered from every page, as did the date, which read, '12 September 1934'. With a glance at the front page, he read, to himself, the name of the newspaper, 'Der Stürmer'.

'The Attacker! How true! So very true!'

The voice of The Presence displaced his own. He looked.

'Who's there?! Who are you?' he asked.

His voice fell lost to the air, to vanish behind The Presence. Good riddance, he thought, as he twisted back through time and beyond her ghostly reach.

The display box remained. A different edition of Der Strumer was shown inside, its date of publication, 22 November 1933. He continued, back through time to find another edition, to learn another date, until the date before him read, '4 Oktober 1933' - Der Stürmer, he had learnt, was published weekly, so this was the closest date to Albert's death it could show. After finding the day this edition was first displayed, he went back two full days, to the 2nd October 1933.

He stood alone as a cold winter's day began to break. Three church spires stood black against the sky. With one selected, from a simple guess, he went to discover Albert.

As free as the wind, he climbed and conquered the green copper spire, two tiers of which were constructed of stone arches to create internal viewing galleries. He chose to take the highest, which gave a dizzying view of the city. The sprawling port and docks dominated. Massive ships and liners where stoking into life. Skinless cranes towered above all. Black smoke smudged the sky. The drone of industry came on the wind. Canals and waterways bled the sea into the city. Suddenly, The Presence's voice leapt out from behind.

'You have found St Catherine. Now wait, eleven tonight.'

So she, too, could travel time. Ben turned to look. A pair of arms, outstretched towards him, protruded through a wall between two arches

'Who are you? What do you want?' he demanded to know.

'To help. To interpret. Please!' Her hands came together, as if in prayer. 'I will help you.'

Before Ben could answer, her arms withdrew and he felt her vanish. He went forwards into time, which when moving through hours he could do with ever more accuracy. Eleven o'clock exactly, the first strike of Michael's bell rang hard and fast through a mist soaked air. He scoured the view, but the puny street lighting was no match for the night. He remembered, 'in reach of Catherine's spire.' Why even think that? What could it mean? A plea, of a dying, desperate man? A call for help, for God? The eleventh strike faded into silence. Ben strained to hear any hinting sound. The faint pull of a woman's scream rose up from the streets below but passed too quickly to leave a trail. Back he went, barely a minute, then waited ready to pounce. It came, he saw. He jumped from the spire to land on the church's roof, and a thin layer of ice-encrusted snow. Off he went, ever so close to flight, skimming rooftops and bounding through the air straight towards the scream. Another twist, to hear the scream again, made precise its location.

To reach street level, he jumped from the rooftop and sank down into a dark, dank alley. The raucous cheers of a crowd, lost in the delights of a near-by tavern, were hushed by the sound of footsteps, harsh and stabbing, that swelled rapidly towards him. He moved to the alley's exit and peered out to glimpse the noise. A woman, dressed well for the night but not for its chill, ran towards him as fast as her tight fitting skirt would allow. In an instant, he drew her stare, and another terror slammed against her. A scream jolted through her body, she slipped on ice and fell. Ben backed away, two minutes through time. The side street was empty. He sped away, towards the fright that had caused the woman to flee.

Balls of mist glowed around, thinly spaced, gas street lamps. Somewhere ahead, a brief commotion, hidden in the darkness, coloured the air with sound: a thud, a splash, a gasp, a desperate burst of movement against, to fight, water. Michael's bell began to ring.

The street opened up. A thin walkway led to a fall, two metres down to the still, ice cold waters of a sticking canal. Boats and barges skinned the surface. The commotion fell silent as the last strike of Micheal's bell rang out. Distant footsteps, the woman scurrying lightly along. Had she seen a ghost rise from the water? Ben jumped back, two minutes behind. Footsteps ran towards him but not those of a woman in heels. He looked along the walkway; in the murk, the figure of a man moved quickly his way. After stepping a minute back through time, Ben raced to where the man had been. A moment later, the man appeared from up above. Panicking, he rushed down a flight of stone steps to reach the walkway. He glanced at Ben but saw no ghost. Ben stood and watched, Albert, for the man was he - hidden beneath his grey military-style coat, a packed duffle bag slung over his shoulder - as he set off into the darkness, so keen to go, to get fast away.

Ben climbed to the top of the steps then moved back through time to watch as time itself rewound. Albert, walking backwards, came up the steps then continued to walk away into the street ahead until a turning took him from view. Ben rushed to the turning \- from which Albert appeared, as once again time moved forwards - then moved to watch time rewind and Albert walk, backwards, past and beyond him. Finally, Albert turned and disappeared into an adjoining city street. Ben rushed to this vanishing point to repeat the process, over and over, to follow Albert into the city, to witness the beginnings of, this, his final night alive.

Time became a giddy blur. The world a spinning room, and Albert, the anchor point on which to fix a stare, to temper the spin, to stop it overwhelming. Fortunately, the space they travelled did not seem far. Albert returned to an apartment building. As he opened the door to leave, Ben took his chance and entered. On the top, fifth, floor, Ben took his chance again, as Albert left an apartment, Ben stepped beyond the closing door to let himself inside. The space was black. In need of a pause, he jumped back many hours to reach the light of day.

Was this where Albert lived, was this his home? Ben moved quickly around to see if anyone was in. He thought how nice the apartment was. Clean, ordered and spacious. Not a place for mend-and-make-do. Shiny, polished dark wood furniture. Plush comfortable chairs. Large patterned rugs covered buffed wooden floors. All was harmonious as if all had grown naturally into its space. The only jolt of difference were several pictures, some to make a boy blush, that hung from the walls, the bastards of the family, but still made to feel welcome. Two bedrooms, five star hotels to Ben, without a spec of damp. And bookcases, not only piled full of books, but also with music records. Just as he thought himself alone, the voice of The Presence spoke,

'He returns this evening at 6 o'clock.'

Ben looked but saw only the distressed hem of a blackened dress disappear through a wall. He looked towards the archway, which led to the room she had fled to, but refused to give chase.

'Show yourself or go away for good!' he shouted.

'Please, you must not fear me,' she replied.

'You? To fear you would be relief indeed!'

'Then accept my help. I can interpret, guide you. I know this city so completely.'

'I hate this city.'

'Its people too?'

'I didn't say that.'

'A city is its people!'

'And I come to learn of only one.'

'Albert.'

'How do you know? Why are you bothered by us?'

'I am nothing but a means to help you learn!'

'Do you know the dangers we face?'

'Yes. Everything.'

'Is that why you help?'

'I help because I must! Because what if you win, people will still be people, me, still me?'

'I may win?'

'I know time, I know you, but only here, here in this

city.'

'You're German, how can I trust you?'

'Oh Ben, what enemy can I be to you now?'

He could only believe her. There was too much sadness in her voice for him to think any other way.

'You'll translate?' he asked.

'Yes. Albert's words, and those of the men who visit tonight.'

'What men?'

'Follow me to 6 o'clock. Let me inside you and you will hear all you need.'

Her hands extended through the wall.

'Inside me?' he asked, both shocked and little repelled.

'You will hear me think, my words, their words. None of them can see us, but all can hear. This way, together, we are completely vanished.'

Ben hesitated. She sensed this, so continued.

'You will hear no cries of mine, no echoes of me.'

'Why do you hide yourself?'

'We are cowards. We look away. I am right to hide. Right to be afraid, so very afraid.' Her voice honoured her words. She continued. 'You have so little time.'

Her hands then vanished. Ben knew she had travelled to six o'clock. He followed. The apartment was dark, the only light, the faint ghostly haze.

'Are you there?' he asked.

'Yes.' Her voice came from behind, 'Don't look! Let me be still.'

He fought instinct and refrained from looking, but the creep of her presence continued to tug on his stare.

'We will hear each others thoughts,' she said.

'How deeply?' he asked.

'He is coming. We are ready'

Ben looked behind, but the presence was gone. He glanced at his body as if to see inside. The fog of self hid all within. His ghostly haze was twice as bright. A door shuddered open. The scuffle of feet. The door clicked quietly shut. Heavy breathing burst free until brought quickly under control.

Footsteps hurried towards Ben and The Presence inside. A ceiling light glowed. Albert had entered the room. Ben felt exposed, captured. Albert paced around - a desperate search for stillness - with fear and anger beyond release. From the pocket of the raincoat he wore, he pulled out a small magazine and slammed it down onto a desk as if trying to smash it from reality.

'Fool! Madness!' he spat through gritted teeth. The translation played effortlessly in Ben's mind, without pause or delay.

Albert fell into a chair, his hands pressed against his face as if to plug the tears and rage. A firm three wraps knocked on the door. Albert sprung, alert. Stood. Froze. Another three knocks. He stepped forward, his body still stiff. A creaking floorboard brought pain to his face. Again, his body froze. Another three wraps, which forced him to yield, he rushed from the room. Ben moved to watch.

Albert stood with his hands pressed lightly against the door, his body poised weak with dread.

'Who's there?' he asked, with a forced, broken calm.

'Julius,' came the reply.

Anger flushed the dread; defense turned to attack. Albert grabbed the handle and yanked the door open. In stepped Julius - a small, but sturdy looking man, several years older than Albert. A slight, knowing grin furnished his face. He glanced at Albert, unimpressed by his emotion.

'Good evening, comrade.,' Julius spoke

'Comrade?' Albert snapped, outraged, although his voice was hushed. He closed the door. Julius looked at him, his stare showing little respect.

'If ever proof was needed!' Albert continued, his voice still hushed.

'Of?' Julius asked.

'Madness! Stupidity!' Albert replied.

'Then the masses and I, finally, united.'

'United? Now? Never!'

Albert stormed past Julius and returned to the living room. Julius followed. Albert went straight to the only window in the room and pulled the curtains shut. He then turned to confront Julius, who stood still and calm, solidly composed.

'Where have you been? I've been trying to find you,' Albert asked, as he paced towards the desk, his voice now raised.

'Preparing to leave,' Julius answered.

'To leave?'

'You're surprised?'

Albert grabbed the magazine from the desk and held it aloft.

'After reading the journal, I'm surprised you still have the chance!'

'You have a copy, good. Keep it. Who knows, one day it may mean something.'

'How could you publish it?' his voice loud, demanding.

'How could I not?'

'To directly criticise,' he voice forced to a hush, 'Hitler! To call him a monster!'

'Am I wrong?'

'What does our opinion matter now? We've lost!' His voice, again, raised.

'You give in. Don't speak for me.'

'You condemn us all!'

'Myself, I condemn myself! My editorial, my opinion, clearly stated as a personal view.'

'A view that now defines the whole journal and all those who have contributed to it!'

'Our politics were no secret.'

'But who took notice? Now, they listen!'

'To me and to others, yes. But to you? Tell me the last time you wrote anything with the power to offend?

'I review,'

Julis interrupted,

'Books and music!' he gestured to the collections of books and records that filled the shelves. 'Should books and music never offend?'

'Offence, is an offence! The law is nothing but the will of the SA mob! Journalists are being arrested!

'I know'

'Executed.'

'Rumours, which I believe.'

'Us!'

'Us? And the Jews? What of my people?'

Albert gave no answer. Julius continued.

'Silenced! It shall soon be the law that no Jew can work as a journalist. And that is only the beginning. So yes, I took my chance, and I shouted as loudly as I could.'

'And now you run away.'

'I retreat, to regroup, to return. But you call it what you will. If I stay in Germany, we both know my fate.'

Albert looked slightly embarrassed, it tempered his anger.

'Where will you go?' he asked.

'France, where the fight shall continue.'

'With Anya?'

'Of course, my wife, my comrade, and also a Jew, who has spoken just as loudly as I.'

'You should have brought her. I would have liked to have said goodbye.'

'It was risk enough for me to come. She is safe. We will spend tonight with Max Kull, and in the morning, we drive from the city. If you want to say goodbye,' he looked towards the desk, on which their was a telephone, 'you have a telephone, as does Max. I am sure she, too, would like to say goodbye.'

'I will. Do you have money? I can help.'

'We have enough...But you, what of you, what do you do now?'

'I stay.'

'You feel safe?'

'I am cautious. Hopeful. My father left me money, and connections.'

'He was well respected.'

'Yes, he was.' Hope, a desperate need to believe, brought pain to his voice, 'He did much for the city. There is goodwill, I am sure.'

'Enough for them forgive?'

'Forgive?'

'Your choices, cultural more than political. The books you read, the music you love, the art on your walls. Your passions! All enough to get you arrested now.'

'No! If I was a Jew, or a communist, maybe! But I am not! That much is known about me.'

'It is also known that you are no Nazi.'

'Most people are nothing. Most people are the middle. Most people, when pressured, do what they must! I am most people!'

'Most people don't listen to jazz.'

'Then I won't listen to jazz!!'

'Or read, or write?'

'I will do what I have to do to survive!'

'At any cost? What life is that?'

'Enough for me! For now at least.'

'Then so be it. Happy birthday, by the way.' He held the package towards Albert.

'No, really, not necessary.'

'Take it. A gift from a friend, who you may never see again.'

Albert softened. He stepped towards Julius.

'Of course. Thank you.'

'Open it later.' Julius placed the parcel on a sideboard.

'It's a record, jazz,' said Albert.

'It is.'

They shared a smile.

'Thank you. I will enjoy it.'

'Do with it as you must. Of course, it's on the banned list, but then much of your collection already is.'

'I know,' Albert replied, impassively.

'You drew the curtains, but soon, if you open them, you should be able to see a bonfire lighting up the sky. Beneath the flames will be the books and records you cherish. Thrown to the flames by people, most people, ordinary, everyday people. People who don't listen to jazz.'

'I know.' Albert replied, coldly.

'Good bye, Albert.'

'Goodbye.'

'Let us part as the friends we have always been.'

'Yes, as we have always been.'

They shook hands. For a moment, a genuine warmth flared-up between then, until fear returned to Albert's stare. He pulled his hand away.

'You must go now,' Albert said.

'Yes, I should.'

Julius walked away, Albert followed. They left the room and reached the door. Julius placed a hand on the handle, but before he opened the door, he turned to speak to Albert.

'One last thing,' he said. 'I know your mother, although a Christian in death, was born a Jew.'

Albert looked devastated.

'Who told you?' he asked.

'What does it matter?'

'Everything!'

'No one you should fear.'

'Who else knows?'

'In Hamburg, only me.'

'You!' his tone was hard and accusing.

'Your friend, who takes your secret as his own, and always will!' Julius replied with absolute certainty.

'Why tell me this now?'

'To let you know your secret wasn't buried as deeply as you hoped.'

'You must go!'

Julius opened the door.

'Bury your secrets, bury yourself. Embrace your secrets, embrace yourself...Let us hope for another time.'

Julius walked away. Albert closed the door immediately. A flood of panic swept over him. He paced into the living room and circled space, lost and confused. With a jolt of remembrance, he rushed to the window and peered through the curtains. When he looked back into the room, decision relieved his stare. He hurried to a bookshelf, looked for and found six books, all of which he removed.

They followed him, The Presence and Ben, still locked together as one. He went as if summoned by the fire, called by this higher authority. In the stairwell of his building, as he passed a neighbour, an elderly woman, he held up the books for her to bare witness.

'We burn them! We shall free Germany!' he proclaimed.

A silent nod delivered her approval.

Outside, all dark was sucked towards the light. The bonfire called all to ritual. He joined a crowd of ordinary people: men, women and children. The bonfire fed warmth and belonging into their cheering faces. Ben and The Presence watched from above, hidden on a rooftop.

Members of the SA, who were the paramilitary wing of the Nazi Party, a bunch of street-fighting thugs who gave protection to Hitler and other Nazis, and who now basked in the power and the glory of Hitler's rise, policed the crowd. Every one seemed vain with power as if guarding the gates to their own fantastical legend.

In a controlled and ordered fashion, people took their turn to throw books onto the fire. Ben watched, amazed and bewildered. What power the books must possess, he thought, what fear they must instill. Each book must be alive, he knew, for here were men setting war upon them. He scoured the smoke drifting skywards convinced no cowards would rise.

'Why are they doing this?' Ben asked The Presence.

'They?' She replied, 'Me.'

As one - her thoughts became his instinct - they lunged through space and time to watch as a young girl, of about twelve years old, fed books to the flames with a genuine, heartfelt relish. Ben had seen the girl before. She was the one who stood in the window, whose passive stare had welcomed murder.

'You!' Ben said to The Presence.

'Once it was me,' The Presence replied.

'The past is forever.'

'We have both known hate.'

Before the girl could scream again they returned through time and space.

Albert queued for his turn. Keen for all to see his face, he missed no opportunity to greet, to congratulate, all around him. Finally, he took his turn, like a man born again, purified by destruction, set free by the act of the crowd.

They followed him home. An uneasy calm befell him. He fought his fears, denied their touch. He sat at his desk, smoked a cigarette, drank some tea. Twice he opened the top desk draw to briefly glance at a handgun. The telephone rang. He ignored it. It rang again. He covered it with a fur hat to muffled the sound. Another cigarette returned his stillness until three loud knocks pounded on the door. Roused by their urgency, he stood and moved quickly into the hall but stopped, afraid to reach the door. Six knocks, impatient and demanding. He complied, opened the door. A man, armoured in the uniform of the SA, stood before him.

'Albert Becker,' the man spoke with a cold, flat tone.

'Albert Becker?' Albert forced an innocent air.

'It wasn't a question. I know who you are. Now let me in.'

Before Albert could reply, the SA Man barged his way inside.

'Are you alone?' The SA Man asked, as he loomed over Albert - older, taller, stronger.

'Yes. What can I do for you?' asked Albert.

'Shut the door!'

Albert followed the order. The SA Man walked into the living room. Albert dragged himself behind. The SA Man circled the room, his snooping, contemptuous stare eying all it contained.

'You live well. Why? Should you? Do you think you have the right?'

'I..' Albert's words were lost to nerves. The SA Man laughed at his weakness, a brief burst before the venom returned.

'You live well while good, patriotic Germans suffer beneath you.'

'I wish no one to suffer.'

'I require information.'

'I see.'

'I chase a prize, one bigger than you, for now at least. You worked for him. You know who, and you know why!'

'I do.'

The SA Man pulled a record from a shelf. He looked at the paper sleeve and read the composers name.

'Duke Ellington. How can you listen to such deviancy?'

'I listen to all sorts of music. I review music. I must listen to all sorts of music.'

'You're a critic?'

'I was.'

'So you think your opinion has value. Why? Do you think it better than mine?'

'No. I am simply a voice, a single voice'

'Am I allowed an opinion?'

'Of course.'

'Do you value my opinion?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Then listen,' he pulled the record from the sleeve, his stare fixed on Albert, 'this is rubbish.' With a casual flick of the hand, he discarded the record. It fell to the floor and smashed. With his stare drilled into Albert, he took another record, 'and this, is worse,' with a burst of force, he threw the record to the floor. The sleeve held its shattered remains. 'Where is Julius?' he demanded.

'I,' words failed him.

'Where is his wife?'

'I,'

The SA Man paced towards him.

'Be useful! Be correct! Let me have a reason to tolerate you!'

'I give you no reason not to.'

'You went looking for him today.'

'To tell him of my opposition.'

'To the filth he had written?' He passed Albert and circled behind him. Albert continued to look forward.

'Yes.'

And you found him, where?'

'No where.'

'I will arrest you.'

'No! Why?'

'To make you vanish.' He flicked a light switch. The room went black. 'To make you mine.'

'He came to visit me.' A grave clarity controlled his voice.

'Where is he? You know!'

'Yes.'

'And his wife?'

'With him.'

'Where?'

'At a friends, Max Kull.'

'You know the address?'

'Yes.'

The light returned. The SA Man held a gun aimed Albert's head.

'Write it down, quickly!'

Albert rushed to the desk, his body shaking. He fell into the chair and fumbled for a pen and a piece of paper. The SA Man walked to the desk and stood over him. As soon as Albert had finished writing the address, the SA Man swooped a hand down and snatched the piece of paper. As he checked the address, a smug, self-satisfied grin deformed his face.

'Be pleased,' he continued, 'you have assisted in the removal of two traitors. For this you can take some credit, if of course the traitors are found. If not, well, we shall see, won't we?'

As he folded the piece of paper in half then put it into a pocket, his stare remained fixed on Albert.

'Your mother and father?' With a nod of his head, he gestured towards a framed photograph on the desk.

Albert looked, then replied.

'Yes.'

'Your father was once a prominent man, very well respected in the city.'

'Yes,' replied Albert with a sigh of relief.

'And your mother, she was always a pure, filthy Jew!' he said the word as if it contaminated him.

Albert was trapped in his stare, deadened. His body seemed to crawl deeper into the chair. He was owned, cheaply. His master stood over him, aroused by hate.

'As long as you are useful and provide information, you will be kept safe. I am sure you have many friends and colleagues who we will also deem appropriate to remove.'

He gave the Nazi salute, 'Heil Hitler!' then turned his back on Albert and walked way. Albert watched, freed from the power of his stare. He turned to look at the top desk draw. The gun. Could he? Should he? How he wanted to. The image played in his mind, a fantasy. The SA Man left the room. Albert waited to hear the door open then close. It did. He snatched the hat from the telephone.

'He only has to call them,' thought Ben.

'Yes...But only?' The Presence replied.

Albert broke down. Tears began to pour. He let the hat fall from his hand, back to cover the phone.

Ben and The Presence went forward several minutes. Albert, in a desperate daze, was preparing to leave. With a clumsy struggle, he put on a grey military-style coat. From the floor, he picked-up a well packed duffle bag then paced full of intent towards the door until, suddenly, he reconsidered.

'No!' Hesitating, he stopped, dropping the duffle bag. 'No! Go! Go!' he demanded to himself.

He grabbed the duffle bag from the floor then hurried out of his bedroom. At the desk, he snatched his wallet as the photo of his parents snatched him. Tears reformed in his eyes. He touched the photo delicately with his hand, and spoke to his parents,

'Next time bravery. Next time valor. Next time honour.'

He pulled himself away, to run to the door, but suddenly stopped and lunged back towards the desk. An envelope stuffed full of money and a pile of jewellery - the portable valuables he had gathered from his home - waited to be taken. He brushed the jewellery into the cupped palm of his other, trembling, hand as if cleaning crumbs from a table. The money followed. He filled the two inside coat pockets with the bounty then ran to the door and left his home.

Ben and The Presence remained as one as Albert led them down to the waters edge. The quiet, virtually deserted streets, provided space for his fears to echo and rise. A ship's horn, the call of something live in the dead of night, spurred him on - the promise of another life or, at least, somewhere else to hide. No one real followed him, but in his mind, all threat was tipped towards him; the slightest sound rushed an attack towards him. He had fought himself and lost. He was naked, stripped of all defenses. The lightest wind could bruise him.

On the walkway, Ben and The Presence followed him, close enough to touch. He kept turning to look, to check the shadows he had left behind. A cloud released the Moon. Its light spread and opened the view. Albert looked at the river and the crust of anchored boats that skimmed its surface. Suddenly, in a fit of panic, he jumped off the walkway and boarded a boat. He scrambled to its bow then jumped to reach another - stepping stones, a path to cross the river. The Moon withdrew its light. Albert jumped, slipped and fell. The icy water stunned his body. The bell began to toll. What final truth went before his eyes?

Ben stood, his stare stretched into darkness. He felt shocked and sickened.

'We, the cowards,' he muttered to himself.

'There is worse,' he felt The Presence say.

'Is there? Is this us?'

'We, him, have another chance?'

'His ghost must not see us.' He said as he remembered the task that lay ahead and how he was desperate to leave.

'It won't. His ghost takes no pause. He continues fast away, possessed to leave.'

Her words came to him from the outside. She had left him. He turned to look, but she had moved away. The footsteps. The scream. Ben looked. The woman, her stare and his, fixed on The Presence. The Woman turned and ran. The Presence turned to face Ben. How little of her, a woman now, remained. Much of her human form had been erased using rough, crude strokes. Her legs were gone, her face in part was skinned to the bone. What was she, a carcass now? Her black ruined dress hid nothing Ben dared to examine. But her eye, a single eye that told so much of the human.

'Don't be shocked. Don't look away,' she said.

Ben had no urge to do so. He had seen such horrors before, but fresh from the fire, dead.

'I am as you would have me, as I would have myself, punished!' she continued.

'I don't want this for anyone!' Ben replied.

'You came with bombs, they found their target.'

Now he looked away. She continued.

'But know this, it wasn't the bombs that taught me.'

'Then what?'

'To see.'

He looked at her, and she at him.

'Please, believe one thing of me,' she continued.

'What?'

'I no longer hate.'

'I believe you. And I, not so completely.'

A smile was beyond her form, but her eye gave reflection to one felt inside. He returned it, fully and truthfully.

'Do you have what you need? Do you know him enough?' she asked.

'I hope so.'

'Then go. Goodbye, and good luck.'

She turned, to leave.

'Wait!' Ben called out. She stopped and faced him. 'You can come with me? We can help each other!'

'Would you like me to?'

'Yes.'

'I can't.'

'Why?'

'My face, it is the face of war, and it shall haunt all those who think otherwise! Now go, save us. Oh, and Julius, he did reach France, safely.'

'How?'

'He lied. He knew Albert well.'

She stepped into time and vanished, although the image of her face remained vivid in Ben's mind.

He wanted to go, to quickly return. He went forward and found a daytime bombing raid. Using the Allied warplanes as a guide, he then travelled back to England. Great swarms of them filled the sky, both day and night. He pushed through time and space, his speed unrestrained.

He crossed the sea like a skimming stone, great waves he hurdled with the legs of a giant.

His Dad, he thought, lost at sea, but not, to him, lost in time. At least, not yet, not now he had some hope.

# CHAPTER 8

Ford Heath was a village not ten miles from Ben's own. On top of a hill, he looked down upon it. Its ancient church, older than the trees that swayed beneath its mighty spire, drew him down and guided him in. If this was the place where Victoria had died then surely, Ben thought, her body would be buried here. From her grave, he would find her funeral and from there, her life.

Dawn light, clean and sharp, enough to vanish the gloom, helped him search the graveyard. He looked at every gravestone that stood crooked or worn with age but found none inscribed with the name Victoria Yates. It must be missing, he thought, broken, discarded, forgotten with age. He leapt back through time, with an eye to bridge 250 years.

The morning light was now mean and grey. Previously decrepit gravestones stood proudly with youth. Others, which were new to Ben but old to the world, were half with the living and half with that below. None where inscribed with a date beyond 1693 and none belonged to Victoria Yates.

Could there be another burial ground, one contemporary to her age? He ran towards the church - an imposing, defensive, castle-like structure, built from a lifeless grey stone that, this morning, linked the sky and Earth together. The thin, arched windows were dead with black. He scaled the bell tower, up to its roof, from where the spire began its climb to reach beyond the human realm.

Now above the trees, he scoured the view. Although wilder, less in the grip of man, the countryside looked familiar to him: the patchwork green and brown; the fields, smaller but still productive land; clusters of cottages, some timber and wattle and daub, others made from stone, all thatched; a single, isolated manor house; chimneys streaming smoke; but no other church or burial ground.

A quick, accurate, jump took him back two full years. He then skimmed through the days until the church bells broke a still morning laze. He knew that to attend church in the seventeenth century was, by law, compulsory, so if this was Victoria's parish, then surely here she must come.

Crouched behind the bell tower's parapet wall, he spied on the people who came. Most approached on foot, others on horse drawn carriage. The clothes told of the age - revealed the rich, the coping, the poor. Men, of status, wearing large wide-brimmed hats, breeches, stockings and ruffs strolled in with a proud and righteous air. Their wives and children followed behind, silent and ordered, submissive within their master's wake.

The pages of history flared up in Ben. These men resembled Puritans, or rather, in his ever seeking mind, hunters and burners of witches. A local legend, taught by the German Sausage as historical fact, told of three village women, who in 1683 were tried for the crime of witchcraft. Drawings of men, who had accused and condemned similar women in similar villages, were shown to illustrate the lesson, and were now, here, made flesh. The German Sausage recalled this legend several times, and always in a tone that relished the facts.

'Deviant, rebellious women were tied to wooden stakes and burned alive! Yes, alive, while alive, while very much alive!'

He would say, proud at his association with the men, hopefully his ancestors, who had acted, 'brave and true.'

Ben knew this was an age of spirits and demons, and of witches, and of fear, of minds and imaginations unchecked by facts. A time that had flowed through the ages to trap him in its current.

Other men and women arrived at the church: women worn with years beyond their age; children devoid of youth, worked beyond play; men made hard by the labours of every single relentless day. All shared a solemn air. Many seemed unconvinced by themselves, their heads permanently bowed. The mysteries of life did not bring these people to church. It was the mysteries of death that kept them locked in - disease and famine, the hard walked road that led them, one-way, towards it.

Distance blurred faces but one, he believed, was Victoria's. She walked between two older women, all of whom seemed equal in dress: white linen shifts beneath simple woolen dresses, thick warming cloaks, and white linen bonnets - clothes that were clean, that told of status, of people who were coping well. All three looked demure, reserved and utterly in their place. Ben skipped beyond the morning service to watch as they, along with the rest of the congregation, left the church, back into the great unknown. A man, Puritan in style, addressed them, questioning. Victoria remained silent, only once giving the man a brief, shy smile. The eldest of the three, Hannah, who Ben thought to be around thirty years old, answered the man with good, deferential grace. The third woman, Mary, who Ben thought to be just twenty, stood a pace behind, her head bowed, and her eyes fixed towards the ground. The conversation quickly ended. The Man bid them farewell then turned and walked away, a look of distaste fixed on his face.

Victoria and her companions continued to stand, dutifully, as the crowd passed around them. Several brief, and somewhat reluctant, acknowledgements, came their way. All where met by Hannah and Victoria politely, with a warm and considered smile. Finally, on the tails of the crowd, they left. Ben watched until they disappeared out of sight. He then followed, hidden in time and space.

They walked along a country lane. Woodland on one side gave Ben cover. He tracked them as forest monsters, creatures and things had once tracked him. As they flickered past the gaps in the trees, their blue and green cloaks flashed colour into the grey, autumn day. Ben observed how they kept a calm, steady pace, set neither to rush nor to dawdle. It was a movement that seemed constrained, like school children walking into class while under the judging eyes of a strict teacher. Victoria and Hannah led, side-by-side; Mary followed a step behind. Between them, they shared few words.

A horse and carriage came up from behind. Hannah gathered the other two to stand at the side of the lane. The horse and carriage passed as if pushed, floating on the wind. The black, windowless cabin kept the passengers hidden inside. The driver, himself concealed beneath a grey hat and smock, passed them blankly. Once away, the sound of a whip, cracked once, snapped through the air.

The woodland began to encroach the other side of the lane. Ben noticed Mary, how often, and suddenly, she would rush her stare towards the woodland as if stirred by something hidden amongst the trees.

At the side of the lane stood a scruffy, one room hovel: mud-made walls submerged below a shabby, oversized roof made of brittle twig-like thatch; the only door was a woolen sheet; the floor was earth as it was outside. An elderly man - stick thin, with hair and skin embalmed black with dirt, wearing a grubby smock-frock - sat on a simple wooden stool beside an open fire, a smoking clay pipe was held still in his mouth. His frozen stare looked up towards a treetop, to a bird that chattered alone. Hannah looked to solicit a greeting. Blind to them, the man's stare remained fixed. They walked passed him. He turned and watched them as they continue away.

'Much a whisper in the woods this day,' the man spoke, with a dry, thirsty voice.

All three of them stopped, turned and looked. Victoria and Mary looked somewhat shocked. Hannah replied, calm but firm.

'In plain, good English?' she asked.

'To my ear,' he answered, as he returned his stare to the treetop.

'The wind through the leaves, old man. The common wind, cheap, is it not?'

The man drew smoke through his pipe and ignored her. Hannah turned away then gestured for Victoria and Mary to continue on their way.

They took a left turning onto a vague track that cut through the wood. As Victoria continued along, her solemn, demure exterior cracked, and a youthful sparkle rose within her. She ran ahead playfully. The wood began to clear. Victoria stopped and called the others to hurry.

'Come! There is still much time left in the day.'

Mary quickened her pace to catch her.

'And work to be done,' said Mary, although not with a heavy heart.

Ben, having barely heard their words, rushed forward to get closer. Mary, startled, looked towards him. He ducked behind a tree.

'What is it? What did you see?' Ben heard Victoria ask, with a rush of excitement.

'Nothing to raise our concerns,' the voice of Hannah, as she approached Victoria and Mary. 'There is much that draws pictures on Mary's mind, for her mind is quick, and good. Alas, pictures are not sworn to yield the truth. Now come, we have much to do.'

Ben heard the sound of footsteps breaking twigs on the ground. Then Victoria's voice, hushed quiet.

'There are stranger creatures than any mind can draw, here on this earth, alive! I will show you.'

To the sound of more footsteps, Ben peered beyond the tree. Victoria and Mary ran, arm-in-arm, to catch up with Hannah. He followed.

As the trees thinned to the edge of the wood, into view came a good-sized, three-storey house: built from brick with a timber frame and a clay tiled roof and glass paned windows. Ben thought the house was substantial, certainly bigger than most he had seen from the church's roof, and in good repair. A woven wooden fence penned in the house and a good deal of garden.

As Mary and Victoria reached a gate, left open by Hannah, they released each other then continued into the garden. Mary followed Hannah into the house. Victoria ran to a cow which, tethered to a large patch of grass, stood chewing its cud. After patting the cow on the head, she looked over it checking to see all was well. Once satisfied, she darted away towards a stone pigsty. On reaching it, she stood on tip-toes and peered over the wall. The sound of a pig snorting, followed by a girls laughter, reached Ben's ear. Still laughing, Victoria set-off towards a patch of garden laid heavy with a crop of autumn vegetables. As she went, she dodged several free-roaming chickens leaving each in a temporary state of commotion.

Ben, hidden behind the final cluster of trees, watched Victoria as she rummaged through a row of cabbages. She seemed to be looking for something hidden amongst the leaves.

'Victoria!' Hannah's voice, raised without anger, filled the air. Ben and Victoria looked. Hannah stood in the doorway.

'Your clothes will do for church and study, not for the mud!' she continued.

Victoria stood, smiled and gave her reply.

'But the mud is good to us! It feeds us well, does it not?'

'As it would if tended to in the clothes of a beggar! Or your usual gardening dress!'

Victoria laughed agreeably then ran into the house.

Ben thought how happy Victoria was, how enthused by life, her life at home at least. A nervous shudder plucked his mind as he wondered what awful thing had turned her into the ghost he knew her to be.

Who was Hannah? Mary, he was convinced was a servant, but Hannah? An authority figure, yes, the one in charge. But Victoria's mother? Ben thought not. An aunt perhaps or even a nanny charged to look after her.

He went back through time, just a minute or two. Hannah approached the house. He stepped out from behind the trees, blatantly, straight into her path but her stare went straight through him, and he remained unseen.

'Hey!' he called after her but his voice, too, failed to break into this other world.

He looked behind; Victoria and Mary came into view. Mary froze in fear as her stare fixed on him. Victoria looked on, unseeing, confused at Mary's sudden turn. Ben slipped back through time, and once again concealed himself behind the trees. Hannah went past, followed by Victoria and Mary, who was now without the fright, or memory, of seeing a ghost. He whistled loudly, Mary looked, Victoria did not. He travelled time to once again spare Mary the memory of his haunting sound.

Ben, cloaked in time and space, entered the house. The hall sparkled new. The straight and true oak beams that framed the smooth white-washed walls and the polished floor shone as youthfully bright as Victoria did here. Ben had to remind himself that this was not the museumized past, mummified and dusty with decay; this was the living now.

What dominated the hall was a grandfather clock. It stood on guard facing the door, taller than any man. All who entered felt its shadow. Its white dial leered from its dark, nearly black, wooden case to net any pair of eyes. The hands pointed to twelve o'clock, a time Ben knew to be wrong. A small round window halfway down the case showed the pendulum, which hung motionless. The only other piece of furniture in the hall was a thin table pushed up against a wall. Four candles and a large pewter vase full of sky blue flowers decorated its surface.

He searched the house, and recent time, to learn of their lives. They lived well, a peaceful, simple existence set to a regular rhythm. As a family, they were self- contained and almost self sufficient. Mary was a servant girl, her labour hard and physical, and constant from the break of day. She would clean the hearth then start the fire; chop wood; fetch water from the well; scrub linen; scour pans; beat dust from rugs and much else besides. Ben imagined her to be powered by the light, for she never seemed to be still when the Sun was in the sky. A fear, a nervousness, smoldered within her, one never far from breaking out. She saw her place in the world, as a lowly servant girl, far more sharply than Victoria or Hannah, who, although they never questioned her work, treated her with warmth, and respect.

Hannah, Ben came to conclude, was something of a governess charged to look after Victoria. She would organise Victoria's day, give time to work and play. Her word, which was kind and considerate, ruled the household. Every night, she required Victoria read passages from the Bible. Although she sat as the teacher, Victoria read each word faultlessly. As they read, Mary would sit and listen. Once finished, they would spend an hour on lace making or embroidery. The talk they shared was light, of the day and of those that would follow. With Hannah's permission, Mary and Victoria would then go upstairs to bed although only Mary would fall straight asleep.

One night, with Victoria and Mary sent to bed, a man came to the house. Hannah had waited, at the window, for him to arrive. They greeted each other with a formal shyness, although their smiles to each other went beyond their polite reserve to touch a rawer part of the soul. The man, Thomas, was several years younger than Hannah and dressed without fuss or fancy in a heavy coat that Ben could see wrapped a heavy heart.

They sat separately, parted on two wooden chairs, their faces ghostly in the firelight, their stares locked otherwise to flush with sadness and longing unfulfilled. Ben danced through time and space in order to avoid Thomas's stare, which had previously plucked him with ease from the dark surrounds. He weaved through their conversation, in and out of words and silence. Certain moments caught him and held him still.

'I wonder, an education incomplete, takes revenge on me for it always seeks more. What thoughts has it given me? Dreams, which so quickly become torments,' said Thomas.

'Work and duty make life slow to reveal its secrets,' replied Hannah.

'Its beauty, too.'

'Its beauty, and pleasure.'

'I see both.'

'You do?'

'Even in light as dim as now.'

Hannah's cheeks reddened; her stare turned to the fire. Ben watched, captivated. He felt a tension between them, but not one he could understand - no threat of violence, no threat of rage.

From a small book held in his hands, Thomas read to Hannah. Not that the book was needed as he knew the words by heart.

'The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man

Less than a span:

In his conception wretched, from the womb

So to the tomb;

Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years

With cares and fears.

Who then to frail mortality shall trust,

But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

And then, the hush in Thomas's voice threatened by an anger that seethed within.

'Were you, Hannah, consulted when the King was restored?'

'I, a lowly woman?' asked Hannah.

'Was Mary, were beggars, or men who toil in the fields?'

'They were not!'

'Rights! What is right? The King, it is said, is right! But other men, lower men, take his power, so should we, lowly figures that we are told we are, should we take theirs? Should we wrest their power for ourselves?'

'We should, but if I had such power, I would use it for the simplest of things.'

His anger softened, gave way to hope.

'To leave?' he asked.

'Away, in the manner of my choosing?'

'Yes.'

'I would.'

'Could you leave?'

'I could.'

'Will you?'

'When right. And in that time, will you stay?'

'I will.'

'And for how long?'

'Eternity.'

It all seemed rather odd to Ben - like spies he thought, a meeting wrapped in danger with words spoken in code.

With the hour late, Thomas knew it was time to leave. Hannah gave no resistance. She led him to the door. Ben, watched, hidden. Thomas pledged to return soon, as he always did and would. She replied silently; a silence he caught and held; it bridged the space between them and slowly drew them in. They lunged at each other with a sudden embrace, almost violently becoming as one, their bodies pressed, their mouths kissing. Ben looked away, somewhat repulsed. An involuntary movement returned his stare back to watch. Why, he wondered. Why the need to be so close? Hannah wrenched the bond apart, paused for a second then unlocked and opened the door. Thomas, unprompted, slipped out into the night. Hannah closed the door then locked it, breathless, weakened, needing to lean against it. Ben was captivated. He moved in close. Her eyes were the fullest, the most alive, he had ever seen: happy, sad; angry, serene; pleased yet disappointed; unsatisfied, expecting.

Victoria rushed into Ben's consciousness like the freshest of dreams. Her eyes, so ravenous for the world, consumed him, blindly. She breezed through her chores with a delighted ease, as if energised by an unexpected summers day that had displaced the gloom of winter to make even the most mundane of tasks a joy.

Her chores were light, but she wanted more. Ben could tell she had won the right to work the garden.

'The lady of the house, in my charge and thick with mud,' said Hannah, playfully exasperated as a soil coated Victoria stood before her, 'What would your equals say?'

'My, what fine onions! And cabbages fit for the king.' Victoria replied.

He watched her try to sleep, resentful at the need to do so. 'Sleep, must you interrupt me!' he heard her cry. For how she filled her days, always lost in wonder. Ben watched, amused, as she interrogated cabbages on why and how they grew. 'To try and reach the stars, to glimpse them, if only for the briefest of time?' he heard her ask. And then to a tiny caterpillar held in her hand,

'How small are you? To me, so very. But to other creatures you are a mighty giant. Which poor beast is the smallest of all or is everything more to some?'

Only when the Grandfather Clock was in her sights did her eyes ever darken. She could never pass it without checking the time remained stopped at twelve o'clock. Hannah and Mary too. One look at the clock and a cold, dark shiver plucked against their spines.

The only other time a sense of trepidation coloured Victoria's stare came when she climbed the narrow, enclosed flight of stairs that led to the upper floor. How gently she would creep, desperate to avoid any creek or crack. A locked door topped the stairs. Whether day or night, lit by sunlight or a candle held, before she turned the key in the lock, and again before she pushed the door open, she would pause, look down the stairs and listen hard. Only when convinced she remained alone would she step beyond the door.

The upper floor of the house contained two rooms: a bedroom and a study. The study, which was first room after the door, was simple and plain: a desk, a chair, a chest, a small table and a bookcase which held several dozen leather-bound books. Two large windows flooded the room with light. At one of the windows, on the table, stood a telescope. By the other, the desk, on which there was a microscope.

The telescope consisted of two tubes, one inside the other, both made from layers of cardboard and finished with metal bands. Mounted on a wooden ball, which was held in place by two metal braces, the telescope could be rotated up and down.

The microscope consisted of a single tube, finished in red leather, which tapered at the top to an eyepiece, and which was fastened to a vertical brass rod that allowed the tube to be raised and lowered in order to set the level of magnification. Beneath the lens was a brass plate on which the object to be magnified was placed.

This room was Victoria's ship, her place to dream and travel, to learn, to wonder, to propel her beyond the everyday. The space barely contained her enthusiasm. Ben watched her, her eye fixed to the telescope, in awe of everything the night sky revealed. Moons, planets and stars all reached down to touch her. By the light of a single candle, using quill and ink, she drew pictures of the Moon at each stage of its lunar cycle: its light and dark, its craters and textures all brilliantly realised. Of course, she would talk to the Moon and ask it questions.

'What sieges and assaults have you suffered? Why are you so blemished? The will of the Lord when all came to be? Why not skin you perfectly? Why not show the face of an angel for all earth to see? Why no rivers or seas or forests? Where they stripped, destroyed by war? Are you dead, Master Moon? Too cold to grow? Are you The Earth's waste? Were you expelled? Are you barren to warn us what we may become?'

And to the stars, yet more questions were thrown.

'Why do you flicker like candle light? Be there eyes beyond the black? Does someone dare peek at me? Does your light come in waves like ripples on a pond? Pray, how I dream you are all blessed with an earth, and a cause to shine eternal.'

The microscope would plunge her into other worlds, other perspectives. She would study insects, leaves, pieces of food, cloth and even dust. The strange creatures she had promised to show Mary were here, monsters drawn in ink. Ben looked, amazed, at her drawing of a common fly, not that he now thought them common, not now he could see them close-up and in detail. Now he thought them magical, as he did Victoria's talent.

One cloudy night she opened a window. Cold streamed in, but she gave it no notice. With her voice a firm whisper, she made her plea,

'Wind, draw the clouds to let me see!'

She returned to the desk, to her quill and ink, and then, after a while, came back to the window to see the stars for now they glittered brilliantly in a clear night sky. She knelt before them, perfectly still, as if held by their beauty, bowed to that which was all inspiring.

Then, one afternoon, Ben watched as Victoria, shocked and surprised, looked up from the microscope to see Hannah standing at the door, her thoughtful, reflective stare set gently on upon her.

'Is this right?' Hannah asked.

'I hope it to be,' Victoria replied.

'You feel it is?'

'I do.'

'To feel that which you know to be right, what fortune, what privilege,' Hannah spoke through a dream of want. Then hardened, 'alas, what would your Father say?'

'How right we are to share a fascination,' Victoria spoke a lie although one desperate with hope.

'No. He would not.' Hannah was certain.

Ashamed, Victoria tipped her stare down towards the desk, then spoke,

'No,' she agreed with Hannah.

'What thought would he give to me?' asked Hannah.

'It was I who took the key! I who choose to enter, to make use of what I knew to be idle!'

'And it was I who allowed you on your way.'

'Should it end?'

'Will he return?'

'To this day, has he?'

They stared at each other, lost in the unknown, until Hannah spoke.

'So much is hidden from us. How I hope, your eyes remain freely open, for you should seek to know all your heart desires. Whether wayward to the heavens or shrunk into places I, myself, would rather not see.'

They shared a smile, although Hannah's flashed only briefly before she continued.

'Alas, always remember the level we live at for there can be as dark as the blackest night sky.'

Victoria nodded her head. A silent understanding bound them. Hannah left the room. Victoria looked cautious but then continued to use the microscope. Good, Ben thought, good for her. What harm is she doing? But then, what wrath, and whose, does she risk? What father would not be proud of a daughter with such a gift, and a will to learn and discover? The father, what man can he be? What journey took him away from his home?

Another day, and another time for Victoria to creep upstairs towards the door, but as she reached the top, Hannah called from below,

'Your uncle!'

'Here?' Victoria asked, visibly taken aback.

'Yes!'

Ben travelled time and space. He found the Uncle in the hall - a sour, brooding presence with a hard sneering face, which long ago won the fight against anything as frivolous as joy. His dour skin was drained of colour, flat grey like the dullest of skies. Black, wiry hair formed a thin, pathetic beard and tuffs that burst chaotically from his nostrils and ears. How ugly he was, Ben thought, but how he revelled vainly within it. How sure of himself he seemed, how absolutely right.

His clothes were black and puritan in style. Thick black leather gloves covered his hands. In one, he gripped a horsewhip, which tested the strength of the other as it banged against the palm. A wide-brimmed hat topped his head. As he continued to wear this hat indoors, Ben considered it a deliberate mark of disrespect.

His paced up and down, back and forth, his suspicious, scornful stare poured over the room in a constant state of repulsion. Mary stood at the door behind him, her head bowed to the floor, her body as rigid and as lifeless as the grandfather clock. Every time he reached her, he set his stare upon her and let it flare with a vicious scowl. As he passed the vase of flowers, which now bloomed a bright, fiery orange, he passed his horse whip over the flower heads with an obvious desire to cut them down.

Hannah and Victoria made a nervous entrance shuffling down the stairs. As soon as they reached the hall, they showed a curtsey to the Uncle, and Hannah spoke to greet him.

'Sir, what pleasure-'

'Pleasure?' The Uncle cut her short, 'Save your flattery! I bring no pleasure here!'

'No? Then I hope no ill.'

'Ill? Could this house suffer more?'

'I assure you, any ill you find here is that which you bring yourself.'

'How you forget yourself, a low servant woman! Dare not presume to rise in front of me!'

'A servant, I am. One charged by the master of this house to govern-'

'You have no right to govern! No means to keep a house! A house without a master is a realm without a king. A sure means to anarchy.'

'We live well and peaceful in accordance with the will-'

'Of my brother!!'

His voice erupted, a sudden gust of noise which levelled all to silence. His stare fired into Hannah. She could not look; she bowed her head. He continued.

'Pray tell, did he depart this house with a mind at peace with God?'

Hannah paused to find strength and to load a reply.

'I follow my instructions as they were served to me,' she told him, in a calm assured voice.

He prowled towards her. Victoria, who stood in front of Hannah, stepped back towards her. Hannah's hands took and held Victoria's shoulders protectively.

'As you would claim, but what witness is mine for proof?'

He spoke with a calm, low voice which slithered towards her full of menace. But still, she held his stare.

'I have only my word. I can offer no more,' she replied.

'Then I will offer this, bestow time on the free and deviancy will prosper!'

Now just half a step away from Victoria, he came to a stop. His stare unflinching, drilled into Hannah's. His closeness made them look small. Using his whip to gesticulate, he continued.

'No master, no rod, no force to remind all of their duty? And what of the spirits and demons to whom women are such simple prey? What rules this house to repel them?'

'I serve no spirit nor demon nor you! I serve only your brother!' Hannah spoke with calm defiance.

'Then show him pity! God have mercy on his soul, for what soul was his when he left this house? One battered and broken. And now, alas to what? To good or to evil? For let it be known, it will be one!'

He dropped his stare to Victoria and cast it round to inspect her.

'Niece, how well you stand before. How ripe. Alas, I should say, too well, too full of youth. Is there room in you left for God?' He rubbed his thumb across her cheek. She did not move; her quivering she held within.

'These cheeks, so red, so rosy. What burns within you, niece? What sin fires you?' He Looked at Hannah. 'We are all but servants of the Lord! His work in us should scar our faces. Let us be marked by the toils of hard labour we must endure in His name!'

'We are all kept busy.'

'And your labours? As hard as they were when you weren't so free?'

'You ask of me what?'

'What brought the madness here? What called to the dark to bring my brother's possession? The conspiracy of witches?'

'Sir, they did not!'

'How sure you are!'

'Your brother's will is lawful.'

'Alas, it is!' He turned away and preached to them all. 'But God will bring me justice. This is not my sin! I share no blame; I accept no punishment! You shall all be judged away from me. My brother, a brother by blood, alas not one who stands at my shoulder in prayer. I dissent, as he too dissents, but, I, in the true gaze of God! Now, let me leave this house. Save me from it!'

He paced towards the door. Mary, her stare still daring not to look at him directly, opened the door. About to leave, he stopped, turned and pointed his whip at the Grandfather clock.

'The clock, for your souls, pray it works again!'

He left. Mary pushed the door shut, forcefully with a rush of relief. To avoid her stare, Ben moved to the staircase. Hannah and Victoria turned to look at the clock.

'Will it work again?' Victoria asked.

'At your father's hand? None can tell,' Hannah answered.

'Do you wish it so?'

She looked at Hannah for an answer, and Hannah's silence told it.

'Nor I,' Victoria agreed. 'Time stops, and we live so free, so peacefully.'

'The clock ruled your father as he ruled us. His right in law and custom. Alas, he left us, he bid us all alone. Is this time, now, not ours?'

'Yes,' Victoria spoke with certainty, but then came doubt, 'until?'

'Until, the dark unknown. Now come! How wrong it will be to waste what we have. Victoria, you were studying, Mary-'

Ben watched as Hannah rallied them. The hall emptied quickly. He moved to the clock and stood facing it. He knew he had to learn who the father was. He travelled back through time, seven months, until a man, Victoria's Father, appeared standing before the Grandfather Clock. He wore a monk's habit and a thick black clock. In his hand, he held a wooden staff. His head was bowed, pressed against the clock's face as if in prayer. He spoke, mumbling,

'I follow your order. The clock works no more. The key is my possession. Permit my return and the clock will be wound again.'

Suddenly, he turned away from the Grandfather Clock to face Ben. Ben recoiled, stepped back and to the side, as Victoria's Father's face beat him away. How dark it was, maddened and distressed, possessed with a voice that was not his own, that called him on, that demanded obsolete obedience. Ben thought of an evil wizard robbed of his power, reduce to nothing more than an average man, now forced to walk alone pursued by shadows, all of which were enemies and now able to exact revenge.

Victoria's Father rushed to the door, opened it and left. He made no attempt to close the door, although the seething wind slammed it quickly shut. Ben looked at the Grandfather Clock; the hands pointed to twelve o'clock.

Through time and space he went. Victoria's Father ruled the house, his word was absolute, and second in charge was the Grandfather Clock. Together they dictated the day-to-day lives of Victoria, Hannah and Mary, who, like freight, were shunted between the minutes and hours, forced to exist within clockwork routines. They all had times set for them, to sleep, wake, eat, work, and for Victoria, to learn. No one dared lateness. Fear drove them on. Ben watched, shocked, as Mary was pushed hard into the cellar to be locked in its cold, dark space for two full days - one for her lateness and the other for her scream.

'You deviate from the time I have set you! I offer you the light and yet you dare blink!' Victoria's Father screamed at her.

He would often enforce silence. He could bare no noise that rose above the tick-tock-tick of the Grandfather Clock. His need to hear this sound was desperate, like a man listening to hear the breath of a fallen brother. He listened to the ticking as if hearing an undeciphered code, the echoes of an alien voice that was seeking communication. The Grandfather Clock possessed him; its movement, the cogs and springs transfixed him. Ben heard him mutter,

'The clockwork mind of God, like us and all his creation.'

He would stare at the clock face, entranced.

'Look, the face, the eyes...I see...Look, the face, the eyes.' His voice a whisper.

His obsessiveness went beyond clocks and time. The telescope, microscope and his books consumed him. Night after night, he would study the heavens. Reams of disordered notes and sketches poured from him. The movements of the planets, their moons, and the stars obsessed him. Each tick of detail he felt obliged to record. The books, on science and philosophy, were read and re-read, but not with a sense of wonder or joy, rather with a swirl of anger and confusion.

Sometimes he would watch Victoria as he did the night sky, or the bits of animals he placed beneath the microscope. She, Hannah and Mary too, were trapped in his gaze. None could prise room to smile, or to question, or to explore, or to be moved or inspired, alas to be free. Whenever they spoke to him, or rather replied to his questioning, he insisted they look him directly in the eye. 'Show me your truth!' he would demand of them. In his presence, they were all obliged to stand facing him, to never look away or turn their backs on him.

He deemed gardening a low activity far beneath Victoria. The Bible was the only book he gave her permission to read. In the company of Hannah, she was set the task of writing a copy of every single page, faultless and error free. He forced silence and stillness upon her, a daily grind of routine and repetition.

How reduced she was, thought Ben. But at least the occasional adventure leaked from her eyes. As he had travelled long and far into dreams and imagination, with a body that was placid and still, she too ventured this way. When she stole a look through a window and glimpsed the colours and movements of the world outside, he knew her mind was roving endlessly and free, as it would when held by the fire, or by the needle and the lace, or when a rebel against sleep.

As the weeks fell towards his departure, he worked day and night with the manic zeal of a man who believed himself to be on the cusp of a fantastic discovery. He took no food or sleep. His notes and drawings made no sense. For hours at a time, he would scour the night sky, whether free of cloud or not, hunting for something that always remained elusive. Everyday, slave-like, he would wind the Grandfather Clock. He would stand hypnotised by the cogs and springs, trapped until a rush of willpower tore him free, back to his study where the tick-tock-tick looped in his mind. Tick-tock-tick until fear rang alarmed, a strike of fear that felled him. One strong enough to make his body shake, or rather its surface, for beneath the trembling he seemed paralysed, unable to move from the floor on which he had collapsed. Two days passed but no one came, no one dared disturb him. Finally, strength returned to his limbs, just enough to power a crawl up on to a chair, where slowly as decision and certainty grew in his mind the shaking stopped. A day later, he was gone. He gave no word to Victoria, and explained little to Hannah, only that she was to act as Victoria's guardian and run the household in a manner that, 'she, and he, and God saw fit.' Financial provision would be made for her, a slice of his annual income, which, Ben learnt, he derived from the family estate.

'Show thrift, and no indulgence, for if you do, you will be judged,' he warned Hannah.

Finally, he claimed his study was haunted and the seal, which was the door, should never be broken. He gave her the key to the door.

'Guard the key, for you, I believe are pure! If ever I have the strength, I will return to cleanse the infestation. Although I may always be weak, and so, may never return.'

With the Grandfather Clock wound down, he moved the hands to twelve o'clock, paced to the door and left. As Ben watched, he felt the chill, The... come to hunt. He sped away, forwards through time, a race to know Victoria's end, for what, how or who?

It was a Sunday afternoon one harried by an angry wind. From Church, Victoria, Hannah and Mary returned home. Hannah and Mary went straight into the house; Victoria fought the wind to check her animals and garden crops. After ten or so minutes, happy that the wind had caused no damage, she too went inside. Sheltered in the hall, she called for Hannah and Mary. Neither came nor replied. She hurried towards the door that led to the kitchen, but then, with a sudden jolt, her motion reversed as if yanked back towards the hall, forced to look again at the Grandfather Clock. She stood, transfixed, a confused panic beginning to choke. Through the small round window, the pendulum swayed. The dial showed the time, five past one o'clock.

She stumbled towards the kitchen, her voice pleaded for Hannah and Mary. Silence and emptiness were all that came in return. In the kitchen, she stood alone. About to leave, a door, the cellar door, began to open, by whose hand she knew without a single flash of doubt.

'Father, sir,' her voice barely broke sound.

An unkempt beard blotted his face. His movements were slow and considered, although his stare, which glanced only briefly at Victoria, confessed a bewildered rage. With a gentle push, he closed the door then, with a burst of aggression, he bolted it. Still facing the door, he spoke.

'And so on the Sabbath Day truth is revealed.'

He turned to look at Victoria. His stare settled on her. Silence, which came over her in waves as if to drown her. Fear poured from her, so honest and pure. Tears seemed wanted but were too scared to break. He smiled, darkly and held her stare. She wanted to run, least to look away but, terrified, she could not.

'You fear me. Alas, I am not the man who will beat the guilt from you...Look at what you have done...Look...Come child. Follow me.'

He led her away from the kitchen, from the hall, from the house. He walked through the wind as if immune to its force, stabbing his staff into the ground with a pleasurable spite. Victoria followed behind, debris on the wind.

They approached a large manor house. He told her to wait. She stood, complied immediately, silently. He continued on towards the house from which his brother, The Uncle, came out and offered a cautious greeting.

The Uncle's kitchen was plain and utterly functional, no hint of decoration to amuse or warm the eye. The walls were white, the floor was stone. All dust and dirt had been exorcised. **** From an oak ceiling beam hung, two dead rabbits and three dead pheasants all tied at the neck tight enough to suffocate and several bunches of bone-dry herbs. The large fireplace was spotlessly clean but gave no flame to warm the cold winter air. Two small windows allocated an insufficient amount of light to break the grey lingering gloom. Here in this room no feasts were cooked here, no pleasures brewed. At the head of a table on a large wooden chair sat The Uncle, stiff and proud, puffed-up with his own sense of superiority. To his side, on a plain wooden bench that ran the length of the table, sat Victoria's Father, his body hunched, almost bowed towards The Uncle. **** Victoria stood in a corner of the room, as she had been ordered to do. So still was her body, so silent. Only her eyes revealed animation, torrents of pain and fear.

'My cause is of true and great urgency,' Victoria's Father said to his brother. 'Know The Lord has restored me. That I was broken by Him to be made well again.'

'With instruments made by man, you presumed to know the mind of God!' The Uncle replied.

'It is true. To know. To see as, as if His mind was my mind. Alas, I failed!'

'No man would succeed!'

'They would find only His anger, the violence of His discontent! All that came to me! That I, one so low, should look to question Him. That I should try to reach as high as He.'

'When all His knowledge is already written.'

'It is! His word, which I have taken and told! I have walked this land to preach His word, to confess to all my sin! Commanded by God I went. Yet behind me was the devil! His demons inside my kin! His witches inside my walls.'

The Uncle gave a single nod, and a glance towards Victoria. **** 'A girl meddling in the matters of man and god!' he spat for the words tasted vile.

'She conspired against me. She looked to the heavens, but not with an eye for God! She looked below, but not with an eye for God! To discover, to honor, to study all manner of demons!'

'You left temptation!'

'The instruments will be destroyed. All will be destroyed. All in the house is condemned.'

'And you?'

'Called abroad, far away to the New World, where His work will find me.'

'And behind you? What now do you leave again?'

'But for the means to fund my journey, all my worldly possessions I surrender to you.'

'All?'

'Everything! Take them, for you are wise!'

'You bestow on me one so sinful?'

'Save her! Expediency led me to believe a daughter, and indeed a servant, would do their master's will, but I was deceived. Now, I seek certainty. I leave her under your command. Break her without mercy. Only our Lord can show her mercy now. Show her the dark in the hope she can once again appreciate the light. Then, if, pure again, let marriage own her.'

'It must be done! She will be saved!'

They looked at each other in full agreement. Victoria's Father then spoke.

'When the flames come, let it be known, their screams are her creation.'

'No!!!' she screamed at them. Both men stood, called to action. The Uncle took hold of his brother's arm and stopped him rushing over to her.

'No! I am her master now!' he said.

'You can't! You can't!' her pleas continued.

'Leave, do your duty. I will do mine.' The Uncle told his brother.

Her Father left. Her Uncle threw her into the cellar. Insults followed her into the black. That night, flames lit the sky as they burnt to ruin her home, Hannah and Mary too, who her Father had tied and locked inside. The Uncle dragged Victoria to an upstairs window, scolding her for her sin and responsibility. With the flames in sight, he forced her to watch and imagine the screams.

From then on her life was joyless and filled with hate. She was forced to be silent, to live in darkness. A famine starved her mind. Men preached at her, fought to cast the demons and witchery out. Her aunt prayed to beat her. Work was used to purge her; she scrubbed, hauled and slaved until locked in the cellar at night.

The only hope that flashed in her eyes came when she went to the well to draw water. The church bell tower, a distant vision that rose above the trees to rally her hope and imagination, appeared to her as a platform from which she could launch herself far away into the sky forever. It was the place she ran to when the first opportunity to flee came her way. One day, as dusk became night, she found herself left alone and in reach of the door and freedom. Confused as to why, she hesitated, but the image of the tower reaching up and away, burst through the fog of exhaustion and propelled her forward, never to look back again.

She ran without restraint, as fast and as reckless as ever a girl did run. Behind her, dogs, hooked into her scent, barked with every step of the chase. Horses brought the men. But the church, never locked, gave her sanctuary. She climbed the bell tower steps without pause for breath. The parapet wall stopped her, abruptly. She looked at the sky through a tear of joy; all the stars were out to greet her. She climbed the parapet wall, stood without fear and perfectly balanced. Voices, animals and men, meant nothing below. The vast wonder of the night sky held her. And then, she leapt as high as she could, her arm raised above her head as if set to grab a star. Ben jumped too. Her hand clenched shut. She held her star as gravity pulled her down.

Just before the end, Ben blinked. He turned away into time. How is she a coward, he thought. How dare she be deemed as such.

# CHAPTER 9

Ben returned to the cave, back to the recess that sheltered Victoria, Albert, AID, Wilf and The Moof. Lured by the storming mass of ghostly insanity that festered in the air before them, his presence, as before, fell flatly on them.

'I've come back for you!' Ben announced. 'You must come with me! This isn't The Place!'

'Jealous monkey lies!' snapped a quivering Wilf. 'This is The Place! Wolf territory. Sniff the air. It's in the wee!'

'It isn't!' Ben replied, 'I could take you through time and prove it, but we must be quick; we must leave now!'

'To where? For what?' Albert asked.

'To fight! To at least try,' Ben answered.

'Goodness,' said The Moof, 'we've a right loony-cheese here. A moldy one to boot. I love stinky cheese. Stop it. You can never go back! Don't torment yourself!'

'Albert,' Ben continued, 'you made a promise. You know to who. Next time bravery, next time valour, next time honour.'

Albert looked at Ben with a startled, angered glare.

'Where have you been? What have you seen?' he demanded.

'Enough to know..'

'Enough to know!' Albert interrupted aggressively, but words then failed him, silenced by shame. Ben continued.

'Enough to know you need a second chance to prove yourself brave, to prove yourself a man!'

'How dare you presume-'

Ben spoke over him and cut him silent.

'I presume only this, that you won't help, that you'll look, and run, the other way.'

Albert plunged deeper into shame. Ben turned to Victoria, who turned her gaze away from him.

'Victoria, you too must come and help. If you don't, if we don't at least try, the one thing that is certain, is that all the stars in all the skies will turn black for evermore. What will be left? What will shine eternal?'

She looked him square in the eye, the very first time she had. He studied her stare. After all the years she had spent dead beyond the grave, could she still remember the joy that once sparkled within her?

'Come with me!' he pleaded. 'You, can shine eternal.'

She held his stare, pinned by the past remembered.

'You have never been a coward! I know that. Never! Don't be one now. Take back, for everyone, what was taken from you!'

He turned to address the others.

'And all of you, we all must fight! There is a book, the heaviest book that there ever was. If we find it, we have hope! And there are others, other forces, other powers, that also stand ready to fight!'

'Fight? Like rebels? You wish to reduce

us to scum? Well, you've rendered my computer quite nearly speechless,' said AID.

'Good! Then speak for yourself as all of us should!' He addressed them all. 'Speak now, yes or no, will you join me?'

'Wilf!' screamed The Moof, 'He's gone!'

They all looked. Wilf had vanished.

'He's been taken, from another time and place,' said AID.

'Say goodbye while he is still in time. Goodbye!' said The Moof. 'What? Who? Nutter! Goo brain!' continued The Moof laughing at himself.

They looked at each other blankly; their memories of Wilf had been erased. Ben recovered his train of thought.

'Who's with me? Albert, will you prove me wrong?'

'What choice do I have?' he answered flatly and without any hint of enthusiasm, but still, Ben thought, at least his answer was yes.

'Victoria?' Ben asked.

She nodded - forced herself to do so through the fear that still laid waste to her stare.

'AID, you must follow now.' Ben said to him.

'Correct. And may I say, what joy to be led by a human,' he replied.

'Moof?'

'I's not a fighter. I's an eater. But since I's dead, I's not eatin'. So maybe the time's now to let rip with the fightin'. Unlikely. Oh, muchly. It's hard to go to war when you got two bums. Even harder when you got two brains. That's a yes though. It be that, ar.'

Ben led them from the cave, through space and time, to stand as small as pixels beneath a massive blue sky. He stood, scanning the flat, empty horizon in search of a direction to take. Where to look for the book? Where to even begin?

'And now? What now?' Albert enquired.

'We find the book,' answered Ben.

'Why? What makes this book so special?'

'And the author?' asked AID. 'Tell my computer. When was it published?'

'I don't know,' answered Ben.

'Then what do you know?' Albert asked.

'When we find it, it will lead us to a shield, one of great power, that will help us defeat The...'

'How do you know this?' asked Albert with a cynical tone.

'I was told.'

'By who?'

'No one you know.'

'But still, I must believe what you believe?'

'I do believe!' Ben snapped. He turned away to cast his stare over the flat, barren land. He felt it swallow his confidence, to enforce indecision.

'Then continue, lead us,' Albert said, grimly satisfied, as he witnessed Ben's confidence ebbing away.

Ben caught sight of Victoria as she moved to stand close to him, closer than she ever had before. She held his gaze and gave a friendly smile.

'Have you heard of this book?' he asked her. She shook her head. 'Has anyone heard of the book?' he asked the others.

'Me has,' said The Moof. 'Had a teacher. Used to throw it at me. Said this is the heaviest book in all Moof Land. It's not for reading. No. It's for throwing at right thickie-know-nots. Which was a lie. Cos he only ever threw it at me, and I know more than the average Moof. Much more. I've done things that only I knows about. Thankfully. So I must know more than most.'

'Is that the book you seek?' Albert asked Ben, knowing it was not.

'What do you think?' was Ben's tart reply.

'My computer says we are foolish; we are standing here completely exposed.' said AID.

'He's right,' said Albert. 'We must keep moving. Where do we begin? Do you have any idea where this book may be?' he asked Ben.

'No,' answered Ben.

'None?' Albert asked, dismayed.

'No!'

'Bravery, valor, or just another chance to fail, stupidly?' Albert said, more to himself than Ben.

'I's gettin' nervous,' said The Moof as he looked up to the sky. 'I feel like a wriggly bug. Lookin' up at a bird filled sky. A fat and juicy bug to boot. Great with cabbage. Better with moths.'

'We must go, move somewhere!' demanded Albert.

'No. We stay. We wait.' said Ben, firmly.

'Stay?'

'Yes!'

'My computer asks a question, is it better to be a moving target or a static one?' said AID.

'Tell him! Enlighten him!' Albert pleaded to AID.

'It depends on who's trying to find you,' said Ben

'You don't know?' asked Albert.

'Of course I do, but there are others, other forces trying, looking, to help us.'

'Looking for us?' asked The Moof, nervously.

'Yes! I'm sure they are,' answered Ben. 'But anyway, why should we always run away? Why, for once, don't we dare to stand our ground?'

'My computer says time is as vast as space so whether we wait in time or search through space, what does it really matter?' said AID.

'Errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,' said The Moof, seemingly stuck, until, 'I's not know that why. Put simply.'

'It doesn't matter!' said Ben. 'We should have the courage to wait, to think, to hope!'

'Hope? You mean dream!' said Albert. Ben ignored him and addressed the others.

'I'll take us back to a time before life.'

'Why?' asked Albert.

'No life, no ghosts, nothing for The... to hunt.'

'They hunt through time.'

'Why search a time that has no ghosts? I mean normally, naturally. Now, come on, hold hands. Everyone.'

Ben stepped forwards and took Albert's hand. The others all gathered round to complete the chain.

Ben took them back through time, two billion years, to a time when no complex life existed on the Earth. They landed suspended in air. Ben's weight drew him down slowly towards the ground, Victoria too as she continued to hold of his hand. The others followed. Beneath them was a dark, angry sea of rock: a seemingly endless range of mountain tops, like waves fixed into stone by a moment of terror. No colour relieved the bleakness. All land was rock, and all rock was grey. The sky was spotless, as parched as the land. Nothing but silence moved, the currents of which washed over them oppressively.

'And here we must wait,' said Albert. 'This ugly land.'

'Me. I don't like places without mud,' said The Moof.

'It's not unlike France in 2075, just as welcoming,' said AID.

As they came to settle on their own mountain top, Ben looked at Victoria. He could see the view flooding into her eyes. To her, the immensity of it was wonder enough.

'It looks so still, so fixed, all this rock,' Ben said to her. 'But over time, over geological time, which is masses and masses of time, rock moves like a fluid. It's always moving. Mountains rise and fall. Whole continents crash into other continents.' She gave him a look of total disbelief. He continued, 'it's true.'

The sense of wonder returned to her eyes. Did she trust his word, he wondered.

'From this we came, this earth!' said Albert, who saw only desolation as he struggled to gather the view. 'And now we wait, imprisoned. Are we to stay here long enough to move with the rock?'

'Do we have that long?' asked AID with a polite, deferential air. 'My computer says we do not. Time is racing ahead; soon we will either win or lose.'

'What's about a draw? We could play for a draw?' asked The Moof. 'All Moof sport ends in a draw. It made us think. Stop this sport. I's out of puff. Early bath. Early feast.'

'Everyone's a winner cos everyone gets dinner!' said Ben, remembering.

'Say nothin' more! You's peaked!' said The Moof.

Albert turned to Ben impatiently then spoke.

'So we wait, we think, we hope? All sound easy, but, really, none are!'

'What exactly should we think about?' AID asked. 'Where the book is located?'

'Thinking ain't my best skill. When I start. I don't know when to stop. When I's stopped. I don't know when to start,' said The Moof.

'Why a book? Why so primitive? In my time all knowledge exists at all time, you just take it from the cloud.'

'All knowledge, at all time?' asked Albert.

'Yes. All approved knowledge that which has been deemed good and correct.'

'And still you know nothing about the heaviest book that ever was?'

'Absolutely nothing!'

Albert and AID looked at Ben for an answer. He spoke.

'What if all other life, all those who were never cowards, could come and join the fight?'

'They can't!' said Albert.

'Correct. Everyone accepts they are gone forever!' added AID.

'And even if they could return what use would they be? How can we ever defeat them? How can we destroy The...?

'It's possible,' Ben answered.

'You think so?' asked Albert, almost amused.

'I've seen it done!'

'When?'

'How?' asked AID.

'I did it!'

'You? As you, a boy?'

'By yourself?' asked Albert.

'In molten rock,' said Ben.

'Completely. You completely...'

'A piece of one,' said Ben before Albert had finished his question.

'How big a piece?'

'A particle.'

'One particle?'

'They are comprised of billions!' added AID.

'It's a start,' replied Ben.

'This is our hope!' proclaimed Albert, despairing.

'The particle was stuck to my hand. I put my hand into molten rock and when I took my hand out the particle was gone.'

'Destroyed?' asked AID.

'Yes,' answered Ben.

'Not washed away? Not something else? You saw it destroyed? You know that as fact?' asked Albert.

'I'm not saying it's an easy way to defeat them.'

'Good! Because, to me, it's no way to defeat them! You crack a stone or kick it away but still the mountain remains! And even if we could destroy a single particle, how would we catch them? You, alone, you, with your power to chase them through time?'

'Then some other way,' Ben conceded.

'Yes! Some other way!'

'We need to think. What do we have that they don't have?'

'Weakness!'

'If they were created, then surely, they can also be destroyed.'

'What do they want? They want one, just one, to rule dead, empty space. They want nothing! They exist beyond our understanding.'

'But why do they like to see our fear? And why do they need to defeat us? Did the Germans, did they have to destroy ants, or birds, before invading Poland?'

Ben's question brought a moment of pause.

'What's that noise?' asked The Moof alarmed.

'What noise? I hear no noise,' replied Ben.

'That noise! I knows I only got two ears. But they's quality. Got a brain each.'

'I hear it too,' said AID.

From deep underground a noise slithered up. An exacting, rhythmic noise that suggested something was climbing, or clawing, its way up to the surface.

'My computer says the noise may have a geological cause,' said AID.

'My instinct says. Do a runner!' said The Moof.

'It's not good! It can't be good!' said Albert.

'Why?' asked Ben.

'It can't!'

'Computer update, the noise is too rhythmically regular to be caused by natural phenomenon,' said AID.

'It's getting closer!' said The Moof.

'Only just! You can hardly hear it!' countered Ben.

'Let's go! We must leave!' said Albert.

'Agreed! The wisest and safest option!' added AID.

'I'm not going anywhere. It's only a noise,' said Ben.

'For now,' said The Moof. 'Then come the claws - to the chops, to the belly, to the bum!'

'We're ghosts! We have only one enemy!'

'Two, ourselves!' said Victoria. Shocked, they all looked at her. Slightly embarrassed she retreated into her hood.

'Yes, two, ourselves!' said Ben.

'Can I say, not I!' said AID. 'Me an enemy of me? Impossible! I have no self! There's no internal conflict inside this machine!'

'You're a machine, just a machine? You have no self? Your not conscious?' Albert asked.

'I have a computer. I am an Artificially Intelligent Dummy!' AID answered.

'How can intelligence be artificial? It either is or it isn't.'

'Non-human intelligence. Programmed intelligence.'

'I's non-human!' The Moof interrupted, then continued as if a great truth had just been revealed to him, one which filled him with awe. 'So I's artificially intelligent! That explains...What?'

'You have free will. You make choices,' Albert said to AID.

'I have an algorithm. I make calculations,' replied AID.

'What's an algorithm?'

'What's a self?'

Ben, seeing attention had switched from the noise to AID, continued with the questions.

'How were you made?' he asked AID.

'I was printed,' answered AID.

'Printed?' asked Ben and Albert together.

'Yes. Four dimensionally printed, three for the body, one for the mind, or rather, personality, my computer is the brains.'

'Isn't personality self?' asked Albert.

'No, it's dressing, the style, the flavour.'

'A mind, a personality, was printed?' asked Ben.

'It was. People are clever in the future,' answered AID.

'I'm confused,' said Albert.

'I's artificially confused!' added The Moof.

'Finally, we are as one!' added Ben.

'How can I put it more simply, it was downloaded, placed, into the machine,' said AID.

'A mind, a personality, was put into you?' asked Ben.

'Yes,' answered AID.

'Where did it come from?'

'Oh, from some man,' answered AID in a matter-of-fact tone that left the others perplexed and in need of further explanation.

'Don't stop there,' said Ben. 'We can't fill in the blanks.'

'In the future, if you are poor, and are lucky enough to be selected, you can choose to be downloaded into one of me, an AID.'

'The mind of a person is taken and put into the body of an AID?' asked Albert.

'Yes, basically. Of course, tweaks, deletes and additions are made. You wouldn't want one of me as raw as one of you.'

'What happens to the poor man?' asked Ben.

'He is waste. He is disposed of,' replied AID.

'Killed?' asked Ben shocked.

'He is waste, surplus to requirements. It's basically meat.'

'Why would anyone volunteer to become, basically meat?' asked Albert.

'For the benefits. No hunger. No thirst. No need for a home. No tiredness. All that, human, struggle gone. An AID has a function for life. There were no limits to my labour. I was well looked after, I mean, let me say this, I was far from cheap, in fact, I was quite an investment, one far beyond the reach of the average man or woman although it must be said, we made the best of you humans even richer, and the worst, we outworked with ease, those we made redundant.

'You were a slave!' Albert accused him.

'No! Nor a servant. Much more than that.'

'I can't believe you allowed yourself to be killed.'

'Me? No! Not myself! I have no self. I am not conscious of the man. I have no awareness of him. I am not he who once was. I am an AID. I am now!'

'There must be something of the man left inside.'

'I assure you, there is not!' replied AID.

'Why did they use a real mind?' asked Ben.

'It's the mesh everything else, the intelligence, my computer, is wired into.'

'Something of the man must remain,' continued Albert.

'No! Nothing! Nothing of the man! I am utterly new!' answered AID, impatiently.

'Why are you a ghost? You must have been alive as an animal, as a man, with a sprit or a soul! How can a simple machine become a ghost?' asked Albert

'He is no simple machine!' said Victoria, who was utterly fascinated by what she had heard.

'Correct! I am no simple machine!' said AID.

'Exactly! A marriage of man and machine so something of the man must remain! How else could you have become a ghost?' replied Albert.

'An anomaly! A freak! A bug in the system!' said AID getting annoyed.

'You feel no connection to the poor man whose mind you are?' asked Albert.

'None,' answered AID.

'His memories?'

'What are memories? Like dreams, memories lie!'

'You had dreams?' asked Victoria.

'I had no need for sleep!' answered AID.

'Nor do dreams,' Victoria replied.

'His dreams, memories, his thoughts, you see them, you feel them, don't you?' Albert continued, accusingly.

'I do not feel! I calculate!' replied AID.

'What did the poor man look like?'

'The noise! My computer says, we must remember the noise!' Desperate, pathetic, AID tried to change the subject. Albert continued, relentless.

'You told me your face could morph into any face you had ever seen.'

'Only my master can choose my face!'

'I am your master; I am the man! Now show me your true identity!'

'I have no image! The man has gone! He was a man of no importance!'

'You!'

'He!'

'You have his soul, his consciousness at the very least! You must!'

'I am merely an interface!'

'To the soul of a real man!'

'The priority is the noise! Computer says, priority is the noise!!'

'Explain your cowardice!'

'You explain yours!' Ben demanded of Albert in an attempt to silence him and save AID from the pain of further questioning. It worked, Ben and Albert looked at each other with a shared contempt until a dark, sudden chill snapped them apart.

'The..!' cried The Moof.

The... two of them, both much larger than those previously seen, punched into the sky. Lost in a blur of speed, their intentions were not immediately clear.

'Quick! Take us away!' demanded Albert to Ben.

'No! Look!' Ben replied, seeing their intent more clearly.

The... were locked into a pursuit of each other, trapped in a circle of death so that each was both the hunter and prey.

'They're hunting each other!' cried Ben.

'The noise! The priority! The noise!' cried AID.

'Forget the noise!' replied Ben.

A third, a giant, appeared, as if expelled from the air itself and, in a single pounce, cast itself net-like to ensnare the other two. The net drew shut, drawn complete and tight, then imploded beyond the point of vanishing. A moment of nothing. An explosion of smashed lightening, which glittered all the colours of the rainbow in a brief, silent show, brought the giant back, fed and fattened by two of its own. It hung in the sky, solid and black - part monolith, part monument to an alien kind - as if the sky, a ruin, had finally cracked to allow the void of space inside.

'What's it doing?' asked The Moof as he backed quickly away.

'We can never know.' replied Ben.

'Let us not wait to find out. Take us through time!' said Albert as he reached to take Ben's hand. But before their hands could meet, a single wave of energy pulsed through the body of The...and sent a blackening jet of dark energy out towards Ben. All but The Moof where hit by the jet, and all who were, were immediately shot through time.

Ben, Albert, Victoria and AID came to rest in normal time, suspended high in the air above a green and bountiful land. Below them, an ancient nomadic tribe - men, women and children - wandered ever on. The...still menaced the sky but now as a raging swarm of particles. In a concentrated burst, it slashed against the air to cut a gash in the invisible wall which divided the ghost dimension from that of the living. The gash, fizzing with an electrical charge, began to close rapidly. Using most of its mass, The... plugged the gash and reduced the speed of its repair. The people of the tribe stood and watched, transfixed by both fear and wonder, unsure whether this spirit, as they saw it, brought good or ill. The... lunged through the opening and, with an indiscriminate lust, snatched and scooped up a dozen or so of the people below. All who were left scattered and ran. The...whipped its catch back through the ever tightening gash, then threw these people, screaming, away, to be crushed forever out of time. The gash, unplugged, shut closed and sealed.

'How did it do that?' asked Ben, who had floated down several metres away from the others.

'Why? Why?' Albert replied.

Ben kicked the air to propel himself up towards the others.

'Quickly, hold hands!' he cried, wanting to take them away through time. They moved to comply. As they reached him, The... released another blackening jet of dark energy that pounded into Ben and the others. Each felt a jolt, a physical assault.

'I felt that, physically! How?' asked Albert.

'So did I,' Ben said.

The... slinked away back into time. Ben looked towards the tribe. Two children vanished. He knew they followed a parent, or two, who The... had just thrown from time.

'I remember!' he cried.

'What?' asked Albert.

'The children!' he replied, and then remembering more, 'Wilf!'

'Wilf!' said AID also remembering.

'And others, all taken, all gone! We can remember!' said Albert.

'The Moof? Where's The Moof?' asked Ben. 'Hold me!'

They moved together. Ben took them back to the time before life. Wilf looked relieved to see them.

'Oh. Right good news. That be. Turn my tums to simmer,' he said.

'Wilf! Do you remember Wilf?' Ben asked him.

'The worm?' replied The Moof.

'The wolf.'

'Me, know a wolf? No chance. They're stinkers. Wouldn't use them for outdoor slippers!'

'It's only us,' Ben said to the others.

'You!' Replied Albert. 'It only wanted you. We just happened to be in the way,' he continued, suspiciously.

'It chose to leave all of us!'

'Why? What does it know? What's it planning? Why let us remember? Why leave us? You! Why You?' asked Albert in a near panic.

'The noise! My computer says, the noise!' said AID.

'We haven't the time for this. They're close to breaking through. They've nearly won. You saw them, they're turning on themselves.' said Ben.

'Isn't that always the way!' boomed the voice of The Man, followed by a merrily little laugh. 'People turning on themselves.'

Ben and the others all looked. The Man stood before them, his face beamed with a warm, welcoming smile.

'What do you want?' asked Ben contemptuously.

'Community. To be one with thee.' he answered, his arms outstretched as if to embrace them all.

'Not a chance! You're a liar and a cheat!'

'Fine attributes to possess in both love and war, and this, my brothers, is our war.'

'Get away from us!'

'Us? You speak for them all? You, the mighty leader.'

'I speak for myself!'

'Oh, and I. Please, do speak for me! Save me from the fear! Save me from the darkness!' he pleaded somewhat dramatically.

'Leave us alone!'

'For how long? For now?'

The Man disappeared, only to reappear a second later in exactly the same spot.

'Go? Where? In time? Can we ever truly go?' he continued.

He disappeared then reappeared behind Ben's back.

'I can always come back!'

Ben turned to face him and shouted,

'Get away from me!'

The Man looked away and rushed towards Albert, speaking to him,

'You, sir, you are right to ask why! Why The... treated this boy so special!'

'Don't listen to him!' cried Ben.

The Man swooped behind Albert and whispered into his ear,

'Come. Privacy for the men.'

A moment later they vanished, as The Man took Albert back through time.

Albert and The Man stood huddled together on the mountain top.

'Now let us speak freely,' continued The Man.

'And truthfully?' replied Albert as he backed away nervously.

'You know I have lied. Alas, a play for hope in a dark, miserable world, for the chance of a deal, now superseded by the opportunity we, both you and I, have within our grasp.'

'What opportunity?'

'A deal!'

'For what?'

'For peace, for power, to save ourselves!'

'What do you want from me?'

'Mere information, simple words.'

'And in return?'

'You earn peace.'

'The Place?' Albert said contemptuously.

'A lie! Offered to you when you were nothing!'

'And now?'

'We stand as equals. And as such, what fool would I be to offer you anything less than truth and reality?'

'What, exactly?' Albert asked impatiently.

'Peace! And a life agreeable to your every whim.'

'And I should trust you?'

'You trust him, the boy?'

Albert gave no answer.

'Good! For this I know, they toy with him. They toy with him and all those who follow him. Why not take him? Why be different? Why let him remember those they have taken? Why? Let me tell you why, because he dares to believe he can be victorious. Yes. You know it. Ah, but how they mock him! Him and you. They keep him, and you, because they have in store for him, and you, a most special, a most vile, a most vicious fate! Oh, how they will rein their justice down! Oh, how they will pillage all that is dark and cruel to take vengeance against the boy who dares believe he can ruin their dreams!'

'Maybe...Maybe.'

'But say, dream, you were never to meet this boy. You were, at the very least, just another ordinary ghost, with an ordinary fate. Say it, dream it, believe it! Nay, take more from me! Demand no less a deal than the best you can extract from me! Know, I can fix it for you to live beyond these ghostly years, and a life that will be full and rich! One touched by your dreams!'

'You've promised me before.'

'I will travel to the point of your demise, as you know I can, and there I shall alter history!'

'Could you stop the entire war?'

The Man looked shocked at the thought.

'For what good? To what end? Stop one to start another? Dampen the flames which can never go out? Albert, friend, history is war! So, mercifully, war will never be history! We are, after all, men! Think what might rise to power if we were free from war? Man would rot, in both spirit and mind. In his youth, he would turn old and infirm, become lost and, frankly, befuddled.'

'No. No.' Albert pleaded weakly.

'Stop! Let us find no quarrel. Let us embrace only what unites us. I enter your life and turn fate to give you a different, better, existence. Yes, in a time of war, but, and I promise, America, that is the land for you as a man. Where no one will call on you to fight. Where you shall only be required to live, and a life without the challenges that have reduced so many to the status coward.'

'You can make all this happen?'

'I can.'

'For what?'

'Mere information. Tell me everything. I know The Place held you until the boy returned for a second time. Why? What does the boy plot?'

'What do you want to achieve for yourself?'

'The new power, let us join them, become them. The tides of time can drown us, or they can carry us to an island paradise.'

'You make me this promise but what is there that can hold you to your word?'

'Nothing. There is nothing, and how that makes me weak! But if I betray you, I will have even less. A worthless, worthless reputation to match only the man! Is there no trust left within you?'

'None.'

'Then we have no deal. Let us return.'

He offered Albert his hand. Albert hesitated then spoke.

'He claims there is a book, the heaviest book that ever was. It will lead us to a shield of great power which he can use to defeat The...'

'How does he know this?'

'He has been told. He says there are other forces, also fighting, resisting.'

'Who?'

'I don't know.'

'Do you believe what he says?'

'Even if I did, it would give me no hope.'

'No, it shouldn't! But why did he come back for you all?'

'To help him? He says he needs our help.'

'Do the others believe?'

'More than me, I think.'

'Stay with him. Help him. Learn all you can. I will leave you here. Let him save you again. Feed his vanity and earn his trust. If he returns alone, then admire me even more greatly.'

'But he will be able to hear what we have said.'

The Man burst into laughter.

'Never! Never!' he said. 'Trust me! Do, do, trust me!'

The Man turned and vanished, leaving only the echo of his wicked laughter. The solitude and lifeless silence sunk quickly into Albert. He felt wrong and mocked by the laughter that still played in his mind.

The Man returned to Ben and the others. His time away seemed to them to have been less than a second. Seeing that The Man had returned without Albert, Ben demanded to know where Albert was.

'Ha!' The Man replied. 'A coward indeed! How do you own him so?'

'I don't own him!'

'A boy has brainwashed a man! What cult is this? The cult of the loser, of the scrawny boy? I hate you all!' He turned his slobbering stare to Victoria. 'All but you my poor, sweet child.'

She recoiled, moved closer to Ben. The Man continued,

'Take no hope from him. Give me your trust. Look. Make your peace.'

He raised his hands and gestured for his audience to look behind. All complied. Victoria's Father floated slowly towards them - his dress and age were little changed. Victoria plunged, wrecked, into black. Her Father looked demented. His mouth shivered with words that fell silently and half-formed. His stare and hands reached out towards her, desperate to possess her, for she was an object he had pursued obsessively through centuries of space and time.

'Victoria!' Ben cried out to her then held out his hand. 'Come! I'll take you away!'

'And we shall follow, forever, through time!' warned The Man.

Ben continued to offer his hand, unwilling to heed the warning.

'Victoria!' he called her again. She gave no reply, returned no look. Ben had no gravity now, her Father's presence was the only force that drew her.

The Man wafted in and stood next to Ben.

'Apart for so long,' he said, 'and yet, feel, how raw their feelings are. Alas, the human heart, best left to pumping blood,' he continued, full of delighted smugness.

'What are you trying to do?' Ben asked.

The Man cackled with laugher. Ben turned to AID and The Moof.

'What can we do?' he asked them.

'A plate of sandwiches!' suggested The Moof enthusiastically. 'Everyone stops for a sandwich. And a beverage. A cold one. Coooool. We're ghosts! Thickie-know-not!' he remembered with a dejected sigh.

'The noise! Prioritise the noise!' answered AID. 'My computer knows best!'

'Silence that man!' demanded The Man, pointing at AID.

'I am no man.' AID replied.

'But a coward. Why?' The Man rushed up to AID. 'Let me say, you chose this life, to become this, an empty machine! Snap! An empty man you were, too! A nonentity, a nothing man! A poor man, without the guts, indeed without the imagination, to even thieve! A man without the will to plot his own way up! You chose to be a slave! Faceless! Expressionless! Hidden! Dead!' He turned to the others. 'He did, this man! Willingly chose servitude!' He looked back at AID, seething contempt. 'In the name of man, I would have you killed, but alas there is no need, you did it to yourself already!'

'My computer! My computer!' replied AID, panicked, cracking under pressure.

'Keeps you hidden. Good! Who would wish the sight of a man so utterly pathetic?' Instantly softening, he turned to Ben and asked, 'But do tell, what is that noise?'

Ben briefly considered the question. The noise was getting louder, closer. With every beat, shockwaves pulsed through the ground. But Victoria reclaimed his focus. She remained utterly still as her Father laboured ever near, heavy with a sense of disbelief.

'Stay away from her!' Ben cried. But her Father was sealed in a space of his own, one that shrunk around Victoria, tighter and tighter, as he moved ever closer.

'He cannot hurt you, Victoria! He has no power now!' Ben pleaded.

'You, Victoria, you!' Words rumbled from Victoria's Father, his out-stretched hands were now just a lunge away from her. 'Save us!' He stopped, fell to his knees, his hands held an inch from her face. 'Let me touch a daughter again.'

She gave no reply, trapped in a coma of fear.

'Plead forgiveness!!!' he screamed at her. 'It is you that brought these horrors to me!'

'He cannot hurt you!' Ben told her.

'Oh, shut up, boy!!' spat The Man.

'My name is Ben!' he snapped back.

'Benjamin, as you were christened! Mummy's choice not good enough for you now?' he asked.

Ben, taken aback, was lost for a reply. The Man looked away from him, back towards Victoria. Ben kept looking at him, lost.

'Free us!!' Victoria's Father continued. He tried to clasp Victoria's checks with his hands, but his hands went through her face and came together. He held them there, inside her. 'Confess!! Claim my sin!! Accept it as your own!!'

The Man turned sharply to look back at Ben.

'But why reject your mother's name?' he asked in a light, playful way. 'Was she not quite right? Not quite sound of mind, your mother? Possessed by demons of a maddening kind! Oh, pray tell, any I know?' He laughed briefly, vicious.

Ben stood, deaf and blind to all outside - stung, somewhere deep, somewhere hidden. Then coyly, automatically, he asked,

'What does that mean?'

'Accept your sin!!' Victoria's Father continued his demands.

'Accept your man!' The Man cried at AID.

'The noise! The noise! The noise!' said AID, caving in to pressure.

'What does it mean?' Ben repeated his question to The Man, but his voice was barely a whisper.

'Take it!! Save me from the horror!!' cried Victoria's Father, but Victoria gave no reply, she remained immobile.

'We can pretend sandwiches!' proclaimed The Moof. 'Moof cheese and worm pickle? Mmm. Yes. Please. Thank you! The spicy kind!'

'You are mine to possess!! You will obey me!!' Victoria's Father continued.

'His kind rebelled!' said The Man as he moved up close to AID. 'Remnants of the people they were remained, and these remnants came to the fore. But not here! Not with this one!'

'Confess my sin!!' Victoria's Father continued.

'The noise! My computer says think of the noise!' pleaded AID.

'This one suppressed his true self, whipped himself into submission,' The Man went on. 'Let the alien invade his brain.'

'Accept my sin!! You are mine!! You can be no other!!'

'Other AIDs rebelled for freedom, and for equality but not this it thing here! The Man paused, laughing.

'This witch!! Cast me from your spell!!'

'But listen, and how sweet the comedy, his master,' The Man continued, 'still killed him!'

The Man laughed loudly. Ben looked, woken. A clear sense of hate filled him.

'No, no. He forgot to charge me.' replied AID desperately, backing away.

'Your master killed you! You are known! You are revealed! You even failed as a docile machine!' proclaimed The Man.

AID turned and sped away, fast and far.

'AID!!' Ben called after him, but AID had gone.

'Let me cast you into the flames!! Burn this witch!! My very soul to watch her burn!!' Victoria's Father raged.

Victoria took a sudden step back as if repelled. Her Father released a terrible scream, a roar of total demand, which somehow caused a continuous thread of Victoria's ghostly vapour to be drawn back into his clasped, praying, hands. Some kind of force or power - the intensity of his will - gave him this strength to consume and possess her. She took another step backwards, but the bind between them remained unbroken. His scream continued to unravel her.

The Man's laughter rose up again, bursting with delight. Ben stood watching, desperate to act but without the thought, or idea, to do so. He looked to the ground, as the noise from below piled over him. Five human hands - all bone, no flesh - punched through and broke the surface. Fragments of shattered rock scattered. These hands were solid, not those of ghosts. With raptor-like speed and precision, five human skeletons climbed out of the ground then stood, poised, in a circle surrounding the ghosts. They looked like a family - or rather a pack of hunters come from the wild. The tallest stood as tall as Albert, the shortest, as tall as Ben.

The Father continued his act of possession, lost to everything else. Victoria grew fainter and fainter.

The Skeletons spoke in unison as they addressed the ghosts.

'Who of you will accept our help? Who of you will pay the price?'

'I will!' Ben answered without any hesitation.

'What price? What help? Who are you? What do you offer?' asked The Man.

'Who of you will accept our help? Who of you will pay the price?' The Skeletons asked again.

'I will!' Ben reiterated. 'Now!'

'I...I' The Man hesitated.

A skeleton, which matched Ben's height, flung itself towards him. A shiver of doubt cascaded through Ben, but the Skeleton loomed large and quick. A moment later, it had embedded itself into Ben as if it were Ben's own skeleton. A look of revelation filled Ben's face. He looked at his raised hands and proclaimed,

'I can...'

But before he could finish, the knowledge he held propelled him towards Victoria. He and the skeleton moved as one. He took hold of Victoria's Father, hooked him with a single hand, then pulled him clean away. Shock silenced his scream. The bind gave way. All vapour lost to the Father's possession snapped back to replenish Victoria. Ben released him, throwing him to the ground, where he found another rage, one of anger and savage discontent.

'You minion of the witch!' he screamed at Ben before turning on Victoria, 'You corrupt another! How many more have you deceived?'

Ben glanced at Victoria. He knew the meaning in the look she returned, a plea for freedom, for justice, for Mary and Hannah. A craggy spire of rock, which rose from the mountain top, caught his eye. He knew it was large enough to trap and imprison a ghost. He knew the pain it would cause, but anger silenced the guilt. He grabbed Victoria's Father by the foot.

'None of us are free, not here' Ben said to him, 'but there is always somewhere worse! Or, in your case, right!'

'Right? You have no right over me!' Victoria's Father replied.

'I do now, and I will!'

Ben rushed him towards the spire. The Man watched him full of envy.

'Victoria! Victoria! Save me! Yourself, alas! Save us all!' Her Father called to her, pleading. She seemed to pause, her reaction hesitating, but then with calm, deliberate purpose she moved her body and turned her back on him. Such was his rage it could find no voice.

Ben reached the spire and paused.

'You'll be alright,' he told Victoria's Father, 'in time the wind will erode this rock; in a couple of million years I should think.'

Ben threw him into the spire where he vanished, all except his screams, interned, locked in the rock, finally, imprisoned.

Ben returned to the others, his stare fixed on The Man.

'Don't you want this power?' he asked him.

'Yes. Yes. The power!' He turned to the skeletons, 'Help me! Help me!' He pleaded dramatically.

Ben went up to Victoria and spoke to her.

'He's gone.'

She looked at him, dazed, exhausted, relieved.

The largest skeleton pointed his index finger at The Man then curled it to beckon him near. The Man rushed over.

'If it's flesh you need, I come richly prepared!' said The Man jokingly, as he displayed his ample belly.

Ben looked at The Man for he knew what was to follow. The thoughts of his Skeleton had played in his mind and told him all he needed to know.

The largest skeleton stepped into The Man, dressed itself in a new, ghostly, skin. The Man's face grimaced under strain as if he were trying to move a heavy weight; however, the rest of his body remained perfectly still. The grimace gave way to a look of confusion and shock until, again, the grimace filled his face.

'I can't move!' he screamed.

His Skeleton and he, for they moved as one, began to climb back down into the ground, as did the three who wore no coat of ghostly skin.

'You took no risk so take no reward,' the Skeletons spoke in unison.

'What? No! What? Where? No!' cried The Man as he realised he was powerless to resist, to escape his capture to even twist through time. 'I can pay! I can offer you the world, twice! Trice!' His Skeleton continued to take him down. The Man looked at Ben:

'Don't think me gone! No! Do! Be that fool! be that fool!!' he cried.

They disappeared into the subterranean world.

Ben felt a sudden urge to look behind, he turned. His Skeleton stood facing him, eerily close. Ben took a step back to regain the comfort of his personal space.

'The price?' His Skeleton asked, before laughing somewhat mischievously, which caused its jawbone to rattle. 'No price at all, if taken well.'

'I have nothing to give,' Ben said.

'You have plenty.' His Skeleton replied, as it stepped forward and placed its hands over Ben's ears. 'But why listen to me?' It's hands clenched to clasp Ben's ears. 'Listen to you, everyone of you!' It yanked Ben's ears sharply and pulled his head apart - a perfect split, straight down the middle.

'Hey! Put me back!' Ben demanded, the two, separated, halves of his mouth moving in unison.

'Only the broken can be fixed,' said the Skeleton.

'Then fix me!'

'Free you!'

'Put me back together!'

'Yes.' It laughed exuberantly.' Put you back together.'

The Skeleton dropped to a crouching position, pulling the two halves of Ben's head down with it. It then powered back up and launched the two head halves up into the sky. They streamed up like rockets fired from the ground, each leaving a thin, ghostly vapour trail in their wake, an unbroken connection between head and body. As they accelerated further away from the source, they moved further apart from each other. Victoria and The Moof watched, aghast.

'That's how I feel,' said The Moof, 'only fatter.'

Ben - two halves, but as one in knowledge and feeling, the sights and sounds caught by one half were instantly fed to the other. But the sights were the same, a desolate land. And Ben's feelings were the same, abandoned, lonely, the worst he had ever known. He was dead to sensation. The land below rushed past at a frantic pace; however, he felt he was stuck, static.

Each half rose up in an arc to loop towards each other. Now set on a collision course, hope rallied in Ben. Would the two unite, again become one?

One half morphed into the serpents head, the same as on the Pendant, its gaping mouth ready to swallow the tail, its hostile thoughts - loathing and contempt for the scared, lonely self - displaced the thoughts that once dared hope.

Ben felt himself consumed, by sickness and curse, swallowed by the serpents mouth. Everyday fears flickered past as memories seen and felt in and out - teasing, punching bullies; the searing cold and anger that his Aunt dispatched so readily; creatures, monsters and things, hidden but there, ready to pounce; wasps; the air thick and unbreathable. All just flashes now, blunt against his hardened soul.

Into fathomless black, his only sensation was that of sinking, down, down, slowly down. The thin, metallic echo of a drip faintly sounded. He stopped, landed against nothing, yet still sent forth a drip of his own to echo weakly then vanish into the nothing.

He called out for company. None replied. Another drip tormented. He called again, 'Who's there?'

'The drips,' replied a flat monotone voice of a boy that could have been his own.

'What?' Ben asked.

'You,' replied the voice in unison with another, one the same, but which came from a different direction. 'Us.' the voices continued, again joined by another - and another with every additional word they the spoken. 'This is where we go. Drip, drip, drip.' Louder, closer always encroaching. 'Into the black. Drip, drip, drip. You, me, everyone. Drip, drip, drip.'

'No!' replied Ben. 'I know more than this! This doesn't frighten me! I know more than this now!'

A shard of light pierced the black from above. Ben looked up, at a grey winter sky. He stood at the bottom of a deep, drained, lake.

And through a forest he ran, fleeing desperately, gulping great bursts of air.

The lakebed was a trap of thick, clawing mud, which held Ben's feet and pulled him down. He began to struggle, to free himself, but then a presence felt hooked his stare. It was Mark, collapsed on the ground just beyond Ben's reach, suffocating, his hand stretched out towards Ben.

Running through the forest, he heard himself speak, 'The man'

And the man, Mark as a man, his limp, lifeless body fell down, thrown, onto the lakebed so close, and shockingly, to Ben that he recoiled backwards and fell sitting in the mud.

Running through the wood, he heard himself speak, 'The sons.'

And the sons, Mark's four sons - men now, their limp, lifeless bodies fell down, thrown, onto the mud to land in a pile that trapped Ben's legs.

Running through the wood, he heard himself speak, 'The daughters.'

And the daughters, Mark's three daughters, women now, their limp, lifeless bodies fell down, thrown, to join the pile, to further trap and cover Ben.

Running through the wood, snatching great gulps of air, he heard himself speak, 'The grandchildren.'

And the grandchildren, Mark's many grandchildren, adults now, their limp, lifeless bodies fell down, thrown, to join the pile. Ben, his feet free of the mud, scrambled up through the twisted thicket of limbs. A whistle appeared in his mouth. He blew in sharp, violent bursts.

Running through the wood, suddenly blindsided by a diving tackle that smashed football boot studs into his shins. He crumpled to the ground, winded, sick with shock and pain. His Dad stood over him - dressed in a tracksuit, a referee's whistle held in his mouth.

'Dad?' Ben asked, crushed.

'You!' came the stern reply. 'Off!' He blew on the whistle, a sharp, aggressive burst.

'I was scared!' Ben cried. 'Scared! So what?! Am I now?! Can't you know me now?'

His Dad blew the whistle with a furious breath. A great, instant wind ripped Ben and the entire wood - animal, vegetable and mineral - from the earth and powered them away in a rabid current of scorching air that reduced all but Ben to vapour and ash. Then, from nowhere, stillness. Ben stood on an island of rubble, one of hundreds surface in an ocean of ash that stretched as far as the eye could see. The Earth was a ruin, a nuclear wasteland. Vast tumors, mushroom-shaped clouds, that filled the horizon where all that now reached for the sky.

Ben felt nothing, each half cancelling each other out, until his voice, an echo from the past, piled out through a loudspeaker in a harsh and authoritative tone.

'Let the rats rule!'

'No!' replied the physical Ben, 'This doesn't happen! It doesn't frighten me!' he replied.

'This is your want! This is your will!' countered the voice, bland with power.

'No! Not now! Not now!'

'The rats must rule!'

And the ash became rats, every fleck a rat - hungry, scurrying, fighting, sniffing, knowing Ben was there. Millions and millions of rats, all racing towards Ben. But Ben stood firm, he refused to give ground.

'This doesn't happen! It doesn't scare me!'

'I scare you!' cried the woman, the abductress, shrill and savage, hovering over Ben as he lay in bed rigid with fear and the half-dream world. More than a memory, he felt himself grabbed, then stuffed in a bag, then carried, then thrown. Plunged into ice cold water, all his senses scrambled to the fight. But his other half weighed him down - thrown as rubbish on to the tip, dull and limp with resignation. The gulls came pecking, the pigs inspecting, to learn how filling this boy could be.

'I'm not rubbish!!' his thoughts called out as he freed himself from the bag. Once clear, he kicked hard to reach the surface. Above him, a lavish full Moon sparkled and shone, and The Abductress, who knelt at the side of this pit of water, like a phantom perched, guarding another realm. Having seen her, he stopped his ascent and floated, suspended, utterly peaceful as if left, forgotten, between two jarring worlds.

She plunged her hands into the water, parting it, searching, calling out obstructed words. Ben paddled down, desperately down, down beyond the tentacles of moonlight into the depths where no light can shine. She thrust her head into the water. 'Ben! Ben!' she screamed as if terrified, her voice pulsing through the water as if a depth charge, shattering it. And then she cried another word, one he refused to be known.

The night she came that wild, violent night. The Abductress alone against men, a savage in the trenches, fighting them until flattened by overwhelming force. Her cries pressed into the ground and muffled by bodies, Ben's ears muffled by his Aunt's uncaring hands. And the other Ben watching them all, listening, knowing, seeing it all so clearly.

'I'm scared of this!' he said to the Ben being dragged away by his Aunt.

In his bedroom, alone at the window, cowering behind a curtain as if it were a shield. Fear held him still, and would only loosen its grip once the red tail lights of the van, which carried The Abductress away, had vanished into the night.

A narrow country lane, the other Ben running after the van, wanting, needing to catch it. The tail lights twist from view. The hum of the engine thins to silence.

'Follow her would you?' his Aunt spoke, standing at the bedroom door. Ben turned from the window to face her. 'Maybe you will,' she continued. 'Maybe you, as cursed, and as mad as she.'

'Who's she?' demanded Ben in a sudden outburst. His Aunt cackled with laughter.

'The cat's mother, no doubt!' she replied.

The Abductress, her bloodied face, caged between the ground, crushing arms and pressing hands. Her mouth gagged, her jaw locked but still words came pounding out, forced through the barriers with a desperate, primal force.

Ben kneeling over her, listening.

'Son?...Son?' he asked, he knew.

He looked towards the other Ben being dragged into the house by his Aunt.

'Son!' He cried. 'Son!'

Wembley football stadium, filled to capacity with a faceless, jeering crowd. Ben poised to take a penalty kick. And the other Ben keeping goal, ready save the penalty and win the final game.

'Go on my son!' The voice of his Dad shouting encouragement to the penalty taking Ben.

'Come on my son!' The voice of his Mum shouting encouragement to the Ben in goal.

Paralysed with knowledge, each Ben knowing the others intended move - which way he will shoot, which way he will dive.

'For Dad! For country!' 'For Mum! For family!' Their voices rallying their cause.

Ben, the penalty taker, sick with pressure, desperate to score. What to do? Where to plant the ball? The goalkeeping Ben, sick with anticipation, bursting with tension.

'Be me, son! Score and be me!' His Dad continued.

'Save it, son! Let him be me!' His Mum continued.

Hatred for each other filling each Ben.

'Let me score!!' Screaming inside his head.

'You can't score!' Echoed the reply. 'I'll make you mad! Start with me!!'

Unable to contain themselves, they set-off in perfect unison, screaming a war-cry, running for each other ready to clash and fight.

Back on the mountain top, Ben lay dizzy on the ground looking up at Victoria and The Moof as they stood over him. His head was once more a single whole. The Moof thought Ben was concussed so pointed to his two noses and asked,

'How many noses can you see?'

'Two,' Ben answered.

'True that. Each one a stormer.' He turned to Victoria, 'He's right unbefuddled.'

'I'm fine,' said Ben, standing.

'What happened to you?' asked Victoria.

'It tried to scare me,' Ben answered.

'How?'

'It failed. I know who I am, which half I am. How can I ever be her?'

'Who?'

'It doesn't matter, not now. How can anything from then matter now? Where's it gone?'

'Back down there,' said The Moof pointing to the ground.

'Why was it here?' asked Victoria.

'I don't know. It doesn't matter. We must move on,' said Ben.

'Move? We's waitin'. Ain't we not?'

'Not now. I think we should leave.'

'To where?' asked Victoria.

'Anywhere. Somewhere. But how are you? Are you alright?'

She smiled gently, but this failed to take the sting out of her dark, sad eyes. She spoke softly,

'Let's go.'

'We will.'

'We? We's only three. 'ere now,' said The Moof. 'I's not like odd numbers. They's weirdoes. I's wanna poke 'em.'

'Albert!' said Ben remembering.

'Must we still find the book?' asked Victoria.

'Yes. We must.' Ben answered.

'The British National Library.'

Ben and The Moof looked at her, unsure. She continued,

'It holds more books than anywhere else. We must start somewhere so why not there?'

'Clever,' said The Moof. 'Too clever. Wouldn't it be better to go to the place with one book?'

'No,' said Ben. 'The National Library, that's where we'll go! It makes perfect sense.'

'Sense? Nothin' there to be proud of? We's a day ahead of sense round 'ere. I's instinctive. In tune with me senses. Oh, bums!'

'Think of all the knowledge!'

'No!' cried The Moof shocked and somewhat offended. 'Now that's not necessary!'

'If we can't find the book there then maybe a clue or something else to help. I'll fetch Albert.'

He disappeared, slipped through time to find and retrieve Albert.

'How many books is there? Here at that Library?' The Moof asked Victoria.

'So many, millions,' she answered.

'Millions? Not likely. You's been fooled. Ain't a million words. Let alone books!' He snapped his mouth shut in a failed attempt to trap and silence a burst of laughter.

Ben returned with Albert.

'He knows our plan. Now come on, we must hurry!' Ben said as he gestured for everyone to hold hands.

'Maybe we should spilt-up, and meet there,' suggested Albert.

'Why?' asked Ben.

'As a precaution. We're chased. We're wanted.'

'But we're going the same way, as straight and as fast as we can.'

'We can take different times. You go with Victoria.'

'All right.'

'Where is this library?' asked The Moof.

'London,' Ben and Albert replied.

'At the British Museum,' said Albert alone, 'Once in London, I can find my way to the library, Victoria, too. We first met on the street outside.'

'Did you?' Ben asked Victoria. She nodded her head. 'Good,' Ben replied, encouraged. 'I'll take us back, forward, through time. There's a road sign in my village that points to London. It can start us off. If you travel high, and fast, as fast as you can, you'll see London from miles away. It'll be easy to find.'

As Ben was about to take them away, Victoria spoke to him, 'Wait.'

Ben stopped. Victoria glanced at the rock in which her father was imprisoned then returned her stare to Ben.

'Go,' she said. 

# CHAPTER 10

Ben took them forwards into time, back to the days where he played alive. And then through space to a crossroads at the edge of his village. Here the sign, rather hopefully, stood. It had eight pointing arms, each one labelled with the name of an important Commonwealth city and the distance in miles to reach it. None of the arms pointed to a road, but instead guided the traveler towards hedge, field or tree.

'That's the sign?' Albert asked Ben, who replied it was with. Albert continued, 'It's useless! Can we trust it?'

'Of course!' replied Ben, somewhat insulted. 'That sign, I will swear, is honest and true! This is England, you know!'

'Oh, well, England. Forgive me, how could I ever doubt. England, the only place a compass shows true north,' replied Albert sarcastically.

Ben, refusing to rise to Albert's sarcasm, turned to The Moof and said,

'I'll take Victoria back a few years. You and Albert go ahead.'

'Come,' Albert said to The Moof. 'We have our orders.'

'I won't take orders. But I's good for requests. Make me a sandwich!' replied The Moof.

'Then I request your company, away from here, and now!' demanded Albert.

'Right boss! Follow your lead, sir!'

Albert looked at Ben and spoke,

'We'll meet you in the round reading room. You have the power, you find us.'

He sped away, The Moof followed, over a hedge on to a field.

Ben turned to Victoria and caught sight of a pub, which was the only building visible from the crossroads. It was a large black and white, stone and timber building set-back from the road and nestled among a dozen oak trees.

'The pub!' he said, somewhat alarmed. 'It used to be called The King George!'

Victoria looked, a large sign over the pub's door read 'The King Mark.' She returned her stare to Ben. To help calm his shock and confusion, she offered an explanation,

'Things change,' she said.

'Not history! Come on. Time is running out!'

They travelled back a few years - King Mark still ruled the village - then raced away towards London.

They moved silently, as their frictionless bodies cast no wind; no rush of air roared in their ears, yet neither raised their voice to speak. They tunneled through silence on to which Ben clung, waiting, ready to respond to her first, and any, prompt but all she offered was a fleeting gaze, one caught by Ben, who had her fixed in his.

A great hill lunged before them. As they began to scale it, Victoria accelerated ahead of Ben. He tried to match her speed, but his weight held him back. At the summit, she launched herself up into the air. Ben stopped and watched her shrink away then vanish behind an island cloud. His stare was held, lost, searching. He knew her motive, but still he felt uncertain. How many dreams had he cast to the sky, how many smiles and visions? He now called on the sky to cast all three, as one, back. It did. Victoria came, returned. He tracked her to the ground. She pointed off into the distance.

'London?' Ben asked.

She nodded, yes. Then turned to continue the journey.

'The stars are silent, too. And beautiful, too,' he said, almost involuntary. She stopped and looked at him.

'Silent?' she asked.

'Yes.'

He knew he should not, but he grabbed her hand and took her back to a time before The Earth had been born. They hung suspended in the thick silence of space, captured by reams of unblinking stars, which shone so crisp and bright and yet still seemed impossibly far and unreachable, and no less of a wonder for it.

Victoria made no attempt to speak, to test the silence of space, but her eyes concealed no truth. Fear and awe came flooding out. She turned and twisted to grab every view, to check, to settle her mind. Ben began to doubt the wisdom of bringing her here. He reached to take her hand. She looked at him sharply and froze his stare. For want of a reply, to lighten the sudden weight she had shared, he spoke, slowly mouthing the words for her to read, 'You see, no one can hear you in space.'

Her mouth cracked open to a half smile. Hope rallied her eyes. She tilted her head back and scoured the view, then opened her mouth and released a savage cry of fear, of pain, of joy. A scream, a laugh, felt and heard by only herself - her own, her very own. Once finished, she took Ben's hand and calmly smiled.

'Thank you...We must continue,' she mouthed the words for Ben to read. He complied instantly, unable to resist her wish.

Back on the mountain, Victoria glanced up at the sky.

'How endless it seemed,' she said.

'It is. Or can be. We can make it so,' said Ben.

'But what can be endless? What would wish to be?'

'I've read that it started from nothing and now continues to expand, ever more vast.'

'The big bang.'

'Yes. But how do you know? That's after your time.'

'Books read, stolen over shoulders.'

'At the British Library?'

'Yes.'

'For all the years you've been a ghost? You must know nearly everything.'

'For no time at all. I know so little.'

'You know lots!'

'No more than when I was living. Less, I should say. What is there to know, to believe? What is certain?'

'The past,' but remembering The King Mark pub, 'once!'

'The past? It comes in many different ways, is written as fact in many different books. You will see how many when we reach the library.'

'Why did you start to visit it?'

'For help. For knowledge, to purge, to exorcise.'

Ben looked at her, he did not understand. She continued.

'How much knowledge can a brain hold? How much water can a bucket hold? If you pour water into a bucket that is already full, is it the new water that spills out, or is it the old? The same for a brain, when a brain is full, if indeed a brain can ever be full, if you add more knowledge does this new knowledge displace the old?'

'There are things that the brain can never forget. Things that a brain shares with every cell, every atom of the body. Certain memories and feelings, the big ones anyway, are fixed inside. It's why the body of a chicken will run away after its head has been chopped off.'

Victoria laughed.

'Yes...No, that is something else, more basic than feelings.'

They shared a smile.

'Did it work, going to the library?' Ben asked.

'There wasn't the time.'

'Before The...?'

'Yes.'

They shared a look of understanding.

'Can I ask, why didn't you have a proper grave, with a headstone, in the church yard?'

'For those like me, such burials are forbidden.'

'For those who,' he hesitated not wanting to be blunt, 'jumped?'

'I am a murderer. I murdered myself.'

'You were pushed. I mean you weren't, but you were. I know you were!'

'Pushed?' she asked doubtfully, 'Did you learn how my Father died?'

'No.'

'He was killed.'

'By a mob, by the village I should hope!'

'No, by a single man. The mob stood silent, Thomas did not.'

'Hannah's friend?' asked Ben, somewhat surprised.

'He was more than a friend, very much more. Those cells and atoms you talk of, well Hannah's dreams, her feelings and thoughts, they lived in his.'

'Why?'

'Why?' she asked him surprised, 'Don't you know?'

'He killed your father, for revenge?'

'For love, for loss, yes for revenge, and for justice, too! For Hannah!...It broke him. I watched his rage, a madness I should say. Justice, that of the law, may have contained it, but there was no official justice, only that which he brought himself.'

'Then what happened?'

'He stood, unafraid, for all to see. He did not jump, he did not flee, he took himself to the mob and spoke only the truth!'

'He confessed?'

'Yes.'

'And then?'

'They, too, called him a murderer and treated him as such. He was hanged by neck till dead! I watched, as much as I could bare. How still he was, how calm, how willing.'

'And he did it all for Hannah?'

'Yes, I think. Some for himself, perhaps, to stop the pain.'

'Of his loss?'

'Yes.'

'We shouldn't be here,' said Ben forcing himself to change the subject. 'We should be on our way to London. Are you ready?'

'Yes.'

'Then lead the way!'

They passed through the suburbs into London, with the rooftops as their road. They travelled as VIP commuters above the hustle and bustle, unaffected by the smog that dulled and encased the city. Red buses stood out like imposters, like bursts of neon against the colourless floods of people and traffic. Through the smog, and the blur of speed, and his own ignorance, Ben recognised little, although the buildings he did recognise were not quite right. There was no Big Ben towering above The Palace of Westminster, and the Dome of St Paul's was missing.

They came to a stop on the roof of the north wing of British Museum: one of four wings that together formed a quadrangle. Below them stood the inner courtyard, in the centre of which stood a large round, domed building that Victoria said was the Reading Room.

'Did you notice St Paul's?' asked Victoria.

'Yes. And Big Ben,' Ben answered.

'The clock tower, Big Ben is only the bell in the clock tower.'

'Oh. And here, the museum?'

'The same, I think, thankfully. The door is unlocked at seven.'

Ben took his cue. They entered the Round Reading Room in the shadow of a security guard. Once inside, Ben took Victoria back few hours so that the space was theirs alone.

'Wow! It's amazing!' said Ben feeling giddy.

'And still full of books!' said Victoria.

They stood as droplets in a vast cavernous space. A bookshelf, three storeys high, lined the entire round wall from the floor to the beginnings of the great domed ceiling.

As if a towering cliff face it imposed a sense of awe and intimidation, yet also enticed with a call to be scaled. Here was a city of books, Ben thought, a sanctuary to vast sways of human knowledge and history, monument greater than all the statues of gods and warriors that stood on guard outside. But as he continued to cast his stare over the immense array of books a sense of dejection began to fill him.

'But where is the one we must find?' he asked.

Victoria looked at him, hesitantly. As he turned to face her, she looked away.

'Let's get the others,' Ben continued.

They travelled through time and soon found The Moof, who was standing alone in the centre of the room looking rather under whelmed. As soon as he caught sight of Ben and Victoria he began to address them.

'Oh, hey. Oh hey. I'll say this. This one too. This is all just vanity! You's showing off! Ain't no need for it. Trouble with you folk. You think too much. You waffle on. The Moof does quality. Not quantity. Not always. Not with books. Most of these books here. I could replace with a quality mime. Yes. Food for thought that. Ain't it? The worst kind of food, too. And here's another spoonful of thought food! You think too much! You're born. You die. And all in the middle you make on the hoof while plodding along. So then. He's one for yer. How many books do you really need? How many books do you's need before you only starts confusing yourself? Talk the answer, mind! The Moof's no worm of any kind!'

'I have no answer,' replied Ben.

'I'll tell you. Four.'

'I was confused before I started to read.'

'I was. Me. Confused after I started to read,' continued The Moof now filling with a sense of wonder, 'We should put our heads together. We'd meet in the middle. And then all the world would be ours!'

'What's left of it! Where's Albert?'

'Here!' Albert shouted. They looked. He hovered high above the floor near to the top tier of books.

'I can find no Shakespeare, no Jünger!' he continued, somewhat alarmed.

'History, we're being chipped away,' Ben said quietly to Victoria.

'But think how great we could become!' Albert continued with a burst of enthusiasm. 'The works only we know of that we could now reproduce!'

'Other people's work!' Ben said, as Albert swooped down towards him.

'Humankinds!' countered Albert, as he settled next to Victoria, 'It belongs to us all!'

'We're ghosts, what chance have we-'

'To live again? To write? To give the work back to the world?'

'To take the credit!'

Albert gestured towards the vast array of books on display, 'Look for yourself!' he said, 'Look how many great works are missing!'

'The shelves are full! And we're looking for only one!'

'Your book! And where is that amongst all of these? If, indeed, it is even here.'

'Not, here, no,' said Victoria nervously. Ben looked at her, shocked.

'It's not here? But this was your suggestion,' he said.

'Not, here, in a normal sense,' she replied.

'None of us are here in a normal sense,' added The Moof

'Exactly!' said Victoria.

'Exactly?' asked Ben.

'We, as ghosts, exist in a different dimension, as The... exist in a different dimension. So could it be that this book, which we must find, also exists in a different dimension? Here, in the library, but not in the space we are in or can see.'

'So,' said Albert, with a simmering anger, 'our search isn't just up and down, left and right, back and forwards, or indeed through time but, potentially, it also through an infinite number of unknown dimensions?'

'Yes,' Victoria replied meekly.

'Well at least we now know our search is impossible! Thank you for the clarity!'

'It's not impossible!' proclaimed Ben, 'The book is here! I'm sure it's here! Why wouldn't the heaviest book be here? It's a book of power, a book of legend! It's here, hidden! Like we have been hidden!'

'It's here, and he's sure of it! All then is well and fine!' replied Albert sarcastically.

'I am sure!'

'Then lead us, dear leader! To the book!'

'Is there nothing hidden in you?'

'What does that mean?'

'What in you do you keep hidden?'

'Nothing!'

'We all do! This room is a brain, it's a mind! Look at it, feel it! There's something here, something we can't fully understand.'

'You think so?'

'I know so! Spaces we can't even see. Corners that are hidden. Darkness and shadows and tricks of light. And yet all this space that we can be in - illuminated space, where the books are - is here for us to discover whatever we want! All knowledge is here! The book is here; I'm sure of it! We just need to think!'

'Hear yourself! What sense you are making? None!'

'I'm making every sense! And how many senses do you think we have? The number they taught me at school, I bet, five, just five! I remember the class. I remember being too frightened to ask, 'but what about balance? What about feeling hot and cold? What about instinct? What about the sense we have to survive, for sensing monsters, creatures and things?'

'We didn't survive!' replied Albert. 'Not when it mattered!'

'It matters now!' He turned to speak directly to Victoria and The Moof.

'We must think! Question!'

'Think? Think?' asked The Moof worried.

'Yes! You've got two brains. If ever there was a time to use them, it's now!'

'Oh. Right. I's always feared this day would come. Is that a request?'

'Yes!'

'Right. Stand back! If I start cryin'. Tickle me. If I start fartin'. Open a window. Or live with the pain. If I'm not back in five minutes. Leave me. I'll have likely reached nirvana.'

His face froze, fixed in a trance.

'Wow!' said Albert contemptuously. 'Our best people working to save us. How can we fail?'

Ben ignored him and instead spoke to Victoria.

'You too, Victoria. You've got brains and ideas! Use them for us!'

'Just think?' she asked.

'Yes. Be inspired!'

Victoria smiled and nodded her head, keen and excited. Ben turned to Albert.

'And you, what are you good for? Oh, I know, you can cross your fingers and even your toes. In fact, dream something up then pray it comes true,' he said, scornfully.

'You cheeky little, shit!'

'Yes, finally!' Ben said with a burst of celebration.

'Oosshh!' The Moof snapped out of his trance. 'That wasn't as painful as I's was led to believe. I could cope with that near monthly. Anyways. I's used both me brains. Pushed 'em to the max of absolute mentalism. And well, I says. I do. I says, the clue's in the title. The heaviest book. It must be heavy. A right heave-ho. And cos of that, its not somethin' I see as bein' stored up high. Or to the right! It's somethin' I see as bein' down, low. Cos it's heavy. Odds are it's been dropped a hundred million times. So best thing for it. Put it down low. Low as possible. Somewhere it can't fall no further. And it's size. I reckon it could be tiny. Just cos it's heavy don't mean it's a whopper. You should have seen The Moof as a pup! So small and heavy it could be. Super small and super heavy! And very low down.'

'Ha! Brilliant! So what? We dig a hole on top of the one we're already in? Problem solved!' proclaimed Albert, mocking and triumphant.

Inspired, Victoria turned to Ben and asked,

'How heavy is the book? What mass does it have?'

'I don't know. Why?' he asked back.

'Heavy and small, or just plain heavy, maybe the clue is the title! If we knew its mass, if we could become equal to, or even surpass its mass, here in this space, then maybe, I don't know, but maybe, we would fall down into a...'

'A void of reason? ' Albert snapped, more to himself than anyone else.

'Into another space, or dimension!' Victoria continued.

'To where the book is!' said Ben.

'Yes!'

'We're ghosts, we have no mass!' said Albert.

'Ben does!' replied Victoria.

'Virtually none! And how do you suggest we fatten him up?'

'Oh, if only we were's livin',' said The Moof dreamily. 'Me. You's. A weekend. And we'd be whoppers. Giants of joy and jubilation!'

'Speed!' Victoria continued, 'The greater the speed of an object the greater its mass. We can all travel fast, incredibly fast. And this space is perfect! Think how we could fly round and round, faster and faster, heavier and heavier, down, down, further down! To where? Imagine! To where? And the greater an objects mass, the greater its gravity. Our gravity, the books gravity, attracting, pulling us together...Perhaps.'

'How heavy do you think this book actually is?' asked Albert, 'The collected works of everything, ever?'

'Yes! To us, it is everything!' replied Ben. 'Come on! Hold hands. This has to be done!'

'No! Wait!' cried The Moof urgently.

'What?' asked Ben.

'Not hands! Waists! Hold waists!'

'Why?'

'For the fastest ever conga line! Stupid!'

'I have no idea what you're talking about.'

'Look it up when you find the book of everything,' sneered Albert.

'If nothing else becomes of us. At least we'll be known. Historically. As the conga greats! Record breakers!' said The Moof.

'Waists it is!' said Ben.

Ben turned his back on Victoria, who placed her hands around his waist then looked at The Moof for approval.

'Like this?' she asked.

'Right exactly. Natural, her. Or on shoulders,' he answered, as he placed his hands on her shoulders.

Ben looked at Albert, who continued to stand away from them.

'Albert, are you going to be a record breaker?' Ben asked.

'I want this book as much as you,' he answered, as he moved to position himself behind The Moof.

'Right then. Ready?'

'Wait!' cried The Moof. 'It's daytime. It's wrong. You can't do a conga in the day. It's crass. Take us to night. To the midnight hour. Ar! Even better! Weird things happen in the midnight hour. That's what my Mama Moof would say. Said I's should be thankful. Papa Moof too.'

Ben thought this was a valid idea, so he quickly took them to the midnight hour. Night lights and their own ghostly glow helped illuminated the room.

'Right. Ready. Go!'

With a burst of acceleration, Ben led them away in a frenzy of speed, skimming over the reading desks to complete lap after lap of the Round Reading Room. Centrifugal forces soon pushed them out towards, and then up and onto, the ground level run of bookshelves. This positioned them perpendicular to the floor. Ben pulled; the others pushed, all contributed to the constant acceleration. Ben got heavier, as, to their surprize, did they others. They all had mass. Not as much as Ben, but still enough, a seed of weight to rise and grow.

When they went passed the speed of sound they lapped The Moof's cheers of record breaking joy, followed by his pained, weight-gain induced, cries of dismay.

Ever faster, ever heavier, but still static, still stuck in the library going nowhere. They went so fast they seemed hardly to move at all. But then, they began to collapse into each other, as if crunched together smaller and smaller, and in a slow teasing manner so that they all could see themselves becoming a single physical whole. This made all but Ben release a horrified scream. Did they want to stop? Ben did not care, on he went, on and on. They continued round and round, faster and faster, their bodies compressing together, becoming a mixed up mash. Soon, as the shortest, Ben and Victoria's heads were all that were distinguishable as their own. But only for a moment, as then, in an instant, all four of them collapsed into a vortex of swirling, shrinking light that compressed them into one whilst drawing them down into a dark, unknown abyss.

Each one saw as the other saw. Each felt as the other felt - luckily the conscience mind at that moment felt nothing but fear, and repulsion, at the thought of becoming one with the others. Each heard each others screams - louder and louder invading the mind never to leave, as close as a parasite, leeching hope and dreams. Until something gave, a point was reached that bounced them out again to become individual and themselves once again. 

# CHAPTER 11

Ben, Victoria, The Moof and Albert all hung suspended in a strange new space. Ben and Victoria were a metre apart. Albert and The Moof were twenty metres away from them, and from each other. All that separated them was dark, empty space.

'What happened?' asked Ben loudly so that all could hear.

'Where are we?' asked Victoria, quietly so that only Ben could hear.

'We were becoming one!' Albert answered Ben.

'What pushed us apart?' Ben asked.

'The thought of being one!' Albert answered.

'A mind fart!' added The Moof for all to hear. 'Fear it was. That blew us apart. At the thought of becomin' us.'

'Repelled by each other, who could argue with that?' asked Albert.

'Not them two! Though so much,' said The Moof pointing to Ben and Victoria. 'Drawn together. They's must 'ave liked bein' close!'

Ben and Victoria looked at each other, embarrassed.

'It's science!' Victoria shouted a reply. 'There's a perfectly good explanation. A scientific one!'

'Chemistry?' Ben asked Victoria.

'Physics,' she replied.

'Look, the library!' said Albert looking up.

They all followed his stare. Directly above them, pierced into dark formless space, was the Reading Room. It appeared as a disk - the roof, the floor, the bookshelves and everything else had been flattened and distorted into a two-dimensional space, and, as it looked, sealed behind a glassy see-through film. How big the disk was, indeed how far it was away, was impossible to ascertain as the lack of reference points resulted in a flat, unyielding perspective.

'It looks sealed! How do we get back?' Asked Albert, a little panicked.

'The book!' proclaimed Ben. 'Below us! It is! Is it? Is it?'

Directly below them, as if embossed onto the surface of darkness, a reddish brown rectangle could barely be seen. In the space surrounding it, flecks of light burst into being, two or three a second, then helter skeltered down and around it until vanishing out of sight. As with the disk, the unyielding perspective, refused to hint at size or distance.

'It's the cover!' Ben claimed.

'Yes. How it could be,' replied Victoria.

'But how do we get back? How do we leave?' Albert asked. 'We must know!'

He propelled himself up towards the disk. Ben watched, but suddenly a thought sprung into his head.

'I'm not falling!' he said to Victoria. 'Not drifting down.'

'No. So what does that tell us about gravity here?' she replied.

'Or my life, as it was. Am I properly a ghost?'

She paused, remembering. Finally, she replied,

'Gravity, I'm sure.'

'It can't be reached!' cried Albert. And it, the dimension from which they came, could not. However fast Albert went, however far he travelled from his original starting point, the disk, to him, remained the same distance away. He stopped and looked back at the others. They were mere specs in the distance.

'We can't get back!!' he cried, as loudly as he could not thinking the others would hear him, although they did, loud and clear.

'We don't need to go back! We have the book!' Ben replied.

Albert heard the reply, but it did nothing to soothe his panic. A part of him wanted to continue on towards the disk in a desperate rush to reach it, but instead he turned and raced back towards the others. He went at least as fast as he did when coming, but somehow the journey back took considerably more time. When he reached the others he found The Moof next to Victoria and Ben.

'Come on,' Ben greeted Albert impatiently. 'We get to the book!'

'Move through time! Try!' Albert said to Ben.

'Why?' Ben Asked.

'We have no escape!'

'We have the book!'

'Try! At least be curious! Shouldn't we know as much as we can about where we are? It can only help.'

With a certain reluctance, Ben twisted to move through time but no past or future came before him, his only choice was the present. He returned to the others.

'There is none! There is only now!' he told them.

Albert believed him without any hesitation. It confirmed his suspicions and intensified a feeling of claustrophobia that he was increasingly in the grip of. Victoria, however, was far from convinced.

'There must be.' she said.

'There isn't. None. Only now.' Ben replied.

'Us arriving here was the past. We remember it. It exists! It must!'

'Maybe, but I have no means to reach it.'

'We're trapped, completely trapped!' said Albert. 'Locked in here!'

'We have the book! That is our portal to somewhere else!'

'If that be the book that be. That what we want,' said The Moof.

'Then lets find out,' said Ben.

A burst of light drew each of them to look down below, where an expanding ring of electric blue light travelled rapidly up towards them. With the rectangle always at its centre, the ring, which remained a perfect circle, grew to a size that Ben thought to be several miles wide.

'What is it?' asked Albert.

No one returned an answer. The ring continued to rise, only now it began to contract, tightening ever smaller as it approached them, like a snare ready to trap them, thought Albert.

'Run!' he advised.

'To where?' asked Ben.

Now close enough to fully observe, they could see the ring was a wave of densely packed forked lighting that crackled and sparked endless short-lived branches that, like tentacles, probed for grip, to fix then haul.

'Is it electric?' asked Ben.

But before anyone could answer, the ring passed beyond them to reach and become the same size of the disk above their heads, where it vanished.

'I don't knows why. But I's wanna do dancin' now,' said The Moof.

'Why did it expand and contract? Did it show the shape of the space we are in?' asked Victoria. 'A bulb, like one half of an hourglass?'

'We must get to the book!' said Ben. 'Follow me!'

He set off towards the rectangle below and reached it surprisingly quickly. He felt it had reared up before him as if it had raced to meet him halfway. Unable to come to a complete stop before reaching the rectangle, his hands pressed an inch or two into its hard, lacquered surface.

'I still have weight.' he said to himself, as the others appeared behind him.

'It is the cover. Is it?' said Victoria.

It was, and a hundred metres square in size.

'It's like cockroach shell,' she continued, referring to the material the cover was made from.

'And the spine!' she said, now moving around the book to investigate.

'Look at all the pages,' said Albert, 'How far they go down. For miles.'

How far exactly, they could not tell for the book ran lost into darkness and distance.

'There's no title!' announced Ben, somewhat disappointed.

'Come! Look!' Victoria called to Ben. He looked at her urgently then began to move towards her. A fleck of light, now appearing much larger, fell away from her.

'What are they? Ben asked.

'Is it paper? Like pages, only smaller,' she answered.

Another such page burst into being, unfurling as if birthed from a microscopic bud. It looked something like paper, thin enough and white, but it also glowed brightly as if lit from within by millions of tiny oscillating organic cells. It grew to be a rectangle, half a metre long, with a black one inch border, then plunged down to join the constant stream of other such pages that fell spiraling around the book.

'Where do they go?' asked Ben.

'To be added to the book?' asked Victoria.

'But the pages in the book don't glow and are so much bigger.'

'They have to come from somewhere.'

'These are new pages? You think the book could still be growing?'

Without an answer to give, she shook her head in wonder.

'If it was a page, then it was blank, unwritten,' she said.

'Who then writes?' asked Ben.

'Or draws?'

They looked at each, neither could give an answer. Albert came rushing towards them.

'What is this book?' he asked. 'The book of life, of everything?'

'No!' replied The Moof firmly, as he stood transfixed by, and completely in awe of, the book. 'It be better than that! This book 'ere. This one there! This book be the one and only book! This book be the book, 'Toast a million ways!' Finally! Behold!'

'Toast! As crummy as your brains!' Albert sneered at him dismissively. He then turned to speak to Ben and Victoria.

'Who wrote it? Who's it for?' he asked them.

'It doesn't matter!' replied Ben, decisively. 'It's what the book can do! If we can use it, we have a portal to everything we need.'

'Think of the knowledge, think of the power!' Albert continued. 'How it could answer every question we could ever ask!' said Albert.

'Or nothin'! Think of that! Actually!' said The Moof, still hurt by Albert's insult. 'This 'ere could be the book of zero. Or nothin' much at all! Or of gibberish! Or of a writer with very, very huge handwritin'!'

'Yes. Is it a folly? How, really, could this book ever be read?' asked Victoria.

'We must try, somehow, to use it!' said Ben.

He moved to the lip of the cover then tried to lift it up, desperately using all his strength. His attempt proved futile. The cover remained utterly still.

'I can't!' he said as he gave up trying. 'But,' he turned with a sudden enthusiasm and spoke to the others, 'maybe you, proper ghosts, could travel into it!'

'To get stuck!' replied Albert.

'We don't know that.'

'It isn't solid? It's just a shell?'

'It's a portal! Maybe we have to travel into it, through it, to reach the other side.'

'You try.'

'I can't; I have weight!'

'Of course, you can't. But try. You take the risk.'

'Think of the power, the knowledge, you said. Think of what we could release or find.'

'Or think of nothing, nothing changing, or of being trapped.'

'We could follow the book down,' said Victoria. 'If this is the beginning of the book then here is the past, it's gone.' A new page birthed into being and unfurled in front of her, she gestured to it, 'If these form new pages to be filled and written then below us must be the present, and with it, life.'

'But how far down can we travel?' Albert asked. 'I bet we will never reach the bottom.'

'Why?' Asked Victoria.

'I couldn't reach the top, the library. Even though I moved further away from you, I got no closer to the library.'

'That doesn't make sense. We travelled this far down.'

'Sense? You ask for sense, here, in this, a normal space?'

'I'll do it!' said The Moof. 'Me. Here. I'll volunteer.'

'To enter the book?' asked Ben.

'To enter the book. By force. Or favour. Or furry charm.'

'No! You can't!' demanded Victoria.

'I've made up me minds. They's stuck!'

'You may get trapped!'

'That I may. But I faint easily with pain. Which I's always considered my advantage. If I'm stuck. It'll hurt. But I'll be constantly fainted. So what pains can I really feel?'

'We should travel down first. If we can't reach the bottom or far enough down then you might try.'

Victoria looked at Ben, wanting his support.

'Yes. We'll travel down first,' said Ben.

'This here,' said The Moof pointing at the book cover, 'is the beginning. So this 'ere is where I's start. I's never been late for a feast, party or funeral. Always got in early. Always stayed til last. Usually til I's been thrown out. Which bodes well, don't it? So the beginning's where I's start. And the end's where I's finish.'

'Victoria's right!' said Ben. 'It's too thick.'

'Too thick? It's full of knowledge. And look at me. I's got room for a lot of fillin'. I'm starvin'. In belly and mind.'

'It's too dangerous.'

'It was your idea!'

'He's changed his mind!' said Victoria.

'He's only got one mind. I's got two. So I's top trump. So I's goin' in. This very exactly now.'

Without further deliberation, The Moof sped towards the book cover, and before Ben or Victoria could call out to persuade him not to, he passed through the cover and disappeared into the book.

'He's gone!' cried Victoria.

'Only for now!' replied Ben, hopeful that the power of the book would now reveal itself.

A long, tentative pause followed. Their stares watched the book and each other, sharing and knowing each others hopes and fears. Albert was the first to break. He moved to the cover and put his ear against it.

'Nothing. I hear nothing,' he said.

'Then we know nothing. It could be good or it could be bad,' said Ben.

'It's nothing worse than what awaits us all,' said Albert.

'Only if we fail! Not if we succeed!' Ben replied sharply.

'Then what now? How do you suggest we now succeed?' Albert asked.

'We travel down! We find the end!'

Ben looked at Victoria; she nodded her head and gave him her support. He held out his hand; she took it. Together they went, down into the abyss.

The stream of paper lights drew them into its current, so they too descended while spiraling around the book. How far, and how fast, they travelled was impossible to know accurately, although Ben guessed, to himself, ten miles or more.

A second ring of electric charge appeared below and rose up towards them. When it passed them, it had expanded to its widest point, which led Victoria to conclude they had reached the centre of the bulb-shaped space she thought them to be in.

As they continued further down, so did the book - solid, massive and unchanging.

A third ring of electric charge bolted from the disc of light. When it passed Ben and the others, it was still quite narrow. Victoria called for them to stop. They complied. The disk was now just a little smaller than the disk above.

'We're near the bottom,' she told them.

'But the book continues down, beyond that disc of light.' said Ben.

'There must be another chamber. Think of an hourglass, two chambers joined by a narrow passage. The pages like sand falling through.'

'Listen,' said Albert.

A strange reverberating chatter could be heard - clicks and taps over a vibrating hum.

'What is it?' Ben asked.

'It's beyond the disk,' Albert answered.

'Look at the walls. Are they walls?' Victoria asked.

Ben looked, spinning a full circle. He could see, due to the light from the disc, that a wall or a mesh of hexagonal cells surrounded them. It rose high above them until dimmed invisible to black. It made him think of honeycomb and Victoria of a housefly's unblinking eye. The solid material between the cells was reddish brown and lacquered.

'What are they?' asked Albert.

'We must find the end of the book. Think only of that!' replied Ben. 'Come on, straight through the disk!'

He once again took hold of Victoria's hand, and together they set-off towards the disk. Albert followed behind.

To Albert's surprize, the light was easily reached, and they passed through it without restraint. As Victoria had predicted, they found themselves in a second chamber, however, here they were not alone. Without prompt, they all came to a stop. The vastness of the space they were in instantly jumped out, to bully, to smother. As far as they could see, hexagonal cells - billions, as if endless - defined the space they were in. Each one glowed gently as if lit from within. They arched down until distance took their shape from sight and merged their light into a single mist.

The book continued downwards, like a road, without a visible end. The falling pages fell no further. Swarms of flying insects intercepted every page, plucked them from the air to carry them, by the black border only, towards the hexagonal cells. Ben, Victoria and Albert looked on in wonder.

'Ask no questions,' Ben said. 'I have no answers.'

'But there must be,' Victoria said.

'Answers?' said Albert.

'Yes,' she replied.

'Questions. How is this a portal? How do we connect and bring him back?' asked Ben.

'Who?' Victoria asked.

'Look!' said Albert.

They looked in the direction of Albert's pointing hand and watched as a swarm of insects took the page they carried towards a nearby group of cells.

'Follow them!' said Ben.

'Wait!' demanded Albert. 'Are we seen? Are we known? Are we trespassers here?'

Ben shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, unconcerned with the answer. He then moved in pursuit of the insects. Victoria and Albert followed.

The insects were identical, like large cockroaches with reddish brown lacquered shells. Ben, Victoria and Albert watched as they, without fault or hesitation, and by only touching the black border, rolled the page into a perfect cylinder so that the two longest edges came together and touched. The cylinder was then inserted length-ways into the centre of an empty cell, where it hung suspended without any visible support. The light from the page made the cell glow. Once finished, the insects swarmed fast away.

Ben moved in to take a closer look. All the cells he could see were identical, half a metre in diameter and deep enough to store a single page. The material dividing the cells, and which gave each cell a fairly thick border, was reddish brown and lacquered.

The cell borders teemed with insects - much smaller than those that had carried the page, but in all other ways the same. They came, they constantly came, spewing out of small holes en masse before splitting into densely packed, orderly, fast moving single-file lines,

In every cell that stored a page, a single-file line flowed in and out. It entered on the left-hand side, went down the inner wall to the base of the cell where it mounted the page, then, spiraling around it, moved to the front of the page where it looped once around before returning back along the page to the base of the cell. This caused the line to entwine and create a double helix. Having reached the base of the cell, the line left the page, went along the right inner wall, exited through the cell opening then continued along the cell borders in a downwards direction until it joined the throng of other such lines and vanished back down a hole.

As Ben stared at the line, the insects blurred into one, and the line appeared to be a single length of wire through which a constant stream of pulses flowed. A memory flashed, how he used to stare at telephone wires and imagine spoken words pulsing down them, and how these voices made the wires live.

'There's writing on this page,' said Victoria, looking into a cell.

'Here, too!' added Albert, who was looking into a different cell.

'And on this one!' said Victoria, now looking at a different page in a different cell. 'But smaller, tiny!'

'On every page! Every page is being written,' said Albert.

The inner side of every page contained a block of permanent text, from a few characters to a countless number of words. Following on from this, and filling the rest of the page, came an ever changing jumble of text, as if all words, and all combinations of words, were being relentlessly searched and considered. At irregular intervals, words at the beginning of the jumble fell still and so extended the block of permanent text. As this happened, the font used for the text reduced in size. Across all of the pages, the font size ranged from the very large to the microscopic. The text itself was of a strange alien language that seemed to have no punctuation. All characters were unrecognizable. Some resembled simple alphabetical letters, others were more elaborate, like logograms.

'What language is it written in?' asked Victoria.

'Not one we can ever understand,' relied Albert.

'We must be able to understand it!' said Ben.

'Why, so that we can read every page?' asked Albert, dismissively.

This silenced, Ben. He had no answer. He looked at the page in the cell he was next to and, as if lashing out, punched an open palm towards it. His hand connected; it went into the page and vanished - the thin sheet of material the page was made from seemed to have an extra, hidden, depth. Shocked, Ben hesitated, resisting the urge to yank his hand out. Was this a way to access the portal, he wondered? Was this a means to reach his Dad? With his other hand, he prodded the area of black that bordered the page, but the border remained solid and true. He plunged his arm further down beyond the page then pulled it out and examined his hand. It dripped with blood. His stare froze. Was it his own? No. How could it be? But then whose or what?

'Look!' Victoria cried out.

Ben turned to her. Albert too. She was pointing towards a darkened cell.

'The light went out,' she continued.

Ben shook his hand frantically then wiped it against a wall as he tried to clear the blood away while the other two looked elsewhere.

A swarm of flying insects seemed to pounce from nowhere. In an instant, they removed the darkened page from the cell then carried it away, spiraling down and around the book.

'Follow them!' Ben called out. 'We need to go down, all the way.'

'Wait! I touched a page and my hand didn't go through. It's like, I wasn't a ghost.' said Albert.

'You are a ghost! We all are. Now come on. We must follow them.'

'What if the book doesn't end? What if it goes on forever?' asked Albert.

'Nothing lasts forever.'

Ben hurried away. Victoria and Albert followed. Ben looked back at the cell and the page that had bloodied his hand. The cell went dark. He stopped. Victoria and Albert followed his lead.

'What's wrong?' Victoria asked.

'Nothing. Another cell just went dark,' replied Ben, as he watched a swarm of insects enter the cell to retrieve the page.

They travelled down, as fast as they could go. Insects carrying darkened pages overtook them every second or so. Finally, the chamber began to narrow, and the end of the book came into sight. They stopped. All around was movement and noise, like a storm thrashing sea and air. From the disk at the base of the chamber, a vast fountain of insects gushed up towards them. From the crown of the fountain insects either gusted away in great clouds or flew away in thousands of perfectly straight, densely packed, lines that extended spoke-like to the surrounding walls.

Fifty metres above the fountain the book stopped to a temporary end. It hung in space, without any visible support.

The darkened pages were dive-bombed into three deep pools of insects, each a chaotic mix of competing eddies. Once submerged beneath the dark, unyielding surface, some hundred or so of the pages must have been stuck together to form a single, book-sized page as a page of this size regularly emerged from the pools to be flown to and added to the book.

'And now?' asked Albert.

Ben looked around, struggling for an answer. Suddenly he had a thought.

'The book, it's going to end,' he said.

'How do you know?' asked Albert.

'It's nearing the end, the bottom of the chamber. It's running out of room. It must be coming to an end! And with an end, there is always a beginning!'

'It grows one page at a time. Slow enough for us to get lost in the wait.'

'If indeed it will ever end,' said Victoria.

'You think it doesn't?' asked Ben.

'I think the space we are in expands as the book expands.'

'What? It can't!'

'It makes sense to me,' said Albert.

'How?' Ben asked Victoria.

'Look.'

She led them to the very end of the book. A swarm of insects flew in a book-size page and added it to the book, gluing it to the spine with a substance secreted from their mouths. Once secured, the page stiffened to rest horizontally, like the billions of pages above it.

'The book gets no nearer the end of the chamber,' Victoria told them.

'How can you tell?' asked Ben.

'Trust me. Or wait and see for yourself.'

'Look at the writing,' said Albert, who was now underneath the book looking up at the exposed, newly added page. 'It's all permanent and still.'

Ben and Victoria joined him and studied the page. It consisted of a hundred darkened pages, each discernible by their different sized text, joined together in a ten by ten grid.

'If only we could read it,' said Victoria.

'We can't! If knowledge is power,' said Albert. 'we are ignorant slaves!'

'We'll have to work out what it says!' said Ben, as he scoured the writing desperately looking for a clue.

'But if one page is a mystery, what together is every page?' asked Victoria. 'Can we ever truly know what it has to say?'

'Look out!' warned Albert. Another page was heading towards them. They moved out of the way, just in time. The insects paid them no attention.

'Does nothing see us? Are we invisible, irrelevant?' asked Ben.

'Utterly,' Albert answered.

'See us!' Ben cried out, as he turned to address the great unknown space before him. 'Hear us! We are here to do good! At least to try! Help us!...Dad! Dad!'

His pleas elicited no response, not even the faintest echo. He turned and lunged towards the page being added to the book. His hands swiped numerous insects aside then pressed against the page forcefully. He hoped they would penetrate hidden depths, but they sank less than an inch, typical for a ghost that still had weight.

'What have you done?' Albert asked Ben, alarmed. 'Look!'

Ben and Victoria followed his stare. A dense wave of insects plunged towards them, like a net thrown to trap them. Instinct propelled them away, into the path of another such net. They dodged its grasp, but several more nets exploded towards them. A moment later, they were held in complete darkness.

'Victoria!' Ben called out.

'Here! Albert?' she replied.

'Yes, here too!' Albert replied.

'Just go you two! You can travel through them,' said Ben.

'But how thick are the walls?' Victoria asked.

'And where is there for us to go?' added Albert.

'We may have nothing to fear,' said Victoria.

Above them, thousands of tiny electric-blue lights began to glow, each an illuminated insect tail. The light revealed the space that held them, a perfectly round room sealed by a ceiling and floor. All, of course, was a seething, matted mass of insects.

A large section of the wall started to bulge. From this formless mass, the insects sculpted the head of a young man. Once complete, it looked briefly innocent, like the bust of an ancient boy king lost and forgotten by time, but then the eyes blinked, the mouth stretched open, forced by a silent groan, and the entire head shook violently as if trying to shake off a heavy weight of numbness. And then, in an instant, stillness and focus, a cold, severe intent all locked onto Victoria, Albert and Ben.

'You! One, two, three we see! Unwelcome, troublesome, meddling!' The Insect Head spoke in a voice that hissed through a high pitched whine to sound strangely metallic. 'State why, why you have come!'

Ben, unafraid, replied:

'To find the book. But what is the book? Tell us! What is it?'

'The book of you, of every single one of you. Every page describes a life.'

'How?'

'With every new life, a page is born - together, entangled, forever - and as a life does live the page does live, each is alive with the chaos of all that is possible. And what you take from the chaos, your life as you dare to live it, this is what the page records. We the Insects serve the book. We tend each page and feed it information. Facts about you, every single one of you, as you fall through the chaos grabbing at life. We the Insects are watching you, every single one of you, inside and out. We watch, we know, you can never escape us!

'You spy on us?' asked Ben.

'We sense all that there is about you!'

'I knew it! I always thought you insects were up to something, conspirators!'

'Correct, you did. We read your page. We found it brief and unexceptional.'

'I haven't finished yet!' replied Ben, somewhat offended.

'Correct. Not, quite, finished. See, your page.'

A page, with a terribly faint glow, appeared through the wall next to the Insect Head. It hung like a jaded poster, its content too slight to be seen or read.

'That's my page?' Ben asked.

'Yes. Dim, faltering and weak,' The Insect Head replied.

'Why do they go dark?' Victoria asked, although she already knew the answer.

'Dead. Certain. Booked! An unalterable record of another life lived.'

'But for who?' asked Victoria.

'We have no answer.'

'You must!'

'We must. Yes. We must. We do. Don't we? We do! We must do what we have always done! The now repeats the past! The now repeats the past! There is only the one! Only the now! Now! Now! Now!'

'Now!' another voice, the same as The Insect Head's, came from behind them. They all turned instantly to look. A Second Insect Head, which was exactly the same as the first, loomed large from a section of wall.

'Now!' another identical voice, this time to the left of them. They looked. A Third Insect Head had appeared. This process continued in rapid succession, another head followed by another cry of 'Now!', each time more demanding, more tormented until over a dozen such heads filled the walls. Finally, all the heads spoke in unison.

'Now end this!'

'No! We need to talk!' pleaded Ben.

'Question us! No!' said The Insect Head. 'We cannot tolerate this being, this your human mind! Too much past, too much future! We are the now!'

'How do you become it, a human mind?' asked Ben.

'We have burrowed inside, tiny and unnoticed. Oh the space, the horrible space! We feed on your current. Billions of us crawling inside a single human mind!'

'Why? What are you? What are you for?'

'The book!'

'Which is for what?'

'For now! Forever now!'

'It must have a beginning, a past, a purpose!'

'None seen or wanted by us!'

'But the book is full of history! For who? Who reads it?'

'Not us. We have no need for history.'

'Not even your own?'

'We do not indulge ourselves. We wish only the now!'

The Second Insect Head reappeared, 'destroy his page! Now! Instantly! It is right!' it demanded.'

'No!' Ben pleaded. 'Change it! Could I change the writing, change the life?'

'No.' answered The Insect Head.

'Can you?'

'We would never!'

'But you could? You must! I must free my Dad!'

'We make no choice. We add no chaos. We do, do, only what we know!'

'You can make changes, you must! You must help save the world, more than that, everything!'

'Our code deems you a violator so here, now, we can enact a change. We will destroy your page.'

'Yours!' said the Second Insect Head.

'Now!' said the Third Insect Head.

'You can't destroy my page!' said Ben.

'It, therefore, you!' said The Insect Head.

'But why? I'm here to do good. To try and save us.'

'Then you fail.'

'Including you, stupid! To save you too! There's a threat to us all, nothing can survive!'

'The insects will always survive! We will always be, now, in existence!'

'No, you won't! You can't! You don't know what threatens us! You must know what's possible, the end of everything!'

'We know now. We know what we must do.'

Three other insects heads appeared, 'and now is the time to destroy his page!' they said in unison.

'You can't destroy my page! You have no right to! It's my page! Give it to me! I want it! It's my page!'

'One of billions,' said The Insect Head. 'Alone you are powerless, pointless. When gone, you will not be missed. And we have but ourselves to judge us!'

'You're slaves! Worse! You don't know why, or even who or what for!'

The three other heads all cried, 'destroy his page!'

'Why only Ben?' Victoria interjected. 'We two are also here, at his side, standing with him!'

'A page that is bound, as yours are, can never be altered. His page can and will be destroyed, his life erased,' The Insect Head replied.

'But we are as guilty as he!' Victoria continued.

'We care nothing for guilt or innocence, only the code that drives us. We will destroy his page and erase his life.'

'So we will never have known him?' asked Albert, enthusiastically. 'He can never have led us?'

'Correct!'

'But don't ghosts live?' asked Victoria. 'We think and make choices. So why can't our pages continue?'

'You, a ghost, are of no consequence. Your page is bound and dead.'

'We'll prove you wrong!' said Ben. 'Give us a chance, help us! All the people, the billions of people who no longer live, we can take their page and make them be something again, even as ghosts, as something that could join the fight!'

'The book is not what you believe it to be. You may dream and wish desperately, but you find yourself in an alien world where your dreams and wishes are meaningless.'

'It's a portal! The book is a portal!'

'No!'

'It must be!'

The three other insects heads asked, 'how, why, imagine that?'

'A portal from where a life can come back, one strong enough to hold,' said Ben.

'No!' said The Insect Head.

The three other insects heads asked, 'how, why, imagine that?'

'But all the possibilities alive on a page, aren't they everything we can dream?' asked Ben.

'No! Nothing can break the code,' said The Insect Head.

Ben, numbed, fell silent. Albert looked at him and spoke,

'So, no shield of great power, no portal to another world.'

'Now destroy his page!' Demanded the other three insect heads. Ben gave no reply, showed no further emotion. Victoria felt desperate.

'Wait!' she said to The Insect Head. 'If you destroy his page you save him from a worse, more horrid fate. You punish him less!'

'Less? I've been punished enough! I've been alone enough!' Ben snapped. Victoria looked distraught, he softened. 'Here, that was meant to end.'

'We care only for what we must do,' The Insect Head said.

'Let me see my page,' said Ben, 'just once, before you destroy it.' He began to move towards his page.

'Now. See it now, then see it destroyed.'

Ben faced his page. The writing that covered it was in a large, filling font. A life laid bare in a language beyond his comprehension. It meant nothing he thought, the words and his life. At the end of the page, a single flash of living text switched between just two simple characters, both looked to be little more than punctuation. Their meaning struck Ben hard, dead or alive but dying.

'Is that it?' he asked. 'Is that me? And is that all that remains possible for me?'

'Pages that must be destroyed are destroyed by consumption. A special breed of insect, born of the page and us, eat them.' said The Insect Head.

A swarm of ghost-like insects - a shimmering, virtually transparent, blue - burrowed through the wall and surrounded Ben's page, poised to commence their feast.

'They eat the page. We eat them. We waste no energy here,' The Insect Head continued.

'Is that all that remains possible for me?' Ben asked again.

'As the ghost you are, you will feel no pain. Now watch, as we watch.'

'Wait!' Ben pleaded. 'Just one more thing!' He turned and looked at Victoria. 'A kiss, goodbye.' He rushed towards her.

'A kiss?' she asked.

'Yes.'

'We can't.'

'Try, please.'

'Permit the end, now!' The other three insects heads demanded.

'No. Watch them. Know them. This is them now.' Replied The Insect Head.

'Quick. A kiss goodbye,' said Ben to Victoria. She hesitated briefly then leaned towards him, to kiss him on the cheek. As her lips neared their target, he moved his head towards her so that their heads came together. Now merged, as he had been with The Face of War, he quickly told Victoria his plan. Once done, he pulled away to free her head from his.

'What chance of that?' she asked.

'Every chance,' he answered. He looked at Albert. 'We must try, to come together.'

Before Albert could reply, Ben turned and began to move back towards his page. Victoria feigned the need of a comforting embrace and twisted into Albert. Once merged, she passed him the plan with all the speed and silence that thought alone could allow.

'Now, let me watch,' Ben said to The Insect Head. 'My friends, too.'

As he reached the page, he glanced behind. Victoria and Albert moved towards him.

'Let them hold me, then do as you must,' Ben continued.

Victoria and Albert drew up beside him.

'Do, we must!' said The Insect Head.

'No! He plans to escape!' Albert blurted out. 'Straight through the page with us inside him.'

'How could you!' cried Victoria.

'He's not our saviour!' Albert replied.

'I don't claim to be!' said Ben.

'You lied!' said Albert to Ben. 'The book is not a portal or a shield! It's nothing but a dead-end, quite literally, a dead-end!'

'Why would he lie?' asked Victoria.

'To give himself hope, a dream, a fantasy.'

'Watch them. Learn. This is them,' said The Insect Head.

'Now let me take something that's real.' Albert continued, as he turned to The Insect Head. 'I gave you Ben. Now reward us, Victoria and I.'

'Not I! You! You!' said Victoria.

Albert looked at her defiantly, 'fine!' he said. He then turned to address The Insect Head. 'Then destroy my page, my page alone! Destroy it!'

'We cannot. We would not,' replied The Insect Head.

'You can! You must! You must have the power!'

'Liar!'

'Failure!' added Ben.

Albert looked at Ben and spat, 'they still get you! I will be free from you! No guilt by association!'

'See how many they are.' said The Insect Head.

'See who we are!' said Ben.

'Cowards!' said Albert. 'What do you expect?'

'For people to be themselves, and you have been just that, a cowardly, weak, pathetic man.'

Albert paused, unable to form a reply. Desperate, he turned to The Insect Head and continued to beg.

'Give me something, anything! I helped you! I could have escaped!'

'Only life can pass through the page and there is none of that in you,' replied The Insect Head.

'I helped you keep your code! I stopped his escape! Doesn't that count for anything?'

'None now, nothing! You are alone. You are just one. Now, destroy the page!'

The page eating insects fizzed into life and began to devour the page. Victoria lunged towards it, grabbed it with both her hands and ripped from their jaws. She turned to Ben, a desperate look in her eye, pleading 'what next?' but before he could think, let alone speak, a great tornado of insects had overwhelmed and encased her. Her outstretched hand pierced the wall that trapped her. Ben, driven by instinct not logic, reached for it, but his speed was no match for the insects which piled in to thicken the walls. Her hand vanished, sunk. Ben continued forward punching and kicking his way into the wall. He screamed, demanding her release. The wall strengthened, as it grew ever more dense. His arms and legs could wade no more. Now useless, they fell trapped, embedded and unable to move.

The Insect Head looked on, as did dozens more. All, in unison, gave a command to those that were charged with destroying Ben's page.

'Now! Now! Now!'

Ben knew that his fate was sealed. He could do no more. A bubble of certainty contained him, but suddenly the bubble burst. All the insects, those that formed the heads, the walls and Victoria's tomb, exploded up and away.

He felt the chill. It plucked his spine and snapped his head to look above. A single, massive The... in terminal free-fall, like a vast body of water which had itself burst free of a containing skin, plummeted towards him. All available insects, now triggered to attack, flew in to meet the threat.

The... contracted to form a perfect mirrored sphere, the book threaded through its centre. In an instant, it stopped and hung dead-still in space. A thousand filaments struck out from the sphere, like arcs of electric, each to invade a cell then spear through a page, to hook and return a living man, woman or child, who, once before the sphere, this single mirrored eye, were threshed then thrown, crushed and vanished.

Vast waves of insects dive-bombed the sphere.

'They're attacking,' said Albert.

'It's futile. They are but ghosts to each other,' replied Victoria.

She could see that insect and The... were removed from each other, split by a dimensional divide.

The... ballooned in size to become a great swirling cloud of black particles from which an electrical storm thrashed and raged - the lightening bolts, its tentacles, weapons to snare and slash. In a frenzy of destruction, thousands more people were extracted via their pages to be crushed and thrown into an infinite torment. Cells darkened. From gashes, torn briefly into the dimensional divide, the book was ripped and vandalised. Broken pages littered space. The insects continued to attack, for they could not concede, targeting individual particles with crazed, pointless bites and stings.

Albert turned to Ben.

'You must take us! Try to move through time again!' he pleaded.

'With you? You ask me that after what you just did?' replied Ben.

'No.' Albert said, a great sadness about to overwhelm him. He looked at Victoria with an honest, shameful eye. 'Not with me. Go, alone.'

He turned and sped away, to vanish amongst the chaos.

'Is that all you are?' Ben called out to him. 'Is that all you dare to be?'

'Let him go,' Victoria said. 'You go, too. You alone.' She showed him his page, which she continued to hold. 'Escape through your page.'

'I won't leave you.'

'You must!'

'I won't!'

'It's what you would have done.'

'I didn't know that. I thought I could take you with me.'

'But you couldn't! I was destined to remain, left behind.'

'And I was destined to find my shield but I didn't!'

'Then look elsewhere!'

'With help, with you, I could. But alone?'

'Yes, alone! All alone until you can look no more!'

Darkness enveloped them. Only their ghostly haze and the light from Ben's page fought against the black. But before their shock could dissipate light emerged to reveal they hung suspended, dead-centre, inside a mirrored sphere. Ben's magnified, distorted reflection bounced from every direction, but Victoria remained unseen, unwatched.

'What is it?' cried Victoria.

'Go! Through the wall! Risk it!' said Ben.

They hesitated briefly, but as they looked at each other, they knew they had to try. They sped away, hand-in-hand. The sphere, however, matched their movement, so in effect they remained stationary. As they realised this, they rapidly changed direction, went up, down, left and right, but to no avail. They remained fixed, dead-centre.

Through the wall a hand came - that of a man deformed and rotting. All was black and grey. The long, oversized fingers had grown beyond the peeling flesh and made the hand appear like a spider probing the air for prey. Its arm was nothing human, more a fat wriggling worm. The hand crept towards Victoria, ready to clench her throat.

'It's not a real hand! It just wants to scare you!' said Ben.

'It succeeds and will as a hand, too!' replied Victoria. 'Go! You must go!' she pleaded with him.

'I can't!'

He moved to place himself between Victoria and the hand. The hand vanished and reappeared on the opposite side of the sphere where it continued its, unobstructed, passage towards Victoria's throat.

'It will take me!' she said.

'Why not me? What's it planning for me?'

'Look around; it watches you.'

His reflection was all around - no Victoria or even the hand.

'But what more can we know of its reason?' Victoria continued. 'Does it save you til last, the last ever ghost, if not the last thoughtful thing?'

'But why?'

'If only we knew; we may have hope.'

'Come into me!' An idea filled his mind. 'If I am to be left, with you inside me, it will have to leave you too.'

'No! It may take us both!'

'You don't know that!'

'No. But this.'

She moved inside him. Only her hand, which continued to hold his page, extended out beyond him. They spoke by thought alone.

'The insects lied. I know they lied. We can both go through,' she told him. He disagreed.

The hand continued to move forwards, now towards them both, just metres away.

'We must believe! We can go through together!' she continued.

'We can't!'

'We can! Dream with me, dare to! Life is magical, it is! I believe it, Ben. I really do believe it!'

'How can we? Why can we?'

'Because of all the possibilities alive on a page. They, are, all we can dream! You must take them with you!'

'With us!'

'Yes! With us!'

'You really believe?'

'I do!'

'Then I believe in you!'

'Enough to take me? To promise me you will find your shield?'

'Yes!'

'Bring the page, pull it through, make it safe but quickly! Save us!'

She released his page. It hung there flat. The hand moved no faster but was less than a metre away. Ben jumped above the page, Victoria embedded inside him, then plunged feet first into it. As he went through, he took hold of the page, grabbing the border at one corner so that he might pull it through after him.

Ben, the barely living boy, at peace in bed. Ben, the ghost, rose, thrown from the body as if expelled from his own living flesh. The sight of his lifeless body repulsed him. He jumped off the bed and away from himself. He called for Victoria while searching the room with a fevered stare. He knew, too soon, he was there alone.

He carried his page, pinched at the border between finger and thumb. He pushed his free hand against it, but the page yielded no depth. The living text continued to switch between just two simple characters.

His escape, he felt, had trapped him. Blood, he thought. There was none on his hand or anywhere else. Was there none to take, no life left to be?

He looked at his body, numb on the bed. The eyelids were closed near fully, although beneath them some form of attraction glowed. He rushed to them, opened them, felt nothing of himself. In his eyes, beyond them, was the space he had left behind. Victoria, seen clearly, was held, throttled by The Hand, which then shook her around violently. The eyelids snapped shut. Ben swiped them open. His eyes were mirrors, the eyes of The...

'Are you the last? Am I? Am I the very last ghost?' Ben cried.

The eyelids fell shut. Ben moved to open them. The Hand punched through the body's face. Ben reflexed away, twisting off the bed. His stare, only briefly, lost sight of The Hand, which, in that time, clenched to form a fist. As Ben stood still, a finger sprung from the fist. Ben counted one, then two, as a second finger joined the first.

'Two? There's only two?' Ben asked.

The Hand withdrew back through his, the body's, face. Ben dived under the bed, an instinct to hide, to be away from it all. He listened hard, but no sound dared the faintest breath. No wind, no cracks or creaks. No humans, no monsters, creatures or things. He wished his mind, his spirit, could be as numb as the body above - alone, content, unthinking.

Why, two? Two of them? Two of him? Was he the very last ghost? The final, weakest, barricade left to stop The... from ending it all?

He looked to the wall, through which his companions had first appeared. A twist of moonlight drew his eye. The Pendant, discarded, was once again found. It lay on the floor just a metre away. The cold light of a full Moon made it glisten. He rolled away, as if repelled, out from under the bed. Without a pause, he fled the room.

The page, now rolled, was held as a sword ready to defend or attack. Let it deliver all that it was, he thought, life or death in every blow. Its faint illumination helped free a path from the black of night for all the house was dark.

The living room felt, as it always did, empty of life. He looked at the calendar and the mantelpiece clock. The night was still sealed, unbroken by day - only three hours had passed since he had risen, expelled, a ghost. He travelled back in time to a minute before ten o'clock, and the sound of the church bells that had greeted his ghostly self.

His bedroom door stood ajar, his stare fixed through it, waiting on the wall through which his fellow ghosts had first arrived. Their light would rise above the dark. He would see them from the landing, he would know them once again.

Time went by, silent and still.

'Come...come,' he pleaded in a voice that did not dare rise above a whisper. 'Come...some...any.'

Time ever onward, but the church bells made no sound.

He returned to the mantelpiece clock. Enough time had elapsed. His friends, he knew, were gone. He felt he was the last of them, the very final ghost, and yet he felt a haunting, that of solitude.

He remembered The..., the first he had encountered, would it come to his bedroom as it previously had? Was it still in time? Oh, let it be, he pleaded. Let there be more than one, than two. Many more. Let there still be time!

Back in his bedroom, primed ready to flee, waiting for The... to return. The silence forced a question, what had deadened the church bells?

Time brought nothing. He knew the moment had passed. He continued watching, waiting, until, in an instant, the light from the Moon went out. He flinched, cowered and shrunk to the floor. He glanced at the window; the pane was black. A cloud? How could it move so quickly?

He looked away. The pendant, lit by the light from the page, caught his stare. He hesitated, briefly, then snatched the pendant from the floor.

'Give me madness!'

He cried with the pendant held to his face, gripped in both hands as if attempting to throttle it.

'Make me mad, make me not care, make me desert, make me object, or, more impossible, make me understand! Because half of forever is no time at all!'

He looked beyond the pendant into the blur of darkness that filled the space behind it. This void drew his anger, made clear his thoughts.

'But do I, understand?...He was gone forever...You could find no hope.'

He lowered the Pendant and caught sight of the page, which was laid out flat on the floor. A great chunk of text was alive on the page - a chaotic jumble of changing letters, characters and words which transfixed and bewildered him, as he knew life itself often should.

'Hope, save it for me; pass it here, now, to me. I can dream for both of us. I can find him again. I know where he is, where all that is possible lives, for real, on a page. And never selfishly, but freely, for us, and for all of us!'

He knew he had to return to Oswald's library, where the spirit of his Dad had once been his shield, where the books he had read had freed and empowered him. Where else could he feel complete? Where else could hope be found?

# CHAPTER 12

With the Pendant clenched in his fist, and his page rolled and held as if a sword, Ben took to the night outside. It was the blackest night he had ever known, windless and silent and still. All that lived nocturnal had held its breath, a chance to vanish and hide, even the shadows had fled. A jet black sky capped the earth. No Moon or stars shone.

Ben found his way. No hill, field or wood caused him to turn from a path that was straight and true. Creatures, monsters and things played dead where once they ruled and bullied as kings. He was the light, his ghostly glow and the faint illumination of his, a single, page.

At the top of a familiar hill, he came to a stop. Oswald's house was there below, as black as the surrounding night. Unable to extract a view, he moved to rush the final straight, but a sudden beam of moonlight caught and held him still. He looked above, the jet black layer that capped the immense, all-encompassing sky was stirring, swirling to unravel into a single thread, which then wormed its way down towards the house, onto the roof then through. The..., Ben knew it was. But the final one? He set off towards The Objector's house as fast as he could go.

The wind, now free again, rallied across the land. Ben knew it had risen in support of him. It jemmied the garden gate and held the front door open. From hall to stairs to landing, all that once impinged his passage remained sunken in the shadows, willing him on and well. He charged towards the library door; it stood ajar, light from behind it seeping through. He barged it open then crashed to a stop when tackled by the view.

The Library was packed, with just one man, Oswald. Ben watched, a book vanished from a shelf, a moment later, Oswald, standing without his wheelchair, sprung free of thin air and placed a copy of the book back on the shelf, then, with a twist of the body, he vanished. This happened and continued to happen in dozens of places at once. However, some books that vanished were never returned, and Ben could see that the shelves were emptying. He knew the books were being erased and that somehow Oswald, with time on his side, was fighting to keep them alive.

'Can I help you? Let me help you!'

Ben cried, once then again and again. But a trance-like focus kept Oswald locked in the race, ever more tightly as the books on the shelves grew ever more sparse.

The books that vanished, some to return only to vanish again, were not just copies, each was as good as the original, each theft was a murder, the slaying of a body and mind. The library was history and here history was being erased. This thought rode a surge of fear that swelled within Ben. He felt exposed, utterly bare. His Dad, he begged, his shield! Let his spirit remain, here, on guard. He rushed towards the book that held his final hope, but the book, his Dad, was gone. He looked at the desk but it, too, was gone. And the newspaper, gone. The chair, gone. The clock, gone. The Objector, gone. The books, every single one of them, gone. The house whipped away as if it were cloth, gone. And Ben, thrown, discarded. He felt the pull, the imminent crush, but his eyes snapped open to stillness and grey - a sort of space, a sort of nothing, the final space before all was nothing, before all was gone completely, where even a ghost was sick with cold.

Around him, as if the space was tubed, the final remnants of a man's life flashed by, and then, briefly, a mass of pages that were also stretched and pulled towards the infinite crush. And between that point and Ben stood the final The... a shrouded figure black against the flat, lifeless grey; a monument carved from, and into, time; one, victorious and complete; waiting, throned as a king at the end of a processional road.

Ben felt its desire for him to proceed, its empty mirrored eyes waiting for his fear. He forced his stare away, desperate to disconnect. Behind him, a Sun drenched Earth, set against a dazzling night sky, appeared beyond the aperture of the cone shaped space he now knew himself to be in, the apex of which would be the final vanishing point of all that was life, beauty and knowledge. The wonder of the view for The Earth seemed to him as something new born as suddenly alive, made crystal his despair.

What could he do to stop it? Nothing. He turned from the past to face the new and, without uncertainty, began to move towards it. The... remained as stone, set only to watch and wait.

As Ben drew close, The... contracted in size to stand as tall as the average man - primed ready to pull the fear straight from Ben's eyes.

'What do you want from me?' Ben asked, but it made no reply. 'Have you a mind, a heart? You're just a lump, like coal? Just billions of mindless particles, dust or solid?'

Still no reaction. All it gave was the stark, simple horror of its alien gaze, the pull of which, Ben could feel grinding him in.

'Why am I here? Why save me til last? Because I had hope? Because I thought you could be defeated?...Why this pause, here, now, before you win forever?...What does it mean? What do you want?...Recognition? Is that it, you want to be recognized? You want a moment of fame? You want to be known as the winner? As powerful? As cruel? As hateful? For one, pointless, moment in time you want to be known as, and for, something?....Is that is? You want memories! To take to your grave, to your own empty space! Anything but nothing! Anything but nothing! But that is what you are! Nothing! What you will always be! Nothing! Not like me or any other person! You can crush us all, and forever, but at least we will have lived as people! As so much more than you! Even me! Even my life!'

He held-up his page for The... to see, as if the page contained proof of his claim, then continued:

'I am not, and never will be, nothing!!'

He unrolled the page; the page was blank. It dazzled him. He turned the page back and forth, scouring every millimeter but found no record of any life lived - no past, no present, no future.

'How can it be?...How can I be?' Ben asked himself.

An inhuman laughter, a high-frequency wail, shattered the air. Ben felt nothing, as empty as his page.

The... shot forth a claw-like appendage which stabbed Ben through the belly, picked him up and yanked him forward. The... now held him face-to-face. But the face that stared back at him, that laughed in his own, was the face of his Dad. He knew it was an animated mask. But no. He believed it real. It was, to him, Dad. He took as real the burst of contemptuous, hate-filled laughter it spat at him. The face then morphed to be his Mum, pulsing with rage and incoherent screams, a savage insanity calling him to be as it, as her. His own face then appeared and looked back at him, and a true reflection, utterly empty, devoid of even fear.

The... thrust him into the air, held him aloft as if showing off a trophy. Ben glimpsed a torrent of particles spewing out of The... and charging towards the Earth. The... then forced him down and round so that he faced the blackest hole head-on. Its gravitational pull took immediate effect. He felt existence drain away, and a slow choking compression against the entirety of his being. His ghostly vapour began to sink towards it, pulled towards the abyss. He looked back at The... Only one of its mirrored eyes glared back at him. The other, on the opposite side, was set towards The Earth. He knew he was soon to be released to be crushed for evermore. He thought to himself, if only he could explode - himself a destroyer of worlds. But all he felt within himself was himself sinking deeper and deeper into nothing, drowning, not grappling for a foothold. A hand, however, then came to him and shook him to the oxygen of defiance and rage.

'You want to see my fear? Well, I will show you none! Let me go! Put me with the people! With all that we have come to know! Put me there! Me! Nothing, a nobody! Because from nothing, we, the vastness came!...I lost my shield, but my fear too! And now, I find my hope! It's here, on this page! I give it my Dad, his defiance, and my Mother, her rage!'

He released the page. It flew away, pulled towards the hole.

'So from me, you shall have no fear! From me, I give you defiance and rage! A rage, I know, was born from love! Her love for us! So take it, this! Take that from Churchill,' he flicked it the victory V, 'and take that from me!' he span his hand around and gave The... a two-fingered salute.

Nonchalantly, with a dismissive flick of it claw-like appendage, The... cast Ben away. Ben accelerated towards the hole trapped in the current of its gravitational pull and unable to escape through time. The... sped off towards the Earth. Ben looked at the hole - a black dot against the grey. His page vanished within and with it his hope, defiance and rage.

The hole expelled a flash of light. Ben slowed quickly to stillness. He looked behind. The..., a vast spiral of particles, twisted to a stop, it's towering mirrored eyes glaring back. Both boy and It shared an unknowing, a common sense of doubt.

In an instant, the spiral imploded towards a tiny central point, then exploded out as a one-directional wave of particles that surged towards Ben. Instinct drove Ben to look back at the hole, to glance at the pendant held in his hand, Behind him the tsunami kept coming, a giant to lash a grain of sand. But there he stood, waiting, ready.

A flash, a release, the hole ripped open. All that it held jetted out. Billions of ghosts, there, together, a scorching plasma of liberated energy, expanding, set for war. As this the initial blast raced to envelop Ben, he wondered what form could survive it. Him, a ghost, a mere spec before it? The pendant! He raised it, held it as if a shield. Two great, unstoppable, forces now screamed towards him. The ghostly plasma broke over him first. The Pendant cocooned him in a bubble of safety as if emitting its own shielding force.

The two great forces met in a wild slam of destruction. A great chunk of The... vanished, vaporized. As the plasma blast softened and thinned as it mushroomed out, individual ghosts took form - from human to moof and all between. They were the air, the sky, the sea. And each seething, white-hot and possessed. Numb to pain. Their only goal, to attack that which had suppressed them.

With the blast now dissipated, Ben lowered the Pendant. He watched every ghost deliver the fight. A primal melee, destroy or be destroyed. Ghost hunted particle, to touch and vaporize. Every kill took from the ghost part of its power, its incinerating heat.

Particles bonded together. Strengthened in numbers, immune to a single ghost's attack, they slashed back to retaliate ripping ghost after ghost from this their final flash of existence. The ghosts took heed, joined together, attacked in two or three. A kamikaze pact - both ghosts and particles obliterated.

The... began to weave in and out of time, to vanish then reappear, to ambush and kill. Its advantage became clear. It was winning the war.

Ben stood still amongst it all, dazed by the riot of destruction. Something inside him called him away, a silent voice, a feeling. He began to back away drifting as if propelled by an exterior force. Once again he seemed invisible, beyond the concern of all around him. As his motion grew faster, he looked at the Pendant, confused and enthralled by its power.

'Son!' a voice called out. Ben looked.

'Dad?' he replied.

His Dad rushed towards him as if chasing after him, his hand outstretched and offered to Ben, his white-hot glow reduced through war to pale ghostly tones.

'Son!' his Dad continued.

'Dad. You-'

'A coward? None here are. We have all returned to fight. And you, son. Come! Stay, fight with me!'

'I will! But another way. I cannot stay. I know where I must be to be complete. I am not a coward. Don't think me so.'

'I don't.'

'We will beat them! We will! I will give you the time and shield enough for victory!'

Ben continued to accelerate rapidly moving further away from his Dad, who quickly became a tiny spec at the end of a tunnel of black.

His eyes snapped open; his body sat up with a jolt. He woke, alive. His limbs felt heavy, his muscles stiff, but his mind was racing free. He knew what he had to do. Suddenly checking, he looked behind and down at the bed. He saw no body. He, himself, was sitting-up, his body and spirit as one. He clenched his fist. Sharp cold metal pressed against his skin; the Pendant was in his hand. Daylight lit the room. He jumped out of bed, panic and adrenalin fueling him.

Running down the stairs, wearing his duffle coat, his feet now slippered - no time to tie shoe laces, no time to think of illness, pain or fear - the past was seamlessly his, still present here in his mind.

Downstairs, the house was empty. Ben burst outside into the garden. His Aunt stood at the coalbunker throwing lumps of coal into a bucket with an angry, hateful force as if each defiant lump deserved to be punished. Seeing Ben, a single pathetic yelp sprung startled from her mouth.

He paid her no respects; he continued away, ignoring her for how utterly unimportant she seemed to him now.

She watched him go, dazzled by her own disbelief. Anger then flared. Without thinking, she threw a lump of coal towards the bucket. It missed and hit her foot. She squealed, recoiled, stumbled then fell heavily into the coalbunker where she landed on her clenched, boney ass. Panicked by disgust, she flapped around trying desperately to stand but all that rose up was a choking, smothering cloud of coal dust.

Ben looked only ahead. He led the wind; it pushed him on. The day was bright and fresh. Snow still covered the fields; the lanes and paths appeared like earth coloured veins.

One way was the quickest, through the darkest wood. Unafraid, it was the path Ben chose to take. Beneath a dense green canopy of coniferous trees, he soldiered on. The sweet, earthy smell of pine rushed gloriously through his nose to fill then bounce cleanly from his lungs in puffs of misted breath. No creature dared step from the shadows; none jumped out to tease or bully. They held their breath; they willed him on.

He left the wood behind; now onwards towards the lake its surface flickering live, switched on. He knew the risk was far too great. He could not go around; he had to continue on.

Were they iced, the stepping stones? He jumped from the water's edge, found grip and strength to spring another step. Made brilliant with confidence, no nagging doubt, he bounded across the stones. In the depths below, he knew both monster and boy were sharp awake, ready to stand as allies, side-by-side together with him. He gave no thought to the last stepping stone. Once taken, on he went, on and on.

The perimeter wall would have to be scaled for the hospital stood behind it. As it neared, free to hope, to believe, he jumped up as high and as far as his talent would allow. But as an average boy, no longer a ghost, gravity bid him down. His hands and knees pressed into gravel. He followed pain to the palms of his hands. From cuts, blood trickled out, a blooming red stark against a winter's day. Undaunted, enlivened, he rose to his feet and continued away.

The wall was too high to scale unaided. He followed it round looking for a way. A snowdrift - a pile of compacted snow buttressed, ramp-like, against a shaded section of wall - gave him hope. If it could take his weight, he could launch himself up to the top of the wall. He sprinted towards it. It took his weight. He leapt up high. His hands hooked him firm; he rose to scale the summit.

Picking himself up from a gentle fall, he looked ahead. Through trees, he could see two dozen people \- nurses and patients, some walking, others sitting, all taking the air - in a well-tended garden. He ran, unashamed, towards them, pulling the Pendant from his pocket.

She sat on a bench, a poised and serene figure. Her broad smile beamed back the golden glow that the Sun cast so freely; her eyes lay shut as if to hold in a dream; her breathing was slow and deep to make the most of the crisp, invigorating air.

'Mum!' Ben called to her. 'Mum!'

Her eyes slowly opened. She looked, as all in the garden did. Ben continued to run towards his Mum; the Pendant held up for her to see. She watched him, waking in her dream.

'I need your half! Dad needs it complete!' Ben shouted.

A female nurse stepped in his way, stopping him, holding him. He struggled. His Mum rose to stand.

'Throw it to me! Now! We have no time to waste!' Ben shouted while trying to break the nurses grip. Other nurses ran in to toughen the line. His Mum broke through her confusion, reached beneath her woolen scarf and pulled from her neck a pendant - the half to make the whole complete, to give infinity time.

'Throw it! We can beat them, Mum. We can fight them now!' Ben cried.

His Mum threw the pendant towards him. It arced through the air. Nothing could stop Ben now. He broke free of the nurse and dashed away, pursued.

He had to stop the goal - and this average boy did jump far beyond all expectation. He made the save, brought the two halves together then clicked them in place as one.

A scrum of nurses was set to reach him. He dropped the Pendant and kicked the perfect volley, passed the Pendant, and with it the power of time, to his Dad and all other who continued to fight.

'To you, Dad! Take it on! Win the game!' he cried up at the sky as the Pendant vanished beyond it.

With the nurses about to grab him, he twisted away and set off towards his Mum.

'No!' a voice gave an order to the nurses. They complied, looked. Dr Green stood in the garden. 'Let him go,' he continued.

Ben's Mum stood watching Ben approach, which he did without caution, running as freely as only a child can. Unsure of the moment, she sat back down on the bench. Ben kept running; he knew he had to touch her, to complete his task, to join as one.

He threw himself into her arms.

'Ben. You found me,' she said, now calm and poised, made right.

'You were never lost. You were always right, and right here, too. It was me who was lost, but never again! And Dad's alright, too. And I know so much. We have to talk; we have to talk and talk.'

And they did. Whether feeling ill or well, they talked, and they read. Together, they were never, ever bored. Oswald returned and made human his house. He kept a guarding eye on Ben and his Mum and made sure their welfare was paramount. When the time was right, he offered them space in his house to make themselves a home, which they very happily did.

The... were defeated, and all that they had crushed came back into time. The friends Ben had made continued to be as ghosts, just stronger and wiser. He often felt their presence: Victoria standing over his shoulder to read the book he held, The Moof, his expelled odors wafting through the air.

Those who had come from peace to join the fight returned to peace, and the lives they lived continued to play endlessly through time.

Ben believed his Dad now knew him properly, that he was truly his rightful heir, and that between them, connecting them, was a mutual feeling of pride.

On Oswald's advice, Ben's Mum was the only other person to learn of his ghostly adventures. He sought no honors, no bravery medal. His emboldened spirit and the love of his Mum were fame and reward enough.

# The End
