Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) (19 page)

As he sat up on the thin mattress, his joints creaking as they adjusted with the cold, he could see two white spheres light up in the opposite corner of his tiny room.  The shapes – eyes – moved closer to greet him, sparkling in the light. The spectacles covering them slipped forward slightly as they did so and were caught by the crooked end to the nose they rested on.

‘Welcome back, Mr Childs,’ the voice soothed, ‘we have been waiting a long time for you to return to us.’

Truman stared into the darkness as the voice spoke trying to place it.  He knew he recognised it. With the sound of the voice, his body grew colder.  The voice was comforting, chilling and menacing all at once.  There was only one other time Truman remembered having that feeling.

‘Stamford?’ Truman replied.

‘I’m glad you’re back.  I hope you’re well rested as you’re going to be helping us.’  The white of the doctor’s teeth shone in the darkness as his smile beamed.

It was not a request.  It barely resembled a command. It was a threat; the emptiness behind Stamford’s eyes gave away his true intentions almost immediately.  In his own mind, Truman had already risen to his feet, had descended on the still frame of the doctor and had circled both his hands around the man’s throat, squeezing out the last of the pathetic life that the doctor had left, in exchange for the little life Truman had left.

In reality, Truman only raised his arms an inch before the iron chain pulled taut once more and gripped him in a vice, waiting the next strike of the hammer or serration of a rusty blade.  He was at the mercy of the demented doctor.

Stamford let out a small sigh, almost a laugh, as Truman struggled in his shackles.  A dim light was beginning to illuminate the rest of the cell and his eyes slowly grew accustomed to his new surroundings.  Stamford – or whomever he had called to bring Truman’s comatose body to this place – had been kind enough to prop Truman up at the head of the metal-framed cot in a sitting position, held in place by the cold bare stone wall behind.  This enabled Truman to remain properly oriented when he came around. He realised that panic would have only worsened the situation.

‘Don’t struggle, Mr Childs.’

‘Why do you call me that?’

‘Why wouldn’t I?  It is who you were, who you still are in essence today,’ Stamford replied calmly. ‘You have seen it for yourself.’

‘I have seen nothing but ravings and hallucinations brought on by whatever drug you have administered to me.’

An outburst came from the back of Stamford’s throat, a scoff at Truman’s naivety.

‘Think what you will about those events, Mr. Childs, but they were real.  There is no getting away from that fact.  As sure as night becomes day, you were –
are
– Ewan Childs and you
will
help us,’ Stamford re-iterated. ‘You are the only one left who can.’

That last statement alerted something within Truman.  He brushed aside the notion for a second before deciding, maybe yes, quite possibly…Dr. Mason Stamford sounded scared.  Up until this point, the doctor had held his voice strong with an air of confidence and menace that hung in the ether between the two men, neither of which who now believed the threat existed at all. Stamford’s voice had trembled and betrayed him.

Now it was Truman’s turn to scoff and mock.

‘
You
brought me here, wherever this place is.  You’ve put images in my head that I don’t know if I believe are real or a result of hallucinogens.  You have caused me to slowly question my own sanity, and then you insult the tattered remains of my integrity by asking for my help!’  Truman stopped long enough to catch his breath once more.  ‘My God, man, you really are pathetic,’ he spat the words in Stamford’s direction, replicating the words from their previous encounter in the staged psychiatrist’s surgery.

The venom returned to Stamford as he responded, fuelled now by the hatred and pity he held for the man who sat before him, dishevelled and helplessly shackled to a rusty cabin bed in a dank holding cell.

'I never asked,’ he said slowly, letting each word slither off his tongue, ‘Rather, I
told
you that you were going to help us. I never said you had a choice.’

Truman’s arms again instinctively wanted to launch towards the doctor’s exposed neck, but only shook the chains, strengthening their impenetrable hold on his wrists.  He gave in to their iron grip and let his head fall back against the cold wall once again.  He closed his eyes and tried searching for the answers that he knew were hidden within the shadows somewhere.  He wanted to return to the white room, or to Tewke’s Range, where everything had made sense to him.

‘What do you want from me?’ He asked, his eyes still closed attempting to shield himself from the harsh reality he had woken up to.

There was no response.  His head fell to his chest and he prised his eyes open once more.  As the light continued to rise within the cell, the flame from a torch flickered against Stamford’s frame, huddled tightly in the chair at the foot of the bed.  For the first time Truman was able to observe the man’s face.

Whatever fear had gripped and manifested Stamford’s speech a few moments ago was physically wearing the man down.  Darkness circled his eyes and the skin on his face had started to sag.  The man looked as though he had not slept for weeks.

Stamford’s lifeless eyes stared back at him, the light continuing to showcase the lines that ran down his face, deep creases in the pale skin.  Stamford’s hair was now white, riddled with flecks of black. There had only been the distinguished badger-stripes of silver at his temples when they met previously.

Whatever was happening in Stamford’s mind had aged him far beyond his years. It had happened within the days or weeks since the day at the surgery.

‘A means to an end,’ Stamford said finally. ‘You are the key to a new beginning for all of us,’ he continued before Truman could muster the words to question him.  ‘You can either choose to help me and join us or…’ his voice trailed off, as he lifted both hands and motioned around the torturous cell surrounding them.

A shiver ran through Truman making him tremble uncontrollably. The faint flicker of the candle had started to warm Truman’s face but there was not enough life in the flame to transfer the heat he needed to his lower body.  He sat chained to his cot and watched Stamford rise to his feet and walk towards the wall onto which his bed was bolted. He stood a few feet from the bed as Truman heard a latch come free and the creak of old, tired hinges, groaning with effort, as the battered wooden shutters were pulled open.

Due to his immobility, Truman had not registered that the room had a window.  As the shutters were drawn back clattering against the stone wall beside his head, Truman welcomed the ray of light and rush of warmth that raced in through the window to the centre of the room before settling on a spot in the middle of the concrete floor. It rested at Stamford’s feet like a forlorn but loyal family puppy cowering before its master.

‘In twelve hours, I will present you to my superiors,’ he gazed wistfully out of the window into whatever world rested outside, ‘You will be my greatest triumph; the missing link.’

Truman’s pulse quickened and his breathing grew shallower as he listened to the doctor’s premature victory speech.  Something was happening. At that very moment, someone’s demented plans were whirring into action.  What horrified Truman the most was that he had no idea what, or with whom, he was dealing. Chained to the unforgiving and uncomfortable bed in apparent solitary confinement, he had little chance to find out unless he acted quickly.

The fear, the cloudiness of his mind and the frustration were beginning to boil inside him.  As he closed his eyes, the images of the flames consuming Stamwell’s body returned, the heat searing his cheeks as he stared into their fiery embrace; he did not want to return to that time, the life he once had.  The shadows of the past brought fear and he needed the light of hope. 

But he needed to face these demons if he had any chance of finding out what was going to happen.  First thing’s first, he needed to find a way off this bed, out of this room and back into the world he once knew.

With regret he knew he needed to meet Stamford on his level whether he believed in anything that was going on in this man’s mind or not.

‘What happened to him after the fire?’

Stamford’s head met Truman’s, finally torn from the sanctuary he had found on the other side of the window.  He smiled, wryly.

‘So you
do
believe?’

‘You told me that it was all real, so why question me now?’ Truman fired. ‘I need to know what happened.’

As pride gleamed over his face, the colour seemingly returning to his old skin, Stamford met Truman’s inquisition with wonder.

‘Oh, great things,’ he purred. ‘He is on a higher plane than us, now.’

‘I know he died,’ reasoned Truman wanting to know more than the obvious facts. ‘No one could have survived that kind of fate.’

‘He did not die,’ Stamford spoke in a hushed whisper, ‘We made him a god.’ 

‘Stamwell was everything that William Archibald wanted in a son,’ Stamford’s gaze returned to the outside world.  ‘Everyone in the Council always said that was the Father’s weakness – the need for an heir, for someone who could return the love that he had lost when his wife had been taken, forcing him to find solace in the quiet of the forest.  They said that he cared too much how he was perceived in the boy’s eyes to really make a serious play for leadership.  His brother Julius on the other hand was different.  He cared for no-one but himself and the Council, although his concerns never stretched to the individual members who had voted him into power.  He wanted to use them to ascend, to become a higher power.’

Sensing that this was not going to be a short account, Truman relaxed his arms to relieve the tension in his shoulders.  Stamford, for the moment at least, posed no threat to him whilst he lost himself in his tale.  Truman noticed that the doctor’s eyes were unblinking; staring out into the serenity outside his cell.  The reflection of the sun onto Stamford’s face gave the impression that he was finally relaxing, the years starting to fall away from him as he spoke.

‘The fire that took away William’s wife, home and the chance of the family he yearned for, was of course started by Julius. We all knew it.’

Truman’s attention turned towards Stamford.  So this was the man’s truth?  He had been there too.  They had both been part of the horrific scenes from that night in the forest.  Truman now questioned his own sanity more than ever.  He had placed Stamford in the mentally vacant category but now they seemed to share the same vision of a time lost long ago.

‘When the order came from Parliament – who barely knew of our existence down here in Wildermoor – to adopt a new style of worship and religion, Julius rebelled instantly.  It was almost as if this was the calling he had been waiting for; the purpose that he had been silently serving and working towards for years.  He saw it as a sign from his own God to carry out his work for a new world order.’

Stamford’s words started to soften and fade in Truman’s ears, becoming nothing more than a rhythmic humming in the background.  As Truman remained propped against the cell wall, his arms hanging limp beside him, his hands had been meaninglessly folding the slack on the chain treating them as a set of makeshift rosary beads, praying to a god that he doubted existed. The darkness was beginning to form around him, his eyes remained open but his mind grew heavy as fatigue set in.

As his thumb and forefinger lovingly rolled over the chain a spark lit behind his eyes and again the room was bathed in light.  Stamford’s words returned to him with clarity but he remained distracted by the chain in his fingers.  Something felt strange about it as he rolled the same section of chain through his fingers making sure his face and body appeared tired and disinterested. His mind tried to make sense of the messages that were travelling up the length of his arm attempting to form a picture in his mind.

The chain was still cold but warming to his touch.  The metal was abrasive with rust but something had awoken his senses. Nothing felt odd about the chain at all until his thumb and finger gripped the same two links of the chain again.  This time he recognised what his hands were feeling; a gap, so small he had to concentrate to feel it but a gap nonetheless.

A weak link.

The relief, excitement and apprehension flowed through his body, bringing new warmth to every fibre in him.  Little by little, his body returned from its slumber.  His arms wanted to flail and his legs kick out in a concerted effort to break the chain.

It’s only one link though
.  He kept telling himself that.  One sudden movement alone would not break his shackles and would probably tear the skin around his wrist whilst ripping his other arm from its socket.

No, he had to think this through. 
Keep the man talking.
The doctor would reach the end of his story soon enough and Truman scarcely had time to act.

Gripping the break in the link between his two strongest digits, the thumb and forefinger, Truman managed to shield the broken section of chain with the rest of his hand.  The rust on the chain rubbed against his skin as his fingers worked frantically and covertly. It would surely give soon.

‘The boy’s mother was one of William’s first…subjects,’ Stamford remained unaware.  ‘It was one of the only expeditions where William joined in with the Fielders.  Once his men had dragged her away from the house, he heard the innocent cries of the boy upstairs - scared and now all alone and William could not bear to leave him.  The boy had been too grief-stricken and frozen with shock to notice that he was being taken away. Over the next few weeks he had been treated like a prince.  When they had moved deeper underground William had given the boy his own quarters.