ordinary teen with normal problems? I never looked for magic. Wasn’t the least bit interested in it. So why did it pick on me? What the hell have I done to deserve this?
Back to my blanket. Glaring at the cold embers of the fire. Waiting impatiently for Beranabus and Kernel’s return. Half wishing I’d stayed in the Demonata’s universe and fried.
Time passes slowly, miserably. No way of telling if it’s day or night. When I’m not sleeping, I just sit and think, eat mechanically, or walk in circles around the cave. Go to the back and dig a hole when I need the toilet, then fill it in. Disgusted the first few times, but now it’s second nature. No biggie.
I often find myself wondering what’s happening in the other universe, wishing I could find the courage to go back, rejoin the fight, and redeem myself. Playing out all manner of wild scenarios inside my head, in which I’m Grubbs Grady—superhero. I find Beranabus and Kernel in dire straits, backs against a fiery wall, at the mercy of the demon. It’s laughing evilly, about to finish them off. Then I lay into it and rip it to pieces. I shout at the startled Beranabus and Kernel, “You didn’t think I’d run away, did you? I just had to visit the men’s room.” They cheer as I kill the demon, then rush to clap my back, sing my praises, hail me as a savior.
Nice dreams. But completely unconnected to reality. Because for all the wishing and make-believe, I don’t know how to open a window to the demon’s universe. And I’m certain, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that even if one materialized in front of me, I wouldn’t have the guts to step through. A hero only inside my head. In the real world I remain a coward.
Snapping out of a typically disturbed sleep. There are heavy, thumping noises. I think it’s Beranabus and Kernel returning or a demon breaking through. But when I look around there’s nothing in the cave. I frown, wondering if the noises were part of the dream. Listen for ages, sitting up. Silence.
I try to sleep again but I’m too unsettled. So I walk around the cave for the millionth time. After a while I jog. Twenty laps, followed by push-ups, squats, more jogging. Shadow-punching as I run. Knocking hordes of imaginary monsters out.
A series of short sprints. In better physical condition than I’ve been in a long time—maybe ever. Thinking about Loch and how approving he’d be if he could see me now. He was always pushing me to exercise more. Said I was a mountain of muscles that hadn’t been honed, that I could be truly ferocious if I pushed myself to my limits. But I never bothered. There was always something better to do with my time.
Not anymore. This is how Olympians should train. Shut themselves off from the world in a musky, murky cave, with nothing to do except exercise. Works wonders when it comes to concentration. If I ever get out of here, maybe that will be my true calling in life—coach to athletic stars. It would certainly beat the hell out of killing demons for a living!
Still exercising. I’ve been at it for hours, pausing only for periods of short rest and to eat. Sweating so much, I have to take my clothes off. Keeping only my boxers on, in case Beranabus and Kernel drop in without warning.
Suddenly, I hear the noises again. Three heavy thumps, a pause, three more. Then silence.
I come to a standstill, listening to the echoes of the thumps. They came from overhead—the closed entrance to the cave. With sudden hope in my heart, I race to the ladder and scurry to the top, where I wait a few seconds for more sounds. When there’s only silence, I roar, “Hello!” and listen again. Nothing.
Back to the bottom of the ladder. I look for something to strike the roof of the cave with, but there’s not much here. I go through the drawers of Beranabus’s table—the first time I’ve examined it—but there’s nothing except papers, pens, and small knickknacks. I note absentmindedly that the flowers are still blooming, fresh as ever.
Eventually, I grab one of the longer logs from the woodpile and drag it up the ladder, then pound the roof with it, three times, a pause, then three more. I hold it by my side, trying to stifle my heavy breathing so I can hear clearly, praying for a series of answering knocks. But there aren’t any.
I pound the roof again and again without reply. Eventually, I give up and drop the log. I hang there a while longer, then climb down, dejected. Halfway to the floor I realize that if the noises were human-made, maybe the person has left. When there was no immediate answer, maybe he or she decided there was nobody home, that they’d try again later.
Back on the ground, I drink half a bottle of water, go to the toilet, then return to the base of the ladder, pick up the log, and climb again. At the top I settle back, get as comfortable as I can, and wait, desperate to make contact with another human being.
Many hours later. My legs and arms ache from clinging to the ladder. Tired and irritated. Telling myself I’m wasting my time. The noises were probably a rockfall. I should climb down, get some sleep, then fill the hours with more exercise.
On the point of quitting when the noises come again—three resounding thumps, a pause, then three more, just like earlier. In a fit of excitement I raise the log—then drop it! Reacting swiftly, I grab for it, catch it, and arc it upward, slamming it hard into the roof of the cave, once, twice, three times. A short pause before I hammer the roof again. Then, heart beating hard, I lower it and listen.
Nothing.
For several minutes I hang there, hopeful, awaiting an answer. But as the silence stretches I realize there’s not going to be one. Either the thuds are the result of an especially large animal or the rock overhead is too thick for the noises I make to carry to the other side. Perhaps they’re using magic to penetrate the rock sheet, or maybe they have an especially large hammer.
Dejected, I descend, then head for my blanket and the escape of sleep. Even my nightmares are more welcome than the monotony of the cave.
More empty hours follow, the only distraction—apart from exercise—coming in the form of the thumping noises at regular intervals. I’m sure it’s a person—no animal could make the same sounds over and over—but with no way of contacting them, I lose interest and soon stop wondering who it might be. After a while I even start to ignore the thumps and barely notice them when they come.
Then, one day—or night—as I’m halfway through a four-minute sprint, a green window forms close to the remains of the fire and Kernel steps through. I come to a halt almost directly in front of him. He stares at me icily, casts a curious eye over my bare chest and legs, then goes to the fire and starts it with a single word.
As I’m pulling my clothes on, Beranabus appears. His beard is badly burned and his hands are red, but otherwise he’s unharmed. “Been keeping the cave warm for us?” he says sneeringly.
“He didn’t even manage to get the fire going,” Kernel snorts.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Did you . . . the demon . . . is it . . . ?” I mutter.
“All taken care of,” Beranabus says. “Quenched forever, its universe now a cold, lifeless expanse of space. Human saved, order restored, tragedy averted.”
“No thanks to you,” Kernel sniffs.
I ignore the insult. “How long were you in there?”
“No idea,” Beranabus says as the window behind him vanishes. “It felt like a day. What about here?”
“A couple of weeks. Maybe three.”
“That must have been boring.”
“Serves him right,” Kernel snaps, shooting me a disgusted look. “Running out like that . . . leaving us to deal with it ourselves . . .”
“It’s not like we had to struggle,” Beranabus murmurs, no idea that his kindness makes me feel worse than ever.
“He didn’t have to know that,” Kernel hisses. “He left us to fight alone. Didn’t stop to think if we might need him. Didn’t care.”
“That’s not true,” I say sullenly. “Yes, I ran. But I did care. I just couldn’t . . . it was too . . . I told you!” I cry. “I didn’t want to go. You made me.”
“Listen to him,” Kernel jeers. “He sounds like a five-yea
r-old. I wouldn’t have thought someone his age and size could be so gutless. Maybe he —”
“Enough!” Beranabus barks. Sighing, he heads to his table and motions me to follow. He sits on an old wooden chair, stretches his legs out, cracks his knuckles above his head, and yawns. Lowering his hands, he fiddles with some of the flowers, shuffles papers around, then takes a drawing out of one of the drawers and stares at it.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
“No,” he sighs. “It was my fault. I thought you were made of stronger stuff. I could see the fear in you and your reluctance to get involved. But given your background, I thought you’d shrug it off once faced with a demon, that you’d rise to the occasion like you did before.”
“It was different then,” I tell him. “I didn’t know what I was getting into the first time, and in Slawter I was trapped. I had no choice but to fight. I’ve had so many horrible nights since then, so many nightmares. I’m not just scared of demons now—I’m bloody terrified.”
“I understand,” Beranabus says. “I didn’t before, but I do now.” He studies the drawing again, then lays it aside. “I’m a poor judge of character. I’ve made mistakes before, taken children into the universe of the Demonata when they weren’t ready, lost them cheaply. But they’ve always been fighters. This is the first time I’ve taken someone who lacked the stomach for battle. It was a grave error on my part. I should have known better.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“No. I’m sad. You have such ability, it’s a shame to see it go to waste. But if the fighting instinct isn’t there, there’s no point moping. I thought you were a warrior. I was wrong. You don’t criticize a pony for not being a horse.”
He falls silent and looks around at the flowers on the table. I’m not sure I like his comparison. Never thought of myself as Grubbs Grady—pony! But I guess it’s appropriate. I might lack the guts to be a hero, but at least I have pride enough not to whine when the truth is pointed out.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“I can’t fight. So what happens? Will you take me back? Set me loose in the desert? What?”
Beranabus frowns. “I can’t spare much time. You wouldn’t survive outside, and it would be cruel to make you wait here indefinitely. I’ll take you to the nearest human outpost. You’ll have to make your own way from there. Once you get home, tell Dervish what happened. Ask him to help you work on your magic. Even if you can’t fight, you can watch for demons. Become a Disciple. I know you’d rather keep out of this completely, but you might make a difference. Do you think you could do that?”
“Sure,” I gush, delighted to be told I’m not entirely worthless. “I avoided magic because I thought if I learned it, I’d have to fight demons. But if I just have to be a watchdog . . .”
“Good choice of words,” Kernel snorts.
“Now, now,” Beranabus says. “Let’s not be ungracious.”
Kernel spits into the fire. His spit sizzles, revealing more about his opinion of me than he could ever say with words.
“When do we leave?” I ask, eager to be out of here, free of this confining cave and Kernel’s scorn.
“Soon,” Beranabus promises. “I need to get some sleep, and eat when I wake, but after that we’ll depart.”
“Great.” I grin, turning away to let the elderly magician go to rest. Then I remember the noises and turn to tell him. “I forgot, somebody’s been . . .”
I come to a halt. Beranabus is leaning over, stroking the leaves of one of the flowers, smiling fondly at it. I can see the drawing he was looking at earlier. It’s a pencil sketch of a girl’s face. And though the paper is yellow and wrinkled with age, the face is shockingly familiar.
“Who’s that?” I croak. Beranabus looks up questioningly. I point a trembling finger at the drawing. “The girl—who is she?”
“Someone who died a very long time ago,” Beranabus says, touching the paper. “She sacrificed her life fighting the Demonata, to keep the world safe. An example to us all. Not that I’m trying to make you feel small. I didn’t mean —”
“There was a voice,” I interrupt, eyes fixed on the drawing. “At the cave in Carcery Vale. I didn’t mention it before—it didn’t seem to matter and there was so much else to tell you. But when I went to the cave, I heard a voice and saw a face in the rocks. It was alive. Even though it was in the rock, it could open its eyes and move its lips. It spoke to me.”
I pick up the drawing and study the girl’s face, the curve of her jaw, the eyes and mouth. “This is the girl from the cave. She called to me . . . warned me, I think, but I don’t know what of. She spoke in a different lan —”
“It can’t be!” Beranabus snaps, snatching the drawing back. “This girl has been dead for almost sixteen hundred years. You’re mistaken.”
“No,” I say certainly. “It was her. I’m sure of it. Who the hell was she, and why did she try so hard to contact me?”
In answer to that, Beranabus only sits and stares at me, shocked—and afraid.
The Warning
IMPOSSIBLE!” Beranabus keeps croaking. “Impossible!” He’s striding around the cave, hair and eyes even wilder than normal, clutching the drawing of the girl to his chest, muttering to himself, occasionally bursting out with another round of, “Impossible! Impossible!”
Kernel and I have drawn together by the fire, temporarily united by our uncertainty. “Has he ever gone off like this before?” I whisper.
“No,” Kernel replies quietly. “He often talks to himself, but I’ve never seen him so agitated.”
“Do you know who the girl is?”
Kernel shakes his head. “Just some old drawing that he gets out every now and then and moons over.”
“Beranabus said she died sixteen hundred years ago.”
“I heard.”
“Do you think he knew her? Was he alive then?”
“No.” Kernel frowns. “He couldn’t have been. We can live a long time, battling the Demonata in their universe, even a few hundred years. But no human can live that long. At least that’s what Beranabus taught me.”
Beranabus stops pacing, whirls, and fixes his stare on me. “You!” he shouts. “Come here!” I glance at Kernel for support. “Don’t waste my time! Get over here now!”
Since I don’t want to enrage him any further, I edge across but keep out of immediate reach. Beranabus holds the drawing up. His hands are shaking. “How sure are you?” he growls.
“It’s her,” I tell him. “The girl in the cave. I’m certain.”
“Would you stake your life on it?” he snarls.
“No,” I say hesitantly. “But it is her. You don’t forget a face like that. It’s not every day a person speaks to you from within the heart of a rock.”
Beranabus lowers the drawing. Turns it around so he can study the face again. “You say she’s alive?” he asks, voice low.
I shrug. “She spoke to me. But it wasn’t a real face. It was a cross between flesh and stone. She could have been some sort of ghost, I guess.”
“Of course,” Beranabus says. “But a ghost imprisoned there . . . trapped all this time . . .” His eyes shoot up. “Tell me what she said.”
“I can’t. I didn’t understand her. She spoke a different language.”
“Don’t be stupid! You can . . .” He stops and gets his breathing under control. “First things first. Tell me the whole story. Everything this time. About the cave, what you saw and heard. Leave nothing out.”
I don’t want to go through it again, but he’s not going to tell me anything until I do, so I quickly trot out the story, filling in all the details I skipped the first time. Seeing the face in the rock. The eyes opening. Later, when the girl spoke to me. In the cave, the night of my turning, when she screamed at me and seemed to be trying to warn me.
“Warn you of what?” Beranabus asks.
“Maybe that Juni was a traitor. Or of the danger Bill-E was in.”
“Perhaps,” Beranabus mutters. “There are blood ties between you that might account for her interest in your predicament, but to break out of the rock and make herself heard must have required a huge amount of energy and effort. Why would she do that just to save your lives?”
He’s not expecting an answer, so I don’t try to provide one. Instead, I pick up on something else he said and ask stiffly, “What blood ties?”
He waves a hand as though it’s nothing. “The girl was called Bec. A distant ancestor of yours.”
“Ancestor?”
“A distant one,” he repeats. “She was a priestess . . . a magician. A brave, true, selfless girl.”
“Did you know her?” Kernel asks. He’s slightly behind us, listening closely. “Were you alive then?”
“I’d be a real Methuselah if so,” Beranabus says. He looks at the drawing again and frowns. “I need to know what she said. She might have simply been trying to help you, but I think there’s more to it. We need to study her words.”
“But I told you, I couldn’t understand her. I don’t speak her language.”
“I do,” Beranabus says, then gestures to the chair behind the desk. “I’m going to teach you another remembering spell, like the one we used to prove you didn’t kill your brother’s grandparents. But with this one you’ll repeat everything the girl said. I’ll be able to translate.”
I sit. Beranabus clears an area of the table, then lays the drawing down gently, so it’s facing me. “Look into her eyes,” he says softly. “Forget everything that’s happened recently. Let your mind drift back.” He gives me a minute, then says, “Repeat after me.”
I mimic Beranabus’s words carefully. As the spell develops, the lines on the paper shimmer. I’m startled, but I’ve seen a lot more incredible stuff in my time, so I don’t lose concentration. The lines begin to move. The face doesn’t bulge out of the page the way it projected from the rocks, but it comes alive. The eyes flicker and the lips part. The girl talks. No sounds come, just the motions. But as the spell concludes and Beranabus stops talking, I find my own lips moving in time with the drawing’s. Only it’s not my voice—it’s the girl’s.
I speak swiftly, anxiously, the muscles of my throat hurting from having to form such unusual words. I spot Kernel listening with a frown, unable to interpret. But Beranabus understands perfectly. And the more I say, the more his face pales and he trembles.