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.
I said I'd update once a day, but yesterday wouldn't let me upload any documents. Here, then, are yesterday's two chapters. I'll post today's chapter (or chapters?) this evening.
Part one: chapter fiveHome for the holidays
"Is it really awful?" Jane whispered to him, as they helped clear the table.
Simon shook his head. He concentrated on placing the over-large pile of plates onto the working surface. His party hat lay limp in the dregs of gravy, and he crumpled it up with a grimace. Only then did he speak. "Of course it isn't," he said brightly. "What gave you that idea?"
They returned to the dining room. Their mother was passing round china bowls, and their father was lavishly splashing brandy over the Christmas pudding. The dregs of Christmas crackers were strewn on the floor, and everyone else was still wearing their paper hats. Barney had collected all the novelties together, and was going through the jokes, laughing to himself.
"What a baby," Simon said harshly. "They're never funny."
"That's part of the charm, Simon," their father said. "Don't be cruel to your brother. It's Christmas."
Simon sat down, pulling the chair roughly in behind him. "So, are you on any teams yet?" His grandfather continued as if there had been no break between courses. All through the turkey, he had been on and on. On and on…
Simon played with the edges of the tablecloth, hidden on his lap. "Not yet, grandpa. I've only been there a term."
"Your father was on the junior rugby team by half term," his grandfather said. "Really proud of him, we were. A real chip off the old block."
"They didn't play rugby at Simon's old school," Simon's mother said. "I expect a lot of the other boys came from prep. schools and already know all about it. Right, Simon?"
Simon nodded. He tried not to think about standing on a cold field, mud splashing to his knees, boys roaring down towards him, and shouting at him, always shouting at him. He tried not to think of the changing room, and the laughter, and the red, angry face of his games' teacher, and the way spit flew from his mouth when he was shouting.
"Cricket in the summer, then." His grandfather dug his spoon into the portion of Christmas pudding that had been delivered to his plate. "Maybe we'll make a cricketer of you. You don't really have the build of a rugby player. Too thin. Too small."
Simon had been one of the tallest ones at his old school. He had enjoyed games and enjoyed lessons, and everyone had looked up at him, even the boys in his class who were older than him.
His own pudding came. He started to eat it, but his mother chided him, "Manners, Simon."
"Grandpa didn't say thank you," Simon pointed out. "Grandpa didn't wait for everyone else to be served."
"Simon! Apologise at once." His mother's face was very red. Turning to her husband's father, she said, "I must apologise for Simon. Of course I didn't mean… Honestly, he's been worse than Barney all Christmas."
Barney looked up from his jokes. "Mum!"
"Worse than Barney used to be, I mean." Their mother smiled at him, but there were no smiles for Simon.
Simon stared down at his pudding. The smell made him feel queasy, and shameful tears were blurring his eyes. "Can I be excused?" he mumbled.
"Certainly not," said his father. "Come on, eat up. It's Christmas."
"He's a teenager." Simon's grandmother nodded sagely. "I know all about them. I've read about them in the newspaper, and heard about them on the wireless. It's hormones." She lowered her voice as if she was saying a dirty word.
"I'm still me," Simon whispered.
"He'll be bringing a little girlfriend home soon, just you wait and see." His grandmother nodded confidingly. "Love's young dream."
"I go to an all-boy's schools, grandma." Simon clutched his spoon. "The only girls I ever see are Jane's stupid friends."
His grandmother reached across the table to pat his hand. "Your grandpa was my best friend's older brother. Oh, how we all admired him, but he chose me."
"My friends think you're stuck-up and stupid," Jane said. "They think Angela's brother's wonderful."
Simon pushed his chair away, and left the table without a word. His parents shouted at him to come back, to come back this instance, but he ignored them. The living room was quiet and solitary, still strewn with wrapping paper and presents. Barney had adored all the art materials he had received, but none of Simon's presents had been right. Half of them were too babyish, and the other half had been serious, schooly things. Half his relations saw him as a little boy, and the rest saw him as almost a man. But I'm still me, he thought. I want to be me.
He toyed with a piece of ribbon, twisting it through his hands. No-one came after him. A while later, he heard the dining room door opening, and the sound of plates being brought through. He heard the sound of a kettle filling for coffee, and laughter from the table. They're happy, now they've got rid of me, he thought.
He switched on the television, turning it deliberately loud. Blond-haired choristers were singing something in Latin. You still sound like a girl, Drew, he remembered. Why don't you put a poncy dress on and sing in the choir? Stupidly, he had replied. "But hardly anyone else's voice has broken yet. Why are you picking on me?" They had repeated it back in a high and squeaky voice, and mocked his accent, and even mocked his choice of words.
He clicked on to another channel, and found "The Wizard of Oz." "Not again," he said out loud. It had been a childhood ritual to watch it every year. Barney had grown fascinated with wizards and magic. Why, even last year… Simon frowned, trying to chase the memory. Last year, Barney had been more rapt than ever, and there had been something new, something about a wizard…
"I'm sorry I said what I did," Jane said quietly from behind him. "But you called my friends stupid. That wasn't nice of you."
"People can't always be nice." Simon clicked on to the next channel, which was showing adverts. "Being nice doesn't get you anywhere."
"Simon…" Jane sat down on the couch behind him. Kneeling on the floor in front of the television, Simon kept his back to her. "I know you keep telling Mum and Dad that school's wonderful, but it isn't, is it? You hate it there."
An irritating comedian was telling everyone to buy chocolate. "I don't know why he's bothering," Simon said. "The shops are shut, anyway."
"But it's only been a term, Simon. It'll get better."
The next advert was for a car. A man who looked like James Bond stepped out of it, straight into the arms of half a dozen glamorous women.
No, it won't, he thought, biting his lip against a sob. Just six months ago, he had been lord of his school, and lord of his family. He had been the biggest, the strongest, the one who knew everything. Now he was at the bottom in a wider, scarier world. Things he had always taken for granted suddenly didn't fit in any more. Decisions that had always been easy were now wrong. He had looked wrong on the first day, or acted wrong, or said something wrong, and the others would never forget it, ever.
"It's just that they all knew each other," he found himself saying. "Most of them came up from the same prep. school. Their friendships are all sorted out, and I…"
"It'll get better," Jane said.
"Of course it will." Simon whirled on her. "I don't need your help. You're just a girl, a baby."
"Leave Jane alone, Simon," their mother chided, struggling through the door with a tray full of mugs. "Honestly, you've turned into a real hateful little so-and-so this term. I hope you're not going turn into the school bully."
Oh, Mum, if only I could tell you… He could almost have laughed, if he had not been so close to tears.
"Off the couch, Jane," their mother said. "Your grandparents want to watch the Queen's speech." She grimaced. "And, yes, I know she always says the same, so you don't have to say it, Simon. But it's tradition. I wonder if she'll say anything about… well, you know."
Wars and tensions and bombings. School was like a prison, in a way, and no news from the outside could penetrate. Simon had come out in December to find a very different world from the one he had left in September. Not that he paid it much attention. Such things were far away. Schools had their own wars and crimes and atrocities. A school could be as much a place of terror as could a war zone.
Simon got up. "I'm going to my room."
"Be like that, then." Their mother shrugged. "I won't argue with you at Christmas. But if you don't want to be with us, you might at least get started on the washing up."
Simon pretended not to hear her. He stamped up to his room, where the calendar on his wall faced him like a taunt.
Ten more days to go, and then… And then…
He threw himself face-down on the bed, memories screaming in his ears.
end of chapter five