By Martin Pearson
(Durosimi image by Nimue Brown, based on Erek Vaehne, with thanks for the loan of his face.)
No one could ever accuse Durosimi O’Stoat of being unduly burdened by his conscience. The sorcerer has, in his time, caused enough misery and destruction to drive anyone else insane with feelings of guilt. He is a master of manipulation and treachery, stopping at nothing to further his own ends. That, at least, is what he would like you to believe. Indeed, until recently it was pretty much his own self-image. But all of that was before the Lost Boys incident.
You may remember that he had cruelly sent five young men into the arms – and teeth – of the hideous, flesh-eating sirens who inhabit the waters around the island of Hopeless. The continued existence of the Lost Boys, as they had become known, had become somewhat inconvenient to Durosimi, and he considered such a course of action to be quite reasonable. After all, on Hopeless people disappear all the time. What difference would five more make?
Some weeks after their disappearance, when the first full moon of Autumn – the Hunter’s Moon – rose in the sky, to stare dimly through the perpetual mist that hangs over the island, Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, was taking a well-earned break from his labours. As usual Philomena had wandered along from The Squid and Teapot and left a bottle of ‘Old Colonel’ and a generous slice of starry-grabby pie on his doorstep. These were now sitting on the lid of his bucket, which doubled-up nicely as a makeshift table when he was on his rounds. Meanwhile, his old friend Drury, the skeletal hound, was snuffling around in the darkness in the hope of picking up the scent of a stray spoonwalker or maybe a puddle rat, or anything else likely to provide the chance of a chasing game while Rhys was eating his meal. Suddenly the dog stiffened. This, of course, bore little resemblance to the elegant, silent freeze of a pointer, or the quiet menace of a German shepherd on guard duty. Drury’s attempts at pointing generally involve a series of rattles and clacks, as of bone meeting bone, and on this occasion, making just enough noise to disturb the silence of the night.
Reacting to the sound, Rhys looked up, and was surprised to see a pale, luminescent smoke creeping up from the threshing ocean and gradually make its way inland. As it grew closer the Night-Soil Man realised that what he was seeing was not smoke, but a huddle of ghostly human shapes. This was unusual. While fulfilling his duties Rhys had seen any amount of ghosts, phantoms and apparitions generally, but these were usually solitary entities, and not given to wandering around in groups.
From his position on the headland he watched the eerie tableau drift noiselessly from the coastal path and disappear into the trees. Drury, having more sense than many gave him credit for, made no attempt to follow them.
Durosimi O’Stoat has always prided himself on needing little sleep. Three or four hours are usually sufficient. Tonight, however, he had nodded off into a deep, satisfying slumber while sitting in his armchair. Even when the hefty tome that he had been reading slipped off his lap and fell to the floor, he did not stir. It was only when a faint bluish-green glow insinuated itself through the heavy oak front door and settled in the corner of his study, did he awake.
He sat, stock still, for several minutes staring at the phenomenon. Most of us would have fled in terror, but not Durosimi. A lifetime of weird encounters has left him unfazed by virtually anything.
“Who, or what are you?” he demanded sternly.
The glow shimmered and expanded, as if to respond, then resumed its original shape in the corner.
“I am waiting…” said Durosimi, sounding like a schoolmaster addressing a wayward pupil.
Almost reluctantly, the glow spread once more and broke into five distinctive shapes.
He recognised the Lost Boys at once. They stood shoulder to shoulder before him, gaunt, haggard and accusing.
“You can stand there all night,” Durosimi said, unconcernedly, “but I am well aware that you cannot harm me, and you certainly don’t scare me.”
The Lost Boys said nothing; they just hovered within that ghastly light and stared at the man who had been responsible for their deaths.
Durosimi closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the Lost Boys were gone. The first few ribbons of morning light were fighting their way through the mist.
“I must have dropped off to sleep again,” he muttered. “Such behaviour is quite unlike me, and that was a most weird dream, to be sure.”
Lost in the business of the following day, Durosimi thought no more about his strange dream.
It came as something of a surprise, therefore, when the boys once more manifested in his study, sometime after midnight. Durosimi was poring over his books, trying to make sense of a complicated mediaeval spell written in Latin, when he sensed their arrival.
He turned abruptly and eyed them in silence.
The five stared back, accusingly. Not a word was spoken for what felt like an age.
“What do you want?” Durosimi asked, at last.
There was no reply, but the air seemed to grow colder, then little by little the apparitions faded, until there was no clue that the Lost Boys had ever been there.
Durosimi felt exhausted. Leaving his books on the table he lay down on his bed, fully clothed, and immediately fell asleep. Those five wasted faces haunted his dreams.
As the days and nights went by the sorcerer came to expect his strange visitors. He gave up asking what they wanted; after all, they were the Lost Boys, and they wanted their lives back. That was something that even he could not give them, and, to his surprise, it troubled him.
Durosimi found himself to be harbouring certain thoughts and feelings that he believed to be long-dead. One evening he allowed his mind to wander into an alternative future, where the five youngsters had matured into family men, becoming fathers and eventually grandfathers. These were the lives that he had stolen from them, and for once in his life Durosimi felt real remorse for what he had done.
When next the apparitions appeared, he wasted no time in addressing them.
“I am truly sorry for being the cause of your deaths,” he said, glad that no one else was there to hear. “I can only beg your forgiveness.”
His words hung in the air, and he feared that his apology had not been enough. Then the blue-green light that enveloped the five gradually turned into a ball of shimmering silver that grew stronger with each passing second, until it was far too bright to look at. As Durosimi turned away, shielding his eyes, the ball of light seemed to explode and, for a long while, he knew no more.
Sitting in front of his parlour fire, many hours later, Durosimi pondered over the events of the previous week. He knew that the Lost Boys had gone for good, now. They had reached into him and found the man that he might once have been. It made him uncomfortable. It was a weakness, buried so deep that he was unaware of its existence. That must never happen again.
Despite these thoughts, the briefest ghost of a smile flickered across his face. This in itself was a rarity.
“No, such weakness must never happen again,” he repeated to himself, but a part of Durosimi was glad that it had, just this once.
