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Ian Popple  Synopsis   Of light and Shadows

Prologue

The blast decimated the hallway. As it did, Catherine Powell realised the situation was hopeless. But if she was to die tonight she had to make sure it was done. Surrounded by rubble, smoking and smouldering, she hauled her battered body across the floor. The raw cuts on her palms and forearms ripped wider, stinging sharply as shards of the debris sliced excruciatingly into her open wounds. She threw a hand across her mouth to stifle her cries. Finally, beneath an old wooden beam rotted by damp, she found her son.

            He was dead.

            His life flashed before her; his first word, his first steps, learning to ride a bicycle, his first day at school. She wept silently, her tears washing over the cuts on her face. Her hands trembled as she smoothed his skin - it was still warm. That meant there was a chance, that a little hope still lingered. Composing herself, she placed her finger and thumb tips strategically across her son’s forehead and temples and took a steadying breath, thinking it may be her last. Footsteps echoed on the broken landing, magnified by sensors in the panic room’s walls. Her attacker was close now, and Catherine knew this modern Keep could not protect her. Not from him.

            The footsteps stopped.

            Silence.

            He was close … so close now. She could taste his scent on the smoky air, seeping in through the jagged breach where the ceiling had once been. The stars winked down from above.

            The wall of the panic room was smashed apart with devastating force. Jagged chunks of brick and mortar shot around the room, crashing against whatever was left of the crumbling structure. Catherine Powell was unmoved, willing her knowledge and her message into the mind of her dead son. She felt the sharp prongs of a weapon she knew all too well dig into her neck as her attacker reached her. But it was done.

            ‘Do it,’ she said coldly. ‘Finish it now.’

            ‘Why now, I am disappointed,’ said the harsh voice of her attacker. He spoke slowly, purposefully, weighting every word with intent. ‘I expected more of you, my dear. Surely you realise that I do not intend to take your life.’

            ‘But - I -’ stammered Catherine, thrown off guard.

            ‘Taking your life would be too easy, I have decided,’ said the voice softly, but dangerously. ‘It is a punishment too lenient for your crimes against me.’

            ‘Then why are you here?’ Catherine asked, her voice quivering. She hadn’t expected this.

            ‘I was going to take the boy - make you watch while I tortured him,’ sneered the man, rearing up to make his massive frame yet more domineering. ‘But I see his life is already spent. It robs me of my amusement. Pity. Still, at least I have you.’

            ‘But if you aren’t going to kill me-’

            ‘Silence, woman!’ yelled the man. He whipped his staff through the air, striking Catherine on her cheek. She fell to the floor. He knelt down, his face inches from hers and spoke in an icy whisper: ‘My plan was to take your life slowly, but this night’s events have given me a new idea. The boy has died in front of you and I see it hurts you.’ He brushed a cold finger against Catherine’s check, wiping a tear. She recoiled. ‘I have hurt you, and I wish to go on hurting you. I will inflict upon you what you inflicted upon me - a fate worse than death. A life without life. A soul in a body it cannot control. The ultimate prison for the developed mind.’

            ‘No! Please, no! Show mercy!’ begged Catherine, clutching at the cloak of her attacker. He kicked her away.

            ‘I have never shown mercy, nor shall I ever show such weakness. Goodbye, Catherine.’

            Catherine bowed her head, hoping she had done the right thing and that the right people would get here in time. The Antler Staff erupted, and Catherine Powell thought no more.

            The house was still now. It remained still for quite some time, until two people arrived on the scene. These people were not fireman to put out the smouldering wreck, nor were they police or ambulance crews. They weren’t even nosy neighbours from around the street. They were two men who had never been in this street before, but they knew exactly what they were looking for.

            One of these men was Thomas Kemp, the very reason they were here at all. The reason they had travelled thousands of miles in a matter of minutes. He was crouched down now, hiding in the shade of a thick bush. He couldn’t think for the fear he felt, the worst case scenarios racing around in his head.

            Please, don’t us be too late.

            Half an hour ago, Kemp had shot up from bed, his heart pulsing like he’d just been chased across the plains by a dragon. Trying to process his thoughts, he flung on some clothes and left his house, heading for the town centre. He didn’t care how late it was, nor that a man of his position should not be seen out so unkempt and untidy, as it was damaging to the reputation. He sprinted along the deserted streets until he reached the vaulted archway of the Academy’s Halls of Residence. He took the stairs two or three at a time, panic gripping him with every wasted moment. He found the door he wanted and banged loudly upon it, continuously thudding the polished oak until it was opened.

            ‘What the hell is it, at this unearthly hour?’ Centurius Blackheart was none too pleased at being woken so early in the morning. He was very old and such things were likely to speed him towards an early death. But when he saw the look on Thomas Kemp’s face he knew immediately that something was wrong. He may have been ancient, but his skills were as sharp as ever. ‘Kemp? Thomas? What the devil is wrong?’

            ‘I - I felt…’ Kemp began, stammering through a mix of over-exertion and panic.

            ‘What? What is it man? Compose yourself. Would you like some tea?’

            ‘No, no tea,’ said Kemp. ‘No time. I have felt a most terrifying disturbance. I fear something devastating has happened.’

            ‘I have felt nothing,’ said Centurius. ‘If something major had occurred then all our kind would know of it.’

            ‘Not this time,’ said Kemp. ‘Its Catherine. She’s in danger. Grave danger.’

            Centurius knew Kemp was serious. Without debating it, he dressed as quickly as his creaking limbs would allow and followed Kemp to the portal site. Minutes later they were crouching in bushes outside the devastated Powell home. Clearly, they were too late. Undeterred, Kemp led the way inside, mindful of the evil responsible for the night’s deeds. But it was long gone. He searched the ruins of the ground floor, but found nothing. Upstairs was empty, too, but equally as shattered. Kemp’s mind was frozen, the blackness of grief closing in around it. Centurius ambled past him as he slumped on the landing, shaking and distraught.

            ‘Thomas! In here!’ shouted Centurius. He had gone into a room Kemp hadn’t seen, hidden by a trick wall, concealed from the casual eye. He leapt up and through a gaping hole in the wall, greeted by a scene of devastation. Two bodies lay in the centre of the room.

            ‘Catherine!’ breathed Kemp, unable to take in the sight.

            ‘She’s alive, Thomas,’ said Centurius.

            ‘What?’

            ‘She’s alive,’ the old man repeated, ‘but barely. I don’t know what they did to her but she isn’t dead. Look at her eyes, there’s nothing in them. Most unlike Catherine.’

            ‘Her mind,’ said Kemp slowly. ‘They’ve taken her mind.’

            ‘How can you be sure?’

            ‘That’s how he looked when she took him. But this looks worse. He didn’t look this vacant.’

            ‘Then perhaps this spell is a permanent one?’ suggested Centurius.

            ‘No!’ whined Kemp, cupping Catherine’s head in his hands. Her eyes looked up at him, but there was nothing behind them.

            ‘Boom,’ she whispered quietly, her voice dreamy. She moved a hand up to Kemp’s head, pressing her fingers into his temples. ‘Boom.’

            ‘What? What is it, Katie? What are you trying to tell me?’ said Kemp, more in hope than anything.

            ‘Thomas,’ said Centurius from across the room, ‘look at this. The boy is still warm. Whoever did this didn’t kill him either. I do not understand this.’

            Kemp freed himself from Catherine’s grasp and crossed to Centurius. He looked down at Ryan Powell, his body prostrate and his skin scratched.

            ‘What do you make of these?’ said Kemp, pointing at what looked like finger marks in Ryan’s forehead.

            ‘Perhaps she was so gripped by grief at Ryan’s death that she just pressed too hard,’ suggested Centurius.

            ‘Unless …’ said Kemp. An idea was forming in his mind.

            ‘What?’

            ‘A transfer,’ said Kemp. ‘A mind transfer. Passing knowledge from one mind to another. Its old magic, I know, but this is Katie we’re talking about. She knew the Ancient Wisdoms.’

            ‘Catherine was indeed well versed,’ said Centurius fondly. ‘But would she have had the time?’

            ‘They came up here …’ said Kemp, imagining a chain of events, ‘maybe there were a few of them … she couldn’t hold them all off, or she had to protect Ryan … the room bought her time … she could have done it.’

            ‘But done what?’

            ‘I don’t know, passed information to Ryan, made him seem dead so they wouldn’t actually kill him. Maybe he knows who did this. Can you revive him?’

            ‘Thomas,’ said Centurius darkly. ‘We have to find him. The prisoner. Catherine had him under a spell, if that wears off…’

            ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ said Kemp. ‘I know. But we need to wake Ryan. He needs to know things and now is as good a time as any to tell him.’

            ‘Very well,’ said Centurius reluctantly. He put the tips of his fingers across Ryan’s forehead, whispering under his breath and focusing hard. Suddenly, Ryan’s eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, gasping for air. Looking around he took hold of Thomas Kemp’s cloak, his eyes dazed and unfocused. The words he spoke made Kemp freeze.

            ‘Cardew, Cardew, Cardew!’ said Ryan over and over, then he collapsed again.

            Kemp looked at Centurius and the old man looked back. They shared a grim look of understanding.

            ‘You know what this means?’ said Kemp.

            ‘Yes,’ sighed Centurius. ‘Then we have to search no more. He has escaped, he is free of Catherine’s binds. The day we have feared has arrived.’

            ‘And there is just one place he’s likely to go,’ said Kemp.

            ‘What now?’

            ‘We assemble the old guard,’ said Kemp. ‘We have told a lie for many years, old friend, we will need as many people as we can to convince others of a new truth.’

            ‘And about this place?’

            ‘It must be rebuilt. We’ll send for a team. It isn’t safe to take Catherine and Ryan back yet. We will have to wait. We cannot move until he does, it’s the nature of Catherine’s spell.’

            ‘And the boy?’ said Centurius. ‘We cant leave him here.’

            ‘I’ll speak to his Aunt. She’s the only one of his family who knows of our kind. She will look after him in the interim. We’ll have to wipe his memory - he can have no knowledge of any of this.’

            ‘You think that wise, Thomas? Depriving him of this knowledge? I see little use in such a course.’

            ‘If Ryan knows about this he will go hunting for the one responsible,’ said Kemp. ‘In time, when he is ready, that is a path he will walk. But if he goes after him now, he will be destroyed. We need Ryan alive until his power is great enough. Our entire future depends on him.’

            Kemp looked once again at Centurius. They knew what had to be done. Evil was coming home.

Chapter One

            ‘We have you surrounded, Lord Powell. Come out with your hands up.’

            ‘Never! I’ll die before I surrender.’

            ‘Have it your way.’

            The sounds of gunfire raked out across the sky.

            Knock, Knock.

            ‘Ryan? Are you decent?’

            ‘Yes, Ffi. Come in.’

            ‘I’m on my way out, darl’ . There’s stuff in the freezer for tea, I haven’t got time to do it myself. You don’t mind do you?’ Ryan stifled a groan. ‘There’s a good boy. Now, how do I look?’

            Cheap, was what Ryan was dying to say. ‘You look nice.’ He’d always found it easier to lie to Auntie Ffion. She didn’t take insults too well and Ryan didn’t want to ruin the inches of make-up on her face by making her cry. She’d never let him forget it.

            ‘What are you playing there?’ asked Aunt Ffion.

            ‘Just besieging the castle,’ said Ryan, casting a careless hand at the toy battlefield set up on the floor. ‘The red army think they’ve got the blues surrounded, but they don’t know about the artillery up there on the bed. They’re in for a shock.’

            ‘Aren’t you a little old for toys?’ said Aunt Ffion.

            There were a few things that she was too old for that Ryan would love to point out.

            ‘I don’t think I’m too old,’ said Ryan. ‘Besides, its fun. You should try it someday.’

            ‘Oh … yeah, that’d be great ’ said Aunt Ffion falsely. ‘Well, enjoy. See you later.’

            ‘What time will you be home?’ Ryan asked.

            ‘Don’t know, when I get back, I suppose. Don’t wait up. Bye.’

            Ryan waited until Auntie Ffion was on her way downstairs before shutting his bedroom door. Ffion wasn’t actually his Aunt; she was his mother’s cousin and had moved in to take care of Ryan when his mum had had, as the rest of the family termed it, her episode. She had suffered some kind of psychological break and was unable to look after herself, let alone a young child. Ffion was offered the job of caring for both Ryan and his mum as the only unattached member of the family, and with free board and lodgings thrown in she said is was too good an opportunity to pass up.

            Ryan sat back down. He heard the door shut downstairs as the cannon artillery behind the pillow fired a marble into the crowd of red soldiers. They scattered, many of them fell, the marble rolled under the radiator. Ryan scooted over to fish it out, he could hear his mum singing in the next room, her senseless babble floating through the partition wall. She’d been singing the same, weird song for two years. Ever since that night. It had made up words and no real tune, but it was very distinctive.

            Ping. You have one new message!

            Great, Ryan thought, at least something talks to me. He made his way to his computer and clicked the mouse. The email messenger programme opened and a dialogue box popped up showing the incoming message. Ryan read it.

            Alright Ry. I done the DVD u wanted copied. Will bring 2 skool 2moro. Would have texted but mum found those pics on my fone and confiscated it. Don’t think I will be allowed out 4 a wk. He! He! Gonna sort out Declan wos-is-name in da morning 4 u. I saw him kick that ball at your face in PE. He’s gonna get it big style. Hope your shiner’s calmed down. Gotta go, grubs up. C u 2moro. L8r - Dylan.

            Ryan smirked and exited the programme. He cast a glance in the mirror, taking a look at the angry purple mark around his eye. If only his hair was a little longer it could cover it up. Black covers black quite well and he could mask it as a fashion style. That would make him look even more stupid than he did already. Not that he thought he looked all that bad; he’d been told once or twice that he had the face to look quite good, but lacked the confidence to pull it off, whatever that meant. But in high school you either look good or you look terrible - there is no middle ground.

            That’s why Ryan was glad to be friends with Dylan Davies. He was popular as hell, hard as nails but the best friend you could want. Being friends with him put Ryan into a grey area; he got on with Dylan’s popular-tier friends and they seemed to think he was ok, even though he didn’t act like them. They thought it ok to talk to him, unless they were on their own; then they avoided him like the plague in case they were breaking the unwritten social protocol of the corridors.

            Not that Ryan cared all that much. One look around his room told him how different he was to them. He was sure they’d all shun him to death if they saw his mountain of toy figures, his collection of books and videos about Ancient Egypt and the posters on his wall. One was of the pyramids of Giza, the others were of a French singer he was in to. She was the reason he was top of the French class at school; he knew he’d never meet her, and that she was quite a bit older than him, but he did go on French Exchange trips and, well, you never know, do you? It was certainly an incentive to work hard … just in case.

            Once the battle was won (the red army got pasted in an ambush behind the CD rack) Ryan turned back to his computer. Homework didn’t contain anything French, so would wait until tomorrow. Instead, Ryan was faced with a difficult choice: on the one hand, Ninja Assassins Part III was appealing, as was Mutant Musketeers; Spitfire Dogfight had its merits, but Ryan had already completed it three times. On the other hand, Starship Racer was a challenge, Quest For World Domination was fun and Premiership Manager 6 was an ongoing facet of Ryan’s life; a dirty secret that only Dylan knew about. It would have to be the ninja’s - Ryan had a desire to destroy something beautiful.

            It was as he took out the CD that something caught his eye. A beam of light flashed against the silver disk, reflecting into Ryan’s face. He looked out the window, scanning the garden for any sign of movement. There, behind a thick bush, the flickering of a torchlight poked out from the darkness. It’d be those annoying kids from next door playing around again. He’d catch them at it this time, put the fear of God into them. They’d think twice about ringing his doorbell and running away again.

            Ryan left his room and made his way to the front door. He stepped out into the garden, realising how silly he looked in his Aunt’s lavender slippers. He made his way to the bush, looked all around it, inside it and on top of it. There was nothing there. Usually, you could hear the two little brats sniggering from another hiding place, but there was nothing to hear but the hum of silence. Anxious and uneasy, Ryan made his way back to the house, casting one more look at the bush. He went back inside and locked the door, satisfied that there was nothing there.

            Not for the first time in his life, Ryan was wrong.

                                                            *

A couple of hours passed and Ryan had forgotten about the peculiar light on his front lawn. After all, when you’re up against a variety of mobs and hitmen you need to be totally focused, to be the best ninja you can. After defeating the boss of the notorious Inca 12’s clan, Ryan had to give in to his stomach, which was starting to growl. He went downstairs in search of food, though in little hope. Auntie Ffion may have claimed to have stocked up with food, but this didn’t usually amount to much more than bread, cereal and multi-packs of crisps. She also had a tendency to buy Spam, but Ryan was too afraid of eating it himself as he wasn’t entirely sure it was a real food. In his opinion, you could never be too careful these days.

            The house was quiet. The redecorating after the gas explosion two years ago had been very unimaginative and, on a budget, all the rooms had been papered in plain white and the floors were all laminate wood. It was very bland and characterless and somehow intensified the emptiness and silence of the place. It was silent a lot here. With his mother confined to upstairs, and his Aunt rarely home during earthly hours, it was only Ryan’s DVD collection that betrayed any life in the house downstairs. Except for the cat hairs.

            Black cat hairs. They were everywhere, obvious against everything that was white. They were on the furniture, embedded in the living room rug, stuck to the wallpaper. Everywhere. The cat’s name was Snowy, peculiar considering that it was a black cat. But Ryan thought it was funny; most black cats were called things like Salem, at least a black cat called Snowy was interesting. Aunt Ffion had wanted to call it Meow, so she could tell the neighbours that the cat could say its own name. Ryan convinced her that he had quite enough shame in his life already, thanks.

            The freezer contents were pretty much what he expected, offering little in the way of choice. Ryan felt something wrap itself around his leg; he hoped it was an escaped python just to give him some excitement. No such luck.

            ‘Oh, its just you, kitty,’ said Ryan. ‘Where did you come from?’

            The cat didn’t answer.

            ‘Fine, ignore me. I suppose you want feeding, do you?’

            The cat meowed in response. Ryan crossed to the cupboard where the cat food was kept, grabbing the first tin he could find.

            ‘Salmon junks in jelly, eh?’ he said, reading the label. ‘Well, kitty, it looks like you’re better fed than I am!’

            Ryan dished up the cat food; it may have contained a rich fish but it looked disgusting. He crossed back to the freezer.

            ‘Lets see what I’m going to have,’ Ryan said. Snowy looked up, giving him an indignant stare at being disturbed. ‘Hmm, classy choice. We have: fish fingers, chips and peas; fish fingers and chips; fish fingers and peas, or peas and chips. What do you reckon, kitty? Yep, I agree - fish fingers, peas and chippins it is. Fancy cooking it?’

            Ryan knew that talking to a cat was more than a little insane, but at least he didn’t use that horrible baby voice that Aunt Ffion used for pets and babies. It was as if she thought they would understand her better if she spoke like an idiot, not that she needed to use a baby voice to give that impression. Ryan knew he shouldn’t be so horrible about his Aunt; they got on quite well, really, but he hated when she treated him like a kid. She also mollycoddled him about his mum, but he knew she was only doing what she thought was right. Ffion was young and a little stupid - he couldn’t hold that against her.     

                                                            *

‘You are going to die. It is going to be slow and it is going to be painful. And there is nothing you can do about it.’

The hollow voice echoed around the black void.

            A shaft of light poked through the dense darkness. Ryan staggered towards it, one hand shielding his eyes while the other firmly gripped the rubber fish that was going to protect him, his mind numb with fear. A shape materialised from the light, gliding across the suffocating void. By the time it reached him it had taken form, that of a tall and elegant woman. Her auburn hair and milky skin shone with their own light. She smiled

            ‘Mum! What are you doing here?’ Ryan said desperately. ‘You should be in bed. Someone’s in here. They want to kill me. It isn’t safe.’

             ‘They can’t hurt you here,’ Catherine said. Her voice was soft. ‘Take these.’

            She handed Ryan an old clock, a stone and a toy tree with a piece of rope dangling from it, all held together on a chain. He was puzzled.

            ‘Use them well,’ said Catherine, smiling.

            ‘Use them well? Mum, what are you on about? I don’t understand.’

            ‘You will, sweetie’ Catherine replied. Her voice lowered to a tender whisper. ‘Wake up now, Ryan.’

Ian Popple  Synopsis   Of light and Shadows