He’s already standing in the shadow of the trees when he recognises the messenger’s armoured horse.
‘Sarius,’ he hears a whispering voice. ‘Come out.’
The messenger brings his mount to a halt right on the spot where the fire had been. The yellow eyes under the hood are looking directly at Sarius’s hiding place.
He steps out reluctantly from the protection of the trees.
‘The water sisters inflicted considerable damage on you both,’ the messenger states.
‘Yes.’
‘You faced them on your own, you and Tyrania?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were there no other fighters nearby?’
Sarius says nothing, but Tyrania is eager to inform him.
‘Drizzel and Xohoo were here, but they cleared off.’
‘Indeed?’ The messenger looks towards the forest into which the two escaped. Then he reaches into his cloak, and gets out a small pouch.
‘For you, Tyrania. There are forty-four gold coins. Use them to buy better equipment from the next trader. If you hike down-river from here you will soon come to a small settlement. Don’t be concerned about the lateness of the hour. Wake the trader and inform him that I have sent you. Seek the red-leaved herbs on the riverbank for your health.
Tyrania hurriedly grabs the bag of gold and sets off.
‘Sarius?’ The messenger bends down from the saddle and reaches out a bony hand. ‘It’s looking bad for you. You should come with me.’
The messenger’s gesture fills Sarius with disquiet. Somehow it looks – greedy.
‘Are you going to help me?’ he asks, and regrets his words immediately. They sound childish and silly.
‘We will help each other,’ the messenger replies and reaches his hand out a little further still.
Since he doesn’t have a choice, and since this time round the messenger is obviously not planning to hand over a bottle of healing potion, Sarius grasps the proffered bony fingers. The messenger pulls him onto the horse, which snorts, turns on its hindquarters and dashes away.
Sarius is already feeling better. The noise has disappeared and the beautiful music is playing again. It tells him that everything is going to be fine. Nothing can happen to him. He is the hero in this epic tale. Everything here revolves around him. He is glad that he faced up to the battle with the seven water giants, and didn’t run away like Drizzel and Xohoo.
The messenger’s horse is swift. They gallop along a path that slowly climbs upwards. On the right, the trees are soon replaced by large rocks, dark as dirty water. The messenger guides his horse away from the path, towards the rocks. As they approach Sarius spots symbols carved in the rock – messages that he cannot decipher. They stop in front of a cave and dismount. The messenger points to the mouth of the cave, and Sarius enters. The anxiety that he had to overcome when mounting the armoured horse is gone, and doesn’t return, even when he steps into the cave, which is as big as a cathedral, and in which every step echoes over and over.
‘You fought well,’ the messenger says.
‘Thank you. I certainly tried to.’
‘It is a great pity that you were wounded so seriously. You won’t survive a further battle.’
It’s not as if Sarius doesn’t know that. But the way the messenger says it makes it sound as though nothing can be done. As if Sarius is doomed. He hesitates with his answer, and in the end decides to couch it as a question.
‘I thought we were going to help each other?’
‘Yes. That was my suggestion. I would say you’re no longer a rank beginner. You should be ready for the second rite.’
That’s more than Sarius was expecting. After the second rite he’ll be a Two, he assumes.
‘I will therefore heal you and give you more strength, more stamina and better equipment,’ the messenger continues. ‘Is that what you would wish?’
‘Of course,’ Sarius replies.
The moment has come for the messenger’s demand – the price he has to pay for all of this. But the messenger remains silent, interlacing his overlong finger joints. Waits.
‘And what can I do for you?’ Sarius asks, when the silence seems to last too long.
His counterpart’s yellow eyes light up.
‘It’s just a trifle, but it’s important. It’s an errand.’
Sarius, who’s been expecting to have to vanquish a monster or fight a dragon, doesn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry.
‘I’d be happy to do it.’
‘I’m glad. These are your instructions: Go to St Andrew’s Church in Totteridge tomorrow morning. An ancient yew stands there. Very close by you will find a box with the word “Galaris” on it. It is sealed. You will not open it; instead you will put it in the bag that you have brought with you. You will make your way with it to the Dollis Brook Viaduct, where it crosses Dollis Road. You will place the box in the bushes under one of the arches near the road. Conceal it so that it is not visible to outsiders. Then go, without turning round. Did you understand everything?’
Sarius stares at the messenger, speechless. No, he doesn’t understand anything at all. Totteridge and Dollis Road? They’re located in London, not in the world of Erebos. Or are they? He hesitates, thinks it over, and finally double-checks, just to make sure.
‘That means I have to carry out your instructions in London? In reality?’
‘That is exactly what it means. Whatever “reality” may be.’
The messenger is looking expectant, but Sarius doesn’t have a quick answer ready. This is all nonsense. He’s not going to find a box at St Andrew’s – how would that work? On the other hand – there’s nothing to stop him from claiming all sorts of things. For example, that he has followed the instructions exactly as described.
‘Fine, I’ll do it.’
‘I am glad. Don’t wait too long. We will see each other tomorrow, before noon. By then your task must be carried out. If you disappoint me . . .’
For the first time since Sarius met him a smile steals over the messenger’s features. As if he knows what is at the back of Sarius’s mind.
‘. . . if you disappoint me, this will be our last meeting in friendly circumstances.’
With a parting wave the messenger turns and goes. The mouth of the cave closes behind him. As the gap disappears, so does the light. Blackness. So impenetrable that Sarius no longer knows if he is a part of this darkness, or if he has ceased to exist.
We all die in the end. It’s strange that m ’s most people make such a fuss about whether it happens sooner or later. Time flows like water and we float along with it, however much we may try to swim against the current.
How agreeable it is to give that up. To let the days and nights fly past, not to see or hear or feel the goings-on of the world any more. To live in one’s own world, where one’s own rules apply. Not to pursue countless goals, but only the one, steadily and resolutely.
Oh yes, resolutely. I am not much any more, but I am resolute. What I am creating is good. It is so much better than I am. One of the few things in life that still has meaning for me is creating something that grows far beyond one’s own self. And it is growing. And growing.
I realise now. I was dishonest when I said that it was a matter of indifference to me how long the lives of people around me last. That is not true. But it’s not extending them that’s important to me. On the contrary. I sit here and hone the tool with which I will cut short that which needs to be cut short.
CHAPTER 7
Every single key sequence was futile. Nick pressed the reset but-button with a sigh, and to his relief the computer restarted and began booting up. The time it took till his desktop image appeared and everything was operational seemed interminable. He tapped his foot and glanced at the computer clock. 1.48 a.m. Thank goodness tomorrow was Saturday, so he could safely play for a while longer. If he got Erebos running again. But it would work out. If necessary he could still set up a second character – that was a good idea anyway.
Maybe a barbarian or a vampire this time. Barbarians were incredibly robust.
He searched on the desktop for the Erebos icon, a simple red E, and clicked it. For a fraction of a second the cursor turned into an hourglass, then it resumed its usual arrow form. That was it. Nick double-clicked again on the E, got the DVD out of the drive, put it in again – nothing.
After two more computer restarts he gave up. All the other programs were running without a problem. It was only Erebos that wasn’t responding. Damn it all.
Nick was far too agitated to go to bed. While he was sitting around here idly, epic battles were certain to be raging at the blue river or the black wall. And even if they weren’t he could still stand by the fire and chat with the others.
But by the look of it his copy of the game had a serious bug.
All of a sudden he could picture Colin again, asking Dan for tips, grovelling to him and still not getting them. Had the game crashed terminally on him as well?
Morosely Nick opened Minesweeper, blew himself up three times in a row, and swore absurdly loudly. Well, then he’d just go to bed.
Or maybe pay a quick visit to Emily’s page?
No, he wasn’t in the mood for that. Not relaxed enough. Not romantic enough.
Not curious enough.
Contrary to his usual habits, Nick woke up at seven in the morning, a bundle of nerves – as if he was about to face an exam. His eyes felt sticky and they stung. The thought of getting up made him tired again immediately. On the other hand – he didn’t actually have to get up. At least not yet. Not at all, really. He buried his head deep in the pillow and tried not to think of anything, but soon caught himself repeating the keyboard shortcuts that he’d discovered in Erebos yesterday. CTRL+f to light fires, b to block, Space to jump, Escape to shake off. He wondered whether Colin was playing right now. Rubbish, he was asleep. Colin, alias – Nick had a suspicion. What was the name of the dark elf who had slunk away into the background in the battle against the trolls? Lelant, that’s right. He’d stood to one side at the battle the way Colin was in the habit of doing when he thought a basketball game was lost. He kept out of it then, wouldn’t lift another finger.
Okay, he would put down Colin as Lelant on his mental list. Of more interest, however, was who was concealed behind BloodWork. Probably one of those thugs who were always hanging round by the rubbish bins in the schoolyard scaring the eleven-year-olds. He knew hardly any of them by name.
Dan? Dan was certain to be a fat dwarf like Sapujapu. Or he’d have made himself extra thin and beautiful – as a vampire, for example. Or he was one of the dark elves who were so common, much to Nick’s chagrin. In any case he would be able to recognise Dan immediately from his stupid sayings and his smugness, and then he’d clobber him with his sword.
Nick sighed. How was he ever going to get back to sleep with the game going round and round in his head? He stretched, sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
Totteridge wasn’t far. The Northern Line was right near home. He might as well quickly go to St Andrew’s Church, go through the motions. Even though the game wouldn’t start up any more.
To test it, Nick sat at the computer and tried it once more, and got the same result as before he went to bed. Erebos wouldn’t open. Fortunately the internet was working, so Nick had found the location of St Andrew’s church on Google Maps within a few minutes – and even a picture of the yew, which was supposed to be two thousand years old and thus the oldest living thing in London. Wow. Its branches were so low that it looked like an enormous bush in the photo.
Dad had already gone to work an hour ago, and Mum would sleep in till at least ten. Nick brushed his hair, tied it up at his nape and dragged on yesterday’s clothes. He may as well take the opportunity to bring breakfast back with him. Chocolate chip muffins – Mum would love him for that. He grabbed an old PE bag, stuffed it in his jacket pocket and left his mother a note on the kitchen table: Taking something round to Colin. Back soon.
He closed the door behind him, so quietly that he could barely hear it himself. Mum wouldn’t ring Colin to check Nick’s statement. And even if she did – Colin hadn’t answered the phone for days.
Nick got out at Totteridge & Whetstone and had to wait ten minutes for the bus that took him along Totteridge Lane to the church.
He couldn’t miss the yew. Unfortunately, however, its location wasn’t as secluded as Nick had imagined from the photo on the internet. There were people strolling around the churchyard: an elderly couple, two women with prams, a gardener. Admittedly they weren’t paying any attention to Nick, but he was going to feel pretty silly looking for something at the foot of this mighty tree that wasn’t there.
Suddenly he became aware of how absurd the situation was. Why was he here? Because a character in a computer game had instructed him to look for something under a tree? God, that was ridiculous.
At least no-one knew about it. He could go home again and forget the whole thing, have breakfast with Mum and then go out somewhere with Jamie later. Or settle down and play on the computer.
Except that the game wouldn’t start any more. The bloody crap game.
To keep himself occupied and give his morning outing some purpose, Nick walked once around the churchyard of St Andrew’s, studied the red brick building with its square white tower, and came to a decision. It was stupid to go home without at least taking a quick look at the yew.
Ancient crooked gravestones stood in the shadow of the tree. Great atmosphere, thought Nick. He touched the mighty trunk almost reverently. Would it take four people to reach all the way round the tree? Or even five? It wouldn’t be at all difficult to hide things inside the trunk, either. But there was nothing there anyway, at least not at first glance. Nick reached his hand into a wide crevice in the wood, and felt earth that had collected in there. He lowered his gaze to the ground. There wasn’t anything there either – how could there be?
He walked on, ducked under the low-lying branches, got to the rear of the giant tree. Bent down.
There was something square and light brown peeping out from between the plants that grew in bunches close to the cracked bark of the tree. Nick pushed the stalks aside.
The box was about the size of a thick book, and its edges were sealed with wide black duct-tape. Nick picked it up incredulously, registering fleetingly that it was heavy. Abstractedly he wiped off the earth that was still sticking to it.
‘Galaris’ was written on the wood in sweeping script, and there was a date underneath: 18.03. Nick struggled with a sense of unreality.
The 18th of March was his birthday.
Nick stared out of the train window; the bag containing the light-brown box was resting on his knee. One part of him was concentrating on not missing the right stop. Another, and considerably larger, part was trying to make sense of it all. It had been almost two in the morning when the messenger had given him the order to look for the box. Had it already been lying under the tree at that point? And even more important: how had it got there? Why was his date of birth on there? What did the word ‘Galaris’ mean?
More than ever he wished he could talk his questions over with Colin. He was bound to know a lot more about Erebos already. Had he also been sent to the old yew?
Nick got out at West Finchley. He had a good fifteen-minute hike in front of him, but at least it would be through the countryside. He knew the area; he’d often gone for walks around here. It was a paradise for joggers and dog owners. As Nick was crossing a small bridge over the Dollis Brook he got his phone out of his pocket and dialled. Colin answered before the second ring. Nick was so surprised that he forgot for a moment why he’d even called.
‘Listen, I’ve got stuff to do,’ said Colin. ‘If you want to chat, we can do that at school. Okay?’
‘Wait a sec! I wanted to ask you something about Erebos. It’s . . . I got such a weird task, I had to —’
‘Shut your mouth, will you?’ Colin interrupted him. ‘You’ve read
the rules, haven’t you? Don’t pass on any information, not even to your friends. Don’t talk about the contents of the game. Are you stupid or what?’
For a second Nick was speechless.
‘But . . . but . . . are you taking it that seriously?’
‘It is serious. Keep it to yourself, or you’ll get kicked out before you can count to three.’
Nick said nothing. There was something very unpleasant about the thought of being kicked out. Humiliating. ‘I . . . I thought. Forget it,’ he said.
When Colin answered, his tone was noticeably friendlier. ‘Those are the rules, mate. And believe me, it’s worth obeying them. The game is wicked. And it keeps getting better.’
The bag with the mysterious box weighed heavily in Nick’s hand. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Well then . . .’
‘You haven’t been there for that long.’ Now Colin sounded eager. ‘But you’ll soon see. Stick to the rules. And one of the rules is that you don’t go round blabbing.’
Nick took advantage of his friend’s change of mood for one last question. ‘Has the game ever actually crashed on you?’
Now Colin laughed. ‘Crashed? No. But I know what you mean.’ He lowered his voice as though he feared someone might be listening in. ‘Sometimes . . . it doesn’t want to work. It waits. It tests you. Know what, Nick? Sometimes I think it’s alive.’
Nick had left the colourful garden allotments on either side of the path behind him. Dollis Brook flowed sedately along next to him, almost without making a sound.
Sometimes I think it’s alive. Very funny, Colin.
The sun came out from behind the clouds at exactly the moment the path took Nick into the forest. He stopped and turned his face to the warming rays. If he found himself a nice quiet place in the forest where he could loosen the tape off the box ever so carefully . . . Just for one look? Just to find out what was so heavy?