Chaos Descends

A car drove by, and they all ducked. Except for Broonie, who was short enough as it was. And petulant enough.

“How would they know if you just ran for the hills?” asked Emmie, once they were sure the car was gone.

Broonie pulled a locket from the rags at his neck. “Because of this.”

“Oh look, you’ve one just like ours,” said Emmie.

“It’s not like yours at all. Yours isn’t welded on to your neck, is it? It’s not locked tightly in place,” said Broonie. “And it isn’t being used to track your every move, like this is.”

“Oh, that’s very clever,” said Emmie.

“It’s very sore,” corrected Broonie.

Another car went by. Again Broonie stayed upright as if in protest.

“What’s that dirt on you?” Emmie asked, after the bright lights had passed on. “It’s like you slept in a skip.”

Neither Finn nor Broonie said anything, and Emmie realised why.

“You slept in a skip?”

“It makes him feel at home,” explained Finn.

“What’s the worst that could happen to me?” Broonie asked, but had no interest in waiting for a reply. “Nothing. Because the worst thing has already happened. Being here. Trapped in this world, with its people and smells and smells of people and its utter lack of scaldgrubs. These earthworms are passable, but they don’t taste nearly as putrid as I would like.”

Finn opened his mouth to say something, but Broonie raised a green, knuckly finger to let it be known he hadn’t yet finished ranting.

“And as if that’s not bad enough,” added the Hogboon, “I have no freedom. And the little bit of life I do have is bound entirely by the clock here, when I must return as planned to be subjected to a lengthy period of torture in your house.”

“Torture?” asked Emmie.

“My dad listens to country music when he’s working in the library,” explained Finn.

“It makes my earwax bleed,” snorted Broonie.

“Make sure to be on time, Broonie,” said Finn, sorry to bring it up. “You were a few minutes late last time and Dad was ready to put you in a biscuit tin for all eternity.”

“I don’t know if I care any more, such is the anguish of my life here,” said Broonie, dismissive.

“You’re so funny, Broonie,” said Emmie.

Broonie grunted, then thrust his face in the hole at the top of the wormery and began chomping again. Finn and Emmie lingered briefly before backing away and leaving through the gap in the fence.

Evening was drawing in. As Finn and Emmie crossed a couple of alleyways that ran off the strand, Finn thought he saw something move in the twilight. He stopped and peered towards it.

“What is it, Finn?” asked Emmie.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Do you remember when we were on the Infested Side and felt we were being watched by Legends?”

“Which we were. By a lot of them.”

“I just have that sense again. As if there’s somebody out there.”

They waited, watched. There was nothing but settling darkness.

“This is why I love Darkmouth,” said Emmie. “Always something odd going on.” She shoved him in the shoulder playfully and ran off. “Race you!”

Finn hesitated just a moment, then followed, belting after her.

Across the lane, a succession of shadows skittered across the dim alleyway.

Kenzo the Japanese Half-Hunter rang the rusted doorbell on the house, hummed its cheery tune as he waited.

The letterbox opened, fingers propping it open from inside, and a man’s voice asked gruffly, “What?”

“Excuse me,” said Kenzo as politely as he could, and yet loud enough to speak over the rattle of his metal skirt as he stepped back. “Your sign says this is a bed and breakfast?”

“Go away,” said the man. “We’re shut. We’re always shut. And we’re especially shut now.”

Kenzo bent down level with the letterbox, and could see nothing but those splayed fingers and a single bloodshot eye. “I require only bed. No breakfast. In fact, a floor will do fine—”

A walking stick thrust through the letterbox, forcing Kenzo to retreat sharply. Its owner waggled it from side to side in a manner that was not likely to cause any damage, but still managed to very neatly get across the message that no Half-Hunters were wanted here. And, in case it didn’t, the man in the house shouted, “Shoo!” for extra effect.

Kenzo had spent what now felt like half a lifetime travelling to Darkmouth, and the other half wandering about the town. He had long wished that he would one day get to visit this, the only true Blighted Village left on Earth. It was not quite turning out how he had imagined.

He could ask the other Half-Hunters for help, but that would require, well, asking for help. And he didn’t like to do that. A true Legend Hunter should not require assistance. They must be self-sufficient. Quick-witted. And, every now and again, a bit uncomfortable wherever they lay their head.

So, Kenzo left, deciding to make his way towards where the houses crowded in on the rocky beach. He heard voices ahead of him in the fading light. A boy. Then a girl. She was laughing, and he could make out two small figures breaking into a sprint up a laneway that led back to the main street of Darkmouth.

Away up the strand, he could see the scaffold being set up for the Completion Ceremony, what would be a stage for the big event. Even now, as it grew late, there was life, lights, busy Half-Hunters, tasked with setting up the platform, preparing to work through the night. Shivering as the chilly breeze moved across the stones, Kenzo saw the skeleton of an old boat, upturned and washed up on the beach, its hull rotten but holding on to enough wood to offer some shelter for the night.

The crescent of the moon had been blanketed by cloud. There was a flicker of lightning. No thunder followed.

The wreck’s hull had rotted away so that it looked like a giant’s ribcage half buried in the beach. Kenzo stooped to enter it, then smoothed out the shingle at his feet, pulled the coat from his shoulders and placed it across the flattened spot. He lay down. Kenzo would stay here tonight. It was not perfect, but he was always one to keep his spirits up. He would treat this as an adventure. It was the best he could do.

Something stirred in his bag. Kenzo sat upright and undid its rope to reach in with both hands. He gently removed a white rabbit, and immediately began snuggling at its soft neck with his nose, shushing it to keep it calm. He took a head of lettuce from his pocket and let the rabbit eat it while it sat on his chest.

“Good Nibbles,” Kenzo said. “Nice Nibbles.” His fluffy pal was the big star of his magic tricks at children’s parties.

There was the scrunch of stone. Something was moving around the wreck.

“Hello?” he said. “Who is there?”

The stones scrunched again, footsteps forcing the beach aside.

“Hello?”

A presence moved in front of him, darkening the decaying wreck, disappearing again. Kenzo leaped to his feet, sending the rabbit hopping to the ground while he scrabbled for his sword, which was wooden because no parent wants a real samurai sword at a kids’ party.

“Come out and show yourself.”

The shadow moved behind him. He turned and arced the sword until it quivered at the nose of his stalker.

A little boy gasped, his eyes wide with shock and fear. Behind him, two other kids gasped with fright.

Kenzo exhaled, withdrew the weapon.

“You must stop following me,” he said, but the children were already running away, scrambling across the stony beach, carried by the fright of nearly losing a nose.

A little stunned, Kenzo watched them leave, shaking his head in bemusement before returning to his temporary bed, where Nibbles was already resting.

Scrunch.

Kenzo sighed, tired of these intrusions.

Scccrunch.

“Please, children,” he muttered, “I must get my rest.”

Kenzo stood again, but this time found himself under a tall shadow. The shadow of a shadow. A shifting shape that emerged from the air, pulled from a scream, the edges coalescing in a swirl. Its hair was like thin snakes writhing from its head, the eyes pinwheels of red, and the distorted mouth carrying a malevolence that could cut a person in two.

Kenzo swung his sword at the intruder, catching it in the side. But the ghost’s molecules moved away, letting the blunt blade pass through.

The phantom reached out, touched Kenzo’s chest.

The last thing Kenzo saw before he disappeared was the very person he had come to Darkmouth to celebrate. It was Finn. Approaching the wreck.

Their eyes met.

Then Kenzo was full of stars.

To Finn it was as if the Half-Hunter had been sliced by light from neck to belly, the light dancing for a moment before spreading out in each direction and swallowing the man.

The victim’s stare burned on to Finn’s mind. Eyes wide. Fear vivid. And then nothing. Just a vague yellow smudge carried across the air slowly. And, in the sand where he had stood, scorch marks around bootprints.

Lingering, a face that was mutated and mutating, a figure rearranging itself in the breeze. But Finn recognised who this was instantly. Even if he couldn’t believe it.

“Tick, tock,” said the phantom before scattering into nothingness in the grey light of evening.

Emmie scrunched on to the scene. “What’s going on, Finn?” she asked. “Why did you come over here?”

Finn gawped dumbly, hardly able to explain. “I thought I saw something, like a light dropping from the sky, and came over to look. But when I got here …”

He stood aside to let her see the scratches in the air.

He showed her the scorched bootprints.

“That’s Kenzo,” he said. “The Japanese Half-Hunter. Was Kenzo. He was swallowed or something.”

“It’s like those marks at the hotel,” Emmie said, eyes wide in amazement.

“But that’s not the scariest thing,” said Finn.

“It’s not?”

“No. I saw what swallowed him,” Finn said. “It was Mr Glad. He’s back. He killed Kenzo.”

The headquarters of the Council of Twelve was on a side street, in the small capital city at the heart of the tiny Alpine country of Liechtenstein. There was no sign above the door, no plaque on the wall, no hint at all that this was the nerve centre of the Legend Hunter world except for a missing chunk of the third floor caused when someone pressed the wrong button on the wrong weapon many years ago.

Inside was a warren of corridors and staircases, criss-crossing at odd points, or leading to dead ends. There were large doors to small rooms and small doors to large rooms and at least one door that for some reason opened to nowhere but a fatal six-storey drop to the pavement outside.

On the seventh floor – which could be reached only by first taking an elevator to the ninth floor – there was a small room with a plaque on the door describing it as the Office of Lost Arts.

Inside that room sat a fellow by the name of Lucien, one of the great many assistants to the Council of Twelve. One early afternoon, he was pondering what was generally the most serious decision of his working day – whether to have a sandwich or a salad for his lunch – when a small canister arrived through the communications tubes that networked the building and landed with a fwhop on his desk.

Lucien adjusted his oversized glasses, which immediately slid back down the bridge of his small nose. He twisted open the container and unfurled the pages inside. These were notes from the Council of Twelve and they detailed a tale of heroism and survival so extraordinary, and an invasion so fierce, that it was almost unprecedented in the annals of the Legend Hunters.

It told the story of mere children, Finn and Emmie, of the last active Legend Hunter, Hugo the Great, of Estravon the Assessor. Of gateways and lost Legend Hunters. Of time travel and a beach battle.

The message further instructed Lucien to read up on it, check all the reports and to write a report about those reports. And then he would be expected to report back on whether there was anything further to report.

He was ordered to do all this without delay.

Naturally, Lucien went for lunch first. Later, munching on a salad sandwich, he licked a finger, turned the pages, peered at a blurry photograph of Darkmouth’s beach post-battle, which showed a carpet of desiccated Legends half buried under collapsed earth. He marvelled quietly at this scene.

What Finn, Emmie, Estravon and Hugo had achieved simply by returning from the Infested Side was unprecedented. Here was a small group of people – a Legend Hunter, an Assessor, two children – who had done not just something extraordinary, but almost unbelievable.

They had gone to a stale and ruined world full of creatures hellbent on destroying humans. A place where, it was said, even the soil tried to kill you. And they had lived to tell a story that would echo through the generations.

As he pushed a rogue piece of lettuce into his mouth, Lucien felt a twinge of envy towards those Half-Hunters who had been there for the battle. He had a bolt of longing for the adventure experienced by mere children, especially that boy Finn who had now gone through two gateways in his lifetime and come back alive each time.

Lucien was here in Liechtenstein, twiddling his thumbs, shuffling through bits of paper, finding occasional excitement from seeing how far he could tip his chair back on two legs before he fell over.

Meanwhile, Darkmouth was the last battlefront in a long war against Legends. And it was home to a true hero. There was no doubt about Finn’s heroism. No doubt whatsoever.

Unless you thought about it.

Which Lucien began to do.

Finn sat on the edge of his bed, his toes wriggling in giant claw slippers he’d got for Christmas, knuckles pressed hard into his stinging eyes as he tried to rub away the images of the night before. As morning sun slanted through the blinds, his mind was still unable to comprehend the reappearance of a man he thought long gone, but who was back. Just not in a form Finn recognised. He’d called his father immediately and together with Emmie they’d spent the late hours examining a scene none of them could fully understand.

As if that wasn’t enough to worry about, he was waking to a momentous couple of days. The Completion Ceremony would take place tonight. He would be thirteen tomorrow. It had been building to this his whole life.

But, right now, something else was beginning to dominate his senses.

Pancakes. He could smell pancakes.

He stood and put his head out of the bedroom door.

“Something’s going on,” said Clara, passing him on her way to the stairs. “Something is always going on.”

Finn didn’t know what she knew, and thought it best not to offer any information. He didn’t like holding things back from his mother, but neither did he want to be responsible for blurting out that a couple of Half-Hunters had been disintegrated by the returning phantom of Mr Glad. That kind of thing would spoil anyone’s morning.

He followed his mother, trudging downstairs and realising he could hear a couple of voices in the kitchen already.

“Do you want more pickles with that?” he heard his father asking.

“Mmmm-mmmm,” he heard Broonie agree, his mouth clearly full, presumably with pancakes and pickles. This was highly unusual.

Clara reappeared in the hallway, grabbing her keys. “I know this is a big day for you, Finn. But I really need to get out before that breakfast is over.”

Finn didn’t know what she was talking about. “Mam, why is Dad making Broonie pancakes?”

“Last meal of a condemned man,” said Clara, throwing on her jacket and heading for the front door. “A condemned Hogboon actually. Your dad’s looking after things before the Completion tonight. Anyway, it’s going to be a crazy day for you. For us. So I’m going to go to work and find something more relaxing to do for a while. Maybe look at pictures of rotting teeth or something.”

He could hear Broonie slurping while Hugo asked him if he would like more moss on his pancakes. Clara sighed and left.

Finn went into the kitchen, the shuffling of his huge slippers announcing him.

“Hey, Finn,” his dad said, with a cheeriness so forced Finn knew it could only be building up to something bad.

Finn gave him a wary look. Broonie raised a knobbly hand in acknowledgement, unable to speak because his mouth was so full of pancakes, moss and something that looked like a fat twig. Or a skinny slug. Finn couldn’t be sure.

“I was just explaining to Broonie about what happened last night,” said Hugo.

“Nasty business,” said Broonie, specks of food spraying from his mouth. “That scoundrel Mr Glad is back. Doesn’t bode well.”

“No,” said Finn, unsure about what was going on here.

Hugo spooned some more moss on to Broonie’s plate. “I’ve had to tell the Council of Twelve about this,” he said to Finn. “We’ve got some ghostly version of Mr Glad disappearing Half-Hunters into thin air, and he said those words …”

“Tick, tock,” said Finn, still watching Broonie slurp up his treat.

“Tick, tock is not good. Tick, tock sounds like something’s about to go off. The Twelve were on their way to your ceremony anyway, so there’s no point in trying to keep this to ourselves any longer.”

Finn had hoped for a bit more reassurance than this. That his father was stumped was not a good sign.

“The ceremony is definitely going ahead then …?” asked Finn, torn between a desire to be made a Legend Hunter and the hope it might be done without too much fuss.

“I’d expect so,” said Hugo, matter of fact, while fishing about in a drawer in search of something. “Even if things are going badly, the Council of Twelve likes a spectacular event. In fact, I was just telling Broonie what a big day it is for you.”

“I’ll stay out of your way,” said Broonie, licking his lips clean of squished pickles.

“And I was reminding Broonie,” continued Hugo in a pointed tone, “that lots of special guests are due in Darkmouth. The Council of Twelve. More Half-Hunters. The golden monkeys.”

“Ah no, are they really doing the golden monkey thing?” groaned Finn.

“They won’t get so much as a whiff of this old Hogboon,” said Broonie, giving his armpit a quick sniff. “No need to worry on that score.”

Hugo turned, and Finn saw that he had a roll of electrical tape and a pair of scissors in his hand. Broonie realised this too and stopped mid-munch, looked at each of them. “Pancakes,” he said as if just figuring out a vital clue in a great mystery. “Pancakes. I should have known when you gave me pancakes!”

“Do we need to do this?” Finn asked his dad.

“We do, I’m afraid,” said Hugo.

“The pancakes weren’t even that great, to be truthful,” hissed Broonie. “Not enough eggshell pieces for my liking.”

“Do we have to tie him up?” Finn asked.

“No,” said Hugo, “but only if he’ll … you know what … willingly.”

Broonie’s drooping eyelids opened wide as he understood fully what was going on. “Oh, it’s desiccated I’m to be? Maybe you should try getting shrunk some day!” he screamed at them. “I promise you it’s a treat beyond delight!”

“The Twelve think you’re already desiccated,” said Hugo. “If they see you like this, they’ll make sure to do it themselves, and they won’t be as gentle as us.”

“I was being sarcastic, you do realise that?” said Broonie. “It’s not a treat. Or a delight.”

“Let’s all agree it’s not pleasant,” continued Hugo. “But we have bigger problems at the moment.”

“So I must pay the price for your problems.”

Finn sighed and shrank a little. It was too early in the day for this. It would always be the wrong time of day for it. “We’ll make it quick,” he promised.

“It’ll only be quick for you,” complained Broonie. “For me, it is a slow, cruel trip towards oblivion. After all I’ve done for you.”

“You’re right,” said Hugo. “You helped Finn defeat a rampant Minotaur. But, let’s be honest here, we’ve saved your life too. You could easily be back with the Council of Twelve being questioned and examined—”

“And prodded,” added Broonie. “There was lots of prodding.”

“No one wants to hurt you, Broonie,” said Finn, genuinely upset by all of this.

“Really?” asked Broonie.

“Really,” said Hugo. “I promise we’ll reanimate you when this is over, give you a big chisel and you can go out there and eat all the old, hard chewing gum you can dig off the pavement.” Hugo held out a hand. “So what do you say?”

Broonie eyeballed him in return, assessing the offer for a few seconds before making his decision. “You know,” he said, “you humans really do have the most appalling eyebrows.”

Then he ran.

Four minutes and twenty-six seconds later, and after the loss of a couple of pieces of crockery, Broonie was wrapped in tape and protesting as loudly as his gagged mouth would allow.

“We’ll get him to the library. You’re going to have to grab his feet,” said Hugo.

“Why do I have to grab his feet?” protested Finn. “They’re vile.”

“Hhhggmmm!” Broonie complained. “Hhhhgggmmmmmm!”

They lifted the Hogboon like a roll of carpet to a spot on the kitchen floor between the bin and the washing machine.

“You watch him while I grab a Desiccator and get this thing over and done with,” said Hugo and nipped out of the door towards the Long Hall before Finn could protest.

“Hhhhggghhkkmmm!”

“I know,” said Finn, hating every moment of this. “I’m sorry.”

“Hhhgggmmmm,” added Broonie, then “kkhhhhhhukkkk,” as if choking a bit.

The Hogboon seemed in genuine distress now, all trussed up like that, with the locket clamped tight in his neck. “Kkkgggggggggurrrrrrrkkk.” He writhed on the floor, thrust his head back, struggling for breath. It was awful to see.

Finn couldn’t stand it any longer and bent down to pull a corner of the tape from Broonie’s mouth. The Hogboon gasped a breath. “My neck,” he rasped. “The clasp. Too tight. Can’t breathe.”

The doorbell rang. Bing bong.

“Dad!” Finn called out of the door into the hall. “Can you get that?”

“Help,” gasped Broonie, a spray of spittle leaping from his lips.

“I’ll loosen it,” Finn said. “But just a bit.” He fumbled with the lock on the very back of the necklace. What code? He tried the house’s alarm code and sure enough the lock loosened and Finn could let the clasp out a bit, to the evident relief of Broonie who gulped in breath as if it was his last chance.