A FACE FROM THE PAST
I land hard on the floor of Beranabus’s cave, but no bones shatter. Groaning, I pick myself up and look around. The fire has burnt out—only cold ashes remain. But torches glow on the walls, the flames kept alive by magic. Overhead the window hangs flat, two metres or so above me. A few moments later, as I’m edging clear of it on my hands and knees, it shimmers, then breaks apart and disappears.
I crawl to my bed and lie down, panting, heart still racing from my encounter with the fire demon, bones aching from the impact of the fall. I shut my eyes and shiver, then climb beneath the blanket for warmth.
Lying in the gloom and quiet. Thinking about the universe of the Demonata. My eyes open and tears wet my lashes. I’m ashamed. I acted like a gutless coward. What’s happened to me? I was braver than this when I faced Lord Loss. Scared, but I fought bravely. Why can’t I be that way now? For long hours I lie still, pondering, before falling into a troubled, restless, shame-tinged sleep.
No sign of Beranabus and Kernel when I wake. I worry about them for a few minutes, but then recall them saying time usually passes quicker here than in the universe of the Demonata. A fight which lasts an hour or two there can equate to days, weeks or even months here.
Rising stiffly, I explore the cave in search of food and water. I find ample supplies stacked in all corners, the food imperishable, the water carefully bottled. So I won’t starve or die of thirst. Not unless they’re gone for
The fire next. There are logs and chunks of turf nearby, but no matches or lighters. I try one of the torches, but they’re secured tight to the wall and I don’t want to break any off. I guess Beranabus and Kernel use magic to start the fire. Reluctant to disturb my inner powers, I attempt to ape cavemen and ignite the fire by rubbing sticks together, banging a couple of stones off each other, in search of an elusive first spark. But I quickly discover that I’m nowhere near as advanced as a caveman.
Sitting back, frowning at the logs. It’s not especially cold in the cave, but I want to light a fire regardless, more for the comfort of its crackling, natural flames than anything else. So, cautiously, I reach within myself and look for magic. But it withdraws as I come near. I sense the power, but it darts out of reach. I feel like it’s punishing me, annoyed that I didn’t use it to fight the demon.
Giving up, I grab a tin of beans, a fork and a can-opener, and return to my bed, where I eat the beans cold. Staring at the lifeless fire as I eat. Remembering the flames in the other universe and my cowardice. Trying to justify my actions. What was I meant to do? Suck in flames like Kernel? Jam them into my gut like Beranabus? If they’d shown me how, I could have. But they dropped me into it, no warnings or advice. Maybe I wasn’t really a coward, just ignorant.
Unable to convince myself. If we’d been fighting a demon master, I could plead inexperience. But Kernel said this was a lesser demon. Beranabus was starting me off lightly, testing me out on one of the meeker monsters. There can be no excuses.
I lurch to my feet. I’m getting out of here. I don’t want to be around when they return. I’ll hide my shame in the desert. Take off, let the sun roast me or the chill night air freeze me. Die alone and lost. No more worries or cares. Better off out of this mad game of werewolves, magic and demons.
I rush to the rope ladder and haul myself up, muscles pumping. Going so fast, I smack my skull on the roof of the cave when I get to the top. Wincing, I rub my head and retreat a couple of rungs, then look for the opening. I can’t find one. The rock appears to be solid. I run my fingers over it, searching for a crack or button, but there’s nothing. It must open by magic.
Descending sourly. Hating magic all the more. Why can’t I be an ordinary teen with normal problems? I never looked for magic. Wasn’t the least bit interested in it. So why did it pick on me? What the hell have I done to deserve this?
Back to my blanket. Glaring at the cold embers of the fire. Waiting impatiently for Beranabus and Kernel’s return. Half wishing I’d stayed in the Demonata’s universe and fried.
Time passes slowly, miserably. No way of telling if it’s day or night. When I’m not sleeping, I just sit and think, eat mechanically, or walk in circles around the cave. Go to the back and dig a hole when I need the toilet, then fill it in. Disgusted the first few times, but now it’s second nature. No biggie.
I often find myself wondering what’s happening in the other universe, wishing I could find the courage to go back, rejoin the fight and redeem myself. Playing out all manner of wild scenarios inside my head, in which I’m Grubbs Grady—superhero. I find Beranabus and Kernel in dire straits, backs against a fiery wall, at the mercy of the demon. It’s laughing evilly, about to finish them off. Then I lay into it and rip it to pieces. I shout at the startled Beranabus and Kernel, “You didn’t think I’d run away, did you? I just had to pop to the toilet.” They cheer as I kill the demon, then rush to clap my back, sing my praises, hail me as a saviour.
Nice dreams. But completely unconnected to reality. Because for all the wishing and make-believe, I don’t know how to open a window to the demon’s universe. And I’m certain, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that even if one materialised in front of me, I wouldn’t have the guts to step through. A hero only inside my head. In the real world I remain a coward.
Snapping out of a typically disturbed sleep. There are heavy, thumping noises. I think it’s Beranabus and Kernel returning or a demon breaking through. But when I look around there’s nothing in the cave. I frown, wondering if the noises were part of the dream. Listen for ages, sitting up. Silence.
I try to sleep again, but I’m too unsettled. So I walk around the cave for the millionth time. After a while I jog. Twenty laps, followed by push-ups, squats, more jogging. Shadow-punching as I run. Knocking hordes of imaginary monsters for six.
A series of short sprints. In better physical condition than I’ve been in a long time—maybe ever. Thinking about Loch and how approving he’d be if he could see me now. He was always pushing me to exercise more. Said I was a mountain of muscles which hadn’t been honed, that I could be truly ferocious if I pushed myself to my limits. But I never bothered. There was always something better to do with my time.
Not anymore. This is how Olympians should train. Shut themselves off from the world in a musky, murky cave, with nothing else to do except exercise. Works wonders when it comes to concentration. If I ever get out of here, maybe that will be my true calling in life—coach to athletic stars. It would certainly beat the hell out of killing demons for a living!
Still exercising. I’ve been at it for hours, pausing only for periods of short rest and to eat. Sweating so much, I have to take my clothes off. Keeping only my boxers on, in case Beranabus and Kernel drop in without warning.
Suddenly—I hear the noises again. Three heavy thumps, a pause, three more. Then silence.
I come to a standstill, listening to the echoes of the thumps. They came from overhead—the closed entrance to the cave. With sudden hope in my heart, I race to the ladder and scurry to the top, where I wait a few seconds for more sounds. When there’s only silence, I roar, “Hello!” and listen again. Nothing.
Back to the bottom of the ladder. I look for something to strike the roof of the cave with, but there’s not much here. I go through the drawers of Beranabus’s table—the first time I’ve examined it—but there’s nothing except papers, pens and small knick-knacks. I note absentmindedly that the flowers are still blooming, fresh as ever.
Eventually I grab one of the longer logs from the wood pile and drag it up the ladder, then pound the roof with it, three times, a pause, then three more. I hold it by my side, trying to stifle my heavy breathing, so I can hear clearly, praying for a series of answering knocks. But there aren’t any.
I pound the roof again and again without reply. Eventually I give up and drop the log. I hang there a while longer, then climb down, dejected. Halfway to the floor I realise that if the noises were human-made, maybe the person has left. When there was no immediate answer, maybe he or she decided there was nobody home, that they’d try again later.
Back on the ground I drink half a bottle of water, go to the toilet, then return to the base of the ladder, pick up the log and climb again. At the top I settle back, get as comfortable as I can and wait, desperate to make contact with another human being.
Many hours later. My legs and arms ache from clinging to the ladder. Tired and irritated. Telling myself I’m
