THE MAGIN

Here is a story that I wrote in 1995. copyright T.J.Hurford. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

THE MAGIN

by

T.J.Hurford

There were seven of them originally. Why seven?. No particular reason. At least, that's what people thought. Seven mystical shadowy men, who, it was said, held the Heavens on their shoulders. Seven men who caused the rains to fall and the winds to blow. Brought forth the Moon and stars at night and the life-giving sunlight that caused the plants to grow and made children strong and healthy; who held the mighty oceans in their beds and the planets in their orbits. Seven mythical Gods in whose name people cursed and prayed, loved and scolded; whose names cowed even the most recalcitrant of children at bedtime. Men who 'obviously' never really existed. A fairy story from long ago. The stuff of myth and legend. No-one needed that kind of childish prattling anymore. People controlled their own lives and destinies. No such thing as Seven Wise Men, was there?. Of course not.

Down in the great chambers below the earth where rays of sunlight never penetrate, where cold and damp are all-pervading, where nature has created a timeless realm, lies a void where seconds, hours, days, and even centuries mean nothing. Nothing. Where any creatures that really do exist live out their brief allotted span in pale and sightless gropings like spectral whispers. Shadows of their surface cousins. Down in nocturnal halls and passageways, cracks and chasms, deep in Gothic splendour with only the drip, drip, drip of ever- present water to pierce the oppressive silence; water creating majestic pillars of crystal if one had eyes but to see them. Down, down in the sepulchral Kingdom alone, one stands waiting. One above all others both in form and spirit. Pale of face and blind in eye. Silent. Staring. Dreaming. Waiting...waiting....waiting. Magus. Sorcerer. Magician. Call him what you will. One of The Seven. THE SEVEN. Alone, the Magus. Together, THE MAGIN.

This being, more presence than actuality. The First among Equals bound by patterns of force too vague and ethereal for any but themselves to note. A foundation. A living pillar, imprisoned by need and choice, forever to 'walk' the lonely paths of thought in pursuit of dangers as yet unknown. Searching for the one peril that must surely one day come and threaten all that they have striven down the long and painful years to defend...life, itself upon this planet's surface; its creatures, atmosphere, plants and very orbit around the star that had given them birth and breath.

Entombed in fields of energy that they themselves had created. Linked together by mind alone. Sentinels from a time long ago. A time in which all had walked the surface as Kings. Gods. A time when all had recognised the Magin for what they truly were...The Creators and Guardians of life and nature. Time, itself. The very planet and the Star about which it circled. Seven men who had realised that their time was passing. That soon the awe and understanding in which they had been held would be gone forever. Forever?. Perhaps not. Perhaps their time would come again.

Yet in acceptance or banishment, their role would still be necessary. Without them nothing would exist. Ages might pass and memory of them dwindle until little remained  but childrens' stories and fairy tales, yet still, they must keep the faith. Seven beings. One for Air; One for light; One for Spirit and One for Night. One for Life and One for Earth.....And One for....DEATH.

One for Death.

One amongst them who had nursed his doubts about the wisdom of quitting the world where once they had lived in splendour, free to walk the forest tracks in sunlight and air, adored and worshipped by all who met them, recognising their supremacy over all.

The Magus of Death. His grief had turned to anger. Anger to hate, and hate to madness. An all-consuming, passionate, tyrannical insanity, festering and pulsating, expanding with a rapidity and force that would break the bonds that they had all, so many aeons before created to imprison their omniscient power and restrain their existence along the paths of DUTY. Duty to every man and woman, plant, animal and rock upon and beneath the surface of the planet.

Five had learnt humility and peace. One had embraced wickedness and lunacy. The Seventh?. The seventh had gone from strength to strength. Testing his powers. Expanding the boundaries of sorcery. Sponging up the possibilities that millennia of thought and introspection had offered. One for Life. One for Death, and Five for...what?. For whom?. Who would they support when the time came and evil; total, raw and unadulterated EVIL walked abroad upon the face of the Earth?. The time for Life had not yet come but the time for Death was very, very near. A few heartbeats more and He would be free. Free. FREE!. His heart soared within his pale, emaciated body and with these thoughts his power increased yet more and with it, the time of his freedom came one step closer. Mental bonds loosening as evil energies strove to break their loathsome grip.

Down in the cavern where THE ONE stood waiting, shockwaves of thought radiated in tangible coruscating patterns of light and sound, shattering the massive stalagtites like glass. Pulses and waves of energy formed from desperation as, frantically, the Magus of Life sought to catch up. Running back along the endless corridors through the library of their collective mind, desperate to prevent the escape of the Devil that his cousin had become. Aware, so frighteningly aware of the possibilities. Calling to The Five for help to stop the library doors from being bolted with spells from without...Aware that entrapment of The Six would turn horrid, frightening possibilities into unimaginably awful probabilities. Running. Running...RUNNING. The doors in sight. The way out. The light. He would make it. The Five were there also, joining in the mad dash down the long corridor of thought toward freedom. Images and impressions scattering in streams of multi-coloured light from their robes as they ran, the remnants of whatever mental tome they had been absorbing when the call for help had reached them.

Nearer, nearer. The sunlight beckoned. They might make it. They would. They MUST. The fate of all rested with them. If Death alone escaped......the thought came and went in an instant leaving The Six pale and chilled. The doors were moving, shutting. Their bonds tightening, restricting. They must escape. THEY MUST. Around the edge of reason's portal, a face appeared, wan to the point of horror. A drowned, bloated face, gashed with a thick and rubbery mouth and sightless eyes. A mouth from which mucous spittle ran in leering, toothless, unstoppable torrents. A horrible empty, moaning sound emanated from the blubbery head. A single flabby hand appeared and waved once goodbye. The doors began to close. Chains of thought tightened around The Six. One last hope. Just one. A frail and slender hope. The Six joined together as One. A message sent upon its way above the head of Death. A plea for aid to anyone who could help. A call to arms. One message, one slender final cry for help.

Come...Come....COME. We DO exist. We do. Release us and we will help in the trials that are about to engulf you all. COME...COme...come.... come. The doors closed. The light was gone. The self-inflicted bonds of ages past once more held firm. No possible escape from within, yet from without?. In six cathedral-like caverns, in six different places below the surface of the planet, six beings stood waiting. Pale of face and blind, blind in eye. Silent, staring, dreaming, waiting....waiting....waiting....waiting.

..............................................................................

Tom Wheelwright awoke with a start. Cold, clammy sweat soaked his nightshirt. Wild staring eyes pierced the gloom; not knowing; not seeing; not caring. Empty. The sunlight streamed in through the window of his peaceful cabin and slowly at first, then with increasing, uncontrollable, hysterical force, he began to weep.

The Magin. Seven wise and beneficent men who controlled all aspects of day to day life on the planet from the seasons of the year to the price of eggs in the market. Magicians who controlled the very thoughts of billions of scurrying ant-like humans who thought themselves so clever. So far above superstition that the existence of Gods was a childish fetish to be laughed at with derision.

Seven men. Below Heaven but above temptation.

Seven Men. THE Seven.

THE MAGIN...

And then,

One of them put himself above Heaven and below temptation.....

'G' IS FOR GUN

This is a short story idea that might make a movie or T.V. plot idea. Whilst it is set in England, this could be anywhere. I wrote it in 1995. copyright: Timothy James Hurford. 1995. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. It is called...

'G' IS FOR GUN

by

T.J.Hurford

'A' is for Arab

'T' is for Thrill

'B' is for Bullet

'K' is for Kill

Childhood is a time of great change. It is potentially a time of trauma for young minds and, in the hands of the wrong person, those minds can be distorted, turned away from what is 'right' and 'decent' and 'proper' toward that other thing - that thing with many names but all of them EVIL.

The small town of Warburton is a place like many others. It has a twice weekly market in the central square, a small police station and a cattle market. There is a long High Street where the local farmers come to do their business and rather more pubs' than at first glance might seem necessary for a community of only five thousand souls.

There is a railway station and an abattoir and an old council housing estate on the outskirts.

There is also a school.

Warburton IS different, though. Warburton is the home of a serial killer.

Some schools get lucky with their teaching staff and turn out well-rounded, informed and presentable young people whose future seems assured. Others, like Warburton Secondary Modern seem to attract the outcasts of the teaching fraternity. Men and women who seem to have become vocationally misplaced.

It has been a trying day for Brahim Ladwa. His girlfriend has just left him. He has been turned down for a loan to buy a car, and he has a hangover. If only he had never strayed from the paths of enlightenment. To cap it all, that horrible boy, Jack Winslow, who is always disrupting the class has been nattering away all afternoon. Brahim blows up. He hates teaching and takes it out regularly on the 'kids' in the class. He hates them and they hate him.

"You're all a bunch of ingrates". He shouts. "You're the thickest group of no-hopers I've ever come across". He storms out. At the back of the classroom, Jack Winslow gives his retreating figure an obscene gesture.

Out in the hills on the outskirts of town there is an army rifle range. It hasn't been used for some time, and although there is a regular patrol by a soldier who comes round to check the padlocks on the gates and 'Nissan' huts, these visits are predictable enough for the children to slip in and out unseen. For much of the time, nobody comes near the place, which, for obvious reasons is secluded and well-hidden in a fold of the hills.

Jack is a sullen boy. Growing up in the boring atmosphere of a small town with no entertainment, except for television, which only increases his frustration by showing him things he can never have, he is always getting into trouble. At fifteen, he rules the class both physically and emotionally. What Jack says, 'goes'.

Jack HAS found something to relieve the monotony though. His gang is into black magic. Not spells and all that, although they DO mix things together over a fire in the abandoned hut down by the railway line and regularly offer the resultant substances to wild animals in the vicinity with satisfying, though horrid, results. The kind of magic that Jack's gang is into involves sacrifice.

It started out with pets and quickly moved on to farm animals. Now it has taken the next logical step. Jack has killed a human being. The hut that after months of patient whittling away at, he has finally managed to break into out on the range contained little of interest except for one wonderful find.

A gun. A genuine army service pistol complete with a large supply of ammunition. The accident had happened  whilst Jack was sitting staring in admiration at this weapon A soldier had entered the hut. It was the same soldier who had visited the school to give a careers lecture. He had told them stories about the war. The children had listened with interest. So, the REAL heroes had been those who had killed the most enemies?.

He had been early on his rounds, wanting to get back to barracks for a trip into town with the 'lads'. With a shout, the man had tried to take the gun away from Jack and it had gone off. The soldier died instantly. Jack was too innued to violence from watching the television to be worried by the sight, or, indeed, the act, of what he had done, but he did know that all trace of the deed must be hidden.

The gang had come to his rescue. A burial deep in the woods later that evening. There had been a full moon. Jack performed a kind of Satanic ritual by candlelight. In his mind the act of murder had already become deliberate and was believed by his 'tribe'. Everyone was there. Tom and Zack, Mo and 'Chunky', Billy and 'The Snot'. Even Rachael, 'Pens' and Sal. The girls looked in awe at Jack as he stood over the grave and fired a single shot from the gun into the unmoving corpse. There had been a lot of blood and as they filed past the open hole, each had spat upon the soldier's body and their leader had smeared blood from a jar onto their foreheads.

The death did not go unnoticed, but, try as they might, the police and army could find neither clue nor the body. The fact that there had been a gun in the hut had long since been forgotten, so eventually the general opinion became that a tramp had done the deed and hidden the remains. The search was continuing when another murder took place.

Sergeant Thorpe. Town 'Bobby' made a mistake. He was an old fashioned kind of 'copper'. If a child did wrong, he didn't report it. Not for a first, nor even, a second, offence. He merely gave the boy, (and it almost invariably WAS a boy) a clip round the ear. That Tuesday, Chunky Stevens wanted the day off from school to go to the cattle market, so he took the day off. The policeman saw him and took his normal action. That evening as he pushed his bicycle home across the churchyard, Sergeant Thorpe paid the price for his error.

Brahim Ladwa is the next. A man with a short fuse, he pays the price too. His mistake?. Shouting once too often at Jack. He is shot dead next day on his way to school.

A Soldier.

A Policeman.

And a Teacher.

The town is panic stricken. Three ordinary citizens. No apparent motive.

Nobody suspects the children but after every killing, the gang goes into the woods and performs a ritual. The words come naturally. The 'Brotherhood' have found a voice. No-one will ever push any of them around again. They have THE GUN.

They chant.........

'The Squaddie 'ated all us kids.

They 'Bogey clipped me 'ead.

The Teacher said that we was fick.

But they're the ones what's dead'.

As each killing occurs the chant gets longer:

And longer:

'We likes killin'

'F' is for fun.

'B' is for bullet.

'G' is for gun'.

end