The Whisperers
by
David W. Bradley
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
David W Bradley on Smashwords
The Whisperers
Copyright © 2010 by David W Bradley
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Chapter 1
“Is this the train to Paris?”
A young woman emerged from the train station rest-room clutching a small child to her chest. She spoke French with a strong English accent.
An old woman, dressed in black, squinted at the sign at the far end of the platform.“Oui, Madame,”
“Merci.”
The young woman picked up a heavy suitcase with her free hand. She struggled to carry it as she moved quickly towards the train.
“May I help you, Madame?” A man wearing a long, beige raincoat reached out his hand to take her case.
She jerked it away from him.
“No thank you, Monsieur. I can manage.”
As he watched her board the train, he nodded to an older man at the end of the platform. The older man waved and climbed into the last carriage.
Placing her son on a vacant seat near the window, the woman lifted her case onto the rack above her head with both hands and picked up her son. She sat down and placed him on her lap as the train pulled out of the station.
“We will soon be out of this madness, Jean-Paul.”
A tear trickled down her cheek as she watched the bright, orange roofs of Toulouse disappear into the distance. Although anguished at having to leave her husband, she reassured herself that she had made the right decision, if only for the sake of her son. She believed her husband would be well cared for at the hospital.
She was wrong.
* * * *
On the outskirts of Toulouse, a man sat strapped to a steel-framed chair in a darkened room with padded walls. He struggled against the leather restraints binding his arms and legs, knowing his captor would soon return to kill him. Summoning every vestige of his failing powers, he focussed his mind on his bonds. A glowing white aura enveloped his body. He clenched his fists and strained his wrists to wrench his arms free but the straps held fast. His chair trembled and shook until it lifted three feet off the stone, tiled floor. In the silence, it hovered for a moment, juddering, travelling neither forwards nor backwards, until the sound of footsteps outside the door diverted his attention. The chair crashed to the ground, pain jarring through his body from the impact of the steel legs bouncing off the hard floor.
The door swung open, beaming light into the room. He lifted his head as someone stepped inside. Dressed from head to toe in a long black cotton robe, a hood covering its bowed head, the figure pulled out a small silver staff from its sleeve. A large diamond at the tip of the staff sparkled in the darkness, reflecting a myriad of coloured lights.
Pierre Celier, the captive, spoke.
“The Master of the Malevolence, I’d recognise that hideous staff anywhere. So Salador, you’ve come to kill me, have you?”
The dark figure did not respond.
“No conversation? No last words of triumph? Come on, Salador, speak to me. We’re old adversaries, after all.”
Still silence.
“Perhaps this will provoke a reaction from you!” An aura of flaming red engulfed Pierre. His chair shook violently again before launching itself at the cloaked figure.
From the black robes, a hand shot into the air. The outstretched palm became an instant shield causing Pierre’s chair to halt as though it had hit a brick wall. Pierre’s head bounced backwards and forwards as the straps tore into his skin. He lifted his eyes and gazed into a face he recognised.
“You? What are you doing here? You can’t be the Master of the Malevolence. Where’s Salador?”
“He’s dead, quite dead.” The voice, deep and rasping, sounded sub-human.
“What’s happened to your voice? You even sound like Salador.”
“I have the power to change it at will.” The Master’s hand lowered, and Pierre’s chair descended to the floor.
“Have you also inherited the power to change into the Grim Reaper?” Pierre asked.
The dark figure nodded.
“How wonderful for you, you always did have a taste for the macabre.”
“And you always let your heart rule your head, Pierre. Of all the Venerable Lords that have existed over the centuries, you must be the most foolish. Even a feeble old man like Salador would have found a way to defeat you.”
“I might have known you would be the instrument of my capture,” he replied.
“On the contrary, I can’t take the credit for your incarceration. And it wasn’t me who engineered your downfall. That was brought about by someone much closer to home.”
Pierre glared. “Hannah? I don’t believe you. She had nothing to do with this.”
The black figure let out a cynical laugh. “She couldn’t wait to have you committed to an asylum. Your wife is convinced that you are insane.”
“I’m sure she had some help.”
“Of course she did. My little servants were her constant companions.”
The Master’s head lifted and scanned the room, “Talking of followers, where are your little friends, the Whisperers. Have they deserted you too?”
“You know I can’t contact them. Your evil cohorts have made sure of that.” Pierre’s head jerked towards the space above his head.
Three small creatures materialised, hovering above his shoulders. As they circled his head, one at a time they swooped down and whispered into his ears.
Their faces were those of celestial cherubs, their bodies slender plant-like stalks, fading in colour from a russet-brown to the most beautiful apple-green. Tiny arms, hands, legs, and feet protruded from their bodies. On their shoulders, light gossamer wings oscillated, suspending them in mid-air.
“My Malefic are remarkable creatures, aren’t they?”
The creatures bowed in homage to their master’s voice, before turning their attentions back to their victim.
“They don’t need to waste this façade on me.” Pierre wrestled with his bonds. “I know them for what they are. Why do they disguise themselves?”
“In the unlikely event the Malefic are seen by their prey, they are more acceptable to the human eye in this form. However, if that’s what you wish.”
The Master of the Malevolence raised a hand in the air and the creatures responded.
Their appearance transformed. Their perfect cherub-like skin became old and wrinkled. Warts covered their faces and bodies. Their petite mouths became hideous grins, stretching from one malformed ear to the other. Their plant-like bodies, now greenish-black in colour, became almost translucent, ravaged with pockmarks. Short, puny, malnourished limbs and large, claw-like hands replaced delicate arms and legs. Green pus oozed from their hunched bodies, trickling down their legs and dripping from their scrawny, deformed toes. The putrid pus fell towards the ground, vanishing above it as though transported into a different world.
“That’s the Malefic I know and love,” Pierre drew back his head in disgust.
“Enough of this, I need to know the whereabouts of your wife and child.”
“Why?” Pierre’s eyes widened.
“So that I can kill them, of course.”
“Why would you want to kill them? They know nothing of this. You said yourself, Hannah had me committed. If she’s convinced I’m insane, how can she harm you?”
“She can’t, you’re quite right. She’s a mere mortal, but she will lead me to your son. And if he possesses the Venerable Blood, he may one day possess your powers. I cannot allow that to happen. It’s simple, I’ll kill them both, no future threat and no witnesses.”
A thought flitted into Pierre’s head like a butterfly. He couldn’t stop it. He no longer possessed the will to block his mind from being read. The malevolent master saw it.
“So, your wife is no ordinary mortal? She’s a Reaper. Your son will inherit all of your powers and maybe some of hers.”The Master’s face contorted. “Where are they, Pierre? Tell me.”
“I’ll tell you nothing other than they are well protected. You won’t find them.”
“You allowed yourself to be taken so that they could escape, didn’t you?”
“At least they’re both safe now. Nothing else matters.”
The Master took a pace back and lifted the staff high into the air. “You are a fool, Pierre, I will find them, believe me. I may not be able to break you, but I’m sure your conscious soul will be more forthcoming under torture.”
In an instant, a brilliant flash from the staff lit the room. The air crackled and hissed as all the energy transferred itself into the large diamond. Fearful, the creatures surrounding Pierre retired to a safe distance as a mist formed around their Master’s body. As it thickened, the black cotton robe faded in colour to a wretched, soiled brown, decayed and ragged. The face inside of the hood wrinkled and burned. Thousands of white maggots appeared, gnawing at the skin and flesh until only white cheekbones remained. Dark hair thinned and receded, disappearing altogether. Eyes bubbled and sank into their sockets. Lips disintegrated and fell from the mouth exposing a jawbone set with decayed teeth, until finally, from the inside of the hood, a gleaming, bleached-white skull faced Pierre.
Robbed of his powers, he could do nothing but watch, mesmerised, as the diamond-encrusted staff transformed into a large, shiny, scythe. A beam of light exploded from the end, filling the room with a stark whiteness. Pierre’s eyes widened as two dazzling shafts of red light emanated from the scythe to circle his head like a fiery crimson ball. He felt his inner self, his very soul being wrenched from his body. His mind screamed in protest but he no longer possessed the strength to fight against it.
In an instant, the light from the scythe extinguished and with it a vital part of Pierre Celier’s life. His head bowed towards his chest.
The skeletal creature stood before him, its posture that of a judge pronouncing a death sentence.
“My soul, you’ve taken my conscious soul,” Pierre moaned. His body felt cold and empty.
Satisfied that its task was complete, the Grim Reaper returned to its original form.
Pierre slumped forward in the chair, his mind numb, his limbs bereft of feeling and his eyes closed. A hand rested on his shoulder, a human hand clothed in flesh and blood. With his last vestige of strength, Pierre raised his head. The scythe, once more a staff, emitted tiny coloured lights from its diamond tip. They danced across his eyelids as though trying to attract his attention. Pierre opened his eyes and stared into the diamond. To his horror, a face peered back at him. His own face, not a reflection. It stared at him in despair and yet it possessed more substance, more vitality than he now owned.
As the Master lowered the staff, Pierre’s sombre, green eyes followed the diamond, like a dog beguiled by a bone.
“Come over to the Malevolence, Pierre. It’s your one hope. I can give you back your soul and release you.”
Pierre’s eyes glowed with his last desperate shred of dignity. “I would never join the Malevolence. I am better dead than a part of the living dead. And as for you, you are no longer a person, you have become a monster, an evil killing machine, living for pain and suffering. It will only get worse as time passes. The creature in you will take over until there’s nothing left of your mortal self, and finally it will destroy you.”
The Master let out a derisive laugh.
Pierre continued. “I’m right. You know I’m right. My life may be forfeit, but my conscious soul will resist you no matter what you do to it.” Exhausted, he closed his eyes.
The Master studied the shell that remained of a proud, once-powerful man without mercy. “Rest assured, I will torture your soul until it begs me for destruction. Once I’ve taken what I need, I will destroy it, and it will remain floating above the earth forever, empty and without form. You will know true oblivion, and I will grow stronger with every Venerable Reaper and Whisperer that I annihilate.”
“You’re insane,” Pierre cried.
“I’m not the one strapped to a chair in an asylum.”
A noise came from the corridor outside.
“I must go. You have an appointment with Doctor Lanvin. His lust for your venerable powers will mean your certain death.” The Master started towards the door, hesitating for a moment.
“I will give your wife and son your love before I kill them both. Die well, Venerable Lord. Au-revoir.” The Master of the Malevolence stepped through the doorway and disappeared into the darkness beyond.
Knowing it was his last chance, Pierre summoned the strength to shout,
“I beg you, leave my family alone. Please let them live.” Tears streamed down his face yet, even as he spoke, he knew his final words were in vain.
Their task complete, the three malevolent creatures above him dissolved into the air like breath on a cold day. For a few helpless moments, Pierre sat alone in the empty room. His eyes flickered open for a second as the Doctor entered then, realising all hope had gone, he allowed his head to fall onto his chest, closing his eyes for the last time.
Chapter 2
Twelve Years Later
In the sleepy village of Bassoues in South West France, four men sat around a square, oak table in the centre of a large, empty room. The faded wallpaper displayed a flower pattern, fashionable in a decade long past. Two small, framed black and white photographs depicting scenes of ancient rural life hung at either end of the room.
One of the men broke the silence.
“You know he’s mad, don’t you?” He smoothed his dark beard. “I don’t think we should let him anywhere near the boy.”
A middle-aged man with a long, curly moustache shook his head. “I disagree, Michel. The Puppetmaster is a gifted individual. He should be the one to instruct the boy in our ways.”
“He may be gifted, Majolla, but that hasn’t stopped him talking to trees,” Joel Relève answered. He was the oldest of the three, with straggling silver-grey hair.
“That means nothing,” replied Majolla. “The Venerable Lord himself talked to trees.”
“Yes, and you know what happened to him,” added Lucien Saronge, a bald man with small, clear-framed spectacles.
The other three stared at him, their faces stern with reproach.
“The Venerable Lord wasn’t insane, Lucien. He was murdered.”
Michel Valcroix shuffled in his chair. “Oh come on, Majolla, no-one’s suggesting he was insane, but he did die in an asylum after his wife ran away with the child.”
“That’s all in the past now. If it wasn’t for the Puppetmaster we would never have found them again,” defended Majolla.
“I never understood how the boy could have remained hidden to us for so long,” remarked Relève.
“His mother is a Reaper. Although not aware of her powers, she managed inadvertently to block all mind probes from the Malevolence and us over the years. It took the Puppetmaster’s amazing intuition to bring him back to us. That is why I believe he should guide the boy,” replied Majolla.
Valcroix rose from the table. “Very well, but be it on your own heads. Should something happen to this boy, it will be the end for all of us.”
“Don’t you think I know that? Sit down, Michel. Nothing’s going to happen to him while he’s under our protection.”
“I wish I had your faith,” replied Valcroix.
Majolla turned his head and stared at each of the others in turn. “We must all agree to this. Without a Venerable Lord, the Puppetmaster must now be our guide. How say you?
Relève spoke first. “Aye.”
“I agree,” Saronge added.
Valcroix sighed. “Reluctantly, but yes.”
“Then it is unanimous. We must let the Puppetmaster know of our decision right away.”
“That’s not necessary.” A voice spoke clear and loud in each of their minds.
“Puppetmaster,” answered Majolla. “I forgot you possess the ability to break down the barriers of closed minds.”
“I must apologise gentlemen, I couldn’t resist eavesdropping. I promise you I will not fail you. The boy’s future means more to me than to any of you.”
“Then the meeting of the Venerable Council is at an end.” Saronge stood up. “Let us hope it is not our last.”
The men filed out of the room into a hallway.
“I heard they finally found the body of Salador.” Saronge placed a black, cotton beret on his head.
“Yes, they found him buried in a shallow grave behind the village of Mirande.”
“Well, at least it’s one less Malevolent Master we have to worry about.”
“It maybe ‘better the devil you knew’, Lucien,” replied Majolla. “I have a feeling there is grave danger ahead for all of us.”
Chapter 3
“I want quiet, and I want it now!” boomed Mr. Rankin, the head teacher on the school trip.
Apart from a few mutinous murmurings, the coach fell silent.
“Auch is referred to as the capital of Gascony. It is a town in the south west of France, which will be our final destination tomorrow, as you can all see from your notes.” Mr. Rankin peered down the aisle. “Have you got your notes out Grimshaw?”
Sean Grimshaw dug into his rucksack. “I think I’ve left them on the ferry, sir.”
“Fool, lean over and look at Moreau’s.”
Sean rested his elbows on top of the seat in front, and peered at the notes over Michael Moreau’s and Roland Stiffan’s heads. He felt a little aggrieved. He and Michael had been best friends since they were very young but when Roland joined their class at the beginning of the school year, Michael had favoured the new, French boy. At first, Sean was resentful but realised that in order to remain friends with Michael he had to accept Roland.
“Have you ever been to Auch, Roland?” he asked in a low voice.
“No, never,” replied Roland.
“Would you like to share something with us, Grimshaw?” Mr. Rankin stood at Sean’s side.
“No, sir.”
“How about you, the French boy, what’s your name?”
“Stiffan, sir. No, sir.”
“Then shut up, the both of you.” Mr. Rankin raised himself to his full six feet seven inches and eyed them over the top of his half-rimmed glasses.
“Auch is the historical capital of Gascony. I want you to read the notes marked ‘Historical’ on page two. It tells you all you need to know about the town and its background.” He returned to his seat and sat down.
“I’ve heard you live with your uncle, Roland, where are your parents?” asked Sean.
“They died when I was a baby.”
“Mike lost his father when he was young too.”
“Where did you lose him?” asked Roland.
Michael laughed. “I didn’t lose him, he died. Anyway, it’s Sean who’s lost his dad.”
Roland looked back at Sean, confused. “He is dead also?”
“No, he walked out on mum and me. He’s working in Scotland now.”
“How’s your mum taking it?” asked Michael. He knew from experience that Sean’s mum had a habit of over-reacting to even the smallest of things.
Sean closed his eyes and shook his head. “Don’t ask.”
Roland offered a bag of sweets to his friends. “How did your father die, Mike?”
“I don’t really know. He was French and working in France at the time. Heart attack, I suppose. Mum’s never talked about it.”
“How did your parents die, Roland?” asked Sean.
“A car accident. I was travelling with them, but I do not remember it.”
“So the guy who picks you up from school, is that your uncle.” asked Michael.
“Yes, that is my Uncle Sylvestre. He adopted me after the accident.”
Sean started to unwrap his sandwiches.
“Oh no! Not boiled egg again, Sean?” Michael wrinkled his nose.
“How did you know I’ve got boiled egg sandwiches?”
“Because they stink. And every time we go on a trip, you bring boiled egg sandwiches. You do it on purpose because you know I get queasy on a coach.”
“Not at all, I love boiled egg sandwiches.” He didn’t have the nerve to admit that cold boiled eggs were the only edible thing he could find in fridge that morning. His mother had been laid up in bed for three days with a heavy migraine, brought on, Sean suspected, by the thought of being alone for a week while he was away on the school trip.
Mr. Rankin stood up. “For those of you who have been patient, we will be stopping shortly at a picnic area for you to eat your sandwiches. For those of you that couldn’t wait, Grimshaw, you will remain seated until everyone else has left the coach.”
Michael smirked. “You see, even Rankin can smell your sandwiches, and he’s sitting right up the front.”
The coach pulled into a siding off the motorway. Sean, Michael and Roland waited as their fellow students filed to the front of the coach to disembark. Two girls, Amanda Highsmith-Parks and Laura Holmes, paused in the aisle as they reached the row where Roland was sitting.
“You can come and sit with us if you like, Roland,” said Amanda.
Roland grinned. “It would be my pleasure.”
The two girls moved away.
“Would you like me to come and sit with you too?” Sean called after them.
Laura glanced back over her shoulder. She gave him a look that said, ‘Drop dead, Grimshaw,’ before continuing down the aisle.
Sean groaned. “How do you do it, Roland?”
“I am young, I am good looking and I am French. I am every English girl’s dream.”
“Yeah, and you’re modest with it,” replied Sean.
Roland gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders and stood up to follow the girls down the coach.
“It makes me sick. What’s he got that attracts the girls?” Sean put his sandwiches back in his rucksack and stood up.
“For a start he hasn’t got those stinky egg sandwiches. But he has got the looks and the accent. Girls go for tall, dark and handsome, or small and cuddly like me.” Michael put his hand on Sean’s shoulder. “I’m afraid you don’t possess any of these attributes, so you are going to have to do something else to attract their attention.”
“Yeah, but what?”
“That’s your problem.”
* * * *
After dropping off the other students and four of the teachers at a dormitory in Auch, the coach continued past rolling hills to a remote farmhouse in the countryside. The three remaining students and a teacher climbed out and collected their cases.
“Looks like we’ve drawn the short straw,” said Michael, glancing up the long steep driveway to a red-roofed farmhouse. The nearest village was over two miles back and the nearest neighbours a fifteen-minute walk.
"Yeah, this looks a barrel of laughs,” Sean added.
Mr. Phillips, the art teacher, tried hard to muster some enthusiasm from them. “Come on guys, we’re going to have fun here. There’s plenty of fresh air and the light is wonderful for painting.”
“Great!” said Roland sarcastically. The prospect of staying in an isolated farmhouse, even with Mr Phillips, the friendliest of all the teachers on the trip, did nothing to raise their spirits.
They trudged up the path three abreast. Mr. Phillips followed behind them, struggling to carry his case and art equipment.
Two elderly people stood in the doorway waiting to greet them.
Mr. Phillips stepped forward to introduce himself. “Bonjour Monsieur and Madame Celier, I am Mr. Phillips and these are my students, Roland, Michael and Sean.”
Madame Celier shook his hand. She was a small, round woman with short, grey hair. She wore a flower-patterned dress with a white cotton apron over the top.
“Bonjour young men,” said Madame Celier. Both the Celiers shook each of their hands warmly.
“I am very pleased to meet you all. Madame Celier and I welcome you to our home,” added Monsieur Celier.
Speaking his English with a thick French accent, he continued. “I would like to introduce my granddaughter, Nathalie.”
A tall, slim girl, slightly older than the boys, appeared at his shoulder. She had long, dark hair that cascaded over her slender shoulders. Her thin lips pursed as she regarded the new arrivals.
Roland stepped forward and lifted Nathalie’s hand to his lips to kiss it.
“Enchanté, Mademoiselle.”
“Oh, brother, he’s at it again, Sean,” said Michael.
“The rest of us don’t stand a chance,” Sean muttered under his breath.
“You are French, Monsieur?” asked Nathalie. She spoke in French to Roland while regarding Sean and Michael with disdain.
“Yes, I was born in Lyon, Mademoiselle.”
“What did she say, Mike?” Sean whispered.
“Not a clue, I don’t speak the lingo, but judging from the way she looked at us, it wasn’t polite.”
“Follow me, if you please.” Nathalie turned and walked back into the house. They picked up their suitcases and filed behind her. They had reached no further than the hallway when a small dog appeared at the top of the stairs. He was white from head to toe, with patches of russet brown on his ears and body. His tail rose up at an angle of ninety degrees, bending over half way along its back to point at its head.
The dog made a strange, high-pitched squeal of excitement and shot down the stairs, launching himself, from the third step, directly at Sean. The force was enough to knock him off his feet. Pinned to the ground still clutching his case, he was helpless to stop the dog from licking his face.
“Georges! Non!” Madame Celier rushed forward to brush him from Sean’s chest, but as she moved him aside, the dog circled around her and leapt back onto him again. Eventually she grabbed Georges by his collar and lifted him into her arms.
“I am so sorry. I have never seen Georges act in this way. He is Monsieur Celier’s dog and is often shy of people. It is very strange.”
Sean picked himself up off the floor and dusted himself down.
“No harm done. I like dogs.” He bent down to pat Georges on the head.
“If you please, follow me,” Nathalie repeated. Her tone was impatient.
Picking up their cases, they followed her up the heavy, wooden stairs into a spacious, whitewashed room with three beds and a large mahogany wardrobe. A door on the far wall led to an en-suite bathroom. Nathalie instructed them to choose a bed each and abruptly turned on her heels and left the room.
Georges leapt up onto a bed beneath the window. He stared at Sean, his tail wagging, as though waiting for Sean to join him.
“Looks like Georges has picked your bed for you,” remarked Michael as he placed his suitcase on the bed nearest the door.
Sean sat down next to Georges and tickled the dog behind his ears.
“You’re alright, aren’t you, Georges. You were only trying to say hello.” The dog responded in kind by licking Sean’s ears with his huge, pink tongue.
“Well Sean, you may not be successful with girls but you certainly are a hit with animals,” said Roland. He walked over to smooth Georges, but the dog growled at him, his teeth bared.
Roland jumped back behind his bed.
“That dog is vicious.”
“No, he’s not vicious. He’s just got good taste,” replied Sean.
Georges let out a soft yip as if agreeing with him.
Michael opened his case and laid a pair of trousers on his bed. “Nathalie’s a bundle of fun, I don’t think.
“I like her,” answered Roland, looking back towards the doorway. “It is a shame she is not coming to the market at Vic Fezensac with us tonight. She is how you would say in England, ‘Cool.’”
“You like every girl,” said Michael, throwing a pillow at him, striking him on his head.
Roland picked up the pillow and threw it back. “That is simply not true. They all like me.”
* * * *
The coach arrived at the farmhouse at eight p.m. prompt. Mr. Phillips hurried the three boys down the drive. The last of the school party to board, Sean had to take the vacant seat behind Roland and Michael. He was gazing out of the window at the lush green countryside when, reflected in the window, something moved behind him. He turned to find Suzi Martin seated next to him.
“Hi, Suzi,” he grinned, but she ignored him.
She leant over the seat in front. “Roland, can Sheila and I buy you a coke later?”
“Of course, Suzi. I will look forward to it,” replied Roland.
Suzi blushed and returned to her seat.
“Okay, so what is your secret, Roland?”
“I told you, I am French and good looking, Sean. What more could any English girl want?”
“Don’t forget modest too, Roland,” added Michael.
“Modesty is for fools and the English. Modesty does not attract les girls.”
“Just as well I’m half French then,” smirked Michael. “What about you Sean?”
“He is both English and foolish,” interrupted Roland.
“Thanks a bunch.” Sean sat back in his seat. His eyes fell on his reflection in the coach window. Two eyes, a nose, a mouth. Okay, so he was no movie star, but in the right light, he wasn’t that bad looking. Something flashed behind his back again. He turned, half expecting another girl to be sitting next to him keen to talk to Roland, but the seat was empty. Instead, a strange creature hovered in mid-air just above Michael’s head. It swung round to face Sean.
“WAAAH!”
The creature’s face was gnarled and wrinkled and its torso resembled an outsized plant stalk, but in place of leaves, tiny arms and legs dangled from its body.
Michael almost fell out of his seat at Sean’s outburst.
“What’s the problem, Grimshaw?” Mr. Rankin stormed towards them.
Sean pointed at the creature, puzzled why the teacher had walked straight past it without seeing it.
Mr. Rankin and Michael followed the direction of Sean’s finger with their eyes.
“What are you pointing at?” asked Michael.
“Can’t you see it? It’s flying just above your ear.”
Michael leapt to his feet, waving his arms and hands in the air.
“What is it?” he cried, dancing around his seat. “Is it a hornet?”
“Keep still, Moreau. I can’t see anything.” Mr. Rankin jumped back as Michael’s hands flailed past his nose.
“No, it isn’t an insect,” replied Sean. “It’s a weird plant-like thing.”
“A grasshopper, a locust?” asked Mr. Rankin. “Is it a locust, boy?”
“No sir, it’s more like a flying gremlin.”
Michael stopped thrashing.
“A flying gremlin?” Mr. Rankin’s eyes narrowed on Sean. “Is this your idea of a joke, Grimshaw? Because I don’t see anyone laughing.”
The creature disappeared into thin air.
“It’s gone now, sir.”
He looked up and met Mr. Rankin’s suspicious gaze.
“I think you should sit up the front of the coach where I can keep my eye on you, Grimshaw, just in case your gremlins decide to return.”
“I only saw one.” Sean rose from his seat and picked up his rucksack. He felt foolish. The rest of the coach were pointing and laughing at him.
“Not funny, Sean,” hissed Michael as Sean stepped past him. “Getting their attention is one thing, but girls don’t go for ‘weird’.” He folded his arms in disgust and sat back down.
Mr. Rankin escorted Sean to the front of the coach. There was a vacant seat next to Monsieur Villeneuve, the French teacher.
“You can sit here, Grimshaw. And I don’t want to hear another word from you until we reach the night market.”
With great reluctance, Sean sat down.
Monsieur Villeneuve, an open book on his lap, regarded Sean over his small, round spectacles. He stroked his thin moustache with his index finger. He bore a striking resemblance to the famous Belgian detective, hence the students had given him the nickname “Poirot”. He also had a habit of peering from behind walls at school, observing the students and teachers while seeming to make mental notes of their movements.
“What happened back there, Grimshaw?” Monsieur Villeneuve asked.
“I thought I saw something, sir.”
“What is it that you thought you saw?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Sean pulled his phone out of his pocket.
Mr. Rankin leapt up from his seat.
“I’ll look after that, Grimshaw. Hand it over.” He faced the rest of the coach. “If anyone else has a phone or a game gizmo, I want it brought to me. It will do you good to go without these electronic devices for a week. You can have them back when we return to the UK.”
Two students filed down the aisle and handed Mr. Rankin their phones.
“Dinosaur!” a voice called out from the rear.
Mr. Rankin peered down the length of the coach, his face red with anger. “Was that you Styles?”
“No, sir,” Styles lied.
Seated next to Bill Styles, Jason Childs scribbled something in a small, black notebook bound together with a thick, elastic band.
“Writing your memoirs, Childs?” asked Mr. Rankin.
“No, sir. Just taking notes.”
“Notes?” One step out of line and that notebook will be confiscated,” said Mr. Rankin. “I’ll be keeping a close eye on the pair of you for the rest of this trip,”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Rankin sat down.
“Shame he’s keeping a ‘close eye’ on us, Jason. If he’d been keeping a ‘private eye’ on us, we could have recruited him for our detective agency,” whispered Styles to Childs.
Under the guise of one of the teachers, The Master of the Malevolence studied Michael Moreau’s reflection in the coach window.
An English mother, and a French father who had died somewhere in the South-West of France, the boy had been brought up single-handedly by his mother. And now the Venerable Whisperers blocked his thoughts from the Malevolence’s mind-reading powers. It all fitted. Michael Moreau had to be the Venerable Heir.
Yet something didn’t make sense. The Whisperers had placed mind blocks around Sean Grimshaw and Roland Stiffan too. Were they being used as decoys to throw the Malevolence off the real heir?
The Master reflected on Sean Grimshaw’s strange behaviour. At the age of thirteen, the heir’s powers would just be starting to develop, perhaps enough to hear the Venerable Whisperers but certainly not enough to see them. Had Sean Grimshaw heard the Whisperers? Is that why he caused a scene back there?
The Master’s mind turned to the other teachers on the coach. None of them suspected there was an impostor in their midst. The battered body of the real teacher, murdered three months earlier on the way to an interview with the school, would never be discovered. The Malevolence had made sure of that.
Chapter 4
The last rays of the sun disappeared behind the rooftops as the coach pulled into the car park on the outskirts of the village. A myriad of colourful stalls, covered with large, bright umbrellas surrounded the village square, continuing up the slight incline, along the main thoroughfare. There were stalls selling rounds of pungent, creamy cheeses, golden brioches puffed up into huge domes, and gleaming vegetables. Wine, by the cartload, was stacked up on each corner, some bottled, laying on their sides in wooden racks, and some, on tap, in large oak barrels. A sea of people moved between each of the stalls viewing the goods for sale while vendors called out in French, Spanish and English, trying to sell all manner of wares.
Mr. Rankin pulled out a gleaming, silver pocket watch from his jacket. It was his pride and joy, a valuable heirloom handed down to him by his great-great-great grandfather. He issued his final instructions and ordered a time-check before allowing the school party to disembark.
Mrs. Perkins, the Gym teacher, ushered the students to the front exit while Mrs. Spencer, the English teacher, counted them off the coach. Mr. Phillips, inspired by the vivid colours, took out a pad of art paper and made a rapid sketch of the market scene. Only Monsieur Villeneuve remained on the coach. He watched the students disperse into the crowd.
Tempted by the smell of food, Roland headed straight for a large stall that offered free slithers of wafer-thin smoked ham and rounds of coarse sausages. “I will catch you up,” Roland shouted as he rushed away.
“He’s obsessed with food,” said Sean.
“He’s French, what do you expect?” replied Michael. “Did you hear about Rankin’s antique timepiece?”
“No, what about it?”
“I heard Phillips telling Spencer that he had a look at it, and it’s a cheap imitation.”
“But Rankin said it was bought in Bombay in the 1700’s and handed down through his family. He’s convinced it’s priceless.”
“Hong Kong more like, probably in the nineteen sixties. According to Phillips it’s worthless.”
“Did Phillips tell him?”
“Of course not. Rankin wouldn’t have believed him anyway. The funny thing is, he’s going to get it valued when we return to the UK.”
“I’d like to be a fly on the wall when he finds out it’s a fake,” said Sean.
They continued to stroll through the market. T-shirts and dresses flapped like flags in the evening breeze, illuminated by small, coloured lights draped from stall to stall. Strains of old, French love songs, piped from speakers high above their heads were almost drowned out by the noisy excitement of the crowd.
Michael came to a halt, fascinated by two African men playing bongos for all they were worth alongside a stall stacked full of African drums. Sean spotted a t-shirt stall, and thought that a t-shirt would make a great gift for his mother. He observed the French tourists sift through the various printed shirts, checking the quality by holding them up to the light, or rubbing the print to see if it was fast. He picked up the nearest shirt and followed their example. Examining the fabric carefully, his nose almost touched it, when he felt someone tap him on his shoulder. He turned to face the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She beamed a wide smile at him.
For a couple of moments Sean stood stock still, lost in her deep, blue eyes. Still holding the t-shirt aloft, he searched his brain for something clever or witty to say.
“Hi, are you going to buy that?” The girl looked from his face to the brightly patterned t-shirt and then back to him again.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Who’s it for?”
“Oh, um, my mum. I’m trying to find a present to take back for her.”
“Oh yeah, and does your mom go for that kind of thing?” She pointed to the image on the t-shirt.
Sean blushed. He was so intent on mimicking the French that he hadn’t noticed the photograph of two girls wearing the skimpiest of bikinis with the word ‘Babes’ in bold red letters printed underneath. He returned the t-shirt to its hangar as fast as he could.
“Perhaps this would be better?” She held up a t-shirt depicting the statue of D’Artagnan with Auch Cathedral in the background.
“Err, have you got anything a little more non-descript, less French?”
The girl gave him a sideways look. She rummaged through the rails and pulled out a t-shirt with a cartoon of young man holding a bunch of flowers printed on it. Underneath the picture it read, ‘Just for you Mom!’
“Thanks, that’s perfect, I’ll take it.”
“Sure, how do you want to pay?”
“Cash, please. You’re American, aren’t you?”
She gave him a wry smile. “Yeah, how did you guess?”
“Sorry, stupid question.” He smiled back. She was easy to talk to, not like the girls on the trip.
She handed Sean his change. “You enjoying your vacation?”
“We’ve just arrived. We’re here for a week on a school trip. How about you, do you live here?”
“No, I live in California. I’m on vacation, staying with my aunt and helping her out with her stall. She lives south of here, a place called L’Isle de Noé.”
“Wow, we’re not far from you. There are three of us staying at a farmhouse nearby.”
“The Celiers?”
“That’s right. Do you know them?”
“No, but I’ve heard of them.”
“They’re really nice people.”
“What do you think of their grand-daughter?”
“Nathalie? She’s okay, a bit odd I suppose. Have you met her?”
“Sure, a long time ago.”
Sean saw Michael and Roland watching them from the drum stand and suddenly felt awkward.
“Well, it’s been nice meeting you,...you didn’t tell me your name?”
“Sally, Sally Watson. Yeah, it was great meeting you too, Sean.”
Sean began to walk away then stopped dead in his tracks. “How did you know my name’s Sean?”
Sally grinned. “I’m psychic.” She gestured to her aunt to tell her she was leaving the stand. “Hey Sean, why don’t you introduce me to your friends?”
She looped her arm inside his and marched him over to Michael.
Fazed by her reaction, Sean tried hard to mask his surprise. She was the first girl, apart from his mum, that had shown any interest in him, but he still wondered if she had latched onto him just to speak to Roland? It didn’t matter. The look on Michael’s face was priceless.
“Sean, you’re full of surprises tonight. Who’s your friend?” asked Michael.
“This is Sally Watson. She’s working on one of the t-shirt stands.”
Michael reached out his hand and shook hers.
“Great to meet you, Mike.”
The smile dropped from his face. “How did you know my name?
“She’s psychic,” replied Sean.
Roland’s eyes widened. With her honey-blonde hair and vivid blue eyes, Sally was by far the best-looking girl at the market. He bowed, lifting her hand to his lips.
“Enchanté Mademoiselle.”
“Hi, Roland.”
Roland looked taken back, “Sean has already told you my name?”
“No, I haven’t. Sally’s psychic,” repeated Sean. “She’s from California.”
“Incroyable. Can you tell me anything else about myself,” asked Roland.
Sally closed her eyes. “You are French, of course, uhm....” She burst into peels of laughter. “Actually, I read the nametags on your rucksacks.” She pointed to the bags at their feet. The nametags were clearly visible, all except for Sean’s.
“Magnifique,” said Roland, holding on to her hand.
“Thank you,” replied Sally, withdrawing it.
“Sally knows the Celier’s grand-daughter,” explained Sean.
Something nagged at the back of Sean’s mind. His nametag hadn’t been showing. Was she teasing them or was she really a psychic?
As though reading his mind, Sally stared deep into his eyes, making him blush.
“You know Nathalie?” Roland cut in. “She is enchanting.”
“Enchanting isn’t necessarily a word I’d have used to describe Nathalie,” Sally replied.
“Roland thinks all girls are enchanting,” explained Michael.
“That is not true. I remember there was a girl in Marseilles................no wait, I am wrong, she was quite enchanting too.”
Realising that Michael was ridiculing him, Roland changed the subject. “This is all wonderful, my friends, but I have something to show you that I know you will love.” He grabbed Sean by the sleeve and hauled him away.
As he followed in Roland’s wake, Sean reached for Sally’s hand and drew her in the same direction. Sally reached out for Michael and pulled him after her. They snaked through the crowd in a single file until Roland stopped in a small, side street lined with food stalls.
“Not more food, Roland,” shouted Sean above the noise of the crowd.
“No, it’s not food, look!”
In the midst of the stalls, facing away from the crowd, stood a large, white umbrella. On either side of the umbrella, arced lights shone down on an old man, casting sinister shadows onto the ground. The man, dressed entirely in white, wore a battered straw hat, a flowing cotton shirt, and matching trousers. He had a trim white beard and moustache. He sat cross-legged on an Arabian-patterned carpet, balancing a large pole in one hand, from which wooden puppets dangled from a number of strings. As he shook the pole, the jointed puppets danced in all directions. In his other hand, he held a shorter pole, shaped like a cross, with more puppets suspended from it. He rocked the pole backwards and forwards and the puppets beat hollow drums.
“Hey, it’s the Puppetmaster,” cried Sally.
“You know that guy?” asked Sean.
“Sure, he’s at most of the markets around here.”
A small audience had gathered around the puppeteer, their faces lit up by the lights. Sean watched them with curiosity. Many of the crowd were elderly, although there were a handful of younger adults and a few children who sat in a semi-circle on the ground. Mesmerized by the dancing puppets, no one noticed the strings, or the puppeteer that made them dance. Mr. Phillips stood near the front, his arms folded, transfixed by the scene.
The puppet show ended and the puppeteer laid the two poles down on the Arabian carpet and lifted another from behind him. Unlike the other poles, this one had a small, battered collection tin with a hinged lid, on the end. He moved it towards the audience while, with his free hand, he played a shiny tin whistle, creating the sound of birdsong. The pole pointed towards a frail old man. The man stared at the puppeteer as though hypnotised. An aura of white light appeared around the old man’s head then, without warning, beams of light shot from his eyes. They struck the inside of the tin, producing a sequence of tiny, yellow explosions that left a glowing orb, like a golden marble. The beams of light extinguished and the old man stepped back. The puppeteer moved the pole towards a woman, also in a trance-like state, with the same result.
Stunned, Sean turned to Sally. He searched her face, seeking confirmation that she was witnessing the strange rays of light as well, but she appeared unmoved by the scene. Turning to Michael and Roland, he saw, to his relief, that Roland’s face was transfixed as the puppeteer moved the pole amongst the crowd, collecting orbs from more members of the audience. But when the Puppetmaster positioned his pole in front of Mr. Phillips, Sean’s amazement turned to horror. He watched as the art teacher’s eyes widened and two beams of light shot from his skull. Just like the others, the beams exploded when they hit the inside of the tin, forming a golden orb. Then the lid snapped shut and the teacher swayed backwards.
As the Puppetmaster pulled back the pole, he caught sight of Sean’s horror-struck face. A frown creased his brow and his eyes narrowed, as though surprised by the boy’s reaction. He turned and placed the pole behind him. At once, the spell that bound the audience was broken. Oblivious to what had happened, they applauded the puppeteer and dispersed to rejoin the sea of heads on the main thoroughfare.
“What’s up, Sean?” asked Sally. The colour had drained from his face and his eyes were as wide as saucers.
“D-d-d- id you see that?” Sean couldn’t speak for trembling.
“You bet I did,” said Roland. “Not one person put money in his collection box. I know it was not a great show, but I felt sure Mr. Phillips would give him something. I have…” Roland stopped short as he noticed Sean’s bewildered expression. “What’s up with you?”
“Didn’t you see it? Didn’t you see what happened to Mr. Phillips and the others?”
Three vacant faces looked back at him.
“The beams of light coming out of their eyes? The shiny, golden balls in his collection tin? Didn’t you see any of it?” He looked from Sally to Roland, and then to Michael, hoping that one of them would confirm what he had witnessed but Sally and Roland stared back at him, their faces blank.
“I didn’t see anything, Sean,” cried Sally.
Sean wrenched himself from her arm. “Let’s speak to the Puppetmaster. He’ll tell you what happened!” He turned around. “Hey, where did he go?”
“He went off into the crowd after …after he took... those lights…the tin…,” Michael replied in a daze.
“You did see it, Mike.”
“I don’t know. I saw….something, I don’t know exactly what….It seemed like….. ” Michael’s eyes glazed.
“Mike, tell me,” said Sean, desperate for validation. “Did you see what happened to Mr. Phillips?”
Michael started to nod, and then appeared to recover his thoughts. He shook his head as though he’d been slapped in the face. “I don’t know what you are talking about. What’s up with you?”
Sean grabbed him by the upper arms. “The beams of light! Come on, Mike, remember. Something flew out of Mr. Phillips’ eyes and into the puppeteer’s tin. You saw it too, didn’t you?”
“You’re crazy.” He shrugged himself free of Sean’s grip and stepped back.
“Come on, Roland. Let’s get away from him before we all start believing this rubbish.” He dragged Roland towards the crowd. “First he sees flying gremlins and now its golden balls.”
He turned back to face Sean. “You know you’re losing it big time.”
“I’m not making it up. I did see it.” Sean watched them disappear into the crowd.
Sally tilted her head and gave him a sympathetic smile. “I know you did.” Her eyes focused on someone over his shoulder. She waved.
“I’m sorry, Sean, I’ve got to go now. My aunt needs me back on the stall. Will you be okay?” Her eyes returned to his. “Don’t worry, I do believe you. I’m sure it will all be explained to you very soon.” She squeezed his hand then dashed back to join her aunt.
“What do you mean, Sally?” Sean shouted after her but his voice was lost in the noise of the market. He watched her whisper something in her aunt’s ear. Whatever it was, her aunt looked up and nodded at Sean.
He averted his eyes to the ground in embarrassment. “Oh great! Now her aunt thinks I’m crazy too.”
When he looked up again he noticed Styles and Childs, the school ‘detectives,’ watching him. Half-hidden behind a pizza stand Childs scribbled notes in his little, black notebook. Styles waved his business card in the air. He made a gesture with his hands like a telephone and mouthed the words ‘Call us’ before they drifted back into the crowd.
Chapter 5
Lucrezia, the oldest and wisest of the Malefic Whisperers, hovered, invisible to the human eye, above Sean’s head. Sent by the Master of the Malevolence to keep a close eye on the Venerable Heir, she had witnessed the entire scene. Sean’s startled reaction had aroused her curiosity. Despite the Master’s order to watch over Michael, she tried to read his mind but could not penetrate the dense mind-fog surrounding him. Something, or someone, blocked her. She decided to leave to report everything she had seen to her master.
“She’s gone. Do you think we fooled her, Artemis?”
“I hope so, with any luck our decoy worked.”
Two Venerable Whisperers watched Sean standing alone, a static figure against a tide of moving people. They scanned the crowd for signs of other Malefic Whisperers.
“I am worried about Michael, Artemis. I sense his vulnerability.”
“I agree with you, Leonidus. Of the boys being shadowed by the Malefic, Roland seems to have the strongest spirit and Michael the weakest. I will need to watch Michael closely.”
The two Whisperers parted, Leonidus followed Sean, and Artemis caught up with Michael and Roland.
Sean stumbled blindly through the crowds, troubled by what he had seen. He found himself in a darkened side street. It was several minutes before he realised he had strayed a good distance from the market. As he turned to retrace his steps, a hand grabbed at his shirt and pulled him into a shop doorway.
“Let me go. Who are you?” Sean shouted. He could see nothing in the pitch-black shadows. He grasped the wrist of the hand holding him, to pull it away, but the grip held fast.
“I am the Puppetmaster.” The voice sounded relaxed and mellow, the accent perfect English. Sean caught the smell of peppermints on the old man’s breath.
“You!” he gasped. He could just make out the features of the puppeteer’s face in the darkness. “What did you do to those people? What happened to them?” He clenched his fists and tried once again to release himself.
“You saw it didn’t you? You saw it all. I knew you were coming tonight, but I didn’t believe for one minute that you would have the power to witness a reaping,” said the Puppetmaster.
Sean recoiled against the doorframe. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”
The old man stepped into the light. He was smiling. “I’ve just told you. I am the Puppetmaster and there is no doubt that you are Jean-Paul Celier. I can see the fire and anger in your eyes. The same fire and anger your father once possessed.”
“What are you talking about? My name’s Sean Grimshaw, I don’t know a Jean-Paul Celier.”
“You are wrong. You are the son of Pierre Celier.”
“I’m not! I don’t know any Pierre Celier. My father’s name is Ernest Grimshaw. Let me go!”
“Don’t be afraid of me. I promise I am not going to hurt you.” The old man relaxed his grip.
For a moment, Sean’s mind screamed at him to escape, but the puppeteer’s touch sent a strange warmth tingling through his body. It seemed to encourage him to stay and listen to what the old man had to say. His fear receded and was replaced by curiosity.
“Your real name is Jean-Paul Celier, I promise you. The man who recently left home, Ernest Grimshaw, is not your real father. He is your stepfather.”
“That’s nonsense, I’m English, I was born in England. I’ve seen photographs of me as a baby with my father and my mother. Anyway, how do you know about my father leaving home? Who told you?”
“I know a lot of things. I know about your parents’ arguments over the years. I also know that your mother forbade you to come on this trip and that you forged her signature on the school form. Your mother believes you are on a trip to the North of England, doesn’t she?”
Sean took in a deep breath. “How could you know that? Only Mike and I know about the signatures. Are you some kind of mind reader?”
“That is a most interesting observation, Jean-Paul.”
“What does that mean?” Sean shook his head as though trying to rid himself of an annoying fly. “What did you do to Mr. Phillips? How did you make the beams of light come from his eyes? And what are you going to do with those orbs?”
“So many questions, that’s good. I am a Reaper, Jean-Paul. I collect conscious souls from gifted people when they are close to death.”
Sean was horrified. “Are you saying Mr. Phillips is going to die?”
“I am afraid so. He is a gifted artist. I had to reap his soul for the good of mankind.”
“I don’t understand. Are you the Grim Reaper? Are you… Death?” Sean searched the old man’s eyes trying to comprehend what he was saying.
“No, I’m not. But there is one who has the power to mutate into that monster. He is the leader of an evil cult called the Malevolence. They murder people, and collect their souls in order to create evil Whisperers.”
Sean stared aghast. “Is Mr. Phillips going to be murdered by the Malevolence?”
The Puppetmaster shook his head. “I cannot tell you how or when your teacher will die. I only know that he will die. Nothing, and no-one can stop this from happening. It is his destiny.”
Sean’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How do you know this?”
“I possess the power to sense when people are going to die.”
“What about the other people in the audience, the ones with the beams of light coming out of their eyes? Are they are going to die as well?”
“Yes, it is their destiny too. Tonight, I drew them to me in order to take their souls.” The Puppetmaster stopped. He inclined his head as if listening to something in the distance.
“I must go, Jean-Paul. We will speak again soon. Be on your guard at all times. There are those that would do you great harm.” The Puppetmaster pushed past him into the dimly lit street.
“Wait. Come back!” Sean called after him, but the old man had disappeared into the inky black shadows.
Sean stood motionless for several moments, the puppeteer’s words echoing in his ears over and over until his head throbbed. ‘The Whisperers, The Malevolence, Jean-Paul Celier’. What did it all mean?”
The hollow sound of footsteps alerted him that someone approached. He slid back into the darkness of the doorway as the footsteps drew closer. He held his breath.
Someone spoke, a voice he recognised. Sean let out a sigh of relief and jumped out of the doorway.
“Bleaah!!” Michael screamed in surprise.
“Why are you hiding in a shop doorway?” asked Roland, his eyes showing his annoyance.
Sean peered back down the street, in the direction the Puppetmaster had fled. He considered telling them about his strange conversation with the old man but decided against it. “Sorry, I got lost. I was waiting to ask someone for directions.” He could see they did not believe him. “Where are you two going?”
“It’s time to return to the coach, and so, would you believe, we’re heading back in that direction? We’re certainly not jumping out of shop doorways on people like a madman,” said Michael. He hadn’t forgiven Sean’s earlier outburst. He pushed past Sean and marched up the road, mumbling to Roland about weirdoes and crazy people.
A heavy silence descended on the coach as it sped along the dark country lanes. Weary eyes closed and mouths gaped wide with contented yawns, until only two eyes remained wide open, staring out at the shadows of the night. Deep in thought, Sean puzzled over the meeting with the puppeteer and the bizarre events that occurred at the marketplace.