The Magic Lands (41 page)

They had been walking for quite
some time since their sighting of the riders and with every step,
Jack knew that they were leaving Tom further behind, and to him, it
felt like a betrayal. For all they knew Tom could be trapped or
hurt, maybe at that very moment depending on his friends to come
and rescue him, sure in the knowledge that they would be doing all
they could to find him. And yet he and Mo just went on their way,
leaving Tom to save himself.

They entered a wood, the trees
stretching before them, the sky bright, patches of blue glimpsed
through the canopy above, and for several miles more they trudged
on, endeavouring to reach the other side. Jack was becoming
increasingly fed up with the monotony of their surroundings, the
constant green of tree and grass. Just as he was considering this
night fell about them, so abruptly it was as if a curtain had been
drawn, shutting out the light.

Jack stopped, unwilling to take
another step in the darkness, but then Mo was there looking up at
him, encouragement in his large black eyes. "You should be used to
such displays by now," the animal said.

"I hate this place," retorted
Jack with feeling.

"Come Jack," Mo instructed him,
"hold on fast to your beliefs. Do not let the Beast get the better
of you."

Even while he was listening to
his friend's voice, Jack was aware that he was gradually succumbing
to a tremendous fatigue that pressed down upon him.

If only I could rest, just for
a while.

The need to lay down, his body
aching, became so great, it almost overwhelmed him but then Mo
spoke again.

"Now is not the time for rest,"
growled the badger, as if he knew Jack's thoughts, "for sleep is
the road of dreams and that is exactly the path the Beast would
have you take."

"But," Jack began.

"Do not say anymore,"
commanded the animal with force. "You would only speak with the
voice of the Beast, advocating
its
will. Walk on! We must not weaken, you
or
I!"

Jack remained silent after this
as they went on and the darkness seemed to weigh heavy upon him,
until it felt as though he carried its black mass upon his frail
shoulders.

Once inside the Administration
building, a youthful, fair-haired man came forward from behind a
desk and asked them to follow him, obviously with full knowledge of
the purpose of their visit. Tom's feelings of apprehension had been
growing steadily since they had left Dr. Redhand's friends, his
mind working in a frantic attempt to come up with some convincing
answers to the inevitable interrogation he would surely face. As
yet, he had failed to do so.

"I feel a bit giddy," he
offered hoping to delay, or better still postpone the impending
audience, coming to a halt in a wide hallway that he guessed led to
the magistrate's chambers.

"Easy now," said the doctor,
coming over to where Tom leaned against a wall. The man regarded
him with a professional air and then took his pulse with practised
efficiency. "Hmm," he murmured thoughtfully, "your pulse is running
a little high." And then addressing their escort, he went on, "I
think my young friend needs to sit down for a moment."

The fair-haired man did not
reply but directed them through a door into a small room, where
hard wooden chairs lined the walls. It reminded Tom of a doctor's
waiting room.

"If you would be so kind as to
wait here," instructed the man, "I will inform the magistrate that
you have arrived." He excused himself with a curt nod and left the
room through another door.

"Now take some deep breaths,"
advised the doctor as he squatted down in front of Tom, who was
slumped upon one of the chairs. "I'm sure you’ll be fine in a
minute or so."

Tom found little solace in the
man's words. He actually felt sick by now, the worry of what would
be asked of him causing his stomach to turn over. However hard he
tried to contain his anxiety about meeting the ominous sounding
magistrate, he could not shake the feeling that he was heading for
some serious trouble. Already he was ruing the fact that he had
lied about his name. Why hadn't he just stuck to the truth?

At that moment, the fair-haired
man re-entered the room and gestured toward Tom. "The magistrate
would like to see the young gentleman alone, Dr. Redhand, if you do
not mind. He has asked me to relay to you his most profound
apologies and requests that you return in perhaps an hour or
so."

Dr. Redhand looked a bit put
out by this, but nodded politely and then turning to Tom said, "it
looks as though you're going to have to fend for yourself,
Vincent." Getting to his feet, he gave the boy another brief
glance, although what it signified Tom could not say. Then he left
the room through the door they had entered by. "I'll see myself
out."

Now Tom was all alone, but for
the fair-haired man.

"This way," he directed,
indicating the other door.

Reluctantly, Tom followed him
into a surprisingly expansive chamber, made to appear all the
bigger by its conspicuous lack of furniture or any of the usual
embellishments. In fact, there was only a single wooden desk in the
room, with two chairs either side of it and a few paintings that
hung incongruously from the otherwise bare walls. Also, adding to
Tom's discomfort, there were no windows to be seen, the only
illumination supplied by a large overhanging lamp, that gave off a
sickly, yellow glow. Behind the desk, bathed in the glare of the
lamp, there sat a gaunt-faced, elderly man in a black suit, who
regarded him with a blank and stony gaze.

"Please be seated," urged the
fair-haired man before quickly leaving the room.

Tom walked forward and tried
very hard to return the old man's unnerving stare, but found that
he could not. The room was utterly silent and he had become acutely
aware of his own heartbeat, hammering away regularly against his
chest. He reached the chair and sat down, still avoiding the man's
eyes.

"What is your name?" the
magistrate asked him.

Tom glanced at the man,
startled by the sound. "My name is Vincent, sir," he said a little
shakily.

The magistrate continued to
look at him impassively and Tom squirmed in his chair, wishing he
were anywhere else in the world right now than in this room.

"What…is your name?" the
magistrate asked again, his voice even.

Confused, Tom gave the man a
questioning look, but this was only met by cold eyes scrutinising
him and making him feel more uncomfortable than ever.

"My name is Vincent," Tom
repeated, this time more loudly in case the old man was a little
hard of hearing.

For several long moments the
magistrate appeared unlikely to speak again. All this while, Tom
stole furtive glances at him to see if his unsettling expression
would alter and change into one slightly more congenial, but it
remained just the same as before.

"What...is...your...name?" the
man said once more.

Tom was afraid now. He could
not lie anymore. "My name is Tom Lewis," he blurted out, half
embarrassed, half resentful.

"Good," the magistrate stated
simply, and though Tom waited for what seemed a long time for the
man to continue, there was only silence. Somehow, he found the
courage to look at the old man's narrow features, for the first
time since his admission, and he saw amusement glittering within
dark eyes. "How's your leg, Tom?" he enquired suddenly, his voice
amiable.

Tom was caught off guard and
wasn’t sure how best to proceed. He knew full well that he was on
very dangerous ground here, and that one misplaced step could prove
fatal. "I'll be all right," he replied casually, affecting a small
shrug.

"That is good," the magistrate
nodded, "yes, that's fine. I hear our doctor has been taking good
care of you."

Tom did not say anymore; he was
too busy wondering what would happen if he made a run for it, but
injured as he was, he didn't rate his chances very highly.

The magistrate leaned forward,
resting bony hands on the desk. "Now what's all this about a wolf?"
he asked with good-natured interest.

"I was attacked," Tom answered
quietly.

"Yes, indeed you were.
But by a
wolf!?
Come now, you
should know better than that. There are no wolves in
Seraphim."

"Maybe it was something else
then," Tom volunteered, feigning indifference. With every second,
every question, he felt his situation worsening. He was being
deftly pushed into a corner and soon there would be nowhere left to
go.

"But what could it have been?"
the old man asked of him, pursuing the matter, "there are no beasts
in this land. Surely the good doctor must have told you that?"

"Yes, he did," Tom admitted in
as steady a voice as he could manage.

"You have to see it from my
side of the fence, Tom. You arrive here out of the blue on some
kind of quest, claiming to have been attacked by some mythical
wolf. You lie about your name. I can only suspect the worst."

Tom stared into the black eyes
of the old man. "I never said anything about a quest."

The magistrate paused for a few
moments, giving Tom an intimidating glare. "Purely a figure of
speech, I assure you," he said finally.

Very slowly, Tom raised his
hand and pointed at the man. "You work for the Wolf, don't you?" he
accused, mouth clenched with growing anger. "This is just another
one of its stupid games!"

Smiling, the magistrate settled
back into his chair and interlocked his fingers. "I really don't
know what you're talking about, Tom. Perhaps the poison has
affected your brain as well as your leg, hmm?"

"Why have you locked up Angel
Tower?" Tom asked him without hesitation, watching for his
reaction, but the magistrate merely raised an eyebrow and stared at
the boy.

"You really are an interesting
young fellow," he said dispassionately, folding his arms. "So you
want to know about the tower? Well, I'll tell you. It's like this.
The average citizen does not want to be bothered by mysteries or
things they do not understand. And so it is the job, indeed, the
duty, of those who govern, to protect the people from things that
might upset them. A balance must be kept."

"What do you mean, a balance?"
challenged Tom, disturbed by the man's statement.

"The truth is, Tom, that no-one
really wants to know what’s up there high above the city. It’s
better for everyone if you lock away the secret past and let the
populace stay blissfully ignorant. Why frighten the sheep? If
provoked, they might well do something foolish and we wouldn't want
that, now would we?"

"People have to learn and
choose for themselves," Tom said with conviction.

The magistrate shook his head.
"It’s people like you that are the true danger, you know Tom. It’s
radicals like yourself that would destroy the harmony and security
that has been established over countless centuries of care and
diligence. Don't you see how arrogant you are to presume that the
average man, woman or child really wants to know about things that
would inevitably bring about an end to their way of life? You have
a great deal to learn, but do not fear. There are those who would
teach you. But all in good time and…one way or another."

Tom glared at the white-haired
man and felt a rage growing within him. "People are not pieces of
meat," he shouted suddenly. "Everyone has the right to make up
their own mind. Even if they get it wrong! Is that what the Wolf is
really all about? Does he want us to all be the same, to stop
thinking for ourselves?"

The magistrate shook his head
again very slowly, a look of disdainful pity in his eyes that made
Tom want to leap across the desk and punch him in the face.

"You just can’t see it,
can you?" spat the old man, all at once animated, his stone-like
countenance cracking. "The Master does not need Mankind. It is they
who need him. The Beast is a part of everyone's dreams. There's a
corner of darkness in every soul. Even yours,
Tom…
especially
yours."

"But there's a difference
between you and me," Tom said firmly. "You would rather lock away
the truth, but I am willing to face it."

"Are you certain of that?" the
magistrate questioned with contempt.

"Yes," stated Tom with a
fierceness that seemed to take the old man by surprise, his body
tensing, eyes narrowed; but after a moment he relaxed back in his
seat once more, and regaining his composure he chuckled, giving Tom
an unpleasant grin.

"In the end it all comes down
to a test of character," he spoke harshly, "and do you know
something, I think that you will fail."

Tom made no response to this.
He knew that this exchange was only a prelude to some other, more
significant trial, and he understood now that wherever he went,
whatever he did, the Beast was always there at his side.

The enemy did not want him
dead. He was certain of that now. No, it wanted something far, far
worse. The White Wolf wanted him broken. Mind and soul.

That was the only way that it
could ever really win.

"That will be all," the
magistrate said with a dismissive wave of his hand, turning his
attention to some papers on his desk.

A tremendous surge of relief
washed over Tom and he realised just how tense he had become during
his interrogation. He left the room quickly without another word,
impatient to breath clean air again, and when finally he had
regained the street and was leaning against a wall, almost too weak
to stand, it felt as if he had come through a battle, badly
scarred, yet nevertheless still in one piece.

The darkness seemed to
suffocate him.