Simon Clark - Humpty's bones

‘Something happened to him, didn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘This is it. The short version. Then I’m going whether you come or not. The two brothers were the last of their species. They lived long lives. Longer than any of us. But then the older of the brothers started to fail. He might have been a hundred years old or a thousand years old. Nobody really knew. So he decided his younger brother must be the keeper of the Gift. They worked together to change the brother’s biology. Whether it was through thought, or by drugs they concocted, nobody knows. To all intents, however, he became immortal. He’d live for as long as it took for human beings to understand his teachings and for him to father enough children to start a new race of human beings.’ He shuddered as the storm grew closer. ‘You know, we might assume that if the body doesn’t age the mind wouldn’t age with it. But when the brother died, and my ancestors buried him, the last of the First Men suffered the solitude. He spoke to us, but didn’t relate to us in the same way as he could with his brother. So although his body never aged, his mind did. Ultimately, he was flesh and blood. Imagine his life: He’d find love with a woman; there were children. I’m one of the descendents. Of course, he would live forever. The human woman inevitably grew old and died. He took other wives. But each time, of course, they aged… they died… they were mortal. The First Man grieved. It reached a point where he couldn’t bring himself to make friends or to take another wife. Although his children were long-lived eventually sheer old age took them. He and only he was immortal. For some reason, he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, repeat the process on others that gave him such longevity. He didn’t age. He didn’t get ill. Generations in this village came and went; he retreated from life. How long it took I don’t know. It might have been a thousand years after he watched the first Romans approach his house and recognise him for what he was, but at last his mind gave out.’ He shrugged. ‘My grandmother said even though his body couldn’t die of grief his mind did. The thinking part of him, the part that reasoned, and remembered, and knew who he was, just evaporated. It left behind a brain with animal instincts only. As far as I know, he hasn’t talked to anyone in generations, or even uttered a single word.’ Mr Hezzle sadly shook his head. ‘See that horse in the field over there? Now the First Man is as intelligent as him. Like a beast he gets hungry, gets tired, gets angry — that’s all. Are you sure you won’t go back home now, Miss? We’ll catch our deaths.’

‘But where does he live? Somebody cares for him, surely?’

‘He keeps to the fields, sleeps in ditches; often he can’t be found at all. There are some of us who think he goes underground into tunnels. We don’t know where, though. Nobody’s found so much as a cave round here.’

‘How many know about the First Man?’

‘Apart from one or two old folks in the village just us — the Hezzles.’

‘So you’re his keeper?’

‘If you want to put it like that. Miss, please go home. The lightning’s getting closer. You don’t know how dangerous it is to be exposed like this.’ As if to illustrate the point, the storm delivered a lightning bolt that shattered a tree at the other side of the dyke. The branches burst into flame.

‘So what now? If you know the secret of the Gift. When are you going to share it with humanity?’

‘I’m sorry, Miss. I can’t stay here. It’s not just me I’m frightened for. I’m probably the only one who can stop him breaking into the world out there.’ Mr Hezzle flung his arm out as if to encompass Britain’s cities, and beyond. ‘He doesn’t know right from wrong anymore. When he gets angry he hurts people.’

‘Then you should tell the world about him. He’ll help us all become better people.’

However, the old man turned and hurried in the direction of Dog Star House. He called back, ‘Please. It’s not safe. The storm’s right on top of us.’

They moved quickly along the bank. Heavy rain drops pounded at their heads. The once placid surface of the dyke shivered as rain struck it. More than once Eden expected to see those sacs floating there that contained the tiny men and women, with bright watchful eyes. Not that there was anything now; had she imagined them? Through veils of rain the house emerged.

Mr Hezzle slowed. ‘Is that smoke?’

Eden paused. No doubt about it. Smoke streamed from the roof. ‘Mr Hezzle, did you see lightning strike the house?’

‘No, but it’s possible.’ He stared as a flickering yellow glow manifested itself through a window. ‘Can you see your family?’

‘They must still be inside the house!’

They started to run along the bank of the dyke, and became aware of another sound. A rushing noise; a huge hissing — something that had the power to make the thunder seem small in comparison.

Mr Hezzle had just had time to shout, ‘He’s coming! He knows the bones are in the house! He’s seen they’re going to be burnt again!’

Eden looked back as a terrific blast of air struck them. A figure sped toward her; a bewildering tumult of shadowy limbs; a sense of a solid object moving so fast it couldn’t properly be seen. Only eyes. They blazed like the headlamps on a car. A suggestion of utter rage pierced her brain. Then the air it drove before itself with such force intensified to the point it bowled her through the long grass, as if she was nothing more than a doll. Then the figure was past them and gone.

Dragging herself to her feet, she dashed toward the house. ‘Come on, Mr Hezzle. I need you!’ The man appeared astonished by her resilience, yet he scrambled to his feet to run after her. A man of one hundred shouldn’t be able to run that fast, heck he shouldn’t be able to run at all, she told herself, but inside Mr Hezzle, isn’t there human blood mixed with that of the First Man?

They reached the garden gate. Mr Hezzle effortlessly maintained the same punishing pace as Eden. By now, smoke bled through the roof tiles of the house. Grey fumes vied with the rain for the control of the airspace.

Once through the gate into the garden, Eden saw that the back door had been ripped from its hinges and was resting at the far side of the lawn. He — the primordial hominid, the First Man, would-be begetter of a new race — had torn away the door, then flung it carelessly behind him.

What she said next was utterly unnecessary, but somehow utterly essential to voice: ‘He’s got inside!’

‘No, Miss, let me go first.’

His plea went unheeded as she sped through the raw, gaping wound of the doorway, its torn frame hanging in pieces; even the surrounding brickwork had been shattered by the force of entry.

‘It’s me, Eden Page,’ she shouted as she moved through the kitchen. ‘I’m here. Don’t worry. You’re safe.’ I’m not talking to Heather and Curtis, she thought in surprise. I’m talking to him.

She found herself engulfed in thick smoke, her arms sweeping before her, as she felt a route through the burning building. After the coldness of the rain the hot air against her face became searing. Its heat dried her clothes in seconds. In the hallway mirror she glimpsed herself through roiling fumes. Her hair steamed. Yet her eyes were bright, alive, eager — disconcertingly eager.

‘Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you.’

She pushed open the living-room door. There a figure pounced on her.

In the smoke filled room all she could make out were two hands that gripped her throat. Then a voice.

A familiar voice: ‘I should have done this days ago! I’m burning the bloody bones! Did you hear, you idiot girl? Humpty’s bones — they’re going up in smoke!’