The Magic Lands (39 page)

Where am
I?
It was an obvious question.

He made an attempt to move his
legs with a view to getting up, but found that he had a great deal
of difficulty in performing even that simple task. One of his legs,
he couldn't tell which, felt strange as if it were asleep and after
taking a few deep breaths and trying to move each in turn, he
understood that it was his left leg, and more, that something was
very wrong with it.

Quite suddenly, a door that Tom
had failed to notice opened and a tall, bearded man entered the
room. When he saw that Tom was awake he smiled and gave him a
thumbs up sign. "You look a good deal better, young man!" he
exclaimed in a deep, resonant voice. "How do you feel?"

"Where am I? What's going on?"
Tom asked quickly, eyeing the man with suspicion.

"Questions, questions,"
returned the bearded man good-naturedly. "I have a few of those
myself."

"Where is the man I was with?"
Tom demanded. "His name is Elrin Jinn," he added. "What's happened
to him?"

"Ah," voiced the man, as if
Tom's outburst had explained something. "Perhaps you should take a
look at this." He took a piece of paper from inside his jacket and
handed it toward the boy. Instinctively, Tom touched the place
beneath his shirt where he kept the map and was relieved to find it
still there. "You were left outside my door," the man continued,
"with this note attached."

Tom took the paper and read it
silently.

To whom it may concern,

Please tend to the boy until he
recovers. Once he is able, send him on his way. I trust the payment
will be satisfactory.

E. Jinn.

"Your friend, I presume," the
bearded man said, rubbing his chin.

Tom nodded absently, refolding
the letter. "But why should you help me?" He stared at the man,
demanding an answer.

"Two reasons," came the prompt
reply. "Firstly, because I’m a doctor, and therefore it is my sworn
oath to tend to the sick. And secondly, because of this." Deftly,
the bearded man dipped his fingers into a pocket and retrieved a
small green pouch that was displayed to Tom, dangling from the
drawstrings. The man then opened it and poured the contents

into his outstretched hand.

"Diamonds!" Tom exclaimed as a
dozen blue-white gems sparkled and glittered against the man's
palm.

"Payment in full," he affirmed
with a satisfied chuckle and slowly tipped the precious stones back
into their bag. "Now, we should introduce ourselves." He stepped
over to the bedside. "My name is Dr. Redhand, but my friends just
call me Red."

Tom didn't know what to make of
all this, but decided it was best to play it safe. "Er, I'm
Vincent," he said, plucking the first name he could think of out of
his head and hoping his face didn't flush with the lie.

The man nodded slowly and
seemed to accept what he had been told. "Well Vincent, I’m pleased
to make your acquaintance and also to tell you that you are well on
your way toward making a full recovery. It was touch and go for a
while, but you're a fighter and between us we exorcised that poison
from your system in the end."

"Poison?" Tom queried.

"Yes indeed," the doctor told
him, "nasty stuff too. Nothing that I've ever seen before. Most
peculiar."

"It was the Wolf," Tom
said very quietly. "It was in another form, but it
was
the Wolf."

"Wolf!?" Dr. Redhand repeated,
a quizzical expression passing across his face.

"The White Wolf," Tom spat the
words angrily, envisioning the monstrous worm, slime dribbling over
his flesh, crushing him, suffocating him. Had the Beast truly meant
to kill him? What was the Wolf really up to? Tom knew that deceit
was at the heart of it all, but

as yet he had not learnt to
interpret the ways of his enemy.

"There are no wolves around
these parts," Dr. Redhand informed him, giving the boy a long, hard
look, as if he feared his injuries ran deeper than supposed, and
the man's

obvious ignorance left Tom at a
loss as to how he should continue the conversation.

"Where is this place?" he
questioned finally, thinking that this would be safe ground.

"You are in the land of
Seraphim, Vincent, and no beasts dwell here."

Tom studied the man closely,
somewhat confused. Nothing, he knew, was as it seemed in this other
world and he was reluctant to trust anyone but himself, but for the
moment, while he could not even walk, he was at this man's mercy.
He had to accept that, even if he didn't like it. "Can I get up?"
he ventured hopefully, but Dr. Redhand merely shook his head,
though he did offer an encouraging smile.

"Maybe tomorrow," he suggested.
"Your leg is still stiff and we mustn’t rush these things. Rest
today and tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll give you a guided tour of our
city."

Tom didn't want to remain
bed-bound but after another furtive attempt at moving his leg, he
knew it would be futile to persist. He would just have to watch and
wait, as Mo had so often counselled.

"Be patient, young man," the
doctor told him and began to laugh, stroking his beard as he did
so. "That's a good one!" he observed, speaking to himself. "Be
patient!"

Tom grimaced at him, not
sharing the man's sense of humour.

"Have a good rest and I'll see
you in the morning, Vincent," said Dr. Redhand making for the door.
"And be patient!" he said once more as he left the room, chuckling
heartily. The

sound of his mirth faded with
every step he took along the corridor and the last thing Tom heard
was a faint voice, saying. "That really is a good one!"

The leader of the hunt pulled
up his horse violently, the hounds circling him.

There had to be blood before
the hunt could end, but because of the Master's wishes it could not
be that of their quarry. No, they must be left to go on their way,
to remain a part of the game. Now a different treat had been
devised, another prey provided.

"Gather around!" he called to
his riders and they massed about him, eager to hear what he would
say. "Gather one and all, my children of the hunt. I have a great
surprise for you." The dogs began to howl, sensing that the time of
the kill was close at hand. The Huntsmen, steadying their restless
mounts, moved around him as he spoke, a mass of red and white,
anticipation rippling through them, for even though their minds
were dead they craved satisfaction, an appetite for killing
instilled in their empty hearts.

Regarding them with a detached
air, the lead huntsman abruptly roared with malicious laughter.
What could be more entertaining than the hunters becoming the
hunted? The Master knew the true delights of irony.

The massive dogs snapped
impatiently, drooling and foaming as their vicious jaws worked,
cold, pale eyes waiting for the signal to attack.

The white mare reared high on
its hind legs and the huntsman cried out with passion, his eyes
finding the prowling hounds. "Take them, my pretty ones. The kill
is yours!"

With unbelievable speed,
becoming blurs of muscle and snapping teeth, the dogs flung
themselves at the riders, knocking them savagely from their horses,
catching them unaware. Thrown to the ground by this sudden
onslaught, the men and women began to scream, in terror and
disbelief, their pitiful cries filling the air, but then the hounds
were upon them, tearing at throats, ripping at flesh, frenzied in
their attack and the cries told of nothing but pain.

As the dogs went about their
ferocious work, the leader of the hunt sang to them.

"Children of the hunt,

kiss the face of death,

taste the dying breath,

oh, children of the hunt.

Hear the sounds of woe,

feel the blood run cold,

children of the hunt

spirit wraiths of old"

Blood spattered the tunics the
riders wore, a scarlet display of slaughter; the horses panicked,
trampling them underfoot, adding to the carnage in their efforts to
avoid the snarling hounds. The huntsman sang and the screaming went
on.

The horses bolted, desperate to
flee from the massacre. Amidst writhing bodies who now longed to
find death's embrace, the dogs went about their bloody business,
rending and tearing, fangs stained red. They were the children of
the hunt and they could never be denied. The hunt, the kill, was
all there was for them.

After a time in which the sobs
and wails of the dying had seemed like a symphony of the damned, an
unearthly quiet prevailed, a stillborn emptiness that enshrouded
everything. Only the lapping of tongues and gnawing of teeth could
be heard.

The forest had become a
tomb.

What could he do about his
dreams? Tom knew that he was dreaming and yet it seemed so real to
him.

He reached out and touched the
glass pane of the window he was peering through and outside blue
lamps lit up as if on cue, illuminating empty streets.

Should I go
out?
The urge to tread those silent streets was very
strong, the soft light inviting.

He was in a small room,
containing only a bed and a wooden table and chair. There was
nothing to be gained by remaining there, that seemed quite plain,
so Tom walked over to the doorway and turned a silver handle.

At least my leg is better
now.

Looking out into the blue haze,
he took note of the cyclopean buildings which lined the streets,
all constructed from grey stone that glowed eerily. He had a choice
of three paths and for a few indecisive moments Tom merely stood
there, alone, thinking that it might be better to stay inside after
all. But then impulse gripped him and he set off to the right,
passing beneath a gigantic archway and on into a expansive square
lit by lofty spotlights, that bathed the area with a golden glow.
More of the huge, grey structures surrounded him and somewhere
above a black sky mantled the city.

At the centre of the square, a
fountain gurgled clear water through the mouth of a beautifully
sculpted winged figure and Tom stood before it for some time
admiring the workmanship. The statues’ features seemed so alive
that he was certain it would speak to him, but only water came from
its chiselled lips.

He continued to stare at the
sculpture, marvelling at the way its wings seemed to be actually
composed of real feathers, lost in contemplation of the artistry
and skill that had shaped it and given it this form. Tom was
convinced that there was nothing like this work in his own world,
that he was gazing upon something truly extraordinary, and so
entranced was he that he almost failed to notice the sound of
footsteps ringing out against the stone streets and coming closer,
approaching the square. He looked all about him, peering into the
sapphire light beyond the archway, trying to assess where whoever
it was would come into view. Almost at once the footsteps faltered,
as if the person was unsure of the way and Tom in a careless moment
made to call out, so that they might find him more easily.

Don't be stupid. It could be an
enemy.

Tom rubbed at his temples,
uneasiness worming its way into his mind. The footsteps had become
louder now, more assured and he knew that he would have to be quick
if he was going to conceal himself. Half-heartedly, he hunched down
low beside the fountain wall on the side he judged would be hidden
and there he waited, his breathing shallow, tension building inside
him, not being able to see anything making it all the worse.

He didn't feel afraid, after
all it was just a dream, but as the footsteps came on, now very
near, he did begin to feel a little foolish and he badly wanted to
stand up and see who was there. He was about to do just that and
was pushing himself boldly to his feet, when the footsteps abruptly
stopped.

What
now?
He was caught in an awkward stance and having
second thoughts, slowly, and with far more care than before, he
raised his head, striving to peek over the edge of the fountain and
gain a glimpse of the person he knew must now be standing within
the square, but when he looked it was quite deserted.

Tom's unease increased and he
had the uncomfortable sensation that someone was behind him.

"Hello Tom," said a familiar
voice and he span around to look into the blue eyes of a young
girl.

"Lisa!" he blurted, both
relieved and embarrassed.

"I didn't scare you, did I?"
she asked, smiling very slightly.

"Of course not," Tom blustered,
"I knew you were there all the time." As soon as he said this he
felt very stupid. He looked at her for a long moment, painfully
aware of her beauty. She wore a light cotton dress of pale yellow
that came down to just below her knees and for a brief second, Tom
let his gaze linger there and found that it gave him a strange
feeling of excitement that he barely understood, setting his pulse
racing and causing his face to flush. Finding the girl's eyes Tom
saw that she was smiling openly at him and his face bloomed
scarlet.

"Come on," she said, giggling,
"I've got something to show you." Taking his hand, she led him off
away from the fountain, on into the blue lit lanes of the vast,
deserted city. Tom followed her wherever she took him, clinging to
her as if he thought to let go would be to lose her again, and
before very long they came upon a wide, cobbled street, a street so
clean he could easily believe that it was regularly scrubbed and
polished.

"Is this a dream?" he wondered
aloud, the question echoing familiarly in his mind.

Lisa eyed him with affected
derision. "Haven't you learnt yet, Tom. There is no such thing as
dreams. The truth has many dimensions." She began to laugh gaily
and skipped ahead of him, obviously taken by some secret
amusement.