The World to Come
by Eildon Rhymer
What if the Dark had won at the end of Silver on the Tree? The world is sliding into darkness, and only tattered remnants of the Light remain. Will, Bran and the Drews grow to adulthood, and each to their own destiny in this World to Come.
Part one: chapter four
Holly for the Dark
The tree had come early this year. Draped in tinsel and lights, it shone ferociously against the early twilight that was outside. Will had never seen it so bright, or so sorrowful.
He was sitting on the hearth, knees pulled up to his chin, arms wrapped around them. The stone was still cold beneath him, but the air around was colder. The only light came from the tree. The only sound came from the front door opening, and then closing again.
Will's father stirred. He had been sitting in his battered leather chair for over an hour, doing nothing at all, but now he picked up the newspaper and hastily tried to pretend that he had been reading it. He laid it down again when Mary entered, her arms heaped high with holly.
"Not more," Will's father groaned. "We've got enough."
"We haven't got enough." Mary stuck her chin out mulishly. She tipped the holly onto the couch, loose leaves and berries scattering everywhere. When she peeled her thick gloves off, Will could see scratches on her wrists, and there was a longer one on the side of her neck.
"It's cold in here," Mary said.
Will's father ruffled the newspaper. His hands looked stiff and tired. "Is it? Warmer than outside, I'd have thought."
Mary went to put the light on. The lights of the Christmas tree dwindled and faded in contrast. There were no paper chains this year, but the tinsel shivered as Mary stamped past.
"Any more Christmas cards?" Mary asked. "Any presents?"
"No presents." Her father shook his head. "A few cards from my family, that's all."
Will had glanced into a few cards earlier, and seen only sad and awkward greetings, without the usual chatty letters that came with Christmas in a large family. No-one knew what to say. The most awkward of all had been from Jen and David Evans. Will's father had ripped it up with a growl, and thrust it in the bin. It had been the most movement he had done all afternoon.
"I saw James outside," Mary said. "He's been fighting again. I thought I'd better warn you."
"Oh." Will's father tightened his lips. "I'll talk to him."
"Won't make a difference." Mary sat down on the couch, careful to avoid to holly that was spilling everywhere. "They deserve it, the ones he's fighting. You know the sort."
"Yes."
Will knew them, too. Richie Moore and his friends, and others like him, and worse. There were more of them by the day. Schools were ugly places, but soon towns and cities would be uglier. The children sometimes led, but their parents would soon follow. The Dark had won.
"You're talking about me?" James' cheek was bruised and his eye was swollen. He had already removed his coat, but his trousers were muddy and his shoes scuffed.
His father folded the newspaper, and laid it on the arm of the chair. "Fighting isn't the answer, James."
"Then what is?" James retorted. "They asked for it. They said… They said that…"
"It doesn't matter what they said." His father looked almost afraid of hearing it. "Ignore them. It upsets your mother so, when you come back like this. And today of all days…"
That's why he did it, of course, Will thought. He could see the truth on all their faces.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and all three of them stiffened, a group drawing in on themselves in anticipation of a stranger arriving. When Paul entered, they all let out a silent breath. Paul sat down on a spare seat, but gave no sign of noticing James' bruises. He did not comment on the holly.
"Played today, then, Paul?" James' question was spoken like an attack.
Paul shook his head. His eyes seemed drawn by the newspaper, as something he did not want to look at, but could not look away from. "Anything… happened?"
His father shook his head, but his words said otherwise. "The usual batch of murders and injustices and international crises. Some people don't seem to have heard of the season of goodwill."
"Things are getting worse." Paul looked at his hands. "The world's sliding."
"I don't know why you read a paper if it depresses you so much," Mary said. "There's nothing we can do about it all."
No, Will thought. No, there isn't. Not you.
His legs were growing stiff. He shifted position slightly, not making a sound. A needle fell from the tree, brushing the tinsel, setting a bell to make the faintest of rings.
Mary looked at the tree. "Oh," she said, with forced brightness. "I met Miss Bell on the way home. She's wondering if we're going carolling this year, considering…"
James' bruised face went closed. "No." His voice was tight. "I won't. Voice breaking." The statement was true. The reason was false.
Mary bit her lip. "We ought to…"
"Go on at Paul, then, not me," James snapped. "He's the one who's not touched his flute for six months."
Paul was looking at his hands miserably. His father stepped in before James could launch another attack. "It wouldn't be the same, now that Miss Greythorne is dead, and the manor's being demolished. And the Dawsons gone… Traditions end, Mary. Sometimes they end because we grow up, and sometimes because the world grows up and changes, and we're left behind."
"I don't want traditions to die," Mary cried. She thrust her hands furiously into her gloves, and picked up an armful of holly. Will edged his feet to one side to let her get to the mantelpiece. After she had covered it entirely with holly, she made for the windowsill.
"Too much," her father murmured quietly, as if unable to stop himself.
"It is not too much." Mary's face was red, and she had tears in her eyes. "Will used to say it drove away the dark. He put holly everywhere two years ago, remember? This house sure as hell needs the darkness driven away from it."
"Language, Mary." But Will's father's eyes were closed. There was pain there, and he tried to lock it away for the sake of the children, but how could he do it on this day of all days?
Mary threw the remaining holly to the floor. "And I don't know why we have to put the tree up four days early and pretend that we always used to do it this way, because we didn't. We don't even start to think about Christmas until Will's birthday is over. It's Will's birthday today. Why are we pretending that it's already Christmas?"
She was almost screaming it. Although there had been no sounds from the kitchen, Will could tell that his mother had stopped her silent cooking, and was listening. She was probably weeping.
Mary sank to her knees, her voice dying away to a broken whisper. "Why did Will have to die?"
I had to, Will thought, sitting unseen in the shattered heart of his family. He was the only Old One who had family still living. If the Dark knew that he remained on the earth, they would torture his family as a way of targeting him. To protect his family, Will had to be dead to them.
"I don't know, Mary." There were tears on Mr Stanton's cheeks now, and he gave up the struggle to hide them. "I just don't know."
I'm so sorry, Will thought. I'd make you forget me, if I could. But even that was forbidden. The Dark was watching them always, with agents in the village. If they suddenly forgot their youngest son, the Dark would know what it meant.
I wish you could see me. He was crying himself, tears that no-one would ever see. He wanted another Christmas laughing around the tree. He wanted to unwrap presents, and exclaim his thankyous, and write cards, and sing carols. He wanted to eat his mother's Christmas pudding, and make paper-chains with his sisters, and wake on Christmas morning with joy and hope.
Hidden and alone, he left them, with a last goodbye, never heard.
It was his thirteenth birthday.
end of part four