The Moon Stealers and The Children of the Light (21 page)

‘Good luck Max,’ Joe whispered. He pulled the cork
from the top of the bottle, lifted it to his lips and emptied the contents into
his mouth. He suddenly felt a burning sensation in his throat that made his
eyes water. He crumpled to the ground, clutching at his neck. Through his
blurred vision he saw the mesh of brambles recede back, allowing more light to penetrate
the clearing. As he closed his eyes and lay his head to rest against the sharp
flint path, he noticed that at the edge of the clearing the path joined up with
a lush green field and at the top of the field was a low castle.

Everything went black.

The only thing Joe was still aware of was the thumping
of his heart that began beating slower and slower.

‘Come on, we can’t rest any longer.’

Joe’s eyes sprang open. He was looking up into the
blue sky. His hands were resting on the soft bouncy grass of the path they had
been on before they entered the bramble forest. Max was stood at the side with
his hand stretched out, offering to help his friend up.

‘The castle isn’t far now,’ Max continued.

‘How’s your head?’ Joe asked as he took Max’s hand and
pulled himself up.

‘Fine.’ Max looked confused. Joe could see that there
was no longer any cut on Max’s forehead.

‘Don’t you remember falling off the path in the
forest?’

‘What are you talking about? How can I fall off a
path? We’ve only been walking through the meadow.’

Joe looked behind them; all he could see was a lush
field of wild flowers and grass with a path running through the centre. They
had rested at the bottom of the hill, ready to climb the next one up to the
castle. But, where once there had been a dark forest of twisted brambles and
thorns, there was now a shallow stream with ducks playing in the water and birds
bathing.

Joe smiled to himself.

He had made the right choice. Instead of thinking
about his own life he had thought about the lives of others and in doing so, he
had proved himself worthy to enter Avalon.

They began to climb the hillside towards a low round
castle, home to Nimue, Priestess of Avalon.

Inside the Pavilion basement at Osborne House, Steven
stood up from the guard's table and began to stroll amongst the survivors. He
watched as each survivor carefully slid the key to their unlocked chains into
the hand of their neighbour, shielding them from the sight of the guards whilst
they bent down and unclipped their own restraints. When that survivor was done,
the key was slid to the next person at the table; a frail looking woman with
nervous shaky hands. As she leant down to unclip her chains she dropped the key
onto the floor. It bounced off the stone floor, turned in the air then struck
the ground again. Steven watched the key somersaulting in the air almost as if
it were in slow motion. The resulting metallic clatter bounced loudly off the
walls, sounding impossibly loud.

Everyone turned towards the nervous looking woman.

She looked up, sweat forming across her brow. The
guards had also turned towards the table, curious as to the source of the
noise.

Steven thought quickly, the plan relied on the
survivors being unchained and able bodied, otherwise it would be harder to
overpower the guards. He needed to diffuse the situation and draw the guard's
attention away from the sound. 'Tidy those bowls up,' he shouted at the
survivor sitting next to the woman. 'And you,' he pointed rudely at the shaking
lady, 'pick that spoon back up.'

The woman ducked down beneath the table and pretended
to search for a spoon, but instead she palmed the key and quickly unclipped the
clasp around her ankle. The guards seemed to accept Steven's explanation for
the sound and continued laughing and joking amongst themselves, paying no
further attention to the fragile woman.

Steven patrolled around the survivors, until he had
seen that they had all unclipped their restraints, then returned to the guard's
table. Within a couple of minutes two of the survivors began shouting at each
other, one complaining that the other had stolen the last sip of water from the
jug. They stood up and pushed each other in the chest, knocking some of the
chairs over whilst some of the other survivors edged away from the fight. In
the dim light no one saw them reach over and collect the equipment they had
brought back from the garden.

All of the guard's attention was focussed on the two
men fighting amongst the clutter of chairs. Two of the guards stood up, walked
over and began trying to separate the two men, but they quickly became engulfed
in a circle of survivors, loudly encouraging the two men to fight.

When they didn’t resurface and the chanting continued,
another two guards stood from the table and began shouting to the survivors to
stop. They too quickly disappeared in the sea of bodies.

The other survivors that had moved away from the crowd
then struck. Left at the table with Tracker and the other three were eight more
guards. From amongst the shadows a spade swung through the air, the flat plate
of metal hitting one of the larger guards across the side of the face and
knocking him to the floor. Instantly three of the other guards noticed, grabbed
their guns and aimed them towards the shadows. Steven and Georgia were closest.
They too pulled out their guns and aimed them at the guards.

'What are you doing?' spat one of the guards. 'They
just hit Johnson in the face. Take your gun away.'

'No,' said Steven.

'Don't move.' Another survivor stood behind one of the
guards, a three pronged fork pressed into his back.

'What are you doing?' shouted another guard.

'We're taking control of the rest of our lives,' said
a voice from behind them. The fight had stopped and the survivors began
crowding around the guard's table. Behind them, the guards who had gone to try
and stop the fight were now lying on the floor with their hands and feet chained
together and cloths tied around their faces blocking their mouths.

One of the other guards stood up and pointed his gun
at the survivor who had just spoken.

'Take one more step and I will shoot you,' he said
coldly. 'Look at you! You're nothing more than a mob of peasants waving your
pitchforks in the air. Your gardening tools are no match for real weapons. And
I'm only too happy to put a bullet through your head, it's one less mouth to
feed.'

Tracker stood up from the table and moved beside the
other guard who confidently assumed he had the support of a colleague. Instead
he felt the force of the butt of Tracker's gun driving up under his chin,
shattering some teeth and immediately knocking him unconscious.

Tracker addressed the guards around the table.
'Gentlemen, we are taking control of this community.'

Some of the other survivors moved forward and began
stripping the guards of their weapons before pushing them into the corner with
the others to be chained and gagged.

'Where are the other guards and survivors held?'
Tracker asked Russell, the survivor posing as the fourth fake guard.

'There are various sections of the community held at
different places around the island. There are two groups that permanently
remain at the ports,
Yarmouth
and
East
Cowes
and are responsible for
bringing goods and people over from the mainland. Any other groups, like ours,
stay in Osborne House but work in the surrounding areas. A hospital was set up
inside this building. Another group was taken to investigate Barton Manor, a
place just through the trees, to see if a community of farmers could be set up
from there.'

'Have you seen any children?' asked
Georgia
.

'The children are kept separate from the adults, even
from their own parents, not that many have them of course. They are kept in the
Durbar Wing of the main house, sewing and mending clothes, as well as washing
the plates and bowls.'

'And the management? Where does the American sleep?'

Russell looked up towards the ceiling. 'They stay two
floors above us in what used to be the Queen's rooms. A lorry delivered some
more supplies the other day, I was ordered to carry some of the boxes up to the
American's room. Quite different to down here. Thick carpet and mahogany
furniture as well as gold framed paintings and books piled high. They say he
tried to sleep in Queen
Victoria
's bed, but it was too small, he's a tall man.'

'How many guards does he have around him?'

'Very few. There are three leaders that have rooms
upstairs too. Everything is coordinated through them and they report to the
American, but most business is done in the Council Room in the main wing of the
house, that's where they will be taking their dinner.'

'I heard music coming from behind one of the doors off
the long corridor we came down, is that where he is?'

Russell nodded. 'That's it. All very civilised in
there.'

'Take half of the survivors to the Durbar Wing and
make sure the children are safe, but stay with them. The rest of us need to
face the American.'

The weapons and gardening equipment were divided out
between the two groups then they silently crept up the steep staircase away
from the basement and gathered in a large entrance hall that had a grand
sweeping staircase winding around the room towards the floors above.

'Good luck,' whispered Russell to Tracker before
taking about twenty survivors in the opposite direction along a narrow corridor
that had portraits of Indians dressed in colourful clothing, watching their
progress.

Tracker turned towards the corridor they had come
along earlier and began walking along it, closely followed by Steven and
Georgia. They paused at the corner where it swung right. If there was still a
guard at the entrance he would have full view of the entire length of the
corridor. Armed survivors running around without chains would be sure to create
alarm.

Tracker peered round the wall. Sure enough, at the far
end of the corridor was the guard who had let them in earlier.

'Wait here,' said Tracker. Before anyone could say
anything, he had strolled round the corner, whistling casually to himself. As
he walked down the corridor the guard looked up from the book he was reading.
Recognising Tracker from earlier he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary and
went back to his book.

'Evening,' said Tracker as he walked closer. 'What are
you reading?'

The guard looked up. His gun was resting on top of a
small table next to his chair, within easy reach.

'Moby Dick,' he replied. 'Nothing modern to read in
this house. Always told myself I should read the classics but never got round
to it. Now's as good a time as any, I suppose.'

'Here,' said Tracker, pulling a small chocolate bar
from his jacket pocket and throwing it over to the guard.

'Where did you get this?' replied the guard, catching
the bar with both hands. As soon as he reached for the chocolate Tracker took
his gun from the table.

'Listen to me carefully,' instructed Tracker, pointing
the gun at the guard. 'Pick up your book and walk down the corridor with me.
You seem like a nice guy and I really don’t want to shoot you, so keep your
mouth closed. Do you understand?'

The guard nodded. His eyes flicked back to the
chocolate bar.

'Keep it,' said Tracker, realising that the chocolate
was just as important to the guard as his own life.

Tracker escorted the guard back down the corridor then
some of the survivors took him to the basement. Meanwhile Tracker moved over
towards the door where he had heard music coming from earlier. The dark wood
door had glass panels in the top half that allowed him a view of the corridor
beyond. In the limited light the corridor looked dark and grey. On the left,
half way along the corridor was a pair of double doors that were partly open,
allowing a narrow crack of orange light to spread across the tiled floor.
Occasionally the shaft of light was broken as the shadow of someone moving
inside the room crossed in front of the light source.

'That’s the Council Room,' whispered one of the
survivors at Tracker's elbow. 'The American will be in there.'

Tracker lifted his finger to his lips signalling for
everyone to be quiet, then he pushed against the door.

It swung into the corridor.

Tracker held himself against the wall on the left side
of the corridor, hidden within the shadows. He could hear the static crackle of
the record player and a familiar Glen Miller tune coming from the room. One by
one the survivors came through the door and into the corridor. Tracker could
feel his heart thumping inside his chest. The last time they had met Coldred,
they had been left at the mercy of the creatures. He didn’t want the same thing
to happen again.

Some of the other survivors hid amongst the pillars
that supported the staircase on the right side of the corridor. Tracker turned
to watch as the last person in the group came through the door and dashed over
to join the others.

The door swung behind him. The sprung hinge pulled the
door back into its frame with a dull thud.

Everyone stood absolutely still, waiting to see if
anyone had heard.

The muttering inside the Council Room immediately
stopped. The crack of light coming from the gap between the doors was broken by
a shadow.

One of the doors opened, throwing the orange glow from
a flickering candle flame into the corridor. A guard stepped out and turned
towards the door that had been the cause of the noise.

For a moment he stared confused at the rows of faces
looking back at him. He then noticed the guns and pick axes in the hands of
hostile but scared survivors. One of the survivors on the opposite side of the
corridor to Tracker raised his spade up ready to strike the guard who, in an
instant, dropped the candle grabbed his gun and shot the man in the chest.

The noise from the shot ricocheted off the walls
making Tracker's ears temporarily ring and prevented him from hearing the
metallic sound of the spade skidding across the tiled floor towards his feet.
As the guard leapt back to the double doors he turned the muzzle of his gun
towards another survivor. Tracker squeezed his finger, firing a single shot
that split the wood of the door at the same time as opening up a hole in the
guard's chest. He fell backwards against the door frame then slid lifelessly to
the ground. Whilst they were trapped and unprotected inside the corridor,
Tracker knew they were vulnerable.

To his left he saw a door. Quickly he twisted the
handle and looked into a small room that had a glass door on the opposite side
that led out to the garden they had been in the night before.

The corridor was erupting into chaos. Survivors were
trying to shelter behind anything they could find. Inside the Council Room
desperate voices shouted from within. An antique bookshelf came crashing down across
the double door entrance to the Council Room. More shots began to erupt in
bursts of smoke and flashes of light from behind the book shelf and into the
corridor.

Tracker dashed through the door he had opened and
entered the room.