Flight of the Gazebo: Hollow, #1

CHAPTER ONE

The Gazebo

DROME WALKED UP to his fallen mountain bike with all the enthusiasm of a sacrificial victim being prodded by spearpoint towards the lip of a volcano.

But instead of a gaggle of bloodthirsty priests egging him on, all he had to contend with were the other six members of the Amblesby Bike Club. Due to his bike blocking the narrow path up the hill, they had been forced to skid to a halt behind him in a medley of colourful Lycra. A cloud of dust drifted from their stationary tyres and threaded between the trees at both sides of the steep footpath.

Stopped to admire the view, eh? called one.

Drome bit his tongue. Pointing out that the view was rather limited by the surrounding woods coating the hillside would only add to his clubmates’ chorus of snorts and laughter.

Pretending he hadn’t heard the comment, he straightened his yellow cycle helmet, rubbed his bruised shoulder, and patted the dust from his red, white, and blue cycling outfit. Sticking out his chin, he approached his fallen machine with a straight back and firm step.

The clicking from the spinning rear wheel’s cogs was like a derisive chuckle, adding to Drome’s suspicion the thing was possessed.

A few minutes earlier he had been straining at the pedals, determined to be the first of the group of riders to reach the hill’s summit. But his bike had reared like a wild horse and thrown him to the ground.

He grimaced. It was another reason he was beginning to believe the contraption was bewitched.

He had been pleased when he had bought it from the market in the nearby town of Huddon. It had looked impressive with its chunky off-road tyres and thick rubber boots covering, what turned out to be, entirely inadequate suspension. Perhaps inadequate was not the word, he reflected. It was more like reverse suspension, amplifying each bump as though its prime purpose was to ram his spine through the base of his skull.

It occurred to him he should have realised back then that the bike had a mind of its own.

Its wheel had stopped turning. Drome became aware he was standing stock still, staring at it.

A roll of thunder shook the air. Out of the corner of his eye, Drome saw the bikers to look up. Not that they could see anything apart from the trees overhanging the path.

Hurry up, mate. Get out of the way. It’s going to chuck it down in a minute, said the one who had spoken before.

With faked nonchalance, Drome righted his bike and moved it off the path to one side. While the others pedalled past, he pretended to check it over.

Don’t worry about me. You go on. I’ll catch up, called Drome to their backs. He watched them roll away up the hill, dust lifting from their tyres. Drome waited until the last rider had disappeared around a curve, then pushed his bike up the path after them.

Another clap of thunder rolled across the sky as the trees thinned. Moments later he came out into open air not far from the grassy hilltop. As the rumbles died away, he stopped at the crest and looked down into the broad, shallow valley beyond.

From his lofty position, Drome could see the entire village laid out in miniature at the bottom of the valley. Heavy clouds were approaching and would soon cover the sky, but for now the village green, bathed in the late afternoon sunlight, was an island of luminous grass in a sea of buildings. The jumble of centuries-old houses and shops on the left of the green clashed with the severe lines of the Georgian manor on the opposite side. Behind the manor, its walled garden stretched all the way to the edge of the village, where the patchwork of fields surrounding Amblesby began.

Like a gaudy shoal of fish, his clubmates were speeding along the road which led into Amblesby. As he watched, the group streamed into the village and split apart as the riders headed for their homes. Within seconds they were gone and apart from the lines of parked cars, the streets were empty.

His gaze was drawn to the church, its stained glass windows glittering like jewels in the golden light. The spire, with its tall conical roof, was like like a finger beckoning the coming storm.

He cocked an eye at the clouds. He’d rested long enough. Maybe too long. Soon the heavens would open and beat down on Amblesby in fury. More importantly, as far as Drome was concerned, he’d get soaked to the skin if he didn’t get a move on.

But the prospect of more cycling didn’t fill him with relish.

He wasn’t really an outdoors person. His job as an IT Help Desk Analyst at an accountancy firm in Huddon ensured that he spent most of his waking life sitting behind a desk. What had spurred him into joining the Amblesby Bike Club was his mother’s untiring commitment to pointing out that unfit people like him filled the cardiac wards of the nation’s hospitals.

The reason he’d taken up cycling wasn’t to get fit, but because he was tired of being nagged.

He snorted. The nagging might have stopped, but cycling hadn’t improved anyone else’s opinions of him.

Drome thought of himself as a medium. Not the sort who talks to the spirits of the dead, but just a medium everything: medium height; medium weight; medium build; medium brown hair; medium brown eyes. He was one of the faceless blobs in the crowd, the anonymous person in classrooms and offices, completely passed over by teachers, gym instructors and managers.

Women seemed to place him at the bottom of the scale of men they found interesting. It didn’t help his love-life that at thirty-one years old he still lived at home with his mother. Even dressed as he was in a garish red and white cycling shirt, blue skin-tight padded shorts and yellow helmet he still didn’t stand out.

The main thing about him that wasn’t medium was his luck, he thought. That definitely was not medium. More like somewhere between poor and disastrous.

Like now. Two miles from home and about to be drenched.

Sighing, he mounted his bike and began coasting down the track, tugging at the ineffectual brakes to keep to a speed that wouldn’t leave him in a crumpled heap at the base of a tree.

The track wound down the hill, meandering gently for the most part, but with occasional vicious twists in the places where brambles, tree stumps, and hawthorn awaited his tender body.

True to form, his battered spine felt every bump in the track as he jolted and skidded down the hillside, racing the storm home.

Straightening his spectacles, Montgomery-Jones watched the crane lifting the last decorative piece of his new gazebo into place. Standing a safe distance from the workers, he shifted his feet from side to side, his leather-soled shoes leaving scuff marks on the lawn, as a bald-headed workman, whose name he couldn’t remember, worked the handle that raised the crane’s arm.

Montgomery-Jones was short and stocky, in his mid-forties, his hair turning grey at the temples. Wrinkles were beginning to appear around his and close-set eyes.

Hilary will love this, he muttered, staring at the partly built gazebo. Just need to get the damn thing finished before she gets back. And before that bloody storm breaks.

He cocked an eye at the approaching thunder clouds, daring them to come on before his creation was complete.

Lightning flashed, and thunder boomed. He tugged at the lapels of his blazer and glanced across the lawn at the manor’s back door. It would be a bit of a stretch, but if he walked fast when the first drops fell - though, not so fast as to lose face - he’d make it there in good time before his expensive outfit got ruined.

As if reading his mind, a voice called, Best we call it a day before we get wet.

It was Amblesby’s local handyman, Bert, his short, spiky hair peppered with grey. He was gazing at Montgomery-Jones with raised eyebrows, wiping his hands on his dirty blue boiler suit.

Never mind the bloody rain. You’re not leaving until you get that last support in place. I’ll deduct money if you don’t, said Montgomery-Jones.

Bert’s teenage son, Julian, glanced at the sky and shivered. Dressed in a baggy overall several sizes too large, he didn’t seem suited to the job at all. Whereas Bert was grizzled and tough, with a face that looked like it was used to bang in nails, Julian was pale and thin with a sensitive expression.

The other two workmen had only arrived that morning, hired by Montgomery-Jones to help with the heavy lifting in the final stages of construction.

Bert shook his head and clenched his fists. A heartbeat later, he grunted and turned to the man operating the crane. Keep going, Shiner. Lower ‘er in. He pointed at the red-haired, overall-clad man standing nearby, a spanner in his hand. Er… Red, isn’t it? When this last support’s in place, get up the ladder and tighten the bolts at the top of the upright beam. Look sharp now, we’ve got to get this monstrosity done before that storm ‘its. I’ll tighten the bolts in the bottom end. Julian, pass me a five-eighths.

Julian looked at him blankly.

Bert sighed. It’s a spanner, Julian. A five-eighths spanner.

Montgomery-Jones pursed his lips as the final gracefully curved ornamental piece was lowered into place. That remark about the monstrosity had stung, but he decided not to say anything. It would only result in more delay. As far as he was concerned the gazebo was a thing of beauty. He had designed it himself, spending many long hours flicking through his wife’s collection of books looking for inspiration.

Normally he wouldn’t touch her books with a barge-pole, what with them being about what he called women’s stuff: Wicca and the like. But needs must. Most of the books had not been any help at all, but when he had opened a small, musty volume bound in stiff, cracked leather, he knew he’d struck gold. Each yellowed page was a treasure of arcane symbols and geometric diagrams.

After a great deal of scribbling on sheet after sheet of paper, he had integrated an assortment of the symbols he’d copied from the book, along with patterns of his own making, into a drawing of a three-dimensional structure.

His head tipped back slightly as he gazed at his almost-finished gazebo, every inch of which was the product of his superior intellect.

A circle of seven vertical beams were topped by a cone of seven inwardly sloping beams. A tracery of symbols, sigils, and geometric shapes - painstakingly carved from wood - filled the spaces between the beams.

At the foot of the structure, each vertical beam was supported by a gracefully curled wooden support. It was the final one of these that the crane was lowering into position.

It had taken him hours with a calculator and his old college technical drawing set to work out the dimensions of each component.

Still, it would be worth it in the end despite the hefty bribe he’d been forced to pay to his contact at the council planning office. Hilary would adore it. She’d no longer have to meet with her coven outdoors. Now they had a purpose-built building to protect them from the weather.

Tomorrow the workmen would fit the glass and the day after that Hilary would be home. She would thank him profusely, deliriously even. And that thanks might even extend towards him getting a mention in her bloody will at long last. In fact, more than a mention.

A smug smile twisted his lips.

The last moment the last piece settled into position, a sound like a thousand frenzied cicadas singing a Gregorian chant smacked into his eardrums and wiped the smile from his face.

Gathering his wits, he stared at Julian whose long, dark hair was standing on end. His gaze flicked to Red who dropped his spanner and put his hands on his head as his hair shot straight up too.

Shiner was staring at them too, his mouth hanging open. Bert jerked his hand away from the gazebo like he’d been stung.

Don’t stop! It’s just the static of the storm, shouted Montgomery-Jones. He patted down his wavy locks, but they kept lifting again.

Bert glanced uneasily at the sky. Listen to the boss! Get those bolts in quick.

Red picked up his spanner and sped up the ladder. His hands shook as he slipped the bolts through the holes and tightened them, while Bert crouched and did the same at the bottom end.

The first fat raindrops fell as Bert nipped the bolts tight.

Red cursed and scrambled to the ground.

Right, that’s it. Time to pack up, said Bert, standing up straight. Where’s my bloody toolbox?

You left it inside the gazebo, said Shiner.

Bert grunted and turned his head to look. There must have been hot air from the storm swirling about, he thought, for the air inside the structure rippled like it was underwater. Despite that, he could see the gazebo’s floor was empty.

Did you move me toolbox somewhere, Julian? he said over his shoulder.

Nobody replied. Bert looked around, but there was no sign of his son. Montgomery-Jones was striding towards the manor. Red and Shiner were removing the crane’s strap from the newly installed support.

Julian! bellowed Bert. There was no answer. He looked around. Where’s that bloody boy?

Looks like ‘e doesn’t wanna get soaked, said Red, pointing at Bert’s van. Julian was sitting in the passenger seat, looking at his phone.

He grimaced. Julian must have taken his toolbox to the van already. He went to help Shiner push the crane into the shed where they had stored the gazebo’s panes of glass ready for the next day. Red brought the ladder and stowed it next to the crane.

Montgomery-Jones had sorted out accommodation in the manor for Red and Shiner. Leaving the pair in the shed, Bert ducked his head against the rain and ran to join Julian.

Drome careened along the path at hell-for-leather speed. It wouldn’t be long before he reached the road. Once he was on the tar he could go even faster. Hopefully, get home before the heavens opened.

He flinched as a clap of thunder pounded his ears. Distracted, he realised too late he was at a bend. He leaned to the side, his knuckles white on the handlebars, but the bike kept going straight like it was being drawn by a giant magnet.

Shrieking, his knees clamped on the crossbar, he left the path and plunged into a bush. Twigs whipped his legs.

The bike lurched and erupted from the other side in a shower of leaves.

With a yell, he yanked the handlebars and manoeuvred his machine back onto the path.

In the village bakery, Dora and John Banks were hard at work. Both were in their late thirties, but there the resemblance ended. Dora was willowy and blond with blue eyes, high cheekbones and full lips. John was dark, brown-eyed and broad-shouldered.

Dora was putting the finishing touches to a wedding cake. Her long, slim fingers manipulated the icing bag, deftly laying a trail of sugary stars and moons around the base of the cake. John was sweeping out the bakery and cleaning the mixing equipment.

Dora looked out the window. Get the washing in, will you love? she called. It looks like it’s going to rain.

Are you sure it’s my turn? said John. I did it last time.

Oh, come on. Be a darling. I’m busy icing.

All right. All right. I’ll do it. Again.

He took off his apron, rinsed his floury hands under the tap, then went outside and began taking the washing from the line. A flicker of movement beyond the garden fence caught his eye. Despite the approaching storm, a hundred and fifty yards away in the manor's enormous garden, workmen were still labouring on the gazebo.

John shook his head. How had Montgomery-Jones ever got planning permission for the damn thing? It looked for all the world like a squid stuffed into a wizard’s hat.

A raindrop hit his face. He rubbed it away as he took the last item of washing off the line. As he dropped the pegs into the peg-bag, his gaze wandered back to the gazebo. The man working the crane was lowering what appeared to be the final piece of the structure into its spot at the base.

As it settled, there was an odd sensation like the world had juddered. His scalp tingled, and he raised his hand to his head to feel his hair standing on end.

Dora shouted from inside the house, What on earth?

John ran clumsily inside, the washing basket banging his knees, to find her trying to flatten her long blond hair which streamed like a candle flame towards the ceiling.

Static! John burst out laughing. It must be the storm.

All around the village the same was happening to everyone. Hair lifted and refused to come down.

And driven by the high pitched singing streaming from the gazebo like a hundred heavenly choirs on speed, the dogs of the village began to bark.

Brakes squealing, Drome bounced along the path, miraculously avoided a ditch, and hurtled down the final stretch towards the road.

A pothole at the point where the track joined road sent tooth-rattling shockwaves straight through the rigid shock absorbers into Drome’s body. Clods of dirt flew from his tyres as he wrestled his bike onto the tarmac, and turned it in the direction of the village. Tears streamed from his eyes as he raced down the steep slope, his knuckles white with the effort of squeezing both brake levers as far as they could go. To his horror, he picked up speed.

Stop! You useless piece of crap! he yelled.

The front brake lever snapped off in his hand. A fat drop of rain stung his eye and the rear brakes continued to screech in tune with his wail as he zoomed into the village, weaving erratically past the parked cars.

Ahead, at the side of the road, stood the portly figure of Mrs Dillinger clutching her madly yapping Chihuahua to her bosom.

Hush now Pip, darling. It’s only a storm, said Mrs Dillinger.

Her tightly rolled curls were coming undone, lifting her hat. It was more than a little unsettling, and her voice did not carry the sincerity needed to calm the diminutive beast.

The fragment of ancestral wolf that beat in Pip’s heart vented itself in a snarl of fear. Mrs Dillinger recoiled and dropped him like he’d turned into a rattlesnake.

Yapping at the top of his high-pitched voice, Pip scurried blindly across the road.

Drome’s wail turned to a full-bodied scream. He swerved to miss the dog, smashed into the back of a parked car and was catapulted into the air.

Soaring in a graceful arc, his hands clawed blindly at nothing.

As Drome flew, the odd sound screeching through the village shot up into a pitch out of range of human ears.

A bright, blue-white-yellow flash enveloped Amblesby.

There was the sensation you get when you drift off to sleep then jolt awake. Crockery tumbled from shelves; furniture skidded across rooms; a panicked sparrow flew blindly into the surprised face of the cat who had been stalking it. The church bells pealed.

The world turned dark.

CHAPTER TWO

Darkness

DROME’S WAIL CUT off as he landed on his back and air exploded from his lungs.

He gasped for breath and waited for his body to start sending pain signals. When they didn’t come, he gingerly moved his arms and legs. They appeared to be in working order. He tried opening his eyes and realised they were open already.

It was dark. For a moment, he thought he’d become blind. He’d read about this sort of thing: people getting knocked on the head and ending up not able to see for the rest of their lives. But he began to make out vague smudges of shapes as his fingers explored his skull and found his helmet still firmly in place. To his relief, his brains didn’t seem to be leaking out from under it as far as he could tell. The other parts of his body felt all right when he ran his hands over himself. Apart from the bulges in his pockets from a few coins and a compass nothing spoilt its normal smoothness. No broken bones poking through his skin, no wetness of blood.

He sat up and looked around. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he made out the shadowy shapes of houses, trees and cars.

Why is it so dark? Is it night already? I must have been knocked out for hours.

Strange there were no street lights. No lights in the houses either.

Someone was sobbing nearby.

Still dazed, he patted the area around himself, trying to work out where he was. His hand brushed against something cold and hard. A vertical sheet of metal next to his hip. He moved his hand a little higher and his fingers found the top. It felt like the side of a trailer. He dropped his hands to feel what he was lying on. Something soft and damp.

A pile of grass cuttings and hedge trimmings…

I’m in Mr Klammer’s trailer.

He remembered the old man cutting his hedge that afternoon. Lucky for him Mr Klammer hadn’t taken his garden waste to the tip yet.

Drome frowned. Surely, somebody must have seen him in the trailer? Why would they leave him there all afternoon?

He clambered out of the trailer and stood next to it, gripping the side to steady himself.

It was too dark to see properly, but the sobbing seemed to be coming from the other side of the road.

Hello? he called.

The sobbing stuttered. I’ve lost Pip, said a woman’s voice.

Mrs Dillinger? It was her stupid little rat-dog he’d swerved to avoid. Everyone must have spent the afternoon looking for the dog rather than attending to him unconscious in the trailer. What about his mother? Surely she would have been looking for him if he hadn’t come home for tea?

Oh, my poor Pip! As she said the dog’s name, Mrs Dillinger began to cry again.

I’m sure he’ll be okay. What time is it?

Holding his arms out in front, Drome set out across the road. After a few steps, his foot hit the kerb. He lurched forward, stumbled and fell on Mrs Dillinger who had plumped herself down on the pavement in a distraught heap. She shrieked, shoved him off with a mighty heave and fetched him a blow on his ear with the flat of her hand.

Get your hands off me! She sniffed. I know who you are. You’re Jerome Watkins and I’ll be speaking to your mother about you.

Drome hauled himself back to his feet. It was strange to hear his proper name. Usually, only his mother called him Jerome. To everyone else he was Drome.

No, I didn’t mean… he said. Oh, forget it. He rubbed his bruised ear. What happened this afternoon? How long have I been unconscious?

The only answer he got was another bout of sobbing.

There was the sound of a door opening nearby. A man’s voice called, Hello? Who’s that out there?

It’s Drome. And Mrs Dillinger. Is that you Mr Banks?

Yes. Dora’s here too. What on earth’s going on? One minute I’m carrying in the washing, the next I’m flat on my face on the floor and it’s dark. The rain didn’t last long. Bloody strange storm if you ask me. The clouds must be as thick as soup to make it this dark.

What? said Drome. Isn’t it nighttime?

Don’t be daft. How can it go from the middle of the afternoon to the middle of the night in an instant? said a woman’s voice. Dora, Drome realised.

I had an accident. Came off my bike. When I got up, it was dark. I thought I’d been unconscious for hours.

No, it’s still the afternoon, she said. The storm must have have knocked out the power. We can’t go on fumbling around in the dark. I’ll fetch a candle.

A few moments later Dora came back to the door holding a lighted candle. Its warm glow revealed Mrs Dillinger sitting on the kerb, hugging her knees.

Are you all right Mrs Dillinger? asked John.

She’s lost her dog, said Drome.

And he tried to take advantage of me, said Mrs Dillinger pointing an accusing finger at Drome.

No! I tripped in the dark!

All eyes turned to Drome. There was an uncomfortable pause, then John spoke. We’ll find Pip presently, Mrs Dillinger. He helped her to her feet and gave Drome a frown. Just as soon as the storm passes over and it gets light again.

More people drifted up, attracted by the voices and glow of the candle. A few carried electric torches.

Drome thought the darkness was far too deep to be caused by storm clouds and was about to point this out, when a shaky voice interrupted his thoughts.

Look at the sky.

As one, the crowd turned their faces upward.

The ragged edge of a cloud drifted away leaving an open patch of sky behind it.

All around Drome, people gasped.

Instead of daylight, a glow came through the gap in the clouds.

Drome stared. It didn’t make sense. Instead of being blue all over, the sky was a hazy blend of pale browns and greens.

CHAPTER THREE

Dawn

A FEW IN the crowd sank to their knees. Most remained rooted to the spot, their mouths hanging open. Motionless. Speechless. Staring at the impossible sky.

Drome gaped, his mind spinning.

It was getting light, and as the darkness receded, the buildings and people around him faded into view.

At another gasp from the crowd, Drome looked skywards again.

The clouds had almost gone.

High overhead in the middle of the brown and green sky was a short, hair-thin, glowing line.

To Drome, it looked like a giant incandescent sewing needle. But he thought it was more likely to be the reflection from the wing of a passing jet. If that was the case, though… why wasn’t it moving?

There were a few uneasy murmurs from the crowd.

Drome swivelled his head, scanning the sky from one side to the other.

Mr Banks said it was still afternoon, so where’s the sun?

The bright line in the sky had thickened, becoming less needlelike and more like a rod of intense light.

And it was the light from the rod that was lifting the darkness. Behind it, the browns and greens were getting paler.

That must be the sun… Why’s it so thin? What’s happened to it?

Drome blinked the spots from his eyes and looked around. The village looked normal… Exactly as it had every day of his life. But there was something wrong with the landscape around it.

Instead of a motley collection of fields and lanes, there was an unfamiliar range of wooded hills. And beyond the hills there was no horizon.

Unmarked by power pylons, roads or farmhouses, the terrain stretched away as far as the eye could see.

Some of the other villagers had noticed it too.

The countryside… It’s... it’s... changed, said John.

Drome started to say something, but a sharp gust of wind snatched the words from his mouth. The villagers shielded their eyes with their hands as the blast ruffled their clothes, tugged at their hair, and sent leaves scurrying along the gutters. Dora’s candle snuffed out.

The gust became a wind that swirled into the crowd. People leapt out of the way, clearing a space around a two-storey high column of whirling air, like a miniature tornado, which took shape in the middle of the street. Leaves, dirt, twigs and crisp packets were sucked from the ground into the spinning spire.

The wind stopped, but the spire stayed, shrinking into an eight foot high column of gyrating debris. A vague head shape formed at the top and two arms sprouted from roughly where the shoulders should be.

A voice boomed. Quavint nad dirn!

There was no mouth in the blurred dance of whirling leaves and litter - but there was no doubt the thundering voice issued from the figure. The head swept around and Drome had the uneasy feeling its eyeless gaze rested on him for a moment before continuing around the circle. People were pushing backward, pressing into those behind them, eyes fixed in horrified fascination upon the creature of circulating street sweepings.

Quavint hooroo vee bran?

The head flicked back to Drome, and he felt its eyeless gaze upon him. The figure leaned towards him and lifted an arm.

Drome yelped and backed away. The figure’s raised arm lengthened, shooting out like a chameleon’s tongue, and smacked into Drome’s forehead just under the peak of his cycle helmet.

Litter and leaves battered his face, neck and ears. Dizziness swept through him. He had the odd sensation his skull was being opened and a lump of wet clay was being pushed inside alongside his brain. His head span and his legs buckled.

With a disdainful shove, as though kick-starting a moped, the limb withdrew.

Drome fell to his knees, clutching the sides of his helmet. His fingers explored his forehead. It felt normal.

You have committed a gross violation!

Drome looked up. The creature was staring at him.

Um… what? stammered Drome.

Don’t think you can just barge in unnoticed. I mean, what in Bluter’s name do you think you’re doing bringing a lump of your diseased planet with you?

I don’t know what you’re talking about. Drome felt like he was back at school with a teacher yelling at him and making him do a difficult maths problem on the board.

The people around Drome were milling around in consternation.

You’re talking to it! What language is that? What’s it saying? said John, grabbing Drome’s arm.

Eh? said Drome. I dunno. You can hear it, can’t you?

Yes, but it’s talking gobbledegook. Where did you learn to speak monsterese?

Don’t mind them. Pay attention to me! Why are you here?

Well… um… because we live here. Amblesby is our home.

Amblesby?

Our village.

I don’t mean this putrid piece of your planet, you idiot! I mean, why have you come to Hollow?

John yanked Drome’s arm again. What the hell is that thing? What’s it saying?

"It... it’s asking us why we’re here. And something about