“Oh aye, and who would you be?” Simon asked, with little genuine interest.
“I’m his son.”
“Aye, well, he doesn’t live here. I suggest that you turn around and go back to wherever it is you came from. With that accent, you’re no son of Simon Campbell, which means you’re in danger in these parts.”
“These parts’? There’s no hut but yours for miles.”
“Precisely,” replied Simon, lowering his tone.
“Right, I get it. I’ve come a very long way, so if you know the whereabouts of Simon Campbell, I think you should tell me.”
“On your way, lad!” Simon bellowed.
“I think you should come out and make me!” the man shouted, throwing his arms in the air in a goading manner whilst he backed away from the hut.
“You little shit…” Simon said, turning back into the hut and lifting a shotgun from beside the door. He moved, slowly, like an old man as he trained the gun at the stranger.
“It’s you…” he choked. “Simon Campbell…”
“No! Not anymore. State your business and be gone.” Simon’s long curly black hair was knotted and frayed and the strands of white stood out in his untidy black beard.
“You will talk to me with respect, old man. It’s the least you owe me,” roared the man, as he walked fearlessly towards the barrel of the gun.
“I owe you nothing!” Simon croaked weakly.
The man stood back, with his arms at his side, palms facing forwards and openly cupped. Simon stared in horror at a red glow that grew from his hands. He aimed one hand at Simon, and watched as the red energy flew from his hands. It hit Simon in the stomach and he felt himself thrown back, against the hard wall of his cottage with a painful thud.
“I hope you aren’t dead, old man!” the stranger shouted.
A desperate choking sound came from Simon’s mouth as he rose, unsteadily to his feet and he could feel blood dripping down the side of his face.
“Why not?! Is that not what you came here to do?” Simon shouted through a bloody cough.
“I came to talk, actually. You were the one who pulled the gun out, you prick,” Brody lowered his hands which were still glowing red.
“What kind of dark magic is this?” Simon barked.
“The kind that will kill you if you don’t let me talk!”
“Then talk!” Simon screamed.
“I want to know why!”
“Why what?”
“Why you left me? Why was I raised by them?!” the stranger yelled.
“Listen to me, child. I have no idea who you were raised by. And you want to know ‘why’? ‘Why’? ‘Why’?!” he replied, his last words growing incrementally louder than the last. “You and that fucking Stag! You killed her!” Tears began to flow down Simon’s face, mixing with the beads of sweat and blood.
“You should have taken better care of her!”
“And you should have never been born!” Simon boomed.
There were a few moments silence as the stranger stood in shock. He contemplated what to do next. In an instant, he calmed down, and a smile crept on his face.
“I should kill you…” he began, “but you really aren’t worth it. I think you’ll suffer more alive anyway.”
He raised his hands in the direction of Simon’s hut as they began to glow an intense red again. Energy shot from the strangers hand and destroyed the hut, disintegrating the rubble that should have appeared around it into dust and flinging Simon to the ground again.
The man walked slowly towards Simon, “It appears that your shitty little hovel has been destroyed,” he said, before turning around, as if he were about to walk away, but then, paused, lean back and whispered, “And that, old man, is why you should talk to me with respect,” he said, turning and walking decisively away.
Simon rubbed his eyes as the face of his wife and child came once more into focus. As quickly as the vision had taken hold, so it had disappeared.
His hand shot up to his chin and he felt little more than the stubble of a few days growth. The beard was gone. He was back in Marta’s cottage, with his wife and son. In his hands he held the future. With almost unbearable clarity he understood how catastrophically wrong it could go. The burden of insight was his and his alone to bear.
“Can we stay here?” Corran asked.
Simon stared at her for a moment, trying to clear his mind and pull himself from the terrifying clutch of what he had just seen and the Stag’s ominous forewarning. He was daunted by what had been and overwhelmed by what was to come. No one would or could ever know how he felt or what he knew. Andrew was the future, a child born to conquer the devil, and no amount of trepidation on his part was going to change that fact.
“Simon. Are you alright?” Corran asked, with a concerned frown.
“Aye, lass, everything is going to be just fine. Of course we can stay. In fact, we will stay here for as long as we both shall live.”
“Will life be normal now?” Corran asked, with wide, trusting eyes.
“Aye, lass, life will be normal now,” he lied.
******
Coming soon from Elizabeth Marshall
Rising
Book 4 of the Highland Secret Series
Forgive me for I have sinned and many have suffered because of it, but I have repented, and in the end, I paid the ultimate price. It is a price I should have paid the first time – but I was selfish and reluctant to orchestrate my own demise. Only one man knows of my sin because I stopped time, erased the memory of my mistake from history and allowed another time to form in its place. You, the reader, know only of the re-write, but the original story happened before the events of ‘Entwined’, in a time where I didn’t save Corran and her son grew, not to be the savior of the Highlands, but a demon capable of destroying the world. These events have been erased from history, forgotten by all except me and that child. What you are about to read is the unforgiving tale of a man damaged by me. His character is my sin and this story is my confession. Don’t judge me because I sin differently to you.
The Stag
******
Unknown location, Brody’s 21st Birthday
As Grace opened her eyes she felt something warm running down her face. The sickly sweet, copper stink of blood clung to her. She tried to lift her hand but her arms were pulled behind her, restrained at the wrists. She blinked hard to clear the blur from her eyes as she noticed her blood soaked clothes and the rope which bound her to the chair.
“What’s happening?” she whimpered.
“It seems, my dear Mother, that someone has to destroy something to get people’s attention,” an educated English voice replied. Grace lifted her head slowly and turned to the right, following the sound of the voice.
“Brody?” Grace sobbed. “Is it you? It can’t be you…”
“Shhh,” he said, placing his index finger over her mouth to silence her. “Today is my birthday - did you know that, Mother?”
“I know, I know - where’s my bag? I bought you a gift… It’s in my bag.”
“I don’t want your gifts!” Brody screamed, throwing himself inches from her face. “Killing you will be the best gift I could have ever imagined.”
“Why?” Grace wept. “We should be blowing out your birthday candles – and you want to kill me?”
“Birthdays are pathetic,” he spat with condescension. “It’s a celebration of living another year.” he paused, “or just a hope that you’ll live another.” There was further pause as Grace stared bewildered at her son. Brody paced the small, dimly lit room like a caged feral cat. He snapped a pair of surgical gloves into place on his hands and the pacing stopped as he turned to face his mother. Looking down at her through his wild mass of untidy, coiled hair his face broke into a wide and evil grin. “Either way, you’ve experienced your last.”
“What are the gloves for?” she asked, with a tremor in her voice.
“I wouldn’t want any unwanted attention from the police fo
r your murder,” he chuckled.
“For someone who claims to be looking for attention, you’re going to a lot of trouble to avoid it,” she said, with as much bravado as she could muster.
“Now you see mother, I’m not just looking for anyone’s attention. If I kill you, the Stag will find me,” he chuckled. “You’ve no idea how much time that will save me.”
“You’re just a boy, Brody,” Grace cried. “Why are you doing this?”
“Had you stayed in the Village, you would have died with the rest of them, but you abandoned them all. That requires…” he hesitated thoughtfully and a smile crept across his face, “…special attention.”
“What do you mean…? Where’s Robert?” she cried, taking a short, involuntary breath.
Brody let out a loud and hysterical laugh. “You should have seen the look on their faces. They actually thought they could kill me!” Brody sat down on the deep window ledge opposite Grace.
“You killed them all?” she sobbed.
“All of them, except you, of course. But that will be remedied.”
“How did you do it - all on your own? Against everyone.”
“I am far more powerful that you could ever imagine, Mother.”
“Why?!” she screamed, growing hysterical. The rope dug into her upper arms as she tugged at her restraints, desperate to be free.
“That’s more like it! Fight, Mother, I like to watch you struggle - it’s so - satisfying,” he slid his hands nonchalantly into the pockets of his trousers and stared down at her with a curious frown. “Would you like to know how I killed them?” Grace lowered her head, trying to hide the revulsion in her heart from her eyes. “I’ll take your silence as a ‘yes’.” Methodically, Brody removed one glove and slowly opened his hand in front of her. The smallest orb of red energy appeared in his palm.
“What is it?” Grace asked, as an almost paralytic fear gripped her.
Brody carefully lifted his hand and threw the orb at a wall. Its impact caused a resounding explosion which vibrated in Grace’s ears and intensified the pounding in her head. She fought the instinct to close her eyes and stared instead with horror at a gaping hole in the wall the size of a beach ball with blackened scorch marks around its edge.
“That, Mother, is how I destroyed the village. Of course, I’m controlling my power at the moment. I wouldn’t want to bring unwanted attention to us, but that’s a taster, just for you - just so that you can imagine how painful your husband’s death was.”
“You monster…” Grace whispered.
“You’re the monster, Mother – you and your pathetic husband and those ridiculous villagers. Your lives had no direction; no purpose,” he spat.
“And what’s your purpose then, Brody? Killing? If so, don’t you think that makes you a monster,” she cried defiantly. “You’ve gone…” she sobbed.
“We all have a darkness inside us, Mother. I have just embraced mine; accepted who I am.”
“Where did we go wrong with you? We tried so hard, so desperately hard to love you but…”
“I don’t blame you entirely for who I am but you shouldn’t have taken me to that village.”
“You’d be in a Young Offender Institution for killing that boy…” she paused, “And all the villagers would still be alive…”
“Oh no, they’d still be dead. Nothing would have kept Marta away from me. The woman had a mission, a calling if you will - to ‘train me’ the ‘demon child’ to save her precious people,” he laughed. “Oops, looks like she failed there,” he said, with a sinister laugh. “But you didn’t have to make it so bloody easy for her.”
“We all tried to help you Brody. We wanted to love you – but…”
“I know,” he chimed in a bored tone, “most kids are delivered by the stork, seems the devil was responsible for my arrival.”
“Stop it Brody!” Grace pleaded.
“Why Mother? Does the truth hurt?” he paused, and ran his eyes critically over Grace. “You look pathetic.” Brody’s concentration was instantly drawn to her hair. He moved in closer. “Your hair seems to be matted with blood.”
He was tormenting her, like a cat with a mouse, pawing at her mind, scratching at her soul in an effort to break and weaken her. She shifted carefully on the chair, feeling the bite of the ropes on her arms and wrists. Her hands had gone numb and she could feel the blood trapped in her bloated fingers. A whimper escaped her throat as a wave of nausea swept over her and she slumped heavily against the taut twine that wound across her breasts. She bit down on her lower lip in an effort to stop the rising bile at the back of her throat but it lurched from her mouth as she retched uncontrollably.
“Now you’ve gone and soiled your hair with sick. Really Mother, you should have more pride in yourself.”
“Why are you doing this to me, Brody?”
“You have done this to yourself – I am your creation, the devil you raised me to be.”
“I didn’t raise you to be a killer,” she whispered.
“Oh but Mother you did, of course you did. From the moment your demonic child arrived, you knew it would one day be the death of you,” he paused and focused his blood shot eyes on Grace’s face. “It can’t have been easy – trying to love a child you knew would one day destroy you.”
Grace froze, stunned into a terrified silence. She lifted her head and shook the blood soaked hair from face.
“Please just let me…”
“Don’t beg. It’s beneath you. How about an upfront honest discussion about just what a shit Mother you actually were? Perhaps if you’d talked more, got down off your fucking little throne and admitted your failings we might not be here.”
“I never wanted to hurt you,” Grace whispered.
“Perhaps, but you never gave me a chance either. You tolerated me because you had no choice. All you ever wanted was Duncan.”
“That’s not true. I loved my babies, all of them and I gave you a wonderful childhood.”
Brody raised his hand and slapped it across Grace’s face. Her head snapped to the side and tears smarted in her eyes. She could feel the throb as her cheek started to swell and rise up over her eye.
“Scream bitch - just like you made me scream with the pain of rejection and loathing, day in and day out.” He considered her with cold contempt. She whimpered and shrank back in the chair as he moved closer. “Frightening, isn’t it? – Not quite knowing what to expect next.”
“Brody we all loved you. We did our best for you, even the villagers tried. They never did anything to hurt you.”
“The beautiful thing about a 21st century individual is that one can be very insular. I hated the Village for one reason- community. People work for me or I work alone. I don’t help, I don’t work with or for anyone,” he replied venomously. “The longer I stayed there, the more I found myself slotting into their community. Things were rubbing off on me- I was becoming more - human, and I think you know by now, that I don’t do ‘human’ very well.” Brody looked down at his hands and noticed that he hadn’t replaced his glove. Fitting it hurriedly back onto his hand he looked at Grace. “I would have snapped even if I hadn’t gone to see my real father.”
“You went to see Simon?”
“Yes, I did.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I know.”
“How was it?” Grace asked.
Brody stood for a moment, staring at her. “It… It was not nice.”
“I’m sorry, Brody.”
“No! Don’t do this!” Brody shouted, backing away from her.
“Don’t do what? I still care how you feel, you’re my son.”
“Stop pretending! Stop caring! I’m not your son! I never was! And you’re not my mother. All you ever wanted was, Duncan, I’m just – collateral, damaged by you and that dickhead of a husband.” Brody backed away far enough to stumble onto the window ledge. He put his hands out to steady himself before returning his focusing to Grace. “You thought I didn
’t know what you were doing, that I couldn’t see what was in your mind - but I could, Mother, I fucking could. I saw every twisted thought you had, every devious plan you made. They all bought it – Robert, Marta, Harry - fuck Harry, he was the worst! Kate, god that woman was as pathetic as she was gullible. But the truth is that they only ever saw what you wanted them to see. They all fell for the poor little wronged girl - the whole pissing world. It was always - what’s that kid done to her now! You don’t think I got it Mother, you don’t think it hurt, to have the world against me…
******
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elizabeth Marshall is the writing alter ego of a lady born in St Mary’s Hospital, at the Marianhill Monastery, in the province of Natal, South Africa and was brought up in a small, rural village surrounded by a large Scottish farming family.
Her primary education was delivered by Nuns from the monastery in which she was born. Through secondary school into adulthood, Elizabeth’s life centered on a love of music, reading, writing and history.
After Elizabeth married she settled in the UK with her husband. She has worked at the Charing Cross and Westminster Medical School in England, Nottingham Social Services in England and is currently a Director of an IT Project Management Consultancy.
Elizabeth lives in a small Derbyshire village in England with her husband and children. She spends her spare time with her head in a book or her fingers on the keyboard writing one.
‘Highland Secret Series’ by Elizabeth Marshall
Book One - ‘When Fate Dictates’
Book Two - ‘Beyond Time’
Book Three – ‘Entwined’
Also in the ‘Highland Secret Series’
‘Rising’
‘Whispers In The Dark’
Find Elizabeth Marshall online.
Website: elizabethmarshallwrites.com
Twitter: twitter.com/@em_writes
Facebook: facebook.com/emwrites