The Moon Stealers and The Children of the Light (9 page)

‘I will see you in Avalon some day,’ the Grey Man
said, taking Edgar’s hand.

‘Will I see you again?’ Scarlet asked Edgar. A warm
tear of salty water was already filling the corners of her eyes. The other
three children stood behind her watching, already knowing the answer.

Edgar finally shook his head.

‘Probably not,’ he replied as he knelt down to her. ‘I
have been here too long as it is. No one should live forever. I have wandered
this country and seen many changes. Seen so many people die, most of them unnecessarily.
This world is no longer the one I was born into. Humans seem intent on killing each
other, just because of different views or beliefs. It has taken near extinction
to bring them together again. Amongst this chaos we still have hope. You are
the future. Bring the world together again, accept differences and embrace the
magic of life.’

Scarlet wrapped her arms around Edgar and squeezed him
tight.

When Scarlet finally let Edgar go, Flora stepped
forward and kissed him gently on the cheek.

‘How will you know if I find Avalon and the swords?’
he asked.

‘I will know,’ she simply replied.

Waving them all goodbye, the Grey Man roared off on
his motorbike, the throaty engine audible for some distance even after they had
lost sight of the bike.

Lady Flora got into the Mini with Scarlet and Peter. Scarlet
took one last look at Edgar and the boys, turned the engine on and began to drive
away. It lurched forward as Scarlet struggled to take control of the car.

Edgar stood in the middle of the road and watched the
Mini disappear round a corner, catching Scarlet’s eyes as she glanced in her
mirror.

Joe and Max patiently waited without saying a word.
They didn’t know what lay in front of them.

‘Are you ready?’ Edgar asked as he turned to the boys.

The Grey Man weaved his motorbike between the
abandoned cars that littered the road. It was easier to negotiate the roads
than in a car, and as such, it only took a couple of hours to reach the
Forest
of
Dean
on the border between
England
and
Wales
. He left the main road before he reached
Gloucester
and entered the forest from the north.

Occasionally, through the ever increasing density of
trees, he caught a glimpse of the River Wye that followed alongside the road that
took him deeper into the forest. The hedgerows and trees began to overhang the
road so much that he was riding amongst the shadows, only aware of daylight, by
the narrow strip of blue above his head. But when that disappeared too it was
like he was riding through a narrow tunnel of greenery. On those occasions he
remained especially alert in fear of attacking creatures. Eventually, the trees
thinned again and he entered a small village that he recognised.

It had been many years since he had been in the area,
but it seemed like nothing had changed during that time. There was a heavy
earthy scent hanging in the air. A smell that reminded him of the night he had
been dragged into the portal to the Underworld. In his mind he could still hear
the scream of his wife as they desperately tried to cling to the nearest stray
branch or claw the ground against an invisible force that constantly pulled at
them with such strength that it felt they were going to split in two. But, most
clearly of all, the Grey Man heard one word.

'Steffen!'

His wife had screamed his son’s name over and over again,
as she desperately realised their son was going to be left alone and vulnerable
without them. The Grey Man glanced into the forest. Between the thick tree
trunks, he thought he saw a glimmer of silver, but when he blinked it had gone.

The river was clear to see on the right side of the
road, whilst on the left, grey stone houses had begun to spring up. The Grey
Man pushed on, trying to keep his focus on the road and not in the past. Leaving
the village behind, the trees enveloped the road once again. Occasionally he
caught sight of a movement dancing within the shaded darkness of the forest.
But so far, the creatures hadn’t troubled him.

On the edge of the forest, he slowed the bike down and
coasted along the road. He entered a quaint village with stone walls holding back
typical English country gardens.

The road was silent, except for the growling vibration
coming from the engine of the motorbike. The Grey Man stopped beside a picket fence,
turned the engine off and stepped from the bike. He drew the Donestre sword
from its strapping beside the engine and held it loosely in his hand and
waited.

He looked at the cottage. It had once been the home of
his wife’s sister and he hoped she had not moved since the last time he had
been there. This was his only possible link to trace his son.

The building was made of large grey stone blocks that looked
weathered with crevices filled with soft spongy moss. There was an ivy creeping
its long tendrils around the entrance porch, whilst in the garden, rows of
foxgloves, lavender and roses released their scent into the air. The thatched
roof didn’t look so perfect. There were stray clumps of straw that had been
pulled out of position where something heavy had been gripping or moving across
the roof. He had a pretty good idea what may have caused it, and for that
reason he pulled his sword up level to his face and grasped it with both hands
ready to use if necessary.

The wooden gate swung into the garden accompanied by a
high pitched squeal. He cautiously took a step along the path towards the front
door which appeared to be slightly open. Keeping his sword high, he nudged the
door with the toe of his shoe so that he could see inside the cottage. With the
sun behind him it cast a long stretched shadow down the length of the hall.

‘Melodie?’ he shouted into the house.

There was no reply.

The Grey Man took a step inside.

With only the limited light coming through the
windows, everywhere appeared dark and grey. The first door he came to went into
the living room. The furnishings were simple and dated. They consisted of a two
seater settee which looked like it had hardly been used compared to the sunken
cushions of a single armchair that was pushed into a corner facing the
television. To the side of the armchair was a small table supporting a stack of
folded newspapers which were weighed down by two remote controls. A tall
free-standing lamp towered above the armchair. Along one wall was an old stone
mantelpiece. Above that he could see a silver ornate framed mirror that was
hanging by a triangular piece of wire from a nail in the wall. The Grey Man
looked along the top of the mantelpiece and pulled out a white card that was
wedged between a vase and clock. It was an anniversary invitation that was
addressed to his wife’s sister, Melodie Knight. He smiled to himself. At least
he knew she still lived in the cottage. Respectfully he placed the invitation
back on the mantelpiece and his eyes glanced over a curled picture of a young
boy smartly dressed in school uniform.

The Grey Man instantly recognised the eyes of his wife
in the boy.

‘Steffen,’ he muttered to himself.

A tear gathered in the corner of his eye as he picked
the picture up and smiled. His son was older in the picture than the night he
had been abandoned by his parents. The Grey Man had hoped that Melodie would
have taken Steffen in and raised him, but he had never known for sure. He
turned the photograph over. On the back was the date of his son's first day at
school, together with the English translation of his welsh name, Steven.

He slipped the photograph into his pocket and
continued to search the rest of downstairs. It was a small cottage, the
downstairs only consisted of the living room, kitchen, dining room and pantry.
Fruit in a bowl on top of the dining table had gone soft and mouldy. It was covered
by a moving winged mass of flies that erupted into the air as the Grey Man
walked past.

There was no sign anyone was still there, or had been
for several days.

He began to walk up the stairs. Each wooden step
creaked as he loaded his weight onto it, betraying his presence. At the top the
narrow landing was lit by a small window at one end and had three doors leading
from it. The first opened into a single room. The interior decoration looked
very different to the rest of the house. The floral patterns had been replaced
by bold colours mixed with posters and film trading cards. There was a row of
books propped up along the window ledge. The Grey Man read the titles printed
down their spines. Many were about space, UFO’s and myths. If Steffan had lived
there, he assumed he was currently standing in his bedroom.

He moved into another room which was larger with a
double bed in the centre that appeared as well worn as the armchair in the
living room. He opened the wardrobe door. Inside were hangers with colourful
floral dresses and an overwhelming smell of mothballs. At the bottom were neat
rows of unused court-shoes; whilst above the hangers was a shelf that supported
rolled up bed linen and a shoebox held together by several elastic bands. The
Grey Man reached up and slid it from the shelf, disturbing the dust that had
settled on the top. He carried it over to the bed, sat down and lifted the lid
off.

Inside the box was a jumble of photographs, some old
and worn, others newer and shinier. At one end was a bundle of letters neatly
stacked and tied together. The Grey Man took out the photographs and began
looking through them. He saw pictures of long dead relatives from his wife’s
family and placed them on the bed. He then picked out an old photograph of
himself with his wife on their wedding day.

At that moment the Grey Man’s life stopped.

Since leaving this world his life as Rhys Avall had
been left on hold, paused and waiting for his return. He realised that,
although he was looking for his son, he was also looking for himself once again
as well. He looked at the man in the photograph. The man he had once been was
proud and handsome, standing next to his wife and staring lovingly into her
eyes. He desperately wished she was still alive. He closed his eyes and kissed
the picture of his wife, holding it against his lips as if she was actually
there. When he opened them again he put the picture aside and continued to sort
through the rest of the photographs. He found many of Steffen at different
ages, so began positioning them on top of the bed in age order so he could see
his son growing up in front of him. The boy had changed from a fair haired
child to a dark haired man, but whatever the age, he still had a look of his
mother in him.

At the bottom of the box were several newspaper
cuttings. The first was dated two days after the night when Rhys and his wife
had unwillingly gone through the portal. It described the mysterious
disappearance and even had several quotes from locals who reported seeing
strange lights in the forest, whilst others linked the disappearance to wild
animal attacks. Other clippings mentioned the subsequent investigation, but
every one became smaller and smaller as less newspaper space was allocated to
it.

He turned to the letters. Many were from Melodie’s
late husband when he had been working abroad, but there were two others,
written in a less decorative handwriting. He read through the first which told
the tale of a young man, nervous and frightened as he took his first steps of
independence at University. The second, dated several years later, was written
with more confidence. In it the boy truly was becoming a man and making his way
to
London
.

At the bottom of the page was his son’s address.

It was a pleasant afternoon on the
Isle of Wight
. The bungalow was decorated in an old fashioned style
with net curtains at the window, lace doilies laid out on the dining table and
pottery figurines inside a display cabinet.
Georgia
was seated on a wooden chair pulled up to the dining
table with her shotgun lying across the table top. She was looking out of the
front window watching the sea peacefully roll up and down the beach whilst in
the distance she could make out the outline of the northern edge of the island.
She was so relaxed that she quite forgot where they were. Taking a clean roll
of bandage from her bag she began to remove the old one around the top of her
arm. The wound was healing nicely, shrinking all the time, but she knew the
muscle damage would never repair itself and she would always have a noticeable
dent in the arm. Despite wearing layers of waterproof clothing on the crossing,
the dressing had still managed to get damp. As she carefully began winding the
clean bandage around her arm, she didn’t noticed the approaching sound of
rubber tyres coasting slowly across the concrete road that separated the lines
of bungalows. It wasn’t until she saw the sun glinting off the front of the car
that she remembered where they were and the danger they could be facing. In one
quick glance she saw two occupants in the front of the car peering through open
car windows towards each bungalow as they rolled along the road.

Georgia
quickly grabbed her gun and pushed back on her chair
so that she could dive to the ground and hide from view. In doing so, the chair
rocked backwards and fell to the ground.

Georgia
froze.

In a world were so few humans and animals showed
themselves, there was very little sound. The noise the chair made appeared
louder that day than any other sound she had heard before.

The car stopped.

Georgia
crawled under the table and pressed her back against
the outside wall. She heard a car door slam shut.

There was some muttering between the two men as they
approached the bungalow.

‘This is a waste of time,’ said one voice. ‘We checked
this part of the island yesterday.’

‘Instructions are instructions,’ replied the other. ‘The
message from
Fort
Albert
watch-point said they spotted a rowing boat landing
on the beach,’

‘No-one in their right mind would cross the
Solent
in a
rowing boat.’

From beneath the table
Georgia
could see a square of light where the sun shone
through the window and projected the shape onto the opposite wall. The square
of light began to change as the silhouettes of two men enlarged as they got
closer to the window.
Georgia
had left Steven and Tracker resting in one of the
bedrooms at the back of the bungalow. If they had heard the chair fall they may
come into the room to investigate and walk straight into full view of the men.

‘Are you sure you heard something?’ said the first
voice.

‘I’m positive. Look,’ replied the other. ‘That chair’s
on the floor.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Looks like a bandage.’

‘It could have been there ages.’

‘No, it’s new. Blood goes black as it dries. The blood
on that bandage is still red and it looks wet.’

‘Even if it’s not the rowers, there could still be survivors
living here. Let’s take a look inside.’

Fear raced through
Georgia
. The door wasn’t locked when they arrived and since
their crossing, they hadn’t thought to lock it behind them. Unless she did
something quickly, the men would be inside bungalow, and the thought of being
captured again by Coldred and his guards terrified her.

The silhouettes disappeared and the perfect square of
light returned.
Georgia
crawled out from beneath the table and cautiously
peered through the window. She could see the two men walking around a hedge
that bordered the path to the front door.
Georgia
moved quickly out of the dining room and into a short
hallway. To her right was the front door. The shadows of the men became darker
as they blocked out more daylight the nearer they got to the door.
Georgia
knelt on the floor, out of sight of the glass in the
door frame, carefully reached up and pulled the latch down on the Yale lock so
the men couldn’t get it. The lock clicked loudly as it moved into place.

‘Did you hear that?’ said one of the men as he pulled
the door handle down and rattled the door its the frame. ‘The doors just been
locked. There’s definitely someone in there.’

Georgia
moved back into the dining room out of sight of the
two men then went through a second door into the kitchen. There was a back
entrance to the property that left through the kitchen, but she couldn’t leave
without Steven and Tracker. Just in case the men came round the back to get in,
she made sure that door was locked too. Hiding behind the kitchen door,
Georgia
tied the loose ends of the bandage around her arm,
checked her gun then waited and listened.

A hand gently clasped around her mouth preventing her
from making a noise. Startled,
Georgia
stood absolutely rigid. There had only been two men
in the car, she was sure of it. Maybe another had been scouting around the
bungalows and had already entered theirs. She turned slightly, saw Steven’s
face and relaxed. He removed his hand from her mouth and put a finger to his
lips, instructing her to keep quiet.

Through the crack in the door frame they watched as
one of the windows in the front door erupted in a shower of glass shards. A
gloved hand then reached through and twisted round until it found the lock. The
fingers fumbled about, feeling for the outline of the lock, identified the
latch and pulled it up to release it.

The lock clicked again, and the door sprung open.

Two men stood in the door frame. They were dressed as
if they were going hunting with padded tweed waistcoats, thick jeans and heavy
walking boots. To complete the look they each carried a hunting rifle in their
hands. Today, instead of hunting grouse or pheasant, they were hunting humans.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ shouted one of the men into the
house. ‘We won’t hurt you. We are survivors too.’

The two men cautiously stepped into the hall crushing
the shattered glass beneath their heavy shoes. On the left they could see an
open door to the dining room, whilst on the right another door opened into a
bedroom. On the bed was a large unzipped hold-all with clothes spilling out.
The first man silently pointed to the bedroom, signalling that he was going inside
whilst the second man continued to move along the hall towards the kitchen.

‘Survivors are going to Osborne House,’ said the first
man again, trying to tempt the occupants of the bungalow out of hiding. ‘You
will be given food, shelter and protection from the creatures,’

As the first man stepped into the bedroom, Tracker
emerged from behind the door. He swung his fist into the man's face causing him
to stagger backwards before his knees gave way and he fell onto the ground,
holding his broken and bloody nose.

‘We’ve already tasted your protection once,’ said
Tracker.

Suddenly the doorframe exploded in a shower of wood.
Seeing his colleague sitting on the floor with blood over his face, the second
man had released a shot from his rifle towards Tracker, who managed to dive
back inside the room just in time. Tracker grabbed his gun and waited for the
man to enter the room, but all he heard was talking from within the hall.

‘You can come out Tracker,’ shouted Steven.

Emerging from the room, he could see Steven standing
behind the second man with his gun in his back.
Georgia
had collected the men’s weapons.

‘What are you doing?’ asked the first man, wiping the
blood from his nose. ‘You have no way of surviving on your own. The creatures
will find you and kill you. Come with us, we are part of a growing community
that is safe.’

‘How many elderly people are in your community?’
Steven asked.

‘Almost none. What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘And how many disabled people?’

‘None. The last ones died on the journey to the
island. Why?’

‘Where did you come from?’ interrupted Tracker.

‘
London
. We were part of the Downing Street Community that
merged with two others to come here. The island allows us to pool our resources
and skills and work together. There was supposed to be a third community, but
something had gone wrong. Contact had been lost. We think their building had
been breached, making them vulnerable to creature attacks.’

‘In
Downing
Street
, had many in your
community been ill?’

‘Yes, lots. People died everyday, despite the medical
team trying to help. They didn’t seem to be able to do anything to stop it.’

‘What about since you’ve been here?’

‘The only ones to have died have been those too old to
work. Some members of the community are more vulnerable to infection than
others. I guess they just simply gave in. What’s your point?’

‘It is no coincidence that the death rates have gone
down since you came to the island. Your community is being manufactured and
manipulated so only the strongest survive.’

The second man laughed and shook his head.

‘There’s no way that can be true,’ he said.

‘Even if it was,’ continued the first man. ‘What would
be the harm in that?’

‘A strong community where everyone has a function
would certainly be the most efficient. But, that’s not what the human race is
about. What if the elderly are your parents? What if a disabled child is your
son? We should not be picking and choosing who lives and who dies. What if you
fell and broke your leg so badly that you couldn’t work within the community?
Would you be happy to be rejected by them and left to die?’

Suddenly the conversation was interrupted by a crackle
of static followed by a distant voice.

‘Jonas. Report in.’

Tracker looked towards the first man. Both then looked
at the walkie-talkie that was hooked to his belt. He quickly made a grab for
the walkie-talkie but Tracker expected it and swung his rifle round and knocked
it out of his hand. It spun across the floor towards the bungalow entrance and
the shattered pieces of glass. Tracker leapt over and scooped it up in his
hand.

‘Jonas…. Are you there?’

Tracker walked into the dining room and pressed the
button on the side of the handset.

‘Jonas here,’ he said, trying to sound like the first
man as much as he could. ‘Poor reception here. Nothing to report.’ He released
the button and waited for a response.

There was silence for a few seconds. Tracker wondered
if he they had noticed that the voice sounded different, or maybe there were
code words that he should be using but didn’t know.

Eventually the handset crackled to life again.

‘What about the boat?’

‘Seems to be a stray, unmanned boat. No sign of anyone,’
Tracker replied.

Again, there was a silence that seemed too long for a
normal conversation. Tracker was sure the person on the other end of the line
knew there was something wrong.

‘Report back to
Fort
Albert
.’

Tracker hooked the walkie-talkie onto his belt and
went back into the hall.
Georgia
had tied the hands of the first man behind his back
with some string from the kitchen. Tracker looked at the two men. They both had
a faint smile across their faces and appeared to be more relaxed. Tracker had a
bad feeling. He wondered if the men had overheard his conversation and knew
that help would soon be on its way.

‘Let’s tie them up and get out of here,’ he said to
the others. ‘I have the feeling we will soon be joined by others.’ He looked at
the first man who turned away, not wanting to reveal anything.

‘What if no one else comes?’ asked
Georgia
. ‘We can’t leave them at the mercy of the creatures.’

‘When we get a safe distance away, we can radio in
their location.’

Once both of the men had their hands tied securely
behind them,
Georgia
then started working on binding their ankles
together. Steven rummaged through the kitchen, looking for useful items to take
whilst Tracker searched the two men, taking their car keys, a short knife and
various pieces of paper that had been written on.

Steven went out to the car. In the back were more
weapons, some bottles of water and a map. He added their bags to it then went
back inside.
Georgia
had finished securing the men. Tracker was carrying a
brightly coloured beach towel he had found. As they left the bungalow, he tied
the towel around a lamp post at the front of the property as a sign for the men’s
rescuers.
Georgia
was right - the men did not deserve to be left as
food for the creatures.