Read The Lighter That Shone Like A Star (Story of The South) Online
Authors: Dan Cash
The Lighter That Shone Like A Star (Story of The South) (14 page)
The Old Clemari knew where everyone was. He could have saved Matthew’s life. He had lied to Max… and that simply could not continue while Max was king.
Light on the Landing had saved Max’s life. That’s all Freddie was told when he asked the members of the band about the Pipton gig and, he had resolved, that was all he wanted to know.
He had enjoyed the company of Haze, Jayke, Jimmie, Naithain and Zaak for just one day and he had
felt more positive in those twenty-four hours than he had in the past fortnight.
But each short burst of
optimism was followed by a pang of guilt and sadness. He was unsure if his grandparents were still alive but he did not hold much hope at all. When he came to think of it, which he struggled not to, he did not know if any of his family of friends were alive and the very thought that any of them could be in danger made his stomach spin.
But Light on the Landing had saved him from his own danger and had so far proved to be very successful in distracting him from the sea of worry in which he was drowning.
It was clear that Jimmie was the leader of the pack. He was not necessarily bossy, but he was by far the loudest and the other four seemed to hang on to his every word. The eldest of the band and a gentle reminder that age is but a number that challenges defiance.
Jayke was the most responsible one, trying and failing to get his bandmates to focus on their upcoming show that would kick off the Terexian leg of the tour. He was more of an introvert than the others, keeping to himself and laughing at jokes rather than cracking them.
Zaak was the quietest of Light on the Landing. He spent a lot of his time talking to Jayke, and spent more hours on his ScribblePad than any of the others. Zaak had welcomed Freddie to their circle of trust within his first hour on the tour bus, as he informed him that he had a girlfriend of four months in Zinthyar.
He had been advised to keep his relationship a secret in “the best interests of the band” but his resentment showed through the twitches in his eyes. Freddie doubted that he’d be prepared keep up the act for much longer.
Naithain was everywhere. He joined in every conversation on the bus for a minute or two, flitting between his bandmates and members of the crew. He would pick up and play a guitar for a few minutes, then his interest would shift to his ScribblePad, and then he would interrupt the conversation happening around him with a funny remark or a boisterous burst of laughter.
Haze was still a mystery to Freddie. He seemed friendly and kind, always smiling with an air of calm about him. At times he would stand up and walk aimlessly up and down the bus, before resuming his previous position on a couch. He would stare out of a window as though he was expecting to see something, and then Jimmie would address him, bringing him back into the conversation and reality.
When the bus stopped at their destination after a few hours of travelling, Haze was the first to step outside with Jimmie just behind him. Freddie walked out into the cold evening’s air, the setting sun leaving a red mist to linger over the horizon.
Naithain skipped excitedly towards the huge building ahead, excited to be playing inside in just a couple of hours. When the six boys and the band’s entourage were inside the venue, the band members headed off to their individual dressing rooms.
Haze explained how the boys like to spend an hour or so alone, winding down and getting ready for the night ahead, often calling family and friends on their ScribblePads for a quick catch-up, before regrouping in make-up, getting each other hyped, and generally causing chaos for the whole team.
Zaak cherished this alone time, as he could use his ScribblePad to call his girlfriend whom he barely saw. It was a shame, as he so often told the boys, that ScribblePads did not come with a front-facing camera as then they would be able to see each other’s faces as well as hearing their voices.
“Ah, okay,” Freddie said. “Well, I’ll just have a wander ‘round and have some time with my thoughts.”
Although he did not really want to be left alone with his thoughts, when every time he did stop to think he felt like crying or punching a wall.
“Are you sure, man? You’re welcome to come chill with me in my dressing room,” replied Haze.
“Nah, I don’t want to intrude or anything. Don’t worry about it.”
“Freddie, don’t be an idiot – come with me and we’ll have a chat or something. You must have a lot on your mind and it’d do you good to get it off your chest,” said Haze with a sense of finality.
There was only one chair in the small dressing room, but Haze took up his position sat on the floor with his back against the wall.
“So, what happened in Terexe?”
After Freddie had explained everything in one breathless rant, from leaving Pipton to fleeing his grandparents’ burning house, Haze blew air into his cheeks and exhaled heavily.
“Whoa man, that is intense. I’m sorry to hear about your grandparents. Do you think they could still be…? I mean, are they…”
“I doubt it. I keep hoping and wishing that they are alive but I just can’t see how they could be,” sighed Freddie. He had refused to cry during his monologue to Haze; he would not start now.
“Well keep hoping, I’ll try to see if there’s a way we can find out.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“And listen, stay with us for as long as you need. We’ll keep you hidden and safe… We’ll say you’re one of our cousins to, you know, keep the press and fans and everyone else from asking questions.”
Freddie appreciated Haze’s offer, but there was no way he could land that sort of responsibility on the band.
“No, you don’t have to do that. I’ll only stay another day or two. I can’t interrupt your whole lives when you’re so busy.”
“Don’t be an idiot. You’re staying with us and that’s final. I’ve already run it past Jimmie and he thinks it’s a good idea and Graham listens to Jimmie, mainly because he doesn’t have a choice, so it’s all sorted, really.”
“Thank you, Haze. I really do appreciate it.”
“I know. Now, I have two outfits to choose from tonight and both of them make me look like a teenage wannabe popstar, so let me try them on and you can tell me which I look most stupid in.”
“Why don’t you just wear something you like?” asked Freddie.
“Wait, what? Who said I didn’t like them?”
Both boys laughed as Haze began to prepare for the evening’s concert.
After the concert (which was absolutely manic, with fans pushing each other and security having to prevent the ones at the front from being crushed into the barriers) everyone headed back to the tour bus to travel to the next town.
Tiredness was setting in for the band, the crew, and of course Freddie, who had not slept properly for two days.
Light on the Landing shared their bus with a minimal selection of crew members, their stylist and friend, Kazia, and now Freddie. The bunk below Zaak’s became Freddie’s. It was cramped yet comfortable; nothing compared to the big double-bed to which his body was accustomed. He didn’t know how Haze and the others lived like this every day – constantly on the move and often confined to the deceptively small bus.
Zaak assured him that they did not sleep in the tour bus every night; only when they had to travel a long distance. The following evening they would arrive in a hotel and have until morning to stretch their legs and profit from the most luxurious of suites.
Haze and Jimmie showed Freddie to his bunk, Zaak and Naithain already sleeping soundly.
“Right, we’re going to Scribble tonight about you joining us,” Jimmie began. “The paps are bound to see the six of us out and about and circulate some silly rumours, so we should put them to rest now. Also, we’re worried that you’ll be recognised so we need to think of something.”
“What, like dye my hair and wear a mask?” Freddie joked.
“Well, actually, we think you
should
dye your hair and maybe wear glasses. I know it doesn’t sound much, but it’s not as if anyone’s expecting to see you with us,” Jimmie explained.
“Cool, I’ll dye my hair and get some specs. No problems.
Anything else?”
“Your name,” Jimmie said.
“Right,” nodded Freddie. “Any suggestions?”
The three men thought in silence for a few moments before Haze suggested ‘Lynk’.
“Seriously, Tommy? Lynk?” Jimmie mocked.
Freddie was thrown by the use of Haze’s first name, but nodded in agreement. “Well, I can’t think of anything and that’s a good a name as any I guess,” he said, rubbing his watery eyes.
“Alright, Lynk it is. Welcome on board, Lynk, and welcome to the mad world of Light on the Landing!”
“Thank you, Jimaze,” replied Freddie, smirking as the boys opposite him rolled their eyes in feigned exasperation.
When everyone was in bed and the only sounds to be heard were loud breathing, gentle snoring, and rustling bed covers, Freddie turned on his ScribblePad. He had no notifications and none of his friends’ accounts had been updated since before the Pipton gig.
Each of the band members had scribbled (which, not too long ago, would have sparked hysteria from his girlfriend and sister).
Attached image.
(There was a photo of Jayke holding an empty bottle with water spilled down the front of his light denim jeans.)
Scrolling through replies, Freddie could see that many fans were wondering what Lynk’s Scribbler was. No doubt there would be tens of fake accounts popping up, claiming to be Jimmie’s cousin in a bid to gain hundreds of subscribers.
He liked the name Lynk but mostly he liked the idea of being someone else for a little while. Perhaps he would be able to forget Freddie, the boy whose life had turned upside-down in a matter of days.
Freddie’s last thought before slipping into a much-needed sleep was that even though everything had gone horribly wrong in the last week-or-so, he finally felt safe again, even if it could only be for a little while.
Anonymity. That was the reason Prisoner 001 was so successful. It was difficult to know whether a man or a boy stood in front of the sea of frightened people, handcuffed to two monstrous figures cloaked in dark grey.
Was he from Rysked, or did his family fear for his safety in a different land altogether? After all, his skin was less pale than the typical Rysked complexion. Maybe he had no family. Perhaps his family had already been killed. Or were they in one of the camps?
So many questions asked about Prisoner 001, but no answers given.
He made his first appearance in a small town, with a population of only a few thousand. Two bodyguards held Prisoner 001 down on his knees, a heavy hand pushing on each of his shoulders.
The town hall situated behind them was a poignant reminder – the mayor’s whereabouts had been a publicised mystery for over a week. At first, Prisoner 001’s entourage waited. For what, or whom, he was unsure.
A chilly breeze swept through the still evening. Goosebumps coated Prisoner 001’s naked torso, his trembles of fear accompanied by freezing shivers.
Following an order shouted from somewhere nearby, he slowly raised his head. Fumbling fingers untied his blindfold and he blinked rapidly, seeing for the first time that day.
Cameras were aimed at his face, red lights flashing next to the long lenses. A voice echoed through the stagnant night’s air, shrill and piercing. A voice he had heard before. A voice he had every reason to fear.
The bitter air that filled his lungs began to freeze within him, his violent shudders cracking the layer of ice that coated his vital organs. Slowly, people began to gather before them – a live audience.
“This is Prisoner Zero-Zero-One,” the bodiless voice boomed. “I asked Prisoner Zero-Zero-One to perform a simple task. He failed. His punishment will be severe.” The woman paused, allowing her words to sink in alongside the image of a boy or young man, weak and at the mercy of hooded men and women around him.
“I will ask Prisoner Zero-Zero-One again in the hopes that, this time, he obeys.”
The two men either side of Prisoner 001 softened their grip, allowing him to stand. “Prisoner Zero-Zero-One, I speak directly to you. Show me your magic.”
A simple request, it seemed. Anybody from Rysked possessed the power to perform many magic tricks. Perhaps most impressively, they could become invisible, inconceivable,
untraceable. Their ability to protect themselves was envied by all the other lands.
But Prisoner 001 was not able to perform the magic that was expected of him. He would never be able. That was why he was chosen.
“Nothing?” shrieked the voice in a mocking tone. “Then you shall be punished.”
Prisoner 001 crashed to his knees once more, the sound of bone hitting concrete resonating through his ears. They did not cover his eyes again.
He saw a hooded woman disappear behind him. He heard the crack of a whip. He felt the blinding agony as the heavy leather lashed against his bare skin. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Blood seeped from the cuts forming in his back. He shrieked in pain, screaming, weeping.
Five.
The pain was unbearable, the cameras still recording every moment.
Six.
The crowd before him was growing larger and larger. More witnesses to his castigation.
Why
are they all just standing there?
Seven.
The whip was brought down again, a distorted wail bursting from Prisoner 001’s throat.
Eight.
Everything hurt, everything ached, everything was pain.
Nine.
His eyelids refused to open. Darkness swept over him.
Ten.
The guards let go, allowing him to sink heavily to the floor.
Was he still alive? He didn’t know. He hoped not.
He woke up. How he had managed to sleep in a room so bright, he didn’t know.
Until he remembered. His back suddenly erupted in red hot pain. A groan escaped his chapped lips and he heard the scraping of a chair against floor.
“Shh, it’s okay I’m here,” the female voice said.
“Ru…”
“Don’t try to speak, just stay still. I’m here to help. My name’s Deb.”
“How long..?”
“You’ve been out for eleven hours. I’ve healed your back, but it’ll still be painful for a little while.”
Prisoner 001 felt a warm rush through his veins and fell back into his deep state of unconsciousness.
When he next awoke, Deb was rubbing lotion into his back. A cooling sensation swept over his torso, the pain evaporating into the air.
“A day and a half,” she answered his unspoken question. “Here,” she said holding a cup of tepid water to his lips.
“Drink.”
He willingly obliged, his sandpaper throat craving hydration. Slowly, he pushed himself off of his front until he was sitting on the edge of the metal bed. His back no longer hurt.
“How have you done this?” he asked his healer.
“I was asked to perform magic and I did,” she replied.
“Thank you.”
“You thank me now. In time, I think you will stop. And I’m sorry in advance,” said Deb, lightly placing her hand over his.
“Sorry for what?” wondered Prisoner 001, confused at why his saviour would ever need to apologise.
And then it hit him. His public punishment was not a one-off. It would happen again and again until the message sunk in. And for now, it was enough to be healed. But when would he stop being grateful and become resentful instead? How long would it take for Prisoner 001 to wish he were dead?
Not long. That was the answer. Because he had only just woken from his comatose sleep, Deb had only just healed him, he had only just realised the graveness of his situation, when two guards barged into the white-wash healing room and dragged him away.
Prisoner 001 protested, kicking and screaming, but it was no use. He was weak, and would only grow weaker, while the strangers in the grey cloaks boasted immense strength.
Blindfolded, mouth taped shut, arms tied behind his back, ankles roped together. Shoved onto a hard surface. Slamming doors and the angry rev of an engine. Body colliding with the sides of the van. Ragged carpet burning his bare torso.
Round Two. Prisoner 001 was in the same position he had found himself forty-eight hours ago – staring down a camera lens, unable to perform magic, forced onto his knees, the whip crashing down against his unprotected skin.
Only this time, there was a bigger crowd. More people had come to witness his torture, yet still nobody stepped forward to help. His skin cracked with the third crack of the whip, blood pooling around his knees. He passed out on the seventh.
Deb was beside him when he woke up, her cool hand pressed lightly against his forehead.
“Six hours. You need more sleep,” she said. Prisoner 001 grabbed her wrist, but she had already administered the medicine that allowed him to drift into a dreamless slumber.
Round Three and Four and Five.
Identical routine, over and over again. With each town came a vaster assembly of people. It took Prisoner 001 until Round Six to realise that they weren’t there by choice. They too were under orders that they could only obey.
Cameras broadcasted his punishment to television screens in people’s homes. That could be their son or their brother being whipped. And it might be, if they were unable to prove their magical abilities.
“Seven hours. Not enough,” Deb told him.
No,” he said, gripping her wrist. His grasp was tighter than usual.
Surely a good sign. “Explain,” he demanded.
Deb sighed, torn between her patient’s needs. He could sleep later, she decided after much hesitation.
“You’re Prisoner Zero-Zero-One. The first but not the last, hence the two zeroes before the one. You’re an example of what they do not need, and what they will do to people like you… what they are already doing. Everyone is being tested for magical ability. If they do manage to produce their powers, then they are spared. If not, they are taken.”
“Taken where?” Prisoner 001 asked, fearing the answer.
“To camps. Camps that are being constructed as we speak. Abandoned warehouses, farms and factories. Anywhere with a large amount of land and a building or two. They’re treated worse than animals for slaughter, considered a lesser species. But they’re allowed to survive.”
“What about the people who
are
magic?”
“They… they must join the army,” Deb said, regretfully. “A war is coming, and she is recruiting. Rysked is the place to start, as it’s so cut off from the rest of The South that it will take a while for anyone to realise that something is wrong. And when they do, it will be too late. Her army is growing with every town we visit, and so are her camps. People have no choice but to join this side, even though it is the wrong one. It’s the
only
option.”
“Whose army, though? Who is ‘she’?” asked Prisoner 001.
“Eimaj,” Deb said. “She wants to rule The South. Town by town, land by land, she will tear The South apart and keep the remains for herself. And the problem is I have no idea who is going to fight her. Nobody does. As she wreaks havoc and devastation, there is no hope. Nobody can fight back. This is a war we have already lost,” said Deb.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Then who will save us?”
“Max.”
Deb shook her head and pressed a delicate kiss against her patient’s forehead. She reached over and induced Prisoner 001 into another deep sleep so he would be ready for Round Seven.