Xinder Rises Read online

  ‘It is your choice, Danny. If you choose to come with me, you will be saved,’ the ghost continued. ‘My mother will be saved. Run, and you die.’

  He released Fitzpatrick, who stumbled to the floor. ‘Which is it going to be?’

  Fitzpatrick’s cheeks were streaked with tears. He caught Danny’s eye, and stared at him. Imploring him, begging him to understand.

  Fitzpatrick began to speak to his friend. ‘Fitzpatrick, you are my only friend,’ he said, ‘and, not long ago, I swore on my life that I would never hurt you or your family. I failed.’

  Danny frowned. What? What was Fitzpatrick talking about? Had Fitzy figured that the ghost was blind?

  Fitzpatrick began again, ‘Run, Fitzpatrick, save yourself. GO!’

  ‘Uh?’ Danny said, confused.

  ‘Yes, Fitzy, you moron, get out of here! Flee to safety.’

  Danny stared at Fitzpatrick.

  And then Fitzpatrick said it again. ‘Look, Fitzpatrick, you bloody great big oaf. Go now while there’s still a chance. Leave this to me, but promise me one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look after that fishing rod.’

  ‘Fishing rod?’

  ‘Blimey Fitzpatrick, how stupid are you?’ he said. ‘Go! Now. Run you idiot – GO!’

  Danny stared deep into Fitzpatrick’s tear-stained eyes and could see a spark of light.

  Danny curled his fist into a ball and punched his friend lightly on the shoulder. He winked and mouthed the words, ‘Thank you’.

  ‘So long, Danny Delaux,’ Danny said. ‘See you in the next place.’

  Taking a deep breath, Danny turned and ran for his life.

  11

  Ryan, Thursday

  Sas’ fingers shook so much that she couldn’t lift the plant pot under which the key sat. Eventually Ryan put his bags down and calmly tried it for her. The old and rusty key stuck in the lock, turning only fractionally. Ryan forced it first one way and then the other, loosening it gradually until it clicked and let them through.

  If that was the condition of the lock, he thought, then what sort of state will this boat be in?

  The door whined open, as another crash of thunder and lightning crackled in the sky overhead. Ryan shivered and brushed away a few old cobwebs.

  ‘When was the last time this was used?’ he asked.

  ‘No idea,’ Sas replied, searching for a light. She flicked the switch and a solitary light bulb sparked into life.

  In the middle of the boat house, covered by a large tarpaulin, an old rowing boat rested on two large pieces of wood. It had three bench seats, and Ryan reckoned it was probably twelve feet in length by four feet wide. He laughed. ‘This is it? This piece of junk is going to save us? It should be in a museum!’

  He dragged off the tarp, shook away the dust, and whistled as he inspected the vessel. Layers of peeling varnish and thick dust covered the wood.

  ‘We need to build a canopy,’ Sas said.

  ‘Why?’ Ryan quizzed.

  ‘So we don’t spend the entire time bailing water out, that’s why.’

  Ryan pulled the oars off the wall and nestled them in the rowlocks before searching the boathouse for wood. He found several lengths of two by four inch cut timber, as well as planks intended, he supposed, for repairs.

  ‘How long did you say we would be stuck in this?’

  Sas shrugged. ‘How should I know? A day, a week’

  ‘A week?’

  ‘Maybe a month?’

  ‘Jeez. A month.’ Ryan sprang into overdrive. He ran around the room finding things that might be useful and tossing them into the boat: rope; wood; a couple of buckets; a crabbing line, and a fishing net. He found a handy-looking wooden box and a sealed plastic container, which he told Sas to clean before putting in the matches and anything else that needed to be kept dry.

  How would they anchor down the canopy? What would they sleep on? What would they drink?

  He yelled over to Sas, who was still busy cramming the tarpaulin under a seat.

  ‘A month? Really, a month! You think so?’

  A huge crack of thunder smashed overhead.

  They cowered.

  She stretched her arms out. ‘How long is a piece of string?’

  Ryan spied four, fifty-litre plastic containers. He ran over and smelled them. No foul odours. Good. He took two to the tap, then rinsed and filled them before heaving them up onto the boat. It creaked ominously under their weight.

  ‘Make room for these,’ he instructed Sas, ‘one at each end.’

  Ryan tied the two empty ones to either side to act as bumpers or emergency buoys.

  With this task complete, Ryan spotted more loose planks on the far wall. He marched over and, without hesitating, levered the first plank off. As the nails bowed to the pressure and the length came away, he pulled two more weatherboards away and slipped them into the boat. ‘Hammer and nails,’ he yelled out. ‘Have you seen any?’

  Sas pointed in the direction of an old workbench.

  It was a long shot, but if there were any tools it might make all the difference. He flew through the drawers and cupboards, finding paint and rags, paintbrushes and sandpaper. He dragged out a thick canopy and laid it aside. How would he attach it? To the right, another pile of workman’s bits was covered by two large, crumpled dust sheets.

  He handed the dust sheets to Sas, indicating that she needed to shake them out and fold them away.

  Underneath all this he discovered a selection of woodworking tools hidden in an old, blue canvas bag.

  Ryan thumped the air. Clearly, someone had set out to repair the building and left everything behind.

  Right, Ryan thought. I reckon I’ve got approximately twenty minutes to build a world class, life-saving canopy.

  Xinder

  ‘It has started,’ the ghost cried, his hat angled upwards towards the sky. ‘Something more powerful than you can possibly imagine has begun.’ He raised an arm towards the lightning and thunder.

  ‘If you want to see your friend for the last time, follow his path. I doubt he will last long. You too may run now, but you would be a fool, Danny Delaux.’

  Fitzpatrick moved towards the end of the alleyway.

  People were scattering even though the players were still on the pitch.

  Fitzpatrick watched Danny hare towards the steep bank and out of view. Then he reappeared, running flat out, waving his hands in the air, sprinting onto the football field.

  Fitzpatrick shifted his gaze.

  Anika struck the ball...

  CRACK!

  With a deafening roar, a massive thunderbolt flashed out of the sky right on top of Danny.

  Fitzpatrick’s heart missed a beat as he watched Danny collapse to the floor like a rag-doll, his body spasming one moment, then still the next.

  Smoke drifted out from his friend’s body.

  Sounds of screaming filled the air.

  Fitzpatrick recoiled. Everything the ghost had said had happened; the sweet paper, the lightning in his own image, and now the thunderbolt aimed at Danny who lay dead on the ground.

  Laid back Danny, with his scruffy hair, who was always late for everything. His fishing pal, the only person to whom he’d ever told the whole story about his parents.

  He’d sent him to his death.

  Xinder hovered behind him. ‘I am nothing more than a sad ghost,’ he said, almost forlornly. ‘I was stripped of my flesh and bones, but not my spirit. It means that I cannot move or touch anything with any great purpose, so I require flesh and blood to partially restore me. This is where you come in. I cannot do it alone.’

  The ghost removed his scarf and sniffed the air around Fitzpatrick, who felt a chill on his neck.

  ‘Rest assured, boy,’ the ghost said softly, ‘I have no intention of taking your life, only borrowing it for a little while. When my work is done and my mother is safe from harm, I will put you back near this spot. That is my solemn promise. But nature’s curse is now upon us
. A decision needs to be made.’

  Fitzpatrick remained frozen to the spot.

  ‘You must freely decide,’ the ghost continued. ‘The window is closing so you must decide now. I very much doubt you will get such an offer from the storm.’

  Sap

  As the morning wore on, Sap had been consumed by a feeling of utter dread, as if a toxic stew brewed in his stomach and a splinter had played darts in his heart.

  Whatever he did, his anxiety would not go away. He marched around the house looking for something – anything - to alleviate this terrible feeling.

  He studied the wooden carvings, tracing his fingers over the rich detailing on the panelling in his room. He inspected the old pictures for a clue, anything that might shed some light on the nightmares he’d had and help temper the worry that filled him from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

  Did the carvings and paintings mean something? If so, what?

  Was a vital clue staring him in the face?

  The more he played with this notion, the greater and deeper his feeling of despair grew, like a festering skin boil.

  He wondered if he shouldn’t go down to the school and watch the football match, but it didn’t seem right.

  Instead, he headed up to the ruin to check on the sheep and cattle.

  The herd appeared quiet but jumpy. The same as him, he thought, and he wondered if the animals sensed something unusual. He made sure that the shelter was sound, before counting them: eleven sheep, three cows, six bullocks, and Himsworth the bull.

  Sap sat down on a grey boulder at the head of the ruin and looked out across the vale. In front of him a sheer drop of solid rock disappeared into thick forest seventy metres or so below, before levelling up near the valley floor. He could just make out the river curving around the rock face and, from there, it slipped around the corner.

  Sap shuffled his boot in the dirt. He was too old for this, too old for riddles and memories.

  Why the dreams every night, what were they trying to tell him? Why did he have that aching feeling in his bones which he hadn’t had for ages?

  He stood up as a deep roll of thunder boomed and crackled through the valley. He kicked a stone, which flew off the ledge and sailed through the air before crashing into the canopy of the trees below.

  Looking out at the school buildings in the distance, lost in his thoughts, Sap saw a lightning bolt shoot out of the sky right into the heart of the village. This was followed by another, and then another. Each one came with a blast of light so bright and a crack so loud that Sap shielded his eyes and his ears.

  A searing pain walloped into his chest. He bent over and cried out. The sky fizzed as another huge bolt crashed out of the sky directly onto the playing field.

  This time the pain was unbearable and Sap crouched low, clutching his chest, struggling for breath.

  Was this pain linked to the storm? He needed to lie down.

  Sap straightened up as best he could and stumbled back down the pathway, stopping occasionally to view the tempest playing out over the school.

  Wasn’t it funny, he pondered, how the storm seemed to focus only on the school?

  As he concentrated on this thought, his feeling that the children were in terrible danger accelerated. He hurried back, lay on his bed, and massaged his heart, as another thought crossed his mind.

  If the storm broke, how would the children get back? The river would swell, and the track to Appleside Farm would act like a storm drain. What if they were trying to get home and were swept away?

  He dabbed his handkerchief on his forehead. He had to do something.

  But as he was preparing to get up, an instant tiredness washed over him, and a powerful urge to close his eyes enveloped him like a drug.

  His head fell back onto his large pillows and a moment later the old man was snoring like an old tractor.

  Fitzpatrick

  Fitzpatrick stumbled, dizzy and sick with fear. He faced Xinder head-on for the first time.

  All Fitzpatrick could see was a transparent gap between the hat and the overcoat. His teeth were chattering. ‘If I don’t—?’

  ‘You’ll almost certainly die, or be drowned in the rains. Or in the landslides, or the tsunamis which will sweep the land…’

  ‘Will you kill me?’

  ‘Me? Kill you?’ the ghost chuckled. ‘No. As I said, I’m just going to borrow you for a while. Why would I kill you when my purpose is to save so many? You must trust me.’

  Fitzpatrick looked up at the sky. It was fizzing with electricity like an angry nest. A terrible boom rattled every bone in his body as a thunderbolt walloped into a nearby chimney pot.

  He ducked and his head vibrated like a jack-hammer mashing up a road.

  Fitzpatrick stared down the path, preparing to run. As his eyes focused on the dark shadows between the buildings, he found himself looking at a familiar face: Ryan Williams laden with shopping bags. They locked eyes for several seconds before Williams simply ran off, as though someone had called him away in a hurry.

  ‘Animais!’ the ghost barked, impatiently. ‘Open up. It is time to go! This boy is not the Sacrum.’

  ‘Wait,’ Fitzpatrick croaked. ‘Please! What do I have to do?’

  ‘Put on the coat and hat. Quickly. But you must want to survive and you must desire to go with me.’

  Fitzpatrick’s mind was made up.

  In a flash, he threw both of his overcoats to the ground and moved in close. As he did so, he felt a strange coolness wash over him.

  ‘Ignore that I am here,’ the ghost said, as Fitzpatrick fumbled with the cloth. ‘Put the coat on, as you would any other.’

  Fitzpatrick grabbed the collar and pushed his arm into the sleeve, amazed by the sudden freeze that enveloped it. Then his other arm slid in. Fitzpatrick had a wonderful feeling of deep strength building up in him, as though a syringe was powering him with a thick energy juice.

  The feeling started in his fingers, moved up to his wrists, through his elbows and on to his shoulders. All too soon, it was spreading down through his loins and into his legs and feet. Syrupy liquid, like freezing treacle, coursed through every vein and into every muscle and sinew of his body.

  Fitzpatrick drew the coat across his chest as the curious feeling crept towards his heart and lungs.

  He cried out and stretched his arms wide, as the ice-like goo rushed into his vital organs and washed through his body. He let out a cry of pure ecstasy, his shouts bouncing back off the old houses.

  Fitzpatrick only had one more thing to do. He lifted up the hat and pulled it down over his head. Suddenly, he could feel the cold charge oozing up his neck and through his mouth.

  He shut his eyes, enjoying the extraordinary tingling sensations of the liquid ice entering his brain and slowly dispersing through the back of his skull, tickling parts he never knew existed.

  The surge of power moved around the skull and headed towards his eyes.

  As it flowed into his eyes, everything changed. With a rapidity that took him completely by surprise, Fitzpatrick felt a searing, burning pain scream into his head, expanding like a balloon filling with air.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he screamed. ‘MY GOD, my eyes!’

  He desperately tried to rip off the hat and wrestle out of the coat.

  ‘My head! MY EYES! What have you done to me? Help me! HELP! I’m burning!’

  As Fitzpatrick carried on screaming, the ghost chuckled.

  ‘Welcome to me,’ Xinder said, his voice laced with triumph. ‘Welcome to the burnt-out body of Xinder, Frozen Lord of Halaria.’

  12

  Danny, Thursday

  Danny prised his eyes open and attempted to focus. His head! It pounded as if a road roller was travelling backwards and forwards in his brain.

  He caught the sharp, acrid smell of burning hair.

  When his eyes finally hooked up with his brain, he could make out a burning net and a smouldering goalpost.

  ‘Danny!’ Anika
cried as she rushed over. ‘Please...’

  Several inaudible words mumbled out of his mouth.

  ‘DANNY!’ Olivia screamed as she too tore across the pitch.

  She placed her hand on Danny’s forehead then felt for his temperature, checked his pulse and inspected his tongue.

  ‘Thank God!’ she said, cradling him. ‘I thought you were toast. Say something – can you move?’

  Very slowly he lifted an arm, his fingernails black and his charred clothes singed.

  He smiled weakly.

  ‘At least he’s showing signs of mental stability,’ Olivia said. ‘Anika, get the tracksuits! I’ll make sure his internal organs are functioning.’

  Shortly, Olivia declared that Danny was well enough to try a couple of little sips of water.

  Danny shut his eyes then opened them. Then he slurred some words.

  ‘My strips must have saved you!’

  ‘Urgh?’

  ‘The strips I made you put on your boots.’

  Anika returned with their tracksuits, slipping into hers before helping Danny into his.

  ‘We won!’ Olivia said. ‘You did it!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Anika scoffed as she pulled Danny’s top over his stiff hair.

  ‘I’m not,’ Olivia replied. ‘The ball’s in the net. It was blown into the goal. You actually scored!’

  Anika didn’t know whether to hit her sister or cry. ‘No,’ she said furiously. ‘I missed and Danny got fried. Look at him, it’s a miracle he survived.’

  ‘But you’re fine now, aren’t you, Danny?’ Olivia cried. ‘Anyway, you’re wrong. Your free kick was heading towards the corner flag but the lightning bolt deflected the ball into the goal. I swear. The charge of particles must have generated a force to deflect it without blowing the ball up. It is therefore, the most extraordinary goal of the millennium—’