Timothy Williams The Infernal Shadow (The Timothy Williams Saga Book 2), page 14
Abruptly, Lucifer stood and pointed out into the burning park. ‘Oh, look!’
A great stag, noble and proud, braved the flames in an attempt to escape. It bounded toward them, seeking the small sanctuary surrounding the bench.
‘Brave boy!’ cried Lucifer excitedly. He clapped his hands together, encouraging the animal onwards. With a final leap, the magnificent beast burst triumphantly into the clearing. ‘Oh, well done!’ praised Lucifer. He pulled the glove from his right hand and promptly incinerated the defenceless animal with a red-hot streak of hellfire sent shooting from his fingertips. The stag burnt to cinders before Timothy’s shocked eyes. ‘You see, boy, this is what I do. I take hope, and I burn it!’
Returning to the bench, Lucifer sat down again. ‘Now, where were we? Ah, yes, my impending victory! In all honesty, I would quite like to do the double, so to speak. Win the dream war and attain full mastery of the Morning Star. But hey ho, we’ll see. I might kill you tomorrow and be done with it.’
Timothy suspected that Lucifer was bluffing. At least, he really hoped that Lucifer was bluffing. As far as Timothy could ascertain, the Fallen One had yet to gain control of either Ursula or the pendant. If he had, then Timothy wouldn’t be here, and it would already all be over.
‘Do you know what I like best about this place?’ asked Lucifer.
‘I don’t care what you think,’ hissed Timothy. He’d had enough of trying not to provoke him.
‘Oh, I think you might,’ said Lucifer ominously. ‘I’ll tell you and then I’m going to show you.’ A knowing smirk creased his handsome face. ‘You see, the dream world allows us to feel, doesn’t it, boy? Just like in the real world. Isn’t that exciting!’ He studied Timothy’s reaction, revelling in his despair. ‘You can feel the wind caress your face, can’t you? The fire warm your skin…’ Lucifer’s knowing smirk twisted into a sinister grin. ‘And the snake’s fangs pierce your flesh!’
Timothy screamed. An intense searing pain surged from his left calf, coursing through his body. Instinctively, Timothy jerked his legs out from beneath the bench and there in the grass slithered a sleek black viper.
‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’ tormented Lucifer gleefully. ‘And the venom acts exceedingly fast. I should think you’ll be dead in less than ten minutes. And those ten minutes will be unspeakably harrowing for you, I guarantee it ― although exquisitely joyous for me. I only wish I’d brought popcorn.’
Timothy moaned in agony. He had to get away from this maniac. Fighting against the pain clouding his thoughts, Timothy tried to picture somewhere else to escape to. Nothing happened. It was as if he was locked into this vision of Hell ― trapped inside his own twisted dream. Instead, Timothy decided to run. Yet as soon as the notion entered his head, creepers burst from below. The things shot up between the bench slats and wrapped themselves around him, binding him tightly.
Lucifer sniggered. He was amused by his captive’s distress. ‘Do you want to know the second best thing about this place?’
Even if Timothy wanted to answer, he couldn’t. One of the creepers had wound itself around his throat.
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Lucifer. ‘In this world, I can kill you tonight, tomorrow night, and if I so wished, every night until the end of time and not forfeit the dream war by doing so! You see, you won’t actually die, not in reality anyway. Isn’t that wonderful? Snake venom tonight, rat poison tomorrow and the guillotine on Monday. In fact, you can experience every death known to man: beheaded, drowned, stabbed, speared, flayed, strangled, hanged, burned, gassed…oh, the opportunities are endless. Won’t that be fun! I bet you can hardly wait, can you? I know I can’t.’
The rough, barbed vines pulled tighter around Timothy’s body. He screamed and screamed. The wicked thorns sticking from each creeper’s twisted length penetrated his flesh, poisoning his blood with their toxicity in a thousand different locations at once. He fought to control the pain, to contain his outpouring of agony. He didn’t want to give Lucifer the satisfaction of seeing his torment. But he couldn’t. There was nothing he could do to prevent his screams ― they were torn uncontrollably from his very soul.
‘Magnificent!’ cried Lucifer with exultation. ‘Nourish me with your pain and suffering. Nourish me with your screams!’
Yet suddenly, the black creepers uncoiled from around Timothy’s ravaged body and receded into the soil. ‘What the―’ Lucifer spoke no more.
A penetrating white light blazed in the distance. As it rushed toward Lucifer and his captive, the fires abated. The charred grass sprung anew from the blackened soil, and the cremated animals rose up reborn from the ashes. Timothy’s pain drained from his body. The light intensified ― a pulsating supernova of pure starlight. It encompassed everything within its divine radiance. Nothing escaped its rays, not even Lucifer. The demon king was cast howling from Timothy’s dream and banished from his mind.
Timothy stared in wonder. Did his eyes deceive him? Was there a figure standing at the centre of the light storm? The scene blurred and shimmered, making it difficult to decipher detail. A white knight?
A voice echoed inside Timothy’s head. ‘Sleep,’ it said. ‘Sleep and rest.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The White Knight
The next morning, Timothy was rudely awoken by his mother. It had taken her six attempts to shake him into life. Susan didn’t want to be late for church, not when Reverend Goodson promised to be in the pulpit.
Timothy felt awful. Nonetheless, other than an angry black eye and a lethargy bordering on paralysis, there wasn’t anything physically wrong with him. He showed no signs of the dreadful torture endured at the hands of Lucifer in the dream world. There were no deadly puncture marks nor gruesome lacerations inflicted by snake bites or poisonous creeper barbs. Yet inside his head there was turmoil. The horrifying realisation that the Devil had spent last night inside his mind and that tonight, and every night thereafter, he would do again, left Timothy feeling cold with dread. The thought of being tortured each time he fell asleep was a terrifying prospect. I won’t sleep, he vowed. I’ll stay awake. I’ll drink energy drinks and strong coffee. If only he still had the pendant. Yet what of his saviour? Who was the mysterious luminous figure who had saved him from a grisly dream death? Whoever he was, he’d evicted Lucifer from his thoughts like he was nothing more than an autumn leaf before a winter storm. Perhaps this white knight would come again? Please, please, come again, pleaded Timothy with all his soul.
‘Come on, boys,’ encouraged Susan. ‘Great Auntie Isabella is already outside. Let’s not keep her waiting.’ They all knew not to keep Isabella waiting.
As Isabella thumped Mina’s horn in frustration, the Williams family piled out into the street. Susan led Toby by the hand, Timothy followed in something of a trance and Geoff banged the front door shut to bring up the rear. Mina’s side door slid open, allowing Susan to deposit her youngest into the outstretched arms of Sigrid.
‘What kept you?’ snapped Isabella from the driver’s seat. She’d returned after picking up the others, giving Susan ample time to be ready.
‘He did,’ answered Susan, giving Timothy a persuasive shove in the back to hurry him along. ‘I couldn’t wake him.’
Rupert and George stared at each other with worry. They both understood what usually preceded their friend’s oversleeping ― a visit to the dream world. And by the look on Timothy’s face, it hadn’t been a pleasant trip.
Clambering into the van, Susan slammed the side door closed before following her husband into the front seats. Without waiting for safety belts to be fastened, Isabella launched Mina from Pinesap Crescent with a distinct lack of patience. Susan glared at Geoff like it was his fault.
In the back, Rupert was desperate to find out what was going on with Timothy. He also wanted to brag about how he’d seen Sigrid in her pyjamas, but by the troubled expression on his friend’s face, he realised that now probably wasn’t a good time.
Unlike Rupert, Toby hadn’t sensed anything amiss with his older brother. Although to be fair, he was distracted. Twisting this way and that, he fidgeted endlessly between Sigrid and Gunda, eyeing up all the exciting stuff inside Great Auntie Isabella’s van. ‘Are those real guns?’ he asked to no one in particular, pointing to a collection of firearms hung from a side panel.
‘They’re paintball guns,’ explained George. ‘We can shoot holy water at demons with those.’
Toby’s little face lit up.
‘Make sure he doesn’t touch anything,’ warned Susan from the front of the van.
‘I will, Mrs Williams,’ replied George.
‘What’s under that blanket back there?’ Toby’s eyes twinkled with a child’s insatiable need to know.
‘I’m not sure?’ said George frowning. He gazed at the misshapen lump with suspicion.
‘None of your business,’ said Isabella, ‘and not for young jonjens’ eyes.’
Rupert’s attention was suitably pricked. What was under the blanket? He crept from his seat, edging carefully to the back of the van.
‘Rupert!’ hissed George. ‘What are you doing?’
While Toby grinned with anticipation and Sigrid and Gunda shook their heads with disapproval, Timothy did nothing but stare into space.
‘I’m just going to have a tiny peak,’ whispered Rupert. He gently pulled back a corner of the blanket and peered underneath. ‘Wow!’
‘What is it?’ pleaded Toby eagerly.
‘It’s a massive gun,’ said Rupert in awe. ‘The thing’s chained to the floor with pipes and stuff poking out.’
Toby started making shooting noises.
With his curiosity satisfied, Rupert decided to give Timothy another try. He couldn’t stay quiet forever. ‘Why has your great auntie got a cannon strapped to the inside of her van?’ he asked, plonking himself down next to his unresponsive friend.
Timothy didn’t bat an eyelid.
‘Anyone?’
Sigrid put a finger to her lips. ‘If you must know, it is a water cannon,’ she explained.
‘Cool. And I’m thinking it doesn’t fire ordinary water, right?’
‘Correct, Rupert. The pipes are linked to an internal reservoir of holy water. There is an option for further external tanks to be fitted onto the roof rack if need be. The cannon has three firing options: high-intensity stream, controlled single burst and multi-target scattershot.’
Rupert loved it when the girls talked shop. Although for all Rupert cared, Sigrid may as well have been reading her shopping list aloud ― it was all about the accent and the pretty faces. ‘It doesn’t sound any different to my dad’s garden hose.’
‘Trust us,’ said Gunda, ‘it is no garden hose.’ She shot Rupert a hard stare to discourage any further discussion on the matter.
Rupert returned his attention to Timothy. ‘You alright, mate?’
Timothy blinked. ‘Oh, hello, Rup,’ he said vacantly. He looked at Rupert as if he hadn’t seen him for a week. ‘Yeah, I’m okay. Didn’t get any sleep last night, that’s all.’
‘Cool gun back there, huh?’ In an effort to keep Timothy from his evidently sombre thoughts, Rupert tried to engage him in conversation.
‘What gun?’
Rupert gave up. Instead, he went back to sit next to George. ‘He’s not right,’ he whispered, peeking over George’s shoulder to keep an eye on Timothy. ‘It can’t have been a dream battle. Unless he did it without us?’
‘I don’t know, Rup. Let’s hope the Reverend can sort him out.’
Light rain greeted their arrival at St John’s. After abandoning Mina beside a narrow lane, soon they were making their way between the yew trees toward the church. Susan fussed with her umbrella, only managing to unleash the thing after Geoff had pulled open the heavy church door. Inside, it was dark and gloomy. The electrics were playing up, and no amount of candlelight could brighten a whole church, although the absence of a roof did help.
Timothy peered upwards and winced. He couldn’t help himself. It was an involuntary reaction. After all, it was Timothy’s fault that St John’s didn’t have a roof, but at least the reconstruction project was well underway. The timbers were now all in place and a temporary patchwork of tarpaulin kept the elements at bay.
Taking a pew, Susan continued to grapple with her umbrella, successfully collapsing the device only after she’d nearly taken out her husband’s left eye.
Timothy knew that his friends and family were worried about him, and now that he was inside St John’s and could see Reverend Goodson standing in the pulpit, he did begin to feel a little better. ‘How come your parents aren’t here?’ Timothy asked his friends, only now noticing their absence. Isabella’s new security measures were supposedly intended for them all, family members included.
‘Mother won’t step foot outside,’ answered George sadly, ‘and even if she did, she wouldn’t come here, not after what happened last Christmas.’
Understandable, mused Timothy. Anyone who had experienced the extraordinary events of that night couldn’t help but be affected, and poor Mrs Apples was already mentally unstable to begin with. ‘What about yours, Rup?’
‘Too busy on the farm,’ stated Rupert.
Timothy raised an eyebrow. It sounded as if Rupert’s excuse was a premeditated Flinch response to anything they didn’t want to do. Timothy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fair enough.’ He understood that the Flinch Farm was an all-day, everyday commitment and second only to frequenting the Horse & Groom public house. ‘Were they afraid they wouldn’t make it back for opening?’
Rupert looked decidedly sheepish. ‘No, of course not.’ He stared directly ahead, cheeks colouring.
So long as local hostelries opened for business, subsidies got paid on time, and ramblers observed field boundaries, nothing phased a farmer. For all they cared, demons could run the country, just so long as Lucifer kept the ale flowing, the money coming and the undead off their land!
Reverend Goodson began the service with “Morning Has Broken”. It was one of the Reverend’s favourite hymns, along with: “Kumbaya My Lord”, “Hark! The Herald-Angels Sing”, and “Twisted Firestarter”. The Prodigy number wasn’t strictly a hymn, but the Reverend so loved a dose of techno punk-rock from time to time, even if his organist, Mr Peterson, did not. His arthritic fingers struggled with such a youthful tempo.
Timothy didn’t feel like singing or even pretending to sing. He wasn’t in the mood. Instead, his gaze wandered across the congregation. The usual suspects were in attendance, all the old cronies from the nearby villages, minus a few missing through age-related complications: bunion removals, bladder infections, hip replacements or in Mr Hemsworth’s case ― death. In truth, he hadn’t died of illness or old age but of misadventure. As a retired bus driver, Mr Hemsworth had decided that he wanted one last ride before popping his clogs and making his final journey up into the sky. So, on his eightieth birthday, the old man stole a double-decker, crashed it into the local supermarket and bit the dust somewhat sooner than anticipated. At least he died doing what he loved, thought Timothy. Although it was a dreadful shame that the supermarket’s young trolley attendant was forced to share Mr Hemsworth’s fate.
Timothy quickly became bored. Bored and depressed. He felt a pang of guilt at allowing himself to become uninterested with the Reverend Goodson’s service, but the harvest festival theme had never been one of Timothy’s favourites. A pile of rotting vegetables poorly arranged on the altar accompanied year after year by the same tired speech mundanely detailing the life cycle of a granary pat made for a depressing ordeal, no matter who was in the pulpit. Mr Borenett’s history lessons were a stimulating rollercoaster ride in comparison. To the Reverend’s credit, he was trying his best to freshen up proceedings, yet Timothy was in no mood to be inspired. Not, at any rate, with the story of a granary pat. He felt altogether uninspired, but then Rupert stuck his hand up.
‘Do you have a question, Rupert?’ asked the Reverend from the front of the church, and as usual, the Reverend showed remarkable patience, especially having been rudely interrupted midsentence.
Rupert stood. ‘Did you ― I mean, did Jesus ― really feed five thousand people with a few loaves of bread and a bucket of fish?’
‘Yes, Rupert, he did.’
‘So, did he cut it all up into tiny, teeny pieces, you know, to make it go around? Or were they massive fish? Because I’m a bit confused.’
‘Sit down, boy,’ grumbled the organist. Mr Peterson knew tomfoolery when he saw it.
Timothy couldn’t help sniggering.
‘What about turning water into wine? Is that true? If it is, you ― I mean, Jesus ― would be welcome at our house at Christmas. Actually, if I’m honest, Mum and Dad would welcome him any day of the year.’
Timothy burst out laughing, and to his astonishment, so did the rest of the congregation. Except, of course, for Timothy’s mother, who was absolutely mortified. Even Isabella was chortling away beside Gunda, muttering something about Rupert being a ‘stupid jonjen’ under her breath. Timothy guessed that his friend was acting the clown for his sake, sacrificing his own credibility ― not that Rupert had any ― to cheer him up. The gesture genuinely touched Timothy, and to be fair to the Reverend, he played along gamely.
Timothy shook his head, and after wiping away the tears from his eyes, he pulled Rupert down beside him before his friend went too far. ‘Thanks, Rup. I needed that.’
Soon after Rupert’s stunt, an incessant dripping began from above. The continuing rain had found holes in the tarpaulin roof, and now it came down in great big splodges, straight on top of Rupert’s head.
George chuckled. ‘That’s divine intervention.’
As St John’s emptied at the end of the service, Miss May came rushing inside. ‘I’m sorry that I’m late,’ she said, finding the others huddled together at the altar.
