☼
The sea roared and hissed like a silver-green dragon as it clawed its relentless way up the beach. John had spent the whole morning scratching poems onto the sand with a stick of driftwood. Now, he stood impassive and watched his words being devoured by the rising tide.
He squinted in the pale winter sunshine as if it was of a dazzling brilliance. His shirt was open at the neck and his arms were bare. He seemed oblivious to the squalling wind that raged along the shore and caused his clothes and hair to flutter and stream like banners.
His reverie was broken abruptly by a sharp clatter from the cliffs behind. He turned to see a young girl descending the sheer face, her every cautious step setting off a minor avalanche of pebbles. She was huddled up in a shapeless blue nylon anorak. The hood suddenly fell back and released her long auburn hair, which was instantly swept across her face to effectively mask her features.
Even so, John felt that he recognised her.
☼
The bus broke down for the third time that week. Jack listened for a while to the complaints of the other passengers and to the apologies of the harassed driver, then decided to walk the rest of the way home.
He alighted onto the uneven pavement and started to toil his way up the hill. He could see the block of flats, in which he and his wife lived, towering like a concrete island out of the surrounding ocean of condemned houses.
He thought he could smell ozone. A welcome illusion as he passed by the mounds of uncollected rubbish stacked at the roadside. He saw the remains of a dead rat; its body infested with a writhing mass of maggots. For a moment, the pale squirm of tiny bodies almost seemed to form words.
Jack shuddered and carried on his way. He noticed that a few more shops were now boarded up. The economic miracle promised by President Kennedy, when England became the 63rd State of America, had never materialised.
He shivered again, despite the mildness of the autumn weather. Perhaps in anticipation of the winter to come. He wondered if he would be able to save enough coupons to buy his wife the new overcoat he had promised her.
☼
The huge golden shield of the Sky-God radiated its blinding light upon the desert sands below. Jonathan sweltered in his heavy black armour as he rode upon his dragon steed. Its green and silver scales glistened as it slithered across the blazing dunes in a subtle liquid motion.
Jonathan’s eyes were fixed upon a point beyond the horizon; his mind filled with a vision of his goal. He could see a dark Tower rising out of the desolate wasteland. Tall and grey and sinister. He could feel the presence of evil surrounding it, foul and corrupt. He could almost smell the stench of decay.
His path was clear, marked by the shifting runes he could sense being formed in the sand.
Also, he was profoundly aware of the plight of Lady Deyanne, who was being held captive in the topmost room of the Tower. Her spirit, her purity, acted as a bright beacon to guide his unerring way across the miles in pursuit of his quest: Her rescue.
☼
John ushered the girl into the living room of his seaside cottage. Her name was Diane, he had discovered. She was a student who had only that day returned home for the Christmas holidays.
For his part, John had bought the cottage a mere two months previously, as a haven of solitude away from the madness of City life. As if setting up a magic trick, he had firmly established the fact that he and Diane had never met before.
He waved his hand theatrically to indicate the bizarre montage of pictures that covered every square centimetre of the walls.
“There,” he said. “You thought I was joking when I asked you to ‘come up and see my etchings’, didn’t you?”
Diane felt distinctly uncomfortable in their midst. They were all abstracts of a rather bleak and disturbing nature. The tubes of paint laying about exuded a pungent odour, like that of a wild animal.
“Did you do all these?” she asked faintly, wondering why she had allowed herself to be persuaded to come here so easily.
“That’s right.” John swivelled his easel round to reveal his latest creation. “What do you make of this?” he demanded.
It was a portrait of a woman, so vivid that it seemed to flood the room with light. She was reclining in a pale blue silk gown of medieval design. Her fiery hair framed a face composed in gentle sleep, so realistic that Diane almost believed she could see her breathing. As if looking through a window into another world.
Its simultaneous rawness and romanticism emphasised how very empty the other pictures were. For a moment, the incongruity blinded her to any further realisation. But then, she understood why John had been so anxious for her to see it.
The woman in the portrait was an uncanny likeness of Diane.
☼
Of course, the lift was out of order and Jack was forced to mount the stairs to the top floor. Luckily, they were deserted - for a change – and his ascent took place without incident.
He had never grown used to the squalor in which he lived. As he opened the door to his flat, he recoiled in shock at the compound stink of wet nappies, boiling vegetables and human musk. Somehow, it reminded him of the no less awful smell of paints in an artist’s studio.
Didi stood in archaic wifely pose behind the ironing board. It was difficult to equate her with the girl he had married. He remembered how glamorous she had once looked in her simple blue print dress. But now, it had faded – and so had she. Her complexion seemed almost grey. Her long mousey hair dangled down lifelessly onto her stooped shoulders.
“Hello, love,” he said and kissed her automatically. But then, in a sudden wave of sadness and sympathy, he kissed her again with greater tenderness.
Her eyes came alive and she rewarded him with a smile.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“No chance,” he replied wearily, as he sank into the lumpy, threadbare embrace of an armchair. “It’s not worth a light. Not precious or even semi-precious. Certainly not a bleedin’ ruby.”
Jack produced the object of his dismay from his pocket. It was a ring, inset with a round, smooth stone that seemed to glow red hot. He had hoped to sell it for a good price, but no-one had been interested. Whilst agreeing that it was unusual and distinctive, not even the least reputable of dealers had been prepared to make a worthwhile offer.
Inwardly, Didi was pleased. Although the extra coupons would have been welcome, she had felt all along that selling the ring would have somehow been an act of betrayal. Jack had chanced upon it during their honeymoon and it had subsequently become a symbol of love and happier times.
“Never mind,” she said brightly. “We’ll get by.”
☼
The vision was now grim reality. The Tower rose before him, massive and daunting, casting its huge shadow across the barren ground. It had no doors or windows that Jonathan could see. Its blank grey walls were fashioned of some unnatural substance that resembled sallow flesh.
He licked his dry, cracked lips, then called out a defiant challenge.
At one, there came a mewling cry in response. A nightmare apparition burst out of the Tower. A bestial cross between panther and man, mounted on a black unicorn.
Jonathan reached for his axe. It leapt from his belt to meet his hand and pulled his arm high above his head. Its blades reverberated with a shrill metallic sound as if it too was singing a battle song.
The panther swung a sword at his head. Jonathan brought his axe down to ward off the blow. The two weapons met with a chilling shriek. Sparks flew. Jonathan hacked at the panther’s body. His axe did not even come close. The unicorn was able to twist itself sinuously to protect its rider.
Sweat gleaming on its sleek flanks, it suddenly lunged into a counter attack. Jonathan’s dragon reared up to avoid the long, wicked spike of its horn. The panther then sliced at its exposed underbelly.
Jonathan toppled from his saddle. Dazed, he watched as his dragon collapsed, mortally wounded, with its talons raking madly at the air. One of its flailing limbs struck the unicorn’s proud head, so that it also fell moribund onto the sand.
Again hearing the panther’s scream, Jonathan swiftly regained his feet and prepared to defend himself. But there was no need. The creature was pinned, helpless beneath its fallen mount. Demented with rage, it clawed and spat as it fought in vain to extricate itself.
Jonathan regarded it coldly, sickened by the strong, uric odours of its furred, rippling flesh. Before he quite realised what was happening, his axe suddenly jerked out of his grasp and imbedded itself in the panther’s chest.
The baleful crimson jewel set into its handle pulsed obscenely. Once, it had been a daemon’s heart – but now it served to provide Jonathan’s axe with a chilling semblance of life.
As he gripped the axe handle to retrieve its sadistic blades, he could feel it throbbing rhythmically as it gorged itself, feasting on the blood it needed for sustenance.
☼
John sat transfixed at the table, looking down at his plate in sheer revulsion. His knife had torn a crude gash in his medium rare steak, exposing the juicy pinkness of its succulent flesh. For some reason he could not define, the sight filled him with an uncharacteristic sense of nausea.
Diane regarded him quizzically.
“Are you feeling all right?” she asked.
He made no reply. He dropped his knife and fork with a suddenness that made her jump. Pushing his plate aside, he stepped away from the table and stood with his hands pressed hard against the wall.
The room was bitterly cold, or so Diane had told him. As a concession to her, he had lit a small fire in the grate. But he was uncomfortably hot. Even the wall emanated its own warmth and strangely seemed to yield to his touch.
Diane noticed the pendant on a chain round his neck. It glared at her like a malevolent eye through a tear in the fabric of reality.
John became aware of the focus of her gaze and clutched it protectively in his right hand.
“My touchstone,” he explained with a wry grimace. The tension in the room eased as he deliberately forced himself to break the mood. “I found it washed up on the beach,” he continued, faking a laugh. “It’s probably a fragment from an old wine bottle, worn smooth by the sea.”
☼
The image on the TV screen flickered annoyingly. Jack adjusted the remote control but could not obtain any better reception.
“There must be some sort of local interference,” he decided at last. “Not that it matters. It’s the same bloody programme on every channel. The so-called ‘Wedding of the Century’.” He sneered. “Even the newspapers are full of it: Elvis and Marilyn. Who the hell cares about a couple of old has-beens, anyway?”
Didi cuddled up to him in an attempt to soothe his anger. He was normally very even-tempered, so she did not have to exercise her intuition too hard to realise he was deeply worried about something.
He responded a little and put one arm around her. His body was extremely cold.
“I’m sorry.” He attempted to apologise. “It’s just that I’ve got this nagging feeling that there’s something… critical… going on behind the scenes… I’ve got this vague… dread… as if a… façade… is going to lift and reveal… the presence of a new… dimension… transcending… the flatness of everyday life…”
Didi frowned, unable to quite understand what he was trying to express, or even to face the intensity of his halting words. He did not sound at all like himself.
Jack also frowned. He was confused by his increasing ambivalence. Didi’s warmth and softness seemed only a surface illusion. Really, she was hard and angular. He might equally well have en embracing a brick wall.
In his confusion, everything appeared to have assumed the quality of metaphor. Each object in the room existed merely to represent, or perhaps only to hint at, the nature of a deeper level of existence. Whatever that meant.
☼
Jonathan approached the Tower with due caution. A jagged fissure now marked where the unicorn and its rider had emerged. A thick, dark fluid oozed from its edges. The walls’ resemblance to flesh had become even more pronounced. The fissure gaped like an open wound seeping blood.
The vampiric axe moaned in his hand as if it too was almost deceived by the sight.
Jonathan pushed his way into the Tower, revulsed but undaunted by the fact that the walls even, horrifically, felt like living organic tissue.
He found himself within the narrow, cramped confines of a corridor that curved away into gloomy darkness. A dull, ruddy light emanated from all around. The floor was treacherous; being ridged and slimy, like the inside of some huge creature’s mouth.
He continued on his quest, once more being guided by his love for the Lady Deyanne. A passionate bond that drew him ever onwards through the maze of winding passages.
A new vision entered his mind’s eye: A vision of a lavish wedding ceremony, more extravagant than any he had thought possible. His arms thrilled to the imaginary touch of a woman.
Truly, a most presumptuous vision. One in which he hardly dared to believe. That his quest might end in such a marriage!
Joyous and emboldened, he was barely able to restrain himself from running wildly around the Tower, laughing and singing with mad abandon.
☼
Diane could barely understand the situation at all. She had met John for the first time only a few hours previously and now she was sharing a bed with him. She was by no means a prude, but even so… He was such an oblique person that she felt that, even after a number of years, he would still be a stranger. He just was not her type. And yet… In some indefinable way, he and she were bound together by something rather more profound than animal magnetism.
She was acutely aware of his pendant pressed between their two bodies. It lay with them in the bed like a third cold and insensitive person.
She did not believe in destiny or reincarnation. So what was going on here?
Her speculation was abruptly halted. John sat up and literally jumped out of bed. He called out a strange word in another language. Diane stared at him in fright. The pendant glowed fiercely on his chest. Its weird light cast ugly shadows on his face. There were tears in his eyes, shining like drops of blood.
“Can you hear?” His anguished voice came from behind a daemonic mask. “There’s someone in pain… a woman… crying…”
Diane found herself listening, possessed by the force of his belief, but there was only the distant rolling of the sea.
Once more, John called out a word in an alien tongue.
“Deyanne!”
A word she knew… and yet, did not know…
☼
The sea. Shifting black and silver. Dark thunder. Crushed under leaden cloud. Night sky. Cutting edge of raw air. Stumbling. Falling in stone. The biting face. Crumbling. Cliff descent. Into sharp coldness. The sea. Fragmenting. Falling. Dark confusion. He plunged into the roaring blackness of the sea. A cold, raging monster. It clutched him in a firm, icy grip. Somewhere, far behind him, atop the cliff, someone screamed his name. Over and over. A girl’s high, clear voice. Crystal hysteria. Breaking glass sky. Silver shout.
Jack awoke with a start and leapt from his chair. He could still feel the coldness of the sea and night air in his bones. A shrill voice still called incessantly.
Didi smiled at him. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ll go.”
Puzzled by her cryptic words, Jack watched her in bewilderment as she left the room. But then, he suddenly realised. The violent scene in his mind, though vivid, was only a dream. He had been woken by the sound of their baby crying. Or had he?
A doubt lingered. A suspicion that his dream held a greater significance. Perhaps this was the dream and the storm torn beach was in fact the reality.
He laughed in self mockery. He thought he had long outgrown this brand of adolescent claptrap!
☼
Jonathan raised his axe and chopped at the membrane-like barrier that blocked his way. The blades shrieked as if in protest at being used for such a crude purpose.
The pink fibres soon hung in tatters, dripping foetid quasi-blood. Both excited and afraid, he stepped into the chamber beyond. He thought he could discern the shape of a bed against the far wall. It was difficult to be sure in the oppressive gloom, but his instincts had led him true thus far.
As he crossed the floor, he could feel it pulsing rhythmically beneath his feet, like the beating of a massive heart.
Suddenly, her heard a wailing cry. It resembled the squalling of an infant - or the battle scream of another man-panther.
Jonathan turned swiftly. A dark shape loomed before him. He struck out at it. The axe whirled from his hand. It bit deep into flesh. The shape fell.
The jewel set into the axe’s handle shed its hideous radiance upon its crumpled victim.
Jonathan regarded the fallen body in sheer horror. It was the Lady Deyanne.
Her limbs moved convulsively as she moaned in agony. She still lived. The axe had struck below her ribs without piercing any vital organs.
He seized its handle and struggled to pull the blades free. But it refused to relinquish its hold and continued, greedily, to drink its fill of virgin blood.
He struggled harder and Deyanne screamed as the axe perversely twisted itself deeper into her body. It seemed even to shudder in ecstasy as it sought to quench its evil thirst.
Helplessly, Jonathan knelt down and cradled her gently in his arms, watching her life gradually ebbing away. Her eyes were glazed and sightless with pain. Tears streaked her contorted face. She wept – and the sound of her weeping became less human as her pain increased.
☼
John picked up a tin of paint and deliberately poured it over the portrait. The crimson stain spread like a widening pool of blood.
At first, Diane felt a blank incomprehension. John seemed to be acting out an obscure ritual. He appeared to be obeying an inner compulsion, following an ancient design that no longer held any relevance to the shape of this world.
Diane knew she should do something to intervene. Intellectually, she realised John was obviously in some neurotic fugue state. Atavistically, she felt herself to be a part of the ritual. But emotionally, she was shocked and outraged that he had defaced what to all intents and purposes was a portrait of her.
In any case, it was ridiculous to be philosophising at a time like this. She roused herself in time to hear the slamming of the back door. John had slipped out of the house without her even noticing. She chased after him, out into the untamed wildness of the garden.
The night sky was clouded over and the darkness was absolute. For a moment, she was lost as her eyes became adjusted. She heard the rattle of loose stones being disturbed and rolling down the slopes of the nearby cliff. She ran towards the source of the noise, calling John’s name.
She felt like a runner in a dream, taking an age to cover the ground. Her voice was seized by the vicious talons of the wind and savagely torn to shreds.
☼
Jack stood at the window of his flat, gazing out at the decaying world. The sky was a garish, unnatural hue. The adjective that came unbidden to his mind was ‘incarnadine’.
When he looked down at the streets, he almost expected to see them ablaze. But it was all quiet. There was no clue as to why the heavens were such an appalling shade.
He had overheard rumours that a terrorist gang in Soviet Ireland had actually succeeded in constructing a nuclear device. Maybe they had detonated it. That would be one way of finally resolving the Troubles, he supposed.
The room became suffused with the sickly-sweet odours of milk and talcum powder. Didi entered, carrying their baby son.
“Come on,” she crooned. Let’s go and see daddy, shall we?”
They joined him by the window and Jack swept his arm outwards to indicate the town, surreal beneath hellish skies.
“One day,” he promised his son bitterly. “All this will be yours.”
He trembled. Some vestiges of his recent dream remained. He could feel the awesome force of the waves striking his chest. They rose steadily higher until he was completely engulfed by their icy blackness. His feet were plucked from the sea bed. He was drowning… drowning…
He reached out in desperation and clutched Didi round the waist. He clasped her to him. She was his lifeline, his security. The family would keep him afloat.
His moment of panic passed. His dizzy confusion receded and slowly faded away. He extended a hand to his son, the ring on his finger glittering with tiny sparks of inner flame, brighter even than the incandescent sky.
“Look,” he said. “Pretty.”
☼
Deyanne relaxed into the posture of death. The axe toppled from her body and hit the floor with a dull thud rather than a metallic clatter. Jonathan reached for it in a cold fury, intending to break its treacherous haft over his knee. But it wriggled from his grasp and slithered away into darkness like some incredible steel serpent.
He raged incoherently, so that his voice boomed and echoed throughout the empty corridors of the Tower. At the height of his rage, he was overwhelmed by a new and macabre vision: He saw the sky turned to blood and fire raining down upon the people’ upturned faces.
The sight filled him with a perverse satisfaction.
“Let everyone share in my devastation!” he shouted. “Let the whole world suffer the pain of my loss!”
He lifted Deyanne’s pale, wasted form into his arms and stalked grimly out of the Tower. Out into the furnace heat of the desert, which was no match for the searing intensity of his vision, or for the burning of his righteous anger, his eternal passion.
☼
