Not Quite Normal - Free Edition Page 3
When he awoke the next day, he heard a noise. The screech of a creature in agony. He followed the sound and discovered a young deer, her leg trapped beneath a fallen tree. The boy summoned all his strength and lifted the log from the poor animal. She licked his face in gesture, and they became instant friends. The deer also had no-one to call mother or father. They were companions in loneliness.
The boy and the deer stuck together no matter what, and they had a great many adventures in the forest together. Days, weeks, months and years passed in this manner. The boy, by now a young man, had constructed a house out of a rockslide for he and his companion to live in. They were happy.
Almost three years after the boy had entered the forest, they stumbled upon a cave that had appeared overnight. The boy recognised it, however. Just beyond was a statue of the one-armed hunter. He had not seen this place for many moons. Intrigued, the boy entered ‘his’ cave once more. It was bigger than he remembered, and now well lit by torches. The pair followed the light and descended deep into the earth, far deeper than he knew it was possible to go. The deer remained brave and stuck by the boy’s side.
Soon, the pair arrived in a chamber. It was decked with gold and riches beyond the boy’s wildest dreams. Most curiously, however, there was an old stone well in the centre. A thick matted rope held a rusty pail above a deep drop. The boy allowed the bucket to descend into the water: he and the deer were mighty thirsty after such a long trek. The water he drew up was the purest he had ever seen, as fresh as the forest air. Without a second thought, he put the pail on the floor, and they began to drink from it.
He felt strange. His head began to swim. He felt his feet lift from the floor and hover a short distance above the ground. “You have three choices,” said a man’s voice, from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The boy was scared, but he listened on. “Wisdom. Wealth. Power. One of these great gifts is now yours. Choose, boy.” The boy was torn. But he realised he had no need for wealth or power when he had not seen another living soul for three years.
“Wisdom,” he said aloud. He suddenly felt an immense power coursing through his veins, as a glut of information assaulted his mind. Images sprung into his head, showing vast cities, long-past battles, hundreds of creatures great and small…
A few moments later, it was over, and he floated gently back to earth. His head was still coursing with knowledge: he knew the secrets of life that even the staunchest experience could not teach. He and the deer returned to the surface and burst out into the bright winter sunlight. The boy now knew exactly how the light worked, how trees grew, why the grass smelled, how the birds sang...everything that had been a mystery to him for so many years was now as clear as the water he’d drunk.
But he knew much more than the mechanics of the forest: he knew where he had come from. He knew his way home. After a rest, the boy and the deer began to walk back through the forest. Soon, they came upon an old cottage, which was mostly in ruins and looked abandoned. A wall had collapsed, and the roof was as patchy as an old man’s hair. Dead livestock lay all around, and the fields were barren. The boy entered the house, and the long-dead corpses of his parents greeted him.
He looked upon them, poor creatures who had simply run their course. He did not cry; after all, they had deserted him. But he still loved them. They had brought him into the world, and through the harshest act of cruelty had managed to save his life. He had to do something in return. At the back of his mind, in an area that even with his vast newfound knowledge was hard to unlock, he discovered a way to return life to these people. The boy began to chant words that felt alien to him. No more than a few minutes later, breath returned to his parents’ lungs, and they upped with a start.
The boy heard a screech of pain from outside. A noise he recognised. He had forgotten his companion. He rushed outside, to find the deer running low on breath. She died a moment later in his arms. Only then did the boy then realise what had happened – a life for a life. This time, there was nothing he could do. The deer would have to be a sacrifice. Though he had saved his family, he had killed his best friend.
The boy couldn’t take the pain as his parents came to the doorway, their faces still rotten, maggots crawling from their eye sockets. They could not speak, they could not see. They were less than alive, more than dead. Was it really worth it?
The boy ran away, leaving everything he knew far behind him. No one knows what became of him, but it is said that his voice still whispers on the wind in the very heart of the Grand Forest of Illisah.
The End
* * * * *
Tomahawk
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Lisa opened the door. She knew who it was going to be before she even twisted the handle, even at this late hour. And, sure enough, Mr. Tomahank was standing there on the step, dressed in a dark suit. He took off his hat as the door swung open, laying it upon his chest. He bowed slightly.
“Miss Farrelly,” Tomahawk said.
“Mr. Tom’,” Lisa returned, also inclining her head. “Please, come in. Do you want some tea?” She shifted out of the way, and he sidled into the long corridor.
“Please,” said Tomahawk, hanging his hat upon the banister. Lisa scuttled off to the kitchen, whilst Tomahawk headed straight to the living room. It was a bright, airy room that the occupant would call ‘neutral’ yet an interior designer would classify as ‘dull’.
Tomahawk plumped up one of the flower-covered cushions and took his usual seat on the sofa. Lisa entered, carrying an ancient silver tray that was precariously balancing an ornate teapot, two cups, a bowl of sugar and a plate of biscuits.
She placed the tray on the coffee table and sat in the armchair opposite Tomahawk. He reached for the teapot and poured the two cups full. He added no sugar to his own, but put four spoonfuls into Lisa’s.
“I do keep telling you, Mr. Tom’,” she said, “I’m plenty sweet enough already!”
Tomahawk smiled with one corner of his mouth. “Well, yes. That goes without saying. But a little more can’t hurt, eh?” Lisa took her cup and took a sip. It was a little horrible, but she didn’t say anything aloud.
“So how have you been, Mr. Tom’?”
He looked directly into her eyes. “Oh, fine thank you. Just fine. The bar’s slowly starting to bring in the pennies at long last. My family are thinking of moving over this way soon too, which would be nice. As much as I like the folk around here, nothing quite beats your own flesh and…”
Lisa didn’t notice herself slipping away. She didn’t notice the sharp pain in her neck. As far as she was concerned, she was still looking at Tomahawk, drawling on about things that didn’t really interest her. After she’d met him at his bar that one time, he popped over every Sunday at 9pm on the dot. She sometimes thought that he was attracted to her, but it had been well over a year now and he hadn’t made even the slightest move upon her. Perhaps – shock horror! – he was just being friendly. Lisa didn’t have a lot of friends around here, not anymore. Not since…
“…and so yeah, I’m doing quite well thank you.” Tomahawk finally finished talking.
“Well that’s…great to hear,” Lisa said. She looked down and noticed that most of her tea had been drunk.
“Oh my!” said Tomahawk with uncharacteristic energy. He put down his own cup, which looked as though it had barely been touched. “I’ve just noticed the time. I really should be going. Thank you for the tea, Miss Farrelly. Same time next week?” He motioned to get up.
“I’ll look forward to it,” Lisa said. She made to stand also.
“Oh no, Miss Farrelly, I’ll show myself out. I know the way by now. Thank you again. Don’t forget to have one of those biscuits: they’re delicious as always. Have a good night.” He left the room and walked back to the front door, putting on his hat once he reached it. Another perfect execution. In a couple of hours, before she went to bed, the twin puncture marks on her neck would have vanished. The sugar
would keep her energy up. No-one would be any the wiser. Tomahawk smiled and licked his awkwardly protruding canines as he opened the door and vanished into the night.
The End
* * * * *
Clacking
She could hear a clacking from somewhere in the house. From her little den upstairs – her private sanctuary from the stresses of daily life – she couldn’t quite make out where it was coming from. It was mostly rhythmic, but took pauses now and then, like a clock slowly running out of time.
She copied the beat with her fingers, tapping away at her desk like a lethargic woodpecker while she stared out of the window. The street below was devoid of any life. She tried to take her mind off the noise by focussing on distant traffic, but there was none.
At first she thought it was her son playing his drum kit with his headphones stuck in. But after a few minutes, she realised that he had gone out. She was alone.
She pondered for a moment, unsure whether she should investigate. She kept having visions of old TV shows, where a man in a vest crept downstairs in the dead of night holding a baseball bat. She had no baseball bat. She was not a man. She did not own a vest. But she went downstairs anyway.
She had never been more aware of her movements. If anyone had asked her (but why would they?), she would have said that her stairs were as quiet as a door soaked in WD-40. But right now, if felt as though she were setting off fireworks with each step. With every pace, she paused for a moment, clearly reasoning that any intruder who noticed a noise would never spot a particularly realistic fifty-year-old woman’s statue on the staircase.
After an eternity, she got to the bottom. The clacking was slightly louder, and she could at least make out that it was coming from the rear of the house. She sidled down the hall and paused at the doorway into the kitchen.
She poked her head around the corner, her heart racing. She could see nothing and no-one in the kitchen, but the clacking was certainly coming from in there.
She pondered for a few more seconds. She could always just go back upstairs and try to forget she’d heard anything. But she knew that wasn’t going to be possible. She decided that enough was enough and turned the corner with more speed than even she had been anticipating.
The source of the clacking was nowhere to be seen. But it was louder. Much louder. It must be outside. She crossed the kitchen and opened the door, more fed up now than anything. She felt like the only person playing a game of pass the parcel, and just wanted to get to the middle. Finally, the source of the noise was clear.
It was a seagull.
Not the smaller ones you might see on a beach, mind you. One of those massive, ugly birds, the kind of bird you could imagine having a tattoo and would enjoy spending its evenings beating up others in the streets while on the piss. It was an ugly fucking bird, and it was still incessantly clacking. Like it was trying to cry out, but was unable to.
She tried to shoo it off, at first, but it merely backed away a pace and continued to clack. Then she noticed that it couldn’t close its mouth properly. It was in pain. She crouched down to be on the same level as the gull. It looked her right in the eye as she did.
There was something glimmering. A hook was stuck in the poor creature’s lower beak. She could also see some fishing line – invisible at first glance – tried around its leg, connected to the hook. The bird must have been out hunting and got more than he bargained for.
She was unsure what to do. Should she call the RSPCA? No, that would be pointless. Should she take it inside? No, that could be dangerous. Should she ignore it? No, it was still fucking clacking and clearly wasn’t going anywhere.
The bird looked at her with eyes that spoke more than clacking ever could – help me. Its clacking had slowed down quite dramatically. It looked weak.
She realised that it had been trying to get attention, to get someone to help him. She couldn’t know if it was just luck of the draw that he had come to her, or if there was something else involved. Whatever. She wouldn’t let it suffer any more.
She got closer, her heart racing again, and slowly moved her right hand up to the seagull’s beak. It actually seemed to try to open its mouth wider as she did. The hook had stuck right through the hard orange beak – she couldn’t help but feel that some girls got that kind of thing done on purpose in seedy tattoo parlours.
She grabbed it lightly, then mouthed the word ‘sorry’. She whipped the hook out. As she did, the creature let out a caw, a proper one, and then another. It sounded a little croaky at first, but soon became clearer and much louder.
Then she got to work on the foot. The line was quite tightly knotted, but the bird didn’t struggle one iota as she worked it off. A few minutes after she’d started, it was finally loose. The bird was free.
She stood. It still stared at her. Its eyes were less kind now, more normal, an ‘I’m going to kill you and all your family’ look that all those massive seagulls have. But it didn’t commit mass murder. It stepped backwards a couple of beats and spread its wings. It had an impressive span, well over a metre, and perfectly white. It held this pose for a moment, and cawed a couple more times. It looked really quite majestic, like a monochrome peacock searching for a mate.
Then, it turned, and flew off into the bright blue summer sky. She watched it for as long as she could, then smiled to herself. She threw the hook and line into the bin as she made her way back up to her den, where she could once again get away from the stresses of daily life.
The End
* * * * *
Endeavour
Report in The Daily Times, Sunday, 16th March, 2008
ACCIDENT AT LOCAL SCIENCE FACILITY
“IT’S ALL OK,” SAYS BOSS
Police cordoned off the Endeavour Science Facility in the heart of town last night after an armed raid by animal rights activists resulted in an accident in one of their labs. The centre, which specialises in stem cell research and animal testing, refused to explain the exact details of the incident. However, in a statement, the chairman of Endeavour, Sir Victor Hallett, said that a “minor incident occurred in one of our labs just after seven o’ clock last evening. It should be made clear, however, that no injuries were sustained in the raid or accident and the whole thing is now entirely under control. Do not worry. Everything is OK.” Police were...
* * * * *
Endeavour Science Facility, internal e-mail to all employees from Sir Victor Hallett, 19:39, Saturday 15th March 2008
Subject: Problem in Sector 4
We’ve had a bit of a breakout in Sector 4. Well, quite a serious one, really. Please stay in your offices. We’re trying to find the subject at the moment, and we expect the situation to be resolved within the hour. Until then, we’re in code burgundy lockdown. If you see the subject, do not approach it or attempt to apprehend it in any way. Endeavour Science is, don’t forget, not to be held accountable for any loss of limbs or life in such a situation.
--Sir V.H
* * * * *
Work log, Dr. Henry Carter, Saturday 15th March 2008, extracts. (Note: all Endeavour employees, due to the nature of their work, are required to keep up-to-date, informal, ‘work logs’ as part of their contracts every hour on the hour.)
16:00
I can’t believe they’ve called me in today. On a Saturday. Honestly, I was supposed to go and see the Daemons play today. Stupid late kick offs. Oh well, here we go.
17:00
Well, this is a good use of my time, isn’t it? Everything looks to be running pretty smoothly with Experiment #372653678346. All readings normal. Perhaps the voltometer is set a little high, but I don’t think that’ll radically alter the results. If there are any results to alter anyway. I’ve got Tim and Paul watching over it, but I’ll hang around a little longer to make sure they’ve got it covered.
18:00
About half an hour ago the figures started spiking randomly. Tim told me it’d been happening all day, but I put it down to stress.
The man needs a break. Ah well. All seems to be getting back in hand once again. Probably just a software glitch.
19:00
Worse. I have no idea what’s happening. In all my years of doing this, I have never seen such unusual readings. The experiment appears to be becoming - and I can’t believe I’m writing this - sentient. Coming to life. This could be the greatest scientific breakthrough in mankind’s history, the culmination of my life’s work. But myself, Tim and Paul are attempting to sedate it now. Slow the process down a bit. If this thing wakes up, we’ll all be for the chop. Perhaps literally. I should start to think about the fastest routes to the exit.
* * * * *
Transcript of conversation between Dr. Henry Carter, Dr. Timothy Sutherland and Dr. Paul Buchanan, Endeavour Science Facility Sector 4. 19:25 Saturday 15th March 2008. Conversation was recorded by microphone hidden by Endeavour Science in a coffee cup.
Carter:
Any progress?
Sutherland:
Jesus Hen, I hope you left a window open.
Carter:
Yeah, whatever. Has there been any progress?
Buchanan:
No, not really. It’s just the same. I swear I saw an eyelid flicker a few minutes ago, though. Seriously, I think we should just cut the-
Carter:
No. This thing could win us a Nobel Prize. Besides, Hallett specifically said that 372653...etc. was not to be cut, no matter what happened. We’ll be sacked if we do.
Sutherland:
And we’ll be dead if we don’t.