Demon Thief

I start to look back, wanting the window to close before I can act, to cheat myself of the chance to go after Art. But as my head turns, my feet move forward. Instinct makes me step through the grey light of the window — into the realm of the murderous demon.

WALKING ON WATER

→ The greyness lasts a few seconds. Like a mist around me, except there’s no damp or cool sensation. Then it parts and I find myself surrounded by trees. A forest of crooked, twisted, pitiful trees.

They’re howling.

At first I think something else is making the horrible noise, like a mix of car brakes squealing and somebody sawing through metal. My brain tells me there are workmen nearby, or a weird animal. But then I see the trees moving, swaying weakly. There are holes in their dark, mottled bark. And the howls are coming from the holes. No question about it.

I try applying logic to the situation, like Mr Spock. The howls must be the wind blowing through the holes. Except there isn’t any wind. And I know – I know – that the trees are making the noise themselves. They’re alive. In pain. Howling with anger, hatred — and hunger.

I look for the window but there’s nothing. Either you can’t see it from this side or it broke up into pieces while I was staring at the trees.

I take a hesitant step forward. There’s a soft splashing sound. I look down. See water everywhere underfoot, covering the ground. I look again at the trees. I can’t see any roots. They’re all below the waterline.

I crouch, trying to see how deep the water is. But it’s murky and muddy, and the trees block out most of the light. I stick a finger in. It slides down to the first knuckle, the second, the beginning of my palm. I push my hand in up to my wrist without touching anything solid. Stare at my hand, then my feet. I could be standing on a platform. Except I know – the same way I knew about the trees – that I’m not.

I’m standing on the surface of the water!

I rise quickly, fear setting in again, certain I’m about to drop and drown. But although water splashes when I move my feet, I don’t sink. I explore with my right foot, angling it downwards. It dips into the water. But when I bring it back up, level my foot and plant my sole down, the surface supports me.

I take one step. Two. A third. It’s not the same as walking on land. More like walking across the floor of an inflatable castle. But somehow, impossibly, the water keeps me up.

I smile at the craziness of it, then gasp as pain flares in my right arm. I’d completely forgotten about my broken limb. The sudden surge of pain reminds me that I’m walking wounded. I’ve never broken an arm before. It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, but it’s certainly no picnic.

I carry on walking, trying to keep my arm from jolting. Easier said than done — the watery floor is uneven, hard to balance on. I don’t feel as if I’m going to fall, but I tilt left and right quite often. I have to use my arms to maintain my balance, which sets off the pain again.

I deliberately don’t think about where I am or the impossibility of walking on water. I can’t care about stuff like that. I’m here to find Art. Nothing else matters. I can marvel at the rest of it once we’re both back home, safe with Sally.

Yeah, like that’s gonna happen, an inner voice sniggers.

I ignore it. Try not to let the howls of the trees unsettle me. Stagger on in search of my kidnapped brother.

→ The water has seeped through my shoes and socks, and is climbing up the legs of my trousers. I take no notice. I have bigger things to worry about.

There’s no sign of the four humans, the demon or Art. And no way of tracking them. If we were in a normal forest, perhaps there would be footprints. But apart from ripples as I move across the water, the surface is smooth, unmarked.

I haven’t seen any animals or birds. Only the trees. And there aren’t even leaves on those. I’d think they were dead if not for the howls, which echo relentlessly. The noise is like needles poking away at my eardrums.

What now? the voice inside my head asks.

“Keep walking,” I answer aloud, trying to drown out the howls of the trees. “They have to be here somewhere. I’ll find them.”

Not necessarily. They might have gone through another window. Or maybe they didn’t come out the same place you did.

“I’ll find them,” I insist.

What if you don’t? There’s nothing to eat. Nowhere to aim for — every bit of this forest looks the same. And how will you sleep? The water might not hold you if you lie down. Even if it does, it’ll drench you to the bone.

“I can sleep on the branches of a tree.”

Maybe they eat humans, the voice suggests.

“Don’t be stupid,” I mutter unconvincingly. “And there are probably fish in the water. I can catch one to eat.”

Or it might catch you, the voice notes. There could be sharks. Underwater monsters. Waiting. Moving in for the kill. Underneath you right this min–

“Shut up,” I growl.

→ “Art!” I yell. “Art!”

No answer. The screech of the trees would probably muffle his cry even if he was here and trying to call back. It’s hopeless. I’ll never find him. He’s probably dead anyway, ripped to pieces by the demon. I should try to find a way home. Worry about myself, not my doomed brother.

But I can’t think that way. I won’t. I’ve got to believe he’s alive. The thought of returning home without Art (even if I knew how) is too awful to consider.

I’ve no idea how long I’ve been here. My watch isn’t working — it stopped when I came through the grey window. Feels like a few hours. I’m wet, cold, miserable, alone. Trying hard not to think about Logan and the kids killed by the demon. Flinching every time my brain recycles an image of the bloodshed. I force myself to focus on other memories. There’s no time to deal with the massacre. I have to concentrate on finding Art.

Some small orange patches of light are flashing several feet ahead of me. They began pulsing soon after I got here. They move with me as I wander the watery forest, keeping me company.

I come to a semi-clearing. The trees don’t grow so thickly together here. I can see the sky, gloomy and purplish. The sun shines dimly on my left-hand side — and a second sun shines weakly to my right!

I rub my eyes and look again. The suns are still there. Not strong like the sun I’m used to. Smaller, duller. I’m not as amazed by the twin suns as I should be — the water and howling trees tipped me off to the fact that I wasn’t on my own world any more. I wonder how day and night work here, or if there even is a night.

As I’m staring upwards, several patches of pulsing light pass by. Different colours, shapes and sizes, slowly gliding along in the same direction. I look around and notice other patches floating through the trees, converging on a point far off to my left. Without any kind of trail, I’ve been walking aimlessly. Now I decide to follow the moving lights.

→ Maybe an hour later I spot the four humans who came through the window after the demon. They’re standing in a clearing, the old bearded man slightly apart from the others. I think he’s muttering a spell, hands wriggling by his sides. He’s the focus for the moving, pulsing lights. They’re gathering in the space in front of him, slotting together, forming a window like the one in the village field.

I creep up without them seeing me.

“…still say we should have killed him,” the Indian woman is saying. “It was not right, letting him murder the children and take one of them. We are supposed to protect people. That is our duty.”

“The master knows what he is doing,” the black man says. “He would not have let the demon go without good cause.”

“You’ll get used to people dying,” the young blonde woman says. “Beranabus isn’t interested in saving the lives of a few individuals. He doesn’t have time for trivialities.”

“Trivialities?” the Indian woman explodes. “You call the loss of human life a trivi–”

“No,” the younger woman interrupts. “That’s what Beranabus calls it. He says we serve a greater purpose, that our mission is nothing less than the protection of mankind itself. He says we can’t worry about every human killed by demons, or waste time chasing strays. He doesn’t mind you lot doing it, but we–”

“I’m trying to work!” the elderly man – Beranabus – barks, turning angrily. “If you’d stop chattering like monkeys, maybe I could…” He sees me and stops. “Who the hell is that?”

The others whirl around defensively. They pause when they see me.

“He doesn’t look like a demon,” the black man says.

“Some don’t,” the young woman growls. “A few can take human form. You have to be careful.” She raises her right hand. I sense power in her fingertips. Power directed at me.

“No!” I cry. “Don’t hurt me! I’m not a demon! I’m Kernel Fleck!”