Darren Shan: Bec

There’s no mistaking her. I’ve seen her so many times in my perfect memories. She looks just like she did on the day she gave birth to me—the day she died. Haggard, bone-thin, dark circles under her eyes, stained with blood. But love in her eyes—love for me.

As I stare, numb with wonder—but no fear—my mother turns and points west, keeping her eyes on mine. She says something but her words don’t carry. With a frown, she jabs a long finger towards the west. She starts to say something else but then the mist clears. She shimmers. I blink. And I’m suddenly looking at the boy again, playing with his flower.

“Bec,” Conn is saying, shaking me lightly. “Are you all right?”

I look up, trembling, and think about telling Conn what I saw. Then I decide against it. I’ve never had a vision before. I need time to think about it before I discuss it with anyone. Focusing on the boy, I control my breathing and try to calm my fast heartbeat.

“I th-think he’s hu-human,” I stutter. “But not the same as us. There’s magic in him. Maybe he’s a druid’s apprentice.” That’s a wild guess, but it’s the closest I can get to explaining what’s different about him.

“Does he pose a threat?” Conn asks.

A dangerous question—if I answer wrongly, I’ll be held responsible. I think about playing safe and saying I don’t know, but then the boy pulls a petal from the flower and slowly places it on his outstretched tongue. “No,” I say confidently. “He can’t harm us.”

The gate is opened. Several of us spill out and surround the boy. I’ve been brought along in case he doesn’t speak our language. A priestess is meant to have the gift of tongues. I don’t actually know any other languages but I don’t see the need to admit that, not unless somebody asks me directly—and so far nobody has. I keep hoping he’ll change and become my mother again, but he doesn’t.

The boy is thin and dirty, his hair thick and unwashed, his knee-length tunic caked with mud, no cloak or sandals. His eyes dart left and right, never lingering on any one spot for more than a second. He’s carrying a long knife in a scabbard hanging from his belt but he doesn’t reach for it or show-alarm as we gather round him.

“Boy!” Conn barks, nudging the boy’s knee with his foot. No reaction. “Boy! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The boy doesn’t answer. Conn opens his mouth to shout again, then stops. He looks at me and nods. Licking my lips nervously, I crouch beside the strange child. I watch him play with the flower, noting the movements of his eyes and head. I no longer think he’s a druid’s assistant. Conn was right—he’s a simpleton. But one who’s been blessed in some way by the gods.

“That’s a nice flower,” I murmur.

The boy’s gaze settles on me for an instant and he grins, then thrusts the flower at me. When I take it, he picks another and holds it above his head, squinting at it.

“Can you speak?” I ask. “Do you talk?”

No answer. I’m about to ask again, when he shouts loudly, “Flower!”

I jump at the sound of his voice. So do the men around me. Then we laugh, embarrassed. The boy looks at us, delighted. “Flower!” he shouts again. Then his smile dwindles. “Demons. Killing. Come with.” He leaps to his feet. “Come with! Run fast!”

“Wait,” I shush him. “It’s almost night. We can’t go anywhere. The demons will be on the move soon.”

“Demons!” he cries. “Killing. Come with!” He grabs my hand and hauls me up.

“Wait,” I tell him again, losing my patience. “What’s your name? Where are you from? Why should we trust you?” The boy stares at me blankly. I take a deep breath, then ask slowly, “What’s your name?” No answer. “Where are you from?” Nothing. I turn to Conn and shrug. “He’s simple. He probably escaped from his village and—”

“Come with!” the boy shouts. “Run fast! Demons!”

“Bec’s right,” Connla snorts. “Why would anyone send a fool like this to—”

“Run fast!” the boy gasps before Connla can finish. “Run fast!” he repeats, his face lighting up. He tears away from us, breaks through the ranks of warriors as if they were reeds and races around the rath. Seconds later he’s back, not panting, just smiling. “Run fast,” he says firmly.

“Do you know where you’re from, Run Fast?” Goll asks, giving the boy a name since he can’t provide one himself. “Can you find your way back to your people?”

For a moment the boy gawps at Goll. I don’t think he understands. But then he nods, looks to where the sun is setting and points west. “Pig’s trotters,” he says thoughtfully.

For a second I see my mother pointing that same way again, but this is just a memory, not another vision.

Goll faces Conn. “We should bring him in. It’ll be dark soon. We can question him inside, though I doubt we’ll get much more out of him.”

Conn hesitates, judging the possible danger to his people, then clicks his fingers and leaves the boy to his men, returning to the fireside with Tiernan, to discuss this latest turn of events.

Run Fast isn’t big but he has the appetite of a boar. He eats more than anyone at the feast but nobody minds. There’s something cheering about the boy. He makes us all feel good, even though he can’t talk properly, except to explode every so often with “Demons!” or “Come with!” or—his favourite—“Run fast!”

As Goll predicted, Run Fast isn’t able to tell us any more about his clan, where he lives or how great their need is. Under normal circumstances he’d be ignored. We’ve enough problems to cope with. But the mood of the rath is lighter than it’s been in a long while. The arrival of the MacCadan has sparked confidence. Even though the eleven are more of a burden than a blessing, they’ve given us hope. If survivors from other clans make their way here, perhaps we can build a great fort and a mighty army, keep the demons out forever. It’s wishful, crazy thinking, but we think it anyway. Banba used to say that the desperate and damned could build a mountain of hope out of a rat’s droppings.

So we grant Run Fast more thought than we would have last night. The men debate his situation, where he’s from, how long it might have taken him to come here, why a fool was sent instead of another.

“His speed is the obvious reason,” Goll says. “Better to send a hare with half a message than a snail with a full one.”

“Or maybe the Fomorii sent him,” Tiernan counters, his bony, wrinkled fingers twitching with suspicion. “They could have conquered his clan, then muddled his senses and sent him to lure others into a trap.”

“You afford them too much respect,” Conn says. “The Fomorii we’ve fought are mindless, dim-witted creatures.”

“Aye,” Tiernan agrees. “So were ours to begin with. But they’ve changed. They’re getting more intelligent. We had a craftily hidden souterrain. One or two would find their way into it by accident every so often, but recently they attacked through it regularly, in time with those at the fence. They were thinking and planning clearly, more like humans in the way they battled.”

Conn massages his chin thoughtfully. Our one great advantage over the demons—besides the fact they can only attack at night—is that we’re smarter than them. But if there are others, brighter than those we’ve encountered…

“I don’t think it’s a trap,” Fiachna says quietly. He doesn’t normally say much, so everyone’s surprised to hear him speak. He’s been sitting next to Run Fast, examining the boy’s knife. “This boy doesn’t have the scent of demons on him. Am I right, Bec?”

I nod immediately, delighted to be publicly noticed by Fiachna. “Not a bit of a scent,” I gush, rather more breathlessly than I meant.