BY;fernand jiro marantal
“Oh dear, Frederick,” said Harry Crook to his beloved cat, one windy,
autumn’s evening, “Unless my old ears deceive me, we shall be having rain before the
night is out.”
Another drum-roll of thunder made its presence known just over the horizon,
the dark grey clouds that filled the sky acting as harbingers for the tempest that
seemed sure to come. Harry Crook was unfazed, however, for he knew that most
English storms were like lions without teeth- darned impressive from a distance, but
slow in the upbringing and fast in the dissipation when up close. He knew well the
tumultuous temper-tantrums that nature could throw forth upon man in the wilder
parts of the world. Desert storms in Egypt had failed to end his existence, just as he
had refused to yield to that hurricane just off the south-tip of Africa all those long
years ago. No, the occasional half-hearted rages the non-stop British rainy-season
produced would not shift him so easily.
“Now, now, Frederick,” the old man whispered softly, “You wouldn’t desert
me, would you?”
Needless to say, Frederick the faithful cat, himself getting on a bit, would not
leave his master’s lap. They had been good company for each other ever since Mabel
had gone to God, all those years ago.
Harry Crook was 73 years old, still quite active thanks to his many years of
healthy living. He was slightly taller than average but thin enough that it was not an
impressive sort of tallness. His neck was long and his head just a little too small to be
truly proportionate to the rest of his body. This rarely bothered him, though, as the gift
of good looks had never been one that he had possessed in great abundance, even
during his youth. His eyes, though, were wise, in a quiet sort of way, although anyone
who knew him well could tell you that, ever since the passing on of Mabel, his wife of
43 years, a little twinkle that used to live amongst his irises had disappeared into
infinity. He wore a smart, but not abnormally so, tweed suit, and his jaunty farmer’s
hat (even though he was not a farmer) was never far from his side.
Harry Crook lived in Sunflower Cottage, a small but pretty little thatch-roofed,
white-washed bungalow just a handful of miles from the small, rural, East Anglican
town of Greater Twilbourne. Just around Sunflower Cottage was Harry’s garden.
Before the war, this had been a plot entirely for roses, tulips, daffodils and all the
other pretty little examples of God’s creation that had given both Harry and Mabel so
much joy. Now, however, thanks to the great need for home-grown vegetables, many
of the flowers were gone, to be replaced by potatoes and lettuces and all the other
produce that was due to be harvested in the next few days. Still, Harry had managed
to maintain a few flower beds and he continued to watch these proudly, as if these
were the children he had never had.
Right now, however, autumn’s rustic heart had begun to beat. The trees in the
farmlands that surrounded Sunflower Cottage swayed gently in the wind, golden and
amber leaves flying through the air to be crunched under the feet of the cattle who
moved aimlessly around in the muddy grass. It was not yet dark, nor was it still fully
bright, the dawn of twilight having come. Everything seemed drenched in a chilly
amber light that, despite the breeze, was unnaturally still. Even the coming storm was,
in Harry’s eyes, beginning to seem…unworldly. It looked like it was going to be the
kind of night from which omens and prophecies spring.
Feeling slightly unnerved, Harry shuddered as a gust of wind blew another
collection of golden leaves around his aged head. Even Frederick had had enough,
scarpering away back into the protection of the house. The day itself had been
uneventful. Harry had gone to the little rural Presbyterian church he and Mabel had
favoured for Morning Prayer. Then, he had met up with his old chum of many a year,
Talfryn Jones (who was a Methodist and so frequented a different place of worship)
and had as good a Sunday lunch as was possible in wartime at the Hog and Bull. The
Home Guard parade at the old drama theatre was next. This had been the standard
affair, with his Lordship Captain Edwin J. Merryweather giving out orders in his
usual aristocratically phlegmatic way, his chauffer Sgt. Dodgson raising hell with
whatever unlucky soul was half-a-beat late with the stand-at-eases.
Harry had little love for any war, even though he had been through enough of
them. He had been through the final year of the Sudanese campaigns when he was
only a boy, enlisted by his father, himself a career soldier. Then had come the Boer
War, and his involvement in that had been through the inexorable force that was peer-
pressure. He had been married at that point, had a regular job and was happy. Yet still
he enlisted, partly because he wanted to see the world, but mainly because all his
friends were going and he had not the courage to be the odd one out. By the time that
the Great War came around, he only had scars left as physical reminders of South
Africa. This time he held back, listing himself as a conscientious objector and taking a
position as a stretcher-bearer. He saw the world here as well, principally places with
names such as the Somme and Gallipoli. After viewing the excrement of mud and
misery that filled the trenches there, he at least consoled himself with the fact that,
after this, there would be no war, ever.
And now Harry Crook, private in Home Guard, tried to make himself
comfortable in his chair at 6.55pm on the 23rd of October, 1941. War had come again.
This one may have been a justifiable war, more so than the last one at any rate, but it
was still war. A necessary evil was still an evil and it is sorry world that forgets this
fact. Still, the Home Guard was not the same as being in the real army, no matter what
Capt. Merryweather and Sgt. Dodgson thought. It was important to protect against
invasion, against the destruction of all that was good by the Nazi war machine, and
that is why Harry joined up. He did not enjoy it, but even disillusioned old
campaigners have duties to attend to.
Still, at Sunflower Cottage, the war made itself known only on occasion.
Every now and then a troop-transport would rattle past, filled to the brim with young
faces. Then there were the air-raids, far, far in the distance. For obvious reasons,
Greater Twilbourne was far from a top priority for bombardment in the eyes of the
Luftwaffe, but still, they had the siren and the A.R.P. wardens. Also, if the wind was
right, it was just possible to hear the low thump of the bombs landing the bigger
towns and cities far in the distance. ‘With each of those little thumps,’ Harry always
said to himself, ‘At least one soul is rising to meet his or her maker. At least one
family is losing a husband, or a wife, or a mother, or a father. Oh, why are wars
always with us? Why, oh Lord and God, why did you give men the will to fight?’
Tonight, though, was quiet. Almost too quiet, perhaps? No bird was singing,
no dog was barking, even Frederick seemed to have wrapped himself up in a bed of
silence. Only the wind and that strange, rumbling thunder broke through the stillness.
Acting entirely out of habit, Harry Crook raised his right arm and glanced at
his watch. Always fastidious about the keeping of the time, Harry never wanted more
than ten minutes to go by without his knowledge. The three little slivery hands,
however, were not moving.
“That’s odd,” he said out-loud, partly to break the grasping stillness that
pushed in at him, partly because he was genuinely surprised, “It’s stopped. Had this
watch ten years and it hadn’t missed a beat, yet. Very, very odd.”
“Let me tell you, it’s thanks to us, little girl, that it’s safe for you to walk home
every night!”
Harry jumped, his heart missing a beat before he realised that the static-
shrouded voice merely came from the wireless he had in his living room. It was one
of those idiotic comedians, Enoch something-or-other, prattling on about Heaven-
knows-what. Overcome by a surge of late-life grumpiness, Harry rose to his feet and
was about to head inside to switch off the accursed machine when a thought struck
him, more-than-a-little unnervingly.
“Who, what on God’s Earth turned it on?” he asked himself, “Surely not
Frederick?”
He shivered as the temperature seemed to drop at least five centigrade.
Perhaps…perhaps somebody else was in his house?
“Who’s there!?” he called, the boldness in his voice trying not to betray his
nervousness, “Come on out! If you want to rob an old man you can, at least, show
your face.”
The only sound that bothered itself to reply was the white noise that was now
exclusively broadcast by the wireless, Enoch’s voice having totally faded away.
Suddenly, Harry Crook began to feel very, very alone. The dark storm clouds now
totally covered him and his house, the tall trees in the distance now appearing as dim
shapes, peering at him like ancient demons spying a mortal from beyond the abyss. A
deep rumble of thunder rolled from one end of the autumnal landscape to the other, a
portent of darkness more potent than a hyena’s cackle. It had not been since his time
in an isolation cell in a POW camp during the Boer War, that Harry Crook had so
wanted human company.
Honk! Honk!
Harry turned round in a relief-felled surprise. Trundling up the road to his
cottage was an old van, covered with a newly laden coat of khaki paint. Once it had
belonged to Fred Masterson, the town baker. Now it the official platoon transport of
the Greater Twilbourne Home Guard. In the front compartment were squeezed three
disparate figures, each clothed in the uniforms of their rank. Sitting at the wheel was
Fred, now a private and the platoon driver. He was a large, unhappy-looking man,
who behind a very blue exterior sat a heart of gold, visible only to those who bothered
to look hard enough. At the far side was Sgt. Albert Dodgson, a battle-scarred veteran
of many, many campaigns whose bullying, fierce expression was in a direct
counterpoint to his diminutive frame. Still, no-one with a twitter of wit would every
cross Sgt. Dodgson. Unpleasant things tended to happen to those who did.
The third figure, sitting uncomfortably in between these two common folk,
was the lord of the manor, the (self-proclaimed) highest aristocrat in that part of
England, chairman of the East Anglican Lord Byron Appreciation Society, resurrector
of the Devil’s Alphabet and captain in the Home Guard, Edwin Merryweather,
temporary displaced from his manor house by a stray Nazi bomb. Merryweather was a
thin man with prune-like skin and black, wavy hair, just old enough to avoid the call-
up. When Anthony Eden had first broadcast the call for the formation of the Local
Defence Volunteers he had been quick enough, not only to be the guiding hand in the
formation of the Greater Twilbourne unit, but to appoint himself as leader of the said
unit. While this was not a popular choice amongst the townsfolk, the call to duty was
more than enough to dispel the collective dislikes they had for their commanding
officer. Still, Capt. Merryweather was not a bad officer, in his way. He knew his job
and, while none of the men had any desire to associate themselves with him socially,
they appreciated, possibly with the help of some feudal genes that still lingered, that
he was the best choice for commander.
“Get in, Pt. Crook!” shouted Capt. Merryweather, in his strongly nasal upper-
class accent, “It’s an emergency!”
Too many things happening at once, Harry hesitated, his mind fumbling.
“But, sir? What about my uniform?”
“Leave it, man! Get your rifle and jump on!”
Within less than half-a-minute, Pt. Harry Crook partly jumped and was partly
pulled up into the rear of the van, which promptly shuddered and moved off. The old
man squinted his eyes in the gloom, attempting to recognise the large group of faces
that now stared at him. As he expected, the faces belonged to the rest of his Home
Guard colleagues. Most where retired veterans between the ages of 50 and 70,
although there were a few young lads not yet old enough for call-up and smattering of
30-year-olds who worked in reserved occupations. Some wore uniforms while others
had clearly been grabbed in a hurry, as had he. All held rifles and all looked anxious.
Harry wondered why. There had been no sirens, no explosions. Perhaps this was it?
Perhaps this was the invasion? Harry’s stomach began to knot itself.
“Aye up, Harry,” whispered a distinctly Lancastrian voice from the side of the
van.
The voice belonged to Wallace Peacock, an abnormally tall farm labourer in
his forties with a huge jaw-bone and a bald head that was so shiny you could
heliograph off it.
“Hi Wallace,” replied Harry, debating whether to ask the burning question or
not- eventually deciding that he had better, “Is this it, then? Has the balloon gone up?”
“Oh, I wish it where that simple.”
“What do you mean, Talfryn?”
The Welshman was sitting beside Cpl. Peacock, his tall friend’s shadow
making his own features unreadable. He was short and hairy, a coal-miner in his
youth. Harry shifted his position to join them.
“We don’t know what in the Lord’s name is going on. All the phone-lines are
down and something’s blocking them wirelesses. Then Carter Patterson comes
running into town screaming that he’s seen lights hovering over his fields.”
“Gerrys?”
“That’s what the cap thinks but where are the R.A.F. then? And Carter
Patterson says they hovered! What plane, Gerry or not, does that?”
The common sense within Harry felt like scoffing.
“You’ve been led on a wild goose chase,” he stated with a joviality that
convinced no-one, least of all himself, “You can’t belief nothing Carter Patterson
says.”
“It’s a secret weapon, that’s what it is,” exclaimed Cpl. Peacock sombrely,
nodding his head like a guru.
“Ours or there’s, corp?” asked Pt. Fitch, a young bank clerk two days away
from his 19th birthday.
“How should I know, Fitch? Do you think Winston Churchill would let
country bumpkins like you and me know the intimate details of each and every new
kind of blunderbuss them egg-heads at Whitehall come up with? Eh?”
Fitch squirmed and fell silent. It did not take much effort to see that he was
terrified. They all were.
“Here, Talfryn, what time is it?” asked Harry, trying to bring the talk to more
down-to-earth matters, “My watch has stopped.”
Pt. Jones looked at the golden watch he kept in his pocket, his most prized
possession. His face creased in surprise.
“That’s queer. Mine has too.”
“So has mine,” added Cpl. Peacock.
The three elder men looked at each other, throwing about gazes of mutual
incomprehension.
As the van trundled down the rocky country roads towards Carter Patterson’s
farm the shadow of night had begun to spread its way across the Heavens. It was a
dark, dark sort of night- the sort or night with no stars and where the moon burns with
an icy malignance. The rumbling thunder, meanwhile, was, by now almost ever-
present, serenading the grim proceedings like some diabolical choir.
This, the threesome in the front compartment noticed.
“I don’t like it, sir,” grunted Sgt. Dodgson in his gruff northern voice.
“What are you babbling about, sergeant?”
“The air…everything…it feels…you know…wrong.”
Capt. Merryweather snorted.
“Nonsense, man. You’re letting your imagination run wild. There’s a storm
brewing and I pity any Nazi bastard who tries to come ashore in a storm.”
He turned to Pt. Masterson.
“How long until we reach the farm?”
“We’re nearly there, sir.”
Suddenly, there was an almost animal-like whine from the engine and the van
ground to a halt.
“Masterson, what the hell are you doing? Do you expect us to walk the rest of
the way?”
The private made a futile attempt to restart he engine.
“I’m sorry, captain,” he pleaded, “I can’t understand it. It never gave me any
trouble before.”
“I don’t want excuses! Get this vehicle moving!”
“Sir! I…I can’t!”
“Damn it all to Hell!” exploded the captain, “Useless piece of junk! Listen,
Masterson, if the Nazi’s invade, if they come to your town, if they murder your wife
and children, it’ll be on your head! Understand!?”
Practically purple with childish rage, Merryweather turned to his sergeant.
“Sgt. Dodgson! Get the men off this flea-trap on wheels!”
Obediently, the sergeant gave three bangs on the back of the front
compartment.
“Men!” he yelled in a voice that was louder than anyone would have thought
possible, “Dismount!”
As the men jumped off the van, both the darkness and the feeling in the air
shook them to their bones.
“The air,” muttered Pt. Jones, “It feels almost electric, like it’s charged with
static.”
“That’s enough of that sort of talk, Jones,” bellowed the sergeant, now in
amongst them, “Now then, our transport has broken down. That means that we walk
to the farm. There, we shall ascertain the presence of enemy aliens.”
“And what if there are?” quipped Pt. Perry, a young cockney, “What can we
do in the middle of nowhere with five rounds apiece?”
“We give them Gerry’s the hell they deserve!” replied Dodgson, the flaming
bright-red bloodlust already burning in his eyes, “But now, my fine lads, we march!
Understand!? Platoon! Get in line!”
Stirred into action by the almost religious devotion inspired by the chain of
command, the men shook off their fear and sorted themselves speedily into that well-
known line of drill. Capt. Merryweather and Sgt. Dodgson eyed them approvingly.
“Good lads! Right, attention!”
The Greater Twilbourne platoon did as bidden.
“Right face!”
“Very good, men,” remarked the captain, his rage soothed by the display of
obedience, “Now we don’t know what we’ll be coming up against tonight. If it is the
invasion, if this is what we have been waiting for, I expect each and every one of us to
do his duty. It may be the end of us, but we’re prepared for it. Aren’t we?”
The men gave a grumble in a reply, unsure of that question themselves.
“Now I am not a praying man,” continued Merryweather, “I believe in
evolution, not God. And so I believe that our race, the British race, is the superior one
on this Earth. Those Nazis believe that they are the masters. Now let us show them
how wrong they are!”
“Platoon…platoon…march!”
It was like a crash of thunder that had fallen from the sky, followed by a
terrific sonic boom that extended in all directions. For a moment, Harry thought that a
bomb had been dropped beside them. However, there was no explosion, no fire, no
screams of pain. Instinctively, half the men dropped to the ground, the others frozen
in total bewilderment. Still, in whatever position, no-one could have missed what had
just descended from the clouds and was now in the progress of flying over them.
“Oh my God!” mouthed Cpl. Peacock.
“Lord of all that is holy, have mercy on us,” prayed Pt. Jones.
“Stone the crows,” exclaimed Pt. Perry, “It’s a flying light-bulb!”
In shape, it was akin to a jewelled, three-dimensional kite, pure and crystalline
like a diamond the size of a spitfire. Iridescent dust streamed out from its tail, coating
hedges and fields, styles and roads, making them glow as if made from the stars
themselves. Beams of light, all the colours of the rainbow, shot out of each facet of
the crystal, illuminating the countryside for miles around. There was no visible form
of propulsion, no form of guidance, only the feeling of crackling energy in the air and
a constant mechanical hum.
It floated slowly and gracefully through the air, as if taking its time to observe
the world around. Suddenly, as it came directly above the van, it stopped, hanging
totally motionless. The men below (well, those who had managed to overcome their
initial shock, at any rate) held their breaths, waiting for whatever was due to come out
of the crystalline lattice. Maybe it would be some form of death-ray that could reduce
flesh to atoms in moments; maybe it would be a bomb, powerful enough to destroy a
whole continent? What did come, however, was very different.
Little droplets of light, looking like glowing snowflakes, began to gently
descend from the crystal aircraft. Ignoring the strong wind, they floated down around
the heads of the men, hovering at about eye-level. Inside the little floating lights sat
ten-legged hexagons, moving about as if they were jewelled spiders. Almost invisible
scarlet beams radiated from these, enveloping the heads of the men in their range.
“Oi, Harry,” whispered Talfryn, as quietly as he could, “They’re looking at us.
They’re studying us.”
“Studying us for what?” replied Harry, who despite, himself, somehow was
not afraid of these little flying light-bulbs.
The same could not be said for Capt. Merryweather. Sweat trickling from his
brow, he glared at his observer with a look of unadulterated fear. Then, suddenly,
without even thinking, his hand went to his holster.
BANG!
All the men turned to the source of the noise. Capt. Merryweather’s observer
was on the ground, flaying wildly, its light gone, half its legs blown off by the force of
the bullet. The captain, aiming his gun at his twitching little adversary, fired again,
and again, until it moved no more. The effect on the other light beings was immediate.
In a single, collective movement, they rose up into the air, melting into the mother-
craft, which itself began to slowly drift away.
Harry, despite his soldier’s instincts, could not contain himself.
“What did you do that for!?” he cried out, “They meant no harm!”
Merryweather stared at him furiously, the look of burning rage in his eyes.
“Don’t you dare talk to a superior officer like that, Pt. Crook! We are under
conditions of war, under the eyes of the enemy! I could have you shot for less.”
Dodgson suddenly seemed to catch the feelings of his commanding officer.
“Platoon! Open fire on the enemy! At once!”
Half the men of the platoon raised their rifles and fired at the, still quite within
range, aircraft. The bullets simply bounced harmlessly off the shell. The other half
just stood motionless, partly because they were still dumbstruck and partly because,
deep down inside of them, they found that they simply could not hurt this most gentle
of things.
After a while, the firing stopped. Merryweather was apoplectic.
“Damn Nazis! If that thing heads to the town hundreds could be killed or
wounded!”
“Come off it, cap,” stated Pt. Perry, rather unwisely, “Do you think Herr Hitler
could have come up with a thing like that?”
“Don’t talk rubbish, man! What else could it be? It tried to attack us!
Those…those…things were clearly weapons of some sort!”
“But with all due respect, sir, why didn’t they do anything? They just glowed.
Glowed and watched.”
Even the sergeant was moved to comment.
“Perry is right, sir,” he said, rather uncomfortably, “I know the Hun. They
wouldn’t…couldn’t make anything like that, sir. That…thing…didn’t look like
anything from this Earth…sir.”
The look and sound of utter, bitter contempt appeared in the captain’s face and
voice.
“Not you too, sergeant? Are you seriously suggesting that that came from
outer space!? You’ve been reading too much H.G. Wells, Dodgson. May I remind you
that the human race appeared on this planet by a fluke of astronomical chance? The
sheer probability of another sentient race occurring on a planet anywhere near us is so
small as to be virtually impossible. Darwin and Wells are about as compatible as a
lion and a seal.”
“It was an angel,” whispered Jones.
Merryweather almost turned purple.
“I am not even going to honour that statement with a reply,” he sneered.
Harry Crook, meanwhile, did not know what to make of the flying jewel. It
had come in peace and benevolence, showing nothing but harmless curiosity. Even
after it had been assaulted without provocation, its sole reaction was to withdraw with
dignity. Dodgson, of all people, was probably right. This was not a thing of this Earth.
This was a thing of a place were war was a total anathema to life, rather than being an
ugly and inseparable part. Perhaps Talfryn was also correct? Perhaps it was an angel?
A being of peace, sent by God, something unknown to Merryweather and his atheist
ideas. How could evolution bring peace? How could there ever be peace in a world
whose philosophy is selfish survival, not the mutual gain of all? Harry Crook
suddenly wanted to follow the peaceful flying machine. Perhaps, where it came from,
he might find Mabel?
Suddenly, the engine of the platoon van roared into action. Merryweather was
the first to act.
“Dodgson! Masterson! Into the front! Now!”
“Why sir?” asked Fred.
“We are going after that thing! No matter what it is, we won’t let it get away!”
Within two minutes, the platoon van was trundling down the dark, night-time
country roads in a desperate attempt to keep up with the aerial intruder. Inside the
van, a simple system of observation had been set up. Pt. Fitch and his school friend Pt.
Owens were poking their heads and upper bodies through special hatches that had
been added to the roof of the van. Their information was passed down to Cpl. Peacock
who, squeezing his head through hole that existed between the two compartments of
the van, communicated to his commanders.
“It doesn’t appear to be heading towards the town, sir,” relayed the corporal,
“More out into open country.”
“Well, that’s something, sir, at any rate.”
“Maybe, sergeant. But how do we know that there aren’t more of them?”
“The air-raid siren would have gone.”
Pt. Jones, with more than a little difficulty, pushed his head past Cpl. Peacock.
“But what about the electrical black-out? That thing is emitting some form of
energy. At long range it screws up the wireless transmissions and at close range all
forms of energy are put out of action. It is probably also what is causing all this rain-
less thunder.”
“They could still ring the church bells, even if they didn’t have power,”
countered Dodgson.
“But even then, how are we going to get near to it. The van would just stop
and we’d be back to the beginning once more.”
“Jones has a point there, sir,” added Masterson.
Merryweather growled.
“Don’t damn well tell me there’s nothing we can do. We keep on after it for as
long as we can. Maybe it’ll show some weakness.”
Up at the top of the van, both Fitch and Owens were shivering with the cold
wind, praying hard that no rain would be forthcoming.
“I don’t like this, Fitch!” half-yelled Owens over the din of both the engine
and the breeze, “It isn’t natural! I feel like a man looking for the end of a rainbow!”
“Shut up, Dave!” came a clearly scared reply, “That ain’t no pot of gold!
Imagine a fleet of those things, coming over the English Channel, each containing a
hundred Nazi paratroopers. What could we do against that!? We wouldn’t have a hope
in Hell.”
Suddenly, the glowing invader seemed to stop, hovering as though letting the
relatively primitive four-wheeled, ground-locked contraption behind it catch up.
“Corporal!” shouted Fitch, aiming his voice into the innards of the van, “It’s
stopped!”
“Fitch?” noted Owens.
“Yeah?”
“It seems to be getting bigger.”
“That’s because we’re driving closer to it. How the hell did you ever get your
school certificate?”
“No. Fitch, look at it. It shouldn’t be getting bigger so fast.”
Fitch looked again. Then his heart froze.
“Oh, my Gawd! Cpl. Peacock! It’s coming towards us! It’s coming straight for
us!”
Static perforating the air, another crash of thunder set everyone jumping.
Then, as expected, the van’s engine gave out once more and, in about twenty seconds,
the wheels came to complete standstill. Immediately, a pair of rifles were passed up to
Fitch and Owens, who checked them and prepared to fight with them. At the same
time, Merryweather and Dodgson climbed out of the driver’s compartment.
Merryweather raised his revolver and pointed it at the rapidly approaching flying
jewel. The captain narrowed his eyes. This was his chance to strike a blow for
England, this was his chance to defend his homeland.
Silently, the mysterious aircraft glided softly over the van, totally ignoring the
volley of bullets that imbedded themselves into its’ crystalline hull. Within a few
moments, it was fading away, back into the murky distance once more. As if on cue,
the van’s engine started once more and captain and sergeant jumped in again.
Quickly, the vehicle did a three-point turn and continued to follow its quarry.
“If it goes over the fields we’re in trouble,” noted Pt. Masterson.
“Then why’s it following the roads?” asked the sergeant.
Pt. Jones poked his head though the compartment to give more helpful advice.
“It’s probably following the roads for navigation. My guess is that it hasn’t
orientated itself yet.”
“Why haven’t the air-force done anything?” growled the captain.
“Well, sir, I suppose that, if you are going to make an aircraft that can do all
that that one can, you might as well make it radar invisible while you’re at it.”
Dodgson looked around at him.
“And what makes you an expert, Jones?”
Talfryn shrugged and withdrew into the back compartment.
“Damnit, Masterson, can you go any faster?”
Fred wiped the sweat from his brow.
“I’m sorry, captain, but I’m doing thirty now. I don’t know how much more
the old girl will take.”
Needless to say, Merryweather was not overly sympathetic.
“Well, you can shake this thing to pieces for all I care- just as long as you keep
after it!”
Harry sat at the back of the van, his face creased and deep in thought. One
hand was clutched around his rifle, the other around a photograph of Mabel.
Grumbling, Talfryn manoeuvred himself to a position beside his friend. Everyone felt
a little sick thanks to the constant banging and swaying as the wheels lurched along
the rough road.
“Merryweather and Cannonball Dodgson- pair of stupid sons-of-bitches.”
He patted Harry’s shoulder, noticing what he held in his hand.
“Harry? What’s wrong?”
“Everything, Talfryn. We shouldn’t be doing this. That ship, ahead of us, it’s
not of this world. It’s from somewhere else. I don’t know where: Mars, Venus,
Heaven itself perhaps. But we shouldn’t be going after it with guns and all that. We
should be on our hands and knees begging it…begging it to teach us how to stop the
war.”
“You can’t stop war, Harry. It’s human nature.”
“Precisely! It is human nature! It is what the human race does when it is not
eating or sleeping. What did Darwin call it? The survival of the fittest? That is
Merryweather’s philosophy. Have you noticed the look in his eyes every time he even
thinks of fighting? He enjoys it! Do you know why? Because he believes it is good
and right. He worships evolution as his god, and it is a god that demands the pious
destruction of all that is not the same. They can teach us different! They can teach us
to rise above such beliefs. If they enjoyed the death of anything and everything that
was inferior they would have swatted us like a fly the moment we fired our pea-
shooters at it. Maybe they are angels, maybe they are beings from another world?
Either way, we have to stop Merryweather! We have to stop him before he does
something that the world will regret for ever and ever.”
For a second, Talfryn paused in thought. Then he spoke.
“Is this because of Mabel?”
“My wife?”
“Yes, you’re wife. You are simply thinking her thoughts, saying what she
would have said. Well, she is with God now, of that I have no doubt. But, you think
that this…whatever-it-is…comes from the sky so it must also come from God? Harry,
man, listen to me. Have you thought for one moment that you could be wrong, that
this could be a spearhead for invasion, either by the Gerrys or Martians in their giant
tripod-machines.”
Harry merely clutched at his temples with his hands, the electric humidity in
the air becoming very oppressive. Suddenly, he felt old, old and confused.
“It’s turning right at the crossroads!” yelled Fitch.
“The blighter’s turning right at the crossroads!” yelled Peacock.
“Cor’ blimey,” muttered Perry, “It ain’t half leading us on a merry dance.”
With a screech of tires, the van changed direction at the crossing.
“It’s heading for the railway line,” noted Masterson.
“Aye!” exclaimed the sergeant, “And there’s a train coming!”
He pointed to a pencil-thin line of smoke on the horizon, just illuminated by
the sparks and embers from the funnel.
Fred gulped.
“Captain,” he stated nervously, “We’ll be at the crossing about the same time
as that train will. Shouldn’t we slow down?”
“Go faster!”
“But sir! The train!”
“Damnit it, man! I said go faster!”
Muttering what, quite possibly, would be his final prayers to the Almighty; the
soldier pressed his foot hard down on the accelerator.
From up top, Fitch and Owens viewed the approaching scene with barely
disguised terror.
“Bleeding hell!” cried out Owens.
The aircraft passed over the level-crossing. Fitch cringed and waited for the
inevitable end. The train’s whistle let out a horrified scream.
Somehow, the van was not crushed like an eggshell beneath several tonnes of
smoking, belching, whistling metal. With a sudden, almost miraculous explosion of
acceleration, the ancient baker’s van thrust itself over the railway tracks, narrowly
missing the oncoming dreadnought. This, however, was too much for the van’s
engine, however, which spluttered and gasped with agonising groans. Suddenly,
something snapped and Fred Masterson found all his acceleration dying away.
“Masterson!” snapped Merryweather, “What the hell are you doing?!”
“It’s not me, sir. It’s the engine!”
“Something to do with that Gerry craft?”
“I don’t think so, sir. Not this time. I think the old girl’s just about had it.”
Angrily, the captain let out an animalistic growl, kicking the bottom of the
dash-board with all his might, the majority of the damage being done to his foot more
than anything else.
With a final, brief, pained shudder from the exhaust-pipe, the van came to a
rest, perhaps forever. Voicing a strange mixture of disappointment and relief, the
motley collection of soldiers exited, looking at the steaming tires as if good intentions
made half-decent auto-mechanics all by themselves.
“Ah well, then,” noted Pt. Jones pragmatically, “It appears the chase is off.”
He looked sympathetically at Pt. Crook, whose eyes were downcast, like those
of the man who missed the last boat to paradise.
Capt. Merryweather was not a particularly happy member of Her Majesty’s
Armed Forces at that time.
“God damn it!” he screamed, “Masterson!”
“Yes, sir?” replied Fred sheepishly- he knew what he was in for.
“You ought to be on a damn charge for not keeping that vehicle in order!”
“There was nothing I could…”
“If we were in No Man’s Land, 25 years ago, I’d have you shot for this!”
Pt. Perry managed to work up the courage to intervene.
“Oi, sir, you can’t talk to him like that.”
“And are you going to stop me, Private! Don’t you dare talk to me like that!”
Only Cpl. Peacock and Pt. Owens had their attention on the invading aircraft.
The younger man ran his fingers through his orange hair, his helmet resting on the
ground.
“Hey, corporal? Shouldn’t it be trying to escape from us?”
“Nothing about that thing surprises me, anymore, boy.”
“But why would it just be hanging there, watching us?”
“Well, what harm can we do it? Them Gerrys or Martians or whatever up
there must be having a real good laugh.”
“Don’t you think we ought to tell the others?”
“Shouldn’t they know already, boy?”
He turned around, seeing that they all seemed so enraptured by
Merryweather’s display of abject insanity, that they hadn’t even considered the fact
that their quarry was, not only still within visual distance but almost appeared to be
waiting for their attention. Wallace Peacock sighed.
“Ah well, I suppose somebody better tell them.”
He called out.
“Oi, lads! I think we’re still under the eyes of the enemy!”
Merryweather and Dodgson, clearly embarrassed by this revelation, reloaded
their weapons and ran up to where Peacock and Owens were standing. The rest of the
platoon made a collected effort to gather, en masse, behind them.
“Good grief,” muttered the captain, “Why the hell hasn’t it got away?”
“Perhaps it’s laughing at us, sir,” ventured Owens, earnestly but really rather
stupidly.
Merryweather gave him a withering look and then returned to the problem in
hand.
“What do you think, sergeant?”
“Maybe it wants a fight, sir. One-on-one or something like that.”
Suddenly, Harry pushed his way through.
“Listen, sir, it doesn’t want to fight,” he pleaded, his eyes swelling, “It is
trying to make contact with us!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you old fool. Why would a bunch of Nazis want to talk
to us?”
“Nazis!? Listen, you young, toffee-nosed idiot: you aren’t going to find any
swastikas hidden on that thing! That came from another world, a place were you and
your philosophies would have been sent to the furnace long ago! I’ve known and seen
enough war to be able to recognise that which has not been touched by it. You talked
about No Man’s Land twenty years ago. Well, I’ve been there. While you were
hunting your foxes and baiting your badgers I was out there, knee-deep in blood-red
mud. You tell me that because of evolution, war is necessary. Well, that thing out
there, that beautiful, pure thing, can show us the path out of your kind of ignorance.
Maybe God sent it, maybe it sent itself, but from wherever it came from it is not going
to let a degraded, blaspheming bastard like you send it back!”
There was a moment of shocked silence, penetrated only by the rhythmic hum
of the mysterious craft. Then the captain lashed out, pistol-whipping Harry Crook in
the face. Stunned, the old man fell backwards, onto the darkness of the ground, blood
oozing from a gash on his head. Merryweather’s eyes were bright red, his face a
picture of insolent fury. In almost an action of reflex he levelled his revolver, aiming
it between Pt. Crook’s eyes.
Sgt. Dodgson was the first to act, his knowledge of what was right and what
was wrong clouding over the loyalty he had to both his commanding officer and his
employer. Quickly, he grabbed the captain’s wrist, wrenching the weapon away.
Peacock and Jones then pounced, restraining Merryweather by the arms.
“What are you doing!” he screamed, “Unhand me now! That is an order!”
The look in Dodgson’s eyes turned to pity. Suddenly, a flash of lightning shot
through the sky and the first drops of a heavy torrent of rain began to fall, blowing
through the wind like millions of icy missiles. The sergeant, who had been through
much, much worse than this, ignored it.
“I’m sorry, sir. But I am relieving you of command. Your behaviour of late
has been both inappropriate and dangerous. Cpl. Peacock! Pt. Jones! Take the captain
back to the van and place him under open arrest. That is an order!”
“Bleeding heck!” cried out Pt. Fitch, “Look at the flying thing!”
The crystal aircraft had begun to move, not forwards or back, but around,
rotating through the air until the pointed tip at the end was facing the ground. Then,
with a sudden outburst of energy forming a halo around it like some heavenly form of
St. Elmo’s fire, it descended, the pointed blade entering through the soft mud until it
was as intractable as the sword in the stone before King Arthur had got his digits
around it. None of the men dared speak, only the bravest chancing any form of
movement at all. It was Merryweather who broke the taboo of silence.
“You see!” he shouted through the turbulence of the air, “They’ve come!
They’ve come to kill us all!”
At this, some of the men began to flee back down the road, but most stayed
transfixed, their eyes locked on the stunning beauty of the clear crystal obelisk, purer
than any earthly diamond. The rain evaporated harmlessly off this, the great wind
failing to budge it an inch. Harry, slowly, climbed to his feet, trying his best to steady
himself despite the whirling universe around him and the torrential storm of which he
now inhabited. He steadily approached the intruder, his hands raised in a gesture of
peace.
“Come out,” he spoke softly, “Please come out. No harm will come to you.
Just come out and teach us.”
No door, though, opened. This however, is not to say that nothing happened.
Indeed, a change, a very, very noticeable change began to occur. At first, the lattice
merely glowed again, only it was a different kind of glow, more like a sickly green
ejection of light than anything else. After a few seconds however, this glowing
became growing. With a deafening aching creak, the crystal started to expand at an
enormous rate, each individual facet multiplying and dividing as though they were
living cells. At first, this growth was upwards, creating a giant tower of fluorescent
diamond and energy. Eventually arms grew out of this tower- two from the sides and
one from the head- that spread out like branches from a mighty oak, enveloping all
that came within any sort of range of contact. The men all gasped and moved back as
the arms reached high over their heads and far around them, trapping them in an
almighty embrace. Then, even the arms began to expand like living flesh, joining up
with each other while the ends embedded themselves fast in the ground, entering the
soil with a thud. Barely a minute after the first growth, the Greater Twilbourne
platoon, and their broken-down van, had found themselves trapped under a mighty
dome of crystal.
“Sarge, I’m scared.”
“Yes, Fitch. So am I.”
“Hey, Jonesy!” asked Perry, sweat pouring from his brow, “Where…where
the hell is the light coming from?”
“Phos…phosphorescence from the crystal, possibly. Man, this is a bit different
from a coal-mine. How do you expect me to know?”
He let go of a quivering Merryweather.
“Do you still think these are German’s, captain?”
The captain did not hear him, looking for all the world like a man who’s just
had the closed door of his mind ripped clean off its hinges. Owens, meanwhile, had
moved to the nearest wall and was studying it with fearful intent. Wallace, seeing
him, called out.
“Oi, Owens. Don’t go touching anything.”
The orange-haired private had no intention of doing anything of the sort.
“Who are you trying to kid, corp?” was his shaky reply.
Only Harry Crook was in prayer.
“Oh Lord of all that is holy,” he whispered, down on his knees, “Have mercy
on us poor servants. I know now that we are close to your presence, possibly in the
company of your angels themselves. Please show us the light; please give us a sign, a
way to end this war, a way to end this tyranny of evolution, of human nature. Please,
Lord, your servant begs you, show us your sign!”
It was then that the old man realised that his fellow soldiers had stopped
talking. Shaken by the silence, he raised his head and opened his eyes. What he saw
almost set his retinas ablaze in their sockets. They were now in the presence of what
could only be described as three ‘beings’. From a distance they looked like three giant
jellyfish, their bodies rippling and waving, several feet off the ground, as though the
air was the currents of the sea. At a closer inspection, one could see that they were
vaguely kite-shaped, not unlike the space-craft, their pointed, triangular tails
stretching a good distance behind them, mingling amongst the trailing clump of
squirming tentacles that reached out from their back. Their heads were small, with
big, rapidly blinking eyes, no mouth or nose of any sort and what looked like some
kind of proboscis reaching out the back. Their bodies were totally luminescent,
throwing a bright white glow over the terrified men, as well as being translucent,
almost to the point of transparency. The beings did not approach, keeping a respectful
distance, more content to observe than act.
Despite everything else, Harry Crook smiled. These were not simple men
engaged in their warmongery. These were not Nazis. These were beings from another
world, another place, somewhere that had to be free from all the ills of this world.
They had to communicate. For the sake of all that Harry and his wife had held dear,
they had to.
Slowly, gently, fearful of making any sudden movement, the old campaigner
got to his feet and, as if treading on eggshells, he approached the three beings of
radiance. Intangible tendrils of light that came from the walls of the dome weaved
their way around him, probing his mind and being. Harry could feel his thoughts and
memories being accessed but he did not mind- there was more at stake than his
privacy. With equal care, the three beings floated until they made a triangle around
him, their tentacles curiously feeling their way around his body, softly and tenderly,
desiring not to hurt or injure him in any way. Using thoughts in place of words, Harry
told them all about his world, his home, and about war. He mentioned very much
about war. In return, he learnt about the beings, the domain that they called home,
their past and present, their feelings and emotions.
The platoon, meanwhile, had barely moved. A few were praying, the rest
locked in a state of paralysed awe.
“Angels and ministers of grace defend us,” gaped Talfryn, “If only I had my
camera, what a picture this would make.”
Fitch, meanwhile, was cradling his tommy-gun like a newborn baby, terrified
to use it but just as scared to be out of its reach. He did not notice the dark shadow
that was gradually moving but behind him. Suddenly, he was knocked senseless by a
bang to his head, Capt. Merryweather wrenching the tommy-gun from his hands. At
first, the officer waved it at is own men, the look of mania in his face and poise.
“You cowards!” he screamed, his hands shaking, his eyes glazed, “Don’t you
understand! We are here to fight! We are at war!”
He then spun around, his head spinning, his perspective rolling in a million
different directions.
“Pt. Crook! Come out of there! I order you to stop giving comfort to the
enemy!”
Harry and the three beings turned to face him in unison. Something was
different about the old soldier. The stoop in his back was gone, the wrinkles in his
face smoothed out. His eyes were white, a burning, bright white.
“Put down your gun, captain,” he replied, “You have little need of it here.”
“Crook! Come out of there! They’ll kill you!”
“Captain, sir. He’s right. Put down your gun. There is nothing we can do.”
This came from Sgt. Dodgson.
“No. I’m not going to let a pretty little light show make me surrender without
blood on my lips!”
“Sir, please!”
“Forget it, sarge,” noted Perry, “He’s flipped. He ain’t listening.”
Harry began walking slowly towards Merryweather.
“Please, captain. I see so much now. You are wrong. Believe me, you are
wrong.”
“Stay back, damn you!”
“Captain…”
“I’ll shoot! I will!”
“Please…”
Merryweather fired. The bullets came thick and fast, passing harmlessly
through the three beings but ripping their way through Harry Crook. Letting out not
so much as a groan, the old soldier fell dead to the ground in a pool of blood. Then
came three more volleys from a rifle and Merryweather went rigid, his own blood
dripping from his mouth. With a final pained groan, the captain, too, fell, joining his
fellow in death. Sgt. Dodgson closed his eyes and threw his smoking weapon onto the
ground.
Unfazed, the three floating beings drifted until they floated directly over the
two lifeless forms. The look in their eyes was almost one of idle curiosity, as though
they were immortals, peering at the novelty of death for the first time. The little
feelers now surrounded the two corpses, poking and prodding them gingerly, as
interested in death as they were in life. The sight of this moved Talfryn Jones out of
his shocked silence.
“Get away them!” he shouted, taking a few steps nearer, “Get away!”
He stopped as the beings stared at him. Somehow, the Welshman was moved
to find the need to explain.
“They’re dead. Don’t you understand? They’re dead. Gone. Finished. All
because of you. One of them thought you were angels, so did I for a while. Only he
thought that you came to offer us hope, wisdom, a chance for salvation. The other
thought you were bitter enemies, out to conquer us, to destroy us. Maybe he was right.
After all, what have you brought us? Nothing but fear and two dead men, both of
whom were convinced that they were in the right. Well, whatever you luminescent
jellyfish plan to do, get the hell on with it. Either that or just go.”
For a few moments, the creatures idly watched the impertinent human,
showing no signs of understanding. They simply floated about in what tiny breeze
there was, seeming as cognisant of the world around them as their aquatic look-a-likes
were. Then, in what seemed like a flurry of telepathic communication, the one in the
centre rose up high into the roof of the dome, disappearing into the crystal. The other
two, meanwhile, took up what looked like set positions over the bodies of Harry
Crook and Edwin Merryweather.
“Sarge,” quipped Owens, “What in God’s name is going on?”
“How the hell should I know? I’m not even sure whether it’s in God’s name or
not.”
Masterson, who was helping Fitch to his feet with another soldier, rubbed his
fore-head.
“Perhaps it is some sort of funeral rite. You know, like the last post.”
Jones shook his head and looked back at his fellows.
“You know, man, I don’t even think those things understand the concept of
dying, let alone how do be undertakers.”
Suddenly, there was what almost could be described as an explosion without a
bang from up above. As the men looked up, a million little beads of light burst out
over their heads, like seeds from a dandelion. All the men, with the exception of
Dodgson and Jones, ran back to the van for shelter. The sergeant looked to his junior.
“You don’t think running would be much good, either?”
Jones shook his head.
“No, Sarge. No matter where we try to hide, they have us by the short and
curlies.”
A look of sentiment appeared in the sergeant’s eyes- the look that fills up a
condemned man.
“Talfryn, isn’t it?”
“Sarge?”
“Your name?”
“Oh yes, it is. A good strong Welsh name that is. You’re Albert, aren’t you,
man?”
“Aye. Named after the prince himself. Well, here goes.”
The flurry of stardust fell upon their heads and around their bodies. Beyond
giving the two men what looked like mutated dandruff, no affect on them was
apparent. The affect on the two corpses and the two beings guarding them, however,
was both apparent and immediate. Little flashes of light, twinkling like the stars
themselves, flashed around the inanimate human forms, filling them with their energy.
At the same time the two creatures lowered themselves until as prostrate as possible
upon Crook and Merryweather. That is when the merging began. The two observers
shielded their eyes as the fusion of flesh and energy, skin and the power of eternity
began. Suddenly, there was a soundless shock-wave of light as mortal and immortal,
corporeal and non-corporeal became one. Then everything went dark.
-
“Yes, sir,” replied Sgt. Albert Dodgson, acting-C.O. of the Greater Twilbourne
Platoon as he sat, on the phone, at his late captain’s desk in the small office in the
drama centre that now acted as the Home Guard H.Q. in that area, “It was very
unfortunate. Capt. Merryweather was a good man.”
He looked up at Cpl. Peacock, who stood to attention on the opposite side of
the pristinely tidy desk, with more than a little unease. He had never lied through his
teeth at an officer before. Not that the corporal knew any different. All that he knew
was that the false alarm had turned out to be just that, and that Capt. Merryweather
and Pt. Crook had stumbled into a minefield that lay on the edge of the town. They
even had the broken and burnt remains to prove it. Dodgson knew differently, of
course. He and Talfryn Jones had been allowed to keep the truth.
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”
He put down the receiver and looked outside the small office window. It was
dark and it was raining. ‘Does it rain where they are?’ he thought to himself. Peacock
misinterpreted this as being a sign of grief in his usually unflappable superior.
“It wasn’t your fault, Sarge. There was nothing you could have done.”
Dodgson was a terrible liar and he knew it, so he decided to keep the
conversation short.
“I know, Peacock. I know. Battalion HQ is going to send us another officer,
although it might be a few weeks yet. Looks like you’re going to get that third stripe
in the meantime, though.”
“I wish it were some other way.”
“Don’t we all. Are the police gone?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Then tell the men to go home. Baring an emergency, tomorrow’s drill is
cancelled. Thank God neither man had much of a family to tell.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed!”
“Sir!”
Peacock did a 180 degree turn and then left the room. Dodgson did not really
know how he felt. He wasn’t really sad, for nothing particularly saddening had
actually occurred. Yet, he did not feel particularly jubilant either, as though the events
he had witnessed had been part of a dream, slowly being clouded in the mists of
awakening. Maybe they had been phantasms of sleep? After all, he only had one other
witness to prove that they weren’t. Never a particularly religious man before, the
sergeant suddenly felt like praying.
Pt. Jones sat on the drama centre’s stage, not caring as the flaky black paint
stuck to the palms of his hands. Cpl. Peacock had just handed out their orders and the
men had begun to morosely move out. Still, Masterson, Fitch, Perry and Owens
remained, standing around the old Welshman with looks of consolidation on their
faces.
“You O.K., Jonesy?” asked Perry.
“We all knew that you and Harry were good friends,” added Fred.
Talfryn looked at their wet, tired, discoloured faces. He had seen their
expressions before, in many men in many wars. They did not so much grieve for
Harry, that he knew, but for Merryweather. They may not have liked their captain as a
person but he was their leader, and, for a group of men in war, to lose a leader is the
nadir of all the torments that could possibly happen. Of course, the captain was not
really dead, and neither was Harry, but, if he even told a fraction of what he knew as
the truth, they would send him away to the funny-farm for life.
“I’m all right, thanks,” he replied, entirely for their benefit, “Harry was a God-
fearing man, so I know that he’s going to a better place. Now go home to your wives,
children and girlfriends.”
“Can you make it home, Mr. Jones?”
“Away with you, Fitch-lad. I may be old but I’m not an invalid just yet.”
“You’re sure, Talfryn? If you want a talk, just let me know.”
“Thanks, Fred. But I’ll be fine. Now go home, all of you.”
Slowly, the men mumbled a few good-nights and then moved out the door,
leaving only Wallace Peacock behind.
“That means you too, Wallace. Just let me be for a bit.”
Understandingly, the corporal nodded his head and then walked out into the
rainy night, back to his longed-for farm and family.
Once alone, Talfryn Jones jumped off the stage and moved into the office
where Albert Dodgson still sat. For a while, neither man said a word, merely soaking
in the odours of the truth that still hung in the air. It was a clap of thunder from the
storm outside that provoked the sergeant into speaking.
“We are doing the right thing? Aren’t we? Being quiet about it all? About the
aircraft?”
The private walked to the little window beside the door, peaking past the
black-outs.
“Do you doubt anything you saw, man?”
“I don’t know. I’m just a simple soldier and I’ve been one all my life. But
what we saw tonight…and the fact that the others don’t even remember. It is all
beyond me.”
Talfryn pressed his fists down on the desk, his face deadly serious.
“Listen, sergeant. It was all real. Every last moment of it. We have to believe
it, and we have to tell others. Maybe it is like what it said in the Bible, in the book of
Revelation, about Christ coming back to Earth. Maybe it’s part of that? Maybe it’s
something entirely different. Hell, I don’t know.”
“But why don’t the others remember? If it is so important why was it just us?”
“There had to be a cover-story, I guess. What would GHQ think about 26 men
ranting about how two of their platoon was abducted by a flying piece of moon-rock?
It is best there just being the two of us. And then we were the only two who stayed to
watch, to receive the good news. That might be something to do with it. All I know
was that Harry was my friend, and you were probably the closest thing the captain
ever had to one. That was Harry who spoke to us, and you felt Merryweather’s soul
there as well. Can we believe otherwise?”
-
Right then, Talfryn found himself back under the crystal dome, watching the
two new creatures stand before them. The bodies were gone, as had the jellyfish, to be
now replaced with two humanoid figures, the bright white tendrils exuding from their
sides, almost resembling wings as they did so. One of the figures was bright, the other
was dark, as though under the shadow of Lucifer himself. Both their faces had aspects
of the familiar.
“Cap…Captain,” muttered Sgt. Dodgson.
“Harry!” exclaimed Pt. Jones.
The Merryweather-being nodded its head sadly and then, slowly, very slowly,
began to fade away, until merely a glittering flurry of glowing dust was left.
“Captain?”
Then the Harry Crook-being spoke, not with words, but thoughts, singing their
way through the astral plain.
“He will be unharmed,” he/it said, “He will never be harmed again. He has
gone to see the universe, to see all the great and wonderful things his doctrine had
blinded him to. He is very lucky. If he had died anywhere else, we could not have
saved him from the dark, festering oubliette that awaits others like him. When he has
fully conquered his doubts, then he will be one of us.”
Talfryn finally countered the urge of silence.
“Wh…who are you? Are you…you Harry?”
The figure in white gazed benevolently at him.
“I was once,” it replied softly, as though talking of irrevocable events long
ago, “Now I am more, my old friend, more than the sum of both my parts. You see, in
the course of time, we will need to further understand the human soul, the human
mind. We need to fully understand the human nature, both the darkness and the light,
about war and about peace, so we joined with two souls, both in the process of leaving
the confines of this realm.”
Talfryn gulped.
“That might be all right for Merryweather, but Harry- supposing he wanted to
be set free, to go to Heaven?”
“This he wants. He will get to the realm that awaits him, but not through
dying. We can fall, but we cannot die. Here he will see all the wonders outside of this
world. At the same time, he will help prepare us for the Final War, when the
knowledge of your souls becomes paramount. He is part of the plan to end all wars,
for the length and breadth of eternity itself. Once his work his finished, then he will
join the one to whom he was bonded under of eyes of that which is higher than us.”
“What did you mean when you said ‘Final War’, sir?” asked Dodgson.
“That is the dark time that will precede the merging of our two realms.”
“Will we see that?”
“Not with your mortal eyes, Talfryn. But your descendents will, that we
promise. Try and help prepare this world for that, both of you.”
“And the others…”
“They are blind and deaf. They will remember none of this, just the deaths of
Capt. Merryweather and Pt. Crook in an accidental and tragic explosion.”
Jones’ eyes suddenly acquired a twinkle, like that of a young child.
“Are you…an angel?”
The being of light smiled enigmatically.
“That is one of the things we are called. In a few years you will know the truth
about us. Talfryn, Harry asks that you keep an eye on his cottage, to make sure that it
is not torn down to make way for another aerodrome.”
“Of course.”
“And he also asks if you please give Frederick a home. He is a good cat, well-
trained.”
The old soldier found himself choking up.
“It would be a pleasure, Harry. A real…real pleasure.”
For the first time, a sadness crept into the face of the being of light.
“He says ‘good-bye’ Talfryn, old friend.”
“Good-bye…Harry.”
“’Do not worry,’ he says, ‘Just consider it the last hurrah of an old
campaigner.’”
With that, the being rose into the air, disappearing with blinding flash into the
multiple facets of the crystal. It was then that the dome began to follow suit, pulling
itself out of the ground and then rising into the sky with an electric hum, static
crackling through the air. Then, silently, propelled by forces unknown to man, it
angled itself towards to the darkest of the storm clouds, throwing about pure white
light like it was second moon. A few moments later, with a clash of thunder, it had
disappeared, beginning its journey to other worlds, worlds with four moons and
purple skies, worlds with golden oceans and vast plains of silver snow. Worlds that
neither Talfryn Jones or Albert Dodgson would ever see. Well, in this life at least.
-
After a while, both men had left for home and for a well-deserved bed. The
next morning however, Talfryn Jones had trekked out through the town to his ‘late’
friend’s old cottage. Nobody questioned his right to go there, most people considering
that he was as close as Harry Crook had had to a living relative. Last night’s storm
had taken its toll on the area. The fields were now huge muddy puddles, the cows
lackadaisically standing ankle deep in the mire. Piles of sodden leaves covered the
roads, squelching under the old man’s footsteps. Branches of trees and sometimes
more had to pushed aside for any access along the thin country paths. Needless to say,
Talfryn was glad he had brought his Wellingtons.
Sunflower Cottage was a bit of a sorry sight, as though it knew its owner had
gone on to pastures anew. One window had been smashed in by a fallen tree and
water had clearly begun to leak in from the roof. The wireless was still on, jabbering
away, by some miracle the battery having failed to run out. Likewise, Frederick was
clawing on the outside of the door, cold and wet, wanting nothing more than a dry
place on which to kip.
As soon as Talfryn pushed open the creaky wooden gate, the cat ran up to him
and was picked up gently.
“There, there, boyo,” whispered the Welshman, his breath visible in the cold
air of morning, “It’s O.K. You’ll be all right with me.”
The little bundle of fur meowed gratefully, letting himself be stroked by the
old soldier.
“There, there. You’re master has gone away, old fella. He’s gone away for a
long, long time and I guess you’ll never see him again. But he has important work to
do. Aye, very important work. And he’ll be back.”
Pt. Jones looked up at the cloudy autumn sky, his thoughts on angels and all
the things of Heaven and Earth.
“Yes, boyo, Harry’ll be back. Someday.”
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