Mark Chadbourn - The Burning Man

Finally the landscape gave way to a barren region where it appeared there had been a great fire. Charcoal trees sprouted from scorched earth peppered with blackened rocks. The air smelled like the industrial zone of a great city.

Tying his handkerchief across his mouth, he descended a slope that ended on the banks of a river of blood. To weary to be shocked, he followed it upstream to a sprawling white marble building: the Court of the Final Word.

Filled with relief, he found the energy to run the last few yards to the imposing doors, where he hammered furiously.

The doors were flung open by a startled, golden-skinned youth in red robes and a red skullcap. A red surgical mask hung from his neck. Behind him, more of the red-robed Tuatha De Danann moved with frantic purpose, carrying trays of strange implements, disappearing through doors into the bowels of the court.

‘Begone, Fragile Creature,’ the youth said angrily, before catching himself. He peered into Hunter’s face. Whatever he saw there prompted him to turn and hurry into the depths of the building.

Hunter staggered in and yelled, ‘I need help here! And if I don’t get it I’m going to start breaking things.’

The youth returned at a clip accompanied by an elderly man with an aquiline nose and an aristocratic face. He gave a curt bow. ‘Brother of Dragons, forgive any disrespect. I am Dian Cecht. This is my court. In our defence, these are difficult times. How may I be of service?’

Hunter held Laura out. ‘She’s hurt … could be dying. I was told you might be able to help.’

Dian Cecht eyed Laura. ‘She has the mark of one of my brothers upon her.’

‘You’ve got to help,’ Hunter urged. ‘Whatever it takes.’

Dian Cecht smiled but gave nothing away. He conducted a cursory examination of Laura. ‘I cannot say for certain that there is anything I can do. And if there is, there may well be a severe price to pay.’

‘Whatever. Just help her.’

This appeared to please Dian Cecht. He nodded to the youth, who took Laura and carried her carefully into the court.

‘You are weary, Brother of Dragons. You need rest, food.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘It will not help the Sister of Dragons if you fall sick yourself. I will arrange for you to be taken to the rest quarters where you will be given sustenance. To such an esteemed guest, all is offered freely and without obligation.’

‘Tell me the minute you know something.’

Dian Cecht clapped his hands and the nearest Tuatha De Danann put down the tray he was carrying and guided Hunter into a white marble room with crystal-clear water running in a channel from a spout in one wall. There was a low couch with sumptuous cushions. The god went away to fetch food and drink, but by the time he returned Hunter was fast asleep.

Dreams came in force, and he hadn’t dreamed for a long time. They were hallucinatory, as if every image stored up since his first kill had been released as one, shouting and stamping their feet for attention, desperate to be set free. Though there was no clear narrative, he could pick meaning from the fires and the bones, the ravens and the single beacon glowing away in the dark that he could never reach.

He awoke slowly, fighting for freedom, to discover Dian Cecht sitting on a stool, studying him dispassionately.

‘What have you found?’ Hunter asked blearily.

‘She is gone,’ Dian Cecht replied.

Those three words took all the hope out of Hunter’s life.

High up on the playa of the Black Rock Desert in Nevada, ninety miles north-north-east of Reno, a blasting wind flayed the skin and brought furious dust storms out of nowhere, and the sun seared the bleak landscape to a hundred degrees. Yet in this inhospitable location, a ramshackle city had grown: tents and makeshift shacks, geodesic domes, soaring statues and art installations that doubled as living quarters, arranged into streets and esplanades with all the order of a fixed city’s town planning.

The citizens wandered around in bizarre costumes — a Statue of Liberty, Wonder Woman, a tinfoil clown — or naked, body-painted, pierced, tattooed, dreadlocked, shaven-headed, surfer shorts, army fatigues, top hats, motorcycle jackets. They wore goggles and scarves across their mouths to protect against the seventy-mile-per-hour sand. Some drove vehicles that had been transformed into works of art, too, metal blossoming into staggering new mechanical creations. It was the day after the apocalypse, the end of the world, a nomadic tribe in the hinterland, and the party was only just beginning.

This was what Veitch saw when he tumbled from nowhere onto the prehistoric salt-pan. ‘This isn’t bleedin’ New York,’ he said as a man in a gimp suit wandered past.

Ruth dusted herself down as Miller, Etain and the others crashed out of the Blue behind them. ‘I can’t see Church,’ she said. ‘Why did we get spat out here?’

Beyond the tent city, a massive wicker man rose up against the silver sky.

A bare-chested, sandalled man with dyed blonde hair, carrying a surfboard, wandered up. His rolling gait suggested the influence of some narcotic. He went straight to Miller who was chewing on a fingernail, disoriented and frightened.

‘Dude, you’ve got a blue dragon inside you!’ the surfer said. His skittering fascination turned to the otherworldly mounts of the Brothers and Sisters of Spiders. ‘Cool ponies!’ He took a step back and began to sing ‘My Little Pony’ before breaking into a cackling laugh.

Etain took a step forward. Veitch made a subtle sign for her to stop.

‘Where are we?’ Ruth asked the surfer.

‘Chica! So, what, you’re a yahoo or a virgin?’ He looked from her to Veitch. ‘Nice sword, dude. And that silver hand … cool! If this is your first time, you fit right in.’

‘Tell you what, mate,’ Veitch said. ‘How about you start speaking some sense or I give you a look at my sword close up?’

The surfer was oblivious to Veitch’s threat. His attention was drawn to the horizon where the wind had whipped up a dust storm. ‘Uh-oh, there’s a white-out blowin’ in. Gotta take shelter. Later.’ Clutching his board, he ran awkwardly towards the nearest tents.

Ruth shielded her eyes from the sun; the moisture was rapidly being sucked from her body. ‘He’s right. Without the right clothes or provisions, we’re in danger.’

With mounting annoyance, Veitch drew Etain to one side. ‘You take the others out of sight till I can work out what we’re doing. Don’t want to freak anyone out.’ He paused, read her face. ‘Stop looking at me like that. I know you’re feeling bad …’ He glanced back at Ruth. ‘We’ll talk about it, all right? Soon.’

Etain took the reins of her mount and walked away into the desert. Branwen, Tannis and Owein followed.

‘Do you really think she understands you?’ Miller asked. ‘Or do you just pretend you know what she’s thinking?’

‘I’m not mad, all right?’ he replied angrily before marching towards the tents.

The dust storm swept in quickly. The surfer’s name for it was fitting, for within seconds it was impossible to see more than a few feet. Veitch, Ruth and Miller were offered shelter in a large communal tent that resembled a Bedouin hall. Twenty or so others sat around on cushions talking quietly amongst themselves, or listening to trance music on an MP3 player fitted with speakers.

They all showed deference to a man in his sixties with snow-white hair tied in a ponytail and a long droopy moustache. He had brilliant blue eyes and an open, genial nature. He took the three of them over to where he’d been lounging on cushions and offered them home-made honey-cakes.

‘I’m guessing you’re virgins,’ he said with a Southern drawl. ‘Your clothes … not suitable, man, nah. My name’s Rick.’ He gestured expansively. ‘Welcome to my domain. Enjoy yourselves. Everything is given freely and without obligation.’ He chuckled throatily.