It took a while, but eventually he got to the bottom. Squinting into the halogen skylight, he quickly counted the closely bounded coils circling up to the distant ceiling. And beyond, if he remembered what he thought he did. He knew that each coil was a tight-stepped spiral staircase, of a crisp, white stone. Looking up, the edges of the staircase still blurred slightly, the source of countless trips down countless steps.

            But finally, he was at the end.

            A long, black table sat in the middle of the circular floor in front of him. It reflected off the white ground, as though a ghostly double grasped the ebony legs.

            A tiny golden pocket watch rests on the edge of the table, hands too tiny to make out. A goblet, made of the same white stone, sat next to it, half filled with water. A frown creasing his face, he takes a step closer, bare feet pressing silently against stone. The only sound is the faint ticking of the clock, echoing around the room.

            Step by step he walks closer to the centre of the room, the inky depth of the table reflecting deeper and deeper within the floor. Standing over the watch now, the water in the goblet so clear no reflection shows. He pauses for a second, then extends his fingers.

            He grasps only empty air.

            Kneeling down, he flounders for the watch, but it’s not where it should be. A void exists where stability should, and as he returns to his feet he sees it is only a reflection.

            The cup and watch lay on the underside of the table, which stretches down from the ground.

            He crouches to his knees once more, placing his pale grey palms on the floor. It’s warm, he notices. Shutting his eyes, he lets the heat slowly run through him, soaking up through his fingers and then beating around his chest. The blackness of his eyelids swims for a moment, then returns to normal.

            Everything returns to normal.

            Eyes flickering open, he stares down the midnight stairwell, until it rounds a corner and is visible no more. Taking a deep breath, he puts his foot on the first step.

to any readers I don’t know, I’m writing a story incorporating my friends from my many travels. If anything appears untasteful or ill-written, please excuse it, it’s probably an in joke.

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            The building was one of the few allowing its occupants to be struck by sunset, a long tooth of glass and metal disappearing into the clouds. And even then, only the top few floors got any real daylight at all.

            The damp, smog-subdued rays of amber cut through the blurry skies of Tokyo, casting Matt’s skin a coppery shade of yellow. The heavy clunk of a minute hand ticking over drew him down to his too-large desk. A few more ticks from the second hand, and the too-large television opposite him flared to life.

            “You’re late,” Matt said curtly. A puzzled look crossed the woman on the screen’s face briefly, followed by what was hoped for as a winning smile.

            “I’m sorry, Mr. Executive,” she started nervously. Matt didn’t move. She continued.

            “I wanted to bring to your attention of the new strand of malaria emerging in Thailand.” Still, no movement on the Tokyo line. “I want you to hurry the invasion.”

            At this, Matt sat up. “You what?” he hissed. Furiously he stabbed a few buttons on the too-large computer, on a stand next to the desk. The image on the screen flickered a moment, then resumed clarity. Matt sighed.

            “I’m sorry, what was you’re name again?” he asked. She bristled at that.

            “Georgia Carrigan,” she said, rather diplomatically, Matt thought. “Prime Minister.”

            “Of Thailand?”

            “Yes of Thailand.”

            “Ah.” Mr. Starr stood up, walking around the desk to be directly in front of the screen. “So you’re a politician, asking me – no, telling me – how to run the world?” The woman made no move to answer, so he continued. “This is what you’re telling me, no?” Georgia didn’t move again, much the custom of such meetings.

            “No. So why don’t you tend to your poor, dying nation. You are a nation, yes?”

            Georgia demonstrated a triumphant poker face. “Actually, I was hoping you would indeed start the invasion,” she said through a sickly smile.  “Check the news tabs Mr Executive.” The screen clicked off.

            Matt frowned briefly, then called in his assistant.

            “Kai!” The man pushed through the too-large doors. “Fetch me a paper.”

            That morning the Japan Times printed twice as many copies. With a collapse of government in Australia, each and every cramped, poverty-stricken mind in Tokyo would be thinking of a place where the grass was much, much greener.

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            Nothing escaped the fire. Thick, oily smoke rising from the grass mats rendered the residents heaving, coughing, and childishly unprotected.

            Seconds passed. Gunshots rang out through the half-light, a dim flash followed by a piercing scream. Modest, thin-walled buildings collapsed as their slender foundations seared through, leaving those trapped inside to burn alive.

            Minutes passed. The noise had fallen through to the fire’s complex licking of lips. A French voice carried through the clamour, reminding all present that prisoners were indeed supposed to be taken. Even to the few villagers alive, they could feel the regret in his foreign words. One by one, the walls of the small houses were smashed through to reveal the honeycomb of, as of now, Japanese prisoners.

             One by one, the survivors were dragged out onto the beach, grimy and blinded. The sun slowly lifted above the tree line, stabbing amber holes through the rising smoke. Away from the oppressive heat, the motley group of Asians on the sand began to stir. They were greeted at gunpoint.

            Articulately, one of the dark-dressed Frenchman slithered a few words in an exotic language. A Chinese man stepped forward from behind the line of weaponry.

            “My name is Alvére. We are of France,” he stammered nervously. “We will take land.” He paused to look at the man who had spoken first, who in turn nodded slightly. “Where is your leader?” When no answer was forthcoming, he continued. “Who is in charge?”

            The first man snapped his fingers. “Tirez sur sa.” A single shot emptied itself in a middle-aged woman half-conscious on the sand. Her legs kicked, and she lay still. The man looked back at the translator. “Again,” he said in French.

            The Chinese delegate licked his lips and tried again. “Who’s in charge?” A flicker of courage seemed to pass through him; he didn’t whisper the next words. “Tell us, yín chóng!” Silence fell, as the villagers stared almost amusedly at their captors. All but one. The invasion party followed a child’s gaze to the tree line, where branches were just easing back into place. A brief nod sent one of the French party off into the trees, a young trooper named Henri Trahir. A look of concern crossed another soldier’s face, staring after the boy running away from the secluded bay, a few miles north of Kagoshima. A cousin.

            A broad ship moored just offshore dominated the horizon. A vast flag hung limp on the mast, a white cross on a field of blood red.

- - -

            The warm light of the sunrise left back at the beach, Henri ran as best as he could into the dark, moist web of trees. He blinked quickly, following the faint imprints in the ground before him. Each recorded footstep was becoming closer to its predecessor, and Henri slowly pulled out his pistol.

            The first stone struck him in the shin. The second, likewise seeming to fly from the trees themselves, struck him hard above his kneecap. One hand flew to the leg, as the other fired into the atrium of this dark, exotic room. A final stone connected hard with the side of his head, and the emerald and khaki world broke into a thousand iridescent snowflakes. As the last strands of his mind frayed apart, he imagined many Japanese men seemingly arguing over what to do with him.

            Previous, half-hearted clutches at consciousness had only resulted in a bitter, hungry black. Now, as Henri slowly dawned full perception, he realised that he was just in a very, very dark place. In two blinks he learned he was roughly tied to the wall behind him - in three that he was naked.

            It could have been an hour, but was probably a much more mundane number. A quiet rasping, and a tongue of crimson light that bounced around the room, revealed it as much smaller than Henri initially imagined.

            Something hard and long whipped across his face, splitting his cheek, followed by another. And another. The blows rained on, until Henri was certain he was crying blood. Then, abruptly, they stopped. There was a short pause.

            “You are slime!” said a voice haltingly in French. “You have disgraced our proud country with your stupidity!” Henri tried to speak, but his lips couldn’t form the words. Seeming satisfied with this apparent lack of answer, the attacker seemed to leave. Still sobbing from his lashing, Henri barely noticed the vinegar sprayed over his face, until he was screaming in agony.

            Having no way of counting each day, even if he could move, he could only guess it was a few days before an equally invisible person came and cut his ties, leaving Henri broken and pathetic on the sandy earthen floor. His tormentor returned regularly, working on different parts of his body after his face refused to heal. His head was roughly shaved with a sharp knife, and his food and water consisted of soggy bread thrown in the dirt.

            Always, he was reminded of how disloyal he was. Constant grating on his already severed self-esteem occurred at every interval of the darkness, always in sick, raspy French.

            It must have been months. The duty of mocking him had fallen to Commander Alvére now.

            “You disgusting excuse for a soldier,” he spat and laughed. “I planned this for years!” Constant, contemptible laughter echoed through the vast cave louder and louder as the years rolled by. His mother and father scorned him from beyond the shadows, as France escaped over the horizon, into the night of hatred. Friends, lovers, family, all came to scorn and laugh.

            In the end, it was that of the end: pain and self-pity, over and over, becoming something palpable, someone who could never be trusted.

            As hope thumping from within its tomb, a warm, honey-sweet light grew from imaginary to very real so quickly that the prisoner’s mind struggled to keep up. Slowly, a face took form against the shadows, and then an outstretched hand. Hours passed examining that hand until when, painfully, the prisoner extended his own scabbed, mutilated arm, tenderly gripping this stranger, it seemed as though unreal. Delicately, the stranger lifted him under a beautifully soft cloth. Despite his best efforts, the prisoner still passed out.

            The first thing wrong was, of course, the light. Breathing hard, the man peered through squinted eyes, bit by bit taking in the room around him. Only later, as he shifted position, did the man find he was indeed in complete and utter comfort. Thick, colourful cushions cast the plain white, but extremely comfortable sheet a myriad of shades. A slightly translucent balm covered his flesh, slightly sticking to the sheet. As his eyes finally found their bearings, another man sitting cross-legged in front to him came into existence.

            They sat silent for a moment. They began to speak almost simultaneously.

            “Kazyaka-sensai,” the stranger said first. The words hung in the air. A brief look of concern crossed his face, but it was gone in a flash. Pointing to himself, he repeated it. Slow realization drew on a mind unused for too long.

            “Sakayuza.” The listener was being pointed at now. The talker nodded proficiently. Cautiously, the listener tried his tongue. “Sakayuza,” he repeated.

            Kazyaka smiled through that whole morning of learning, and the next, and the next.

- - -

            It was dark over the French coastline. Brief flashes of the moon’s thin crescent through the thick clouds would show a low, ornate boat sailing back northwest, back out to the English Channel. Hugging the dark sands, a small group of black-clad figures negotiated the beach of what was approximately Le Havre.

            In the morning, the body washed ashore. He was a recognized fisherman, known for having his daily stock in by mid-morning at the latest, and worked all night. His boat was nowhere to be seen.

            He had an arrow deep in his back.

            The sun was only just rising when the troupe first sighted the Château de Vincennes, proud against the orange sky. The handful of figures on the horizon, dressed in the skins of a wagon full of circus performers, seemed undecided. Then one, standing above the rest, motioned subtly to move forward.

            It was, after all, his homeland.

            “More, more!” squealed little Pierre Lavîour, the resulting handstand making the boy of seven laugh even harder. Then the circus moved on, noise and colour flashing through the dreary September morning.

            Pierre couldn’t believe his luck. Two circuses in two days! He smiled, and continued to make his way home back from the Château.

            The performers, however, made a slow but efficient beeline for the castle. The two guards stationed at the southern gate smiled pleasantly as the wagon of music and dancing approached, shuffling eagerly on tired feet.

            The wagon drew closer, and the dancing paused for an instant. Ribbons twirled, and the guards vanished. A slight red sheen misted the grass – apart from that, the royal house was left open.

            The music had stopped now. As the sun moved directly overhead, the performers themselves disappeared into the walls of the castle.

            Sakayuza climbed the stairwell, as though escaping a rising tide.

            “Arréter!” called a guard on the stairs above him. Sakayuza smiled warmly. The guard paused. A sleight of hand, and a dagger lodged itself deep in his chest.

            Dragging the body into a nearby alcove, he continued up the stairs, faster now. A shout from below echoed up the stairwell, followed by a cry of pain. An instant later one of his brothers joined him, nodding an acknowledgement. In his hand he clutched a few folds of paper, a blood-slick blade in the other. Sakayuza led the way up the remaining stairs.

            Finally, he found the door he was looking for. The top door. Two guards stood at ready attention, already raising their rifles. Sakayuza’s sword was out in an instant, cutting one man’s throat. The other lunged with his bayonet, scoring a thin gash down his attacker’s bicep. A backhanded blow to the guard’s face came free with a dagger through his features. Both dropped at Sakayuza’z feet.

            He glanced briefly at his partner, who already had his bow drawn and was nocking a single arrow. He pushed open the doors.

            “My King!” he cried, drawing a ridiculous bow. Two more guards sprung into action, startled by the pointy things in their chests. A quiet displacement of air above him, and a solid thunk as the arrow sunk home. As Sakayuza quickly drew the doors shut again, he caught a brief glimpse of the body on the throne, a three-foot arrow pinning his head to the plush backing of his oversized chair.

            But it was another face that caught his eye, off to the side of the room. A face twisted with dim recognition, dull recollection. It shot long needles through his mind.

            The other shinobi was already rounding the first curve of the stairs. Sakayuza shook his head, desperately clinging to his training.

            “Peace even in chaos,” Kazyaka had drilled into him. All those long months in the cold, those endless days of work and pain, had lead to this. And it was finished, wasn’t it?

            So why was there more to do?

            He stopped. The other shinobi ran on ahead, escaping the tolling of the bell tower. Heavy footsteps resounded up the stairs, and Sakayuza grimly realised that every guard in the palace would be rushing up those stairs. He turned, and started back up towards the throne room. He sprinted past the door, towards an open, arched window marking the end of the stairwell. He pulled a long piece of coiled rope from within his performer’s robes, tying it around an arrowslit. He swung a leg over the high wall and-

            “Henri!” The voice came from behind him, back from the throne room. “Henri!”

            Sakayuza froze, paralyzed by the voice. He struggled to step out, into the brisk breeze tossing his rope. He couldn’t.

            He could hear footsteps now, as his tormentor approached. An insidious rasp as a sword was drawn. “Henri?” A light touch on his shoulder, slowly turning him around.

            “Henri? Is that you?”

            A single tear rolled through the garish face paint.

            “No,” he whispered, and fell out the window.

            Tightening his grip halfway down, he pushed off the stone walls, slowing his fall so that when he did finally touch the ground, he collapsed from something other than gravity’s fee. Stupefied on the ground, he forced himself to get up, to run. Distant gunshot echoed through the town, but ricocheted far to the right. He pressed on through the milling anarchy of the townspeople, who hardly noticed a crying, blood-soaked clown.

            He woke in a glade, at least fifty miles from Paris. The horse he had stolen in the blur of yesterday had run off, leaving him alone and possibly for dead.

            He stumbled down to a narrow creek, dashing water on his face, until clumps of caked make-up and blood fell into the stream. Soon his own tears splashed down.

            He knew that the boat to carry him home would be leaving soon. The smoke stretching across the horizon testified to the success of the mission – if his brothers had all escaped, then the French war plans would be securely in their hands as well.

            Brief visions of the last moments in the keep returned.

            “Henri?” That voice resounded through his head over and over, bouncing off each side of his skull. Sakayuza felt sick. The voice was beside him now, those familiar eyes the same despite the years.

            He shut his eyes, drifting asleep.

            The clang of an opened door woke him.

            “Henri!” a familiar voice whispered fiercely. “Come on!” He blinked the bleariness from his eyes. A rough hand grabbed for his wrist, pulling him upright. Looking around, he could see he was in some kind of gaol. Except, the door lay wide open.

            “Come on!” repeated his waker with urgency, tugging him unsuccessfully. Kazyaka made me strong, he mused quietly.

            Kazyaka.

            He snapped instantly wide-awake.

            “Who are you?” he demanded. “Where am I?” The stranger looked overly anxious to leave. Sakayuza pulled his hand away. “I know you, don’t I?” he furthered, a hint of suspicion in his voice. He allowed himself to be led from the cell. The mysterious rescuer looked eft and right, before settin a brisk pace down the left corridor. Both, Sakayuza could see, ended in corners.

            The gaolkeeper rounded the corner they were approaching.

            “Monsieur Javier?” the guard asked quizzically. The rescuer tried to move quietly past. “Monsieur, I’m afraid I can’t allow you to take the prisoner past this point.”

            Javier. The name sent sparks flying across Sakayuza’s memory.

            Javier stopped. Almost wearily, he drew a long pistol.

            “My friend,” he said slowly, “I need to take him.” He roughly pointed the end of the gun at the guard’s face. “Please?”

            The guard slowly placed his hands out, sinking to the floor. The two escapees edged past.

            The walked briskly up the few stairs, seeing light shine through the lowdown windows. “You’re going to have to trust me, okay?”

            Sakayuza didn’t get a chance to reply. Taking him by the hand once more, Javier pulled him from the gaol and into what seemed to be inside the Château’s walls.

            “Arréter!” a voice called from high in the battlements moments later. Cursing darkly, Javier dragged them into a throng of people. A gunshot echoed trough the keep regardless.

            Instantly, the courtyard was a shrieking, writhing mass of panic, Paris’ people pushed far past breaking point.

            “Quickly!” Javier called. He was already half-lost in the crowd. Sakayuza struggled after him.

            A hand yanked him past a stall, into a narrow corridor between the keep and the wall. He struggled, but discovered it only to be Javier.

            “There’s a corridor,” he hissed. “It passes under the walls, down to the river.” Sure enough, the corridor developed a ceiling, and then stairs back down into the ground. Down into the dark.

            Sakayuza tried and tried again to focus is mind, as he had been trained to do, but found nothing. With no light, nor torches, he trailed his hand on the mildewed walls of the tunnel. Only the faint tapping of his rescuer indicated something other than Nothing.

            Nothing spoke.

            “Do you not remember anything?” It was almost whispered, but Sakayuza had been waiting for that question a while now. Briefly, anger flared in his chest, but it quickly subsided. What did he remember? Two years of Nihon? Of training for this one mission?

            “No,” he admitted.

            “You’re name is Henri- “

            “No!” he cried. “No, it isn’t. I know my name.”

            Javier might have paused more from emotion than lack of words, but Sakayuza couldn’t tell. “What is your name then?”

            He stopped at that. Not just vocally, but entirely. After taking a few more steps, Javier turned and tugged him along. Drops of water splashed on his hand, and he realised that his company was crying.

            “We need to keep moving- “

            “Who am I?” the man screamed. It echoed down the long tunnel, and Javier immediately tried to pull his friend along. He wouldn’t budge. Frantic now, he slapped the hysterical man hard across the face.

            “You are Henri Trahir!” No they were both shouting. “You enlisted in the French army three years ago. You were on the party sent to achieve diplomatic relations with Japan, but were captured in the process.” The man was silent; Javier could only guess at his expression in the darkness. He waited a moment, tried again.

            “You’re married.” He felt the man stir, and tried again. “She’s beautiful. Lorraine. Lorraine Trahir.”

            “… Lorraine?”

            Confusion. Javier forced himself to slow down. “Yes,” he said excitedly. “Do you remember?” There was a long, long pause.

            “Lorraine,” Sakayuza said slowly. “Lorraine.” There was something rising in his voice now. “You left me, Lorraine. Left me in that Place. You spat on me!” Rage coursed through his voice now, a deep, unbound rage. “You left me to die!”

            Another slap, this time returned with a solid punch. Stunned, Javier sunk to the ground, unable to speak.

            “Burn it to the ground, brothers!” Sakayuza cried, echoing his voice down the corridor. “I’m ready!”

            “They’re gone, man!” shouted Javier. “Long gone!”

            “No,” Sakayuza laughed. “They’re waiting in our glade, cousin. You’re all to die!” He choked then, realising what he had said. Javier lay on the ground, equally as stunned.

            He rose silently. Henri was jabbering now, sobbing and moaning for forgiveness. Finding a heavy stone in the dark, he quickly bashed him over the head. The man fell, instantly silent.

            Javier quickly checked his pulse, to affirm he was alive, then sprinted back up the tunnel, to the castle.

            He opened his eyes to darkness, once again. He could feel the blood caked across his face, but his head was clear. Standing steadily, he pushed out a hand for the tunnel wall. He stood woozily for a few seconds, listening intently for the trickle of the creek. Faintly, he could hear running water, far to his right.

            Henri followed the sound.

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Of course, it was raining. Bloated, heavy drop after bloated heavy drop splattered in the Ipswich mud, the faint moonlight casting them brilliant silver. The overpowering water covered everything, including the deep, defined footprints leading to the lamp-lit courthouse.

            Fear was in the sodden earth, the saturated air.

            The children knew it, their eyes and ears pressed up to the boards of the courthouse. Enduring a life of hardship, someone else’s fear was delicious, and every earful was savoured.

            “… or do you not, confess to being a witch?”

            “I told you, I’m not a witch!”

            A shuffling of feet, a low chorus of murmurs and whispers. A man’s shout from the audience inside. “This is not just! You have no proof!” A series of raised voices frustratingly overpowered the magistrate’s ruling.

            “… nothing but just! He will be hanged!”

            “He’s innocent! Damnit! He’s inn- ” the voice carried through to outside, in the rain. The man stared shocked at the closed doors, then sobbed, sinking into the mud. Unperturbed, the children returned to the proceedings inside.

            “Mr Miller, how do you plead?” The Mr Miller in question looked around the room, hands clasped tightly in his lap. The mixed faces of the room stared back at him. He took a shaky breath.

            “Not guilty.”

            The courthouse erupted into disorder, cries of injustice and scorn bouncing off the high ceiling. Mr Miller paled.

            “Then you will be hanged until- “

            “No!” Miller interjected. “My niece, your honour. She can tell if one is a witch.” The magistrate glanced up at him for the first time.

            Eleanor wasn’t forced back into the hall, in the same way a prisoner isn’t forced to sleep. Nevertheless, she pushed the heavy maple doors open, an anxious but innocent look written over her face. This was sincere, in part. She had no idea what was going on.

            A wave of hush spread throughout the room. A strong hand pushed her down the aisle of pursed expressions and appraising stares. A commanding voice snapped her attention to the raised dais, at the front of the room. The assembly hushed immediately.

            “Ms Eleanor Miller?” She nodded mutely. “It has been stated you can allegedly detect witchcraft. Is this true?”

            Dumbfounded. Her eyes went wide, flying over the room, eventually resting on her uncle. He was silent, staring at her with a plea unmistakeable to a fool. She looked back to the magistrate.

            “Is this true?”

            The force of the words stunned her into speech. “Yes,” she stammered. She opened her mouth to add more, but no more was forthcoming. The crowd shuffled nervously.

            “Can you then, with a pure heart, declare your uncle innocent?”

            Trapped, and with no way out, she said all she could have said.

            “Yes.”

- - -

            The small hearing room was cold, above all. As a recent addition to the main courthouse, it was really just a blister of thin wood on one of the wings. The low, unadorned door was abruptly pushed open, as the large frame of the magistrate pushed its way in.

            He was smiling a rather unjust smile.

            He sat down in a seat opposite her, silent for almost a quarter of a minute. Finally, he spoke.

            “So, you can find witches?” His tone suggested otherwise. “Notionally, you could round up all the witches in the village? Look at me, child.” He was smiling again. “You can find witches?”

            She tried to hold his gaze, her heart beating in her throat. “I, I- “

            “Because if you can’t, not only will your father be hanged for witchcraft, you yourself will tried for perjury, a serious offence in these times of injustice rumoured within the court.” Tears slowly filled her eyes. “But we should be rejoicing! We now have a tool against the darkness we face ahead.” She didn’t see him move. Just one blink and he was there, lips pressed to her ear.

            “You better find me a witch,” he whispered hoarsely, bits of spittle getting caught up in her hair. “Because don’t think I won’t find you.” With that, he stood up and left. She ran outside into the rain.           

- - -

            Eleanor sat sprawled over the single chair they had, dragged in front of the fireplace, long streaks of dried teardrops cladding the contours of her face.

            For one thing, she knew her uncle was innocent. She had lived with the man her entire life, after her father died, and while her mother’s brother was indeed a strange, secretive man, he was no murderer.

            The torrential rain outside almost drowned out the two rhythmic knocks on the door.

            Knock, knock.

            She slowly made her way to the door, knowing full well her visitor would be getting soaked. She glanced briefly at the stained, dull mirror on the wall, decided she didn’t care, and twisted the doorknob.

            A child, barely past her waist, smiled up at her. Her heart melted instantly.

            “Oh you poor thing!” she cried, immediately herding him inside towards the fireplace. “You must be freezing! Where’s your family…?” She stopped. The child was no child at all. Instead, it was a small, very small, middle-aged man.

            He smiled apologetically. “I heard you crying and thought you might be in distress, is all.” Eleanor looked him over, the man’s age rendering her speechless. “I might ask, ma’am, why are you crying so bitterly?” Dimly it occurred to her it would be near impossible to hear someone crying in this weather, even if he was passing right by their house. The house isolated on acres of farmland. But he seemed concerned, and concern was what she needed right now.

            “Yes,” she said at last. “I mean no, but I’m fine.” The man stared, as if asking for more. “It’s my uncle,” she furthered. “He’s to be hanged.”

            “Should not all crimes be punished?” asked the man. “I’m sorry my dear, but your uncle must be a wicked man indeed to be hanged.” He looked into her eyes then, and she saw that his were a soft, but unnatural, golden hue. “But he’s innocent, isn’t he? You and I both know this.

            “What will you give me if I tell the names to you?”

            Her mind immediately turned over, searching desperately for something to trade. “My necklace,” she said at last. So the little man took the necklace, and sat down at a table. He procured a slip of paper and a heavy-looking metal pen, and swiftly scribbled down three names.

- - -

            They came for her as soon as the sun rose, a sharp rap on the door waking Eleanor with a start. The policemen escorted her west, to Ipswich. The narrow bridge over the Ipswich River creaked slightly as they crossed over to the courthouse. She was ushered into the same cramped hearing room used the previous night. She didn’t have to wait long.

            The magistrate walked into the room, his tense posture undermining his decidedly put-on calm face. “So,” he cleared his throat, “do you have any of the names of the witches terrorising our town?” Eleanor looked up at him once, then slid the little man’s sheet of paper across the petit table between them. His eyes widened as he scanned the list.

            “Are you certain?” The magistrate licked his lips, returning his gaze to the paper. “No, no, of course. We’ll investigate immediately.”

            He got up, as if to leave, before turning back to her. “We have reason to believe there is more than but three witches in Ipswich,” he said slowly. “And these three may not even be as you say. You will give us more names, and you will remain here until these witches are found. Understood?” As he walked out of the room, two policemen walked in, taking her by the elbow to the cells below.

- - -

            Her sobs reflected around the small, cramped cell, and mirrored by the other grimy prisoners around her. Curled in a tight ball, the growing light from the small, barred window promised darkness. Her heart sped up as her crying intensified.

            “What’ll you give me if I give you more names?” whispered a sudden voice in her ear. She jumped, frantically searching for the sound. She noticed a bright, yellow eye peering from a crack in the stone wall. A finger of hope blossomed in her stomach.

            “The ring from my finger,” she answered. A frantic scratching followed, and a small slip of paper was thrust through the hole. Hesitantly, Eleanor pressed her eye to the gap, but it was just a narrow crack ending in mortar. Taking a deep breath, she unfolded the paper in her hand.

            She was lead up from the cells a few hours later. On her way up, she noticed three women, all unconscious, chained excessively within three separate cells. In the dark light, it was difficult to be sure, but Eleanor thought she saw blood.

- - -

            Sitting in the hard chair of the all-too-familiar hearing room, Eleanor watched the magistrate’s smile grow sickeningly wider as its wearer tried to turn it to winning. “Thank you so much,” he started. “You don’t know how much you’ve helped me.” He said it with a nervous chuckle. Heart sinking, Eleanor began to read his intentions perfectly.

            “What would you have, supposing you gave me more?”

            She gamely tried to match his hungry stare, but slowly slid her gaze to the floor. She watched his shoes, still not completely free of mud, shuffle closer.

            “I could even,” he whispered in her ear, “make you my wife.” She sat silently. He pulled away.

            “Or you could live alone on your failing farm, scratching a living from the land.” She didn’t like the way he said living. “Your uncle is old now, not much of a real protector. It is a very isolated farm, isn’t it?” Seemingly not looking for an answer, he started walking to the door. He paused, looking over his shoulder.

            “Food for thought,” he called with a wry grin.

            The first tear was only halfway down her face when the manikin appeared. He stood silently by her elbow, just out of sight.

            “I have nothing more to give you,” she said at last. She said it slowly, calmly. The little man seemed to shift.

            “Promise me your first child born to the Magistrate of this town.”

            She blinked, lost for words. Who knows what could happen before that? she thought. Quietly, solemnly, she agreed. She turned, but the man was already gone. A small leaf of paper floated lazily towards the floor.

- - -

            It was a year later.

            A beautiful son had been born to both Eleanor and the magistrate. While she did not yet love the magistrate, she loved her son dearly. She loved him to the point where all else seemed like dust in the wind. Her uncle, after everything, had passd away a few months after the trial.

            She had even forgotten the strange, tiny man.

            He came for her in the dead of night, while she was sleeping. She slept apart from her husband, as much as she could. As though a dream, a small rasping voice whispered inside her ear.

Eleanor…                  Eleanor…                                    Eleanor…            Eleanor…            Eleanor…         Eleanor…

         Her eyes snapped open and she sucked in a breath as if to scream, but found tiny, grasping fingers over her lips and around her throat.

            “Your child, Eleanor,” it hissed. “I have come for what I was promised.” Struggling to make a sound, to promise him anything, she finally made out a single, desperate, “please”. A wicked, gleeful grin split his face at this, revealing miniature, pointed teeth. “No.” She could feel his pulse through his hands. “A living creature is dearer to me than all the treasures in the world.” She broke into tears at this. Slowly, she felt the rough fingers slacken.

            “The devil is alive in Ipswich,” he said finally. “I’ll give you three days to guess his name.”

            He disappeared in a heartbeat. She wiped the tears from her eyes, and went to find the court records.

- - -

            She sat waiting in the study, looking out the window on the rushing banks of the Ipswich River.

            “Do you have the Devil’s name?”

            Looking down at the records in front of her, she began.

            “Kaspar?”

            “That’s not his name.”

            “Melchior?”

            “That’s not his name.”

            “Belshazzar?”

            “That’s not his name.”

            She read out all the names in a string, but to each and every one the man replied the same. At the end of it, she grew silent.

            “You have two days remaining, Eleanor.” And with that, he was gone.

            She spent the day in the town, uncovering names of rural families and low-lying citizens. In exchange for a few dollar coins, a hungry young boy had been drafted into helping her. When the man returned later that night, she asked again,

            “Is his name Sheepshanks? Cruickshanks? Spindleshanks?”

            “That is not his name.”

            On the third day, she sent the boy out to see what he could find. She stayed in the house, with her son. She forced herself not to cry.

            The boy returned as the sun set. Eleanor looked at him bleakly. “My lady,” he spoke cautiously. “I didn’t find any names for you.” She nodded once, then turned back to her son.

            “I did, however, find a little house, far in the woods. There was a grotesque little man, who danced around a fire, singing:

            ‘To-morrow I brew, to-day I bake,
            And then the child away I’ll take;
            For little deems the court’s dame

            That Lucifer is my name!’”

            At this the queen span around urgency in her voice. “Are you certain?” she asked, not daring to gain hope.

            “My lady, I am certain.” She smiled once, then dismissed the boy.

- - -

            He came for her as the moon passed over a cloud, suddenly flaring up in the darkness.

            For all his lack of height, he filled the room, a dark smile carving its way across his leering face.

            “Eleanor.” He laboured over the three syllables, as though each one had to be dragged from his throat. He licked his lips. “Do you know the name of the Devil?”

            “Is his name, Conrad?”

            “That is not his name.”

            Her heart pounded in her chest. “Is his name, Harry?”

            The revolting little man’s smile grew even wider, stretching impossibly across his face. “No,” he said, shuffling closer. His eyes searched the dark corners of the room. “Is that it?”

            “No,” she said finally. “Is your name, perhaps,” the man’s eyes widened in disbelief. She almost choked on the words.

            “Lucifer?”

            The world seemed to stop. The only sound was the man’s slow, laboured breathing. Then the silence broke apart.

            “Some demon has told you that!” he screamed, the room seeming to stretch infinitely as the shadows took shaky form. Snaky, dripping hands reached out of the darkness, towards the shaking man in front of her. “Some demon has told you that!”

            The floor broke beneath him, a howling vortex opening at his feet. The man’s screams became something more now, something ancient. Suddenly, he was everything, his face the face of every emotion Eleanor had ever felt. Then as abruptly as it began, he tore in two.

            The noise ended.

            The room returned.

            The magistrate rushed in, past the shower of paper fluttering to the ground. He was holding her son, and she took him, holding him close.
            As each individual sheet of paper touched the floor, it quickly ripped itself into pieces. A light breeze carried them through the window, down to the banks of the dark Ipswich River.

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The caterpillar climbs up the stem of the rose, carefully edging around the thorns. It never questions these thorns, or even the existence of the rose. It just climbs.

            The rose looms above, ever closer.

            s[72] made no sound as the sulphur jet enveloped him completely. It had appeared without warning, stemming from a crevice in the side of the volcanic crater. As the volcano’s latest victim slowly grew motionless, s[21] stared in disbelief. Not in the slightest for the loss of life, but the sheer number of workers that had met their ends from the mountain.

            Shouldering his load of sulphur crystals, s[21], or S21, continued his trek to the rim of the fissure, the descent of the sun barely visible through the thick clouds of smog.

- - -

<h1>Entry 206 27/4/2078</h1>

<p>Moved 163kg sulphur. Number of deaths increasing observably. Registering levels of anxiety and fear. I wonder, when does this end? Why the sulphur, all the time, non-stop? End log</p>

            S21 lay down in the short, narrow bed, the only light the green emergency strips.

<p>More people are dying</p>

<p>I know</p>

<p>Is there another eruption scheduled soon?</p>

<p>I don’t know</p>

<p>How long do you think we have?</p>

            S21 had no reply.

- - -

<title>28/4/2078</title>

<h1>&#115;</h1>

<p>0535: Meal#1  0555: Board transportation shuttle  0630: Commence work period  1830: Board transportation shuttle  1900: Meal#2  1925: Submit log</p>

            S21 was on the shuttle by five to six, taking the seat marked with his name. He stared into the identical, plastic seat in front of him, oblivious to the lurid landscape of the modern Earth outside of his window. Sickly yellow clouds obscured the roots of the stark, slate-grey volcanic mountains of Indonesia, narrow winding road barely visible as it snaked up to the summit. A soft beep alerted him to the time. Irritated, he rose from his seat and moved down the aisle, pressing the door release.

            Nothing happened.

            A frown tugging at his forehead, he forced the hatch open, stepping out into the dawn light.

            Target sighted!

                                                                                                Mine.

            A lance of pain seared through his shoulder. Gasping more at the strange, commanding voices echoing through his head than the actual wound, he dropped to his knees. A second and third shot collapsed him to the ground, his face motionless in the dirt.

                        Charges set!                                                            Commence evacuation

                                                                        Get to the ship, man!           

                           Detonation in three, two, one…                                   

         Crawling around the side of the shuttle, S21 was still knocked unconscious by the force of the coming explosion. Small, native tribes living around the edges of the volcanoes were convinced it was indeed the mountains they called home. But bloody, ragged, and surrounded by fragments of the shuttle which saved his life, S21 lay obscured by the rising smoke, motionless but very much alive.

- - -

            It was the southerly wind that eventually woke him, blowing the ash in small whirlwinds around his head. Coughing and spluttering, the burnt and blistered form rose from the wreckage. The survivor managed a few steps through the smouldering shrapnel of the mining facility before collapsing, palms pressed into the earth.

            “Lay still,” commanded a curious accent, the spoken words freezing him in place. Something plastic was gently eased into his mouth, cool trickles of water running over his swollen tongue.

            S21 opened his eyes.

            Eclipsing the setting sun, the lone man was not a clone. His skin was far too dark, his smile too wide. This man was a native.

            <p>How did you get here? Who are you?</p>

      His rescuer blinked. “What’s that, yeah?” he questioned. “That’s in my head it is.”

            <p><em>What happened?</em></p>

      “What happened?” S21 nodded. The man flashed a large grin, splitting his face into a mask of knowing.

            “You got too clever, didn’t you? Started to figure it all out. They can’t have that.” Seeing S21’s look of puzzlement, he added, “Don’t worry brother, you’re not the first. Best come along.”

- - -

            Tossing and turning. Sleep proved to be impossible in the strange, alien bed. S21 finally gave up.

            Pushing open the flaps of his hut, he walked out into the complete blackness of the Village at the Foot of Volcanoes. The only sounds punctuating the night air were the other villagers tossing and turning and the distant hiss of the sulphuric gasses.

            There was no buzz of electricity.

            No echoing footsteps down long hallways.

            But the voices. The out-loud, ear-heard voices.

            Looking back only once, he began hiking up to the summit of the volcano.

- - -

I’ll take the guava today, thank you very much. Continue.

All one hundred and thirty clones have been marked as offline, sir.

Really, Sergeant?

There hasn’t been an entry since the incursion, sir.

Meaning, by all logic, they are each and every one dead?

No, sir.

Ah.

I’ll lead a recon team over the facility.

Please, do. Pass me my juice will you, C13?

- - -

            Once Ijen was discontinued as a tourist destination, the upkeep of its many hiking paths lapsed into non-existence. Slow erosion and the inevitable hazard of acidic rain eventually lead to the total extinction of helpful stairs.

            S21 scrambled over another rocky overhang, reaching desperately for a handhold. He flailed blindly, slipping back off the edge.

            He hit the penultimate ledge hard, the breath exploding from his chest. His forearms stung from the fall, and countless others just the same. Shocked and shattered, he lay on the cool stone amiably, his sweat-stained clothes chilling slowly. Forcing himself to breathe again, he slowly stood up and tried again.

            He threw an arm over the rocky extension, once again groping for something – anything – to grab hold of. He caught hold of a worn, leather object.

            A boot.

            Roughened and calloused hands seized him by the shoulders, hauling S21 over onto the peak of the volcanic crater. The dawn sun cast the acid lake in a transcendent beauty, cutting through the white, misty fog floating over it in social groups.

            S21 couldn’t take his eyes off of it as the same hands carried him into a small crevice, then deep within the mountainside.

- - -

            The gunshot severed through the crisp morning air as another villager hit the floor, dying on his knees.

            “Once more,” Sergeant D662 said slowly, articulately. “Where did he go?”

            Another sudden outburst of sobbing, another crack of thunder. The heavy thump of dead weight hitting the soil.

            “He may have gone to the source of the fire, the volcano,” suggested an aged and wavering voice. A successive gunshot killed him instantly.

            “Actually, he’s probably right,” the sergeant commented. “Scan the paths leading up to the volcano. Someone clean up this mess.” He looked bleakly up at the sun-ridged lip of the mountain range as the automatic weapons ripped apart the remaining culture of Indonesia.

- - -

            S21 found himself in a large, dome-shaped cavern, lemon sulphur crystals scattered over the floor. Disorientated, and feeling alone despite the hustle of activity within the cave, he slowly made to stand up.

            <p>Stay down. Don’t make a sound</p>

      He froze.

            <p>There were gunshots. You may have lead them here</p>

            The voice was younger, somehow. It was as if something hadn’t been transcripted right – just a bit off the norm.

            There was dead silence in the cave.

You know, this pineapple juice tasted awfully like apple.

Sir, I’m so sorr-

It’s okay. Just get it soon.

Of cour-

Wait. Get me Sergeant D662. Now.

            The sergeant’s pulse sped up as he slowly counted down from three, silently, on his fingers. On the drop of the last finger the wall of the crater exploded inwards, rubble tumbling into the lake. The soldiers, guns raised, filed professionally into the dust-filled cavern.

            Small shotgun pellets met them, bouncing dismally off the thick body armour of the recon team. One soldier, his visor still on top of his black helmet, caught a pellet in the face, dropping like a stone.

            The soldiers opened fire.

            It was like a sawblade cut through the cave. Standing bodies were ripped to pieces, as were the walls chewed through. Stalactites, for years growing in reverse, split and cracked on the ground.

            Sergeant D662 frowned as his earpiece relayed the messages, the orders. Hesitating for a mere second, he called ceasefire.

            Trembling, the protective arm of his latest rescuer over his head, S21 hugged the volcanic stone.

Stand up

            Cold, firm.

Now

            Shaking, he and his companion brought themselves up on their feet.

What’s your names, then?

<p>&#115;[21]</p>

            A pause, as the other clone took a breath.

<p>&#115;[21]</p>

      A wicked grin carved it’s way across the sergeant’s features.

            “Excellent,” he smiled. “This way, please.”

            They were knocked out from behind, the world suddenly pitching forward into black. They didn’t see, from the perspective of the helicopter, the cave detonate viciously, the ancient acid lake spilling out in a cascade of blue.

- - -

                                                                                                Are they awake yet?

                  No, sir                                                                                                            How long?

                                    There’s no telling                                                      He’s stirring now

                                                      They, you mean        No, C13.

                                                                                          He.

            The two men stood before him. Them, S21 realised, taking into account the clone from the cave next to him, just recovering as well. The men were quite opposite, yet quite similarly at ease. The first man, identical to S21 apart from his name, was obviously a clone. Dressed in an unassuming white suit, standing slightly behind the second man. Who was, in turn, an exact twin in appearance with everyone present in the room, a casual, loose-fitting shirt tucked into a pair of grey trousers. A small platter of fruits and cheeses lay on the low table next to him.

            The dominant man, the second man, spoke first.

            “Hello, S21.”

<p>Hello</p>

            S21 hesitated, then replied <p>Hello</p>

            Each of the seated clones turned to look at one another, confused. They had spoken almost entirely in sync, only the faint variation of the speed of sound enough to make it noticeable.

            Pushing that aside for a moment, S21 turned back to his host.

            “My dear clones, this is exactly why we cannot allow you to continue on living. Understood?”

            Both S21’s stared mutely back at him.

            “I thought as such.” The man turned and walked out of the room. “Kill them, will you C13?” C13 looked at them for a brief second, before reaching under his jacket. S21 reacted immediately.

            He leapt out of the chair, driving straight into the gunman’s waist and knocking him over. Someone else hit the man in the temple, leaving him motionless on the mosaic tiles. With a dawning realisation, S21 finally did understand.

            Both of them did.

- - -

I knew he had the same idea. I nodded briefly, perfectly mirrored by his nod. “We’ll go after him,” we said in perfect unison. We both reached out for C13’s gun, but he was closer. I smiled at him, and he was already smiling back. It was a grim smile.

The man was already coming back through, curious as to why there had been no gunshots. I, or, the other me, raised the gun and pulled the trigger, but it was a token gesture. It bounced in his hand, ricocheting off one of the walls far to the right. The man didn’t flinch.

He smiled, even.

Picking up the gun, we ran for the door, left open. He was there. I pulled the trigger, but the recoil almost snapped my wrist. The bullet went wild.

He smiled, and began to talk.

Reflection:

I chose the letter ‘s’. Wikipedia, first and foremost, gave me the HTML spelling of S, right away giving me a small idea. I also remembered S being the elemental symbol for sulphur, and I had recently seen a documentary on sulphur mining in Indonesia. Slowly, I guess the idea formed.

I liked the way the story started, although I added the caterpillar metaphor later on. The actual plotline changed quite a few times throughout me writing it, the conclusion only really being thought out as I wrote it. I was worried it would be a bit too difficult to read, if I were breaking the rules too much. I guess I’ll see, and though my editors liked it, the editors were both my age.

I was also worried the ending was too abrupt, although I decided a final few paragraphs concluding what happened weren’t a thrilling end. I had a horrible sensation of the whole story slowing down as I reached the last quarter of it, but that can’t be helped, and I hope it proved to be untrue.

Altogether, I have only written a few stories of this length, and though I do not feel it is my best, I do really quite like it.